Solidão

anything with dom!reader & sub!tara pls 🥺🥺 (g!p if it's possible)

❝Ardent❞

TW: porn content, mature, +18 Be part of the tag list and posting schedule - TAG LIST E SCHEDULE ★ This is my first time writing something mature/pornographic, so please, bear with me.

You watched intently as Tara knelt in front of you, her doe-like gaze was defiant and carried the simple promise of resistance. A sinuous smile snaked across her lips, as if it were the secret key to an unfathomable enigma, a hint of knowledge shared only between them. You knew that she, like a butterfly thirsty for nectar, craved a challenge. With a simple gesture of your hand, you made her stand up and move closer, each step more hesitant as she came closer to your control

Sliding his fingers with the delicacy of a feather over Tara's skin, he seemed to conduct a symphony of secret longings. Each caress was a note, a whispered promise of submission that echoed like a forbidden melody in her senses. Tara felt as if she were being guided by a desire as deep as the mysteries of life and death, shuddering under his control, her sharp gaze slowly yielding. Tilting your head with determination, as if you were a conqueror approaching your most desired prize, you captured Tara's lips in an ardent and possessive kiss. Each meeting of your lips was like the fusion of two elements, an incendiary chemistry that enveloped you. Savoring the sensation of power that flowed between them, as if it were the very essence of life, she plunged deeply into the kiss, as if she were unlocking the secrets of the universe with every touch of her tongue and deepening into that abyss of shared passion.

Tara moaned, any remnants of her resistance disappearing completely as you guided her effortlessly, exploring every inch of her body with skillful, precise touches. Each union of your mouths and touches was like the fusion of two souls on fire, an intense dance that consumed them. Savoring the taste of the power that flowed between them, as if it were an elixir from the gods. The atmosphere in the room seemed charged with electricity, as if the invisible threads of desire were stretched to the limit. Reader, with eyes sparkling with determination, was determined to lead them to the point of no return, like a fearless explorer venturing into the unknown. His aim was to explore the limits of Tara's submission, like a curious alchemist mixing forbidden ingredients. It had been a long time since Tara had felt such an intense connection and desire, such a great need to give herself completely, to surrender completely to another person and never again have to worry about someone controlling her. She felt her restraint disappearing, and she knew that no one but Leitor would be able to stop her control from disintegrating when she finally broke free.

Your tongue slid sensuously over Tara's lower lip, coaxing her to open up to you. She moaned softly and opened her mouth wider. This is what you wanted. The moment you were alone, you would take Tara, make love to her, make her yours and show everyone. So you licked her tender lips, taking advantage of the fact that you were apart, nibbling and nibbling on her lips, before pulling away slightly, letting Tara know that you wanted to come into her mouth, that she had to obey you if you wanted this to go any further. And Tara really wanted this to go ahead, desperately wanting to show him that she loved him, that there had never been any doubt about that. Tara's arms encircled her and squeezed her neck as she pressed herself against his body, seeking the intimate contact needed to deepen their connection.

She reached down and groped your ass, her thumb stroking lightly through your pants, as she tugged playfully on your hair, trying desperately to pull you deeper into her mouth. You smiled mischievously at her attempt, knowing full well that it only encouraged her to continue with greater ferocity. You shifted the kiss slightly to one side, sucking on her lower lip until she let out a sigh. You pulled away and looked deep into her dark brown eyes and whispered, "Tell me you belong to me." Tara nodded wordlessly, tears streaming from behind her long, curved lashes.

"Good girl. I want you to know how much your obedience means to me," you purred seductively, using your gift with skill and delicacy, caressing every inch of Tara's skin with a touch that conveyed a desire for obedience. She moaned softly under his control.

Pushing her backwards until her legs hit the bed behind her, his fingers trailed down her thighs, leaving a tingling trail as he slowly opened her jeans. Her panties joined those already discarded somewhere under the bed. No matter. She wouldn't be leaving until the morning anyway. Removing her tight tank top, along with her lacy bra, he pulled out his cell phone and took a quick picture of her exposed bare breasts, then quickly put it away, turning to kiss her belly. A low grunt escaped your throat as you nibbled on her navel and tasted her sweetness and then the sweet juice that coated your fingers when you slipped them inside her pussy. She shuddered at your touch, her muscles tightening. You continued to tease and stroke her slowly until she was panting and begging, needing to break free of her own torment and the pressure that was growing inside her. With his fingers still sliding over her swollen clitoris and sending shocks of sensation to every nerve ending, he stared hungrily at her face as he began to kiss her. He kissed her deeply and passionately as he slipped his fingers inside her, filling her with the first hint of pleasure they had experienced since... well, ever, really. It wasn't long before you were moaning in ecstasy again as Tara rubbed her thumbs over your hardened nipples through your blouse. You moaned loudly, reaching between your bodies and grasping her breasts tightly, your thumbs lightly touching the nipple, you were in control and she needed to know it. She moaned softly again, arching her back against you and moving her hips against the palm of your hand. Your fingers pumped inside her rapidly, driving her wild with desire.

When she climaxed, her teeth clenched and she screamed, her orgasm so strong that Tara clung to her shoulders. Her climax was followed by a wave of euphoria, so strong and intense that it almost knocked her over. You lay on your side, feeling as if you were floating above the earth, as if you were somehow connected to everyone and everything that existed, to everything and anything that might come your way. Reciting words of love and affection, you both fell asleep like puppies in a pile of duvets.

You were woken by the sound of a door closing. You frowned, confused, wondering who it could be. It wasn't that late, the sun was barely on the horizon, and there was no one who should be awake at this hour either. "Shh, don't wake up," said a low voice, "It's still early, let's go to sleep."

Ah, she was, the symphony in the form of a person, and the personification of a Greek goddess, his wife, his soul mate, body and soul.

★ TAG LIST - @emadarkblog

aaaaa eu sigo você a um tempinho porquê vc apareceu nas sugestões e eu li algumas coisas suas e nem cogitei na ideia de vc ver bradileira(o) também 😭😭😭😭 amei saber disso!! </3

Ahh, eu amo que brasileiro está em todo lugar kkkk

Aliás eu AMO a tua escrita, provavelmente uma das minhas favoritas é tão tão boa.E eu amei encontrar um/a brasileiro/a que também escreve terror ^^

“Carrion” - Player 230

Dark!Thanos/Choi Su-bong x Fem!Reader

Warnings: This fic contains themes of drug abuse, toxic relationships, emotional and physical abuse, violence, NON CON sexual content, trauma, and self-destruction. It’s a dark, heavy read with little to no comfort. Please proceed with caution.

Summary: “My feel for you, boy, is decaying in front of me Like the carrion of a murdered prey” You thought you could save him. But Su-bong was never looking to be saved — he was always chasing something…darker. based on Carrion-Fiona apple

MINORS DNI!

A/n: so I spent all night writing this and let me just say this is a wild ride. I don’t know what came over me lol but grab your tissue and a snack and lmk if y’all fw it. Also this is set before the games.

…..

You thought you could handle it.

That’s what you told yourself in the beginning.

When you met Su-bong, he was magnetic. The kind of person who could walk into a room and command everyone’s attention without even trying. He was funny, reckless, charming in that careless way that makes people think he doesn’t care what anyone thinks — but secretly, you know he cares more than anyone.

You met him through Ji-hye, a mutual friend. You two were out drinking at a shitty bar in Itaewon, the kind with sticky floors and flickering neon signs, when she waved him over to your table.

“Su-bong! Over here!”

He turned, cigarette dangling from his lips, and when his eyes landed on you, you swore you stopped breathing.

He made you feel special.

That was the thing about him. From the moment he sat down, all his attention was on you.

You didn’t even notice the red flags at first — the way his hands shook slightly when he lit another cigarette, the faint twitch in his jaw when he reached for his drink. You were too busy drowning in his attention, his laughter, the way he leaned in close when he talked, like he couldn’t bear to be too far away from you.

He made you feel seen.

Later that night, when Ji-hye pulled you aside and whispered, “He’s trouble, you know,” you just laughed it off.

“I can handle trouble,” you said.

And at the time, you believed it.

The first few weeks were a whirlwind.

Late-night phone calls, long walks through the city, kisses stolen under flickering streetlights. He was softer back then. He’d show up at your door with a crooked smile and a bottle of soju, leaning against the doorframe like he belonged there.

He told you stories about his childhood, about how he hated his hometown, how he moved to Seoul to start over.

“I want more than that small-town life,” he’d say. “I want everything.”

You loved that about him.

His ambition. His hunger.

It wasn’t until later that you realized he wasn’t just hungry for success.

You thought he only did it on weekends.

That’s what you told yourself at first. It’s just recreational. Everyone does it once in a while, right? It’s not a big deal.

But when you took a closer look, you started noticing things.

The way he always had an excuse to disappear.

The way his hands shook in the mornings.

The way his pupils stayed blown wide, even in the middle of the day.

It wasn’t just weekends.

It wasn’t just recreational.

The first time you confronted him about it, he laughed.

“What? This?” he said, pulling out a small bag of powder from his jacket pocket. “It’s nothing.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, unsure whether you were angry or scared or both. “You said you were going to stop.”

He shrugged, already pulling out a cigarette. “I will. It’s just… it helps me focus.”

You hated how calm he sounded. How casual.

But you let it go.

Because you wanted to believe him.

Because you loved him.

That’s how it started.

With small compromises.

You told yourself it wasn’t that bad.

You told yourself you could manage it.

You told yourself he would change.

But he didn’t.

The cracks started to show slowly, like hairline fractures in glass. You didn’t notice them right away. Or maybe you did, but you ignored them. You told yourself it was fine, because you wanted it to be fine.

You wanted him to be the man he was when you first met.

The man who made you laugh until your ribs ached.

The man who kissed you like he couldn’t get enough.

The man who whispered, “You’re the only one who really understands me.”

You didn’t want to see the other side of him.

The side that disappeared for days at a time.

The side that came back high, twitchy, eyes glassy and distant.

The side that couldn’t stop.

You loved him.

But it wasn’t enough.

The first time he really scared you was on a rainy night in November.

He showed up at your apartment soaked to the bone, trembling, eyes wild.

“Let me in,” he said, voice low and frantic. “Please.”

You didn’t hesitate. You unlocked the door, pulling him inside, wrapping a towel around his shoulders as he slumped onto your couch. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

You knelt in front of him, brushing his wet hair out of his face. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer.

He just reached for you, pulling you into his lap, burying his face in your neck.

“I just need you,” he whispered. “I just need this.”

And you let him.

Because you loved him.

Because you thought you could save him.

But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door slams open at 2:48 AM.

You know the time because you’ve been staring at the clock for the past four hours, watching the minutes crawl by, waiting for him to come home.

The waiting is always the worst part. The silence. The dread. The way your stomach twists tighter with each passing hour, until it feels like you’re going to snap in half from the tension.

He’s late.

Later than usual.

And when the door finally swings open, you know something’s wrong.

He stumbles inside, slamming the door shut behind him with more force than necessary. His hand lingers on the handle for a moment, like he needs the support to stay upright.

He doesn’t look at you right away.

His head is down, his shoulders tense. His breathing is ragged, too loud in the quiet apartment.

You stay where you are, curled up on the couch, watching him with a knot of unease tightening in your chest. You’re already bracing yourself.

This isn’t Su-bong coming home drunk from a night out.

This is worse.

He takes a few unsteady steps forward, his movements jerky and disjointed, before slumping against the wall. His head tilts back, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

You can see the tremor in his hands.

The sweat clinging to his neck.

The way his pupils are blown wide.

“Su-bong?”

Your voice is soft, careful. Testing the waters.

He doesn’t answer.

He just tilts his head to the side, blinking slowly, like he’s trying to focus on you but can’t quite manage it. His lips twitch into a lazy, lopsided grin.

“Hey, baby.”

And that’s when you know for sure.

He’s high.

Not just drunk.

High as hell on something stronger.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

The question comes out sharper than you intended. You hate the way your voice shakes, the way your hands clench into fists at your sides.

He doesn’t answer.

He just pushes off the wall, staggering toward you with that same careless grin.

“Miss me?”

You want to slap him.

You want to scream.

Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep yourself together.

“What the fuck are you on?”

He laughs.

Soft. Slurred. Distant.

“What’s it matter?”

“It matters.” Your voice is rising now, cracking under the weight of your frustration. “Look at yourself. You can barely stand.”

He shrugs, grabbing the back of the couch for support. His fingers twitch against the fabric.

“I’m fine. We’re fine…”

“You’re not fine.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with tension. He just stares at you, that stupid grin still plastered on his face.

And then, slowly, he starts to sway.

His knees buckle.

“Su-bong—”

Before you can reach him, he collapses onto the floor.

For a long moment, you just stand there, staring down at him.

He’s out cold. His head is tilted to the side, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His hair falls into his eyes, damp with sweat.

You should help him.

You should shake him awake, drag him to bed, clean him up.

But you don’t move.

Because you’re tired.

So fucking tired.

Instead, you start searching.

You move on instinct, heading straight for his jacket. Your hands are shaking, your chest tight, but you can’t stop.

You dig through the pockets, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, a lighter, loose change. And then —

A bag of powder.

Fuck.

Your stomach twists, but you keep going. You can’t stop now.

You move to his bag next, unzipping it with trembling fingers. More powder. Pills, tucked into a side pocket. A tiny syringe, wrapped in tissue.

It’s worse than you thought.

So much worse.

You finally check the place you know he most definitely has drugs. That damn cross necklace. He wears it everywhere, everyday, all the time. Even when he’s sleeping. Even when your fucking.

The only exception being when he showers.

Your heart began to beat out of your chest as if you had just completely a six mile run. Staring at his passed out form on the cheap carpet of your shared apartment.

What if he woke up and caught you.

You tip toed up to him, the floors betraying you as it creaked with every step.

You took a deep breath unintentionally holding your breath as your shaky hands toyed with his chunky necklace struggling to open it.

He didn’t move though.

In fact the only thing moving on him was his chest falling up and down as he fell deeper into sleep.

But you continue to toy with the necklace until it eventually popped open unevenly, causing colorful pills to fly every which way, and click across the floor.

Fuck.

Why does everything have to be so loud right now?!

You got on your hands a knees scooping up the candy colored pills and probably some dirt with them. Before quickly dropping them into your pocket as Su-Bong lied still on the floor.

Your chest heaves as you gather everything up, cradling it in your hands like you’re carrying a corpse.

You don’t think.

You just move.

The bathroom light flickers on.

The toilet lid creaks as you lift it.

And one by one, you throw everything in.

The powder.

The pills.

The syringe.

Every. fucking. thing.

The water ripples, murky and disgusting, but you don’t hesitate. You flush it all away.

Like it never existed.

When it’s done, you stand there for a long time, staring down at the empty toilet bowl.

Your reflection stares back at you from the water.

Red-rimmed eyes.

Trembling hands.

A stranger.

You press your palms to the sink, breathing hard. Your chest feels tight, your throat raw.

What are you even doing?

But you know the answer.

You’re trying to save him.

Even though he doesn’t want to be saved.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You hear him before you see him.

The sharp bang of a drawer slamming shut.

Then another.

And another.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The noise is jarring — too loud in the early morning quiet, rattling through the apartment like gunshots.

For a moment, you just lie there in bed, heart pounding, staring up at the ceiling. The air feels too thick. Your throat is tight. You already know what he’s doing.

He’s looking for them.

Fuck.

You sit up slowly, moving on instinct. Your bare feet hit the floor, and the cold bites at your skin. You don’t bother with a sweater. You barely notice the chill.

All you can hear is the sound of drawers being ripped open, items clattering to the floor, Su-bong’s frustrated muttering.

You step into the hallway, moving toward the living room like you’re walking into a minefield. Every step feels heavier than the last, each breath dragging in your lungs.

The apartment is a fucking mess. Drawers pulled out their hinges. Glass shattered on the floor. your shared belongings scattered across the floor such as, mail, silver wear, books, wires and more. He even emptied his fucking ashtray on the carpet staining it with dark powdery ashes creating a fucking smudge. Who the fuck hides drugs in an ashtray?!

When you see him, your stomach drops.

He’s on his knees in front of the dresser, tearing through the drawers like a man possessed. His hair is sticking up in every direction, sweat clinging to his neck and temples. His shoulders are tense, his hands trembling as he yanks out clothes, papers, random shit — anything that might be hiding what he’s looking for.

You watch in silence for a long moment, your pulse thrumming in your ears.

This is worse than you expected.

He’s worse than you expected.

“Su-bong?”

Your voice comes out softer than you intended — a whisper, almost cautious.

He doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t stop.

He just slams another drawer shut, cursing under his breath.

“Where the fuck are they?” he mutters. His voice is low, rough — shaking with barely-contained rage. “Where the fuck are they?”

Your stomach twists.

You take a shaky breath.

“What are you looking for?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

This time, he freezes.

Just for a second.

Then, slowly, he turns to look at you.

His eyes are dark, bloodshot. His pupils are blown wide, so black they almost swallow the brown. His lips are cracked, the corners pulled down in a sneer.

And in that moment, you feel it —

The fear.

The dread.

You’ve never seen him like this before.

“You know what,” he says, voice low and venomous. “Where the fuck are they?”

Your mind races.

Your palms start to sweat.

Think. Think. Think.

You can feel the anger radiating off of him — simmering just under the surface, threatening to boil over. And you know what happens when he reaches his limit.

You’ve seen it before.

The broken bottles.

The slammed doors.

The bruises on his knuckles after a night out, when he came back bloodied and laughing, saying, ‘You should see the other guy.’

You swallow hard. Your throat feels raw.

“I don’t know,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “Maybe you left it at the club. Or with Ji-hye. You’ve been out all night—”

“Bullshit.”

He stands up slowly, wiping his hands on his jeans as he takes a step toward you.

“Don’t fucking lie to me.”

Your back hits the wall.

Fuck.

“I’m not lying.” Your voice cracks, and you hate yourself for it. “I don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

He doesn’t believe you.

You can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, itching to grab something — to throw something.

You think about the last time you saw him like this.

The broken lamp. The smashed picture frame. The bruise on your wrist that took a week to fade.

“I’m serious, Su-bong.” Your voice is shaky now, pleading. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He tears through the dresser again, frantic.

Each drawer pulled out with a sharp crack, each item tossed aside without care.

Your heart pounds.

Your breath comes faster.

And then, the drawer slams shut.

He turns to you again, and you can see it — the realization sinking in.

You.

It had to be you.

It was the only logical answer. Though he was thinking far from logically right now.

“You fucking took them.”

It’s not a question.

It’s a statement.

A terrifying sentence.

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

But the way you flinch — the way your body stiffens, your lips press together — it’s enough.

He explodes.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

He grabs the nearest object — a book, heavy and solid — and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall with a loud thud, just inches from your head.

You gasp, pressing yourself tighter against the wall.

“You hid them?” His voice is rising now, loud and furious, filling the apartment, making the walls shake. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You need help!” The words burst out of you before you can stop them. “You’re killing yourself, Su-bong! I’m trying to help you!”

He laughs.

A sharp, bitter sound.

“Help me? You think this is helping me?”

“Yes! Because I love you, and I can’t fucking watch you do this to yourself anymore!”

“Where are they?” He spits out through his teeth anger radiating off of him as he stared at you through narrowed fiery eyes. His hand slightly raised. Almost like threat. “Where the fuck are they?!”

That was all he had to say? Really?

You’re crying now — sobbing, desperate, the words tumbling out like a flood. “I threw it all out. I flushed everything. I couldn’t—”

He grabs another object — a picture frame — and throws it, shattering it against the floor.

You cover your face with your hands, trying to hold yourself together, but the tears won’t stop.

“I’m trying to save you,” you whisper through sobs. “Why won’t you let me save you?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because you both know the truth.

You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.

~~~~~

The apartment is dead silent.

It’s been like that all day.

You’ve been cleaning for hours, but the mess never seems to get any smaller. There’s glass on the floor, torn-up drawers, clothes and papers scattered everywhere. His cigarette ashes that stained the carpet, a dark smudge you can’t scrub out no matter how hard you try.

And Su-bong hasn’t said a word.

He’s been on the couch since morning.

Since you screamed at him. Since he threw things at you.

He hasn’t moved.

He hasn’t looked at you.

The sunlight has shifted across the room, cutting through the blinds in harsh slants. Afternoon light. Late afternoon. Time has passed in that slow, suffocating way it does after a fight — heavy, dragging, relentless.

And all you can feel is the weight of his silence.

You sweep broken glass into the dustpan, your hands shaking, your breath shallow.

You can feel the tension hanging in the air — sharp, brittle, ready to shatter.

Your stomach twists painfully.

You want him to say something.

But at the same time, you’re terrified he will.

Because when Su-bong speaks, it’s never gentle anymore.

You dump the dustpan into the trash, brushing your hands on your jeans. Your palms are sweaty. Your chest feels tight.

He’s still sitting there, legs spread wide, one arm draped over the backrest, his cigarette burning down to ash.

He hasn’t moved.

Hasn’t looked at you once.

Fuck.

You glance toward the shattered picture frame on the floor.

He threw that at you this morning.

You think about the sound of it hitting the wall, the way it shattered into pieces. The way he looked at you — cold, furious, distant.

Your throat tightens.

Your hands start to tremble again.

Why are you still here?

You pick up the broom again, brushing up some paper that was planted on the floor.

Your mind is racing, filled with what-ifs and regrets.

What if he explodes again?

What if you say the wrong thing?

What if this is the time he doesn’t stop?

You swallow hard, trying to push the thoughts away.

But they stay.

Lurking. Whispering.

“I flushed everything.”

You can still hear yourself saying it — the way your voice cracked, the way his face twisted with rage.

He hasn’t forgiven you for that.

You don’t think he ever will.

You set the broom aside, pressing your palms to your thighs to steady your shaking hands.

You have to say something.

The silence is suffocating.

And you can’t take it anymore.

But your chest aches with dread. Your stomach is in knots. You feel like you’re walking into a trap.

You wipe your hands on your jeans again, more out of habit than anything. Your fingers are clammy, trembling.

Finally, you take a shaky breath and step toward the couch.

“Su-bong?”

Your voice comes out softer than you intended.

Tentative.

Small.

He doesn’t respond.

He just takes a slow drag of his cigarette, the smoke curling into the air between you, twisting and fading before it reaches the ceiling.

Your pulse kicks up, your nerves buzzing like static.

You wipe your hands on your jeans again, fidgeting.

He’s ignoring you.

You take another step closer, your knees unsteady. The sunlight cuts across his face, making the dark circles under his eyes look deeper.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

But you see the way his jaw tightens.

The way his fingers twitch, clenched around the cigarette.

He’s listening.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep going. Your voice shakes.

“I just…” You trail off, unsure what to say.

Unsure if it even matters.

The words feel too heavy, too fragile.

Like they’ll shatter in the air.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

Finally, he moves.

He leans forward slowly, crushing the cigarette into the ashtray with a soft hiss.

And then, he looks up.

His eyes lock on yours.

Dark. Bloodshot.

And completely unreadable.

“You didn’t know what else to do?” he echoes, voice low, rough.

You flinch at the sound of it.

The tone.

The quiet anger simmering underneath.

“You didn’t have to do shit.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

Your hands won’t stop trembling.

“I was scared,” you say softly, desperate now. “I was scared for you.”

His lips twitch into something bitter.

“Scared for me?” He laughs, but it’s not a kind sound. It’s sharp. Cold. Empty.

“Mmm.” He nods sarcastic as if you were telling some kind of joke.

You step closer, kneeling beside him now.

Your heart is pounding.

Your head feels light, like you’re on the edge of something dangerous.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Nothing.

“I love you,” you say again, voice cracking.

Because you need him to hear it.

Because you need it to be true.

Finally, he looks at you.

And there’s nothing soft in his gaze.

Just anger. Disgust. Exhaustion.

“Then why the fuck are you still here?”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You feel it — the sting of them, the weight of them, pressing down on your chest.

You want to say something.

You want to scream, to cry, to tell him that you’re here because you love him, because you want to save him, because you can’t imagine your life without him.

But before you can speak, he grabs your wrist.

His grip is too tight. Too rough.

As he’s pulling you into his lap, his hands already moving to your hips, digging in hard enough to bruise.

“You said you love me.”

His voice is low, soft, dangerous.

“Show me.”

His hands don’t feel the way they used to.

There’s no softness in them anymore.

No warmth.

Just frustration. Impatience. Roughness.

You lie there, your body pinned beneath his weight, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands trembling against his shoulders.

You wanted this to be different.

You wanted this to be soft.

Forgiving.

But it’s not.

His lips press against your neck, messy and forceful. His teeth graze your skin, biting down hard enough to sting. You flinch, but he doesn’t stop.

His hands move to your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He’s yanking your clothes off, rough and unrelenting.

There’s no tenderness in the way he touches you.

It’s not a kiss.

It’s not love.

It’s control.

You try to touch him.

Your hands tremble as you reach for his face, hoping to ground him — to bring him back.

But he grabs your wrist, pinning it down.

“Don’t.”

His voice is low, rough, filled with something you can’t quite place. Anger. Frustration. Exhaustion.

“Just let me.”

Your chest tightens.

Your stomach twists painfully.

You don’t want this.

Not like this.

“Su-bong—”

He cuts you off with a sharp tug of your jeans, dragging them down your legs, his hands trembling slightly.

He’s impatient. Frustrated.

“I said, don’t.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You close your eyes for a moment, tears burning behind your eyelids.

This isn’t right.

This isn’t what you wanted.

“Wait.”

The word slips out softly, almost a whisper.

Tentative. Hesitant.

He doesn’t stop.

His hands are still moving — grabbing at your thighs, pulling you closer, positioning you the way he wants.

You press your hands against his chest, trying to push him back.

“Wait.”

Still, nothing.

You swallow hard, your voice shaking now.

“Su-bong, stop.”

He freezes.

For a moment, you think he’s going to listen.

You think he’s going to stop.

But when he looks at you, his gaze is dark, bloodshot, distant.

“I need this,” he mutters. “Just… shut up and let me.”

And then he moves again.

You go still beneath him.

Frozen. Paralyzed.

Your heart is pounding, loud and insistent, telling you to get up, to run, to scream.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Because you love him.

Because you keep telling yourself it’s just a moment.

Because you’re still trying to make excuses.

His frustration only grows.

His touch gets rougher, more impatient.

He grabs your thighs, spreading them apart with more force than necessary.

His hands are shaking slightly, but he doesn’t slow down.

He doesn’t stop.

You try to speak again, but he cuts you off with a sharp kiss — more teeth than lips, more bite than kiss.

“Just stop talking,” he says, his voice low and strained. “Please.”

The desperation in his voice makes your chest ache.

But this isn’t desperation for you.

It’s desperation for something else.

Something he could find in a bag or a bottle.

And he’s using you to chase it.

It hurts.

Every touch is too rough.

Every kiss is too hard.

His grip is too tight.

You close your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks.

You tell yourself it’s almost over.

Just a moment.

He’s just angry.

He’s just high.

But deep down, you know that’s not true.

When it’s over, he pulls away without a word.

He doesn’t look at you.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay.

He just rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling, his chest heaving.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling too, your body aching, your skin burning, your heart hollowed out.

And when you finally get up, your legs are shaky, your hands trembling, your mind screaming at you to leave.

But you don’t.

You walk to the bathroom instead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The water is scalding.

It hits your skin like needles, burning, stinging.

But you don’t turn it down.

You want it to hurt.

You stand under the spray, scrubbing your skin until it’s raw, until it stings, until you feel like you’ve peeled away every trace of him.

But you can still feel his hands on you.

You can still feel the bruises forming under your fingertips.

The water doesn’t wash it away.

Nothing does.

You press your hands against the tile, your chest heaving with quiet sobs.

Why are you still here?

The question echoes in your mind, over and over.

But you don’t have an answer.

You tell yourself you love him.

You tell yourself he didn’t mean it.

But deep down, you know the truth.

He won’t stop.

He won’t change.

And still —

You stay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you step out of the shower, your skin is red and raw, aching with every step.

You wrap a towel around yourself, but it doesn’t cover the bruises.

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror —

Wide eyes. Red-rimmed. Lips trembling.

A distant stranger.

You take a shaky breath, running your fingers through your damp hair.

And then, you step back into the bedroom.

Su-bong is sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

When he hears you, his head snaps up.

For a moment, you think you see concern in his eyes.

His gaze flickers to the bruises on your thighs, to the dark mark on your neck where he bit you.

“You’re hurt.”

The words are soft.

Almost tender.

He steps toward you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll run.

And you flinch.

His hand, halfway to your arm, pauses in midair.

For a moment, neither of you move. The space between you feels too wide, too tense, too fragile — like a thread pulled tight, ready to snap.

“Come here.”

His voice is soft now.

Quiet. Careful.

Like he’s trying to make up for what he did without actually saying the words.

You stay where you are.

You want to run.

You want to scream.

You want to shove him away.

But you don’t.

Because you’re tired.

So fucking tired.

And you just want it to stop.

“I’m sorry.”

The words are soft.

Almost fragile.

He steps closer, and this time, you don’t flinch.

You don’t move.

You’re too tired.

His fingers brush against the bruises on your arm.

Light. Careful.

Like he’s trying to be gentle now.

Like he’s trying to erase the marks he left behind.

But they won’t fade.

And you both know it.

“I just… I need you.”

The words slip out of him quietly, almost a whisper. His lips brush against your shoulder, pressing soft kisses over the bruises he left.

“I need you to stay.”

You close your eyes.

Tears slip down your cheeks.

You crawl into bed with him, your body aching, your mind screaming at you to leave — but your heart refusing to listen.

His arms wrap around you, warm and heavy, pulling you against his chest.

And you cry quietly into his shirt, trying not to let him hear.

But he does.

He always does.

And still —

You stay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It starts small.

It always does.

A comment.

A glance.

A flicker of something in his eyes — that dark, volatile thing lurking just beneath the surface.

You’ve been walking on eggshells for days.

Ever since the fight.

Ever since the picture frame shattered against the wall.

Ever since you flushed his drugs.

Ever since you cried in his arms after he didn’t stop.

Things have been too quiet.

Too tense.

And deep down, you know it’s coming.

He’s been distant.

Quiet, brooding, his mood shifting like storm clouds rolling in.

You should leave.

You know you should.

But instead, you stay.

You cook him dinner.

You clean the apartment.

You try to make things normal.

But there’s nothing normal about this.

It’s late when he comes home.

Way too late.

You’re sitting at the kitchen table, your fingers wrapped around a cup of cold tea, staring at the door like it’s about to explode off its hinges.

When you hear the click of the lock turning, your heart jumps into your throat.

The door swings open, and there he is.

Su-bong.

His hair is a mess.

His eyes are bloodshot.

There’s a bruise on his knuckles, dark and fresh.

And when his gaze lands on you, everything inside you tightens.

This is it.

The storm has finally arrived.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Your voice comes out sharper than you intended, cutting through the silence.

He steps inside, kicking the door shut behind him with more force than necessary.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

He just stands there, swaying slightly, his hands twitching at his sides.

And then —

He laughs.

Low. Bitter.

The sound sends a shiver down your spine.

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

The words hit you like a slap.

Your grip tightens on the mug, your knuckles turning white.

“You don’t need to explain yourself?”

Your voice shakes.

You hate it.

You hate the way he makes you feel small, like you’re the one who’s wrong.

Like you’re the one who needs to apologize.

“You’ve been gone all day,” you say, standing up slowly, your legs unsteady.

“All day, Su-bong. And now you’re just going to walk in here like nothing happened?”

He shrugs.

Shrugs.

Like he doesn’t care.

Like you don’t matter.

“I made dinner.”

The words sound pathetic as they leave your mouth.

You hate yourself for saying them.

For wanting to fix this.

But he doesn’t even look at you.

He just walks past you, heading toward the bedroom.

“I’m not hungry.”

Something snaps inside you.

The fragile thread holding you together finally breaks.

“No.”

Your voice is sharp.

Louder than it’s been in weeks.

He stops in his tracks.

Slowly, he turns to look at you.

And you can feel it —

The shift.

The crackle of tension in the air.

The storm about to break.

“What did you say?”

His voice is low. Dangerous.

But you’re not backing down. Not this time.

“I said no.”

Your heart is pounding.

You’re scared.

You should be.

But you’ve been scared for so long —

and you’re so fucking tired of it.

“You don’t get to do this anymore.”

The words tumble out, fast and desperate.

“You don’t get to disappear for days and come back like nothing happened. You don’t get to treat me like shit. You don’t get to use me, hurt me, and act like it’s my fault.”

His jaw clenches.

You see the flicker of anger in his eyes.

But you keep going.

“I’ve been here for you through everything. I’ve cleaned up your messes. I’ve lied for you. I’ve loved you, even when you made it impossible.”

Your voice cracks.

Tears sting your eyes, but you don’t stop.

“And I can’t do it anymore, Su-bong.”

Silence.

For a long moment, neither of you move.

The air feels too heavy.

The tension is thick, suffocating.

And then —

He laughs.

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

The words hit you hard.

He throws them like a punch —

bitter, angry, exhausted.

“You want me to change? You want me to be something I’m not?”

His voice rises.

“You want me to stop? for you? You want me to be better?”

He steps closer, his hands shaking.

“I’m not better.

“I’m not fucking better.”

Your chest tightens.

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and burning.

“I just want you to try.”

The words come out soft, broken.

“I love you, Su-bong.”

He freezes.

For a split second, something flickers in his eyes —

something raw.

And then —

“That’s your fucking x problem.”

The slap comes out of nowhere.

Hard. Fast.

It knocks you to the floor.

For a moment, you don’t move.

Your cheek stings.

Your ears ring.

Your whole body feels like it’s been shattered.

And when you finally look up, he’s staring down at you.

His chest heaves.

His hands shake.

And for a split second —

He looks scared.

“You’re right.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m not better.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

And this time —

You believe him.

You push yourself up slowly, your whole body trembling.

“I loved you.”

Your voice is soft.

Broken.

“But you killed it.”

He doesn’t stop you as you walk toward the door.

But his voice follows you.

Soft. Bitter. Full of regret.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You pause.

And for a moment —

You almost turn around.

But you don’t.

You keep walking.

And as you step outside, tears streaming down your face, your heart breaking into pieces —

You know you’ll never be free.

Because he’ll always haunt you.

Like carrion.

Rotting.

Decaying.

"You always were too smart..."

"...for your own good."

Scream 1996

Yandere! Billy Loomis X F!Reader

Synopsis: The Woodsboro massacre was a case that had been announced to be closed as soon as it was opened. The answer was obvious, right? There were two witnesses after all. Mr Prescott snapped, killed a bunch of kids, then shot himself in the head as a result of the nearing anniversary of his wife's death—two of your close friends confirmed it. Why, then, did you feel the need to meddle? Why couldn't you just mind your own goddamn business?!

Warnings: Mentions of death, Gore, Manipulation, Threat/Violence

"It just doesn't make any sense!"

None of it did. The witnesses, the evidence, the murders—it was just too big of a headache to deal with.

You didn't know why you were still doing it; still looking into this case even in the depths of midnight. It was closed, the chief said so himself—your two best friends were there, they saw what happened and recalled the events as such, their stories had even been perfectly aligned...

...almost too perfectly.

It was dumb—and you were probably being paranoid but—nothing felt right. If this was all Sidney's dad's doing then... why kill Casey Becker and Steve Orth? What did they have to do with him? You would've understood if they had attended Stu's party and were just caught in the crossfire but that wasn't the case, they were killed before the massacre—days before, in fact. Why? Why target them?

And—why would a murderer, who made sure all of his victims were dead, stab both Billy and Stu just perfectly so that he missed their vitals and didn't dig deep enough for them to actually be able to die of blood loss?—or, at least, not for a long while. Wouldn't he want to also make sure they were dead before offing himself?

The weapon too—why the hell did you only find a gun at the scene of the crime when there was evidence of a knife being used as well? If he didn't care enough to dispose of the gun he used to kill himself and others, why dispose of the knife?

None of it added up. None of it was making any sense.

"Fuck!"

Frustration coursed through you, crawling through your skin to visibly cause the bulging of your veins and urge your brows down further than ever before. The deep bags under your eyes weren't doing you any wonders either.

You were struggling and it showed.

Papers sat haphazardly strewn across the desk in front of you, each one depicting different inked up versions of the crime scene—from the body of Tatum Riley hanging by the driveway door, to the very gun that brought about the end of the accused 'murderer' himself. To the normal civilian, it would be hard to stomach—to you, it was just another Tuesday.

Except, this Tuesday seemed to really want to bash your head in.

With another aggravated huff through your lips, your hand shot out to the messy pile before sifting through it, trying to find something—anything—that would satisfy this god-awful itch in the back of your mind.

Then—a creak.

Your eyes shot up, muscles tensing as you scanned the shadows leaking through the corners of the room for the cause of the noise. One hand kept hovering above the sheets and the other slowly inched towards the drawer beneath you, fingers steadily winding around the knob before—

"Kid, what are you doing here?"

The flick of a switch came with the familiar voice that asked you that question; a voice that instantly caused your optics to widen and your back to suddenly go from lax to rigid as you clumsily fumbled around in your seat. "Sheriff!"

He grunted, voice gruff as he continued, "It's almost one, you have school tomorrow, why the hell are you still here?"

You parted your lips—ready to respond—when he squinted and scanned the desk, opening his own mouth to speak again before you could.

"Are those all from the casefile of the Woodsboro Massacre? Kid, that case is solved. It's done. The hell are you doing still in the station this late with those files?"

Your lips tugged down as your gaze trailed his own. "It just... it doesn't feel right, chief."

When he didn't respond, you chose to keep going.

"I mean, why would he kill his own daughter? I was close with Sid, I knew her and I knew how much her dad adored her—"

"That's the thing with psychos, Y/N, they—"

"He isn't just a psycho though!" That came out unnecessarily loud, and the chief seemed to think so too with the way his brow rose pointedly as soon as the words fell out, "Sorry, I... this case has been killing me all night. It just... it doesn't line up. If he really did snap, why target Casey Becker and Steve Orth days before the anniversary of his wife's death? Why specifically them? And why leave Billy and Stu with non-lethal wounds before killing himself?

"I know I should be grateful that they're still alive considering they're my best friends and all..." you continued, tone solemn, "and I am! I really am! I just... I can't help but find this all too strange."

And as you hung your head down, your ears soon perked up to the sound of several more creaks slowly growing louder as they made their way over to your seated form. 

Then, a warmth blanketed your shoulder, causing your head to tilt up and your eyes to meet with a pair that seemed to slowly soften the longer you spent looking at them.

"Look, kid, you're a genius. That's why you work at this station. That's what you worked hard to prove to everyone here. Every cop in this town respects you—including me. If you say you think something's up with this case, then I believe you."

Your eyes lit up.

"Just... promise me you won't stay up this late investigating it. You can come down to the station as soon as school is over tomorrow but let me give you a ride home today."

You could do nothing but nod vigorously, too elated to form words as of that current moment. The nodding was enough though, and soon, you found yourself situated in the chief's car, buildings passing by in a flurry of colours as he drove over the bumps of the rocky road beneath you, gaze focused ahead.

With the incessant chatter of the radio echoing in the background, you almost couldn't hear your own thoughts. But, they were there. And they were just as unyielding in their fight for your attention.

Your skin crawled at the thought of Billy's expression if he ever found out about your doubt in his eye-witness account. Stu could brush it off easily but Billy... he was troubled, to say the least. He had a lot going on and you were one of the only people he trusted enough to share it all with; so to hear that you found him suspicious in any way would... well, it would crush him.

But, justice was justice. You pursued being a detective because it needed someone to deliver it with an iron fist. If that meant having to doubt the words of someone close to you then so be it. You worked so hard to get to where you were, you would be sure to honour it wholeheartedly.

"Here we are, kid." You blinked, turning to the officer beside you. "Get some rest, alright? See you tomorrow."

With a nod, you stepped out of the vehicle, and it didn't move an inch until you made it inside the house—staying there for a couple more seconds after the door closed before the wheels turned again as he started off once more.

And you didn't know if it was just because he was gone—his presence always being able to make you feel so much more safe than you did on a daily basis—but... a sudden chill ran down your spine, pricking your skin with a feeling you couldn't quite place your finger on but an unsettling one nonetheless.

You didn't quite get enough sleep that night.

But then again, when did you ever? Perhaps your paranoia was at an all time high because of insomnia—but, you digressed.

Besides, it was a new day and you had just arrived at school. You should focus—

—that was a lot easier said than done, though. Almost mindlessly staring into your open locker, you let your thoughts drift to the nefarious case for the umpteenth time. 

Stop it, Y/N. Save it for the station.

With a sigh, you slammed the door shut and almost jumped when you caught view of what seemed to suddenly appear by your side.

There, stood one of the very boys your mind couldn't seem to hold off on thinking about recently—leaning against the locker with his defined arms crossed over his chest and his parted bangs falling over his face to frame it perfectly, basically forcing you to notice the way his lips were slightly twitched up as he gazed back at you.

"Billy," you whispered.

"Y/N," he responded, lips twitching up just a bit more, "I was wondering if you wanted to come over later? Watch a movie with me? I was gonna watch with Stu but then his family had that last minute trip thing."

Instantly, you were brought back to your conversation with the chief yesterday and your gaze drifted off to the side as you spoke—albeit a bit hesitantly—"I don't know... I should really get down to the station..."

He frowned at that, one arm unfolding to reach for your own, landing on your bicep before his fingertips slowly trailed down, ghosting over the exposed skin to send tingles down your spine as his palm finally found yours, fingers interweaving not too long after.

"C'mon, you spend so much time at the station now—it's like you're more hung up on this case than me. I barely ever get to see you. I miss my favourite girl."

That was true. Not the part about him barely seeing you (well, that was true too but—), the part about you being more hung up on the case than him—and he was actually there in person. It had only been a few days but Billy and Stu had seemed to move on just fine—which was strange considering the fact that, y'know, both of their girlfriends were dead.

Maybe, if you said yes, you'd be able to ask some specific questions to Billy; see if he was hiding any details from you.

"Okay," slowly, you nodded, "Yeah, sure, I'll come over."

At that, his lids fell halfway down his eyes before he purred out—voice borderline seductive—"Perfect."

To any girl who was none the wiser, that would send pleasant shivers down their spine—the shivers running down your spine, though, were anything but pleasant.

The rest of the school day breezed by and all you could find yourself thinking about was the case and Billy—he was practically living rent-free in your head. Even as he showed up at your last class—leaning against the wall in that way that just screamed Billy Loomis—you found yourself too stuck in your thoughts about him to be able to pay attention to the real him.

And he noticed.

"Y/N? You good?"

You blinked, tilting your head to his form as he walked beside you, the light breeze blowing slightly against his beautiful brown locks. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He frowned, reaching the hand that had been brushing against your own this whole time further towards you before asking, "You sure?"

Lightly, and as subtly as you could, you pulled your hand away. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He tilted his head down towards where your hands would've met and you watched as his lips pulled taut, expression almost appearing... blank as he stared at the empty space before his gaze flitted back up and he stuffed his hands into his pockets, muttering out a gruff 'okay' as he did so.

The rest of the walk to his house was silent—the wind and mindless chatter of other teenagers being the only thing your ears could pick up on.

And as you made it to his door, your heart constricted a little—thoughts wandering back to the look on his face after you rejected his seek for touch. Billy wasn't usually a physical person, at least, not with anyone but you and his now-dead girlfriend.

Though, even with Sid, his touch seemed a little more tense and uncertain than with you. You noticed the way he barely hesitated to hold you; the way he almost seemed relieved when he did finally get to feel you—be it against him or just your presence in the room. 

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he had a crush on you. But he had a girlfriend already—one he asked out, no less—so that couldn't be the case. The only explanation was that he really valued you as a friend. And that thought pricked you so much more than it should've.

Perhaps... perhaps you were being too paranoid with your thinking. The case was done. Over. You should just lay it to rest before you ended up really hurting one of your best friends.

Yeah... yeah. You'd do just that. You were going to enjoy this day with Billy. No more getting caught up in cases that were already solved. Nope. It was time to be there for your best friend.

With that thought in mind, you reached out your hand, slowly intertwining your fingers with the tall boy's own as he opened the doors of his home—pausing for a moment to glance back at you with wide eyes before his lips stretched up more than you had ever seen before and he tugged on your arm.

It was the littlest of force but it was sudden enough to send you tumbling into his chest as his arms engulfed you wholy; entirely. You could practically feel that familiar sense of relief radiating off his form and you couldn't help the laugh that echoed off yours.

"God, I missed you," he mumbled into your hair and a small, gentle smile graced your lips.

"I missed you too."

You stood there for a few more moments, basking in each others presence for just a little longer before you decided to pull away—albeit being met with a little resistance from Billy's end but, you were eventually successful.

"Alright, c'mon, you big sap, let's go in and watch your favourite scary movie." 

He grinned at that, instantly moving to grab your hand again as he led you to his room—rushing through the clear, monotone halls before he arrived at his wooden door and opened it with a wide swing of his arm. 

Soon, you found yourself seated on his bed, feat kicking back and forth as you awaited his presence. He had gone to go retrieve the VHS containing his movie from the ground floor so it was just you sat in the confines of the room riddled to the brim with horror posters from all sorts of media.

For a jock, he sure was a nerd.

One particular thing stood out to you, though—a small, rectangular bit of paper clipped to a string. It illustrated a smaller version of both yourself and Billy, stood beside each other with large grins on your faces—carefree and bright in their nature; loving and tender.

He still had that?

Unable to stop yourself, you moved to get a closer look—

—only to almost stumble when your foot caught the edge of something that certainly wasn't the ground.

A box—dull and beaten up. It was made up purely of cardboard which definitely wasn't doing it any wonders when it came to durability, that was for sure. The brown colour was quite unsightly to look at and the way some parts seemed almost... maroon was strange, to say the least.

Ever the investigator, you almost couldn't help the way your fingers naturally curved around the lid, slowly lifting the rough material up before shifting it to the side just in time to catch a familiar mask staring right back at you.

Mouth opened wide in an endless scream as soulless black eyes glared into your form—the sharp silver of a cutting blade coated in crimson laying beside it. It was almost too much to process at once.

And as you picked up the leather notepad sat beneath the dark robe under the mask, the gears slowly started turning in your head.

Flicking through the pages only further solidified your conclusion.

That mask belonged to Ghostface. That knife laying next to it was coated in blood. Unless there was some other murder that happened between now and the massacre, this was definitely the missing evidence from the crime scene. 

And it was all in Billy Loomis' room.

You had an inkling, but this... this was on a whole other level.

The notebook detailed different ways to rid yourself of evidence when committing a murder, each one being linked back to a particular horror movie—even going as far as to have quotes obsessively scribbled near them with timestamps and everything. It was insane.

But, by far, the craziest thing was that Billy—your Billy—committed all of this. And if Billy was in on it, then so was Stu.

They both had murdered your whole friendship group that night.

Your fingers shook as you slowly stood up, legs barely able to hold your weight with how weak that realisation rendered you. It was like a bucket of ice cold water had been splashed onto you, drenching you from head to toe with the cruelty of the world.

Then—a click.

Slowly, you turned, book slipping from between your fingers as your eyes landed on the figure at the doorway.

Instantly, your hands shot up.

Billy stood there—expression blank as his eyes seemed almost... lifeless—with one hand raised and fingers wrapped around a black L-shaped object.

Your muscles grew tense. "Billy..."

"Stu's a fucking idiot," scoffed he, "I told him to burn all that stuff but he insisted we keep it as some sort of memento mori—something to remember our success with."

He took a step forward. You took a step back.

"But let's be honest, Y/N, you would've found out eventually, right?" As he spoke, your gaze stayed trained onto the gun, watching as he flailed it around—pupils shaking and hysteria slowly but surely clouding his eyes. "You always were too smart for your own good."

Your heart was beating ten miles a minute, practically playing drums in your ears with how it loud it was as you continued to back away. "Billy, put the gun down."

"Y'know, Stu wanted to kill you... but I said no. Wanna know why?" He was now grinning from ear-to-ear. "'Cause I love you. I always have. Even as I was fucking that stupid whore Sidney that night, all I could think of was you."

You were running out of room to move back to. "Billy..."

"There! I confessed!" He suddenly rose his volume, and you winced a little. "Isn't that what you want?! A confession?! There's your fucking confession, Y/N!"

Getting kind of sick of all the ignoring, you spat back, "You know damn well that isn't the type of confession I want!"

"Well, maybe if your hadn't been such a snooping whore I wouldn't have to give you it!" 

Here. There. Everywhere. He kept pointing that thing around so carelessly while his finger stayed hovering over the trigger, just one jerk away from a misfire; one jerk away from your possible end.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. I promise."

"Billy! Be careful with that damn thing!"

A slam.

"You know, Y/N, I wouldn't even have to use this if you minded your own goddamn business!"

Your back hit the wall, and the barrel was now pointing directly. at. you.

"So pretty for me," he whispered, voice having mellowed out so suddenly—so dementedly—you almost couldn't believe your ears as he closed in on you, practically pressing his body right up against yours, "My pretty girl."

The barrel of the gun was directly under your chin now, being used to tilt your head and lock your gaze with his own, crazed one.

"Such a clever girl, aren't you, dollface?" His praises came out steadily, voice low and husky as he continued to coo, "My clever little detective."

And as the world went black around you, you caught one more voice enter the room.

"Took ya long enough."

hellloooo!!!

wanted to request scream5 Sidney Prescott x sick!reader maybe the reader as her wife and it’s after the whole attack in scream five where reader got injured and now they’re sick (does that make sense??)

-👻

Thank you so much for requesting, sweetheart! I hope you enjoy it ^^

❝  Healing Hearts ❞

feel free to request any headcanon here 🠒 headcanons list

The curtains were drawn, dimming the room where Sidney Prescott's wife, You, lay in bed, wrapped in layers of blankets. The events of the Ghostface attack were finally over, but the toll it had taken on both of you was evident. Sidney sat beside you, gently brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

"I'm sorry you got hurt, sweetheart," Sidney whispered, her voice filled with concern.

"It's not your fault, Sid," you croaked, your voice barely above a whisper. "You saved me, remember?"

Sidney smiled softly, her love for you shining in her eyes. "I'll always protect you."

You managed a weak smile, but it was clear that you were struggling. The injuries you sustained during the attack were healing, but now a different battle had taken its place.

"I wish I could take away your pain," Sidney said, her voice tinged with helplessness.

"Just having you here with me makes it better," you replied, reaching out to hold Sidney's hand. "I love you."

"I love you too," Sidney replied, gently squeezing your hand. "We'll get through this together."

The days passed slowly, with Sidney tending to your needs. She brought you soup and medication, making sure you were comfortable and had everything you needed. Despite the fear and uncertainty that still lingered after the attack, your love remained a source of strength for both of you.

One evening, as the sun set outside, your fever seemed to spike, causing you to shiver uncontrollably.

"Sid," you whispered, your voice trembling, "I'm scared."

Sidney moved closer, wrapping her arms around you, trying to provide comfort through her touch. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. We'll face this together."

You clung to Sidney, finding solace in her presence. You had survived so much, and you knew you could survive this too. Sidney's love was a beacon of hope in the darkest of times.

"I don't know what I would do without you," you admitted one night, your hands intertwined.

"We've been through a lot, and we've always come out stronger," Sidney replied. "I'm just glad you're okay."

"I wouldn't be if it weren't for you," you said, tears welling in your eyes. "You're my hero."

Sidney leaned in and kissed you gently, your lips meeting in a tender embrace. "And you're mine," Sidney whispered against your lips.

Your love was a force that couldn't be broken, and as you looked to the future, you knew that whatever came your way, you would face it together, hand in hand, heart in heart. Sidney and you had survived the worst, and now, you were ready to embrace the healing power of your love.

Ahh, I'm really hating my writing lately, why can't it be good enough???

❝Sidney Prescott x fem!reader❞

feel free to request any headcanon here 🠒 headcanons list

★ protective nature: Sidney is fiercely protective of her loved ones and would do anything to ensure their safety. This extends to her romantic partner, as she becomes their unwavering shield against any threats or dangers;

★ empathy and understanding: Sidney has a deep well of empathy and understanding due to her own experiences with trauma. She is a compassionate listener, always there to offer support and comfort to you whenever they need it;

★ mutual strength: you share Sidney's resilience and strength, forming a powerful bond between you. You inspire and empower each other, becoming a formidable team in facing challenges and overcoming obstacles;

★ adventurous dates: Sidney and you enjoy going on thrilling and adventurous dates. Embark on adrenaline-pumping activities like bungee jumping or skydiving, embracing your shared love for excitement;

★ late-night talks: Sidney and you have deep, meaningful conversations late into the night. You discuss your hopes, dreams, fears, and everything in between. These intimate talks strengthen your connection and deepen your understanding of one another;

★ supporting your passions: Sidney encourages you to pursue your passions and goals. Whether it's writing, painting, or any other creative endeavor, Sidney provides unwavering support and believes in your abilities;

★ shared trauma healing: Sidney and you find solace in your shared experiences of trauma. You help each other heal by providing a safe space to process your emotions, offering comfort, and reminding each other that you are not defined by your pasts;

★ Sid's strength: Sidney is a strong and resilient woman, both physically and emotionally. You admire her strength and find comfort in her unwavering presence during difficult times;

★ surprise love notes: Sidney leaves little surprise love notes for you to find throughout the day. Whether it's a heartfelt message on a sticky note or a sweet text message, these gestures remind you of Sidney's love and affection.

3.1.24 - writing resources for the new year

isn't lovely to feel like you have the opportunity to start fresh again? here are some fo the resources I'm using going into the new year!

flocus is a pomodoro app with pretty backgrounds, availability to be customized, and it also tracks your productivity streaks, which is definitely a motivational booster

in addition to this, flocus' newsletter, the flow, is a weekly email on how to be more productive! it's one of the things I like to tuck away in my inbox and read.

calmly is a blank page. all you need to do is bring the words.

medium doesn't necessarily focus on creative writing, but it's an interesting place to find similarly interested people and all kinds of articles

characterhub is a website community that promotes interaction among OCs (and is great for artists also!)

poetry foundation has an enormous collection of writing that's great to read for fun, or inspiration, or if you're in a slump

and not necessarily writing related, but here are other things that I've been trying out:

via li's youtube channel. something about it radiates warmth and I listen to her videos like podcasts.

baking! it's so comforting and I love seeing the results. smitten kitchen has the best recipes.

also knitting. not necessarily specific sites, but I have these ideas of all the things I want to make.

and that's all for now. however I did up my wordcount! I hit 15k today, so hopefully by next monday I'll have everything I need done. I'm working on deadlines for the first time for a project, and I can definitely feel the pressure.

tag any other websites below and I'll be sure to reblog them!

k.

Better Than Drugs

Pairings: Namgyu x Fem!Reader | Brief!Thanos x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reconnecting with your shitty ex boyfriend in the games.

Warnings: Language, Substance Abuse, Toxic Relationship, Male Manipulation, Coercion, Smut (+18) mdni, High sex, Dub/con, Choking, Exchange of Bodily Fluids, Unprotected Sex, Unedited (we die like soldiers)

A/n: literally no one will read this but I need him and I wrote this for me!

Being treated like a lamb being led to the proverbial slaughter in a death game sucked ass but seeing your ex boyfriend there sucked even more, somehow. From your vantage point perched on your bed tucked away from all the central conflict, you notice them talking about you again.

Call it past bully traum but you knew when people were talking about you and although you couldn't make out what they were saying, a part of you just knew...

Another vote had ended and Namgyu was still staring at you, his head bowed, chewing his fingernails. He was watching you, while you were forced to watch as democracy crumbled around you.

Your brain made you think Namgyu was perhaps berating you in front of his new friend. Bad-mouthing you to absolutely no end, perhaps saying what a lousy, uptight girlfriend you had been in the outside world. How you kept him from his habit. How you tried to force him into rehab countless times.

And so you shrink into yourself, squeezing yourself further into your bed, hugging your knees.

How were you supposed to know the conversation went nothing like how you thought it was going?

"We need to get her on our team," Thanos had said when the voting concluded and they were watching you pick at your roll of tin-foiled kimbap.

"She's already on our team," Namgyu muttered, more quiet than usual as he watched you through the corner of his eye. He didn't feel like eating. He felt like doing drugs. And fucking, maybe, but eating? It never occurred to him.

Without you to remind him to eat, and to actually take care of his bodily health outside of his substance abuse, he really was a mess.

"Oh yeah," Thanos muttered dumbly before turning back to his own food, "Kay, well, I need to sleep with her."

Namgyu didn't even look up from his food, still leaning against the metal beds as he murmured a quiet, "Nope." Popping his lip, extenuating the 'p'

Thanos himself was rallied into silence as Namgyu casually clicked his tongue before adding, "I called dibs on that bro," he steals another glance. You're searching your chest for a piece of cucumber that's fallen out of the kimbap

This unfortunately, zeroes his gaze in on your ample chest, miraculously squeezed into that tracksuit jacket. Now Namgyu was thinking about your tits while Thanos' head whips to the side, his brow lifted.

Namgyu couldn't take his eyes off you since the games began. Watching you during voting time had stirred up all kinds of lost emotions. The easy and almost thoughtless way you had pressed the blue button before tucking your hands in your pockets, never sparing anyone a second glance. He had to adjust the bulge forming in his sweatpant. If it weren't for him you might have continued to go amongst the games as an anonymous spectre, with that cash prize as your only goal.

"I didn't know we were calling dibs!?" Thanos stomped his feet petulantly, "That's not fair, man. Not. Cool."

"That's the point of dibs," Namgyu said, pushing his hair behind his ears as he continued to stare you down. "Who knows how long we'll be here?" As he watched you, he tilted his head downwards, causing a thick shadow to fall over his eyes as he watched you. He leaned against the railings of the metal beds piled up to the ceiling, watching you tuck your hands deeper into the sleeves of your sweater. Really fucking cute.

"B-But Homies don't call dibs on girls!" Thanos whines.

"Yeah," Namgyu nods, "but, I'm gonna need more than magic pills and a homie to get me through the night," He made a ring with his index and thumb finger, pinching his one eye shut as he spied at you through it, "She can help,”

Thanos was quiet, eerily so. Good things never happened when Thanos was quiet,

"Let's go over to her right now then. Since she's stealing my homie-"

That immediately snapped Namgyu out of his lust-filled gaze, promoting his shoulders to straighten as he tried to stop Thanos from taking another step towards you.

"Senorita-" he said in a singsong voice and you rolled your eyes as you saw them approaching. Namgyu walked behind like the shadow he always tried to be, with his hands tucked in his pocket. Your bed is relatively low to the ground and your heart stammered when both their shadows fell over you.

"Don't have any change," your eyes whipped to your ex-boyfriend before narrowing, "Or drugs. Sorry." you mustered a painfully sarcastic smile as you attempted to turn in another direction, hoping they might take the hint.

Thanos' teeth stretched as Namgyu swallowed thickly, watching you in that distinctly predatory way of his as he propped his forearm against the railing of the bed. You hate how both of them make you feel and your eye scans in vain around the premises, hoping someone might save you from the duo.

"Lemme make this quick," Thanos said with his drug addicted hand gestures. "My bro wants you and whatever bro wants-" he taps Namgyu's chest behind you- "Bro gets."

Silence passed with you staring deep into Namgyu's dark, almost sinister black eyes. You admitted that you were still painfully attracted to him. Knowing that he knows your body. He's already seen what hid under your blue tracksuit, it was dizzyingly sobering.

He still seemed so devastatingly sleezy it bordered on attractive, like he didn't care about what anyone really thought of him. It still brought an uncomfortable amount of attraction that you didn't really know what to do with. "No thanks," you said, bending your head to take a bite of the kimbap.

"Cunt." you heard him mumble under his breath. That caused your head whip up to glare at him.

"I'm a cunt because I'd rather not fuck a drug addict?"

"No," Namgyu shrugged, "You're just a cunt."

Your nostrils flared as something diabolical ignited inside you. Up until this point, fear had been the only emotion you allowed yourself to feel. The fear of dying to keep you alive. But right now, you're being plagued with another emotion and it's setting you alight with interest.

Your dating preferences were never orthodox. You knew you could never truly be satisfied with any other timid nice guy, and that's what drew you to him. You hated admitting to it but Namgyu calling you a cunt did more than irritate you, it ignited you.

"I'm not here to make friends,” You marvel now, in the tense darkness, how confident you had been then.

“How about a boyfriend then?” Namgyu asked and Thanos whistled lowly as he mutters a ‘nice bro,’

“How about choking?” You shot back, “I tried the boyfriend thing and he stole all my savings to buy drugs.” Namgyu’s jaw ticked and you can see his fist fold and unfold. Thanos’ commentary continues. ‘Shit boyfriend-’ he says under his breath.

“Don't be a bitch so early in the morning…” Namgyu says finally before turning his head, somewhat distracted, “Or at least I think it's morning. Hyung do you think it's morning-”

Thanos raised his hands, “Morning is what we make it in here, bro.”

“Leave me alone of I'll fucking scream.” you cut through all their useless chatter, letting a tense silence settle between the three of you. Eventually, Thanos reluctantly pulls Namgyu away. Murmuring a quiet ‘just take a hint bro.'

Soon, you were left in your bed but not without one more backwards glance from Namgyu over his shoulder. He wasn't done with you and that thought sat heavily on your shoulders until the robotic voice from unseen speakers made the countdown to lights out.

The very last thing you remembered, before the overhead lights were snuffed out, was his black, almond eyes still watching you from his bed.

The blue 'O' velcroed to your breast burns a hole through your conscience as your eyes flutter open in the middle of the night, really needing to pee. The prize money acts as the only source of gold light illuminating the hall while everyone else remains soundly asleep.

Life in the games was so much more stomachable during the day, but when the lights went out, you were forced to sit with your thoughts. That piggy bank didn't have money inside it, it held bodies, and the ghosts practically filled this room.

Still, you can't help but whisper to yourself, “I really have to pee.” The only thing stopping you from going to the bathroom is the gaze you knew would somehow find you from three beds over. Your ex boyfriend watches you, even when the lights go out.

Paranoia be damned.

Cursing softly, you maneuvered yourself to the ground. Trying to make the least amount of noise possible as you moved through the row of beds.

If you were being followed you'd never know. Everything was too dark but a part of you sighed as you reached the small arched doorway completely unscathed.

Almost unscathed.

Your heart hammers in its cage when you feel his heavy arm settle over your shoulders. Your mouth falls open but Namgyu is already banging on the arched door with a closed fist. You flinch with every loud, metallic hit.

The little window opens to reveal a triangle-masked soldier. He stands there emotionless.

“My girlfriend's on her period- she's bleeding everywhere. We need the bathroom.”

There is silence from the Guard who is clearly unimpressed. Just before the little window is about to slide shut Namgyu kicks at the door, “Hey! I wanna fuck my girl- if you want, we could do it out here?!”

You try to wrench yourself out of his grip, toilet be damned but your heart absolutely sinks to find the pink soldier opening the metal door.

Namgyu only twirls, pumping his fist before pulling you in his arms, biting back a smile.

“Can't believe that worked,” Namgyu says, with a raised eyebrow and a happy little shrug as he drags you across the threshold. The trip to the women's bathroom is relatively short as you writhe and fight in his hands. There's virtually no reason for the pink guard to think any of this was consensual but they kept their stoicism on their face as you reached the girl's bathroom.

“We'll be quick,” Namgyu assures the guard with a tight sort of smile before pushing you into the bathroom, and closing the door after himself.

You trip on your way running into one of the stalls and he watches you, biting his nail.

“This is the girls bathroom, or are you too high to notice?” You hiss absolute venom as he bites his fingernail.

“Nah, I'm sober right now, which means I need something to take the load off.”

“Cool. Use your hand,” you sigh from within the stalls before dropping your pants to pee. It irked you that he was standing there, on the other side… waiting for you.

You make quick work of it all. Wiping, flushing, and making a beeline for the sinks. He lets you wash your hands but before you make it to the door his arms are wrapped around your waist.

“Uh Uh,” he tsks, “No ‘i miss you’ kiss, huh?” He drags you into his arms, kicking and screaming as he swipes your brains from across your panicked face.

“Only competent boyfriends get kisses,” Despite the fuss, the door doesn't open. Those guards have quite literally abandoned you in here to fend for yourself.

“I can make it up to you,” he said, “I miss you really bad, baby,” Namgyu's pushing your back against the sink, stained with that sickening, pastel colour as he lowers his nose into the crook of your neck. You writhe as he breathes you in deeply, before sighing. His erection pressed against your thigh.

“Someone else could walk in here,” you cry, feeling a dampness seep out of you, wetting your underwear. Your body was being traitorous because it was enjoying feeling anything other than fear. It yearned for it.

“Sto-” you attempt to catch your breath as he gropes at your breasts from over your tracksuit. “Stop touching me-” you say despite your legs getting weaker and weaker.

“You don't get to touch me anymore. You lost that privilege when you stopped being my boyfriend.” He was so much taller than you when he stretched his hand across your cheeks, forcing your neck back to make more space for his lips. A moan nearly spills out of you.

His hands are trembling and his tongue swipes out to lick the length of your neck. To your shock and horror, you melt in his grasp.

“You don't mean that-” he whispers against your skin. “No one's gonna fuck you like I do-”

“No one's going to steal my money like you do either-”

His hand flies down to your throat, choking as he says through clenched teeth, “I told you I had a problem-” he squeezes and for the briefest moment, you see stars. “I needed help and you abandoned me, you bitch-”

“I didn't abandon you-” His lips are on yours, silencing you in one messy kiss that him forcing his tongue into your mouth.

“You gonna be good for me, Huh?’ He says, hoarsely, your eyes glare up at him.

“Leave me alone-”

“You know I love it when you try to fight back,” his mouth breathes against your hair, “You trying to get me riled up babe, huh?”

His fingers find the lining of your own sweatpants and your heart stammers as he turns to push your front against the sink. Your hand grips at the cheap plaster and you avoid your own traitorous reflection in the mirror, lest you find not only fear in your eyes, but lust

“You know how bad I've needed this- fuck,” his voice cracks when fumbles his cock out, grinding against your ass with his eyes closed in ecstasy and his mouth hanging open. Your finger curls around the sink as the first moan slips out of you. It had his eyes flying open to look down at you in amusement and awe.

“I knew you weren't a completely stuck-up bitch,” he says, pulling you up by the base of the throat, “I knew you still wanted me.”

“I don't,” you squeak out as he pulls down your pants.

“No- but your body does,” he swipes your underwear to the side.

Your body spasms as he roughly sinks his digits into you once before pulling out.

He continues to swipe your arousal from from your ass to your puffy clit and the need wracks through your entire body, building as you arched your ass backwards against him.

“You miss me real bad,” he brings your fingers up in front of your face and your heart drops to find the arousal webbing his index and middle.

His mouth is by your ear, breathing heavily as he lines his cock up at your entrance, already leaking precum, “I know I gave you hell when we were out there-”

“Hell doesn't begin to cover- FUCK-” he rams his cock into you. Positively brimming with need as his hips stutter against you.

“Y-ou stole my fucking savings for drugs-” you get the sentence out quickly before moaning into the air, as your boyfriend fucks out all the frustration he's been carrying, all the need and the withdrawal.

“And I ate you out as an apology-” He reaches his hand around to clamp down on the base of your throat. Your mouth falls open when he cranes our neck back, his eyes boring into yours. “Don't you miss it baby, don't miss having me inside of you?”

“Y-Your eyes are diluted-” you begin to say, utterly incredulous. “You're high right now!”

His hips thrusts in shallow, quick strokes. “And your pussy's wet, guess we're both fucked.”

“That it…” he whispers, “Don't think I haven't forgotten the way you abandoned me out there… But in here,” your eyes roll to the back of your head, “You dont so much as fucking breathe without my permission.”

Your pussy tightens around him like a long lost friend, it knocks you out how deeply you've craved him. Needing reprieve from all the fear. “You're squeezing around my cock, you fucking slut-” that nearly has you seeing stars. Your body spasms.

Your eyes squeeze shut as his cock hits that particular pillow of nerves inside you, nearly flipping you off the edge.

You do it without thinking about it and his eyes widen as he presses that same hand to your clit.

“Spit on my hand,” he says, an edge to his voice that let you know he was far too close. You forgot how messy things got when you had sex with him. How much of a mess he made of you.

“F-Fuck!” Your eyes are squeezed shut as he reaches around to rub you to your orgasm. His movements only fumble when his hips start stuttering.

“N-Need you to cum for me-” he breathes out. “I’m jittery- baby. I need it- shit-” you slip into your orgasm right in front of him, milking his cock for all its worth. “F-Fuck this is so much better than drugs,” he murmers, eyes rolled back as a drunken smile ghosts over his face. He's in complete and utter euphoria.

Two rough knocks on the door signal the need for your return but Namgyu's cock is still spilling ropes of his cum inside you and you're doing nothing but taking it.

“I hate you,” you breathe out, because it's true. If it weren't for him you wouldn't be here.

His breath is warm against your neck as he says, “I love you too.

reblog if you’ve read fanfictions that are more professional, better written than some actual novels. I’m trying to see something

sobre o doer e o doar

minha entrega não é parcial. é importante que se saiba disso antes de andar por estes caminhos. ainda que seja comum dizer-se desmedido, sem limites, me disponho a informar que sobram espaços vazios e preenchimentos intermitentes. meus gritos inaudíveis ressoam em frequências específicas e chegam aos ouvidos dos que sabem ouvir. doando energia ao universo que se expande, me consolido enquanto potência de vida que tem algo a falar - e eu tenho. ainda que doam os ossos e, nos dias mais frios, a alma, pago o preço de viver genuinamente as conexões invisíveis que constroem a rede de afetos que me tornei. dói existir com verdade. é custoso esticar-se sem limites, mas o faço antes que perceba a branquidão nos nós dos dedos e a fala oscilante. ser é crescer, construir, significar. não tolero mais ser apenas mais uma caixa de canto de cômodo, sem nada a oferecer exceto em momentos específicos. quero doar ao futuro aquilo que me move em direção às incertezas e as perguntas jamais investigadas - algumas jamais feitas. faço perguntas que cansaram de latejar sob minha pele, que me são latentes na existência, em busca de respostas a serem produzidas (ou não). é que dói se doar ao movimento de existir amplamente, entretanto, dói mais ainda me negar a ser potência que se alastra por todo canto em direção a todo lugar e lugar nenhum. entre doer e doar escolho ressoar para mais do que as palavras significam. existir dói, por vezes, mas inexistir dói bem mais.