#rinawrites

[saintkatarina]

you know i bite the way i bark.

he grabs you, pulling you into a booth and throwing an arm around your shoulder before you can think. you already know how this is going to go, can feel the buzz start in your fingertips. his smile is mean, sharp, as he slides a beer over to you. "drink up."

pairing: m!whitney x f!reader wc: ~2.4k tags: blanket dol content warning, whitney. exhibitionism and the tiniest smidge of pet play at the end. notes: whitney and the reader fuck around at the pub. i wrote this while playing through a scene in dol and the italicized chunks are taken straight out of the game. the rest is all me baby. 18+ only

it's been a long day. between digging around the landfill, getting accosted by a wolf out in the woods, and giving your last pair of lace panties to a woman who paid you twenty bucks (total cheapskate, but what can you say, you needed the money), you could use a bit of a break. the pub looks inviting this time of night, a warm glow in its window and the sounds of chatter pouring out the door. you like the pub, like its atmosphere, like how landry gives you a bit of a break from whatever fucked-up curse has infected the rest of the town. you even like how easy it is to go home with someone from here, the promise of a quick fuck as sure as breathing. so you go to the pub, intent on downing a few drinks and eyeing up the best-looking person you can find.

too bad you forgot it's sunday, and sunday at the pub means whitney and his pack of dogs.

you feel his eyes on you the moment you enter. his group is hard to ignore, easily the loudest ones in the room. the rest of them carry on like they're the only ones around, but whitney is quiet. watching.

it's a weird balancing act the two of you have. he, by all accounts, torments you every day. he slams you into the lockers, uses your mouth or ass or cunt whenever he wants, treats you worse than a piece of meat. but whatever's wrong with him is mirrored in you. you choke back a moan every time he shoves you around, you cum regardless of the hole he puts his dick in. so when you feel the weight of his stare, heavy as a lead collar, you can't help but be pulled over.

he grabs you, pulling you into a booth and throwing an arm around your shoulder before you can think. you already know how this is going to go, can feel the buzz start in your fingertips. his smile is mean, sharp, as he slides a beer over to you. "drink up."

you do. the beer fizzes as it goes down. you can see whitney's eyes trace your throat as you swallow; he hands you another one before you've even hit the bottom. that one goes down just as easy, the room not even starting to spin. whitney's friends are jeering, cackling to each other whenever you look past the rim of your glass. you feel something on your thigh and know before looking that it's whitney's hand. he pops open the button on your jeans, working his fingers down.

"you're lucky," he whispers. "got in a fight here last week. almost got booted out. now I gotta mind my manners." he sinks his hand lower and flicks your clit. "i'd bend you over the table if i could, but i'll settle on making you squeal."

you almost do. his hands on you always make you want to cry, whether they're playing with your cunt or choking you out. you wonder where he learned to fuck so good, then kill the thought as quickly as it sprouted. you don't want to think about him with anyone but you. you focus back on him, the pads of his fingers circling and rubbing you clit. he pinches it now and again, just to be cruel, but it makes you want to bite down on something to keep your moans in. you're good at sitting and taking it, but he always makes you want more.

you can see the bulge in his pants past the alcohol and your own lust, and you reach over to mirror his movements. it's not payback you want to give him, not even close. you don't want to prove to him that you know what you're doing either, that you're as big a slut as he claims. you're operating on kicked-dog instinct, the helpless hope that by acting good you'll make him keep wanting you. you slip your hands into his waistband and start to work his cock because your small, pathetic, helpless self wants to make him feel nice, too.

it works. you can feel his fingers shaking as he rubs your clit, see the tremor in his thighs the more you twist your hand. maybe all that practice out in the park with one blank face or another was worth it. he pulls his hand out of your pants to force another beer on you. "one more," he pants. you comply, the bitter taste stinging your mouth. but you're his loyal dog. you'd put up with anything if it meant he kept looking at you for one more minute. you drink the beer.

his friends are a little quieter now, a couple of them eyeing you as you finish. they should know better, you think. how good of a slut would i be if i couldn't hold a few drinks?

whitney's no slouch either. still strong, he pulls you up onto his lap. you can feel the hard line of his cock pressing into your cunt past the wet patch you made on your shorts. he pulls you back to his chest, forcing your head back. "that's my slut." his voice is heavy, breathy, all for you. his friends look away, embarrassed or disinterested or both. you suppose this is downright normal behavior for whitney. it doesn't matter. all you can feel are his hands on you, his cock so close, right there-

he pushes up into you, and if it weren't for the clothes you're both wearing, he'd sink home. it's all you can do not to moan out loud into the room. on instinct, you rut back, deliriously hoping somehow he'll get inside you. you aren't really thinking at this point, mind focused only on the feel of his cock against you and how it isn't inside you right now. you're like an animal, like a dog in heat pushing against him. the only thing that breaks the spell is whitney picking you up and spinning you around, face-to-face. you'll never get tired of seeing his face, that sharp smirk, the bite in his eyes, the bangs that make you want to reach up and pull. before you know it, one of his lackeys is back and a shot glass is pushed into your hands. whitney wraps his arm around yours, forcing you to take the shot with him. "bottoms up," he says, eyes starting to go glassy.

you can feel the flush from the booze work its way down your neck. you're sure your whole face and chest are bright red, sure you already look fucked-out despite not having anything in you. it's embarrassing. it makes you want to cry. the cheers from whitney's friends as you both down your shots makes you want to cry more.

whitney pushes against you harder, pinning you between his body and the table's edge. you can smell the liquor on his breath. you hope yours matches. you spread your legs wider, hoping the invitation makes him pull you out of there, hoping he tears your clothes off here and now and fucks you 'til you can't breathe. you can barely think, hips stuttering against his, oblivious to whoever might be watching. the only things in your mind are whitney's hands wrapped around your waist, his breath on your neck, heavy and wet, and his cock still somehow inside his pants and not inside you.

you hear him speak against your neck. you want your sweat in his mouth. "finish your drink." you do just as he says.

the night air is cool on your overheated skin. the urge to cry has dissipated now that you're away from whitney's friends. it's been replaced by the blank-space urge to go along with whatever whitney says. you lean against him as you walk; now that you're moving, the drinks you downed back-to-back have made themselves known.

"fuckin' lightweight," he smirks, but there's no bite in it.

the night is quiet as you two walk along the street, making the slow path to the orphanage. there aren't any cicadas this time of year, and traffic is minimal at two in the morning. all you can hear are your own footsteps, mirroring whitney's. he slows, seemingly lost in thought. his arm goes tight around your waist, supporting more of your weight than before.

"on second thought," he says. "maybe i don't want to wait till you're home. maybe i want to fuck you right here on the pavement."

the thought makes your knees go weak. he feels it, letting you drop and pouncing on you the minute he can. he kisses you, rough. his lips are chapped and his mouth tastes like cigarettes. you almost wish you'd asked to bum one when you left, but getting the taste from his tongue down your throat is just as good. you push your shirt up with one hand, the other daring to tangle in his hair. he moans when you pull on it, high and clear, like a bell. in all the times he's fucked you, you've never heard him make that noise before. it makes your cunt twist. your legs inch wider, if that's even possible.

his mouth moves down to your throat, biting and sucking, sure to leave marks. you hope they're dark enough to last for days. his hands pull your bra down, letting your tits fall out. you can feel him pinching and pulling at your nipples, but your mind is still short-circuting a little from his moans. whitney never lets himself get so loud at school, or the park, or even in the alleys. the small part at the back of your brain wishes you'd heard that moan in a plush bed in whitney's parents house instead of on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, gravel digging into your back. the bigger part is ecstatic you get to hear it at all.

he lets one of your tits go, pushing his pants down, desperate. you match him, pulling your shorts down so fiercely you hear a stitch pop. it's worth it to get his cock in you. he presses up against you again and you release a moan of your own so loud it's almost a scream. the head of his cock rubs against your clit, twice as good as his fingers were in the pub. you can feel him dripping against you.

"look at you," whitney's voice is low. "all it takes is three drinks and you spread your legs wide open."

"just for you," you whimper. "only you."

you feel his lips curl against your collarbone. his thrusts get more insistent, a breath away from pushing into you. you can feel the tip of his cock pressed riiight against your hole, catching on the rim. "just me, huh?"

"yes," you're almost hysterical. "i'm yours, i'm all yours, i'm your slut, i'll do whatever you say-"

you're cut off by his cock pushing into you, as deep as he can go. he's splitting you in half, burying himself inside you so he can never come out. "fuuuck," he breathes. "you're mine."

you choke on the words in your throat. it feels like he's up in your stomach.

he starts to thrust, hard and fast. there are small tears in your eyes, relief and build-up all at once. you're in heaven, drifting along a cloud, disembodied. his breath puffs out against your chest, little ah-ah-ahs as he pushes in and out of you. fucking him always feels good but here, the culmination of his attention on you all night, makes you out of your mind with want. whitney's right that you're all his, and you know it. no one else has ever made you feel this insane.

you've had plenty of cocks in you (even though whitney's was your first, you'll be dead in a ditch before you tell him that) but his is the only one that hits that spot up in you that makes you scream. the head of his cock is the only one that kisses your cervix just right. with everyone else, it just hurts. whatever pain whitney deals out makes your cunt twitch tighter. you reach your hand down between your bodies, trying to find a good angle to rub your clit. it only makes you more frustrated, the slide of how much you're dripping keeping you from getting any friction.

whitney notices what you're doing and smacks you hand away. "knock it off. i want you to cum just from my cock." you let out a high whine at that, desperate. as good as it feels, it just isn't enough. you start to rock your hips in time with thrusts, hoping somehow you'll get him deeper, harder.

"that's it," he moans out, panting breaths. "crying like a bitch in heat. bet you want me to cum as deep as i can, make you my pet." your cunt pulses hard at that thought. you want him to own you. that's the spark that keeps you coming back to him, the horrible place inside you only whitney can reach. he makes you want to roll belly up and beg whenever he walks by. and he knows it.

you're sobbing now, big gulping breaths you can't control. you spasm the next time he hits your spot just right, twisting tight tight tight, so hard you think you black out. not far behind, whitney starts to stutter against you. "'m cumming," he says as he stuffs his face into your neck. he does, hips twitching a staccato rhythm he can't control, fucking himself into you like a dog. you can feel him pulse inside you.

the two of you lie there for a second, both panting like you've run a mile. you always feel like you've been shot after fucking whitney, like your mind can't register what's just happened. you wait for the pain, wait for the gush of liquid to come out of you. this time it doesn't. he stays on top of you, stays inside you, well past when he normally pulls out. he stays there long enough that you start to feel the gravel in your back again. if you think about it long enough you'll remember your discomfort, but your brain hasn't come back on yet and your body is still riding the high of having whitney so near.

finally, he starts to move. you can feel the sweat on your skin in the cool night air as he peels his body off yours. "c'mon," he says, pulling you back up to your feet. your legs are wobbly as you walk with him back to the orphanage. you want to invite him back up to your room; he invites himself up before you get a chance. whitney practically pulls you through the halls, only resting once you get to your room. he flops down on the bed, dragging you down with him.

you mutter a quiet "good night," tired from the sex and alcohol wearing off. you don't hear him say anything back. when you wake up a few hours later to go to the bathroom, his arms are wrapped tight around you, squishing you to him like a vice.

[plasticfreckles]

🪶 dream ossuary rookanis enjoy 🪶

Lucanis wakes with a start, with the unpleasant lightning strike through the body after dreaming of falling.

Only he doesn't find himself back on the raised courtyard between the big statue and the Lighthouse.

Instead, he finds himself back in the frozen, cone-shaped cell, so deep underwater that even the suspiciously clean air feels suffocating. He's so cold even the skin between his asscheeks stands up in goosehives.

Probably because he's naked, save for the shredded fabric that he snatched from the hips of the poor soul in the cell next to his, only moments after she (Nastia, he reminds himself) had succumbed to her starvation and her hunger demon had burst out of her like filling from an overcooked pie.

Not his finest moment, there.

Lucanis rubs his forehead with a sigh.

Of course he's still here. This entire business with blighted gods and archdemons and remote brain-parasites did always seem a tad too absurd to be real.

NO! Spite shrieks. He's circling him like a vulture waiting for its food to die. Gods were real! We killed them. We tore into Ghilan'nain with our teeth! We chased Elgar'nan into Minrathous! Stuck Solas to the Veil for snatching our Rook! OUR ROOK IS REAL. SHE'S SLEEPING, RESTING. IN OUR ARMS. WHERE SHE BELONGS. OUTSIDE YOUR STUPID STUBBORN SPONGEHEAD.

As if she'd walked out of the latest romance serial, took one look at his miserable self and thought I have to have him.

NO REASONING WITH YOU HERE. RESOLVE TO BE MISERABLE. WHEN WE COULD BE FREE. FREE AND - You're surprised? There's a reason you were once Determination, before we joined.

Spite rams his elbow into the back of Lucanis' head, then dissolves into thin air.

Lucanis huffs warm air into his palms, rubs them together for friction and then wraps his hands around his toes.

There's a commotion, somewhere between the space behind his eyes and the back of his head, and he feels as though he's prodded at in another plane of existence.

SEE? Spite pushes at somebody until they kneel down in front of him. ROOK IS REAL. If she were real, she wouldn't be in here with us. She'd be far above the surface, as she should. I WOKE HER. I BROUGHT HER.

Lucanis dreads what his demon might have told her to pull her from her precious rest and into his mind. Again. Judging their trajectory lately, it likely wasn't Help us, he listens to you this time.

"Hi." There's hands on his cheeks now, and whoever it is that Spite conjured up does look exactly like the woman from his escapist dreams. Her eyes are puffy, rimmed in red - has she cried?

"What's wrong?"

Oh, so. Only real if for you to fix? That's what's happening? Shut it. MAKE IT MAKE SENSE. THEN I SHUT IT.

"Spite brought me. He thinks you went back."

Lucanis can't bite back his dry chuckle. When he pointedly looks around, her hands slip from his cheeks, cradling his jaw now.

"Evidently, I did do exactly that."

"Has.. Did something happen today, before we went to sleep, that brought you here?"

"You don't need to do this. I don't need my own subconscious trying to fix me."

Fingers twirl the ends of his hair.

"I've been here before, remember? Spite brought me then, too. He - we - don't want you to feel as though you're stuck in here by yourself."

He doesn't need to tell her he did not willingly walk in here, that sometimes he still just finds himself back in his cell. She knows. She knows intimately, by virtue of caring to know him.

"I shouldn't keep returning here," he manages, eventually. "You broke me out. I'm done with this place. There's nothing left for me, here. Not even death."

When Rook stopped being a figment of his imagination, or when she'd shifted to rock the both of them left to right to left with her cheek by his hairline, he doesn't know.

"Maybe this place isn't done with you."

Letting this, however accurate and plain to see, suggestion sit with him makes him nauseous, like trying to eat after having been hungry all day.

"How do I stop coming back here, Rook?"

Her silence and her hands in his hair, strangely grounding him into the reality of this Fade-dream with the nails on his scalp, are answer enough.

Eventually, she sits back down, cross-legged, takes his hands.

He knows what that means; I have an idea.

Do it! Spite leans over her shoulder, pushing her deeper into her hunched posture with both hands on her back like he was trying to mount a horse from its backside. Rook has good ideas! Rook is smart! She will fix us. Splitting us is not in her repertoire. Breaking us out of here is!

"Well, for this specific instance, there's multiple options of what we can do," she starts. She's barefoot, too, the tops of her feet pushing into his soles. "If you'd rather be alone, I can leave - Spite won't like that, and neither do I, frankly. I don't want to leave you alone here."

She must be real, Lucanis thinks after all. How else would he know the way the space between her brows creases means But your feelings in this matter more than mine?

"But if that's what you need, you shall have it. We could leave this place together, too. Or, we could stay here together. Whichever you want. Whatever you need. If it's for me to give to you, you will have it. I promise."

He looks up from their feet, when her hand settles soft and warm and startingly familiar on his jaw, her thumb through his beard.

"I.. I can't get up."

Rook nods.

"Would you like me to stay?"

"I... If you'd rather leave-"

"I know. That's not what I asked."

Her eyes are wide and soft and endlessly loving.

"Stay. Please. Just a little longer."

"Of course."

It should be intimidating, the way she rises to stand before him, fingers working the cord that holds her dressing gown closed.

Were it anyone other than Rook, he would be, deep down. He'd never display it, of course, but he'd still feel it.

With her, though, he can freely display his - concern. Why is she undressing? In the prison of his brain?

"Rook, no. You're barefoot. We're encased in a cone of ice. You'll be so cold. Don't take off your dressing gown."

But he doesn't fight her, and the soft yellow silk-lined robe drapes warm and comforting over his shoulders.

"I am wearing more than a loincloth. I'll be all right."

Even here, somehow, in this nightmare prison that his mind keeps returning to, it's baffingly easy and natural to settle against her. She willingly offers her warmth to him, shifts with him like that's all she's made to do.

Eventually, he's curled up on his side, covered up to his eyes by the gown, her right hand rubbing his arm through the fabric and the other petting his hair.

As he closes his eyes, there's the start of a giggle in Rook's throat, hastily bitten back and covered with a breath.

"What?"

"Your ears are so small. And round. Small and round and cute."

"Is that.. good?"

"I think so. I tried to picture you with ears like mine and - no. Your ears are perfect like this."

"Thank you?"

Her body curves above him, and her lips press against his forehead. It must be a strain in her neck, how she's curling to meet him with his head in her lap.

But when he attempts to rise, to meet her halfways her hand slips from his arm to his chest and pushes him back down.

So he shifts until all his weight isn't squarely on the joint of his shoulder. Closing his eyes again under her gentle touch and soothing warmth is an easy thing. Even here.

Were he not so confused and tired and therefore sopping up her soul as though the Ossuary turned him into a wet biscuit, he might be a little scared of all that.

"How do you like your eggs?"

"I'm sorry?" He almost can't hear it, his left ear cushioned by her thigh on all sides, Spite trilling happily at her scratching over his scalp in the other.

"When we wake up, I'll make you breakfast, for a change. Something nice and simple."

"You don't have to. I know you don't enjoy cooking."

"I want to, Lucanis. Let me do something for you, just this once." He knows she'll say the exact same thing she resolves to cook for him the next time. And the time after that. And probably for the rest of all time, if she'll have him. "So: how do you like your eggs?"

"Sunny on bread."

Her thigh shifts under him, and her lips press against his right ear.

"Sunny on bread you shall have."

Instead of leaving, however, she settles down beside him, her thigh still cushioning his head, the crown of hers barely in his lap.

"After you wake up. After you have a long, long, well-deserved rest, and wake up in my arms at the Lighthouse. At home."

She says more, but he soon falls away into sleep, when she drapes her dressing gown over him like a blanket once more and reaches for his hand under the fabric.

-

He wakes again, before her, this time, though his face no longer lies squared in her lap.

There's no blanket covering him - it must be somewhere near the end of the bed - but Rook's body against his back is enough to to warm him through an entire Age of winter.

Her fingers are hooked into the seam of his pants, her breath warm on the back of his neck.

Sunlight filters through the massive fishtank, into the hidden corner where their bed sits.

A marvel, that. Their bed. For her and him.

See? Real. All of it. You're right. And thank the Maker for that.

A bare legs hooks over his hip.

Lucanis closes his eyes again.

🪶

directly influenced by this post by @lunammoon <3

@lanafofana this may be of interest to you

@manhattenstops p e r c e i v e

[~rina]

[106alibi]

your first (goofy) christmas with bf!park jisung. fluff.

"wait- just a moment!"

your boyfriend had invited you to his apartment for a christmas gathering along with the other boys, but here you were stuck outside the front door, freezing your ass off with a bag full of gifts because jeno just wouldn't let you enter, and you knew better than to try to push your way past his strong build. still, you tried to crane your neck to peek past jeno's shoulder, but all you could see was a bunch of men, donned in ugly christmas sweaters, surrounding something, whispering something you couldn't catch at all. jeno turned his head around as the boys mouthed something to him, before he finally stepped away from the door frame.

"close your eyes, y/n."

"what-"

two hands (whom you assumed were jeno's) clamped over your eyes before you could protest as you waddled into the living room, almost tripping before someone else managed to catch you. you muttered curses under your breath, mainly directed at your boyfriend's absence. your feet kicked a box before your the hands over your eyes were finally removed. you blinked at the bright lights, your eyes adjusting to find yourself in front of a christmas tree, and in front of a gigantic present box, a box that stood tall enough at your waist level and way too wide to be placed under the tree. you tilted your head in confusion, and looked around at the six giggly boys who stood around you, your boyfriend still no where to be found.

"open it."

you eyed haechan, who was chuckling uncontrollably with his head buried in renjun's shoulder.

it was obvious, really, what they were giggling and chuckling about. it wasn't hard to connect the dots between your boyfriend's absence, their laughter, and the comically large gift box. large enough to fit a person. still, with a suppressed grin, you untied the bow on the top of the box and pulled the lid off.

"surprise!" jisung jumped up with his hands out like a jack in the box toy, with strings of colourful LED lights twinkling from his neck, a synthetic white beard stuck on his face and a santa hat threatening to fall off his head.

the silence was embarrassingly deafening, and it was clear from the snorts from the boys and the way jisung hid his face in his hands that this was not his idea at all, but all you could do was grin dumbly at how cute your boyfriend was, trying to hide from his own girlfriend as if she hadn't seen worse.

"I told you this was stupid-"

you didn't let him finish. you pulled his hands away from his face and yanked him closer to you, causing him to stumble as your lips met, soft and plush as his hyungs whistled around you and someone hollered "I told you this would work!". you pulled away to examine his faux bearded face, stifling a laugh at it, and the way his boba eyes stared at you, wide and in love.

"merry christmas, my stupid santa." you poked at his beard as he puffed his cheeks out in response.

and despite how ridiculous he looked this christmas, he knew he would do it all over again, for the pretty grin on your face and the sound of your stifled snorts. sigh, guess hes gonna need his hyungs help next christmas again.

a/n: this is so stupid I can't decide if I love it or hate it. anyway blessed christmas everyone! 🎄 love each and everyone of you

[lesbunnian]

Tear of Ice Chapter 1

Tear of Ice is finally here! Note the version that I am posting is still a rough draft. But you can read the first chapter here!

Patrons were able to see this and the artworks much earlier! Through supporting me here!

Finally being open enough to post my stories and I am happy to share one of the many I have in mind.

[spicymangomargarita]

I hope to fall inlove with a lot of things this life could ever offer. i want to be so inlove, i can do things for those things that every human breathing told me was impossible.

[plasticfreckles]

🪶 rookanis blurb to plug my commission 🪶

Rook laughs at him as soon as she sees him, the instant she stops rubbing the sleep from her eyes, runs her fingers through her hair instead.

"What?"

"You've got ink all over your - well, your everything."

Lucanis looks at his hands, and true: there's ink stains well into his shirtsleeve.

He mutters under his breath, rolls up his sleeves, but there's already black bleeding into the fabric. He must have pulled the cuffs down before the ink had a chance to dry.

"Sorry," Rook says as she approaches, somehow already armed with a sponge, handsoap, a bowl of water and a towel.

"For what? You didn't dip me into a vat of ink, did you?"

She doesn't shy away from him, leans into his fingers brushing her hair from her eyes. Uncaring of the way he might stain her purple.

"No." Her nail replaces the sponge, picking at his wet skin like scab from a wound. "I didn't stay up while Spite was using it, though. I was just so tired, and I didn't think he'd go on to extend his canvas onto your skin once he'd run out of parchment."

NO. DID NOT WAKE HER, Spite says before the thought can even take root in Lucanis' head. Know where ink and parchment lives. Got up for drink, ruffled hair. Have fun, Spite almost sounds like her now, and Lucanis somehow remembers her hand fleetingly sliding across the width of his shoulders, once on the way out, once again on the way back into the sheets. Very quiet. Out of parchment, but the drawer grinds and squeaks. Didn't want to wake her.

The shaky lines, circles and spirals suddenly look a lot like a child's first attempt at writing letters, just before the soapwater and sponge wash them away into grey rivulets that drip from his hairs onto the floor.

"We talked about this, querida. You don't need to watch my demon. You're not my nursemaid."

A smile threatens to tug at Rook's mouth, while she moves the sponge across his forearm slowly, deliberately, purposely displaying the opal ring that's been sitting on her finger for less than a month.

"Well. I think at this point it's safe to say he's our demon, right?"

YES. OURS. ALL OURS. OUR ROOK. OUR LUCANIS. OUR SPITE. OURS OURS OURS.

Spite keeps cheering even as the words break out of Lucanis' mouth and Rook laughs so hard she spills the water in the bowl over the both of them.

🪶

this is spite the night before:

🪶

i wrote this in like 3 minutes to distract from the fact I'm procrastinating the Angst. boo hoo don't bother me.

commissioned @sopharine for a painting of Spite doing his Arts and Crafts because he is a Poet and a Painter and an Artist stuck in an Assassin's body. it turned out so good omg <3

[plasticfreckles]

🪶 wound care rookanis enjoy 🪶

"It's just.. disrespectful. Honorless. Rude, even. Downright insolent."

Not even a twitch in her eye when the alcohol runs into the wound.

"Fairness looks different."

"You fought venatori and expected fairness? That may be on you, amore."

Eyes roll. Like marbles. Whose? Hers, or the Venatori's?

Two rapid blinks from Spite's finger in her waterline. Right now, hers. Annoyance. Anger. Patience and impatience at once. Soon? Venatori eyes. Pull them out like babes from mothers.

"Yes, fine. But still. You don't just go for a girl's earring and yank. What if the jewellery is cheap and just breaks apart instead of tearing skin? Got up close for nothing."

"I did ask you not to wear the big hoops," Lucanis reminds her, gently.

But they glitter! So pretty! Sun and rain and sparkle on her ear. And now, they hurt her. They bring nice things to Dock Town! You just like that the gems are purple. Purple like sugarplum. Purple like me.

The way Rook's eyes move to her side to watch him thread the needle, without putting pressure or new dirt onto the torn lobe must hurt her, he thinks.

Give her a headache behind the eyes like the one he has every waking minute at the Lighthouse. And most sleeping minutes, too.

The instant relief he feels from stepping out of an eluvian and into just about anywhere else than the Fade is delicious, like the gentle ache after stretching deeply through tension.

The instant relief she doesn't feel right now, because she keeps trying to watch him.

"But I look so good in them!"

The needletip is barely in her flesh before he stops.

Stills.

Not because he's re-adjusting his angle, or second-guessing his skill.

"You look good no matter what you wear," he says, so quietly he himself couldn't hear it if the sound didn't naturally run through his own body as well as the world. "You're always beautiful."

She turns pink, almost as pink as her hair in the sun. He sees it on the tip of her ear, not her face.

Even after so long, he can't speak these things out loud and look at her face.

"Even when I broke you out? Soaked to the bones, my hair so wet it clung straight to my body, almost down to my knees?"

Bright like sun. Shines to bottom of the sea. Only her. Brighter THAN sun. Sun doesn't reach there. Soft like furs and fire and sweets. Warm like soup and blankets.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She collects his hand from her ear, kisses each and every knuckle.

"So are you." And then she runs the alcohol rag over his hand before releasing it to get back to work.

A single drop of blood pushed past the needle, drops down to the tabletop. It doesn't stain the wood, not the way it stains the other studs in her ear.

Once he's done, he'll rub the alcohol onto them, as well. keep everything nice and clean.

That is, until she goes to sleep, face down in her pillow, her hair everywhere.

"Is this okay?"

Rook frowns, but not at him. Not at the needle pulling the thread in and out of her ear.

"Yes, of course. I trust you. Only two types of people who know sewing."

"Seamsters and Crows?"

A short, barking laugh, ready to fall into her habit of laughing way too hard at things she finds mildly amusing at best, because they were things that came out of his mouth. Then catching herself, remembering the needle in her ear.

"Yes. And you are a Crow who mends his own clothes. I think you can handle sewing up two pieces of loose skin. They're not even entirely loose. They're still attached to my face. Kind of."

"Still. You know what my scars look like."

Voicing that out loud makes him work all the slower, double-checking that the stitches are exactly where they should be, that the thread is tight enough, wipes the stray blood after every pinch to make sure there's no clotting.

Her huff is dismissive. She may as well wave away the comment with her arm.

But her hands have long returned to idly fiddling with the bottom hem of her blouse.

"It's different when you're sewing yourself up. You may only have one hand to do it." She blindly pats the tabletop beneath her. Almost leaning into his touch. "And not have the thing you're sewing up propped up on a table."

"Let me just knot this up for you."

"Can you put a little bow in it?"

"So that tomorrow a Venatori you let come up close can pull it? I don't think so."

"I let come up close? Lucanis, we fight with blades. Getting up close is the only way we know how to fight. It's what we do."

Spite motions out longbows, greatswords and warhammers. Then throwing daggers.

Spite doesn't know how weight distribution works.

We can learn. Wield longest weapon for her. Keep enemies off.

She'll be upset if we don't let her dance, Spite, you know that.

But she'll be safe. No torn ears, no plucked eyes.

But a miserable, resentful Rook for the rest of our time together. And that time won't be very long.

Safe means long life! But she'll leave. As she should.

Spite hates it when Lucanis is right.

Lucanis stands, pulls Rook to sit upright on the table. She instantly reaches for the mirror, twisting it, and herself, to peek at his handiwork outside of her peripheral.

"Oh, it looks cute. Even without a bow."

"You know you will have to get it re-pierced once it's healed, if you want to put your hoop in again."

"I know." She says it around a huff. For now, she's still intent to keep her hair away from it.

"Will you do it for me?"

"I.. I don't know that I can."

"You can stab, you can sew. Wound and heal. Seems like it's learned easily to me."

Rook leans into him as she points it out, her fingertips sliding beneath his layers and into his waistband. Chin on his chest. Looking up at him lazily.

"Fine," he says.

As though the word no was one he knows, when it comes to things she asks of him.

As though it was even a part of him when it comes to her.

🪶

I got my crescent moon earring stuck in my collar at work last night and pulled it out. It *is* cheap jewellery, so the attachment broke instead of tearing through my piercing hole, but i still bled like a lamb at the slaughter.

I don't know why they keep turning crusty.

also inspo struck me on the way home from work last night, then i dreamt about it (also e sports for some reason) and then i typed it up in essentially an hour. this is the most farm-to-table as fanfic gets for me.

[~rina]

[saintkatarina]

within my stomach, scraped off my knees.

maybe you were imagining it. maybe the built-up lust and shame you'd felt about whitney for years were finally coming to a head. maybe you'd fully slipped into psychosis. who could say. all you know is, night after night, whitney went on stage and performed, and you went back to the bathroom of whatever sketchy bar you were in and fingered yourself until you came.

pairing: m!whitney x f!reader wc: ~3k tags: blanket dol content warning, whitney. throatfucking, basically. the tiniest smidge of pet play at the end. notes: started writing this months ago, had a breakdown, put it on hold. finished my breakdown, now i'm back. 18+ only.

it's two a.m. in some podunk town in new jersey and whitney's got his cock shoved down your throat.

let's back up.

two months ago, your band started touring the northeast u.s., an idea brought to your by your manager and approved by whitney's ever-present need to get into fights. you were barely popular enough to justify doing a tour at all, but your manager insisted this was the "next step" to "build up your brand." whatever. what that meant in real life was a series of shows in shitty, falling-down local venues followed by nights you don't remember and days you slept through. and this entire time, while whitney plays his guitar onstage and picks fights with fans, you've been getting hotter and hotter under the collar.

it started in manhattan. you all got up in front of a small but violently invested crowd and hit them hard and fast with your setlist. after a couple songs and a few more drinks, whitney started getting handsy. you say "handsy" - to anyone else, it would look like he's just playing his guitar. but to you, something about the twist of his wrist as he finished a measure put your mind straight into the gutter. every time his fingers twitched on the neck you felt them in your cunt. you swore he did more moaning than singing.

maybe you were imagining it. maybe the built-up lust and shame you'd felt about whitney for years were finally coming to a head. maybe you'd fully slipped into psychosis. who could say. all you know is, night after night, whitney went on stage and performed, and you went back to the bathroom of whatever sketchy bar you were in and fingered yourself until you came. the worst part was, you were almost sure he was doing it as one of his weird mind games, which meant the other shoe was about to drop. whitney never led you on without making sure to punch you once you were down. he'd pull you by the leash and grind your nose into the ground once you revealed your mess. however fun it might be to fuck yourself to the thought of someone you could never, ever have, that fun was inevitably going to end. whitney's games never did feel good for long.

you were at a in atlantic city nursing your third (fourth?) drink. your thoughts were going in circles. was whitney doing it on purpose? did he know how bad you wanted and wanted and wanted? or was it just some kind a coincidence? and the worst thought of all - was it not about you? did he have someone else on the mind? you were sure he wasn't helping your manager with some social media schtick - whitney would probably kill him if he suggested that. which meant he was doing whatever this was out of his own free will. which meant he had some kind of tormenting agenda. which meant you'd better watch your back.

maybe it was all in your head. you prayed it was all in your head, the culmination of years spent fucking yourself to sleep at the thought of whitney's voice, his smirk, the exact tilt of his eyebrows when he played a riff. any alternative was even more embarrassing.

the next sip of your drink almost choked you. whitney grabbed the back of your neck, just this side of friendly, and slid into the seat next to yours. "how's our girl?"

you can feel the flush splashed across your face. you know it isn't from the alcohol. it's whitney's proximity, the closeness of him making your body fight between flight and freeze. you want to run away and never see him again. you want to show him the soft parts of your neck.

"what did you think of the show tonight?" his smile is mean. he's never looked at you another way.

"it was good," you manage. it's an effort to keep your voice steady. "good crowd."

"yeah, i bet you had to fight 'em off after, huh, whitney?" tom's voice was grating in your ears. you hadn't noticed the rest of your bandmates coming over.

"sure." whitney's eyes linger on you. "they were begging for it."

you want to cry. you want to escape to the bathroom. you want to grab whitney and eat him whole, never let him go. you want to let him claw your heart out.

you take another sip of your drink.

the next stop is the aforementioned podunk new jersey town. it's in some friend-of-a-friend-of-tom's basement, a house party spilling out of all floors into the yard. whitney does his new usual routine of begging someone to fuck him through the hour it takes you to finish your show. you do your usual routine of pretending you aren't soaking through your underwear. once your set is up, you make a beeline for the tub of jungle juice, some bright red monstrosity mixed together by a roommate. it doesn't matter what's in it because tonight you've finally hit your limit. tonight you're going to get stupid drunk and fuck the next person who looks at you.

three drinks later, you notice the cups they have here are unique, blue instead of the customary red.

you're stalling.

normally you aren't shy about trying to find someone if you're in the mood, but the last two months have had you all out of sorts. of course whitney would make you suffer like this too, somehow cockblocking you from….yourself?

what is it about whitney that makes you so crazy? is it the knowledge that he has sex? you know he fucks, it would be hard to miss. he always shows up to practice with bruises on his neck or peeking through the torn knees of his jeans. this new routine isn't out of character; it's really the most whitney-like thing he's done all tour. you'd know, you've been pining after him for years.

fuck, the amount of times he's brought people back to your shitty hotel rooms or shittier van, you know the exact, precise sounds of sex with whitney by heart. you've memorized it, fucking freak that you are, which is maybe why his new routine has you up in arms. you recognize the foreplay motions he's making, the exact tilt of his grin when he knows he has someone on the hook.

(or at least you think you do. this could, after all, be a figment of your imagination, a grand delusion birthed by your inability to have sex with the one person you want. maybe your desire has finally driven you mad, made you hallucinate signs and actions that aren't there.)

your drink is watery in your mouth. you see that grin now, just this side of mean, looking at you from across the room. whitney's had you, hook line and sinker, since you started making music.

the poor guy next to you never stood a chance.

he's passably cute, a little too sweet to scratch the itch you need now, but his lips are soft on your neck in the bathroom of this stupid house. he's doing nothing to work you up, pawing gently at your waist and chest like he's afraid to touch you, but you've been so keyed-up the last few weeks it almost doesn't matter. you can pretend for now, get your fix and go home without this fucking weight on your chest. you let your animal brain take the lead, let your higher-order human mind go blank so you can rut yourself against this guy's thigh like a dog. you're already sticky; this won't take long.

it doesn't, but not because party guy switches gears. the door of the bathroom slams open and there whitney is in all his frontman glory.

"thought i'd find you here," he says, and that's what makes your hips twitch harder than any of this heavy petting. party guy blinks dumbly, mouth open to stutter something out. whitney doesn't give him a chance. he grabs him by the collar and all but throws him out of the room on his ass.

the door shuts behind him. you hear the lock click.

"what's our bassist doing in here with some fucking wannabe?" whitney's tone is light. you hear the danger looming under it; you decide not to care.

"god forbid i try to make my own fun," you scowl, or attempt to. whitney always makes you weak in the knees. "it isn't fair you're the only one who gets their dick wet."

whitney snorts. "please. that fucking guy? you'd be better off humping your pillow back home."

your face, already hot from the alcohol, flushes more. "how do you know?"

"i know what you are," whitney pushes closer to you. your back thuds against the wall. "you need something a little stronger, yeah?"

all the frustration punches out of your chest. "i'm not your fucking groupie, whitney," you snarl, shoving at his chest. he falters for a second before grabbing your arm and twisting, just enough.

"you're right," he breathes. "you're worse."

whitney pulls you in for a kiss hard enough that your teeth clack together. it feels like heaven. you moan without thinking, the curve of whitney's lips with just the right amount of bite. "i've seen you," he says, kissing down your neck. "on stage, you look like you want to cry." he bites down hard, sucking to make sure he leaves a mark. you do cry out at that, half pleasure, half pain. it feels good to finally get what you want. you're still nervous he's going to pull it away.

"god, i've been wanting to do this all tour," he mutters, half to himself. you feel his fingertips rubbing you over your leggings. he's still able to find your clit, teasing the promise of fucking you through the fabric. "wanted to corner you in the green room and push you down on your knees every time."

"do it," you moan without thinking, fingers scrabbling to find purchase in his hair, his shirt, his belt. whitney's hands still, just for a moment. he pulls his face off your skin long enough for you to see his expression - he looks like he's been given a million bucks. then, quick as a flash, his smirk is back and his fingers are in your hair, pushing you down 'til your knees hit the linoleum. you're face-to-face with his dick, the outline of it visible through the fabric of his jeans. on instinct, you lean forward to nuzzle against it, tongue laving a wet patch in the denim. you can tell he's hard. you want him rock fucking solid. you can almost suck the head of his cock into your mouth if you really try.

whitney pulls your face away from him. you look up, whine already in your throat, when you see his face. he's panting, face red. "i knew you were a freak," he says, voice awestruck. "not even five minutes in and you're already drooling for it."

"please," you let a whimper out. it's pathetic, you know it is, but you've wanted him for so goddamn long. it hurts to get what you want; your cunt aches with it.

"you want it?" he shakes your head a little. it feels like he has you scruffed like a dog.

you're actually crying now, little pinprick tears at the corners of your eyes. "please whitney, please."

he smiles, then pops the button of his jeans. his cock slides out, thick and heavy enough to push the zipper down with its weight. you're on it in a split second, laving your tongue around the tip. you make little kitten licks against the length of it, trying to hold yourself back from just shoving the entire thing in your throat. you want him to think you're good at this, like you're a cool kind of person who's sucked a lot of dicks before. whitney has other plans.

he puts his hand on the back of your head, easing his cock further into your mouth. you get about halfway down it before his tip his the muscles at the back of your throat and you fight the urge to gag. he lets up, rocking your head back and forth so your mouth slides along his length. you can feel yourself drooling, little strings of spit dripping onto your folded knees. you're in heaven.

above you, whitney's moaning out little uh-uhs in time with the movement of your mouth. you take a quick glance up at his face to see him flushed. he grins with all his teeth when he sees you looking. you want this to be good so bad. you want him to come back after this is over.

he works your head like that for a minute or two, enjoying shallow little thrusts into your mouth. then, he pulls you off him so you can catch a breath. his eyes are glittering. you only take a couple gulps of air before you pounce back on him, this time licking and sucking at his balls. they're soft. you hear him bite off an "oh fuc-k" as you pull one into your mouth, nuzzling it with your tongue. he doesn't let that last too long, taking a fistful of your hair and tearing you off him. he's panting like he just ran a marathon. you're doing the same, and you're sure your face is bright red.

"you like when i fuck your mouth like that?" he asks, giving you another shake. you moan in response, voice a little rougher than before. "tell me how much you like it."

you feel like crying. "i love it whitney, please, been waiting for this for years, please-" you think you are crying by the end of the sentence, so desperate to have him back in your mouth.

"years, huh?" he pulls you back from where you've been inching closer towards him, fist tight in your hair. "if it's been that long, i should give you the full experience."

you're babbling something almost incoherent to yourself, your mind laser focused on his cock and how it's not back in your mouth. "please, please fuck my mouth, my throat, do whatever you want, i'll do anything-"

his grip on your hair loosens just a bit and it's enough for you to get him back in. you bob your head up and down his shaft with renewed vigor, stroking your tongue alongside it. you can feel his tip hit the back of your throat, your mouth still not able to fit his full length inside. you want that desperately to change, trying harder and harder to fit another millimeter of his dick inside you.

whitney has the solution. he puts his other hand on your lower jaw, tilts your head down and like magic, his cock pops into your throat. he lets out the loudest groan you've ever heard in your life. you think you black out, seeing stars, riding the purest shot of pleasure you've ever felt. you keep him in your throat for a moment, nose nestled against his patch of pubic hair, doing nothing but feeling him inside you.

then you start sputtering, drool dripping out of your mouth, stretched wide around him. he keeps your head pressed up against him, muttering "stay there, stay there." it's all you want to do, to be good for him. you'd sit here all day, suffocate yourself on his cock if it meant doing whatever he wanted.

he pulls you back, allowing you to spit out thick wads of saliva and catch a breath of air. you look up at him, stars in your eyes. you think you're in love.

he fucks your throat like that for another couple rounds, enough that your neck and chest are covered in your own spit. you can tell he's walking the line between coming down your throat and holding off, pulling himself back every time he gets too close. you're wet enough that you've soaked through your underwear, maybe even your pants. you might have already cum.

finally, he has your face pressed up against his stomach and his hips start to move, little thrusts, trying to get himself further down your throat. please, you think for the thousandth time that day, please please come down my throat, make me yours, make me yours.

"fuck, 'mgonna cum, i'm-" you can hear him whining over the static in your ears. you want him to fill you up so bad your teeth hurt with it.

he does. you can feel his cum spurting down your throat. there's so much some mixes with your spit and drips out of your mouth. he stays like that for a second, grinding into your throat one more time before he pulls you off him with a pop. you're gasping for air in great big gulps, doing your best to swallow down all of his cum and not choke. whitney slides down the wall until he's on the floor next to you, looking as fucked-out as ever.

he reaches over and gives your head another shake. you feel like you're glowing. whitney snorts. "i can see your tail wagging."

that sends another frisson of lust through you, tired as you are. whitney doesn't miss it. he smiles, still mean. "good dog."

you both sit there for a second, catching your breath. eventually whitney pulls himself up, even reaches to help haul you up. your legs are shaky from adrenaline and sitting with them folded for so long - you wobble out the bathroom door like you've been fucked. whitney slings his arm around your shoulder and doesn't move it even once people start looking. not that anyone cares - this late into a party no one will remember what they saw in the morning. he maneuvers you up the stairs and into a bedroom, where you gratefully flop down on the bedding. you're exhausted, so tired you barely notice the mattress dipping down next to you. you fall asleep quick, lulled by whitney's even breathing and your own exhaustion.