mostly smut, some of them are quite kinky-ish, just check the individual chapter warnings. the first ones are probably bad, they're older.
more on my Tumblr @goblinontour
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Usually, his pen would come to paper, the bead of ink would form, and then — like a soft exhale — a word would be birthed. A letter. A sound, reshaped into scribblings. Usually.
Now, his pen came to paper, the bead of ink obediently gathering at the tip as it always did, an inevitability of physics. But what followed wasn't creation — just a silent stalemate. A blob. Another blob. Ink pooling like stagnant water, blue turned black against the pale expanse of the page. He let it bleed into the fibers, spreading out like something alive, then watched as it dried back into something dead.
The blobs grew bigger when he forgot to lift the pen, when his mind wandered so far he forgot where he was, what he was doing. He stared at the smudges on his fingertips, already dried into an ink-dark tattoo, and thought maybe he should try a different pen. One of those cheap ones with the thick paste inside — the kind you had to press down so hard with that your fingers would ache after a page. At least he wouldn't make such a mess with one of those. Wouldn't leave behind these aimless, bleeding stains.
But that would require something worth pressing down for. A sentence. A word. An idea to scrawl out with the force of conviction. And he had none of that. So, no pain from tense fingers. Just the silence of his failure sitting heavy in the room.
Scream he could. But he didn't want to. He liked the quiet. Or, he thought he did. The weight of it settled over him like a heavy curtain, and in its folds, he felt both comfort and suffocation.
And then, hands. Yours, presumably, though the fleeting idea of an intruder crossed his mind. That might've made for a good story, he thought dryly. Something to write about, finally.
"Mhm." He shut the notebook with a soft thud, the ink still drying, and let it drop to his lap as your fingers pressed harder into the tension in his shoulders. It startled him, how quickly the silence gave way to you.
"You should stop frowning. You're gonna get ugly wrinkles." you told him, your voice a gentle tease, as if to coax him out of whatever dark corner his mind had wandered into.
"You can't see my face. Maybe I'm not-"
"You are." There wasn't even a beat of hesitation in your reply. He exhaled a small laugh, but you kept going. "I like your wrinkles, but not these ones."
You knew, without looking, that he had that familiar furrow etched between his brows, the one that had become second nature when his thoughts got too tangled. It was something you'd noticed over time — how his shoulders would wind up too tightly, visibly drawn in on themselves, and how you could feel it now under your hands, like tightly coiled rope beneath his skin.
