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theegoldenchild · 9 days ago

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Chapter Ten: A New World

Warnings: 18+ | Angst | No nuts just feels

The Devil’s Tongue hummed with anticipation. You could feel the air around them bracing itself as if the bones of the barn-turned-juke was holding its breath waiting for nightfall to crack its knuckles and get to work.

Sera stood at the center of it all, her bare shoulders glowing under the haze of late light that filtered through the windows. Rich satin clung to her frame like the sun was chasing her curves. She’d fixed her hair the way Smoke liked, swept up but loose, curls soft and coiled against her temples. Her eyes roamed every inch of the converted barn in awe. The lanterns strung from high beams, the scuffed floors scrubbed raw, and the sharp smell of kerosene mixed with pine oil and sawdust filled her lungs.

And then the door creaked. It wasn’t loud, just a confident shift of weight and wood. Enough to announce a new presence without begging for attention. Stack stepped inside, and the room exhaled. He was dressed sharp enough to carve his own name into the night sky: deep black three-piece suit, crisp white shirt beneath, with blood-red accents so rich they looked painted on. He had ruby satin trim on his lapels, a red silk square tucked into his breast pocket like it was holding a dangerous secret, and the chain of his pocket watch gleamed against the fabric as if the gold was dipped in fire.

He looked freshly shaven, his dark brown skin smooth and moisturized under the light, and his hair was neatly molded into place but still stubborn in the way only southern curls could be. Even the way he walked carried a new tune. He seemed relaxed, but with a locked-in energy like a black panther just waking up from a long nap with something on his mind. Hehehehehe

Sera blinked up at him, caught off guard by the transformation. “You look…” she started, unsure how to finish the sentence.

Stack grinned, showing off that signature golden tooth while letting his eyes greedily take in Sera’s appearance. “Yeah?” he chuckled, spreading his arms slightly. “Look like I been born again?”

Smoke, already in his own suit, navy black with cobalt detailing sharp enough to slice air, snorted loudly and kept polishing one of the bar’s crystal decanters. His eyes slid toward his brother with knowing amusement.

Sera, still unsteady from everything that unfolded earlier, stepped forward with that same guileless sincerity that made the twins grit their teeth for entirely different reasons. Her eyes tilted up at Stack, head tilting ever so slightly to the side. “Are you still… pent up?” she asked, voice quiet and brow furrowed with concern.

Smoke choked. Actually choked. And he tried to hide it behind a cough, but the edge of his mouth curled up like a smirk that couldn’t help but to stretch its legs. He quickly turned towards the bar, letting his shoulders shake once in silent laughter.

Stack’s jaw went slack and he slowly cut his eyes toward his brother, slow as molasses sliding down glass. “Y’know,” he grumbled, “you coulda warned her ‘bout askin’ a man somethin’ like that in public.”

Smoke, still chuckling, walked over to his brother and patted his shoulder once. “Thought you liked that honest mouth.”

Stack arched a brow. “Yeah, well, it ain’t the mouth that’s the problem. It’s the questions.”

Then, Smoke leaned in closer, and the teasing dropped just a notch. His voice did a 180 and turned serious enough to stick. “You finally understand now?” he quizzed. “What I meant, ‘bout movin’ at her pace? Not yours.”

Stack didn’t answer right away. But his mouth pressed into a thin line, and his hand flexed once at his side. “I get it,” he said. “Don’t mean it’s easy.”

Smoke clapped his shoulder again. “Ain’t meant to be. Don’t slip up again.”

Before the air could thicken too much, the front door creaked open again, this time lighter, like it had caught the breeze. A lanky figure ambled through with easy steps, carrying music on his back like it weighed less than feathers.

He wore a dusty brown vest over a cream shirt, suspenders slung low and boots worn at the heel. His guitar, old but polished to a shine, sat slung across his back like it was stitched to his spine. His eyes, a curious hickory that seemed to shift between honey and rust, took in the room with a half-smile already plastered on his face.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Sammie said, voice smooth like whiskey left too long in a good barrel. “Look at this place. Y’all finally did it.”

“’Course we did, cousin,” Stack replied, grinning. “You ever known us not to?”

“I remember a certain shack y’all swore was gonna be a speakeasy in Baton Rouge. Ended up bein’ a chicken coop.”

Smoke pointed a finger, mock stern. “That coop made a lotta damn money.”

Sammie laughed and stepped inside, eyes catching on Sera, he paused. Long enough to notice, but not long enough to disrespect. “Well now,” he said, tipping his head slightly. “You must be the preacher girl whole town been whisperin’ about.”

Sera blinked, startled by his attention. “Whisperin’?”

“Yes, ma'am," Sammie grinned, unslinging his guitar and resting it gently against the edge of the stage, “ain’t a single mile between here and Clarksdale that don’t know the devil got two tongues and they both kiss the same girl.”

Sera flushed a deep rose. Stack glared. Smoke cleared his throat.

Sammie chuckled and held up his hands. “Don’t worry. I’m just a voice with a six-string. Wouldn’t touch a flame that hot even if you begged me to play.”

Stack squinted his eyes at his little cousin, “Yeah… Keep it that way, little nigga.”

Sammie just grinned wider and moved to tune his guitar, plucking a few lazy notes that curled through the air like smoke rings.

As the sun dipped lower and lanterns began to flicker awake, The Devil’s Tongue opened like a mouth that hadn’t eaten in days; hungry and eager, slick with sound and sweat. By sundown, the north field buzzed with bodies, the promise of music and mischief pulled in sinners within a 100 mile radius like flies to honey. Cars and wagons lined the dirt road all the way to the tree line. Candles glowed in old Mason jars, casting warm halos across the porch. The sweet sting of corn liquor swirled with the scent of fried catfish, cherry tobacco, and perfumed women.

Inside the barn, the floorboards creaked under the weight of dancing feet. Laughter rang off the rafters. Blues wove through the room like the ancestors were present and enjoying the show. And up on the makeshift stage, Sammie sat on a tall stool, guitar in his lap, humming low as his fingers danced along the frets. His voice was velvet soaked in sinful salvation, drawing the room in closer with every breath.

Stack and Smoke stood near the far end of the room with their eyes cutting across the crowd like watchmen in a den of wolves. They didn’t speak much and they didn’t need to. They moved like mirrored shadows, trading glances, checking corners, making sure the wrong kind of heat stayed out of their establishment. And between them, radiant and untouched by the sweat and noise, stood Sera.

The satin dress shimmered under lantern light like it was lit from within. Her skin glowed a deep, golden brown, kissed by the warm press of summer night. She stood with her back straight, hands neatly clasped in front of her, and mouth slightly ajar as if she was still unsure how to breathe around this kind of attention. And the attention she had. Men eyed her from across the room. Women spoke in hushed tones about her. Even Sammie had to look twice mid-verse before his gaze respectfully returned to his guitar.

Sera had never seen a room like this before. The juke joint pulsed like a living organism. Women twirled in dresses that hugged their hips like hands. Men tipped back their flasks and howled at the sound of Sammie’s guitar like he’d caught their grief in a chord and wrung it dry.

An hour passed before Sera realized she was still standing in the same spot and her men were nowhere to be found. Smoke and Stack had told her to stay between them, but their absence, the beat of the blues, the taste of heat and freedom and tobacco-thick air, loosened something in her. Her heels carried her further into the heart of it all before she realized she was drifting through dancers, past tables lined with liquor glasses and dice, to a corridor she hadn’t noticed before.

The music thinned there. Just the low hum of it now, like a distant river. Sera turned a corner and noticed one door was slightly ajar, cracked just enough for the light to spill out. It was warm and saffron, like a fire smothered under a pillow.

She paused and listened.

“—up ‘til now, I figured y’all just enjoyed collectin’ hearts to break,” came Sammie’s voice. “But word’s gettin’ ‘round. Some folks say y’all ain’t just protective. Say y’all sharin’ her.”

Sera felt her blood run cold and her fingers gripped the wall beside her. Her heart thudded like a warning bell against her chest.

Inside the room, Stack gave a low chuckle. “You always this nosey, cousin?”

“I just sing the stories people too afraid to say out loud,” Sammie replied. “That girl got every man in here watchin’ her like a spark near dry wheat. I figured it best to ask the devils themselves before I write the wrong verse.”

When a long silent pause happened, Sera tried to lean in closer to hear. Then Smoke’s voice came, with a no nonsense biting edge. “Don’t ask ‘bout how we please our woman. Or how she’s shared. That ain’t for no bluesman’s ballad.”

Sammie let out a soft chuckle to diffuse Smoke’s growing agitation. “Didn’t mean no harm, big cousin.”

“You breathe wrong ‘round her and you’ll learn first hand the rumors they say ‘bout us ain’t just whispered tales in the dark,” Smoke added, calm and deadly.

Stack’s voice broke the silence with something more tired. “Ain’t like we planned it.”

Sammie laughed once more. “You two don’t plan nothin’… you just burn it all down and call it fate.”

There was the scrape of glass on wood. A cork popped. A slow pour. Then footsteps — slow and heavy — moving toward the door. Sera panicked and stepped back way too fast causing the old floorboards to creak under her weight. She felt her heart drop to her stomach and her mouth went cotton dry.

Inside, Smoke’s voice cracked like a whip. “Whoever’s out there,” he growled, “you best show yourself ‘fore I put a bullet through the wall and ask questions later.”

Sera swallowed a lump in her throat and her voice came out small but clear. “It’s just me…”

The door swung open with a sharp creak. Smoke filled the doorway like a creature of the night. It didn’t take long for him to ruin the outfit Stack picked out for him. His jacket was missing, his sleeves were rolled up, vest open, and his eyes were like lit coal. Behind him, Stack leaned against a crate, cup of whiskey in hand. Sammie sat cross-legged on a stool, guitar propped on his knee, eyebrows arched in faint amusement.

Sera stood there, wide-eyed, caught between apology and curiosity. “I ain’t mean to spy,” she said quickly. “I was just walkin’… lookin’ for y’all… I didn’t know y’all were in here.”

Smoke studied her. Then stepped back and opened the door wider. He didn’t say a word, just tilted his head. A silent command masked as an invitation. Sera stepped inside, her heels clicked quietly under the softer glow of the room’s lamplight. Her eyes flicked between the three men like she’d wandered into something she shouldn’t’ve seen but couldn’t unsee now. The air in the back room felt thicker than outside, even with the windows cracked. It smelled like wood smoke, sweat, money, and heat. Sera perched herself quietly on an overturned crate near the corner, just out the way but close enough to watch them—all three of them, her men and the one with the guitar.

Smoke returned to his spot and leaned over a table, sorting through stacks of bills and coins with a meticulousness that spoke to the weight of what they’d built in a short amount of time.

“You countin’ it twice for good luck or ‘cause you don’t trust my math?” Stack asked, not even turning his head.

“I trust you to shoot straight, not to count right,” Smoke muttered.

Sera’s lips twitched before she caught herself.

Sammie, still smiling and enjoying the company of his older cousins, leaned back on his stool. “All that money gonna get heavy once y’all on that train to Chicago.”

The words hit like a dropped bottle. Stack froze mid-sip and Smoke’s hands stilled on the cash.

Sera blinked, brows drawing together trying to comprehend what she just heard. “Huh? What train?”

Sammie looked up, guitar slipping a little off his thigh. “Shit—I wasn’t… I ain’t mean to—”

“You talk too fuckin’ much when you drink,” Smoke cut in, voice sharp as a blade.

Stack grunted and downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. “It was s’posed to wait until after.”

Sera straightened a little on the crate, confusion growing behind her eyes. “Y’all leavin’?”

Smoke looked at her now, and something in him softened, but only a little. “No,” he said plainly. Then, slower, “Not… without you.”

Sera’s gaze darted between them. “What job in Chicago?”

Smoke dragged a hand across his jaw and came to crouch in front of her. Even lowered, he still seemed larger than life. “Got approached a couple weeks ago,” he said. “A man up north heard ‘bout us. Wants help with some cleanin’.”

Sera’s head tilted, mouth parting. “What kinda cleanin’?”

“Messy kind,” Stack answered from behind her. “Blood under the floorboards. Ghosts in the walls. That sorta thing.”

Smoke threw him a look, then reached out and took one of Sera’s hands in both of his. His touch was rough but careful. “What Stack’s tryin’ to say is… it’s dangerous work. Men go missin’. People get hurt. It ain’t pretty. But it pays. Pays enough for a new life.”

Sera’s eyes searched his face, her voice small like her heart was on the verge of breaking. “And you were just gonna go?”

“We was never just gonna go,” Smoke said, firmer now, reassuring her. “Ain’t nothin’ we’d do without you knowin’ first.”

Stack added, “We told him we’d think about it. Told him we had someone we needed to talk to before anythin’ got set.”

“Someone?” Sera echoed, voice barely above a whisper.

“You,” Smoke said before placing gentle kisses on the palm of Sera’s hand. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere without you, my love. If we leave this town, you comin’ too.”

Sera looked down at her hand caught in his, her lips parting like she wanted to speak, but no words came.

“You’d like Chicago,” he said softly, like a promise. “Big city. Lights everywhere. Folks that look like us livin’ large… music that don’t eva’ stop. We could keep you in silk and gold… show you how big this world is beyond these fields.”

He leaned in close, so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her temple. “We’d keep you safe. You hear me? Always.”

Sera’s throat worked as she swallowed hard. “And if I said no?”

Smoke met her eyes. “Then we stay. Easy as that.”

Stack, now beside her, shrugged. “Ain’t nothin’ up there more important than you.”

The room fell quiet again, the only sound was the buzz of the light overhead and Sammie’s fingers nervously plucking at the strings of his guitar. Sera stared at them both, caught between fear and awe, the heat of their words branding her deeper than anything she’d known before.

Sera didn’t answer the twins right away. She nodded slowly that night, eyes too full of uncertainty and lips too quiet, but no real answer had passed her mouth. Just silence. That sweet, honeyed silence they let stretch between them like it meant something.

Smoke and Stack never asked again and they didn’t have to. Instead, they began stitching a new world around her. One soft thread at a time until she was too comfortable and dazed to even notice the shackle being locked.

They called it space. A week to think… But this wasn’t space… It was seduction dressed in routine.

8:00 AM – Her moans were the first sound of morning.

Stack always woke her before the sun had fully kissed the windowpane. Not with words but with his mouth. Hot and unrelenting between her thighs, like Sunday worship. He had a cruel tongue and an unquenchable thirst, licking into her until her thighs trembled and her chest rose in frantic prayer. He murmured her name like scripture as she shattered against his lips.

9:00 AM – Breakfast came on a tray kissed with sunlight.

Stack would sit on the edge of the bed, bare-chested and smug, balancing a plate of sliced peaches, warm biscuits, and bacon crisped just to her liking. He fed her with fingers sticky from syrup, his thumb swiping across her mouth just so he could suck it clean. “You taste better,” he’d whisper. “But this’ll do for now.”

10:00 AM – She bathed like a queen carved from sugar.

Stack filled the tub with warm water steeped in orange peel and eucalyptus. He rolled up his sleeves and knelt beside her, hands mapping her body with slow strokes of a sponge. He shampooed her curls with tenderness, lips brushing her ear as he murmured about the first time he saw her. “You looked like trouble. That good kind. The kind worth dyin’ for.”

11:00 AM – She wandered the field barefoot and faraway.

Wearing nothing but a thin cotton summer dress and the scent of two men, she’d meander through the wildflowers with bees dancing around her and cicadas screaming like old ghosts. The steeple of her childhood church loomed in the distance, sharp and judgmental but she never went near. The preacher’s daughter was gone. Something softer and more wicked had bloomed in her place.

4:00 PM – Sleep took her like a second… third lover.

The linen sheets clung to her damp skin, and her body carried the fullness of morning indulgences. She always dozed off with her fingers curled beneath her cheek and the faint taste of Stack still lingering on her tongue.

6:00 PM – Smoke arrived like dusk. Dark, heated and I nevitable.

He never asked. Just pulled her to him and kissed her hard enough to steal the air from her lungs. His hands were rough, but his voice tender, against her neck. “I missed my mouthful,” he’d growl, before claiming her like she was something owned. He gave her no time to think. He only allowed her to wither, gasp, and unravel on his tongue and fingers like thread being pulled from the hem.

7:00 PM – Dinner came dressed in intimacy.

Smoke brought it all himself. Tender oxtails, buttered rice, roasted vegetables, all served while she sat in bed, covered in nothing but the sheet he’d just peeled off her. He never said grace. His fingers grazed her throat with each bite. “Good girl,” he’d murmur. “Eat every bite. You’ll need the strength for tomorrow.”

8:00 PM – He bathed her, but it never stayed innocent.

Soap slid over her skin in slow strokes. His palm cupped the back of her neck while the other traced her spine. The water steamed around them, but his breath was hotter. “All this softness… and it’s mine,” he’d whisper, pressing a kiss just below her ear as she melted into his hands.

9:00 PM – The argument always came.

Smoke, already shirtless. Stack, half-dressed and pacing. Their voices low but sharp.

“She fell asleep in your bed last night.”

“‘Cause you wore her out. She needs peace. That’s what I give her.”

“Bullshit. She wants to be touched, not cradled.”

“You think she ain’t gettin’ both?”

And in the middle of it all Sera would simply giggle. Stretching between them with her arms wide, like she was plucking stars from the ceiling. They always relented. They always climbed in, one on either side. And she always slept tucked between them, her back to one, her legs tangled with the other, her heart caught somewhere in between.

When Sunday rolled around again, the sky outside Smoke’s bedroom was still bruised with dawn. A lazy peach light spilled through the shutters, striping the wooden floors in gold and mystery. The air was thick with the scent of eucalyptus soap, old smoke, and the lingering ghost of Stack’s mouth between her thighs.

Sera sat cross-legged on the cool floorboards, her body wrapped loosely in one of Smoke’s white linen shirts, sleeves too long, hem brushing her knees. Her long ginger curls were wild and untamed, cascading around her face like fire spun from honey. With her tongue pressed to the corner of her lip, she hummed softly and twisted sections of her hair into a new updo. Something elegant and high, with soft tendrils falling along her neck. She worked slowly, arms raised, bobby pins clamped between her teeth, lost in the lull of her own rhythm.

Then she heard the door crack open. She blinked at the mirror propped on the wall across from her, watching through the reflection as both Smoke and Stack stepped inside. Brows scrunching, she stilled, hands mid-knot in her curls. “Y’all came back early today?” she asked, cautious amusement in her tone. “Ain’t this the hour y’all usually disappear to do… whatever it is y’all do when you ain’t in bed?”

Stack didn’t answer. His jaw tightened just enough to be noticed. Smoke didn’t answer either, not with words. He walked towards Sera like a man on a mission with his eyes fixed on her as if she was a rare gemstone that didn’t belong to this world. Before she could move, he bent down and swept her up in one smooth motion, bobby pins tumbling from her lap like scattered thoughts. Sera gave a small gasp, her legs curling automatically against his chest, one hand still clutching a half-finished lock of hair.

“Smoke—what—?”

He didn’t respond. Just carried her over and collapsed onto the mattress with a low grunt, pulling her down with him until her body was draped across his chest like silk in a summer storm. One of his arms anchored around her waist, the other slid beneath her knees, cradling her with quiet finality.

Then he spoke. “We need to talk, love.” His voice was soft. Too soft. “We need to know if you want to go to Chicago.”

Sera blinked. Everything in her paused. Her breath. Her heartbeat. The curl of her fingers in his shirt.

Stack shifted near the door, finally stepping into the light. His arms were folded tight across his chest, jaw tense beneath two days’ worth of stubble. He looked like a man holding back a war.

Smoke pressed his lips to her temple, voice thick with something weightier than usual. “We’ve been patient. Let you rest. Let you feel what life with us could be like when it’s quiet. When it’s sweet. But that man up north, he’s done waiting.”

Sera swallowed.

Smoke’s voice dropped lower, like thunder just before it breaks. “He wants us. Needs us. But we ain’t given him an answer yet, ‘cause you the only reason we’d say no.”

Stack took a step closer, his usual playfulness was nowhere to be found. “You say the word and we stay. Burn this town down or drink ourselves into the dirt, makes no difference long as you by our side.”

“But if you say yes,” Smoke continued, curling a strand of her ginger hair around his finger, “we take you with us. New city. New rules. You’ll never have to look back.”

“Ever,” Stack added.

Sera looked between them. Smoke beneath her. Stack in front of her. The two men who’d unraveled her one day at a time. Who fed her, bathed her, ruined her. Her updo was half-finished. Her thighs still trembled faintly from Stack’s mouth this morning. And her heart… her heart was galloping toward something unknown.

“…Chicago?” she finally whispered, like she was trying the word on her tongue.

Smoke’s hand tightened on her waist. Stack’s eyes didn’t blink. “It’s yours if you want it,” he said. “But if you want it… we go tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

The mirror on the wall caught all three of them in one still frame. And somewhere beneath her heart, the preacher’s daughter felt something old die and something wilder begin to take its place.

Sera sat on the fence with her answer. She was caught between the girl who once folded hymnals in the second pew and the woman who now woke up between two protectors who kissed her spine and called her theirs. She could still remember the sound of her father’s sermons and how he promised fire and brimstone to women who strayed too far. She had grown up obedient, a whispered prayer in her throat and her legs pressed shut like secrets.

But that girl was gone. Gone with the first taste of Stack’s mouth, with the first time Smoke had kissed her like he was starving and she was the last drop of water in Mississippi.

She was no longer just Sera. She was Seraphim, the SmokeStack twins’ woman and she felt the weight and wildness of that title like a crown dipped in whiskey and deliverance. She wore it proudly now. Wore it with every silk nightgown they tore off her. Every bruise left on her inner thighs. Every slow, aching stretch of time spent beneath their hands.

The answer—yes—was sitting on the edge of her tongue. She could feel it pressing against her lips as she shifted on top of Smoke’s lap, her bare thighs splayed warm across his hips. He hadn’t let her go, his arms cradling her like she was made of something more precious than flesh. Her fingers, absentminded and slow, toyed with the buttons of his shirt running along the soft cotton tucked neatly into the waistband of his slacks. She wasn’t looking at his face, only the way the light caught the collarbone peeking from his open collar, the way her nails caught on the thread of a loose stitch near his fourth button.

“I…” she started, voice barely above a whisper, “I wanna say yes.”

Smoke stilled beneath her. Stack didn’t breathe next to her.

“But…” she continued, eyes flickering down to her own fingers, “my daddy… he still hasn’t written me back.”

The words hung in the air like wet laundry on a clothesline, too heavy to dry.

Sera pressed her lips together, then added quickly, “Maybe I should go back home one more time. Just to check. Maybe he left a letter under my pillow or—”

Smoke’s body went rigid. Tension gripped his spine like a vice, and his jaw clenched so tight she could feel it pulse beneath her hands. But even in his restraint, his fingers slid across her skin rubbing gentle, slow circles into the delicate meat of her thighs. It was a motion meant to soothe. Meant to comfort. But Sera wasn’t sure if he was trying to calm her… Or himself.

She lifted her eyes and caught the way Smoke’s burning gaze flicked toward his brother, sharp as a razor but silent. There was a whole conversation happening between them without a word spoken. That eerie twin language Sera could never decipher.

Stack stepped forward slowly, his boots creaking against the floorboards. His voice was deep and easy when it finally came, but there was something lethal curled behind the edges. “I’ll go have a talk with him, sunshine,” he said, kneeling in front of her now, eye-level with where she sat draped across Smoke like temptation. His large hand came up to cradle her ankle, his thumb dragging slowly across the skin. “And I’ll make sure he writes you back.”

Sera blinked. Her heart thumped. “Elias…” she said slowly, uncertain now. Her voice trembled like the tail end of a note plucked on a frayed guitar string, but her hands never stopped their idle work. She sat perched on Smoke’s lap like something soft and well-kept, still toying absently with the buttons on his shirt. Her fingertips traced the fourth one again looping around the loose thread like it held the answers she didn’t know how to ask for.

Her lashes lowered. Her voice, when it came again, was quiet. Distant. Too even. “…I already saw what y’all did to him.”

Stack, halfway through the doorframe, stopped cold.

“I saw it all,” she murmured, eyes fixed on that damn button. “I just didn’t say nothin’.”

The silence thickened. The kind of silence that crawls.

She swallowed, voice growing fainter like she was speaking from underwater. “That day… when he raised his hand at me… and you grabbed him… dragged him out back like a sack of potatoes…”

Her lips parted, then pressed together again before she exhaled. “Smoke… you told me to go upstairs. Pack my things. You kissed me like it was just another Sunday.” Her voice cracked a little. “But I didn’t just go pack.”

She shifted in his lap slightly, her fingers now trailing to the next button, still not looking up. Her curls brushed against her cheeks, half-finished and forgotten.

“I watched from my bedroom window,” she said. “Y’all didn’t know I was watchin’. I saw y’all take him behind the house. I saw Stack slice him across the chest. Saw the way he screamed like a pig. I saw when you punched him, Smoke. Right in the mouth. You knocked all his front teeth out and kept goin’ ‘til his face became unrecognizable.”

Smoke’s jaw clenched so hard beneath her she could feel it ripple through his chest.

She didn’t flinch. Her voice was still eerily soft. Detached. “And now he’s tucked away in the old smokehouse. Ain’t he?”

No one spoke.

“I see the way y’all carry in food when you think I’m nappin’. The way you both come back from the west field smellin’ like blood and ash.”

Her voice dipped, breathy and solemn. “And… I know he ain’t dead.”

Finally, she looked up. Her amber eyes weren’t teary—they were calm, glassy. Like a lake right before it freezes. “Why didn’t you kill him?”

Smoke didn’t answer. Stack took one step back into the room, slow, like a man stepping into a church he didn’t believe in.

“Why’ve y’all been sugar coatin’ it?” she asked, her brows knitting. “All week you’ve been lettin’ me think I’m floatin’. Spoilin’ me like I’m delicate. Like I ain’t seen things. Like I don’t know what your hands are capable of.” She tugged the button free from its loop. Then the next. “I ain’t scared of the truth,” she mumbled. “Not no more.”

Smoke’s arms stayed around her, locked like steel, but she could feel the way his breath stalled in his chest.

Sera pressed her palm flat to his chest now, over his heart, like she was searching for something solid in the tremble of their silence. “I can’t go to Chicago,” she said finally, “not if y’all gon’ keep pretendin’ I’m blind.”

The room held its breath. Outside, a crow cawed once, sharp and lonesome.

Sera blinked slowly. “I ain’t that preacher’s daughter no more. And I ain’t no porcelain thing you gotta handle gentle.”

Her fingers trailed one last time down the buttons of Smoke’s shirt, voice dropping to a hush. “I’m yours. And I need to know what that really means.”

The weight of Sera’s words hung thick in the air, pressing down on the room like a stormfront, humid and trembling. Smoke stared at her, his woman, his salvation, his undoing, while her fingers rested against his chest, gentle as dew, but her voice carried the force of something righteous.

She wasn’t trembling now, he was, and he shifted beneath her. His hands slid to her waist and gripped her just tight enough to remind her who she belonged to. Then, with a slow exhale, he adjusted her higher onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips. He sat up straight against the headboard, spine rigid, his pecan colored eyes locked onto hers like they were the only thing keeping him rooted to earth.

He looked at her fully now. Not like a preacher’s daughter. Not like something that needed protecting. But like a woman carved from fire and knowing.

Sera met his gaze, her curls tumbling wild around her face, still damp with humidity and truth. Her hands settled on his shoulders now, her back straight, her eyes glowed with something fierce and holy.

“I need you to tell me,” she demanded, her voice was like a blade wrapped in velvet. “All of it. No more half-truths. No more gentle lies.”

Smoke didn’t move. Neither did Stack, who lingered near the doorframe with his jaw set and arms folded, tension pulsing off him in waves.

Sera’s breath hitched slightly, but she didn’t waver. “I need to know what kinda job y’all plan on takin’ in Chicago,” she said, her voice firmer now… still a hint of shaking… but strong like wind through the pines. “I need to know what I’m sendin’ prayers up for. What kind of danger waitin’ on the other side of that train ride.”

She swallowed, her fingers curling against Smoke’s shoulders. “I need to know what to ask God to protect you from every time y’all leave my side.”

Smoke blinked once, slowly, as if her words had cut somewhere deep he didn’t know existed. His jaw flexed, and his hands slid up her back, warm and grounding.

Sera searched his face, eyes possessive and defiant at the same time. “If I’m ridin’ with devils… then I got to know how far down we goin’.”

Stack’s voice came from behind her then, low and dark as midnight thunder. “It ain’t good work, sunshine. You sure you wanna hear it?”

She didn’t turn. She kept her eyes on Smoke. “I already heard my daddy scream,” she said softly. “Already seen his blood. You think I ain’t strong enough to handle the truth?”

Smoke inhaled slowly.

Then, finally, he nodded.

“We were hired by a man who owns more city blocks than the mayor himself,” he began, voice hoarse. “He deals in debts, secrets, and bodies. Folks disappear up there like ghosts in the wind. Our job is to make problems disappear. Clean up what others too scared to touch. Sometimes that mean collectin’ what’s owed. Sometimes it mean takin’ someone’s last breath.”

Sera’s lips parted, but she didn’t interrupt.

“Stack’s the blade,” Smoke said. “I’m the fire. And together, we’re the kind of storm you only hear about in warnings.”

He cupped her cheek now, thumb stroking the line of her jaw. “There’s not a single normal day ahead of us, baby. But we’ll be watchin’ each other’s backs. And yours.”

Stack stepped closer again, his voice softer now. “We’d never bring you unless we knew we could keep you safe. Never.”

Sera nodded once. Then again. And when she finally spoke, her voice was lingering with conviction. “Then I’ll know what to pray for.” She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Smoke’s. “Not for your souls,” she giggled. “I know better than that.”

Stack exhaled, something breaking loose behind his eyes.

“I’ll pray for your aim and that y’all return to me every night.”

Sera when the twins were brutalizing her daddy outside:

Authors Note: Part 1 of this series is doneeee. Time to head to Chicago and see what ruckus Sera and the twins get into 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Tag list:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish @theogbadbitch @queenofklonnie22 @underated345-blog @bxrbie1 @harleycativy @hermyowney @kcundercover0 @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @gtf-o-m-d @merranerra @afroslacks @wingedpeachjudgegiant @smutattack @solarssins @xoxodaedreams @rolemodelshit @chrisevansmentee @honggihwa @softy212 @michifilmz @hon3yjaxx @ladymac82 @fruitypatooties-blog @whysoceerious @deexoxomuah @nanamiismine @monstaxmomma0 @a4g3lstarfire @blk-afrodite @melodyofmbaku @championshipshade @aretasreads @nubiagurllll @wabi-sabi1090 @swiftscepterdragon @midnightmemoirsofher @plan3tch1ld @dutifullythoughtfulenthusiast @iceyyycapsicle

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gaea-a · 7 months ago

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RAGE ;;

[🍃] oh, someone give me the idea :) There will probably be a part two if you guys love this work, hehe

warnings:

pure angst ; fem!reader ; jason todd & mom!reader ; deaths ; Possible spelling mistakes, thanks

...

You couldn't feel your arms. Your whole body felt numb.

Unlike what many said, killing someone wasn't easy; you wanted to throw up the little you had in your stomach. Your body was shaking.

Your eyes filled with tears; your head was spinning. Your hands were warm from the blood on them.

Your scrambled mind just replayed every single memory you had with Jason. Oh, your little boy. You had promised to protect him the first time Bruce brought him. He was so small, so smart, so beautiful, and so precious.

You remember his first smile. You remember his innocent yet mocking jokes. His witty responses when he responded to your grumpy husband. You remember his little hands 'fixing' your hair, but he had actually put a rose in from the vase—much to Alfred's chagrin, but he still didn't say anything and smiled amusedly.

You remember his beautiful blue eyes shining with excitement when you told him you were going to make his favorite cookies and how he would excitedly exclaim that he was going to help you.

You remember the first time he called you “Mommy” with a loving little smile, showing how he was missing one of his canines due to his baby tooth falling out.

You remember how his cheeks had started to get chubby from all the snacks you gave him and his skin had started to get less pale. He had started to look healthier.

You remember his giggles as he got ready to go out on patrol and Bruce gently scolding him not to run and to be careful.

Your little Jason…

How were you supposed to go on without him by your side? Without your little boy… How is a mother supposed to go on knowing that her son’s killer was on the loose? And her husband, the one who was supposed to have killed the madman, let him go… free.

He was free. That clown, the murderer of your little boy, was free… He escaped from where they had locked him up even though Bruce promised you that that man would never come out again.

‘Liar…’ you thought at that moment.

How was a mother supposed to go on…?

Your pain turned to rage within days. It was a rage that burned you to the bone and made your chest ache from the pressure of heavy emotions laden with deep hatred.

You remember when Bruce brought his small body, oh so small, bruised and lifeless. The heartbreaking scream that left your throat was heard and echoed throughout the cave. Heavy tears fell from your eyes as you clung to his little body and cried inconsolably.

You didn't even realize that your steps took you outside the mansion, taking advantage of your husband and Alfred taking their eyes off you. Your head covered by a heavy, long hood that made you look small. Your red, swollen eyes with dark circles were hidden under the fabric of the hood.

You didn't notice the vibration of your phone; surely they were calling you… but your mind was somewhere else, and your body was moving on its own. It was no longer you.

You didn't notice when you entered the abandoned warehouse where you saw the Joker's henchmen enter. You found it, and yet your unbalanced mind didn't notice any of that. You were just a robot that was looking to find the culprit and make him pay.

You also didn't realize what you were doing when you sneaked out and ambushed the clown from behind with your small knife.

Your pain, your fury, the injustice you felt made you commit a crime.

You killed him.

Your broken, red eyes looked at the body of the clown-dressed man lying there; your hand, still holding the small knife, began to shake. You really did it.

You killed your son's killer.

You didn't know what to do. The fear of seeing Richard's, Barbara's, Alfred's, or Bruce's face when they saw what you did, what your pain made you do. Your breathing became labored; your throat tightened painfully.

Jason… Oh, your little Jason, what would he think of you right now… Would he be scared to see what you became?

You fell to your knees as a broken sob left your broken lips. The knife was still in your shaking, bloodstained hand.

You had nothing left to live for… Your life was destroyed, in rubble. One way or another, nothing would be the same; you consoled yourself, but it was only a pathetic attempt to calm yourself down.

Silently you raised your hand to your throat, closing your eyes, remembering your little Jason. The memory of his smile made your pain lighter. At least you did justice… at least it was all over. You asked everyone for forgiveness for abandoning them too… just like Jason abandoned you.

You took a breath before bringing the small knife to your throat.

But before the knife managed to make contact with your skin and you managed to take your life, someone's body crashing into you stopped you, causing the small knife to fall from your grasp…

#batfam #batfam x reader #jason todd x reader #batmom x batfam #batman x batmom #batmom #batmom reader #batfam x batmom #batman x reader #jason todd #jason todd x batmom

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gav-san · 16 days ago

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Cosmic Joke: Donquixote Doflamingo (1/3)

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

1/3: Doflamingo x Reader Length: 6k+ Rating: 18+ (This one's not a joke) Warnings: mature audience, 18+, Mdni, Strong Language and Sarcasm, Mentions of War, Violence, and Murder (Canon-Consistent), Unstable Personality in a Psychic Bond, Dark Humor and Coping Through Comedy, Existential Crisis in Soup Form, Doflamingo Being... Doflamingo (Ego, Violence, Manipulation)

Having Doflamingo as a soulmate is like being stuck with a narcissistic puppet master who thinks every thread in your life should be his personal chew toy. His thoughts are loud, twisted, and have more flair than a peacock on a caffeine binge. All while wearing designer sunglasses, of course. He’s been rambling in your head since the moment your souls collided, and let’s just say your childhood is now a weird, glittery horror show. “If my soulmate’s a gremlin, I’ll just tie them up. Easier than killing.”

Interested in being in the taglist? HERE

Growing Up Soulbound to Donquixote Doflamingo: A Tragedy in Several Terrifying Acts

-X-Bond Awakening-X-

You were a regular child, more or less. You liked stuffed animals. You colored inside the lines. You cried when balloons popped and believed broccoli was the worst thing a man could inflict upon you.

And then, sometime between learning the alphabet and losing your second baby tooth, it happened.

You started hearing thoughts.

Not yours. Definitely not yours. Laughter.

“Fufufufufufu-”

Low and feral, like someone had tied a candelabra to a hyena and let it loose in a cathedral. It echoed in the back of your skull with far too much glee for a school day. You remember it clearly because you were coloring a turtle. He was, apparently, winning a fight.

Soulmates, as it turns out, don’t come with manuals. Or names. Or helpful pop-ups from the universe saying, “Hey, heads up! He’s a bloodthirsty egomaniac with a God complex and a deeply questionable fashion sense.”

No. You just get his thoughts. Silken, smug, and utterly convinced the world was his to stage a monologue on.

“They should worship me. Why don’t they worship me? I could fix the economy if they'd just give me all the money…I miss murder.”

That voice became your unwanted childhood companion. Sharp as broken glass and twice as charming. The kind of presence that always sounded like it had just burned down a country club and would do it again if someone so much as breathed wrong.

He gave himself titles: The King. The Joker. Their Salvation.

You gave him one too: Birdman of the Opera.

At first, you thought he might be a noble. He ranted about “peasants” often enough, and once spent twenty uninterrupted minutes mentally waxing poetic about people not bowing low enough anymore.

But then came the tangents.

Unhinged ones.

“What if I dropped a city from the sky?” or “I wonder how hard it is to replace a spine.”

At one point, he got stuck on the phrase “puppets dancing on strings”.

He repeated that last one 213 times in a row. You were twelve. You kept count because it was either that or scream into your math homework.

Over the years, you pieced together a profile. Unwillingly. Accidentally. With all the enthusiasm of someone forced to cohabitate with a sentient peacock.

Whoever he is, he’s:

– Rich. – Dangerous. – Emotionally allergic to empathy. – Deeply enamored with the sound of his own voice.

You once told a friend—drunkenly, at a sleepover, while clinging to a bag of frozen peas you’d mistaken for a pillow—that your soulmate was probably a narcissistic noble with a tragic backstory and enough wealth to build a tower of solid gold just to push people off it. She stared for a moment, then nodded solemnly and said,

“Sounds like a Celestial Dragon.”

You laughed until you cried. Then you cried until you laughed again. But no. It couldn’t be.

Celestial Dragons sever their soulbonds young. Everyone knows that. They have ways. Methods. Entire departments are dedicated to cutting the cord before it forms.

Which means, if he’s still there, still talking, still hissing “Mine” through your dreams when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, He isn’t exactly one of them.

He’s something else. Worse, probably.

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut (Aka, Nine feet of sunglasses, feathers, trauma, and felony)

Age 5:

You were five when the voice arrived. Not yours. Yours were soft things: juice boxes, sparkly rocks, the moral dilemma of stepping on a line of ants. Thoughts that bounced around like marbles in a shoebox. You liked colors. Songs. You wanted to be a cloud.

His were about puppet governments and the economic benefits of murder.

“Kill the old man. Take the port. Easy.”

You dropped your crayon.

It rolled across the floor and under the couch, and you didn’t go after it. You just sat there, small knees crossed, staring at your turtle drawing while some distant pirate plotted a hostile takeover inside your skull.

At first, you assumed it was your imaginary friend. That made sense. Other kids had tea parties with theirs. Yours muttered things like:

"I’ll hang that bastard by his spine."

You didn’t know what a bastard was. Or how spines worked, really. But your toy rabbit got tied up in thread and hurled off the top bunk that night. Because science.

Your teacher gave you a gold star for your drawing of a smiling man standing on a hill of bodies.

You titled it: My Friend’s Thoughts.

She stapled it to the bulletin board, but looked concerned.

Your parents started whispering at night.

At family dinners, you began to speak with strange conviction. Echoing ideas you didn’t understand. Once, while chewing on a dinner roll, you declared:

“Entrails could be elegant, if arranged properly.”

There was a silence. Your father blinked. Your mother passed the peas.

Later, you heard it. He’d admitted it. Casually, like one might mention a favorite sandwich.

“I’m a pirate, obviously. What did they think I was? A baker?”

You had never met a baker who spoke in snarling baritones and discussed political assassinations before breakfast, so no. No, you hadn’t.

You coped the way children do. With crayons and misplaced confidence. Your art became dramatic. Guillotines. Fire. A disproportionate number of people falling off cliffs. Your teachers expressed concern. You smiled and drew another sword.

He got louder when angry. The rants came in waves. Names you didn’t know. Betrayals you didn’t understand. Battles you couldn’t picture.

But sometimes… You hummed. A little song, soft under your breath, as you hugged your stuffed animals to your chest and waited for sleep. You thought he didn’t hear.

Until he did.

…What the hell was that? Was that… singing? Is that—you?”

You froze. Sir Beartington fell off the pillow.

“Oi. Who are you? Why are you quiet? Wait—oh. You’re real, aren’t you? A soul tether. Talk, brat.”

You didn’t want to. You’d seen enough after-school specials to know this counted as Stranger Danger, even if it was psychic and possibly extradimensional.

Still, you said:

“That’s not kind.”

A pause.

“Hah. You’re a kid? Figures. This bond is defective. Don’t worry. I’ll wait.”

You scowled into your blanket.

“I’m not supposed to talk to homicidal strangers.”

Another pause. Then something strange. Something new. A sound like teeth bared in delight.

“Huh. Smart parents.”

You didn't know it then, but that was the first time he sounded entertained. Not furious. Not murderous. Just… intrigued.

You didn't like that.

And you really didn't like how quiet he went afterward.

Like a tiger in tall grass.

Age 6:

You are just trying to live your normal, legally-sanctioned, cookie-filled, frog-drawing life.

You have two cookies, one juice box, and a plush frog named Pancake. You are safe. Curled up in your blanket fort. The world is soft. Silent. Blessedly free of intrusive monologues, cape rustling, or declarations of war.

And then, like the worst kind of divine punishment:

“…Doflamingo Donquixote.”

You blink.

“What?”

He says it again. Proudly, smoothly, like a velvet rope being slowly pulled across a trapdoor.

“My name,” the voice says again, slow and smug, like a velvet rope being pulled across a trapdoor. “Doflamingo Donquixote. You should know the name of the man who’ll be—”

You sit bolt upright. Pancake the frog plummets to the floor in horror. Sir Beartington looks concerned.

“…FLAMINGO? Like. A bird???”

There’s a pause. He tries to recover.

“It’s Doflamingo, brat. It’s a powerful name. Feared. Remembered.”

You stare at the ceiling of your blanket fort with the fury of a child betrayed by nomenclature.

“It sounds like a salsa dancer with bird issues.”

Silence. He does not respond.

You are absolutely lit with the fury of a seven-year-old who just found out her soulmate is named after a lawn ornament.

“Doflamingo Donquixote sounds like the name of a magician who performs at birthday parties and then vanishes with your wallet. It sounds like you’re the evil twin of a fancy vacuum. It sounds like you were cursed by a swamp witch who said, ‘You will be powerful, but your NAME will be STUPID.’”

He is silent. You can feel his ego crumpling like tinfoil in the microwave.

“Do people call you Doffles? Is that your pirate name? Captain Doffles?” You clutch your sides, wheezing. “Oh no. I can’t be soulmates with a man named after a piñata with a superiority complex. Is your crew called the Party City Pirates?? Do you shoot glitter out of your fingers??”

He finally snaps.

“My name strikes fear into the hearts of men.”

You cackle like a gremlin child in a bouncy castle of chaos.

“It strikes confusion into zoo workers.”

You throw yourself back into your pillow fort, laughing so hard you spill juice on Pancake.

Across the sea, in a room made of velvet, mirrors, and questionable taste, Doflamingo Donquixote lies flat on a gilded chaise and stares at the ceiling.

“I should’ve gotten their name first,” he mutters aloud.

“Too late, Featherboa,” you whisper into the bond. “I’m naming my next pet after you. It’s gonna be a bird with a bad attitude.”

You assume he’s the ugliest flamingo ever born.

Doflamingo Donquixote stares at the ceiling, velvet robes askew, soulbond still ringing with the sound of your laughter. And in that moment, he knows two things with absolute, bone-deep certainty: You are going to be a menace. And he is going to be very annoyed.

Age 7:

You are seven years old, simply trying to live your normal, legally-sanctioned, cookie-filled, frog-drawing life. You want peace. You want stickers. You want to eat animal crackers in the shape of justice.

Unfortunately, somewhere in the world, your soulmate is plotting evil and thinking way too loudly.

Most kids have imaginary friends. Yours critiques your coping mechanisms and gives monologues about bloodshed between dessert courses.

“Why are you crying? You skinned your knee, not lost your empire. Get up. Pathetic.”

You had tripped. It was a perfectly reasonable fall. There was blood. There were tears. And there was him, calmly narrating the assassination of a rival arms dealer like it was a bedtime story, complete with sound effects.

You tried telling your mom that you didn’t like your “inside voice” anymore.

She gave you warm milk.

He gave you trauma.

“Milk? You’re drinking milk? Oh my god, you would.”

You stared into your cup, deeply offended on behalf of calcium. Pancake the frog looks on in dismay.

“You’re seventeen. Get a diary.”

There was a pause. Then, he laughed.

Not politely. Not even evilly. He laughed like someone who’d just ordered an airstrike and was now enjoying espresso about it.

“You’re surprisingly aggressive for a seven-year-old.”

“You built a ship that looks like a bird. I rest my case, Featherduster.”

The silence turned sharp.

You could feel the bristle. Like his sunglasses fogged over from indignation. You knew he had them because he telepathically took you shopping to brag.

“You little shit. Do you know what I can do?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Gonna ruffle my feelings, Count Cranky Feathers?”

A beat.

You sipped your milk like it was victory itself. He mentally shrieked like a diva denied a mirror.

You survived months of his inner drama; monologues about conquest, rants about peasants, a deeply unhinged tangent about velvet and vengeance. You’d endured his commentary on politics, posture, betrayal, and which flavor of cake best paired with murder.

And now, for some reason known only to the gods of bad decisions and flamboyant pirates, he’d decided to share something personal. Probably to scare you.

His Devil Fruit.

He said it like a god unveiling the cosmos, like he was parting the veil of destiny with a single manicured hand.

“It’s called the String-String Fruit.”

You were silent.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three.

You stared blankly at the wall. Pancake the frog slipped out of your lap in slow, stunned horror.

Four. Five.

“You ate a string?”

A pause.

You could feel it—the shift in posture, the inhaled ego. He cleared his throat in your mind like he was about to give a talk titled “Why I’m Better Than God and Everyone Else.”

“It’s a Paramecia. I control threads. Fine, razor-sharp threads that can manipulate the battlefield. Puppeteer my enemies. Stitch the sky itself.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Then you slowly looked down at your juice box. It did not deserve to be part of this moment. And yet, here you were. Being forced to parent a man who is your senior.

You took a sip, just to fortify your soul.

“Why would you eat string?”

“It’s not an actual string—”

“Did it taste like string?”

“Yes, but—”

“Was it crunchy?”

“…Yes.”

“Then that’s worse.”

You stared off into the middle distance like a tiny war veteran watching your hopes crumble into yarn. Pancake the frog flopped gently against your side, the only witness to your suffering.

“You saw a weird glowing spaghetti fruit and said, ‘Yeah, this seems edible.’”

“It was a Devil Fruit. They’re rare. Powerful.”

“So are batteries, but I don’t eat those.”

He audibly choked in your mind, like someone who’d just been spiritually tackled by a toddler.

“I’m not going to explain Devil Fruits to a child.”

You clutched Pancake like he was your government-assigned trauma counselor.

“No. You should explain why you ate an evil fruit and now walk around talking about world domination like a sleep-deprived sewing machine.”

You paused..

“And why are you a meanie? You’re a feral knitting kit with legs.”

You could feel his offense.

His ego flared like bad cologne. Somewhere across the sea, Doflamingo Donquixote, Warlord of the Sea, probably slammed a table in a room filled with velvet furniture and poor life choices.

And you, seven years old and full of cookies and righteous judgment, took another sip of juice.

“I could cut the world in half.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

“And I could cut your fruit into slices and serve it to toddlers as a cautionary tale.”

Silence. Not the good kind. The kind that vibrates with wounded ego and the realization that your telepathic soulmate might one day weaponize glitter and pipe cleaners against you.

He didn’t respond. You could hear him breathing through his nose like a man who just lost an argument to a juice-box-wielding child.

You took a calm sip, eyes locked on your juice like it was your personal anchor to sanity.

“Don’t eat weird things. That’s how you get possessed by fruit ghosts.”

“I am the future Pirate King!”

“You need a friend. And a nap.”

He muttered something dark about fate. Something about destiny being cruel and humiliating.

You, with the grace of a smug seven-year-old who had already named your future pigeon “Flamingo the String Destroyer,” leaned sweetly into the bond; voice soft, syrupy, and sharpened like a crayon you weren’t supposed to use on the walls.

“Do you ever… regret biting the cursed yarn?”

Across the sea, in a room filled with velvet, mirrors, and unresolved trauma, Doflamingo Donquixote screeched. Not yelled. Not roared. Screeched. Like an expensive parrot being denied its emotional support chandelier.

Age 8:

By age eight, you had developed a recurring stomach ulcer and an unsettlingly robust vocabulary for describing war crimes.

Your parents thought you were just creative. You knew better. Like a drunk god yelling into your brain with a cigar in one hand and blood on the other, your soulmate was fucking loud.

He once spent forty-two minutes thinking about himself, shirtless in a fur coat, while plotting the downfall of a mid-sized kingdom.

"If I puppet this idiot just right, he’ll walk straight into the cannon fire. Oh look, another orphan. Add it to the pile."

You were in math class. You blinked at long division and considered faking your own death. You lost some friends that year. Mostly after you turned to one mid-recess and said:

“Hey guys, sorry if I space out sometimes. I’m just… tethered to a delusional, murderous sunglasses model who talks in third person and once mentally narrated his own evil laugh for six minutes straight.”

There was silence. Then Maya said she was going to play on the other side of the playground.

You started making escape plans after that.

“Trap him in a room full of mirrors?” you mused into your notebook. “No, he’d enjoy it. Too much ego. Too many angles. He’d probably flirt with his reflection and forget I was trying to kill him.”

You drew a tiny diagram labeled “Plan B: Yarn Guillotine.” It had sparkles.

Pancake the frog judged you from the corner of your backpack, one plush arm hanging out like he, too, had seen things.

Age 9:

By age nine, you know words no child should know. Not curse words—those are for amateurs. No, you’ve leveled up.

You know words like decapitate, asset stripping, fragging, and “useful idiot.” You use “fragile masculinity” correctly in a sentence. In front of adults. On purpose.

Your teacher sends a letter home.

“Your child seems unusually… sophisticated in language. Also, they referred to Fleet Admiral Sengoku as ‘a morally-challenged imperialist meat sock.’”

You are grounded for three days. Your soulmate? He’s delighted.

“She sounds like a mushroom and teaches like a corpse. You’re dumber for listening to her.”

He mocks her voice for fifteen straight minutes. At one point, he invents a short musical about her inability to inspire a room full of staplers.

You stare at your multiplication table and wonder how much damage a paperclip can legally do.

You begin to suspect, with growing clarity, that this man—who once narrated the toppling of a minor warlord while you were eating dinosaur-shaped nuggets—might not be a good influence.

Possibly.

Probably.

Maybe.

But it’s hard to prove psychological corruption when no one else hears the smug, baritone sociopath in your brain. Your mother thinks your sarcasm phase is just “advanced.” Your dad starts hiding the newspaper.

You begin writing vocabulary words on sticky notes and hiding them in a shoebox under your bed, labeled “Evidence.”

Age 10:

Other kids are learning spelling. You’re learning mass manipulation, psychological warfare, and the exact emotional flavor of betrayal.

You know what a coup d’état is. You can spell it. Use it in a sentence. Even diagram the political aftermath with color-coded highlighters.

Why?

Because Doflamingo doesn’t have an off switch.

He doesn’t speak to you directly that often, but you hear things. Thoughts not meant for you, leaking across the soul-thread like an open sewer pipe running through a couture crime scene. He is a nightmare in sequins.

"They begged so nicely. I said no, obviously. But points for style. I hate silence. It's like listening to your own breathing in a coffin."

You cover your ears. It doesn’t help.

“That’s not normal,” you mutter to no one. “Did he just narrate his own smirk? I think I can hear him posing.”

Your parents think you’re just dramatic. Maybe going through a “weird phase.”

You try to explain what it’s like—what it feels like—to have a chaos muppet in your head with a God complex and a boa made of the souls of his enemies. Instead, they give you a very nice school counselor. She offers breathing exercises.

Breathing doesn’t help when your soulmate is casually committing tax fraud and genocide in the same afternoon.

He once thought for six minutes straight about whether gold leaf would look good on artillery.

He once called you a “mental parasite” because you asked if his shirt had shoulder feathers or if they were those just emotional support tassels.

He once considered naming a puppet after you. You made peace with that one disturbingly fast.

You’re ten. You’ve started writing your own will. And drawing up basic escape plans.

Just in case.

Age 11:

At eleven, your tolerance for nonsense is critically low.

You've endured years of velvet-draped war crimes, unsolicited mental fashion shows, and the emotional strain of sharing psychic space with a man who owns more feathered accessories than a Sabaody drag revue.

And then, on a perfectly average Tuesday afternoon, it happens.

You’re doing your homework. Long division. Peaceful. Normal. And there it is, echoing across the bond like a cursed kazoo from hell:

“Fufufufufufufu—”

You pause.

You blink.

And then, without thinking, you say aloud—calm, pointed, utterly done:

“Why is your laugh like a vacuum cleaner being murdered?”

And he heard you.

“Excuse me? You little parasite. You think you’re funny?”

Yes. Yes, you did.

You snickered.

He screamed.

For six hours. Straight.

Not words. Not yelling. Just one long, internalized psychic shriek of wounded flamboyant pride.

It felt like being haunted by a glam rock banshee.

You folded your worksheet. Ate a cracker. Wrote “feathered tyrant meltdown” in your notebook and underlined it twice.

Meanwhile:

Across the sea, somewhere in a gilded death palace soaked in ego and crime, Doflamingo Donquixote swore vengeance. He paced the length of his throne room, muttering insults and murder plots under his breath like a man personally wronged by a juice box and a third-grade education.

“She thinks she’s funny. She thinks she’s smarter than me. I’m going to find her and hang her brain on the wall like art.”

Rosinante looked very alarmed, but fell face-first as he tried to mime his worry. Vergo, halfway through a cup of black coffee and regretting all his life choices, didn’t even look up.

“She’s a child, Captain. Leave her alone.”

“She’s a little shit. A little shit with jokes.”

Vergo sipped his coffee slowly. Law, age unknown but already deeply jaded, was sitting nearby with a book and far too much sarcasm for his size.

“She should think she’s smarter than you,” Law muttered without looking up. “I like her already.”

Doflamingo whipped around like a bird of prey wearing designer boots.

“Shut up. Both of you. She insulted my laugh. She compared it to a dying vacuum.”

Trebol, lounging in the corner like a blob of emotional damage, shrugged without lifting his head. “Perhaps, young master… You could just go destroy an island until you feel better.”

Doflamingo rubbed his temples with murder in his eyes.

“Don’t tempt me.”

There was a long pause. Vergo sighed and flipped a page in his newspaper.

“She’s, like, eleven, right?”

“She’s a war criminal.”

Age 12:

At twelve, you decide this isn’t fate. It isn’t destiny. It’s a curse.

You are clearly cursed.

So you take action.

You attend a séance. You chant with a local priest. You eat an entire packet of salt like it’s communion for the spiritually exhausted.

You light a candle and whisper into your pillow: “Begone, chaos bird.”

Later that week, you inform him solemnly that you have attempted an exorcism.

“Salt? What is this, ghost therapy? I’m not haunting you. I’m tethered to you. There’s a difference.”

You try to cope.

You visualize him as something harmless. Something small. Something incapable of masterminding war.

“If you don’t stop picturing me as a Pomeranian, I will set an orphanage on fire and scream ‘FLUFFY’ while I do it.”

You snicker.

“You’re very fluffy when you’re angry.”

Doflamingo's aura flares like a disco ball, and a perfectly innocent vase explodes.

Your thoughts weren’t accidental. They were performed. Curated.

And they had been for seven goddamn years.

Seven years of intrusive commentary. Seven years of glitter-based emotional terrorism. Seven years of someone comparing him to a sentient curtain rod with fragile masculinity issues.

You were supposed to be a weapon. A partner. A tactical advantage in soulbond form. Instead, you were a disaster.

An untraceable, psychic comedy club that lived in his skull and refused to pay rent.

He was in the middle of a weapons deal when it started again. That subtle shift. The low, static pressure was building just behind his left eye.

Not silence. No, he would kill for silence.

This was worse.

This was the soulbond fog. Not a voice. Not a scream. Just the unmistakable, creeping feeling that his tether, the chaos goblin on the other end of this cursed string, was thinking.

And sure enough, it came.

“What if clouds are just sky potatoes?”

He froze. A vein pulsed in his temple.

Vergo, seated across from him with a sheaf of documents and the kind of blank expression that only meant something was about to explode, paused mid-sentence.

Doflamingo slowly raised one hand.

“Give me a moment,” he said, in a voice so calm it made everyone in the room slightly nauseous.

Age 13:

You have braces, anxiety, and exactly zero interest in being soulbound to a furious, couture-wearing maniac in designer pants.

He’s in his twenties now. Which, for someone like Donquixote Doflamingo, is objectively the worst possible age to be mentally connected to a real, live person with thoughts. And preferences. And boundaries.

He has a lot of sex and no chill.

You, unfortunately, have all the chill, and sex is a vague concept, unfortunately made more clear by the occasional mental peepshow.

Asshole.

Frankly, he deserves all the nonsense. Every recorder blast. Every glitter-fueled psychic migraine. Every frog-themed intrusive thought. Because you? You’ve endured years of his monologues. Not just the evil ones—the self-pitying ones.

“My father gave up our divine rights. We were royalty.”

Wow. Stunning. So tragic. You also wished he had stayed in Mariejois and gotten emotionally snipped.

Every time he says, “The world shall know my pain,” you mentally respond with:

“You know what pain is, feather boy? College debt. The housing market. You, when you get drunk, and I hear your singing.”

And when your thoughts get particularly spicy, when you start comparing him to cult leaders, reality Den Den radio villains, or emotionally repressed robots, he responds. Whiny. Wounded. Like you’d kicked him directly in the ego.

“You bully me like I owe you lunch money.”

His tone is offended.

Not outraged. Just personally injured, like a man who expected worship and got therapy notes.

“I bully you like your cult leader with abandonment issues,” you reply flatly, eyes on your math homework.

“You’re mean.”

“You monologue over poor orphans. With joy.”

“I didn’t ask to be psychically tethered to a mouthy gremlin child.”

“I didn’t ask to share headspace with a discount god complex in crime couture.”

“You don’t appreciate me.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy reading about “how to psychically block flamingo-themed pirates with wounded narcissism. Then, as a precaution, you duct tape your frog plush to your forehead like it’s divine armor.

You like soup. He takes that personally.

Like:

"Soup again? You’re going to die bland and under-seasoned. But sure, mock my coat while stirring boiled sadness.

Sometimes it’s stupid shit:

"You know, cariño, it’s fascinating. You say you hate me, yet your brain thinks about me more than oxygen. That’s not loathing. That’s courtship."

And sometimes it’s deeply unfair:

"You call me ‘birdbrain,’ but I’m not the one who mistook powdered sugar for snow and tried to catch it with their mouth. Who’s the national security threat now?"

You’ve figured it out by now: If you keep your head boring—like mind-numbingly boring—he loses interest. You’re smart. You adapt. You become…become an accidental psychic saboteur, a mental landmine of pure, relentless, soul-bound nonsense. You build an internal fortress not out of steel or fire.

No, no. You build it out of garbage thoughts. Of deliberate, brain-rotting trivia. It is one of the most aggressively mundane inner monologues in recorded human history.

“Capybaras can’t jump.”

“Tupperware is technically a pyramid scheme.”

“The inventor of chips is buried in a chip can.”

“Soup.”

Just constant, slow-motion, inner monologue soup. Potato leek. Miso. Lentil. You compose emotional haikus about broth.

“Bean soup is humble. Warm in the belly, not loud. Unlike some people.”

And Donquixote Doflamingo? The world’s most volatile, fashionably dressed war criminal with abandonment issues? He goes absolutely bananas over it.

“You think you’re clever?”

“I’ve been mentally filibustering your evil plans with daydreams about laundry detergent and legal reform for years,” you reply, serenely. “At this point, I am your Shadow Cabinet. So—yes.”

You are, in effect, giving this man psychic tinnitus in the form of chicken stock. And it is driving him insane.

He’s currently:

Plotting the takedown of Dressrosa,

Manipulating underworld crime syndicates,

Babysitting a vengeance-fueled Law who keeps pulling knives,

And silently failing to connect with a brother who communicates exclusively in soul-crushing stares.

He is—to put it mildly—under pressure.

And somewhere—deep in the velvet-curtained, trauma-scented center of his murderous little heart he knows that the voice currently wondering whether soup can be carbonated is his greatest threat.

Not the Marines. Not the Yonko. Not Cipher Pol.

You.

And in the middle of a violent strategy meeting with Vergo and Trebol—charts spread, cities marked, lives priced in blood—he zones out.

Because suddenly, again:

“I wonder if broccoli works in soup. Probably, but only if you blend it.”

The table shakes.

“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!” he roars aloud.

Vergo blinks. Trebol wheezes quietly in the corner.

“…Sir?”

Doflamingo inhales through his nose. He clenches a fist full of velvet. Smiles too widely.

“Nothing. Continue. Also, kill that merchant.”

You don’t have a tragic past. You don’t have powers. You don’t even really know who he is. You’re just out there in the world, somewhere, living a bland life and refusing to acknowledge him, which is new, and which is offensive. Because everyone wants Doflamingo, or fears him, or dies for him.

And here you are, tempting fate.

“Can rice noodles go in miso, or is that cultural betrayal?”

He twitches.

“ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?”

You’re thinking about whether soup counts as a meal or a drink. You’re fighting off a cold with garlic, lemon, and passive aggression. You are wrapped in a blanket, sipping broth like it’s a tactical maneuver.

And somewhere, across the Grand Line, Donquixote Doflamingo is staring into space like a man on the verge of violence.

“Your taste in food is as questionable as your survival instincts. Do you think they’ll put it on your gravestone? Here lies the girl who thought ‘soupy’ was a personality trait.”

You blink. Offended on every level. Oh my god, he is such a bitch.

Far, far away, he laughs. Low. Amused. Unhinged in the way only a soulbonded warlord with a god complex and emotional glitter damage can be.

And you—mildly congested, wrapped in a blanket, sipping broth and contemplating fate—you sit back and sigh. You are sick and still cosmically tethered to something that sounds like a sparkly bird-flavored drink they stopped serving in Alabasta because it caused hallucinations.

Age 14:

You’d been mid-rant. A particularly good one, too.

You were mentally listing, in alphabetical order, all the reasons Donquixote Doflamingo should never be trusted with state secrets, firearms, or upholstery.

“A—Arson enthusiast. B—Birdbrained. C—Couture crimes. D—Dictator energy. E—Ego so large it requires structural support—”

That’s when the bond surged.

Not the usual buzz of static. Not his smug psychic lounge act.

But something different.

Something hot.

Sharp.

And wrong.

It hit like an elbow to the ribs. Fast, jarring, close.

Your words dropped off. Your breath stuttered. You sat up, blinking hard, hands curling in your lap like you could claw your way back into reality.

But you weren’t in your room anymore. Not exactly. You weren’t anywhere, really. Not physically..

The world around you was white and wind-bitten, blurring at the edges with snow. Cold. Too cold.

And in front of you, a man stood. Shoulders hunched. Bleeding. Shaking. Pointing a gun. At Doflamingo.

The snow beneath him was red. His lip was split. One eye was nearly swollen shut. His coat hung from one shoulder, torn and smoking, like something that had once been elegant and had since been through hell.

Your first thought wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even confusion.

Who would dare? Who would stand like that, half-broken, half-frozen, and still point a weapon at him?

Corazón.

Rosinante Doflamingo.

The mute brother.

You never heard his voice in your head. Never saw the world through his eyes. But still, you knew him.

Because Doflamingo knew him.

And Doflamingo never shut up.

Even when he didn’t mean to share it, you saw him; that tall, awkward man with the cigarette always tucked between two fingers and a coat two sizes too big, with laughter like broken glass and kindness that crept into places it wasn’t welcome.

Corazón lived in the silent corners of Doflamingo’s mind. The places he avoided. Where grief crusted like old blood around memories of shared bread and bunk-bed whispers. Where a tall, clumsy man with a martyr’s smile had once offered his brother hope and never asked anything in return.

You used to call him “Side Character Number One.” The quiet one. The gentler man in the chaos. The wayward brother with the cigarette always half-lit, thoughts that barely bled through the bond. For some reason, his voice was never in any memory.

But he didn’t need to.

You could see how much he worried. How much he watched Doflamingo spiral. How often he thought about that boy.. You mocked him once, years ago. Called him ‘the chain-smoking nursemaid with a martyr complex’.

Doflamingo had actually laughed aloud, much to his crew’s confusion. Not a cruel laugh. A real one. A rare one. You held onto that sound longer than you meant to.

No, you’ve never met Rosinante.

But you knew him.

Knew the way Doflamingo’s rage thinned when he entered a room. The flicker of guilt he refused to name. The absence that filled the Doflamingo whenever Corazon left to find medicine, food, and safety.

The one person your soulmate actually cared about.

He was your quiet background character in the ridiculous mental telenovela you and Doflamingo were constantly acting out; mental daggers, petty color wars, soup rants, and psychic ceasefires.

And now he was pointing a gun at Doflamingo.

Brother. Traitor. Soft. Still hoping.

Not your thoughts.

The snow muted everything. Sound, breath, mercy. It swallowed the world in white, as if trying to make this moment make sense, when nothing about it did.

Your chest was tight. Ribs braced as if struck. Fingers curled unconsciously into the sleeves of your coat, heart stuttering beneath layers that could not keep out the cold pressing in through the bond.

You weren’t there.

Not really.

But you could feel the frost biting at his skin. The dull throb of bruises on borrowed lungs. The sting of betrayal settles like ash behind the teeth. You stood just behind Doflamingo’s eyes, trapped in the hollow space where thoughts become action and action becomes irreversible.

Rosinante did not beg. He did not cry.

He only looked up, eyes shadowed beneath the fall of a too-large coat, cigarette long forgotten in the snow. His shoulders were hunched. And still, there was no fear in him.

Only sorrow.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

Doflamingo raised the gun.

You moved without thinking, a whisper inside him, a breathless panic in the marrow of your thoughts.

“No. Don’t. Don’t do this—”

But he didn’t pause. He didn’t flinch.

There was no speech. No cruel flourish of ego. Just the press of a finger. The inevitability of gravity.

The gunshot cracked through the bond.

Sharp and final.

No ceremony. No flourish. No desperate villainy to cushion the horror.

Just collapse.

Like a marionette with strings severed, his body struck the snow with a wet, unholy finality. There was no poetry to it. No last gasp. No divine moment. Just the thud of something beloved reduced to ruin. Red spilled beneath him in widening arcs, staining the white as if the earth itself had been caught off guard. As if it, too, couldn’t quite believe what had happened.

The coat he wore bunched beneath him; too big, too black, too soft for a world like this. Blood darkened the whiteness around him, soaking through like spilled ink on a blank page.

And Doflamingo just stood there. Silent.

No smirk. No speech. No vicious gloating to fill the void.

Only stillness.

And the soulmate bond seized.

Collapsed inward, low and quiet, like a lung emptied of air. Like a cathedral after the choir stops. You hadn’t even realized how much of your life had been shaped by his background noise; by the thrum of ambition, of anger, of biting arrogance and relentless presence always simmering somewhere in your head.

But now?

Now it was still. Not just gone.

Just absent.

And you couldn’t breathe.

Because Rosinante wasn’t background noise for Doflamingo, he had been everything to him. The boy in the bunk bed. The man in the corner of the room. The brother who still haunted every corridor of Doflamingo’s mind like a light too painful to look at. He had been the softness buried in cruelty. The coat wrapped around something feral. The last goddamn tether to grace.

And now he was gone.

There was no joke for this. No roast. No commentary.

Just silence.

Grieving.

And for once, you didn’t say a thing either.

No gloating. No mocking satisfaction. Just a long, raw quiet.

You felt his thoughts coil inward, tight and wrong. Cold. Wet. Heavy. Like chains sinking in water.

Donquixote Doflamingo, objectively speaking, is the worst person you’ve ever met. Egotistical. Violent. A man who speaks in threats and dresses in war crimes.

And this?

This was his fault.

He didn’t have to do it. He didn’t have to pull the trigger. But knowing that—rationalizing it, dissecting it—didn’t stop your sympathy.

You still feel bad for him.

The grief wasn’t yours. But it was in you now. The way his memory clung to Corazón like smoke in silk. The way the bond had gone hollow around the edges, not broken but scorched.

Doflamingo’s voice comes low.

It’s rough, like a thread pulled too tight, frayed and cold at the edges.

“You don’t get to feel sorry for me.”

It doesn’t stab.

It sinks.

Soft, sharp, and slow. Like poison in the bloodstream. Like something said through gritted teeth to stop from breaking, words spoken by someone who knows what he did, knows what he lost, knows how this will echo in the dark of his skull long after the blood fades from the snow.

Wounded. Like grief opened his mouth, and something too human slipped through.

“You don’t get to feel sorry for me,” he repeats, voice more and more uneven. “You don’t get to weep for my brother, who I shot. You hate me, remember?”

You do.

You hate his ego. His violence. The way he smiles like a god and bleeds like a man. You hate how he invaded your life, your head.

But something’s changed.

It’s not forgiveness. It’s not compassion. It’s not some redemptive hope that he’ll be better now.

It’s just... quiet.

The grief sits in your chest like frost behind ribs. It aches. Not for him, maybe. But for the boy he used to be. The one who once shared bread. The one who had a brother.

And Doflamingo, somewhere behind the thorns and silence, feels it. He doesn’t lash out again. He just... withdraws. Like an animal nursing a wound too deep to show.

And the bond, for the first time since you were a child, feels lonely.

After Corazon dies, there are no more flashes of his sad childhood.

No stray memories drifting in like smoke. No laughter caught in the corners of his thoughts, no soft colors, no cigarettes and coat sleeves, and flickers of humanity slipping past his walls.

Just silence. Heavy and hollow.

Doflamingo hadn’t just lost someone he cared about. He’d lost the best part of him. The last flicker of light still flickering in that rotted, ruined cathedral he called a soul.

And the worst part? He knew it.

You felt the knowledge ooze through the bond like a fever, slow and inescapable. He had done it. He had killed the only man who could’ve softened him.

And now? It was just you and Donquixote Doflamingo.

Alone in a godless bond. No more buffer. No more brakes.

His voice came through the silence like a knife wrapped in silk. Poisonous, but somehow deflated. Ragged, in a way he didn’t know how to hide.

“So,” he says, poisonous but somehow small beneath it all, “Are you going to run from me too?”

The silence stretched.

Because your first thought—your immediate, unfiltered brain reaction—was:

“I can’t even run a mile without wheezing. You think I’m emotionally or physically equipped for fleeing a war criminal?”

It slipped through the bond before you could catch it.

A pause.

A stunned, dead silence.

Then a sound. Low. Choked. Was that—?

“Did you just—” he started, voice caught between disbelief and something that might’ve been laughter. “I am baring my soul, and you respond with asthma jokes?”

You swallowed, wiping your nose on your sleeve. Your voice came out hoarse.

“You started it. With the whole ‘I shot my brother, don’t pity me’ death soliloquy.”

“It wasn’t a soliloquy,” he snapped, half-heartedly.“It had staging.”

He didn’t respond. But the bond shifted. The grief was still there. Raw. Bleeding.

But something in him exhaled.

-X- End Part One -X-

301 notes · View notes

little-raccoon-32 · 4 months ago

Text

Jealous

Pairing: Reader x Hotch (Criminal Minds)

Description: You have dinner with a district prosecutor after he promises to assist in the investigation of a killer. No big deal, right? Your boss certainly doesn’t seem to think so.

Reader is from the BAU. Younger woman/Older man. (Hotch gets jealous because he thinks he isn’t the older man in this scenario).

Gets a bit spicy at the end but not really explicit.

Inspired by the one scene from the show Younger. Props if you know what I’m talking about.

~*~

“Anything you want me to hand off to the chief, Pen?” You asked Garcia gently as you peeked into her office.

It was nearly midnight, but a late night at the Bureau was hardly unusual. Neither was your shyness to confront such a man like your boss.

The reason was the only thing that was slightly different.

Perhaps you were just trying to avoid the inevitable by asking Garcia (who pretty much did everything digitally anyways) if she needed anything done.

The blonde peeked up from her computer and smiled. “Nope,” she chirped, “Not yet at least. Just trying to finish up some loose ends.”

You nodded, almost disappointed. “Mhm. Got it. Have a good night then.”

“You, too, Hon!” She waved you off.

With a final goodbye, you clenched your Manila folders tightly and walked through the empty office where even Spencer had already gone home.

Only three people left.

You stood outside your boss’s door, unconsciously fixing your appearance. It was always nerve racking to be in front of such a handsome specimen - that man in particular.

Even since you first met him, you felt like a shy schoolgirl crushing on her teacher. Unfortunately, him being your boss and all, that wasn’t so far off from the truth.

But now you’re nervous for a whole other reason.

The team was working on a case, a serial killer, which was the usual. What was unusual was the suave, new district prosecutor who was ready to fight tooth and nail to help with the investigation.

You were pleasantly surprised at him being… actually oddly pleasant.

He was into the classics, funny yet also sweet. Not to mention he was rather handsome despite being several years older than you - Penelope gushed about that part. A true silver fox. (Meow~ as she added).

You liked him - but not the way he seemed to like you.

When you met him with the rest of the crew, he made sure to shake everyone’s hand. But when he got to you, he slowed down, staring at you in an almost surprised manner.

You offered up a tight lipped but sweet smile. He shook your hand, gaze and tone softening as he introduced himself to you.

It reminded you of when you first met Hotch. Only when your boss shook your hand, you almost collapsed on the spot.

When he held your hand for what seemed to be a bit too long, Hotch cleared his throat. “I believe there’s something you wanted to speak to us about,” he said firmly.

The prosecutor blinked and nodded, quickly leading the team into a meeting room with a cordial smile.

Throughout the case, this man and you shared a few nice conversations, even a few jokes. He was good company.

But out of the corner of your eye, you could almost always see your older boss watching you both like a hawk.

You’re a profiler - it’s literally your job to pick up on cues. But God forbid you be naïve so you wouldn’t even entertain the thought of him being jealous.

No, not the handsome, stoic, can simply roll up his sleeves and get any girl or far more experienced, confident, and put together woman than you.

(Seriously, those forearms of his are the equivalent to a medieval woman showing off her ankles).

Then the prosecutor asked you to dinner - a date.

At first you were unsure. After all, how could you be on a date without mourning the fact it wasn’t your boss across from you?

But he politely insisted, winking while saying he’d make your case the top priority in a light manner. Plus, he insisted on it being casual. So you took the bribe. Free food was free food and he promised to pay the check.

At least he was hot. (Daddy vibes as Penelope very helpfully added).

And admittedly… it was nice! You enjoyed it even - but more as a friend than a potential romantic partner.

But the life of a profiler is never smooth sailing and… well… Rossi happened to be meeting up with an old friend there as well - bringing Hotch as a plus one.

You’ll never forget meeting his eyes from across the dimly lit room. It was embarrassing, scandalous even.

You felt like a kid caught with their hand stuck in a cookie jar.

You desperately wanted to curl up and disappear. But apparently Hotch was a sadist as he approached the table in unfairly, cool, confident strides.

He looked almost angry, an idea confirmed to you when Rossi raised his whiskey glass in the air towards you with a smirk as if to say good luck.

“Y/N.”

“H-Hotch,” you nearly choked out.

Your date blinked but smiled. “What a surprise, chief. Hope you don’t mind me stealing one of your agents, do you?” He joked with a laugh, but when Hotch remained stoney faced, he quickly shut up.

“You’re having dinner… with the district prosecutor,” Hotch observed in an eerily calm manner.

His eyes were intense, staring right into your soul, particularly daring you to lie - but to also tell the truth as well.

Gulping a bit, you nodded slightly like an ashamed child. “Yeah. Uhm… y-yeah.” You mumbled awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

You watched as his jaw tensed, his eyes roaming your formal wear. “Right…” he said, “You look… nice,” he added.

“Oh. T-Thank you,” you smiled at him brightly. Your actual date had said the same thing, but frankly, Hotchner’s words meant so much more.

Hotch looked over at your date once more, a look of disdain in his eyes before turning back to you. “I apologize for interrupting,” your boss nodded towards you, “call me if you need me,” he forced out before walking back into the awaiting arms of Rossi.

Your date whistled. “Well that was a surprise. I didn’t know a person could be so intense,” he chuckled.

You forced out a tight lipped smile. “Yeah…” you mumbled, no longer that much hungry anymore.

“Actually, we’ve got a long day tomorrow and… you know, we should probably get some sleep,” you said, ignoring the guilt bubbling in your gut.

The prosecutor, albeit slightly disappointed, agreed and paid the check, him insisting on giving you a ride home.

You agreed. Unfortunately, as you walked out of the restaurant, your boss’s eyes followed with every step.

So that lead you to now, in front of your boss’s door, needing to simply give him a report but feeling like he was giving you a death sentence.

He was likely questioning your professionalism.

Sighing, you knocked on his door, only receiving a curt “come in” in reply.

You hesitantly opened the door, entering meekly as Aaron barely spared you a glance, not saying anything as he continued scanning the file in front of him.

“I finished the report you asked for,” you informed weakly. “Put it on my desk. Thanks,” he said.

Your eyes widened slightly. You knew him to be a no-nonsense man, but… he always seemed to treat you a bit more sensitively than the others. More gentle.

Perhaps that was because of your younger age but Reid wasn’t much younger than you and Hotch treated him like he was an annoying little orphan who clung to an older, grumpy man for a parental figure.

You did as he said, quickly putting the report on the edge of his desk and backing up. “Is there… anything else I can do for you, sir?” You mumbled unsurely.

This time, Hotch refused to even glance up. “No. Go home and get some rest,” he ordered blankly.

Once more, you blinked in surprise before furrowing eyebrows slightly.

It didn’t take a profiler, much less a genius, to tell something was bothering him - and you were almost 90% sure on what this was about.

“Is this about my date?” You asked bluntly, a burst of confidence taking even you by surprise.

Finally, Hotch looked up at you, taking a deep breath and leaning back against his chair with a blank look. “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve been… excuse me for saying this, petty since you saw me with that prosecutor. Why? Do you think it’s unprofessional or something?” You questioned, getting a bit riled up in the heat of the moment.

Hotch sighed. “It may not be the best look, but you’re a grown woman and you can make your own choices,” he replied, trying to sound nonchalant but definitely sounding more irritated.

“…You sound angry.”

“Angry?” Hotch said, his put-together composure cracking. And frankly, good.

He stood up from his chair and let out a tired, almost pained sigh. “Angry? Yeah. Angry, stressed, annoyed, tired,” he paced the floor behind his desk, running his hand through his hair.

“You had dinner with a district prosecutor, so what?” He said more so to himself than you.

Hotch suddenly turned to you. “Are you dating him now? Was was it about him then?” He asked suddenly, making you feel like a victim of his brutal interrogations.

“W-What?” You shivered out. Hotch rubbed his temples, taking a deep breath before throwing his arms down at his side. “Damn it,” he cursed.

Taking a deep breath, you looked at your boss with wide, cautious eyes trying to remain calm. “I just think… you shouldn’t make a judgement before you know all the facts…”

Aaron Hotchner took yet another deep breath, slightly pacing back and forth once more. As he spoke, he seemed to only get angrier while taking a few steps closer to you.

“You’re right. I don’t know. I don’t know how we’re going to get this new unsub, I don’t know what I’m going to do about Strauss breathing down by neck, and I don’t know why you’re dating an older man in the criminal justice system who isn’t ME!”

…

The world seemed to pause for the both of you.

Your eyes were wide in shock as you stared in silence. Not only had the usually composed and stoic chief Hotchner just went low-key ballistic, but he also just confessed some kind of romantic feelings towards you.

Aaron huffed and brought himself back up to full height. He blinked at you, waiting for a response - expecting you to tell him off - when the door suddenly opened.

“Hey~!” Penelope greeted sweetly as she waltzed through the door with a smile. You and Aaron only had the brain capacity to spare her a glance.

The quirky woman got in between you, but not so to obscure your vision of each other. “Sorry to interrupt but I finished these papers and I really want to go home now. I mean, beauty sleep and all,” she laughed as she placed the stack of papers over Hotch’s desk.

Penelope backed up with a simple grin, looking between you and Hotch, waiting for a reply. He only murmured a stiff ‘thank you’ as both of you avoided eye contact.

The woman blinked before her own eyes went wide. “Oh… OH. Oh, I am so, so sorry,” Penelope babbled as she backed up to the door. “I-I’m just gonna… go. Pretend I wasn’t even here, okay?” She said as she reached the door, giving you a quick thumbs up before likely scurrying away.

You and Hotch continued to stand across from each other, unable to speak or even meet the other’s gaze.

Finally, Aaron spoke with a sigh. “So…” he mumbled, realizing the extensive HR visit he may soon be receiving.

“So…?” You echoed back, “what now?” You drew out slowly.

The man closed his eyes, messaging the bridge of his nose before finally, finally turning his gaze to you.

“Tell me you don’t want this - don’t want me - and… we can forget all this ever happened… mostly for my sake,” he muttered the last part.

You turned your eyes towards the floor for a minute. Perhaps it was his confession that a sudden burst of confidence erupted but eventually you managed to speak up.

“I can’t do that…” You whispered softly as Hotch peeked up at you from the hand covering his face. “Aaron, I… I want you but… is… this even allowed?” Probably not.

But hearing your own confirmation, Hotch stepped forwards. “Y/N. I don’t even care.”

With that, he practically rushed you (not that you were complaining) and fiercely, with only a fierceness of a man barely able to keep a lid on his desires, pressed his lips to yours in a searing kiss.

Your bodies molded against each other perfectly, one of his large hands cradling the back of your head to assist in keeping your lips to his. His other arm wrapped around you to eliminate any dreaded, unnecessary and unwanted space between the two of you that had long outstayed its welcome.

One of your own arms came to wrap around his neck encouragingly as your opposite hand rested on the side of his face, his faint stubble brushing against your palm.

In a tangle of limbs, he moved you around and back against the desk until your bottom was atop of the dark wood.

In an almost cruel but necessary manner, Aaron pulled away from your lips for a moment. “Say you don’t want this and I’ll stop.”

“Please don’t,” you nearly begged him (but hey, why have shame when this absolute specimen of a man was caging you in?) “Aaron, I want you. I really do.”

Aaron huffed and desperately loosened his tie, throwing it uncaringly somewhere in the room. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear that from you,” he said before locking lips once more to your delight.

~*~BOUNUS~*~

“The ship has sailed, I repeat, the ship has sailed!” Penelope squealed as she crouched ‘stealthily’ outside Hotch’s office.

“Woah, woah, woah. What’s sailed, babygirl?” Derek questioned worriedly over the phone, the grogginess of sleep leaving his voice.

“The USS (Y/N)ner! Oh my god, I can the desk moving…!” Penelope babbled in near manic delirium of joy.

Derek dragged a hand over his face. “No kidding… it happened?”

“It finally happened!” Penelope squealed once more, “My ship has left the port,” she said before going dead silent at a sudden noise of pleasure behind the wall she was crouched next to.

“Was that…?”

“Oh my God, they’re wasting no time whatsoever. Y/N, you go girl!”

“Damn,” Derek breathed out as those certain noises only got louder. Seems they forgot Garcia was there… again.

Penelope gasped. “It’s getting spicy~…” she said.

“Babygirl, get outta there.”

“I know, I know.”

“Penelope, now!”

“I’m going!”

“Guess we’re getting new HR buddies.”

~*~

Just a little one shot because Hotch is unfairly pretty and the Younger TV series really works with this pairing. Hope you enjoyed. 👍

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch hotchner #oneshot #criminal minds

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reveluving · 2 years ago

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SHY WIFE AND PRICE....ARE YOU FREAKIN KIDDING ME!!!!!Imagine this Adonis of a man spoiling her from the first date and even her being shy, the 141(plus Kate) KNOW who's the boss( he ALWAYS have a photo and a story about Mrs.Price and it's just the cutest thing how his eyes light up that they also love her)

CUUUUUUTE AAAAAA!! GNAWING ON MY BARS RN!! And thank you for specifying the Adonis of a man bit! Can't forget about that!! ☝🏼😌💗

Includes: tooth-rotting fluff!

COD x shy!wife thots closed! Thank you, everyone, for your time & amazing minds! I sincerely hope I can do this again with y'all soon! 💌

Come & check out my COD m.list!

In any case of our beloved shy!wife fics, especially with his line of work, just expect your husband to have a polaroid or five of you ready.

And John is no different.

You must be a special one if you managed to catch the eyes of the captain, and to clarify, you are!

John knew there was no going back to his mundane yet chaotic lifestyle the second he asked you out. It took everything in him not to chuckle at your look of disbelief, your lips parting just a tad bit. He didn’t want you to think he was making fun of you, you were genuinely adorable with your expressiveness. And though had told him you were open to anything, even specifying that you wouldn’t mind anything small and simple, he didn’t let you.

He took you out to dinner on your first date, nothing too fancy, though that couldn’t be said the same on the later dates, gifted you a small but beautiful bouquet and the rest was history.

And amazingly, he gets even better at spoiling you after he puts a ring on your finger. As if he wasn't already good since your first date!

Kisses or cakes, hugs or huge bouquets, he'll always find a way to spoil you. Because you—your smiles, giggles and laughs, your time and your love for him means so much.

More than you can imagine.

A sweetheart, a gentleman. You couldn’t ask for a better man to fall for you, though, like him, you were mind-blown to even think a man, no, a hunk like him showed interest in you. Made you feel wanted, special—someone he wanted to be with with zero hesitation.

He wouldn’t be able to forget your shy smile, how you’d mindlessly trail your fingers across the table or your lap out of embarrassment, how your fingers curled around his hand, despite averting your gaze from his cheeky smile many dates later.

And though the wedding was small, to him, it felt like a sweet fairytale.

To finally be able to call you Mrs Price.

Laswell had the privilege to meet you first before everyone else. She enjoys the sisterly moments you’d have, a breath of fresh air from the craziness, to say the least, that she has to witness in her lifetime. Always appreciates you checking in on her via messages or if she’s lucky, a quick call. And it becomes a tradition of hers to jokingly remind John to take care of you and not to drive you crazy.

And then, there were the boys.

Johnny was the one who asked about you, catching the man looking at one of the polaroids of you with nothing but love in his eyes. Longing to get it over with and come home to you. Johnny didn’t think he’d be willing to talk about you at all, let alone more than a few sentences, i.e. privacy reasons or he just prefers to be on his own. Take in the quiet moment before any hell breaks loose later on.

Understandable, so imagine not only his surprise but also the rest of the 141 when he talks about you. First, with pure endearment in his tone, then the story gets romantic, cheesier even, but all three of them listened to his stories like no other (read: a father telling his kids how he met their mother), even if they acted like they were just casually fixing their weapons or thinking to themselves.

C’mon, he knows them!

Like John, you treat the boys like your very own. If Johnny, Kyle or Simon wanted to be doted over—to be cared for, something they haven’t felt in a while even if some of them wouldn’t want to admit it, then you’d give them millions! Even something as little as a handwritten message or passing them a few words i.e. take care and good luck via John.

Visiting the Price’s house now feels like a family thing. Again, it’s cheesy, it’s corny, and maybe even childish to some, for a bunch of men to be looking forward to these visits like a child being away from their parents at a dorm during college, none of you cared. Not you. Not John. And most importantly, not his boys.

None of them could have imagined your words to stick in their minds in dire times. A little motivation to return safely. Back to the base, for John, and back the Price’s home, for you.

“Johnny, I’m out of a few things in the kitchen. Could you drop by the store and get these for me, please?” “Can do!”

“Simon, have you seen John’s car keys? I can’t find them anywhere.” “I can help look for it w’you.”

“Kyle, I told you I can handle the fireplace.” “S’not that hard. Don’t worry!”

Home.

Bonus: A lil’ story I’m still working on with the COD men + dogs includes John with an American Akita. Similar to Phillip and Kai, John’s gigantic pupper tends to prefer listening to you to him.

His intolerance for certain people or animals drops in an instant the second he sees you, turning into a baby (your baby, might John add) but he also knows when duty calls. Ears tilting back and growling at a stranger who doesn’t know, or worse; ignores that you're taken.

And in John’s words: good boy.

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

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pinkxpantha · 7 months ago

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Mine all Mine

-Wriothesley x GN! Reader

#: synopsis- literally just wriothesley being domestically clingy with his S/O

#:cw- ~520 words, tooth rotting type fluff, canon complient, established relationship, I wrote this at 1 am, he's clingyyy

Wriothesley is the type to savor every moment with you. He''s a busy man. He'll spend hours and his desk and a few more with work affiliated things. At some point, it feels as though each minute with you is just a mere second in the grand scheme of things. Trust him when he says he wishes he could be home more often, coddled in your arms, his head leaning on your chest as he listens to the pulse of your heartbeat.

Ever burdened by work, he finds himself needing more of you in his life. Yes, he keeps pictures of you in his office. (You'd have to convince him not to plaster your face on the ground and the ceiling) Yes, he keeps a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers in a vase. (He used to not care for such things until he saw how you loved the way they bloomed)

Yes, Wriothesley cannot get enough of you.

Even on the days where he couldn't catch up to his breathing, when the floor seemed to move even when he was standing still. He found himself drumming your heartbeat into the palm of his hand. Bump-Ba-bump. The rhythm was second nature to him.

But no matter how many reminders he had of your presence, nothing compared to the real deal.

You in your entirety, and you in your smallest form. Some night's he'd swear to kiss every cell of your body so you'd always have his love be apart of you.

Each time you'd smile back at him, maybe even tease his insensible fantasy. He swears he becomes the happiest man alive.

Your nighttime routine is rarely completed without some form of memento from him. He'd write sticky notes in your favorite color with caring words (and occasionally a sticker from one of the melusines)

Even after you drifted off to sleep, by the late times he returns to you, he returns to his home. As soon as he could, he'd lay there in bed with you. His hand rested on top of your palm, as the valley in between your fingers served as his hand's resting point.

His grip would always be loose, swearing that the frost of his vision would crawl onto his fingertips, stirring you from your slumber.

And no matter what, he would always sleep with his head facing yours (his so-called solution to sleepless nights). The barriers of personal space seemed to bind themselves together. So don't be surprised when he wakes you up, cupping your jaw.

He'd always say that he needs to see the most soul before he sets out for the day ahead of him. His course voice would tell you that you could fall asleep again, hoping you wouldn't see how his cheeks rose with mirth when you would be the first thing he wakes up to.

All in all, he thinks of you as the beginning of a new dawn, and the end of a long day. He wouldn't have it any other way.

I didn't want to write dialogue.. can you tell?

Not proofread ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ), I'm used to writing x fem readers, If something seems implied that reader is fem please reach out to me so I can fix it 🙏🙏

Also anons are open :))

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idkfitememate · 1 year ago

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Still tired but just wanted to remind you that the Obey Me Brothers (- Satan + Lilith) were probably the “Seven Heavenly Virtues” before they fell/died and that was probably so hard for them like-

Lucifer going from Humility to Pride

Mammon going from Charity to Greed

Leviathan going from Kindness to Envy

Asmodeus going from Chastity to Lust

Beelzebub going from Temperance to Gluttony

And Belphegor going from Diligence to Sloth

Imagine as Lucifer going through it because now you can’t talk with your brothers, now you hold them to an expectation you would’ve never before - and yourself to an even higher one - and watching them loose themselves to their sins.

Watching Mammon lose himself to monetary values to the point where he’d be willing to sell his own brothers out if it came to it, and knowing that at some point he would’ve sold his everything because he believed it was right. Shit thing is that he still loves his brothers, and under the greed is guilt for hurting them like this.

Watching Levi, once a kind and loving man who would never leave anyone out become a self deprecating and destructive mess who shuts the world out. Who spends his time obsessing over what others have that he can’t and fighting tooth and nail to fix that, even if it hurts him. He, like Lucifer, has to be the best at his chosen craft or else it’s all for naught, but unlike Lucifer he’s very vocal about his losses and how much he hates others who have better than him.

Asmo, who at one point was basically repulsed at the idea of carnal love and wanted to wait, to hold out until he found the one he was searching for. Believe if that saving himself for his future partner was the ultimate act of love. And now watching him fall to depravity, unable to feel love unless it’s carnal in some sense. Everything must be passionate, with little room for true love. Feelings pushed aside for the heat of the moment, giving his body away to feel something. Finding no worth in himself unless it’s his body, and that translating over to how he treats his brothers. They have to suck up his shockingly flirty remarks to them because he can’t help it, that’s how he’s forced to show love now; fast, rushed, and carnal.

Watching Beel, a man who took everything in moderation, never allowing himself more than what he needed in food and drink in favor of helping others, loose himself to the mind numbing pleasure of sitting there and eating and drinking and eating and drinking and eating and drinking with no end in sight. As he can’t help himself but do anything for a meal, much like Mammon. Willing to do damn near anything to fill the hole in his stomach. No matter the cost.

And Belphy. A man once so awake and alert and ready for anything that even Lucifer would have to tell him to take a break. Always raring and ready to go and help any and everyone in need sleep his days away. Too lazy to do basic tasks at some points like eat. Lazing about too tired to do anything, including care for those around him. Too tired to do anything.

And the haunting truth that you, as Lucifer, created Wrath. Satan, your youngest brother in age and fourth in power. Knowing on the daily that he puts on a mask, a front so that his rage doesn’t consume him in an all burning inferno. Knowing that any little thing could set him off, and that’d be it. He shares next to nothing with you and your brothers because, while unspoken, it’s known that he’ll never be as close as the six of you. He didn’t experience the war, he didn’t experience the fall, he didn’t experience her death. Unlike your brothers who have all changed in some distressing way he’s always been rage. Always been Wrath. A true sin through and through. Never will you experience the same things and that keeps you separated.

And about her, to know deep in your heart that she, the Virtue of Patients, would’ve become the Sin of Wrath keeps you up at night, her face of smiles turning to a wrathful frown scares you. Nightmares flash behind your eyes of her being mad, furious even, so you starve the nights off with a never ending pile of paperwork and coffee.

… Did I just accidentally character study?-

#obey me #obey me: one master to rule them all #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me lilith #character study #im gonna unpack now #then sleep some more lol

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sunnie-angel · 2 years ago

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Words Left Unsaid

jason todd x f!reader

ao3 link

summary: jason todd is your childhood best friend. he dies before his Words come in, the first words his soulmate will say to him, and you have to pick up the pieces.

tags: soulmate au, major character death (temporary), grief

rated mature | wc: 8.8k

a/n: so this monster of a story was based on an ask i sent to @jasonsmirrorball a while back (don’t read for spoilers). it pretty much took on a life of its own, and now here we are nearly 9k later. it does get pretty dark in its exploration of grief, so please take care of yourselves my lovelies.

Everyone’s born with Words somewhere on their body, unreadable at first. The skin is shiny, like an old scar, the words blurry and undefined. One day, you’ll see the first words you’ll ever hear your soulmate say to you, that shiny patch of skin blooming like ink (there’s superstitions about the colour your Words fade into, as popular as astrology). The trick of the thing is, you won’t find out what your Words are until you’ve become the person who is meant to hear them. You could meet your soulmate a hundred times and not know it, not until you’ve both grown into the people you need to be. The youngest person to get their Words was seven, and the oldest 92 years young. Or so the stories go. When you’re young, still poking at your loose front tooth with your tongue, it’s a story that comforts you. It’s the story you beg your parents for before bed every night. It’s the carrot they use to get you to try new things and go new places. What if you meet your soulmate at the new movie theatre downtown? How do you know eating your veggies won’t develop you into who your soulmate needs you to be?

It’s what your mother uses to try and coax you out of the car for your first day at a new school. She’s driven you to school for your first day, a one off so she can finish up your admittance paperwork. In this moment you hate her for it. It’s February and the year is more than halfway over. The snow has melted into dirty grey slush in the streets and the pinching Mary Janes the school mandates as part of the uniform are going to provide no protection. It’s halfway through the year and you’re certain no one is going to be your friend at a new school in a new city. You’re twelve years old and to you this is the end of the world. You’re trying so hard not to cry, hugging yourself together and burying your chin in your chest.

“Come on, honey, this is a school. It’ll help you become who you need to be.”

Your mother’s voice is cajoling, trying to coax you out the same way she coaxed a stray cat into her arms. It worked on the cat, now named Haley after the comet, but it doesn’t work on you. She tries to catch your eye in the rear view mirror but you stubbornly turn your head to look out the window instead.

“Please. Work with me here. We’ll go in together, you’ll have a wonderful day and make so many friends. And after school, I’ll take you out for donuts and you can tell me all about it before your Dad gets home.”

You keep silent, continue to stare out the window at all the other kids walking into the building.

“Honey, please. Can you just do this one thing for me, please.”

She’s almost begging now, and you hate the way it makes her sound. You want to tell her how scared you are, how there’s nothing more you want to do except huddle under your covers in your unfamiliar bed and hold Haley close. But your fear is a hot ball in your chest, choking off any words that might come out. You look at her though, plead with her with your eyes to understand how much you don’t want to do this. She stares back at you, an exhausted slump to her shoulders and lines around her eyes you don’t remember being there. Slowly, you unwrap your arms from around your rib cage. Place a hand on each knobbly knee and slowly curl them into fists before nodding, once, sharply, eyes firmly fixed on the car seat in front of you. Your eyes burn, but the sigh of relief your mother heaves out is worth it.

Gotham Academy is housed in a collection of gothic stone buildings which should have been strange in a large city like Gotham but weirdly works. You just think it’s creepy. Head down, you follow your mother’s back weaving through the crowds of students. You don’t want to see the stares, but you can already feel them boring into you. Sitting in the secretary’s office, you pick at invisible lint on your knitted tights. You know your mother’s having a conversation with the secretary but it all flies over your head in shushing murmurs. Your back aches from the overstuffed chair. The Mary Janes do pinch, makes you worried that you’ve already twisted your ankles from the way they throb.

“I’ve got to get to work now sweet pea, but I just now you’re going to have a great first day. I’ll pick you up at 4:00 and we can go get those donuts okay?”

Your mother’s crouched down in front of you, eyes searching your face for any kind of reaction. She looks worried and that’s what causes you to crack. You fling yourself out of the chair and into her arms, allow yourself one great heaving sob into her shoulder. She strokes your hair and hushes you, squeezes you tight like she could make you part of her.

“Oh honey. Everything’s scary right now but I promise it’s not going to stay that way. I believe in you and you’re going to get through this.”

You draw back from her, scrub at your face with your fists. Heaving breaths don’t help but they don’t make it worse. You go with the secretary, new schedule twisted tight in your hands. She lets you discard your coat and backpack in a locker, before walking you to your new homeroom. You only hope that you’ll remember the locker combination.

You hate the way your new homeroom teacher makes you stand at the front of the room. Mr. Mulligan won’t let you sit down until you introduce yourself to the class, a thing he could have done so easily himself. Pulling at your sleeves and trying not to make eye contact with anyone, you stutter out a few basic facts. Hate the way you can feel the other students catalogue you, the way your hair doesn’t look shiny and straight like its fresh out of a salon, your too small shoes, the unfashionably long length of your skirt and the lack of designer accessories. Your cheeks and eyes are burning by the time you can slide down into your assigned seat near the back of the class. There’s only one other person sitting in your row, a boy with dark curling hair and a shy grin. He leans over to your desk just Mr. Mulligan starts the lecture.

Whispers, “Hi! My name’s Jason. I already know your name, figured if we’re going to be seat mates its only fair you know mine.”

You smile tightly and turn back to the lesson. You’re desperate not to miss anything, already feeling like you’ve been left behind. At your old school, you were in the middle of The Great Gatsby, but Gotham Academy is doing Romeo and Juliet for their seventh grade English class. You don’t have the play book, have no idea what part of the text they’re talking about, and this is the first time you’ve actually heard Shakespeare read out loud. Writing as fast you can, you try to keep up but it doesn’t matter how good your notes are if you don’t understand what the teacher’s talking about.

Usually you love English class, how uncovering symbolism and hidden meanings make you feel like you’re uncovering secret messages sent by the authors years in the past. Now it’s all going over your head and you hate it here so much already. The one class that you might have been looking forward to and you’re overwhelmed by it. You press too hard with your pencil, tear through the sheet of paper in front of you.

A notebook slides across your desk. Messy but legible writing on the first few scenes of the Act are written on it. Looking in the direction it came from, you make eye contact with Jason. He grins toothily before turning back to the front, Mr. Mulligan having moved on to a different quotation. The gesture makes your chest tight.

The rest of the class goes by uneventfully if still a challenge. There’s a short break between classes in which you frantically copy down the notes and slide the notebook back to him before your next teacher arrives. The next class isn’t so bad, still difficult and you’ve never liked math as much as you probably should, but it’s less intimidating than English. Someone must have fiddled with the thermostat during the break because the room feels colder than before. You wish you were on your old school’s schedule with shorter classes and more breaks. Sitting still for so long at your desk is making your back ache and cramp up. Math is almost over, Miss Lewis writing out the assigned homework on the board, when a wave of something comes over you. It’s an effort of will not to curl up on your desk.

The bell rings for lunch break and you just about bolt to the first bathroom you can find. Something’s wrong with you, more than just nerves over the first day. You’re cold but you’re sweating, nausea burning at the back of your throat. The ache in your back and stomach are almost unbearable, makes you want to curl into the fetal position to ward off invisible blows. Rolling down your tights in a hurry, you sit down on the cold toilet as fast as you can. Your hand is wet, and for a moment you worry that you’d lost control of your bladder on the way to the bathroom. But the stain on your hand is dark, matches the blood slick crotch of your panties. You hang your head and can feel the tears you’ve been holding onto all morning drop onto the floor. Just another thing you can’t control in this shitty new town and its stupid new school. Your first period.

The bathroom is cold, hard tile under your feet and wintery sunlight weak through the windows near the ceiling. The blood on your fingers is cold and tacky now. There’s a boundary here, between childhood and being an adult that you aren’t ready to cross yet. I want my mom, you think, only on the edge of hysteria. But she’s at work, wouldn’t be able to come if you called.

So you do what needs to be done, stop your tears as best as you can and sniffle. Wipe your face clean with the back of your sleeve and do your best to dab at your underwear with the single ply toilet paper. Layer sheets of toilet paper between your tights and underwear, build a makeshift pad in your sort-of dry underwear out of toilet paper and hope that it will hold up. Luckily you’ve escaped staining the regulation uniform skirt, so no one should be able to tell what happened. You get transfixed by the swirls of blood washing down the sink drain, hands gone numb under the stream of water. Splash cold water on your face in the vain hope it’ll calm down your puffy eyes. As ready as you can be in this situation, you eye yourself in the mirror and tell yourself to get moving before the bell for third period rings.

The boy from the back row is waiting outside the classroom for you. He looks nervous until he sees you, lights up with that shy smile again.

“Hi! I uh noticed you weren’t at lunch today so I grabbed you an apple in case you didn’t grab anything to eat.”

He’s babbling on about the cafeteria food not being that bad if you’d just try it, even though finding a table the first time can be rough. All you can do is stare at the apple in his hands, transfixed. You’re only shaken out of your stupor by the sound of him calling your name.

“So… are you going to take it? The bell’s going to ring soon and the teachers really don’t like us eating during class.”

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely shocked and touched.

He goes a little bashful at that, looks away as you take the apple from him. The apple’s good, sweet and crisp under your teeth. You make quick work of it in the hallway, finishing it up just as the bell rings. Jason stands right in front of you the whole time, hides you from the penetrating eyes of your classmates.

“All done? We should probably find our seats now. Monty,” and here he adopts a snooty British accent, “Archibald the Third is a real stickler for being on time. He’ll mark you late if you’re not sitting in your seat, even if you’re in the classroom.”

His impression makes you snicker and forget, just for a moment, how miserable you are. Mr. Archibald the Third is just as ridiculous as Jason’s impression of him predicted, but you get through it by making eye contact with Jason over the most ridiculous moments. Mr. Archibald really does have you call him “the Third”. It’s probably got something to do with his Words, a flowing script running vertically down the side of his face reading, “The Third, dear God how many of you are there?”. History with Mr. Archibald manages to be fun despite his absurd demeanor and your own private hurt seeming less terrible for a few scattered moments.

The final class of the day drags on, the pain in your front and back growing. Your hand moves across the page but your mind isn’t really paying attention. There’s a commotion as people gather their things and stand, already streaming out the door. You blink, stupefied, then slowly gather your things.

“Same time, same place tomorrow then?”

“—Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow Jason.”

Your mother’s waiting for you in front of the school, car idling puffs of smoke into the darkening afternoon. Your backpack lands in the back seat and you crush your face into her coat across the console. Her hands come to your back, patting and rubbing circles until your breath comes in long, even draws.

“Honey I’m so proud of you. Your first day done! Let’s go celebrate, hmm? How was it? Did you make any new friends?”

“Can we get the donuts to go? I— uh, um I— I might have started my period today?”

Your voice lifts on the end of the sentence, suddenly absurdly worried about her reaction. You needn’t have worried though.

“Oh sweet pea, on your first day too? We can go home, get you a bath and something for your cramps.”

“No, I just really want to go get donuts with you because today kind of sucked and I’ll still feel kinda shitty but at least then I get donuts while I feel bad.”

“No more swearing and we’ll get a whole box to go, okay?”

Lying in bed that night, wrapped around a hot water bottle with Haley on your feet, you think that your day wasn’t that bad. It could have been a lot worse, and Jason was surprisingly nice. You stare at the shiny patch of skin on your wrist and hope that one day it will all be worth it. You drift off to the thought of blue eyes.

For the rest of that week you join Jason at his corner in the cafeteria. Between Math and History you slowly start to get to know one another. He offers to let you borrow his notes for the upcoming test in English, gets a little sheepish when he mentions that he practically knows the content by heart anyway. Jason’s sweet and funny and by Friday you two are the best of friends.

Once your mother is confident that you can handle the commute to school on your own, she doesn’t mind if you’re home late as long as you send a text first. Something about socializing with more kids your age being good for you, not that you’re listening too distracted in the haze of victory. So the two of you hang out after school, the city your shared playground. Jason treats you to your first chili dog and laughs when you get some on your nose. In revenge, you dare him to cover his lunch in chili oil at lunch the next day. The way Mr. Archibald threatens you both with detention for being disruptive is so worth it.

It’s not until the middle of April that you get the courage to ask Jason why you. Why out of everyone in the school he chose to reach out to the new kid and make her his friend. It’s probably the most personal thing you’ve asked him yet.

“It’s ‘cause no one else would’ve. Most of the kids here, their families founded Gotham and they’re not keen on outsiders. Most of the scholarship kids, they start at the same time, form a group so the rich kids don’t pick on them so much.” He pauses here, has to look away before he goes on. “Most of the others don’t like me ‘cause I don’t really fit into either category, you know? Like my dad’s a big name in Gotham but he only just adopted me so I’m not really one the rich kids but he’s doing more than just paying my school fees. You looked just as lonely as I was,” here he turns to grin, “and I wasn’t going to give up an opportunity to make someone carry my lunch tray.”

“Hey, idiot, if I remember right it was you bringing me lunch the first time.” You shove at him indignantly, but he dodges too quickly for you.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t remember, on account of me being an idiot.” He flicks you on the tip of the nose and goes running.

And then it’s on. You chase him around the park, laughing and swearing to get your revenge on him. The two of you collapse breathlessly onto a mostly dry patch of dirt under a skeletal tree. Staring up at the sky and trying to catch your breath, you feel Jason nudge at your should beside you.

“So what about you? What brought you to the happiest place on earth?”

“My dad got headhunted for a promotion. He’s researching something for Wayne Industries and all of us had to move here for it. So mom gets a new job and I get transferred to a new school.” You sit up suddenly, look down at Jason lying in the grass. “Promise not to tell anyone?” You wait for him to nod first before continuing. “I only got into Gotham Academy because of my dad. I heard him and my mom arguing about it; he made it part of his contract that I’d get to go to school there if he accepted the job.”

“So? I’m only at GA because of my dad too. You think a kid from Crime Alley gets to go to private school without a little nepotism?”

You slump back down on to the grass, stretch a hand out to the sky and look up at it.

“To nepotism I guess.”

A hand reaches up to the sky next to yours. Slowly, ever so slowly he reaches a pinky out and links it with yours.

“To two misfits only here because of nepotism.”

School lets out in June, the city air ridiculously hot and humid. You can’t say that you’ve made any good friends outside of Jason, but there’s some girls you say hello to in the halls. You mourn not being able to see Jason everyday, but the plans you have to meet up are enough to soothe the ache.

He takes you to an arcade first, the two of you spending hours trying to beat each other at Pac Man. Tired but happy you split a basket of fries at the attached cafeteria. You’re enjoying the greasy fried goodness of the snack but you notice Jason isn’t reaching for the basket as quickly as you are. Looking over at him, you notice him staring at a pair of brothers playing a game. The younger whoops, jumps up and down in excitement. The older one ruffles his brother’s hair and challenges him to a new round. You toss a fry in Jason’s direction, surprised when he actually manages to catch it.

“You good?”

“—Yeah. It’s just, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it? But I kind of have an older brother and he was supposed to take me to the arcade last weekend but he got in a fight with Dad and just left.”

“That’s a real dick move, ditching you over his issues.” At that, Jason breaks out in hysterical laughter, almost choking on the fry in his mouth. There are tears in his eyes by the time he stops coughing but he looks slightly less like a kicked puppy.

“It really, really was. You don’t know how much it was.”

Happy that the mood has lifted, the two of you finish off the basket of fries. You challenge Jason to Dance Dance Revolution and he wipes the floor with you. He’s way more athletic than you’d expected from him. The two of you part ways happy, already planning your next hang out. It is enough.

You meet up almost every week that summer. Jason shows you the Gotham he knows, little hidden gems only locals know about. A movie theatre that only shows movies made before 1980, a diner with the best milkshakes you’ve ever tasted, the best places in the public library to read undisturbed. Teaches you about the safest places to evacuate when disaster hits, which parts of the city are most dangerous. The park and its chili dog stand quickly become a favourite for you, a place to just hang out without any responsibilities. It also becomes a kind of confessional of sorts, where you end up telling each other your worst fears and secret hopes.

You confess once, after riding out your first Rogue attack with your fingers buried in Jason’s T-shirt, that you’re worried you’ll never feel at home again. That you can never go back now to your old house and feel at home there now, but that Gotham still feels too alien to be called home yet. Your darkest fear, that you’ll end up alone one day, deserted by everyone that you know and love. Jason tells you about his fears that one day all of this, Bruce and Alfred, the manor, school, will disappear one day. That the big brother he looks up to will never start to like him. Every time the two of you bare your souls to each other, Jason will hook his pinky over yours and squeeze. It’s a friendship built on shared secrets, on fears assuaged, and worries made better.

Your last year of middle school is largely uneventful. You got to classes, have lunch with Jason, hang out after class with Jason, text Jason. You get into a routine and that brings you comfort. There’s a slight period of awkwardness right before the 8th grade formal. A weird tension envelopes you both, the nebulous question of if you’re going together hanging over you. You don’t like it, the way Jason seems almost hesitant in all your conversations these days. It sets your teeth to itching and you can’t stand it anymore.

Slamming down your textbook, you say “Okay that’s it. I can’t stand whatever this is. You and I are going to the formal as friends. We’ll get all dressed up and if it’s lame we can ditch and go get Batburgers.”

“Oh thank God. I didn’t want to say anything in case it made it awkward but then it was just getting more awkward and then I just didn’t know what to do.”

The party is lame, but the burgers make up for it. Your dress is nice though. Your mother helped you pick it out, the fitted bodice and loose swing of the skirt making you feel passably pretty. It’s been hard to feel pretty with the way your body’s changed over the year, hips widening and chest starting to grow in ways you can’t predict. Jason cleans up nice, though whoever slicked back his hair went overboard on the gel. You pose for a picture all dressed up together, faces pulled into silly expressions, your burgers held in front of you like trophies. You pin a copy of the photo up in your bedroom. It makes you smile every time you see it, something warm in your chest.

The first day of high school brings back those first day jitters. You’re not even transferring schools, just switching to a different building and still your palms are sweating. It’s not until you see Jason, sitting in the back row with an empty seat behind him that you can release the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It’s different teachers and different subjects, but in some ways it’s like the day you met again. Scribbling notes until your hands cramp, Jason passing you notes in class, struggling to keep up with what the teachers are saying. At lunch, you and Jason even split an apple between you. It’s terrifying and familiar and all the more bearable because you aren’t going through it alone.

High school is different. Everyone’s more aware of each other in ways they weren’t in middle school. Girls wear brighter lip glosses and flaunt the shiny spaces where their marks will come in. Boys douse themselves in too much body spray and start eyeing up anything that moves. But through out it all, your friendship remains the same. Something about high school solidifies things, has you go from You and Jason to YouandJason. At school you’re a unit, almost impossible to think of you as separate beings. After school, you still spend time together, still explore the city, still message all the time. But you’ve still never been to each other’s houses. Never met each other’s families yet.

Jason offers, once, to have you over to the manor during the winter break, but you’re not keen on it. Crinkle up your nose and ask to think about it.

“It’s not that I don’t want to see you over the holiday, or meet your family Jason. It’s just that I kind of like the way things are? My family knows that you’re my best friend, they’ve seen pictures of us, but the way things are now, you’re still entirely mine. Our friendship’s just for us. Meeting your family kind of changes that.”

“I like us being us. But would it really be that different to come hang out for a few hours? You could come over when Dad’s out and it’d just be me and Alfred.”

Eventually you agree, spend an afternoon with Jason at the manor to cram for your next round of tests. Mr. Pennyworth is lovely, keeps bringing snacks up to the library as an excuse to check up on you. Bent over your books, you miss the significant looks Alfred is sending Jason over your head and the blush that lights up his face in response. Mr. Wayne is thankfully not home. You’re not sure you could have handled meeting Jason’s grandfather and father in the same visit.

Jason makes it over to your apartment a few times over the spring semester. Your father’s always working, but your mother likes him well enough. She makes him stay over for dinner, won’t let him leave without feeding him first. She calls him a nice boy and tells him to come back any time. Still, you two prefer going out to coffee shops or the library to hang out, uninterrupted by well-meaning adults.

It’s on one of those summer nights, the two of you some of the last people in the public library, that the subject of your Words comes up. The skin across your left wrist catches the warm light of the lamps in a way that’s distracting. You’re startled by the feeling of fingers tracing featherlight over still-shiny skin.

“You ever wonder it about it sometimes? What it’ll say or who’ll say it?” The tone is unreadable but Jason’s voice is above the whisper he usually uses in the library, but with so few people around you figure there’s no harm in mimicking his volume.

“I used to. I was obsessed with Words when I was little. Couldn’t go to sleep without hearing about them as a bed time story.”

“Used to?” And Jason’s fingers are still there, drawing maddening little patterns across the thin skin of your wrist.

“Well, I’ve got other things to think about now, things that are actually within my control.”

Jason presses down, gently, with the broad of his thumb on your pulse. You snatch back your wrist, cradle it to your chest, uncertain of how intimate that gesture felt.

“Fair’s fair. I showed you mine, now you’ve gotta show me yours.” Your tone is teasing, trying to capture the earlier lightness of the afternoon.

“Oh I do, do I?”

He reaches for the top button on his uniform button down, starts undoing two more. Horrified, you reach across the table and grab at his hands.

“What are you doing?! You can’t just go around stripping in public!” Your hissed whisper may not have been said at all for all the impact it makes. Jason shakes off your hands and goes back to undoing his shirt.

“Not all of us are blessed with easily accessible Words. Relax, I just have to get the shirt wide enough to show how far the Words will go.”

Across his collarbone is a thin strip of shiny skin, reaching from one side of his neck to the other like a necklace. Whatever it will say looks pretty lengthy for someone’s Words. Mesmerized, you reach out to trace it with your fingertips. Jason shifts back before you can make contact.

“Gotta buy me dinner first sweetheart. I’m a classy lady like that.”

You flush at the term of endearment, but cover it with indignation.

“Hey! What do you call the tacos I bought for us yesterday?”

He laughs it off and the tense moment is broken. You pack up your things, smiling at the ground. You like the way sweetheart sounds coming from Jason, not that you’d give him that to tease you with. Despite how much you tell each other, there’s one secret you haven’t told him yet. That privately you hope your Words will be his. It’s so easy to fall in love with Jason, or at least what passes for love at this age. The light in his eyes when he rants about the latest book he’s read, when he shares the biscuits Alfred packs for him, the way he listens to you so intently even if he doesn’t have all the answers. You can admit to yourself that you’re hopelessly in love with your best friend, but never out loud. Your friendship is one of the most important things in your life and you are terrified of destroying it.

You don’t see Jason much after that, that summer. Your texts and calls still get answered, but he’s frustratingly vague about meeting up. He says that his dad has him in a kind of summer school, wants him to learn from private tutors before school starts up in the Fall again. Asking about what it is that he’s supposed to learn (his marks are already incredibly good) makes him cagey about it. You don’t want to push, but it feels like he’s pulling away from you. Phone calls get shorter, sentences more clipped. Your offers to just drop by the manor to see him get turned down automatically. It’s the longest you’ve gone without seeing him since you’ve met. You’re terrified that he’s done with you. That for some unnameable reason he’s decided to end your years of friendship and there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening. Gotham seems colder without Jason at your side, the dangers more obvious and your usual haunts less welcoming.

Finally, after nearly two months you manage to pin him down, get him to agree to meet the day after his birthday. Your heart is in your mouth as you wait for him on a bench in the park. There’s a trickle of sweat running down your back. It’s a hot day but the park is a lush green, an after effect from an Ivy attack the night before. You release your grip on your present for Jason, smooth the envelope and hope you didn’t crease it with your sweaty fingers. A voice is calling your name.

Jason’s been changed by the weeks apart. He’s a few inches taller now, filled out in the shoulders more. You have to crane your neck back to see his face. The anxiety in you is reflected in his face, the way he nervously runs his fingers through his hair, his darting eyes. Uncertain how to proceed, you thrust the envelope out between you.

“Happy Birthday.”

“I— thank you.”

There’s silence again, and the awkwardness between you is a tangible thing. It’s worse than it was in eighth grade only this time you don’t know how to bridge the gap. You look down at your shoes, the toes scuffed.

“I’m sorry for ignoring you.” It comes out of him in a rush. “I’ve been a really shitty friend lately. Just, all summer my dad’s been on me about studying with these private tutors except they’re all friends with Dick so nothing I do can ever be good enough in comparison and every day I’ve felt like crap but I didn’t want you to see me like this which only made me feel worse ‘cause then I basically had to avoid you all the time which is the exact opposite of what I wanted to do and all I wanted to do was have you tell me there’s nothing wrong with me and they can all go kick dirt but then I’d have to talk to you about it which I wasn’t ‘cause I was already embarrassed.” He has to pause here to catch his breath, words running together at the speed which he was going.

“You planning to breathe any time soon?”

He deflates, collapses onto the bench next to you, an arm tucked around his right side awkwardly holding the card so it doesn’t get crushed. You sigh, heavily.

“I thought you didn’t want to be friends anymore.” Your confession is barely above a whisper. You can’t even look at him as you say it.

“I didn’t— I wouldn’t. I need you to know that I never, ever don’t want to be your friend okay? I was an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“Promise not to cut me out again and that you won’t take out your own issues on our friendship, and maybe I’ll consider forgiving you.”

“Pinky promise.”

Jason places the card in his lap, goes to link your fingers together, then winces at the movement of his arm. Suddenly sirens are going off in your brain.

“What’s wrong with your side?”

“Nothing, must have just pulled a muscle or something.” He tries to laugh it off nervously, but you can tell when he’s lying. His eyes dart to the left over your head, knee bounces almost imperceptibly. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and you know he’s not telling you the truth.

“You can’t even go a full minute without cutting me out! Jason, I know something is wrong. Now tell me.”

He hesitates, and you’ve had it with the lies and the avoidance and the being kept in the dark. You fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you start tugging.

“Hey! Wh-what are you doing?”

He tries to squirm away, batting at your hands but you get his shirt up far enough to see the bruise on his ribs in the shape of a boot. It’s purple going a sickly yellow, mottled and stark against the dips of his ribs. You can feel all the blood drain from your face. Jason’s pushed up against the far side of the bench, pulling his shirt down with shaking hands.

“Jason. Jason if someone is hurting you, you need to tell someone. If it's your dad or one of the tutors, we can find someone to tell together.”

“No one— no one’s hurting me, all right? I just didn’t get out of the way fast enough during a Rogue attack. I didn’t want to worry you, that’s all. No one’s abusing me, okay?”

“But you’d tell me if they were?”

“I tell you everything important.”

It’s not enough, not nearly for you. From the look in his eyes Jason knows this too, but its all he’s willing to give. There’s a crossroads in your relationship here, a road where you push and push until you get the full story but shatter the tattered strands of your friendship or you accept that you’ll never have all of Jason but maybe your friendship will survive. So you do what needs to be done.

“Okay. If you say that’s what happened then I trust you.”

It’s a low blow, to twist your trust in him like a knife, but it’s your only way to express your frustration with him. You gesture to the envelope, fishing around to change the subject.

“So you going to open that or what?”

And just like that, there’s a new normal. You see Jason everyday in class but he begs off your after school hangouts as often as you two actually spend time together. Conversation is stilted, hidden undercurrents to them of subjects neither one of you wants to address. You’re wary, suspicious of every bump and bruise Jason shows up with. The ease to your friendship has gone, disappeared to the realm of the past.

At the end of October, Jason becomes obsessed with the news. Keeps checking headlines and obituaries, fearful like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. The death of Felipe Garzonas makes the news and the tension in Jason ratchets up. He’s irritable, stops paying attention in classes, blows up when you try to feel out what’s wrong. He’s apologetic every time, promises it won’t happen again until you eventually stop trying to ask questions. Hope that your presence is enough to steady him through whatever it is that is tormenting him.

He asks you once, if you’d believe in his word, no matter what the evidence of something told you otherwise. You tell him you would, always, but that answer doesn’t seem to make a difference.

Winter break comes and goes, without an invitation to visit this time. If anything, Jason comes back more irritable and closed lipped. Mutters something about a fight over Christmas dinner, his brother and Bruce clashing over something. You’re worried about him all the time now. He’s more reckless with himself, won’t look before crossing the road, reacts aggressively to every perceived challenge, throws things when he gets frustrated. He’s changing into someone you don’t recognize in front of your eyes.

April comes and there’s a new light in his eyes. It’s manic and hopeful and the first emotion you’ve seen in him other than fear in months. He won’t tell you what it is, just that there’s something new he’s found out, something about his mother. This time you hope, fingers crossed and a wish on every star that whatever has brought him this hope won’t hurt him.

On Monday, Jason doesn’t come to school. He doesn’t answer your messages or pick up any of your calls. Even when he’s been out sick he at least lets you know. On Tuesday you get called into the office in the middle of first period. You haven’t been back to the secretary’s office since the day you enrolled. The seats are still as overstuffed as you remember. The secretary is the same, a few more grey streaks in her perfectly set hair. Her eyes are red, and she’s got one of those old fashioned handkerchiefs in her hands.

“I’ve got some bad news honey, and I— I think it would be best if you sit down for it.”

“Oh— will this take long? Only I got pulled out of class and we’re reviewing for the exam next week.”

“Oh honey.” She has to pause to dab at her eyes before continuing. “You’re going to be excused from all exams next week, okay? I need you to know that the school will do whatever we can to support you through this.”

Now, now you are scared. “Support me through what? It’s not my mom is it?”

“Honey it’s Jason, Jason Todd. I’m so sorry but he passed away yesterday. I’ve contacted your parents and your mother is on the way to come pick you up.”

Her words don’t make any sense.

“But he can’t be. I saw him on Saturday. There’s been a mistake. He’s not dead.” Your legs don’t work anymore and you hit the couch, hard, sliding off the overstuffed pillows to kneel on the floor. You don’t feel any of it. There’s copper in your mouth, you must have bitten your tongue on the way down but you can’t feel it. There’s movement in your peripheries, and your mother crouches down into your field of vision.

“Mom, mom they made a mistake. She’s— she’s saying that Jason’s dead, but he can’t be. Mom he’s not dead.”

“Sweet pea, I’m so, so sorry. It’s been on the news all morning.”

It rips through you then, grief. Sobs shake your whole body, your mother doing her best to hold you together. There’s a roaring in your ears like you’re caught in a vacuum. You can’t see through the tears. Your body is trembling violently and you can’t care enough to try and stop it. Nothing matters anymore. Jason’s dead.

To get to the car, your mother has to half carry you. There’s no point in moving. You’re not sure how you end up in your bed at home but you do. You don’t sleep but you aren’t really awake either. The tears don’t stop coming. You’re nothing but an open wound, not even really a whole person. The world’s burned down to ash and you’re just floating through it. You know your parents come in to talk to you, can hear the murmur of their voices but you don’t care. There’s food put in front of you but it holds no interest to you. You might have had sips of water, maybe some broth but you don’t remember and you don’t care. The only thing you really register is Haley, nestling up to you and making biscuits with his paws in your blankets.

Jason’s funeral is on Friday and you can’t get out of bed to go. Jason’s not in that coffin, not really. He won’t be there and so you won’t be. Jason’s never coming home. Jason’s dead, Jason’s dead, Jason’s dead plays on a loop. You never got to tell him. He died without knowing you loved him. His death has ripped you open like nothing ever has before, regret a constant salt in the wound. He never told you that he was thinking of leaving, of going anywhere. It feels wrong at this point, to interrupt his family in their grief, another stranger claiming to have known their son. After all, how well did you really know him if you didn’t even know he was going to leave?

Grief swallows you whole, but over time you learn to live with it. Days blur together. The tears dry up but the not caring doesn’t. Inside of your head is a wall, separating you from the reality of a world without Jason. You’re wrapped in wool and safe behind glass, unable to care about anything. It’s easier that way.

The school passes you for the year, citing personal tragedy, and you don’t care. Summer comes and the only difference is that your mother comes in and throws your windows open every morning. It’s Jason’s birthday soon, too soon. He’ll never be sixteen but you will be. He’ll never have his Words come in. He’ll never get the chance to do all the things he talked about, make Gotham a better place, travel the world. But you can.

It makes no sense to live for a dead boy but it’s all you’ve got. So you do what you have to do. It gets you to leave your bed for the first time in months. To start eating again, even if there’s no taste to the food in your mouth. To shower and take care of yourself for the first time in ages. Your room is clean for the first time in months and the first thing you do is take down your photograph from the 8th grade formal and put it away in a desk drawer.

By September, you have gathered yourself enough to return to school despite the worried looks of your family. It is hard, the hardest thing you have ever done but you do it for the boy that will never graduate high school. You sit by yourself at your desk, you eat lunch by yourself, you go straight home after class without any detours. The school play this year is Romeo and Juliet. You take home the sign up flyer and consider it, hard. In the end you decide to leave it. Jason may have always wanted to try out for the play but you won’t survive torturing yourself with this. On opening night you tell your parents you’re going to see it and get drunk on the gymnasium roof.

You make it through your last two years of high school a ghost. Administration tries to pressure you into meeting with a therapist but you refuse. You don’t want to experience your grief at all. Numbness is the only way you are going to survive this, your new reality. You do take them up on their suggestion of volunteering. Working with the Martha Wayne Foundation for Underprivileged Children gives you a sense of purpose. Of helping other Crime Alley kids without the benefit of nepotism to get them into places like Gotham Academy. It stokes the first emotion in you other than numbness, and that’s rage for all the ways in which these kids have been failed.

You accept a full scholarship to Gotham University. Your parents couldn’t be more proud of your achievement but you can barely muster the energy to smile. Keep up the volunteer work while rushing through your degree in two years instead of four. With nothing else to drive you, you’ve got nothing but time for school. The Martha Wayne Foundation offers you a position in fundraising, and you accept. It’s not what you envisioned for yourself, but it’s a path forward with purpose.

You move out, into your own apartment in an area that’s probably too dangerous for a girl of your age but you can’t stand to be at home anymore. The job consumes your life and you are grateful for it. It’s important work, even if some of the policy meetings on accepting donations from the Red Hood make you want to fall asleep. You make use of your Gotham Prep connections, rubbing elbows with the rich for just as long as it takes to pry open their wallets. It’s ridiculous but the higher ups trot you out to entertain at fundraising events, a pretty young face to pull in more donors. Occasionally you see Bruce, or Dick, or the newest ward Tim at functions, always across the room before you quickly excuse yourself. The numbness carries you through your life but there are limits to it and you’re not eager to test them.

Even five years later, you can’t go back to the park. You’ve never had another chili dog, though you’ll hire the vendor to cater community events. You’ve worked your way back into the public library, but still avoid the alcove on the second floor in the encyclopedia section. There’s a handful of arcade tokens in a plastic bag in your apartment still unused. Batburger is still your favourite, but you still can’t set foot in the location nearest to the Academy.

You keep yourself so busy that when your Words come in, “I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t know…”, you barely give it a thought, just pulling the cuff of your shirt lower to cover your wrist. Carry on with the rest of your morning routine and head into the office. From that point on, your sleeves are always long and your gala outfits gain elbow length opera gloves. You never bother trying to read the rest of it. It doesn’t matter anymore.

It’s a cold February morning. The bus broke down two stops from the office and now you have to walk the rest of the way in the snow. Standing at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change, you pass the time by scanning the headlines on the nearest newsstand. “Lost Wayne son found alive” screams out at you, tearing into your heart bloody. You lose grip of your work bag, but manage not to lose your mind in the street. Picking your bag up out of the slush, you run into the nearest bodega bathroom and lock the door with trembling hands. Shove a fist into your mouth and scream as the tears pour down your face. You’re shaking, worse than you were all those years ago. Snot blocks your nose and you have to stop screaming to breathe. So you do what needs to be done. Fumbling with your coat pocket, you pull out your phone and call the office, call out sick. It’s the only time you’ve done it in all the time your supervisor has known you but the tremor in your voice and frequent sniffles must alarm her enough.

In a fog, you somehow make it from the bodega bathroom to the front gate of Wayne manor. It doesn’t look like it’s changed at all since your last visit over five years ago, except for the heaving mass of press. You circle round the property and enter through the bushes, the way Jason showed you years ago on a tour of the property. You slip on the snow, fall to your knees but get back up. This is the only thing that matters now. The back door has an elaborate knocker that takes both of your hands to lift. It takes what feels like ages for someone to answer the door. It’s poor Mr. Pennyworth, looking more ruffled than you’ve ever seen him. You’re indescribably rude to the poor man, pushing right past him and into the building. Only one thing matters now and your vision has narrowed out anything outside of achieving your goal.

There’s voices coming from somewhere inside, up the stairs and in the direction of the library. A hand, probably Mr. Pennyworth’s, tries to grab at your wrist but you’re too quick for that. You’re running now, clutching at the bannister as though it will pull you up the stairs faster. A shout from behind and the tone of the voices change, a door slamming in the distance. Finally, finally you reach the library but a body tries to come between you, stopping you in your tracks. Years of grief, anger, and battered hope come roaring through you at the thought of being denied seeing Jason, alive after all this time.

Your voice when it leaves you is dangerously low. “Dick, I presume? You don’t know me, and I’ve heard very little about you from Jason and what I did hear I didn’t like. I’m going to make this simple.” The door behind him cracks open, but you soldier on anyway. “Jason Todd was my best friend and first love.” The body stiffens, but that doesn’t matter in this moment. “You are going to step aside and-” anything else doesn’t matter because a door is thrown open and there is Jason.

Eyes wild, a good deal older and more scarred than before, but he’s alive. And then nothing else matters but the feel of his arms warm around you, the imprint of his jacket on your face, the smell of him largely unchanged. He’s alive and he’s real and you can touch him. You draw back to look at him, drink in the sharpened angle of his jaw, the blue-green of his eyes, the white streak in his hair. He’s grown taller and broader than he had over that wretched summer so many years ago. What catches your eye is the writing at the hollow of his throat, a stark black spreading across his collarbones exposed by the v of his t-shirt. Jason Todd was my best friend and first love, it reads.

“I’m so sorry sweetheart, I didn’t know you felt the same.” He says and your wrist starts to burn.

#jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd x fem!reader #red hood x you #red hood x reader #jason todd fic #jason todd imagine #jason todd #soulmate au #tw grief #sunnie writes 🌻

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lets-try-some-writing · 1 year ago

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imagine raf loosing a tooth on base

Oh boy. This is how I see that going down.

Ratchet: He would lose his scrap. He would immediately start frantically trying to call June and try to put the tooth back in because humans aren't supposed to loSE THE MOUTH BONES THOSE CAN'T BE REPLACED-!

Bulkhead: He would similarly panic and promptly attempt to preserve the tooth on Ratchet's orders. Human appendages can be put back on if the part in question is taken care of. The poor mech would struggle to not fumble something in his haste.

Arcee: She would try her best to help Ratchet with her smaller digits. She wouldn't panic too terribly, but she would indeed be VERY concerned. The mouth bones breaking out is a sign of something likely going very wrong in the body.

Bumblebee: He would panic but try really hard to hide it and play moral support, probably coming up with less than supportive comments along the lines of:

"If the worst comes to worst, we can make you metal mouth bones."

"If the mouth bones are important in your society, you can always wear a mask like me! We can be twins!"

"Don't worry! I am sure nothing is wrong probably! I've never seen a bone come out of someone on its own like that, but Ratchet's the best doctor we have! He can... probably fix it!"

Smokescreen: He would try to be helpful but ultimately be resigned to kid sitting duty while the rest of the team hurry to fix things. He would give similarly bad reassurance to Miko and Jack while the duo try in vain to explain.

Ultra Magnus: He would immediately begin writing a casualty report and an apology letter for Rafael's family. Losing bones in an organic creature probably means the creature in question is going to die. He would jump the gun and get the funeral rites prepared beforehand.

Optimus: He would play damage control and try to keep everyone calm to little avail. He might also begin to figure out that things are fine, but likely would end up a tad overwhelmed with Ratchet losing it.

When June eventually turns up to explain, the team are going to have to stand around like fools. Losing the mouth bones does not indicate death in young humans. It is merely a strange molt that the squishes go through as their frames change into their adult forms.

Ratchet will never stop being haunted.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #team prime #optimus prime #ratchet #bumblebee #bulkhead #arcee #smokescreen #ultra magnus #tfp kids #rafael esquivel #cybertronian culture #the mouth bones are scary

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kaliforniahigh · 2 months ago

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I built a home, for you, for me - n.s.

Four times you and Noah experienced firsts with your little family. This is part of the Exhusband!Noah and Exwife!Reader universe. This one is set before their divorce!

Warnings: this is pure fluff, but poor Ezra looses a tooth.

WC: 1.9k words. (not proofread, so sorry for any mistakes!)

Exhusband!Noah and Exwife!Reader masterlist.

The first kick.

The first time it happened, it was so soft and it passed so quicly that you didn't even register that your baby had just started kicking. Your body was going through so many changes during pregnancy, that you had a hard time distinguishing one thing from the other.

You had just surpassed your 20th week of pregnancy, and soon, you and Noah would find out the gender of the baby on the next ultrasound. You were still debating whether you wanted to know right then and there, or, if you wanted a simple gender reveal later.

Regardless of that, Noah was already calling your little baby his "baby boy", and his "little guy". Sometimes, you teased him about it, telling him there was no way he could know the baby is a boy. Other times, you found his conviction so cute, that you didn't have the heart to tell him otherwise.

You knew he'd be the perfect dad whether you were having a girl, or a boy.

Right now, he was doing one of his - and your - favorite things. Talking to your belly.

This has become routine by now. First, he'd look up something to compare the baby size to. Then, he'd lay his head on your thighs, and tell the baby all about what he found and how the day has been.

"So", he starts, voice quiet and using his index finger to trace slow patterns on your growing belly. "Right now, you're about the size of a mango", he uses his other hand to show the approximate size of a mango. You laugh, because who is he showing it to?

"Your mom is so brave, because I could never imagine having something the size of a mango inside of me. And soon, you'll be the size of a pumpkin. Imagine that!", he quietly exclaims, and you divert you eyes from whatever you were watching on the television, eyes fixed on him. Your heart always grew twice it's size when you watched him like this.

He's been so caring and loving ever since you found out about the pregnancy. He was adamant in doing his research, buying books to understand the development of babies, and even making you eat things you downright found disgusting because "you needed your nutrients now more than ever".

"Soon, we'll find out if you're a boy or a girl. And even though I know you're a little boy, I guess we have to go and confirm it anyways", he stole a look at you from under his eyelashes, and you're staring at him with amusement your eyes. "I'm so excited though, because then, we'll start planning your nursery. I can't wait to look at furniture for hours until your mom decides which crib she wants to buy"

You were gonna quip back with an anwer about how it was probably gonna take weeks for Noah to decide what color he wants to paint the room, when you felt - and saw - a quick right over your belly button.

You sat up a little straighter, and Noah lifted his head from your lap, you both looking at each other with complete shock on your faces.

"Did he just....?", Noah started, and you nodded yes.

"Our baby just kicked", you confirmed.

"Here, lay down", he adjusted your pillows for you, and you laid down comfortably on the bed. "Let's stay quiet and see if he does it again".

For a couple of minutes, you both stay there, staring expectantly at you belly to see if it happens again. But, so far, you had no luck.

"Maybe they like to hear your voice?", you murmur.

And then, Noah quietly starts to whisper a melody to a song, and lo and behold, a few seconds later, you felt another kick. This time, it landed right on the right side of your belly, right where Noah was sitting beside you.

"Oh my God", he gasps in surprise, and before you can even say anything, he rests his head right on top of your belly, and you can see he has tears pooling in his eyes, emotional from the fact that your baby reacted to hearing his voice. You start to run your fingers through his hair, as you both just soak in the moment.

"I guess you'll be the one to sing them to sleep, huh?", you tease and he smiles.

"Thank you for this. Thank you for everything", he says, intertwining his hands with yours. You don't have to say anything, the weight of the moment speakig for itself.

2. The first word.

You and Noah always made sure to make bath time an enjoyable time for little Ezra. The little bathtub always displayed an array of rubber toys for him to play with. And, most often than not, when he'd get a little too excited, it ended up with both you and Noah soaked in water.

You didn't mind, though, because his little giggles while he played with the water and the toys, made every hardship disappear from your mind.

"You're a menace", you tell Noah, as he styles Ezra's hair in a little mowhak. The strands of dark hair - much like his father's - all soapy from the baby shampoo Noah was rubbing in his sensitive scalp.

"He's enjoying it. Look", Noah points at Ezra's toothless grin as he stares up at the two of you. You saw his father's eyes whenever you looked into them, and you wonder if this kid is gonna take after you in anything.

"He's clueless", you point out.

"Yeah, but he's daddy's favorite, isn't that right, little Ezra?", he says in a baby voice. "Tell mama you're daddy's favorite"

"Da!", Ezra suddenly blurts out, pointing hiss little and chubby finger at Noah, but looking and smiling at you.

Your eyes go wide in surprise and you instantly look at Noah to gauge his reaction, which is not much different from yours.

As soon as the moment comes, it passes, when Ezra starts to splash some water around, clearly already distracted with something else and none the wiser of what he just did.

"Noah, he called you dad", you walk up to him, engulfing him in a embrace, feeling emotional yourself.

"I can't believe he just called me dad", he murmurs into your shoulder. "It's like he could even understand what I said".

He's right, and you're a little in disbelief of how smart your little baby looked already.

"You've been talking to him from the moment he was in my belly. It wouldn't surprise me if he could actually understand you"

"Do you think I can get him to say it again?", he asks, hopeful, already turning back towards the bathtub and resuming his "conversation" with the baby.

3. The first steps.

By this point, you already knew that when you have a baby, milestones could happen at literally any minute, during a random day, and when you least expect it.

Ezra has been practicing standing up for a while now, and you and Noah always encouraged the little baby with toys, his bottle, or you'd just sit there on the floor, with arms wide open, trying to get him to understand the concept of hugging.

So far, you've had no success in your journey of getting to walk. You didn't worry much, though, since you knew it was gonna happen eventually. It's just that every time he stood up on his chubby little legs, both you and Noah would hold your breaths in anticipation, only for him to plop down on his bum once again.

This evening, he was playing on his little playmat set in the living room, while Noah was sitting on the couch working on some music on his computer. You took the time to gather some of the toys not being used that were sprawled all over the floor, and put them away in the storage bins you bought whe Ezra started to gather one too many toys.

You were holding the baby giraffe in your hands, and right when you about to drop it inside the bin, you heard a sound of complaint from Ezra.

You and Noah looked at him, as he stood up and pointed at you, complaining once again. It took you a while to realize that he was pointing to the toy.

Crouching down on the floor, you held the giraffe in front of you. "You want the toy?", you asked the baby, and Ezra smiled, telling you that it was exactly what he wanted.

All of a sudden, his right foot steps forward, and you start wiggling the toy with much more conviction now.

"Noah, are you seeing this?", you say, in exasperation and excitement.

"Yes, I am", he answers, throwing his computer to the side. "Go get you toy! C'mon buddy, go get it", he encourages, and then his left foot steps forward. Before Ezra can do anything else, he loses balance and falls on his bum, resuming his previous position on the floor.

Elated with happiness, you and Noah get up, as you cheer on the baby who had just taken his first couple of steps.

"You did so well, my little guy", you say, handing him the giraffe.

"I forgot to record", Noah says, a little disapponted.

"It's ok, I have a feeling that soon, we won't be able to stop him"

4. The first lost tooth.

"Mom!", Ezra yells, as he comes bounding inside the house. "Look at this!", he sets his backpack on the kitchen island, looking through it for something. Noah had been called in to pick him up earlier from school. Apparently, he had fallen and hit his head on the floor.

Noah comes in a few seconds after him, and you give him a questioning look. You were worried about your child's wellbeing, and here he was, running in the house as if nothing had happened. Noah just shakes his head with a smile.

"Just let the kid show it to you", he tells you, standing beside you, looping an arm around your waist.

Ezra pulls out a bunch of papers that formed a little ball. Your frown only deepends as he starts to pull the thing apart.

"I wrapped in a lot of paper because I was scared I'd lose it", you looked at Noah and just snorted in amusement. "Look!", he exclaims, and you have a hard time seeing what he's holding up. But when you do, you notice that it's a tooh. It's so small, it can barely fit in between his fingers.

"What?", you ask, genuine confusion laced in your voice.

Ezra grins at you and you can finally see the little gap where one of his front tooth used to be.

"He fell and hit his mouth, and one of his teeth fell off", Noah explains.

"Oh my God. Noah, he's too young to be losing teeth. He's barely five!", you exclaim, clearly concerned. "Does it hurt? Where did you hit your mouth?", you turn to Ezra as you grab his face in your hands, examining his mouth and the remaining set of teeth.

"I cried a little, but then Clarice told me I'd be getting money from the tooh fairy, and then I wasn't crying anymore", Ezra explained, and you just shook your head.

"You can put your tooth under the pillow tonight. Keep it safe, ok?", you tell him. "Now go get changed".

He wraps his tooth in the papers again, gathers his backpack and makes his way to his room.

"We're gonna have to take him to the dentist", you tell Noah, and he just nods in agreement.

"This kid in unbelivable. Stopped crying because he'd be getting money from the tooth fairy", Noah pointed out and you both laughed at the smart ass reaction from your son.

Tag List: @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @mysterygirl-srl @lacy1986 @dream-machine-love @theanarchymuse95 @missduffsblog @xmads-omensx @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @chey-h @pipidoll @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @kissestomyomens @hedonist-k1l @xxkatsatwatwafflexx @daemontargaryenwife @h0riz0nsiren @astronoids @flowery-mess @renegadebirch @ashlynnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn @jesuisunchaton @carrieontillmay

#bad omens #noah sebastian #bad omens imagine #noah sebastian imagine #bad omens fluff #bad omens fic #noah sebastian fluff #noah sebastian fic #exhusband!noah #exwife!reader #noah thoughts #Seashell 4 8B8682

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sourrpatched · 9 months ago

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༒ ︎p.js LOVE BITES ︎

Pairing > Vampire!Park Jisung x Fem!Reader

Genre > Comedy, Brother’s Bestfriend (y/n is related to Chenle), fluff, sort of angst (not that bad), loosely based in the late 90s

Sypnosis > After surviving the brink of death, Park Jisung must navigate his new life as a Vampire, and what that means for the one sided love he’s had on his best friend’s sister for his entire life. Oh, and there’s also an army of freshly turned Vampires trying to wipe out the entire cities population, leaving Jisung and his group of friends to try and put a stop to them.

Warnings > Blood (obviously), Cult references (like twice maybe?), Cursing, I think that’s it?

Word Count > 18k (DAMN!)

A/N > I had way too much fun writing in stupid jokes so pls don’t take this so seriously 😭 it’s just a silly story I hope you all enjoy <3

playlist > Love Bites- Def Leppard, Tear You Apart- She Wants Revenge, You slept on me- Allie X

Melody, October 13

Jisung couldn’t remember what happened that ended with him in the hospital, but right now that was the least of his worries. He was sure he had heard from one of the nurses that he had at least one rib broken and his arm hurt like a bitch so it was probably fractured or something, but what he was most worried about was if his walkman was okay.

It was a gift from Chenle last week and if he broke it he was very sure Chenle would find a new bone to break in his body. He had just bitched at him for breaking the Tamagotchi he was babysitting while you were out of town, if he found out now that the walkman was broken, it would be over for Jisung. He let out a breath then winced at the pain the simple action had caused him.

Yeah, how the hell was he going to get out of this one.

It was two in the morning when Jisung had woken up from what was supposed to be his afternoon nap. The room was pitch black and the house stayed empty and silent, he turned on the lamp grimacing at the movement.

His shoulder felt like it’d been ran over by a train and he was sure it was due to the living room couch he had fallen asleep on. He had been telling his mom for the past year that the couch was better off six feet under, she held too much sentimental value towards it so it remained. He massaged his shoulder and reached for the remote that lay on the floor.

A quick scroll through the channels landed on the movie Jaws. He had been meaning to watch it ever since his boss had suggested it for a late night date with a girl. Not that he had a girl to watch it with of course, he was only trying to expand his tastes. It had nothing to do with the fact that Chenle had once mentioned that you were a fan of sharped tooth enemies.

The movie was still in the beginning from what he could tell since there was no shark in sight. It was when the young lady was dragged under the water that the movie was disrupted by the sound of his stomach growling. He forgot that he had eaten sleep for lunch.

The movie continued as he began searching the fridge for anything he could eat. An almost half empty jug of milk and lime flavored jell-o stared back at him. He sighed turning his gaze back to where the movie played. His eyes zooming in on the coffee table in front of the TV, where remnants of the last pack of cherry flavored jell-o remained.

His parents had left for some weird family thing he had no interest in pertaining to, and for that reason he was left to deal with the consequences. His stomach roared in hunger, he contemplated looking through the cabinets and finding something else to eat instead, but then he’d have to worry less about death by starvation and instead death by house fire.

He dug his hand into his pocket finding his wallet with three dollars to spare and a crushed mint. The mint would do nothing to fix his need for food, so the dollars would have to suffice.

If there was one thing Jisung was thankful for, it was to the employees who worked overnight shifts and Janice. She was the convenience store worker who would keep this seven eleven running on weekends during the deep hours of the night.

She had all the patience in the world which was perfect for the definition of indecisiveness himself, Park Jisung who was currently in the middle of a debate between spicy pork and spicy chicken ramen noodles for his late dinner.

He was standing for a good five minutes before his appetite began to beg, very loudly, for mercy. He grabbed a bag of shin ramen instead, grabbing a coke from out of the fridge and heading straight to the counter.

“Has it been slow?” Jisung’s voice wrung silent to Janice’s ears as she scanned the items on the table.

He figured she must’ve not heard him and cleared his throat. “I appreciate you for working so late at night, people like me tend to skip meals and it’s pretty convenient to have a store like this open at this time.”

She began to place his items into a bag. “That must be why they call it the convenience store.” He let out a humorless laugh.

“Your total is two fifty.” Janice replies flatly.

He hands her the last of his three dollars, grabbing the bag from the counter. “Keep the change.” He walks away overlooking the scowl on her face.

As he walks out of the seven eleven and makes his way through the alley straight to his house, there’s a whistle that stops him in his tracks. He pauses for a moment, trying to make out whether or not the sound was further or closer to him.

Where the hell is this coming from?

He continues walking this time much more careful than before, his friends would probably mock him for being such a scaredy cat but he couldn’t help the ominous feeling he got in his gut.

He jumps when the power suddenly goes out, only making the alleyway appear much more obscure than before. His body tenses, whispering to himself,

Please don’t be a ghost.

He hears a crash, taking that as his cue to run off down the rest of the way. His breathes grow heavier as he sprints down the alley, hearing footsteps follow behind him.

His eyes shut in fear, which is something that Renjun would probably tell him is in the book of 101 horror stupidity, but right now he couldn’t give less of a fuck. It feels like an eternity once he makes it out of there, he sighs in relief but only for a moment. He can feel eyes on him.

“Fuck Fuck Fuck.” He whispers again, turning his body to look at the source of the footsteps. Yeah, definitely 101 horror stupidity.

He peeks his eye open staring into, nothing. There’s nothing but the dark alleyway that faces him, he feels himself relax. It’s still very dark, he’s guessing most of the city’s lights went out too instead of just the power from in the alley. His friends were definitely going to laugh at him when he told him about this later.

He turns around, ready to make his way back on route. The bag of ramen had fallen to the floor at some point during his chase so he leans down to grab it from off the ground. A weird smell reaches his nostrils, pulling a scowl from his face.

The moment he looks up his heart sinks. It’s only for a split second that he sees the face, no, a mask of a person right in front of him. The person grabs onto him with immense strength and throws him into the wall.

Jisung lets a cry out in pain, using his arms to protect his head from injury, it’s a tip he’d learned in nature documentaries when bear attacks happened. The person began climbing onto him its nails sharp, piercing onto his arms. He lets out a yelp, trying to push them away but they won’t budge.

Since his hands are no use, he gathers all of his strength to kick them away, it works. The figure falls to the ground and stumbles for a second before regaining their position. It’s when he looks it in the eye that he realizes this isn’t a person. The way the creature moved was so inhumane, it had Jisung wondering if this was all just a dream.

He’s very quickly reminded that it isn’t, the creature climbs over him digging its nails into the flesh of his abdomen. He screams, feeling the warm blood begin to pool outside of his body when a hand goes to his mouth and forces him silent. The thing looks into his eyes and gives a wicked smile, digging itself into his neck.

Jisung feels a sharp pain almost like puncture wound, his body feels as if it was set on fire. A tear rolls down his cheek, his eyes closing from the pain.

This is it. I’m going to die.

He thinks to himself as his life flashes before his eyes. He thinks of his friends and how they’ll never get to play the next rumored Mortal Kombat, he thinks of his parents and how he wishes he went with them to go visit his aunt because then he wouldn’t be in this situation, but most importantly he thinks of you.

Your smile that always gave him butterflies, your laugh that he couldn’t help but reciprocate, and his feelings he’s had for you since the day Chenle invited him over and he ran into a six year old you who had gotten into your moms makeup.

He feels a content warmth all of a sudden, his body falling unconscious. His eyes slip closed, he’s too far out of it to notice the way the creature had left at the sound of someone yelling from the distance. The last thing he hears is the sound of a voice, before finally succumbing to sleep.

It’s been a week since Jisung was discharged from the hospital, his injuries somehow healing about ten times faster than expected. And although he wasn’t going to complain that he was finally back home, he couldn’t help but wonder how it is that none of his doctors seemed interested in the slightest in his abnormal recovery process.

These past days he found himself glued to the couch. His parents had called to check in on him about three days ago, he didn’t mention the whole almost dying thing. The last thing he wanted was his mom freaking out and driving recklessly to get back home.

He didn’t want any company right now. That’s exactly why he’d been ghost in his group chat and hadn’t shown up to work for the past few days. He was sure he would’ve been fired if his boss was anyone other than Renjun, but luckily the elder had a soft spot for him.

His job and social life weren’t the issue right now, the issue was that he was starving once again, or more like he never stopped. His stomach felt like it was going to burst for the past week, and every meal he’d tried to make would only end up in chunks down the toilet.

Now Jisung was no Gordon and he knew that, but you’d think eggs were digestible enough that it wouldn’t come back out of his throat. He was wrong. He hadn’t ate for the past days and he knew if he even had the energy to stand up and stare at the mirror he’d only see a ghostly version of himself.

His head begins pounding, his body used to the headaches and shivers he gets whenever the thought of hunger crosses his mind. He pulls his blanket closer to him, hoping this feeling won’t last longer than five minutes.

The sound of footsteps creep up, Jisung’s ear twitching at the sound before a loud banging noise comes from his door. He sighs, standing up with more effort than usual and opens the door.

Chenle shoves past him towards the couch, “You little fucker, we were supposed to go to the arcade three days ago and you didn’t even show up. Then when me and Xiaojun asked Renjun if he had seen you he says you’ve been absent from work for over a week now?”

Jisung stands there waiting for Chenle to finish his rant. It was no use trying to explain, not now anyway. His best friend was stubborn and wouldn’t listen to anything until he was done talking. He zones out but only for a second, smelling a very pungent iron smell from Chenle, he feels his throat close up gagging on instinct.

“Did you just fucking gag at me? Park Jisung I will end you,” He cuts himself off finally taking in the appearance of the man in front of him. “The fuck happened to you?”

After a very brief explanation, Chenle sits on the couch way too comfortably for Jisung’s liking. He wasn’t a fan of feet up on his couch. “So you’re saying you literally died and didn’t tell us a thing? Wow, wait til Renjun hears about this.”

“He won’t ask so there’s no point in saying anything, besides I’m okay now.” The lie feels funny coming out of his mouth, and with the way he’s known Chenle for over ten years, he knows Chenle can tell he’s lying.

“Are you an idiot or do you just take me for one? You’re obviously not okay Jisung, look at you.” He stands up heading towards the cabinets searching for the one filled with over the counter medicine.

“It’s not going to work, i’ve been taking all types of medication for the past days and nothing works.”

Chenle being the stubborn fucker he is, only gives up on his search once he realizes there are no more pill bottles in the cabinets.

“Well have you ate?”

Jisung’s stomach curls at the thought, the feeling of stomach acid rising up his throat. “I have, I just keep throwing everything up.”

“Well did you cook it?” Jisung nods his head, “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“I tried take out too, no point.”

“Well then you have to go to the doctor, i’m not sure how you’ve even survived this long without eating.”

“Sleep.”

“Yeah of course that’s how.” He rolls his eyes finding his way back to the couch. Silence fills the room which was an important moment that shouldn’t be taken for granted given Chenle was a talker.

A minute passes until Chenle’s eyes light up. Jisung feels a headache coming on, knowing the next words out of his friend’s mouth was either going to be stupid or annoying. “The sun is good for you, my mom always told me that It helps your mood when you’re sick.”

“Bullshit, you never go out.” Just as Chenle could read Jisung’s lies, it worked vice versa.

“Okay fine you got me there. I just thought maybe i’d surprise you with a special person who wants me to pick her up from the airport,” He looks to his watch, “soon.”

Jisung’s heart fluttered at the thought, there was no way .You weren’t supposed to be returning until Christmas break. “You’re lying.”

He shrugs standing up and walking towards the door, “Then don’t come, but if y/n asks i’m going to tell her that you didn’t care to tag along.”

If there’s one thing Zhong Chenle loved to do, it was lie. He’d argue it was only exaggerating the truth but Jisung knew better than that. That’s why now he finds himself pausing for a moment and falling into a trap.

You were Chenle’s little sister and Jisung was best friends with Chenle. That’s how it started at least until Chenle had became a closer friend and you slowly integrated into their friendship.

Somewhere along the line, Jisung thought of you as someone more than just Chenle’s little sister, more than just a close friend, and more than just puppy love. He’d never had the chance to do anything about it, you had moved away to study abroad a year and a half ago.

If he were being honest with himself, he wouldn’t have been able to confess anyway. The thought that you might not feel the same way was enough to scare him into silence. He’d admire you from afar if it meant you’d still be in his life.

Chenle doesn’t know but he also doesn’t not know about how he feels, and that’s why his stupid lie is enough to convince Jisung to get up off of his ass and go with him to pick you up.

“Fine, i’ll go.” Chenle smirks at him opening the door. “Don’t make that face it’s weird.”

His friend’s dolphin like laugh pierces his ears. “So cute.”

Jisung felt like his entire body was going to explode, not figuratively speaking but literally. Only this wasn’t because of some weird food combination Xiaojun stuffed down his throat during a hot pot, no this was serious. The sun was shinning way too bright, everything was way too loud, and he still couldn’t help the weird intense smell of iron, this time coming from everyone.

Chenle asked if he had been drinking, that it seemed like he had a hangover, to which he replied he wished it was. A hangover felt like paradise in comparison to the overwhelming pain Jisung was trying so hard to hide. He didn’t want to be a buzz kill and make you feel uncomfortable by his presence.

He felt bad enough that Chenle had mentioned to you that he went MIA and that’s part of the reason you booked a flight back home sooner. You were planning on visiting anyway, but still, he felt guilty knowing he caused you distress.

“She should be coming out soon,” Chenle says waiting by the luggage carrier, he glances over at Jisung. “Calm down already, you’re making me anxious.”

Jisung frowns, “I told you this wasn’t going to work, if anything I feel worse than before.”

Chenle shrugs, “Let’s see how long that lasts.” Before Jisung can respond the sound of a yell shakes him to his core, not particularly because of how loud it was, but because he could recognize that squeal from anywhere. He’s sure he’s memorized just about everything about you.

You run towards your brother jumping into his arms, Chenle feigning disgust but carrying you anyway. “Gross, get off of me you animal.”

You hop back onto the floor, slapping his arm playfully. “You are still just as bitchy as before. I’m telling mom that you called me that by the way.”

“Go for it, she’d agree with me anyway.”

“So full of yourself no wonder your head just gets bigger everytime I see you.” you gesture an explosion with your hands.

Jisung lets a laugh slip out, Chenle and you finding his eyes in the next second. You run over to Jisung in a millisecond, clinging to him like a bear. He smiles to himself wrapping his own arms against you tighter only letting go of you once he notices the questioning look Chenle gives him.

“Where have you been? Lele told me you went ghost and I was like Park Jisung? What better does he have to do that he can’t answer the phone you know?” Chenle chuckles at the accidental insult, you’re too busy rambling to tell him to knock it off though. “I was worried for you! So then I was like no I have got to go back sooner and make sure he’s okay.”

Your eyebrows furrow finally processing the state of him, his clothes are sleeping clothes full of wrinkles and complimentary to his under eye bags that make it seem like the clothes were just for show.

“Jiwi? What’s wrong?” His stomach flutters at the use of his old nickname. “You look so pale.” Your thumb traces his cheek. “Should we go to the doctor?”

His breath hitches at the contact. “That’s really not necessary.” He feels the nausea hit him once again this time stronger than it’s ever been along with a sudden lightheadedness making his vision go blurry.

“You’re not okay.” You step closer to him holding onto his arms. The feeling only gets worse. He smells a hint of sweetness coming from you, his stomach churns, only this time he realizes how hungry he really is.

He backs away from you, almost tripping over his own feet. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Chenle’s voice sounds muffled. It’s the last thing that he makes out before he loses consciousness.

Am I in Heaven?

Jisung thought as he opened his eyes to a bright white light. It took a minute for him to figure that he was far from there. He recognizes the hospital room pretty easily, he had just gotten out of it less than two weeks ago so it was still fresh in his brain.

He looked over to his right, seeing an empty fluid bag that was connected to a tube on his arm. He pulls the tube flinching, only to realize there wasn’t even a bit of pain from him ripping it off.

He sits up, looking around the empty hospital room stretching his arms forward and popping his fingers. It’s in that moment that there’s a subtle knock on the door revealing, a tall man wearing glasses standing. The man wears glasses, he has a white jacket on and his hand is carrying a– blood bag?

“Park Jisung, i’m glad to see you’re awake.” The man smiles.

Jisung’s face turns to one of concern, “How do you know my name?”

The man’s face mimics his own, “I’m your doctor.”

“Oh.” He replies embarrassed.

That didn’t explain what brought him here though, or where his friends had gone, or why the man had a blood bag in his hand like it was an accessory. He was going to ask another question until the man spoke again.

“My name is Kun, I’m glad you came here in time it was almost too late.”

Too late? For what? Jisung’s eyes widen, “Am I terminal?”

Kun sniggers before coughing seemingly to compose himself, “Let me explain.”

Jisung nods slowly so Kun continues, “You fainted. You may have not realized it yet, but you have completed your process and with the lack of blood running through you, your organs began to shut down. We hooked you to that blood drip earlier for the meantime, you have consumed about four pints which would explain why you’re fully conscious.”

The words feel like a game of scrabble to him, only furthering his confusion. “This should be your fifth and final bag and after that you should be free to go, but really you should make sure you’re consuming enough. I’m going to leave you with another card,”

He reaches into his front pocket and hands Jisung a small business card. “This is my friend Taeyong who should have blood supply for you, if you run out he can help you with that too.”

It’s at this point that Jisung is very lost, “I’m sorry what? Consumed? Organs failing? Blood Supply? What?”

Kun stares pitifully at him, “You weren’t aware? Jisung, you’re a full fledged Vampire.”

Jisung doesn’t think he’s ever heard such a ridiculous sentence. He can’t help the fit of laughter that escapes him. “Okay this is a prank right? They’re playing a prank on me for going all ghost, very funny Chenle you can come out now.”

Kun clears his throat, “I know it might seem strange but it’s true. You have to take this seriously, going so long without any blood ingested can end up with you–“

“I’m sorry, I just– this is insane. A vampire?” He laughs, “There’s no way.”

“You’ve been getting headaches right? Your sense of smell is heightened, you can hear better than you ever could before, you feel hunger but any food you’ve consumed wasn’t enough.”

Jisung gulps, there’s no way any of that meant anything, except it made more sense of things that weighed his mind for days. The way he could smell such a strong metal smell off of Chenle, the way he heard footsteps up the stairs before they even made it to his door, maybe this wasn’t a prank after all.

“You have to take care of yourself, Jisung. Going so long without food is deadly.” Jisung looks down at the paper in his hand. “Lee Taeyong, that’s his number. He should be able to explain more to you.”

“I don’t understand, I was normal just two weeks ago.”

Kun offers a compassionate smile, “It’s hard to make sense of it, but you will.” He offers the blood bag. “This is the last you need and then you should be fine.”

“Thank you.” He replies softly, accepting the bag and poking at it like it’s a dead bug.

“I’m only glad nothing worse happened to you, it was irresponsible of me to let you go the first time without speaking to you one on one.” He hands him a straw to poke through the bag.

“I don’t understand, have we met before?”

“You were my patient the day you were left out to die. I got caught up with other patients so I had you discharged hoping you could call the number I left behind to get answers.”

It takes Jisung five tries until he’s able to poke the straw through the blood bag. The smell hits him instantly, his fangs protracting as if he’s ready to attack. He follows his instincts telling him to drink. “What number?”

Kun nods his head towards the card. “That same one, I left it to one of the nurses to give to you once you were discharged.

Jisung pulls away from the straw covering his mouth in shock, “Oh that, I thought that was a card from those cult recruiters so I threw it out.”

The breath the elder lets out is between one of frustration and annoyance, “That’s okay, you got back here anyway.”

He takes another sip before remembering, “Oh, I came here with my friends. Did you send them off?”

“Oh yes, I believe I may have seen them heading towards the hospital cafeteria.”

Jisung nods. That seems about right for Chenle at least. “Very well, I have more patients to see. Once you’re done drinking feel free to leave.”

“Thank you again, sir.”

“Just Kun is fine,” He smiles, “I have a feeling we will definitely be seeing each other more often now.”

“Thank you, Kun.”

He lets out a shaky sigh once the room is left empty again. Never in Jisung’s life would he had ever predicted this to happen, or even that Vampires existed. It still felt like a joke but he knew better now. There was no reasonable explanation for why he had been able to survive that attack, or not survive.

Being a Vampire was still really confusing, did that mean he was dead? He’d been out in the sun today and he didn’t burn to death so that had to mean not all Vampires myths were true. Who was he kidding, he needed to reach out to whoever the fuck Kun’s friend was and fast.

He was so distracted by his own thoughts he failed to notice the door open. He looks up into your frightened eyes, he throws the blanket over himself to cover the blood hoping you didn’t notice it.

“I–“ You cut yourself off, “Was that– Were you drinking a blood pint?”

He shakes his head mumbling, “I wasn’t doing anything.”

‘Really Jisung is that the best you can come up with?’

“You literally were you still have red on your lips.” You say motioning your hand over your face.

He covers his mouth, “It’s cherry Jell-o.”

You lock the door stepping closer to him. He shifts himself so the blanket completely covers his lap where the blood pint lays. He wasn’t a good liar, especially not with you. You uncover his lap, gasping at the bag in front of you.

“Please I can explain,” He jumps up ready to explain. Your squeal cuts him off before he can speak another word.

“I knew it, they had to be real. You know I partially moved away cause I assumed Vampires would be more to the West but well was I wrong.” You face him, eyes sparkling. “I never thought they’d be hiding right under my nose.”

Jisung was lost, and not the kind of lost when he was seven and left behind at the zoo. He was the kind of lost where he felt ten pages behind the learning unit.

“Jisung.” You take a seat beside him, way too close for someone who just discovered Vampires existed. “How could you not have told me this?”

You stay quiet awaiting for his answer. “I didn’t know.”

Now you look lost so he tries to explain, “This is also a new thing, It kinda happened not too long ago. I found out just now, like two minutes ago when the doctor told me.”

“Your Doctor?” You speak slowly as if you were making sense of the words.

“He told me I could call him Kun. It turns out like two weeks ago when I got attacked I became this.” He flaps his hands up. “I’m not sure if I was supposed to share that information with anyone though.”

You’re silent for a solid minute, which is pretty good considering that when he found out he was only in denial. He takes in a breath, he would’ve taken you rejecting him over turning into a vampire if that meant you were scared of him now.

“I see, so you don’t understand any of this?”

He shakes his head, “Kun gave me this paper though, he said that this person will help me better understand and supply me with… what I need.” He trails off.

You take the paper in hand, observing the number. “So then we have to get in touch with this guy.”

“Wait– we?”

“Hello Jisung, this is not french class. Yes, we.”

“There’s only two of us though?”

You pause, standing up from the hospital bed. “Lele, you’ve got to tell him Jiwi.”

The thought hits him like a bus, there’s no way he could ever tell Chenle. Not only was he scared about what his friend would think, but also how would he feel about him being close to you. Chenle didn’t like to admit it but he was a very protective older brother, one time a guy made fun of you in the third grade and he punched the guy.

He shakes his head, “No. I can’t, that’d change so much.”

“Nothing would change, you’re still the same Jwi he grew up with, you’re his best friend.” The more Jisung thinks about it the more he realizes that losing his best friend would automatically mean losing you too. He’d rather die than let any of those things happen.

He just couldn’t take the risk, what if Chenle hated him or like stabbed him with a cross or something. He wasn’t really sure how this Vampire thing worked but still. This was too scary to even imagine so it had to be a no.

“Jisung, I know how you are. You’re worried.” You grab onto his face with both of your hands. He recognizes how weird this position looks, him looking up to you as you tower over him. “You will be okay, Lele cares about you. If you keep this from him, once he finds out he would only be more upset.”

Jisung looks to the floor, “He won’t find out.”

You poke his cheek with his thumb to grab his attention once more, “You know you can’t keep a lie.”

He lets out a heavy sigh, you’re right. He liked to think you both were the only ones who could read him like a book, but he knew better.

“Fine.”

You squeal, “Great, i’ll go grab him now.”

He holds your arm gently yet tight enough to keep you from leaving. “After I meet with this guy. I have to better understand myself before just jumping out of the closet.”

You nod in understanding, “I understand, then let’s meet up with this guy tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sounds good–“ Jisung’s voice is cut off by the banging on the door.

Your eyes go wide remembering you had locked the door, the sound of your brother’s banging making you run straight to the door to unlock and open it.

“You force me to bring everything up on my own and lock the door? Have fun sleeping with Daegal tonight.” He says, placing the food on the table.

The room goes dead silent, Jisung avoiding any eye contact with his friend. Chenle looks at both of you suspiciously, “You guys weren’t doing weird shit right?”

You choke on your own spit, “Don’t be a creep Lele, this is a public place you know.”

He doesn’t look convinced, raising his eyebrow. “Then stop acting weird, I didn’t wait in line for like fifteen minutes waiting for Salty & Sweet Diner to make your sandwich for nothing.”

You reach into the bag, pulling your own meal out. “Thanks Lele, I love you.”

“Don’t be gross.” He tosses the bag at Jisung, “Eat up, wouldn’t want you collapsing in front of everyone again, it was embarrassing.”

“Thanks,” Jisung speaks slowly, not sure if this meal would be able to go down especially given how he’d already ate, or drank, moments before.

“Why is everyone so awkward?” Chenle bursts out, earning an awkward laugh from the two of you.

After calling the number Kun left behind, it took two tries until it actually connected. The person who had answered the phone left an address for Jisung to write down, which led him and y/n to where they stood now.

The house was enormous, and this was coming from someone who spent majority of his childhood in Chenle’s two story house. It was completely white, save for the deep rich wood color on the windows and the front door. Bushes surrounded the entryway, leading up to the entrance, flowers left in a garden to the left of the house.

“Wow,” You whispered, Jisung loved the way your eyes twinkled when you were admiring something. He was sure his own eyes did the same whenever he looked at you. “This is beautiful.”

He keeps his eyes on you, “It really is.” He thinks for a moment about how nice it would be to live in a house with you like this, but he’s snapped out of the dream quickly once the front door opens.

“Jisung right?” The voice comes from a figure hiding behind the door. “You can come in.”

Jisung heads into the house, you following behind him. You grip onto his arm and he’s not sure if it’s subconsciously but he can’t help but feel shy at the touch.

“Take a seat,” You both listen, taking a seat on the couch. “Okay I’ll start by introducing myself, I am Lee Taeyong. You can call me Tyong. Jisung, you brought a human?”

“I already know,” You respond abruptly his gaze finding your own. “I found out when he did.”

“Ah I see, you guys are together then?”

Jisung’s eyes feel like they popped out of his skull, he’s quick to dismiss the question, “No. Well she’s my friend and I trust her and if you mean literally then yes, we’re together right now but–“

Your strident voice cuts him off, “He gets it Jisung.”

Taeyong looks at the both of you like he has you both figured out, but he doesn’t press any further. “Well, in that case let me explain to you what this new form means.”

Jisung nods, ready to hear what this new life intels.

“First part, I think Kun told you, but you need to make sure you are consuming enough blood. That way your organs won’t deteriorate. You should be fine with about six pints within a week, do not try and go any further than that, it’s very unsafe.”

“This is what caused him to faint before right?” Your voice rings out. He finds it awfully adorable how much you want to learn about him, even if it’s not technically just about him.

“Precisely, that’s why you should also make sure he is drinking enough. You both have my number so be sure to call whenever you may need blood, I know fledglings find it difficult to drink straight from the source.“

“By straight from the source you mean–“

Taeyong nods towards you, “Yes, humans. It’s actually safer that way, for both Human and Vampires. As a vampire you won’t have to worry about never having blood and as a human, well I’ve heard the feeling is euphoric.”

Jisung bites his lip to keep from embarassing rambling, “Yeah I’m not sure I feel comfortable doing that.”

“That’s fine, there is another thing, erase those myths you hear. Garlic is fine, Crosses are fine, and feel free to walk in the sun. Although, keep in mind it does drain energy more, so avoid being in the sun when you’re low on blood.”

Realization hits Jisung in that moment, that must be the reason he had fainted at the airport. “I tried eating, I couldn’t. I kept vomiting everything.”

Taeyong hums for a moment before responding, “Could that have been because of the fact that you hadn’t fed?”

Jisung nods, “Yeah, I wasn’t drinking any blood for that time I just kept sleeping.”

“Wow,” You sound excited, “So basically you’re immortal right? Any cool super powers we should know about?”

Taeyong lets out a laugh, it eases Jisung’s anxiety about the assumingely elder man. He was scared being a Vampire would be ten times worse than it actually was. “Well there are its downsides, for one don’t expect to be able to walk into any house without an invite.”

You let out a laugh, Jisung can’t even take offense, given the situation is pretty hilarious. “So you’re saying jiwi needs to ask before coming over?”

“Before entering the premises, yes. It’s not too bad though considering you do have better hearing, eyesight, and quicker reflexes.”

Jisung grins, “You’re right, is there anything else?”

Taeyong wonders for a moment before continuing, “Don’t worry about dying, it’s practically impossible for a Vampire to die besides starving to death or… wolf venom.”

“What?” You jump up from your seat, “There’s wolves too?”

“Ya ya ya,” Jisung pats the couch for you to sit down again, his words contradict the beaming smile he has watching you get so excited.

You take a seat, “I’m sorry this is just, this is so much like the books.” You lightly slap Jisung on the shoulder.

“Don’t get too cocky, the reason is because wolf blood is fatal to our kind. If it were to somehow be ingested, you would die.”

“I understand.”

“This is great, there’s no way you would ever come close to contact with a vampire, Jiwi this is amazing,” You pinch his cheek earning a look from Taeyong that you’re too distracted to notice. “Do you happen to have a phone? I need to call my brother to come pick us up.”

Jisung’s eyebrows raise, “I thought we were going to take the bus back?”

“Well It’s better to tell lele now, you know everything there is to know. Could I borrow your phone?”

“Feel free,” Taeyong replies, “It’s in the furthest room down the left.”

“Thank you, sir.” You run out quickly, skipping steps as you make your way to your destination.

Jisung smiles to himself, feeling shy now that you’re gone. “You like her, a lot.”

His eyes meet the elder, “I– We grew up together.”

“So then you love her?” He feels his face get warmer, lifting his hands to cover himself. “They say blood taste the sweetest from someone you love.”

“Oh I couldn’t do that, I would never put her in such a risk.”

“You couldn’t, Vampires naturally have strong resistance, even fledglings, such as yourself. There’s no way of turning someone without bringing them to the brink of death, and biting them then. If a vampire were to lose themselves and kill a human, it’d be purposefully.”

Jisung stays quiet, not really sure what to say.

“With that being said, Human and Vampire relationships aren’t easy. You must keep in mind that even though you don’t have to worry about hurting them physically, you can still do so emotionally.”

Taeyong’s voice comes out rough, as if he was speaking from experience. Jisung is curious and doesn’t want to press, but he also knows if you were to ask him later about it you’d be disappointed in his limited information.

Picturing your disappointment is enough to get him to inquire. “By emotionally you mean?”

“Immortality isn’t something everyone yearns for. It’s a blessing to some and a curse to others, I speak from experience.”

Jisung can see the pain in Taeyong’s eyes, so this time he refuses to ask further. He hates the awkward silence so he tries to find a new topic of discussion, “Wait, you mentioned how Vampires are very resilient, how is it that I was attacked and became the way I did?”

Taeyong ponders for a moment before replying, “Did you happen to make out the state of the Vampire?”

Jisung shakes his head, “I just remember my guts being split open and then the piercing fangs in my neck.”

“That’s strange, It could be something relating to the current rise in fledglings. There’s been many like yourself who have been attacked for the past week. Usually if a vampire loses all control, then there’d only be people left dead.”

“This doesn’t seem like a coincidence then.” Your voice rings out from beside them, “Isn’t it more purposeful if there’s more vampires turning than deaths?”

“It seems so, I’ll have to look further into it. For the meantime you shouldn’t worry, this isn’t a problem you should deal with.”

Jisung stands from his seat, “Thank you once again Taeyong, the help you and Kun have been means a lot.”

“It isn’t a problem, make sure you take care of yourself okay?”

“Lele is parked outside, it was nice meeting you Yongie.” You say with a smile.

He freezes for a half second, returning your smile shortly after. “You too, y/n.” Jisung gets whiplash from the shift, almost questioning his own memory of the situation.

You pull onto his arm dragging him outside of the home to meet with your brother. The door closes and soon after you speak up, “We have to find out what weird shit is going on.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. There’s obviously someone purposely turning innocent people into vampires, we need to find out why and who.” You turn your gaze to his, “Do you remember anything weird about your attacker?”

Jisung tries to remember as much as he can from the attack besides the feeling of bleeding out and the burn of the bite piercing his skin and turning him into what he is now. He thinks back as much as he can until it dawns on him.

“There was a man there. He had called out to the thing and it jumped off me in an instant. I thought he was just trying to save my life but if that were the case wouldn’t the vampire have attacked him after?”

“So this man, he must’ve had something to do with your attack. Jisung, this guy could be the person behind all of this,” You take a step closer to him, “Do you remember anything else?”

He tries to make out the face of the attacker, but the most he can imagine was the creepy face like mask on it. “The way it moved, it was crawling. It wasn’t normal, that thing wasn’t Vampire or human like at all.”

“These aren’t any regular fledglings then, this could mean something way more.”

Jisung looks into your face again, he always loved the way you looked when you were deep in thought. Your brows would furrow in the cutest way and your teeth would dig into your lips in concentration. Your very plush lips that Jisung couldn’t help but wonder how they would feel on his own.

A honk startles him, Chenle parked in front of the building waiting. The window rolls down, Chenle yelling out to the two of them, “Hurry up before I leave you both alone!”

“Sorry!” Jisung shouts out, his ears turning red.

Before he can run towards the car you squeal, shaking his shoulder, “This is so exciting! We have to tell lele about everything and get ready to solve this case!”

Jisung’s mouth goes dry, you walk away before he has a chance to respond. He already knows that there’s no way of stopping you once you’ve got your mind set on something. Realistically he could try, but you were as stubborn as a bull, and also you had him wrapped around your finger.

He lets out a sigh, Please don’t let this be anything serious He follows your lead towards the car.

A nuclear bomb was no match for the effect Zhong Chenle’s laugh had on Jisung’s ears. He had been laughing on and off for the last three minutes, and everytime Jisung tried to further explain, he’d only laugh more.

“Okay, okay i’m done,” Chenle says taking in a breath and wiping his tears, “so what was it you were really going to tell me.”

You made brief eye contact with Jisung before turning back to your brother, “Lele, he’s telling the truth.”

“A Vampire, really?” He stands from his seat at the table and walks towards the fridge for a drink, “You finally watched Dracula or?”

“No, he’s being serious.” You stood up marching towards your brother. “Didn’t you wonder how he suddenly got better at the hospital?”

He shrugs, “I’m guessing he had an IV drip?”

“Chenle.” Your tone is very serious, it’s enough to make your brother stop with the jokes and hear you out. “Are you going to keep laughing or actually listen to what we’re saying.”

“I’m laughing because this is stupid, newsflash y/n Vampires don’t exist and even if they did, what makes you think they’d turn Jisung into one of them.”

“Hey–“ Jisung interjects while Chenle adds, “No offense.”

“Okay whatever then you’re never going to listen, Jiwi show him.”

Jisung pauses for a second remaining seated in his chair. He points at himself in question, “Me?”

You take a deep sigh, “We’re trying to prove it to him aren’t we Jisung?”

“Right,” He stands up putting his hands into his pocket, “what should I do?”

The door bell goes off in the house, none of them, with the exception of Chenle, knew there was company coming over. Chenle begins to head towards the door, “If you guys are done being weird now, you can start taking the drinks out of the fridge.”

“Jisung, your fangs hurry up and take them out.”

“I don’t know how to do that on instinct?”

“Well try! You’re gonna let him just think you’re a liar?”

“I told you this wouldn’t work!” You groan before pricking your finger with a pin. “What are you doing?”

“Maybe if you smell blood they’ll come out on instinct.” You shrug, the tiniest drop of blood forms on your finger. It’s enough to make Jisung take two steps away from you, covering his mouth to hide the fangs that are forcing themselves out.

“Let me see!” You say, dropping the pin and walking towards Jisung. He backs away further hitting the wall behind him and shaking his head.

“Y/n, your blood is really overwhelming, you can step away now.”

“I just want to see them, this is our way to show Lele.”

Jisung stutters, barring his teeth and unwrapping his hand from around his mouth slowly. You gasp at the sight of his fangs, leaning your finger forward to touch them.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” Chenle’s voice is enough to make the two of you jump away from each other.

Xiaojun who stands behind Chenle drops the bag of food on the floor. Even the loud sound of a bottle breaking isn’t enough to distract from the awkward silence.

“Your teeth–“ Xiaojun’s voice comes out shrill, “You have fangs?”

Jisung bows his head shyly, “Surprise.”

Chenle begins “You’re a–“

“Vampire!” Xiaojun shouts, “I’ve read all about this on AOL!

“What are you talking about?” Renjun replies. Jisung hadn’t even noticed him within all of the chaos. Vampires aren’t real.”

Xiaojun shakes his head, “They are, that’s why there’s been so many attacks lately.”

“The news said it was Bear attacks.”

“Oh come on, in Melody? Bears don’t attack in cities, Renjun.” Xiaojun says.

Chenle cuts the both of them off, “Jisung those teeth,” He signals to his face, “they’re real?”

“Of course they’re real.” You say, stepping towards the counter to grab a rag and cover your wound. “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you.”

In that moment Jisung’s teeth retract on their own, going back to normal. “Guess i’ll have to explain everything now right?”

“So you’re saying, there’s some kind of vampire sire who is forming an army of mutant vampires?”

“That’s exactly it.” You reply earning an eye roll from Renjun.

“I believe you, like I mentioned there’s been so many attacks lately in the city. Something is happening and it’s unnatural.”

“That’s the same thing you said when you got that chain email about a ghost spirit that fell down a well.”

“That was one time, Chenle. This is not normal though, neither is the way Jisung had sharp teeth and suddenly he’s back to normal!”

“I don’t have any other way of proving it, but i’m not lying.” Jisung says to his best friend, “I know it seems unreal but we’re telling the truth. We have to do something to stop this, you know how many innocent people don’t end up like me and instead end up dead.”

Chenle thinks for a long moment before groaning, “I swear to god if you’re trying to get back at me for the wrong call prank I did on you last year, you will have your third trip to the hospital this year.”

Jisung smiles, happy his friend is fully trusting him even though the situation itself sounds straight out of a bad soap opera. Their cheers are cut short by Renjun.

“I for one think all of this is stupid. If what you guys are saying is true, what are we supposed to do about it? Jisung is the only Vampire here, we’re only human.”

“I have a plan,” Y/N speaks up, “So I think since most of the attacks have been happening within the night and in remote areas, it would be better for someone to walk alone.”

“You want one of us to act as bait?”

“Not one of you, me.” Chenle immediately sets his glass down, Jisung turning to meet your eyes.

“You can’t do that.” Both of them speak at the same time, Jisung continues, “I don’t want any of you putting yourself at risks for me. I can go.”

“That won’t work,” Xiaojun speaks, “you’re already a vampire so you won’t be any sort of bait.”

“I am going, there’s no question about it. You guys will just have to keep an eye out for me.”

“I’m not going to let you do that Y/N,” Chenle’s voice comes out low, “You’re my little sister, if this is a real maniac then don’t think for a goddamn second I’d ever let you go through with something this dangerous.”

“I’m not asking for permission,” You raise your voice, “I am going. Unless any of you would rather.”

It’s silent for a moment, Jisung wants to speak up but he knows better than to try. Chenle knew just as much also, you were more stubborn than he was.

“I think I know how we can keep in contact with you without getting too close,” Xiaojun comments, the rest of the group looking to his direction. “I got some Walkie-talkies, a lot of them. We can use those to make sure Y/N is okay.”

“Great, bring them four days from today.”

“Four Days?” Jisung asks, he’d thought this would at least be postponed til they could let Taeyong know.

“Might as well get this over with,” Renjun says, Chenle doesn’t look happy in the slightest so he offers a pat to his shoulder before continuing, “Calm down, there’s likely nothing happening at all just as you mentioned. We go out and try and find these guys, we don’t find shit, then we end up back here laughing the rest of our lives away.”

Chenle seems the furthest away from calm but gives in anyway, “Fine, but let’s discuss details later, I’m starving.”

October 26th

It was three in the morning by the time you guys had arrived beside some alleyway in the southern area of the city. Chenle’s car had stayed parked as you guys began discussing the plans for tonight.

“So i’ll be walking down the alleyway on the northern side, Chenle you stay here guarding the car, Jisung you need to make sure to stay free in case a fledgling pops up out of nowhere, Renjun you stay on the east side, Xiaojun you stay outside of the restaurant at the end of the alleyway.”

“I still don’t think this is a good idea.” Chenle says, mostly to you. You ignore him shifting focus on Xiaojun.

“You brought the Walkies right?”

“Of course I did.” He opens the bag on his shoulder, passing one walkie-talkie each to the entire group.

“How can you afford this many,” Renjun asks.

Xiaojun shrugs, “You can find anything on the web.”

Jisung grabs onto his walkie tightly, you turn to face him taking in the doubtful expression he has. “Jiwi, don’t worry i’ll be okay. You have faster reflexes and better hearing than any of us, so don’t be scared.”

He nods, it’s weird for him to be in this position now. Jisung wasn’t used to being the one who stood out, he actually preferred to be the one in the background most days. This time he had no choice, he played the most important role here and that was to keep you safe.

“Could we talk for a bit?” He feels Chenle’s hand on his shoulder pulling him to the side. He follows the elder walking off to the side where their conversation won’t be overheard.

“I know this whole vampire thing is new to you too, it’s new to all of us and i’m not trying to put more weight on your shoulders but–“ He takes in a deep breath. “Please protect my sister. She’s very capable of standing up for herself most of the time, hell she even scares me sometimes but this isn’t a regular person we’re dealing with according to you both.”

“I swear Chenle, I didn’t want her to do this in the first place but,”

“She has a mind of her own,” He sighs, “I’m well aware.”

“I won’t let anything happen to her, I know she’s your sister and you love and care about her a lot but she’s also very important to me too. I lo–“ He cuts himself off, “I care a lot about her.”

“You don’t have to hide it anymore Sung, well if you could consider making googly eyes at y/n anytime you’re around her ‘hiding’.”

Jisung covers his shy smile before responding, “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“Well everyone did, except y/n of course, she’s denser than you’d think. I have no problem with you, you’re my best friend and I know what kind of person you are and how much you care about her, but I need you to promise that you will keep her safe tonight. If anything were to ever happen to her, I’d kill you. Literally.”

Jisung knew that as much as he loved you, Chenle was always going to be protective over you. It’s not a fact that anyone really dwells on, but for a large part of your upringing it was Chenle who was helping take care of you. Your parents were always out on business and yes there were nannys for you both growing up but still, nobody felt more of a responsibility for you than Chenle did even at the age of 6.

That’s why it means so much that he’s telling Jisung to watch over you. It means he trusts him enough to lift the weight off of his own shoulders, and make sure you’re happy and healthy, even outside of this insane situation and in a real relationship.

“I’d kill myself before letting something happen to her.” Jisung replies truthfully. He meant it, he’d never be able to forgive himself for not keeping you safe. The thought scares him, a life without you would be no life worth living.

Chenle nods, “Then make sure we all end up in one piece, including yourself, I’m not sure how my sister would feel going bowling with a dead man.”

“Well i’m halfway there.” His friend laughs, slapping his shoulder.

“Let’s get back to the rest.”

“Y/N, check check,” There’s no reply, “Hello? Y/N can you hear me?”

You pick up the walkie bringing it to your lips, “Xiaojun if you don’t shut up, this plan isn’t going to work.”

The voice comes through again this time in a whisper, “Sorry.”

As you walk the alleyway you realize two things. One, you have to take in a stray cat, there’s way too many roaming these streets and two, city sewage is disgusting. The smell is strong and disgusting, it’s like something died.

You roam the alleyway silently, no activity happening whatsoever. At this point it feels like you’ve been walking for a solid five minutes, even though you’ve only been there for less than a minute. It’s until you turn the corner that you hear a noise from behind you.

You beg to the angels that Jisung can hear or see everything going on, before prompting yourself to run. You start running, the footsteps behind you going into sync with your own.

You fight the urge to look back, hearing the footsteps only get closer. You hold your breath turning the corner, it feels like your lost for a moment, your brain not processing the route your on and only trying to get you to safety.

It’s when you take another right that you feel an arm hook onto your jacket, you rip it off of yourself, not in the mood to fight for your favorite jacket and become a late night snack for the fledgling.

You keep running forward, a light luminating at the end of the alley, only as you get closer you realize it’s a dead end.

‘Fuck.’

You reach into your pocket snatching the walkie out only a few feet away from the wall. “Code Black, Dead end.”

Renjun’s voice rings out, “Left or Right?”

“Right–“ The walkie in your hand is thrown out of the way, the fledgling grabbing onto your hand and throwing you against the wall with brute force.

You gasp once you look into its face, the fangs resemble that of a vampire but nothing else. Its skin reeks of rotten flesh, pieces of skin and bones protruding off of different parts of its body.

You hold in a gag as it pulls in close, it’s in that moment that you’re able to think fast and use the force of your elbow to push it off of you. You try running towards the walkie but it’s too fast, gripping onto your leg and pulling you backwards.

You use your leg to kick it away, the walkie is about a foot away, you crawl over and reach for it, successfully grabbing it. “Code Red! I repeat Code Re–“

Jisung appears in that moment, grabbing onto the fledgling and throwing it against the wall. You stare in shock, the adrenaline from the attack still running through your veins. Jisung is strong, but that fledgling puts in a good fight.

He throws the creature once again this time to the ground, baring his fangs in anger as he grips the throat of the fledgling. He’s so out of it, is intent is to kill, that’s until he hears your voice ring out.

“Jiwi!”

He turns to face you, taking note of the way your leg was bleeding. His grip loosens, the creature already unconscious as he makes his way towards you.

“What happened? Why are you bleeding?” His worried eyes meet your own.

“I think when it dragged me its claws pierced my leg, it’s okay though i’m fine.” You say out of breath.

“Y/N!” Chenle runs towards the both of you, Renjun by his side.

“Holy shit, this is real. All of this shit is real.” Renjuns eyes are wide in fear.

“Yeah and instead of helping my sister you froze.” Chenle says angrily.

“I–“ Renjun stutters out, “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“Hey it’s okay, I’m fine. Jiwi got here just in time.” You say standing up with his help.

“I beg to fucking differ, you’re bleeding.” Chenle points at the blood on your leg.

“Hey it’s okay, it’s nothing just a little blood.” You pat your brother’s shoulder.

“Where is Xiaojun?” Renjun says suddenly, all of you going silent.

“This one was the only one, I didn’t spot any other creature nearby so he should be getting here soon.”

The tension is still in the air, Chenle turning towards Jisung. “You were almost too late, whatever happened to your promise?”

“I got here as fast as I could.”

“Bullshit.” He sticks his finger directly to Jisung’s chest.

“Guys–“ Renjun’s voice warns, though not fast enough.

“What promise? I’m okay, why are the two of you acting as if i’m dead.” You make out before sharp fangs meet your shoulder. You feel a strong surge of pain, your body feels like it’s been set ablaze. Within an instant you fall to your knees, Jisung turning around to pull the creature off of you.

He’s able to push it back, but this time it’s much more stronger, it throws him to the floor getting ready to plunge onto you again before Chenle gets in it’s way, a wooden plank in his hand. He uses the blank to block the creature from attacking, Renjun running to pick Jisung up from the floor.

The creature snaps the wood in half, causing Chenle to fall beside you, before it can attack once more, a noise sounds from behind it catching its attention.

“Hey!” Xiaojun yells out, the creature turns around. He sprays it in the eyes causing it to go blind, it screeches, Jisung attacks causing it to go unconscious again, this time making sure it’s out fully.

The group take deep breaths processing the scene. Your body feels better from the bite, though your brother refuses to leave your side.

“What the fuck was that?” Chenle says at the same time Jisung asks, “Pepper spray?”

Xiaojun shrugs, “Hey I told you, you could find anything on the web.”

Going to the hospital for the third time this month wasn’t something Jisung would’ve guessed in his monthly bingo card, he was mostly losing anyway, who would’ve thought becoming a vampire was more plausible than getting tickets to a Def Leppard tour.

Kun sits to the corner of the room in his office, using a computer to research whatever the heck is wrong with that thing they captured. Jisung turned his attention to the left, where you sat, Chenle guarding you like a dog.

He wanted to go to you, ask how you were feeling and if your leg was hurting, but he knew better than to interfere especially when Chenle was staring darts at him. He sighs trying to piece together what might have happened.

Thinking back on it, it was in a flash. He saw a man with a mask pass by the deeper end of an alleyway. He made the choice to follow after, realizing that might be the thing they were looking for. It was the second he got too close that the figure stared right into him.

A loud ringing noise sounded into his ear. He tried to keep staring, to make sure the figure wouldn’t disappear. But the closer he got the louder the sound was, and the closer he got the more it became obvious. This wasn’t a creature such as the one who attacked him before, this was a real life person, a Vampire.

He’d heard the sound of your screams and it was able to snap him out of his trance, the man disappeared in front of him and within the next second he went towards the sound of your voice and attacked the monster.

He wished you didn’t end up hurt in the process, it was his fault for becoming a vampire and even dragging any of you into this. It was a bite that Kun said would have no effect on you whatsoever, but he still couldn’t help but feel angry at himself for not handling everything better.

He took in a heavy breath before Kun spoke up calling the attention from all of you. “I have gotten into contact with a few friends of mine, they suggest that it’d be better for the fledgling to stay here, while they come to further analyze it.”

“So then what do we do in the meantime?” Your voice comes out smoothly.

“You are in no position to help, none of you are. I understand you guys want to help but this is a battle for us to do, Jisung shouldn’t have even been part of this.”

Before you’re able to argue, Jisung’s voice interrupts. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Kun sighs, getting a signal from his pager, “Look, I know you all want to help but it’s just not safe. Head back home and stay there, especially in the nighttime. That goes for you too, Jisung.”

The lot of you walk your way out of the hospital, waiting within your group for a signal to leave.

“Okay,” You speak, “I say we give it til tomorrow night then we go out again, who knows how many more of those creatures are out roaming. We could definitely try capturing as many as possible.”

“Y/N. You got hurt, we’re not going to do this anymore.” Chenle replies. The rest of the group staying quiet until Renjun speaks.

“I think it’s better we listen to what Kun said, this isn’t our battle to fight, we have no part in this. To try and get in between could end up with all of us dead, that’s like horror stupidity 101.”

Jisung can’t even laugh at the irony with the situation at hand.

“But it does involve us, our city and people are in danger and you want us to hold back?” You argue, “I’m not going to sit back and wait for more people to die or end up victims to those things.”

“You can’t save everyone, Y/N don’t you realize that?” Chenle shouts, “You could have been that exact person you’re talking about and you still want to risk it?”

“That didn’t happen though,” You reply, “Jisung got there just in time.”

“Jisung didn’t get there on time, if he did then you wouldn’t be standing here with that bite on your shoulder.”

Jisung flinches at the words, he knows that Chenle is still mad at him, and honestly he’s mad at himself too. It was a big risk for everyone to be there. None of you know anything about these creatures and it could’ve ended with everyone dead, and the fault would be on Jisung.

He let you take control when he knew that it was unsafe. He’s a vampire now, he isn’t like the rest of you. If he were to go alone he would be fine, a scratch, a bite, anything and he would be okay but that wasn’t the same for you guys.

“Chenle is right, I shouldn’t have even thought this would be okay. I put you all in danger tonight.”

“No, Jisung don’t say that,” You interject, “This was all my plan, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Except for promising to keep you safe but of course he can’t do shit right can he?” Chenle spits out.

“Hey guys what the fuck.” Xiaojun tries intervening.

“You can’t put the blame on him, it was my idea on the first place.”

“And yet he knows better than to listen to your stupid ideas.”

Jisung can’t help but feel a rush of anger, not when Chenle is purposefully trying to dig into his skin. “Like you’re any better than me?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Guys seriously, cut it out.” Renjun whispers, “People are staring.”

“You know exactly what the fuck I mean. The reason Y/N had to leave to study abroad in the first place.” A flash of hurt passes through Chenle’s face but Jisung is too far deep to stop, “You’re just upset that you couldn’t protect her yourself because you were so in your own head you couldn’t tell when your sister needed you.”

“Fuck you Park Jisung, like you ever meant anything to anyone here. The only reason half of the people you know are friends with you is because of me. You had nobody then and I felt sorry for you, so if you think you’re better than me news fucking flash you aren’t.”

The group goes silent save for your voice, “What the fuck is wrong with the both of you? Seriously you’re going to speak over me? I don’t need any of your help I didn’t need it then or even now.”

Jisung looks at you, tears brewing and ready to fall over. “Jisung what would you know about why I studied abroad? You think some high school bullying was gonna drive me away that’s not the kind of person I am. And Chenle, Seriously? You know for a damn fact that Jisung is as important to us as we are to him.”

You take in a breath, tears finally spilling from your eyes. “I’m not going to deal with the two of you fighting anymore, this is not why I wanted to come back early.” You walk away leaving the rest of the group quiet.

Renjun pulls onto Jisung’s arm urging him to step away, “Let’s go for now, the both of you could use some time away to cool off.”

The day had been slower than it usually felt, it was almost time to clock out for the night and even though the past three days were busy work days, it still felt weird. Jisung was used to late night arcade trips with his friends but of course being so stubborn meant neither him or Chenle had reached out to the other.

As far as he knew, Xiaojun was probably with his friend right now, whenever they two had their little petty fights. This time was different though, it was the biggest and longest fight they’d ever had and they had been friends for practically a decade now.

It also hurt that in the past days he hadn’t heard from you, he knew you were upset and didn’t want to talk to him but would it kill you to reach out and just let him know you made it home safely? You walked out on your own, even with wild fledglings roaming the streets, that was a scary thought.

“You’ve been playing this song on a loop for the past twenty minutes.” Renjun groans.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize now I feel bad.”

Jisung stays quiet, sweeping the floor as Renjun sits at the counter reading some horror comic. Renjun sighs placing the comic down before calling after Jisung, “Come on let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Sure there isn’t, there’s also no reason you’ve been playing Love Bites, your comfort song, for the past half an hour.”

“You said it was twenty minutes earlier.”

“And that doesn’t matter, tell me what’s going on.”

Jisung takes a seat beside Renjun, looking down as he speaks, “I just. Me and Chenle have never gone this long without speaking. I don’t even know why I said what I did, Chenle isn’t at fault for anything. I just couldn’t bite my tongue this time, not when he was blaming me.”

Renjun nods so he continues, “I was trying you know, when I found out I didn’t want to tell any of you about any of this. I was going to just disappear, hide out with Taeyong probably and live out my early vampire days there but y/n found out right after I did.”

It’s true, he’d even mentioned it to Taeyong once and the elder had said he would be okay with it. It’d make it easier to stay on track of his blood intake and plus Jisung wouldn’t have to be alone.

“Well i’m glad you didn’t just leave, It would be really hard trying to find a new part timer to take your place,” Renjun jokes. “But also, you should know Chenle was just being protective over y/n. I’m not saying he’s in the right, he didn’t have to keep pushing your buttons and i’m sure he’s thinking about that now.”

Jisung scoffs, “I doubt it.”

“Jisung.” His voice is stern, “Chenle does care about you, you’re his best friend. I’m not going to sit and defend either of you, I think the both of you were immature, and frankly I think Y/N deserves an apology most right now.”

He’d tried, only everytime he showed up to your house he got too scared that Chenle would answer the door, and he couldn’t exactly just sneak in, Vampire rules got in the way of that.

“Stop being a loser and talk to them. It’s what’s best for all of us, and yes I say yes. Xiaojun’s been calling nonstop everyday asking if i’ve made any progress with you.”

Jisung laughs, “Has he made any with Chenle?”

I don’t know why don’t you see for yourself.” The phone rings prompting Renjun to stand up from his seat.

Jisung sat for a moment, Renjun walking past him. The faint smell of Iron hit him again, his stomach twisting in hunger. He hadn’t had any blood for the past few days, Taeyong had said there was a delay in receiving any. A shortage apparently, and he’s willing to bet that’s because of the increasing number of fledglings flooding the streets.

“Ji, it’s Taeyong.”

Speak of the devil, Jisung gets up and takes the phone in his hand, “Hello?”

“Meet back at my place now and bring your friends.” The line goes silent. He furrows his brows, placing the phone back in its place.

“What’d he say?”

“We have to go, now.”

When Jisung had shown up to Taeyong’s house the last people he thought he’d see was there. Not that he wasn’t going to tell Chenle and Xiaojun to show up, he was pretty sure if Taeyong called him that meant he also called you. There had to be a reason as to how he got Jisung’s work number. The thought only pained him though, he wished you’d just call him.

He meets your eyes for a second before you look away, his heart breaks knowing you’re still angry at him. Chenle approaches you, and you only step away ignoring his presence. Jisung won’t lie, the petty part of him is really enjoying the fact that he’s not the only one on your bad side right now.

Taeyong enters the room garnering attention from the group, Kun on his side. “So, the results came in–“

“You are not the father?” Xiaojun whispers, earning confused looks from everyone else. “Sorry.”

Kun clears his throat, “It’s just as we thought these are not normal fledglings. It seems that a lot of these happen to be undead folks who were brought back and turned into Vampires.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Chenle asks.

“Like night of the living dead?” Renjun inquires.

“Precisely. We’re completely unsure as to how this is possible, but it seems there is a very strong sorcerer who is using necromancy to bring back the dead.”

“Sorcerer? Like a witch? There’s witches?” You say in pure disbelief.

“There are,” Taeyong speaks, “Though the magic form of Necromancy is forbidden, it appears that’s the case here.”

“A witch is turning them into vampires after bringing back zombies?” Jisung looks to Renjun, “I’m fully sober right?”

“I know it may seem hard to grasp but think of it this way. You know Vampires and Wolves exist, well so do Demons, Witches, Fae, and all sorts of things. This sorcerer, they aren’t a weak one, and they’re most likely working with a Vampire as well.”

Jisung recalls back to the night you’d been attacked. There was a man who had somehow been able to stop him, what if that were the sorcerer they were referring to?

“I can’t believe this, Vampires are one thing but for there to be more than just that?” Renjun starts.

“It’s true. I think I saw them, the sorcerer that is.”

The room is silent as Jisung reiterates the night in his memory, Chenle looking to the side with guilt in his eye.

“In that case then what you say is true. We need to put an end to this.” You speak up.

“How many undead fledglings have been reported?” Jisung looks to Kun and Taeyong.

“From what it seems,” Taeyong starts, “The increase of vampire attacks and vampire numbers have been about thirty and ten within this past month.”

“Ten? that doesn’t seem so bad.” Xiaojun says.

“Ten doesn’t seem like much until you add them to the amount of people who need blood supply. It’s hard for fledglings as they aren’t sure how to hunt without accidentally killing someone. They need around six pints of blood per week, and with more people choosing to stay inside then it makes it harder for us to supply said vampires with blood.”

“So you’re saying there’s a blood shortage for Vampires right now and it’s mostly caused by some guy who’s overpopulating them?” You reply.

“Precisely, this is a major problem, not to mention this isn’t any mistake. The rise of vampires would mean he could be building his own army.”

“A Zombie-Vampire hybrid army? For what purpose?”

Kun turns to Chenle, “To take over this city, and eventually maybe the world.”

Jisung didn’t want to panic but the thought was terrifying. Not only would this put a risk on all of his loved ones, but this wouldn’t work out for Vampires either. There’s only one way that this could all end, and that’d be with the entire world bursting into flames, not literally but also sort of literally. “There’d be no one left.”

Taeyong nods, “Which is why we must act fast, Kun and I are trying to track down the area we believe these creatures are spawning from.”

“Holy crap this is so much like a video game.” Xiaojun whispers under his breath.

“Wait,” Chenle’s voice speaks through everyone, “I think I might know for sure.”

The rest of the group look to him waiting his response, “When I was guarding the car I thought I saw the creature guy run along through the buildings before he was able to reach y/n. I don’t know how he didn’t notice me, but he just walked past. It looked as if he came from the upper northern buildings.”

“The abandoned Church.” Renjun adds, “That place has a deeper underground level, I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that happens to be the witches lair.”

“Well then it seems we know exactly where this place is, we can meet up there tonight, Three AM Halloween’s eve.”

The groups agrees, everyone beginning to grab their stuff and head out. Jisung notices you and begins to take a few steps towards your direction, he’s too late though. You sped off before he could even get a word in which he realizes was on purpose, you’re still mad at him.

He’s about to turn the other way when a hand taps on his shoulder. “We have to talk.” Chenle says, walking away in hopes Jisung was following him out, he was.

It’s silent as the two of them sit outside on some random bench that was right in Taeyong’s neighborhood. The sound of kids passing through on their bikes is the only sound before a peaceful quietness fills the air. Well, peaceful is an understatement, the air was thick with awkwardness.

Jisung thinks of what to say, he doesn’t want to keep this fight going but he also isn’t sure how to approach the conversation. He gives himself time to come up with a sentence, but to his surprise it’s Chenle who speaks first.

“I’m sorry.” Jisung blinks at him in shock, “I realize now how unfair I was acting, you only tried your best and you did well in protecting y/n. I was scared in the moment, it sounds like an excuse but it’s true. I love my family, but Y/N is my sister, she means the most to me and I realize now even as I can’t control her, you can’t either.“

Jisung sighs, “No a part of you was right, I promised you I wouldn’t let her get hurt and I couldn’t even keep that.”

Chenle shakes his head, “No, you did all that you could and in the end it was good enough, she’s here and she’s perfectly fine. She’s ignoring the two of us but besides that she’s normal.”

“Yeah she’d always be the one most angry at us whenever we would get into our fights.”

Chenle laughs, “Ugh don’t remind me. That brings me to my other apology, Jisung in case you didn’t know I’m a liar. You do mean a lot to me, how could you not? You are the closest friend i’ve ever had. All of what I said was only to hurt you, I’m not gonna lie, when you told me I was the one who couldn’t protect y/n a part of me was so angry. I wanted you to hurt the way your words hurt me, the way I was hurting me, so I said that but I never meant it.”

Jisung takes a deep breath, dammit he really was an easy crier. “I was only saying that to hurt you, it isn’t true in the slightest. There’s nobody who has watched over Y/N the way you have. She’s practically a child you raised since your parents weren’t always around. I’m sorry I ever said that because it only diminishes the hard work you put into helping raise y/n.”

“Don’t give me the credit, she’s raised herself perfectly with the time she’s been abroad. But thank you.”

“I hate arguing with you, I hate for you or y/n to be mad at me.”

“That’s your people pleaser speaking. I know you’re still upset cause Y/N hasn’t spoken to you, maybe you should talk to her?” Chenle Suggests.

“If I could I would, I don’t want to annoy her if she doesn’t even want to be around me right now though. I understand her anger, we shouldn’t have tried to make it seem as if she needed protection or a guard or anything, she’s a free spirit, it’s who you have known her as your whole life, and the person I fell in love with.”

Chenle pushes Jisung’s shoulder playfully, “You are so in love with her I don’t know how you ever thought you were being subtle. I think all she’s waiting for is for you to reach out. As for me, she’s only mad because I was too stubborn to want to talk to you.”

“Did you only come here to apologize so y/n would talk to you?” Jisung raises his eyebrow.

“No! I am really sorry, I was just being a stubborn asshole about it.”

“So your usual self.” Another hit to the shoulder, “I’ll talk to her and apologize fully.”

“You better. We have bigger fish to fry now, there’s a psycho witch on the loose as you know.” Chenle stands up from the bench. “I’ll leave you to your moment of silence if that’s what you want but before I go I want to let you know. There’s nobody else, besides me of course, that my sister has ever cared for in her entire life.”

“What does that mean?” Jisung says, Chenle already beginning to walk away.

“Nope, you talk to her and ask her what I mean! By the way, meet up at my house when you’re done, we have a crazy witch to catch!”

October 30th

It was only hours after they’d met up at Taeyong’s house, this time everyone stood in the living room of Chenle’s two story house. It was only an hour until Kun and Taeyong said they’d show up, the rest of the ‘Supernatural Hunters’, as Xiaojun had called them, were readying themselves.

Renjun had mentioned that maybe if everyone had their own pepper spray among other things, they’d be better able to protect themselves. So Xiaojun had searched the web and found packs of smoke bombs, protective goggles, and holy water, which Jisung had told him wouldn’t work.

He’d also found some costumes at the local department store he thought would be very fitting for tonight, which is why the group of four boys were currently dressed in beige. Jisung hadn’t seen y/n, not since earlier today or well yesterday, it’s got him feeling anxious. It’s hard for him to pay any attention, even now as Taeyong and Kun show up and begin to explain the plans, he isn’t focused.

“Okay then it’s settled, we’re going to break into this place and wreak havoc.” Xiaojun smiles smugly, this is a video game fantasy of his coming true.

“Not exactly, though given the dangers of being attacked by these monsters, I was able to secure these for those of you who aren’t able to defend yourselves.” Kun unwraps a fabric bag, sharp knives falling onto the table below.

Gasps are heard, Jisung’s friends reaching in to grab onto some, Jisung is about to grab one until Taeyong stops him. “Those aren’t ordinary, they have wolf’s venom imbedded in them. A touch of yours especially in your current state, could only end up making you weaker.”

Right, Jisung hadn’t had an ounce of blood in days, he really needed to find some and quickly. It was unsafe to go so long without any bags, Taeyong had asked if she was rationing his bags. He failed to mention that the bags he’d had ran out a long time ago.

“So these could kill Jisung?” Renjun says, his finger tracing the blade.

“More so temporarily disable him, unless you’re planning on stabbing him, in that case yes he would cease to exist.”

A chill runs down Jisung’s spine, he can already feel the effects of going so long without feeding. Before anyone can call over Jisung’s attention, the sound of footsteps enter the room.

You stood there eyebrows furrowed, stepping closer to the group. “What are you guys supposed to be? Ghostbusters?” Kun masks a chuckle with his hand.

“What are you doing here?” Chenle pulls you to the side.

“I was invited here just as you guys were?” You say as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on now, keep up.”

“I don’t think you should do this, what about your bite.”

“My bite is fine, I can move my leg and arm perfectly so there’s no problem here.”

“Y/N,” Jisung calls to you with his voice low, the first words he’s said to you in the past days, “can we talk, before you make your decision?”

You sigh, nodding your head. As much as you were still angry at him, he seemed like he had a lot to say. He also looked like shit, which you couldn’t tell if that was because of the fact you hadn’t spoken to him in almost a week.

He pulls you into the kitchen, which is a much bigger open space and reminds you of the last time you guys sat here together, the start of this entire fiasco.

He fidgets with his fingers refusing to meet your eye, “I want you to know I’m sorry. I never meant to make it seem like you couldn’t protect yourself or make your own decisions, I only want to keep you safe.”

“That’s it Jisung, I don’t need any of you keeping me safe. Not my brother and sure as hell not you.”

“I know but please, hear me out.” His eyes are wide with panic. You take in the dark under eyes he has along with the unnatural paleness, he looks tired. “The reason I want to keep you safe is because you mean so much more to me than just a friend or Chenle’s sister. You’re so sweet and understanding, I care about you so much that the last thing I could even think about before I turned into this thing was you.”

You’re at a loss of words so he continues, “I have loved you for ever y/n, since the day I met you I knew you would be the most important person to me for the rest of my life and I was scared i’d never be able to tell you that if something were to happen to me. And now i’m even more scared that something could happen to you.”

“I understand but nothing is going to happen.”

“How can you be so sure? I was sure I’d walk back home and eat some noodles and then I became this.” He gestures to himself, “It was scary enough seeing you get bitten, and maybe you’re okay but I’m not. I can’t have that happen again because I can’t lose you, not before I ever got to tell you how much I love you or after.”

“Ji, look at me.” You pull his attention onto you, grabbing onto the front of his shirt. “I’m going to be fine.”

“But what if you’re not,” His voice cracks.

“I am. I’m always going to be okay as long as i’m with you.” You wipe the tear from his face. He stares into your eyes, there’s something so soothing about the way you look at him, maybe that’s what Chenle was referring to earlier. The sparkle in your eyes was enough to convince Jisung that there was an entire galaxy within them, that’s why you were able to see the world in such a different light.

He can’t help but get lost in them, leaning into you. You take that moment to close the gap, meeting his lips with your own, soft and gentle. It’s a small kiss, but it has deadly effect, within the next minute Jisung is leaning into you for more.

Hunger evident in the way he kisses you the second time. His tongue slides against your bottom lip asking for entry, you accept, tasting everything sweet on his tongue. His teeth bite your lip, the taste of iron filling your mouth. You pull away from the kiss, immediately touching the small wound on your lip.

Jisung steps away from you, regret filling his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

“Hey it’s okay, it’s just a small bite it barely hurts at all.” You say with a smile hoping he isn’t too worried. He covers his face refusing to meet your eyes, “Jisung, are you okay?”

You grab onto his hands uncovering his face. He has beads of sweet dripping down his skin that’s hot to the touch, his fangs peaking out and his skin paler than before. “Jisung what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine you look like you’re about to pass out.” It registers in your head, “Have you fed?” He stays quiet refusing to look anywhere but to the floor.

“You have to feed Ji, you could die.”

“I have no blood, there’s been a shortage there’s nothing for me.”

“Well you have to drink, you’ll die.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Well I won’t.” You reply sternly, the idea comes to your mind quickly, you push your hair back revealing your neck. “Drink.”

“Y/N I can’t do that, I could end up hurting you.”

“You are hurting yourself and that hurts me, please just drink.”

The sharp sting is enough to make you hiss out in pain, but the feeling afterwards is pure bliss. You feel on cloud from the feeling of the blood flowing, all you can hear is the sound of Jisung’s breathing so close. You can feel the way his arms wrap around you, keeping you from falling at the lightheaded feeling.

It feels like you guys have been in this position forever, your eyes fluttering closed in comfort. It’s when you feel weaker that you finally call out for Jisung, “Ji, Is that enough?”

He mumbles too low for you to understand, he continues to drink out of you. You hands go to his head tugging at his hair, he lets out a groan pulling away. “You taste so good.”

You smile, trying to recollect your balance. “Feel better?”

“So much better.” He whispers into your ear, tickling you and making you giggle. “Come on, we have to go now.”

He whines, “Do we have to?”

“Yes, they’ve been waiting for long enough.” You say covering the bite on your neck and dragging him back to the group.

“It’s time. Keep those blades on you at all times, call for Jisung and I if you happen to get into close contact with the target,” Taeyong goes over the plan again, “Kun will stay out and watch, code Red if you’re in danger and need immediate assistance.”

“We got this.” You say enthusiastically.

“Speak for yourself, i’m shitting bricks right now.” Xiaojun holds onto his stomach.

“The faster we figure out who the fuck is behind this, the faster everything will go back to normal.” Renjun pats his back.

“Alright then, let’s get these bitches!” Chenle shouts.

The silence that filled the place was unexpected to say the least. Their group had been walking around the Church and there were no strange noises whatsoever. There was no sign of any creatures either, so they began to doubt if this was the right place.

“I think we got it wrong, nobody is in here.” Xiaojun speaks up.

“Where else would they be hiding? All of the attacks have been close to this place.” Chenle argues.

It’s faint, but behind the talking the group is doing Jisung hears footsteps. He tries to shut out the voices in front of him, beginning to listen out further. “There’s something.” Jisung says shushing the group.

“Do you hear anything?” You ask, trying to listen out also.

“I can’t hear shit.”

“Jisung’s right, it sounds like someone is here.” Taeyong says, sniffing out a horrible smell.

“God, what the fuck is that,” Xiaojun covers his nose, “Where the fuck is this even coming from?”

Your eyes go wide seeing the creature appear out of nowhere. “Right there!” You yell out, pointing out the group of fledglings running at your group at an ungodly speed.

The next few moments are full of bloodshed. Or whatever Vampire Zombie hybrids had, Jisung wasn’t too familiar with their anatomy. He didn’t have much time to think it over anyway, not when he was in the middle of fighting them off.

He successfully manages to knock one unconscious and looks to his friends who seem to be doing okay holding their own. There’s a few bodies of the hybrids on the floor, which should be a relieving fact, but not when he can sense that there’s more on the way.

Suddenly he feels his body fall to the ground. The hybrid climbing over him to get to Chenle who was busy fighting another kind. Jisung drags the figure back, clawing at it to keep it from getting away. It screeches at him, shoving him once again but this time he’s able to keep it held down.

A shout is heard from Taeyong across the room, “Jisung! Don’t let him get away!” Jisung looks up seeing the man from before slipping out through the back of the stairs.

Jisung runs along following after him, catching up to him fairly quickly. “You, why are you doing this?”

The man stops in his tracks, turning around to face Jisung straight on. He charges forward, knocking Jisung back with his strength. “Come on, fledgling. You charge in here and yet you stand so weak.”

Jisung stands up, “Who are you?”

“Wrong question.” The man charges forward once again, his fists landing blows all over his body. Jisung is able to catch his first and flip the man over, knocking him down.

“I asked you two already.” Jisung pulls forward trying to pull off the mask of the man under him. He feels his body fly back from the force of the person’s legs kicking him.

“I made you who you are.” He tells Jisung, his voice rich with cockiness, “You dare stand in front of me? You dare to question me. I made all of you and I can just as well erase you, I am the beginning and the end.

Jisung groans in annoyance, “Don’t speak in riddles man just tell me who you are.” He dodges another attack from the man.

Jisung is quick with his movements, but his opponent isn’t any different. As he continues to dodge the man’s efforts to attack him, he takes a split second to grab a hold of one of the wooden crosses on the wall.

The man charges forward again, this time Jisung is able to separate the two of them using the cross. The person pushes forward using all of his strength, for the first time in this fight Jisung finds himself struggling to fight back.

It’s when an explosion is heard that Jisung is able to use the distraction as a way to take control again. He pins his opponent down, searching into his pocket for the pepper spray. The man fights back, flipping him and Jisung over and wrapping his hands around Jisung’s throat.

The feeling of losing consciousness slowly creeps up on Jisung, searching his pocket desperately for the spray. His hands wrap around it, pulling it out of his pocket and spraying the man where his eyes are.

In the next second, Jisung is able to gain control and push him down, snatching the mask from off of his face. “You–“ He gasps, “No, I don’t know who you are?”

Silence fills the air, “Of course you wouldn’t, you don’t know anything.”

“Who the hell are you? Why are you doing this in the first place?”

“Because people like them don’t need to exist.” The man points to where the group continue to fight against the mob. “They used to be the ones killing us, we stayed innocent and yet so many of them couldn’t wait to call us Satan’s children.”

The ringing fills Jisung’s ears again, making it hard for him to move. “What?”

“And yet you stand here, bonding with humans, as if they aren’t the reason half of our population are dead.”

Jisung isn’t very sure what to say, he never thought comforting the enemy was going to be part of the plan. It’s until he hears a scream from you that he snaps out of his trance, at this point the enemy in front of him laughs.

“You going to try and save your friends now?”

He hesitates, looking to where you guys are gathered, Taeyong frozen in fear. HIs hesitation was long enough for the man to begin to step back, so Jisung pulls the knife you had given him earlier to stop him from getting away.

It stings to the touch, but according to Kun it wasn’t deadly to Jisung unless it penetrated the skin. He runs forward slashing the man in the stomach. Blood dripping from out of everywhere, literally. Who would’ve thought Wolf’s Venom would cause a Vampire to bleed out from their mouth and eyes.

It’s for a second time that he hears a shout, only this time it’s coming from Chenle. A sound Jisung had never heard before. He runs towards your group, the mob seemingly disappearing. Chenle is on the ground, holding onto you. You who happen to be on the floor with blood pooling below you.

“Anyone got a tampon?” You joke, the blood pouring out faster than you’d expected. Your brother stands before you with tears in his eyes threatening to spill. He holds your hand tightly, “Can you not make a joke when you’re not okay.”

“Can you not scold me when I’m dying?”

“You’re not dying.” He shouts.

Jisung is frozen in place, memories with you filling his mind. You can’t die, there’s no way you can die. He hadn’t even got to take you out on a first date.

Taeyong grabs onto you as you slowly begin to fall unconscious. “I’ll take her to Kun.”

“She’s going to be okay right?” Jisung asks the question as if he’s begging for the answer to be yes.

Taeyong frowns, “We will try.”

Chenle is in distress. Renjun tries to pull him back as he tries to follow along. “I can’t leave her.” He pleads, “She can’t leave me.”

Jisung stares at his friend, in all of their years of friendships he would’ve never expected to see this side of Chenle. He also never would’ve expected to see your dying self be taken away by a Vampire.

“Jisung, you promised to save her. Do it, keep your promise.” He flinches at the words. Chenle wants for him to turn you, that would be the only way. And for a moment, he debates it.

October 31st

It had been a day since they had been able to defeat the evil vampire man, which was a stupid way to call him but since Jisung hadn’t exactly known him what else would he say. He’d learned later that the man went by Jackson, he had been an old Vampire, even older than Kun, who had lost his own sister to humans.

Kun had said he’d been a good man, until it’d drove him crazy. His sister was the only family he had left, and with the way he found her bleeding out on the floor, it was enough to make him vow to destroy all of mankind.

Halloween was today, your favorite holiday. You hadn’t woken yet, which Kun said was normal due to the amount of blood you had lost. It was hardly a miracle you had survived. Given the bite you received from Jisung earlier that night you were able to transform. Now they could only wait to hear what you would say once you woke.

Renjun was in the corner coddling Chenle, who was very annoyed over the fact that he wouldn’t stop taunting him for his tears. Renjun was on only child, so he’d never understand.

“It’s okay lele, you can cry some more if you will feel better.” Renjun teased.

“Can you shut up?”

“I’m definitely telling y/n about how you were sobbing all over her!” Xiaojun laughs.

“You tell her anything and I’m going to kill you before you can even finish your sentence.”

“Are you going to cry over his dead body too?” Jisung adds, Chenle frowning at him, “Hey you’re not any different! You cried just as much as I did!”

“You know, I do want to mention I find it odd about how we never saw the Witch and the mob happened to disappear the second Jisung killed Jackson.” Renjun comments.

“I was searching on the web a bit,” Xiaojun starts, “I saw that this legend of the witch has been a thing for a long time. You guys remember the camp attacks from last year? That was around the same time as now.”

The Camp Attacks at Graze town, only an hour away, was all over the news last year. Jisung remembered hanging out at Chenle’s house and peeking at the news station that happened to be reporting on the scene.

Before he can say anything their names are called. Jisung running immediately into your room. He finds you sitting, a blood pint in your hands, just as you’d caught him before.

“Hello, Did you miss me?” You wink, he moves quickly to pull you in for a hug. The rest of the group making their way into the room.

“Super speed, really Jisung?” Renjun Complains.

“Lele!” You call out to him urging him to come closer. He steps forward, Jisung still wrapped around your side. “Come on!” You pull him in for a hug with your arm.

“Ouch.” He says, the strength you used being a little too strong.

“Sorry! I don’t know how Jisung did it so naturally, I keep accidentally overthinking and then using way more strength than necessary.”

“Well you know, i’m a special case.” Jisung smiles, you tsk at him. “You saying i’m not special?”

“Of course not, you’re special to me. Always.”

“Ah you sap!” You playfully hit his arm.

“Gross, can’t you guys not do that in public.” Xiaojun fake gags.

“Do what?” You ask innocently.

“Flirt.” Renjun replies.

You gasp, “Jiwi, are you flirting with me right now?”

He hums, “Now that I think about it, I guess that’s exactly what you could call it?”

Chenle groans, “Oh this is disgusting i’m going to have to deal with this everyday.”

The group laugh, Taeyong stepping in quietly. “If possible, could I have a word with y/n? Alone.”

The rest agree, leaving the room to them both. Jisung refuses to move, whining at the little pat y/n gives him, “Come in Jiwi, just for a second.”

“Actually he can stay,” Taeyong says, “I want to apologize y/n, this would’ve never happened if it weren’t for the fact that I froze mid battle and allowed for you to be left vulnerable. I just–“ He pauses, “I saw, the zombie creature and it looked just like. It looked just like my first love.”

Jisung thinks back to the first conversation they had, the mentions of dating a human. “The human you once loved?”

Taeyong nodded, “I will never forget the look in his face. He’s never wanted to turn, he never wanted an immortal life and there he was. Being forced into the life he never wanted, he was a puppet.”

“You don’t have to explain,” You spoke out, “I can’t imagine being in your position. What matters now is that we’re all okay, and I don’t blame you or anyone for anything.”

“Thank you.” Taeyong cries out, “I’ll let you guys be, i’ve got to visit someone.”

You nod, “Let me know when you’re back home, yeah?” He nods, stepping out of the room and wiping his tears.

“I’m sorry.” Jisung says, his head lowering.

“What for?”

“I realized just now that you never got to choose this life either. You’d turned even if you didn’t want to, all because of me.”

You laugh wholeheartedly, Jisung looking up into your eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just you’re too cute.”

“Whys this funny?” Jisung blushes.

“Because, I have always loved vampires. I’ve always wished they were real and when I found out you were one,” You took in a breath, “I’d been begging silently that you’d turn me one day.”

“Huh?” Jisung had never known this. And he valued himself on knowing everything about you. How is it that this could’ve slipped his mind?

“I love vampires, hadn’t lele ever told you before?”

The memory rings in his head, ‘She’s a fan of those sharp tooth creatures’

“Who?” Jisung had asked.

“Y/N. I said that already, have you been paying any attention?”

“So all of this time, you loved Vampires?” His eyes widen.

“How else do you think I was able to guess you became one so quickly?”

He’s genuinely appalled, “I watched Jaws for you.”

You laugh again, “Jaws? I’ve never even seen that film.”He covers his mouth, his ears becoming red at the realization. “Come on, you’re so cute I need to kiss you.”

“You lied to me!” He feigns hurt.

“Shut up would you?” You say before pulling him into a kiss. It feels warm and fuzzy and perfect. There’s no better outcome than this one, you have Jisung wrapping his arms around you, his fangs biting on your lip slightly, only making you deepen the kiss more.

A yell from Xiaojun is heard from the door along with scattered footsteps, “I’m traumatized!”

You pull away, biting your own lip to keep yourself from bursting out laughing. Jisung isn’t ready for the end though, so he pulls you in again, this time hoping none of you ever have to pull away.

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ragnarockz · 2 months ago

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Agatha All Along Week Day 1: Jealousy

Summary: Vidal cannot shake the past romantic relationship that Agnes and Alice once had.

Pairings: Detective Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal

Rating: Mature (NSFW)

Inspo: Girlfriend by Alicia Keys

*Italicized parts are lyrics from song inspo above*

@agathaallalongweek

Alice Wu Gulliver was like a haunting that filled the little spaces in Vidal and Agnes' home. The second Vidal thought Alice was just another thought in the wind; something else would pop up and place her alongside the two of them.

A dusty key chain with ALICE on it found in the basement tossed in a random box of decorations, a well worn band tee shirt that Agnes had shoved in her drawer and got it stuck so that Vidal had to take the entire drawer out to fix. The shirt fell out of its hiding place like a rotten tooth knocked loose.

There were so many things Vidal wanted to say to Agnes; to ask her. Vidal of course respected her girlfriends privacy and history; the very hard life she had to endure before they even met. There was a sadness in Agnes that Vidal knew she couldn't fix. But, why would she? That sadness made Agnes who she was and she loved the woman Agnes was; all of her. It was of course more than just accepting Agnes for the person that she was. Vidal wanted to understand the woman Agnes was and it was very rare Agnes allowed for that.

It wasn't anger or disappointment towards the detective and the longer Vidal mused about her feelings, she had slowly come to realize what the feeling was that burned in her chest. Jealousy. A whole lifetime away that Vidal knew she would never get to experience with Agnes. A whole eclipse of time that she would never be allowed to look back on with fondness or sadness simply because their paths had not crossed that early on.

But, of course, Agnes and Alice's paths had crossed and without a doubt, they could look back with fondness and sadness.

Vidal sucked in her cheeks as she refolded the shirt and tucked it at the very bottom of Agnes' messy tee shirt pile before fixing the drawer and slamming it shut.

Alice lived with them even if she didn't know it; wasn't physically walking around and touching their things.

Alice sat at the table during dinner whenever Agnes mentioned something about an 8 dollar steak and eggs meal she used to get just after Nicky was born and she was craving meat. That place no longer existed; no longer could one get a meal like that for that price.

Alice was in their bed whenever Agnes pulled out the Polaroid camera to take pictures of Vidal; always making them as graphic and pornographic as she could. Vidal did not mind; loved how they got Agnes off and loved how it was a little keepsake of their love, desire, affection, passion. Vidal only pouted and rolled her eyes when Agnes would position her in a certain way that Vidal had seen in the same fashion of the Polaroids of Alice that were tucked away in that box under Nicky's bed. Agnes knew that Vidal knew; knew that her girlfriend had seen the Polaroids. Agnes was aware that Vidal, most likely, knew she was being asked to pose in the same way Agnes once asked Alice to pose all those years ago.

Alice lingered around and inside the room that always had the door closed. She made her presence known in there as Agnes, if ever, opened that door to go inside. It was locked up like a secret; a burning, disgusting secret that Agnes never had the heart to spill out. It chewed at Vidal's heart and she knew, no matter how much prodding or coaxing, she could never get it out of the detective.

May be silly for me to feel/This way about you and her/'Cause I know she's been such a good friend/I know she had helped you through

"Why don't we ever talk about Alice?"

Vidal whispered as she peered between her legs and down at Agnes' face. She caught those blue eyes staring back at her; the bottom half of her face hidden by the mound of Vidal's pubis. There was embarrassment and fear in them that Vidal could recognize while she laid there with a smug look on her face. She wanted Agnes to feel slightly uncomfortable while she had her tongue swirling her current girlfriend's clit while her brain was rapidly forced to think about her ex-girlfriend.

Agnes pulled her mouth away and caught her breath before wiping her lips against the inside of Vidal's thigh. They were both silent as they stared one another down. Vidal's eyebrows rose in question and waited for Agnes to respond.

"...Do we need to?"

Vidal's eyes went wider as she blinked. She was staring Agnes down with a look of impatience that Agnes definitely received. Vidal watched as the detective let out a low and deep exhale through her mouth before clearing her throat.

"You want to talk about her right now?"

Vidal shrugged against the pillow as she brought her hands up to rest behind her head; propping herself up a little better. She gave Agnes a tight smile in response and waited.

It was definitely something, Agnes thought as her gaze drifted back down to the space between Vidal's open legs, to be asked about your ex while eating your current partner out.

"What...do you want me to say?"

Vidal's eyes narrowed as she jutted her chin forward a little; held her breath with the air of superiority. What did she want Agnes to say?

"How come she's still here? Why can't you let her go?"

Agnes opened her mouth to reply but no words, no sounds came out. She was struck dumb by the bluntness of Vidal's questions. Struck dumb because she knew Vidal was right. Why was Alice still here in little ways that didn't add much to anything? Why was she allowed to haunt this home alongside Nicholas as well?

Alice was alive; Nicholas was not.

Alice had moved on; Agnes had not.

"If it wasn't for her, Vidal...I don't think I'd be here right now...in between your legs...she shares a special part of me..."

Vidal remained silent as she shifted a little against the bed; shifted her legs so that they opened a little wider in invitation. Agnes' eyebrows rose as she bowed her head once more; tongue chasing before her mouth did as she made contact again with Vidal's clitoral hood. She made broad strokes with her tongue before pressing the tip of her tongue right down onto the tiny pulsing nub. Vidal let out a shaky, ragged breath as she sunk a little deeper and closed her eyes to focus on the sensation Agnes was providing her with.

You said that she's one who helped you see/How deep you're in love with me

Vidal was still tangled in the sheets at 5 am; deep in her sleep from another night of having nothing but being worshiped by Agnes. Agnes, on the other hand, was up and dressed and already in the kitchen grabbing a coffee and a granola bar before heading out with the box tucked under her arm. She closed the front door as quietly as she could behind her and locked it before heading to the car. She unlocked it, opened the passenger seat and placed the box there before quietly closing the door and making her way over to the driver's side.

She had woken up an hour ago and felt like Vidal was in her mind; talking into her ear. Why was she holding on so dearly to all of this? Why couldn't she let go? Why couldn't she fully direct all of her love and attention to Vidal? Alice was nothing more than the past and everything that physically lingered continued to hold Agnes back and she herself knew it. As quietly as she could, Agnes had gathered up all of the things she no longer needed and put them into a box.

Agnes drove with determination; the radio turned low with one of her CDs playing. The weather had changed within the hour from somewhat sunny to overcast with the promise of rain. It pulled Agnes right back to the day that she and Alice said their goodbyes in that coffee shop with the box Alice had gifted her in the chair between them.

Maybe, Agnes thought as she pulled into Alice and Jen's driveway, turning off and parking the car, it would be one less ghost haunting her and Vidal.

Agnes got out and made her way back around to the passenger side; opening the door and taking out the box. She grabbed it with both hands and walked up the walkway to their front door. She doubted they were even awake yet as she knew, from years ago, Alice loved to sleep in. Agnes placed the box on the welcome mat and gave it one last look before she took the envelope out of her heavy canvas jacket pocket and slipped it under the lid.

She backed up one step and then two, before she turned her back to head back to the car once more.

And you say that you feel/I'm the best thing in your life/And I know it's real/And I see it in your eyes

It had been more or less twenty five years since Agnes had walked into this coffee shop. Many things had changed and yet, a lot of it still stayed the same. New and upgraded appliances and seating. Old and weathered paint and floor tiles. Agnes pulled in a deep breath and then sighed it out; legs wobbly as she walked towards the counter to order. She stole a glance over to where that meeting had taken place all those years ago and realized as she was called next in line, that ghosts would follow her no matter where she went.

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wandamaximoffsbadgirl · 1 year ago

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How You and I Became We

Natasha Romanoff x GN!Reader

Warnings: Light mentions of the red room, Natasha having PTSD, a lot of tooth rotting fluff of reader helping Nat through things and being her rock

Word count: 885

A/N: I felt bad for making Nat the bad guy and had to make up for it. So here she is, being baby and soft.

You met Natasha after she defected from Russia, claiming she wanted to do better and be better. Fury assigned her to you and Barton. Field missions she'd head out with Clint then report back to you.

Slowly you learned things about Natasha especially since you two shared an apartment. Fury had asked if you could take her in since she had nowhere to go and it would take her a bit to save up for her own place.

It was your first night together when you learned about her need to handcuff herself to the bed. You tried to reassure her that she didn't need that and she assured you that she did.

You compromised with her by holding her wrist through the night. You got little sleep that whole first week, but you'd slept worse before.

Slowly you were able to let go of your grip until she didn't need it anymore though you found her still seeking out your touch to help her fall asleep, it usually became your hands intertwined and eventually you'd start waking up with more than just your hands intertwined.

Over time you had learned Natasha's habits and you find her seeking out your office for its comforting atmosphere. The soft yellow lights, soft lofi music, comfy couches, and snuggly blankets. She'd come in quietly, if your desk hadn't faced the door you probably wouldn't even know she'd slipped in as she grabbed a blanket, wrapping herself up and laying down.

She'd start talking in Russian assuming you didn't understand, but you knew several languages. She'd complain about various things, especially the red room. You had learned a lot from her file that Fury gave you and you knew about the Red Room and the horrible things that had gone on there. Natasha only confirmed them as she spoke in Russian.

“Krasnaya komnata isportila vsyu moyu zhizn'. U menya v bukhgalterskoy knige stol'ko krasnogo, i ya ne znayu, smogu li ya kogda-nibud' eto ispravit'... YA ne ponimayu, pochemu ty tak dobr ko mne…(The red room fucked with my whole life over. I've got so much red in my ledger and I don't know if I'll ever be able to fix it...I don't understand why you're so nice to me…)”

You looked up from your paperwork. She wasn't looking at you, just staring off, as she tugged on a loose string of the blanket. You had heard her say a lot of negative things since you had met, but she had never brought you into it so you figured it was time,

“YA dobr k tebe, potomu chto ty mne nravish'sya, Natal'ya. YA dumayu, ty khoroshiy chelovek. Prosto potomu, chto oni kontrolirovali vas tak, kak oni eto delali, vy reshili uyti, chtoby stat' luchshe, potomu chto vy luchshe. To, cherez chto oni zastavili vas proyti, bylo obuslovleno vami, no eto ne znachit, chto eto vy. (I'm nice to you because I like you Natalia. I think you're a good person. Just because they controlled you the way they did it was your decision to leave, to be better because you are better. What they put you through was conditioned into you it doesn't mean it is you.)” you leaned back in your chair, she shot up, blanket falling off of her.

“You can speak Russian?” Her voice wavered as you nodded.

“The whole time?”

“Yes. I didn't want you to stop venting, but I don't want you questioning why I'm nice to you. It's not because I have to be. It's because I want to be. I actually genuinely like you Natalia.” You stood up, making your way around your desk until you were in front of her. She stood a few inches taller than you as you looked up into her striking green eyes.

“Why…?” You shrug.

“Why do we like anything? Or anyone for that matter? Emotions are weird and complicated, but that's okay because there doesn't have to be some big hidden meaning behind why I like you. Do you like me?” Natasha nods, making you smile and slowly reach out for her hand, she allows you to intertwine your fingers. “Then that's all that matters, don't you think?” She looks away and down and everywhere, but at you until you take your other hand and gently cup her cheek which brings her attention back to you. “It's okay to feel this way Tasha. No one is going to stop you, especially not me.” You barely had time to blink before her lips pressed against yours softly.

You let your hand move to the back of her head so she couldn't pull back too quickly as you kissed back, letting your lips dance for the first time.

You let her go, pulling back only to have her chase your lips, gripping your cheeks and pulling you back in as you fall against the couch, her now straddling your lap as she kisses you with a fever like she's suddenly addicted to you and can't get enough until you both need air. Breathing heavily, feeling her hot breath against your face. You grip her hips pulling her closer.

“I do hope that you don't leave me all hot and bothered with just your kisses.” You breathe out, kissing her jaw and neck.

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

#ley speaks #ley drabbles #ley writes #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff #natasha x you #natasha romanoff x gn!reader #natasha romanoff fluff

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berryispunk · 3 months ago

Text

At Last

Chapter 9 of "Rain Down on Me" for the April Showers challenge by @jolapeno

series masterlist

pairing: Frankie Morales x ofc! reader (Summer)

tags: enemies to lovers, emotional chaos, love confessions, curse words , all the tension, a dance, smut (finally!!), fluff, all the feelings, they are just idiots in love your honor

notes: this is it guys, the grande finale! who's cutting onions here? geez. for the full experience I recommend listening to this , you'll understand why. thanks from the bottom of my heart for loving these two idiots. this isn't goodbye, this is see you later.

word count: ~ 6,9 k

The sun was too warm on your shoulders. The breeze too soft. The music too pretty.

You stood beneath the swaying palm trees, hands clasped loosely in front of you, eyes fixed on the couple at the front—Monica glowing in lace, Will looking at her like he still couldn’t believe she’s his and you felt your heart split clean in two.

You smiled, of course. For Monica. For your best friend, your roommate from that awful first apartment with the flickering kitchen light and the cracked tiles and the way you used to eat boxed mac and cheese off the floor when you were too tired to find chairs.

You remembered every version of her.

The one with a chipped tooth from falling off a scooter when you were seven. The one who cried over boys who didn’t deserve her in the first place. The one who once said, drunk and barefoot on New Year’s Eve, “I don’t think I’ll ever get married. No one knows how to love me long enough.”

And now here she was.

Radiant, steady and so full of love it pulsed out of her like sunlight.

Your eyes burned with tears.

You were happy for her. God, you were so happy. But at the same time, there was this weight in your chest you couldn’t shake. This quiet grief for all the versions of yourself you used to believe in—the ones who swore love like this was coming for you too. That you wouldn’t be the one who messed things up. Who ran. Who didn’t know how to hold on when it mattered most.

You weren’t jealous, not exactly.

It was more like mourning. Mourning what you didn’t have, what you hadn’t been ready for. What you still didn’t know how to ask for.

And then—Frankie, fuck, Frankie Morales. The man who was as infuriating as he was soft.

You felt his gaze on you before you even turned.

Stolen glances, like he couldn’t help himself. Like just seeing you unraveled something inside him. You didn’t dare look back for too long—just enough to feel the weight of it, to let it settle in the hollow behind your ribs, where all the wanting lived, breathing and growing, alive and restless, getting bigger by the second. You exhaled slowly and forced your attention back to Monica.

But Frankie’s eyes on you stayed, you felt it even when you weren’t looking. The ache did too.

Much later, when the sun dipped low and the music turned slow and golden, you found yourself on the dance floor with Will. The crowd had thinned, and his new wife was laughing somewhere near the cake table, her veil tossed aside and her heels abandoned, carefree and beaming in a way you’d never seen before.

“You better treat her right,” you said, half-playful, half-aching.

Will smiled, warm and solid as always. “Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”

You moved slowly, swaying in the soft light. He looked at you then—really looked. Like he saw something cracking open behind your smile but before he could say something Frankie approached you.

Hands tucked in his pockets. Shirt sleeves rolled. That unreadable look on his face—the one that somehow still said everything. His curls wild and unruly from running his hand through them a thousand times. Something you noticed he did a lot, at least when he wasn’t wearing that damn cap.

“Mind if I steal her for a minute?” he asked, voice low.

Will didn’t answer right away. Just glanced at you, steady and knowing, which made you wonder how much Monica told him. Something quiet passed between you—understanding, maybe or permission.

Then he clapped Frankie’s shoulder and stepped back, leaving only the both of you behind.

Frankie held out his hand and you took it.

And that was it.

The song changed.Fix You floated through the air, slow and familiar, threading its way into every crack you tried to hide. Frankie's hand found your waist, his other hand slipping into yours like it had always been meant to fit there. You started to sway—cautious at first. Stiff. Electric with everything unsaid.

Then something gave way. He pulled you closer—not much, just enough to feel him.

Your heart plummeted as you looked up.

Of course he was already watching you, his warm brown eyes unreadable.

He wasn’t asking, not demanding. Just... waiting. And you—aching, worn thin from pretending—stepped in. Let yourself want it.

Just for this one song, just for this one, fragile moment.

Frankie’s hand was warm at your back. His palm steady against your bare back like he knew exactly how to hold you without making you feel trapped. Like he remembered you—what you needed, what you could take.

The lights blurred behind him. Laughter faded. Glasses clinked in the distance, someone shouted something about tequila—and none of it touched you, none of it mattered.

Not in this soft bubble of music and memory and longing.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. Your eyes stayed on the open collar of his shirt, too afraid to meet his gaze just yet. Not when you were this close. Not when the smell of him—clean skin and sweat and soap—felt like a gut-punch.

Frankie said nothing, just moved in sync with you. Like he’d been waiting for this dance his whole life.

“You look beautiful,” he said eventually, barely above a whisper.

Your lips parted but no words came out. Just a sharp inhale you tried to hide and your cheeks heating.

He cleared his throat like it hurt to say it, or maybe to break the heavy silence between you. The silence that somehow said more than any words could.

You looked up, slow and unsteady, and found his eyes waiting for you. It felt like slipping into something inevitable—weightless, quiet, safe.

But it also stirred up the ache—the impossible kind of wanting that set you alight from the inside.

“How long,” you said softly, “are we gonna keep playing pretend?”

Frankie blinked and his grip on your waist tightened—just enough to ground you, or to steady himself.

“Summer,” he said, voice cracking in the middle like your name was a wound.

You didn’t look away, didn’t even flinch.

Just waited.

The music swelled between you.

Frankie’s jaw clenched. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes like it hurt to look too long.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” he said.

You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for weeks.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

He didn’t move. Didn’t kiss you. Didn’t pull you closer, even though you could feel the tension in him like a live wire. But his forehead dropped to yours, just barely. His breath warm against your skin. And for the rest of the song, you didn’t say anything else, you just held on.

—

Frankie didn’t remember the last time he danced. Not really, not like this.

Not with someone who made the air around him feel heavier and lighter all at once. Not with someone who looked up at him like maybe—just maybe—he could be more than the sum of all his fuckups.

Your hand was in his. Your other rested gently against his shoulder, and his palm was at the small of your back, fingers curled soft against your bare skin.

You were warm and steady, right here and so incredibly close he could inhale your scent. Something sweet, but also heavy, mixed with sun cream and your body heat.

This closeness, you, scared the hell out of him. Not the way danger used to—fast and sharp and adrenaline-laced. This was quieter, slower. It crept in like a tide and sat heavy in his chest, because it mattered. You mattered. More than he would ever say out loud.

And you’d just looked at him—eyes wide, voice steady—and asked how long you were gonna keep pretending. Like you weren’t scared to ask and casually cracked him open with these words.

How long are we gonna keep playing pretend?

His first instinct had been to deflect, joke. Make it easier, being defensive, because that’s what he can best.

But he couldn’t, not this time. Not when you were looking at him like that. Eyes trained on his, like searching for answers in his face. The reflection of the fairy lights illuminated in them, sparkling like stars and it was dangerously beautiful.

The silence after echoed in him as you swayed under the glow of the lights and cheap hotel lanterns. Your forehead leaned into his. Your breath soft and steady. You didn’t pull away, neither did he.

And Frankie wanted to say everything.

He wanted to tell you that it was easier when you were bantering. When you rolled your eyes at him and called him out and made him laugh so hard his stomach ached. That it was safer when you hated him a little, or at least pretended to, because then he didn’t have to deal with this: The need. That raw, aching want clawing its way up his spine, tightening every muscle in his body with the sheer effort it took not to devour you right then and there—like you were the best thing he'd ever tasted, and he’d been starving.

Or the way he woke up thinking about you and went to sleep hoping you were dreaming of him too. He wanted to tell you that he’d thought of that kiss every damn day since it happened. That it haunted him. That it made him believe in things he’d stopped believing in a long time ago.

But what scared him most—what rooted him to the dance floor, still and slow and unraveling—was that you weren’t just the fantasy anymore. You were real, in his arms, dancing and it was way worse than anything he made up in his mind. Because he got greedy and wanted all of it, all of you. Even the parts you kept guarded. The sharp ones, the quiet ones. The ones you thought needed hiding.

He wanted you. It was as simple and as complicated as that. And if you gave him the chance, he swore he wouldn’t waste it.

But he didn’t say all of it, not yet. But he held you closer. Let you feel it in the way his thumb traced circles at the small of your back. In the way his forehead stayed pressed against yours. In the way he breathed your name soft, like a promise:

“Summer…”

You looked up at him.

Slow, careful, brows lifted like you were about to ask something, but you didn’t. Like maybe the truth had finally settled between you—no more dodging, no more games. Just this quiet understanding humming beneath your skin.

And in your eyes?

God, Frankie saw it all. The fear, the ache, the want that matched his own so perfectly it knocked the breath out of his lungs.

It was like looking in a mirror and finally seeing the thing he’d been too scared to name.

He didn’t move, didn’t dare to. Didn’t even blink. Because if he did, he might miss the way your lips parted like you were about to say something else. Something more.

But then—

“Alright, alright, my turn,” Benny’s voice cut through the moment like a goddamn chainsaw. “I wanna dance with the hot one too.”

Frankie stiffened instantly. His hand tightened at your waist before he let go, reluctantly. You pulled back, blinking, the spell was broken, just like that.

You looked at Benny, then at Frankie, and something flickered in your face—something he couldn’t quite read. Like you were lost for a second. Confused, maybe even a little hurt. But then you smiled. That same sharp, bright smile you always used when you wanted to hide whatever was cracking underneath.

“Careful, Miller,” you said, stepping away, “you keep talking like that, people are gonna think you have taste.”

Benny just laughed and spun you toward the center of the dance floor, where the music had shifted to something fast and loud—some pop song Frankie didn’t recognize. You danced with him.

Smiling, swaying, laughing at something he said—your body moving effortlessly to the pulse of the music. Frankie tried not to look too hard, tried not to let his gaze linger on the way your hips rolled, the way your dress clung like it had been made for you.

But your eyes kept finding his, over and over.

And Frankie—he just stood there. Hands clenched at his sides. Watching Benny’s fingers settle too easily at your waist. Watching the light catch on your dress. Watching your smile falter every time your eyes locked with his and his blood boiled.

Because the moment had been yours and now it was gone.

—

He didn’t know how long he stood there.

Long enough for the lights to dim. For the playlist to shift again. For the air to start feeling smaller, louder, hotter.

He’d lost track of how many times you looked back at him. How many times Benny’s hands touched your waist or your arm or your lower back like it was nothing. Like you were nothing.

And then Benny came stumbling back from the bar, two drinks in hand, cheeks flushed, tie crooked, grinning like he hadn’t just ruined everything.

He handed Frankie a beer, sloshing some on the floor in the process. “You gonna sulk all night, bro? It’s a wedding, not a funeral.”

Frankie didn’t answer and Benny, the idiot he was, clinked bottles anyway, shrugged and leaned against the wall beside him.

“She’s a good time, huh?” he said casually, watching you out on the dance floor with some of the other guests. Smiling, chatting, but still not unguarded.

Frankie’s jaw tensed.

Benny took a drink. “You think she’d let me hit it? Just once? I mean—” he smirked, “—you’re clearly not doing shit about it.”

It happened so fast, Frankie didn’t even think. Just heard the sound of the bottle shattering as it hit the ground, felt the heat of his fist connecting with Benny’s jaw.

Benny stumbled back, stunned—then came at him like the soldier he was.

The next minute was fists, blood, and chaos. Chairs knocked over, glass breaking. Monica’s screaming echoing through the night. Frankie took a hit to the ribs, one to the cheek. His knuckles split open against Benny’s shoulder. They slammed into a table—furniture crashing, something splintering beneath them. Voices blurred in the background. Someone shouting for security. Then—through the haze—he caught the sound of Will and Santi, yelling, grabbing, pulling.

Hands on his shoulders. Arms locked around his chest and dragging them apart before one of them did something they couldn’t take back.

It took both of them—Will with an arm around Frankie’s chest, Santi holding Benny back by the collar.

Frankie’s breathing was ragged, chest heaving, lip split and tasting blood in his mouth.But he was still burning. It had been a long time since he ticked out like this—since the rage took hold and blurred everything else out. Rationality? Gone. There was only heat in his veins, white and blinding.

“You ever talk about her like that again,” he spat, voice wrecked and raw, “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Benny wiped the blood from his nose, eyes locked on Frankie over Santi’s shoulder like he wasn’t finished either.

Then Monica was there—storming across the floor like a fuse had been lit, her dress flaring behind her like a streak of fire.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she screamed, fury cracking her voice wide open.

Frankie didn’t answer, he couldn’t.His chest was heaving and his fists still clenched.

Monica pointed to the exit, hand shaking with fury. “Get out. Now!”

Will’s grip tightened on Frankie’s shoulder—solid, steady—but it barely registered. Frankie’s eyes didn’t leave the chaos. The wreckage he made.

Until they landed on you. And everything else went still.

You stood there frozen.

Eyes widened in shock and face pale. One hand still curled against your chest like you were holding something in. He didn’t know what shattered more in that moment—your expression or whatever was left of his restraint.He let Will steer him out, defeated. Stumbling and bleeding as the adrenalin wore off and the pain was slowly sinking in.

—

He was slouched low on one of the lobby couches, a tissue pressed half-assed to his lip. His knuckles throbbed—split open and swelling—and his pride felt even worse. Blood on his shirt. Shame in his gut. The buzz of wedding music still faint through the walls like a bad joke.

And then—

Your voice cut through it all.

“Don’t fucking move.”

He looked up and there you were—standing at the edge of the lobby like you’d been summoned. Hair a little out of place, dress still perfect. A small bag clutched in one hand, a first aid kit in the other. And eyes so full of fire he swore he could feel the heat of them across the room.

You crossed the distance without waiting for him to speak.

Dropped the bag at his feet and sat next to him on the couch like you were doing something simple, like laundry or tying your shoes. But your hands trembled just a little when you opened the kit, your breath sharp and uneven when you said, “Let me see.”

Frankie didn’t move, didn’t argue either. What would be the point anyway?

He let you take the tissue from his lip. Hissed when you dabbed at the cut with antiseptic. You rolled your eyes like he was being dramatic, but you didn’t pull away. Your fingers brushed his jaw—gentle, steady, infuriatingly kind. He wanted to apologize, but the words got stuck somewhere behind the pain and the guilt and the heavy way you looked at him.

You didn’t speak until you were holding an ice pack against his knuckles, your brow furrowed in that soft, focused way he knew too well.

Then finally: “Why the hell did it happen, Frankie?”

And it wasn’t just a question, it was the question.

The one about all of it. About you, him, Benny. Every word left unsaid since the moment you looked up at him on that dance floor with those eyes full of everything he felt too.

Frankie let out a shaky and rough breath.

“He said something,” he mumbled.

“I figured.”

“About you.”

You were quiet.

“I know it doesn’t fix anything,” he added, eyes on the ice pack now, not your face. “And I know I fucked everything up even worse, but—” he swallowed hard, jaw tight, “—he talked about you like you were nothing. And I just—I couldn’t take it.”

He looked up slowly.

“You’re not nothing,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not to me.”

And in the echoing silence of the lobby, with the soft hum of the vending machine and the ache in his ribs and blood drying under his nails, he realized just how true that was.

Too late, too loud, too fucking much.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at him, eyes unreadable, hands still gently pressing the ice to his bruised knuckles. Frankie could feel his pulse there, thudding under your touch. And for a second, he thought maybe you’d let the silence stretch.

But then you scoffed. Soft, dry. Almost a laugh, except it wasn’t.

“Oh great,” you muttered, flicking your gaze away. “So you punched Benny Miller in the face because of honor. That’s very medieval of you.”

He blinked. “Summer—”

“No, seriously,” you said, shaking your head like you were scolding a toddler. “Was it before or after he asked if I was a fair maiden in need of rescuing?”

Frankie winced. “He was drunk.”

“And you were stupid.”

Your words were sharp, clipped and hit exactly where you intended them to land. But your hands never stopped moving—still cradling his, still careful with the swelling. The contradiction twisted something in his chest.

You sighed. And for the first time, let your voice soften. Just a little.

“I don’t need you to fight for me, Frankie,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I needed you to choose me. And you didn’t.”

Then, like you regretted saying that much, you dropped the ice pack into his lap, stood up, and added—cool and casual:

“But hey… at least now you’ve got matching bruises to go with your ego.”

You grabbed the little first aid kit off the couch and walked away without looking back.

Frankie stayed behind—bleeding in more ways than one, swallowing down the flood of feeling threatening to break the surface. At least he’d finally said what he never had the guts to before, even if the price he paid for it would leave marks—on his body, and somewhere far deeper—for a long time to come.

——

It was way too late or way too early.

Somewhere in that unbearable space between the two, where everything felt a little too raw, too real. In the distance, a thunderstorm was gathering, thickening the air to suffocating levels, with the hot rain tapping softly against the hotel room windows.

The room was dark again, save for the faint glow of the hallway light bleeding in through the crack under the door. Frankie hadn’t said a word since you walked in behind him. Just sat on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, eyes trained on nothing.

You didn’t say anything either. Not about the fight. Not about the look he’d given you before Benny cut in. Not about the quiet way he bled like he deserved it.

Instead, you swore like hell.

“God—fuck—seriously?” you muttered, yanking at the back of your dress. “Who the hell designed this thing, Houdini?”

The zipper wouldn’t budge. Your arms were bent at the worst angle, and the sweat from the heat made everything stick to your skin in the most unholy way. You twisted toward the mirror and tried again, growling under your breath when it didn’t give.

Behind you, Frankie shifted in the dark.

“Want help?” he asked quietly. His voice rough, tired. Still bleeding around the edges.

You froze as you caught his reflection in the mirror.

His face was bruised and a little swollen but his eyes were dark and unreadable.

A hundred replies danced on your tongue. Most of them sarcastic, all of them defensive.But you were exhausted. And sore. And done pretending.

“Only if you promise not to go full knight-in-shining-armor about it,” you muttered, not turning around.

He stood up and took slow steps until he was right behind you—close, but not touching. His hands hovered near your lower back like he wasn’t sure if he had permission yet.

You didn’t move.

And then—

The soft tug of the zipper. The cool air on your overheated spine.

The slow, deliberate slide of fabric peeling away, like a second skin surrendering.

You swore you stopped breathing for a second.

Frankie’s fingers brushed the dip of your back by accident—or maybe on purpose—and it felt like an electric shock straight to your lungs. You caught his gaze in the mirror again. His jaw was tight. His eyes trained on the zipper.

When the dress was loose enough, he stepped back. Didn’t say a single word, didn’t try to touch you again. Just stood there like he was scared he’d ruin something by staying close.

You pulled the dress the rest of the way down and stepped out of it, only in your slip, still feeling the ghost of his fingers all over your skin.

You looked at him over your shoulder.

“You can look,” you said, tone light, almost teasing—but your voice caught halfway through.

Because he was looking but it was different than you thought it would be. This wasn’t lust or cockiness. It was awe.

Like he didn’t know how the hell you ended up here, in the same room as him, half-undressed and heartbreakingly real.

And somehow, that was worse than all the banter. Because it meant he was honest, about what he said earlier, mirrored in his face, written all over it.

You turned away before he could say anything and crawled into bed, staring at the ceiling.

But the heat was back. Not just Florida heat this time.

Him, always him.

You flopped onto your back with a groan, one arm slung dramatically over your eyes.

“Christ,” you muttered, “this state should be illegal. Everything sticks. My hair, my thighs, my dignity.”

Frankie gave a soft snort behind you. “You lost that at the open bar, I think.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—you’re judging me? You, the guy who threw hands at a wedding and got blood on the centerpiece flowers?”

He didn’t answer. You dared to peek out from under your arm, caught the corner of his mouth twitch like he was trying not to smile. God, he was ridiculous. Bloody and bruised and still so stupidly handsome in that wrinkled dress shirt, sitting in the chair next to the bed like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Like being near you might hurt worse than Benny’s punch.

“Besides,” you added, voice lighter than you felt, “at least I didn’t start a fight.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You’re really gonna pretend you don’t know why I did it?”

You pushed yourself up on one elbow. Sweaty, bare-legged, with your hair a mess and your heart somewhere in your throat.

“Frankie,” you said slowly, “you can’t just beat the shit out of your friend and then go mute about it.”

He looked away. Jaw tight again.

Of course. That fucking silence again, the one that always came right when it mattered most.

Your chest squeezed, too full of things you couldn’t name or wouldn’t. You swung your legs off the bed and sat up, hands planted on the mattress beside you. “You know what? At least Benny admitted something you didn’t have the balls for.”

Frankie’s head snapped toward you.

You held his stare. Let it land, let it sting. Not caring, or even planning to finally get a reaction from him.

“That he wanted to fuck me.”

And just like that—The air in the room shifted. Hot, yes, but now it burned.

Frankie stood like he’d been pulled by a string, eyes locked on yours, something wild and wounded cracking through his expression.

Your heart beat hard against your ribs. Your body flushed, not just from heat now but from the weight of what you’d said. The way it sat between you, sharp and jagged and true.

You didn’t look away.

Let him say something. Let him deny it. Let him fucking do something.

Because if he wanted you—really wanted you—then he needed to stop pretending this was just heat. Just proximity. Just banter and bad timing.

Frankie stared at you. Chest rising, jaw flexing. That muscle in his cheek was ticking the way it always did when he was fighting himself.

And then—he breathed out like it hurt.

“You think I don’t want you?” he said, voice low and rough. “You think I haven’t spent every fucking day since the time you told me you couldn’t stand me in the elevator, trying not to look at you too long? Not to want you too much?”

You froze. No smirk. No witty retort. Just your eyes on him—wide, glassy, unsure.

“I want you so bad it hurts,” he said, stepping forward. “And yeah, fuck yeah, I’ve thought about touching you. About having you under me, over me, in every goddamn way a person can think of another person. But it’s not just that.”

He swallowed. Ran a hand through his already ruined hair.

“It’s not just that,” he repeated, softer now, almost like he hated saying it out loud. “I want you when you’re pissed at me. When you steal my fries. When you talk shit about my playlists and fix your hair in the rearview like you don’t even realize you’re beautiful.”

He looked at you then, like it might be the last time, your heart in your throat.

“I want the part of you that gets quiet when things get too close. The part that thinks she has to hold everything together alone. The part you keep hiding ‘cause someone fucked you up and made you think that’s how love works.”

It hit you like a fucking freight train.

Not the words—though yeah, those knocked the wind out of you too—but the way he said them. The way he meant them. No bravado, no sarcasm. Just Frankie. Standing there like he’d peeled off every layer he’d ever used to protect himself and handed you whatever was left.

You blinked, unsure what to say. You’d seen glimpses of this side of him before—fragments of vulnerability when he told you about the fair, or when he admitted the truth about the bet. But this? This was something else entirely. Raw, unshielded. And he was still looking at you like you were it. Like you always had been.

And something in you just broke.

Your mouth was on his before you even realized you’d moved. Hands fisting in the collar of his shirt, dragging him down, down, down with you as your back hit the bed in a rush of tangled sheets and need. He caught himself on his elbows, bracing above you—but only just.

His breath stuttered. Your fingers found skin. Under fabric, against heat, along the planes of his back like you were trying to memorize him blind. And he kissed you like he’d been waiting forever. Like every version of this he’d imagined couldn’t hold a candle to the real thing.

It wasn’t slow, it wasn’t careful.It was a goddamn free fall—your mouths meeting over and over, desperate and wet, too much and not enough all at once. Your legs wrapped around his hips before you even thought about it. His hands slid down your sides, over your waist, anchoring you like he needed the contact to breathe.

Skin, sweat, teeth.

You gasped when his lips found your neck, when he bit gently at the spot just under your ear, and he groaned against your skin like he was losing his mind.

Your voice was wrecked when you whispered, “You’re not holding back now, huh?”

And he just shook his head. “No,” he rasped. “Not anymore.”

Then he kissed you again, and this time it said everything else. All the longing, all the fear. All the months of pretending you were nothing but banter and eye-rolls and almosts.

And now—finally—you were this.

And neither of you wanted to stop.

The last piece of clothing you wore hit the floor fast—his followed right after. You’d imagined this, fantasized about what he’d look like beneath all the layers of fabric and bravado, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the reality. He was achingly beautiful—broad chest, strong arms that flexed as he hovered over you, like he was holding himself back with every ounce of control he had.

You couldn’t resist letting your fingers trail over the heat of his skin, watching his lips part, his expression twist—like your touch hurt, like it scorched him. His brows pulled tight, but he didn’t stop you. Didn’t flinch. Not even when your hand drifted lower. And then you grabbed him—hard, steady, impossibly thick—and looked down just to be sure you weren’t imagining it. But no. It was him. All of him. Right there and so fucking beautiful it stole your breath.

He caught your hesitation and smirked—of course he did—but he didn’t say a word. Because then you started to stroke him, slow and deliberate, and he hissed through his teeth and the sound wrecked you.

His hips jerked forward into your hand, chasing the friction, unabashed in his need—and , if anything, it only made you want him more. You leaned up and latched your mouth onto his neck, biting the same way he had, and he groaned—low and rough and not nearly as quiet as before.

You were already dripping, just from watching him fall apart in your hands. He basked in your touch and found your lips again as you kept the movements steady. He kissed you like a man starving. And it lingered, everywhere—on your skin, in your chest, deep in your heat. It meant everything. Every brush of his lips said what neither of you had dared to voice.

Because finally, finally, you were both surrendering to it. Whatever this was—this charged, magnetic thing that had simmered between you for months—it was no longer ignorable. It was alive and breathing. Wild and hungry, but laced with something softer too.

He handled you like you might break—but with firm hands that told you he knew exactly how much you could take. Somewhere between raw need and reverence, his touch burned down your spine, slow and deliberate. His fingers traced your thighs like a map he’d memorized in a dream, and now, waking, couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch.

You pulled him closer, nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, and he groaned into your mouth—deep and broken, like it ripped from somewhere buried. Like he was unraveling piece by piece and didn’t care if you saw it happen.

His hand found your center, warm and steady, fingers teasing before sliding inside with practiced precision. He curled them just right, and your back arched in response, a gasp tearing from your lips. But it still wasn’t enough. It had been too long. You were too far gone to wait.

“Usually,” he murmured against the heated skin of your neck, voice rough and low, “I’d take my time. Spread you open and eat you out like you fucking deserve.”

He bit gently at your pulse point, groaning as your hips bucked into his hand.

“But I can’t,” he confessed, ragged. “I’m aching, Summer. I need you now.”

You pulled his face back to yours instantly, eyes locked.

“I’m yours.” you said, no hesitation, no fear.

His eyes darkened, and then his mouth was on yours, all heat and hunger as he shifted, guiding himself to your entrance. The stretch of him was heaven—slow, deliberate, overwhelming. He filled you completely, and you clung to him like your life depended on it, nails dragging down the muscles of his back as if he were the only thing keeping you grounded.

He cursed under his breath, forehead resting against your shoulder, sinking into you like it meant everything—like this was the only place he'd ever truly belonged.

And when he started to move—slow at first to give you time to adjust—it was like the dam finally broke. Months of tension, of banter and near-misses, of fighting what you both felt, spilled over into something that felt holy in its ruin. And then his speed picked up, and he was everywhere—his breath on your skin, his body pressing yours into the mattress, the low sounds he made echoing in your chest. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, pulling him impossibly closer, needing him like air, like you might break without him.

“Fuck, Frankie—” you breathed, barely recognizing your own voice, wrecked and wanting.

He growled something low, desperate, into your neck—your name maybe, or just a sound, like language had slipped through his fingers entirely. His hips snapped harder, deeper, rhythm losing its steadiness with every ragged breath he took. His eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched, every muscle straining as he chased it. You reached up, cupping his face, forcing him to look at you.

“Come on,” you whispered, shaky and soft. “Let go.”

And God, when he did—it hit like a thunderclap. His whole body locked up, and a broken sound tore from his throat, like it cost him something just to feel this much. He buried his face in your neck, clutching you to him as he came hard, shaking with it, like he'd been holding back for a lifetime and finally couldn’t anymore.

You followed a breath later, every nerve lit up, body trembling from the sheer force of it. For a second, everything else fell away—no noise, no room, no reason—just this. Just him. Just you.

When the world settled back around you, it was in pieces. Frankie collapsed against you, still inside, both of you covered in sweat and breathless. The air was thick and warm, and your limbs felt like jelly, tangled around him.

After a long stretch of silence Frankie let out a low, disbelieving laugh against your skin. “We’re idiots,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Stubborn, fucked-up idiots.”

You smiled, fingers curling into the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Takes one to know one.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes a little dazed, a little raw, like he still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t something his brain made up. “We could’ve had this months ago.”

You gave him a pointed look. “Yeah, if you hadn’t been so busy pretending you didn’t care.”

His brows lifted. “Me? You said you'd rather spend ten hours in customer service hell than one more minute with my ego.”

“Only because your ego made it easier to lie about wanting you,” you said, softer now, but not backing down.

That shut him up for a beat. Then his face broke into the kind of smile that made your stomach flip—wide, warm, a little sheepish. “Guess we’re both full of shit.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “But… not right now.”

He leaned in, forehead pressed to yours, that smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. “No. Not anymore.”

For once, there was no sharp comeback. No deflection. Just both of you, and the quiet truth settling between your bodies like something sacred.

“I wanted this so bad,” he said, the words barely a breath. “You don’t even know.”

You nodded, eyes burning a little. “I do. Because I wanted it too.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. Then he kissed you—not rushed, not greedy this time. Just soft. Sure. Like he finally knew what was his to hold.

And this time, neither of you pulled away.

—

It wasn’t fireworks or fanfare. It wasn’t some grand finale to the will-they-won’t-they saga your friends had long grown tired of placing bets on. When it finally happened—you and Frankie—it just was. Messy and soft and full of that aching kind of love that sneaks in when you’re not looking.

And now, months later, it stuck. Despite everything, maybe because of everything.

Frankie leaned against the kitchen counter in Monica and Will’s apartment, a beer in hand, the muffled sound of rain tapping gently at the windows behind him. The usual crew had crammed into the living room—Monica glowing, round-bellied and blissed out, Will watching her like she was the sun. Benny was three sliders deep, dramatically arguing with Santiago over the best cartoon role models for future children.

You were barefoot across the room, hair loose, laughing like he hadn’t nearly ruined it all once. Like there wasn’t a time you told him to go to hell in a rainstorm and meant every word. Like you weren’t the best damn thing that had ever happened to him.

He didn’t even pretend not to stare.

“So,” Monica said suddenly, patting her belly like she was sealing a deal. “Will and I were thinking… if this kid ends up being an actual demon, we’re gonna need backup.”

Will grinned. “And there’s really only two people we trust to be terrifying enough.”

“Don’t you dare,” Frankie muttered, already knowing where this was going.

“Godparents,” Monica beamed. “Or more accurately, our emotional damage control team. It’s you two, obviously.”

Benny pointed a chip at you. “Yeah. You once told Frankie he had the emotional range of a teaspoon and the charm of a traffic violation. That’s love, man.”

You shrugged, deadpan. “I was being generous.”

Frankie smirked, taking a sip of his beer. “And yet, here you are. In love with the traffic violation.”

You rolled your eyes. “Honestly? It tracks.”

“Perfect match,” Santiago said without looking up from his phone.

Later, after most of the crew had trickled out or passed out in food comas on various pieces of furniture, Frankie found you on the balcony. Rain dusted the city in a soft hush, washing the world in silver.

You didn’t turn when he stepped out, but you didn’t need to. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Don’t say it,” you murmured.

“Say what?”

“That you’re thinking about the baby thing already.”

Frankie smiled, lips brushing your skin. “Maybe I just wanted to hold you.”

You sighed like you’d been holding your breath all night. “You’re so full of shit.”

But it came out soft, no real heat behind it.

The silence between you stretched, warm and familiar, the rain tapping a steady rhythm. Then you said it. Quiet, offhand. Like it didn’t matter—but it did. God, it did.

“I love you, Morales.”

He froze. The kind of stillness that felt like a held breath. Then:

“Say that again.”

You didn’t look at him right away. Just sighed, eyes on the downpour like it’d give you an out. “You heard me.”

“I did,” he said, voice rough. “I just… I need to be sure I didn’t dream it.”

You glanced over your shoulder, expression soft despite your words. “If this was a dream, you’d probably be shirtless and less annoying.”

He laughed, a quiet breath of disbelief, tugging you closer. “So, you love me and I’m annoying. Got it.”

You shrugged. “I contain multitudes.”

His arms locked tighter around you, mouth brushing your neck. "Yeah," he drawled, smug and warm all at once. "Love you too, not that you ever made it easy."

You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned into him, letting the rain speak for a while. And then you finally whispered, “Don’t make me regret saying it.”

“You won’t.”

And you didn’t, not even once.

thanks for reading 💌

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steviewashere · 4 months ago

Text

Anything For You

Rating: General CW: Minor Mention of Body Dysmorphia, Seahorse Pregnancy (If You're Not Comfortable With That Sort of Thing? Not Sure If This is a Real Content Warning, But Best To Be Safe) Tags: Post-Canon, Set in the 1990s, Dialogue Heavy, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Domestic Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Trans Steve Harrington, Pregnant Steve Harrington, Seahorse Dad Steve Harrington, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Comfort No Hurt, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Massages, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson's Hands, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Sappy Steve Harrington, Sappy Eddie Munson, Steve's Weird Pregnancy Cravings

🫃—————🫃 He flips over, clumsily, to try and get more comfortable. The pillow pressed into the shape of his body is not helping, not even when he fluffs it with both fists.

It had been a long conversation, trying for a baby. A lot of questions—Are you sure you’re ready for this; Are you okay for the changes your body has to go through; Will you let me love you even if you find it hard to accept that I do?—and there had been only one simple answer (with minor hesitance on his end)—Yes. Of course, yes.

And, so far, he hadn’t fussed too much about what he saw in the mirror. In the first few weeks, sure he did. How the roundness to him now wasn’t just fat building, it was a life growing within him. A life he had been eager to bring into this world, all things considered. The dysmorphia hadn’t gone away completely—it never has, probably never will. Seeing his toned muscles turn to gentle chub, the way his hips had shifted, those curves he chiseled away had come back tenfold. There were the stretch marks and the whole…thing with his now outward belly button. Sometimes, truthfully, he felt like an alien in his own body. The changes happening out of his control, sitting idle at his console, letting the changes take their course.

Nine months of sacrifice, that’s what it was.

Only a handful of months, though, out of a future of happy years. Of a child’s curiosity, interspersed with giggle fits and pillow fights, late night book readings and last minute science projects, cuddles on the couch and popcorn between the cushions, and smiles with gaps—aimed at him; oh, aimed at him.

Steve hefts himself from the mattress, shoving the pregnancy pillow to the side. His feet are throbbing, ankles swollen, everything of him heavier and clumsier than before. Hell, Eddie had told him to stay in bed, just to see if he could get the swelling to go down. But his back aching something this fierce—so horrible it’s like somebody’s standing on his spine with combat boots—he needs it to be fixed, and he only has one solution that comes to mind. Eddie’s sweet, sweet, beautiful hands.

He trudges through the hallway, past the bathroom (in which his bladder gives a phantom of a cry), towards the living room. Where, as soon as he begins to round the corner, he can see Eddie hunched over their coffee table like a gargoyle, paints and other tidbits laid out. Ah, he’s catching up on some painting, he realizes.

As soon as he can catch his breath, Steve leans against the end of the couch, hands pressed into the small of his back. “Eds?” he calls quietly, “can you help me with something?”

Immediately, Eddie is tossing his paintbrush down, scrubbing his hands on a nearby rag. It’s already been through some mishaps, if the poor stains on it have anything to say. His eyes land on Steve, big and cowed, eyebrows disappeared behind his bangs. The rest of his hair is up, loose strands framing his picture-perfect expression of worry. “What’s going on, baby? Need me to make some ginger tea?”

He shakes his head, presses his hands firmer against his spine. Steve groans at a particular sore spot. “Can you give me a massage, please?”

“‘Course, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs, “let’s get you back to”—

“The bedroom’s too stuffy,” he whines. “Maybe we can put on a movie and you can do it out here? Maybe also with a plate of cheese and crackers? With some pickle juice in a glass?”

Eddie chuckles. “I can do that,” he agrees. “Why don’t you take my spot and I’ll get all that for you? Want some ice cream, too? I got your pint of Cherry Garcia.”

“Oh god, yesss…You know how to spoil me, y’know that?”

In one swift motion, Eddie stands from his spot. He rounds the couch, stops in front of Steve, and gently guides him to the cushion. Leaning down again, he presses a quick, warm smack to Steve’s temple. “Anything for you, sweetheart. You’re doin’ all the hard work.”

He settles deep into the couch cushion, leaning himself awkwardly on the armrest. It’d be better if their sorry excuses for throw pillows actually had some give to them, but they’re stiff and starchy. Putting them in the wash is added to his ever expanding to-do list; a list he won’t ever get around to, or if he does, it’s Eddie doing all the work. Tidying the place, nitpicking about the dust nobody’s ever seen, restocking the higher shelves of their pantry because, and Steve will remember this remark from Eddie, “I don’t want you somehow giving our child a genetic concussion.” And when Steve had barked back that that doesn’t happen, he only got a terse jaw clench and a nostril flare for his combativeness.

Needless to say, Eddie takes damn good care of him. It wouldn’t be hard to convince him to grab a comfier pillow from their bed. However, that seems to be unnecessary as he comes swinging back into the living room, his arms laden with the necessities.

“Alright, here is your makeshift charcuterie board”—a large platter, it must be their turkey serving platter, is clattered onto the coffee table—“I added some of those sliced black olives and a few pieces of deli meat, just in case you needed some more savory. There’s a still frozen pint of the finest Cherry Garcia; careful, sweetheart, it’s rock solid. A glass of iced pickle juice, just so you won’t be grossed out when it goes room temperature. And…da-da-da-da-daaaa”—Eddie sings that last bit, removing something that’s stuffed in his left armpit. The something in question is Steve’s pregnancy pillow, still warm from both their shared body heat—“a sweet cushion to replace that stupidly firm one you’re trying to get comfortable on. Figured it’d be nice to put under your head while you’re leaned down for the massage.”

The pillows are swapped out. In the firm one’s place, the pregnancy one is fluffed and squished until it perfectly cushions Steve’s heavy head. He turns himself so that he can rest down into the pillow, forehead pressed gently into the give. It’s barely warm and soft, meeting him in all the places it’s needed. He sighs. Mumbles, “You’re amazing.”

“Mm, I’m perceptive,” Eddie says, “hardly anything to write home about.”

“I love you to bits and pieces.”

“Love you, too, sweetheart,” he whispers. A warm hand trails across Steve’s shoulder blades, fingers gently knuckling along the knobs of his spine. “What movie were you thinking about? Your pick.”

Steve shifts his head, peeking over his now folded arms. There’s a low haze that settles over him, fuzzy and sleepy as shapes are blindly traced over his soft t-shirt. Blearily, he eyes down their video shelf next to the set. All packed in tight, tens and tens of movies for them to pick from. “What’re you in the mood for? I won’t really be watching, probably.”

“Let’s see…” Eddie meanders towards the shelf with Steve briefly mourning the loss of touch. He then crouches down with two noticeable pops from his knees, his soft fingers trailing along the sharp corners of the video protectors. He plucks a couple from their resting spots. “I was thinkin’, for you…something like…Ghost, or maybe Jerry Maguire, or…we could do Coneheads?”

Steve scoffs. “Ed, if you turn on Coneheads, I’m making you sleep on the couch tonight.”

He hears Eddie click his tongue. Then, he nods. “Duly noted.” Coneheads gets slotted back onto the shelf—even if, really, they should be putting it into the overflowing donation box near the front door. Oh well, Steve thinks, problem for another day. Eddie peruses their shelf for another moment, pulling out a couple more videos. “How about Sleepless in Seattle? Or we could even watch”—

“Jerry Maguire. I don’t think I can watch anything with Tom Hanks in it for a long while.”

“Y’know, I should’ve considered that after we saw Forrest Gump. That really did you in.”

“I almost left the theater after Jenny…god, just thinking about it makes me wanna sob. Get over here and make me feel better.” He loosens one of his arms from its tight hold around his head, hand desperately calling out for Eddie. However, his little call is ignored as the movie is slipped through the slot of the VCR. It gently clicks in, whirring as it’s seemingly rewound. The TV’s input is switched over with another set of clicks before a mirage of color is flashing before him. If he squints, he thinks he can spot Tom Cruise’s stupid shiny smile in the mix of it.

Eddie snatches the remote from the entertainment center, standing in place at the middle of their living room, hip cocked and arm wrapped around his torso as he waits to press play. Then, finally, the movie begins with Eddie reclaiming his spot next to Steve.

Before he can comprehend the change of pace, there’s a gentle tap to his back.

“T-shirt off, baby,” Eddie whispers, “do you want me to grab the lotion real quick? Might feel nice.”

Steve sits back up reluctantly, grunting as his spine is strained. He peels the stupid shirt over his head, though, and promptly tosses it to the carpet. “You gonna get my stretchies, too?”

There’s a tickle over his hips, the tips of Eddie’s fingers tracing the shiny edges of stretch marks. “Do you want me to, sweetheart? Y’know I can do it, it’s no problem.”

“They’re on my front, too, though.”

Gently, Eddie’s palms lay over those same sides. He cups his hands, running them up and down the lower half of Steve’s baby bump. “I’ll redo your pillow and everything if you want me to, Stevie. Massage your marks with one hand, hand feed you cheese with the other…kiss you between bites…tell you how wonderful I think y’are.”

Steve sniffles, bending back down to rest his forehead on the pillow. “You’re too nice to me,” he whispers.

There’s a quick peck to the center of his back. Murmured against his skin, “Because you deserve it, sweetness. You deserve all the nice things.”

“Ugh,” he groans, reaching down to squeeze tight at Eddie’s right hand. “You’re gonna make me cry, Eddie. You know that I’m crazy hormonal right now.”

“I’m telling the truth, though and you know it.”

“Just…just get the lotion, Eds, ‘fore I completely lose it.”

The couch groans as Eddie stands up from it. His shadow looms over, but then he bends down, warmth swallowing Steve whole. Another kiss is pressed to him, his exposed right temple this time, and his hair is petted at sweetly. “I’ve gotcha, baby. Nothing else I’d rather do, only wanna take care of you.”

“Eddie…”

Before he can do something silly like reach out and swat Eddie’s hip, he hears footsteps retreating down the hallway. The bathroom door is creaked open. “I’m gettin’ it, I promise!” Eddie calls out, “but I’m also takin’ care of you, cause that matters most to me! You know that!”

“You’re a sap!” he shouts back, “and I’ll cry, so stop it!”

Quickly as he left, Eddie is back beside him. His hands rub together, dry as they are, warming them up. “Mm, what if I thought you were beautiful while you cried, huh?”

“That means you’re being a meanie, making me cry on purpose.”

“I don’t mean to, Stevie baby. I’m just being honest.”

Steve sighs as Eddie’s warm hands lay flat to the center of his back. They don’t move, merely just remain. But even then, the touch alone, it’s enough to relieve at least a little tension. Though, realistically, that tension’ll be back by the time the movie’s over. “I know you’re being honest,” he mumbles into the soft fabric of his pillow, “it’s part of the reason why I love you.”

“That and my hands, I’m sure. Y’really love my hands.” As if to punctuate that, Eddie digs his thumbs deep at the knobby edges of Steve’s spine. Slow, though. Precise and gentle.

“Oh, you have no fucking idea how much I love your hands, Eds. If I wasn’t keen on marrying you, I’d leave you for just your hands.”

Eddie gasps dramatically. “Scandalous,” he exclaims, “what would our kiddo think of that?”

“Mmm,” he hums at a particularly good release. Steve takes a deep breath before he continues, recalibrating. “They’d probably think your magic hands give the best hugs. ‘Cause I think our baby’s gonna like hugs. You’re gonna be huggin’ us all the time. No choice.”

“Oh no…my family loves my hugs, how dare they? And they don’t even give me a choice? For shame.”

“You love it, Eds. You’d give all of yourself as soon as they asked for one.”

Eddie’s hands leave him, reaching over with a quick pump from the bottle of lotion. In the air, Steve can smell it, a light trace of lavender. “That I’d do, you’re right. Y’know what I think they’d want the most from you, though?”

“Hm?”

“Your laughter,” he answers softly and reflexively, “they’d go running to you with a new joke just because they know you’d laugh at it.”

Gently, Steve turns his head so he can get his words out clearer. “Yeah? You think so?”

“I know so. You’d start giggling and then they’d start giggling and then I’d come in, both of you would be on the floor in pure hysterics! Just laughing so hard you’re crying and your faces are red and even just looking at me would make you guys snort.”

“But then you’d be out of the joke.”

“Mm, yeah, well…I don’t need to be part of every inside joke. Think since you’re doing all the hard work carrying the kid, maybe you two deserve a little private stand-up show of your own, yeah?” The lotion is cold when Eddie begins finally smearing it over Steve’s skin. His touch is just as soft as his words. Light, almost airy. Carefree in a, somehow, completely caring way. “Where does it hurt the most on your back, sweetheart?”

“Everywhere,” Steve says, “but the lower back might be a good place to start. Think the bump is carrying lower or something.”

Without more direction, Eddie’s hands are already moving down. The first grind of his knuckles into tissue and Steve’s a groaning, relieved mess. “Breathe for me, baby. Deep breaths,” Eddie coaches. He does as he’s told, earning soft praise in murmurs and whispers. Then, “We’re getting closer.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “’T’s kinda…kinda scary-exciting.”

“No more back pain, though, think about that. You’ll push and try and break my hand, but afterwards? You won’t be in constant, consistent, almost overbearing pain.”

He nods into his pillow, watching Jerry Maguire in near-blindness. Only a haze, lost in the feeling of the relief he’d been searching for all day. “No more massages,” Steve mumbles, “this feels fucking fantastic.”

“Just ask,” Eddie whispers, fingers walking up Steve’s spine. His knuckles are deep, kneading, yet still so careful. Like he’s too afraid to go too hard. Even then, Steve won’t push him. This is nice as is. “All you gotta do, baby, is ask me when you need help. Sucks that it took a whole damn pregnancy to show you that, but…hey, at least you’re finally asking when you need something.”

Steve huffs. “Well, I kinda have to when I can’t bend down to pick up a dropped sock or even tie my own stupid shoes.”

All at once, he can feel Eddie shift. Bending down to look him in the eyes. Wide-eyed and insistent before he sits back. “I like that you’re doing it, sweetheart. Okay? I want you to want my help. So…you want a massage after the baby comes? Cool, great. Consider it done. Lavender lotion and a charcuterie board and I’ll be at your side with my crazy awesome hands.” Eddie’s fingers trail again, though this time they’re connecting something. My moles, he realizes. Making constellations. At a particular spot, Eddie taps it and leans down, kissing the mark. “Even if you wanted me to make you a milkshake at fuckin’ midnight because you were having a crazy craving, then so be it. I’ll use some Cherry Garcia and everything. Just say the word.”

“And if I wanted my pickle juice right now?”

Without words, Eddie is bending forward. The scrape of the glass cup, ice clinking away at the sides, fills the room. “Sit up for me, baby.”

He does. And in one, gentle motion, a straw is brought to his lips. Steve sucks down greedily. There’s tang and acidity on the back of his tongue, something barely sweet on the tip of it. It’s the most quenching thing he’s had, the ice helps, too. Breaking away with a gasp, Steve smiles loosely over his shoulder, met with a close-lipped soft one of Eddie’s.

“Good?” Eddie checks.

“You’re a genius for the ice. It’s so cold.”

A snort. “I know you, sweetness. We’d be sipping ginger tea if that pickle juice went warm even the tiniest bit.”

Steve scoots on his cushion, pressing his right side against Eddie’s left knee—still sitting half-criss-cross on the couch, facing him. He smiles at Eddie, soft around the edges, but all his teeth. It squints his eyes. Bunches his cheeks. It’s easy on him, never forced when under the sweltering gaze of Eddie’s half-bared soul. Bursting, he says, “You’re gonna be such a great dad, y’know that?”

Eddie tilts his head, assessing. “Oh, yeah? How’d you figure that?”

“I don’t know, just…you…you think of ways to care about people without them even knowing what they need. You’re just…you’re honest, you care, you’re sweet. If I was doing this with anybody else, I think I’d be scared out of my damn mind. Just completely terrified.

“With you, though, with you I’m cautious, but excited. I’m…

“I’m safe. And I think we all need that.

“You’re gonna be a great dad. You were meant for it. Cosmically or whatever, you were meant to be right here, right now.” He slides a hand over Eddie’s left knee, squeezing with all his might. Teary-eyed, he still smiles. And with the touch, the warmth, the feelings, Eddie places his own hand down, soft palm against the warm back of Steve’s hand. Their fingers interlink. Tight and secure like puzzle pieces always meant for the other. “Even if it means guiding a straw for pickle juice into my mouth and hand feeding me white cheddar and letting me be a teary hormonal mess on our couch.”

Leaning forward, Eddie rests his forehead against Steve’s. His right hand goes to the baby bump, thumb sweeping in wide, horizontal stripes. There’s an easy, soft intake of breath as a rolling, slow kick meets his touch. “You’re gonna be perfect,” Eddie murmurs, “even when your emotions are haywire and even when you say the wrong thing at the wrong time and even when you think you aren’t. Everything about you, Steve, is perfect to me. Your laugh and your smile, the way you breathe, how you dance to any song on the radio, every mole on your back, the softness of your touches…

“Steve Harrington, you’re the perfect man. You’re gonna be a perfect dad in that beautifully imperfect way.

“Because you’re you. And I love you with everything in me and…

“Shit, I think I’m gonna be the one to cry if I sit and think about it all right now,” Eddie admits, voice wavering. His hand presses more firmly to Steve’s bump, not enough to hurt, but just enough to remind the whole world that it’s there. “I’d do anything for you, even if it means putting ice in pickle juice. Even as gross as that is, I’d do it all for you.”

Steve sniffles, burrows his forehead further into Eddie’s, as if they could possibly get any closer. “Kiss me?” he softly requests.

No words, no hang-ups, no buts—

Eddie’s lips are salty with newly shed tears. Warm. Firm, yet soft as they glide like butter on Steve’s. It’s not hungry. No, this is full. Sweet like a dessert you didn’t think you needed, but wanted anyway. Candid like a movie. Gentle in all the ways only whispered words know how to be.

It’s them.

He pulls away, not far, but just a hair of space. Quietly, “Will you help me with my stretch marks and cuddle me?” Steve asks.

“I’d dance on stars with you if you asked,” Eddie whispers, “‘course I will.”

🫃—————🫃

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #trans steve harrington #pregnant steve harrington #seahorse dad

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