#(proceeds to read more angst stories anyways)

[twstedfreak]

Not Even the Gods Can Keep Me from You

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵pairing !! : Odysseus! Gojo Satoru x Penelope! Y/n

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵Summary !! : What is perseverance, if not love? What is strength, if not the will to return? Satoru Gojo was never meant to be a man of peace. A warrior crowned in legend, a king bound by duty, a man who challenged the will of gods themselves. He had conquered battlefields, torn through myths, and stood unshaken before death. Yet, for all his victories, there was only one war that truly mattered—getting back to you. Ten years of war. Ten years of wandering. And still, his heart only knew one home. You. Always you.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵contains !! : heavily! epic the musical inspired. heavy angst with eventual comfort. yearning. war themes. divine intervention. unwavering devotion. Gojo being dramatic as always. poetic prose slow-burn but inevitable love. a decade of suffering. a reunion worth every second of it. forced separation/longing. implied captivity (calypso arc). enough pining to make even the gods weep. Greek mythology elements.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵word count !! : 2,095 words

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵playlist !! : here

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵A/N !! : no beta reading we die like men. Okay, so hear me out! this idea grabbed me by the throat and refused to let go. I was just minding my business, vibing to EPIC: The Musical, and then suddenly my brain went, “What if Gojo Satoru was Odysseus?” And now I’m here, emotionally invested in a story where my baby is out here fighting gods, monsters, and curses all because he just wants to go home to you. Like, yes, he’s the untouchable but at the end of the day? He’s just Satoru. He’s fought wars, conquered empires, and defied death itself—but nothing, nothing compares to the battle of getting back to you. If that’s not peak romance, I don’t know what is. jkjk let’s be real, Gojo is exactly the kind of person to get cursed by the gods and just laugh in their faces. Zeus could strike him down and he’d be like, "Damn, that’s all you got?" And then proceed to survive out of sheer spite. ANYWAYS. This is just the beginning because, of course, I couldn’t stop at just one headcanon. This is a whole series now. I am deep in the trenches of this story, and I plan on taking you all down with me. If you want to be tagged for future parts, drop a comment! I love you all so much—thank you for the support, the reactions, and for indulging my unhinged brain 🫶💙

Odyssey? More Like Gojo-ssey. Now, let’s watch Gojo Satoru try (and probably suffer dramatically) to get home.  😌✨

⇢ read on ao3 here !!

Odysseus! Satoru who was never meant to be a man of peace. From the moment he first gripped a sword, fate carved his path in blood and war. He was the strongest, the untouchable, the king who could not fall.

Odysseus! Satoru who was never meant to stay in one place. His soul was made of storms, his heart set to the rhythm of conquest. 

Odysseus! Satoru who was the strongest warrior, the sharpest mind, the man who could bend the world to his will. But for all his power, truly one thing he longed for. Home. However, home had never been a place. Home was you.

Odysseus! Satoru who had never feared the gods, not even when they whispered warnings of fate and ruin. He laughed in the face of destiny, dared to challenge the will of Olympus itself. He mocked them, defied them, dared them to strike him down. But the moment he met you, the moment he saw a future beyond war in your eyes, he knew he had something far more terrifying than divine wrath—something to lose. The moment he took your hand, the moment he called you his wife, he realized that strength was not in defying the gods, it was in having something worth defying them for.

Odysseus! Satoru, who was not a patient man, but love, had taught him patience. This man fell in love like a storm crashing against the shore. sudden, unstoppable, inevitable. You were not just another prize, another conquest. You were the one who saw him, saw past the whispers, saw past the power, saw past the arrogance that kept the world at a distance. As in return, he swore to be yours in a way he never truly belonged to anyone else. In this lifetime and futures to come. 

Odysseus! Satoru who would sit in the gardens with you, listening to the way you spoke, memorizing every shift in your expression, every lilt in your voice. He who had faced death countless times, but nothing unnerved him more than the way you could bring him down to his knees with a just a single look. The strongest man in the world, utterly undone by you.

Odysseus! Satoru who was a force of nature in battle, and yet, he was the softest thing when he was with you. He could split mountains with a strike, command armies with a word, yet he would abandon it all just to press a kiss to your temple in the quiet hours of the night. The world could call him untouchable, unstoppable—but you had always known the truth. He was only human in your arms.

Odysseus! Satoru who swore he would never leave you. He never wanted to leave you. But war does not care for love, and kings do not get to choose their fate. When duty called him to Troy, he kissed you one last time and vowed, “I’ll come back to you, my love.” A promise whispered against your skin, a prayer uttered to gods he never truly believed in, but for you, he prayed. But war does not wait for love, and kings do not get to choose peace. The moment he stepped onto that ship, the moment he sailed toward a war he had no choice but to fight, he made a silent promise.

Odysseus! Satoru would come back. No matter the cost.

Odysseus! Satoru who had faced monsters before, but nothing compared to the beasts that awaited him on his journey home. The sea churned with curses, the land crawled with creatures that wanted nothing more than to tear him apart. But he did not waver. He did not fear. Because what was pain, what was suffering, if it meant holding you again? And so, he fought through curses, blood, and suffering, but the only thing stronger than the wrath of the gods was his will to get back to you.

Odysseus! Satoru who had never known helplessness. He was a man who bent the world to his will, who carved his own fate with bloodied hands and an indomitable heart. He had faced gods and monsters, defied curses and storms, and laughed in the face of death itself. But for seven years, he was caged. Seven years stolen from his hands, wasted in the embrace of a goddess who was not you.

Odysseus! Satoru, who had washed up on her shores broken along with his wrecked ship, his men lost, his body battered by the sea’s wrath. She found him like that, defeated in a way he had never been before, and she took him in. Nursed his wounds. Promised him peace. Promised him eternity. However, eternity meant nothing if you were not in it.

Odysseus! Satoru who was worshipped as a god on that island. She adorned him in silk, kissed the battle scars on his skin, whispers of forever in his ear. She called him hers. She swore to love him, to keep him, to give him a kingdom untouched by war and pain.

However, Odysseus! Satoru who was already yours. No matter how soft the sheets, how gentle the hands that held him, the weight of you never left him. Your absence clawed at his chest, a dull, aching wound that never healed. He was fed the sweetest fruits, given the finest wines, and yet, everything tasted bitter.

Because you were waiting. Because he had sworn to come back. Because seven years was too long to be away from home.

Odysseus! Satoru who was given the choice to stay. to be immortal, to be unburdened, to be worshipped as he had been all his life. But gods, if there was one thing he had learned after all these years, it was that peace was nothing without you. So he demanded to leave. He raged against the walls of paradise, cursed the heavens, swore that nothing, not gods, not time, not fate itself, would keep him from you.

And in the end, the gods relented. the moment he stepped back onto the sea, the moment the wind carried his ship forward once more, he whispered a vow “I’m coming back to you, my love.”

Odysseus! Satoru who after 10 yeras of war and 10 years of isolation in a gilded cage. After all the temptation, after all the stolen time. Nothing had changed. You were still his home and he was still yours.Odysseus! Satoru had always been told that the greatest glory was in war. That men like him were meant to be remembered for their victories, for the blood they spilled, for the kingdoms they claimed. But as he carved his way through gods and monsters, as he fought tooth and nail to return to you, he realized—glory was meaningless if you were not there to share it.  He was a man who had something worth fighting for. Each island, each battle, each moment of agony was a step closer to you. 

Odysseus! Satoru who would fight for eternity if it meant getting back to you. Because the world could take his crown, his titles, his power—but they would never take his love for you. He knew that time would change things. That Ithaca would move on, that suitors would circle you like vultures, that the world might convince you to forget him. But he never doubted you. Not once. Because if there was one thing in this world stronger than him, stronger than war, stronger than the gods. it was your love.

Gojo Satoru was a man of great renown. A warrior who had never lost, a king who stood above all, a force so untouchable that even the gods whispered his name with caution. He was myth and legend, conqueror and survivor, the man who had defied death itself. And yet, in your eyes he was just Satoru. Not a king. Not a warrior. Not a name etched into history. Just a man. A man who laughed too loudly at his own jokes, a man who pressed kisses to your temple when no one was looking, a man who smirked like a child when he won an argument. A man who made himself at home beside you, tangled in linen sheets and lazy mornings, whispering secrets only meant for your ears. The world called him untouchable. You knew better. You knew the warmth of his hands, the softness of his voice when he murmured your name in the quiet of the night. You knew the weight of his heart, the way he carried the burden of war, of loss, of the endless battle between duty and desire. You knew the boy beneath the legend, the fool who fell in love like it was the only battle worth losing. And he had lost. To you. Because for all his victories, for all his power, the greatest thing he had ever done was love you. Not war, not glory, not the sea of men he had left in ruin. You. Always you. It had taken years, lifetimes, an odyssey of gods and monsters and curses. In the end, he had won the only war that ever truly mattered. Because after everything, after all the pain, after all the years stolen from him. He came home and when he looked at you, and you looked at him, he knew. You had never stopped waiting.

The moment he stepped across the threshold, the weight of a decade settled onto his shoulders. The war, the gods, the monsters—all of it had been nothing compared to the torment of being away from you. And now, as he stood before you, a man worn down by time and trials, he found himself breathless.

You stared at him, silent, unmoving. As if blinking would make him disappear. As if you had seen him in your dreams so often that you weren’t sure if this was another cruel trick.

“Satoru…” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it shattered something inside him.

He inhaled sharply, as if he had been holding his breath for years. Maybe he had. “I’m home.”

A silence stretched between you. It wasn’t empty. it was full. Full of lost time, of unspoken words, of all the things the universe had tried to take away.

Your fingers twitched at your side, hesitant, trembling, before you reached out. The moment your hand brushed against his face, tracing the lines that time had carved into his skin, something in him broke. He leaned into your touch as if it was the first warmth he had felt in years. His hands found your waist, hesitant at first, as if he feared you would disappear. But when you didn’t, when you only gripped him tighter, his restraint crumbled. He pulled you against him, arms wrapping around you so tightly it was almost desperate.

"You took your time," you murmured against his chest, voice thick with something between relief and sorrow.

He huffed a quiet laugh, though it was weak, exhausted. “I had to make it dramatic.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers curling into his tunic. There were so many questions, so many things you wanted to say. But in the end, you only whispered, “This time… will you stay?”

His grip on you tightened. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

You let out a breathless, a broken soundhalf a laugh, half a sob. “You idiot… You think after all this time I’d want anyone else?”

Satoru gave a smirk, but his voice was quiet, almost fragile. “I don’t know… figured you might’ve realized I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

You shook your head, a real, genuine smile breaking through the tears in your eyes. “You always were.” Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through his silver hair like a lifeline. “But you’re my trouble.”

Satoru swallowed hard, his thumb brushing against your cheek as if memorizing you all over again. “And you’re my home.”

A sob escaped before you could stop it, and that was all it took for him to press his forehead against yours, closing the last remaining distance.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “No more wars. No more running. No more losing time.” His voice softened, turning into a promise. “Just us.”

Your fingers curled tighter around him. “Just us.”

The words settled between you like an unshaken vow. And for the first time in forever, there were no battles left to fight.

No gods to defy.

No time to lose.

Only him. Only you.

Only home.

Credits to @cafekitsune for the pretty dividers! :3 & here for the banner !!

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[kaeyachi]

some kaeya facts that i want to remind everyone with because I miss him so much! (no angst this time i swear!!...but if you all want angst, I could also deliver hehehe)

1. Kaeya tells the children of Mondstadt some stories! Specifically, one that some forgot or didn't know of is that he has told the orphans under the church's care some horror story about the light in the lamp posts :D He had been shown to do a story telling to Klee while at the Veluriyam Mirage and he has also been reading to Klee her bedtime stories as well

2. Kaeya made Klee's survival rules! Kaeya has definitely done his part on preventing Klee from destroying Mondstadt before Celestia ever could (well, at least lessened the amount of times Mond gets bombed anyway). Anyone else think Kaeya purposely let Klee explode the Good Hunter's stove to avoid going to the Chasm? No? Ok-

3. He takes the attention when he dances! Depending on which language you hear it from, it is either a good or a bad thing. However, I am on team good thing simply because some mercenaries invited him to go dancing with them while he was in Sumeru ( very interesting information, Kaeya! Glad to know they found you so attractive that they did something they don't usually do!)

4. If you call him kind, he will attempt to look mean (and he fails at it lmao), and if he is not being mean, he will try to deny it. The traveler once listed down the kind things he had done for Captain Wu, a Liyue npc, and Kaeya proceeds to tell us that he records people who owe him (which is a lie. He forgot the person he helped TWICE. What he does have a record of is a well-detailed list of Treasure Hoarders and their rankings + patrol areas in Mondstadt). Another instance was during Jean's story quest where Kaeya planned the appreciation party for Jean where he gave the traveler all the credit

5. He is a great gift giver! (unless that person is Diluc because otherwise he will find the ugliest thing ever and gift that... arguably, that kinda sounds like amazing gift giving if we are talking about being an annoying sibling). He remembers passing commentary from friends and coworkers and gifts them accordingly.

6. He has his own intel network (and I'm theorizing that it is just a group of people he has helped before that insisted on paying him back in this way). Kaeya, after some heavy insistence from Captain Wu, asks him if he wants to be a friend or be part of his intel network and follow his commands no matter what. Vile, one of his known informants, also gave us a glimpse as to what it takes to be part of Kaeya's network, and that is the ability to decipher codes and read messages in between.

7. He is incredibly reliable as a knight! Not only do the people of Mondstadt agree that he is the more approachable cavalry captain between him and Diluc, but it is also a known fact that Kaeya has never failed to complete a mission to date (except the one during Diluc's 18th). Nearly every citizen of Mondstadt adores him and knows how reliable he is. Arguably, this success rate could be attributed to his "end justifies the means" mindset that not all find enjoyable, but he is definitely the person to ask if you want something done. Vile has once mentioned that she could just ask Kaeya to do the charming and convincing for her, dubbing him as a prince charming for it.

8. He is one of the people who spends so much time with Klee (potentially attributed by the fact that he also has more free time compared to others). He spends so much time with her that Klee mentions a few interesting things about Kaeya, such as the fact that Albedo draws Kaeya frequently (enough times that Albedo says Kaeya could be drawn by him easily. yes, it's that "three strokes" line lmao) and the fact that Kaeya has saved Klee from solitary confinement a lot. He is shown to be a very effective person when it comes to corralling Klee without making her feel bad as even when he was trying to berate her, he still ended up giving her a possible reward if she listens.

9. He is very meticulous. He willingly spends the time to get himself ready in the clothes that he is wearing, and he likes embellishments. He really is quite the perfectionist in his actions as well. (very Alberich of him!✌️) We can also see this in his handwriting that has been described as "beautiful" and again with his near perfect track record as a knight.

[03jyh23]

💬⌇like i need you part two┆ jeong yunho

│part of goes to waste the series based on my favourite keshi songs

│listen here

│part one

non-idol!yunho x non-idol!reader

│synopsis: yunho's love for you burns fiercely. as lovers turned exes, he's left shattered when you leave, moving out of the apartment you once shared. his nights become a blur of desperation, calling you relentlessly, begging for another chance.

│genre: lovers to exes, angst, smut

│(!)trigger warnings: mental health issues, self-harm (mentioned), blood, toxic relationships, depression, emotional trauma, strong language, emotional abuse, nicotine addiction, explicit sexual content, angry sex

please be sure to proceed with caution. this story contains themes that may be distressing to some readers.

│words: 11.6 k

│reminder: what you’re about to read is purely fiction, so let’s keep it separate from reality.

!minors do not interact!

love, mon♡

│taglist: @skittyneos │ @kyeos4ng │ @vcutparis │

│ @ateezswonderland │ @jycas│ @velvetskize │ @e3ellie │

│ @sertralinehoe │ @hoeforalbedo │

Mingi took the stairs two at a time, his heart thundering in his chest as he raced to the fourth floor. Every second felt like an eternity as adrenaline coursed through his veins. Without pausing to catch his breath, he burst through the doors of Yunho's apartment, the sound of devastating sobs immediately assaulting his ears like shards of ice. He rushed toward the bathroom, each heartbeat growing more intense with mounting dread.

The scene that confronted him knocked the air from his lungs. Yunho was huddled in the bathroom corner, surrounded by a constellation of broken mirror fragments. His knuckles were a mess of crimson, delicate skin shredded by countless tiny shards of glass that glinted menacingly in the harsh bathroom light. Blood had splattered across the tiles, but Yunho seemed completely unaware of his injuries as he rocked back and forth, broken words tumbling from his lips between gut-wrenching sobs.

"Fuck, Yunho," Mingi whispered as he carefully navigated the minefield of glass shards. He lowered himself slowly, deliberately, "Hey, I'm here. I'm right here with you."

When Yunho finally lifted his gaze, Mingi's heart shattered at the sight. His friend's eyes were bloodshot and hollow, tears cutting paths through the anguish written across his features. "She's gone, Mingi," he choked out, his voice raw and broken. "She's really gone this time."

"I know," Mingi murmured, reaching out to squeeze Yunho's shoulder with gentle reassurance. "Let's get you cleaned up first, okay? Those hands need attention."

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped Yunho's throat, the sound more painful than any cry. "What's the point? Everything hurts anyway. Everything just... fucking hurts."

The raw agony in his friend's voice made Mingi's chest constrict painfully. In all their years of friendship, he'd never witnessed Yunho so thoroughly broken, so completely untethered from himself. Without hesitation or words, he carefully settled onto the cold bathroom floor beside him, careful to avoid the broken glass shards, and pulled his best friend into a protective embrace. Yunho crumpled against him instantly, his broad frame wracked with fresh, devastating sobs.

"She's never coming home," Yunho sobbed, hiding his face in the crook of Mingi's neck, his voice muffled but the pain in it crystal clear. His fingers clutched desperately at Mingi's shirt, staining it with blood, as if afraid his friend would disappear too if he let go.

"I've got you," Mingi whispered fiercely, tightening his hold as if he could physically keep his friend from falling apart. "I've got you, brother. Just let it all out."

"I was too harsh on her," Yunho whispered, his body trembling uncontrollably with renewed force. His bloodied fingers tightened their grip on Mingi's shirt. "I said such terrible things... I didn't mean to... God, I didn't mean to hurt her like that."

Mingi remained silent, knowing his friend needed to let everything out. The bathroom light flickered above them, casting shifting shadows across the devastation surrounding them.

"But it hurts so fucking much," Yunho continued, his voice cracking. "When I saw her, it's like... like I'm losing her all over again. And I can't... I can't keep feeling like this, Mingi. I can't keep pretending I'm okay with her being around but not really being mine anymore. I'm not okay. I'm so far from okay."

Mingi held his friend tighter as another wave of sobs wracked through Yunho's body. The blood from his injured hands was seeping through both their clothes now, but neither of them moved.

"Yun, we need to get you to the hospital," Mingi said softly. "They need to clean those-..."

"No," Yunho mumbled, shaking his head weakly against Mingi's shoulder. "Just... just let me stay here for a bit longer. Please."

"You're bleeding all over the place," Mingi insisted gently, though he didn't loosen his hold. "Those cuts could get infected. And some of them look deep enough to need stitches."

Yunho let out a shaky breath that might have been attempting to be a laugh. "Seems fitting, doesn't it? Everything else about me is fucked up and broken. Might as well match on the outside too."

"Don't," Mingi's voice was sharp but filled with concern. "Don't talk like that. Come on, let me help you up. We're going to the emergency room, and I'm not taking no for an answer this time."

After what felt like an eternity, Yunho finally gave a small, defeated nod. His movements were sluggish as Mingi carefully helped him to his feet, steadying him when he swayed dangerously. The bathroom light caught the tears still streaming down his face, making them glitter like the broken mirror fragments scattered at their feet.

"I'm sorry," Yunho whispered as Mingi guided him through the apartment. "For making you deal with all this. With me."

"Hey," Mingi's voice was fierce with protective love. "You never have to apologize for needing me. That's what brothers are for."

The insistent ringing of your doorbell jolted you awake. You were still on the sofa, coat, and shoes on, with no clear memory of how you'd made it home. As consciousness crashed over you, the memories came rushing back with a force that triggered a painful sensation in your temple. Your phone was dead, clutched tightly in your hand. The morning light filtering through your curtains felt too harsh, too accusatory, making your head pound even harder. Every blink brought back flashes of last night - Yunho's tears, his broken voice, the sound of something shattering against the wall. The taste in your mouth was bitter, a mix of bile and regret. You couldn't tell if the nausea rising in your throat was from the emotional aftermath or sympathy pains from watching Yunho be sick. Maybe it was both. Your eyes felt swollen and raw, your cheeks still tight from dried tears.

The doorbell rang again as you managed to get up from the sofa. With trembling hands, you finally plugged in your phone, dreading what messages might await. As the screen flickered to life, notifications began flooding in - missed calls from Mingi, concerned texts from your friend, but nothing from him. The silence from Yunho's end felt more deafening than any scream. His broken voice echoed in your head: "You lost that right."

The guilt hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. You'd been so focused on protecting yourself, on justifying your decisions, that you'd refused to truly see the devastation you'd left in your wake. The man who once lit up every room he entered, whose laugh could make your whole day better, was now drowning in darkness - and you were the one who'd extinguished his light. Memories began surfacing unbidden - his gentle touches, the way he'd kiss your forehead when you were stressed, how he'd dance ridiculously in the kitchen just to make you smile. Each happy memory now felt like a knife twisting in your chest, because you'd taken all that joy and turned it into poison.

You found yourself clutching your chest, trying to hold yourself together as the weight of what you'd done finally crashed over you. The love hadn't faded - it had been there all along, buried under layers of excuses and self-protection. But now it burned through you like acid, mixed with guilt so profound it felt like it might tear you apart.

The worst part was knowing that even if you wanted to fix it, to make it right, you'd lost that privilege. Your actions had burned that bridge to ashes, and now all you could do was watch from a distance as the person you loved most in the world fell apart, knowing you were the reason for both his pain and your own.

The doorbell rang again, more insistently this time, pulling you from your spiral of self-loathing. You knew it had to be Mingi - probably here to check on you after last night's chaos. Part of you wanted to pretend you weren't home, to sink deeper into your cocoon of misery, but you knew he wouldn't leave until he saw for himself that you were okay.

With a heavy sigh, you dragged yourself to the door, only to freeze when you opened it to find San standing there instead of Mingi. His expression was a mix of irritation and reluctance.

"Look, I don't want to be here, but Mingi was up my ass telling me to come—" San's words died in his throat as he took in your appearance, his annoyed expression shifting to something more complex. His eyes widened slightly, scanning over your tear-stained face, rumpled clothes, and the general air of devastation that must have been radiating off you.

The harsh edge in his stance softened almost imperceptibly. He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the situation he found himself in. "Shit," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "You look as bad as he does."

You couldn't meet San's gaze, feeling utterly numb yet somehow experiencing everything all at once. The weight of last night's events pressed down on your chest, making it difficult to breathe. Your fingers absently traced the doorframe, seeking something solid to ground yourself as the world seemed to spin beneath your feet.

San sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging as he made his way into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. You remained frozen in place, your mind struggling to process the simple act of his presence, staring blankly at the space where he had been standing for several long seconds before your foggy consciousness registered that he was already inside. Time felt distorted, moving both too quickly and too slowly, as you finally managed to close the door with trembling fingers, the soft click of the latch echoing in the heavy silence.

San finally spoke, his voice slightly softer than before, "Mingi's worried about both of you, and honestly..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I've never seen Yunho like this before. Not even when..."

He trailed off, leaving the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air. You could see the conflict in his expression - the loyalty to his friend warring with the understanding that pain rarely chooses sides.

"Look," he continued, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "I know it's not my place, and maybe I'm the last person who should be here right now. But Mingi's at the hospital with Yunho, and he wanted to make sure you were... functioning, I guess."

The word 'hospital' hit you like a physical blow, making your knees weak. "Hospital?" your voice came out barely above a whisper.

San's expression tightened, realizing he might have said too much. He ran a hand through his hair again, a gesture of clear discomfort. "It's not... He's going to be fine. Physically, at least."

To change the subject, San looked around the apartment, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. "What's even this place?"

"It's my friend's apartment," you explained, your voice still raw. "She's out of town for a work project, so I'm crashing here until she's back."

San sighed heavily as he made his way to sit down on a kitchen table chair, you followed in his footsteps. His eyes lingered on your disheveled state as you sat down across him, a mix of concern and resignation crossing his features. "You should change, considering you're still in your coat from yesterday. Maybe take a shower? I'll just be here until you finish."

You remained frozen in place, the thought of changing, of doing anything normal, felt surreal in the face of everything that had happened.

"Listen," San leaned back in his chair, his expression a mix of exhaustion and frustration. "Mingi asked me to check on you. Trust me, I'm not exactly thrilled about playing messenger between you two so let’s just get it done with quick."

"I didn't ask for anyone to check on me," you muttered.

"No, you didn't," San agreed, his voice carrying a sharp edge. "But Mingi's stuck in the middle of this mess, watching his two best friends tear themselves and each other apart. So here I am, making sure you haven't completely fallen apart too."

His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, fingers drumming against the table. "I have no idea what's gotten into you to walk out of your shared life with Yunho, and quite honestly, I don't even want to take the time to understand you," San's words cut through the air. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The life you two built together, the plans, the dreams - you didn't just walk away from him, you demolished everything. And for what?"

His voice grew quieter, but somehow that made it worse. "He loved you more than anything in this world. The way he looked at you... God, we all wished someone would look at us that way. And you just..." he shook his head, disgust evident in his features. "You took all of that and threw it away like it meant nothing. Like he meant nothing."

"He keeps saying he wasn't enough," San continued, his voice cracking slightly. "That he should have tried harder, been better. Do you know what it's like watching someone you care about destroy themselves because they think they're worthless?”

Every word felt like another weight added to the crushing guilt already suffocating you. San wasn't saying anything you hadn't already told yourself, but hearing it from someone else, someone who had witnessed the destruction from the outside, made it feel devastatingly real.

You wanted to speak, to defend yourself, to explain the tangled mess of fears and doubts that had driven you to this point, but the words died in your throat. San's judgment felt like a mirror reflecting back every self-accusation you'd been wrestling with since moving out.

San watched you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "I get it. Love is scary. Commitment is terrifying. But running away? That's not the answer. It never is."

"I thought I was protecting myself," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "I thought if I left first, it would hurt less than eventually losing him. But now..."

"Now you're both destroyed," San finished bluntly. "Congratulations on that stellar logic."

The silence that followed was deafening, filled with all the things left unsaid, all the regrets that were too late to matter, and all the pain that seemed to have no end in sight.

"Just go take that shower," San repeated firmly, his patience wearing thin.

"I will, right after you tell me how's Yunho and why he ended up in the hospital," you countered, your voice finding a sudden strength. "I'm still his emergency contact. If you won't tell me, I'll just call the hospital myself."

San's face twisted into a cruel smirk. "Oh, now you care? That's rich coming from someone who walked away without a second thought. Who abandoned everything we all thought was real. You lost the right to know anything about him the moment you chose to leave."

"I need you to leave," you said, your voice trembling with barely contained emotion, fingers digging into your palms so hard they left crescent marks. "Get the fuck out. Now."

San's eyes narrowed dangerously, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Or what? You'll run away from me too? That's your specialty, isn't it? Running away when things get too real, too fucking difficult?"

"This isn't your goddamn business, San," you snapped, anger finally breaking through your numbness like a dam bursting. Your voice rose with each word, echoing off the walls. "You don't get to come here and act like you know every fucking thing about my relationship with Yunho. You have no idea what I've been through, what we've—"

"Oh, but I do know," San stood up so violently his chair crashed to the floor behind him, his voice thundering through the apartment. "I fucking know because I'm the one who had to watch him break down last night! I'm the one who—"

"GET THE FUCK OUT!" you screamed, the force of your voice ripping through your throat like razor blades. The vase on the table shattered as your hand swept across it in a blind rage. Your whole body was trembling, tears streaming down your face as you pointed at the door. "Just... get out. Please. I can't... I can't do this anymore."

San stared at you for what felt like an eternity, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle twitching. The silence between you crackled with tension, thick enough to choke on. Finally, he moved towards the door with deliberate slowness, stopping just before he opened it. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the doorknob.

"You know what's really fucking funny?" he said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper that somehow cut deeper than any scream. "You're right. This isn't my business. But at least I stayed to fight for it. You?" He let out a bitter laugh that felt like acid in the air. "You just gave up. Like a fucking coward."

The door slammed behind him with such force that the walls seemed to vibrate with the echoes of his anger. You stood there, frozen, staring at the closed door as his words reverberated in your mind. The shards of the broken vase glinted on the floor, a perfect metaphor for the wreckage of your life.

Like a robot operating on autopilot, you dragged yourself to the bathroom. The shattered vase remained forgotten on the floor, a problem for another time. Your mind was too clouded, too heavy with thoughts that refused to settle. The shower routine passed in a blur - you couldn't remember if you'd washed your hair once or twice, or if you'd even used soap at all. Getting dressed was equally mechanical, with muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed.

Before you knew it, you were back on the sofa, staring blankly at nothing in particular. Your phone felt unnaturally heavy in your hand, and when it started vibrating with Mingi's incoming call, your heart lurched painfully in your chest.

You stared at the screen, watching Mingi's name flash insistently. Each vibration felt like another accusation, another reminder of everything you'd destroyed. After what felt like an eternity, you let the call go to voicemail, your hand trembling as you set the phone face-down on the coffee table.

The phone buzzed two more times in quick succession - Mingi, again and again. Each vibration seemed to echo through your entire body, but you couldn't bring yourself to answer. Eventually, the rhythmic buzzing of yet another incoming call became a strange lullaby, pulling you into a fitful sleep right there on the couch.

The gentle knock at the door pulled you from your restless sleep. Your body protested as you stood up, muscles stiff from sleeping in an awkward position. Opening the door revealed Mingi, his tall frame carrying several bags of takeout, his expression softer than you'd expected.

"Hey," he said quietly, lifting the bags slightly. "Thought you might need some food. Can I come in?"

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him enter. The apartment still bore the evidence of your confrontation with San - the broken vase pieces swept hastily into a corner, the overturned chair still lying on its side.

Mingi set the food down on the table and turned to you, his eyes full of concern. Without warning, he pulled you into a tight hug. The familiar comfort of his embrace broke something inside you, and you found yourself clinging to him as tears started falling again.

"I know," he murmured, rubbing soothing circles on your back. "I know it's hard. But you need to eat something, okay?"

Mingi let you go from his hug, looking around the small apartment with concerned eyes. He quietly righted the overturned chair, his gaze lingering on the broken vase in the corner. Moving to crouch beside the shattered pieces, he carefully picked up a larger fragment.

"Mingi, don't..." you whispered.

"I'll help you clean this up," he said softly, already looking around for something to sweep up the smaller pieces. "We shouldn't leave broken glass lying around."

You found a dustpan and brush in the kitchen, bringing them back to help Mingi clean up the mess. Working together in silence, you gathered the glittering shards, each piece a reminder of your earlier outburst. The simple act of cleaning somehow felt therapeutic, as if clearing away the physical debris could somehow help clear the emotional wreckage as well.

As you both settled at the table, Mingi began unpacking containers of your favorite comfort foods. The gesture was so thoughtful it made your throat tight.

"Listen," he said carefully, watching you pick at your food. "I know this isn't ideal timing, but... Yunho's going to be staying with me for a while. A few days at least. I think... I think it might be good if you used this time to get your things from the apartment. You know, the rest of your stuff."

You froze mid-bite, the implications of his words hitting you hard. Getting your things meant truly accepting it was over. Making it final.

"I'll help you," Mingi offered gently, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. "You don't have to do it alone."

You stared down at your barely touched food, the weight of his words settling heavily in your chest. The thought of going back to that apartment, of seeing all the remnants of your shared life with Yunho, made your stomach twist into knots.

"I'll do it myself," you whispered, wiping furiously at the tears that wouldn't stop falling. Your voice cracked as you looked at Mingi, desperation clawing at your chest. "Is it... is it really over like this?"

Mingi remained silent, his eyes filled with a sadness that spoke volumes. The weight of his silence crushed what little hope you had left, and you found yourself breaking down completely, shoulders shaking with uncontrollable sobs. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken truths. You both knew who had walked away. You both knew whose choices had led to this moment. The guilt of it all made your chest ache unbearably.

"Please," you choked out between sobs, "just tell me how he is. Is he okay? I need to know if he's okay."

But Mingi just sat there, his silence a reminder of San's earlier words - you'd lost the right to know. Your tears fell harder as the reality of your situation sank in deeper, each quiet moment another reminder of everything you'd thrown away.

Perhaps Mingi's heart was too pure, or perhaps the years of friendship between all of you were what made him finally break his silence. His expression softened as he watched you fall apart.

"He..." Mingi hesitated, weighing his words carefully. "He broke the mirror in his bathroom. Got some bad cuts from playing with the glass. They had to put in stitches, but thankfully there's no permanent nerve damage, even though some cuts were pretty deep." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "They're keeping him for vitamin IVs right now. Turns out he hasn't been eating properly... they want to monitor him for a bit."

The words hit you with a force that knocked the air out of your lungs, each detail making it harder to breathe. The image of Yunho, alone and hurting enough to... You pressed your hands against your face, trying to hold back a fresh wave of tears.

"Nurse told me he was asleep," Mingi continued, checking his phone briefly. "I had to leave since they wouldn't let me stay as I'm not family. I decided to just stop by here since they won't let him out till evening. I'll get him and we'll go to mine - I don't want him to be alone."

His words twisted the knife of guilt deeper into your heart. You'd been his family once, or at least you were supposed to be.

Now you were just another stranger, someone who'd lost the privilege of knowing how he was doing, of being there when he needed support. This was the consequence of your choices, the price of walking away. Your chest felt hollow as you stared at your food, wondering how everything had fallen apart so completely.

"Why did you do that?" Mingi asked softly, his eyes searching your face for answers. "You both were so happy. Everyone could see how much he loved you, how much you loved him. What changed?"

The question hung heavy in the air between you, forcing you to confront the choices that had led to this moment. Your hands trembled as you put your fork down, buying time as you struggled to find the words to explain something you barely understood yourself.

"You love him, I know you do," Mingi added, his eyes scanning your face. "That's what makes this even harder to understand."

"I got scared," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Everything was so perfect, and I... I convinced myself it couldn't last. That I'd end up losing him anyway, so maybe if I left first..." You trailed off, realizing how pathetic it sounded.

"So you chose to break both your hearts instead?" Mingi's voice was gentle but carried an undercurrent of frustration.

"I know it doesn't make sense," you said, tears falling freely now. "I know I ruined everything. I just... I couldn't handle how much I needed him. How much it would destroy me if he ever left."

Mingi sighed heavily, his eyes scanning your tear-stained face. "I hate to admit it, but... look at you. You're a mess too. You've completely ruined yourself. You look like you haven't slept in days, your eyes are swollen from crying, and..." He trailed off, shaking his head with a mixture of frustration and concern. "You destroyed yourselves trying to prevent something that wasn't even happening."

Your eyes welled up with fresh tears at his words, knowing he was right. The irony of it all felt like a cruel joke - you'd walked away to avoid pain, only to cause more devastation than you could have imagined.

"You know," Mingi said softly, his eyes distant as if remembering something, "he still wants to call you in the middle of the night. Every single night." He let out a heavy sigh. "He sits there, phone in hand, staring at your number until dawn breaks. Won't press call anymore, but... the need is still there. And I know you do the same - I can see it in your eyes, in how exhausted you look. You both need each other like you need air to breathe, but you're both too scared to make that first move."

The memory of all those nights spent staring at your phone, finger hovering over Yunho's name, praying he would call first, made your chest ache.

"You threw it all away because you were afraid of losing it," Mingi continued, his voice gentle but firm. "But look at what happened - you lost it anyway. The very thing you were trying to prevent... you made it happen."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands trembling as you wiped away fresh tears. The truth in his words carved deeper than any knife - you'd orchestrated your own heartbreak, conducted this symphony of pain with the precision of someone determined to suffer. Your gaze dropped to your lap, unable to meet his eyes as the weight of your self-fulfilling prophecy crushed what remained of your resolve.

"Just..." Mingi paused, running his hand through his hair with visible frustration. "Don't try to get him back. I'm for real. Not right now, when he's this broken. He needs time to heal, and so do you. If you really love him, give him that at least."

You knew he was right. The image of Yunho in the hospital, of his bandaged hands, was enough to make you understand the gravity of what you'd done.

"Y/N," Mingi started, his voice heavy with resignation. "I know you're hurting too, but I can't be in the middle of this right now. All I ask is that you get your things while he's staying with me. Give him space to heal."

"But I still need him," you whispered, voice cracking. "I know what I did was wrong, but I never wanted this to happen."

"Please," Mingi said firmly, raising his hand. His eyes held a mixture of concern and exhaustion. "I can't hear this right now. Not when he's in the hospital because—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Just do what I asked, okay?"

"Could you at least tell him that I—"

"No," he cut you off as he got up from the chair, already moving towards the door. "I won't carry messages between you two. That's not fair to anyone."

He paused at the doorway, his tall frame casting a long shadow across your floor. "Take care of yourself, alright?" The gentleness in his voice only made your chest ache more. With that, he left, the gentle click of the door somehow worse than San's earlier slam.

You stared at the food he'd brought, but your appetite had completely vanished. After a few half-hearted attempts to eat, you pushed the containers away. Your eyes landed on your phone, still face-down on the coffee table. The thought of going to collect your things from the apartment made your stomach churn, but Mingi was right – it needed to be done.

Maybe it was better to do it now, while everything still felt numb. You grabbed your keys and jacket, leaving the uneaten food on the table. Each step towards your car felt like walking through quicksand, but you forced yourself to keep moving. The sooner you did this, the sooner everyone could start healing – even if that meant healing without you.

The apartment key felt impossibly heavy in your hand as you stood before the familiar door. Taking a deep breath, you pushed it open, and immediately the scent of him - that unique blend of his cologne and just... him - hit you like a physical force.

Your eyes landed on the entryway, where you'd both stumbled through that very first night, drunk on love and anticipation. You remembered how he'd pressed you against that wall, his lips trailing fire down your neck as you'd giggled, both of you nearly tripping over the moving boxes that still littered the floor. "Welcome home," he'd whispered against your skin, and you'd never felt more certain about anything in your life.

Moving to the bedroom was like walking through a minefield of memories. The bed where you'd spent countless nights tangled in each other's arms. That first night, when his touches had been so gentle, so reverent as if he couldn't believe you were real. The way he'd worshipped every inch of your body, whispering promises against your skin until you were both breathless and trembling.

With shaking hands, you began pulling your remaining clothes from the closet. Each item held a memory - the sweater you'd worn on your first date, the dress from that summer party where he couldn't keep his eyes off you. His hoodies that you'd claimed as your own still smelled like him, and you found yourself pressing one to your face, inhaling deeply as tears started falling.

The bathroom was worse. Your toothbrush still stood next to his in that ridiculous holder he'd insisted on buying because it looked like a tiny robot. The sight of the broken mirror made your stomach lurch - you could almost see the scene Mingi had described, the sound of shattering glass echoing in your mind. Mechanically, you gathered your cosmetics, your favorite shampoo, the face masks he'd always tease you about but secretly loved using himself.

Back in the bedroom, you faced the wall of polaroids - a chronicle of your relationship. There you both were, beaming at the camera on a moving day, surrounded by boxes. Another showed you both covered in paint after attempting to DIY the living room walls. So many captured kisses, lazy Sunday mornings, and surprise back hugs. Your fingers traced the edge of one particular photo - both of you tangled in sheets, your hair a mess, his lips pressed to your temple. He'd insisted on capturing that moment, said he wanted to remember exactly how beautiful you looked in the morning light.

The gifts were the hardest. The plush bear he'd won at that carnival, even though he'd spent way too much money trying. The bracelet from your first anniversary, engraved with the date you met. That silly coffee mug with your inside joke printed on it. Each item felt like it was burning your fingers as you packed it away, each one a reminder of promises you'd broken.

You found yourself sitting on the edge of the bed - your bed, his bed, the bed that had been yours together - clutching your favorite pillow to your chest. The one he'd always steal because he said it smelled like you. A sob escaped your throat as you remembered how he'd wrap himself around you every night, one arm always protectively draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck.

"I'm sorry," you whispered to the empty room, your voice breaking. "I'm so sorry." But the walls that had witnessed so many of your loving moments now only echoed back your solitary grief.

With trembling hands, you zipped up the last bag. The apartment looked wrong now - half-empty, just like your heart. You took one final look around, memories flooding your mind: the kitchen where you'd attempted to teach him to cook (and failed miserably), the living room where you'd slow-danced at midnight, the balcony where you'd planned your future together.

You decided to clean up one last time, starting with the kitchen. The dishes had piled up - he'd always been terrible at keeping up with them when stressed. Your hands moved mechanically through the motions of washing, drying, and putting away. Each clink of plates being stacked felt too loud in the empty space.

The bathroom was next. Glass fragments still littered the tiles, some pieces stained with what you knew must be his blood. Your hands shook as you swept them up, imagining his pain, his desperation. The mirror's absence left a gaping void on the wall, much like the one in your chest.

It was late evening by the time you finished. The apartment gleamed with a sterile emptiness that felt wrong - too clean, too neat, like trying to erase all traces of the mess you'd made of things. You were about to leave when you heard it - Yunho’s voice behind the door.

"Mingi, I know you said you'd pick me up, but I just couldn't stay there anymore," Yunho's muffled voice came through the door, followed by a frustrated sigh. "The nurses were driving me crazy with all their—why are you freaking out? What's wrong?"

Click.

Your heart stopped. You knew that sound, knew the slight hesitation that always came before he'd push the door open. The handle turned, and there he was.

Yunho stood frozen in the doorway, his bandaged hand still on the handle. He looked terrible - pale, with dark circles under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. The hospital bracelet was still around his wrist.

"I'm gonna call you back," Yunho said shakily into the phone, his eyes never leaving yours. His bandaged hand trembled as he ended the call, letting the phone drop to his side.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air felt thick with all the things you wanted to say, all the apologies stuck in your throat. His eyes moved from you to the packed bags by the door, and then to the spotless apartment behind you.

"What are you doing here?" Yunho asked, his voice hoarse and tired.

"Mingi told me you'd be staying at his place, so I..." you started with a trembling voice, gesturing weakly at the packed bags. "I wanted to grab my things."

"I..." your voice cracked. "I was just leaving. I cleaned up... I thought..." The words died on your tongue as his gaze finally met yours. The pain in his eyes made you want to reach for him, but you knew you'd lost that right.

And then the tears came for what seemed to be the hundredth time today, hot and relentless, streaming down your face as you stood there, unable to look away from him. Your shoulders shook with silent sobs, each one carrying the weight of everything you'd lost, everything you'd broken.

"I'm sorry," you managed to whisper, though the words felt painfully inadequate in the face of his bandaged hands and haunted eyes. "I'm so, so sorry."

He moved then, crossing the space between you in two long strides. Before you could process what was happening, his arms were around you, pulling you against his chest with a gentleness that broke your heart all over again. You melted into his embrace, your tears soaking into his shirt as your fingers clutched desperately at the fabric.

"Shh," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he began to sway slightly, rocking you both from side to side in a gentle, soothing motion. The familiar rhythm only made you cry harder, remembering all the times he'd held you just like this – after bad days, during celebrations, or simply because he wanted to be close to you.

Your body felt impossibly small in his arms, defeated and drained. The guilt was crushing, made worse by the tenderness of his touch. Even now, even after everything you'd done, he was still trying to comfort you. His bandaged hand smoothed over your hair, and you could feel the slight tremor in his movements.

"I don't deserve this," you whispered against his chest, your voice breaking. "I don't deserve you being kind to me."

"Don't," he murmured, his grip tightening slightly. "Just... let me hold you. Please. Just for a moment."

The quiet desperation in his voice shattered what was left of your composure. You pressed closer, breathing in his scent, memorizing the feeling of being in his arms one last time. His heart beat steadily under your ear, a rhythm you'd fallen asleep to countless times before. Now each beat felt like a countdown to goodbye.

He continued to sway, the motion almost hypnotic, as if he could make time stand still if he just kept you both moving. His chin rested on top of your head, and you could feel the slight dampness of his own tears falling into your hair.

"I'm sorry," you whispered again, the words muffled against his chest. "I'm so sorry, it's all my fault."

His only response was to hold you tighter, his breathing uneven as he fought back his own emotions. The bandages on his hands scraped lightly against your back, a physical reminder of the pain you'd caused. Yet here he was, still trying to comfort you, still being the incredible person you'd fallen in love with – the person you'd hurt so deeply.

Time seemed to lose all meaning as you stood there in his arms, both of you silently crying, swaying together in the apartment that had once been your home.

"I love you," Yunho whispered against your hair, his voice barely audible. His lips pressed softly against the top of your head, the gesture achingly tender. The words hung in the air between you, making your heart constrict painfully in your chest. Those three words that had once been a promise of forever now felt like a farewell.

You felt him take a shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling against you. His fingers tightened in the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, as if fighting the urge to never let go. Then, slowly, deliberately, his arms loosened their hold. The loss of his warmth was immediate and devastating, leaving you feeling colder than you'd ever been.

"I love you too," you whispered back, your voice breaking on each word. The truth of it burned in your chest - you did love him, desperately, completely, even now.

Yunho's breath hitched, and you felt him stiffen slightly. His hands, which had been resting loosely at his sides, clenched into fists, the bandages crinkling with the movement. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, rough with emotion.

"All of it," he started, then had to pause, swallowing hard. "Everything we built, everything we dreamed about... it all just went to waste, didn't it?" The words seemed to physically pain him as they left his lips, each one carrying the weight of a thousand shattered promises.

You watched as he ran his bandaged hand through his hair, a gesture so achingly familiar it made your heart constrict. His eyes, when they met yours, were filled with a devastating mixture of love and resignation. "All those nights planning our future, all those promises we made... they just turned to dust. And the worst part?" He let out a broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. "The worst part is that I still wouldn't change a single moment of it. Not one second of loving you."

The silence that followed was deafening, filled with all the things you both wanted to say but couldn't. The space between you felt like an ocean now, vast and impossible to cross, even though you could still feel the ghost of his warmth on your skin.

"I love you," he said again, his voice cracking, "but I need you to leave now."

"Please," you choked out, reaching for him instinctively. "Please, Yunho, we can fix this. We can try again. I'll do anything—"

He took a step back, keeping himself just out of your reach. The movement, though small, felt like a physical blow. "Don't," he whispered, his bandaged hand coming up as if to shield himself. "It all went to waste the second you walked out that door. You made your choice."

"I was wrong," you pleaded, tears streaming down your face. "I was so wrong. Please, just give me one more chance—"

"Stop." His voice was firm now, despite the tears in his eyes. "You need to go. I can't... I can't do this. Not now. Not anymore."

Each word felt like a knife to your heart, but you could see the resolution in his eyes, even through his pain. This was it. This was really the end. Yunho turned away, his shoulders tense, but as your first sob broke through the silence, he froze. Your crying was raw and uncontrollable now, each breath coming as a painful gasp, your whole body shaking with the force of it. The sound seemed to fill every corner of the space, bouncing off the bare walls, making the emptiness feel even more profound.

"You know what?" Yunho suddenly spun around, his voice rising with a surge of anger that seemed to fill the entire room. His eyes, usually so warm and gentle, now blazed with an intensity that made you take a step back. "Fuck this! Fuck all of this! You don't get to stand there crying like you're the victim here, like you weren't the one who made this choice!"

"I'm not—" you started, your voice small and trembling, but he cut you off with a sharp gesture that made you flinch.

"You LEFT!" he shouted, "You walked out that fucking door without even looking back! Do you know what that did to me? Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch the person you love, the person you built your whole world around, just... just throw everything away like it meant nothing? Like every moment we shared was fucking worthless?"

"It meant EVERYTHING!" you screamed back, your own anger finally breaking through the surface like a dam bursting. Your hands were shaking as you gestured wildly between you. "That's why I left! I was terrified of how much I needed you, how much power you had over me! I couldn't breathe without thinking about you! Every moment of every day was consumed by thoughts of you, and it terrified me!"

"So you decided to stop breathing altogether?" His laugh was bitter and hollow, tears streaming down his face and catching on his trembling lips. "Great fucking solution! Really stellar thinking there!"

"I was scared!" Your voice cracked, splintering like glass. "I still am! I'm scared because I love you so much it hurts, and I don't know how to handle that! It's like drowning and flying all at once, and I'm terrified of what that means!"

"And I'm not scared?" He stepped closer, his eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and desperation. The space between you crackled with tension. "You think I'm not terrified every single day? But I stayed! I fought for us! I faced that fear head-on because what we had was worth fighting for! While you... you just ran. You took the easiest fucking way out and left me."

The silence that followed was deafening, and oppressive, both of you breathing heavily, tears mingling with anger and exhaustion. The air between you felt thick with unspoken words and shattered promises. When Yunho spoke again, his voice was softer, broken, like shards of glass wrapped in velvet.

"The worst part is..." he paused, running his bandaged hand through his hair in that achingly familiar gesture, "I still want to hold you. Even now, even after everything... even after you broke my heart into a thousand pieces, I still want to make it all better. How fucked up is that? How pathetic am I?"

You took a shaky step forward, your hands trembling like leaves in a storm. "Then do it," you challenged, "Hold me. Make it better. Because I'm not going to fucking pretend I don't want the same thing."

"Don't you dare," he growled, but he was already moving closer, his bandaged hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, betraying his internal struggle. "Don't you fucking dare make me want this when I should be hating you. When everything in me is screaming to push you away."

"But you don't hate me," you whispered, now close enough to feel his ragged breath fan across your face, to see the golden flecks in his tear-filled eyes. "You can't hate me any more than I can hate you."

"I fucking wish I could," he choked out, and then his hands were in your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as he pulled you roughly against him. His lips crashed into yours with the force of a breaking wave, the kiss desperate, angry, messy with tears and need. His bandaged fingers dug into your scalp as you grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, trying to eliminate any space between your bodies.

"I hate that I still love you," he gasped against your mouth between brutal, punishing kisses that felt more like warfare than affection. "I hate that I can't stop, that I don't want to stop. That you have this power over me."

"Then don't stop," you breathed, tasting the salt of both your tears as he kissed you again, harder this time, backing you up against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs. His hands were rough against your skin as he yanked your shirt up, you helped him pull it off, then immediately went for his, desperate to feel his skin against yours. His chest was heaving, muscles taut with tension as your fingers traced over them.

"I shouldn't want this," he growled against your neck, biting down hard enough to make you gasp, to ensure you'd carry the mark of this moment for days to come. "I shouldn't still want you this much. It's destroying me."

"But you do," you challenged, your nails dragging down his back, "You want me as much as I want you. As much as we've always wanted each other."

He responded by lifting you up, pinning you harder against the wall, his strength both frightening and thrilling. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, drawing a deep groan from him that vibrated against your collarbone. "You don't get to fucking tell me what I want," he said, but his hands were already working at your jeans, his movements frantic and needy, betraying his words.

"Then show me," you gasped as his fingers found bare skin, sending electricity coursing through your veins. "Show me what you want, Yunho. Make me understand." The sound of his name seemed to break something fundamental in him, some last barrier of resistance. He crushed his mouth to yours again, the kiss all teeth and tongue and desperate need. You could taste the anger on his lips, the hurt, and the want all mixed together into something explosive, dangerous, and necessary.

"I hate this," he panted between kisses that felt like drowning, even as his hands roamed your body with familiar hunger, mapping every curve and hollow. "I hate that no one else feels like you do. That no one else ever could."

"I know," you whispered, helping him take off your bra, both of you too far gone to care about anything but this moment, this need. "I know, I hate it too. I hate that you're the only one who makes me feel alive."

The wall was cold against your naked back, a sharp contrast to the burning heat of his skin. His bandaged hands gripped your thighs almost painfully tight as he pressed closer, leaving no space between your bodies, no room for doubt or regret.

"Tell me to stop," he demanded, his voice rough with need, with all the things left unsaid between you. "Tell me this is a mistake. Tell me we shouldn't be doing this."

Instead, you pulled him closer, your lips finding his ear, breath hot against his skin. "Never," you breathed, feeling him shudder against you, his control finally shattering completely. "I never want you to stop. Not now, not ever."

Your hands trembled as you unzipped his pants, feeling his hardness straining against the fabric. He let out a deep moan that sent shivers down your spine as you pulled his jeans down, your fingers ghosting over his thighs.

"Fuck, we can't be doing this," he said as his hands found the delicate lace of your panties, the last barrier between you. His fingers hooked into the waistband, pulling them down with agonizing slowness until they fell forgotten to the floor. His hands returned to grip your hips with bruising force, the roughness of the bandages a stark reminder of everything between you as he pressed you harder against the cold wall. His breath came in hot, ragged pants against your neck. You were both trembling, poised on the edge of something dangerous and inevitable. The tension between you was electric, charged with equal parts anger and desire. When he finally moved, it was with a force that made you cry out, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders as he buried himself inside you in one swift, brutal motion.

"You shouldn't have fucking left," he growled between harsh, desperate thrusts, each word punctuated by the raw sound of skin against skin, his voice thick with anger and longing. "You had no right to just walk away like everything we built meant nothing."

"And you had no right to give up on us so easily," you shot back, your voice breaking into a breathless moan as he hit a particularly sensitive spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. Your fingers tangled roughly in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss through clenched teeth. "You could have fought harder, could have shown me it was worth staying for."

"Fought harder?" His laugh was bitter and hollow as his pace increased to something almost punishing, "You're the one who ran away the moment things got too real!"

"Because you were suffocating me," you gasped, arching against him as pleasure and pain mingled indistinguishably in your veins like a drug. "You wanted to have all of me, every single piece of my soul until I couldn't even tell where I ended and you began."

"And you didn't want exactly the same thing?" His hand gripped your jaw with bruising intensity, forcing you to look directly into his eyes that burned with raw emotion as he continued his relentless rhythm. "Don't you dare lie to me. Not now. Not when I can feel how desperately you need this, need me."

You tried to shake your head, but his grip only tightened, his thumb pressing against your lower lip as tears spilled down your cheeks. "I wanted everything with you," you admitted, your voice breaking.

"And I wanted to give you everything," he snarled, his hips snapping against yours with bruising force. "Every fucking piece of me was yours, and you threw it away like it meant nothing!"

Your response was cut off by a particularly deep thrust that had you seeing stars, your nails raking down his sweat-slicked back hard enough to leave marks. "Fuck, Yunho," you gasped, your head falling back against the wall with a thud.

"Say it again," he demanded, his voice rough and raw as he bit down hard on your shoulder. "Say my fucking name like you mean it."

"Yunho," you moaned, tugging sharply at his hair, forcing his head back so you could crash your lips against his in a kiss that was more teeth than tenderness. The metallic taste of blood mingled between you as his lip split under the force of your bite.

"I fucking hate how much I still want you," he growled against your mouth, his pace becoming erratic, desperate. His bandaged hands gripped your thighs so hard you knew they'd leave bruises, marking you as his even now. "How much I still need you, even after everything."

You could feel yourself approaching the edge, every nerve ending on fire as he drove into you relentlessly. "Then make me feel it," you challenged, your voice breaking on his hard, sharp thrust. "Make me remember why I was so fucking scared of how much I loved you."

He responded by shifting his angle, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur, "Is this what you wanted?" he panted, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest. "To reduce us to this? Just fucking against a wall like we're nothing more than this?"

"We were never nothing," you gasped, feeling the tension building to an unbearable level. "We were everything - fuck, Yunho, I'm so close..."

"Then come for me," he demanded, his voice wrecked and desperate. "Show me how much you fucking need this. Need me." His words pushed you over the edge, your body arching off the wall as waves of your orgasm crashed through you, his name a broken cry on your lips. He followed moments later, his grip bruising as he buried his face in your neck, his whole body shuddering with the force of his release. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing and the thundering of your hearts, the anger between you temporarily drowned.

Slowly, you both slid to the floor, limbs still tangled together, neither wanting to be the first to let go. The wall was cold against your back, but his body was warm, his breath evening out against your skin.

The silence shattered as suddenly as it had descended. "This was a fucking mistake," Yunho spat, pushing away from you with such force that you nearly fell over. "Just like everything else between us."

"A mistake?" You laughed bitterly, scrambling to your feet. "That's rich coming from you. You weren't calling it a mistake when you were fucking me against the wall two minutes ago."

"You know what the worst part is?" you said, voice cracking as you stood there half-dressed and trembling. "I still love you. Even now, even after everything, I love you so much it's killing me."

"Don't," Yunho warned, but his voice was unsteady. "Don't you dare say that now."

"Why not? Because it's true?" You took a step toward him, watching his chest rise and fall with rapid breaths. "Because you feel it too? This thing between us that won't die no matter how hard we try to kill it?"

"Love doesn't destroy people like this. Love doesn't leave you bleeding out on your bathroom floor at 3 AM because you can't stand the silence anymore."

"Oh, but that's exactly what it does when it's real," you whispered, reaching out to touch his face. He jerked away like your touch burned. "When it's so deep it becomes part of your DNA. When losing it feels like losing a vital organ."

His eyes were glassy with unshed tears as he grabbed your wrist, his grip painfully tight. "Then maybe we were wrong to ever let it get this far. Maybe we should have known better than to let ourselves become this—this fucking catastrophe." His voice cracked as he raised his bandaged hands, forcing you to see them clearly. "Look at this. Look what you did to me! I've been miserable since the day you left." He yanked a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with trembling fingers.

"Put that out," you snapped, watching him take a long drag. "When did you start smoking again?"

Yunho deliberately blew a cloud of smoke directly into your face, making you cough. "I started again the night you left. Needed something to fill the void you left behind."

"Don't you dare blame your self-destructive habits on me," you snarled, waving away the smoke. "Those bandages? That's all you. The smoking? That's you too. Stop making me your fucking scapegoat!"

"Self-destructive?" He took another drag, eyes never leaving yours. "You want to talk about destruction? You destroyed everything we built. These hands? They haven't stopped shaking since you walked out that door. I can barely hold my fucking keys without trembling. But you don't care about that, do you? You never cared about anything but yourself."

"You really want to do this?" you asked, voice trembling with barely contained rage. "Fine. Do you want to know what I care about? I care that you're destroying yourself and blaming me for it. I care that you're using me as an excuse to spiral instead of dealing with your own issues."

"Get out," he growled, voice dangerously low.

"Are you sure?" you taunted, your voice dripping with venom. "Once I leave, who will you fuck against the wall again?"

"Don't you even dare throw this in my face now!" Yunho screamed. The veins in his neck stood out prominently as he advanced toward you, trembling with barely contained fury. "Get the fuck out before I say something we'll both regret.”

"More regrets?" You laughed hysterically as you yanked your shirt over your head. "Add it to the fucking list, Yunho. Right next to ever believing we could make this work!"

"You want to talk about beliefs?" He advanced on you, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes wild. "I believed every fucking promise you made. Every 'I love you,' every 'forever.' What a goddamn joke. You're nothing but a coward who runs the moment things get real."

"And you're nothing but a controlling asshole who can't handle not having everything your way!" You struggled with your jeans, hands shaking with rage. "You say I run? You pushed me away long before I ever left!"

"Get. The. Fuck. Out." Each word was punctuated by him throwing something - your shoes, your jacket, your keys. "I'm done with your bullshit excuses. I'm done with your lies. I'm done with YOU."

"Fuck you, Yunho," you spat, gathering your remaining belongings, dodging the cloud of smoke he blew in your direction. "Fuck you and your self-righteous bullshit. You want me gone? Fine. But remember - you're the one kicking me out this time. You don't get to play the victim anymore." With trembling hands, you picked up your bags. Your feet felt heavy as lead as you walked towards the door, each step taking you further away from the life you'd built together.

His laugh was ugly, and bitter as he stubbed out the cigarette against the wall. "The victim? That's rich coming from someone who's made an art form out of playing the martyr. Go on, run away again. It's what you're best at, isn't it?"

"DON'T SAY I'M RUNNING AWAY WHEN IT'S YOU THROWING ME OUT!" you screamed, your voice cracking with raw emotion. "You don't get to rewrite this narrative. You're the one telling me to leave, you're the one pushing me away, and you have the audacity to call ME a coward?"

His eyes flashed dangerously as he stalked towards you, closing the distance between you in three long strides. His hand shot out, fingers gripping your chin roughly as he forced you to meet his blazing gaze. "A coward? No, sweetheart, a coward wouldn't have the guts to destroy someone so thoroughly and then act like they're the victim. You're something much worse - you're a fucking hurricane that leaves nothing but devastation in your wake."

You ripped your chin from his grasp, stumbling backward. "Then I guess we're both disasters," you hissed, tears finally spilling over. "Because you're not exactly leaving survivors in your path either."

The silence between you stretched taut, electric with accusations and raw pain. Your hand found the doorknob, gripping it like a lifeline as you fought the urge to turn back, to see if his expression matched the brokenness in his voice. But you knew better - one look back and you might crumble, might forget all the reasons why this toxic dance needed to end.

"You know what?" Your voice came out steadier than you felt, even as your heart threatened to shatter into a million jagged pieces in your chest, each shard cutting deeper than the last. "You were right about one thing. This was a mistake. All of it. Every stolen moment, every whispered promise. But at least I can admit my mistakes instead of drowning them in nicotine and self-pity like you've been doing."

"And what about you?" he shot back, voice raw and bleeding with emotion. "Drowning yourself in righteous anger and pretending you're better than me because you can 'admit your mistakes'? At least I'm honest about my demons."

"At least I'm trying!" Your voice cracked like thin ice, hands trembling violently as you gripped the doorknob tighter, knuckles turning white from the force. "At least I'm not standing here pretending that smoking and fucking will somehow magically fix what’s broken!"

"Nothing can fix what's broken between us," he said, suddenly sounding exhausted, like all the fight had drained from his body at once. "We made sure of that, didn't we?"

You turned to face him one last time, your vision swimming with unshed tears that refused to fall. "How did we get here, Yunho? How did we go from 'forever' to this?"

"I don't know," he whispered, running a shaking hand through his disheveled hair, eyes haunted with memories of better days. "I don't fucking know anymore. All I know is that I can't breathe when you're here, and I can't breathe when you're gone."

"Then maybe we're just poison to each other now." Your hand remained frozen on the door handle, caught between staying and leaving, between love and self-preservation. "Maybe we loved too hard, too fast, and burned ourselves out."

"Love?" He laughed bitterly, lighting another cigarette with trembling fingers, "Is that what you call this endless cycle of hurting each other?"

"You know it is," you said softly, your words barely a whisper in the heavy air between you. "That's why it hurts so much. Because underneath all this anger, all this pain, all these scars we've carved into each other... I still love you. And I hate myself for it. I hate that even now, standing in the wreckage of us, my heart still beats your name."

He took a long, deliberate drag, the ember of his cigarette glowing brightly. "Just go," he said finally, his voice thick with emotions he couldn't quite suppress. "Before we destroy whatever's left of each other."

This time, you didn't argue. You pulled the door open with shaking hands, the cold air hitting your tear-stained face. "Goodbye, Yunho," you whispered, the words tasting like farewell and forever on your tongue as you stepped out into the hallway.

Behind you, you heard a muffled thud - the sound of him sliding down against the door, followed by a quiet, broken sob. Your legs gave out, and you collapsed against the wall, your bags scattered around you like the pieces of your shattered relationship. You wanted to scream, to run back, to break down that door and hold him until all the pain went away. But you couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but press your hand against your mouth to muffle the sound of your own cry.

Through the door, you could hear him crying, the sound growing more desperate, more raw. The thud of his fist against the floor, followed by a choked "Why?" that felt like it was being ripped from his very soul. You'd never heard him sound so destroyed, so utterly broken, and knowing you were the cause made you physically sick.

You don't know how long you both stayed there, separated by nothing but a door, both falling apart in perfect, painful synchronicity. When his sobs finally quieted, the silence that followed was somehow even worse - empty, final, dead.

Eventually, you forced yourself to stand on shaking legs, gathering your scattered belongings. Each step away from his door felt like walking on broken glass, leaving a trail of invisible blood and regret.

The elevator ride down was a blur, each floor taking you further from the life you'd shared. As you stepped out into the cold night air the city lights blurred through your tears, a kaleidoscope of colors that seemed to mock the darkness consuming your heart.

♡│if you enjoy my writing please consider supporting me by tagging and reblogging│

[of-a-chaotic-mind]

Hey Bartender

Summary: Reader thinks it's just another shift of bartending but instead meets a drunk golden retriever that sets her up with his best friend.

TW/CW: Eddie Diaz x Reader, Get Together

Requested?: No 

Word Count: 4,087

A/N: I realized I always write reader as a fellow firefighter and wanted to try my hand at not doing that lol. You know I just had to add a drop of angst in there lmao. Anyways, hope you enjoy the read! Much love to all! Requests are Open!

--- Your POV --- 

    It's another Saturday night, and I'm expecting just as many jackasses as usual... Let me tell you, bartending pays well but damn does it suck ass. If I had a nickel for every time a douche bag hit on me, I wouldn't need to bartend, I could just live on my own private island. If I had a dollar for every decent man that ever hit on me, I'd be living on the streets if it weren’t for my weekly paychecks.  

    I drop my bag in the back office and head to the bar, throwing my hair up into a messy bun on the way. When I round the corner of the hallway out into the main area, I can see my coworkers Tiana and Grayson struggling to keep up. I slide through the swinging door with ease and begin taking orders. Soon, the chaos has died down some and I'm able to send Tiana home.  

    A rowdy bunch of college guys, that I see often, come in as she leaves. I raise my voice, "Hey! Don't come in here acting a fool, y'all know better." They sarcastically salute me or wave dramatically before making their way to their favorite table in the corner.  

    A tall, older, and muscular guy takes a seat on the stool in front of me, "You must be the boss lady around here," he states pointing back toward the college kids. 

    I scoff, "Might as well be but no. Our boss tends to only show up when it's slow. What can I get ya?" 

    The man laughs, "Two Jack and Coke, please." 

    I nod and turn around to reach for the Jack Daniels but find it exactly where I had repeatedly told Grayson not to put it, on the top shelf. Placing my hands on my hips, I turn toward my coworker, "Hey, dickhead!" He looks up immediately but I only point in the direction of the bottle I need. He grins with a laugh as he approaches me, grabs the bottle, and passes it down to me. As he returns to the customer, he was helping I gripe, "I swear you only do that to piss me off." 

    He looks at me, still wearing that stupid grin, "Yup, sure do!" 

    I roll my eyes and proceed to finish making my customer's Jack and Coke. When I set the glasses down in front of him, he admits, "If he wasn't making my gaydar go off, I'd be concerned." 

    I laugh, "Yes, Grayson is gay. He's basically my annoying little brother that enjoys making my life difficult." 

    The man laughs, "I'm Tommy," he points behind him, "The one waving his arms around like a crazy person is my lovely boyfriend, Evan." 

    I watch Evan animatedly tell his story for a beat before responding, "I'm (Y/N). What on earth is he talking about?" 

    Tommy shakes his head, "I don't really know. I love listening to him speak, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I zone out because I'm too focused on how pretty he is." 

    This makes me laugh extra hard, "I could see that." 

    Tommy pulls far more than enough cash out of his wallet to pay for the drinks and hands it to me, "Keep the change. See you around, (Y/N)." 

    I nod and watch him leave before jumping because Grayson speaks right in my ear, "He was cute!" 

    I shake my head, "He's gay and taken." 

    Grayson pouts, "Damn... A loss for us both I guess." I laugh and start cleaning up around the bar. 

    Sometime later, I notice something suspicious out of the corner of my eye. There's a gruff looking man leaning far too close to a girl who looks at least half his age. At first glance, I wouldn't even be sure she's old enough to drink but considering they card everyone at the door, she's at least 21 and this man looks to be in his late 40s or early 50s. She is very obviously uncomfortable and from the way her eyes dart around I can tell she's looking for an escape route. 

    I place my hand on Grayson's shoulder, still keeping an eye on her, "I'll be right back." He follows my line of sight and nods in understanding. As I pass the cooler on my way to her, I blindly grab a bottle of water. I step beside her, opposite the man, and place my hand on her shoulder and the water on the table in front of her, "Here's that water you ordered, sweetie." 

    "Aw, I just brought you a drink, Baby. You haven't even touched it yet. You don't need that water, do ya?" the subtleties his voice makes my skin crawl. 

    She avoids eye contact with him as she opens the water and takes a sip before looking me dead in the eyes, "Thank you. Could you point me to the bathroom, please?" 

    I nod, "Sure, I'll walk you there." She hops down from her stool and I put myself between her and the man.  

    I point in the direction we need to go but as she starts that way, the man grabs my right arm, "I think I can handle walking her to the bathroom. Besides, your coworker looks pretty busy over there." 

    I turn slowly to face him. I look down at where his hand is clamped around my right bicep and then back at his face, "I suggest you remove your hand from my body before I remove it from yours." By now everyone in the bar is zeroed in on us. I even notice Tommy, Evan, and a couple of their friends get up from their table. 

    His grip tightens, "I said," spits flecks across my face as he speaks through gritted teeth and with a menacing smile, "I can show her to the bathroom." 

    I wipe my face with my left hand, "Last chance, pal. You have three seconds." I give him a few seconds as promised before using my right hand to remove his hand from my arm, twisting it outwards with a small crack. Anger now replacing the smile on his face, he lunges at me but I drive the palm of my left hand straight into his nose.  

    He doubles over in pain, holding his nose as blood leaks through his fingers, "You bitch!" 

    I glare down at him, "That shit doesn't fly in my bar," I point to the bouncers, snap my fingers, and point down at the piece of shit at my feet. Already on standby, they immediately make their way through the crowd to collect him. I turn to check on the girl and escort her to the bathroom. 

--- Third Person POV --- 

    Bobby and Athena meet the bouncers at the puddle of filth who is still writhing in pain, "My husband is just gonna make sure he doesn't need a stop at the hospital on his way to the police station," she says, as she flashes her badge. The bouncers take a step back to let Bobby work. Athena turns to speak to (Y/N) but finds her already heading toward the bathrooms with the girl.  

    Bobby stands and wipes his hands on a napkin, "Alright, Athena, to the slammer. As far as I can tell she just broke it. No serious damage."  

    Athena nods and looks toward the door where two officers enter. When they approach her, she explains what happened and gives them instructions. A few feet away, Buck leans toward Tommy, "I wonder where she learned to do that." 

    Wondering the same thing, Eddie looks over as Tommy answers, "She had an Army Sergeant's insignia tattooed on her wrist." 

    Eddie nods, "That'll do it." 

    Buck looks toward the bathrooms, "A badass, former Army Sergeant, who can take down a man twice her size...," he looks at Eddie, whose eyes are locked in the same direction, "You should get her number." Eddie rolls his eyes and soon the three are ushered back to the table by Athena and Bobby. 

--- Your POV --- 

    As we arrive at the bathrooms, I wait with the girl in silence. When the door opens and another lady exits, she moves to enter before looking back at me, "Thank you." 

    I nod, "I'll be at the bar if you need me." She nods before entering the bathroom. I make my way back towards the bar and as soon as I round the corner, the college boys in the corner start whooping and hollering. The rest of the bar erupts to join them. I quickly return to the bar, grinning and shaking my head.  

    When the commotion dies down, one of the college kids loudly slurs out, "That, ladies and gentlemen, is why we don't fuck with (Y/N)." Many in the bar laugh before returning to their friends and drinks. Not too long later, I watch the girl meet a few friends at the door and make their way to a table. She smiles at me as she passes. I smile back. 

    I take and make a few more orders before letting Grayson know I'm taking a few minutes for a smoke break. After what feels like too short of a break, I'm checking notifications on my phone when I pass Grayson who grabs my shirt. I look at him in confusion, "What?" 

    He nods toward the other end of the bar where Evan is sat blowing bubbles into a fresh Jack and Coke, "said he wanted to ask you something." 

    Still bewildered, I make my way over to Evan, "What's up, Buttercup?" 

    He snaps his head up from his drink and grins at me before slurring out, "I was wondering if I could have your number," and is quick to add, "b-but not for me! I have a hot pilot boyfriend," the grin on his face gets even bigger, "I'm gonna give it to my friend Eddie who's been staring at you all night," he thinks for a split second, "He also seemed very disappointed when he saw you leave a little bit ago."  

    I laugh but before I can say a single word he goes on, "I came up here and asked your coworker if you were done for the night but he said you were just on break so I waited until you came back." He keeps rambling on and on as I grab a sticky note pad and pen from under the counter. I jot my name and number down. Normally, I wouldn't do this but these Evan and Tommy dudes seem decent so I figure their friend Eddie can't be too bad.  

    Evan is still going when I remove the note and press the sticky side to his forehead. He stops abruptly mid word, "Sweet! I'm Buck by the way." With that, it seems our conversation has come to an end as he gets up and returns to his table, not even removing the sticky note. 

--- Third Person POV --- 

    Hen giggles, “I think the golden has retrieved something.” 

    Tommy follows her line of sight and notices Buck stumbling back toward the table with something attached to his forehead; question already locked and loaded for when he's in earshot, "Whatcha got there?" Buck stops and attempts to pose heroically which makes everyone giggle. Tommy reaches up with one hand to remove the note and pats the bench beside him with the other, prompting Buck to plop down and lay his head on Tommy's shoulder. Realizing what his boyfriend has done, he looks over to Eddie, "I believe this is for you," and hands him the note. 

    Confused, Eddie takes the paper and reads it before looking at Buck with a facial expression that reads, "Seriously?" 

    Buck grins proudly as Maddie nudges Eddie, "You so should text her." 

    Chimney grins, "Or if you're man enough you can call her." Eddie glares at him, very clearly annoyed. He looks down at the paper in his hands and thinks for a few seconds before nudging Tommy and Buck out of the booth. He ignores the excited gasps and "ooo"s that break out behind him and makes his way to the bar. 

--- Your POV --- 

    I look up from the beer I'm pouring and notice one of Tommy and Buck's friends heading my direction. I top the beer off and hand it to the college kid in front of me just as the newcomer takes a seat to my left. He's staring straight ahead and hasn't said a word. 

    I wipe my hands off on a towel and grab a glass before crossing the short distance between us, "You're either a whiskey guy or a fruity cocktail guy. What'll it be?" 

    He smiles and tilts his head as he looks at me, "Whiskey, please." 

    I nod and turn around, aiming to grab the bottle of Jack I left on the other counter but find it has mysteriously moved back up to the top shelf. I whip my head in Grayson's direction but his back is turned to me. Placing my hands on my hips I glare up at the bottle. "Do you need me to-" Eddie tries to ask but instead I step up onto a shelf under the counter and climb up to stand on the granite, promptly procuring the bottle, "Guess not," I hear Eddie chuckle behind me as I scrunch up the towel on my shoulder and throw it at Grayson.  

    It nails him right in the back of the head, although not all very hard. He turns around grinning until he notices me still standing on the counter. An expression of fear almost crosses his features before he speaks, "Rodney will have your ass for standing on his counter," a teasing hint of humor in his tone. 

    I flip him off, "Rodney can suck a dick. I'd say you should too but you'd enjoy it too much," I punctuate my sentence by jumping down from the counter. Grayson doubles over in laughter as I turn back to my customer, who is also laughing his ass off. 

    As I pour the whiskey, I ask, "So, are you the Eddie that Buck mentioned?" 

    He looks back at the table where his friends are very clearly pretending to not be watching, minus Buck who is staring at us with his chin in his hands. He looks down at his whiskey, "Yeah," and takes a sip. 

    I tilt my head at him, "You don't seem too thrilled." 

    He makes eye contact with me, "To be honest, my heart is racing a mile a minute. I'm not like wasted or anything but uh," he looks back at the table and then at his glass, "I've got enough liquor in my system right now that when Chimney challenged that I wouldn't call you, I was like, 'Oh yeah? Watch this,'" he looks up at me again, "So, here I am with no clue what to say and possibly making a fool of myself." 

    I can't help but laugh, "I've had plenty of men make fools of themselves in front of me. I promise, you sir, are not one of them." 

    He smiles at this and is quiet for a few beats before asking, "Would it- would it be okay if I called you?" 

    I give him an "are you serious?" look, "Eddie, if it wasn't okay for you to call me, I wouldn't have given Buck my number." I swear I see him blush as he looks down at his glass again, nodding. I hear a customer call my name and grimace, "Give me a sec." He nods so I move to serve the customer and when I return to where Eddie was seated, he's back at the table with his friends. He's left cash on a napkin that has a note scribbled on it: 

I'll call you tomorrow when I can actually form coherent sentences :) - Eddie P.S. Keep the change! 

    I smile softly to myself and look up toward their table to find him already looking my way. I wave and he returns the wave before I slip the napkin into my back pocket and move on to take some more orders on Grayson's end of the bar. 

    The next morning, or rather the next afternoon, when I roll out of bed I immediately reach for my phone. I find a text from an unknown number: 

This is Tommy from the bar. Just in case Eddie loses the sticky note, I added your number into his phone. Figured I'd shoot you a text so you have his :) 

    I smile and lay my phone back down on the side table. My excited anticipation dwindles quickly as hours turn into days of not hearing from Eddie. I'm beginning to think he was just drunk that night and wasn't actually interested. One afternoon, as I'm getting ready for work, I glance at my phone for the millionth time hoping to see something from Eddie. No such luck... I open up the text conversation and my fingers hover over the keyboard trying to decide what to say. This isn't the first time I've done this in the past few days. Once again, I finally give up and shove my phone back in my pocket. I head to work with a pit in my stomach and disappointment heavy in my chest. 

    That evening, Grayson and all of my regulars notice how down I am and a few even try to cheer me up or be an ear to listen, including Grayson who hasn't stopped pestering me about it every chance he gets. "So, did things not work out with Lover Boy?" I brush him off and start wiping down the bar. "Come on, (Y/N). Talk to me," he sighs, "I know I'm a dick sometimes but I do care about you and I don't like seeing you so upset." 

    I take a deep breath as I toss the dirty towel into the laundry bin, "He never called. Never even texted either. And it's not because he lost my number, Tommy saved it into his phone for him." I can't hide the disappointment and hurt in my tone. 

    "Are you serious? Dude was absolutely entranced by you but doesn't bother to contact you?" Grayson asks, dumbfounded. 

    I shrug, heading for the cellar door, "I'm gonna restock. Holler if you need me." 

    He lets me go and as the door shuts behind me, I feel tears prickle against my eyes. Why am I about to cry over some dude I've only met once and only shared a few sentences with? Frustrated, I wipe my eyes and grab a few bottles that I know we need. Half way up the stairs, tears threaten to spill again. Sighing in defeat, I descend back down, place the bottles on a table, and drop to the floor against the wall with my head in my hands. This shit is why I don't let myself get hung up on guys anymore. The tears are flowing freely when I hear the cellar door open, "(Y/N)?"  

    Grayson sounds worried so I answer, "Yeah?" but my voice comes out weak and shaky.  

    I hear his footsteps descend the stairs rapidly before he drops to the floor beside me, "Hey, you okay?" 

    I look up from my hands and make eye contact, "I thought this one was different. I let myself hope. Now look at me, crying on the floor of a dusty ass cellar." 

    Grayson rubs my back comfortingly, "It's okay to cry, (Y/N)." 

    I drop my head back in my hands, "No it's not, not over a man I don't even know. I'm an independent woman who don't need no man. I shouldn't be this heart broken." 

    "First of all, yes, it's still okay to cry. Second, you may be independent but everyone needs somebody to love," Grayson says softly. 

    From the top of the stairs, a voice rings out, "Hey Grayson, quite a few people wanting drinks up here." 

    "We'll be up in a minute," he answers before pulling my face to look at him, "Get up, dust yourself off, and let's go have a good time, okay?" 

    I sigh deeply, "Okay," and wipe my tears. On our way up, I grab the bottles I had set down earlier and by the time we reach the top of the stairs, I've promised myself I won't shed another tear over this man unless he earns it. 

    Later that evening, I'm wiping down the bar again after a rush. In my peripheral, I notice someone take a seat and toss the towel away to tend to them. When I finally look over, my heart starts racing. It's Eddie. He's staring at his hands where he interlocked them on the bar top. I look around, hoping to pass him off to Grayson but find him helping other customers. I take a deep breath before smoothing out my shirt and walking over to Eddie. 

    "What can I get for you?" I ask, attempting to keep my tone friendly and even but it still shakes the slightest bit. His head shoots up and he makes direct eye contact with me. There's something in his eyes that makes me tilt my head. 

    He breaks eye contact and breaths deeply, looking back to his hands, "Listen, I- I'm sorry. I know I haven't called or texted. I tried to several times but I didn't know what to say. Buck says I was overthinking it too much but... I don't know, I just- I didn't wanna fuck it up." 

    A small smile touches my lips but I squash down the hope that's trying to breach the surface, "Eddie, a hello would've been sufficient." 

    He looks up at me and grimaces, "That's what Tommy said but I didn't wanna sound so- so casual I guess?" 

    Bewilderment replaces my smile, "What?" 

    He hesitates a second, "I guess what I'm trying to say is, I didn't want to sound so uninterested when you're all I've been able to think about for days. I also didn't want to sound too interested and scare you off... Which I may have just done anyways," he shakes his head in embarrassment as he looks back down at the bar top. 

    The grin on my face kind of hurts as I tuck my finger under his chin and lift it. His eyes have a touch of worry in them when they lock with mine, "I almost texted you several times too but didn't for the same exact reason." For some reason, I let myself get a little vulnerable, "I may or may not have cried a few hours ago because I was so disappointed that I didn't hear from you..." 

    I pull away as shock etches across his features, "I'm so sorry." 

    I shrug, "Forgiven, as long as you take me out on a date at some point and remember that my number exists in your phone." 

    He grins, nodding, "I will. When are you off work this week?" 

    I look up at the ceiling trying to remember, "All day Wednesday and Sunday and then until 3pm every other day." 

    When I look back at him, he smiles, "How does coffee sound Wednesday morning? 10am?" 

    I mirror his expression, "Sounds great!" 

    I can barely contain my excitement over the next few days and wake up before my alarm even goes off Wednesday morning after tossing and turning all night. I jolt up in bed, checking my phone in a panic, thinking I've slept through my alarm going off. Relief courses through my veins when I realize there's still an hour until it will. Excitement quickly floods that relief out of my system and I hop out of bed with a spring in my step. 

    Sometime later, as I enter the small outdoor café early but too excited to wait, I see Eddie threading his fingers through his hair at a table, having beat me there. I smile brightly and approach his table. He stands as soon as he sees me, pulls out my chair for me, and motions to the coffee in front of it, “I wasn’t sure how you like your coffee but if it’s wrong just let me know and I can order you something else.”  

    I giggle, take a sip and grin, “It’s perfect,” and as I look at him sitting across from me, knee bouncing and fingers fidgeting with his coffee cup I can’t help but think he’s perfect too. 

More 911

Main Masterlist

[farfromstrange]

Interview With The Vampire | Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader

-> Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Reader (she/her)

Summary: You are the first journalist to interview Hell’s Kitchen’s resident vampire vigilante after he requested you personally to tell his story. He’s offering you a way out of your miserable job—to make your voice be heard. You’re desperate and curious, so you decide to take the risk. Most people only know him as Daredevil, but you are about to learn who’s really behind the mask. How hard can it possibly be? As it turns out, interviewing a vampire is a lot more complex than you expected it to be, and Matthew Michael Murdock has set his mind on ruining you for any other man to come.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), alternative universe, blood play, marking, scent kink, slight Dom!Matt, unprotected p in v, oral f!receiving, biting, vampirism, angst, religious imagery & symbolism, Catholic guilt, mentions of violence, allusions to suicidal thoughts, lots of plot, age gap

Word Count: 12.2k (this is a beast)

Other Characters: Vampire!Elektra (mentioned), Ben Urich (mentioned)

A/n: I finally got this one edited. This is a beast, y’all! I drew inspiration from Anne Rice’s Interview With The Vampire, but particularly the 2022 AMC series (I fell in love with it then and there), but it’s not based on it, so I just played around with the idea and this came out. It’s a lot, but it wasn’t enough for a full-blown series, so you’re getting a big ass One Shot instead. I used my usual Smut tag list, but since this is slightly Dead Dove Do Not Eat, heed the warnings and proceed with care! Don't read it if you don't want to. Anyway, I hope you like it!

Read Me On AO3!

The sun has long set over the Big Apple. Artificial neon, cars, and ceiling lights burning in the highrises along the riverfront cancel out the darkness that has befallen the country’s east. Noise melts into a flood that rolls over people’s senses, but most in New York City have grown numb to the city that never sleeps. 

Sirens follow cacophonies of screams. Teenagers get into clubs with their fake IDs, adults get drunk in bars or go to work the night shift at their underpaid jobs, and the other half cry themselves to sleep, knowing they will have to get up in the morning and go through the same hell all over again. 

Life has become a miserable existence, and it leaves human beings wondering, ‘How much longer do we have to endure this before we all finally drop dead?’

The system fails them. The law fails to protect them. All they can do is lie down and wait to die. And they will die sooner or later. That’s inevitable. 

In Hell’s Kitchen, in a penthouse with a view of the Hudson through colored windows that gloss over during the day and show the city throughout the night, resides someone who most of the city only knows by an alias—Daredevil. 

If anyone crosses him, he will suck them dry. It’s not a metaphor, I’m afraid; his reputation precedes him. Criminals fear the red eyes that come with fists and a sharp set of teeth that will surely run them into the ground. The rest of the city feels a little safer with him, but so far, no one has dared to question his nature. 

Fear is known to work as a paralytic. And this man living in the penthouse by the Hudson is the personification of what one might consider fear-inducing. Without the fear of others, he would not be thriving. 

An apex predator like him lives for the thrill of the kill. When the adrenaline spikes, it makes the prey start running and the blood taste so much sweeter. It is to a creature of his kind what a good glass of century-old red wine would be to a human being; he savors every last drop of it.

Two years out of your Master’s degree at Columbia University, you have become one of those hard-working adults who fall into bed later than they should, and you lie awake at night, wondering how much longer you have to exist before you can live.

You interned at the Bulletin; you ran the true crime and mystery column for over a year before the newspaper shut down. A billionaire from downtown Manhattan bought it to start his own magazine, and you were the only employee he didn’t fire. Instead of relying on your top-tier education and experience though, he has banned you to the lifestyle and beauty column. He’s a beast if you have ever seen one. 

On a Monday in June then, after the sun has risen and is now falling again, you find an envelope on your desk. You glide your fingers over the fancy paper. The letters are written in handwriting that resembles the old letters from the 18th century you had the pleasure of using as research material for your Bachelor’s thesis.

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be…

It is no secret that vampires exist.

Over two decades ago, scientists published papers on the existence of blood-sucking creatures after years of valuable research, and now governments around the world have set out to burn the inhuman species out before they can cause any more damage. Vampirism though is older than humanity itself and unless law enforcement has evidence of homicide, vampires have the right to exist amongst humans. 

They are excellent at hiding their true nature, that much is true. The lore that has been passed down since the beginning of time is only partly true. They know how to adapt and rise from the ashes like elegant phoenixes. The misconceptions surrounding their existence stem from fiction, horror, and fear, but they persist. 

And a rule has been established in society ever since the truth was revealed: don’t talk about vampires! 

Don’t talk about them unless it’s in a fictional context. Don’t put your research out there. Don’t fraternize with them. Don’t risk becoming prey. Don’t be fascinated by them, and God forbid, don’t you dare write articles about them for the public records. If you want to know about vampires, you have to dig, and you have to do so quietly or society will deem you crazy and a freak. 

The worst thing to be is not a flying android or a super soldier with a shield; the worst thing you can be, in this day and age, is a vampire. 

You were a curious child who turned into an even more curious adult. At times even a bitter one because she couldn’t get the answers she yearned for and had to do it herself. So, of course, the We Don’t Talk About Vampires rule came across as rather absurd, learning about it back when you were merely a teen. 

You started researching, and you found out more than you thought you would—more than you thought you could. You wanted to cover the issue in the Bulletin back when you still worked there, but since humans were raised to fear the very mention of vampires in the real world, no longer romanticizing the concept but rather running from it, the truth shall remain hidden. Again, that seemed absurd, but you had to accept it to get ahead. 

You kept researching to the point you convinced yourself you could be one of them if you tried. You felt like you understood them, but nothing could ever fully answer all of your questions to the point it felt truthful. Honest. Real. 

Growing up, everyone told you dead things aren’t supposed to walk. They aren’t supposed to breathe and exist among the living. They are cruel, and vampires are killers that leave trails of bodies the government is hiding from us. Greediness exceeds common sense. The human mind tends to get sick and twisted, and those who don’t fit in hardly ever stand a chance.

Hell’s Kitchen is particularly quiet on the issue. Rumor has it that the vigilante chasing criminals at night and leaving the worst of them dry at the shore of the Hudson while, at the same time, surrendering those he deems worthy of rehabilitation to the authorities, is one of those vampires. 

They call him Daredevil; the savior of innocents and the downfall of the vile. Only a handful of people know who he is. The truth is caught in a spider web of lies, unable to come out unless someone were to tell his story for the world to hear. 

That Monday in June when you open the mysterious envelope on your desk, everything changes. 

He addressed you personally. Your name resembles a masterpiece, the letters swirling at the edges. 

You don’t know me, but I know you.

It’s strange to read your name out of the mouth of a stranger.

I must admit, Miss, I’m a big fan of your writing. And I’m not talking about the lifestyle and beauty column Mr. Doherty of the ‘Silver Lining’ has confined you to.

No, I am a big fan of the work you used to do for the New York Bulletin. I remember your name headlining many articles on crime here in Hell’s Kitchen—a column my late friend Ben Urich used to call his home.  

It’s a shame that the paper was shut down. I tried to prevent it, but the disappearance of half of humanity and Wilson Fisk’s irreparable damage to the city’s foundation tied my hands. 

The token female journalist reporting on unsolicited beauty advice and lifestyle choices no one is going to follow in the days of social media and fake marketing. It must be frustrating, right? Not having a story to tell. Not getting recognized for your impeccable talent. The Bulletin gave you a platform, but Mr. Doherty and his goons took that away from you.

What I’m asking myself is, are you satisfied? You were probably imagining a different future for yourself. A woman of your caliber must want to be more than a mere object used to make a bottomless magazine look better on the market. 

Excuse my overstepping. I read one of your essays on the magical and the mythic—lore versus reality—the other day, and it inspired me. My life has been taking quite a few turns lately, so I required some new… let’s call it insight. 

You don’t know me, but I am one of those creatures you are fascinated by. I’m the kind of creature people have been telling you not to write about because the weak minds of the public would not receive it well. The Catholics, the church, the fragile and fearful human beings that can’t imagine anything in fiction being real and want to remain the superior species—trust me, I know what it feels like to be backed into a corner. To be abandoned. To be underestimated. Not quite like you, I admit, but I have a few years of experience in and with this world to show for myself. 

I imagine you’re tired of your position. I imagine you’re dissatisfied with human idiocy. You crave answers to your questions. Questions you have been asking yourself ever since college failed to answer them. My kind is being censored—partly for good reason—but that doesn’t sit right with you, does it? To live life in a monotone line with no clear way out of this boring rhythm you have had to fall into? 

I can offer you a different path. A story. Answers to your questions. And the unfiltered truth of a 242-year-old man. 

You are going to find a card with my address attached to this letter. I can assure you, sweetheart, we both want the same thing. I will wash your hands if you wash mine. Think about it, and come find me when you have made your decision. Preferably after the sun has set. 

Yours sincerely,

M.

The paper crumbles in your hands, but only at the corners. Your eyes are glued to the lost drops of ink, the blue blood of an old fountain pen caving under too much pressure. 

He chose his words carefully. Every paragraph circles around your head. You breathe in, and it suddenly feels as though the whiff of the unknown is an inhalable drug, twisting your brain inside out. 

The pull threatens to submerge you in a stormy ocean. You’re flailing your arms around helplessly, but there is nothing for you to hold onto. All buoys have drifted into oblivion, leaving a sea of utter emptiness behind, and in the midst of it, there you are, drowning.

In a moment of clarity, you fold the letter back down on the desk. It lands with a thud, and you look around frantically, checking if anyone is watching you. They aren’t. 

M. That’s all he’s giving you. And the fact he is over two hundred years old proves the rumors to be true. He’s standing by it, but only to you. He wants to reveal himself to you, show you his true face for a story, but he’s a vampire. 

You’re alone. You can wash his hands, but is just showing up enough for him? You don’t even know him. 

You’re in trouble. This time though, you didn’t even do anything. You did your job, and he caught an interest in you. How does that work? 

Your heart skips another beat. It should not, but it does. The danger is exciting. It shouldn't be exciting. You hate what your body is doing, but how can you make it stop? You can’t. You can’t do anything but take it.

This stranger has got you in a chokehold, but in his hands, you might as well surrender to your certain demise. You don’t consider vampires inherently evil, but there is a reason people warn you not to walk alone at night in Hell’s Kitchen. He’s dangerous, no matter his nature, and he is not supposed to lure you in the way he does.

But you’re a curious kitten, and he is offering you the holy grail of answers to questions you have been grappling with for years. He hit the nail right on the head. And it doesn’t even scare you how well he knows you. 

This is a gold mine. Realistically speaking, telling a vampire’s story could make or break your career as a journalist. If you do it for the magazine, you’re done before you can even bring your words to print, but if you do it individually and you do it well, people will certainly eat it up. The question is just, are you going to play your entire life safe, conforming to your boss’s view of you until you get the freedom you crave, or are you going to take the risk and fly? 

The answer is as clear as day, but it takes you a moment to process. It’s as though someone is in your head, steering you in the direction of whoever this M is. Daredevil. This vampire who wants you to interview him, and for what? That’s still an open question you don’t have the answer to. But you do know what to do.

You scramble for your laptop, your notepad, and the letter in the envelope. The clock strikes four. You have another two hours on the clock, but you can’t be bothered to stay. 

Upon hearing the sound of your shoes hurriedly scraping against the linoleum floors, one of your colleagues turns in her chair. “Where are you going?” she asks.

“I, uh, have somewhere to be,” you tell her as you brush past her.

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I forgot I had an appointment.”

“What about Mr. Doherty?”

You stop on your way out, looking back over your shoulder. “If everything works out,” you say, glancing through the window to his office at the other end of the hall, “He’ll have my letter of resignation by the end of the week.”

She gasps softly. “You’re quitting?” her voice is barely above a whisper.

Almost sinisterly, you chuckle. “That’s the plan, yeah.”

“But—”

“Tell your daughter Happy Birthday from me. I gotta go.”

Your steps echo for minutes still, but you are long gone with the wind.

Silver linings are considered an advantage that comes from an unpleasant situation. The name has proven to be entirely unfit for the magazine that replaced a big piece of Hell’s Kitchen’s history. The Bulletin had cultural value as much as it was laden with decades of the city’s stories told to the average person. 

Wilson Fisk was the dynamite that sent New York alight. The Bulletin’s destruction was mere collateral damage in the fight to get the city back on track. You have had so many reasons to leave presented to you, yet you never took them. If you had, maybe you wouldn’t be here, making bad decisions on what started as just another Monday in June. 

The fact is though, you didn’t leave, and you are here now. Facts are what matter. They count. Your hypothetical past, present, and future have no place in this reality because you can’t travel back or forward in time. Vampires may exist, and the Avengers time-traveled to save the world, but things aren’t quite as easy once you look at the bigger picture. You are not a superhero, you’re just a journalist chasing the kind of story that will finally make her voice be heard. 

You know that Ben Urich, at least, would be proud of you.

His address weighs heavy on the small card you pulled out of the envelope earlier that evening. You passed it on to the cab driver, and he began to navigate the dark streets of Hell’s Kitchen. The luxury condominiums in this part of the city can be counted on one hand. You know exactly when you’re there. 

The sun has once again set over New York City. You’re wide awake, not quite sure though if you’re ready to face what you are walking blindly into. Even your driver refuses to take you past a certain point, and that is how you know that you’re not dreaming. This is real, and it’s supposed to be terrifying. 

How come you’re not scared then?

You slip twenty dollars to the cab driver, then climb out of the backseat. The salty air from the Hudson River a few blocks down wafts around your sensitive nose. In the distance, you can hear waves crashing into the docks as the wind picks up in speed. The boats must be moving wildly by now, swaying from side to side and possibly even making the fish in the depths of the water seasick. You would be if you were them. 

With every step, you grow closer to your target. On second thought, maybe you should have brought more than just a pathetic bottle of pepper spray and your precious laptop. You could have brought your grandfather’s cassette recorder, at least that would leave a mark if you hit someone over the head with it. 

Do vampires get concussions? That is another question you can add to the seemingly endless list in your mind. It’s a confusing place as of late, and the weird sense that someone is playing with the controls won’t leave you alone. Either you are overthinking, or you are worse off than you originally thought. 

The apartment complex the card directs you to stretches high above you. You look up, seeing not a single light on. That’s odd, you think, but then again, you are meeting with the city’s most notorious man. If he is who everyone says he is, and if the rumors are even true, that is. 

As you are about to approach the entrance, your fingertips start to burn. A gasp escapes past your lips. Staring down, the cubical piece of paper goes up in flames. You are mere feet from the door, nowhere near close to an open source of fire, and the card starts to burn like a wildfire. 

You pull back, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The ashes fall to the ground, but before they can hit the asphalt, they vanish.

“What the–” before you can finish, the doors before you swing open toward the inside. The lights turn on. Someone even has called the elevator for you. 

Another step forward, and a voice stops you. “Fourth floor, down the hallway, first door to your right,” the voice says through the speaker. Only then do you notice the lack of a doorbell. 

Everything in you is screaming for you to run, but you are rooted in the spot. He dragged you here with a mere letter, and you were more than ready to jump. Desperation was the only thing that drove you here. Your brain seems incapable of rational thought.

What if that is what he wanted all along? To get you complicit by playing on what you so desperately need, which is a story and a way out of this boring everyday life that is threatening to slowly kill you.

He’s like a siren, luring you into his deadly trap, but even knowing all of this, you still can’t find it in yourself to run. 

The second you enter the building, the door shuts behind you, and your only way out is officially locked. You made the decision; you have dug your own grave, possibly quite literally, and now you have to lie in it. It’s better to die chasing a good story than dying at a desk in an office that doesn’t respect you.

You are a disgrace, you can hear your father’s voice in the back of your mind. He always warned you not to be too reckless or your bad decisions will eventually catch up with you. He always taught you not to trust strangers, and to stay the hell away from those who disgrace God, but you have never cared much about being a good girl. 

Your thoughts are as morbid as your obsession with the walking undead. It is time you embrace what people are already saying about you.

The elevator ride feels like an eternity. It goes up and up and up until it finally stops on the fourth floor. The walls smell like nothing but a faint hint of bleach. It’s clean, parquette not carpet, and the walls are kept in a shade resembling a mixture between crimson and maroon, and it is blending into a sort of marble.

The metal doors slide open. Again, you hesitate. A sweet whisper echoes in your ear, dragging you toward the edge. You breach the border between the elevator and the hallway that waits behind it. The voice is distant, and it doesn’t sound human—it reminds you of a siren’s song, calling for you. He is calling for you, and a fog settles over your mind. You’re not in control anymore, he is. 

You imagine him to be an old man, possibly middle-aged. Vampires stop aging when they’re turned. Their mind doesn’t. You’ve read the research plenty. They are wise beings, more intelligent than human beings could ever fathom. That makes them dangerous. 

Their venom rivals the intoxicating feeling of heroin, you’ve heard, and it heightens your senses to the point all you can feel is the one who bit you. Research suggests it’s a million times stronger than an orgasm, for both the vampire and the human being. 

Part of you has always wanted to try it. Part of you wants to know what it feels like to be sucked dry. You want to know what it feels like to be carried into a new dimension by someone who knows how to play the human body like a fucking piano, eliciting the sweetest melody through your very essence and the symphony of your moans.  

This M—Daredevil—is inherently dangerous. He’s as mysterious as they come; a man in a mask lurking in the dark corners of Hell’s Kitchen every night, turning the fight for justice into his hunting ground. 

It’s as though he curled his fingers, and you followed. 

You walk the dark hallway down to the door on the right. Paintings litter the walls. Masterpieces, blotches of white, red, and color. You recognize the red marble as a decorative theme on the wallpaper. Tracing your fingers over it, the rough drywall scratches at your skin. 

You reach out a shaky hand toward the golden knob. Before you can turn it though, the door already flings open. It must be witchcraft. 

Red appears to be his favorite color. At least judging from the hallway, that is true. When you step into the room with a pounding heart and blood pooling in your cheeks though, the inside of the room is a lot more… human. You wouldn’t have guessed it from the gloominess surrounding you on your way there.

A leather couch and armchairs stand in the middle, facing toward the window front. Colored windows, as you have gathered from the rumors. They are see-through now though, showing the city skyline and the moon up high. The chandelier on the ceiling is the only piece of furniture you would consider old. Browns meet hues of blue and dark green, a forest at midnight, and you suck in a sharp breath. The apartment is beautiful. 

You look to your left and see a bookshelf stretching the length of the wall. You can’t help but run your hand over the backs. You would have expected original editions from the 18th or 19th century, but when your fingers trace over the bindings, you are met with the bulging of Braille underneath the elegant golden writing of the titles. None of them seem to have collected dust. It surprises you to only find a mere handful of classics that haven’t been transcribed in Braille and a realization you did not expect starts to crawl its way forward.

“I stole that one from a library in Paris.”

Your racing heart stops beating. The book you’ve been holding falls to the ground, its worn-out leather cracking further around the spine. The thud is deafening. You gasp, turning around. Your shoulders fly up as the tension ripples through every last muscle in your bone. Your bones ache just from how stiff you’re standing, but you can’t move.

The man before you moves as quietly as a mouse. You didn’t hear him coming. The moonlight reflects off his dark brown hair, making it appear almost ginger. He’s wearing a simple suit without a tie, and the white of his shirt is as pristine and clean as the cut of his beard. You can see chest hair poking out from underneath the two open buttons, as dark as the locks on his head. His jawline is irresistibly sharp, leading up to a pair of plump lips he is wrapping around the brim of a crystal glass filled with rum.

Your heart remains frozen. Not a single drop of blood pumps through your veins, yet your cheeks burn brighter than a bonfire on a pitch-black night. 

But his flawless appearance is not what catches your attention the most. Looking up into his eyes, wanting to know whether they are as red as those set into the devil’s mask, you find nothing but your terrified reflection staring back at you. It’s as blurry as the picture of your face in a still ocean’s water, your wide eyes staring back at yourself. 

The red glasses are all you can see. Round with a black rim. Silver would have looked better on him, or maybe even gold. The black reminds you of an endless pit, a sinister embrace of vampire stereotypes, but you can’t look away from the maroon that won’t allow you even a glimpse into his eyes. They are shielding him from the world, and his eyes from curious, stupid humans like you.

He nods toward the ground. “You gonna pick that up?” he asks. His voice reminds you of rumbling gravel. 

He looks like a man. He talks like a man. If you didn’t know better, you would say he is human. There seems to be blood in his cheeks and air in his lungs. 

You have to pull yourself together. Clearing your throat, you bend down and pick the book back up.

“Thank you,” he utters your name. “It’s been a while since I’ve received visitors that don’t work for me.”

You put the book back on the shelf. Your lips are sewn shut; you can’t find the words. Every time you open your mouth like a fish on dry land, you close it again, and it is embarrassing to be standing in front of him with your guard down. 

“Welcome to my home,” he says. You wish you could see his eyes to know if he’s mocking you. “Do you want a drink, or do you need another minute to process?”

He is mocking you. His tone is gentle, as is his voice, but he smirks like a smug motherfucker, and your anger boils to a tipping point. The candle is about to burn out. 

“I–” you stammer. Internally, you curse yourself for being such a fool. 

“Another minute it is then.”

You don’t need a minute though. “You’re blind,” you blurt out. 

The beautiful—deadly—stranger nods. “Yeah.“

“How?”

“Accident when I was a kid.”

“But you’re…” you leave the missing part of that sentence hanging in the air like a noose. 

“Say it,” he murmurs. You want to say it sounds like a growl, but you’re not sure. He isn’t asserting dominance or trying to force you into submission by scaring you away, but he is toying with you regardless. 

You take a deep breath. The word, the truth, numbers your tongue and your lips with its weight. “A vampire,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, matching his. 

His smirk broadens. He pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a moment, then releases it as it darts out to wet his bottom lip. “I’m a blind vampire, yes,” he answers. “We’re rare, but we do exist.”

Blind vampires. In all of your years of fascination, that has never crossed your mind. You used to believe that they had healing abilities that far exceeded your own. You were wrong. He lost his eyesight before he got turned into a vampire. He lived as a blind human being and didn’t regain his most crucial sense when he died. 

He came back to life, but he died. It is surreal to stand across from him. He’s not just letters on a piece of paper, he is very much real. And he’s blind. 

“Oh, my God,” you curse.

That elicits a soft chuckle from him. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,” he says. 

“I was considering not to.” 

He sees right through you with those empty glasses. “That’s a lie.”

“How would you know?” you counter. 

“I can hear your heartbeat. The blood pumping in your veins…” His head tilts ever so slightly in your direction. You take a step back. It’s an instinct. “Your pulse picks up when you lie, or when you’re nervous, or both,” he states. “When you first saw me, your heart skipped a beat. It did again when you lied to me.”

Your eyes trail down to his thick thighs perfectly fitted in his tailored trousers. His thick digits pat the rhythm with his fingers on the fabric. Thud-thudthudthud-thud. You place a hand on your chest. He wasn’t wrong; your heart is racing. 

His smirk turns into a smile, but only briefly again. It’s a glimpse of humanity he doesn’t want you to see. “I like that sound,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that you smell good? Sweet, sour, and a little salty. Natural. You don’t use a lot of artificial perfume, but you like cherry chapstick.”

You swallow, taking a whiff of your arm. Besides your deodorant masking the scent of your nervous sweat, you smell nothing. How good must his nose be? His hearing? His sense of taste? 

“Right now, sweat is dripping down your back, and your muscles are tense enough to strain against your bones every time you breathe. Your heart just skipped a beat again. You find it weird,” he muses. “I can’t turn it off, but I get it must be strange for you.” 

“You–” The blood has collected in your head, pushing the temperature in the room to an all-time high. “Get out of my body!” you snap. 

He laughs. “That’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear.”

“And I never thought you would ask for an audience with me, but here we are.”

“Here you are.” 

You want nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face. He looks so smug, standing there with his drink, wearing a suit too fancy for his own home. He’s fully in his element. It’s scary how alluring he is, too. You don’t want to think that way, but as soon as your eyes gaze upon him again, your chest contracts, and you forget how to breathe. 

He’s a wolf, and you’re a lonely little sheep that doesn’t know any better. That lonely little sheep just wants to be a part of something bigger, even if that means surrendering herself to the big bad wolf. He wants a taste of her, and the sheep would give him that in a heartbeat if he just asked. 

You blink. There is a voice in your head, and it isn’t your own. Far from it. You don’t want to be associated with this stranger. She thinks she knows you. She thinks she knows what you want—the sheep in the eyes of her natural enemy. This voice is the most irrational you could be, and you need to stop letting her win.

And yet you—not just the voice of the lonely sheep you appear to be—would follow this man anywhere, even to hell if he asked you to. 

Your eyes drill knives into his skull, but they are also full of curiosity. Can he hear your thoughts? Your heart beats in your throat. You can taste it on your tongue. If you bit your lip, you would bleed, and he would probably fall into a frenzy. Still, your teeth dig into your bottom lip. What if he can hear your thoughts—hear how fucking needy you are? You’re pathetic. What he must think of you, standing across from him, smaller than human life itself. 

You want to read him, but he is far from an open book. He’s not Braille you can run your fingers over, and even if he was, you don’t know how to read it. He’s an enigma. His face is set in stone; an iron mask you can’t penetrate. 

His chest heaves with another chuckle. He sets the crystal glass down on the coffee table, taking a step forward. “No, I can’t read your mind,” he says. 

You flinch. “What?”

“Your breathing pattern. The way you look at me. I can sense that you’re thinking about something.” He adjusts his glasses. “It’s just… Most humans ask me if I can read their minds, you know. I can’t. Some vampires can, but my senses are the only heightened ability I have.” This time, when he chuckles, a hint of bitterness dances in his voice. 

“At least you’re not in my head then,” you say. 

“No.”

“Good.”

A pregnant pause follows. You clutch your bag to your chest, your fingers digging into the frame of your hidden laptop. 

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks, pointing to his empty glass.

You wave him off. That’s the last thing on your mind. “No, thank you.”

Sometimes at night, you fantasize about diving into the abyss of darkness. It looks and sounds a terrifying lot like him. You want to know him. You need to know him. When it comes to him and this—whatever this is—the lines between want and need are blurring into an unidentifiable mess. It’s an ocean of emotions with no land in sight. A total eclipse of the heart, if you will. You’re losing your mind.

“What you can do–” You straighten your shoulder, hoping it will add height to your beaten confidence. “You can tell me your name. Sir,” you say. 

He nods. “I suppose it would only be fair, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“Matthew. My name’s Matthew.” The softness of his features as his lips move to the rhythm of his words takes you back anew. His eyebrows raise slightly, and you catch a glimpse of a pair of beautiful, unfocused hazel eyes that steal your breath away. 

Matthew. It is a name that easily rolls off the tongue. It suits him.

You repeat his name aloud. “That’s an odd name for a 200-something-year-old man,” you point out. 

Matthew scoffs. “My parents were both Catholic.”

“I suppose you’re not?”

You hit a sore spot. His head dips, fingers running over his nails and tongue tracing his teeth. “Not anymore,” he says.

God died for him a long time ago, and all churches burned down.

Your grip on your bag loosens. “Then why Daredevil?” you ask. 

His lips part. “I, uh, have the Bulletin to thank for that one. After centuries of existing in this world, and being despised for no matter what I do, I’ve decided to embrace it. I am Daredevil, not even God can stop that now.”

Matt grabs his glass, turning away from you. He doesn’t use a cane to navigate from the couch to the mini bar on the other end of the room. You carefully follow his movements. One of his hands remains at his side, snapping his fingers as he navigates the familiar terrain of his home. 

He uncaps a half-empty bottle of Whiskey to pour himself another glass. 

“You know, Matthew,” you prompt, daring to step forward an inch, “as big as your reputation is in this part of the city, Silver Lining is not the kind of magazine that would cover your story.”

“You still came,” he says. 

“I could lose my job if anyone knew I came here.”

“And yet you’re here and not where you should be.” He turns his head over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t risk losing your job if it wasn’t important to you, would you?”

You stammer, “I–” He’s got you. You’re a fish with a hook in her mouth. 

“If Silver Lining Magazine won’t cover my story, why are you here?” Matt turns back to you, leaning back against the shiny Mahagoni of his minibar. It offers a beautiful contrast to his strong physique and the slight paleness of his skin. “Could it be because you’re fascinated by the mythic?” he asks, teasing. “By werewolves and witches and vampires?”

It’s your turn to scoff. “I won’t confirm or deny. My boss wouldn’t let me write a vampire vigilante exposé even if I begged him to.”

“And that’s why Mr. Doherty doesn’t deserve you.” Your body visibly recoils when he pushes forward, moving just an inch toward you. “Your curiosity is a virtue,” he purrs. The moonlight sets your reflection in his glasses alight. 

“Is that why you lured me here?” you ask him. “Because my curiosity is a virtue and you consider yourself better than the people in my life?”

“I didn’t lure you here, and I think you know that. That’s not what this is.” The distance between you starts to shrink, backing you into a corner. “I believe you came here because the thought of interviewing a vampire and sharing your findings with the world on your account excites you,” he says. “You want to be heard. You want to be taken seriously as a journalist, and you want to make people happy.”

The only way for you to come out of this with your pride and dignity still intact is to put up walls before the already existent labyrinth of walls keeping your heart guarded and your soul safe. “Again,” you ask, “why me?”

“Why not you? As I stated in my letter, I’m a fan of your work.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, about that. How did you write that if you’re blind?”

“I didn’t, my secretary did.”

“Of course.” Of course, he has a secretary. “I… I just don’t get it,” you say. “You’ve been hiding for so long–” 

Matt cuts you off with an urgency you didn’t expect, “Things have changed. Circumstances…” he trails off. 

“Wouldn’t it be a suicide mission?” 

His answer is silence. You let out an exasperated sigh. “If you want me to interview you, you have to be honest with me.”

“I’m not on the record yet.”

“Right. Maybe you can answer this though—off the record, of course—how can you be certain I didn’t call the cops or the FBI before I came here?”

His eyes crinkle. “I’m not stupid, sweetheart,” he says. 

He’s amused. You’re amusing him. 

“Don’t call me that,” you growl. 

He’s spreading you open, holding up a mirror for you to look into. It’s your miserable self in all its glory, and he knows you better than you know yourself. 

You ignore the sharp pain in your left ribcage as you pull the arrow out of your heart. “Unless someone holds up a sign that they are pro-vampirism, how would you even know I’d listen to you and not just refer you to the Journal of Psychiatry?” 

“Are you telling me you don’t believe in vampires?” Matt quips.

“That’s not… Answer my question!”

The sound of your heartbeat must sound almost like the rapid firing of a machine gun, that’s how fast your pulse is racing. Your veins threaten to burst with the excess blood. It’s a heat like no other. You’re a witch at the stake, and Matt is holding the torch to your gasoline-doused body. 

He clears his throat. Your face falls at the words that tumble out of his parted lips, and the rapid firing turns into a deafening silence and a monotone line on a heart monitor. 

“After what I’ve learned from reading Dr. Rice’s research on the phenomena of vampirism, I can confidently say this species is no different than an animal like the great white shark or the Homo sapiens sapiens—our kind,” he recites. “Vampires are a medium of fiction and propaganda to induce fear, but they are also a widely misunderstood species that is being silenced rather than heard. Our species, the human species, likes to consider themselves superior, even when we’re in a position of being someone’s natural food source. Dr. Rice’s research is based on a comprehensible set of facts, and isn’t that what we have been relying on ever since the beginning? Our psychology makes it possible for us to change the narrative in our favor, and more often than not, we ignore the very facts deemed by humans as an intellectual importance to spread the message of an entirely different agenda. Dr. Rice’s research only proves that egotism and humans themselves will be humankind's certain downfall.”

“My investigative journalism essay,” you breathe out. 

“Published by Columbia University.” 

Your heart restarts with a rush of adrenaline. “How… how do you know all of this?”

“I may be blind,” Matt says, “but I know how to read between the lines.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

The alcohol in his drink seems to have little effect on him. “I know you have questions, and I’m willing to answer them if you promise to publish a detailed report somewhere other than Silver Lining Magazine.”

You look down at your bag, then back at him. “Ben Urich could have told your story in a way that would’ve made people listen,” you murmur. “I don’t have an impressive career like him.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, “but you could have easily written ‘Attack on NYC’. Ben was a good man, an even better journalist, but he could not have written your college essay. And he could never have been you.” 

Your name rolls off his tongue—not a pretentious nickname that makes you want to vomit but your name, and it flicks a switch within you. 

You glance around the spacious living, pulling your laptop out of its confines, and you bridge the distance between you, finally. You notice he smells of sandalwood cologne and scentless soap. “Okay,” you cave. “Where do you want me to set up?”

Session 1.

The spacebar clicks underneath the tip of your index finger. The white of your screen fills with a series of red sequences as the microphone takes in every little sound around you. Except for the two of you and the fading footsteps of one of Matthew’s assistants though, the world has fallen silent in the dead of the night. He’s sitting across from you, legs crossed, head tilted; your life is about to change.

“So, Mister Murdock,” you begin, “tell me. How long have you been dead?” 

His mouth opens in a wide grin. “242 years,” he answers. 

“And what happened the year you died?”

“Well, it was 1782. I was a good few years out of law school. I was a good lawyer, but I wasn’t successful. That year, I met a beautiful woman at a banquet. I wasn’t rich—trust me, I was beyond penniless—but she had been adopted into a wealthy family, and that made her one of the richest women in the room. Everyone wanted her, but when I sensed her across the hall, she only had eyes for me. And she was the first woman to not see me just because I was blind.” He chuckles sadly. “I thought she was the woman of my dreams, the love of my life, but a few weeks later, after letting her into my life, I realized that she didn’t look at me that night because she was interested. She was hunting me. El— Miss Elektra Natchios…”

The year 1782 becomes apparent before your inner eye. As he tells you about the night he met her, you can see the dark-haired beauty making her way across the ballroom. Red lips and a gown to die for. Her dark eyes were full of mischief, but the passion in them could have knocked a grown man off of his feet. And that is just what she did to poor Matthew. 

“I was going to marry her,” he tells you.

He went to church regularly. His knees were bloody from praying, his senses already heightened before he died. God’s soldier, that is how he puts it. He was told that the accident that left him blind happened for a reason, and he had to fight a war that went beyond the country’s fight for independence. 

That summer, Elektra drained him. He didn’t know what she was. She fooled him. He was obsessed with her. Her dark eyes he couldn’t see lured her in, and it was the venom in her blood that became his downfall after she dug her teeth into him.

Matt tried to beg his priest for forgiveness, but he didn’t even make it past the marble stairs before the doors locked. He knelt in a pool of blood—both his and that of the first human he ever sucked dry to survive as a newborn vampire—offering an eternal sacrifice to Catholicism, but God abandoned him on his doorstep. 

The church walls would have been set on fire if he had touched them from the inside. 

You look up from your notepad to find him now standing at the window. He’s not looking out, of course, but he seems so deep in thought, the memories that aren’t your own but his start to dissipate, and you’re brought back to the here and now.

Matt poured his heart out to you. You expected answers, but not this kind, and certainly not of this magnitude. You see him in an entirely different light. He’s vulnerable, fragile, and human. He has endured trauma that killed him, but he couldn’t die because the woman he loved made him immortal. It’s a bigger curse than growing up with the belief that an accident made you God’s soldier. 

He lost everything. For centuries, he has had to live with that. It’s killing you, feeling his pain, the pure agony that radiates off him. 

Your voice is quiet when you ask him, “What was it like?” You don’t have to say it out loud for him to know what you are referencing.

Matt chuckles, the sound a mere breath in the atmosphere. “Like she took my soul from my body, setting fire to my belief system and already heightened senses,” he says. 

You swallow. “That sounds… overstimulating.”

“It was. Is. My heart stopped, but when that happened, something else awoke inside me. The hunger… the hunger was the worst part. It’s insatiable. One hour passes, and you feel like you’ve been starving for weeks.”

“Like you’ve been possessed by a demon?”

“Like I am the demon.”

“But you’re not.” You should stop the recording. You’re not on track; you’re incorporating your feelings into Matt’s story, but you can’t help it. The words tumble out of your mouth without a second thought, a train that cannot be stopped. 

He raises his eyebrows, you can see it in his reflection in the windows. “Are you religious?” he asks.

You shake your head. “This isn’t about me.”

“Are you?”

The veins on the back of his hands bulge as he balls them to fists at his sides. Your throat is a desert, and your heartbeat resembles a storm that burns right through it, sending the sand flying in all directions of the horizon.

You adjust in your seat, crossing one leg over the other. He takes a whiff. He’s smelling you, and that doesn’t help the speed of your pulse to calm down. 

Tapping your pen on your notepad, you watch the red sequences fill the white space of the recording program. It moves with the sound of your voice when you finally dare to answer. “It’s a complicated question because there is a difference between believing in God and believing in the church,” you say.

“Do you believe in God then?” Matt asks. It’s as though he’s trying not to seethe at the mere mention of someone he used to worship. You make a note of that.

“There is so much bad in this world. So much cruelty. I can’t…” You take a deep breath. “I don’t know how to believe in a God that would let the things humans do to each other happen. If God existed—if he was as merciful as Christians like to claim, he wouldn’t let this happen. And I’m so sick and tired of people using their faith, and their beliefs in God and the church as justification to be disrespectful. I don’t understand it. How can anyone? Why is someone who has to drink blood to stay alive—someone who didn’t even choose this life—worth less and the devil’s breed when humans do worse things to each other? Why would God allow us to start wars that kill innocent people? Children? It’s just not fair that we treat ourselves and others as though we are already in hell, and we’re just supposed to accept that God doesn’t care—” You stop yourself, the tears burning behind your eyes. 

Matt turns back around. You can’t look away. “When I was still human,” he murmurs, “I used to believe everything that happened to me was God’s will. The accident, God’s will. Me going blind, God’s will. I went to confession, prayed until my knees were bloody and bruised. I tried convincing myself that every scream I heard from down the block, every person who lost their life or their innocence was my responsibility. God made me this way for a reason, right?” The scoff is as bitter as the liquor in his glass. “I fell apart, you know. I was a kid, so I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand what was happening to me,” he tells you. 

You hold your breath. The glasses slip from his eyes as he takes them off with shaky fingers. You are met with the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes. Emotions dance a heated tango in a tornado. If you look closer, the green specks bring life to his eyes. It’s human nature in the purest sense of the word. 

Your reflection stands in his irises, his unmoving pupils, and the tears glisten in his eyes. They’re as red as blood, watered-down crimson essence. You want to reach out and stroke his cheek, but that would be crossing a very big line that you can’t bring yourself up to touch. 

“I studied law because I thought it would change something,” he continues. You listen. It’s the only thing you can do—listen. “It wasn’t enough. Nothing I ever did felt like it was enough. I lost my father. Jack. I didn’t know my mother until it was too late. Maggie. I had no one. No money, no prospects, just me and those voices in my head, telling me I was supposed to be God’s soldier.”

“You’re not,” you cut in. 

He shakes his head. “I prayed; I crawled up the stairs of the church, and I spent hours repenting for my sins. I bled myself dry for Him. I sacrificed myself. I sacrificed my youth, my heart, and my soul, and I got nothing back. I begged for help until my voice was sore, but nothing… God, nothing was ever good enough. Until Elektra came around,” he says. 

“She changed everything for you. It makes sense. She turned you into a vampire, but she also loved you.”

“She did love me, in her own twisted way.”

“It’s what you deserved,” you say.

He isn’t yours, but the pang you feel in your chest is treacherous. Your heart cracks like a porcelain vase, jealousy creeping in like a parasite of toxic waste.

In response, Matt only chuckles bitterly. “She made me believe again, then took my soul and crushed it in her hand.” The correction makes your shoulders slump. “Instead of feeling like my world ended though, I felt at peace when she sucked the blood out of my veins and fed me her venom,” he says. “It’s sick, I know. I was aware I died that night, that she turned me into a devil who could only survive if he drank the blood of others. The Catholic in me struggled to accept it, but I had no choice but to embrace what she made me.”

“And where is she now?” you ask.

“Gone.” The light in his eyes has fully disappeared now. “I stayed with her for a while until she died in my arms. She showed me what love is, and she showed me heartbreak. She made me hungry for blood, awakening the devil I’ve been trying to tame. She taught me how to feed, how to hunt, and how to chase. But she also cursed me,” he says. “I only exist for myself now. I only bleed for myself. No God, no church, and no more religion. I’m not Jesus, I’m Judas, and I retired the cross the day I was crucified.”

You have run out of questions to ask. Too overwhelming is the sight of his walls crumbling down, this stranger you now know better than any living being seems to. You no longer see money in this, or a story to chase, you only see Matthew, and the halo above his head he still believes is a pair of horns. The world broke him. His faith in God broke him. It crushed him, and he lost everything. How broken he must be. 

“Not such a pretty story when I say it out loud, huh?” He scoffs.

The spacebar clicks again. The recording comes to a sudden halt. One hour and fifty-eight minutes, the first session of your interview with the vampire. You need to put a halt to it now because what you are about to say or do as you reach your hand out to brush his cold, dead skin is not something that should be found on a record. And you won’t ever tell.

Matt pulls away when your warm fingertips brush his. You’re standing across from him now, so close he can smell, hear, and feel all of you at once.

Your touch is the holy water that burns his skin, but the fire sustains him and shoots straight to his core the same way the blood rushes to yours.

“It’s not a pretty story, no,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “but it did tell me what I already knew.”

“And what’s that?” he asks.

“That you’re not evil. You’re not the Devil. You’re misunderstood. You’ve been beaten; you’ve been abandoned, hurt, and broken. That doesn’t make you a monster. Trying to make this city a better place does not make you a monster.”

“If you only knew the things I’ve done…”

“I know the rumors suggest that you were the one who fought Wilson Fisk and got this city back where it needed to be. You’ve saved countless women from the worst of fates. You are the reason the innocent people of Hell’s Kitchen feel safe. By picking up that mask, you became a hero, not a villain, and that is the story I want to tell.”

In lightspeed, he has moved you from the window to the other end of the room. Your back hits the wall. 

Matt towers over you in all of his intimidating glory. His eyes spark red, but you hold his unfocused gaze. He has such beautiful eyes. This pull between you is far from human; it’s unhealthy, and it is exactly where he wanted to get you. You’re trapped, pinned underneath him like a deer caught in headlights. 

Exhaling, your breath strokes his cheeks. He closes his eyes, savoring the taste of you. Every particle in the air, he inhales. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. Oh, what you wouldn’t do to suck that tongue into your mouth. 

Your pheromones play his head like a puppeteer pulling the strings of his marionette. He growls. “Do you have any idea how dangerous I am?” 

The moonlight catches his sparkling white teeth. This time though, you come face to face with the sharp edges of his previously concealed fangs. Your jaw drops open. He’s ethereal. 

“I could snap your neck—” Matt places his hand on your neck, “I could make that heart stop beating, take the air from your lungs. I could eat you…” He traces the vein in your throat from your jaw to your collarbone. “I could bite you and suck your blood until you’re empty. I could kill you, sweetheart. My kind is your natural enemy. You shouldn’t be here.”

You shudder. His nose brushes the sensitive skin below your ear. He’s so close you can smell him. On inhale, and his scent consumes your senses. He is all you can feel now. You reach out to hold onto his arms, his muscles tensing under your teeth. He’s big and strong, and those hands have a mind of their own as they begin to wander but never where you need him most. 

You shouldn’t be here, yet you came. He asked you to him, and you complied. Is this your fate now? Chasing after your big bad wolf like the helpless sheep that you are?

Your walls clench around an agonizing emptiness, your swollen clit brushing against your soaked underwear. Whatever he is doing to you, it’s the cruelest form of torture. 

A strangled noise breaks out of the back of his throat, rumbling in his chest. “You have no idea how badly I want to taste you,” he breathes. 

“Do it,” you beg. “Taste me.”

He utters your name again. “Stop.”

“Please.”

Your tone shatters him. When he kisses you, finally, fireworks explode in the universe around you. All the stars seem to finally align. Your heart opens, and it sucks him right into you. Your soul yearns for him. He’s so close yet so far away. 

The moon stands between you, but you cross even that ocean as you push against him, forcing your tongue into his mouth. He takes like heaven and hell; he’s the apple Eve bit into and cursed her for all eternity. But he’s also the snake, the one who compelled you to take this journey of bad decisions and jump right off the cliff’s edge. You melt into him like a broken candle. 

He pulls away. Those fangs are alluring, as sharp as a knife’s tip. You want to know what it would feel like gracing your skin, digging into your as he thrusts his cock into your tight cunt. The thought alone sends your mind into a spiral.

Your lips are swollen, but he has yet to draw blood. Matt looks as though he wouldn’t dare, his eyes darting around in a darkened conflict he feels might cost him more than your dignity. You are begging for it, as is your body, but he’s holding himself back. He’s the one who tied himself to an invisible pillar, keeping his hands locked behind his back. But that is not the Matt you want. 

You lean your head to the side, exposing the length of his neck. All control has slipped from your fingers. It’s in his hands now—you are. He cups your head gently. A mere few inches lie between your fountain and his lips.

You press a kiss to his calloused palm—a desperate and needy kiss, tracing your tongue over the lines that tell his life’s story in a way no interview can retell—and it is then he is forever done for. He’s doomed, and you are the second woman to pull him under the pits of hell. 

Saliva drips from his fangs. You hold your breath. He hisses, a weak admission of surrender; the words die miserably on your tongue when his lips close around your pulse point with all his might, and his teeth drive home. 

You moan aloud. Your fingers tangle in his hair, forcing him deeper as he sucks the dark red essence out of your vein. The sensation is more than you bargained for. It’s a drug that wrecks your system. The synapses in your brain backfire with all their might, and what follows the initial explosion of pleasure shooting white hot through your being is complete and utter silence as this God of a man feeds on you. 

The invisible string between you glows a bright crimson. It slings around you, tying you together like the roots of a tree. It’s an eternal sacrifice. You are giving your all to him, the very core of your existence that is now flowing into his mouth. You swear you can hear his thoughts mingle with yours. Yes, more, please. You taste so good. Your knees buckle, but you remain standing strong. He makes sure you don’t fall. Don’t slip away from me. I need you. 

A tear rolls down your cheek. You could sob. It feels so good—too good to be true. In that moment, you become one. There is no telling where one begins and the other ends. The coil in your stomach tightens, and the only pain you feel is the pleasure threatening to overwhelm you. He’s taking everything as you give him everything, but it is not enough. It has never been enough. 

When your body struggles to catch up with the lack of blood, he pulls away. His fangs drag out of your neck agonizingly slowly. You whimper at the sudden loss.

Matt catches you as you stumble into his arms. “You okay?” He cradles your face, brushing the hair out of your face. Your blood stains his lips. Blinking up at him, the force of your metaphysical connection slaps you awake. 

You cease to exist in all solar systems but his. 

He pokes the tip of his index finger with the sharp edge of one tooth, sliding it over the two holes that are pulsating with the work of your heartbeat.

“I shouldn’t have—” he begins. 

“No,” you say. “You did exactly what you should have.”

“I couldn’t stop.”

“But you did.” You wipe the blood from his mouth. “And I felt you. I only felt you.”

The living room passes by you. Before you know it, your back lands on something much softer than a concrete wall. He’s not a monster, that one, but he surely is an animal. 

You taste your blood on Matt’s luscious lips as he devours your tongue. It tastes of copper and a little bitter, but that is what makes him moan. That sound is the last thing you could ever grow tired of. 

His palm rests on your chest. Your heart pounds against his palm. “You’re so alive,” he says.

You cradle his face in your hands. “And you’re more human than you think.”

If he wanted to pull your heart out and hold it, you would let him in a heartbeat. 

He leans you back. He strips you bare. He kisses down your body like you are a fucking masterpiece for him to explore. That is how he sees you. 

Your head falls back. The kisses wander from your hips to the inside of your thighs. Every kiss brings his breath closer to your center. Matt pulls them apart. He opens you up to him. Your scent clouds his senses, and he groans, but he doesn’t touch. 

His fangs graze your skin. “Mine,” he growls. 

You gasp. He bites into the sensitive flesh. Hard, passionately. Your legs wrap around his head, trapping him there. He sucks, and he sucks, and he drinks, and the wetness pools out of your cunt in an obscene amount. This is foreplay to him. It drives you toward the edge leading to an abyss you are afraid you might never be able to crawl back out of. There is no bottom, it is just a pit, and he’s pushing you closer and closer, and—

Your back arches, but he pulls away before the coil can snap into a million butterflies. He pries your legs away from his head, spreading them further on the mattress, as far apart as they will go. 

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner have been served on a silver platter. He breathes in. The scent of your soaked pussy sticks to the hairs in his nose. It isn’t enough. He breathes in again, your arousal sweeter than fiction. You’re everything and more. He wants to taste that part of you more than anything, suck up the slick that is soaking the sheets—and you didn’t even think that was possible—but he waits because he needs to savor it. He doesn’t want it to be over too soon. neither for him nor for you. 

The blood is still dripping from his tongue and his fangs, and the raw inside of your thigh. He runs his finger through it. The sting runs from the wound to your folds, then back down. Still, he doesn’t touch. He plays with the blood, sucking on his fingers until they’re clean, and then he dives back in for a taste. He doesn’t bite, he kisses and sucks, but he doesn’t push it further. He doesn’t hurt you. 

You’re his saving grace; he has to worship you. Pain only has a place in pleasure. 

“Matthew,” you moan. 

He chuckles, kissing where his fangs left deep indentations. “No one will ever touch you again,” he purrs. “I’ll make sure of that.” 

You try to protest, but the words die on your tongue when he leans in, capturing your clit with his hungry mouth. The wound on your thigh closes. The blood from his lips mixes with your juices, and you cry out at the intensity of it all. 

He eats you with the ferocity of a man starved for weeks. He eats your pussy like he ate your blood, savoring every drop but still feasting for the taste to spread out in his mouth like wildfire. Sour, sweet, and copper. He sucks your sensitive clit into his mouth. His tongue drags through your folds, up and down, and then the tip slides inside, tasting your walls. He grows bolder as your moans accelerate. 

Matt cradles your thighs. He forces your hips back down to the mattress, stronger than the average human man. You have to endure his beard scratching and burning, and the pace he has set.

The orgasm creeps up on you. Before you know it, he has plunged his tongue into you, and your body convulses around him. You scream into a pillow as you come. 

You are each other’s forbidden fruit. No prayer in the world could keep you apart. 

Faintly, you can hear him say, “Good girl.” Your legs quiver. He pulls away, then comes right back like a boomerang. 

He’s warm now. He was cold before, but when he kisses you this time, he’s warm. He’s hot. You run your hands over his bare chest, the scars that lie under the dark strands of hair. You tug at it, and he moans. You can tell he is a little insecure, but by pressing your lips to one of the cuts on his shoulder, he relaxes. 

What he must have endured, what he must have lived through before he died and was resurrected in the same breath, just without a beating heart—you don’t want to think about it or you will break, but you can still feel him through the crimson tie that holds you together, and you know that he has suffered enough for more than two lifetimes. You wish you could take it all away from him. You wish you could have saved him before it was too late, loved him more than the woman who turned him, but turning back time is an impossibility. You are both acutely aware of that. 

“Hey.” Matt tilts your head toward him. “Where did you just go?” he asks. 

“Thinking about you,” you murmur. 

“Me?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be your salvation.”

You. His salvation. He kisses you, softly this time. He pours gratitude into his lips and bleeds them out in poetry as they slide into your mouth, and you swallow every last drop. 

If someone had told you a week ago where you would see yourself on that particular Monday, you would have laughed at them. And if someone had told you a week ago that you would be making love to the devil, you would have called them crazy. But it’s happening. 

He thrusts into you without a warning. His thick cock fills you like nothing and no one ever has before. Your cunt has been molded to fit him, you’re sure. You take him in, and you moan at the stretch. It’s a pain so delicious you could fall apart right then and there just from the feel of him inside you. 

Every thrust drags the tip of his cock along your sweet spot. Every added sensation drives you closer to your death. 

Your body tingles. He explores your face with his lips rather than his fingers, moving to your neck again. You cling to him, oh-so-desperate for him. He likes you like that, and you like him like that. 

“You’re fucking with my head,” he tells you. “Offering your pussy to a vampire. Letting me drink your blood. Begging me to fuck you. You’re in my head, baby. Can’t get you out of my system. Fuck.”

You are his downfall, his salvation, but he is all of those things to you as well—all of those things and more. If he could read your mind, you would tell him that. Words can’t do justice to how you feel. Not right now, maybe not ever. 

“Bite me again,” you beg.

His thrusts falter. He searches your body for any sign of regret. His fangs come out, and he buries them deep in your jugular vein. The floodgates open wide. Your walls clench around his cock, your clit pulsates, and the wave crashes into you. 

You come as he devours your neck and your blood. You transcend into another dimension, far away from everything and everyone but never him. Never Matthew.

The sensation of you wraps around him like a weighted blanket. His balls tighten, your blood unfolding its taste on his tongue. You are all over him, inside of him, everywhere at once. He falls head-first, dragging you down with him. 

He comes with a shout that is only muffled through his teeth buried in your flesh, his cum spurting into you and filling your cunt to the brim. Your eyes roll back. You’re flying and falling all at once. 

Oh, how good it feels to be consumed by him. To be fucked and sucked dry. You would have never expected this to come out of your week, let alone your life, but now that it has happened, you are floating on cloud nine. 

Dizziness threatens to take over, but before you can pass out, he forces himself away, allowing your heart to catch up with the lack of blood in your system. He collapses on top of you. His cock softens, but he stays inside. You need him there. You want him there. And that is the only place he wants to rest tonight. 

He heals the wounds on your neck. “You have a mark,” Matt rasps, tracing your skin with his finger. 

You choke out, “Yours.”

“Yes, you are.” He kisses you there. Once, twice, even a third time. “Mine,” he says.

You’re his. He’s yours. It doesn’t get any better than this. 

The minutes tick away on the obnoxious clock on the wall. Matt pulls out eventually, wrapping you up in a blanket. He coaxes you to drink, but you’re barely lucid. Only when he begins to stroke your hair you start coming back to yourself. You thought you might regret it, but as you look at him, his almost guilty eyes staring back at you, all you can do is reach out for him. 

“Session two tomorrow?” you ask.

He chuckles and retorts, “Have I not scared you away?” There is some truth to it though.

He’s covered in your blood. It sticks to his lips, his hands, and his chest. It’s sickeningly intimate, in a way.

You shake your head in response. “You could not possibly.”

He listens to your heartbeat. You’re as honest as they come. 

“Okay,” Matt says. “Session two tomorrow then.”

That night, you fell in love with the Devil, but he also fell in love with you, his angel in the form of a reckless journalist, and the only blood he ever wants to taste again until the end of his miserable, cursed days. 

Matt Murdock (Smut) Tag List: @shouldbestudying41 @theradioactivespidergwen @cheshirecat484 @1988-fiend @acharliecoxedfan @gpenguin666 @linamarr @mcugeekposts @itwasthereaminuteago @norestfortheshelbywicked @yarrystyleeza @littlenerdyravenclaw @etanordoesbullsh1t @thychuvaluswife @harleycao @schneeflocky @imjustcal @pipsqueakkitten @merlinbtch @sya-skies @amberritonicole @ravenclaw617 @pigeonmama @bohemianrhapsody86 @a-girl-has-n0-name @winkev1 @callsign-ember @chittaphonstar @buckyyyismahhlife

[murkycran]

Radiostatic/Voxal Fic Rec List

Welcome to my Radiostatic/Voxal Fic Rec List! ^_^ This will include romantic, platonic, and/or queerplatonic Radiostatic fics (and admittedly probably a couple of Radiosilence fics, too).

I will keep updating this periodically as I read more fics, so feel free to check back every once and a while! I'll reblog it when I update it, plus make a note with the date at the top. Trust me, this is by no means a complete list; there's fics I still want to add to this that I just haven't gotten to yet. I just decided to go ahead and post it anyways, because if I kept waiting until I ran out of fics to rec I'd probably be working on this forever.

These are not in any particular order; I'm going by both my Bookmarks list on AO3 and my memory of fics I forgot to bookmark. I also tried to make notes on what fics were written before season 1 released, but I might have missed some, so keep that in mind.

Please let me know if any links don't work or are wrong!

✨Before you proceed:✨ read the tags on these fics if you decide to read them. Many of them have heavy material - no surprise given the fandom, but still, felt like this needed said. On that note, there's also fics with explicit material and some fics are straight up PWP. Again, read at your own risk/heed the tags.

Fic Rec List Masterpost

Staticmoth Fic Rec List

Misc. Vox Fic Rec List

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Radio Healed the Video Star by Aspiring_Forest_Witch

Summary: Alastor comes across an unconscious and battered Vox while out on one of his strolls. He feels compelled to bring him back to the hotel.

Notes: 98% of this fic was written before season 1 was released, so keep that in mind, because there's obviously going to be inconsistencies with canon. It's nearly finished (at least according to the author's notes in the latest chapters, I think). I suggest pacing yourself with this one - it's nearly 700k words long. I ruined a good sleep schedule staying up to get through it. (So worth it though.) There are quite a few OCs in later chapters, but they're such good OCs. You fall in love with them just as much as the canon characters, I swear. I would die for Verity and the Trio.

Let's Misbehave by joosymango

Summary: Alastor wins a bet against Vox, now his rival must stop pestering him for two weeks. It should be a pleasant break! So why does he miss the idiot?

Notes: Vaguely inspired by Aspiring_Forest_Witch's Radio Healed the Video Star. Also largely written before season 1 release. First fic I read for the HH fandom. ^_^

Safe with Me Series by rillo (rillyrillo)

Summary: Having only ever set his sights on men who treat women with odious disrespect, Alastor never thought he'd take interest in Vox's turbulent relationship with his fiancé and business partner, Valentino. He decides to lend a helping hand in the hopes of getting Vox out of his sticky situation. After all, what are childhood enemies for?

Unfortunately, neither Alastor nor Vox could've predicted the rollercoaster of unsaid emotions and future horrors that are thrown their way. Will they be able to rely on each other and get by unscathed? Or will destiny have other plans for these two?

[HUMAN AU] [There's art included for the human designs]

Notes: It's so, so good. ;-; Heed the tags. There's a prequel consisting of oneshots, plus a sequel (listed below, bc I can't not put it here)! And there's ART! So much art!

You, My Everything by rillo (rillyrillo)

Summary: Some say that love can conquer all, even in Hell.

Vox begged to differ, and he was damn well sure Alastor did too – or at least he would be, if Alastor hadn’t become one big question mark.

Sequel to Safe with Me.

Notes: Only read if you've read Safe With Me!!! Still pretty early in the story but so good. ;-; The angst, I swear...

You're on the Air by rillo (rillyrillo)

Summary: A series of short, daily conversations between a radio host and his avid listener, as the two learn more about each other’s lives over the air. Set in the late 90s/early 2000s.

Notes: Same author as Safe with Me, but not set in the same universe! This one is set up in a literal radio show format; almost entirely dialogue-centric.

Of Candied Pine and Cherried Smoke by rillo (rillyrillo)

Summary: Inspired by x_Arcticfox_x’s fanfiction: Blue Raspberries And Cherry Cola

After overdosing on them one too many times to curb the steadily weakening suppressants, Vox's body rejects them outright. Now with his scent getting stronger, he finds himself struggling to hide his true status as an Omega. In his desperation, he seeks help from the one person that knows his secret: Alastor.

Notes: Omegaverse. Same author as Safe with Me series and You're on the Air!

Blue Raspberries And Cherry Cola by x_Arcticfox_x

Summary: Vox is an omega, that's his biggest secret.

During his life time he hid this fact using suppressants, and counited to in death. One day he runs out of pills and his supplier is out of stock for the time being so Vox is forced to submit to the torture of going through heat for the first time in decades.

Too bad his business partner only see's omega's as mere object's...

But hey, at least Angel found him just in time, right?

Notes: Omegaverse. Currently on hold, but has 14 chapters currently available for reading. :)

Once Bitten, Twice Shy by The_Penny_Tails

Summary: Alastor decides that it's time to claim what is rightfully his, consequences be damned.

Notes: It's not porn but it might as well have been for how fucking intense this scene was. 😳

Dripping Pink by The_Penny_Tails

Summary: Just before an Overlord meeting, Alastor gets infected by an off-market, highly potent, and incredibly dangerous love potion. Nobody realises until it's too late.

Notes: Simultaneously funny as fuck and erotic as all hell. I suffered from so much secondhand embarrassment on Vox's behalf. It's wonderful. :D

Lucidity's Fog by The_Penny_Tails

Summary: Ever since he met Alastor, Vox has been having raunchy dreams about the deer. Those dreams suddenly stop when Alastor disappears. For seven years, he's free of the guilt, of the shame brought on by his unconscious desire.

Until Alastor comes back, and Vox is plagued by a new dream the same day he finds out about the news. This time, however, something is distinctively different about how the deer is acting.

Notes: Author tagged for light angst, but ngl the ending did not feel like 'light' angst to me lol. Hurt in a good way.

Finger Tips and Dotted Lips by The_Penny_Tails

Summary: Alastor has sensitive hands; he finds this out at the most inconvenient time possible. Unfortunately, Vox is the one who ends up paying the price for it.

Having to help a seemingly broken Overlord whilst navigating this new discovery proves to be a little more taxing than the Radio Demon could ever have imagined.

Notes: Alastor is such a troll in this omg.

Thawing Out by Seaside_Dreaming

Summary: Seeing a small crack in Vox's screen nags at Alastor more than he likes to admit.

Vox wishes things were better. Sooner or later, Alastor has to come to terms with the fact he has feelings, in general.

Notes: Written before season 1 release. HIGHLY suggest reading the prequel one-shot. It's not necessary to understand the plot here, but you should read it anyway.

Static by passthevoxcord

Summary: Vox creates a new and improved version of himself to please Val, only to be replaced by it. He is left beaten and broken with no one to turn to . . . except maybe his oldest enemy, Alastor.

Notes: Written before season 1 release.

Hating you feels so good by TwoBitJester

Summary: Vox obsesses over his returned enemy and finds himself a little too wound up

Notes: Very good PWP.

Laced Over Dinner by hazbinhearts

Summary: Vox is persuaded to dress a little differently over dinner for Alastor, but finds it remarkably uncomfortable as the night goes on. Written for VoxWeek21 Day 3: dressing up [appearance, formal, dance].

Notes: Written before season 1 release. Corsets. 😳

Observer by DeviousPossum

Summary: He moved the cursor to click off, when he suddenly heard a very recognizable static laced tone.

Alastor.

Alastor.

What the fuck. Alastor is singing.

Vox unintentionally ran claw marks across his desk, an increasingly common habit for him as of late. He grimaced at his now ruined table and unsuccessfully tried to reel in an inexplicable feeling that could only be described as jealousy.

Notes: Porn with a tiny bit of plot in the first chapter. :3

RadioTV Week 2021 Series by Heliosolar

Summary: Pretty much the title; various prompts.

Notes: Written before season 1 release. All worth reading, though they aren't connected.

Sharkblocking by Anonymous

Summary: Alastor is Vox’s number one rival. Incidentally, though nobody involved is aware of it, Alastor’s number one rival is actually Vox’s pet shark.

In which Alastor is actually a little obsessed back and Vark is the biggest obstacle to Radiostatic short of canon itself.

Notes: VARK!

Control + V by TooManyPsuedonyms

Summary: Vox and Alastor have a... thing. Not quite a relationship, but something. Vox is too scared to define it properly, and Alastor is dead set that Vox will eventually get bored of his lack of reciprocity and move on.

So, Valentino tries to show Vox what he is missing.

... too bad Vox didn't want him like that. ... too bad Alastor didn't know want is a vague word.

Notes: Heed the tags!!! There's currently a sequel; I haven't read it yet, but I definitely plan to. 👀

gift of the magi by vol_ctrl

Summary: "... Although husband and wife are now left with gifts that neither one can use, they realize how far they are willing to go to show their love for each other, and how priceless their love really is ..."

Alastor/Vox established relationship fluff.

Notes: Written before season 1 release. Very sweet. ^_^

the lost tape by vol_ctrl

Summary: There's a NEW ambitious media demon in Pentagram City. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, right?

Notes: Written before season 1 release.

12 Days of Yuletide by vol_ctrl

Summary: A parody of the 12 Days of Christmas traditional tune, as can only be done by Vox gifting to his beloved adversary.

Or, a series of letters from the desk of Alastor upon receiving a series of increasingly elaborate gifts from his insufferably modern foil during the holiday season.

Notes: Written before season 1 release.

Fear makes the heart grow fonder by Graysongirl

Summary: After a bit of inspiration from an unlikely source Vox comes up with the plan that scaring Alastor is the best route to gaining his affections. The haunted house at LuLu World seems like the perfect (safe) environment for a bit of pre-planned scaring...

[Stand-alone staticradio]

Notes: Written before season 1 release. Funny af. "Red! Red!" XD

Cordyceps, King of Ants by spappest

Summary: Vox is tired. Of Valentino. Of Velvette. Of Alastor, and Hell, and everything in between. He can't escape, but he can cut himself off, piece by piece, until he feels nothing at all. Alastor takes exception to this approach and commissions a certain princess of Hell to fix his foe. Now Vox has a hotel of misfits on one side of him, overlords on the other, and Alastor crushing his cage ever smaller.

Clearly, the only way Vox will get any peace and quiet is to just kill God.

Valentino did always tell him that he had no chill.

Notes: Started before season 1 was released. Technically features Staticmoth but it's not the focus as much as Radiostatic (which honestly has a relationship status of ??? not romantic but also not friendship or even strictly enemies...just...Alastor and Vox). O_O I think about this fic on a daily basis.

Russian Roulette by spappest

Summary: Vox and Alastor play a game that Vox is way too excited to lose.

Notes: Started before season 1 release. Take note!!! I'm putting this on the Radiostatic list because it's almost entirely centered on Alastor and Vox's dynamic, but the romantic relationship is Staticmoth. The Staticmoth is just not featured very much.

Vox and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Afterlife by spappest

Summary: Alastor goes into rut.

Vox has a bad time. Then a good time. Then a very bad time. Then a brief vacation. Then a confusing time.

Notes: Background Staticmoth, but Radiostatic is most prominent. Funny af. Alastor and Vox have...a very special relationship. Lol.

Killer Ex by FanGirl48

Summary: Alastor was a serial killer who valued his privacy. So when someone who claims to know what he is tries to barge into his life he can't let them live, his secret must be protected at all cost.

A normally easy task easy task becomes complicated when Alastor's ex-boyfriend is dragged into the whole thing forcing the serial killer to go visit them for the first time in seven years.

Notes: Human AU. Love me some possessive Alastor. <3

Negotiations by FanGirl48

Summary: Vox had no interest in attending a meeting between Heaven and Hell following the failed attack by the Adam and his Exterminators. Alastor's little gremlin caused the mess, so he can go clean it up. Vox had nothing wanted nothing to do with the radio demon, king of hell or heaven.

But that was before Lucifer made the media overlord aware of Valentino's little job offer to his daughter.

Damnit Valentino!

Notes: "And they were roommates!" "Oh my god they were roommates"

Down, Up, and Back Down by CowboyEnthusiast

Summary: Vox dies. Surprisingly no one takes this well.

Or, Vox dies and Alastor tries to drag his soul back from Purgatory.

Notes: Another fic I think about daily... Heavy themes. Heed the tags.

Hold Me Like a Grudge by Rachello344

Summary: Alastor has spent a long time running from Vox. Vox has chased after him almost as long. When suppressants fail throughout the city, they finally collide.

Notes: Omegaverse. Fun fact about this author: all their Radiostatic fic titles are from Fall Out Boy lyrics lol. (I fucking love FOB sue me.) I haven't yet read all of Rachello344's Radiostatic fics, BUT I have them all on my To Read list because I've loved everything I've read of theirs so far lol.

What Makes You So Special? by Rachello344

Summary: With Lucifer’s return to the Pride Ring, the other Deadly Sins were bound to take notice. When Asmodeus stops by the Pride Ring to visit the Morningstars, the Vees are able to make a deal to host a pop-up shop of the incredibly popular Lust Ring establishment, Ozzie’s, bringing it to the Pride Ring for the first time.

When Vox and Alastor both attend the restaurant’s opening night, long repressed sparks fly, forever changing their relationship.

Notes: Because of the pacing of this (sex first romance later), I feel like this is the Radiostatic equivalent of Femalefonzie's Freak-A-Zoid (a really good Staticmoth fic). This is hands down one of the most romantic Radiostatic fics I've read. ^_^

Hold Me Tight (or Don't) by Rachello344

Summary: Alastor and Vox finally come to an understanding, both of each other and of what they each mean to the other. Their relationship evolves accordingly, one concession at a time, until they both get everything they could possibly want: power, companionship, and even love.

Notes: So, so good.

Keep You Like an Oath by Rachello344

Summary: Alastor normally wouldn’t bother with the chore—breaking into V Tower was quite a lot of work, even for him—but he found himself curious about what Vox and his little friends might be working on. Especially since whatever it was had Angel concerned enough to report back to the rest of the hotel about it.

Of course, before he can learn anything, he’ll need to sneak past Vox’s watchful eye…

Notes: God it's just...so good. Read it. Radiostatic reconciliation. One thing I love about Rachello344 writing Radiostatic is Alastor's terms of endearment for Vox. ^_^

To Be Yours by pinegreenapples

Summary: Alastor hears something he hasn't heard in years. He decides to investigate why now, of all times, this frequency has turned back on. Vox is not amused.

Notes: Hurt no comfort. Hurts so good, though. ;-;

oleanders in june by spoondrifts

Summary: It seems like while Alastor was off preying on the self-destructive addictions of desperate sinners, Vox was off getting himself beaten half to death, probably from spouting belligerent nonsense at someone with violent tendencies and a far lower threshold for disrespect than Alastor. Not everyone finds poor Vox’s chatter as charming as he does.

If Vox is unconscious, then Vox is not being entertaining, and Alastor came here to have fun, not play nursemaid.

Or: Drunk on power and itching to cause some mayhem, Alastor hunts down the only person in the city who's always up for anything. Unfortunately, he finds Vox... not exactly in tip-top shape. No matter; he can work with that too.

Notes: ^_^ Very sweet.

equilibrium by curtailed

Summary: Post-Finale. The Hotel finds Alastor right on the front lawn, unconscious and bleeding, still injured from Adam's blade. While he recovers, all of Hell scrambles to find out who his mysterious rescuer is.

Meanwhile, Vox tries not to freak out that he might have accidentally made a soul bond to save that deer asshole's life. All he had wanted to do was to scope out the ruins of Alastor's radio tower. Fuck him for being curious, he supposed.

Notes: This fic has me in a CHOKEHOLD. I love the characterizations so, so much. Manages to fit in humor alongside the angst. One of the best fight scenes I've ever seen put into words. Curtailed really took Vox and Alastor as characters and planned out a cool fucking fight scene using their unique abilities. I automatically love anything tagged with "one fell first but the other fell harder" lol.

candlelight by curtailed

Summary: Despite the #SirRepentious success, Heaven remains skeptical of a sinner's ability to change. Logic gets lost somewhere, and really, what's a better way to show sinners can be marginally less horrible than to stick two Overlords who hate each other in the same living space?

OR

Alastor and Vox play house.

Notes: The comedy of Alastor and Vox being forced to be civil with each other and then unintentionally becoming very domestic together. Lol

wallow by curtailed

Summary: A 2+1 fic. Two times when Alastor and Vox were in a love triangle (hard quote on love, hard quote on triangle), and the one time Alastor had Vox to himself.

Notes: Only 1 (very good) chapter so far, but safe to say pretty heavy already. Heed the tags.

Addicted by Dancingdog

Summary: After the latest argument with Valentino, Vox finds himself at the Hazbin Hotel. An injured Alastor is less-than-pleased to see him, which is understandable considering they are enemies.

But as more and more of Valentino's venom leaves his system, Vox begins to remember his days before V-Tower and he learns exactly why Alastor rejected his offer all those decades ago.

His memories return in fits and spurts - not all of them good. His past with Alastor isn't something he expected and it turns out that he isn't the only one suffering.

Notes: Dude. This fic hurt me. Such good angst.

Radio Made the Video Star Series by songofhell

Summary: Snippets of Vox and Alastor's afterlife, and their journey from strangers to friends to enemies to... something more.

Notes: Pretty much what the series summary says - a series of installments that chronicle the beginning and subsequent evolution of Alastor and Vox's relationship. Very good, has tons of possessive!Alastor, which I die for.

Uneasy by Saezs

Summary: “Something’s wrong with Voxy.”

Velvette’s eyes snapped to the tall moth pimp. “And?” she prompted with a raised eyebrow. As if she needed to deal with two piss babies this close to a show. Valentino shrugged, tapping away on his phone, and walked away to stand threateningly close to her new models. Before she could snap at him, she saw it; his wings were twitching. Barely noticeable to strangers, just under the hum of the building’s lights, he was squeaking with each tap of his fingers. She felt unease and a healthy dose of aggravation swirl in her stomach.

Or: Vox was roofied and sexually assaulted. Velvette tries to be better than her mother. Unexpected connections are formed.

Notes: Heed the tags! Features genderfluid Vox. :)

Five Times Vox and Alastor Danced and One Time They Didn't by Drowsy_Salamander

Summary: “I say, good fellow, what are you doing on the ground like that?”

The voice was perky, cheerful, and bright. It had a crisp mid-Atlantic accent, the kind Vox remembered being all the rage for stage and film performers back when he first entered the broadcast industry. The diction was crystal clear with every sound enunciated separately to maximise clarity, the consonants clicked and the vowels were broad. It was a performer’s voice.

A voice for radio.

Oh shit.

... Five times Vox and Alastor danced and one time Vox and Alastor didn't.

From their first meeting through their friendship, to their enmity and fighting. From infatuation to yearning to animosity. Dancing is a partnership, is it not?

Notes: Each chapter so far has been a different type of dance, which is really neat. Especially chapter 2. ^_^ That said, there's a feeling of impending doom, knowing what happens to their relationship eventually... Not saying that as a deterrent but just a comment on how I felt while reading it lol. It's very sweet, which is why it hurts to think of future chapters. 🙃

Days Long Past by Momo52

Summary: All sinners of hell bore some physical marks of how they lived and died. Some physical manifestations were more obvious while others were subtle. Vox was not an exception to this rule.

While his television head was an obvious indication of his life while on Earth, the mark he bore from his death was far more subdued. Luckily enough, his shame was easily concealed behind a high collar. Unfortunately, he is just as well known in his afterlife as he was in his life. As such, trying to make everyone believe that he is so much stronger than what his death implies is a constant battle. He only wished that he wasn’t the hardest one to convince.

Notes: I think platonic Radiostatic is the endgame here. Still pretty early in the story, but I'm really liking this author's depiction of Vox and Alastor's pasts. Heed the tags. There are heavy subjects such as suicide (very big theme for Vox's pov) and period-typical racism (in Alastor's past) present in the story.

Remote Access by x-UsoTsuki-x (its_not_reael)

Summary: In the aftermath of Alastor and Vox's electrifying on-air showdown, Vox finds himself unusually rattled. His usual suave demeanor is slipping, much to his cohorts' amusement – and concern. Velvet can do little more than roll her eyes at his antics. Valentino, on the other hand, is convinced that all Vox needs to do is get fucked and relax.

or, alternatively...

The tech-savvy overlord manages to snag a virus from a porn site and finds himself in the arms of his worst enemy.

Notes: Fairly certain this is firmly Radiosilence based on the tags (and the direction of the story so far). Very funny, very hot. Vox is pathetic in this one. Lol

Nun-thing Like You've Ever Seen Series by A_Cypress_Coffin

Summary: Alastor, the feared radio demon with more blood on his hands than most of hell combined, wasn't always as we imagine him. There was a time where instead of a dapper suit and smile he donned a simple vow and habit. That didn't last of course, but the journey is quite something.

Notes: This author has a great sense of humor, lmao. I enjoyed the unique headcanons for Alastor's backstory. The tag that hooked me: "Accidentally becoming a better person through bad domming and found family".

Empathia by The_Oblivious_Swallow

Summary: Creating new technology is boring, sex is physically unappealing, the other Vee’s are so annoying, annoying, annoying! Even Vark, his baby, his pride and joy, doesn’t stir the same joy in his heart like he should.

So, Vox had concluded that it had to go. For his sake.

Notes: Contains Staticmoth, but Radiostatic seems like the endgame (I write this as there is one chapter still left). Really interesting idea. I love Vox.exe so much. ;-;

Every Madman Has His Vice by phantasm_png (chibellero)

Summary: “What the fuck do you want, Alastor? Was it not enough to kill me all those years ago? Now, you had to go for the people I loved and the only things I had left in this fucking Hellhole?”

“It was my fault,” Alastor whispers as he approaches Vox slowly, as if he was some sort of wounded animal he didn’t want to scare off. His prey. “Vox, I’m sorry. If I had a chance to redo that night, I would never have hurt you to this extent. I’ll never harm you again.”

“That’s seven years too fucking late, Alastor.”

OR: Seven years ago, instead of Alastor disappearing, it was Vox who left instead.

Notes: I’m so fucking here for this AU. Possessive Alastor, Vox helping with the hotel, Husk is still an Overlord, yessss

Metathesiophobia (Fear of Change) by phantasm_png (chibellero)

Summary: There's a lot that can change in seven years.

But never once had Alastor expected for something like this from his old rival and older friend.

Or, Alastor and Vox start to rekindle their old friendship again after a shocking discovery strikes the deer demon.

Notes: QPR Radiostatic with MtF Vox! Contains a smidge of Staticmoth, but it's in the background and not the focus. Very well written.

surimi and venison by phantasm_png (chibellero)

Summary: A series of short drabbles (500+ words) in an interconnected universe (peep the tags, they're still in hell), centering around Alastor and his new pet fish... shark... television thing. Will (hopefully) update 1-2 times a week. Written as my attempt at a Mermay series.

Notes: Like the summary says, Mermay prompts featuring SharkHybrid!Vox, along with Alastor, who literally saw Vox and decided to make him his pet. Lol.

an arm and a leg, my dear, les yeux d'la tête by phantasm_png (chibellero)

Summary: “I mean, usually when Val gets mad he gets like, super pissy too an’ starts destroyin’ shit ‘round the set and in his clubs, but like, usually Vox can calm him down. Problem is, where the Hell is that guy? I haven’t seen ‘im round the Tower for like, a month or two now. That ain’t normal.”

“What, so you mean he just up and left?”

“No, but like… he hasn’t been seen ‘in public’ for like, two months now. It’s startin’ to get suspicious. Like, I ‘unno if I’m just paranoid or something, but… Vox is like, the fuckin’ face of Hell’s Entertainment District. When he’s not round for a bit, that’s nothing to worry about on its own… but when he’s not round for a bit an’ Val and Velvette are creeping around, looking for his rival…? I mean… the dots are connecting. If Al did something…”

“If Vox was dead, we would know.” OR: Two months ago, Vox went missing. Right now, it seems as if Alastor has something to hide.

Notes: Vox gets attic-wifed and wears a virgin killer sweater. ^_^

we'll go down together in the ashes of our love by phantasm_png (chibellero)

Summary: Glimpses into the Radio Demon's life as he reluctantly navigates parenthood with his co-parenting partner and the demon princess hoisted onto him by the King and Queen of Hell.

Loosely inspired by Spy X Family.

Notes: CUTE! I love domestic Radiostatic.

What Has Been by Tianren

Summary: Vox has never known peace. From being the son of a egocentric cult leader, to being the boyfriend of a self absorbed abuser. Vox has managed to build a pretty sad life for himself. The only spot of sunshine that had ever blessed his existence was when he met an amateur true crime investigative journalist, with a podcast named, Alastor. The man was his only source of unfiltered news and contact to the world outside his father’s compound. But after Vox finally escaped the cult he waited for Alastor. Waited weeks in their assigned meeting spot just to be forgotten. Vox was convinced he’d stopped waiting for Alastor years ago until he meets the man again seven years later at a hotel. What will reconnecting with his past lead to and will it help him escape the hell he’s built for himself?

Takes place in the late 2000s early 2010s

Trigger warning for religious trauma and abuse as major themes of this story. Will add more warnings if they arise as I go on.

Notes: Really interesting human AU concept!

(Fic rec list to be continued)

[ourlittleuluru]

Voyage Of The Outcast - My Thoughts 1/4

Can I just say this first...? Whoever made the Voyage of the outcast trailer. They threw us in for SUCH A DAMN LOOP!

in a good way! It started off with the poem which we have 0 context for. But with the potential angst they weaved, we were left to believe the poem was like... A bell ringing in some crazy angst ride. BUT IT ENDED UP...!! Okay I'll leave this to the ending part. I'll get back to it.

These are just me gathering my thoughts now that I'm awake 😂 Gonna be replaying through the story a few times. I have yet to read any other reviews at the moment so some things might be missed that others have posted about. I'll go catch up once I'm done uwu

Sorry this is one of the few times I am gonna be pretty unhinged and post a heck lot of text there's a heck lot to think about...

I tried to write a single post but my thoughts are... LONG (also I have a lot of images)... so split post it shall be ( ﾉ ﾟｰﾟ);;; Will try and format it a lil at least;;;;

Just a little something I noticed with the way the stories are written for the branches: ❄ Zayne branch explored more of his internal struggle and MC helps to overcome it with him 🐟 Rafayel, has mostly been forthright with his feelings even if there still secrets and stuff he doesn't say. So his branch mostly explored the external factors around his life. Such as the sea god power and also finally MC remembering their important shared memory. ⭐ Now Xavier. His branch feels a lot more full and rounded out to me because he's a man of secrets. It's been noted through the whole main story and many of their interactions. MC doesn't know what he does outside and MC a lot of the times can't quite figure him out. But all MC knows is to trust him even if blindly. And Xavier's story's branch addresses both internal and external factors and points surrounding him.

It's still is gonna be a long one, people (ヘ･_･)ヘ┳━┳ into the read more it goes

Notes in Chp 1

Okay first... what 😭

PAINTED! PROTOCORE FRAGMENTS! How... how did the smugglers thought it'd fly??? But the image that Xavier was just randomly pulled into this investigation to sit in as a judge was a funny image to me 😂

Anyways... This whole story, I love how they expand and voice out MC's inner thoughts even more, especially with MC's doubts about Xavier. But as always, it's mission and objectives come first, or some other things that takes precedence.

Now this part here is interesting to me. Xavier WANTS MC to probe and ask him more things. And I suspect that's where he'll slowly determine where MC stands and how to further proceed with letting MC know about what he does. 🤔

Which later gives us the chance to pick what to ask him

I ended up picking the 2nd option first since knowing Xavier, he'd still answer the question leaving lots of gaps =-=

SEE? Keeping it vague, again. Though this time he did hint at something which can easily just fly under the radar as something one knows the consequence of but must keep going.

Though it could also hint in the sense that, since he comes from Philos from the future, he's aware of the overarcing stuff that's gonna happen.

But for the other option, Xavier would be more straightfoward. We did get to know a bit more about the Aether Cores tho, well... and that is those things are dangerous.

In the end it concludes into one thing...

Xavier knows but he doesn't want to limit nor skew MC's views. He wants MC to decide for themselves. I feel this is quite key to the whole "freedom" thing he's got going on too. It's also the same with him and the Backtrackers in WU.

And then it ends off with this 😭

A PROPOSAL?! Nah jk. But it kinda feels like it's finally establishing their relationship for the future (at least in the main story)

Also, also. Interesting thing. In the CN version, Xavier says "我愿意" instead of "I'll always be with you"

Was gonna scream about how it sounds like Xavier is saying "I do"...

But here comes the reality... MC was asking "...if my partner is willing..." which in CN is "我的搭档愿意为此与我。。。"

Xavier is just replying pretty normally ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ can't say that I'm not just a tad bit disappointed that he wasn't being sneaky for once T^T

[lalalychee-x]

"Sugar Pills— I think I'm okay"

Angst! Rodrick Heffley x reader pt 2

"Tell me you're more than a sick fascination..." romantic. + platonic

♡ Ayyeee, I'm back with part 2, this will NOT MAKE SENSE WITHOUT PART 1, SO DO MAKE SURE TO READ THAT! So welcome to part 2 of "Think I'm okay!" CW: self harm (sh), weed/drug use, smoking, domestic-abuse, scars, healing scars, implied sexual assault (sa) worries, obssessive disorders, classic crude teenage humour, locker situation, good girl gone bad LOL, suicide attempts, suicide jokes, cannon Diary of a Wimpy Kid lore + characters in this part word count: 5945 masterlist of all parts song4this: "Sugar Pills" by I DON'T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

-------story starts here-------

Regardless of what he thought as you left his bathroom that night, Rodrick doesn't really look at you in the corridors.

Not like he used to, anyway.

He kind of... glances, the way you look at a candle you got too close to once. Like you're gonna burn him if he stares too long. Like if you even catch his eye, the memory of you kneeling on his bathroom floor with bloody towels and shaking hands will hit him like a freight train.

So he plays it cool even if he's playing to no one; aside like 4 friends half of which are horribly stoned. Acts like he doesn't see you pass with your shiny hair and perfect uniform, those glossy lips in a soft pout, always holding folders to your chest like you're in a teen drama. The kind of girl whose dad drops her off at the front gates in a white car. The kind of girl who definitely wasn't meant to see him half-naked and bleeding, crying like a kid in a bathtub. Then proceed to strip and jump in the bathtub too. He curses himself for not staring longer because frankly, you were attractive; even if he feels like a pervert to admit that to himself.

You don't talk anymore. Just these... moments. Your eyes flick to each other, fast, like you didn't mean to look. Like you're pretending it didn't happen. But its always his eyes that meet yours; you barely even notice because you can't face him after what you did.

But Rodrick thinks about it. He thinks about you. Way too much for someone who tried to pretend that night didn't matter. And he tells himself that if he were you, he wouldn't talk to him either.

You're in different worlds. Yours smells like perfume and straight A's. His smells like weed, rust, and sweat.

So yeah—he doesn't LOOK at you in the corridors.

But he sees you. Every time.

And apparently too much because he notices you at the end of the day and he stares with furrowed eyebrows. 

You should've been gone by now.

Everyone else is. The school's emptied out and the sky's bruising like a storm's about to bust wide open and it's already pouring it down. You check your phone for the hundredth time—no texts, no calls. And the clouds are getting darker.

Of course today's the day your dad forgets you. Probably stuck at work. You'd rolled your eyes when he offered to pick you up, claiming you'd walk if he ever bailed. But now you're here, standing under the tiny overhang by the front office, staring out at a sky that looks like it's about to drown the whole town.

Your bag's heavy, and you're wearing your nicer shoes today—white ones, of course—and there's absolutely no way in hell you're stepping into that parking lot and ruining them for a twenty-minute walk home. And your umbrella? In your locker before the school shut. Useless.

You exhale sharply through your nose. This. Is. Hell.

Then you hear it—the unmistakable sputtering engine of a shitty old van. You don't even have to look. You know it's him. The crusty Loded Diper van, coughing like a dying animal as it turns into the side parking lot. Well, he's definitely got a cold. 

The worst part is... it makes you feel something. That little swoop in your stomach like you're twelve and about to do something bad. Not that you did anything bad at twelve of course; your parents would kill you.

You glance over your shoulder and yep. There he is.

Rodrick Heffley, hanging out the driver's window, hair wet and clinging to his forehead, that stupid, smug smirk already forming.

"You waiting for your prince charming or just standing there hoping to get electrocuted?"

You glare at him. "Fuck off."

He raises his eyebrows, grinning wider. "Oooh. She's mad. Bet you'd kill for a ride right about now."

"I'd rather get trench foot."

Rodrick cackles. "Your funeral, princess."

You go back to fuming, but the rain starts really coming down now—like aggressively. Wind whipping, drops slamming into the pavement like nails. The overhang does nothing. Your skirt's starting to cling to your legs. Your hair is frizzing.

Your teeth are grinding.

And he's still sitting there, engine running, arms folded across the window like he's waiting. Watching.

You glance at your phone again—2%.

You sigh so hard your soul leaves your body and you swear you're dehydrated.

Then you stomp toward him.

Rodrick watches you approach like he's seeing a miracle. "Wow. I didn't think I'd see the day."

"Shut up. My shoes are gonna get ruined." You make sure to step only on your tiptoes because at least you can scrub the tips of the shoes later.

"You care more about your shoes than your lungs?"

"You drive a van with blood stains on the dashboard AND you smoke," you snap, yanking the passenger door open. "Don't talk to me about lungs."

He bursts out laughing. Like actual laughing, head thrown back, teeth showing.

You don't smile. But you don't not smile either and let your eyes flicker up feverently

Once you open the door, you're instantly hit with the smell of stale Red Bull, old band stickers, and maybe a little weed. He watches you squirm and refuse to actually go inside, standing with the passenger door open.

"You're gonna survive, drama queen."

"Oh my god, kill me."

He stares down at how tired you look. Not dishevelled because god forbid you don't look perfect. But just like you haven't eaten and definitely don't think you will. Then he says it.

"Hey alright if you won't get in... wanna break into the school instead?"

You blink. "What?"

"I mean, might as well. It's dry in there, and the vending machine owes me a Snickers." His mouth goes dry; was he too obvious?

"You idiot."

"What?"

"That's illegal."

He shrugs. "So is sneaking out after curfew and trying to drown in your bathtub, but hey—who's counting?"

Your jaw drops. "Are you seriously joking about that?!"

He pauses. His smile flickers—just for a second. Then it's back.

"C'mon. Better than sitting here with wet socks and... what the fuck are those shoes?"

"You're disgusting." You scowl, then straighten, looking offended, "Mary Janes! They're lovely and expensive."

"...Who the fuck is Mary? And what does she have to do with Jane? Mary the mother of fucking Jesus..." He narrows his eyes, letting out a huff of disbelief before quickly adding, "But you're curious, admit it." 

You deadpan. Why are you trying to explain shoes to him?

But...You hate that he's right. You hate that you're climbing out of the van and following him to the back entrance because you're not expecting dinner on the table when you get home. And a bag of crisps sounds like heaven. You hate that he has a key; well, no, it's a piece of trash-bin plastic that's been sanded down until it fits in the hole.

"What?" He notices you staring, your bag over your head as the rain chucks down. "I'm not completely stupid."

"Where did you even get that?"

He just smiles, slamming his fist down on the handle until the screws rattle.

You hate that it works. And you hate that he just KNOWS how to jiggle the door the right way like some delinquent raccoon. Like the type in kids cartoons and the hero would probably be a mouse or something...

But most of all, you hate that the school feels peaceful when it's empty. Too quiet. Like it's holding its breath.

And you don't say anything when the door clicks shut behind you.

Like, stupidly quiet.

No screaming 9th graders. No squeaking shoes. Just the hum of the emergency exit sign and the echo of your own hesitant footsteps on the varnished gym floor. It's the kind of quiet that makes you hold your breath without realizing, like the air itself is too heavy to disturb.

Rodrick's a few steps ahead, already swaggering like he owns the place.

You follow slower, not because you're scared, but because you're... processing. The gym always smelled like cheap deodorant, sweat and failure during the day, but now? Now it smells clean. Cold. Not the kind that stung the back of your throat when you had a cold.

But like rain on brick walls and dust trapped under benches. It's nice, actually. And your heels make little taps that bounce off the walls and ceilings, each one sounding louder than the last.

You pause in the middle of the gym, spinning slowly, letting your fingers skim the hem of your skirt as you glance around. Empty bleachers. A lone basketball abandoned in the corner. It feels like you're in a dream. Or a memory that you didn't have because you're always running to catch up with something.

Rodrick whistles low. "Damn. Kinda spooky in here, huh?"

You glance at him. "I like it."

He blinks at you. That smirk he was wearing on the way in falters just a little. You swear he's about to say something real. Something serious.

But then—

"You like spooky shit 'cause you're a freak. Knew it."

You roll your eyes so hard it physically hurts. "Right. Because wanting five seconds of peace means I'm a freak. Go sniff more glue."

He gasps dramatically. "I haven't sniffed glue since, like... 10th grade, okay?"

"Congrats on the character development."

Rodrick grins wide again, nudging you with his elbow as you walk side by side. "You are freaky though— like Ananbelle. Y'know, the haunted doll and all. I could not survive in your world, by the way. All those neat rows, those skirts and tucked-in shirts? Nah. I'd rather get hit by a bus."

You snort. "I figured. You don't even survive in your world."

It hangs in the air. The words. Like you both noticed it, even if neither of you says anything.

Rodrick scratches the back of his neck, eyes darting up to the ceiling. "Yeah, well... buses are probably cleaner than my house, so."

He says it with a laugh. You don't laugh back.

You walk a little ahead of him now, the vending machines in the hallway just past the gym entrance coming into view. The kind of hallway that echoes even more—every step ricocheting off the lockers and tile like a goddamn ghost train.

You hug your arms, more from the weird tension than the cold.

Rodrick jogs ahead, slapping the side of the vending machine like it owes him money. "Alright, let's see if this bitch still eats coins for fun."

You lean against the wall, watching him fumble for change in his ripped jeans. "You know this is dumb, right?"

"Yeah, but so is the concept of school, and yet here we are."

You almost smile. You almost say something—ask him if he's okay, if he's been okay since that night. If he really meant it when he said he didn't want to wake up. If he ever thinks about you sitting there, wiping his wrists and not saying anything because you didn't know what to say.

But instead, you say, "You're shaking the machine like a divorced dad."

You watch him, punching the hell out of the machine but to no avail.

Rodrick pauses. Looks at you. Then deadpans, "I am a divorced dad. I wish my dad was divorced, on that note."

You stare at each other. For a second too long.

Then you both look away at the same time.

The silence stretches again. Comfortable and awkward all at once.

You don't mention the blood.

He doesn't mention the sobbing.

You both just... exist there. In the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant rattle of rain against the windows. And Rodrick's desperate banging against the vending machine.

Like that night never happened.

But you both know it did. And you can't take your eyes off him.

"Oh, move, I'll do it." You finally unfold your arms, pushing off wall and stomping over in your dolly-shoes.

"What—"

Rodrick's still shaking the vending machine, just one last time, like a caveman discovering technology. Coins rattle inside uselessly. Nothing moves.

He finally scoffs, stepping back with both hands up like go off, princess. "Damn, alright. Be my guest."

You square your stance in front of the machine, eyeing the stuck can of Sprite like it personally insulted you. Then, without hesitation, you rear your fist back and punch the side of it where the vent is so its a bit weaker to strike.

CLUNK.

The can drops.

Rodrick blinks. "...okay, what the f—"

But you're not done.

You latch onto the top edge of the machine, gripping it with both hands. Rodrick instinctively takes a half-step forward like you might actually flip the whole thing onto yourself.

"What are you—?"

BANG! A bag of crisps slips forward in its spiral.

Still not satisfied, you knee the glass panel. Hard. Once. Twice. A third time.

And finally, thunk—the crisps fall.

Rodrick just stares at you like you grew devil horns in real time.

"What the actual fuck?" he breathes, half-laughing, half-disturbed.

You pant a little, brushing your skirt back down like it didn't just ride up during your miniature war crime. "What?"

He's still staring. Mouth a little open. 

"...Are you okay?" he asks, slowly.

"No? I guess?"

"You just physically assaulted a vending machine like it owes you child support."

You shrug, bending down to grab the can and the crisps like it's totally normal. "This is America, Rodrick."

He scoffs like he's got any more political literacy than you do.

You drop to a crouch, snatching the crisps off the floor like a rat in a Prada jacket. Rodrick grabs the Sprite, cracking it open with a hiss and that classic clink of aluminum. You sit right there on the cold tile and start picking at the edge of the bag, tearing it open like you haven't eaten in hours—and honestly, you haven't. Not real food. Not anything warm. Not anything that didn't come out of your locker or from your planner's "emergency stash."

Rodrick watches you for a second. Just...watches. The way you hold that bag. The way you chew slower than usual. Like this shitty, half-smashed bag of crisps means something more. Like it's not just junk food, but a tiny act of survival.

He swallows thickly, lowering himself beside you.

You don't look at him. Noting him with nothing more than an hitched breath.

"Well," you mutter between bites, "wasn't expecting food on the table tonight, so... shoutout to my new favourite dinner date."

Rodrick snorts. "You're welcome, poor starving rich girl."

You nudge his shoulder, "We would still be punching the machine if it wasn't for me."

"I could've done it," he argues half-heartedly. "You just wanted to live out your WWE fantasy."

You finally look at him, eyes sharp, voice deadpan: "If I go to jail for this, you're visiting me every Sunday."

He raises his Sprite like a toast. "Only if you smuggle in Hot Cheetos. Because what makes you think I'm outrunning the police? I smell of weed and I still don't know where the blood stains on my van came from."

You both sit there, huddled under the dull blue glow of the exit sign light, sipping warm soda and sharing salt and sarcasm. Not mentioning that night. Not mentioning the bathroom. Not mentioning anything real.

Because you're teenagers. And teenagers don't talk about feelings. They beat up vending machines instead.

CLACK.

Footsteps. Echoing hard now. Closer.

Rodrick stiffens like a dog that just heard the front door.

"Shit."

You freeze mid-crunch.

He grabs your wrist—gentler than expected—and yanks you up like he's got a plan. "Come on."

"What? What the hell, where—?!"

"Shhh—" He's already dragging you, all limbs and denim jacket, toward the nearest door.

And just like that, you're sprinting behind him down the hallway, salt still on your fingertips and laughter threatening to spill. 

Rodrick slams the door shut behind you with a click just as heavy boots thump past the corridor outside. You don't dare breathe. The janitor mutters something—probably about damn kids and their sticky fingers—but keeps walking, keys jangling like a death sentence.

It's pitch black.

And cramped.

Like, stupidly cramped.

You're backed against the shelving unit full of mothball-smelling uniforms and forgotten art supplies, and Rodrick's chest is damn near pressed to yours—his jacket damp from the rain, strands of his hair dripping onto your cheek.

He's right there.

You can feel his breath fan across your face, his knee bumping between your thighs as he shifts to keep the door closed with his shoulder. The air's thick and humid, and he smells like weed, sweat, and that lemony school soap they force everyone to use.

You whisper, barely moving your lips, "Why the fuck would you pull me in here?!"

"I panicked!" he hisses back, wide-eyed in the dark. "Janitor came outta nowhere!"

"You dragged me like a horror movie man who's about to get us both killed."

He snorts under his breath. "Nah. I'd definitely trip over something first and make you go check it out."

Your arms are wedged between the wall and Rodrick's body, and you can't even shrug without bumping his stomach. "Move your elbow, it's digging into my ribs."

"Well, YOUR knee's in my crotch, so... even trade."

You both go dead silent.

A beat.

Then another.

Then—

You both break.

Snickering in your noses, hiding your mouths in your shoulders, but it's no use. The laughter escapes, muffled and breathless.

"Shut up, we're gonna get caught," you whisper-scream, tears stinging your eyes from trying to stay quiet. You think your mascara is running too.

Rodrick shushes you with the dumbest smirk—his lips are right there, you could literally tilt your chin and—

But no. Nope.

This is not the time. And definitely not the person?! Because fuck, does he even brush his teeth?

Still... the tension shifts. Something about the heat. The proximity. The fact that you're in the dark, dripping wet, pressed so close it's hard to tell where you end and he begins.

You swear you feel him shift again, more carefully this time, his fingers brushing your waist like he didn't mean to. Or maybe he did. You don't even know anymore.

He mutters under his breath, "This is the dumbest shit I've ever done."

You glance up, breath hitching. "Courtney said you've jumped off your garage roof with a trash bag as a parachute."

He grins. "Still more dignity than this." He pulls a face, like he's trying to remember something. "Isn't Courtney the one with the sparkly shoes... and those weird pants? Don't tell her I said it looks like she put spray paint on her legs."

You snort. "Don't tell her I laughed at that."

He chuckles.

But then it's quiet again.

And not the funny kind of quiet.

The kind where your heart beats louder than anything else.

You both stay like that for a moment too long. Tension simmering. Breath shared. Eyes adjusting to the dark—and it's like really seeing each other for the first time. Rain-slicked hair, flushed cheeks, Rodrick's mouth parted slightly like he wants to say something but doesn't know what.

You don't either.

So you just...don't.

You shift your weight. Your knee presses higher, barely brushing where his jeans cling to him. His breath hitches. He stiffens.

Like you're both waiting for something, anything to—

The door slams somewhere down the corridor—far off, echoing like thunder—and both of you freeze like deer in headlights.

You wait. Listen.

Nothing but the humming lights and the muffled sound of water dripping from the gutters outside.

Rodrick leans back a inch. "Coast is clear."

He pushes the door open and the closet light flickers back on as you step out. The hallway's empty again, that sterile school smell lingering in the air—ink, dust, and damp tile. You avoid looking at him, brushing past while wiping your palms on your skirt like that'll somehow erase the clammy aftermath of being pressed against him in the dark.

Neither of you say anything.

Not about the way your bodies touched.

Not about how quiet you both got once the laughing stopped.

And especially not about the way your heartbeat didn't even start to settle until he stopped looking at your mouth like that.

Rodrick scratches the back of his neck, feeling a bit guilty, keys jingling. "Wanna ride or whatever?"

You arch a brow. "What, in that disease trap?"

He rolls his eyes and starts walking. "Suit yourself. Hope you like catching pneumonia."

You follow him out of sheer spite—definitely not because the rain's still pouring or because your shoes are already soaked through or because you're lowkey exhausted and hungry and don't want to be alone.

Definitely not that.

The parking lot's a shining sheet of black, street lamps glowing yellow in puddles as Rodrick unlocks the infamous Löded Diper van. It coughs awake like a chain smoker the second he turns the key, backfiring with a 'bang!'.

"Did it just explode?!" You yelp.

"No, it's just excited to see you," he says, grinning as he pulls the door open.

You brace yourself as you climb in and immediately regret it.

It's rank.

The whole van smells like sweaty t-shirts, old fries, and maybe weed. There's a crushed Monster can rolling around under the passenger seat and what you hope is a sock clinging to the dashboard. A drumstick (not the food kind) rests precariously on the dash like a trophy.

The back is a battlefield—crumpled band flyers, half a guitar case, fast food wrappers, some girl's bra?!

You don't even ask, or want to push further when he says "That is not mine, I promise it's Mackie's."

You narrow your eyes though.

"Do you...like... have a license?" you ask, warily pulling the seatbelt across your chest and already second-guessing your choices.

Rodrick shrugs. "Define 'license.'"

You stare at him.

He stares back.

"I passed the test. Technically."

"Technically?" you repeat.

He revs the engine like he's in a race car. "You in or not?"

You mutter under your breath, "I better not die in a fucking van named after diarrhea."

He grins.

You buckle up.

The rain smears across the windshield, and the van groans as he pulls out of the lot, the silence between you hanging heavy, hot, and unspoken.

You both pretend none of it mattered amongst the silence. A silence that gets annoying after a while

Rodrick taps the grimy aux button, and static crackles through the busted speakers before the van fills with screaming guitars and throat-shredding vocals.

It's loud.

Like shake-the-door-handles loud. Like "do the brakes even work?" loud.

You wince instinctively. "Seriously?"

He just smirks, drumming on the steering wheel with his fingers like he's doing a live concert. "Best part's coming up."

You cross your arms. "Shut up."

His hands still. "Okay, damn..."

He doesn't say anything else.

Just hums along under his breath, barely audible over the chaos, like he's used to people telling him to shut up. Like maybe, for once, he was hoping you'd say you liked it. Maybe so you can both bond over something that isn't your tendency to try and kill yourselves.

You don't admit that you kinda do like it. That the drums make your chest feel less empty, that the screaming empties your head. That maybe... maybe it feels good.

But you don't say that. Obviously.

You just sit there and let the noise fill the space.

Until the van rolls up to your street and your chest locks up.

"Wait. Shit—stop the car. Just—stop like here."

Rodrick slows the van, confused. "What? This ain't your house."

"I know. Just—don't pull up to the driveway. My parents might be home."

His brow furrows, expression shifting ever so slightly. "You act like I'm gonna sell you meth on the porch."

You glance at your perfect little lawn in the distance, porch lights glowing like search beams. "They'd probably assume worse."

He doesn't respond right away. He looks at you and starts to understand your reasoning. You're in a short skirt, in a white van, with a guy... and he starts to realise why your legs were shaking the whole way here. He feels a little sick. 

Eventually, he yields and puts the van in park. Hands still on the wheel. Staring ahead.

You undo your seatbelt like it's a bomb timer and gather your things. "Thanks for the ride," you mutter quickly, grabbing the handle.

Rodrick nods. "Yep."

You step out, slamming the van door harder than necessary. The rain's still a soft drizzle now, but your heart's thudding as you tiptoe across the wet grass in your school shoes, trying not to be seen through the blinds.

Rodrick's headlights blink off behind you.

But he doesn't pull away right away.

He watches you sneak to your house like you're part of someone else's world. Some world that doesn't have room for a guy like him.

Then he sighs, mutters something to himself, and finally shifts into drive. 

You did look back—just slightly because you can't help but think of him. But you can't see that obnoxious van anymore.

Gone, like he was never there. He shouldn't have been there in the first place.

You manage to slip through the front door like a shadow, already kicking off your shoes and trying to shake the rain off your jacket without tracking mud.

For a second, you think maybe you got lucky.

The house is too quiet.

No clinking plates. No murmured TV. No laughter from your mother watching her dramas.

Just silence.

Until—

"Where the hell were you?"

Your dad's voice slams into you from the hallway. He's standing there in his office shirt, sleeves rolled up and veins pulsing at his temple like he's been waiting just for this moment.

You freeze. "I—I had to walk. It rained, and then I—"

He steps forward. "Don't lie to me. I saw the van. You think I don't know who Rodrick Heffley is? You think I'm stupid?"

You flinch at the name. Not because you're ashamed of Rodrick, but because of the way your dad says it. Like filth.

"I didn't—he just gave me a ride. That's all. It wasn't—"

Your mom appears in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, face unreadable.

"You weren't answering your phone," she says. Her voice is calm, but cold. "We were worried."

That's a lie. She didn't call. Neither of them did.

You stand there dripping in the hallway, heart pounding like a guilty thief. "The rain ruined it. My phone's dead."

Your dad's jaw clenches. "You're dressed like a slut, sneaking out of some loser's van—"

"I wasn't—!"

And then the world gets smaller.

His hand slams down on the coffee table. Not on you. It's never on you but you wish it was sometimes — just so you'd have a reason to be angry. But the bang makes you flinch like it did. Like it always does.

You shrink into yourself.

"I've told you." he hisses. "I will not have a daughter who ends up like—like that family. Frank Heffley's a joke, oh please, have you seen what happened at that house a few months ago? The cops had to come after his son pulled that party. Remember, honey?"

You swallow hard, biting down your tongue as your mother nods in agreement from the kitchen, slightly softer, "Sweetie, just stay away from him, alright?"

Your father doesn't let your reply. Not immediately and cutting you off with a, "Sweetie, you're a pretty girl, what wouldn't tempt...a boy like him?"

You feel sick and hungry at the same time.

Dinner isn't even on the table. Did they forget or was that on purpose? 

They waited for you—but not to eat or ask if you were okay. To catch you. To scare you because they're the only ones capable of that.

Did they know? Know how scared you felt when your phone was dying, it was raining and you stood there waiting for almost an hour? Did they know you had to steal from a vending machine because you knew they would have dinner without you? Did they know your last resort was a loser's van and you did consider the worst the whole ride, tugging your skirt down as far as it would go as you sat in the passenger seat, no matter how much you felt you could trust Rodrick?

You nod slowly. "Okay," you whisper. "I'm sorry."

Your dad exhales, but his expression softens in a way that makes you remember that you do love them, "I'm just worried, okay? Wash up, the rain must have gotten to you."

You stare at your mother who's filling a hot-water bottle for you like they didn't just almost bash your head in.

You're up the stairs before he can say anything else.

You lock the door.

And sit on the floor.

Back pressed against the wood. It takes everything in you to CRAWL pathetically across your room into your bathroom and shut the door

The room feels cold and you honestly prefer the bathroom where you were half naked in a literal blood bath.

Rodrick's van smelled like sweat, chips and teen boys and you kinda smell like that too.

But you'd take that over this house any day because no amount of fruit-scented soap is going to give you the same kind of comfort, no matter how much you scrub.

And yeah, you were scrubbing like you were trying to peel off some invisible grime, sitting naked in your shower, rubbing at your legs too hard on purpose. But on purpose didn't mean you were aware.

You scrubbed old scars and new scars alike, until you weren't even trying to clean yourself anymore.

You stand in the shower, the spray pounding down in a steady rhythm that barely touches the noise in your head. The soap slips through your fingers as you lather it across your arms, your stomach, your thighs—just scrubbing. At first, it's mechanical. Just skin. Just routine. But your hands don't stop. They press harder, movements erratic, like you're trying to erase something beneath the surface. Red blooms under your fingers and you don't notice—not really—until the sting hits.

The soap seeps into every cut—sharp, chemical, angry. You hiss, blinking down at the pale lines on your thighs, a few reopened like they've been waiting for this. The soap burns where it creeped in, like punishment. You curse under your breath, louder than you mean to, fumble for the tap and twist it cold. The shock of freezing water makes you gasp. You sit, holding the shower head over your legs like it'll undo the damage, let the cold wash it away until it numbs.

It makes you think about Rodrick and you hate it.

But for Rodrick?

The second Rodrick steps into the house, the familiar wave of stale coffee, baby wipes, and whatever Greg left in the microwave last night hits him.

He barely gets a boot off before his dad's voice cuts through the hallway.

"You know, I check the gas mileage on that van."

Rodrick rolls his eyes before Frank even appears.

"Cool. You want a cookie?" he mutters, half-kicking off his other boot, soaked and heavy with rain.

Frank Heffley storms into the foyer, arms crossed over his polo shirt, reading glasses sliding halfway down his nose like he's been waiting for this argument all day. "Don't get smart with me, Rodrick. Where were you this time?"

Rodrick shrugs off his jacket with a wet slap to the floor. "Just driving."

"Driving," Frank repeats with venom. "Wasting gas I paid for to go who-knows-where doing God-knows-what. Did you attend last semester's grading exam?"

Rodrick licks his back teeth. "Didn't want to"

"You think life's just gonna hand you success? You think being in a band gives you a future?" Frank's voice is rising. "You're not getting through highschool, Rodrick. You're going to leave with a GED and an attitude! Nothing else."

"And a van," Rodrick mutters.

Frank steps forward. "You think this is funny?"

"No," Rodrick says, voice flat. "But you yelling at me like I'm a dog? Real inspiring."

Susan wanders in with Manny on her hip. The toddler's grinning, smashing a cracker into his mouth with slobbery fingers.

"Frank," she says quietly, rocking Manny, "maybe this isn't the—"

Frank throws a hand up. "No. He needs to hear this. All he does is sleep in, drive around with god knows who, and mope in the garage pretending he's gonna be a rockstar."

Rodrick clenches his jaw. "Better than pretending I ever gave a shit what you think."

Greg pokes his head out of the living room. "Whoa. Round three already? It's not even eight."

Rodrick shoots him a glare. "Go back to your little diary, Greg."

Greg holds his hands up in surrender, vanishing before Frank can redirect the storm onto him.

"I work sixty hours a week," Frank's still going, "to keep this roof over your head. I didn't raise a loser, Rodrick. You think I hit you when you were younger because I liked it? I was trying to make a man out of you."

Rodrick thinks about the time he thought he was going to die at the hands of his angry father in the changing rooms at like 12 years old when Mr. Hitch kicked him off the soccer team.

Rodrick's face twists. "No, you did it because you were pissed. That's it."

For a moment, Frank's jaw tightens, like he's deciding whether to throw something or throw words sharper than fists.

But Rodrick doesn't give him the chance.

He walks past him.

Up the stairs.

Two at a time.

Frank doesn't follow.

Susan just sighs and coos to Manny, swaying like this isn't the hundredth time this has happened.

Rodrick's door slams shut behind him. The posters on his walls rattle.

The room smells like socks, spilled Monster, and stale weed from god knows when.

He flops down on the bed and stares at the ceiling.

The silence rings in his ears.

He thinks of you.

Your voice echoing in the gym and that little twirl you did in pure awe at the silence.

The way you punched that vending machine like you were trying to knock your own anger loose. The half-smirk you gave him when the food finally dropped. Like you wanted to laugh but were too tired to.

You looked at that bag of chips like it was more than just junk food. Like it was survival.

And god, that look in your eyes when the janitor came. The heat of your body pressed against his in that cramped-ass closet.

But its not all sunshine and rainbows—not when he saw how your legs shook in his passenger seat and he hates how he's NOT stupid enough to not understand why. 

You didn't run from him, though. Okay, yeah you did look at him like he was nothing. But hey, he'll let that slide.

He grabs the pillow behind his head and presses it over his face to distract the fact he's staring at his bedside dresser, where his razors and blunts are.

Maybe you'll never talk to him again.

Maybe tonight was a glitch in the system.

But he'd rather be caught dead in a storm with you again than ever sit through another dinner where he's just a punchline in his own family.

click for part 1 click for part 2 click for part 3 click for part 4 click for part 5 click for part 6 click for part 7 click for part 8 click for part 9 click for part 10 click for part 11 click for part 12

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you! Please do leave requests!

[waitingtobebroken]

Orchids Over The Arno

Tags: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens); Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens); Mutual Pining; Friends With Benefits; with feelings; The Arrangement (Good Omens); Part 2; Pining while fucking; Angst; Slow Burn; Porn with Feelings; Porn Contextual: Body Worship; Coming Untouched; Gentle Sex; Mutual Masturbation; Hand Jobs; Laughter During Sex; Begging; Oral Sex; First Time Blow Jobs; but also: Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens); Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens); Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens); Smitten Crowley (Good Omens); Crowley's Love Language is Acts of Service (Good Omens)

Rating: Explicit

Words: 6,056

Summary:

Florence 1895 A few years after their fight and Crowley's nap, Aziraphale needs to go to Florence for a blessing. And Crowley follows after him because... Well, because Florence is an amazingly romantic city and he wants to explore it with his angel. Not that they see much of the city anyway. A bonus chapter for "Flowers From The Grave Of Our Friendship" which takes place after chapter 4, but can also be read as a stand-alone.

For those in need of a reminder (as it has been 3 years after all!), Flowers From The Grave Of Our Friendship is an Aziraphale and Crowley through the ages story, but they sleep together in Rome 41AD and manage to completely misinterpret each other's feelings. A lot of misunderstanding, angst and pining while fucking follows! They share one brain cell and it does not work most of the time, unfortunately!

This bonus chapter deals with the fallout of their fight after Crowley asks for the Holy Water and then proceeds to take a nap for 27 years after Aziraphale refuses to help him. While Crowley is sleeping, Aziraphale thinks something horrible happened to the demon and once he sees him, he has a bit of a breakdown. With the memory of that still fresh in his mind, Crowley finds it easier to delude himself Aziraphale does want him (not that he needs to but...) and he lets himself show his feelings a lot more than he usually does.

My contribution to the @goodomensafterdark Smut Wars

[johaerys-writes]

Hello! I was wondering what movies, tv, books, anime etc. you are into?

Hi! Oh that's such a broad question. I could be here talking all day about my favourite media, so instead I'll pick a few from each category, either a recent favourite or an all time favourite.

Books: RotE by Robin Hobb is an all time fave, especially the Fitz and Fool trilogies (although they break my heart 😭). A more recent favourite is Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson. Another all time fave is Tehanu by Ursula K. Le Guin, I swear I think about this book as I go about my day and it hits me like a gut punch and I want to cry 😭 it's so so good

Anime: my favourite anime of all time that's something of a comfort watch is Darker Than Black. I can’t even explain what I love about it so much, other than the fact that it rewired my brain when I first watched it and it like keeps rewiring it every time I rewatch it lol. It has so many of the elements that I love in stories and it has inspired the hell out of me over the years. Another favourite is Berserk, I've also read the manga which is kind of rare for me to do bc I'm not a fan of manga and comics as much but I just needed to see what happens after the anime left me hanging. It has really had a profound impact on me, I can’t even tell you how often I think about it.

TV: hmm. That's when things get tricky for me because I immediately forget shows I've watched after I'm done watching them 🤣 But some faves over the years have been: Dark (the german netflix drama), War and Peace, Les Miserables (both BBC productions if I remember correctly), Midnight Mass and Midnight Club (GUTTED that it never got a season 2), and another one that I think was really underrated and should also have gotten a second season was Archive 81. Very interesting premise, very atmospheric and spooky, I love eldritch horror stories and that really hit the spot 😩

Films: even MORE tricky if possible bc I'm ten times worse with movies than with shows 🤣 Most of the time after I walk out of the cinema I'm like... well, that was a movie alright, and proceed to forget all about it. But some that have stuck with me over the years are: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which has been a fave since forever. Also The Notebook had a huuuuge impact on me, I know a lot of people think it's cringe now but I don’t care, I feel like it's part of my brain chemistry lol. Howl's Moving Castle is a comfort watch, and no matter how many times I watch The Big Lebowski I always find something funny. Sin City is also another one of those films that I feel are permanently embedded into my consciousness, I watched it as a teenager and I was shook by the aesthetics and the storylines and have watched it many times since.

Anyway that's just a small selection of my favourite stuff. I guess a lot of what I love in media is angst and drama and like being emotionally intense in places! My favourites tend to be those that really tugged at my heartstrings in some way, and also a lot of them have a darker twist and maybe delve into difficult or uncomfortable subjects.

[cosmicluzer]

hi asking about ur Gross wip in the hopes that the song fic title is from the song i know that is titled “Gross” also 👀

if you are thinking penelope scott’s gross then you are thinking correct lol. kind of hoping you are - that song is one of my personal favorites hehe. kinda sad if it is - the original idea got warped into something WAY more fluffy than gross is, but never fear bc that song will return with its intended angst wether i have to force myself to write it or not.

anyways, you probably won’t have toooo much interest in it, seeing as it isn’t for sp. it’s a one piece (live action bc i love them) fanfic, because i am a liar and a fandom hopping fraud. I was scrolling through my yt shorts one day and stumbled upon that one “you dated brutal dictator of Nicaragua?!” meme and my brain went: “oh. i can do something with this. Small snippet under the cut ;P

REMINDER THAT THIS IS A WIP AND A ROUGH DRAFT AND THAT I KINDA SUCK AT WRITING OK OK GOOD NOW PROCEED WITH CAUTION

Sanji is washing the dishes, the rest of the crew sitting at the dining table conversing. He flits in and out of the conversation, adding bits here and there as he continues his task. The day is peaceful, and Sanji feels at rest.

Nami sits, legs crossed over the top of the chair next to her - Zoro’s - with the newspaper propped into her lap. Zoro sits in his chair, slouching against it and looking mildly annoyed at Nami’s legs at the back of his chair but not saying a word about it. Across the table is Usopp, tinkering on seas knows what, and Luffy, content in gnawing through a bundle of fish jerky Sanji made earlier that morning.

The breeze is light, floating through the open windows and door. The sunshine shines brightly through into the galley, and with the crew this docile together it’s, well… peaceful, like he’s said before.

Of course, that’s when they decide to throw the conversat into a depth Sanji is thoroughly avoiding, and has been since six months after… that.

“Usopp, how long were you and Kaya together?” Luffy asks, interrupting Usopp’s story - one about Kaya, and those were the closest you can get to the truth from him.

Usopp pauses at the words, face going slightly red as he sputters out a reply.

“W-Well, Luffy, the great captain Usopp speaks not of the mountains of women he’s conquered! It is not befitting to-“

“They weren’t together,” Nami says, looking at Usopp with an unsurprised look. “He’s too chicken for that.” With that, she turns her attention back to her newspaper, flipping the page and reading it off.

“Hey-!”

“Did you ever have someone like Usopp didn’t have Kaya?” Luffy asks, because the kid can’t read a room. Usopp lets out an offended noise, and Nami doesn’t even look up from the paper as she speaks next.

“Nope, no time for that.”

Luffy hums, looking over the table. He goes to speak, most likely to ask the question to Zoro, but the green-headed swordsman interrupts him.

“No, Luffy. That’s not my style. Why not ask cook?” Zoro’s tone turns from unamused to smug, and he smirks. He turns in his seat to face Sanji, who has gone back to vigorously scrubbing the plate in his hand as he hopes to be kept out of the conversation. “He’s seen the most people, he must have great stories.”

Sanji turns, sneering at Zoro, before he grabs the next plate and gets to scrubbing.

“Sanji! Tell me a story!” Luffy shouts from his spot, getting excited. Nami turns her attention from her newspaper, looking mildly intrigued. Sanji sighs.

“No. I gave you food, occupy yourself.” Sanji shouts over his shoulder, and Luffy pouts.

“C’mon, Sanji. You must have a good story for us.” Nami says, trying to bait him into it. Everyone turned to face him, Usopp and Luffy putting on their best puppy dog eyes in hopes for some entertainment. Sanji pauses his fish washing, considering before shaking his head and turning around.

“I’m sorry, Nami dearest, but there truly is nothing for me to discuss on this topic. There has been nobody of notice in that area of my life, and besides, a gentleman does not kiss and tell.” He says, using a tone of remorse. Nami quirks an eyebrow at him, face going from casual to interested.

“Was that a lie, Sanji-san?” Nami asks, face breaking out into an amused smirk.

Of fucking course the brilliant redhead would see through his lie. He sighs, admitting defeat.

“You truly are too clever for your own good, my swan.” He says, moving to the table and sitting in an empty seat. The other three males look at him with varying degrees of surprise - it is very out of character for Sanji to lie to the crew let alone Nami, a woman.

“Sanji, share!” Luffy whines, wanting to hear what could possibly be such a grandiose secret to Sanji that he’d hide it.

“Be quiet, Luffy, I’m thinking of where to start.”

“How about the beginning, curly.” Zoro says, and Sanji so wants to ring the other man’s throat for being so smug. Instead, he takes a deep breath.

“Alright,” Sanji exhales, grabbing at the pack of cigs in his pocket and the lighter sitting near them. He knows he’ll need a cigarette to get through this. “So this story starts about five years ago…”

[skzfairyy]

District 9: Chapter 10

Mafia!AU || skz x OC’s || PG-17 ||

Pairings: Bangchan x oc, Minsung x oc, other pairings to come!

Genre: Angst, Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Humor, AU (& so much more lol)

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, weapons, language

Status: Ongoing

Wc: 1.8k words

AN: OKAY, so this chapter is way overdue... like severely lmao. Long story short, I had 3 allergic reactions back to back which took me out for a minute. I’m so sorry guys! (no more random teas for me lol) anyways, here is chapter 10, hope you enjoy! - Y2

The sun sets as they move silently together. By now the academy knows that the girls have defected. Something that was inevitable, they just didn’t know how soon it would be. They’ve made good timing and should make it to China around noon tomorrow. As long as they make it through the night, they should arrive at the coast without a problem. As they move through the trees, using only the light of the moon to guide them, Yura pauses.

She holds her breath, eyes shifting around instantly, all of her senses are on high alert as she scans the dark area in front of them. Rina’s eyes move towards her partner’s, their bodies move together like a well oiled machine, both of them working and training together for years means they can read each other’s body language swiftly without saying a single word. 

The girls jump up together, clutching onto a branch of neighboring trees and swinging their bodies upwards. Both make the climb up as quietly as possible while keeping an eye out for the threat below them. Rina removes her favorite suppressed Beretta from a hidden pocket in her bag while Yura’s hand is clutching one of her daggers as they make their way up through the branches. Even with the slight breeze in the air, they’ve managed to hide themselves completely when they finally see movement. Two figures creep through the trees underneath them, dressed in all black bodysuits they each hold their own guns. Their footsteps are deliberate and light when Rina glances at the weapons in their hands, noticing a familiar gold emblem on the side of the pistol. 

Academy issued. 

Mentally the Choi girl releases a sigh of relief, she’d expected the academy to send more agents, especially since they were supposed to be the face of the school. This was a fight she knew they could get out of in a matter of minutes, 30 minutes tops if she had to count. 

Yura’s eyes trace over the figures of the two bodies below. One’s hair is a short black bob at the neck and the other’s is secured in a high ponytail down her back. Covering their faces are the Academy’s uniform masks, watching the way they glided along the forest floor, she knew exactly who stood below them. After the realization, her eyes move to lock in with her sisters. 

Yura silently catches her sister’s attention and tilts her head in the direction of the pair tracking them below. Following Yura’s direction, Rina’s eyes fall to where they stand beneath them. Realizing who it is in an instant, she confirms with a nod of her head before moving her focus back to the ground.

With this new information, the gears in her head began to shift. Rina knew now it was about a 70/30 chance that they would get out of the woods alive. The twins might be the top two in the school, but the two trailing them now were numbers 3 and 4. Because of their close ranks, the girls have spent a lot of time together. They experienced amazing victories and harsh punishments together in their time at the Academy, forming a close bond through the years. With the school knowing this information, Rina knew this was  Headmaster Chaerin’s way of extending an olive branch before they decided to bring out more lethal methods. Her mind races with different ways to approach this without causing harm to her colleagues, her friends, and though she’d like this to proceed without any bloodshed, she cannot guarantee that outcome confidently.

Knowing not to move without Rina’s signal, Yura watches her sister's face through the leaves. Another familiar look etched on her face with the slightest raise of her brow. Looking, seeing, analyzing. Completely aware of her surroundings, every tree, every bush, her partner across from her, and the blade in her hand with the intention to drive it into any (and every) threat; aware of both girls approaching below them on foot, their training, their orders, every move they make, and every breath they take.

This is Athena.

Yura smirks to herself, always in awe at how fast her sister can come up with a flawless strategy at a moment's notice.  

After her glazed eyes retained focus, she looks over and sees Yura already waiting for instruction. She points to the ground, indicating for Yura to go down first, and with a quick twist of her wrist signaling the direction for their course of attack, Yura nods her head with a slight smile, immediately understanding the plan.

Jihyo and Ryujin stop underneath them before talking to each other quietly, the short-haired girl crouches down, examining the spot where Rina stood just a few minutes ago, probably trying to figure out where their tracks stopped. The twins did their best to be careful, but they knew it was only a matter of time before the Academy caught up. The school not only trained the best assassins in Korea, but they ranked number one across the globe. The agents below them were trained to be just as skillful and dangerous as they are, Not to mention Jihyo herself was ranked the Academy’s most skilled tracker for the last three years.

 Yura leaps from the tree, though it's a bit far off the ground she lands silently behind them. All it takes is two quick steps and she has Jihyo pinned with her knife at the girl's throat. Ryujin turns quickly at the sound of her partner struggling, making eye contact with her old classmate, seeing the cold glint in Yura’s eyes, Ryujin knew she was dealing with Ares.

     “Surprised you were able to catch up to us this fast.” Yura says calmly.

Jihyo’s hand struggles to remove Yura’s from her throat, but ceases immediately when she feels the blade pressing further against her skin. All the shared memories of jokes and compassion for one another are gone from the eyes of 2ne1’s notorious silent killer. Although Ryujin’s gun is aimed at her she pays it no mind. Already knowing that her sister is in the trees above, alert and ready with a clear shot aimed at the girl's head.

 And Athena never misses a shot.

The moonlight glints against the tennis bracelet on Yura’s wrist, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Jihyo.

     “Was all it took for you to defect, some cheap bribes?” Her voice is tight through her mask.

Yura’s emotionless face is silent. Her contradicting emotions battle inside her head as her eyes never leave Ryujin’s face across from her. 

     “They sent you. Why?” Her words come out more as a statement as she proceeds with Rina’s plan. 

     “You can’t defect!” Jihyo struggles to say. 

     “What are you, my mother?” Yura scoffs.

     “The academy needs you and you know it!” She continues. 

Yura’s irritated eyes travel to the choking girl in her arms. 

     “What the academy needs is their killing machines, and I’m no longer a part of it. Sending you two to retrieve us was a low blow even for them.” 

     “We volunteered.” Ryunjin removes her mask and makes a step towards the girl she once called a friend, her gun in hand slowly moving downwards.

      “What?” Yura’s eyes snap up to Ryujin’s.

Rina, who was slowly shifting down branch by branch, paused at the girl’s words. She watched Ryujin’s gun lower, but didn’t fail to notice as her other hand grazed her side, retrieving the blade attached to her thigh. The four may be close, but at the end of the day their partner’s lives will always come first. Rina knew this better than anyone, especially with Ares present. Despite Yura doing her best to hold herself back for the sake of her friends, the eldest Choi knew she had to act quickly.

Jihyo takes Yura’s shock tone as an opening and attempts to flip her attacker, but instead is greeted with a tighter grip, causing a bit of blood to run down her neck. Ryujin hears the slight struggle and throws the blade in her hand. 

A bullet is fired out from behind Ryujin at the same time, knocking the blade to the ground before it could land its intended target.

     “Shouldn’t have done that Ry.” 

A voice from behind her says quietly, Rina finally makes her appearance from the tree’s shadows, walking up silently and placing the barrel of her own gun flush to the back of the girl's head.

     “And you know I never miss my target.” Rina whispers against her ear.

After the initial scare, Ryujin holds her hands up in defeat. Allowing Yura to finally release her captive. Jihyo coughs while clutching her wounded neck while moving to stand next to Ryujin, finally removing her own face mask.

Rina removes her own weapon from Ryujin and stands with Yura. The four girls stand across from each other for a moment fully taking in their situation. The twins have known the girls in front of them long enough to know how emotional they could get in sticky situations like this one. Despite the injury, Jihyo’s tears welled in her eyes as she looked at her friends.

     “You’re leaving us!” Jihyo cracks out into the silence. 

Ryujin continues although her voice holds a slight tremble as she speaks.

     “We volunteered to retrieve you ourselves, leaving our earpieces somewhere in the stream we stumbled upon a while ago.” She starts, “You’re our seniors, our closest friends- you can’t leave us in that hell alone. We signed the oath together…and y-... and you didn’t even say goodbye. ” She finishes with her own tears beginning to creep in her eyes. 

The twins’ gaze drifts to each other briefly, Yura does nothing but shrug, crossing her arms in silence.

     “You don’t even care.” Jihyo is quick to assess Yura’s stance, a scoff coming out of her mouth at the sight.

     “Of course, we care, Jihyo.” Rina is quick to rebuttal.

     “We’re just not going back.” Yura says matter of factly. 

Her eyes glanced over them, but her face held no emotion. 

     “We’ve done terrible things, things that have to be righted.” 

Rina nods her head in agreement.

     “But that doesn’t mean we can’t come back for you.”

The girls in front of them are confused.

     “We can’t tell you when because honestly, we don’t know ourselves. What we do know is that if you cover for us, we'll come back for you.” Yura states, her pinky held out in front of them. 

An old gesture that has followed the four classmates from childhood. Ryujin is quick to take it, locking her finger tightly as they press their thumbs together. Jihyo and Rina stand the same. This was another difficult goodbye for the Choi girls, they all had shared a million memories together, both new experiences and hellish nightmares from the Academy that will live with them for the rest of their lives. In the end, Ryujin and Jihyo understood what their friends were doing, something they too thought about on occasion, but never had the strength to act on it themselves. With this promise, they’ll finally be able to.

     “We’ll buy you time.” Jihyo states, “You must hurry. Go!” 

The twins nod, looking their two friends over one last time before taking off further into the woods towards the coast. 

taglist: @toalltheunknown, @skzloveforever, @ryak14

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[heart-like-a-haunted-house]

[Roleplay Piece] - Alyssa & Vicky: A Merry Little Post-apocalyptic Christmas

*** DUE TO THE INCLUSION AND VARIETY OF MATURE/EXPLICIT/GRAPHIC CONTENT WITHIN MY FANFICTION PIECES, (AS MENTIONED BELOW,) I MUST STRICTLY INSIST THAT YOU ONLY CONTINUE READING IF YOU ARE 18 YEARS OF AGE OR OLDER. MY FICS ARE INTENDED FOR ADULTS ONLY. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMPLIANCE. ***  

NOTICE: The following post is a work of fanfiction for The Walking Dead (television show) universe. This piece may include mature and graphic/explicit content of varying categories and intensities (specifics are outlined in the, “Warnings,” section beneath the, “Keep Reading,” cut.) If you do not wish to view such content or are in any way bothered by the possibilities of subject matters mentioned above, I politely request that you not proceed past the, “Keep Reading,” cut. If you DO wish to read this fanfiction piece, please continue as normal. Beyond the cut, you can find all the story details and info, as well as the fic itself. Please enjoy, and thank you so much for reading. And as always, reader discretion is advised and encouraged.

Author: @heart-like-a-haunted-house - (MASTERLIST HERE)

Wanna read/interact with my fanfictional works elsewhere? | My AO3 Fanfiction Collection | My AO3 Profile |

Piece Title: Alyssa & Vicky: A Merry Little Post-apocalyptic Christmas

Chapter/Part/Section: While this piece could be enjoyed as a stand-alone story, it is intended to be a follow-up or companion piece to @letsby 's, "A Christmas Of Two Halves." Chronologically and storyline wise, "A Merry Little Post-apocalyptic Christmas" takes place directly AFTER, "A Christmas Of Two Halves." So, I highly recommend reading Vicky's fic first, and then coming back to read this one. Plus, you should just go read all of Vicky's work anyway, as it's all amazing!

Fandom: The Walking Dead (television show universe), Negan (television show version/JDM’s portrayal), Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Negan/TWD Roleplay.

Main Pairing(s)/ Main Character(s): Negan X Character with a physical disability (in this piece, one OFC is wheelchair-bound) ; Negan X Alyssa ( @heart-like-a-haunted-house ) ; Negan X Vicky ( @letsby) ; Negan X Original Female Characters ; Negan X Original Roleplay Characters.

Genre: Roleplay, Roleplay Piece, Self-insert, One-shot, Christmas/Festive/Holiday, Humor, Fluff, Romance (with reference to mature themes and various sexual acts/related activities,) Friendship, Slight Angst, Mysterious Elements.

Word Count: Approximately 12,550 words.

Full Story Synopsis: After spending a luxuriously satisfying Christmas Day with Negan, it's hard to believe that there could be anything better ahead. But before Vicky can leave her fellow Wife, Alyssa, to a romantic Christmas Night in their husband's company, the holiday season reveals a few more surprises. Some are as warm and cozy as a nap by fireside, while others maintain the icy uncertainty of a harsh winter's night.

WARNINGS: Canon-typical dynamics of The Sanctuary's residents and living/working arrangements. Swearing and other crude language. Mention of female nudity. Reference to and discussion of sexual intercourse and related activities (Including: sub/DOM dynamics and punishment, Rough sex, Spanking, Daddy kink, Praise kink, Height difference kink, Hair play and hair pulling kink. Oral sex [both female and male receiving/swallowing], Foreplay, Edging, Hand-jobs, Use of sex toys/vibrators, Erotic literature. Female and male arousal/desire and masturbation, Indication of future sexual activity. Wives chatting about their intimate encounters with Negan, Unintentionally overhearing others participate in sexual activity.) Sanctuary angst and intrigue, Mentions of Jason Crouse, Alyssa and Vicky's inside jokes, Alcohol consumption, Mischievous Wives, Unresolved mystery, Scenes of kissing. Talk of chronic pain, chronic fatigue, and physical disability. The presence of walkers, Festive fluff, and Negan being Negan ;). ALL CHARACTERS INVOLVED ARE ADULTS OVER THE AGE OF 21.

Author’s Note: If you've made it this far into the post, then you know that this fic is quite long. With that in mind, I'll try to keep things brief here, haha. Anyway, I'm so excited to finally be posting this! Not only is it my first piece posted after my return and my first full-length piece posted in a long while, it's also a gift for @letsby <3 Vicky, thank you for being so patient and understanding through this. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, I'm indescribably grateful. Through all the document loss, mishaps, drafts, edits, and proofreads, you've been there. And I hope that as you read the finished product now, you can feel all the love I put into it. I hope this can act as an extremely belated Birthday and Christmas gift. Because I really did put my heart, soul, sweat and tears into the story, for much longer than expected. So, Merry Christmas in May, my beloved Partner In Suffering, my fellow Creaky Thirsty Girl! This one's for you! And to anyone else reading, thank you so much! I hope you like this extended bit of Negan Roleplay! I have other fics coming, so keep an eye out. Until my next Author’s Note, Happy Reading! It's so good to be back! All feedback, comments, reblogs, reviews, and likes are cherished.

Other Notes: “-----” represents the unseen passing of time, or a scene/section break.

Tag List: [NONE]

In a step noticeably contrasting that of her earlier trip through this corridor, Vicky's bare feet now carried her quickly and quietly across the cool concrete floor, in return to Negan's bedroom. Her mood was an equally lighter state than it had been previously, too. As was the usual result, after such a languid and sensuously rigorous encounter with her husband. Her body hummed with an intoxicating concoction of residual adrenaline, joyful satisfaction, and a worthwhile fatigued soreness. The standard attire of a black dress had been put back on for this venture. Only now, there were a few more creases in its soft fabric, indication of the prolonged time it had spent in a pile at the foot of the bed. Amidst the sensation of this familiar garment on her skin and all that its presence represented, a content smile settled on her beautiful features like another illustrious accessory. A personally covert marker of a day well utilized, as the purple and blue hues of dusk spilled in from the upper windows on the left wall.

Nearing the closed door of her destination, attention flicked to a clock affixed upon the otherwise blank gray wall at the right. 4:35 P.M. Proof that, between the multiple rollicking go-arounds with Negan, and the luxurious recuperation required at each conclusion, it was truly an all-day affair.

Reminiscence on the day's events continued as the door was approached. But now, with a hand on the doorknob, Vicky listened intently for any sign that Alyssa indeed was awake behind it. The rustling of linen, or stirring movement of the mattress. If she were still fast asleep within those walls, then the lead Savior would just have to wait. On Vicky's watch, if her friend were to achieve sleep, it was a precious occurrence to be protected at all costs. She had seen Alyssa bogged down by frequent inability to sleep too many times to think otherwise.

When no sound could be heard through the blockade, Vicky turned the knob as unobtrusively as the mechanism would permit, and carefully peeked into the room. Even in the current darkened twilight tones of the quarters, tinsel strands could be seen glittering like levitating stars, and the glassy glint of hanging baubles acted as jeweled planets around the area. She was also met with the outline of a small form, lying with its back toward the entrance for a brief moment. However, before the door could be closed once more, this silhouette twisted to look over its shoulder in acknowledgment.

"There you are," Alyssa said in a pleasant, groggy drawl. She flexed herself in a contortion that was similar to a feline, post-snooze. "I thought Negan might never let you go."

"Did I wake you?" The question came with a tinge of guilt and an apologetic expression to match, from in between a widening divide of visibility.

"No," the bed's occupant flipped onto her front, and immediately popped up on her forearms, blankets twisting all about in the twirling commotion. "I've been up for a while."

"I'm stunned that you could get even a few winks of sleep, considering your beloved sexy Santa is on his way to come jingle your bell," Vicky mused teasingly as she slipped into the private space, softly reuniting the door with its frame. She then made way to the nightstand, and switched on the lamp that sat atop it. A glow instantly stretched through the dark room, combating the early sunset of the winter months, and lending a fitting twinkle to mischievous eyes.

This comment had the desired reception, sending its subject into a peal of bashful laughter, while shielding her face in a pillow. "Oh, my God," came an attempt at an appalled huff, but glee poked holes in the effort. "Well, I guess I should just be happy that you didn't go with a euphemism concerning him coming down my chimney." Alyssa let her words be muffled by the bedding pieces, dramatizing her mortification and imbuing her final phrase with its intended evocative reference.

Vicky didn't miss a beat, feigning a shocked gasp as she studied the back of her friend's head, "Alyssa," she rebuked, "Filthy jokes like that will surely get you put on The Naughty List."

"Oh, I don't think I'm the one on The Naughty List here," mumbled the playful, knowing tone. Alyssa's smirk was glittering with innuendo as she emerged from hiding. That smile only grew, joined by another stifled chuckle as she watched the other woman sit down, rather gingerly, on the mattress beside her. She watched as Vicky winced a little at the contact, but the blonde's happiness did not wane. "You must've had quite the long rundown of wrongs to make right. You were away all day."

"Hush," Vicky deflected, with no actual venom. "Besides, you were asleep anyway." Her hand went to Alyssa's hair, smoothing the lightly wavy locks that had only been further fluffed by the pillow, to accompany her statement. "And honestly," she continued in a murmur, as if thinking to herself while busied, "somehow, you're the one with sex hair here. Already." Vicky suddenly unleashed a true grin on the woman looking up at her, and both broke into a laugh.

As shared levity trailed off into the comfortable silence that friendship brings, Alyssa unceremoniously drug herself up the mattress. Balanced on right forearm, her whole body teetered in the mission of reaching for needed spectacles on the side table. The observing party withheld an offer of help, knowing that the other woman appreciated patience more than anything. Sure, Alyssa's physical movement wasn't always speedy or superbly steady, but the things she could do unassisted were not to be undervalued. This shifted position also caused Vicky's hand to slide along her friend's back. She took this opportunity to inspect the harsh spinal curvature that dominated the area, palpating along the column in a fashion she hoped was gentle enough to avoid detection. Upon examination, her face pinched in sympathy. It looked undoubtedly painful, so one could easily imagine how it likely felt to the person actually living with it.

"I can feel you checking," Alyssa admitted in a matter-of-fact tone, as she remained turned away, manipulating her glasses with careful but trembling hands. The words weren't quite chastising, but assured enough to convey that she knew exactly what the other was thinking.

"I know, couldn't help myself. Old habit. It just looks like it must hurt, babe. Especially when you lift yourself up like that." The pleading grimace on Vicky's face bled into the words as she returned the hand to her lap. And that concerned expression only deepened as she watched her fellow Wife shimmy down the bed in reverse.

This potential was dismissed with a lighthearted wave of fingers, "Nah, it's nothin' I can't manage. It's not as bad as it looks. Promise." This was intended to soothe, though it also acted as a closing argument on the subject, that much was clear. And as if it were an attempt to further embody a transition in talking points, she then rolled back onto her side abruptly, eyes now behind lenses. "So, did you and Negan have fun working things out?" Much like the earlier commentary on the topic of the day's rendezvous, it came with a sly smile and arched brow.

Such veering focus was a blatant and purposeful distraction, but it was allowed all the same as the conversation flowed onward. "Of course," Vicky said with a triumphant stretch of her arms high above her head, and a yawn for punctuation. "I think I may make it a goal to be naughty every year."

"I figured that would be the opinion, considering what I could hear before I fell asleep," Alyssa chortled lightly, the picture of nonchalance. "I kept wondering if I should be offering up applause in response or something."

This piqued the blonde's awareness, and she sat up straighter, turning herself squarely on the other woman in earnest surprise, "Wait. You could hear us from all the way in here?"

An unfazed nod was attached to the confirmed response, "Yeah. I mean, we live in what is essentially a big, metallic echo chamber. It's kinda unavoidable. We're all gonna hear each other rustlin' around here at some point, regardless of the activity." The hint of a smile broke up the explanation, "That's where these come in." Cranberry red fingernails reached across the sheets to pat a pair of earbuds, which were currently plugged into an old MP3 player. However, seeing her friend wordlessly chew the thought over with what seemed to be apprehension, she rushed to include pointed clarification, with chin now propped by a bony fist. "I wouldn't worry though. It's mainly Negan that's always making all the hubbub. I swear, everything that man does is boisterous. Everything," she emphasized with a scoffing giggle.

At this, Vicky settled on a shrug of acceptance, "It is what it is, I suppose." Her gaze then promptly sharpened with a sultry, tricksy edge, "Sorry for any disturbances."

Before a response could be formulated by means of anything more than an eye roll, in answer to this humorous self-satisfaction, the blonde's perception narrowed in curiosity. The corners of her mouth flexed upward at the new prospect of flustering her friend, "Given this new revelation, I have to ask," the incoming question paused in thoughtful suspense. "If that's the case, then why have I never overheard you and Negan together?"

On cue, eyes once hazy with sleep now flew open wide with startle, connected cheeks going light pink. Though the reclined Wife regained composure swiftly, and beamed despite herself, "Dunno. Guess I'm a fairly quiet gal in most situations."

This theory called forth a cackling burst from Vicky, "Sure, in most situations." The last two words in the statement were verbally underlined to accentuate the comparison. She reached for the water bottle on the nearby nightstand, uncapping it and offering it to the other. "But my dear," she went on, "any encounter with our husband is not one of those situations. All he has to do is look your way, and you're in pieces." Her enjoyment of this jestful appraisal only intensified as Alyssa again tried half-heartedly to appear affronted, between sips of beverage. "When he called you his 'Good Girl' earlier? You practically steamed over at that very second. And don't get me started on when Negan so much as considers touching your hair."

Without hesitation, Alyssa openly snickered along, happily willing to concede to the truth in the ribbing, "Okay, Okay." The water bottle was passed back, and returned to its bedside station. "I do indeed have some weaknesses, especially for our husband. But I'm not alone in that." She took on a variant of her interrogator's previously speculative expression for the sake of comical interaction, "I'm convinced that most of the time, when you two fight, it's largely for the purpose of a make-up session. You both love to get each other all fired up, with something to prove, before going behind closed doors."

Vicky let her gaze swivel ahead wistfully, head falling from shoulder to shoulder as if weighing a rebuttal. Although, when her focus returned after an intermission, it was only from the corner of her eye, with the inclusion of a crooked smile. "You're not wrong."

"Mm-hm. I know," Alyssa said confidently, returning to lay on her front with a small, laborious huff. "Can't say I blame you," she carried the thought onward, looking over a shoulder. "I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered makin' a fuss on purpose, in hopes of a similar outcome."

The other woman made a show of straightening her sitting posture again, as if stirred by this reveal. "Well, well, well," she announced, "His sweet princess wants to get punished, huh? This is a new development."

Pensive orbs looked to the pillows as already blushed cheeks went an even deeper rose with confessional display, "In a way, I suppose. Sometimes, it just feels like he's so worried about hurting me somehow, that he's almost afraid to touch me at all."

"I've seen that man, he is most certainly not afraid of touching you."

A compressed chortle preceded a nod, "Maybe not so much in the literal sense, but the . . .," she trailed off momentarily, in search of a fitting descriptive. "Intensity is a bit hampered at times."

Vicky couldn't help but chuckle along as she repositioned, to get more comfortable in her seat, "I'm sure that telling him you think his intensity is lacking would light quite the fire under him."

"Oh, you know what I mean," prodded the gentle insistence. "I guess I just worry that he worries too much." Another small laugh followed the recognition of mirrored logic in that statement. "And the two of you are so passionate, you challenge each other. Your bond is so beautifully energetic. I can't help but admire that." Alyssa looked back to Vicky, bright with genuine appreciation.

"Aw, thank you, hon. Ya' know, that admiration is mutual. There's something so heartwarming about watching our Big Bad Wolf transform into a love-struck puppy for his Hot Wheels." The blonde nudged the other woman's shoulder in congratulation, "All you have to do is peer at him from over your glasses, and he's gladly at your service." She took a decisive breath, before continuing with a blooming smirk, "And I think you and Negan need to stop worrying, and just get back between the sheets already. With the extended time you both have spent working recently, it's been too long, that's all. And now you guys are crawling up a wall, yet neither knows what to do with themselves."

Alyssa crumpled against the mattress, "We're in agreement there," she vowed with a sigh.

"What do I have to do, play Enablement Matchmaker for you two?" Vicky proposed rhetorically as she lifted from the bedside, padding over to the arrangement of barware, various spirits, and mixers assembled on the opposite wall. With back turned on the bed, she prepared a decorative Rocks Glass, though chose to fill it with only soda. She tended to the carbonated foam carefully, watching the liquid increase with a splashing pour. A wave arching and breaking, "To incite some sort of tiff that only a lil' rough-and-tumble lovin' could make right?" She laughed before taking a sup of the drink, and reversed her change in direction. With the crystal base distorting her vision as she partook, she could still make out her closest friend, who now wore a cheeky grin, barely concealed by her lips.

The room's standing inhabitant took the glass from her mouth, unmoving whilst she stared the other down. "That's exactly what you want," she finally declared, flatly.

The sheets rumpled with fidgety repositioning, answer undulating with nervous tittering, "Well, um, n-not exactly. I'd say it's more of a little switcheroo. I tell Negan you deserve some extra spoiling, and you let it slip that maybe I'm not as well behaved as he thinks."

A current of wordless communication streamed between the two Wives, as they shared a wily, conspiratorial glance. And after this lapse of outward silence, Vicky took another delicate swig of her fizz of choice, and retraced previous footfalls to the head of the bed. "And they all think you're so sweet, so innocent," Vicky meditated teasingly. "If only they knew the truth of that devious mind." Her free hand outstretched to push a stray lock of auburn hair from her friend's face.

"Well then, the fun is in the secret-keeping, I suppose," Alyssa decided as she unveiled a grin, with tone made demure. The intentional opposite of her cunning suggestion.

"That's why I love ya'."

"And you know I love you right back, with every bit of my heart!"

Vicky thrummed approvingly, eyes searching a conspicuous dent on the wall in contemplation. Fingertips tapped hard upon the rim of her glass, "At least my new endeavor of livening things up between you two will be something I can make easy work of." Before banter could be traded, that wandering gaze returned to rest with the other resident of the room. An expectant gleam shone as she went on with no need for encouragement, "I'll simply mention Jason Crouse." Vicky took another casual sip, as though unaware of this idea's consequence. Though, of course she was fully keyed in to the reaction, as with the mere introduction of that name, she could see Alyssa's body reflexively stiffen from underneath the bedding. "That's usually all it takes to send him through the roof when it comes to you." This plan progressively unfurled alongside a pointed smile and enticing inclination, "I'm sure he'll get all brooding and intense. He'll loom over you like he does, going on and on about how you're with him, not Jason."

The storyteller made to go on with this scenario, if only to see just how rouged Alyssa's cheeks would get. She was thoroughly enjoying the process of riling the other up in such a way. Unfortunately, the tale could be spun no further, as indicated by a soft knock that reverberated within the space. The women had been so captivated by their conversation, that the interruption earned a measurable startle. Both sets of eyes jumped to the source of sound, and back to each other in question for a tick, followed by a united call for entry.

The door opened with slowed hesitancy, and a man known to be the head mechanic stepped across the threshold. His loose t-shirt and worn jeans were smeared with all manner of grime and moisture, stains new and old. The skin of his hands showcased similar callus brought on by his work, adhesive bandages encasing a few digits. His obvious unease matched the nature of his entrance as he redirected in curt turn to face the Wives. And in absorbing the sight before him, that discomfort seemed to momentarily spike, with his notice of Alyssa's current presence in Negan's bed.

Alyssa spoke without thinking, features puckered with concern, "Ted, what's wrong?"

The inquiry was sharply addressed by the panicked expression of the newcomer, his eyes darting to the open door in a hastened plea. This unspoken desperation was expeditiously obliged, with the occupant of the bed suddenly painted with chagrin, mouthing an apology.

On the tail end of a cautious silence, Ted nodded in address and spoke, "It's nothing to worry over, ma'am." Despite this attempt at providing assurance, the hard gulp that capped the remark was heavy with trepidation. "Simon directed me to make it known that the maintenance work being performed on Alyssa's wheelchair is now complete. It's in perfect condition. Still, Negan insists on checking it over himself first, as is standard protocol." This rehearsed delivery remained placid and methodical, recited amidst clearly shaken nerves. It was a speech given with the accompaniment of an abashed expression, froze in place. But those same features openly flexed with wholly renewed discomfort upon continuing, "After that's concluded, Negan wants Alyssa to know that he looks forward to spending the evening with her. He said that he should be done with the inspection in about an hour."

The messenger's intensified awkwardness regarding the closing sentiment made Alyssa wonder just what Negan had said to Simon, on the subject of this evening. And by extension, which parts of that conversation had Simon chosen to repeat, to the person standing before them now? Thankfully though, Vicky's barely muffled snorts of laughter kept this potentially unpleasant ponder short-lived. The blonde could be seen puffing her cheeks and averting her eyes back to the other woman lying in front of her.

Alyssa's blue-green orbs fluttered, struggling to maintain a stern visage herself. She could practically hear her friend's quip without needing it verbalized.

"His inspection of Alyssa's chair, or his inspection of Alyssa herself? Because if he's only planning on giving her an hour of his time, he's missing out! She's in prime 'Super Horny Total Disaster' mode today."

The prone form twisted to look around Vicky's hip, returning a softened focus to Ted, who now appeared vaguely befuddled and even more anxious than before. "Don't mind her, she's just havin' a laugh at me." She shot another jokingly unamused look at the Wife standing next to the bed.

"She's right, I am," Vicky agreed enthusiastically, turning on her heel to fully face the visitor. "Thank you, I'll be sure to get Hot Wheels all ready!

The fellow Sanctuary resident looked visibly caught off guard by this employment of nickname, but Alyssa's interjection acted as a distraction, "Yes, thank you so much, Ted! And be sure to get a break in, if you can," she suggested in a low volume, flashing another smile. "Merry Christmas."

The third of the group accepted the friendly indicator with a quiet dip of the chin and tight-lipped smile, a responsive goodbye gesture. Shoulders then rose and fell with a heaved exhale as he rushed back through the door, making a relieved exit.

-----

Happy chatter could be heard weaving through The Sanctuary halls as Vicky and Alyssa emerged from one of the building's larger bathrooms, the latter being securely carried in the arms of the former. Preparations for the night ahead had been completed. Alyssa was now wrapped in a burgundy velvet cocktail dress, complementing her hair, left in free fall, and a wine-red lip.

"Lookin' pretty as a present. Very festive."

"Thanks," Alyssa beamed, affectionately leaning her head on the other's shoulder. "Couldn't have made any of it happen without you. As always."

The movement was reciprocated, to interlock an embrace, "My pleasure. I wouldn't trust anyone else to do it, anyway," Vicky added, unmistakably resolute in her protective instinct.

"Not even Negan himself?" came the absent-minded mumble, as Alyssa was now genuinely resting against her friend, after the exertion required when getting ready.

Vicky let out a piquant laugh, "Him least of all," she stressed. "If he were helping you get ready, you'd never actually get dressed at all. Neither of you would." The last phase was tied up with a furtive smile directed at the person in her arms.

This inference was answered with a playfully raised brow and batted lashes, the smallest tug of a smirk reflected back. "I suppose he did make a point to offer his help in taking off my dress, prior to my nap. So, you may have a valid expectation there."

"Oh, that is something I know for certain. Not surprised in the least."

"Motherfucker!" Negan's bellowing expletive could seemingly be heard through the whole compound, crashing into the serenity like the crack of a baseball bat. A cacophony of metallic clanging, thudding, thumping, and clicking acted as a backing track for the shouting. "How the hell do you drive this goddamn thing?" There was a brief hold put on the chaos, only to be reignited by the familiar engagement of a motor and heavy, stumbling steps, "Shit!"

Alyssa perked up instantly, tensing in her friend's arms and halting their return trip. "He's trying to drive my wheelchair by himself again." Genuine alarm applied dread to the words, and to the attached expression. Vicky nodded, readjusting her carrying stance, their walking path immediately redirected toward the chorus of noise emanating from the opposite end of the winding passageways.

-----

The two reached their husband swiftly, reeled in toward his position via a constant spill of profane mayhem. Rounding a sharp turn in the maze of corridors, they found him just as suspected, currently caught in an angry stalemate, a few feet in front of them. The lead Savior's features were made grave with frustration, a glare locked onto the wheelchair's control panel. He poked hopelessly at the various buttons, causing the seat to recline and elevate and careen forward at all angles, with the foot plates moving in tandem. An attached lighting kit was also part of this mismanaged pandemonium, with the headlights, hazard lights and blinkers flashing aggressively.

In a last-ditch attempt, the man bent over the side of the wheelchair and pulled the joystick forward again. This was done in a manner that only succeeded in lurching the tires of the mobility device overtop his own booted feet. "Fuck," he muttered harshly to himself, tripping backward another step.

"Seems much too late to say this, but do watch your toes, sweetheart." Though the warning was clearly meant to be dryly sarcastic, an underlying solicitude could still be heard in Alyssa's voice.

Negan's attention snapped upward from the futile task, leaving him confronted with pairs of humorously skeptical eyes as an audience. His facial features betrayed him for an instant, revealing a blundering surprise, "Oh, there you are. I was just on my way to ya'," he said. His attempt at a suave recovery from this bumbling could not be altogether afforded. He offered a lopsided grin, sucking in a breath, and gliding a hand through his tousled hair. Nevertheless, it was such an endearing effort, that it seemed downright unfair.

"Ta-da," he spread his arms wide in a manner of presentation, bestowing the chair as if it were a prize.

Both women looked to each other in agreement, their husband watching on with uncertainty as they communicated without words. After a string of exasperated chucking and tutting was traded between them, Vicky hitched Alyssa higher in her hold and went to deposit the other woman into the wheelchair.

"And everyone thinks driving this baby must be so easy," Alyssa admonished vocally. A glimmer of vindication emanated from her smile as she relaxed into the seat, fondly patting the vinyl upholstered armrest. As Vicky knelt to clasp buckles that secured the other woman's feet against each dedicated plate, the chair positioning was easily righted by hands that were much more accustomed to its workings. "But thank you, Negan," she added in an output of sincere softness. The strobe lights died with another button press, followed by fingertips reaching out for the man's jacketed arm in tender gratitude. This earned a smile in return. The steps of the lead Savior then took him a short distance away, to swap spectator viewpoints with his Wives.

"Looks like you're getting off easy, Daddy," Vicky joined in, straightening up, and coming to casually lean on the handlebar of her friend's wheelchair. "Because didn't Hot Wheels warn you not to drive her chair, the last time you tried to pull this stunt?" There was additional snarky emphasis placed on this closing phrase, as she intentionally reflected Negan's prior choice of words back at him.

Negan opened his mouth to retort, but Alyssa cut him off with an exaggerated gasp of remembrance, "Vicky," she chirped, "you're so right! I did warn him last time." All scrutiny was trained on the man in the leather jacket, whimsical menace now blazing like sparklers in the eyes of the Wives. They were obviously tickled by the opportunity to cross-examine the fellow opposite them.

Vicky bent closer to Alyssa, speaking as if the third in their trio wasn't present, despite preserved eye-contact. "Maybe you should punish him for that. He did break the rules, by my account."

"Hey," Negan said calmly, showing his palms in a reconciliatory fashion and taking measured, deliberate steps forward. "I was simply reuniting this lovely lady with her chariot," the justification went on, revisiting a phrase he knew would warmly trigger the dark-haired woman's memory. Stopping just before his seated Wife, he gazed downward into her eyes. He zeroed in on her, almost hypnotically, while continuing, "Regardless, my Sweet Thing would never be that upset with me," the purring confidence rumbled. He brought her hand to his lips slowly, turning it over to face upward, and dipping his head to place a light kiss on the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, letting his scruff graze against the delicate section.

Alyssa cleared her throat with a minimal squeak as she squirmed against the seat back, desperately trying not to smile. Given the current display, it seemed equal parts hilarious and oddly plausible to assume that any times of private intimacy between these two consisted of Negan merely looking at Alyssa with erotic intention. Surely, the suggestion alone would result in his Wife being propelled into the throes of passion, in all its ecstasy, right there on the spot. No other interaction or effort needed from the man himself.

The Savior let go of a growling chuckle, visibly satisfied with the reaction. "And by the looks of it," hazel eyes played over the woman in front of him, "I'm not the only one here who hasn't done as expected." There was a moment's pause as his focus continued to scan leisurely, now paired with a dramatically solemn sigh, while still cradling her hand. "As much as I love seein' you done up like a lil' velvet Christmas gift bow, I do believe I made myself clear when I said that I wanted you in nothin' but those come-fuck-me-heels."

"Negan," Alyssa scolded in high-pitched squawk, pulling her hand out of his in an instant. With cheeks flushed, she verbally snapped at him, despite his brazenly unrepentant pleasure at this flurry. "I will not just wait around in the buff for you," she said more decisively, trying to mask ruffled senses, holding tight to her more modest inclinations when outside of personal chambers.

Dark brows hopped upward in delighted amusement, expression etched with haughty enjoyment. "Ya' won't?" he asked, emptied hand now placed over his own heart in theatrical indignation and wounded dismay. "Why not?"

There was no need for a reply, as a peek of his tongue touched the corner of his lip thoughtfully. "Because see, I thought Vicky said I would be gettin' off easy tonight. And believe me, seein' you in nothin' more than those fancy shoes I got ya' . . . ." He briefly cut off the sentence, bending closer to Alyssa's ear, and lowering his voice to a whisper, "That would most certainly get me off, lickety-fuckin'-split."

Vicky couldn't help but laugh inwardly at the scene of flirtatious cat and mouse unfolding before her. She considered just snagging Alyssa from the chair right then, passing her over to Negan, and sending them both away, on their inevitable path back to the bedroom. That way, the blonde could finally make late-night holiday meal preparations in peace, as was sought earlier, and perhaps get some much-needed rest herself. An additional benefit to this anticipated outcome would be that these squabbling lovebirds would not be so feisty, frisky, and preoccupied by desires to undress each other with their eyes, from opposite ends of the dinner table. With this in mind, she watched her seated companion fail to suppress percolating joy, as their husband plastered another accomplished smooch onto her temple. He then nudged that area affectionately with his forehead, before correcting the accommodating posture.

Alyssa exhaled with benign annoyance, lids momentarily closed as she pinched the bridge of her nose and readjusted her glasses, "C'mon, follow me. Before I change my mind." Clacking engagement of a motorized wheelchair came alongside the jaunty command. The woman in control of the device spun in a tight circle, now pointing in the direction of the hallway's end.

All observer expressions bounced in bewilderment, and Negan was quick to resist this unexpected change of trajectory. "Whoa, whoa," he called from behind, moving a pace forward, "I thought we had plans, babygirl." He looked over his shoulder, toward the room that housed a king-sized bed, then back to the form racing through the passage.

Solid, rubber-coated tires pattered rhythmically against the floor, shepherding an unmoving flock, "And we still might, if you're lucky." The words had turned good-humored and frolicsome, "I have a surprise waiting. So, keep up." Alyssa sped to an increased lead, an act of encouragement, and acute illustration of honed driving abilities. Proof of finesse and confidence that was clearly intended to contrast the previous uncontrolled maneuvering, when left in the wrong hands.

In answer, footsteps finally stirred with their pursuit.

"Oooh, someone's in trouble," Vicky sing-songed in a hush to the man beside her, both trailing curiously. Negan simply returned a doubtful expression, closing the gap between the two of them, sliding an arm around her waist as they walked. "I'll get out of it. Always do," he whispered back smoothly, not at all shaken by the prospect of any actual upset.

The woman on his arm rolled her eyes, though the sentiment wasn't without merit. "And here I thought you'd been resting today," she noted aloud, turning attention back to her friend's guiding form.

"I had been," Alyssa answered without looking back at the duo flanking her rear wheels. "This was planned in advance. I was gonna bring it up this morning, but you two were too busy bickering." A blossoming smile could be heard as the last sentence progressed.

"Aw," came a cooing appreciation, "I should've guessed that you'd have a plan brewing."

"Don't keep us in suspense, darlin'. What's the deal?" Negan probed impatiently.

"You'll see soon enough." The planner smirked to herself, soft curls blown back around her headrest with the air of forward momentum, "Though, I do wonder if either of you deserve it," she teased. "Perhaps I should just have a relaxing, romantic Christmas night on my own."

"For the record, Negan started it," Vicky firmly defended herself through humorously petulant diversion, "I didn't want to argue today."

"I'm sure," the other woman responded, the monotone nature acting as a disclosure of sarcastic agreement.

The lead Savior gave a gravelly chuckle, pulling his Wife ever closer to his side. Callused fingers glided to arch around the curve of her hip. His fingerprints gently pressed into that tender expanse of skin, in the same divot where they had more ardently dug and gripped at, in the day's earlier hours. Even when felt through the fabric of her dress, this tactile reminder of their most recent time together launched a shower of sparks up and down Vicky's spine. Thrown off balance by this sudden weakening rush, she relaxed more earnestly into his hold. And with eyes still trained ahead, Negan spoke as though he knew of the heady reaction. As though he knew both women adored him, "You know you'd miss me," he countered, seeming to address all those present.

"I wouldn't get too cocky, husband," Alyssa cautioned coolly, still traversing toward a mysterious endpoint. "Trust that I can enjoy myself plenty, with or without your involvement." The independently salacious intention and inference underscoring this phrase was bright as a neon sign.

"Damn, tell 'im," Vicky encouraged with an uproarious laugh.

In a deft disappearing act, the man's touch slipped away from her waistline, hand only returning its palm when making brisk contact with her backside, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. Not that she was complaining about it, though. No, quite the opposite, in fact. This particular action was a roguish swat, only for attention. But it was enough to awaken the tingling sensitivity and divine ache still lingering there. It was a surging bodily sensation. A scorching pulse of embers that now broke free of the conductive rod that was her spine, openly rocketing from head to toe. Fireworks were left to burst in a cascading downpour of effervescent goosebumps. This certainly put pep in the receiver's step, those footfalls still wobbling slightly as her belly clenched with renewed excitement, manifested as a tightened fluttering. And that stimulation only doubled in strength when Negan provided a devilish wink and wickedly pearlescent grin, in response to Vicky's face snapping to his with simulated incredulity.

"Oh, Alyssa," Negan hummed after a heartbeat of quiet, turning his gaze back to the spearhead of their traveling trio, "You know none of those fancy vibrators or smutty stories do the things that I can. Time spent with some book and a hunk of barely buzzing silicone?" he forced air out of his nostrils, unimpressed. "That doesn't leave you feelin' like I make you feel." Self-assurance was positively dripping from the assessment. And as his arm encircled the woman at his side once more, he was clearly reveling in an ability to push the metaphorical buttons of both women simultaneously. As if he held their unique hearts in each of his hands.

A metallic creaking could be heard as Alyssa's body went rigid in her chair, a physical representation of coy reticence. Surely, she still wore a smile, but her face was no doubt warmed. Though before the Wife in question could parry, Vicky replied instead, in defense of her friend. "I dunno, Negan," she sighed, peering ahead, "'Lyssa's got quite the collection of saucy equipment, with books to match. And she does love her tech, as well as her personal library. So, she might be able to replace you easier than you'd expect."

"I don't think that's the case. Nope, not for a fuckin' second. 'Cause even when she's indulgin' in those lil' parties for one, she's thinkin' of me the whole time. Wishing I was there."

"What makes you so sure of that?" Vicky challenged, quick on the trigger with her witty instigation.

Both women snickered at Negan's sudden retreat into a grumbling, huffy silence. "Don't make me turn this wheelchair around, you two," Alyssa warned laughingly. Her head canted to the side, addressing her followers as they reached the threshold of the industrial kitchen. "No need to pout, Daddy. You know we love you."

-----

Once freed from the confines of the narrow halls, the three fell in a row next to each other within the otherwise unoccupied environment. Aiming for the closest door leading to The Sanctuary's secluded courtyard, an easy course was tracked across the floor of the food preparation area. Thin, rectangular windows lined he uppermost section of wall above the sturdy door frame. Abrasive fluorescent lighting found in this utility space made the soft, multi-colored glow that could be spotted from those windows even more apparent.

However, before any comment could be made in recognition of this, Simon burst through an entry on the room's right-hand side. "Negan, I've been looking all over this joint for you," he blustered in his characteristically animated fashion. His approaching step clomped heavily upon the floor as all eyes shifted in the responsive direction.

"This better be important, Simon," Negan said, reminder cast in cold resolution. He turned to face the man in question head-on, "It's a vacation day, and I am very much enjoying my time off."

"I'm sure you are, sir. I'll make this fast," Simon approached his superior, bravado giving way to the expected reverence. And from where the secondary Savior now planted himself, a greeting nod was also offered to each Wife, paired with a showman's grin. "Ms. Vicky. Ms. Alyssa. I hope the holiday is treating you both well."

Vicky returned the pleasantries, allowing Simon's attention to revolve back to his task. "Have you talked to Laura about the supply pickup from Sycamore Grove?"

"No. Was there a problem?"

As the two men initiated discussion, Vicky's focus instantaneously fell from their conference. It was instead caught by the woman parked at her side. And what was witnessed there struck her as a truly uncommon sight. Alyssa's features held none of their usual congeniality, her mouth now a harshly downturned curve. All prior mirth, evident only moments ago, simply vanished as bespectacled eyes held with steadfast attention, lethally concentrated on Simon's face. Though, being deeply engrossed in managerial coordination, he did not sense this attempt to single-handedly bore a hole through him as he carried on. Even more perplexing was Negan's complete obliviousness to this turmoil of rumination, thrashing so near.

Vicky studied the face of her friend from the discretion of peripheral vision. The main observation was an expression of stone, marred by distrust. The seated woman looked as though she was fully prepared to attack some unforeseen threat, situating herself between the two in a manner that unmistakably read as precautionary. Her hair may as well have been standing on end with the electrified acidity of her internal churning. The obvious questions surfaced as to the reason for this sudden appearance of barbed suspicion, but now was not the moment to pursue them. And in a suspended passage of time that crashed back to reality like shattering glass, this period for contemplation was snatched away, just as quickly as it arrived. Both women were lurched back from their thoughts when the cause of this sudden atmospheric plummet stomped out of the room. Simon retreated upon much the same gust of obtrusive activity that he'd blown in on, equipped with a given order from the higher in command.

Negan pushed a heavy sigh from his lungs, eyes rolling along a thick strip of eyelashes, before turning to recalibrate himself amid the remaining company. The lead Savior's snarling irritation with his own right-hand man was palpable. But as he took in the supportive priority landing back upon him, these markers of frustration dissipated, fading rapidly into joyful anticipation. When he spoke, the words were warm like cinnamon whiskey, "Sorry about the interruption, ladies," he said, tone appealingly low and smoldering with sincerity. "Let's go see exactly what this surprise is all about."

He offered the event coordinator an enchanting smile, a gesture that would usually leave her with a brilliant grin to match, overflowing with fondness for their husband. Though in this instance, only Vicky seemed to notice indicators of tension and preoccupation in the construction of happiness that Alyssa returned.

"That's the best idea I've heard all day," Vicky encouraged, still warily scrutinizing the other woman.

"Great! I'm so glad you're both excited," Alyssa praised, voice wavering by the smallest degree. She appeared to still be gathering a frayed composure, and attempting to conceal her blazing display of hostility toward Simon. To the benefit of this effort, Negan was still totally unaware. He accepted the motivation, exuberantly stretching backward and springing forward, before stepping ahead to grab the door.

In the brief cover of privacy granted by his turned back, Vicky touched Alyssa's wrist before she could drive further forward. When their eyes connected, the blonde jabbed her thumb in the direction of Simon's exit point. Her forehead was knit by questions unable to be spoken.

This search for answers and understanding was met with a terse shake of the head, auburn hair swaying from side to side like curtains in the wind, "Not now." The proclamation was mouthed without sound, and the linked features creased with the same enigmatic unease, in what could only be perceived as an entreaty for patience.

Vicky crossed her arms over her chest, analysis flickering from Alyssa, to Negan, and back again. Her facial muscles flexed sternly, "Later," she articulated in the same muted manner, allowing no space for debate. Alyssa's withered expression left her bristling with guarding intuition. The two women never kept things from each other, and this breached communication felt uncomfortable in its unfamiliarity. Though, the one mending action for this consternation was the agreed promise of an affirmative nod.

A chilled draft of air rushed in as the door was held open, pulling the attention of both Wives to the present experience. Negan maintained an irresistible radiance that brightened his features as he waited, all charm and vigor. The rainbow illuminations that could previously be seen from the windows now gleamed in pastel pools across his face, salt-and-pepper softened stubble glistening in the frosty air and festive lighting. A hand was outstretched over the threshold to usher the party onward, "Well, we've got a fuckin' Winter Wonderland waitin' on us. We should be out there enjoyin' it."

"You're gonna want your coat and outdoor shoes," Alyssa suggested gently, looking over to meet her friend's eyes again. A hand lifted, gesturing to the tote bag that always hung from her wheelchair's twin handlebars. "I asked Eighty to pack them for me, while you away and busy," she continued, addressing the unspoken question with upturned lips.

-----

"So," Alyssa said, elongating the opener with keen expectancy. Letting her focus float above, she snuck a glimpse at the reaction of each gift recipient. To her delight and relief, both Vicky and Negan looked upon the seasonal setting with unbroken enthusiasm. At this discovery, she pulled in a breath of the crisp breeze, gratefully returning to more lighthearted activities.

The three were stationed in front of an impressively large artificial Christmas tree. Its triangular shape reached skyward, easily cloaking the portable generator positioned behind. Plastic pine branches were frosted with glittery white flocking, wrapped in thin stretches of bright bulbs and a variety of dangling adornments. A scene made all the more dazzling against the current darkened backdrop of the velveteen evening.

This pillar of manufactured greenery stood as the idyllic view for the table and chairs beside it. An arrangement which consisted of a wood carved patio set for two, stained a luxurious cherry. It achieved a rustic and cozy atmosphere, enhanced by the addition of a plaid blanket left to drape over each high-backed seat. On the circular table standing between these seats, a single battery-operated candle stood in the center. Defused light reflected in the scuffed surface of a small stereo, also occupying the tabletop. Dulcet, instrumental renditions of familiar holiday tunes drifted from the stereo speakers. Songs dancing upon the wind like a melodic, dusting snowfall. This was not only a pleasant addition to the ambience, but also a necessary distraction from the gurgling gaggle of reanimated corpses, staked at the exterior fence perimeter.

Amongst the many shimmering miniature spotlights and styled amenities, there was still a finishing preparation to be appreciated. One oversized gift bag sat propped up next to each chair leg, the waiting packages stuffed to the brim with tissue paper and stick-on bows. And though this wrapping was delightful, and clearly done with vibrant precision, it was another minor detail that truly showcased a personalized love and care. A small decorative tag hung from each present, identifying the giftee, with names handwritten in Alyssa's shaky, angular scrawl.

"What do you thi—"

Alyssa's question was cut short as Vicky abruptly bent at the waist, hurriedly gathering the seated woman close against her trunk in a tight embrace, cushioned by the puffed outermost layer of a winter jacket. "It's amazing," she exclaimed ebulliently, her cheek resting atop a crown of rufescent hair, "I can't believe you made all this happen." If the strength brought forth in her friend's grip was a measure of how happy she felt, Alyssa would rest easy tonight.

"Oh, you gotta let me in on this," Negan boomed, easily laying his tall form overtop both Wives, enveloping them in the circle of his arms. "This is some fuckin' next level holiday cheer, Hot Wheels! And I won't even ask how you managed to arrange it, right under our damn noses like this." When he released a chuckle at the thought, the dark-haired woman could feel the resonance of it against her ear, as she was now affectionately clamped between the two.

With arms unintentionally pinned, the person at the center of this cuddly heap could only give back by nuzzling her head on the shoulder of the other Wife, and by lovingly patting their husband's pectoral region. All motion done within the small gap of space that her left hand could still freely gesticulate. "Well, I could only physically do certain bits of the prep. I had a lot of help. I couldn't have done any of it without that assistance," she deferred humbly, sounding slightly pressed for oxygen amidst the snuggle. But it did not dampen her jollity.

"Maybe so, but this is all your vision. I know it," Vicky clarified, carefully unwrapping her arms from around Alyssa, after Negan had pulled away. "This whole display looks like it's ripped straight from a holiday advert, and that has your style written all over it," she went on smilingly. The blonde smoothed the other's rumpled ensemble, and aided in the readjustment of sitting posture, seeing as her friend's body and clothes were left askew in the barrage of endearment.

"It's so fuckin' cool," Negan agreed, looking to the coordinator of this arrangement. "But," he strode over to his designated seat, plucked the blanket from the chair back, and returned to his Wives. "As much as I'm diggin' this smokin' dress," he articulated circumspectly, in smirking reference to previous commentary, "I can't let you freeze out here." In one unbroken flourish, he settled the fabric over her shoulders.

Immediately huddling deeper into the covering, Alyssa wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, appreciative of the primping attention.

"I'm so glad you both like it," she beamed earnestly. "I know it's probably a bit much." This added note came with a self-aware giggle, "But I just couldn't help myself. I wanted to give something extra special." Vicky and Negan were looked upon with a love so genuine, tangible warmth seemed to be infused into the sentiment.

He turned to the sparkling tree for a moment more, all aglow in the lighting décor, "You definitely succeeded in creating somethin' awesome here, darlin'." Needing no further invitation to claim a spot at the small table, an expansive gait brought him back to the chair with the appropriately marked gift. He then twisted on his heel, and fell comfortably into the furnishing with coordination as relaxed as his smile. "It's not too much. Wouldn't expect anything less than this kinda spectacular from ya'. And you've outdone yourself with this one. "

"Negan's spot-on. It doesn't get better than this," Vicky insisted, concluding the straightening of outfit, followed by rectifying her own pose.

The two women shared the quiet gratitude of a smile, before Alyssa put out her hand to the waiting space, welcoming the other to take the unoccupied chair. This suggestion was accepted, and each Wife filled the remaining free slots at the table.

"So, I must know, what inspired this grand plan? Because Negan and I certainly weren't ranked high enough on The Nice List to deserve all this, were we?"

"Speak for yourself," the Savior leader rumbled as he lounged in his seat. This leisure acted as an undeniably seductive exhibition of his long limbs, and demonstration of a correspondingly stunning, magnetically dominant aura. "I think I'm very good. And when I'm bad? Hell, then I'm even fuckin' better." Hazel eyes glistened, revealing their spectrum of hues from above a grin that was as sharp as the barbed wire on his beloved baseball bat.

The blonde stuck her tongue out at him in return, and the other couldn't quite fend off a smile that pricked at the corners of her mouth. When their husband's self-congratulatory chortle faded, Alyssa did take time to acknowledge the prior question, from where she was pulled up to the table, parked between its two guests. Folding her hands in her lap, she studied the backs of those hands intently, deliberating.

"Well," she sighed. "As I mentioned, I wanted to do something that truly checked all the boxes of the occasion. I wanted to cover all the stops." Turquoise fixtures surveyed the pair, the oceans behind those lenses made dark and swirling with fretful storm clouds, "With Negan and I being away for so long at that satellite outpost . . . ." The sentence quickly frayed as her brow fell into a furrow, alongside a stiff swallow. "I feel like I missed so much. And that's on me, that time can't be recaptured. For that, I'm sorry. I hope this can act as the first stepping stone in my apology, and a reflection of my thankfulness. Because I don't know what I'd do without the two of you. "

This remorse fell on the night air with unquestionable heartfelt intention. And despite the sudden shift in tone of the moment, there was no uncertainty as to the authenticity of the worries exposed. The audience on the left and right leaned to the center attentively, each gingerly taking one of Alyssa's trembling hands in comfort. Both voices came in overlapping response.

"You don't need to feel guilty. Honest. It was work that had to be done. And even still, you always managed to make it back for the important things. And I know that wasn't an easy thing to do, through it all."

"Don't let it eat at ya', sweet darlin'. Shit needed to get done, and ya' rolled right on up to the task and got it done. I for one am damn proud of ya'. And you should be proud of yourself, too."

It was barely audible when mingling with the melody that spilled from the stereo speakers, but the Savior leader then gave a sniff. A reflex that he would surely blame on the cold weather, if later pressed. But the heavily indented wrinkle of his forehead and glaze of added moisture in his eyes hinted at another reaction. When it came to the two women in his company currently, Negan took their troubles to heart; a heart that he willingly wore on his sleeve for no one but them. And in terms of his interaction with Alyssa, the ease and openness with which she frequently shared her emotions seemed to sincerely affect him.

"Thank you," Alyssa gave each hand that was now enclosed in hers a receptive squeeze. "Sorry. I promise, my aim wasn't to get all sappy and cry on Christmas." A dry, self-deprecating laugh was allowed as the weak grip receded, moving to carefully wipe at the corners of mascara-laden lashes. And an exhale provided a break for brooding pause, "I just can't seem to let go of the fact that I took so long with everything. Despite my efforts to work as quickly as I could, I was away for so much longer than intended."

"As far as I'm concerned, that's evidence of you actually listening to me for once, by taking breaks while you worked," Vicky teased ungrudgingly.

"Only because I practically tore her away from all those buttons, manuals, and dials every night," Negan clarified pointedly. "I would just throw her right on over my shoulder, and carry her off." The Savior leader shot a wink to the woman of topic, clearly hoping to coax a smile from her. Unsurprisingly, he succeeded effortlessly in this, and was left exceedingly pleased with himself as he relaxed into his chair once more.

"Whatever does the job, I say," Vicky shrugged.

"Oh, it got done, all right. And done mighty well, if I do say so myself. I'll tell ya' that much," his vocal cords bombinated triumphantly, presenting a proudly libidinous allusion.

Alyssa stole an abrupt inhalation and squared her shoulders, "If the goal was to distract me with blushing embarrassment, consider this a victory," she teased with an airy laugh that seemed to reinvigorate joy. The words came in a wide-eyed rush, marked by happiness. But she was still harmlessly eager to change the subject, "With that being said, I think you two should open the gifts now." Her hands opened with palms showing, angling in a downward rotation, toward each respective package.

This recommendation was met with a pair of broad smiles and graciously spirited compliance. "Don't gotta tell me twice," Negan said, reaching for the gift bag at his feet, mirrored by Vicky doing the same.

The rustling crinkle of tissue paper and gift wrap accessories accompanied the lullaby of seasonal compositions, undeniably reminiscent of pre-apocalypse holiday recreation. As the embellished bags were emptied, a copious assortment of treats, both scavenged and homemade, soon littered the table. But the main draw for attention was the treasury of larger items, laid before each recipient. Negan was now the owner of a hefty, stunningly opulent embossed leather case. This acted as a storage method for various luxury facial hair grooming implements and related skincare products. Opposite him, Vicky sat admiring a crystal vase, containing a handcrafted stained-glass flower bouquet. Gems gleamed along the edge of each intricately shaped, colorful petal. And in looking upon this artistic piece, there was no ambiguity surrounding the credibility of all components within its craftsmanship. Packed with that was a wide, hardcover book, holding pages and pages of glossy photography. Its contents reviewed a rage of classic and contemporary automobiles, accompanied by related information.

"Beautiful," Vicky whispered, plucking one of the individually stemmed glass roses from the arrangement to examine its many hues against the twinkling Christmas lights.

Negan leaned forward in the seat, catching the gaze of the woman beside him, "Is this a gift given for the purpose of my enjoyment, or yours?" He eyed their not-so-secret Santa with a playfully risen brow and suggestive stroke of a bearded jawline, "Because I know you have favorites when it comes to my facial hair styling. And I know you got your own reasons for that, too." The wolfish grin enveloping this assurance came with an almost growling chuckle as his leering stare crawled unabashedly over his Wife, irises of earthy shades fulminating like a potion mix of lit matches and gasoline.

Alyssa's eyes snapped over to the other person at her right. Surprisingly, Vicky appeared unaware of the activity around her, with face angled down, and focus fully aimed at the book now in her lap. The gift giver flexed her lips buoyantly as she appraised this scene, before returning to the prior visual connection.

She tried to be facetiously injured by the insinuation, but a blooming smile and bubbling laugh betrayed the effort as it was arranged, "I have no idea what you mean, Negan," she said coquettishly. "It's for you, of course! There are tons of lovely things in that kit," the dark-haired woman went on, bright and excited as she rolled closer to him. Slender fingers reached to point out a few inclusions. And with a patient willingness reserved only for the one in the velvet dress, her sole audience member listened attentively as products were explained to him, nodding dutifully along. "I just thought you could use a little pampering, too. Maybe I could even give you a face massage," came the final suggestion as a pot of moisturizer was tapped.

"Well now, that sounds real nice, doll. Thank you. But I gotta ask, is that massage gonna be limited to only my face?" he wondered aloud in raffish provocation. "Or is that meant to be my second, just-between-us present? 'Cause I can't help but notice that Vicky's got more gifts than me, over there. What's that all about?" This follow-up question was delivered in an equally husky murmur.

The pivoting creak of movement against metal and plastic could be detected when Alyssa stretched forward, red-stained lips seeking to leave their stamp on his cheek as Negan leaned happily into the peck. A gentle shushing was the slow, seductively subdued answer received. It was a much more openly receptive gesture than was expected, with warm breath pluming across his skin.

"Are you ever going to stop making out with him over there, and come give me some love, too?" Vicky protested in humorous exasperation. Her features had hardened with fabricated distaste from across the table, where she'd finally looked up from the vehicle compendium.

"Someone's a lil' jealous," razzed a familiar male tone, obviously gloating about the received dotting.

"Oh, now," Alyssa soothed, "everyone be nice." The speaker was energetically buzzed and blushed as she retracted back into her wheelchair, and cut a path to the other side of the table. The blonde's expression dissolved into the truth of its joyous warmth and good-natured amusement as four tires came to a stop before her. The two friends wrapped their arms around one another, with Vicky swaying them from side to side in an affectionate oscillation.

"Thank you, Alyssa. This is all wonderful. And just when I thought the day couldn't get any better!"

"You're so welcome. Seeing you guys so happy has made my day, no question about it."

This embrace went on for another nuzzling moment. "So, where'd you find these treasures, then?" Vicky asked, releasing the connective action with a smile still on her lips.

"Ya' remember that high-end home décor store that was found a few months back, with all the one of a kind installations?" Alyssa encouraged.

Eyes darted to the items on the table and back in giddy revelation, "No way! All this is from there? It must have been priced at a fortune."

"I'm sure it would've been. The bouquet was found in the shop's storage room, fully boxed. It had never been put out for display. And I just couldn't ignore that art book, to go along with everything." The dark-haired Wife offered a slight smirk, prominently satisfied with her own savvy gift preparation, "I happened to be out front as the trucks were being unloaded, when the scavengers returned. So, when I saw these, I had them hidden away."

"You stealin' Sanctuary goods, girl?" Negan interrupted, casually popping a large chunk of pumpkin cookie into his mouth, jesting from across the separation.

Alyssa glanced over to see her husband's smiling inquiry. She settled on simply mimicking his expression, with an added wink of her own.

-----

The susurration of a motorized wheelchair reversing agitated the melodious air, until its driver was situated in the previous open section of the table. Fingernails clicked cheerfully on the polished wood grain, "Happy with the gifts?" Alyssa asked, trading observation from face to face. When affirmations were given, her features were uplifted further. "Awesome, because I have another surprise."

"What more could you have up your sleeves?" Vicky sought laughingly.

The response came in the shape of an even wider smile, as an arm bent to stretch in reach of the bag hanging on the correlating handlebar. Pulling the tote as close as possible, and diving into the remaining contents, an immaculately maintained Polaroid camera was revealed. "The holiday wouldn't be complete without some snapshot mementoes. And with the nice background out here, it's an opportunity that couldn't be missed."

At this suggestion, Negan propelled himself out of his seat, standing with arms held open in wait of Vicky's accompaniment, "I dig that idea. Why don't we strike a pose, doll?"

A set of three photos was taken in succession, capturing Vicky and Negan as they stood, embracing in front of the vibrantly trimmed tree. Each Polaroid preserved a memory of the pair smiling bright, the blonde's head resting below the Savior's collar. Then, in a pronouncement that surprised the current photographer, the two women swapped places behind the camera, prompting Alyssa to park beside Negan. There, the man gladly took a knee, crouching at his Wife's right. With his arm resting around her shoulders and his cheek touching her temple, she leaned adoringly inward, grin beaming. Negan gazed into the lens with a light curving of his lips, exuding the same protective dominance and molten allure that the woman sitting beside could never quite resist. Finally, following the creation of these individualized keepsakes, the session concluded with expected togetherness. This trio grouped in front of the camera, features blithe. The needed device was held at the end of a leather-jacketed arm in an attempt at successful framing, as remaining film dispensed with a whirring churn.

-----

"I can't wait to see how these turn out," Alyssa said, once her assembly had found their seats again. She inspected the stack of printed Polaroids in her grasp, all photos still nothing more than a bloomed flare. "I'm gonna have to find some space to display them."

"We do have that corkboard and thumbtack assortment?" Vicky offered.

"True! That could work."

"Does this mean all that scrapbooking junk is gonna be strewn around the whole place again?" Negan ribbed, appearing jokingly vexed at the potential.

Alyssa pointed her index finger at him in scolding, though her lips still upturned with positive reception, "First off, it's not junk. And second, to answer the question . . . Maybe." Focus went back to the deck of film briefly, "I'll think on it. But for now, I should probably take these inside, so they don't get damaged or anything."

Vicky called for her friend's attention, "You aren't staying out with us?"

Oh, no," she replied earnestly, delighted resolution left untouched. "This is just for the two of you." Her voice was clear as a bell, making certain that there would be no discussion otherwise, "I've been bugging you guys for plenty long enough tonight. But, that doesn't mean I'm leaving you with no extra company at all. No. In fact, I'm leaving you in even better company."

Her expression turned guileful as the photos were temporarily laid out on the nearby surface. And in much the same way she had retrieved the camera from her bag, she now dove into its depths once more. This time, additions to the tabletop came in the form of a massive thermos filled with hot chocolate, a whipped cream canister, marshmallows, and a bottle of peppermint vodka. Of course, such an offering wouldn't be complete without a receptacle from which to enjoy it. With this requirement in mind, two candy cane striped mugs were also procured, matching straws included.

"I thought there couldn't possibly be any other goodies hidden in that thing," Vicky chuckled, referring to her friend's bottomless bag of tricks.

Alyssa shrugged from underneath the coverlet shawl, a kittenish smirk matching her gaze. "One can never be too sure of such things." Her smile grew more sweeping in size, "Plus, it's awfully nippy tonight. So, nothing's better than cocoa with a bit of a stiffer kick."

"Another favorite of yours, I'll bet," Negan grinned, having already taken it upon himself to prepare the drinks from the comfort of his seat. Liquids fell into each mug with quiet pours, marshmallows meeting the cozy cocktail with a generous rainfall, and topped with a layer of whipped cream piled high.

"You know me well."

Vicky pushed her chair away from the table slightly, positioning herself more directly toward the other woman, "Are you sure you can't stay? Have a bit of this with us?"

"I'm sure," she shook her head in the repeated affirmative, "This is for you and Negan. And I refuse to cut in any further."

"Well, know that you'd never be unwelcome with us, doll," Negan stressed sincerely, indulging in a pull of his beverage as a brief break for thought. "And if we can't convince you to hang around, then ya' better be in my room when I get back." This closing instruction was heavy with imminent carnal arousal, openly smoldering. And shamelessly wishing to leave the Wife he was currently fixed upon in that very same titillated state.

Alyssa sucked in a hitched gasp, dusted pink tinting her cheeks as she melted within the scope of his stare.

"Where the hell else would I be going?" she asked smilingly, after a tick of tremulous recovery. This response purposefully employed the phrasing used by Vicky, from earlier in the day. Though now, it was voiced with an amorous variation on the tonality. And this lighthearted rework did not escape their husband's notice, as his mouth twitched in an appreciative chortle.

Contented with this signal, she untangled herself from the borrowed blanket. It was passed back to its intended keeper, before attention reconnected with the table's full occupancy. "Have fun," Alyssa said congenially, retrieving the Polaroids and stashing them in her right hand before turning away from the remaining twosome. Hurrying in hopes of hastened invisibility, she yanked her wheelchair's joystick in the direction of The Sanctuary's independently accessible entrance, without another word.

Vicky laughed, shaking her head lovingly as she watched Alyssa disappear around a shadowed corner of the compound's imposing, monolithic formation. "Thank you. We love ya' millions," she called after the other woman, endearment carried far on the breeze.

-----

"Isn't this romantic," Vicky acknowledged, an elated energy still surrounding the opinion. Making connection with the straw bobbing within her drink, the steamy treat imbued complementary physical warmth as she basked in the picturesque holiday setting. It was truly a beautiful encapsulation of holly jolly hospitality. And in appreciating this timely serenity, she internally decided that planning occasions like this must be what Alyssa did with any spare moment found.

The hiss of rough hands swiping against each other could be heard as Negan joined in, "Yup. It really is. Typical Hot Wheels fanfare. Like I said before, shouldn't have expected anything less," he agreed, looking around the environment in paralleled wonder. The crackle of an empty candy wrapper whispered in the air, audibly crowning his appreciation. This action also introduced a tranquil lull. But it was a brief silence, only terminated by the clash of chair legs, suddenly scraping across pavement. Such unexpected movement called Vicky's eye to the man opposite her, where she saw the lead Savior with his seat adjacent to the table, directly facing the tree. And having garnered the desired spotlight, her date patted his leg invitingly, "Maybe you ought to come sit on my lap, for a better view of it all. Wouldn't wanna miss any of the sights."

Eyebrows lifted incredulously at the proposition, but a sprightly expression remained fully intact, "Oh, that's what you think I should do, is it?" Vicky sunk ponderously into the throw covering the back of her seat, bringing the mug of chocolate to her mouth. The heat inside the weighty porcelain cup emanated from its smooth curves, a soother for cold palms.

His nod was delivered slowly, the nearby shimmering illuminations enhancing a salacious, beguiling glint in his observation. That gaze alone inspired goosebumps on her skin. Fiery embers swirling and reaching out for dizzying heights, from the soles of her feet, to the center point of her scalp. An encore performance of the most fulfilling sort. But nevertheless, Vicky, always calm and collected, held a poised alignment as she abandoned her beverage and stood up from the other side of the table. This eventual concession came with a calculated swing rotation of her hips upon their bridging approach. She first circled him from behind, before coming around to perch artfully in the requested spot.

When Vicky's arms fell to rest on his shoulders in relaxed loop, Negan let his chin balance atop her head, "We had fun today, huh?"

"We most certainly did," she concurred, enjoying the support of his shoulder as memories of the day floated back to mind like a hazy, tantalizing dream. With a reposeful inhalation, she took in the holiday beacon silently, until another thought surfaced. "I would have changed clothes if I'd known about this, though."

"I wouldn't worry about it, doll. Ya' look smokin' in any threads, and you have me to keep you toasty. Besides, I'm just glad to see that you can sit down comfortably now." There was a pause for revision, and the sharp nature of his wit was swiftly and seductively felt. "Well, somewhat glad," he snickered, closing commentary brimming with bawdy accomplishment.

This was immediately met with a harmlessly playful smack on his leather-jacketed torso. "Watch it, smart-ass," Vicky chided, failing to withhold a smirk as she shifted her eyes to anchor his. This adoring connection held for a breath, then departed to recalibrate in posture, and return attention to the festively dressed tree.

Never one to leave the last word unspoken, Negan was quick to summon his skillful touch as a method for making amends. A hand snaked its way up her back, stopping just at the base of the neck. Exposing the mastered dichotomy of his touch and its capabilities, the leader gently massaged that section of available skin and muscle, "Aw, I'm sorry, darlin'," he murmured. Hot swirls of breath grazed chilled flesh as he bent toward the listening ear, "Daddy shouldn't tease. It's Christmas after all, and there's no need to fight. Again." This gruff crooning paired divinely with the conclusion of a captivating chortle

Unable to appear wholly uninfluenced, the returned sigh of euphoric consensus revealed more as a moan, "Mmm. That's probably for the best. But making up is always a danm fantastic time. It's kind of our specialty, wouldn't you say?" she replied, further thawed by her husband's appeal, guided into an increasingly insatiable yearning by the amatory consideration.

"Oh yes, I would agree with that," he said, settling back in his seat to allow Vicky an opportunity to pull closer. "But I sure as hell hope we're good now, and that you've enjoyed Christmas."

As intended, the blonde immediately snuggled into the space allotted, shifting gaze upward to her partner with unshakable contentment, "I'd say we're great. And today has been such fun." She gifted him a beaming smile, "Merry Christmas."

Negan wordlessly studied the gorgeous woman in his grasp for a prolonged interlude, experiencing a mirrored reflection of secure ease. When he finally broke this silence, his words were emblazoned with the same ardor of the previous answer. All suggestive connotations dematerialized in favor of earnest communication, an urgent need to be understood. "Merry Christmas, to you, too. I love you so damn much, ya' know that?"

"I do know that," she assured unequivocally, not breaking visual contact with her husband's sudden, piercing focus. Twisting to align herself more precisely face to face with the Savior, Vicky felt as though she were being carried out to sea by lapping waves of entrancing, magnetic current, "I love you, too."

The blissful approval that spread across his features effortlessly reached his eyes, where they now sparkled like submerged, and sunlit riverbed stone. "Good," he whispered into the shrinking gap between them, gaze finally breaking from hers, only to peer longingly at her lips.

Caught amidst this tender yet rapturous bluster, Negan slid his forefinger under Vicky's chin and tilted it upward in quiet, tempting question. An enticing invitation for a sugar-sweetened, liquor-laced kiss that was avidly accepted, as both met in the empty space that once parted them. It persisted as an all-encompassing, diligent satiation of passionate exploration, kindling temperatures high enough to disregard the frigid outdoor conditions. As pulses elevated, and the two clung to each other by way of frenziedly grasped leather and cotton, all worries were cast to the wind. A singular focus revolved around the zealously unyielding sensation of Negan's arms, holding his Wife tightly to his chest. In this mounting hold, they rocked, arched, and trembled wantonly together, within an increasingly lustful configuration. And high above their heads, left unseen, was the golden streak of a shooting star, arcing across the obsidian sky. Now, some might say that there is no point in pinning hopes and dreams on a star. That it's only fairytale, and a faded one, at that. But if you were to ask Vicky or Alyssa about the occurrence, they'd say that perhaps such a brief and beautiful extravagance was merely steady proof of goodness appearing, in the instances where it is least expected. Like the gift of being able to enjoy a Merry Little post-apocalyptic Christmas.

[a-dose-of-phitre]

[you-are-my-joy]

Song Bird | 02

Title: Song Bird

Pairing: OT7 x Reader

Genre: Angst, Romance, Fluff, Slow burn

Characters: Siren!Reader, Human!Jin, Human!Yoongi, Human!Hoseok, Human!Namjoon, Human!Jimin, Human!Taehyung, Human!Jungkook

Word count: 7.3k

Summary: Sirens have been hunted for centuries. Imprisoned and killed for experimentation or to be used for their powers. When thinking about sirens, most envision half woman half fish. But what most people don’t know is that the true original sirens were half woman half bird. Beings far more powerful than the water sirens that most people know of. Beings so rare that many people believe they never existed. But they do. So if word got out that one was sighted and found… it’s only a matter of time before their lives no longer belongs to them, but to their captures.

Warning: May contain depictions of violence and mentions of abuse throughout the story.

Masterlist

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The first thing you hear when sleep begins to fade away is the sound of knocking on your door. You groan at the consistent pounding, turning over to bring a pillow over your head in hopes of drowning out the sound. 

You vaguely hear someone go “I think she’s awake now,” before your door slowly begins to creak open, allowing the culprit to waltz right in shamelessly. 

“Rise and shine birdie!”

You wince, normally your mood would brighten at Hoseok's voice, but when it’s nearly 7 in the morning and you’re woken up harshly by loud sounds… Let’s just say you’re thankful Hoseok can’t read your mind. 

He grins down at a blob hidden under the blanket he can only assume is you. He taps on your shoulder, “birdie?” he peers over carefully, “it’s me, your ray of sunshine in the morning.”

“Hoseok I’m about to be your ray of death if you keep talking.”

All he does is chuckle, but nonetheless retracts his hand anyway.

Suddenly you hear another man sigh, “Y/n you can’t exactly threaten a person who would probably find joy in that,” he drones out in an unamused tone.

At the sound of Calvin’s voice, you peek your head from under the covers, “Cal?”

Hoseok looks highly offended at the action, “oh so you’ll look over for him but I’m the one getting death threats,” he exclaims with a bewildered expression, “this is favoritism!”

You roll your eyes, “yup it sure is.” You then proceed to ignore the noise that comes out of his mouth.

You give your full attention to the other man, “please, enlighten me on the reason you woke me up at this ungodly hour,” a slightly agitated tone in your voice. 

Calvin raises a brow, “did you forget what day of the week it is?” At the tilt of your head, he just sighs. “It’s training day my dear, as in, it's time to wake up.”

You groan out loudly and raise the covers to hide yourself in retaliation. 

You hear Hoseok chuckle and the next second he starts gently tugging your blanket. “Wakey wakey sweetheart.”

“Hoseok I swear I will bite off your finger.”

“Oh, birdie knows how to bite back,” he teases, the grin never once leaving his face as he now starts to play with your exposed hair, “could’ve been really helpful yesterday with your father.”

You pause at that before hesitantly looking over, “You know about that.” The sentence is more of a statement than a question. 

Hoseok pauses for a moment, before gently caressing the top of your head as he fixes your bedhair, “everyone knows,” he clarifies with a half smile, “not sure if you know this but you’re everyone’s favorite topic around here,” he teases in hopes of lightening up the mood but when you barely give a reaction his smile slowly begins to fall. 

“Don’t worry about it kid, a few of them are on your side,” Calvin tries to reassure but you couldn’t help but raise a brow at his word choice.

“A few of them,” you repeat in a whisper under your breath, but they both heard you loud and clear as they shared a look.

“Y/n, don’t take it personally, it’s just-”

“I’m a siren so everyone’s scared of me, I know, I’ve heard it all too well,” you mumble dejectedly, finally rising up from your bed to start your day.

Hoseok frowns as his eyes follow you, “Birdie-”

“It’s fine,” you interrupt, stretching your arms up in the air, “it’s not anything I’m not used to,” you try to ressaure them by sending them a small smile, but this does nothing to convince them you’re ok.

Even so, Calvin looks to Hoseok, “let’s get going while she gets ready,” he tilts his head to the door before walking out, not even so much as a glance back at you two.

Hoseok hesitates for a moment, standing there as though wanting to say more but turns to leave anyway. 

When the door finally closes shut, you heave a sigh letting your shoulders relax. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that everyone knows, seing how rarely anything exciting happens around here. So the moment something does happen, it's like a wildfire with how quick information spreads from person to person.

You shake it off, it’s not like you’d be able to make a difference in people’s minds. To them, you’re a siren, and nothing about that will change. 

Reluctantly, you get ready to start your day with a fresh change of clothes. Walking out the door and towards the training ground, you nod your head at the few staff members you run into who bow as they greet you.

Even if they weren’t exactly a fan of your kind, they at least had the decency to acknowledge and respect you as the daughter of their boss. For that, you’re thankful they don’t sneer at you like all the background characters you read about in your fantasy books. 

Eventually, you arrive at the training grounds, already dreading the lesson when you find Lucas and Jungkook waving at you. 

“Good morning dear, did you have a good night’s rest,” Lucas greets you with a wide smile, albeit too enthusiastic given how early it is in the day. 

You shrug your shoulders, “I’ve had better sleep,” you grumble, your eye bags definitely showing how you had a great night's rest. 

Jungkook, also looking half awake, can’t help but nod his head in agreement.

Lucas harshly claps his, the loud sudden sound causing you both to flinch. His eyes crinkle in amusement at the way you two are now much more wide awake. “Shall we get started now lady and gent.”

You begin to stretch, preparing your body for what it’s about to endure, “do I have much of a choice?” you ask rhetorically.

Lucas says nothing, but he brings out two pistols and hands it to the both of you. “Today’s shooting day,” he announces with a bright smile.

You groan, “I’m a siren, why must I need to shoot a gun.”

The older man raises a brow, “and when you lose energy what then? You’re completely vulnerable and have no way of defending yourself,” he puts the gun into your hands, “that’s why you learn.” 

You can’t bring yourself to disagree. 

Jungkook yawns, “can I ask why I’m here then?” He didn’t understand why he was present when it was your training session, so you can imagine how confused he was when Lucas had arrived at his quarters, forcing him to get up bright and early. 

“Consider this punishment for what happened at dinner yesterday,” Lucas answers, refusing to look him in the eye. 

At that, Jungkook’s mouth drops, “you’re punishing me for that?!”

Your gaze switches between the two in a confused manner, “what happened at dinner?”

“All I did was eat the last piece of cake the pastry chef made!” Jungkook answers with a bewildered look, unable to process in his mind that this was the reason he was being punished. 

“You had two plates prior to getting the last one and I had none,” Lucas snaps, finally looking at him with narrowed eyes, pettiness dripping from his voice. “Be thankful this is as far as I’m going.”

Jungkook purses his lips into a straight line, “Sir, I feel as though you’re taking advantage of your status.”

“See me same time tomorrow morning, Jungkook.”

You can’t help but laugh at them, the two somehow always bickering like father and son. You wave your hands between them in hopes of dissipating the tension. “Can we please carry on with the lesson, the faster we get this done the faster I can go back to sleep.”

Lucas eyes you, “our princess sure does love her sleep,” he mumbles but nonetheless nods his head and motions for you to stare straight ahead. 

He points ahead, following the direction, your eyes land on questionable painted animals on a wooden stand, “you see those targets?” he continues when both you and Jungkook nod your head. “Those targets will be moving by string and you two are going to compete against each other to see who shoots the most animals.”

At this, you two can’t help but widen your eyes. 

“We’re competing?” Lucas nods his head, “I want to see how Y/n handles shooting under pressure,” he explains.

Jungkook can’t help but let out a laugh. “Oh I’m so going to enjoy beating you,” he says cockily. 

And that one sentence was enough to spark the competitiveness within you. 

You furrow your brows and cocked the pistol, “we’ll see who beats who,” you snap back, wanting to smack the smirk off his lips. 

Lucas chuckles and with one blow from his whistle the ‘animals’  begin to move. You don’t even question how or who’s controlling it, your mind was focused on one thing. 

You both raise your guns at the same time and all at once you shoot. 

Shots ring out within the training grounds with pieces of wood flying in every direction. You don’t keep track of how many you’ve knocked down and you doubt Jungkook is either. 

Your eyes just remain trained on any moving object it sees. Though you curse under your breath everytime Jungkook hits the animal you were aiming for. It’s gotten to the point where it seems like he was doing it on purpose to win this competition. 

“Don’t get mad at me for winning Y/n dear,” Jungkook manages to shout through the multitude of shots ringing out. 

Your eyes narrow dangerously, “don’t get too cocky on me dear, it’s not over just yet.”

And it was like a switch got turned on in your head and all at once your shooting rate seemingly increased, much to Jungkook’s surprise as it became apparent he was struggling to catch up. 

Lucas smiles as he watches the scene before him with his arms crossed as he observes the way you hold the gun as well as the way your eyes seemingly calculate your target’s movements to hit them in the right spots. 

He takes note of these things, especially your behavior when your mood shifts. 

After many ‘animal’ deaths, it seemingly looks like you two demolished every single ‘animal’ Lucas had planned out. 

You catch your breath as you turn to look at the older man expectantly. Waiting for him to announce the results. 

“There’s still one more kiddos,” Lucas calls out, much to your surprise and disappointment. This causes you two to look back one last time. You narrow your eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the last animal before him but with the way you both react at the same time shows you saw it together. 

“A fucking hummingbird?!” you both shout in complete astonishment when you catch sight of the small ‘animal’ moving erratically in the air. 

Lucas hums, an amused twinkle shining past his eyes, “a fucking hummingbird,” he repeats in confirmation with a bright smile. 

“You’ve gotta be joking,” Jungkook mumbles under his breath as he cocks his gun once more. 

You don’t even hesitate, your eyes remain trained on the target. Unlike the others, it seems like this one didn’t have a set route as it randomly and freely moves as it pleases. 

This one was proving to be a challenge for the both of you, that much you can tell based on the multiple missed shots from both parties. 

“Lucas this is impossible!” you shout out in frustration. 

And what makes it even worse is it's impossibly small size. 

“Not impossible if you just believe,” he replies back in a sing-song voice, irking you even more. 

You take a deep breath knowing that letting your emotions get the best of you won’t do you any good. 

You stare back at the fast-paced ‘animal’ with a more calm head as Jungkook continues to chase after it helplessly. Just when it seemed like it didn’t have a set route, the more you paid attention to it, the more you’ve come to realize it did go into somewhat of a pattern.

It goes in the same route but the way it moves differs from time to time making it seem like there was no way to predict its movements. 

You memorize its movements and notice this one spot it always passes and then count in your head the length of time it passes by. 

Lucas raises a brow as he observes the way you stopped following its movements altogether. He leans forward, as he watches you carefully. 

He swears he sees you mouth the word ‘one’ right before letting out a shot. 

The area goes silent as all three of you watch the bullet pierce right through the small piece of wood leaving Jungkook in disbelief. 

Your eyes light up, surprised your method actually worked. 

Lucas lets out a hearty laugh as he claps his hands. “Well done the both of you, it’s quite hard to delcare the winner I’ll be honest.”

“I clearly shot more of them though,” Jungkook argues. 

The older man raises a brow, “while that may be so, shall we compare the accuracy?” he makes a motion with his hands, “Hoseok, Yoongi bring me two of their targets.”

You were surprised to find that the two were here. They must’ve been the ones controlling and throwing them around. 

Hoseok and Yoongi smile at you, happily making their way with pieces of broken wood with holes drilled into them. When they finally stand before you, Lucas leans closer to inspect them carefully.

He hums, “there’s no denying that Jungkook did shoot more but not by a large margin. However every single one of Y/n’s hits was right on the bullseye, and if not, it was on the second line right next to it,” he looks back at you with a pleased smile, “Y/n’s accuracy beats Jungkook’s by a long shot, no pun intended.”

“So what does this mean?” you ask with slight hope in your voice.

“Jungkook is faster in terms of shooting, however it’s sloppy. His targets wouldn’t die in one shot, instead it’d probably take two to three shots to finish them. You on the other hand, do well in that aspect to the point it’s scarily accurate.” 

Your eyes light up, you try not to act boastful knowing how competitive Jungkook is. 

“I’ll consider Y/n the winner by a very small margin. Don’t take it personally Jungkook, you still did very well compared to others, Y/n is just an above average person.” 

Jungkook sighs but nonetheless sends you a smile, “I should’ve known better than to think it’d be easy to beat you,” he extends an arm out, “good job.”

You happily accept his hand, “thank you, you did really good too.” You then turn towards Yoongi and Hoseok, “what I wanna know is which one of you was controlling the hummingbird one.”

 Jungkook scowls, “yeah, with the size, that was nearly impossible.”

“Y/n managed to get it,” Yoongi points out, purposely wanting to annoy Jungkook even more, “and we weren’t the ones in charge of that,” he informs him while tilting his head to the side, motioning for you all to turn to look. 

When you do, your eyes meet with the new guard you met yesterday, Taehyung. 

“Good evening,” he greets you all yet his eyes only remain trained on you. 

You can’t help but blush, acting shy from his intense stare. Jungkook raises a brow having noticed this and subconsciously rolls his shoulders back looking a tad bit more taller. 

“You controlled the hummingbird?” When Taehyung nods his head Jungkook furrows his brows, “you nearly made it impossible to shoot that damn thing, did you have to go so fast?”

“Sir Lucas ordered me to make it go fast,” the man shrugs his shoulders, “I was just following orders that’s all, is it my fault that you couldn’t hit?”

You all raise a brow at the slight sass whereas Jungkook narrowed his eyes in slight agitation, “no, I suppose not,” he replies through gritted teeth. He refuses to let his emotions get the best of him, not with his supervisor, friends and most importantly you being right there.

“It’s no surprise that you won Miss Y/n, I had my faith in you the entire time,” you couldn’t help but question his sincerity, however his good looks and deep voice really makes it hard to keep your heart calm. He then turns his attention towards Jungkook, “you did great too I guess,” he says not as enthusiastically as when he was addressing you. 

“Gee thanks,” Jungkook replies sarcastically, dodging a nudge of your elbow, a punishment for acting rude. 

Taehyung shrugs his shoulders, “don’t take it the wrong way, I just thought Y/n excelled in this aspect much more.”

“Well there’s no question about that, but I’m better at sparring than I am at shooting,” Jungkook replies back a bit more defensively. 

“Is that so? I would love to see that for myself.” The confidence was nearly radiating off of him that it was hard to tell whether he was actually a really good fighter or he was just bluffing. 

However, your father would never hire someone who was inadequate, so if he was here he must be good to some extent. 

Yoongi observes from afar with narrowed eyes, clearly catching on to the fact that Taehyung was purposely trying to provoke Jungkook, but for what reason, he doesn’t know.

“I hope you dont mind losing again today,” Taehyung replies back cheekily, confidently declaring a challenge. One that Jungkook was ready to accept. 

“I’ve been a guard here since the very beginning, there’s no way I’d lose to a rookie like you,” he scoffs, almost offended he would think that.

“Jungkook I hope you know I’ll never live this down if you lose,” Hoseok calls out from the sidelines with a lopsided smile, hoping that by joking it would dissipate much of the apparent tension in the air. 

“Yeah, losing to a rookie has gotta be the lowest thing you can do,” Yoongi adds with a slight smirk on his lips, adding more fuel to the fire. If they were going to fight, he might as well enjoy the show. He’ll investigate further into Taehyung’s character later.

“Thanks for the words of encouragement guys, really helping me out here,” Jungkook calls out sarcastically, with a hint of agitation. 

“No problem.”

Jungkook just sends Yoongi a scowl.

“Y/n can I get your words of encouragement?” Taehyung asks with a charming smile, successfully gaining your attention. 

Jungkook whips his head in your direction, his scorching gaze boring into you, “Y/n I’ve known you longer,” the man was quick to remind you. 

“Taehyung good luck,” you encourage with a shy smile, leaving Jungkook absolutely flabbergasted. You finally turn to him, unable to hide the amused grin at the sight of his pout, “Jungkook, good luck as well.”

His eyes nearly light up as he pulls his shoulders back, a bit more determined now. Taehyung couldn’t help but envision him as a puppy that got complimented by their owner.

“Softie,” Hoseok mumbles from beside you, nudging your shoulder gently with a small smile.

You nudge him back playfully, “shut it sunshine,” you hiss quietly, but he just chuckles at this, knowing he was right. 

Lucas shakes his head in amusement at the scene before him, “well I’ll let you kids enjoy your time,” he says, starting to turn around to make his way out. 

Your eyes snap in his direction, “is my training over? Wouldn’t father not approve of this,” you ask nervously. You weren’t prepared to get scolded again after yesterday. You try your best not to disappoint him but somehow you just can’t stop causing trouble for him. 

He smiles softly at you before patting your head, “don’t worry about it kiddo, I’ll take the fall if he gets angry. You’ve been working hard all your life, it wouldn’t hurt taking a break every now and then.” 

You can’t help but lean into his touch. Lucas has always treated you so kindly with so much affection that you had always wished he was the one you were calling father instead. But you don’t dare say that out loud, so you hope your actions display your gratitude instead. 

“Thank you.” He just nods his head before leaving the area. 

Yoongi gently grabs your forearm, guiding you towards the sidelines away from the two men radiating testosterone. “Let's get this show on the road fellas,” he calls out over his shoulder, “also Taehyung, do me a favor and beat him good, his ego gets the best of him sometimes.”

Jungkook lets out an offended noise as he stares at his friend with full on betrayal, “I get it, you all hate me and want to see me fail.”

“No we don't!” Hoseok shouts almost immediately, “I’m your best friend, we even shared a toothbrush once!” You and Yoongi turn to look at him in disgust.

Jungkook blinks, a now more horrified look on his face, “… I was not aware of that.”

You’re not at all surprised by the shameless look on Hoseok’s face despite announcing that in front of everyone. 

“You have some very… interesting friends,” Taehyung replies as politely as he can. 

“Yeah, very interesting,” Jungkook mutters, rolling his shoulders as he begins stretching to prepare for the fight.

Taehyung begins to stretch as well, “Y/n is definitely the most beautiful among your friends.”

Jungkook freezes at the mention of your name. He slowly raises his head to look at him seriously, “what do you want with Y/n?” He notices the way the man pauses for a moment, caught off guard at the question before reverting back to his charming expression. 

“Is it wrong to admire her for her beauty?” Taehyung replies back with a shrug, “I just think she’s immensely gorgeous, nothing more nothing less.”

Jungkook remains unconvinced but nonetheless lets it go. He’ll just show this new guy through actions that he can’t get to you, not with him there.

“Enough talking, let's get started,” he says with a determined look.

Taehyung looks slightly surprised but smirks anyway, “thank goodness.”

Eyeing the way the two changed their stance, Yoongi nudges you to gain your attention, “they’re starting,” he says, taking you away from you and Hoseok placing bets on who's going to win. 

Without any hesitation, Jungkook charges forward, always the type to run head first. And to your surprise, instead of bracing himself, Taehyung also runs forward. 

You suck in a breath as they practically collide against one another. Fists and legs flying in the air as they aim at one another with precision and accuracy. 

You three watch with bated breaths, the two fighting as if they were actual enemies wanting to kill each other. 

The two were practially a perfect match as you watch the way Jungkook’s fists come straight for Taehyung’s shoulder, but the man professionally dodges the attack and retaliates with his own by kicking his feet under him. But Jungkook was skilled enough to dodge that attack as well.

Where Jungkook excels in strength, Taehyung excels in agility. 

“This is getting really intense,” you mutter, flinching everytime someone’s fist collides with the other's skin, the sound not sitting right with you, “why are they trying so hard?”

Hoseok gives you a side eye with a knowing smile, “I wonder why.” 

Yoongi hums in return, eyeing the two carefully, ready to intervene if it gets too messy. 

Taehyung grunts as he braces himself for a jab from Jungkook, letting his forearms block the attack. He’s already not anticipating the bruises that are going to appear the next day throughout his body. 

He ducks down, successfully dodging yet another one of his opponents hits, much to his annoyance. But to Jungkook’s surprise, Taehyung uses his legs to kick himself off the floor and with the momentum, collides his fist straight into his abdomen causing him to stumble backwards. Taehyung uses this to his advantage and kicks in the same spot until he falls to the ground.

“HAHAHAHAAH JUNGKOOK WHAT WAS THAT?!” Hoseok shouts as he nearly topples over while laughing his heart out. Meanwhile you and Yoongi couldn’t help but look away, trying to stiffle the laughter that was threatening to escape. 

Jungkook growls and without wasting any time, flips over until he’s standing up on his feet once more. His stamina amazes Taehyung but he tells himself he needs to remain focused. 

“Seems you do know how to fight,” he mutters.

Taehyung shurgs, “the boss wouldn’t hire me if I didn’t,” he points out, a statement that the other man couldn’t argue with. 

Without another word, Jungkook surges forward and swings his fists in the air, switching between his two hands at lightning speed that you three on the sidelines could barely catch the movement. It was almost like he was moving like a blur. 

Hoseok whistles, “wow he really is trying extra hard,” he mutters, “this new guy must be something else if he’s putting in this much effort to beat him,” he comments off to the side, more so to himself but you and Yoongi hear it loud and clear. 

You can’t help but agree, despite Jungkook moving incredibly fast, Taehyung was surprisingly able to block or dodge each one. 

However, Jungkook’s relentless attacks barely gives Taehyung any time to recover. So after some time, Taehyung noticeably has difficulty trying to catch up to the impressive speed, grunting as he tries his best to dodge his attacks. Although, he takes a misstep, and that one action was enough for Jungkook to take a strong jab at him. 

Taehyung grunts from the pain, nearly toppling over. Jungkook uses this chance to swing his legs and kick his sides causing the man to fall to the ground from the impact. 

All three of you gasp at the sight, waiting with bated breaths for Taehyung to stand back up, but much to Hoseok’s disapppointment, the man remains on the ground. 

Yoongi frowns, “oh, looks like Jungkook won,” he announces, with absoultely zero enthusiasm in his voice.

Jungkook scowl’s, having taken note of his tone. “Thank you all so much for believing in me.”

“Kookie, I never once lost faith in you,” Hoseok smiles cheerfully with his thumbs up in the air.

“You’re a liar.”

“I sure am.”

Jungkook’s scowl never once left his face.

Taehyung lets out a hearty laugh, “it was my mistake to think I had a chance against you,” he says, succeesfully gaining his attention. 

Jungkook can’t help but offer a small smile, “told you, I wasn’t planning on losing to a rookie,” he boasts, extending his hand out for him to take, “but nonetheless you put up a good fight.”

Taehyung gratefully accepts his hand and with his help, stands up from the floor. He returns the smile, “it’s quite an honor to lose to you, I’ve only heard great things about you.” He could practicaly see the way Jungkook’s entire demeener changed.

“Taehyung please, that boy's ego is already big as is,” Yoongi drones out as you three approach the two sweaty boys. 

“Wow handsome and knows how to flatter, you’ve got the whole package,” you comment with a small smile directed to the new guy. 

When his eyes land on you, he smirks in return, “I wouldn’t mind extending this flattering to you princess,” he replies flirtatiously, causing the other boys to raise a brow. 

“I might have to take you up on that offer,” to everyone’s surprise, you return the flirting. 

Hoseok moves to wrap an arm around your waist, “birdie don’t joke like that,” he whispers lowly in your ear. He leans away with a bright smile yet, it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Jungkook narrows his eyes, frowning as he wordlessly moves to stand in front of you.

You blink, “can I help you?”

He tilts his head, “I won,” he announces as if you weren’t just a few feet away and saw thw whole thing. 

You nod your head, still slightly confused, “I know? I was watching.” He pouts but doesn’t say anything else. You try to rack your mind as to what he wanted from you before realizing he must’ve wanted you to congratulate him. 

You nearly chuckle before giving him a bright smile, “you did really well Jungkook.” And almost instantly, his entire face lights up. 

Yoongi scoffs, “are you a puppy now?” he mumbles in a bored tone. 

“You’re just jealous that Y/n’s praising me,” Jungkook pettily responds, his bottom lip jutting out.

“Nothing to be jealous about when I can hug her as I please,” he states before moving behind you to wrap his arms around your waist, resting his head gingery on your shoulder as he eyes him, almost challenging him, and the younger man was never one to turn down a challenge.

“I can hug her as I please as well!” Jungkook defends, and moves towards you with determination, but he suddenly gets stopped when you raise a hand in front of you. 

“Not with all that sweat you’re not,” you state in a serious tone,your lips in a straight line, almost disgusted at the thought of being covered in his sweat. 

Yoongi smirks before sticking his tongue out, successfully aggrivating Jungkook even more.

And just to add more fuel to the fire, Hoseok joins in and one ups Yoongi by placing a chaste kiss to your cheek. 

Needless to say, this left Jungkook speechless. 

Taehyung watches the scene before him in amusement. But at the same time he was trying to understand the dynamic that you have with all three of them. At first he had thought you were all just very close friends but the more he watche your interactions, he can’t help but think otherwise.

He had initially only wanted to test his strength, but he completely underestimated the man seeing how he was barely able to catch up to his speed. 

He realizes then that it might be a lot harder to get close to you if he has to go past these three.

Little did anyone know, three pairs of eyes were watching you all like a hawk.

Your father, along with Calvin and Lucas were all observing the show below them from the window of his office. 

Lucas had arrived at your father’s office knowing he would make a scene if he hadn’t informed him that he ended training early. After getting berated for a few minutes, they were left watching you five. 

Your father hums, crossing his arms, “what can you think of him,” he asks, clearly referring to Taehyung who was treating you much differently from the rest of the staff. Granted Jungkook, Yoongi, and Hoseok treat you as a dear friend, but that’s only because that was their main purpose in your life.

However, this Taehyung guy, unlike the three boys, has no obligation to befriend you.

Calvin hums, eyeing the boy carefully “he’s rather bold for a newbie,” he comments.

“I think he’s just a very flirtatious and open person,” Lucas chimes in, also staring at the boy, “I’ve spent the most time with him yesterday and from what I’ve gathered, he’s a rather very charming person. Even having the audacity to flirt with her right in front of me,” he informs his boss. 

Your father can't help but hum, lost in thought, “keep an eye on him,” he orders the other two, “whether he’s just flirting or not, we can’t take any risks.”

The two nod their heads, making sure to keep a close eye on the man and his future interactions with you.

Just then, when it seems as though the conversation was coming to an end, Lucas clears his throat, “Sir, if I may, would it hurt to be a little gentle with Y/n? She’s still young and-“

“Enough-“

The guard clamps his mouth shut, slightly intimidated by the now heated glare pointed towards him. 

“Haven’t I told you before,” his boss hisses, “you can’t baby her, if she’s not exposed to the harshness of this world, then how can you expect her to survive out there.”

“We wouldn’t know since you don’t permit her to go out there at all,” Calvin comments in a heartbeat. Lucas can’t help but shift his gaze towards his friend, shocked to see the normally quiet man speak up for once. 

Their boss snaps his head in his direction, slightly surprised he spoke up but narrows his eyes even more, “and then what? Risk getting her kidnapped? Being used for personal gain?” he snarls, “is that what you want?”

Calvin raises a brow, not at all intimidated, “well is that not what you did and are doing?” he asks shamelessly, crossing his arms across his chest, “were you not the one who ordered us to find Y/n and her mom and bring her to you at all cost?”

“I ordered you to bring them both to me, alive.”

“Well you know just as well as we do that things didn’t work out as planned.”

“Well maybe if you hadn’t missed a couple turns you could’ve gotten there quicker,” the man growls, slamming his fists angrily against his desk.

“If you could just barely protect her from that world, what makes you think that she’ll be able to survive out there without your protection.” At this, neither of the men can say anything else. 

He just scoffs at their silence, “so go ahead, continue playing house with my daughter. You’ll only be digging her grave in the end.” He scowls at the both of them before turning on his heel and walking out the door without another look. 

It goes silent for a moment, the two remaining men not knowing what to say next. 

“Told you you’d never get through to him, even if we grew up with him,” Calvin nonchalantly comments as though he didn’t just go against his own boss. 

Lucas raises a brow, “then why bother speaking up? You don’t normally do that.”

The man just shrugs his shoulders, “who knows.”

But Lucas gives him a mischievous grin, throwing an arm around his shoulders roughly as the other man grunts on impact. “I know, it’s because you think of her as a daughter, isn’t it.”

Calvin scoffs, shrugging him off, “no, you think of her as a daughter, not me.” His friend does nothing to deny that. 

Lucas’s smirk does not once fall off his face. “Oh c’mon now, admit it, you would love to be her father.”

“I’ll admit that I’d be a better father to her than the one she has now,” he mutters in a low voice. 

Lucas frowns, silently agreeing with him, “you know he cares for her.”

The other man scoffs, “with the way he’s acting, I have my doubts.”

“You and I both know why he’s acting like that,” Lucas mutters, sending him a knowing look. If he didn’t know the information he knows maybe he’d resent his boss much more for the way he’s been treating you. 

Calvin rolls his eyes but says nothing. 

He pushes himself off the wall and begins making his way out, “let’s get going, it’s getting late and I could drink some good alcohol.”

At the mere mention of alcohol, Lucas’s eyes nearly light up, “I’ll never say no to that.”

The two continue to joke around even as they exit the suffocating office. Unknown to them however, was that they had an eavesdropper. 

“Y/n… was kidnapped?” Jin mutters in disbelief under his breath, a hand coming up to cover his mouth. 

The man was just passing by when the sound of your name piqued his interest. He knew it was wrong to eavesdrop on a private conversation that could possibly have gotten him killed, but when your safety was mentioned he couldn’t help but lean into the door. Careful to make sure no one was around to catch him in the act. 

And now, he was beginning to regret eavesdropping as he may have just heard information he was never meant to hear.

When he heard footsteps approaching the door, he scurried and quickly ducked into an empty room across the hall. Waiting patiently in silence as your father and both Calvin and Lucas left the room.

“Y/n’s not his real daughter?”

He’s heard stories about your arrival from the other servants in the manor. From their stories, their boss had supposedly arrived one day and announced that you were his child and was then going to live under this roof after finding out your mother had sadly passed away. 

He then mentionned the fact that your mother was a siren, making you his siren child. Of course this information came as a surprise to everyone, definitely beginning to become much more wary of the small child in his arms. 

But nonetheless, as per the request of their boss, they have always known you as his daughter and promised to protect you against the world who looks down on sirens. 

Except now, someone found out about the truth, you weren’t his daughter at all. Jin can’t help but think of his boss as a complete hypocrite, claiming to protect you from the world, when the only evil here is him. 

And apparently the two older men who have always treated you so kindly, are the ones responsible for killing your mother and kidnapping you.

His head was spinning, he didn’t know what to do with all this information. Should he tell you? Do you already know? Or does he forget ever hearing about it in the first place. 

He steps out of the door, rubbing his temples in hopes of easing the headache slowly forming. 

“Jin?”

The man jolts at the sound of your voice, whirling around with wide eyes. His reaction has you jumping back in surprise. 

“Is everything alright?” you ask, concern laced in your voice.

Jin clears his throat, “Uh yeah, everything’s perfect. Where were you coming from?” 

You raise a brow, clearly not convinced given the way he’s acting but you choose to let it go for now. “I just returned from the training grounds. Did you happen to see my father passing by?” you ask, trying to change the subject.

He pauses for a moment, but hesitantly shakes his head, “no I haven’t, I’m sorry.” 

You nod your head, “oh alright, thanks anyway,” you offer him a bright smile before starting to make your way past him. 

Jin gulps the closer you got, he closes his eyes shut, “actually Y/n-” he can’t help but blurt out when you were a step behind him. 

You turn around to face him with a tilt of your head, “what’s wrong?” you ask curiously, waiting patiently for him to tell you. 

He clears his throat, “um well, the thing is,” he pauses, trying to find the right words to explain to you what he heard. 

But when you furrow your brows in confusion, he just lets out a sigh, “there’s a flower bush that’s wilting really badly, I was hoping you could spread some magic on it,” he asks instead of what was really on his mind.

You raise your brows slightly before nodding your head, “of course, I’ll make sure to stop by later today. Is that all?” You notice the way he pauses for a moment before nodding his head slowly, “alrighty then, I’ll see you later,” you wave him goodbye.

He mimics the action, trying to smile but he swears it must’ve looked more like a grimace in your point of view. He watches as you slowly walk away from him.

He purses his lips into a line, he hated lying to you, but he needed to gather more information in order to confirm whether he heard correctly or not. 

Only then can he fully protect you. 

Taehyung groans as he slowly tries to lay down on his bed after a long day visiting the nurse to get his bruises treated. 

“What’s with the groaning, you’re not doing any sinful acts are you?” Jimin’s voice goes through, no doubt sporting a disgusted look. 

“No, I got beat up by her boyfriend you pervert,” he explains, wincing at a sudden stab in his ribs when he moves in the wrong direction, “he’s a lot stronger than I exected.”

“Aw damn she’s got a boyfriend.” Taehyung could almost hear the pout in his voice.

“As if you had a chance with her in the first place,” Namjoon chimes in 

“I would if I spoke to her myself,” Jimin claims confidently, but then goes silent for a second, “hey Tae you mind switching places for a bit.”

“Fuck off,” Taehyung nearly growls back. He winces when he lays down wrong and accidentally bumps into a bruise on the side of his body he didn’t know he had. “She’s got three close friends,” he informs his teammates. 

“And?”

Taehyung rolls his eyes, “must I explain everything Jimin, they’re all guys and they’re very protective over her, it’s going to be hard trying to gain her trust if she’s constantly being surrounded by them. Not to mention the two older men who treat her as if she's their own kid.”

He’s beginning to think this mission was a lot harder than he expected. Him getting beaten wasn’t exactly part of his plan. 

“Did you think this was going to be an easy mission given the information we have. Her friends are the most skilled in that place and the two older men are the head guards,” Namjoon drones out, “not to mention she’s quite literally a siren who can kill you with one simple tune, don’t let your guard down,” he warns.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“What’s she like?” Jimin asks curiously, breaking the tension, “surely you got a good glimpse of her character.”

Taehyung hums, thinking back at the way your smile shined brightly among them all, “she’s not at all like what I’ve heard about her.”

“Elaborate,” Namjoon gently orders. From the other end, pages turning and a click of a pen can be heard, no doubt the man preparing to take notes on his observation. 

“Everyone says she’s scary, or someone not to mess with,” Taehyung summerizes the multiple answers he’s received when he was snooping around and asking people about what they thought of you. “But when I saw how she was interacting with her friends, all I saw was a normal girl.”

From what he’s gathered, although the staff may have these thoughts, they don’t underestimate your strength, which is why they don’t try to get in your way, but in the process you barely have any friends despite the many years you’ve known them. 

“Her friends, they’re the ones who are extremely protective of her?” Namjoon asks, more of a confirmation than a question. 

“Precisely. Their names are Jeon Jungkook, Jung Hoseok, and Min Yoongi,” he informs both his teammates. 

“Jung Hoseok,” Jimin mumbles with furrowed brows, “where have I heard that name before,” he mutters under his breath, more so to himself than to the others. 

“That name sounds familiar to me too,” Namjoon adds. He hums as though lost in thought, putting a star by the man’s name to investigate further, “Jimin, try to find more information about this Hoseok guy.”

“Roger that.”

Satisfied by that answer, Namjoon asks, “have you encountered her ‘father’ yet?”

Taehyung purses his lips, “no I haven’t, it’s nearly impossible to run into the man ‘accidently’,” he groans, tilting his head back against the pillow, “it’s almost like he’s avoiding any other human being on purpose unless it’s his daughter or his closest men.”

He hears Namjoon sigh, “just make sure not to grab his attention in a way that it gets you targeted,” he warns.

Taehyung shuts his eyes, “don’t worry hyung, he never runs into me. I doubt he even remembers he hired me,” he waves his hands in the air in a carefree manner. 

“Out of sight out of mind.”

A/N: I apologize for the long wait, I was on vacation for the entire month of July and I just recently moved into a new apartment so I never really had time to write this chapter. But it’s here now~

I also would just like to say that since I’m heading back to school, I will have even less time to write as I really want to focus on my studies. With that being said I hope you can all understand that I’m not sure when the next chapter will be released.

Thank you for reading and have a wonderful day :)

Love always, Liz

Taglist: (those in bolded letters, I apologize but it seems I wasn’t able to tag you, im sorry. Also if I happened to forget to tag anyone, please comment under this post and I’ll add you in the next one, thank you)

@h0bi-c0re, @mageprincess7, @toughbook, @stupendouscookiehumanmug, @ceoalpaca, @softieyn, @tinnielovestannies, @singukieee​, @lilacdreams-00​

[bronte-deserves-better]

@winterfireice thank you for your enthusiasm in the tags I will now proceed to be extremely normal about trans keeper.

Anyone who has read the Ancillary series knows that I'm insane about Bronte-Tiergan-Sophie parallels, and anyone who has followed this blog for more than 30 seconds knows that I'm generally insane about Bronte, so buckle up.

I think in a lot of ways even in the canon series, Bronte sees Sophie as sort of a younger version of himself. He thinks that Sophie could be a Councillor someday, and they share the same ability. Sophie being trans (especially transmasc which is how I headcanon Bronte) would really serve to further this.

(Before embarking on the rest of this ramble, I think I should clarify that I generally see the Lost Cites as being fairly homophobic and transphobic, as evidenced by the fairly western gender roles seen in the series and the inherent homophobia of the matchmaking system. Also, I'll be initially referring to Sophie with she/her for parts that are canon to the books, and then as them in later parts of this ramble which focus more on how their trans identity could be narratively interesting.)

Anyways as is very evident in the latest installment in the Ancillary series, I've put a lot of focus into transgender parallels and cycles of trauma. To a great degree, I see Sophie and Bronte's dynamic as representative of cycles of abuse, even without factoring in the transgender part of their relationship. Bronte's ability was intensely traumatic for him as a teenager, and then he enacts a lot of trauma onto Sophie when she first manifests and he's forced to mentor her. He has a lot of unresolved anger and grief over his ability and the way he was treated by his own mentor, which leads him to reproduce that trauma with Sophie. It's only when he has his full breakdown in book 3 (3? I havent read the series in too long) and Sophie doesn't condemn him for what she sees in his mind- that pain that he's been carrying for so long- that he starts to consider that he was wrong.

How does being transgender come into this? We're getting there! Essentially, I think that Sophie and Bronte both being transgender actually fits really well into the existing themes of trauma and cycles of abuse embodied by their story. Being transgender in an transphobic world is inherently a traumatic experience (I should know lol). Similar to the themes in Chiral, I think the dynamic of Bronte, who's struggled a lot with his own gender growing up into the transphobic elven society, wanting to be a good mentor to Sophie and support them through gender struggles but also struggling with his own internalized transphobia really interesting. He sees himself in them a lot, and that isn't always a good thing, because Bronte has been deeply hurt just by existing as himself in this world. At the same time, he wants to support them and make sure that they have it a little bit easier than he did growing up.

So basically, from a narrative standpoint, them both being transgender furthers the Sophie-Bronte narrative parallels and the narrative of cycles of abuse and trauma that I think is very prevalent even in canon keeper. I also just find the Sophie-Bronte mentorship dynamic really interesting overall, and I think them both being transgender adds a lot of interesting layers to it. Additionally, we get the angst of Bronte wanting to protect them from some of what he lived through while not entirely being able to, and Sophie seeing what their future might be like in Bronte, who is old and scarred and tired. Maybe Sophie coming out even inspires Bronte to start trying to slowly change the Council's policy on trans elves and make a better world. Anyways, I love them.

sophie should be a little transgender. as a treat.