#HAVE THIS ANGST [pelts it at your face]

[general-kalani]

{ @starvingtongue liked for an angsty starter!

Muse currently holding my braincell: Joseph Seed }

His siblings were all gone, he'd killed the Deputy in a blind fit of rage in the bunker...

The loneliness would be maddening. Even God did not speak to him.

Perhaps the death of the Deputy was what he orchestrated too. God had told him his family would die. Why not kill the last shred of humanity he had remaining too? John... Jacob... Faith...

What was he to do now? This bunker was so quiet, the broadcasts had shut off weeks ago.

He'd remembered gloating about the fact he was right to the Deputy.

A sigh as he looked over at the dead body in the corner, strangled to death.

Maybe this was all God's punishment for him... Maybe he still hadn't truly atoned for his sins, that was most likely the issue.

Hell, when The Watcher appeared to him... He wasn't fearful. He wasn't startled.

Just another hallucination of his fragmented mind, or at least he assumed so.

"I'm going insane... First I think I'm talking to my siblings again and now some other worldly being is here... This bunker's going to make me lose it."

[seresinhangmanjake]

About Time

Tyler Owens x Childhood Friend!Reader

Summary: You’ve been Tyler’s best friend since childhood, but a near-death experience makes him realize he feels much more for you than friendship and he shouldn’t have allowed himself to deny it for so long. 

Warnings/Notes: cursing, mild angst, mostly fluff, typos

Words: 2300

Masterlist

It was when he almost lost you that Tyler knew he was in love with you. When he was forced to play tug of war with the violent winds to keep you in his arms. When he felt your chest move against his with your shallow, rapid breaths. When he heard his name, a soft whimper from quivering lips. 

“T–Tyler…”

He tightened his grasp on your waist and mumbled, “I got you, darlin’. Just don't let go.”

At that moment, he didn't know if he could protect you, but the alternative was an unbearable thought. Living without you was unimaginable, unacceptable, so if the winds planned to take you, they would have no choice but to take him, too. Then at least you'd be going together. 

He’d always felt something for you, and he understood that he probably always would, but he'd been unwilling to give it a name more intense than a teenage crush that just happened to last well past its expiration date. And while your perpetually growing beauty and intoxicating laugh made it hard for him to tame what he continued to feel, he’d managed. 

But that fear of imminent death—more potent than ever—tapped into the depths of those feelings he’d been swallowing for more than a decade. The abuse of pelting rain and flying debris paled in comparison to the overwhelming storm breaking free from the neglected portion of his heart. 

Once disaster moved along, you looked up at him with wide, weary eyes, and he couldn’t think clearly past the repetitive chanting in his head: ‘I love you, I love you, I love you’. Adrenaline was rushing through his veins, overpowering every other sense of logic and reason. He pushed strands of damp hair from your face, cupped your cheeks, then leaned down and sealed his lips to yours in a deep kiss. The first kiss. A kiss that typically has a much better outcome than what followed.

He hasn't seen you since that day. A week has come and gone and not one glimpse of your face, and now he’s more desperate for the sight than he’s ever been before. Missing you when you’re not around is far from new, but having released his feelings, the all-consuming sensation is worse. It’s harder to tolerate.

You're avoiding him, he knows it, but he supposes that can happen when someone kisses their best friend with no prior discussion of deeper feelings. It's not what he would do were the situation reversed—he'd still be all over you, kissing you back, smiling, never letting you go—but you've chosen to handle things quite differently, and in doing so, has left him no choice but to respond accordingly.

—

“Mornin’,” you hear, nearly dropping the pail of milk you’d been collecting all morning. Eyes darting to your right, you find Tyler sitting in one of the living room's quilted armchairs. Your heartbeat stutters. 

When you turn your head to the left, your mother is leaning against the kitchen countertop, her fluffy robe tied around her body and a cup of steaming coffee in her hands that she brings to her lips as she reads the newspaper splayed out beside her. 

“Mom, what is Tyler doing here?”

She glances up, swallows, and swipes her tongue across her bottom lip to catch the remnants of caramel-colored liquid. “Oh gosh, dear, he must've snuck in,” she replies, feigning ignorance. “But I’m not one for kickin’ anyone—especially not a fine, young man—off my property, so I guess he’ll just have to stay.”

With a huff, you set the pail down on the breakfast table, knowing your mother will take care of it, and shoot her a glare before making your way to the living room. Tyler stares up at you. You cross your arms and nudge your head toward the storage barn just behind the house where the two of you used to hold your late-night meetings when you were children, and later, teenagers. Many nights you spent in that barn after Tyler had snuck out of his parent’s house and chucked a pebble at your window to wake you. 

Tyler nods and follows you out the back door to the large structure that protects your privacy from the prying ears of the woman inside the house. 

“We gotta get you a new phone, darlin’,” Tyler says to your back once you're enclosed in the barn. “The one you've got doesn't seem to be receiving my calls…or texts…or elaborate voicemails.”

“Tyler…” you sigh, twisting to face him.

“You know we gotta talk about it,” he says. And he’s right, despite how the complicated element introduced into your relationship is entirely his fault and so you shouldn’t have to owe him the time of day until you're ready to give it. “You didn’t have to run away from me.”

“I didn’t run.” Tyler’s eyes follow the movement of your arms wrapping tighter around yourself and he swallows hard. “I walked.”

“Speed-walked,” he counters. “Borderline jogged.”

You groan, your tense shoulders sagging. “Tyler listen, I just–”

“Do you really think disappearing on me was a fair thing to do?” he interrupts. “I’m your best friend.”

Your jaw drops at the audacity. Not surprising, really; Tyler’s always had a way of wording things that gets under people’s skin, but out of the two of you, he is the last person who should be doling out the criticism. 

“Fair?” you huff. “You’re the one who–”

“I mean, what was so wrong with it?” Long fingers slide through his blond hair. “Can you honestly say you’ve never thought about me in that way? It hasn’t crossed your mind once? No sex dreams? Nothin’? ‘Cause I’ve been wrestlin’ with it since fuckin’ high school, but ok, sure, fine.”

“Ty–”

“And I know it was unexpected but was it really that shocking? Don’t you think we’d be good together? I think we’d–”

“For fuck’s sake, Tyler, will you let me talk!” you snap, your voice carrying throughout the barn.

If you were trying to preserve your privacy, you’ve definitely failed now. Half of town probably heard you and they’re nothing short of a mile away, but at this point, Tyler has pushed you well past caring. Let them hear. Let them know what’s going on between you. They all saw him kiss you anyway.

“We nearly died,” you continue. “People around us did die.”

Tyler’s face breaks down and you instantly regret your words. You know he stuck around after you left. You know he helped everyone he could in the aftermath of disaster while you let your emotions override your system and ran home to cry to your mother over how he just rocked what was your very steady relationship.

“Look,” you sigh. “Even if I wasn’t thinking about death—and that is a massive ‘if’—I told myself a long time ago that you are my friend, just my friend.”

Tyler’s hands settle on his hips. His eyes fall to the floor and his back teeth clench. “Why?”

“Because I repeated it so many times in my head that it solidified,” you tell him, throwing your arms up. “You know why Bradley dumped me last year? And Pete a couple years before that? And Bobby back in high school?” you ask. “Because of you. They all sensed this weird…energy…from you. All of them. Do you know how many times I had to tell them they were crazy? Do you know how many times I had to tell myself that I was crazy whenever they brought it up to me and I actually considered the possibility of you feeling that way?” 

You know exactly how many. Bobby had mentioned it five times before he decided he was done; broke it off with you right before prom and scoffed when he saw that Tyler had stepped up as your date. Pete was shorter-lived; asked you about Tyler three times before he said he could see which way the wind was blowing and had no interest in getting in between anything. And Bradley held the record at seven, each time making the fight outdo the one prior before he was simply fed up with the friendship you refused to sacrifice. Three boyfriends have ditched you solely because of Tyler, and fifteen times you had to talk yourself down from the jolt of excitement you got from imagining him loving you.    

Taking a deep breath, you say, “You don’t just get to kiss me and not let me sort out my thoughts for five damn seconds.”

Tyler’s head snaps up, jaw ticking and eyes blazing. “Five seconds?” he spits. “I haven’t seen you in a week. That’s the longest we’ve gone since I graduated.”

“This isn’t just about you; how you feel; what you think; what you want.”

“Then what are you tellin’ me?” Tyler asks.

The light quiver in his voice unnerves you. Not because you aren’t used to him expressing himself to the fullest—and if he’s ever going to be vulnerable with anyone, it’s with you—but that quiver is typically the trigger for you comforting him, taking him into your arms and holding him, letting him wrap himself around you until he feels better and is ready to stop. For some reason, you never noticed how long he would stay tied to you when you gave him the chance. 

“Are you feelin’ like this is it?” he continues. “Are you wantin’ us to be done?”

And suddenly, you’re irritated again. You can’t stop the roll of your eyes. In no universe would you ever be done with Tyler Owens, and the fact that he would entertain otherwise is asinine. “Don't be dramatic.”

“Well, what do you expect!” he shouts. “You’re actin’ like I’m about to lose you!”

“I didn’t say anything like that!”

“But you're mad that I kissed you!”

“Damn it, Tyler! I am not!”       

Green eyes widen, his breaths heavy from his heaving chest. His mouth opens then closes then opens once more. “You’re—” He licks his lips as you watch him grasp for words. “Then why haven't you called me back?”

You shrug. “I don't know. We've never fought before, and I thought you'd be pissed that I walked off, which clearly you are, so…”

“That’s not true,” he says, moving to take a step closer to you before thinking better of it and staying put. “I haven’t been pissed, darlin’, just terrified. And missing you. And…wanting you.” Heat flares your cheeks, forcing you to tear your eyes away from the desperation in his. “But I’m sorry. I wasn’t tryin’ to…I mean, you left and I thought…”

You shake your head. Whatever he let himself think, he was wrong.

The silence that settles over you is thicker than you're used to in his presence. You're used to laughter and jokes, sweet comments and banter. Tension zings in the space between your bodies, but it's pleasant, electrifying, invigorating. You feel the full impact of everything that was tucked underneath the stress and anxiety of barrelling through such a hard conversation. 

Tyler feels it too. His face shows it. His eyes you can only describe as heatedly glittering as he stares at you staring at him. His brows are pinched from frustration of a different kind. It's his lips, though, that reveal his thoughts better than any other feature. They're softly parted, glistening from a swipe of his tongue like he's ready to lock them to yours at any second. Like he needs to be ready just in case you give him the go-ahead so he can kiss you before you dare rescind your permission. 

“What are you thinking?” you ask, words quieter than you meant for them to be, but Tyler hears you.  

His chuckle is short, half-formed, partially overtaken by the exhale of a breath. You detect a slight tease, as if you should already know the answer to that question. 

“That I wanna kiss you again,” he says. “So fuckin’ bad.”

The corners of your mouth struggle not to quirk upward. “Tyler.” He hums. “You know what it means if we do this, right?”

He nods. “We can’t go back,” he says. “But darlin’, I don’t wanna go back. I wanna keep on goin’...with you.”

“Everything will be different.”

“Not everything. We're still us, we'd just be kissin’ and touchin’ and, you know, doin’ other stuff,” he replies with a smile. “Hopefully.”

You picture Tyler standing before you as you have secretly wished you could have him for years—bare and muscled and grinning and telling you he loves you—and for the first time, you aren’t awash with guilt and shame. It feels right to think of him like this. Natural. There’s a soothing ocean of serenity flowing under the flames of desire, and it hits you that this was probably inevitable. All the pieces were there—friendship, trust, love—all there was left to do was act on it. 

“You won't change your mind?” you ask, stepping to him. 

At your question, distress takes over Tyler's face, but it melts into a grin once he notices your smirk. He closes the remaining distance between you and takes your hand, carefully interlocking your fingers. 

“No chance,” he tells you. 

“Ok,” you say, nodding. “Well, if you’re absolutely sure, then I guess it’s ok if you kiss me agai–”

Your chuckle is muffled against his lips. His fingers untangle from yours and he guides your hand to rest on the back of his neck so he can cup your cheek. His free arm coils around your waist, pulling you in closer, and your body melts into his. Your brain fuzzes. You lose all awareness of your surroundings. You think you might just stay like this forever.

----

Tag List (if you wanna join)

[just-some-random-blogger]

I NEED MORE CREGAN STARKKKKK

Pelts

You were not one to grow jealous, but the knowledge that Lord Stark's favorite pelt cloak was a gift of affection from his old sweetheart inspired anything but affection from you.

Cregan Stark x Reader | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, jealousy, pettiness, fluff, a bit of angst ig????, etc.

A/N: hey nonnie im honored you like my cregan stuff. this is my first req since closing them. i feel like perhaps this is the world telling me i need to start writing fluff again............ lol HAHAH

The Lord of Winterfell had just arrived. Normally, I would meet him with a smile and brush the snow from his shoulders before warming his cheeks with the heat from my own palm. But today, neither did I brush the snow from his cloak, nor did I rub his cheeks. How irritating that he did not see to mind or even notice.

I do not fault him for lapping his meal like a starved beast. He rarely has time to have a proper meal when he is working, let alone when his duty calls him all the way up to The Wall for days on end. And yet, as he gobbled up his food, as though he was denied his whole life, my own appetite left me at the sight.

His tongue swiped the corner of his mouth and yet evidence of his meal remained. He chewed eagerly as he reached out for a cup of wine to wash everything down.

I could not help the face I made at the sound of his belch.

Only then did he recognize me. He sets his cup down, "wife," says Cregan, "you are not eating."

I raise my brows and press my lips into a smile, "I am not hungry, my lord."

My lord. Cregan straightens up from his seat and leans back. He clears his throat as his face twists warily, "are you well?"

I do not respond. I rest my hands upon the table. The candlelight between us flickers momentarily.

He gulps and sets his utensils down. He sighs slowly, "have I offended?"

I clench my hands tightly.

Cregan's eyes flicker to them. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and looks up at me. He does not like that my expression remains the same.

"Your pelt... milord," I mutter.

Immediately, the pelt upon his shoulders feel like a tonne. He rolls his shoulders back and immediately undoes it, "forgive me. It is inappropriate to have it on while-"

"Who gifted it to you?"

He freezes midway. He waits for me continue as he slowly places his cloak upon his lap. His eyes widen slightly, in confusion, in alarm. Was it a gift? He does not recall.

His silence is aggravating. I clench my jaw and lean forward, "do you not wish to tell me?"

Cregan opens his mouth.

"She told me herself."

A line forms between his brows, "who?"

"Lady Tallart."

He pinches his lips together. Lady Tallart? It could not be Edmond Tallart's mother who gifted this. It must be his wife... but which house did she belong to before she was wed?

He looks as though he is trying to recall the instance, the exact moment wherein his cloak was given to him. Somehow, the arduous recollection spurs me further into animosity. I growl, "do you truly not remember?"

He shakes his head, "I do not."

I clear my throat and push myself up from my seat.

Cregan stands quickly, so quickly, in fact, that his chair falls behind him with a loud thud, not that he cares. He calls my name out with concern and it makes me snap.

"I would appreciate it if you chose another cloak to wear."

The man walks over to me, forcing me to lift my gaze upon his worried face. I raise a hand at him before he can think to touch my arm. He withholds his touch.

"Cassandra and I had a cloak tailored in your absence. If it pleases you, you should wear it. However, if it is not to your taste, I can-"

"It is my taste," he interrupts. He nods his head, "the pick of my wife is my taste. I will wear it"

The glow of candlelight on Cregan's cheek makes my stomach roll. Bile rises up from my throat as his brows furrow in nothing but further concern.

"I care little for what I wear," he casts his cloak off to the side, "I care more for what concerns you."

My irritation over the matter bursts into embarrassment in an instant. A burning sensation creeps up from behind me, and soon I can no longer look upon my husband. I look back to the candle on the table and rashly gather my food. Before Cregan can speak, I mutter under my breath, "please enjoy your food, husband."

There's little he can do but watch as I rush off. Two wolves battle inside him, one that wishes to chase after, and another that keeps him still where he stands. Just as he is about to obey the former, the servant girl, Cassandra, comes up to him, "milord. Might I speak my piece?"

He watches as his wife disappears and sighs. He turns to Cassandra, "speak it."

She frowns, "milady has spent the three nights you were away making you a cloak herself."

"Has she?" his brows tighten.

Cassandra nods, "but her needlework is not as good as she wished, which is why she bought you this, milord," she hands him a neatly folded cloak.

Cregan takes it from her and sighs deeply. He unfolds the garb and inspects his wife's gift. He hangs the fabric on his arm and releases another breath, "will you show me my wife's needlework?"

Cassandra looks apprehensive, but she obeys her lord.

The next morning, I rouse to an empty bed. A thousand pins prick my heart, but I have no one to blame but myself for the turn of events.

I sit with myself, all lonesome, before deciding to begin my day. But just before I can dress myself, I hear a commotion from outside my window. I gasp when I see that there had been a buck who wandered inside the stronghold, running around in panic.

I wrap myself with a shawl before opening my window, watching how my husband and his men were trying to scare the deer towards the gate. Soon enough, my jaw drops at the sight of the horrid thing resting upon Cregan's shoulders as he maneuvered around the large creature.

Thankfully, it did not take the deer long to find the exit of Winterfell. The men share relieved sighs and laughter amongst themselves, as did I.

"My lord!"

Cregan, who was now calming down one of the spooked horses, does not hear me.

"My lord!" I call louder, gaining the attention of someone else.

Cregan is pat on the back. A man points skyward. He looks over his shoulder, face brightening at the sight of me. "Lady Stark," Cregan smiles, offering me a nod, "did we wake you?"

I shake my head, "what are you wearing?"

He turns to me and adjusts his lopsided cloak. The thing was hardly even worthy to be called one with how one hem barely met the man's calf and how one shoulder was far fuller than the other. He calls out proudly, "the work of my wife's hands!"

My face contorts, "it is horrid! Remove it at once."

Cregan pulls his head back, "I shall do no such thing."

"I bought you-"

"But I enjoy this," he lifts an arm to flaunt the terrible craftsmanship, "it keeps me warm and it suits me well."

"It does not!"

Cregan furrows his brows in challenge, "does it take away from my handsomeness, wife?"

I press my lips into a line.

The men around him chortle or snigger. Even mine own lips cannot help the chuckle that spills out. And though he was far, I could tell Cregan was awfully pleased with himself.

"If you wish to rid me of this, then you must do so yourself," he strokes the horse's snout, "but know you are challenging the Warden of the North as you do."

I roll my eyes and shake my head, "it is the work of my hands, Lord Stark."

"Which is why you must not rid me of it, my Lady Stark."

We stare at each other for a moment. Cregan's lips curl into a lopsided grin that matches his cloak. I sigh and shake my head once more, "we will speak of this later."

He nods, "as you wish, my love."

I clear my throat and close the window, ignoring the way my belly tumbled at the sound of his pet name.

[writingoddess1125]

The old men of One Piece finding out they have a child with you. Pt. 3

THROWS OUT FRESH MEAT To YOU ALL "SUPPER IS HERE" Buy me a Ko-Fi ;3

Part 4 <- Click Here

Shanks, Buggy, Mihawk xFemreader

Healthy Mix of Angst and Fluff

Buggy

It had been a week since Buggy had given you the talk about taking a 'Vacation with the boys' aka himself taking time away to help you raise the twins-

At first you didn't expect him to actually stick to it- it was a heavy order for anyone especially a pirate. However you had seen him silently preparing for the time off, piles of paperwork how payouts to his crew, budgeting for the time away and more.

It filled your heart in ways you never expected. Feeling joyful at him being so willing to do this for you and the twins. Speaking of the twins, they had been extra rambunctious it seemed. Clearly having enjoyed Buggy's time and attention too much and now that he was working that ment that the crew was at the twins mercy-

You never thought you'd see the day that the crew would miss Buggy's presents especially against two pre-teen boys.

"Miss (Y/N) can you please- Please Take the children" Cabaji said, His eyes sunken in and tired as he held Dee in one Arm and Bee in another. It seemed both had gotten into a fight again and Cabaji was in the middle.

"Of course" You giggle and thank the poor man, Taking your twins in your arms and bring them inside. Scolding both for being brats and getting them washed and fed for the night.

That night a storm rolled in. Rocking the Big Top and its crew inside, You sat there brushing out your boys hair in the Captian's quarters where you lived. The storm had set in thick, rocking the ship and pelting the crew with hail and icy rain. Buggy out on the main deck at the wheel as he yelled over the storm.

"Mom- I don't like the storms..." Dee whispered. Leaning against you as the ship rocked once again- Bee didn't say anything but his body language saying the same.

"I know sweety, but it's part of-"

"ENEMY SHIP ENEMY SHIP! ALL HANDS ON DECK!!" The announcement started from the speakers, you rising to your feet quickly as you heard the battle started.

"Boys you stay here and hide, Understand me?" You order, the twins nod quickly and do as said and hide under the bed. You grab a sword quickly and rush out the room, Locking it behind you with the key Buggy had given you.

You hold the sword as you see the first face of the enemy pirates rush down to the Lower Deck, Slicing through them with ease and continued up to the Main Deck Locking the door of the Lower Deck and rushing forward as more pirates approached you, You quickly defended yourself as you tried to stay close to the main doors. The rain pelting your skin and making it hard to see, A larger man approached with a axe. Swinging down he almost struck you as you slipped and managed to move away just in time.

"(Y/N)!!!"

Buggy yelled as he released his arms launching blades into the man's chest and knocking him back. As his arms returned to him a massive wave hit- Sending ocean water over the main deck, you saw this as the crash swept Buggy from the wheel. Running forward you grabbed Buggy sleeve and pulled him before he could be claimed by the rough waters, holding the wheel to keep from slipping.

Once the ship started to lean you pulled Buggy closer. Feeling his cough and regain his breath against you before climbing back up to the wheel to steady the rocking ship.

You saw the other shop fire more canons but the waves making them miss and fall short of the ship- The crew of the rival pirates starting to creak and splinter as the waves crashed against it.

"Retreat!!" A call of a rival pirate yelled, the temaing of their men trying to flee to the ship as the waves hit it. As the Ropes connecting the ships ripped Buggy turned hard, The backside of the ship smacking its offender as he tried to ride down the waves to clearer waters. Another massive wave came up and knocked the ship to its side, The Big Top groaning at the hit as it rode down the mountain of waves desperately.

You looked back to see the other ship heading into the opposite direction, the waves swallowing it from your perspective.

It was another 30 minutes before the storm softened enough to not be in danger. The crew both exhausted from the battle and storm it seemed, bodies of friend and foe being tossed overboard as the spinkle of rain washed the blood.

"You did good (Y/N).. Thank you" Buggy said softly, looking to you from the wheel of the ship. He looked rough- Soskes to the bone with his makeup running down his face.

"Of course" You said softly and giving him a equally tired smile.

"Captian! They got into the lower deck while the fight was happening!" Cabaji yelled out- Taking note of the damage that had been done. Your blood ran cold- Rushing from Buggy's side you ran down the stairs to the lower level, looking and seeing blood of a few fallen crewmates in the hall. Rushing to the Captian's quarters were you saw the splintered wood of the broken door, tears running down your cheeks as you felt your heart actually break. You frantically looked around- Sword still in hand as you stood in the room, it was destroyed. Blade slices through the pillows, furniture turned over.

"No- No No NO!" You screamed loudly, the reality hitting your chest making you scream out a sob.

Buggy rushed downstairs, seeing the splintered door and you sitting on the destroyed bedroom floor sobbing loudly. He ran to your side as his eyes frantically searching the envirment with the same fear as you.

"They are gone!" You sobbed, Buggy face turning to stone as he stood up- Tossing around the broken furniture and items in the room desperate to find evidence of them.

"FUCK!" He roared, anger filling his soul. He turned to your sobbing form and grabbed you by your shoulders- He looked like he wanted to scream at you but instead pulled you to his chest.

"We'll find them- There isn't any blood so they are alive" He said, it sounded like he was speaking more to himself then you.

"We'll Find them"

Shanks

It seemed Shanks had not been in Times good Graces. Not at all- What had expected to be a 6 month long Mission had been extended- drastically.

7 Years- 7 Years has Shanks been out to sea. From being turned into a Emperor of a sea, seeing the future of pirating and the slow steady crumble of the Goverment. Shanks had been stuck- but that didn't matter.. It was over at least for now-

Shanks felt his heart jumping as he saw the coast of the small village.

You stare at him shocked, before your face fell in a mixture of anger, sadness and some relief.

"You're back..." Was all you could mutter, Shanks surprised by your coldness. Awkwardly shifting on his feet.

"Well yeah! Of course I am! I came here to see You and Vivian" He said enthusiastically, you winced at his words and sighed.

Shanks feeling off about your attitude towards him- You gestured for him to follow you which he obediently did. Sitting at the dining room table

"Shanks I'm going to be honest with you- Vivian is not going to be very welcoming to you"

Shanks felt like you had just dumped cold water on him at saying this.

"What? No of course she will! I know it's been a while but I love her (Y/N) and she was my little gir-"

"For a few weeks... but that was years ago.. when she was 4 years old- Shes 11 and sees you as the dad that just packed up and left-" You said bluntly which made him bristle at the harsh words.

Shanks was ready to start in to argue till he heard the door open.

"Mom I'm home!" The sweetest voice he had ever heard called out to him. His eyes widened at this standing from his seat as he watched Vi make a appearance. In her school clothes still she had her hair in a ponytail and looked a bit scrapped up like she had been playing outside.

"Vivian" Shanks said softly, She turned her gaze to him and froze. Looking him up and down at first in shock- before her face scrunched up in a angry scowl. Adjusting her backpack she walked upstairs ignoring Shanks open arms as he stood there frozen in place.

"What the hell was that!?" He cried in shock as he turned back to you, you shrugged.

"I told you-"

Shanks stared at you in shock st this, before dashing out the back door in lightning speed. After 30 minutes he returned with a armful of gifts and marched upstairs to drop them off at her door. You knowing this wasn't going to fair well and offered him the guest room just like before.

Shanks had bought every gift he could think of- Every toy, outfit and more. All were refused and left back on his guest bed, The most he received was a cold glare from Vivian before she left the house for school or to do something away from home.

It had been 3 weeks already of Vivian giving him the cold shoulder or just being angry at him- He sat at your dining room table staring at the glass of rum he had barely sipped. Watching the liquid just float.

"When did she start hating me?..." He muttered, Hearing you chopping vegetables for dinner. You paused for a brief moment and sighed

"3 years after you left..." You admit, sliding the cut up carrot into the pot. Shanks laid his head on the table and watched you quietly, Clearly wanting you to continue.

"She waited for you. Everyday for those three years sitting on the docks... watching the horizon for you to return- and you never did... I guess finally her spirit broke and she resented you" Shanks winced at your words and rotated his face towards the wood.

He was silent for a while, before shifting up to his feet. Trying to Shank off the coming depression.

"I'll be back" He said softly, dismissing himself. His mind was racing with everything he could do, what he should have down and more. Sighing heavily as he walked towards the main town, but the sound of children caught his ear.

Following the sound he turned a corner to see a group of kids- at first he assumed they were playing till he saw a hair for a red hair and a busted up face. There stood Vivian, Her lip busted and eye starting to swell as she tried to scrap back against 4 other kids at once.

"Your Mom's a pirate whore!" A purple haired boy shouted as he pushed Vivian again, Her back hitting a trees but she stood once more.

"Don't talk about my Mom!" She screamed before punching the boy in the nose, He yelled out in pain as the other 3 kids began to jump her once more.

But before contact could be made all three were hiked up in the air by the back of their clothes. A awful feeling washing through them as this heavy pressure began to weigh on them-

Vivian looked up, seeing the ringleader standing to the side looked terrified as his 3 lackys were held up-

He looked like a demon to them all, his eyes practically glowing as he glared at the four children.

"4 little shits- wanting to jump my little girl- So ill say this now... You all better Fuck Off" The kids instantly began to cry, rhe ringleader wetting his pants and running away from the group. Shanks dropped the three and watched them scramble and run away as well. Vivian sitting on the ground still staring up at her father in awe, before trying to snap back to her irritation from before- Shanks reaching down and helping her up. But she refused him and stood on her own- Shanks sighed at this.

"Vivian- I know you want to keep ignoring me. But we need to talk" He said calmly, finally putting his foot down it seemed.

"Vi-" He said calmly as he grabbed her arm quickly before she could leave. She tried to pull his hands off angrily, Angry tears already welling up in her eyes.

"There is nothing to talk about!" She protested but Shanks didn't release his grip.

"You're mad at me I was gone so l-" She glared up at him, now tears filling her gaze and spill from her cheeks.

"I'm mad you left me!! I finally got a dad and you left me! You didn't want me anymore so you forgot about me!!" She screamed up at him, Shanks gently releasing his hand from her as he watched her.

Shanks slowly moved his cloak to the side revealing his blade, carefully with one hand undoing the tattered green ribbon and holding it out to Vivian. Her eyes widening at seeing it, and how despite the years he had held on to the old thing.

"...I never forgot you.. And I swear I never wanted to leave you Baby girl..."

"But you did!" She sobbed, fat tears rolling down her cheek. He nodded, tears running down his own cheeks reached around her neck and pulling up a chain. It was the Coin of his Jolly Roger- hung around her neck this whole time. She crutched it in her fist angrily.

"I didn't want them to find you... to hurt you or your mother- S-So this was the best to protect you" He admitted through broken cries. Vivian stared at him Biting her lip in what was assumed in anger before she left forward and wrapped her arms around him.

Shanks sobbed in what could only be described as relief and fell to his knees. Wrapping his arm around her quickly, kissing the top of her head and face.

"I missed you so much- I thought of you everyday" He sobbed, holding his daughter close as she sobbed against him.

"Don't leave me again Dad... Please" She managed to choke out inbetween cries. Shanks nodding at her words as he held her tighter.

"I will never do it again... ever"

Mihawk

Mihawk had seemed to at least temporarily take residence in your tiny home for the past month. Having taken the couch to rest at night but spent quite a bit of time with both you and Alucare- you had grown uses to Mihawk presents in your home. It reminding you of a sort of family even if you and Mihawk weren't together.

You felt Mihawk gaze on you as you moved around the kitchen, he seemed to enjoy watching you. More precisely your hips- You felt warmth hit your cheeks as you continued to make breakfast. You open up the cabinets to grab the plates, which were a bit too high up for you. You jumped once but before you could do much else you felt a hand land on the small of your back and a presents behind you. Glancing up you see Mihawk grabbing the plates for you, you blush and accept the plates as he hands to you.

"Thank you Mihawk"

"No need to thank me (Y/N)" He said softly, a hint of a smile on his lips as he met your gaze. As you opened your mouth to say something sjddently a butterknife flew through the air and stuck in the wood 3 inches from Mihawk's face making both of you jump in surprise and you squeak out a hushed scream. Turning to see Alucare, still in his sleeping clothes hair a mess and sleep in his gaze staring at you two.

"Oops My hand slipped-"

You sighed at your son and place your hand on your hips walking towards him.

"We both know damn well that was no accident Alucare!" You scolded your son who stood there calming taking it, His eyes locked onto Mihawk who glared at the boy with vengeance.

After 30 minutes of being scolded you ordered Aluecare to get ready for the day as you finished breakfast. Mihawk instead going out to the grove of trees were he knew Alucare would come to train before heading to school- On cue Alucare made an appearance and smirked at the clearly grumpy man sharpening his sword.

"Blue Balls?-" Alucare chimed, earning another frightful glare from the Warlord.

"So you are doing it on purpose-" Mihawk grumbled, continuing to sharpen the blade and stare at his spawn.

"Doing what?" the teen chimed crossing his arms with a continued stoic face.

"She was a date of mine long before she was your mother-" Mihawk brought up, pointing a finger in the direction of the house were you where.

"Ah yes Im sure that alleyway is a great dating spot" He deadpanned which made Mihawk close his mouth in a firm line. Standing up and putting his sword away.

"If you keep this up lad- you will not like me"

"I barely tolerate you now-" Alucare said with a raised eyebrow and scoffed as Mihawk smirked at him. Standing up with a nod.

"I'm warning you now boy- My only warning" He said before dismissing himself back inside.

Alucare left for school then, still with Mihawks words in mind.

That day Mihawk accompanied you with your daily errands. Getting groceries, clothes and more. You and him talk throughout the day, Blushing at his flirtatious manner for the day.

Once returned back home Mihawk had his hand on your hip as you served him wine. A pink color to your cheeks as you felt his hand upon you.

"You look really lovely (Y/N)... I'm am pleased i-" He was cut off by a loud cough, turning to see Alucare there with his face wrinkled in absolute disgust.

Mihawk narrowed his eyes at Alucare who had just interrupted him-

"Aren't you suppose to be in school?" He started as he stared at the living clone of him. Watching Alucare cross his arms and swagger to the side. You looked to the side embrassed by being caught like this, dismissing yourself quickly upstairs.

"I finished early- Just like you" Alucare said with a sarcastic smirk clearly teasing him, The Warlord glaring at his own spawn for the quip at him.

"....Did your mother teach you this level of disrespect?-" Mihawk started, as he stood up from his seat.

"Call it an inherited skill" He said calmly, watching the Warlord walk to him and stand before him. Silence falling between the two before Mihawk dismissed himself to the livingroom.

The game was set it seemed.

Alucare kept his guard up for days afterwards, seeing how calm Mihawk had been since he had cockblocked him once again. Being incredibly respectful to you and damn near kind to Alucare, at first he had been incredibly suspicious however after day 4 he had grown used to it.. That was his mistake.

You had been cleaning up something in the livinroom, you had noticed Mihawks attitude had cooled with you quite a bit. Worried you may have offended him in some way however you choose not to dwell on such things.

As you cleaned you felt a presents come behind you- it didn't take a genius to guess who. Turning to see Mihawk, seemingly fresh from the shower as he was simply in trousers and warm from the water. You blushed and turned away once more, feeling his hands on the small of your back first.

"(Y/N).." He started, his other hand finding yours as he moved the two of you in a gently sway with your back against his chest. Your resolve utterly breaking at this point.

"I feel like, I've neglected you in some way" He says softly, his lips drifting down your neck as you. You feeling weak to the knees as he did this, his fingers finding their way to your waist pulling you closer.

It was an hour before Alucare returned home, bag slung over his shoulder as walking into his home, about to call out like he normally did till be saw it-

There laid you and Mihawk clearly naked under some of the thinnest goddammit blankets in the house on the livingroom couch.

"AH FUCKING HELL!"

You heard a yell and sat up from the couch with the blanket pulled up to your bust. Seeing Alucare with a look of what can only be described as pure horror on what he was seeing his parents like this-

"O-Oh gods honey! What are you doing back so early!" You scramble red in the face as Mihawk lays there under the blankets, looking right at his son with a low smirk.

"You prick!" Alucare yelled at his father as he walked out again, wishing to burn his eyes out from what he saw. Hearing the low chuckle from his father behind him and you frantically scolding Mihawk.

He had won-

TAG LIST-

@lunanight1021 @lolavegas20 @cuteastrash @thatcharmingmushroom @marsilis @thesadvampire @amecchii @zaphira-san @matronofthevoid @mothmans-left-nipple @hoe4fiction @manyimaginativemuses @alyholmes02 @arianyo @chaoticpercy-jacksonkid @lansy-4 @skeetyeetyote @untoldshortsofthefandoms @dank-memes19

[fawnhunter]

natural instincts…

sick and laying in my bed which also means i can’t stop thinking about cregan and the stark baby making gene that definitely runs in the family. cw: dis is mostly smut with a side of fluff, no angst at all. talk of breeding and imprégnation, as well as some talk of family life.

so it’s no secret to any of the beautiful brains on tumblr that the stark men have a certain habit of tripping and falling and maybe putting a baby in their pretty lady wives. and well i believe that cregan stark is no different. it’s so fucking cold in the north, and even though he is a man grown that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy a nice warm cunt to settle into at the end of the night. he works so hard :/ constantly walking around and performing his duty as lord of the north.

i can imagine how insufferable he’d be before you are wed. the thought of building a family with you always on him mind. sneaking into ur chambers before the sun is y over the hills, just to slide into bed with his hand on your stomach and dream about the life he can’t wait to have with you. talking over ir shoulder until you go to sleep and slipping back into his own chambers. it gets even worse once u finally belong to him under the eyes of the seven. on ur first official night together, during the bedding ceremony, he was incredibly gentle with you. so grateful to have you as his wife that he could even think to push you abt heirs. no he’s never allow those old fuck in the room to watch as he takes you over and over again, he allows them to listen to ur cries through the walls, opening the chamber doors and tossing the sheets at them after splitting u open on his cock for the first time that night. happiest man on the planet once he gets you back in his arm and under one of his favorite pelts.

i can imagine one day he sees you talking one of the young lords who had gotten lost and was search for his mother. stumbled upon you coddling him and wiping his tears until another his morhwr is found again. the whole ordeal has him feeling some kind of way, he can’t even find it in himself to approach you over the feeling of him stiffening between his thighs. he thinks about it for the rest of the day, the thought of making you a mother. just lalala scatter brained cregan stumbling around the training grounds things about stirring up ur guts the second you get back to ur shared chambers and keeping you on ur back until ur sure to be taken with his seed.

nsfw!!!!

baby making time! cregan is my man with a plan. he has been planting little seeds in ur brain for weeks now. talking about how cute having someone who looks just like you would be. or how much he would love to see ur belly get rounder with ever passing moon. wrapping his hands around ur stomach and pressing down right where ur womb would be, rocking you back and forth while pressing his slowly gardening cock into ur backside. his plan is going so well that it’s only be a matter of time before he has ur body crowded against the sheets of his bed. face down with tears wetting his sheets while his pillow sits comfortably underneath ur hips. sliding his cock in the space between ur thighs before finally oushing past the tight space of ur cunt. his front pressed against ur back while he lifts his hips and slams back into you at a toe curling pace. one hand keeping ur hips pressed against his while the other wraps around ur front, groping at whatever he can feel to lift you back into him, swallowing ur whines with a kiss. when all is said and done he likes to pull out and admire his work, the mess he’s made of you. rolling you over and sliding the pillow back under ur hips so you’ll be sure to bless him with a mini stark sometime soon.

he also is not the kind of man who refrains form touch you while you are with his child. it’s hard to ignore the way ur chest starts to swell along with your stomach, spilling out of the lovely dresses you wear. or the way ur body starts to beings softer.. more plush. completing him to dig his fingers into ur hips and revel in the marks he leave behind. so head over heels for his pregnant lady wife that he might wanna start keep her that way. swollen and sweet with his child.

this was typed during a fever dream so sorry for any mistakes. hotd requests are open!

[favefandomimagines]

Lose Something (t.o)

Summary: one wrong misjudgment can change everything

Request: @ol-alex-lo what about reader that once chased tornados just like him, but her best friend got killed a few years ago because of it but reader survived? And she doesn’t chase anymore but people always go to her for advice because she knows where the next tornado will hit. And Tyler learns about her and the fact that she’s good, so he goes to see her and he actually makes fun of her or jokes with her that she’s probably just to scared or chicken to go in a tornado so her advice is probably pure luck? And that they shouldn’t lisent to someone who never chased a real tornado or that is too scared to chase one? And reader just lashes out? And she yells that if he’s still chasing tornados that means that he never lost anything to them? Not like she did. And just so much angst, and Tyler then feels bad and like a total ass so he apologizes? so just angst and a fluffy ending?

AN: I love this request lol angsty fluff is my brand so obviously I had to knock this out. Also, I know almost nothing about tornadoes and the best places to go when you’re not home lol I live in Nebraska and the last tornado I witnessed over 26 years was in April

“This storm is beautiful!” You called to your best friend as she got out of the car. “This is the best one we’ve gotten all season!” She called back over the wind. You and your best friend Tara were trying to get data on exactly how tornadoes form. A question that every scientist still doesn’t have an answer to.

You and Tara were creating a project to find the proper data to see how a tornado is formed. With each storm, you became closer and closer to getting proper grant money to take your research to the next level.

The storm you were chasing was a small EF-2, the perfect storm to get data on how it was able to form. “Y/N, we could actually get this grant.” Tara told you as she looked down at her tablet.

You looked at her with a huge smile on your face before hugging her tightly. Soon, out of nowhere, the wind picked up and something in the air shifted. “Y/N,” Tara started.

The tornado was approaching quicker than it should have if it was a true EF-2. “We need to go. Now.” You spoke.

You and Tara ran to your car and you threw it in reverse, trying to outrun the storm. You could see in your rearview mirror that the tornado itself was growing. It was no longer an EF-2 but something bigger.

At that moment you were cursing yourself for not agreeing to take your brother's truck and instead driving your own car.

The wind was getting faster by the second and your car was getting thrown around all over the road.

“We have to get out. We can’t be in the car.” You told Tara. “What? Y/N, are you crazy?” Tara questioned. “We’re as good as dead if the storm picks us up in the car.” You replied. You stopped the car and the two of you got out and made a run for it.

As you kept running, the rain pelting you both, you spotted a horse watering trough a few feet ahead of you. Pipes that are more than likely deep in the ground to access well water. It would be your best bet.

You grabbed Tara’s hand and pulled her along towards the trough. You and Tara huddled down and held on to the pipe. “Hold on tight!” You yelled at her. The storm began to pass over you and you felt Tara’s hand slip from the pipe.

You reached forward and grabbed her hand as she began to slip. “Tara! Don’t let go!” You yelled. “Y/N!” She yelled back.

It all happened so quickly. One minute, Tara was holding on to you and you were holding on to her. And then the next, the storm had ripped her hand from yours. You screamed her name as you watched your best friend headed straight for her death.

When the storm had passed, you almost had to pry your hand off of the water pipe with how tight your grip was. Everything around you was destroyed, nothing was left standing. Except you. Alone in the aftermath of the storm.

You hadn’t stepped foot in Kansas in five years and if it wasn’t a special occasion, you would have avoided the state completely. It was Tara’s birthday and her mom wanted to have a gathering in her memory.

You owed it to her to attend after avoiding her for so long. She never blamed you for Tara being out there, but you blamed yourself. If you hadn't convinced Tara to come along, maybe she’d still be alive.

Tara was a science fanatic. She was going to the University of Kansas studying microbiology and you were there studying metrology. You figured that the two of you could combine forces to figure out how tornadoes formed to a T. The pair of you had chased plenty of storms before, she always said you had a gift. You knew when, where and just how strong the storm would be before it even hit. You were never wrong, but that day you were.

You told yourself you would stop chasing because your miscalculation cost your best friend her life. You didn’t want to feel anything like that again.

If you were being honest, you were back home for two reasons. One, for Tara. Two, your friend Kate needed a favor. She had been working with some hot-shot storm chaser with a YouTube channel and she had told him all about you.

They needed an edge to beat out all the other chasers out there and you were the edge.You promised Kate that you’d meet with them. As you pulled up to the motel, you were starting to regret it.

“Y/N, hey! It’s so good to see you!” Kate greeted you as you walked up to the ugly, souped up truck. “Hey, Kate. It’s good to see you too.” You replied as the two of you hugged. “Y/N, this is Tyer Owens. He’s the one who helped me with my project.” She said, introducing the two of you.

You weren’t going to lie and say he wasn’t good looking because he definitely was. He was your type, and that could have played a part in why Kate wanted to introduce you. But you knew guys like him. Thinking chasing a tornado was glamorous and boasting about it on the internet.

He was attractive, sure, but you didn’t like how reckless he behaved.

“Hi, I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.” You greeted. “Likewise. So, Kate says you have a gift.” Tyler said, cutting to the chase. “I wouldn’t call it a gift.” You replied. “Y/N taught me everything I know. We were in the same meteorology program.” Kate said.

Tyler examined you, looking you over subtly. Kate talked about you all the time. This amazing scientist who knew exactly where and when the storm would be and just how strong it would develop. He thought Kate was good but you sounded like you were too good to be true. He just had to know the woman who knew all about tornadoes but never actually chased them.

“But you don’t chase?” Tyler asked. “No, I don’t chase.” You answered. “Tyler collects data by going inside the tornado. It’s insane.” Kate boasted.

You knew she was trying to find common ground for the two of you. The topic of chasing was very touchy for you and she knew that.

“Inside the tornado? Do you have a death wish or something?” You scoffed. “Maybe you’re just too scared to do it yourself.” Tyler commented.

This man didn’t even know you and he had the gall to make a comment like that? “Tyler,” Kate started. “You know all of this information, you know the storm and yet you won’t go in the storm? What have you got to lose?” He continued.

“I’m not scared to do anything.” You rebutted. “I’m sorry Kate, but I don’t think we should listen to your friend. She doesn’t chase, she's too scared to, so how are we supposed to trust her information?” Tyler cut you off.

“You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I’ve gone through and don’t you dare say I don’t have anything to lose. If you’re still chasing, that means you’ve never lost anything you loved. Not like I have.” You snapped at him.

You took one more look at him scoffed, walking away from him as Kate called your name. Tyler watched as Kate went after you but to no avail. You said some words to her, gave her an apologetic look, before getting back in your car.

“Seriously, Tyler?” Kate questioned. “What?” Tyler asked. “You clearly don’t listen to a word I say if you said all of that to her. I’ve told you what happened and why she stopped chasing.” Kate answered.

Tyler didn’t reply, knowing that she was correct. He didn’t listen to what she said about your backstory.

“God, Tyler. Y/N chased all the time. Her and her best friend Tara were trying to figure out how a tornado forms. They almost got grant money for their project. Five years ago, Tara and Y/N were out getting data and the EF-2 that Y/N predicted ended up being an EF-4. They tried to take cover but Tara died. Y/N hasn’t gone out for a storm since.” Kate explained to him.

The guilt immediately washed over Tyler. He judged you before he even knew you and made himself look like a total asshole. And he couldn’t imagine how that made you feel.

“I-I didn’t know.” Tyler stammered. “She’s never going to help us now.” Kate muttered. Kate walked back to the team to explain how Tyler royally screwed up their next chase.

But all Tyler could think about was how guilty he felt. He wasn’t a bad guy despite what you probably thought about him now. He wanted to make things right with you not only for his own conscience, but for your help. Kate said that you were their best chance at getting ahead. Plus you were easy on the eyes.

He had to make things right with you, but he just didn’t know where to start.

__

You were at Tara’s parents farm, helping them set up for the ‘party’ in Tara’s honor. A part of you thought it was morbid, throwing a party in honor of someone who died. But you knew it meant a lot to her parents.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N. It’s been so long.” Tara’s mom told you. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited as much as I should.” You replied. “It’s okay, hon. We understand. We’re just happy you’re back.” She said.

You smiled at her and gave her hand a squeeze before she walked back inside the house. You were putting centerpieces with Tara’s picture on them on the tables, making them look perfect.

The next centerpiece you grabbed had a picture of you and Tara on it. It was from your first chase together of an EF-1.

You asked her to go and told her she didn’t have to if she felt unsafe, but she was so excited to go. It was evident by the bright smiles on both of your faces.

“She looked like fun.” You heard a voice behind you. You turned around and saw Tyler Owens approaching. “She was. I told her she didn’t have to come chasing with me but she said it’s a once in a lifetime event.” You answered, with a small laugh.

“Kate told me what happened. I’m sorry for the things I said.” He spoke. “How were you supposed to know?” You replied. “Still. I shouldn’t have said you were scared and that we shouldn’t trust you.” Tyler said.

“You have every right not to trust me. I told Tara that it wasn’t anything more than an EF-2 and I was wrong. I cost her her life because I was wrong.” You told him.

“You know better than anyone that storms change. They’re unpredictable. You couldn’t have known it was going to develop.” Tyler rebutted.

You were about to reply when Tara’s mother interrupted. “Y/N, who’s your friend?” She asked. “Oh uh, this is Tyler. He just stopped by.” You said. “Well, Tyler, any friend of Y/N’s is a friend of ours. Please stay for the party, we’d love to have you.” She said, “Oh Mrs-” You started.

“I would love to.” Tyler interjected. You looked up at him, surprise written on your face. “You don’t have to stay.” You told him. “I want to. Maybe this will be the start of us being friends.” He said with a smirk.

“Oh really? And why would you want to be friends?” You asked cheekily. “Because I still want to see you chase a storm.” He answered.

“It’s going to take a lot for me to go back out there.” You spoke. “Well then I better get started.” He said.

You smiled up at Tyler before he started helping you with the centerpieces. Maybe you had misjudged Tyler just like he misjudged you. Maybe this was going to be the start of something good for the both of you.

[b14augrana]

Scrubber

Your first time with the national team, hoping you’ll find yourself being of importance to the team with your Vidić-reminiscent play style

Barça Femeni x teen!reader

pt. 6 masterlist

Warnings: the rfef ⚠️⚠️, a teeny bit of badly translated spanish and like one sentence of catalan, angst if u squint 🙂‍↕️

A/N: our scrubber is back 🥳🥳! this part is longer than usual, i hope you enjoy 💝

You couldn’t remember anything between landing in Denmark and waking up in your hotel room. You were still in the clothes you had travelled in, and neither Irene or Alexia were in the room… until the door opened and both of them were.

“(Y/N), get up, we’re going to breakfast,” Irene said, yanking the covers off. You sat up and rubbed your eyes, adjusting to the light beginning to peek into your room as Irene pulled up the blinds before her and Alexia left the room and left you to get ready.

It’s like you were on autopilot the whole time as you got into your Spain training kit and took the elevator down to the cafeteria. When the elevator stopped and the doors opened into the hotel’s foyer, it was easy to tell where the cafeteria was because of the voices you could hear.

Tentatively, you stepped into the room. Your eyes scanned every table for any sign of your Barça teammates, the only people you wanted to see right now amongst the abundance of other women that were now your new teammates.

When you saw Aitana and Irene’s heads amidst the crowd, your muscles relaxed with relief, and you made your way over to them swiftly.

“Buenos días,” you mumbled, sitting down beside Aitana, yawning as you cracked your neck. “Buenos días, (Y/N),” the brunette replied, smiling at you.

The room was packed with women, all wearing the same training gear as you. Some of them you recognised from times you versed then with your club; Laia Codina from Arsenal, Alba Redondo from Levante, Laia Aleixandri from Manchester City… and some Madridistas.

One thing about you was, you were passionate about Barça. In your eyes there was no ‘best club in the world’ debate, let alone best club in Spain — that title immediately went to Barça.

You were a Barça fan before you were a player, hence why you have always been well-versed in the club’s history, and therefore the history of the rivalry between Real Madrid and FC Barcelona.

You had bad experiences with Madridistas. El Clásicos were already competitive matches (for one side, at least), so you didn’t really like the way you were almost seemingly targeted by your rivals, due to your age. Irene and Mapi were never pelted by so many balls and forced into so many one-on-one duels.

Even though you were more than capable of crunching them, it exhausted you. You woke up the next morning with bruises you didn’t know had formed and grazes in odd spots that made you wonder what kind of tackles you were performing to get them in such areas.

The wingers gave you the most problems. They constantly cut into the middle, choosing to take you on. Part of you couldn’t blame them because you wouldn’t want to take on Lucy, Ona or Frido either, but what the hell?

The room was definitely not devoid of Madridistas. You could see Misa, their goalie, sitting with Alexandria. There was another face you recognised from those El Clásico matches, but it was a vague remembrance that made you think long and hard to remember the name. You only remembered her nickname within your Barça teammates; la hija de Frido.

Whatever. You’d figure it out later.

“Are you going to eat anything, nenita?” Irene asked from across the table, and you nodded hesitantly.

Leaning over, you whispered, “Can you come with me? Please?”

She nodded with a smile, standing up. “Aita, come with us. We’re going to get some food.”

You were always grateful for your Barça family. They’ve always been your big sisters, people you can trust and find comfort in, your second family.

(Except, they were basically your first family.)

You were more grateful for them than ever today, because this Spain camp was intimidating and scary, you knew nobody except your club teammates and you were pretty much lost.

All you wanted to do was cling onto Irene or Alexia or Aitana the entire day and never leave their side. Even as you were getting food and piling breakfast onto your plate, you stuck to Irene like glue.

With your plate in hand, you walked cautiously to balance all the food and prevent it dropping. You found yourself feeling way hungrier than normal, and you blamed it on the nerves as you placed your food onto the table.

"Irene, watch my food please," you said once she returned to the table with her own breakfast, "I'm going to get a drink."

"That's a lot of food, but I'll look after it anyways," the woman laughed, sitting down and dragging your plate beside hers. You returned to the buffet table and as you were debating on making yourself a cup of tea or just having a glass of ice water, another woman approached you from the side, bumping your shoulder.

Your lip subconsciously curled up, your nose scrunching. Your head snapped sideways to look at whoever it was that just bumped you, and a dirty blonde-brownish ponytail swished in your face.

It was the girl whose name you didn’t know, the Madridista. She was putting a couple slices of toast onto her plate, and it seemed like she hadn’t even realised she bumped you.

But it didn’t make sense. It was a solid shove which definitely wasn’t accidental..

Grabbing a glass from the collection on the table, you walked past her slowly, waiting for the perfect moment. As she placed her plate down and picked up a spoon to load some strawberries onto it, you took an extra step closer to her and shoved her shoulder with yours.

The strawberries she had picked up on the spoon all dropped back into the container upon the impact. You hurried over to the water jug to pour some into your glass, not looking at her for a moment despite being able to feel her cold glare on you.

Your shove was a bit harder than hers had initially been, but that was because you were bigger and probably stronger.

You returned to your table quickly, and Irene pushed your plate back towards you before you had even sat down.

“Who’s that girl, over there?” you asked Aitana and Irene, discreetly gesturing to the table behind you where she sat.

“You mean Misa?” Aitana questioned, and you shook your head. “No, the other one, the one she’s talking to.”

“Ohhh, that’s Athenea,” Aitana replied, and the name was suddenly very familiar to you. You had vivid memories of her getting sat by Frido during multiple Clásicos, and it was apparent that Aitana was reminiscing about the same events due to the laugh she was trying to suppress while talking about Athenea.

“She just bumped me off,” you explained, and Aitana’s eyes widened. “Did she apologise?”

You shook your head, giving her a shrug in return, “No. I couldn’t help myself and shoved her back, but I seriously didn’t mean to do it as hard as I did,” you responded, sighing.

Aitana rubbed your back and smiled, “Don’t worry about it, just eat. You need energy for training.”

As you put a piece of waffle into your mouth, you tried to recount all the interactions you’ve had with Athenea — there was the time you two-footed her out of nowhere when she managed to get past Irene, the time you had an aerial duel with her and she headed your shoulder instead of the ball, the time she lost the ball to you and it resulted in a goal…

You also remembered her unnecessary physicality when you didn’t have the ball, the snarky remarks she’d make to her teammates about you and your own teammates, and other coarse behaviour she displayed throughout each Clásico.

You went to stab another piece of your waffle until you realised you had eaten it all, along with the hash browns, fruits, toast and scrambled eggs.

Irene and Aitana had also finished their breakfast, and while Irene took a sip of her coffee, Aitana did the same with her orange juice.

“Vale,” Irene spoke, placing her coffee down, “Preparémosnos para entrenar.”

You were nervous for training. You weren’t sure if they’d be like Barça in terms of utilising your skills; would they be accepting of your play style or completely discard it, forcing you to play differently?

Your play style was an important part of you as a player, but also you as a person. It was the manifestation of your passion for Barça and the pride you felt whenever you got to wear the blaugrana.

It was also an ode to your idol who demonstrated what it means to give your all for the badge. Without your play style, you’re nothing.

It was the only thing you could think of as you strolled to the training pitch, boots in hand. You deliberately waited for everyone else to leave so you could loom behind them, and you planned to keep it that way until you found someone you properly knew.

Captain Irene was occupied with talking to some other players and Alexia was nowhere to be seen, but luckily Aitana was stretching by herself on the side. There was also Cata, but she was in the goal, getting warmed up by Salma.

You almost sprinted to Aitana, relieved that you didn’t have to spend another second wandering around aimlessly.

“Aita," you said, dropping your boots on the ground before sitting down, shaking your slides off and loosening the laces of your boots.

She got up from her lunge position and smiled, "Hola. Where's Ale?"

You shrugged and returned to trying to get your boot on. "Stupid sock boots..." you grunted, the elastic sock snapping against your ankle, making you wince.

“Why are you on your own?” you asked her, tying the laces of your boots as you watched her extend her leg outwards and reach over to touch her toes.

“I thought you’d want to be without the others for a bit,” Aitana responded simply. She was right — it was a huge relief to find her amongst all the clusters of people.

You missed Frido. You missed Mapi and Patri and Pina. You missed Barcelona.

You wished you could skip straight to playing football without having to introduce yourself to anyone or learn their ways. Obviously, that wasn’t the case.

“I’m scared, Aita. What if they think I’m too physical, or I don’t play– ‘Spanish’ enough?” you ranted, folding your arms across your body.

Aitana sat back up, letting go of her foot to cross her legs as she gazed at you and began to speak.

“Pequeñita, if you’re worried about fitting in, don’t be,” she started, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“You were there at the back when we needed you the most as our last-ditch defender, our last hope. If you weren’t so physical and dedicated to defending and not ‘Spanish enough’, we wouldn’t have a Champions League.”

You were born and raised in Spain, you knew Barcelona like the back of your hand and you spoke both languages. You were Spanish through and through, despite living in France for a couple odd years. You were Spanish. It was your idolisation of a non-Spanish, non-La Liga player that set you apart from the others.

You were about to respond, but your words were cut short by a tap on your shoulder. You glanced up, expecting to see Alexia, but it was Irene standing behind you.

“(Y/N), officials of the federation want to meet you,” she said in a low voice. You caught on to the way she glanced around, making sure nobody was around to hear.

Your eyes narrowed while Aitana’s widened, and you looked at Irene with an expression of uncertainty. “Do I have to go?”

You didn’t necessarily want to go, but you knew you weren’t left with much of a choice, and Irene’s nod confirmed that for you. You sighed, getting up from the grass and brushing off your shorts.

“Thank you, Aita,” you said, referring to the talk you two had earlier. She smiled and reached her hand out to squeeze yours gently, and you returned the gesture with a small smile of your own. “I’ll tell you everything!”

You left your gear in the care of Aitana as you and Irene made your way to the head office. You were nervous and a bit scared of what was about to happen, because the personal stories you’ve heard about the federation haven’t been good ones. Nonetheless, you walked beside Irene and waited in front of the mahogany wood door as she knocked on it, and it opened to reveal about three officials sitting around a table.

Your skin felt hot and feverish as you stepped over the threshold. The amount of eyes on you was unsettling, and if Irene wasn’t beside you, the feeling of discomfort blooming in your stomach would be way stronger.

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N)?” the man at the door asked, and you nodded nervously. Your eyes flickered up to Irene whose jaw was set, her cold glare fixed on the man as he spoke to you, “Please, sit.”

You slowly walked to the nearest seat and sunk into it. Irene did the same, pulling out a seat beside you and crossing her arms across her chest.

A man across the table began to speak once you two had taken your seats, “(Y/N), we’ve been very eager to meet you ever since your debut in Liga F.”

You clenched your jaw, unsure of where this conversation was going. You simply nodded, trying to hold your tongue and refrain from speaking for as long as possible.

“You’re very talented, especially given your age. Barça’s prodigy, the new stargirl…” he continued.

Leaning across the table, he spoke, “I’ve never seen a player that plays like you, especially in Spain. Have you always played for Barça, or wanted to?”

Your answer came without any hesitation. “Barça is my home. I am Barça through and through, forever. I’m just inspired by someone else whose passion aligns with mine.”

“You’re different. I’ve seen your play style, and it goes hand in hand with fearlessness and elegance. That’s why we called you up because after one of our best defenders withdrew from the squad… we haven’t been the same.”

You didn’t need a rocket scientist to figure out who he was referring to. Your hands gripped the armrests of your seat as you responded, “I can’t replace the likes of Mapi.”

You were already sick and tired of this conversation. The mention of Mapi unsettled you all over again, because you knew that something happened between her and these very same officials that led to her withdrawing from representing her nation, and you didn’t want to be in the company of the people that forced her to feel such a way and make that decision.

“We’re working on fostering a healthy environment at our camps–”

Irene stood up, her chair scraping across the floor with an unpleasant noise that grabbed everyone’s attention. “Work harder. I don’t want anyone playing another season under poor leadership,” she snapped. Her arm shot down to yours, tugging you up gently. Her tone was everything but gentle.

“My player needs to get back to training. We’re done here.”

You were eternally grateful for Irene. You got to your feet and quickly exited the room, aware of her storming out and slamming the door behind you two.

“The federation has lacked a ‘healthy environment’ for a while,” Irene frowned, slowing down in pace and breaking into more of a stroll.

“Don’t let their shitty leadership make you feel bad about this opportunity. Just like everyone else, you’re here to play football and win the Olympics. Forget the federation.”

It was easier said than done — both of you knew that — but neither of you said anything about it as you walked back to the pitch.

When you entered into the grassy clearing, Aitana and Alexia were nearby practicing their headers. They stopped when they noticed you and Irene, and they quickly came over to you guys.

“What happened?” Aitana asked, her expression slightly concerned, much like Alexia’s. You told them about everything that happened in the meeting (with some help from Irene), and at the end of your explanation, the two Spaniards didn’t look any less concerned.

“We’re praying the new coach and president do something to change the culture in the federation,” Alexia finally said, and you sighed. “Let’s hope so.”

“La hija de Frido is staring,” you grumbled, earning a laugh from Aitana who glanced in her direction. Indeed, Athenea was looking at your group with a firm glare, her Real Madrid teammate on the side trying to grab her attention.

“What’s wrong with her? Did something happen?” Alexia asked, and you shrugged. “She doesn’t like me that much, I think. Maybe because, y’know, she’s not exactly a challenge for me to defend…” you said with a nervous smile. Aitana’s laughter only increased, and a smile appeared on Alexia’s face.

“Barça es la millor!” she cheered happily, embracing you in a side hug.

[theoldsports]

SOUR.

Art Donaldson x Reader (Patrick Zweig x Reader) | SORRY series | 4.2k words

it’s finally here by popular demand. Patrick has entered the plot. this is set before all of the prior chapters, two days before the Donaldson wedding. can be read as part of the SORRY SERIES (read more episodes of their lives here) or on its own. lemme know if you’d like to be on the taglist.

warnings: 18+. angst. it’s brutal angst. more than allusions to Patrick’s canonical use of hard drugs. rehab, allusion to an OD, mention of Art’s disordered eating patterns. they’re bad for each other in a good way. the Donaldsons have a friendly dog. coveting another man’s wife. discussion of niche sexual fantasies. making out. biting. tornados/extreme weather. running away from your problems.

“Art?”

“Nngh.”

“Artie, wake up.”

“‘M up. Fhhh… ‘m up. What’s the matter?” Art grumbled with half shut eyes. “Somethin’ wrong?” He whispered even though they were alone. It was nighttime which meant whispering to Art.

“I don’t like this storm.”

What a sign that storm should have been.

Art smirked. “We’re getting married in, like, three days and you’re worried about the weather?”

“There’s a tornado warning. Or watch. Whichever the worse one is. I saw it on the news.”

Art frowned. “You ever been through a tornado?”

“No.”

Art rolled over from his position in [Y/N]’s arms to face her nose to nose. “I have. A lot. Close your eyes,” he commanded softly. His arm slotted into the dip of her waist and pulled her closer. “Close ‘em for me. That’s it, that’s it.” He coaxed as she followed his directions.

“I don’t see what this has to do with—“

“Shh, listen,” they both got quiet. Rain pelted against the windows. Wind whistled. Branches cracked and crunched. Thunder boomed. [Y/N] could see the gleam of lightning even behind her eyelids. “Hear it?”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Yeah.”

“Great. Congrats. Your ears are workin’ best as they can,” Art teased to try and get his fiancé to crack a smile. “Now, which one’s the loudest? Which of the sounds?”

“You breathing.”

“I’m flattered. Which one outside?”

[Y/N] listened. “Right now? The rain, I think.”

“We’re in the clear for now. Let me know when the wind’s louder. Like that real, real crazy whooshing, whistling sound. When it starts whipping like that, we’ll go in the bathroom and lock the doors, yeah? Hell, we can head in now if it would make you feel better?”

“What if I fall asleep before the weather gets worse?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay awake,” Art yawned. “How about I get you up if I notice a disturbance. I gotta take care of my wife, right?”

“I’m not your wife.”

Art sighed. “…I know. I’m just practicing.”

Fortunately, no tornado ever touched down. And Art was still there when [Y/N] woke up.

It always amazed her that Art was still there everyday. For every nasty thing she said to him that she didn’t mean, every argument where she told him Patrick was right, every tennis match won or lost, every natural disaster, every tear shed. Art was there for all of it. He liked the bad moments as much as the good ones because it meant simply more time spent by [Y/N]’s side. He wasn’t going anywhere. Ever.

It was too much power, [Y/N] frequently thought, that she had over Art.

[Y/N] faced Art and brushed his strawberry blonde hair away from his forehead. Art often looked exhausted. He wore his tiredness on his face and shoulders. The exhaustion of constantly chasing, people-pleasing and being a professional athlete could destroy a kid. Art wore it like a Boy Scout badge. [Y/N] could watch him look relaxed forever. It was so rare he looked like that.

“Good morning, guard dog,” [Y/N] whispered. Art stirred. She could tell he was awake even though his eyes were shut due to that crease the reappeared between his eyebrows. It was never not there in his waking moments. Slowly, Art’s hand crept up and gently clutched [Y/N]’s wrist. Art used his grip to slide [Y/N]’s hand down his own drowsy face. He planted a kiss on her palm before tiredly looking at her. “Good morning.” She repeated to him.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” [Y/N] replied. Gray sunlight filtered through the window. “You ready for today?” She smirked.

“What’s today?”

“Patrick’s in town.”

Art dramatically threw his arm over his face and groaned. “I thought he was in tomorrow… Everything was so peaceful… And quiet,” Art mumbled into his elbow. He couldn’t keep a straight face for long and resolved into a soft laugh. “Whose babysitting?” He asked, peering his blue and brown eyes over his arm.

“I’m picking up the cake today, so I figured I could use his strength.”

Art sat up a bit. “You’re getting it today?”

“In the later afternoon, yeah. Why?”

“It’s gonna be, like, stale.”

[Y/N] glanced over at Art. “If we had gotten cupcakes like I wanted, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“You’re such a little jerk.” Art teased.

“Me!” [Y/N] gasped. “It doesn’t even matter because it’s not like you’re gonna eat it anyway because you don’t eat anything.”

“Little jerk!” Art said with his crooked smile widening. He leaned in, slotting an arm over her. “You heard me. You’re a little… troublemaking jerk.” Art’s nose almost pressed against hers.

“Oh yeah? Why are you marrying me then, hm?”

“…You’re pretty,” Art grinned almost timidly, bowing his head. His flat vocal timber sounded like the verbal equivalent of a blush. “Like, really, really pretty. Even if you suck.” Tenderly, Art leaned the rest of the way in to kiss [Y/N]. Once and then twice and then seven times. Maybe fourteen.

And they would have stayed like that all day.

They would have.

BANG BANG BANG.

Like gunshots.

Their lips parted and they held long eye contact. They paused. They sighed.

“Patrick.” They both said.

With a bend of his arms, the full weight of Art’s toned body collapsed on top of [Y/N]’s.

“Pretty baby!”

“No. ‘M pretending he’s not out there,” He laid flat on her, head on her chest. “Can’t go anywhere now.”

BANG BANG BANG on the front door again. Cheese, the couple’s Labrador mix barked at the sound from downstairs.

“Art!”

“Mhm-mm. Nope. Too bad. Sucks for Patrick.”

[Y/N] huffed. “You’re upsetting the dog.”

“He’s upsetting the dog,” Art started to laugh. “He showed up early. I’m just laying here. Hey, hey!” Art jeered as [Y/N] wiggled out from underneath him from backwards. She tried to inch away off the side of the bed. Her shoulders slumped against the carpet, while Art held her legs in place on the bed. [Y/N] dangled in a half on-half off sort of way. Her oversized Stanford t-shirt rolled up during the drama, exposing her breasts to Art. Unashamed, he stared.

[Y/N] twisted her foot into the side of Art’s face, causing a small cry of disgust from him. Just enough chaos for her to slip away. Without hesitation, she tossed the lightweight door open and skittered down the stairs with Art’s long gate keeping pace behind her. His arms reached out in an attempt to grab her. “He’s early! He can wait! He’s never been early in his whole fucking life!” Art laughed. Cheese jumped and barked at the hysteria.

The chase continued until [Y/N]’s hand hit the doorknob and chain. She unlocked it immediately. As [Y/N] ripped the door open, Art’s arm encircled her waist yanking her to the side with the force of his momentum, causing her to laugh with glee.

And on the other side of the door was Patrick Zweig.

Smiling impishly, Patrick took in the disheveled appearances of his two favorite people. He bit the inside of his cheek. “Nice boner.” Patrick smirked at Art, while he pulled [Y/N] into a side hug.

Art didn’t have a boner, or at least a proper one. But the comment was enough to get Art to look. He rolled his eyes and pulled Patrick in for a hug. Cheese ran over to the door for attention, when Art greeted Patrick.

Art closed the door. Patrick ducked down to greet the Labrador too. He liked Cheese, but wouldn’t necessarily choose to be around a dog in his free time the way that Art and [Y/N] did. Cheese really liked Patrick, much to his chagrin, so he pretended to be nice. While Patrick sat on the floor with the animal, he looked up at his best friends. “What’s with the clothes? You just get up?” Art with no shirt in just tube socks and boxers, and [Y/N] in Art’s old college shirt and underwear. They had all seen each other like this so many times growing up that no one particularly cared that the future Donaldsons looked so post coital. It was pretty normal. Patrick’s smirk sliced further across his unwashed face with the ghost of a laugh. “Were you guys fucking?” He said like a horny teenager.

[Y/N] laughed hard and kissed her lifelong best friend on top of the head on her way to make a pot of coffee in the kitchen. “No.” Art sighed in disappointment, flopping onto one of the barstools in the kitchen. This disappointment was either disappointment in Patrick for asking, or disappointment in the lack of sex due to Patrick’s arrival. It was Patrick’s fault either way.

When the dog got bored, Cheese wandered into the kitchen for nonexistent scraps. Patrick pulled up a chair next to Art and dropped his backpack on the floor. “How’s it going, man? You look good. Feeling ready?” He asked, leaning forward to tap Art across his bare knee.

Art nodded as if it say it’s a sure thing. “Thanks. We miss you. We appreciate you being here. It means a lot.”

“I appreciate you being here,” [Y/N] cut in. “Because you’re in my half of the wedding party.” She and Art were always in constant competition over who loved Patrick more. Art wanted him to be his best man. [Y/N] won out, though, having known him since the age of seven and Art only since age twelve.

“Ladies please. Not all at once.” Patrick said. He stood from his chair and wrapped his long arms around [Y/N] in a proper hug finally. Briefly, his chin rested on her head. He stopped before it went on too long.

“Good to see you, kid. How’s it going?” At two months older, [Y/N] had been calling Patrick ‘kid’ diminutively for almost two decades. It was cuter before he got so tall.

“I called you yesterday.” He replied dryly, stepping back to look at her. [Y/N] noted Patrick’s intimately familiar eyes. Too wide, pupils too dilated. Hm. He wore a long sleeved sweater and jeans. And dirty tennis shoes.

“You bring something nicer than this for Saturday?” She teased, pulling on one of his holey sleeves.

Art snorted at Patrick’s expense and cracked a smile. His freckled elbows leaned onto the counter. “Yeah, yeah. I’m here for two seconds, ‘n you’re already giving me tsuris?” Patrick quipped to [Y/N].

“Tsuris… Never thought I’d say it, but you sound like your mom, Patrick.” [Y/N] scoffed. Art snorted a laugh too.

Patrick frowned. “Guess I have to kill myself then.” He joked harshly to more laughter from the other two. M

“Yep. Have some coffee. Both of you. I’m going to put pants on.” [Y/N] turned away and moved to the stairs.

“Aw, do you have to?” Patrick called after her. [Y/N] tossed a middle finger up over her shoulder as she walked away. Art hissed at Patrick’s comment.

“Do you have to flirt with my wife?” Art sneered without malice.

Patrick smiled that boyish small, wicked, unassuming smile. “She’s not your wife yet.” He snapped back. Art smiled at him in return. The two held each other’s gaze adorned with sick grins for a moment before both of them dissolved into laughter. Everything was a competition, but it was only real if they brought it up.

Fast forward a few hours and Patrick and [Y/N] were in the car. Art had taken off for a haircut because his mom thought he looked like a messy little punk and wedding pictures were forever. [Y/N] drove because Patrick drove too fast and without mercy. He had a sports car once when he was in school and still spoke to his parents daily and had notably wrapped it around a telephone pole and walked out without nary a scratch. How’s that for nine lives?

[Y/N] had a sedan.

She and Patrick both held a cigarette out each of their respective windows as she drove.

“You should really quit, y’know.” She told Patrick.

He leaned over and blew smoke in her face. “Yeah, I’ll quit when you do.”

Patrick’s rude gesture didn’t bear acknowledging. “It’s different. You’re an athlete. I watch movies and review them for a living. It’s expected of me. You… you’re making your performance actively worse. You’re kneecapping yourself by choice.” [Y/N] explained.

“I’m good enough to take the hit.”

[Y/N] laughed and took a drag of her cigarette, asking it out the window. “And you’re arrogant enough to make that comment. Sometimes I look at you and you’re still thirteen. I swear to God. It’s fuckin’ funny,” she said. It was quiet for a moment. “Art, though. He doesn’t smoke anymore.”

“I don’t believe you,” Patrick replied immediately with a wild look in his eye. That was apparently a big surprise. “He’s totally lying to you. There’s no way—“

“Nope! Quit on his own too. He just decided he was done with it one day and got all pro-athlete about it.”

“Y-you’re wrong! You’re so wrong. He’s a liar. Last time I was in town, we—“

“No. No fucking way,” [Y/N] shook her head in manic disbelief. “When you came by to—“

“Mhm. Yep. On the patio. You didn’t notice?”

[Y/N] shook her head. “No sense of smell because of… I’m a smoker. I just… He’s such a shit.”

“A shit and a hypocrite!” They both laughed. When the glee dampened naturally and the cigarette butts were pitched out the window, Patrick looked over at [Y/N]. One good, long look. “You ready for Saturday?” Patrick asked because he was a masochist.

[Y/N] found herself often thinking back on this moment. Was this when it had gone wrong beyond repair?

[Y/N] sighed. She would only ever tell Patrick and maybe Art this. “Yes and no.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t say it like that. I have been ready to marry Art since I was, like, seventeen years old. It is unfathomable to me how much love I am capable of giving him, y’know? If he wanted the Mona Lisa, I’d be robbing the Louvre tomorrow. He’s it for me,” she said. Patrick faked a smile very convincingly and nodded for her to go on. “What I’m not looking forward to is everyone I know being in the same room at the same time. I don’t like other people except you and Art. And my editor. That’s about it.”

“You’re not at all worried about spending all that time married to someone?” Patrick tried to jab at her with his words while he scratched his right forearm.

“Not with Art.”

“Wow. That’s awfully grownup of you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m a grownup. With a smokin’ hot fiancé. And he actually cares if I live or die. Isn’t that crazy? My parents weren’t like that with each other. It’s… Am I allowed to say how grateful I am to you for bringing him home for break that one time, or is that stupid?”

“It’s kinda stupid,” he agreed teasingly. In reality, he wanted more than anything to put himself out of his misery. My fault, my fault, my fault. The words looped in Patrick’s head on constant repeat. He wanted to rip his skin off for so many different reasons. He couldn’t take it and he was trapped. Fuck.

Patrick scratched his right forearm again.

“Truth or dare?” Patrick slurred. He was twenty-one and drunk for [Y/N]’s birthday. She, Art and Patrick sat on the disgusting archaic carpet in Art’s dorm room.

“Uh, truth.” [Y/N] said too soberly to sober.

“Boring!” Art said, putting his hand on [Y/N]’s thigh.

Patrick took a long swing of his beer while he thought. “Okay, okay. What’s your weirdest sexual fantasy?” He asked.

“Ew.” [Y/N] wrinkled her nose.

Art thought the question was epic, but wasn’t going to facilitate his girl’s discomfort. “Hey, it’s her birthday, she doesn’t have to—“

“Um, no. I’ll do it. This is an actual dream I had. I think about it kinda all the time. Oh my god, I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. It so dumb. So, it’s Art and I’m sitting at the kitchen table with coffee or something. And Art… sings me Happy Birthday like Marilyn Monroe did for JFK. And he’s dressed like Marilyn, but like a boy. No dress, but like the boy version of that look. Then we fuck. That’s weirder than you wanted. That was weird, right?” [Y/N] rambled.

Art leaned in closer to her. They were all drunk as skunks and he couldn’t help bite his lip. His arm pulled her closer to him. Art was handsy when drunk, they were all learning.

“Whose Jackie O?” Patrick asked.

“No Jackie O. And I’m not JFK. He’s just Marilyn. Gentlewomen prefer blondes.” [Y/N] had laughed so hard at that while she tangled her fingers in Art’s sandy hair.

The car ride to get cake and the drive back was the last proper conversation [Y/N] and Patrick had. The pair got home. Nothing seemed unusual to [Y/N] at all. They talked the whole time without any dry spells. The cake, in pieces to be assembled, was carefully toted in and placed way out of the way from disaster. Patrick took his bag to the bathroom, claiming he was going to shower.

[Y/N] shouted after him. “You know where the towels are!”

Patrick looked back over his shoulder at her with a smirk and closed the bathroom door behind him.

And he went out through the bathroom window.

[Y/N] had no idea he had gone until she heard his car start. For a minute, she thought it was the neighbors. She walked halfway down her hallway and saw the bathroom door open. No running shower water, no half nude Patrick shaving or something. She ran back down the hall and glanced out the kitchen window and watched his new white SUV whip out of the driveway.

[Y/N] stood there for several minutes. Staring and staring and staring after him. Not a single effort to move. The first thing she did was pick up her blue slidephone from beside the sink. She called Art, not Patrick. Patrick made his choice.

[Y/N] hadn’t realized she was crying when Art picked up on the other line.

“Honey? Honey, you there? You buttdial me?” Art said. [Y/N] thinks he said shit like that for several moments before she spoke. She just faced the window and stared for what felt like ages.

“Patrick’s gone.”

“Hm?”

“Patrick’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone.”

“He climbed through the bathroom window and drove off. We-we didn’t have a fight. Or-or… He just left. Like it was nothing.”

“I’m on my way. Stay where you are.”

Art rushed back in his blue-black jeep wrangler. It ripped into the smooth driveway causing the tires to damn near squeal. When he got out of his car and bounded to the door, it was clear that about half of his hair had been cut instead of all of it. [Y/N] would have laughed in an ideal situation.

“Baby, hey, what happened?” Art said breathlessly as he unlocked the door. [Y/N] sat at the seldom used dining room table the two of them used to hold their junk mail, sitting straight up and looking through Art. Art was alarmed. She never sat at the table and rarely was her face so expressionless. She was always feeling, expressing, something. He couldn’t tell if she was crying or not, but her eyes were red.

“Patrick seems to have decided not to join us this weekend.” [Y/N] said clearly.

Art closed up the door behind him and walked over to [Y/N]. His scraggly hair and bewildered expression lessened into some devastated softness. He knelt, as he often did, in front of her and took her softer hands in his. “Can you tell me what happened?” Art asked quietly. He felt angry tears sting at the corner of his own traitorous eyes.

“We went out, got the cake, got smoothies, and came back. We… He didn’t say anything weird. Nothing happened.”

“Okay. And then?”

“No, I mean, nothing happened. Like, he was on his best behavior. Like, he was doing so well. He seemed okay. Really okay, y’know?” [Y/N]’s voice broke and finally betrayed her. She choked on her last words and the tears followed. Art’s right hand traveled up the side of [Y/N] face to rest there in comfort. “We talked about everything, like always. He was totally fine. I swear. Then we got home and he says I’m gonna take a shower, or something. And then I heard his car pull away. That’s it.”

“I’m gonna fucking murder him.” Art said, shaking his head and gritting his teeth. He stood from the floor and pulled his own phone out of his pocket. Art leaned against the table [Y/N] sat at. He called Patrick. Then he called him again. And another time. Up to what felt like twelve times or so. He left voicemail after voicemail.

“Hey, call me.”

“Hey, it’s Art. Call me.”

“Art again. Call me back. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I’m sorry about the last one. Patrick, call me. Are you coming home?”

“Hey, man. Fuck you. Fuck off.”

“I’m sorry about the last one too. I’m… Understandably, I’m kinda… Fucking pissed at you. I don’t need to talk to you like that, though. Are you okay? Are you safe? What happened? You can talk to me.”

“You’re an asshole. I wish you could see the look on [Y/N]’s face right now.”

“Don’t come back.”

Eventually, the voicemail box was full.

[Y/N] reached wordlessly for Art’s hand. She could feel his rare anger climbing. He got this ridiculous blush across his cheeks when he got angry and she could see it against the sunset’s glow. “Art?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened,” He said, turning his eyes to her. “I’m so sorry, hon.”

“It’s not your fault. You don’t have to apologize, pretty baby.”

“Yeah, but he’s my best friend. He’s your best friend,” He ranted. “That was a dick move to leave like that. I’m sorry that happened to you. He’s a piece of shit.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“No! I do. I do mean that. For the last year, he’s treated us, especially you like trash. Do you not see how much more you deserve, [Y/N]? I don’t know what’s going on with him… Do you?”

“He’s…” [Y/N] looked down. “You think he’s using again?”

Art didn’t say anything, he just looked down. That was answer enough. [Y/N] buried her face in her hands with a shuddering sob. Art pulled her to her feet and into his chest. He buried his face in her hair, unable to hold his own tears back. Eventually, the pair landed on the sagging green couch. Art’s legs wrapped around [Y/N]’s middle. They kept the news on all night. In case he matched an accident description. They called hospitals and hunted for John Does that were over six feet with dark hair and stubble.

“What are we gonna do? He’s… He’s not coming back, is he?” [Y/N] whispered. Cheese rested his heavy beige head on her thigh. He obviously didn’t understand why Patrick had gone either.

“No, I don’t think he is,” Art replied, lips against her forehead. “I’m sorry.

Pathetically, [Y/N] raised her head to Art. “I’m sorry too. I don’t know what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything.” He said. [Y/N] forced Art to lean back against the couch and she laid her head on his chest. Cheese circled for a new position where he could be touching them both at the same time.

[Y/N] knew it was a little bit her fault. She leaned up and kissed Art on the corner of his lips. “It’s my fault.”

“Then it’s both of our faults. You can’t talk about yourself like that. You’re the only you I’ve got, babe.” Art huffed tiredly.

[Y/N] dug her hands into Art’s hair the way he liked. “Can I fix your haircut? Haircut’s a generous way to describe it.”

“Damn, I was actually trying out this new thing. You don’t think it’s cool?”

“Yeah, it’s big for guys who blindly answer their wife’s phone calls, I hear.” [Y/N] said weakly.

Wife was all Art heard and he melted.

“I have never known someone I love as much as you,” Art said. “I’m all in with you. You know that, right?”

“‘Course I do.” [Y/N] did know. She sunk her teeth into the freckled skin on Art’s right shoulder gently and he moaned. Over top of the spot, [Y/N] left a trail of kisses down Art’s bicep.

“I’m gonna call his mom.” He said once [Y/N]’s pace had slowed. Art’s stomach growled. When he got upset, he didn’t eat. [Y/N] told herself it was because he had forgotten to in stressful moments, but wondered if it was a punishment instead. She pretending she hadn’t heard the sound.

“They don’t talk.”

“I know. Just in case he turns up.”

Patrick did turn up. About ten hours later, wet and unconscious in the emergency room. Following a psych eval, Patrick went to a short stint in rehab. He had gone once prior at the age of twenty. Needless to say Patrick missed the wedding. It was too much money to up and cancel, according to Art’s piece of shit stepfather, Douglas. Patrick made no efforts to contact the Donaldsons since leaving, as he left or following rehab. Despite all of Art and [Y/N]’s tireless efforts to find him, all they had to show for it was his disconnected phone number and a crippling feeling of shame and loss. Patrick had vanished from their lives without giving either one of them a say.

Patrick was gone.

But Art was there for all of it.

TAGLIST:

@toxiclovergirl @basicallynotbreathing @miniemonie2001 @valentine333 @tremendoushorsepeachbanana-blog @athxnss @babyspice6 @diorrfairy @donaldsonsdarling @muthafuckingstargirl @avylanchce @shysstuff @soberbabes @ysuftmikey @pussy-f41ry

[jeannineee]

Closure

Azriel x Reader

a/n: requests are open!! Comment if you wanna be tagged for part 2. Quickly proofread, sorry for errors!!

PART TWO

warnings: angst, very slight smut (18+ please)

The House of Wind was quiet at this hour, save for the thunder cracking outside, coupled with heavy rain pelting the windows.

You stood at the marbled kitchen counter, filling your glass of wine for a third time. You grimaced slightly as the wine coated your tongue, dry and bitter. Not your favorite, but it’ll get the job done—getting drunk, that is.

Just as you sat your glass down, footsteps sounded behind you. Not heavy like Cassian’s. Not light like Mor’s. No, these footsteps were almost inaudible. But you would recognize the sound from anywhere. The same way you recognized the cool air of his shadows before they came into view, before they slithered along your arms, toyed with your hair.

Azriel.

His strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in. Leaning into his touch was instinctual; a reflex.

You cursed yourself for it. Hated yourself for it.

“You didn’t come to my room tonight,” the Shadowsinger spoke against your skin, his voice warming you, wrapping around you like a comforting blanket.

You didn’t answer at first. Any response you had previously thought out caught in your throat, and you swallowed the words down before you could embarrass yourself with them.

What were you to tell him?

In the last few months, you’d agreed to share his bed. You’d go to one another when you needed release, and leave when all was said and done. Nothing further. No strings attached. Your centuries of friendship would remain intact.

So, when he’d begun showing interest in Elain, you kept your mouth shut. His moments with her didn’t go beyond polite, friendly conversation, but you could see the way his eyes lit up each time he spoke to her. He liked her very much. Loved her, perhaps.

You were foolish to believe it would be anything more than sex. Your feelings for Azriel were only magnified each time you went to him. Like some lovesick puppy, desperate for any affection that he would give you.

No strings attached, you’d remind yourself after each encounter. Azriel’s first rule.

The only other rule? Be completely honest with one another. If either of you wanted to stop? Say it. If either of you wanted to see someone else? Say it.

You’d broken both rules.

Azriel pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, jolting you from your thoughts. “I can feel the gears turning in your head. Talk to me.”

You swallowed thickly. Once. Twice. “I was too tired tonight.”

“That’s never stopped you before,” Azriel replied, turning you to face him. He gently grabbed your chin, tilting your head back until your eyes met his. “I know you. I know when something is bothering you. Talk to me.”

Despite how much you wanted to, you couldn’t break his stare. Did he even know? The things you would do for him? The love you bore for him?

No. He didn’t know. That would be cruel—to string you along and use you for your body, knowing you wanted more than that.

Finally, you loosed a breath, repeating your previous lie, as easily as breathing. “I was tired, Az.”

Azriel silently studied you for a moment, as though he was dissecting you, trying to pick out the pieces within that might hold the truth. The hand he had on your chin moved to the side of your neck, his thumb tracing the column of your throat. You knew he felt your breath hitch.

You prayed to the Mother that he would stop touching you like that. It wasn’t fair—this hold he had over you. How easily he could make you weak. Make you vulnerable.

His grip on your neck tightened ever-so slightly, and you couldn’t halt the breathy whimper that fell from your lips. “Azriel…”

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against yours.

The sheer need in his voice made your spine tingle. “Azriel,” his name was almost a whisper; a plea. You arched into him as his free hand found your breasts, tracing around your nipples with his thumb until they formed into stiff peaks.

Azriel’s lips trailed down your neck, your chest. He lowered himself, kissing down your stomach over the thin nightgown you wore as he sunk to his knees before you. He peppered kisses along your exposed thighs, a low growl creeping up his throat as you instinctively parted your legs for him. You were almost too far gone to speak—to think, even. But the moment his hands touched the hem of your nightgown, you tensed.

Azriel noticed immediately, and rose to his feet, worry painting his face. “Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?”

Your heart warmed at the concern he displayed for you, but you shut the feeling out as quickly as it came. It was all too confusing—the way he acted with you, only to turn around and go to Elain.

But you and Azriel agreed months ago: just sex, without any attachment.

“I think we should stop. All of this,” you admitted, unable to meet his eyes.

Azriel blinked. “Oh. Was it…” he cleared his throat, taking a step back. “Was it something I did?”

Yes. No. Both. You sighed. “No. I just—I don’t want to do this anymore.”

A half-lie.

Azriel nodded, his expression now unreadable. “Alright.”

Now it was your turn to show surprise. “Is that—that’s it?” The question came out a bit sharper than intended.

“You don’t owe me an explanation. If you want to stop, we stop. No strings attached.”

“Right. No strings attached.” You forced a smile, and Azriel returned it, though it seemed just as fake as yours.

A sudden awkwardness filled the air—something you’d never felt in Azriel’s presence. To your relief, Azriel spoke again.

“I guess I should—I’ll see you in the morning.” Azriel turned away, but stopped just before exiting the kitchen. “You’re still my friend, y/n. Always.”

Friend. Friend. Friend. Just friends.

You couldn’t bring yourself to smile, this time. “Always, Az.”

As he walked down the hall, you wondered if the Cauldron was playing a cruel joke on you.

Perhaps the mating bond could be one-sided.

[catcze]

CRYING OVER THE WRIO ANGST,,, A GOOD ENDING WHERE HE FINDS READER PLS I BEG OF U 😭

OKAY 😭

"The snowstorm is getting worse," says Albedo, clear disapproval in his voice as he trails after Wriothesley, a hand raised to shield his eyes from the pelting snow. "I suggest returning back to my workstation, otherwise we very well could freeze to death."

Freeze to death.

The phrase has Wriothesley's own blood chilling in his veins, as he wonders if that's the fate that had befallen you. His fists clench in his pockets, the leather of his gloves cracking from the grip. It's been two days already since he's rushed over to dragonspine ever since your disappearance— two days since he's been combing the entirety of this side of the mountain in his desperate search for you. Two days of barely fighting back against the sheer cold and the frost bite, two days of seeing no sign of you at all.

Two days of Wriothesley being in complete, abject terror at the thought that he might have to leave here never knowing what happened to you.

Albedo sighs behind him, rummaging in his pocket for some warming bottles. He slips them into the pocket of Wriothesley's coat quietly. "I have to return now," he says. "Please try not to lose yourself out here, too."

And then he is gone, leaving the Duke alone with his thoughts.

Wriothesley braves the snowstorm for several more hours, shouting your name until his voice cracks, hoping Barbatos would miraculously carry it across the wind to you. It's only when his legs are starting to give out after trekking miles and miles through the snow does he settle down in a small cave, collapsing against the wall. He groans, body practically deadweight, and rummages in his pockets for one of those warming bottles which he quickly smashes on the ground.

As the heat drives the chill from his body, Wriothesley tries to ignore the fatigue in his bones, sighing. It's just as he's about to take some rations that he hears it: someone calling his name over the roar of the snowstorm.

It doesn't take long for him to find out who it is. Within seconds, the Chief Alchemist is appearing at the entrance of his shelter, hair frazzled and coat haphazard, the most frantic Wriothesley has seen him in his short time of knowing him.

"Mister Wriothesley—" he takes a deep breath of air, "In the workshop— we found—"

And Wriothesley is on his feet before he knows it, practically running out of the cave. There's a flicker of hope in his chest as he follows Albedo's lead back to his workshop, just short of sprinting the rest of the way. From the very depths of his heart, he finds himself praying to whichever gods are bothering to listen to please, please let it be you. To let you be safe, be alright. For you to be able to envelop him in a nice, warm hug when he sees you because gods does he need one after the turmoil the past few days have put him through.

He practically tears through the snowy landscape, feet skidding to a halt only when he's at the mouth to Albedo's remote workshop, and his heart stops, then restarts, pounding like the beat of a thousand drums.

"Wrio!" You gasp, smiling widely. You're on a stool, a thick blanket wrapped around your shoulders, feet submerged in a pale of warm water, and alive.

Wriothesley rushes forward, body acting on nothing but instinct to get close to you, to hold you, to make sure that this isn't some twisted dream and he's gonna wake up any second in a snow pile, shivering like a wet dog. "Hi," you murmur quietly when your hand entwines with his, and he breaks, falling to his knees and burying his face into your lap, bathing in your warmth because this is real, this isn't a dream, and he's found you again.

[bellaxgiornata]

The Devil at Your Window |1: Snowed In|

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word count: 8k

Warnings/Tags: 18+; fluff, flirting, sexual tension, light angst, pining, eventual smut, identity reveal, and lots of black suit Matty

Series summary: In the middle of a New York City blizzard, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen accidentally lands himself on your fire escape–quite literally. When he accepts your invitation to warm up inside your apartment, you're surprised at how well the conversation flows all night with the curious and attractive masked vigilante. He's intriguing, though what you find even more intriguing is his unexpected returns to your window after that night–and his flirting. But when it seems like you're not the only one beginning to develop real feelings, he pulls back and you're left wondering two things: Why did he disappear and who really is the mysterious Devil that you've inevitably fallen for?

a/n: Just a short collection of one shots that I'll update whenever the ideas strike. It'll be told in a style like Falling for the Devil but it won't get nearly as long (unless y'all end up loving it, too). I just couldn't deny giving us all the fantasy of black suit Matt reappearing at your apartment window and all the flirting, sexual tension, feelings, and naughty things that might ensue... The installment list for this little series can be found here and feedback is always appreciated!

Tag list: @danzer8705 @darkened-writer

Picking up the steaming mug of tea you’d just finished making from off the kitchen counter, you cradled your other hand around the warmth of the ceramic and drew it towards your chest as you turned and headed back towards your living room. The small spot of heat against the front of your sweatshirt caused a shiver to run down your spine as your sock-clad feet padded along the cold hardwood floor and back towards your couch. 

It was freezing inside your apartment tonight and the blustering snow storm raging outside in Hell’s Kitchen wasn't helping. Thankfully your office had already announced its closure for tomorrow before you'd finished work earlier this evening. The snow had already started to dump from the sky before you’d even left the office, falling heavy and wild as it accumulated in a cover of white that blanketed everything in the city. It would have been beautiful if you hadn’t needed to walk home afterwards in the frigid mess–especially with the way the large clumps of snowflakes pelted and battered you in the face over and over, the cold stinging at your skin. 

The city was expected to get a whopping eighteen inches of snowfall minimum over the next twenty-four hours, so you were grateful that your boss wanted as little to do with making it into work tomorrow as you did, especially because you couldn’t afford to do anything but walk to the office. The last thing you wanted to do was trudge through all of that mess and slip on a patch of ice, inevitably falling in a massive pile of snow and leaving you stuck in damp dress clothes all day. 

No, you'd rather stay dry and cozy at home enjoying a lazy day off of work.

You were just hoping the power in your apartment building remained intact throughout the fury of the winter storm. You didn’t want to think about losing the heat in your building in the middle of all of this. Another shiver ran through you as you pushed the thought away–hopefully not something you’d need to worry about tonight. 

But since you didn’t have work first thing in the morning, you had every intention of enjoying your night. You’d immediately come home and thrown off your dress clothes before settling on something comfortable–soft sweatpants and a cozy sweatshirt sans bra underneath. Then you’d made dinner and cleaned it up fast before claiming your ‘spot’ for the evening on your couch. Which consisted of both of your blankets and the television remote while you binged a guilty pleasure show that you hadn’t had time to catch up on for the past few weeks. Tonight you were intending to stay up a bit late, cozy up beneath your blankets, drink some hot tea, and lose yourself in the plot and romance of the show before eventually dragging your tired ass to bed in the hopes of sleeping in tomorrow to make up for staying up late. 

Eyes focused on the paused television screen as you moved, you rounded the side of your couch while drawing your steaming mug up to your lips. You sipped at the warm liquid, reveling in it for a moment before you swallowed it down. You could feel it heat you from the inside out as a pleasant sensation washed over you. Your eyes closed briefly for a moment–it was the first time you’d actually felt warm today. 

Opening your eyes, you continued towards the couch and began to lower yourself down onto the cushions while trying not to spill any of your tea from the mug. Just as you were about to sit back down on the couch and cocoon yourself in both of your blankets, ready to settle in for more of your show, something outside the window to your right caught your attention. Your head spun in the direction just as a flash of black dashed past the window and a loud bang reverberated through your apartment. 

A frightened yelp slipped out of you at the sound and you clutched your mug tight to your chest, your heart thudding heavily in terror. Whatever had just literally dropped onto your fire escape had been large, especially with the sound of that impact. Sucking in a breath, you held it as you stared transfixed at the window, almost ridiculously terrified it would be some sort of wild animal–like a bear or a wolf–on your fire escape. 

Though, more realistically considering you were in New York City, you knew it was probably a burglar. Who else would be traversing fire escapes late at night? Especially dressed in all dark clothes? Except…that also seemed a little ridiculous, too. There was a literal blizzard happening outside, meaning everyone would be home. In their apartments. Making it impossible for a burglar to break into anyone’s place unseen. Plus, it was insane outside, what criminal would risk dealing with that right now?

So what the hell had just fallen onto your fire escape?

Another thought struck you soon after and your lips parted in shock at the idea as you blew out the breath you’d been holding. With trembling hands, you very slowly reached out, carefully placing your mug of tea onto the coffee table before you without taking your eyes off of your window. Gradually, almost nervously, you rose to your feet before taking hesitant step after hesitant step forward. Another sharp, surprised gasp flew out of you when you saw the dark figure sit upright on your fire escape, bent in half as if they were in pain. Which made sense, considering the fall they’d just taken.

But your body froze up instantly at the sight of the man dressed in all black bent in half and dusted in white patches of snow. He wasn’t a burglar at all. With the black cloth tied over his head and the form fitting shirt he was wearing, there was absolutely no mistaking who he was. You'd certainly seen enough images of him plastered across the media. 

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen had just fallen onto your fire escape.

Eyes widening in shock at the infamous vigilante attempting to pull himself up to his feet, one of his gloved hands holding onto the metal railing of your fire escape, you were suddenly overcome with the urge to check on him. To make sure he wasn’t seriously injured from that fall. 

Without thinking your actions through, you crossed the last few steps to the window and unlatched the locks before pushing it up. The masked figure immediately spun towards you at the sound as a bitter gust of wind burst its way into your apartment, chilling you instantly while those thick snowflakes once again assailed your face. For a moment you locked eyes with him–or at least, it seemed like you did despite the fabric covering half of his face–as your mouth hung open. You suddenly found yourself at a loss of what to say in the moment. And considering the way his lips thinned out along his face and the way he remained silent, he clearly wasn’t going to strike up a conversation with you, either.

Eyes darting down, you saw he had one gloved hand clutching at his right side as if it hurt him. His shoulders were hunched in on himself as his back faced the violent winds blowing snow relentlessly. Seeing him in person for the first time ever–something you’d never expected in your life considering how elusive the media made him out to be–you realized just how thin and unprotective his clothes really were. Especially tonight considering the cold weather. He had to be freezing.

An icy wind whistled loudly, another flurry of heavy snowflakes pelting you right in the face and breaking you from your thoughts. Blinking the snow from your lashes, you finally found your voice. 

“Are you alright?” you asked hesitantly, unsure how one should approach the masked man. “I just–just saw you fall. It looked like it hurt.”

He gave a curt shake of his head, wincing before he turned more towards the railing. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” he replied.

Something warm flooded your veins at the gravelly tone of his voice. It suited him somehow, even if it sounded fake. Like he was pitching his voice lower to sound like someone else in order to hide his identity. Not that you'd probably have recognized him anyway. 

With his back partially to you now, especially this close when there was barely a few feet of space between the pair of you, you could see just how incredibly muscular this man was. His black shirt clung to him like a second skin, the toned abdominal muscles on his upper body clearly visible even from just his profile. Even the pectoral muscles of his chest were well defined and visible beneath the sheen of black. His arms were thick–far too big for just one of your hands to wrap around. And as your gaze lingered lower, you fought back the thoughts that entered your mind at the sight of how large his thighs were in those tight pants–and how pleasant a profile his ass also had. You wondered briefly if he'd gained all that from working out or if it had more to do with his nightly activities.

Though when you saw him grab onto the metal railing of your fire escape with both of his gloved hands, the movement drawing your attention away from observing him as he attempted to swing himself over it, you nearly screamed as you lurched forward. You lived on the fifth floor, was this man really about to fling himself off of the fire escape from all the way up here? 

But the scream died in your throat the moment he cried out in pain, his feet slipping from off of the railing as he fell back onto your fire escape. He let out a hiss of pain as he clutched at his clearly injured side.

“Holy shit,” you breathed out, shoving the window open wider despite the cold and snow and leaning further forward. “You’re clearly not okay. Do you need something? An ambulance or something? Is there someone I can call? Or–or something I can do to help?”

The man rolled off his injured side and onto his back, gradually turning towards you as he lay on the fire escape. You hadn’t expected the amused and pained chuckle he emitted while the snow accumulated on the entire front of him, lightly covering the thin layer of his black shirt. Which you’d noticed had ridden up, revealing a small sliver of skin just above the dark, form fitting pants he was wearing. You tried hard to not keep glancing back at that patch of skin as it slowly rose higher and higher, unsure why you were so distracted by it.

The sound of his amusement soon drew you back to the moment and you cringed. Why the hell was he laughing?

“Are you alright? Did you…hit your head?” you asked him cautiously. “Maybe you have a concussion…”

Another amused sound slipped out of him, but that was quickly followed by a pained groan as he tried to once again rise up onto his feet. “I don’t have a concussion,” he assured you.

“You sure?” you asked, an eyebrow arching onto your forehead as you crossed your arms over your chest to stay warm when you began to shiver from the cold. “Because this doesn’t seem like a funny situation to me.”

“Well,” he grunted out, wincing as he drew back up to his full height, “normally I’m the one offering assistance, not the other way around. So yeah,” he continued with a faint shrug, your eyes once again catching the way he was holding his side, “it’s kind of amusing. In an…irritating sort of way.”

Your heart sank to your stomach at his words. “Oh, sorry,” you muttered, heat rushing up to your face instantly. “I didn’t mean to be annoying. I was just concerned–”

He took a half step forward, cutting you off as he waved a hand between the pair of you. He shook his head, letting out a slight huff of laughter. “No, I didn’t mean you were irritating. Just…this situation. The–the snow and the falling part.” In a quieter voice he added, “And having an audience for it.”

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you stood there studying him for a moment. He was injured and wearing barely anything at all in the middle of a blizzard. He looked like he needed help even if he seemed like the type not to ask for it.

“Do you want to come inside?” you blurted, unable to stop yourself. “I mean, to get warm and maybe sit down for a moment? I could call an ambulance or–or a taxi or something to bring you to a hospital.”

Another amused huff of laughter slipped out of him as he shook his head. “No hospitals, please. I’ll be alright. But…if you’re offering, I wouldn’t mind a moment to warm up.” His gloved hand lowered, pinching a bit of fabric from his shirt as he glanced down at it. “Admittedly this doesn’t offer much protection from the elements.”

You eyed the thin material between his gloves doubtfully. “Doesn’t look like it offers much protection from anything,” you told him.

A surprised bark of laughter peeled out of him, the sound drawing a smile onto your face. You’d made the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen laugh. Now that was something you weren’t going to forget anytime soon. He didn’t seem like the type to break character easily.

“You wouldn’t be wrong,” he agreed, his laughter subsiding.

Taking a step back from the window, you waved a hand towards him, gesturing for him to come inside. “How about you come in so I can close this window and we both can stop freezing?” you suggested, surprised at how bold you sounded considering who it was you were speaking with. “I’m shivering already so I can only imagine how cold you must be.”

You watched as his lips curled up into a charming grin at the corners, just beneath the black fabric of his mask. It was impossible to deny that he had a handsome face–at least, from what you could see of it. You imagined the rest of it to be just as attractive beneath that cloth and a sudden intense curiosity to know what the rest of it looked like overtook you as you watched him carefully climb through your opened window. He moved slowly, wincing in pain as he made his way inside. Despite his tough act, that fall must’ve really hurt his side and you frowned, wishing he’d accept your offer to help. There was no way he was as fine as he claimed to be, surely he needed medical attention.

“Takes a special kind of person to just invite me into their home so readily,” the Devil’s rough tone came out as he turned his back to you, shutting the window after himself. “Normally people prefer to avoid me.”

“You’re not dangerous,” you replied almost instantly.

The window closed with a sharp clack before his masked face turned over his snow-dusted shoulder, his attention fixed on you. “Oh?” he asked curiously, a smirk growing over his lips. “I’m not?”

Your eyes were drawn to his mouth, though it wasn’t like there was anywhere else to look when you spoke to him with that mask covering most of his face. The smirk appeared teasing, and for some reason that had the hair on the back of your neck bristling. You suddenly became very aware of the fact that you weren’t wearing a bra beneath your loose sweatshirt and it was now cold in your apartment. Quickly your arms wrapped over your chest, hugging yourself tight. His lips almost seemed to curl ever higher in response.

“I mean, you are ,” you amended, “but to, you know, criminals.” 

You swallowed hard when he remained still, gazing at you over his shoulder wordlessly.There was something almost predatory in the way he was studying you. It was easy to see how this lone man terrified the criminals on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, striking fear into them. He certainly had a presence. Goosebumps rippled beneath the sleeves of your sweatshirt at his continued silent stare.

“Right?” you asked tentatively, voice softer.

His smirk vanished as the other corner of his mouth curled upwards into what felt like a warm smile despite you being unable to see if it reached his eyes. He nodded gently, turning slowly back towards you as he did. 

“That's correct,” he agreed, brushing the snow from his broad shoulders. “I’m only dangerous to criminals. So unless you’re hiding any dead bodies or have some outstanding charges…?”

You laughed, though abruptly you snatched your bottom lip between your teeth in an attempt to quiet the noise instantly. He was witty and funny. You weren’t anticipating that. Or the way your reaction to his quips seemed to please him, like he was trying to charm you. Which seemed even more curious, considering who he was and what he spent his nights doing. 

“Can't say that I do,” you said. “I'm probably the most boring person in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Well now,” he replied teasingly, “don't sell yourself short. I'm sure you're not taking that title  all by yourself.” 

That charming smile was back on his face and it had your stomach fluttering. Tearing your eyes away from him, you noticed the television was still paused on your show. Paused on a scene where the two actors on screen were clearly about to kiss. Cheeks burning, you hurried over and grabbed the remote from the couch and turned it off. 

“You can make yourself comfortable if you want,” you told him, trying to keep the embarrassment out of your tone. “I've got a couple of blankets you can use to help warm you up.”

His heavy boots thudded with each of his steps as he crossed the room and made his way to the couch. You bent over, grabbing both blankets from your place on the couch where you'd previously been curled up as he passed behind you. The moment one of his cold gloves brushed against your back, you froze.

“Sorry,” he whispered. 

“No it's–it's fine,” you replied. 

He passed behind you before settling onto the opposite end of the couch from where you had clearly taken residence. You forced a smile onto your face as you turned and leaned over, holding out the blankets towards him. 

Pull yourself together , you internally chastised yourself. Just because it's been a while since you've had a man here doesn't mean you need to react to every little thing. That's not what this is, obviously. 

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the blankets from your outstretched hand. 

You nodded before sitting back down on the opposite end of the couch, keeping space between you and him. Curling your legs up under yourself, you watched as the Devil wasted no time throwing both blankets around himself, beginning to visibly shiver beneath them as he tried to warm up.

“Are you sure you don't want me to call anyone?” you asked him.

“No one to call,” he answered. “And a hospital would defeat the purpose of trying to remain anonymous.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” you muttered, glancing away and spotting the forgotten tea on your coffee table. “Would you like something to drink at least? Some water or some hot tea, maybe?”

His masked head tilted curiously to the side at your question, a grin returning to his plush lips. “Playing hostess?” he asked. 

“Well I'm sure you've got to be thirsty running around Hell’s Kitchen and fighting criminals all the time,” you explained. “I always sort of wondered if you stashed water bottles around the city or stopped for water breaks somewhere–not where you live, I imagine. Since you're trying to keep your identity hidden.” Your eyes narrowed as you added, “Or do you just let yourself get dehydrated every time you're out? Because that's not good for you, you know.”

The Devil's grin grew wider as he shifted on the couch, facing you even more from his place on the cushions. “Oh?” he asked, curiosity in his tone. “You've thought about me before, have you?”

Eyes dropping down to your lap, you smiled sheepishly as you shrugged. “I mean, I've had some theories circulating about you ever since you kept reappearing in the news,” you admitted awkwardly. “Sort of hard not to.”

“Well now you have to indulge me,” he teased. “Enlighten me on some of these theories of yours.”

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you continued to avoid his covered stare. “I mean, they're not that interesting…”

“Oh come on,” he tried again. “It's not like we don't have the time. And maybe I can confirm or deny some of them for you. Besides, I admit I’m curious to know what you think of me. Especially being so willing to offer help like you did.”

Chewing your bottom lip, you glanced up at him from beneath your lashes. He looked far less intimidating beneath your blush pink blanket now. What would it hurt if you told him a few of your ideas about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen? Maybe he might laugh at them, but would hearing that sound again be all that bad? And it truly would be interesting to learn more about the mysterious vigilante, something you'd probably never have the opportunity to do again. 

“Okay,” you agreed with a nod. Straightening up on the couch, you turned to face him more fully. “So I've always thought with the way that you fight that you were trained by some sort of secret ninja assassin organization.”

A hearty chuckle filled your living room at your first theory. The pleasant and resonant noise left you grinning as your stomach fluttered in response. You briefly wondered how often the Devil actually laughed when he was out. 

“I cannot confirm nor deny that,” he responded. 

The playful smile that kept appearing on his face was beginning to further disarm you. You found yourself enjoying his company, soon becoming used to the way half his face was hidden from sight with that ridiculous fabric. And for some reason your unexplainable attraction to him was only growing. 

“Next theory,” he prodded, the smile on his face apparent even in his voice. 

“You're not wealthy,” you stated, leaning forward and grabbing your tea from the coffee table.

“Oh, ow,” he joked, playfully recoiling back from you on the couch. “What makes you say that?”

You waved a hand at him across from you as you settled back into the cushions, mug in hand. “Because you wear clothing that is obviously not meant to protect you very well in a fight,” you answered. “I imagine if you had money you'd have something…nicer. Meant for what you do. And,” you continued, pausing long enough to drink down some of your now barely warm tea, aware of him focused on you, “you protect Hell’s Kitchen. Only Hell’s Kitchen. This part of the city isn't exactly filled with the wealthiest people. And with how dedicated you are to everyone here, I assume it's because you probably grew up here yourself. Most likely still reside here, too.”

The Devil hummed appreciatively when you'd quieted, his masked gaze still on you. You swore you could feel it as you drank down more of your tea.

“You're observant,” he mused. “Maybe I need to watch myself around you.”

A surge of pride swelled in your chest; you hadn't expected his praise. Or the way it would make you feel. And apparently, you'd guessed something right about him. 

“You're also not married or in a serious relationship,” you blurted before you could help yourself, wondering what more you could learn about him.

“Poor and unlovable?” the Devil asked with a surprised laugh. “That's what you think of me?”

“No,” you disagreed, laughing a little with him as you shook your head. “No, but I mean, I imagine you don't have time for someone else. And I figure most people wouldn’t like their partner going out and doing what you do. Putting yourself in danger.”

“Mmm,” he hummed out, shifting on the couch and making himself more comfortable. “A partner would certainly be…a distraction. A liability. One I couldn't really afford to have. So no, you're not wrong, I don't have one.”

You glanced down at your lap, your fingers fidgeting with the mug in your hands. Half of you was hoping to hear that he wasn't with anyone–though you refused to admit to yourself why that mattered–but the other half of you had heard the way he'd said that a partner would be a distracting liability and you’d felt a sad pang hit you in the chest. Considering how much he seemed to be enjoying your company when he didn't even know you had you guessing that the Devil was a lonely man deep down. 

But that wasn't a theory you felt comfortable sharing. 

“Any others?” he asked, breaking through your thoughts.

Clearing your throat, you focused back on him across the couch from you. His smile had disappeared, his lips now downturned at the corners just a bit. His posture had changed in your silence, the same as his mood, as if he'd picked up on the subtle change in yours somehow. 

Strange.

“I imagine you're the kind of guy who's fridge is always empty,” you answered.

A ghost of a smile reappeared on his face as he huffed out an amused breath. You couldn't fight the smile returning to your own lips at the sight of his again. 

“Well hey now,” he countered lightly, “there's usually beer. Sometimes orange juice and eggs.”

You giggled, unable to stop yourself. “Who'd have guessed the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is just your average bachelor?” 

“Average?” he repeated in mock offense, his head tilting to the side. “I'm just average now?”

Quirking a brow at him in a challenging manner, your own head cocked to the side. “Maybe tell me more about yourself and I could say otherwise,” you boldly teased back. 

“Well obviously,” he began, grinning at you in a way that had your body heating, “I can't exactly do that now can I? Defeats the purpose–

“Of remaining anonymous,” you finished for him. “I've picked up on the importance of that.” 

A silence soon settled between the pair of you, one that slowly began to cause your nerves to grow with the way he kept smiling at you. Once again you desperately found yourself wanting to see the rest of his face, curious to know just how handsome he really was under that black mask. Though you settled for studying what you could see, your eyes tracing the soft curves of his pink lips, noticing the way they very minutely twitched under your scrutiny. Eventually your gaze dropped down, following the hard lines of his stubbled jaw. As your eyes trailed further down, they lingered on the part of his neck that wasn't covered by the blankets he’d wrapped around himself for warmth. A heat burned in you as the urge to reach out and just touch him, just to see if he was real, suddenly grew within you. It didn't help that it almost felt like you could feel the weight of his own eyes fixed on you beneath the mask, once again making you very aware of your lack of bra beneath your sweatshirt.

Catching your lip between your teeth, you noticed the way his throat bobbed with a hard swallow. Had he been having similar thoughts? Observing you, too? 

Inhaling a sharp breath through your nose at the idea, you knew you needed to stop this line of thinking and stop it fast. There was absolutely no way the Devil would be interested in you. Certainly not like that. That was absurd.

“Would you like something to eat?” you asked, trying to calm your pulse. “If your fridge is empty all the time I'm guessing you could use something to eat.”

“I mean, I suppose if you’re–”

He stopped short the exact moment that the lights died, throwing the pair of you into almost complete darkness. You sucked in a breath, turning to look out the window just to your right. It was eerily dark outside, a sight that was rare in the city. Even the buildings across the street had been thrown into darkness. There was nothing but the howling wind and snow outside.

“Guess it was too much to hope the power wouldn’t go out in this mess,” you breathed out.

“I suppose so,” he replied, his tone just as soft.

Reaching blindly forward, you set your almost empty mug onto the coffee table before you. For a moment you reached around on the surface until your fingers brushed against your phone. You picked it up and unlocked the screen, grateful for the bit of light it shed in the dark as you turned on the flashlight function.

“So I can’t offer you a nice cooked meal without power,” you told him, rising to your feet, “but I can get you an apple and a couple of protein bars? If you’d…like?”

“You don’t have to, but I’d appreciate it,” he said.

“It’s the least I can do for the man who does so much for the rest of us,” you told him, maneuvering around the couch and navigating your way to the kitchen by the light of your phone. “I’d feel awful leaving you hungry and dehydrated.”

Wrapping one arm around your chest to try to fight the chill that had been steadily creeping into you, you headed towards a cabinet near the sink. Reaching up, you grabbed a glass from out of it before taking a moment to fill it beneath the faucet before setting it along the countertop. Then you plucked an apple out of a fruit bowl on your counter, taking a moment to rinse it off first. The moment you’d turned off the faucet you heard his voice from across the apartment.

“You’re cold.”

For a moment you found it odd how his words hadn’t come out as a question but more of an observation, though you quickly shrugged the strangeness of that aside. You set the apple down on the counter beside the glass of water before sliding a step to your right and opening up another cabinet.

“It’s alright, I’m fine,” you answered, trying to shine the light from your phone into the cabinet to read the labels on the boxes. “I wasn’t the one out in that snowstorm wearing barely anything at all.”

“You say that like I was out there naked.”

His voice had unexpectedly come from just behind you this time and it jolted your heart in your chest instantly. His sudden proximity mixed with his word choice had you startling on the spot. Your hand that had been about to pull the box of protein bars out of the cabinet accidentally bumped it instead, causing the entire box to slip off of the shelf. But before it could tumble to the floor and spill its contents, a black gloved hand darted out beside your face, catching it before it had barely fallen six inches. 

You stood there rooted to the spot, his hand just brushing your arm as his held the box of protein bars. The hair on the back of your neck had risen, aware that he was standing barely a foot behind you now. Slowly, you turned over your shoulder to look at him. Your pulse quickened further at how close his face was to yours. He was looking at you, too. Or at least, he was facing you. Eyes dropping down, you couldn’t help but notice that mouth of his again. 

“I apologize,” he said, your eyes watching as his lips moved. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Sometimes I forget how quiet I can be. I just wanted to give you one of the blankets. No sense in me using both when you’re cold.”

“Oh,” you whispered, unable to form any other response.

With his attention still on you, he reached up and slid the box back onto the shelf. Then he seemed to take a purposeful step back from you, his lips set in a straight line. You wondered what was going on in his mind right now, because you were sure there had to be something. Had he felt the tension you’d just felt? Or were you just ridiculous and overly hopeful?

And why did it even matter? You were never going to see this man again after tonight anyway.

Blinking a few times, you returned your attention to the shelf. Reaching up, you slid your hand into the box that had nearly taken a nosedive to your kitchen floor and pulled out two protein bars. Keeping your eyes actively focused away from the Devil nearby, you closed the cabinet and slid a step back to your left, grabbing the glass of water in your hand with your phone and the apple in the same hand as the bars. Though before you could turn around, you felt something gently drape over your shoulders. Looking down, you noticed it was the pink blanket he’d been wearing.

“Like I said,” he repeated, “there’s no sense in me using both.”

“Right,” you whispered, pulse pounding in your throat.

Turning on your heel, you stepped past him and made your way back to the living room by the light of your phone. This time you heard the heavy steps of him following after you. You assumed that was intentional.

“So why were you out in this blizzard tonight anyway?” you asked him, making your way around the couch. You hoped having something to talk about would distract you from whatever it was he kept stirring inside of you. “Surely there aren’t a lot of crimes being committed in this weather?”

The Devil let out a light laugh as he accepted the offered glass of water and food from you. One of your brows quirked curiously onto your forehead at his reaction as you sat back down in your original spot on the couch. Though you noticed as he took a large drink from the cup while lowering himself onto the cushions that he’d sat closer to you than before. You watched as he ripped open a protein bar and tore off a large bite next, but he didn't answer until a moment later when he’d swallowed the bite down. Internally you noted he must’ve been hungrier than he let on with the way he was devouring that bar and you’d wished you’d had more food to offer him with the power out.

“You’d be correct,” he told you. “And yet I still stupidly made my way out into this storm tonight in the hopes of catching a lead on something. Instead all I got was my ass frozen and my side bruised.” 

You watched as he took another large bite of the protein bar, chewing it almost contemplatively as his head canted to the side. You could still see him in the beam of light from your phone which you were still clutching in your hand. Somehow this lighting made him even more appealing as it cast sharp shadows along his jaw.

“Though I suppose unexpectedly meeting you was a highlight,” he added, causing your cheeks to flush. “But you know, you never did give me your name.”

“Well you never exactly gave me yours,” you immediately quipped back.

Those beautiful lips of his curved upwards yet again as he chewed the last bite of the first protein bar. What you wouldn’t give to see if that smile had reached his eyes.

“Alright, point taken,” he replied. 

Tearing your gaze away from him, you focused on your phone. If you kept the flashlight running the battery would die in no time. And who knew how long the power might be out for, you might need it later. You supposed you didn't need it on just for a conversation.

“I’m going to turn the flashlight off on my phone for now, if that's alright?” you told him, fingers darting across the screen to do just that. “Might need the battery on this later.”

“That’s alright,” he replied, sounding as if he was chewing another bite of food. “I don’t need it.”

He’d made the comment just as you’d leaned forward to set your phone back onto the coffee table, but you’d paused as the words processed in your mind. Your eyes narrowed again as your mind raced. Something about the way he’d said that sounded as if it had another meaning to it. But before you could put too much thought into it, he’d changed the topic.

“You’re still cold,” he pointed out. “That blanket alone isn't helping.”

Brows furrowing together as you slowly sat back, you wondered how he could possibly know that. The pair of you were in almost pitch black again with your phone flashlight off. It wasn't like he could see you and you hadn't been shivering, though there were definitely goosebumps dotting your skin. How could he possibly know? 

“I’m fine,” you said, pulling the blanket you had on tighter around yourself. “It’s bound to get colder here with the power out now.”

“And with how long you had your window open earlier,” he added. “The temperature is going to drop in here faster than it would have if you hadn’t helped me.”

You sighed, frowning in his general direction. “So much for being able to help you warm up,” you muttered. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he assured you.

It felt as if he was shifting on the couch nearby. Your brows knitted further together as you tried to make out what he was doing through the dark. All you could see was a faint mass of black that seemed darker than the rest of the blackness. Then moments later you felt a blanket being draped over your lap. 

“No, uh uh,” you said, shaking your head and immediately grabbing the blanket. “There’s two blankets, we can clearly share.”

“You’re freezing,” he countered. 

“And you’re not cold?” you shot back.

“Doesn’t matter, you’ve already been far kinder than I deserved this evening,” he replied.

You grabbed the blanket in your hands and stubbornly tossed it back in his general direction. An audible sigh sounded through the darkness to your left.

“You know I can just leave, right?” he told you. “Which would leave you with no reason to not use both blankets.”

Your eyes narrowed in the direction of the sound of his voice. “But then you’d be allowing more cold air into my apartment, which would only make the temperature drop faster in here,” you argued back. “Then I'd really be cold.”

He breathed out a laugh and you imagined the smile on his lips at the sound. You smiled triumphantly back at the dark shape of him because you knew you had a good point. Even though really, you could just layer on more clothes.

“Okay,” he relented. “That’s true. So how about…we share?”

The smile on your face quickly disappeared at his suggestion. Mouth dropping open, you felt your heart skip a beat in your chest. It took you a few seconds to regain the ability to respond.

“Share?” you asked.

“Body heat would certainly keep us both warmer,” he answered. “So would sharing two blankets instead of using only one.”

“Oh, uh, well,” you stammered, your mind racing at the thought of your body pressed up against his. “I–I–”

His deep laugh rumbled towards you through the darkness, the sound causing your lips to clamp shut. 

“I’m not suggesting anything immoral,” he assured you. “Simply a possible solution to the very real problem of us freezing in here. Unless, of course, you’d prefer me to leave?”

“No!” you exclaimed.

Immediately your eyes widened in horror at how quickly you’d responded to that. And judging by his chuckle, he’d also noticed, too. Your face scrunched up as you mentally scolded yourself for sounding so eager to keep him here in your apartment.

“Well in that case, we could share the blankets and our body heat,” he suggested again. “Because the temperature has definitely dropped a few degrees already and it's only going to continue if the power stays out.”

Nervously your tongue slid out, licking your lips. You were trying hard to control the racing of your heart, positive he could hear it with how hard it was beating now. Of course you weren’t going to pass up a chance to basically cuddle the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen for warmth during a snowstorm. You just needed to find a way to not sound so eager to accept his offer first.

“I suppose you…have a point there,” you said slowly, trying to keep your voice even. “That’s–that’s usually what people do in survival situations. Use their body heat to keep warm.”

An amused huff came from him and you realized he’d scooted even closer to you on the couch. Your breath caught in your throat the moment you felt his thigh bump against yours.

“So are we in agreement with sharing both blankets, then?” he asked.

“That–that appears to be the most logical solution to the problem,” you answered. “So yeah, I guess we…share the blankets.”

Despite the lack of light, the Devil seemed to move with ease and fluidity through the darkness, something you were paying close attention to as he gently sidled his way up against the side of you, managing to wrap both blankets around the pair of you. All the while you’d sat pin straight on the couch, aware that he was flush to your side from your shoulder all the way down to your knee. You clasped your hands in your lap, unsure of where else to place them. Truthfully, you had to admit you were already much warmer like this, with his body heat enveloping you beneath both blankets.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asked, his tone far gentler than it had been all evening. “Because that's not my intention.”

“No,” you answered with a light shake of your head. “You're not.”

He chuckled softly, his body shaking yours slightly with the movement. Your head turned towards him and you wished you could see at least the part of his face that was visible right now.

“Then why are you so tense?” he questioned. 

“I'm not tense!” you lied.

He laughed again, this time louder. The movement jostled you somehow further into his side, though your hand flew out and landed flat on his very solid chest as you tried to stop yourself from falling further into him. Your eyes widened in horror yet again, but before you could push yourself away you felt his arm wrapping around your shoulders and allowing you to sink even more into him. Heat was very much creeping up your neck and reaching your cheeks now in embarrassment. 

“You're very tense actually,” he teased. “If you're uncomfortable I can move, but we aren't going to be sharing much body heat if you don't actually sit next to me.”

Slowly you removed your hand from his chest, lowering it to your lap. Though with the way you were sitting facing partially towards him now, your knuckles were brushing against his thigh. 

“I am not tense,” you grumbled. “And you aren't making me uncomfortable. This is just…awkward. I barely know you and you don't know me.”

“Okay,” he conceded. “How about since you've guessed a few things about me, I think it's only fair you tell me a few things about yourself now.”

“I told you I'm not very interesting,” you reminded him.

“Ah, well,” he replied with a shrug, “I think I'd like to decide that for myself.”

Biting your lip, you turned your burning face and buried it into his shoulder, glad he couldn't see how nervous he'd suddenly made you. It was hard to tell if he was flirting with you or if that was just his vigilante persona–when he wasn't beating people, of course. 

With your nose pressed against the fabric of his shirt, you noticed he smelled surprisingly good. There was the hint of his sweat, but there was also a faint clean detergent scent. You closed your eyes and tried to relax, inhaling a deep breath in. Even though he was still a stranger and a vigilante, he seemed kind and safe so far. And he also hadn't thrown you off of himself for getting even closer to him, either. Maybe you should just do what he seemed to be doing: relax and enjoy the unexpected cuddles tonight with an unexpected acquaintance. 

“Alright, what do you want to know?” you whispered, eyes still closed as you focused on his scent.

Eyes fluttering open, you felt yourself waking from a deep, comfortable sleep. Though your eyes instantly snapped closed against the bright light that immediately assaulted them. Slowly you blinked them back open, trying to adjust to the surprising sunshine pouring through your living room window. Gradually you began to push yourself upright, realizing you were laying with your head on a couch pillow, both of your blankets snuggly wrapped around you. For a moment your face twisted into a look of confusion as you hesitated, staring down at the two blankets. Why had you been asleep on your couch?

But then flashes of last night came back to you. The masked man falling onto your fire escape. The joking and constant banter between the pair of you. Darkness when the power went out and the feel of his warm, muscular body wrapped around yours as he tried to keep you warm. The scent of clean detergent and his sweat. The feel of his spandex shirt against your fingertips and your cheek as you rested your head against his shoulder.

Had that all really happened? Or had you just fallen asleep on your couch and dreamt it?

Your attention shifted towards your coffee table and your sluggish brain processed the sight of your almost empty mug of tea, left abandoned all night, and an empty glass of water. Pushing yourself the rest of the way upright on the couch, your head turned over your shoulder. The lock on your living room window was undone.

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen really had been in your apartment last night. Which meant the pair of you really had cuddled together for warmth when your power had gone out. And you really did meet him. At least, somewhat.

“Oh my God,” you breathed out in awe. “He was really here.”

But just as the rush of excitement at meeting someone you’d always secretly admired filled you, it quickly vanished. Because you must have fallen asleep on him sometime last night when the pair of you were talking, and then he must’ve slipped out of your apartment before the sun came up, probably when the power had come back on. Which made sense, considering he wouldn’t want to be seen sneaking back to his own apartment in such a conspicuous outfit. 

But what was upsetting you was the growing realization that it wasn’t just the first time you’d met him, but it would most likely be the last. And you’d gone and fallen asleep through part of that meeting.

Stupid stupid stupid.

[peachsukii]

Tidal Wave

『♡』 pro-hero fem!reader x pro-hero bakugo ♡ katsuki bakugo masterlist ♡ summary: a horrible accident occurs while reader is on patrol for the night. when she's released, she runs to bakugo's apartment for support tags & warnings: loss of parent, failed rescue, trauma, angst, emotional comfort, fluff a/n: in my head, katsuki would be a very supportive BF who would comfort you after a bad day in any way he could, especially when it comes to losing people on the job. it's never easy and heroes need care, too!! ꒰ Ao3 version | word count; 1,454 ꒱

Getting ready to head out for a short night shift, you text Bakugo to let him know you're safe. He's always worried whenever they schedule you super late, especially by yourself.

[you] i'm heading in now, want me to text you when i'm home? might be late [kat] yes, don't care. if i'm up or not, i'll at least know you got home safe [you] okay, love you [kat] love you too

───

Time of death; 12:05AM.

The rain pelted against the neoprene material of your hero suit as you stood with the paramedics.

“Y/H/N?” One of them called to you. “We need your report on the incident.” She waited beside you with a clipboard, her paperwork growing damp with each raindrop.

─── A normal late night patrol, you’d been walking a dimly lit street on your route when a small child came running up to you, latching on to your leg. She couldn’t have been more than 8 years old.

“Excuse me! Miss hero!” She sniveled as she buried her face against your thigh, clutching your suit in her tiny palms. She was shaking like a leaf - covered in, what you presume, is mud.

You slouch over, a gentle hand on her head. “What’s wrong, little one?” She looks up at you, her eyes the color of sapphires.

“My mommy is in trouble! I tried to help her, but…please miss hero, come with me!”

Her dainty fingers grab your hand and pull you in the direction she came from. A few minutes down the road, you see an older woman on the riverbank. She’s face down, it’s hard to see without direct light what exactly happened. You’re jogging over to her with the little girl by your side.

“Sweetie, can you tell me what happened?” You ask the child.

She wipes a dribble of snot on the back of her hand. “Mommy and I were walking over there,” she points to the nearby bridge. “And she fell over into the water!”

”You’re very brave to come find help,” you praise, giving her a pat on the back. “Let’s get your mommy away from the water while I call my friends to help.”

While waiting for the rescue crew to arrive, you cautiously move the mother further away from the edge of the river. Suddenly, she begins to seize, catching you off guard. She’s gasping for air, flailing her arms around with tears pricking the corner of her eyes. You roll her on her side, rubbing her back as you see the lights of the sirens coming over the bridge.

Come on, come on, get here faster!

The ambulance pulls up on the pathway and 3 paramedics dispatched from all sides. They’re running up to you, yelling, “Clear the way!” You take the little girl’s hand and guide her up the riverbank to the ambulance.

“She’s been poisoned! Grab the siphon kit, stat!”

As chaos is brewing all around, rain begins to patter against the grass outside. You’re wiping mud off of the little girl’s face as you hear, “We’re losing her!”

You place your hands softly over her ears, turning to the paramedics as they’re attempting to revive her mother.

Please, no...

"Is my mommy going to be okay?" the little girl asks sheepishly. You can't answer her, you just nod your head and smile the best you can. You have to keep a brave face for her.

Then, you hear the dreaded noise.

* Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep *

Your heart drops, sinking into your stomach as you squeeze your eyes shut. Everyone in the vicinity is holding their breaths collectively. The paramedic with the respiratory machine wearily gets to her feet.

"Mark the time of death as 12:05AM."

───

You’re on autopilot, shoving your emotions deep down as you recall the events of the night to the paramedic for her report. You can't emote right now, you have to pull it together until you can leave.

"The child will be brought into protective custody until we find a relative. Thank you for your service, Y/H/N. You're free to go - we'll take it from here."

Before leaving the scene, you take one last glance over to the small girl. She's under a blanket in the back of the ambulance, staring blankly into space.

It breaks your heart.

───

You're sprinting, faster than your legs can carry you, through the downpour as you approach Bakugo's apartment complex. What time even was it? Last you checked, almost 12:30AM. He's gonna be pissed when you wake him up.

You needed him, now more than ever.

You round the corner of the third floor and skid to a stop at his door, soaking wet, leaving a puddle onto the hallway floor. You can hardly breathe as you knock, praying he's either still awake or won't be frustrated.

Fuck, I should have just called.

To your surprise, Bakugo answers the door after only two knocks. His expression shifts violently from annoyed to worried when he sees you standing there, immediately pulling you inside and shutting the door.

"What the fuck happened Y/N?!" he asked, more so demanded.

You can't hold it together anymore - you crumble into his arms, sobbing hysterically. His t-shirt absorbs the waterfall of tears you're crying, inconsolable against his chest as he's supporting your weight.

He runs his hand through your bangs, brushing the wet strands away from your face.

"Shh, hey, it's alright," he whispers, stroking your wet hair. "Any louder and you're gonna get me a noise complaint."

You let go, realizing that you've made a mess of his entryway and his t-shirt. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't -"

"Y'don't have to explain shit. Now let me get you out of that before you catch a cold."

Bakugo spins you around, tugging at the zipper of your hero suit harshly. The skin-tight bodysuit under the rest of your gear loosens, letting him slip his hands inside and peeling it off of your cool skin. You didn't realize how cold you were until this moment, shivering beneath his touch. Your suit crumples onto the floor, along with the rest of your accessories, leaving you in your underwear.

He tenderly grabs your shoulders, pushing you toward the bathroom. Little droplets of water fall from your damp hair as he's leading you down the hallway.

Before you know it, steams is rolling out of the shower as Bakugo is stripping himself down to get in with you. He soothes you as he takes the rest of your clothes off, guiding you into the shower with him. He puts you under the water first, rinsing your body with the hot water to warm you back up.

As the water cascades around the two of you, he's stroking your back, eliciting the remainder of your emotions to come pouring out. A quiet sob escapes you as you try to explain yourself.

"I...I couldn't save her," you start to say, hiccupping between your words. "Her daughter was...she was just a kid...I couldn't help her mother."

Bakugo kisses your forehead. "I'm sorry, baby. I figured that was the case." He continues to wash your hair and body, peppering you with kisses and letting you cry out the feeling. He knows all too well how you feel - the first time you lose someone you're protecting on patrol hurts a fuck ton, no matter the circumstance. It never gets easier.

Once you're all cleaned up, he steps out of the shower first to grab towels. He hands you one as he exits the bathroom, muttering just a sec under his breath. Not more than a minute later, Bakugo returns with a handful of his clothes for you.

"Arms up, buttercup," he playfully sings as he throws the t-shirt over your head, ruffling it at the hem to get it to fit over your physique. He kneels to the floor, a pair of his boxers stretched out for you to step into. You oblige as he yanks them up your legs and comfortably settles them on your hips.

You shuffle your feet in place, slightly embarrassed. "I'm sorry for making such a mess, Kat. I didn't know what else to do in the moment."

He cups your cheek in his hand. "Idiot, y'don't need an excuse to come to me. You should know that by now."

Bakugo takes your hand in his, leading you out of the bathroom and into his bedroom. He tucks you under the covers first and settles in behind you, immediately wrapping his arms around your midsection.

"I'll wash your suit for you tomorrow," he says hushed, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. "I love you, baby."

"I love you too, Kats. Thank you."

Just a quick little blurb 'cause I wanted to write Katsuki being sweet without hesitation. :)

Divider by : @/saradika

[blog-name-idk]

The Plot Twist | 05

Written by @blog-name-idk and @eserethriddle

Summary: Once upon a time you would have jumped at the chance to live the idol girlfriend life. The cameras, the action, the whirlwind romance. But what was once a dream has now become your worst nightmare, and you fully intend to fight the universe as it repeatedly conspires to set you up with your seven perfectly good soulmates from Bangtan Sonyeondan.

In which we punt Y/N into all the fanfiction tropes and you do your feral best to subvert the love story.

Because nani the fuck, you are The Plot Twist.

Pairing: OT7 X Fem!Reader

Genre: Soulmate!AU, crack, humor, idol!AU, light angst, slow burn, romantic comedy, just a fun silly old time

Rating: 18+

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Chapter 5: "It's fine! South Korea has universal healthcare coverage!"

Of three things you are absolutely certain. First, soulmates exist. Second, the universe – and you don't know how potent its power may be – runs on some sort of karmic imbalance. And third, you are unconditionally, and irrevocably, fucked.

It is raining.

In a rare, extremely odd fit of forethought, you actually have an umbrella in your bag. Normally, you would scoff at weather predictions and dare the clouds to do their worst. But today, you found yourself grabbing your umbrella before leaving for your commute, and the skies that have darkened into an ominous, storm-like gray after your work shift do not phase you at all.

Today, your undoing lies in a different kind of disaster preparedness.

Hard water pelts down almost as if it is herding you, and you hurry from the assault of the rippling sky to the awning of a closed coffee shop to grab your umbrella. Expletives spew from your lips as you dig through your messy bag. You're so focused that you barely register someone also taking refuge from the sudden storm – a man wearing a mask and a bucket hat, but is shivering through a wet, black long sleeved t-shirt that's sticking to what looks like a very toned body.

Not that that's the type of thing you typically notice or anything.

"Found you!" you screech excitedly as you pull out your umbrella and brandish it at the sky. The man beside you flinches, like you're about to attack him, and you give him a disdainful look.

"S-sorry," he mutters, the brim of his hat still hiding his eyes. "I thought you meant something else."

Something else? Is he on the run from the mob, or fleeing the national military? The incredibility of either prospect nearly makes you snicker, but whatever, you need to get home before the storm gets –

BOOM!

– worse.

The thunderclap makes both of you jump, and you wince at the realization that the rain is coming down even harder. Unforgiving sheets of water pour down, and you can barely see even a few feet past the awning. Maybe you can get an Uber instead…

You pull out your phone to see no bars. No data, no phone signal, nothing. The guy next to you is shivering even more violently now, and you internally sigh. You can't just ignore him, not when helplessness is wafting off him in tenebrous waves.

"Do you have a ride coming?" you ask reluctantly, wishing you had been raised to be more selfish. Your mother does whatever the hell she wants, why hasn't she taught you the same? Though, to be fair, she probably would have been able to get the rain to stop by glaring. Perhaps someday, in your final form, you'll be just as powerful.

The man wilts and shakes his head, and you’re alarmed when you hear a sniffle. Shit, you are not equipped to handle a crying man. You're not even equipped to handle your own emotions.

"I – I left rehearsal because I had a fight with my hyung," the guy begins to share, morosely wiping his face with a wet hand that only leaves more moisture behind. His voice quivers, and despite your misgivings, the piteous sight of him tugs at your heartstrings. "And now I'm lost. I only have my phone, and it’s useless right now."

You start to feel a little sympathy for someone who's clearly been having a bad day. You're about to offer to share your umbrella to the nearest train station when he finally looks straight at you, meeting your eyes for the first time.

The patch of skin behind your ear suddenly tingles and–

Oh.

Oh.

The rain falls, lightning cracks, and your stomach drops in time with the crash of thunder that follows. Yet you can barely hear it over the sudden pounding of your heartbeat.

"Do you… Could you… If it's not too much trouble, could I walk with you to the train station?" Jeon Jungkook pleads, large doe-eyes gazing brilliantly at you from half of an unmistakable face.

This… is why you felt like bringing an umbrella today? Because of the universe and its cosmic–fucking–intervention?

The man across you fidgets, growing self-conscious as he waits for your answer. For a few long seconds, all you can do is stare numbly at him.

Are you going to have to assume every man you run into these days is one of your soulmates? How is this even possible?

You reach your decision in less than a minute.

Dejectedly, you hold out your umbrella wordlessly to Jungkook, and his face lights up. His smile does something unspeakable to your heart that you refuse to acknowledge. His expression scrunches – cutely, to your dismay – in confusion when you just hand him the umbrella. You shove a few crumpled bills from your back pocket into his free hand, careful not to touch his skin, and he looks completely baffled.

"For the train fare," you manage to choke out, already backing away into the unforgiving rain. It's coming down so hard the pelting drops almost hurt, but this is infinitely preferable to whatever the fuck the alternative is.

"What…? No! You don't have to – I just wanted to share – "

"It's fine!" you call over your shoulder, already twenty meters away and sopping wet in the opposite way to what the universe was probably trying to contrive. "Just get home safe! I'm sure your hyung is worried!"

With that you're off, leaving a very confused and equally charmed idol behind. Jungkook stares after the strange, kind girl, wondering why it feels like you're running away.

Pondering, he scratches the tattoo behind his ear.

He’s just about to run after you, but then his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he opens it in surprise to see a wall of text messages.

How odd. The signal bars are full now.

At the influx of messages from his hyungs, his argument with Jimin at the rehearsal studio floods back into his mind, and Jungkook sniffles again and dials the familiar number.

"What do you want?" answers a grumbling Jimin, filling Jungkook's chest with guilt.

"Hyung, I'm so sorry!" Jungkook cries, blubbering in earnest now, the familiar voice opening the floodgates until his tears almost match the tempest around him.

"Don't call me!" his hyung scolds, clearly still angry. And yet, he picked up the call when he could have just ignored him. Jungkook hears Jimin sigh, the sound static and long. "Fine. Where are you?"

"I don't know," Jungkook whimpers as another crack of lightning cleaves the air. Thunder follows soon after, and he hopes that you're okay, wherever you've gone.

“What do you mean you ‘don’t know’?!” Jimin demands, suddenly all love, all worry. "Tell me where you are and I'll come get you."

Ah… warmth. This is what his team has taught him: brotherhood, love, and family. To be angry, to piss each other off, but in the end be willing to drop everything to help one another.

Something the stranger had done despite having no need to.

"I don't know where I am," Jungkook replies, already feeling a little better. "But I'll take a taxi home. S-someone gave me some money."

"Come safely. I'll wait outside for you."

Before Jungkook can protest, Jimin hangs up. The maknae can't help but smile despite how stressful the day has been. Between his team members and the kindness of the girl from earlier, his chest feels warm and fuzzy, driving away the cold and the gloom of the gray skies and icy rain.

He just wishes he had gotten your name.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Fuck.

You wake with a head full of cotton and a nose more clogged than a toilet at an American WacDonald's. Feeling like death, you drag yourself out of bed to the bathroom, force yourself into a scalding hot shower that – for a blessed moment – clears your sinuses. You get ready for work, and by the time you're ready, you at least look put together, though inside you're already wishing you could crawl back under your covers.

Any other time, you might have taken a day off to not inflict your coworkers with your germs, but today is that stupid executive meeting and you can't afford to miss it.

You pop some cold medicine into your mouth, mask up, and get to work early, because despite your utter lack of care when it comes to your personal life, you are a demon in the office.

"[Y/n]!" calls Mijoo, one of your favorite administrative assistants. It's for that reason and that reason alone that you pull your head away from your screen to give her a smile she probably can't see through the cloth of your mask.

"Hey," you greet, clearing your throat and relieved you haven't hit the "uncontrollable cough" stage of your cold yet. "What's going on?"

"Soonyoung is freaking out about something again," she replies quietly, casting her eyes over to the corner office where your Senior Vice-President resides.

You're not sure if he ever actually leaves the building.

You sigh. This is a big project, one that is being presented to the company execs, and you really need everything to go perfectly. It's a good thing you got here early.

"When I finish here, I'll go talk to him," you say reluctantly, making Mijoo shoot you a smile of relief.

After you've confirmed that everything should as expected, you push off your desk, letting your chair roll backwards. Then you slip your feet back into your heels, stand, and give a lazy stretch of your limbs before heading to put out the fire, rolling your shoulders as you do so.

Through the glass surrounding the door, you can see your VP frowning at his computer screen, gray brows knit in some sort of frustration. You knock twice, and he looks up, still frowning. It vanishes as soon as he realizes it's you, and with a grin he beckons you inside.

"[Y/n]! Thank goodness," he said in a relieved voice, already angling his monitor so that you can see. "I can't get VLOOKUP to work!"

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something you shouldn't, instead ambling over to help the dinosaur who is (hopefully) planning on retiring soon. Why is someone so high up even messing with spreadsheets, anyway? You barely have time to do any hands-on work at this point, and all you manage is your own team.

"It's tricky," you agree fondly, humoring him not because you have to, but because he kind of reminds you of your grandpa. "Here, let me help."

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Your next meeting also has an unusually high number of execs, and you frown as you recall the vague wording of the invite. You settle in a chair next to your work friend slash rival Jaesung, who looks just as confused as you feel.

"Any idea what this 'very important meeting' is about?" you whisper in his direction, and he shakes his head.

"No clue, but there are rumors that there's something big coming up," he whispers back. The two of you are unable to speculate any further, however, as your CEO appears. What the hell?

By the time the meeting ends, you are torn between laughing and crying hysterically. The execs have announced the planned launch of a top secret flagship product, one that the company is expecting massive returns on due to a collaboration with – because this is your life now – motherfucking BTS.

And then VP Soonyoung stands, looks at you and Jaesung proudly, and says that as two of his best people, you will be spearheading the marketing and sales efforts. He adds, with an elderly jovial laugh, “Both of you will even get the chance to meet them, so go get your autograph plaques ready!”

As if you needed to be disincentivized!

"You’re so lucky!" wails Mijoo as you sit in your cube, where you have been staring woodenly at your computer screen for over five minutes now. She thinks you're in joyful shock, and maybe, it definitely is shock. The electric chair kind.

It's bad enough that you had to spend an entire wonderful excruciating evening with Hoba – Hoseok – and he is now aware of your existence, even if he hasn't realized you're soulmates. But now this?

You mull over filing for your immediate resignation, which only adds to your headache. Eventually, you conclude that your time and compensation package from Samsong are just too good, too unbeatable, and… you’ve grown as a professional here. People respect you, value you for you, and you absolutely love working with your personally curated team.

The problem is the universe keeps testing your limits. Executive meetings? Easy. Flagship product development? Doable with the right people. But passionate, self-consuming cosmic schemes involving the world’s biggest boy band in the guise of soulmateship?

You’d rather get hit by a car.

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The universe hates me.

That is your last thought as you hear the squeal of tires on pavement and the frantic honks of a car horn before you're suddenly staring up at the sky, pain flaring throughout your entire body.

A man gets out of the black Hyundai Palisade with tinted windows, and you suddenly wish that you had been truly run over with no hope of recovery. Of course it's Kim fucking Namjoon of BTS, and he's looking at you in a mixture of panic and concern that makes your heart flutter despite your best efforts.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" he asks, to which part of your brain thinks, What a fucking idiot of course I'm not. The other half stupidly admires the broad set of his shoulders, the strange mixture of grace and clumsiness as he stumbles over to your battered body.

Wait.

You return to your senses, and begin to push yourself back up to your feet.

"Yep, totally fine!" you insist through gritted teeth, ignoring the way one of your legs is twisted awkwardly, and the flare of agony that permeates your body when you're able to bring yourself upright. "It was my fault anyway!"

It wasn't, but you're not going to stick around to let this play out.

You begin to limp away as fast as your contorted ankle allows, ignoring the flabbergasted expression on Namjoon's handsome face.

"I – can I at least pay for your medical bills?" he asks as he takes a tentative step after you. You hobble faster despite the burning pain in your legs.

"It's fine!" you call behind you, getting a regrettable glimpse of his beautiful, worried eyes. "South Korea has universal healthcare coverage!"

Unfortunately, you can only wobble so fast until the physically fit, able-bodied man catches up to you. By this point, your vision is fuzzing with strange dotted lights and your body doesn't feel quite real anymore. Namjoon's hand touches your shoulder, and you turn around to tell him off. Instead, you feel your legs buckle and strong arms catch you before everything goes black.

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"You keep appearing in unexpected places, and often." Jimin swallows, his heart beginning to race. "Your skin is always covered up. You don't eat or drink anything when I'm around."

He takes a deep breath, knowing you're just a step behind him.

"How old are you?"

You hesitate – just barely – before you reply.

"Twenty-five."

"... How long have you been twenty-five?"

"A few months."

A few months. A few months since he's moved into your apartment complex. A few months since the strange not-quite-ennui and melancholy has begun plaguing him. A few months since you have turned of age to manifest your soulmate connection.

"I know what you are."

He feels your body tense behind him, and a thrill runs down his spine. When you speak, he can feel your breath on his neck.

"Say it."

“Soulma–”

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Kim Namjoon looks anxiously at the nurse checking your vitals as you lay prone on the hospital bed, wishing he could do more to help.

"I think – I think she might have hit her head," he offers, for the tenth time, thinking about the way you had tried to run away on what the nurse is reasonably certain is a badly sprained ankle. The nurse gives him a tight smile, because one does not simply roll their eyes at the leader of Bangtan Sonyeondan, no matter how many times he's said the same thing.

"We'll check for it," the nurse promises, soothing the tall man. For the time being.

Namjoon chews on his lip as he gazes at you, wondering what your story is, what kind of past would drive you to such strange lengths.

For some reason, he itches to hold your hand, but that would be completely inappropriate from a total stranger. Especially when it could cause dating rumors if anyone gets a glimpse or a picture. His manager is already going to kill him for chasing down an injured girl in broad daylight.

His eyes keep getting drawn back to your face, peaceful in sleep and – dare he say it – quite pretty. Very pretty. Beautiful, even. And you had felt so soft and nice in his arms, warm and –

"Sir, please stay seated while I finish here," comes the nurse's tired voice, and Namjoon realizes he's gotten up and has an arm outstretched to stroke your cheek.

"Uh, sorry," he stutters, face burning as he sits back down. What the hell is wrong with him? Why does he feel drawn to this very strange, very lovely girl?

A soft groan tears Namjoon out of his spiraling thoughts, and his gaze shoots to your form as your eyelids flutter open.

"Wha – " you ask blearily, waking up from the weirdest parody dream of the world’s best vampire movie ever. Shifting in your bed, pain contorts your face and you let out a hiss. "Ow!"

Namjoon rushes over, and your mouth drops open when you realize who he is. Before you can react, he's holding your hand in his, and he staggers as something in the universe fundamentally shifts. By your gasp, you're experiencing a similar sensation, and you yank your hand out of his grip before he can get his bearings.

"Your leg seems severely strained," the nurse explains, blissfully unaware of the way the world is tumbling around the both of you. "We'll need to do x-rays to make sure it’s not broken."

"I'll… get a wheelchair…" Namjoon says, in a daze, desperate to be of help even as his mind races to understand what is going on. He stumbles outside of the room, desperately hoping that a moment alone will help him get his thoughts in order and help him find the right questions to ask.

Apparently these are questions he won't receive answers to any time soon, because by the time he's back, the room is empty. The nurse follows after him, and looks around in confusion.

"Where'd she go?" the nurse asks, and Namjoon wishes he knew the answer. Who are you? Why are you so hellbent on getting away from him?

And why does holding your hand feel like home?

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That was too close. Too fucking close.

You pull yourself onto the bus by the railing, ignoring the driver's confused, concerned expression as he takes in your hospital gown and the way you're wincing in pain. You swipe your card, only vaguely aware that everyone behind you can see your rump through the poorly tied flaps of the gown.

It's fine. Your dignity is unimportant compared to the bulletproof boy scout you just dodged.

You drag yourself to a handicapped seat – if there's ever a time you can confidently sit in one, it's now – and fall into it, finding an angle for your leg that gives some sort of relief.

Despite the pain, it's the warm feeling in your hand you can't stop thinking about.

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Kim Namjoon is at a loss.

Despite searching the entire hospital, the mysterious girl was nowhere to be found, vanishing from the premises as if she were never there. Still, out of personal guilt and liability, Namjoon lingered, offering to settle the missing girl’s hospital expenses, but the charge nurse expertly dismissed his generosity once it became apparent that he did not know you at all. He couldn’t even give them your name, or any proof of relation, and the rest of the staff quickly became tight-lipped around him.

Even Kim Namjoon, the illustrious 148 IQ leader of BTS, can’t argue against health privacy laws.

Since leaving his phone number with the charge nurse – his final, desperate effort – Namjoon has been staring at his phone, waiting for any news about you… news that simply never comes.

That same evening, he walks into the band’s shared dormitory with aplomb.

Single-minded, he heads straight for the living room and picks up the remote control off of the coffee table.

The flatscreen TV goes dark, and Kim Taehyung complains, “Hyung, no! What gives!”

Jungkook cries in offense, shooting up from the sofa, “My vampire baseball scene!”

Namjoon deigns them both with a long-suffering look. “We need to talk, so call the team.”

His assertive voice, usually reserved for critical matters and scolding, makes Taehyung and Jungkook abandon their emotional support movie in favor of gathering the rest of the group.

One by one, the boys pile into the living room from separate parts of the apartment at Namjoon’s behest. Most of them are sporting rumpled clothes and bedheads, save for Jimin, who looked ready to leave for his own place.

Namjoon announces, “There’s something I want to discuss. A… possibility.” He clears his throat. “A girl.”

"That's what you interrupted our movie for?" Taehyung asks, indignant. "A crush?"

Hoseok lets out an immediate sigh of relief. “Is that it?” And then he pauses, scratching at his nape, “Well, me too, I guess.”

Jimin’s eyes brighten. “No way, hyungs! Me too!”

When Jin, Jungkook, and Taehyung concede that they've also had a run-in with a very memorable girl recently, a new suspicion blooms in the back of Namjoon's mind.

Could they be talking about the same girl?

Though unlikely, he decides to ask, “Did any of you manage to get her name?”

Jin nods, seriously. “G0d$l@yeR_69.”

Namjoon shoots him another long-suffering look.

Hoseok stays silent, if only because his memories of you are one of the few non-idol centered things he still holds onto. Besides, his girl can’t possibly be their girl, too. The odds of that happening would be astronomical.

It's not so wrong to want to keep one aspect of his life to himself… right?

“Sorry, I… I didn’t get her name,” Jimin lies, for the same reason Hoseok keeps quiet. Besides, even if Jin is interested in you, Jimin's your neighbor! He should get first dibs! He's not going to give up your name so his handsome, charismatic hyung can find you and woo you before Jimin even has a chance to try.

"What's this important meeting about?" asks Min Yoongi, walking into the room with a mug of coffee in hand.

"A girl," Jungkook replies, somewhat dreamily, remembering the guardian angel that saved him that rainy day. Yoongi rolls his eyes and immediately turns around to leave despite Namjoon's protests. He has more important things to do than sit around gossiping, especially since he has a meeting with Samsong tomorrow about their new collaboration.

There's a hubbub behind him, a thump, and a curse from the ungainly leader as Namjoon's prized George Nakashima coffee table claims yet another victim. Yoongi's toe throbs, and he sighs.

"There's a first-aid kit in my room." He calls over his shoulder as he goes. "Knock yourselves out."

Far away, in a clinic near your apartment where your ankle is being put into a brace, you sneeze.

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Masterlist | Next

[sinisterexaggerator]

Hancock x F!Reader [ A03 ]

Summary: You are important to John Hancock; there is a radstorm brewing. As a skilled and reformed scavver, you’re after a part for a decommissioned lounger—it belongs to Doc Amari’s famed Memory Den.

Hancock's tense; he should have gone with you, but it’s not too late to search you out. He would be glad to have you home safe in his arms, only things don’t always go as planned, nor do you go unpunished for your negligence.

Explicit: NSFW / 18+ for PWP, PiV sex, fingering, cunnilingus, dirty talk, whump / hurt and comfort, angst, gun violence, light bondage, praise, light sub/dom undertones, edging, use of chems, alcohol, foul language, and canon-typical violence and behavior. Other worthy mentions include fluff, romance, a worried and protective Hancock, and love confessions.

Notes: I am normally a Star Wars writer. This is my first time writing for Hancock, and my first fic for the Fallout fandom. I see Hancock as multifaceted, which I am having fun exploring. I have many ideas, but one fic can only contain so much! I used a few lines of dialogue from the game because they stuck with me T__T. I will also most likely try my hand at Nick Valentine at some point, (and maybe even Coop), but this ghoul stole my heart.

6.8k+

Feedback appreciated. Like? Reblog! <3 Requests accepted!

Eyes as black as tar pits searched the ground at his feet, though no answers would present themselves, the cold, grimy filth of the Commonwealth something he could relate to on an atomic level. Flecks of barren soil and bits of detritus vaulted upward in a stagnate aggregate of dust, cavalier leather boots—having seen better days—leaving a swirl of varied particulates in their wake.

Hancock paced, the Mayor of Goodneighbor impatient as a hungry mole rat, the man left to stalk before the door that led to the Financial District. A dreary, dark green pall signaled to anyone with brains that there was a storm looming on the horizon, and yet you had not returned.

“Where the hell is she?” a raspy voice asked its sparse audience, two ghouls dedicated to his cause doubling as bodyguards, though if he felt safe anywhere, it was here among his brethren.  Besides, it wasn’t his safety he was worried about, it was yours, and he wasn’t afraid to convey his feelings to the whole of town.

“Startin’ to get antsy. Gotta hand it to her, she’s got me sweatin’ like a whore in church over this. Hope she’s havin’ fun at my expense.”

Scavenging was lucrative, or it could be if you managed to score the right loot. You had to know where to look, or where not to look; danger was always in the cards. It was a game Hancock didn’t like to play, and especially not now, not when lightning streaked the sky, rain clouds pregnant with radiation threatening to burst open like a feral’s head looking down the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun.

He knew what it was like to be forced to scour the bare bones of buildings, filching anything that was ripe for the picking. A single find could feed a man for weeks, and places like Goodneighbor just didn’t just build themselves. People needed things. Lucky for them, Hancock was able to provide. It was his one claim to fame—his rep was solid—but he didn’t look down on you for being one to scout for buried treasure.

“She’ll turn up,” one of his companions offered. It was a piteous attempt to console him, Hancock all but ignoring his dismissive comment. He felt his concern was obvious, yet his bedfellows were none of their business. Either way, he brushed it off like a decent man instead of snapping like he wanted to—the guy’d done nothing wrong.

Thunderclaps echoed through town, the first of many droplets pelting his marred face, the ghoul’s faithful tricorn not doing much in the way of shielding him from the dirtied water that had begun to trickle down onto its weathered surface.

He rued allowing you to go out on this wild-mongrel chase to begin with, not to say that you weren’t capable. What he might say is that you’re too good for this world, too good for him, but that hadn’t stopped him from falling head over heels.

You weren’t anti-social like most of your kind; you had a good heart, gave paying customers fair deals, and somehow you had kept the ruins from tarnishing your cheerful outlook; you sported a chipper disposition even at the worst of times.

In other words, you were his little ray of sunshine; Hancock had no qualms with telling you that to your face. And things as precious as you were to him? They needed protecting. It was becoming more obvious by the minute that he should have done the job himself.

“If this is her definition of ‘fast,’ we’re going to need to have a little chat to clear a few things up. Should have fucking gone with her, don’t know what I was thinking,” fried vocal cords scratched out, words tinged with worry as he made his way to the reinforced slab of steel that was Goodneighbor’s single entry point, not counting the alley behind Rexford.

“Maybe you weren’t thinkin’ at all, John…” that little voice inside his head nagged at him, reminding himself at every turn of the ways he’d failed, this on the verge of being one of them.

“Want us to look?” the other rejoined, aware you had been sent out on a job to find a replacement circuit board for Doctor Amari, as one of the memory lounger’s had been marked out of service. The doc would pay you well; everyone’s gotta eke a living somehow. Hers was made by sellin’ a man’s own memories back to him, and yours was made by sellin’ spare parts.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t have skipped out on his Mayoral duties for one evening, Hancock mentally scolding himself, his sentiments leading him toward the need to kick his own ass.

Quick, adept and clever, he had no doubt you could pull it off, but you were used to traveling in a group, used to back up and a lookout. You had willingly ditched your crew and settled here for him, making Goodneighbor more or less your permanent home. He couldn’t help but feel like he was ultimately responsible for you and your well-being—so far, so good. He’d be damned if anything happened to you on his watch.

The coming radstorm was starting to sound like a stampede of angry Brahmin. Not even those of his ilk should be out in this mess. Technically immortal, sure, but not immune to accumulating all that bad stuff brewing in the atmosphere; he was comfy right where he was, but not without his lady by his side.

Their self-elected leader ignored the question, reaching into the confines of his red frock coat to unveil the firepower hidden just out of sight. His break-action, double-barreled 12-gauge had most of its stock removed for easy concealment; he knew better than to step foot outside Goodneighbor without packing heat.

“No, you might say this is a personal problem. Not to say she wouldn’t make a damn fine Ghoul,” he stated with deadly calm, kicking the door open with reckless abandon despite his unflappable demeanor, not caring what awaited him on the other side.

“I’m going with you, ain’t safe,” words spoken over harsh winds, a breeze not in the least bit refreshing having descended upon the Commonwealth as Hancock slipped out into the mounting tumult, both men following close behind. Truthfully, he was grateful for their loyalty.  

“Suit yourself, but don’t go gettin’ yourself killed. Would defeat the purpose of a search and rescue, ya feel me?”

A question not needing a response, he ventured forward, running headfirst into the growing tempest, chaos reigning overhead in the form of a blinding light show.

Hancock called out for you, yelling your name over the deafening commotion that was going to get worse before it got better, not about to go home empty-handed, even if it took the whole damn rest of the night. He hoped you were smart enough to know when to quit, or that you’d taken those Mentats he’d stuffed in your pocket on the way out.

“Get back here, scavver!”

Footfalls echoed in the dark, brisk in pace, inky, depthless eyes narrowing as the ghoul searched out the source. He had taken no more than half a dozen steps before he was forced to witness you at a full-fledged run, two burly raiders belting out insults and expletives hot on your trail.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion, but he was stone-cold sober, time standing still as you dove into Hancock’s open arms.

“There’s my girl,” the scoundrel purred into your ear, sinewy limbs enshrouding you as the sound of gunfire and discarded ammo casings nearly went unnoticed. Hancock let his own weapon fall to the ground to accommodate you, your pursuers dispatched like the trash they were. The members of the Neighborhood Watch who had accompanied him outside the walls made short work of both men; they deserved a drink and some chems on his dime.

“John,” you breathed out, smiling up at him, eyes sparkling with mirth as you held up that piece of scrap you were so proud of. His name off your tongue was musical, a warm sensation spreading through him like wildfire, better than drugs—it was a high he would never come down from.

“I—I got the part,” you spoke softly, your tepid breath tickling the remnants of a disfigured ear.

Hancock almost shivered.

But oh, no. He wasn’t about to let you off that easy, not when he’d felt that pang of anxiety and the sickening feeling in his gut like someone had shanked him with his own knife. He held you back by the shoulders, breaking your embrace, his face taking on a displeased, stern shade.

“What’s wrong with you, huh? Makin' me all kinds of nervous. Scarin’ me half to death. And some might say I don’t look too far off.” He breathed in nice and slow, exhaling through exposed nasal cavities, Hancock emitting a sigh to emphasize his disappointment. “Can’t be doin’ things like that, or you’re liable to give this old ghoul a—”

“—Sunshine?” His heart sank, as if the universe was out to prove he had every right to worry, Hancock’s attention inexplicably drawn to the red staining your fingers—it neared the color of his coat. You only now seemed to notice, that radiant light swept from your beaming face as you acknowledged the presence of your own blood on your hands; no wonder it had been so hard to take those last few steps.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, eyes blown wide as you apologized for upsetting him. You would collapse into a heap, the adrenaline that had carried you home seeming to dissipate all at once—at least your fight-or-flight response had done its duty.

---

“Move over, out of the way. I ain’t askin’ twice,” Hancock seethed, the distraught man’s threat to bowl over anyone who stood in his way not to be taken lightly, though his tone was traitorously even and his despondency well-masked. He stormed the Old State House, ascending the spiral staircase to the second floor, carrying your limp body to a tattered red couch.

Refuse and empty Jet inhalers, along with half-drunk bottles of alcohol and boxes of Mentats, were all swept aside, Hancock throwing open cabinet doors and dislodging drawers in his haste.

“Oh, you’re really in it now, aren’t you, sister? Just had to make a few extra caps!” he chided, the ghoul’s husky voice rising in volume as he took to another part of the room.

Having not yet succumbed to blood loss, you were barely cognizant as you fought to stay awake, your beloved Mayor nothing more than a blur of motion and splotches of red as he systematically searched every nook and cranny for the syringe that would save your life.

“Hang on, dollface, you’re not dying today. Not if I have anything to say about it—and you know how much I love to run my mouth.” Hancock spoke to reassure you and himself, filling the silence with something other than the curses he wanted to dish out every which way to the wind. You couldn’t help but to smile again despite your predicament, eyelids drooping as you thought about the idea of sleep.

“There you are,” he growled, your vision starting to glaze over, though you were aware Hancock had come back to your side. His scarred, yet deceptively handsome face hovered inches above your own; it was an acquired taste you had no trouble in accepting.

“This is gonna hurt, but it’s better than the alternative,” he provided in short warning, withered fingers fumbling to unbutton your top, exposing first your sternum, your ribs, and then your belly.

“Shit, they got you good,” Hancock grumbled, your hand rising to cradle his jaw as he had peeled back the flaps of fabric to inspect the wound in your side. You were surprisingly calm, thinking that if today was your last day on Earth, at least you had been blessed to experience his company. 

“I’m glad it’s you here with me,” your voice, meek and mild, declared. Hancock hesitated for one precious second, caught off guard, but pleasantly so.

“Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me! Ain’t like these are your final moments or nothin’,” he assured, an audible tremble causing his words to waver, voice rising in pitch. He went on to stab you without ceremony, the needlepoint of a stimpak and its revitalizing medicine at once injecting itself into your damaged flesh and pulsing through your bloodstream.

You moaned in pain, hips arching as you lifted slightly up off the cushions before you settled once more, allowing yourself to finally relax as Hancock watched the regenerative process take hold, much to his relief.

---

You awoke, finding yourself supine atop a mattress, with Hancock crossed legged on the floor beside you. He had brought it down from upstairs, wanting you to have somewhere more comfortable to recover; the drifters weren’t using it, but he was sure he could scrounge another one up should the need arise.

The door was shut, the rest of the room empty, the man teetering off the edge of a high he wished he could prolong; he had pumped himself full of all those things that made him feel better. Riddled with guilt, he had imbibed both chems and alcohol, his body slightly swaying from left to right as he could not sit entirely still, yet he was too far off in his own head to notice you had come back to him.

You shifted, realizing he had draped his frock across your body to act as a temporary blanket. This simple gesture caused a flutter behind sore ribs, biceps activating so that you might push up and rest on the flat of your palms.

John was idle, near-dead to the world, eyes closed as he kept up that gentle rocking, back and forth, as if lost in music or in deep meditation. You only desired to watch him, studying the intricate, striated patterns of his ravaged flesh, gazing over the hollow of his once human nose, and admiring his sullied, foppish tunic that was a part of his infamous ensemble.

While some might consider him a monster, he was a being of light. He had superficial, obvious flaws, but he was no more guilty of sin than anyone else in this day and age. He was a beautiful soul, inside and out, and your opinion was the only one that mattered to you. Hancock always tried to do the right thing—it’s what drew you to him—even if that meant taking out a few loose ends. 

Your heart stirred, natural chemical processes taking hold that would prompt you to touch him, your hormones dictating that you wanted this man carnally.

The ghoul’s eyes bolted open as you shuffled forward on your behind; you set his coat aside almost reverently, folding your legs like his, knees brushing as you leaned forward to kiss his wiry lips. Soft flesh against textured skin, rough in comparison, felt no less wonderful, Hancock groaning out a throaty sound of appreciation as he slowly shut his eyes again.

That was all the encouragement you needed, pressing closer, crawling onto Hancock’s lap as his hands found the meat of your ass to give it a squeeze. “Someone’s feelin’ better…” he quipped, allowing himself to lie back on the floor. His smile was lackadaisical and content, his touch roving to your thighs as he gazed up at you, noting you were tugging off your already unbuttoned top to reveal your shapely breasts.

“How’d a guy like me get so damn lucky…” he drawled, Hancock’s normally assertive way of speaking temporarily replaced by a calming cadence—it was dreamy—his indolent tone arousing your most base instincts.

You didn’t answer at first, thinking you’re the one who’s lucky. You had wanted and needed a change of pace, not happy with the way your business partners were operating, willing to bring death to others in order to get what scrap they could. You only took things from the ruins, or from those who deserved to be robbed, the idea of senseless violence proliferating thanks to people like your ragtag group something you decided you couldn’t live with.

You’d come to Goodneighbor looking for work; Hancock had been willing to give you a chance, and you didn’t disappoint. After a few heady conversations and risqué flirtations at the Third Rail, you had wound up in his arms—a place you found yourself never wanting to leave.

“I could ask you the same question,” you finally muttered, grazing his mouth, kisses repeating, small pecks placed from one side to the other in a physical show of adoration. The ghoul laughed a wry, salacious little laugh, head turning to allow for this impromptu bout of affection, stretching one arm out behind his head to act as a pillow as he relished the attention.

Then, his smile faded, the chem’s effects lingering like background radiation, less intense than before—the high lasted mere minutes if that, his faculties gradually returning. The hand left free gingerly touched your side, just below where he had administered the stimpak hours earlier. Concern was apparent in glistening eyes, so dark and lovely, starry pupils reflecting the faint luminescence of his surroundings.

“Not lettin’ you out of my sight again,” he promised, every shred of levity fleeing to be replaced by austerity, low, somber notes causing a visceral reaction as the onset of something warm and fuzzy spread throughout your core.

“Bein’ out here with me? Means you don’t gotta work, but I should have had your back, sunshine. Ain’t got no excuse.”

“You can have me on my back,” you playfully retorted, the simple suggestion unleashing a purr from the bowels of the ghoul’s throat. The idea of being a kept woman pleased you, but you were more interested in pleasing him.

“You better watch your mouth, or I can’t be held responsible for all those things I’m going to do to you,” Hancock countered. He talked big game, but he was still feelin’ shook. He didn’t want to risk getting too frisky on the off chance your body needed more time to heal; you were only human, after all.

“I’m shaking in my boots,” you simpered. Hancock was quick to snark back.

“I know that’s a lie, ‘cause you’re not wearing any.”

You gasped as Hancock flipped you without warning, pinning both your wrists to either side of your head. He drank in the smooth, supple flesh of your curves, hungry eyes making damn sure to get their fill.

He couldn’t stop himself, exploring the swell of a perfect tit, Hancock’s mouth becoming newly acquainted with the sensitive flesh of your nipple. He flicked its pert tip with the point of his tongue; you brazenly rolled your hips as you tried to contain the lewd sound that threatened to escape you.

“I double dog dare you, ” you tempted, not in the least bit afraid of what he might have in store.

Hancock didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t want to hurt you, love, but let’s say I give it to you nice and slow… Or as slow as I can give it; hard to keep promises, lookin’ the way you do,” he argued, ruined lips applying pressure as he began to suck, his growing erection gently grinding into the meat of your thigh.

“You won’t hurt me.” You shuddered as he pulled back, gazing into murky, otherworldly eyes, their glow hypnotizing. You half-assed a struggle, wanting to pull your hands free if only to touch him, Hancock chuckling mildly at your efforts.

“Don’t be so sure, ‘cause I got a hankerin’ for human,” his voice dropped emphatically lower, toying with you, his dire inflection sending tingles down your spine. Coming from a ghoul, most people would run the other way, but you knew from experience, Hancock had a twisted sense of humor—it was something you loved about him.

“Eat me,” you jeered, snapping your teeth playfully like some creature that roamed the wasteland, Hancock pulling his head back just enough to satisfy you, as if he had a nose to bite off to begin with.

“That’s the plan, sister,” he snickered, finally releasing his grip on your arms.

You took the opportunity to take hold of Hancock’s already tousled vest, guiding him down to meet your lips. Your fingers busied themselves with its unbuttoning as the ghoul had his hands full, cradling the plump, healthy tissue of your blushing cheeks in the crooks of his palms.

Hancock fed a grating moan into your mouth before asking a pointless question he already knew the answer to, not one to miss out on a chance to have his ego stroked. “Somethin’ about me.. turnin' you on? Don’t know why you’d go for this ugly mug,” he conceded, fishing for a compliment. 

“You. You turn me on,” you whined plaintively, “everything about you,” you confessed, furling your tongue around his, willing him to shut his trap long enough for you to kiss him properly. He aided in the undressing, whipping his sash off in one fell swoop, an idea blossoming only to come into fruition shortly thereafter.

“That why you’re actin’ so desperate for me?” Hancock laced that bit of ragged flag around both your wrists, constricting them once more, his own arm extending to tauten its hold. He wouldn’t give you the chance to kiss him the way you wanted to, cinching its loose ends around the legs of the coffee table just behind your head, giving it a good tug to make sure you couldn’t break free.

In reality, it would have been easy to wiggle loose, but he knew you were the type to play along.

“What are you doing?” you asked, feigning alarm. The ghoul only grinned a shit-eating grin, crawling backward across your lap to adjust to a better position for his next course of action. 

“Makin’ sure you can’t skip out on me,” he said matter of fact, a mischievous lilt to his voice, “gonna have to punish you for all that worryin’ you made me do.” 

“But, Hancock—” you protested, realizing he was barring you from the one thing you wanted—full access to his person, unable to grope and caress all those parts of him you were so eager to touch and kiss.

“—Hmm?” he hummed, the bastard having the nerve to stand. He left you in a recumbent position with hands tied, unable to do anything but gaze up at the seductive set of motions he was now subjecting you to.

The ghoul painstakingly unfastened the remainder of his buttons, wizened digits fondling each in turn, his manner suggesting something that for now would remain unspoken. Then, Hancock shrugged his vest off, allowing his arms to hang as the garment dropped silkily to the floor. It was followed by a festooned shirt, leaving the man bare chested and amused; he wasn’t sure you had blinked even once.

“Like what you see?” he asked lazily, tracing a line across his gaunt pecs toward his navel with the curl of a finger, black eyes glinting impishly at the sight of you jostling your wrists as you failed to liberate yourself.

“Yes,” you breathed out shamelessly, unable to deny the effect his little striptease had on you. This in and of itself was torture, finding his brand of punishment entirely unfair.

“Good,” Hancock crooned, doing the unthinkable as he vanished from view. He even went so far as to walk beyond your peripheral vision. Instead, you were reduced to listening out for him, the ghoul shuffling around somewhere behind you. 

“John,” you whined, sitting up and scooting back against the coffee table the best you could. You endeavored to crane your neck, hearing the clink of glass preceding other innocuous sounds, the gentle thud of Hancock’s boots echoing across the rotting floorboards as he made his way back around. 

“You can say my name all you want to, princess, but it ain’t gonna change a damn thing,” Hancock stressed, words clawing their way out of cracked pipes as he nudged your knees apart with his foot; he knelt between your legs, a dispenser of Jet in one hand, and a dose of Rad-X in the other. “Open wide,” he instructed. 

You should have known what he’d been after, the drug-addicted ghoul popping the lone anti-radiation capsule inside his mouth after dispensing a heavy spray of the illicit substance into his lungs; its potency was limited in his case, but you were easily susceptible to its high. 

You gratefully obeyed, wanting any excuse to be close to him, Hancock’s silver tongue molesting you as easily as it had persuaded you to listen. He deposited the pill into your mouth, kissing you deeply, your beloved Mayor giving you a shotgun of thick, odorous chems without so much as a single protest on your part. 

Your heart thrummed, Jet leeching its way into your bloodstream to trigger a bodily response via your nervous system. In the meantime, you had almost forgotten to swallow your dose of Rad-X, Hancock prompting you by trailing the full length of your throat with a single, sallow finger. 

He massaged it down, feeling for the activation of those muscles that would help ferry it along, his thoughts drifting to the memory of his cock once upon a time being slopped on by the wet whorl of your tongue. His prick had throbbed almost painfully, sequestered snugly inside your zealous gullet, the powerful suction of your hollow cheeks threatening to wrench his soul from his body, or it sure as hell had felt that way.

He was drawn back to the present moment by the look in your eyes, your pupils dilating to rival the circumference of dinner plates. You gazed at the man before you; Hancock pulled back the edge of your bottom lip, exposing your gumline, the ghoul snaking another of his fingers inside your partially open mouth. 

The slender extremity would bypass your blunt teeth, saturating itself in your saliva. Even in this state, you had the wherewithal to pucker up, intaking that explorative digit to the knuckle, your plush maw behaving like a deluxe pre-war vacuum cleaner. 

The ghoul shuddered, though keeping his cool intact, lost in the depths of your unwavering stare. He slowly slipped back out, releasing your lip for it to snap gently back into place, Hancock satisfied with the knowledge you had swallowed the pill.

“Look at you, bein’ such a good girl for me,” Hancock praised, speaking in a low, sultry whisper. You did not reply, your desire for the man at its all-time high, that warmth in your belly having spread to complement the unparalleled ache of your loins.

“Hancock,” you whimpered, once more tugging at the cloth that bound you. You felt delirious with longing, your heart racing as you saw stars, euphoria overtaking all of your senses. You pushed forward, halted partway by that fucking flag that had you fettered like some common criminal, too blazed to even think about squirming loose. 

“Please,” you begged, lips reaching for his. Hancock evaded you, trailing a divot devoid of cartilage across your sateen cheek, directing it toward your lovely, intact nose. 

“Please, what, sister?” he ruthlessly teased, watching as your tongue tried to skirt his teeth; its vertex barely met its goal. Still, Hancock would return the gesture with a sweep of his own, flitting his against yours, inhaling deeply the scent of Jet off your breath as he was suddenly consumed by an almost feral need to taste your neediness—it was nearly palpable. 

“Please.. touch you? Please kiss you? Please.. fuck your pretty little hole?” he asked in a derisive tone, though his movements were languid, Hancock in no rush to oblige you, even as his veiny hands glided over every inch of your sleek skin.

“Is that what my little ray of sunshine wants?” the ghoul taunted, moving to unbutton the clasp at the top of your pants, then pinching the pull of your zipper, teeth parting to reveal clean cotton. You were nearly embarrassed by how damp your panties were, the chems only making your arousal ten times worse; Hancock wasn’t helping matters, a lecherous moan reaching your ears as the man slid back and realigned himself, bending forward to bury his face in the moist outline staining your skivvies.

“Shit, you’re so fucking wet—” he marveled breezily, “—is it all for me?” Hancock rasped, nipping you through the fabric, a desiccated finger tucking itself into its elastic hem. Hancock dragged it down just far enough to expose your sweet-smelling sex, the ghoul’s tongue slithering easily between slick folds. 

You inhaled a disjointed gasp for breath, voice cracking as you cried out in ecstasy, Hancock having barely swiped your thrumming clit. That alone was almost too much, your hips bucking beneath him of their own volition as you pleaded with him to keep his promise.

“Don’t tease,” you sighed, naked breasts rising and falling with every labored breath. Hancock’s eyes traveled up your fine as fuck body before meeting your gaze, a twisted hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his ghoulish mouth. 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he snickered, fingers grasping the entirety of your waistband to help you shimmy off your bottom layer of clothes. Your hips wriggled all too desperately, overjoyed to finally be free of their constraints. 

“But that’s not fair!” you entreated, unabashedly spreading your legs in the hopes of providing him a suitable meal, ready and willing to be devoured if you could only convince him to take the plunge.  

“And why not?” he asked in all seriousness, nuzzling into the lush flesh of your labia as his silky tongue entombed itself, gathering your moist heat from its source. He dipped back out to your chagrin—you had inhaled sharply in preparation only to be left disappointed—Hancock licking a stripe to the cusp of your throbbing bud. 

“Because I’ll die,” you replied, overexaggerating, writhing in bliss, albeit temporary; Hancock seemed out to drive you mad, retracting once more to glance back up at you, reedy lips downturned in a disapproving frown. 

“No, you won’t,” he asserted, voice taking on a sobering, sincere quality; even if you were being hyperbolic, after the events that had just transpired, Hancock didn’t find it funny, resolving to dine on you good and proper, as if it would be the thing to save your life. 

“I—” You were cut off mid-thought, lightning crashing thunderously outside, the ghoul introducing two coarse fingers into your clenching cunt as the radstorm raged on. Hancock’s neck sank low as you arched your hips, the flat of a thick tongue bringing you toward rapture as he succinctly lapped your clit in delicious combination, playing you like some Old World violin. 

“Aren’t you glad you’re trapped in here with me instead of out there cookin’ alive?” Hancock asked offhand, digits curling to find the seat of your pleasure, warm, wet muscle dancing slow, precise circles across your sensitive nerves. You halfheartedly yanked at your bindings once more, wishing for nothing more than to ravish him like a woman starved, deprived of sustenance. 

“Yes, yes— please, just like that,” you answered, urging him on, the man encouraged to keep at it, long, languorous strokes titillating you toward release.

Then, he simply stopped, fingers glossy upon exit, Hancock sucking your slick clean off with a scarecrow smile, tilting his head like a curious animal as you bemoaned your plight, left to suffer on the edge of an orgasm. 

“Relax, I ain’t through with you yet,” Hancock remarked, lifting himself up to a seated position on his knees. You whined indignantly, made to watch as he unbuckled and unzipped his own pants.

The rogue stood completely, giving you another show, kicking one boot off after the other before slinking out of the rest of his clothes. 

You took a moment to admire him, skin pockmarked with scars, deep pits of tissue missing where cells had inevitably healed all too quickly, John a mosaic of gnarled, misshapen flesh and keloid. Yet he was so handsome, charming, and cavalier, the man leaving nothing on but his tricornered hat, returning to his previous enterprise by way of interring his roiling tongue into your aching center. 

“Oh, John,” you murmured, voice hushed, the man’s thumb working itself concentrically atop your little pearl. 

For once, he was quiet, his strokes inside you meticulous, the nearly silent room filled with a plethora of obscene sounds as he feasted on you like a Yao guai over a fresh kill. Just a little attention was all it took, nails digging into the palms of your tied hands as you twisted beneath him, vocalizing loud enough you were sure the whole State House would hear.

A shiver rocked you to your core, riding out your climax for as long as you could stand it. You were unable to push Hancock’s head back even if you wanted to, the ghoul finding a new way to punish you, continuing to stimulate your already oversensitive clit. 

“Hancock, please—” you begged him under different circumstances, the ball of your foot gingerly pushing against his blatant hard-on. The ghoul finally let up just enough to chortle dryly, obviously nonplussed.

“Done already? Thought we were just gettin’ this party started,” he flouted, sitting up properly, probing fingers caressing the curve of your slit as they trailed upward, ghosting over your navel to tweak your nipple. They didn’t stop there, reaching just behind you to nab a cigarette off the edge of the coffee table, your expression giving away your confusion as he struck a match to ignite the end.

“No, John— you’re supposed to fuck me!” you berated, another devious little chuckle let loose from wilted lips. The ghoul inhaled a deep drag of nicotine laced with radiation, though the amount contained therein was so trivial he didn’t bat a lash—not that he had any.

He gazed at you through a thin veil of smoke exuded from eroded nasal passages—a short burst of pressure from his lungs propelling it outward—a freakish sight to some, but you had grown accustomed to it. 

“So, that is what you want,” Hancock digressed, snubbing the end of his cig on the floor after a few more laggard puffs. The Jet was wearing off, Hancock having already sobered completely, its side effects leaving you feeling used-up and exhausted. Hancock had forgotten what it felt like to come down from such an intense high; you pouted pathetically up at him.

“Baby,” you whined, immediately capturing Hancock's attention. He dropped the act, eyes softening around the edges, colorless voids somehow the most expressive you had ever seen them.

“What is it, sunshine? Feelin’ all right? Need somethin’ to take the edge off?” he asked gently, concern present in his tone, the ghoul finally being kind enough to reach over your head to free you from your bindings. 

“I need you,” you implored, your speech sounding childishly irritable, tired, heavy arms lifting to wrap themselves around John’s neck; you couldn’t help yourself, having been prohibited from touching him for what felt like hours, when in reality it had only been a short length of time. 

“I’m all yours,” Hancock vowed, whisking a stray strand of your hair away. A soft kiss was pressed into even softer lips; the man was two sides of the same coin, like night and day. Part of you prayed you would never cross him, his temper volatile, like an active volcano lying dormant until such a time the right conditions were met, inevitably causing an eruption. 

But he was also kind, genuine, and a good person, only wanting to make the Commonwealth a better place; he held within him a righteous anger, and for good reason, determined to stick by him through thick and thin. 

"Nice and slow?" you asked, bringing the conversation full circle, ushering the ghoul down on top of you as you laid back, gazing up with heavy-lidded eyes. He searched your face, as if double-checking for something, needing to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing was wrong—you were only sulking. 

“You got it, sister,” Hancock replied coyly, the fullness of a finger returning to you as he tested the waters; you were still so unbelievably wet. It was a stark contrast to the dry, desolate landscape that stretched for miles just beyond his little town, the ghoul humming in gratitude as you kissed him once again. 

You wasted no time, slipping your hand between the depression of your bodies where hip meets hip, his weight a warm, inviting presence that comforted you like nothing else. Your fingers toyed with his variegated shaft, thumbing a bead of loosed pre-cum to moisten its tip; Hancock moaned lustfully as he buried himself deeper into the column of your throat, teeth raking tender flesh, barely withholding the intention to bite.

“I’m thinkin’ you must be the single best thing to ever happen to me,” Hancock confessed in a dulcet whisper, voice quavering with emotion as you carefully escorted his cock inside you, one delicious inch at a time. Jagged breaths found their way into your ear, distorted, ribbed flesh, more than adequate in length and girth, stretching you open, a subdued sound of longing and relief birthed from parted lips. 

“I love you,” you blurted out, unable to keep your feelings at bay, any and all movements ceasing before they had wholly begun.

You had closed your eyes; they fluttered open, fear wheedling its way inside your heart as Hancock gazed at you in silence. You cursed yourself, having never before expressed such a sentiment out loud, unsure how the man would take it, or if he even felt remotely the same—all signs pointed to yes, but you refused to be presumptuous. 

Then, he pushed up into your tight cunt with one slow, smooth stroke of his cock along your anterior walls, stimulating your G-spot. Pleasure radiated through you as you emitted a stilted breath, Hancock cradling your cheek, resting his forehead against yours to stare penetratingly into your eyes.

“Took you to be smarter than this, but I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you say that,” he breathed against your lips, slipping a motile tongue into your mouth, wanting to desperately deepen your connection. 

You readily accepted, your own tongue writhing and contracting in unison with his, heart beating fervently behind a wall of blood and bone. Your fingers clawed and grasped at his narrow shoulders and the tendinous flesh of his back, exploring every inch of your ghoulish lover, from head to jutting hipbone.

Hancock drove his cock into you, back and forth, keeping a steady, equal rhythm like the beat of a drum. “Why now?” he asked, voice tempered, each pump of his thick prick inside you unhurried and sensuous.

“Nearly dying may have had something to do with it,” you jested in-between indecent, muted moans, Hancock’s deliberate pace driving you toward orgasm. The arm not supporting his weight curled tightly around you. He clutched you to his chest, and you wrapped your thighs around his waif thin waist in return. 

“Mmn.. that it?” Spindly fingers moved to grip the back of your head, digging into tufts of your hair; your back bowed to support you in joining with him more fully, Hancock massaging your scalp as he massaged your insides, debauch, rich sounds filling both your ears.

“And because I have nothing to lose,” you reluctantly answered, breath picking up speed as you pushed back against firm, rawboned pectorals with the palm of your hand; you had the intention of arranging yourself at just the right angle to please— a simple slant of your hips would make things all too easy.

Within moments, you came, pinpricks of light overwhelming your senses. You were elated, as if your consciousness had been overtaken by a nebulous cloud of love and electromagnetic radiation, a soul set adrift in a swirling haze of thoughts, feelings and emotions that would amalgamate into something beautiful—it caused you to cry out a sound of intense, heartfelt bliss. 

Your mind went blank, only registering that John had simultaneously shared in the experience. It would take you both a moment to calm.

Then, you squeezed Hancock tightly between your legs, a signal for him to not withdraw, but to stay awhile, the tension in your body settling as you laid back down.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.” Hancock would smother you with his scant weight, caressing the point of your chin, his thumb snaking across your bottom lip. He gave a faint exhalation of breath, the concave outline of his nasal cavity grazing the convex shape of your nose; it tickled.

“Nothing to lose but each other.”

[bahrtofane]

Promises under the stars pt2

Tag list - @leanastarkey

@moonlightbaesstuff

Part 1. READ THIS IS U HAVENT PLEASEEE

Part 1 Jude pov

—-

Jude Bellingham x reader , Carlos Sainz x reader

Word count - 11k+ (I’m sorry. )

Watch it -angst. Talks of pregnancy, divorce. Kinda stalkerish behavior ? This one’s a little all over the place ngl.

Many of you and probably wondering who this man is. Don’t worry you will find out soon ^^

The long await pt 2 my god it’s finally done ENJOYYYYYYY

——————-

Jude is 6. He's clumsy, he's full of wonder. He sits in a field picking at flowers and grass while you sit on your stomach watching the bugs dance. He likes you a whole lot. He thinks you're very nice and his mommy said that you're always welcome. He wonders what will be for lunch. He doesn't know what will come much later

The rage hasn't found him yet. It will. On a cloudy afternoon when he sees you standing hand in hand with a boy you swore to hate. Hot knots form in his stomach when he sees you smile at him. He wants to punch him square in the mouth.

He’s 10. And it's only the start.

It will find him again. When he's much older, floating around through his life. Floating isn't the right word, there's nothing soft about it. When he's being dragged by it. By force. Kicking and screaming as pleads tumble from his lips to just go back to the field one more. This time he’ll pay attention he screams. He promises.

Just one more time. Anything to relive it over again. To make things right with you. To at least own up to what he's done. One chance.

It will never come. He knows and yet he still tries.

On Judes 25th birthday does the rage visit him once more. Almost like an old friend if there was anything friendly about it. This time he’s sitting in his shower, letting the water pelt his skin as he cries. There’s no soft touch of friendship to accompany the lashings.

It's a dull pain, one that starts at his throat while he tries to hold back sobs. His body betrays him, lips cracking as he tries to use his hand to bite back each cry. It spreads down to his chest, heaving breaths trying to take in as much air as he can without swallowing any water.

It proves to be too great, he starts to sputter and cough, getting up and leaning against the walls of his shower. Turning his face from the shower head. He still can't breathe. The tightness in his chest only grows till its the weight of his actions pressed against him.

It moves till his hands are shaking, and his legs are having a hard time keeping him up. He turns the shower head down to only hit his feet, sitting down in the showers built in seat.

Oh how he misses the fields.

—--

You miss the fields.

There are days when you drive by just to feel something if not feel like yourself. No matter how old or far away the self might be. It's still you, isn't it.

You wonder what life would've been without him. No fields in the summer and chasing through grass till you couldn't anymore.

His mother told you once when you were much younger, perhaps kinder, that you were always welcome. She said it as a passing comment while handing you a plate of cookies while Jude was already half way done with his.

Neighbors. You were neighbors. You forgot.

What more will you forget? Bits of pieces of your past that will fizzle away only to be brought out now and again. There will be a time where you won't remember, you know. Perhaps that will be a good thing. Make it easier on everyone that way.

You still miss the past. You miss them. Before everything went the way it is now.

You will miss them some more.

You're set to leave. Moving out of Birmingham on your birthday. You think it's too symbolic, but things just ended up this way.

You spend the night before smoking till you can't see straight. When did you pick the habit up you don't know. You bounce between cigarettes and weed. Whatever's available.

It calms you down, you say to no one in particular, white stick hanging loose from your lips as you look at your bare apartment. Curled up on the floor in a blanket. Your hair is wet. You just showered. You think youll go to sleep with it wet. You're so tired. You don't even stay up till 12 to see the birthday messages pour in.

Pouring in is an exaggeration. You only get a few when you wake up, bright and early. Mainly from family along with the gifts they got you earlier in the week. Your birthday gifts go neatly in a suitcase as you head to your new life in London. You thought about moving out of the country, somewhere far away and perhaps tropical. Nice beaches and clear skies to wander under. But you like your familiarity. And the job offer came just at the right time. So here you are.

Packing the last bit of cake from this morning in tupperware.

Your birthday was rushed this year. You weren't going to do anything till settling into your new place, but your friends insisted on doing something at your home one last time. So at a brisk 9 am your friends fill your apartment for the fastest birthday you've ever had. Cake set on the table, hat placed on your head, candles set ablaze as you make a wish. Eyes closed and begging.

You wish for things with Jude to be as they once were. You wish for him to find his way back to you. You wish to be welcome again. For the fields to kiss the tips of your fingers as you run your hands through the grass. You wish to never forget. You wish for peace. As foolish as that might be.

A click of a camera makes your eyes open. Hugs and kisses as you get passed around. There's people here you don't even recognize but you try not to be too grumpy. They all help out anyway. Cleaning up any last bits of dust and dirt and traces of you from the cream walls.

Once upon a time the same space would have held Jude, celebrating with you and wishing for more years to bless you.

But now it's completely empty, everyones left. And soon you will too.

You've decided to drive the way to London. You packed most things into the small cargo trailer that attaches to your car. The rest lat minute things go in your actual car. Snug as a bug.

Your family stops by for some last goodbyes and birthday wishes, making sure you have what you need, and off you go.

You haven't cried the whole day, not for the weeks leading up to the move. But for some reason the second you pull your car onto the road you're a mess. You dont get more than 15 minutes before you have to pull over and just sob.

Why? You pretend like you don't know. Pretend to lay in oblivious embrace by your own stupidity. But you know, oh how you know.

The same face never seems to stop from tormenting you. You bring your own misery. And you can not stop. Almost entranced by the dance that brings your own demise.

It’s Jude. has been for as long as you can remember now. Seems like it'll remain as such. Even after the whole marriage fiasco. You can not look away, not for a second. Not letting your tormented soul know a moment's rest in favor of knowing his joy. It's hard to move on so you live through twitter updates of his life and the occasional news article. Feeding off of second hand news of a man whose words used to be pressed against your skin till he was all you could feel, see, reach, touch, know.

His warmth has long seeped away from your skin. If you close your eyes just right, you can swear you still feel it.

You wonder if his wife knows this. Funny enough there's enough divorce rumors to actually make you laugh. It brings you the closest thing to ease you can feel nowadays. The possibility of his marriage ending.

You spend your time being chased by the ghosts of your past, by the shadow of Jude you swear you always see from the corner of your eye. The feeling of his hand on your back guiding you through crowds.

His wife, who you find out to be a girl named Kaylie, cannot go a week without arguing with him somewhere public and it is getting plastered all over social media and tabloids. It seems like the media has long since forgotten about you. Which is good you guess.

Has he forgotten about you? Does his memory fail him as well?

Does he keep all your memories somewhere far away from here? Or does he keep them close. Nothing more than an arms length away for him to bring to life once more.

There are days where you grieve for the life you once lived so violently it scares you. Caught up in the past and unable to truly move on.

Other days are better, and you think not of the man who once had your heart.

You hope to have more of those days.

You wipe the tears from your cheeks, freshening up and doing a once over in the rear view mirror. It's time to get going. Not just from your old home, your city, but everything it holds. All it means.

It's time to leave Jude behind the way he did to you.

—--

London is quick and crowded. You find a rhythm against the rain that beats the streets. Find your footing on the pathways. Even if you miss your home, and the familiarity of your old life.

Your new place is much smaller. No large living room. Smaller bathroom. But you love it. It feels much better. Free of your past. Untouched and only known to you.

It takes ages to move in fully, and you don't even have all that much stuff. The trailer proves to be a little bit of a hassle getting into your parking garage but you make it in one piece. The first day you only bring your suitcase full of pjs and essentials. You don't start work for a week. You have time.

In the meantime you explore. Scouting out cafes and grocery stores. You do a little shopping spree by the third day. You get sick of take out, making a few favorite dishes while you people watch from the balcony in your bedroom (you have one in your living room too!).

On the fourth do you actually move in all of your things. It takes multiple trips up and down the elevator from the underground parking garage to your building's lobby and then up to your floor. But you do it. All by yourself.

You get the main things out and sorted, leaving the decor for last. You have an in unit washer and dryer which is really nice. It came fully furnished so there was no need to bring any of your old things with you so you sold them. Couch and table and all. Good riddance.

By the 6th day you're completely moved in. and the place starts looking like yours. You settle in for a movie scrolling through work emails and any last minute things to get done.

You actually did it huh.

—--

Your new workplace is vibrant. So you find colorful hues to pick at, pass your time with. One particular color comes in the form of Carlos. He's red, you decide.

He’s a few years older than you. Lips are usually pressed into a thin line, concentrating on all that's around him. Or on some days you find them to be cracked in an easy smile. He's experienced and been around the block of many things. He's warm and inviting, chatting with anyone with a smile and ease. So different from the Madrid star boy that plagues you.

You come to learn Madrid is Carlos’s home town. How fun. You don’t take it to heart.

He guides you where you stumble or hesitate at the office. Always happy to lend a helping hand. You learn that he's very high up on the pecking order. The kind of high up that doesn't even clock in. But it doesn't stop him from treating you like an old friend.

You're not back to your usual self, not yet at least. And you have a hunch that he picks up on that. When your gaze falls to the floor he doesn't reprimand you. Nor when you tend to space out. He lets you move at your own pace, it's all unbelievably kind. Especially considering you just got here.

He was the one to do your first day orientation actually.

“If you need anything at all feel free to find me, i'm usually in my office down the hall,” he handed you a little welcome basket filled with goodies. Soft smile while he guided you to your desk.

He’s intimidating at first. Tall, large, handsome. It's easy to feel out of place next to him and his fancy tailored suits. His walk that never falters and voice. You like his accent. You told him as much on the first day, you probably shouldn't have. Too much right? He didn't seem to mind all that much. Sheepishly smiling and mumbling a thank you before going back to setting up your email.

You noticed the way he kept picking at his nails the rest of the time.

In truth he’s anything but intimidating. He's kind to you, gentle. Never once making an advance, a comment, a passing glance. Everything is strictly professional.

—--

Your gaze is starting to flicker to Carlos. Uh oh trouble trouble.

You read up on code and triple checked with HR policies. And since he's not your direct supervisor, there's nothing stopping you from pursuing him. He's technically not in the same department as you (took you a month to figure that out). They just placed him here to help out in the meantime. Everyone's short staffed you guess.

You won't be making any moves, romance is the very last thing you need right now. You haven’t even recovered from the last one. Besides you don’t even know how to love anyone else but Jude. He’s the only one you’ve ever known.

You arrent ready to learn how to love someone else. Will never be ready you fear.

All this and it's hard not to get jittery when Carlos walks by. Just look at the man.

He is so sure of everything it seems. Not afraid to speak up but he's not aggressive either. He's found the perfect balance and you can't help but admire it.

The way he smiles at you makes your heart leap to your throat, even if you know the same smile is mirrored to everyone else in the office. You don't really care.

Smile at me again, you want to say, smile just for me.

You think you have a crush.

Oh you're so screwed.

—--

Carlos has found his way over to your desk at the start of each morning. Briskly walking by, poking his head into your cubicle and asking you how you're doing.

He's sweet. Too sweet. It's making getting over him even worse.

“How are you doing today?” he says, greeting you with a smile.

“Good! Just finished all the work I needed to get caught up on.” you turn your monitor to show him.

He hums, “amazing thank you. You can send everything over at once at the end of the day.”

You nod, making a note of it on your sticky notes, covered in little flower doodles you’ve mad to pass the time between meetings and what not. He tries not to smile too hard at this. He thinks you're a perfect addition.

—--

“Oh come on make a move.” your friend groans over the phone.

You roll your eyes, setting your phone down on your desk and tidying things up in your room. It’s bed time and some peace and quiet is the last thing on her mind it seems.

“i’m not gonna do that.” you grumble, playing with the strings on your pjs.

“why, he’s perfect!”

“Remember the last time I said that about a man?”

Silence.

—-—-

It's late when you finally finish up the paperwork for the day. Closing your 30 some tabs and sighing in relief when you sign out of your desktop, clocking out for the day. Your knees hurt and you think you have a cramp somewhere on your calf. Perfect perfect perfect.

There's not a peep in the office anymore. Everyone save for the janitor has gone home. Well everyone but Carlos, who sits in his office typing away and answering the occasional phone call.

You know he's no stranger to staying late but this is the first time it's only been the two of you. In fact, he stayed behind in order to help you out. What a strange reaction your stomach does. He stayed for you. You you you. Hm.

You had refused at first, but he only waved you off, telling you to send the documents his way and that was that. He's been in there since noon, and you are so grateful. Yes you’re new, yes you learn fast but jeez a little help is always appreciated. It came in the form of a very persistent Carlos, who are you to say no.

You gather your belongings and make your way to Carlos's office. Door just open enough for you to see him squinting at his laptop. Chewing his bottom lip and tapping his foot against the tile of the floor now and again. His suit jacket lays on the back of his chair, white dress shirt sleeves rolled up enough to watch his arms flex while he types. You swallow hard.

"Hey, Carlos," you say, your voice breaking the silence of the empty office.

He looks up, offering you smile but you don’t miss the way it falters at the edges. He’s tired. "Hey, heading out?" he asks, his voice soft in the silence that surrounds you. Gruff around the edges from not speaking as much as he’s used too.

"Yeah, just finished up," you reply, a small smile playing on your lips.

He nods, his attention returning to his computer screen for a moment before he stands up, stretching his arms above his head.

“I appreciate you sticking around to help me out," you finally say, breaking the silence.

Carlos shrugs, his smile turning slightly sheepish. "Hey, no problem. We're a team, right?"

You smile back, an odd feeling blooming in your chest. "Right." You begin to slip away from his door frame but his voice stops you.

"Mind if I walk you out?" he offers, gathering up his things.

“Oh I wouldn't want you to go out of your way.” you wave.

“Nonsense,” he shakes his head, “its pitch black out and its dead empty. It's not safe. What kind of supervisor would I be if I didn't?”

You hold back a frown, right. He's your “supervisor”, not much more. You hesitate, looking outside floor to ceiling windows. Covered in the pitch black expanse of night. It does give you the creeps. You haven’t been in the parking garages this late.

“Okay,” you nod. Just loud enough for him to hear.

He cracks a smile, swinging his suit jacket back on and heading out.

He walks at a much more leasuriy pace while you weave your way out of the cubicle and offices that line the hallways. You find yourself falling into an easy conversation with Carlos. He asks about your transition to London, your thoughts on the city so far, the usual small talk.

“Which garage do you park in?” he asks when you reach the elevator.

You lean against the wall,”the C one, 3rd floor.”

He nods, pressing the buttons and humming under his breath.

It scares you, just how fast Carlos has made his way into your life. Made his presence known. As if he's saying look at me, I'm here to stay. But is he truly?

Maybe you really are going crazy. Who knows anymore.

And as you step out into the cool night air, the rain misting softly against your skin, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you're starting to leave Jude behind. Genuinely this time. Oh if you can just stop thinking of him.

Carlos isn't a bad replacement by any means. Some would even call him an upgrade. He's made London seem not so daunting anymore. Ever more so apart as he walks you right up to your car, wishing you a good night with a small nod and smile.

But a part of you simply just can’t move on.

—---

Carlos sits next to you at a work dinner. Fancy restaurant that's all paid for. Something to celebrate the recent great work. How can you say no to free food?

A few others from your department are here, names you don’t bother to repeat. You know a handful of girls at the table have eyes on Carlos, thanks to the printing room gossip.

Especially a very cat like Jessica who’s cubical is right across from yours. According to Janice from accounting, she’s been trying to get with him for ages, and no matter what she does Carlos always turns her down and attention back to work. You had laughed the first time you were told about the infamous coffee fiasco that apparently everyone and their mother has heard.

Janice had told you while you walked out together to your cars. Giggling the whole time.

“Oh you should have seen it. Jessica walks into his office back first holding a coffee and runs into a share holder who’s walking out at the same time. Boom her white blouse gets absolutely drenched. The best part? Carlos didn’t give a damn.” She snickered.

Jessica now sits across from you, tight black dress on and her signature head of burgundy hair shining in the lights that shine above you.

You had expected at least some drama from her, especially when you were told you were invited by Carlos personally. But no. Nothing. Not even when the meal ends and everyone says they good byes.

You take this as your chance to talk to him more privately, to at least thank him for being so kind to you.

So when the chatting dies down and he pulls out the company card from his wallet, you turn to talk to him more. Everyone is getting up out of their seats at this point. Grabbing purses and shuffling for the door. But you stay behind, leaning what's probably far too close into his personal space, and speaking only when you know none of your coworkers are watching.

You lean in closer to Carlos, he smells good, as always. Tailored suit framing him all too well. Your heart is beating a little faster, faster than you'd like. Much too fast to just thank him for being nice for heavens sake. For a moment you think he can hear it through your dress. It's red, though it would match him well.

The servers flash by you but you register nothing but his gaze, the way it flickers to you as you move. Time slows you think, while you try to swallow around the bile that builds in your throat. Speak.

"Carlos," you begin, your voice soft, "I just wanted to thank you for always being there for me. I really appreciate it."

His lips curve into a gentle smile, his eyes meeting yours with warmth. "It's my pleasure," he gives you a small nod, tucking the company card back into his wallet.

Encouraged by his response, you continue, "I... I've been thinking a lot lately about how lucky I am to have you as a colleague. You make everything seem so much easier and I cant thank you enough for how kind you've been to me. Especially joining half way through the quarter. “

As you speak, you notice a subtle shift in Carlos's demeanor, a flicker of something else in his eyes as nods for you to continue.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is..." you pause, your heart racing, “thank you for taking your time with me.” The words come out too fast and jumbled together but they’re out.

His brows furrow so quickly you almost miss it. But they’re replaced with a smile faster than you can blink. His expression softens further, his gaze holding yours. "That's very sweet of you," his voice barely above a whisper.

You wring your hands in your lap, sweating bullets as you hang on to each world that tumbles from his lips.

"Im very glad I could help, and that you think so highly of me. It’s always my goal to help everyone.” He finishes, getting out of his seat and wishing you a good night.

—--

Something shifts after the dinner.

Maybe it’s Jessica who leaves for a neighboring branch in France. Or things slowing down enough for you to pick up new hobbies and think about getting a cat. You’d like a cat. Something to care for, look after. Love.

Or maybe it's the new way that Carlos looks at you.

He’s been…different to say the least. He spends more time at your cubicle than any other. He sends you coffee every morning. He doesn’t even get on you for scrolling through Pinterest when your work is done, as long as its done he does not care. It’s to the point that dear old Janice has picked up on it and even asked you.

”So Carlos huh.” She laughed one day while you were picking up your files.

“Huh?” Like a deer in headlights.

”Oh come on he might as well camp out at your cubical you two are very obvious.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

”We aren’t together?”

Janice thought you were lying for a solid week before she actually believed you. So yes things have taken a turn. Not good, not at all. You thought thanking him for his kindness would be it for you. A way to confess without actually confessing.

You don’t want anything to do with romance. Not for the next 30 years. You are so so good.

——

You stop responding to the kind words and you feel horrid. So so horrid. You thanked him and now you don't look him in the eye when he does the same things you praised. You shut yourself into a cage refusing to even acknowledge that he exists. Only talking to him when you have to. And even then you’re curt on a good day.

It becomes too much all too much for you to bear being around him for more than a minute.

You can’t do it, you just can’t. It feels so wrong. Like you’re just like Jude if not worse.

You scroll through his instagram on bad days. Unblocking him just to end up crying when you scroll down to that damn post yet again. Just married. You want to comment kill your self but you don’t want to get your account banned.

You click on his story by accident, he's on some island. You hope the plane crashes.

You probably need therapy.

And Carlos, sweet sweet Carlos, never takes your sour mood to heart. You wish he would give up. For your sake. For his sake.

“His” sake. It’s not Carlos.

——-

You aren't even dating. Not seeing each other, not involved. And he never stops trying. Never once is unkind to you.

You know if you’d outright tell him to stop he would in a heart beat. But you don’t, letting him continue the dance alone. People in the office have noticed and started taking a dislike to you. If only they knew the half of it.

You say yes to going out after pictures of Jude and his wife on vacation break out.

“I wont force you if you don’t actually want to.” Carlos sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.

You give him a timid mile, “I want to, trust me.”

Even if the want is only wanting to move on.

“Committed to our marriage.”

You still don't truly hate him.

——

He doesn't know of your history with the man. You don't want him too. Especially considering Carlos is prpbbaly the biggest Real Madrid fan to ever exist. Madrid is his home town for fucks sake. It’s like a big joke is being played on you. You don’t find it funny.

A part of you is just using him as a placeholder. Holding out hope. Hope for what you're not all too sure about.

For a man who abandoned you to come back and make it all better?

Your new lover you feel pity for. You're a lost cause. A stick in the mud. You shy away from the most basic of things. Holding hands, hugs, an arm around your shoulder.

He still doesn't give up on you. You wish he would.

Carlos doesn’t care that you can’t stomach kissing him just yet. He’s happy to wait, to take it step by step.

“I just, I can't Carlos. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Well take it at your speed. I promise.” A smile.

Carlos is kind to you, even when you're not the same back.

He goes back to his department come winter, and you see much less of him at work. It makes you miss him oddly. No random pop ins and your favorite drink in his hand.

No asking how your days been at lunch. No running into each other when you’re both in the printing room. Giving eachother shy smiles.

Hm.

——

You learn Carlos is a big gift giver. He spoils you. He only wants you to have and experience the best. Always on his arm showing you off. There’s no hiding with him, no forced to duck out of the way in case of cameras. He always pays when you go out, and always a little bag in his car waiting for you.

”Carlos getting me jewelry every time you see me is too much.” You frown. Sliding into the passenger of his rather adorable Volkswagen Golf.

“You don’t like jewelry?” He frowns, sliding his seat belt on.

“No I love it I just feel bad you spend too much on me.” You sigh.

”Please take it from me, it really is nothing. I want to give you even more.” A chuckle fall from his lips.

You learn in the same week that his family owns the damn company. “Why the hell didn't you tell me?’

he shrugs, “it's what I liked so much about you. You didn’t know and it didn’t affect how you saw me, treated me.”

”I feel so stupid Carlos.” You mope.

—-

Life is easy with Carlos. He’s grown on you and you open up. Piece by piece and taking your time. He leaves no room for doubt. Always there to guide you with a hand on your back, pinkies intertwined.

His successes are yours, and yours are his. You cry together. You celebrate together.

At events he brings you on stage with him to bring good news about the company. Toasting with you by his side. The days with him are good to you. And they turn to months.

You meet his family when things get serious. And you try not to let the past influence you too much.

What if they hate you? What if it's a repeat of everything you tried so hard to leave behind? What if his mother refuses to see your face?

He only reassures you with soft kisses and warm smiles. “They’re going to love you. Just be you. “

Just be you.

——-

You take a trip to the countryside of Spain for the weekend. At the cusp of spring, to meet his family. You fly first class, your first time, and knock out for half the time. He holds your hand the entire time, rubbing his thumb along your skin while he tells you more about his childhood. You even learn a few phrases in Spanish, you hope your accent isn’t too awful.

When you get to the winding driveway that gives way to the most picturesque white house on a hill you try not to gasp. It’s gorgeous.

His mother immediately welcomes you with a crushing hug when you step out of the Uber, boasting about how gorgeous you are.

You meet his two sisters, Blanca the oldest, and Anna the youngest.

They greet you with wide smiles, excited to have you. Leading you to the patio of the villa to chat. Carlos insists on taking your bags while you bond with his family. You give him a look while hes half way through the door with both bags in hand.

“Go go i'm sure they want to gossip!” He shouts from the base of the stairs.

You sigh, shaking your head at him with a smile while his sisters take you to the living room.

“We've been dying to meet you!” Anna giggles.

“Carlos never stops talking about you, you know. That already speaks volumes he's a private guy.” Blanca adds.

You give a nod, ”I'm happy to be here. He talks about you guys all the time too, good to put faces to the names.”

“Come we’ll show you around.” Anna gets up.

And you follow. Meeting the dogs and watching Carlos kick around an old golf cart till he gives up and heads back inside.

You meet his father who gives you a tight hug.

“You like golf?” He has a club in hand.

“I never actually played.”

“Carlos you haven't taught her?!” He gives his son a scowl, “Come, I'll teach you.”

So you do. Spending hours in the Spanish sun trying to learn technique.

“She might be better than you Carlos!” his dad laughs when you get the ball right into the hole.

He sits on one of the patio chairs, drink in hand, arms splayed on either side.

“Maybe she'll beat your record.” He hums. Eyes crinkling while he watches you chase down balls that you hit too far.

The afternoon winds down and you find a seat next to him.

“Have fun mi amor?” Pressing a kiss to your hand.

“Golf is actually kinda hard.” You huff.

He laughs,”not too bad though right?”

You shake your head, “no it was fun!”

“That's good. We're going to start the grill up in a few. What are you feeling burgers or kebab?’

You hum, taping your index finger on your chin, “anything you want is fine by me.”

He gets up, giving your head a pat, “kebab it is,” heading over to where the large grill sits against the stone wall.

You head inside to find his mom getting plates out.

“Anything I can help with?”

“Oh no honey you're our guest, go relax.” she waves.

“No please, it's really nothing.”

“Nonsense!”

“I insist you all have been too kind.” you try.

She places a hand on her hip, ”fine fine. You can help me get the table set.”

And you do just that.

You stick around in the kitchen helping Carlos make the actual kebabs. Grinding the meat while you hand it off to him to mix in the spices and assorted greens to the mix.

Next he shapes them using his thumb and first two fingers, squeqwering the meat into each wooden stick and setting them in the fridge in batches.

When the grill is up to temperature, in they go with vegetables and steaks.

You eat surrounded by laughter and warm smiles. Your belly is warm and full, and it's not just the amazing food.

His family shower you in so much love it feels like you’ve known them for ages. Soft smiles and preening at your compliments. His mother says yoy fit right in and his sister are happy to have another girl.

By the end of the night his dad is calling you his daughter.

—--

Jude has a rare few days off. Nothing on his plate, nothing to do. It comes unexpectedly. The fault of bad plannning, mismanagement, something like that. He didn’t listen past when they told him days off. Music to his ears.

Kaylie has been kinder to him, and hes been able to stomach being around her more and more. If not for her for his child.

They might be married but he holds no love for her. Nothing at all. How can he? But that doesn’t mean he cant at least try to put an effort to make things work. The very last thing he wants is for his baby to be stuck between homes or worse yet ages away from him. Not knowing who he really is and fed lies by Kaylie. He knows how she is.

Cunning, sly. Add fur and she’d be a fox.

He picks and chooses his battles and today he chooses peace. Getting some flowers and her favorite take out place on the way home.

He comes home to his house dark and void of any signs of her. The curtains are drawn, the tv off, so is the ac. Hm. No ones home.

He gives Kaylie a call, but it goes to voicemail. She does this often, ignoring him and doing what she wants. He doesn’t really care. She’s most likely out shopping again.

He sighs, setting the bags down on the counter and heading to his-their- room.

At the foot of the bed there’s a grey satchel looking thing. He doesn’t remember seeing that. And he’s not one to snoop but its in his bed, left out among a few clothes. Maybe its the maids and she forgot? Hm.

When he picks it up there’s some weight to it, the draw string come undone as he moves it close and out tumbles a silicone sheet.

Brows furrowed he picks it off the ground, turning it in his hands. It’s realistic, like it was made to mimic human skin. Bumps and ridges along one side while the underside is smooth. It tapers off on either side to make two Velcro ends. There’s a belly button in the middle.

When he realizes what it is, Jude wants to throw up.

The past year flashes in his mind till hes reeling. He cant see, tumbling back into his bed as he clutches the sheets.

The fake silicon baby bump tumbles out of his grasp and onto the floor, flopping like its laughing at him. Mocking him for being so god damn stupid.

The rage he’d tried to hard to ignore, to wipe out from his body rises up like a summer heat. Trapping him in his own body till hes blinded. He throws whatever he can see. Trashing the room. He can barely breathe.

In his own home hes been made an idiot. Under his own roof that he pays for he worked he that he built from the ground up hes been manipulated. His movements slow till he feels like a single cloud after a storm. Aimlessles floating looking for pourpse.

Jude leaves the house in an instant, taking pictures and tucking the item into his back seat. He’s going to his lawyer. Now. He needs a divorce.

——-

Kaylie dismisses every accusation. Calls him a lair, every name under the sun.

He has cameras in his home, a detail she never knew of. He got them installed before he even moved in. They work in his favor as his lawyer brings up the footage. His mother is seen brining bags inside and setting them down onto the table. And out comes a box, and out of the box, the satchel.

His mother bought it for her.

She admits to it when called up. Shrugging like it’s the most natural thing she’s done. A choice as easy as breathing. To fate her son to such misery. To betray.

The divorce happens. Even after it takes weeks. He leaves her.

Why don't you pick up?

——-

Carlos proposes in the same time frame that Jude divorces. While you celebrate with his family you see the news. It’s everywhere, plastered on every site and app and news outlet. Jude Bellingham divorced. A younger part of you feels excistatic. And the current you tastes something sour in your mouth while you read the headlines.

A part of you took Carlos as a placeholder. But you gave up, no more waiting. And now that the wait is over and you are to married? There is nothing left to say, want, need.

It’s so wrong. All so wrong. You have a fiancé.

He’s more than sweet enough. And yet, in every moment spend with him, there’s a humming on the back of more mind filled with fields and stadiums.

You wonder if he thinks the same. If he keeps up with you in any way. You wonder if your engagement has made him feel anything. You hope it has.

A part of you hopes his divorce came as a result of your own news. But who knows.

—--

When you find yourself in Madrid you’re greeted by a family that has become your own. They call you the jewel of the family. Proudly showing you off. It’s hard to think of anything else.

His mother takes you to get your nails done with her while you catch up.

“How is Carlos treating you?”

“Oh he’s lovely. You raised him extraordinarily.” You smile.

She preens, promising to take you on the coast when the weather is warmer. Go out for a swim even. Anything you’d like.

You get matching colors and walk out arms linked and smiling.

——

You learn that Carlos, before you, had given up on love. It was a thing he dreamed of. A thing unable to attain. Something akin to the stars. There to see, not to touch. Never to have or to know fully.

He had whispered it to you in the darkness of his room after a homemade dinner. The best pasta you’ve ever had. The compliments made him blush and get all jittery. It’s adorable.

“I just never thought I would be able to have this.” He breathed out.

You gave him a firm kiss, cupping your hands to his cheeks. “I’m the one who should be saying that. You’re amazing Carlos. You amaze me everyday. I’m so lucky to have you. To love you.”

A beat of silence. Sniffles. “I adore you.” He mumbles out while he tucks his head into the crook of your neck. Gentle hands combing through his hair.

That hes had his fair share of flings and unserious girls around him. Only about two he’s actually brought around his family. On whim and a half baked thought turned to full trip. And those ended in a dumpster fire apparently.

“It was so out of no where he never talked about her and then he calls saying hes brining this girl over.” Anna waves her fork in hand.

Today they’ve come to visit London and you’re out for dinner just the three of you. Carlos is working late and he insisted you go meet them at the resurant.

“Send me pics!’ Was his only request while you gave him a kiss at the door.

“Oh she asked for a promotion almost 20 minutes in.” Blanca rolls her eyes.

Anna nods, “i don’t remember her name but I remember her horrid sneer. Like she was part shark or something. Creepy. I think Carlos was just trying to prove that he could love since both of us are already married.”

Prove that he could love.

But he loves so easy it’s hard to wrap you mind around. Someone so lovely and sweet having trouble. Your heart aches for him. Both of you have had shit luck previously huh.

——

The middle of summer you get introduced to the annual family reunion dinner of sorts.

“It’s nothing crazy dont worry. Just grilling and more Sainz at the house.” He assures you.

So you pack up again and head to Spain. He always gives you the window seat. Puts all the carryons into the over head bins for the both of you.

It’s nice, being able to turn your brain off for once.

The dinner is a whole affair you come to learn. You’re in the kitchen prepping with everyone while both Carlos senior and junior get to setting up more tables on the patio.

The theme is white this year. You brought two white dresses just in case.

The chaos soon dissolves into a steady rhythm as the prep comes to a close and you wait for guests to start arriving. You get changed in one of the spare rooms they’ve given you each time you come. Stepping down the stairs to a crowd.

His family is very very big. Huge even. All pouring in the property in fancy cars and watches on their wrists that cost more than your yearly rent. Yikes.

You shrink on yourself, sticking to the kitchen and absentmindedly rearranging plates and taking a seat at the dinning tables as you watch the greetings from the windows.

His mother spots you. In a gorgeous sleek jumpsuit and white shawl to match.

“Oh you look lovely.” She beams.

When you don’t return the ethusiam she frowns. “What’s wrong my dear?”

You look away bashfully. “Nothing at all.” Forcing a smile.

She takes a seat next to you, taking your hands in hers. “Nonsense. You can talk to me. I promise you’re a daughter to me.”

You sigh, turning to face her. “You’re whole family is so lovely. So grand. I feel like I'm not enough or I don't belong sometimes.” You admit, wringing your hands in your lap.

Her brows furrow, “you’re a part of the family my love. My Carlos loves you, so do the rest of us. That alone means you belong. Not to mention what a gem you are. You’re an exceptional woman with both your character and achievements. Don’t sell yourself short.” A hand squeezes your shoulder and you look at her with so much appreciation you might cry.

“Thank you so much Ms Sainz, really. You’ve welcomed me so sweetly. I'm so honored. “

She rises out of her seat, taking your hand in hers as she guides you to the door. “Come now, we’ll walk out together. Don’t worry i wont leave you till you say so. “

You give her another great full smile, taking a fabric of your dress in one hand and head out to greet the rest of your family.

——-

You sit nestled next to Carlos and his mother. At the end of the table while the maids handle plating and serving the food. You’re emmesnly greatful there is no grilling to be done on your end in the white dress that trails on the floor.

Carlos gives you a smile among the chatter that surrounds the two of you. His mother rises, and in an instant all eyes are on her. You hope one day you can command half as much attention as she does.

She says most of her words in Spanish, a few you catch onto (Carlos has been teaching you here and there. Giggling at your accent but you’re getting there!)

She raises her glass and the last part comes out in English. “We thank everyone for coming. You all are welcome here, as our guests and as a part of the family.” Sending you a smile at the last bit. You can't help giving her a wide smile in return. Reaching your eyes and so big it hurts your cheeks but you don't care. You’re so happy to be here.

Carlos gives your hand a squeeze under the table, eyes crinkling into. Familar smile.

Something clicks for a moment.

You let nostalgia and familiarity cloud your judgment and hold on to a man with no real sense of direction in his life. Pushing away Carlos. Sweet sweet Carlos who only wanted to love.

——-

You mention your apartment being stuffy and within the week there are an unfamiliar set of keys sitting on your living room coffee table. A red string tied into a bow on them is the only thing that accompanies them.

You know exactly who it’s from.

You call him and he picks up immediately. “Hey baby.” There’s a curl to his voice. He’s smiling.

“Carlos. What’s with the keys?

He hums, “they’re for you.”

“What?”

”You know if you ever get tired of your place. You have a house now. If you want it under your name let me know I’ll send the papers over.” Said with the most casual tone in the world. Like he dropped off flowers instead of keys to a house.

“I’m not following.” Thumbing the keys in your hand.

“I bought you a house. If you dont like it- “

”I love you.” You blurt.

He giggles on the other end. “I love you too.”

He helps you get moved in on the weekend while you hold back tears the whole time.

——-

You go out to dinner for your birthday. Fancy restaurant on a rooftop. He brings a camera and takes so many pictures you worry he’ll have no more storage after this.

Both of you are matching red. You in a floor length dress and him in a suit with red detailing at the seams. Just enough to catch the light. Just enough to make it obvious that you two are a pair. It’s cute.

You eat in comfortable silence while the sun sets. Many kisses shared.

“How does dessert sound?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“Sounds lovely. Where are you thinking?”

”Little ice scream shop down the road? The one with all the toppings you like.”

You smile, “yes please.”

You figure there’s no need to get to the valet so instead you get on electric scooters, laughing while you ride down the side walks through the night.

You know you probably look immensely silly. In fancy dress zooming past pedestrians while you can't stop laughing but you don't really care. You’re happy. You’re so happy.

——

You marry Carlos in his family home under the Spanish sun no more than 2 years later. Your family is ecstatic, his mother can't stop crying from joy.

“You’re the greatest thing to happen to my Carlos.” She weeps while bringing a hand to your cheek.

It makes you cry till the makeup artist has to come in and make everything right again.

You walk down the isle and it feels like a dream. Carlos cries while watching you walk to him. His lip wobbles during the vows and you barely hold it together long enough to kiss him.

You’ve grown to not just love him. You adore him.

The years Carlos has given you have been filled with only bliss. His family frequent your home for dinner when they’re in London. And you even got the cat after all. Carlos has warmed up to her. A little black fur you named Luna. Very original but you love her.

She’s at the wedding. In a tiny white collar with a white boy sitting in his mothers lap purring.

The family dogs are in similar spots. The wedding is in the back portion of the property, he built more of the porch walkway to make room for guests and seats.

Your first dance is so soft and sweet you feel like you’re in a dream. Or when cotton candy touch’s water, melting into glittery threads of sugar.

The night it filled with so much love. You forget about all your troubles. It was worth it you think. Worth it to end up here.

——-

Carlos is a baker. He bakes you blueberry muffins to take in to work every morning and always has hot pancakes or breakfast. A good pancake never needs syrup, he says. And his never do.

He tries new berries and flavors with each season and gives you a kiss when he drops you off at your cubicle.

Janice was right after all huh.

——-

When you’re in Spain or his family in London you go touring the sights with his sisters when you can. Going cafe hunting and bringing home treats for a very giddy and hands Carlos at the end of the day.

“What’d you get up to today?” He mumbles in between kisses.

“Your sisters brought out baby photos.” You giggle. “You were a cute baby!”

He snorts, “I was well behaved.”

You give him a look, handing him a small box filled with pastries, “not according to Blanca you weren’t.”

He shrugs, icing already on his nose that you happily kiss off.

——-

On your next birthday you take a quiet night in and a homemade dinner full of all your favorites at his home. He wears a stupid kiss the chef apron and makes him pose for pictures. You send them to his sisters (you have a groupchat of the three of you)!

You watch him work his magic, cooking in fluid motions and when its time to eat you almost melt.

“I think this is your best ever,” you mumble in between spoonfulls.

He giggles, kissing the apples of your cheek taking a seat opposite from you. “I’m glad love. Happy birthday.”

There’s a small box on the table that you haven’t noticed yet. Too small and rectangular for a ring. It's only when you clean up do you notice.

“What’s this?” Gently picking up the box in your hands.

He stands at the sink washing the dishes in a way to avoid your gaze. He’s shy. ”My gift to you.”

You open the box and out tumbles another pair of keys. “You and keys.” You grumble, but with no real venom.

“Carlos are these car keys.” You hiss.

He hums a tune under his breath in favor of answering you.

“Oh my god.” You whisper, feeling the ridges and creases. You recognize the logo. You’ve mentioned it on a whim here and there. Or that one time you saw it parked at a restaurant and you took a picture.

Leave it to Carlos to never miss anything. He’s giving you a damn Porsche for your birthday.

You set the key down on the coffee table. You help finish up the dishes kicking him out while he pouts about it being your birthday and he should be doing this for you not the other way around. A kiss and a promise gets him out and to the living room.

When you’re all done he leads you to his garage. Where a Porsche in your favorite color stands. Gift wrapped with a red bow and your name on the fender.

How did you end up living a life like this?

———

Jude finds you after years of digging. It takes just ages and he blows through so much money but he finds you, in London living in a house bigger than his own in Madrid and cozying up to a man he's never seen before.

He’s long cut off contact with his mother and the rest of his family. His brother he sees from time to time. His dad only briefly. Still no apology from him. He’s rather die than see his mother again and she knows that. She stopped sending Christmas cards ages ago.

He has business to finish. One that’s ages old and begins before he could understand the world around him. Begins with you, and it seems to always end with you. Call it fate or some cruel joke being played on him. Jude never got over you. Never has never will. You’re all the love hes ever known. Learning you got married almost sent him down an alcoholic rampage. But he had a ballon dore to set his eyes on (and he won, did you see?)

His source of information (a mutual friend) lets him know the man is named Carlos, comes from old money. The type that has houses on every content and still doesn't know what to do with it all. Too much to spend and not enough time to do it all.

That's fine whatever, he can do one better.

He shows up at your doorstep at the cusp of spring. There’s something poetic there, spring bringing new beginnings and all. Maybe there is a beginning to be made from the buried buds of yesterday's winter. He tells himself to not get his hopes up to high but the mere thought of seeing you again makes his skin tingle.

So up he goes. Don’t ask how he got passed the gate, a secret he will never tell. Chill still in the air and wrapped in a coat and scarf up to his nose. He tries not to gag at the matching porches that are parked outside.

He silently prays that it's you who will open the door.

Jude is nearing 30 now and he fears he may not have much more time left to chase you across the country.

A few rings of the doorbell is all the warning you get until you come face to face with the man who you've been so desperately trying to escape for years.

“Jude.” He melts at the sound of your name from his lips. Just as sweet as he dreams. The years have been kind to you. You look just as remembered. Just as full of life, of wonder. Just a tad bit wiser perhaps.

He nods, stepping forward. You back up, closing the door half way and hiding behind it.

“I'm sorry,” he begins, fists clenching at his side, “I'm sorry for every single second I left you alone. I was a coward. I was- fuck I was stupid and it cost me you. I rehearsed this a million times and I can't even find the words to say to you.“

“Jude. I'm married. There is no sorry. What's done is done.”

His face pales, “No please you can't just-”

“Can't just what, leave? Like you did? How did you think it felt when I heard of your wedding through instagram Jude please let me know. Because it wasn't jumping for joy. Or when you would ignore me for days till it became months.”

“I was young and stupid I didn’t mean-”

“No!” you shout, hands gripping the door knob. “You don't get to barge into my life whenever you feel like it. I'm married. I love him and he actually gives a damn about me, go figure. “

“You have to hear me out.” he pleads.

“No I fucking dont Jude!” you cry.

Footsteps pad up behind you, door opening further to reveal Carlos who puts a protective hand on your waist.

“Why are you making my wife upset? Can I help you mate?” His eyes do a once over Jude, unimpressed. Madrid super fan or not you come first.

“Mate?” Jude scofs. Seriously this is the guy you replace me with, what a joke.”

Carlos presses his lips into a thin line,”get off of my property.”

“Yeah right or is it all your dads. Damn trust fund baby. I hope you enjoy the money. Fucking nepo baby.” Jude points a finger at him.

You sigh, “Jude you need to leave, now, or i'll call the police and you get to escorted off the property by them and the whole world gets to watch your image crumble. “

He walks off of the front steps at this, head hung low and taking one last look at the two of you. Sneering at Carlos before he stops away.

Carlos looks at you, frowning. You have a lot of explaining to do don't you.

—--

“Jude, Jude Bellingham at my door. What was that about my love?” He gets a glass of water, taking a sip.

You sigh, sitting back on the couch.

“Carlos… where do I even begin.” Rubbing your eyes aggressively.

“Wherever you want,” he shrugs, leaning on the kitchen counter.

“Jude and I were once neighbors, friends, lovers. Everything. I loved him so much that I didn't even care that he would ignore me for months till once day poof! He announces he got married on instagram of all places while I was a wreck so I moved out of our hometown. Came here. Meet you. Rest is history.”

”Why is he back?”

you shrug. “Hell if I know. Last I knew he got divorced won the ballon dor. I haven’t talked to him since he left me.”

Carlos nods, setting the cup down and joining you on the couch. “If you want a restraining order we can do that?”

You shake your head, “I dont want to make it bigger than it needs to be. If he keeps trying we can talk about it.”

”Okay.” Pressing his lips to your forehead. “Mom wanted to get brunch with you but you can cancel after all that.”

You sit up. “No no! I’d never miss brunch with her i’ll start getting ready.”

Carlos smile at you, padding back upstairs to your bed room to get ready for work.

——-

The next family vacation is in Italy. Partly due to the champions league and partly because its his mothers turn to choose. You happily agree tagging along and seeing the family jet for the first time. (They have a jet???) you still have some getting used to do with the way they live their life.

It’s a welcome distraction to the shit show that was at your door.

You do some sightseeing and have brunch all together accompanied by his sisters husbands as well. Both kind men who would do anything for both sisters. It’s sweet, to have a family full of so much love.

You split up after brunch and Carlos wants to do some sightseeing and you of course go.

You end up walking round Milan for hours till you get hungry and spot a little hole in the wall, street food stand that Carlos can not wait to try.

You get in line and brush your fingers against the buckles of Carlos jeans while you wait. He pouts saying something about how it should be the other way around followed by more quips that make you laugh loud and bright.

There’s a figure that you dont see, standing on the opposite side of the town square that recognizes your laugh from a mile away.

Jude is here, of course he is. But its not to sight see. To compete. He left his hotel with a mask do get some fresh air before all his physicals and here the universe has brought you to him once again.

You dont see him, of course you dont. His gut twists while he watches you laugh in ways he never did him him. He feels like a creep, watching you and your husband laugh into each other with matching smiles. Like hes doing something he shouldn’t, watching something he shouldn’t. But he cant bring himself to look away.

Not when you place your order or when Carlos feeds you some of his portion. Nor while you giggle when some gets on your nose and he wipes it off for you.

He waits for some sort of reaction to the public. Braces for judgment but nothing comes. It’s here that he’s reminded how different his life and yours is.

Everything you couldn’t do with him you now freely do in the streets with your husband. The word makes him sick. Husband. It should be him there not that corporate sell out.

Jude tears his eyes away when he gets a text from a teammate. 20 mins till he has to check in. He should leave. He’s seen enough.

——-

Rumors behind to float around Carlos. Wicked and dangerous. They come out of no where and they span from everything and anything under the sun.

You no longer get work at the same firm. You both agreed that Carlos was more than okay to support the two of you. And you liked the idea of being a stay at home wife, mom, etc.

But the rumor begin to draw you into the mix. That you married him for money. That you not got the job because you were fucking him.

That Carlos only got his position due to his father and so forth.

His reputation is on the rocks and a careful set of eyes from afar watches how you repond.

Leave him, come back to me. He wants to say

You dont do any of this. If anything you become more attached to your husband. Unwavering and refusing to leave for a moment.

——

Jude finds you once more in a coffee shop. Setting down a cup next to you while he hovers over your seat. It’s the same drink his mother used to force you to order near the end. You don’t acknowledge it even if it’s the only one he knows you to drink.

It’s the cusp of full now. Months after his first intrusion. You watch as eyes crowd him till there’s a circle of people around you with phones out. You feel sick for more reasons than one.

“Jude.” You warn.

He sits down. Ignoring the eyes. He’s desperate now. And frankly he doesn’t care about the backlash at this point. He only cares about one thing. You.

”im sorry i just cant watch you live you life with him and ignore what we had.”

“Jude-“

��Just please listen to me that’s all I ask of you.”

“You have nothing i want to hear.” Crossing your arms.

He starts to cause a scene. Voice rising and drawing even more attention if that’s even possible.

You agree, 3 minutes. That’s all he has.

He breathes a sigh of relief. He starts off by saying “hazelnut coffee right? your favorite”

It’s not your favorite, it was the only drink his mom ordered for you because it was supposed to keep you from bloatingit’s not your favorite, it was the only drink his mom ordered for you because it was supposed to keep you from bloating.

You stare at his face reminding yourself that he really doesn’t know you at all. When you don’t answer he picks at his hands. Finding the right words

“She’s gone and everything is right now. we can be together again just like we promised it’ll be us agaisnt the world. just me and you. I always loved you.”

“you’re late jude. I’m married. I can’t leave my life behind for you.” Crossing your arms over yourself.

“Why not?”

Your eye twitches. “When you had the opportunity to actually give a damn you didn’t. You didn’t fight. Hell you didn’t even speak and left me in the dust for some no name you stuck your shit in one night and got off too. And now what i’m supposed to go running back?”

“So what now? you want to be with him? He isn’t even someone worthy of you.”

“And you are Jude??”

“he left you here at a cafe alone easy to find.”

Your patience is wearing thin.

“I know we have history. And I know our childhood together was sweet. But the past can not keep you tethered and making decisions based on it. You can’t keep chasing things that no longer exist Jude. I’m no longer yours and I haven’t been for a while now. “

“What do you mean it doesn’t exist” he desperately tries to grab your hand.

But Carlos walks in. Putting a hand on your shoulder and staring Jude down. Almost as if saying go ahead, try it again. “I’d appreciate it if you backed up and away from my wife mate. I wont ask you again.”

he helps you get up, putting your hand over his. When you stand does Jude notice a baby bump.

It’s this moment that Jude realizes that hes lost you, completely and wholly. There is no redos. His own cowardice lead to this. And now he watches the woman he loves walk hand in hand with another.

———

CHOSE YOUR ENDING

JUDE. CARLOS.

[colormepurplex2]

Bump In The Night | MYG

▻ Bump In The Night ↳ Bogeyman!Yoongi x f.Reader ⤜ Horror/Thriller/Demon, Nyctophobia ⤜ Monster Under The Bed AU | angst, smut ⤜ Rating: MA ⤜ WC: 12,395 ⤜ Summary: The dark can be scary; full of strange, unseen things. Just when you think you’ve got a handle on your fear, the lights go out, and you face the reality that you were always right—you should fear the dark and especially what’s waiting in it. ⚠️ Crass language, fear, inciting fright, playing on emotions, teasing, kissing, fingering, biting/marking, dom tones, begging, choking, panic, unprotected v. sex, feeding on fear, dark thoughts, revealed dark intentions, predator/prey tones, chasing, claiming, serpentine tongue, oral f.receiving, monster cock/sex, metamorphosis

Written for the BTS Fantasy and Fangs Halloween collab for @minisugakoobies A/N: Sunny, I hope you enjoy this as much as I did while writing it. Happy belated birthday and hope you have a pleasant spooky holiday full of Bogeyman Yoongi delight!

A special thank you to @star-my @hisunshiine and @downbad4yoongi for their amazing beta services!

Can also be found on: Ao3 | Wattpad

Beg For It

Nyctophobia [ nik-tuh-foh-bee-uh ] - noun Psychiatry: extreme or irrational fear of the night or of darkness.

One…

Two…

Three…

Breathe. Another few seconds, that’s all you want; just precious moments to prove yourself.

Four…

Five…

Six…

Cold chills slither down your spine despite the hot water beating against your back. Your fingers work vigorously against your cheeks and along your forehead. What feels like a thousand pounds settles along your lashes, even though you know it’s nothing more than marshmallowy-light foam.

Seven…

Eight…

Nin—

You spin around, nearly losing your footing in the shower as you angle your face under the spray from the showerhead. The heels of your palms press against your lids as you try to rid them of the foamy facial cleanser.

Air wheezes into your lungs, stray drops of water sucking between your parted lips as you try to breathe against the panic building in your chest. Jerking back from the spray, you open your eyes, wincing at the sting from the water-mixed-with-cleanser that drips from your lashes and floods the corners.

Nothing. There’s nothing there. All you see is the steam-filled space of your shower, water pelting down at your feet, a smattering of bottles arranged on the lip of the tub, and the inside of your plain shower curtain.

You sigh, irritation itching in your chest. Not even nine seconds. You were trying for at least ten. It never fails to leave a bitter taste in your mouth whenever you can’t seem to get a grip on yourself. It’s just the dark. Hell, it’s not even really the dark. It’s just having your eyes closed against the bright fluorescent lights of your bathroom; a pseudo-darkness.

The unease in your stomach refuses to dissipate as you turn off the shower, step out, wrap yourself in a towel, and go through the routine of brushing your teeth and massaging moisturizer into your skin. You hang up your damp towel, quickly pulling on the oversized t-shirt and shorts you intend to sleep in.

Steam clouds the mirror. You don’t typically care to wipe it away, not anymore. It’s one of your small, personal victories—one you intentionally remind yourself of now after your panicked stint in the shower. It used to be that you couldn’t stand not being able to see the space behind you through the reflective surface. Knowing if something lurked outside your line of sight, it couldn’t hide from being exposed through the mirror. Being able to see behind you was all that mattered. Now, you take pride in not needing to see…yet, the niggling in the back of your head won’t cease. So, you swipe a hand, collecting tiny beads of moisture on your palm as you go.

You’re unsure why the act makes your heart beat a little harder. It’s supposed to elicit the calm you so desperately need. But, once you’ve slashed a clear path across the mirror, your brow furrows as you lean in closer to it. Cold dread thunders through your veins as you jerk back, spinning on your heel to make sure what you saw through the mirror wasn’t just your mind playing a trick on you.

Nope, not a trick or even a figment of your imagination…unfortunately.

You stare in paranoid disbelief at the slender gap along the bottom of the bathroom door. The door that leads into your bedroom where you are absolutely, without a doubt, positive you left your bedside lamp on. The gap is dark, like a void threatening to suck you right into an endless nightmare of unrelenting terror. All that’s missing is a gaunt, skeletal hand sliding its too-long fingers under the door.

Shoving away those intrusive thoughts before they can take root and further fester like a dirty wound on your sanity, you try to think logically. It’s possible the bulb in your lamp could have blown, but you know you replaced it just last month. It’s far too soon for it to blow on its own, and surely, it’s not a faulty bulb. So, why is it out? Were you careless and, in truth, didn’t turn it on? A manic laugh gets caught in your throat as you silently berate yourself. That must be it. You simply forgot. So careless.

Fear is an acrid taste on your tongue as you slowly approach the door. You hate this feeling. Even though you tell yourself there’s nothing out there lurking in the dark to harm you, you simply forgot to leave the light on. The distress doesn’t subside—and it won’t. At least, not until you open the door and prove the dark to harbor no ill intent toward you.

Squaring your shoulders and taking what is supposed to be a calming and fortifying breath, though it feels more like sand slipping into your lungs, you wrap your fingers firmly around the brushed nickel handle. The metal is warm, slightly wet from the condensation formed during your shower, against your palm as you twist it.

You lick your trembling lips, taking one more moment to center yourself. Your eyes slide closed as you mentally recall the layout of your room, calculating how many steps there are to get to the nearest light switch. Your bed is angled so the foot faces the bathroom door, and the closet door to the left near the two windows you know are closed tight with the curtains drawn. The bedroom door is easily the furthest from the bathroom, leaving the overhead light out of the question. You knew, before you even began to analyze, that the bedside lamp you recall yourself leaving on is going to be the closest light source. Still, you needed to go through the motion of solidifying that information in your mind.

As you haltingly push it open, the quiet creak of the door, which sounds deafening in the silence of the bathroom, causes chills to pop up along your arms and the hairs at the nape of your neck to stand on end. Darkness ebbs as the light from the bathroom bleeds across the hardwood of your bedroom floor, slowly revealing the interior of your room.

Your heart lurches, and a scream rips from your chest when you see a dark figure sitting at the end of your bed come into focus as the bathroom door swings further open, the handle barely held in your now numb fingers. Panic barrels through you. Your muscles react instinctively, fingers tightening around the knob as you jerk back, the door closing with a harsh bang as you backpedal across the bathroom.

“Babe,” calls a playful voice from just on the other side of the door. You can barely hear it over the roaring in your ears. Nausea threatens to double you over, even as relief floods your system—such conflicting emotions that you feel suddenly off-kilter. 

There is a fine sheen of cold sweat clinging to your neck. Your hands fist into the front of your shirt as the door eases open to reveal your boyfriend standing at the threshold. His dark ensemble makes it seem like the bathroom's light bends around his form, not daring to touch him.

You’ve never liked it when someone intentionally scares you, claiming it’s a joke. It always seems more like a cruel prank than a laughing matter. Though, you note, no one is laughing right now either way. He doesn’t look smug or self-satisfied for having scared you, just simply mildly amused.

“You scared me, Yoongi,” you state flatly, crossing your arms over your chest, hoping he picks up on your discomfort.

The corners of his lips turn down, and his brow furrows as he gives you an exaggerated pout. Even with your pounding heart and the upside down in your belly, you can’t help but appreciate how cute he is when he does that. “I know. I just didn’t see the point in wasting the power if you weren’t going to be in there.” He gestures vaguely behind him to your room, which is barely lit by the light pouring out of the bathroom.

It’s on the tip of your tongue to remind him that even though you weren’t in there, he was. Though, for some reason, Yoongi sitting in the dark doesn’t strike you as out of place. In the five years you’ve been together, you’ve learned to love his odd quirks just as much as any other part of him. He’s genuine, a caring person who isn’t afraid to be vulnerable—a far cry from anyone else you’ve ever given your time to.

“How was work?” you ask, aiming to get back on track with some semblance of normalcy—anything to not dwell on the lingering discomfort that’s still beating away in your chest.

His shoulders hitch up in a nonchalant manner. “Same as always. There’s been a big break in the Hunt case. Director Park thinks we’ll have the code cracked in a few more days. I say by tomorrow night, tops, just in time for our date. It’ll be a reward for my hard work,” his eyes twinkle with mirth. “After all, I think Samhain is a pretty fitting day for dealing with evil, huh?”

You make a noncommittal sound at that last part. Yoongi might enjoy that thought, but to you, tomorrow is more so just a day…simply October 31st and is more about plastic pumpkins, like the ones you have sitting on your front porch, than dealing with evil like that. The fact that Yoongi has convinced you to go to a festival tomorrow night is so wild you’ve been forcing yourself not to think about it.

“Well, I’d put my money on you over Director Park any day,” you say instead, giving him a soft, knowing smile. Yoongi has a penchant for estimations. If he thinks it’ll only take another day to crack a code that’s been wreaking havoc on Interpol for the better part of a year, then you believe him. You don’t pretend to understand all the intricacies of what he does; just know he’s really good with computers and helps whichever government agency needs it most or something like that.

Yoongi gives you a lazy smile in return. “Mmm, that’s what I like to hear. Your confidence in me is like kindling for my fervor,” he croons, wrapping you up in his arms. It feels good to relax in his embrace, the last vestiges of your earlier panic melting away as you soak in his warmth and familiarity. “Sorry I scared you,” he murmurs into your damp hair. “Let me make it up to you.”

“What did you have in mind?” you ask, laughing softly when his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt and teasingly caress your sides—the touch is light, making your skin tighten and prickle in response.

A rumbling groan vibrates through Yoongi’s chest as he playfully nips along your jaw before planting his lips firmly over yours in a dizzying and claiming way. “We’ll start with kissing,” the words are whispered between plucks of his mouth against yours, tongue swiping sensually across your bottom lip.

“Kissing is good,” you agree, smiling against his mouth before melting into another heated tangle of tongues and stilted breaths. That fist around your heart eases, letting your chest expand fully for the first time since before you showered.

“Biting,” he murmurs, pulling away from the kiss to bury his face in your neck. The light pressure of his teeth pressing against your skin has your toes curling against the cold tile floor and your fingers fisting into the front of his shirt.

Yoongi plants his mouth right over your pulse point, his tongue flicking over your throbbing vein as his teeth clamp down gently. You swallow hard against the sensation, your heart shifting gears to thud fast in your chest for a different reason. It’s not necessarily fear that drives your senses higher now so much as it is anticipation and an increase in adrenaline—terror adjacent, something you prefer much more to the former.

You shudder against him, knees going weak as he moans, the sound sending pulsing shocks of vibrations down your spine with how his mouth fits against your neck. His fingers ghost along your shorts before finally pushing past the elastic band. The palms of his hands are warm as they slide around and grip handfuls of your ass.

Using his hold on you, Yoongi lifts you up onto the counter beside the sink. As his hands retreat, they tug your shorts with them, working them around the curve of your ass until they’re caught at your knees. You let him push them further until they slacken and fall to catch around your ankles, then onto the floor. Wincing slightly at how cold the counter is against your bare skin, you urge him to fill the space between your thighs, seeking his warmth flush against you once again.

“Yoongi,” you hiss, sucking in a sharp breath as he slides a hand between your bodies and presses the flat of his fingers against your pussy. You don’t need to look in the mirror to know his teeth have left an impression on your neck. He leans back and licks his lips in a show of appreciation, lidded eyes full of mischief and barely veiled lust. “Please.” It comes out warbled as he teases his middle finger between your lower lips.

“Beg for it,” he says. “Show me how much you want me to make you forget about the darkness.” His voice has an edge, like he’s teasing at something, but it’s lost on you to piece together what it might be.

Sucking in a deep breath, you repeat your plea, “Please.”

Your chest is rising and falling rapidly, and you can feel your erratic heartbeat pounding between your legs and under the sensitive skin of your neck that Yoongi ravaged with his teeth. Lightheadedness kisses the edges of your clarity, daring you to get lost in the delirium that Yoongi is offering.

“You can do better than that,” Yoongi taunts, his laugh low and husky as he pulls away, leaving you bereft of his touch where you want it most. “Beg. For. It.” The words are clipped, punctuated with staccato taps of his middle finger against your sensitive clit.

“Fuck—Yoongi, please! Please, I need you!”

“That’s my girl,” Yoongi smiles wickedly. Two slender fingers sliding into your wet heat are your reward. “You’re so wet already. Look at how your body is pulling me in. Fuck, that’s nice.” He angles himself so you can both look down and watch his fingers slowly pull out, glistening with your arousal before sinking back in.

Your body squeezes around his fingers, walls fluttering in anticipation and building pleasure. “Need you,” you mumble, grabbing at the button on the front of his dark wash jeans with one hand and tugging at the bottom of his black t-shirt with the other. “Fuck me, Yoongi, please. Please, fuck me. I need you to make me forget.”

A flurry of motion accompanies his answering growl of approval as he helps you strip him out of his clothes and the rest of your own. You barely feel the absence of his fingers in your cunt before he pulls your ass to the edge of the counter and shoves his cock inside with a guttural moan that echoes in the small space.

The fit of him inside your body is deliciously perfect, like he was made to please you. Your fingers press dents into his shoulders as you grip him tightly. One of his hands squeezes your hip to keep you from slipping off the counter while the other finds its way to having a light grip on your throat.

His forehead rests against yours, the back of your head pressed against the mirror behind you. The angle makes his thrusts shallow, forcing the crown of his cock to rock against a sensitive spot deep inside that has you seeing spots behind your closed lids.

Yoongi has always been a contrasting lover, hot and cold, in a way that always leaves you breathless and assuaged. The look on his face says he’s fucking you, but the sensual roll of his hips says he’s making love to you—the hand on your throat says he just wants to control you. Regardless of how he fucks, it always consumes you. From the first time to now, he wholly and utterly devours your sanity and spits it back at you two-fold. He brings you palpable lucidity while also destroying all sense of right and wrong. Some call it morally grey; you call it just another titillating facet of who he is.

Pleasure builds fast, and you know you’re about to tip over the edge when the pressure of his hand on your throat increases. It’s an infinitesimal change, but it feels like the tightening of a vice all the same.

The erratic beat of your heart stutters further, swallowing you down into a thick-headed spiral of trepidation. You know Yoongi won’t hurt you. It’s not that—not quite. It’s the idea and knowledge that he could. It’s a taboo feeling, craving that helpless flutter deep in your belly that dares you to indulge in the darkness instead of running from it.

Yoongi’s hips continue to roll against you, your body pinned in place by his hand on your throat. Your eyes flutter open just to fall shut again as the hand on your hip moves until his thumb presses against your clit, making your body jerk and hurtle back toward the precipice of pleasure from before.

With his thumb pressed against one throbbing artery in your neck and the pads of his fingers against the twin on the other side, he has complete and utter control over you. All it takes is another barely-there squeeze to have you changing your grip from his shoulders to his forearm.

The bitter taste of cowardice laces together with the cloyingly sweet, carnal flavor of lust that’s coating your insides. Yoongi rumbles, a moan low in his chest. The rhythm of his hips kicks up until they’re hammering against yours to the point that measures of pain mix with the terror, forming into a rapture of exhilaration. His thumb coaxes your orgasm through precise flicks over your swollen clit.

You can’t help the sound that rips from your throat, squeezing past his grip in a ragged mockery of a moan—bright colors spiderweb across the backs of your closed lids as you sip from his chalice of wickedness. White noise joins the rush of blood in your ears as somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind, alarm begins to bleed into the hazy euphoria clouding your head. “Yes!” Yoongi groans. “That’s it, fuck!”

“Y-yoon—“ you try to choke out his name, fingers trembling from their tight grip on his forearm. Just as you’re about to try and shove him away to get a reprieve, his hand loosens its hold on your throat, and the instant rush of oxygen to your brain washes away all other thoughts as your body surrenders once again to his dominion. The orgasm tears through you, sweeping you out in a hedonistic riptide. Your walls clamp around his cock so hard he snarls and shudders with the trigger of his own release.

You must have blacked out from the overwhelming cascade that besieged your senses because the next thing you’re aware of is Yoongi tucking you into bed beside him. The sheets are cool against your heated skin, a welcome lull of relief. He presses into your sated body, chest against your back and arm possessively curling over your hip. “Get some sleep, my queen,” he murmurs. “I’ll hold the darkness back.”

The room is dark, just as it was earlier when you panicked. But, just as always, when Yoongi is around, it’s less frightening…seemingly somehow less dark and foreboding. He might have darker desires when it comes to pleasure, but right now, he’s the light that chases away your other demons.

🖤🖤🖤

Yoongi

The taste of your fear still lingers in the back of Yoongi’s throat as he pretends to sleep curled around you. He knew turning off your bedroom light would scare you. It’s why he did it. The peckish feeling that rumbled in the pit of his stomach drove him to want to play with you. Your fear instantly sated his hunger, and it made his dick hard when you screamed. You scream so prettily he just can’t help that natural, primal response. 

That is, after all, precisely why he chose you. Everything about you speaks to his needs, promising sweet and succulent fruit that’s always ripe for plucking.

He learned early on that if he could elevate your heart rate and incite a sliver of fear in you while fucking you…well, his full belly is testament enough to how much he loves that. You call it a kink, he calls it dessert. It wasn’t his intention to fuck you after he frightened you, but the irritating erection grating along his zipper had other plans. 

His mortal form isn’t his favorite. It’s far too small and has far too many baser needs and limitations. Though he does enjoy the feel of your soft, pliant flesh under his—especially when you’re ripe with the sweet smell of terror—it makes it worth the discomfort this inferior mode has.

It’s not lost on Yoongi that he could have ruined you from the start by taking too much from you. But he’s been careful over the years, molding and training your body to be the perfect vessel for him to feed from. The fact you were already experiencing high anxiety and an innate fear of the dark prior to him coming into your life helped tremendously. Nyctophobia is such a beautiful thing.

You claim he’s helped you, for the most part, get over your fears. However, he knows this is just a lie you tell him and yourself to make yourself feel and seem braver. He knows the truth, though. There is no getting over your fear, not when it lives with you…sleeps next to you, touches you, fucks you. He’s everything you’re scared of, everything you think is creeping around in the dark, waiting to pounce. He’s your worst nightmare…literally as much as figuratively—and you have absolutely no inkling of that truth. All you see is what he lets you see: just a sweet guy with a penchant for darker tastes behind closed doors.

To you, he’s just Yoongi. But he has had many names over the centuries: Demon, Baba Yaga, El Coco, Butzemann, Tikoloshe, Bogeyman, and so on. All of them are generally the same, but none are quite right. He is all these things, and yet none of these things—he’s so much more.

It’s a common misconception that he only targets people who do misdeeds. That’s not it at all, for the sweetest fruit is the unwary, the innocent, the vulnerable, and the scared. That is the pinnacle of his desire, the unctuous delight that feeds his depravity and gives him power over the darkness—darkness that calls to him now.

Being careful not to wake you, Yoongi slips out from around your soft, lush body. Feeding on your fear in the bathroom drained some of your vitality, lowering your constitution, and the best recovery for that is a good, uninterrupted eight hours. So, he’ll leave you to replenish so that he may feast once again—one last time before he executes his final, ultimate plan; the whole reason he chose you to begin with and has been periodically parading around in this limited meat suit for years.

The maw of darkness under your bed beckons him to shake off the mortal form and take his rightful place as King among the shadows. Yoongi catches his reflection in the standing mirror across the room. The only thing distinct is the brilliant red eyes staring back at him. It feels good to stretch and dissolve into his proper form, shadows snaking along his limbs and filling his every breath.

You fidget on the bed, brow furrowing as your body reacts to the nearness of his proper form. He likes watching you twitch and shift, soft mewls of fright sounding low in your chest. If he wanted, he could swallow you whole, and you’d never be the wiser, one moment existing in your nightmare and the next slithering into the ether of what comes after. But, it’s not time…not yet.

Letting one of his long, spindly shadow fingers draw back in and reform into the echo of human flesh, he presses the blunt tip against your temple. You instantly quell your movements, and the pitiful cry in your chest subsides. Yoongi can feel the subtle tremble of your body, the vibrations skittering through your flesh as your body recognizes his hellish touch. Your subconscious is as familiar with his umbral form as your conscious is with the lies he’s used to frame how you see him with your eyes.

Digging through the screen of your nightmare, he pulls back the darkness and lets in just enough light to lull you into a false sense of security—something he does nearly every night after he’s fed from you so he doesn’t accidentally drain you dry. By the time he returns, the light will have faded from your dreams, and there will be just enough unfettered distress permeating the air of your bedroom to give him a top off of delicious fear, his own personal cup of pick-me-up.

Yoongi slides under the bed and into the darkness, leaving you to your deep, lambent dreams. He melts through the barrier between your world and his. Euphoria buzzes through him as his depth of power increases. That’s the biggest downfall of walking the mortal plane. There aren’t quite enough shadows or stinking fear to fill the neverending void inside him. But here, in the Realm of Darkness, the taste of terror is thick and nectarous. It lingers in the air and is as permanent as the oxygen you breathe in your world.

Yoongi drifts through the firmament of his domain, letting the worries and stress of what’s to come fade. For a being with endless power and control, he never thought he might have the need to be concerned over something seemingly so trivial. But, the ceremony and ritual he has planned for tomorrow night is easily the most critical thing he’s ever dared to accomplish.

The Realm of Darkness might be sufficiently filled with succulent fodder for him, but there are other limitations he encounters. Constraints that involve the worlds beyond his Kingdom. He doesn’t want just to be able to thrive here on his own turf. He has aspirations of letting his darkness seep into the outer realms—including yours—and if he has his way, you will help him do just that. The barriers will crumble, and he’ll be free to bathe the distant realms in his thick ichor of destruction.

Finally feeling more like himself, he aims for the Shadow Spire, where waits the Throne of the Damned—his throne. All it takes is a simple thought, and he’s standing in the sprawling cavern of the throne room. It stretches wide in all directions, having no end or beginning, just existing as his will needs.

Pillars of malachite soar into the air at equal intervals, disappearing into the glittering cosmos expanse above his head. Silvery flecks of light cast the whole room in a mockery of the night sky of your world, something he’s grown to admire over the years spent there. Yoongi takes a deep breath, soaking in the tangy, bitter stench of brimstone and copper. Soon, he hopes, your delectable perfume of fear will join them.

“Sire,” a gruff voice says in surprise. “We weren’t expecting you back until the ritual. Welcome, is there anything we can do for you?”

Yoongi settles his shadowy form on the monstrous broken stone pillar at the top of the dais that rises from the rocky floor. His court, ever vigilant in their duty to him, wait for him to respond. “Is everything prepared for the ceremony?” he asks, eyes finally landing on the six figures seated on the smaller stone plinths arrayed in a semi-circle in front of him—the Shadow Court once again complete with his return. Hopefully, he won’t have to leave the comfort of his court but one more time. Once the ritual is done, he shouldn’t have to so much as lift a finger to reach into the overworld.

“All is well and ready, Sire.” Wicked smiles spread like wildfire across the court. They’re just as excited as Yoongi is to be finally moving forward with the plan. None of them have tasted the kind of fear that Yoongi has feasted on from you—the fresh terror of the mortal realm—but if they had more corporeal forms, he knows they’d be salivating. Soon, so very soon.

Looking around at his companions, he can’t help but think how humorous it is that you so readily believed his deceptions about working for the human government. He remembers the day he finally stepped from the shadows and made himself known to you. You were immediately drawn to him and couldn't stop yourself from indulging in your curiosities like a moth drawn to a flame.

Yoongi had already come up with an elaborate backstory and characterization for the human he wanted to portray. He knew all of your deep, dark fantasies and brought them to life. Your eyes got round with awe and reverence when he first revealed his supposed job, confirming how gullible and under his spell you were. He can’t deny it’s worked in his favor.

He’s allowed to keep odd hours and disappear as needed. When he returns to your bed before the sun rises, he’ll leave you a note on your pillow about being pulled away for work. You’ll read it and sigh a dreamy sigh as you have every other time he’s done that. You never bother to seek further explanation—your trust in him is so wholly concrete.

There is satisfaction in the freedom you’ve granted him to embrace a darker side. It’s how he can get away with fucking you so callously that your brain warps it into some deranged form of love. You’ve chalked every depraved thing he’s done to you up to him needing an outlet after dealing with such heinous stuff for work. He only had to mention a few well-known acronyms, like FBI and CIA, and you accepted it. As scared as you are of the dark, he’s aware of the collection of slasher and horror novels you keep stuffed away under your bed and that you listen with rapt attention to those silly crime shows and podcasts that tell you he’s not the one you should be scared of. Soon, he won’t have to worry about any of that, though—no more silly backstory, no more hiding, no more stuffy mortal form, no more holding back. Tomorrow signifies a change, a new beginning. It’s the time when the veil between the worlds will be thin enough that he can drag you down without it sucking your life away. Some call it Samhain, Calan Gaeaf, Mischief Night, Halloween—it holds nearly as many names as Yoongi himself does—but for him, it will be the night he calls triumph. The night his shadows will lay a claim to you wholly; the night you stop fearing what goes bump in the night and instead stand by its side and let it consume you.

Wicked Delight

Consciousness comes in fits and spurts of clarity. There is a moment where you’re asleep but aware. With this awareness, you can discern and feel the potent darkness webbing across your subconscious. You’ve seen it before, the myriad of inky tendrils that zig-zag through the light like fissures over a dried river bed. It scares you but also fills you with intrigue so rich it nearly eclipses the fear.

You know that if you could just hang on to that in-between space, the feeling of teetering on the edge of a knife, you could examine the darkness further and figure out what it is and where it comes from. But your body has other plans, sucking you away from your inspection and pushing you toward uneasy wakefulness.

Shifting under the blankets, a crinkling noise draws your eyes open to land on a rumple of white paper lying beside you on the empty side of the bed. With fumbling fingers, you grab the ripped leaf of creamy parchment and turn it so you can see the blue scrawl of words.

Got some darkness to take care of. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Don’t forget; 11 pm sharp, beginning of the corn maze. X

There is no name signed to the note, just an X, but you know who left it, regardless. You roll over, holding the thin paper above you so you can see the faded, faint print under his ink. A smile tugs at your lips when you realize it’s a corner ripped from Kinder und Hausmärchen, one of Yoongi’s favorite books. He has an original first edition that he’s let you moon over a few times. The first time you found a note and saw what it was written on, you nearly crawled out of your skin to berate him for ruining such a prize. He gently chided you for your reaction and assured you it was just a copy, scanned and printed for the whimsy of it.

Looking closer, you see the corner is from a page of the Cat and Mouse in Partnership tale. Your smile fades, turning into a mild frown as an odd feeling ghosts beneath your skin, eliciting goosebumps to pop up along your arms. Sighing, you shake your head and pull the blanket up high under your chin, chalking the sensation up to being cold. Your eyes rove around the room, taking in the early morning light filtering in through your thin curtains, showing you just enough of the inside of your room to be comfortable with not having a light on.

Finally deciding there’s no point in dallying in bed further, you toss back the covers and brace yourself against the chill in your room. Only, it’s not as cold as you were anticipating. Opening the small drawer on your nightstand to deposit the message in with the dozens of others Yoongi has left you over the years, you can help but smile. They’re sweet, little pieces of him that affirm to you why it’s okay he disappears the way he does. The reminder comforts you, especially on this day.

Halloween has never been your favorite. Well, that’s not true, exactly. You do like Halloween—just the modern and more mainstream version with candy, pumpkins, and warm, spiced drinks. Fall colors are also something you enjoy. The cooler air is nice. You’re partial to cozy sweaters and boots, too.

All in all, you enjoy this time of the year. You just don’t necessarily like the darker parts, the scarier parts. Haunted houses and scary movies are things you could do without unless it’s under very specific circumstances. Such as having Yoongi there. Which is the only reason you’ve agreed to meet him at the festival tonight. You haven’t been since you were a teen and got so scared by the fright actors that you swore never to return.

Except, now, you are returning. It’s been on the tip of your tongue for the last week to cancel on Yoongi, feigning a head or stomach ache. But, the sheer excitement in his gaze when you agreed, has been enough to make you bite your tongue every time a protest bubbles up. You can—and will—do this.

With an entire day to go before your date with Yoongi, you busy yourself with mundane tasks. A bit of cleaning, some light reading, and lastly, dumping a few bags of assorted and prepackaged candies into a bright orange bowl with a goofy jack-o-lantern face printed on the side.

You’re usually a porchlight-off kind of person. Still, this year, considering your own venture outside your proverbial Halloween box, you decided why not go the extra mile for others, too? Even if one kid dumps the entire bowl into their treat bag, you’ll at least feel somewhat accomplished in your attempt.

Setting the bowl on your doorstep, you stand back and survey it. The yellow-tinged porch light illuminates the candy and the plastic pumpkins you have arranged on either side of your door. You contemplate adding a ‘please take only one’ sign for the bowl but decide a paper warning isn’t much of a deterrent. Leaving the candy to its fate, you head back inside to finish getting ready.

Time flows in a weird, out-of-body kind of way. You’re aware of pulling on your coat and walking into your garage through the kitchen—even the process of driving to the festival registers in your mind. But, you’re genuinely not cognisant of what you’re doing until you’re staring at the large flashing sign for the festival. You have to practically put on blinders to make it through the ticketing process, ignoring the scare actors as you wait in line.

The corn maze is at the center of it all, meaning you keep your eyes glued to the ground as you skirt the edges of the food stalls and game stands until you reach it. There, you wait, standing at the start of the corn maze and stare at your watch, counting the seconds as they tick by with the small hand.

The air is cool, the crisp scent of fall heavy around you. Laughter and faint screams carry to you from the festival surrounding the maze. The giant corn labyrinth is the center of the entire two-week-long event. Thousands of people flock from near and far to venture within the husked, cream-colored stalks.

If you make it through the maze without assistance from the scare actors, then you get an entire bucket of caramel popcorn drizzled with chocolate. That’s never been enough of a reward for you to try. Even the last time you were here, you never stepped foot into the clustered embrace of the maze.

The festival is lit enough with all the twinkling lights and fair games lining the thoroughfares and the midway. Food trucks and stalls litter through the vendors with stuffed animals and cackling clowns. You try to ignore the bodies that sway and shamble through the crowd—the scare actors. They’re just people dressed up in costume and makeup, but they still elicit that flighty feeling in your belly, that little trickle of fear.

At the ticket booths, there were neon green necklaces you could purchase. You used them as a distraction while you waited in line. They’re ‘no scare’ necklaces, big bright indicators that you’re a sensitive little bitch that doesn’t want to be scared. At least, that’s how you felt looking at them, considering buying one. You know they’re an extremely valid item, a protective emblem that many people need, and that it’s perfectly fine—in fact, it’s encouraged for people to use them if they need to.

As you fingered the green nylon of the lanyard, you couldn’t help chewing your bottom lip, worrying at it until it cracked under your teeth and the coppery tang of blood danced across your tongue. You almost bought it…maybe you should have. However, the fact that you’re half-hidden by the corn maze sign and doing everything in your power not to draw unwanted attention to yourself seems to be keeping you from attracting the actors your way.

The tiny hand on your watch ticks away, drawing closer to turning over the minute, which'll turn over the hour to 11 PM. Sharp. Yoongi’s insistence. Just as the hands come together on your watch, you feel that telltale tingling feeling of eyes on you. It’s a familiar sensation, one you often associate with Yoongi. Daring to step out from behind the sign to the corn maze, you spin in a slow circle, trying to catch sight of him.

“Looking for someone?”

You have to clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the shriek that rips from your chest as those words drift in from right behind you. So close that it’s impossible to imagine you hadn’t noticed him approaching you as you looked around.

“Yoongi,” you sigh, dropping your hand.

He's enveloping you from behind before you can turn around and give him a pouty yet stern look. His familiar musk and warmth ease your heart back from its hammering gallop. “You’re good enough to eat,” he gruffly murmurs, pressing his nose into the fabric of your coat at the juncture of your shoulder and neck. You can feel more than hear his deep inhalation, as if he’s drawing in the scent of your very soul and branding it throughout his olfactory system.

“The maze closes in an hour. Are you sure we can make it to the center before then?” you ask, voice light and airy as relief infused with drips of serotonin weaken your knees and your resolve to be upset with him for frightening you. You turn in his arms, keen to look upon his face for another kick of comfort, but it sours in your belly when you take in his pulled-up hood and the thick black gaiter covering the bottom half of his face. “What’s that for?”

Yoongi shrugs, shoulders lifting in his typical nonchalant manner. “It’s Halloween. Consider me dressed for the occasion.” He winks at you, but it does nothing to quell the unease still rolling around just beneath your surface. Feigning that stomachache is starting to sound more and more appealing, Yoongi’s excitement be damned.

“You look like a burglar.”

You can’t see his smile, but you can tell it’s there by how his eyes crinkle and lids lower mischievously. “And you look ripe for the burgling.”

“You’re insufferable,” you gripe teasingly, finally letting a smile grace your face despite the lingering anxiety. It’s easy to forget your fears and worries when you’re looking into his umber-colored gaze.

“Come on, let’s go.” Yoongi offers you his elbow, and you tuck your hand into the crook of it, leaning your shoulder against his arm.

The fleece-lined leggings you chose to wear keep you warm enough, paired with the knit sweater and thick tweed coat covering your top half. Your chunky boots are comfortable and practical for the slightly uneven terrain of the cornfield-turned-maze. Yoongi is far more casual in just jeans, the hoodie, and a pair of dusty and worn sneakers.

You study his face the best you can past the edge of his hood and out of the corner of your eye. He’s just as handsome as always. Even the black fabric covering the bottom half of his face doesn’t detract from his allure, which seems to be intensified by the deepening darkness around you as he leads you through the maze entrance.

A festival worker stands off to the side in full-on farmer-gore. Their overalls are covered in faux viscera, and there is a bloodied sling blade dangling from their off-hand as they beckon you and Yoongi forward with their other.

“Tonight's savior phrase is ‘Pumpkin Guts’, yell it out if you need assistance navigating the maze, and a helper will assist you,” he offers before turning to the next patron approaching a few feet behind you and Yoongi and giving them the same information.

“Pumpkin Guts,” Yoongi scoffs with a quiet laugh. “Surely they could have come up with something far more fitting than that.”

“I find it kind of nice. The childish charm of it helps make a situation like getting lost in the maze less scary, don’t you think?”

His eyes look more onyx now that you’re within the maze, the only illumination coming from tiny, sparse fairy lights. They catch your gaze, and you see a smile tilt up the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. “That’s adorable.”

“What?” you laugh, feeling heat crawl into your cheeks.

Yoongi shakes his head, his smile growing. “You always find the good in everything. It’s one of the things I like most about you.”

All the residual anxiety from earlier bleeds away with just that singular statement. You press in closer to Yoongi and angle your face up in silent request, to which he immediately obliges. He hooks a finger in the lip of his gaiter and pulls it down so he can slant his mouth over yours. His lips are warmer than usual, his breath carrying faint hints of bourbon as he teasingly slips his tongue through the seam of your lips. All too soon, he’s pulling away, leaving you with just that small taste of him. The gaiter slides back into place, and he nods ahead of you. “The quicker we make it to the center, the quicker you get the surprise I have waiting for you.”

“A surprise?” you ask, thoroughly intrigued. 

His affirming hum in response turns into a soft chuckle as you eagerly quicken your steps, tugging him along beside you. As someone who isn’t partial to being shocked or scared, it’s perhaps a bit ironic that you love surprises of the unknown. They just have to be the right kind—like one from Yoongi; er, well, at least the ones that don’t involve him sitting on your bed in the dark as you open the bathroom door or so you tell yourself—but you digress.

Though, perhaps there is a bit of enjoyment from those kinds of surprises, too. In a twisted, semi-fucked up way, the surge of adrenaline is like a counterweight to the dopamine response from your amygdala that follows any time you get frightened. The perfect balance of emotions. The fight or flight reflex makes your body feel like it’s keyed up with extra energy, leaving you feeling like you’ve just run a mile or fucked for an hour. It’s maybe a little unhinged to salivate over those small sips of terror secretly. Does that make you a masochist?

You’d almost think Yoongi picks up on your inner thoughts with the way he makes an amused sound in the back of his throat and gives you a sidelong, knowing look. Something tingles beneath your skin, an electric feeling akin to loose ambitions. It seems tonight won’t be so bad after all.

The crunch of dried corn husks and hay accompanies the occasional scream or laugh echoing from various points in the maze. You’ve only led Yoongi to a dead-end a handful of times so far, but the anxiety at not having found the center of the maze yet is starting to mount.

“I can feel your stress in the tension in your hand,” Yoongi muses softly. “Relax, you’ll get your surprise.”

“What if they close the maze before we make it to the center, though?”

“They won’t.”

You cut a quick glance at him. He looks smug. “You seem so sure, but from my count,” you shift your attention to your watch, “we only have fifteen minutes before the festival closes, and I’d guess we’re nowhere near the center yet.”

Yoongi shrugs. “I may have paid the vendor to let us stay as long as we need.”

“You did what?”

“Tonight’s special,” Yoongi tugs you to a stop, his hands engulfing yours, and gives you a pointed look. “Very special.” The thumb of his right hand grazes over the expanse of skin above the knuckle on your left ring finger. “Now, let’s go find the center…and your surprise.”

A new sensation trickles in–excitement. Your heart patters faster as you turn and haul Yoongi on with renewed vigor. Gone is any trepidation; in its place, nothing but giddy and barely veiled anticipation. And to think, you’d almost been silly and canceled on him.

🖤🖤🖤

Yoongi

Yoongi wasn’t exaggerating when he said you look good enough to eat tonight. If only you knew how close to an accurate statement that was. He’s had a constant flow of moisture seeping into his mouth since he laid eyes on you standing behind the wooden sign for the maze. He had just finished setting up the surprise for you in the center, utilizing his natural form in order to move quickly without being seen.

All the implements he needs await him at the maze's center. The theatrics of it all are only for fun. He could have simply taken you without them. But he’s always been partial to playing with his food before devouring it. The pungency of your anxiety as you waited was a delightful appetizer to what is sure to be a satiating main course.

Every time you make a wrong turn in the maze, Yoongi can feel the tension in your muscles and the momentary disappointment that flavors your scent. It’s amusing watching you shuffle your feet and grumble under your breath before turning and backtracking.

It’s not lost to him the amount of uncertainty you’ve had ever since he asked you to go with him tonight. Not that he would have given you a choice in the end; he’d have taken you by force if needed. But he’s a passive creature at best, so the less work he has to do, the better.

Using the ruse of there being a surprise waiting for you isn’t entirely untrue. Though, the treat he’s confident that he’s planted the idea of in your head is far different from what’s actually going to happen. He’s spent enough time in the mortal realm to know what you’d have interpreted from him stroking that particular finger with the right look in his eye. Your heart had gone into a frenzy of thick, heavy beats, and your eyes had lit up with wonder.

Yeah, he’s pretty sure he knows what’s driving your feet to move as quickly as they are now. It’ll just make the disappointment taste that much sweeter. Over the five years he’s been administering to you, molding you into the perfect vessel, he’s learned the small nuances that make you tick. Whether it’s for eliciting fear or excitement, desire or anguish, he knows exactly how to produce the results he wants.

“Ugh,” you grumble for the dozenth time when you turn a corner and come to another dead end. “This is impossible. How can you find enjoyment in these things?”

Yoongi smirks. “It’s quite analytical if you really want me to answer that.” The way your nose wrinkles when he says that is positively adorable. “Come on, I’ll help you out.”

You gleefully cede the lead, letting him guide you back and toward a different direction entirely. You’re still excited, bubbling with positive anticipation, even though you’re no longer playing the game, per se. It’s interesting how you so quickly relinquish the hunt—he’d never.

The noise of the festival and maze has long since fizzled away. He didn’t actually pay the attendant. He’s just using some of his ability to mask your presence from anyone who might get in the way. Some of the lights from the midway are still going, and a few rides are lit up. However, the deeper Yoongi leads you into the labyrinth, the darker it becomes. He’s confident you’re so wound up that you don’t even notice how his shadows grow and stretch along the narrow walkway around you.

“Oh, look!” You excitedly point at the opening that comes into view at the end of the row. “I can smell the popcorn. Did that bribe include a bucket waiting for us, too?”

Yoongi has no idea if there is popcorn waiting, but he imagines you’re only smelling the lingering scent. He can’t detect anyone else within a hundred-meter radius around the maze. If the prospect of popcorn makes you happy, then sure. “Of course it did. We’ll need a snack once I’m done with you.” Which mostly isn’t true, though he can’t be sure. Yoongi has never shadow-turned a human before, much less taken a mate in the process. You might be ravenous by the time he’s done; though, he’d bet it won’t be popcorn you’ll be craving.

There is a distinct moment where Yoongi can feel the shift in your demeanor. Your excitement dips into confusion as you take in the finish line area that’s deserted of anyone and anything other than the large 10 ft square structure he erected in the middle. The raw malachite plinths are so dark the lindworm-colored stone seems to absorb the illuminance around them, turning the gateway into a giant pit of darkness that devours the faint twinkling lights. Shadows bleed from the open space between the pillars, reaching for their master.

Yoongi’s blood sings with desire as fear trickles in with the confusion. “Yoongi,” you whisper his name, and it warbles from your lips oh so beautifully. “What’s that?”

“That’s your future, my love.” He untangles himself from your grip, circling you like a predator. “Now, run!” he snarls from right behind you.

You don’t even scream when he shoves you forward, your arms windmilling and boots tripping over the scatter of dried corn husks before you topple headlong between the pillars. The last thing he sees before the waiting shadows swallow you is the whites of your eyes as you throw a panicked look over your shoulder at him.

It’s mildly disappointing that you didn’t even so much as grunt or give him any sort of satisfaction that you’re petrified other than the cloying perfume of your terror that settles on his tongue when he huffs in irritation. Hopefully, when he follows you through the gateway, you’ll already be on the run because he’s in the mood to play a while longer before he shatters the world as you know it.

Yoongi wants you to recognize him, so he only casts off some of his mortal form, choosing to keep his face and most of his body intact. What changes is his size; he grows larger, arms and legs longer, fingers more like talons, and eyes the dark red of fresh blood.

He knows he looks monstrous, even more so with the cloth still covering the lower half of his face and the hoodie now ripped and hanging from his physique. As soon as he slides through the barrier of the gateway, he’s met with that euphoric sound he hoped for earlier. Your scream rends through the thick, stale air of the Realm of Darkness, music to his ears.

“That’s my girl,” Yoongi crows, his voice gravelly and distorted by his natural form. He inhales deeply, sucking in your dismay's succulent and divine fragrance. “Fuck.”

You scream again as he steps toward you, which spurs you into gaining your feet, not even caring to look at the soot-like substance caking your hands and knees. Yoongi can only imagine the thoughts warring inside your pretty little head right now. Wild fear makes your eyes flick frantically around before you choose a direction and sprint at breakneck speed between the skeletal trees surrounding this side of the gateway.

He chose the Forest of Decay specifically because it provides the perfect environment for a chase. It allows him to easily keep up with you while giving the illusion of protection. There’s also not a single nook or cranny Yoongi isn’t intimately familiar with; after all, he can’t have you finding some unknown hole to burrow into.

The flash and flicker of your coat draws his attention as it zigs and zags through the petrified sentinels of the forest. Their long, gnarled branches reach far, entwining overhead like a macabre endless bird's nest. It creates a dim atmosphere, with the faintest hint of light bleeding through the limbs. Each tree is about a foot wide and twenty feet high, the ground covered in sooty ash; it’s an ideal playground.

“Leave me alone!” you sob when Yoongi lets you catch another glimpse of him.

Yoongi shudders as a fresh, new wave of terror undulates from you and washes over him. “No can do, my queen.”

The thrill of the chase adds kindling to Yoongi’s need to consume you whole. Every step you take is reckless. You throw yourself around trees so fast you nearly hit the next. The spacing between the trees is relatively narrow, just a few feet at most. Still, with the way you’re barreling through them, you’ve already accumulated a few scratches and minor lacerations from the dried bark, feet kicking up small puffs of ash with every frantic step. The tangy, sweet scent of your blood makes him salivate. The thick, viscous drool coating his tongue will make it all that easier to fuck you with it once he catches you.

Lumbering on behind you, Yoongi intentionally stomps and makes as much noise as possible. Every crack and thump he makes has a whimper shivering from your throat. The thick appendage between his monstrous thighs swells with each terrified sound you make. Fucking you in his proper form will be such a treat. Surely, it’ll be far better than any sex he’s had with the limits of his human body, even if he does love the way your softness compliments his.

But there is nothing soft about Yoongi now—not when he has such a tasty morsel running and screaming so prettily for him. He’s all hard edges and thick muscle. A manic chuckle bubbles in his chest as he leaps ahead, hounding your heels.

It’s comical, ironic even, when he watches your foot catch on a high root hidden by a pile of ash, and you go sprawling on the ground before him. He’s seen enough of those cheesy horror films so fervently worshiped in your world to know how funny this is.

“Please, no! Leave me alone!” you beg through ragged breaths. Your face and hair are marked with scratches, flecks of dried bark, and the pewter-colored ash covering the ground.

An appreciative moan works its way free of Yoongi as he stands over you, swaying like he’s drunk. Which, maybe he is. There is a faint buzzing in his ears, and if he opens his eyes too wide, your image doubles. Two of you; he grins wickedly at the prospect. Now, that would be a definite treat.

As it is, there’s only you; that will be sufficient for what Yoongi has planned. He looms over you, and the backward-bending joints of his knees give slightly as he towers across your prone form. Your eyes pan over his arched body, perhaps for the first time, taking it in with true clarity. Yoongi lets his skin ripple between human and proper form, coalescing and whirling with shadows.

With a flex of darkness, he rends the remnants of his clothes. The ripping of the seams and subsequent soft plop of the ruined fabrics echo through the suddenly silent space. You’re barely even breathing as you take him in, eyes landing on the swinging cock that nearly brushes your belly as he places a gnarled hand beside your head in the ash.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, though it comes out more like sand in a grinder. Lowering further, Yoongi nudges your chin with his nose, guiding your head sideways to give him unfettered access to your throat. Pressing into the crook of your neck, he huffs hot breath over your skin, rejoicing in the instinctive reaction. Your skin prickles and flushes with goosebumps, and a thick cloud of potent fear wafts up as your pulse hammers away beneath his lips.

“P-please,” you whimper through trembling lips. Tears stream down your cheek and drip off the bridge of your nose. Their salty tang mixes with the sweetness of terror pervading the air.

That word, spoken in that way…it does something to Yoongi. He groans, nipping at the skin of your neck with his blunted teeth before letting them elongate so he can adequately graze your papery-thin flesh. You cry out when they slice through, leaving behind thin blood trickles and shallow scratches.

Your blood is laced with fear, blooming on his tongue like an ambrosia of the gods. “You’ve always begged so prettily, my queen. You’re a treasure, and I’m so glad I found you all those years ago, so innocent and unsuspecting—my perfect mate.”

The next scream that leaves your lips is guttural, full of panic and delirium as Yoongi takes his first pull from your body. Thin wisps of black shadow thread from his lips to yours. They pulse with every drag he takes. He’s fed from you thousands of times, but never like this—never so profoundly.

Fear, terror, horror, fright…it’s all the same, and yet Yoongi is almost sure he can taste the distinction. Like a fine wine, you have tasting notes that vary with every sip. By the fifth breath, your body has grown slack, your eyes wide and glassy. Tears still stream down your face but in silence.

Yoongi watches your pallor grow sickly, waxy as sweat pearls along your hairline and temples. Draining you is a delicate affair, something he’s both dreaded and looked forward to for so long. Watching the fire that he loves so much bleed from your eyes and the vigor leech from your skin pangs him with a foreign sensation, something akin to mourning? He realizes now he will mourn the loss of your human form, even if it’s far inferior to what he will turn you into.

With one final shuddering gasp, the darkest, thickest tendril of shadow snakes its way between your parted lips. Your fingers and limbs spasm as the inky darkness roots in deep, tethering itself to you like the strings of a marionette. It pulls tight in Yoongi’s own chest, cementing his essence to yours. As a barbed ring of shadow settles on the ring finger of your left hand, the bond snaps into place, and chaos ensues.

🖤🖤🖤

You’ve never experienced such visceral fear before. It’s consumed every fiber of your being. You’re no longer who you once were and will never be the same again. You are simply fear incarnate.

A boiling starts beneath your skin, beginning at the tips of your fingers and toes before rolling through to the center of your chest, where it pops and sizzles like dry ice in tepid water, so cold it burns.

It’s like flipping a coin. One minute, you are experiencing insurmountable terror, and the next, you exude it. Nothing can scare you now, not even the monster sitting a few feet away watching you with calculated eyes—familiar eyes, eyes you’ve lost yourself in more times than you can count.

They’re not as cold as they were a moment ago. You distinctly remember how those red eyes softened right before you felt yourself float away. It’s Yoongi, you know this, but it’s also not. He’s different, and it’s not even the deformed, gangly shadow form that makes up his body, either. There’s something more, something that draws you in, like an anchor dragging you into his deepest, darkest depths. He’s a vast ocean, and you’re pretty sure what he just did was akin to drowning you—killing you.

Only you don’t feel dead.

Quite the opposite, in fact. For the first time in your existence, you feel truly alive; and not in the living sense but in the eternal sense. You have no ending or beginning; you exist as you will yourself to be.

With that thought, your body urges you to change, to morph into a far more comfortable form. Darkness seeps from your pores, cascading out of your skin until it becomes a mockery of its former self, and it feels good—so good.

“What have you done to me?” Your voice sounds different, soft yet sultry. It reminds you of black silk and lace, devious and coy, with the perfect mix of husk and drawl.

Yoongi lets out a slow breath, the sound like dry leaves crackling. “Made you mine.”

“What…what are we?”

The soft ash sifts between your now exposed toes, the boots you once wore laying in peeled strips along with tattered remnants of your clothes. Nudity has never been an issue for you, but it’s as if you have no inhibitions at all now. The shadows around your body contort to form curves and perfect swells.

“We have many names. Demons, bogeymen…it’s all very fitting, yet doesn’t quite capture the truth. What I am—what we are—is darkness, fear, terror, and shadow. We are infinite, endless, and everything all at once.”

“Why me?” you whisper. That tether inside of you pulses, pulling tight as you shift and try to put distance between yourself and Yoongi. It’s like a rope around your throat, pulling you up short.

Yoongi narrows his eyes, lips quirking in amusement. “This is the Realm of Darkness—my domain,” he gestures broadly with a clawed hand, “and it was all I had access to until I found a way to enter yours. Once I tasted the sweet nectar of fear it provided and the power it allowed me access to, I couldn’t stop my curiosity and need for more. Then I found you, and I knew you would be the perfect compliment to my aspirations, just the thing I needed to break the barriers completely.”

He straightens up, and the way his body catches your attention has a heat flaring somewhere deep in your being. Your eyes lock on the dark sinews and plump muscles that stretch and contract as Yoongi moves to crouch in front of you. The ribbed and notched cock swaying between his thighs dribbles a thick, viscous line of lavender-colored arousal.

Tearing your eyes from the sight of it, you force yourself to look into his feral, red eyes. His explanation is both confusing and clear at the same time. You understand it, but know that you should be railing against it because it’s morally incomprehensible. You’ve essentially been kidnapped and forced into what this is. Yet…yet—“I feel…” you trail off, trying to find the right word to describe it.

“Powerful,” Yoongi offers with a knowing, pointed-tooth grin.

“Powerful,” you repeat, letting the word roll around your tongue before nodding. Perhaps that’s why you are shrugging off your cares and the moral compass that has seemingly forgotten how to point north.

The subtle smell of burnt wood and sulfur hits you as Yoongi raises a hand to fit across the front of your throat. Those too-long fingers engulf it, sending a shiver down your new body. Instead of your belly filling up with fear, it fills with desire and need. You no longer need to battle the terror, letting it drip away from you instead.

“Look at you. You’re so perfect. You don’t feel scared, but that’s only because this realm leeches it away and devours it before it can poison your mind, leaving behind nothing but how you truly feel.”

You know there has always been a darkness inside you, something that even you feared to face head-on. After all, it must take some kind of crazy to be both scared of the dark and want to embrace it. It’s not just the way Yoongi plied your body and made you forget to care about being proper and good. Is this what you were made for—all the fright and terror you’ve experienced and secretly sought out leading you to this very moment here?

All it takes is one look at Yoongi to know the truth.

You were created for this, crafted to be precisely what Yoongi needed, just as he said.

With that moment of clarity and acceptance, a new sensation slithers down your spine. A lasciviousness that has you moaning in surprise. 

“Fuck,” you grind out between clenched teeth.

“Gladly,” Yoongi chuckles, his red eyes taking on a lecherous gleam. “Let’s unleash your darkness on the realms, my queen.”

Between one breath and the next, your knees are splayed wide, and Yoongi has his face buried between your thighs. All it takes is one languid swipe of his long, broad tongue to have you cursing again. Caustic words fall from your mouth, laced with vitriol as it’s unfair how good it feels. It’s like every inch of contact between your body and his writes itself across what was once your soul.

“Mmmph,” you moan incoherently as the beginning of an orgasm lashes against your insides. Yoongi greedily sucks and licks, tongue laving over your throbbing clit before sliding between your contracting walls.

A tsunami of darkness crashes out from within you, blanketing the surrounding forest in shadow. Wisps of clarity ebb and flow, drifting along with the gloom until Yoongi grounds you with an exceptionally sharp pinch to one of your nipples.

“Almost there,” he announces gleefully, licking his lips before launching forward and forcing you onto your back.

Yoongi feels like fire against you, his body scorching everywhere it touches. You expect to feel the soft ash against your back but the only sensation that ebbs in is a cool aeration against the exposed skin between your shoulder blades.

Monstrous arms wrap around you as Yoongi slots his too-big mouth over yours, invading you with his slick, serpentine tongue. Your eyes flutter open, and you catch a glimpse of a pewter sky beyond the scraggy branches that are suddenly closer overhead.

You try to pull away from his devouring kiss to alert him to the jagged web of dry wood about to scrape his back, but he growls and renews his effort to shove his tongue as far into your mouth as possible. Snaps and cracks fill the air, and wood explodes around you.

Realization dawns as more should-be-fear-turned-lust pours through your body and expands beyond it, filling the sky around you with a murky darkness. The power of that emotion propels you further, sending you and Yoongi far above the landscape to suspend over the entirety of the Realm of Darkness, leaving a streamer of smoke-like essence in your wake.

Yoongi throws his head back, finally relenting from the kiss. His broad chest heaves against yours, and his red eyes are wild as they roll manically before landing on you. “How is this possible?” you pant, hands gripping the muscles of his shoulders tightly.

“Anything is possible here,” he whispers fervently before spinning you so fast your vision blurs. The horizon spans as far as you can see around you. You and Yoongi are hundreds of feet higher than even the tallest mountain peak. Everything is a monochrome grey, black, or in-between. A jagged line of mountains rear to your right while inky streams and rivers zig zag to your left. It’s a hideously beautiful display that contradicts all scenic views you’ve ever seen, yet is better than all of them combined.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when Yoongi forces your legs wide and slots his hips between them from behind. Shadows billow around you, charged with energy that crackles and sizzles, barely restrained from being unleashed to wreak untold havoc.

Thin fingers slide around to cup the front of your throat, giving a none too gentle squeeze. Yoongi snarls, “There is no God here. We are the gods!” His declaration is punctuated by the head of his cock prodding against your sopping cunt. This new body is already eager to pleasure Yoongi and receive pleasure in kind.

His hips kick forward, and you feel every delicious ridge and ripple along his thick shaft. It feels like he invades the pit of your stomach, filling you to the brink. It’s a rush of wicked delight, pure erotic rapture.

You moan again, this time invoking the only name left on your tongue, “Yoongi!”

“I’ve been looking forward to fucking you like this for five years,” he grunts, emphasizing the words with his hips pumping against your ass in brutal strokes. “Claiming you wholly, decorating the world with our combined shadows. Look how they writhe for you, waiting for you to command them. Let go.”

Your eyes roll from side to side, taking in the dark, undulating forms stretching wide around you. With each prick of pleasure Yoongi insights in your body, they branch and roil further out, creating the foundation for your own personal bedlam. 

Like a bounty won at the end of a hunt, Yoongi ravishes your body with his. He’s brutal, unrelenting and wanton. The hand on your throat tugs with every slam of his hips, bowing your back and forcing you to peer out at the Kingdom begging for your rule. Darkness beseeches you, screaming for your glory and power as it pours out and blankets the sky.

Your world narrows to one pin point of coherency. Yoongi. He is nothing and everything all at once. He is the beginning and the end—fear, loathing, lust, and madness…through it all, he is infinite. And he’s yours.

With one final, shuddering breath you let go; welcoming the darkness once and for all.

“Yes.” The word, whispered from your parted lips, is sucked away with the maelstrom that detonates around and within you.

You barely hear the guttural, primal roar that emits from Yoongi as he buries himself to the hilt and fills you with his terrible darkness. You shatter into a multitude of shards, a glittering storm that dances through the ether, sparking and catching on the thin membrane that stretches between the realms. All it takes is one weak point, a small breach in the barrier, and everything falls apart.

It’s glorious, feeling yourself everywhere all at once. Your body is still fluttering around Yoongi, sucking and welcoming his release into your soul. But, your consciousness is spread wide, bleeding through the nexus of this realm and the one you once called home.

The mortal realm bows to your will. You can feel the beings of the Realm of Darkness funneling toward the broken gateways, pouring through to consume and conquer with the whisper of your glory on their tongues. Fear reigns supreme, consuming everything in its path as you expand your hold on the darkness.

“My Queen of Darkness,” the ephemeral coo caresses your ear, phantom lips brushing along your shadows. Yoongi’s darkness blends with yours, adding to the pulse that seeps to all corners of existence. “No longer will you fear, as you are fear itself…glorious, neverending fear.”

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