#JAW CLENCHED MIND RANCID GO. TO. BED. YOU ARE GOOD FOR NOTHING LIKE THIS.

[notasapleasure]

Me, taking my own hands and lowering them to my lap, far away from the keyboard: stop trying to vaguepost. Stop drafting things you're only going to delete. It's all just pmdd. It's all pmdd.

[magecrashout]

childishly enough, marian refused to listen. she had half an ear and less of a mind open to anything that left isabela's mouth... at least that's what she insisted she'd do initially. her strongest defenses were pure denial and oblivion. but she heard the nicknames that rolled out — love and darling, and they irked her badly. she was sera, mistress, her grace, her ladyship and not someone who was isabela's friend.

hawke had many things she tried to cling onto and sort through her mind. she remembered vividly the plans for rebuilding darktown and the houses she issued be build. a good chunk of them were above the ground now — perhaps they would be finished when she came back. if she came back. it wasn't enough to convince her to keep going. someone else would surely continue her work.

her eyes burnt with resentment as isabela mentioned the keep. it was impossible to disregard such a statement completely but the truth behind it was clear to hawke. they didn't want to talk. they needn't talk now or before — they had nothing tying them.

she'd prefer to keep her eyes anywhere else and stare into the abyss of the vault than to look at isabela. memories were overbearing and ambitious enough to try to open old scars. hawke neither needed nor wanted any of it.

thinking of politics usually brought her headaches and now she was desperately recalling conversations and exchanges she had briefly before taking off. from other leaders of the free marches to ambassadors of the tevinter imperium.

still, isabela's voice was sticky. it stuck to her and it echoed in her head, making her clench her jaw.

and maker, how much she resented isabela's casual demeanor. this informality drove marian up a wall. she had trashed acceptance of it years ago and had built barricades of formality around her. reservation served her all too well — she sometimes idly wondered how she lived before. the bad jokes thrown that never put out the fire — only made it worse. she had learned from her mistakes. isabela obviously hadn't.

❝ i'm not sharing the bed with you, ❞ hawke muttered. she had slept a few hours in the last inn then she rode her horse in the haze of the cold. to her standards her body was well rested.

another gaze at where isabela sat. marian refused to get closer as if she'd burn at a closer distance. the room ought to warm up a bit and she could take off the fur off her shoulders and sit on it. anything but to be in the proximity of her ex-companion further than the room allowed.

maker, did she ever shut up?

marian felt her stomach turn and something in her flinch as isabela continued filling the silence with words she was supposed to find comforting. or amendable in any way. for the time, she remained quiet. an apology was silly. she had decided one would be useless even if it came. and if it did, she had promised herself to not accept it.

" i didn't want to run from you, you know. i didn't feel like i had a choice. "

hawke let out a slow breath. she paced away, turning her back to isabela again. ignore her, ignore all that she has to say, all that she wants to bring back. the old you is dead.

the rancid smell of hair burning came vividly back to marian. she had burnt her past — annihilated by her very own desire. isabela wouldn't change it -

the word love was thrown again and it pushed hawke off the edge of her tower of hate. ❝ that's right. you had no choice. you would've never loved a blood mage. no one would. if you couldn't love me... but kirkwall could not stand for one, either. so i flipped the coin. ❞ the strength in her voice was surprising. pouring this out was rather easy. the years had made her numb to a topic so sensitive.

she tried to ground herself and feed them both lies. ❝ i don't care for an apology. ❞ marian turned, arms went back to cross before her chest. ❝ is there any point in you telling me this, isabela? nothing will change the past... i — we went on our separate ways for the better. you've shown me it doesn't matter what we want, but what we get. ❞ hawke shrugged her tense shoulders in pretense dismissal, though isabela's words were eating away at her. ❝ ... i wanted you to stay and yet you did not. i wanted you to understand why i did what i did... but you left. ❞ her voice wavered. ❝ you left when i needed you the most. ❞

❝ instead, you got your happy ending — the big ship you've always wanted. me? i guess i did too. i got what i wanted, right? i have kirkwall — i belong to it as much as it does to me. ❞ the tunnel vision that she had pushed herself into remained. some days she remembered that she used to be a dreamer. she used to dream of stupid things like playing cards inebriated, kissing people she could never truly have, or sleeping soundly without a worry in the world. now she knew she could never have such things. they weren't for her, not in this lifetime. she'd never have happiness but... ❝ you should be happy. ❞ she was not.

hawke unhooked arms and pushed back some hair, setting it aside, a nasty habit long forgotten that made an appearance unconscious to her. raking her hair like she used to, especially when it was longer. then she put her hand on her hip and looked over her shoulder.

did she believe herself? that she had no love for isabela? she had fed herself this narrative but now her heart was pounding and her knees were threatening to give out. hawke's feet took her to the bed and she collapsed down — opposite side of isabela — as far as possible. marian just hoped she wouldn't start shaking. she could do with silence.

❝ keep the rum and spare me of what could've been. ❞ her gaze shifted back to the fire and she forced it to rise higher. it was soothing.

" you and i are in the same damn situation, love. " the words came out sharp, sharper than isabela intended, but she didn't soften them. she let them hang in the stale air between them, heavy and cutting. her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms, before she forced herself to release them, the tension hissing out in a slow, deliberate breath through her nose. " i haven't slept worth a damn, and varric swore this would take the edge off. "

her voice was tight, clipped—like each word dragged something from her she wasn't ready to part with. she turned away before hawke could reply, her hands skating over the cold grooves of the wall. the repetition was something to cling to, an anchor to distract her from the weight of hawke's presence—close, heavy, familiar in all the wrong ways.

maker, the vault took her back. the enclosed space. the silence. it dragged her to memories she wasn't prepared to face, of easier days when risks didn't cut this deep, when arguments didn't leave scars. her chest felt tight, her breath shallow. she pressed harder against the grooves in the wall, as though sheer determination alone would find some escape.

no. not here. not now. she wouldn't sink into that.

her jaw clenched, her movements slowing as her thoughts tightened into knots she couldn't untangle. finally, she turned back toward hawke. it didn't help. the sight of her—stubborn, unyielding—only fanned the fire clawing at her chest.

" i don't know why he brought you here, " she said, her voice low, edged with frustration and something rawer, something she didn't want to name. " whether you believe me or not. if i wanted to talk, i'd have swallowed my damn pride and gone to the keep myself. "

the admission hung in the air, a reckless dagger tossed without aim, and isabela didn't bother pulling it back. let hawke stew on it if she wanted. she wouldn't give her the satisfaction of backtracking.

pressing her ear to the vault door, isabela strained for any sound—footsteps, a distant voice, anything to promise this wouldn't be the pit varric intended it to be. but the silence was a taunt, steady and unrelenting. after a moment, she backed away, huffing out a low breath, her tongue clicking sharply against her teeth.

" …nothing. not a maker's-damned thing. " she rolled her shoulders and let her arms fall to her sides in a loose, unbothered gesture. " guess we'll have to settle in. "

her gaze flicked back to hawke for the first time since they'd been trapped, and something in her gut twisted. thinner than she remembered. paler, too. the shadows beneath her eyes were deep, etched into her face in a way that unsettled isabela more than she wanted to admit.

but the stubbornness was still there, written in the hard line of her jaw, in the way her arms crossed as though to shield herself from anything isabela might throw her way. isabela could read her like a damn book, and it grated.

she forced herself to look away, tossing up her hands as she moved toward the cot. "come on then," she called over her shoulder, her tone casual, breezy—armor against the ache curling in her chest. "we're stuck here until varric decides to let us out. might as well get comfortable. floor's colder than a golem's tit, and i'm not sharing this bed if you keep glaring at me like that."

the magic in the air hadn't escaped her notice—small flickers of flame sparking like a second presence in the room. she frowned, setting the bottle aside. her fingers pushed through her hair as she tried to settle the restless pull in her chest. hawke was right there, yet a whole maker-forsaken chasm yawned between them.

her fingers found the edge of the blanket as she fidgeted with it absently, chewing the inside of her lip. it felt like she was trying to comfort herself more than anything—an instinct she hadn't yet shaken after years of learning to stand alone.

" look, " she muttered finally, the words heavy as they left her. " if you're expecting an apology, i don't have one. not yet, anyway. " her voice dipped, the crack of honesty and fear slipping through her defenses. " i'd have to think it over first. it's not every day the person you think you're going to run off with just… "

the words caught in her throat, choking her, and she stopped, swallowing the thick lump that threatened to crawl its way out.

not here. not now.

her hands fell into her lap as she stared at them, calloused and still. she didn't let herself cry—not in front of hawke. what would it change? nothing.

her voice dropped lower when she spoke again, softer, like the words were only meant for the two of them. " i didn't want to run from you, you know. i didn't feel like i had a choice. " she shook her head, her breath leaving her in a slow, uneven exhale. " i couldn't just sit back and let the city take anything else from me. not you. not again. not when i couldn't love you the way i needed to -- the way i wanted to ... i should have just -- "

her gaze flicked up to hawke, yet again stopping herself. she searches hawke's face for something—anger, forgiveness, understanding—but not letting herself linger too long.

isabela leaned back, kicking her legs up on the cot and crossing her arms behind her head. she needed to ease the weight pressing against her chest, even if only for a moment. " i guess this is varric's idea of forcing us to talk it out. but if you're not up for it, i'll take the quiet. i'm not in the mood to fight. "

her lips quirked into a faint, forced grin, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

" but if you want the rum, you'll have to pry it out of my hands. fair warning. "

[unholyhelbig]

Bechloe greek gods au?

[a/n: Long time no see guys, I swear I have so many prompts in my inbox, I’ll get around to them soon. This is rocky because I haven’t written them in a bit. Enjoy!]

She didn’t remember getting hit with an arrow; not the way it pushed into her skin evenly and produced an even bout of pain. It was more of an annoyance, really, like a mosquito who had barely tapped a vein before she swatted it away- smearing the brown and bubbling guts on the wall.

Her room was hot that day, and even with the fan pointed directly at the bare mattress that rested on the floor, she was washed with discomfort.  Beca had kicked the sheets that usually covered her away- and hadn’t even noticed the soaked fabric was ruined with anything but her own sweat.

But by the time the alarm on her phone started going off, she knew something was wrong; the loud clang of something metal and weighted falling from her bed did nothing but confirm that the thickness of the room wasn’t her imagination.

Her downstairs neighbor pushed the blunt end of a broom against their ceiling in response to the clatter and Beca figured that that served as enough of a wakeup call. It was already past noon- she could tell by the lattice design of the sun streaming through her blinds.

Beca reached blindly until her fingers wrapped around the cold shaft of metal that had so rudely pulled her from her slumber. She moved her thumb against it- not a phone, not a pair of expensive headphones. No- it was an arrow.

From where- she wasn’t sure. There was no broken glass in her apartment, no more than usual. And she would have noticed, even in a drunken slumber, if one had come crashing through the window. She lived on the fifth floor of a shitty city building.

She sat up and groaned at the pinching on the back of her thigh, the way it burned and pulsed with her own heart. The arrow was plated and gold and heavier than she thought it would be. There was an expertly crafted heart on one end, the shaft cutting right through it. Its point was coated in a rust-colored liquid.

Too weird- she decided, too early for this.

She had a lot to drink last night and probably pulled this from one of the stupid holiday displays that they had laying around the city for some agro art project. That’s what she gets, she supposed, for picking a place to live on the same block as a prestigious art school.

Beca stood and limped to the dining room, setting the bloodied arrow down on the table before grasping at the nearest cup that looked somewhat clean. She didn’t wait for the sink water to chill before gulping down a full glass and going for a second one. The warm liquid soaked into the collar of her shirt.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, not clouded by her own thirst, but she had set the arrow down next to a small card. Something that would be left in a bouquet of roses, but bigger. It created a little tent and cast a shadow next to the gold. She plucked it from the table.

Beca,

I struggle not to speak in riddles, as I’m sure you don’t remember much from last night. But the two of us had quite the boasting match. Turns out I, in fact, can drink you under the table. So- as a consolation prize for your good efforts, I’ve left you something of mine.

She frowned. It was well written in a curled type of script that would take anyone a number of hours. Her head was screaming at her and her leg was hissing. Beca remembers finishing up a set and taking whatever free drinks the patrons thought to buy her. And a woman, glowering at her across the bar.  She flipped the card over, looking for more fine print.

This arrow has the effect of undying love, something you mumbled about never being able to find. This should help to a certain extent- but be forewarned; a similar arrow built of lead was left in the possession of another. Find that arrow, find your love. Cure them.

All the best,

C.

Oh… oh, this had to be absolute bullshit. There was no way some stranger that was lingering in the darkest and dankest bar in Manhattan had followed her to her apartment and stabbed her. People didn’t just do that. They didn’t’ leave cryptic notes or gold-plated arrows because someone like Beca Mitchell had half the mind to pawn it off.

Who was C?

She flopped down in the nearest chair, letting the arrow fall to the ground once more. It clattered, even on the carpet- and as if on cue, her downstairs neighbor pushed the broom against the ceiling- as if that would stop Beca’s hangover, or her struggle to piece together missing time.

“Oh, shut up!” she shouted back, pushing her heel into the floor.

She usually never fought back. There was never a reason to. Beca carried late and odd hours, and she often found herself treading lightly- even if she was a bit buzzed. But right now the pulsing in her thigh and the blurred intentions of the letter ate away at any resolve she hoped to carry. So she stomped three times and palmed the arrow.

Her neighbor slammed the top of the broom in response and Beca let out a groan before standing, ignoring the sharp pain in her leg. She pulled open the door and registered the musty scent that the hallway carried.

Beca’s steps were muffled in her socked feet, even as she trudged past the elevator with the “Out of Order” Sign that was tacked on the metal front. The cement floor of the stairwell was cold and unforgiving against her soles. She didn’t stop until she found the exact puke-green door that she was looking for. Beca even knocked before she lost a bit of her nerve.  

Then the door swung open and the crisp scent of vanilla cut through her own rancid mix of sweat and lingering whiskey. A girl stood in front of her, blonde hair pulled into a tight bun and a fancy blouse hugging her curves. She had a fire in her eyes- but Beca had an arrow, and that was enough for her.

“I’m guessing you’re our upstairs neighbor considering your heavy-handed knock?”

God, who talks like that? “Spot on, sweetie. You pulled the stick out of your ass long enough to bang it against the ceiling, huh?”

The woman huffed and pulled the door open even more. Not allowing an entrance or even offering. She put more room between the two of them, taller and meaner. “Look, just keep it down, alright? You clamoring home at two in the morning is annoying enough. I don’t need mid-afternoon too.”

“I pay rent too, you know, I can stomp around as much as I like. Not everyone keeps a normal schedule.”

She found herself using the tip of the golden arrow as a buffer, it’s point still rusted in crimson. The stranger flicked her unripe stare against it and straightened up, fingers tightening against the doorframe.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I found it, “Beca frowned “listen, that’s not the point. I will start trying to be quieter if you just stop banging the ceiling-“  

“No, seriously, where did you find this?”

She was being ignored entirely, the woman plucked the arrow from her fingers and walked into her apartment, leaving the door wide open. Beca sighed heavily and followed her in with her slight limp. If she was going to be murdered, at least it would be in her own apartment building, anything to reason her actions.

It was nicer here; with soft lavender curtains and pictures hanging on the wall. Beca had gotten all of her furniture from thrift shops and friends cleaning out storage units. It was like a home goods catalog, everything smelling sweet and more importantly, clean. She was suddenly nervous to track blood on the carpet.

“Chloe!” The woman shouted, voice echoing off the hallway, she turned her back to Beca, running her fingers over the metal “This was just in your apartment?”

“Sort of, I guess. It was in my leg. I pulled it out right before you started drumming on the walls.”

She nodded and went back to studying the object, not offering up any answers. But Beca didn’t’ have much focus on her anymore; instead, she was drawn inexplicably to the woman who must be Chloe. She walked with a certain grace about her- hair messy and curled like fire. Her eyes were a striking ocean blue and every inch of her sparked like broken waves.

The girl held a towel to her arm, soaked in red and dripping. She had scrubbed most of the blood away but held pressure against her wound before stopping and scrutinizing Beca. Her nose crinkled. “Who’s this?”

“What’s your name?” The blonde asked.

“Aubrey, you invited a stranger into the apartment?” Chloe glared “She’s dirty.”

She snorted “Hi, hello, right here. If I can just get my arrow back you gracious goddess, I’ll get out of your hair.”

What the fuck was that?  

“Gross.” There was a round of silence, Chloe was staring at the carpet and Aubrey was tempted to do what Beca had asked. But none of them moved, not for a bit. Chloe was the first to speak. “Your arrow?”

“Not mine technically. But it lodged itself into my thigh this morning so I think that gives me some jurisdiction over it- now, if you’ll excuse me I have to go to an urgent care.”

“No, don’t go.” Chloe clenched her jaw, and the words seemed to settle in Beca’s stomach like a rock “I got one too. It’s not gold, not like that- but it’s black.”

“It’s lead.” Aubrey corrected. “Do either of you know what that means?”

Beca’s head was pounding and she wasn’t sure if it was from the sickeningly sweet scent of the apartment or the way her heart beat faster against her throat each time Chloe moved. The sun seemed to hit her in the right way and a deafening lightness filled her at each glance. She wanted to run her fingers against her skin, feel lips against her own and, she sighed heavily “You’re so pretty,”

“Focus, please.” Aubrey snapped “I had to take a class on Greek Mythology last semester. I remember this specific story about Daphne and Apollo. Cupid shot them both with arrows after a pissing match with Apollo, and one gained the overwhelming sense of love while the other”

Aubrey trailed off and furrowed her brow.

“The other what, Bree?”

“The other grew to hate the idea of it altogether.”

“That explains why the sight of this… this girl makes me want to claw my own eyes out.” Chloe’s breath was unsteady, but still, she smelled of lemons, and her lips pursed in the perfect way.

“That’s okay, my love, I would still die for you.” Beca pressed her fingers against her lips and let out a muffled growl in frustration. “Okay, that needs to stop, now. Unless that’s not what you want Chloe-“

Chloe groaned, “Any chance you remember how to fix it?”

“I got a note, with the arrow.”

“You didn’t think to mention that sooner?”

“I was a little blind-sided by how stunning you are, forgive me.” Beca wanted to bite her tongue until it bleed. But instead, she searched her hazy mind for what the letter said. It rested on her kitchen table and she didn’t think she could get up there with the amount of pain pushing past her knee and ending at the gash in her thigh. “it said I have to cure you.”

Aubrey’s eyes widened “Chloe, I think she has to stab you with her arrow. Theoretically, that would reverse the amount of disdain in you. It would balance it out.”

“And the amount of infatuation in her?”

“I suppose it could work both ways.”

The thought of diving the metal-tipped arrow into Chloe made her sick to her stomach.  A rolling that started at the back of her neck and culminated in nausea, so thick and strong it felt as if she had been drugged. She essentially had been. One small part of Beca remembers the way she challenged the woman at the bar to a drinking competition, high on her own ego.

She would never bow to a challenge, never lose without losing herself first. But this arrow; its effects would let her kneel in front of this perfect stranger without a second thought. There was no way she could bring her shaky fingers to wrap around the shaft of the arrow, only to push it into the woman’s skin.  

There was a sudden blinding pain against her shoulder, a white-hot metal. “OW! Fuck!”

Beca grasped at the warmth, fingers coated with liquid as she stared at the black arrow in the better part of her shoulder, she hadn’t noticed Chloe grab the lead object. “Dude, what the hell?” She yanked it away, grunting because it somehow hurt worse on the way out.

“What? No sly comment about my insatiable beauty?” Chloe smiled, and though it was charming, it didn’t make her heart stop. In fact, part of her found it more annoying than interesting and keen.

Beca hissed through clenched teeth “Give me the arrow.”

And Aubrey obliged. Somehow it felt heavier in her grasp. Beca had half the mind to go for the shoulder too, but the way Chloe was nursing her other arm made her reconsider. She let out a small breath and slid the pointed end of the object into the side of her leg, right near her hip, hesitating a bit.

“Mother of God,” Chloe’s voice shook, “How did neither of us notice that the first time?”

Beca could blame the alcohol and the way she was knocked out cold after her display at a local bar. But she decided to keep that to herself. She mercifully removed the object and set it on the counter next to the other arrow.  

Aubrey lifted both eyebrows “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m losing a lot of blood.” She swallowed thickly, “And not like I want to shove the arrow somewhere completely different.”

Beca winced “Oh, ouch.”

The blonde reached around the other end of the counter and produced a pair of keys, just as perfectly organized as the rest of her, a look of annoyance and relief against her features. “I think we should get you both to a hospital. And then we bury those things forever, agreed?”

That seemed like the only thing that made sense all day.

[thecleverdame]

The Oath - 11

Parings: Dark!Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Story Master List

Summary: After an unsuccessful escape attempt, the reader finds herself taken as a spoil of war. She ends up in the bed of a ruthless Alpha, the son of John Winchester, leader of the kingdom of Gilead. She struggles to conceal her true identity and navigate a society where being an Omega means nothing more than serving at the pleasure of powerful men.

Warnings: non-con, sexual assault, rape, attempted suicide, sexual slavery, branding, torture, ownership, voyeurism, anal play, smut, violence, and murder.

Sam is dark in this story. If any of the warnings are triggers for you, I would suggest skipping this one. Please read and heed all the warnings.

Beta: ilikaicalie

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-

“What are you doing?” 

You freeze in place with the  blade to your throat, turning to find Sam staring in simmering anger. After his initial shock, he closes in on you, grabbing the knife and twisting it from your hands. 

“You were going to slit your own throat?” He’s fuming, fury seeping from his pores as his nostrils flare. When you don’t respond, his face sets, jaw locking. “Answer me now!” 

“Yes,” you admit, tears falling as you begin to sob. “Let me, please, give the knife back to me. I beg you. Let me leave this world!”

“What’s wrong with you!” he yells again, stepping back. His hands clench into fists at his sides. For a moment you’re sure he’s going to hit you, but instead, he runs a hand over his face and turns away toward the fire. He’s fighting to regain control of himself. Sam takes a moment, his back rising and falling with the intensity of his breath. Turning back to you he places a hand on each of your shoulders, moving backward, forcing you to sit in the chair as you cry harder, shoulders jerking while you sputter and choke. “Stop crying,” he barks. 

You both know it’s a ridiculous command. You’re in no state of mind to follow orders or control these sorts of emotions. Your hands shake at the thought of the repercussions for further disobedience as you look up at him with wide, wet eyes. “I-I c-can’t.”

With hands on his hips, he waits, watches you heave and cough and then slowly collect yourself. It takes a while but you do find a way to calm down. You wipe your cheeks with the sleeves of your dress.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest,  waiting until you’re staring at the floor, seemingly matched in a silent standoff. 

“Tell me why you had a knife at your throat.”

“I told you. I want to die,” you whisper, unable to look at him. Your voice shakes, tremors of fear shooting from head to toe. “Please don’t be mad at me. I tried to stop crying, I couldn’t-”

“I don’t care about that.” He crouches down, placing a hand on your thigh. You nearly jump out of your skin. “Why do you want to die?”

You sniffle, wringing your hands together in fear and anxiety. “I’m afraid to tell you.”

“You don’t have a choice. Tell me.” Sam’s Alpha leaves no option to remain silent. 

“What sort of life will I have?” Your eyes flutter up, sneaking a glance. “Before all this, my life was nothing special but I was a person. A human being. I was allowed thoughts and emotions and opinions. Here I am nothing more than what’s between my legs.”

“You would rather take your life than be an Omega?” His eyebrows shoot up as if he’s realizing for the first time just how desperate you truly are. “You’d rather end your life than lie in my bed?”

“It is what comes after you that I’m more frightened of,” you admit. 

His head tilts to the side, interest piqued. “What comes after me?”

“Other men, other Alphas. Your brother told me about the plans. When you’re done with me Dean will take his turn and then I’ll become a prize for the Alphas, likely at your father’s discretion. I would rather die than subject myself to that.”

Sam is quiet, sighing deeply and getting up to take a seat in the chair across the table from you. He thinks for a spell, studying his palms before responding. 

“My brother told you these things?”

“Yes. And I know what happens with the other Omegas. What their lives are like. Tilda has soured, I can hardly stand the smell of her, she’s rancid. When we’re mistreated we...rot. I don’t think I would survive it. I wouldn’t want to.” 

“I see.” He pours himself wine, before sitting back to watch the fire. “And what if there was no after me?”

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“My brother spoke out of turn. I know I’ve made a comment when I wanted to keep you in line, but the truth is I have no plans to give you to anyone else. You’re mine and I intend to keep you.”

Barely able to wrap your mind around this new revelation, you stare at him. Sam Winchester, a sworn enemy of your family, a man who vowed to slaughter every member of your family, wants you for himself. 

“You want me?” you ask again. Perhaps you’re delusional.

“I do,” he explains calmly. “You’re a perfect Omega. Your scent, your body. You obey orders, keep your mouth shut. No one else will have you as long as I'm alive. If you are loyal to me then I will return that loyalty.” 

“Will you claim me?”

“One day,” he nods in confirmation. “I’ll marry when my parents find a suitable match. Once that happens, I’ll claim you. It’s part of the Gilead wedding ceremony. No Beta will be able to do what you can. You’ll take my knot, give me children. It will be the best life of any Omega in Gilead. It might not be your old life of milking cows and making bread that you seem to miss so much, but you’ll have a place. Your rightful place. I’ll let you decide what you want.” He gets up, laying the knife on the table in front of you. “Slit your throat, or take your clothes off and come to bed.” 

And with that, he strips down and readies himself for the night. You listen while he washes himself, the water in the basin sloshing over the sides. You could do it, end it all right here and now. But that would mean giving up on hope, the hope Sam has just offered. Life could be bearable and perhaps someday down the road you might be presented with a chance to escape. To find your way back to freedom. 

And then there’s Sam, as much as you hate to admit it you've grown accustomed to him. His scent, the feel of his hands, the heat of his skin rubbing against yours. While given the option to go back home or stay, you would certainly choose your home. But right now he’s your best option. 

The decision is seemingly already made. 

Pulling your dress off over your head, you walk naked to his bed. Sam is on his side, watching you in curiosity as he pulls back the blankets to allow you to slide in beside him. 

“Let me see your neck.” He props himself up, finger trailing over the thin line left by the blade. It broke the skin but barely. It’s little more than a cat scratch. “You could have done irreparable damage.”

His finger carefully moves over the clammy skin, pressing down gently around the edge of the mark. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” you whisper in the fading light. Your body takes over, excitement fluttering fast as his skin brushes over yours.  

“Take care it doesn’t get infected.” 

“I will,” you confirm, gazing up at him. “Thank you for taking care of me.” 

From time to time you forget who he is and where you are. Tonight for instance, you nearly reach up to caress his jaw. It would be such a comfort to be able to give and receive easy touches, gentler affection than he seems capable of.  

“You’re no good to me broken,” he grunts. His fingers splay out, wrapping around your neck but not squeezing. “If I catch you trying to hurt yourself again, you’ll be punished. It will be painful, do you understand?”

“Yes,” you confirm. 

“I’m glad we’re clear.” His eyes dart to your breasts before relinquishing his hold and rolling onto his back. He yanks the blanket away from his cock. He’s hard, standing at attention as he strokes himself. “Come here and sit on my cock.”

You do as you’re told. The night's events have drained you of every last vestige of energy. But it’s important, now more than ever, to ensure he’s happy with you. If taking his knot once a night is the price of your life, it’s one you can pay.

Climbing on top you stroke his cock a few times before guiding the leaking head of his manhood into your cunt. You sink down slowly, letting your body stretch for him. Sam’s eyes flutter, big hands and strong fingers curling into your hips. You try to ride him but he holds you down.

“Stay like this,” he instructs and brings his thumbs to your clit. 

“Alpha,” you breathe, eyes closing as you concentrate on his touch.

For what seems like a lifetime you sit straddling him as he rubs you soft and slow, building pleasure from a quivering foundation into bursting sparks that threaten to take you over the edge. 

He’s quiet, watching and touching, grunting softly at each moan and whimper that falls from your lips. Just when you're getting close to your peak, his hand falls away and you feel him shift, sitting up with you still his lap. 

You open your eyes to find his face unnervingly close, his breath warm on your cheek as he reaches around to hold your backside. 

“My great-grandfather married an Omega, back when it was still acceptable. She died before I was born but he talked about her all the time. He told Dean and I how special she was. That there was no one that could compare to her in any way. I remember him explaining the bond between them, he had to make sure she was satisfied, that they were connected in order for her to flourish. She didn’t belong to him as much as she was an extension of him.”

You look at each other and he carefully lifts you up only a few inches before letting you slide back down his length. You draw in a breath and his hand curls back around your throat. 

“I’ve never met an Omega like you, little bird. Most are nothing more than bitches in heat. But I could see from the moment my brother dragged you into the tent that you were different. I can’t have you souring like old Tilda. If we need to bond to keep you healthy, then that’s what we’ll do.”

He lifts you up and down again. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his cheek while his cock splits you open. He moves faster and you can barely handle the sensation, gripping his shoulders tightly. 

“Alpha,” you moan. Your eyes flutter, head lolling back as the pleasure builds. At this moment there is no fear or pain or worry, there's only your body and the Alpha who’s making you feel this way. 

“I’ll ever be able to give you the kind of bond you desire. I’m missing that piece of myself. But we can have this...physical closeness. It should be enough.” 

Your body hums with pleasure as you look into his eyes. What sort of man walks around without a soul? Is it possible to have any sort of moral compass when he’s hollow inside? Will this be enough?

You don’t have the answers to any of these questions. 

“Do you like the way this feels?” he asks, scraping his teeth along your throat. 

“Yes,” you hiss long and low. Your clit is throbbing, aching as his hand wedges between your bellies, rubbing up and down over the swollen bud. 

“Open your eyes and look at me.” Snapping to attention, you find him right there, so close you can feel his breath on your mouth. “Now ride me, up and down, nice and slow.”

You lift yourself up slightly and lower back down feeling the drag of his cock. Breasts crushed against his chest as he holds your hips, keeping you close. 

Eyes crinkling around the edge, he breathes in hard through his nose. Two hands slide under your backside again, helping to lift you up and down on his dick. 

“Alpha,” you whine loudly. Ultimate pleasure is coming like a rush, you’re teetering on the edge. This is a wholly new experience, wrapping up in his scent and skin and pleasure. For these moments the outside world fades away and you’re safe in the arms of a man who should do nothing but terrify you. 

You cum the instant his knot pops. It's the coming together of two bodies in perfect timing. You shudder against him, trembling while your cunt is still squeezing around his cock. One hand holds tight to the back of his neck, the other wrapping around his shoulders, not willing to let go of him or the moment. It’s hard to imagine that amidst all this sorrow and desperation you’re able to feel such intense pleasure. 

“Will you hold me for a moment longer?” you ask as your lips brush over his ear. 

Sam doesn’t respond, but he also doesn’t let go. He sits with you in his lap until you’re the one to pull back and away. And when you lay down he curls around you from behind. You fall asleep surrounded by a man’s animal heat and the fragile idea that this space is a safe one. 

[whumping-every-day]

Trev and Pasha 2

I have made the creative decision that Trev and Pasha are set in the same universe as the Gabriel Gang! A continuation of this. Thanks so much to everyone who liked the last one, this is for you! And special thanks to @haro-whumps @whumpersworld @comfortforthepain and @burtlederp who all asked to be tagged if I wrote more, and @whump-galaxy from whom I stole the prompt. 

Content Warnings! Cursing, some dehumanization, institutionalized slavery/human trafficking, hospital stuff, mention of euthenization. 

- 

Trev wants to kick something.

The frustration is a living thing, coiling under his skin, and it only gets worse when he looks down at the boy crumpled on the metal floor of the truck bed.

The figure is even more filthy in the light, and the smell is somehow worse, even though they’re out in the open air. The collar glints in the light.

“Fuck,” Trev says, just because he can. “Fuck.” The boy flinches, gives a weak moan, and Trev clenches his jaw so hard his teeth creak.

The truck bounces over a pothole, and the boy’s head snaps against the tailgate. He’s curled in on himself, shaking and trembling, even though it’s over eighty degrees out. He won’t look up, either, even when Trev nudges him with his boot.

“Hey. Hey.” There’s nothing, but when Trev gets a good grip on one of those filthy, skinny forearms, the boy wheezes in terror. “Jesus, boy, stop flinching,” Trev snaps. “You gotta drink more water.”

He can’t see the boy’s eyes – in fact, it seems like the kid is actively trying to hide them. Trev remembers, abruptly and too late, that they’d found him in a pitch-black barn, and that he’d been there for two weeks. Or longer.

“Aw, shit.”

Trev pats himself down real quick, looking for something he can use – there’s an old bandana in his breast pocket, something he uses to keep the sweat out of his eyes when he’s working.

“Here, come ‘ere,” he mutters gruffly. The boy is stiff when Trev pulls his arms away from his head, and he moans weakly in terror. His eyes are already shut, and Trev shakes out the bandana, folds it, and then carefully ties it over the boy’s eyes. It’s not elegant, but it keeps most of the light out. Trev takes his baseball cap off too, fits it securely on the kid’s head and pulls the cap down.

The boy has gone still, and he’s still shaking. The moment Trev lets him go he falls back to the metal floor, curling in on himself like a beaten dog.

The flesh of his neck is even more grotesque in the sunlight. The collar is too tight, too big for such a small frame.

“You gotta drink more,” Trev repeats. There’s no response. The boy is just shaking and shivering, and his skin is sticky and radiating heat. He’s feverish, sick out of his mind, and Trev grits his teeth and bends to haul him upright. The boy cries out raggedly at the motion and lists against the side of the truck, and Trev curses.

The water bottle gets uncapped, and Trev has to grip the kid’s jaw to hold him still.

“Drink,” he instructs flatly, and the boy whimpers but opens his mouth. His lips are dry and cracked, bitten bloody, and there’s a yellowing bruise on the corner. His breath is rancid. Trev tilts the water carefully, but the truck hits another bump and it goes sloshing. The boy coughs weakly, but he still swallows desperately, whimpering as most of the water goes down his front. “Let’s try that again,” Trev mutters.

The boy is too weak to even hold the bottle. His hands twitch uselessly, but they’re just as skinny and battered as the rest of him.

Trev gives him half the bottle, then puts it away, ignoring the pleading whimper.

“Jesus,” he mutters again. The whole thing was a shitshow, and he and Pasha both knew it. Trev had been hoping for something valuable in that barn, maybe something he and Pash could hawk or sell at the nearest pawn shop. Instead, they’d ended up with this.

The truck swerves abruptly, bouncing down the old road, and Trev swears again.

“Fucking watch it!” He bangs on the back window, and Pasha gives him the finger.

The boy seems to have calmed some, in the absence of the light. Or perhaps he’s slipped into delirium again. The makeshift blindfold obscures the upper half of his face, so he can’t see Trev. But Trev can tell that he’s listening; Trev shifts, knocks an ankle against some loose junk, and the boy flinches, shrinks in on himself. He hasn’t tried to move, just gone where he’s put, and the whole thing makes Trev want to crawl out of his skin.

He hates this. He hates what this means. Because they’d found this in Uncle Joey’s old barn, and that means that Joey had put him there. And that –

That’s something Trev doesn’t want to face. Because how could someone in his own family do something so terrible?

It doesn’t take long till they’re on the highway, and any conversation becomes impossible. The winds kick up, roaring in their ears, and Trev settles against the side of the truck to wait. The boy is curled up at his feet, and there he stays.

When they finally get off the highway, Trev is relieved. The rolling, golden fields and flat skyline are usually calming, but this time he’s irate as the truck slows. Trev climbs over the tailgate and drops back down to the ground, glowering.

“I need a cigarette,” he mutters when Pasha exists, and she only rolls her eyes.

“Get him inside first.” The tailgate swings down with a metallic screech, and the crumbled figure flinches, recoils. “Easy now,” Pasha soothes, and it sounds exactly the same as the first time they’d ridden together, and Pasha’s mount had been high-strung and skittish. “Come, come here,” she says, and the boy lifts his head blearily, searching out her voice. It seems hard to listen, but he unwinds from his ball, falls clumsily towards her.

“Good, that’s good – Trev, grab him –” There’s no resistance as Trev picks him up again. The boy is skeletal in his arms.

The hospital’s not big, but it’s the closest one.

“Hey! Nurse? Somebody? Yeah, we need – we found this guy in a barn, he’s hurt real bad.”

It’s silent for a long moment as the secretary looks up, lazy and slow. Then her eyes fix on the body in Trev’s arms, and she blinks, then blinks again. The color drains from her face.

It’s a bit chaotic after that. The secretary pushes a button, and suddenly there are nurses everywhere. A gurney spears seemingly out of nowhere, and strong arms reach out to take the boy from Trev.

It’s at the first foreign touch when the boy starts to struggle. He makes a panicked sound, and his head snaps to the left, to where Pasha is standing, as if he can remember where she’d been. He whines, high in his throat, and when an orderly grabs a wrist to check his pulse he keens.

It’s a terrible sound, and the boy twists and thrashes as he’s forced down onto the gurney. He kicks and bucks, but all it takes is one nurse to hold him down effortlessly.

His lips are moving, and Pasha sees them forming the word please and no and master, over and over again as he’s wheeled away.

In the end, the cousins are left in the waiting room, and just as suddenly as the excitement had started, it’s over.

“…. Is that it?” Pasha asks. The room is empty again, save for the woman behind the desk.

“They’ll do an assessment and get him treatment,” she responds, and her eyes are wide, as if shaken by what she’d just seen. It’s a small town; injuries are usually limited to workplace accidents. “You two should stay,” she adds, and there’s something in her tone like suspicion. “The police have been notified, I’m sure you understand.”

“You called the fucking cops?” Trev is habitually incredulous, but Pasha shakes her head, smacks his arm.

“Of course they called the cops, dipass. Here.” She pulls out her pack of smokes and shoves it against his chest, and Trev glares at it. “Go outside and take a breather. I’ll wait here. Go,” she demands when he hesitates.

Trev glowers, but he snatches the pack and spins on his heel.

The plastic chairs in the waiting room are cheap, and it sticks to the back of Pasha’s thighs as she drops into one.

“What a fucking day,” she mutters.

What a fucking day indeed.

-

It’s a long wait. Pasha picks at her nails and drums her fingers. Trev comes back in a half hour later, and he sits beside her silently, stinking like cigarette smoke and heat.

It’s three hours before they hear something.

“Are you two the ones who brought that boy in?” Pasha jumps at the voice, but she gets to her feet quickly.

“Yeah, that was us,” she nods.

“Well,” the man replies, “I’ve got good news and bad news. Do you two have any idea where he came from, or what the situation was?” Pasha hesitates, and Trev frowns.

“What’s that matter?” Trev crosses his arms, a good two times thicker than the orderly’s, and the other man shifts uneasily.

“Well, it does matter, sir. We scanned him for a chip, and it turns out he’s a pet.”

The cousins blink for a moment.

“A – a pet?”

“Yeah,” the orderly agrees. “Human pets are legal in this state, have been for a while. They’re all implanted with microchips when they’re sold off. Turns out this one belongs to a certain Joey Carter. Does that name mean anything to you two?”

Trev is staring, and Pasha blinks something hot away, puts a hand over her mouth.

“He was our uncle,” she whispers. “He passed away two weeks ago.”

“Ah,” the orderly nods, as if the whole situation is normal. “I see. Then ownership passes to the next of kin, unless someone was named in the will.”

Pasha feels faint. Trev looks like he’d like to hit something.

“That was – that was us,” she manages. “But, listen, we don’t – we don’t want no pet. We barely even knew Uncle Joey, he was a recluse.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the orderly says simply. “The hospital needs to know who to bill. The police have been informed, they’re no longer on their way. And speaking of bills…” The man trails off for a moment, and Trev glowers. “To put it frankly, Mr and Mrs…?” The man quirks an eyebrow, and Trev makes an affronted sound.

“We ain’t married, asshole,” he snaps. “Joey was our uncle.”

The orderly blanches, embarrassed. “O-of course.”

“His name’s Trev,” Pasha supplies. “I’m Pasha Briggs, I’m his cousin.” The orderly nods, clutches his clipboard.

“Right. Well, Ms Briggs, as one of this pet’s legal owners, I am obligated to inform you that the damage inflicted by your uncle would require extensive treatment to repair. The cost of this treatment easily outweighs the pet’s value.”

Pasha goes very still.

“So?” Her voice is carefully controlled. “What are you trying to say?”

“It’s simple, ma’am,” the orderly tells her. “In cases like this, with such severe injuries, we would recommend euthenization. The collar has affixed to the pet’s neck, and would require surgery to remove. Usually we don’t accept pets here at all, but in this case…” The man shakes his head, seemingly unaware of the way Pasha’s grip on her own elbows have turned white-knuckled. “It would be cheaper to put this one down and buy a new one.”

“I’m sorry, let me just… let me stop you.” Pasha holds up a hand, and her fingers tremor. “That is a victim in there.” There’s fire in her eyes, in her voice, and it gets louder as she goes. “He is hurting, he needs help. So you people are going to fucking help him, and if anyone says the word euthenization to me again I will deck them in the fucking face.”

Beside her, Trev grins. “I would listen to the lady,” he adds.

“I – I must warn you, ma’am, you and your cousin will be fiscally responsible for the costs-”

“Then we’ll be responsible.” Pasha is practically frothing at the mouth, baring her teeth. “How fucking dare you people, he’s practically a kid!”

The ordely takes a step back, shaking his head.

“I assure you, ma’am, our treatment of pets is much more humane than most other places. And if you are sure you’d like to proceed-” He hesitates just for a moment, and nods when Pasha’s nostrils flare. “- then we’ll go ahead and get him into surgery. I’ll have Vanessa update and print out the information on his chip.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

Pasha glares while the man hurries away, back through the folding doors. Then she sinks back into the chair and holds her head.

“Oh, Trev,” she mutters. “What did Joey get us into?”

Trev makes a noncommittal noise and settles beside her. There’s silence for a few minutes.

“… so, how’re we gonna pay for this?” It’s frank, not accusing, and Trev watches his cousin for a reaction. Pasha groans, scrubs a hand down her face.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “We can pool our savings? There was a broken-down tractor in that barn, I bet we can sell it for parts. That’d net at least a few thousand.”

Trev nods, wordless, and doesn’t point out that a few thousand won’t be enough.

“Maybe I’ll sell my horses,” she adds after a moment, and Trev raises his eyebrows.

“You love those mean ol’ fuckers.”

“Yeah, well.” She sighs gustily, pinches the bridge of her nose. “We’ve got something else to take care of now.”

Trev hesitates, but in the end, his sigh matches hers. It’s weary, and irritated, and resigned, and something tells him that they are only just starting.

“Yeah,” he agrees reluctantly. “Yeah, we really do.”

-

[END]

Previous, Next

[sugaxjpg]

02 | blank check; m

⤷ “Let me get this right, okay? You threw my name in as your fake girlfriend because you needed to prove yourself to your empty-headed friends, and now you need to fix it. Still,” you paused, raising your eyebrows, “your way of fixing is not to disclose it as a lie, but to cover it up with an even bigger and riskier one. Is that correct?”

⤷ PART 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |Co-written with @pantaemonium

✓ Couple: Jungkook x Reader | Fuckboy!AU & FakeDating!AU

✓ Filed under: smut, tragic comebacks

✓ Words:  8,048

Author’s Note: Hello, everyone! Before anything else, Laura and I would like to thank you all for the overwhelming support we’ve received for part one. We are beyond thrilled that you guys are liking this series as much as we are!! Without further ado, let’s get down to business (to defend the huns).

“There is no way in hell I’m wearing this, you hear me?” you screamed against the phone for the third time in less than ten seconds. A high-pitched ding indicated the audio had been sent, and that was your signal to toss the device aside. Jungkook would not listen to it, like he had not listened to the other ten voice messages you had blessed his chatroom with.

The last message you had received from him had been short and dry, more of a user’s guide than a text. It exhibited his advanced SAT vocabulary and his outstanding talent to be concise. Lambda Kappa Pi. 11pm. Say you’re my girl and they’ll get you in. Good luck with the dress.

My girl, as if there was a dimension out of the multiverse you had been thrown into in which you would say such nonsense. My girl, your brain echoed, this time in his voice, that you imagined would be hoarse and whiny during sex. No, no, that was not an image you wanted in your mind.

“Hey, I’m Jungkook’s girl,” you spoke as you imagined yourself babbling at the entrance of the frat house, clad in that skin-tight little red dress. Imagination is a very powerful weapon to use against oneself, and it immediately transfigured you into a Legally Blonde character, one of the sweethearts from Delta Nu but with no rich daddy, no fake tanning, and no equilibrium to stand over the sky-challenging high-heels he had sent along with the dress.

You’d look far more like a clown that had just ran away from the circus, that’s for sure.

You clenched your jaw at the absurdity of that idea, ignoring the butterflies that begun dancing in your stomach. His girl. Stupid ass. You would never do something like th—

—Ding!

In a reflex, you practically threw yourself on your bed to reach for your phone, chest bubbling up with the ridiculous excuses that he could have sent back to you. Instead, however, what you were met with was a simple series of condescending texts:

Jungkook’s only neuron said: u’ll look great bby

Jungkook’s only neuron said: im getting heated just thinkin of u in that ;)

You said: You prick

You said: That dress doesn’t even cover my ass properly

Jungkook’s only neuron said: that was what i was hopin for

You groaned out loud as your eyes read his message, mind working faster than the quick progression of your thumbs against the screen — you better be ready for me to ruin you with the favor I have stored up, then, you texted back.

Jungkook’s response arrived all too soon. There was no physical time to toss the phone back onto the bed, to try the diminutive piece of clothing on and see if there was a way your boobs could survive without suffocating. As the notification blared through the speaker, you imagined him, expecting your reply by the phone, biting his nails. In your imagination, he was nervous, at least a bit; but Jungkook and his cohorts did not know nervousness, at least not when confronted to tests of women. They followed all those ludicrous bro-code-or-whatever-they-called-it rules; and making girls wait for their replies was in the book.

“Ruin or be ruined, that’s the world we live in,” you read out loud, trying to find in between the words Jungkook’s personal trademark. Unexpectedly, there was no baby. No typos. No superfluous exhibition of his very pompous personality. Had he asked for help? Perhaps Namjoon, the only one in the frat house with a functional brain. Maybe Yoongi, but it sounded way too contained to his taste.

“Quote your sources next time,” you typed rapidly, grinning all the way. “See you later, bby.”

Now Jungkook’s Only Neuron could type and ruminate over your odd response all he wanted. There would be no more texts until the party — except perhaps a picture or two of you in that dress, blurry and terribly illuminated. The ire of the gods would fall upon him when he tried to zoom in into your boobs only to find pixels. A taste of his own medicine, that was what you called this cruel stratagem.

Now, there were only a limited number of things which could count as social humiliation for you. As mentioned aforetime, failing a ridiculously easy class or exposing your underwear were near the top of the list, alongside some awfully personal experiences, but you never thought there would be something to top all your expectations. Turns out that 90’s movies make a so called “makeover” to be something great and empowering when, in reality, it had to be the spiritual equivalent of intestinal cramps in the middle of a road trip. And yes, you had been through that. No further comment.

Maybe the movie director of your life was sadistic. Maybe that experience was karma for ruining poor Jungkook’s mental health earlier that day. Whatever it was, it was the new number one on your list of social humiliation. You could not claim you hadn’t gotten anything out of that night — but experiences make you grow, right?

You knew you had fucked up the second you walked up to the fraternity house — that stupidly large, greek-like mansion that pulsated under the progression of the awfully loud music — and saw a pair of underwear on the grass, lost amidst a sea of bottles and beer cans. And then a bra. And then an used cond— Jesus Christ! Were those kids acting out Animal Planet? There were limits. There had to be. Goodbye to your long lost purity.

To top it all off, it was cold. Not nice, chilly cold, but winter-is-here kind of Game of Thrones bullshit. The wind was like cold daggers against your skin, piercing your naked legs as you moved closer to the entrance door, benumbing your senses to the fullest extent. Whatever it was that you had in store for Jungkook, it had to be equally torturous to that walk of shame — the night had not even started, and you were already constructing an escape plan.

“Hey,” you said as you stopped in front of two athletes, crossing your arms before your figure — thank God for your common sense, since the leather jacket you wore both covered your insanely tight boobs and gave you a bit of heat. You wouldn’t have started a conversation with them if not absolutely necessary and, in that case, they were blocking the passage. “Excuse me, please.”

One of them turned to you with arched eyebrows, looking you up and down, “You seem familiar,” he mumbled, infecting the atmosphere with a terrible scent of alcohol. To be fair, you thought you knew him too, but did not want to get into friendly terms with any of them. “Whatcha’ doing here?”

Hell, here goes nothing, “Jungkook called me here.”

“Jungkook, who?” The other one — the travel-sized counterpart — laughed, hitting his friend’s shoulder in his drunken haze. “We know no Jungkook.”

They were still blocking the entrance, and you were not in the mood to commence an arrogant dissertation on why they did know the Jungkook you were referring to, and why was their ruse so evident. Shivering inside the leather jacket, you tried to find a way around the words he wanted so desperately to hear. “I am his friend,” you said.

The smaller of the two scoffed. “Jungkook has no friends.”

“I thought you knew no Jungkook,” you smirked, devilishly, but the brainless pair would not subside in their efforts to rip a confession out of your — literal — cold body. “For fucks sake. I am his girl. Jungkook’s. The one that gets to fuck him every night while you two try to resist the homoerotic dynamics you have seen yourselves trapped into. Now let me in, Tweedledee.”

“A straight-up bitch. Hot.” They murmured as you made your way into the hall. Inside, a myriad of bodies crammed the room, pressed against one another. Girls in short dresses and stressed boys trying to get their attention roamed around, red cup in hand. Their scent was sweetly rancid, a mixture of alcohol, sweat and pheromones you would not be able to stand for long without a drink in your hand.

No. Wait. Probably wouldn’t be the wisest of ideas to be intoxicated while pretending to be someone else’s girlfriend for the night. You got awfully sincere when you had alcohol, and the last thing you needed was to ruin your saved favor, especially after going through all the trouble you did. Next step would not be to drink away your disgust, as compelling as that seemed to be, but to find out your pathetically inadequate fake boyfriend.

Taking a deep breath, you skirted the overabundance of bodies as you made your way past the main living room, finding solace in a somewhat calm corner of the ambient. You leaned your back against the asperous wall, taking your phone out of your purse. Numb, your thumbs cried under the effort of unlocking the device and moving to his contact — that arrogant smile on that nauseatingly perfect display picture — to type your impatient messages:

You said: Hey, loser

You said: I’m here already

You said: Where can I find you?

You waited for a few seconds to see if he would get online, but nothing appeared on your screen. For a moment your mind wandered towards the possibility of it all being a prank, after all: to get you, a serious and stuff girl, in that outrageously small piece of red fabric would be a huge joke on itself, even more if he managed to show it off to his friends. If that was the case, you would transfer colleges. Not to be overdramatic or anything.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think I told you to wear a jacket, baby girl.”

The second you raised your gaze, you came to regret your reckless decision — not in the cutesy, hesitant manner you were feeling aforetime, but in the this-was-a-horrible-idea-and-my-life-is-over type of shit. Not because you were in any sort of danger, but because you accepted the fact that you had absolutely no way to control yourself near the sheer sexual temptation that was Jeon Jungkook. Not like that.

In all his glory, the idiot looked the best he ever did. With his black hair slightly disheveled, parted almost in the middle, and eyes gleaming under the neon lights of the frat house, he looked like he had just stepped out of a photoshoot for Men’s Health. His team’s jacket — blue and white, with the symbol of your college — had its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the veins in his forearms; unbuttoned so it presented you with the v-cut shirt he wore underneath, grey. You could see the outlines of his fucking abs with that crap. Muscle pig. It was absurd. He should take it off.  

And of course, there were those fucking thighs. But you would not allow your gaze to fall under his waistline just yet. Yet.

A hum from his part interrupted your momentaneous fall into inferno, making you realize how quickly your heart started to beat. “You’re lucky you’re hot as fuck,” Jungkook acknowledged, his own eyes falling to your form, eyebrows slightly arched. “I always knew I had good taste for girlfriends.”

The silence between you was bubbling with an unspoken tension. Sexual, Cosmopolitan would have defined it as purely sexual. "Ten Easy Tips to Know if your Crush Wants you Too," or something of the sort would had been plastered all over the cover, where a barely-legal model would have judged you with doe-like eyes.

Jungkook's roseate tongue came out to wet his lips, to fill the void words had left behind with a heavy sigh. You wondered what those lips tasted like. Had you been asked to guess, you would have said cherry, or strawberry — although you were certain he had been drinking beer or, worse, cheap tequila shots.

The faux courage that had been motioning your body forward ever since you abandoned the dorms was now slipping in between your fingers as you reached for the hem of his jacket. "You look—" you started, but your mind went blank in a maelstrom of adjectives, amongst which you found barely no insults.

"—smoking hot?" Jungkook ventured. He was not mistaken, but still you scoffed. It the quintessence of your being, the endless sarcasm; you could not just abandon the truth of your nature for a boyfriend. A fake one, to top it all.

"I was going to say stereotyped, but hot also fits. I guess," index pressed against his chest, you leaned forward reducing the space between your bodies to naught. Air escaped in between his teeth when your lips caressed his ear with your murmurations. "What now, baby?" you mumbled, oblivious to his fingers as they traveled up your arm in a tender caress.

"Honestly?" the impish gleam of his eyes was a bad omen or, at least, the indication that you were not prepared in the slightest for what was to come. "I want to kiss the hell out of you, but not here."

For a second, you allowed yourself to forget that it was all an act. Without a second thought, you found yourself biting your lower lip in sheer desire. Lucky you, the boy would most likely think that was part of the fake love, and not your raging hormones coming out to say hello. “I would very much like that, yes,” you purred out against his skin, pressing your chest against his own. His heart was beating fast, but yours was no different. “Where to?”

Jungkook seemed to take a second to calm his nerves, clearing his mind from the impulses that flashed within his needs — if he were to be sincere, you two could forget that plan and just have a private place for yourselves, but there was a protocol to follow, his reputation at stake.  “Couch,” that word came out in a serpentine whisper, muffled as if had been verbalized miles underneath the sea. Against your waist, his palm held your skin in an almost protective manner — yet, both of you were holding back now.

You hummed in agreement. His scent was intoxicating you, the heat of his body was monopolizing your most logical of conceptualizations. “Take me whenever you need me,” you agreed as one of your hands slid down his chest — jesus, those fucking abs — and towards his own hand. You intertwined his fingers in his, loving that position a bit more than you probably should. “Should we?”

If he had said something in return, you did not hear it. Before you could control yourself any further, the boy was already guiding you past the chaotic ocean of exhilarated bodies, holding down to your hand as if it was his own version of salvation. Jungkook was lucky he was hot — very fucking hot, at that — otherwise you would have cracked another joke or two about how eager he appeared to be. Still, you were certain it would backfire.

“I see you want to put up a show,” was what you said instead, accompanying his harsh movements as the two of you arrived upon the center of the room — the heart of the party, if you could say that. From your peripheral vision, you could see splashes of blue and white moving around, signaling that more of his teammates were around. Classic show off. “Want everyone watching.”

“You have no clue, babe.” Jungkook turned around just in time so he could see the glimpses of lust coruscating inside your eyes. Bedroom eyes. Cute. “I want that jacket off.”

“No deal,” you told him promptly. With a groan, the boy threw himself on a beige couch nearby, sitting somewhat close to where another two jocks conversed vigorously, waving their red cups in the air like they were not half full. It was only a matter of seconds before they saw the two of you — more precisely you — and his pretty spectacle would finally begin. “Why do you want to expose your girlfriend like this?”

It was no problem. He could take it off himself.

As a response, Jungkook simply placed his hands on his thighs, signaling you that it would be your seat for the night — seems like you would be sitting in his lap, after all. “Come here, baby,” he requested. Okay, you would be lying through your teeth if you said that the place did not appear to be as inviting as possible. “Let me have a taste of you.”

To hell with it. If you were going to act it out, you might as well put up a show, and calm down your raging hormones as you did so.

And fuck, there were some things that 90s movies could never prepare you for. There was no scene, no soundtrack, no music video able to distract you from how firm his legs were as you sat down on top of them, dress slightly moving up your thighs. There was no director, no storyline that could guide your hands around his neck as you tilted your head and closed your eyes, falling to the absolute misery that was Jeon Jungkook. There was nothing in the entire world that could have made you pull away.

What a terrible fucking idea.

Jungkook groaned as soon as your lips met, quick to set the pace as a quick, needy, sloppy kiss. His hands, before so vacillating, now had traveled to your ass, where he squeezed your flesh, making you press down your hips against his, not letting it go for a second. You melted against his kiss, allowing yourself to sigh and moan against his mouth as his tongue encountered yours. Lacking places to hold onto, your hands moved to his cheeks, then to his hair, intertwining in his black locks and pulling on them.

Okay, there were things you regretted. You thought there was nothing capable of topping the preposterous plan of pretending to be Jungkook’s girlfriend, but that was because you had not reached that point of the night just yet. Because you had still not pulled away just enough so you could speak, caressing his lips with your own, speaking in a voice so filled with lust that you were surprised yourself. “Is that all you can do, kiddo?” you provoked him. “Come on, Jeon, is this how you treat your girl?”

He smirked. “Believe me, princess, there’s nothing I’d love more than treat you the way you deserve. Anything for you. But, you see, the audience is waiting and, as much as I would love to fuck you raw in this couch, I’d rather give the show I promised, and then renegotiate the initial clauses of our little contract,” then, a small pause, “if you are interested, of course.”

The boy was an idiot, or so you had thought: Jeon Jungkook, the dumbass that lets his dick make every essential decision, and doesn’t grasp even half of the references you throw at him. Apparently, that was not the case, and his intelligence was extensive only when he had to protect his pride and bring to term an important business. In other words, he wasn’t dumb, he wa just a selfish little prick.

Fingers sauntering up your thigh, Jungkook murmured in-between delicate kisses, and it made it impossible for you to deliver a witty remark. Every few words he would stop to taste your flesh with the tip of his tongue, and then nip it with his teeth. Lost in the feverish reverie of his tender caresses, you abandoned yourself to the feel of his kisses as his lips marked the path towards your jaw, your cheek. With a sigh falling from your swollen lips, you hoped to express the thirst he had incited, but he merely watched your reaction, diverted. Motherfucker. He knew what he was doing.

“For now,” he said against your ear, marking each word with a tap of his finger against your thigh. “This will have to do.” His thumb slid past the hem of your skirt and fuck, how you wished he were to continue his journey towards your underwear. There had been no specifications about that matter, but you had added your distinctive touch to the outfit. Jungkook did not know yet, but he would have loved to take that off you.

“I really think you can step up your game, Jungkook.” You looked around, biting your lips. None of the players around you were particularly interested in your little affair. Short skirts and exhibitionism were the daily bread of all those jocks. Luckily, that night no one had pulled out their dicks to measure them or start a peeing contest. Perhaps later in the night, when alcohol run freely through their bloodstream, eliminating their inhibition — or what was left of it, anyways. “This show of yours will impress no one.”

As if motioned by the fuel of a good challenge, Jungkook pounced over your lips. His touch was no longer delicate, contained, or meticulous, as it was before. Earlier, all he had wanted was to create a beautiful painting in which you, a girl that would have never had any interest for the jock in the class, was head over heels for him. He cared not about his audience, not anymore, as he could not bring himself to think of the friends he was supposed to impress. His only and most primal desire was to prove himself, to erase the disdainful sneer tainting those lips that were like nectar against his tongue.

You threw yourself off his lap and leaned your back against the arm of the sofa, being trapped between it and his large figure. In the impetus of his sudden adoration, you lost your hold on reality and allowed for him to overtake you, pressing his chest against your own. Jungkook’s hand in the small of your back cushioned your descents to the inferno of his hips pressed against yours, hands exploring your waist, and the curve of your breasts over the tight dress.

It was getting more and more difficult to come to your senses when all you could feel were his palms against your breasts, only to go down to your ass a second later. Your dress was being pulled upwards, your heart overtaken by the intoxicated by rhythm of the song as one of his legs moved in between yours, pressing down on your core — gradually at first, but then strong enough for you to moan loudly against his mouth. This kid was playing with fire. You loved it.

You were out of breath and out of mind when a voice called from the outside world, that universe of flashing comets and red asters circulating around your sweltering bodies. “Hey kid! Jungkook!” the unknown timbre insisted further and, before you could recognize it, Jungkook had pushed himself away from you to smile at a stranger. Whoever it was, you wanted him killed for interrupting your search for nirvana. “You know we have rooms for that kind of unholy shit. Leave all the exhibitionism for Jimin, he loves it.”

With a smirk, his victory became plastered across his douchebag face, “I got carried away, sorry,” Jungkook explained, lips shining with the remnants of your gloss. His hand was still against your waist, but he showed no shame when he winked in your direction, purposefully following your eyes as they grew darker — he was loving it. “Tastes like heaven, y’know?”

The other guy, whose name you could not quite recall, simply rolled his eyes at the out-of-character sentence, “Whatever you say, dude,” he mumbled underneath the music, unaffected by show you two had put up. Instead, his gaze seemed to be a bit lost in the remanent liquid that dwelled on the bottom of his red cup — poor kid was completely wasted. “Uh, by the way, before I forget. Namjoon has been looking for you for like two hours or whatever. He says, and I quote, that he wants to see it or he won’t believe it.”

Jungkook’s smile grew by a few millimeters, finding in that sentence the opportunity he needed. He didn’t need half of your GPA to understand what his friend was referring to, “Yeah, sure thing, man,” he answered. You were amazed how casually he was acting for someone who still had one hand holding tightly to your ass, but you could not claim you did not like it. In fact, he could strip you naked for all you cared, fake boyfriend or not. “Where is he, by the way?”

Chewing on his words for a second, the guy paused. His chocolate-colored eyes got lost in the horizon and, at last, you came to understand that he must have consumed something other than alcohol — hey, no judgement, you were not precisely the morally superior person in that conversation. “He was at the game room with the dudes. I don’t know if they’re still there.”

“Perfect,” Jungkook exclaimed, his palm squeezing your ass once again. Only then did you notice that, in the meantime, his shirt had rolled up a bit. Now you totally could see those abs you have always dreamt about and, good lord, they were even better than what you imagined. If you were not acting then, you would have cursed out his unnamed friend for interrupting that slack of paradise — but hell, the ghostly sensation of his lips on yours still got the best of you. Fucking prick. He was too powerful. “Thanks, Tae. You didn’t see anything.”

Tae… Taehyung. Oh, now you remembered. The kid who got high and ate pizza from the bottom of the pool in freshman year. Disgusting and slightly worrisome. You thought some memories could be left forgotten.

Taehyung suspired. “I did, though,” only then did his gaze navigate back to you, lingering on your face for a couple more seconds than necessary. You didn’t know if it were the drugs acting up, or if he was examining your artificially naive expression. “Hot choice of panties, by the way. Your ass looks great in lacy black. Cheers to that.”

“You have really good taste, buddy.” With a radiant smile, you agreed. Past the blur of weed and alcohol, Taehyung replicated the gesture, and raised his red cup in a giddy toast. Whether he was lauding the glorious roundness of your ass, or the intricate beauty of your one and only pair of expensive panties, you did not care. There was no use for shame within those walls, especially when your ass was indeed hot confined within the soft lace. “Imaginary cheers to that.”

It was a moment of amicable comradery, even though Taehyung was one shot away from becoming the buffon of the party. Around your waist, Jungkook’s fingers tightened but, before you could turn around to face his predictable displeasure, the moment ended, and you were presented with a luciferous smile.

“Noted. Thank you dude, see you around.” Jungkook screamed over the loud bass of a terrible remix of a very popular song you wished was shorter. The constant chit-chat developing around did not help communicate but, luckily, you were not required to hold a challenging conversation that night. With a peck in the lips and a light squeeze of your ass, Jungkook prompted you to move. It was strangely loving — for a jock, at least.

Once anew, he guided you through the crowd, a hand in your waist and the other buried deep in one of the pockets of his jacket. The picture was magazine-worthy. One of those blurry shots, taken with a Polaroid, that could had made it into the cover of an Indie album — even if Jungkook could have starred in an Abercrombie & Fitch ad, jacket and all.

“Where is that fucking game room?” The question felt extremely bitter against your tongue when you had to wipe someone else’s sweat off your arm. The party was heating up, and not in the good way. “Please tell me it isn’t some Fifty Shades of Grey shit.”

“Didn’t picture you as one of those.” Jungkook let go of your waist to interwine his fingers in yours. It was calming, the chilliness of his hand against your sweltering skin. “But no, here we never watched that. The dudes are, you know, more into anal compilations and shit like that— not me!” He rushed to say, hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Baby Jesus wouldn’t not approve.”

That was, by far, the weirdest conversation you’ve had in a long time.

“Pity, now that I thought we would make a great pair.” You sighed. “I guess I’ll have to find another hot dude to watch my kinky porn with.”

“I— sweet lord.” With shaky hands he massaged his cheeks. You were exhausting, even for him. Good. “We’ll discuss that later.” Jungkook opened one of the doors in the hallway, leading into a big space that was, precisely, only meant to game. “Now we have business to do.”

Biting down on your lower lip, you took a couple steps into the large area, absorbing its details. The first thing you noticed, as your company closed the door behind you two, was that it was soundproof — finally, a blessing for the night. As the excruciating buzzing in your ears still lingered, your hearing started to focus on the diverse conversations that dwelled beyond those closed doors. From what you could notice, there had to be around fifteen people in there — stereotypical jocks and cheerleaders, if you were to be quite honest — and they were mostly segregated into two smaller groups. One of which, you recognized, had the individual you two had been looking for.

Now, Kim Namjoon was a specimen of his own kind. You had no idea what kind of satanic pact had he resorted to, but it had been good enough to gift him the brain of a Harvard professor and the body of a professional athlete — all wrapped up in that team jacket, which suited him so dangerously well. You would be lying through clenched teeth if you were to say you had not checked him out at least once or twice during your shared Advanced Literature classes — but that was a secret that would be buried with you. Again, he was still one of those fraternity types, and blowing up their egos was as easy as blowing other, less christian areas.  

Again, you would be lying if you said you had not considered that either.

Jungkook’s arm found the curvature of your waist once again, making you fall back into your usual acting state. Next to you, the boy was smiling freely — not in a sympathetic manner, but in a I’m-getting-good-sex-tonight kind of smile. He could keep dreaming, for all you cared. “What’s up, Kim?” he cheered, guiding you around the grey couch. Considerably large, it was surrounded by two armchairs, forming a square-like shape in the center of the room. On the wall next to it, a baseball game was silenced on the LED screen. “Thought I wouldn’t see you tonight.”

Namjoon had his elbows resting on a marble table, seating on one of the tall benches that surrounded it. You were surprised he had even found empty space in there, since all you could see was a pandemonium of empty bottles and pizza boxes. “I should be one one saying that, Jeon.” The other jock smiled just as freely, exposing those dimples you had always found unbearably cute. He did not look at you for a second. “You are not one to vanish during a party. Did you get laid or something?”

“See, Namjoon, your friend Jungkook is trying to get laid tonight, but let’s see how that goes, right honey?” You butted in, to Namjoon’s dismay. Very delicately, like the Disney princess you were not. You sat on the couch, paying no mind to the many diverse types of stains dotting it. Kim Namjoon was not going to ignore you, like you were a nothing but a pretty decoration Jungkook carried around to show off — especially not when you could beat his non-existent genius ass any day during a debate. “Hi, Namjoon. Didn’t see you in class last Wednesday.”

“Hangover.” He explained, taking a bite off a chewy slice of cheese pizza. “I have to confess I am surprised. I thought you were joking when you said you two were—”

“—dating, yes. I’m a married man now, Namjoon. No more getting laid with just anybody.” Jungkook flopped by your side. His hand went immediately towards your naked knee, and there it stayed. Very subtle.

“What do you guys talk about?” Namjoon pried, impertinently. In his timbre you could perceive a hint of disbelief, and it was understandable. He had seen you in action, going after your debate opponents like a shark in bloody waters. Jungkook was, compared to the you he had witnessed, a kindergartener in nappies, and he simply couldn’t comprehend how the two of you could work together — or even compliment each other, honestly.

“Volleyball.” Jungkook said, with an enthusiasm that made your wry smile pathetic. “She loves volleyball.”

Namjoon crackled at the unexpectedly joyful response. “Never seen her in a game.”

“I’m more of a theoretical fan of — of the sports.” Eyes disappearing into the fakest smile, you tried to escape the trap Jungkook had thrown you into. Namjoon was correct. You had not set foot in a court ever since high-school, and even back then you had only done so because it was mandatory. “I have watched Haikyuu at least thrice. I’m an expert.”

“She’ll come to the next one.” Jungkook kissed your cheek, interrupting your excused before it was too late. The touch of his petal-like lips was, at the very least, pleasant. “We made a deal. She wears my jacket and I use the shortest pants I own for the game.”

Namjoon chuckled at the idea, still skeptical. You knew he would be a hard one to convince, since he usually saw through your bullshit — both in debates and in real life.  “Yeah, right,” was all that he managed to say, still dodging your gaze. Oh, you saw what he was doing. Sneaky motherfucker. Sly little snake. By avoiding you and focusing on your fake boyfriend, he was both pressing on the one easier to slip on the lie, and annoying you. He knew how you got when you were hot-headed and that was, once again, a recipe for disaster. “In all seriousness, weeaboo anime aside, what do you… theoretically like about volleyball?”

No eye contact still. Fair. Two could play that game.  

“Physics,” you answered within a heartbeat, almost surprising yourself by how naturally that  response came from in between your lips. Not necessarily a lie, too. But that was a long story. “I told you this already. Volleyball can be explained with high school-level of mechanics. Energy and work, force, projectile motion… You know the deal.”

Namjoon hummed, watching closely the line of cheese that dripped down his pizza. “Yeah, I know the deal,” he told you. He had not bought it. “And I know you know it too. My question is,” he paused, looking up to point at Jungkook. “Does he?”

Well, you just had to know it would backfire like that. Still, you barely had time to feel panic starting to germinate in your throat before Jungkook interrupted the conversation with flawless grace, “Not much, that is why she’s teaching me,” perfect. Simple. Fail proof. You could barely believe that the single neuron that inhabited his mind managed to make a synapsis with itself and come up with that. “Yo, man, why are you so defensive all of a sudden? You’re making my girl uncomfortable.”

My girl. You hated how much you liked that.

His friend hesitated for a second, chewing slowly on the piece of food. It didn’t seem like it was any good. In the very least, it was cold. “Yeah. My bad, dude. Bad week,” Namjoon was quick to apologize, which you did not believe for an instant. He was smarter than that, more arrogant than someone that would so fast admit to his own fault. “Guess I just can’t believe you managed to get a girl like Y/N. Life sucks sometimes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you were the one who asked it, even if both of you were thinking it. It was your turn to try and not to get defensive, but it was getting harder and harder by the second. You crossed your legs, which induced for your red dress to slip up your legs. Namjoon followed the movement, and then his gaze was stuck. Oh. Maybe there was another reason for his lack of eye contact. “Don’t tell me that the great captain Kim Namjoon is suddenly jealous.”

He shrugged. “Call it whatever you want. But you do look hotter than ninety-five percent of the chicks I’ve seen all year,” and then, his next sentences were directed straight at Jungkook. “I don’t know if you had the chance to see it already, man, but she has a great taste for underwear.”

Ninety-five was a good percentile, but you were indeed hot in that dress. Namjoon trembled, almost imperceptibly, when you slid your legs over Jungkook’s lap, to cuddle against his chest. In all honesty, the posture was not comfortable, not in that dress. Had you been back in the dorm, in your PJ’s, the tale would have been completely different; but Namjoon’s expression was a poem — a terrible one, at that — and that was enough satisfaction for the moment.

When you sighed, Namjoon replicated it, in a long-drawled, cheese-scented exhalation. The sound he emitted was pitiful, but it helped you comprehend fully the frustration the poor boy was submitted to, and the ultimate reason behind his pizza binge. His was a severe case of blue balls, and you were the one and only cause it. Cute.

“Namjoon, if you really want to address my exquisite taste in underwear, you can tell me directly,” you said. A thread of cheese remained in precarious equilibrium in between his lower lip and his hand, as he struggled for once to follow your words. The genius had short-circuited over lacy panties and the grossest kind of PDA. Another achievement unlocked in the marvelous experience that was college. It would look beautiful in your curriculum, right beside your volunteer work. “Jungkook is more used to seeing me without it. He wouldn’t understand our fantastic taste.”

“Babe,” Jungkook whined, caressing your thigh to make you cognizant of his presence. “I do love your underwear—”

“—Scattered all over your bedroom.” You whispered in the most impish little voice. By the glance he returned, Jungkook had loved the image. Maybe it was just your imagination, maybe you were in character and your discerning was altered, but you could have sworn his dick had twitched at the thought. Interesting.

To drown his sorrow, Namjoon took yet another slice of pizza. The boy could eat. He was still munching his previous victim, and it was making you hungry. Jungkook was very hot and all, but he had not offered to get you a drink or something to eat. Chivalry was, indeed, dead. “Let me ask you a question, Y/N,” Namjoon murmured in-between greasy bites. “It’ll be easy. I promise.”

“I’m all ears.”

“What is it, exactly, what made you fall for our ace?” Namjoon inquired. It was an unexpected question. A cheerleader could have asked the same, waiting you to offer a bland response in the trite language all popular girls had long mastered like: his big, big eyes; his toothpaste commercial worthy smile, the humongous size of his — not his brain, that was for certain.

But it was not a cheerleader the one to make the question, but Namjoon. Out of all the athletes in the house, Namjoon was the only one you had ever exchanged more than a few words with. Interesting words. The kind that — put together in a coherent sentence — form conversation two functional adults can take pleasure in. “Does he read Whitman to make you sleep?” He pressed further.

Before you could think twice, the words were already departing from your lips. “He rants about your pep-talks, that’s enough to have me snoring in seconds.”

He scoffed. “Nice comeback, it’s a pity that you’ve been avoiding my question like the plague,” Namjoon said in what appeared to be a groan, patience starting to run thin. At last, he appeared to have finished eating his horniness away, for he dropped the last slice of pizza back in the box. “Let me rephrase that, then—”

Next to you, Jungkook fumbled on his seat. “—Namjoon, bro, that’s enough,” he said firmly, almost an order. From the way Namjoon’s eyebrows moved together into a frown, you could tell that such serious demeanor was also uncommon amongst his group of friends. Jungkook was only serious in two situations: during games, and when his white knight complex had been activated. You would guess that was the latter. “I know it’s hard to believe, all right? Even I don’t buy it sometimes. But this is exactly why we didn’t tell you guys earlier, I knew you’d have a blast interrogating my girlfriend. And this is not cool, alright? It’s not cool that you’re over here talking about her underwear and acting like you’d be a total catch compared to me. Fuck that shit, dude, don’t ruin the night for us just because you got some jealousy stuck up your ass.”

Silence. The other boy took a second, then two, to chew what was left on his mouth, closely analyzing his friend. You could see the wheels moving inside Namjoon’s brain and — unlike Jungkook — he had more than one synapsis to make. “Hey, fair enough,” he said. And then he started smiling. Actually smiling. Putting-the-Cheshire-Cat-To-Shame kind of smile. “What has gotten into you tonight, uh? Jesus. I’m just fucking with you, didn’t think you’d get this overprotective. That’s some serious shit you’ve gotten yourself into, Jeon.”

Jungkook seemed to take an instant to fully digest the unforeseen change of demeanor, then joined his friend in his laugh. “Bro, what the fuck? You were annoying as hell,” he was clearly puzzled, even if you could see sheer alleviation in that smile. Oh, honey. He was not acting over there, was he? Poor kid really took that to heart. “Get outta here with that interrogation bullshit, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Look at that, you already know one famous victorian character,” Namjoon sarcastically celebrated, turning back at you — still living in the apex of confusion. You should have stayed home and read a book, where men are predictable and fraternity athletes as just a ghost in your memory. “You’ve been a positive influence so far, Y/N, props to that. I’ve been trying to get him to at least watch the movies for ages.”

“He only agreed to watch it once I explained Iron Man featured in it.” Taking advantage of your fake-girlfriend privileges, you slid your hand under Jungkook’s shirt. Fingers dawdling over his warm skin, you delighted in the sensation of his muscles quivering under your touch. It would not be noticeable to Namjoon — although he was particularly sharp that night. Words encompassing your feathery caresses, you murmured into his ear. “I’m thirsty, babe.”

Namjoon looked away when you nuzzled Jungkook’s neck, to bury his jealousy under another pile of cheese.

“Do you want some beer?” Jungkook blinked twice, trying to decipher the sudden change in the inflections of your voice. It was no longer playful, teasing, but dripping something he could have only categorised as desire. Jungkook was dense, enough to miss the a very evident innuendo by a mile. “I can go get you something.”

“No, not that.” Your fingers treaded an undiscovered path towards the lines of his hips, and the hem of his pants. His brain had missed the memo, but his dick was extremely eager to catch up, and was now constricted against his belt. The moment he rose from the couch, the boner would be exposed, and it would give him the perfect opportunity to drag you away from the room and towards his bedroom. “Jungkook… Let’s go.”

“I need to go to the bathroom first.” He excused himself to Namjoon, who had decided to embrace his solitude by hugging the pizza box and returning his attention to the baseball game. His team was losing. Big night for Kim Namjoon.

Jungkook pecked your lips and scurried from below your body. The room was cold now that he had left, and Namjoon was not willing to talk.

“So… pizza, huh?” you said, fixing your clothes. The last thing our brave captain needed was to take another glimpse at your ass.

Namjoon stared into the screen, absorbed by the little figures moving around. It was hard to believe that someone like him could he find baseball so entrancing. “So…Jungkook, huh?”

There it was. Jealousy, in its rawest form. He would never be so explicit in front of Jungkook, they were friends after all, but with you Namjoon could say whatever thoughts crossed his mind. “You know Jungkook isn’t as stupid as he wants all of campus to believe. He might not be a genius like you, but he is smart. He’s just a little bit caught up in the popularity game,” you said. The words leaving your mouth surprised you. Kind words for Jeon Jungkook, what a night to be alive. “Don’t be so surprised, Namjoon.”

The baseball game was no longer as relevant, for Namjoon deigned to look at you. Browns knitted in incredulity, he dropped the last slice of pizza and cleaned his hands in the team jacket. Symbolically, it was not a good thing, but he was probably overdosing on cheese. “I’m not surprised. Maybe you like him, after all.”

“Maybe I do.” You confessed with a quick wink and a guilty smile. “He gives good head, too.”

“That’s too much information.” Namjoon was nauseated, but he would never say it aloud. There was also the possibility that it was not nausea the grimace transfiguring his cute face, but jealousy. “You should go get your boyfriend, though, I think he got lost in his own reflection or something.”

Just like Namjoon had suggested, you followed Jungkook’s trail towards the bathroom. Trail, as in asking the couples making out in the hallway where the bathroom was. The first pair had not responded you, they were too busy sucking each other’s tongues to even form a coherent sentence. Titty in hand, the man in the second pair of lovers, explained where to find the bathroom — that was also known as the knocking shop.

To be fair, you knocked, but the music was too loud and the sound too timid. When you received no indication from Jungkook, you opened the door. At first you could not see past the outrageously pink sink. It was horrifyingly ugly. Jungkook rested against it, his forehead was pressed against the mirror, his warm exhalations creating beautiful designs over the reflective surface. One of his hands gripped tightly the sink, the veins of his arms visible, like rivers you had loved to explore through your fingertips. His other hand was trapped within the confines of his jeans, pressed against his dick. With every sigh and every moan, he would roll his hips against his hand, fucking himself into oblivion. All signs of arrogance vanished from his features when he was about to cum. Vulnerability looked so pretty on him.

You wished there was a joke you could crack, even if to yourself, that could serve as a coping mechanism to whatever the fuck you were being presented with. Still, nothing came out of your lips besides a loud, slightly horrified:

“What the actual fuck, Jungkook?”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Mechanical Dragon (Part 6)

The other woman sleeps fitfully, not that Zirin can’t blame her. She didn’t expect her to sleep well with a hog-monkey’s face stitched over hers. Zirin does her best to accommodate, she stays with her, occasionally fetching her a glass of water and readjusting her blankets. When the woman speaks of discomfort, she retrieves more pillows for her.  In the middle of the night, Zirin hears her cry out, pleading for someone to stop. Yelling at them to stay away. Zirin decides to gather herself some pillows and blankets and curl up on the floor in the other’s room. She sets her sleeping supply down first and then drops herself onto the bed, taking that clawed hand. She wants to offer words of comfort but doesn’t know what to say. ‘You’re going to be okay’ sounds terribly insufficient and ‘nothing is going to hurt you’, seems lackluster. So she says nothing and simply sits with her until she seems to be sleeping once more.  

 She wakes up again and again. Each time with just as much intensity. Sometimes speaking to her captor other times whimpering to herself about how it hurt, how everything hurt.  Zirin wants to ease that pain but can’t, not until morning anyhow. Just where is her father? He always seems to work later when she needs him.

Eventually she can’t take it anymore, and she thinks that the other woman can’t either. So this time when she gets out of bed, it is to go concoct a sleeping draught. She mixes it and slips it between the woman’s lips. She is tired, she must be, because she lets the mixture claim her very quickly.

 Zirin’s father is home when she wakes. Based upon his expression she assesses that he has not yet seen her new companion. She ponders over what she is going to say as she picks at her breakfast. “I need your help, father.”

 “I tol’ja, if ya break yer dresser again, I ain’t fixin’ it.”

 “It ain’t my dresser this time.” Zirin rolls her eyes. “I found someone…she needs help.”

 He pinches between his brows and sighs. “Ya can’t keep bringin’ people in. I ain’t able to help everyone.”

 “It’s really important this time, Okon.” She insists, she only addresses him by name when she wishes to be taken seriously. This time it wasn’t some stray runaway in need of a place to stay. This time it wasn’t a drunk friend who needed a place to stay until they could make it home. “I promise.”

 “Bring ‘er down.”

 Zirin makes her way back down the hall. The woman is still sleeping, she feels bad rousing her. She can’t read the woman’s expression beneath the hog-monkey head, but she can’t imagine that it’s anything optimistic. “My father is home.” She decides to note as she helps her out of bed. Zirin isn’t sure if she nodded or if it was just another passive motion. Her walking is somewhat disoriented and Zirin finds herself supporting her more often than not. She is so fragile, Zirin fears that she will break her if she does the wrong things. She helps her into a chair and hopes that her father won’t holler.  She sees a muscle work in his jaw and he seems to clench his cup tighter. “What happened to ‘er?”

 “I don’t know ‘sactly.” Zirin confesses. “I found her this way.”

 She watches him walk away, left to assume that he wants no part in this one. “I’m sorry, I thought that he’d be…” she realize that she didn’t actually know how she expected him to react to such a grotesque display. She decides that it would be worth it to feed the woman. A few minutes into trying to convince her to eat, her father reappears and motions Zirin to follow. She takes the other’s hand. It is a rare occurrence that her father allows her into his work room. Blueprints line the walls, overflow from draws, spill over tables, and scatter the floor. Her father isn’t the most organized. To go with the blueprints, the floor is a mine field of screws, bolts, and cogs both rusty and shiny. She is sure that there are tools somewhere but it is hard to pick them out under heaps of scrap metal and spare parts. She wants to apologize for the messy state of the place but she gets the sense that it is the last thing on her companion’s mind. She watches her father ruffle through a few things. He pulls out tweezers and a set of scissors varying in sizes and shapes and sets it on his workbench. He spares them a look and lights a fire in his palm and holds a one pair—the slimmest, most precise looking pair—above the flame.  He does so for at least ten minutes, maybe more until he feels as though the scissors are sterile. “Find some bandages.” He requests as he nears.  “‘N some ‘erbs; gol’enrod ‘n calendula.” He adds after a speedy inspection of her back. “Should be some in the garden.” He returns back to his workbench, she sees him pull out his goggles. The ones that had always freaked Zirin out to a degree, with their own share of cogs and lenses, they made him look like part of a machine. Even knowing how effectively the magnifying glasses attached to them helped him, she couldn’t help but shudder. Just before he shoos her away, she sees him put the things on. She finds herself irrationally chilled and hopes that the other woman isn’t as fazed.

 She comes back with a collection of plants in her arms as well as the mortar and pestle that she knows he would request next. He hasn’t started on the woman yet. She doesn’t get to ask him why that is because he is already instructing her to crush and blend the goldenrod with the calendula. As she does so, he fetches a large vile of aloe. “When yer done, mix ‘em into this ‘n add a sprinkle ‘a firelily powder.”

Zirin doesn’t question him, she has long since learned that there is a method to his disorder.

 The other woman sits very still, alternating her attention between the two of them. She finishes crushing the herbs and pours it into the aloe. And when the firelily petals are sufficiently ground, Zirin drops a pinch into the aloe-herb gel.  

 Her father takes the gel and dabs it along the stitch work that spans around the woman’s neck. She flinches very visibly so Zirin goes to her and squeezes her hand. But after that she doesn’t jerk again and holds herself steady as Okon makes the first few snips.

 The liquid that drains out is reddish brown with hints of yellow. It smells absolutely and unapologetically foul. Zirin crinkles her nose and her eyes practically water. Her stomach churns again, for the woman who was trapped within the fleshy mask. She notes with a degree of horror, that her father had only opened a small slit. With the second and third snips, the liquid pours out with more speed and she detects the copper overtones of blood.

Blood, sweat, and dead hog-monkey flesh, it was beyond rancid.

She knows that her father has seen some things in the war, but she hadn’t taken into account that he might have smelled somethings too—not until she catches the stony look on his face. She wonders what could possibly have smelled worse than this.

 “Soap ‘n water, Zizi.” Clearly he has made note of her discomfort and her unwillingness to admit it. She is thankful for the command and retreats to bring him a good bar. Free of the putrid odor, Zirin sucks in a few plentiful breaths. She isn’t ready to return but shovels down her reluctance.

 Okon is more than halfway around her neck by now. He pauses his work and holds out his hand for the soap and water. Zirin obliges. He cleans the woman’s neck to the best of his ability with the hog-monkey head still in the way and then he adds a healthy coating of aloe gel. “Hol’ it up.”

 Zirin’s face scrunches to the fullest it can, but she slips on a pair of gloves. “Do I have to?”

 “I’m doin’ this fer ya, ya gotta do some’a the dirty work.”

 She should have expected that response. Biting back a quip or two she holds the flap of hog-monkey skin away from the freshly cleaned part of the woman’s neck. Now the process seems to go even slower. Clip, snip, snip, clip,…

Followed by a few wet sounds, Zirin’s eardrums are having a most unpleasant time.

 “Help me pull it off.”

 The slurping noises grow much worse and, finally, comes a soft suckling noise as the suction releases. He discards the rotting hog-monkey head into the nearest rubbish bin with a sickly splatter.

 Her face is a mess; splotches of blood—both her own and hog-monkey and a coat of mud mix unpleasantly with chunks of rotting meat and other unsavory liquids, sweat and pus if she had to guess. Maybe even bile.

Disturbingly, Zirin still can’t recognize the face beneath it all.

 The woman grips the seat of the chair ferociously, shaking harder than Zirin has seen yet. Her breathing is far from level and Zirin doesn’t know how to calm her. She is trembling so hard, Zirin fears that she might pitch herself off of the chair.

 “Clean ‘er up.” Her father commands. “I’ll make summore aloe gel ‘n another bar a soap fer later.”  

 She has mixed feelings about getting anywhere near the sludge on the woman’s face, but nods anyways. She feels horrible for being so disgusted by the woman she was trying to help. She truly hoped that the woman couldn’t sense it on her, she didn’t want to make her feel ashamed for something beyond her control.

 “Follow me.” Zirin motions. When the woman doesn’t leave the chair, she takes her hand again and helps her to their sorry excuse of a bathroom. She pumps water into the dented basin, assuming the woman has had enough of warm and stuffy, she doesn’t heat the cool water. She dips a rag in, runs a bar of soap over it, and begins rubbing at the woman’s face. At least thrice, she has to empty and discard dirty water and refill the basin. It is only on the third refill that she begins to see the woman’s face beneath the grime.  

By the fifth refill she is crying softly to herself because she recognizes the face she uncovers.

[winterblues]

prompt response to: andreil trapped in a small space scenario

As much as all these late night practices aided Neil in strengthening his form, some nights he felt so incredibly drained of energy that by the end of them he almost cursed his own resolve. 

Neil let out an exasperated breath as he tucked his helmet under his aching arm and trudged; zombie-like into the empty locker room. Kevin followed, taking long, agitated strides and muttering something unintelligible under his breath as he disappeared into the showers without sparing Neil a second’s glance. Neil didn't have the energy left to satiate Kevin’s relentless appetite for grief. Not in the moment, anyway. 

Neil’s body felt like cotton candy, soft; pliable, limbs worn pink and sore. Neil was halfway to his locker when he heard Andrew moving behind him. Neil peeled his gear off carefully and stuffed the majority of it into his giant locker before slamming it shut and turning on his heel to look at Andrew, who was slumped against the lockers on the other side, hands shoved deep in his pockets, pale hair wild and eyes bleary from a crucial lack of sleep.

“Go and shower. You fucking reek.” Andrew prompted. It had been a long day for them all, Neil could sense Andrew mirroring his own exhaustion.

“Yeah. I’ll make it quick,” Neil promised, before breaking into the slightest smirk. “I mean, unless you want to help me out.”

“Help yourself,” Andrew replied, dully.

Neil knew better than to take offense to that as he merely shrugged and made a beeline for the showers.

“Offer’s on the table if you change your mind. I’ll keep the stall unlocked.”

Neil showered as hurriedly as he could, knowing that Andrew would be waiting. The hot steam from the shower abated the stinging pain that reverberated through his sore bones and he felt himself tilting his head back towards where the force of the water was most concentrated. Newfangled bruises bloomed along the back of his elbows, the bottom of his left knee, across his inner wrist. He didn’t pay them much heed. Every injury he garnered on the court was a testament to how far he had come, how far he would go. They hurt less when he thought about them that way.

They reminded him he was alive.

Neil dried his hair off with a towel before pulling his clothes back on, rather clumsy-handedly. By the sounds of it, Kevin was still in the shower. Neil headed straight for the lockers. He frowned when Andrew wasn’t within his direct line of sight. He could hear shuffling coming from the storage room towards his left. 

He wandered in to find Andrew attempting to keep a stack of old exy racquets from toppling over each other in what could have turned into one completely unfortunate domino effect.

“Scavenging for scraps?”

“Your helmet,” Andrew muttered. “You ruptured your chin guard. I was checking if they had any replacement parts collecting dust here.”

“Any luck?”

“No.”

“I’m just going to put it on Kevin’s tablet,” Neil replied. “He aimed that last shot at my jaw on purpose.”

“MAYBE YOU SHOULD LEARN TO DODGE LIKE ANY COMPETENT STRIKER WOULD!” snapped an irked, disembodied voice from the distance.

Sometimes Neil forgot how thin the walls here really were… Maybe Kevin just had the ears of a vampire bat, to have been able to hear them over the gushing of the water.

“MAYBE YOU SHOULD MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS!” Neil roared back, scathingly, before rolling his eyes and slamming the door closed behind him. Andrew stared at him, dead-eyed. “What are you doing?”

“What? I want to relish in dissing Kevin in relative privacy.”

“You’ll lock us in, idiot.”

“I didn’t—“

“These hinges haven’t been oiled in years. They’re flimsy.” There was a sudden, unspoken urgency in Andrew’s voice at that final word that made Neil’s insides twist. “Okay,” Neil said, hand curling around the door knob. 

He turned at it and—shit. Was Andrew about to be proven right? He gave it a hard yank and then another, and then a couple more for good measure. At this point, Andrew took a step forward, nudging Neil hard enough from waist to shoulder that he stumbled and felt his spine meet the cold expanse of wall. 

Andrew then maneuvered to inspect the door himself.

Neil’s insides caved in on themselves. The storage room was tiny. Smaller even, than an average walk-in closet. Not to mention it was brimming with a maw-full of junk. It was also crowded and dark and smelled like an abundance of dust.

There was a dull bulb that flickered like an eighties horror film in the top right corner of the closet and Neil was half convinced he could hear something skittering behind the shelves. It wasn’t exactly the most pleasant of ambiances, but he knew better than anyone that there were worse places to get trapped in.

Andrew had now taken to straight up kicking at the door and pounding his fists against it hard enough that Neil could feel the vibrations in his teeth.

“It’s no big deal,” Neil said, gently. “Kevin will get us out.”

“Kevin—“ Andrew snapped, his pupils blown wide as he turned to meet Neil’s gaze. “Probably thinks we’re hooking up.”     

Neil wanted to say that Kevin wouldn’t abandon them, but then again, he wouldn’t put that kind of an assumption past Kevin, especially when he was feeling frustrated. 

Andrew’s head snapped back up. “Do you have your phone on you?”

“It's in my bag,” Neil pinched the top of his nose. “Outside.”

“Shit.”

Neil watched Andrew for a quiet moment. His heart beginning to pound in alarm. He took in the wild, emancipated flicker in Andrew’s eyes, the calamity in his tone of voice. His gaze was capering everywhere like cat’s eyes to lasers. He looked as if he was imagining every wall in the room closing in on them all at once. “Andrew,” Neil’s voice was the barest suggestion of a whisper.

Andrew’s eyes flickered up to meet his, he was attempting to keep his lips tightly pressed together but there was a prominent strain to the curve of his mouth. His expression feral and bottomless; a consequence of the fear that was threatening to take over.

“What.”

“Are you claustrophobic?”

Andrew said nothing, but the torrent in his gaze was confirmation enough.

They had to give up after fifteen solid minutes of incessant banging against the unrepentant door and every cry for Kevin falling on deaf ears.

Andrew was beginning to look very pale and his breathing had grown ragged. 

There was a tremor of misery rising up Neil’s throat as Andrew slumped against the door with his knees pressed into his heaving chest.

Neil was not used to Andrew making himself so small, it set something alight within him. Andrew compensated for the inconvenience of his height by having an overwhelming presence—the sort you’d do better facing head on rather than just flat out ignoring. If it was even humanly possible to ignore.

This… This was terrible and new.

Neil could taste iron at the back of his mouth, thinking back on one of his worst memories of Andrew.

Even back then, lying defeated on bloodstained sheets, Andrew hadn’t tried to make himself scarce. His nonchalance, his disdain, his fear for what might’ve happened to Aaron… It had been an ugly cocktail of emotions (or a brittle lack there of) but it’d been larger than life. Neil could still feel the sheer animosity rolling off of Andrew, stiff and defensive and horrible. 

His laughter had been a warning.  

It had been so loud it had taken up the entire room.

Neil looked to Andrew again.

He remembered Andrew facing his fear of heights on their rooftop: Andrew’s knuckles, whitened from a hindered blood flow, the slumped ridges of his shoulders, the way he stared down at the ground, as if the ground would erupt from beneath him, extend its jaws and swallow him whole.

“You know,” Neil began, crouching down next to Andrew. Neil felt the need to keep talking. “When my mother and I were on the run, I spent a lot of time in compact spaces. In closets, airport bathroom stalls, beneath motel beds. Mom would ask me to stay extremely still and close my eyes as tightly as I could. She wasn’t very good at consoling me, I don’t think she even knew how to begin with; but she would ask me to turn the world off, like it was that easy to just wield my brain like a switchboard. To hone in on a single, conquerable thing.” Something nauseous crawled its way up his windpipe, something he’d once mistaken for fondness. “See, she said when it comes to entrapment, helpless animals thrive in the little victories.”

“You are a study in helplessness,” Andrew sucked in another strangled breath.

Neil continued. “She demanded I find something to clutch onto. It could be anything. The rancid smell of a cigarette, the sound of her voice, or something physical that I could touch,” Neil’s eyes met Andrew’s with intent, awaiting certain affirmation. Andrew picked up his gaze instantly. 

But only if you let me...

Andrew managed a small nod.

At this, Neil let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding to begin with and wrapped his hands over Andrew’s, which were busy digging into the soft material of his track pants over his knees. Andrew’s fingers were cold, limp. Neil brought their entwined hands towards his mouth and blew at them, gently. His breath warmer than the temperature of the confined room. “It’s not about finding your happy place or some unhelpful bullshit like that. I think it has more to do with cognitive response, we breathe subconsciously, right? So if you just find something else to focus on, your body naturally complies.”

“Shut up.”

Andrew’s breaths sounded sharper now, shorter. His fingers dug into the skin of Neil’s palm before clutching for the back of Neil’s head. He dug his fists into his hair and pulled, every gasp hissed in between clenched teeth. It hurt, but watching Andrew crumble in this way hurt more. 

“It’s okay,” Neil insisted, pressing slow, breathy kisses to every single one of Andrew’s knuckles. “Just focus on me. Look at me. Everything else is just everything else. Andrew,” Neil said. “Look at me. Nothing else.”

“I thought you were nothing.”

“That’s right. I’m nothing. It’s easier to concentrate on my nothing, right?”

“God. Stop talking—“

“Tell me what’s happening. How difficult is it to breathe? Can you feel your heart rate escalating? Do you feel clammy?”

“I’m going to kill Kevin Fucking Day.”

“I’ll help you dispose of the body,” Neil replied, approvingly, before resting his forehead against Andrew’s and closing his eyes for a brief moment. He could feel Andrew shaking against him. 

“My fourth home,” Andrew said then, in between harsh, heavy breaths. “It was a game.”

“What—?”

“Get locked in a dark broom closet and search for the key.”

The words were distorted by a familiarly casual lack of concern. The sort that drove Neil to his wit’s end.

Neil felt a sudden pang of unbidden rage whorl up inside his chest. Now he was imagining a young Andrew. Probably no older than ten, locked within the dark confines of some asshole’s dusty old broom closet, utterly afraid and completely alone. Another onset of pain, the kind of pain that was more than just physical and Neil could feel clogging up his brain. It was beginning to get volcanic. Neil felt his nostrils flare as his grip on Andrew’s hands tightened, just slightly. Their fingers were now slick with sweat but Neil couldn’t care less.

“They should pay,” Neil’s voice was hoarse, throaty. It was as if a knife was growing within his stomach, large and serrated. “For what they did to you. They should all pay. I want to tear—“

“It doesn’t matter,” Andrew’s voice was still ringed with panic, but strangely enough, his gaze had become more solid; rapt on Neil’s own. 

As if reminding Neil of the reach of his own apathy mattered more than the fear rapidly possessing him, voice a faultless escaped breath.

“I don’t care.”

“You never do,” Neil replied, tone still frantic despite half-assed attempts to throttle the fury. “I’ll just have to amp up my own contempt tenfold—for the both of us.”

“Fucking junkie.”

“What can I say? I’m hooked,” Neil said, the corner of his lip tugging up to form a grin that left him rather surprised by himself. So hopelessly hooked. Andrew didn’t look too amused, Neil could feel his pulse racing at his wrists, beneath the press of Neil’s fingers. “Hey, hey. Stay with me now. We’ll get out of here. It’ll be okay. Breathe, okay? Try to breathe.”

Andrew did so, all the while staring Neil down begrudgingly. 

“I hate you.”

“You really outdid yourself with that. I mean groundbreaking revelation.”

“You’ll break my percentage meter.”

“Before you take another shot at breaking me? Sounds unfair.”

There was a look in Andrew’s eyes at that, one Neil couldn’t exactly place. It was something conflicted; at war with itself. It sank into Neil’s skin.

Andrew’s grip on Neil’s hair finally loosened as he untangled one of his hands from Neil’s in favor of fastening it around the nape of Neil’s neck and reeling him towards him. “Yes or no?”

“It will never be no,” Neil waited for Andrew’s lips to engulf his own. He watched Andrew inhale (his breath still wary but less labored than before), watched his eyelashes flutter shut and then the unparalleled heat of Andrew’s mouth.

The kiss was a hard, steadying press like a paperweight. An affirmation of trust. Andrew was letting Neil knead the tension out of him. Neil kept his movements gentle even as Andrew’s tongue hungrily scaled his throat. Andrew’s other hand left Neil’s to venture underneath his shirt and Andrew pressed a hand flat against Neil’s stomach, where the scarring was at its coarsest. Neil sucked in a shivering breath at the destabilizing touch. When they pried their lips apart, Neil brought Andrew close until their chests were pressed flush against one another. He could feel Andrew’s heart beating against his own, every cataclysmic breath. Andrew’s pupils were wide and there was almost a certain brimming exhilaration within them. Neil netted his fingers in the soft expanse of Andrew’s hair and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Block out all those rotten memories. Burn them. We’ll make new ones.” 

“Oh?” Andrew said, dryly. “Is that your attempt at an assurance?”

“That’s a promise.”

“Careful,” Andrew drawled. “That’s still foreign dialect for a pathetic little runaway.”

“It’s your language,” Neil replied. “So I’ll learn it.”

At this, Andrew blanched.

Only this time, Neil had a feeling it had nothing to do with panic.

Neil awoke to a jolting pain riding up his left ankle, Andrew’s face pressed into his neck and Coach Wymack looming over him with an incredibly dangerous look on his face.

“I swear I will kick the shit out of you until you whimper,” Wymack imposed.

“Coach!” Neil cried.

“I know I said I don’t care what you maggots do off court but bedrooms exist for a reason,” Wymack grumbled. “Next time, use them. Now, would you care to explain to me what the fuck you two were doing cooped up in here? Keep it PG, yeah?”

“It isn’t what it looks like,” Neil snapped, cheeks flaring. “I shut the door too hard and locked us in.”

Wymack’s expression changed, albeit marginally as his gaze dropped to Andrew. “Is he—?”

“He’ll be fine.” Neil reassured, with a small sigh. When Wymack shot him a doubtful glare, Neil immediately remedied his phrase. “Not my flimsy definition of fine—Genuinely fine.”

For a moment, Wymack said nothing, before clearing his throat and looking Neil square in the eye, expression hardening once more. “Wake him up, get yourselves freshened up and get the fuck out of my sight.” He said, pointing at Andrew, who was still curled up against Neil like a cat.

“Yes, Coach.”

He turned on his heel to leave, before halting abruptly. “And Neil?”

“Yes?”

“Thank fuck you were with him.”

Neil felt a prickle of something sad stab at his throat, but he nodded.

“Get plenty of water and some grub in your systems. Don’t think I’m letting you off easy. It’s gonna be a grueling day ahead.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Don’t ‘yes, coach’ me.”

“Yes, Coach. Er— Alright?”

Wymack groaned audibly, stared up at the ceiling like what-will-I-ever-do-with-this-good-for-nothing-little-shit before skulking off. Next to him, Andrew stirred.

“You’re awake,” Neil said, softly.

“Keen observation,” he responded, voice still groggy like early morning honey.

“Wanna get the fuck out of here?” Neil asked.

“Wanna get the fuck off of you,” Andrew said, pushing himself up and off of Neil. He was a little wobbly as he rose to his feet and had to extend an arm up against the wall to keep himself upright. 

He stared at the door blown wide open and the barcodes of light pooling in from outside. Stray voices floated up from the foyer. Neil pulled himself to his feet and stretched to work out a kink in his neck. 

Andrew was out the door before he could finish. 

Neil followed him out, equally eager to be free of the dry smell of mold exposure and cardboard boxes.

Andrew turned to him, expression unreadable. Neil halted just in time to keep himself from walking straight into his back. 

“I will say this once and once only so listen closely if you care to hear it.”  

“Hm?”

“You know I don’t care for useless sentiments,” Andrew said. “What you did, I won’t forget it.”

Neil felt something warm and unnamable bloom behind his ribs. Neil didn’t think Andrew understood, or maybe he understood perfectly and just didn’t want to admit it. Knowing Andrew, it was probably the latter. Either way, Neil didn’t require an acknowledgement or a worthless show of gratitude. He hadn’t done it out of courtesy, he’d done it because he couldn’t bear the thought of what might’ve happened otherwise. Couldn’t bear the thought of watching Andrew fall victim to the weight of his past. Time upon time again.

“It was nothing.” Neil replied quietly, but he hoped Andrew heard the underlying notion within his words. 

It was everything.

Andrew’s face was a blank canvas while Neil’s was a mosaic of abstracts.

“You don’t have to say it like that.”

“I know.”

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Skeleton Girl | Chapitre Sept

She drew in a slow breath, the hot smoke moving past her tongue in an almost bitter taste. It was a warm sensation that filled her lungs, contrasting strongly with the frigid air outside. The nicotine somehow calmed her nerves after a few hours of stop and go traffic, her back pressed against the cold metal truck she drove.

Mamrie glanced over at Grace, keeping the cigarette between her fingers as she let another stream of smoke pass her lips. She lifted her chin, offering the girl a drag, but she refused with a simple shrug, letting her natural breath make a cloud in the air.

The sound of cars rushing by was the only thing to interrupt the silence that surrounded them, the highway riddled with the noise of rubber mashing gravel. They had stopped for gas, the scent heavy in the air as the two girls waited for the rest of the crew to fill up the big trucks that held the multiple tents and iron that served as lowly frames.

"She wasn't mad." Mamrie finally spoke.

Grace continued to stare ahead, her eyes straining against the unbearable florescent lights that hung from the awning. It covered most of the gas pumps, making it seem like they were in the middle of the afternoon. The inky sky that met the glow gave off a sharp contrast, one that was convenient if not distracting.

Grace ran a hand through her hair, the warmth overtaking her fingers as they hid from the crisp air- if only for a moment. "No, it was weird. It's like she was almost numb to the idea of going back."

"Weren't you?" Mamrie asked, her eyes moving away from the convenient store, it's own yellow glow flickering with little clicks as the electricity faltered. She tapped the edge of the cigarette, red embers scattering across the ground "The first time you went back must have been hard."

The blonde clenched her jaw, her stance stiffening as she was smashed with the unwelcome memory of that night a few years prior. "No. I was perfectly fine."

"Mm," Mamrie grunted, knowing how to get a rise out of her counterpart. She didn't say another word as she took in a huff of smoke, letting it slide past her lips before throwing the rest of the cigarette to the ground. The tip of her boot pressed against it, taking out any light it would have yet to carry.

Grace rubbed her shoulder, trying to bring some heat back to it as Mamrie let out a loud whistle, signalling that time was about up. A few people let out sighs, knowing that we would be on the road for at least another hour. Grace knew better though. She shook her head as she started to walk back to the truck.

It was an older model. A 1963 blood red Chevy. The paint was chipping, but still held it's dark color, the beat up name of the circus sprawled across the side in cryptic black letters.

The taller girl slumped into her seat, cringing at the sound of the metal screeching as Hannah plopped down in the passenger seat- the sweet scent of mint filling her lungs. Grace couldn't help but stare at the girl, the beautiful girl that had been by her side for years now. It tore her apart inside, in a way.

"Hi?" Hannah asked, her breath forming in front of her as she pressed her hands deeper into the fleece pockets of her coat. A small smile was forming on her lips, her head cocking to the side as Grace stared.

"Hi" Grace responded, not stopping the smile that found a place on her own lips as she started the truck, the engine roaring to life as a bit of heat found it's way to their faces. Grace glanced down at Hannah's lap for a quick second, Delta curled up as the girl scratched the small dogs chin. It was cute, overwhelmingly adorable even.

They were quiet for a few minutes, Grace focusing on pulling onto the empty freeway as Hannah stared out the window, eyes trained on the star filled sky that blanketed them. The night was far under way, sleep begging to fall over both girls.

"You're not nervous?" Grace said, her tone almost like a statement rather a question. "That scares me."

"Hm," Hannah responded, her gaze still on the scenery that passed them rapidly "I thought nothing scared you."

The tall blonde was quiet for a few seconds, her palms pressed flush against the steering wheel. Hannah was avoiding having an actual conversation about this, she had been for the last couple of days. It made Grace feel unsettled, like a ball of ice melted through her veins, the numbness sometimes feigning safety.

"This does." Grace whispered, her breath shaky as she exhaled, not bothering to take her eyes off of the road. "Hannah, it's okay to be scared-"

"I'm not, okay?" The younger girl snapped, ending the conversation before it even started. "You really think anyone will still be around that empty town? I'm sure they found a way out, just like I did."

Grace swallowed lightly, shaking her head, refusing to give up on the matter "They didn't die, Hannah."

An awkward quiet fell over the cab of the car. The heater was running, a hot blast of hair hitting the both of them as Hannah let out a small, but warranted sigh. She was staring out the window, nothing but pure desert passing them by. There was nothing to look at except for the star filled sky and the endless miles of sand.  The leather was tight under Grace's gasp, her eyes focused on the road in front of them.

"I've never felt dead." Hannah said finally, just above a whisper. "In that town... that's when I felt that... that overwhelming sense of being stuck. It had one stoplight and a gas station." She let out a small laugh "I don't know if you've ever walked through it, but it was pathetic."

"I never got a chance," Grace responded, glancing over at the blonde, who seemed to be lost in thought. "But that doesn't mean you won't feel anything when you pass that county line."

"You're right," Hannah let out a small chuckle "I just... I want you to know that I didn't truly feel anything until I passed it the first time. I-I mean I went through the motions of school and work, and faking smiles with my family but Grace, you were the first person who made me feel anything."

Grace knit her eyebrows together, glancing at the girl in the passenger seat with wonder. She was rubbing the fabric at the end of her jacket nervously, refusing to look up. "Hannah, I stabbed you."

"And I felt every moment of it." She said, a bit exasperated. "My point is, I'm not afraid of what's in that town anymore, because you've shown me everything. You've shown me that it's okay to be a little bit scared... if you're not, then what's the point of life? Being stuck in a 9 to 5 job for the rest of my life and sitting behind a cramped desk."

Grace nodded, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. The liquid was metallic and coated her tongue as she let out a small breath "I just want you to be okay."

"I am." Hannah grasped Grace's hand as it rested on the gear shift, a warmth filling her skin despite both of them being below temperature. "I will be."

The diner was a small one, a long checkered floor complementing an olive painted wall. It reminded Grace of a sports bar, not a place to get a good cup of coffee and some waffles. The smell was almost intoxicating, making Grace's stomach churn even more than before.

She was still worried about Hannah. The girl had to keep their little secret, and she had a feeling that if she ran into her mother or sister than her lips wouldn't stay sealed. Grace wasn't the clingy type, but she would make an exception just this once.  

It was early in the morning, the two of them having driven the night in order to get to the town before the rest of the group. It would be less chaotic for the both of them. Grace wanted to skip the coffee and just head straight to bed, but the moment her lungs filled with the smell of food she knew that Hannah had the right idea.

"Do you remember this place?" Grace asked in a small whisper as she pulled the jacket off of Hannah's shoulders, a few icy flakes of snow moving with it as she held it in her hands, the fabric cold against her skin.

"Yeah," Hannah nodded "I do. My sister was trying to get a job here before I left."

"We could go somewhere else."

"Trust me, Gracie, there is nowhere else in this town. And I'm fine."

The taller blonde eventually nodded, running her hand down Hannah's arm until she felt fingers wrap around hers. There were a few people already in the diner. A tall man in a tan button down sat at the bar, his brown hat tipped as a cigarette balanced between his teeth.  The smoke smell rancid. A brunette woman stood behind the counter, preoccupied with the coffee in her own cup more than anything else.

In one of the booths a woman sat, her mind on a game of solitaire in front of her. What looked like hot chocolate sat in front of her. Whipped cream was piled to the top, the brown liquid rushing past the side of the mug.

"Are you sure I-"

Hannah's lips pressed against Graces quickly, shutting her up faster than the girl had a chance to protest. Grace melted into the kiss, feeling the heat that the younger girl carried "Grace, shut up. Yeah?"

"Yeah," she sighed "Okay."

She kept her hand in Hannah's as she was lead towards the bar, sitting on one of the large plush stools that squeaked with every movement that was made. Hannah sat on the end of the small counter, placing her hands on the sticky surface. There were lament menu's in front of them, ones that Grace couldn't focus on enough to read. She pushed it aside, opting to stare at the pink packets of sugar instead.

"Aren't you hungry?" Hannah chuckled softly, rubbing her thumb against Graces.

"Starving," she glanced up, a smile on her lips "What's good here?"

"Burgers, but it's 8 in the morning. So pancakes." the shorter girl responded simply, looking at the menu again as the woman who had just finished her own coffee seemed to take interest in them. She looked tired- not ready to start the day with actual conversation, which Grace was more than okay with.

"Welcome to Starlight, what can I get for you two ladies today?" she sounded like she smoked as much as the Sheriff over there did, her voice raspy and bags under her eyes. Grace hadn't caught the name when she walked in and found it ironic that diner with such a new name still looked like it was from the late 70's.

"Ah, two coffees and an order of pancakes." Hannah responded, moving the menu away from her face. She didn't really have to look at it. She would have the same thing every morning with her mom.

The woman looked towards Grace, raising an eyebrow. The blonde just nodded, okay with anything that Hannah wanted to order. She was admittedly tired after the long drive and thought that some caffeine was needed. The waitress grunted in response before taking the menus and walking into the back room. Neither girls cared to know what was behind the door, knowing it most likely didn't meet proper codes.

"You two aren't from around here, are ya?" The man with the large sheriff's hat spoke. His voice was rough and undesirable, something that made Grace's skin tingle and her stomach tighten. Her hand tightened around Hannah's.

"No sir." Grace finally spoke "just passing through."

The man laughed, a sound like sandpaper. He looked up at them, his eyes a deep and ugly grey. "Now that's a blatant lie.." His chuckle had formed into a cough, one probably due to all the cigarettes and drinking. This man was obviously not sober, and hadn't been for awhile.  He dabbed the burning paper into an ash tray, moving his had from his head. His hair was a pitch black, almost a gray towards his scalp. He was sweaty and his shirt was yellowed around his arms.

"excuse me?" Hannah asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You're Hannah Hart." He stood, his shoes making strong sounds against the checkered floor. "I searched for you years after you vanished"

"You have the wrong girl." Grace growled despite herself, feeling Hannah's hand tighten against her knee.

The man stopped in front of them, his scent strong of whisky and aftershave. Grace clenched her jaw and did her best to hold her breath. Everything burned, even as she kept her lungs deprived of oxygen. It made her eyes water and skin crawl.

"And you," He raised a brow at the taller blonde. His hand was quick to grasp the collar of her jacket, but she refused to flinch, refused to show that this stranger had any power over her. "I know for a fact you're behind it all."

[thecleverdame]

East Of Nowhere - Year Five

Sam x Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary:  You and Sam are strangers trapped in a desolate mountain town where you live alone, isolated from the outside world, for five years.

Warnings: language, violence, smut, talk of past trauma

Beta:  ilikaicalie  

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

-

Four Years, Six Weeks

Sometimes you stand naked in from the full length mirror in the bathroom and look at the shiny pink scar on your stomach that bears a stunning similarity to a washed up fish bone. Running the pads of your fingers over the raised skin you think about Sam, as if you’re rubbing a locket that reminds you of his unwavering love. A different version of yourself would be bothered by it, the tough, mangled flesh that healed without concern for aesthetics. But you feel grateful for Sam and, in a strange way, appreciative that Shadow Hill exists.

You’re lucky to be alive, this is your daily reminder.

Four years, Two Months

It’s mid-morning when you finally drag yourself out of bed and meander downstairs. There’s coffee in the pot and bagels on the counter. Sam’s seated at the table still in his pajamas, bent over a copy of The World Hardest Crosswords Puzzles, Volume 7.

“Morning,” you greet him, casually reaching out and touching his shoulder as you pass by.

“Mornin’,” he responds without looking up, his tongue pressed between his lips in complete concentration.

“You making any progress?” He’s been stuck for two days.

“What?” he asks, utterly indifferent to clarification.

“Nevermind,” you pour yourself a cup of coffee, tugging open the refrigerator in search of milk. You’re normally a ‘black-cuppa-joe’ girl, but every once in awhile, you treat yourself to milk and sugar. You watch him as you stir your coffee, unable to keep from smiling at the sight of his wild bed head. Cupping the mug in both hands, you take a sip and gag as the rancid taste hits your tongue. Turning to the sink you spit it out, then stick your entire mouth under the faucet as you rinse the taste away.

“What the hell?” Sam looks borderline irritated that you’re interrupting his progress.

“The milk’s bad,” you say it before you realize the meaning behind it. Sam looks at you cockeyed and gets up from his chair.

“That’s impossible,” he picks up the milk jugs and smells it before taking a sip himself. “Oh my God,” he gags, pushing you aside gently to spit into the sink.

“See?” you raise an eyebrow, vindicated.

He pours himself a glass of water, resting his butt on the counter. “It’s probably just a glitch. I mean some things stay where we put them, so maybe a couple of wires crossed somewhere.”

“Maybe,” you’re not unagreeable. Stranger things have happened before, never with the food, but there’s a first time for everything. So the next day, when there’s fresh milk magically waiting, you don’t give it too much thought.

Four Years, Three Months

“Do I look older to you?” You stop in front of the mirror in the dining room, patting at the corner of your eye.

Sam wanders up behind you, looking at both your reflections. “You look beautiful.”

You smile, tipping your head to the side as you examine small wrinkles. “Thank you, but I wasn’t fishing for compliments. I mean it, do you think I’ve aged since we’ve been here?”

Sam thinks about it, stepping close and inspecting his own skin. “I don’t know. I can’t tell a difference. Do I look older?”

You turn to him, running your finger along his hairline, then down the side of his jaw. “No,” you confirm, “not a day.”

Four Years, Four Months

Sam looks back to make sure you’re still behind him and picks up his pace, racing up the steep hill that leads to the library. He loves mornings like this, late fall when the air is chilly before the first snow. The cold air stings his lungs, but it feels good to push past it and get his blood pumping. He knows you can’t quite keep up, but he’ll circle back for you, right now he just wants to move faster, pushing beyond invisible barriers. By the time he’s at the top of the hill, the muscles of his legs are burning just the same as his lungs.

He jogs in place catching his breath and tipping his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. On days like today, he wakes up with the energy to do something new. He’ll settle for any-fucking-thing because the days are a mind-numbing repeat of the weeks and months before. He just wants something to take his mind off the thoughts that play on repeat in his brain. It’s a never-ending loop of worry and fruitless anxiety that picks at his insides until he wants to cut himself open for surgical removal.  

He wants to hunt, to have a mystery he can solve because the one he’s trapped in has beaten him ten times over. He wants to take you on a fucking date, go to a restaurant and have a stranger take your order. He wants to take you to the cabin on Astor Lake that Bobby took him and Dean to when they were kids. He wants to go to the bar with Dean, drink too much, and get into a fight over the pool table. He wants to be more than Shadow Hill will allow, so instead, he runs as fast and far as he can.

“You’re killing me long legs,” you pant, trotting up behind him. That voice, your voice, somehow makes it bearable. He turns, watching with amusement as you lean over with both hands on your thighs, gasping for air. Your cheeks are bright red, hair stuck to your sweaty forehead. He can’t imagine loving anything more he loves you, just like this; exasperated, but determined.

“You wanna head back?” he chuckles, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“Never,” you gulp, standing up straight, “I will not be defeated.”

“I’ll slow down a little, give you a fighting chance,” he takes your hand and pulls you across the lawn toward one of the dirt paths that lead through the tree line.

He takes it slow, running side-by-side down the winding path, determined to enjoy the parts of this life that are good, and there actually is a lot of good. There’s immense comfort in the sound of your footfalls and labored breath beside him.

The tree that catches his attention isn’t far from the house, it’s just of the edge of the housing development. He slows and you fall beside him, “Hey, look at that.”

Wandering over to the old oak tree, it takes you a moment to see what he sees. All the trees are a shell of their summer selves, naked and stripped of leaves, nothing but raw, boney branches stretching toward the sky, but this one is different.

“It’s dying,” you mutter reaching out to touch the bark, peeling it away from the hollow wood underneath. “Sam, I’ve never seen anything here die. Not like this.”

Four Years, Five Months

“Sam,” you whine, wiggling under the full weight of his body. He’s not sure he will ever get used to the way you say his name, especially like this. What brief slivers of pleasure he’s had throughout his life never came close to the way he feels when he’s with you, naked on a sunny afternoon.

It feels like every inch of his skin is touching yours; his lips on your lips, his chest pressing against your warm, soft breasts. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, thighs squeezing either side of his hips as he rocks slow and steady on top and inside you. He reaches back hitching your leg higher around his hip, adjusting the angle just a little, but it’s enough to make you moan, clenching his cock with fluttering muscles.

Part of him wants to reach down and suck a nipple into his mouth, he does love sucking your tits while he fucks you, but there’s just something about the closeness of this moment that he hesitates to interrupt.

He likes to watch you, loves the way your mouth falls open as your head thrashes from side to side. You furrow your brow in pleasure as your fingernails dig into the flesh of his biceps, pulling him closer, urging harder. When you’re laid out like this with him grinding into you, he doesn’t even need to touch your clit to make you come. The slow, firm slide of his pubic hair over your sex does the same work his fingers normally do.

You come with his name on your lips. Sam follows soon after, spilling into you with his face pressed into your neck.

Neither of you knows it yet, but this moment will alter your future in a most profound way.

Four Years, Five Months, Three Weeks

The timing of your birth control pills is something you don’t play around with. There’s an alarm in the spare bedroom that goes off every morning at 10 a.m. sharp, screeching through the whole house until you run upstairs, tap the ‘off’ button and slip into the bathroom to swallow your daily dose.

Today is nothing special, you slap the clock radio silent and pop open the pink pack of pills. It’s the second day of your sugar pill, which means you’ll start bleeding by tomorrow morning. You gulp down the medication and smooth a panty liner into your underwear.

It’s the next morning before you realize your period is late. It’s still early when you blink awake, still tired and sweating because Sam’s wrapped around you in a tangle of arms and legs. He’s like a furnace, skin running hot even after he’s kicked the sheet off his side of the bed.

You squirm out of his grasp, slipping from the bed. He catches your hand, asking without opening his eyes, “Where you going?”

“I have to pee.” Yawning, you meander half asleep to the bathroom. Without checking, you grab a tampon from the drawer before sitting on the toilet. It’s then that you realize: there’s no blood.

Your menstrual cycle is normally like clockwork, so this should send up a warning sign, but you were late once before so you chalk it up to nothing and assume it’ll come tomorrow.

Tomorrow turns into two days, and two days turn into a week. It’s real.

You take three tests, line them up on the sink and set the egg timer. You sit on the edge of the tub, legs bouncing with anticipation as the seconds tick by agonizingly slow. You haven’t felt strange, no nausea or dizziness, but you wouldn’t, not this early.

You’ve been trying to convince yourself there’s another reason for Aunt Flo’s sudden departure, but in your heart you know before you even look at the three positives looking back at you in happy pink letters.

Your heart drops to your stomach.

---

Sam’s gutting a series of two way radios; wires and circuit boards littered over the living room floor. He wants to figure out how to boost the strength of the signal, so they’ll work at opposite ends of town.

Squinting down at the diagram in ‘The Ham Radio Electrician’s Guide,’ he thinks he might need glasses. He hears you pad down the stairs, the soft rustle of bare feet on the carpet. He’s about to ask where you’ve been all morning until he hears you sniffle.

You’re crying.

His chest is tight, fear rising from his gut to his heart. “What’s wrong, baby?”

He stands and you stop walking in the middle of the room, taking a deep breath of courage. There’s no point in trying to hide it, you don’t hide things from each other, not here. “I’m pregnant.”

Sam’s face falls slack as the words make their way from his ears to his brain, forming the thought: pregnant.

“What?” he stutters. “How? I mean, are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m late and I took a test, more than one.” You wait for him to respond feeling lost in the center of the living room.

“I, um, I don’t know what to say.” He’s hard to read, expressionless, and stationary as you take a step closer.

“Not the best news, huh?” you confirm with a sad grunt.

Sam takes your hands into his, looking you head on. He doesn’t want there to any miscommunication. “I love the idea of having a baby with you, hell, I want to have fifty kids with you...just not here. I don’t know a goddamn thing about childbirth, something could happen.”

Sam can tell himself all the lies he wants, but somewhere deep down he knows this is the only place he could ever be a father. Back in the normal world, he would never bring a child into this life. His whole existence has been a careful dance to stay alive and adding a baby to the mix would be just about the most selfish thing he could ever do. If this was ever going to happen, Shadow Hill is the only place it had the opportunity to come to fruition.

“I can do this.”

“And what if you can’t? I’m not a doctor.”

“You don’t think I know that? Sam, women have been having babies for thousands of years without doctor and hospitals.”

“So, we’re just going to roll the dice?”

“What else is there? Do you want to get rid of it?”

“No, I don’t know...” he rubs his lips together, his heart breaking from the way you’re looking at him. He pulls you to him, closing his eyes and holding you tight, his heart beating out of his chest. “No, of course not.”

“I know that we-” you’re stopped as an uncontrolled sob tears from your throat and your voice leaves you.

“Don’t cry baby.” Sam squeezes you tight, one arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

“I don’t,” you gulp, pressing your face into this chest, “I don’t want you to hate this baby.”

“Y/N,” he sighs, pulling your head back so you can look at him. “I could never hate something that we...created. I just don’t want to lose you.”

It’ll take him a while, but he’ll find a way to temper the dread with joy. He’ll grow into the idea of having a little one and start preparing for the day when he’ll need to add ‘midwife’ to his ever growing list of talents.

Four Years, Eight Months, Three Weeks

There’s a part of Sam is truly excited about the prospect of being a father. When he was in college and with Jess, he could imagine what it would be like: he’d be a lawyer, she’d work in a gallery or teach in an elementary school, they’d live in a suburb, and try to start a family once they’d been married for a few years. They talked about it, how many kids they wanted, what they would name them.

Sam’s dream of an all-American family died along with Jess. He never imagined that in his thirties, he’d be given the opportunity. It’s not what the younger version of himself imagined, but what truly is?

He’s sprawled out in the bedroom across the hall from the one you share together, surrounded by the parts of a crib, each section laid out neatly. He promised he’d have it done by tonight, but he’s no longer so confident. He’s solved a lot of puzzles in his life, but the instructions for this particular item of furniture appear to have been written by someone with a questionable grasp on the English language.

You’re only four months along, but showing, just a little but really showing, the bump he not-so-subtly sneaks peeks at when you’re changing or standing naked in the shower. Now, your stomach is rounded out, a perfect little globe, nestled in your midsection. There are little things about this child that makes his heart flutter, mundane details that end up replaying in his head. He likes the way your shirts stretch over your stomach, the material barely roomy enough to do the job. He loves the way you look when he fucks you, a surge of caveman pride stirring in his gut at the thought of you carrying his child. Mostly, he enjoys the idea that you’re going to be the mother of his child, that the two of you created life. He thinks it must be fate; must be written in the stars. He tells himself that fact when he can’t stop thinking about all the things that might go sideways.

There’s no way the series of events that led to this is at all random.

Four Years, Nine Months

You wake up nude.

It’s not unheard of, there are plenty of nights you fall asleep naked after being thoroughly worn out from Sam being between your legs. There’s always the intention of peeling yourself away from him to find something to sleep in, most of the time it doesn’t happen.

As you blink awake, it’s clear what woke you, you’re freezing. There’s only a sheet pulled up to your waist and your nipples are rock hard, a fully exposed barometer. You can feel Sam behind you, an arm heavy over the edge of your hip. You wiggle back into him, finding the curve of his body as your back meets his broad chest, round ass cheeks pressing into his warm, soft cock.

“Mornin’,” he mutters, sliding a hand over the curve of your stomach, flexing his bicep, squeezing you even closer.

“I don’t want to wake up yet.” Grumbling you press your face into the pillow. His hand starts to travel south from your belly, but stops short, moving back up to cup your breast.

“You’re freezing.” His mouth is at the back of your head, a smile in his voice as he rolls a nipple between his thumb and index finger.

It’s going to be one of those mornings.

“That’s why I have you.” You run your hand over his arm, covering his much larger hand where he’s kneading your breast. “That feels good, don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sam places a kiss on your shoulder, then another and another as a chill runs down your spine. You run your fingers over his, encouraging him to squeeze harder, it might be lazy morning sex, but today, you don’t mind it a little rough.

His hand slides down, this time all the way to your sex, wiggling his middle finger between soft flesh. He makes slow circles around your clit with just the pad of his finger.

He’s erect now, pushing forward into your ass, just enough to ease the tension. You reach behind you, snaking a hand between your bodies and wrap a hand around his cock. You both come like this, you writhing on your side and Sam spurting warm and wet on the small of your back.

After you both come down and clean up, you open the dresser drawer in search of underwear and clean clothes, but much to your surprise the dresser is empty. Before calling for Sam, you open the closet to find two shirts hanging on the rack. One is Sam’s, the other yours, the clothes you woke up in when you first came to Shadow Hill.

Every subsequent morning you’ll wake up to a guessing game of what’s missing from the house, some mornings its clothes, other times toothpaste or canned goods. This reality is an analog station whose frequency is half-static as it tries to retune itself.  

Four Years, Eleven Months, One Week

One thing is clear, this world is falling apart. What were once glitches and inconsistencies are now full-fledged issues that you find yourself combating on a daily basis.

“Sam!” You yell for him from the bottom of the stairs. The larger your belly gets the more you let him to come to you.

“What’s wrong?” His head pops around the corner at the top of the second floor hallway.

You really don’t want to tell him, he’s got enough to worry about, he doesn’t need something else, but there’s no way around this. “All the food, is, um...bad.”

“What do you mean?” he bounces down the steps.

“It’s spoiled.” You offer, letting him pass you, then following him to the kitchen.  

“What’s spoiled? It’s probably just…” his voice trails off as he opens the refrigerator and finds shelves of molding, decaying fruits and vegetables. “Shit.”

“It’s everything, the bread, too.” Sam believes you, but still grabs the loaf off the counter. There’s green mold pressed against the clear plastic packaging.

“It’s okay,” Sam shrugs, his mouth fighting a grimace. “Lets just go into town, see what’s going on at Tolliver's. You alright to walk? ”

“Sure,” you nod. “Might as well go now.” You make sure to stay active, walking several miles every day so fitting this situation into your daily routine feels somewhat reassuring.

Sam has to pace himself, walking slow enough that you’re able to keep up as you meander down the street. He holds your hand, his vice like grip betraying his nerves. He might be pretending to play it cool, but inside, he’s on the verge of panic.

Once you arrive at Tolliver’s, you discover moldy fruit and soured milk. After popping open a couple of cans, Sam sighs with relief. At least the items with a longer shelf life are still edible. He fills his backpack and you make the journey back to the house. That evening you feast on a dinner of baked beans and canned chicken.

“I’m sure we’ll wake up tomorrow and it’ll all be back to normal,” he assures you.

Sam’s wrong. The next day, and every day after, you’ll eat food from a jar. The easy days are over and the challenges that lie ahead will be the toughest you’ve experienced so far.

Four Years, Eleven Months, Two Weeks

The summer has been unseasonably hot. The four previous years brought favorable temperatures, never anything this extreme. By noon everyday, the gauge on the porch reads the outside temperature to be hovering close to 100°F. A heat wave like this, coupled with your pregnancy, means you relegated to the house and the air conditioning.  

Once the sun goes down, you mill around the yard and try to save your dying garden, but for the most part, you spend your days reading baby books and trying to wrap your head around the fact that you’re going to give birth in a ghost town.

It’s mid-afternoon when you lay down to take a nap on the couch. Sam’s gone on a trip to the library with your wish-list of literature along with few of his own. You’re not sure how long you’re asleep, but when you wake up it’s incredibly uncomfortable. You smack dry lips together and sit up as sweat rolls down your forehead and into your eyes.

“Oh God,” you groan rocking to stand up off the couch. Your shirt is stuck to your chest, sweat stains soaking through. You pad to the thermostat to check the temperature but the small screen is blank. “Wonderful.”

In the small bathroom off the living room, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your face is bright red, cheeks looking like ripe peaches. You strip right then and there, taking a cold shower. Once you’re done, feeling more like a normal person, you pull a clean tank top and pair of panties from the dryer, it’s about all you can stand to wear.

An hour later, Sam walks the through the front door, drenched in sweat from his bike ride, expecting a blast of arctic air, only to be met with your sweltering home. He drops his backpack to the floor and kicks off his shoes. “Y/N?”

“I’m in here.” Sam finds you at the dining room table in your underwear with a glass of ice water, situated in front of a box fan you pulled from the storage closet.

“What happened?” He asks taking the glass of water you offer.

“I don’t know, it’s just not working.”

Four Years, Eleven Months, Three Weeks, Six Days

There’s a “boom!” right outside your bedroom window that jolts both of you awake. Sam’s out of bed before you even sit up, pulling back the curtain to look at the yard. You don’t realize it at first, but there’s a glow on his face from something lit up outside. You blink, watching his eyes widen and mouth fall slack.

“Holy fuck.” He’s staring in awe at whatever scene is unfolding before him.

“Sam, what’s wrong?” It takes you two tries before you successfully swing your feet over the side of the bed and walk to him. You pull back the other side of the curtain and your heart nearly stops. It looks like a scene from an apocalyptic movie. There’s a hole in the roof of the garage across the street and it’s on fire. What appears to be fiery debris is raining down all over the lawn, a million tiny embers falling from the night sky. You don’t say anything, you just stand next to him as another giant rock, the size of a car, falls from somewhere above and makes a crater in the middle of the road, just down the street from your house. “What do we do?”

“We get ready,” Sam looks at you, his face expressionless.

Five Years

“We’re gonna die,” you whisper, tucked under Sam’s arm sitting on the front steps of your house. You both should probably be inside taking cover in the basement, but it seems futile. There’s fire raining down around you, a world ablaze as it self destructs in one final, glorious crescendo.

“I’ll be with you when it happens,” he pulls you tighter to his side, closing his eyes as tears roll down his cheeks. The arm around your shoulders pulls your head to his chest, his other hand resting on your stomach, covering his unborn child.

The roof of the house across the street collapses when it’s hit with what looks like an asteroid. This is biblical: fire from the heavens.

“I’m scared Sam,” you lift your head to look at him, “I’m not ready.”

“I know,” he wants to tell you he’s scared too, he wants to scream and beg and lose his damn mind with grief and panic. But, he can’t do that to you, you need him now more than ever. “I didn’t think it was going to end like this.”

“What? Death from above?” you laugh, half crazed, wiping your wet face.

“Well that, too...I always thought I’d die saving someone, on a hunt with Dean. But, this is better.”

“How could this possibly be better?”

“I’m a father and husband. I have you. It could be a lot worse.” His voice cracks at the end as he cries. You pull him to you, grasping each other.

The ground shakes and the sky rapidly turns black, inky clouds swirling overhead. There’s a deafening sound, like the universe is tearing in half. You both know: this is it. Sam takes your face between his hands, kisses your lips softly, “Just look at me.”

You look into his eyes, shaking in fear. “I love you, Sam.”

His mouth twists in agony, blinking out final tears as he says “I love y-”

He’s gone.

The hands holding you are suddenly absent. You blink and he vanishes.

“Sam!” You scream at the top of your lungs, frantic as you call for him. “Sam!”

You scramble to your feet ready to run, to find him, but you don’t know where, you don’t know what to do. The panic overtakes you completely, clasping at your chest trying to breathe. The child inside you, in just as much distress, kicks the inside of your stomach. You gasp, what will be your last breath in Shadow Hill whispering, “I don’t want to die alone.”

Everything fades away and suddenly your world is black, void, and nothingness.

-

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[unholyhelbiglinked]

Vice| Chapter Five

A sharp pain moved through the base of my back, my jaw aching as I let out a small grumble. The magazine was still draped over my chest, my alarm blaring in my ear as I felt around for my pillow. I moved the cool fabric to my face, screaming loudly into the plush down. I hadn't gotten any sleep last night- and the alarm going off at 7am, was no help to anyone.

I rolled over, hitting the snooze button as I stared up the ceiling. I was not ready for today. I know the Monday before all of this, when Mamrie had stormed into my house, I was quick to make a noble deal with the devil. Now I was regretting my decision a bit.

I slowly raised from the bed, pressing my hand to my hairline as I let out a thick sigh, letting the rest of my morning routine wash over me almost fluently. I grabbed a towel and headed into the shower, almost numb as the water moved over me.

The outfit was something I hadn't planned much for. I wasn't usually so conscious about what type of clothes I wore. Every t-shirt I had in my closet was stained with black grease. The cleanest thing I had now wasn't very 'proper' for a small county town- but then again, neither was I.

Eventually I slid on a pair of dark blue jeans, a simple white shirt, and an olive green button down that I left open, rolling the sleeves up to my elbows. I laced up my brown boots before starting to stock pile my school supplies in my leather bag, my freshly straightened bangs falling into my eyes.

"Grace?"

I shot up, letting out a breath as I slung my bag over my shoulder- relaxing at the sound of my mother's groggy voice. "Sorry if I woke you," I mumbled turning around as the rising sun hit my eyes- making me blink quickly.

"You didn't," she sighed "are you taking the bike or the car?"

"Car," I clenched my jaw, swallowing "mind if I pick Hannah up on the way?"

"Do what you need, I won't be home when you get back."

"Yeah mom, I know."

All eyes seemed to be glued to me as I all but drew blood on Hannah's arms. She attempted to pry my hand from her arm before we got out of the car, but I was quick to find it again. We weren't even close to walking away from the parking space before she whipped around and grasped my wrist.

"Grace, calm down, huh?" she raised an eyebrow, prying my hand away from her forearm, wincing at the small sting "do you want to go in here with a clean slate, or do you want to be labeled as a butch gay?"

"Hannah, if you don't-"I felt a small wave of frustration rush through me, distracting me from the ball of nerves that hit, my sentence faded with the smirk on her lips. Damn, she was good at that. She knew how aggravated I got with her being so hard on her sexuality. I shook my head, breathing out coolly as she started to walk forward again. I followed her, ignoring the stares and the distant whispers.

The people here all looked like normal kids. They're eyes looked accusingly at me, but other than that- they were just teenagers like me. Mamrie and her pack... they were a different story. They were in no way human.

From just walking into the doors of the school, I could tell that they already worked their magic. There were the usual curios glances of course, but then there were the scared expressions that made me uncomfortable in my own skin. I know the tattoos were a little intimidating at some point, but it's not like I had naked women inked onto my arms. There were clocks, and a few other symbols, but nothing ominous.

"Uh," Hannah looked my way, biting her lip as she readjusted her pack "I'm just going to stick with you for the morning if that's okay?"

"Uh huh," I played with the bottom of my shirt "defiantly okay Hannah. I am 100% okay with that. If there was a point past okay, I'm there." I let out a sigh "Trust me, super there."

Hannah shook her head with a slight smile as we walked towards our lockers. We had analyzed the schedule I picked up the month earlier past it's point of real meaning- both of us being able to recite the classes. Hannah had neglected to tell me much about the people that actually attended the school- but I was lucky enough to have my first two classes with her. The second half of my day would be challenging. We had different lunch periods, but she agreed to meet me right out by my car at the end of the day.

"Hey, hot stuff" Sawyer jabbed Hannah in the ribs as he fell in line with us, his dimple showing as he nodded my way. "Hannah, I almost didn't notice you."

"Shove it, Sawyer" She grumbled, but kept the smirk on her lips "everyone is noticing Grace though."

"Well you are the talk of the town," he directed his words back to me as Hannah stopped in front of the long row of blue lockers, her hand moving to mine as she slammed her elbow into it, shrugging when it opened almost effortlessly.

"I don't see why." I sighed shoving a few books into the metal locker before Grabbing the supplies for American History and Chemistry, "I'm sure you guys have had new kids before."

"Not murderers." Sawyer kept his back against the lockers beside me, Hannah glanced his way in confusion, my jaw dropping open slightly as he shrugged. "You're not one, are you?"

"No," I said a little too loudly, earning a few odd looks. I flushed, lowering my voice "Why the hell would people think I'm a killer?"

"Because everyone is saying that you are." The dark haired boy lifted an eyebrow "You didn't hear the whispering?"

"No, she didn't." Hannah slammed her locker "This is alpha bitches doing. Just ignore it, Grace."

"Ignore it," I sighed, shaking my head "right. Ignore it. I can do that."

Turns out ignoring it was a lot harder than it was made out to be. I tried to keep my focus on my breathing, tried to keep my fingers from shaking with my voice as each teacher had me stand up an introduce myself.

I almost lost my resolve in my first class while I began to stutter out my name, the word 'killer' being whispered as rumors spread right in front of my eyes. I shook my head clear quickly as my eyes met Hannah's, she was biting down hard on the end of her pencil, a thick glare in her gaze as she looked at everyone in the class. The teacher had no idea what was going on- shrugging it off just like I was told to do.

The rest of my morning classes seemed to crawl by in the same manor. I was growing accustomed to the stares, but the whispers still set chills down my spine.... To me, everyone here was foolish.

As soon as the alpha declared it, it must be true.

So of course a teenage girl with a few tattoos was called a killer.... Back in jersey, you weren't accused until you dawned orange and took a few mug shots. That wouldn't happen here though, I wasn't even sure this place had a jail- especially if said sheriff station closed on weekends at nine.

My thoughts were racing enough during the end of second period to not even bother with eating at lunch. I had somehow sat myself in a corner, leaning heavily against the wall as I leaned back in my seat with a sigh, my breath shaky. I had to keep telling myself to remain calm. That jumping in my truck and peeling out of the parking lot wasn't the answer.

A sharp clatter of a tray made me jump, my hand moving up to my chest as my eyes wondered to Jocelyn looking at her perfectly primed nails as her other hand went up to her own chest in mock surprise. A kid with snowy hair had his tray pushed up to his stomach, the mystery stew dribbling down the front of his shirt and sloshing on his shoes.

I found myself on my feet, already close enough to the trash can to be standing right next to the boy with the thick glasses. He stood in complete fear, not even moving the tray. The stew smelled rancid, but not as rancid as the look on Jocelyn's face.

"Are you okay?" I mumbled to the kid, taking the platter from his hands as he nodded meekly, running his hands across the broth that soaked into his clothes. I set the now empty plate on the table to my side, my glare finding Jocelyn.

"Oh hi, Grace." She smirked "How's your first day going? I heard you've made a killer impression on this town already. You do realize that you're already the main event in this freakshow of a school."

I could feel my fists clench by my sides as the snowy haired boy watched the both of us carefully, not saying a word. I could feel a slight anger boil up inside me. Not because of the little omega standing in front of me- but the fact that her leader broke my little deal already.

"Does that make you the ring leader?" I cocked my eyebrow, earning a thick scowl from her.

"Whatever." She sneered "Same time tomorrow, Ty." She waved her fingers at the boy before clicking off in her heels. We both let out a collective sigh as soon as she was out of earshot. The boy quick to turn to me as I stared at his sopping wet shirt, biting my lip I started to walk towards the bathrooms, knowing he would follow me.

"I've never seen anyone speak to her like that."

"Does she do that every day?" I questioned turning back towards him as I made slight eye contact.

"Not every day. I'm sure she was just feeling extra bitchy today."

I pulled the guys bathroom door open, earning a shocked look from the boy as I rolled my eyes and pulled him in behind me- almost running into another guy who just grimaced as he stepped out.

"What are you doing?"

I ignored his question "People in this town aren't very open minded are they?" I peeled off my button down, following his shocked eyes as I grasped the base of my t-shirt, lifting it over my head. He looked at my bare arms and stomach as I outstretched my palm with the fabric in it towards him.

"Really?" he cocked an eyebrow.

"yeah, it's men's it should fit."

He clenched his jaw, taking the warm shirt as I started to button my own green shirt back up, smoothing my palms down the front of it as he watched in wonder. "You're not normal."

"You smell like chicken broth," I pointed out "no one's perfect."