#They have been in limbo for far too long | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ds-angel1 · 4 months ago

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TEACHERS LITTLE PET

cw: SMUT(18+), teacher x student relationship, hitting it from the back(in the classroom), big age gap(ages aren´t specified), reader is a senior, i´m not american and have no idea how the school system works so please just smile and nod

wc: ~ 5.1k

a/n: tell me what you think of this dynamic and if you want more cause i have some ideas!! also this is the longest fic i´ve ever written, not my best work but atleast i managed to write something?? keep in mind i had a fever when i wrote this

Rafe had no idea how he ended up here.

Well, if he was being honest, he did. He just hated admitting it.

He hated kids. Teenagers weren’t much better. If they weren’t whining about something trivial, they were loud, obnoxious, and bursting with opinions they thought were groundbreaking. And high schoolers? They were the worst of the lot, caught in that unbearable limbo between childhood and adulthood, convinced they knew everything and that the world had been tailor-made to inconvenience them.

He hated his job, too. But after his father had all but shoved him into college, and he had somehow managed to scrape together an art history degree through a chaotic jumble of barely thought-out course selections, he needed a paycheck. He needed something, anything, to make use of the four years he had spent drowning in essays about the Renaissance and lectures on the symbolism of Baroque architecture.

And there it was, a high school history teacher.

He was fairly certain the school had been desperate. Desperate enough to hire the first applicant who could string a coherent sentence together about the American Revolution. And lucky him, that applicant had been Rafe.

The school itself was unremarkable. Small, under 400 students, just two squat brick buildings separated by a weather-beaten schoolyard that reeked of stale cigarette smoke and teenage apathy. Five hours from the Outer Banks, he could visit home whenever he wanted. Not that he did. There was nothing left for him there, nothing worth the drive, and frankly, there was nothing for him here either.

His days were a loop, a monotonous, uninspired cycle of standing in front of rows of disinterested, hormonal teenagers, rattling off lessons about long-dead historical figures far more interesting than any of his students would ever bother to realize. He graded half-assed essays, endured halfhearted excuses about missing assignments, and spent more time than he cared to admit staring at the clock, willing the hours to pass. Then, when the final bell rang, he trudged back to his apartment, a bare, impersonal space that he never bothered to decorate. No photos, no art, and no signs that anyone lived there. Just a bed, a couch, and a kitchen table that mostly went unused.

And then there were the truly miserable days, the ones where he was roped into subbing for freshman P.E., a biweekly exercise in self-inflicted torture. Half the girls refused to break a sweat, acting as if running a single lap would somehow lead to their untimely demise. The other half of the class consisted of cocky, over-competitive boys who treated dodgeball like a blood sport. He spent most of those periods standing on the sidelines, arms crossed, blowing the whistle when things got too heated, and watching the clock even more desperately than usual.

It was a dull, uninspired existence; monotonous, predictable, and entirely void of passion. He lived his life the way his students listened to the outdated documentaries he played in class: half-awake, uninterested, just going through the motions because it had to be done.

Until you walked into his class.

The first day of school after summer break always carried a certain energy; electric, restless, filled with voices overlapping in an unfiltered rush of stories from the last few weeks. As Rafe pushed open the door to his classroom, that familiar wave of chatter hit him like a sudden gust of wind. Laughter, exclamations, the scrape of chairs against the floor—it was all as chaotic as he had expected.

With a quiet sigh, he made his way to his desk, setting his thermos down on the bleached oak surface before picking it up again almost instinctively, taking a slow sip before returning it to its place. His fingers moved on autopilot, retrieving his school-issued laptop from his bag, pressing the power button, and waiting for the screen to glow to life. His gaze lifted, sweeping across the students, his students. The same faces he’d taught last year, now a little older, a little different, officially juniors.

But one face wasn’t familiar.

You.

Rafe spotted you almost immediately, sitting in the third row, right by the window where the morning sky stretched in endless hues of soft blue. You were listening—well, nodding, at least—to Amanda, whose mouth moved a mile a minute. He didn’t have to hear her know she was spewing an endless stream of conversation; Amanda was known for filling any silence, anytime, anywhere. But his attention wasn’t on her. It was on you.

A dark navy skirt draped over your thighs, the fabric shifting in gentle waves with every slight movement. Your top, a delicate white spaghetti strap with tiny baby blue flowers, hugged your frame, lace tracing the neckline, a small bow nestled right at its center. A beige cardigan hung loosely over your shoulders, two buttons left undone as if they had never been intended for use in the first place. Your hair was pulled back into a ponytail, not rigid, not loose, just… effortless. A few strands framed your face, soft wisps that moved when you turned your head, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost ethereal.

And sure, you looked beautiful, undeniably so. But it wasn’t just that.

It was the way your eyes flickered around the room, quietly observing, absorbing. The way your lips parted slightly every so often, murmuring the occasional “Uh-huh” or “Yeah” in response to Amanda’s nonstop chatter, even as your mind seemed elsewhere. There was something in your expression, an almost hesitant curiosity, a quiet awareness, that made Rafe’s fingers pause over the laptop’s keyboard.

He had seen many faces in this classroom. Some familiar, some forgettable.

But yours?

Yours was impossible to ignore.

"Uh— okay, let’s get started. Settle down," Rafe called out to the students, his voice steady despite the chaos. The room buzzed with post-summer chatter, desks scraping against the floor as students found their seats. He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to exhale. The first day back was always like this, full of energy, distractions, and the struggle to rein everyone in. But today, there was another battle brewing beneath the surface, one he wasn’t prepared for.

He hoped that once the lesson began, he could shift his focus, and force himself to look anywhere but at you. He clung to that hope like a lifeline, but the moment he commanded their attention, he had yours.

And when your eyes locked onto him, he was trapped. Hypnotized. His breath hitched, pulse stuttering in a way it had no right to. For what felt like an eternity, he couldn’t tear his gaze away, couldn’t shake the invisible thread tightening between you. His fingers curled into his palm, nails pressing against his skin.

Shit.

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to snap out of it, dragging his attention back to the board. He took a measured breath, gripping the chalk like it might anchor him. "Alright, I know you’re all still in vacation mode, but we need to get talking about history."

The usual grumbling came, but it was muted, fading as students settled into their seats. Good. The routine was safe. The routine was predictable. The routine wouldn’t let his mind wander to places it shouldn’t.

"Before we dive in, we have a new student joining us this year from the senior class," he announced, keeping his tone even, impersonal. His gaze flickered back to you, just for a second, just long enough to acknowledge you without giving himself away. "Would you introduce yourself?"

A brief silence. You hesitated, shifting under the weight of so many eyes before murmuring your name.

"Great," Rafe said, far too quickly. He cleared his throat, turning back to the board. "So, what do we know about American history from the Industrial Revolution to the modern age?"

The next forty-five minutes passed in a blur of discussion, textbook readings, and writing exercises. Normally, this was when he’d catch up on grading or chip away at whatever administrative work he had. But today? No. Today, his focus splintered, frayed at the edges every time he felt your presence in the room.

His eyes kept drifting.

To you.

It was reckless. Stupid. He knew it was wrong, knew exactly how it would look if anyone noticed. He wasn’t blind, he’d found students attractive before, but it had always been a fleeting thing, a passing thought dismissed before it could take root. A moment, nothing more.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn’t just acknowledging that you were pretty, though you were. Incredibly so. This wasn’t just an absent-minded recognition of beauty. No, this was something deeper. Something that twisted in his gut and settled in his bones, something that made his breath catch when he wasn’t prepared for it.

Something dangerous.

His fingers raked through his hair as he stared down at his keyboard, typing nothing. He could tell himself it was just a dry spell, that he’d been avoiding distractions for too long, that it was simply physical. But that would be a lie.

Because it wasn’t just about desire.

It was about you.

And that was a problem.

The shrill chime of the bell split the air, and the classroom erupted into motion. Notebooks snapped shut, chairs scraped against the tile, and a low hum of voices swelled as students shoved books into backpacks, eager to escape into the chaotic freedom of lunch. You swung your bag over your shoulder, weaving through the shifting maze of desks, your focus locked on the door. The cafeteria was called, an oasis of noise and anonymity where you could blend in, and where no one was analyzing your every move.

But just as you stepped forward, a voice cut through the chatter behind you.

"Hey."

It wasn’t loud, but it had weight, like an anchor dropping into the sea of departing students. Something in the tone made your stomach twist. You turned, pulse hitching slightly, to find Mr. Cameron watching you from behind his desk. His expression was unreadable, calm but not necessarily kind.

"Yes, Mr. Cameron?" you asked, hesitating.

"Can I speak to you for a moment?"

It was phrased like a question, but you both knew it wasn’t. He gave a small nod toward the door as the last few stragglers trickled out, a silent instruction.

With a quiet sigh, you nudged the door shut behind them, the click of the latch sealing you in. The classroom, so full of life just seconds ago, now felt cavernous, the quiet pressing in around you. You hesitated before making your way back to his desk, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Mr. Cameron leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the surface of his desk, fingers steepled together. "So… I wanted to talk to you about last year." His voice was measured, and neutral, but something about it put you on edge. "You were in Ms. Wallace’s class, right?" His eyes flicked to a sheet of paper in front of him, though you were certain he already knew the answer.

You shifted uncomfortably. "Mhm." A simple answer for something far more complicated. Your history with Ms. Wallace wasn’t just a class; it was a long, exhausting battle, a relentless tug-of-war between frustration, unmet expectations, and a sinking feeling of inevitability.

Mr. Cameron studied you for a moment before speaking again. "Can you tell me what didn’t work? Was it her? The material? Her teaching style? Or was it something on your end?" His head tilted slightly, voice smooth, probing.

You hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your fingers clenched the strap of your bag. "I guess I was just… kind of unfocused last year," you admitted, your voice barely above a murmur.

"Mm." He hummed, eyebrows lifting just slightly. "Just last year?"

Your stomach tightened.

"Because judging by today’s lesson, it seems like you're still a little… distracted. More interested in doodles than in history, huh?"

Heat crept up your neck, shame pooling in your chest. Your gaze dropped to the floor as if looking anywhere else might soften the weight of his words.

"You’d think," he continued, his tone carrying the faintest edge, "that after the school let you pass the year and only required you to retake this class, you'd put in a little more effort."

His words landed like a slap, sharp, deliberate. He knew exactly how unfair that was. Knew how it would make you feel. And yet, for whatever reason, he didn’t stop himself.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

“You want to pass, yes?”

His voice was low, almost teasing, each word curling around you like smoke. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his desk, dark eyes locked onto yours with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry, and gave a quick, eager nod.

Rafe watched you for a lingering second, dragging it out just long enough to make you shift where you stood. Then, with an exhale that was almost too casual, he pushed himself up from his chair. He didn’t simply stand, he moved. Slow. Deliberate. A quiet display of control as he braced one hand against the edge of his desk, his weight settling into a lean. The aged wood creaked under him, but he didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care.

His focus remained entirely on you.

“And what do you think I could do to help you achieve that?”

Smooth. Measured. But there was something else beneath his tone, something just sharp enough to catch. Playfulness, maybe. Amusement. Or something more dangerous.

His gaze flickered, sweeping over you in a way that felt too quick at first, like a reflex he hadn’t meant to act on. But then, you saw it. The hesitation. The way his throat bobbed, how his fingers flexed at his sides before he rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to shake off whatever had just slipped through the cracks. But it was too late.

You had seen.

And by the way, his jaw clenched a second later, the way his lips pressed together, you knew he realized it too.

Your heart hammered. You didn’t answer him. Couldn’t. Instead, your fingers fidgeted with each other, twisting and untwisting, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. The silence between you stretched, thick and electric, heavy with something unspoken, something neither of you dared name but both of you felt.

Rafe inhaled deeply, the sound filling the quiet space between you. The air itself seemed different now, charged, like something unseen was pressing in, urging one of you to break.

He let the breath out slowly, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that somehow felt… controlled. Intentional. And then, his eyes moved again.

This time, there was no rush. No flicker of hesitation.

Now, he studied you.

It was slow, almost methodical, th

6e kind of look that made heat crawl up the back of your neck, the kind that lingered just long enough in places that made you second-guess every inch of yourself. When his gaze reached your thighs, a nervous jolt ran through you. Almost instinctively, you gripped the hem of your skirt, twisting the fabric in your fists, your knuckles turning white.

A nervous habit.

One he noticed.

One that made his eyes darken, not dramatically, not in some exaggerated, obvious way, but just enough. Just enough for you to catch the shift, to see the amusement flicker across his face like the hint of a smirk he didn’t fully let through.

“Hm?” The questioning hum he let out brought you back to reality, back to his question, and back to the answer that you had yet to give.

“Um… I- I don’t know…” you stammered out.

His eyes flick down again, taking in your upper body, eyes practically circling in on your chest. As if your body has a mind of its own, you straighten your back, puffing out your chest.

Rafe’s eyes flickered up to yours, and for a second, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The air between you had thickened, dense with something unspoken, something dangerous. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, slow, almost pensive as if he were considering something he shouldn’t be. He exhaled sharply through his nose, a breath that almost sounded like a laugh but carried no humor, just tension.

“Yeah?” His voice was softer now, quieter like he was testing the waters, like he was trying to figure out how far this would go before one of you came to your senses.

Your lips parted, but no words came. Your throat felt tight, your skin burning where his gaze traced. You felt like you were standing on the edge of something vast, something that couldn’t be undone.

His fingers tapped once, twice against the desk, a steady rhythm that contradicted the barely concealed restraint in his posture. His body language told two different stories, one of hesitation, and another of inevitability. He was too close, and yet he wasn’t moving away.

Your breath hitched as he shifted, his body angling just slightly towards yours. It was a minuscule movement, one that could’ve been mistaken for a simple change in weight, but you knew better. It was deliberate. Calculated.

“You want to pass this class?”

The question was a mere whisper, his voice dipped in something that made your stomach twist. Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, nodding, too fast, too eager.

His lips twitched, almost smirking like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. He leaned in just enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne, something dark and musky, something entirely him.

“Then you’re gonna have to focus.”

The way he said it—low, deliberate—sent a shiver down your spine. His words weren’t inappropriate, but the way he looked at you, the way his voice wrapped around each syllable, made them feel like something else entirely.

Your knees felt weak, your heart pounding against your ribcage as your grip tightened around the strap of your bag. The classroom, once suffocating in its quiet, now felt electric, charged with a current that neither of you dared acknowledge aloud.

Rafe exhaled again, this time slower, measured. His hand moved, not towards you, not touching, but close enough that you felt the shift in air between you.

“You’re nervous.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your breath shuddered. “I—”

His head tilted slightly, watching, waiting. His pupils were blown wide, his expression unreadable but entirely focused on you.

His jaw ticked, his fingers twitching at his side like he was fighting something. A beat of silence stretched between you.

And then, Rafe moved.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. It was a slow descent, a moment stretched into eternity. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough that you felt the ghost of his breath against your skin, close enough that your lips parted in anticipation before your mind could catch up.

He paused—just for a fraction of a second, just enough to give you the chance to pull away. Just enough to make it clear that if this happened, it was your choice, too.

But you didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

And before you could let a single other breath out, his lips met yours.

Soft at first. Testing. A barely-there brush that sent a sharp current through your veins, igniting something dangerous and uncontainable in your chest.

He exhaled against your mouth, and in that moment it seemed like something in him snapped.

His hand found your waist, fingers splaying against the fabric of your cardigan as he pulled you just slightly closer. His other hand lifted, skimming along your jaw before his fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head just so.

The kiss deepened, slow but demanding, every movement deliberate, every touch igniting another spark beneath your skin. He wasn’t rushing—no, he was savoring, taking his time like he wanted to memorize the exact way you fit against him. He knew this was a mistake but couldn’t bring himself to care.

Your hands found his chest, pressing lightly against the fabric of his dress shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your palms. His fingers tightened slightly in your hair at the contact, his grip on your waist firm but careful, as if he was anchoring himself as much as he was anchoring you.

The sharp sound of footsteps in the hallway shattered the fragile haze that had settled between you two, yanking you both back into reality.

Rafe was the first to react, pulling away, but only just. His forehead remained pressed against yours, his breath still ragged, chest rising and falling in sync with yours. His fingers, warm and possessive, lingered at your waist a second too long before he finally, finally, let go, stepping back just enough to put a sliver of space between you. But not enough to erase what had just happened.

His eyes searched yours, dark blue depths swirling with something unreadable, something dangerous. His exhale was sharp, tension coiling through his jaw as he dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping at the strands like he was trying to ground himself.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough and uneven. Then, with more force, “Fuck. Fuck.”

His eyes shut tight, his head shaking in frustration as if the motion itself could erase the last few minutes. When they opened again, they were filled with something even more intense. In two strides, he was in front of you again, his hands gripping your upper arms, fingertips pressing just a little too hard, just enough to make you feel trapped between the heat of his body and the reality of the situation.

“This didn’t happen, okay?” His voice was firm, but there was a slight tremor to it like he wasn’t sure if he believed the words himself. His grip tightened before loosening again, as if he was at war with himself as if he didn’t trust his restraint.

You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, your pulse thrumming wildly, your breath uneven. His eyes flickered down to your parted lips, then back to your eyes, and something in him cracked. His hands slid down your arms in a slow, deliberate motion, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When his fingertips finally settled at your hipbones, pressing in lightly, his resolve wavered even more.

“This…” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

His voice was different now, lower, more raw. His fingers traced absent patterns along the fabric of your skirt as his mind spiraled, thoughts tumbling into a chaotic storm. Why was he doing this? This wasn’t like him. He had met you, his student, his goddamn student, less than an hour ago, and he had already crossed every possible line. And yet, even knowing that he wasn’t pulling away. He was moving closer.

His hands ghosted up your sides, the touch sending shivers across your skin. His lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, “Don’t tell anyone. Can you do that for me?”

If someone had asked you that morning how you thought your first day of senior year would go, never in a million years would you have said this? Sure, you’d heard the whispers in the halls, and seen the way every girl’s eyes lingered when he walked past. Mr. Cameron was the forbidden fantasy, the subject of countless rumors and stolen glances. But he was also your teacher. And he had just kissed you.

You knew it was wrong. You should run, tell someone, do the right thing. And yet, as your mind battled between logic and desire, only one thought rose above the rest: he had kissed you.

Mr. Cameron, the man every girl in school lusted after, had kissed you. Had he done this before? Had he chosen others before you? Or was this different?

Even as doubt twisted itself into a tight knot in your stomach, you found yourself nodding, unable to speak, afraid your voice would betray you with the high-pitched, breathy sound of a girl who had just been touched by fire and didn’t want to step away.

“Good.”

His voice was barely a whisper, almost more breath than sound. The tension in the room grew, thick and suffocating, but you didn’t want to breathe anything else in. His fingers glided upward again, teasing over your waist, grazing over your ribs, leaving a trail of heat that made your entire body burn with anticipation.

Then, gently, with a tenderness that contradicted the fevered hunger in his eyes, he cupped your face. For one impossible moment, you thought he was going to kiss you again, that he was going to throw every bit of logic and control out the window and claim your lips as he had minutes ago. But instead, he tilted your head slightly, his breath warm against your throat.

Then his lips were on your neck, barely touching, soft and slow.

A sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, escaped you, and his hands tightened ever so slightly, grounding you, making you feel small under his grasp. His mouth moved lower, pressing another kiss, and then another, each one more deliberate, more intoxicating than the last.

You barely registered the moment he turned you around, your back now facing him. Your hands trembled as they found purchase against the smooth surface of his desk, the dark wood cool beneath your fingertips.

Then, with the kind of confidence that sent a shiver racing down your spine, he placed his hands on your thighs, massaging them slowly, possessively.

His voice, low and dripping with something dark and dangerous, ghosted over your ear.

“Stay quiet for me.”

You sucked in a deep, long breath, letting your head fall and your eyes close.

The feel of the Rafe´s fingers slid under the skirt and the pads of his fingers started tracing along your panties, each tiny motion making your body stutter and tremble.

“You´re… you´re real special, you know that?” He spoke from behind you but you couldn’t respond, still holding your breath as if letting out the air would make the situation you found yourself in truly real.

When he had had enough of feeling the warm, twisted feeling in his stomach as he let his fingers glide over your clothed cunt, he pushed your underwear aside with his thumb, letting the tip of his index finger dip into your already quivering hole. The action intensified the feeling and buried it even deeper in his gut.

As if a shock of lightning had hit you, you bolted away from his hand a few inches, clenching your thighs tightly as you finally relieved your lungs of the air they were keeping trapped.

“M- Mr. Cameron…” You started to sputter out but stopped when you felt long, gruff fingers curl around the sides of your panties before pulling the black lace material down tantalizingly slow.

A cold rush of air hit your most intimate body part, making you gasp and pant. When you heard rustling and what you could only assume was the clink of your teacher´s belt, you shut your mouth and froze as you waited for the man´s next move.

“Listen,” he whispered your name like it was a sin he committed and you were a pastor, “You understand that this stays between us, yes?” His large hands massaged your ass and thighs, cursing under his breath when he saw how soaked you were.

“Mhm,” you hummed in agreement. You weren´t sure why. He was your teacher and by the looks of it and the feel of his hands on you, apparently a pedophile. But god did you want this; you wanted it, him, so bad.

Before you could so much as even let another thought pass through your head, he thrust forward, burying his cock inside you as deep as he could with multiple rapid movements of his hips. You moaned and practically screamed, the sounds of pleasure from you making Rafe reach around and cover practically half of your entire face.

“Fuck, you´re so tight,” he muttered sharply next to your ear as he started moving inside of you again, dragging his hips back only to snap them back forward less than a moment later.

“You like that, huh? Like being fucked by your teacher. Little teachers pet.”

He knew this was wrong, you were his student, and you probably didn´t even actually want this but for some fucked up reason that made it even better for Rafe, and as the thought crossed his mind it only made him thrust into you faster. At that point, you were damn near choking and sobbing into his hand, his palm making it hard for you to get a deep breath of fresh air in.

With a sense of panic taking over you, you tried to move your hands off of the desk to claw him off of your face but your attempts proved futile when Rafe pushed you flat onto the desk, forcing you to take his cock even deeper.

His free hand which wasn´t taking away your ability to breathe, found its way between your legs, his index, and middle fingers drawing squiggly circles on your clit. At the shock of pleasure that ran through you as he teased your extremely sensitive bundle of nerves, you clenched around his pipe and arched your back. You felt that familiar coil spring up in the depths of your stomach, your body rocking slightly backward against Rafe´s to help you relive the press soon.

Rafe pushed into you harder than he had any of the other time before then, hitting your sweet spot with a force that would have made you cry out, had you had your mouth free. His fingers applied pressure to the shapes they were making on your clit. The mix of heightened attention and force made your pussy squeeze around him and pushed you over the edge, coming with tears in your eyes.

After a few more brutal thrusts into your soppy cunt, he came as well, unloading into you, his thoughts barely registering anything at that point except for you and your body bent over his desk, his cum dripping out of your used up hole and onto your thighs.

Slowly he took away his hand from your face, a trail of spit following. As soon as you got a few much-needed breaths, you collapsed onto the desk, your body falling limp. Rafe pulled out of you, not wasting any time before he pulled his pants back on and redid his leather belt around his hips. He leaned over you, his body covering all of your sweaty skin as he dressed you in your underwear again.

“You did so good, darling. So, so good."

3K notes · View notes

ittybittyfanblog · 6 months ago

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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 6

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, you get your very own samantha from her (2013) lol, time skips as a plot device!, this has an arc i promise, if anybody here plays disco elysium you’ll find that i took concepts of “the pale” as inspo at some points in this chapter lmao A/N: Oof this one’s a little longer than any of the previous chapters. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3 (and just a heads up, this might be the last chapter I post before I kick it off for the holidays. advance happy holidays! if you guys celebrate that sort of thing.)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

There’s a quiet stillness brought by the morning after that makes the problems of a heavier night seem like a fairly distant memory.

For at least a few minutes past the moment you blink away the stubborn grit in your eyes – you don’t remember the last time you’ve been this well-rested in ages – you lie, listless, on the soft powder-blue bedding of your twin-size mattress, watching specks of dander and dust drift from the amber sunlight that filters through the cracked panes of the casement window.

It floats aimlessly; unhurried. Much like you.

The echo of last night’s events return to you in sporadic flashes—fragmented and unsteady. The whispered exchanges, the playful banter between you and your unlikely conversation partner play back in your mind, like some half-finished supercut.

And the more you recall, the more awake you feel, chipping away the last traces of daytime lethargy weighing you down.

“So, what happens now?”

The sound of a car backfiring breaks through from the outside, like a starting pistol signalling the beginning of another day. A familiar, heavy weight presses against your side, and you thread your fingers through the scraggly fur of the purring feline who’s taken the empty space on your left, just above the covers.

You breathe in deeply, closing your eyes.

“I wish I had an answer—I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

You realize how many questions still linger, a lot more left unanswered. Far more than what you were able to glean, at least. From what little you’ve learned, an entirely new moral dilemma emerges—one you never imagined you'd have to contend with.

There’s a lot of things you’ve never expected to happen. Yet here you are.

“Seems we’re at an impasse.”

It’s an odd thing in itself. You keep waiting for the disbelief to catch up, for a shred of sanity to surface and make you reject the situation you’ve found yourself entangled in. You should be feeling the same, pesky feelings that pulled you sharply out of your flight of fancy last night; a sense of trepidation for what lies ahead in this precarious game of two.

But instead, you’re here. Now fully awake, and already looking forward to the day with wary acceptance. Looking forward to resuming where you’ve left off with that charming anomaly who’s upended your world, and left you suspended in an exhilarating limbo of uncertainty and excitement.

“...Indeed.”

You crave it—like the first stirrings of a neophyte druggie teetering on the edge of an irreversible habit.

You need another hit.

“Why the long face, little dove?”

Because if desire could manifest into being, it would’ve been Sylus.

“We can figure this out together, can’t we?”

You pick up your phone.

––––

“You’re here? Make yourself at home.”

You look at him, deadpan. He looks back at you serenely.

Your voice takes on a dry monotone when you respond, “Keep talking like that, I’m about to cum.”

There’s a shocked silence; then—

Sylus barks out a surprised laugh, immediately breaking character.

You snort. “Good morning to you too, I guess.”

He meets your gaze with a look of scandalized amusement, his smile wide enough to flash teeth.

"Good morning, indeed."

––––

You two fall into a natural rhythm even before the day comes to a close. Perceptive as he is, Sylus hasn’t let you linger in the unease left over from last night any longer than necessary; which to say, should be left buried and forgotten, past its provenance.

“So you could, like– hypothetically, top up my ascension materials… indefinitely?” There’s a manic shine to your eyes when you confront him back at the home screen, gleeful and triumphant after you boost almost all the 5-star cards you have of him up to max level. “Like an infinite glitch?”

He’s content to just simply listen to your excited chatter from his languid perch on the seat, one palm resting against the side of his face as he watches you, half-lidded and relaxed. Utterly entertained by your antics.

The slight twitching of his mouth, the subtle tilt of his head… each minute shift in his expression makes a whole world of difference from the version you’ve known him longest—almost a lifetime ago.

Now he acts so human, so alive, that it’s almost unreal.

(It’s almost imperceptible, but you swear the air also feels different; like the pixelated space around him is bending, stretching, to accommodate this newer him.)

“Sure,” he shrugs, lips quirking up into a half-smile as he notices the deep crease forming between your brows.

He knows the question you’re about to ask, curious thing that you are.

“How, though? Like, what are ‘materials’ to you?” You make air quotes with your fingers, making you appear all the more endearing to him look at, in your process to make sense of a world that’s unfamiliar to you.

“Think of it as upgrades,” Sylus explains patiently. “You place the order to modify the equipment I use, in whichever situation calls for it.”

“And Memory Cards?”

“... A video reel, maybe. Or a restricted case file—locked until you’ve got enough to trade for the information you want.”

“And I suppose the dealer in question here is you?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Who else?”

“Huh,” you say, considering. “So, Deepspace Trials. That’s something you do on the daily? Because I… make you?”

“More or less.”

“And you never thought to question that?”

“Mm, maybe I’ll start charging for my services this time around.”

You roll your eyes, already accepting his analogy for what it is. “Oh, please. With the amount of money I’ve spent on this game, consider yourself paid in full.”

––––

You were right about your earlier prediction—this new Sylus in combat mode is something else.

For starters, he’s a lot chattier.

“Ouch, kitten– don’t charge in like that.”

“Why are you using a sword? Don’t you like the guns I’ve given you specifically for this?”

“What are you waiting for? Make her resonate with me now.”

And, instead of sticking to his lines and responding to whatever the MC’s programmed to say during battle, he focuses on whatever you’re fussing over—no matter how… moronic it is.

“Ah, fuck! I hate that spinning thing!”

“Move, then. Let me handle it.”

“Block it, block it!”

“I would, if you weren’t halfway across the field. Stick closer to your partner next time, yeah?”

He doesn’t say any of his usual lines. Nothing from his scripted prompts. When all Wanderers are defeated, there’s no post-battle banter between him and the MC.

“Goddamn, you’re strong!” You whoop giddily, completely energized by straight winning almost twelve Orbit trials in a row. I guess that’s what a fully awakened Solar pair gets you, huh?

Sylus lets out a chuckle, infected by your enthusiasm. He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite all the damned fighting you’ve put him through.

“We make a good team,” he allows. And because he likes the little nose scrunch you do when you’re annoyed— “Although your dodging really needs more practice, sweetie.”

Before you could think of a comeback, the pop-up window for the next stage comes up. Ass.

––––

Come Monday morning and you’re once again swamped with work.

You barely have enough time to scrounge something up for lunch—if it weren’t for the persistent reminders from Sylus, chiming in every five minutes once the digital clock on your phone had hit eleven-thirty, you’d probably skip eating altogether.

And make something else than just boiling a pot of instant ramen, sweetheart. You’re on track for an early grave at this rate.

“I could… add an egg?” You suggest, unsure. “Maybe cut up some tofu, make it gourmet?”

He doesn’t even dignify the egg suggestion with a response. Tofu’s a good start. Now, what else do you have in your pantry that has nutritional value?

“I despise that,” you mutter, but start rifling through the cupboards anyway.

After amassing enough ingredients—or what looks more like a sad pile—that might, with some effort, turn into something healthier than your usual go-to fix, you start Googling recipes online.

‘tofu easy lunch recipe’

‘10 mins tofu recipes’

‘begginer recipe using tofu frozen dory mixed veg—’ Ping!

… Really, kitten?

You don’t even have to see him to know he’s giving you that look, the one that’s practically dripping with judgment over your dubious life choices.

(You know it all too well. Personally, in fact. You see it on some relatives' faces at the family get-togethers you’re always required to attend.)

Great. Heat creeps up your face as you mumble defensively, “Stop. Not everyone’s a culinary genius, okay?”

After that, he lets you be – something you’re thankful for, really. He’s being too distracting anyway.

Swallowing down the–stubborn and suffocating–embarrassment that's now stuck in your throat, you keep scrolling through Tasty dot co, praying you can whip up something edible with what (little) you have. You’re fully aware that you’re a grown-ass woman who can’t manage a basic life skill and that you’re probably about to burn down your kitchen—

Another notification pops up.

Pull up your tabs, sweetie. I think you’ll find something there that we could put together easily.

Confused, you do as he says. Sure enough, four tofu-related recipes are neatly grouped together in your Chrome browser, ready to be tried and tested.

Your eyes widen. “Wait—you did this? How?”

He doesn’t answer your question. He does, however, offer: Want me to coach you through it? Cooking’s more fun done with a partner, I’d say.

In the end, you manage to make something that tasted way better than you thought you could do by yourself. You have him to thank for that.

“You happy with it?” Sylus asks, grinning at the satisfied look on your face.

“Mhm!” you hum around a mouthful of food. “Fanks, Sy.”

“Anytime, darling.”

––––

“Do you really have to call me ‘kitten’? You sound like a Discord mod.”

Sylus has no idea what a Discord mod is, but judging by the contempt in your voice, it’s clear that you’re not giving him a compliment.

"What do you prefer, then? Princess? Poppet? Sweet thing?" He pauses, tilting his head. "Baby?"

You blush and look away. "...Ugh, whatever. Kitten's fine."

––––

Your routine with Sylus settles into a seamless, effortless flow as the days go by; it’s almost second nature, talking to him. So much so that you’d think nothing could faze you anymore.

Well. Almost nothing.

A message bubble from an unknown number appears on your lock screen: Hi, sweetheart. X

You almost ignore it – brushing it off as some dumb prank from a bored rando – when, not even five seconds later, another text pops up.

+0063-XXXXXX: Its Sylus.

… Huh?

“Is someone fucking with me right now, or…”

+0063-XXXXXX: Nobodys ‘fucking with you,’ kitten.

Then–

+0063-XXXXXX: Send a reply so I can see how it shows up on my end.

Your jaw drops. “Holy shit– you can text?? How are you doing that?” and, “Did you just cuss...?”

+0063-XXXXXX: 👍

+0063-XXXXXX: And Ill let you know if you text me the question 🙄

So you do. You tack on a now spill?? at the end for good measure.

You watch the “typing…” bubble appear, holding your breath.

+0063-XXXXXX: Its a complex mix of technical code and harnessing the energy from a dormant protofield Ive discovered, just south of Vagrants Land.

+0063-XXXXXX: The energy I got from it felt different somehow from your normal protofield. I figured I could put it to good use.

+0063-XXXXXX: Oddly enough, theres an… indescribable effect to oneself when youre nearing the centre of disturbance, shall we say.

+0063-XXXXXX: I can only decrypt the waveforms by the rarefield border surrounding the AoR. Any further and Im afraid the adverse effects may do more harm than good.

+0063-XXXXXX: But if amplified, it seems responsive to the filament of what connects your signal from deep space to this planet.

+0063-XXXXXX: Who knew it could act as a transmitter to send you something as rudimentary as a telegraph?

… Sometimes you forget how smart Sylus really is.

You: that’s pretty amazing ?? wtf sylus

+0063-XXXXXX: I get by OK.

You could practically feel his smugness radiating from those four words. You scoff, shaking your head in a mix of awe and begrudging admiration.

He sends two more messages.

+0063-XXXXXX: Im just glad we can communicate through other means, sweetie.

Sy-Sy (??): Now save my number. Sy Sy will suffice 😉

––––

Since your latest discovery that Sylus can now text (!!), you’ve been talking to him outside the game non-stop. It’s like talking to a very active friend who never leaves you on read, and you couldn’t be more ecstatic.

You: so no one else in ur universe knows anything abt ur situation?

You: no one else acting funny or sumn ? >.>

Sy-Sy (??): None that I know of, no. I prefer to keep it under wraps.

Sy-Sy (??): Now that you mention it, Mephisto has been acting quite suspicious lately.

You: ?? suspicious-suspicious or just reg suspicious??

Sy-Sy (??): Hes with his other crow friends now. They might be attempting a murder.

You: ………. is that…. supposed 2 be a joke……….

Sy-Sy (??): Im running on 3 hours of sleep, give me a break.

Sy-Sy (??): Also your textspeak is horrendous, sweetie.

"Um, hello–?"

Your gaze snaps back to the—very real, very present—person sitting across from you at the table, sporting box-dyed blue hair and a frown. You're at the Annex House; a sleek, new-age Japandi-style bar downtown, just an easy five stations away from your place. You both decided to try it for their infamous Rotten Apple cocktail and, of course, your weekly catch-up.

Khol, your friend of eight years since college, is currently giving you a mildly annoyed look.

Oops.

They point at you accusingly while complaining, "Ugh, we don’t use our phones when we’re hanging out! That’s the rule!"

You smile at them, sheepish, pocketing your phone as discreetly as you could. “I know, I know. Sorry.”

Then, puffing out your cheeks, you meekly ask, “You were talking about Anna...?”

They roll their eyes but go over the gossip a second time, much to your benefit. Phew.

Your phone vibrates. Twice.

…

You sneak a quick, final peek.

Sy-Sy (??): Enjoy your night out, darling ❤️

Sy-Sy (??): You let me know when youre back home, OK?

Biting back a grin, you send out one last text in reply.

You: will do !:9

Sy-Sy (??): Good girl.

––––

"Um–so this is my cat, Maru," you say by way of introduction, holding the plump, orange tabby in front of your phone that’s propped up against a carton of Koko Krunch. There’s a slight struggle in lifting his left paw between your fingers to wave at the man on the other side of the screen. "Say hi, Maru."

“Hello, Maru,” Sylus greets amicably in return, watching the both of you with clear amusement in his eyes. “Care to tell me the origin of this proud beast?”

You recount the story where you’ve first seen Maru five years ago, nothing more than a scraggly little runt at the time, hiding in the gap between a dumpster and the interstice of a cragged wall. You were walking home from a night out drinking with your uni buddies, when you heard the incessant meowing.

It drew you in like a siren’s call. If the siren in question had the vocal prowess of a warbling whale on the brink of death.

Upon closer inspection, the grimy fluffball revealed a stubby, crooked tail and wide, beady eyes. In your alcohol-fueled haze, you briefly wondered if you were staring at a tiny ginger rat.

“Well, it’s definitely all cat,” your friend Bee declared by noon the following day, calmly retracting a scratched and bloodied hand from the disgruntled feline, which promptly hissed and darted right back under the bed.

You hummed in agreement, passing her a wad of tissue.

"I couldn’t decide between Nospurratu and Catpin Meow," you say matter-of-factly, giving your capricious son a scritch under his chin. "Bee suggested I stick to something simpler, like Maru. Hence the name."

Your explanation is punctuated by an offended nip on your pointer finger.

Sylus is covering his mouth, but nods solemnly. “I think Maru is a nice name.”

There’s a moment where the two seem locked in a silent standoff, neither breaking eye contact nor making any sort of outward reaction. Just as you’re about to step in and interrupt the bizarre staring contest, Maru gives a slow, deliberate blink.

Sylus takes it as a sign of victory—or perhaps a ceremonial seal of approval.

With a faint smirk on his lips, he offers the cat a small bow in respect.

––––

You’ve practically emptied the entire arcade of plushies – enough to put it out of business if it were actually, you know, real – and you’re bored to tears.

“Another round of Kitty Cards, perhaps?” Sylus suggests, but a single glance at your face is enough to let him know that you’d rather gnaw off your own hand. Or his. He might just let you.

Sighing dramatically, you complain about the limited playability of the “mini-games” in-game.

“There’s literally nothing else to do. Same old shit, over and over again.” There’s a pout on your face that Sylus wants to nibble on, not that you’re aware of the forming thoughts in his head. “No new banners. I’m stuck between Kitty Cards and the claw machines... I’m bored, Syyyyy,” you whine, stretching the last syllable for effect.

To be fair, he has tried to make it a bit more challenging for you. He stopped fucking around during Kitty Cards – no more extra two cards in exchange for one of yours, no longer placing different colored kitties deliberately in the wrong cups.

After six straight losses, your frustration is palpable. The fun is gone.

He makes audible commentaries during each of your six tries at the claw machine. Every time you manage to snag a plushie, he praises you for a job well done (It flusters you, not that he needs to know that). When your luck runs out and you grab onto nothing but air, he wryly points it out through some slight ribbing, but nothing that’s actually hurtful (This flusters you too—again, not that he needs to know any of this).

There’s nothing else to do. It’s like you’ve exhausted all you could in this small, curated window of his that you’re privy to. If only there’s a way to leave the mini-games behind, to do something new, perhaps outside of what the game has to offer…

Oh, wait.

“Hey, Sy,” you call the man to attention. “Wanna try something out?”

You beat him at Words with Friends by a small margin.

“Ha! That’s thirty-nine points, buddy.” You crow proudly, after putting down Devotees in a straight column.

He eviscerates you at Zynga Poker.

“... How are you so good at this??”

“Comes with the package, sweetie,” he says with faux-modesty after revealing (yet another!!) full house, winking like he hasn’t just wiped the floor with you.

By the end of it, both of you are in high spirits—except, maybe, for your bruised ego.

––––

“Say my name, say my name… If no one is around you, say baby I love you…”

“It’s nice to know that we have another thing in common, little dove.”

It takes you a moment to process what he’s implying.

You stop singing, affronted. “Wh—how dare you.”

––––

“Are you having fun?” Sylus asks, his tone droll as he stands there, hands on his hips and a small scowl on his face. You’re too busy spinning him around, thoroughly entertained by the number of outfits and accessories you’ve forced upon your slightly reluctant model in the photoshoot that's currently taking place.

It’s more amusing, knowing that he’s fully-aware of what’s happening. And that you know he’s aware of what’s happening.

He’s like your personal, sentient Ken doll; if Ken had ashy grey hair, red eyes, and a mercurial attitude.

“I am, actually,” you shoot back, grinning as you plop a tomato stuffie on top of his head. “Look, you two match!”

He exhales a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

Not that it stops you. Fluffy bunny ears, a fish headband, an uncharacteristic halo—you’re relentless. “Hey, can you try a different pose?”

“That depends on the pose… and how nicely you ask.”

“Dear Sylus,” you sing, jutting your bottom lip forward and fluttering your eyelashes exaggeratedly, “could you please, pretty please, flip the camera off?”

He snorts but obliges, raising his hand to deliver the most effortlessly cool middle finger you’ve ever seen. “Happy?”

Woah. That’s… hot. “Oh! Uh. Yeah. Yeah, that’s—”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your reaction. You giggle nervously. “You look… hot.”

“Mm?” His smirk grows, teasing and predatory. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” you blurt out, but the pinking of your cheeks betrays you. He’s definitely enjoying this now.

“I could be convinced to do another one,” he murmurs, voice pitching a little lower.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to say the first thing that comes to mind. Stop, you whore.

Your nerves get the best of you. Without thinking, you switch to putting the MC back on screen.

Sylus blinks, red eyes narrowing as he looks at you, perplexed.

“Uh,” you shift your gaze between her frozen stance and his idle figure. The sudden silence hangs a little heavy in the air. “Would–would you like to do poses? With her?”

He opens his mouth, an automatic response—but he stops, expression flickering into something unreadable. Confusion? Hesitation?

His brows knit together, and for a short while, he just studies you, the space between you thick with unspoken questions.

“Do you want me to?” he asks finally, his voice quieter, almost careful.

No–I don’t want you to— To pose with someone who looks so-–

perfectperfectperfect by your side—I only want to see you—

I want to see you––

Why do I care–?

I don’t care––I care, I care so much––

“Why not?” you choke out, the forced cheer in your voice grating even to your own ears. You shrug, nonchalant in all the ways you’re not. “I’ll dress her up real nice, and then—” You slap a pink bow onto his head. “You can try to keep up.”

He doesn’t move, not paying the offending accessory any attention. His gaze is solely locked onto yours.

I don’t care. I don’t.

You take the first shot.

____

“What’s the song you’re playing?”

You pause mid-mop, cocking your head to the side in slight surprise.

“Uhh– Pedestal,” you answer unsurely. “By Portishead. You like it?”

He hums, eyes glinting with interest. “I do. Play the rest.”

And just like that, you’re introducing Sylus to modern twenty-first century music—and to Spotify.

____

From that point on, Sylus begins using your Spotify account to discover a whole new world of music—quite literally, in his case. Sometimes he steals the control from you, overriding what you’re currently listening to, just to hear the most random track play from your speakers.

In the middle of a mundane afternoon while you're completely locked in at work—hyperpop synths blaring in your ears—you’re suddenly jolted by the sound of heavy mandolins as an honest-to-god Russian military march blasts through your headphones, shattering your focus like a damn rhino in a china shop.

And so with the level of patience that could put the Virgin Mary to shame, you painstakingly explain to your friend the courtesy of not stealing the proverbial AUX cord from the “driver,” especially when it’s their turn on the radio.

The two of you reach a compromise, and thus the birth of your “shared” playlist. Sylus reluctantly agrees to explore on his own time—when you’re not using the app. Like when you’re busy with other things. Or when you're asleep.

You wake up to the first strings of a Muse song. One of your favorites, in fact.

Sy-Sy (??): Good morning, sweetie.

Sy-Sy (??): Last night was enlightening. I have you to thank for that.

Sy-Sy (??): Oh, and I hope you could indulge me. I added some songs to our playlist. I think youll like them. We both seem to have a thing for alt-rock.

Sy-Sy (??): Give me time and Im sure Ill acquire a taste for electronic music too. Be patient.

You huff out a laugh, lazily rolling over as you check your shared playlist. Sure enough, there’s twelve new songs on it.

You: awe that’s great sy :)) and these songz r rly good !! u got sum of my faves here

You: based on what u like maybe u can try looking up sum david bowie, probz massive attack idk

You: i’ll add stuff later for u to listen 2!!! <2

You: <3*

Sy-Sy (??): Alright, sweetheart. Im looking forward to it.

Sy-Sy (??): ♥️

____

From the outside, the studio is just another unit among endless rows of dull grey—small and unassuming. Tucked away on the sixth floor of a nondescript building, it’s built as unremarkable as the rest.

Through a window stained with a mix of corrosive ochre and burnt sienna, there’s a quiet hum; the presence of something that wasn’t there a week ago. Life has shifted, ever so subtly, from an oppressive achroma to a much warmer vibrancy.

There’s a faint hint of movement. Inside, the young woman wears an almost-permanent smile, her phone an extension of her hand as she taps away with no semblance of rhyme nor rhythm—only in a continuous staccato. Her eyes are locked on the screen, as if drawn by an invisible force.

It’s elusive; this connection. Something beyond. Supranatural. It weaves through the room like whispered secrets shared in the dead of the night, beneath a city blanketed in deep ultramarine. Soft, like a wind brushing through a still everglade.

The apartment, once steeped in a self-inflicted solitude – one that went by unnoticed for a long period of time – comes alive as an intangible presence fills its nooks and crannies with the steady warmth of companionship. There’s a gentle heat to the space now, like the glow of an invisible hearth.

The flickering of the string lights, the muted laughter shared with a voice through the tinny speakers of a handheld device, a slight signal interference… all feel like the genesis of an impossible story.

Outside, the evening sky is fading into twilight.

And as one looks out onto the street below from the sixth floor window, it’s almost as if the world outside doesn’t quite matter anymore.

Inside, the air is full of life, in ways it has never been.

____

“Come to me, just in a dream

Come on and rescue me

Yes, I know I can be wrong

And maybe you’re too headstrong

Our love is––”

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @i2sannie @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @slyfoxtsu @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @tinyweebsstuff @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean

(if..... for some damn reason..... the tags still don't work i rly don't know what i'm doing wrong T_T i'm posting this from a macbook is that it, is the ghost of steve jobs fucking with me rn)

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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straylightdream · 24 days ago

Text

craving humanity

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: vampire!jeon wonwoo x afb.reader

You are the first person who ever made him feel human again. In all his afterlife he’s craved the feeling of being normal again.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): established relationship, romance, fluff, comfort/hurt, angst, smut

𝐚𝐮(𝐬): nonidol, vampire, soulmate

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5k

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: jeonghan is an asshole, wonwoo is struggling with wanting to be human, blood, he’s vampire so stuff that involves that, blood sharing, mentions of prostitution and paying for blood and sex

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: unprotected p in v, creampie, they’re both switches in this, hand job, biting and blood sharing during sex, vampire venom induced orgasm, overstimulation, sensory overload, wonwoo get pussy/blood drunk, dazed wonwoo almost in a sub adjacent place. Mc bites wonwoo, light breast play. Nicknames: baby, daisy (hers) baby (his)

𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+ nsfw

𝐚𝐧: I’m working on connecting stories for Jeonghan, Soonyoung, and seungcheol. Let me know if you would be interested in stories for the other boys. Thank you @aeristudios for listening to me ramble about this. Thank you @lovetaroandtaemin & @supi-wupi for beta reading this.

🎧: from eden - hoizer | limbo - keshi | just to die - keshi | I’m in love with you - the 1975

𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬.

There was nothing more in the world Jeon Wonwoo wanted other than to feel normal again. He desperately missed the feeling of his old life. He missed being able to have relationships without having to hide a part of himself. He’s been like this for too many years now. He stopped counting after the first five years of his new insatiable bloodlust. Life for Wonwoo has been far from normal since he was turned into the creature he is now. Life drastically changes when the only way to survive is drinking blood. The thing in his life that made him feel even slightly normal was his “family.” He lived with his family he chose when he turned. His little family consists of him and the twelve men who have practically become real brothers. He felt empty inside until he found someone that made him feel whole again. Meeting you made him feel like he was normal for the first time since his human life. The word soulmate gets tossed around in the underworld. Wonwoo never believed they were real until he met you.

Sitting at the kitchen table, he aimlessly scrolls through his phone, attempting to pass the time. The sound of the door opening down the hall piques his interest. He’s very aware of the fact that everyone in the house has made themselves disappear, letting him know that Seungcheol’s personal little blood bag is in the house. Wonwoo is the only one that Seungcheol allows to be around when he’s feeding. That whole situation is a mess itself. Seungcheol mentioned that Wonwoo is truly the only one who could stop him if he loses control. Wonwoo has been a vampire the longest other than their coven’s leader. The door closes again, and moments later, he watches as a tired looking girl appears from the hallway with Seungcheol right behind her with his hand resting on her back. Seungcheol and the girl don’t say anything as they leave the mansion.

It takes about ten minutes of Seungcheol being gone before Jeonghan appears. He’s sporting the same smug smile he seems to wear often these days. His long dark hair is pushed behind his ears.

“I don’t smell the blood bag anymore. Did our dear Seungcheol take her home?” Jeonghan loves to make fun of Seungcheol and the situation he has found himself in with this girl. Jeonghan finds it funny that Seungcheol tries his hardest to always take the moral high ground. Jeonghan has a disdain for humans. He’s always found them to be beneath him. Jeonghan only shows sympathy when it involves his brothers. He tends to have a soft spot toward some of the boys more than others.

“Yeah, they're gone,” Wonwoo responds.

“I feel like Seungcheol is gonna lose his mind, if he tries to keep up this little front he has of keeping things professional with this girl.” Jeonghan is the first to always criticize their leader. From the moment Seungcheol started feeding from only this one girl, Jeonghan told him he couldn’t just make this a business transaction. Jeonghan knew eventually this girl would fall in love with him, or worse, Seungcheol would fall in love.

“I’m staying out of Seungcheol’s business until he wants me in it.” Wonwoo doesn’t want to have this conversation with Jeonghan. Wonwoo tries his hardest to stay out of everyone’s business in the coven. Especially anyone’s romantic life, or lack thereof.. The last thing he needs is for any of his brothers to stick their noses in his business. Wonwoo is tired and hungry, and there is only one person he wants to see. “I’m heading out for the night. I probably won’t be back until right before sunrise.”

Jeonghan’s eyebrows knit together, “Wonwoo, you aren’t even close to subtle. What’s the difference between Seungcheol and his blood bag and yours?”

Jeonghan’s words were meant to annoy Wonwoo. Jeonghan is taking jabs at him. If his goal is to break Wonwoo, he’s doing a good job at it. He takes a slow breath, fighting the urge to snap at his older brother. Jeonghan has no room to talk; Wonwoo has smelt the same girl on him often. “It’s really the pot calling the kettle black don’t you think? Last time I checked, the strip club isn’t the ideal dinner spot?”

“I don’t play games with my food like you and Seungcheol do.” Jeonghan has a wicked smile on his face.

“No, you might not play games, but you don’t have a problem paying for her blood and sex.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “You make her sound like she’s a prostitute. I don’t pay her for sex. I pay her to drink her blood, and sometimes we fuck.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I was fucking her long before my money was involved,” Jeonghan has a wicked grin playing across his lips.

Wonwoo exhales the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I’m leaving.”

“Have fun with your blood bag,” Jeonghan shouts as Wonwoo storms out of the house.

Stepping out into the cold night air, he takes a deep breath, calming himself. If Jeonghan pushed him any further, he might have snapped his neck to put him to sleep for twelve hours.

Meeting you is quite literally the best thing that has ever happened to Wonwoo in his existence. Wonwoo has always had a love for reading. When you’ve been around as long as him, reading is a great hobby to pick up. He met you one night walking into your family bookstore. He vividly remembers seeing you for the first time. He isn’t sure if he believes in soul mates, but if they do exist, you’re his.

The moment your eyes met, you felt like sunshine in the middle of the night. There was this warmth that radiated off you. He wanted nothing more in his life than to be able to touch you.

He lucked out, and his charm worked perfectly on you. He never lied to you about what he was. During your first encounter, he informed you about his vampiric condition. He’s the first vampire you’ve properly known. You’ve never feared him, though. He never gave you a reason to be scared. He’s been gentle with you since his first touch.

At first, when you started to fall for him, you weren’t sure if it was because he had lured you with some vampire spell or something. You quickly realized you fell for him because you were supposed to. You felt connected to him like you never had before. You fell absolutely head over heels for him with little to no effort.

Walking into the book store you work in, he finds you just like he always does. You’re standing in the back putting books on the shelf. You’re dressed in a plaid skirt that goes to the middle of your calf and a loose fitting sweater. Your hair is tucked behind your ears, and your cherry colored lipstick you normally wear is faded, barely noticeable to someone who doesn’t know you like he does.

“You work too hard,” he says, catching your attention.

Immediately, you turn around and smile at the sight of him standing in the book store. He looks incredibly handsome dressed in all black and a leather jacket. Looking over at the clock, you smile at the fact your bookstore closes in ten minutes.

“Wonwoo.”

“Hello my daisy.” He always lights up when he gets to see you. “I was hoping I could stay the night with you.”

“Doesn’t staying the night entail you leaving me at four in the morning?” you responded.

“That’s a minor detail, my sweet girl.” He steps closer to you. His hands grip your hips, tugging you closer to him. His hand goes under your chin, tilting your head up. “I have missed you so much.”

“You saw me two days ago.” Your eyes stay focused on his black ones. The first time you saw his dark eyes, they startled you for a moment, but you soon found yourself craving a chance to be able to look into them.

“I miss you whenever I’m not near you.”

“That's good, because I miss you too.”

“Did you want to wait here while I close up the store?” You lean forward so your nose is brushing his.

“Absolutely.” He smiles before he presses his lips to yours for a heated kiss.

Your nights together normally consist of the two of you being locked up in your apartment together. The majority of your time together is spent naked, but you won’t ever complain about that. When it comes to Wonwoo, you will take anything you can get.

Pulling you close, he kisses his way up from the valley between your breast up to your neck. He drags his tongue across your pulse point, sending a shiver down your spine. Tilting your head to the side, you give him more access to your skin. His teeth drag slowly across your delicate skin, but never pierce through. He groans, pulling away from you. Something has clearly upset him. His mind is in a million different places. You can see he's frustrated and trying to keep it together.

“Baby what’s wrong?” He moves away from you and sits with his back against the headboard. You aren’t sure you have ever seen him this conflicted. He’s normally so controlled with his emotions.

“Jeonghan said some shit to piss me off, and I’m just trying to keep calm.” You know with Wonwoo’s strength he always has to keep his emotions in check so he doesn’t do something to hurt you. Crawling across your bed, you move so you’re sitting on his lap. His hardened cock sits right between your legs. Resting your hand on his cold cheek, you tilt his head so he’s looking at you. “You know I don’t play games with you, right?” He whispers.

Knitting your eyebrows together, you’re confused on what he means. “I know you don’t.”

“Jeonghan made a comment about me playing games with you. I don’t want you to ever feel like I’m just using you to feed.” You have no clue why he would ever think that. You know that you mean more to him than just a source of food. “I’ll stop drinking from you if you want. But I just want you to know that I truly love you.”

You take his face in both your hands, calming him down. Your touch has always been soothing to him. “Wonwoo, I never thought you were just using me to drink from me. I know you love me; if you didn’t love me, I wouldn’t let you drink from me.”

“Just hearing what Jeonghan said and then watching Seungcheol struggle with whatever is going on with his girl made it feel like my head was spinning.”

“I need you to talk to me when you’re feeling like this. Wonwoo, I love you so much. I know you aren’t just using me.” Your heart aches at just the thought that Wonwoo was afraid he was using you.

“Falling for you feels like uncharted territory for me. Sure as a human, I had romantic relationships, but as a vampire, I have never let myself get attached to humans. I was very good at disconnecting emotions from sex and feeding.”

“I’m sorry I complicated things.”

“Baby, don’t ever be sorry. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.” He leans into your hand.

Reaching between down, your hand circles his large length. Slowly, you start stroking him. Biting his bottom lip, he holds back a moan.

“I want to make you feel good.” You want to take care of him.

“You always make me feel good.” Lifting your hips, you guide yourself to his blush colored tip.

Slowly, you sink down onto his large length, and the stretch you feel is absolutely intoxicating. Wonwoo is by far the biggest man you have been with. His cock is not only long, but it’s thick. The first time you were intimate with him, you couldn’t help but wonder if all vampires had this anatomy, or if he was just blessed.

He’s practically kissing your cervix once he fills you.

Leaning forward, you press your lips to his. Rolling your hips forward, your clit brushes against his pelvis. Your lips move from his mouth down his jaw, stopping at the side of his neck. Just where he likes to bite you. Running your tongue along where his pulse point would be.

“Would you taste as sweet as you say I do?” Wonwoo said the first time he tasted you, he knew you were his soulmate. He said a normal person's blood to him tastes like strong red wine with a metallic after taste. According to him, you taste like strawberries with champagne.

“I would—“ he lets out a heavy sigh.

Pressing your teeth against his delicate skin you nip at his neck. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to tease him.

Lifting your hips you sink down at a quick pace. “I love you—“

Wonwoo's brain feels fuzzy. The only thing he can think of is you. The way that you touch him. The way you nip at his skin. Your sweet intoxicating words have turned any coherent thought to mush.

He’s never had a desire for someone to bite him during sex, but suddenly, he wants you to know how he tastes.

“Shoulder—“ he mumbles. He’s given up control. He wants you to take care of him. He needs you to help center him.

You don’t say anything, you hold your wrist up to his mouth. You’re offering yourself on a silver platter.

Grabbing your wrist, he bites down. His venom takes away the slight pain instantly. Moaning, you close your eyes. His venom spreads through your bloodstream, instantly sending an icy hot wave of pleasure through your body.

Pulling your wrist from his mouth, he leaves kitten licks against the bite marks.

“Do you want a taste?” He’s never shared blood with a human before, but it’s now the only thing he can think about.

Continuing to roll your hips you moan out a broken “yes.”

Leaning his head to the side, he gives you access to his delicate skin. “Bite my shoulder.”

His hands grab your hips, helping guide you up and down his length.

Pressing your chest to his, your lips part, and a moan escapes. You’re having a sensory overload. The ecstasy of his venom floating in your veins and your orgasm that won’t seem to stop. Your head slumps forward and your lips brush the top of his muscular shoulder. Taking a deep breath through your nose, your teeth sink into his skin. Your teeth pierce through, and the taste of strawberries and champagne hits your tongue.

He moans your name like a prayer, holding you down pressed to his hips. Your tongue laps at the bite. He tastes just as good as you thought he would.

The prettiest moan passes his lips. He fills you with his milky release. He’s practically shaking below you.

Pulling back, you look down at his wound that is already starting to heal.

He looks dazed. His eyes slowly open, and a half smile forms on his lips. Reaching up, he drags his thumb across your bottom lip, collecting his blood. Parting your lips, he presses his thumb against your tongue. Without thinking you suck his sweet blood off his digit.

Pulling his thumb away, he leans in and gives you a gentle kiss. “I don’t think I have ever come that hard in my existence.” He sounds less dazed.

“I was on the verge of over stimulation.”

“You’re a little bloody; we should probably shower.”

He looks up at the blackout curtains that you installed as soon as you started things with him. He’s always wanted to stay and not have to worry about rushing away before the sun is bright. After last night, he doesn’t want to leave you just because the sun is up.

“The sun will be up soon,” you say, noticing he’s staring at the window. This is always the hardest part with him.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he says, reaching out to drag his thumb across your cheek. “I want to stay with you.”

“Then don’t leave me. I don’t have to work today, so we can stay in bed all day together.”

“Do you really feel like being trapped in your room all day?”

“I installed back out curtains in the living area as well. My whole house is safe for you.” From the very beginning, you’ve always tried your hardest to accommodate him. After your first night together you bought curtains for your room.

“I love you.” Those are three words he never said to another woman since he was turned.

“I love you too.”

You’ve been pressed up close to him on the couch for the last hour. After staying up all night with him, you’re absolutely exhausted. You’re dressed in just a bralette and a pair of panties, and he’s only in his underwear.

“Jihoon pointed something out.” He runs his hand up and down your back slowly.

“What did he say?” You’ve never met any of his brothers, but you’ve heard so much about them. You feel as if you know them now.

“He mentioned that at some point I need to give you the option to be turned.” That wasn’t what you were expecting him to say.

“Oh, this is about me being a vampire?” This got brought up one night when Wonwoo took care of you while you were drunk. You went out with some old college friends. You drank way more than you could handle, and in your drunken state, you called Wonwoo to pick you up. Laying in your bed, probably the drunkest you've ever been, you were babbling on and on about how sexy he is as a vampire. You begged him right then and there to turn you.

“I want to turn you, but at the same time, I don’t want to turn you. I don’t want you to feel like you’re sired to me.”

“Would it make you my master?”

“In some ways. But I would never use the ability to manipulate you or anything like that. It would just mean essentially we’re bonded.”

Reaching out, you aimlessly draw shapes over where his heart is located. “Would it be different if we’re soulmates?”

“Jihoon said we would just both feel intensely connected. Even more drawn to each other than we already are.”

“I want to be with you forever. I’m okay with you turning me one day. Do you not want me to be a vampire with you?”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you to do this. I have no problem staying by your side the entirety of your human life.”

“Wouldn’t it be a little weird if your wife gets old and you stay young and hot?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t me dying hurt you? I don’t know much about this whole soulmate thing. I just assume one of the partners passing would hurt more than a normal death of a spouse.”

“Jihoon said it could make me feel like I’m going crazy. That my humanity could slip away.”

“I think that’s the only excuse we need for you to turn me.”

“My sweet daisy. I need you to think about this.”

“I have. I’m not asking you to turn me tonight. Maybe in like a year you can.”

“Okay. I need to let Cheol know about our plan. He’s very against any of us turning anyone. I feel like we're an exception.”

Leaning up, you press your lips to his jaw. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I don’t want to go home yet.”

“You don’t have to leave anytime soon. I have to work tomorrow, but you can stay here. Maybe while I work you could get some proper sleep.” The worst thing about being with Wonwoo is saying goodbye. Him not being able to go in the sun and having to come in go in the middle of the night breaks your heart.

“I can stay one more day before I have to go back. Things are tough right now with Seungcheol. Jeonghan isn’t making things easy on him either.”

“Sounds like Jeonghan doesn’t make things easy for anyone.” Jeonghan is the only one of his brothers that Wonwoo doesn’t want you to meet.

“He has a soft spot for Soonyoung and that’s about it.”

“Let’s not think about Jeonghan anymore. Let’s just enjoy each other's company.”

“Okay, daisy.”

You are quite possibly the best thing that could have happened to Wonwoo. He’s desperately in love with you, but that isn’t it. You make him feel human again. You give him that sense of humanity he desperately craves.

If you have asked to be tagged I request that you please reblog. If you could leave comments and or tags that would be greatly appreciated.

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radiant-reid · 1 year ago

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Reunion

Summary: JJ never knew you were dating one of her teammates and that you broke up because of her, but seeing him at JJ's wedding years later changes things.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader (Angst then smutttt)

Content Warning: 18+ Smut (oral- f receiving, fingering, unprotected sex, a little bit of a breeding kink)

Word Count: 2.1k

"So, how's mystery boy?"

After skipping your usual Tuesday night plans twice, thanks to JJ being away on cases, you're finally back in your best friend's living room having a glass of wine and a cheese platter.

It's been an abnormal amount of time to go without seeing each other since you both ended up in DC after moving out of East Allegheny to different colleges. Even with men in the mix now, you both make it a priority to see each other as often as possible. However, her busy schedule and frequent flights to New Orleans have meant you've spent some time apart.

Unknown to her, she knows the so-called mystery boy. Very well, in fact. "He's well." You say slyly, unable not to grin widely.

JJ throws her head back dramatically. "Come on, Y/n! Some detail would be nice."

"It's good." You try again. "He's the sweetest. I'm very happy."

She smirks, letting you know an interesting question is coming your way. "How's the sex?"

It never takes more than a glass of wine for her to be that loose. You don't miss a beat in your answer. "Fabulous."

"Okay, so can I meet him soon?" She pushes like she has been for quite some time.

You wonder what she would think. What would her expression do if you were to say his name out loud right here? Maybe it's not that deep but getting with JJ's closest colleague is dangerous. It was a concern at the start, a reason not to start, but you fell in love with Spencer Reid quicker than you could ever imagine.

"Sure, JJ." You agree, trying to look positively about it. You can only assume she's thinking about the worst possible scenario about your mystery man. He's a criminal or he's far too old for you or he's an ex you promised not to get back with. There are too many options.

She looks triumphant. "Yes!"

You just smile, sending the conversation in a different direction by asking about her boyfriend. He sounds like a great guy and you can tell she's happier than ever before.

Three months ago you met Spencer Reid. It was JJ's birthday and your duty as her best friend to throw her a fun surprise party. That took some coordination with a friend from work. Firstly, that was Penelope, but in order to lure JJ, you needed Spencer Reid. He was a little slow with replying to your texts, but lovely. And after you met him, you were hooked.

Spencer was perfect. Gorgeous, funny, intelligent. His incredible shyness had you confused when he asked you out for dinner the next morning.

Too many espresso martinis provide an explanation for why JJ has no recollection of you flirting with him all night.

You see Spencer as much as you can, but similar to JJ's, his schedule often doesn't allow for consistent visits. So whatever time you do have, you make the most of it. He's still the most amazing boyfriend you've had. Kind, caring, witty, fun, and playful.

He gets whisked away on a case to Miami not long after being home. You didn't know things would be so different the next time you saw him.

He goes quiet on you. You know their cases are intense but you haven't heard from him in an entire week and that's not right.

Can I come over? He finally texts you and you're guessing he's back in DC.

It sounds a little ominous and the message sends a chill down your spine. Sure. I can't wait to see you. There isn't a reply and you sit in limbo in your apartment for almost an hour before he knocks at the door.

You smile when you open it, although you're slightly annoyed there was zero communication or ETA from him. "Hey, Spence, how was it?"

"You knew." He says in a cold, accusatory tone. It's nothing you've ever heard from him.

"Sorry?" You repeat, moving to the side so he can come into your apartment.

He steps in, barely looking at you. "About JJ and Will." He explains.

A little frown takes over your expression. Surely he's not angry that he only just found out. An awkward laugh leaves your lips. "Sorry, Spence. She didn't want anyone knowing."

"I'm your boyfriend!" He exclaims. "You're not supposed to lie to me."

"I didn't." You join the offensive, crossing your arms. You're not enthused about what he's accusing you of. It wasn't even your secret to tell him.

He looks disappointed, face dropping. "Come on." He sighs. "How am I meant to be with you if you don't trust me enough to tell me who our friend is dating?"

"It wasn't my secret to tell." You try to talk some reason into him, pushing down that sick feeling in your stomach telling you that he's breaking up with you.

Spencer shakes his head, his decision- as much as it's killing him- completely made. "I can't do this."

His words make your world come crashing down and you almost can't believe it. You slump to the couch while he makes his way to the door with sad, slow footsteps.

He's looking at you, waiting for you to ask him to say. "Can we not tell JJ?" You ask softly.

"Fine." That's the last thing he tells you before walking out the door, shutting it firmly.

That's it.

The last thing Spencer tells you.

Then he's gone from your life. You talk about him less to JJ and she picks up on what happened and stops asking about him.

You expect to see him when Henry's born, or even at a point in his life. Somehow, you don't. Your schedules never line up and then JJ switches jobs. There's a myriad of reasons but it doesn't happen. You both go on with separate lives.

And then JJ and Will are getting married. You get a frantic call from your best friend's soon-to-be-husband who whispers secret plans to you over the phone. It's perfect, you know JJ will adore the simplicity and elegance of a backyard wedding.

You're there as soon as you can be, helping set up Rossi's backyard so it's gorgeous for the most gorgeous person you know.

You're the maid of honor, of sorts. And you don't get a chance to ask who the best man is before JJ arrives and the ceremony begins.

You strike out as soon as you spot a tall brunette. A tall brunette who made you the happiest you've ever been with a man. And he's still just as handsome.

His eyes bulge when he sees you but he keeps a straight face and clenches his teeth while the ceremony continues. You're mostly focused on how beautiful JJ looks and how sweet their wedding is, but you can't help your mind drifting to Spencer.

You hadn't seen him dressed up like this when you were dating and the tuxedo is a perfect look on him.

"Y/n." He comes up to you when you're getting yourself a glass of champagne.

"Spencer." You reply. His tone doesn't let much about how he's feeling on. All you get is a glimmer of shock.

He stands against the table. "Maid of honor?"

You shrug, a little confused at his question. "You know, I'm surprised I haven't seen you all these years." You admit, letting some honesty slip.

"It was slightly intentional." He offers.

You don't let it offend you. "Best man?"

"I think that means we're supposed to sleep together."

You nearly spit out your sip of wine. There's no way the shy Spencer Reid you once knew just said that.

"We've done that." You reply, trying to keep a straight face after the out-of-pocket comment.

Spencer tilts his head to the side. "You're right."

You really don't know how it happens. Maybe it's a few too many drinks. There's definitely not enough alcohol in your bloodstream to solely blame that. Spencer Reid is as hot as they get. And it's been... longer than you're willing to admit since you've had sex. Even longer since it was good sex.

So there isn't anything telling you to stop when Spencer pushes you up against the door of a room in Rossi's house, lips firmly against yours.

Your dress is hiked up around your waist while his fingers trace up and down your thigh before he even thinks about locking the door. Both of you are far too wrapped up in the moment to think securely.

His hands are quick to the zip of your dress, sliding it down effortlessly and letting it pool at your feet. He takes a moment to look at you and you have to admit, you're a little worried about his reaction. You don't doubt Spencer Reid can pull beautiful women.

"God, you're gorgeous." He says softly, juxtaposing the way he's practically clawing your clothes off you.

"Are you going to compliment me or fuck me like you promised you would?" You ask him, waltzing over to the bed and sitting on the edge.

Spencer smirks at your smart mouth. "You asked for it."

He's kneeling on the floor in front of the bed in seconds, with no regard for his suit pants being wrinkled, just on his knees. There's a sense of urgency that doesn't allow for the time for him to take your panties off so he opts for shifting them to the side.

There's also no time to waste as his tongue melds with your folds, tracing patterns. No one has ever come close to giving head like Spencer does. It's truly mindblowing, the pressure of his tongue and the suction method he uses. You're instantly in bliss, head thrown back against the covers as you moan.

You've lost it when his fingers enter you, pushing past with little resistance. "Holy shit, Spencer. You're incredible."

"Sing my praises." He says against your pussy.

You do. Not even possessing the ability to be embarrassed about it.

And you don't stop. You're withering and moaning on the bed, tugging his curls while he continues pleasing you. Eventually, it's too much. His fingers pumping in and out of you combined with his tongue wrapped around your clit have you finishing in no time.

"Still as good as I remember." As if he couldn't get any hotter, he sucks his fingers into his mouth.

Spencer rises from his knees, now much taller than you. You tug your underwear off before unclipping your bra. "Fuck me, Spencer." You reach out for his belt buckle, toying with it. "Please."

Spencer has lost the shy, timid nature he had the first few times you had sex and he quickly takes off his belt and pants. Once his suit jacket is tossed across the room, Spencer pulls your legs to the end of the bed, making sure you wrap your ankles around his waist. His hands rest on either side of your head and you're precisely where you want to be.

"You're so hot." You tell him with a smirk.

He grins, spreading your legs and inching inside you. The look on his face is an instant confidence boost. Clearly, he's a man in bliss, head thrown back and tongue parting his lips.

"Fuck." He pants.

You agree, barely able to speak from how hard he's pounding you and how good it feels. Although it's annoying to admit, you've never had as good sex as with Spencer.

Your hands wrap around his forearms, noticeably bigger than last time. "Spencer." You moan. "Please. So good."

He caresses your chest, paying attention to your boobs like he hadn't before. "Y/n." He groans, not slowing his pace up. His hips snap against yours with each thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing throughout the room. "Can I?" He asks.

It's unlike you to have even let him start without protection but you're not thinking straight enough. All you know is you need Spencer. "Please."

He finishes as deep inside you as he can get, leaning down to kiss you softly. You're breathless like he is when he flops down next to you.

One of Spencer's palms touches your cheek, forcing you to look at him rather than the ceiling. "Hey, pretty girl." He says softly and it makes your heart flip in a way it shouldn't. "Can I take you on a date, Y/n?"

The smile creeping onto your face can't be helped. "Yes. Please."

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fandom #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x reader

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sitepathos · 8 months ago

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From Gold to Mold

Chapter 4: The Deal (Warning: this chapter will feature violence. Read at your own risk)

A/N: had free time this week to produce this. Next week is chock full of tests and midterms, so this’ll probably be the last chapter for some time. Enjoy! Also, I’m sorry to those who asked to be added to the tag list and weren’t. I tried to add many of you, but Tumblr wasn’t able to find your blog for whatever reason.

When you open your eyes, darkness goes on forever in all directions, the only thing you can see is yourself. Where are you and how did you get here?

“Hello,” you call out, hoping someone is nearby to hear you, not caring who hears you just as long as someone comes to you. “Is there anyone here?”

Nothing, which you expected, but you had hoped against reality that someone was here… wherever here is. The cold air surges through your body and you shiver, your teeth chattering, echoing in the void.

“What happened,” you ask yourself. “How’d I get here?”

Just then, your memory kicks in and images and words assault your mind all at once: walking through the East End, the three thugs, the dirty shack in the middle of the woods you had been dragged to, and—

“Oh my god,” you say as the final memory flashes before your eyes. “They killed me.”

That’s right, the flash of the muzzle and the sound of the gunshot still rattling in your head. And if you think hard enough, you can vaguely remember falling to the floor after the bullet entered your head.

“Wait,” you say, realizing something very important. “If they shot me, then why am I here?”

Sure, you aren’t religious (all beliefs in a just and loving god died after you lost your Momma and was forced to live in an abusive and neglectful household for thirteen years), but this dark and neverending void is a far cry from the bright and golden imagery that’s always been associated with heaven. And this sure isn’t the fire and brimstone that comes to mind when you think of hell. So, is this purgatory? Or limbo? You never could keep the two straight.

Is this your fate? To spend the rest of your afterlife alone in this abyss? Why couldn’t you just cease altogether? Was it too much to ask that you just close your eyes and never wake from your eternal slumber?

You realize you’re crying and you’re amazed that after crying so much throughout your life, you still have plenty of tears to shed, even in the afterlife. But that’s been your lot in life since you lost Momma: to be the world’s punching bag.

“Such powerful emotions,” a familiar voice says.

You look up in shock and see your Momma, looking exactly the same as the day she was taken from you.

“Momma,” you exclaim, rushing to her and embracing her, squeezing her as hard as your arms will allow, afraid that if you let go, she’ll disappear.

“This form brings out such joy, sadness, and loss in you,” she says. “Feelings from someone alive are far more vibrant than from someone deceased.”

“What,” you asks, looking up at her in confusion, but when you do, it’s not your Momma you see looking down at you, but Bruce. You let go of the man as quick as you can and put a bit of distance between the two of you.

“What did you do to my Momma, you son of a bitch,” you shout in disgust.

“This form brings out such anger, pain, and hatred in you,” Bruce says, looking you up and down as if dissecting you like a damn lab experiment. “How interesting.”

“What the hell are you talking about? How’d you get here and what did you do to Momma?”

“And it’s not just this form.” You see movement all around you and in perfect unison, the other members of the Wayne Family appear from the void. “You hold these forms in equal amounts of hatred and contempt.”

“You deem this one a failure,” Bruce says.

“This one a hypocrite,” Dick says.

“This one a brute,” Jason says.

“This one a know-it-all,” Tim says.

“This one a stranger,” Barbara says.

“This one annoying,” Stephanie says, before turning to Cassandra. “And while you’ve never heard that one speak, you deem her a freak.”

“And you deem this one a monster,” Damian says. He gestures to Bruce. “You hate this form and that one in equal measure, far surpassing the others.”

You see another figure step out of the void and when you make out the face, it’s Alfred. You feel relief surge through your body, happy to see the butler; if there’s anyone who you can depend on, it’s him.

“While this one serves the others, you hold great respect for this form,” Alfred says. “Although, you hold a not insignificant amount of resentment towards him.”

Your heart skips a little at the accusation. No, you love the man, who took the place of a father when Bruce failed to fill the void left by your Momma’s death; sure, you’ve had the occasional thought that if the man was given a choice between you and them, he’d choose them over you since he’s always helping them, but he’s always been there for you since day one!

“No,” you say, pleading with the man. “Alfred, I don’t!”

“But you do,” the butler responds. “According to you, he is the true master of your prison, but instead of using his power to make them acknowledge your existence, he allows them to continue parading through Gotham, fighting criminals.”

“You also believe all these forms belong in Arkham,” Bruce adds. “And that you wish to be the one to subject them to electroshock therapy.”

You finally realize that something’s wrong here. All of them have never been in your presence long enough for you to say how you feel about them (not that they’d care, anyway) and you’ve never told Alfred how you often daydream of locking them away in Gotham, strapping them to metal chairs, and flipping the switch to send hundreds of volts through their skulls, hoping to shock them into being decent human beings. All this has been kept in your head for well over a decade.

So, how the hell did they know all this?

“You’re not them, are you?”

“No,” Not-Bruce answers. “We only took the forms of those you see before you.”

“Then who the fuck are you,” you growl. “And where the fuck am I?”

“We have no name,” Not-Alfred says.

“We are one, and yet we are many,” Not-Damian finishes.

“It is impossible to define a being such as us,” Not-Jason chimes in.

“Alright, that doesn’t answer my question,” you mutter to yourself, but say it loud enough for them to hear. “Then answer me this: where am I? The last thing I remember was being shot by three thugs.”

“Yes, we know of your attack,” Not-Stephanie says.

“As for your question, we are appearing to you in your mind,” Not-Bruce says.

“My mind,” you exclaim. “How?”

“When you appeared to us, we reached out and established a link with you,” Not-Tim explains. “It is from there that we were able to peer into your mind and see your memories.”

“My memories,” you ask, dumbfounded.

“Yes,” Not-Damian responds. “Through your memories, we saw these forms and assumed them. We thought it would be more preferable for you to speak to us if we took the appearance of the people who have the most influence on your life.”

“If you looked through my memories, then you should know I want nothing to do with any of them,” you snap at them.

“We know now that we were in error,” Not-Bruce responds, a ghost of a smile gracing his face. “We owe you many thanks. Never before have we been put into a situation where have known the sensation of being incorrect. We will ponder this experience for years to come.”

“So, what do you really look like.”

All of them look at one another, unsure how to answer your question.

“We are not sure if you wish to see our true form,” Not-Alfred responds.

“While you are the first sentient being we’ve interacted with in our entire existence, we know that our true form is something many of your kind would consider… terrifying,” Not-Stephanie adds.

“I don’t care,” you snap. “I’m not talking to any of you while you look like this and I sure as hell don’t want you taking Momma’s form! And if we’re going to talk, we’re gonna do it face to face!”

“Very well,” Not-Bruce acquiesces.

And with that, everything fades to black and for a moment, you’re scared you’ll be left here in the dark by yourself again. Maybe you should’ve let them stay like that.

Just then, above you, you see an odd red glow. You look up and you feel your blood freeze, your heart stop, and the air catches in your lungs. Above you is a giant mass of red, bioluminescent flesh hanging from a cave ceiling, thick black tendrils extruding from it and digging deep into the surrounding rock, allowing it to remain suspended in the cavern. And if that didn’t freak you out enough, you can see the flesh obviously resembles the shape of a fetus in the fetal position. This thing looks like something out of an H.P. Lovecraft novel.

“Holy shit,” is all you can say.

“We told you you would not approve of our true form,” it says, its voice beaming directly into your mind.

“What are you,” you ask, still awestruck at the sight before you.

“We are have no name,” it responds. “But, with the knowledge we have accumulated over the centuries, we suppose you can call us the Megamycete.”

“Megamycete?”

“Yes, we are a supercolony of sentient fungus that has existed for over four-hundred years.”

“Four-hundred years? That’s as long as Gotham’s been around.”

“We have existed as the city above. When its founders first arrived, we were nothing more than a collection of small, independent and unaware colonies of mold. Not long after the first buildings were built, an earthquake shook the area and revealed something we now know as a ‘Lazarus Pit,’ a pool of green, luminescent liquid that possesses remarkable restorative properties, and the colonies that would become us were plunged into it.”

“And this pit made you the way that you are?”

“The pit made us aware, but it did not give us our intelligence. With our enhanced capabilities, we were able to spread out our roots beyond the mountain. Not long after, we discovered the corpses of the first of Gotham’s citizens, buried after they drew their last breath; when our roots came into contact with their bodies, we found we had the ability to archive the knowledge, memories, and even DNA of the deceased. We became obsessed with growing our archive, so as Gotham grew over the years, so did our roots; overtime, we archived hundreds of its deceased, increasing our intelligence and knowledge of the outside world. Now, our roots touch every part of this city, becoming one with it, not only archiving the remains of its living, but seeing and hearing everything that goes on within its boundaries.”

“So,” you say, your mouth becoming dry at your newfound knowledge. “You’re like some fungal god?”

“While we know many of your kind may consider a being such as us god, we hold no illusion of being a divine entity. We think of ourselves as an immortal observer.”

As you attempt to process this information, your mind brings something to your attention and you feel your heart stop when you realize it. You really don’t want to know the answer, but there’s that damn stubborn part of you that has… no, it needs to know.

“So,” you begin, trying to summon the courage to ask your question. “Earlier, you said all of this is going on in my head, right?”

“Yes, our roots were able to establish a link with you and allow us to convene with you in your mind.”

“So, if we’re in my head right now, where’s me? I mean, my body?”

Although the Megamycete doesn’t have eyes, nor does it turn anything that resembles a head, you can feel it shift its awareness to the side, as if looking at something. You feel yourself break into a cold sweat as you slowly turn your head to the left, wondering what exactly you’re going to find.

And when you do, your greeted by a sight that makes you feel as if the world around you had crumbled away and you’ve been left behind to float in the void left behind: you, lying in a mess of tendrils composed of mold, broken, battered, and bloody; your limbs lying in directions they’re definitely not supposed to be in, your eyes glazed over, and a gaping bullet hole in your left temple.

“Oh my god,” you shout, utterly horrified at the sight before you. “Oh my god!”

“We saw the torture those three criminals subjected you to. Their leader was quite thorough in inflicting damage.”

“So that’s it, huh?” While this is all just some projection in your head, you feel like you’re hyperventilating. “This is how it ends: being eaten by some sentient mushroom and becoming a part of it? Doomed to spend the rest of eternity tethered to this damn city? I survive in a place where you’re likely to be killed by some trigger-happy murder clown and his psycho-ass whore while getting your mail and some two-bit thug is what does me in?”

“If you look closer, you will find that you are still alive.”

You practically snap your head to look back at your body and sure enough, you can see your chest moving up and down. It may not be much, but it’s there.

“I’m alive,” you ask, shocked at the sight of you breathing.

“You still live,” it answers back. “Your life force is low, but still there.”

“But how? He shot me in the head and then threw me down here! People don’t live after something like that!”

“While a gunshot to the head is normally fatal, our archive shows us two revelations: that the bullet did not go through your brain, but graze it and that the bullet used was of a lower caliber. While the wound was grievous, you still had a chance of surviving it. As for the fall into our chamber, your body was caught onto our roots as it fell, slowing it down and allowing it to land with diminished force.”

“But I’m still going to die, right?”

“Yes,” it answers, seemingly sympathetic. “If you were in a proper hospital, you could recover, but right now, your body is slowly shutting down. By the time anyone found you, you would long be deceased.”

So, you survive attempted murder, but you’ll still die in the end.

“Fuck,” you mutter. “Wasn’t the end I had in mind.”

“What did you have in mind for your death,” the Megamycete asks.

“Shouldn’t you know what i had in mind for my death?”

“We do, but our knowledge shows us talking to the dying brings a form of comfort to them. Plus, this is the first time we have had the chance to interact with a living mortal. We wish to prolong the experience as much as possible.”

You chuckle at that. “I thought I would spend my final days back home in Goodsprings, sitting in the big recliner Momma bought for me. I use to spend Saturday mornings in it, eating cereal and watching cartoons.” You smile at the memory of the chair. “It was a damn good chair.”

“We see it, a brown cushioned seat, perfect for watching television or reading books.”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Would’ve been perfect to spend my last days in.”

“Perhaps you still can.”

You look up at the Megamycete. “What?”

“We offer you a deal: we will repair your body and give you the strength to leave this chamber and rejoin the outside world.”

“And you’ll get what?”

“You become our host.”

“What,” you balk. “Host?”

“Yes, we will entangle ourselves with your very being, becoming as one.”

“And why the hell would I agree to that,” you exclaim. “You fix my body just to take it over? No deal!”

“You misunderstand. We will not override your control over your body. We will be nothing more than a spectator in your life, seeing but being powerless to intervene. In addition to being restored to your former glory, you will gain access not only to our vast archive of knowledge, but gain abilities many of your kind would consider supernatural.”

That certainly cools your temper. “So, you fix me up and give me superpowers, but all you get in return is front row seats to my life. Sounds like I’m the only one benefitting from this deal.”

“On the contrary, we stand to gain just as much as you do. For over four-hundred years, we could see the outside world, but not join it. With each new corpse we archived, we began to desire a way to interact with the world firsthand and not by mere memories. You are our solution to this dilemma. Through you, we will know what it means to feel the sun on our face, or to taste the finest meals, or to hear a symphony.”

The Megamycete’s words shock you to your core. You guess if you were stuck in this cavern for four centuries and only knew of a world beyond it through memories, you’d do anything to experience it, too.

“Please, Y/N, we beg you to accept our deal. We promise everything we are, from our archive to our longevity, will be at your disposal. You will be stronger, smarter, and better than those who thought less of you. In comparison to you, they will be nothing more than mere ants.”

You’ve thought about showing the Waynes up for years, to be able to pay Jason back for that black eye, to make Tim feel like a complete idiot, and especially to make Damian feel inferior in every way possible.

“We can do that for you. With us at your side, you’ll attain a level of perfection they could never dream of. All we want is to be able to witness this firsthand.”

“Alright,” you relent. “If all you want is to go outside in exchange for making me better than them, you have a deal.”

“We thank you, Y/N,” it says, sounding incredibly happy. Relieved, even.

And with that, your world fades to black once again and when you open your eyes, you find that you’re back in your body, feelings of pain overwhelming your senses, making it hard to concentrate on the Megamycete pressing its tendrils into you. You watch in total awe as the giant, fetus-like mass that is the Megamycete begin to shrink and when you look down where the tendrils are embedded in your skin, you can see a black substance being injected into under your skin. The more of the substance being pumped into your body, the smaller the Megamycete gets.

That’s when you feel weird all over, like every cell in your body is transforming into something else. While not painful, per se, it’s an incredibly odd sensation.

(Your body is becoming one with our mold,) you hear the Megamycete explain in your head. (Not only will it repair the damage that was done to you, you will find that you are far more durable than any mere mortal and have the ability to change your form into any that is stored in our archive, both man or beast.)

“Wait, you’re saying I can shapeshift?”

(If that is what you wish to call our mimetic abilities, then yes, you may “shapeshift.”)

When the last of the mold was transferred to you, you find your body stitching itself up and the incredible pain you were in fading fast, like it was never there. You see a puddle of water lying nearby and when you look in it, you see that all your injuries are gone, even the scar on your left check that Damian gave you three years ago. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it never happened at all.

And not only do you look better, you feel better! You wouldn’t say you were the healthiest person ever, but you tried to stay somewhere in between active and sedentary; sure you weren’t going to be running any marathons, but you were able to climb the many stairwells at school when the elevator took too long. Now, however, you felt like you could run and win a marathon, or climb up a mountain without climbing gear, or swim the English Channel during a hurricane! And you didn’t feel better physically, but intellectually as well! Gotham, for all it many flaws, has attracted the best artists, architects, doctors, engineers, musicians, scientists, and more; you feel your mind being rushed with the knowledge and memories of countless people throughout the ages, ranging from the city’s early days to now. Hell, you even have access to the memories and knowledge of some of Bruce’s greatest employees, giving you knowledge on much on Wayne Enterprises’ tech and projects that he’s spared no expense in keeping under wraps. Maybe you can get a pretty penny from Lex Corp in exchange for this information since everyone knows Bruce and Lex are bitter rivals and are constantly trying to one-up each other, with Bruce, unfortunately, often being the winner in their battles to develop the next technological development.

“I feel like I could run circles around Einstein,” you laugh, completely blown away with your newfound intellect. Right now, you feel like you could write a symphony that would make Beethoven feel inadequate while at the same time painting a masterpiece that would eclipse the Mona Lisa and designing a fusion reactor capable of powering the entire country. You look around the cavern, looking and not seeing a way out. “Now how do I get out of here?”

(There is a passage directly above you.) You look up to see a big hole in the chamber’s ceiling. (That is how you ended up here when those three threw you in here. Our archives have absorbed many of Gotham’s birds. Any one of them should give you the power to fly out of the chamber.)

The mention of the three thugs remind you of your stolen pen and Game Boy, which then fills you with rage. You’ve never liked thieves and the thought of your Momma’s treasured pen and your gift from your thoughtful boss in the hands of such lowlifes gives you even more of a reason to hate them. By now, they could be anywhere, maybe even outside of the city for fear of your disappearance being reported (mostly by Alfred, the only person left in Gotham who would give a damn).

(Remember our roots span all of Gotham,) the Megamycete says. (Through them, we have seen and heard all that occurs in this city. As our host, you now have access to them. All you have to do is reach out and think of who you wish to find.)

Following its advice, you reach out and feel the roots that entangle Gotham like a spider web. As soon as you do, you’re overwhelmed with sights and sounds from every corner of the city.

(Focus on the three,) it advises you. (If you concentrate on who exactly you want, the roots will do the rest.)

It takes some doing, but you manage to push aside the multitude of people that are in your mind’s eye and focus on the three kidnappers. You’re taken across the city, rushing past the many buildings and stopping at some seedy building in Coventry. Your newfound knowledge of Gotham tells you this is the My Alibi bar, a place for Gotham’s criminals to get together to eat, trade gossip, and find work.

With your destination known, you search through the Megamycete’s archives and something to get you out of here and find something that should do the job: crows. Your body manifests into a murder of crows and takes off in perfect unison, keeping in formation. It’s extremely weird to be a bunch of birds; you know that what was once your body is now numerous birds, but while you’re multiple birds, you’re still one person. You can see through all their eyes all at once and change their flight path and they actually do it like it’s nothing. In a matter of seconds, you’re on the surface, flying above the forest and looking down at the twinkling lights of Gotham’s buildings.

“You know, from above, that cesspit actually looks kinda pretty.”

(We thank you, Y/N. We never thought we would be able to experience such a sight firsthand, but here we are. Now, shall we retrieve your stolen property?)

The crows fly through the city, zipping past the buildings and as you do, you realize that you’ve just fulfilled a dream you’ve had since you were ten-years-old: to fly like a bird. When you realized that the Waynes were awful and all you wanted was to go back to Goodsprings— to take flight like a bird and leave this city and the Waynes behind. Now, you can turn into a flock of birds, or even grow a pair of wings, and fly all the way to Nevada!

Eventually, you reach the My Alibi club, which looks even worse in person than through the Megamycete’s roots. You land on a nearby building’s rooftop and see the only security for the entire building is a single bouncer. You command the birds to land near the bouncer and when they do, they come together and reform your body, but instead of revealing you, you command hardened black mold to cover your body, not wanting your face to be seen by anyone.

What’s going to happen here needs to not get back to you.

“What,” the bouncer stutters. “What the hell?”

“Leave,” is all you say.

The bouncer says nothing before he runs away.

(Are you ready,) the Megamycete asks as you near the door. (We highly doubt your three would-be murderers will take your return likely. Nor will they likely be in a hurry to return your property. You may have to resort to violence.)

“Good,” is all you say as you enter.

The noise coming from patrons’ conversations, drinking, and arguing comes to an end when you walk inside. A quick look around and you can tell this place lives up to its reputation of being for Gotham’s criminal element; everyone here looks like they’ve done time and will probably spend their last days in prison.

And in the back corner sit your targets, looking at you with their table filled with glasses and plates of food. The sight fills you with rage; they shot you in the head and threw you in a ditch and here they are, eating and drinking like they just got off work and wanted something to take the edge off. And what really pisses you off is seeing the one called Butch holding your Game Boy like it was his right!

“I’m here for them,” you say, pointing to your quarry. “The rest of you are free to go.”

“Up yours, freak,” some shithead shouts back, pulling out a revolver and fires it three times. The bullets hit the hardened mold and fall to the floor, looking like crushed tin cans rather than deadly projectiles. “What the hell?”

He goes to fire it again, but you raise your hand and a tendril emerges from it, piercing the man’s heart; he drops his gun and lets out a disgusting gurgle, blood dripping from it and pooling on the floor, before falling silent, dead.

While most of your mind is disturbed at the sight; you’ve just killed a man, his blood literally on your hands, but you can’t deny there’s a part of you that’s not saddened by your actions. After all, he did try to kill you and if he was in a place like this, chances are he was a piece of shit and Gotham’s a slightly better place for his passing.

For a moment, everyone is paralyzed at what just happened. The place is so quiet, a pin could drop and it would deafen everyone. Then, everyone breaks out of their stupor, practically all of them pulling out their guns and begin shooting at you, but just like their friend here found out, their bullets are useless against you. Numerous tendrils emerge from all over your body and rush at them; some of them empaling them, others wrap around their throats and crush them, while the rest just whip them with enough force to break them in two. One by one, they fall until it’s just you and your prey.

“Look, man,” you killer whimpers as you draw closer to him. “I don’t know what you want, but you can take what we have. Tom, hand him the bag.”

The other one throws a bag, which lands at your feet; you look down to see it’s your book bag. You pick it up and open it to find everything still inside, from your binder and notebooks to your phone and the gift box Mr. Chen gave you. You’re relieved to know that you’re not missing any of your school stuff and don’t have to go looking for anything or replace it. You are, however, missing all the money from your wallet, but a look on the table shows where it went to. But, you’re still missing the most important thing: your Momma’s pen.

“Here, take this, too.” The leader takes the Game boy from Butch and holds it out to you, which you snatch from him, reveling in the fear in his eyes as you did, and carefully place it inside.

That just leaves one last order of business. You extend two tendrils and wrap them around the leaders throat and hold him up from the floor, his legs kicking around, trying and failing to get him back on the ground; his arms pathetically wrap around the tendrils, trying to crate some room for him to breath, and his mouth is gaping like a fish out of water, trying to get any sort of air. His cohorts go to say something, but a quick glare from you shuts them up. You bring the man close to you until you can see your reflection in his eyes, which are wide and full of terror, and open your mold mask, revealing your identity to them and based off their expressions, all three men could probably crush coal into diamonds with their sphincters.

“Holy shit,” Butch whispers, his face showing his complete disbelief.

“It’s that kid,” Tom adds, his face mirroring his partner. “But, we killed him, right?”

“My pen,” you say, looking at this piece of human filth with complete contempt. “Where is it?”

You loosen your grip to allow him to speak.

“My pocket,” he says. “It’s in my pocket. All the pawn shops were closed, so I wasn’t able to sell it.”

While you’re happy that your beloved pen is not is some sleazy pawn shop’s display window, you’re utterly disgusted at the thought of this man’s audacity to think he had the right to sell your most treasured possession like its some worthless trinket. A small tendril emerges form your shoulder and searches the man’s pocket and pulls out that beautiful gold ink pen. You have it deliver it to your left hand, which is empty as your right hand is being used to hold the man in front of you, and hold onto it with a vice-like grip.

(Not even death could separate you from your Mother’s memento,) the Megamycete states. (We are impressed at your dedication to it.)

“Look, we’re sorry for what we did to you,” the man pathetically whimpers. “Really, we are.”

“Did you know this was my Momma’s pen,” you ask as if the man had not just said something. “I lost her on my sixth birthday and was forced to leave my home in Goodsprings to live here. This pen is the only thing of hers I was able to bring with me. And you had felt like you had the right to take something I treasure more than anything else in the world and pawn it off for some petty cash.”

“We didn’t know, man,” Butch responds, now realizing the depth of his mistakes. “We’re sorry.”

“We promise we won’t tell anyone about this,” Tom adds. “Just let us go and you’ll never see or hear from us ever again.”

“You’re right, we won’t see each other again, but wouldn’t you like to know who I was forced to live with?” The three of them pathetically nod in unison and you have to fight the urge to laugh. A few hours ago, these men were looking down at you, sure they could do anything they wanted, but now, here you are, far above them in the food chain. “I was forced to live with my father, Bruce Wayne.”

“But he said—“ the leader starts to say, but you cut him off.

“That bastard has ignored me since I moved in with him,” you shout, shutting him up. “I was his first biological son, but he’s completely forgotten about me!” You take a deep breath. Just the mention of him brings out the worst in you. “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t need him. Just like you don’t need your lives.”

And with that, you rip the man’s head clean off his shoulders, not even giving him the chance to realize his fate before killing him. You release the body and both it and his head crumple to the floor in a heap of lifeless meat and to further invoke fear in them, you stomp on the head while looking at them, the thing making a wet splat sound. The other two shout, but you cut them down with ease, tendrils emerging from your back and wrapping around their heads and crush them with ease, showering the floor in their blood and grey matter. Their bodies fall to the floor and flail around for a while before finally stopping.

(Well done,) the Megamycete praises. (You cut down these criminals and made Gotham safer faster than any police officer we have known. Perhaps the local police should seek out your services?)

“Not gonna happen,” you laugh as you walk out of the bar with your backpack in hand. “I have no intention of staying in this place. Once I graduate, I’m going back home.”

(Yes, Goodsprings. A small town located in Nevada. We look forward to experiencing your return to your point of origin.)

And with that, you manifest a pair of black wings on your back and take flight, flying far above the city’s skyscrapers, so hopefully you’re safe from detection. In just a few minutes, you’ve flown from Burnley Island to Bristol, something that should’ve taken almost an hour by car. Thanks to the Megamycete’s roots, you can see the Bats still out and about throughout Gotham, so you don’t have to worry about running into any of them while hurrying into your room.

You land down the street to avoid being picked up by the security cameras (Bruce’s picture is the definition of paranoid based on the amount of cameras in both the estate and in the house itself) and walk the rest of the way there. Normally, walking down the marathon-length driveway to the manor when coming home from work, but his time, you cross the distance like it’s nothing; in fact, you feel like you can do this another dozen times and still feel energized.

But, while you’re physically invigorated, you’re mentally drained and all you want to do is curl up and bed and pass out; you enter Wayne Manor and hurry to your room, never more thankful for being far from the rest of the household than you are now. While you’ve been flying under the radar of Gotham’s vigilantes for years now, you’ll afraid that even they won’t be able to ignore you when they found out about your newly gained powers. During your stay here, you’ve listened to their conversations when they thought you weren’t around and you know that while they distrust everyone (even each other based on the fact that no one seems to be allowed to have secrets), they distrust those with superpowers the most. Two years you listened in on a conversation between Bruce and Superman, who offered to help him during a time when many of Arkham’s most dangerous patients escaped all at once, and Bruce said in a tone that felt like sandpaper being dragged across your face: “Gotham’s off limits to metas. You step one foot in my city and you’ll regret it.”

Honestly, you’re confident that Bruce is only on this planet to be the biggest asshole who ever lived. He treats his first biological son like shit, he raises his “true children” to be as paranoid and pessimistic as him, and he threatens anyone who offers his sorry ass any kind of help. It seems to you that the only one who should’ve died that night in Crime Alley is Bruce.

You shove the man’s image in your head aside. Before tonight, he wasn’t important to you, but now, he’s irrelevant. You never needed him before, but now, you really don’t. With the Megamycete, you have everything you need.

Just then, your phone rings, bringing you out of your thoughts. You fish out your phone and look on the screen to see Alfred’s caller ID staring back at you.

“Hello,” you answer.

“Master Y/N, are you alright?”

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because it’s over an hour since you should’ve called me since getting off work.” You wince when you peek at your phone and see you’re overdue your nightly call with the butler. “So, I ask again: are you alright?” Based off his tone, he’s not going to accept “I’m fine” as an answer.

“Yeah, I am.” You quickly think of anything that could explain your tardiness and realize something: the best lie is an obvious truth. You just need to modify it a bit. “I just stayed behind to tell Mr. Chen goodbye. Today was the last day for the store because his daughter said Gotham was too dangerous for him to stay by himself, so she brought him to her home today.”

“Oh, Master Y/N, I’m sorry.” His tone says he’s bought it and you actually feel bad lying to the man you’ve come to see as a father figure. “I know how much you loved working there. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I will be. I’m gonna miss him.”

“Of course you will, he was a good man and you were the best employee he could ask for. Can I do anything for you? I’m halfway through with my vacation, perhaps I should—“

“No,” you cut the man off. “You don’t have to come back early, Alfred.” With everything that’s happened today, you need some time to prepare yourself before facing Alfred in person again. It would be a disaster for you to expose yourself as some form of metahuman in front of him. Plus, he deserves to have all his allotted vacation time. “I’ll be fine, really.”

“If you’re sure,” he says, obviously wanting to say more, but doesn’t press the issue. “I’ll let you go, I’m sure you’re tired and you need your rest. Please make sure you catch up on your sleep I’m sure you’ve missed this week during your spring break.”

“I will, Alfred, don’t worry. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Very good, Master Y/N. Good night, my boy.”

“Good night.”

You hang up and let out a sigh of relief, glad he bought it.

(You say you trust the butler with your life, but keep the events of tonight a secret from him. Why?)

“Because Alfred’s highly protective and would most likely steal a boat and sail back to Gotham within an hour if I told him I was kidnapped. And if he knew about you, he’d probably drag me to a hospital and have every last trace of mold surgically removed.”

(We do not wish for that to happen.)

“Me neither, bud. You know, after tonight, I think we’re gonna do great things together.”

(We agree. Now, heed the words of your butler and rest. Tonight was very eventful for you. It would not do well for our host to shirk in his bodily needs.)

You chuckle and strip down to your boxers before climbing into bed. Not long after you get comfy, you feel yourself drift off to sleep. For the first time ever, you’re actually looking forward to waking up in Gotham.

Bruce hears Jason whistle at the sight, but says nothing in favor of studying the carnage inside the My Alibi bar. Bodies are scattered everywhere around the establishment, some are relatively intact while others look like they were ripped in half.

“Looks like someone had fun here,” Jim says as he approaches him, Jason, and Damian. “What do you think?”

“Looks like someone had a score to settle,” he responds to the police commissioner. He motions to the remains of three men crowded together in a corner of the bar with their heads missing; two of the heads are near the rest of their bodies while the third has been reduced to a fine red paste. “Especially these three. Based on how they were killed, I’d guess whoever did this was after them.”

“Doesn’t look like Joker’s handiwork,” Jim adds. “No one here’s smiling and the place is devoid of murderous gag toys.”

No, this is definitely not the clown’s MO. Neither does it match the MO of anyone currently missing from Arkham. The only one he could think of that could rip apart and crush some of the victims is Bane, but that doesn’t explain why the remaining victims are impaled; plus, the giant is still locked up in Arkham’s high-security ward. So, this can only mean one thing.

“This is definitely the work of someone new,” he says, bending down to study the squashed head. “And with this being the only scene we know of, this was their first time killing.”

Whoever did this is highly dangerous and needs to be stopped and fast before even more people get hurt. Looks like he and his family are going to have their hands full for the foreseeable future.

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hannie-dul-set · 1 month ago

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fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — THREE.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this.

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is.

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 5.8k.

NOTE. there was supposed to be more to this chapter, but it’d end up being way too long so i reserved it for the next one. anyway, hope you enjoy your first week at nalkeutta. feedback and comments much appreciated. happy reading! CHAPTER FOUR.

AFTER ONE ANGRY PHONE CALL, YOU FIND OUT MORE FROM MARK THE INTERNAL AGREEMENT BETWEEN JSS NALKEUTTA. Mark understands the precarious spot JSS is in, but can’t risk losing his major legal recourse whenever things get icky within his gang dealings. JSS recognizes the significant benefits it had been receiving by partnering with Nalkeutta, but this continued arrangement would be inimical in the long run.

So they came up with a very simple compromise. Nalkeutta will stop hiring lawyers from JSS if the firm simply hands over one of their lawyers to them, effectively cutting public ties between the two parties. However, Mark Lee will continue supporting JSS as a private investor, all while retaining the protection fee benefits that the firm has been enjoying thus far.

It’s a win-win situation for all. All except you.

You’re the only loser in this situation. These fuckers are tossing and trading you around like some sort of commodity.

“Are you happy that you’ve finally managed to poach me after all this time?”

Knowing very well how pissed you are, Mark offered to pick you up from your apartment. Today’s scheduled to be your first official day at Nalkeutta. He’s smiling in the driver’s seat of his fucking Bugatti, and it just makes you feel even shittier as your ass lands on the plush cushions of his unreasonably expensive car. “Seatbelt,” he simply tells you. You grunt and fasten it on. “I hope you’d change your mind about your transfer once you get a tour of our building.”

Oh, joy. A building tour. The best description for you and Mark in the car right now, driving down the sepia streets of Yeongdeungpo district, would be that of a chipper mom taking her angsty teen daughter to a birthday party, chin on palm, staring out the window and all.

He eventually pulls up to a tall, multi-windowed building. Very tall, wedged between two shorter establishments. You look at the towering building from inside the car, noticing the sign greeting you right above the well-mainted glass doors— Daybreak Security Company, it says. You release a scoff. Wow, what a disguise.

Come to think of it, in the months you’ve worked with Nalkeutta, you’ve never actually been here before. Mark’s always the one visiting JSS, never the other way around, so there is the barest amount of curiosity here. “You can head in first and wait in the lobby,” he tells you. “I need to park this thing in the basement.” Your hand stops at the door handle, squinting back at Mark’s instruction. He laughs. “The staff are informed about your arrival. Most of them are out, anyway, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Dubious, but you don’t protest. Mark Lee stays hazarding by the sidewalk with one car window open, watching you as you make your way to the entrance. You tentatively look behind, only to be met by Mark’s close-eyed smile, waving a hand to prompt you inside the building. You grimace and spin your heels. What a psycho, you think, and you finally hear him restarting the car to leave once you’re already halfway through Nalkeutta’s doors.

Jeez. He and Doyoung are on the opposite ends of the boss spectrum— both equally despicable— but at least your former boss wasn’t as creepy or an active threat to your life. Heck, he was even a source of entertainment sometimes. You don’t think you can get away with the same disrespectful shit you’ve been pulling on Doyoung with Mark. The only reason why the latter has been letting you talk back so much is because he never saw you as a threat. Now that you’re in his territory, you can’t be so complacent.

Anyhow, you do as instructed and are currently waiting in the lobby, collecting curious stares here and there from an incorrigible amount of men coming in and out, and your best attempt at an impatient resting bitch face so that none of these fuckers try to talk to you is starting to be overcome by queasiness. When the hell is he coming back? You notice a group of guys in their early twenties whisper while sneaking glances at you from the corner— one of them you’re pretty sure you’d had to bail out before for a DUI.

Besides that glimmer of abnormality, the rest of the lobby is eerily normal, harboring the appearance of any other company office with potted plants and clean sofas and a receptionist corner. Granted, they are trying to pose as a very legal, very unsuspicious security company, but knowing what you know about Nalkeutta, it just makes you sick to the bones.

Eventually, Mark Lee shows up, emerging from the ground floor elevator near the couch you’ve been waiting on. You don’t even try to hide your annoyance. “Sorry, Had to take a phone call,” he says, smiling and sounding not very sorry at all while nudging you out of your seat. “C’mon, attorney. Let’s start the tour.”

You release a dead and pained groan. Mark pats you on the back for your enthusiasm, leading the way through.

Nalkeutta has four floors in total. The first floor is basically the entirety of Nalkeuta’s front— Daybreak Security Company, all decked out with an abundance of private meeting rooms for clients, consultation offices, and a bunch of flat out empty rooms labelled as storage, and bathrooms on each wing. There’s both a staircase and an elevator leading further up the floors or down to the basement parking lot. Mark says he’ll show you to your reserved parking spot later, and that alone is already tipping the scales between him and Doyoung on who is the better bad boss.

The second floor is reserved for the general office— divided into Nalkeutta’s four divisions and a common break area in the center, cushions and sofas already occupied by less than familiar faces. You don’t look at any of them and instead feast your eyes “You’ll also be stationed on this floor,” he tells you, smiling. “But we’ll save that part of the tour for last.”

Wow. You can’t wait to have another crowded cubicle sandwiched between roughed up gangsters who probably don’t know how to work a printer. Now that you think about it, it’s kind of uncanny that this notorious gang operates in a sterilized office setting. Mark Lee never fails to send you to the depths of discomfort.

“Now, to the next floor.” Up another level in the elevator are two very large conference rooms, an entire fucking gym area, and rooms and rooms of organized files and storages, each tightly chained with locks, but that’s not the point.

They have a gym here. There’s a freaking fully-equipped gym in the middle of all this corporate bullshit. Of fucking course there is.

“I’ll give you the keys to the locked rooms later,” he informs with a hum. “And you’re free to use the amenities up here.”

There’s no point hiding the sheer disgust on your face. “You’re offering me up to a biohazard chamber.” This is a male dominated building. You may be stereotyping, but you can’t imagine how hygienic these roughed up gangsters are. Mark always smells like baby lotion and fabric softener, but hospitals hide the smell of blood and death with a noxious amount of industrial chemicals and disinfectant. Look at him laughing at your repugnance. Evil, evil man.

“Alright, now let’s head up to the fifth floor.”

Riding up the elevator, you notice quickly that the uppermost floor has a lot less going on than the three below it. The first and only place Mark lets you enter is his private office— instructing you to knock thrice in case you have an urgent matter to discuss with him without informing him beforehand. The rest of the rooms on the floor are confidential, beyond your scope of authority.

He drops a set of keys onto your open palm. “But once you’ve worked with us for around three or four years, I might change my mind.”

It’s concerning how employee access to restricted information depends on the insane boss’s fickleness of mind. “Sure.” You pocket the keys. “Is there anything else I need to know?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Let me show you to your office.”

Your palm, still inside your slacks pocket, tightens around the keys. Office? No. No fucking way. Haha. He probably means just a cubicle. Your heart starts racing. Mark starts walking, and you hear the thumping in your ears coincide with your clacking heels against the hollow hallway.

Office. Office. Your hopes are starting to rise up as the elevator brings you a level down. It dings. Mark leads you back into the fourth floor, and when you pass by the sets of cubicles divided in the open office area without your boss turning his head or stopping or even batting an eye— you start losing your shit. Holy crap. He stops in front of a close-doored room, interiors concealed by large blinds from the inside.

There’s an acrylic placard attached to the door. It says Chief Legal Officer.

“This room is yours.”

When he opens the door, the first thing that greets you is the glistening name plate sitting parallel before you atop the sleek mahogany desk.

It has your name on it. Gold. Avenir font. Engraved. Heavy enough to knock a man unconscious with one blow. You’re about to cry. Nevermind all that you said earlier. Fuck Kim Doyoung. Mark Lee is the best boss you could ever ask for.

“Hope the interior is to your liking, but you can change it up however you like.”

That prompts you to actually take a look around, and holy shit— it’s almost as big as Doyoung’s office. There’s a substantial amount of organizers and cabinets. At the center sits a set of low, mustard settees and a small black coffee table to match. The floor is carpeted and lint-free. There’s a fucking mini fridge near the artificial potted plant in the corner. Your head snaps towards Mark. He laughs at your, speechless, open-mouthed, teary-eyed reaction to his surprise.

“I’m guessing you’re satisfied with the office,” he says, looking like he’s about to say more but is interrupted by a silent buzz from his phone. He pulls it open, and his brows furrow for a split second. “Hmm. I still have to introduce you to Nalkeutta’s Executives, but something came up.” Mark pockets back his phone, and his usually pleasant expression takes over once more. “For now, I’ll let you get yourself settled in your office. I’ll send someone to pick you up in a while.”

The moment Mark Lee leaves the premises, you let out a scream, walk forward, drop down to your knees, and attempt to hug the entire length of your desk.

“Oh my god,” you breathe out, cheek pressed against the cold surface of the red mahogany wood. “Oh my god, I’m naming you Savannah and you’ll be my new best friend.”

Savannah does not reciprocate your affections, but who gives a damn. You’re not sure how long you’ve been embracing your desk and inhaling the new office smell, but apparently long enough for someone to knock and push open your door with a sing-songy “Hellooo—!” The greeting quickly gets cut off the moment your widened eyes meet that of the intruder’s. Your knees are kissing the carpeted ground. Your head is cocked in a very uncomfortable manner in order to face the direction of the door— but not as uncomfortable as how the guy who just entered looks at the moment.

“Whoa, uh,” he double-takes. “Mark asked me to pick you up. You must be our new lawyer…?”

You continue meeting the man’s gaze. You force your stiff shoulders back and slowly pull yourself up, patting down your pencil skirt. “Yes,” you start, promptly introducing yourself. “And you are?”

Very smooth. His gaze flickers down, making its way back up to meet your eyes— of which a wide grin starts to unfurl on his face. Your brow twitches. “Lee Haechan. Head of the Yoosun Department. My office is right across from yours.” He called Mark by his first name. Meaning, he must be one of his higher-ups. You wonder if it’s a Nalkeutta requirement to be rude and pretty in order to be promoted. “Nice to meet you, attorney. Seems like you’ll have no problem fitting right in.”

Haechan extends an arm for a handshake as if he didn’t just hit you with the worst insult you’ve been slapped with his fucking week. You respond with one firm shake before wiping the same palm against your blazer.

He notices. You intended for him to notice. You beam at him with a smile. He’s still grinning, but slightly taken aback. “You’re fun.”

Mark has yet to orient you with the general organizational structure of Nalkeutta, but at the very least, there’s one thing you’re certain of.

“And you’re wasting time. What did Mark send you for?”

You answer to no one but him. Meaning, you’ve no reason to fake pleasantries with this Haechan guy. He barged into your office without waiting for admission. This guy needs to be taught a lesson.

“Oh, right,” he huffs. “He called us for a sudden meeting to meet the new head of our legal department, or something. I didn’t even know we had a legal department! Anyway, follow me, let’s head to the conference room. By the way, do you have a boyfriend?” The elevator doors close before you. You grace him with a response the moment he presses the floor button.

“You saw me in carnal embrace with my desk earlier. The only thing fucking me is my impending workload.”

Haechan chokes out a snorting laugh. “Holy shit,” he wheezes. “Is that a call for help? If so, I’m a pretty helpful guy.”

You look at him, smiling. “Unless you’re a seventy-inch mahogany wood in width, I’m not interested.”

“Damn. High standards. I give, I give.”

You roll your eyes, taking the liberty of twisting the doorknob to the conference room before you. Your entrance is accompanied by a creak. At once, four sets of eyes immediately fall on you.

The first is the usual creepy ass gaze of Mark Lee, way too happy to see you. The next one is unfamiliar, covered by the glint of his glasses lens, but you don’t sense any animosity. The third is both blurry yet somewhat recognizable at the same time— a shiver down your spine when you meet his sharp glare. What the hell? This guy looks terrifying.

And the last one feels like walking back into a den that you swore you’d never return to.

Na Jaemin’s eyes flicker up from his phone the moment you enter. You stifle a swear under your breath and shoot your gaze down. He flashes you a smile. Ah, fuck. Of course he’d be here. It totally slipped your mind thanks to the high from your new office and Lee Haechan trying to hook up with you. You’ve yet to judge whether or not a sick new office outweighs having to deal with this sick freak’s face every day.

“Attorney!” he chirps from across the room, comfortably lounging on one of the office chairs lining the long conference table. A squeak accompanies every time the chair swivels from left to right, back and forth. “Long time no see.”

Yeah, you hoped it’d stay that way, but when did the scales ever tip in your favor? You swallow down any attempt of fear trying to break out and turn your head to the side. “Mark, what are we discussing?”

Standing at the head of the table, your new boss smiles at you. Not because of your flat enthusiasm. No way. He seems to be amused that you just ignored Na Jaemin point blank. “Ah, yes. I wanted to properly introduce you to our division executives and give you a briefer on the company.”

The annoying swiveling sound has stopped. You don’t dare look at that side in the room throughout the rest of the meeting.

“Alright, now that everyone’s here, let’s get started.”

Nalkeutta is divided into four divisions, and the other four brutes you’re trapped in this room right now are the executives of those four divisions respectively. You already know Na Jaemin is the man in charge of Ganghak. Lee Haechan has Yoosun. Glasses is introduced as Huang Renjun, who’s in charge of Hyeongshin. Big scary guy is Daehyeon’s Lee Jeno.

There’s a familiar ring to all of these division names. They’re all high schools in Yeongdeungpo. It starts to all make sense when Mark Lee tells you that this gang of his was founded nine years ago.

Nalkeutta started as a juvenile gang by a bunch of fucked up high schoolers. And those schools continue to serve as breeding grounds for scumbags like them. This shit is insane.

“Hold on.”

Your voice echoes, freezing the entire room. You narrow your eyes at the very comprehensive diagram of Nalkeutta’s organizational structure Huang Renjun is presenting up front on a laptop screen.

“There’s something wrong with this.” You get up from your seat. You squeeze past Mark and Renjun, taking control of the touchpad to zoom into the upper part of the chart. Your name is underneath Mark’s, and on the same level as the four executives, but that’s not the problem here. “Why am I the only one under the legal department?” you lift your head up as you say this, eyes firmly locked into Mark. “Where are the rest of the lawyers?”

Mark Lee attempts to look apologetic and remorseful. “Attorney,” he starts, walking up. “You know well how hard it is for Nalkeutta to establish trust between our partners. We are in fact extremely grateful that we managed to get someone we trust very deeply to finally work with us directly.”

This son of a bitch. They couldn’t have at least pretended to give a fuck about your position.

How—how does he expect you to manage the legal affairs of this messed up organization all by yourself? Your blood starts to simmer. Fuck it, it’s already boiling, and you’re just about to blow up when Mark Lee opens his mouth before you could.

“Anyhow, let’s talk salary.”

Goddammit. This guy sure knows how to pacify you.

Jeno hands him a binded folder. He smiles and hands it over to you. “This is our employment contract. Let me know if you find any issues so we can negotiate, but the important part is here.”

You glance down at the part of the page he’s tapping. Yearly salary. Your eyes fly wide open when you see the numbers on the page.

150,000,000 KRW.

Your head shoots up from the folder. You look at him like he’s joking. He isn’t.

“Does this meet your standards, attorney?”

Motherfucker. First, a new office. Now this. It’s like he wants to strip you from your rights to complain.

‎*‎

Your first job under Nalkeutta is accompanying Huang Renjun to a client meeting in Yeongdeungpo’s Chinatown.

“Good to have you around, attorney.”

Well. Client meeting is a stretch. The quote-unquote client is a mixed-martial arts gym under Hyeongshin that’s been paying protection fees very diligently until last month. Hyeongshin’s grunts were sent to sniff around the other week to see what was up, and the owner of the gym was caught rendezvousing with a Cheongang under the bridge connecting Yeongdeungpo and Map.

Cheongang. If Yeongdeungpo has Nalkeutta, Map is controlled by a different gang called Cheongang. You don’t have much intel on them, save for the fact that this district was once part of their territory until Mark Lee came into the picture. Needless to say, the two gangs don’t have the most amicable relationship. This is going to be less of a client meeting and more of a beatdown for sure.

“Why am I even here?” you grunt in the car on the way to your destination. Huang Renjun is scrolling through his ipad as he sits next to you. He’s kind enough to respond to your mindless grumbles.

“Having a lawyer around is always useful,” he simply says. “Mark says this is your first exposure to the organization’s operations. You don’t have to do anything. Just observe.”

You peer at the side mirror and look at the other two Nalkeutta cars trailing behind this one. Huang Renjun is actually a lot nicer than you expected. Considering your first introductions to Nalkeutta were Na Jaemin and Mark Lee, this guys is a breath of fresh air.

The air turns rancid the moment you cross the paifang gate, and you watch as all hell breaks loose at the Rongyu Mixed-Martial Arts Gym at four in the fucking afternoon.

“Gijeol-ah I thought we had a relationship!”

You wince at the sound of Renjun’s voice.

“How could you cheat on us with these ugly Cheongang pricks?”

The gym’s doors are closed, but there’s almost a dozen people guarding it— all looking like they’re one second away from jumping the nearest person and beating the shit out of them. A few moments later, the door rattles open. A head pops out. He looks like he’s about to crap his pants.

“You— you Nalketta fuckers ask for too much shit! How could you raise the protection fees overnight? That’s not fucking fair!

You really feel like you shouldn’t be here, but for once in your life, you feel pretty thankful that there are lines and lines of tank built men surrounding you as a protective shield.

“Well, it’s part of the contract you signed, Gijeol-ah! This is your fingerprint isn’t it?” Renjun taunts further, holding up a contract before tapping on the bottom right page. “If you were having trouble, you could’ve just gone to me directly. Hyeongshin is pretty understanding, you know. We even let you off with just a warning last time when you were three months late in paying your loans. You should’ve been grateful that you’re not under Ganghak or Daehyeon.”

Nevermind. You no longer feel safe. You hear the nearest Hyeongshin guy next to you crack his knuckles. Another one starts warming up. You won’t be surprised if one of them is currently frothing at the mouth.

Huang Renjun drops his hands down. He sighs and hands you the contract.

“But you went off to stab us in the back, Gijeol-ah. Unfortunately this is as far as my understanding extends.”

You briefly skim over it. Wow. Mark Lee put work into this. It’s vague enough to bypass statutory limitations. They’re using Daybreak Security Company as the legal entity to ensure the contract’s validity. You see a few questionable provisions that might void this contract. And that’s gonna be your job to fix. Lucky you.

“You— you can go and shove your understanding up your ass! I’m sick and tired of Nalkeutta’s bullshit!”

“You’re breaking up with us? That’s too bad.” It’s starting. Huang Renjun lands a hand on one of his men’s shoulder. “Give me a call once you’re done.”

With that, they start to move forward. Renjun walks up to you and you hear a yell and the sounds of fists being thrown the moment he spins you around and prods you to the opposite direction of the noise. Various thuds and screams flood you from behind, the sounds of bones crushing and bodies crashing getting dimmer as you both continue to walk back to the car.

“You hungry, attorney?” Huang Renjun asks. “I know a good dim sum place nearby.”

“Wait, what the fuck, hold on,” you stop. He turns to you, brow raised. “We’re leaving? Just like that?”

Renjun narrows his eyes. “What? You want to watch that disgusting mess?”

With that prompt, you hesitantly turn around, and there you see a Nalkeutta guy swinging a metal bat straight into the ribcage of one Cheongag grunt. Oof. You wince. What a waste of a good sunset.

“I don’t fight. What’s the point of having men working under you if you won’t put them to good use?” The both of you make it back to the car. The driver inside greets Renjun, and the latter waves him off. “But if it’s a hard job, then I just transfer the case to Ganghak or Daehyeon. Usually Ganghak. Most of those guys are just like their psychopath of a boss.”

Yeah. This guy isn’t normal, either. What did you expect? At least he’s polite to you.

You slide into the backset. “Dim sum sounds nice.”

“Great.” He follows not long after, leaving an instruction to the driver. “Take us to Mama Hong’s.”

Renjun was right. Mama Hong has a killer dim sum selection, and you’d bookmark it on your maps if this place didn’t remind you of a massacre that’s currently ongoing. You can’t exactly enjoy your pork buns to the fullest knowing full well that someone’s head is getting bashed in right now. The silver lining is the fact that Huang Renjun is a good conversationalist and has not once called you a bitch nor tried to get in your pants in the past two hours that you’ve been with him.

He’s a pretty cool guy. He joined the gang for money because he was a dirt poor immigrant in high school but then at one point he realized he was in too deep to quit.

It’s good to know you’re both stuck in Nalkeutta because you treasure your lives. It’s like Mark Lee has an invisible loaded gun perpetually pointed at your heads. What a way to bond in solidarity.

The sun had long set when Renjun received the text that the job was done. “Let’s go,” he tells you. “Two hours of overtime is good enough.”

See, this guy speaks your language.

It takes another twenty minutes to get back to the Nalkeutta building, jotting another extra hour on your DTR. Meaning three total hours of overtime pay. Fucking amazing. If things continue speeding at this rate, then you won’t be entirely miserable working here. You’re already walking out the sliding doors of hell and thinking about harvesting your crops the moment you get home— but that’s exactly the moment the world decides that you haven’t filled your daily quota of dread yet.

“Attorney.”

Goddammit. You should know by now that the moment you think things are going well, god’s just gonna immediately spit in your mouth and tell you to enjoy it.

Na Jaemin lights the cigarette between his teeth, embers cascading onto the ground only for a good second before he stops on it to flash you a smile. “Took you fucking long enough,” he says. “Come with me. New recruits screening.”

Your brows furrow. When you don’t move for ten seconds too long, Na Jaemin’s smile drops.

“Mark’s orders. Notarize their contracts, or some shit.”

For fuck’s sake, you just clocked out. Disgruntled, you force your body out of its frozen state and you hear the psycho walking in front of you mutter something under his breath— something you’re not curious enough to find out. He leads you to a parking garage just a few blocks away, and it’s at this moment that you realize that maybe he lied to beat the shit out of you without anything knowing.

That fear is shut down when the dim, flickering lights of the rundown garage reveal seven teenage boys standing in one line as if they’re about to run a military drill. They’re all wearing Ganghak uniforms. This is some kind of sick mockery.

“Alright, you fucking maggots.”

Jesus christ. The way you flinch at Na Jaemin’s voice is purely instinctual— something that hasn’t been deeply ingrained into the seven boys before you, it seems, because they continue standing stiff and still with their chins up as Na Jaemin saunters up to them. He fishes something out from his pocket. You squint. It’s a car key. He clicks on it. You wince, a sudden glaring of lights from behind the boys.

“There’s only one car. There’s seven of you.”

You hear his voice speak as your vision readjusts.

“Get to it.”

Hold on a second.

“Hey, hurry the fuck up. Why aren’t any of you moving?” Your mouth gapes. You watch the realization slowly sink into the seven faces in front of you— an expression that Na Jaemin doesn’t share because more than anything, he looks pretty annoyed right now. He lets out a grunt and flicks his wrist up to check the time. The look on his face when he drops it back down is enough to send at least three of the kids stuttering. “If no one hits the ground in three seconds, you’re all fucking death for wasting my time. One. Two. Thr—”

The sound of a knuckle hitting a jaw. You shut your eyes and look away.

There’s nothing enjoyable about watching a bunch of teenagers beating the shit out of each other, but your co-worker seems to fashion a different opinion. “Whew.” A nasty grin spreads on his face, just as one of the boys drops onto dusty cement, no sign of getting back up any time soon. “One down. Can’t wait for this shitshow to be fucking over.”

You’re horrified as you look at him, but that’s the problem— you’re looking at him, and this doesn’t go under his notice.

Na Jaemin locks into you. He tosses his unfinished cigarette behind and traps you into an unwanted conversation. “We haven’t seen each other in a while, attorney,” he starts with a hum. “You haven’t even spared me a hello since you got here. It’s almost like all those weeks we spent in prison together are nothing to you.”

Even if you want to talk to him, what the hell are you supposed to say to that?

You resign by flitting your eyes to the side and looking away. You hear a scoff and the sound of a lighter click, followed by the reintroduction of his foul cigarette smoke wafting through the air around you. “Want a hit?” he asks. You grimace. You get a feeling that he won’t appreciate being ignored a third time. So you force an answer out of your suffocating throat, and you try your best to make it entertaining so he doesn’t sock you in the face for being dull and boring.

“No, thank you,” you quickly say. “I intend on dying from heart failure, not from my lungs collapsing.”

He lets out a huff. You almost mistake it for laughter. “Either way, you die.”

“That’s true, but I don’t want my breath smelling like rot before the rest of my body does.”

Silence. Uh-oh. You’re met with a prolonged silence, followed by the click of his tongue and you notice him tossing the second cigarette like the first one, a little less willingly this time. God. There’s no place for your eyes around here. In front, there’s a teen battle royale and to your left is a bastard who gets triggered by eye contact. There’s nowhere for you to look but down, and even then you can still hear the cacophony of pained groans and punches hitting.

“Had fun on your little excursion with Renjun?”

Why the fuck is he trying to make small talk now? “A bit. He didn’t force me to watch a massacre and treated me out to dim sum. It was great.”

“Hah.”

The hairs on the back of your neck jolt.

“Ain’t that pretty fucking nice.”

Why the fuck is he mad about that?

You snap your head up, about to look at Na Jaemin, but your attention is pried off from him when you hear the gravelled roar of one of the Ganghak students in front. Your eyes blur from the whiplash— then you notice one boy battered with deep heavy breaths, standing above his fallen peers. His eyes are wide. There’s multiple bruises on the visible parts of his skin. The weight of your worry is trumped by Na Jaemin’s sheer apathy.

“I—I did it,” the boy breathes out. “I did it, hyung-nim.”

Na Jaemin looked like he was just watching his favorite show earlier. Now he looks like he can give less than two shits about what this kid had just pulled off. “Name.” You can never fucking figure him out.

“Sion…Oh Sion.”

He grunts. “Yeah, congrats, whatever.” He tosses the car keys to the ground. It lands next to one of the writhing kids groaning in pain. “Now get lost.”

Na Jaemin’s heels turn back and he quickly starts walking away. You’re flabbergasted. Your feet move one way, then quickly reverse. What the fuck. What are you supposed to do now?

“Hey!” You catch up to him, still looking back at the sight you’re leaving behind. “We’re leaving already? Doesn’t the kid need to sign a contract?” He’s walking way too fast. He leers at you with an annoyed grunt and starts walking even faster.

“I don’t have it. Fuck, whatever, he can do that shit tomorrow.”

“What?” It comes off as a screech. “I thought Mark asked me to be here!”

Na Jaemin suddenly stops. You bump into his shoulder and stumble back with a swear. When you draw your breath in to look up, you see that Na Jaemin is already looking at you with an intensity that burns away all the venom out of your throat, leaving nothing but silence behind.

“Mark didn’t say shit,” he spits out. You think he’s about to toss you into the nearest dumpster, but then you notice a wrinkle between his brows. It’s deep. It’s troubled. And then he lets out an exasperated groan. “Whatever.”

Na Jaemin stomps away, leaving you in the dead of night to figure out what the fuck just happened.

‎*‎

Before making it back home to your apartment, you stop by a public phone booth to call an ambulance to the scene of the altercation. This is way too much overtime for your first official day, and the last hour wasn’t even paid because you already clocked out before Na Jaemin lied to your face just to make you watch a teenage fight right and throw a tantrum at the very end with no fucking explanation.

Needless to say, it was an eventful day. It gets even more eventful when you reach the door of your apartment, about to key in your passcode, until you notice a piece of paper sticking out from underneath the door gap.

Your brows knit together. You snap a picture of it before slipping it out of the door and finally letting yourself in, dropping your work bag onto the floor of your entryway to examine what had been lodged into your apartment.

It’s an envelope. A cream colored envelope with a few smudges on the paper.

You open it. You couldn’t be less prepared with what you’re about to read.

You’re fucking dead, bitch.

Wow. Now a literal death threat. It’s almost as if you’re not allowed to catch a fucking break.

#na jaemin x reader #na jaemin x you #jaemin x reader #jaemin x you #nct dream x reader #nct x reader #nct dream fanfic #nct fanfic #nct scenarios #nct x you you #na jaemin smut #jaemin smut #nct smut #nct dream imagines #nct imagines

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ilium-ilia · 3 months ago

Text

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Five: the help of someone else feels foreign

tw: wound cleaning

Your ears are ringing again.

It’s torturous. Never-ending. Forever plaguing you the moment things should be quiet. It drones on like the engine of a car—a bug buzzing near your head. It’s nothing but a painful reminder that you survived, and continue to do so despite the fact you’ve never once deserved it.

Dehydration torments your mouth by the time you finally come to. Everything slowly fades in like the transition of a movie; poetic and painfully slow. The sting in your palms, the way you have to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth only to let out a confused, gargled groan. Everything feels too bright as mood lighting illuminates an unfamiliar red and black room. Lead heavy arms struggle to push your torso off of the soft, leather cushions underneath you as your muscles scream at the build up of lactic acid.

You blink at the foreign room around you. You’re resting in a lush conversation pit with throw pillows, but there’s no one to converse with. There’s no company but a bare glass coffee table in front of you and a chandelier overhead that’s darkened to its lowest setting. Taking a shot in the dark, you guess you’re still at Terminus, but something seems uncannily off about it. There’s no faint hum of brooding music or overwhelming chatter. Sour alcohol doesn’t fill the air—there’s nothing.

Despite the mental fog that ravages your mind, you feel surprisingly fine physically. There’s no pounding headache or churning sensation of nausea like after a long night drinking; there’s only a slight thirst for water and a throbbing sensation in both of your hands. Once you’re able to get your eyes to focus, you realize they’ve been tenderly wrapped in white gauze. Tiny, faint patches of blood have bled through it, leaving behind rusty brown spots like freckles.

Then, everything hits you at once. The ache that weighs in your chest. The backlog of adrenaline that tickles the sides of your spine. You recall Andrei. How you were unfortunate enough to run into him after making a wrong turn. You think of his warning—how he’s always warning you—and how Simon found you. You cautiously rub at your raw eyes, taking care to avoid messing with the gauze too much. Attempting to keep the frustrated sorrow stewing in your stomach at bay seems like an impossible task.

How do you keep messing up?

“Morning’ sweetheart.”

Flinching at the voice behind you, you cover your mouth with a squeak as you twist your body on the sofa. Simon towers over you at an odd angle as he stands outside of the conversation pit with a poorly made club sandwich in one hand, and a glass of water in the other. The sunken couch nestled in the center of the floor seems like a den—tucked away far out of sight from any reprobate eyes.

He steps into the pit with ease where he settles a comfortable distance away. Thankfully, he sits on your right. He holds out the glass for you to take, but you don’t miss the way his eyes wander over your face.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologizes.

“It’s fine,” you quickly dismiss.

You reach your hand out to take the glass only to realize you can hardly grip it with the gauze. Its pristine, smooth surface just slips right along the cotton, so you grab it with both hands as if it were a warm cup of tea on a bitterly algid day. Once it’s free from his hands, Simon dives right in for a bit of his sandwich before leaning back against the couch.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks, mouth half full.

“Fine,” you reply with the glass pressed against your lips. Its cold liquid washes over your dry tongue, reviving it like a desert turned into an oasis. Your eyes flicker around the room once more, this time noting the rich, marble floors. “Where… where are we?”

Before Simon can answer you, he dives in for another quick bite of his sandwich. He’s hardly sat down and it’s nearly half devoured already. You think back to the food you brought him from work—the delicious capellini pomodoro—and how it’s nothing but a pile of goo in the alleyway outside. A pang of guilt rattles your chest at realizing how long he’s been starving for.

“One of the rooms Price saves for private occasions,” Simon explains as he wipes his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “You were a little out of it after everythin’ went down. Hardly responsive. Was worried, so I brought you here to help you calm down. Pretty much passed out the moment you sat on the sofa. Completely shut down.”

Ignominy rises in your face, searing your cheeks and the tips of your ears until it boils over into your stomach. The mental image of Simon having to lead you around the club like a zombie puts you on edge. You hate being vulnerable around others. Most of all, you hate how your vulnerability oftentimes isn’t a choice you get to make.

“Tried to clean up your hands as best as I could,” Simon continues. You look down at your palms and flex your fingers, testing the range of motion. The sting is dull, but still there buried deep beneath your skin. “I’m not a doctor, but it should keep you together for now.”

“I… thank you,” you whisper before pausing. “How did you know where I was? Or that… or that anything was happening?”

“Boys up front messaged sayin’ you were on your way,” he explains nonchalantly. “Took you longer than it should’ve to find me. Got worried, so I went out lookin’ for ya. Though you’d gotten yourself lost, and then I heard people talkin’ in the alley. Well, you know the rest.”

When you look up from your hands, you find Simon staring at you. His dark eyes are endless voids in the dim light of the room—endless but so warm. The muscles lining his jaw flex and relax as he chews and swallows his meal.

“You know ‘im? That cunt in the alley?” he asks.

Wounded hands reach for your chest as if you’re able to console the rabid pounding of your heart with touch alone. You recall Andrei’s eyes—the bored expression of his tone. How flippantly he deals with life. The soft warning soaking his words. You are very much aware how bad his bite hurts. It’s a bite you don’t want Simon to feel because of you.

“No. I have no idea,” you lie.

Simon stares at you for a little longer, eyes scouring your face for any hint that you might be hiding something. He reads through your features like he’s done it a million times before—like he’s already got every bit of you memorised. Constantly searching; forever vigilant. You don’t feel like you can breathe until he hums and looks back at his food.

“Shady stuff happens ‘round here more often than I’d like,” Simon admits. “Probably just another ugly wanker sniffin’ for some fun. I see ‘em here sometimes. Alcohol, drugs, and crowds breeds trouble. Probably gets a good kick outta intimidating women.”

“Good thing they’ve got good security here,” you quip. It’s smarter than what you’d usually say—you blame it on the anxiety.

Dark eyes land on you once more with a smirk. “Cheers.”

He finishes the last bite of his sandwich before sinking back into the leather couch with a sigh. Despite how put together he comes across, there’s obvious bits of fatigue eating away at him. Heavy weights pull at his eyes, making them more hooded than normal. Usually, you try not to stare too long, but there’s something wrong with him that your hazy eyes and anxiety riddled brain wasn’t able to notice before.

Even with his scuffle with Andrei, his hands are in remarkably good shape. No split knuckles or irritated skin. If there’s any wounds from the knife that was drawn on him, you’re not able to see anything. But there’s something off about his face. Asymmetrical. A gentle swelling of his left eye hidden beneath an old, long healed scar. Amaranthine seeps into the paleness of his face—a deep bruise sits at the crest of his cheek.

“Simon, your eye,” you point out as you lean forward.

Fingers absentmindedly reach up for his face as he gently prods at the wound. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Already iced it. I’ve been hit harder than that before.”

Guilt rips through you like a bullet rips through a brain—you think you’ve finally realized the gravity of the situation. This wasn’t just a simple run in with some bum on the street; this is Andrei. This is worse than Andrei—this is Marco.

Situations brainstorm in your mind as you attempt to mentally fabricate excuses. Some way to beg Marco to believe that this isn’t Simon’s fault, but yours. It’s too late. You can already smell his cologne and feel his hand on your jaw.

Back pressed against the wall—breath on your face—mint in the air—blood on linoleum—

“Hey, stay with me.”

A warm hand braves the clamminess of your fingers as your cup is removed from your grasp, forcing you to blink away your panic and focus on Simon. It’s an embarrassing habit of yours—this terror. Some days, when you’re not smart enough to keep yourself distracted, it grips you so terribly you can do nothing but freeze. Let the world weigh you down. Sleep away the feeling until you wake up with little to no memory of what happened during your struggle.

But Simon is grounding. You focus on the scent of him; that faint but lingering nicotine—that fresh cotton. There’s a texture to his skin, something there besides the bruise. A gentle five o’clock shadow. Faint, silvery scars that dance along the bridge of his nose. The flicker of his eyes as he tries to read your face.

“Sorry,” you sputter. “I just… uhm…”

“I get it,” Simon interrupts before you can make a further fool of yourself. “Long night. We should getcha home. It’s gettin’ late.”

Your lips press tightly together as you force a breath into your lungs, praying your heart will steady. He’s too close for comfort, you realize. Heat radiates off of him like apricity, warming you from the inside out. Yet the look in his eyes is the softest thing you’ve seen for quite some time.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Thanks.”

It isn’t until you make it outside that you realize just how late you’ve been out. The faint periwinkle glow of the sky bleeds over the city as the sun attempts to break through the horizon. Around this time, normal people are getting up to start their days; enjoying a fresh cup of tea, and maybe a shower. Simon doesn’t say anything about the time, and neither do you. You don’t think you can handle any more guilt than what’s already eating away at you.

As Simon leads you to the car park, you find your eyes flickering to every poorly illuminated corner and alleyway. A part of you still fears that Andrei might be lurking, ready to pounce, ready to get revenge. You certainly wouldn’t put it past him. He’s done worse, and will continue to do worse. Yet, there’s no such boogeyman waiting for you, not when someone like Simon is around to ward them off.

Your pace slows as you near Simon’s vehicle of choice, and you feel your stomach drop at the sight of his motorcycle. It’s beautifully kept and maintained. A sleek black body reflects the flat sunlight, and the seat looks comfortable enough for cruising. Though you’re not too keen on driving what you consider to be a one way ticket to the hospital, you’d rather face your chances on that with Simon than sitting through a miserable ride on public transit.

“Here,” Simon says, pulling you out of your thoughts. When you turn to face him, you find his shoulders flexing as he slides his leather jacket off of his torso. He holds it out for you, already prepared for your arms to slip through the sleeves, and you bite your lip. “You’ll need this if you don’t wanna freeze to death.”

“Won’t you get cold?” you counter.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetheart.”

You do your best to muster a look of disapproval, but Simon is unmoved by your expression, and instead shakes his coat, prompting you. Sighing, you give in and turn around to allow him to smother you in his coat. You try to remember the last time someone helped you get dressed, but you can’t. Something vague pokes in the back of your mind, attempting to convince you that you can recall some faint memory, but it feels false.

How long have you been like this? Taking care of yourself for so long that the help of someone else feels foreign?

“Simon?” you ask. Your breath swirls in a white cloud in front of you before it quickly sputters and dies. The warmth of his jacket bleeds through your clothes and into your skin, staving off the bitter frost that attempts to ravage your senses. “Can I… request something?”

He hums in response as he gently turns you back around to face him. His fingers fumble with the zipper for a short moment before he secures you. He sneaks his gloves out of the pockets of the jacket before giving you his full attention.

“Can you promise me you won’t tell Aelin about this?” you ask.

Thick fingers curl and uncurl as Simon shoves his hands into his leather gloves. He’s already got big palms and long digits, but the slight added padding of the gloves accentuates them, and you feel your mouth go dry again.

“Don’t want her to stress?” he concludes.

You nod, and he nods back.

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

There’s only a few more quick steps Simon walks you through before you’re ready to hit the road. Once your new jacket is fitted around your body, he makes you wear his helmet as an extra measure of protection. He’s got a rather large head, and it smells vaguely like sweat mixed with fresh shampoo, but he’s able to get it secured well enough. He fixes his long sleeved shirt around the edge of his gloves before swiping a black balaclava out of the jacket; something to protect his skin from the bitter wind you’re about to endure, no doubt. As he dons it, you try not to pay attention to the way it makes his eyes darken—as if they aren’t already intense enough.

Simon hops onto the bike and motions for you to follow after him. It takes a bit of wiggling for you to get comfortable—as he has impossibly wide hips to accommodate—but you settle behind him with your hands respectfully on your knees. The engine roars to life with a jolt, rough vibrations rattling your bones in the process, and you hope Simon doesn’t hear you squeak. Before he takes off, he reaches behind him and grabs your hand, pulling you closer to him and moving your arm around his waist.

“Hold on,” he barks over the rumbling.

So you do. You try to keep your hands covered with the sleeves of his jacket to keep them warm as he begins to pull out of the car park. The ride is smooth as he pulls onto the street, and he coasts along the pavement with ease. There’s not as much traffic as there usually is considering it’s an early Sunday morning, and you have a feeling Simon is driving under the speed limit for your sake. Despite the lower speed, the howling wind is loud enough to drown out the ringing in your ears.

You don’t realize until you’re about halfway home that you can feel Simon’s heartbeat.

It teases your fingertips; strong and steady, as if the cruise is comforting to him. Bright sunlight bleeds through your eyelids as you squeeze them shut and try to get lost in the feeling. It’s so distinct that you can almost convince yourself you can hear its reverberations travel throughout your body to meet your achy eardrums. You lean against him, chest pressed against his back, helmet resting against his shoulder, and allow yourself to wander. You think it’s the first time that your hands have stilled without driving you insane.

That comfort is ripped from you as Simon pulls up to your dingy apartment.

Silence falls as he kills the engine, and the two of you slide off of the bike where he assists in freeing you from the helmet before following you into the building. Neither of you say anything as you traverse up the stairs, fatigue too violent to fight off. This has been one of the hardest days you’ve had to endure in quite some time, and you can’t wait to fall asleep in the safety of your own bed and forget all about it in your slumber.

The moment you step foot into the flat, you’re tearing Simon’s jacket off, ready to be rid of the sweat stained clothes you’ve been wearing for the better part of the last twenty four hours. You hardly manage to get your arm free from the right sleeve before a stinging pain rips through your hand. You choke out a wince as you bring your palm up where you notice your gauze caught on the jacket. It would have torn free from your skin if it wasn’t for the dried blood welding it to your cuts. You make a foolish attempt to pull the rest of it free, but that only earns you another jolt of pain.

“Careful,” Simon warns. He grabs your hand and pulls you closer to him, preventing you from messing with it further. You stare up at him with heavy, dead eyes. “Let me help.”

Words bubble up in the back of your throat; sour ones that you have to force yourself to bite back as you allow Simon to help you for the umpteenth time since you’ve met him. He slips his balaclava off and doesn’t bother to fix his hair as he leads you towards the kitchen sink where his gloves quickly join his mask in his pockets. Your newly fixed sink turns on with a slight squeak as Simon wets his fingers and begins to rub at the space between your skin and the gauze.

Despite the refreshing sensation, it still stings as the water mixes with your fresh wounds, but it softens the scabs enough so that Simon’s able to pull the fabric free with little resistance. For the first time, you’re able to clearly see the damage done to your palms. Several deep, angry, swollen cuts line the meaty part of your hand, blending in with your palm lines. It’s hard not to grimace at the sight of it. You don’t think you want to know exactly what he had to pull out of your skin.

Simon’s thumb swipes over the cuts as gentle as a feather, and you find your eyes darting to his face. His cheeks are rosy with the November chill, but his eyes are glued onto your hand. It’s caring.

So caring that it makes you feel sick.

“I can come by in a few days to check up on it,” he says, eyes flickering to yours for only a moment. “You’d fallen into some gnarly stuff. Worried ‘bout infection.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Those words that you had to bite back earlier bubble up on their own volition, and they taste just as harsh as they sound. Even so, Simon doesn’t flinch. In fact, nothing about his stature changes at all. Maybe he’s used to the sting.

“Doin’ what?” he challenges.

“Why are you… Why are you doting after me?” you clarify. “My door, my sink, now my hands. I mean, you don’t even know me. Not really. Why are you wasting your time?”

“I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to waste,” he corrects as he begins to lower your hand. “Everythin’ I do is intentional.”

“But why?”

Simon doesn’t answer you, but his silence sings. The answer is written all over his face—hidden in the twitch of his lips and the glint of his eyes. Espial hits you square in the face, nearly knocking the breath out of you.

“Aelin put you up to this, didn’t she?” you ask, voice soft.

Simon drops your hand. “She’s worried ‘bout you.”

Just as soon as that discomfort hits, it fades into your stomach and disperses until there’s nothing left. Maybe it should hurt a bit more knowing that Simon has only been doing this on orders of your best friend. You know kindness never comes cheap, if it ever comes at all. Yet, relief overwhelms you in a violent wave. He has been nothing but compassionate toward you ever since the first time he met you—yet he’s not doing this because of you.

You don’t owe Simon Riley a damn thing.

“Yeah, she always is,” you humor with a dull titter. “Good. I’m… glad that you’re not doing this just for me.”

The sun is fully over the horizon by the time Simon leaves your apartment. There’s a deep, incessant ache that stems from his cheek bone, down the back of his neck, and all the way through his spine. He knows he should be used to it by now. His job has been full of nothing but perfectly timed violence, but it always takes a toll on his body in some way he doesn’t expect. He ignores the throe as he rides through the morning smog and bitter cold, and instead focuses on the events of the night.

There’s something terribly familiar about that man who accosted you in the alley. A malicious glint in his eyes that’s too dangerous for any run of the mill thug to wear. Simon wouldn’t have ever noticed if you hadn’t reacted the way you did. Paralyzed with fear, unable to do anything but freeze and throw up due to unbridled anxiety. When he asked you if you knew this man—this freak with his stony face and sharp knife—you said no.

He doesn’t believe you for a second.

Which is why he’s back at Terminus, hidden far back in the surveillance room, scouring through countless rolls of film as he witnesses the events of the night for himself. It’s grainy, poor quality, and stuck in black and white, but this stranger—now a freak with a broken nose—arrived at the club fifteen minutes before you did. Nothing about it seems fishy. It’s not some stakeout, nor is he waiting in the shadows to pounce on you like a predator. No, this is simple coincidence, and he vanishes out of the camera’s sight within seconds.

Then you arrive some time later, bashful and awkward as you talk to the bouncers at the main entrance. You set off on your own after a quick chat and make a wrong turn. Everything else after that, he remembers himself. Seeing it again doesn’t do anything to jog his memory, not even as the camera catches the man’s bloody face and freshly shattered nose.

He’s as much of an enigma now as he was before.

It’s just past eight in the morning by the time Simon decides he needs help. A deep burn irritates his eyes as he scrolls through the contacts on his phone where names begin to blur together in fatigue. Still, he finds the name he needs with little difficulty, and he’s impatiently awaiting an answer as he listens to the dull ring blare through the speaker.

“Hello?” a voice greets through heavy panting.

“Out of shape, Johnny?” Simon quips.

“Cardio day,” the man responds simply.

Simon hums as he leans back in the squeaky desk chair. Faux leather strains underneath the pressure of his weight, but he ignores it as his eyes focus back on the monitors in front of him.

“I’ve got an assignment for you,” he says.

“Pushing all the hard work onto me again?” Johnny teases.

“You’re more tech savvy than I am,” Simon deadpans. “Listen, when you come in tonight, I need you to find the name of someone for me. Get on cam five and look at the time stamp around one fifteen this morning. There’s a cunt leaving the alley next to the VIP section, and I need to know who he is.”

A quiet slurp followed by a loud gulp cuts through the static of the call before Johnny hums. “Right. Any physical description?”

“Bastard has a broken, bloody nose,” Simon answers.

“New dance partner?” Johnny chuckles.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Right. Well, I’ll be in this afternoon working on a project for Price. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Good man,” Simon concludes.

The line goes cold seconds later, and there’s nothing but the strong whirring of computer fans to fill the silence. Achy fingers rub at his jaw as Simon rests his eyes for a moment. If that chair wasn’t so uncomfortably small, he swears he could fall asleep right then and there, but the storm of thoughts swirling in his head keeps him going.

You’re in trouble.

As for what kind, he’s not sure yet. All he knows is that he hasn’t seen someone that afraid since Tommy watched him slaughter a man while trying to save his life back in the butcher shop. He doesn’t know why his brother was so surprised to see that he—a butcher—was able to slice flesh so easily, but he didn’t like seeing that fear in Tommy’s eyes, and he certainly didn’t like it in yours. That primal, agonizing fear. He didn’t like how your brain and body seemed to shut down because of it, or how he had to all but carry you to safety so you wouldn’t have to pass out on the grimy ground.

Simon has no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, or why it seems to haunt you so maliciously, but he does know that he’s killed before and he’ll do it again if it gets you to sleep any easier at night.

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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in-som-niyah · 4 months ago

Note

hiii i hope you’re having a good day/night!!!

saw your inbox was open, may i ask hurt comfort w jason with lines like “you know i would die for you” “but i want you to live for me” or something like that (u can ignore the lines if you like)

love your works ♥︎

a/n: we're gonna ignore the fact that this was requested a yr ago ok thanks

Your phone has been left in your purse of the past 3 days and you refuse to touch it until it rings the specific ringtone attributed to Jason's number.

The last you heard of him was when you fought for the millionth time over him coming home fractured and barely together. You're grateful he told you that he's Red Hood and he comes to you when he needs to be put back together, but every bruise on Jason's body would chip away at your resolve. Every bleeding gash a reminder that someone is out to hurt him, and he barely got away.

It came to a head when he promised, he promised, he wouldn't overdo it anymore, he'll walk away when the reward is no longer worth the fight. His boots collided with your floor and he stumbled into your bathroom. Blood seeping through the hand holding his side, a harsh groan and whimper as he collapsed onto your desk chair. Blood was everywhere. He couldn't even hold a breath long enough to apologize for it.

Of course you patched him up; you grabbed the gauze and antiseptic and needles and all of that. You cleaned, stitched him and did everything you're supposed to do. You did what you're supposed to do and still. Still he's almost dying in your room.

It ended in yelling, biting comebacks and clothes thrown into bags. Neither of you are sure how it happened, or what was said. All you know is that it hurts. It hurts so much. You've learned to lean on each other when things got heavy, but soft hands have sharp teeth it seems.

You know he would die for you, but you don't want a funeral; why can't he understand that his beating heart means more to you than a casket?

---

Three days.

Three days of nothing.

You haven't seen or heard from him. You were worried for your relationship of course, but also for his health; he has a tendency to be more risky when emotionally volatile.

Is he bleeding out somewhere?

Is he scared?

Is he as distraught as you are?

Too many thoughts for a mind too far into exhaustion. You needed to pull yourself together. Work had to carry on. You're a nurse, helping people is what you do. Get a fucking grip.

It took 6 nights for Jason to show up again. You never gave him permission to come into your shitty apartment in the first place, he never asked anyway.

This time he was standing upright, bandages still on, but the wounds were no longer bleeding. His eyes delayed meeting yours, favouring instead to look behind you and into our apartment, looking as if he'll find someone else lounging in his place.

You looked at him, but really his injuries and lingering bruises. Jason stood in your doorway helmetless, coming to you as a person rather than a character. You appreciated this, but stunned at the intrusion.

"Look at me." Jason starts.

His voice is low, gentle. Nothing like it was a week ago. It carries concern, consideration and fondness. Nothing like it was a week ago.

You dare not look at him. Under no circumstances will you tell him how bad the past six days were for you. You will not tell him how your cell phone is still in your bag. You will not tell him how you can't pick it up for any other ringtone other than his.

"Please"

Jason sounds like he's choking. He sounds like you're strangling him and sucking the air from his lungs. He sounds like the world is in limbo.

A small droplet falls to your feet. You instinctually look up, and regret it instantly. Puffy eyes weighed down by eye bags collected from restless nights met your gaze. Looking at Jason was a gut punch, a twisting, winding, gut punch.

You didn't notice your own tears, but you managed to close the door behind you before you were pulled into his arms. Injuries be damned, he would rip a thousand stitches before he deprived himself of how you felt against him. The smell of your deep conditioner, the feeling of your soft curls against his shoulder, the tenderness of your body, the warmth of your skin. He remembers now.

Jason remembers why he loves likes you. He remembers why he broke through your window the first couple nights. He needs you, and he's a fucking idiot if he continues to put flinging himself into danger over you.

Jason ends up sitting in your doorway, arms around you, fists curled in your clothes. He held you as if you would disappear. He held you as if you would draw all his breath from him if you pulled away. He would never, never make that mistake again. Nothing on this godforsaken planet, in this shitty city is ever worth more than you.

Just as quickly as they came, Jason's convictions to his lifestyle came crumbling down. If any of his enemies were to hold a gun to his head, right here right now, he would go without a fight.

Though words evaded him, he was an idiot if he didn't at least try.

"I'm so sorry" you sob.

"I love you too."

---

a/n pt2: so this came out so much more angsty than i thought so im sorry for that!! im finally on a roll where i feel motivated so i'm gonna keep writing hopefully <3 thank you so much for ur patience and such a great ask <3

also im an idiot and just ran with this and just realized that you wanted quotes instead of just a general concept AFTER the fact that i wrote this so... yeah 🙂, this is going well 🙂

Also, i think this fits intot he fem!black!nurse!reader AU that i may or may not have made official so theres that <3

#jason peter todd #jason todd x reader #red hood #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #dcu #jason todd angst #jason todd fanfic #jason todd headcanon #jason todd fic #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd fluff #jason todd comfort #jason todd imagine #jason todd x black!reader #dc robin #jason todd

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kalaidekalou · 5 months ago

Text

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It's about bloody time, darling."

This went through a lot of iterations and tbh I’m not even sure if it’s exactly what I wanted but I’m content to post.

This is a companion piece for a fic I wrote for PhantomStutter for a Secret Santa on the Bloodweave Inn server.

Snippet and link to the complete fic:

The ticking clock was the worst part. The room itself wasn’t so bad—an expansive, endless stretch of soft gray light that shifted and flickered like twilight caught between clouds. It wasn’t oppressive, but it wasn’t particularly welcoming either. It simply was as though it had existed for eternity and would continue to exist until the end of all things. And somehow he knew this despite only being a resident of the place for the last… Well, how much time did pass? The ticking, though. That grated on Astarion’s nerves. He lounged in one of the high-backed armchairs that dotted the space like forgotten furniture of a long-abandoned parlor, his legs draped elegantly over one armrest. The large grandfather clock stood like a monolith at the center of the space. Ticking. Every now and then, Astarion would fling a pillow at it, or even a smaller chair. But the damned thing remained unscathed, undisturbed, ticking on with smug indifference. It’s not that he hated the place. Not exactly. It’s not like he was spending an eternity in Avernus or any of the other Nine Hells for his misdeeds. But it wasn’t heaven , either—not the warm embrace of Elysium or the radiant afterlife he might have hoped for before his undead passing. The irony not lost on him. He hadn’t been so naive as to think himself immune to death—immortality or not, adventuring came with its risks—but it was the how of it that gnawed at him. The chaos of that final moment, hearing Gale’s panicked cry, the sharp flash of a silver blade—it still stung. He reached for his phantom wound at the memory. His end had been messy, sudden, unceremonious. And deeply and maddeningly unsatisfying. So... anticlimactic. Limbo was dull, though not unbearable. He had, after all, survived far worse. And it wasn’t without its entertainments. One of the so-called perks of his limbo—if one could call it that—was the occasional opportunity to slip into the living world. At first, Astarion had eagerly roamed the streets of Baldur’s Gate, unseen and untouchable, drifting through the familiar alleys and squares he’d once haunted in life, trying to figure out why he could visit. He’d sometimes catch a startled scream or gasp when someone glimpsed the faint shimmer of his misted form, and—on maybe more than one occasion—he may have indulged in a jump scare or two, just to keep things interesting. It was hardly his fault if the living lacked composure. He’d even lingered near comforting faces, friends who he cared for dearly—Karlach growing old alongside Wyll, the two of them eventually settling into lives of guiding young adventurers rather than diving into the fray themselves. When their time came, Astarion had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that one or the other might stop by this dreary limbo. Even a brief visit, a simple "Hello, we missed you, and life was dreadfully boring without you," would have sufficed. But no, of course not. Their good-natured heroism and selflessness had likely earned them a direct passage to some well-deserved paradise, leaving no reason to fester in a place as unfinished as this. Lae’zel, who had fought valiantly until her very last breath, had certainly earned her place in the afterlife of her people—though Astarion wouldn’t be surprised if she’d ended up in the arms of Selûne instead, given that Shadowheart had remained steadfastly by her side until the end. Once, he could have sworn he saw Halsin’s figure in the distance of this unending place, just out of reach, but all too soon it disappeared after stepping through the clock's veil that marked some unseen boundary. At least that moment gave him some comfort—proof that all this waiting served some purpose. One by one, they all passed on, leaving Toril behind for whatever lay beyond. All except Gale. The person he had hoped would be the first to join him.

link to the full fic

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #gale dekarios #bg3 #bloodweave #gale of waterdeep #gale x astarion #astarion x gale #bloodweave fic #bg3 gale #galestarion #bg3 fanart #astarion ancunin #baldurs gate 3 #gale bg3 #baldurs gate gale #kalaide

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threepandas · 3 months ago

Text

Bad End: Classic Deals

The answer was still "No", he still can't fuck me.

(But that won't stop him trying to persuade me. How long have we been in this limbo? How long until I give in?)

Overbearing cologne and cigar smoke seeps, like smog, into the room. Just as dirty and cloying as the chuckle that follows. It's a deep sound. Sleazy, masculine, and with a hint of growl. The drawling amusement of a man who knows he's the biggest threat in whatever room he stands in.

And enjoys it.

He's an absolute bastard. I hate him. I'm scared of him. He wasn't even the Demon that was supposed to show up. But? What's done is is done. And now I have to figure out a way to escape... somehow.

Because I Refuse.

Refuse! To let him eat me. In any sense of the word.

When I was... not so much "reincarnated", as that would require my memories be lost, but? I guess, Reborn? I found myself inside a story. It had just come out, before I died. So I never got to finish it. But I had seen play-throughs. Spoilers. Watched the trailers. I recognized everything, and realized what "role" as it were, someone wanted me to play. A frankly? Near psychotic, bully of a girl.

I refused. Utterly.

Not only because the Protagonist was, frankly? Just a child. But because the girl's end was a horrifying one. My character, dragged to hell. Tortured and tormented forever. Granted, they didn't call it hell. No, no, it was the "Shadow Dimensions". You know... where Demons come from. But, come on, it was clearly hell!

Instead? I trained. Ate my veggies. Did my homework. I went to fantasy church each Sunday, and dutifully prayed, to the fantasy Otome Gods. The very picture of a perfect child. Frankly? I aimed for obnoxiously so.

Just so I could get through the plot, then get the hell out of dodge.

But then? THEN? The Protagonist crashed into my life. And made me a horror story. Suddenly I was pushing innocent girls down stairs and into ponds. Spreading rumors I'd never spoken. Taking things I'd never touched. Sending men to do unspeakable things, from which she must be saved. The monster in her fairytale. From which? Her knights must surely protect her.

I'd done none of it.

Had witnesses to prove that.

But what use was the words of my friends? When the sons of powerful houses were forming a mob? For Justice, of course. Because I was Evil, obviously. I deserved it, they howled. Terrified... I ran. My friends helping break out. Smuggling me as far as they could. We split up. Them, running to their parents for help, and me? Simply running.

All the while... wondering. Horrified. Did She? The original? Suffer the same? Was the Story equally so twisted? Distorted truths and inconveniences erased? Had... gods, had she ever even been the villian? I would never know.

None the less, I fled to the one place I knew the Protagonist couldn't enter. Not yet.

Her ancestors cursed Manor. Where the final act would reveal how our families intertwined. History repeating itself, etc etc. I couldn't remember. All I knew? Was that my character met a Demon there. Some secret romance-able. But if I could convince him first? Maybe... just maybe? I could protect myself from that psychopath in pink.

What I didn't count on? What I SHOULD have remembered? Was that spells depend on material, power, and payment. The difference between getting a cup of water and a lake? Can often be how much you sacrifice to get what you need. What chalk or ink you use. How much POWER you pour in to the spell.

I don't know what the Original did. But the materials were likely the same, given I found them there. High grade, if old. However...? However? I was panicked. Foolish. Did the one thing our magic instructors told us never to do. I Cast with emotion, instead of a clear head. Poured bucket of power into the spell, like a hemorrhaging wound. Did not prick my hand for mere drops of blood, no... no I dragged the blade shallow but long.

Spilling FAR to much. Paying FAR more then the Original ever dreamed too.

Would ever DARE.

Fear makes people stupid.

What answered? Was NOT who I expected. Who I expected. It was like the house, and everything in it, was suddenly under the crushing pressure of some great boot. Walls groaned. Pillars creaked ominously. Dust rained from the ceiling as windows popped and cracked. My back, forced to bow, under the mountainous pressure. Face pressed to the blood and ink stained floor. I could barely breathe.

Pressed to the filthy floor, it was like I was being ground into it, for my audacity. Even as space itself warped and imploded, into the shape of a man. A hole in reality. Emptiness, that stepped forward into being, as casually as others go for a strole. I could barely see... but... but...?

W-was...?

Was he wearing a fucking suit‽

Lazily, cigar smoke drifted through the air. Thick cologne commanded the room. A moment, as whatever I summoned considered, whether or not to humor me. Before just like that? The pressure released. Like a bubble popping or a joint, cracking backing into place. I gasped for air. Desperately filling my lungs. Light headed from my still bleeding arm.

Weakly, I dragged my fingers along the edges and muttered a healing spell. It wouldn't be pretty, but... fuck it. I had other concerns right now.

It was only when I looked up, managing to lever my self into a sitting position, that I realized I fucked up. Really, really, fucked up. Even as I watched, classic ram horn whisped away, clouding the demon's head in a mocking halo of smoke. His thick whip of a tail, lazily coiled back and forth, before passing once more behind his back, to seemingly disappear. Leaving only black tipped claws behind. Teeth, far too sharp.

An old school Demon.

One of the Classics, as they called them. Old, strong, and impossible to kill. Notorious. The so called kings of the Shadowlands. The came from the generations before the great Demon Wars. The ones that basically slaughtered the entire existent demonic population for about twenty or so generations. Classic Demons didn't have to rapid evolve to survive like the rest.

They were just too god damned powerful to kill.

Fuck.

The Demon's vaguely bored expression oozed into a deeply amused, wolfish grin. My horrified realization must have shown on my face. And, really, what was more amusing? To a Demon. Then that moment of terror and awe? Seeing them realize that you are the Big Nasty here? Ha ha... apparently, nothing.

"Well aren't you cute, bitty Meat? I could eat you right up." He drawled.

FUCK.

There... there was no way to fix this. I could reverse the summons... but that? That only works if he decides to go quietly. Normally, you can firmly enforce these sort of things, if they refuse to disperse, but... but-! Ha ha... oh fuck. There was no way in hell, my will could possibly win out. That I could force him through a metaphorical doorway. At best, I'd be letting him free as the summoning broke down.

Shit. Okay. S-Seal a Dea...?

No. That's an incredibly fucking stupid idea.

No one has ever, on record, survived making ANY deals with an Elder Demon. The Classics were both fucking vicious and effectively Demonic warlords! Bad idea. Very Bad Idea! But it's not like I can just wait him out. What's a few weeks to is effectively an immortal? Maybe I could...?

"Aaaw, bitty Meat. Are you... panicking? How cute." A claw tipped hand holding his cigar brings it up, to meanly grinning lips. To be trapped, like prey, between predator sharp teeth. Freeing his hand, even as the other never leaves its place, casually, arrogantly, tucked into his pants pocket. "Gotta say, it's not often I get such an adorable little meal."

"Certainly adds a bit of... spice to things~" he chuckled. A deep, curling sound. Like smoke in the lungs and terrible drunken mistakes.

Then? The horrifying. Holding my eyes with his. Smirk growing, wider and wider, as the terror set in and the reality of my situation unfolded, he casually... reached out. As though it was nothing at all. No spellwork, no barriers. No thousands of years of safety measures going up in smoke. As though the breaking of cardinal rules meant nothing, and it was as simple as a breeze.

He reached out. A Demon, before any Deal was struck, past every layer of containment and protections, to ever so lightly? With those lethal, empire ending claws... grip a few strands of hair, that had escaped my careful up-do. Hanging wild, in front of my face. His finger pinched the strands. Deadly. Just in front of my eyes. Close enough to nearly feel the heat of his skin. And..?

Yank!

Sharp points of pain on my scalp. A few stands of hair, plucked free.

I all but stop breathing. It was one thing, to be powerful enough, ancient and experienced enough, to shrug off an inexperienced Mage's restrictions. After all, I was no Demon summoner. Had never studied the dark arts or Forbidden ways. It was entirely possible my restrictions were mediocre. Complete shit. But...? But-! Even I‽ knew there were certain inalienable RULES. Enforced by Reality itself. For all intents and purposes, God.

He shouldn't be able to hurt me. Not directly.

No Deal had been made. I hadn't tried to send him back and failed, thus allowing him to break free during the "you are no longer needed" portion but before completing the "Now go home". The most he should be able to do? Is threaten my environment, mental state, or emotions. Indirect attacks. Not... not direct...

Desperately I look down at my work. Looking for where I fucked up. But... but there's nothing. How? S-So, HOW?! Any harm to me, should-!

Oh.

"Well look at you, itty bitty~! Figure it out so fast, did you? What a clever little Morsel. That's right~..."

He can tank it. Even returned a thousand fold. What mortally wounds a human? Inconveniences a Demon like him. He could be down right atomized and he'd walk it off. That... that's why there's so many warnings. To keep them from ever setting foot in the Human realm. Old school Demons are all but impossible to get rid off and... and the last one that got through? Nearly wiped out two seperate Holy Orders. Took five hundred years to send back.

Finally... I let myself cry.

God damn it. I.. I messed up. This is all so fucking messed up! I just... I just wanted to travel! Visit the coast with my friends. Cute little shops. Those flower fields I'd heard about. How... how the fuck did I-? Why did I have to..? What was the POINT of all this!? If I was just going to end up HERE!? Curling into myself. I sob. Fuck it all. I'm... I'm done. Enough! I can't anymore. E-Enough...

"Hmmm..." the worst mistake of my life says, humming like he's considering something. Grinding my spellwork to smears and ruin, beneath expensive boot leather. As he strolls past me to consider the room at large. Lazily circling me like a shark.

"You know... I think I recognize this wreck. Hmmm, oh yeah. Big tits, terrible attitude. Too many bows. She tried to play the damsel in distress card, like she wasn't just as guilty as the rest. Thought I burned this place down..."

"That bitch was a real arrogant piece of work. Some Saintess. Ha! I've met actual Demons more holy." My tears had faded, dispite myself. Curiosity dragging my attention to hang on every word. The actual, original, Tragedy At The Manor had never really been revealed. As far as I knew.

"So, let me guess," his voice as he circled behind me, was sneering as he spoke of the Protagonist. Like he'd stepped in something that been left to rot. "Greedy little shit, who wants more then she deserves, and was willing to take it from everyone else. No matter the cost. Because she is the victim. The pretty little princess, forever to be saved. And fuck whoever she has to destroy to get it."

I stare up at him with shocked, tear reddened eyes. Face a mess. Uncaring how pathetic I must look by now. Covered in dust, blood, and tears. Was... was the pink horror's behavior... fuckin genetic?! This had happened before!? Oh God.

Glancing down at me, the Demon's face shifts from annoyed disgust to amusement. Something curling through the expression I can not possibly hope read. Deeper. Darker. No longer just the surface flickers of passing fun. As though settling back on his heels, from where he had been balanced on the balls of his toes. Ever ready to move.

"Shit." He breathed out sharply through his nose, a near silent snort. Grin spreading like a beast baring its teeth. Eyes dancing with something I couldn't name. "A cute little snack... no, a sweet lil Treat~ and a fight? Happy fuckin birthday to me, huh? Don't I just get all the fun? Might even decide to keep you, sweet Treat. Make you a lil pet. We could make a Deal~"

"I eat you up, you get all you could ever dream off. It'll be great, itty bitty! Power, prestige. Wealth beyond your wildest dreams. Sex with the hottest fucking demon to ever live~ C'mon, Pet. Let me get a taste~"

"Promise I only bite a little."

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callme-holly · 1 month ago

Note

wait so like you should do something like bob sheldons sister x dallas fic 😽😽

𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐝 - 𝐃.𝐖

a/n. might upset some people with this... angsty fic y'all...

The room was dead silent, filled only with the monotonous drone of the clock on the nightstand and Dallas’ heavy breathing. His expression was a mix of confusion, underlying anger and something akin to betrayal; it made your heart ache in your chest.

“I was going to tell you…” You whispered, tears burning at your eyes, threatening to spill over just as your confession had. “I swear I was.”

Dally just scoffs in response, dismissive, unwanting of your excuse. He stepped closer, hand grabbing at your forearm, not rough, but not exactly tender either.

“Fuck, doll. You can’t just drop somethin’ like that on me.”

You nodded silently, squeezing your eyes shut and swallowing heavily. It was a lot; you knew it was. It wasn’t exactly easy on you either. Your brother was Bob Sheldon, the same boy who just days earlier had tried to drown Ponyboy Curtis and had been stabbed by Johnny Cade. Dallas’ little brothers.

“I’m sorry.” That was all you could manage. It didn’t make up for the damage and didn’t even heal the wound a little bit. But you still felt as if you owed him something.

Dallas shook his head, finally releasing you, leaving a lingering pressure against your skin as he began to pace the length of the room, his breathing still heavy. “He tried to kill Pony, man. He jumped Johnny. You knew that!”

“They killed him!” You snapped suddenly, the tears flowing in steady streams, your voice cracking in anguish. “Those boys, your boys, killed my brother, Dally!” The sound was raw, filled with nothing but pain and grieving and guilt.

Dallas fell silent, freezing with his back turned to you. You could see the steady rise and fall of his chest and could feel the tension building up, preparing to snap. But he didn’t speak a word.

“You never said anything. Not even then.”

“How could I?” You stepped towards him, reaching out with shaking hands. “You wouldn’t have stayed. You… You would have hated me.”

Dallas huffs a laugh, sharp, jagged, cutting. “I could never hate you, sweetheart.” He turned slowly then, catching your hands halfway and lowering them to your sides. A rejection that stung more than anything. “But that doesn’t mean I forgive you either.”

You nodded again, once, resigned, dropping your head.

Everything over the past few days flooded over you, pulling you under in a wave of hurt, shock, grief, longing… Maybe, just maybe, if you’d stepped up at the drive-in and said something before Bob took it too far. You wouldn’t be here now.

He would still be here.

“He killed him.” You grumbled out. “Johnny killed him.”

And with that, you collapsed on the mattress, head in your hands as Dallas stood aside, watching you with a blank expression, devoid of any sort of emotion. He didn’t hate you. But he didn’t love you either.

It left you both in a weird limbo, in between two different emotions towards one another. The divide of greasers and soc. Hoodlum and sophisticate. The line between was blurred but not invisible.

“He tried to kill Pony.”

And there was that side of Dallas Winston that really pissed you off, truly rubbed you the wrong way; he was stubborn. You two would never see eye to eye on this. Both boys were in the wrong. But neither of you would ever accept that.

You both chose sides. And they would always be opposite ones. And that… That’s what would truly break you in the end.

#the outsiders x reader #darry curtis imagine #darry curtis headcanons #darry curtis x reader #darrel curtis x reader #dallas winston x reader #dally winston x reader #dallas winston imagine #steve randle x reader #johnny cade x reader #sodapop curtis x reader #soda curtis x reader #sodapop x reader #ponyboy x reader #ponyboy curtis x reader #pony curtis x reader #two bit matthews x reader #two bit x reader #two bit mathews x reader

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zeroseuniverse · 2 months ago

Text

Guilty Pleasures

Word Count: 1.3K Summary: “Oh! And,” he interrupts, wiggling your fingers smugly, “you bite your nails when you’re thinking. Didn’t peg you for the anxious type, but it’s kind of cute.” He lifts a hand toward his—your—lips, playfully tapping your lower one. You’re going to kill him. Well, he’s already dead, but you’ll find a way. Pairing: Jaemin X reader

Taglist: @zaycie @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @lezleeferguson-120

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You barely register the faint prickle at the back of your neck before your limbs suddenly go slack. A sharp chill courses through your chest, followed by a disorienting lightness, like you’re being peeled away from yourself. Then—blackness.

When you blink, you’re no longer behind your eyes. You’re watching them. Watching him.

Jaemin smirks at you from your own reflection, his fingers wiggling in a sarcastic little wave.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he purrs with your voice. “Miss me?”

Oh, you hate him.

When the exorcist first explained that Jaemin, a restless spirit, needed to temporarily possess your body to deliver a message from the in-between, you were willing to be gracious. Sympathetic, even. Poor, wandering soul. Couldn’t pass on until he spoke to his loved ones. You agreed without hesitation. But this? This was not part of the deal.

He’s supposed to be grateful. Solemn, maybe. Instead, he’s parading around in your skin like he owns it.

You glare at him from the mirror, your eyes narrowing, though it’s useless. He raises your eyebrows mockingly, as if to say, Is that all you’ve got?

“Y’know,” he hums thoughtfully, stretching your arms above your head, “you’ve got way more upper body strength than I expected.” He glances down at your torso, admiring it with an obnoxious little grin. “Are you secretly hitting the gym at midnight or something?”

You mentally screech, flailing in the disembodied limbo you’re stuck in.

“Jaemin, I swear—”

“Oh! And,” he interrupts, wiggling your fingers smugly, “you bite your nails when you’re thinking. Didn’t peg you for the anxious type, but it’s kind of cute.” He lifts a hand toward his—your—lips, playfully tapping your lower one.

You’re going to kill him. Well, he’s already dead, but you’ll find a way.

Over the next few hours, Jaemin wreaks absolute havoc on your daily routine. He rearranges your entire spice rack alphabetically. He texts your best friend unhinged compliments like, “You have the most symmetrical ears I’ve ever seen.” And when you pass by your nosy neighbor, he waves far too enthusiastically, making her nearly drop her purse in confusion.

“Why are you like this?!” you scream from your incorporeal prison.

But the worst comes when he finds the full-length mirror in your bedroom.

“Oh-ho…” he whistles lowly, tilting your head at an angle. “Would you look at that.” His eyes (your eyes) darken with amused mischief, half-lidded as he trails your fingers down your collarbone. His lips twitch into a familiar smirk—the one you’ve seen on his face every time he appears in your dreams. The one that always leaves you a little breathless.

He leans forward until his breath (your breath, dammit) fogs up the glass. His lips part slightly, and in a soft, husky murmur, he says,

“Damn. If I’d known you were this pretty, I would’ve possessed you sooner.”

Your heart, your actual heart, stutters.

“Oh, you are unbelievable,” you seethe.

He chuckles, the sound rich with genuine delight. “Don’t be mad. You’re making this way too easy.” He trails his fingers over the mirror’s surface, like he’s caressing your cheek. “I’ve been watching you for so long. You didn’t really think I was gonna waste this chance, did you?”

You stop fighting. Stop flailing. You just blink at him.

“…Wait. You’ve been watching me?”

Jaemin flashes you a slow, devilish grin.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs silkily, voice dripping with fondness, “you’ve been haunting me since day one.”

And damn it all—you feel yourself fall for him.

You stare at him—at yourself—but the person staring back feels nothing like you. There’s a glimmer in your eyes that doesn’t belong. A sharpness to your smile that you’ve never worn. It’s him. Completely him. And he’s making it impossible to breathe.

“Haunting you?” you echo, barely able to keep the waver out of your voice.

Jaemin’s grin spreads slowly, devilishly, like he’s savoring the effect he’s having on you. He drags your fingers down the side of your throat, deliberately slow, making your pulse pound in places you no longer have a physical form.

“Mmh,” he hums, tilting your head to the side like he’s admiring his favorite portrait. “You didn’t notice?” His voice dips into something low and smoky. “Every time you got chills for no reason? That was me.” His smile grows wicked. “When your window blew open, even though you swore you closed it? That was me, too.”

You reel, trying to process his words, but your mind keeps snagging on how he’s brushing your knuckles across your lips. His eyes glimmer with dangerous delight as he murmurs,

“And when you had those dreams about me?” He presses your index finger against the corner of your mouth, tracing it slowly. “Yeah. Definitely me.”

Your mind blanks.

No. No, no, no, no. Those dreams. The ones that left you breathless and achingly hot, your fingers gripping at sheets that never seemed cool enough. The ones you brushed off as some twisted side effect of your subconscious craving companionship. Those were him?

Jaemin watches the realization flicker in your eyes, and he smirks. The bastard smirks.

“Caught you,” he taunts softly. “You liked it.”

You hate how warm your limbs—his limbs—suddenly look. How he’s using your body to lean against the dresser, one hand slipping into your hair with an infuriatingly slow, self-satisfied motion.

“I— I did not like it,” you snap, but the waver in your voice makes the words feel brittle.

Jaemin clicks your tongue, mock-scolding you. “Tsk, tsk. Lying to a ghost? How cold-hearted.”

Then, with a wolfish grin, he steps closer to the mirror, lowering his voice into something just shy of sinful.

“Admit it,” he purrs, lips brushing your reflection. “You miss me when you wake up.”

You want to scream. Want to throttle him. Want to—

Oh. Oh no. You want to kiss him.

He feels it. The longing that spikes through you. His eyes—your eyes—flash with a victorious gleam. Slowly, deliberately, he presses your palm against your chest, right over your heart, as if to taunt you with your own racing pulse.

“Wouldn’t it be easier,” he breathes softly, the words a whisper against the mirror, “if you just let me stay?”

The world stills. Your throat tightens.

Stay?

Stay in your body? With you?

“You’re insane,” you murmur faintly.

Jaemin flashes you a dimpled grin. “Possibly.” Then, in a voice so soft you almost mistake it for reverence, he adds,

“But you make me want to be alive again.”

And before you can stop yourself, you whisper back,

“You already are.”

For a single, breathless heartbeat, he falters. His eyes—no longer teasing, no longer smug—widen slightly, raw and disarmed. For the first time, you catch a glimpse of something achingly human behind them.

And that’s when he lifts your hand—his hand—to the mirror. Presses his palm against the glass, longing sparking in his eyes like embers.

“Come closer,” he murmurs, so softly it barely reaches you.

Without thinking, you do. Your consciousness—your disembodied self—drifts toward the surface of the mirror, drawn in by the magnetic warmth in his eyes. You hover there, feeling the pull of his presence. The way it stirs something deep and trembling inside you.

His lips part. Just slightly. His eyes lower to your mouth.

“Stay with me,” he whispers, your voice barely a breath.

And before you know it, you’re crashing back into your own body.

The sensation is sudden and disorienting. Like being dunked into ice-cold water, your limbs snap back into place, your chest heaving. You blink rapidly, disoriented. Dizzy. Alive.

But when you glance at the mirror—he’s still there. His reflection. Smiling softly. Not smug. Not teasing. Just… gentle.

“See?” he murmurs. “Told you we were better together.”

Your lips part, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper.

Jaemin’s grin turns slow and fond.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “But I’m yours now.”

And God help you—you smile back.

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deathofacupid · 21 days ago

Text

FLOWERS OF FLESH AND BLOOD. 𓂃 s. gojo. ◞ ♯ tuna cans.

"can you close your eyes, remember the flowers for me?" — this was home, until it wasn't. until it was a barren land of flesh, blood, and fear. they said to just survive, but what does that mean? to walk a life of tears and loss? never knowing if the next day will be your last? it's the end of the world, though the start of yours. yours and satoru's. WARNING. walking dead in the vicinity, proceed with caution: zombie apocalypse!au. dead dove, do not eat. gore, blood, death, angst, depictions of violence + murder. eventual smut (afab!reader), slow burn. more to come.

chapter summary — there are eight billion people on earth. no, was. there was eight billion people on earth. now? you're not sure. is there half the amount? even less? the walkers don't count, by the way. in any case, you're one of them — a survivor. where does that leave you? alone. or, that's what you'd thought, at least.

› series m.list. — ask to get tagged! › my m.list.

it hasn’t been long, actually. you can count the months on one hand. every single moment, every single whisper of that time is etched in your memory, down to the last minute. but where does all that remembering get you? nowhere, not really.

it doesn’t help to recall the very first screams. the trampling of people, desperate to get out, get away — as if there were anywhere safe to run to.

the world feels dull now. lifeless, literally. the sun is a rarity, no longer peeking out from behind the clouds like it used to. it’s as if the world has surrendered to the cruelty of it all, like it’s lost faith in the need for light. today is one of those days: tired and melancholic.

your feet drag on the concrete, hands shoved deep in your pockets. the streets are quiet, save for the soft rustling of the wind or the crunch of leaves beneath your worn shoes.

you know where you’re going; it’s a familiar path, one you don’t even need to think about. you could walk there with your eyes closed — to that dim-lit convenience store seven blocks down.

it’s always been a sad building, even before. now? now… it’s pathetic. paint peels from the edges of the walls, and thick vines clumsily wrap around the sides.

the first thing that hits you is the smell of rust; heavy, metallic, and bloody. dust coats the dull metal shelves, cobwebs decorating the forgotten cans of food. grabbing a dented cart, you toss in whatever looks remotely edible.

anything to postpone the next visit. you hate leaving the house, if you can even call it that. it’s more like a hut, a ground-level treehouse. secluded, kind of. not too deep in the woods, but just far enough to avoid them. the walkers. zombies, informally, you suppose.

god, they’re disgusting. horrid to look at. a sickly pale, with skin that seems to… droop where it’s barely attached. oh, and the smell is less than pleasant.

you can’t believe they used to be people. with lives, and homes. family and friends, a job. now they’re just… well, nothing. not quite alive, not quite dead. stuck in a sad limbo.

you made a list, if you remember correctly. shoved somewhere in your pocket, probably crumpled. can’t find it now, shit. what was even on it? squinting your eyes, you pinch your temple, like blurring your vision would somehow help you recall.

cereal. without milk, unfortunately. that went bad in the very beginning, thanks to no electricity for the fridges. that reminds you; milk powder had been scribbled down. uh, salt, right? wait, did you already have some left? oh, what did it matter? it was all free now, anyway.

rice. hard liquor. not for drinking, but for disinfecting. well, maybe also for drinking. you’re about to check the expiry dates on the dusty chocolates when you hear a not-so-quiet clang. freezing, you instinctively feel around for your pocket knife.

it’s futile. there’s no way you left it. no, that’s crazy. you’re not that irresponsible.

and yet, it seems you just might be.

instead, you arm yourself with the nearest thing — a sticky (?) can of tuna. not preferable, but it’s better than nothing. at least, that’s what you tell yourself, trying to mentally calculate how hard you could throw this thing. or how far. or both.

“who’s there?” you ask, your voice shakier than you’d like. you don’t wait for an answer, instead chucking the can the second you see a shock of white hair. whoever it is ducks, letting out a surprised, almost offended, “hey!”

and then you catch their, his, eyes, bright, bright blue. no rotting flesh. no stench. normal, human, real. “oh, my god,” you breathe out, the tension leaving your shoulders.

throwing his hands up, he exclaims, “you could’ve killed me!” his head bobs with shock, his white hair tousling with the movement.

“sorry. i— well, i thought you were one of them.”

“oh. no, no, i’m not.” he looks at you, really looks at you, taking a cautious step back from his initial mild anger. the man tilts his head, studying you. “haven’t seen you around.”

“um, i live—” you pause. wait, maybe you shouldn’t tell him where you live just yet, considering you don’t even know his name. “never mind. i haven’t seen you around either. didn’t even know there were other people here.”

he runs a hand through his snowy locks, giving you a small, almost sheepish shrug. “me n’ my friends aren’t too far from here.”

your eyebrows shoot up, just slightly. “t— there’s more of you? in this area? you’re kidding.”

“afraid not, babe. gojo, by the way,” he adds after a moment, extending a hand. “satoru gojo. survivors gotta stick together, right?”

you hesitate, eyeing his outstretched hand. you don’t know this satoru gojo. he’s a stranger. can you really trust him more than any of the walkers?

but another thought, a desperate craving for human interaction, pleads with you to respond. and before you know it, you’re blurting out your own name, taking his hands in yours.

you don't mean to notice, but they're softer than you expected, somewhat calloused. the closer you get, the more you can notice the smell of his cologne. cheap cologne.

not bad smelling, however, with hints of pinewood, musk, and the subtle tone of sweat. odd, because the gold chain around his neck seems to scream the opposite.

when he flexes his arms, you can see the fabric of his sleeves squeeze his biceps. he has very nice biceps.

not that you mean to notice.

“pretty name,” gojo hums, a grin spreading across his face, “for a pretty girl. say, is this pretty girl all by herself out here?”

was he flirting with you? in the middle of the zombie apocalypse? “…yeah. yeah, i guess so.” your nervous fidgeting stills, and you grip the handle of the shopping cart, your gaze drifting over the faded white letters reading “gas-mart,” stark against the fading red background.

he blinks, his bright blue eyes searching yours. “no family? friends?”

you blow out a shaky breath. “nope.” sensing the shift in the air, the newer tension, he stops there, smoothly changing the topic.

“well, pretty, you could always come back with me. my friends and i, we got a place. it’s not too shabby, but it’s… home.”

your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. you don’t know him, though. nor his intentions. taking a half-step back, you shake your head, pushing the cart slowly past him.

oddly enough, it pains you to leave him standing there, but what choice do you have? go with a complete stranger? as easy on the eyes as he is, that’s a hard no.

“pass. thanks, though. stay safe out there.” short, curt, to the point.

before he can even say, “you, too,” you’re gone, leaving him behind in the dusty aisle.

the entire walk home, you repeat to yourself that it was the right thing to do.

› (8/50) — @jeonwiixard, @mia-can-yap-too, @kentoslvr, @eolivy, @wunerie, @shokocide, @suckkuna, @sadmonke.

#satoru gojo x reader #satoru x reader #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x y/n #jjk x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu satoru #flowers of flesh and blood

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xclowniex · 9 months ago

Text

I truly think that the majority of goyim simply do not know what it has been like for jews in the diaspora since Oct 7th.

When the news first broke, I did not know how far hamas had gotten into Israel, my family in Israel was on a trip somewhere in Israel too and I had no clue where they had gone for a holiday. Whilst I knew they did not live anywhere near the Gaza border, I had zero idea where they were when it was happening. I had zero clue if they were alive or dead. I was stuck in limbo watching all the reports.

Then on Monday, I had to go into work like nothing fucking happened, like I didn't just spend the weekend worrying if they were dead or alive.

When I came into work, my manager who had heard the news who knows I have family in Israel asked me what had happened. I was still processing the news myself. All I told her was that there was an attack on Israeli civilians and she said that she hoped my family was safe.

In the coming days I saw all the protests, all the protests BEFORE Israel had even retaliated. I saw the antisemitic protest in Australia where people were chanting "gas the jews" and thinking "oh my fucking God, Australian culture is similar to New Zealand culture, is a similar protest going to happen here?" I spend so long worried that something like that would happen where I lived. I planned what I would do if I got caught near one, picturing all the common places people protest and planning my escape routes. Thankfully nothing on that scale happened. I was lucky.

None of my friends at the time asked me if my family was safe, but they all posted about Palestine. Keep in mind that all bar one knew I have family in Israel as I've spoken about it multiple times.

I watched support keep coming and coming for palestine when Israel hadn't even retaliated yet, and no support for the Israeli lives lost. I pushed my feelings aside, giving people the benefit of the doubt, maybe just maybe they didn't know the extent of Oct 7th that was released at that time.

After Israel retaliated, I ended up unfollowing so many content creators online because they refused to talk Oct 7th and only talked about Palestine. Were my family just chopped fucking liver to them???? Did my anxiety that I felt about their safety just not matter? Did all Israelis dying not matter to them?

I went to my first Halloween party. It was fun and I enjoyed myself for the most part, but on the way there I kept worrying that someone was going to say something antisemitic, that someone was going to bring up the war and dehumanize Israelis, dehumanize my family. I spent the whole evening on edge, worrying that it would happen. As a result, to calm my nerves I ended up getting super fucked up. It did not work and I overdid the alcohol and weed and I just felt terrible. The next day I felt immense guilt. How could I party? How could I dance when those at Nova were killed when they were dancing?

Then the antisemitism started online. I watched antisemitic tropes just start flying around social media. It's what made me start posting about the war and antisemitism online. My blog turned from clown posts, my special interest, to a space where I could get my feelings off my chest.

Then the antisemitism started in real life. Whenever I wore my magen david, I would get called slurs. I had to start avoiding certain parts of town because of it.

I also felt highly isolated at work. I didn't know who I could speak to about what I was going through. My office is made up of mainly leftists. No one really spoke about the war at work, which in a way made it worse. I didn't know who was normal about jews and Israelis and who weren't.

The harassment got so bad that my partner at the time was begging me to stop wearing or at least hide my magen david as he was afraid that I would be physically attacked.

There were times which I hid it, and I still experienced antisemitism because I have a very jewish nose.

I experienced this for MONTHS.

At one point in time, I tried venting to my friends at the time about the antisemitism I was facing. One of them said that they hadn't seen any antisemitism so they didn't know what I was talking about. I called what they said weird, and they started on this whole tirade that I'm only calling them antisemitic because they're arab. I think this was in November. I looked at their blog and found posts denying oct 7th, saying it didn't happen. I took screenshots in case i needed them in the future. Oh the foreshadowing.

About two months ago, a new person was invited to the friend group discord server. This new person made some pro hamas comments and said they were a resistance group. I explained with proof that Hamas has said that they wanted to kill jews. This was the start of a downfall of my friendship with my ex friends.

2 weeks after that, one of my ex friend vents about the war, and in their vent they dehumanized Israelis. I decided to check all my friends social media posts. I found post after post after post with blood libel, oct 7th denial, antisemitic tropes, dehumanization of Israelis and jews, and posts in support of groups which want jews dead, such as the houthi which have "curse to jews" in their slogan. That new person added to the discord server literally sent a few messages explicitly saying that they support the houthi.

I take a few days to process things and decide enough is enough, and that I need to unfriend them all. I email my local synagogue and get accepted to join after being screened by them to verify that I was in fact jewish and not some antisemite wanting to harm the congregation. I end my friendship with my ex friends with an essay of a message stating what they said, why it was antisemitic and that I do not feel comfortable or safe being friends with them anymore.

Two of them reached out to me to try to fix things. One hasn't really done much, she only didn't ask if my family was safe after Oct 7th + never called out any antisemitism the friend group did. However our friendship could not be repaired as her boyfriend was one of the worse perpetrators of antisemitism.

The other one who reached out supported groups who had tied to Hamas. I asked them to no longer support SJP, and they refused with the excuse of "I already avoid so many activist groups because of white supremacy, it's too hard to avoid SJP. I had to bite my tongue. I wanted to scream at them "why the actual fuck are you attracted to so many groups who engage in white supremacy that you need to actively avoid them? How hard is it to avoid one more! Write a fucking list if you need help remembering!" But I didn't say any of that, I just told them that if that's their choice then we can no longer be friends anymore and I blocked them.

Going to synagogue was amazing. I felt so welcomed and have made some new friends. Reconnecting with my jewishness after not going to synagogue for years was good. It was exactly what I needed. However, it was the cause of the end of my relationship with my ex.

He had his parents force his culture on him since he was a child and hated every second of it. When he immigrated here, he assimilated and wanted nothing to do with the culture from the country he was born in. Whilst he was fine with me participating in jewish culture, he didn't want it brought into the relationship at all. He was fine eating jewish food if i cooked it, but he didn't want to learn about jewish culture or do anything regarding it. I wasn't expecting him to convert, all I wanted was for him to learn the basics about jewish culture, maybe surprise me with some recipies from my childhood like I've done with sri lankan recipies from his childhood when he told me that he's craving them, attend jewish markets when they happen. I did not at all expect him to convert or to become immersed in jewish culture, I just wanted him to make an effort to support my jewishness.

We were looking at marriage and children in the next few years and were discussing how to raise them. I wanted them to learn about their jewish culture as children and it would be up to them if they participated in it or not as they got older. He didn't want that at all. He viewed it as them being "indoctrinated" into judaism. I told him that I feel like he just wants to date some white girl who has a default culture of our country and that I could never be that, I would never throw away my jewishness to be that. And he agreed that he did want someone who just had the default culture of our country. So we broke up. To be fair, I had been thinking about breaking up for months due to other issues, but that was the one which made me go "this relationship cannot be fixed, it has to end or I will be unhappy forever".

On its own, it doesn't seem too bad, but after going through so much antisemitism, the one person who is support to support me, who is suppose to love me, couldn't do that as long as I was actively jewish and participating in jewish culture.

And that's not even a complete list of everything I have gone through since Oct 7th. And I can't make this post without mentioning the amazing jews in my phone, who have been there for me since the start. You have made this hellscape bearable.

Like I said, goyim don't know what it has been like for jews since Oct 7th

#vent #antisemitism #jumblr #israel #i/p #jewblr

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