#a decade I still don’t want to feel pressured or boxed into it. but I also want the food I eat to be seen as normal or at least not be alon | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lesbenson · 4 months ago

Text

liv brain, eo, and season 25. titled “fade in 2 u” in my drafts. enjoy if you want to!

It’s with tears in her eyes and his necklace between her fingers that Olivia says this last goodbye. Private, silent, prayer. A promise to try, to stay, with no mention of when he’ll come back around to her. Blinds drawn and door locked, it feels a little like she’s pressing on a bruise. It’s almost enough to distract from the soreness in her hip, until she moves or breathes or thinks about the look on Elliot’s face when he said he thought he lost her. She felt like she was lying to him, saying she couldn’t imagine what it brought up. But he can still surprise her, stalking like a fawn and murmuring about this precious life.

She hates them both, most days. And then she doesn’t know where to put that hate when he’s in her space, calling her sweet names and speaking soft over gifts in little boxes. Trading her for a gift box just to take the pressure off, holding the ornament close to his chest like it’s worth the same as this compass.

 “I’ll treasure it.”

He leaves the little wooden E on the edge of her desk. Like her own small treasure, she sweeps it quickly into the top drawer.

Not that it matters, now, but Olivia had no intention of falling in love with Elliot when they were partners. She had no intention of forgiving him if he ever came back, and she cannot begin to voice it, but still, somewhere small and warm and quiet she knows she forgave him a long time ago. As much as she could, anyway. It’s patience, or empathy, or loyalty, if anyone cared to ask. Really, she just never stopped caring for him. She never could. For the years Elliot was gone, she could pretend not to understand him, his betrayal, but even that denial was self-indulgent. Olivia understands why he ran, what scares her still is that he could do it again.

She always thought his dedication was genuine, even in the moments his anger seemed to erupt far beyond him. His family was charming, but distant. Unfamiliar, so unenviable. She didn’t know that a decade later she would be fucking wrecked not to be having his kids. Another decade and she would have to face his youngest son, with eyes even bigger and darker than her own, another strange and mocking mirror of her grief. She sometimes thinks of it as her slight payback for Noah having Elliot’s same crystal eyes; the first thing she noticed about Elliot when they met and her second favorite feature.

The real favorite is his smile, his mouth, the way he grins when he’s trying to be charming. In their first month as partners she made a joke about it, and he looked so happy to be seen through. Like nobody had observed him so closely in a while. He gave her a different smile, and for years she found herself trying to spark it again. Elliot had flashed his baby blues at her then, too. They still make her melt, and he knows, and it is mortifying.

They looked so bright and soft and green, holding back tears in her office. He was still the one leaving.

Olivia had bit her tongue. Don’t go? Don’t go. You would never go if I asked you to stay. You don’t actually want to leave me. You don’t actually want to leave. You don’t actually want me.

Elliot tells her to find happiness, to let his compass lead her, as he is halfway out the door again. She thinks of little badges and magnets being pulled apart. The last time he sent her chasing happiness so he could slip away. Mostly, she wonders when he will see the dilemma.

He called her partner on his way out, and there was that smile again. Jackass.

Elliot’s necklace is warm by the time it slides against her chest, the heat of her hand boring into it. She pulls her thick hair out from under the chain and swallows hard at the intrusion of a memory - his hands so gentle as he had untangled her hair, the big plastic clip knocking against a wall she tried to lean on in an urgent care waiting room. The blood was minimal and the nurses were moving fast, but every time there was a moment of stillness Elliot had found a way to rest a hand on her leg, squeeze her shoulder. If she thinks too long about him cooing in her ear and brushing the hair out of her face, she might split her side open entirely.

��—

Her ache for him works in a strange sort of reverse this time. For the first couple of weeks without him, she’s mostly numb — sad in the way she’s learned to live with, a little sensitive in her suspension between longing and remembering. Elliot is gone again. Soon she will have worked alone longer than they were partners, ten years since sergeant. Ten years in her office, reshaping herself inside those walls. She always wanted to be unrecognizable to Elliot if she saw him again. He never acted like she was, even when Olivia felt like she deserved to be a stranger to him.

When a full month goes by with no news, she finds herself furiously wiping tears in the produce aisle. She nicks her leg shaving and swears at a volume she doesn’t even recognize. She feels unsteady. Untethered. Four more weeks and she puts a photo of them on her desk, in a little collage mat that’s mostly occupied by Noah, and she starts using a hand soap in her bathroom that she thinks smells a little like his cologne. Nothing is quite enough.

There are moments of rest, somewhere in August. When Noah goes back to school she can really fall back into her rhythms, letting cases blend the days together while the weather changes.

She wore the compass all summer, gold and shimmering against the soft tan of her chest, and she wonders still what made him pick the little pink stones. If he knew they would start to look exactly like the blush that used to run across his high cheekbones, the rough inside of his hands. She wonders if he’s close enough to see the same trees changing, far enough to feel the cold already.

Olivia secretly looks forward to the winter, the sharp feeling of the air and the way the sky matches the concrete, sun shining through clouds and reflecting off of big glass buildings. The streets are still busy, but the people move faster. The holidays are always strange for her, suppressing guilt she feels for every dinner that didn’t happen. Seated protective and close to Noah at the McCann’s, she is hit with a pang of sadness for the celebrations she won’t have with Simon, with her mother. Grateful for her baby, for her safety, for her job, for her sanity. No new year’s resolutions, just a tiny feeling blooming in her chest. Something like anticipation.

—-

When Maddie Flynn disappears, Olivia knows she has lost a piece of herself within the case before their first day of searching is over. She is exercising all of her strength trying to stay upright, the plummeting in her stomach never ever reaching an end.

She tells people it was a bad instinct, that she should have known better. What scares her more, so much more, is to think that she did. Too distracted, too tired, too disoriented. Traffic was thick and her eyes had not adjusted to the sunlight and Noah was asking her so many questions and she just could not focus on what she saw. She will turn it over in her mind for weeks after it starts, what it means for her, after all of these years, not to act on it. How little the rest of it matters now that she has let a girl go, how nothing saved changes what’s been lost. She thinks of stupid Elliot, breaking things just to tell her they can be fixed, breaking the moment just to make her smile. She hears Fin tell Velasco to shut his mouth and do what he’s told, “If this girl doesn’t come home, Liv is never gonna forgive herself.” She thinks he doesn’t know how right he is.

She makes it through her whole apartment, her and Noah’s goodnights, and the majority of her nighttime routine before she just lets it go. Hot tears fill her eyes and before she can get her breathing under control, she collapses on the edge of her bed, quietly inhaling through her cries. Blonde, 5’5, 15 years old. Energy drink van, front seat, Lincoln tunnel. Clutching her stomach, she chokes on a few hard inhales as she tries to steady, her head pounding. Maddie’s name floats around the room on a soft voice, something like a prayer that feels more like a plea.

The exhaustion is bottomless, lately. She misses being angry all the time. On edge. Passionate. She goes for long stretches not feeling like someone who cares about anything by the time she gets in bed, or she feels this, this searing pain. Olivia thinks of Muncy, of Kat, when she curls under her sheets and wonders what will finally make it all feel like enough. When she joined SVU she still felt like she had something to prove, something to fix. She can’t even access that sense of hope sometimes, often wonders if that’s what the feeling really was.

Olivia lies silent, eyes open in her dark room. The vibrating chirps of her phone startle her, but not nearly as much as the name flashing across the screen.

Elliot Stabler and the same picture as her desk, the only one they have taken since he’s been back (his sweet mother, with both of them halfway out the door, had just told them she wanted one and sentiment caught her by surprise. They both told Bernie it was okay, really, Olivia trying to hide and Elliot giving her an out. She shushed them both and they laughed quietly to each other, their faces inches apart when he bowed his head in defeat. He threw a big arm over her shoulders and squeezed, and her annoyance with him had evaporated with the briefest thought of teenagers on prom night).

She watches his name inch across her screen, flicking off the sound instead of ending the call. She can’t pick up, not with her breathing so ragged. Her hands are shaking, still, and this isn’t how she wants it to be for them. She isn’t prepared to talk to him or lie to him or for whatever he might be asking of her in the middle of the night. Then it hits her, and she feels like an asshole for the delay, but he could be in danger. He almost always is, in a way. She would have to run to him, or else just tell him she’s a lousy hero.

Thinking first that wallowing won’t save Maddie Flynn, then that Elliot would probably call his team in a real crisis, she lets the phone drop from her hands to her lap. The vibrating stops a few seconds later, the eventual buzz of a voicemail breaking the silence she was holding for another call.

Olivia rubs both hands over her face, sighing before hitting play on his message.

Hey Liv. It’s me. I just got back.

An old case of ours.

Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.

Call me.

The comfort she finds in the smallest of Elliot’s mannerisms still surprises her, but she finds her heart fluttering just hearing his voice, the deep breaths while he chooses his words. She misses him so much of the time she almost can’t keep track of everything she misses about him, until moments like this. Moments when he seems so real and so close it feels like no time has passed, or like it didn’t pass with the two of them sliced in half. Olivia does resent him for it, what he can get away with just by still being this man that she loves, that she trusts. Her partner, exactly how she remembers him.

Part of her, the larger part, wants to call him back. Ask about his case, pick a fight, tell him to come over. She wants to know how he’s been, needs to know if he has any bruises, wants to hear about all of the things that make him think of her.

She wants him to help her find her missing girl. She can’t call him, she realizes, if not for that. She could, maybe, throw him into the case and he might tread lightly enough for it to work, but with the way her head is pounding right now she just can’t imagine keeping it together in front of him. And she wants to, wants to be strong and sturdy and ready, when she sees him again.

She doesn’t get much sleep, but she plays his voicemail a few more times.

—-

She actually doesn’t sleep most nights, for weeks on end. On a foggy morning run she finds herself chasing a green van, hearing Maddie’s name ripping from her throat. The guy calls her crazy, and she thinks about chasing him onto the highway. She almost grabs the arm of a girl walking out of Noah’s dance studio, long blonde hair and a baby blue hoodie making her jump before she catches herself.

Olivia has never been able to name the feeling of the city when she knows a child is missing inside it. It’s not just haunting, or vigilance, it’s a distortion. She sees Maddie everywhere because she is looking for her everywhere. She is so afraid of making the same mistake that she is suspicious of everyone. She’s distracted by the ever-changing scenes of the city, convinced everything will become the one thing she missed. Fin tells her, or she tells him what she knows he sees, that she has not been herself since Maddie was taken.

She can’t be, is the thing. She can feel this phantom ache, Maddie’s grip on her from God knows how far. Like she’s been ripped apart, a piece of her still tethered as it is taken away. The guilt is eating her alive, everyday, and when Eileen Flynn calls her from the hospital Olivia can barely breathe. She has to try to explain it, in the EMDR suite, what the sight of Peter’s belt in Maddie’s closet still does to her.

Olivia keeps trying to get around it, anything that she has to preface with “there was a case- a guy, ten years ago,” she would rather just not get into. She remembers the instinct to drop her necklace in the trunk of a car, and she already misses the feel of Maddie’s plastic beads on her wrist.

She never pictured a treatment she’d be more nauseous during than her first few weeks with Lindstrom, but when she walks out into the night after these sessions she still feels a little off balance. She tries to just trust it will help, which is harder than trusting herself to go — a small but welcome change.

—-

Curry tells her, first thing in the morning. They took Stabler’s badge. He hit a kid, or he hurt a kid, or they think he tried to kill a guy. Suspended, second time in four years. It’s not looking good for him, when and if he gets back to his desk.

Olivia knows him, knows Elliot is either tearing his place apart from agitation or physically beating himself up for whatever it is he did to hurt that boy. She simply tells Curry to keep her updated, if she can, and she manages not to ask if they need someone to vouch for him at his next hearing. She types and deletes the same message maybe ten times throughout the day. “Dinner soon? I think we have a lot to talk about.”

She feels worse for not calling him back now than she had to begin with. Ignoring him is as much a retaliation as it is another wound to salt, always making herself that much more miserable to teach Elliot a lesson about leaving. It’s sick, is what it is, and now a teenage boy is in the hospital and a teenage girl is still missing. She calls him that night while staking out Noah’s room from the kitchen, trying to ground herself with his presence without waking him. The call goes straight to voicemail and she hangs up.

She dreams of him in the passenger seat, younger and stubbly and deathly serious. She’s flying down the road, she doesn’t know which one, or what hour it is. Everything is orange and bright and hot and he’s giving her directions, clear and sure. She’s closing in on a van, neon green with skulls and Elliot has a big hand flat on the dash, loudly egging her on. The sun isn’t moving up or down the horizon but closer to them, the road seemingly widening so Olivia can circle the van, tire-to-tire with the front wheels. Still speeding in perfect tandem, both drivers face each other. Maddie grips the wheel, her hair whipping around her face, her eyes wild. Olivia screams her name, and Maddie looks back at the road. She feels cold, so cold, and the sky is getting redder as the metal of her side mirror screeches against the van’s. She tries again, the wail echoing, and when Maddie turns back to her there are bloody tear streaks on her cheeks. Olivia tries to scream, cut short by Elliot grabbing the wheel, jerking it hard and sending them spinning in front of the van. She wakes up panting, the sun barely starting to split between her blinds.

She at least waits for Noah to finish his breakfast before calling Elliot again, knowing if he is adhering to his suspension he should answer the landline. When that goes to voicemail she takes it a little harder.

“Call me back. I’m here.” It’s the kind of thing they used to say to each other constantly, and she wonders if the meaning ever changes. I need to be with you through this to know how you are. I know how you’re feeling more than anyone else in the world. You’re the only one that feels it this much too. I’m here. We don’t have to talk. I don’t want to talk. I want to hear you. See you. They also both used to be able to take a missed call on the chin, but it’s become a bit of a sore spot for her.

—-

Another dream, a waking one. Maddie’s voice, ringing in a dark, mildewy cabin. Her small frame in the center of the room, all of her wrapped in Olivia’s arms. Her hair is wrong and she looks sickly, terrified, but those are the eyes that glanced at Olivia from the front of an energy drink van. She’s certain of it, and Maddie holds onto her like she is too.

—-

It’s a chance thing, or more bad timing, when Olivia halfway hears from him again. She’s in the shower when he calls, and so she opens her phone to another voicemail. Laying out clothes and badges for commencement, she plays it on speaker.

His voice stops her in her tracks. It’s raspy, like he’s been up, or yelling, or crying. His words, too, make her freeze.

“Hey, hon. I uh- listen, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. It’s- um- it’s not exactly something I can- you know. I don’t wanna do it over the phone. I’m around though if you think, if you ever want to- to talk. I wanna see you. Call me if you can, Liv. bye.”

Her eyes dart unfocused over her dresser, her mind racing for a second before it slows again, stuck on hon, like the bastard was really going to call her his honey before he caught himself. Except it didn’t sound like he stopped himself. It sounded like he meant to say it, and maybe then he panicked, but something in his subconscious has resorted to pet names for her. The thought alone makes her weak.

Her finger hovers over his number, playing the voicemail back instead of returning the call. She watches her own face in the mirror, dark features softened and then tensed as he rambles. Olivia knows she’s going to have to call him again, that she might even keep calling until he answers. She pulls her damp hair around her neck and starts a loose braid.

—-

In the earliest days of sun and spring, Maddie turns sixteen. The celebration is sweet, if not a little too bright, a performance of levity for her, for her parents, for Olivia. Still, when she lays the golden chain over Eileen’s shoulders, she feels like she has given over something with an honest kind of power in it. She half expects to literally walk in the opposite direction of her car when she leaves the party. She finds herself driving back to the precinct.

—-

Olivia tries not to let on, how her heart skips a beat when she hears him pick up the phone. Elliot has his fun, taking his first opening for a joke before falling quiet at the tender change in her voice. She scrapes a nail over her thigh, feels the rough weave of denim as she speaks. She has so much she wants to say, but it only comes out in pieces and Elliot, somehow (she knows how), doesn’t ever need her to fill in the gaps.

“I knew you’d understand.”

“Oh, I understand. You lost the necklace and now you’re buying time.”

It makes her laugh, and she hopes she isn’t blushing but Christ, she misses him and her cheeks hurt. This time last year he was tossing a paper bag on her desk with that same necklace in it. Not long before that he had held her in his arms three different times on the same case. When he had hugged her goodbye she almost kissed him.

She told Carisi’s cousin the “L” stood for love. That she hadn’t found it yet. Maddie went missing that same day, and now Olivia’s compass hangs around Eileen’s neck. She thinks of healing properties, placebos, and time. She thinks of being guided to Maddie, of the lost girls she has pulled from the darkness this year, of becoming the needle in the pendant, moving with the heart of the wearer. She thinks she is telling him the truth, that it helped, or that she’s getting there.

She really does want the necklace back, eventually. She already misses the weight of it, habitually running a thumb over her (now bare) collarbone a few times in the past hour. Right now, though, Olivia thinks Eileen needs it more. Thinks she can find it by herself, or already has. Happiness, love, truth, steady ground. Just for a second, maybe, until things change again.

Right now, though. She’s got him on the phone and Elliot is laughing too, under his breath, at his own quip or her reaction and she knows exactly what his face looks like right now, does not try to stop herself from picturing his smile.

“I pawned it.” That earns her a nice scratchy laugh.

—-

Maddie Flynn doesn’t go to sleepaway camp that summer, but she learns how to drive and is coming back around to the idea of college outside the city. She sticks to EMDR treatment, but she changes doctors twice before she gets settled. She’s growing her hair long and piercing her ears behind her parents’ back. She doesn’t wake up screaming as much anymore, and she finishes all her meals.

Olivia learns all of this over coffee with Eileen, gently holding her arm as she promises over and over again that it is getting better, that Maddie will be at peace again one day, that all they can do right now is love her patiently. Eileen keeps smiling like she doesn’t quite believe her, but Olivia sees so much less panic in her eyes now.

Right before they part ways, Eileen gives her a crushing hug, launching into her like a kid.

“Keep looking,” she murmurs, quickly clasping the compass necklace behind Olivia’s head, “Look for love everywhere. Dig to the center of the earth, if you can.”

Olivia smiles at her, eyes crinkling under the late July sun. “I will.”

—-

One text, while she’s waiting for her car to cool off.

What are you doing tomorrow night?

His response is immediate, two messages in a row.

Hope I’m cooking you dinner.

Gonna try to earn my necklace cash back.

—-

It’s enough time to primp and preen and work herself up so much she won’t want to go at all. It’s short enough notice that they can both only panic so much. It’s a late dinner, her request, his pleasure, and while she gets ready very fast, she still needed an extra built-in hour to sit on her couch and breathe. Early that morning, Olivia had taken Noah upstate. She tapped her foot through lunch with the McCanns and lied every time they asked about her.

Olivia has wondered about this ridiculous idea of dressing up for Elliot, and where her brain knows he can’t be surprised by anything she does, she still wants him to be. Just a little bit. It’s been a long year. He has stared at her like a small dog when she was wearing t-shirts and suits that didn’t fit, pajamas, dresses meant for someone other than him. She wants to hold his gaze.

She had laid out a deep cherry red sweater and loose jeans. She stares at them now, standing by the foot of her bed with clenched fists at her hips.

It’s only dinner. It’s Elliot. They’re not very likely to leave his apartment.

Olivia turns back to her closet and grabs at a soft, plum-colored dress. She inspects the fabric for only a second before pulling the dress over her head, stretching it around her hips, her thighs. It’s fitted at her chest and falls loose and long over her legs. She cranes her neck and checks for lines, obvious straps or pieces of lace peeking through. She smooths her hands over the dress one more time, and finally settles on it with a slow exhale. She forces herself to do her fastest makeup, brushes and curls the thick strands of hair that fall around her cheekbones, her jawline. She doesn’t think very hard about jewelry, popping in wide gold hoops and recentering the singular necklace.

—-

She leaves ten minutes later than she should, and it relaxes her up until she starts closing in on his apartment. The traffic is reasonable, but she impatiently taps her wheel through it all the same.

Halfway up the stairs to his loft and Olivia remembers he gave her a key. He put it on her kitchen counter on his way out and didn’t say anything about it, just held her gaze for as long as she’d let him. The message was clear - it was there with or without a spare key - trust me, come home to me, be safe with me. And she wanted to, but she couldn’t, then.

Now, she stands right outside his door, lets her breathing even out for a moment, shifting her weight from heel to toe. When she knocks, it’s the quiet one they used to do at the precinct, and she thinks of skittish animals for a second. She’s about to lunge and press his buzzer when she hears clicking in his locks.

Elliot opens the door and just looks at her for a long time, his smile so soft, before he whispers a simple “Hi.”

She breathes out “Hey,” and neither of them move.

She looks him up and down and he lets her, and he looks good, looks like himself in a fading green t-shirt and slate gray sweatpants. She hopes he ate enough while he was under. He looks like he’s been sleeping, a lot, and she hopes that’s a good thing too. He waits for her move to push the door open a little more and she brushes against him on purpose when she walks into his apartment. She kicks her shoes off silently, unceremoniously as he locks the door behind them, and when she turns over her shoulder to peek at him again it doesn’t feel like he’s too close. It should, because she can feel her dress swishing and hitting him, but she lingers still. When Olivia faces him, he extends a hand to take her purse, nonreactive to the weight of it in his fingers. He places it on the bench in the hall, still staring at her. She lets him wrap a hand around her wrist and guide her towards his kitchen, his other hand resting on her waist in a way that makes her heart hammer.

She leans across his island, and Elliot slides her a glass of water that was already on the counter. He smiles shyly and pours himself a new one.

When he finally settles on the opposite side, he’s bent practically in half leaning towards her. He looks nervous, now.

“Wanted to see you when I got back but I- I needed to make sure my head was on straight. I was actually gonna bring you a coffee some-“

“Elliot.” She catches his eyes long enough for his shoulders to relax. He breathes in, slowly, and nods. And waits.

“It’s- I’m just glad you’re back.”

“Yeah,” he nods, “me too.” He flicks his chin up the slightest bit, “you’re wearing it.”

She almost laughs, biting back a grin as her hand flies up to touch it, feel it’s weight on her chest. “Everyday. You knew I would.”

His face softens, and instead of responding he just walks around the counter, hovering close to her.

“I mean you got it back.”

Olivia does laugh, then, “I mean, I couldn’t wait forever.”

Elliot makes a little sound at the back of his throat, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s close enough again that she can look up and tell when he last shaved, can smell his soap and his breath and his sweat.

She takes a breath in, cutting off sharply when he reaches up to touch the pendant. A light brush of his fingertip, then the slightest pressure of his thumb over the face of the compass.

The back of Elliot’s hand is brushing, resting on Olivia’s chest and when he captures the necklace between the pads of his fingers she only wants to let him pull her in. He raises the pendant between them, the chain catching on the fine hairs at the back of her neck, and as she leans in he presses the side of the compass to his lips.

When he lowers it again, Olivia covers his hand with hers and flattens it over the compass at her neck. They hold each other there for what feels like forever. Elliot’s eyes are still that light shining blue, pupils massive and dark.

His lips are soft against hers when she tilts her head. She lets all of the air out of her lungs in the second he kisses her back, and she regains it with a gasp when his mouth moves against hers. Elliot’s hot palm stays on her chest, but now his other hand cups the back of her head, fingers tenderly threading in her hair and she would never let anyone hold her like this but Elliot’s hand is right over her thumping heart, and when she grabs his forearm he groans a little. He breaks away only to say her name, voice breaking, and Olivia strokes his cheeks, his jaw, patient and soft as ever.

He’s got thick fingers wrapped behind her neck, whispering Liv. Liv. Liv. His lips on hers, on her cheeks, her nose, her temple. She’s lost in it so completely, for a second she thinks she could cry at the warmth of him. Olivia grabs his arms again, one hand digging into his shoulder, and kisses Elliot until she knows they’re both dizzy.

His cheeks are a dark red now, and it still sounds impossible for him to get his breathing under control when he drops his hands to her hips.

“I fucking missed you so much, Liv, I-“ he’s kissing her again, teeth scraping over the side of her neck for just a second before he realizes, seemingly, that he can’t say any of it like this.

Elliot falls back a bit, but his nose against hers suddenly feels like the closest they have ever been. “I love you, you know I love you.”

She bites her lip, nodding vigorously, wordlessly. Olivia does know this, has almost always known this, has certainly heard him say it before. Here, though, she can take it, hold it close to her ribs and feel it settle.

She blinks away another rush of tears, smiling with her lips pressed tight together. “You’re just- you’re really gonna have to say it a lot, you know.” She wants so badly to laugh at all of this, but she still swallows hard at the look on Elliot’s face.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I mean I want to. I-” he stops himself with a tiny shake of his head, just murmuring as he presses his cheek against hers, “I love you, Liv, I love you.”

—-

Elliot had pulled a huge pan of vegetables and an equally huge skillet of mac and cheese with bacon out of his oven about 30 seconds before Olivia had sweetly dragged him to bed by the strings on his pants, promising to inhale his carefully crafted meal later.

Hours later, she pulls on those pants and a big gray zip-up to sink into his couch and eat their reheated dinner, resting her legs on Elliot’s lap and thinking briefly about takeout and all-nighters.

“What are you smiling about?” He rests a hand on her leg, lightly stroking with his thumb.

“You already know.” Olivia raises one eyebrow at him, grin never fading.

“Yeah,” Elliot smiles wide, “yeah, I guess I do.”

—-

if you read all of this, thank you for reading.

#thank you ali for proofing #thanks to the oomfs for the liv brainrot hive mind #hope you all enjoy #happy premiere eve !#in a parallel universe (semper fi)#bensonism

23 notes · View notes

testingthewatersss · 1 year ago

Text

Wounded Trigger warnings for PTSD, mentions of war, torture, etc. Bucky Barnes x F Reader Chapter 2 3900 words angst, comfort. 18+ MDNI He doesn't like med-bays.

Bucky hears her hum.

The sound is soft and familiar and considerate.

He licks at his lips before just sitting back, and relishing in the calm after the storm.

“Will you let me clean you up?” Y/N asks quietly, “Please?”

Bucky’s eyes are on hers again. They’re the same sparkling shade of blue that they always are, but they’re glistening and ringed with red.

She knows he’s in pain, and she knows he’ll feel it soon, even if it hasn’t caught up with him yet.

“We don’t have to go anywhere” he hears her add, “I’ve got a first aid kit under the bed.”

He sucks in a breath and gives her a courageous nod.

Y/N suspects his agreement is a reflex, more than anything else, but she doesn’t want to discourage it.

Even if it’s likely that this current pliancy is stemming from the decades of conditioning he’s suffered through.

She presses a gentle kiss to his brow, and is sure she hears him whimper.

“Come on then, sweetheart” she purrs, applying the smallest amount of pressure to his shoulders in an effort to guide him backwards.

Bucky follows her lead subserviently, shifting back until he’s laying down on the mattress, heavy boots hanging over the edge, arms flat by his sides.

He feels awfully visible, now.

Crying against his partner had left him vulnerable, but now, when he sees her coming up on his flank, a green box in her hands, he finds himself shaking lamely under her consideration.

A hand comes up to his brow, he feels it stroking the skin slowly, before it presses back through the long, tangled pieces of hair.

His breath catches in his throat as he meets her eyes.

She offers him a smile as she places the kit besides his head on the pillow.

He needs her to be kind, and calm and slow.

Y/N knows he’s still scared. She knows he needs her to be gentle, more than he needs her to be thorough or quick, so, she takes her time, she trails her nails along his scalp, loving the way his muscles seem to unfurl with each line she drawers.

“I-“ Bucky shivers, “I.. I love you”

She beams. Her lips are smiling and her whole face lights up as he finishes his sentence, and suddenly his heart isn’t pulsing as violently as it was just a moment before.

Her hands don’t retract, either. She continues to pet him, in the way she knows he loves.

“I know that" Y/N promises, “I love you too, Bucky” she maintains eye contact until he breaks it, to glance nervously down at his chest, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I’m not going to hurt you.

Bucky Barnes has heard that before, he’s heard it from so many people over the years that he can’t even count, and they’ve all been liars. They’ve all said it with mock sincerity, or malice or taunting, but not Y/N. Never Y/N. Her words are ladened with such heavy compassion that he can feel a weight lift away from his gut, and then there’s the feeling of her fingers carding through his hair. God, that feels nice. He leans into it, the best he can, and suddenly he’s not just afraid, anymore. He’s not just scared and fragile and ashamed. He’s cared for, and he’s not on his own. That swell of pleasantness washes over his soul and bites back at the lingering traces of terror and pain that are still very much cemented there.

“Shall we get started, sweetheart?” Y/N murmurs, her free hand steady on his arm, “I’ll go slow”

Bucky nods, not wanting to give himself an option to back out and change his mind.

She smiles, and very slowly pulls her hands away from his body.

He feels empty. He blinks at the ceiling and tries to keep his breathing slow.

Blue eyes shoot sidewards in search of her, and she’s there, but she’s not looking at him, she’s looking down at a piece of gauze that she’s dampening, and Bucky can’t handle it at all anymore. He’s gritting his teeth and furling his fists, and as she brings the wet cloth over to his skin he shakes his head and reaches out to stop her-

“W-wait” he stammers, vision flaring with panic, “Please-P-Please wait”

Y/N freezes, letting him grasp at her free hand, whilst he works on bringing his head back to down the pillow.

“Okay” she breathes, her face patient, “It’s alright, Bucky.”

He shakes his head again, and still can’t make himself let go of her hand.

“I- I can’t, doll” The man mumbles, “‘m sorry, but, I- I can’t, not- not like this.”

She nods, and as he looks at her face, he’s realises that he’s surprised that she doesn’t look even the slightest bit annoyed.

“Shhhh” her voice hushes him fondly, “Don’t apologise, sweetheart.”

He hates himself for being this way. He knows she just want’s to help. He knows he needs her to take care of him, but right now, he just doesn’t know how to let her.

“What’s wrong?” Y/N asked softly, “What’s freakin’ you out?”

Bucky feels his brow furrow in consideration.

He’d been okay, still a little, rattled, and nervous, but okay, when she was still touching him, when he could still feel her skin on his, it was when she’d moved away that he’d found himself fighting against the urge to run back into her embrace.

“I- I need to feel you” he whispers, feeling a flush of embarrassment filling his cheeks, making them burn even hotter than before, “I need you close.”

Y/N nods, her lips pursing in understanding.

“How about this-” she begins calmly, “- I can sit up here-” hands pat his thighs, making his eyes shoot down before they flick back up to hers, “-and I promise, I’ll be take it real easy”

Bucky’s head is bleary now, but he can feel his side beginning to throb. Y/N looks like her offer is genuine, and he’s nodding in frantic agreement before he has time to even thank her.

She chuckles softly, bringing herself up onto the mattress, before she effortlessly straddles his hips.

He moans at the sensation. At the warmth, and weight and comfort it breeds inside his body.

Her head tilts as one hand snakes its way back up to his hair.

“Look at me, Buck”

He does. His eyes are in danger of glazing over again, now that the adrenaline spike he’d experienced is on its way back towards a crash, but he still focus’s all his energy on staring back into her familiar brown eyes.

She looks calm, and that settles him.

“Breathe”

He does that too, inhaling as softly as he can through his nose, before expelling it quietly through his lips.

“Good” Y/N praises, “I’m right here”

Bucky nods, because he can feel her, and see her and he knows he’s safe when she’s close by.

She takes a few more minutes to stroke his cheeks, to shower him with the kind of gentle touches he’d spent a century being starved of.

and then she grabs the disinfected soaked cloth, and smiles at his face,

“I’m gonna’ start, now, alright?”

He bites his tongue until he tastes blood, and tries to keep his eyes connected with hers, even as he nods and mutters out a quiet, “yes”

Y/N lets her gaze linger on his face for a moment, she can see the apprehension clinging to his features, and can’t help but give his cheek an affectionate stroke.

“If you wan’t me to stop, tell me, okay Buck?”

His exhale is juddery as he brings his flesh hand up to her leg that’s soft and constant against him.

“I- I will”

It’s watery and quiet, but it’s a promise. Y/N nods, and lets her free palm sit heavily on his chest as she leans over to inspect the slash that’s a good few inches long, just below his lowest rib.

She tuts a little as she begins to dab away the mess of dried blood that’s stuck to the surrounding skin.

The gauze is quickly stained, so she replaces it, meeting his eyes as she moves.

He relishes the flickered glance, he uses it to steady himself as he draws comforting circles against the material of her pants.

They’re soft, he thinks, and black, he can’t decide wether they’re sweats or leggings but he doesn’t care.

They’re hers and he likes them.

They feel nice against his fingers, and everything alright-

until then it stings.

Y/N is stroking a clean, piece of fabric that is dripping with sterilising liquid across the open wound and it hurts and his eyes are watering.

Bucky is frozen, eyes tightly shut, lips a tight line on his face.

He’s been hurt before. He’s been hurt worse than this, before, but back then he had no choice about how he reacted.

Usually, he was kept masked and muzzled, his jaw fixed open with taught leather straps biting into his head to keep him from screaming out, or catching his breath.

Or failing that, whichever handler happened to be around would give him instruction regarding his responses to pain or punishments.

If they told him to keep his mouth shut, or bite down on a belt, that’s exactly what he’d do, no matter the intensity of the treatment he received because disobedience wasn’t an option.

He didn’t even get to cry without permission. He’d learnt that quite early on, when he’d made the mistake of pleading for mercy before a wipe.

After that, Bucky had known that he was never going to be able to beg them to stop.

But that was back then, in a different world, a different life, where his body wasn’t his own, when he’d been an asset, in every sense of the word.

Y/N eases up, and returns her attention to his face.“I’m sorry, sweetheart”

He hates that. He doesn’t want her to be sorry. She’s doing her best, she’s helping him, but if he opens his mouth to tell her that, part of him can’t help but worry that he might end up in trouble for some kind of audible expression of discomfort that he should be more than able to control.

Self-loathing settles in his chest.

but then, her hand touches his cheek, and suddenly the bitter frustration leaves him, and he finds himself just feeling small.

“I love you” Y/N reminds him calmly, “I love you and I’m not trying to hurt you, I know it’s sore, and I’m sorry”

Bucky’s eyes are filling up as he shakes his head a fraction. He swallows against the lump in his throat and pulls her hand to his lips.

She hasn’t even tried to remove her fingers from his, and that means the world to him.

He kisses her knuckles and hopes that it shows.

Y/N smiles softly, and runs the hand that she’s been using to clean his wound back through his hair.

His eyes roll back in his head. He never wants her to stop.

“You’re doing so well” she murmurs, “do you need anythin’? we’re almost done, sweetheart, I promise”

You. He wants to scream, You, doll, I need you, please don’t leave me, please don’t stop, it’s been so long since anyones just, held me, please don’t go.

He’s silent, but Y/N can see something behind his gaze, it’s desperate and pleading and she can’t let it go.

“Talk to me, Buck, it’s okay.”

Bucky feels like a deer caught in the headlights. He has so much he wants to say, but his head is still spinning, and his side is throbbing angrily now that it’s been disturbed.

Still, he knows he has to try, he knows he won’t be able to take it if he doesn’t.

“I-” their tangled hands drop to his chest, she still has one in his hair, it’s by his ear now, her fingers are circling his temple, “- I, adore ya’ doll-”

She smiles, it’s small and flattered, but she knows there’s something wrong, and that concern shows in the crease of her brow.

“-‘m tryin’ to be brave-” Bucky gulps, “-it was easier when I.. When I wasn’t allowed to not be.”

Y/N nods softly to show she understands,

“But, I’m tired and it hurts-” his voice sounds strangely ashamed and that paired with the lost expression on his face tugs are heart strings until one almost snaps in her chest, “-but I, I know it needs to be done, and I know you’re not out to hurt me-” Bucky is squeezing her hand now, he doesn’t know why he can’t seem to stop speaking, “-god, doll, I’m scared you’re gonna leave me.”

She blinks at him, because she doesn’t know where that confession has come from, but as he just sniffs back another wave of tears, she just shakes her head, assuming all of his worries are just mixing together in some kind of unpleasant emotional fog.

“-am-” he mumbles after a small pause, “am I okay to make noise? when you get back to it?”

Y/N feels that piece of her heart shatter.

Bucky is looking at her with such hopeless trust, with such deep and unwavering faith and obedience that it frightens her just how easily he’s slipped back down into the persona he’d been forced into for the better part of a hundred years.

“Yeah” she whispers, her voice dripping with love, “Yeah, baby, you can make all the noise you want”

He nods, it’s grateful and small and Y/N’s hand drops down to his jaw.

She guides his head up a fraction as she leans down to kiss at his lips.

and just like that, Bucky’s whole world disappears again, but this time it’s brilliant.

All he can feel is mouth against his, and it’s just the best.

They’ve kissed before. More times than he can count, and every time they do, he thinks it feels like fireworks. It feels magical and special and perfect.

But now, he’s breathless, and her tongue is on his own, and his hands have slipped up to her waist and god, he doesn’t care that he’s scared or hurting or in danger of crying again, all he cares about is how lucky he is that he didn’t lose his tongue during some kind of traumatic event, how lucky he is that Y/N chose him to love, and how lucky he is that she takes such good care of him.

Y/N pulls away when they’re both flushed and Bucky’s lips are pink and swollen from the contact.

His head is hazy, but he lets it fall back to the pillows and makes himself give her a nod of agreement when she whispers her intentions of finishing her previous task.

She leans away a little more this time, knowing he can take it.

A hand tightens around hers as the balance shifts to the side, but she just strokes a circle with her thumb as she peers at the gash that’s now a little more clearly visible.

Something touches the frayed tissue and he lets out a small whine of protest.

The pressure lessens almost instantly, and he takes another breath in.

“‘m not going to stitch it” Y/N decides after a few minutes of consideration, “not worth puttin’ you through that for the good it’d do.”

Bucky exhales in relief.

He wouldn’t have stopped her, if she’d have wanted to follow through with the earlier plan of sewing the opening shut, but he can’t deny how unappealing it sounds, especially in his current state of mind.

“But you’ll have to take it easy for awhile” she murmurs, peeling the back off a heavy duty dressing, “is that a deal, sweetheart?”

His smile is just the smallest quirk of his lips, but she takes it all the same.

“you’re the doctor” he whispers shakily, feeling her press something down over the sensitive area of skin, “I’ll do whatever you tell me to.”

Y/N caresses the covered wound one last time before trailing her fingers back over to his jaw.

“I am a doctor” She agrees quietly, “but all I want you to do-” her breath is hot on his cheek, “-is relax, okay? Just stay with me until you’re feelin’ better, let me look after you.”

God, that sounds good to him right now, so Bucky nods, and exhales and tries not to whine when Y/N slips off his thighs.

He instantly feels the loss, and it’s almost unbearable.

Blue eyes snap over to watch her, to make sure that she hasn’t disappeared,

Luckily, he sees that she hasn’t gone far at all.

Her body has slipped down cradle to his uninjured side.

She stays there for a moment, nestled between his core and his flesh arm, as she watches him, stare at her, until with a small, humouring smile, she curls an arm up around his shoulder to beckon him into her embrace.

“Come on” she murmurs, “Come’ere”

Bucky moves slowly.

He tries to ignore the way that his body still feels strangely heavy as he rolls over to press his face into the crook of Y/N’s neck.

He loves being hidden against her body. He wishes he could get closer.

Y/N feels his cool metal arm curling up over her waist and can’t help but run her hands up over the folded vibranium plates.

She loves him, all of him, and it shows.

“You’re beautiful” her soft voice coos, he thinks it sounds like music, even if he doesn’t believe her words.

Bucky scoffs quietly as he feels fingers fluttering up over the deep set scar of his shoulder blade.

“You are” Y/N insists, sensing his disbelief, “you’re perfect”

God, he’s blushing again, he can feel the pink in his cheeks.

“If you say so” Bucky murmurs, unwilling to counter the woman, even in jest.

“I do”

She’s smiling, it’s plain in her voice.

Bucky’s vaguely aware that he’s shaking again, but he thinks that the sensation it feels less urgent now.

The vibrations spreading through his core feel like aftershocks, like pale imitations of the involuntary convulsions that had been clawing at his chest before, and since he doesn’t have the energy left to try and fight them back, he decides to just try his best to ignore the feeling in favour of focusing his attention on the way that Y/N is holding him so securely against her chest.

As if on cue, she begins to run her hands up and down his back. Her fingers make slow movements, occasionally flitting up, to stroke the nape of his neck before dipping back down to his spine.

Bucky’s eyes flutter shut as the soft digits circle the long healed mark that’s raised and pulsing at the back of his head.

That scar is one of the most sensitive ones on his body, it had been home to a tracker once, until he’d taken a dull flick-blade too it in a dimly lit motel room back in Budapest; his memories had been just starting to resurface then, and it’d been the first time that he’d realised how HYDRA had been able to find his locations so easily.

Bucky had made quick work of the task, he’d been driven frantic by a pure, primal kind of fear, and even though the dull knife hadn’t made easy work of the removal, once the small metal device had been plucked from his tissue with his own metal fingers, he’d felt a strange sense of freedom.

“Stop” Y/N murmurs, her muted voice swirling around his head, “I don’t know what you’re thinkin’ about, but you’re tensin’ up again, sweetheart.”

Bucky hums against her shoulder and acknowledges the way his muscles have grown tight again, in his moment of distraction.

“‘m sorry, doll” he whispers, “‘m not doin’ it on purpose’”

Y/N shakes her head, pressing a kiss to his hair.

“I know” she tells him, “I just worry about you when you drift off like that, ‘specially while you’re so tired.”

He nods then, he knows she’s right, he knows that the way his mind keeps floating back to the past isn’t totally in his control, and he knows that, that could lead to something terrible.

“How was the mission?” Y/N asks in a not-so-subtle bid to distract the man in her arms, “I haven’t caught up with Nat yet”

Bucky shrugs, before murmuring a “nothin’ special, doll” that makes Y/N chuckle softly, and press another kiss to his head.

“You get the plans?” she asks, already knowing that they had.

“‘sure we did” Bucky whispers, “Romanoff’s quick with tech, she’s good like that.”

Y/N nods considerately, feeling a cold hand playing with the hem of her t-shirt.

“I know you like working with her”

The man makes a non committal noise in the back of his throat,

“I prefer workin’ with you”

There’s a small laugh then, he can feel it melting into his hair and it helps his pulse settle a fraction.

“I bet you do” she mumbles sweetly, “but being your side-kick isn’t my only job”

Bucky actually feels himself smiling then, it feels a little out of place on his face, but it’s the furthest thing from unwelcome, so he relishes in it, relishes in the dull ache of his cheeks as his lips curl up at the corners.

“No” he hears himself say, “You’re in very high demand.”

Y/N hums, relaxing a little.

“You’re a doctor… the best doctor in this whole joint” Bucky begins to drawl, his own fingers now tracing lazy circles across the skin of her waist.

He’d been half expecting her to flinch at the feeling of harsh vibranium against her body, but she just let out a soft, content breath and shifted a millimetre closer.

“You’re a tech-genius too” he continues, “and a-”

There’s a pressure on his chin, tilting his head up, and suddenly as Y/N’s kind, loving gaze meets his, he’s silent, the words he was about to speak have been totally forgotten.

“Are you tryna’ flatter me, sweetheart?” She coos, her palm hot on his cheek, holding his head in place, “you must be sweet on me or somethin’”

He smiles again, and kisses as the warm flesh of her hand.

“‘m more than that, doll” his words melt against her skin, “it’s like you hung the damn’ moon”

God, she’s laughing again, it’s light and musical and he’s completely aware that he’s in real deep.

“Mhmm?” Y/N hums, “Is that right?”

He nods, and lets his eyes drop shut.

“Here’s me thinkin’ that I was just hear to pay the rent”

His brow creases, but only for a moment, only until she kisses at his lips.

“‘m only jokin’” she purrs as he lets her pull back a fraction, "Tony likes havin' me near by too"

Bucky smiles, his eyes still closed, her fingers still hot on his cheek.

“yeah” he breathes, “ and, you’re Natasha’s favourite, can’t forget about that.”

She snorts, it’s fond and playful as she tugs at a long strand of hair that’s looped behind his ear.

“Well now, that’s supposed to be a secret” she whispers, her voice low and swirling around his throat.

“Not a very well kept one” he counters cheekily, bravely stirring in his chest at the nature of the interaction, “you’re always talkin’ about stuff you do together, always whisperin’ about what you danced to at her wedding-”

“-In Russian.”

He beams, pressing a soft kiss to her jaw before nodding in lazy acceptance.

“You’re lucky she trusts ya’ so much” Y/N adds, nuzzling back against the man who’s still keening against her front, “Or you might have gotten more than just a tellin’ off for eaves droppin”

Theres a gentle hum against her skin, and then another kiss.

“you’d never let her hurt me, doll.”

“No.” Y/N allows, “I’d never let anyone hurt you.”

42 notes · View notes

diazfightclub · 7 months ago

Text

everything rots in the sun (i don't wanna be someone)

7x10 coda // pre-buddie, minor-bucktommy // T // 5.8k

i spent way too long on this, but it's finally done! my coda for the finale where i give eddie the breakdown i feel like he deserves!! here's the first ~1.6k words

Eddie watches Christopher leave and it feels like the world ends.

It’s not the first time he’s had the thought; the world felt like it was ending when he was dying in Afghanistan, and then again as he watched Shannon die in the back of an ambulance with Chimney, and then again when he was sniped in broad daylight in the middle of a Los Angeles street.

His world ended in the moment Buck confessed to him, devastated and grief-stricken, that he had lost Christopher in the tsunami. The world restarted seven seconds later when Chris called out to him, safe.

Now, though, he watches Christopher leave of his own accord. He’s packed his own bag, called his own ride, made his own plans to leave Eddie behind, and Eddie’s world ends with the soft click of a door being shut.

The door closes, and Eddie is left alone with Buck.

It starts in his fingers, the numbness. He’s distantly aware that his hands are still fisted by his side where he left them — he had wanted to reach for Chris as he left, but Chris wouldn’t have wanted that, so Eddie had stopped, kept his hands to himself, had held them tightly against his own body, hands clenched.

He can’t feel them now. He tries to make a tighter fist, but the sting from his fingernails in his palms is gone. The whole of his limbs, from fingertips shoulders, toes to hips — everything is senseless, like his body has gone to sleep without his permission.

The house is too quiet.

He’s not sure how he’s still standing, if he’s being honest. He can’t feel his legs, but he knows they're working, because he’s still upright, somehow. They’re not even shaking.

He stands there, and Eddie — just… exists.

It’s a new kind of breakdown, not the fast-paced, red-hot impulsivity that used to overwhelm him and cause him to put his fists to whatever or whoever he could get his hands on. He doesn’t feel like yelling or breaking things, right now.

He doesn’t feel like doing much of anything at all.

It’s like he collapses inwards. Everything slows down, like an old music box with a dying battery, the song slow and haunted and out of tune, the dancer moving stilted and janky before stuttering to a complete stop.

The only thing he feels at all is Buck’s grounding hand on his shoulder. His thumb swipes a steady rhythm, back and forth, back and forth, and Eddie tries to focus on it, tries to breathe in sync with it, but he’s just so tired.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there staring at the door before he moves. It could be seconds, it could be hours, but his joints crack with the decades of aging he does in that time, the rust settled in deep. He turns to Buck, but he can’t lift his gaze from where he was staring at the door knob, so he ends up looking at Buck’s waist. The bottom button of his shirt is undone.

“Thank you for being here,” he says, and it’s shocking his voice works at all considering the sizable lump in his throat, the space in his chest. He feels his own words echo inside of him. “I appreciate you, y’know, talking to him. Trying.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Buck squeezes his shoulder. He can feel the pressure but none of the warmth from Buck’s hand. “Of course I would be here, I—I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

“You did,” he says, and he thinks he means it. Because with Buck there, his parents were on their best behavior, didn’t roll their eyes or raise their voices. There were no snide remarks under their breath or backhanded statements meant to cut him down.

No, Buck being there meant they smiled and tried to sound reasonable as they took his son away, like they were saving him from Eddie, rescuing him, protecting him.

But maybe — maybe it’s worse, that way, the way they were acting calm and concerned, swooping in to finally collect what they wanted all along: a son to raise who wouldn’t fuck up as much as Eddie did. Christopher is their second chance at getting it right.

Maybe if Buck hadn’t been there, they would’ve gotten nasty, and Eddie would’ve reacted more strongly, fought for Chris the way he wanted to. Maybe he could’ve changed Chris’ mind about leaving him behind. Maybe Chris could’ve been convinced to stay if he saw their true colors, if he saw how much Eddie would fight for him, if he saw how sorry he was, how much he wanted him to stay.

Or maybe it would’ve driven an even bigger wedge between the two of them. Eddie would never know.

“I did the right thing, right?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t know how much he needed the reassurance until he felt Buck hesitate. “Eddie…”

“Did I?” He meets Buck’s eyes, then, sees his own pain and sorrow and grief reflected back at him. “Would you have done it? Would you have let your son live with your parents if he wanted to get away from you?”

Buck doesn’t say anything for a long while. “I don’t know.”

“Buck.”

Buck sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair. “If I were you, and I had a kid, and my parents were my parents, the parents I grew up with… no, I wouldn't let them take him,” Buck admits like it pains him. Eddie’s face falls, and Buck frantically rushes to explain. “But Eddie, my parents were neglectful, and they never cared about me or Maddie. Even now, with Jee-Yun, it's all—all performative. They send Christmas cards and facetime once a month to check-in, but they haven’t changed, not really, they don’t really care about us. But yours—”

Eddie pulls out of his grip, steps back and away, out of his reach.

“They seem to be trying,” Buck shrugs helplessly, and Eddie feels — cavernous. He takes another step until he’s practically in the kitchen, leaving Buck by the couch.

“Okay,” he says.

“I know they hurt you, growing up, I’m not trying to minimize that, or dismiss it,” Buck says with his hands out, like Eddie is some animal he’s trying not to spook. “I just meant that — you listened to what Chris wanted, and he wanted to be with them. I think that, listening to him the way you did, that was the right thing to do, and, y’know, maybe it’s not the best place for him to be long-term, but right now it’s just for the summer. He’ll be safe there, with them.”

Buck probably doesn’t mean it, probably didn’t think it, but all Eddie can hear is the implied he wasn’t safe here with you.

He didn’t think anything else could hurt him today, but Buck taking his parents' side does it. The words settle over the numbness of his skin, seeping in until he feels the ache in his bones.

“Okay,” he says again, because — he agrees, Chris wasn’t safe here. Eddie hurt him by letting Kim in, by entertaining her at all. He should’ve left her alone and not gone back to that store. He should’ve talked to someone, Buck or Bobby or, hell, he should’ve gone to church, confessed to a priest, begged to be absolved of whatever had a hold on him, asked for guidance.

“You did what you could,” Buck insists, but all Eddie knows is that his best wasn’t good enough.

Eddie wasn’t good enough. Christopher left.

Maybe Buck is right. Maybe Christopher is better off with his parents because they’re better people than Eddie. He should listen to Buck — they’re doing their best. They go to church regularly. They try to make amends. They confess and they repent and they pray.

Maybe that’s why they were acting so nice, so charitable. Maybe God told them to be, and He rewarded them by giving them what they wanted: Christopher.

The idea strikes him like lightning.

Eddie finds himself walking to his bedroom without a second thought. He finds Bobby’s prayer book where he left it on his nightstand.

The black leather cover is cool to the touch, and he can feel it, numbness receding into a steady buzz, an undercurrent just beneath his skin. He runs his fingertips across the ridges in the leather and he can feel every one, regaining sensation in his hand with every pass. He holds it tight and it feels like a lifeline. He takes the first deep breath he’s taken in hours.

Buck watches him from where he’s stood in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“This is how I’m going to get Christopher back.” Eddie holds the black book up.

Buck’s brows are furrowed. “I… I’m not sure I follow.”

“I just have to be—” better, he almost says. Good.

It’s obvious he’s being punished for something, and he owes it to Christopher to fix it.

Because that’s what Christopher deserves, someone who tries to be good, to be holy and righteous the way his parents are. Eddie can’t remember the last time they went to church, knows that there had been one hard morning where Christopher hadn’t wanted to wake up and Eddie, frankly, didn’t want to sit through mass either, so he let them sleep in and miss it, and he told himself it would be just the one time, but then one week became three and then two months had gone by and they had settled into a new routine involving waffles and Buck and the Sunday crossword.

But Christopher deserved better than that, as evidenced by the fact that his parents had him now.

It isn't his fault, really, it's — cosmic.

“I need to be a better person,” he says at last.

(continue reading on ao3)

#my fic #writing tag #911 abc #eddie diaz #evan buckley #this was written with a buddie endgame in mind but it is NOT a getting together fic #also buck IS with tommy and i do not bash him #it's the cliffhanger i wish we had gotten

13 notes · View notes

cowboyemeritus · 6 months ago

Text

Il Suo Campione (Copia/Reader)

Chapter Seven

Series Masterlist

Summary: An exhibition match.

Warnings: violence, blood, descriptions of injury, gang violence, death

Read on AO3

Notes: i was originally going to have this chapter end somewhat differently but for the purposes of Plot changed my mind, so if parts are clunky... whoops. not sure how i feel about this one.

thanks again everyone! i'm glad y'all are enjoying the story so far. y'all are so sweet :)

feedback is always welcome!

Copia has the uncanny ability to get people to do what he wants. You probably wouldn’t be in this position if not. Maybe that white eye is magic, imbued with the power to bend others to his will. If that’s the case, then it’s no wonder the Emeritus Family has been able to carve out such a large slice of the city for themselves in only a few decades.

Whatever… gift Copia has, whether it be luck, natural charm, or some sort of animal magnetism, it’s at work tonight. The noise from the crowd is thunderous, bouncing off the walls of the old gym and magnifying to an almost intolerable degree. Based on the sound alone, this is for sure a new attendance record. Under normal circumstances, that would be enough to satisfy him for the night, regardless of the outcome of the fight.

He’s trying not to look nervous, leg bouncing as he sits on a folding chair nestled between his two brothers. You’re not the only one who notices. Secondo nudges Copia in the side, uttering something to him. One of the bookies passes by, obscuring your view so that you can’t read his lips. When Secondo looks back up, your eyes accidentally meet. A chill runs down your spine.

“He can be rather aggressive when he is upset about something,” Copia explained over breakfast after your trip to The Pinnacle. “I don’t know what set him off.”

You have to tear your gaze away from the second Emeritus brother, your skin crawling. Instead, you look to Copia. There’s still nervous tension on his face, but when he sees you he forces a smile, throwing you a little wave before sitting back in the chair and doing his best to look nonchalant.

“I promise you did nothing wrong, cara. You were perfect. Me?” He sighed, poking at a piece of pancake. “Do you think I sold them on it?”

The pressure is on, just as much for him as is it for you. Awkwardly, you wave back.

Terzo has been chatting with his guests, Cumulus and the silver-haired woman you saw dancing. Why either of them would want to be here is beyond you. His younger brother’s restlessness catches his attention. Seeing that Copia’s eyes are still on you, he turns and shoots you a wink. You cringe, the taste of licorice and bile burnt into your memory. Now, with three pairs of green and white eyes trained on you, you’re starting to feel a little uneasy.

The bell rings.

You’re half-listening to the announcer prattle on about this evening’s show, checking and double-checking your wraps to make sure they’re secured. When he steps back you know it’s time to go, rising from your seat in one of the corners, your opponent mirroring you. Through the building rush of adrenaline, you feel anxiety, like pins and needles, in your stomach. This woman is at least a head taller than you. Unlike legitimate boxing, there are no weight classes here. Although, as Copia says, it makes for a better show when the fighters are evenly matched, that isn’t always feasible. Sometimes, you just have to put your head down and fight whoever’s in front of you, even if it means getting your shit rocked.

This isn’t one of those times, though. Copia is counting on you tonight.

Your opponent is bouncing on the balls of her feet as you approach, the two of you sizing each other up. From between her raised fists you can sort of get a look at her, something you neglected to do before. She’s pretty in a rugged sort of way, with well-sculpted muscle and bronze skin like an well-polished statue. A valkyrie, versus the feral animal thing you’ve got going on. She looks down at you with sympathy, maybe even a little pity, in her eyes. Both of you know this match-up isn’t fair.

“No hard feelings, yeah?” You respond by throwing the first punch. She’s able to tilt her head to the side in time, the blow glancing off her cheek. Again you swipe at her, and this time she blocks you with a raised arm. When your fist connects, she doesn’t budge at all. She’s rock solid.

You dance around each other for the rest of the first round. Your opponent takes a few swings at you, but you’re able to dodge them. Still, her speed is worrisome. At the beginning of the second round you go to block a punch and her fist connects with your left wrist. Something pops. If it’s supposed to hurt, the pain is drowned out by the blood racing through your veins.

You certainly feel it the next time she gets you, socking you right in the eye with fifteen seconds left in the round. The full force of the impact is brutal, momentarily throwing you off balance. As you stumble she’s able to hit you twice more, each blow harder than the last. With the first punch you feel your teeth cut the inside of your cheek. When she hits you again you’re able to turn your head to the side, your brow ridge taking the brunt of it. The skin splits, and blood begins to pour down your face, hot and sticky. It gathers in the grooves around your already swelling eye, making it nearly impossible to see.

The round ends with a heavy, uneasy feeling settling into your gut. Even considering the size difference, you’re performing poorly. It’s not like you to be this jittery. Taking a short, life-giving sip of water, it does little to wash away the coppery taste in your mouth. As you’re catching your breath and trying to steel yourself, Copia ducks under the ropes, a washcloth in hand. You simultaneously wish he’d go away and wrap you his arms. You’re angry at him for putting you in this position, and yet you can’t help but want to please him. He needs you. It’s hard to look at him as he wipes away the blood gumming up your eye; he’s trying to play it off but you can tell by the slight scrunch of his eyebrows that he’s nervous. Neither of you say anything, and the break ends dreadfully soon.

You go into round three with a plan: evasion. Move around as much as possible and tire her out. Not a strategy you’d normally opt for, but these are desperate times. The bell chimes and she comes at you fast, leaving you scrambling to avoid her. When the opportunity presents itself you take it, ducking under her arm to hit her in the torso. Your wrist complains with each blow that lands but you ignore it, the rush starting to take over. Miraculously, you go to fake her out and she falls for it, giving you a clear shot. You deliver a vicious right hook to her face and her nose immediately begins gushing blood. She pays you back in kind almost instantly but you’re so caught up in a sense of smug satisfaction that it hardly fazes you.

All you needed to do was turn the gas on. This is fine, actually. You can do this.

You go blow-for-blow until the last thirty seconds of round four. The laceration on your eyebrow is still bleeding and no matter how many times you wipe the blood away, you end up blind in that eye. Both of you are sweaty and breathing hard, keen to make the other drop as soon as possible and finish this. You’re trying to focus on making that happen, planning your next strike, but it’s hard now that your vision has started to go double. The sense of urgency builds inside you, your heart hammering as you fight to control your breathing.

The mat beneath you is soaked with blood and sweat. Trying to evade one of your opponent’s blows, you step in one of the small puddles, your foot nearly sliding out from beneath you. It’s all the opportunity she needs. Before you can even raise a fist in defense she swings, catching you in the jaw. The roar of the crowd is only surpassed by the thump of your pulse. Like carrion birds, they can sense the end drawing near. Your vision narrows as you stumble, black spots dancing around the room.

The round is almost over. You can make it through this. You have to make it through this.

You’re off balance, swaying as you try and plant your feet again. The gym is spinning. If you could just lay down, even for a second, you’re certain you could make it stop. You don’t dare look at the time, not when your opponent is so close. Why won’t the round end already?

She steps towards you. You can see her clear as day, but your brain, fogged up, is light-years behind. By the time you register what’s going on, her fist is already coming at you. The best you can do is turn your head to the side. You can feel the nerves light up as she makes contact by your ear, but you’re already unconscious before the real pain sets in.

I am a fool. A miserable, pathetic fool.

The crowd goes wild as you crumple to the ground. Those who bet right scream with excitement, while others groan and hang their heads.

How could I do this?

When presented with the size difference between you and your opponent, Copia had turned his head. It didn’t matter. He thought — he knew — you would be victorious. You always are. And what a better way to win over his brothers than by taking down someone twice your size? Everyone loves an underdog.

Things had gotten off to a rocky start, but you were turning it around. What happened?

The count begins. Perhaps you’ll get up. It’s happened before, you rising like the dead to claim your rightful victory. It’s unlikely, given the way your body fell limp, like a rag-doll, but Copia clings to that hope nonetheless, riding the edge of his seat. If anyone can pull it off, it’s you. It’s his campionessa.

One, two, three-

“Come on, girl,” he hears Cumulus murmur. “Get up.”

Four, five, six-

“Get up!” From the seat next to him, Secondo scoffs.

Seven, eight, nine-

Terzo places a gentle hand on Copia’s shoulder.

Ten.

He sighs. “That is really too bad, fratellino.”

There’s a sinking feeling in Copia’s stomach, like he’s falling over the edge of some vast, inescapable chasm. Disappointed and more than a little regretful, he sits, overthinking, as the crowd begins to disperse. He can still salvage this, he just needs to-

“She’s still not moving,” Mist observes. Copia is torn away from his train of thought. In the ring, a small crowd is gathering around your prone form, more than a few people looking expectantly in his direction.

“Shit,” he mutters, immediately rising from his seat. “Shit.” Every atom of his being screams at him to run to you, but he knows he can’t. He has to maintain the usual illusion of calm and detachment. It’s a performance he puts on not only for his clients, but for himself. He settles for a hurried jog. His heart pounds, not from the exertion, but with fear at what he might find beyond the ropes.

What have I done?

You’re lying flat on your back. If not for the blood on your face, still gushing from your eyebrow, you could be asleep. The referee is trying, with no success, to rouse you, lightly tapping your cheek with a flattened hand. Your victorious opponent is surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, but observes out of the corner of her eye with clear concern. She’s more sportsmanlike than you, that’s for certain.

Copia comes to kneel by your side. He jostles you with a hand on your shoulder but still you remain unconscious. Anxiety, like a hot iron, pokes and prods the inside of his stomach.

“Dolcezza.” He shakes you again. “You have to get up.” For a moment he’s considering blowing the lid off this whole operation and calling for an ambulance but you groan, eyes cracking open. You squint hard under the old fluorescent lights, like you’re looking directly into the sun. “Oh, meno male.”

You perk up a little more at the sound of his voice. “Papa..?” The ref gives him a suspicious look but says nothing. Copia laughs, suddenly uncomfortable, pulling the washcloth out of his jacket pocket and dabbing at your bloodied face.

“I’m here,” he says, fighting the urge to go full mother hen. “You scared me, cara.” Your eyebrows scrunch together.

“Have to go to work,” you mutter weakly. “Where’s Mary?” There’s a pinprick of something in his chest — he doesn’t dare call it jealousy — at the mention of your brother, but it’s quickly drowned out by worry, bordering on panic. Not good. Not good at all. He scans the crowd of remaining spectators, knowing at least a few of his regulars are doctors. There are none that he recognizes, but he notices Aether placed tactically among the swarm, monitoring the flow of people. A paramedic in his past life, surely there must be something he can do for you. Copia is about to call for him when your opponent approaches. She’s got some welts on her face and twisted cotton balls stuffed in both nostrils, but otherwise looks to be in decent shape. She’s gotten off miraculously easy. He still thinks you could have beaten her.

“Is she okay?” The woman asks, a fearful edge to her voice. You jolt, grimacing as you try to get up. There’s a wild look in your eyes. Copia has to coax you to lay back down, one hand supporting your head, the other pushing down on your shoulder.

“Easy,” he warns. “The fight is over.” The look of confusion on your face transforms into something else. It’s a myriad of emotions: pain, anger, sadness, shame.

“I lost…” Copia nods. Your eyebrows knit even further together as you stare at the ceiling, unable to meet his gaze. “‘M sorry.”

It’s like his heart is being torn from his chest.

“I- No, dolcezza.” This is my fault. I made her do this. I put this pressure on her. “It’s okay.” It’s not entirely a lie. Not knowing what else to say and not having the bandwidth for it, he calls for Aether, shooing everyone else away. This has been enough of a spectacle already.

“Boss.” The large man gives Copia a nod as he ducks under the ropes. He kneels on your other side. “Hey, love.” Copia wants to reprimand him for calling you that, but lets it slide for now. “You got knocked about pretty hard. I’m just gonna check a few things, okay?” Using his thumb and forefinger, he pries one of your eyelids open. Your pupils are blown out, hardly dilating under the harsh light. You grunt, grabbing Aether’s wrist. He easily pries your fingers off, repeating the process with the other eye. It has the same reaction. “You know what day it is?”

“Thursday,” you mumble, sounding more with it and clearly irritated by Aether’s pestering. He nods in approval. Copia has never felt more useless in his life.

“Yeah, that’s it. Very good. Think you can sit up?” You nod, starting to rise from the filthy old mat. Before Aether can try, Copia places a hand on your back to support you the rest of the way up. Your right hand goes to your hairline, fingers massaging the area around your tight braids. The other arm hangs limp by your side. Aether gently picks it up, inspecting your wrist. It’s already deep purple and the shape of it is… wrong. He pokes at where a bone protrudes awkwardly under the skin and you frown at it. “I can pop it back in. ’S gonna hurt, though.”

You give him a skeptical look. “Do it.”

Terzo picks the perfect time to butt in. “Well, fratellino- Ahia!” He recoils as Aether manipulates the joint just right, the bone slipping back into its normal position with an audible crack. You remain unfazed other than a wince. Terzo blinks once, twice, before motioning Copia over. Hesitantly, he obeys, glancing worriedly over his shoulder at you as he heeds his brother’s call. Terzo leans against the ropes, looking up at him with a smug smile. Dread burrows into Copia’s stomach, clawing at his insides like a horde of starving rats.

“Let me guess: just a fluke?” Copia scowls down at his brother.

“As a matter of fact, it was.” He chooses not to mention his part in it. Terzo laughs.

“Always so serious. All of you.” At least he seems sober tonight. There’s a pause, Terzo glancing over to where Aether is triaging you. “I do not know what you see in the girl. No offense — we all have different tastes.” Copia scowls at him harder. Terzo makes a sweeping gesture around the room. “But, I can see the potential in all this.” Relief, like a tidal wave, crashes over him. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from breaking out into an idiotic grin.

“Well, good,” is all he says.

“Secondo left already. He may need more convincing,” Terzo notes. “But I will work on him. Call it a favor, from me to you.”

“That’s fine.” Copia doesn’t like the idea of being indebted to his brother, but he can survive it if this works out.

Terzo claps Copia on the back. “We will be in touch. Go take care of your lady friend.” He’s going to protest the use of that vocabulary but before he can blink he’s gone, collecting his girls. He exchanges a few words with them, at which point Cumulus jogs over.

“We brought this,” she reaches into her purse and pulls out a bright orange sports drink, “for her.” Copia smiles. He goes to take it, grabbing one end, but she holds on tight to the other. Her eyes narrow. “You’re gonna take care of her, right, C?” It’s both a command and a threat. Gulping, he nods.

“Yes, ma’am.” Cumulus lets go of the bottle, smiling sweetly.

“Great! Thanks for having us!” She gives him a quick peck on the cheek before skipping away, turning and waving as she follows Terzo and Mist out the door.

Copia scratches the back of his head. “Yeesh…”

He’s in a much better mood as he returns to you, even when Aether tells him you’re concussed. You’re no longer confused and the cut on your eyebrow has stopped bleeding, but that frustrated, ashamed look in your eyes remains. He tells you the good news as he cleans the blood and sweat from your swollen face, and it seems to elevate your mood the slightest bit. Still dizzy, you lean against Copia for support as you file out of the old gym with the rest of the stragglers. Aether had offered to carry you, but you had politely refused, cheeks pink. Copia is relieved; he likes the weight of you on his arm — substantial, but not overly burdensome. It’s like you were made to be there. He’d be loathe to have anyone else squander that, even someone he trusts as deeply as Aether.

The street is dark and quiet, most of the buildings on it also abandoned. These are the times we live in, Copia thinks, eyes darting from one run-down storefront to the other. We all must steal to survive. That’s not important right now, though. Not when he’s one step closer to realizing his goal, to making the old man acknowledge what he’s done.

Tonight didn’t turn out exactly how he wanted, but this is still a victory. Copia decides he’s in a celebratory mood.

“Do you think you will be able to eat, cara? I was thinking about making-“

About ten yards down the street, a car explodes. The shockwave sends you both tumbling to the ground. Tiny pieces of debris pelt Copia’s back, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s thrown himself on top of you. His ears are ringing. Around you the scene descends into chaos, tires screeching as people begin to flee. The cops will undoubtedly be here soon. He looks down at you, knowing the fall couldn’t have been good for your head. You appear unharmed but are staring, wide-eyed, at a point behind him.

“Are you alright?” You don’t answer. Copia gets up and off of you, turning to see what it is you’re looking at. A man is lying on the scorched pavement, convulsing weakly. Based on the remaining scraps of clothes it’s Diego, one of the bookies longest in his employ. His body is covered in burns and he clutches at his throat, a large shard of glass jutting out between his fingers. Copia turns back to find you fixated on the dying man, eyes glazed over as you watch the lifeblood pour out of his neck. He goes to shake you, but thinks better of it. “Dolce-“

“We need to go,” Aether yells, running over to help you both up. You’re unable to rise to your feet until both men grab your arms and pull. The whole time you remain staring at Diego, who has now stopped moving, tripping over your feet as they drag you across the street to the vehicle you’d arrived in. Copia dives into the back seat with you, scrambling to buckle your seatbelt as Aether throws the already started car into drive. The wreck is in flames as he peels away. That thing had been Diego’s pride and joy. He was a good guy. A wife, a few kids; he was just another person trying to make ends meet.

Copia tries not to think about that, or about how his car was nearly identical to the vehicle you’re riding in right now.

#my writing #the band ghost x reader #the band ghost fanfiction #papa emeritus iv x reader #frater imperator x reader #copia x reader #i'm also going to make a series masterlist soon so bear with me

14 notes · View notes

vvatchword · 1 year ago

Text

Slow Drive

Delta couldn’t get in the car. Instead, he walked beside it as Sinclair slowly drove out to the edge of town. Sinclair kept the window down and didn’t speak at first. The Sisters followed alongside, Eleanor sobbing uncontrollably. Every now and then Delta felt her questing thoughts probing at the edges of his mind before she jerked back. The other Sisters didn’t stop her—perhaps there was some sense that he was hers—and this alone rankled.

They could have stopped her, couldn’t they? And they didn’t. They let her just slide into his skull anytime she liked. Not even Cecilia said anything about it, and Cecilia always seemed to read him better than anyone else.

“So, chief,” Sinclair said, somewhere around the ten-minute mark.

Delta bristled, waiting for the inevitable.

“What kind of TV do you watch these days?”

Delta squinted in at him. Sinclair was keeping his eyes on the road. Had he always looked this old? Delta could see a reflection of his face in the glass and tried to gauge his own age. Taut skin, dark hair, no age spots. Thirties, perhaps? He hadn’t aged while he’d been dead. That seemed right.

“Do you watch TV?” Sinclair asked. “Or do you still listen to the radio?”

Delta shrugged. Sinclair took a moment to wave at another driver, who was gaping at Delta without any shame at all. They were so busy gawking that they went over the curb; in a squeal of rubber, they slammed on their brakes and smashed into a post-office box.

“You liked adventure serials, last I remember,” Sinclair said. He snapped his fingers. “You loved adventure films.”

Why had Delta wanted this, again? There was something horrible about having someone with power over you, but the kind where someone knew more about you than you did about yourself was a torture past reckoning! It was true, wasn’t it—that he was just a big kid stuck in this monster body? Maybe it was right that a girl half his age ordered him around.

“You’re lookin’ pretty down in the mouth,” Sinclair said. “Now, honey, I promise you nothing is going to happen outside the pale. All right? No lock-ups. Nothing you don’t ask for. Just a warm meal and a drink and some entertainment. Maybe a smoke. You still like cigars?”

“I’m never free,” Delta said at last. “I never get to go where I want. Even in my dreams I don’t go where I want.”

Sinclair grimaced. “Juan, honey.”

He said it low, so quietly that it could have been lost.

“I’m so tired,” Delta said. “Nobody loves me.”

Sinclair hissed through his teeth. “That’s not true. Why, look at that girl crying over there. She loves you more than life itself.”

“She wants to order me around. She doesn’t listen to me.”

“Well, that’s teenagers for you.” Sinclair laughed. “She’s starting to realize she can make decisions of her own, that’s all. She just doesn’t know where she needs to stop. No, you’re right to put your foot down. You have a right to your own life. You know what your problem is, chief?”

Delta shook his head.

“The problem is that you’re just a big softy. You get thrown into this world outside Rapture and you have to learn all its rules again. You feel off-balance. You deal with it by trying to make everyone your friend. You know how that makes me laugh?”

Delta glanced up, brows knit together. Sinclair was grinning at him like they were sharing a big joke.

“All the best scientists of the world stirred your brain up like a soup, but they couldn’t get rid of you. Back when I knew you, the minute you figured out you couldn’t make friends, you’d run for it. And here you are, over a decade later, running from your problems—like clockwork.”

Delta drooped, rubbed at his face. There was a pressure starting in the back of his mind. The memories were going to come back. He could feel it. He’d end up rocking back and forth in Sinclair’s back yard next.

“Now, what’s sad about that?” Sinclair asked. “I thought it might make you happy to realize you’re not some machine. No, you’re John Barton. You’re a hell of a worker and a good man. Many went through Rapture and came out unspeakable. You went through and became something better. Who else has done it?”

“I killed people,” Delta said. “I’m not better.”

“You had no choice. Better than those of us who did.”

Sinclair’s face had become stern. He was looking in his rearview mirror.

“Looks like ol’ Jack there is going to keep an eye on us,” he said. “Wouldn’t doubt he’s had us all figured out for weeks now. I wonder how long he’s been looking for us.”

“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Delta asked.

“No reason to doubt him. You two do have the same problem, all things considered.”

“What does he want with me?”

“What’d he ask you for?”

“He wanted to see Tenenbaum. That’s all.”

“Then why go to you, honey?” Sinclair asked gently. “If he needs Brigid, he should go to Brigid.”

“I’m not stupid.” Delta’s hand movements were choppy.

“I’m not saying you are. I’m saying you are a little too eager for friendship, though.”

“I have no friends.”

“Good god, John, that’s an outright lie, and frankly, I’m a bit hurt. Do you not consider me a friend?”

Delta thought about apologizing. He decided not to. Instead, he asked, “Do you think he likes me?”

Sinclair laughed. “Now, what kind of a question is that?”

“He saved me from the police. He knows what it’s like to be me.”

“So does Dr. Porter,” Sinclair said. “And so do I.”

Delta shook his head.

“Dr. Lamb was in my head.” Sinclair’s voice was low again. “She was pulling my strings like a puppeteer. Son, I went through your hell for all of a day, thinking: I may have to live like this for years if he doesn’t knock me down. Before that point, I had never wished for death in my life, but in a matter of hours I was ready to go. All that, and I hadn’t gone through even a tenth of what you did. But hell, son. Hell. When I consider what that does to a man—over weeks, over months, over years.” He took a shuddering breath. “That was your greatest fear, you know. And I’ll never be able to forgive myself for making you live it.”

Delta didn’t dare look at him. He kept his eyes on his feet. What would his old self have felt? He was too frightened to reach back where his memories were. If they started flooding through him again, here on the street… Eleanor would have to touch him again. Eleanor would probably say, “Oh, he has to go home now and sleep in his own bed.”

It did sound nice. To go home, take a shower, go to bed. All of this seemed so pointless. To run away, just to go to Sinclair’s house, where he’d probably sleep on the floor, and Sinclair would talk to him like he was pitiful the whole damn time. Tomorrow he’d probably just go home, and everything would go back to the way it was, and he’d just take it, because of course he would. Who else could love him? Where else would people make a home for him?

It startled him to realize that this was why Sinclair couldn’t love him anymore. His previous self had been a whole person—a person who could speak, who was nice to look at, who knew who he was. But his current self… what was he to Sinclair but a child, an invalid, more dog than a man? Who could love that?

“I’m tired of thinking about it,” Delta said. “I’m tired of people feeling sorry for me. I just want to feel like a person. I don’t. I scare people.”

“That’s my fault, too.” Sinclair’s voice was thick.

“I don’t care.” Delta shook his head. He still didn’t look at Sinclair. “You feeling sorry doesn’t change it. I can’t change it. It happened. I don’t care. I just want to be a person.”

“But you are a person and we can help you. It’s just a matter of time at this point.” Sinclair slapped the side of his car. “And won’t you look at that! Home sweet home.”

Delta jerked his head up. They had pulled into a residential area. A series of brick houses spread out under comfortable old shade trees. Kids were throwing frisbees for their dogs a couple of houses over. The house that Sinclair was talking about was a red-brick affair with a nicely manicured lawn and a door with a stained-glass window.

“Eleanor!” Sinclair said, waving her toward him. “Come here!”

Delta froze as Eleanor, red-eyed, shuffled up to the window.

“Sweetheart, I swear on everything true and good in this world to treat your pops like a gentleman,” he said. “You understand me? I keep him off the street a night, and he gets that guest bedroom all to himself. But, see, I need some help from you to make sure this works out.”

Eleanor’s eyes were swollen and red. She stared at him without expression.

“I need you to get some clean clothes for him,” he said. “Let’s say—two days’ worth. Something for bed, something for daytime. Maybe a toothbrush and a razor and his shampoo, things like that. If you bring that on over, I can make sure he’s comfortable, and you can see how he’s settling in. And don’t you worry. I’ll bring him back as soon as possible, hopefully in better shape than he left.”

Without a word, Eleanor turned away and disappeared in a flash of light. The kids with the frisbees started shouting about it. Equally silent, completely expressionless, the Sisters all turned together and walked back toward town.

“You know, that’s the kind of thing I’d expect to see in a horror film,” Sinclair said, watching the girls troop away.

Sinclair turned into the driveway. Delta wavered for a moment, stuck between following him and turning to follow the girls back to Tenenbaum’s. The kids and their dogs had stopped to watch now. The dogs were alert in an unpleasant way—ears up, rigid-legged, tails swaying side to side slowly.

Delta held his face. Even dogs didn’t like him. Maybe it was Eleanor’s sadness pushing in on him, but he thought he was going to cry next.

“Hey, chief, look at this,” Sinclair said, leaning out of his window. “Come’ere!”

Delta slogged up beside him, leaned down. Sinclair held a little plastic doohickey with a button on it.

“Watch,” he said, and pressed it.

The garage door grumbled and lifted. Delta jumped. He must have made some noise because the dogs started barking.

“I’m living the good life,” Sinclair said, winking at him, and pulled into a spotless garage. “Get in here before you die of heat stroke.”

Delta wished he could tell him it was fine; poison couldn’t kill him, bullets couldn’t kill him, the cold couldn’t kill him, so what was the sun? But without a word, he ducked into the garage. The door closed behind him, cutting out the light and the Sisters, until it closed with a heavy thunk.

~*~*~*~

Sinclair’s home was dark: dark paneled wood walls, dark wine-colored carpet, heavy embroidered curtains draped over the windows. Delta caught sight of a living room set up with an easy chair and a sofa and a nice TV set. Everything smelled like cigarettes. As Sinclair flicked on lights and air conditioner, he headed down the right-hand corridor into an equally dark office, all mahogany and stuffy-looking, with uncomfortable-looking high-backed chairs. Delta eyed them warily from the hallway.

The first thing Sinclair did was sink into his office chair, grab his phone, and call Dr. Tenenbaum. Delta, feeling obnoxiously large, waited at the door.

“Brigid!” Sinclair said. “Found him. Oh, he got all the way to town. I had been out of the car maybe ten minutes when you called… all I did was pull out onto 9th Street and there he was. The man’s athleticism is unreal. Nope. Well, he did have a little run-in with the police, but… well, you won’t believe who he met.” He waited a second. There was complete silence on the other end.

“Jack Wynand,” said Sinclair at last. “Don’t know what he was doing with our boy here, but apparently he wanted to speak with you abou…”

“NO,” Dr. Tenenbaum said.

“All right, good enough,” Sinclair said. “I don’t know what he’s up to, but I don’t feel good about it, either. I thought you said he was a young man?” His brows drew together as Tenenbaum spoke. “That’s not right. He can’t have been a day under sixty.”

A muttering sound.

“He’s still a big guy. I wouldn’t get in a fight with him.” Sinclair drew out his pistol, released the magazine, popped out the bullets one by one, counted them under his breath, loaded the gun again. “Say, John?”

Delta jerked upright.

“Can you do me a favor and grab my holster? It’s right in that drawer across from me. Right there. Thank you, buddy. Sit down, sit down, take the weight off.”

The couch’s legs looked delicate, and the armchairs were too narrow, so Delta sank down on the floor, folding his arms over his knees. He loomed over Sinclair despite simply sitting. He felt so strangely childish.

“My question is this,” Sinclair said, throwing off his jacket. “Do I need to be worried about Mr. Wynand?”

When Tenenbaum spoke, it was quietly, and the rhythm was too even for Delta to make out anything. Sinclair buckled his holster. His smile sank into a frown.

“All right,” he said. “Understood. I just can’t figure what use John would be to him. Might it be to get to Eleanor?”

Delta whipped his eyes up to Sinclair’s. Sinclair was staring straight into his face, eyes solemn. He tucked his pistol under his arm.

“I thought not,” Sinclair said. “Well, thank you. Let me know if anything changes in the night. I sent the girls to get John some overnight clothes.”

Dr. Tenenbaum said something short.

“Doctor, if Eleanor and the girls had gotten there first, I’m afraid John would’ve left with Wynand. Hell, there might’ve been a fight, and frankly, I shudder to think of it. I think I was a fair option.”

Dr. Tenenbaum snapped something.

Sinclair took a deep breath and pressed his fingers against his temple. “Let me make this plain. I won’t take advantage of him. I swear on my dear sweet mother. He’s barely two months out of the suit and he’s like a whole new person; god knows who he’ll be by the third. I aim to spoil him rotten and nothing more. He will stay in the guest bedroom.”

Dr. Tenenbaum started talking. Sinclair listened, lips pressed together. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a carton of cigarettes. He opened it and shook it at John. John took it with a grateful nod and plucked one out. It was so tiny and delicate and soft in his hand.

“I understand. You don’t have to worry about me. If you feel like you have to check up, do. I promise it’s all above-board here at Casa de Sinclair. You don’t have to believe it, but that’ll just give you more worry than it’s worth. Go to bed with a clear conscience. I will.”

Sinclair tucked a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and held out his lighter, the flame snapping into life above it. John lit it and sank back against the wall, one knee drawn up, one leg thrown out. He breathed in; breathed out.

“All right. Give my love to the girls. Reassure Eleanor I’ll be nothing but a gentleman. And don’t forget the man’s toiletries! Bye.”

He shook his head as he slapped the receiver on its cradle. “Good god, Juan. Your lot is going crazy without you. How do you do it?”

Delta paused, staring, before shaking his head.

“They do fine without me,” he signed.

“So you say,” Sinclair said, pushing pencils around on his desk with an idle finger. “Now, look. Brigid says you shouldn’t go out without someone from now on. I tend to agree.”

“I’m not stupid,” Delta said, hands stabbing through the motions.

“Of course you’re not stupid,” Sinclair said. “But you know Mr. Wynand killed several of your coworkers, don’t you? And those were fully kitted out. I doubt he’d hesitate for you.”

Delta growled. “I’d run away.”

“Good thinking. Do not fight him.” Sinclair rapped the table with every word. “Leave. In fact, take it one step further: you see him coming, you just run the other way.”

“What if he’s a friend?” Delta asked. “What if he wants to help?”

“Help with what?” Sinclair asked. “He’s the one who came to you. Now, although I doubt Mr. Wynand there went out today intending to catch you, he clearly wanted to use you in some way, and I’m guessing whatever it was wouldn’t have been very kind.”

“I don’t care,” Delta said. His eyes were burning.

A pencil bounced off of his forehead. He recoiled, only for Sinclair to flip a second one at him. It bounced off of the wall and against the back of his neck. Delta growled, yanked at his sleeve—only to feel the pencil tilt down his collar and slip into his shirt.

“For god’s sakes, don’t be dramatic. You’ve cared every step of the way. I should know.” Sinclair slapped another pencil down on his desk eraser first. “Now I suppose there’s no better time to address the, ah… Big Daddy in the room, as it were.”

Delta snarled and twisted his shirt out of his jeans. Crumbled leaves and dirt sprinkled onto the carpet.

“You clearly have some feelings for me.”

Delta’s breath caught in his throat. He kept his eyes down on his shirt.

“Now as touched as I am—and I will not lie, I am deeply, deeply moved—we were very different people 13 years ago. And even if we hadn’t changed as much as we have, right now is clearly a very sensitive time for you.”

Delta shook his shirt out until bits of hay filled the air.

“Do you know what you look like right now?” Sinclair asked, rising from his desk.

Delta reddened, fabric knotted up in his hands. The pencil plinked onto the floor.

“You look like a new human being every damn day,” said Sinclair. “I had no idea you were going to get this far. None of us did. It’s almost like you’re back.”

Delta smoothed his shirt out, dropping his eyes. The ash was building up on the end of his cigarette until it looked like a closed lotus.

“Tomorrow, you may realize you hate me,” Sinclair said. “I may have to call Eleanor from a payphone on the other side of town because you decided to throw my car at me. And frankly, I wouldn’t put it past you. You know what your last words to me were?” Sinclair slapped his pencil down. “You told me to go fuck myself.”

Delta squeezed his hands into a fist on his knee.

“Son, you’re about to have more ash than cigarette there. Come here, for god’s sakes.” Sinclair pushed an ashtray over the desk.

John tapped off the ash, eyes lowered. In the back of his brain, he could feel an electrical static building.

“Sorry,” he signed.

“I don’t know whether you’re apologizing for the past or for now, and either way, I don’t give a damn,” Sinclair said. “You don’t have to apologize. You’re being honest. You have nothing in you but honesty. It’s like I get to see you in your childhood.”

Delta snarled and shoved himself upright. “I’m not a child.”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s a good thing. It’s you before someone beat all that fear into you.”

“What do you mean? Who beat me?”

“Don’t listen to me. It doesn’t matter.” Sinclair cleared his throat. “I just want you to know that as long as you stay here, my bedroom is off limits, as yours is from me. And you will not try to do anything beyond a handshake, you understand?”

“I’m sorry. I understand.” Delta took a deep drag of his cigarette. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the carpet.

“Again, you don’t have to apologize. You owe me nothing. But you aren’t well yet. You’re nowhere near well yet. I say you rest for a year at least before you start thinking about romance. And given what you’ve gone through, I’ll be frank: maybe it should be two or three or… lord. Five. The longer you wait, the better you’ll feel. Take some advice from an old rake.”

“I’ll go back,” Delta said. His fingers moved listlessly. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t mean that at all. Look at me. Look at me, Juan.”

Delta shook his head. Then he saw Sinclair’s shiny shoes up next to his beat-up sneakers. Sinclair leaned in, stared up into his face.

“I love you, Juan,” Sinclair said softly. “More than you know. But think about it this way. You need some time to understand what you really want. If you move too fast, you’re more likely to make regrets than good memories. All right?” He took Delta’s hand and clapped it between his. “Worry about recovering. Wait for Tenenbaum to collect the ADAM we need for your procedure. Learn a little about yourself.”

“Is Eleanor going to be safe?” Delta asked. He felt like his arms and hands were moving through syrup. “Should I go back?”

“Is Eleanor going… good god, honey, she nearly took the whole damn house off its foundation this afternoon,” Sinclair said. “There are 12 other Big Sisters at that house, all just as powerful as she is. I don’t like it that Wynand’s here, but I’d like to see him try and cause trouble with a house full of Supergirls. No, if there’s anyone in trouble here, it’s you.”

Delta closed his eyes. He had to go home. It was the right thing to do. The whole house full of Sisters and an enemy skulking around the perimeter! And at the same time, he couldn’t seem to move his legs.

“You okay there, chief?” Sinclair asked.

Delta shook his head, blew out a cloud of smoke, watched the patterns shift and dissipate.

“I’m glad you’re here. Do you understand? I’m pleased as punch. It doesn’t even seem real that we’re underneath the same roof again. Hell, forget about me—I think you might benefit by getting out of the house a while. Think of it as a vacation—a little time to recoup. Now come on. There’s a case of beer with your name on it and a night full of the world’s most rotten television.” Sinclair rose, throwing his jacket over his arm. “As for me, I’m going to make a roast beef sandwich. How about it? I’ve got fresh bread. As the kids today say—it’ll blow your mind.”

~*~*~*~

Delta’s bedroom was clearly not meant for someone his size. The bed was too small, the ceiling too low. If he turned on the fan and stood up, he’d get whacked in the forehead. His stomach sank. Was this the plan? To make him capitulate through discomfort?

“I don’t think I thought this through,” Sinclair said, clucking with displeasure. “Perhaps if we get the mattress on the floor of the den and lay the couch cushions at one end? That might be nice. Much roomier in there, in any case. And you can turn the television on in the morning and watch it in bed.” He winked. “Very cozy.”

“But I can’t keep you out of the living room,” Delta signed nervously.

“Oh, I won’t need to go in there past ten,” Sinclair said. “You’ll be snug as a bug in a rug, as my grandmother would say. Ah, son, cheer up!” He slapped him on the shoulder. “I can’t stand you lookin’ so sad. How many times were you making these faces under that helmet? I can’t stand the thought.”

Delta felt at his cheeks. He felt strangely naked all of a sudden. He wanted his suit again. He wanted his helmet.

“What are you feeling for up there?” Sinclair asked.

Delta shook his head. “I should go home.”

“You are home, honey.” Sinclair set a hand on his wrist. “Can you do me a favor, though?”

“Sure.”

“Can you drag the mattress yourself? I hate to ask you, but this leg makes everything a trial.”

“It’s no problem.” Delta leaned down into the bedroom, flipped on the light.

For a second, he saw the flash of a human shadow against the window. He started. Just as suddenly, he felt silly; he was seeing his own shadow thrown up against the blinds. No one could see in. Why would they want to, anyway?

“What is it, honey?” Sinclair asked.

“Nothing,” Delta said. “Bad thought.”

“You’ve been doin’ better, I thought.”

Delta was startled to realize the memories had settled back down. Was that all he had to do? Get upset and run to town? Maybe they would come back in the night.

Try not to think about it. Thinking about it will make it worse.

“Do you remember how to play gin rummy?” Sinclair asked as Delta lifted the mattress.

“I don’t know.” Delta pushed it on its side, leaned over almost double.

Sinclair sidled out of the way. “Well, we’ll bring out cards and see if you do. If you can’t remember it, well. We’ll just teach you again. Meanwhile, we’ll get you another cigarette, eh?”

Delta looked at his hands pressed against the mattress. God, they were huge.

“When will they get enough ADAM for me?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t know. We’d have to ask Dr. Tenenbaum that.”

“When I go crazy,” Delta said, “what will you do to me?”

Sinclair paused. “Let’s not think about that right now, honey. Besides. You’re doin’ great. Much better than we ever thought you would!”

“Something’s wrong with me,” Delta said. “I can’t think. It’s better, but it’s… worse. It should be faster.”

“You’re worried, that’s all. You haven’t been away from Eleanor this long and you did just have a fight with her. Come on, let’s get you settled down. I’ll get you a beer.”

Delta was about to ask if he thought Eleanor would forgive him when it struck him suddenly: if he wanted Sinclair not to think of him as a child, he should stop acting like one. He sounded like a child, didn’t he? Complaining all the time?

At first, he resolved to stop flapping his fingers so goddamn much. But the thought of shutting up filled him with a loneliness so complete it was a physical ache. Suddenly he completely understood Eleanor’s hatred of Sinclair. It was all his fault! It was all his fault he was like this! In the memories, he had been holding full conversations, jumping from subject to subject with ease! Even his terror in front of the whipping-man had been something—pure, almost. Since waking up, he couldn’t remember feeling anything that strongly except for his love for Eleanor and the power of his anger, and even then, both feelings made him feel tired, like there was such a frantic need to feel anything at all that he clung to them overlong.

The sheer level of work and uncertainty ahead of him squashed him so suddenly that he burst into tears. Horrified, he mashed his face into his opposite shoulder, rubbing his eyes so hard that fireworks went off behind his eyelids. But the tears wouldn’t stop, nor would the awful choking sounds. He couldn’t help it. Oh, of course he’d start crying here! Right in front of Sinclair!

Sinclair had started patting him on the shoulder.

“Shhh. Come on, John. Just get that bed all laid out so you can lie still a while.”

Delta shook his head over and over. “I didn’t mean to!” he said. “I’m sorry!” He mashed his cheeks against his shoulders, one after the other.

“You’ve had a rough day. Hell, a rough few months. You’ve cried before this; don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t remember!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sinclair said, slapping him on the back. “Look, you have plenty of very good reasons to cry, don’t you?”

Delta flung the mattress on the living room floor.

“I hate being like this!” he said. “I shouldn’t be like this! Like a baby! Giant and stupid!”

“I won’t have you insulting yourself,” Sinclair said softly. “You’re not stupid and you’re not a child. It’s just that right now it seems like too much. That’s fine. Look. Even if you could have been reverted in one go—why, look at Dr. Porter. It took him months to get to the point he’s at now. Hell, it’s taken me months just to be able to hobble around. And Dr. Porter had to deal with brain trauma on top of all of it, which, I’m told, makes the situation particularly heinous. Dr. Porter was the Alpha series right before me, wasn’t he? Second to last ever made?” Sinclair turned Delta’s chin down. “The process was standard by then, honey. He didn’t have half as much done to him as you did. You were in the pipeline for years. Not days, not weeks, not months. Years. It will take you more time to get better than either of us. And anyone who’s worth half a damn will give you that time. Do you understand me?”

“But what if I never get better?” Delta asked. “What if I’m like this forever?”

Sinclair’s hand clamped down on Delta’s wrist. His voice rose.

“Then they will give you that time,” Sinclair said, enunciating each word. “Anyone who matters will give you that godforsaken time. Do you hear me? Show me you understand.”

Delta nodded. His hand was pressed over his eyes.

“Good.” Sinclair slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll feel better if you’re clean. Come on. You’ll fit best in the master bath.”

Delta followed along, rubbing his sleeve under his nose. The fear and shame was drifting away. In its place was an aching emptiness.

I want to be worthy, he thought.

Worthy of being a man. Worthy of being respected. Worthy of being wanted. Worthy of being loved.

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB

#bioshock #bioshock 2 #subject delta #augustus sinclair #eleanor lamb #topclair #vvatchword #long brown evening #I'll be honest at this point I'm just posting these because darksahia is into them #anyway enjoy #or don't

26 notes · View notes

joels6string · 2 years ago

Text

More Than My Father's Son

Joel Miller x f!OC

Chapter 12 - My Brother Joel

Summary: Tommy and Joel head on the road for a doomed mission to find you in the Utah wilderness, dead, alive, or infected.

Rating: E

Word Count: 3.6k

Content: NSFW, high levels of violence normal to the TLOU world, angst, fluff, miscommunication trope (it’s Joel Miller…), slow burn, Joel’s traumatic childhood, getting together, smut, canon divergence after SLC, fix it fic

“Maybe you should have told her! Maybe if you didn’t fuckin’ lie to her she never woulda left! You ever imagine that, Joel? What your life could be like if you were honest for once? You’d be wakin’ up to her in your damn bed instead of being out here in mourning!”

Chapter 11 || Series Masterlist

My brother is many things.

He’s played as many roles as there is, taking each one onto a pair of shoulders that should have buckled from the pressure years ago. I’ve seen him through the hardest days of his life. The high school graduation pop couldn’t be bothered to attend. The day he found out he was gonna be a daddy before he could legally drink a beer. He called me when Rebecca left him with nothing but a note, Sarah still tucked up in a crib alone in that shit-hole apartment he scrounged over three jobs to keep. He was crying that day, not for the loss of the woman he’d made his wife outta nothing but obligation, but for the little blonde-haired girl nestled fast asleep against his chest. See, he didn’t think he could raise her. Said he wasn’t fit for it. But I knew better. He raised me, and I think I turned out all right.

And raise her he did. That girl lived the best life he could give her, he didn’t care what it cost. He built a business, bought a house, nurtured a daughter that he swore could save the world one day, and I bet she would have. He never complained. Sure, about not having money sometimes, or losing jobs to the bigger guys, but he never wanted anything different, he didn’t wish for something else.

When Sarah died, so did he. Who could blame him? I carried the guilt of leaving him in Boston from the moment I stepped outta that apartment. I just couldn’t watch him waste away. It was selfish, I know that. But seeing my brother–my goddamn hero–turn into everything he stood against wasn’t something I could do. I tried to pull him back, but the man’s more stubborn than a mule. So I just prayed he’d find his way back, not for me, but for himself. For Sarah. For the man I always knew he was and the one he deserved to be.

Then he shows up some decade and a half later, gray hair, wrinkles around his eyes, scarred like you wouldn’t believe. And damn if he didn’t feel like he’d taken some of himself back. He had Ellie, who I owe my life for what she did for him. I don’t think she knows the extent of that gratitude and I don’t plan to tell her, she don’t need that burden. He loves that girl like his own and so do I. That’s all that matters.

But then there’s her. Millie. All fire and sheer will, if she wasn’t on our side I’d be terrified of her. And god damn does he love that woman. He thinks I can’t tell, but I’ve been watching him practically my whole life, hell, tryin’ to be him, I know. Joel’s a man that would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it, but he aint’ one to share what goes on his head. That’s for him to deal with and no one else. He’s a locked box, walled up behind heavily guarded gates, always has been, but with her? It’s all right there on his sleeve for the world to see. Something tells me she knows more about him than most, and I don’t think he needed to speak a damn word for her to figure it out neither.

I don’t know what happened that night of the storm. At this point, I don’t know if I ever will. But something changed.

I knew about Millie, what happened to her. Maria and I...we’d made the call to keep it from him as long as we could. He’d have run off, never to be seen again, I ain’t stupid. I didn’t know what to do. How do you tell someone who's been through hell enough times it shoulda killed him that his one good thing was gone? I couldn’t do it. Not after I’d seen him for the first time in over 20 years. He was smiling again. Strumming on a guitar. Writing songs. Hell, I had him sketching blueprints; he was Joel again. Maybe it was selfish. I wanted to prolong it, keep him around for as long as I could before the inevitable.

And here we are. At the inevitable.

I might as well be riding through these trails alone. He’s silent, it’s like a god damn funeral march. But in reality I guess it is. I’ve contemplated turnin’ around, forcing him back to the life he’s gonna have to face living here eventually. But I can’t. See, the thing is that through all he’s lost, he’s never once gotten the chance to mourn. There was always something else. I think maybe he needs these quiet weeks on the road, and I’ll keep him alive while he’s out here, going through whatever it is he needs to go through.

There’s no way we find her. It’s too much land, too many possibilities, it’s been too long; seven weeks by the time we get to the last place she was seen. For her sake I hope it was quick, and for his I hope it ain’t like Eugene said. If he’s gotta put a bullet in her head, even like that, I don’t see a path back.

We’ve come across a few straggler infected, and his face breaks my heart every time. The fear he’ll see her snarling and deformed, I can’t take it anymore. The way his eyes beg for recognition to end the ache in his chest and for the chance to keep hope alive all the same.

The way he kills them is damn near barbaric. Every swing of that blade an attempt to collect the debt he feels he’s owed. He’s still swinging long after they’re dead and gone, thankfully he’s smart enough to not waste our ammo. I pray we don’t come across any hunters on this trip. The runners I can watch be torn to shreds, I ain’t so sure I can watch him do that to a man again. I’ve had more than my share of that.

Everyday he’s closer to the god damn edge and I’m just waiting for him to fall. It’s bound to happen. Every night he sits by the fire sharpening that damn machete, sometimes gone dull from whatever poor unfortunate soul we encountered, other times he takes it out on a tree, an old rundown house, whatever he can find. I let him have at it, keeping an eye that the desperate crying he does when he thinks he’s alone doesn’t attract anyone or anything. It did once, shot it right between the eyes. I was proud of that one.

We’re set to reach the last place she was seen today, I’m mentally gearing up. Reckon it won’t be pretty. I don’t know where it goes from there. I don’t know if I want to either.

********

“I’m goin’ to look around,” Joel announced before his boots even hit the cement of the old garage, the first words he’d spoken since a grunt of acknowledgement that morning.

“Joel,” Tommy called quickly, “I should come with you.”

“Stay with the horses.”

“Joel!”

But he was already gone. It was a calm, February night, the sky clear as the setting sun cast a hazy, gray light over the untouched snow. Untouched. Not a print in sight, not even a damn rabbit. He should have checked the houses, but something had told him it was useless. You weren’t here. You hadn’t been here in months. Months. The time that had lapsed between you vanishing without a trace and his arrival made him sick to his stomach. He should have been here. He should have stopped you from leaving. He should have fought.

The sound of the rushing river marked the spot where your tracks had stopped. This was the last place you were known to have been. It felt like a fucking burial site. He couldn’t do anything in the dark, so he stood and watched the water run by, the force of it surprising for its lack of depth. Jagged rocks jut out of the white capping current, the barren skeletons of the trees reaching up to the heavens he could no longer believe in.

As the sound lulled him into whatever semblance of tranquility he could find, he wondered how you made it across. It was too wide to jump and too fast to bridge with something as simple as a log, but the rocks could provide a path if traveled carefully. But you were sick. Coughing, a fever seizing up your already ice-cold body, you wouldn’t have the dexterity…

He took off in a sprint back to the house, slamming open the front door hard enough it had Tommy reaching for his gun from where he sat on the floor.

“Jesus Christ. Joel!” Tommy scolded, throwing the shotgun back down with a heavy thud, “I coulda shot you.”

“Down the river,” Joel panted, lungs and throat burning, “Tracks stopped at the bank. It’s too fast. Down the river…”

With numb fingers, Tommy pulled out the map, tracing north until the river opened to a lake. It was miles away, but not more than a day's travel.

“Tell me what you wanna do,” Tommy offered, “Straight shot to where it dumps off?”

“Yeah…” Joel muttered, his mind racing against the light of optimism threatening to banish the darkness of reality.

“Alright then, first light. Sit and eat.”

It would be a miracle if you survived that trip, but it wasn’t impossible. He’d done it, sort of, and that was the catch. He’d had Henry to pull him out, you were alone. But maybe you’d maneuvered well enough to avoid crashing into a rock head first. Or maybe this was all just fucking delusion.

There was no chance of sleep, he just paced, muttering incoherently under his breath about the chance this worked. It was low, and he hated how hard it was to convince himself of that. Back in Jackson as he and Tommy had readied to leave, he saddled up your horse. At the time he’d said in case they found you, you’d be thrilled, you loved that damn animal. But in reality it was just one of the few pieces of you he had left. Bill would be his from now on, maybe he’d even try and replicate those ridiculous biscuits you insisted on making for him.

“You sleep at all?” Tommy asked, still groggy as he lifted himself onto his elbows with a groan.

“A bit,” Joel lied, the barrel of his shotgun shining after two hours of polishing.

“When’d you become so shit at lyin’?”

Probably when he lost it all because of it.

“Let’s go,” Joel snapped, leaping to his feet and grabbing his pack already ready by the door, “Eat on the way.”

Hours turned into days, and on day three of ice cold conditions, searching through trees and caves, and too many close calls with frostbite, Tommy stepped in. An arm across Joel’s chest kept him upright as Tommy pinned him against an oak, his head shaking in denial and defiance as he deflected the reality staring him in the face. You were gone. There was no finding you, there was no closure, no last chance to count the freckles on your face or memorize the warm shade of your hair. There was nothing. Just snow and haunting silence beneath his brother’s sympathetic gaze.

“I know you loved her,” Tommy finally found the opening to say it, “And maybe if you admitted that it would help you…move on.”

“Move on!?” Joel roared, finding the strength to shove his brother off of him, “Move on from what? What the hell do I have to move on from? Huh? I got nothin’! Cause you sent her away!”

“I ain’t doin’ this again…”

“You let your wife send her away–”

The snow softened Tommy’s landing as Joel’s shoulder slammed into his stomach and sent him flying to the ground, a lucky knee to Joel’s stomach giving Tommy enough time to scramble back and right himself with enough distance to avoid another attack.

“You think about Ellie waitin’ for you to come home,” Tommy cautioned, “Before you do something stupid. You got amends to make with her before this happens all over again.”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.” This was not the time for principled speeches.

“Have you learned nothin’?!”

“I said shut your god damn mouth, boy!”

“Go take a walk! You need one. Then we’re fuckin’ leaving, and goin’ home.”

Once he was out of Tommy’s line of sight, he collapsed. The sun was going down, the distorted orb reflecting on the surface like flames, no doubt Tommy would be bringing them back to that house tonight for rest indoors before the long journey home. Maybe the ghost of you walked inbetween the walls, or were you out wandering this barren wasteland always trying to find your way home. He’d done this. The knowledge of that fact had been there all along, but it had taken Tommy screaming it at him for it to batter against the forefront of his mind. He did this. If he hadn’t lied to you it was unlikely you’d have volunteered. After you’d confronted him he should have fought, he should have been slamming his fist against your door begging for you to forgive him, unleashing every single one of his ugly truths when you let him inside to beg for one last chance. But he hadn’t. And now you were gone.

“Hey there, stranger,” a strange voice greeted that had the hair prickling on the back of Joel’s neck, “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

Joel remained silent, wracking his brain for a way to pull the revolver from the waist of jeans without being seen.

“What brings you out this way?” the voice continued, it was too friendly, too decent…

“Sightseein’,” Joel finally lied, keeping his eyes straight forward.

“Don’t see many people doing that these days.”

He didn’t need to see it to know it was there, the rifle pointed right at the back of his head. This wasn’t a bad view if were the last thing he would see.

“Why don’t you just get on with it?” Joel finally asked, resigning to his fate with almost a sense of relief.

“Hey!” Tommy was yelling, Joel could see him sprinting over, shotgun raised. It was like he didn’t know that thing was shit at a distance and his brain would be sprayed across the snow faster than Tommy could load another set of shells, “Put the fuckin’ gun down!”

“You boys from Texas?” the stranger asked, Joel sighing in frustration at the game this man was playing, remaining silent as he gnashed his teeth together.

“Way back when,” Tommy answered, earning a stony look from his brother. He never knew when to keep his mouth shut.

“So, which one of you is Joel?”

“Who the hell are you?”

Ice ran through Joel’s veins at the sound of his name. He wasn’t unaware of where he was; at the present he was closer to Salt Lake City than home, a city that had his stomach churning. For as many as he’d slaughtered, he knew some got away with full knowledge of who he was and what he’d smuggled out of that hospital. One wrong move and Ellie’s location was no longer safe, one slip of the tongue, one wrong look.

He’d destroyed the Fireflies, singlehandedly. There were a few small factions scattered about, but their cause was all but destroyed thanks to him. Without a cure on the horizon, they had nothing left to hope for, nothing to work towards. They could join the rest of what was left of society, hopeless and dejected.

“You let my brother go,” Joel finally bargained, “And I’ll go with you.”

“Joel what the hell is goin’ on?” Tommy was panicking now, “You ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“Let him go.”

Now he was turning, finding a man in his 70s holding the rifle he’d already known was there. Suddenly this became less urgent, he could see the man’s hands trembling and a flicker of fear in his eye. At least Joel’s reputation was still intact. With one quick lunge he could have him round the knees, the rifle loosening enough from those gnarled fingers that Joel could add it to his own arsenal.

“I don’t want any trouble,” the man finally surrendered, “Just heard a lot about you.”

“From?” Joel growled, uncaring now of what might happen as he snuck his hand to the small of his back, finding the trusty weapon its usual spot.

“People passing through. I wasn’t expecting you, but my wife has a way of knowing things. She thought you’d turn up. And here you are.”

Tommy and Joel shared a look, had this man encountered Eugene and Paulie at some point? It was far off their course, there was no way they’d stumbled into him. There was something else he knew, something that had Joel’s heart thudding in his chest.

“Why don’t you come back with me, get a hot meal and good night’s sleep,” the man offered, “We don’t have much in the way of beds, but it’s warm and you look like you haven’t felt a fire in days.”

“You got a name?” Joel inquired, still wary, but the sirens in his head had stopped blaring.

“Oh. Where are my manners? Corbin. Nice to meet you Joel and…” he dragged out, looking over at Tommy.

“Tommy,” the younger Miller introduced, holding his hand out first for a shake, a silent promise that all that was said was true, both men nodding at the implications as they gripped the other.

It was a short ride, about an hour, back to Corbin’s, the property evident from a distance as the smoke from the chimney plumed up into the dusk sky. Joel’s despair had returned, the knowledge that in the morning he and Tommy would be on their way back to Wyoming alone and without closure. Where did he go from here?

“Joel,” Tommy sounded from beside him, “I didn’t mean what I said. This ain’t your fault. None of it. I shoulda fought harder–”

“It is my fault.” Saying it hurt. Saying it opened up the mouth of the beast waiting to swallow him.

“It’s just up ahead,” Corbin interrupted, the small farmhouse coming into view, heavily fenced and secure.

“Quite the place you got here,” Joel admired, a fond smile settling on his face as he recalled a man with similar barriers, and for a second he wondered just how old Bill was doing. It had crossed his mind to head back out East and get him, bring him to the safe haven of Jackson, but something told him Bill liked the fight and would prefer to go down swinging anyway.

“Horses can go in the barn,” their host instructed as he hopped down to open the gate, “I’m sure some dinner is already going.”

“Appreciate it.”

The house was warm, a fire roaring in the hearth as the three men stepped inside, Corbin calling for his wife, Lee, who rounded into the room in an apron. It felt almost dystopian.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, the sitcom feel of this moment had Joel’s eyebrows furrowing, “More stragglers, Cor?”

“Yeah,” Corbin replied, smiling, “We got Tommy, and that one there, is Joel.”

“Oh… Joel.”

“Mhmm.”

“Why do you all act like you know me?” Joel snapped, now it was grating, now he was panicking, this felt off. He knew what kind of people lurked about, cannibals and religious zealots, he cursed himself for leaving his weapons with the horse.

“Easy now,” Tommy warned, ticking his head down for Joel to see that Tommy hadn’t been as foolish as he had, his pistol still tucked into the holster at his hip, “Ma’am, it’s nice to meet you. Thank you for…your hospitality.”

“Well, I’m just glad you’re here,” Lee replied, “I’ll go throw a little bit more into the stew. Take a seat.”

Neither man obliged, even as Corbin rounded the old blue couch and collapsed. The house was like a relic of the 80s, gaudy florals in bold colors, angels and religious statues on the shelves surrounded by bibles and books. Even an old box TV still sat in the corner despite the lack of electricity. As Joel looked around, he saw the a medical degree hanging in a frame, Corbin’s, and family photos of who he assumed were their two hosts and their children. He hated how much of it reminded him of the house he and Tommy had grown up in, even down to the wood paneling on the walls.

Muffled talking could be heard in the kitchen, a door to what must have been a basement slamming shut. A third? Now Joel wanted that gun, it was just out of reach but Corbin was already half asleep on the couch. The footsteps grew closer, he could see the shadow against the floor approaching, his senses blaring as he took a small step in front of Tommy, his arm lifting slightly to shield him from whoever it was about to make face.

“Corbin, did you–”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Tommy whispered under his breath as the unidentified person rounded into the room.

“Joel?”

Chapter 13 (There's a tag list now if you prefer that!)

Art as always by @natendo-art 😭🩵

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #the last of us fic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fic #tlou fanfiction #more than my father’s son

40 notes · View notes

ssribenson · 4 months ago

Text

@livbensonfinalgirl draft from burner 💓

It’s with tears in her eyes and his necklace between her fingers that Olivia says this last goodbye. Private, silent, prayer. A promise to try, to stay, with no mention of when he’ll come back around to her. Blinds drawn and door locked, it feels a little like she’s pressing on a bruise. It’s almost enough to distract from the soreness in her hip, until she moves or breathes or thinks about the look on Elliot’s face when he said he thought he lost her. She thought she was lying, saying she couldn’t imagine what it brought up. But he can still surprise her, stalking like a fawn and murmuring about this precious life.

 “I’ll treasure it.”

He leaves the little wooden E on the edge of her desk. Like her own small treasure, she sweeps it quickly into the top drawer.

They looked so bright and soft and green, holding back tears in her office. He was still the one leaving.

Olivia had bit her tongue. Don’t go? Don’t go. You would never go if I asked you to stay. You don’t actually want to leave me. You don’t actually want to leave. You don’t actually want me.

He called her partner on his way out, and there was that smile again. Jackass.

——

There are moments of rest, somewhere in August. When Noah goes back to school she can really fall back into her rhythms, letting cases blend the days together while the weather changes.

—-

Olivia lies silent, eyes open in her dark room. The vibrating chirps of her phone startle her, but not nearly as much as the name flashing across the screen.

Olivia rubs both hands over her face, sighing before hitting play on his message.

Hey Liv. It’s me. I just got back.

An old case of ours.

Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.

Call me.

She doesn’t get much sleep, but she plays his voicemail a few more times.

—-

Olivia has never been able to name the feeling of the city when she knows a child is missing inside it. it’s not just haunting, or vigilance, it’s a distortion. She sees Maddie everywhere because she is looking for her everywhere. She is so afraid of making the same mistake that she is suspicious of everyone. She’s distracted by the ever-changing scenes of the city, convinced everything will become the one thing she missed. Fin tells her, or she tells him what she knows he sees, that she has not been herself since Maddie was taken.

—-

His voice stops her in her tracks. It’s raspy, like he’s been up, or yelling, or crying. His words, too, make her freeze.

—-

“I knew you’d understand.”

“Oh, I understand. You lost the necklace and now you’re buying time.”

“I pawned it.” That earns her a nice scratchy laugh.

—-

Right before they part ways, Eileen gives her a crushing hug, launching into her like a kid.

“Keep looking,” she murmurs, quickly clasping the compass necklace behind Olivia’s head, “Look for love everywhere. Dig to the center of the earth, if you can.”

Olivia smiles at her, eyes crinkling under the late July sun. “I will.”

—-

One text, while she’s waiting for her car to cool off.

What are you doing tomorrow night?

His response is immediate, two messages in a row.

Hope I’m cooking you dinner.

Gonna try to earn my necklace cash back.

—-

She had laid out a deep cherry red sweater and loose jeans. She stares at them now, standing by the foot of her bed with clenched fists at her hips.

It’s only dinner. It’s Elliot. They’re not very likely to leave his apartment.

—-

Elliot opens the door and just looks at her for a long time, his smile so soft, before he whispers a simple “Hi.”

She breathes out “Hey,” and neither of them move.

She leans across his island, and Elliot slides her a glass of water that was already on the counter. He smiles shyly and pours himself a new one.

When he finally settles on the opposite side, he’s bent practically in half leaning towards her. He looks nervous, now.

“Wanted to see you when I got back but I- I needed to make sure my head was on straight. I was actually gonna bring you a coffee some-“

“Elliot.” She catches his eyes long enough for his shoulders to relax. He breathes in, slowly, and nods. And waits.

“It’s- I’m just glad you’re back.”

“Yeah,” he nods, “me too.” He flicks his chin up the slightest bit, “you’re wearing it.”

She almost laughs, biting back a grin as her hand flies up to touch it, feel it’s weight on her chest. “Everyday. You knew I would.”

His face softens, and instead of responding he just walks around the counter, hovering close to her.

“I mean you got it back.”

Olivia does laugh, then, “I mean, I couldn’t wait forever.”

She takes a breath in, cutting off sharply when he reaches up to touch the pendant.

A light brush of his fingertip, then the slightest pressure of his thumb over the face of the compass.

His cheeks are a dark red now, and it still sounds impossible for him to get his breathing under control when he drops his hands to her hips.

Elliot falls back a bit, but his nose against hers suddenly feels like the closest they have ever been. “I love you, you know I love you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I mean I want to. I-” he stops himself with a tiny shake of his head, just murmuring as he presses his cheek against hers, “I love you, Liv, I love you.”

—-

“What are you smiling about?” He rests a hand on her leg, lightly stroking with his thumb.

“You already know.” Olivia raises one eyebrow at him, grin never fading.

“Yeah,” Elliot smiles wide, “yeah, I guess I do.”

3 notes · View notes

demigodofhoolemere · 8 months ago

Text

five comfort characters, five tags

Bringing this to a new post because it was becoming a long cluttered-looking thread lol. Thanks @samabigailalan :)

This is gonna have to just be random and not a top five of all time list lol because there are too many and I’ve gotten comfort in different ways at so many different times from too many characters

The Doctor

Is it cheating to not specify which Doctor? Lol. Just the entire character. This has been one of my ultimate comfort characters for over a decade now. At this point I’ve kind of grown up being able to turn to the Doctor, any version, and feel better than I did. I still remember when Eleven was the current incarnation and I was a more-or-less housebound child (teen, really) struggling with the harsh beginnings of my chronic illness, and I would imagine the mad man in a box coming to rescue me from my pain and boredom. I’ve better learned now how to deal with my illness and get out of the house as much as I can but the Doctor, in all forms, has always remained a wonderful escape from everything.

Sarah Jane Smith

I’ve been rewatching some Sarah Jane Adventures and it’s taken me back about 10 years to when she was such a strong comfort character to me, so I have to say her right now. Such a specific and warm experience of feeling like having an extra mother. She’s still very dear to me.

Steven Taylor

Yes I’ve now said three Doctor Who characters lol. But I’ve had too many times over the years where I’ve put on a Steven serial when I felt like crap to not now say Steven. I just love this guy.

Sam Winchester

I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t include him lol. He also got me through an awful lot in those early days of my illness and Jared by extension with his Always Keep Fighting campaign. I don’t think about Supernatural as much anymore but Sam has always been and always will be an important part of me.

Nikolai Lantsov

The latest addition in a long line of comfort characters over the years. This dude sprang from nowhere and I’m never gonna be able to get rid of him, nor would I ever want to. Absolute sunshine angel of a man. His sweet golden glow is a balm to the soul.

No-pressure tagging @freakwiththeknifecollection @burnt-kloverfield @melliabee @faithfire-writes @junkyardbluebox

#collective shoutout to my many other babies who have comforted me in different ways over the years #man i remember when all i needed in this world was wally west from jlu #or mothering characters like beverly crusher or mary poppins or whoever else #or people i see myself in like spencer reid #so so many. i'd be here forever.#tag game #eleventh doctor #sarah jane smith #steven taylor #person: nothing i wouldn't do #nikolai lantsov

5 notes · View notes

bitacrytic · 2 years ago

Text

Overheat [38 - 40]

Read Previous Chapter Here

---

“Bring him.”

“Where are you- you said you’d let me go,” Porsche accused, as Tawan turned to him with a smile.

“I’m letting you go.”

---

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

With the cycle break around the corner, rehearsals were running later than usual. Which was just fine for Porsche. He’d agreed to appear on a bunch of omega panels during the two-week break. He knew he might not have time for personal practice, so he took all the practice he could get. If the director wanted them to stay behind, he stayed behind. There was work to be done and Porsche was happy to do it.

Things with Kinn had gotten to a calm place where nothing was happening. They worked together. They greeted each other in the hallway. They went their different ways. Kinn wasn’t pressuring him for anything and Porsche was glad for the peace of mind.

Glad, wasn’t exactly the word. Content? Satisfied?

Distraught? Maybe a little. Satisfied? Not so much. His feelings for Kinn were the most complicated he’d ever felt and because they’d lingered for more than a decade. There was no way they were disappearing now that there were unforgettable memories involved. Memories that even Kinn was willing to submit to Porsche for.

I’ll be whatever you want.

Porsche sighed and tossed his wet towel on the chair. He wanted a partner. Not a fucking pet. How could Kinn not understand that? Porsche wasn’t going to push Kinn to get help but, at the same time, Porsche wasn’t going to settle for a man who was anything less than Kinn.

Kinn was fiery. Kinn was strong. Kinn was opinionated. Kinn was one of the most alpha-ly alphas Porsche had ever met. As an alpha himself, Porsche had never really been intimidated by those qualities in Kinn. Not like he was with other people. Because up until recently, Kinn had never used those qualities like a weapon against Porsche. Even when they were younger. He would rather have Porsche at his back, than have Porsche in his crosshairs. He never lied to Porsche, never underestimated him, never tried to change him. Kinn was just… Kinn.

And if he was planning to get rid of all that, just so he could fit into a box for Porsche’s sake, then Porsche would rather be alone.

“Hey, are you even listening?”

Porsche turned to his phone that was on the table, where he’d left a call on speaker. He’d forgotten about it, just thinking about Kinn.

“I need to go to bed, Tod,” Porsche said.

“You still haven’t given me an answer.”

Porsche looked down at the phone, recalling what they’d been talking about. What Tod was requesting.

“I’m not going to become a Setely Alpha.”

“For the billionth time, I’m not asking you to.”

“Seems like it,” Porsche said.

Tod sighed. “Look, I don’t want to bite you. Someone brought a proposal before one of my alphas and I thought of you.”

“Right,” Porsche said, disbelievingly. “Because I’m the only omega rights activist you know.”

“It will be perfect for you.”

“I don’t want your money, Tod.”

“Think about it,” Tod said. “You spend all this time asking omegas to believe and advocating for them, but I’m giving you a chance to head off an outreach program that will actually help a lot of them.”

“With a short leash attached to it, I’m sure.”

“Hey,” Tod said, sounding a little hurt.

“What do you want from me?”

Tod went silent. Just like every other time. If there was anything that could shut his smug ass up, it was that question. For some reason, he didn’t want to mention it or say what it was and it was biting at Porsche’s seams not knowing what he was offering. Or if he was going to have to offer something incredibly unattainable in the future.

It wasn’t as if Porsche could shove him off and ignore him. They still had no definite proof of where he stood with Tawan. Or if he even knew Tawan at all. Erring on the side of caution, Porsche opted to keep things normal between them. Best not to do all that planning, only for Tawan to be tipped off because Porsche let his guard down with Tod.

“I would have thought you’d have figured out that by now,” Tod said, voice lacking his usual amusement.

“I’m not a mind reader.”

“I haven’t asked you for anything.”

“Which is even scarier.”

“What are you so afraid of?”

“Look,” Porsche said, leaning on the table. “I’m about to go to bed. If you can’t be serious about this-”

“Do you want me to draw up a contract for our agreement, just so you feel safe?”

Porsche felt like he was going crazy.

“What fucking agreement? I don’t even know what my side of the contract is.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because if I told you, it would lose its value.”

Porsche’s brain twirled in his head as he tried to figure it out again. What was he offering that he had no idea about? Conversation? Tod could get that in a million other places. What the fuck did that weirdo want?

“Heh,” Tod said, his voice coming back alive again. “I’ve rendered Porsche speechless twice today. I think I’ve hit a record.”

Porsche rolled his eyes. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Think about the outreach program.”

“Good night, Tod.”

He cut the call, just as a text came in from Kinn.

-Can you come to the hotel bar?

Porsche frowned and replied.

-Now?

Another text came in.

-I need to talk to you.

Wondering why Kinn didn’t just come to his room, Porsche started to get dressed when his phone rang. It was Tod again.

“I see you just got a text from Kinn, but-”

“Fucking hell, can you not be creepy for one second?”

“Porsche, that text didn’t-”

“Leave me alone, Tod.”

“Kinn didn’t send-”

Porsche cut the call and tossed his phone away. One of these days, he was going to be pushed far enough that he deleted Tod’s number and flashed his entire phone to get rid of bugs. Because how was he an adult, living under constant surveillance like that? Fucking Tod.

Happy to be reminded that Tod was a creep, Porsche left his phone behind as he went down to the bar. It was ringing as Tod kept calling, but Porsche wasn’t in the mood for him. He had to prepare himself mentally for whatever Kinn was going to say. After so long of nothing happening, something was finally going to happen.

On the way, he noted how much more security was placed on the wing that Ohmovit had paid for, for the cast and crew. After the incident with the brick that went through Porsche’s window, months ago, the production had taken those rooms, too. Pete had confessed to being behind the brick, but Ohmovit didn’t know that.

There were guards in the elevators and guards on every floor. For the safety of the cast, but probably more for the fact that Kinn had raked up and down for better security.

But the bar was a more public place. Ohmovit’s security didn’t cover it. Porsche was going to have be satisfied with the security that the hotel had hired. Besides, he had a feeling that Kinn wanted to meet in a public place. To avoid either of them getting caught up in the moment and forgetting what they’d actually come to discuss.

He was barely two seconds at the bar when a waiter asked him to follow to one of the private rooms. Which kind of defeated the purpose of the visit if it was to meet in a public place.

Or maybe Kinn just wanted a date. Which was such a bad, bad, bad idea. They were in two different places. They wanted two different things. If the date happened and… certain things happened, they would only be taking steps back. No steps forward.

When the waiter stopped at the door, Porsche hesitated, wondering if he should just turn around, go back and have the conversation on the phone just to keep things safe.

“He’s waiting, Sir,” the waiter said.

Hating himself for letting curiosity get the best of him, Porsche entered the room. It was a small, private room with a table for two at the center. There was a minibar stationed on a shelf above their heads, with a trolley and platters for food.

But there was no food, and the table wasn’t even set.

“Kinn?” Porsche asked, as the door gently closed behind him.

When he tried to turn, he felt an arm circle across his shoulder. Hating himself for melting into it, Porsche leaned back against Kinn as the cologne filtered into his nose. The body behind him, the smell… it wasn’t Kinn.

But before he could react, he was stabbed with a needle to the neck.

Porsche pushed his assailant away, knocked over a chair as he shuffled backwards to get away. He felt around his neck where the needle had punctured, noting the bite of the needle.

“Wha-?” he began to ask as his tongue went heavy.

“Shhhh,” the tall, slim man before him said. He was dressed in a blue shirt, black pants and black designer shoes. Expensive. Rich. The kind of person who moved around with… the door to the room opened and two bodyguards entered.

Porsche gasped as his knees gave out beneath him.

“Don’t… don…” he couldn’t feel his tongue. Even his fingers were starting to go numb. “Help…”

“Take it easy,” the man said, coming closer as Porsche's body continued to shut down. The man got to Porsche, just before his head smashed into the floor. Catching Porsche, he gently laid him down on the ground, kneeling before Porsche and staring down at him. “This will all be over really quickly.”

Tawan. The man was Tawan. Kinn and Vegas were busy running around town, trying to court support from other gangs in order to oust him and yet, here he was, waltzing into the Graham Blitz Hotel like he was just any other guest.

“You’re not my enemy,” Tawan said solemnly “Because you see, personally, I have nothing against omegas in the workplace. In fact, I’m an ally.” He raised a stiff fist.

He unbuttoned Porsche’s shirt, pulling the sleeve off his shoulder.

“I don’t want to make your life hard for you. I promise. The drug will wear off in about five minutes and I’ll let you go.” He sat back on his heels and looked at his men. “Where is he?”

One of them left the room.

“Soon, you’ll be able to move again. I mean you no harm. I just need your help with something.”

Porsche blinked as his eyes filled with tears. Because Tawan was speaking so calmly that Porsche couldn’t remember feeling as scared as he was. Unable to move, unable to defend himself, Porsche stared up at Tawan through tear-blurred eyes. Even though Tawan said the drug would wear off soon, he had no idea what Tawan wanted to do in the five minutes it would take the drug to run its course. He couldn’t remember feeling this way, even when people were shooting at him.

The door opened and the guard came in with another man. He was wearing a green hoodie, a pair of jeans and sneakers. He had the hood up, but Porsche could see how pale he was, with bloodshot eyes that drooped nearly to the point of closing.

“Francis, here,” Tawan said, motioning for the man to kneel opposite him, on Porsche’s other side, where his shoulder was laid bare. “I spent months planning how to get rid of his father, only for you to come traipsing in with your pretty face and your omega pheromones,” he said. He looked at Francis, the dead-looking man. “You can go ahead and do it.”

Do what? Porsche thought.

“Just like that?” Francis asked.

“What do you want?” Tawan asked. “A bed full of roses?”

“He doesn’t smell like an omega.”

I’m not an omega.

“He’s on suppressants.”

The man bent close, opening his mouth as he revealed two, sharp, glinting mating teeth. Porsche’s eyes widened as he fought his entire body to move. He needed to get out of there. This man was going to bite him. If Tawan was doing this, then it was safe to say that none of this was in Porsche’s best interest.

Try as he might, his body wouldn’t budge. Rather, it remained in place as the man got closer and closer and closer till he dug his teeth into Porsche’s flesh. The pain that shot through his body was nothing like he’d ever prepared for. At least, when Kinn had bitten Porsche, he’d prepared his mind for it, he’d braced for it and even though it had hurt like a mother fucker, it was Kinn. Somehow, Porsche’s mind had accepted that. The painkillers and hormone balancers that they’d pumped him with at the hospital had helped keep him from fainting. But the pain, the memory of the pain, had remained.

This time, Porsche wanted to yell and scream because it just kept getting worse and worse. By the time he pulled away, Porsche’s eyes were swimming and he had a migraine. He could feel his arms and some fingers, so he slowly raised them to his head, as he turned on his side. Groaning, he felt the blood from his shoulder slipping down into his shirt.

“Porsche,” Tawan said, trying to turn Porsche back, but Porsche pulled away. He crawled backwards, moving towards the wall. Anything to put some space between.

“Tell him to stay.”

“Stay where you are,” Francis said.

Immediately, Porsche froze in place.

Not because he was influenced by a mating compulsion. But because he suddenly realized what was going on. Tawan, for some reason, believed that Porsche was an omega. So he’d gotten a rutting alpha to bite him so that he could control Porsche. Which meant that if Porsche didn’t comply, they were going to realize that he was a beta. Or worse still, an alpha. In which case, they could keep him till they found an omega to bite him.

“Tell him not to tell anyone about this,” Tawan said.

“You cannot tell anyone about this,” Francis repeated to Porsche.

“When people ask, he should say he didn’t see the face of the person who bit him.”

“When…” Francis cleared his throat. “When people ask, say you never saw my face.”

“You can never speak of or communicate in any way, anything that happened here today.”

“Did you hear what he said?” he asked Porsche.

Porsche nodded.

“Do that.”

Porsche nodded again.

“Ha,” Tawan said, standing up with a satisfied smile. “That went smoother than I anticipated.”

“Can I go now?” Francis asked.

Tawan waved him away. On his way out, the bodyguards handed him a duffle bag and Porsche didn’t have to think too hard to know what was in that bag.

“Okay then, let’s go,” Tawan said, getting to his feet.

“Wha-” Porsche began to say as one of the guards pulled his shirt completely off his body. “What are you doing?”

“Bring him.”

“Where are you- you said you’d let me go.”

“I’m letting you go.”

The men, who’d just worn masks over their own faces, gagged Porsche with his shirt and cuffed his hands behind his back as they dragged him into the corridor. Instead of going out the front, they took him through the back, out the service exit, pulling him along as his feet dragged behind them. He was taken to the front of the hotel building where a bunch of reporters were waiting. Once they got there, they untied the gag from Porsche’s mouth, uncuffed his hands and pushed him into view of the reporters.

“Look,” one of Tawan’s guards shouted. “It’s Porsche Kittisawasd.”

And to Porsche’s horror, as he lay there on the ground, shirtless, he heard the reporters murmur about him as they rushed in his direction. Rolling onto his stomach, he tried to cover up. He tried to hide. But it was futile. His hands weren’t fast enough. His senses reeled from being pushed, not to mention the flashes from cameras.

In all that flurry of activity, Porsche cried, realizing that he wasn’t able to hide the obvious mating bite on his shoulder.

A bite that a “beta” like him was not supposed to have.

---

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Kinn was across town when he got the news. One moment, his phone was quiet, the next, it was blowing up with alerts about Porsche on social media. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Porsche, shirtless, on the street, with a mating bite on his shoulder. There were multiple videos from multiple angles. Some of them were up close, camera lights flashing in Porsche’s eyes as he stumbled to try to get away, looking disoriented and scared.

It didn’t take long before Ohmovit guards were storming the area, pulling Porsche from their grasp and whisking him back into the building. Porsche was safe, but the damage was already done.

When he got to the hotel, most of the cast and crew were in the hallway, whispering to each other as security tried to cordon off Porsche’s floor. As Kinn moved, they gave way for him, but it was obvious that others weren’t afforded the same courtesy. Beyond the elevator, Ohmovit guards were gone and in their place was a team of men that looked suspiciously like private security. The kind that carried concealed weapons.

The men lined the walls leading up to Porsche’s room, watching Kinn warily, the closer he got. Across from Kinn, on the other side of the hallway, Tay, Tankhun, the director of “Overheat” and the CEO of Ohmovit were in a hushed conversation, so heated that they didn’t even see Kinn pass.

As soon as he barged into Porsche’s room, he was met with an almost regular tiny group of people. Porsche was in bed with a duvet wrapped around his shoulders. Tod was seated at the desk while Pete was in the opposite corner, curled up in a ball, scrolling through his phone. Vegas was also on the phone, looking just as agitated as everyone else.

“Porsche,” Kinn said as soon as he entered, climbing into bed with him. Kinn was grateful that Porsche didn’t pull away or resist him because he just needed to hold him. To know that Porsche was okay. He needed to be sure that Porsche was present before he could think of anything else. “Oh god,” Kinn whispered, kissing the top of Porsche’s head as he squeezed him tight. “What happened?”

“Someone used a clone of your phone to lure him to the downstairs bar,” Tod said. “By the time I could get in contact with security, he was already outside the building.”

“It was an alpha’s bite. I’m fine,” Porsche said. His nose was red and covered in blisters that he normally got from tissues. “I swear. They’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

There couldn’t be a bigger deal than this for someone like Porsche.

“What are our options?” Kinn asked, when Vegas finished his phone call.

But Vegas didn’t reply. Instead, he just sat on Pete’s bed, his shoulders tense and rigid, as he clenched his phone.

“The Cycle Civics Board is going to request a public presentation,” Tod said.

“Fuck,” Kinn said. He'd known this was where it was going the moment he saw that bite on social media.

“People are going to want confirmation that he’s not an omega," Tod explained.

“Anyone could have been bitten,” Pete said. “Lots of people bite betas during sex. At worst, Porsche has a case for sexual assault.”

“But it’s Porsche,” Tod replied. “He has a history-”

“A history of what?” Vegas asked, voice quiet with controlled rage. When he looked up at Tod, his eyes were red rimmed like he was seconds away from crying. Or screaming. Or shooting someone. “Hmm?”

Tod looked back at Vegas. “I’m not the enemy here.”

“I asked Ohmovit to increase security,” Vegas said.

“And they did.”

“Not everywhere.”

“This is someone else’ hotel,” Tod explained. “Ohmovit couldn’t just station armed guards anywhere they like.”

“Sure they could,” Vegas said with a shrug.

“How?”

“Threaten physical violence?” Vegas suggested. “Blackmail? Anything to get the hotel to fucking listen.”

“Vegas,” Kinn said, trying to calm him before things escalated.

“If you can’t protect the artists, then Porsche is better off walking away from “Overheat”.”

“Vegas!” This time, it was Porsche who spoke.

“What does it matter?” Tod asked. “He’s an alpha.”

“I’ll do the public presentation,” Porsche offered.

“That’s not the fucking point,” Vegas screamed. “Last time, someone tossed a brick through his window. Regardless of the fact that I know who did it, this is the second time he’s been attacked. A public presentation isn’t going to protect him if Ohmovit can’t get their shit together.”

“What’s the solution then?”

“Let me bring in more guards to-”

“Absolutely not,” Tod said, shaking his head. “I can’t afford to have thugs running around the same hotel where one of my alphas is doing business.”

Vegas smiled and bit his lips. Then he raised the bottom of his pants, slipped out his gun and pointed it at Tod. Porsche and Kinn sat up as Pete stood in the corner.

“Vegas,” Kinn said. “Don’t be fucking stupid.”

“I wonder how good it would feel for your people if I shot you… if I took you somewhere and just left you there. Out of their reach.”

Vegas got up, bringing the gun closer to Tod who remained in his seat, staring up at Vegas with a blank look on his face.

“Put the gun down,” Porsche said.

“People could get hurt and you’re talking about your company’s fucking image?”

The door to the room opened as Tod’s guards came flooding in with their guns pointed at Vegas.

“Hey,” Kinn said, letting go of Porsche as he jumped between Vegas’ back and the armed guards. “Let’s all keep our heads cool.”

“Drop the gun,” one of the guards said. “Drop it or we’ll shoot.”

“Vegas, we can talk without guns,” Kinn informed his cousin.

“Tod,” Porsche said. “Tell your men to stand down.”

“I think you’d want to tell Vegas to drop his gun first,” Tod said.

“Tell them to stand down,” Porsche repeated. “Now!”

Tod looked at Porsche, as uncertainty creeped into his face. He must have seen something there because he waved at his men.

“Wait outside,” Tod said.

“Sir?” the closest guard said.

“Go!” he commanded, as the guards reluctantly walked out of the room, leaving their boss with Vegas still pointing a gun at his face.

Without waiting for things to escalate, Kinn turned around and placed his hand on Vegas’ hand, slowly pressing the gun down. As he did, he couldn’t help looking between Tod and Porsche, wondering how Porsche had just asked… no, commanded Tod to send his men out.

And Tod had obeyed.

“Now, can we have a civil conversation without you being an idiot,” Porsche said, throwing one of his pillows at Vegas’ head.

“What the fuck?” Vegas asked, eyes flashing in anger.

“Cut it out,” Porsche said, not backing down.

“Vegas,” Pete said softly, taking him by the hand as Vegas looked down sharply and then slowly deflated as soon as he saw who was talking to him. “Being angry won’t solve anything.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he ended up letting Pete pull him back to sit down.

“For someone so obsessed with Porsche,” Vegas said. “You don’t seem all that invested in his safety.”

“He’ll be safe if he stays within Ohmovit cordoned areas,” Tod replied.

“How convenient for you that Tawan just happened to utilize that information.”

Tawan did this, Kinn thought, feeling bile rise in his throat at the mere thought of that despicable man. He could already see his twisted thought process. He’d gotten the idea of Porsche being an omega from that one phone call that happened during their meeting. And the first thing he’d done was get an alpha to bite Porsche? Just so that Porsche wouldn’t want Kinn anymore? Just so that Kinn would be so distraught that he came running into Tawan’s arms?

Fat chance now.

“Who the fuck is Tawan?” Tod asked.

“Don’t pretend like you’re not working with the lunatic who attacked Porsche.”

Tod frowned, looking from Vegas to Porsche.

“The person who attacked Porsche thought he was an omega,” he said. “I’ve known Porsche was an alpha since he got on this production. Don’t you think that’s useful information I would have shared with someone I was working with?”

Kinn had to admit, that was a solid point.

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re everywhere all of a sudden,” Vegas continued. “What do you want from him? Are you going after my family? Is that why you want him because you couldn’t get me?”

Tod scoffed. “You don’t qualify for what I want in an alpha.”

“But you wanted my brother.”

“Your brother has clean hands. He doesn’t have a record. He’s never killed or abducted anybody. If I wanted your brother it would be because I was taking him out of your family. Not because I was trying to join it in any way.”

When Vegas bounced off the bed like he was about to punch Tod, Kinn got between them.

“Easy,” Kinn said. Because even though Tod didn’t seem to understand the danger he was in, by poking at Vegas, Vegas could cause him serious harm if he got his hands on Tod. Considering that Kinn had only one handgun and Vegas had, at most two, they would be no match for the battalion of armed men right outside the door. “He’s not saying anything we haven’t heard before. Calm down.”

“We still don’t know what he wants,” Vegas said. “We can’t trust him.”

Kinn sighed and faced Tod. “We need more security.”

“Anymore and this place would be a barracks.”

“At least allow us to give them personal guards,” Kinn said.

Tod looked at Porsche again. “I can send one of my men.”

“Nope,” Vegas shook his head. “A Theerapanyakul guard or nothing.”

“Tod,” Porsche said. “He’s not asking for much.”

“Fine. You can give them a guard each,” Tod said. “But back to the original issue. With Porsche’s history, everyone quickly assumes he’s an omega the moment anything cycle related happens.”

“Maybe we can get in front of this?” Pete said. “Find a way where he doesn’t have to do the presentation?”

Tod shook his head. “If Ohmovit wants a smooth production, we’ll have to comply.”

“And if we fight it, it will only make it seem more like I’m an omega.”

“Exactly,” Tod agreed. “If this was someone else, it could have been ignored. But Porsche? His entire career is littered with omega rumors. It’s been that way for years. It was only a matter of time before something triggered a public presentation.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m an alpha.”

“Good for you. Good for Ohmovit. Good for “Overheat.” Hurray.” Tod picked up his coat from the back of the chair as he began to put it on.

Kinn wasn’t comfortable with any of it, but the sooner they put this behind them, the sooner they could move on with the show.

“Just let us know whenever they schedule the presentation,” Kinn said.

“Will do,” Tod nodded. “I’m glad you’re safe, Porsche.”

As he walked out, Kinn followed him, hoping to be courteous since Vegas was so determined to burn that bridge. But Kinn didn’t think he could be so abrasive towards Tod anymore. Especially since he had nothing to do with Tawan. Especially since he’d helped them, not once, but twice now. The way Kinn saw it, his family might not be the kind that Tod got in business with, but thinking as a leader who was about to break away from his father, Kinn understood that it was time for him to start forming his own bonds. Making his own alliances.

People didn’t do that by pointing guns at powerful men.

“I didn't get a chance to say this,” Kinn said, once Tod was out the door. “But thank you for coming to get me.”

“It was nothing,” Tod said. “I’m sure you’d do the same for me.”

With a slight salute, he headed down the hallway as his guards followed him.

When Kinn returned to the room, Pete said, “I don’t want to alarm you, but Tawan thinks Porsche is silent about it and so he’s going to expect Porsche to avoid Kinn because of the bite.”

“The plan was to play along,” Kinn said. “If that’s what he expects, then that’s what we’ll do.”

Porsche frowned.

“Once the public presentation happens, he’ll know that Porsche is an alpha.”

Shit, Kinn thought as he closed his eyes. They were never going to catch a fucking break.

“What?” Porsche asked. “What is it?”

“If he knows you’re an alpha, then he’ll know the bite didn’t work and that you told Kinn everything,” Pete said as Vegas and Porsche wore identical looks of worried shock. “The moment he knows Porsche could have exposed him, he’s going to have nothing to lose,” Pete said, voice shaking with emotion. “He’s going to release my tape and expose me to the whole world.”

And fuck! Fuck! FUCK!

When Kinn got his hands on Tawan, he was going to twist his neck till the entire thing popped right off his body.

---

CHAPTER FORTY

Hiding in the bathroom, with the lights off, except for the glare on his phone, Pete read threads and threads of comments on social media. He’d known what he’d find. He’d known what the internet would say about Porsche. And yet, he couldn’t resist.

-he’s always been a weak actor

-god knows how many directors he fucked just to get jobs

-think of the distraction

-they belong at home

-they should know their place

-they should fire him, they should sue, he’s putting the entire Overheat production in jeopardy

-what kind of company didn’t do their due diligence before hiring?

-fucking omegas

A nightmare to imagine that one day, it would be Pete’s name in Porsche’s place, as people pulled up his history, tearing it apart simply because they’d learned he had a different Greek alphabet on his national ID than they’d originally thought. The awards wouldn’t matter. His work ethic wouldn’t matter. The public image he’d carefully curated for the last eight years would mean exactly nothing.

And he wouldn’t have the insurance of being able to prove the public wrong when they eventually found out that he was an alpha. Because he wasn’t.

Crying quietly, Pete continued to read, latching on to the few posts that were in support of Porsche… as an omega. Because there was overwhelming support. Porsche was a star with a rabid fanbase. They were just as noisy as the haters, if not more so.

But they had chosen to mount their support on the premise that their favorite actor was not an omega. He was a beta. That was their defense. That the haters would regret it when the public presentation revealed Porsche to be a beta. That the haters were foolish for believing unfounded theories online. That when the truth was exposed, a lot of people’s credibility would be called into question simply because they dared to imagine that Porsche Kittisawasd could ever be an omega.

Even his fans spoke like being an omega was a great sin.

Which exposed the reality that his fans would have abandoned him if Porsche turned out to be an omega. Haters and fans, uniting under their disbelief of and hate for an omega being a super star.

The few people who were in support of the idea of Porsche being an omega were attacked by both parties. They were attacked by haters for supporting an omega in the workplace. They were attacked by fans for daring to claim that Porsche had deceived them for so long.

And with every comment, a little piece of Pete died.

“Pete?”

He looked up, to find the bathroom door open, with Kinn’s silhouette standing there. He’d been so engrossed in his phone that he hadn’t heard Kinn knock. When Kinn switched on the light, Pete was so dumbstruck that he didn’t have time to compose himself or wipe his face or anything. The moment Kinn saw him, he switched the lights back off.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s fine,” Pete said, sniffing and locking his phone.

“Can I come and sit with you?” Kinn asked, entering and shutting the door gently.

Pete shrugged, wondering if Kinn could see the shrug. Honestly, he couldn’t even bring himself to care. He’d barely cared for anything else in his life. His acting was everything. He’d worked hard to get to where he was. Now, it was all just going to wash away because some entitled prick felt he was owed Kinn’s affection and the territories that came with it. What was Pete but collateral damage in the grand scheme of things?

Kinn sat on the bathtub.

“What did Phi-Tankhun say?” Pete asked.

“Nothing,” Kinn replied.

Pete chuckled as his eyes watered. Even Tankhun knew it was hopeless to try and salvage the situation. When he’d come in and demanded the full truth, Pete had left the room. He was tired of hearing about it. He was tired of talking about it. He was tired of getting to the point where people realized that he was fucked, either way. Because Vegas and Kinn were going to get Tawan. That was a given.

The uncertainty was whether Pete would still be an actor when that happened. And if someone like Tankhun who always had something to say, had said nothing, then Pete knew there was nothing they’d be able to do.

“We’ll find Tawan.”

“No one even cares that Porsche might be an omega,” Pete said, unlocking his phone again. “That’s not a good outcome for any of them. Something that we can’t even control gets to control our lives for ever because the world is a fucked up place.”

“You’ll get through this.”

“Be serious,” Pete said, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. “As soon as I’m outed, nobody will hire me.”

“I’ll hire you.”

“You’re a talent agency, not a production company.”

“Who says I can’t be both?” Kinn asked. “Who says I can’t change my focus? I have thirteen fucking artists. You think I can’t put up my own productions and source for funds?”

“This isn’t funny, Phi-Kinn.”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?” Kinn asked, getting up and switching on the lights. “Look at me. Do you think this is a joke to me?”

He didn’t look like he was joking. He looked like he’d first looked when he’d tried to recruit Pete from a prison stage performance, nine years ago. Pete had thought he was joking, but when he was released, his belongings included a business card that hadn’t been there when he’d been incarcerated.

“People won’t fund omega-lead projects.”

“Says who?”

“Your other artists will leave.”

“Good riddance.”

“Phi-Kinn!” Pete said, frustrated.

“You’re not giving up. If “Overheat” wants to fire you, that’s their loss. But you’re not leaving my company and you're not stopping your acting.”

“What about the free labor laws?”

“They’re there for the benefit of the company. Guess what? I’m the company, Pete.”

Pete shook his head and buried it between his knees. Kinn was a determined man. Pete knew this. But his determination was nothing in comparison to what the world was ready to see. It wasn’t going to be sunshine and rainbows. People who’d previously hired Pete without blinking an eye were going to scrutinize his projects, question his accolades and wonder if he’d fucked his way to the top.

All that was going to be multiplied by the fact that he was fronted by his primary company. Not by the objective choices of actual production houses. And by the time other artists who didn’t want too much scandal vacated the company, the only people who would remain were people with failing careers and other omegas who’d sought out the company desperately, seeking shelter because the company was protecting Pete.

In a matter of time, they were going to sink to the bottom of the ocean and become nothing but a statistic in Thai history.

No. If that video ever came out, Pete was going to resign. Because fuck it if he ruined other people’s lives. He knew he’d be pissed if he was an innocent beta who had to be dragged down because an outed omega was in the same company. Why put others through that?

“Hey,” Kinn said, squatting in front of him. “I know what you’re thinking-”

“I might not even get to finish “Overheat”,” he said, voice shaking.

“Fuck them if they don’t keep you till the end.”

“I was really looking forward to it.”

“Stop thinking like this. We’re going to find Tawan. We’re going to handle it. This will all be fine.”

Pete didn’t bother arguing with him. It was pointless. He was done for. No need to talk about it because he was just. So. Tired.

And nothing Kinn said was going to change any of that.

***

Rehearsal, the next day, was as grating as nails on a board.

Tem and Time spent all the time they weren’t the ones acting, sitting with Pete and Porsche. They didn’t ask. They didn't talk about it. They didn’t seem to want to know. Some of the cast were courteous enough to force some interaction with Porsche, as if to make some statement that they weren’t bigoted, but Pete could see through it.

Just in case Porsche turned out to be a beta, they didn't want any bad blood with him or Vegas.

But there were those from the cast and crew who steered clear, like Porsche was going to burst into a heat at any moment. From the controlled expressions to the wide berth, Pete could tell that if Porsche were any other actor, if Porsche wasn’t from an agency where the CEO had questionable means, he would have received more obvious reactions.

The only person who remained the same was the director. Probably because he knew Porsche was an alpha. It was in Porsche’s contract. He wasn’t going to learn anything new about Porsche that he hadn’t known since the first day.

Pete envied Porsche almost to the point of resentment.

With the public presentation scheduled to be the following Friday, Porsche only had about eight days of this weirdness before it was all shoved to the back of people’s minds. Before it was replaced by vigorous attraction the moment they learned of his alpha status. Eight days. And then nothing but more love.

During lunch one day, when Porsche sat beside Pete, Pete had to resist the urge to shift away. He hadn’t meant to be, but he knew he was keeping his distance and Porsche could feel it.

“Can I have your eggs?” Porsche asked, a worried, plastered smile on his face.

Pete picked the two eggs out of his place and put them in Porsche’s.

“Thanks,” Porsche said, pushing his vegetables into Pete’s plate. “Are we…” he began. “Are you okay?”

“We’re fine,” Pete said.

“Because lately things have felt weird.”

“I don’t blame you,” Pete said, dropping his spoon and looking at Porsche. “None of this is your fault. I mean, you wear your heart on your sleeve which tells me that you grew up in an unrestricted home. You have parents who worship the ground you walk on. You went to acting school, got fighting lessons. You make friends easily. The first time you made eyes at the guy you liked, he fell in love with you. And now,” Pete said, taking a breath. “Now, you’re an alpha.”

Porsche opened his mouth and closed it, looking like he was unsure what to say.

“I don’t blame you for any of that. In my head, I know none of this is your fault. You’ve had a good life. You’ll probably always have a good life. The world isn’t fair.” Pete could feel his eyes brimming so he blinked the tears away. “I know that. And I’m so, so sorry for hating you for it.”

“Pete, I-”

“None of this is your fault, Porsche,” Pete said, shaking his head. “But I just need… I need a moment to process what I’m going through. Okay?”

Porsche frowned, pressing his lips together like he had so much to say. But he ended up just saying, “Okay. Take your time.”

And for the rest of lunch that day, they just sat in silence, each man with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

***

Pete counted down the days to Porsche's public presentation like it was a ticking time bomb. Which it totally was. He tried his best to focus on his work, but there were moments when he knew it was all pointless. Eventually, it was all going to come out and then Ohmovit would have to choose whether Pete was worth the trouble or if they’d rather move on to someone else. After all, there was a perfectly good understudy just waiting to take over, considering that the show was to run for four weekends of two days each.

They’d planned for this. They’d planned for everyone’s replacement. Kicking Pete out at the last second was not the dent in Ohmovit’s plans that it would have been if Pete was the only one practicing to be Niran.

He’d come in from dinner to find Porsche already in bed. Things hadn’t improved between them in the two days since he’d asked Porsche for some space. To his credit, Porsche was trying. He wasn’t getting in Pete’s way and he wasn’t exactly avoiding him either. But he wasn’t hovering, so Pete was grateful for that.

He could hate Porsche in peace.

As he got into the bathroom, someone knocked at the room door. Wrapping a coat around his body, he opened the door to Kinn and Vegas.

“What’s going on?” he asked as they entered the room.

“Where’s Phi-Tankhun?” Kinn asked, going to sit on Porsche’s bed as Porsche turned around, suddenly awake like he’d only been pretending to be asleep in the first place.

“He’s not here,” Porsche said. “What happened?”

“He asked us to meet him,” Vegas said, smiling and wagging his eyebrows at Pete. “If he’s not here yet…” he said, smiling slyly as he tugged on the strings of Pete’s bathrobe.

“For fucksake, Vegas,” Kinn said.

Pete took the string out of Vegas’ hand just as Tankhun entered the room through the open door.

“Is everyone here?” he asked, followed closely by the director of “Overheat.”

“No offense, Director,” Kinn said. “But what are you doing here?”

“Been asking myself that exact same question?” the director said, scratching his head.

“You know,” Tankhun said. “For a room full of people in the entertainment business, you guys are the least dramatic people I know.”

“What’s going on?” Porsche asked, kneeling up on the bed.

“I come bearing solutions.” Tankhun waved his hand at the director. “Viola.”

“Solution for what?”

“For your Tawan problem, of course.”

Pete was not sure he understood what Tankhun was saying, so he moved closer to the room as Vegas shut the door behind them. Taking a seat at the foot of his bed, Pete looked up at Tankhun, praying that he wasn’t dreaming, trying to recognise and accept the hope that he thought Tankhun was offering.

“I have a plan.”

“What is it?” Pete asked.

“I’ll share it with you, but first,” Tankhun said, walking up between the beds, where Kinn and Vegas were seated, and grabbed each man by the ear.

In unison, Kinn and Vegas stood, twisting their bodies to follow the direction in which Tankhun was twisting their ears as both screamed out in pain.

“Ow ow ow ow ow, Phi! ” Kinn said.

“What the fuck, Phi?” Vegas said, holding Tankhun’s hand.

“The next time someone threatens this family,” Tankhun said in a whisper. “And I have to hear about it because Porsche has been violated and tossed in the street, I will pluck both your ears from your heads. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” Kinn said. “Let go!”

“Do you hear me?” he repeated in Vegas’ direction.

“I’ve heard, now stop.”

With one last twist, he shoved both of them back on the beds and turned away from them, moving back to the director. As Kinn nursed his reddened ear, Porsche moved closer, blowing on it with a worried look on his face.

“Sorry,” he said, a slightly amused look on his face.

“So,” Tankhun said. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

And just like that, Pete sat, listening to Tankhun’s every word, hanging on because he had nothing else to hang on to. No other source of hope. He had nothing else to lose. The public presentation was four days away.

If Tankhun’s plan didn’t work, Pete was screwed either way.

#actor au #omegaverse #Porsche POV #Kinn POV #Pete POV #non con #mating bites #kinnporsche #vegaspete

1 note · View note

nazmulbd00m-blog · 3 months ago

Text

#IFTTT #Hollywood News – FNNEWZ

0 notes

chrispychrisalis · 11 months ago

Text

landlocked

As I go through a stressful period of my university life, deciding whether to change my major or just stick through it, keeping status quo, I decided to start reading The Defining Decade. I turn 20 in April, and when I see my parents, or older folks like the stereotypical “boomers”, I tend to always have this question pop up in my mind: “Why do they still act this way when they are already 50 years old?”.

Throughout my teenagehood, I had believed that when I grew older, I would naturally have things figured out. That at a certain age, things would magically fall into place. But when I see my parents, especially when they have childish outbursts, or act in certain ways, I realised that that isn’t the case. Just because you’re older, doesn’t mean you know what you want to do with your life. It doesn’t mean that things will work out.

When I see my mother, who has been a housewife for nearly half her life, I know I don’t want to be like her. She also has gripes with how things worked out, giving up her career to spend more time with her children. There were external pressures for her to do so too, but at the age of 54, she feels like she has done nothing with her life. No career, no real friends, no true independence from my dad, and her whole live revolves around her children. Her children are now in their 20s, and I can foresee the rest of her life being an empty nester, and it hits me that even at my mother’s age, she still has a long life to live, but nothing has been built up from her younger days.

I hate to say it, but I don’t like how she lives.

At this stage, I find myself in a hard position. The word is trapped. I feel like I’m in a softlock, unable to move forward, sideways or back. I’m in one tall vertical box with slippery walls that prevents you from climbing out. There’s no one pushing me into the box, but it’s not like I can get out either.

When I was 17, 18, studying for the A-Levels, the only goal was to finish my schooling, to get a decent grade that would open all the doors for me. My grades ultimately opened some, but left an iron fence in front of others. At that point of receiving my grades, I had thought about how great it would have been to be able to have the choice to do medicine or law, but I knew that in my heart, I would not have even chosen those paths,

At 19, I picked course that felt the most practical or rational. Business courses. In the end, I chose to go to NTU to study Maritime Studies with a second major in Business. Take note, at that time, the second major part was very important to my self-worth. It showed that I could go to another couse other than Maritime (which is known to have a very low cut-off) but I had chosen Maritime, and I could even take up more modules. I wanted to be a big fish in a small pond after the 2 years of Junior College that had trampled on my own self-worth and have given me so many insecurities, causing me to retract back into my own comfort zone after I had been such an active student in secondary school. I blamed it all on being burnt out after doing so much in secondary school, but I just hated the idea of having more avenues of competition (such as in clubs where I knew I would not be a frontrunner for any positions).

But in university, I learnt that no matter how much I thought that I would be a standout, I was nothing more than just another fish. A big fish, a medium fish, a small fish, nothing. I was just a fish. There was always going to be people better than me. Perhaps the reasoning behind the choice of this major was flawed, deeply corrupt, all stemming from a place of fear and incorrect motivations.

After the first semester of studying and working hard, it was at the end of the semester that I realised that I had to work even harder in the second semester to either maintain my current grades or pull it up. But I had worked so hard already, so how was I supposed to work even harder?

At the start of the first semester I had been wanting an escape route to study in Japan. But it was sort of a joke, and it was during the period of adapting to school.

Only recently, I had realised that perhaps this course wasn’t for me. The second semester was harder than the first. I had a higher workload, more modules that I had barely any interest in. Sure they were useful, but the process of studying for that grade was tiring. I was tired all the time. I would start forgetting things in turn for chasing that grade, and I was foregoing my social life and sanity for my studies.

I felt like I was going to die young. I realised that I had been overlooking all the red flags in my first semester. I had nosebleeds all throughout October, and was getting them again in February. My aptly titled’ nosebleed diary’ began with the line: ‘Uni is killing me’.

My major has good career prospects. It has a good pay. But all I thought was: if studying to obtain such prospects was already taking such a toll on my health, both mentally and physically, what would happen to me in my late twenties?

What would I become at the end of it all? I had been studying as if it were routine, waking up at the same time each day, travelling, going through it all like I was on autopilot. But that snap and epiphany that occurred on that very morning during accounting class was the realisation that I had been living life like a robot.

I had just missed a graded weekly quiz for the accounting class. It probably cost me about 1% of my grade, but I felt that fear. I had missed it because I was so caught up in studying for a midterm for another module. I told my mother and my sister about it, and they told me that it meant that I needed better time management. I had been following a standard routine, but that one shift resulted in me making what I felt like was a huge mistake. Like the sky would crash down, and the earthwould shake and I was ruined.

The fear that I might make the same mistake haunted me, albeit for a short while, before I realised that perhaps nothing I was studying was for me.

On Thursdays, I usually have about 3 hours to study before I go home. But on that day, I sat at the study corner, watching Bojack Horseman and attempting to find that motivation to look through my lecture slides. I started having another nosebleed, and went into the toilet cubicle to cry, before blowing my nose so hard more blood came out.

It was the first time I had cried in university. And I had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last. At least it wouldn’t be, if I was stuck here.

So, at the age of 19 turning 20, I decided to pick up The Defining Decade. I am hoping it helps move me into a direction, breaking down the slippery walls of that stupid vertical box and being able to walk out of it on my own. At the very least, I now know that not everything falls into place at some magical number. I’m not going to turn 30 and suddenly have that ‘eureka’ that I must or need to do something.

I’m planning to type my thoughts as I go through the book, rather than at the end so that I can capture my thoughts better in the moment. I don’t necessarily believe that the book will be the key and help me through all my worries, but I’m hoping it at least pushes me in the right direction.

1 note · View note

sheepradish · 1 year ago

Text

We think that gender ideology leans into sexist stereotypes because it pushes the idea that if you like stereotypically masculine/feminine things, then it means that you must actually be a man/woman accordingly. It’s not very different from the conservative belief that men have to be strong, tough, etc; and that women have to be soft, docile, etc. The only different between the two schools of thought is that gender ideology says you can switch roles, but conservatives say that you can’t. Either way, the gender roles are important to both

I’ll talk about my own beliefs here; I strongly dislike the beauty/makeup industry but I understand how women are pressured to participate. I personally don’t wear makeup because it’s bad for your skin, time consuming, expensive, and warps your psychological perspective of your own face. I know it’s difficult to change your pattern of thought, and I don’t blame women who do wear makeup. I actually really like it when women do go out of the box with it, like Izzzyzzz on youtube. But, I think other than that, wearing makeup is not a feminist act. That’s all I think. It’s not terrible or evil to wear makeup, it’s just not feminist. And there’s nobody on earth whose actions are all 100% feminist; it’s not really a big deal. People who wear makeup just feel attacked when we bring up the reasons that I mentioned earlier for not wearing it

Most radfems do have an issue with drag queens. I personally don’t think drag is misogynistic. Most radfems claim that drag is a mockery of women, but I disagree. The root of drag is gay men breaking free of masculine gender roles in a loud and bombastic way. It’s a representation of freedom. It’s not about women at all. I do know I’m in the minority in thinking this, though

Gender abolitionist just means that we don’t believe the “feeling” of gender exists. We believe sex exists, but it doesn’t say anything about a person. Being male or female is like having green eyes or brown eyes. It doesn’t say anything about your personality. You are free to be any kind of male/female you want with any kind of interests without the pressure of sexist expectations. Most people don’t feel “connected” to their “gender” at birth. That ideology is akin to a spiritual belief and is only present in the people who subscribe to gender ideology

I don’t believe in MOGAI or microidentities. I think microidentities are just a way of being more specific about your manner of attraction rather than who is the target of that attraction. I used to identify as demisexual, and I still do fit the definition, and it’s a quick, convenient way to describe myself to someone who both asks and knows the word, but demisexual is not a sexual orientation. Demisexual describes how I feel sexual attraction, but not to whom. The only options for sexual orientation are same sex, opposite sex, both, or neither. LGB and asexual. I also don’t think we should call certain sexual orientations gender non conforming or gender conforming because sexuality orientation isn’t a choice the way following gender roles is. I think it’s odd when people want to treat the LGB as a group of “weirdos” who don’t fit into society, and think they should let anyone in out of solidarity, or think that they belong there because they’re “weird.” The LGB has been fighting for decades to be seen as normal people who just happen to be same sex attracted

Daily reminder that misandry it is just the first steps to becoming a terf. Just saying!

#Thank you for chatting with me :)#Baa #Gender critical

2K notes · View notes

nancypullen · 2 years ago

Text

Valentine’s Day

If you know me, you know that I don’t get excited about Valentine’s Day. Scheduled affection is not my bag. I’m fortunate to be married to a very romantic guy, so I feel loved every day. Don’t get me wrong, I will celebrate the heck out of it - usually because it means chocolate and/or a meal that I didn’t cook. I was a big fan of February 14th back in elementary school when we’d make mailboxes out of decorated Captain Crunch or Frosted Flakes boxes. I found great joy in covering that cardboard with paint and doilies and glitter. We’d walk around the classroom dropping valentines in each mailbox, even the jerky boys who threw the ball too hard in dodge ball. Then we’d party with sweets and games. So sure, that was fun. Then you grow up and there’s more pressure- no, thank you. I always hated when February rolled around if I was sort of casually dating someone or in a fairly new relationship. I’d always want to ask, “Can we agree to NOT make a big deal out of Valentine’s Day? I’m not even sure I like you yet.” I hated it it (still do!) when a guy would spend way too much money. I had a sweet boyfriend my senior year of high school who gave me a small bouquet of pink roses and a handwritten list of all the things he loved about me. I’ve since lost the list but it was priceless - from deeply sweet, “You’re kind”..to practical, “You wear cute clothes.” to hilarious, “I like the way you sing Rock Lobster”. That’s the sort of stuff a girl will remember. That fellow has since gone coocoo for Cocoa Puffs, but when we were kids he was sweet. Fast forward about forty years and I’ve enjoyed decades of beautiful February days with Mr. Pullen. He never fails to surprise and delight me, even when I make him pinky promise that we are not doing valentine stuff this year. I beg him, I plead with him, and he swears he’ll stick to it. Then I wake up to beautiful stuff like this.

I came downstairs this morning to a sweet note and gorgeous roses. I ran up to his office and half yelled, “When did you even do this? Did you go out at 3am or something??” He said that he picked them up yesterday and kept them in the chilly garage last night. That’s my lover boy. We’re treating ourselves to dinner from Shore Gourmet tonight. I much prefer eating at home in my sweatpants to going out. So we picked up our order for their “Valentine Meal Kit” today. Here’s what was included...

First course - baked brie in puff pastry with chocolate strawberry jam and crostini

I’ll pop that into the oven to turn it golden brown, and while it cooks we can enjoy champagne poached shrimp.

The main course is cocoa rubbed petite filet of beef for two.

and crab cakes! Yummm! Mickey can have all the beef, dibs on the crab cakes!

The sides are simple, but pleasing.

And for dessert, beautiful chocolate covered strawberries.

They also included a freshly baked mini loaf of bread with butter. I won’t touch that but the mister will love it. I’m glad I ate light today because I’m about to murder some crab cakes. This is romance to me - it’s easy, it’s fun, and it’s shared with the one I love. If you have a sweetheart, don’t try to make a huge, expensive gesture to impress him/her - just give them what you already know they like. Watch their favorite movie and get their favorite take out, maybe order pizza and fix that thing that’s been broken for six months, or just make a list of all the things you love about them, from the silly to the serious. Don’t let commercials convince you that your Valentine’s Day has to break the bank. Romance can not be purchased. It comes from the heart. Just be sweet to each other.

That’s it, my big holiday post. But I can’t leave without mentioning all of the forms that love takes - it’s not just for sweethearts. It’s your dear friends, it’s people who sprinkle kindness in your days, it’s you holding the door for a stranger, or encouraging a coworker. It’s siblings and parents, it’s everyone in your circle. It’s all around us.

youtube

That’s the opening to one of my favorite movies, Love Actually, and I still think about it all these years later. We’re surrounded by love, it just doesn’t make the news. Go out there and spread some love. Be sweet. Be kind. Make everyone your valentine. Stay safe, stay well, spread love.

Nancy

1 note · View note

the-queen-of-sorrows · 2 years ago

Text

The One That Got Away - Sinister

|| Bughuul x Reader || Soulmate!AU ||

|| Words: 24,406 || 18+ ONLY || Cross-posted on AO3 ||

You fucking get it, alright?

You know what happened in this house, the real estate agent was legally required to tell you the morbid affairs that transpired here just a little over ten years ago.

“Ah, so you’re the one living in the old Moore home?”

“I never thought someone would be… brave enough to move in there.”

“Don’t you feel icky, living in a house where four people were brutally murdered?”

“I don’t understand what would possess someone to move into a place like that.”

God, you’ve heard it all before, and you’re sick of it.

It’s not like you had any other choice. Well, you did, but you refused to live in an apartment or home with several strangers because the cost of living in Seattle was ridiculously high. Slobs, that stole your food, used your razors, and toothbrush without your knowledge. It made more sense to grab a cheap, quiet, large home, all for yourself.

The moment the real estate lady pulled up in front of the property, driveway big enough to fit six cars, large, lush front lawn and a private backyard shielded by a forest, you knew something was off. She knew your pathetic excuse for a budget, so why would she take the time to bring you here, to rub it in?

Pulling up, she said the house was owned by the bank, and had been on the market for close to a decade.

Again, another red flag.

Inside, she pointed to the revamped, mostly opened living space, nice hardwood flooring, fresh coat of paint on the walls and white crown molding. A single-story home with an attic, four bedrooms, one bathroom and a complete en suite in the master’s bedroom.

Red flag number three.

The furniture belonged to the bank and, “If you chose to live here,” the real estate lady said, they’d take it all back. Honestly, you hadn’t bothered to get upset by the news, the furniture obviously stemmed from the 1990s, muted floral patterns and ugly as hell. They would not be missed.

You weren’t born yesterday, you knew, something was wrong with this place besides the lack of water pressure in the en suite shower – but your dad could easily fix that.

“What’s the catch?” You had bluntly asked the woman on the moldy, decaying backyard porch. The house ticked all your boxes, not too far away from the city, lots of privacy, en suite, modern appliances... So why was it a couple of hundred dollars under your measly budget?

The lady had made a face, sighing. “A family was killed here, ten years ago.”

Yea, that would do it. But people moved into homes where people were killed in all the time, this house should be no different, right?

“Why’s it still on the market?”

“A lot of visitors’ sense this… presence, when they walk inside.” You hadn’t felt any of that, maybe a bit chilly. “And when they find out what happened to those poor people, they –”

“– What happened to them?” Why had you asked? The answer eluded you to this day. The lady shifted uncomfortably, turning sickly as she had tried to find the words to describe the murders. “Never mind.” You add quickly, “I don’t want to know the details.”

That’s a lie, but you hadn’t been able to stand watching the nice real estate lady battle the obvious need to gag. You had guessed the killings were especially gruesome for her to react as such.

The immorality of moving into a house where a horrible homicide took place, was overshadowed by your desperate need for a cheap place of your own – without roommates.

Being the responsible daughter you were, that night, laying in a dingy motel room, you discussed the matter with your parents. You hadn’t looked up the details of the events that took place in the home, and asked your parents to not say a thing to you when they did do a brief google search. While your mother stomped down on the idea of moving in there right away, your father, bless his soul, didn’t mind the idea.

“Your uncle lives in a house where people died, he’s fine, we were fine the many times we stayed the night over. It’s your money, your life, and it’s a nice place, fits what you want. Go for it.”

Your mother then proceeded to yell at the both of you, but in the end, you ignored her.

You made a below asking price on the house, the bank accepted without much thought – you guessed they were just relieved to wash their hands from the place – and a week later, your things were packed in a mountain of boxes and you had your friends and family come over to help you move. Being the hero he is, your dad fixed the shoddy water pressure in your bathroom. The walls were repainted to your liking, decorated with whatever tickled your fancy at the time, the minimal furniture you owned set up in its rightful place.

And here you are now, months later, about to blow a casket if somebody mentions that damn house again.

During your lunch break, your coworkers sit alongside you, talking about nothing in particular, and it is during a brief moment of silence that one of your colleagues decide to ask: “Aren’t you curious, though?”

You raise a brow over the bowl of soup pressed to your lips. “I’m curious about a lot of shit, so you’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”

She rolls her eyes. “About the house, dummy.”

Eyes flutter close, deep breath entering your lungs as you try to push down the need to snap at her. “I’ve heard everything I need to know. I don’t need a visual with it.”

“I’m still traumatised after seeing those pictures.” Your work partner shutters, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “So much blood.”

“Well, that tends to happen when you’re sawed in half.”

Many, if not all of your coworkers groan, you included, now finished with your tomato soup. “Christ, Jess, we are eating!”

She doesn’t care, you know she doesn’t. You’ve worked closely with Jess for several months, she’s the first friend you made in this city and at this point, you know her like the back of your hand. The girl says what she thinks, not caring about how it affects those around her. It is a trait you like about her, mostly, when it doesn’t impact you directly, like now.

Turning back to you, she points to your phone. “You really should look it up. Then you’d finally understand why everyone avoids that house like the plague, and why they think you’re fucking mental.”

“I don’t give a shit what the Barbara’s of the world think, Jess.” You tell her truthfully, because you really don’t care. “I’m broke and don’t want roommates. That’s why I moved there. And you know what? I haven’t felt any of the weird sensations everyone keeps telling me about, no creepy little souls running across the hallway, nothing has terrorised me. I like it there, it’s my home.”

“You really don’t sense it?” Jess has come over a few times since the two of you got close, and every time she visits, she swears there’s someone else in the house.

“No.” That’s a lie. Lately, you are certain you’ve felt someone – or something – watching you. The feeling lingers in the air, or like an itch you can’t scratch, it’s bothersome while you think about it, but when your mind wanders somewhere else, you forget about it instantly. When you take the time to check inside each room, you find them empty of any other presence, and outside yields much of the same results. There is no one. You chalk it up to being paranoid, to have subconsciously let what people have said influence you.

Long after you’ve gotten back home, bags of groceries hanging off your arms, the conversation loiters in the back of your mind.

Why haven’t you caved?

You are a curious person, you’d always been, so why not now?

Honestly, you're just scared you’ll realise you made a terrible mistake, not able to sleep comfortably at night and you’d be stuck living in a house you hate, regretting pouring your life savings into.

A few weeks later, when the feeling of being observed not only persists but intensifies, the curiosity finally gets the best of you. At least it’s a Thursday night where the Friday happens to be a national holiday, and if you end up having nightmares, you have three days to recuperate from your self-induced trauma.

Sitting in bed, back pressed against the headboard and laptop over your crossed legs, you open a new tab: Moore Family Murder, Seattle, April 2013.

The first thing that pops up is a news clip, a reporter standing in front of the Moore home, your home, yellow tape blocking the property, and gurneys topped with body bags. The reporter gives details you already know. The Moore family were found dead in their home in late afternoon, after colleagues and friends grew concerned when neither parent showed up for work several days in a row, the eldest daughter stopped contacting her friends and coming to school. What you didn't know - or extensively, at least - was that mother and father, both daughters dead, sliced from the top of their heads, down their faces, sternum, chest, separated at the groin area, youngest child and only son, twelve-year-old Carson, missing.

When you started, you couldn’t stop.

News report after new report, newspaper and online articles, photographs, interviews… it went on for hours. Long after the clock struck midnight, you still scroll through several pages on google search, until you stop, something catching your attention.

Clicking on the link, you are brought to a plain, white website with a video in the middle. Below it, are locations all across America, all over the world, home addresses and dates, some dating back to the early sixteenth century in Europe. Goosebumps litter your skin when you notice your address on the most recent part of the list. Seeing the paused, grave expression on the man’s face, your heart falls in the pit of your stomach, something screaming at you to both exit the site and to push on at the same time.

Curiosity wins.

The man does not introduce himself, gets straight to the point.

He explains to the viewers, especially those with families, to never move into the houses listed below, the one that includes the house you are currently living in. As he speaks, pictures of each home, each family flash across the screen. The killings, are all linked, the man points out. Each murdered family previously lived in the house of another victim, said murders happening shortly after they moved into a new home, a child always ending up missing.

Sweat envelops your entire body, to a point where you have to throw the covers off your body and shrug off your sweater.

As he continues to speak, more homes, more screenshots of news coverages, more families, more missing children greet your eyes. By the time the timeline reaches the eighties, you’re shaking more than you ever have before, your heart pounds against your ribs with enough power to make you wince, each thump echoing in your skull.

And then, when you think you can’t possibly feel worse, your blood runs cold.

“There’s only ever been a single person who’s ever survived the pattern.” The timeline has reached the year of your birth, in the city you grew up in. The two-story house on your screen burned down just over ten years ago. You remember, because when it happened, you were sitting next to your dad in the living room as he watched the news, and the sudden change in his stance, the look he sent you, one you never understood. Kids used to avoid the area all together, rumors running wild across the city, reaching your sector, in the opposite end of town, saying that some bad energy lingered behind from the events that transpired there. A family, two parents that look vaguely familiar to you, three young boys and a baby in the mother’s arms. The second-eldest boy’s face appears, missing, and next to it, a picture of the infant, an infant that you recognise.

That little girl, you would recognise her anywhere.

“This baby was found by a neighbour the day after the killing, crying in the family’s locked car. I have yet to find the whereabouts of the girl, but from the records I dug up, I know she was adopted.”

Pausing the video, turning on the side lamp on the nightstand and flying out of bed, you yank the closet doors open to retrieve one of your many photo albums. Your vision blurs with unshed tears as you pull the album from the top self, lips quivering and breaths coming out in ragged, scattered huffs.

Knowing your legs are about to give out from under you any second, you fall on the edge of your bed, staring, utterly terrified at the static object in your hands. You already know the answer you will get once you open it, but you need confirmation where doubt still festers to the surface.

Inhaling deeply, you try and kid yourself into a false bravado, squaring your shoulders and blinking the tears away.

It doesn’t work.

You’re about to be sick, light-headed and drenched in nervous sweat.

As soon as you turn the cover over, you shove the whole thing away, muffling a scream through cupped hands.

On the ground, are pictures of you at no earlier date than four months old, the child on your screen an identical match.

Your mind reels a thousand miles a second. You’re confused, scared, thinking about every single time your younger sister teased you about looking so different from the rest of your family, and your parents defending your place alongside them with way too much passion. Every time someone pointed out the colour of your eyes, the shade of your skin, and how it just didn’t quite match your father, your mother, your older brother or your sister comes to mind, the subtle comments your grandparents made over the years.

Suddenly, it all makes sense now.

You’re so different from your family, because they aren’t your real family. You belong with the people on your paused screen, with the same type of hair as yours, same smile, same everything, brutally killed by the middle boy, ten-year-old Alexander, your real brother.

You stumble back in the corner of your room, sobs tearing at your throat.

“She may have survived, but that infant is an exception. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can escape the same fate as the others.” You haven’t moved an inch from your spot, and yet, the video starts back up all on its own. “And, just like the rest of them, I don’t doubt that Bughuul will come for her one day.”

Your hands move on their own and reach the roots of your hair, yanking hard, strangling cries filling the silence of your home. Your home where a family was killed, influenced by Bughuul, the same thing – deity who manipulated your biological brother, and killed your entire family. In a home where Bughuul was destined to return to should anyone move in.

“What ever you do, DO NOT move into these houses. If you live in a house that isn’t on the list, and you see this symbol, or you find a box of old Super 8 films, DO NOT watch them. And if you already have done one or both…” The man shutters, almost painfully. “Then I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what possesses you to turn your head and look outside, but you do. And in a single moment, you know your life has ended.

In the darkness of the night, in the middle of your backyard, is a man. You can see, despite the lack of light, the absence of any prominent facial features. Only black, upwards strokes of smudge where eyes should be.

You stand frozen, eyes widen in absolute devastating horror, unable to look away. Because if you do, you’re petrified that he – It, won’t be there anymore, that It’ll somehow end up materialising at your side and killing you instantly.

This… thing, must be what you have been sensing watching you all this time. Stalking you as his prey, like wolves do sheep, waiting for the perfect time, the moment you are at your weakest, to finally claim the soul that was never meant to be alive.

The one that got away.

You.

You don’t want to die, you’re not ready to die, dammit! You just started to live!

Stepping forward, crying so hard your shoulders wreck, you make sure to never break eye contact with the deity as you lock the window. In your paralysed, scared-shitless trance, you don’t stop to think that a locked window is completely useless to a fucking deity that eats children after convincing them to kill their entire family.

Luck seems to be on your side, because you kept your sweatpants on, sweatpants with pockets, pockets where your phone currently sits in.

Without looking, you manage to unlock your phone thanks to facial recognition, and open your calling app. Now, the only thing you need to do is dial the police.

Realistically, there’s nothing the police can do against a being of higher power. But what they can do, is report your disappearance to your parents – adoptive parents – and it will alert the man in the video that this thing has come to claim you once and for all. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll scare the deity away and you will get to live another day.

To call the police, you need to look away from the man standing, looming ominously in your backyard, head slowly falling to the side, as if daring you to try and find some help, mocking your pathetic attempt at survival.

You can’t see much through the endless barrage of tears, wailing so loud you might as well be yelling.

You’re scared. And you wonder if this is how all of his victims felt in their last moments on this earth, when they were being brutalised by someone they loved dearly.

It has to be now. You have to at least try!

So, you look away, dialing 911 in less then a second, only to look back outside to find the expense of your yard vacant of a presence. Sinking to the floor, you back away into the corner of the wall, settling your gaze on your bedroom door.

“911 What’s your emergency?” You don’t register the man’s voice on the other end, hand back over your mouth to muffle the sounds of your heaving, concentrating on the door. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

“Something-one is going to kill me.” The sound of your voice can only be described as shrill, high-pitch and broken, despite it being lowly hissed through the receiver. “I don’t want to die.”

“Someone is trying to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your location, so I can send someone right away.” Though fried, your brain manages to conjure up the appropriate reply for the operator. “The police are on their way, ma’am, five minutes out. In the meantime, I need you to stay on the line for me, can you do that?”

“That’s too long…” You seethe through gritted teeth, empty hand going back to pull your hair. “I’ll be dead. God, I’m going to fucking die!”

In the grand scheme of things, five minutes isn’t that long at all, but when your life is on the line, every second that passes feels like an eternity, every second that passes means you are one step closer to taking your last breath.

The operator tries to sooth you, key word: tries. You can barely make out what he says, and even less answer his questions. He asks you your name, if you’ve always lived in Seattle, what you do for a living, asks you to try and give an accurate description of the person trying to kill you. You’re not sure if you’re even replying to him.

The small lamp at your bedside flickers, casting your room in tiny beats of darkness.

Your cries heighten in pitch, probably destroying the man’s hearing. “I don’t want to die! Please!”

“Ma’am. Ma’am, I need you to talk to me, alright? What’s going on?”

The words that come out of your mouth are barely coherent, a babbled mess of syllables slipping pass your sobbing cries.

“The police are two minutes out, Ma’am, hang tight.”

Feels like you’ve been cowering, bawling your eyes out in a ball in the corner of your room for hours, the light flickering more and more vigorously for just about the same amount of time.

As if this thing knows the police are close, the opened closet doors shut with a bang and re-open on and endless loop. The doorknob of your bedroom, the door itself, start to rattle, and the only thing you can do is scream. Your focus stays transfixed on the door, the handle that won’t stop shaking and turning left to right, mind going back to the figure that stood in your back lawn.

Right as the deity’s face comes to mind, it is as if you gave him an open invitation to your thoughts.

Mine.

Something, someone, a voice echoes in the depths of your mind, phone dropping to the floor instantly. Faintly, you register the operator calling your name, asking you to keep talking, to tell what’s going on. But the palms of your hands press over your ears, nails dig in your scalp, head shaking furiously as you try to shake out the voice in your head that grows in strength with each second that ticks on.

Mine. The gravely, rough voice keeps chanting.

And you know who has invaded your brain.

Him. Bughuul. The eater of children.

Then, everything stops, time itself freezes. The lamp shuts off completely, the closet doors stay wide open, the phone grows static at your side and the doorknob stops moving.

It is this utter silence and total darkness – save for the shine of the moon on your door – that quiets your voice, levels of terror so high your nerve endings are shot, limbs so heavy they fall limply at your side. The only thing you hear is the crackling of the discarded phone a foot away and the pounding of your heart between your ears. You’ve gone into shock, a catatonic state as you wait.

The doorknob creaks as it turns. You want to scream, because you know what is behind the door, but your body has failed you, has accepted its fate, leaving you to silently sit in a ball in the corner of your room, mind shouting at you to get out of there, to tell the operator that your maker has reached you, and to tell him to tell you parents that, despite having forwent mentioning to you the fact that you are adopted, you love them more than life itself.

Straight out of a movie scene, your bedroom door opens tentatively on its own, your eyes shooting straight to the figure in the frame.

Up close, the deity is levels far beyond terrifying. It’s massive, top of its head hidden pass the top of your door, large, broad shoulders that’d make any man jealous. The suit It adorns is typical, black with a white dress shirt under, though dirtied and worn. And his skin, you don’t think you’ve ever seen someone so pale, white and ghoulish, stained with specs of darkness.

His face, God, his face.

A whimper escapes your clog throat, its head cocking once again to the side at the noise you just made.

Black, endless pits of nothing reside where eyes should be, a subtle gleam of red catching its depths through the moonlight that graces its face. They dig straight into your soul, scrounging up every inch of fear your body can and has ever possessed to the surface, sinking its claws in your humanity.

From a distance, the police sirens that are no doubt heading this way, can be heard.

And that makes Bughuul take a slow step forward.

As he enters your room, though your eyes are solely trained on him – It, you swear you can make out other, smaller beings hovering behind him in the hallway.

You’re going to die, there’s nothing you can do now, but pitifully cry on your bedroom floor.

“Please!” And just like that, your voice returns to you fully, you come back to your senses and scream louder than your ever have in your life. In these last seconds before you leave this earth, you make a silly attempt to persuade a demonic God to spare your life, though you know it won’t. “I never asked for this!”

It lacks a mouth, just like its eyes. Where his mouth should be is a sunken, discoloured patch of brownish-black, strips of white flesh peppered through, making it seem like he once had a mouth there, but it was stitched shut. The small, upturn nose – the only feature It distinctively owns – twitches at your pleas.

It moves forward, the red and blue police lights illuminating the hallway, and the handful of pale, cracked-skinned children.

Mine. It repeats again in your head.

You hear the police at your front door, knocking loudly and asking you to open up. But all you can do is scream for help, plead them as you stare at the deity to come save you.

Bughuul doesn’t like that. The suspended atmosphere of the room shatters, becoming heavy, hostile, and you know you’ve just signed your death warrant. It walks to you slowly, without stopping to observe you this time, until it stands right at your feet, peering down at you, volatile, sending you all its hostility though the lack of eyes. You’re screeching and sobbing, backing away from the figure by pressing as much as you can of yourself into the wall. There’s nowhere else to go, less than an inch separating the both of you. Even if you try to make a break for the exit, or windows, the deity can simply bend down and snap your neck in half before you have the chance to get to your feet.

The deity crouches to your level – mostly, still a couple heads taller than you.

“Please.” You whimper lowly, breathless, trembling hands still stuck over your ears. It doesn’t reply, simply keeps its focus on you. The banging and shouting at your front entrance persist. “I’m not ready to die.”

You can see his brow bone flick downwards for a moment through your adjusted eyesight to the darkness. It appears confused.

You don’t have time to dwell on the thought, as his arm moves from its side, massive hand reaching towards you. And that makes more ear-splitting screams erupt from your lungs. You lower your head to your chest, turning yourself into a ball, weeping, begging for It to stop.

“Police! Freeze!” Flashlights light up your room, shinning over your cowering frame, swarming the room with their guns pointing at every corner of the space.

You don’t dare to look up, continuing to breakdown in your own little bubble, afraid that if you look up, you’ll find that it is all a dream.

“We found her! She’s here!” A voice shouts from your side, drowned out by the heels of your palms covering your hearing and the ear-splitting wails. “Miss? Miss, you’re alright now.”

Something touches your knee, making your head shoot up.

In front of you, is a middle-aged man in a police uniform, worry prominent on his features, lips pulled in a tight line and brow down in a frown, creating a shadow over his eyes.

You don’t understand. Nothing makes sense. You’re alive, the four men pointing their lights at your quivering form proof enough. But what you don’t get is the absence of the deity.

When you’re helped to your feet, you finally get it.

The window you previously locked, is open.

Surprisingly enough, for a Thursday night leading to a long weekend – or Friday morning, really – the police station is pretty vacant. Besides a few drunks and a coked-up prostitute, there’s no one else.

The police are relentless with their questioning. Who, what, when, where, why? You don’t have answers for the most of them, but you try your best to answer through your scrambled, traumatised brain, without sounding like a total lunatic. Instead of mentioning a deity as your attacker, you describe Bughuul as a tall man with pitch black, stringy hair that hover just pass his shoulders, black eyes, pale skin and a large mouth. It's essentially what he is.

The police note down everything, ask if you’ve seen this man before, and you reply that you’ve only felt like you have been watched for the past couple of months. You don’t have any enemies and you have no clue who could have done this.

While you give your statement, a few other police cars reached your house, and searched the premises, including the forest behind your house and the attic you’ve never used. And when it's all said and done, the morning crew begin their day, the sun is out and people around rising from their slumber and enjoying breakfast.

The man who reached you first, asks if you feel comfortable returning home or if you’d rather stay in a hotel until the police finish their search. Of course, you chose the hotel, you need to tell your parents what happened, what you discovered, and an email needs to be sent to the man from that video. At this point, he’s your only hope.

At nine in the morning, the police officer escorts you home, shielding you from the priding, judgemental gaze of your neighbours – as if they knew this was bound to happen – never leaving your side as you pack a bag with your laptop, chargers and a few toiletries.

His partner escorts you to a nearby motel, the same one you rented when you first searched for homes in the area, the police officer driving your car as you’re too drained, too unstable to do anything else but stare into the nothing.

You swear, as you drive away, that you can see Bughuul in the window of your living room, children at his side…

You check in, and as soon as you’re left alone – the police officer has your number and promises to call you as soon as he gets the all clear, and gives you his personal number if that man comes back – you take the desk chair and shove it under the door handle, plug your laptop and sit in the corner of your room.

You’re running on fumes at this point, but time is of the essence.

The first thing you do is send an email to the man from the video. You tell him who you are, where you moved into, and what went down last night. At the bottom, you put your phone number and implore him to call you as soon as possible, to come save you. You don’t have much time left.

Then, the hard part comes, and you need to call your parents.

Your mother picks up on the third ring, voice a little groggy from sleep.

“Mom?”

You sound exhausted, utterly broken, which you are, the tone of your voice reflecting perfectly the state of your being.

“Sweetie? Are you ok, what’s wrong?”

Having been awake for more than an entire day, having cried your entire body weight, though you want to cry some more, to scream, you have nothing left to give but a shaky breath. You tell her some strange man entered your home last night, tried to kill you. You purposefully avoid the discoveries you made about your origins, and this new world of higher beings and murders and patterns.

She freaks out, making sure to let both you and your father have it, saying that she knew that house was bad news. Just as distraught as your mother, your dad tells you he’s booked plane tickets to come see you, and that they’ll arrive in the evening.

“Stay in the hotel room, and don’t open the door for anyone, do you hear me?” Your dad mutters as he shoves things in a bag. “I’ll call you when we land. Don’t worry about coming to pick us up, we’ll grab a cab and head to you. I love you, sweet pea.”

You choke, nodding even if he can’t see it. “Ok. I love you too, pops.”

They have to leave right away, so they end the call and you’re back to your own devices, to your thoughts, to mull over the horrors you experienced, and the horrors that are yet to come.

“She’s all grown up.” Alexander states dully from his place at the window, watching his baby sister drive away into the distance. Bughuul moves as soon as she is out of sight, disappearing in the dark without giving another order, leaving the children to their own devices until he needs them once again.

“That tends to happen when you’ve been alive for more than twenty years.” Milo mutters, trudging across the living room to take a seat on the cream couch.

Alexander huffs. “Last time I saw her, she was three months old. I knew who she was with just one glance, but I almost didn’t recognise her. She looks like mother and Christian.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t remember families other than my own.”

“I still don’t get how we never found her that night, how she lived.” Danielle muses from the kitchen, playing on her yellow raincoat. “We searched everywhere.”

“Or why He let her live again tonight.” Peter adds as he and Emma sit on either side of Milo.

The leader shrugs, keeping his glance on Alexander. “We know better than to question him.” He reminds them. “How are you feeling, seeing your little sister, X?”

Alexander shifts, blinking without showing any emotions.

“I don’t feel anything.” He answers truthfully, because he really doesn’t. Seeing the woman, who resembles someone he once called ‘mother’, did not tug at his heart strings, or whatever had replaced the muscle when Bughuul brought him to his realm. No part of him yearns to turn back time and come back to life, or made him regret the things he did. He doesn’t feel the need to get to know the person he once thought more beautiful than sunshine, the person he had lovingly held in his arms and fed.

At least, that’s what he’d like to make himself believe.

“Though, I wonder why my fate was different than the Collin boy who failed to kill his family back in 2015. Shouldn’t I be dead?”

“You are dead.” Emma teases.

“You know what I mean.” Alexander rolls his eyes, finally moving away from the window.

Little Ashley skips to his side; hands deep in her apron pockets. “Maybe He likes her.”

Your phone rings, snapping you away from your thoughts. An unknown number is calling you. You pause, swallowing before you answer. “Hello?”

You make sure to keep your gaze locked on the door.

“Miss (L/N)?”

The voice sounds distinctively like the one from the video, this is the man that shattered your world in half. It isn’t lost on you, that he uses your original last name, not the one you signed the email with, not the one that was changed for your new birth certificate. Somehow, you don’t hate it, nor are you bothered.

“Yes?”

“You know you’re going to have to go back to that house, right? At least, until I get there.” The man then clears his throat and introduces himself as So-an-So, like an afterthought. He clearly has just about left in him as you do, which isn’t much. Tired and burdened, you can only imagine the horrors he’s seen through the years.

“I know, I–” The words are lost on your tongue as you try to figure out your game plan. You know you can’t stay in this dingy motel room, that’s how the pattern spreads, that’s how you die. But the issue with that logic, was that as soon as you were adopted, you technically moved into a new home, the cycle should have continued, but it didn’t. Your world fell apart only when you moved into a home where one of the murders previously took place. Not after moving away from one. Basically, you went against the pattern. “I just need more time to wrap my head around what happened, and the fact that I’m adopted.”

“You didn’t know?”

“I watched your video online and saw the baby picture you used; it looks exactly like the earliest photographs of myself that I have. I knew instantly that the child was me.”

You hear the man sigh; you can tell he pities you. “I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

“Better than never figuring out and not understanding why a man appears in my house to eat my soul.”

“He’s not a man.”

“I know. Bughuul, the eater of children, a fucking demon.” A strain silence follows your biting quip. You feel bad for snapping at him, but you’re tired, nearly got your soul sucked out of you, found out your true identity, you knew that he knew you watched his video. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

He brushes off your apologies. “Don’t worry, meeting Bughuul will do that to a person.”

That makes your back stiffen, grasp on your phone tightening. “You’ve encountered him before.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

“Once or twice.” You say nothing, hoping So-and-So will elaborate. “I’ve been going across the country for years, burning down houses he’s previously occupied. Let’s just say we aren’t on good terms.”

Swearing under your breath, you pass a hand across your face, wondering if you’ve reached out to a complete fucking crazy person for a sliver of help. However, you realise that he’s alive, just like you are, even after having direct contact with the Pegan deity. When you ask him about this, he tells you how it all started.

Famous author Ellison Oswald, helping him with a case that took place in his hometown, finding out what was really going on. Then learning of Oswald’s death, which kick-started his quest to bring Bughuul down. Since 2012, So-and-So has left his deputy life behind, deciding to live off the backseat of his car, driving from coast-to-coast, destroying as many homes as he can get his hands on, essentially becoming a criminal, a serial arsonist. His girlfriend and her son once survived a Bughuul attack, but met the same fate as everyone else a few months later when they moved back into their old home. Since then, So-an-So has been on his own, doing America a great service from the shadows.

It’s a sad tale. And the fact that he continues helping others despite the atrocities he’s faced, makes you respect and appreciate this insane man even more.

“Why didn’t It kill me and the people that took me in after I was adopted? Why wait until now, why only me?” You finally ask, hoping, praying, So-and-So has an answer to your inquiry.

You hear some shuffling in the background, sounding loud against the silent backdrop of your conversation and your room. “That… I still haven’t figured out yet. I’ve been in contact with multiple experts, a few in particular, who specialise in occultist crimes. I’m still waiting on a reply from them. Your case, I’m sorry, but it makes no sense.”

Your lip quivers, a fog of tears clouding your vision.

He doesn’t know.

The one person in the world who can help you, can’t, and you find yourself devastated, abandoning all hope of seeing it passed your next birthday.

“Miss (L/N).”

“It’s just…” You curse under your breath, holding back a sob. “I thought…”

“If it makes you feel better, I just finished dealing with a house in Iowa. Heading to Seattle won’t take me more than three days.” It doesn’t. It only lets you know that help – though you can’t really call it help when your fate is sealed – is three whole days away, and in the meantime, you have to sit through an awful conversation with your folks and return to the house you most definitely regret buying now.

A motor starts, So-and-so probably getting into his car and heading straight for you. “While I wait for Professor Stomberg to get back to me, I need you to answer a few things, alright? God, I’m so sorry you have to live through this.”

You tell him you appreciate the sentiment, and while you aren’t excited to recount what happened in the early hours of the morning, you don’t have any choice in the matter, especially since it links directly to your chances of survival. He starts off by asking if you’ve seen snakes or scorpions in your house. According to him, those are two of his earthly symbols, signifying his invasion of a home. Omens, he clarifies. You have not, if you had, you best believe an exterminator would have been called and you wouldn’t have spent months sleeping in that house.

Then he follows up by asking if you felt someone in the home, heard things in the middle of the night.

You hadn’t, besides the persistent sensation of being watched.

“Come across a box of Super 8 tapes and a camera?”

“Neither, but I’ve never even checked the attic.” The both of you come to a consensus that the attic would remain untouched, extra storage space or checking ‘just in case’, wasn’t worth the risk.

“What about the symbol?”

You frown, teeth biting on your inner cheek. “Symbol? What symbol?”

“I thought you said you watched my video. In it, I show Bughuul’s symbol.”

After seeing your baby picture on the screen, you had paused the video, then proceeded to have a meltdown. The video did start up without your doing, but you had zoned out by then, and hadn’t paid attention to the rest. “By the time you reached that part of the video, I had direct eye contact with that thing. I was kind of preoccupied with that, sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it. I’ll send you a picture.”

“You sure you should text and drive?”

He scoffs. “Texting and driving are the least of my concerns.” A minute later, you get the notification of a new text, and once again, as you stare at your screen, your life crumbles even more than you ever thought possible considering your circumstances.

“(L/N)?” So-and-So calls when you dissolve into a million pieces, not bothering to keep an eye on the front door as you see no purpose in salvaging your life.

Letting your body fall sideways across the wall and on to the floor, you wail as you watch the birthmark at the base of your thumb, about three centimeters in length and two in width, a muddled version of the one on your screen.

Suddenly, you are disgusted, afraid of yourself. The connection between you and this Demon growing exponentially.

“Miss (L/N)!” So-an-so stresses loudly, panic-stricken. “What the hell is going on!?”

“The mark,” you whisper as tears run the side of your face, fingers dragging over what feels like a branding. “I have the exact symbol as a birthmark.”

“What?”

“I HAVE THE SAME FUCKING MARK ON MY HAND! THE SAME, EXACT, ONE!” You can’t breathe, fingers clawing at your throat. Every exhale comes in rapid puffs, barely any air entering your lungs as you’re too quick to expel the small amount you manage to take in.

How, you wonder, has your life gone to shit so quickly?

Twenty-four hours ago, you’d blissfully lived a life of perpetual obliviousness, sheltered by stubbornness to not get into the fucked-up shit that surrounds your new place of residence. This is your punishment for ignoring the signs, for not listening to your mother who tends to always be right in the end, for valuing solitude over your morals.

This is your reckoning.

“WHAT DOES IT MEAN? WHY DO I – FUCK!”

“I don’t know, miss. I really don’t know. But it might explain why you survived, why you don’t fit the pattern.”

You let the phone drop on the ground, feeling the life drain out of you before Bughuul even has the chance to get his hands on you. No hope is left as you accept your fate. Maybe you should put yourself out of your misery and return to the house, call out for Bughuul or his army of soulless children to make it all stop. You’ve been dealing with this for less than a day, and you’ve already given up.

“You can’t give up, Miss (L/N).” You must be mumbling your tragic thoughts out loud.

“(Y/N)” You whisper. Your birth name, just like your original last name, sounds more appealing, feels better on the tip of your tongue than the one you’ve been addressed as for your entire life. It feels… right. “Might as well call me by my real name.”

The conversation stalls from there, neither you nor the ex-deputy knowing what to say. He stays on the line though, to make sure you stay alive until either your parents or police station calls, listening to your whimpers as you sniffle, not bothering to wipe any of the snot and tears from your face.

You don’t care about making a fool of yourself in front of So-and-So, or the police, or your parents; all three groups having seen you at your worst.

It comforts you, in a way, having spoken with So-and-So, because at least one person will know the truth behind – what you don’t doubt will be – the odd, unexplainable circumstances of your disappearance. It comforts you, that before you die, you will get to see your parents one last time, let them know that even though you feel utterly betrayed by your findings, you love them and your older brother Benjamin and your younger sister Katie deeply. It comforts you, that while you deeply hate cops for their less-than-ethical methods of dealing with crimes and the deep-rooted corruption, they did everything humanly possible to assure your safety.

Just pass three in the afternoon, you get another call, and it’s time to say goodbye to your new friend So-and-So. He’s reluctant to hang up, but you assure you'll keep him updated on everything that is said and done, every action you take.

At this point, he knows you have nothing left to lose, so he lets you go and promises to call you when this occult professor sends word.

The policeman who stayed with you through the night and well into the morning informs you that they scoured the woods through-and-through, unsurprisingly to you, coming up empty. Neighbours were interrogated, and besides hearing you scream last night, no one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary or a man that matched the description you gave the police.

Of course, they wouldn’t find anything, or anyone, Bughuul and the children only showing themselves to his victims. A part of you had naively remained hopefully someone had, but you knew they wouldn’t unless they were as dumb as you and decided to move into the house.

The man on the other end of the line asks if you plan on returning home. You firmly state that you will wait for your parents to touch down on soil until you move a muscle from your spot on the ground.

That makes him chuckle sadly, as he can only imagine your state right now.

If only he knew the true gravity of it all… but you don’t wish your fate on anyone.

“Would you like me to stop by? Do I need to stop by?”

Even if he does, you have neither the energy nor courage to get up and open the door if he did, too scared that the Pegan deity shows himself at your doorstep instead.

“I’ll be fine, officer.” You try to reassure, though the lack of life and spunk in your voice makes you unconvincing. “It’s not like I’ll be moving anytime soon.”

“Very well. Be careful, alright Miss?”

“I will.” You muster, knowing this will be the last time you speak to the nice man, knowing that the next time he hears about you, you will be long gone from this world.

Then, it is only a matter of waiting.

You honestly have no idea how much time passes between your last call and waiting for your parents to make their own. You just fixate on a stain on the gross carpet you’re laying on, letting your thoughts go empty as the adrenaline from today’s events rapidly seep out of you. You can’t produce a single thought, move a single muscle, as anything other than numbly staring into space requires too much energy for your worn-out state. Without you noticing, your pointer has not stopped stroking the birthmark below your thumb, a mark that garnered a lot of attention throughout the years.

To think that, once upon a time, you saw it as cool.

Despite being far pass your limit, your subconscious battles to keep you from shutting your eyes, knowing, deep inside, that once you let go completely and succumb to your weariness, you’ll end up face-to-face with the being that has shaken you to your very core.

The sun begins to set, and thankfully, you had turned on the lights when you first entered, before plopping your ass on the ground. You’d probably have another panic-attack if the room went dark.

Your phone rings. It takes everything you have to press the little green button on your screen, a picture of your father staring back at you.

“Dad.”

“We’re on our way to you, ten minutes out.” Hearing the warmth of his voice softens the shakes that have wracked your body for hours now, its effect similar to a comfort blanket placed on your shoulders.

“Ok…” You breathe, eyes growing heavy.

“Talk to me, hun. Tell me how you’re feeling.” Your mother chimes in this sickly-sweet tone she’s used every single time you or your siblings got sick, or got depressed.

But you don’t know how you feel – drained mostly, you tell her – nothing makes sense to you anymore, and you don’t want to make it clear either. Now, you just want to get this whole thing over and done with.

During the time it takes them to ride a taxi to you, your mouth moves on autopilot, answering your parents, your brain not even registering what is being said from either side. “When we get to your door, your mom will do that little knock she used to do when you guys were young.”

It’s smart, and just a tad over-the-top, but it only shows how intelligent and diligent your father is. Only five people know that knock, even the deity wouldn’t know it if by some miracle, it eavesdrops on your conversation right now, easily identifiable to you. That notion wells up a bought of bravery to surge through you, one that was snuffed out the moment that monster hovered in your door frame.

You can hear your parents muttering something to the driver, doors slamming shut, ringing from your device and from outside. “We’re coming up the stairs.”

For the first time in hours, you move from your spot. You sigh in relief when you find your room empty.

Then, the knock you grew up hearing echoes, two, two, one. “We’re at your door.”

“Coming.” You keep your phone at your ear, getting onto terribly wobbly legs at a snail’s pace. Each step causes the speed of your heart to increase, until it reaches painful levels. Your blood sears your veins, your skin burning up.

You jump and squeak when the knocks sounds again. “Sweetie,” You hear your mom in double. “Are you ok?”

That’s all you need to yank the motel door open, throwing yourself in your parents’ arms and immediately falling to shambles. They hold on tight as you clung to them for dear life, cooing gently while they stroke your back.

God, you love these people so much. Biological or not, they are your one and only family.

“I love you both.” You whisper through your hiccups, pressing them closer to you.

“We love you too, sweetie. So damn much.” The sincerity you get from your mother breaks you a little more, knowing she will never recover when you leave this world.

Your father is the first to break away, ushering the three of you inside the room away from prying eyes of other guests. You let yourself be guided to the dingy, creaking bed, your mom’s arms securely around your waist, never once straying from its place.

She sits next to you, your father on the office chair he dragged away from the entrance.

They don’t force you to speak, let yourself gather your bearings, head falling in your hands. Now that they’re here, the need to tell them about your discovery wavers, since you aren’t sure what good it will bring in the end. On the other hand, you want them to know that nothing changes for you. The woman at your side will always be your mother, the man sitting a meter away will always be your father, your siblings back home will still be your siblings.

Taking a deep breath, you inform them of what you plan on doing now that they are here. The three of you will return to the house, your mother will sleep next to you for your own comfort, and as a layer of protection against Bughuul. From what you learned from So-and-So, It won’t harm anyone that passes by, only the permanent resident of the home it inhabits. Your parents will be safe, and will keep you – hopefully – shielded until they leave. Your mother likes the idea and your dad agrees it's for the best.

As a plan forms, your exhaustion hits you all at once, and your body swoons in place.

“Let’s get you out of here, yes?” Your dad pulls you to your feet while your mom packs your things.

“I don’t want to sleep.” You admit, your body screaming with every step you make, begging you to lay down and stop moving so it can get some rest.

Both your parents need to help you down the stairs since your limbs have decided to stop working and turn to jelly. “You’ve gone through something awful, stayed up all night. You need to rest.”

And the only place where you are allowed to sleep at this point is in that house, if not, you will prolong the pattern. Just the thought of returning to that house gives you the chills as you know damn well, the deity and those children are waiting for your arrival. “I’m scared.”

“I won’t leave your side.” Your mother reassures, pushing you down in the backseat of your car. “Your dad will go to the hardware store to get you new locks for your front and back door and grab the things we’ll need to cook you a big lasagna.”

Your lips twitch. Pasta – crabs, really – is your favourite thing in the world, lasagna at the top of your list. It’s been your comfort food ever since you can remember, bringing nothing but smiles and cheeriness with each supper, each bite.

Seeing the near unnoticeable smile that ghosted your lips, your father smirks. “Yea… I knew you’d like that.”

With your bag placed on your lap, your parents get in the front and start the car and head for your house. The ride takes both forever and a second at the same time, anxiety spiking when your house comes into view.

You close your eyes and attempt to settle your uneven breathing, clutching the front seat with a death grip, with enough force to make the material protest. The car door opens, and you feel a hand soothing your back. “Your dad went in first to make sure it’s safe. C’mon, we’ll go together.”

Blinking back tears, you sit up straight and swivel your legs out of the car.

Instantly, you see the boy that was once considered your brother at the window. Face stoic and frighteningly void of any humanity, nothing about him different from the photographs. Your father can’t see him, since you see his silhouette passing behind Alexander, neither does your mother as she pulls you inside. You are stuck – much like with Bughuul – in a staring contest with your dead sibling as you make your way through the path leading to your ajar front door.

It is only when you are a few feet away from entering do you tear your gaze away, pausing.

Inside, there are other children, all with the same pale complexion as Alexander, though much smoother than Bughuul’s.

You can count seven in total.

“It’s clear!” Your father calls from one of the guest bedrooms.

It most certainly is not.

“Alright, in we go.” The tugging at your arms makes you move. It is only once you are back inside that you feel the tears on your cheeks, realise the deafening thumping of your heart rattling your skull, the sweat that tickles your brows.

From the corner of your eyes, you watch Alexander move from his place at the window, almost floating as he walks up next to a boy dressed in black slacks and sweater vest, not a hair out of place.

“I’m…” You hear a giggle, more like a reverberation you get in churches. A girl with ginger hair and an odd, khaki painting suit hanging loosely over her body, waves at you the moment you make eye contact. The only thing you could do is snap your head away and try to swallow down the impending need to vomit. “I’m going too – uh, nap… here.”

You sit on the couch, aware that the children are converging your way, depositing your bag on the coffee table. “I’ll bring you a pillow –”

“– Wait!” You shout, stopping your mother dead in her tracks. “Don’t… I don’t – you, you can’t.”

She gets what you’re trying to convey, thankfully, asking your father to bring you a pillow and blanket instead, sad smile curling her mouth. She takes the bedding from your father and tucks you in just like she did when you were younger.

When your parents are sure you’re comfy, your father takes your keys and heads for the store, while your mother turns on the television and sits in the rocking chair by the bookcase opposite the window. You love that chair, spent a lot of your savings to get it, loving to sway while reading a good book in the evening.

You’ll miss that stupid fucking chair.

“Sleep, honey. I won’t move, promise.”

Her leaving your side to pee or to get a snack isn’t what scares you, it’s the kids that stand around her that do. What if they attack her? What if Bughuul comes back and does something to her? What if you wake up to blood splatters all over the walls, the floor, your parents’ lifeless bodies at your side?

“H-Hey! Don’t cry!” You bite your lip and shake your head, silently begging the children to not hurt her. From her perspective, it looks to your mother as if you refuse to get a wink of sleep. She shoots up and sits on the edge of the couch. “Here, I’ll stay right here until you fall asleep. Ok?”

You nod and wiggle a hand out of the covers, lacing your fingers with hers, bringing them close to your chest. This is your lifeline, the only thing that grounds you, right here, and you won’t let go of it even once you enter your dreams.

She shushes your weeps, wiping tears that pool and drip down. You can’t ignore the figures still hovering around the rocking chair, but you let your eyes close and sleep finally claims you.

You wake up in the early hours on Sunday according to your phone, refreshed from having rested for over a day, courtesy of extreme fatigue and trauma.

Your mother, sleeps soundly in an odd position on the love seat to your right, your fathers’ snoring heard from down the hall in one of the guest rooms.

They’re alive, is the first thing that comes to mind, and you're so fucking grateful that your pleas to the good powers above acknowledged you. And what comes as an even greater relief, is that the children are gone, or have hidden themselves away from your sight.

Turning your head, you find the kitchen just as empty as the living room, the hall as well. No little heads peer from any of the rooms, and the house feels empty, as if there only are three people instead of quadruple that amount.

They really did leave.

For now.

A large part of you, the one still absolutely shaken by what has and will happen to you, screams at you to wake up your mother. You need to shower. You smell like crap, your hair is a greasy, matted mess, and the thought of being alone in the shower, curtain drawn and obscuring your view from the door doesn’t sit well with you.

But dammit, your mother looks so peaceful sleeping and you know she hates being forcefully woken up. Let’s not forget that you’re a grown ass woman, who’s clock is ticking down so quickly the numbers aren’t visible.

Realistically, you have nothing to lose, and it is that notion that squares your shoulders and swells faint bubbles of bravery.

You don’t look in any of the rooms as you pass them. If the children, or Bughuul himself is there, you’d rather not notice. Stopping in the master, it’s exactly as you left it in the early hours of Friday. Covers a skew, hoodie and photo album on the floor, closet doors open. The only thing that has changed is the window Bughuul – you assume – left open when the cops barraged in your room. It is now shut and locked.

It calms you naught, knowing that the deity could simply appear at your side anytime It wanted.

Grabbing the first clothes you see; you take whatever you need and go in your en suite. It’s just as void of souls as the rest of your house, but for your own comfort, you do close the door but keep the shower curtain open, water could easily be cleaned up.

You’re as quick as you can, wash the grime out of your hair and body, not taking a second to breathe and enjoy the warm jet pounding against your skin or the feeling of being clean. No, the process is rushed, your own mental timer counting down the minutes before you let yourself wide open to be ambushed by the eater of children.

With your luck, it’d take you naked and dripping wet – not the good kind of naked and dripping wet.

Stepping out of the shower, you dry yourself haphazardly and change into leggings and a loose shirt, barely taking the time to remove most of the water in your hair before you exit. The bathroom is too small, too foggy for you to breathe comfortably, to feel safe.

So, you flee, leaving your dirty clothes on the ground, which are probably soaking up the water on the floor, and straight back to the living room.

For the next couple of hours, you just sit next to your mother and stare down the hallway. If you had to guess, the children would most likely come from that direction, especially since the main area of your home glowed from the rising east sun.

“Honey?” Your head snaps to the right, your mother groaning as she sits up, her back cracking loudly when she stretches. “You’re awake, and showered.”

Nodding, you fiddle with a damp lock of your hair. “Yea…”

“You slept for a long time. We had to check up on you a few times to make sure you weren’t dead.” She says it to tease, to lighten the gloomy cloud that has found permanent residence above your head, but the comment only sours your already bleak mood further. You manage to conjure up a smile, however faint, to show her you appreciate her attempt. “How about I make you breakfast? I made muffins yesterday.”

“That’d be great, actually. I’m fucking starving.”

She scoffs as you follow her to the kitchen. “I bet. You’ve slept through Friday night and the whole of Saturday.”

Your mom places down a Tupperware filled with chocolate-banana muffins, and you immediately take two. “I was exhausted.”

You watch as she takes out what she needs to cook you a gourmet breakfast, liking how she’s already familiarised herself with the ins-and-out of your kitchen, knowing where everything is. The bread, butter, cutting boards, knives and pans.

The muffins are mouth-watering, delicious, and you gobble them down in record time.

Soon after, your father joins and the three of you have a nice meal together. They ask you how you’re feeling, and you reply honestly. You’re still afraid to be alone – but less – you’re uneasy in your own home but don’t doubt that feeling will leave soon. For emphasis, you mention the new locks on the door that are useless against ghost children and a Pegan deity. But your parents don’t need to know that part.

They have to leave right after supper, which is perfect for you since you saw on your phone messages from So-and-So, informing you he’d stop by noon the next day. You didn’t listen to the voice mail he left you, choosing to let him know you are alive, with your folks and you didn’t answer him for a day because you were sleeping. You send him a selfie as proof, proof he accepts.

The entire time you hang out with your parents, you wonder when you should bring up the adoption, or if you should bring it up at all, they’re leaving soon, so why ruin a perfect moment together?

Oh right, because you need confirmation from their mouths that infant who survived that attack is you.

You choose after lunch as the perfect time to do so. You’re all siting quietly, watching television, this is as good as a time as any.

“Can I show you guys something?” You ask them, already pulling up an article of the events that transpired the night Bughuul and the children failed to kill you.

“Sure sweetie. What is it?”

When the article with yours and Alexander’s face pops up, you place the laptop in front of them. Their faces drop almost instantly.

“That’s me. Isn’t it?” Neither look up, or move, or reply, they just stare at the screen like they’ve seen a ghost, or like they’ve been caught in the act of doing something they weren’t supposed to do. “(Y/N)(L/N), that’s my real name, isn’t it? I’m adopted.”

You understand their stunned silence, but at this point, you’re growing impatient at their lack of response.

On cue, Alexander walks across the room to stand behind your parents, peering down at the computer briefly, then turning to stare at you. “So, you’ve figured it out.”

You don’t grace Alexander’s question with a reply, ignoring his existence altogether to focus on your parents.

“I’m not… This doesn’t change anything.” You breathe when you notice twinkling beads shimmering down your mother’s face.

Your mother drops her head in her hands, shoulders shaking as she cries. And you let her. You can only imagine what’s going through her mind. You sit and wait for the shock to let go of the reigns over your father’s ability to function, you wait until your mom has cried her fill and calms.

Alexander, as this goes on, takes a seat next to you, a little too close for your liking, but you don’t give him what he wants, your attention.

“You look exactly like our mother and our oldest brother.” You know this already, you’ve seen the pictures, and at first, the resemblance had scared you. “Me and Justin were more like our dad. I think we can both agree you got the better end of the stick on that one.”

The fact that this soulless child, a soulless child that killed his entire family, your family, makes you pinch your lips to stop a grin from blossoming is frightening. Alexander, your second-eldest brother, was one of Bughuul’s children, helping him lure other vulnerable kids to do atrocities.

“I was the funny one, by the way, duh. Justin was the smart one, but honestly, he didn’t have much competition in that department with Christian, the eldest, around. He was a good big bro, but an idiot.” Why is he telling you this? Is it to solidify this bond the two of you once shared? Is it to weaken your defense and make you an easier prey for Bughuul?

Your brows furrow at the last one, disgust at the very real possibility behind that thought.

Well, sucks for him, because you don’t intend to let yourself be manipulated that easily. You aren’t a child, if he wants to soften you up, Alexander will have to work much, much harder.

“I’m sorry…” Your mom finally says after many minutes have gone by. As soon as they stiffened, you had received your answer, but your mother apologising made it all the more true.

“Why are you apologising?”

She is taken aback by your question, mouth dropping open as she looks at you. “Wha… What?”

“Why are you apologising?” You repeat. You leave Alexanders’ side and sit on the armrest where your parents sit. “Because you didn’t tell me?”

“We never wanted you to find out this way. Or at all.” Your father mutters as he leans back on the loveseat, sighing deeply.

Your mother reaches for your hands, a broken look of desperation you’ve never seen before in her eyes. “Please don’t hate us. We love you so much, you are just as much as our child as Benji and Katie. Please don’t –”

“– I know.” Squeezing back her hands, you sent your mother a warm, honest smile. “I’m shocked, upset you didn’t tell me and I had to find out from some other source. But like I said, this… this doesn’t change anything. You will always be my mom.”

She bursts into more tears and pulls you to her, face buried in your shoulder.

The roles are reversed now, you, soothing your inconsolable mother.

You make eye contact with your father, whose eyes are also redden, brimming with tears yet to be shed. You mouth ‘I love you’ and take his hand in yours.

Later, they answer all of your questions.

Benjamin figured it out early on, thanks to biology classes in fifth grade. There was a six-year gap between the two, and after finding out where babies came from, remembering the lack of baby bump from your mother who had just showed up with you in her arms out of the blue, he confronted your parents and they told him the truth, making him swear to never to breathe a word to you about this, and later, to Katie as well. At least, now it made sense why Benji always got upset when Katie, or others teased you about being the black sheep of the family.

Your parents had always dreamed of having lots of children of their own, but after Benjamin, they struggled to get pregnant, going through miscarriage after miscarriage, and not long before your biological family was murdered, they started applying to adoption agencies.

Almost a year later, they saw your face on a list of possible adoptions and fell in love with you instantly.

“The pudgy cheeks, the eyes, the thick locks of hair. You were perfect, and the second we laid our eyes on you, we knew you belonged with us, you were our daughter.”

Katie followed a year and a half later, a surprise to all, a miracle. After your mom gave birth, one that nearly killed her, they decided to stop trying, content with the family they created together.

“You know…” You speak barely above a whisper, glancing at one of the many ridiculous family pictures of the five of you on your bookshelf. “I’m lucky.”

“Why'd you say that?”

You wipe a stray salty droplet from your jaw, smiling gently. “Most parents don’t get to chose their children. But I – I was chosen. My parents saw me in a sea of hundreds of other babies and chose me, out of all of them. How lucky am I?”

Alexander has not strayed from his place on the couch, and you swear you hear him scoff. But enveloped in your parents embrace, you can’t be bothered.

Much to yours and your parents’ chagrin, they can’t stay any longer since they have work Monday. You’ve already called your boss to let them know you won’t be coming in tomorrow, and when she heard of the ‘break-in’, she allowed you a sick day no problem.

Goodbyes are tearful and painful; your father has to pry your mom away from you when the cab honks at them to get moving.

They’ll call you when they land, and with your blessing, agree to let Katie know about the adoption.

You make sure to hold back the tears – though you’re any second away from falling apart – and try and burn every inch of their faces, of their beings to memory. Just in case that once Bughuul sucks your soul, you can keep them floating around in your mind.

The sun begins to set as the cab drives off, and as soon as it is out of sight, you feel several presences behind you.

“Wasn’t that sweet.”

You resist the urge to scowl at the boy with the sweater vest and neat hair, pushing the lump in your esophagus further down and brushing past him and the others.

Your lack of response isn’t appreciated, several books go flying off shelves. You need to stay strong, not let your guard down and let yourself be vulnerable.

“You can’t ignore us forever.”

The hell you can. These children don’t know you what’s so ever, and it shows. Once, you ignored Katie for close to three months when she snuck into your room and stole, then ruined, your favourite pair of shoes. It was petty at the time; you can only imagine the lengths you are willing to go to ignore these kids.

Leaning on the kitchen counter, you sigh and rub your weary face. Alexander had hovered around you the whole day, just freaking staring at you, brows pinched. It unnerved you the entire time, but you had your parents as a sort of barrier against him and the rest of the shitshow that was your life. But you’re all on your own now again, and the fright is rapidly seeping back into your bones, body chilly and shaking. You need to do something, anything to distract you from the children, and from the very obvious lack of Bughuul.

You assumed it would come back the moment you returned home. However, as the clock struck eight, it comes to your attention that you have not seen the deity all day. It did not loom from the shadows, did not try to lure or scare you away from your folks, nothing. The worst you got was Alexander… and now this other kid throwing a tantrum and flinging your books all over the place. You get the feeling that this little brat is used to getting what he wants.

Too bad you hate brats, and don’t give a shit if he turns the whole house in disarray. Doesn’t he know you’re going to die and join him any day now? Foolish, naïve child.

Cursing, you dig the heel of your palm in your eye and crouch, keeping a hold on the counter’s edge. You don’t want to be alone, not yet, you want your parents back. You need more time.

Then it hits you, So-and-So, you had told him you’d call him as soon as you could, and here you are, in a ball on the ground trying to stop yourself from having a panic attack.

You need to know what this Professor Stomberg found out, if he found anything at all. Therefore, you stand, ignoring the children and reach for your phone.

“(Y/N),” So-and-So picks up quickly, he almost sounds relieved. “You’re alive.”

Glancing at the seven kids hovering around you, you mutter a soft ‘barely’ before dragging your feet towards the books on the ground.

“Did you listen to the message I left you yet?”

“No, sorry. I’m… ugh, I’m all over the place.” One by one, the books go back in their original spot.

“It’s fine, it’s not like I expect you to be considering…” The way he lets the sentence hang is not comforting. You know there’s nothing that will change your fate, but if you can get more information of why this is happening, the better. Dying clueless is not the way you want to go.

You flicker your gaze to the children quickly, then go back to pretending they aren’t there, sitting in your rocking chair. “Did he find anything useful?”

The sigh is very telling, and fresh batch of tears gather at your lash line. “I’m sorry, (Y/N). To be fair, there wasn’t much about Bughuul to begin with. Seeing its images is a gateway for it to cross in and out of our world. Some even believed scripture could be just as powerful.”

“So, whatever is, or was related to… y’know, was destroyed?”

“Most of it, yea. And what we have available is not much. What I’ve been doing has uncovered a lot, but there’s still so much we don’t know. Including, the mark on your skin or why he let you survive him. Twice.”

Rubbing the symbol permanently stained on your skin, you grumble. “It reminds me of a branding.”

It takes a beat for So-and-So to reply, the soft rock music from his car filling the silence. “Professor Jason mentioned it might be that mark that has made you an exception all these years. ‘Cause if we follow the pattern, you and your whole family should have died not long after they brought you home. And I discovered first hand that Bughuul will find you no matter where you are, you can’t hide. Your whereabouts, that night, were well known to him. I, we think that… well, that he let you go on purpose.”

The floorboards creak, your attention snapping to the children standing in a line ten feet from you. When you realise you can’t make out anything but their silhouettes, you gain awareness that you started crying, that your lower lip trembles.

It doesn’t make sense, none of this make sense.

“Why?” The word comes out so hushed you have trouble hearing your own voice.

“I don’t know (Y/N), I really don’t know.” You rest your elbows on the peaks of your knees, head falling. “You’re special somehow, maybe that means you won’t end up like the rest.”

You have to go to bed soon, exhaustion makes your lids grow heavy, contrasting with how alert you are to any movement, any twitch that goes on around you.

Standing, you stare in the eyes of each child.

That little shit with the sweater vest.

The girl with the trench coat.

The girl dressed in warm clothes and a tuque.

A boy with clipped light hair and camo pants.

A tuft of red hair, a girl wearing a painting apron.

Carson, the boy who used to live here before you, the boy who sawed his family in half.

And finally, Alexander, your steps slowing as you pass him, gaze faltering. He’s got the same eyes as you, the shape of his lips identical, as is the texture and colour of his hair. You think, in another life perhaps, that you might have adored him as an older brother – he did manage to almost make you crack a smile while you shattered your parents’ world.

You don’t want to get to know him, resist the uncontrollable urge to say a single thing that might open the gates you have shut off between you two. And you think he feels that want, that connection you both share, that you try to deny so fiercely. Alexander makes a face you have done countless times before when conflicted, the muscles of his jaw pulsing with how much force his grinds down on his teeth, left eye squinting subconsciously.

The fingers at his side move, and you take that as a sign to leave. You’ve got to prepare yourself for what is to come.

“(Y/N)?” Oh right, you were in the middle of a conversation.

“Y-Yea – shit, sorry. I’m here, just got distracted.” You look back at Alexander one last time, then head for your bedroom.

“Are you sure everything’s alright?”

The darkness of outside seeps through the house, the lights from the kitchen and living room turning off without you ever going near the interrupters. All doors are closed, oddly, it only adds to the sinking in the pit of your stomach

You open the door to your room, and your stomach drops at the lack of presences in it.

“I need you to do something for me.” You state, ignoring the ex-deputy’s question. As you stand there, in the darkness of your room, the heavy silence circling you, acceptance and understanding washes over you.

“What do you need, (Y/N)?”

“When you get here tomorrow and I’m gone, I need you to burn this place down and call my parents.” Pivoting on your feet, you take note of the children who all hover in your door frame. The glassiness of their eyes, the chipped, decaying skin makes you take a step back, beads of water run down your face, breath faltering. They’re different than they’ve previously appeared before. Now, they truly look dead. “I’ll text you their number, and I need you to tell them everything. They need to know why I’m gone.”

“(Y/N) wait a seco –”

“– I’m going to bed now.” You cut him off, trying your best not to sob. So-and-So tries to argue with you, tries to instill lost hope within you, but you’re over it all. “Thank you, So-and-So.” You say through his instant rambling. “For taking the time to talk to me, answer my questions, and making all of this make sense. Thank you for doing what you’re doing, for bringing a stop to the murders. Thank you for being kind and lending me an ear. It’s a shame we won’t meet, but I think it’s better that way…”

He's stopped talking.

“Please let my parents, Benji, Katie know, that I love them so damn much.” And with that, you hang up, and promptly text So-and-So your parents’ numbers.

He tries to call you non-stop, leaving voicemail after voicemail. But you just chuck your phone somewhere, gaze never wavering away from the children, moving to sit on your bed.

You are exhausted, mentally and emotionally. Tonight, you will most certainly die and you can’t be bothered attempting to run away and start anew, to fight the deity that will undoubtedly make an appearance.

There is nothing you can do, you are at a standstill, checkmated by your fate.

You slip off your socks and pants, not carrying for modesty. The sweater you have on comes next, and you put on your pyjama top and remove your bra from underneath.

They're still kids, you won’t show them your private parts.

You get in bed with a heavy heart, finally looking away from the children as your head lies on the pillow.

With the covers over your shoulders, your eyes shut tight and you wait. Wait for the kids to come in and taunt you, throw your room in disarray. Wait for Alexander, especially, to do or say something, anything.

But he doesn’t, none of them do.

Your bedroom door slams shut, jolting your stilling body, whimper escaping your throat despite your best efforts.

You aren’t stupid enough to think it’s over, something will go down whether you want to or not, whether you stay hopeful it won’t or don’t.

It is only a matter of waiting.

Then it comes, the eerie creaking of the bedroom door, the powerful aura of doom pressing you further in your mattress.

The presence of the Deity is difficult to miss, even as your eyes shut painfully tight and you are shrouded by darkness. It looms over you in a suffocating manner, making breathing become a challenge. You try to act as if you are unaware of the Deity, but you are overtly conscious that your body shakes, your limbs tense up visibly, and your breath comes out a harsh, wobbly mess.

The floor creaks under each step Bughuul takes. They come closer and closer until you can sense him right by your head.

Despite your best effort, you clutch the sheets closer to your body, as if to shield you from the otherworldly figure.

I know you are awake.

You take in a sharp breath, shut your eyes even tighter if that’s possible, shying ever-so-slightly away from the Deity. The floor creaks again, and you swear you can feel your face being fanned by his breath.

It’s an absurd thing to think, seeing as it has no mouth, but at this point, anything is possible.

Open your eyes, (Y/N).

You foolishly shake your head, leaning further in the middle of your bed to try and put some distance between the two of you.

I said… open your eyes.

“Please.” You whisper, voice cracking pathetically. “I don’t want to die.”

Cold skin settles on your sizzling cheek, a sob escaping your lips at the contact. You can’t explain the sensation coursing through you, the way your body instinctively reacts.

You’re quick to grab the wrist that holds your face, but you don’t try to pull it away. You just hold it there. Every ounce of you trembles, your heart pounds erratically in your chest, but you aren’t sure if it’s for the same reason as before.

You don’t think your body behaves like this out of fear.

The deity’s thumb strokes your cheekbone, chipped, blackened nails scrapping dangerously close to your lid. It causes you to whimper. The action is almost tender, loving, and it terrifies you when you realise you like it.

“Please…” You have no idea what you are pleading for. For it to let go, for it to keep its hand there, for death, for life, something.

Open your eyes.

It takes some time for you to listen, opening briefly only to shut them again when you catch a glimpse of its face. In your defence, it's not the most pleasant face to look at. The lack of eyes and mouth, the ghoulish skin, the stringy black hair. It is a thing of nightmares.

But you do, slowly, until they flutter open and no longer close. Until you lay face-to-face with the demonic God, the Pegan Deity: Bughuul; the eater of children

Your breath catches in your throat at the close proximity of your two faces.

From this distance, you can make out the white flesh strung up and down its mouth, the twinkle of red somewhere deep, in the place where its iris would have been if that thing were any part human. The black and brown faded blemishes contrast with the incredible paleness of his skin.

While you are still scared out of your mind, up close, you can’t help but think Bughuul is handsome in its own undead, eats-the-souls-of-children-for-breakfast type of way.

The thought clogs the columns of your throat, makes your mouth go dry.

Mine.

It has said that before, several times now, and you have no idea what it could possibly mean.

“I –” Words are difficult to articulate at the moment, brain too full of everything to form any kind of coherent sentence at the moment.

You are mine, (Y/N).

Your grip tightens on its wrist subconsciously, brows twitching. “I – I don’t…”

Bughuul drags you up to a sitting position like it's nothing, and you let yourself be man-handled. You have far reached past your limit to move or think, or do much of anything.

To your utter horror, your heart aches when it removes its hand from your face to pull you up, tingles ran up the length of your legs when it grabs your ankles to place your feet on the floor, goosebumps covering your bare thighs when it rests its massive, cold hands on your knees.

I have been looking for you for millennials. The only thing you can do is stare, tears continuing to run down your face, mouth gaped openly like a fish out of water. He takes hold of your left hand, thumb pressing on your birthmark – its mark. You don’t even notice that the action pulls out something akin to a moan from your lips. My soul bound.

“I don’t understand. I just… I just don’t want to die.”

Its brow bones furrow, head cocking to the side. Even when Bughuul holds you like this, like lovers would, it does not lose any ounce of its eeriness.

You keep saying you do not want to die, as if I am here to kill you. I have no intention of doing so. Not yet, anyway.

“T-Then, how? Wh-Why?” Your eyes roam all over its face, as if you will find the answers to your questions by doing so. All you get is blankness.

I was born out of children’s fears of what lurks in the darkness. If you weren’t sitting in front of a demonic God, scared out of your mind, and confused, you would have appreciated this new piece of information. But within the depths of a child's innocence, even through the darkness, also comes the promise of light.

It taps the mark just under your thumb.

And you are my light. The soul that was meant to escape me. The soul created to be mine.

You sit there, stunned, unable to process what Bughuul tells you. “Light? Yours...?”

It nods, the hand on your thigh slowly creeping upwards. The moment you were born with this mark, you and I were destined to meet, to become one.

“Like, fuse together?” You swear Bughuul chuckles in the back of your mind, the noise low and scratchy, sending tingles some place it shouldn’t. It shakes its head, hand reaching closer and closer to your centre. “S…” You gulp. “Sex?”

Love. It corrects, fingers digging in the plushness of your thighs. You are the only person that can love me, and I am the only person that can truly love you, that you can love.

“But that doesn’t make any sense.” You try to wrap around what Bughuul is insinuating. The hand on your thigh makes it hard for you to concentrate as it elicits reactions from deep within you that you have never felt with anyone else before, or at all. Maybe it is telling the truth. “I love my family, my friends. So how can I only love you, and how would that even work?”

The simple fact that you are entertaining the idea of being linked to the deity is ridiculous on its own, and here you are, asking for clarifications on the working details of what – you assume – is supposed to be a relationship of some sort with Bughuul.

Its nails press further in your thigh, and you have to do everything in your power to not gasp, to not keen at the action.

You feel it, don’t you? It almost says in a teasing tone. The uncontrollable desire, the insatiable want… that is the cry of your soul to become one with mine.

“I don’t feel anything.” You are anything but convincing, voice barely above a whisper and low, your panties drenched from arousal. Your body screams at you to lunge forward, to let the deity have its way with you despite your fright, despite the insanity of it all.

The hand on your wrist leaves, as does the one on your thigh. It grips your hips and yanks you closer, until your noses touch and your body is flush with his. The rapidity of his pulls makes you gasp, latching on to its’ shoulders for stability.

Do not lie to me, (Y/N). I can smell how wet you are from here. Bughuul’s hands travel to your back side, grabbing the swell of your ass. You mewl, long and whiny, and in this moment, you have never been more ashamed than right now. And you smell delicious.

“W-Wait!” You shake your head, pushing Bughuul away from you just enough for your senses to be free to roam. “Does that mean you won’t kill me?”

Not yet.

“What does that mean?”

You are not ready yet. Its answer doesn’t help, but you need to continue pushing through the haze of undeniable lust and forge ahead.

“What happens if we… y’know…”

His palms traveling up your back pull your shirt with them, skin both erupting into flames and shivering with the cold of his skin. You and I will be truly bonded, nothing will be able to separate us, ever.

“Will you continue to eat children, murder their families if we...?”

I must eat to survive. You almost wish you hadn’t asked. The reply little pleasing.

You’ve just learned that your fates meant to intertwine all along, you and Bughuul are linked, bonded, soulmates of some sort. This concept of soulmate is a thing of fairy tales and fan fiction, yet here you are, paired with a fucking demonic, Pegan deity, not even another human being. Someone meant to devour, cause havoc and pain wherever it goes.

And yes, you may want to tear away at Bughuul’s clothes and let him have his way with you, but you still have morals.

This thing, or man, ate the soul of your brother and killed your birth family. That is not something you can easily forgive.

You grab his wrist before they reach just under your breast, pulling them away. “I need time.”

For what? It – he turns his hands over and take yours.

“You killed my family.” You state, not shying from the red gleam deep in his eye socket. “You killed Alexander, and now, apparently, I’m soul bound to a demon responsible for all that? I need time to process all of this.”

Bughuul leans in, closer and closer, until your noses touch. It makes you shutter, eyes fluttering shut.

His hands travel to your front, sharp, darkened nails scratch at your skin, leaving a fierce storm of goosebumps in their wake.

You try to fight it, whatever this ‘it’ is, trying to cling on your last shred of conscious self-control. No part of you wants to give in to this bond you both clearly share and at the same time, every inch, nerve, every single atom in your body yearns to let yourself be claimed.

You will have all the time in the world to think after.

Pathetically, you shudder as his hands reach the swell of your breast, lip clenched tight between your teeth. Your brain manages, though with much trouble, to make out what Bughuul husked in your mind. But as soon as his freezing fingers graze across your painfully hardened nipples, any and all coherent thoughts fly out the window, a long, drone mewl slipping out of your bruised lips.

Mine. He has said this so many times that you find yourself starting to believe this claim. No one will ever be able to have you like this.

As horrific as it sounds, in the moment, for one, fleeing second, you yourself believe that you don’t want anyone else anyway, ever.

Brain clouded with his touch, his nails dig into your swelting breasts, thumbs rolling, flickering your nipples with an increase of pressure, in a way that makes your back arch into him, your mouth to fall open and disgustingly lusting sounds to echo in the darkness of your room.

“The children…” You whisper, hands gripping his collar, unknowingly pulling the Deity closer. “I don’t – ah! - I don’t want them to watch.”

They have long left. He answers you, nose slipping past yours, slowly going down, dragging in the hollow of your cheek, to the length of your jaw only to rest in the crook of your neck.

Shaky hands reach to cup the base of his neck, pressing his face closer, harshly into your skin. “I…” Eyes roll in the back of your head when he pinches one of the buds. You’re losing your grasp on reality, not only that, you’re about to just plainly lose it. “I need – m-more time.”

Bughuul doesn’t bless you with a reply. Clearly, he knows that your pleas are less than half backed at best, that you are incapable of stopping the inescapable fate the universe bestowed upon you long before you took your first breath.

If things couldn’t get any worse, you want to crawl in a hole and die when you whine in protest the millisecond his hands leave your breast and his face leaves its comfort where your neck meets your shoulder. It is only to pull your shirt over your head, to expose yourself to him.

You sit on your bed, so close to Bughuul you can actually feel the deathly chill of his body temperature, in only unflattering panties and you hate every minute of it.

Despite the lack of eyes, you can tell he is taking the sight of you in.

The heaving of your chest, reddened lips partly ajar, eyes already fucked-out and glazed over… You still clung to him with enough force to make your fingers ache, in the hopes that it will keep you grounded, that it will keep your brain functioning and afloat, to not let your entirety be consumed by the desperate yanking of desire pulling at your gut.

This is wrong, all of this is so very wrong you can’t even begin to process the severity of the consequences of what is about to happen.

If your parents saw you now, if So-an-So saw you now, if the dead children, the murdered families; your own, dead, biological family saw you right now, they would all be so ashamed of you succumbing to your needs.

The red gleam deep in the pool of his smudges never stray away from yours, his hands press on your stomach, pushing until you lay flat on your bed.

Your core pulses, throbs, gushes furiously in a way it never has before. No other person has ever reduced you into a pile of nothing as much as this Pegan deity has with only the simple graze of his freezing digits and the measly few flicks to your nipples. The wet spot on your panties is visible as your legs part further to accommodate his body between them, visible even in the night which shields your room. And with the downwards inclination of Bughuul's head, the lack of noticeability of the red gleam, you know that he’s staring at the spot, doing that side tilt he has done a few times before.

The hand resting on your rapidly rising and falling torso travels lower, scratch marks left in their wake, stopping just short of where - you would never voice this out loud - you want Bughuul to touch you most.

"What about you?" You breathe, tugging at the lapels of his black suit. His head shoots up. You don't understand how you know he is looking right into your eyes; you just do and it causes a shiver to run up your spine. What you say next ruins any chance you ever thought you had of resisting him, of trying to weed through the invasive need to claim him as yours.

Who are you kidding... you were fucked the moment you found him standing in your backyard in the middle of the night. Not even, you were fucked the moment you took that first gulp of air on this earth.

"I... I want to touch you too." The pleading, needy way you speak disgusts you, but with every tick of time that rapidly goes by, the more your entire being is taken over by a force stronger than you or the deity can wield.

He stands at full height, a terrifying reminder that Bughuul is no man, no human, a higher being capable of bringing pain and destruction down on earth.

Gulping, you watch transfixed as he shrugs off the worn suit jacket, neatly folding it before placing it somewhere on the floor. Now, his physic is revealed a little more to you. The white dress shirt strains around the thickness of his bulky arms, and you don't doubt the same goes for his back, seeing as the buttons work double-time to keep from ripping apart.

You have lost all sense of shame. You are already basically naked, Bughuul is something of your otherworldly soulmate, you will never love someone as you will him, he will never love anyone but you - never feel this human emotion but with you, and no one will ever be able to love you as deeply, as honestly, as fiercely as this deity.

Next comes his shirt, each button snapped to finally let you see his chest.

Much like his face and arms, his skin is ghoulishly pale, faint strokes of brown-black resembling dirt litter most of the area. His nipples are as black as his hair, as dark as the monsters that lurk in the night, as the sky in the early hours of the morning. His pecks, defined so sharply, you fear if you drag your tongue along their edges, you’ll get cut.

He’s beautiful, is what first comes to mind.

The way he simply stands there, arms slack at his side, letting you practically drool over him… the wide expense of his chest which you note does not rise or fall like any other living being, is inviting, you find yourself craving to let your hands wander through each dip, each curve available to you.

And you do.

You move to kneel, not wasting another precious second, and more-or-less smack your hand on his abdominal region. Like the rest of him, he is cold to the touch, something you don’t hate.

You jerk slightly when you feel his hands cup the base of your neck, fingers pressing underneath your jaw to make you look up directly into the gleam. The angle is awkward seeing as he is so much taller, it makes you lean into him, breasts flush just above his naval.

The sensation draws more of your juices to stain your wrecked panties, a powerful shiver ravaging the length of your spine, your eyes fluttering as you bite your lip. You’re a mess, an absolute mess and nothing’s happened.

Look at me.

You obey without much thought, hands continuing their exploration. His face is a thing of nightmares, it really does scare you, but the way he holds you, has caressed your body, the way you’re close to combusting, it matters less and less. He has a certain beauty, as do most terrifying things, the paleness of his skin contrasts well with the total darkness of his hair, of the smudges. His hands are massive and surprisingly soft, gentle, even... and the sheer size – while again, scary as fuck – is something you would typically swoon over had he been any regular man on the street.

This makes you think of what he would look like as a human. Whatever the answer is, you don’t doubt that he would be a thing of dreams.

His hands now cup your jaw, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. You turn your face into one of his hands, planting a light kiss in the middle of his palm.

You swear you hear him growl.

Suddenly, his thumb is in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as he slips his digit further. You find yourself sucking at it while keeping eye-contact with the Deity, swirling your tongue, grazing his thumb with your teeth.

And as this goes on, you stop your exploration of his chest and reach for the belt holding up his pants.

Bughuul shifts his gaze to your hands, presses even harder on your tongue as you remove the belt completely and dump it on the floor.

Never in a million years did you think you would be stripping a very aroused, a very hard and well-endowed being far beyond the scope of your understanding. It has not crossed your mind that Bughuul even possessed a penis, or what you assumed resembled male anatomy, but here you sit, proven wrong.

Tentatively, you cup his member over his pants – and possibly underwear – gasping at the sheer size you are met with. God, you are so stupid. Bughuul is huge, it only makes sense that the rest of him be as well.

He thrusts into your hand, whether intentional or not, and you don’t think it is, eyes locking back on to you with a rapidity which makes the curtain of hair framing his face to swivel aggressively.

Your grasp tightens around his shaft as much as his pants allow you too, and in the moment, you desperately wish he had a mouth, real eyes so that you can see if he is affected by your ministrations as you were when he simply grabbed your chest.

You don’t have time to dwell much on the thought, as Bughuul removes your hand and steps back. Entrance, you watch as the pants pool to the ground at his ankles – and you are shocked to see he actually has a faint dusting a dark leg hair over his thighs and calves and that deities do in fact wear underwear.

His bulge captivates all your attention, laying at an angle over part of his abdomen and so fucking thick your mouth fills with drool.

You wonder what it looks like, if it's exactly like one of a human, if it matches the rest of him, if it's as cold… You want to see it, taste it, know what it feels like when it undoubtedly spears you in half.

“Please…” There’s a chance your mind has gone cock-hungry, driven to madness at the prospect of being taken by your soulmate.

You have no idea what you beg for. For him to fully strip? For him to fuck you so deep, so hard, the mattress breaks, and you can’t walk for days?

For it all to stop?

No… just the thought of stopping renders you nauseous. The world could turn to shit, and you wouldn’t want whatever this is to stop. But more importantly, you don’t want him to leave.

I will never leave you, (Y/N).

You snap your attention away from his cock and up to his face, wide-eyes and gaped mouth. “You… you can…” You press a hand over your heart. “Read my mind?”

He nods his head, bending down over you until his face is right next to yours. Only fragments, only what you allow me to hear.

His nose bumps against your cheek.

Fuck, what you wouldn’t give to kiss him.

Your breath stutters when a hand cups your sex fully, long fingers slowly stroking up-and-down over your wet, covered folds. “Shit…”

He leans the both of you down, then proceeds to rid you of your panties – it’s not like they were of any use anyway.

Your whole body is taken over in shakes, as is your heart that beats wildly against the confines of your ribs.

Throwing your head back, you feel as if your body has been lit on fire, no coherent thoughts besides ‘more’ echoing redundantly in your brain.

I will always give you what you want… Two thick fingers push their way inside your dripping core, a broken cry tearing at your throat at the intrusion, at the contrast of temperature and the fucking delicious sensation of it all.

They fit well into the tightness of your cunt, juices coating his thrusting fingers, rubbing exactly where you need them too, exactly where no one has ever reached.

You mewl, on hand lacing itself to entangle in your hair, the other, mindlessly reaching out for him. The push-and-pull of his fingers is meticulous, precise, and intentional, never straying far from the spongy place inside you which has never been given any love until now.

The intensity is too much, too soon. Body arching off the bed, loud, desperate cries ripped from your lungs, that coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter until it becomes unbearable.

What sends you over the edge, is not the addition of his thumb rubbing circles over your aching clit, it is not the feel of intensity you get from the red gleam in the darkness of the smudges when his face hovers over yours… No. You experience the most powerful orgasm of your life, fluids gushing out and coating his hand, both of your thighs, your mattress, when he presses the space where his mouth should be against yours, when you feel the skin there poke your lips as if he did really have a mouth.

A shuddered, loud cry rings between your ears, your own cries, as you cum on his fingers, pressing yourself fully to him and kissing him hard. You are clutching on to him for dear life, making sure not a hair’s length separates the both of you. You want to feel as much of his freezing skin on yours as possible. The contrast in your temperature adds to the experience, adds to how amazing he makes you feel.

You want more, of him, of his everything, to be closer to him both physically and spiritually, you want to be consumed to your very soul.

Beautiful.

You pant heavily, eyes barely able to stay open as you come down from your high, and you can’t help but think that he’s wrong, that he is the beautiful one.

Beautiful and mine.

“All yours.” You whisper softly, lips back on the space void of a mouth. “Forever.”

Bughuul shifts above you, and it is then that you feel something cold, something big, smacking your core. Gasping at the oversensitivity, you try to pull away, to catch your breath without your clit being stimulated. It still pulses from the careful, loving abuse it received as are your insides, as is your heart. But the deity holds you in place, one hand firmly on your hips.

As of now… He says, voice so low and husky that it turns you into a puddle of goo, reignites the insatiable lust that had settled after your orgasm back to life. You and I will never be apart again.

You don’t have time to react, the tip of his cock lined perfectly with your entrance dives in, his length splitting you open in one, hard thrust.

You had no idea you could be so full, that someone could fill you up so good you forget your own name. The moan that leaves your lips comes out as a shrill cry, widened eyes locked with his. Air sticks in your throat, no longer able to breathe.

He pulls his hips back, slamming them back into you with so much force you rise up the bed. “Oh – Fu-uck!”

The tip of his cock kisses your cervix, and not in a way that would usually hurt. You suppose that is because Bughuul is meant for you, no other person was meant to be in a position similar to this with you.

His cock, you realise, is not exactly like the human male anatomy. It pulses, contracts and expands ever-so-slightly, little bumps and ridges line its base, which makes every thrust of hips devastatingly powerful and oh-so perfect.

He fucks into you again, and again, building up a harsh, steady rhythm, hitting every spot inside you, his edges dragging against your gummy walls roughly, perfectly, exactly like you had always dreamed someone would.

You don’t want him to ever stop.

With each hard thrust, the bed rocks to the side, breasts bouncing in tandem.

You are overwhelmed, each ridge, each divot of his cock stroking all the right places in you, bringing you closer and closer to that sweet release you crave to experience once more.

Bughuul's hair tickles your sticky, sweat-matted face, his hands gripping you with such a force it hurts. There is no doubt that tomorrow, if you live to see the sun rise one last time, his fingerprints will be embedded in the curve of your hips.

No part of you minds this. The birthmark on your thumb – your branding mark pulses, sizzles with every subsequent slap of his hip. You are his after all, and he is yours, having his self-made bruises on you really is just an added bonus.

"Buh-" you try to speak, but with the roughness of his thrusts, it makes it difficult for anything to come out other than broken, wanton moans. Voice catching in your throat, words dying at your lips.

One of his hands circles your neck, squeezing it enough to make you see stars. Your pussy clenches his cock like vice, as if it is afraid that it will slip out and leave you empty.

His pointer digs under your chin. Speak to me through your mind, (Y/N). Let me hear you.

You close your eyes, whimpering in the side of his neck, hands yanking at the base of his skull for support. He doesn't mind, obviously, the sounds you make spurring him on to fuck you even harder than before. If that's even possible.

The wet slap of his balls against your ass drives you wild. It's loud and sinful and lewd and you think it's telling on how badly he affects you.

If you were with anyone else, you might have been embarrassed with how badly you are turned on right now... Who are you kidding, you have never been this horny in your whole life.

In your mind, you chant his name, begging him for more, for him to bring you to ecstasy.

The hand at your hip moves in between your bodies, cold thumb circling your clit quickly, answering your mental please.

Say my name.

Simultaneously, he hits your cervix and your sweet spot, a loud whine resounding in your ears, bouncing off the four walls of your room and out into the world. He pistons into you like his life depends on it - maybe it does – while the huffs coming from his nose fan your neck.

His pleasure is made known to you by the growls that ghost by your brain in a cloud of smoke. They sound far away, distant as they hide behind your jumbled mind. But they are there, and so fucking maddening.

You open your mouth to try and speak, and right as you are about to say the word, your airway clears and his hand is over your mouth.

Say. My. Name. Each word is punctuated by the snap of his hips, full of grit and tension and lust compatible with yours.

"Bughuul." It makes the fire in your soul crackle, burst uncontrollably wild when Bughuul throws his head back and groans, putting more force into his actions. His reaction, the way his muscled chest curves enough for you to see the dips in his skin perfectly, the sharpness of his jaw obscuring his face, that spot inside of you continuously under a never ending, decadent onslaught; your clit abused to oblivion… it all winds the coil at the base of your gut until you are ready to snap, until you beg him to bring you over the edge.

The thick rim of cream at the base of his cock grows, slowly trickling down to coat his balls. Bughuul is making a mess of your cunt, rearranging your insides to make sure you are molded as his perfect cock-sleeve, that no other person would ever be able to have access to your most intimate places.

"Don't stop!" You shout, digging your nails from the base of his skull, dragging them over his shoulders and down to his chest, causing the pale skin to flake. "Make me cum! Please, make me cum!"

Your legs wrap around his hips, the new position raises your pelvis just enough for the angle to change.

Now, the fat, weeping head of his cock is repeatedly, without fail, pushing against that spot you crave to have touched the most.

You're... He can't finish his sentence, groaning loudly in your head as he changes his position. Bughuul removes your legs from around his waist, slotting his hands in the crease of your knees and bringing them to your chest to bend you in half.

He pulls all the way back, enough that you're ready to complain if he pulls out of you completely. Don't worry, (Y/N).

He slams back in, and you scream, eyes bulging out of their sockets, mouth dry with how much you're panting, how much you moan and hiss and babble out nonsense.

That one move is all it takes for you to break.

"OH MY GOD!" The coil snaps with so much force you aren't sure you're actually cumming. Your body stiffens as you cry out, legs quivering madly in his hands, your juices exploding out of you and ruining your sheets.

Your vision is taken over by a wall of white, an array of coloured sparkles flash blindingly across the veil behind your eyes. Your pussy has a death grip over his cock, making it harder for him to brutally thrust in you. But he manages, fucking you through the best orgasm of your entire life.

It lasts for ages, body tingling and shaking, scream after scream of pleasure tickling his ears and aiding his cock to continue, to pulse and contract and drag your orgasm until it starts to hurt.

You are so beautiful, when ruined.

You can't muster enough energy to nod. "You better ruin me so much more, then."

Will you take what I give you? You hope, pray, that he means his cum, if deities can even produce such a substance. You are driven into oversensitivity, clit hurting, the walls of your cunt fluttering in protest. You need him to sooth you.

"Y...Yes." You murmur into his ear. "Please fill me up, Bughuul."

In your mind, words in a language you don't understand echo loudly and suddenly, your cunt is filled with piping hot ropes of cum that cover you wall-to-wall.

It brings you to your third orgasm, the heavy contrast of his cold cock and the burning of his semen filling you up to the brim is all it takes, and you milk him for all his worth, needing to keep every drop his gives you inside.

His thrust slow until they stop completely.

You pant underneath him, absentmindedly playing with his stringy tresses which you note are damp yet just as cold as the rest of him and with your skin on fire, it's a welcome sensation.

Now, I understand. Bughuul whispers, chilly finger stroking your wet cheek. He lets your legs fall either side of him, arms weaseling around your middle in, what you deduce from your fucked-out brain is, a loving embrace.

Just like your cunt, your heart feels full. The butterflies’ people have talked so much about throughout your life tickle the lining of your stomach.

You heave, never loosening your hold on Bughuul, your brain taking its sweet time in regaining its function. And slowly, you realise what just happened, what is going on now. You had the best sex of your existence, pussy still wrapped around his shaft, cum threatening to drip out of you… all of this with a myth, a legend, a deity probably as old as humanity itself.

It worries you how much comfort being held in his arms brings you, how the cold of his skin soothes you, because it shouldn’t. This man or thing – or better yet, being – has done unspeakable things. How can you allow yourself, while his cock is still very much buried inside you, to be laid down over his chest while he settles in your bed? It’s oddly domestic for a children-eating deity. His face continues to unsettle you, and at the same time, captivate you.

And you can feel that your body and soul has given up the reigns and succumbed to this pull he has on you.

Bughuul drapes your bedsheets over your bodies, one arm never straying from around your waist. His cock plugs you, keeping his seed inside, and with each tiny movement, the ridges and bumps elicit little whimpers from your hypersensitive cunt.

Sleep. He tells you, voice low, gruff, as you would imagine a sleepy, fucked-out man would sound.

You don’t feel tired, though. “Not yet.”

Sleep, (Y/N). Every thought that was snuffed out of you only moments ago rushes back in, and they need to be discussed. I will answer all of your questions, sooth all your doubts tomorrow. For now, sleep.

“Will you be here when I wake up? Will I still be alive?”

His hand entangles in your hair, petting your scalp sweetly – the action is so familiar, domestic, it almost chokes you up.

It is not the time for you to join me, (Y/n). Bughuul reassures you. You’ve asked this more than once, but you just really want to make you’re still up and kicking in a few hours. The time will come when you must leave this world behind and come with me, but not now. Until then, I will come see you as much as I can, care for you as best I can. And, I will love you.

You lift up your head to rest your chin between his pecks, blinking up at the bare face tilted towards you. “Promise?”

You don’t – or more like you can’t quite admit you feel the same as he does.

He presses the space where his mouth should be to your forehead, fingers cupping your face. I have not, and will never lie to you, (Y/N). I promise.

Satisfied, you nod and rest your head down, ear picking up on a single beating sound before sleep takes over you.

You wake the next morning to someone pounding on your front door.

The first thing that comes to mind is how you are breathing. And right after, that the bed feels so incredibly empty with just you in it.

“(Y/N)!” You curse, recognising the voice shouting your name. “Dammit (Y/N), are you in there!”

Ignoring the throbbing between your legs and the dull achiness tingling at your hips, you quickly start to dress, calling: “I’m here! I’m alive!”

The knock persists as you jump down the hallway, wiggling on a pair of pants. You curse when you nearly trip over, hand unlocking the door and yanking it open.

You stand facing a huffing man, short dark hair and panicked, exhausted, shocked brown eyes. “You’re alive…”

Despite having seen him on the video, he’s somehow not at all what you imagined him to be, on the shorter side of the scale, unremarkable looks and general stature, nothing as massive and beautiful as Bughuul.

“Seems like it.” So-and-So huffs while rolling his eyes, hunching over. He looks a mess, which doesn’t surprise you at all given what you put this poor man through. When he stands, you are quick to bring the man into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here, So-and-So. Thank you.”

He hugs you just as tightly. “I… I thought – I was sure you –”

“– I’m ok.” You tell him gently, rubbing his back in a soothing manner. “I’m ok.”

“Good, I was a second away from getting my things to burn this place down.” So-and-So pushes you back, looking you up and down, a frown slowly creating a looming shadow over his weary eyes. “You’ve got some explaining to do, young lady.”

You bark a tired laugh, nodding. “Yea.” You sigh, opening the door and ushering him in. “I do.”

His steps are calculated, unnerved, cautious, afraid that one wrong move and Bughuul will jump out from the shadows and kill him. Honestly, you aren’t sure it’s wise for him to be here, since the two have met and confronted each other before. It worries you enough to grow anxious yourself.

“Was he here?” So-and-So asked in a hush tone, his eyes darting to every corner of your living space. You wonder if he has ever seen some of the soulless children running a muck which adds to his paranoia, or if his body language is just from encountering Bughuul.

You hand him a cup of steaming coffee and point to your small dinning table where you’ve placed muffins your mother made as well as milk and sugar should he need it. You don’t drink coffee, but always keep some for company – a little tip from your parents.

He sits in the seat that offers him the best vantage point of your home, only the bare wall behind him and a window.

Before you answer, you pour yourself a tall glass of orange juice, taking a languid sip right after. “Bughuul was here, yes.”

So-and-So’s eyes meet yours, surprised. “But… how?”

You press on your brand mark, an action that does not go unnoticed by the ex-deputy. “In a way, you were right.” You show him your hand and wiggle your fingers. “This mark is the reason I’m alive today, and will be for the foreseeable future.”

“What it is, then?”

Movement catches the side of your vision.

The children must be back.

You have no idea if Bughuul told them anything, or if he even speaks to them, but it doesn’t really matter.

“It’s a soul mark.” You make sure to look at Alexander when you say it, voice muffled in the rim of your glass. A dark part of you relishes in his confusion – in the confusion of the two other children at his side, one you haven’t seen before – his expression mirroring yours when you find yourself in a similar headspace. Lost, brain struggling to catch with what is told, slowly putting the pieces together. When your brother’s eyes widen, you turn to an equally aghast So-and-So. “It means I am something akin to his soulmate.”

So-and-So recoils harshly at your words, mug slamming down on the table. “I’m sorry…” He shakes his head. “His soulmate?”

A puff of breath exits your lips, your body deflating as you rub your throbbing temples. “Pretty much. I haven’t gotten all the details from him yet, but that’s the reason why I wasn’t in the house the night my brother killed my birth family, why nothing happened after I was adopted.”

His hands are linked in front of his face, deep in contemplation. His brain must be fried.

The three kids surrounding the table aren’t fairing much better. The twit with the neatly groomed hair and sweater vest is pacing, the taller body just has his jaw slack open, and Alexander just stares at you.

“… Holy shit.”

You hum. “Holy shit indeed.”

He shakes his head again, as if to clear it. “Wait! Wait, wait, wait… the two of you had a discussion, as in sat and spoke and chatted? And he told you, you were soulmates?”

It’s impossible to not laugh at how ridiculous it all sounds – is, because it’s fucking nuts and completely ridiculous.

“Yep, and he also said he wouldn’t kill me.” You scowl. “At least, not yet, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not ready. That’s what he told me.” You raise your hand when he’s about to jump into a frenzied line of questioning. “I don’t know what he means by it, so don’t even ask. I’m hoping to get more answers when he returns.”

He sinks in his chair, totally flabbergasted. Harshly, he wipes the disbelief from his face, pulling at the tan skin. “When he…”

It’s a lot, you aren’t sure that you’ve processed it yourself, you can’t expect him to understand and accept it just as it’s being shoved in his unsuspecting face.

Alexander comes to stand right next to you, perplexed. “I don’t understand…”

He reaches to take hold of your hand, but you’re quicker, pulling your hand down into your lap. You don’t like Alexander being so close, much less how, deep inside you, your body seems to recognise who he is and what he was once to you.

“How do you feel about all this?” So-and-So asks, not commenting on your sudden, odd behaviour.

You shrug. “How am I supposed to feel? Happy? Scared? I’m just as confused as you all are but I’ve accepted it. There’s nothing else I can do.”

So-and-So raises his brow, doing a quick scan of your surroundings. He must not understand who else you’re addressing, which clarifies that he does not, indeed, see the children.

“What does it mean if you’re his soulmate?” The little pompous shit asks, pointing between yourself, the boys and the sky. “What does it mean for all of us?”

“Maybe she’s going to rule his realm alongside him?” The lanky, taller boy says, walking behind So-and-So to look outside the small window.

“Don’t be stupid, Blake.”

“Then what can it be, Milo?” Alexander hisses, eyes never straying from yours. It’s uncomfortable, the way his eyes pierce the side of your face, but you can’t give him the satisfaction of getting your attention, of giving him anything.

You sneer the name Milo in your brain, happy to finally know what that little cunt’s name is. It’s as shitty as his personality.

“Right…” So-and-So finally drawls, resuming his coffee. “What are you going to do in the mean time?”

“Continue to live my life the way I’ve been doing. The only difference is that now I have a Pegan deity as a soulmate who eats children and gets them to murder their families, who’ll visit me from time-to-time. Y’know, normal stuff.”

That gets a chuckle out of him, a hint of a smile to ghost his lips. “This is so far from normal, (Y/N).”

“It’s fucking crazy.”

So-and-So, on your insistence, stays for the rest of the day. You assure him that you will keep him updated, unless Bughuul tells you otherwise, and you tell him about your parents’ visit.

All the while, Alexander stays, sitting on the couch right next to you. The other kids left after your served So-and-So breakfast, but the boy who once was your brother, never strays far from your side, and not once, does he say anything to get a rise out of you.

Sometimes, he comments under his breath, little sassy bits that just happen to echo your own thoughts.

You hate that while not looking exactly alike, you two are much the same when it comes to who you are as people.

Katie calls you in the middle of the afternoon, an absolute sobbing, babbling mess. So-and-So is visibly uncomfortable the whole time with being privy to such a private conversation. You don’t really care that he’s listening in, you just feel bad that you can’t understand what your sister is saying.

You do catch pieces of it. Lots of apologising, lots of begging for forgiveness and lots of declarations of love.

Katie is a bit of a brat, but you care for her so deeply it doesn’t matter and when she tells you so transparently that you’re the best sister in the world, that she wouldn’t trade you for anything, it sinks in that yes, your biological family was taken from you by the very child sitting next to you, but you gained probably one of the best families that has ever existed.

You guess you owe Bughuul and Alexander for that.

The conversation isn’t really long, you both make sure the other is ok, makes sure to drive in the point that nothing has changed or will change and soon, you hang up feeling a hundred pounds lighter.

After some more chatting and food, So-and-So leaves right before the clock strikes seven in the evening, as more houses need his attention along the west coast. He’ll call you every day or two, to make sure Bughuul hasn’t taken you and when you say your goodbyes, you hand him some snacks for the road and a letter to give to your parents when you die.

So-and-So is reluctant to take it, or leave, for that matter. But, the both of you have lives to live, and with Bughuul most likely coming back soon, neither of you want So-and-So to stay for the meet-and-greet that is bound to turn ugly.

Finally, you find yourself alone again.

Well… not completely alone.

You trudge to the kitchen, Alexander in tow, getting a start in the dishes. There isn’t much to do, thank heavens. These days drain you and you have to go back to work tomorrow, you have to go back out there, with real people and pretend like nothing’s different.

Alexander stands next to you, watching you store dirty dishes in the dishwasher and scrub the few cooking utensils you used for supper. You make quick work of it, trying hard not to show your annoyance with your brother staring at you.

“I can tell you’re annoyed.” He simply states, as you turn to the fridge to start preparing your lunch. “It’s written all over your face.”

You bite your tongue, continuing to do your task and ignoring him in the process.

“If you’re coming to live in his realm, you’re going to have to talk to me at some point.”

It’s hard to resist the urge to scoff, but you manage, brushing roughly past him to put food in your lunch box.

“Justin was stubborn too, like dad.”

You’ve had it. “Enough!” You snap, wiping your furious gaze at Alexander. “Shut your filthy mouth and stop talking about the family you stole from me!”

You yank the fridge door open and practically throw your lunchbox inside, ignoring the concerning clank heard when you shut the door.

“I’m just trying to make conversation –”

“– Well fucking don’t, alright?” The words are laced with nothing but venom, pure rage stemming deep within your core. You stomp down the hallway and just like last night, all the lights shut off for you. “I don’t want to hear shit from you, I don’t want anything from you. So fucking leave! You aren’t wanted here!”

You slam the door in his face, teeth gritted much too hard for comfort, chest heaving and tears bubbling to the surface.

It takes everything in you not to cry, not to screech out the pain you feel taking over your heart, magnified tenfold by your brother presence.

You really don’t want him anywhere near you.

It just still hurts too much.

That can be arranged. You whip around, and come face-to-face with Bughuul. He asks to come, and I let him. But if you do not wish to see your brother, you will never see him again.

The heels of your palms press in your eye sockets, a way to push down the tears that threaten to spill out. You open up your mind to Bughuul partially. “It’s just too soon for him to be around.”

Very well. He doesn’t elaborate further, cold arms circling your shoulders to bring you into his chest.

A deity that hugs, the concept seems ridiculous. But then again, your whole life is upside-down, this is the furthest thing from weird you’ve experienced in the last few days.

Sighing, you hug him back briefly before pushing him away. You don’t think he appreciates it, because he tilts his head and tries to bring you back to him again.

“I need to go take a shower.” You explain, going about your room to gather your things. “You’re free to come if you want.”

The bathroom door opens on its own, Bughuul’s answer to your invitation.

One would think a deity that eats children would have violent tendencies with their partners, but Bughuul is nothing if not gentle with you.

In the shower, he helps you wash your body, kneading the fuller parts of your body, taking his time.

You don’t push him away when he leans his forehead against yours, fingers disappearing between your legs as he scissors you open. This time around, his touches are calming, trying to make you escape the wild, almost vile thoughts in your mind about your brother.

In his arms, like this, you get the sense that you are cherished, that in Bughuul’s world, there is nothing, no one but you.

Cumming this closely to him, is out of this world, unreal. And later, when you orgasm while sitting firmly on his lap, his cock deeper inside of you than yesterday, you find yourself addicted to the deity. Circled in a blanket of euphoria, is only you and Bughuul, your soulmate, and this swelling sensation of completion.

Being with him is unlike anything you’ve experienced before, powerful enough to make you rethink your entire existence.

You don’t want to say that you love him, although the words burn on your tongue while you’re screaming his name as a gush of cream runs down his shaft, his cum shoved into you. But you’re pretty sure you do, because nothing else could explain how deeply you feel for him, how you’re terrified of waking up tomorrow morning without him by your side, that you dread having to spend the whole day without being able to touch him, see him, or even sense him nearby.

You lost count of how many times he makes you cum, how many times he fills you with his seed.

You don’t want it to end, but it does, because he promised you answers.

Answers he gives you.

Laying comfortably under the covers with a thick shirt on, you snuggle in to your soulmates’ side, eyes closed and listening attentively to what he says.

Bughuul won’t tell you when exactly you’ll be ready to join him, as he, himself, isn’t sure, but he’ll know when the time comes. And once you are taken to his realm, the both of you will live out the rest of eternity together.

You’re comforted in knowing that you will be able to watch your family live on, that makes you happy.

“Do you know why I was chosen to be yours?” You whisper, breathing him in. You note that he doesn’t smell of decay or death as one would assume. Inhaling the scent of Bughuul reminds of clear, natural air. It’s refreshing, and liberating all at once.

Our souls were forged at the same time, one born out of fear, one born out of the light. I do not believe it could have been just anyone. It had to be you, it always had to be you. His nose nuzzles the crown of your head and you press yourself deeper in his hold.

He does his best to describe you his realm, what awaits you, and as he speaks, the sound of his voice lulls you into a peaceful slumber.

Seven months later.

You don’t think you’ve been this acquainted with toilets before in your life.

Frequently, you find yourself hunched over, barfing what little food you can keep down these days. No matter if you’re at work or at home, or out with friends, the sudden need to vomit lurks about in the shadows, waiting patiently, hungrily to strike during the most unfortunate moments.

Outside wafts a smell of either weed or skunk roadkill, either way, as soon as the stench reaches your nose, you bolt from your rocking chair, bulldozing past Alexander to hurl down the toilet.

“Again?” He holds your hair away from your face as you basically dry heave since you vomited your lunch about half an hour ago. “You realise this isn’t normal, right?”

“Be quiet.” You mutter into the bowl.

“You should go to the hospital.”

You flush, then fall back, hitting the wall hard behind you. “I’m fine.”

“You really aren’t.”

“Go away.”

“No. I have to look out for you.”

You huff, looking at him incredulously. God, it’s fucking weird how an undead, ten-year-old boy tries to baby you, a grown ass adult. Only recently has Alexander been allowed to return in your life. After spending Christmas with your family, knowing what you know now, you finally accepted the loss of your biological family, finally allowed yourself to grieve for people you don’t remember, and you forgave.

Though now, you regret telling Bughuul to grant your brother permission to visit you. He’s annoying and persistent, and such a sassy worry-wart for a fucking child whose balls will never drop.

He helps you stand, hovering next to you as you rinse out your mouth. “I don’t need a kid to look out for me, or boss me around. I’m the adult.”

“Says the girl acting like a child. Go to the hospital.”

Groaning, you step out of the bathroom and return to your previous spot, picking up your book and making to read.

“And I’ll have you know, by the way, that I’m a decade older than you.” You roll your eyes. “Even if I’m stuck as a child, I’m still your big brother.”

“My big brother’s been through puberty already, even has a baby on the w–” The book in your hands falls to the ground as you gasp.

“(Y/N)? What’s wrong?”

Slowly, you stand back up on shaky legs, hand resting on your belly.

It couldn’t be.

No.

Was it even possible?

The floor creaks, both you and Alexander turning to face Bughuul. He rarely comes during the day, busy eating children, you assume. The only times he’s shown his face when it’s still light out is when you call out to him, when you miss him unbearably and need him.

It is time.

You stare at him dumbfounded. You understand what he’s telling you, know the words that tickle in your skull, but your brain isn’t understanding their meaning when placed altogether.

“I…”

Bughuul walks up to you, his cool hand flat on yours.

You get it now.

It is time to leave, (Y/N). He repeats, leaning to press his forehead against yours. You’ve realised long ago that this is his own version of a kiss, how he shows you the love he holds for you.

“I–” You choke on air, stuttering as you try to make your brain function. “I... Can–So-and-So.” Bughuul hisses at the name, the grip on your shoulder and hand tightening. He despises the ex-deputy. “I need to tell him, so that he can tell my parents.”

No. We must leave now.

You won’t have it.

“Bughuul!” Alexander flinches at your tone, at the shift of temperature in the air. You’ve never raised your tone at your soulmate, never disagreeable or difficult. But you’re putting your foot down whether he likes it or not, whether he just so happens to be a powerful deity capable of killing on the spot or not. “I’m seconds away from dying! You will give me the opportunity to say my goodbyes and that is final!”

You push yourself away, taking your phone out of your pocket.

It takes no more than a moment, a quick text to So-and-So telling him that Bughuul is finally taking you with him. Your vision is obscured by a barrage of tears and when you’re done, you chuck the phone on the coffee table and turn to your soulmate.

I am sorry. Bughuul never, if not rarely, apologises. His hands rub your arms gently, forehead back on yours.

You shutter a breath, placing your hand back on your stomach. “A child, huh?” You whisper.

My child, our child, is the symbol of our love. It is our prosperity.

“Does that mean I’m going to be an uncle?” You snicker, brushing the tears from your eyes. Alexander is shy, solely because Bughuul is present and watching him move like a hawk eyeing his prey, but he puts a hand on your tummy and grins. “The others are going to be so jealous.”

Bughuul removes Alexander’s hand from you without of word –he never does speak to the children– lifting you up bridal style into his arms. Close your eyes, (Y/N). Soon, you will be home.

You reach down for Alexander, waiting until he holds your hand tightly, and it is only when he does, that you feel strong enough to close your eyes, ready for the adventure that is to come.

As Bughuul takes his first step, your phone rings, but you don’t hear it. You can’t hear anything or feel anything besides your soulmate freezing skin holding you close.

The three – or four, really – of you step through reality and space into a new beginning.

I love you. You say to Bughuul for the first time, as you feel your heart slow to a stop, your veins turning blue and your being start to grow cold.

And I love you, (Y/N). Bughuul is quick to reply, a surge of pure joy radiating throughout the both of you despite the fact that you are decaying, that you are entering your soulmate’s cold, dead world. I love you, and our child.

#bughuul #bughuul x reader #soulmate alternate universe #soulmate!au #bughuulxreader #ao3 #horror/smut fic #afab reader #horror movies #sinister

91 notes · View notes