#and i walk up to these strangers hundreds of miles from home like. do you know where i need to go :[

[mbat]

sometimes i remember last year when i went on my first trip far from home alone, and just how long, and how lonely, the train ride was from my home city to my destination. ive had so many lonely nights in my life, ive had times feeling so, so deeply alone. and yet that 11 hours where i was alone in the train stop, on the train, and on the bus to my destination... it was the loneliest hours of my entire life. not to mention me almost missing the bus and nearly getting stranded in chicago, i was so fucking scared.

and i dont know i dont have a point here, i just think about it sometimes. i had always wanted to ride a train, but i didnt think it would be alone, and that i would be so unsure as i was sitting there. going alone hours from home by myself was just... terrifying. everything was fine, but it really couldve not been, and i dont know. i even remember when i was lost in chicago that my friends, who were also there to switch transportation to the destination, tried to find me, but i had luckily found my bus by then, and i just remember seeing them outside the bus wishing i couldve got to go up to them, latch onto the only people i knew for several hundred miles.

it just kinda sucked. it was a good thing in the end and i dont regret most parts of that trip (but the parts i regret arent relevant to the train), but that truly was just... damn.

at the least, on the ride back home, i was so tired that i slept through most of it.

[revrover]

The Stranger - Pt 1

Part Two | Part Three

Pairing: Namor x Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Language, blood, brief mentions of violence and alcohol

Summary: Upon discovering the unconscious body of a woman floating in the water, you rush to provide aid. Little do you know her people are searching for her, bringing a mysterious man to your door.

A/N: Still very new to writing fanfic (this is literally post number two), but couldn’t get this drabble out of my brain for a week so here it is. Please be kind! 

***I do not give permission to copy, plagiarize, or repost my work as your own in any form!

It’s close to dusk when you make your way from town back to your home on the secluded shoreline. With food and supplies in a bag slung over your shoulder, it will be another two or three days before you head back to restock. Although a fair distance, you have come to cherish the 5-mile trek into town. Walking along less traveled paths, visiting with the locals, and admiring the breathtaking nature around you have become some of your favorite things about living on the island. 

As the sun steals its last glimpse over the horizon, the vibrant orange and purple hues stretching across the sky begin to dim. The outline of a small bungalow comes into view about a hundred meters down the way. The warm glow of lanterns you hung before you left shines from the front porch, welcoming your return. 

You stumbled across this place two years ago, abandoned and needing major repair. Maybe it was just your nature to see the beauty and potential in broken things, but as soon as you laid eyes on the residence, your heart was set on it. Wrapped around the front is a porch with stairs that lead down onto a stone path, eventually making its way to the sand. Through the front door, an open entryway and a small kitchen are situated to the left accompanied by a simple sitting area. To the right is a doorway that leads to your bedroom and bathroom. It's a humble home, but you've worked hard to make it comfortable.

As you walk the familiar pathway toward the bungalow, you look out at the ocean. You watch as the water dances its way up the beach with every push and pull of the tide, waves gently lapping their way up onto the sand to make a melodic rhythm. You breathe in the salty air and revel in the beauty the island so generously offers. 

The moment of serenity is interrupted when, out of the corner of your eye, you notice something just past the wave breaks. You squint as you try to focus your gaze to ensure the evening shadows aren't playing tricks on you. A shiver shoots down your spine. 

There's something floating in the water. Only, it's not something. It's someone.

"Oh my god," you say in disbelief, your eyes widening as you feel the air rush from your lungs. 

You react on pure instinct, immediately dropping your bag to the ground and sprinting into the water. Taking a deep breath, you plunge straight into the waves, pumping your arms and kicking your legs until they burn. You swim as hard as you can toward the body as it floats face down. 

When you reach it, you fear the worst. Quickly you turn it over to check for a pulse and discover it is a woman. Her frame is small, but she's solid and muscular. Body adorned with beautiful gold and jade trinkets, she appears to be wearing some sort of woven armor. You also notice her raven-black hair tied in a knot on top of her head, and a mesh-like apparatus covering her nose and mouth.

You carefully cradle the woman's head, lifting it out of the water.

"What the hell??" You mutter in shock. 

Right before your eyes, part of the woman’s face that is now exposed to the air turns a pale pigment of blue. She seems human enough, yet the way the blueness of her skin contrasts with its golden tones underneath the ocean surface makes you question what she might be instead.

All thoughts are pushed aside, however, the moment your attention is drawn to the sight of blood. Two gouges, a laceration across her shoulder, and a wound to her abdomen are seeping red into the salt water. She’s in poor condition and time is not on your side.

Doing your best to grapple her body, you kick your feet and pull the woman back to shore. The tide's added assistance gives you both the momentum needed to propel you toward the beach. As soon as you are able to stand, you turn and haul her body the rest of the way out of the ocean. 

Gently you lay her on a patch of dry sand as you take a moment to catch your breath. Your chest repeatedly rises and falls, your lungs straining for more oxygen. Staring at her now, you feel your heart nearly pounding out of your chest as the rest of her body turns the same shade of blue as her face. You shake your head as you fight back both your fear and curiosity. Whatever the woman's origins, tending to her wounds is your main priority. Help her now, and ask questions later.

Still unconscious, you reach up to remove the apparatus over her face, preparing to administer CPR. Suddenly, her arm shoots out and grasps your wrist, scaring the shit out of you. With unbelievable strength, she restrains any movement your hand could possibly make. Her eyes are wide and intense, pupils dilated.

"Okay, okay, I won't mess with it!" You promise. Her grip slackens as her eyes roll to the back of her head, losing consciousness again.

You rub your wrist, the bruise already forming. Deciding it would be best to move her from behind, you link yourself under her arms and pull her towards your home, unwittingly leaving a trail of sand and blood behind you. 

Making it to the bungalow, you manage to get the woman inside and onto your kitchen table. She's breathing, but it's shallow. Quickly, you grab all the first aid and sewing supplies you can scrounge out of the cabinets. You swipe a bottle of tequila from the shelf above the sink for good measure. Then you get to work to patch her up the best you can.

You clean the wound on her abdomen first, as that's where the bleeding is most prominent. Disinfecting it, applying pressure, then sewing it up, you focus meticulously on the needle in your hand, threading it back and forth through her skin. Once you finish, you fashion a bandage to soak up the excess blood.

The sky is dark as you move on to her shoulder to do the same. It feels like hours have gone by as you continue dressing the woman's wounds. It’s well into the night now, and the only light reflecting off the ocean for miles is from the moon and the lanterns of your home.

That's when he finds you.

A dark figure emerges from the water. He surveys the scene in front of him, eyes filling with rage as his focus dials in on the bloody trail leading up to your door. Spear in hand and body seething with anger, he marches towards your little house. 

Just as you clip the thread used to sew up the woman's shoulder and begin to apply another bandage, you're startled by a deafening CRASH!

Behind you, your front door gets obliterated. Through it, storms a man who quickly steps over the wooden debris that now litters the floor. His presence swallows the room as water drips off of his body. His eyes lock on to yours. 

"Holy shit!" You exclaim in terror. Before you know what is happening, he has made his way over to you, aggressively backing you up against the kitchen cabinets. 

Face-to-face with you now, he holds the tip of his spear to your throat, grazing your skin with it threateningly. He leans in so close you smell the salty ocean spray that covers his dark skin and can practically see your reflection in the cold piece of jade pierced through his septum. His breath is steady, but his glare is wild and ferocious. You raise your hands, attempting to show you mean no harm, only you don't account for the fact that your arms are covered in the woman's blood. His look becomes more menacing. 

"What have you done?" He growls, his voice low and dangerous. A fire is burning in his eyes as they widen with rage. 

"I'm helping her! I'm helping her!" is all you manage to say as you plead your case to the mysterious, hostile stranger. 

His stare remains intense as you feel the growing pressure of the cold metal spear against your throat. Everything inside you is screaming, telling you to close your eyes and that one way or another it will all be over soon. But you don't - you hold your ground and hold his gaze, searching his face for any shred of hope that he will spare your life.

The man's eyes flick over to the woman on the table, taking in more of the scene. As his head turns, you notice his pointed ears and beautifully hand-carved gauges made of jade. He turns his head slowly back to you, looking at you this time as if deliberating in his mind whether or not you are telling the truth. 

Again he leans in close, and you hold your breath as you await his final verdict. 

"You will speak of this to no one." It's not a question. It's a command.

You nod, willing to agree to anything at this point if it means not having your jugular sliced open.

"You will forget this night, and what you have seen."

Again you nod.

He keeps the spear pointed at your throat while carefully backing away toward the table. Your heart is pounding out of your chest as adrenaline pumps through your veins. You don't dare move a muscle.

The man retreats, withdrawing his spear and scooping up the woman who looks so petite in his arms. He carries her through the doorway but stops to look back at you. He says nothing, but his eyes are deadlocked on yours. You can’t describe or decipher the electric sensation that runs through your body at that moment, so you chalk it up to being in shock. 

Finally, he turns to leave, seemingly floating down to the shoreline with the woman securely in his arms. You watch as they disappear into the ocean and the night. 

Left alone, surrounded only by silence, the stinging memory of a blade against your neck, and a buzzing in your chest, you look around the empty kitchen. Blood and first aid supplies cover your table; debris that was once your front door now lays scattered across the floor, a draft gliding its way through your home. 

Your mind is still processing everything that has happened. Physically and emotionally, you are exhausted. 

"Screw it," you say out loud, grabbing the tequila still on the table and taking a swig straight from the bottle. "I'm going to bed."

--

You wake up the next morning as the sun is starting to rise and feel just as exhausted as when you had fallen asleep. Your mind is hazy. Your body is sore. You get up and pull on a fresh shirt and some shorts before making your way out of your bedroom. Groggily you shuffle through the entryway and into the kitchen to greet last night's mess. 

Only a few steps into the kitchen, however, you stop. Blinking a few times, you rub your eyes. On the table, where bloodied gauze, cloths, sewing needles, and the works had been scattered, now sits your bag next to a neat pile of the food and supplies you had gathered from yesterday's trip into town. You look down at your feet to discover a clean, debris-less floor. Moving in reverse, you pace a few steps back into the entryway and turn your head. Stunned, you see a new, beautifully carved wooden door in place of where your old one had been kicked down the night before.

You pinch your temples as you try to convince yourself you're not losing your mind. You move closer to inspect the door. Eyes full of wonder and amazement, you run your fingers down its wooden grooves. The surface is smooth as stone, yet the grain in it gives the material a richness that makes your jaw drop as you admire it. 

Before you can even ask yourself how it was possible, you open the door and your breath catches in your throat. The man from last night is sitting there on your front porch, legs hanging off the edge of it, looking out at the softly illuminated horizon. 

"I apologize about the door." He says, still facing the ocean. 

Fear takes over as you find yourself frozen in his presence. He senses your uneasiness and, still seated on the edge of the porch, turns toward you. He raises one hand to the air as a sign of his peaceful intention.

"I promise I am not here to bring harm to you... or your home," he adds, his eyes trailing toward the doorway. You say nothing, equally stunned and confused by his being there. 

"I am sorry for threatening you," he says, his voice turning somber. "I didn't know what you were doing to her."

"Is she okay?" You ask, finally finding your voice. "Your wife?"

He lets out a sharp chuckle. 

"Namora isn't my wife, she's one of my generals -- my best, in fact. And yes, she is okay, thanks to you."

A general. You avert your gaze, feeling foolish for assuming incorrectly. Suddenly the events of last night take on a different tone than what you had perceived.

"We had been searching for her for two days." The man continues to explain, "When I finally traced her whereabouts here and found her with you, I assumed the worst." He looks back out toward the ocean. "History has not typically been kind to my people in these types of situations."

You feel your chest tighten as the weight of his words sinks in. Your eyes wander from the ground up to the stranger. You watch as beads of salt water forge paths on his skin, rolling from his dark slick hair down the toned muscles of his back. 

"Who... are your people, exactly? Who are you?" You find the courage to ask.

He turns back to look at you, raising an eyebrow in your direction as he considers his answers.

"There are some who know me as K’uk’ulkan." He says thoughtfully. "But most know me as Namor." Pushing himself up to a stand, he continues, "As for my people, that is a discussion for another time." 

Namor walks up to you, and once again you find yourself face-to-face with him. Only this time his presence is not menacing, it's hypnotizing. 

"Thank you," he says softly, "for what you did. It will not be forgotten." 

There's a rich sincerity in his voice. Mesmerized by it, all you can muster in response is a nod of your head. A slight smile pulls at the corners of Namor's mouth as he closely studies your face. The light of the morning sun reflects in his eyes, and where you had only seen brooding darkness before, you now see shimmering flecks of gold. Everything about him is beautiful. 

"You are not what I expected." He says warmly, leaning in closer as if the two of you are sharing a secret. He lingers there a moment longer. Then, all too soon, he nods and turns to head down the stairs of your front porch. As he reaches the end of the stone walkway, he stops before stepping out onto the sand. 

"Remember," he says, repeating his instructions from your encounter last night, only gentler. "Speak of this to no one."  

"Will you be back?" You ask earnestly. You don't know what prompts your question, other than the thought of his departure suddenly pulling at your soul in a way you can't explain.

He turns back to look at you and smiles. You return it with a smile of your own. No words are needed for you to know that somehow, someday, you would see him again.

You watch from the porch as Namor strides out into the water and disappears below the surface. The sun glimmers brilliantly across the waves as they engulf him in their deep abyss. 

[orphicdreamers-wp]

Mustang Or Me — Jack Hughes

Summary; you and Jack break up and you head back home.

Content Warnings; angst, breakup, based on ‘mustang or me’ by megan moroney

I packed up my two-door Ford. He don’t love me anymore.

You stare at Jack defeatedly as you stood in the kitchen of your shared apartment , “So you just don’t love me anymore? After 2 and a half years of this you just stop?” Jack looked at you with a sad look on his face, “I’m sorry. God you don’t know how sorry I am.” You shook your head, “Don’t worry about it Jack. I’m gonna pack my stuff and drive back to Pittsburgh.”

Within an hour and a half the past two years of your life were packed up in a boxes in your old beat down mustang. You smiled sadly as you hugged Luke warmly, “Call me man. I’m gonna miss you.” Luke nodded as he hugged you, “I really wanted you to be my sister.” You hugged him back as you stayed silent. You got in your car and dialed your moms phone number, “Hi mommy. Yeah. I’m okay. I’m just coming home. For good. Okay.”

I cursed his name down 65. Need new brakes and new tires. Hell I’m tired.

You groaned as your car drifted slightly into the right lane of the road, “Damn it Jack!” You smacked the steering wheel as you forced the wheel straight. Jack had been on your ass about getting new tires, kept saying it was dangerous that your car drifted because of the cars. You knew he was right but you were too stubborn to listen to him, and you were currently wishing you did.

You also needed new brakes and you had been meaning to get them changed. You had just been so tired lately. You hated fighting with Jack because it made you just so drained and tired. You were just tired of it all. The drama, the stupid fights and feeling invalidated. You were just so tired.

Two years down the drain, two hundred thousand on the gauge.

You sighed as you continued your drive out of Jersey. The ‘Welcome To Delaware’ sign felt like a slap to the face. In the two years you’d been with Jack you saw that sign a handful of times. You two had taken a handful of weekend trips to a ski lodge in upstate Delaware. Two years of your life down the drain haunted you. Almost at much as your car mileage. Two hundred and fifty thousand miles. You shook your head as you were left in silence of your thoughts and the cars passing you.

A broken tail light, a broken heart. How’d we even get this far.

You hadn’t realized how far you had gotten until you saw the flashing red and blue light behind you. You pulled to the side of the dark country road as a police officer approached your vehicle. The man seemed to notice you were on the brink of breaking down, “Good evening ma’am. Do you know why I stopped you?” You tan a hand over your face, “No I’m sorry. I don’t even know where I am honestly. I’m heading to Pittsburgh.” The man nodded, “ You’re in Port Royal Virgina. A little out from Fredicksburg. You have a broken taillight that’s why I pulled you over.”

You sighed sadly, “I’m sorry officer. How much is my ticket?” The officer’s face softened as he took in your current state, “Don’t worry about it. Just get to Pittsburgh safely honey.” You sighed sadly as he walked away, your chest aching like someone had yanked your heart out of your chest.

I’m fighting back tears running on E. Who’s gonna break down first? This mustang or me.

You continued your drive and groaned as you saw the gas tank was hovering on the empty line. It was inevitable that your car would break down. You just hoped it would hold out until Pittsburgh.

A stranger asked if I was okay. Laughed it off said no what gave it away? Was it the leaking oil or the loneliness on my face.

You entered some gas station in the middle of a tiny town in Virginia. You grabbed a energy drink and a bag of chips before heading to the line. An older lady in front of you frowned at your sad expression, “Honey are you okay?” You shook your head with a small laugh, “No, how could you tell?” The woman smiled softly, “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.” You smiled sadly, “Just moving home after a breakup.” The woman smiled and hugged you softly, “I’m sorry honey.”

I thought I was gonna make it home,but I heard our song on the radio.

You shook the memory of Jack out of your head as you turned up the radio as loud as possible. You hummed along as ‘Fast Car’ by Tracy Chapman was playing. Your head was finally cleared when the song concluded and the next song played.

Who’s if gonna be? I’d put all my money on me.

You pulled your car to the shoulder of the interstate. shutting it off as sobs wracked through your body. You hadn’t cried about the relationship ending until now. You weren’t naïve in any way but you had always thought you and Jack would be together forever. You didn’t anticipate a breakup or Jack losing feelings for you.

[tilldeathdoesmedirty]

Another Day 3

Warnings: dub-con/non-con, age gap, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, emotional abuse, physical abuse, possibly other triggering events. 

Characters: dark!Steve Rogers x reader.

Summary: Careful what you wish for, one day it could come true. And that might just be your savior in disguise, all it takes is a little bit of persuasion. 

Interact on your own accord. You have been warned. 

Any reblog, comment, feedback is well received and appreciated! Enjoy <3

You jump in your seat with a loud gasp. How long did you doze off for? It’s dark, but you’re still in the car. The once occupied driver’s seat is now empty. Steve isn’t here.

What the hell? 

Your seatbelt is still on, you quickly unbuckle it and push on the car door. It’s locked. You try it a couple more times aggressively, hitting it in frustration when you finally decide to give up. Your thoughts are going a hundred miles away making up the worst case of scenarios. You raise your hand to your chest holding on to your thin coat as tight as possible, trying to calm down your heartbeat that feels like it’s going to burst any second now. 

You get closer to the window and look outside trying to make out your surroundings, you squint your eyes in hope that it makes your vision better even though you know it’s for naught. Your erratic breathing blows on the window making it fog up. You can’t help but shake uncontrollably, it’s so fucking cold. 

Click.

Your attention goes straight to the sound. Was that the car? You try the door again and to your luck, it opens. You immediately swing it but you don’t get out just yet. What if something happens to you, what if there’s someone… something and as soon as you get out, it’s over for you. You guess it’s either staying to freeze to death or you take your chances. Whatever the odds. 

You hesitantly get out of the car, being on high alert for any sound or movement. As you make contact with the ground your feet sink in the snow until they’re completely covered all the way up and above your ankles. Great. You look around and quickly realize you’re in a forest, everything is covered in heavy snow.

How the hell did you end up here? There’s no road leading to where you are. 

“Steve?” You yell out. No answer. You slowly walk backwards from where the car is, it must have made its way here from the main road, wherever that was. You look for any trail you can follow, barely dragging your feet in the snow.

“Didn’t expect you to wake up so soon, you seemed like a heavy sleeper.”

You quickly turn around as soon as you hear… Steve. You're confused, cold and tired. Why weren’t you home yet, why were you here, what was he-... 

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He looked almost apologetic. 

Sorry? You furrow your eyebrows, shaking your head not understanding what he was on about.  “I want to go home,” your voice quivers, nonetheless you try to keep your voice even “take me home, now.” You feel your eyes burn with tears, not entirely sure if it’s just from the cold or the fact that you’re starting to realize what danger looks like. You’re completely alone with a stranger, god knows where.

He’s walking towards you. You’re frozen with fear in your spot as you find your breathing to be more difficult with every step he takes. All you can do is watch. 

“We can either do this the easy way, or the hard way. Your choice.” 

You don’t understand. You don’t want to. 

“S-Steve, what are we doing here? Let’s just go back in the car,” he’s right in front of you. All you can focus on is the smell of his cologne as it surrounds you whole, in other circumstances you would have really liked it but now, it just makes your stomach turn upside down. 

“…Please.” You barely breathe out. 

He doesn’t say anything, face unreadable. You watch as his hand moves towards his pocket, he drops his gaze to it. Your body twitches.

Run.

You sprint out as fast as you can, all you can think of in the moment is to get away from him as far as possible. You don’t look back. 

“Hard way it is.” He says. 

[froggywritesstuff]

Hello my name is Sara5001 and I like your posts.

Sorry if i bother you um you can do yandere mike wheeler x reader headcanon ?

I just asked

thank you for requesting! hope you like this

ship/pairing: yandere!mike wheeler x g/n!reader

fandom: Stranger Things

warnings: maybe ooc, clingy mike, petty mike, manipulation, unhealthy relationship, isolation(?), stalking, obsessive behaviour (marinette from mlb vibes💀), arguments, guilt tripping, 

word count: 571

A/N: 18+ people DNI. i do not in any way support yandere behaviour, please understand that this writing is purely fictional, and should not ever be reenacted in real life

yandere mike is just super annoying tbh

extremely clingy

needs to be around you all of the time

if you really liked him, you'd hang out with him instead of your other friends

because he's better than your other friends

or so he tells you

in reality, he gets insecure when you have to reject him to hang out with them

obviously he doesn't communicate this with you

he just gets really moody and bitchy until you've asked him what's wrong for the tenth time 

he tells you how embarrassed he is but he feels like you don't like him anymore

why else would you not spend your time with him?

if you try to give a reasonable explanation like how you haven't hung out with your friends in a while, don't do this

he just shuts you down, ending the conversation with a dismissive shrug, claiming he doesn't care that you think he's not important and he didn't even wanna hang out anyway

he keeps this up until you're basically begging to hang out with him

you don't want him to be upset because of your friends, but he knows that deep down you wanted this

you were just looking for an excuse to not be with your friends

like i said, he's extremely clingy and claims he needs you like air

he walks or rides with you home even if you live miles away from his house

he does this so much it becomes muscle memory and he doesn't even have to think when he follows you home 'just to check in on you'

he is 100% stalking you

he's got a whole journal dedicated to you, filled with things like your schedule, what things and activities you like and dislike, what friends you're getting too close to... things like that

if you try to break up with him, do it where not many people are near to be considerate

he's yelling

spends the first half of his yelling session being mad and calling you names

then he desperately starts listing off the best moments in your relationship, and all the times he's made you happy

"no one else can make you happy like i can"

he'll most likely start crying

if you're still insistent on breaking up with him, he walks away (not before shooting a harsh glare at you)

then the next day he comes up to you expecting an apology

he's convinced you're still dating, and you just got in an argument

he's willing to forgive you but not without an apology first

however if he decides you're taking too long, he'll resume acting how he does when he thinks you're dating, but be a hundred times more clingy

walks you to and from school everyday, pouts if he's not holding your hand, will sit next to you in class no matter what

if he's not in all your classes already, he's willing to switch classes just to sit next to you and keep anyone else from interacting with you

acts like he was so gracious for forgiving you and holds it above your head when you try to leave him again

will try to manipulate you into thinking you're taking advantage of his forgiveness 

asks his friends to back him up and if they finally point out that maybe this relationship isn't the healthiest just um, don't ask why you can't sit with them anymore

[sinsandsweetness]

Girl I have a weird fantasy about Daryl being a trucker before the world ended, like he’s older and picks me up on the side of the road after I’ve left home and tells me if he’s gonna take me where I want I go, I’ve gotta give him somthing to make it worth it.

Then giving him sloppy road-head and getting fucked in the cab till I’m dumb

Absolutely love your writing babe 😘

I actually rlly love this. especially since I’ve dated a truck driver who looks like young Norman and will literally sleep the whole time in the cab when he goes on jobs…

I imagine you sitting in the passenger seat, cross legged and snacking on some licorice from a gas station. You’re almost 6 hours into the drive. Still another two nights until you’re in the state you actually want to be in. Nice and far from all the bullshit you’re running away from.

Daryl keeps glancing over at you reading your book, leaned up against the window. Paying special attention to how short your denim cutoffs are and how tight your white tanktop is. Leaving almost nothing to the imagination. The thought dawns on him that in two hours, when the sun has set and both of your eyelids are getting all heavy, he’ll have to pull over at a rest stop. And when he saw you with your duffel bag and your bright red boots, sticking your thumb out as you walked along the shoulder of the highway, he didn’t think about the fact that there’s only one bed in the cab. One, tiny, little mattress, and two of you. You’re way too far in the middle of nowhere to find a motel either. No service. No trace of civilization for at least a couple hundred miles.

Wow. You must be stupid or something. To get in a truck with a stranger. Hell, he could have been some kind of creep. Have you seen any horror movie ever?

He looks back over at you during his internal questioning. Gosh you’re pretty. Effortlessly stunning. Hair a little wild and undone. No makeup on that he can tell at least, but he’s never really been good at noticing that stuff anyway. You’ve got layers of mixed metal jewelry. Necklaces and rings and earrings. All glimmering in the golden hour sun. You kicked your boots off hours ago. Blue polish all chipped off nearly all of your toes. Truthfullt, you’re kind of a mess. A pretty one though.

“What?” You ask him, your honeyed voice brings his brain back to earth.

“Oh- uh… nothin’,” he looks back at the road. Where he should be looking anyway. “Just, it’s gonna be dark soon. Won’t be able to read.” He keeps darting his gaze over at you while he talks.

“That’s ok. I’m sure I’ll find something else to entertain myself with.”

“You should try and sleep. Don’t think we’ll pass a motel until tomorrow night.”

“Oh that’s okay, I’ll just sleep when you do.”

He was hoping you wouldn’t. He was hoping he could avoid the awkwardness of the sleeping situation altogether.

“Yeah, I mean if you want. There’s only one bed so I just thought-“

“What, you don’t wanna share?” You’re giving him a look that he can’t decipher. Are you… flirting with him? You toss your book into your bag and unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Uh- what are you- what are you doin’?” He asks as you climb into the back.

“Well since you’re kickin’ me to the floor I guess I’ll try and catch some z’s before you pull over.” He’s glancing back every few seconds. Trying to keep his attention on the road, but a little too intrigued by you peeling your shorts off to succeed in doing it.

“I’m not- I wouldn’t make you sleep on the floor, I just didn’t- I don’t want to -“ fuck. He didn’t want you to feel like you had to sleep with him. Like you had to share the dingy little sleeper cab that can barely fit his own broad shoulders, let alone another person. An incredibly attractive and insanely good smelling girl. One that’s bending over to fix the sheets and baring her lacy hot pink thong in the process. His eyes widen and get all shifty. Should he look? Should he pretend he doesn’t see?

“Don’t want to what? Sleep with me?” You scoff as you sit back on the bed thing your hair up into a messy blob at the top of your head with a hair tie.

“No I-”

“Don’t worry, I know what you mean. But I really don’t mind. In fact, I probably owe you anyway.”

“O-owe me? I already told you I’m going your way anyhow.” He says, reminding you of his refusal to take any cash.

“I know, but you’ve been so nice and sweet for picking me up in the first place. Wanna make it up to you.” You’re voice is low and sultry. And your words go straight to the tent in his jeans, the one that’s been half hard and ignored since he first invited you into the truck. He glances back at your half naked frame, relaxing into the sleeper cab mattress. Seeing your tanned legs and pretty panties. Wild hair and a playful, up to absolutely no good look in your eyes.

He wants to focus on the road. He does. But his mind is racing with all the ways you could make it up to him. Since you’re offering that is. And he really doesn’t know how much longer he can pretend he doesn’t want to pull over and plow you til the sun comes up. Especially with the way you’re looking at him, hand trailing down to tickle at the waistband of your underwear, biting your lip and flipping through your own filthy fantasies about the handsome, young trucker who’s been kind enough to help you out.

He catches your gaze as he glances back once more and the lustful look in his baby blues sends a jolt straight between your legs. You smile and lick your lips, wanting to be extra clear of your intentions,

“I’m ready whenever you are, pretty boy.”

[hana-no-seiiki]

YANDERE ! BATFAM W/ MILES MORALES (BUT GENDER NEUTRAL) ! READER

[ SERIES MASTERLIST ] [ PREVIOUS PART] [ NEXT PART ]

GENERAL CW/TW: Spoilers for Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse. Typical Yandere themes of stalking, violence, and whatnot.

PART CW/TW:

current status: unedited

summary: after free falling into your senior’s arms and having an extremely awkward exchange. you make a new friend as peter seems to know another vigilante that may be able to help. damian calls dick for help. christmas is about to get messy as the final showdown with kingpin is closing in.

Reply if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

WHAT’S UP DANGER

(PART THREE)

“Two thousand off thermometers, two thousand surrounding us, travel two thousand kilometers to hang out with us,

What’s up danger? (Danger) What’s up danger? (Danger)”

Tim was alert most of the time.

He had to be if he wanted to maintain safety.

But that didn’t mean he was expecting a cutie to just fall into his arms.

Still the fact that he managed to catch you and is nonchalantly carrying the weight of all the pasteles your mom sent this morning and whatever concoction of food you’ve had to eat courtesy of faster metabolism for a couple of seconds now is impressive.

It’d be love at first fall if it weren’t for the fact that you were stressed out with the multiverse potentially collapsing into itself.

Before he could answer the question that both of you said in sync you push yourself off and make sure he doesn’t spot any potentially undissolved webbage.

“ Sorry, um, turns out self learning parkour isn’t a totally smart idea. “

Seeing you more clearly now. Tim recognizes your appearance as the person whose dad forced them to say I love you out loud during the first day of classes.

Sure, he was jampacked with activities both in his civilian and vigilante life but that didn’t mean he’d forget an event like that.

He remembers seeing you somewhere else as well, but he couldn’t put his finger on where.

“ I . . . may know a few things about parkour. I can teach you if you want?”

You stared at Tim as he uttered those words. The dark eyebags, the half drunk coffee in his hand (that he somehow miraculously kept stable even after catching you) and thought to the fact that your identity had to be kept hidden.

“ As tempting as it is to have someone as cute as you to teach me, I think I’ll pass. The eyebags look sexy and all but you look like you really need sleep.”

As you watch his skin turn pink you realize one fatal mistake. Two fatal mistakes in fact.

You take a note to check for concussions cause you clearly somehow miraculously gained balls and have been flirting with this cute stranger the past few minutes without noticing it.

Where was this confidence when you met Gwen huh?

“I — uh — have to go!”

Tim notices only after you’ve completely gone out of sight that his coffee has spilled all over the snow.

He stares at all the brown ambrosia he’s lost and wordlessly walks back home.

And before he knew it he was screaming into his pillow like a young school-girl in love.

That’s when he realized where else he’s seen you before.

In the hundreds of drawings Damian has made of your visage.

Jason wasn’t omnipresent. As much as he’d like to be everywhere at once it was simply impossible.

Roy helped a lot with patrolling the city but there was only so much the two can do together, only so much space the two can cover.

So when he met a man claiming to be from another universe with powers that allowed him to basically be anywhere, whenever. Jason was hooked.

Peter B. Parker is apparently his roommate and friend in another universe and is currently trying to head back.

He was skeptical at first. But as soon as Peter started revealing a bunch of sensitive information only people he was close to knew he had to concede.

It was there when he met you.

You reminded him a lot of himself himself when he was younger. Eager to prove yourself to match up the spider-people you met.

As such, he may or may not have been watching over you practice. It started with him casually observing you really. He didn’t know when it escalated.

But, it was his duty to keep citizens safe after all so even after realizing how strange his actions were he still kept an eye on you no matter what.

Seeing you fall into no other than the arms of his replacement struck a chord in him that he couldn’t describe.

He should have been faster (honestly speaking he wasn’t expecting you to be that bad web slinging). He should have been the one that saved your spine from being broken.

But nope, Tim had to be there. Right at that moment. It was as if destiny was laughing at his inability to do anything better than his siblings.

The following days he decided to keep an even closer eye on you.

Unfortunately that meant he was within your spider sense range and you were totally aware of his presence.

After you realized it was just Red Hood being red hood you shrugged and paid no mind to it. You had more important matters to tend to.

Still, the cheeky part of you couldn’t resist and gave him a wave and grin.

Hopefully whatever him and Peter were coming up with works.

As you stare into the broken flashdrive you and the latter stole a while back you grimace.

There was no time. You were to improve now or never.

Jason looked at you. His heart racing uncontrollably at the smile you gave him.

He wondered what other kind of expressions you could make with that pretty face of yours. How’d you look when you were afraid and how relieved and happy you’d be when he comes in to save the day. How you’d smirk when the two of you take down another group of thugs. Backs against eachother. A sign of absolute trust.

You. You were going to be his partner in crime in the future.

And he’d be damned if anything happen to you.

He couldn’t help but be excited for when the other spider-people left the scene.

Damian was slowly but surely losing his mind.

It was winter break and he hasn’t seen you in the dorms at all. If it weren’t for his excessive obsession with replicating your face via art he’d probably forget how you’d look like. (He definitely wouldn’t but a point was being made, okay?)

He thought that you might have been kidnapped if it weren’t for Ganke informing him of your rare appearances.

At least the boy was good for something.

He takes one lengthy, very extensive, look at his brand new expensive phone.

And another lengthy, extremely extensive look at all the sketches he’s drawn of your face, your room, your everything.

It was time to bring in backup.

“Dick. I . . . need your help.”

Taglist: @vanessa-boo @w31rdg1rl @zlatolait-writes @ice-cream-writes-stuff

[man-moth-hook-hand]

Welcome to my Nightmare Ch. 1

Here is the first chapter of the rewrite!

Masterlist

Chapter One: Santa Carla

Dry heat. The only two words that could describe the hellscape that Santa Carla, California was. I was just now realizing that I had no idea what I had gotten myself into, getting states away from home. The horrors of the grimy truckstop showers should have been an omen not to come here, but I was determined to get away. To start new. To be. . . different. 

I had hitchhiked what felt like hundreds of miles, but I knew that wasn’t possible. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was not getting some serial killer-rapist to pick me up. So far, I had gotten nice people, families, and old run-down people that were once me. The Sun’s lasers blasted at me like I was Princess Leia.  I was definitely going to get a sunburn after this. I held my thumb up for the millionth time to plead with someone to not let me die of a heatstroke out here. No luck.

The dry dirt crunched under my boots as I walked down the side of the highway into California. A “Welcome to Santa Carla California!” the sign taunted me. As I passed, something told me to glance back. Some punk had spray painted the phrase “MURDER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD” in a fitting, blood red. I suppose maybe that should have been my omen to quit while I was ahead. Of course, I didn’t listen. I had hithicked and been through some of the nasties and sketchiest places to get her. Murder Capital of the World wasn’t going to shock me. More people means more crime anyway. 

This time, my thumb yielded an old red Toyota to take pity on me. Once inspecting my saviors, I understood why an older woman had stopped. She had two children in her car. Maybe she saw herself, or her kids, in me. Maybe the husky that was desperate to sniff me begged her to pull over. 

“Hi, are you alright? Do you need a ride?” A sweet and delicate voice emanated from her gentle expression. Murder Capital of the World, am I right? Her two sons, the older brunette, and younger blonde, eyed me suspiciously. ALthough, they didn’t seem too concerned with their mother picking up a total stranger. Maybe she did this often.

“Yes ma’am, I just need a ride into town.” I explained. If I got a cheap hotel, maybe I could settle down a bit. I glanced into the old vehicle, it seemed a little over crowded. The two teenages didn’t seem to want to share their precious car space, especially with a husky on the blonde’s lap. Who drags a Husky into this kind of weather?

“Michael, move over just a little. Would you?” The woman’s turquoise necklace with wings caught my eye. It looked almost like a Journey album cover. Michale, the older brunette guy, side eyed me. Not wanting to displease his mother, moved over just a little. 

I grabbed the sun bleached handle and opened the car to scoot towards Michael. I tried not to take up too much space, I was a sweaty hitchhiker. It seemed like any space I took up was too much. 

“Thanks, I’m (Y/N).” I gestured my open palm towards Michael to shake. 

“I’m Michael,” he thankfully shook my hand and didn’t seem too upset about me being in the car. “That’s Sam, Nanook, and my mom–”

“I’m Lucy by the way.” She laughed. 

“It’s nice to meet you all. Thank you for giving me a ride, I really do appreciate it.” I thanked Lucy. Sam muttered something about not asking for another one. His mother’s displeased look stopped him from saying anything else.

“So, you’re staging with some family?” Lucy glanced at me through the rearview mirror. 

“Oh, uh. I just . . . um. . .” I can’t believe that I was completely choking up. Shit. “Yeah, but only for a little bit.” I hoped that was enough to convince her. It wasn’t. 

“Oh, they couldn’t drop you off?” She questioned. 

“Well, they don’t have a car, so I just walk everywhere.”  

“If you need somewhere to stay for a bit, we have extra room.” Lucy reached for my hand behind the seats. 

“Mom–” Sam objected. I couldn’t blame him. 

“Sam! Be nice. I raised you better than that!” She scolded. 

“You’re more than welcome to stay with us if you need. Really, we do have plenty of room.” Lucy seemed more concerned for me that I was about myself.

Was it really a bad idea? Maybe. Was I going to take it anyway. Yeah! A rent free place to stay, why wouldn’t I take that? Plus, I could cook, clean, or pay rent after I got a job, so it wasn’t like I was taking advantage of them. I only had sixty bucks left, so not enough to stay at a motel for very long.

“Are you sure? I really don't want to take up unwanted space.” put on a sweet and naive voice. I couldn’t make it too obvious that I wanted to stay. Sam and Michael would be a little harder to convince, but I could do it. 

/|\^._.^/|\

Along the ride, I learned the family’s name was the Emerson’s, freshly moving to Santa Carla after a not-so-great divorce. I thought it was interesting to move so far away, even if Lucy’s father was here. Did she not have siblings? Friends that could help her out? I wasn’t going to ask. Michael wasn’t too thrilled finishing his senior year in a completely different state, but he said he was going to try to make the best of it. Sam, on the other hand, was almost insulted that he had to relocate. A total mall-rat. California seemed right up his alley, every person who wanted to be someone, wanted to be in California. Not Sam though. 

The Emerson’s stopped at the boardwalk, which I had no idea was anything more than an expensive tourist trap. Lucy said she came here all the time when she was younger. I always thought it was just for rides and carnie good, but no, there were legitimate businesses. It looked like a couple of food joints, random stores, and a . . . pharmacy? Weird. Maybe it was cheap to rent here. Maybe tourists just got sick a lot. 

People were pouring out of every nook and cranny of these places, it was like an anthill. I hadn’t ever seen this many people since Black Friday, except with less fighting and stealing. The Emerson’s had split up and it looked almost impossible to figure out how they were going to  meet up. It was overwhelming, especially with how bright and hot it was. Maybe I needed that pharmacy. 

Sam and Nanook split, running around like wild children. Lucy and Michael went looking for jobs. I wasn’t really sure where to be, I also wanted a job, but I didn’t want to compete with Lucy or her son. Maybe if I look the next time we’re here, I’ll find one. 

Jesus Christ, it was bright. Somebody’s got to sell some shade, otherwise I was going to get a migraine. I scanned the sweaty maze of people, locating a small shop. The Sa’s Surf Shop sign looked over me. Jesus, there were so many people. I forced myself into the air conditioned shop. The smell of sunscreen, surf wax, and too many people that smelled like salty water and B.O. was so grody. I spotted a pair of round, cat eye sunglasses, with a teal rim. They sat discarded in a big with other various pairs. 

I picked up two similar pairs and wandered around the store pretending to be a customer. I put the pair I wanted in my waist band underneath my baggy shirt. I made my way over the bin and placed the other pair back. It was so easy to take from shops like this, there were always way too many people to keep track of thieves. 

I walked a couple shops down before placing my shield of glory upon my face. A few more shops down, I noticed a bookstore. I was a little confused at how many shops and what types called the boardwalk “home.” It was much more than I expected. 

The sign was so sunbleached it was almost impossible to read Used Books on the front. Straight to the point, I guess. An old ancient being guarded the sacred used book store. He seemed almost upset that someone wanted to actually buy something. The store was a tightly packed maze of books from new to who knows how old. Nothing was organized, excepta few book on display near the back, but none of them related to each other. Maybe the old geezer would hire the help he probably needed. 

Once inspecting the display, I noticed that How to Raise Your IQ by Eating Gifted Children by Lewis Frunkes was next to Dracula by Brahm Stoker. . . . interesting. I pulled Dracula off the shelf, then moved around the shelves to find a similar cover. I eventually found another vampire novel that looked close enough to Dracula. I hid Dracula in between my back and the waistband of my pants, hopefully he hadn’t seen me. I proceeded to place the other book on the display hoping it would trick the old man. I made my way to the front of the store to find the old man staring at me intensely. Had he caught me? Hopefully not. He looked between me and the display, quinting. Could this dinosaur even see? 

“Was that on the display?” a grainy voice interrogated me. 

“Yes, sir.” I said. 

He stared at me harshly before saying something. “Alright then.” He uncrossed his arms and placed him on his hips, revealing his name tag. Milforn. 

“Excuse me, I was wondering if you were looking for some help–” 

“No.” Milford flatly stated. 

“Uh, ok. Have a nice day then.” I backed away slowly. 

“I don’t need no help.” Milford’s jowls flapped angrily. 

“Have a nice day sir.” I said as I quickly exited the store. What a weirdo. 

I wandered around a bit before spotting Lucy, Sam, and Nanook. It seemed like lucy was asking Sam to give some money to two kids eating out of a dumpster. I remembered what that felt like. A couple of people had given me money before, but it always was embarrassing taking it. It felt like they just pitied me and wanted to make themselves feel better. Lucy didn’t mean it that way though, she was a good person. I truly do believe that she is a good person. 

“Hey,” she grasped my shoulder gently. “We’re going to head up to my father’s now. Don’t forget you’re invited now.” She chuckled at me. 

“Ok, thank you.” I said. I kinda felt bad for accepting. I didn’t want to take advantage of Lucy the same way I did those shop people. Lucy was nice, those shop people sucked and had overpriced junk. 

Eventually, Me, Michael, Sam, Lucy, and Nanook clamored our way into the old, but well loved, Toyota. Sam seemed more upset about me going than Michael did. The car ride out of town was a little tense to say the least. It was thick enough to choke me. Lucy didn’t seem bothered, or didn’t let it show. She turned on the radio, made jokes, and eventually it seemed as if we were having a good time. Sam even laughed at something I said. 

“Ya know, I haven’t lived with another girl since I lived with my mother!” Lucy laughed. “If you need anything, really anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” 

“Thank you. If you need help moving anything, let me know. I don’t mind.” I chirped. 

“You could move my stuff into my room.” Sam laughed. 

“Light work I guess.” I quipped back. Michael chuckled in response. “So, how old are you guys?” 

“18.” Michael said. 

“Old enough.” Sam said. 

“Sam,” Lucy nudged her son in the ribs. “He’s 13.” 

“I’m guessing you're maybe 30?” I joked with Lucy. While Same and Michael didn’t seem to think my joke was funny, Lucy felt more than flattered. After all, it was her approval I was after, not two punk-ass teens. 

“So are you in highschool?” Michael asked. 

“No, I just graduated.” 

“So why are you all the way out here?” 

“A fresh start. I just wanted things to be different than how they were.” I didn’t want to tell my whole life story to a guy I just met a couple hours ago. 

“Fair enough. Us too.” Michael was quiet and didn’t talk much. “I’m finishing my senior year here.” 

“Who said you’re graduating?” Sam joked. Michael wetted the tip of his finger and shoved it into Sam’s left ear canal. 

“Mom!Michael just gave me a wet-willy!”

“Michael, please don’t start on the wrong foot. We’re almost here. I don’t want your grandfather to think we fight.” Lucy explained. 

“I thought it was funny.” I whispered to Michael. He chucked a bit. Perhaps I could get them to warm up to me.

[airiat]

northern sky, one. ✧˚ · .

{masterlist}

pairing: joel miller x you / f!reader (wc: 35.3k, 10 chapters)

rating: explicit, 18+

work tags: no outbreak, age difference (27/42), hurt/comfort, ptsd, fate, ldr, explicit sexual content (rough/romantic sex, light d/s & sadomasochism, dirty talk, choking/biting, oral (f & m receiving), unprotected piv, aftercare)

work warnings: themes of death (more details here, contains spoilers), depictions of mental illness/alcoholism, light discussion of theoretical relationship with minor (not condoned by either party), light blood kink

{ao3}

note: here. i've cut out my heart and laid it down beating and bloody on these pages. i needed to do this. you get to see it. this work is complete and will update every sunday bc tlou sunday. it'll be on tumblr in its entirety but also on ao3--pls just head to ao3 though i promise it's not scary there

anyway, i hope u enjoy and then comment to tell me u did thanks luv u

one. {8.5k}

Here it is. The witless beginning to the story you said you would never have. Here it is unfolding in the hallowed, wood-paneled walls of your small town’s bar. The one you always went to with your friends in high school because they’d never card, let the cheap beer flow like water. It’s the one that only plays 80s music, at home against the checkered floor tiles and the dull green vinyl of the bar stools.

There he is. The man with calloused hands built to cradle the very shape of your heart. You’d know that if you could see the grooves of his palms. You’ll know that soon enough.

He’s walking through the front door. He’s shaking snowflakes from the salt, mainly pepper, strands of his hair. He’s running a thumb over the etched-in crease between his brows, tugging the edge of his mustache, sitting down on the stool next to yours so heavily that melted snow wets your cheeks.

“Coming down hard out there,” your friend, the bartender, says as a greeting.

“Yeah, sure is,” the stranger says, coat-clad elbows against the bar top. “Don’t think I’ll be able to drive any further tonight.”

Your friend, the bartender, tilts her head in sympathy. “Well, what can I get for ya, then?”

“Beer’s fine,” the stranger answers. “Anythin’ you got on tap. I ain’t picky.”

Your friend nods and moves to fill a glass, setting it down in front of the stranger who wastes no time taking a gulp.

Here they are. The words you toss into the ether that you can never fish back out. Tongue loosened by your fourth glass of whiskey. Almost enough drink to let you trudge home through the snow, fall face-first into your mattress. Just hope you don’t drown in vomit before it’s time to wake up for the first appointment at your salon. Hope your hands stop shaking enough to give a decent haircut.

The sweaty tumbler in front of you is the wound slotted between your ribs, which coats your hands in just enough blood to make a ring slide off your finger. But just little enough to keep you dazzling, to make heads turn to you. 

Still, nothing sticks. It’ll always be your palms alone pressed against that laceration at the end of the night.

“That sure is an accent,” you say. “Must be pretty far from home.”

Here it is now. The first time this stranger looks at you, like he’s only just realizing a full-blooded woman is sitting next to him. He blinks in surprise, long eyelashes framing eyes that must be brown. There’s a corner of his lip raised, but it’s humorless. Your whiskey eyes don’t delude you.

“Damn, that obvious? Here I thought I was blending right in.”

And there they are. His first words to you. You don’t see how the invisible threads are being tied into place by them. 

It could have gone a million other ways. You could have been you in a bar five hundred miles from here, instead. Where they play 90s rock, and the seats are red instead of green. Where the night is warm and a girl, but sober, but with steady hands, will drive home alone and fall asleep in bed with an orange cat curled up with her.

Instead, here he is, sitting next to you. Here he is for you.

“Almost,” you say. “Don’t talk, and you’ll have it down.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” he drawls, but then he pauses, seems to consider. “What’s your name?”

You smile, shake your head. “What’s yours?”

“Mysterious, are you? Mine’s Joel. Joel Miller.” The unneeded addition of his last name is pointed. He’ll give you more than you’ll give him. He always will.

“Where did you come from, Joel Miller?”

“The road,” he grunts, taking another swig of beer.

“The road from where?”

“Texas. Austin.”

“To?”

Joel flicks his gaze over to you. The furrowed brow does not go unnoticed. “You sure ask a lot of questions for a girl with no name.”

“I’m making conversation,” you counter. Then, you wave down your friend who would never cut you off, ask for another glass of whiskey. “You could make conversation, too, if you answered them.”

“Well, maybe I don’t wanna,” Joel Miller says, but he’s smiling at you, something small and secret, just for you. 

“So, where’s the cowboy hat, Joel Miller?” you ask.

Behind you, another Tuesday night regular walks through the door donning the very thing. It’s Colorado, somewhere. Close enough to the mountains, far enough to block them out with a pinky over the horizon. It’s more ranches and dry plains, the endless expanse of watercolor sunrises.

“You think everyone from Texas is a cowboy or something?”

You shrug, take a sip of your drink. Tastes too much like water. You’d make a scene about it–you have before–but this moment with Joel is better than booze, better than yelling. If only for the time being. “Yeah. Aren’t they?”

He squints at you like he can’t decide if you’re fucking with him. “‘Course,” he says. “Just happened to leave mine in the truck.”

You squint back, but it’s to study his sun-worn face, his coat's old canvas. Maybe. But then you duck down beneath the bar to see his shoes. Come back up, grinning victorious. “Wrong kind of boots.” Work boots. The lace-up kind. “Bet you’ve never even ridden a horse in your whole life.”

“Sure I have. Once…when I was a kid.” He snorts a laugh. “No, I’m not a cowboy. And hardly anyone from Texas is.”

“How disappointing.” You give an exaggerated sigh. “Well, what do you do?”

“I’m a contractor.”

You grin. All cheek. “So, you’re good with your hands, then?”

Joel won’t look at you, but the tips of his ears are growing red. You can’t see that it sweeps across his cheeks, too. “Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he answers gruffly into the bottom of his beer.

“Maybe that works out better for us, then,” you say in a low voice, leaning closer. “I’m certainly no horse, after all.”

This has to be the moment. You’ve decided you want this. Want him. Want the heat of him, the weight, his short breaths, the quick snap of his hips, your body pressed under his.

Joel finally turns to you, and his eyes pass slowly over you–your face, your chest swathed in an old flannel shirt, lace camisole peaking through the top. 

“A horse?” he says in a voice like the snow falling outside in the darkness. “No, I wouldn’t say that you are.”

You reach out and brush his hand. “There’s a hotel in town, but it’s kind of a dump,” you murmur. “You could come back to my place instead.”

“Your place?” Joel chuckles. “Kind of you to offer, darlin’, but I can smell that whiskey on your breath from here.”

You smile. Darlin’. “Could be tasting it, instead.”

Joel swipes his tongue along his top lip. “Dunno if that’s such a good idea. You seem a little…young.”

“I’m being served at a bar, aren’t I?” But then you lean even closer, lips next to his ear. “I’m twenty-seven.”

The slope of his shoulders says you’ve eased him, but he still pulls away, shakes his head. “I should really just get to sleep. Have to finish the rest of my drive tomorrow.”

You shrug. You’re not gonna cry about it. This was never really the plan. You would have just been lucky. You say farewell with a soft hand on Joel’s shoulder as you stand up, tossing a twenty on the bar. For you and him, you indicate to the bartender who is no longer your friend.

“Safe travels, then,” you tell him. Kind smile. You’re good at this.

As you leave the bar, you’re stopped by something. It’s not him. No, it’s a voice singing a familiar tune, the one that goes, All I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here in my arms. You can’t go just yet. You like this one, actually like this one. Your hips are swaying as you go to the small space in the bar where people sometimes dance. You’re the only one there tonight, but this isn’t the first time. It never stops you.

But you’re not there for very long this time. Barely even through the second verse. There’s an arm sliding around your waist. When you look up, you meet brown eyes. Those long lashes.

It’s his turn to dip down to your ear. “Changed my mind,” Joel murmurs. “Seeing you move….” He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t need to. You’re already threading your fingers through his, tugging him back towards the way you came.

His truck is dusted with snow in the parking lot. It’s an older one. Utilitarian. Nothing like those flashy ones that only pretend they have purpose. You imagine his tools cluttered in the bed. Imagine him driving it, sweaty and tired after work.

But now he’s pulling the passenger side door open for you, holding your hand for balance as you climb into the seat, closes the door, and gets into the seat next to you.

You’re warm with him in the cab now. The interior is surprisingly clean, smells of leather and earth, of cigarette smoke, faintly. The stereo is on from how he must have had it before, down low, playing a CD of some artist whose name is on the tip of your tongue. Minimal, mostly guitar, only one voice like it in the whole world. It suits him. You imagine him listening to it on the lonely road, mouthing the lyrics, thumb tapping against the wheel.

Joel’s driving now. Only, his thumb is brushing against your knuckles, hand resting in your lap. He’s asking you how to get to your house, and you’re directing him as he goes, but your voice is drowned out by the feeling of his hand on yours.

You hadn’t expected this. Maybe he’d have his hand on you, sure. But it should have been on your thigh. Maybe even drifting in between your legs. He should be thoughtless. He should pretend that you are nothing more than a pocket of warmth on a cold night. You don’t know what to do with tenderness. It’ll flounder and die if it’s left up to your heart to hold it.

When it starts to feel like he’s grinding glass into your skin, you pull your hand back to yourself. He glances over, but you just grit your teeth and say nothing. You’re approaching your house now, anyway. 

You don’t even have to direct him anymore. Yours is the only house at the end of the dirt road. Joel pulls into the drive, and you think you should be embarrassed. It’s old and neglected–chipping green paint, sagging porch, bare bulb over the front door. A farmhouse with only your garden beds left of the farm. At least it’s tucked into the trees, so no one really has to see it.

“You leave your car back at the bar?” is the only thing Joel says.

It isn’t what you’re expecting. “No,” you answer. 

“And not one here, neither. So you, what, take a cab?”

You don’t like what your response ought to be. You don’t like that he’s even asking. “Why are you asking?”

“Just confused, is all. How were you plannin’ on getting home?”

“Woulda walked.”

“Alone in the dark? In the snow? And taken you something like thirty minutes?” He’s bewildered. He shouldn’t be. This is how it always goes, and you are always fine.

“I like the fresh air. The adventure,” you reply. “So, are you coming inside…or?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Sorry.” He shuts the truck off, and you both exit. You don’t wait for him before you march up to the front door. But he catches up when your unsteady hands take too long with the keys.

“You, uh, you sure you’re alright?” Joel asks.

You won’t look at him; you only catch a glimpse of the white cloud his breath makes. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just got a medical condition, okay? I’m basically sober. I barely drank anything.”

Two truths. A lie. But maybe you don’t like playing this game anymore. Maybe Joel and all his questions are more trouble than they’re worth. And so, you snap, “Look, if you don’t actually want to do this, you’re welcome to leave. You won’t hurt my feelings.”

And here it is. The choice. The first exit. The proof of…the proof of what? Desire? Integrity? Pity?

“Just want to make sure you’re…y’know, that this is what you want,” Joel says.

You finally get the key in and shove the door open. The house is as dark as it always is when you arrive.  Quiet, too. Like the inside of the pine box you should have been laid to rest in. But you didn’t get one. You were meant to go on. To live with that.

“Come with me,” you whisper to Joel, careful not to disturb the slumbering darkness.

He follows you as you lead him to your bedroom, just as quiet, honoring the stillness. As though the Earth has paused its orbit and will only begin again once you’ve told it to.

You reach the room and stop to light the single vanilla-scented candle on your dresser. Joel starts to reach for the lamp next to your bed, but you hold a halting hand out.

“No, don’t,” you tell him.

He pauses to look at you, face golden with candlelight, warm like the final rays of a sunset. “Alright, darlin’. Anything you want.”

And what you want is to step slowly towards him, press your hands to his chest, rise on your tiptoes, and kiss him. But you don’t. You pause with your lips a breath from his.

“Never got the chance to tell you how pretty you are, did I?” Joel murmurs, palms sliding against your jaw until his fingers are laced in the hair at the nape of your neck. 

You freeze a little because this isn’t what you’re supposed to hear. Hot, maybe, Sexy, maybe. But pretty? That’s meant for someone without ghosts haunting them. You were never meant to be more than warm flesh. You don’t have eyes, don’t have lungs or a heart. He isn’t meant to tell you otherwise.

But you can’t help how your eyelashes flutter, the bloody corpse of your hope reanimating. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well, you are,” he says. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

You think this has to be a lie. You make yourself presentable because your business is beauty. Keep up with your hair color, do a face of makeup. But right now, you’re in old jeans and a holey flannel, breath tainted with stale whiskey, eyes rimmed with smudged mascara.

“Okay,” you whisper. “If you think so.”

“Yeah, I do,” he tells you. “Now, c’mere.”

Finally, finally, Joel leans in and kisses you. You can’t help your immediate sigh, open-mouthed and slack against his lips, can’t help your hands from fisting at his chest, almost pushing him away. You can’t help it. You’re not familiar with this kind of gentleness. 

Joel pulls back, and your sigh becomes a quiet whine, hands clutching at his coat. If you let him go, he’ll become a wisp of smoke. You’ll wake up and realize that none of this has been real. That your mind is finally deranged enough to concoct such a beautiful illusion.

But those dark eyes looking down at you are too fathomless to be something you conjured. Your sickness would never let you create something so complicated, would never even realize that a life must exist inside of them. Because you see it all there in those eyes: every moment he’s lived, every teardrop, every piece of happiness witnessed.

“You have nice eyes,” you tell him. It’s all you can say.

“Thank you,” Joel says softly. “Now, here, just let me….”

He relocates your hands from his coat to the front of his shirt before he shrugs out of it, draping it over the back of your vanity chair. This is an appreciated change; now you can feel the shape of his muscles, slide your fingertips up to trace his collarbones.

This time, you kiss him, surrendering to your sadness as your lips meet his, aching. This kiss becomes your arms around his neck, rising on tiptoes to press yourself against his chest. His hands find the skin of your shoulder blades underneath your flannel, warm and rough on you. Warm and real. You break away long enough to tear at the buttons and let your flannel fall to the wooden floor. You still have your camisole on. It isn’t too scary.

But you find yourself backing into your bed, sinking onto it when the mattress presses into your calves. Joel is leaning over you, your head craned up, so the kiss never breaks. But, then, it does, and he’s kneeling in front of you, pulling your boots off, then gripping you behind your knees. Kissing you again so soon that it’s like he never stopped.

You wouldn’t have cared about the boots. You would walk through a sea of mud and still get tangled up in your sheets if it meant Joel would be there next to you. But he’s too considerate to even dream of it. He must be. He must care. He must want to make sure there is nothing about this that you’ll regret.

“You still doin’ alright, honey?” Joel pauses to ask you. 

In this new stillness, you notice the heaviness in your chest, realize your breaths are coming short and nearly frantic. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” you gulp.

He releases one of your knees to soothingly rub your arm. “We can always slow down, you know. Still got all night. Or, we don’t even have to do anythin’ at all.”

You smile at him. You can’t help it; your mind, in all its sickness, never could have dreamt up a man so gentle. “Are you hungry?” you ask him. “Got some leftover pasta, I think.”

He blinks once in surprise, but a smile comes to his face. “Yeah, sure, I could eat. Actually…that sounds pretty good.”

“Perfect,” you say. “Food, then.”

Joel rises to his feet and holds a hand out to help you up. You walk together to your kitchen, then to the fridge. Opened, it emits the brightest light you’ve seen since the sun as you and Joel stand before it. “Well, I said pasta, but I also have….” You rattle off a litany of dishes you’ve made. The fridge is full of these leftovers, the drawers still bursting with ingredients. You love to cook. You would cook endlessly, make enough food for everyone and then some, but everyone is really only just you.

“You made all of this?” Joel asks, glancing at you, but can’t help but bring his eyes back to the food.

“All of it, yeah. It’s kind of a hobby, I guess.”

“God, wish I had that as a hobby.” He steps back from the fridge. “Well, I couldn’t possibly decide. You pick.”

You hem and haw for a moment before settling on a foil-wrapped dish that contains chicken pot pie. Then comes the decision to warm it up in either the microwave or the oven…the microwave, you decide. It won’t be perfect, but Joel probably won’t mind. You’re still thinking about what came before this. You imagine he is, too.

When it’s out of the microwave, you slice two squares and plate them. Joel’s sitting on a barstool at the island–you put one in front of him and yours at the other seat. “You want anything to drink?” you ask him. “Got wine…other things.”

“Just water’s fine. This looks good, darlin’. I’m sorry, you mind if I…?” He looks at you with his fork hovering over the food. “Think it really has been hours.”

“No, no, please do,” you insist, then watch for a moment as he takes the first bite. He closes his eyes and lets out a quiet groan.

“Yeah, damn good,” Joel confirms.

Satisfied, you turn to the cabinets to find two glasses. With his water glass in hand, you hesitate to reach for a wine glass. It won’t look very good…he’s having water, and you’re…you snatch it off the shelf. Your house. You’ll do what you want. And when you sit down at the island with your wine and his water, he says nothing. Doesn’t even seem to notice, really, except enough to take a drink.

“So, you never told me,” you begin, picking at your food, then relenting and taking a drink of wine. “Where are you off to?”

“Oh, I didn’t?” he says with a mouthful of food. “Headed to Jackson, Wyoming.”

“Hmm,” you hum. “What’s there?”

“My brother and his wife just had their baby. Thought I’d pay a visit.”

“Oh, nice. Girl? Boy?”

“Boy.” Joel smiles. “Be good to have a nephew. Have a daughter, myself.”

You glance down at his hands—no ring to be found—but you still feel funny about it. You take a long gulp of wine. “You do?” you make yourself ask.

“Yeah. Sarah. Think she’s plannin’ to be there, too.”

“You don’t know?”

“Well, she and I…she and I haven’t been speaking lately.”

You don’t think you should press, but the wine has reignited your earlier haziness, so you’ll do it anyway. “Why’s that?”

Joel looks over to you, gaze lingering like he’s deciding something, but then he bows his head back to the plate of food. “First, it was that she just started college. Thought I’d give her a little space to grow. But then, she came home this past Christmas with a girl, introduced her to me as her girlfriend.”

You furrow your brow. “You don’t like that your daughter has a girlfriend?”

“Well, I mean, I didn’t know what I thought about it. It wasn’t how I was raised, you know? To think something like that is alright. And my own daughter?” His voice comes quiet, and he’s picking at his food, too. “We fought about it, and then she left early. Haven’t spoken since.”

You stab your fork into the pie crust. “If I had a kid, I’d just want them to be happy.”

“Yeah, I know. I did eventually come to see it that way, too,” Joel replies, almost defensive, but then he sighs. “She doesn’t know I’m coming, but I’m hoping she’ll forgive me.”

If he were anyone else, you wouldn’t want to reassure him, but he’s Joel Miller, so you say, “I bet she will. You seem like a good dad.”

He gives you a soft smile. “Maybe,” he says. “But thanks. Sweet of you to listen.”

You shrug. “I do a lot of listening. Part of my job.”

“You some kind of therapist or something?”

“Hairdresser,” you answer. “Almost the same thing.”

“Huh, yeah,” Joel agrees. “You been doing it for long?”

“Five years.”

“You like it?”

“Well enough, I guess.”

“Surprised you can, y’know–”

“Why, because my hands shake?” You cut him off with a snap. “All that came after. I can do my job just fine. It’s muscle memory.”

“Didn’t mean it like that. Just that it’d be impressive.”

“Yeah, whatever,” you mutter. You’re taking it out on him. You know it. But your haziness will have you let it fester. The vengeance rolls across your tongue in waves. It’s all you can do not to say it.

Joel leans in towards you, sweeps your hair away from your neck. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I shouldn’t have said it. You’ve been so sweet to me.”

The vengeance dies when you let him press a small kiss on your cheek. Your cheek. You’d forgotten you could be kissed there. It feels better than you ever thought such a simple thing could. Like a bandaid smoothed over an old wound.

“You done eating?” you murmur.

“This, yeah,” he says, nudging the plate, face still near yours. “But maybe I’m, y’know, still a little hungry for something else.”

You giggle. Actually giggle. It’s a corny line. You know it, but it’s working on you. You’re not ashamed to say so. “Yeah? Well, I have a whole fridge full of other stuff.”

Joel shakes his head, tickling your cheek with his beard. “Not quite what I had in mind. Maybe…maybe I should just show you.”

“Yes, please do,” you whisper.

“Alright,” he says with a small smile. “But first, these have gotta go.”

Your gaze follows his movement down to his boots, which he unlaces with deft fingers. It’s the kind of thing that makes your mind wander, imagine what else he could use them for. You’ll find out soon enough.

Joel leads you back to your bedroom with your hand in his. He doesn’t let go until he’s sitting on the edge of your bed, and even then, it’s only to replace your hand with your hips as you stand before him. He’s looking up at you silently, waiting. You’re breathing in the vanilla of the air, marveling as it mixes with his scent: the woods in summer, a piece of the sky, something almost like blood. You could hold it all against your chest when you lay down under the trees and pull the earth over yourself. You’ll remember it.

But you’re not there yet. You blink, and the house comes crowding in around you, too fast and too much, but you feel Joel breathing beneath you, and you settle. His hands slide from your hips to cup your rear as you sink into his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. Drape your arms over his shoulders, press your face into his neck.

“You smell so good,” you say against his skin.

Joel exhales. “Can I kiss you again, darlin’?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “Please do.”

He lifts your head with gentle fingers underneath your chin, pauses long enough that you start to melt into those dark eyes, but they’re moving over your face, lingering on every feature. Finally, his lips, with their perpetual M-shaped slope, curve up and kiss you.

All the night’s previous slowness is abandoned as Joel’s fingers thread into your hair, tugging at the roots, as you clutch at the back of his neck, forbidding each other from ever letting go. Not as though you would. Not when he’s parting your lips, licking into your mouth, drawing out a quiet moan. Not while his hands travel the road of your shoulders and down your sides, fingertips cautiously dipping under the hem of your camisole.

“Can I…?” Joel murmurs into your mouth.

You don’t answer him yet, instead moving to the buttons on the front of his shirt. You want to undo them, but your shaking hands prevent it. He notices, gently takes your place. 

His shirt is discarded along with the last shreds of your hesitation. You resist the temptation to sink your palms into his chest to find the warmth of his heart. You let him continue. 

First is your camisole shucked off, and then you’re sitting there in your thin bra, bracing yourself as he sees you. There’s nothing wrong with you; you know there isn’t. You know about the shadow of your ribs, the constellation of your beauty marks, the crescent moons of your breasts. There’s nothing ugly about it. But you can only unravel when he smiles, kisses the dip of your collarbone.

Your breath hitches when Joel reminds you of his tongue, licking up the junction of your neck, and again when he introduces you to his teeth as he softly drags them against your skin. You tighten your hands against his back, long fingernails sinking into his spine. He hisses through those teeth, pulling you tighter against him, arms a band around your middle.

“You gonna be sweet for me, honey?” he asks, leaning back to look at you. “I don’t have to be so gentle with you if that’s not what you want.”

Your lips part at his words. Maybe you’d be drooling if you didn’t have your decorum–or if you’d had just one more drink. “I–I don’t know what I want. But I’m not…fragile.”

“No, no, I know you’re not,” he says gruffly. “Well, then, I’m gonna stop asking you about everything. But you’re still going to tell me if you don’t want something to happen, or if something hurts in a way you don’t like, or if you just plain want me to stop. Alright?”

You nod, docile and brainless.

“And you’re not gonna be shy about it, either. You’re gonna be honest with me. Right, darlin’?”

“Yes, I’ll tell you,” you say softly. “I promise.”

“Good. Now, this first.” Joel slips his fingers under the band of your bra, unhooks it with his thumb. “Been wantin’ to see you. Know you’ll be beautiful.”

Goosebumps shimmer on your skin as he guides the straps down your shoulders, slow, making it feel like your arms go on forever. When he’s finally revealed you to him, a shiver wracks through you, probably because of how he’s looking at you: like he’s just sifted through all your layers, reached the empty space in your chest. But it’s not empty, is it? No, the light bathes his face.

He smiles. “Just as I thought. Beautiful.”

You giggle, press your bare chest against his, just as bare, and a kiss to his lips. “And what about you, huh? Most handsome man that’s ever been in my bed.”

“Probably only could have said that about me ten, fifteen years ago,” Joel disagrees lightly.

Then, as if to distract you, he wraps his arms around you and flips you around so you’re on your back. As if to make you forget the thought entirely, he kneels over you and frames your face with his hands, feathering kisses over your mouth, your cheeks. You’re grabbing his shoulders, breathless, floating, but you haven’t forgotten.

“No,” you speak hoarsely. “I’m saying it about you right now.”

His answering chuckle rumbles against your chest as he drags his lips down, attaching themselves to a nipple. You moan when his tongue flicks against it, clutching at his hair. What were you trying to tell him? Something about–he nips at you, just a little bit, and the sensitivity has you seeing stars.

You let it all go as he moves to your other nipple, as one hand grips your waist, slides down to the curve of your hip, where your skin becomes your jeans. There, his hand is all you can pay attention to, knowing what he’s asking of you.

“Joel, please, take them off.”

“You take ‘em off. I got other matters,” he tells you.

His “other matters” are to return his lips to yours and to not let you forget about his tongue, moving against yours in a new way, one that gives you some idea of another use for it. Flooded with the feeling, you’re fumbling with the button and the zipper on your jeans, pouring frustrated sounds into his mouth until he finally reaches down and yanks them off himself. When your hands meet as you go for your underwear next, he laces your fingers with his and presses your hands next to your waist.

“Be patient, pretty girl. Leave them for me.” His voice is like thick smoke.

A small moan is your agreement, enough that Joel gives your hand back, only for you to latch onto his arm braced next to you. His muscles move under your fingertips, and you consider his strength. How your hand was going nowhere, how badly he could probably hurt you, how he never will.

And it’s true: he won’t. Never in all your life. But you deserve at least that much. More.

Joel doesn’t make you wait for very long. His will probably isn’t made with as much iron as he’d have you believe, but his fingers feel sure as he slips beneath your underwear, finds the hollow below your stomach, careful to only just brush the hair there. Maybe he’ll have you beg for it. You look up and see him watching you with a contented little smile. All you can do is blink slowly back.

“Joel…” You try, but your words don’t form.

He presses a kiss to your temple. “I know, darlin’. I’ll give you what you need. Just let me relish it.”

“No, now. Please.”

His smile morphs into something more wicked at your plea, when you reach down and grab at his wrist. He lets you guide his hand toward your center but won’t let his fingers go where you need them. He’s using his strength for that control. A frustrated whine falls from your lips. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe he is an endless well of restraint. He doesn’t even kiss you–only lets his eyes roam your face.

But your own well is more akin to a puddle, on better days, the shallow end of a swimming pool. You show him this when you pull his head down, kiss him so hard that it hurts your lips. And finally, with a growl of surrender, his fingers travel down the length of your slit. Your moan drops into his mouth, his name strung after it.

“God, all of this for me, baby?” Joel rasps at the wetness gathered between your legs.

You can’t answer him because his fingers have made it to where you’ve needed him most, gliding over in slow, but firm circles. You’re tugging at his hair, holding his head, making sure his lips are there to catch all of your noises, to match your shallow breaths to his.

After a particularly sharp pull to his hair, he groans, and then his fingers move down to your entrance, lingering but not going in. There’s almost no sensation, almost unbearable after him having just worked your bud. Your frustration and exasperation have you yanked at his roots, wrapping your hand around his arm in a vice, trying to hold him there so you can move your hips to meet him. But you can go nowhere; his other hand is holding you still at your waist.

“Joel,” you whine, tears pricking at your eyes.

He’s looking down at you, pausing before he leans in and kisses you softly. “Bet I could keep you like this all night, have you delirious by morning. And you’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

Your breath comes quicker with panic, but somehow the thought is still a temptation. To let him work you down until you’re nothing more than your body, until you’re mindless and bent to his every word. It would be a pricklier sort of heaven, but heaven all the same. “Yes, I would. I would,” you say between your ragged breaths.

“Thought so,” Joel says, smug. “But I won’t. Not tonight.”

With that, he sinks two thick fingers deep into your wet heat. Throat bared as you toss your head back with a moan, he closes his lips around the thin skin, nipping until you feel raw, burnt as though by the sun. Your cries are sharp and thin as his fingers work you apart, legs splayed, hands clutching at anything in reach: him, the sheets, your bare breasts.

Soon, the tides change, and Joel pushes himself up, deftly maneuvering so that he’s kneeling on the floor, pulling you to the edge of the bed, all while keeping his fingers inside you. Propped up on your elbows, you gaze down at him between your legs, chest heaving as you realize what will come next.

But your underwear is still devastatingly on, and his mouth is miles and miles away from your center. His lips are on the inside of your leg, yes, but only at your knee. Still, you cannot complain–his fingers have started moving again, and this time, his thumb rubs at your bud.

“Joel,” you breathe, tipping your head back. “I’m gonna die waiting. I’m–I’m…please, my underwear.”

There’s a little spark of surprise as he immediately rips them off you, but you let out a thin wail when he pulls his hand away, leaving you cold and empty. Your arms shoot out to reach for him, but he eases you back with a hand on your stomach, draping your legs over his shoulders.

“Shh, baby,” he soothes, breath sweeping across the sensitive skin. “You’re so good for me. It’ll be worth it.”

“Please,” you whimper as he brushes soft kisses on the inside of your thigh, trailing down closer and closer until he finally presses one right onto–

His name falls like fluttering leaves from your lips as his tongue licks up through your folds. There is no easing into it this time; he eats at you like your body is something exquisite. Lips capture your bud as his tongue flicks over it, and you dissolve into a thousand flower petals as you sink into the bed.

“Joel, please, I need your–” Your moan is loud and throaty as his hand snakes between your legs, and he plunges his fingers into you, immediately curling them, all before you can even finish your sentence.

And this will do it. You know it will. The release is already coiling up in your stomach, heavy and tight, and you think maybe you’ll faint before you can get there. That’s how perfectly he works you. That’s how skilled his tongue is, how steady his fingers are in their movement. It’s like he had spent years studying your body, countless nights giving you this divine pleasure. 

But you’ve just met him. You can’t explain this, and you’re not meant to. 

You forget the thought as the warmth pools in the depths of your core, as one of his hands squeezes your thigh so tightly that it aches. There’s a sound coming from deep in his throat; if you could, you would pull it from him and cup it in your palms. His tongue is ceaseless, and his fingers are tapping against the spot inside you that sends your sense scattering.

“I’m almost there, I’m almost there, Joel,” you gasp, clenching down on him, drawing your thighs tighter around his head. He can’t go anywhere. He can’t stop. You need this. You’ll die without it. You’ll–you’ll–you’ll– “Fuck.”

The release envelopes you like an avalanche, pinning you down so that all you can do is arch your back into his mouth. You can hear his low groan amid your rapture, but you are otherwise so lost, so gone. You are meant for this. This is how you should always live. If it was forever like this, you could make it. His mouth, his fingers, him. Yes. Just like this.

It ends so soon. But your woe is interrupted by the simple sight of Joel, lips wet and glistening from you, shaped into a sloppy smile. He’s stroking the outside of your thigh as he untangles himself from your legs. Then he rises and crawls over you, kisses you soft and gentle, letting you taste the tang of yourself. The wetness of the fingers that were inside you trace against your jaw, leaving it cool in the air.

“You’re so good for me, baby,” Joel murmurs into your hair, holding you closer to him. “So fucking sweet.”

You sigh contentedly into his chest, but you’re still buzzing, still yearning for more of him in different ways. It’s almost without thought when you reach between your bodies and slip your hand into his jeans. He’s already almost hard in his boxers, and as you trace his length, you bite your lip at just how much there is.

He groans, low and quiet, against your neck, pushing himself more into your hand. “Ah, fuck, baby. You don’t–” he swallows. “--you don’t have to.”

“And I’m not going to,” you say. And it’s true: that was never in the plan. It’ll be a while before you let him into your mouth. You’ve never liked doing it, only would if you loved him. “But you are still gonna fuck me, right?”

He chuckles lowly. “That even a question, darlin’?”

“Good. Then, these–” you withdraw your hand to pop the button on his jeans, yank down the zipper “--need to come off. Right now.”

He instantly sits up, tosses you a cocky grin. “Yes, ma’am. Anythin’ you want.”

You sit up to watch him as he gets on his feet to do what you ask. But, god, he still has the reins in this moment. You know this as he takes his sweet time pulling them down, letting you soak in his body for the first time. 

And fuck, how had you not noticed all this? 

All the delicious muscles in his torso were built by hard labor, not at the gym, but still with a leanness–long lines, not bulk. His arms could lift you like you’re nothing. The expanse of his shoulders could eclipse you underneath him. But his jeans are hanging low on his hips, and your eyes drop immediately to the v-lines now exposed, to the wisps of dark, coarse hair peeking over his briefs.

“You’re teasing me,” you accuse.

He raises an eyebrow. “Tellin’ me you don’t enjoy the show?”

“I do. I just–god, I need–” You’re stammering. You’re gesturing frantically with your hands. “Fuck, Joel, I need you. I can’t fucking stand how–how sexy you are.”

The rich sound of his laugh is at home in the flickering candlelight, but he finally lets the jeans drop to his ankles, standing there in only his tight briefs. Your chest is clenching with stifled pants as he returns to the bed, climbing over you until all you can do is flatten down onto the mattress, caged by his arms and legs.

“I…think…you forgot something,” you whisper as his lips dip down to your neck.

“Did I?” he murmurs between kisses. “Maybe you should fix it for me, hm?”

You exhale a trembling breath as your hands find his hips, a breath that he captures with his mouth on yours. You manage to get his briefs down somewhat but can only move so much with him over you, with his hand cradling the back of your head. At your frustrated squeak, Joel reaches around and takes them the rest of the way off.

Finally, finally.

But he curses under his breath and pulls away. Your heart feels like it’s sunken into a hole in the ground as you stare back at him. The absence of him kills you. “I don’t have anythin’ with me,” he admits, looking like he could punch himself. “I can’t believe I didn’t fuckin’ remember.”

“You mean, like, a condom?”

“Yeah.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Might have one in my truck, but this isn’t–this isn’t somethin’ I usually do. And everything’s probably closed now and–”

“Joel.”

He quiets, brings his eyes to yours.

“I don’t mind,” you tell him, sitting up. “I don’t really do this either, so I’m clean, and you can just pull out. I…trust you.” You say that last part so quietly. You can’t meet his gaze now.

“I don’t want this to be a mistake,” he says softly.

“I’ve made so many mistakes, Joel. You’d be the least of them,” you say. “I think you’re a decent man.”

“You just met me. How can you be so sure? I coulda, I dunno, killed a bunch of people or somethin’. Just because I’m decent to you don’t mean–”

“Have you killed a bunch of people?”

“Well, no, but–”

You tilt your head, cock a smile. “You’re acting like a dad. Cut that shit out, and please, just please fuck me, Joel.”

He exhales, his shoulders relax, and the easy smile slides back onto his face. “Yes, ma’am. Anything.”

You don’t wait before pulling him to you by the neck, smashing your lips to his. And he’s quick to push you down to the bed, hand behind your back, you arching over it. Your lips never separate. You’ll die if they ever do. He’s roughly palming your breast, licking into your mouth, hot and hungry, desperate and keen. And then, his hand leaves your chest for a moment, finds its way to where your bodies will meet. You tense, knowing what’s coming, and when he eases himself in, your moan shatters into his mouth. The start of his slow, deep thrusts has your eyes rolling back, has you clutching him closer by his shoulders, tossing your head so his teeth scrape your chin.

“Yes, yes. God, Joel, t-thank you,” you gasp.

He lets out another of his low growls before he grabs your head back to kiss you again, quickening his motion as he does. In this way, he continues until your body and your mind belong entirely to him. Every movement you make is to bend with him, to let Joel mold you into something perfect for him, to bear his roughness and welcome his gentleness. 

It’s how he holds your jaw between his fingers to keep you still, but how achingly tender are the kisses that come after. How he hooks your leg under his elbow, folding you into yourself almost painfully, but how attuned to every twitch of your body, every time you react–tempering himself at a wince, going deeper when he earns a moan.

And your every thought belongs to him, too. Every time you catch a glimpse of his dark eyes, the tendons in his neck, the expanse of his shoulders, your world shrinks until it’s taken his shape. And then, before long, it’s just him, and him, and him. 

It’s how he’s looking at you, too, like you’re the woman who filled his lungs with the breath he’s used to make all his beautiful sounds. Every fervent moan, every sweet little nothing he’s poured into your mouth, next to your ear. All because of your shaky hands that coaxed him into being. 

“Baby, I’m gonna…I’m sorry, I have to–” Joel chokes out, bracing a hand next to your head.

His thrusts come rougher, but looser, like they’re out of his control now.

You reach up and let him lean his cheek into your palm. “Go ahead, sweetheart,” you breathe.

Not a moment later, he jerks out of you and spills onto your stomach, tugging at himself, groans hanging in the air. You’re stroking his cheek, admiring him in quiet awe, still so perfectly handsome even at his most animal. The prominent veins in his hands and arms, bowed head, face contorted in an unholy mask of ecstasy. Yes, probably, even more so.

When Joel finishes, he leans over to snatch his shirt up from the ground and uses it to wipe your stomach clean. He’s holding you as he does this–arm slid under your shoulders, lips pressed unmoving to your forehead. You’re still and stiff in his embrace; this isn’t what you expected. The shirt, maybe, sure. His tenderness? Never.

“Sorry, darlin’, usually’d have a towel for this,” Joel tells you, wadding the shirt into a ball–messy part inside, it’d seem–and tossing it back to the floor.

“You got your shirt dirty for me,” you say. “You didn’t have to.”

He chuckles. “Good thing I got more of ‘em in the truck.”

You extract yourself from him, springing awkwardly to your feet, still a little unsteady. It was nice, you have to admit. But you can’t let yourself linger with him. It’s not supposed to work like that. “Let me put it in the wash for you, anyway. You thirsty or anything?”

He’s sat up as though to follow you, a bewildered expression on his face. “I’m not worried about the shirt, darlin’.”

“Are you sure?”

“Never been more sure in my life.”

“Okay,” you say, a little deflated. Now, what do you do? You’re standing at the foot of your bed, wringing your hands. You can’t stay here all night, can you?

“You seem lost,” Joel says gently.

“I–” you start but can’t admit to it. “What now?”

He cracks a little smile, but it doesn’t seem at your expense. “Well, much as I’d love to stay up with you, I’m tired, and I’ve still got a long drive tomorrow.”

You nod. “Okay, you should get some sleep, then. You sure you don’t need anything?”

“I do need something, actually, yeah,” Joel says.

“Sure, what is it?”

“You in this bed with me.”

You freeze. Not what you expected. “Oh, um, okay. If you really want,” you say, but you’re still stationary.

Joel shakes his head. “Not want, need.” Then, he casts his eyes somewhere to the side and says so softly that it’s almost inaudible, “Please.”

Your exhale tumbles out, but you nod, going to your dresser to find a clean set of pajamas–little shorts, big t-shirt. You let him watch you dress from afar and then return to his side slowly, cautiously. Like you think he might pounce, claws out. Instead, he stays where he is but leans in to kiss your bare shoulder slipping from the shirt.

“Would you–?” you begin, passing him his discarded underwear.

“Sure, honey,” Joel murmurs, standing up to put them on. But before he returns to bed, he goes over and blows out the candle. The room is almost completely dark, and you’re still until you feel the mattress dip down next to you. That’s when you lean into him, pressing against him like a cat. “Sorry,” he says. “Shouldn’t leave that burning overnight.”

“Sometimes I do,” you admit.

“I’ll bet you do,” he answers, chuckling. “But don’t, alright?”

You yawn wide, the dark conjuring exhaustion into your bones. “Alright, Joel.”

He gives a sigh of defeat, then you feel him peel back the covers and slide under. When you look over, you see the length of his body in the soft shadows. He’s stretched out on his side, head propped in his hand. The space he leaves is perfect for you.

You need to fill that space. Just not with your body. “You want me to set an alarm or anything, or I could–”

“Darlin’.”

“Yeah?”

“Lie down with me.”

You quietly arrange yourself next to him: on your side facing him, a delicate river of space between your bodies. But he’s so warm. He radiates it. And it’s snowing outside like it’ll never stop, and your old farmhouse is so drafty, and the candle’s snuffed, and your pile of pillows is just not gonna cut it tonight. So, you bury your face into his chest, and he wraps his arms around to pull you closer, wraps you both in blankets.

His heartbeat thrums like the pulse of the earth, and you let yourself be lulled by it.

[bullet-prooflove]

Donna’s Thursday Radio Show Prompt List! - It's Getting Longer...

It’s that time again! The Radio prompt list!

Please check the updated character list on my pinned post to see who I am writing for before submitting a prompt!

Also read the rules and do not forget to put the entire prompt into your ask!

a long history Of breaking little hearts like the one in me

It was summer when I saw your face

 I'm just a dead man crawling tonight

They say she's a slut, 

Hush now watch the stars fall

You let your clothes fall to the floor And lit a fire while I waited for more

Oh God, I never thought we'd take it that far

You don't have to run, I know what you've been through

In the dead of the night I found out Sometimes there's love that won't survive 

one of us gets too drunk and calls about a hundred times

One look at your face I'm back in that place I'm feeling the fire

Remember the words you told me, love me 'til the day I die

Use me take me home and use me

It's a hundred miles an hour on a dirt road

Did I mention the note that I found taped to my locked front door

I can feel that body shake And the heat between your legs

Rebel girl you are the queen of my world

Hit me with your best shot

Some killer queen you are

You beat me at my own damn game

talked about no regrets As it slipped from my hand to the scuffed tile floor

Waiting for you to come home

Yeah, you used to call me baby, now you calling me by name

You've been scared of love and what it did to you

I wanted to think there was endless love Until I saw the light dim in your eyes

When will I ever learn If I wait it doesn't mean You will return

 baby, nobody could take my place

I rode the train for hours on end And watched the people pass me by

You don't fight fair

You don't have to run, I know what you've been through

I know sometimes it will hurt, And you wanna hate me,

This is agony But it's still a thrill for me

You would still have me, we work together you see, Blood sweat and tears,

Now I'm running and I can't stop

That girl, she holds her head up so high

Looked like a teenage runaway

Tell me what you really like Baby I can take my time

This could end in tragedy

So who you been calling,

Press your hands against my body

And I watch them burn

Anywhere I go I think about it every day and night, I can't let go

Surrender my everything 'cause you made me believe you're mine

In her kiss, I taste the revolution

Say you want me Out of your life

I live inside his head and pay no rent,

When you're looking at those strangers, hope to God you see my face

 I'm just a dead man walking tonight

Hi, motherfucker, did you miss me?

You think that you're my shadow, But you're glittering like gold,

[mikeskelemen]

The first Letter from Turkey

As it is precisely 307 years old today (2024.10.10.) I will publish it here in my own translation, which is based on both the original, and the English translation by Bernard Adams. But since this is my blog, humour me for a bit, as I’ll likely only do this once in a while & otherwise type in the excellent translation of Mr. Adams.

I will attach some additional notes under readmore.

I. from Gallipoli, Anno 1717. 10 Octobris

My dear Aunt! Thanks be to God we have luckily arrived here today, after having left France on the 15th of September. Our prince, thanks be to God, would be in good health if the gout would bid him farewell, but we hope the Turkish áer will do away with it for good.

Dear Aunt, how splendid it is to walk on solid ground again! You see, even Saint Peter himself was affrighted when his feet kept sinking in water, so of course we sinners were afraid upon our ship rolling from side to side, in waves as high as the mountains of Transylvania. Sometimes we passed atop; sometimes we fell into valleys so deep, that we only waited for the watery mountains to overwhelm us. Still, they were so kind as to not give us more drink than necessary.

‘Tis enough that we are here and in good health, for a man could fall ill at sea, not just on land, but there if the carriage rocks him enough, he will tire and have a much greater appetite. But the ceaseless tossing and shaking aboard a ship stupefies the head and upsets the stomach, and one feels obliged to behave akin to a drunkard who cannot hold his liquor. My poor stomach had to be in a much similar distress for the first two days, but afterwards I was hungry like a wolf.

Our prince had not even disembarked yet when a Tatar khan who is in exilium here sent him all manner of gifts, including a fine saddled horse. The prince was given fine lodgings, but we are housed like dogs out here. Still, I would rather be here than on the ship.

Dear Aunt, it has been more than two years since I received your dear letters; I would speak true when I say a year is like a month. I hope, dear Aunt that henceforth we breathe the same áer, I will receive your dear letters more often. But as we are a few hundred mérfölds closer to one another, it seems you would have to love me more. And even though I love you very much, I can write no more, because it feels as though the house was spinning around with me, as if I was still aboard the ship.

Mikes wrote this letter at age 27, having been born sometime in August 1690. By this time, Prince Rákóczi II and his entourage of around 50 exiles have spent years away from home, and now have sailed to Turkey, where they are promised a place to stay and a tentative possibility of the freedom fight restarting with the help of the Ottoman leadership. We'll see about that, but let's not jump forward too much!

Mikes originally wrote the datum in the middle, with the name of the city on the left-hand side, as if scribbled there in post.

And in the part where he talks about the ship tossing and turning, he could be making a pun about throwing up: as he uses the word "hánkodás" aka. hánykolódás, the motion of being tossed about, but at first, he wrote "hányodás", a word very similar to "hányás" aka vomiting, but he corrected it afterwards. But this is just a theory as he was no stranger to puns and making fun of unpleasant events happening to him.

Áer is how he himself says "air", and I left mérföld in there as a unit of measuring distance, since it's not the same as a standard mile.

Some footnotes from Adams & scholars:

Mikes never truly gives a headcount of the whole party, but it is estimated to be around 50 people at max.

The part about St. Peter is a direct reference to Matthew 14:29-30.

The khan in question is thought to be Quaplan I Giray, khan of the Crimea.

[dcviated]

Rules, tag 10 followers  you want to get to know better!

Tagged by: @sansloii (thanks mang)​ Tagging: steal it!

Name: bear, will

Star Sign: aquarius? idk I feel like these all changed at some point but whatever

Height: 6'-2" im tol

Middle name: Brady, after my grandma

Put your itunes/spotify/youtube on shuffle. What are the first 6 songs that popped up?

children of the city - mili

napisten hava - dalriada

call my name - the unlikely candidates

drivin' me bananas - brian tyler

eyes on the king - benn

chances - backstreet boys

Ever had a poem or song written about you: no, but, there was that time way back in mid/high school when I went to summer camp and the one girl who had a one sided crush on me got upset when I ditched the dance, so she sang a breakup song for the talent show!

When was the last time you played air guitar: the better question is when is the last time I picked up my bass and ahahhah... ha... my hobbies are crippled (I sing a lot, though- dont really do air guitar)

Who is your celebrity crush?: n/a, I dont follow that kind of thing

What’s a sound you hate; sound you love?: a sound I hate is grinding metal, especially when its coupled with the image of grating it across your teeth or something like aghaghssdlgh no thanks. a sound I love though? windchimes, gentle breezes ahhh

Do you believe in ghosts?: no lmao

How about aliens: seems more likely to be real than it is NOT given probability and how fuckhueg this universe is. if, we're considering any kind of outside life as 'aliens'... do I think some have been here? seems insanely improbable given the ramifications of contact

Do you drive?: soooooo much. a lot less now with my current work but my old job had me driving hundreds of miles a week so I'd say I'm pretty versed in it.

if so have you ever crashed: I've had some... really close calls on really bad stuff happening, but no. Just a couple fender bumps.

What was the last book you read?: The Stranger, so I could learn more about Meursault. That was a trip.

Do you like the smell of gasoline: Yes. I am guilty of taking a larger breath than necessary in equipment sheds.

What was the last movie you saw?: The mario movie! Watched it again last night in a gc. The music choice really does kill a lot of the charm. And they had original music I dont...guh.

What’s the worst injury you’ve ever had?:  Hmm... I've mostly avoided most physical catastrophes, but I've been subject to a couple nasty things. First was accidentally stabbing myself with a pocket knife while cutting a cardboard box. Fun! Then there was the time I was walking in a drained farm pond without proper footwear and a piece of glass sliced open the side of my ankle. Both very painful. Oh, and then a couple dog bites. x:

Do you have any obsessions right now?: Idk I feel like the only thing that really gets me hyped up lately is writing and getting in shape haha, wouldnt call either an obsession tho. I'm not a gym bro, just work out from home but the feeling of improvement has been intense as of late. Lots of positive vibes at my self-image. And yeah. Writing. Keeps me from doing most of my other attempted hobbies :V

[corroded-hellfire]

Somewhere Between Edward and Dracula - Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Modern!AU. Vampire!Eddie. With Halloween coming up, a group of friends decide to see if the old Creel house is really haunted. It is, but not by ghosts like they assumed. 

Notes: I honestly just made this modern because I needed to make Twilight jokes. But it works, since Eddie says he’s been a teenager since the 80′s. Just wanted to write a Halloween-ish story and I love me some vampire!eddie.

Warnings: language, general vampire-ness, i think that’s it?

Words: 3.2k

Eddie can hear the gang coming for miles. There are five of them in total. Two guys and three girls, if he can tell by the pitch of their voices. There’s one guy and one girl who are the loudest. They’re bickering back and forth with one another, but it’s in a friendly manner.

           “Admit you’re scared,” the guy is saying.

           “I’m not scared,” the girl answers. “I’m just saying what if we get caught?”

           “Robin!” the guy answers with a groan. “Loosen up. Even Jonathan isn’t worried about that.”

           “Hey!” There’s a sound of protest, from Jonathan presumably.

           Teenagers. Like himself, Eddie thinks. Except, not quite anymore.

           The group gets closer to the old house and Eddie sighs and rests his head on the wooden beam behind him. He’d been held up in the attic since he first heard them approaching. Kids and teenagers alike were no strangers to daring each other to spend time in the supposedly haunted house. The house is haunted, just not by ghosts like everyone seems to think. Eddie would deal with the annoying giggles and screams as friends tried to scare one another. Some would just dare one another to touch the house. The braver, and mostly the older, would come into the house itself to try and get a proper scare.

Once in a while was whatever; Eddie sometimes even had a good laugh about how scared some people got from nothing. But October always brought more people, almost on a nightly basis. They’d bundle up in their sweaters and jackets, which was Eddie’s only reminder that it was cold outside. Not like he could tell. He hardly ever bothered to mess with anyone who came to the house. There was no need, they always freaked themselves out. The most he would usually do is move about quickly and quietly if the group decided to make its way to the attic, where Eddie spent most of his time. If he made a floorboard creak or a doorknob rattle here and there to keep up the haunted rumors, so what?

The Creel House had been abandoned for decades, which made it the perfect haunt for Eddie. No pun intended. He remembers hearing rumors about the old home when he was a child, and a real, alive teenager. Eddie never held any stock in those rumors and proved to himself that they were in fact false when he moved in after becoming undead.

           The five teens were close enough now that Eddie could hear their footsteps. In a few hundred more yards he’d be able to hear their heartbeats. That didn’t bother him, like most people thought it would. One of the perks of living in a house that had no upkeep was that all sorts of animals would crawl into the underbrush or even find their way into the house. They were more than enough to supplement his “appetite.”

           “It doesn’t look so scary,” one of the girls says.

           “You go in first, then,” the guy who is not Jonathan answers.

           “Okay.”

           Eddie hears the girl’s soft footfalls as she walks up the porch steps. The old wooden front door swings open on squeaky hinges. The steps become slower as she finally enters the threshold. Her friends are all still out on the sidewalk, Eddie can tell from the sound of their breathing. One of them is breathing shallower than the others. The girl who was nervous about getting caught. Robin, Eddie recalls.

           The brave girl walks through the first floor, moving from room to room. Her heartbeat is only slightly faster than it was on the walk here. She really isn’t that scared. Sometimes, if it was a young guy who was being cocky and trying to show off that he wasn’t afraid, Eddie would mess with them by using his speed and stealth to yank a piece of their hair or clothing without notice. It took the cockiness out of their tone every time.

           Edde had never encountered a girl who was cocky about her braveness. Even if he did, he didn’t think he’d mess with them. His gentlemanly upbringing wouldn’t allow it.

           When the girl finishes moving through all the rooms on the first floor, she walks back to the front door.

           “Are you all coming or not?” she calls to her friends.

           Footsteps and floorboards bending tell Eddie that the whole group follows her inside. He can’t tell their footsteps apart by sound, but the slowest heartbeat continues to be the girl who first entered. She’s also the first one to walk up the stairs.

           “Where are you going?” The girl, Robin, whisper-yells to her, as if she doesn’t want to upset any ghosts.

           “Upstairs. I’ve seen everything down here,” the brave girl says.

           “By yourself?” the third girl asks.

           “You can come if you want, Nance.”

           “Nance” makes no response, and the girl’s steps continue up the stairs alone. Eddie has to admit to himself, he’s intrigued. That’s hardly ever happened during his time at The Creel House. Sometimes one member of the party would claim to not be scared and start to roam on their own, but their heartbeat would give their fear away to Eddie. This girl really wasn’t afraid.

           “Stupid,” Eddie mutters to himself. “She should be.”

           That isn’t true, though. Eddie knows he’d never hurt her, or anyone. He is getting curiouser by the second, though. It wouldn’t be hard to take a peek at the girl. She would never know.

           He hears the girl cough on the floor below him and wonders what piece of dusty furniture caused it. Eddie wonders if he’d clean the dust if it bothered him. But not having to breathe meant he didn’t care what dirt and dust accumulated.

           The door that reveals the stairs to the attic opens and Eddie finally stands from the cobwebbed floor below him. There were no shortage of places to hide, but Eddie was trying to decide which one would let him have the best view of this brave, or possibly stupid, girl. He decides to leap on the beam above him, nestling himself into a dark corner of the attic. Not that the dark meant anything to him, but it would help shield him from her human vision.

           Her footsteps get slower the closer they get to the top of the stairs and Eddie smiles to himself. Now she was starting to get nervous. He licks his lips and cocks his head to the side as he waits for her to get to the door.

           The door creaks open and if Eddie had the ability to have breath, it would have caught in his chest. He stares and blinks his eyes a few times, sure his sight is playing a trick on him. No one could be that beautiful. But his better-than-perfect vision was always right, and there she was. It figures, right? His dream girl walks into his life after it’s already over.

           The girl lets out another cough as she takes her first few steps into the attic. Eddie’s eyes don’t miss a thing. The way she reaches up to push some hair behind her ear. How she sweeps her flashlight back and forth across the attic, eyes searching hungrily. What she was looking for, Eddie couldn’t guess.

           She walks into the middle of the attic and spins in place, taking in all the angles around her. A smile appears on her lips and Eddie’s sure he’s never seen anything so pretty. While alive or dead. It confuses him though, her sudden happiness here in the dark and dirty attic.

           “I know you’re here.”

           Eddie startles. He can’t remember the last time someone’s managed to startle him. She’s talking too quietly to be meant for her friends, whose steps and heartbeats let him know were still on the first floor. He leans in towards the girl, stretching himself to be closer to her. This close, he can feel the heat radiating from her body.

           “Don’t ask me how I know, because I don’t even know,” she says. “But I know someone is here. Not a person.”

           “But not a ghost,” Eddie answers.

           She spins around suddenly, flashlight searching all the dark corner for where the sound came from. Eddie smiles and rests back against the sloped ceiling. She’s looking nowhere close to where he actually is.

           “I never said a ghost,” she says. Her heartbeat is now the fastest it’s been all night, but it’s still not as fast as her friends’. Eddie would wager it’s more from excitement than fear.

           “Then what do you think I am?” Eddie asks.

           The girl swallows and Eddie can see the veins in her neck throbbing, causing him to sink his fangs into his own bottom lip.

           “Right now? Just a voice.”

           Eddie can’t help but laugh at her answer. She smiles at his laugh, and it makes the grin on his own face grow. When’s the last time he’s actually spoken with anyone?

           “You’re braver than your friends,” Eddie says.

           “Always have been,” she says. Her eyes are still roaming all around the attic, eyes even scanning over the dark corner he’s hiding in without seeing him.

           “That doesn’t surprise me,” he says.

           “Where are you?”

           Eddie debates with himself. Sure, she’s not afraid right now. But what if he shows himself and it terrifies her? Something tells Eddie that won’t happen, but he isn’t sure his dead heart can take the risk.

           “Hiding,” he says. “You’ve looked right past me a few times now.”

           She chuckles and shrugs her shoulders. “You wouldn’t be the first person to tell me I should get my eyes checked.”

           The grin on Eddie’s face makes his cheeks ache. He hardly ever smiles, let alone has this euphoric grin spread across his lips.

           “You could get them checked all you like; you’ll never have vision like mine.”

           “Are you invisible?” she asks, and it makes him snort a laugh.

           “No,” he says. “Just hiding from you.”

           “Why?” she asks.

           “I don’t want to scare you,” he says, honestly.

           She frowns and ceases looking around the room. Eddie’s instinct is to make it better. To say something that will wipe away the frown and put the smile back on her pretty face.

           “You said I was brave. Now you’re afraid I’ll be scared?” she asks.

           “Even the bravest people have things that scare them,” Eddie says.

           “What scares you?” she asks, surprising Eddie yet again.

           His brow furrows as he thinks about it. He never thought about being afraid of anything anymore. It didn’t seem like he had to, held up here in the same house for years.

           “I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

           “You’re afraid of scaring me,” she points out. “That’s a silly fear.”

           “Is it?” Eddie asks, eyebrows raising. “You know, there’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity.”

           “You wouldn’t be the first person to tell me I’m stupid either,” she says with a shrug.

           “You don’t seem stupid to me. Stubborn? Yes. Brave? Definitely. Maybe too much so. But not dumb or stupid.”

           “Can I see you? Please?”

           Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip. He wants nothing more than to give in to her request. He feels like he’d give her anything she wanted. But he’s enjoying this conversation, and he doesn’t want it to end if he scares her off.

           “I don’t think you know what you’re asking,” Eddie says.

           “I’m asking to see you. At this point, you can’t look worse than what I’m imagining.”

           “I’m intrigued,” Eddie says. He adjusts himself so he’s sitting down on the beam, and he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

           “I’m imagining scales and horns and warts. Or blue skin with all black eyes and eight arms.”

           “I’m not a spider,” Eddie answers with a laugh.

           “Well, I wouldn’t know that, would I?”

           “You’re really not afraid,” Eddie says to himself, more than her.

           “Nope.”

           Eddie lets out a sigh, an expression of frustration rather than an outtake of breath. He slides off the beam, landing silently on his feet. His jeans have holes, and his black t-shirt is covered in dirt. He tries to wipe some of the dirt off without much success.

           “To your right,” Eddie says.

           She turns, flashlight bouncing in and out of the dark corners. Eddie steps forward out of the shadows, and into the beam of her light.

           Her eyes widen as she stares at him, and Eddie metaphorically holds his breath. She takes a few steps closer, and Eddie pays special attention to her heartbeat. It ticked up a little, but it didn’t spike. He watches as she takes in his hair, her eyes following individual curls falling down his forehead. She takes in the clothes, only slightly dustier than her own. Her eyes scan his face and her pulse beats quicker.

           “You’re…” She trails off, a million endings to that thought flashing through Eddie’s head. Terrifying? Dead? Evil? Pale as fuck? “Beautiful,” she finishes. Pink floods her cheeks as she stares at him, and Eddie mentally tells himself not to think about the blood rushing to her face.

           “Well, damn, Sweetheart,” Eddie says. He sticks his hands in his jean pockets and takes a few steps closer to her. “First time I’ve ever been called that.”

           “I highly doubt that,” she replies instantly.

           He grins, careful not to show teeth, and shakes his head at her. “You’re something else.”

           “So I’ve been told,” she says with a shy smile.

           “Hey!” A male voice shouts up the stairs. The girl jumps and Eddie laughs at that being what scared her. “You okay up there?”

           “Fine, Steve,” she shouts back down the stairs.

           “Steve your boyfriend?” Eddie asks, head nodding towards the stairs.

           She lets out a snort and shakes her head. “No, definitely not.”

           “What about the other guy? Or one of the girls?” Eddie asks. He tells himself he should shut up. Why is he even asking you this? It can’t matter to him. But it does.

           “Nope,” she answers him. “All on my own.”

           “No, I’m all on my own,” Eddie says with a laugh. “You’re just single.”

           “Why are you alone?” she asks, her brow pinching in concern.

           “I don’t really fit in with…everyone else,” he says.

           She takes a few steps closer to him, so they’re arm’s length apart. With the hand that’s not holding the flashlight, she reaches forward and holds her hand out to Eddie, palm upwards and open. He stares down at her soft, warm skin and wants nothing more than to slide his cold, hard fingers into hers.

           “I can’t,” he says. His voice came out rougher than he intended, and the way she frowns tells him that she heard the sadness in his voice.

           “Why?”

           “You ask a lot of questions, you know,” Eddie says with a smirk.

           “How else am I supposed to learn about you?”

           Eddie swears his heart flutters in his chest, knowing that it’s physically impossible.

           “Why do you want to learn about me?” he asks.

           “Now who’s asking questions?” Her smirk makes Eddie laugh, and he realizes too late that he lets his teeth show. She’s as observant as he expected.

           “Vampire?”

There’s no fear in the question. No anger, no malice, just pure curiosity. Her eyes are wide as she looks at him, open and awaiting his answer. Eddie can’t believe she asked so casually and calmly. This was truly the surprise of his lifetime. Alive or undead.

“You’re smart,” Eddie says. He has trouble meeting her eyes, but she moves her head around to catch his gaze.

“Hey, look at me.”

Eddie steels his spine and looks her in the eye. She’s smiling and it’s the first time Eddie’s ever truly revolted against the idea that he wasn’t fully alive.

“So, are you more like Edward or Dracula?”

The question makes Eddie burst out in laughter. It makes the girl’s grin widen and it’s the first time Eddie really relaxes around her.

“Somewhere in between,” Eddie answers while still laughing. “I don’t sparkle or burn.”

“So, you’ve read Twilight,” she remarks.

“Do you think I have a whole lot to do in this place?” Eddie asks with a shrug. “I’ve always been a fantasy nerd so of course I’ve kept up with the books these days.”

“These days, huh?” she asks, tilting her head. “How old are you?”

“Am I supposed to say seventeen? And that I’ve been seventeen a while?” He smirks at her, and the blush returns to her cheeks.

“Team Edward, are we?” she asks.

“Well, duh. Like I’m going to pick the werewolf over the vampire,” he says. He looks at her face for a few moments before answering her question. “Nineteen. Been nineteen for around thirty years now.”

“Hmm, 80’s,” she hums. “The clothes make more sense now.”

Eddie scoffs and looks down at his jeans and t-shirt. “What’s wrong with them? You’re wearing jeans, too. And a t-shirt!”

“Yeah, but mine aren’t acid wash,” she says through a laugh.

Eddie narrows his eyes at her, which makes her laugh even harder. She goes to reach for his hand, as if out of instinct, and Eddie is surprised when he allows himself to stay still so she can. Her hand only jumps slightly at the cool temperature. She looks down at their joined hands as she threads their fingers together.

“So, you don’t burn?” she asks as she holds onto his hand, as if it was the most casual and comfortable thing in the world.

“No more than you do. Just feels like a bad sunburn, only I don’t turn red,” he says.

“Y/n?” a voice calls up the stairs.

Eddie repeats the name to himself and smiles. Suddenly, it’s the prettiest word he’s ever heard.

“Yeah?” she calls back.

“Robin’s freaked. We’re leaving!”

“Be right there, Nancy!”

She frowns and holds on to Eddie’s hand tighter.

“Y/n?” Eddie says. “I like it. A lot. I’m Eddie.”

She bursts into giggles, and he raises an eyebrow at her.

“Eddie?” she asks.

“Yeah. What?”

“Is your full name Edward?” She looks like she’s going to combust from laughter and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Jesus Christ. Yeah, that’s my full name. You’re allowed three Twilight jokes ever, then that’s it.”

“Ever?” she asks with a smirk. “Does that mean I’m allowed to come back and see you?”

The hopeful lilt of her voice sparks a joy through Eddie that he didn’t know possible.

“I really hope you do,” Eddie tells her sincerely.

“I will.” The resolute tone of her voice makes Eddie smile, and he swears he’d blush if he could.

           “I look forward to it.” Eddie bends down and presses his cold lips to the back of her hand. He feels her pulse jump beneath his lips and as strong as the urge for blood is that comes over him, the urge to keep her safe is infinitely stronger.

           “Your lips are softer than I thought.”

           Eddie smirks and her face burns bright red. She clearly hadn’t let the words filter through her mind before they came out. But Eddie didn’t care. The fact that she was thinking of his lips at all made him the happiest undead guy in Hawkins.

[anyaeras]

THE LITTLE WIDOW || N.Romanoff x Daughter reader

*Part one

Summary- Y/n was sent on a mission from the Red Room to kill Natalia Romanova but she can't execute the mission, but maybe she can get out of the red room, Natalia had a daughter the red room took, yet the red room brought them back together

TW- The red room, death, mention of kid napping

2.5k words

10 years ago-

“Y/n come back here my маленький паук (little spider) ” your mama called out, you both were playing around in the park together when you crashed into an older man, she was right behind you running to come save you when the older man picked you up, being in a strangers arm scared young you as you let out strong sobs

“LET HER GO!” Your mama shouted trying to take the group of men around her

“I told you , you would pay Natalia, you’ve now paid” the strange man holding you stated as the scary men around your mama poked her with something and you watched as her body dropped hitting the ground hard.

And Like that the strange man holding you walked away taking you with him leaving your mama as your own body felt limp your vision starting to  Blur not only from sobs.

“MAMA!”

 present time-

"Y/n Report to Dreykov" the sound you've heard hundreds of times by now rang through your cell within the 10 years you've been here, and the cuffs that locked you to the bed rail released.

You can't remember what it was like before the red room this is your home you are a part of it. you were raised by Madame B and Dreykov. You know they were other widows, you've definitely seen them training in groups doing the same drill over again mindlessly until it was melted into the brain, but it was never like that for you. You were different, you were special to them nobody told you why and you didn't have a clue but you'll soon learn why you are Their little widow

Walking down the cold, silent hallways all by muscle memory. When you are constantly doing something all of your life it starts to feel like you're not really doing anything like you're not really there. Withlist clicking The button on the elevator that lead to Dreykov office y/n waited patiently.

DING

"маленькая вдова" (malenʹkaya vdova) A voice I could be recognized from Miles away called out to you before you could even see their face, his face.

Walking to the chair that was placed in front of his desk before taking a seat. "Mr.Dreykov" was the only thing you said, waiting patiently for his orders not like you could do anything else. Being part of the red room leaves people with little control of themselves, you are at their bidding will here, and that's how it'll be.

Watching is he types something on The screen that laid in front of him before the chairrier in was turned showing a bigger Version of that same screen up on the wall.

"your mission. We need you to take out Natalia Romanova"

With that an Image of an older women with piercing green eyes is like your own and mid length stunning red hair. She reminded you of yourself a lot but putting that to the side you had a mission to complete and you've never failed a mission.

"Information I should know Sir?" You asked this is the least amount of information they've ever given you for a mission, usually they would give you a rundown you know the ins and out of whatever you needed to do and like that you'd do it. But the thing that intrigued you most about Natalia Romanova was that the name was banned from the widows tongue. The 3rd generation black widow was a disgrace to the red room a failure. You being the 5th generation black widow sent to kill the third is just Unheard of but never the less you always finish your mission.

"third generation Black widow of the red room,  you'll be posing as a hydra experiment at the Siberian Facility base, the Avengers already have set in plans to attack and clean it out, that's where you come in, posing as an experiment gone wrong and take out Natasha. If anyone interferes take them out too, we don't value anything that they have to offer" Dreykov explained while you stayed in your seat never once's looking away from the photo that was place of the woman in front of your eyes.

Familiar a feeling that You feel every day when You walk the halls of the red room, but it was a different type of familiar You felt, you've seen those green eyes up close in person and they would all say she left before you were ever brought into this place. Like You were apart of her.

Being dismissed you were sent off to be prepared for your mission, knowing you had to look the part while also stocking up on weapons along your body, you didn't wanna underestimate the older widow, it would be foolish but nor would you leave failing this mission. Not when everyone says you were 'born' to kill.

With that you were sent off to a plane? Ship! Who knows it's an old piece of shit that can fly.

Landing into the base was like going into a Russian prison, dark and gloomy y/n felt uncomfortable but really couldn't do anything about it, all these Hydra agents and Scientists were gonna be dead by tomorrow yet not a single one knew, and as for your arrival they were told you were a top trained spy (which may I add is very true) but also that you were here to assist on a mission they planned for the winter soldiers. Letting them believe what they knew playing your part to perfection even with being treated worse then the red room treats the widows, you stayed in a cell until 'they need you' but you'd be out before then already having picked the lock you stayed put for the sake of your own mission waiting for this place to be under attack...

BOOM

The light flash came quick and man was it bright, the screams filled your ears as people were dropping like flys. Your turn, you debated just finding the women and going for the kill but that would put yourself at higher risk of injury so you decided to put them acting skill of yours to the test.

Curing yourself up in a ball waiting for the avengers to make their way to this area of the base, you let every memory and painfully moment that you've been forced to lock away to make yourself an emotionless killer resurface to the top of your mind tears falling down your face now almost pouring from your eyes.  Now you may have compromised your vision but you listened as the sound of shoes clicked quickly echoing in the halls the sound moving closer, reminding you of every time Madame B came to get you dragging you away from your activities to train you.

You knew you were letting emotions get the better of you, you were to young to be sterilized but you promised you didn't even need it, you could kill without it but nows the times you wish you couldn't feel these things.

"Hey! Hey kid" you heard man's voice, not what you were looking for but hey it's a start, Peeking up slowly wanting to stay in 'character'

"So kid? You coming or you just gonna die here?" Was all the man asked, not that you didn't recognize the suit, it was that iron dude but knowing he was an avenger he could lead you to your target, slowly, and hesitantly you stood up not moving closer yet analyzing the threat

"I don't kid come on? Scared of men?" Tony joked not thinking much of it yet for some reason he did scare you, realizing they sent a child to kill an Avenger, a bloody Avenger!! They sent her knowing this was a death trap she knew it. You felt your upper thigh were the Widow symbol stitched into your body, reminding you to not fail, but as you've been so lost in thought you didn't realize how Mr.Iron dude had picked you up racing down the halls

"Thank me later but this place is gonna blow" Tony shouted at you, now you were frozen with fear, you knew this mission was going wrong, you knew you needed to hurry up, get the kill, check the body and get back to the Red Room.

Looking at your surroundings you made eye contact with Caption America, the rumors around the red room that he was a danger to the widows, he'd rip you apart and make you suffer, you've been told to never show weekends but god being around the worlds mightiest hero's was starting to freak you out, if you ran and went back failing your mission you'd be punished, but if you get the kill the others may kill you. You were stuck.

"So kid why are you here?" The Iron dude asked setting me down on a seat in their plane, but you stayed quite not wanting to interact with the older man.

"Well I've done all I can, someone else wanna try?" Tony said walking no alway dramatic, and that's when you saw her, the bright red hair like your own coming closer to you, you couldn't take the shot being stuck on a plain with all of them as of right now, but being closer to the target was a step in the right direction.

"Hello young one" Natalia said, her voice soft making you look her in the eyes

Thinking of a way to keep the conversation between the two of you for your safety you decided she must still know Russian, it's her roots.

"Привет" (hello) was your only reply hoping she'd catch on.

"ты говоришь по-русски?" (You speak Russian?) She asked you honestly shocked but something was off about you, and the spy knew it, you gave a head nod as a reply to the older widow hoping she doesn't catch on to you just yet.

"как твое имя?" Natalie asked me, I knew she wanted more information then she was asking but you were not about to give into the older spy.

"Y/n" saying your name to her was like something clicked in her mind, you watched her facial expressions changed

With that Natalia left you sitting there wandering off to find Clint.

"Birdbrains!" Nat shouted getting his attention

"I need you to hear me out, remember y/n, my y/n" nat said getting a nod from him, he seemed confused at her statement

"I think that's y/n, I know it sounds crazy but finding her in a hydra base, after being taken from nat by the red room, it doesn't seem impossible.

"We will have Bruce run a DNA test back at the compound till then try and talk to her, we still don't know why she was at that base if the Red Room and KBG took her" Clint explained to nat

"Y/n Can you come here" nat asked from across the jet, you stand up struggling to keep your balance on the moving aircraft but you managed, making your way over to the vicious black widow.

"Y/n would you like a drink" you knew this trick, truth serum so you denied the drink letting her continue with whatever she'd pleased

"May I ask you something" she asked you getting a nod you didn't give verbal responses often

"Who do you work for? We won't hurt you we just wanna understand why you are here маленький паук" (little spider) Natasha made sure to throw in the pet name cause if she was right about you it may help you remember her, she called you it daily and told you no matter what you were her маленький паук (little spider)

Маленький паук...little spider...you were her little spider.

All the the memories of before the red room came rushing back, but so did Dreykovs voice reminding you but if you fail you'd be punished. You never failed. Quickly shooting up from your seat pulling the gun from under the gown you wore aiming for the older widows head.

The rest of the team jumped up to help but Natasha put her hands up motioning for them to go away, reluctantly they listened.

You had to finish what you started with Natalia well your Мама.

"Крошечный паук" (Itsy-bitsy spider)

"You don't have to kill me you can get out, like I did" Natasha said softly aware of your unstable state, noticing how they didn't sterilize you.

"My baby it's okay to be scared but I'm here now" Natasha kept going y/n didn't drop the gun she was frozen but one slip of the finger it was over for the older widow.

"I-I can't don't you see!" Y/n cried out

"If I fail they'll find me!" Tears of fear running down your face.

"Вдова, y/n can you lower the gun, he won't find you"  Mama nat continue to reason with you as the gun slipped your hand dropping the the floor.

Your mama's arms reaching out for you pulling you into her embrace as you let out emotions from years past

"W-why didn't you save me?" Was the one question you had for your mama.

"Y/n they told me you were dead, I thought the red room was gone, I thought I'd never see you again" was all Natasha could say gilt and anger rising in her but for now, she just wanted to protect her Little widow

A/N - Thanks so much for reading sugars, my request are open and I’m glad you all are enjoying my short Marvel stories

[flygefisk]

the devil and the dead man

sawdust was a physician who made a dubious trade, scratch is a businessman who knows a good deal when he sees it.

both use he/him. sawdust sometimes goes by dusty. and ol' scratch has many names.

tl;dr: after sawdust's patients began dying en-masse from an unidentified illness and he starts seeing a bad omen everywhere he turns, he makes a deal with scratch (a combo black shuck/devil type figure) to save them in exchange for his life & servitude

its cool tho they get along really well now. sawdust is having a great time watching medicine progress into something that yknow. works.

Sawdust had tried a few lines of work before landing on medicine. Taxidermist, gravedigger, mortuary assistant. he'd never been squeamish, and they were all fine jobs. Always hiring. Paid the bills.

But medicine felt right. And he wasn't half bad at it, either. He was good with his hands, good with numbers and needles. He could blood-let, stitch up wounds, mix up powders and pills. Kept his saw sharp. His patients loved him for his bedside manner. For many years, he could boast about how few patients he'd lost.

And then that changed. Some horrible sickness swept through his town, and he was constantly busy, numbing pain and bandaging sores. He'd never seen anything like it. That was all he could do. He read every book he could find and wrote to every physician he knew, trying to find some treatment, some cure, but he found nothing. He grew less busy as the undertaker's business boomed.

After the first death, he started seeing it. A massive hound, black as night, watching him wherever he went. Its piercing eyes- orange-red and bright as flame- peering out from an alleyway, or between the trees, or loping along the footpath at night. It was everywhere.

Sawdust had never been a superstitious man, but given what was happening around him, it was hard to resist the thought that it was an omen.

His neighbors were dropping like flies and the black dog at his heels was driving him mad. His once-steady hands shook, unable even to make his coffee in the morning without a mess. He found himself taking long walks outside of town just to avoid his neighbors' pleas- he had run out of medication to dull their pain days ago, there was nothing left for him to offer. Sometimes those walks took him farther than he planned. It would be dark by the time he got home, and the hound would inevitably be lurking somewhere along his path, he felt its eyes even if he didn't see it. He started carrying a scalpel in his pocket.

On one of these walks, his mind teeming with barely-suppressed panic, he suddenly became starkly aware of his surroundings. He was nearly at the crossroads. Miles from town. He'd only been walking for half an hour or so, he thought, but he wasn't sure of anything any more. At least this area was pleasant. A soft breeze whispered through the wildflowers, the creek burbled gently.

Sawdust was not a superstitious man. He was a physician, a scientist. No space in his mind for folktales. But here, he had a thought. A vague memory of an old story. Something about deals made at crossroads and impossible wishes coming true. He almost laughed at himself, at the mere thought of giving in to superstition, but…

With a heavy sigh, he sat on the soft grass, his back to the post. Stared up at the sky for a long moment. And he made his request.

"That's a heavy ask, brother."

Sawdust jolted. A tall man leaned against the post above him, with long black hair and a long black coat. The stranger let a cloud of heady smoke pour from his mouth and turned to smile down at sawdust as he struggled to his feet.

"All those folks, all those souls… in exchange for you." He chuckled, narrowing his flame-orange eyes. "That'd be a hell of a deal on your end. What else ya got?"

Sawdust's hands shook harder than ever. He knew those eyes, he'd seen them a hundred times in the past week alone.

"I-I can work. Whatever you need. I'm a hard worker." he couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice.

The hound laughed again, rough and dark. "Now, there's an idea. Could use an assistant." He looked sawdust up and down, took another pull from his pipe. "Let's see… they got a few hundred years between 'em. That's a start."

He grinned- his teeth were far too sharp- and offered his hand. Sawdust shook the hound's hand and signed his afterlife away. A single pistol shot rang out through the valley.

The next morning, the townsfolk woke with their sores healed and their throats clear, healed by some miracle. A few gathered to go tell the town doctor the good news. They found an empty office, left as he had left it the previous morning. The mystery of the disappearing plague and the vanished doctor would morph into the stuff of folk tales, a local legend. A couple accounts nearly got it right.

[haadeswrites]

Elysium

god this fic took forever i’m so sorry!! but hey, first fic on the new blog! <33 also y’all should really thank @iwaasfairy who listened to me complain about this fic for a solid month, she’s the reason it got finished

Cult leader Oikawa Tooru x female reader

tw: indoctrination, extremely dubious consent, blood, yandere themes, religious themes, minor character death, implied abuse & drug use, mild smut, nsfw

The island itself is breathtaking

Pristine beaches with gleaming white sand, vast swathes of lush, green rainforest and waterfalls that cascade into shimmering pools of crystal clear water. Untouched, undisturbed; a paradise. At least, that’s how Ryuji had described it. 

Paradise, but only in the sense that a gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods is paradise to a lost and hungry child. 

He hadn’t been wrong. Bare feet sink into soft, white sand as you climb from the boat - the warmth just toeing the line between pleasant and burning. Gentle waves ebb and flow behind you, and there’s a light breeze that kisses your skin, the taste of seasalt carrying in the wind. Home, it seems to sing.

A laugh sounds somewhere in the distance, yet the only other figure on the beach is a man walking steadily towards you. He smiles when he sees you’ve noticed him; friendly, non-threatening. It’s a far cry from the swarming welcoming committee you’d been dreading, and you wonder if that’s somehow intentional as well. 

As the boat pushes back out to sea he comes to a stop before you, “I’m Makki,” he says, pushing the fringe of his hair back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. Whatever he sees must meet approval, because his grin only widens, “Welcome to the Commune.”

Ryuji wasn’t wrong; the island is a beautiful, deadly thing.

—

You’d never heard of the Commune before the phone call. 

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. You’ll be the first to admit you’re hardly an expert, but from what you do know, groups like the Commune – cults – don’t spring up out of thin air and start broadcasting their mistreatment and systematic abuse. 

They’re not the kind of people that have sweet old ladies clutching their pearls and mothers shepherding their children away – at least, not in the beginning. Not entirely. They’re not out to recruit extremists to further their cause, they choose to prey on the vulnerable, the lost and the disillusioned. Those easily manipulated. You suspect that’s why when you google the Commune, all you find is a website for what essentially looks like a long term luxury wellness retreat.

‘The Commune is about healing and harmony, about returning to nature, supporting one another to forge a brighter, more holistic future together… a self-sufficient community living apart from technology and other evils of modern society.’ 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you scroll through. There’s a whisper of philosophical teachings woven throughout, a page dedicated to their founder, Oikawa Tooru – smiling handsomely in every single picture, because what would a burgeoning cult be without a charismatic leader – but there’s not enough.

So here you are, on an island hundreds of miles away from home living amongst strangers; because Ryuji wouldn’t have sounded so terrified if this was just some alternate, free-loving bunch of hippies.

And even with all that he’d told you, everything you thought you’d be prepared for, the Commune is like nothing you could’ve imagined. 

Makki introduces you to Asuka, a woman only a few years older than yourself, dark haired and stunningly beautiful, and winks as he tells her to take you under her wing. She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls you into a heartfelt hug – as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

“We’re so glad you’re here!” she beams.

You’d like to hate her. 

It feels like you're supposed to, sometimes; when she gets that dreamy look in her eyes and starts talking about Oikawa and the Commune and how lucky everyone here on the island is. Yet there’s something about her – the genuine warmth she emanates maybe, or the kindness in her eyes – that makes it difficult for you not to like her.

“You should come to the gathering tomorrow,” she hums idly one afternoon, maybe a week or so after your arrival. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down into the water, tangled fishing nets to be repaired strewn between you.

“I always go,” you reply.

She laughs, fixing you with a knowing look, “And sit right at the very back, all but running off the moment we finish?” 

And your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“It’s okay to take things slowly,” she says. “We understand that being a part of the Commune is a big change from the life you knew, and that not everybody is able to see what we see and embrace those changes.” 

Asuka sets down the knot she’s working through and reaches for your hand, a gentle smile on her face, “But you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re meant to be here, I can feel it. You just need to stop fighting against it; surrender yourself to us, to the island, and everything’ll make sense, I promise.”

It’s dangerous territory. One wrong word could set off alarm bells, yet you can’t help pressing just a little.

“Do you ever miss it, then? Life outside the Commune?” 

Your family. Friends. The life you left behind before you came here to be brainwashed like all of the others.

“Why would I?” she answers without missing a beat, and it’s hard to ignore the bitter flicker of disappointment you feel at her answer. “The island provides for us, we don’t have to spend our days selling off tiny pieces of ourselves just to make ends meet. It’s paradise here, and we have Oikawa to thank for that. Why would I ever want to go back?”

Silence falls between you as you struggle to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Yet Asuka isn’t even looking at you, instead staring out at the water with a strangely pensive expression. 

“Did you know I was married once?” The words seemingly out of the blue, you can only shake your head. For a moment, she doesn’t reply, watching as the waves rise and crash offshore. And then;

“I was young, eighteen or so, fresh out of high school and he was a small town cop.” Her eyes flicker to yours, and your heart clenches at the sadness and pain echoing there. “I thought he was a good man, once upon a time.”

A chord strikes deep, your chest tightening involuntarily at her words. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, and yet… 

No. You stop the errant thought in its tracks. Groups like the Commune prey on the vulnerable, you know this. People like Ryuji, like Asuka, like–

Her fingers squeeze around yours, pulling you back to the present. “Come to the gathering tomorrow. Listen to Oikawa, it’ll help.”

—

She doesn’t give you a choice in the matter – dragging you by the hand to sit right at the front of the gathered crowd that very night.

Oikawa’s handsomer up close; tall and dark haired with pretty eyes and long, sweeping lashes that frame delicate cheekbones, it’s not hard for you to see how a man like him has amassed such an impassioned following. 

Once he starts actually speaking, however, you realise that his good looks and charming smile are just the tip of the iceberg. Oikawa’s utterly captivating as he preaches about the cycle of life and death and the paradise that awaits his faithful. Passionate and engaging, he speaks like he truly believes every word of the lies he’s spreading. 

And Asuka, her friends, the others gathered, they eat up every word like it’s gospel truth, resounding cheers and thunderous applause deafening around you. In the midst of the rapturous din, Oikawa’s eyes flit to yours.

Slowly, he smiles – a dazzling grin that makes your stomach flip – and everything; Asuka, the noise, the others swarming around you, it all fades away.

For one electrifying heartbeat, you’re frozen in place. Just you and Oikawa, trapped in the pull of each other’s gaze.

—

You can’t forget the reason you came.

But it’s… difficult, in a way you struggle to understand. You only have one purpose for being here, one goal; find Ryuji and bring him home. 

And yet, some days it’s like there’s a fog in your mind, and you have to focus to remember why you’re here at all. You catch yourself laughing with Asuka and her friends, the days passing by in a blur of endless, easy distractions. 

It barely feels like work when you’re sitting under the shade of the trees, eating the fruits you’ve picked by hand – ripe and sweet, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted – diving off waterfalls into the crystalline water and meandering down the shore collecting seashells. Even when you are working, mending clothes or cooking with the others, it fills you with a sense of contentment you can’t quite explain. 

Like you’re a part of something bigger. Like you’re doing something that matters.

Ryuji becomes a distant thought. A whisper in the back of your head, a niggling in your gut, easily brushed aside and ignored until there’s a moment of quiet. In the dead of night, the balmy summer night’s breeze kissing your bare skin, you lie awake, lost in memories of the last time you’d seen him. 

Fists angrily pounding at your door, the yelling that gave way to sobs and the hoarse, desperate pleas that followed. Ryuji’s face; pupils blown wide and eyes rimmed in red, darting restlessly around as he held you too tight and begged–

Rolling over in bed, you gaze out your window at the star flecked sky, the shadows of the forest that lie at your doorstep, and wonder what it is that scares you more; that you’ve lost track of the days you’ve been here, and saving Ryuji is starting to feel like an afterthought, or that you could so easily forget all of it, find a place here in the Commune and be happy.

‘The island, it–it fucks with your head.’

Ryuji’d told you that, and you’d brushed it off as paranoia. You need to find him. Find him and get the hell outta dodge.

You can deal with the fallout later.

—

Kiyoshi. 

He’d mentioned the name a few times amidst his rambling – a friend of his on the island. You’re annoyed with yourself for not thinking of it sooner, however much like Ryuji himself, trying to focus and remember the name is like wading through thick mud.

Once you do, though, finding him amongst the hundred and fifty or so inhabitants is the easy part. 

There’s no strict division between genders within the Commune, however Kyoshi, despite his somewhat lean stature, is among the builders of the island and his path doesn’t often cross with yours. 

From Asuka you find out that he’s been a part of the Commune for years now, before even she joined, and that he mostly sticks to himself, though you’ve seen him chatting quietly to a few of the other men, a perpetually angry looking blonde in particular.

It’s the last part that piques her interest, “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” she asks, her face lighting up as a sudden thought occurs. “Do you want me to introduce you two? To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be your type, if you’re interested, though…”

Cheeks aflame, you’re quick to shut her down. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just… seen him around and we’ve never really spoken, I guess.”

A lame excuse, though mercifully she lets the subject drop without too much prodding.

Therein, of course, lies the problem. Walking up to Kyoshi and casually trying to drop Ryuji into the conversation without raising red flags is risky, but what other options do you have? You’ve already spent too much time on this island.

Although, maybe Asuka has the right idea. 

While you hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t interested in Kyoshi in that way, nobody else knew that. Who would really look twice at the shy newbie striking up a conversation with the quiet, easygoing man? He wasn’t unattractive per se, and from the brief interactions you’d seen of him, he seemed kind enough.

You have enough patience (barely) to wait for dusk the following night. There’s a celebration, something about the full moon and a blessing on the island and the Commune– you hadn’t really been paying attention when Oikawa had spoken about it. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. With the fire pits crackling, and the dancing and music and the sweet honey wine flowing freely, nobody will be paying too much attention to what you’ll be doing. Hopefully, the alcohol will also serve to lower Kiyoshi’s guard, and perhaps if you’re really, really lucky, loosen his tongue as well. 

Of course, you’re not banking on him telling you exactly where Ryu is or what happened to him– and that’s assuming he actually knows – but at this point you’ll take anything over the nothing you currently have. A tiny slip up, that’s all you’re asking for. 

As the sun descends beyond the horizon, you play your role well, laughing and chatting amongst friends, sipping carefully at the cup of wine in your hand as you wait for an opening. And perhaps it’s your nerves working against you, but you find that it’s not just Kiyoshi your attention is drawn to. 

Up on the shore, away from the rabble, Oikawa lounges back with a cup of the same honeyed wine you’re pretending to drink. For the most part he seems deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, his right hand, but every once in a while he glances up, letting his gaze roam over the crowd of his followers.

Every inch a king and his general.

And it would seem benevolent, if not for the strange smile he wears – the one that widens when his eyes catch yours.

Swallowing tightly, you force yourself not to dwell on it, to ignore the odd sensation curling in your gut and the way your skin prickles under his attention. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Pushing all thoughts of Oikawa aside, you subtly scan the beach once more, only to find that Kiyoshi’s moved, sitting now on a piece of old driftwood near the bonfire. Alone for the first time tonight. 

Your legs are moving before the thought even fully registers. 

“Do you mind if I sit?” you ask, gesturing to the empty space on the log beside him. 

Kiyoshi smiles, the laugh lines at corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks.”

Taking another sip of your wine, you will your shoulders to relax, your racing pulse to slow. This has to seem natural, and so you force yourself to hold your tongue, let your head loll back and breathe deep, soaking it all in. You can hear the others in the distance, the music and the dancing, the happy laughter and shouts that beckon – you want to go join them. Even your blood seems to hum, a call of something other pulsing through your veins.

But you pay it no mind. There are more important things to worry about tonight. 

Indeed, steel blue eyes have been appraising you curiously for a while now. “This is your first Lunar blessing, isn’t it?” Kiyoshi asks after a moment.

You nod, humming in agreement. Less than a month; you’ve been here less than a month. Is that a good thing?

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

A harmless enough question, and again you nod your head. “Yeah, it’s…” you pause, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “It’s paradise. I feel like I need to pinch myself just to make sure it’s real.”

He smiles gently. “But?” he probes.

Grimly, you wonder whether Kiyoshi’s usually this perceptive, or if you’re just a really terrible actor. In a way, you suppose it really doesn’t make a difference; you’ve come too far to turn back now – at least not without raising suspicion. 

So you lie with a truth, and pray that it works.

“I had a friend I was supposed to meet here,” you confess quietly, gazing not at him but the crackling flames of the bonfire, the burning embers carried off into the night. “He was the one who said I should come, but now I’m here and he’s not and every time I catch myself enjoying this–”

“You feel guilty,” he surmises, cutting you off. “Because he’s not here to enjoy it with you.”

Wordlessly, you nod – and maybe it isn’t so much of an act when your eyes begin to glisten, your smile wavering. 

Kiyoshi’s silent for a moment, and you take another sip of the honey wine to hide your nerves. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he says eventually. “Feel guilty, I mean. You belong here, with the Commune. You’re happy here. Paradise… isn’t for everybody.”

He doesn’t say it to be cruel, more like he’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it all the more unnerving. And it’s nothing you haven’t listened to Oikawa preach about time and time again. The Commune is for the devoted, the faithful – the lucky few – and you’ve never thought too hard about what he’d meant by that.

The Commune’s small, maybe a hundred and fifty or so people on the island. There’d been no initiation, no test of faith or trial period you’d had to pass when you arrived – at least, none that you’d been aware of. You simply stepped off the boat and they’d welcomed you with open arms. 

An uneasy sensation settles into your gut, goosebumps prickling at your skin despite the heat of the midsummer night. 

That… doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Absolute control’s too important in groups like this, they couldn’t just let anyone–

Kiyoshi speaks again, his calm voice pulling you from your thoughts. “What was his name?” 

You blink at him slowly – stupidly. “Sorry?”

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “What was his name?”

“Oh, um- Ryuji.”

Kiyoshi’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, but he merely shakes his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell, but like I said, not everyone who arrives stays with us for long.”

He looks you right in the eye as he says it.

You don’t understand the cold, foreboding that seeps through your veins, because he’s lying. He has to be. 

Ryuji was here. They were friends, Ryu’d told you that–

Why did you think this stupid plan would work anyway? That he’d tell you anything, much less the truth when this whole fucked up island is full of liars and those too indoctrinated to know the difference?

“You alright?” he asks when abruptly, you shoot to your feet beside him.

And it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to force an easy smile to your lips, raising your cup just a fraction, “Yeah, just gonna go get a refill. Thanks for the talk, Kiyoshi.”

Whether he notices that your wine’s barely touched or not, you don’t care – not as you turn on your heel without another word and head back up the beach. 

Your head is pounding, your body trembling – you don’t hear the call of your name until a hand reaches out and grasps at your wrist, spinning you around.

Asuka greets you with a wide grin, Makki and a tall, broad shouldered man you think is called Mattsun standing either side of her – the former’s arm slung casually over her shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “Come on, we’re gonna go swimming, it’s so pretty out there!”

You glance out towards the ocean. Moonlight bathes the inky blue water, light shimmering off the rippling tide; some of the others are already out there, splashing amongst the waves. 

“Clothing optional, of course,” Makki laughs, and Asuka tugs on your wrist once more. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

But you shake your head, slowly pulling your hand from her grip, “I’m not feeling great, I think I’m gonna head back.”

Asuka frowns, concern marring her pretty features. “Are you okay? Do you need us to call Mizo–”

“No,” you say, cutting her off. Healer Mizoguchi is the last person you need to see right now. “I just– I just need to go lie down for a bit. You guys go have fun – enjoy the blessing, I’ll be fine.”

Makki and Asuka share a fleeting look, but it’s Mattsun who interjects before either one of them can speak, “I’ll walk you back, then.”

Your stomach churns. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And the smart thing to do would be to accept his help; the walk from the beach to your villa isn’t far, and while you’re not as familiar with Mattsun as you are with Makki or Asuka, it’s not like he’s going to hurt you or anything, but–

“Really– you don’t need to, it’s fine,” you smile weakly, shuffling back as he reaches to offer you his arm. “Go swim, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Mattsun shrugs easily enough, falling back into line with the other two – yet there’s something in the way he grins and holds your gaze for a beat longer. A glimmer of amusement, as if there’s some joke you're not a part of. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

The heat that floods your cheeks clashes uncomfortably with the cloying heaviness in your stomach, but somehow you manage to stutter out one last goodbye before turning back to scamper off in the direction of your room.

–But not to lie down.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon’s bright. No need for a torch, not unless you decide to venture into the heart of the forest.

You’ve been a fool. Kiyoshi, Asuka, Makki, Mattsun; you can’t trust any of them to help you, even unwittingly. Ryuji’s here on the island – somewhere – and every second that slips away, every second that you allow yourself to forget puts him in further danger.

And so you cling to your discomfort, ground yourself in it. The prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the tightness in your chest as you slip past your villa, keeping low and quiet – they’re a reminder that there is something insidious here on the island, that you have to get out.

You and Ryuji.

He’s here. Away from the others, kept under lock and key as punishment, or maybe being forced to undergo whatever kind of glorified brainwashing they’ve got going on, but here. You need to be smart about this, because while you don’t intend to stop until you find him, tonight will be your best shot – while everyone’s distracted down on the beach. 

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you have a clear head. 

Creeping through the underbrush, you steer clear of the well trod pathways that lead towards habitation. You’ve been there, and to the docks, and the river. 

If they’re still keeping him here (and they are, you refuse to entertain the possibility that it could be otherwise) then it’s not somewhere out in the open. A bird cries out in the distance shattering the calm of the night, and you flinch – but it only serves as another reminder that your time tonight is limited; you cannot afford to delay. You wrack your brain, trying to dredge up memories of the last few weeks, surely you must have seen something–

“Lost?”

The single word, spoken in a deep, gruff voice has your blood running cold.

Slowly, you turn. 

Iwa stands behind you in the thicket, his face utterly impassive. Briefly, you contemplate whether it’s worth trying to bluff your way out of this, but Iwa’s eyes narrow, flashing in the dim light and you think better of it.

A sigh escapes you, your shoulders deflating. “Where is he– Ryuji?” you ask; a whisper rather than a demand.

Iwa’s expression gives nothing away. Did he know, or have you handed him the smoking gun of a crime that’d fallen through the cracks? Does it even matter anymore? You’re just–

You’re tired. 

Exhausted. In the space of a few moments all of that shining determination and resolve; it fled, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. This has to end, you can’t keep fighting against them forever. You can’t keep drowning in this guilt, feeling torn every second that you spend here on this stupid island. You just want to find Ryuji and go home.

… Right?

A tense beat passes as Iwa appraises you, and then; “Come with me.”

The hand he places on your shoulder doesn’t give you much choice. His grip isn’t what you’d describe as gentle, yet he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t trip or stumble as he marches you north. 

In the thick of the forest away from the beach, it’s eerily quiet. Every twig that snaps underfoot, every ragged breath you draw; it feels too loud. Out of place amongst the stillness of the midsummer night. 

And isn’t it ironic, that for the first time since you set foot in this paradise, you feel like you’re trespassing?

A bead of sweat trickles down from your temple and your mind unwittingly drifts back to Mattsun and Makki. Are they still swimming with Asuka? Probably, you reason. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since you left them on the beach, but surely no more than an hour.

And strangely, like water drawn from the depths of a well, an image comes to mind; the four of you standing in the waves, you perched atop Mattsun’s shoulders, screaming and giggling in delight as Asuka tries to knock you down again, two sets of eyes watching from the shore… 

You should have stayed on the beach.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You can ask,” he replies drily – humouring you, you suppose.

Your lips quirk upwards for the briefest of moments. “What happens on the Lunar blessing? Asuka, the others– no one told me what it was.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer you immediately, but you feel his fingers reflexively tighten on your shoulder. Likely it wasn’t the question he was expecting; surely there were others that you could have asked – but you don’t really want the answers to those.

If you’re being led like a lamb to proverbial slaughter, what good would it do you to know it? 

And yet as the seconds pass and no answer seems forthcoming from your captor, you resign yourself to the fact that your curiosity will remain unsated. You don’t even know what prompted you to ask in the first place; knowing Oikawa it’s probably some grand, meaningless spectacle. Pretty, hollow words spoken only to–

A heavy sigh draws you from your thoughts, and you falter in your step, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. Iwa’s quick to right you, urging you forward with a less than gentle nudge. “Walk straight,” he grunts, yet it lacks any true heat. Anticipation flutters through your veins, and he mutters a soft curse behind you. “Fine. It… it’s an exchange.” 

An exchange? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your eyebrows draw together, mouth opening to press the matter, but Iwa beats you to the punch.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now shut up.”

You have no response to that, so you do.

—

The two of you walk in silence for what feels like hours. Eventually, the terrain becomes steeper, the worn path you’re treading twisting and winding, and you realise you must be close to the mountains at the heart of the island. 

As your breath comes in heavy pants, your legs beginning to ache, you can’t help but be lost in the beauty of it all.

The flora’s different here, unlike any you’ve seen before. Flowers bursting from the bark of towering trees, blooms of vibrant hues; reds and purples and soft, baby pinks. Even the vines at your feet curl amongst pretty white buds that gleam invitingly under the moonlight. Your jaw falls open as you gaze around in wonderment. 

You forget why you’re walking, where it is that you’re heading. Iwa’s grip relaxes as a quiet gasp escapes you, and he doesn’t stop you when you stray from the path to take a closer look. You can’t resist reaching out to touch the silken petals, leaning in to smell their perfume. Soft and light and sweet, your eyes flutter shut, a smile creeping across your visage. 

It reminds you of home. Not your actual home – the rundown, tiny shoebox apartment you gave up before you came here – but something deeper.

Home, like the long summer days spent playing in your parents’ backyard. Home, like afternoons curled up by the window, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. 

Home, like the comfort of arms wrapped around you; two hearts beating in sync.

“C’mon,” Iwa interrupts after a minute or so, his voice a touch less gruff. “We’re almost there.”

Dazed, you find yourself nodding, allowing him to guide you back to the path. This time, he doesn’t grab you by the shoulder, seemingly content enough to walk by your side. 

True to his word, it’s only another few minutes before you see it; a wooden villa, four times the size of your own and far, far grander, set amongst a clearing of trees on the mountainside. Confused, your eyes flicker from the villa to Iwa and back again. Gossamer curtains billow lightly in the breeze, a warm, inviting glow spilling from the open windows. Surely this cannot be where he meant to lead you… and yet he merely stands at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, watching you expectantly. 

“You gonna make me carry you up there?” he asks, not unkindly.

Swallowing tightly, you shake your head. 

Another glance, and you catch a shadow lingering by the window. Your heart skips a beat, apprehension curling in your gut as you begin to walk, every step feels less steady than the last. You’re almost glad when Iwa takes you by the arm; if only so that you have something to focus on other than the growing tightness in your chest. The villa, with its pretty flowers and airy, elegant grandeur is far from the isolated cell you’d been afraid of, yet the uncertainty of what you’re walking into eats at you all the same.

Is this where they’ve been keeping Ryu, or has he brought you here for another reason?

Nothing, however, can prepare you for what you find inside. Warm light emanates from lanterns that bathe the room, and your eyes widen as you stare around you.

Strange, gold carvings inlaid with mother of pearl decorate the thick, woodens support beams, a pot of incense burns on a table overflowing with fresh fruit. There’s a jug of the same honeyed wine you’d drank earlier in the night and two cups set on an ornate stand nearby – just within arms reach of one of the chaise lounges.

Iwa affords you little time to gape, drawing you further in. Silken tapestries hang from the walls – you’re pulled along too quickly to truly take note, but the brief glimpses you get hint at a story; a divine being cast from his home, lost and wandering.

It tugs at something buried within you, and uncomfortable, you tear your eyes away.

The two of you reach a closed door at the end of the hall, and Iwa pulls you to a stop, knocking once.

“Come,” a familiar voice calls.

You stiffen, though perhaps you should have foreseen this outcome. Who else would Iwa bring you to but to him? Distantly, you register his grip relaxing, the sound of the door sweeping open and his voice at your ear.

“Go on.”

And it’s funny, you think, how two halves of yourself can be so at odds with each other. Because while your stomach twists itself into knots, goosebumps prickling at your skin, your legs stumble forward of their own accord.

Two steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a bedroom, that much you can deduce from the decor, but that’s not what captures your attention. Nor is it Oikawa, leaning against the bureau with a genial smile – at least not at first. 

No. In place of a back wall, there’s open space, not so much as a panel of glass obstructing the view before you. And what a view it is; from this height you can see the sprawling forest below, the coastline dotted with bonfires and the moonlit ocean shimmering beyond. Where the floorboards end, there are steps, you realise as you unwittingly inch closer, leading to a cascading spring – likely fed from the waterfall you can hear rushing nearby.

How easy it would be to brush aside your worries, you think, to shed your clothes, slip into the cool, calm water and lose yourself entirely. Even amongst all you’ve seen and experienced on the island so far, this is incomparable. 

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Oikawa murmurs, coming up behind you.

His voice startles you, yet when you turn, you find him not gazing out at the scenery but rather at you, that same strange, knowing smile curling at his lips.

“Some days, I admit, it’s hard to tear myself away,” he continues, unbothered by your stunned silence. “But even I can’t neglect my duties for too long.”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Confusion twists through you at the conversational tone, surely he hasn’t brought you here just to chat about the impressive views, yet there’s no hint of disapproval on his face, no indication that he’s anything less than pleased with you.

It’s unnerving to say the least, but you’ll play along with his game if that’s what Oikawa wants.

“Beautiful,” you say, though the words feel woefully inadequate even as you speak them.

He hums in agreement, something akin to pride flickers in his eyes at your assessment, “A labour of love, I suppose. But… everything you see here, everything I’ve built, it comes with a price. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry?” you stutter.

“Paradise,” he elaborates, his smile widening. “There’s no give without take. Those people down there,” he nods down at the beach, the tiny, ant-like figures still milling about, “the lost, the beaten, the abused – I gave them what they so desperately sought; a sanctuary. A life without struggle, without suffering.” He pauses for a moment, reaching forward to take your hand. You almost flinch, almost skitter across the room to put as much distance between you as you can, but you don’t–

His palm is warm as it envelops yours, a pleasant heat that seems to spread through your veins, easing your tense muscles. There’s nothing to fear from him, you’re safe with Oikawa.

“Aren’t you happy here?”

Yes.

“What about the price?” you ask instead, though it takes more concentration than it should to force the words out. 

Oikawa’s thumb sweeps along the back of your hand. “I never said it was your price to pay,” he soothes. 

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but another sharp knock at the door draws your attention before you can think too hard about it. You turn out of instinct, barely aware of the way his hand tightens fractionally around your own.  

A single finger at your jaw coaxes your attention back to him. “If you built a paradise, wouldn’t you give whatever necessary to ensure it flourished?”

Oikawa stares at you expectantly, deep brown eyes searching your face as he waits for an answer. Agreement would be the logical choice – the one he seems to want from you – but even as your lips part, the only sound that escapes is a breathless, confused noise. 

When you were a kid, maybe six or seven, your parents took you to the beach one day and you waded too far out into the water. The waves were bigger than you expected; all it took was one mistimed jump and you were dragged under.

It wasn’t for long, probably only seconds, and ultimately you were fine – but you remember those few seconds so vividly. The feeling of helplessly tumbling through the water, fighting to break the surface but not knowing which way was up. Your lungs crying out for oxygen, the disorientation and dizziness, the panic.

It feels like that now – like the floor’s dropped out from beneath you and you’re just hurtling through empty air, desperately trying to slow yourself down with nothing to grab onto.

None of this makes any sense. Your emotions are shot to pieces, too many parts of yourself being pulled in different directions and you’re not sure which ones you can trust anymore. How can you be? Oikawa’s still holding your hand, smiling at you, and you just want everything to stop for a second so you can right yourself and breathe–

The door opens.

Iwaizumi appears in your field of vision, dragging a bound, hooded figure behind him. And because this is all some big, cosmic joke, you get your wish. Both of them, actually. 

Time slows. 

Even with a burlap sack pulled over his head, you recognise the man Iwa shoves to the floor and sneers at. 

Hundreds of miles, weeks of uselessly traipsing around this fucking island, and finally– 

Finally, you’ve found Ryu.

There should be relief. Fear, considering his current state, yes, but Ryuji’s here and he’s alive and as the hood is ripped off his head Oikawa squeezes your hand and the only thing you feel is… anger.

Not a heated flash that surges through your blood. It’s slow and seething, insipid. You look at him, locked in place as empty, pleading eyes meet yours and all you can think is that all of this – everything – is his fault.

“Asuka told you why she came to me, didn’t she?” Oikawa asks.

Your brow furrows, why–why is he asking you that now, how did he even–

He slips closer behind you, letting your hand go in favour of your shoulder, his spare dragging lightly along the bare skin of your arm. “She was lost, in so much pain. The physical wounds, they heal after a while,” his voice is right in your ear, a low murmur that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

It isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“But the scars inside, well… sometimes those fester.”

Gagged and bound, kneeling at your feet, Ryu doesn’t even try to make a sound. 

He’s thinner than you remember. Face gaunt and bruised; there’s a half healed, mottled yellow one painted across the left side of his jaw, one eye purple and swollen. You glance at Iwa, standing stoically behind him, muscular arms folded across his chest. His work, you wonder, or others as well? You notice the tear tracks running down his face, catching the light of the lanterns, but it’s as if you’re seeing it all through a thick pane of glass. None of it reaches you, there’s nothing but that simmering, ugly feeling in your gut.

Oikawa hums, “I told you that Paradise wasn’t for everyone. It’s a haven, yes, but there are those who simply… don’t belong.”

His body’s so warm, pressed up against yours. Fingertips graze along your side, and this time you don’t bother biting back that tiny, breathless moan. Iwa briefly smirks at it, but there’s no embarrassment. Why should there be? Your eyes flit back to Ryu, bowed on the wooden floor.

Another memory resurfaces; A sharp crack and a ringing in your ears, Ryuji, eyes bloodshot and glazed, falling to his knees, clutching frantically at the leg of your pants as endless apologies spill from his lips. 

It wasn’t him. It was never him. 

“He hurt you,” Oikawa purrs. “He kept hurting you, I saw it.”

The words wash over you like waves breaking on the shore, but you find yourself nodding anyway. It was the truth, wasn’t it? A thousand tiny hurts, piled up on one another until you finally broke.

And you’d still come when he’d called.

Listened to him when he’d begged you not to hang up the phone.

“Iwa.” 

The brunet moves towards a grand chest of drawers pushed up against the western wall. An ornate dagger sits atop, strange and beautiful; the blade isn’t steel or any metal you’ve seen before, but some kind of black stone, the handle intricately carved ivory. You hadn’t even noticed it before, Oikawa’s room filled to the brim with odd trinkets and treasures, but now that you have, it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Iwa takes it and carries it over towards the two of you, holding it with the utmost care. 

“Obsidian,” Oikawa informs you as he accepts the blade from his friend, bringing it in front of you both to show it off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” And while you can’t see his face, you can hear the smile in his tone.

He isn’t wrong though. 

Ever so carefully you reach out, the soft pads of your fingertips running along the obsidian surface, surprisingly cool to the touch. The razor sharp edges – wavy and asymmetrical, leading to a tapered point – you’re careful to avoid, almost positive you’d draw blood with the slightest touch. 

“Take it,” he urges, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. 

Obediently, you turn your hand over, your fingers wrapping around the hilt when he presses it against your palm. And as long fingers curl around yours, you idly wonder how old the dagger is – there’s not so much as a scratch on it, yet there’s something about the weapon in your hand that feels ancient. It thrums under your combined touch.

Oikawa jerks his chin at Iwa, and with a short nod and one last, lingering glance cast your way, the latter exits once again. 

Leaving you and Oikawa alone with Ryuji.

“It’s almost time,” he remarks – though time for what, you’re not entirely sure. His lips press against your hair, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist, drawing you flush against him. “I know why you came to me, the lies that led you here.”

Both of you turn your attention back to Ryuji at that, the bound man now shaking with the force of his muffled sobs, snot dripping from his nose. That bitter resentment rears its ugly head again, soothed only by Oikawa’s pacifying hum, his thumb now rubbing slow circles at your side. “Shh, I’m not angry – none of that matters now. You’ve found a home here, no? You want to stay on the island with me.”

You swallow, nodding your head rapidly. The thought of having to leave now, of being forced out after everything you’ve seen and felt and experienced here, you– you can’t fathom it. You don’t want to. 

Ryuji’d wrought so much damage, but even before he’d swept through your life… had you ever been happy? Were you ever truly accepted – or loved, for that matter?

You can’t go back to that life. You won’t; he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the shore. The Commune is your home, this is where you belong. Here, with Oikawa.

“Good girl,” he croons, another kiss pressed to the crown of your head. You beam at the praise and Ryuji crumples a little further. “Death begets life, you understand now, don’t you?”

You glance at the obsidian dagger in your hand and then at Ryu, beaten and bruised, bowed in forced supplication before you, and nod.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Then do it.”

Leaning forward, you reach for Ryu, fingers lightly trailing down his ruined cheek, curling at his chin to coax his head upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain and regret etched over every inch of his face, but he doesn’t fight you. 

Baring his throat to your dagger, Ryuji’s pleas take the shape of your name.

Muffled, thanks to the gag, but unmistakable. And for one single moment, you falter. 

This… this is wrong; for all his faults, and god knows there were plenty, Ryu didn’t des–

A wave of calm washes over you, allaying your fears, your doubts. Your breath leaves you in a heavy gust, taking with it the tension in your shoulders, and Oikawa’s voice, smooth and honeyed, reaches your ears once more, “Nothing comes without a price, doesn’t he deserve to be the one to pay it?”

With your hand still tucked inside of his, your arm moves with a will of its own; slashing with inhuman grace.

The dagger cuts deep, Ryuji’s eyes snapping open in shock as a spray of warm blood hits you both. He chokes – a horrid, wet, gurgling sound – wide, pleading eyes frantically shifting between you and Oikawa. Every beat of his failing heart sends fresh blood spurting from the gaping wound. It drenches his front, splatters across your dress, your face, crimson pooling at the wooden floorboards at his knees. His mouth falls open and shut, trying and failing to form coherent sounds and you just stand there and watch, the dagger hanging limply at your side.

It doesn’t take long; seconds at the most. 

Ryuji’s slumps to the floor, his body finally growing still as the light fades from his eyes. There’s a beat of absolute silence, and then–

Oikawa shudders behind you, a strangled, drawn out moan leaving his lips. You try to turn, but his arms lock around you, every muscle tensing, his back arching. The dagger in your hand grows hot, burning the soft skin of your palm, but with his fingers still tightly entwined with yours you can only whimper and endure it.

With a hoarse, guttural roar, a pulse of pure energy surges through the room like a shockwave. Every cell in your body lights up, electrified, buzzing; a dizzying euphoria unlike any you’ve felt before coursing through your blood. 

Across the island, voices cry out in delight, a symphony of life. The trees tremble and shake, invigorated and renewed, fresh buds bursting from the forest floor, blooming under the light of the full moon.

The harvests flourish, even the river swells in response to the call.

Death begets life, just as he promised.

And with every inch of your body alight and singing with pleasure, you can barely think much less protest (and why would you want to?) as Oikawa roughly yanks you around, hungry lips crashing against your own as his fingers pull and tear at your bloodstained dress. He wastes no time with foreplay, and you suspect only begrudgingly takes a moment to hoist you up against him and carry you to his bed.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he hauls your hips to his, sheathing his cock inside of your warm, tight cunt with one savage thrust, but you don’t care.

Not as you cling to him, fingernails raking along his shoulders as he presses your thighs further apart so he can fuck you deeper. It’s hard and rough and brutal, yet you moan for him all the same, his name a prayer swallowed up by feverish, claiming kisses.

Tonight, bathed in blood and the soft glow of moonlight, you offer your god everything.

—

“Look, look!” 

A small hand tugs at your skirt, and you glance down to find a little girl with pretty, dark curls holding up a crown of woven flowers.

“Do you like it?” she asks. 

Carefully, you take it from her, bringing it closer to examine. She watches you intently as you study it, lifting it this way and that to appraise her work, humming thoughtfully for good measure. “I think it’s beautiful work,” you tell her after a long enough pause, and you can’t help but smile at the way she lights up, preening under your praise. “Why don’t you go show your mama? I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.”

The girl nods rapidly, thanking you before skipping off in the direction of her parents. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, the fires already being readied for the night ahead. You’re not unaware of the watchful gaze that carefully monitors your every move, and the moves of anyone who ventures too close by. Soon enough, you’ll return home to the heart of the island – anticipation fluttering in your belly at the thought of what awaits you – but for now, you let your feet sink further into the sand, closing your eyes as you bask in the lingering warmth of the setting sun.

At least until the sound of your name being called draws you back to the present. Yet it’s not Iwaizumi approaching, but rather Makki, two strangers trailing along behind him. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” he grins, throwing a casual arm over your shoulders. “This is Kaneo,” he gestures to the man, “and his wife Manaka. They arrived this morning, I’ve been showing ‘em round.”

You turn to the couple, smiling sweetly as you extend a hand, “Welcome to the Commune.”