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raekensluver · 2 days ago

Text

stuck with me

masterlist | main masterlist

description: after a failed escape, you're trapped in a remote cabin with spencer reid - his love curdling into obsession. fear and isolation slowly strip away your sense of freedom.

pairing: dark!toxic!spencer reid x fem!reader

contains: dark themes!!! psychological horror, emotional manipulation, obsessive love, toxic/codependent relationship, captivity, gaslighting, soft domestic horror, eventual resignation/loss of agency, stockholm syndrome.

song rec: every breath you take by the police - "every breath you take, and every move you make, every bond you break, every step you take - i'll be watchin' you"

w.c: 3.0k

you wake to the low hiss of the percolator and the faint smell of something sweet in the air - maple, maybe, or the syrupy remnants of something that wants to be comfort. your eyes take a moment to adjust. pale winter light filters through the frost-streaked windows. the cabin is cold, the fire long since gone out. you’re still in bed, blanket tucked around your shoulders tighter than you remember pulling it.

there’s a heaviness in your limbs, like you’ve slept too long or not at all. you shift upright, slowly, blinking away the sleep. on the nightstand, resting beside the lamp, sits a single white daisy. its stem bends under its own weight, petals slightly bruised, like it was picked in a hurry. underneath it is a folded piece of paper with neat handwriting you know by heart.

didn’t want to wake you. you looked peaceful. - s

you stare at the note for a long time. you don’t reach for it. it’s not the first one he’s left. not the first flower. not even the first morning you’ve woken up with that same thick, sinking feeling in your chest - disoriented, your memory warped at the edges like water-damaged film.

but it always feels the same. like something soft rotting under the surface. like something too sweet, left out too long. you try not to think about it as you climb out of bed. the floorboards creak under your feet. your sweater hangs loose on your frame, sleeves swallowed over your fingers.

you pass the bookshelf you’ve alphabetized twice this month. the window you once tried to crack open until you realized it was bolted shut from the outside. the couch where he reads with his head in your lap and tells you he’s never felt safer. everything is quiet. everything is still.

in the kitchen, spencer stands over the stove, back to you. his posture is relaxed, fingers tapping lightly against the pan. he’s humming something tuneless under his breath. he’s wearing that old cardigan - the one with the frayed cuffs and worn elbows. his hair is slicked back, but the bangs have fallen loose, like he didn’t bother checking a mirror.

or like he only ever wants to look good for you.

when he hears your footsteps, he turns. his face softens instantly. “you’re up,” he says, smiling. “perfect timing. pancakes are almost done.” you nod, arms crossed over your chest.

you don’t say anything. there’s nothing to say, really - not that hasn’t already been said. not that wouldn’t crack open something delicate between you. he steps forward, spatula still in hand, and presses a kiss to your cheek. “slept okay?” he asks gently.

you lie. “yeah.”

he beams, pleased with himself, and turns back to the stove. “you were mumbling a little in your sleep,” he says. “nothing intelligible. just…” his hand tightens slightly around the panhandle. then he shrugs and flips the last pancake onto a plate.

“here,” he says. “made them just for you.”

he plates the food carefully, like presentation matters. like you’re still someone to impress. he sets a mug of coffee in front of you, your favorite, or at least the one you told him was your favorite. you’re not sure anymore. maybe you just can’t taste anything at all.

the pancakes are slightly burnt around the edges. you eat them anyway. he watches you. he always does. you think he likes mornings best, when you’re still quiet. when the silence hasn’t yet curdled into resistance.

it wasn’t always like this.

you used to live in a city. with trains and sidewalks and friends who texted to make sure you got home safe. you used to be someone with a last name, with a favorite bar, with music in the background. with a toothbrush that wasn’t bought for you.

you used to say spencer was just shy. sweet. different. you thought it was endearing, the way he stuttered through compliments. how he looked at the ground like his body wasn’t used to kindness.

you never once thought it would unravel like this.

the first time you tried to leave, he collapsed. not figuratively. not emotionally. he dropped to his knees, sobbing so violently you thought something inside him had ruptured. he begged, incoherent, repeating your name like a scratched vinyl until his voice gave out and his hands clutched his chest like he couldn’t breathe without you.

he passed out on the apartment floor.

you stayed.

you told yourself it was temporary. just one more week. just until he saw a therapist. just until the worst of it passed. but the next day, he was better - sweet, even. he brought you flowers. cleaned the kitchen. kissed your knuckles like you were made of spun glass.

he apologized again and again like a boy afraid of being scolded. said he didn’t remember all of it. said he just loved you too much. and for a while, you almost believed that was all it was - love in the wrong shape. too big. too heavy. too desperate to carry.

but now you live in a cabin. one with no cell reception and a car that conveniently doesn’t start anymore. you haven’t seen your own phone in weeks. he says it’s somewhere safe. he brings groceries once a week and insists you don’t lift a finger.

“it’s my job to take care of you,” he tells you, brushing your hair back like he’s tucking away a prayer. “you make everything worth it.” you don’t argue. not anymore. it’s not that you believe him. it’s just that you’re tired.

sometimes, late at night, you press your ear to the front door and just listen. you don’t know what you’re hoping to hear. maybe an engine. maybe voices. maybe your own heartbeat sounding like it used to. sometimes, when you’re sure he’s asleep, you unlock the door and place your palm flat against the wood.

you never open it - he’s a light sleeper, he always notices when you drift too far.

today, after breakfast, he suggests baking. “banana bread?” he offers, hopeful. “you love banana bread. it’s cozy.”

you nod. another lie. you’re not sure what you love anymore. you’re not sure who you are, here. but he looks so pleased when you agree, and you’ve learned it’s easier not to resist the parts of him that pretend this is love. he puts on a record. something slow, orchestral, the kind of song that loops into itself without ever really ending.

you sit on the couch, legs folded beneath a blanket, sipping lukewarm coffee while he moves through the kitchen like a ritual. flour, sugar, eggs - each ingredient carefully measured, narrated softly like he’s talking you through a dream. “too much sugar’s bad for you,” he murmurs. “but today’s a treat. it’s a good day.”

you nod again.

sunlight slants low through the windows, the kind of light that looks warmer than it feels. dust floats in the air like snowfall. the smell of cinnamon clings to your sleeves, but underneath it is something older. something that’s been in the walls a long time.

you wonder how long it’ll be before you forget what freedom tasted like.

he turns to you with flour on his wrist, smiling. “you’re quiet,” he says. “but that’s okay. i like you quiet.” and the thing is - he means it. he really, truly does. that’s what scares you most.

later, when the bread is in the oven and your hands smell like nutmeg and dish soap, you tell him you’re going to take a shower. he smiles, presses a kiss to your forehead, tells you not to rush. says you deserve a little self-care. says you’ve been so good lately.

his eyes linger too long when he says it. you nod again, not flinching. the water pressure is weak but warm, the stream loud enough to drown out the rest of the house. you stay in longer than necessary, letting the steam fog the mirror until your reflection disappears completely.

sometimes, that’s the only way you can stand to look at yourself - blurred and unknowable.

you don’t cry. not anymore. whatever was soft in you has hollowed into something else. not grief. not even sadness. more like silence in a room that used to echo.

you towel off, change into one of the sweatshirts he leaves folded for you. then, carefully, you crack the bathroom window open - its the only window in the house thats not bolted shut. you dont open it enough to be obvious. just enough to feel a different kind of air. one that doesn’t belong to him.

you don’t know how much longer you can keep doing this. but you don’t know what happens if you stop.

the cabin creaks beneath your footsteps as you walk. you move slowly, careful not to disturb the way the silence holds its breath. your hand brushes the edge of the guest room door - usually closed. today, it’s ajar.

he must’ve forgotten.

you glance behind you once. then again. then slip inside.

the room smells like dust and cedar. like something faintly chemical. the window is boarded from the outside. there’s a desk in the corner, drawers all locked. a rocking chair that hasn’t moved in years.

and just beside the closet is the attic pull-down.

you’ve never been up there.

you reach for the cord, your fingers shaking slightly as you tug it down. the ladder groans in protest. a cold draft breathes down from the opening. still, you climb one rung, then two.

you hesitate. you don’t know what you expect to find. maybe nothing. maybe something worse. your breath hitches as you climb the rest of the way before you can talk yourself out of it.

the attic is dim and cramped, beams angled low like a ribcage. the air tastes old. a trunk sits in the corner, half-open, waiting. you cross the space and kneel beside it, lifting the lid with careful hands.

inside, you find a stack of your old clothes. sweaters. shoes. a purse you forgot you missed. you dig deeper - there’s a photo of you and your friends. your phone, cracked and dead. a necklace. a half-used chapstick. things that shouldn’t be here, but are.

at the very bottom is a tape recorder. your breath catches and you decide to press play.

static.

then your voice. laughing. you don’t remember when it was recorded. you’re talking about a book. you sound bright. open. untouched. spencer’s voice is in the background, quiet, asking you to say it again. you laugh. he tells you you sound like sunlight.

you call him a dork.

your voice breaks something in you. you rewind it. listen again. you don’t remember ever being that happy. you don’t remember who that was.

he’s there before you can even put the recorder down, footsteps soft but deliberate. the floorboards creak beneath him, steady and slow. “baby?” his voice is calm, too calm, like it’s a game neither of you want to lose. you don’t move. your heart hammers loud enough to drown out the quiet house. behind you, the attic ladder swings slightly, forgotten.

his presence fills the room, but he doesn’t come closer. you hear the kitchen drawer open, the familiar scrape of the bread knife being lifted out - but then the drawer closes again. you step down the ladder quickly, your hands still trembling from the attic’s cold grip.

when your feet hit the floor, he’s standing just beyond the threshold, head tilted slightly, eyes unreadable. he doesn’t look angry. not really. just disappointed. “you were exploring?” his voice is light, almost teasing. like he’s playing with you, like this is still a game.

you try to say something, but your mouth is dry. empty. he glances past you, catches sight of the ladder, notices the dust on your hands. his breath hitches. he runs a hand through his hair - that’s when you notice what’s in his other hand. it’s just a dish towel. the knife is still in the drawer, but somehow, this is worse. the moment stretches, long and taut, like a wire ready to snap.

“i thought we talked about boundaries,” he says softly, voice steady but sharp beneath the surface. “i thought we were past the phase where you needed to…test me.” your voice is a whisper, barely there. “i just wanted some air.”

he laughs - low, worn, like a man tired of repeating himself. “you don’t need air,” he says. “you need consistency.” he steps closer and gently takes your wrist. “you need me.”

you don’t pull away. you can’t. because for one aching, terrifying moment, you almost believe him.

he doesn’t speak for the rest of the day. not cruelly, not coldly. he just floats through the cabin like a ghost - polite, gentle, always a few steps behind you. he makes tea and leaves it by your elbow. folds laundry with careful hands. hums softly while he sweeps, eyes flicking toward you like he’s checking you’re still there.

you never try to go back up to the attic. you just sit on the couch and stare at the fireplace, cold and untouched, quiet for weeks.

but today, he lights it. he says the cold might make you sick, that he couldn’t bear that. the way he says it twists your throat. like he still thinks you’re fragile. like you’re still the person he fell for - not the one stuck here now, sitting in his warmth like a ghost.

that night, he cooks dinner - something simple, nostalgic. grilled cheese and tomato soup. says he remembered you mentioning it once, when things were easier. he sets the table, lights a candle, and puts on music. slow, romantic. like it’s date night.

you chew in silence, thinking of the tapes hidden away in the attic. he watches you eat like every bite is a promise.

“you scared me earlier,” he says quietly. “i thought maybe i was losing you again.”

you flinch but don’t look up. “i wasn’t trying to leave,” you murmur - half truth, half lie. “i just… didn’t think it mattered.”

his mouth tightens. he sets down his spoon too carefully. “it always matters,” he says sharply. “everything you do matters.”

you nod, because it’s easier.

his expression softens again, like a switch flipping off. he reaches across the table and brushes his knuckles over yours. “i forgive you,” he says.

you don’t say thank you. but he smiles like you did.

you sleep in the same bed that night, like you always do. he curls around you like ivy, arms wrapped tight around your waist, breath warm against the back of your neck. his fingers trace slow circles on your ribs - steady, calm, endless.

“i always used to dream about this,” he whispers, voice half-lost in the dark. “not the house, not the cabin. just this. just you. still. quiet. mine.”

you stare at the wall.

“i love you so much it hurts,” he says. “but i’ll be okay. as long as you’re here.”

you don’t move. instead, you let him hold you tighter. you don’t sleep at all.

the next morning, you wake to another flower. this one is yellow. a wild daffodil, wilting at the edges. beneath it, a longer note:

i know things have been hard lately. i know it’s a lot. but i also know you. and i know you’ll see this is what’s best. i never wanted to hurt you. i just wanted to keep you safe. - s

you read it twice, then fold it and tuck it into the drawer beside your bed - next to the others. stacked quiet and pressed flat like old letters in a war bride’s chest.

you stand. stretch. brush your hair - go through the motions like they’re your own.

you make the bed, tie your hair back, and change into clean clothes. preparing to walk into the kitchen and greet him first.

it doesn’t happen all at once - the breaking.

it’s small, quiet, gradual. creeping like fog, rot in the beams, static in the walls. it slips beneath your skin. by the time you notice, you can’t dig it out.

one morning, you stop checking the window locks. the next, you stop counting the steps across the room. one afternoon, he hands you a book. you smile at him before you even look at the title.

you start humming while you clean, you laugh at his jokes, you take his picture, you kiss him first.

months pass like smoke.

you don’t remember how long it’s been since the tapes. since the attic. since your hands shook when he looked at you for too long.

now, you hold his gaze, you rest your head on his chest, and you let him read to you until you fall asleep.

you believe him when he says he’d die without you - not because it’s poetic but because it’s true.

and deep in your bones, you realize: you would die without him, too.

not your body - your body would still breathe.

but whatever was you - your fire, your fight, your name said in your own voice - has long since gone quiet.

you belong to him now. and what’s worse - you’ve stopped wanting to be saved.

one night, he kneels before you with a ring made from a twisted string of daisies. you take it without blinking. he says, “i knew you’d come around.”

you say, “i never really left.”

he smiles wide, bright - almost holy. and when he pulls you into his arms and presses his lips to yours, you taste sunlight and syrup.

you close your eyes and let him have you. because it’s easier this way. because he was right all along. because no one is coming. because this is love now. because he told you so.

and you believe him.

taglist: @maxsisly

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virelaisnox · 15 hours ago

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Twice Loved, Once Cursed

Summary : Sacred, yet despicable. You were the lover who was lost in the long night, a night that continues to live in every beat of time that has followed him until now.

She is the symbol of a broken promise, a protection that has failed to be kept.

Previously, her body was tied to a stake, burned alive on accusations of being loyal to dark powers.

A blood-sucking devil--a creature of the night who destroyed cities, who stole and tore apart mercilessly.

Now, that same soul returns -- born in the body of a holy, pure, and untouchable person.

And for the second time... he came bringing a fate that could not be avoided.

Warning : Dark religious imagery & spiritual conflict, themes of death, reincarnation, forbidden romance & morally complex relationships, power imbalance & emotional manipulation, mild sensuality.

Pairing: Remmick x Fem!Reader

⚠️ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ⚠️

[Chapter 3] : Baptism of flesh

A ring of phoebus basked in orange light rises—graces the earth with its warm embrace—slithered its way across the half-open window. The glow of it kissed the skin on your arms—the petals of your eye fluttered open as a response to the blinding light that hit your retina.

You woke up alone, half the night gown you were wearing was slightly torn around the neckline and the hem near the end—the side of your bed empty and cold. It still doesn't seem to forget the weight of his body against it. Leaving the white fitted sheet in its disheveled state. His presence still lingers. Your room smelt like him—pack of newly opened Lucky Strike, sweat, and fresh spilled blood—his fragrance pervading the remaining space in your chamber and filling your senses just enough to keep him engraved in your memory.

Your hands came to soothe your tousle hair made you realize the existence of an icy, circlet, golden object looping around your ring finger on the right side of your hand—and the absence of your bracelet. A trade. A small smile crept up your lips. Your cheeks bloomed and resembled the color of roses.

You held the object against your chest—over the soft thump-thump of your heart.

Unwilling to get up just yet, you're sinking in the memory of him on your bed, breathing in the scent of him. Your fingers drift across your body. Starting from your collarbone, your stomach—every touch was hesitant at first, like you were trying to remember where he had touched you. Mapping every corner he left marks with sin and pleasure. Though you fail every time you try. It was as if he had mastered your body—owning it before you've ever known a touch from any man.

Your hand slid lower, picturing his face as you did so. You only had ever seen him shirtless, his bare torso—lean and firm. The sight was enough sending you down the pit of hell. The devil couldn't reach you, thus he sent you Remmick. Your thighs shifted, brushing together as the sinful imagery of him returning so does the aching between your legs. Your eyes fall closed. Breath hitched as your fingertips found heat. You circled gently, lips parting with a quiet gasp.

They say size mattered. Although you had not seen him, you certainly held no doubt about his. You'd imagined how it'd feel buried inside of you, filling you up with his little demon seeds. You were pulsing with sensation, rippling in waves that built and built until your back arched from the mattress. His name spilled past your mouth. Your body reaches its peak in a wash of gentle waves, coming down from its high. You rested your hand against your chest, and the other settled between your thighs. The room stilled in silence, gentler, more forgiving.

“Daughter!” The voice of your father calling out to you was heard from behind the unsealed door—not quite yelling, but his tone was silver. “Daughter!”

He approached your room with alert steps, as if forewarning you to pack up whatever inappropriate bullshit happening inside to save you some ass-whooping since it's still morning. He would never lay a hand on you, though. His word is a bite through skin. But he would rather pluck out his own eyes than to be the bastard father who hits you.

He didn't knock. Only a warning—before his foot set inside, standing rooted on the wooden floor with an acknowledgement—he was the one to put the roof over your ungrateful head.

“Where’ve you been last night?” he asked, voice stern, demanding reasonable answers—the flaring of his nostrils, and the glare flashing across his eyes—tells you that he expected no nonsense from you. Not today.

“I—I'm sorry, Paps! I was just gon’ lay down for a bit, but I... I must’ve overslept!”

The terrible lie that had just escaped your mouth is enough to make you want to slap yourself in the face from how ugly and unconvincing it sounded. But you stood onto the statement—hoping you'd believe your own lie and that your brain might somehow come up with something less absurd.

“Over—overslept?” He repeated your statement and made you feel even more foolish—his expression was clearly displeased, and you didn't blame him.

“That's your reason for missing the evening worship?” He added.

“I’m real sorry, Paps. I swear, I’d never ignore God’s callin’. I was just bone-tired, that’s all.” Hell, Judas would be proud of you.

He waved his hand and instantly called it bullshit, knowing well his smart-mouthed daughter wouldn't quit this tongue-in-cheek battle, not at least until she was a proven winner.

Not intending to prolong the matter, something else piqued his worst interest.

“Did you - did you bring someone in here last night, girl?” His teeth clenched, eyes almost popping, glaring, and more life-threatening than the death itself.

“Wh—God, no, Father… why d’you think so low of me?” You were certainly defensive for someone who just denied the truest thing.

“Then why the hell—” He sucks in deep, sharp breath, trying to regain his composure, for he almost lost his temper.

“Tell me why—do it smell like a—a man been in here?” He sniffs around as if trying to identify the scent.

“Shit, it even smelled like a corpse rotting in here!”

“It's probably just them dead squirrels.. or rats. We don't live in exactly fancy white neighborhoods, Paps, of course we live alongside rodents. Sometimes they dead too.”

Noticing how uneasy your Father grows, you stood up from the bed with a blanket wrapped around you. Yes—first thing in the morning to keep you occupied wasn't to throw on something proper to wear, neither were you praying like how you usually do, but instead, you chose worldly desires and guess what? You came.

Holy mother of Lord! you were a mess of a woman

Your steps approach him and you stand steadily before him—his larger figure somehow still towers over you no matter how much you've grown.

“Paps. Don't you worry ‘bout lil ol’ me, I promise you, Paps. There wasn't anybody else in this room but me.”

You reached over his arms and how he flinched at the incredibly low temperature of your body, “oh, sorry, I left the window open tonight. T’was damn hot.” You reasoned. Chuckled nervously while he stared at you like you were some lunatic speaking in a language only you could understand. That didn't bother you much, for as long as you've known you have been THAT. Therefore, the sight shouldn't be exactly new to him.

He shrugged, placing his palms over your head and exhaling a heavy breath.

“Well, Imma say it again the last time—I expect the best of your behavior, missy.”

You nodded, and this time was convincing enough—your Father might've believed you.

“you got it, sir.”

“You remember you still got food to take down to the church folk today, don’t ya?”

“‘Course I remember, Paps.”

He smiled, yet the betrayal of concern was written all over his face.

-`♡´-

Clarksdale, Mississippi

5:00 PM, 1921

“Best be wary—they say it was some wild beast tore them poor folks open… but that ain’t what them native folk came sniffin’ ‘round here to find.”

“Natives came in here? For what?” You asked, chugging a quarter of the bottle down your throat of some less-pricey liquor your buddy Isaiah contaminating you with—more like you threatened him to save you a few good-ass gulps.

Isaiah motherfuckin’ Crowell, so much fun of a guy he is.

Thought you would stop earlier after dropping one to his family's house. Turns out, there was something better that intrigued you to stay a bit longer. Vodka. Honeysuckle.

“Ion know. Heard they was lookin’ for some white fella—’bout five foot somethin’. I swear, I could take that motherfucker down myself.” A chuckle escaped your lips, he was so damn sure confident about himself.

“Yeah, yeah, no doubt, Isaiah..” you said. Last third gulps you swallowed heavily and relished in the burning sensation in your belly. With slumped shoulders and body fully relaxed, you were thankful to have such a friend like Isaiah. For he was such a playful soul, caring, daring or—sometimes you couldn’t tell if he was just being sloppy—but most importantly—he ain't boring.

Never in your life, not even for a day, so long as you spend it with him—would it ever be anything but “boring”.

A demonic sound of hiccup escaped your throat, you threw the bottle carelessly to the side.

“Alright. Guess I'm off delivering these before I get disowned.”

“Take off, already?”

“Yeah, of course—why, you wanna help?” You asked that made him quickly, backed away at that.

“I- I'm aight.. I'm aight.. church stuff ain't really my thing, you know?” You rolled your eyes at him. How ironic for an Isaiah to say such a thing.

“Whatever, you suck.”

“Really now? Thought you said I was the coolest person you knew.” His grin spreads wide while you strode away, pointing your middle finger in the air, carrying your share of delivery—a medium basket filled with food that was halfway finished. “Oy, preacher girl.” He called out and sounded like it was final.

“Don’t come steppin’ where shadows got teeth.” You ignored it—little did he know you were in search of exactly that. Little Isaiah. He was always like that. Some of what he was saying never held true meaning—a real jock and a dork.

The glowing fiery ball in the sky began to set and die out on the corner west of the earth. The summer night air kissed your sweat-kissed skin—overgrowing trees with branches that were huddling over, shadowing the road, making an illusion that it's somehow alive—that once you let yourself unguarded it would definitely have its claw around you. You turned your head now and then, watching over your back because no one else was around—or you hoped so. It was the latest you've ever been kept—well, other than the night before. This has been your every other Thursday evening routine, but this time takes longer than usual.

You shivered, not because of the cold. But because of the scenery the evening brings. Your arms instinctively encircled around your body and whispered a prayer—you grew calmer with every word that spilled past your lips. You found comfort in your prayer. Now, the woodland seemed less scary to you. Twigs that were rubbing against each other somehow sang in a melodic tune. The smell of earth soothed your nerves. You sighed, thankful.

You spared a few words in your prayer addressed for him too—how could you not? You missed him like crazy. His wedding ring looped around your finger. You've never forgotten how darkness has always surrounded him. The way he carries himself. How his lips feel against yours. The way his touches send electricity through your whole being. You missed him, and you missed him terribly—you wished that he was here to kiss the aching in your heart.

Something watches over you. God, most likely—He always watches over our backs. That's what you've been taught to believe. Or so you think. You felt safer than ever in the darkness than you are in daylight.

The bushes move, and something within it lurks—not quite putting up an effort to stay itself covert. You couldn't tell whether it is your desire or your gut feeling, telling you. But you sensed him. His presence was all too familiar for you to not notice.

“Is that you?” Your voice echoed throughout the no-man cornfield.

“Remmick?” You called once again. No answer.

Suddenly you heard something sprinting towards you, and before you could even pull out your gun, you were pounced and knocked down to the ground—landed flat on your back. Is this where fate finally meets you? You asked yourself. But then you opened your eyes, chest heaving from the weight of whatever it was pinning you down, then you saw it. Just as who you wished it to be.

“Remmick?” Your eyes sparkled with amusement once you saw him—he was exactly in the same state you first met him. Bloodied up from his mouth smeared all the way down to his neck and chest. This time, he's still wearing the clothes you had lent him. A wife beater combo with rayon trousers.

“You scared the shit outta me!” your fist landed on his chest, as you pushed him off of you. He groaned, feigning in pain, still with a damn teasing grin plastered on his face. He helped you up, swishing dirt off your clothes.

“I thought you weren't scared of anything.” He spoke, tone light and laced with curiosity.

“You right, I am. I only fear God.” You stated, trying to sound annoyed when you were already too far gone for him, missing and craving him badly for days.

“... yeah, sure you do, my good lil’ Christian maiden.” He replied with a chuckle.

“Say, I'll take ya to where yer all too familiar with, church girl?” His voice thick and heavy as southern air, breath fanning across your face.

“What—where? I can't stay out too long now, my Paps will come lookin’ for me.” Your voice thundered and his lips pursed, sighed, staring down at the ground as if you had upset him and broken his beatless heart. He played his part so well, making himself look like a kicked puppy while knowing damn well he was going to have his way anyhow with you.

“Now, can I just ask you this one time—just this one—will you please come home wit’ me? I ain't askin’ you to spend the night, I just wanted to invite you over like you did for me a few nights ago.” Refusing to give in, he begged—bargaining his way over with you.

With those puppy eyes, he looked almost harmless and a fool. You wanted to smack him for not visiting you earlier.

A home? Huh. You doubt that. He was the perfect picture of a homeless man. The last thing you'd ever expected from him was inviting you over to where he lives.

“Well, where do you live? And goddamn you look like hell!” You scold him, reaching inside the empty basket you brought for the food delivery, pulling out a napkin and wiping the blood off his mouth and neck.

He didn't stop you. He wouldn't. He just watched you with interest, paying attention to every detail, every swift movement you made, any twitch from your fingers—how you were able to be so gentle, while very headstrong. How you were a woman wrapped in mystery, no one has ever could crack, and when they do—the mystery will stay unnamed.

You touched him with care—too careful as if he was something fragile. He found himself unraveling under your touch. His breath came out in shudders, eyes fluttered closed when your lips pressed upon his cheeks. It's been centuries for him to even learn this kind of gentleness.

“Just for the note I ain't stayin’ long, you got that?”

“Very clear, Ms. Harrow.” A cocky smirk returned to his lips as he addressed you by your last name, like knowing it was the highest honor he'd ever earned on this earth.

۶ৎ

The church stood like a hushed confession beneath the weight of the Mississippi sun—its wooden bones groaning with memory, cloaked in kudzu and the dust of centuries. Time had peeled the white paint from its weathered façade, exposing ribs of gray timber that splintered like broken prayer.

“This- this is an old church. Saint Ordelia. Built in 1857, named after a little-known saint of healing and vision. I never knew it was still here...” Your gaze marveled at the history itself standing firm beneath your feet.

“Y- you tellin’ me you live here?” you turned your head swiftly, expecting to hear more.

“Mhm. Damn right. Evil itself done made a home in the Lord’s house. Ain’t that somethin’?” He explained, nodding along as if agreeing to his own words.

“He do gone and graced us with shelter—the Lord. Yeah.. I found peace in his home.” He added.

You continued to admire your surrounding—Stained glass windows—long shattered—left jagged halos where saints once watched over sinners. Ivy threaded through the empty eye sockets of Christ, weaving the sacred and the forsaken into a single, silent breath. Inside, the pews sat like mourners frozen mid-sermon, thick with mildew and ash. The pulpit collapsed on one side, still clung to a rusted crucifix half-buried in dust, its arms stretched wide in resignation rather than salvation.

One word. Perfect.

“I take it from the look on your face. Are you in love with this place already?” His voice inquired from behind you. Steps tread backward till you felt your back hit the solid, lean wall—unmoved behind you—the hand on your shoulders steadied you just in time before you tumbled over.

He spins you around until you are met to face him. You beamed, still with that same gleam in your eyes he has grown too love.

“Perfect. I love it.” You chimed in approval like you were some wife to a privileged white man meeting an agreement to buy a fancy house post-wedding.

“Oh yeah, you love it lil’ hare?” One of his hands came up to your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw, he speaks like Asmodeus himself. And when he smiled, his sharp fangs flexed.

“Stick with that nickname still? Come on, I've told you my name..” You raised a protest at the nickname, voice holding a hint of disappointment.

He put a hand over his chest dramatically.

“My apologies, Ms. Harrow.” He corrected —head bowing like a damn fool—highkey a mock.

You struck him with a sharp slap on his arm which earned you only a laugh from him, finding your agitation amusing.

You rolled your eyes at him—attempting to break yourself free. Pointless. So, you leaned your whole weight fully against him instead, a satisfied grin appeared on his face.

“Now that you done givin’ me a house tour—what else do you need of me?” You inquired—eyebrow raising— he offered you an even more devilish grin, plotting mischief.

“Whatever you wish for, princess..” He murmur.

“What—I'm askin’ you—what else do you need of me now?” You push.

“Like I said, whatever you wish for.. princess—you wanna go straight home, there's the exit.

You wanna stay and maybe.. make our little wet dreams come true well, I'm not complaining, matter fact, it'd be my pleasure.”

Those words enough to leave you breathless. Your heart was on your mouth.

He was an angel—the one without wings. With a forked tongue that bared no lie, only witness. He was a living legend. Older than time, older than the bible itself. He was an angel—the one who ruled darkness. Cast out and fall from grace. But god you'd be the biggest deceiver to ever renounce him.

He'd love you into flame.

He'd paint you heaven of love with his bloodied mouth. You were the tune, the poem.

Devil's favorite sinner.

“Anything?” You asked again for certainty, your voice came out a whisper, which he responded with a nod, no second thought.

“Anything you want and need. Tell me.” His voice laced with sin, offering you heaven on earth and eternal damnation in death.

“I want—I want you—you Remmick—I want you. Now. Right this second.” Those words slipped past your lips with no hesitancy. He let out a deep growl, grabbing you by the chin and forcing you to look up solely to him.

“Then I am yours, sweetheart, only yours. Flesh, blood, heart, soul, and hell, anything else which I don't and do have… it's already yours the moment you came into this godforsaken world we call Earth.”

The last of your remaining grip set loose—that was all it took for you to lose in this game. This time, you made the first move, fisting a handful of his hair, yanking backward. His neck—pale, missing the kiss of a sunlight, no sign of pulse beating—at the same time, highly allured you to tear open his skin with your teeth, blood-soaked.

You rammed your lips hungrily—leaving the skin on his neck damp with your saliva, trailing fire in its wake—he couldn't hold back a moan.

“Damn, girl. I really am a bad influence to ya, huh?” He snickered, baring his fangs as if a trophy worth showing off.

“You sure are.” you murmured, moving onto his collarbone. Your hand rushed to peel what's left of your fathers’ wifebeater clung to his body—now tattered, ripped, smeared with blood—well it was fucked up anyway so you forced apart the material. The sound of clothes ripping made Remmick widen his eyes, the way you were too eager to have him unclothed once more like he did before in your bed, the way your fingers trembled with each force you put in ripping his clothes, how you parted your mouth and breathed through it, pupils blown wide, thighs pressed together—he didn't miss the smell that were already coming out of you since the both of your body latched onto each other.

You let out a whimper once you have him bare from waist up—barely a glimpse of what nudity would look like had done you the pleasure of turning your insides into a wreckage of a ship. Legs damn near giving out, he noticed, arms slid past your belly and rested on your hips, holding you steady against him.

He didn't stop you. In fact, you do him a favor by putting up a show. He watched you with a prying gaze, noticing your every move, every hitch of breath, every moans and slip-up whines that escaped your lips, he savored it—as if fueling his desire even more to devour you raw. Flesh and blood.

You swallowed hard, draining the last drop from his cup of wine, swallowing the final bite of crumbs this devil-incarnate offers you like the last supper. You were met with your end, gazing up at him, waiting for him to take the next step because you refused to feel the shame of being a clueless virgin—yes, you still consider yourself a virgin since it was merely his fingers, clawing inside you.

He chuckled, the sound deep, rumbling from within his chest.

“What's the matter? What, you waitin’ for an invitation or sumn?” He rasped, eyeing you down.

This goddamn bloodsucker.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. You know he was just taunting you. Instead, you exchanged him with a glance he couldn't shrug off the meaning behind. Your chin rested upon his bare chest—blinking, looking like a wounded deer. And he. He couldn't decline something as alluring, as tempting—sweeter than sin. A woman who looked just like a memory from the past he couldn't quite grasp, a grain of sand in a palm of hand. A myth proven in flesh. He was anything but a fool. Completely moonstruck by the sight of you pleading for him to take you.

Without a warning, he palmed your ass, your feet were instantly off the ground, chest flushed against him. He set you gently upon the altar—once reserved for sermons, now repurposed for blasphemy and desire.

“Remmick..” You purred in his arms—your brain cutting short-circuit at the proximity, the act alone was blasphemous, scandalous, lewd, disgracing the sacred altar that once was the media of evangelism.

“Shh..” His soft hush silenced you; “do you trust me?”

There goes again the question that judged your faith to the Lord—the decision you were making next was where your moral stood. The moonlight slipping inside the crack of a shatter casement, the church shrieked in disagreement beneath the weight of two sinners committing the act.

“Do you trust me?” He had once asked, and like a holy fool, you'd reply to him with a nod as you do right now.

“Good girl..” Heat pooled between your legs at his praise. That damn word sounded extremely illicit coming from him, it holds a different meaning than when your father usually called you with. This one sounds too easy in a way you didn’t need to do anything to earn it—it reserved only, and only for you.

He claimed your mouth in a kiss that speaks ownership. His tongue slid inside your open mouth, dragging across the alignment of your teeth as if taking attendance to each—tugging you by the hair whilst he bit and nipped at your lips.

Somehow the air thinned, and the world threatened to close around you—imprisoning you in this moment for eternity—not something that you would mind about.

You rubbed your thighs together as his kiss was getting too all-consuming.

He pushed you slowly and flat against the stone-cold altar, the surface alone was coarse, rusted with unspoken history long forgotten. Your legs instantly splayed open without being commanded. A cocky smirk playing on his lips, pleased and proud.

“Tonight, I'm gonna bleed you for real the first time, sweetheart. First baptism of the flesh.” He croaked, undoing his trousers with a wide grin, savoring the sight of you laid bare like a lamb for slaughter.

He strides closer towards you, arms encircling your waist. You locked eyes with him, his gaze softened, deep and filled with understanding and something else you couldn’t name. It was as if he was trying to read into you.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, flooding his senses with the scent of you. “You real sure about it, sweetheart?” he whispered against your skin, licking a stripe from your neck. Your pulse stuttered under the warmth of his tongue.

“I'm sure, but please, be gentle..” Your voice held a hint of worry.

“Don't worry, sweet pie, I'd rather burn to a crisp than be the one hurtin’ya.” He drawled, thick with that southern accent that sounded like a borrowed tongue never quite fit. Yet, enough to convince you that he meant those words.

He leaned in to taste sin from your flesh—the low-cut neckline of that muslin dress made you look like a treat ripe for the bad spirits. His lips brushed upon the cold silver draping your neck, a cross pendant hanging loose all the way down to your chest.

His lips leaving trails of wet kisses toward the valley of your breast, your head fell back as you let out a shaky breath, a soft moan escaped your lips—the opportunity that went unmissed, his breath hitched as he tightened his grip around your waist—he was trembling with restraint, you began to notice the change. His tongue lingered longer this time over the pulse on your neck—you feel his pointy fangs grazing over your skin. Your hand flew to instinctively gripped his sweat-slicked hair—you exchanged gaze with him.

Your warning doesn't need words. The knowing look in your eyes—firm and steady, enough to send him the message.

“Not like this,” your silence said. “Not tonight.”

He locked eyes with you—real attentive, yet still soft as you wiped the drool hanging thick over his chin. He nodded and muttered a ‘sorry’.

One of his hands already has its grip around the hem of your dress, waiting for your permission, “go ahead, baby.” That was all it took for him to bunched up your dress and pulled it upward, revealing your bare thigh, skin soft and unfamiliar with a man's touch, knees kissed the dusty floorboards like prayer stones in an abandoned chapel.

His calloused hand—hands that had torn open flesh and taken life were surprisingly gentle when he pulled you closer, aligning himself with you. He pressed a warning kiss to your forehead before he slowly entered you.

Dammit to hell. It aroused and terrified you in equal measure. He was not.. average—not for a man's standards. But then again, he wasn't just any ‘man’.

Yes, he was your first. But you weren’t naïve.

You’d heard things—whispers traded between married friends over tea and blushed laughter. Tales of how it felt, of how size mattered more than they let on in church. And right now, with him poised above you, those stories no longer felt exaggerated—they felt like prophecy.

You feel somehow whole when his length stretches inside you, warm with love and lust, ripping open the last remnants of your purity.

You've always taught that heaven was above and the devil below. All those times you've spent facing the sky, knees sinking deep, bruising on the ground—perhaps that if you pray hard enough the Lord would grant you His blessings to see through His Kingdoms. Unbeknownst to you, that you would pull a Jonah and have him buried deep inside your belly.

[Jonah 1]

You pant as he adjusts himself deeper to hit that sweet-spot which had been aching, one hand settled on his arm, the other clawing on the marble stone surface—you could feel how his veins and muscles flexed under your touch. Each movement, every hitch of breath, each thrusts sending you spiraling to cloud nine.

“Holy Father.. forgive me.. forgive me.. for I have sinned..” You would plead, looking up, a flash of reminiscences of who you were before you met the devil above you. Planting his little demon spawn inside.

He didn't like it. Oh, he didn't like it for one bit. Therefore, he handles you by your jaw, forcing you to look down at him instead. His breath fanning across your face, “The only daddy’s here is me, sweetheart—you understand? say you understand!” He growled, voice thick with a warning that'd reject your ‘no’.

“I understand.. I understand, baby, I understand.” Hearing your compliant response, he coos in satisfaction, his grip around your jaw slowly loosening as he rewards you with a ‘good girl’. Before you completely lost contact with his hand, you quickly pulled it back up, which made him raise a confused brow.

“What is it now?” Before he runs his mouth further, with a swift movement, you guide his fingers and into your mouth. You could feel how he twitched in excitement inside you as you committed the lewd act. He groaned—raw and guttural. His movement grew unsteady as you voraciously sucked on his fingers. He moaned, eyes practically rolled to the back of his head, feeling your mouth narrowing around it. The pressure was as tight as your lips down below, taking him whole, squeezing his pecker, making him moan uncontrollably—more than he likes it.

He watches you with a heavy gaze, mouth hung open, fangs on display. And then there you notice—from the corner of his opened mouth—a thick saliva pooling, threatening to spill over, he didn't care to wipe it away. The once sacred altar tarnished with your essence—the evidence of the ongoing love making. Your bodies crashed against each other and made a sinful sound—the only sound rumbled across every corner of the unloved church. Your walls clenched around him and you heard him whimper.

Whimper.

He let out a pathetic whine, as his other hand uses your hips for support. His pace quickened, unsteady, with each stuttering thrust. Bangs sticky with sweat to his forehead when he nuzzled his face against your chest, his lips brushing against the cross hanging around your neck. He inhaled. Your scent is what grounding his soulless vessel to this earth, preventing him from floating. You took the opportunity to run your fingers through his dark locs. Your mouth releases its pressure around his fingers and watches it wizened, spit-covered. He pants and whines once more like a baby loses its pacifier.

“You vile woman.. have mercy on me.. ha-ah..” his voice broke. You felt his shaft strained inside, and that's when you knew he was about to erupt.

“It's okay, baby.. wanna cum?” The words that left your mouth still feel more strange than ever. Once again, how were you supposed to play the coach when you were still a beginner? It was his boat and you sailed it.

“Yes, God, yes, please let me..” he begged, a subtle implication of him asking you to let him come inside.

“Please..” he pleaded once again, this time looking up to face you, posing like a holy virgin with a halo crowned on his head while still being buried deep inside you.

You paused for a second, didn't give him the magic word he's been dying to hear:

“go ahead, baby”,

“you are welcome inside” and more of those that would drive him over the edge of his restraint.

“Not this time, darling. You're gonna have to do it outside because.. I can't bear the burden of being..” You words left unfinished, he understood, but the pout formed on his lips betrayed him. That was certainly undoing, but you couldn't risk the life you had by being with a child whose father you couldn't name.

“Don't pout, baby.. I.. I can't.. not now..” He hated being the one who made you feel that way, the fact that you have allowed him to touch you in more ways unimaginable and yet you still feel apologetic for setting boundaries—made him feel guilty—he quickly shook himself into reality. Wiping the pout from his face as words of apology spilled past your lips: “I'm sorry, baby.. I'm sorry..”

It was perfectly fine. He certainly didn't have any issues with that—hell, it was your body. The decision was yours. He didn't have any privilege to hand the options to you. Therefore, your mouth spilled apologies like acid rain stinging skin—Remmick shushed you with gentle promises pressed upon your temple. Despite the deciphering state he was in, this present, he offered you the best of his comfort, sheltering you from the guilt crashing over; muttering the opposite, the words you'd been longing to hear: “it's alright, sweetheart, I.. I promise..”

Then suddenly you felt it. A brick of his shaft tensing within like a volcano about to erupt, warmer than its lava, making your walls clenched around him, swallowing him greedily. His hips rocked hard against you at a reckless pace as he worked to reach his orgasm. The sloppy sound of wet bodies clashed round after round filling the void. It was as if he was brought back to life. The raven sensed it, fleeing the scene, rattling omen to the Morrigan. The cicadas went quiet.

He moaned, muscles tightening when he pulled out and exploded all over the place—all over, but inside of you. A wave of pleasure washes over him. He almost saw God when his gaze met yours. You were an absolute miracle, a beautiful mess he was proud to have made, his masterpiece albeit being the one to tore him into pieces. Making him come with your name ripped from his throat. Stealing his breath and the heart that no longer beats.

Truth be told. He was too far gone for you. He lifted you up in his arms, trapping his hips with your thighs as his mouth met yours again, leaving no room for the both of you to catch a breath. Somehow, he felt like his heart was beating again. Blood rushes and pumps through his veins as if he belonged to this earth, when in fact—he belongs to you. His damned soul, his flesh, his will, and desire were all yours. Rightfully yours.

“I love you..” he'd muttered so low under his breath—hoping you would miss it. But you did hear him. You did hear him, crystal clear.

“I love you too.. I love you.. Hell and back.”

Click for Part 2

#⋮ ⌗ ┆virelaisnox blog #Hey I'm back with this fic!!!#hope you guys enjoy #sinners fanfiction #remmick sinners #remmick x reader #jack o'connell #sinners remmick #sinners 2025 #sinners movie

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ducksido · 1 day ago

Note

Hi ! How are you?

If you're okay with it, would you do a twst x epic the musical crossover with a reincarnation aspect? The twst guys (however many you want) as a reincarnated Odysseus and female reader as reincarnated Penelope? Maybe the memories come through a little at a time as they grow up and they remember everything by the time they meet at NRC?

The Thread of Memory

They say souls that are bound by love will always find each other again.

You were born with dreams that didn’t feel like yours. Salt-spray and tears. A loom that never stopped weaving. A shadow of someone tall and tired, swearing he would return.

At first, it was just poetic nonsense. Something to chalk up to a dramatic imagination. But the older you got, the clearer the dreams became—and the more you felt like you were missing something. Or someone.

You didn’t know that he was waking up too.

IDIA SHROUD — “I Remember the Storm”

Idia was the first to awaken to it.

Not suddenly—no, he’d been dreaming of monsters and storms since childhood. His parents thought it was just anxiety. But in the corner of his mind, he remembered how it felt to fight for a ship full of men, to beg gods for mercy, to burn cities and regret it later.

What broke him was the image of you. Weeping into a tapestry. Waiting, always waiting. He didn't know your name. Just your silhouette against a backdrop of blue.

When he meets you in NRC, he panics. Not because he recognizes you—but because you are the same woman he dreamed of every night.

"You're… her. You're my endgame," he whispers to himself, just loud enough for Ortho to hear.

The memories return in fits and starts—especially in moments of crisis. You walking into the computer lab one night triggers a vision of you standing on a Grecian balcony, whispering his name to the sea.

And he realizes he was never just Odysseus the hero. He was Odysseus the lost, lonely, desperate to go home.

And you were home.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR — “I Remember the War”

He denies it at first. Past lives? Dumb. Fate? Useless.

But the scent of saltwater always makes his heart ache. And he can't explain why he hates the color crimson sails or why his fingers twitch as if they once held a bowstring that sang death.

Leona remembers the war long before he remembers you. Troy. The anger. The loss.

He thinks he was some nameless soldier in a previous life—until you touch his hand and he sees you, cloaked in hope and pain, weaving at night and unraveling by morning.

“You waited,” he says hoarsely, eyes wide. “All that time. You never gave up on me.”

Leona isn’t good at love. But he understands loyalty. The idea that someone waited decades for his return breaks something cold inside him.

He doesn’t tell you he remembers—not at first. He just starts showing up. Watching you. Protecting you.

Because even in this life, he made you wait too long.

AZUL ASHENGROTTO — “I Remember the Lies”

Azul remembers nothing at first. But his dreams are full of sirens.

As a boy, he becomes obsessed with myths. He knows them all, but one story always makes his hands tremble: Odysseus tied to the mast, resisting the call of the sea.

He dreams of you in pieces—your hands, your voice, your waiting.

When he finally remembers, it hits him during an argument with you. You accuse him of manipulating a classmate again, and he snaps—but as you walk away, he’s dragged back in time.

You, crying in Ithaca. Him, lying to everyone just to get back to you. The betrayal. The wounds. The yearning.

Azul realizes he remembers being Odysseus—not the hero, but the liar who almost lost everything.

So now? He tries to earn your trust the right way. It’s awkward. It’s clumsy. But this time, he doesn’t want to build empires alone. He wants to build a life—with you.

MALLEUS DRACONIA — “I Remember the Gods”

He was closest to the divine in his past life, and so Malleus remembers earliest and clearest.

He never says it aloud, but he recognizes you the moment your magic touches his.

“The gods named you mine,” he tells you during a quiet night walk. “In every life, you are the lighthouse that calls me home.”

Malleus isn’t afraid of what he remembers. He embraces it. It explains why he always felt like a part of him was missing.

And when you finally remember too—when your eyes widen and you breathe his name like it’s both new and ancient—he smiles with heartbreaking relief.

“I wandered for decades to find you once. This time, I’ll never leave your side.”

RIDDLE ROSEHEART — “I Remember the Promise”

For Riddle, it starts as a fear of abandonment. He never knew why separation made him panic—until he remembers the endless journey across seas, praying you hadn’t remarried, hadn’t stopped believing.

You, who held the kingdom together. You, who believed he would return against all odds.

He begins to crack under the weight of it.

One day in History of Magic, Professor Trein mentions Odysseus and Penelope in passing, and Riddle’s hand grips his pen so hard it breaks.

When you confront him later, asking what’s wrong, he looks at you with guilt.

“I left you waiting,” he whispers. “And you still loved me.”

You don’t remember yet. Not fully. But something in your soul aches at his sorrow.

He holds your hand like it’s sacred.

“This time, I swear. I won’t break that promise again.”

YOU — “I Remember the Waiting”

Your memories come in dreams. Your voice echoing in halls. The feeling of unspoken love aching in your chest.

You remember men courting you. You remember denying them. You remember weaving—and praying.

And most of all, you remember him.

Not just his name, but his eyes, his words, the way he held you like a war survivor holds light.

Now, at NRC, he stands before you again.

And even now, in a strange world with no gods, no ships, and no home to return to, he always finds his way back to you.

#twst #twst x reader #twst wonderland #twst yuu

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dameronspector · 13 hours ago

Text

Willow (chapter 6)

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!ExAvenger!Demigod!Reader

Chapter Summary: You go through your shame rooms and learn about Bob's past, and that breaks your heart. The team comes together to save Bob. You meet the Void and realise some interesting things. (And also clock him)

Warnings: Mentions of Depression, Bob's addiction and Mental illness, Suicidal Thoughts, Death, Reader's Past and references to her having selective mutism, Bullying, Bullet wounds, Blood, Injuries, Fight scenes, Valentina manipulates Bob, Bob is protective of you (not in a toxic way), Touch starved Bob, Canon-typical violence, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Nicknames, Cursing, Found Family, Reader is mentioned to be short, light soulmate AU vibes, Reader has magical abilities of the goddess Hecate (eg: necromancy, pyrokinesis, hypnokinesis, dark magic, etc. you can find the rest on rioridanwiki!), assume that Reader's bullet wound disappeared when Bob was around, that’s all i think!

AN: Also, i did some research and talked to someone who has the experience, and comic book Bob does have DID. So i have subtly hinted at it in this one. i am NOT romanticising it. Feel free to dm me incase i have gotten anything wrong. Love you all <3

PS: this is a work of fiction. I don't own any of these characters and I have made some changes to fit the storyline better and because it's an AU. I have taken all the information from google and riordanwiki. Incase I have gotten anything wrong, please let me know!

Greek translation: chryse mou- my golden one.

"Still can't speak?"

"She hasn't said a word since she got here?! What a freak!"

"Come on, show us that magic, (Name). The same one that your siblings have. Oh wait, you can't. Because you're a fraud!"

How were you hearing these voices again? It's been...years since you last visited the camp.

No. This can't be it.

You opened your eyes to a canopy of trees above you. The sunlight peeking through the leaves hitting your eyes directly, causing you to squint and groan. You pushed yourself up, elbows digging into the dirt below, head turning to the side to see-

Clarisse La Rue and her friends, standing around a meek and nervous girl, who must be around 11-12 years old. After sitting up fully, you moved closer to the group and gasped when you realised that it was you, and the memory became clearer to you. These were the camp woods. And this was just another day where Clarisse was bullying you. But this time, you'd reacted.

A 12 year old you, cornered by an 11 year old Clarisse and her friends, who were poking and pushing to get you to react to their taunts, to fight back, to speak up.

You see, you hadn't spoken to anyone since you got to the camp. Chiron had called it selective mutism, said it was normal after the trauma you endured. He was the only person you talked to, really. And sometimes even he received a reply back in written form, than spoken.

Clarisse took that personally. Said she found it weird how Chiron kept a close eye on you, how easily you get claimed, how you just don't speak to anyone, how they haven't seen you use your magic- all of it. She decided to make your life hell, taking advantage of your silence and poking you endlessly, even after spending 2 years at the camp and even though she was younger than you.

You just couldn't answer. Every time you tried to speak, it felt like there was a noose around your neck, tightening around it and halting any words that were on the tip of your tongue. Chiron offered therapy, but there was no progress, yet. The bullying just made it worse.

And now, 27 year old you, watched your younger version wring her hands together, the sleeves of her purple pull-over covering her hands, a pair of black trousers and scuffed Nikes with a neat braid adorned on top of her head. Suddenly you realised, that you had dressed up just like her.

Same clothes. Same hair. Same shoes.

Your face scrunched up in confusion. Weren't you in a hospital gown just now? And where was B-

"You're a weirdo, you know that? 2 years in the camp and you still don't say a word. Can't even fight or use your magic. You don't deserve to be here, honestly", Clarisse scoffed, walking closer to you, her tall form towering over.

Younger you closed her eyes in exhaustion and ducked her head, fingers fidgeting with each other. You could see the twitch of her lips. You could feel it. That urge to say something so bad, felt it like it happened yesterday. You wanted to tell her to shut up, to back off.

"Tell me, (Name), what'd you do to get here? How did Hecate claim you so easily? Ares didn't give us an easy chance, right everyone?", she gritted, asking her siblings to respond.

They replied 'No' in unison. Younger you just shook her head.

"Say something!", she cried out in irritation, pushing at your shoulder hard enough to make you stumble back, her foot catching onto a log, making her fall back on her behind, palms craped due to the gravel on the ground.

You froze. You knew what was going to happen next. The day that unleashed a whole new problem for you. And foolishly, you stepped in front of Clarisse to ask her to stop before it escalates.

"Clarisse, stop. Don't do this", you pleaded, a hand wrapped around her arm to stop her.

She didn't move. She brushed your hand off and stomped over to younger you, crouching down before her.

"Not even strong enough to save herself from falling", she provoked, making her group laugh in mockery.

You noticed the way your hands shook, making you shake your head in denial as you tried to stop Clarisse again.

"Stop it. You don't wanna do this, Clarisse, Stop", you shook her shoulders, keeping an eye on your younger version who was intensely staring at Clarisse, her jaw shaking from anger.

Clarisse suddenly turned her eyes towards you, blankly staring, before she deadpanned, "Learn how to deal with your shame, (Name)"

You furrowed your brows before she turned her attention back, scowling at younger you, who was still shaking with anger, tears of frustration coating your eyes as they started to glow.

You walked around to place your hands on younger you's ears, mumbling soothing reassurances to calm her down, but Clarisse had different plans.

"Letting yourself be bullied by someone younger than you, ooh, that's embarrassing, I-"

And it happened. A strong burst of purple magic blasted Clarisse away from you, making her slam against a tree trunk harshly before slamming to the ground. The other kids screamed in terror, scrambling over to help Clarisse up.

You closed your eyes solemnly, tears of shame and guilt streaming down your face as you embraced the younger you closer, shielding her shaking body with your frozen one. You had injured her Clarisse so bad, she had dislocated her shoulder and Chiron had to ask you not to participate in any kind of sparring or training for a few days.

Nobody talked to you after that, leaving you to wallow in your shame and guilt.

You opened your eyes and suddenly there were no woods. No camp.

Furrowing your eyebrows in confusion, your bloodshot eyes darted around crazily as you tried to understand where you were. All you could see was rubble, the air thick with dust and distant sounds of cries and weapons echoing around you.

And suddenly, a flash of red and gold. A cloud of dust from the thruster repulsion. A sound of the clinks of a metal suit hitting the ground.

Your eyes widened as you realised. "T-Tony?", you whispered in disbelief.

This was...this was the battle. The last one. Where you lost Tony. And Nat. And Steve. The one that made your life hell because you simply stood and watched it all fall apart.

"No...", you shook your head in denial, watching Tony exchange a look with Strange before he blasted the guantlet off of Thanos' hands.

You chose that moment to run, feet thundering against the debris, ignoring the multiple distractions as you crashed on your knees and grabbed Tony's arm, trying to pull the gauntlet off, groans leaving your mouth. You tried using your magic, but to no avail. This was exactly like that dream in the vault.

Tony didn't stop, he kept moving his arm out of your grip, a blast from his suit pushing you away, your back hitting the hard ground a few feet away. You quickly sat up, blinking away the blurriness when suddenly, you saw a figure sitting in front of you. Rubbing your eyes, you braced yourself against the damaged car door and you saw it again.

A man, clad in a blue shirt and brown pants, sitting on the floor of what looked like an attic. His hands were constantly twisting around a rubik's cube. His brunette curls a mess around his head, sticking up like a halo.

Your breath stuttered as you realised who the man was.

"Bob?", you said out loud, voice laced with shock, making him turn his head, eyes widened in shock.

Was he doing this? How was he alive?

"(Name)...you...", he called out, his voice echoed before fading out.

You blinked and he was gone. A dark shadow covering you before the scene changed again.

This time, you were face to face with Happy's crying face, leaned over a huge crater on the road, and there was a boy next to him. His face completely blurry, but both of the men had their attention trained on one thing.

Or rather, one person. You felt your heart stop.

Fear and dread paralysed you, your feet dragging across the concrete, the smell of smoke tickling your nose as you approached the crater and-

There she was. May Parker. Your Aunt May. Covered in blood. Her unseeing eyes looking up at Happy's injured face, a faint smile tugging at her lips, her chest unmoving. And your world fell apart once again.

"No. no no no-", you choked, falling to your knees, hands hovering above May helplessly. Face a mess of tears.

"No. No- May- Don't do this to me- Please. Bob!", you cried out, crashing down on the road, a hand reaching out to hold May's still one, her skin was ice cold to the touch. You winced, face scrunching up in pain as you called out for Bob again.

"No, p-please! Bob! Stop this, please. Let me out, let me out! Please-"

"(Name)? Is that really you?", Bob's hesitant voice called out again, making you snap your head up and seeing him reflected against the glass door of the building.

"B-bob! Yes, it's me. Are you doing this? Please stop I can't-", you sobbed, eyes shutting tightly as you gripped May's hands and the darkness enveloped you again, May's hand disappearing from your grip.

You opened your eyes to another scene, except this time, he was right in front of you. Bob.

You were in a cluttered attic now, kneeling against the wooden floorboard, a few feet away from Bob, who was sitting in the same position as you had seen in the reflection.

So you weren't dreaming. This was actually happening. And he was alive. His ocean blue eyes looked at you tentatively, strands of brown hair falling into his eyeline as he watched you stand and make your way over to him, hesitantly.

"You're alive?", you whispered, sitting next to him on the ground, eyes taking in his very alive and breathing form.

He swallowed and nodded, eyes darting across the room, "Yeah. I- Might be because of the serum", he croaked out, eyes focused on the cube in his hands.

You pursed your lips and nodded, relief pouring in your veins, your eyes looking around the room in confusion, "Where are we?"

Bob smiled dryly, "This was the nicest room I could find", his shiny blue eyes looked at you in resignation. Like he'd given up.

You gave him a thin smile in return, before you decided to bite the bullet. "Bob, what is going on?"

His hands stilled.

"I woke up to you...in a spandex suit and blonde hair, fighting everyone, and when I woke up the next time, you were-", your voice cracked, hands squeezing each other in nervousness, "you were dead. I couldn't feel you...Your e-eyes...they were bloody, unmoving and then, there was a black shadow that pushed me to relive the worst things I've experience in my life."

He flinched, his eyes closed shut out of guilt and pain.

"What is happening, Bob?", you asked in a quiet voice, observing his body language closely. The way he was trying to make himself smaller.

"You had a dream in the vault, remember?", he asked you, making you blink in surprise.

"How...how do you know about that?"

“You experienced it because of me. We were holding hands. I can…make someone relive their worst moments, somethin' like that”, he avoided eye contact.

Your mouth fell open. “So- all of this…it was you?”

He shook his head, “Oh, it's not me, me. It's-it's- it's that. The void. I have these good days, you know? where I feel…I feel invincible. But then there are a lot of bad days. And I remember that nothing….nothing matters.”

Your heart broke as you listened to his words, paired with the forlorn expression on his face. It was very clear to you from that start, that he was struggling. A lot. His pain and suffering was basically radiating off of him.

And the way he described his feelings, it reminded you about reading something akin to that in your course, your face softening in empathy and understanding.

“So you’re just going to sit here and let it take over?”, you asked carefully, not wanting to offend him in anyway.

He shrugged dismissively, “There's no point fighting it. At least I found a nice room. The other rooms are much worse.”

You pursed your lips, looking around the room once more before nodding, “Yeah. It's nice and quiet here.”

It was like you had jinxed it.

Suddenly there were loud noises, a man screaming and yelling curses and deprecating comments, sounds of utensils crashing, and you froze, Bob doing the same momentarily, looking down the gaps in the floorboards before turning his head away in shame.

You followed his eyes and looked down the gaps, and there you saw it—a man yelling, his arms raised in aggression, a small boy, no older than 10-12, standing defensively in front of the woman who was sitting at the table, her entire body slack with a numbness that spreads out in someone who's been through the same situation too many times.

You squinted your eyes as you noticed the boy’s clothes. Blue sweater, brown corduroy pants, his hair a brown mess of curls.

Your eyes widened as it all clicked into place.

It was Bob. This was Bob’s room. This was his memory and those were his parents.

“Bob, shut your mouth.”

“Mom, no.”

“My son, the hero. Look at you”, his dad sneers,“What are you gonna do?”

“Bob. Sit down”, his mom pulled him back again.

“You a hero, Bobby?” The condescending tone in his father’s voice irked you, your hands itching to release a spell and end him then and there.

“Sit down. You’re making it worse.”

“You always made it worse.”

And you watched in horror as the man who was supposed to be his father, raises his hand and slaps Bob. Harsh enough for the boy to stumble back and fall.

The smack echoed across the entire house, rattling your bones in the process as your chest squeezed in pain. Your eyes stung with tears, a thick lump strangling you from inside, as you struggled to speak. To offer him support.

“B-Bob”, you breathed out, you looked at him with red rimmed eyes, hands clenched into fists on your knees.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry”, he replied softly. His eyes were glassy, nose tinged red with the effort to stop his sobs.

You furrowed your brows, something about the way he'd brush aside his problems left a bitter taste in your mouth. "No, hey. Don't apologise, Bob. You shouldn't bottle it up like this. Where are the others?"

He sniffled. "Stuck in their own shame rooms. It's...the shadow you mentioned? That's him. The Void. It's spread over the entire city, now."

His face was highlighted by the pulsing light outside the window, his nose twitching with the telltale of crying. You moved to sit closer to him, your knees touching his.

Both of your hearts lurched at the touch.

"You can't let it sit and fester like this, Bob. You have to let it out. You can't contain it all by yourself. Nobody can. You have to spend time with your new friends....with me. And even if that doesn't make The Void go away, I promise you, it feels better. Lighter", you soothed him, head tilted to look at him better.

He finally stopped fiddling with the cube, raising his teary eyes to look at you solemnly, sniffling in a poor attempt to stop crying. And he very gently, vulnerably asked, "How do you know?"

You gave him a gentle smile, "Because it worked for me. My friends helped by talking to me. Encouraged me to talk to them. And surprisingly, it felt like...like someone had hooked me up to an oxygen mask after being suffocated for months. Like I could freely breathe again."

His eyes opened in wonder, before soft cries wracked his body, his shoulders shaking with them, a steady stream of tears soaking the hem of his sweater as they poured down his neck. The sounds pierced straight through your heart. That same ache you were feeling ever since you saw him in the vault was back again.

Frowning, you sat up on your knees, putting your arms around his shoulders, enveloping him in a warm embrace, your cheek resting on his temple, his shaking body burrowing into your own, damp face pressed against your neck as his arms went around your waist, hugging you tightly.

It was like two magnets. Your bodies molded perfectly against each other, like puzzle pieces.

Bob felt the numbness in his chest fade away, the tug in his core soothed by your presence. If he wasn't struggling as he is right now, he would've frozen at how close you were to him. Your soft skin against his cheeks, your heartbeat thumping against his ears, the way your hands smoothed over his back and arm, your breath hitting his face- it was all too much, and too less, at the same time.

If he could, he'd crawl into your skin, Bob thought. He still couldn't feel your magic pulsing under your veins, the buzz of it a welcome static. But then he realised that the Void probably caused it to weaken, and got upset at himself again.

Suddenly he remembered what he saw in your shame rooms and winced, his arms loosening around your waist to look up at you with bloodshot eyes, his breath hitching at how close your faces were and how he could see every little detail on your face. The light coming in and out of the room made you glow mystically, like you were his guardian angel.

You looked at him so earnestly, his heart squeezed against his ribs. All the voices in his head had suddenly quieted down and yet, the guilt stuck to his throat like a sticky gum.

"I'm sorry", he whispered brokenly.

Your eyebrows creased and Bob fought the urge to smooth them. "Bob, I already said-"

"No, please, hear me out", he responded shakily and rested his hands oh so delicately on your waist. Like he was afraid of touching you. Your body almost shivered at the tenderness. Your hands found place on his broad shoulders before you nodded for him to continue, eyes fluttering over the way his curls stuck out in every direction and his mesmerising blue eyes.

"You had to relive all of that because of me. I didn't-didn't mean to see it, I swear. I'm sorry. You didn't deserve any of that. If I could, I could protect you against it all, I swear-", he was getting worked up, golden flecks shimmering around his irises, breathing laboured and hands fidgeting with the hem of your sweater to ground himself.

Bringing your hands up to his jaw, you looked into his eyes deeply, a thumb wiping the dampness on his cheeks slowly, his eyes shutting close in surrender, like he had waited for this his whole life.

"Healing begins when you face the wound, chryse mou. I was actively ignoring all of this...for years. I haven't thought of the accident since I was 15. I shut down and stopped leaving my house after...after Thanos. Didn't talk to a single soul. Sam and Bucky helped me out of that darkness, and they're the reason why I'm standing here. Even then, I'd simply...blocked these memories", you swallowed before tilting his head up slightly, making him open his glassy eyes. You gave him a smile, one that was comforting.

"Now that I've faced them head on, I can, at least, move past them and remember all the good times. I thank you, for that", you soothed, your words as comforting and warm as a balm, hands tenderly cradling his face as his lips quivered again. He looked up at you in wonder.

How were you real? And what had he done to deserve you or your kindness?

Your caring touch and words healed something in him, that not even his own parents, the only people in the world who were supposed to protect him, could. Bob Reynolds hadn't experienced such a tenderness since he was born. And ever since he had been injected with the serum, everyone treated him like he was a bomb ready to explode.

You? You were the first, and only one, to give him that security. To treat him like he mattered. He'd never been protected before, and now, at 27 years old, you came in like a goddess and took a bullet for him. Your strength and softness had wrapped around him like a childhood blanket. One that was soft, warm, and safe.

He felt safe with you. Robert Reynolds was finally safe.

The thought was so overwhelming, that his vision turned blurry again before the entire room started shaking, as if the whole world was stunned at this discovery as well. As if The Void was shocked at this.

Bob pulled away swiftly, eyes darting around the chaos in the room as the furniture started shaking. Of course, he didn't like it.

Books and pages starting hitting you two, causing you to duck and Bob's arms bringing you closer to his large form, tucking you under his arms like a bird does to its younglings.

A chair hurled across the room and slammed against your back, causing you to curse and hold onto Bob's waist tighter.

"What is happening!", you cried out in pain and confusion into his chest, his body jerking when a box collided against his body, his eyes shutting in pain and embarrassment.

"I'm sorry! Just-here", he replied breathlessly, pulling away to stand up with you.

"Bob...what's going on?", you asked tentatively, he moved so he stood behind you, his chest warm against your back. Your stomach flipped at the closeness.

The furniture started slamming against the walls, huge gusts of wind making it difficult for you to focus as papers, clothes, curtains started whipping around the room, like a tornado.

"It-it happens sometimes. Just ignore it, I-", Bob was cut off as a curtain wrapped around your throats and pulled you away, causing you to gasp and pull at the fabric, a hand stretched out to reach for Bob on the other side, who was simply breathing faster.

"Can't--Can't we leave?! B-Bob!", you managed to choke out, your throat closing up gradually because of how tightly the fabric was wound around your neck. Bob simply scrunched his face in shame, his chest collapsing with the lack of oxygen and pain from looking at your struggling face, the way your face was losing its colour as the fabric tightened. You'd been hurt because of him again.

"Just- try to get used to it, okay? There's no death here, (Name), the pain only gets worse", he gasped out, trying to loosen the noose when suddenly, the curtain was cut in half, the pressure releasing against your neck and you gagged, coughing roughly as you bent over, taking in harsh breaths.

You felt a steady hand on your back, supporting you while you tried to get in air, gently pulling you up to help you breathe better.

Your blurry eyes fell on Bucky's concerned ones and you sighed in relief, leaning against him for support.

"Easy, easy. Are you okay?", he asked in that low, gravelly voice, a hand squeezing your shoulder. You massaged your throat gently and nodded, swallowing thickly to get the feeling in your throat back.

"Are you okay?", you croaked, checking him over in concern. You could only imagine how bad his rooms were.

He simply gave you a dopey smile, "Oh, I'm fine. I have a great past."

You tilted your head in disbelief and scoffed softly. He was the true inventor of dark humor.

Behind him, was the entire team. Ava, John, Alexei and Yelena, who was checking on Bob.

"This place is a mess", John scowls, looking around the room in irritation.

The storm hadn't receded, objects still flew across the room, all of you ducking and saving each other. Bucky raised his vibranium arm to shield you, a huge table smashing just next to you before Bucky pulled you aside. Yelena was being grabbed on by invisible hands that protruded from the slope of the attic, John quickly making his way over to kick them away while Ava and Bob stood side by side, dodging wooden carts and heavy books, Alexei ripping apart a pillow in exasperation.

And all of a sudden, it stopped. Like the calm before the storm. It was too quiet, too still, but you appreciated the breather as you all regrouped.

Everyone was breathing heavily, gathering in a semi-circle to stay close.

"We're here together...thank you guys, really", Bob said sheepishly, an appreciative smile tugging at his lips.

"Of course. Here we are. Shane's Elite Electronic Thunderbolts", Ava deadpanned, a glimmer of mischief floating in her eyes.

The rest of you shook your heads as her and Alexei began to bicker about the name.

"Well", John broke the debate, ever the impatient one, "How do we get out of here?"

Bob wrung his hands together, "As far as I know, it's just...infinite rooms."

As soon as he uttered those words, an idea popped into your head.

"Wait, you said this was the nicest room you found and the others were much worse, right?", you asked Bob directly.

He pursed his lips, "Yes."

You took a deep breath before looking around the group, eyes landing on Bob at last, "Okay. Well, show us the worst."

You tried to make your stare as earnest and encouraging as you could, and it worked. He agreed to your suggestion and all of you followed Bob out of the attic, as he showed you his worst rooms.

Well, unsurprisingly, the first 'worst' room, was the one you'd seen from top. The dining room. His father was still yelling in Bob and his mom's faces, Bob's little face was damp with tears and the Bob next to you was terrified, tension coiling around his body like a snake squeezing around it's prey. As soon as Bob's father saw you all, he snarled, charging towards the group.

Bob grabbed your hand in haste, pulling you back with him as his dad got closer. You grabbed his hand tightly, free hand wrapping around his bicep in comfort.

"Where do you think you're going, Robert?", he scowled and was shut up quickly as John smashed his shield into his face, causing Bob's father to grunt in pain.

So hard that there was an audible 'bang'.

"Well he seems nice", John quipped, letting the cruel man fall down by his feet. You watched John in amusement and shock.

John Walker? Protecting someone? Now that's something you’d pay to watch.

"The strangest mission I've ever been a part of- this way!", John instructed, clearing the path as he gestured you all to walk through the door.

Bucky had an arm around you, Yelena and Ava walked in front of you, Bob's hand was still tightly clasped into yours, with Alexei right behind him.

"Go, go, go, come on!", John ushered you all out as the room began shaking and as soon as your feet crossed the threshold, the scene changed.

You were in the middle of a street now, a restaurant's neon lights blaring in front of you, paired with an otherwise empty road.

It was a normal scene, except there was a fucking chicken hitting John and Alexei with a signboard?

"What the hell?", you muttered as Bob pulled you close to him, his body half shielding yours as the chicken-man-whatever, swung the board around again, hitting John in the stomach.

"Bob, you hit me with that sign one more time-", John groaned as the man hit him again.

You and Bob flinched, Bob getting worked up again as he cried out, "I was on meth!"

You looked up at him in worry, his hand holding yours with a death grip now, a light sheen of spit covering his mouth again. He gasped, putting you behind him with his arm raised to cover his head, the man running towards you two but a sound of bone crunching hit the air, you peeked around Bob to see that it was Bucky who had punched the chicken man.

"This way! Come on, c'mon- Go!", Bucky ushered you all away, you dragging a wired Bob with you as John opened the door of the restaurant, the neon lights blending into a muted gray, a sterile smell hitting your nose.

As soon as the doors opened, your eyes fell onto a room that resembled a lab. Stacked with shelves filled with chemicals and surrounded by huge glass windows. The lab was empty. Which was surprising since no shame room had been empty.

Bob's grip loosened on your hand as he walked in, his face melting into realisation, and you kept your observant gaze on the back of his head, standing next to Bucky.

"I've...been here before", he murmured, raising a hand to point around the room, "This is where it started. I was roaming around South East Asia, though I'd figure something out, or at least, find more drugs", he said dryly.

You felt your heart pinch painfully.

"Then there was this guy, started talking to me about a-a medical study. A trial drug that could make me stronger. Felt like a miracle", he scoffed self-deprecatingly. You frowned, your stomach rolling with that same tug again.

"I'd finally get to show everyone that I was more...That I was...something", he conceded in a quiet voice, hands pulling at his sleeves in nervousness.

It felt like someone had punched you again. He was so alone. And in need of help. Your throat burned with angry tears as you remembered how Valentina had treated him.

And as you had predicted, the room was not empty.

A thick, heavy voice echoed from the end of the room, the atmosphere suddenly felt like it was choking you. Like you were in permanent mourning.

You froze. You'd felt this exact same way when Bob had 'died'.

"And look what you unleashed...", every head in the room turned towards the voice, you stepped away from Bob's towering form and almost let out a gasp.

There was a man. Or a shadow. Or an entity. His silhouette was eerily similar to Bob's. Same hair, same body language. And the similar cadence of the voice...except he was jet black. A shadow so dark that you saw nothing except the twin stars in his eyes. Only his body's outline was visible. Like a black hole. Like a-

Void. This was the Void that Bob talked about.

You shivered as though someone had poured ice cold water on you. You belly still experiencing that same tug and ache, except it was stronger and fiercer now. A strange cloud of sadness and anxiety clouded in your lungs.

"The most shameful thing of it all, was thinking you could be anything more than nothing..", he slurred, the patronising and condescending tone of his words sent a shiver down your spine. He moved smoothly, way too smoothly. His body slack and relaxed, with an odd sense of suaveness and confidence.

And although his movements was hypnotising, his words hit like knives. Like sharp icicles in that cold, demeaning tone of his. You couldn't imagine how Bob felt like.

Bob shifted, "We're leaving", he put a hand on your arm and began to usher everyone out, your eyes lingering on Void for a moment longer as he simply tilted his head, the doors closing on their own.

"No", he stated and raised a hand, the beams on top of you ripped apart and slammed into Alexei and Yelena, their bodies hitting the doors harshly and Ava was nailed onto the wall next to them, her hands stuck behind the metal beam as well.

Your eyes widened, Bob trying his best to make it stop but it all happened so quickly.

Metal bars wrapped around Bucky, holding him to one of the shelves and a glass shard flew across the room, stabbing John in the chest, metal rebars pinning him to the shelf in the same way as Bucky.

He still hadn't done anything to you.

"Stop it!", you glowered stupidly, useless without magic, hands shaking with anger and frustration, with Bob trying to hold you back with a tight hold on your arms.

Void tilted his head again and chuckled, his too white teeth a horrifying sight against his dark body. You recoiled in unease against Bob’s chest.

"Oh, sweetheart…I know both of you have a..soft spot for each other. But don’t you feel it? That ache? That—that pull?”

You froze. Bob furrowed his brows, a strange feeling nagging at his mind.

“Ah. You do, don’t you? Except...it’s much more intense now...it’s crawling into your skin…penetrating your bones…perhaps, excitement to meet me?”, he drawled lazily, a gravelly chuckle leaving his mouth.

Bob's grip tensed on you, instinctively pushing you closer to him. The rest of the team watched helplessly, groaning in pain as the binds tightened around them.

"Don't talk to her", Bob snarled, disliking how interested the Void was in you. You watched, perplexed, as your body seemed to react to the Void's voice, the increased heart rate, the flushed face, that tug in your core.

Void tilted his head to the side in challenge, the twin stars in his eyes flickering like he blinked, and he raised an arm in your direction.

You or Bob barely had any time to react, before your body floated across the room, your feet in the air, body straight and alert like someone had tied you up.

Bob's eyes widened. "No!", he tried to run towards you but his legs were suddenly nailed to the ground.

Bucky scowled, struggling against the rebars around his chest, “Leave her out of this!"

Void pulled you close to him, your eyes following his movements, transfixed. And suddenly, your shoulder erupted in pain.

The same shoulder that had been shot.

You were confused between crying in pain and wondering about where had the wound disappeared. You swore it wasn't there this entire time.

You groaned as your shoulder throbbed, a numb feeling extending from the top of your shoulder till your fingertips, blood soaking the sleeve of your pullover.

"You calm him down. Both of them...the way they shut me out whenever you're close..", he growled in irritation, bothered with the fact that you were a hindrance in the way his darkness spread in Bob's mind. Like you were an intrusion.

Your shoulder hurt some more, causing you to gasp in pain, body shaking due to the blood loss.

"D-Don't hurt her...please-Please!", Bob wailed, face crumpled in pain as your blood dripped down your sleeve.

Void didn't like that.

He simply looked at the group before the glass windows erupted, glass shards and pieces flying across the room and nicking their bodies, somehow missing Bob. As if he had decided that physical injuries weren't necessary to hurt Bob.

All of them groaned in pain, blood oozing out of their cuts. Bob whimpered, "Stop-stop! Just let them go, please. You want me-"

"You don't need her. Or them. You think they care about you? That she cares about you?", Void chuckled darkly, slowly tilting his head to look at you, now delirious with the pain and blood loss, eyes half opened as you stared him down.

"You...you're just jealous", you whispered, making the Void's laughter stop, the room engulfed in silence.

"You're jealous because you want to be him...to be known...to be cared for...", you slurred, head drooping.

"You're jealous..", you chuckled lazily, watching the Void's energy dim as you hit him with the truth.

He was shocked. Because you're the only one to ever say that to him. The only one to ever call him out on his loneliness, his touch starved nature, his longing, his jealousy towards how Bob/Sentry was treated.

Because he had been alone for his entire life too. He deserved to have 'friends' like Bob, too. He deserved to feel your gentle touch and kinder words, too.

And he knew this. Afterall, the two of you weren't tethered for no reason. After all, you didn't feel that ache in your chest for no reason.

It's because you were meant for each other. For them. For Bob.

And he wasn't sure how to handle that. So he simply agitated your wound more, making you whimper in pain, as he battled with his own emotions while Bob broke through the forces holding him, and ran towards you.

Chapter 7

AN: soooo sorry for the late update. its been really busy at home for me and because i had to take admission for my masters. Hope you all like this! please like and reblog <3

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meadowfics · 2 days ago

Text

no u-turn

jeon jae-jun x f!mother!reader

this is the fifth chapter to my 'TRAFFIC SIGNS' series

synopsis: you discover the true manipulator in your situation

warnings: bullying, violence, manipulation, angst, stockholm syndrome

all of the sun shines through the heavy curtains of jae-jun’s penthouse. its the morning gaze that casts stark lines across the bed where you wake with a gasp.

your heart is lurching as the reality of last night crashes over you. you’re in his bed, the sheets tangled around your legs, his scent clinging to your nakedskin.

no, no, no!!

this wasn’t supposed to happen. you press your palms to your eyes, trying to block out the memories: his lips on your neck, his hands pulling you closer, the way you leaned into him, surrendering to the pull you swore you’d escaped.

“fuck,” you whisper, your voice trembling in the quiet room.

you let him win.

your manipulator, the monster who broke you in high school, proved he could still have you, could still unravel you with a touch, a word, a smirk.

the shame is a wave, threatening to drown you, and you want to cry, to scream, to tear the sheets apart, but you can’t.

not here, not now.

your phone rings on the nightstand, pulling you from your spiral. seo-yeon’s name lights up the screen, and your stomach twists with a new kind of panic.

you grab the phone, your hands shaking as you answer, forcing your voice to steady.

“hello?”

“mom?” her voice is soft, tinged with concern, and it cuts you deeper than anything jae-jun could do, “are you okay?”

you close your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat. you can’t let her hear the truth, can’t let her sense the mess you’ve fallen into with her father.

“yeah, sweetie,” you say, your voice too bright, too forced, “i’m fine. i had to go out of town for work overnight. sorry I couldn't tell you since it was so urgent... but i’ll be home soon!”

there’s a pause, and you can almost see her frowning, her wary eyes from the past month flashing in your mind.

“okay,” she says finally, her tone hesitant but not pushing, “i’m heading to school now.”

“okay don’t let me hold you up,” you say, trying to sound normal, like you’re not sitting in the bed of the man who’s tearing your life apart, “have a good day, okay? i love you.”

“love you too,” she says, and the call ends, leaving you in silence.

you drop the phone onto the bed, your hands covering your face as you try to breathe, to hold back the tears threatening to spill. you lied to her again, and every lie feels like another crack in the trust you’re fighting to rebuild.

you’re here because of dong-eun’s plan, because you thought you could play jae-jun’s game and win, but last night proved you’re not as strong as you thought.

you’re still the girl he broke, still vulnerable to his pull, and the realization makes you sick.

the door creaks open, and you flinch, looking up to see jae-jun leaning against the frame.

there is a steaming mug in his hand.

he’s shirtless, his sweatpants slung low, his hair mussed from sleep, and the sight of him...so casual, so smug...makes your blood boil.

he holds out the mug, his smirk soft but knowing.

“peppermint tea,” he says, “your favorite.”

you stare at the mug, your heart pounding. peppermint tea, the same brand you used to drink in high school, sneaking sips between classes, the one he’d tease you about when he’d catch you with it. you hesitate, your fingers twitching, and he raises an eyebrow, his smirk sharpening.

“it’s not laced, y/n,” he says, his tone mocking, “i’m not that stupid. i already had you last night, didn’t i?”

your face burns, shame and anger twisting together, but you take the mug, your hands trembling. he’s right...he’s not stupid enough to drug you, not when he’s already proven he can manipulate you without it.

you sip the tea, and the familiar peppermint taste hits you like a memory, sharp and bittersweet.

he remembers.

of course he does.

he always knew how to get under your skin, how to make you feel seen in the worst way.

he watches you, leaning against the dresser, his eyes tracing your every move.

“you still make that face,” he says, his voice low, almost fond, “when you drink it like you’re surprised it’s good.”

you set the mug down on the coffee table with a deliberate thud, standing to gather your clothes scattered across the floor.

your dress, your shoes, your dignity...all in pieces.

“don’t,” you say, your voice sharp as you pull your dress over your head while avoiding his gaze, “don’t act like this is normal, like you know me.”

he chuckles, stepping closer, his presence filling the room.

“i do know you, y/n. better than you think. better than you want to admit.”

you yank on your shoes, your movements jerky, desperate to get out, to escape the weight of him.

“i’m leaving,” you say, your voice low, but it’s not as firm as you want it to be.

you’re already losing ground, and he knows it.

he doesn’t stop you, just watches as you pull yourself together, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“before you go,” he says, his tone shifting, casual but deliberate, “i was thinking about taking seo-yeon to a banquet at the golf course next week. you know, something fancy, show her what my world’s like. what do you think?”

you pause, your hand on your coat, your heart sinking.

another move, another way to pull her closer, to make her his.

you want to say no, to scream that he doesn’t get to play father, but you’re in his apartment, still reeling from last night, and the fight feels too heavy.

you sigh, your shoulders slumping.

“sure,” you say, the word bitter on your tongue, “just… make sure she’s home on time.”

jae-jun's smirk widens, triumphant, and you hate how easy it was for him to get that concession.

“good,” he says, stepping closer, his voice dropping, “she’ll love it. our daughter's already fitting in there, you know."

you turn to leave, your hand on the doorknob, desperate to escape the suffocating air of his apartment, but his voice stops you cold.

“one more thing,” he says, and there’s a new edge to his tone, sharp enough to make you turn back.

he’s closer now, his eyes locked on yours, no trace of the smirk left.

“i know you’re only here because of dong-eun.”

your body freezes, your breath catching, your heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

you can’t move, can’t speak, caught in the trap you thought you were setting.

it’s 2004 and you’re sixteen... caught in an obsession that blinds you to everything but jeon jae-jun.

he’s the sun in your universe, bright and burning, and you’re convinced you’re part of his orbit, aka his friend group. that glittering circle of cruel, beautiful kids who rule the school.

they’re not just rich kids, they’re untouchable in korea. their parents’ names opened doors you can’t even see.

you’re not poor, not by any means, but your family’s modest comfort is nothing compared to their wealth, their influence.

you’re a hanger-on, a shadow at the edge of their world, and jae-jun keeps you there, dangling promises of belonging. he makes you do things...cover for him, stay late after school to wait for him, sex for changes, and you do it, every time.

at the time his charm felt like a drug since nobody else gave you attention. just him.

you’re whipped, pathetically so, and you hate yourself for it.

unfortunately, you can’t stop it.

yeon-jin is your frienemy, a term you’d never say out loud but fits her perfectly.

she’s psychotic, and her beauty is a weapon she wields with precision.

the girl didn't bully you like she does others, not exactly, but her words cut just as deep, laced with a sweetness that makes you question yourself. she knows you’re with jae-jun, knows he’s got you wrapped around his finger, and she uses it, taunting you in the halls, her arm looped through his like a claim.

“you’re so cute, y/n,” she’d say, her voice dripping with mockery, “chasing him like a puppy.”

you’d blush, stammer, hating how small she makes you feel, but you never fight back.

you want to be in, to belong, and she’s the gatekeeper, second only to jae-jun.

one evening in a cold november month... the gym is dark, the air thick with the smell of sweat and rubber mats.

you’re there because hye-yeong told you to come, the group minus jae-jun, their eyes glinting with something dangerous.

sa-ra’s at the front, her hair wild, her lipstick smudged, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. she’s high, you can tell, her pupils blown wide, her grin too sharp.

“so, y/n,” she says while stepping closer, “a birdie told me that you think you’re in our friend group, huh?”

your heart pounds, your palms sweaty.

“i… i want to be,” you say, your voice small, your eyes darting between them...sa-ra, yeon-jin, hye-jeong, myeong-oh...all watching you like wolves circling prey.

you’re scared, your stomach twisting, but you can’t back out now.

belonging means everything, and it means jae-jun, and it means safety.

yeon-jin steps forward, her smile wicked, her eyes gleaming under the dim gym lights.

“you and me, y/n,” she says with her voice almost intimate, “we’re with the same guy, aren’t we? jae-jun’s got a big heart, doesn’t he? but i don’t mind sharing… if you do something for me.”

you blink, confused, your mouth dry.

“what… what do you mean?”

she laughs, a soft, cruel sound, and gestures toward the gym locker room.

“come on,” she says, her hand grazing your shoulder, guiding you forward. sa-ra and hye-jeong follow, their footsteps echoing, and you feel the air shift, heavy with something you can’t name.

your heart races as they push open the locker room door, and there she is...moon dong-eun, pinned against the wall by myeong-oh, his grip tight on her arms.

hye-jeong runs over beside him, her smirk cold as she pins the shorter girl. dong-eun’s eyes are wide, terrified, darting to you as she screams, a raw, desperate sound that makes your blood run cold.

“y/n!” dong-eun cries with her body trembling as she struggles against myeong-oh, “please, don’t—”

sa-ra steps forward, a hot curling wand in her hand, the tip glowing red, the air around it shimmering with heat.

she holds it out to you, “take it,” she says.

“prove you’re one of us. leave a mark on miss dong-eun like we had.”

your hand shakes as you reach for the wand, the heat radiating from it making your skin prickle.

“no,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, your eyes locked on dong-eun’s.

she’s shaking her head, her eyes pleading, and you feel tears welling up, your chest is tight, “i don’t want to do this.”

sa-ra laughs, snatching the wand back just as your fingers brush it, saving you from the burn.

“come onnnn, y/n,” she says, her voice dripping with mock disappointment, “you wanna be in, don’t you? you gotta earn it.”

yeon-jin steps closer, her breath hot against your ear as she whispers, “jae-jun won’t like it if you disobey. you know how he gets when he’s mad. he might… do more than just yell at you, y/n.”

your knees buckle, tears spilling over now, your heart pounding so hard it hurts. dong-eun’s still screaming, her voice raw, “y/n, please, don’t do it!”

however sa-ra’s pushing you forward, her hand firm on your back, and yeon-jin’s laughter rings in your ears, high and crazed.

“i’m sorry,” you mumble to dong-eun, your voice breaking, tears streaming down your face as you take the curling wand again.

your hands shake, the heat searing the air, and you aim for her leg, a spot you hope won’t hurt as much for the girl, pressing it against her skin for a fleeting second.

she screams, the sound ripping through you. you pull back one second later, the wand clattering to the floor as you sob, your body trembling.

sa-ra sighs, dramatic and annoyed.

“oh, come on, you didn’t let her skin sizzle!” she says, kicking the wand aside.

yeon-jin’s laugh is wild, unhinged, echoing off the locker room walls.

“give her a break, at least she had the balls to do it!,” she says, but there’s a glee in her voice, like she’s feeding off your pain.

standing in jae-jun's apartment you’re frozen.

“i know you’re only here because of dong-eun,” he says again, his voice low, his eyes boring into yours with a certainty that makes your skin prickle.

you stand there, five feet from him. you're scared that he's going to hit you, or scream at you with his scary voice. your mind is racing as you try to process what he’s implying.

dong-eun? the woman who sat across from you in that café, promising to protect seo-yeon, to take down jae-jun and yeon-jin? she told him that you were going to be here?

no, it doesn’t make sense.

“what are you talking about?” you snap, playing stupid as your defiance masks the panic rising in your chest, "I haven't spoken to dong-eun in years!"

jae-jun sighs, his shoulders relaxing, but his eyes don’t leave yours.

he leans against the doorframe, casual but deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment.

“well. dong-eun told me that she was going to talk to you, and its not a coincidence that you just wanted to 'look around the golf course' not too long after dong-eun told me that. especially when you wanted nothing to do with my ass." jae-jun rambles. you swallow in nervousness, afraid that he is right.

"don't feel bad, since you weren't the only one lying here since hye-jeong didn’t tell me shit,” he says, his voice almost gentle, but there’s a bite beneath it.

“dong-eun told me about seo-yeon. same time she told me about ya-sol. laid it all out like a fucking chessboard. it was just a concidence that hye-yeong told me afterwards.”

you blink, the room tilting slightly.

“that… that doesn’t make any sense,” you argue, your voice shaking as you try to piece it together, “why would she—why would dong-eun tell you anything about seo-yeon?”

jae-jun steps closer, his smirk fading into something colder, more knowing.

“yeon-jin and sa-ra weren’t the only ones who burned her, right?” he says, his words like a blade slicing through your defenses, “I wasn't there in that gym but you were there, y/n. in that gym, with the curling iron. don’t act like you forgot.”

your heart stops, the memory of that 2004 evening crashing over you. the gym locker room, dong-eun’s screams, yeon-jin’s laughter, sa-ra’s manic grin as she pushed you toward her, the hot curling wand searing your palm as you took it, tears streaming down your face.

you’d mumbled apologies, your hands shaking as you pressed it to dong-eun’s leg, hating yourself, hating them, hating the peer pressure that made you weak.

you’d run, sobbing, but the damage was done.

you’d carried that shame for years, buried it under your love for seo-yeon, your career, your life.

dong-eun hadn’t forgotten about that.

“she knows i was forced to do that,” you say, your voice trembling, desperate now, “i didn’t want to do it, jae-jun. i told her i was sorry, i was crying, i—i was a kid, under pressure. it was a mistake.”

he closes the distance, his hand reaching out, his fingers brushing a few flyaways of your hair behind your ear, his touch gentle but possessive.

jae-jun leans in, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your cheek, “i don’t think that matters to dong-eun,” his voice is low and almost intimate, “she wants to ruin your life too, y/n. not just mine, not just yeon-jin’s. yours as well.”

your eyes widen, realization hitting like a punch to the gut.

dong-eun’s plan, her calm intensity in the café, her promise to protect seo-yeon...it wasn’t about saving you.

it was about pulling you back into jae-jun’s orbit, about making you regress, unraveling the strength you’d built over fifteen years.

she knew you couldn’t resist him, knew his pull would drag you under, just like in high school. she’d manipulated you, used your guilt, your fear for seo-yeon, to make you her pawn.

“that bitch,” you whisper, your voice shaking with rage, betrayal burning in your chest.

jae-jun’s smirk returns, slow and knowing, his eyes glinting as he watches the realization dawn on you.

“you’re still in love with me, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice soft but taunting, his fingers lingering near your jaw.

you sigh, your shoulders slumping.

“unfortunately,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper, raw and honest, “because you’re my daughter’s father, you fucking idiot. I've hated seeing you in her every day since she was born.”

jae-jun's expression shifts, something like admiration flickering in his eyes, his smirk softening into something almost genuine.

he steps closer, his front touching yours.

“i like that,” he says almost reverent, “i like that you see me in her. she’s ours, y/n. and i’m not gonna let dong-eun hurt you, or seo-yeon, or ya-sol. i’ll protect my family.”

you blink because of the sincerity in his words.

“ya-sol,” you say, your voice steadying as you seize the chance to probe, “are you in love with yeon-jin? is that why you’re doing this?”

he shakes his head, his hand still on your shoulder, his eyes locking onto yours.

“I never was,” he says, almost bitter, “yeon-jin was just… there when you weren’t. my parents would've approved her over you, but they're gone.... she was a distraction, y/n, nothing more. you were always the one i wanted.”

your breath catches, your eyes shifting from hatred to something else... something more dangerous, a flicker of the girl you were in 2004.

you hate that he can still do this, still make you feel like you’re his, but the truth in his words, the way he’s looking at you, cracks your defenses.

someone’s coming for you, and for the first time, you realize it’s not jae-jun.

it’s dong-eun, the woman you thought was your ally, who’s been playing you all along.

the next chapter will be linked here

full series masterlist here

#jeon jae joon #jeon jae jun #the glory #the glory kdrama #park sunghoon #park sunghoon actor #cho hyun ju #player 120 #netflix kdrama #netflix fanfiction #netflix korea #park yeon-jin #moon dong eun

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spiicii · 4 hours ago

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bloodline property / part twelve: i bet on losing dogs

jey uso / jimmy uso / roman reigns / solo sikoa / sami zayn x fem!reader word count → 8.8k summary → after finally seeing how cruel roman can be to his bloodline, you decide to confront him on his behavior. you and jey discuss your future. warnings → angst, crying, emotional manipulation, bad bdsm etiquette, bad communication, dubious consent (kind of?), dom/sub, daddy kink, possessive behavior, lore accurate tribal chief (roman is not always nice to his cousins), hair-pulling, mentions of punishment links → masterlist / taglist

You didn’t speak to Roman again for three days.

You stayed in your room alone, sleeping in a bed that was technically yours but had never been used before. Roman hadn’t given you this room with the intention of you sleeping in it. Your job was to warm his bed, not sleep in your own.

You only allowed Jey in to come see you, but after the second day, you sent him away too. You needed to be alone. You were just too confused, trying to process everything you had experienced.

While seeing Roman lose his temper had been frightening, that wasn’t really what had scared you. It was only when he’d dragged Jey in front of you by the hair that you felt real fear, his words venomous and his hands promising violence. You had the image of him towering above Jey emblazoned in your memory, Roman’s hand raised as if to strike him. Jey had cowered beneath him, even as Roman’s eyes glinted cruelly in the light, his lips curled into a terrifying snarl. You still had nightmares about it.

Sometimes you could still feel Roman’s hand around your own throat, his fingers flexing dangerously as he resisted the urge to choke you for real. Sometimes you’d wake up in a cold sweat and believe that his rough hands were there, threatening to cut off your oxygen supply. He’d choked you plenty of times before, all during sex, but this had felt personal. His face had been a mask of anger, his eyes blazing with betrayal and jealousy.

You didn’t eat. You barely slept. You needed time to think. After all, you’d been with Roman for two years. Two years.

In all that time, you’d hardly ever seen him be cruel to his cousins. If anything, he’d shown that he loved them. You remembered so many nights when you would all pile into Roman’s bed, limbs intertwined as you all cuddled beneath the sheets. Roman would watch over you all throughout the night, a silent and protective Tribal Chief guarding his family as they slept. You remembered the poker games, the movie nights, the birthday parties… all the memories of laughter and love and devotion.

But it wasn’t always like that, was it? That little voice in your head reminded you of the truth.

You remembered the arguments, times where you’d heard Roman yelling in the hallway before coming into the penthouse to avoid berating his family in front of you. You remembered the few segments you’d seen on social media of Roman’s cruelty in the ring, though you’d quickly scrolled to avoid seeing it. You remembered the bruises on Jey’s body that he swore were from matches even though you were certain he hadn’t had a match that day.

But you’d never said anything. You’d turned a blind eye. Made excuses. Assured yourself that it wasn’t what you thought. Roman could never, would never hurt his family. You reminded yourself of your place: you were Bloodline property. Roman made it clear that you were not to get involved. Your job was to serve. Nothing more.

For the first time in two years you pulled out your phone and found the old episodes of SmackDown. You needed to see it for yourself. You needed to know.

So you watched.

*****

When you emerged from your room three days later, you were surprised to see Jimmy sitting outside your door. You knew that the twins were taking turns keeping watch, both of them fearful that Roman might come breaking down your door if they left you alone. You could hear them whispering outside your room at night, though you hadn’t had the courage to press your ear up against the door to try to make out their hushed conversation.

Jimmy quickly scrambled to his feet when you emerged, his eyes wide and worried as you came face-to-face.

“Pretty girl,” he whispered, his hands twitching at his sides as he resisted the urge to reach out to you. “You’re up.”

You nodded slowly, unsure of what to say. All the words you had right now were for Roman. Not for him.

“Jey’s in the shower,” Jimmy said, shifting nervously in front of you. It looked like he hadn’t slept in days, dark circles forming like bruises around his pretty eyes. “He’ll be out soon.”

You shook your head. Jey wasn’t who you needed right now.

“I need to talk to Roman.” Your voice was hoarse from disuse and you remembered that you hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. “Where is he?”

Jimmy seemed distressed. “He’s in his room. But I think… well, Jey probably wants to talk to you first.”

You shook your head again, already pushing past him. “I’ll talk to him after.”

“Wait, wait!” Jimmy reached out to grab your arm and you quickly recoiled, your eyes flashing in anger.

“You gonna try to control what I do too?” Your words came out venomous and Jimmy pulled away from you as if he’d been burned, his face now a mask of hurt.

You took a shaky breath, passing a hand over your tired face. “Look, I’m sorry,” you murmured, trying to compose yourself. “I just… I have to do this, Jim. We’ll talk later, okay?”

Jimmy bowed his head, and you were suddenly reminded of one of the Bloodline segments you’d watched. Roman’s words had been just as venomous as your own, his eyes glinting with something malicious as he humiliated Jimmy backstage. Jimmy had just stood there and taken it, his head bowed and his words soft.

I’m sorry, my Tribal Chief.

You felt nauseous. You watched in regret as Jimmy backed away, now avoiding your gaze.

“I’m sorry, pretty girl.” Jimmy’s words were an echo of his apology to Roman. “I’ll… I’ll be here if you need me.”

You felt tears prick at the corner of your eyes. Had Roman made you cruel too?

You’d spent hours watching every agonizing minute of the televised abuse Roman had dished out to his Bloodline. You’d seen the beatings, the manipulation, the tricks and lies, and the humiliation to all of them: Jey, Jimmy, Sami, even Solo. And that was just what the camera had caught. What else had Roman done to them? How many bruises had he given them? How many lies had he whispered in their ear? How many times had he manipulated each of them into falling in line, threatening to cut them off from their family, their mana?

“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” you whispered, but you weren’t just sorry for this. You were sorry for everything.

Jimmy seemed to sense the weight behind your words, looking up at you with concern. There was something else shining in his big brown eyes, something comforting and vulnerable.

You quickly walked away so he wouldn’t see you cry.

*****

Roman was sitting at his desk when you arrived, his brow furrowed in concentration as he stared at something on his laptop. He didn’t hear you come in at first, though when you closed the door behind you he sat up quickly, his eyes quickly shifting from confused to relieved.

“Pretty girl.” Your name came out breathlessly, as if he couldn’t believe you were really here. “I… are you okay? I’ve been waiting for days.”

He crossed the room and you instinctively took a step back, watching as Roman immediately stopped at the sight. He looked hurt now, so similar to Jimmy’s face just moments ago. They really were related, weren’t they? Roman looked like a puppy that had been kicked to the curb.

“I saw everything.” You tried to keep the shakiness out of your voice, though your conversation with Jimmy had rattled you. “I watched it all. Every show. Every PLE. Ever since you won that title back in 2020.”

You watched as that hurt look began to dissipate from Roman’s face. His brow began to furrow again, his lips now set into a firm line. He looked guarded. Watchful. Wary.

“I saw that Hell in a Cell match with Jey. How you made him fall in line. Then everything you did to him afterwards.”

Roman’s face gave nothing away, his eyes now watching you carefully.

“I saw you treated Jimmy,” you continued, tears pricking at your eyes again. “Then Solo and Sami. They’ve been nothing but loyal to you and you treated them like the dirt beneath your shoes. Is that who the Tribal Chief is? Is that who Roman Reigns is?”

Ah, there was Roman’s anger. You could see it simmering in his eyes now, familiar and wrathful.

“Because I’ve spent this entire time thinking you were someone different. I never thought my Daddy could act that way.”

“I never hid any of it from you.” Roman’s voice was low and controlled, though you saw the way his jaw was twitching in anger. “You could have watched it at any time.”

“But you knew I didn’t.” You couldn’t stop the tears now, your anger and hurt now beginning to bleed into your words. “You knew I hadn’t seen any of it. You let me believe that you were this good person. That you were a kind Tribal Chief. A man who loved his cousins. His family.”

“I do love this family,” Roman snapped, his eyes so dark they looked black. “Why do you think I do what I do? It’s to keep this family together. To keep us on the top of the mountain where we belong.”

You’d heard all of this before. Roman often used this argument with his cousins whenever he berated them on TV.

“But I don’t expect you to understand that.”

“I understand enough,” you spat. “I understand that a good leader, a real leader, wouldn’t need to do that shit to inspire loyalty. It’s cruel.”

“You don’t know anything about cruel.” Roman’s lip curled, now looking just as angry as he had when he’d grabbed you by the throat. “Or being a leader. Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining when you reaped the rewards of my labor. How many years have I let you live here in this fancy penthouse, eating caviar and getting your nails done every week? Where do you think that money comes from, huh? From being nice?”

“I didn’t know.” Your voice was shaky now, the tears beginning to drip down your cheeks. “I didn’t know it was like this.”

“Bullshit.” Roman took another step in your direction and you backed up further, even though Roman was still across the room. “You may not have watched the show, but you’ve known me for years. I’ve never once hidden who I was from you. You’ve seen the way I’ve treated Jey. The way I’ve treated all of them. I haven’t changed. You just decided to develop a conscience.”

“So you’re admitting that you’ve been unnecessarily cruel to them?” Even though your voice was shaky, the anger was still there. “It didn’t have to be like that, Roman. You didn’t have to be so mean.”

“Mean.” Roman repeated the word like it was funny to him, shaking his head as if you’d said the stupidest thing in the world. “I’ve been firm, pretty girl, but never cruel. Never mean. If you paid any attention, you’d see that.”

“What else am I supposed to think when you smack them around?” you hissed. “And that’s just what the cameras caught. I’ve seen the bruises on Jey. I know you’ve done worse than that.”

“Jey needs a firm hand. Always has. He don’t know how to listen.”

“Yes, he does!” You angrily wiped away your tears, your fury now taking a front seat to your pain. “He’s been nothing but loyal to you. Is that how you repay loyalty? With violence?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Roman spat. “You’re not the Tribal Chief. You’re not the Head of the Table. You don’t run this family. I do.”

You felt sick. Roman was sick. All of this was sick.

“So is that why you safeworded?” Roman’s voice was low. “I was too rough was Jey? Was that it?”

“You know it was.” You felt the tears well up again even though you kept trying to brush them away. “I didn’t like how you were treating him. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“We both know that’s a lie.”

You snapped your head up, meeting Roman’s angry gaze.

“What did he do wrong?” you demanded. “Spend more time with me? Is that a crime?”

“It is when it’s him,” Roman replied. “He knows better. He knows you belong to me.”

“People don’t belong to other people.”

And that was the whole problem, wasn’t it?

Roman didn’t view your submission as something precious and sacred. He didn’t see that your loyalty was a gift, something that you offered to him of your own volition. Instead, he saw your submission as something he was owed. Something he was entitled to. To Roman, your dynamic was more than sex. He believed he owned you. Body and soul.

“You belong to me,” Roman repeated, the conviction in his words clear. “Jey belongs to me. You all do.”

Your gaze was drawn to the ula fala resting on his bedside table, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. You remembered the necklace being draped across his neck by the elders of his family, Roman’s knowing smirk as he towered over Jey’s trembling form that night he’d beat his cousin into submission. The power he’d inherited had given him this entitlement; this belief that you were nothing more than an asset to him. You and his entire Bloodline. You were weapons. Toys. Resources. Playthings. You all existed to benefit him. Nothing more.

This was more than submission. This was more than ownership. This was power.

“Have you considered that Jey likes it?” Roman’s cruelty knew no bounds. “Have you thought about how Jey could walk away at any time but he doesn’t? This isn’t a hostage situation, pretty girl. He can walk right out the door and I wouldn’t stop him. He could walk away from this family forever and make it on his own. Might even make a decent singles star if he could clean up in the ring a little.”

You could hardly believe what you were hearing. “And be cut off from his family? His little brother? His twin?”

“They can leave too,” Roman countered. “They all can. But they don’t. Don’t you think that means something?”

“I think you’ve whispered enough lies in their ear to make them think they can’t leave,” you said. “I think you’ve manipulated them into staying with you, knowing they won’t leave each other to suffer alone.”

“Suffer?” Roman laughed, though there was no humor in it. “I’ve elevated their career to heights they’ve never dreamed of. The twins are now considered the best tag team of all time because of me. Solo got brought up to the main roster because of me. Even Sami has finally gotten his career out of the gutter just from being near me. But you think they’re suffering?”

“Yes. That’s what I think.”

Roman sniffed, his jaw clenched so tightly that it looked like it might snap in half. The silence stretched long between you, tension forming in the room like a thunderstorm. You could feel your body shaking, your emotions at an all-time high.

“You’ve known me for two years,” Roman’s voice was low, something like hurt bleeding into his words. “I’ve taken care of you. I’ve given everything your heart desired. I’ve given you a place here. A purpose. I even let you screw around with my cousins because I knew you liked them. I’ve never done anything to hurt you. But I rough up Jey one time, now I’m some kind of villain? Some master manipulator that has held four grown men hostage in the Bloodline? Does that make any sense to you?”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Twist this around. Try to make it into something it’s not.”

“You mean by telling the truth?” Roman sounded incredulous. “You’ve been my submissive for two years and you’ve always been happy. What am I supposed to think when you come in here throwing these wild accusations at me?”

“They’re not�� I’m not…”

“Now you’re going to throw away two years of a good thing because you’ve suddenly decided you don’t like how I run my family?” Roman’s eyes narrowed. “I haven’t changed, pretty girl. But you have. You didn’t like how I pushed Jey around. Why? You’ve seen me do it before.”

“Not like that.” you protested. “Not like–”

“I think there’s something you’re keeping from me,” Roman interrupted. “Another piece to this puzzle I’m missing. Because I refuse to believe that you suddenly hate me and view me as some kind of monster after two years of happiness.”

Roman’s words stunned you. You wished that the evidence wasn’t so damning, but he was right. This wasn’t coming out of nowhere. You had seen his cruelty before, but you’d always looked the other way. But things felt personal now that you and Jey had something serious going on.

Something that Roman didn’t know about.

“So what is it then?” The Tribal Chief’s eyes blazed. “What’s changed? Why do you suddenly care about how I run my family?”

You wanted to say it, but the words felt lodged in your throat. You’d just stood here and thrown accusations at Roman, knowing full well that you weren’t innocent either. You hadn’t been honest with him about what was going on between you and Jey. You’d been lying to him since Valentine’s Day, secretly in love with his Right Hand Man as you both carried on the affair behind Roman’s back.

“Well?” Roman’s face was twisted into a sneer. “I’m waiting.”

You stared at the floor, wishing you could sink into it and disappear. “I…haven’t been honest with you.”

Roman raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything, allowing you to continue.

“After Valentine’s Day, Jey and I have been spending more time together. And that wasn’t just him. I wanted it too.”

Roman stared. “Why?”

“Because…” Tears welled in your eyes again. “I’m in love with him.”

Roman was silent. You didn’t dare look at him, the shame of your treachery like a hot iron in your throat.

“You made me promise to be honest with you.” Your voice cracked, the tears making your words shaky and unsure. “You always wanted me to communicate my feelings and I didn’t. I’m sorry, Roman. I shouldn’t have hidden this from you.”

Then Roman did the last thing you ever expected him to do.

He laughed.

You looked up at him in confusion, watching as he doubled over in laughter, his dark eyes crinkling and his grin wide.

“Wait, wait, stop. This is just too good.” Roman chortled, wiping a tear from his eye. “You mean to tell me that this whole thing is about you having a little crush?”

You suddenly felt defensive. “It’s not just a crush, Roman. It’s–”

“Love?” Roman laughed harder. “Sweetheart, sometimes you really amaze me. Did you really think I would be angry about this?”

You stared at him in shock. “You… you’re not angry?”

“No, of course not!” Roman shook his head in disbelief, still grinning. “Why on earth would I be angry about that?”

“I…”

Roman had left you speechless. You had been expecting anger. Jealousy. Perhaps something similar to what you’d seen three days ago when Roman had lost his temper. You hadn’t expected this reaction at all.

“Baby, is that why you’re so upset? You don’t like that I’ve hurt your new lover’s feelings?” Roman’s tone was mocking now and you instantly bristled.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“It all makes sense now,” Roman smirked. “You never cared before. But now you do. You’ve caught feelings for little Jey. My Right Hand Man.”

Roman crossed the room until he stood right in front of you, still grinning in amusement. You looked up at him.

“I thought you’d be furious,” you whispered. “I thought you’d lose your temper like you did the other day.”

Roman smiled and you couldn’t decide if it was genuine or not. “Pretty girl, I lost my temper because you disobeyed me. Because Jey disrespected me. I’m not going to get angry about your feelings. Those are important to me.”

“They are?”

Now Roman looked hurt. “How could you even ask that? Of course, they are. Your feelings mean everything to me. You mean everything to me.”

This wasn’t how you expected this conversation to go at all. Now you felt confused.

“But, Roman…” It felt strange to say his name. To you, he’d always been Daddy. “I thought you’d be mad. You always said you didn’t always like sharing.”

Roman raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s not like this changes anything between us, sweetheart. You got a little crush. So what? It’s not like it means anything.”

“What are you talking about?” You took a step backwards, staring at him in disbelief. “This does mean something. Jey and I…we love each other.”

“Oh, please.” Roman waved his hand, dismissing the idea. “You don’t really love him. Not like that. It’s just a little affair. It’ll pass in a few weeks.”

“That’s not true.” You could feel your anger rising again. “It’s more than that.”

“Is it?” Roman didn’t seem convinced. “If you really loved him, then why have you stayed with me? Why have you let the others in the Bloodline fuck you? Wouldn’t you want your new man to have you all to himself?”

Roman’s words hurt like a slap to the face and you took another step backwards, colliding with the bedroom door behind you. Roman still seemed amused.

“And if he really loved you, wouldn’t he have swept you away and taken you away from all this? Started a new life with you so you could live happily ever after?”

Tears blurred your vision, your mind beginning to swirl in confusion. But Roman wasn’t done.

“So you can see why I’m not exactly threatened, sweetheart," Roman continued. “I mean, shouldn’t it bother him that you belong to me? That you let all his family members fuck you? Or is he okay with his beloved being Bloodline property?”

“Stop,” you gasped, trying to keep the tears from falling again.

“I’m just saying, it’s not looking to me like anything serious. Because you and I both know you’re not leaving me. And Jey’s not going anywhere either.”

“We could.” You tried to sound serious and angry but the words came out small. “We could leave. We could leave you and walk away.”

Now Roman really did seem amused, a small smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. “Well, nobody’s stopping either of you, pretty girl. Door’s right there. All you gotta do is turn the handle.”

He was right. You could pack your bags, grab Jey, and walk out the door, never looking back.

Was that what you wanted?

“Sweetheart, I didn’t think you’d want to leave. We’ve got a good thing going here." Roman reached out a hand and this time you didn’t recoil, allowing him to cup your cheek. "I love having you here with me. I love being your Daddy."

Roman's eyes seemed genuine and kind, confusing you even further. How much of this was real?

"I don’t want you going back to that awful place I found you in. I want to keep you safe. I want to give you the world, pretty girl. Just like I always have. That hasn’t changed, I swear.”

You looked up into his brown eyes, trying to gauge the truth in his words. Did he mean them? Or was this another one of his manipulations? After everything you’d seen, you knew he was good at mind games. But looking into Roman’s eyes, he seemed sincere, his gaze at you benevolent.

“I can tell you’re not sure about what you want,” Roman murmured, his hand warm and surprisingly comforting against your cheek. “But I think we need to be realistic, sweetheart. You can leave if you want, but Jey won’t go with you. He doesn’t want to leave the Bloodline. He loves this family. He loves me. And he doesn’t do very well on his own.”

Tears were blurring your vision, making it difficult to focus. You knew you should pull away from Roman’s hand, but you found yourself leaning into it, instinctively seeking his reassurance. You felt confused and lost, unsure of what you wanted or what to do. Did you want to leave Roman? What would that mean for you? You’d been his submissive for two years. You couldn’t imagine a world where you didn’t belong to someone. And after so long being in the Bloodline, you couldn’t imagine life without them anymore.

And then there was Jey.

Was Roman right? Would Jey even want to leave the Bloodline? You thought back to the nights where you’d laid beneath the sheets together, whispering sweet promises in each other’s ears, so scared that Roman might overhear them.

I’ll never leave you.

I love you.

I’m yours.

You’d never discussed the possibility of walking away from the Bloodline with Jey. You’d been too afraid of what it might mean. And too scared of what he might say. Would he abandon his family for you? Would he walk away from his bloodline, his brothers, his heritage, all for you? And would it even be fair to ask that of him?

Roman smiled again but this time it was laced with poison. “I know it’s hard, sweetheart,” he murmured. “But you know how Jey is. He’s a hothead. He’s rash. He doesn’t think before he acts. He needs a firm hand to keep him out of trouble. I give him protection. Give him the leash he so desperately needs. The leash he craves. Do you really want him out there all alone? No family? No Tribal Chief? Not even his twin by his side? Because Jimmy won’t leave either. He’s brought enough problems to this family. He doesn’t want to bring more.”

You felt nauseous again, but it was hard to think straight when Roman was making so much sense. Jey was rash. He had a temper and a bad habit of running his mouth, often to his own detriment. He’d always relied on Roman to keep him straight, to pull on the proverbial leash whenever things got out of hand.

And Roman was right about Jimmy too. Jimmy wouldn’t leave, not after the DUIs and arrests. Jimmy had made it very clear that he wanted to fall in line and avoid tarnishing the family name even further. If you took Jey with you and left the Bloodline, wouldn’t you be leaving Jimmy behind too? Jey never did well without his twin.

“Like I said, I think you should talk to Jey about it,” Roman sighed, though he didn’t seem particularly concerned, still cradling your cheek as if he loved you. As if he cared about you. “But I don’t think it will change anything, pretty girl. We both know Jey will do what he always does: fall in line.”

You let his words sink in, settling into your mind and heart like poison. Your eyelashes were wet with tears as you stared up at him, eyes wide and scared.

“And what about me?” Your voice was small, all of your fears and worries bleeding into your words.

Roman’s smile wasn’t kind, but for some sick, twisted reason it still comforted you. “Oh, pretty girl,” he crooned, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You and I both know you’re not going anywhere.”

*****

You weren’t surprised to find the twins waiting for you when you finally left Roman’s room. They seemed anxious, Jey pacing the length of the living room while Jimmy sat on the couch with his head in his hands. They were at your side the second you stepped into the room, their eyes wide with concern and worry.

“Pretty girl,” Jey whispered, looking more concerned once he caught sight of your eyes red-rimmed from crying. “Are you okay? What’d he say?”

You couldn’t think of what to say to him. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess, your mind turning over the cruel words Roman had said to you.

You and I both know you’re not going anywhere.

You felt like you were going to throw up. You swayed unsteadily on your feet and Jimmy was quick to wrap his arm around your waist.

“What did he do to you?” Jey’s words were equal parts scared and angry. “If he laid a hand on you, I swear to God, I’ll–”

“No, no, Jey.” You were quick to stop him before he said something Roman might overhear through the door. “He didn’t do anything to me. I’m okay. I’m just…” You closed your eyes. “I just want to go back to my room.”

“We’ll take you, sweet girl,” Jimmy murmured, quickly sweeping you off your feet before you could protest. “It’s alright. We gotchu.”

Your heart clenched as the twins ushered you back to your room, Jimmy’s hands gentle as he laid you down on the bed.

“You have to eat something, baby,” Jimmy whispered, leaning down to brush a stray hair from your forehead. “We can’t let you go on like this. Please let me make you something.”

You glanced over at Jey and saw that he was still standing in the bedroom doorway, his expression so devastated that you felt tears well up in your eyes.

“Sweetheart, please,” Jimmy pleaded. “You haven’t eaten. You’ve barely slept. We don’t even know if you’re drinking water or showering. You can’t keep shutting us out. We… we supposed to be a family.”

Now the tears did come and you couldn’t stop them. You were vaguely aware of Jimmy climbing up into the bed with you, wrapping his large arms around you to pull you close to his chest.

“It’s alright, sweet girl,” Jimmy whispered, pressing kisses into your hair in an attempt to calm you. “It’s gonna be alright.”

The bed dipped again and you felt another pair of arms wrapping around the two of you, Jey pressing a kiss of his own to your forehead.

“We gotchu,” Jey murmured, though his voice was strained, clearly trying to hold back tears of his own. “We’re not going anywhere.”

And they didn’t for the rest of the night.

*****

Jimmy eventually did get up to make you dinner, leaving you and Jey alone. So far, Jimmy had been a buffer. A shield to protect you from the conversation you needed to have with Jey but couldn’t. Now that Jimmy was gone, the air in the room seemed tense, something fragile hanging in the air between you.

“You look scared,” Jey murmured. He was curled up beneath the sheets with you, his gaze concerned as he stared at you. “Are you okay?”

He sounded so sweet. So sincere. You wanted to cry again but you tried to fight it. You needed to be brave now and say what you needed to say. What you’d been avoiding saying this entire time.

“I…owe you an apology, Jey,” you whispered, suddenly having trouble maintaining his gaze. “A big one.”

Jey’s brow furrowed, his large hand reaching up to cup your cheek. “You don’t owe me anything, sweetheart,” he replied. “And you don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“I do.”

You forced yourself to look at him, watching as his pretty brown eyes stared at you in confusion.

“I saw how Roman was treating you,” you breathed, your voice shaky. “And I didn’t say anything. I ignored it.”

You watched as Jey’s expression crumpled, something brittle and vulnerable now shining in his dark eyes.

“I…I lied to myself.” You forced yourself to continue, even though it felt like a chasm was opening in your chest. “I told myself that it wasn’t what I thought. That he was just being Roman. That he would never really hurt you. That he was just being firm.”

You felt pesky tears prick at your eyes again and you quickly brushed them away.

“I turned a blind eye because I didn’t want to believe it. I avoided watching the show because I think I knew deep down what was really going on, but I didn’t do anything. I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t until a few days ago when all that happened that I really saw him for what he was. And I’m sorry, Jey. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You could feel the tears threatening to spill from your eyes, but you knew there was no point in brushing them away again. There would just be more. And this all that you were made of now? Tears and vicious lies?

“You don’t have to forgive me.” Your voice was shaky now, though you forced yourself to continue. “And I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. But I can’t let you sit there thinking that I was just naive to all this. I had my suspicions and I ignored them. This is my fault, Jey. This is all my–”

“Don’t say that!” Jey was quick to grab your face, his own eyes shining. “That’s not…god, it’s not your fault, baby. None of this is your fault.”

“You should be mad at me,” you whispered. “You should hate me. I’m no better than he is.”

“That’s not true!” Jey’s grip on your face tightened, suddenly angry. “How could you even say that? You’re nothing like him.”

You couldn’t help but cry, though you resisted when he tried to pull you close.

“I let it happen,” you sobbed, pushing him away. “I didn’t say anything and I let him do it. I hurt you, Jey. I’m supposed to love you and I hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” Jey insisted, his hands warm against your wet cheeks. “You didn’t do anything to hurt me, sweet girl. This is Roman talking. He got in your head. It’s what he do, baby. He plays them mind games and make you think you’re going crazy.”

“But he was right,” you gasped. “I’ve known him for two years. I knew who he was. I just made excuses for him.”

“Stop.” Jey kept trying to pull you closer, but you were fighting it.

“No, you stop!” Your cheeks were wet with tears, your vision blurring as you tried to keep him off you. “You can’t just pretend this wasn’t my fault. You can’t blame it all on him!”

“Pretty girl, you’ve tortured yourself enough.” Jey’s voice was impossibly soft, his brown eyes sad as he stared at you. “It’s time to stop now. It’s time to let it go.”

“Don’t say that!” Now it was your turn to be angry. “You shouldn’t let me off the hook for this. You…you should hold me accountable. You should admit that I did something wrong because I did, Jey. I hurt you and I regret it so fucking much. I’m sorry, Jey. I’m so sorry.”

“Okay, okay,” Jey whispered, still trying to pull you close to him despite your fighting. “Alright, I hear you, baby. I know. Come here, though. Don’t pull away from me.”

“You shouldn’t.” You still tried to push him away, your voice shaky. “You shouldn’t hold me. You should punish me. You should make it hurt.”

“Stop.” Jey continued to pull you closer, his eyes still sad. “No more punishments, okay? Not between us. Haven’t we been through enough?”

That was enough to break you. The tears came freely now, your body wracked with sobs as you finally allowed him to hold you. You pressed your face into his chest and cried, your tears wetting the front of his shirt.

“It’s alright, sweet girl,” Jey was whispering, one his hands reaching up to pet your hair. “No more punishments. No more leashes. It’s just us, remember? We promised.”

“We’ve said a lot of things, Jey,” you wept. “But it doesn’t change what I did. It doesn’t change that I hurt you.”

Jey took a shuddering breath, reaching down to grasp your chin just so he could meet your teary eyes again.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his eyes wide.

You immediately nodded, clinging to his shirt like a lifeline.

“Then trust me when I say you didn’t hurt me, baby. You could never hurt me.” He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, his eyes still sad, but kind. “I promise, sweetheart. It’s alright. Please, don’t cry anymore, okay?”

You tried to get your breathing under control, but the softness in his eyes made your soul ache. “But…but I–”

“You saw the best in Roman,” Jey interrupted, his large hand moving to cup your cheek. “You didn’t think he’d do anything like that because you wanted to see the best version of him. That ain’t a crime, pretty girl. It just shows you’re a good person.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” Jey leaned down to kiss you again. “You’re the best person I know. You can’t beat yourself up about this. Especially since I…” Jey trailed off, suddenly unsure.

He took another breath, steadying himself. “I didn’t want you to see. I didn’t want you to know. I tried to hide all this from you. You know that.”

“It doesn’t matter.” You shook your head. “I should have seen it sooner. I saw the bruises, even though you swore they came from a match. I heard the yelling in the hall. And you might have been hiding it, but Roman wasn’t. I think he liked throwing it in my face.”

Jey didn’t say anything in response to that, though he still held you close, his lips brushing against your forehead to silently reassure you.

The silence stretched long between you. You curled up closer to his chest, forcing yourself to steady your breathing.

“What if we left?” you whispered. “What if we walked away? Then he couldn’t hurt you anymore.”

Jey didn’t say anything for a long time.

As the silence stretched on, you could feel his body tense beneath you, seemingly struggling to find the words to respond to you.

When he finally did speak again, his voice was small, the words fragile.

“And go where?”

A good question. One that you didn’t have the answer to.

Where would you go?

There was a reason you’d never discussed this before. Neither of you could picture a life outside of the Bloodline. You’d never imagined the possibility of ever leaving Roman and clearly Jey hadn’t either.

You felt the tears well up again in your eyes. What business did the two of you have falling in love? It was clear you knew nothing about it. Maybe Roman was right. If you really loved each other, wouldn’t you both be trying to leave the Bloodline? Wouldn’t you want to stop being Roman’s submissive and only belong to Jey? Wouldn’t Jey want to take you away from here and build something new with you?

“I don’t know,” you finally said, your voice soft. “I don’t know anything anymore, Jey.”

The silence stretched long again, but you didn’t know what else to say. Why were you both so bad at this?

“I…” Jey seemed like he wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure how. “I ain’t ever been apart from my family before.”

You didn’t say anything.

You could feel Jey tensing beneath you, his breathing uneven. “I took an oath to Roman,” he whispered. “I took an oath to my family.”

You closed your eyes, your heart aching. But still, you didn’t say anything.

“If we run away, I’ll be cut off.” Jey’s words were small, his voice heartbroken. “I won’t be allowed to talk to them again. I won’t have a family anymore. I won’t even have my culture anymore. My heritage. My mana.”

You could feel his body begin to shake, his arms around you tightening.

“Jon won’t leave,” he said softly. “He already told me. He… he can’t disappoint our family again. Without the Bloodline, he has nothing.”

“He has you,” you whispered, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “And me.”

Jey took a shuddering breath. “It’s not enough,” he breathed. “It’s not enough.”

No. No, it wasn’t.

You closed your eyes again. “I just don’t want Roman to hurt you anymore.”

Jey didn’t say anything to that. Instead, he just held you close, occasionally leaning down to press gentle kisses into your hair.

“I’ll do better,” Jey eventually muttered, his voice tight. “He won’t hurt me again, pretty girl. I just gotta stop fucking up.”

You frowned, leaning up to look at him. “What?”

Jey had trouble meeting your eyes. “That’s the only reason why he do it,” he murmured. “It’s to keep me in line. I’m a hothead. I… I don’t think before I act. I–”

“That’s not a good reason for him to hurt you,” you interrupted, trying your best to keep the anger out of your tone. You didn’t like how his words weren’t really his. This was Roman talking. “He can’t just push you around.”

Jey swallowed, suddenly looking unsure. “It ain’t like that, pretty girl,” he said. “He’s the head of the family. The chief. He’s gotta keep us in line. It’s the rules.”

“His rules,” you insisted. “And his rules aren’t always fair to you.”

“You don’t understand.” Jey shook his head. “This ain’t just about wrestling. Hell, this ain’t even about me. This is our culture, baby. The chief calls the shots. Even the elders have to listen to him. It’s just the way it is.”

You wanted to argue more, but you didn’t want to seem insensitive. You understood that Roman’s authority was absolute, requiring every family member, young and old, to fall in line. Jey wasn’t supposed to care about himself. He was only supposed to care about the Tribal Chief and their heritage. Their Bloodline.

“So I’ll just do better.” Jey’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then he ain’t gotta push me around. I just gotta step it up, baby. That’s all.”

You felt like he was downplaying Roman’s unfairness to him. The Tribal Chief’s punishments were often over small things. You remembered one time where Roman had beaten Jey on live television with a steel chair simply for speaking to Kevin Owens without expressed permission.

“It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart,” Jey whispered, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead. “I don’t want you to worry about me. It’s gonna get better. I promise.”

This silence was tense and fragile. You didn’t want to argue with him, even though you knew he was wrong. He shouldn’t have to bend over backwards and walk on eggshells to please his cousin. Roman was the one who needed to change. Not Jey.

“Are you gonna leave?”

Jey’s voice was nothing more than a whisper, his question timid. You could tell it was taking all of his willpower to keep his voice steady.

You leaned back to examine his face. His pretty brown eyes were wide with hope and fear. He seemed almost pleading as he stared at you, as if to communicate everything he was feeling, but refusing to say.

Don’t go.

You reached out to touch his cheek. His skin was soft, his eyelashes fluttering as you cradled his face in your hands. He looked so sweet. So vulnerable. How could Roman ever want to hurt him? You felt sick.

“I’m not leaving you,” you whispered, hoping that your eyes conveyed the sincerity of your words. “Not now. Not ever. I thought we promised each other that?”

Jey took a shaky breath, leaning into your touch for comfort.

You stared at him, your heart aching. God, why couldn’t you just be selfish and beg Jey to leave with you? The words were on the tip of your tongue. All you had to do was say them.

Run away with me, Jey! You would plead. Fuck your family. Fuck tradition. Fuck everyone who isn’t us. Run away with me and let’s build something real together. Let me take you somewhere where no one will ever hurt you again.

But then you saw that haunted look in Jey’s eyes and knew it wouldn’t be fair. You couldn’t ask him to leave his family behind for you. It wouldn’t be right and you would be selfish to ask it of him.

“But is that what you really want?” Jey asked softly, still staring at you. “Do you want to stay? With Roman?”

You dropped your hand from Jey’s face.

This was the real problem, wasn’t it? If you stayed, you would still belong to Roman. The Tribal Chief wouldn’t allow you to remain a part of the Bloodline unless you continued to serve him. You’d still have some access to Jey, but you couldn’t be together. Not the way you wanted. And after everything that happened, there was no guarantee that Roman would let you have any alone time with Jey again.

But it would still be better than completely walking away. If you left the Bloodline now, you’d be leaving Jey behind forever.

“He doesn’t hurt you,” Jey whispered, his eyes wide and searching. “I know you’re mad at him, but he’s always been good to you. And I know my cousin. He…he really cares about you.”

You could tell it took a lot for Jey to get out the last sentence, something akin to jealousy flickering on his tired face.

“You’re only mad at him because of what he did to me. He takes care of you. He always has.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…” Jey took a deep breath, struggling to keep the tears out of his eyes. “I’m saying that I’d be grateful for even a small piece of you. Even if you can’t be mine.”

There it was.

The final nail in the coffin.

This is what it all boiled down to.

You couldn’t be Jey’s.

He wasn’t willing to leave the Bloodline for you, no matter how good his reasons were for staying. You couldn’t be together the way you wanted. This love affair had been nothing more than a dream. A risk you’d taken in the hopes for something better that had ultimately failed.

Jey wouldn’t leave Jimmy behind. He wouldn't break his oath to Roman. He wouldn't turn his back on years of tradition, no matter how much it hurt him.

And the worst part was that you weren’t allowed to be angry about it. You couldn’t ask Jey to sacrifice everything for you. This was his family. His culture. His heritage. His honor and identity. This was bigger than you. This was more important than you.

You just wished it didn’t hurt so fucking bad.

“This was a mistake,” you whispered, pulling away from Jey’s embrace. “We shouldn’t have done this.”

Although Jey hadn’t said it out loud, this was your reality. Jey would always belong to Roman. To the Bloodline. And you’d both been foolish in thinking you had any kind of future together.

Jey looked confused. “What are you talking about, baby?”

You shook your head. “We tried it, Jey, and it didn’t work. We’re not supposed to be together. You can’t leave the Bloodline and I…I belong to Roman. It won’t work. Now we know.”

Jey’s face twisted as if you’d stabbed him with a knife, his brown eyes now shining with tears.

“Don’t say that.”

He tried to reach out for you again, but you pulled away further, avoiding his hurt gaze.

“This was nothing more than a dream,” you murmured. “A stupid, naive dream we had. But that’s all it was, Jey. A dream. We need to face reality.”

“What reality?”

You really couldn’t look at him. Not for this.

“That Roman was right,” you whispered. “That nothing is going to change. And that you’re going to do what you always do.”

“Yeah?” Jey’s words were angry, but his face still betrayed his hurt and confusion. “And what’s that?”

You forced yourself to look at him. You needed to be cruel for both of you.

“Fall in line.”

*****

When you went back to Roman’s room that night, you weren’t surprised to find him there waiting for you. He quickly took you into his strong arms, holding you steady as you sobbed.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he murmured, the low timbre of his voice comforting you. “I’m sorry it had to be this way, baby. I’m sorry you’re hurting. But it’s okay, I’ve got you now. Daddy’s got you.”

He quickly swept you off your feet and carried you to bed, allowing you to curl up in his lap as he held you close.

“You were right,” you gasped, clinging tightly to him. “You were right about everything.”

Roman sighed. “I know, pretty girl.” Though he didn’t sound triumphant or happy. If anything, he sounded sad. “And I’m so sorry.”

He continued to keep his arms wrapped around you, murmuring low, comforting words to you as he kissed your forehead.

He allowed you time to calm down, waiting until your tears dried and your breathing evened out before getting back up to grab you some water and a warm washcloth.

“Here.” He passed you the water, using the washcloth to clean your tearstained face. “Drink, sweetheart. I’m gonna take care of you now, okay?”

You nodded, obediently taking a few sips of the water as Roman continued to pet your hair and whisper sweet praises to you.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured, pressing one final kiss to your forehead. “Now kneel.”

You blinked up at him in surprise, but Roman only stared, waiting for you to obey.

So you did.

You slid off the bed and onto your knees, your body still trembling from adrenaline and exhaustion from the past few days. And when Roman reached out a benevolent hand to cup your cheek, you couldn’t help but lean into it, staring up at him like he was a god.

“Now you know,” he said quietly, his gaze almost…disappointed. “Now you know there’s no else in this family who will take care of you like I will. You understand that now, don’t you?”

You felt the tears well up in your eyes again, but you still obediently nodded.

“You understand that both you and Jey belong to me. Not to each other.” Roman’s hand drifted to your hair, tugging lightly against the scalp. Not enough to hurt. Just a reminder. “And you now understand that Jey fears me more than he loves you.”

Now the tears did fall. It felt like something dark and ugly was curling inside your chest like a gunshot wound. You vaguely wondered if you rested your hands there if you would feel blood seeping through your fingertips – some tangible proof of your foolish, bleeding heart.

“And I’m sorry you had to learn this way, sweet girl. Truly I am.” And the real kicker was Roman did sound sorry. He seemed devastated to see you this hurt, his eyes sad. “But I’m glad it happened this way. You needed to learn.”

His grip tightened on your hair. Still not enough to hurt, but enough for you to arch your back further, tears still pooling in your eyes before cascading down your cheeks.

“And I’m sorry about what happened, baby,” Roman murmured, his voice so sincere that you had no choice but to believe him. “With Jey. I’m sorry you had to see that. I know it scared you. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that. I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

He reached out with his other hand to brush some of the tears from cheek, his hand warm.

“Can you forgive me, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Daddy.” What else could you possibly say when your master sounded so sincere?

Roman’s smile was a burst of sunshine, a balm to your aching soul. “Good girl,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss your forehead again. “So good for me.”

He released your hair and you sagged in relief, still staring up at him like a disciple kneeling at an altar. But Roman wasn’t done.

“We still have other business to attend to, pretty girl,” Roman said, his voice low. “About last night.”

You remembered.

“I know you were angry at me,” Roman continued. “And I know you had a lot you needed to get off your chest. But I’m not your boyfriend, am I, sweetheart? I’m your dom. Your owner. Your daddy. And you were very disrespectful to me, weren’t you?”

You bowed your head, hoping that Roman wouldn’t see more of your tears. “Yes, sir.”

Roman’s hand was back in your hair again and this time it did hurt.

“Then let’s make it right.”

_____

besties: @acute-crashout-jeyuso @mindairy @amandairene88 @askullasunflower @partypoison00 @brianochka @femdisa @zephyrazzz @minteagalaxea @annyanse @nbanenefrmdao @wishyouloveme @glittergirl7 @bloodline-fanacc @key05marie @mzv11 @neytiri-20 @ayeeeitsmiracle @buttercup0024 @punksyeet @pr0wlerpunk @lilucey @cassrox @cosmiccandydreamer @sarlaccussy @fearlesschimera @hadesorion @rollinssection @levissslutt @mingisfavgf @aaira3333 @thealliasylum @marababyyyy @transparentphantomface @eringobragh420 @tssweets @kelbrave @astria0wwe @fairiebabey @romanreignsbae @mandmilovehim @briabrae @psilovey0u @80sredroad @ajenae @dumb-b4mbi @4milly @breathewwe @lov3rla03 @cafeluvs

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bingbongsupremacy · 1 day ago

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Nightmare Buddy

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Mind Controller!Reader, Platonic!Reader (Plus Size Friendly)

Warning: Y/N use, mentions anxiety, mentions nightmares

Summary: You and Bob turn to each other for comfort for sleep troubles and nightmares.

*Not Proofread*

No description of reader's weight/body type, race, or gender.

You don't remember a time before the nightmares. For years, you've been plagued by the faces of the people you were forced to control and manipulate. If it's not the faces of people you've hurt, it's the faces of those who've hurt you.

The compound is asleep. You can feel it in the empty hallways and the way the air conditioner hums a little louder than usual. It's well past midnight, and most of the lights are off, the only exception being the light spilling from the living area.

You don't usually wander around this late-not unless the nightmare is too loud to ignore. Tonight's dream was bad, much worse than the majority of the dreams you've had before.

You clutch a mug of herbal tea, hands wrapped around the warmth like it might keep the rest of you from shivering apart. Your socks drag softly on the floor as you cross into the living room, and that’s when you see him.

Bob.

He's curled up on the far end of the couch, shoulders hunched, knees drawn up slightly, and a thick book balanced in one palm. The other hand, toys absently with the corner of a blanket, twisting it, letting it slip, twisting it again, a restless, absent motion.

His hair is messy, falling forward over his eyes. In the low lamplight, his features look softer than during the day: the sharp lines of his jaw overshadowed by the slight frown of his mouth. Small dark circles frame the bottom of his eyes, which are trained on the book in his hands.

You stop in the doorway without meaning to. The scent of chamomile drifts up from your mug, but it's not comforting tonight.

Bob glances up. His blue eyes flicker to yours, wide in surprise. His gaze drops to the mug, then to your feet, as if he's not sure where to rest it.

"Didn't expect anyone else to be up," You say softly. Deep down, you feel a relief bloom in your chest. You've always hated being alone. You find it's when your memories attack hardest.

He blinks, slowly, like he has to process each word. Then he tucks a worn bookmark in between the pages of his book before gently closing it.

"Couldn't sleep," He says after a moment. His voice is low and a little rough, like he hasn't used it much tonight. "You too?"

You hesitate, shifting on your feet. "Yeah," you admit finally. "Nightmares."

A silence stretches. Bob's fingers continue to twist the blanket. "You can…sit, if you want," He murmurs. His eyes don't quite meet yours; they hover somewhere around your elbow.

You move slowly, as cautious as a stray cat, and ease down onto the opposite end of the couch. You tuck your feet beneath you, cradling the mug close to your chest. The warmth against your palm provides a bit of grounding, offering a break from your anxiety.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the occasional shift of Bob's blanket or the soft hiss of your tea as you breathe across it to cool it down.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye. His thumb drags along the edge of the book, back and forth, back and forth. It reminds you of someone trying to soothe themselves, an instinctive gesture.

"Do you ever get nightmares?" You ask quietly.

"Yeah," He replies honestly, voice even lower now. "Almost every night. That's why I'm here."

You feel the tension in your shoulders fade slightly at the realization that you're not alone. You know that vulnerability. The kind that settles into your bones and whispers that sleep isn't safe.

"It's…not easy," You sigh. "Feeling like…you can't even trust your own mind."

The way he says it, so raw, so plain, makes your throat tighten. You look at him then, really look, and for a brief second, he meets your gaze. It's fleeting, but in that moment, you see a flicker of recognition there, like he knows exactly what you mean.

You sip your tea, letting the warmth spread through your chest and calm you.

Bob shifts slightly, sinking back into the couch cushions as though he's more relaxed.

Neither of you says much else. You don't have to.

It's enough to simply exist beside each other and offer silent understanding.

For once, you feel less lonely.

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achillearrow · 3 days ago

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Mizi thoughts again :

Do you understand how the fact that Mizi knew about Sua's plan and has gone with it because she knew Sua couldn't live without her explains so much and changes a lot of the meaning of some scenes before karma.

First, it explains her survivor guilt a lot better. It didn't just hit her when Till, Hyuna or Sua died, but it began even before the competition.

She felt guilty, sad and anxious about Sua's plan, but she still went with it. The thing with Mizi is that she doesn't seem to fear her own death much. She chose to participate in Alien Stage at a young age to escape her owner Shine, to have a chance to be free and to not be the one always hurt (to have control). She knows that she can die and be hurt in Alien stage but at first she thinks that at least it's only a possibility and with time at least even if she is hurt, she can also experience relationship where she is equal to the other.

So she feels guilty because she chose to be here and be close to Sua (with who she felt safe with from the start because Sua is weak and so is unable to hurt her) and now Sua's love for her is killing Sua. If Sua didn't love Mizi she would have a chance of survival. And Mizi also can't stop being close to Sua now, they are too codependent. Mizi feels bad because she knows that even if she loves Sua, Sua's death will not destroy her like her own would do to Sua.

But here the thing, even if Sua dies, that doesn't mean Mizi is saved. She can't be sure that she will win Alien Stage. And in her interview after the first round, she clearly said that she wants to die and go back to Sua's side. Mizi probably thought even before the start of the competition that she too would not survive. In my mind, she probably promised herself that she will try to win so Sua would not die in vain (reason why she still sings in the "ruler of my heart" round) but Mizi probbaly is not convinced that she could win.

Now do you remember the last frame of the mizisua video ? Mizi terrified expression ? This is the moment her guilt start to crush her. Because now that she is with the rebellion, she is pretty much assured that she will survive, that she will live the rest of her life without Sua. That in fact Sua's love saved her. That her death saved her.

During her time in the reballion the guilt was probably eating her alive. She was revisiting all her memory (the fact that she choose to be there, that she let Sua die for her, that she can live without Sua, that she still smiled and had happy memories in the Anakt garden) and started creating this new view of reality where she is the villain but she is not entirely consumed by guilt until all the person who ever loved her died. When Hyuna and Till die, it's the nail in the coffin. She is now sure that loving her always mean death and that she wanted this.

But why think it's her fault ? Because it's Mizi coping mechanism. I firmly believe that her guilt here confirms the idea that what Mizi craves the most is control over herself and what happens to her. We now know that it's why she joined the Alien Stage competition but also in the true face comic that's what she says to Sua when explaining what happened with the blond boy "it's probably something I did".

Putting the blaim on herself is her way to feel control over what happened to her, to empower herself and not feel helpless. If it's her fault, then she can do something about it. It also explains what she said to the boy who slapped her, "what did I do ?". And I also think that's why she said she manipulated everyone to love her. She noticed that people who she didn't love were attracted to her. She preferred to believe that she manipulated them to like her rather than be the passive victim of their attraction and their sacrifice.

It's also why her love for Sua even if it doesn't make her dependant of Sua's life, is so insanely deep. Because she lets Sua take control. She lets Sua construct the illusion they live in. She lets Sua decide that she will live. You can also see in Karma how Sua is the one who reaches for Mizi first in pretty much all their interactions.

In the "my fragile god…" comic, we see an unmoving and passive Sua below a dominating Mizi (this is how Mizi's guilt interpret their relationship after Wiege) but Karma shows the complete opposite.

It shows a Sua who reaches for Mizi first and doesn't want to let go. It shows a Mizi who is perplexed in front of Sua's immense love for her, but also reciprocate it in her own way by letting Sua decide, by letting Sua take her hand to strangle herself.

Furthermore, Karma also shows in the end that Mizi didn't stay completely passive either; that she didn't always stay blind in the paradise Sua built. She also came through the door, comforted Sua and stayed by her side, leaving behind her role of believer and Sua's role of god. In the end, they lived their false paradise together, but they also faced their horrible truth together.

In resume : mizi and mizisua make me insane :)

#alien stage #mizisua #mizi #alnst mizi #alien stage sua

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petrenocka · 16 hours ago

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How hot is a take that Jinu is a peace of shit (beloved) who isn't fully redeemed by Darth Vadering himself in the end?

To me bro is a representation of how regret alone doesn't make you a good person. And in fact, wallowing in misery and self pity is fundamentally selfish and self obsessed behavior.

Everything he does in the movie is either because he wants to free himself from Gwi-Ma, or because he is too weak to resist it. The fact that his final self sacrifice actually helps save the world feels almost like an accident, and works 90% due to Rumi's real determination to make the world better. Jinu just found a way to die.

It doesn't escape me how he always talks about how much guilt he feels over what he did to his family, but never once talks about doing right by their memory, or avenging them, "never again", or something. Just him. Neither he ever mentions all the people who straight up die due to Saja Boys tearing the veil.

Such an interesting take on a central villain for a movie about earnestness. KPDH's greatest strength is how naturalistic every single character is, from main characters to background crowds. And Jinu's genuine yet manipulative self hatred is the most interesting of it all.

Gwi-Ma is cruel because it is a sadistic cosmic force of emotional torture. Jinu is cruel because his own suffering is the only kind he can think about, he doesn't contemplate what he does to others if he doesn't relate to it. It's so real.

#kpdh spoilers #kpdh #kpop demon hunters #jinu kpdh

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animanga-bonanza · 1 day ago

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The way that Ironheart incorporates the theme of Magic vs Science in Riri’s characterization is so good

magic is intuitive, it’s not straightforward, you can’t understand it by taking it apart and analyzing it. you have to feel it. Riri’s mom uses magic (although it’s unclear whether she has a magical gift like Zelma), and she’s always trying to be understanding, trying to get Riri to open up and let herself feel her emotions.

but Riri can’t do that. she prefers the cold, logical realm of Science (as she understands it). taking things apart, building new things out of lifeless materials, creating a literal suit of armor that can protect her family and herself from pain. everything about Riri, including Dominique Thorn’s excellent performance, conveys a young woman who is trying so hard not to let herself feel. her forced nonchalant attitude, those mannerisms and tics and facial expressions that show she’s trying so hard to be “hard,” tough, like steel. but her eyes always give her away. there are so many moments throughout the show where Riri is visibly holding back tears. trying to stem the flow of her emotions before she gets overwhelmed. forcing a smile to pretend that she's okay.

the way that Riri takes after her stepfather, trying to live up to his image and legacy, leaning hard into Science. rejecting her mother, and in doing so, rejecting Magic. but Riri fails to realize that her father wasn’t just a brilliant mechanic. he was a family man, a loving protector. the memories she tried to bury to avoid feeling pain were also memories in which her stepfather showed her warmth, kindness, and open affection. the very things that Riri tries to shun so that she can be “strong.”

in rejecting Magic, in rejecting her own feelings, Riri makes herself callous towards the feelings of others. she manipulates people, just like Parker does, and shuts them out, and suffers for her loneliness. and just like Parker, she is susceptible to manipulation. because she’s out of touch with her own emotions, she does not know herself. she hasn’t healed from her wounds b/c she’s only buried her grief instead of directly addressing it.

and that’s how Mephisto gets her. Riri doesn’t really respect magic. she thinks she’s got it all figured out. and that’s why she was such a ripe target for Mephisto. if Riri had been more balanced, able to integrate both Magic (emotion) and Science (reason), she wouldn’t have taken Mephisto’s deal.

Ironheart is a tragedy because Riri becomes corrupted right at the moment she was beginning to heal. she had just started to let her family in. she was just learning how to trust and rely on others. and now, she’s sacrificed her own soul for the sake of bringing back Natalie, a horrifying yet understandable decision.

I can’t wait to see what the MCU has in store for Riri next. a second season is definitely warranted, but I understand if they decide to have her next appearance be in a feature film like Doomsday.

#mcu #ironheart #ironheart spoilers #ironheart meta #mcu meta #riri williams #mephisto

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mage-ical-character-person · 10 hours ago

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BELOVED PUZZIE PIE HAS NOW FULLY RETURNED TO US IN ALL HIS GLORY.

Ough! Everything I love about him is here.

He’s sympathetic, he’s silly, he can be genuinely menacing, and his actions all carry an undercurrent of desperation!

My poor sweetie pie

My silly goose

My manipulative freak my twisted freaking cycle path <3

also WPNZ. Just.. the fact that WPNZ so easily agrees to losing his memories.

Which, even if Puzzles does succeed in doing that, he’s done it before, and it’s never permanent. Requires him to be at pretty much full power too. So…

I wonder if Puzzles wishes he could erase his memories of his own family. I’m pretty convinced his dad hit him with the way little Puzzles flinches and cowers whenever approached in WOTFI.

Also Puzzles is just absolutely using WPNZ as a tool and they’re both well aware of it. Then again WPNZ is used to it and thinks that’s a normal way to treat people. Puzzles’ desire for companionship is still probably a factor because when isn’t it with him? And I don’t doubt Puzzles will get attached but. Yeah right now WPNZ is just a tool to him.

I also think it’s interesting how he didn’t act out until Leggy 2.0 was taken from him. He was losing it, but he was… in a way, content.

Like, back when WOTFI 24 was new I even brought it up but gosh. The line “Even I was caught off-guard by how isolating this dreadful facility could be” Puzzles is used to being locked in a room all alone, it’s how he spent most of his childhood, but this situation is still taking a toll on him and he recognizes that. But there’s no effort to leave as long as he has Leggy 2.0. He’s not doing well, but he’s more or less pacified before losing her.

That’s just… ow. It really doesn’t take much. I mean. I feel like it’s glossed over that talking Puzzles down WORKED in WOTFI.

Sure, it took going into his head Psychonauts-style, but he willingly stops fighting when presented with friendship, or even just the illusion of it. It’s not redemption, and even when Puzzles isn’t alone he falls into bad habits because manipulation is the only way this guy knows how to interact with people, but still. The path to it becoming redemption is very much there if he decides to accept it. Right now I don’t think he wants to change, but a part of him was able to get past that and reach out for help in WOTFI. And with last episode we have that machine that could allow that part of him to have a little more power in that regard.

God, I’d really like for the machine that split Meggy and Leggy to give the crew the opportunity to meet Little Puzzles. Right now nobody but Meggy is bothering to see him as much more than an obstacle…

but a lotta the crew has a soft spot for kids, and knowing Little Puzzles might be enough to prompt them to actually think about things. Please please please shoot Puzzles with that machine and let the gang interact with his traumatized inner child. I want something like that bit in the DHMIS parody episode.

Four’s a sweetie let him be a sweetie to Little Puzzles and then make Mr Puzzles deal with that experience after being re-merged. Please shoot Puzzles with that machine from last episode please please please.

#Smg4 #smg4 spoilers #*chatter chatter*#mr puzzles #Mr WPNZ #Leggy 2.0 #Yellow guy isnt a kid he’s just small and unmedicated but like it was more ambiguous in the webseries #and the show wasnt out at the time I don’t think so Four gets a pass. Easy mistake #Anyway Puzzles really said “I’ll make you forget all about your ex”

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tashtush · 6 hours ago

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We Ask for Your Discretion (Chapter 3)

⚠️ Warning: This chapter contains explicit, kinky, and trauma-forward noncon. Peep the warnings below.

18+ 9.8k - Homelander/queer female reader, noncon, praise kink, rough sex, manipulation, homophobia, trauma, sexual coercion, vaginal sex, anal fingering, degradation, humiliation, spitting, facefucking, throatfucking, choking, vomiting, overstimulation, dissociation, crying, dacryphilia, sadism, breathplay, hair-pulling, reader doesn't fight back, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare (but it's demented aftercare)

Note: This was supposed to be the final chapter, but I have more emotional ends to tie (involving Madelyn, of course). Hope y'all enjoy—please don’t institutionalize me!

AO3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

You decided to take PTO.

Your body knew that you were better off spending the day in bed, clutching your phone like an anchor keeping your thoughts firmly in place. Deep in your gut, you knew that you couldn’t let your mind wander.

A notification flashed across your lock screen, and you rolled onto your belly, elbows propping you up as you scanned its contents.

Vought International tagged you in a post.

You felt something gnaw inside of you, a sensation that you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge. But curiosity dominated discomfort, and nothing was going to prevent you from tapping your screen.

And there you were. With him.

You looked lovely in your black dress, offering the camera a closed, unassuming smile. Homelander was standing to your right, wearing his trademark grin that crinkled the corners of his blue, All-American eyes. They radiated what you once perceived as genuine, magnetic goodness.

You both perfectly put on the act that his hand wasn’t aggressively groping your ass. That he hadn’t just fucked you minutes before.

You read the photo’s description:

voughtintl @Homelander, America’s favorite LGBTQIA+ ally, has honored Vought’s Super Sexual Alliance (@vought.ssa) with a generous donation of $50,000! Let’s slay 💅✨homophobia!

You instinctively tossed your phone to the other end of the bed, pulling your covers over you to nap the feeling away.

—

Your first day back was more challenging than anticipated. After a subway ride that felt twice as long as usual, you mustered up the nerve to walk through Vought Tower’s lobby entrance. It was just another day. The gala was over. The game they played with you was over, and they had their fun.

And you had yours, right?

Your chest tightened as you waited in front of the elevator doors, imagining them parting to reveal Homelander’s imposing silhouette, his teeth sharper in your memory. You could almost feel in your body that he was nearby, and you braced yourself as you heard the dreaded “ping”. The doors slid open, and two nervous interns, probably rushing to get their bosses’ hyperspecific coffee orders, tumbled out. You exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Despite the hedonistic events of the gala, you still felt uneasy at the prospect of being in his presence. He was essentially a god, and no amount of positive attention from him would ever be enough to put you at ease. The perception of his “kindness” had changed shape in your mind, and that unknown made him more unpredictable.

You made your way to your desk and sat down, grateful to be moored by its mundane familiarity. You easily fell back into the rhythm of your morning routine: half-reading VChat messages while sipping your fancy corporate cappuccino. It wasn’t long before a gaggle of coworkers flocked around you, pressing for details about your experience with the rich and (literally) powerful. You played the part and animatedly recounted the glitz and acrobatics, gesticulating every time you mentioned a supe you had recognized. You managed to gloss over the night’s inarguable main event, remembering the genuine exhilaration you had felt before it. That is, until the inevitable question was asked.

“What was it like to meet Homelander?” Ami asked excitedly, leaning forward in her seat for intel that she would never receive.

You felt that familiar twinge in your chest, and your smile dropped for half a second before it snapped back into place.

“Oh, god, he was so nice,” you said, shaking your head in exaggerated disbelief. “Honestly, I was in starstruck autopilot mode, so I barely remember what it felt like to be onstage.”

After storytime was officially over, the hungry swarm dissipated, leaving you to swivel back to your desk and resume your day. You replied to emails, ideated on your team’s newest feature for stressed out families—Power Parenting—and comfortably lost yourself in the dull embrace of corporate boredom. It was like nothing had happened.

Then, as if seeing a vision, your mind flashed to his face.

It was nestled between your thighs, and hungry moans underscored the vulgar, wet sounds of his tongue flicking against your clit. Stillwell was watching you, composed with her unnerving aura of professionalism, the kind that could barely conceal the fact that she was fucking you with her eyes.

You ached beneath your desk, unconsciously crossing your legs in an attempt to contain the intrusive sensation. This was the last thing you needed when you still had two hours left to kill, so you decided that a break to clear your mind was in order.

You stood, stretching your shoulders before heading to the nearest café for a nerve-soothing treat. On the way there, you felt your phone buzz in your skirt pocket, so you stepped to the side of the hallway to see if any more photos had been uploaded. You saw that you had been tagged in another post from Vought’s account, so you clumsily slid your thumb as you tried to unlock the notification.

That is, until you felt a large pair of hands firmly grab your shoulders.

You yelped a shocked, squeaky sound, and you were sure your feet completely left the ground. You heard a rugged laugh behind you, and embarrassment quickly replaced your shock.

Of course.

You turned to face him, trying to relax your shoulders when you realized they were still raised.

“Ooh, jumpy," Homelander teased, reaching out and wiggling his fingers. "It's just little ol' me."

But he knew he was anything but.

He stood before you, his suit as lofty and unnaturally clean as ever, his handsome face turned uncanny. His cheekbones were sharp, skin stretched too tight, his once-boyish-looking hair now a harsh contrast to his piercing eyes. He was beautiful, but a beauty that threatened to distort, like when you stared into a mirror for too long.

"Oh! Oh my God. You scared me," you laughed, hoping that the sound would obscure your trepidation. It did the opposite.

His playful smile widened before it fell just slightly, and he stared at you. You felt your heartbeat quicken, hoping that he would spare you the humiliation by not commenting on it this time.

He grinned wholeheartedly as he finally broke eye contact, reaching to rub your bare upper arm before patting it. The almost fatherly gesture, combined with the sensation of leather, sent goosebumps rippling across your skin.

“I noticed you didn’t say goodbye the other night,” he said suddenly, hands now behind his back as he paced in front of you. His voice took on a strange, low, chiding cadence that you couldn’t quite place.

“I gotta admit,” he said as he turned to face you again, eyebrows furrowed. He theatrically pressed a palm to his chest. “That hurt a little.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you said, sheepish, as you had sincerely hoped that he wouldn’t notice. “I didn’t mean to. It was just so busy, and you were so busy, and I needed to get home before it got too late–”

“Relax,” he said, laughing as he waved his hand in dismissal. “I’m just messing with you again. It’s no big deal.”

You laughed awkwardly, clutching your phone in your hand. He considered you for another moment before his expression changed, resolute, as if an idea had settled in his mind.

“I think,” he said, pointing a gloved finger back and forth between the both of you, “you and I have some talking to do, little lady.”

“Oh,” you said. Where was he going with this? You felt something unpleasant expand within you, like a rubber band was being pulled taut across your ribcage. You hesitated, wondering if you should even broach the elephant in the room.

“About… what happened at the gala?”

“Hm, yes,” he said thoughtfully, gesturing with a hand down the hallway. “Come with me. I think we need to clear the air about our little rendezvous. I want to make sure we move forward respectfully and professionally—don’t want to make you uncomfortable, do we?”

You paused, struggling to find words.

“Okay?” he said softly, his hand back on your shoulder. He looked genuinely concerned, and something inside of you softened.

“Okay,” you said, a small smile growing on your face. Maybe you had no reason to worry. You had the opportunity to sleep with him, and anyone would have killed to be in your shoes. Yes, you felt weird about it, maybe more than you expected, but perhaps an honest conversation could alleviate your concerns. You ignored the small warning that chimed in your head, chalking it up to an overreaction from your heightened nerves.

You let him lead you to a conference room around the corner, hands clasped behind his back and under his cape as he strode in front of you, looking straight ahead. You followed him quietly, still tense, but the promise of closure made you follow. That’s what you told yourself, at least.

He stopped in front of a door and pulled it open for you, and when you entered, you were faced with a run-of-the-mill conference room. There was a long table surrounded by chairs, a monitor affixed to the wall, and a whiteboard covered in unintelligible scribblings. He followed behind you, and you heard the distinct sound of the door closing in a loud punctuation. Something in your throat tightened, but you swallowed it.

“Sit,” he said, pulling out a chair. You obeyed, and he lowered himself into the seat beside you.

The moment he sat down, something in his energy shifted. It was the way his hand clenched before he tapped his fingers against the table’s wooden finish, how his thin lips twitched as he tilted his head to regard you. It was as if he were searching for something.

“Do you think Madelyn—” he paused, a look of frustration dawning on his features, “—owns me?”

“Excuse me?” you asked quietly. You lifted your shoulders again, unprepared for whatever he would say next, and he scoffed with a bitter, amused sound. He leaned forward, eyes now boring into you without any trace of reservation.

“Do you think Madelyn can stop me from doing anything I want?”

“I don’t understand,” you replied cautiously. The warnings were blaring in your head now, and you were acutely aware of the fact that he was between you and the door.

The mood in the air was becoming exponentially more tense with each passing moment, and you struggled to hide the unease on your face. His lips spread into a tight line before he stood from his seat, cape swishing behind him as he began to pace. He idly looked around the room for a few moments before he stopped to examine the scrawl on the whiteboard.

“I remember meeting you like it was yesterday,” he said. There was a hint of fondness in his voice, as if he were relishing something personal and nostalgic. You didn’t know what to say, so you chose to remain silent. He then turned his head toward you again, and when he looked into your eyes, his expression softened.

“Oh, you were such a cute, shy little thing,” he said, gesturing his hand affectionately down the line of your body. “Playing pretend like you weren’t flirting with the most important man in the world.”

His eyes dropped to your chest for several moments too long, his mouth parting as he licked the inside of his lips.

“Your tits looking perfect in that slutty little sweater.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks.

You looked off to the side, wrapping your arms around yourself. You hadn’t imagined his look in the elevator that day, but now he was unambiguously leering, and it was becoming more challenging to maintain eye contact.

“I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more desperate cry for my attention,” he said as he began to step toward you, his voice low in a way that made your heart quicken. He stood in front of you now, arms planted on his hips, looking down at you like you were something shameful and small. “And believe me, I’ve seen it all.”

Your face burned with confusion and embarrassment. You were just meeting your hero. You tried to make a stupid joke. You hardly understood how the existence of your tits constituted a “cry for attention.”

“Well, you know how us men get when we see a pretty gal,“ he said softly, reaching down to cup your cheek with a gloved hand. “We get a little curious.”

“So, I followed you back to your apartment…“ he said, his palm now caressing your skin, as if he were soothing the nauseating realization that dropped in your stomach. “I saw you all comfy in your little bedroom, surrounded by sweet little string lights and knick-knacks. You rubbing your clit raw while you—well, while you were obviously thinking about me,” he said cheekily, looking at you with an arrogance so enormous it affronted you.

“God, the way you have to put a towel on your bed. Like the thought of me would make you too wet for your cheap little IKEA sheets to handle.” A husky chuckle tumbled out of him, and you couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

“And that sound you make when you come?” he laughed in disbelief before whistling a low, humiliating sound. “Let’s just say, I had a lot of good material for ‘me time’ last week.”

Your stomach churned.

He reached to coax his thumb between your lips, and you took him in, allowing him to probe inside. You didn’t know what else you could do.

How long had this been going on? All of those creeping moments of feeling watched were completely founded, and you searched your mind for everything you had done in “private” over the past week.

Your horror ebbed as embarrassment pooled deeper in your belly. The times you’ve masturbated were projected in your thoughts like a filthy porn compilation. And you masturbated. A lot.

He pushed his thumb deeper into you, the earthy taste of leather filling your mouth as he stroked your tongue. You had to consciously stop yourself from swirling it over him, a confusing instinct that you didn’t want to understand.

You remembered yesterday, when you had spent the entirety of the evening grinding your pussy against a pillow. You imagined Homelander’s hands hungrily groping you all over—your hips, your belly, your tits—all while you whimpered and rubbed yourself against the soaked pillowcase like a desperate animal.

He slowly pressed in a second finger, stretching your mouth wider as you tried to stop yourself from drooling.

When you touched yourself, you were trying to channel your conflicted feelings by remembering the threesome as the pleasurable experience that it was. To fuck away the discomfort and turn it into loud, powerful orgasms you were in control of. The heat from the sense memory bloomed deep in your belly, and it was a strange, potent combination with the sinking feeling that existed beside it.

But that was for you. Not him.

You felt yourself stiffen as he finally slid his thumb out of your mouth, languidly running it down your chin and neck. He stopped at the neckline of your top, stroking the exposed skin above it.

“Madelyn can try to ‘leash’ me all she wants,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut through your unpleasant recollection. “But really, she just refuses to get this into her stubborn little head.”

He leered down at you, his upper lip raising in a lopsided snarl.

“I can fuck whoever I want to fuck.”

It was then that true, genuine fear flooded your system, and you knew you had to say something. You had to try. He was Homelander. He helped people. Saved people. You needed to believe that a part of him was genuine to the man you had admired for most of your life.

“Uh, wait, wait,” you said hurriedly when he began to gently palm the curve of your right breast, tension now coiling tightly in your gut. His hand stilled, but stayed.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice coming out higher-pitched than expected. You resisted the urge to avert your gaze, opting instead for courage. “I’m honestly, truly very honored that you’re interested in me, but… I’m sorry. I don’t think I want to do this.”

It was difficult to believe that you were living in a reality where you turned down Homelander. A different version of you might have found it funny, maybe even a surreal source of pride. But in that moment, all you could think about was how deeply challenging it was.

He paused to look at you, his expression thoughtful as if he were honestly trying to digest what you had said. And then he laughed.

Your heart sank.

“Oh, you see, that’s not the picture I’m getting,” he said, his too-wide smile not quite connecting to his eyes. “Your heart is racing,” he slid his hand from your right breast to your left, patting the skin above it. “Your pupils are wide, and… well,” he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, “I can smell you getting wet, sweetheart.”

“I mean, and that night?” he said, his low, masculine voice barely above a whisper. “I know you’ve been thinking about it, the way you’ve been fucking coming all over yourself for the past week.”

You exhaled a shaky breath in a pathetic attempt to calm yourself, but it only made you feel more vulnerable.

“And don’t forget how you moaned my name every single fucking time.”

He drew himself back from your ear and moved his attention toward your lips, taking them in a kiss that was as invasive as it was passionate. He made a hungry, growling sound as his mouth hung open against yours, savoring your taste like he missed it. He tasted hot, almost sweet as he explored yours, which somehow made his complete disregard for your boundaries feel even worse. You closed your eyes, trying not to respond to the deft movements of his tongue against yours, hoping that he would eventually get the sincerity of your message. He finally released his hold on the back of your head, and you broke free, gasping softly before attempting to protest again.

“I-I don’t want–“

You shut your mouth when you felt him slide his palm against the front of your neck, stopping to gently massage your throat with his fingers. You remembered one of his more spectacular interview segments, where he “humbly” crushed a concrete block like a can of soda in front of a studio audience.

The words evaporated in your throat.

“Shhh,” he cooed into your ear, his warm breath tickling your skin. “I know you’re nervous, but it’ll feel good. Promise.”

The harsh reality of the situation crashed over you like a cold, brutal wave.

He slid the hand that was around your throat to the back of your neck, pulling you up to stand from your seat. You now had no concept of what he was capable of, and your legs felt weak under the weight of the suspense. He watched you for a moment as you silently stood in front of him, searching your eyes as if he were waiting for something.

“Well, c’mon!” he laughed joyfully, nodding his head toward the space behind you. “Hands on the table.”

You began to tremble when you fully comprehended what he was asking you to do. You turned slowly and planted your hands on the smooth, wooden surface, still doing your best to stand tall. A small, delusional part of you still hoped that you could change the outcome of what would happen next.

He chuckled before he pushed down on your back with the strength of hard, unyielding steel. He roughly pressed your face into the table’s surface, and you whimpered in unadulterated fear as a pen dug painfully into your cheek. But that didn’t stop him from hiking up your skirt and exposing your bare skin to the cool, conditioned air of the conference room, and it wasn’t long before his hands followed. He roughly caressed and squeezed your ass, handling it like it was his to play with.

“I have a feeling that you’re going to take me like a champ,” he said mockingly, and panic rushed through you when you heard the telltale click of his belt being unbuckled. Suddenly, a thought occurred to you—one last Hail Mary.

“Um… Homelander?” you asked softly as you looked at him over your shoulder, hoping that a more compliant, sweet approach might appeal to his generosity.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” he asked, half-distracted as he tugged your panties down your thighs. You pressed them together in an attempt to shut him out, hiding from him what you knew you ultimately couldn’t. He easily forced his glove between your legs, and he slid you open with long, entitled strokes of his fingers. You tensed as he continued to tease your traitorously swollen pussy, forcing you to bite your lip to repress the soft, needy sound that you refused to let him hear.

“Do you have a condom?” you whispered, too breathy, too quiet. He would hear you all the same.

When he didn’t respond right away, you knew that you had said something wrong. Even though he was silent for only a few seconds, it felt like minutes, and you heard your own heartbeat through the table. He suddenly gripped a handful of your hair, tugging just sharply enough to elicit a stuttering gasp out of you.

“Not this fucking time.”

You held your breath.

“Now, while I’m doing this to you, I want you to remember why,” he said while taking position behind you. He smacked your ass with a heavy thud of leather, hard enough to hurt, and you cried out in pain and surprise. He trailed his fingers against your warm, stinging skin, setting your nerves alight with an agonizingly light touch.

”Because no one, not even fucking Madelyn, can stop me,” he hissed.

You felt the hard head of his cock rub against you, slide against you, and the vulgar sound of your wet flesh now accompanied your pounding heartbeat. You braced yourself, trying to ignore how your clit throbbed when he teased against it, as if to mock you, to coax your shame.

You felt him press against your entrance, sliding just the tip of himself in, out, as if he were teasing himself with your pussy. You were breathing a little faster now, losing the will to conceal how your body was reacting to his aggressive touch.

He then forced himself inside of you with one heavy, harsh thrust of his hips.

You made a high, strangled sound, not given even a single moment to adjust to his intrusion. It was when his hips pressed against yours, cock filling you completely, that you felt a bead of your wetness roll down your thigh.

This wasn’t happening.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he groaned with a hint of laughter, as if he were pleasantly shocked. “That’s it,” he growled, locking your hips in place while you squirmed beneath him. “Thaaat’s a good little girl.”

He lowered his chest and flattened himself against you, his face now directly beside yours. His scent was close, all sweat and masculinity, a heady reminder of how deeply you were entwined.

You gripped the edge of the table, wondering when he would finally get it over with. It was like he was staking a claim inside of you, and you were utterly helpless as your pussy contracted around his too-thick cock.

“Oh,” he whispered into your ear, the amused breath of his voice prickling your skin. “I definitely felt that.” You inhaled shakily.

“You know, this whole ‘queer’ thing you always go on about,” he began, his tone dripping with barely-concealed disdain.

He pulled back, then roughly slammed himself into you again. You cried out, but the clamp of his hand quickly muffled the sound.

“You seem to like cock a lot more than you give yourself credit for, missy,” he taunted, his voice low and cruel.

You whined into the leather of his glove, and he tightened his grip over your mouth.

“No, no, no,” he chastised, finally beginning to rock his hips in a slow, torturous rhythm. “You’re going to stay quiet for me, aren’t you?”

You tried to focus on the sensation of his cape repeatedly brushing the backs of your thighs, reaching for something, anything, to ground you. Anything but the heavy, aching feeling of his cock stroking you from the inside, his free hand digging into the flesh of your hip.

“Unless…” he said, moaning softly before he continued, “you want your little work wives to gossip about what a slut you are in the breakroom tomorrow?”

You shook your head, defeated. He freed you from his hold.

“That’s what I thought.”

He paused and stood tall again, cock still buried as he freed you from his oppressive restraint. You almost felt a weak sense of relief, but it was quickly washed away by the sight of him setting his gloves down on the table in front of you. He buried his fingers in your hair again, yanking your head back as he began to fuck you in earnest.

There was no restraint, no safeguard, no Madelyn. He fucked you hard, making it impossible to focus on the feeling of his cape anymore—just the sensation of him repeatedly splitting you in two, punctuated by the sharp slap of his pelvis against your ass. His bare hand squeezed your thigh with little consideration for your comfort, and you were sure that it would leave a nasty bruise.

You needed to distract yourself again. You needed to try.

He slowed his thrusts again, and your breath hitched as you felt his hand roughly grab your right ass cheek. He spread you open, and you were hit by a wave of repulsion when you heard the crude sound of him spitting. Your fists clenched as you felt his warm saliva hit your asshole, his thumb now spreading it all over your tight ring of muscle, easing the tip of it in before sliding in completely. You cried out in pain at the too-sudden, sensitive stretch, your pussy leaking in response.

You hated yourself for it.

With every thrust of his cock and finger, a sickening pleasure swelled in its wake. It was stoked by him, tainted by him, and it was hot and relentless. The more you tried to dissociate from the feeling, the stronger it felt, and an airy whimper was ripped from your throat before you could stop yourself. You began to pant steadily as he fucked both your holes, wanting to disappear when quiet moans floated from your lips like little betrayals.

“Oh, that’s fucking right,” he moaned, his free hand on your back as he pinned you down again. “You were fucking made for me.”

Instead of focusing on the way his cock and thumb pressed against each other as they moved inside of you, you turned your attention toward the potted plant in the corner. You studied the shape of its expensive, synthetic leaves, trying to commit every detail to memory.

You felt both his cock and thumb slip out of you at once, and your holes flexed at the sudden withdrawal. He grabbed your hips and flipped you over, and the movement was so rough, so careless, that you had the wind knocked out of you when your back landed on the table. As you tried to recatch your breath, you hesitantly looked up to see his face for the first time since he started fucking you. His eyes were half-lidded, dark, their gaze penetrating you with drunk lust.

In your mind, his face softened into the golden, kind-hearted expression you had once associated with him. You remembered his beautiful smile, the one that had belonged to the man who appeared in every public service announcement, who regularly donated his wealth to charity. That was not the man who was above you.

He roughly yanked up your shirt and bra to expose your breasts, and you didn’t even attempt to cover them. You had now accepted that there was no hiding from him.

“God, the way you look right now,” he said, almost like a lover. He drank in the sight of your heaving, vulnerable flesh, and you felt truly stripped bare.

He groped your tits, your stomach, your hips, and it felt so, so different from the fantasy that played in your head on repeat for the last week. He trailed his index and middle fingers down your belly, turning them over before gently stroking your aching clit.

You almost preferred it when he was rough.

He reached down and pressed his cock against you again, teasing at your entrance before sliding back in. He grunted as he began to take you in another fast rhythm, brutally fucking high, pathetic sounds out of your mouth. You hazily realized that the table was rocking beneath you.

The more devastated you became, the more aching pleasure you would feel throbbing between your thighs. It was as if your body were punishing you. As if he were punishing you.

His fingers pressed a little more firmly, swirled a little more quickly, and the wet sounds of your pussy responding to his touch made it impossible to hide your arousal. You felt heat mount inside of you, your quiet moans taking on an undeniable color of pleasure that filled you with shame.

This only seemed to fuel him, and he pulled you down onto his cock right as he fucked into you, burying himself so deep like he wanted you to remember it.

You couldn’t bear to look at him anymore—his gaze penetrated you with an expression so hungry, so soulless, that your eyes mechanically shut tight. It was as if your body was deliberately sparing you from another sense.

It was only a moment later before you felt his large hand wrap around your neck. Your eyes popped open.

“I want you,” he growled, beginning to snap his hips in a hard, feverish stacatto, “to look into my eyes when you fucking come.”

You looked up at him, your mouth hanging open in a pleasure so shameful, it cut through your terror. His normally kempt strands of golden hair were askew, his jaw and teeth clenched as if he was barely holding himself back. And his eyes, eyes that were now forever tainted, looked down at you. Hungry, angry, like he wanted to hurt you for making him feel this way.

He squeezed, and you made a pitiful, frightened sound. Your blood began to rush, your body tingling more with every frightened, shallow breath he rammed into you. Your vision blurred until you could only see a haze of red and blue moving above, and all you could feel was him.

You were honed on his fingers rubbing your clit in firm, wet circles with a persistence that made your hips jerk, trying and failing to move away. The relentless sensation of his cock stretched you, his balls slapping against your skin in an intimate humiliation. However, it was the way he murmured low, terrible things to you that finally sent you careening toward the edge.

“You take me so fucking good.”

You strained a whimper, feeling heat rise dangerously inside of you.

“I know you want to come all over my cock, you stupid fucking little slut.”

You held back—no, you tried to hold back, but you were too weak and lightheaded to save yourself.

“Come. Right. Fucking. Now,” he snarled.

Your orgasm was ripped from you, and he didn’t need to cover your mouth because you couldn’t make a sound. You grabbed at his squeezing hand around your neck, feeling heat and pleasure spread through your body like an assault, and trying to free yourself from the feeling only made you come harder. And when the sensation didn’t stop, blooming into another powerful wave in its wake, you came a second time. You felt humiliated as your eyes rolled to the back of your head, your body no longer yours.

“F-fuck,” he stuttered a moan. “Oh, fuck, you’re a shameless little whore, aren’t you?”

He released his grip on your throat, and when you gasped precious air into your lungs, you were filled with an incredible sense of relief and repulsion. A gratefulness to live, made ugly by the still-aching throb of your pussy.

You struggled to catch your breath as he continued to fuck you, papers and pens long-knocked off the table by the force of his thrusts. It was soon after your second orgasm that his moans grew louder, more desperate, and it occurred to you how he never hid how turned on he was. It was as if every decadent, noisy moan and filthy word was to spite you. It was sadistic.

“Wait, pull out,” you gasped, harshly dragged from the surface of your orgasm.

But he kept going. And you felt as if you were being strangled again.

“Please,” you begged, weakly sitting up to reach for his chest. It was as if you were pushing against a wall, and it only seemed to make him groan louder.

“Plea-

He came with a low, guttural sound, animalistically grinding his hips deep into you in a brutal rebuttal. It was devastatingly cruel, but you still ached, still felt hot as you pulsed and cried out beneath him.

His eyes were still shut as he moaned softly with each aftershock, squeezing your thighs in tandem with each jerk of his hips. When he opened his eyes again, he was still panting, looking down at you with a chilling smile.

“See?” he laughed, cleaning your come from his fingers by wiping them against the soft flesh of your stomach. “Told you I’d make it good for you.”

You didn’t respond.

You finally felt him withdraw, and you just lay there on the conference table, skirt still bunched around your waist. You were afraid to sit up, because when you moved, you had to find out what would happen next. How your life would irrevocably change.

“You can get up now,” you heard him say, voice light and amused, as if nothing of note had happened.

You inhaled deeply before you sat up and dropped to your feet, trying to look anywhere but at him. Your panties were nowhere in the immediate vicinity, so you opted just to pull your skirt down to cover your thighs.

He lazily tugged your shirt and bra over your breasts, patting your shoulder as if he were congratulating you for a job well done. He then tucked his softening cock back into his suit and hiked up his pants.

”Well,” he said, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “That was fun, wasn’t it? Can’t believe Madelyn wanted to deprive me of those sweet fucking sounds.”

You smiled weakly, trying to come back to your senses as quickly as possible so you could leave.

“Yeah, um… thank you,” you said, and when you heard the words leave your mouth, you felt sick to your stomach. “I really should get going, though,” you said, not even finishing your sentence before turning to make your way toward the door.

You just had to leave. You just had to leave. You just had to leave. You just had to leave.

You felt a firm hand grab your shoulder before you could get very far. You stopped in your tracks, and you obeyed as you turned around to face him. He tilted his head at you, eyes blinking in rapid succession.

“And where do you think you’re going?” he asked with a bemused smile.

Oh no. Please, no.

“I have a meeting–”

“No you don’t,” he said dismissively, waving a hand as if you had just said something banal. “I checked your schedule today. What’s the rush?” He looked around and found a chair that he had knocked over while fucking you, pulling it upright before sitting down again. He did a come-hither motion with his finger. “Come. Sit with me.”

You felt your stomach sink. What more could he want with you? When you moved toward the chair beside him, he grabbed your arm again.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” he said. He patted his lap.

He couldn’t help himself.

You reluctantly lowered yourself onto his thighs, shutting your legs tight as your heart ceaselessly pounded. It wouldn’t be long now, you told yourself. He was surely too busy to spend much more time with you. Didn’t he have someone to save? Some red carpet to strut down?

“So,” he said, drumming your knee with his fingers, smile wide and friendly as he leaned his face close to yours. “Tell me about yourself.”

You felt a new kind of unease unfurl within your chest, and you weren’t quite sure how to respond.

“I… um…”

“You don’t have to be shy anymore, silly,” he said, playfully tapping his finger against your nose. “Can’t a guy want to get to know a girl better?"

‘Okay, well,” you began tentatively, playing with your fingers in your lap. “I’ve worked for Vought for about a year. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, but I seem to be getting by well enough.”

Maybe a sincere conversation would humanize you. Perhaps he would realize that he had made a terrible mistake, recognize you for the vulnerable underling you were, and leave you in peace.

“I like watching movies, getting the occasional massage… uh, is it true that there’s an executive spa somewhere high in the tower? That rumor’s been going around forever on my floor.”

“It’s not,” he said, letting out a small laugh. “You might want to check your sources.”

It was working—the mood was devolving into something more calm and casual, despite everything pointing to the contrary. You tried to speak as if he were anyone else, as if he hadn’t just done what he had done to you.

“I also like going out dancing. Um, there’s a place nearby, a bar I pretty regularly go to with some friends. The cocktails are pricey, but sufficiently poisonous.”

“Hmm, a real city girl. I like that about you,” he said, still smiling. “I saw you stumble out of that little dive the other night. The way you were spilling out of that black dress… wish you were wearing it now, to be honest.”

You nervously twisted the hem of your skirt, and he placed his hand over yours, taking over in playing with your fingers.

“You’re cute when you’re drunk, you know. Even if you’re a little sloppy.”

You shifted in his lap as he stroked your thigh slowly with the palm of his hand. It was as if he were trying to physically contain you, and the claustrophobia you felt had set back in.

“And… your friends,” he said slowly, emphasizing the word like the very concept itself was a nuisance. “Did you tell any of them about us?”

Us.

“No,” you said. And you never would. Not if you could help yourself.

“Good girl,” he said, satisfied, as if he intrinsically knew that he had secured your silence.

He looked at you for a few moments, as if you were a precious thing. You didn’t know what it meant. You despised how unpredictable he was.

“Were you always a fan of The Seven? Have little posters of us in your bedroom?” he asked, his voice hushed and playful, as if he were sincerely trying to tease you. It was confusing, but you preferred it over his cruelty.

“Yes,” you admitted with a weak smile. “Just like everyone else, I guess.”

“Thought so,” he said. “So, let’s hear it: which of us was your favorite? Whose action figures did you collect… and who did you hump your little pillow to?” He winked, and your face grew hot with embarrassment.

“...You.”

Even if it had not been true, you wouldn’t expect him to appreciate any other answer.

“I like you when you’re honest,” he purred. He stroked your face affectionately, running his thumb gently over your bottom lip.

“You wanna know what else I’ve been wondering?” he asked, voice dropping in a low flirtation.

You genuinely didn’t want to know. But judging by the sound of his voice, you knew that you wouldn’t like whatever he was about to say.

“What?” you asked quietly.

“About what that ‘queer’ little mouth can do.”

You couldn’t do this anymore. This was your limit. You had to leave. You had to try.

“I’m sorry, I really should be going,” you said, quickly standing from his lap. “It was fun, but I—”

You felt him grip your hips before he immediately yanked them back down. You were now facing opposite him as he moved your ass over his lap, rutting into it as he hardened beneath you. The extent of his durability was a cruel joke, and a super refractory period was the punchline.

“You always seem to have somewhere to be,” he tutted. He pulled you against his cock a few more times before lifting you to stand from your seat. He released his hold on you, but you knew you weren’t free.

He stood behind you and reached for your lower back, running his hand up your spine to press it heavily on your shoulder.

“Get on your knees, sweetheart.”

You knew there was no use in fighting him. You turned and sank to the floor, the feeling of your bare knees hitting the carpet a harsh, sensory reminder of his hold over you. He rewarded your compliance with a warm, satisfied chuckle.

“That’s right,” he breathed. “Oh, you’re being so good for me.”

He stroked himself lazily through his pants, then pulled them down just enough for his cock to spring out in front of your face—large, heavy, with a drip of precum leaking from his tip. He seemed to relish the nervous way you looked at it, and you felt worn down and helpless.

You glanced up at him, and it was clear that he was savoring your expression. He had a look on his face that was so smug and unbearable, like he was daring you to touch him, to make the first move.

You needed to survive this.

You hesitantly reached for him, hand wrapping around the thick base of his cock. His shaft felt warm and full in your hand, and when he twitched against your palm, you felt sickened by how effortlessly he took pleasure in this.

“Mm, that’s my girl,” he murmured as he lovingly caressed your scalp.

You began to stroke him slowly as you took the head of him into your mouth, suckling on his smooth, taut skin. You tasted yourself mixed with the salt of his precum, and he felt hot and heady against your tongue in a way you didn’t care to dwell on.

You needed to make this good. You needed him to finish fast. Then he could finally get you out of his system, and you could be on the subway home before anyone noticed there was something wrong.

“Oh, oh–fuck,” he hissed, biting his lip. You looked up at him with wide, performatively sweet eyes, and he groaned, lips parting as he watched you with what could only be described as fascination. You took him in a bit deeper, compartmentalizing the wetness between your thighs as your tongue slid against his skin.

Without warning, he thrust himself into your mouth, pushing a bit farther than you intended to take him. You gagged and withdrew on instinct.

“I’m sorry, I-I can’t,” you said, the meekness in your voice eroding your resolve. “I have a bad gag reflex.”

He couldn’t even let you lead. Let you claim any semblance of agency. Not a shred of it.

“Sure you can,” he said, his voice deceptively kind while he massaged both sides of your head. “Just takes some getting used to, is all.”

He held your head still as he gently pressed his cock against your lips, until you succumbed and let him in. He pushed himself deep inside you again, and you swallowed another gag as he began to slowly fuck your mouth.

Just get through it.

You gagged again, and this time, a tear rolled down your eye.

“Oh, you’re so pretty with your mouth full,” he crooned. He grabbed your hair again, pulling it tight, and you whimpered helplessly around his cock. His moan fell into a low laugh.

Your nose pressed against skin and coarse hair as he buried himself completely, holding you in place as you choked. You gagged harder this time, trying to suppress the urge to vomit.

Just take it and you can leave.

He picked up speed, rolling his hips as he truly fucked your face. He roughly pushed into your throat like it was his to use, and intermittently pressed himself inside and held you in place, as if he wanted to luxuriate in the full reach of your surrender.

You couldn’t breathe, so you desperately tried to focus on inhaling through your nose whenever he withdrew long enough to allow you to. Drool and tears slid down your skin, and you held onto his thighs for support, something to steady yourself. A distant part of you worried that it could be mistaken for interest.

His groans grew louder, and all you could feel was the hope that it might be over soon. He gripped your head hard and pulled you onto him as he throatfucked you, and you gagged violently, horrified by the visceral rise of bile that was ejected from your esophagus. You quickly tried to swallow it.

“Your–fucking–mouth–is-mine,” he growled between hard snaps of his hips. Your throat burned, suffocated by him, until he finally pulled out.

You started to cough, but before you could fully recover, he let out a low, strangled sound.

You felt hot ropes of cum streak across your face, your cheeks, your lips. He groaned low and deep, squeezing your mouth open so he could stroke the last few drops onto your tongue. He tasted bitter.

You fell back onto the carpet and sat there, stunned.

That was it. He needed to let you go now. You made him come twice.

Instead, he tucked himself in and sat back down again. You trembled.

“Mm. Fuck, you are good,” he laughed, watching you as you remained shocked on the floor. “You know, the way you started… well, I guess you’re a little more enthusiastic than you’d like to let on.” He plucked a tissue from a box on the table and nonchalantly handed it to you. You reached out to take it.

His smug expression was gut-churning, and as you wiped his sticky mess from your face, you knew that you hated him.

You were horrified that that was his interpretation. You were just trying to appease him. Trying to help him finish so you could finally leave. So you didn’t have to keep thinking about how hot and thick his cock felt as it was sliding in your mouth.

You stood up then and waited in front of him, a shell.

“Okay, I’m going to let you go soon, I promise,” he said, raising his hands in a peace offering. I just have one more question.“

You nodded, but you had long lost hope that he was telling the truth.

“Where do you see yourself here? At Vought?” he asked, eyes shining at you.

You had forgotten you were still at work. Everything was a blur, but you still responded.

“I want to be a lead for VoughtMind.”

You kept your contribution curt this time.

“Mm, now there’s some ambition,” he said, tapping his temple. “Real cute. Girl power, right?” He pumped his fist in condescending encouragement.

“Yeah.”

“You know, now that we’ve gotten properly acquainted, maybe I can help you with that. Pull some strings. There are some benefits to fucking the big guy, right?”

You paused. You didn’t like the implication that there would be more encounters after this. That you would be “fucking.” That he could put you through this again. And again.

He glanced down between your thighs, and another wave of dread overcame you.

“Hm,” he said, regarding you. His eyes flickered between your tits and your hips, as if he were rolling an idea around in his head. “Maybe I’m not done with you yet. I mean, God,” he purred, as if he were observing a phenomenal work of art. “You get me hard like that,” and he snapped his fingers on the last word.

You didn’t say anything. You just watched him, utterly devastated, as he pulled himself out again.

He curled his arms under your thighs and lifted you with ease, as if you weighed nothing at all. You gasped as he hoisted you up by your ass, lining you up just right before he lowered you back down onto his perseveringly stiff cock.

He fucked you again, right there in the middle of the room, your arms braced around his neck as he continued to use you. This time around, however, you quickly zoned out. Everything slowed to a surreal blur, but you experienced flashes of moments in your consciousness.

Him growling something cruel into your ear. The aggressive way he bounced you onto his cock while his fingers dug into your ass. It was almost as if you were a human fleshlight, and a part of you almost wanted to laugh, even if it conflicted with the hot tears that were now falling down your cheeks.

You felt yourself grow hot, throbbing, and you were shocked out of your numb reverie to the feeling of his cock ramming against you at an angle, his pelvis grinding against your clit. Your pussy was so swollen with overuse and stimulation from your previous orgasms, that you no longer felt any pleasure.

You hated how good it felt at first. How freely your body responded, how the feeling of your skin connecting with his pulled you into a dark, repulsive spiral. Now, all you could feel was a pulsing hurt.

You started to wail as you were overstimulated, whimpering in half-pain, half-humiliation as he fucked you through each weakening contraction of your pussy. He didn’t even try to cover your mouth this time.

Time seemed to shrink as you became even less present in yourself, hazy in the specifics of what was happening to you. You had the feeling that you were on your knees, or maybe on the floor, legs pressed back near your head. Something hot and sticky landing on your stomach.

You were sitting on his lap, quiet, not making out the words he was saying. The sensation of teeth digging into your neck between hot, wet kisses.

When you returned to your body again, your cries were arriving at an apex you didn’t remember climbing, your back pressed hard against the wall as a brutal ache tore through your body. He filled you again, moaning, pressing his forehead against yours as he jerked violently inside of you. You couldn’t stop yourself from twitching and whimpering during his hard aftershocks, and the sounds of your moans combined—yours frightened and his pleasured—wracked you with surges of indignity.

He laughed like a man in love, forehead still pressed to yours in an unearned show of intimacy. He lifted you off of his cock and set you down to stand before him, grabbed your hips, and pulled you against his front.

“Mm, baby, I don’t think it’s possible for me to get tired of you,” he said, grinning down at you in twisted adoration. “I could keep you here all night.”

It was then that you broke.

You hunched over in a sob, your shoulders heaving as every feeling inside of you overflowed from your body. It was as though every inch of you had finally acknowledged what you had experienced, and there wasn’t enough space for you to persist anymore.

You were unbelievably sore. Your entire body ached, and your legs threatened to give out under you from the sheer intensity of your trembling.

You stuttered an ugly, vulnerable sound as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer in his embrace.

You resisted leaning your head against his chest, even though this would typically be your instinct. But when you felt him lift your chin with two fingers, you opened your wet, glossy eyes to look at him. You knew you didn’t have a choice.

He returned your gaze with an expression that felt different than all the others you’ve seen before. Something unpleasantly sincere.

He looked at you for a few moments, his crystalline eyes examining you as if he were considering your feelings for the very first time. He leaned in close and kissed you, his touch slow and unnervingly gentle. It almost felt chaste, until you felt his cum slowly dripping down your thigh.

He broke the kiss with a soft “mm”, and when he was stroking your cheek, you realized that the look on his face was worry.

“Hey, hey…” he said, his voice low and soothing, fingers stroking the back of your head. “That was a lot, huh?”

He gave you a few more tender kisses—on the corner of your lips, your cheek, and below your eye where your tears were still falling.

“It’s normal to feel overwhelmed after being fucked right for the first time,” he said gently. “You did so well for me. So perfect for me.”

You continued to whimper and sob, but relief didn’t come. He kissed the top of your head.

“You’re okay,” he murmured into your hair, rocking you gently in his arms. “You’re okay.”

As if he didn’t do what he did to you.

And what disturbed you more was that you felt yourself leaning your head against him, burying your face against the textured fabric of his suit as you cried.

You just needed to be held. And he was the closest one who could do it.

“I’m going to be good to you from now on, just you wait,” he said, cupping the back of your head with his palm. He held you like that for another minute until your sobs began to slow, your gasps for air settling into the occasional exhausted sniff. He released you from his hold, and you backed away from him, wiping your tears with your fingers.

How long had you been there? You didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to behave. You reached for your phone, but it was no longer in your pocket.

You turned to look at the clock on the wall for the first time since you entered the room. It was 6 PM.

It was as if you had traveled through time. You felt profoundly disoriented, as if you had woken up from a long, restless sleep.

“Let me take you home,” he said softly. He handed you your phone.

You nodded, tears still steadily rolling down your cheeks when you took it from him. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t fight.

He led you out of the room to the nearest elevator, and you were grateful that the halls were quiet. You couldn’t bear to see anyone.

You stood there together as he entered a code into the elevator’s console, his arm around you the entire time. While your mind was empty, you registered your own confusion when the elevator began to ascend.

You rode together quietly, and when the doors slid open, he led you up a smaller stairwell, which led to another door. He opened it and held it for you, and when you walked through, the cool night air hit your skin.

He had taken you to the roof. The view would have been beautiful under any other circumstance, but you felt a creeping dread when you realized how high up both of you were. How you had no idea what his intentions were.

He hoisted you into his arms for the second time that night, bridal-style, the same way he held the people he saved on the news. You didn’t fight it, but you startled as he began to move toward the edge of the roof.

“Wait,” you started, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Hold on, I’ve got you.”

You were temporarily snapped out of your numbness when you felt wind suddenly rush past you. He was flying, and when you looked down and saw that the city was thousands of feet below you, you squeezed your arms around his neck so tightly that you were afraid he might drop you to your death.

“Relax, I won’t let go,” he yelled over the din of fast-moving air. You simply screwed your eyes shut until it was over, trying to bear the cut of the chilling altitude.

After a few primal, terrifying minutes, you gradually felt the world slow down, the rush in your ears quiet, and the cold of the evening settle against your skin. Your shoes made contact with solid ground, and when you staggered away from him, dizzy, you opened your eyes. You were standing on your apartment’s living room balcony.

“Mind if I come in? No more funny business tonight, I promise,” he said, arms raised in the air in modest surrender. “I just want to hold you.”

His expression was so convincingly sincere that you almost believed him.

You nodded blankly, opening the sliding door so he could follow you through the threshold. You never kept it locked, and it occurred to you that he must have known this already. As you entered your living room and kicked off your shoes, he made his way toward the kitchen, and you heard the sounds of him searching through cabinets. He returned with a glass of water, and you took it from him and drank, allowing him to settle his arms around your waist before he leaned to whisper into your ear.

“Need to rest?” he asked, his voice soft and confusingly attentive.

“Yeah,” you replied. You were too exhausted to form a thought. Too whittled down to shrink away when he pressed a light, tender kiss to your shoulder.

He let go of you then, and you padded away toward your bedroom.

You stripped off your clothing, suddenly feeling suffocated by them, and crawled beneath your sheets. You curled yourself onto your side, shutting your eyes so sleep could take you before your mind returned.

In your half-conscious daze, you heard the sound of footsteps entering your room, followed by a click and rustle of fabric dropping to the floor. Your mattress creaked as it sank beside you, and you felt an arm wrap around your middle.

Homelander’s skin was bare and warm against yours, the soft hair on his chest pressing into your back. He nuzzled your neck, sighing into you as he stroked your belly with slow, affectionate caresses.

In that moment, you were resigned. It felt comforting.

Tag list: @themeraldee @heloixe @rainbowangel

#homelander #the boys #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #tw noncon #homelander x reader #homelander x queer reader #tw homophobia #tw vomiting #tw violence

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riewritten · 2 days ago

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𝐎𝐈𝐋 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 · CHAPTER SIX · AO3

˚ · .─ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: YOU, a college student in Frankfurt, start receiving emails that embarked the dim of normalcy you worked so hard to build on your own; starting from a message claiming you as the light amidst the hell of Kinderheim, who came just in time to bring a paradise of doomsday and grime, something that pleased the monster inside him. Initially, you thought of reporting the email as spam until another ding came: the monster, so pleased and full, is aiming to return the favor—something to flesh out the paradise you had granted him back at Kinderheim.

˚ · .─ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: JOHAN/Fem!reader | 5.5k words

˚ · .─ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: explicit language, canon-typical violence, stalking, manipulation, obsessive tendencies, paranoia, abduction, threats of sexual assault, self-harm, suicide, among many things that might arise.

Much to his seemingly omniscient mind, there are things Johan cannot remember.

For instance, Johan would never agree that his tiny and frail self back then used to desire normalcy so bad—he wanted to be with his other half, wanted to eat three times a day without being injected by stuff that makes him sadder, and wanted to have friends whom he could play with if instances came that his other half wasn't around.

However, in the grim abode of Kinderheim 511, he was only granted the last one—you, a new friend, one that could be there while his other half wasn't around, albeit you were equally desperate for normalcy as he was.

However, his interactions with you were so controlled, so minuscule, and it robbed him of the privilege to just bask in and enjoy the moment. It was as if you and he were mere pets for the cruelest elders—pets that are too stupid to understand the rationale of their owners who punish them.

Therefore, only your interactions with him served as his reference for what it means to be normal and to wear a positive face.

His practice in the mirror every time after his hangout with you is, perhaps, something he can faintly remember.

Say, for example, you come to him with a storybook, all buoyant and thrilled. When the day ends and he has to go back to the place where no one could see the expressions you had worn, Johan would take a look at the mirror. Johan would stare at it for a solid hour or so, then he’d imitate the faces you’ve made for him. A smile. A wider smile. A smile with eyes shining with anticipation. Then a chuckle. A cute one. Then it becomes a cackle. A buoyant chortle. He'd twist his face into the exact excitement you've had while playing with him.

Oh, dear, the frail little boy Johan was years, years ago.

He might’ve learned to bury it deep inside him, and perhaps he can only faintly remember (or not at all, who knows?) what it took for him to become the formidable monster that he is right now—the exercises he'd done by the mirror, the desperation, the hopelessness, and the loveliest people his then tiny, frail body held dear only to be trampled in front of him in small little pieces by this vile, vile world.

He doesn’t feel anything whenever he goes down such a memory lane, despite how blurry it is; if anything, it’s amusing him. Remembering his minuscule childhood memories is, after all, brought upon by nothing but your presence as of late, as you always do, ever since he came to introduce himself as his other half to get you back.

Johan is sitting across from you, sipping his rose tea, wearing his black turtleneck and khaki pants, his posture poised and casual as if this is nothing for him but another long-awaited reunion.

This moment in front of him is a scene being etched so well in his memory right now.

He observes you as he usually does, noting that you're much calmer compared to the previous nights. Perhaps you're starting to get desensitized to his presence, albeit he also notices how unacceptable that reason is for you. You’re stubborn like that; you cannot accept a reason that's beyond your control—it will make you crazy. That particular personality made you Daddy’s good girl, after all; it’s what led you and him to set Kinderheim ablaze.

What a lovely living paradox you are, and how drawn Johan must have been to it from then until now.

Johan’s silent ruminations are cut off when you sigh frustratingly.

“This isn’t helping me. I don’t understand what this means or what it has to do with my arrangement at Kinderheim years ago.” Pertaining to the storybook atop the table separating you both, one that he brought with him the time he came to your room.

“It's not that you don't understand, you just try your best not to. You're scared.”

As expected of you, Johan thinks to himself. But he figures he should spare you his provocations tonight. There are more days to come when he can test your patience. Perhaps this unfolding talk is the buildup for it.

“You've been seeking answers to your childhood—even going beyond lengths of asking mere strangers like Grimmer for validation—and yet now that the answers are all laid down before you, you're backtracking?” Ironic that Johan's soft voice has shot daggers into your soul, painfully so, that you cannot even open your mouth to rebut. You just start shaking more. “Are you scared? Well then, don't blame the book for not helping when it's you who can't help yourself.”

And he's not completely wrong either. Looking at your face right now—from the scrunch of your brows up to the shaking of your fingers as you fix your gaze at the storybook in question—Johan can see that you know very well how important this book really was for both of you.

Face etched in confusion, your fingers absentmindedly trace its cover—the papier mache of matchsticks and flames. It looks exactly like your dream, minus the fact that it looks much older and tattered. Tears and burns here and there that couldn't be diminished, even if it's Johan who has preserved it all these years.

Perhaps you're also overwhelmed at the fact that he had this with him the entire time, trying to escape the dooming realization that out of all the people in this world, the only person who can answer the most important questions in your life is the man you hate the most.

“Do you remember who made it? I know you do,” Johan provokes. “Can you tell me who?”

You gulp. God, please. I don’t want to go through this—the child inside you screams.

“No, of course I don’t.”

“Is that what makes you avoid this book right now?” Johan chuckles. “Worry not, though. It’s only you and me in the room right now,” You flinch at the discomfort his remark has brought. “You don’t need to feign ignorance. You have no people to impress.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“No one has to hear about how disdainful you are of the blood running in your veins. Come on, tell me,” Johan crouches nearer to ask as if it’s also in his best interest to keep the little secret only between you and him. “Who made this book? This is what made you interested in seeing the fireworks up close in the first place. Who made you so interested in such a thing?”

The repulsion over his remark is then replaced by guilt. How correct Johan is right now. And you know—with this smile on his face—that he didn't enter your room tonight with this storybook in hand for nothing. He entered here to make you remember, and Johan, when set on a cruel goal, isn't a monster to mess with.

He will not leave this room until you remember everything.

“The one who made this book… T-the one who—”

“Hmm?”

You try to open your mouth again to register it out loud, only to find it extra difficult with Johan’s gaze fixed on you, perhaps in anticipation.

But then again, can you really bear to let this opportunity come loose? Why, when you want to remember everything?

“Come on, darling. You can do it.”

“My father,” you rasp. Turns out, these two words might be the heaviest words you’ve uttered in a while. “H-he’s the one who made this. I know… I remember.”

“Perfect,” Johan praises. “What a strong girl, to finally admit it out loud this time.”

The fact that Johan understands very well how heavy vocalizing this fact is for you makes you tremble. This confirms the grim fact: the one you hate the most right now is the same and only person who knows you head to toe.

How ironic, indeed, and there’s no use letting pride permeate your mind. You have to cooperate. Even if it means letting Johan dominate the discussion, you have to know the things he knows about you.

You sigh, close your eyes, and then when you open them again, it’s not one full of aversion and fear anymore.

Johan clicks a proud smile. There goes his favorite look—the same determined eyes you had that fateful night when you were kids! When you saved him from the Kinderheim teachers trying to eliminate him, which then paved the way to end the Kinderheim once and for all!

“Tell me everything, then,” you order. “I know that my father made this, and I know that he did so under the premise that I’ll help in ending Kinderheim. But how? How can this mere storybook make me… make us rather… do such a thing?”

“Perhaps reading it out loud can help."

And you're not in the mood to give a bedtime story as if this evening is nothing but a tranquil hangout with a long-lost friend. You sigh and reply, “Stop messing around.”

“Read it out loud, line by line,” says Johan as he puts his tea on the table. Then he rests his elbows on his knees, palms on his chin, before continuing, “Then internalize how each line makes you feel. That's one way to remember.”

You are silent for a while.

And, well, to be fair with Johan’s suggestion, even though you just read the storybook, you did not actually take its content to your heart. Perhaps out of fear.

“B-but… would that really help me?”

“No harm in trying, yeah?”

Once upon a time, In a quiet little room, tucked inside an old drawer, There lived a lonely matchstick. The matchstick lived inside a box with many others. But unlike the rest, he had never been lit. Every day, children would open the box, take him out, And try to make him burn. "Why won't you catch fire?" they'd whisper. They scraped him across rough stone. They pressed him against metal. They soaked him in oil, dried him under the sun. One day, they even tied a ribbon around his neck, Thinking it might cheer him up. But no matter how hard they tried, The matchstick stayed cold and dim. He watched as his siblings blazed briefly, Crackled joyfully, And disappeared into smoke. The children grew frustrated. “This match is broken,” they said.

Indeed.

Oh god, why didn't you remember it sooner?

The frail little Johan felt as though he was enclosed in a box. A matchstick inside its box, waiting for his turn to be ignited only to no avail.

Oftentimes, the elders at Kinderheim try to ignite the flames inside him; Johan, in full protest for being separated from his other half, had never given them the privilege to see it at first, but dear, wasn't it exhausting. After all, the teachers of Kinderheim were persistent people. Little Johan once hoped they would just choose another matchstick to light up and toss him away from this godforsaken box. Only if the teachers of Kinderheim were not very persistent freaks.

Day after day, the children tried something new. Once, they dipped him in salt. Another time, they humorously left him in the freezer to mock his lacking. They laughed when he snapped a little. They sighed when he didn’t cry sparks. Each day, the matchstick returned to the box— Worn, splintered, ashamed. But deep inside, a thought kept him alive: “Maybe tomorrow, I’ll finally burn. And they'll dispose of me. And then I'll run back to where I'm supposed to be.”

They try and try and try and try to light him up. And the dear frail little Johan would experience things his poor little mind wouldn't even dare recall thereafter. Perhaps he can remember some—his whimpers, his muffled sobs when the sessions became too unbearable, his exhaustion, his disdain. Disdain disdain disdain. Untameable disdain.

You huffed a sob and took your time to settle your thoughts down.

Because now, you remember everything that frail little mess of a boy had revealed to you after you claimed that “their quizzes will make him a good boy.”

You remember, then, that you cried with him, hugged him so tight he had to laugh because he couldn't breathe, and expressed your deepest apologies for making such a claim, for believing the rotten guys, and even Daddy, who had their fair share of hurting you as well.

You finally recall how these sessions had pushed him beyond his limits every single time, that he eventually forgot the reason behind his muffled whimpers. By the time they were done with him, he could only feel nothing but dreadful emptiness. And there, the teachers of Kinderheim would bring him back inside his dark, dark box.

And the cycle would persist. It'd persist, frustratingly so.

What changed the cycle?

Eventually, the children got sick of it. “We’re wasting our time,” they said. “Let’s try something better. Something stronger.” Ah, the time they pursued another method to ignite poor little Johan the matchstick: by changing his routine. Their efforts had finally borne fruit then, much to Johan's disdain. So they took the matchstick from the box, Carried him up a long flight of stairs, And placed him beside an igniter so bright and shiny. It stood on a shelf in the dark. It didn’t talk. It didn’t blink. But when it breathed, the air smelled like thunder. “This will do,” the children smiled. And they left. The matchstick stared at the igniter in awe. “You’re not like us,” he whispered. “You have power. I can feel it from here.” The igniter said nothing. “You see, you see, I’ve never burned,” the matchstick continued. “They tried everything, but I’m still just wood and silence. Are you strong enough to change that?” The igniter replied, “I am strong enough to end you.” The matchstick shivered, it is a shiver out of seamless joy, “End me?”

How could Johan disdain this new routine—during the time he can still feel hatred—when the new routine in question was you smothering him with flowers and smiles at Kinderheim's back garden?

Such a conflict you had brought to his tiny and frail mind.

Fortunately for the teachers at Kinderheim, anticipating his potential, little Johan the matchstick was on the verge of igniting. What would happen to a matchstick, indeed, when it finally meets a very potent igniter?

It sets itself ablaze.

“My flame does not flicker. It consumes. You will be ash. A whisper. Nothing.” The matchstick was quiet for a long time. Then he asked, “What kind of flame can you make?” The igniter paused. And then, almost softly, it said: “A fire so large it rips the sky apart. A fire with colors no matchstick has ever seen.” The matchstick’s heart leapt. “A firework…” he whispered. “I’ve heard stories. I thought they weren’t real.” “They’re very real,” said the igniter. “But not for matchsticks like you.” “I want to see one,” said the matchstick. “I want to be part of that. Even if I vanish— Even if I turn to dust— I want to see the fireworks up close.”

You shut your eyes tight. Fingers clinging onto the edge of the storybook start shaking in unknown but raw fear. You try to avert your gaze away from the trigger, only to land on Johan's face. Smiling at you. Serene. Empty. So contrary to the face you're making right now.

“You are a fool,” said the igniter. “Then let me be a fool,” the matchstick replied. “With you, I can finally burn for something beautiful.” The igniter was silent. Then, with a soft sigh, It sparked. The matchstick gasped as heat coursed through him. He flared with a brilliance he never imagined. Red, orange, white—his tiny body blazing like a star. He laughed, “I’m burning! I’m finally burning!” The igniter did not reply. Instead, it opened its chest. And together, they became one. The night was silent. And then— Boom! The sky erupted.

The little room Johan has put you in has changed.

Suddenly, you two are inside the burning Kinderheim. There goes the smell of children's corpses. Tears and snot drooling all over your little face. The rotten air chokes your throat, and yet Johan is still smiling at the scene—so serene, so empty.

Colors like spilled dreams danced above the rooftops. Ribbons of gold, sparks of violet, petals of blue. The children looked up from the window. “Fireworks!” they cried. “Look! Look!” But there was no one left on the shelf. No matchstick. No igniter. Just a curl of smoke, And a scent that lingered like memory.

Johan cups both your cheeks; the action cuts off the intensifying flames before you.

The burning sanctuary dissipates into dust. It snaps back into the room he has put you in.

It's just that he's not smiling anymore. His face is as serene as ever, yet the emptiness seems to start consuming him more.

And yet, with his voice ever so gentle, so persuading, he asks, “Continue.”

Nauseous tension starts reeking in your nerves, threatening to make your body explode if this talk continues further. This is the closest Johan has ever been to you undisguised. You can even feel strands of his hair on your forehead, the hot air coming out of his nose, glazing onto your tear-stricken face, which then betrays his corpse-like physique. You wonder how you're supposed to read the rest when you're trapped in between his palms.

And yet he still presses, “Continue the story for me, darling.”

"S-some say the matchstick never truly died…

That a part of him still dances in every firework…

Every time the sky explodes, he is there…

shining, cracking, laughing.

And though he was gone, at least he saw the fireworks up close.

That… that was all he ever wanted."

It daunts you, then, that you just managed to narrate all that up until the very end without looking at the book. Nothing but Johan's empty eyes. Johan, on the other hand, is full of unreadable gleam. And there, when he realizes that you memorize the story line by line once again, he beams. His once empty eyes are shining, satisfied. A squint and you'd see a small sparkle in his eyes, as if the little kid in him is jumping in nostalgic joy: you're back to me. You're back you're back you're back!

“Johan…”

Oh, how weak the heart that wants to run away when it finally gets what it so desires. Not even able to utter a word, you just let the tears stream down your face. Suddenly, the man you hated smiling in front of you turns into a kid you endear the most. The tiny, frail Johan. The extremely skinny Johan. The sleepy little dear who always struggles to keep his eyes open whenever he’s with you at the flower-filled garden of Kinderheim, and yet he still tries just to appease your naivety.

Oh, your dearest friend Johan.

And yet you cannot feel anything now but agonizing conflict over the things both of you have done. You want to jump right into his arms but doing so feels like erasing what he is right now.

After all, you possess the humanity Johan lacks. There goes the remorse, too, because come what may, starting this night, you wouldn't be able to mindlessly hate this man like before.

It's as if Johan can sense your conflict. He closes his eyes then withdraws his hands from your cheeks—slowly—as if they were glued together the entire time.

You close the book, heartbeat drumming in your ear like it wants to run away from this room if you're still not compelled to do so yourself.

“My father wrote this storybook specifically for the two of us… We were its main characters.”

He hums, brightening more in anticipation, knowing you still have it in you to say more.

“He wrote this book to establish in our feeble little minds that we're meant to be together. All in pursuit of burning Kinderheim down to shreds.”

It just so happened that the hands of these teachers inside Kinderheim holding him as he set himself ablaze became mere collateral.

And you, the igniter, remain unscathed. As you should be.

“How stupid of me to regard it as a fairy tale love story as a child.”

“Is it not?”

“I perceived the matchsticks’ lines as love and therefore wanted to see the fireworks up close to actualize that love.” This is when you start sobbing. “Stupid—such a stupid thing to believe. Maybe that's why it worked. Because I'm Daddy's stupid little girl. He used your rage and smarts; he used my desperation and ignorance. God, I can't keep living like this,” you huff a sob, letting the angry tears run down your cheeks like a toddler who just got bullied by the streets. “Grimmer was wrong. He was so wrong about me. How dare I cling to them?!”

Johan's smile is enough of an agreement.

Gratitude to your father, for the two of you wouldn't be able to remember all of this had it not been for the storybook he customized for him and you—all in pursuit of setting Kinderheim 511 ablaze.

And now that you remember it, too, he looks like he's seeing a world beyond your comprehension, a world he's yet to tell you soon enough.

He doesn’t comfort you—no, he wouldn’t do what his other half would’ve done this time around. He has no name to wear anymore, no need to fool you for you remember him again head to toe. His posture resembling a smiling mannequin—one that is barely there unless you squint your eyes hard enough—is perhaps his own way to say that your childhood dearest never really left your side.

“Let's continue this talk tomorrow,” you mumble in between sobs, not even gaining the capacity to look him in the eye and usher him outside.

But much to your and Johan's awareness, something has changed.

“Good night, Johan.”

Johan's smile widens. “Good night.” And then he closes the door.

Later that night, you woke up back at your dorm.

That much is an indicator that this is none but a hopeless dream, for Johan doesn't seem to have a plan to bring you back.

The first thing you test is your breathing. Calm. Then you open your mouth, trying to take in as much air as possible—inhale, inhale, inhale until you can’t anymore. You let the air in until there’s an uncomfortable pressure in your chest.

Then you exhale. Abruptly.

You look at your surroundings with no thoughts in mind; everything seems normal. Back to its own place. No trigger would make you faint out of fear.

But when your eyes linger on the spare bed of your dorm, the very spot Anna (or Johan, technically so) used to lie down, there goes a ringing thought in your head.

You jump out of bed in a rush, running down the complex until you see a familiar figure outside. Grimmer!

Indeed it is a dream, because Grimmer looks grim. He doesn't smile at you, doesn't flinch—this is the exact image of him in your head once he gets to know who you really are.

And so instead of hugging him, you ask, “Where's Johan?”

“You wouldn't want to know.”

“I do.”

“Leave him alone,” Grimmer calls your name. “He's a parasite. He gets into your brain. He eats you up to make a space for himself. A monster.”

“I told you, didn't I? There's something only I can recall, and I'm making progress!”

“That doesn't matter now. Johan is gone. Have you seen the bed he used to occupy? It was as if he was never there.”

Still in denial, you press, “I told you, there's a task that cannot be done unless I go somewhere no one but me knows. Johan will help me remember where that is. He can help me find myself that I've been missing for years.”

“Do you still think finding yourself can end all the chaos he had caused?”

“Yes! This will end once I—”

“Then ease yourself of such delusion!” Grimmer snaps, something so unlikely of him. “You managed to gain a missing piece of yourself that night when Johan made you read that storybook. What happened then, huh?”

Your eyes widen.

“You stopped being hostile towards him—even disgustingly admitting to yourself that you wanted to jump into his arms!”

“B-but—”

“Do you think he cares about you the way he did when you were children? Then make him hate you now. Hate is the only thing he can comprehend. Something he can manage. Look at the people he had loved and cared for.”

And then you remembered Anna.

Grimmer's disdainful eyes soften as he pleads a fact to be drilled in your head.

“If Johan comes to love you again, he’ll do it by hollowing you out and wearing you like a second skin.”

This dream then sets another pivotal question.

Where is the real Anna now?

On the other side of the world, another room is deconstructing the same storybook. Although their motive is similar to Johan's—which is to take you back—theirs bears a completely different path on what it means to bring you back.

Grimmer rubs his palms together as he paces, eyes darting between the photocopies of the storybook page by page pinned to a makeshift corkboard. Lunge stands by the window, typing invisible keys into the air. Tenma sits stiffly, reading and rereading a single, half-burned document until the ink blurs into nonsense.

“It was mailed anonymously,” Lunge exhales. “At the place where the three of us used to meet.”

“Oh? Is that why we’re in a completely different place this time around?” Grimmer gets distracted for a while. “I admire your connections, Inspector Lunge. A half-renovated police outpost on the outskirts of Frankfurt is indeed a safer place than the one we previously had.”

“No, there is no such thing as a safe place if we’re talking about Johan,” Tenma corrects him. “It wouldn’t be surprising that he is seeking us as well. Mailing this storybook to aid our investigation is a telltale sign of his mockery of our attempt to surface that girl.”

Luckily for the three, they know that sometimes monsters do not wait for the dark to show themselves.

Grimmer tries to distract himself from the looming realization by changing the topic, one no less important than the other. “Johan, according to that girl’s father, is the best subject to ever exist at Kinderheim 511. That much is known by us already. He arrived at the institution not long after his daughter did. All the adoration towards her was then subjected to Johan. Slowly, they started losing interest in her; they started getting harsher to her during sessions.”

“I see,” Lunge motions his fingers as if typing, a habit the two have already gotten used to. “And the father is too late to get his child out of this arrangement; he's already stuck deep in it. He couldn't afford to have them lose whatever affection they had left for her. “His anger rekindled. It came to a point where he thought of strategies that could outsmart his child's arrangement, outsmart the Department of Internal Affairs, and, most of all, outsmart the very people behind the management of Kinderheim...”

Lunge’s hypothesis also sets inside Tenma grimly. “It just so happened that Johan is the greatest tool that could help; hence, this storybook was made. Is that right, Grimmer?”

Grimmer nods before he calls his name, “Doctor Tenma.”

“Y-yes?”

“When you tell me if I want to know more about how dangerous Johan could be, even to those people he would've been connected with emotionally, can you finally answer? I don't think I can fear the answer that much this time…”

“N-no. I can't.”

“Please, Doctor.”

Tenma closes his eyes. He remembers the bloody Heidelberg incident. The Fortners’ unfortunate demise. Jacob Maurer, who got into this mess because of his negligence.

“Years ago, Johan, he… He lured her only twin sister to see him at Heidelberg Castle through the same cryptic emails. I tried to run after her, only to no avail, as Johan had already gotten her. And by the time I went back to her foster parents’ house, they were… t-they were already dead. I was too late. Anna had been living under a different name, so I wasn't able to find her in time.”

Needless to say, Grimmer’s already seeing where this is going.

“I wasn’t able to find Anna. Another year later, I visited a large ancestral house in the Czech Republic to investigate Johan’s childhood. Turns out it got closed to the public after a girl shot herself inside that very building. I asked the locals, and the description of the girl resembled Anna. And not long after, I managed to acquire this…”

Tenma takes the envelope out of his duffel. Inside, a crumpled funeral notice slips out. Anna — no surname. Found at the base of the Red Rose Mansion, 3 Červeny St., Prague. Cause of death: Apparent suicide. Unclaimed. Buried at a municipal plot.

Tenma cries, and then he adds in a whisper, “Oh Anna, you poor girl, may your soul rest in peace.”

The blood in Grimmer's face runs cold.

Anna? Your roommate? The pretty girl with blonde hair who made Grimmer shake in fear for reasons unknown?

Did he just say that the real Anna has been dead for a while now and that her final days were quite similar to yours? If this is the case, then he might be wrong on one hand. Johan might not be able to physically harm you, but he could make you…

Oh god.

“This wasn’t Johan’s doing,” Grimmer says, voice raw. “Not directly. He would never push her himself. But… she must have seen something. Something that made her do that.”

Tenma swallows down the acid taste in his throat. “Perhaps she saw the monster he’d become. And she realized she could never pull him back.”

Lunge’s eyes drift to a charred folder spread on the table: Kinderheim 511: Special Subject 0247. The specific finding was written after her supposedly “last” encounter with little Johan, not long before 511 was burnt down to shreds.

He taps a line with his pen and reads it out loud:

“Displays unique potential for empathy toward hostile or predatory peers. Subject’s compliance and retention of self-compassion deemed ‘exceptional.’”

Lunge exhales, cold and factual as always. “This girl we’re looking for — she isn’t just bait. She’s the substitute for what Johan lost. The moment Anna took her own life, he would have needed someone who could stay by his side and watch him burn.”

Grimmer scoffs, a pained, half-mad sound. “So he found the only other child Kinderheim ever said could ‘understand monsters.’ She’s a stand-in. A walking tombstone for the sister he broke.”

A heavy silence settles over the three. Somewhere in the distance, a siren cuts through the night air. It fades as quickly as it came. Tenma grips the funeral notice so tightly that the paper creases in his palm. Anna Liebert. Gone for years, yet every room still stinks of her absence.

Lunge’s gaze shifts to the evidence board. Your photo is tacked beside the scorched remnants of the Kinderheim ledger. His voice drops, even softer than usual. “We were never searching for just one lost child. We’ve been searching for the ghost of another.”

Grimmer looks up, eyes wet, mouth trembling with words he can’t contain. “Tell me we can still get her back. Tell me Johan hasn’t—”

Tenma cuts him off, voice hoarse but certain. “We will get her back. I cannot afford to make the same mistake again.” He sets the funeral notice down beside the burnt report — Anna’s name beside yours.

“The little girl wanted to see fireworks up close,” Lunge murmurs, thumb brushing the striking pad. “Anna did. The now adult girl does too.”

Grimmer drops his eyes to the photocopy of the storybook corked at the board. The papier mache of matchsticks and flame. His eyes are as dark as an oil well flare.

And in the deepest pit of this dreary night, the three come to understand:

Anna Liebert might’ve died years ago.

But Johan Liebert’s fireworks have only just begun.

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