#and no I didn’t look at a reference why do you ask

[mihsella]

That other side of you.

Minors DNI!!

Bob Reynolds / Void x Female Reader

Summary: Void has been growing desperate, seeing how you and Bob fucked whenever you guys wanted to. He also wanted his turn with you, he wanted you to know how good he could make you feel.

Warnings: Shameless smut, vaginal sex, fingering, oral sex, dom and sub undertones (i think), rough sex, overstimulation (if you squint), small reference of substance abuse.

A little bit of cute romance Bob for like two lines lol!

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You had been dating Robert Reynolds for a while now. Ever since you first saw him, you felt pulled towards him, that weird gravitational attraction that you only get once in your life. His dark messy hair, his deep blue eyes, his charming good-boy smile, they melted your heart since day one.

You loved how he was when you two got intimate. He was soft, delicate, yet somehow desperate, almost submissive at times. He could be at your feet whenever you wanted him too, begging you to touch him, begging you for more. And you loved him like this, you loved how desired he made you feel.

You knew about the Void, he had told you about him after your first night together, expecting you to leave like everyone else did. But you? You stayed. You can't deny you were scared at first, you knew how hard it was for him to control it, to control him. Nevertheless, ever since he joined the Thunderbolts, things were actually looking brighter. Bob came into peace with Void, and Void came into peace with Bob. They even talked to each other and Bob even allowed Void to manifest himself and do everyday things. And whenever he did, he was surprisingly normal. You just chatted and kept him up with everything, he became like another friend to you, another version of the puppy eyed boy you loved.

You were already accostumed to seeing Bob speak to himself, you knew he was talking to Void. But lately he seemed jumpy, uncertain. Whenever he spoke to himself he made sure to leave the room, it was like he didn’t want you to hear him, to hear them. It wasn't until one morning, when you were sipping coffee, that your boyfriend approached you, eagerly sat down, and said;

"I want to talk to you about uhm....something."

"Oh, what is it babe? Everything ok? …..Is it something at work?" You asked shyly. His recent demeanor had you worrying that he may had relapsed, or had problems dealing with Void again.

"No, its just uhm. Its about Void" He said, fidgeting with his hands and avoiding your eyes.

"Oh. Is he making you upset again?" You asked, eyes widening.

"No, its not that its just. You know how he has feelings too and needs too, right? Like he is kinda human after all….I guess. And, you know, uhm, we are like at some level the same person, so if I like something or need something he tends to feel the same way. That's why I let him take the lead sometimes, and talk to you, and go for walks, and eat and stuff" He is jumpy, shy, acting like the first time he ever talked to you. You must admit it, Bob was extremely timid, but now, he looked almost ashamed.

"I know that baby. I get that and I've told you I'm ok with that. I understand." You look deep into his eyes, stretching out your hand over the table to grab his. You knew he was insecure about his "condition”, yet you had never seen him this way.

“It’s just well, he had this idea, well I guess we had it cause I agreed and all. You know I love you so I guess he loves you, so…”

“So…?”

“So….ugh how the fuck do I say this…god” He brought his hands to his head, and furrowed his eyebrows. “Uhm…well..”

“Bobby, babe, you know you can tell me anything. You know I am willing to help you as long as it means you can control him and you guys can be at peace.” You looked at your boyfriend sincerely, you were truly willing to do anything for him.

“Well, he wants to…uhh…..he wants to fuck you”

“Oh” Your cheeks turned red. “I…I don’t know what to say” You can’t say you hadn’t thought about it before. About knowing how this other side of your boyfriend was, how he would touch you differently, feel you differently. But it was always just a fleeting thought. You never thought Bob would allow something like this.

“I mean if you don’t want to it’s fine”

“No no… I’ll do it” You smiled at him.

“Oh thanks babe really, I can’t thank you enough. This guy, you know, he was driving me crazy” He stood up, reached over and kissed your forehead, cupping your face in his calloused hands. “I love you so much” He smiled, his eyes brightening.

“I know” You smiled back.

He reached for your lips, pulling you into a soft, delicate kiss. And suddenly, he stopped. His eyes, still blue, turned somehow dark, like if a fog had taken over. He pulled away, smiling, he was still Bob but, not your Bob. He smiled cockily, confident, and looked straight at your lips. “Hey there”

You stood up, now aware. “Void..?” You looked straight into his eyes.

“In the flesh, baby” He pulled you into a long, deep kiss. His lips grazed yours roughly, he was desperate, hungry. His tongue exploring every single part of your mouth. His hands were everywhere, he grabbed your hair, cupped your face, touched your waist. It was so different from Bob’s delicate kisses, yet just as delicious. You replied back, putting your hands on his torso and sliding down, keeping up with all that he was giving you. He was so rough, so desesperate, you felt your whole body aching for him, that familiar feeling building up between your thights.

Sloppily, in between kisses, you made your way towards your bedroom. Clumsily tripping over stuff as you did. You got to your bedroom and he stopped, looking into your eyes “You are so beautiful”. He hugged you and held you up as he kissed you, slowly moving towards your neck. His hot breath against your skin made you feel otherworldly, you felt his desire in every single kiss. You moved your hands towards his shirt, trying to take it off without breaking the kiss. He looked down at you and smirked “Pathetic..” He cockily took his shirt off with just one hand, and took yours off just as easily. (God, has he been practicing this??) In a couple of swift movements you were completely naked, and him in his in underwear, his torso glowing under the sunlight.

“so fucking pretty for me…” He whispered, out of breath as he laid you in the bed. He climbed over you, his eyes locking with yours as he trailed kisses from your face, to your neck, and then to your torso. “So, so fucking pretty” He said as he took his mouth to one of your breasts. He kissed it, sucked it, ran his tongue in slow, torturing circles around your nipple. Grabbing your other breasts with his free hand and pinching that nipple as he sucked. A moan escaped your lips as you felt his tongue in your breasts, alternating between each one, kissing and grabbing, making you feel so sensitive. You were sure your breasts were already sore when you felt him start trailing his kisses down, his hot lips grazing through your skin. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good baby, you’ll forget you’re even dating goddamn Bob”.

He got to your clit and started kissing it, so slowly, yet it felt like so much. You looked down, into his sweet dark eyes, he looked beautiful. His long hair framing his face as he looked straight at you, face buried between your thighs. He went slowly on your clit, he wanted you to beg him, to make him know how hard you wanted him. “M…more”

“What was the baby?”

“More… please” You whined. You felt pathetic, writhing under this man. You felt his tongue slide through your folds, teasing them before he went all in, alternating between sucking and kissing your clit, and sliding his tongue through your folds. You moaned and whined, you felt it through your body, his tongue was hot against you. You felt yourself get wetter, you needed him, all of him, everywhere.

Almost as if he heard you, he suddenly added a digit into you, expanding and pumping. You couldn’t keep up with everything, his finger reached deep, into that sweet spot your boyfriend would always reach. Instinctly, you reached down, grabbing his soft hair and pushing him deeper towards you. He looked at you and smiled, he was so fucking cocky and you hated it, yet he made you feel so good, so used.

He inserted another digit and you felt your boyfriend’s cold rings against your entrance, his fingers curling as his tongue kept torturing your clit. Your moans were almost pornographic at this point. Loud, whiny, pathetic sounds came out of your mouth. “Those sounds baby, keep making them.” He said as he smirked at you, fingers pumping in and out of you mercilessly. You felt the heat quickly building up, like you were about to spill in any minute. “M’gonna…gonna cum..” you managed to get out in between your moans. He smiled, and started sucking harder on your clit, keeping the same pace with his fingers. You quickly felt your core tensing, and with a moan came undone into his hands, breathing heavily and writhing from the pleasure. Your mind was foggy, and you saw stars.

“So good for me baby, aren’t you? Such a good girl” He took his hands towards your waist, and started trailing them through thighs, kissing them and caressing them. “That was so much..” You said, still slurring on your words. “Oh but it wasn’t enough for me baby.” You heard the smile in his words as he took off his boxers, carelessly tossing them to the side.

He climbed on the bed and aligned himself with your entrance, sliding his cock through your folds. You were so sensitive that it already felt like too much, and he hadn’t even entered you yet. He looked at you, grabbing your face as you felt him go in, causing you to moan. You were so wet for him that it just slid in, no pain. You were already used to your boyfriend’s dick yet seemed to always forget how utterly big he was.

He gave you a moment to adjust to his size, and started pumping into you slowly, his eyes praising you as he did. You felt him him hitting deep into your core. Slowly, torturing you, making you feel each and every trust. He slowly kissed your neck, leaving marks all over you as he steadily increased his pace. You felt how much he filled you, overwhelmed by how his cock felt against your folds, and how his mouth was nibbling the skin of your neck. “I’m gonna fuck you dumb” he shamelessly whispered against your ear as he quickly started on a pace, going harder and faster into you. You were already so sensitive and now just felt completely cockdrunk. You couldn’t control the moans that were escaping you, and couldn’t even keep your legs straight, going limp under him, completely vulnerable to his touch.

He took notice of your reaction, and moved his hands towards your waist, pinning you down into the bed as he mercilessly fucked you. Each thrust leaving you out of breath and making your mind foggier. You could only feel him, it was so overwhelming yet so good. You could only feel him going faster, harder, giving you everything he had. You closed your eyes, unable to handle everything he was giving you. “Open your eyes, I want you to see this” he said, as you looked up and saw his hair framing his beautiful face.

His pace quickly became erratic, small moans escaping his lips as you felt that familiar feeling growing inside of you again. He kept holding down your waist as you whimpered, choking out every single time he hit that spot. He looked down on you, mouth open as he fucked you. Then, with one last long thrust, he came undone into you, filling your insides so perfectly. And so did you. Feeling your mind go completely blank and your body get overpowered by that heat, legs shaking with one last, loud moan. He collapsed on top of you, rolling over as he took deep breaths.

He looked at you. Your mind still foggy and fucked out of comprehension. “God, now I know why Bob loves you so much” He said as he cupped your face in one of his hands. Leaning in to kiss your forehead, and smiling as he looked into your eyes. You smiled back, catching your breath.

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This is my first fic here!! Taking any recommendations or prompts. Lowkey thinking about doing a sub!Bob fic. Tell me your thoughts!! Love you guys!! <3

[abbotjack]

The House She Left You

Content Warnings : 18+ MDNI explicit sex, grief, family trauma, complicated sibling dynamics, references to addiction and overdose, emotionally repressed Pope Cody behavior, morally gray choices, sexual content in emotionally charged contexts, kitchen sex, emotionally manipulative undertones, references to Pope’s canon instability, emotionally explicit dialogue, light dubcon tension (consensual but fraught), emotionally unhealthy power imbalance, unresolved trauma, unprotected sex,

word count : 6,637

a/n : Here’s the Pope fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks. Not my favorite, but I figured I’d share it anyway since I probably won’t be posting much until after finals.

Summary : She’s dead. You have her kid. Her house. Her ghosts. And now—Pope. The man you were never supposed to want, who never once looked at you when he was hers… but who saw everything. He shows up when the fridge hums and the silence grows thick, and what starts as confrontation splinters into confession, then into violence you asked for.

Time: One week after the funeral Location: Oceanside, California — your sister’s house

You don’t turn on the lights when you come in.

The house doesn’t deserve it.

It’s not yours. Not really. Not yet.

Not even after the state handed you a stack of papers, stamped and signed, with your name on the last page and hers on the death certificate. Not even after the little girl sleeping down the hall said “mommy” in her sleep two nights ago and you had to step outside so she wouldn’t hear you lose it.

You shut the door behind you and breathe in the dark. Not a big breath—your chest won’t take it. Something’s been living there the past week, curling in your ribs like an animal, biting at your lungs whenever you try to hold too much air. You let your back hit the wood, keys still in your hand, eyes adjusting to the same stale shadows.

The kitchen light is off. You left it that way.

But the fridge is open.

At first you think it’s just the door not sealed right, some crack letting the compressor hum like a breath. But then it moves. A shape. A shoulder shifting. A figure standing there like he never left.

Pope.

Just his face in the cold light, slack and unreadable. Forearms braced on the counter. Staring into the fridge like there’s something in it worth seeing. He doesn’t look up when you walk in. Doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t apologize.

And why would he?

You flick the switch by the door. Harsh, overhead light floods the kitchen. It hits him like a slap. He barely blinks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it slices. Dry. Defensive. You’re not ready to see him. You weren’t ever going to be.

He shuts the fridge slowly. Leans his hip against the counter.

“You left the back door unlocked.”

You stare. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d check on the kid.”

“You already did that. Three days ago. She doesn’t even remember.”

“She’s seven.” He finally looks at you. “Of course she does.”

Something in you tightens. You cross your arms to keep it from showing. “You can’t just let yourself in.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” you snap, voice sharp, teeth bared. “Because it’s her house? Because you used to live here? Fuck her on that couch? Eat breakfast with her daughter like you weren’t already halfway out the door before the coffee was done brewing?”

He doesn’t flinch. Not even a blink. And that’s what infuriates you most—that nothing you say ever seems to get under his skin.

You want him to react. You’ve always wanted him to see you.

“She’s gone,” he says flatly. “You’re here now.”

You let the silence settle. He always had that talent—the kind that made people fill the quiet just to get rid of it. You don’t give in.

He pushes off the counter, stepping around the table. Slowly. Like he’s giving you time to adjust to his shape in the room. Like he knows how he fills it.

“You get the paperwork?”

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“She wanted—”

“She wanted a lot of things.” You throw your keys in the bowl by the door harder than necessary, like the sound might drown out the ache in your throat. “She wanted to be clean. She wanted to live. She wanted to be a mom.”

“I know.” His voice is still maddeningly calm, like nothing ever rattles him. “I was there, too. You think I didn’t care?”

“I think you cared like it was a job,” you say, eyes flicking to the spot on the floor where he used to drop his boots. “I think she used that. I think you liked being needed until it made you hate her.”

A long pause. Then—

“You blame me,” he says. Not a question.

“I blame her,” you bite out. “I blame me. I blame everyone. What does it matter?”

He nods once, slow. Walks toward the sink. Opens the cabinet, finds the glasses like it’s still muscle memory. Like this place remembers him even if you wish it didn’t. Even if you still catch yourself standing in doorways, waiting for him to look back.

“Water?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

He drinks anyway—slow, deliberate.

“I’ve been watching,” he says—low, rough, worn down at the edges. “Not just her kid. You.”

You don’t know whether to be angry or scared. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it’s just that old pulse again—buried too long under everything she took before you ever had the chance to want it.

“Why?”

He sets the glass down carefully. Like he doesn’t want to startle you. Like he’s still trying to be the man your sister needed.

“Because I know what this house does.”

Your throat catches. Tight. Dry.

“She let it rot,” you whisper, voice small and shaking and too full. “She let herself rot in it.”

He nods. Once. Quiet. He doesn’t say it out loud—he doesn’t have to. He saw it too. He stayed, and you ran. That’s always been the difference.

You shift your weight, heart pounding like a truth trying to claw its way out. “You don’t get to show up and act like this is yours. Like you’re the only one left who gets to carry her.”

“I’m not,” he says. Looks at you like he means it. “You are.”

And it shouldn’t feel like a punishment. But it does.

Because he’s right.

She left the mess—but she left it to you. The wreckage. The weight. The child. The smell of smoke in the walls. The goddamn silence. Pope? He gets to haunt the corners, slip in and out like a ghost with no leash. But you—you—have to stay and live in it. Scrub the stains out of the floorboards. Pretend the pain doesn’t sound like his footsteps in the hall.

You turn away, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. You won’t let him see your eyes. Not now. Not after all these years of swallowing the part of you that wanted him first.

And that’s when he says it. Quiet. Gentle. Like it matters now.

“She said you were the only one who never lied to her.”

You go still. Stiller than still.

“She said it like a confession,” he continues. “Last time I saw her. Said she couldn’t look you in the eye anymore. Not since the baby. Said you were the only one who meant what you said. Even when it hurt.”

Your hands grip the edge of the sink. White-knuckled. Nails biting down into laminate. Not to ground yourself—no, you know where you are. You’re trying not to shatter. Not to let him see that part of you that still wants to believe him.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because she never said it to you.”

Silence. Heavy. Sacred. Dangerous. It drips down the walls, clings to the space between your shoulder blades. It makes the house feel like it’s listening.

You stare at the wall above the sink—the same place your sister used to hang grocery lists she never followed. Where her handwriting used to live. You used to read them just to imagine what normal might’ve felt like. You used to watch him read them, too—pretending he didn’t already know how it would all fall apart.

“She wasn’t always cruel,” you say softly. Too softly.

“I know.” His voice is closer now. Closer than you’re ready for.

“But she knew how to gut you.”

“She had a gift.”

You turn. Slow. Like the weight of it might crack you.

And there he is.

Watching you like he’s seeing the ghost and not the girl. Like he knows what it costs to keep surviving her. But more than that—more than any of it—he’s looking at you the way he never used to. Not when she was here. Not when you were just the sister on the couch. Not when you burned for him and bit your tongue raw.

“Are you staying?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Or just passing through again?”

He doesn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

And that question—God, that question—lands in your chest like a knife you’d still let him twist. Because you don’t know. Because part of you wants to fold into him and forget the rest. Part of you wants to scream in his face. Part of you has wanted this for years, and none of it came the way it should’ve.

But the worst part?

Is that you don’t want to be alone in this house tonight. And he’s the only one who’s ever made it feel like it could be home.

Time: That night, 2:37 a.m. Location: Your sister’s house — hallway outside her old bedroom

You don’t sleep. You just lie there and sweat in the dark.

You’ve been doing that a lot lately—sweating through sheets, through your shirt, through your teeth clenched so tight you wake up with a headache. It’s not the heat. It’s not even the grief.

It’s the house.

It holds things. It holds her. You swear to God, it holds him too.

You roll over, check your phone. 2:37 a.m.

The silence feels off. Stretched too thin, like it’s holding its breath. You sit up slowly, pulse already pounding. You’ve lived in enough shitty apartments to know the difference—between a house settling and a house remembering.

You don’t turn on the light.

It’s easier not to see.

You press your feet to the floor and step into the hallway barefoot.

The wood is cold beneath your toes. The air feels heavier than it did an hour ago—like the house knows something you don’t.

You pause outside your niece’s door. Still shut. Still quiet. She sleeps the way she used to when she was small—after long days, after heartbreak. But now it feels different. Now it feels like retreat, not rest. Like she’s learned the same trick you did: vanish first, before anyone can ask why.

You move toward your sister’s door.

You should go back to bed.

It’s been almost a week since you stepped inside her room.

That had been your one boundary.

You cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed the grout with shaking hands. Rearranged the kitchen so it wouldn’t feel like a mausoleum. But the bedroom? You left it untouched. Shut the door like sealing off a limb you couldn’t afford to feel.

Because walking into that room was like crawling back into a wound.

And you’ve bled enough.

But tonight the door is open.

And the light is on.

You don’t call out. Don’t make your presence known. Because part of you already knows who’s in there. You can feel it in your chest—the static. The heat. The wrongness. The himness.

Pope.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, elbows on his knees like he’s praying to something he’s already lost.

He doesn’t look up when you stop in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you say—quieter than you mean to.

His voice doesn’t move. “Neither should you.”

That makes your breath catch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he knows. He always fucking knows. Even when you never said a word.

You cross your arms, lean a shoulder against the doorframe.

“Thought we had a rule.”

“We didn’t.”

“I made one.”

He finally glances over. No surprise in his face. Just that same quiet—dead sea eyes, nothing on the surface but too much beneath it.

“She used to leave the door open when she wanted me to crawl back,” he says. “You remember that?”

You nod once. You were eighteen. Maybe nineteen. You remember everything. The way the door would crack just wide enough for his shadow to slip through. The way you’d sit awake across the hall, listening for the sound of his boots.

“She’d scream at me for two days. Throw my shit out in the yard. Block my number. And then the door would be open.” He gestures around the room like it’s a stage. “Light on. Bed made. Like nothing ever happened.”

“She knew how to make you beg,” you mutter.

He looks at you, sharp. Not angry. Just clear. Like he sees straight through you, down to the part that still aches when he walks into a room.

“I didn’t beg.”

“No,” you agree. “You didn’t. But you always came back.”

He leans back, palms flat on the comforter. Hands spread wide like he needs to feel the fabric beneath him to remember where he is. Who he is. Who he isn’t.

“So did you.”

And it’s true. God, it’s true.

Because you were always there—behind the door. On the stairs. In the silence between fights. You never left. Not really.

You just weren’t the one she asked for.

You push off the doorframe, walk two slow steps into the room.

“She was my sister,” you say. Like it explains everything and nothing at once.

He watches you. “You were kids together.”

You sit in the armchair near the dresser—her dresser, still covered in tarnished rings, tangled necklaces, the half-burnt stick of incense she lit the night before her last relapse. Everything left exactly how she abandoned it.

“She hated when people felt sorry for her,” you say. “That’s why she lied so much. Said she was clean when she wasn’t. Said she was sober on Christmas Eve and then passed out on the stairs an hour later.”

“She didn’t want to be seen like that.”

“No,” you murmur. “She wanted to be loved like that.”

Pope doesn’t respond. Just stares at the floor like it’s safer than looking at you. Like he’s afraid of what your face might give away.

You lean back in the chair, exhale slow. “We were so close, people couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. Thought we were twins. Then she started sleeping with my boyfriends, and suddenly the resemblance didn’t feel so flattering.”

That earns the faintest flicker of a smile. The kind that barely crests his mouth before it dies. But you see it. You always see him.

“She was always louder. Always got the attention. I’d do everything right—get good grades, make curfew—and she’d show up high at dinner and still get the last word.”

“She was fire,” Pope says. “And fire burns.”

You look at him for a long time. Too long. Like the ache in your chest has a shape now, and it’s him.

“She told me you were her last chance.”

He shifts. Slight. But you notice.

“She said that a lot.”

“But she meant it with you. You were the only one she ever… stayed clean for. Even if it never lasted.”

His voice drops. Quiet. Flat. “It was never real. The clean part. Not with me.”

You blink. Your breath catches. “What?”

“She’d lie. Say she was sober when she wasn’t. Tell me she wanted to go to meetings, but only if I went with her. She’d drag me to church on Sundays just to play house.” His hands curl on the edge of the bed. “I knew she was using again before you did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she’d already started using me, too.”

The room holds its breath.

Then you whisper, “She loved you.”

He shakes his head.

“She did. In her own way.”

“That’s not love,” he says. “That was ownership.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to. You both know the kind of damage she did.

“I used to watch you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Pope lifts his gaze slowly.

“I’d sit in that hallway when she was yelling. Just out of sight. I’d wait for the part where you’d yell back. Where you’d leave.”

He doesn’t speak.

“But you never did.”

“She needed someone who wouldn’t.”

Your throat goes tight. Your whole body stills.

“So did I.”

The words fall like glass. Sharp. Irretrievable.

And the silence after is deafening.

Not empty.

Just full of everything you never said.

Pope’s jaw tightens, like he’s grinding something down before it slips out. His fingers twitch against the bedspread—like they want something to hold, something to do. His gaze drops—traces the curve of your knees, your bare feet curled into the carpet like you’re bracing for impact. He doesn’t look away fast enough.

You feel it like a flare in your chest. Hot. Gnawing. Old.

He exhales, long and low. “She was scared you’d love me the way she couldn’t.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

You just sit there in the dim light, your sister’s walls pressing in like old ribs, her scent still soaked into the sheets, the air, the skin at your throat. Pope sits three feet away, looking like something half-ruined and still dangerous. Like grief only hollowed out the parts that could’ve stayed soft.

And for the first time since she died, you feel like you’re finally mourning her.

Not just because she’s gone.

But because this—this—this fragile moment between you, this silence filled with things she always took before they could be yours… this is everything she never let you have.

“I was always cleaning her up,” you say. “Not just the mess. Her. I’d hold her hair back. Cover her arms. Wipe blood off her teeth and pretend it was from brushing too hard. I lied to Dad. I lied to the kid.”

Pope leans forward. Not fast—like something’s pulling him. “You didn’t clean up,” he says, voice low. “You parented.”

The word hits somewhere deep. Somewhere sore.

You shake your head. “I loved her. That doesn’t mean I didn’t hate her too.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He knows—fourteen months apart, same house, same hell.

“She got everything first,” you murmur. “Boobs. Boyfriends. Bad decisions. I got the leftovers. The fallout. Hand-me-downs and scars she never even noticed she left. And every time she lit a fire, I was the one putting it out.”

He leans back, eyes steady on yours. “That’s why you never liked me.”

You hold his gaze. “That’s not why.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just waits. He’s always been like this—danger wrapped in quiet. And you’ve spent years avoiding this exact moment.

You hesitate. One breath. Two.

“I didn’t like you,” you say, “because you made her worse. You let her get away with shit no one else did. And every time she got clean, it was just to keep you.”

You pause. Let it simmer.

“But I couldn’t stop… wanting you anyway.”

There it is.

Hung in the air like smoke. Like confession. Like sin.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

He just sits there, wrecked and unreadable, and you think maybe that is what undoes you—that he’s finally hearing it, and not turning away.

“Say that again,” he says.

You rise to your feet.

And the ache follows you up like it’s part of your spine.

The room holds its breath as you cross the carpet, slow and deliberate—each step measured like you’re approaching something wild and damaged, something that might bite if startled.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the tension radiating off his skin. Close enough to touch, but you don’t. Not yet.

“I wanted you,” you say again. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you were fucking her. Even when she made sure I saw it.”

His breath stutters, caught somewhere in his throat.

You lower yourself between his thighs, fingers grazing the inside of his leg—slow, certain, like a fuse being lit. Careful. Knowing. The kind of beginning that doesn’t end clean. The kind that ruins.

“She used to tell me I was boring,” you whisper. “Too clean. Too smart. Not the kind of girl men ruin.”

Pope looks down at you like you’ve just become a threat—like you’re something holy and reckless, the kind of woman men do ruin, and never recover from.

“I wanted to be ruined,” you say. “By you.”

And that’s what breaks him.

His hand twists in your hair, rough and unrelenting, dragging you up with the kind of desperation that doesn’t ask—it takes. Like he’s been holding back a storm and finally lets it swallow him whole.

The kiss is unholy. Starved. His mouth crashes to yours like a blasphemy he’s longed to speak aloud, all spit and heat and something darker—like he’s tasting damnation and begging for more. Like your ruin is sacred and he’s ready to bleed for it.

It’s violent with need—ten years of silence burning on his breath. He pulls you into his lap with a force that borders on frantic, devouring your mouth like he’s been fasting on guilt and grief and this is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want since she died.

His hands are on your back, your hips, your ass. Gripping. Claiming. Consuming. Like he’s trying to memorize you by force. Like he doesn’t trust this moment to last.

“Tell me you hate me,” he pants against your mouth, lips brushing yours, voice torn and desperate.

You shake your head. “Can’t.”

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

“It is.”

You kiss him again—harder this time—so violent it nearly topples you both. It’s not tenderness. It’s a confession in blood.

He groans—full-throated, ragged. Like it’s been trapped inside him for years. His hips jolt up, grinding into you with a heat that burns through the cotton between you.

You grind down, shameless. Raw. He’s already hard—thick, aching, leaking beneath the fabric of his sweats—and you feel the exact shape of everything you’ve ever wanted.

His hands fly to your face, rough with urgency, and he pulls you back to him like he needs to look at you. Like he can’t breathe unless your eyes are open.

“You want it slow?” he asks, voice cracked and wrecked. “Or just the part that hurts?”

"Both."

He lifts you off him in one swift, breathless movement—your body dragged from his like it wounds him to let go.

“On your knees.”

You obey.

Not because you’re submitting. Not with him.

With Pope, it’s not power—it’s surrender. It's history. It's wanting so badly it’s become a kind of religion. You crawl to the center of the bed, fingers sinking into her old comforter, and arch for him with instinct and ache, every breath shaking loose something you’ve buried.

He kneels behind you. Doesn’t touch you at first. Just breathes.

Then his hands are on your hips, tugging at your waistband—not rough, not rushed. Like every inch he bares is something he’s never thought he deserved. He slides everything down your legs in one slow motion.

You exhale like it hurts.

He stays there for a moment, hands resting on your skin—like if he moves too fast, he'll ruin you. Or himself.

You hear his breath catch. Feel his heat press up against your back.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. Wrecked. “So fucking pretty like this. Can’t believe she ever called you weak.”

“She said a lot of things,” you whisper, voice trembling. You’re already unraveling.

His hand traces your spine, palm flat. “She said you were off-limits.”

You look back over your shoulder. Voice like a dare. “And are you good at following rules?”

His eyes meet yours. Burning. “No.”

He drags his fingers through the wet heat of you. Slow. Possessive. Like he’s confirming something he already knew.

“Wet already,” he says, voice guttural. “You were waiting for this.”

You nod, breath shallow. “My whole life.”

He doesn’t pause.

He fists his cock—thick, veined, flushed dark—and brings it to your entrance, dragging the blunt head through your slick with deliberate weight. Like he’s about to take something he’s been denied for years.

And then—he freezes.

“You sure?”

You glance back again, hair falling into your eyes. “You don’t get to be gentle now.”

That’s all it takes.

He drives into you in one slow, brutal, soul-tearing thrust.

You gasp—lurch forward—and arch. Nails digging into the mattress. Breath punched out of you.

And he doesn’t move.

Just stays buried, impossibly deep. One hand locked on your hip, the other pressing down at the base of your neck—holding you there, grounding you, steadying himself like this is the only way he won’t fall apart.

Like you’re the first thing that’s ever made him believe he’s real.

“You feel that?” he rasps, voice raw and shaking. “That’s me. Inside what she said I could never have.”

He pulls back.

Then slams forward.

You cry out, high and sharp, and he fucks you like he’s punishing himself for every year he pretended he didn’t want this. Like he’s finally taking what he buried alive.

The rhythm is merciless—hips snapping into you again and again, the sound obscene, wet, relentless. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your ribs, pressing you down like he wants to keep you there forever. He’s panting against your back, mouth open, breath ragged, murmuring broken things:

“Mine.”

“Should’ve been you.”

“Fuck—take me, just like that.”

You’re moaning, gasping, shaking, eyes blurred from how deep he is, how wrecked you feel. You brace your hands harder into the mattress as your body tightens around him—clenching, spiraling, gone.

When you clench, he growls, a low sound that vibrates into your bones.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Just like that. Let me wreck it.”

You nod, barely breathing, tears slipping hot down your cheeks—silent and unstoppable.

He leans over you, chest heavy on your back, and one hand slides under your stomach—ruthless, focused—fingers finding your clit with practiced cruelty. He rubs tight, filthy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. It's too much. It’s perfect.

“You gonna come for me?” he mutters against your ear, voice thick, ruined. “Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod frantically, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snarls. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“Please—” you gasp, high and cracked.

“Let me ruin it,” he whispers. "Let me be the one who breaks it."

And you do.

You come with a sob—full-body, wrenching, your orgasm ripping through you like a scream you’ve been holding back for years. You clench around him, trembling, crying, coming apart with his name in your mouth.

He follows seconds later—slamming in deep, one final thrust that splits you open—and groans, long and guttural, like it’s killing him to let go. He spills inside you with a curse and your name dragged raw from his throat.

Then he collapses over you.

You’re both shaking. Breathing like you’ve survived something. Still joined. Still trembling.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays there—chest flush to your back, mouth pressed to the curve of your shoulder, fingers tangled in your hair like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’ll keep him from going under.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, voice broken, raw.

His answer barely makes it past his lips.

“Ask me when I lose you too.”

Time: 8:19 a.m. Location: Kitchen. The morning after.

You wake up to sunlight, and the first thing you feel is him.

Not his body—he’s gone. Just the dent he left behind in the mattress. The scent of him on your skin. The ache between your legs that’s part soreness, part memory. You feel raw. Wrung out. Touched in ways you’d spent years trying not to imagine. You feel like her.

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. The images are branded behind your eyelids: Pope’s hand tangled in your hair. His voice in your ear. His body holding you still like he needed to memorize your shape before he could live with himself.

Let me be the one who breaks it.

You roll onto your back, and it hits you all over again—he fucked you in her bed. Not just sex. Not a mistake. A collision. A choice. A lifetime of looking and aching and staying silent that finally snapped loose. And now?

Now he’s gone.

You sit up slowly. Your thighs stick to the sheets. You wipe at the sweat on your chest. You look like a girl who got wrecked and abandoned.

You look like someone your sister would have mocked.

You dress in yesterday’s clothes and follow the scent of coffee.

You hear them before you reach the kitchen.

Her voice—small, familiar, sharp enough to gut you.

“You made them wrong,” your niece says.

Pope grunts. “There’s no wrong way to make pancakes.”

“Mom used to put bananas in.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stop at the edge of the doorway.

He’s there. At the stove. Same hoodie from last night. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, vanish into the steam. He doesn’t look at you, but his whole body goes taut the second you enter—shoulders pulled tight, jaw locked.

He knows you’re there.

He always knows.

You used to think it was a sixth sense for violence. Now you think it’s guilt. Or longing. Or both.

“Morning,” you say, voice low.

Your niece lifts her fork and waves. “He’s making breakfast. But it’s not the way she did it.”

You look at him.

He still won’t look back.

The silence is brutal. Ticking. Loaded.

You take a step in. Measured. “Can I talk to you?”

His hand flexes on the spatula. Tight enough to crack it.

“Not now.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you snap.

That gets him.

His gaze cuts over his shoulder—sharp. Brief. A warning behind his eyes like the ones he used to give her before everything went to hell.

“Do what?” he says.

“Pretend like last night didn’t happen.”

He turns now. Fully. Slowly. Like he’s squaring up, not facing you.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he says.

But it’s too fast.

And it doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t sound like a lie he’s practiced. Sounds like it burned his mouth to say it.

You stare. Your voice softens, but it’s no less dangerous. “That how you’re gonna handle this? Just another Pope Cody vanishing act?”

His jaw ticks. That old, silent rage moving beneath the surface.

“There’s a kid in the room,” he says, dead flat.

“Don’t use her as a shield.”

His mouth tightens. No comeback. Just a low simmer. That silence that always came before the damage.

You step closer. Cross the kitchen tile like it’s a line he’s dared you to walk.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t feel it.”

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because he can’t.

Because for the first time in years, you touched something real—and so did he.

And now he's too much of a coward to hold it in daylight.

You wait while she eats—sloppy bites of pancake drowning in syrup, her small hands sticky and careless, bare feet kicking at the air beneath the table like she’s still too light to be touched by everything that’s broken.

Pope doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. His jaw is clenched. Shoulders coiled. He watches over her like it’s all he knows how to do. Like standing still might hold the world in place a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t look at you.

When the bus honks outside, she shoves her plate away, grabs her backpack off the hook, and bolts out the door without looking back.

“Bye!” she calls.

The screen door slams.

And then—nothing.

No syrup chatter. No footsteps. No excuse left to not look at each other.

That’s when the silence gets dangerous.

He’s already halfway to the door when you stop him.

“Say something real,” you breathe.

He stops. Doesn’t turn. Just stills like an animal in a snare, waiting for the next shot.

“Last night… that wasn’t some mistake. That wasn’t about her.”

He shakes his head once. A sharp cut of movement. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He turns. Slowly. Like it hurts. His face is unreadable—not empty. Buried. Like everything he’s ever felt for you got pushed somewhere too deep to dig out without bleeding.

“You think I wanted it?” he asks, voice low and cracked. “You think I planned that? I touched you in her bed.”

You fold your arms, fingers digging into your sides. “You wanted me before she died.”

He twitches like it’s a bruise you just pressed too hard.

“I saw it,” you say, breath tight. “The way you’d leave the room when I laughed too loud. The way your eyes caught on my hips when I wore her clothes. You were scared of it.”

“Of course I was scared,” he bites out. His voice splinters. “You were the only good thing left in this house.”

You blink.

The words hit harder than they should. Like a wound breaking open from the inside.

“I’m not good, Pope.”

“You are,” he says instantly, eyes locked on yours, voice ragged. “That’s why I came back.”

You blink. Again. Slower.

“I didn’t come back for her,” he says. “I came back for the kid. And for you.”

You step forward. Slow. Breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your spine.

“You kissed me like you hated yourself.”

“I did.”

Another step. “You fucked me like you were trying to forget her.”

His jaw clenches. “I was.”

And another. “But you held me like you didn’t want to let go.”

His breath catches.

And now—you’re in front of him.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. Close enough to see the blood pulsing in his throat. Close enough to see what he won’t say in the tremble behind his eyes.

And that’s when he shatters.

Not loud.

Not explosive.

Just shatters—like a man who’s been grieving too long, loving too hard, and finally let himself want something he was never supposed to touch.

Like you’re the only thing he ever wanted that didn’t ask him to disappear.

He grabs your face. Not sweetly. Desperately. His palms are rough, trembling against your skin like he’s holding a live wire. Like this—you—is the thing that’s going to burn him alive, and he’s asking for it anyway. His forehead drops to yours, and he exhales like it hurts to be this close.

His hands are shaking.

“I don’t know how to want things without destroying them,” he breathes. Voice low. Fractured. Like it’s been stuck in his throat for years.

“I’m already broken,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not clean. It’s not even careful.

It’s devouring.

Too wet. Too fast. His mouth misses yours and lands on your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he’s trying to bury himself in you. Like he wants to wear your skin, hide inside your ribs, press himself so deep he can forget what loving her did to him. What not touching you did to him.

His hands shove under your shirt—urgent, reckless—palming your ribs like they hold answers. He fists the back of your waistband, yanks you toward him, and lifts you up onto the counter with a grunt, breath ragged in your ear.

You gasp, sharp and startled.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. He drags your pants down to your thighs like he’s furious they were ever on you in the first place.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasps, every word a confession he doesn’t want to survive. “I keep seeing you—bent over her bed. Your hands in the sheets. Your voice in my mouth.”

He pushes your legs open, staring down like it kills him. Like the sight of you is both prayer and punishment.

“I woke up hard this morning,” he chokes. “Had to jerk off in her shower. Couldn’t stop hearing you.”

You moan. Soft. Shaken. “Pope—”

He grabs your face again, rougher now, like your voice just undid something he was barely holding together.

“You wanna be mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“I don’t do gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip. A tremble beneath the violence.

“You say stop, I stop.”

You nod. Breathless. “I won’t.”

And that’s it.

He shoves his sweats down, rough and clumsy, teeth clenched. His hands lock around your thighs—hard, claiming—and he lines up, flushed and thick and aching.

No teasing. No question. Just one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out—your whole body arching, splintering, as he drives deep into you.

Your sound echoes off the cabinets. The floor. The silence she left behind.

He doesn’t apologize.

Doesn’t slow down.

He fucks you like it’s survival. Like he means to stay. Like this is the only way he knows how to say I’m here—not with promises, but with ruin.

Like he thinks he can erase her memory by burying himself in yours.

Your hands claw at his hoodie. He doesn’t take it off. Doesn’t even kiss you again. He just fucks you harder, like he’s chasing something down inside himself—guilt, grief, hunger. Maybe all three.

You moan his name and his grip tightens until your skin burns.

“I can’t stop wanting you,” he growls, teeth bared.

“Then don’t.”

He thrusts harder. Rougher. You fall apart with a sob—full-body, breathless, undone—your orgasm ripping through you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until he’s gone too—slamming into you deep, groaning like it’s killing him, his release pulsing inside you, your name dragged raw from his throat like it’s the only thing he still believes in.

The kitchen is silent again.

Except for your breathing—shallow, broken. Except for his—louder, rougher, like he’s still trying to catch it. Like he’s still somewhere inside you.

Pope doesn’t move.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath hot where it hits your skin. One hand grips the counter beside your thigh, the other still buried in your hair. He’s trembling. Not from the cold. Not from shame.

From the fact that he’s still here.

That you’re still here.

When he finally pulls out, it’s slow. Careful. Like it hurts him to leave.

You wince, but don’t pull away. You don’t move at all.

He tucks himself back into his sweats with one hand, the other never leaving your skin.

You expect him to speak. To backtrack. To run.

He doesn’t.

He stands between your legs, eyes closed, hands now resting on your hips—thumbs rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s trying to learn what staying feels like.

You whisper, “What now?”

He opens his eyes. Bloodshot. Devastated.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

“I won’t make you promise anything,” you say.

“Good,” he mutters. “I break those.”

A pause.

Then—his hand lifts. Brushes your hair behind your ear. Fingers trembling.

“I don’t know how to be what you need,” he says quietly.

“You already are,” you answer. “You’re still here.”

His jaw clenches.

And for the first time in years, you see it on his face—not guilt, not rage.

Hope.

Tiny. Fragile. Flickering.

But alive.

He kisses you again. Slow this time. Like thanks. Like maybe, if he’s careful enough, this won’t burn too.

And when he rests his forehead to yours again, he doesn’t shake.

He breathes.

And so do you.

[snail-day]

Second Male Lead Syndrome

Sum: Maybe you don't got this nerdjo!

Nerd! Gojo x Reader x FWB! Geto

Previous // Next Part // Masterlist

WC: 2.4k

TW: Angst, Yearning, Anxiety, love triangle-ish, alcohol references.

a/n: A bit short...but I promise the next one will be longer and fluffy <3

Second Male Lead Syndrome — a tragic but familiar condition. Occurs when the audience falls hopelessly in love with the second male lead. When he's sweet and thoughtful, perhaps a little bit stupid, and still doesn’t get the girl. Not because he didn’t try hard enough. But because he never stood a chance.

Satoru had always laughed at those characters. Thought why waste all that time on a girl who didn’t have their eyes set on you. It would never work out, plenty of fish in the sea, etc.  

Until now.

When the room is dim. Soft, warm lighting flickers against the walls. The playlist he curated for you hums softly in the background, some gentle acoustic loop he’d replayed twenty times to ensure the instrumentals didn’t overpower the mood, mostly to ensure he could still hear your voice. The dice scattered like different colored fallen stars across the table, and everyone is still buzzing from the final boss fight. The victory. And the drinks.

And you’re giggling.

But not at him. Not like how he imagined tonight would go. 

You’re pressed just a little too close to Suguru, your shoulder brushing his. Your knees angled towards his. The sound of your laugh, light and tipsy, spills like wine from your lips as Suguru leans in - voice low, mouth grazing the shell of your ear as he murmurs something only you get to hear. Something that makes you smile like that, he hung the stars. Soft. Genuine.

And how your body leans into his like it’s instinct. Like he's the male lead in your fairy tale.

Satoru feels the punch to the gut. The anxiety and thoughts spiraling.

Perhaps Satoru had poured your drinks a little too strong. Just enough for you to laugh at Suguru’s jokes without overthinking them. So much that you don’t seem to notice how Satoru hasn’t said anything in a while, since the campaign ended. How his throat’s been dry since he saw Suguru press his hand to the small of your back.

That’s fine. He doesn’t drink. He wanted you to have fun. To loosen up. To look at him the way you’re looking at Suguru now - with stars in your eyes, a lazy smile on your lips hanging onto every little word he speaks. 

When Suguru offers to take you home, Satoru nods too quickly. A weird hiccup of a smile jerks across his face. He can’t even stop himself from asking, “Oh - wait, do you two… know each other?”

You blink. Suguru answers first. “Nope. First time meeting tonight.” His voice is light. Easy. Full of lies.

Then why does it feel like you’ve done this a dozen times?

His broad, firm hand rests on your lower waist, as if it’s the normal placement. His lips brush your ear, and you laugh and Satoru just stands there, watching it all happen like some pitiful side character in the background of a romance anime.

Cool. Awesome. Great. Everything is fine. Everything is wonderful. Amazing actually. 

When he leans in to hug you goodbye, you hesitate. Something breaks in his chest. 

Just for a second. But he feels it. The stiffness in your spine. The polite curve of your arms. The awkward way you both move in the same direction and fumble for an angle. It ends up being a weird, lopsided side hug. Like coworkers. Or strangers who once made small talk in a group chat.

Still, your cheek brushes his chest. And his heart, traitorous and loud, slams against his ribs like it’s trying to get to you. He can’t help it. You’ve captured him, maybe without even knowing it.

He remembers earlier. Just the two of you in the kitchen.

You’d gone to grab more cups. He followed. Said something about helping. Maybe even meant it, but mostly, he just wanted to be near you.

And then you turned. Bumped into him with a soft, surprised “oh!” - the rim of the stacked cups hitting his chest, your body brushing his in a way that sent a spark straight through him. His baby blues went wide, snowy lashes fluttering, before his lips moved into a crooked smile as you looked up at him.

And fuck.

The overhead light hit your features just right, soft eyes sparkling, lips parted, cheeks flushed from laughing in the other room. He could see the curve of your throat, the way your breath caught just slightly from the impact, and he froze. His heart stuttered. Stumbled. Something in his chest bloomed. Warm. Stupid, maybe even a little hopeless.

His pale cheeks flushed, a soft red hue blooming across skin that rarely saw the sun. Embarrassment? Or awe, or maybe just the raw gravity of you standing this close? His mouth parted, but no sound came. Not a joke. Not a clever line. Just this aching silence as he tried to remember how to breathe.

He should’ve stepped back.

But god, you were so close. And you were looking at him like you saw him, just for a second. Like maybe you somehow knew how badly he wanted to lift a hand and cradle your face, just to see if you’d lean into it. To see if you’d soften into his touch.

His fingers twitched at his side. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t dare. What if it made you uncomfortable? Instead, he just stood there, letting himself feel it. The burn in his chest. The ache in his spine from holding himself still. The desperate, idiotic hope that you might say something to break the tension. That this moment could mean something.

Instead, he laughed. A little loud. A bit awkward.

“Oops, sorry,” he said, a bit winded, like you hadn’t just knocked the breath out of his lungs.

And you, god, you just smiled. Brushed past him like nothing had happened, cups hugged to your chest, already back in the living room.

He stayed there. Alone. Staring at the space where you’d been. Swallowed hard and wiped his sweaty palms against his pants like that might make the heat in his body disappear. Moving to slowly fan himself.

He’s been replaying that moment ever since, chest tight, fingers aching, wondering if you even noticed how hard he was trying not to touch you.

You say, “thank you.” Pulling him back from his thoughts. Smile at him, a little flushed, a little tipsy. Your voice soft, barely there, and it hits him harder than anything. Something about it feels... personal. Like you're sharing a moment with him, even if it's fleeting. A moment he plans of selfishly keeping for himself.

He watches you go, watches Suguru’s hand fall to your lower back, slipping a little lower to the curve of your bottom when you think no one’s looking.

Satoru’s heart drops, and it feels like it’s stuck somewhere in his throat, aching to escape. He tries to look away, tries to force himself to move, but he can’t stop watching. He’s breaking, and he knows it.

If it were him…

If it were him, he would be so careful with you. He would be the one bringing you to his guest room, making sure you were comfortable, asking if you needed anything. He would keep his distance, respect it, because you’re tipsy, and you shouldn’t make any decisions right now, but damn it, if he had just a little more time with you... He’d do it right. He wouldn’t rush, wouldn’t make you feel anything you didn’t want to feel. He’d just be there.

Imagining it for a second: You on the plush bed. Him nearby in the armchair, a safe distance but close enough that he could feel the warmth of your presence. He could put on a movie, something silly and light. Keep it all casual. But he would be there, just for you.

And maybe you’d look at him like you did Suguru. Maybe you’d laugh with him the way you laughed with Suguru. But maybe... maybe not. Maybe he’s just fooling himself.

Satoru shakes his head, white hair tumbling, breath shaky. He tries to laugh at his own thoughts. But it’s not funny. It hurts, this stupid ache in his chest that he can’t shake. He can't help the sting in his pretty baby blues.

Suguru glances back at him as you both walk down the hall, with a smile that seems to border smug and something else, like he knows something Satoru doesn’t. Acting like he’s already won the girl. Satoru can't help but wave at him. To call out, get home safe!

A laugh escapes under his breath, a dry, bitter sound. Just shut up, Satoru. But it’s like his mind won’t let him stop. It just keeps playing the same damn scene over and over.

He closes the door quietly, pressing his back against it. Lets out a shaky breath as he sinks down to the cold floor, heart still hammering in his chest, and he wonders if you even noticed him at all tonight.

Of course, you didn’t. You barely know him. You might never look at him that way.

But god, he wishes you would. Just once.

Second Male Lead Syndrome, Yeah.

Yeah, that tracks.

Because you were never going to pick the weird, twitchy nerd who overplans events like this and builds NPC backstories with tragic romances just to feel something. You were never going to pick the guy who practices your character intro alone in his room fifteen times, rehearsing the words in front of a mirror, trying to make it sound casual. Trying to sound like someone who knows what they’re doing. The guy who lit a candle because a Reddit post said vanilla makes people feel comforted, and for a second, he thought it might work. Might make you feel a little more at home.

You were always going to pick the one with the guitar. The one with the voice like honey, deep and effortless, who doesn’t have to try. The one whose touch doesn’t tremble when it’s on your arm, whose hands know exactly where to go without hesitation. The one who stands next to you with a calm that makes it look easy.

Satoru, on the other hand, is all scrambled signals. His heart races whenever you look his way, his mind spirals when he hears your laugh, and yet he can’t seem to say anything that makes sense. All he’s good for is stuttering through words, trying to look cool but always coming across as the awkward guy who thinks too much about the wrong things. His white hair falls into his face, messy strands he constantly pushes out of his eyes with the back of his hand, the motion becoming so habitual now as he feels the back of his hand become damp. His glasses slipping down his nose even though he keeps adjusting them, his thumb swiping over the frames in vain. A perfect image of someone who can never quite get it together.

And his heart? God, his heart is still pounding so hard that it’s all he can hear. Every thump is a reminder that he’s falling for someone who will never fall for him.

Why did nobody warn him this could happen?

Warn that his heart will ache in a place he can’t quite reach.

But it's fine. You both were just simply not meant to be. That's how life works, right?

He starts cleaning up, clumsily, awkwardly, trying to do anything to distract himself from the growing ache in his chest. He grabs the dice first, tossing them a little too forcefully into the velvet bag, the clattering sound loud against the quiet. Then the maps, scrunched and crumpled slightly from too many fingers running over them in nervous gestures. Finally, the snack pile looking more like a sad, squashed dragon than something worthy of a group of excited players. It wasn't worthy for someone like you.

He tries not to think about Suguru’s lack of goodbye. Or the way you didn’t look back when you left. The way your smile seemed to fade the moment you turned away from him. He tries, really tries, but his brain keeps betraying him, whispering that you're already slipping further away.

I just wanted to get to know you.

But no matter how hard he tries to focus on folding the papers, stacking the snacks, all he can hear is the quiet thrum of his own voice whispering in his mind:

I was never the main character, was I?

And it hurts, the pull of his heartbeat, the way it feels like he's running in place while you’re already walking away. Like he’s standing still in a world that keeps turning without him.

So for the first time in a long, long while, after the last chip crumb was swept and the candles were blown out, he didn’t stay up to play League. He didn’t refresh Reddit - not even the post he made about you, about how to win the girl. Didn’t pace around the living room rerunning conversations he wished had gone differently.

Instead, he grabbed his worn white teddy, the one no one knows about, the one he keeps tucked behind his pillows, and curled up in a ball on the far side of his bed. No Twitch stream humming in the background. No playlist lulling him into false peace.

Just silence. And stillness.

And somehow, for the first time in weeks, Satoru fell asleep. Not the jittery kind of rest he was used to, where his thoughts wouldn’t stop spiraling, but real sleep. Deep, heavy, and warm.

He didn’t even hear the chime of your message:

Got home safe! Thank you for today <3 I actually… have had a change of plans for Saturday and I was wondering if we could play a game together? Or we can go outside too! Touch grass as the kids say! :) Let me know! Goodnight Toru

Your name lights up his screen. The little heart. The nickname. The open door.

But he’s already dreaming.

Wrapped around a teddy bear and too heartbroken to know that maybe he was the main character after all.

tag list: @just-pure-trash, @7haze, @nevvynev, @linaaeatsfamilies, @altgojo, @beereadzzz, @bludwrite, @amajikisupremacy, @arabellasolstice, @ky0mybeloved, @aldebrana, @caught-the-feels, @pyruvic, @sukunaspillow, @sbicybb, @vamqyx, @dija200, @g3n3v13v33, @bakarinnie

For taglist, please have your age in bio; otherwise, you will not be tagged! :3 ageless/minor blogs will be subjected to blocking

[strangerexee]

Okay so I was thinking about Bo Chow like usual but like just imagine if you’ve been trying to find husband for years now and nothing has changed, being dumped left and right and ultimately abandoned, because you grew up with the twins and so the few eligible men, don’t want much to do with you, but Bo does and he’s been pursing your forever, always making promises to marry you, but what if you take him serious one day?

ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀʀʀʏ ʏᴏᴜ | ʙᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Set in Mississippi, 1932

Fem!Reader x Bo chow

(Emotional abandonment | themes of social rejection | longing | unspoken desire | references to past intimacy | slow burn | heavy realism with romantic tension)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ : ᴀɴᴏɴ…ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ ᴜᴘ ɴᴏᴡ!

ᴡᴄ : 1.6ᴋ

You’d been trying to find a husband for years now. It was embarrassing, honestly…

And not just trying. Not flirting here and there or batting your lashes at the Sunday socials. You’d prayed. You’d fasted. You’d begged God, begged the moon, begged your own reflection for someone who’d take you seriously. For someone who’d take you home.

But all you’d gotten was abandonment.

Not once. Not twice. But over and over.

Same story every time — they’d look at you, smile at first, then freeze when they remembered. Remembered that you were the girl who ran wild with The Moore twins. Smoke and Stack. The trouble boys with blood on their boots and hearts that didn’t work right. They’d say your name like it had something dirty attached to it. Like it was too close to theirs.

You didn’t sleep with both of them.

Not at the same time, not even back-to-back.

But what folks thought…was enough.

And so every man who took you out once, never came back for seconds.

Except Bo Chow.

Bo owned the only real grocer in town.

Right off Main, past the post office, across from Grace’s white grocer shop. His store was never quiet — he ran it like clockwork. He knew how much flour was on the shelf before he turned the key in the front door. He had a head for numbers, a body made for lifting sacks of rice and crates of apples, and a voice that made you forget what time it was.

He’d been in town almost his whole life now.

Long enough to earn a grudging respect from the older men and more than a few stares from women who never bought groceries until he was behind the counter. Long enough for everyone to know that when he said he was gonna do something — he did it.

Which made it all the more confusing that for years, Bo Chow had been telling people he was gonna marry you.

“Y’all hear Bo Chow said he gon’ wife that girl?”

“The one that was always at that Moore house?”

“Lord have mercy, he must be lonely.”

It started out as gossip.

Then a punchline.

Then a…rumor with weight.

He’d say it like it was nothing. Casually, while weighing out pecans. While handing you exact change. While handing you your groceries and brushing his thumb over your wrist longer than he needed to.

“Don’t let nobody waste your time,” he’d say with those dark eyes low on you. “Told you I’d marry you, didn’t I?” He’d brush his thumb over your bottom lip.

You’d roll your eyes. Smile like it was a joke.

But it never sounded like one.

One morning, after another man — a preacher’s son — dropped you with no warning, saying his mother “had concerns,” you found yourself standing outside Bo’s store, holding nothing but a paper list and the weight of your own shame.

You’d stayed up all night crying into a pillow you didn’t own. Borrowed sheets. Borrowed hope.

But there you were.

Again.

And when Bo saw you through the storefront window, he came out front like he always did — wiping his hands on his apron, already reaching for the list in your hand.

“Let me guess. Flour. Sugar. You want the good honey or the regular one?”

You just blinked at him.

He didn’t ask why your eyes were red.

Didn’t ask why you were trembling when he brushed your arm with his hand, careful, always careful.

He just took the list and nodded.

“I’ll bag it myself. Come inside, stay cool. Got fresh peaches today.”

You walked in like a ghost.

And then sat behind the counter. And watched him work.

And for some reason, that day…you saw him clearer than you ever had.

His rolled-up sleeves, arms veined and golden from sun.

The subtle way he smiled when an old man thanked him.

The careful way he handled a child’s nickel — didn’t take more than what he had to.

The way he moved. Steady. Strong. Full of intent.

You watched Bo Chow lean down to grab a jar from the bottom shelf, and it hit you mid-breath — he wasn’t playing with you.

He meant every word.

Every promise.

Every time he said you deserve better.

Maybe he’d been waiting.

Maybe you were the one who hadn’t believed him.

Later that afternoon, you didn’t say much when he drove you home with a brown bag on your lap, filled with peaches, ribbon candy, and flour you hadn’t paid for.

When he parked in front of your steps, you didn’t get out right away.

He didn’t rush you.

Bo just rested his arm over the steering wheel, turned to look at you, and said — soft, not shy —

“You ever gon’ take me serious?” He didn’t sound like he was tired of you.

So you didn’t answer right away.

Your heart was thudding like it was afraid to get the words out. Like it was remembering all the other men who’d walked away. All the times you’d been left holding hope with both hands, just for it to slip.

But when you looked at him — really looked —

You didn’t see someone waiting for you to be perfect.

You didn’t see someone measuring your past.

You saw a man who meant to stay.

And right there, in the heat of that car, hands trembling in your lap, you said:

“I might.”

His lips twitched. His hand found yours.

“That’s good enough for me.”

He didn’t press you after that.

Didn’t grin like he’d won. Didn’t lean over and steal a kiss like a man who knew the answer before you gave it. Bo Chow just squeezed your hand — once — and let it fall back into your lap like it was sacred. Like it had done enough.

“You sure you wanna go inside?” he asked, voice low.

You looked at your porch. Looked back at him.

And suddenly, the house you’d been trying to make into a home felt hollow. Not because of its emptiness — but because it wasn’t his.

“Not really.”

Bo reached for the key in the ignition, but didn’t turn it just yet.

He looked at you again — and there was something in his eyes you hadn’t let yourself see before. Not fully. Something slow and rich and full of patience. The kind of look a man gives when he’s already made up his mind about you, and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

His house wasn’t far. Not that far from your place. Not that far from the store. Tidy. Warm.

The kind of place that had rice in every cabinet and a garden out back that didn’t need much tending. The bed was made. The floor swept. There was a jacket hung over the back of the only armchair. The scent of wood and salt and faint cigarette smoke clung to the walls like it belonged there.

He didn’t lead you in. He just unlocked the door and stepped aside.

“Ain’t fancy,” he muttered. “But you’re always welcome.”

You stepped over the threshold like you’d been there in a dream before.

The inside of Bo Chow’s home looked exactly how you thought it might. Like him. Like someone who doesn’t waste words. Someone who buys quality, not quantity. Someone who meant every damn thing he said when he looked you in the eye and promised you something better than what you’d been given.

And that night — without a single word — you helped him take off his shirt and folded it.

You brushed your hand down his chest like you had every right to.

And when he kissed you — cradling your face ever so gently, like you were fragile and made of glass — it didn’t feel like a beginning.

It felt like you’d arrived.

It wasn’t sex. Not really.

You didn’t even get that far. Just your lips and his hands and the heat of his breath on your neck when he pulled you into his lap like something breakable and precious and his mouth brushed against the hollow behind your ear like a confession.

You didn’t ask what it meant.

Didn’t have to.

It was in the way he held the back of your head when you shifted on top of him.

In the way he looked at your mouth like a holy thing.

In the way he kissed you between the eyes before he whispered—

“I told you I’d take care of you.”

And God help you, you believed him.

You woke up to the sound of him boiling water the next morning.

He was already dressed — a clean shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar slightly askew. He had a lighter in his hand and his back to you, standing in the kitchen with a cigarette on the sill and steam curling through the sunlight. His body filled the doorway.

And in that moment, something in you settled.

Like the ache that had been in your chest for years just quieted.

Because this — he — was not something you’d stumbled into. He had been there.

He had been choosing you longer than you’d been brave enough to notice.

You padded barefoot into the kitchen, pulled your arms around his waist, and pressed your cheek against the middle of his back.

Bo didn’t startle.

He just turned the stove down and reached for your hands.

“Been waiting so long for this,” he said. “Told you I was gon’ marry you.”

You buried your face into his shoulder and whispered—

“I know.” You said. “Sorry for making you wait so long…”

The man only shook his head.

But the way he smiled?

That was the moment you figured it out.

You didn’t need to find a husband.

You just needed to stop running from the man who’d already been one all along.

Mannnnnnn I wouldn’t had that man waiting for YEARS….thats crazy work — imagine making BO CHOW WAIT…nahhhh I would’ve said yes the first time he asked.

[kxsagi]

something kinda funny happened to me recently and i immediately thought about rin and your fics, so i'll send it as a req!! i hope you dont find it uncomfortable.

to sum up: ppl usually perceive me as a "nerdy and smart girl" (as in, "top of the class" kind of smart) bc of my looks but in reality i couldnt care less about paying attention to something if its not abt a topic im interested in lol. WHICH RESULTED IN ME RANKING 20 OUT OF 23 STUDENTS in everything but english. it doesn't bother me at all bc. well. i was expecting it. but my classmates are always shocked somehow.

anyways, i immediately thought about my dear rinnie, bc i think thats the kind of situation that poor boy would experience, since everyone in bllk sees him as an academically smart guy bc hes fluent in english, failingto realizethat my boy does NAWT cate about anything other than eng and soccer. . so! my req is basically just a fic where both rin and reader end up in the bottom of the rankings in everything but english (they were the only ones to ace it) and the others are like "?!?!?!" bc i think it would be rlly funny!! feel free to do it in any way you like! tyy! BTW SORRY FOR ANY TYPOS I HOPE IT DOESNT SOUND CONFUSING

“𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫”

a/n: OMG I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS REQUEST BC i have a male coworker in his 20’s who looks like a geeked out nerd, like kind of skinny, glasses, black hair, asian. and my mom told me to talk to him to potentially gain connections bc i’m academic and i was still in high school at the time so i asked him about college and he said “oh yeah, i dropped out like… 3 times. i just didn’t have the drive because i attended raves instead of lectures” don’t let looks fool you 💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

for context, all the blue lock characters attend the same high school lol

title is a beabadobee reference bc i love her idc

(art credits go to immmso_ko on twitter)

in a cruel twist of fate, or maybe divine comedy, you and rin itoshi have somehow landed in the bottom tier of your class rankings. 

not just “average.” not “middle of the pack.” no. we're talking rank 21 and 22 out of 23. (it would’ve been 22 and 23, but shoutout to that one guy who never came to class and failed on principle. king.) 

the only subject you both aced? english. 

english was your salvation. your shared pride. your mutual delusion. you’d both walked out of that test with the smug confidence of people who knew the word “juxtaposition” and weren’t afraid to use it. and it paid off with perfect scores. 

but everything else? absolute academic carnage. 

math: rin got bored halfway through and started drawing soccer formations in the margins. 

science: you answered every question based on vague memories of a documentary you half-watched two years ago. 

history: you just… didn’t. rin got distracted by a headline about international players and spiral notebooked into a wikipedia hole mid-exam. 

and when the results were posted, the classroom erupted. 

“WAIT. RIN?! RIN ITOSHI?!” 

someone physically grabbed him by the sleeve. “bro. you’re like. fluent in english. i thought you were smart?!” 

rin stared at them, face completely blank. “i am.” 

“YOU’RE 22ND!!” 

“in english?” 

“NO. OVERALL.” 

“… okay. but in english?” 

he had a point. it was the only thing that mattered. 

you slinked over beside him, matching his blank expression. “hey. i’m 21st.” 

he looked at you. “you’re better at literature than me.” 

“damn right.” 

behind you, chaos brewed. karasu paced like a man discovering the earth was flat. bachira was cry-laughing, gripping isagi like he’d seen a ghost. otoya just kept whispering “no way. no way. no way.” like he was having an existential breakdown over his fantasy of rin being the dark, brooding honor student. 

“this is a scam,” reo muttered from the side. “i thought rin was our secret weapon for test prep. i was gonna ask him to tutor me in math.” 

rin tilted his head. “why would i do that?” 

“you got a 12%.” 

“i don’t need math to score goals.” 

“… you didn’t even attempt question two.” 

“it was too many words.” 

you nodded solemnly beside him. “same. too many triangles. immediate shut down.” 

someone behind you whispered, “this is actually worse than when nagi slept through the finals.” 

but you and rin? unfazed. you were both already planning how to celebrate your dual top scores in english. (you were thinking milk tea. he was thinking silence. compromise: milk tea in silence.) 

you sipped your drink later that afternoon with the confidence of two people who fully accepted their intellectual limitations, so long as they didn’t apply to soccer or essays on animal farm. 

“this doesn’t bother you?” you asked, curious. 

“not really,” he replied. “they’re just shocked because i don’t talk much. so they assume i’m smart.” 

“right?! same! they see glasses and a quiet demeanor and suddenly expect perfect grades.” 

he nodded slowly. “people are stupid.” 

you toasted your drink to that. “cheers to mediocrity, king.” 

and rin, for the first time that day, cracked the smallest smirk. “except in english.” 

“except in english,” you agreed, dead serious. 

the only subject that mattered. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[miscellaneousdae]

WOULD THEY DATE A PLUS SIZED PERSON? | SKZ⁸

ᝰ.ᐟauthors note: raise your hand if you’ve been victimized by a tik tok video regarding who in skz would date a plus sized person! 🙋🏻‍♀️ in honor of that, here’s my take on this lol. these were written with reality in mind, but sprinkled by delusion on some. you’re all gorgeous and we don’t know these people personally, so delulu is the solulu.

p.s: written by a plus sized girlie

౨ৎ — BANG CHAN 🐺

Yes.

see source one, source two, and i had another video that i cant find, but chan talks about how saying “you look fine as you are” can sometimes give a negative impression, and how people say “you look good when you’re skinny” but he (at the time) didn’t like how skinny he was, and wanted to gain weight. he just…gets it, in a way, and i’m standing on that! can you tell he’s my bias?

i feel like his is so straightforward that there’s not a lot to elaborate on. he understands that bodies are different, for many reasons, and has always been so open about struggles. be it his own struggles or others, he’s always so kind and open minded. he also definitely gives me the vibe that he’s not actively seeking out romance when he meets someone, so he’s not even considering what’s attractive and what’s not attractive. people become attractive to him when he learns their personality and gets a good grasp of their energy and vibe. so, yes, chan would definitely date a plus sized person <3

౨ৎ — LEE MINHO 🐈

Yes.

now, i don’t have a lot to back me up here other than straight vibes. he’s another one who doesn’t immediately consider romance when meeting other people, and i think he’s probably experienced being physically attracted to someone and then their personality completely throws him off, so he’s just stopped considering looks as a whole. even if looks are considered, he seems like he doesn’t understand why he’d go out of his way to comment on someone else’s body, or why anyone else would. he’s very demure, very minding his own business, very whatever comes his way is what he loves. he’s just a chill guy.

౨ৎ — SEO CHANGBIN 🐇

…do I even need to say it?

for a number of reasons, yes. first and foremost, he just has that vibe that he loves the look, and secondly, he knows what it’s like to not be accepted because of how you look, and therefore, would never want to be that way to other people. he’s a sweetheart, and very much just wants someone who dotes on him and that he can dote on in return. changbin is a strong yes and you’re incorrect if you disagree.

౨ৎ — HWANG HYUNJIN 🥟

indecisive

genuinely, the only thing keeping me from saying yes is how firm some other people’s ‘no’s have been. from my perspective, hyunjin seems like someone who’s open minded and more focused on the ways he can connect with people rather than worrying about judging them. not to mention, he’s an artist. one could argue that he’s more critical, but i also feel like because of that, he wants to really know someone before making any judgements. plus, given the forbidden bullying scandal, i feel like he might be terrified to find himself in another situation like that but i digress

so like…if you ask me? yes, but i am delusional and hyunjin is one of my bias wreckers so who knows

౨ৎ — HAN JISUNG 🐿️

YES GAWDDD

look, i’ve seen mixed opinions on him as well (most of these opinions i’m referring to are old tumblr MTL posts or tik toks and the comment sections on them) BUT i feel like he’s very curious and open minded. so, say a plus sized person shoots their shot? han’s got that “you know what? hell yeah.” mindset. ANNDDDD the video where felix mentions gaining weight, and han immediately reassures him that gaining weight is okay, and that he’s pretty. plus, han spends a lot of time working with chan and changbin, to which i feel like they all probably have come to similar conclusions due to their influence on each other. plus han also gives me the energy that if you’re pretty, you’re pretty, regardless of size, shape, etc.

౨ৎ — LEE FELIX 🐣

…yes. and hear me out,

i’ve seen almost everyone who’s done this sort of thing say that felix is a hard no because of his own struggles with his body and how his perception of beauty is warped. while i can see that, i don’t think that translates to how he views other people. if anything, he wouldn’t want to put someone else through what his own mind puts him through. not to mention, i think he could find a lot of comfort in security in being with a plus sized person who’s confident with themselves, and could implement better ideals to felix. that’s just my take <33

౨ৎ — KIM SEUNGMIN 🐶

YES.

i don’t think i’ve seen anyone say he wouldn’t, and i stand with that because hear me out:

“but i’m fat”

“…okay and i’m seungmin?”

this man does not care. he acknowledges it and appreciates it. he’s very much in the “if i like you, i like you” category. case rested.

౨ৎ — YANG JEONGIN 🦊

indecisive pt. 2

in theory, yes. i think he’s probably taken some influence from chan, or maybe even seeing how changbin has been affected and treated by media would alter any negative views he might have had. to be fair, i just don’t even see jeongin dating LMAO like he’s content as he is, and if the person that happened to come his way was plus sized? if he likes your personality, he’s down.

[rainydayathogwarts]

Masquerade - Remus Lupin

ˋ°•*⁀➷ Phantom of the Opera

☆ 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ☆ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ☆ 𝐌𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐘 ☆

summary: When your parents throw a masquerade to celebrate your engagement, your co-star comes nagging you about how he should have been your fiancé instead of Remus, who shows up just in time to rescue you. wc: 1.7k+ cw: unwanted flirting, making out (and caught)

The mansion buzzed with a familiar energy of prideful, judgemental purebloods strolling around the ballroom, smiling at each other during conversations whilst making mental notes of things to tell their friends later. Every year, every gala, you fell victim to the interrogations from your parents’s apparent friends, all so intrigued on why you didn’t have a husband, or asking if your career was failing yet.

But now? As the most successful woman in the room, not only career wise but in terms of relationships, no one said a word to you other than an envious “Congratulations.” You smiled fakely, eyes running up and down Mrs. Greengrass’ attire. Her eyes were barely visible behind the mask she wore, a dark cloud of makeup underneath drowning them from view. Glancing around the ballroom, you tugged your long silk gloves up your forearms, smiling softly at the idea that everyone in this room was here to celebrate you.

Perhaps not by choice, but it was enough to give you validation. Your posture straightened at the soft touch on your lower back and you turned to look at Remus, offering him an encouraging smile as he leaned in closer to you, ducking his head next to yours to whisper. “Everyone looks ridiculous with these masks on.”

Indeed, they did, and you let that be known with a hum of agreement. Your parents had thought that nothing was more fitting for you and Remus’s engagement celebration gala than relating it back to your career. Again. You were grateful that your parents supported your career, but you were tired of seeing references to your job outside of the theatre.

There was nothing like a masquerade to remind you of the musical number in Phantom, a trigger for you to think about work once more instead of your private life, your brothers, your fiancé. “How are you doing?” You asked in a low whisper. “Any insults too bad?” Remus chuckled, shaking his head softly. No, he had only gotten condescending and jealous comments. To him, it was clear that every mother and father in this room had hoped for you to marry their son.

Not some unknown actor your parents didn’t even know was a half-blood.

“Sirius looked a little stressed,” Remus started again, and you fully turned to face him, suddenly aware of the many pairs of eyes drawn to you. The happy couple. “I was thinking of taking a walk with him outside, if that’s okay?” Remus was shy when he told you, his statement coming out as a question. You smiled softly, reaching up to smooth down the lapel of Remus’s blazer. He looked so pretty like this, his face the centre of your attention, having abandoned his mask to hold in his hand all night instead. You had done the same.

It was sweet that Remus had asked for your permission despite having been best friends with your brother since they were eleven.

“Yeah, go ahead. Don’t come back smelling like cigarettes though.” Remus grinned at your words, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your cheek before strolling out of the ballroom with your brother. Suddenly realising you hadn’t seen Regulus in a while, you approached your parents, stood next to a high table that held their drinks. However, before you could catch their attention, a call of your name had you spinning around.

A look of relief overtook your features when you realised it was only Lewis, your co-star, a friendly look on his face. But the words that came tumbling out of his mouth didn’t quite match the look he had on his face. “It’s a shame this isn’t celebrating our engagement.” Swallowing thickly, you cocked your head to the side, eyes wide with astonishment at his comment, his audacity. You were taken aback by his words, suddenly patronising. It was unlike he had ever spoken to you before.

“What do you mean?” Smiling sweetly at him, you quickly recovered the expression on your face, furrowing your eyebrows slightly in mock confusion. Play dumb. “Your mother discussed with me that she considered me her top candidate to marry you. We made an agreement that it would be me. Then he came along.” Lewis rolled his eyes playfully with a scoff, and you were instantly regretting giving your parents permission to organise a masquerade. Without the rest of his face being in view, Lewis’s eyes seemed to go all black, matching the colour of the mask he bore. It seemed threatening.

Like you were trapped.

A flash of movement caught in your ray of vision, but you didn’t pay it any attention, too busy thinking up ways to escape this dreadful conversations. Lewis extended an arm out towards you and before his touch even landed on your skin, chills ran up your arms. From the entrance of the ballroom, Remus frowned. He had forgotten his wand inside and had ran to get it, but his eyes instantly found you. Cornered by your cast mate, you looked considerably uncomfortable, trying inch away from him little by little.

Remus was disgusted that nobody had stepped in, taking long strides towards you and clasping a hand on your cast-mates shoulder, digging his thumb into the man’s collarbone. Due to Remus’s crippling strength, a pained noise escaped Lewis’s lips, a wince clear on his face. But Remus kept smiling, extending his free hand out the man.

“I think it’s about time we met, isn’t it? Remus Lupin — her fiancé.” Lewis chuckled nervously, turning to face your taller fiancé, his masculinity obviously threatened by the way he squared his shoulders as he shook Remus’s hand. “Lewis.” He replied dryly, wrenching his eyes away from Remus to follow your movements. You glided on the floor from in front of your coworker to snake a hand through the gap between Remus’s arm and his torso, resting your palm on his bicep. You didn’t have to tug Remus away, but the steady weight of your hand on his bicep was enough for Remus to lead you away from Lewis, and out of the ballroom.

The sound of your heels echoed on the stone floor, and you absentmindedly found yourself leading Remus up the grand staircase and into the safe space of your bedroom. Kicking your heels off, you huffed, laying back on your bed. “What a weirdo.” You mumbled, turning to face Remus as the bed dipped beside you from the weight he put on it. “Are you okay, love?” You shuffled on the bed, bringing a hand up to trace a pattern on Remus’s chest, nodding surely.

“Yeah. Good thing I don’t have to marry him, right?” Remus dipped his head down to press a brief kiss to your lips before pulling away and stating “I’m just glad I get to marry you. Can’t imagine life without you.” You felt your face go hot at his confession, loving words so easily tumbling out of his mouth. “So am I. You know, I tried dresses on the other day.”

Remus pushed himself up on his elbow, looking down at you with a wide grin. “For the wedding?” You nodded, licking your lips. “Do you have any pictures?” He asked eagerly. You hummed, standing up to go find polaroids hidden in your drawer. “I’ll only show you the ones I know won’t get.” You told him, stuffing a couple of pictures back into your drawer. “You already know which one?” He asked, sitting up properly, arms extended so he could put his hands on your hips, pulling you closer to him so you could stand between his legs.

“I have a couple of options. I want a dress I can be sure of though.” You turned the first polaroid towards Remus, and he sighed, a fond look glazing his eyes over. “Oh, my lovely. You look absolutely stunning.” You hummed happily, both your hands twining into Remus’s hair as you played with the shorts strands. Remus tossed the image aside, hands sliding down to the back of your thighs as he finally glanced up at you, his eyes bleary with tears. You laughed softly, holding out the other two images. “Do you want to see these two or not?” Remus nodded, feeling a tear run down his cheek. “Yeah, yeah, I do, just give me a minute.”

You ducked your head down to softly press your lips against Remus’s, and your fiancé instantly groaned, both hands coming up to grip your biceps as he used his hold to tug you down onto the bed, swiftly rolling over you as he pushed his tongue into your mouth. You moaned against his lips, nails scratching into his scalp as his tongue glided against yours in a passionate kiss.

“Can’t wait ‘til we’re married,” He panted, lips grazing yours as he spoke. “Gonna do this all the time.” He added, diving back down to catch your lips with his. The quiet whine you let out had Remus serenaded, too busy in love to hear the door opening ahead of you. But you did. You pushed Remus off you, head snapping towards the sound of the door to stare at your older brother with wide eyes, lips parted, lipstick smudged.

“I see how it is.” Casually stated Sirius, slamming the bedroom door behind him as he slumped down on an armchair. Remus gasped, shooting upwards as his hands flew to the sides of his head. “Oh Sirius, I’m so sorry! I completely forgot.” Sirius scoffed as you and Remus scrambled to sit up, rearranging yourselves on the bed as though you hadn’t just been caught exchanging saliva. Sirius lit up a cigarette, bringing it to his lips with his eyebrows raised. Usually, you would tell him off for smoking in your room, but after the stunt you and Remus just pulled, you’d let him get away with it.

“Lewis was bothering me,” You explained, a finger tracing the outline of your lips to wipe any lipstick away. “Remus came to help.” Sirius nodded, squinting his eyes at you. “You’re on thin ice.” He threatened playfully, the smirk on his lips giving away his true feelings. Remus’s arm wrapped around your waist, and he dipped his head down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“And you watch out!” Sirius added “Or I’ll tell our Aunt Drusilla you don’t want to have children!”

taglist: @rory-cakes, @stta-princess, @arielthee-potterhead, @lettertovera, @bininisiwi, @superlegend216, @abhootghiihii, @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @treefairy-28, @kitkatkl, @juliet-f017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @why-am-i-like-this18, @theoraekenslover, @animalcrossingshameless, @azure-drag0ness

[zeke-fanfucs]

OKAY OKAY! BIG BIG BIGGGG GHANK YOU TOO @soup-sloth for making my baby!!!

So as payment. I made three fanfics with their character “Sibren” and their Version of Karmor! I hope you like this! 😋😋😋😋😋😋😋

Fanfic 1: “Claws and Cheers”

Colt had tracked the bastard through two settlements and three wrong turns, teeth grit from the sting of wind and dust on his eyes. He’d been expecting a fight. Maybe a chase. What he found instead was blood—slick and fresh—painting the warehouse floor in splatters and pools that led to the back room like a breadcrumb trail of carnage.

He knew this kind of mess. Not from blaster fire. Not from panic.

This was personal.

Colt cocked his gun as he stepped in, but the sound of laughter—low, sharp, too delighted—froze him at the threshold.

Someone else was here. Someone already working.

The man he’d been tracking was sprawled on the floor, breathing in hitching gasps, bleeding from the legs, the ribs, the arms. Avoided the vitals. On purpose.

A figure crouched over him—short, lithe, steady hands glowing with a soft, unnatural orange heat. One claw traced up the side of the target’s neck, slow and deliberate. A warning. Or maybe a tease.

The guy doing it was humming..

Colt blinked. The stranger’s hair was shaggy, curls falling over his face and catching in the sweat at his temples. A scarf tucked against his throat. Mechanical arms glinting in the dark, one finger tilting the target’s chin like he was inspecting bad meat. When the stranger laughed again, it lit up his whole face—sharp canines, metal fang glinting, eyes full of something beautiful and wrong.

Colt knew rage when he saw it. Knew what it looked like when it had style.

He leaned against the doorway with a low whistle. “Damn. You always work this gracefully, or am I just crashing your highlight reel?”

The figure paused.

Then turned.

Not startled. Not even annoyed.

Just curious.

“You’re late,” he said, voice roughened by heat or laughter or both.

“Wasn’t aware we had a date.”

“He touched a kid,” the man said, voice flat. “They let him walk. I don’t like that.”

Colt’s lips quirked. “Yeah? That why you’re playing Operation with your fingers?”

The guy grinned, something wild and proud in it. “Just warming up.”

Colt finally let his eyes drag lower. The way the claws danced across skin—not erratic, but calculated. The heat of them left flesh bubbled and weeping, but not fatal. The mechanical precision. The control.

It was beautiful.

And familiar. Too familiar.

Then it clicked.

Hipswitch’s wolf.

Colt had heard the name in passing. Something about a bounty hunter with claws and a temper. Switch always got soft in the voice when he brought him up—“You’d like him, Colt. Got teeth, but knows how to use ‘em.”

Colt never bothered to listen. Wolves didn’t interest him. Not until now.

Because this one?

He was art.

Colt stepped closer, slowly, deliberately placing his boot on the bounty’s flailing wrist. The man screamed again, but neither of them looked at him.

“Mind if I help?” Colt asked.

The wolf raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know my name.”

Colt smirked. “Don’t need it yet. We’re makin’ music just fine without introductions.”

He pressed his boot harder, holding the man down.

The wolf gave him a long, appraising look—and then a grin that curled Colt’s stomach in a way he didn’t expect.

“You’re cocky.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Lucky for you,” the wolf said, claw tips beginning to glow again, “I like an audience.”

Colt watched him work, unable to tear his eyes away. He wasn’t sure what lit his chest more—the thrill of the scene, or the way the wolf’s eyes sparkled like a match just struck.

One thing was certain: he wasn’t letting this one vanish into the dark.

Not now that he’d really met him.

(Colt need to really stop referring Sibren as “Wolf”—

SHUT UP, he’s “Wolf” to me! Or puppy~ hehe- OW! You hit me with a frying pan??!!

Yeah! GO BACK TO YOUR CLOSET WHORE!)

———————

Fanfic 2: “Don’t Touch the Scarf”

The bar was loud. Warm. Packed.

Sibren sat alone at a corner booth, a fruity cocktail sweating in his hand, scarf pulled close. His smile was thin. Too polite. It was that time of year.

The guy came out of nowhere, half-drunk and trying to be cute. “Nice scarf. Mind if I—”

He reached.

Sibren’s whole body snapped back, a low snarl already curling his lips. His claws flexed with the soft whir of metal priming. The guy didn’t notice. He kept reaching.

Suddenly, arms closed around Sibren from behind—tight, unrelenting.

“Don’t,” Hipswitch growled, voice sharp enough to cut.

The man stepped back fast, finally catching the wrongness in the air.

Sibren struggled for a breath, then sagged. His fingers trembled, claws retreating. Then he cracked.

Shoulders shaking, he let out a broken sound—somewhere between a growl and a sob—and buried his face into Switch’s chest. “I told him not to—why do they always—”

Switch held firm, rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades, quietly whispering, “I got you, Wolf. Let it out.”

———

(Well that’s hurt. …. COLT GET BACK HERE AND DROP THAT SWORD! YOU DONT EVEN USE THEM—

THAT FUCKER MADE SIBREN CRY, HE WILL PAY WITH HIS PENIS—

… welp I’m too tired to stop him. HIPSWITCH COLT GOING TO KILL SOMEONE)

——————

Fanfic 3: “Velcro Karmor”

“Is he stuck?” Albus asked flatly, glancing down at the blue crop-top-clad barnacle attached to his side.

Karmor didn’t respond. Just nuzzled further into Albus’s arm with a big, drowsy grin and a stolen jacket hanging off his shoulders.

“He’s just… expressing comfort,” Mahatma offered. “I think.”

“I think he’s turning into a weighted blanket,” Attila muttered, trying to flick Karmor off his leg. Karmor just draped himself further, limbs like spaghetti.

Switch strolled in and stopped short. “Did you guys let him eat sugar again?”

“He cooked sugar,” Mahatma said. “Caramel pancakes. They were good.”

Karmor, beaming up at Switch, reached for him too. “Switchyyyyyy—”

“Oh no,” Switch said, stepping back. “I already got his hoodie thief grease on my sleeves last time.”

But he didn’t move fast enough. Karmor latched, arms around his middle, humming like a satisfied cat.

Albus took a sip of his drink. “You’re stuck now.”

Switch sighed, defeated, as Karmor clung to him like a baby koala. “We’re never getting him off, are we?”

“Nope,” said Attila.

“Not until he powers down,” Mahatma added.

Karmor just yawned. “I love you guys.”

They grumbled—but no one made him let go.

————

( WHY THE FUCK DO THEY GET TO HUG KARMOR? Where my hug at?!

That sounds wrong- whatever. He will hug you later. And— is that a head in your hand?

No it’s a luxury bag— duh no shits a head. It’s that fucker’s who made Sibren cry

THROW IT OUT, ITS FUCKING DRIPPING ON THE CARPET! IM RENTING ASSHOLE!!!!)

[rc-catalog]

It's that time again—our Creator of the Month event is back in full swing!

Our April Creator of the Month is @cursedbycain! 🎉 Please join us in giving a big round of applause to Aditi for her incredible creativity and contributions—this spotlight is so well deserved! 🌟 To help you get to know her better, we’ve put together a short interview where she shares a little bit about herself and her work ✨! Welcome to the COTM hall of fame, Aditi! We’re so excited to celebrate you this month and beyond! 🫶

💬 1) INTRODUCE YOURSELF! Tell us a little bit about who you are—not just your name, but what inspires you, what you love, and how you would describe yourself beyond your creations !!

🎤: I’m Aditi! I’m in my 20’s and I’m Indian Canadian! I am a chronic gym rat and probably the most annoying morning person you will ever meet. I love all things makeup/fashion/skincare and of course, Cain is basically the loml, despite being a blonde. My main inspiration is of course my loves Elle and Agatha (@kazu-naito and @agattthaa respectively). I make a lot of things either for them or because of them and I could probably talk about them forever so I’ll cut myself off here! There isn’t much else to know about me, pretty much all I do is gym, study, write, and clean. My friends like to refer to me as “insane” but i prefer “organized” so if that doesn’t sum it up, I’m not sure what will.

💬 2) WHEN AND HOW DID YOU FIRST DISCOVER ROMANCE CLUB? What drew you in, and what made you stay? Were there particular characters, stories, or moments that left a mark on you?

🎤: So my first interactive romance game was actually the Love Island game, and because of my interest in that subreddit, Reddit suggested the Romance Club sub! So I downloaded the app, started a story, instantly disliked the artstyle, and then forgot about it for a month! Then I tried it again and started with KFS for the Indian culture, fell absolutely HEAD over heels for Ram, and I was hooked! Funnily enough, I started playing during a diamond rush and thought the free diamond choices was some crazy glitch. But finding out that they have these events was so incredible that I couldn’t stop playing.

💬 3) HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN CREATING? Can be both RC related and in general! what first sparked your passion for it? Think back: when did you realize you wanted to create—whether it was writing, art, or something else?

🎤: In general—we’re coming up on probably 6 or 7 years? I have ALWAYS loved reading and when I discovered fanfic and how much I loved reading fics, I started to constantly come up with ideas and send them to people in asks (this has not changed) and eventually I would think—well instead of sending requests for other people to write things…why don’t I just write it myself? And then I did! I’ve been writing on and off since then, for various fandoms and people and I’ve always loved the outlet it gives me! For RC—I am quite new to the fandom in all honestly, I started playing right around the Feb update and I didn’t start making content until late March/beginning of April! I love participating in fandoms and this one is a bit smaller than I am used to, which meant not nearly enough fics to satisfy my insane urges, so I figured I would write some!! So technically I’ve been creating for a month but wow, it feels so much longer.

💬 4) DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR FIRST EVER CREATION? Again, can be RC related or in general! What was it, how did it feel to bring it to life, and looking back now, how do you feel about it?

🎤: I have a vague memory of my first fic, but it is so horrible that I’m gonna talk about my first RC creation instead! I started with a CainLane fic (who could’ve guessed) after yapping in Elle’s inbox about them for a month! I sent her an anon about the idea around the end of March, and then I wrote it! It was basically a fic about Lane being trapped in Baal’s domain and her small interactions with Cain! It was a random idea that came to me, and writing it was actually really satisfying! Characterizing Cain was slightly challenging since it was my first time writing him, and I hate writing things that are OOC, but after some satisfying workshopping, it turned out quite nicely! I hadn’t written fanfiction in about a year, and it shows in that fic, but honestly I still like the way it turned out!

💬 5) IS THERE A PIECE OF ADVICE YOU WOULD GIVE TO YOUR YOUNGER CREATIVE SELF? Or readers in general?

🎤: This is gonna sound so cheesy, but have fun!! I used to literally burn myself out trying to stick to scheduled fic postings and crazy challenges, and writing would almost feel like a chore? Don’t let that happen to you. Above all, creating should make YOU happy. Even if something gets no notes, if you’re proud of it and creating it made you feel good, it’s a win. Everytime my friends mention their “flops” (oh yeah I’m calling you out) I wanna shake them because it really does not matter! NEVER let that kind of stuff discourage you. Focus on creating things that fulfill YOU and not others, because as wonderful as external validation feels, internal validation is so much more important.

💬 6) CHOOSE 3-5 OF YOUR FAVOURITE WORKS AND RAMBLE AWAY! We want all the behind-the-scenes thoughts: What do these pieces mean to you? What inspired them? Were there any struggles you faced while creating them? What emotions or memories are tied to them now?

🎤: Giving me permission to yap is so dangerous of you guys, alright lets do this! In no particular order:

Haircut - Cain x Lane — This fic holds a very special place in my heart because domestic fics are my absolute favourite. I also consider this to be my first proper CainLane fic since it’s in third person and more in character. Like many of my fics, it was inspired by something Elle said about how hilariously well groomed they are in HSR. It was such a funny idea, giving an immortal angel a haircut in the middle of a literal apocalypse that I just really wanted to bring it to life! Sometimes I find it hard to characterize Lane in relaxed moments like this, since the poor girl is always so stressed but it fell into place quite well! I also LOVE to incorporate found family moments of the squad into my fic and I pictured the ending of this one a lot. This fic is still so comforting to me and I honestly love it.

Rooftop - Cain x Lane — You know, you might as well call this interview an ode to Elle with the way she’s inspired all of my stuff. Once again, this is all her doing. I was halfway through my treadmill routine when I checked tumblr and saw her message and damn near fell off. No good morning message, just “lol, imagine lane finds cain crying alone and he immediately puts the mask back on when he notices”. There was nothing funny about this, I cannot believe she started this with lol. Anyways, I had already been left wanting by the rooftop scene in the update (seriously, we couldn’t get a kiss or something?), so I figured I would, in fact, write the loml crying because well, everyone needs a good cry. This was my first time writing Cain being vulnerable, and it took some workshopping. He’s such a guarded character, and crying felt almost OOC for him, so I wanted to make it feel right, which I think I managed! This one really does mean a lot to me. I really enjoy writing vulnerable moments like this, especially with Cain. As Agatha likes to say, he’s just a doll Elle likes to poke and I have joined her in said poking.

Eternity - Cain x Lane — Okay this is just embarrassing now uh this is ALSO inspired by Elle. She told me to make him cry again and I said “well, give me a reason” and she did, and I wrote it in less than two days. So this is probably the best fic I’ve ever written. I wanted to extend the scene where Cain visits her in s2 and sleeps on her lap, and just flesh it out. Elle, of course, brought up Lane’s mortality and how Cain would think about that and his feelings about it. Of course, the thought of this made me cry, and then I wrote him crying. I’ve never written a fic this descriptive and like flowery. It made me really nervous, but I loved the way it turned out. I probably edited it over 10 times to get all the metaphors and feelings of pain in there. Cain is a really complex character, which is part of the reason I love writing him, but it also means I am always doubting my characterization of him. With some lovely help from Agatha, I managed to work out his crying in a rather beautiful way, if I do say so myself. I honestly find myself rereading this fic whenever I’m particularly in a sad mood and just want to wallow a bit. The ending always makes me feel better though, and I always come back to it.

Unlocked - Yan x Lane — This is probably one of the fics I reread the most. I may be a dmitryan truther but don’t get me wrong…Dmitry can’t handle all that and I can! I honestly just love Yan, I think he’s such a sweet character and I just really wanted to expand on this small moment we got in the update. In a book like HSR I am always cravingggg these happy moments so this was a very self indulgent fic. The premise of this one was very random tbh, I kinda just let it come to me as I was writing. Normally I have a vague plot when I start a fic but with this one I was just like, well he’ll get in there and figure it out. I wanted there to be some smut but it didn’t feel right in the context of the scene. I was also very nervous writing this one because there are no YanLane fics on here, so I was really going in blind. Normally, I like to read a few fics to see how other people characterize who I’m writing about before I do my take. I was honestly surprised this did well, I didn’t realize YanLane was popular at all. But more importantly, I really like it! It’s a very comforting soft fic for me to reread.

Hate me harder - Cassiel x Audrey (18+) — Okay a wonderful change of pace here, this one was for Agatha not Elle! She tolerates so much CainLane from the both of us that I had to write this for her. She made a post about how Cassiel and Audrey should have slept together in season 1, and I was just very inspired by it? I think that’s my favourite thing about writing, if I want something to happen, I can just write it happening. The scene in the hallway where he tells her, “I’m gonna lock you in a closet” was genuinely so funny to me. They have such good chemistry in that first season, I love a good enemies to lovers moment. I hadn’t written full smut in a long time so I actually had to go back and consult some of my old smut fics and jog my memory a bit! But the banter during the sex was actually really easy to write, I really enjoyed that part of it. I don’t reread this one as often but I do really like it. I hope to write more for them but their dynamic doesn’t come to me as easily as CainLane and YanLane, which is probably because I’ve played HSR almost ten times now. But ABH is definitely a banger for me so I’m excited to see the ending and write some more Audriel.

🌟 Thank you so much for joining us, Aditi, and for sharing your incredible creativity with us! Your work has truly enriched the RC fandom, and we’re so grateful for everything you’ve contributed. Keep creating, inspiring, and making this community even more amazing! And a huge thank you to you, the reader!! You help us keep the catalog going strong. We appreciate you being a part of this amazing journey! 💛

[benjaminobrien493]

No Ordinary Boy - Chapter Twelve

“Um… would you mind not picking at the couch? It’s new.”

  Shit. “Sorry”, Tommy mumbled, clasping his hands instead.

  “It’s alright”, Jane Prohaska smiled at him. “It’s perfectly normal to be nervous, here.”

  I’m not nervous, Tommy almost snapped, before he realised she would likely see right through that.

  Prohaska had the appearance of a wise old owl, which was surprising, because Tommy was fairly certain she was younger than him by at least ten years or so.

  “So, Thomas-”

  “Tommy.”

  “Tommy. My apologies. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here today?”

  Tommy hesitated. Was this a trick question? She knew perfectly well why he was here.

  “M… my family recommended you. They said you could help.”

  “Well, I certainly intend to try. You’ve had… an interesting life, to be sure.”

  Tommy felt himself scowl, and Prohaska raised her hands in apology.

  “Sorry if that came off so blunt, but… well, it’s true. Your service in the Navy during the War on Terror, then… before that…”

  The therapist trailed off, but Tommy knew what she was referring to. 

  That fucking place. Did we ever escape it, really? 

  “That was over twenty years ago.”

  “And yet, I see no record of therapy since then, or… well, any other form of help, really, in the file provided by your general practitioner.”

  “My parents didn’t really believe in that kind of stuff.”

  Liar. You just didn’t want to go. 

  Tommy’s mind flashed back to the day they had been rescued, and then the days that had followed, with him and the others talking to the authorities, answering the same questions over and over again. His mother insisting that he see a doctor, his father arguing to just give Tommy some time to talk about what had happened…

  Tommy brushed his thoughts aside. As he’d said, that had been more than twenty years ago, and he wanted to get better. Tommy wasn’t even in the service anymore, and he wanted his family to stop looking at him like he was an unexploded bomb. If this helped… if it even could help, how bad could it be?

  “What do you want to know?”

  “When you were… out there”, the therapist asked, “was there any point in time that you would say was… particularly arduous?”

  “Winter. No question about it.”

  “Hmm. The first winter… or the second?”

  “Both, I suppose. Though… they each had their own reasons for being difficult.”

  “Well, let’s start with the first winter, then. What would you say made it so… difficult?”

  000000000000000000000000

  “Jackie, please eat”, Shauna begged, pushing the bowl of leftover bear meat towards her friend. 

  Were they even friends anymore? Jackie didn’t give off that impression, as she lay like a fallen statue on the floor. She wouldn’t even look Shauna in the eye.

  Shauna’s gaze drifted to Jackie’s fingers, still nestled in the bowl of hot water, and she struggled not to flinch. The frostbite had caused extremely painful-looking blisters, which in turn had caused the digits to strongly resemble a group of fluid-filled sausages. 

  Then the thought of sausages filled Shauna’s brain, and she heard her stomach rumble.

  Goddammit. How could Jackie not be hungry?

  “Please”, Shauna whispered, holding a piece of the meat close to Jackie’s mouth. Her friend’s eyes flicked up at Shauna, and she flinched.

  Jackie didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Her hazel eyes were full of anger, and betrayal, and so much disappointment. Shauna felt tears brimming in her own eyes.

  “Fine!” She snapped, slowly getting up off the floor, as she saw Tommy standing across the room. He looked like he was going to say something, but he shook his head and walked away.

  Shauna felt like running after him and begging him to fix Jackie, but she knew there was no point in it. They would just have to wait and see. Jackie would get better.

  She has to get better. Please… please.

  That night, Shauna bedded down in the attic with Taissa, as Tommy and Natalie settled in across from them.

  Shauna watched as Natalie snuggled into Tommy’s arms, and felt the familiar pangs of jealousy she always felt when she saw them together. They looked so perfect, just… just so right…

  Shauna, like many of the girls here, had been nursing a crush on Tommy over the last few months, ever since they had seen how competent he was with the rifle, and how he had seemed to take charge, showing them how to set snares and cook meat, even how to sew.

  Shauna had sewed a little bit back in Wiskayok, but Tommy had showed her and the others stitches that Shauna had never even heard of, and when he helped put their winter outfits together, Shauna had found herself actually enjoying what she was doing, for the first time since the plane had crashed.

  She knew that Tommy was truly, deeply in love with Natalie, but there had been moments in their time out here where Shauna had imagined a world where Tommy was the father of her child instead of Jeff, visualising him taking her out into a quiet neck of the woods and fucking her over and over again, as she begged him for more, and more, and more, until neither of them could walk and they lay naked and covered in sweat on the forest floor…

  Jesus, Shauna thought, coming back to herself, these pregnancy hormones are no joke. 

  She rolled over, and tried to go to sleep. Eventually she drifted off, and was woken by the sound of Natalie dressing herself, as the morning light emerged through the attic window. Tommy wasn’t there, and Shauna figured he must have gone ahead to prepare for the day’s hunt.

  Shauna tried to go to sleep again, but felt the tug on her bladder, and sighed as she saw Natalie creep down the ladder. She must have gone to the bathroom a dozen times yesterday, but she showed no signs of slowing down. It was a miracle she hadn’t had to go last night, to be honest.

  Shauna sleepily rose from her makeshift bed and descended down into the main room of the cabin. The bucket they were using was in the corner, and she was about to make her way over to it when she saw Natalie holding hands with Tommy, who was cradling a sleeping Jackie with his free arm.

  “What are you guys doing?” She asked them. How could Jackie still be asleep-

  Then Shauna saw the dark, red stain on Jackie’s shirt leaking down towards the floor, and her eyes widened. 

  “Jackie?”

  They told her afterwards that her scream had woken them up, but Shauna didn’t remember screaming.

  She remembered everything else, though, particularly what came next.

  000000000000000000000000

  “YOU FUCKING MURDERER!” Natalie heard Shauna bellow at Tommy, while she struggled to hold Shauna back.

  “He didn’t have a choice, she was never going to make it-”

  “YOU KNEW, DIDN’T YOU?! YOU KNEW THIS WAS GOING TO HAPPEN!”

  “Yes, but Shauna-”

  Shauna started to wail, long, loud and heartbroken, as the others crowded around them.

  “Is she…”

  “Oh, my God.”

  Many of the Yellowjackets were crying, as Tommy continued holding Jackie on the floor. There was no hiding what he had done. His knife was lying right next to Jackie, and they could all see it was covered in blood. 

  Tommy’s right hand was shaking, and Natalie could see it was covered in dried blood as well. She hadn’t even noticed when she’d grasped it…

  Then Coach Scott limped in from the bedroom, and Natalie saw him gape at her boyfriend.

  “Tommy, what the fuck?!”

  But Tommy didn’t say a word. He didn’t even look at his brother. He just sat on the floor, and held Jackie’s body in his arms, as the room was filled with a shocked silence, save for the howling of the blizzard from outside.

  “Why? Why, Tommy, why?” Shauna sobbed, as the tears began running down her cheeks. 

  “She asked me to”, Tommy mumbled, and Natalie felt her heart break at the blank look on his face.  

  000000000000000000000000

  Eventually, Tommy was pried off of Jackie, and directed over to Ben’s bedroom. Natalie sat next to him on the bed, grasping his hand, but he barely even felt it.

  The difference had been marginal, after all. The knife sliding in, the slight exhale of breath as the air left Jackie’s lungs for the final time… it had been very reminiscent of Tommy’s other kills, when he delivered the coup de grace to their struggling, dying bodies.

  He could still see the light leave Jackie’s eyes, as he slid his knife into the place where he knew her heart would be. Belatedly, Tommy realised he’d left the knife beside Jackie’s body, but he didn’t think the others would let him have it back anytime soon.

  “Look, I… I get it, alright? But… Jesus, Tommy…”

  Tommy suddenly realised Ben was standing in front of him, as he looked down at the floor.

  “She asked me to”, he repeated. Was that all he could say? His mind scrabbled for something a bit more argumentative, but came up blank.

  “She was already dying”, Natalie argued. “He told me you said that to him yourself.”

  She was doing a much better job coping with this than Tommy was, and he felt absurdly grateful that she was here, showing him her support. He didn’t know how he would react if she looked at him the same way the others had looked at him…

  Especially Shauna. Poor, poor Shauna. Tommy remembered her sitting next to Jackie the previous day, trying in vain to get her to eat.

  Had that only been yesterday? It seemed so long ago, now.

  “Well, yes”, Ben spluttered. “But… I didn’t mean for him to go and do this…”

  Tommy kept his gaze on the floor. He still hadn’t looked his brother in the eye yet. He couldn’t, somehow. It just seemed too hard…

  Ben hesitated, then spoke to Natalie.

  “Will you meet me outside, please?”

  “Okay”, Natalie whispered, and Tommy felt her squeeze his hand before they both left the room, as he kept right on staring at the floor.

  000000000000000000000000

  “Did you really know?” Taissa asked Natalie, as the Yellowjackets stood in a semi-circle around her.

  Jackie’s body had been covered with the blanket she had been using, but Natalie could still see her feet poking out the bottom. She winced. This… was not going to be easy.

  “Yes”, she said to them. “He told me yesterday. He also told me, the night before, that Jackie had asked him to do it.”

  “He told you she told him?” Mari scoffed. “So, you didn’t see her ask him?”

  “No, but-”

  “How do you know he was telling the truth?”

  “Because I trust him!” Natalie snapped.

  “Trust?” Shauna mumbled. She was not standing with the others. She was kneeling right next to Jackie’s covered body, not looking at any of them.

  “How are any of us supposed to trust him now? He’s a murderer.”

  “No, he isn’t”, Natalie snarled, as she felt angry tears come to her eyes. “Jackie was going to die, no matter what. Tommy saved her from days, maybe weeks of pain. Tell them, Coach.”

  She looked in desperation at Coach Scott, and the girls now turned on him.

  “Did you know Tommy was going to kill her as well?” Akilah asked the older man.

  “No, I didn’t”, Coach Scott mumbled. “I can’t believe he did this. I never would have allowed him to.”

  Natalie stared at him in disbelief. Was he not even going to defend Tommy?

  Then Coach Scott hesitated, and she saw his jaw set.

  “Because the truth is, I was debating the merits of doing it myself, just last night.”

  Gasps went around the room, but Natalie felt herself sag with relief. She didn’t know if Coach Scott was telling the truth or not, but he was going to defend Tommy, and Natalie felt her heart swell.

  “Natalie is right. Jackie was going to die”, Tommy’s brother told the group. “With frostbite that serious, way out here, far from anything even resembling proper medical treatment… the damage to Jackie’s hands and feet would have eventually turned septic, and poisoned her from the inside.”

  He paused. “I know it may not seem like it now, but… Tommy did just about the only thing any of us could have done to ease Jackie’s suffering.”

  Silence fell at his words, and Natalie saw the looks of anger on her teammates’ faces turn to sadness.

  “What should we do with her body?” Van asked, quietly.

  “We’ll have to keep her in the shed for now”, Coach Scott said. “We can’t travel to the graveyard, not with a storm like this going on.”

  “I’ll take her”, Natalie said. “I’ll need at least one more person-”

  “I’ll do it”, a voice quietly said behind her, and everyone in the room jumped as they saw Tommy standing behind her. Natalie hadn’t even heard him leave the bedroom.

  “She’s my responsibility. I started this; I’ll finish it.”

  000000000000000000000000

   As he and Natalie dressed in their winter clothes, Tommy stared at the window at the storm outside for a long time, hearing it howling and whistling, before they silently pushed the door open and left the cabin, making for the shed as they carried Jackie’s body between them.

  Tommy had cried all the tears he could cry, and now he just felt numb. It was a terrible thing he had done, a truly horrendous, awful thing. What would he say to Jackie’s family, if they were ever rescued from this place?

  Would he spend the rest of his life in prison, if they did go home? He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure.

  But he did know, and he was sure, that what he had done to Jackie- whether it was murder or mercy, in the eyes of the law- would only be the first of many tough, ruthless decisions he would have to make, the longer they stayed out here.

  Especially if winter carries on like this, he thought. What is this, the third day? We’re three days in and we’ve already lost Jackie. What the hell are the next three MONTHS gonna look like?

  They carried Jackie into the meat shed, lying her down in one of the corners.

  Staring down at her covered form, Tommy was at a loss what to say.

  “I’m sorry”, he began.

  “It’s okay”, Natalie said beside him.

  “Actually, I was…” he pointed to Jackie.

  Natalie’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

  She paused. “Well, it’s still okay. Your brother was right. There was nothing else any of us could have done for her.”

  She shut the door behind them, and reached over to take Tommy’s hands in both of hers. As he felt his fingers curl around hers while she stared up at him, Tommy once more felt a surge of gratefulness towards his girlfriend.

  “I love you”, he said.

  “I love you too”, Natalie whispered, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to his lips. It was strange to be doing this now, considering the company they were currently in, but Tommy felt his hand come up to stroke Natalie’s cheek, as her warm, soft mouth moved against his.

  Eventually, they left the meat shed, walking hand in hand through the blizzard back to the cabin. It was a short walk, of course, but still an extremely cold one.

  As the day progressed, their group of seventeen was forced to stay in the cabin again as the blizzard continued to rage outside. Tommy sat down on the floor, Natalie pressing against him, and the hours slowly ticked by as they watched and waited for the snowstorm to pass.

  “Hey, guys?”

  Tommy was dragged out of his stupor by the sound of Travis’s voice.

  “Yeah?”

  “I know we can’t go out now, but… when the storm’s passed, I wanna go look for Javi. Will you help me?”

  Tommy knew Javi would have frozen to death by now in the blizzard. He had likely been dead for at least the last two days. But after what he had done to Jackie, Tommy didn’t feel like talking about death right now, so all he did was nod.

  Travis nodded back, and moved away, as Tommy felt Natalie’s eyes on him.

  He knew she believed Javi was dead too, but all Tommy could do was shrug.

  “Let’s just… see what happens.”

  “Okay”, Natalie whispered, and she laid her head down on his shoulder, as they fell into silence again.

  000000000000000000000000

  The storm finally passed the next day, so Natalie, Tommy and Travis set out towards the crash site, thinking Javi may have sought shelter there. There was no trace of him to be found, but as they turned to go back, they decided to dig a grave for Jackie. It proved completely pointless, as the ground turned out to have frozen solid in the blizzard.

  “What the hell are we going to do with her, now?” Natalie asked.

  “Maybe we could store her in the plane, somewhere?” Tommy suggested.

  They looked through the remains, but couldn’t find any place where Jackie would fit without being completely exposed to starving predators.

  “Shit”, Tommy said. For once, he looked at a loss as to what they should do.

  “What now?” Travis asked. “Do we just keep her in the shed until spring?”

  “I mean…” Natalie shrugged. “Do we have a better idea?”

  Both boys shook their heads, and Natalie began to feel sick. Were they really going to keep Jackie’s frostbitten body in the shed where they stored their kills?

  Jesus Christ, Natalie thought, as she tried to adjust the jacket made out of deer hide that Coach Scott had tanned for her to wear. It had been well put together, but they didn’t have any zippers or buttons for her to close it up, so she was forced to wear it open against the elements.

  Pity we don’t have any spare belts. Maybe I could-

  Then Natalie looked around the wreckage of the plane, towards the seats, and started to get an idea as she gazed at the seatbelts.

  000000000000000000000000

  “Remind me to tell my mom to give you a job when we get home”, Tommy said, as they carried the seatbelts between them. “’Cause with your fashion ideas, you just might end up being the next Christian Dior.”

  “Shut up”, Natalie mumbled, but he could see she was smiling as she walked next to him, and he smiled back at her, for the first time since he had made the decision to end Jackie’s life.

  In truth, Tommy did not know what lay ahead of them, not for sure anyway. But he did know that Natalie’s love and support would be what kept him going, no matter what winter had in store for them.

  000000000000000000000000

  As it turned out, winter had quite a lot in store for them, as they progressed through the next two months.

  Natalie's period came and went, confirming that she hadn't gotten pregnant at the doomcoming. While she did feel some sense of relief, she would be lying if she didn't admit there was a small whisper of disappointment within her. She knew the reality of having a baby out here would be an absolutely terrifying one, but there were still moments when she would gaze at Shauna's belly and wonder what it might feel like to bear Tommy's child. 

  As time passed, most of the Yellowjackets slowly came to accept that Tommy had done what was necessary, to Natalie’s relief. Most, not all. To everyone’s surprise, Shauna spent most of her time in the meat shed with Jackie’s now-frozen corpse, and during the first month, Natalie did not see her exchange so much as a single word with Tommy. Despite this, Natalie still made sure to keep the remaining knives out of Shauna’s reach, and Lottie’s as well. She was taking no chances, not when it came to Tommy’s safety.

  The initial frosty reception she saw him face from the others, however, gradually disappeared as Tommy, her and Travis continued bringing in game from the outside. Once again, it would be Tommy’s skill as a hunter that prevented the group from starving to death, as he showed Natalie and Travis how to properly track animals through the snow.

  As they began bringing in birds, foxes, rabbits, bobcats, lynxes and even a couple of coyotes during the first month of winter, Natalie saw the demeanour of the others change from fear and anger to a grudging thanks, as they ate what the hunters brought back without complaint.

  But to Travis’ increasing despair, though their group of three set out every day, trying to cover as much ground as they could, none of them found so much as a trace of Javi. They had begun mapping out the territory around them after the disastrous expedition south, and they continued to do so as their group of hunters set out on their ‘reconnaissance missions’, as Tommy described them, which now covered up to eight miles in every direction around them.

  Despite the two months Javi had spent learning to hunt from Tommy, then Travis, there was no earthly way he could have made it eight miles in this environment. But Travis kept insisting they go out every day, hell-bent on finding some trace of his brother. Natalie knew it was useless, as did Tommy, but neither of them really had the words, nor the heart, to tell Travis his brother was most likely dead.

  In regard to their vegetable intake, meanwhile? There wasn’t very much to go around. They initially had plenty of cattails left over from the autumn months when they had begun saving up food, but as they progressed through to the end of the first month of winter, their supplies began to dwindle.

  Then just as it seemed they were about to run out, another huge blizzard broke out again, lasting for four days in total. Natalie spent the vast majority of said four days lying next to Tommy, alternating between sleep and sex as they cuddled together for warmth, trying to ignore their pangs of hunger as the storm raged outside.

  Wanting some privacy, they had now set their bed up in the pantry with the door closed off to prying eyes. Despite their situation, Natalie still felt a thrill every time it was referred to as their bed. It wasn’t a bed, not really, just two pillows and some blankets, but it was theirs. Her favourite thing about it was the bearskin blanket given to them by Coach Scott, fashioned from the bear Tommy had shot, and it was wonderful to snuggle under it as she listened to Tommy’s heartbeat while she ground her naked body on top of his, both of them struggling to keep their moans under control.

  They had officially run out of condoms now, and Natalie knew they were tempting fate with the pullout method, but it just felt so good when Tommy made love to her. She felt so peaceful, and so content, and with the door closed off to the outside, they could pretend they were the only people in the world, staying in a land where they could wear no clothing and make love all day if they wished.

  And Natalie wished. Oh, God, how she wished, as Tommy brought her to her hands and knees and entered her again, from behind this time as he groaned, while Natalie directed his hand to push her head into the pillow, so she could moan as loud as she wanted to with no fear of the others hearing them.

  Everyone else, save for Coach Scott, was now sleeping in the main room, as the attic was deemed far too cold to stay in now, but Natalie was determined to keep them well away from this part of her and Tommy’s relationship.

  Despite their wonderful, glorious lovemaking sessions, Natalie gradually became hungrier as time passed. Before coming here, Natalie had heard stories about people fasting and saying it was an otherworldly experience, that it made them look at things from a whole new perspective. Had Natalie gained a new perspective from slowly starving to death? She wasn't sure. She was too busy feeling hungry, and tired, and angry. How could nobody have come for them? The Canadian wilderness was a big place, but surely the outside world would have had some idea of where the plane fell. How could they not know where they were?

  They may not have starved to death yet, but everybody’s cheeks were hollow, and it wasn’t hard to sense the morale of the group starting to drop, even after the storm passed, and Natalie, Tommy and Travis set out yet again.

  Due to the cold temperatures, everybody’s feet were starting to swell up, so they tore pages from the porn magazines and filled their shoes with them, hoping to bring the swelling down. It still hurt to walk, and as they made it through the second month of winter, the fresh game began to dry up, yet again. A week passed where the only animal they saw was a snowy owl, but when Natalie tried to shoot it, her hunger caused her vision to blur, and the shot she took missed by miles.

  “Fuck!” She screamed as the owl took off, flying above the trees.

  “Natalie!” Tommy yelled, holding out his hand, and Natalie tossed him the rifle, where he expertly chambered the next round and fired. The bird dropped to the ground, and Natalie knew it was dead, but it didn’t make her feel any less miserable as she dropped to her knees and began to cry.

  “I’m sorry”, she mumbled, tears rolling down her face as Travis went to get the fallen bird. “I’m so sorry-”

  She was cut off as Tommy kissed her. His mouth was warm, and his body solid against hers, and just for a brief moment she melted in his embrace.

  “It’s okay”, he whispered, rubbing her back soothingly. “It happens.”

  “I’m just so… so…”

  Tired. Frustrated. Hungry. Mostly hungry. The words went unspoken, but Tommy nodded his understanding.

  “It’s okay”, he repeated, pressing his forehead against hers as she closed her eyes, revelling in his warmth as she nuzzled against his face. She tried to stand up, but felt dizzy, and swayed on her feet as Tommy continued to hold her.

  “I think we should go back for today”, he murmured, and Natalie nodded mutely as Travis rejoined them.

  “We’re calling it”, Tommy said.

  “What? No, we still have to look for-”

  “I said we’re calling it”, Tommy interrupted. His tone hadn’t changed, but Natalie could sense the firmness beneath it, and Travis relented, though he still didn’t look happy.

  Javi is dead, Natalie felt like screaming at him. What is it going to take for you to see that?

  000000000000000000000000

  The owl they brought back lasted only a single night before the group picked it clean, and as Tommy, Natalie and Travis prepared to set out yet again the next morning, Tommy struggled to keep down the despair he was feeling. Natalie probably shouldn’t even be with them, given her obvious exhaustion, but as he saw her struggle to pull her hunting outfit on, tying on the black headband that she had woven from strips of cloth to keep her hair out of her eyes, he couldn’t help but admire her strength. She might not be as muscular as him and Travis, but mentally speaking, Tommy would say his girlfriend was stronger than anyone else here.

  As they moved towards the door, Lottie suddenly stood up, and Tommy tried not to groan. She had become, if possible, even more demented over the previous two months, and now insisted on performing rituals when they set out, in order to ‘protect’ them.

  She seemed to have conveniently forgotten that, if she’d had her way, Tommy would be dead, but he still held out his palm as Lottie smeared ash into it. Lottie then began to burn some sage, wafting it over them, and Tommy rolled his eyes, not caring if Lottie could see him or not.

  This is bullshit. He was tired, and hungry, and they didn’t have time for this.

  Then, finally, Lottie handed Travis the tea she had brewed from pine needles.

  Stage Three of the Bullshit Ritual. Though Travis seemed to be going along with it, neither Natalie nor Tommy had ever drunk so much as a sip of Lottie’s pine tea, because every time she brewed it…

  Tommy watched as Lottie pricked her finger and swirled it around in the liquid.

  Yep. Crazy. 

  “It’s not like this Wicca bullshit’s doing us any good”, Natalie said.

  Thank you, my darling.

  “Well, you keep coming back alive, don’t you?” Lottie asked.

  “Not because of you”, Tommy said. “Let’s go”, he motioned toward the door, and they began to set out, as he saw Lottie open her mouth.

  “Got something to say?” He asked.

  Lottie didn’t speak, but her eyes narrowed, and Tommy felt her gaze on him the whole way out the door, as he stepped into the cold.

  Probably for the best that Natalie confiscated the knives, he thought. 

  The day proved to be another fruitless one, as they aimed to stretch past the eight-mile limit, but as they struggled through snow that was coming up to their knees, Tommy saw Travis come to a stop.

  “What is that?” He asked.

  “What?” Tommy asked. But Travis didn’t answer him, taking off at full pace through the snow.

  “Travis!”

  But the younger boy still didn’t answer him, as he knelt in the snow, starting to dig.

  “Javi!”

  Javi?! Tommy thought. But as he drew closer, he saw what Travis was really digging up.

  “Travis, it’s just a fox! It’s just a fox!” Natalie shouted, trying to pull Travis away from the tiny skeleton.

  “I… sorry. I’m sorry.”

  And now we’ve progressed through to the hallucinatory stage of hunger, Tommy thought, as he drew up beside them. How wonderful. 

  “We should probably head back soon”, Natalie suggested. “It’s gonna be dark.”

  “We need to be searching out further, and getting up earlier. Javi could have found another cabin, or I… I don’t know, but…”

  Jesus Christ.

  “We can’t set out further, it’s too dangerous”, Tommy said. “We’re already running on fumes. We won’t have the energy to make it back. And even if we did, what if we get out past the mountains, and another snowstorm springs up? We’ll be dead, no question about it.”

  Javi is dead. He still couldn’t say it. Why couldn’t he say it?

  Travis turned to him, glowering, before Natalie spoke up.

  “We could probably start another hour before sunup. Give ourselves a bit more time.”

  She was looking at Tommy, pleading with her eyes, and he folded under her gaze.

  “Okay. We’ll try it tomorrow. But if we see anything dark on the horizon, or if anybody starts feeling faint, we are heading straight back. I’m not discussing it.”

  Travis nodded, and they began to turn back in the direction of the cabin.

  We’re already exhausted, his mind screamed at him. We are gonna run straight into a brick wall at the rate we're going. For God’s sake, call off the search. Javi is DEAD. He’s been dead for months. 

  Tommy knew it was true, but his mouth just couldn’t form the words.

  You are in charge out here. If anything happens to them, it’s on you. 

  Tommy knew this. He knew it.

  So why? Why couldn’t he say it out loud?

  As they reached the cabin, Tommy stopped to check the meat hanging in the shed, while Jackie’s body lay in the corner, still under the blanket.

  Tommy winced. I’m sorry. Really, I am. I should have been stronger. I shouldn’t have left you out here. 

  In the last two months, he had tried to come to terms with the fact that, legally speaking, he could now be referred to as a murderer.

  Could I, though? What would a judge say? Jackie was already dying, surely that might help me. No, don’t be stupid. Murder is murder. You knew that when you stuck the knife in her heart. 

  But Tommy didn’t know, not for sure anyway.

  Then as he continued to look at the blanket covering Jackie’s body, another thought crossed his mind. One that he had been trying to keep out of his brain the last couple of weeks. He still hadn’t told anyone, especially Natalie, because… well, because it might be the thing that ended them for good, and Tommy didn’t know if he’d be able to live with himself if he went through with it.

  Ah, the logical, pragmatic part of his brain said to him, but if you DON’T go through with it, you won’t be able to live, full stop, because at the rate things are going, you and everyone else here will FUCKING STARVE TO DEATH before winter ends. 

  No, the moral part of his brain argued. There has to be another way. There’s no coming back from this if you do it. The others will hate you for even suggesting it. 

  We’re starving. We’ve been starving for the better part of a month now, and it’s only going to get worse. Do we even have a choice, if we want to make it to spring? 

  Tommy shook his head to clear it of the war raging inside his brain, and stepped out into the cold, heading towards the cabin.

  This couldn’t happen. Not today. He didn’t have the energy to put up with it.

  Tommy stomped his shoes on the porch to rid them of the snow, and opened the door of the cabin, where he knew Natalie waited for him.

  000000000000000000000000

  “The fuck are you doing?” Natalie heard Mari ask, as Misty crouched near the pot, where their dwindling reserves of meat were cooking.

  “Me?” Misty asked.

  Natalie groaned. She’s not allowed. She knows she’s not allowed.

  Ever since the doomcoming, Misty had been banned from taking any part in the preparation of food, but she seemed to have forgotten about it tonight.

  “Get away from that”, Mari snapped. “You know the rules.”

  “It’s not like I’m gonna poison anyone”, Misty protested. “Again.”

  “Get the water”, Akilah motioned towards the door.

  “But that’s not fair”, Misty whined. “I’ve been doing it every day, and it’s freezing out there. I…”

  She trailed off as she looked out at the group.

  “Fine!” She snapped, sounding like she was about to cry as she stomped out the door.

  Tommy turned to Natalie, and she saw the guilt on his face. “Maybe we could-”

  “No”, she cut him off. She was not in the mood for helping Misty, not after all the crap she had pulled before winter set in.

  You’ve got such a big heart, my Tommy, and I love you more than anything for it. But for the love of God, please use your head. ESPECIALLY when it comes to Misty Quigley. 

  After swallowing down their meat soup, which in typical fashion had ended up being much more soup than meat, the two of them set off for Coach Scott’s room, where they had been storing their ever-expanding map of the area.

  “Hey”, he greeted them. “How’d it go?”

  “Great”, Natalie mumbled. “Except the part where we failed for the millionth day in a row.”

  “Yep”, Tommy said. “But…”

  He handed the piece of paper they had been drawing on to his brother, and Coach Scott gazed at the new area they had mapped.

  “Wow, these are getting pretty good.”

  “Natalie actually drew most of this one.”

  “Mm-hmm”, Natalie said, and a small, proud smile emerged on her face as Coach Scott added the new drawing to the board they were using.

  “So, that’s what, like, seven miles in each direction?”

  “Eight”, Tommy answered.

  “Except for the owl yesterday, there’s been zero sign of game this week”, Natalie said.

  “Or Javi”, Tommy added, and an uncomfortable silence began.

  “You guys know”, Coach Scott began. “At this point… I mean…”

  He trailed off, but Natalie and Tommy nodded.

  “Yeah, we know”, Tommy. “Not even a Sherpa could have made it this long out there.”

  “But…” Natalie said. “You know, Travis…”

  “Yeah”, Coach Scott said. “Yeah, that’s gotta be tough.”

  “I’ll talk to him”, Tommy said. “We’ll set out earlier tomorrow, but if we don’t find anything… the search will stop after that. It’s already gone on too long.”

  “Yeah”, Natalie whispered. Truth be told, she wouldn’t mind if Tommy went and said to Travis that the search for Javi would stop today, but she was just too tired to think any further than that.

  The two of them ended up sitting in front of the fire, gazing into the flames with the bearskin blanket wrapped around them, the snores of the others filling the air behind them.

  “You wanna go to bed?” Tommy asked.

  “In a minute. Really enjoying the Stone Age TV, right now”, she quipped, and Tommy chuckled.

  They gazed at each other, and as Natalie leaned in, Tommy met her lips halfway in a gentle, passionate kiss, and as her hand came up to stroke his cheek, Natalie knew this night would end with them naked in the pantry again.

  Not that I have a problem with that, she thought, as they alternated between kissing and nuzzling against each other’s faces, as though they were a pair of mated animals showing each other affection.

  Mated, yes. That’s what we are. Not boyfriend and girlfriend. Not married either, but… mated. Yes, I like the sound of that, Natalie thought, as she moved to straddle Tommy’s waist, before they heard a gasp beside them.

  Natalie looked around to see Travis sitting up, his hand on his chest.

  “Travis?” Tommy asked.

  But Travis didn’t seem to have heard him, as he started to make a choking sound, rocking back and forth, his eyes bulging out of his head as Natalie rushed to his side.

  “What happened?” Akilah asked.

  “I don’t know, I think he’s having a panic attack or something-”

  Then Lottie knelt down next to them, grasping Travis’ arms.

  “Travis look at me. Breathe with me, okay?”

  Travis continued to gasp, and Lottie tightened her grip on him.

  “You can breathe, okay? Breath is the only thing in the world right now. Breathe in. And out.”

  Travis gazed at her, and started to breathe a bit more easily.

  “You’re doing great. One more.”

  Travis breathed in, and out… and his body seemed to relax, as he gazed up at Lottie.

  Wow, Natalie thought. Maybe I misjudged you, Lot-

  “Your brother’s alive. I know he is.”

  Natalie saw Tommy’s mouth drop open, and she knew his thoughts mirrored her own.

  Did she- just- what- no- NO- 

  “You should get some rest”, Lottie mumbled, as she moved away from Travis.

  Now Natalie saw a thunderous look emerge on Tommy’s face, and he moved straight towards Lottie, as she did the same.

  “Can I talk to you?!” Natalie hissed, as she spun Lottie around. “What the fuck was that?”

  “Javi is dead”, Tommy said to Lottie, his lips curling into an angry snarl. “There’s no way he’s made it this long out there.”

  “Exactly”, Natalie agreed. “Giving Travis false hope is just going to make things worse.”

  “There’s no such thing as false hope”, Lottie whispered. “There’s just hope.”

  “What?!” Tommy whispered, trying to keep his voice low, but Natalie could see some of the others looking at them.

  “Did you read that in a fucking fortune cookie?” Natalie mocked Lottie.

  “What do you want from me, Nat? I just said what I felt.”

  “I want you to say less, Lottie. A lot fucking less.”

  “So do I”, Tommy growled. “Because it doesn’t matter how much you fucking feel about it, Lottie. Two months, out there, alone in the cold? Nobody could survive that, let alone a thirteen-year-old boy.”

  Lottie looked at him, but didn’t say anything, as she started to look upset.

  “What?” Tommy jeered at her, with a nasty grin emerging on his face that Natalie didn’t like one bit. “Are you gonna tell us the gods of wind and dirt are saying Javi’s still alive? We all know you’ve lost your mind, Lottie, but surely even you can see how fucking crazy that is-”

  “Okay, enough”, Natalie interrupted, as she saw Lottie open her mouth, her eyes flashing dangerously. “That’s enough.”

  The others gazed at them from across the room, Travis included, and though Natalie didn’t think he had heard Tommy’s words, she still saw the pain in his eyes.

  She instantly felt terrible. Maybe we shouldn’t stop the search. Not tomorrow, at least.

  Chickenshit, the logical part of her brain whispered in her ear, as she and Tommy headed towards the pantry.

  The search should have ended weeks ago. And you fucking know it, too. 

  000000000000000000000000

  As they lay down in their bed together, Tommy began drifting off to sleep with Natalie in his arms, her warmth pressing against him. Neither one of them was in the mood for sex after what had just happened, but Tommy was happy enough to settle for this.

  “I don’t think we should stop the search. Not tomorrow, anyway”, Natalie murmured.  

  Tommy sighed. “We can’t keep going out there, Natty. We’ve combed the area, over and over again, for two months straight. If there was a trace of him out there, we would have found it by now. We don’t have the energy to keep going until winter ends, it’s simple as that.”

  “I know. I know. But… just a few more days? For Travis’ sake?”

  Now Tommy groaned. He hated having to do this, but as he looked into Natalie’s beautiful blue-green eyes, he couldn’t find it within himself to refuse her.

  “Okay. We’ll give it three more days. But that’s it.”

  “Thank you”, Natalie whispered at him, kissing him softly.

  Three more days. Then Travis is gonna accept that Javi is dead, whether he likes it or not. Even if I have to hammer it into his thick, stubborn skull, Tommy thought, as he closed his eyes.

  As for what he was considering in regards to Jackie… it could wait. Just for now, for the next few days… it could wait.

  I hope Natalie understands. Please, please, for the love of God, let her understand. 

  They were the last thoughts he had before the two of them fell asleep, wrapped in each other's arms. 

[infiniteeight8]

I liked this one so much, I'd love anything from before or after this part about Stephen having lost magic but still having something to look forward to: https://www.tumblr.com/infiniteeight8/781677587770605568/hello-i-have-returned-with-a-different-prompt

It’s rare that I write out of chronological order, but this time the idea that came to me was a prequel, so here we go!

I did about ten seconds of research into neural interfaces, so there’s some vague and possibly wrong technobabble in here. Just roll with it.

-

The Order would never force him out, but living in the Sanctum quickly becomes more than Stephen can bear. The place is saturated in magic, and Stephen can’t touch any of it anymore. He only waits as long as he does because he’s afraid the Cloak will return to its glass case when he goes. When he finally admits that, Levi drags him out of there itself. Stephen actually laughs.

Of course, then he has to figure out where he and Levi will live. He’s not without resources—he’d had very good insurance as a neurosurgeon, even if it had taken a while to get it paid out—but something in him recoils from the idea of renting an apartment. Half a reference to the dilemma over lunch with Tony and the next thing Stephen knows he’s been cheerfully installed in a guest room. “I’ve got lots of space,” Tony says. “You can stay as long as you need while you figure things out.”

Stephen gets the distinct impression Tony is glad to have company now that Ms. Potts has moved out.

It’s just as well, because Stephen has nothing to do, so he ends up trailing after Tony like a stray puppy half the time. Which is how he ends up here, on a couch in Tony’s lab, watching as the man works on the next generation of Colonel Rhodes's leg braces. Not that Rhodes has asked for a new generation. The set he has have already made the Stark Industries name in the field of  assistive devices, but Tony is never satisfied. Not when it comes to his best friend.

Tony waves and a new hologram springs to life. It’s remarkable how intuitive he’s made the whole— Stephen frowns. “Are you reading signals from the spinal column or the peripheral nervous system?” 

“Peripheral nervous system,” Tony says, looking over at him. “Why?”

“The electrodes you’re using must pick up a lot of noise.” Stephen stands and walks over to get a better look.

“They do; we process it out after,” Tony says. “Rhodey didn’t want implants.”

Stephen makes a thoughtful noise, reaching out and manipulating the diagram. “There’s improvements to be made without implants,” he says absently. Tony certainly did his research, but he doesn’t know the nervous system like Stephen does.

Tony tilts his head. “Show me.”

Three hours later, after Levi and DUM-E herd them out of the lab to eat lunch, Tony asks, “So what’s the going rate for a neurosurgeon’s consulting fee?”

Stephen starts to protest and then catches Tony’s sly glance and has to let out an exasperated laugh. “Is there anything you won’t take it upon yourself to fix?”

“Probably not,” Tony says, grinning. “Come on, was I wrong? If that’s what you can do when you’re out of date on the literature, then imagine what you’ll have to offer once you catch up. And you obviously enjoyed it.”

“I did,” Stephen admits. He hadn’t even considered consulting, probably because he’d written the idea off so thoroughly after his accident. But now… Well, Tony didn’t build the newer armors by hand, but they were no less a work of his mind. Stephen didn’t have to hold the knife himself for his work to impact the field, and it turns out he found the intricacies of the human nervous system just as fascinating as he ever had. “How did you know?”

Tony scoffs. “Come on, that was easy. You insisted on being called Doctor even when you were entitled to being called Sorcerer Supreme. Doesn’t take a genius to see that it’s still a part of you.”

“Apparently it did take a genius,” Stephen shoots back, smiling slightly. “Since no one else thought of it.”

Tony just laughs.

[2af-afterdark]

Son of Hell - Chapter 12

Fandom: What in Hell is Bad? Characters: Paimon, Minhyeok, MC, Original Character Content: Post-canon, omegaverse, devil contracts and using them, childish tantrums A/N: Please remember that Seo-jūn is, like, 3 years old and is therefore the victim of 3 year old logic and whims Word Count: 2760

Seo-jūn ran down the cobbled streets of Gehenna laughing and giggling as Minhyeok and Ra-on chased after him. His legs were too short to carry him very quickly, so his parents giving chase was more akin to walking at a brisk pace. Both of them kept calm expressions as they followed, clearly enjoying their son’s antics as much as he did.

The citizens of Gehenna that littered the streets continuously turned their heads to watch the young child running by. Of course they had heard that Ra-on had returned and that they were accompanied by Minhyeok and the recognized son of his majesty Satan, but only those who had attended the welcoming event had even caught a glimpse of them. Now, they were wandering down the streets as if it was commonplace – the equivalent of meeting a group of celebrities at your local coffee shop.

The eyes of the devils they passed sparkled in wonder. Many even greeted Seo-jūn as he passed, calling him little lord or highness. He didn't understand those honorifics though, so he just waved at the devils who greeted him without any arrogance.

Minhyeok kept his face straight, but he was internally annoyed by people referring to his son as a lord because he knew it stemmed from them considering Seo-jūn to be another man's son. Internally, he knew that he wasn't Seo-jūn's biological father, but he was still Seo-jūn's dad and had raised him with love until now.

Ra-on could see the nearly imperceptible irritation on Minhyeok's face. They reached out to grab his hand, feeling him tense up with their open display of affection. For him, such acts were meant to be kept in the privacy of their home, but Ra-on was used to Hell where showing such things in public was uneventful. 

They didn’t have to say anything. They had been together for too long to need words. They would always see Minhyeok as Seo-jūn's father and the man who was always there for them.

Ahead of them, Seo-jūn kept running down the streets. That is, until he suddenly seemed to slow down. He suddenly stopped and turned his head to look at a devil passing by. He turned on his heels and trotted up to the devil.

Everyone around seemed to hold their breaths as he reached out his tiny hand to pull at the fabric bunched around the devil's ankles.

“Why do your special look like that?” He asked.

The devil looked down at him with their rainbow eye twinkling in the bright sunlight. 

Their expression immediately twisted into one of pure delight. “Oh my goshhh! Are you Seo-jūnnn? You're so cuteee.”

Seo-jūn looked up at the devil in confusion. “You know me?”

“Of courseee!” Paimon cheered. “You're the adorable baby that everyone is talking abouttt.”

His cheeks puffed out and he frownwd. “I'm not a baby.”

“And you have his majesty's frownnn!”

“I think you're trying to find aspects of Satan in him,” Ra-on said as they and Minhyeok finally caught up with Seo-jūn. “Personally, I think he gets his frown from me. His smile, on the other hand, is all Minhyeok's. He's the indulgent one.”

A wide smile crossed Paimon's face. “Oh my goodnesss! It's been so long, Ra-onnn!” He opened his arms and leaped at them for a hug.

Ra-on held up their hand in front of Paimon's face, sensing what he really wanted from them. “Hugs only.”

He jutted out his bottom lip in a way that made him look more childish than Seo-jūn just had. “No fairrr.”

“Take it or leave it. I'm married now.”

He didn't look happy, but he accepted a simple hug from Ra-on. Then he turned to Minhyeok, who wasn't expecting him, and did the same.

“He's cute tooo.” Paimon licked his lips. “If you ever need energy, I'm willing to helppp.”

“There's a child, Paimon,” Ra-on said with a tense smile but the same raging aura that followed Satan. “Also, you're making him uncomfortable but he's too nice to say that.”

“Righttt. Righttt.”

Ra-on already knew that would not be the last time they would have to give that warning. The devils of Hell were very honest with their desires and they didn't hide their wants. Plus, it had been a long time since there had been a child in Hell so none of them would know how to behave around one. Assuming they even had such boundaries to begin with.

Seo-jūn, who was still staring between his parents and the man his mother was overly familiar with, grumbled as he grabbed his father's pant leg and started screaming after being ignored by the adults around him for too long. His wailing was so high-pitched that it hurt the ears of all the nearby devils. His face began to turn cherry red. He didn't say anything or even whine. All he did was scream.

“Seo-jūn! Stop that!” Ra-on raised their voice.

Instead of listening, he began to stomp his feet as he continued to scream.

“You heard mom,” Minhyeok said as he picked up Seo-jūn. “They said to stop.”

“No!” He finally shouted something coherent. He pushed against Minhyeok's chest, attempting to free himself. “Mommy and daddy are stinky heads.”

Minhyeok bowed to Paimon with Seo-jūn still fussing in his arms. “I apologize for my son's outburst.”

“That was,” Paimon started saying with a concerned look on his face, before it twisted into a wide smile, “so devilishhh. His majesty would be sooo prouddd.”

A few of the other devils that had been lucky enough to witness the scene of Seo-jūn's childish tantrum began to clap. Not a polite clap done out of pity or embarrassment, but one an enthusiastic round of applause.

“Such a genuine reaction.”

“Did you hear him scream?”

“He was so loud!”

“And he used such a creative insult.”

But the number one comment that rang out from the onlookers was, “And the way he stomped his feet? He clearly inherited His Majesty's fine legs for kicking.”

Ra-on listened to their comments entirely unfazed. They had spent too long in Hell to be surprised by the eternal love that the devils had for their king's. However, it was becoming annoying to listen to how many of them overlooked Minhyeok's role as Seo-jūn's father. To a devil, who historically had to actively desire and ask Lilith for a child, it was likely unheard of to question the paternity of a child or to have one's desired child raised by someone else. It was also likely the case that, since devils did not lie, Satan's acknowledgement of Seo-jūn had left no doubt in any citizen of Gehenna's mind that he was the rightful father. 

But it was clear, at least to them, that everyone was ignoring all the years that Seo-jūn had been raised without Satan or anyone else in his life. They were actively ignoring the person who had been there the whole time, and that was what annoyed Ra-on.

As an Omega, their pheromones were meant to invoke a sense of protection in others – namely, Alpha's. Their natural scent did little in the way of giving off a commanding presence. However, they were also the contract holder to the most powerful devils in Hell, free to use their abilities and powers at their leisure.

Ra-on dug down deep, searching inside themselves for a certain ability, calling on a certain devil's innate skill. It wasn't the domineering pheromones of an Alpha that they invoked, but the dripping unease of something that felt just slightly off; like a cup that was a few centimeters away from where you had left it the night before. It was a deep unease that couldn't be explained but also couldn't be ignored.

They smiled at Paimon sweetly, but his and every onlooker’s hearts stopped. Even Minhyeok who was a beta and Seo-jūn who hadn’t yet manifested his second sex suddenly went rigid at the sight.

“Yes,” Ra-on spoke clearly but it somehow sounded slurred and muted, “Seo-jūn takes after his father quite a bit.”

They stood beside Minhyeok to twirl the edge of his hair. “Like these adorable curls or twinkling eyes. His smile too. He picked up all those little traits from Minhyeok here and I couldn't be happier that Seo-jūn takes after the man who raised him. Whoever donated the other half of his DNA is irrelevant in the face of that, don't you think?”

Paimon, as well as the other devils in the area, shuddered.

“Ra-on,” Paimon muttered before his smile grew wide and he threw himself at them, “you’re so coolll. You were always cool, but you somehow got even coolerrr.”

Ra-on had intended to use fear and intimidation to solidify Minhyeok’s role as Seo-jūn’s father to all of Hell, but it seemed to not even cause them to break a sweat. They had forgotten just how much the devils of Hell loved them and how, even when terrifying, they were fonded over so easily.

And, just as Paimon pointed out how little Ra-on had changed during their absence, other devils continued to provide their own commentary in the background.

“Young lord Seo-jūn must have gotten his devilish nature from Their Majesty Ra-on.”

“He’s just like his mother.”

“Don’t you think young lord Seo-jūn carries himself like Minhyeok?”

“Yes, yes! Just look at the way they are both looking at their majesty in awe right now. Lord Seo-jūn clearly takes after both him and Lord Satan.”

Ra-on couldn’t complain about the comment. At least they were finally acknowledging that Minhyeok was influential to Seo-jūn. However, it was clear that they still saw Satan as Seo-jūn’s rightful father. It would take more than two days to establish that Minhyeok was their husband and Seo-jūn’s father.

As Ra-on was thinking though, they felt a peck against their cheek.

Now, it was their turn for their blood to run cold.

They turned their head slowly to look at Paimon who was still beaming as he hugged them. “I missed youuu.”

Before they could open their mouth to tell him that it was inappropriate to kiss them, Minhyeok spoke up.

“My spouse is indeed amazing.” Even though Minhyeok’s lips were turned upward, it was clear that his eyes were not smiling. If anything, there was a cold rage bubbling toward the surface. “I am very lucky that they’ve chosen to spend their life with me.”

Which was a polite and roundabout way of telling Paimon to stop being so affectionate with Ra-on.

However, devils didn’t do roundabout.

“You really areee,” Paimon said without a hint of catching onto Minhyeok’s intentions. Then, he seemed to remember something. “Ohhh! Little lord Seo-jūn asked me something earlierrr. What’s a specialll?”

“He means your horns,” Ra-on said as they lifted their arm between them and Paimon so they could push him away. 

He almost seemed to pout as he was separated from them.

“What’s wrong with my hornsss?” He asked.

Seo-jūn appeared to finally come back to his senses at Paimon’s question, but he was still nervous after Ra-on’s display. He buried his face against Minhyeok’s chest and muttered something unintelligible.

Minhyeok, the only person who could hear exactly what Seo-jūn had said, placed his hand against Seo-jūn’s back and rubbed it softly. “It’s okay, Seo-jūn. Mama is still Mama, even when they’re scary.”

“Excuse me?” Ra-on pouted.

Minhyeok laughed, trying to show Seo-jūn that there was no threat.

“See? Mama is the same as always. Now, do you wanna ask Mr. Paimon,” he looked to Paimon to confirm that was indeed his name, only continuing when he got confirmation “your question?”

Seo-jūn seemed to hesitate before finally turning his head to look back at Paimon and quietly mumbling, “Why do they look like that?”

Before only a few days ago, Seo-jūn had never seen another person with horns like he had. Now he passed by many people on the street with horns in many shapes, but most of them were black or red. Paimon, on the other hand, had horns that naturally matched his aesthetic: a trio of pastel carotin decorated in stickers.

Paimon got a quizzical look on his face. “What do they look likeee?”

“They're pretty.”

“Ra-on,” Paimon said with a beaming face and eyes twinkling as if he was about to cry, “let me have himmm. Eligos and I can make him even cuterrr.”

Minhyeok instinctually tightened his hold on Seo-jūn and turned away slightly– enough to not be noticeable out of politeness, but also sending a clear message about his disapproval at the idea.

“No, Paimon.” Ra-on raised their firm voice as they spoke. “Now please answer him if you plan to.”

“Welllll,” he held the word out longer than usual, even for him, “Lilith thought that I would look good that wayyy. And she was righttt.” 

“Lilith?”

Ra-on had no desire to explain devil biology at Seo-jūn’s young age – they had barely explained human biology outside of telling Seo-jūn that babies came from their mother's tummies – so they stuck to explaining it as, “She’s like his grandma.”

“Oh. Okay.”

That explanation seemed to appease him for now. After all, he had a grandma and she loved him a lot and gave him presents. Maybe Paimon's grandma had given him those horns as a gift…

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Seo-jūn started to cry. It wasn't quiet either. His sobbing was almost as loud as his earlier screaming.

“I want Gramma.”

Or, specifically, he understood that grandmothers could give gifts like special horns and he wanted those. His were tiny and he had been surrounded by larger ones all day. He wanted the biggest horns! And he wanted them to be rainbow!

Minhyeok began to rock Seo-jūn through his sudden outburst.

“Oh dear,” Ra-on sighed, “I think it may be time for Seo-jūn's nap. He seems restless.”

“Boooo,” Paimon peered. “Do you have to go so soonnn? We just met againnn.”

“Sorry, Paimon, but my son comes first,” they said. “But I'm sure that you've heard we're staying at Satan’s palace again, so we'll likely run into each other again soon.”

Paimon still gave a small pout and let his eyes go wide and soft, like a small kitten begging to come in from the rain. “Fineee, but I want a goodbye kissss.”

Minhyeok cleared his throat. “We should get going. Seo-jūn will give himself a headache at this rate.”

“Yes,” Ra-on agreed. 

Unlike many devils who didn't understand double speak, Ra-on could catch Minhyeok's hidden intentions. He was telling Paimon that there would be no kiss. Ra-on had to agree.

“It was good to see you again, Paimon. Please visit us when you have free time.” Because, it was clear to Ra-on that he was on patrol right now.

Without another word, the two put an end to their stroll around Gehenna and went back to their room in Satan’s palace. As they set a finicky and tired Seo-jūn in bed and, eventually, got him settled down to sleep, Minhyeok finally turned to Ra-on.

“You don’t have to defend me like that.”

Ra-on shrugged as they drew the blanket over Seo-jūn. “They won’t understand if you don’t say it to their face. They want Satan to be his father and they don’t listen to Korean niceties.”

“But we all know that he may be Seo-jūn’s father-”

“Biological father. That’s not the same as being the one who raised him. They have to respect that fact.”

“Even so, you’ve said before that you wished you knew who his father was.”

“For medical purposes and so I can anticipate how it may affect his upbringing. I’ve heard that the human descendants of devils have strange quirks. Like the Unholycs apparently have the ability to charm people and take their desire to keep themselves young, but that’s because they’re descended from Asmodeus. I can’t imagine how the others will affect Seo-jūn when he gets older.”

Because Ra-on already knew that Asmodeus, and now Lucifer, couldn’t be Seo-jūn’s biological father. They could only assume that, whoever it was, would affect Seo-jūn in ways they couldn’t imagine.

Wrath, Greed, Envy, Gluttony, Sloth. One of them would influence Seo-jūn as he got older. Which one it was and how that influence would manifest, they had no idea.

Minhyeok grabbed onto the side of Ra-on’s head and pulled them against his shoulder. “We’ll deal with that when the time comes. Seo-jūn has a wonderful mother who will do anything for him.”

They stiffened up, then relaxed into him. “And a father who will support him the entire time.”

[mothpiggie]

“We don’t talk about the hood with the mouth—“ why not? It’s camp, it’s slay, he’s serving, and you’re ignoring him !

[aanthonyvb]

More poto Italy inspired stuff

[pilonciillo]

lol didn’t think someone giving money would give me anxiety

[seventh-district]

sometimes it’s late at night and you’re cleaning your room and you come across a few old black and white photos of a young girl and you stare at them for a long minute wondering how on earth they got lost in an old Kroger shopping bag with an unopened pack of cigarettes and a receipt dated 2017.

and you look at the girl in the pictures sat on the floor of someone’s home you don’t recognize, smiling and playing with a set of keys and a tiny part of you feels like it recognizes her but you aren’t sure.

and you flip the pictures over hoping to find some sort of annotation that would give you context and all you find is the year 1964 stamped in tiny font along the edge.

and you flip them back over and time stands still as you realize that the recognition you feel is because she looks so much like you once did and next thing you know your hands are sweating and shaking and you have to sit on the floor because you’re crying so hard because it hits you all at once that you’re looking at your mother.