#and that my vision will be blacked out for the first 3 and a half minutes of the day

[proletariatramen]

It just hit me a full 18 years later that part of why Kyouya probably does so shitty in the morning is because uh. Duh. Hypotension will do that to ya.

From this hypotensive POTSy… I feel ya buddy

[tonycries]

BIIIG STRETCH.

Synopsis. First time fitting all of him = first time losing his mind.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, they’re PACKING, making it fit, cervíx kíssing, p talking, p slápping, use of “my wife”, dúmbifícation, BÚLGES, jealousy (Ino), BRÉEDING, true form Sukuna, dp, Shiu cameo, spítting, GOJO’S POWERS, D analysis, chóking, exhíbitíonism (Higuruma), cúmplay, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. Tony Claus is here with a biiiig gift for y’all hehehe <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 8.96 inches

“T-Toooji- why the hell are you s-so big?” And oh, he can’t help but snicker at how you can barely even speak, barely do anything but thrash your quivering legs against the coiling springs of the mattress.

“Yeah yeah, tell me something I don’t know, doll.” Toji’s rolling his half-lidded eyes, swollen hilt plummeting down to French kiss his fat, mushroomy tip with a sappy thwack! at your teary slit. “Besides, m’barely even heh- an inch in.” 

Barely even an inch.

Toji can feel his parched mouth just lather in greedy saliva at the oh-so-cute shock slipping its way onto your pretty features. “An i-inch…Toji will it even-”

“Silly girl, ‘course it will.” You’re gasping when one big, beefy arm claws around your boneless thighs to drag you halfway down the bed. Streaking a wet swab down your achy folds - oh, the sheer size difference was so vulgar. It makes him grin, “Because m’gonna make it fit, duh.” 

Oh. 

That wasn’t a promise - it was uttered like an oh-so-simple fact.

Well, your melty mind supposes, that is what you get for stubbornly claiming that you could “take it all”. Begging. 

Over and over for days until your dear Toji had finally snapped. Had finally manhandled your poor self into the meanest of mating presses, giving your sloppy hole a mere savoring taste of the fat circumference of his syrupy pink tip-

“Oi.” Toji’s planting two swats onto the deliriously lolling side of your face. “Better not be f-fucked stupid already after all that talkin’ outta ya slutty pussy, ma.”

Hypnotized head nuzzling the sweat-slicked crook of his neck, your sloppy tongue garbles out a barely-coherent, “I-I’m not- I swear. It’s j-just…”

“J-j-just what?” Toji’s rumbling baritone hitches up into a dramatic high pitch, rounded curvature of his knees opening your trembly thighs up even further. 

“Just…”

Only to rummage a good few inches of length past your saccharinely glossy hole. Perfectly left-leaning curve of his shaft swiping down your tender spots and fucking you spellbound. Snickering, “Honestly, just loooove complainin’, don’tcha? Why don’t you ah- beg f’me, instead?”

But you can’t - couldn’t even if you wanted to. 

Because Toji was big, to say the least. 

Girthy, merciless near-nine inches of him glazed a dripping gloss of precum. And it looked like it pained him to pull out. It pained him to slip and slide a sandwiching kiss of his soft, coral pink underside between your saturated lips. Back and forth back and forth back and-

“C’mon c’mon–” he’s hissing, dark brows knitting together tight. And the way you’re pushing away his sweat-streaked strands of black makes Toji shudder. “Yer my good girl, right? G-gonna take it all like a fucking champ, aren’tcha?”

“I-I will?” You mewl, eyes nervously straying to the way he looked so comically staggering twitching between your legs. Impatient. Red and angry. It made you starved. “I will.”

And oh, Toji would make sure of that.

Making sheer white cloud your vision when he’s letting go of his hefty crownhead to thud! across your quivering hole. Before his toned hips drivel in tiny little gyrations to pump you so full - Toji’s bloated cockhead spearheading you open so solidly. And the stretch-

The stretch. 

The globular ends of his shaft mazes between your gluey walls to push you tautly to your limits. His sobbing divot buttering up every forbidden nook and cranny inside you with sappy splotches of pre - you felt so heavy with him halfway inside. 

“Ah ahh- Toji– you’re in s-so d-deep-” You’re mindlessly rovering your fingers over to feel for that fattened, cylindrical outline of his nudging further and further up your gummy orifice. Big, pearly tears bead at your eyes and make him grin. “Can feel you right h-here. Dunno if I can take m-”

But in the blink of an eye, your slackened maw is being flooded with such stringy wads of spit. Streaming in a slicked mess from Toji’s curled lips before spattering onto your tastebuds. “If ya can t-take this, then you can take all of me, doll.”

Shrieking at the plummy twitch of his split cockhead swashing another wad of ribbony pre. “R-really?”

“Mhmm, Toji’s always hgh- right.” The fat curves of his fingers smush your mouth closed. To swallow. He swipes away a few speckles at the corner of your pretty mouth, pecking an innocent smooch against your lips to wipe those excess remnants cleanly off. “H…heh- good girl. Now get ready for hah- Toji’s biiig stretch.”

Leisurely swiping down one set of his fingerpads to scissor your puffy pussy lips further and further open. Herculean hips rolling to make you gulp down more more more-

“S-See? Didn’t I hah- say this cute cunt could ngh- take me?” Toji can’t help but crush your pliant body with the weight of his muscular thighs, heaving - practically plastering his sculpted front into yours. “Take this fuckin’ cock- the one you said was too big.”

God, he thinks he could almost laugh - fucking giggle like he was air-headed at how pretty you looked underneath him like this .

Your pupils practically heart-shaped and crossing with every jackhammering roll of his hips, tongue lolling out in a way that makes him spit all over again. 

“Mhm- just one more fuckin’ inch now, ma.” Well, more like three - but Toji had the feeling you were too cockdrunk to tell the difference, anyway. And with a sodden slap! against your perked clit, he’s curling a calloused few digits around your throat. “Better take it all now.”

Dragging you - biceps flexing when he manhandles you from your throat to push you down millimeter by millimeter, suck him snugly down your elastic walls. And you didn’t know whether you were lightheaded because of that choking restraint or because of the stretch-

But then…

“Oh- Oh?” And something in Toji’s tone makes you blink your thoroughly glassy gaze to rationality. “Fuck- wait-” Toji gasps, he heaves. Willowy eyes bulging, snarling when he feels his ears pop! “Wait, don’t tell me- m’really…really…”

He was. 

Now, Toji never claimed to be an optimist - he never said he was a miracle-worker but fuck- was this real? You were really, really milking all of him? This was what it felt like being buried balls-deep inside you? 

God, he could die right now between your legs and still be a happy man.

Because he feels like his entire body has been zapped with a zillion bolts of electricity - like he’s in heaven. Stemming all the way from the lustrous little thwack! of his pulpy tip against your spongy cervix. 

“Are- are you all the way inside?” You’re sobbing out, whines clawing at your throat with every smooth whack of Toji’s fattened cock into your goopy depths. 

“I…” And Toji wants to answer - he wants to not look like a wordless fool in front of you but he can’t right about now. Scarred lips falling parted, he can barely even breathe right about now. Sharp jaw slacking open into a sexily husky laugh, “Yes. Hah! Atta girl, there we g-go. Knew my girl could ngh- do it.”

“Too big” his ass. 

In the lazy blink of your weepy eyes, Toji has the two of your sweat-simmered bodies flipped over. Your own glued to his toned front, nails clawing at his bulging deltoids, head drooping between his cushiony pecs.

Bubbles of spit and pure whines flood your mouth when the massive mountains of Toji’s palms sift underneath your thighs to help you ride. Starting off slow - stumbling - presenting you with languid, tumbling thrusts that shape your fleshy insides to every ridge and curve of his cock. 

Roughened digits pushing you down. Even more. 

“Now…here comes the fun part tha’s gonna end up with you heh- pregnant, ma.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 10.25 inches

“Am I…am I really that big?” 

If this was anyone other than your dear Nanami you’d have huffed at that subtle brag of a question - but Nanami wasn’t bragging. And he wasn’t aware of just how much that simply sopping slide of his blushing shaft into your gooey depths was splitting you apart. 

“Y-yes–” you’re mewling out, tangling your fingers with his thick ones to trek them all over your stuffed lower tummy. And Nanami gasps at the bloated nudge of his fat tip against your buttery walls. The outline. That you can feel from the outside. The curvature of his greedy thumb smearing down the mushy rounded edges tenderly. “S’like m’gonna hngh- break.”

Stern lips puckering up to kiss away the pearly tears that lather your fluttery lashes, he’s rumbling from the back of his throat. “Shhh…if you c-can’t, my love, then we can always-”

“Noooo-” God, Nanami loved to see that smack mouth of yours wobble with a few breaking whines, falling into a soft oh! when your squirmy hips shuffle a ravenous few gulps of more and more of his inches. “Want it- want it all.”

“Are you sure, darling? M’only halfway in right now.”

Nodding - nodding and nodding because you’ve never wanted anything more. A simpering trailway of drool sloshes from the slackened corner of your mouth when he’s slapping his weepy cockhead in two nice slaps into your extra sweet orifices. 

He was long and thick - unfairly so. Equipped with heavy breeder balls that thump! thump! thumped against your thighs in the same needy rhythm as your heartbeat. Messy. The tannish blushing divot on his mushroomy tip barely even having to try to sugarcoat your goopy depths with a sweltering hot few splotches of creamy pre- 

“Then…” Nanami’s wrenching you out of your cockdrunk little daydreams, and you’re faced with his utterly loving gaze. “You can hah- hold my hand- squeeze it if it gets too…much, my love.”

As if you ever would tap out.

Because the stretch was so addictive. 

Every single one of his shuddering drives making your dewy eyes sprint all the way hidden at the back of your lids. The exact degree of his arch having you let off a few keens, legs thrashing with the depraved kiss of his sappy cockhead against your g-spot. 

“Hey hey-” Nanami’s slanting his mouth over the rivulets upon rivulets of cold sweat beading at your forehead. And in turn you desperately crane upwards to kiss his plush pecs. “Remember what we talked about hngh- before?”

“Y-yes. Simple breathing techniques ah-” you’re crying out as he sneaks in a good swab down your slippery walls. “S’best to oh! Take slow, d-deep…long breaths to relax.”

Nanami chuckles out at your whiny little emphasis, every slow breath of yours helping his dexterous fingers guide that hooked bend of his knotted cock to bump into your treasured spots. Deeper.  “Mhmm– good girl, relax. What else?” 

“A-and- focus on one part of your ah- body t-to-” You can feel your weepy cunt pulse – thoroughly full and just about all that you could focus on. Inch by fucking inch disappearing. “-to boost awareness and…relax.”

Yeah, certainly enough for Nanami to tut when your glutinous pussylips tack on even tighter around him to halt his merciless pathway. 

“Hate to see ya strugglin’, darling. Hold on t-tight-” Nanami’s blond brows simmer with a fresh sheen of perspiration at the tiny resistance. Strong arms dredging your useless legs up onto his broad shoulders. Indenting circular bruises with just how hard your heels were digging in. But oh, he doesn’t care. Doesn’t give a shit if it hurt - instead, planting a sweet few pecks at your ankles. “Because s’a bit of a biiiig stretch.” 

He’s hiking one athletic thigh up even higher, adonis-like muscles flexing when Nanami arches his back and bends you easily in half. 

Sweetly toying a few circular brushes of his fat thumb against your neglected clit. You’re at the utter mercy of the deepening angle walloping his crownhead into your spongy cervix. Dragging his wet tip in a saccharine few ribbons of velvety pre, you’re being absolutely flooded with the sheer size of him. With all of him-

“I-is it all in?” You’re sobbing out, only for Nanami to stray his hypnotized eyes accordingly downwards and gasp. 

“S’all in- ohhhh s’all in- my perfect, perfect girl.” Nanami’s regal nose crinkles with sheer bliss, condensely fogged-up glasses leering further and further down his nosebridge. “N’ s’like y-you’re gonna be hngh- split apart, darling.”

And it felt like it.

Like Nanami was trying to mold your rubbery cunt into the exact shape of him, sticky kisses of his tight balls making you shy. To make sure with every bruising circumference of his overfed tip that you won’t forget him. Forget his size.

“G-gonna hafta get this pretty pussy hngh- used ta me.” He’s tilting his head down at that addictive image of your slurping pussy greedily sucking up every drilling jackhammer, every gyration, every grind just to watch the way your eyes bulge when he’s probing deeply into your cervix. “Jus’ hafta hngh- fuck her to the sh-shape of my cock oh!”

Every clingy squeeze of your gluey walls felt like you were doing that exact thing, and Nanami can’t help but let his toned hips poke languidly into your slicked g-spot. Sloshing a few tender dabs when he’s latching his mouth around your ankles to bite. To worship. 

And it makes you sob. It makes you moan. It makes you cum - gasping in surprise at the sudden crash of your high, legs locking around Nanami’s thick neck.

You’re feeling limp - your eyes half-shuttering to a close at the flurries of stars in your vision. Barely even able to breathe let alone register the simpering smile plastering all over Nanami’s face when he locks your ankles behind his head with one ravenous hand. 

Still moving. Still aching. 

“My love…” He’s starting off. Low. Promising. You’re being gifted with a slow, slow filth of a kiss, still having his pretty lips sucking on your tongue when he hums. “Don’t think I’ve molded you ta my ngh- cock jus’ yet.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 9.54 inches

It’s been hours now - hours. 

Hours of Geto cracking open your trembly legs to mouth over that glossy wetness between them, making out with your slobbery pussy for ages until you were still dizzy with the slow tangle of his soft tongue against your treacly clit. 

Still feeling the aftershocks of your nth orgasm when he’s flooding out a few viscous spurts of cum that slop between your pursed pussy lips. Gleaming sultry little lip-stain that he’s oh-so-unashamedly swabbing along a few fingers.

“Hmmm, now this won’t do–” Geto’s popping those slender digits into his mean mouth, snickering at the awe-struck little gasp you’re letting off. “Ain’tcha embarrassed to be th-this fucked n’ I’ve only put the tip in, gorgeous?” 

He was so unfair. 

Dark brows marrying together sexily when he’s spending a sloppy few seconds pretending to think, “Whaddaya think? Can you ah- take me even when you’re being this full?”

And full you were - being teased over and over again. Fucked with only the hefty, globular curve of his pretty, pierced cockhead until your poor pussy was frosted with a thick, creamy lather of Geto’s seed. Trickling between your legs and splotching over where you were hovering over his muscular thighs, bouncing with your precarious seated position. 

Huffing, one hand of yours grapples onto the mountainous terrain of Geto’s sculpted deltoid. The other curling around his pale, sweat-slicked throat in a way that made him drool. “Been w-wantin’ all of ya you, all this ngh time, Sugu–”

SMACK!

“Speakin’ out of turn is rude, y’know?” Geto soothes over the swatted imprints of his fingers on your ass. Before rovering down, down, down, to dredge out the most sinful slurps when he slides one greedy index over your sodden slit. “Right? N’ we were havin’ such a ngh- good conversation.”

That cold studded Prince Albert on Geto’s blushing mushroom tip skims between your pussyflaps, feeding you inch by fucking inch until he stopped just past the tip. As usual. 

“Hmmm, what’s this?” Pointedly ignoring your broken little whines in favor of guiding his trekking fat crown to bump that metallic piercing against your gooey sweet spots. To bruise. “Ya want more? Heh, so filthy how ya think ngh- more with this pussy than that pretty lil’ head of yours, gorgeous.”

“You’re the filthy one, Suguru–” you’re whimpering, fingers digging even tighter around his throat at the rude smirk on his pretty face. And you can’t stop yourself - you can’t help yourself - when your hips shiftily sink deeper. And deeper. 

“W-woah-” Geto’s puffy breaths hiccup, before clearing his throat into one stray hand. “I-I mean- fuck! Can see it from the outside.”

Indeed, he could. 

You were so fucking pretty sat upon him like this, with your slobbery pussy weaving out squelching rivulets of cum. Your chest heaving in a way that makes Geto’s mouth water, his eyes locked on that lecherous little bulge where he was scouring a pathway to your very womb.

He’s giggling - delirious and drunk. “What a cute lil’ pussy- s-sooo fuckin’ tight. Feels like m’gonna break ya…h-heh.”

And it’s only when you stutter, when our drizzling jaw shudders open with a cracking Sugu– that he lets his eyes rip away. His hips jutting upwards with a pressurized push-

“Awww, my gorgeous girl struggling to take this hah- big cock? Wanna take it all but you can’t?” With a rough hand latched onto your waist, Geto fucks up into you so tauntingly, rigorous little pushes and pulls that pump you spellbound. And he’s viciously thumping open your sappy pussylips, mouth drying up at the sight of those silvery sploshes of cum. “Y’know m’not gonna fit if ya don’t relax, girl.”

“I-I am relaxing-” you’re bawling out, head lolling backwards at the utter stretch. It was ridiculous, and your blood curdles with just how good it felt. 

Because Geto was so thick. Girth more intimidating than any toy you’ve ever even seen, such a pretty blushing beige. Pricked with one chilling silvery stud at his tip and then another at his bulky hilt, right after the ends of his neat happy trail - one that you oh-so-desperately wanted to reach.

“Liar.” He’s snapping - snarling. 

Making you flinch at the lurch of something dark and hot swimming in Geto’s half-lidded eyes. Long, dark lashes batting innocently up at you when he’s lacing two sets of readied fingers on top of your sweat-dampened head and pushing. “W-wait, Sugu what are you-”

“This pussy is s-soo much more ah- honest…aren’tcha?” And it takes only one more final rapid swat at your gloopy cunt, one wet strike of Geto’s round-tipped fingers before he’s bulldozing you downwards. “Hm, bite on this.”

He’s presenting you his toned arm - mercy. 

Your teeth mindlessly clamping onto his awaiting forearm, gurgles of moans and screams concocting together as your hips buck- Losing your nervous footing to finally plant a pretty peck of your glossed pussy lips against his toned base, to finally have his orbed piercing nudge your throbbing clit. 

And he was big - so, so big that you couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe at the sodden stripes of his pulpy cockhead etched into what felt like your lungs. 

With a soggy pah! you’re letting his arm go, kissing over the sunken indents of your teeth across his flesh.

“O-oh-” Moans upon moans are tumbling out of your mouth before you even realize, and you can’t help the way that your hips are bustling up and down in a filthy cadence. “I-It feels so…”

Alternating between the sloppiest drags up and down up and down his thickened length and lazy swivels that result in fat drags of Geto’s piercing onto the mushiest parts of your clit. He was so fucking big that your fatigued legs could barely even bounce up to his uprightly curved tip. 

“Yeahhh? F-feels nice havin’ me all ngh- inside ruinin’ your cunt, huh?” Geto’s leaning his body further backwards to take in every single detail of you. One arm bounding behind his head and making his biceps flex, the other helping manhandle your needy hips. And you swear you hear his voice falter, you swear you could hear his teasing baritone crack into a whine. “Look how ah- well she’s takin’ me- don’tcha think I deserve a lil’ r-reward, gorgeous?”

Ah, of course he does.

And as soon as you’re craning your head forwards, you feel the sudden twitch of his swollen tip colliding against your cervix. Gushing in ribbony strings of pre when you pry open Geto’s pretty mouth and spit-

“Messy girl.” He’s swiping away that purposeful little splatter of translucent saliva pooling at the corner of his sappy mouth. Swallowing. “Hope ya know m’gonna be doin’ the ngh- same with my cock riiiiight…” Before trailing that very same finger up, up, up to draw an invisible line at the bullseye of your womb. “-here.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 8.20 inches

“Jus’ need the ah- tip, pretty baby–” Choso’s begging - pleading from his splayed-out position spooning you - and he’s fucking his fat, ruddied cockhead into you desperately. Animalistically. Like it’ll be the last time - when in fact it’s the first. Ever. 

Slurring out a drawling few squelches from your overstuffed pussy, the way you’re glistening all your lustrous volumes of slick down his generous length makes Choso simply keen. Hulking body breaking out with shivers once your nails scrape against his sweat-lathered scalp. 

“But I want more, Cho-” That sullen pout of yours is enough to drive him wild. To bump up at least once more of his inches out of a staggering eight past your gooey ring of muscle, molding your entrance to that girthy bend of him. “Y-you’re so fuckin’ big n’ I want it all.”

Oh. 

Oh.

“Y-you shouldn’t say those ngh- things when s’my first time–” he’s scrunching his brows adorably shyly, one strong palm lifting your trembly thigh even higher to eye the teary trail of cum he’d left off just earlier from simply putting it inside. “Don’ wanna have a ngh- r-repeat of that.” 

How cute.

Choso was so embarrassed that his precious pink blush was reaching all the way from his regal cheeks, down to his bustling tip. Messy and angry. 

You’d heard that it was always the quiet ones - and Choso was hung to a T. The expansive swollen outline of his rock-hard cock smearing against your elastic walls in a way that felt permanent. Your poor pussy was swallowing up so many copious inches again and again and it felt like Choso always had more to give. 

His long length guides a sultry bash against your puffy g-spot, spearheading your gluey walls to mold around his size like butter. Swirling such voluminous heaps of cum that layer him in creamy rings.

“M’being serious, baby-” you’re purring, silken sweet tone of your voice making Choso gasp. Handsome cheeks burning bright red when he’d faced your greedy gaze over one shoulder. “I-it feels so good ngh- you’re in so deep.” 

Choso’s coral pink lip wobbles delicately, face flushing your favorite shade of red. “M-me? Don’t even know how to hngh! use it…r-really? Me? But m’just a virgin-”

“Was a virgin, baby-” You’re correcting him, deft fingers nimbling through his soft locks to pull. And it’s enough to make Choso rut- enough to make his reddening hips shovel even harder. “N’ no need to be so shy. You’re so big you might’ve ngh- jus’ ruined everyone f’me.”

And oh. 

Choso can feel his mind shatter, powerful hips working overtime to plunge another sappy stroke that thuds against your g-spot. Deeper. And deeper. You’re half-wondering whether he even realized that he was way, way past “just the tip” now. 

Nah…definitely too pussydrunk to.

He’s sucking on your kiss-bitten lips like his favorite sugar-coated candy, whimpering out. “G-good. Don’ want you f-for ngh- anyone else.” And you swear you’re catching his doe-eyes dew over with a veil of tears. “Want you to be mine.” 

Grinning - cockdrunk, heart-eyed. “Already am.”

And that extended to that greedy cunt of yours. 

Of course, it did. Why wouldn’t it? 

Choso’s on the very verge of sobbing to himself about why he didn’t do this much, much sooner when his dextrous palms smear open the drool-worthy globes of your ass to sneak a long, mouthwatering eyeful of your stuffed pussy. 

He’s so filthy. So urgent skimming two fat thumbs over to spy the way his fattened cock was disappearing between your soppy pussy lips. Fat and heavy, bullying in solid squeezed into your comparatively tiny opening.

And the sight makes him grunt, “S-such a pretty pussy. Could fuckin’ worship her heheh. I hope you don’t ngh- mind, baby, if I…”

Oh, and you didn’t mind. 

Didn’t have a mind coherent enough to think at all when Choso has to scissor your slick-flooded hole open with his thorough digits to be able to fit in the rest of his raw length. Saturated, solid ruts pushing past your tiny resistance - your poor entrance being stretched further and further with his circumference. 

He has to - he needs to because the stretch was so cozily tight. So sinful. Rubbing his ridged veins down the treacly sides of yours walls, you’re being stuffed to the brim. 

His spattering seed glomping out of you and creating such a fucking mess. Helping Choso slip and slide his thighs to engulf your own.

“Pretty pussy…ohhh what a pretty pussy.” He’s hissing to himself - slurring like an intoxicating mantra. Your honeyed squelches were so loud, answering him practically. “Baby, I want you…need you. Need you to take it allll up inside, m’kay?”

And you can only manage out a stream of dripping wet gasps puffing hotly from between your candied lips, shivering at the honeyed drip of his thick crownhead mussing up the sploshes of cum seated inside you. “G-gonna take it- ah-don’t miss, Choso–”

“I’d never.” But the one thing he might do is be rendered utterly stupid when that cylindrical shaft of his plunges impossibly deep into your gooey orifice. As deep as it would go. As deep as he could give. 

And you swear that Choso stops breathing for a full few seconds once he first bottoms out. Still regaining the blurring vision in your gaze with how you felt fit to burst, you’re opening your mouth with slight concern-

“Th-this…feels so heavenly- fuck! Why does it feel so heavenly?” Choso sounds so genuinely awestruck. Scared. Words dripping with the slight tremble of an exhilarated giggle when his sopping tip curves its way to thud! against your cervix. “I- woah th-this doesn’t feel like my fist at all.”

And every slight bit of recoil makes Choso tut, makes him plant pound after pound onto your battered cunt until you see stars. He was fucking you like he hated you - and babbling pussydrunkenly like he loved you.

You’re mewling through bliss-lathered tears, “D-does it feel good, baby?” 

Oh, Choso really did love you.

“I…I’m fucking you-” he’s breathing out. “I-I’m really fucking you and…”At your encouraging little coos, Choso only swelters with a wafting red blush. Buttony divot at the very ends of his achy cock twitching with a promising squeeze of his hefty, full balls. “...can we hold hands as I cum?”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 13.3 inches

Nice - the cursed king of curses said he was going to be nice. But if this was his way of being “nice” then you didn’t-

“Tch, that pretty lil’ head of yours scrambled already, brat?” That gruff, rumbling little scolding from underneath you makes you jolt, winding sparks of electricity sprinting down your perfectly arched spine when Sukuna’s punishing your brimful cunt with a sloppy smack! 

Such a sleazy grin overtaking his sexy features at the stunned expression on your face, he’s bouncing his adonis-like knees to jostle your greedy hips up and down up and down up and-

“Can’t ngh- talk now, huh?” Sukuna’s tittering out, a few more numerous swats upon swats being pounded upon your bulging cunt. And the syrupy squelch! emanating from down below is enough to make him groan. Brows knitting, teeth sharp when he grins. “Honestly, woman- aren’tcha used to that stretch by now?”

Fuck- it would be impossible to get used to such a ridiculous size. 

Sukuna’s towering height of seven feet translating into matching cocks that make you gape, your drunken maw parting stupidly open when his twin swollen lengths plunge up into your goopy depths. Reckless. Rude. Your felt like he was fucking open sweet nooks and crannies that you never even knew existed.

That vulgar size difference was everything.

Because he was so girthy - wisps of precum slathering like torrents against your clingy walls. Tautly pulled over thick thirteen inches - and not just one, two of them - that were making you whine-

“B-but-”

“Ah ah-” Sukuna’s cutting you off, sugary tips pecking a hollowing little smooch of his candy-coated pre against that spot in a way that makes you shut up. “Can’t forget our manners now hngh- can we? Raise yer hand when ya talk to the king.”

And it was a joke…partially. It was something to make your beautiful features scrunch up in that adorable pout of yours - not something to make you wrench one trembly hand upwards and listen to him.

“S-s’not my fault-” you’re huffing out, your wondrous hands roaming all down those sinful curves and dips of Sukuna’s muscles thereafter. Resting on their favorite place at the fleshy mounds of his pecs to squeeze. “You’re just so big.”

Rolling his eyes, you’re being angled so that his oversized second tongue can press a dripping smooch against your plump clit. 

“Compliments aren’t gonna g-get me to be any hngh- nicer, mama- C’mon you know that.” And he’s sure to make it so that you never forget if the merciless few more thwack! of his five fat fingerpads down your teary slit were to say anything. “M’already bein’ nice letting you ride me.”

And ah, he’d never admit how pretty you looked like this.

With your sappy cunt stretched wiiiide open over his bumpy cocks, your entire body lathered in sweat and sheer need when he’s sinking in a few more bulky inches. Puffing your pussy lips up until you were about halfway down his raw, red cocks. 

“But ah…yer right about one thing.” Sukuna titters and the flurries of emotions that overtake your absolutely fucked-out face. Head lolling to the side when you’re trying to remember what you even said. Cute. “Lemme heh- jog that memory o’ yours, brat.”

And it was such a blessing - or a curse - that Sukuna had four arms. Four massive, strong arms that were busying themselves with driving you wild.

Two of them caressing the sultry curve of your hips, manhandling you up and down all his copious inches with all the dignity of a ragdoll. A third clawing on top of your cottony-filled head and forcing you to look- to spy where his fourth hand was. 

Sharp, blackened nail of his burly index tapping those ringed tattoos at his inner thighs. “See these?” Doesn’t matter if you didn’t because Sukuna was making your cockdrunk head motion out a nod for him anyway. “Well- then see these?”

Oh, you had to crane your head - you had to stop your condensed gasp from dripping out of your mouth when he’s swiping his fingers across those matching black rings tattooed around the very hefty hilts of his cocks. 

Neat. Stark against unruly tufts of pink. Lacquered with a glistening layer of your sweet, sweet juices. 

“Gotta take it ah- allll the way until there, got it?” Sukuna muses, plummy split-ends of his shafts pummeling even harder against the gumdrop sponge of your walls. Very same finger drawling lazily up, up, up until he was drawing a smug line across way past the middle of your tummy. “So get r-ready for a biiiig stretch, mama.”

And it wasn’t just the stretch - not even the double stretch - triple. Triple the invasive rummages inside your snug channel when Sukuna’s swirling his large secondary tongue to lap up every sliver and every bead of slick slobbering from your cunt. 

Sloshing a gleaming trailway down the very middle of his rosette tastebuds so lewdly when Sukuna grits against the resistance, hips pushing and pushing-

“Ah- ah!” Your hips are like a pendulum still deciding between swallowing up more more more and running away. “I-I don’t think it’ll ngh- dunno if I can t-take any…”

“Nuh uh, no running away.” Sukuna’s greedy hands devour every naked inch of you to stuff you full, tongue working overtime to push open that elastic entrance to your pretty cunt. He knew you could finally take it all. He knew. And he was going to do it. “Made yer bed- now- lie- in it-”

There’s a deafening pap! of your body glissading into his when with a final, determined thrust, Sukuna’s bottoming out. Your pussy lips smooching both his sexy circular tattoos with their first-ever kiss. For the first time in a thousand years. For the first time in his life-

This is what it feels like - this is what it looks like.

You were so stuffed past the brim that you could feel your pressurized ears pop! White-hot pleasure flashing behind your lids when your mouth opens with a raw shrill. 

“So? S’it feel good bein’ all ruined inside?” He’s tittering - choking on rude little whimpers threatening to spill from his even ruder lips. 

“Yes- please it f-feels so…”

And then you’re cumming.

“Oh? Cummin’ already just from taking that cock you said was hngh- t-toooo fuckin’ big?” He leaves a few ravenous bites over the tender crook of your neck. “What a heh- slutty cunt o’ mine.”

Sukuna’s realizing before you when his hips rut upwards into the tight fit to pound you through your high, over and over slapping his heavy cockheads against every tiny geyser of an orifice. Until you felt like you were about to burst-

“O-ohhh look at that gorgeous ngh- bulge.” Sukuna’s voice bleeds its way into a whimper - whimper. And if any other curse saw that heart-eyed filter in his gaze, the way his smile grows simpering, then they’d faint. “Almost makes me think of something…else.”

You, all round and glowing - and not just from the thorough rummage of his dual shafts messing up your poor insides. Outlined with thick cylindrical bumps forming their way at your precious womb. 

The sight is enough to make Sukuna’s heavy-handed cockheads glaze your mushy cervix with a few ribbony spurts of pre. Flooding. Overspilling. Enough do that he’s digging in a thumb hard to feel for the soppingly wet thwack! of those volumes of velveteen splatters.

Murmuring, “Y’know…how do ya feel about the curses getting an ah- new heir, brat? And their very own queen.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - 7.64 inches

“Shhhh, jus’ an inch more- only an i-inch, pretty.” Ino’s heaving, his plummy, split-ended cockhead gushing out a lazy few rivulets of syrupy pre down your sappy slit. “I know that you can do it…take s’more f’me?”

“I-I want to-” you’re gasping out, legs wrangling an even tighter grip around the slender curve of your beloved boyfriend’s toned hips. Mashing his ridged washboard abs against the sensitive backs of your thighs, “But I don’t know if it’ll fit…”

You say that but you can already feel the way your elastic cunt was constricting and molding to the exact sinful curvature of Ino’s swollen cock. Wanting more more more-

But how could you not?

He was so unfairly pretty - fat, burling inches that rummaged your insides with a sugary layer of sloshing precum. It’s like his plump tip was bawling with every smack! down your puckering pussylips, reddening with an innocent flush that matched his cute cheeks. 

“I want it- no, need it to ah- g-go all the way inside-” Ino’s panting begs stumble into your deliriously open maw, the slick gyrations of his tongue tasting you. Savoring. Ringed fingers splayed out and pressing down hard onto the heaving surface of your tummy. “-need everyone t-to know how I’ve ngh- ruined ya for them.”

It’d only taken one sneaking glance at the way some loser at your work was a little too close, a little too…flirty. Simply one spark of that green-eyed monster inside him for Ino to all but drag you home and bend you into such a mean mating press. 

His pummeling hips even meaner. Babbling with every dousing swab of his fattened cockhead probing into your goopy depths. Pushing and pushing. “W-wanna be good f’you, y’know? Wanna be…yours.”

“Ngh- s-sweet-talker-” You’re spitting out, heart lurching oh-so-traitorously at the little blush dusting its merry way all over Ino’s handsome cheeks. He’s ready to burst into flames when you’re hiccuping, “Fuck me, baby- with all of you.”

Those words are barely out of your mouth - the thought barely even registering in Ino’s fuzzy scribble of a brain right now before he’s tugging his hips back a sodden inch and sinking in.

“Mhmmm- don’t worry, pretty-” Ino’s gruffing, scorching beads of sweat forming a dotty mosaic over his blissed-out features. “-Taku’s gonna make it fit- h-heh, yeahhhh m’gonna make it ngh- fit-” So snug that he can’t pound into the way he wants you. Huffing at the resistance, he’s latching onto your peaked clit with a pointed pinch. “-or m’gonna die trying hah.”

A promise - well and fully intended to be made true. 

Abs flexing with every tight little grind that whacks against your sweetened spots, short. Punctuating. Harder and harder until you’re hearing a watery pap! and Ino’s finally - finally - driving you overwhelmingly full with the ruthless dab of his angry, peach-pink shaft impaling open your deepest insides. 

“O-oh.” Ino’s breathing out, chestnut eyes bulging out almost comically at the sloppy trawl of his rock-hard cock in and out. “It fit- it…it actually fit. Mhm- s’that too big for ya, pretty?”

And Ino loved your smart mouth - he loved whatever honeyed syllable would drivel from your pretty lips. But seeing you like this - gasping, and fucked oh-so-dumb on his cock - Ino thinks that he could cum right here and now.

“R-right now?” Your breath hitches, chest heaving to steady your gulping inhales. Impossible with the way that his girthy, rotund cockhead was skimming against what felt like your lungs. 

But oh, you weren’t the only one with your sanity dancing away from you with every plunging jackhammer. Ino looked so ruined - his pretty eyes doeing down till they were almost closed, drizzles upon drizzles of drool flooding out and slicking down his mouth, hanging pathetically open when he’s realizing-

Shit, did he say that out loud?

Oh, well. 

“And so wh-what?” Ino’s huffing out - meant to be much more smug than the pouty whine it actually came out as. Lower lip wobbling out in a watery way, “Wanna fill ya u-up until yer overspilling, sweetness- until I can’t hahah- fit again.”

He’s making such a sappy mess down there as if already fulfilling those promises. One clammily prespired hand latching around your throat to crane your neck into a tender kiss. 

“Wanna fuck a b-baby into ya- ngh- fuck ya until they know I did it-” He’s snarling - alabaster canines beared in a giggle. “Till they s-see you all ah- round and glowing and see me me me me- that coworker’s gonna know that I-I did that. That I fucked you s-so full.” 

Heavy thighs planting flat onto the cushiony mattress, and from the woozy corner of your eye you’re spotting a few bedcoils spring brokenly upwards. “Gonna gimme that, aren’tcha?” He’s breathing. Begging. Eyes fuzzy with a heavy clingfilm of utter loving that he was bestowing upon you with every pap! pap! pap! “Make me a dad, mama?”

Shrilling out hoarsely, “Yes- yes yes yes- I- fuck! M’close, Taku…m’gonna cum-”

Ah, just as you do - Ino plants a gliding thwack! against your g-spot so hard that it makes your eyes criss-cross with utter pleasure. Tumbling into your orgasm headfirst and dragging your dear Ino with it, too. 

Each peaked crevice of your high being followed by the wettest slap of his lathering cum into your most tenderized spots, fucking his seed into you so viciously that you feel bloated. Eyes drooping fatiguely, your nails dragging red, red patterns down his rigorously flexing back. 

It was heaven. 

You can’t think of anything but the slow puddle of viscous seed dribbling from between your slippery slit, nothing but how full you felt. Barely even noticing the creaking protests of the bedframe that was suspiciously sagging from one end.

Broken. 

And when Ino’s blinking his vision back - letting his mouth drool at the sloppy slosh of his ribbony sap clinging around him like a second skin - the only thing he can utter is a low, “S-so…I don’t think we’ve ngh- made our son just yet.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - 11.01 inches

“Aw c’mooon, my girl. Too big- s’too big, riiight?” Fuck- it was. And Gojo already knew with every cocky snicker that wafted over the back of your neck like an oven. He’s plumping his lips down your spine in a sleazy kiss. “Jus’ admit it n’ I might play…nice.”

As if. 

The strongest would never play nice when he had you like this.

When he had his fat, strawberry pink tip French kissing your gluey walls so open. Bumping up against your precious insides to indent every ridge and curvaceous vein against your overstuffed pussy - so staggeringly full. But he still wasn’t done. Barely. 

So ridiculously long and pretty - a size to match up that mean ego of his. Eleven inches? He didn’t even have to try to drive you insane. 

Gojo was flushed the most candied palettes of pink and red, all the way up to his thickened base. Slender fingers curling dexterously around the white tufted hilt to slowly empty out thick drags of buttery pre just past your throbbing g-spot. “Unless ya want-” Inching ever-so-sinfully closer. “-more?”

It was just a little tease - really, it was. Something to make your cute pout jut out, and your gooey insides clench.

But what Gojo didn’t expect was for thick, viscous droplets of saliva to splatter from between your lips at the sheer mind-numbing stretch. Babbling out into the spit-lathered mess of a pillow. “I- I want- ngh- Toru…”

“Yes yes, your dear Toru is hah- here.” And shit, he can’t help but saddle a strong forearm around your neck to hoist your lolling head upwards in a rude headlock. Making such a mess of glimmering dribble seep into the bulging bicep around your neck. You’re feeling the sappy drag of his long tongue down those puddled splatters of spittle, “Talk to me…tell me…complain about how big I am- I know you want to.”

You’re gasping when he’s leaving a pretty stinging smack! against your treacly cunt, muscular thighs shuffling against your own like a second skin. “I want…”

Every garbling syllable of your pretty voice making him twitch. Depraved. “Mhm—?”

“All of it- More.”

More?

CRASH!

Shit- maybe if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed how the flickering yellow lamp at your bedside shatters into a zillion pieces. And how Gojo was much the same. 

Slamming one dexterous free palm down onto the already-splintered headboard, you’re catching it crack underneath his vice-like clasp when Gojo hitches his breath and pushes. Wordless. Keening. Mean maw slacking parted with a low ah! ah! ah! at the sweltering hot pulse of his ever-hardening cock.

“S-Satoru did you just get-” bigger. It’s the word you can’t bring yourself to utter even if you wanted to - because Gojo’s swatting his doughy palm to entrap your whiny words. 

Hiding your watery sobs when his engorged dick ravines past the adhesive-like grip of your slick-flooded entrance to perk up even harder. 

Rasping, “Shhhh sh sh- Another word outta you n’ m’gonna cum.” Entire herculean body hitching - shuddering - to pin you to the velvety sheets like he was practically melting into you. You’re sandwiched into the sweaty glissade of his rugged washboard abs. Jolting at the miniscule lightnings of blue that bolt from his lazily lidded eyes, “Tell me how badly ya want the hngh- biiiig stretch, sweetheart.”

So embarrassing, “I-I want the…biiig stretch, Satoru.”

He’s humming with utter delight, “Louder- more.”

“Please.” Legs kicking in impatience, “I want it- w-want your hck! biiig stretch, Toru. Want it so bad-”

“Then, b-brace yourself…heh.”

Something’s cracking - breaking - only hours and hours later do you realize that it’s your poor mahogany bedframe underneath Gojo’s utter strength. 

Knuckles whitening when one sickly sweet rut has his toned abs careening into your mounds of flesh. And that tight little bout of resistance makes him stutter out a hiss, teeth clenching. “Christ, s’fuckin’ tight- n-need more.”

You words had done such a number on him. 

And Gojo wanted more - needed it. More more more-

With a sopping pap! Gojo’s sludging his hefty length out from your elastic hole, purposefully peaking his inflated veins against those treasure troves of your tender spots. Emanating out such a sinful squelch! of wiry slick-filled slurps the moment his globular crownhead is popping out of your gooey cunt. 

“L-look downwards, my girl-” he’s mumbling, tongue slurring those pesky little whines into his words. And oh, Gojo himself can’t bear to spy his ravenous gaze down below because of that dangerous little high building up at his tight, nudging balls. Can’t bear to do anything but let his sapphire gaze droop half shut. 

Tumbling your head down, “Toru what do you- oh!”

Gojo was so fucking needy. That mouthwateringly sculptured arm around your neck taking its second favorite position to warp around his sweltering hot cock and squeeze. 

You can only watch when he’s beading out wispy little ropes of precum that gloss your pussy lips a creamy white. Connecting delicate little ropes of your sweet, sweet juices to his bawling cockhead.

It was soiling his hand ivory, his wrist, his cloudy happy trail - he was being so messy. 

“Yeah- see this? Take a loooong hah- hard look, sweetheart. Yer gonna take this entire c-cock, m’kay–?” Gojo’s nuzzling his sweat-glimmered cheek down your down, stray strands of white sticking to your skin. Pumping his fist harder - harder. He’s scooping up a syrupy few dredges of sap to poke into your awe-struck mouth, “Gonna take i-it all. No matter how big- mhm?”

You’re whining when his intimidating length nestles between your thighs and pulses, the very brim of his curved tip swiping a sweltering hot drag of pre about half-way down your tummy. The size difference looked so sinful.

And you’re barely nodding - barely whimpering out a polite yes, please - before your mind shatters with the feeling of being split-apart. With every hidden nook and cranny caverning your sloppy pussy being stretched to the max.

“Yeah- yeah yeah c’mon-” Gojo’s begging. Pearly white teeth digging into his pulpy lower lip when his blushing shaft fringes down your clingy walls. “Go inside- fit- please- need ta give m-my girl everythin’.”

Needed - not wanted. 

Gojo doesn’t even have to try for his left-leaning curve to locate your most coveted spots, spurting out waterfalling little geysers of slick from between your thighs with every gulping inch.

“Oh- oh mmpf!” You’re mewling when his furious divot mashes into your nearby g-spot. Easily. Too easily that you’re half-wondering whether he’s using his Six Eyes. “It’s s-shoo deep.”

You’re being jostled in a sultry dance back and forth when Gojo’s planting rummaging pound after pound just to fit inside. The slamming smack! smack! smack! of his muscular thighs imprinting against the backs of yours fucking out each and every coherent thought out of your mind. 

And with absolutely no hesitation, he’s skimming numerous buzzing fingertips from one hand over to toy around your clit and pinch. Barely even realizing the startling spark of jujutsu that makes you yelp-

“Toru- wh-what did we say about…” Shrilling shrieks withering away on your tongue when- what were you complaining about again? Gojo’s incredible inches sheath their cozy way into your gummy cunt - fully. “O-oh.”

Oh was right. 

Because he had finally bottomed-out. Finally. Gasping at the sudden thud! of those ladder-like abs smooching the pretty curve of your ass. The bouncing recoil of his swollen cockhead against your pulpy cervix. Gojo can’t help but run his hands over your jiggling flesh to make sure - to register that this was real. 

Having your slobbery pussy wrapped around every needy inch of him? This must be a dream.

He’s struggling to catch his breath, gulps sounding high. Thumbing apart your sodden pussyflaps, Gojo’s rich baritone hitches adorably. “You- yer really m-milkin’ my entire fuckin’ cock…” 

Bleary eyes snapping open and veering pathetically cross-eyed, Gojo’s snowy brows scrunch achingly together when both stumbling hands latch onto your waist and pounces a harsh thrust. Thickened, hefty balls swatting your clit heavily. Once. Twice. 

And the third - barely even a swirling gyration of his slicked-up cock drilling into the spongy flesh of your cervix before he cums. Cums and cums so hard that it feels like copious orgasms upon orgasms piling all into one.

Feeling like he was bursting - just like the wreckage of generators across all twenty-three special wards in Tokyo this very second. Electricity flickering, Gojo’s eyes glowing, and you two don’t even notice the way the bed crashes! down onto the carpeted floors as if it had been hovering a slight inch.

“W-wait tha’s cheating-” he’s puffing out furiously, but he can’t stop. Luscious ounces of seed gumdropping out from his divot to laminate your poor cervix - no doubt battered and bruised at this point. A fat thumb of his caps your leaky slit with the voluminous dredges of splattering cum gushing haplessly out of you. “This is s’pposed to s-stay inside, sweetheart.”

It was too much - you were overfilled to the very brim of your glistening pussy folds. 

But Gojo didn’t sound upset - not in the slightest.

No, in fact, he was smiling. 

Cerulean pupils molding practically heart-eyed, a burning blush washes over those handsome cheeks and all the way down to his still-twitching, still-hard cock- “Sooooo…marry me?”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - 8.89 inches

“S’for your own good, angel.”

“B-but, Hiromi–” Oh, you were already winning - and you knew it - you’re feeling that perky little dab of syrupy pre that butters up your insides. Just the mere sound of your voice enough to make Higuruma twitch, “I want you now.”

To make him jolt, to make him sigh. 

Long, dextrous fingers of his tightening around that vice-like little restraint of his tie shackled around your neck - just the scratchy dig of that velvety fabric into your tender flesh makes you lightheaded. 

“I already told ya.” Higuruma’s sighing, sleepy eyes peaking up at where your trembly figure was riding the fucking soul out of him. Or, at least, was supposed to. “Don’t want ya hah- hurtin’ yerself the first time ya take me, don’t want my girl’s pussy sore.”

But what you were aching for right now was him. 

Bucking your hips in a stubborn little up and down that makes his thin lips curl, canines bared. Feral. “Fine- slutty angel.”

And you barely have the time to process his words - to process the stinging sensation of his formal office tie constricting around your throat. Before Higuruma’s dragging you down with a thorough flick of his wrist, leveraging the merciless tightrope of his tie to feed your needy cunt inch by fucking inch. 

He’s not stopping when you gasp, not even when big, globular bouts of tears lather your lashes dripping wet. Only pulling you to him like some glorified sex toy- 

“H-Hiromi-” your clammy palms clasp around his pale, bulging biceps to squeeze. Spine arching at the way his staggering size was opening you so deliciously.

“Mhmmm, m’here m’here. Biiig stretch, isn’t it?” Bouncing those bulky, muscular hips of his with years upon years of practice in battle. And right now you were on the receiving end of his ruthlessness, your pussy lips being smeared agape at the hefty cylindrical shaft being bullied into you. “Easy there, girl. Easy. You can take m-my ngh- big cock.”

And Higuruma barely even had to try to get you all shattered on his cock like this was. Because his cock? The absolute prize of your wettest dreams. 

He was so thick and long, nearing nine inches that bumped his throbbing walls in a lewd little massage down your precious treasure trove of sweet spots. That left-leaning angle of his curvature was so droolworthy, meshing a sodden French kiss easily against the bullseye of your g-spot.

But what had you spellbound - what had you so dizzy - right now wasn’t just the stretch. No, it was that tiny, orbing little piercing studded right underneath Higuruma’s deeply indented slit. 

“Hey, doin’ ah- good, angel?” The chilling patch of his metal stud wrenching out the cutest little whimpers from your heated mouth, falling further and further slack with every pretty peck. Every tiny swab of his length being overstuffed into you. “Only an inch more- juuust an i-inch more n’ I want ngh- you to milk it for me.”

“M-me?” You’re pointing at yourself, as if there was anyone else here in this heady bedroom.

“Tha’s right-” Blinking away the clingy film of lust surrounding your eyes, you’re finally noticing the air of something instinctually primal in your dear Higuruma’s ravenous gaze. So at odds with the gentle kiss placed onto your prespired forehead. “While I get some hah- work done, angel.”

Your hips tense when he’s reaching out to grab the phone that had been buzzing on the bedside drawer for quite a while now. Only to get jostled into motion once more with a soft swat! planted onto your jiggling ass. 

Turning the flashing screen to emblazon your vision with the name, Shiu Kong (Work) 

Oh?

Oh.

At your filthy nod, Higuruma’s puffing out a shuddered bout of laughter. Before sliding one fat thumb across the screen and answering, “Hello? Shiu?” Head tilting to the side, another manhandling haul of Higuruma’s massive palm keeps you riding him. “Yeah, I can heh- talk right now.”

“S-so mean–” you’re mumbling, thoroughly not expecting for him to hear and punish another smack! against your ass. 

You couldn’t hear the response - you didn’t even realize that the audio could even hear you before he’s babbling on. 

“The meeting- Oh, that? Ah, jus’ my lovely wife.” Gasping, because Higuruma hadn’t proposed…yet. And the way he was sidling your gummy cunt with hefty, vicious pound after pound to lose himself - to melt into your unsteady arms - made you think he just might. Soon. “She’s uh…strugglin’ with somethin’ ya see.”

Fuck- he knew exactly how to make you work. 

But you knew exactly how to work. 

One hand splaying out between the sweaty valley of Higuruma’s plush chest, you’re eyeing with satisfaction as his dark brows raise. Squeezing that overpriced fabric wrapped around his thick fingers to muffled your leaking whimpers - to choke-

Only for his sharp jaw to fall parted, breath hitching when you jerk your fatigued thighs and ride. Deeper. Sloppier. Further and further until with a heaving shudder your ass smacks against his with a ringing pap!

Loud. 

Undeniable. 

His hefty breeder balls colliding into the jiggling curve of your ass, Higuruma’s massive cock embedding a few perfectly rounded bruises into the back of your pulpy cervix. Streaking a lazy line drawn by his bulbed piercing across each and every sweeping fissure inside you. Once. Twice. 

Again and again-

“A-ah, what?” He’s bumbling absent-mindedly into the speaker, and you’ve never seen him sound so shaky before. Deep baritone cracking into a few whimpering cracks towards the end when one of his thumbs swipe your puffed-up pussylips to take a long look at that heavenly sight. “Oh…oh yeah. My wife- sh-she got it…finally.”

And it’s only when you’re drawing out the most whipped splatters of slicked pre, when you’re steadying your precarious hands onto his sculptured biceps and slamming a sloppy cadence. Humming, “Y-yeah. Real cute, isn’t she?”

Only when Higuruma looks like he’s on the very verge of ending the call that you’re musing how Shiu must know already.

That blasphemous question on the very tip of your tongue before Higuruma’s attractive eyes widen, chuckling out at words exchanged over the phone that you couldn’t make out. Yet. 

“Oh?” Yeah, Shiu totally knew. Dark eyes boring right into your heart-eyed depths, and when you nod he’s cracking a smile. Pussydrunk. “Mhm, sure, we can videocall.”

A/N. HIGURUMA NATION HOW ARE WE FEELING???

Plagiarism not authorized.

[mercwithadilf]

Home

Sirius Black x Potter!reader

Summary: Sirius runs away from ‘home’ having finally suffered enough of his parents’ ideals and behaviours. The only place he can really call home is with his best friend, James Potter. Wherever James is, you are too.

This is my first fic after a really long time but I'm really excited to get back on my writing journey! Writing for Sirius Black is mainly because of my absolute love for Ben Barnes so I hope you enjoy!! <3

‘Mum! Godric- James if I catch you looking through my stuff again, it’s your head!’ You chase after James who somehow manages to not only sneak into your room, but also find and run away with the hoodie you forgot to give Sirius back after a night of Quidditch practice.

James pauses in front of you causing you to almost run straight into him and holds up the hoodie with a wide, shit-eating grin. 

‘And why, dear sister, do you have my best mate’s hoodie in your closet?’

You roll your eyes at his annoying, but also very usual antics. ‘Because, dear brother, your best mate gave it to me after I was freezing to death during the Quidditch practice you so thoughtfully stretched out until the dead of night. I simply forgot to give it back before Christmas break! Now give it back!’ 

You jump up to grab the hoodie back from James which he oh so kindly pulled out of your reach. Euphemia took the hoodie away from James’s hands and gave it to you. 

‘Let your sister fawn over the hoodie Sirius gave her in peace, James.’ James smirks at you as your mother chuckles at both of you. 

You stare at her in disbelief and scoff. ‘Seriously, mum! James is being a twat –’

‘Language!’ You hear Fleamont yell from downstairs.

‘– and I get humiliated! Unbelievable! Why don’t you tell mum about Lily, Jamesy?’ You flash your brother the same grin he shot you a mere few seconds ago.

You watch his eyes go wide as your mother pauses her movements and turns to him, ‘Are you still chasing that girl, James? I told you, girls don’t like stalkers.’

James playfully glares at you and turns to you mother, ‘She actually gave me a chance, mother dearest. And I said yes!’ He grins.

You look at him with the most unimpressed look you could fathom and both your mother and James catch up on it, which causes your mother to mirror that look. ‘Okay fine, she said yes, happy?’

‘Very actually.’ He sticks his tongue out at you and you reciprocate the gesture.

Your father’s footsteps emerge up the steps as he walks past you both, ruffling your heads. ‘Everyone to bed or else Santa won’t bring any presents down the chimney for tomorrow morning!’

‘He’s talking to you, Jamesy!’ You sing-song.

‘You wish, sister!’

Everyone heads to their rooms with a final goodnight, you settling in your bed with the comfort of the sounds of the rain and Sirius’s hoodie warming you and lulling you into sleep.

James jolts up from his sleep at the violent bangs of knocks coming from downstairs. In a rushed daze, he scrambles to put his glasses on and grabs his wand. He clutches it tightly, knuckles turning white as he sneaks downstairs, ready to attack whoever decided to disturb the peace at four in the morning. 

He looks through the peep-hole, adjusting his sight to the figure standing outside. As his vision adjusts, he begins to panic.

‘What the fuck?’ James opens the door. ‘Pads?’

Sirius spins to look at him, eyes wide, lips quivering from the cold as he engulfs his figure in his robe. A bag is slung against his shoulder, the boy looking too weak to even carry it properly.

James could tell the streaks on his best friend’s face were from tears that were being washed away by the constant, harsh droplets of rain.

They were both too stunned to even speak.

‘Prongs –’

‘Get in. Now.’ 

James grabs Sirius by his shoulders and leads him inside, taking his bag from him as if it was weighing him down a ton and a half. He helps Sirius take the robe off and replaces it with a warm, fuzzy Christmas blanket as he leads him to the couch.

You huff while sitting up, expecting James to have gone downstairs to get a very early head start on the presents. You walk out of your room and storm downstairs ready to tell him off until you’re stopped in your tracks by the site in front of you.

‘Sirius?’ Your voice wavers.

Both boys situated on the couch turn to look at you. ‘Y/n.’ You wouldn’t have been able to hear Sirius’s voice if it wasn’t for the complete dead silence in the house.

You rush down the rest of the stairs and sit on the floor right in front of Sirius, your hand on his knee to reassure him of your presence.

You glance at your brother for an explanation, but he only shakes his head at you with a frown. You take that as a hint that Sirius hasn’t said anything and to not rush him.

Sirius’s eyes trail over your figure as you sit in front of him. He notices the hoodie you’re wearing was the one he kept looking for, however finding it on you softened the edges of his heart.

James notices Sirius’s eyes on you and smiles softly, despite the situation they’re in right now. ‘I’ll get you a cup of hot choco, yeah?’ James offers Sirius which he responds to with a grateful nod and an attempt of a smile. James gets up and walks to the kitchen while you stay with Sirius.

You look up at him with a reassuring, gentle smile. ‘You can talk when you’re ready, Sirius. No rush, yeah?’ He nods.

James comes back with a cup of warm hot chocolate and places it on the table for Sirius, taking his spot back next to him on the couch.

‘I left them.’ Sirius breaks the silence, his eyes stuck on his hands fidgeting with each other on his lap. ‘It was about time I left my parents but… I can’t believe I just left Reggie there. He’s gonna hate me, he- Godric I-’ He breaks, his hands now rubbing his face as if wiping off all his emotions.

‘You don’t have to explain, Padfoot–’ James speaks up, but Sirius quickly shakes his head.

‘No. No you need to know why, I just- It’s so hard-’ 

You squeeze his knee. ‘You can explain tomorrow, Sirius. You need to rest now, alright? You know you’re always welcome here.’

You can see the look in his eyes. Fear, pain, hurt, regret, but also relief and a tinge of happiness. He can only nod as he looks at his two best friends.

James stands up, a cue for you and Sirius to follow him. ‘You can stay in our spare room, we’ve had it ready in case anyone wanted to stay for the holidays.’

‘Thanks, Prongs.’ Sirius manages a smile as you both lead him to the room which you assume will be his for a good while from now.

‘I’ll tell mum and dad in the morning, you should rest now.’ Sirius nods and thanks him again while he’s settling in. James gives him a pat on the back before he kisses your forehead and heads to his room for a well-needed rest.

You, on the other hand, linger on the doorway of Sirius’s room. He looks at you with a hint of desperation in his eyes which you take as a hint to walk in, shutting the door behind you and sitting on the edge of his bed.

‘Are you alright?’ He sits down next to you with a sigh. ‘I know it’s a stupid question but… I don’t know…’

He chuckles lightly, the tension in the air softened, giving way for a more light-hearted and calm tone.

‘I could be better, but I’m glad I have you.’ He pauses as he looks at you, a stare that made your heart flutter. ‘A-and James, of course.’

You look at him with a hint of a smile, your shoulders rubbing against each other. ‘You’ll always have me, Pads… Us.’ 

You suddenly stand up. ‘Hold on.’ You walk downstairs, grab a glass of water and painkillers and go back into Sirius’s room and place them on his bedside tables while he watches you with curiosity. 

‘What’s this for?’

‘You were absolutely drenched. Just in case you might fall ill, something for you to take in the morning.’ 

His heart skips a beat as he watches you show him the sort of care that not even his family has shown him in his whole lifetime. 

He grabs your wrist desperately but gently, his eyes looking up at you like a puppy anticipating its praise for a trick.

‘Pads? You okay?’

He gets up, hovering over you with a vulnerability that makes his tall frame appear small and fragile.

Wordlessly, he slumps his forehead on your shoulder and lets his shoulders sag. The weight of the night finally leaves him as he collapses onto you, letting himself break down into your shoulder. His heaving sobs echo around you.

‘Siri…’ You whisper into his ear. You’re not used to seeing such an emotional side of him. He’s usually so bright and loud, a proud, smug grin on his face as he prances through the halls of Hogwarts. Now, in the dim and little room, you hold the same boy that’s held your heart in his palm for years. The boy that’s now showing a side of him that he doesn’t even show to himself.

You wrap your arms around him tightly, pulling him impossibly closer to you as you comb your fingers through his long, still slightly damp hair.

Sirius shudders at the feeling.

‘Everything’ll fall into place. I promise, Sirius.’ You continue to whisper reassurances into his ear. You can’t tell if those reassurances are just for him or for the both of you, but now you just know that he needs them more.

He pulls away to look at you while you remain in each other’s hold, his eyes roaming yours as if to find a hidden message in them. Anything, anything to prove to himself that he’s where he’s ever needed to be, where he’ll ever need to be.

Your finger as it glided up his skin to wipe the tears off his face, the site of you in his hoodie, the domesticity of it all, the dense, moody atmosphere; all of it. It all clouded his brain, his mind, any sense of logic that he held onto. It was all fogged into a silhouette he couldn’t make sense of anymore as he crashed his lips onto yours.

The kiss was messy, unrestrained, as if pouring every ounce of your soul into that fleeting moment of closeness. Your lips moved together in a trembling dance, every touch drenched in vulnerability and an aching need to hold on. It was as though the world had shrunk to just the space between you.

You both pull away reluctantly in the search for air, panting exasperatedly as your eyes never break the foggy stares you give each other. In that moment, Sirius knew he wasn’t alone anymore. For the first time, the weight of his past felt lighter—not gone, but shared. And as your laughter filled the small room, he realized this was what home felt like.

‘Took you only four years, Pads.’

You both chuckle, his forehead leaning on yours while his hands trace the skin of your neck and waist.

‘That all you’ve got to say, darling?’

You smile up at him. ‘Trust me, there’s so much I’ve got to say.’

He pecks your lips. He couldn’t get enough of you and he’s only just started.

‘Good thing I’m stuck here with you then, huh?'

[witherby]

do you think that the batfam has different ways of explaining their bruises/injuries they get from crimefighting to an observant mouse? 👼👼👼

--🎆

Fantastic question! I think growing up in Wayne Manor would make it exceptionally difficult to hide the vigilantism from you. They could 100% do it, but it would take about a thousand times more effort concealing it from you than the general public, so I don't think they would.

You're very young when you start really piecing it together, though, so they're gonna have to tell you what happened in child-friendly ways.

The Littlest Wayne: Post-Battle Injuries

1. Bruce

"Wha' happen, daddy?"

This man is not a good liar, but he dodges the truth like it's an Olympic sport. Like any public figure worth their salt, he's gonna answer the question without answering the question.

"Well, when Daddy has to go be Batman, sometimes he gets hurt. The boo-boos will go away after a while, and everything is going to be fine. You'll have to hug gently for a few days."

What he doesn't say is that he took a toyota corolla pushing 70 to the ribs and can feel the broken bones shifting and rubbing together like wet chopsticks under his skin, it's fucking nauseating, and he needs to go pass out as soon as he puts you down for a nap.

2. Dick

"Uh-oh, Dinky hurty?"

If Bruce is admired for keeping his cool in the wake of grievous injury, then Dick wrote the fucking book on it. His picture shows up when you google "gaslight gatekeep girlboss." He could lose a limb and convince you it's always been like that with a straight face. You'll never catch his ass lacking.

"Dinky fell down," he says easily, scooping you into his arms, "but he's fine! See? All okay!" His face doesn't even twitch from all his wounds getting aggravated. There is shrapnel embedded in his back from being thrown through a window and tumbling down the roof. The broken-off blade of a knife is jammed up in his thigh. His right hand has lost all feeling in it from blocking a pipe getting swung at him. There are black spots in his vision. He's lost so much blood it's nothing short of divine intervention keeping him conscious.

You'd bet your ass if you need him to go sprint a 10k right now, though, he's lacing up his tennis shoes.

3. Tim

"Timmy, what wrong?"

He's gonna tell you the truth, and he's the only one that'll tell you the truth. He'll just omit the gorey bits because they're not beneficial to you.

"Oh, this? Bad guy got me good with his knife. It hurts a lot so don't touch it... I just said don't touch it...okay fine, go wash your hands first before you touch it."

He didn't like being kept out of the loop as a child, especially a child that had to raise himself, so he tells you about anything and everything you ask. He'll tell you what medical supplies he's grabbing and why. He'll tell you his estimated recovery time. He'll tell you what wounds the others have, if any. He'll let you touch the safe tools, like gauze and bandages and antibiotic ointment. He'll show you how to apply them, too, and then quickly take you to the sink to wash the blood from your hands.

4. Jason

"Jay-Jay ouchies?"

He's the most unintentionally awkward about it. I think being brought back to life in the Lazarus Pit really fucked up his ability to feel pain. The major injuries still sting — gunshots, stabs, broken bones — but bruises and black eyes and sprains fly under the radar very often.

"Uh, no," he shrugs, looking at the myriad of colorful bruising you just pointed out on his arm. "No ouchies." He's not exactly lying, it doesn't hurt, but it is very clearly an injury. This confuses and upsets you often.

5. Damian

"Dami got a booboo?"

He's lying every single time. He's your older brother. He's a dangerous killing machine. His skill and combat prowess are unmatched. He needs you to think he's incredible and amazing and cool.

"Those half-wit simpletons could never dream of landing a hit on me. Any blood on my clothes is simply not mine."

One of the goons actually clipped his side with a bullet and it really, really hurts. His hands are flexing and he's got sweat running down his neck from the pain. He would actually rather die than let you know that, though.

[subliminalwish]

A Blooming Predicament

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Pairing: Sylus x Reader Summary: You chanced a glance on a dark alley on your way home, expecting to see a lost stray needing shelter from the rain but the one you ended up taking home is currently bleeding on your couch. Content: reader is not MC, reader is female, this is a slow burn, mentions of gunshot wounds, bleeding, and administering first aid, depictions of blood, wound care, implied crime & organised violence, mild language and dark humour, reference of alcohol, written under the influence of medication - some inconsistencies are possible. A/N: My apologies for the delay - I'd been incredibly sick. This chapter is much longer than the other two, and a lot of my time was spent trying to condense this while still keeping the pace. I hope it's not too much! Thank you so much for reading.

------

You wish your hands would stop shaking so much.

His breath on your neck is warm but shallow, ghosting over your skin — faint, like sighs on velvet.

At least you can tell he’s still alive.

He hasn’t spoken since you dragged him out of that alley. Neither have you.

The intoxicating scent of charred spice burns into your lungs.

He’s so tall, doubled over you as you struggle to support him on your journey back to your apartment. Stark against the chill of the rain, the heat where his weight rests against you spreads — soaking your clothes, clinging to your skin, promising stains that might never wash off.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. You’re used to stains. The faint dusting of pollen. Fingerprints on glass. Smoke clinging to fabric. Streaks of green from crushed stems. The kind that lingers long after it should be gone.

You press on, stumbling through your building’s doors haphazardly. You’re a mess of aching muscles, trembling fingers, and the weight of him, draped over you like some exotic scarf.

Something grips you by the waist. Anchors you. You look down to see his large hand pressing you even closer to his body. Strong, despite the injury.

“What floor?” comes the sudden gravelly whisper fanning over your neck, your skin puckering in goosebumps on contact.

You tell him.

“Hold on tight.” That’s the only warning before the floor disappears beneath your feet, and for a split second, you think: this is a terrible way to die. The world vanishes in wisps of black and scarlet, weightless and soundless. The walls dissolve; there’s no sense of up or down — only him, warmth pressing against you, grounding you in this abyss like the only real thing left.

Solid footing returns as abruptly as it was stolen. Your knees buckle slightly at the sudden impact; the world reappears around you. You’re at your apartment level.

“How —” you start, but he’s already dragging you to move.

“Which door?” There’s a strain in his voice that wasn’t there before.

The stupid questions can wait.

——

He crashes onto the couch with a quiet groan, tipping his head back on the backrest as his eyes flutter shut.

Yours dart around your apartment until you find what you’re looking for. You’ve never had a half-dead man bleeding on your couch before, but you’re sure there’s at least something in your little first aid kit that can help. Gauze, antiseptic, an old roll of bandages. Ibuprofen, for the mild inconvenience of being shot.

You make your way back to his side, your attention now on the ruined fabric clinging to his skin, torn where the wound is worst, stained in deep red.

Your grip on the edges of the kit tightens, your heart pounding in your ears, your vision narrowing to the spreading blotch where skin meets couch.

A slow inhale, and then —

“Have you ever done this before?” His deep voice pulls you back, almost startles you — hoarse at the edges, tight with pain. Tempered with something softer. The sound catches at something in your chest, and you hate the way it makes your heart clench. His eyes are open by just a crack, a hint of red peeking through, locked on yours. His head is still tipped back as he takes measured breaths.

“Not at all.”

He shifts, a familiar smirk with a tinge of exhaustion on his lips as he moves to tear the tattered shirt off him.

“Follow my lead.”

Your hands move on autopilot, following his instructions without question. His voice is calm. Too steady for someone who’s bleeding out. You hold on to that low timbre for your life, the subtle shifts of his body, tilting into your touch when your fingers brush against exposed skin.

“You need to press harder.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“Use this next.”

“Breathe .”

Somewhere in between the stitching and the bandages being pulled taut, your heartbeat evens out, matching the smooth rumble of his voice, his mere presence keeping you from falling into the void. 

Time blurs at the edges. You sit back after carefully securing the wrappings, your eyes scanning over his bare torso and its now-rhythmic rise and fall, to the rest of him for a final check.

“You catch on quick,” he says warmly, a tone of pleasant surprise with the undercurrent of something you choose to ignore. You don’t know what to say to that, lowering your gaze to your hands now resting on your lap, the tremors from earlier fading without a trace. You flex them before looking back at your handiwork, the gauze wound tight around him, keeping him from unraveling —

So why does it feel like he’s the one who’s holding you together?

——

“This… might fit,” you say, almost apologetic as you hand him your largest hoodie. He takes it with one hand, glancing at the wrappings around his torso before giving you a look.

“I don’t want to ruin your masterpiece,” he says smoothly, making you roll your eyes as you grab the hoodie back. He leans over expectantly.

By some miracle, you ease him into the hoodie. The fabric stretches just a little too much in places, snug against him. You try not to think about it.

He lets out a satisfied sigh and leans back, now far more relaxed than when he first staggered into your flat hours earlier. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to return it.”

“No, it’s fine,” you say a bit too quickly. “You can keep it.” It’s probably for the best.

Desperate for something to do, you head to the fridge. “Um. Do you want something to drink?”

“Some whiskey would be nice.”

“I’m not giving you any liquor.”

“Then forget it.”

You scowl at this strange stray you’ve taken in, his size dwarfing your couch as he claims his territory between your blood-stained throw pillows.

You grab a glass of water and set it on the coffee table with a pointed look. He doesn’t even glance at it.

“Is there someone you can call? Do you need to borrow a phone?” you ask as you move back to sit on the adjacent chair.

He’s already pulling his own device out and dialing on the cracked screen. “I’m sorted, but thank you.” There are bloodstains on the phone, too.

You fall silent as you hear the other line answer in one ring.

“Boss!” shouts the person on the other end. They sound relieved.

“The deal is off. Wrap it up. Now. Meet me at the usual place when you’re done.” He doesn’t wait for them to respond, ending the call and putting his phone away in one fluid motion.

You wish you moved to the other room — the less you hear about any of this, the better.

“Looks like I’m your problem for a little longer,” he says gently, looking at you now with a softened expression. He waits for you to react.

“Just until the sun fully sets,” he adds. “I don’t do well in the daylight.”

You automatically glance out your window at the gradually darkening cityscape. The rain has long stopped, the world outside shrouded in a light sheen from the drizzle.

You nod, unsure why it matters whether he leaves now or after the sun sets. But something about the way he says it — the way he looks at the sky — makes you think you don’t want to know. And the less you know, the better.

A minute passes. Then, his voice cuts through the quiet — low, almost lazy, but there’s something behind it.

“Why did you help me?”

You blink at him. You should probably give him a real answer.

“Did you want to bleed out in that alley? I can put the bullets back.”

That earns you a soft huff, something like amusement curling at the edges of his breath.

“I meant at the flower shop.”

You don’t reply right away. You could tell the truth — that you didn’t want to be collateral damage, that you like your life quiet and uncomplicated, and a shootout in a flower shop tends to disrupt that. But saying it outright feels too honest. Too callous.

So instead, you shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Seemed like the least messy option.”

A pause. Something amused flickers across his face, there and gone in an instant.

With nothing left to say, you both settle into silence, your guest occasionally humming an unknown tune.

There’s little need for words when the air between you is already thick with unspoken things.

You can still smell the sharp, metallic bite of blood underneath molten amber, settling at the back of your throat, refusing to let go.

As the sky outside finally deepens in hue, he gets up with purpose, his movement effortless, as if he hasn’t been close to death just hours before.

“Thank you for your hospitality. I won’t forget this.”

You hope he does.

He opens the window without offering an explanation. Sits at the edge on the sill and casually leans out to assess the view below before looking back at you with a long, measuring look.

“I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

You hope not.

He says it with so much certainty, as sure as the setting sun.

Something about the way he moves makes your stomach lurch, your instincts screaming before your brain catches up.

He’s leaning too far back. Too far into the gaping maw that is your window.

“Hey —”

You’re already on your feet before you even realize it.

“Can you not —”

He tilts backwards completely. Your window swallows him whole. He vanishes from your sight, rips your heart out of your chest and drags it with him.

“Hey, wait!”

You lunge forward, half your body slipping past the frame. The dizzying drop yawns beneath you. Your eyes follow the trail of hazy smoke and black feathers descending rapidly toward the empty street, and seconds later, he materializes onto the pavement, looking up at you with that same slow curve of his lips that makes your chest tighten.

You watch him walk away, his silhouette vanishing into the dark. The ruined couch, the lingering scent of iron mixed with warm spice, and the tattered afterthought of an expensive shirt are the only proof he was ever here.

You aren’t the type to get caught up in things that don’t concern you.

But if there’s anything worse than making a bad decision, it’s pretending you didn’t already make it.

You look around now at the aftermath of your choices decorating your living room, clean-up on your mind. 

You’re used to stains. The rust-dark imprint of a thorn prick. The inescapable perfume of crushed petals. The faint, bitter tang of torn leaves. Blood and viscera are just different shades of the same thing. The kind that lingers long after it should be gone.

Some whiskey doesn’t sound so bad right now.

——

You didn’t wake up this morning expecting to get mugged by a bird.

One second, the shop keys are in your hand. The next, they aren’t.

A rush of black feathers, a flick of talons. The haunting, sharp echo of a triumphant caw. The weight of metal is stolen from your fingers before you can process the theft, before your breath can even catch up with the crime.

You blink up at the sky, dazed. The shop keys glint between its claws like a prize.

The city moves around you, indifferent. People pass by, eyes fixed forward, their worlds sealed off in invisible walls. A car horn blares in the distance. Someone laughs. The morning air is thick with damp concrete and yesterday’s regrets. You push past the early morning bustle, past people too preoccupied to notice you chasing after an airborne thief. A few glance up at the sound of ruffled feathers, but nobody in Linkon asks too many questions.

It swoops low, wings outstretched, dancing just out of reach before darting forward again. You swear you hear it cackle.

It winds through the city, taking you through twisting paths and narrow passages. Leads you down familiar streets, past shuttered cafés and flickering neon signs, past lampposts that hum with the last traces of their glow. It keeps ahead of you by mere feet, never quite out of reach, never close enough to catch.

Then, without warning, it folds its wings and drops.

You skid to a stop.

It lands right on the wooden sign hanging above Larkspur & Ivy, perching neatly on the edge. For a moment, it does nothing — just stares, head tilted, considering you. Flicks its tail with a self-satisfied ruffle of feathers.

Then, slow and deliberate, it unfurls its talons and lets your keys slip through.

They clatter onto the pavement.

The crow lets out a single caw, sharp and bright in the morning hush. Almost like laughter.

You crouch to pick up your keys, but your gaze snags on the bird.

Up close, its feathers are too smooth. Sleek, polished. A glint of metal. The light catches strange on its body, edges too sharp, movements too precise. And when it tilts its head, you hear it — a mechanical whir, the faintest click of shifting plates beneath the feathers.

Red rubies for eyes, like molten glass, glowing against the grey morning like a warning carved into the skyline.

You feel like you’ve seen that shade of red before.

You exhale, slow. Linkon has its ghosts. Some of them just wear different disguises.

The crow watches you expectantly. Lets out another raucous caw. Flaps its wings once, then takes off into the sky, vanishing into the city sprawl.

Your fingers tighten around the stolen thing, thumb tracing over it absently before you slip the key into its place. The sky is empty now. The shop’s door unlocks with a hollow click, and the scent of flowers greets you like a well-worn memory.

Behind you, two men walk past the shop. Eyes flicking your way, exchanging a look, quiet and knowing, as you busy yourself among the oleanders and poppies.

Tags: @phisen | @xxfaithlynxx | @sadnessiscoldtea | @lalaluch | @blorbohunter | @worldly-fluster | @miffysoo Please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

[cuntyji]

HOW TO LOOSE YOUR DIGNITY IN FIVE SECONDS: A HOLI SPECIAL ౨ৎ JJK MEN HEADCANONS

synopsis: holi, the festival of colors, love, and inevitable regrets, has finally arrived. you’ve been waiting all year for this, but the real highlight of the day? your boyfriend’s first holi. whether he’s excited or absolutely dreading it, well… that depends on which one you’re talking about.

content warnings: gender neutral reader, jjk men headcannons (gojo, nanami, geto, toji, shiu, choso, no sukuna this time rip). mentions of hemp. lots of crack, based on many true stories <3

author's note: tell a friend she's back!! thank u for being patient with my break. happy holi if you celebrate, stay safe and have fun :)

gojo’s white hair is a warzone. not a single strand has been spared from the riot of colors that have taken him hostage. you can practically map out the battlefield on his head—electric blue from nobara’s ambush, a blotchy green courtesy of megumi’s grudge, streaks of pink and yellow from random kids who saw an opportunity, and, of course, the deep purple near his roots that is just part of him. his blindfold was a victim early on, ripped away in the opening skirmish, which left his poor six eyes to fend for themselves.

but does he regret it? absolutely not.

“this is the best holiday ever,” he announces, lying on the ground, looking like a pack of expired skittles. he’s positively beaming, grinning wide enough to blind anyone who still has uncolored vision left. “i am beauty. i am art. i am suffering.”

he sits up, running a hand through his hair, then pauses when some of the color transfers onto his palm. his grin falters for half a second before he recovers with a nervous chuckle. “this’ll come out, right? right?”

you don’t have the heart to tell him that some of these colors might have permanently altered his hair. it’ll be fun when he washes it and realizes his shampoo is an accomplice in ruining his life.

nanami thought he was prepared. in his mind, he had planned the ultimate holi defense strategy. crisp white shirt (because nothing says class like a man in white), sunscreen slathered on every inch of his exposed skin (because he would rather die than let the sun and colors double-team him), and a last-minute decision to invest in contact lenses because, well, the alternative was his glasses being held hostage by a bunch of lunatics.

big. mistake.

he comes back looking like a broken man. his shirt? unrecognizable. the white fabric has been violated in every color of the rainbow, some areas more aggressively attacked than others. his hair? streaked with color despite his best efforts to avoid it. and the worst part? the contacts.

nanami rubs his temples, his face twisted into a deep frown. “never again,” he mutters, looking like he’s reliving chapter 120 in real-time. he blinks rapidly, eyes irritated beyond belief, and you realize his biggest mistake was trusting those flimsy lenses to protect him.

you try—really try—to hold back your laughter. “so… the contact lenses?”

he lets out the slowest, most exhausted sigh. “i thought they would protect me.” a pause. then, bitterly: “i was wrong.”

you take in his utterly defeated state, the way he looks more emotionally drained than physically tired, and pat his arm sympathetically.

“on the bright side,” you offer, “you don’t have to worry about wearing white ever again.”

nanami closes his eyes. inhales. exhales. then, in a voice heavy with regret, says, “i miss my old life.”

toji fushiguro is that guy—the one who shows up to holi in all black like he’s at a funeral, fully aware of what’s about to happen to him but too stubborn to dress accordingly. maybe he thought he’d intimidate people into leaving him alone. maybe he thought the dark clothes would somehow hide the damage. either way, he thought wrong.

his face is mostly untouched, purely because no one can reach him. at his height, the average holi enthusiast doesn’t stand a chance. the few who dared to aim for his head either missed or got that look—the one that made them rethink all their life choices up until that moment. but his torso? completely massacred. the black fabric of his shirt has been ruined by every color imaginable, soaked through and weighing him down like a second skin.

toji tugs at his drenched shirt, scowling. “this is bullshit.”

you raise an eyebrow. “it’s literally holi. what did you expect?”

“not to be walking around in clothes that feel like they weigh twenty kilos,” he grumbles. he shifts uncomfortably, flexing his arms like that’ll somehow shake off the moisture. “shoulda just taken my shirt off.”

you glance at his utterly destroyed torso, streaked with a chaotic mix of colors, and smirk. “probably wouldn’t have helped. they went straight for your chest.”

toji knows. he can smell the disaster on himself—especially that horrible silver paint someone had the audacity to slap onto him. it’s clinging to his skin like a bad memory, and the worst part? it’s shiny. he feels like a failed art project.

he huffs, rubbing at a stubborn stain. “if i gotta be drenched, might as well be in red. at least then i can scare the little brats off and tell ‘em it’s blood.”

you give him a look. “so your solution is to traumatize children?”

toji shrugs, unapologetic. “ain’t my fault they’d believe it.”

geto approaches holi with the grace of a man who thinks he can organize chaos. he is all about class, aesthetics, and, most importantly, justice. while others run around like feral animals, flinging colors with reckless abandon, geto has meticulously arranged brass plates filled with neatly piled color powders. the water? prepared in large buckets, not for anarchy, but for people to responsibly fill their water guns. everything is meant to be orderly, beautiful, a functionable and fun holi experience.

he forgets that during holi, no one cares about any of that.

the moment he turns his back, all hell breaks loose.

one person—an absolute menace to society—takes a single look at the perfectly filled water bucket and dumps the entire thing on him. and just as geto is still processing the betrayal, the rest of them follow suit, overturning the entire mountain of color onto him like an avalanche.

it’s a spectacle.

he is left drenched, color clinging to every inch of his soaked clothes, dripping down his face in thick streaks. his once dignified, elegant aura? gone. instead, he’s standing there, utterly stunned, spitting out what can only be described as liquid rainbow.

you approach cautiously, trying—failing—to suppress your laughter.

geto wipes a hand down his face, looking at the sheer amount of color that comes off. he then glances at you, eyes filled with the weary realization of a man who should’ve known better.

“i’m going to have blue teeth by the end of this, aren’t i?” he mutters.

you nod, absolutely delighted at his suffering. “at least you made holi… functional.”

he exhales sharply, color still dripping from his chin. “never. again.”

shiu kong is the epitome of holi with class. while others are running around like headless chickens, he’s standing off to the side, nursing a drink that could only be described as delectable. a perfect mix, smooth, refined—enhanced, of course, with a liiiiittle hemp, because holi is about tradition. he’s not here to get drenched like some peasant. he’s here to enjoy himself.

or so he thought.

he doesn’t even realize the impending disaster until it’s too late. a horde of parched, wide-eyed kids approach him, looking up expectantly, their little hands outstretched. and shiu, in his blissfully buzzed state, barely registers what’s happening before he just hands over the drink with a lazy flick of his wrist.

there’s a beat of silence. then, chaos.

within minutes, he has unleashed the apocalypse. half the kids are suddenly hyperactive, screaming like banshees, running at inhuman speeds with fully loaded water guns, soaking anything and everything in their path. the other half? slumped against walls, swaying slightly, looking like they just saw the secrets of the universe and were not prepared for it.

shiu blinks. realization dawns. he looks down at his now-empty glass.

“…ah, shit.”

you stare at him, half-horrified, half-amused. “tell me you did not just give bhang to an army of children.”

shiu drags a hand down his face. “…i was feeling generous.”

a high-pitched, manic shriek cuts through the air as a color-streaked child launches a water balloon with the accuracy of a trained assassin. shiu watches it fly in slow motion before it smacks a poor soul across the face.

he exhales, stepping back like a man about to abandon ship. “alright. time to leave.”

choso is excited. painfully so. he’s that guy—the one who stations himself in a corner of the arena (or wherever the battlefield of holi has been set) with mountains of snacks and drinks, ready to distribute them at a moment’s notice. hydration is key, he insists. everyone should be well-fed. he’s got an entire system set up, like some kind of holi hospitality committee operating out of sheer enthusiasm.

but when people call him over to actually play, he gets all bashful. he waves them off, shaking his head, mumbling stuff like, "i’m good! you guys have fun!" like he’s some self-sacrificing monk who exists solely to ensure the well-being of others.

that is, until he joins in.

the second he steps into the fray, it’s like something possesses him. the bashfulness? gone. the gentle, food-distributing guardian? replaced. choso goes feral. suddenly, he’s dual-wielding a water gun and a hose pipe, simultaneously, with the skill of a trained marksman. he’s unstoppable. entire groups of people scatter in sheer terror because how is he this accurate?! even those his age shriek and flee for their lives when he mercilessly drenches them.

“WHAT HAPPENED TO BEING SHY?!” someone screams, barely dodging a ruthless stream of water.

choso, entirely deadpan, reloads his water gun. “i changed my mind.”

it’s absolute carnage. colors flying, people falling, screams ringing out—until the moment food is announced.

the instant he hears the words "lunch is ready!" the switch flips right back. suddenly, he’s all smiles again, cheerfully walking toward the food like he wasn’t just waging war seconds ago. he’s even helping people up, brushing color off their faces, offering them a drink like he didn’t just personally destroy them.

you stare at him, still catching your breath, completely drenched. “you’re insane.”

choso beams, already stacking his plate with food. “want some snacks?”

[sunboki]

— HELLION INN. a Stray Kids fiction

🌖 : Lee Minho x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. dystopian! au, enemies to lovers, monster! au, apocalypse! au, “we have to get along to survive” au, angst, high stakes

WORD COUNT. 10k ⭑ 50min read

WARNINGS. gory descriptions, cursing, descriptive violence, implied intercourse, death, a dubcon kiss, talk of vomit/vomiting, lots of mentions of death, one mention of k*lling oneself, parasites, murder, inclusion of fire, injury, usage of guns, injury, knives, reader and minho are “hunted”, mature themes

AUG'S NOTES. it’s finished! i wanted to cry (out of happiness!!) closing the last part :) i truly love this piece, and, though it certainly isn’t all too lovey dovey compared to alternative fics of mine, i was so incredibly fortunate to be able to write for themes i adore! i hope my enthusiasm was able to be conveyed in the subject of monsters/apocalyptic au’s!! please enjoy<3

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Receiving an ominous letter in the mail, a monster invades Seoul minutes later, carrying an uncanny sense of smell despite its blindness. Countless people have been slaughtered already, and with your letter as the only meager explanation to this madness, you find your feet leading towards the one place it said was safe: Hellion Inn.

or alternatively :

Minho won’t let you die. Not if it means letting this Monster get him or hell’s dawning itself. You’re going to survive. Together.

Run, something is coming. Go to Hellion Inn, you’ll be safe there.

Something? What is something? A terrorist attack? War?

Never had such a letter arrived at your doorstep other than this Tuesday, with the morning sunlight peeking through half-opened blinds casting your pajama-clad frame in its cascades.

And again, you reread and reread, questions raging in a distorted frenzy amidst your once just-wakening mind. 

Little were you aware what would come. What already roamed Seoul’s streets, approaching closer, closer. 

One objective resides in too many possibilities. 

Find Hellion Inn. 

.

.

.

Stuffing the letter in your pocket serves as the most sensible solution while you go over your options. If you didn’t have a clue about what dishes would be cooked, you’d check the ingredients first.

And yet, upon turning on the TV, you find your meal already served. 

On a platter, dripping with blood.

“This just in, an unidentifiable entity is making its way through Seoul in a rampage. The creature is highly dangerous. It appears to lack vision, and speculation has deemed it relies upon its smell to discern other beings. The creature has not been detained at this time. Under no circumstances should citizens leave their residences, and in the case you’re on the street, please evacuate to the nearest shelter immediately. Further information will be released.”

Your blood runs frigidly cold, enough you swear you could’ve turned to ice.

All of a sudden, war or a terrorist attack doesn’t sound nearly as daunting as before.

A monster. Ruthless, bloodthirsty. 

Monster. 

Instantaneously are news sites everywhere exploding, posting footage, pictures, and accounts of the creature each second. 

More and more and more until-

It all goes dark, your home plunged into a black abyss meagerly sustained by the sun’s rays, phone in hand ultimately powering off. 

Electricity down. Fully.

This isn’t like a usual predicament of a public threat, not something you’re prepared for, nor something anyone was prepared for. There’s no drill for a monster, no tsunami shelter or high rise building to reside upon. 

Was it obliviousness? Or were you all simply sheep to a ravaging wolf?

The latter seemed most convincing.

An exhale. No, a growl is what breaks your train of thought. Like the chuff of a tiger, curdling in its throat. 

Above. 

You can’t even bring yourself to move, can’t bear to breathe in fear you’d give yourself away as a shadow covers that once hopeful sunlight.

No shadow, but a thing. A monster. 

How did it get here so fast? How.. how the hell is this happening?

The sound of tiles shifting on your roof makes your fingers twitch, eyes stuck wide. 

The worlds apex predators turned into the prey. 

Each pound of your heart lies evident in ringing ears, listening to those low, horrendous gurgles, repeating that same chuff before it shifts again.

Again and again, and you’re unmoving.

Leave. Run. Anything. 

Yet, you can’t move a muscle, glued in place.

Until you do, and your legs act before you can process a thing. Grabbing for items, whatever it may be. Mind unable to process in its frantic state.

No. No.

A plea as your hand wraps around the doorknob, beginning down the apartment complex’s stairs in rapid descent, listening to the slow growls of the creature.

Don’t look behind, just go.

A mistake you find yourself making even when a life is on the line.

Your life is on the line.

And when you spare that single glimpse, murky lifeless eyes stare blindly back at you, bulging from its skull as if they never were intended to be there. Skin a hallowed, fleshy tone — ligaments hung awry. 

Disorderly, distasteful. If you look close enough, you swear you could’ve seen a beating heart, watched the oxygen cells rush through a pumping bloodstream. 

Gaping jaws hold copious teeth, ant-like incisors residing on either side of a ceaselessly smiling mouth, the corners of what appears to be lips ascending all the way up to nonexistent ears. 

Four legs, two antennae atop its head. At least two times the size of a human.

Horrific.

Never had such a thing appeared so terrifying.

With the letter clutched in one hand and your powerless phone in another do you run, praying that nonexistent vision truly is nonexistent.

Well, until a car alarm begins to ring, and you feel your stomach climb to your throat simultaneously.

Because it twitches. Not even a glance-sort of reaction. The entirety of whatever neck that monster hones twitches to look at you with a nausea-worthy crack! of its ligaments. Those jaws parted, a flattened nose breathing in.

And then it lurches, and you don’t think you’ve ever ran as fast as you did now.

Far, far. As far as you can go. 

It’s futile listening to gargled cries for help amongst rubble, the reaching of hands for your feet you can’t even spare a moment for as those scraping claws continue their perilous dance after you, scavenging on people as they go. 

So the second an intact person comes into view—a boy, looking about your age (and freakishly calm at that) with fluffy hair and rounded cheeks retaining such youth—you’re racing ahead before you can even think, ramming through those convenience store doors in a flurry of panic and fear.

“Monster— Monster- there’s a monster we have to go-“

“Do you like grilled cheese?” He mumbles, and you wonder if he’s talking to himself or you, no less asking such a question during this downright apocalypse.

“No, no there is—“ A shriek pierces the air in the distance, the clutter of debris alerting the monster’s proximity.

You, in a frantic attempt to redirect his attention, place either hand on his shoulders.

“A monster. There’s a monster out there and if we don’t hide, it’s going to kill us.” 

The boy licks his lips, cocking a contemplative brow before looking toward the freezer section. 

“Freezer?”

At this point the creature might as well be turning the corner, and you don’t need to respond for either of you to go running as fast as your legs will carry you, stuffing yourselves into the biting cold just as the bells above the entrance door ring.

Scariest part is this customer is intelligent enough to open doors.

This customer isn’t human. 

Like slow-motion you hear it. The pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, the lack of air in such a tight space, the monster’s rumbling.

Your hidden counterpart lodged himself into a freezer opposite to you, eyes squeezed shut the nearer clicking footsteps on tile sounded.

Click.

Click.

Click.

You don’t realize your eyes are closed until you open them, met with the monster’s face, hundreds of razor-sharp teeth lining its mouth, stretched into that same, chilling smile while it stares at you through the glass.

It can’t see you. It can’t see you. It can’t see you, You internally plead like a mantra, suffocating on the scream rising in your throat.

The loud clanging of a soup can the boy throws has the creature’s disfigured face whipping around, and you wordlessly communicate through mere terrified-eye-contact what either of you are thinking:

Run.

Without conscious you go flying, ramming past discarded groceries and tormented bodies into Seoul’s open roadway, void of any vehicle whatsoever.

Except for one.  

It’s a tow truck, key still lodged into the ignition, window broken with streaks of blood lining the door where a middle-aged man’s body had been dragged out. He rests lopsided below the front tire, abdomen severed in half.

Grotesque. 

“Car- Car!” You cry out, wildly gesturing for him to follow suit while you pry the driver’s door open, the monster’s frustrated growl enough motivation for the stranger to throw himself in as well.

In the nick of time you press down on the pedal, winding the wheel in a quick motion just as the hell-sent smashes itself from the shop, evidently angered.

“I’m Han!” The man occupying the passenger seat shouts, the hole through the windshield causing enormous amounts of wind to soar through the car and synonymously blur your senses.

“What?!” 

“My name is Han! Han Jisung!”

Squinting whilst looking through your mirror at the wickedly approaching Monster, you veer past as many obstacles as possible — most being corpses — as fast as the engine will let you.

“Oh! Uh, I’m Y/N!”

Han nods, grasp clutched onto his seat the more you speed increases, recklessly maneuvering left and right as if dodging a crocodile. 

Unfortunately, this wasn’t a crocodile, but a blood-thirsty beast wanting nothing more than to behead you. How sweet.

“Do you… Do you know how to drive?” He yells, and you raise your eyebrows, narrowly shifting past a shopping cart.

“If you count Mario-Kart as driving, I’m a pro!”

Han audibly squeaks his fear in response, eyes squeezing shut as if to not stare at the monster’s face nearing the mirror.

The speedometer cries out, vehicle shuddering as you near train tracks just at the edge of the city. 

Hopeful. 

Fleeting hope when the roar of a train’s whistle soars through the air, the look Han gives you doing little to sustain your already thinned sanity.

Perhaps you’ll die getting hit by a train than this monster.

Perhaps it’s better that way.

“We’re not gonna make it we’re not gonna make it we’re not gonna make i—“

“SHUT THE FUCK UP—-“ You screech, foot slammed as far down on the gas pedal as possible, the rumbling of the train’s engine deafening. 

“HOLY SHITTTT—“ The man screams, mouth ajar as you soar over the tracks, preparing for impact only for a hair of the train’s front barely brushing over the car’s bumper. 

Currently realizing you’re still breathing and not dead, you floor the brake, either of you launching forward in your seats while the endless train keeps the monster at bay on the opposite side. 

Both panting hysterically, you place a hand on your chest, hoping to slow down the terrifyingly fast pace of your heart — close to bursting out of your chest. 

Your passenger, Han Jisung, turns to look at you, eyes wide as saucers, a gradual open-mouthed smile growing upon his flushed, sweat-stricken face.

“That was.. sick.”

The flashlight flickers here and there, found in the tow truck’s trunk along with a med kit currently carried along by Han.

By chance did you end up in what remained of the red-light district, rubble dotting roadways as evidence of the Monster’s previous siege.

Amidst the held supplies, your pocket seems to ache with the weight of the letter, sitting there in its futile warning of what was to come, now arrived.

You hadn’t brought it up to Han yet, a persistent fear of blame lingering in the back of your mind. Was it your fault you didn’t react in time? Disregarded the letter?

No. There’s no time to regret now. Whatever past existed has been annihilated. 

Night is approaching, and with that comes rising unease and a desperate need to find shelter.

Seoul’s red-light district had always been a taboo for Korea’s upper class. A hushed word, quenched beneath harsh scolding and wrinkled noses at the mere mention.

As if their own well-off sons don’t get driven there on a daily basis, ignorant to their own affiliation as if it’s a genetically determined trait.

Quite funny how none of that matters now. Not when it’s the end of the world, that is.

Every (once) building looks the same. Rubble. Litter lines the roads, cars strewn awry, wrecked into buildings, run over people. 

A pattern lies in everything. 

This pattern consists of fear. 

Struck on faces, painted carelessly along torn apart surfaces and walls, splattering the cities ruby red.

Incessantly, you can’t help but fear. A natural biological response when in the presence of actual or perceived danger, inflicting sharp wounds throughout your body, mind on an endless neurological high of adrenaline-fueled paranoia. 

How could someone not be paranoid when they were being hunted?

“In here.”

Han’s voice pulls you out of your head, turning where he points to a brick building, multicolored beach towel draped over a window torn to shreds, soil from plants staining the cracks of tiles, floor a mixture of blood and bacteria. 

“It’s abandoned,” He notes, prying the creaking door open. 

Abandoned isn’t the word for it. The inhabitants left as most people did upon hearing the news of invasion, although they didn’t get far, you’re plenty aware of that. 

What a shame. Thinking they could escape, in their wake, slaughtered ruthlessly. 

Instead of abandoned, call it evacuated, barren.  

Inside, a radio runs in a constant string of white noise, the addition of broken air conditioning the only source of apparent life. Haunting, flickering lights cast the few rooms in an eerie, ghoulish green like that of a basement.

“I’ve been here before. There should be a mart nearby.”  

Allowing his remark to sink in, you pause, a slight grin drawing upon your lips. 

“You’ve been here before, in the red-light district?” 

Phrase lingering amusedly, he stops as well, shifting on his heel to grace you with a similar smile.

“What? Not everyone can stand high and mighty in this society. Plus, there’s no need to pretend anymore when death is so close by.”

Your smile drops, and you suck on the skin of your cheek, a loud breath through your nose enough to continue the descent.

Perhaps you should change the abandoned description. 

Just then, from the corner of your eye do you see a figure emerge, the glinting edge of a kitchen knife barely brushing your shoulder blade before you dodge to your left, the attacker colliding with an ironing board.

Mere seconds later the figure rises to their feet, identified as female, adorning lanky limbs and skin as pale and zombified as the surrounding room. Her lips are cracked and purple, eyes nearly black, blanketed with equally raven hair reaching the floor in length.

The girl looks like a creature, barely alive with the lack of coordination in her loose stabs, alienated stare vividly murderous. 

Only by narrowly pummeling into the wall do you manage to immobilize her, Jisung’s efforts stalled.

Liquid obsidian blinks back up at you from where you’ve caged her to the floor, her nostrils flaring in hasty breaths, your own panting ringing in your ears.

“Look kid- I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? Now if you calm down and let me—“  

A third of the steak knife puncturing the side of your thigh veers your head back, choked scream jostling your nerves tenfold. Bubbling blood slips from the wound, trickling warmth dizzying you into a foggy spell.

It’s not until a low bang! sounds that her arm, raised for another strike, falls limp to the floor, looking behind you to find Jisung holding a pistol, silencer attached to the muzzle, aimed directly at the girl below you. 

Immediately, before you can release the unheralded screech compressing your lungs, Han hoists you up by your elbows, the jarring movement beckoning a squealed sob you bite your tongue containing.

Snatching clothing from a closet behind the door, the man rips the fabric using his teeth, returning to your slumped frame.

Reminding you to hold your breath, he aligns the makeshift bandage prior to tying it, your reaction becoming quieted as your eyes roll back.

And the world falls into a dark abyss. 

By the time your lashes flutter open again, searing light invades your vision, the urge to open your eyes aiding a roaring headache.

Although, it appears you’re still in the same room, alternatively relocated to a futon on the floor, leg propped up using folded pillowcases and books. 

“You’re up.”

Han enters the room, two metal cans of mashed spam and rice held in either hand, one of which he gives to you. 

“You were knocked out cold,” He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners, uncharacteristic to the fact he just shot someone.

“The shirt should staunch the bleeding. Eat.”

Staring down at your meal, you glance up, stomach churning in an unsightly manner merely considering food.

But you eat anyway, gulping the bites down despite the nausea.

“And the girl?” 

Han takes a bite, scraping every last grain from the noisy tin without so much as a shiver.

“I took care of it.”

It’s your turn to laugh, confusedly surveying the teenage-boy-looking friend of yours.

“What are you? A hitman?”

He clicks his tongue, eyes thoughtfully flickering to the ceiling. 

“I’m.. somebody who really wants to survive.”

All you do is return his tight-lipped expression.

Yet, truly accounting for your introduction, there’s a whole lot you don’t know about him. His past, his goals. What his life was like before. 

He comes off as cheery and good-natured, disposition claiming he wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

You’ve come to realize that isn’t the reality whatsoever. Because Han Jisung is exactly what Han Jisung said he was.

Somebody who really wants to survive. 

You can relate to that.

“So.. Random note, random warning, no location?” 

“Pretty much.” 

Seated beside you, Han surveys the letter, reading over the contents a few times before folding it back up and handing it to you. He’s redressed your wound, utilizing the medical kit’s antiseptic and gauze to wrap the skin.

“Hellion Inn,” Han repeats softly, brows knitted. “Never heard of it.”

You shrug once more from your place on the ground, leg still propped while he squats to your left.

“If anything, it’s likely it was destroyed if it’s an actual Inn,” He mumbles, tapping a puffy bottom lip with his index, earning your half nod before you pause.

“We can still try it though? We can find a stick or somethin’, I’ll use it as a crutch.” 

This time, it’s his turn to nod — rising up with a somewhat-assuring: “I’ll be right back” before leaving the room, returning after a few moments with a table leg, nearly comical in the proud manner he lifts the wood, jagged edges evidence of his severing with a knife. 

After copious laughter do you glance at him, brow cocked. “This is really all you’ve got?”

Asking from your place beside him, you brace more weight onto the makeshift crutch, granting Han a side-long glance.

“If I had more I’d use it,” He huffs, watching you hobble slightly but remaining upright with worried brows, hands poised to stabilize your steadying adjustment.

That’s most important, you deemed, no matter how puny. A drag to the team means death; you won’t be that drag.

Tomorrow morning you’ll head out. Find somewhere else to occupy whilst searching for Hellion Inn.

The one remaining routine amidst the apocalypse is time, and as the sun cracks above a horizon once able to be admired and not envied, you’re helped to your feet, gathering bags slung over each other's backs. Additional clothes, torn tablecloths. Anything of even insufficient use.

You don’t think these streets had been this quiet since your grandparent’s time, with bustling citizens and raging business overtaking wherever you look. Now, it might as well be a ghost-town. No more cries for help, no more groans and moans in agony.

And yet, it’s almost unsettling as it is reassuring. Suffering has ceased. Cries for help drawn to a close. 

Peace within death.

Trekking for only about a mile feels tumultuous, the ache already coiling in your bones like snakes seen slithering through rubble, waiting for rats to swarm decomposing carcasses in search of easy victims.

Seoul has become a jungle, eat or be eaten. It’s only a matter of time, a split-second ignorance, that can have you eaten. Perhaps by the true Monster, perhaps by your own kind.

The sight of broken columns and french doors parted in what looks to be a hotel in front of you redirects your focus, granting Han a hum of acknowledgment. His hand reaching for the pistol in a fashioned holster, yours coming to the kitchen knife held in your bag.

Wary, but slow steps paired with your hobbled ones make for the small bout of stairs, buzzing of flies caught in flurries littering goosebumps along your arms.

Something about this place is abnormal. That much is known. And if this is the so-called “Hellion Inn” (or what remains of it), your hope for sanctuary plummets in tandem with the temperature upon stepping in. 

Cold. That dead, stale kind of cold, warmth from the heart void, no longer beating.

Matchstick providing barely enough light, you carefully pry open the squeaking doors in the second doorway, blade wielded close to your being. The putrid odor of decay perplexes your gag reflexes, allowing Han to take the lead in his observing endeavor. 

Abruptly, your foot smushes against something below, and when you look down only to be met with a lifeless hand there, bulging, horror-stricken eyes staring back up at you, you hurriedly bite your lip to conceal the bubbling scream clawing from your throat, frothing like a brewing cauldron. 

Han can only grimace. 

It was here. You’re not sure when, but these wounds — these corpses mercilessly ripped apart — aren’t the doing of humans.

A bone chilling thought surfaces in your mind.

What if the monster is still here?

Your traveling companion spins around on his heel, hands placed on his hips. Honeyed irises momentarily flit between your paled frame to the obvious terror staining your features, his eyebrows raised.

“Hey, I know it’s scary, but the monster’s likely gone by now, and if we can find someone or a sign that’ll redirect us then maybe…”

His words trail off, suddenly all too familiar with the sound of chortled breathing ragged in his ears. Exhales stenching of rotted flesh, the scraping of sharpened claws on the floor.

And how you’re not staring at him, but above him. 

Your palms slowly reach up to cover your mouth, taking the tiniest step back manageable.

“..It’s right behind me, isn’t it?”

Yet, before the Monster can swipe a clawed hand and hack off a limb, deja vu strikes in the form of another gunshot, not silenced, booming,

It soars right past your shoulder with pinpoint precision to land within the Monster’s side, collecting a shriek in return. The beast flails wildly as Han races from its clutches towards the unknown savior of his.

Fluffy hair, a torn, mud-stained jean jacket over his shoulders, white undershirt equally unkempt. The four of you survey the monster’s descent deeper into the hotel, not appearing to execute anymore attack attempts.

For now.

No less, you’re helped outside in your wobbly state, the shot-gun boy leading, another seeming to take up the rear behind you and Han. His companion, maybe. Just as you and Han are.

Sharper features oppose the shotgun-carrying boy’s downturned eyes with inquisitive, apprehensive ones. Lighter hair, jeans bagging by his shoes, white tee’s once graphic design smudged, unrecognizable. His own weapon lies in spiked boxing gloves, nails seemingly ruptured through the cushioned layers.

And when his eyes meet yours, you feel fire in your veins. Blazing, warming you from your toes to your fingertips.

“You guys alright?”

Shot-gun boy, introduced as Kim Seungmin, speaks first, spinning on his heel to regard either of you. Though, it’s hard for your mind to stay attentive, the feeling of Seungmin’s companions’ eyes incessantly boring into your back causing a wary twitch of your fingers. 

“Lee Minho.”

His voice breaks you from that apprehensive spell, that watchful gaze of his surveying both you and Han with an unimpressed exhale.

“Don’t slow us down,” He scowls, shouldering past Han, lips drawn into a tight line. He heads for their own vehicle, a worn down truck narrowly resting in better condition than your earlier tow truck by the tracks.

Real friendly.

Seungmin, a tad bit more benign, gestures with a curt nod to the vehicle, ushering your injury-wielding self to sit in the passenger seat with Minho as driver, Seungmin and Han taking the truck’s bed.

Just then does the Monster make its return, bursting from the hotel in a seemingly rejuvenated spirit from before, gaping jaws aching to be filled.

You could only hope your flesh wouldn’t be the filler.

“This is why I hate introductions,” Minho, already slamming his foot onto the pedal, grumbles, not granting a response upon tires burning rubber over dusty roads as you speed off – a replay of your ride with Han on loop each time you see the Monster in your mirror.

Approaching closer, closer again.

It seems food becoming involved is a common theme, jarred when the truck swerves in front of a supermarket. Seungmin shouts from the back as he and Han race ahead, beckoning you two to follow them, your steps lightly hobbled with feeble help of the makeshift crutch.

“The hell do I have to be on babysitting duty for?” Minho, lifting your arm over his shoulder, grovels, and you fight the urge to whack him with your crutch, making through the desolate supermarket. 

Weapons in clutch, it grows taxing trying not to grimace hearing clattering glass, the mental picture of those bulging eyes doing little for your already queasy stomach.

“It’ll hear us!” 

With your horrible luck intact, this already dislikable stranger ends up being the same soul you're lodged into a bathroom stall with.

Minho hisses, furrow of his brows causing his face to scrunch with distaste, the loud clatter of soup cans and chip bags alike resounding from outside in the thick of the Monster’s carnage.

“No, it’ll hear you. More people means more death, and lucky for you, I’ll be off your hands in no time.” Now it’s your turn to retort, the man lacking of his usual boxing gloves, strap of Seungmin’s shotgun over a shoulder instead.

Wriggling yourself from his grasp, you hesitantly slide the notch to the door, movement only stopped by Minho’s lingering hand grabbing your sleeve. 

“And what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m repaying a favor.”

Weighing your ability to walk well, you snag the shotgun from his shoulder, granting the man a wink and a: “Thanks for the shotgun”, before slipping from the stall, leaving his starstruck figure in tow.

Ignoring the biting ache in your thigh thanks to a discarded crutch, you savor cool metal beneath your fingertips, watching the blur of the other two boys racing past the Monster’s attempts of attack. 

“Hey! Ugly fucker, over here!” You shout, chilled seeing blind eyes rip your way.

Cocking the gun, your eyes narrow, focusing the sight on its head and–

Bang!

Echoing around the supermarket does a copper bullet gnash into thin skin, puncturing straight through, shell casing crinkling onto the floor below in tandem with a low groan of the creature.

Minho bursts from the bathroom moments later, still sporting a starstruck visage. Han and Seungmin go thundering right past back to the truck, the wild goose chase persisting. 

What wasn't persistent was Minho’s arms wrapping around your back, hauling you over his shoulder like a sack of rice whilst chasing right after his counterparts.

As much as you’d like to thank him, your thigh still hurts like hell.

“Yah! That- hurts- asshole!” Shrieked between his hurried footsteps, you smack his shoulder blade defiantly.

Hopefully that serves as a thank you.

However, escaping is far from reach, and feeling presumably safe is equally residing far from grasp when, after finally being able to inhale without a stutter to your lung halfway down the road, the sharp snap of a tire blows.

And the truck flips over.

It was one thing maneuvering from the flipped car, shards of glass embedded in your skin beckoning pinpricks of blood, and another continuing on foot to wherever the two acquaintances planned to lead to.

The largest of things, however, was learning the name of this apparent destination.

Hellion Inn.

With Seungmin sustaining a minor head injury, Han luckily unharmed, and an also unharmed Minho reluctant to aid in being your temporary crutch, you’re given plenty of time for interrogation along the way — wondering just who the hell was responsible for the letter. 

As far as their replies go, not a soul knows.

And at this rate, you can’t bring yourself to care about pestering for answers anymore, not with Minho’s aggravating complaining and equally as irritating, stupidly good-looking side profile.

So, the torturous walk to this supposed ‘Inn’ prevails, which, turns out not to be an Inn at all. Instead, it’s this metal, bus looking contraption, like a trailer.

Silver of the exterior tarnished, it hides within a surrounding forest entryway, vines curling around door fixtures as if with time, what remained would be swallowed by the greenery.

From the bus two more men exit, and you can’t help but wonder if this so-called Hellion Inn has just as many residents as an actual Inn.

Christopher Bahng and Seo Changbin introduce themselves hastily, quick to rush back into the bus and retrieve a medical kit. After enduring both the painful removal of glass, your reopened wound stitched, and Chris’s heart wrenching smile of assurance (followed by a pat to your kneecap after, ensuring an imminent heart attack on your part), you’re finally invited inside, introduced to the others.

Three more. 

It’s a clown car. Definitely. 

Yang Jeongin, Hwang Hyunjin, Lee Felix. Boys- no, men, with features you’d like to deem frustratingly attractive. 

Maybe photoshoot, not a clown car.

No less, the seven interact with ease, Han intermingling as if he’d been by their side for eternity. A bonfire, expertly lit behind the bus hidden amongst foliage to conceal smoke, provides warmth in the night.

Cold, just as it’s always been. Even more so with autumn’s presence.

Yet, you find your eyes falling right back to him.

Minho.

Man of fire, whose gaze on yours feels like your ribs cracking apart, as if his fingers bend your windpipe every which way, rendering no air into your lungs. He is fire, licking at your skin in the most deplorable of ways.

And you crave it.

If he were Hades, you’d eat the pomegranate seeds like a fool just to feel his eyes on you again and again.

Selfish.

When he looks at you, you feel selfish. Perhaps it’s the stakes, perhaps your heart has grown too weak, beat too fast it falls for any and all. Adrenaline-induced love.

You aren’t naive like Persephone, aren’t blindsided by curiosity.

That latter is a lie. Especially when you shift on the log, purposefully scooting closer to catch bits and pieces of his conversation with Jeongin, listen to the perfect pitch of his voice, aided by the crackling of flames before you.

You wonder if touching him would rival those white-hot flames. Scalding your fingers till you grew numb. 

You’d take that bet.

Fluffy fabric placed over your shoulders makes you flinch in place, sympathetic eyes of chocolate meeting yours.

Honeyed. Chris.

“It’s cold, stay warm,” He ushers, crouching to take a seat on your left.

Then do you register his actions. A blanket, the material a survivor of water’s toil and plenty of stains. But it’s warm, durable, and most importantly, sweet. Chris is sweet, you decide, a bit like this warm blanket.

Your nod of thanks doesn’t feel like it even slightly compensates for his kindness, though, for now, it’s enough.

Tomorrow, Chris, Changbin, Minho, and Jeongin will relocate the flipped truck. Haul it back, fix it up again. That’s what your sensible mind discerns, seemingly adopted into the group like any other as sleeping arrangements in the bus are modified for both you and Han.

Strays, huh.

A flickering gas lamp keeps your gaze glued to the ceiling where you lie, watching shadows twirl like a strange ballet along the walls. Near the front of the bus does Chris sleep, Changbin glued to his side, Felix tucked beneath his arm.

It brings a smile to your lips, watching them. Even Seungmin, with his more boundary-oriented persona, close to the others, his hand brushing against Hyunjin’s shoulder, Jeongin’s head. 

Human beings, after all. Even when it all falls apart. And maybe, maybe in monsters as well, there is human. The need to be close, to feel skin on skin. 

Counting heads, you find one missing.

“You should be sleeping.”

Minho flicks a lighter on and off, waiting to relight the gas lamp. He squats down in front of you, jeans stretched over muscular thighs.

Your brow furrows, wondering if he’d been here this whole time amidst your ignorance.

“Are you scared?”

His words dull your ability to reply, retort something smart. But, the tone keeps your mouth shut. Cool and calm, like when he spoke to Jeongin by the fire. Not taunting, nor instigating.

“No.”

The words are a lie, unveiled in the crease of a dirt-stricken face, chapped lips pulled taut.

His pinky finding yours verifies that fire theory. From the tips of your toes to the very top of your scalp you feel it. 

Scorching. Hot.

Your skin seems to melt from your bones, but only you can see it.

There are lots of questions to ask. Wondering, hope. Why?

But he beats you to it. It seems you’ll have to get used to that characteristic.

“Go to sleep. Nothing can get you here.”

A lie, you know it well. Any second that monster can stumble here. Smell you, turn the perfect corner to find the bus, sheen shimmering beneath a full moon. Ravage each and every one of you beneath claws and blood.

But the letter, no, Minho says you’ll be safe here. That Hellion Inn will be your safe haven. 

Tonight, you choose to believe that, falling asleep with his pinky twined with yours, his back to one of the side booths, focus trained on your features.

Safe.

“Hnn..” 

Insistent poking to your cheek abducts you from your dream, bleary eyes straining to open. Jeongin sits up, bracing himself with his hands, youthful smile stretched over his face watching you. Meanwhile, the hellspawn guilty, Hyunjin, can’t help but laugh cheerily.

“Wah— I wish I had a camera!” Ebony strands peek from beneath a white ball cap, his voice carries from the bus for Felix’s head to peek in, echoing Hyunjin’s laugh with his deeper baritone.

Similar to Chris are you met with Felix’s kindness, his lithe form slipping past the bus doors to gently smooth back your bed hair, utilizing a hair tie on his wrist to bind the unruly strands before patting your head.

It’s easy to ache for anyone’s touch, you discover.

In the early morning, the car was retrieved by Minho, Chris, Jeongin, and Changbin, the low chatter of voices outside evidence of their progress restoring the once flipped vehicle.

When you step out, Changbin hands you a tin of steaming soup as meager breakfast you’re quick to thank him for, bringing the spoon to your lips whilst lingering near the car, watching them flit about, handing each other tools and screws alike like busied ants.

“You just gonna stand there or help out? Last time I checked you weren’t worried about appearances.”

Instantaneously, Minho becomes his normal, annoying self with each snidely sarcastic remark, cocked brows urging you to retaliate.

Unfortunately, your barely conscious mind can’t formulate something smart back, so you resort to serving as the tool-supplier, handing different ones here and there from a stool near where the Man of Fire works on the popped wheel.

His new title, apparently.

Man of Fire.

“Wrench.”

“Did you just call me a wench?” You scoff, eyes wide with shock at the murmured comment. 

Perhaps you were blindsided after all by his nice face.

“Wrench.”

Or not.

Begrudgingly, you extend the wrench, scowl embedded in your expression he can’t help but crack a bemused grin at.

Attaching the wrench to a bolt to crank does his vein-littered forearms flex, and your throat feels unnaturally dry, forcing yourself to focus on something else in order to school an unaffected facade.

Nevertheless, by night, he’s.. different. Lacking cockiness, harshness.

Unspoken things, like when you’re stirred from sleep, dazed gaze settling on Minho across the bus, his fingers tenderly patting Changbin’s head when he stirs awake. They speak in hushed whispers alternative to Changbin’s boisterous presence. 

And sometimes, amidst the other seven, you’re the one beneath his comforting hand. Those times nightmares plague your sleep, his careful hands tracing your knuckles, slow circles over your skin urging you back into the solace of sleep.

To you he doesn’t talk, just hums a low melody, wipes unshed tears from your waterline. Seeing his face makes you want to cry more, so you can be scooped into his hug.

Though, you doubt you’d ever let go, so you never allow yourself more tears. Maybe that’s for the better.

Because while you’re so selfishly enamored as night falls and he becomes that doting figurine bathed in moonlight, Minho is endlessly selfless. Wordless, but selfless.

The guardian of the night, sustaining a semblance of care and safety that silently engulfs the bus each time a star twinkles within the sky.

Then again, risks are always present. Missions out for food, stashing of possessions in case of invasion.

Windows of the bus covered, the group convenes that evening, leant over a book on the floor, huddled with knees held close to chests. Sharing things of value, adding more.

An old journal, spine tattered and moth-eaten. Inside looks to hold the secrets of the world, hidden within yellowed pages, hurried writing of smudged ink.

All of it, from the Monster’s mannerisms, exterior, presumed weaknesses. Written, documented. How such information was gathered is beyond you. Intricate, detailed.

Study after study, page after page. 

In two days, you’re arranged to head out with Chris for a medical restock. The pharmacy isn’t too far from the Inn, and it’ll only be a few hours of collecting before returning back.

The morning of, Seungmin hands you his shotgun, and Chris takes Minho’s—the Man of Fires’—nail-wielding boxing gloves. Two backpacks, one goal.

Fortunately, the journey isn’t too grueling, filled with quiet conversation and query till barely divisible characters reading ‘PHARMACY’ come into view, slipping into the hollowed, whitened confines of a once thriving business.

Eerie, with medication strung awry, unknown blood splattered along a wall behind the register.

It’s almost funny how the money there goes untouched. What use is it now?

Captured within your peripheral does a door become of topic, shielded behind a hanging towel in the far corner of the pharmacy that you slowly pad over to inspect, fingers tentative in nudging to the side. 

Though, it’s the sudden flick of lights, electricity, that makes you gasp, flashlight of little necessity as you part double doors.

The sight makes your heart stop.

Because beneath the disguise of a pharmacy rests a drug-den, a laboratory, first and foremost.

“Uh.. Does Seungmin have this in his journal..?” 

Building long since redlined by the look of it, Chris is quick to join your side, muttering an awestruck: “Holy shit” you would’ve laughed at if it weren’t for your combined surprise. 

Though, he places an arm in front of you as your foot moves to step inside, instead advising the muzzle of your shotgun to lead you, clearing the area before feasting on this monstrosity.

Countless test tubes litter every surface in sight, but it isn’t mixtures, isn’t a combo of products.

It’s insects, piled with them.

Many deformed in gruesome ways, trapped inside the tubes. Chris, hastily pulling an old camera from his bag, snaps photos, the shutter’s sound echoing around the room.

Yet, you can’t help but notice a near uncanny resemblance.

Incisors, bulging eyes, like the Monster.

No, it wouldn’t be. A mega ant? No, that thing is far from solely ant with its hulking size.

“Don’t you think this is just.. odd? I mean, they’re already up to their noses in cash from the drugs, I’m sure, so why the.. ants?” 

Chris exhales slowly through his nose, shaking his head.

“My guess is as good as yours. And calling it a ‘guilty pleasure’ just makes me nauseous, I mean look at them, they’re.. infected.”

Fungal growth is clear as day, that’s agreed. The true question rests in reason.

Just what were they doing here?

The longer you linger, the more unsettling it becomes.

Because somehow, your gut can’t shake that resemblance to the Monster.

Your walk back to the bus is quiet, shrouded in nerves and a wanting for familiarity. Safe to say you both sigh in relief seeing that silvery, unmoving vehicle.

It’s almost comical how the uneasiness spreads, like whatever fungus altered the insects, contorting them in disfigured shapes, features. Overtaking the nine of you similarly.

Merely thinking about it gives you chills, Chris’s description, as you’re coddled into the bus with the others to explain, doing little for the vomit tempting your throat.

Effortlessly, your same silence washes over the others, paled as they acknowledge the identical resemblance you’d conjured before.

“You don’t think..” You’re feeble in attempting to disprove the suspicions, trembling of your fingers stilled only when Minho’s index traces your wrist. 

Though, it isn’t night, and the look he grants you makes you wish for his touch even more.

Assurance, worn within the grooves of his face, repetitive stroke of his fingertip over a hammering pulse.

“I do think, show me the picture again.” Seungmin beckons, hurriedly flipping through his own notebook as he narrows his eyes on the photo Chris shows. 

Seungmin, you learned, used to be an entomology major in Seoul’s most prestigious university. Studious, with a bright future nearing.

Interesting how easy those aspirations can crumble apart within a day, within seconds.

But there’s no purpose in reminiscing, is there?

Now resorting to gathered notes of the past, he finally stops at a page, finger glued to the scribbled notes. His other hand reaches to the photo, pointing to a tiny label taped to a test tube halfway outside the frame, writing messy and uneven, barely legible against the blur of the camera.

Ophiocordyceps unilateralism, or, in easier terms, zombie-ant fungus. 

Thanks to Seungmin’s insight, his knowledge dictates the occurrence as “a fungus capable of infecting the mind of its host while simultaneously altering its body.”

So, in a horror-movie-esque, freakish way, a parasite. 

Jeongin pipes up, and you swear at least four of you flinch at the sudden sound of a voice against leaden silence.

“But the Monster’s too big to be an ant, right? How could the—“ 

“What if it wasn’t an ant, but another animal? A bigger animal. Some scientific breakthrough where the host was able to be taken over, not by an ant, but by something bigger.” 

The entirety remains consumed in a stillness, taking in the revelation they’ve just come to. 

Fear is almost palpable. Nearly able to be tasted, smelt. 

Han’s leg bounces anxiously, dirty fingernails reaching to claw at his hair, tearing at his scalp with visible shuddering Chris’s warm palm hopes to ease, placed on his shoulder.

“We’re being hunted by a parasite.” He croaks hoarsely in disbelief, tone pathetically cracking in terror. 

A parasite, yes. This, however, is different. 

The monster lurking through Seoul was planned, arranged accordingly under the guise of law and human greed for motive unknown.

A lone pharmacy, meant to cater to human health, now manufacturerers of human destruction.

This parasite is man-made. 

Your spirit could’ve been staunched easily, dampened by the weight of discovery. Grown unwilling to fight anymore, unwilling to try surviving.

Who are we if not going for each other's throats? Why must someone’s greed become everyone else’s problem?

Something so selfish, so horrid it grew out of control, festering like a seed of hatred in one’s heart till spiky leaves and branches poured from their lungs and suffocated them.

For a moment do you entertain the doubts, the scornful attitude over the boiled egg in hand. An early breakfast the day after the realization, with the nine of you seated along the bus’s roof, legs swinging off the side while watching the sunrise. 

You feel like the only people in the world. 

And a bit longer seeing shades of orange and crisp blue bleed across the sky does it feel like it’s all worth living for once again.

So instead, you adapt.

Jotting down more details about the fungus, figuring out ways to combat it. Continual stocking of food, the usual.

Fixing things, keeping up with communication. Laughter and smiling, momentary glances to that Man-of-Fire making you clam up, just like before.

At least that was predictable. 

A continual gas lamp, those same quiet visits of his within the night. And, more often than not, you’d find Minho’s pinkie linking with yours while he slept, without a nightmare or sleepless night as explanation. 

In the mornings, you’d pretend like it never happened. Go back to cat and mouse, square one.

Hold my hand, but keep quiet. 

I don’t want you to leave.

Plenty of things echo through your mind as dawn arises, when your lids twitch and disoriented eyes flutter open to find him beside you, peacefully asleep.

Most days, he’s gone by dawn, somewhere across the bus sleeping, leaving your groggy mind to configure his touch as a mere dream.

No matter the awe, your body betrays such an occasion, and you fall right back to sleep again hoping he could read your mind, keep that contact beneath the blanket.

Unbeknownst to you, the moment your eyes close, his eyes open.

But you’re already asleep when a gentle index traces your cheek, his lips parting with a slow breath. 

“Pretty,” Is whispered, failing to echo around the bus in its hushed volume, a pinch of normality within the chirping of birds, the breach of an emerging day peering over sparse clouds.

“Hm?” 

He wasn’t anticipating your response, breath catching in his throat.

“Hi Minho,” You murmur gently, greeting his surprised disposition as your lips wind into a tiny smile. 

Involuntary. Lips quirking upwards the longer you hold eye-contact.

And surprisingly, Minho cracks a smile too.

It’s feeble, barely divisible apart from the twitch of his lips. Your thumb traces the crinkle, too sleepy to speak, too comfortable to act. 

“Hi there.”

His hand returns your touch, finding your cheek to rest on, savoring the feeling of your skin on his, his on yours.

Stay here, don’t go.

I don’t want to be left alone again.

His brisk glance at your lips has your nerves buzzing beneath such a gaze.

Knowing, obliging.

Obliging as his head tips, as yours complies. Capable of fitting like the perfect puzzle as—

Seungmin mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep, and it’s all a dream once more how Minho slips from your hands as if he was never there in the first place.

Three and a half months at Hellion Inn passes in a flash. Research on combatants to the zombie-ant fungus prevalent, plenty of days spent crowded in the bus, throwing around possibilities and idyll conversation. 

Monster sightings have become sparse, with the vast majority of reports informing of its scavenging of the city’s copious bodies.

A sense of relief until it runs out of flesh and craves more, which is where your apocalypse began all over.

Starting with that same, chillingly bellowed chuff at least half a mile out from Hellion Inn.

You don’t think you’d ever seen the eight of them move so quickly. Gas lamp extinguished, weapons cocked and loaded with ammunition ready to fire. Minho’s studded boxing gloves, Seungmin’s shotgun, Chris’s dual pistols. Plentiful traps arranged about the bus, ones you never anticipated having to utilize up till tonight.

How foolish you were.

However, the bus’s roof isn’t caved in by a claw, the nine of you intact for the remainder of the restless night, void of any more sound from the Monster. 

Then again, the torment is far from yielding, with those same, restless nights becoming avidly frequent, Minho’s soothing capabilities tested as a nightmare per week triples in number.

In those times, you find comfort in each other, comfort in bodies snuggled together, in shared pain and happiness. In as much comfort support allows in the thick of a never-ending hailstorm. 

As for you, you find that longing has folded itself into squares of eighteen from a once meager eight. Folded over and over that, the greater the paper grows with each parted fold, the greater that longing burns. 

Burns, like the smoke billowing from a fire outside.

Location of the slow-to-set sun leads you to believe it’s around 3pm, your figure slumped to the floor of the bus.

Though, the missing factor rests in a lack of eight others who currently occupy the fire outside for dinner.

Yesterday, you and Jeongin took on a water restock, roaming about what seemed to be innumerable miles to repeat the walk with heavy packs of water all the way back, currently the cause of your exhaustion as you sleep into the evening the day after.

If only the sleep was peaceful, refreshing.

It’s not.

Well, it was. But not for long.

A shower, according to the flickering of your consciousness as you dream. Warm water droplets pattering on the tile floor underfoot, cleansing grime from your skin. Electricity.

And somehow, a peculiar name leaves your lips upon seeing a shadow behind the shower curtain.

“Minho.”

The sound of your voice is light in this dream. Awaiting, familiar. 

Yet, the pit in your stomach grows, unnaturally.

You find the cause when pulling back the shower curtain, that same, leering smile of the Monster staring back at you as it lunges.

Not Minho.

Your vision goes black, only able to hear the ringing screech of your scream, the heat of the shower now putrid metallic. Blood, replacing the water.

It fills your senses, suffocating you slowly but surely. Overflowing from your nose, your eyes, till you cry crimson.

A sharp twitch of your hand jars you awake.

You’re not bleeding, not in a shower, no Monster in sight. Although, you’d be lying to yourself to say you can just forget it all, act like nothing’s the matter.

More so when you see Minho—recalling his name uttered so sweetly in your dream—standing at the bus’s doorway, seemingly a witness to your horrors as he closes the door behind himself.

Ah. 

No, don’t look at me right now with that doting gaze, as if I’m something to be cared for, something delicate. 

For once I wish you away, so I don’t begin to cry, so my love for you doesn’t become my ruin.

“And it was- it was right in front of me and—“

He sees through you each time, through the toughened exterior, the shake of your head when he asks if you need anything, want to talk about it. 

He came in for an extra blanket, apparently. One long forgotten by now.

Spill your guts, but when it comes to him, you find your heart spilling with it. Words caught in a hyperventilating daze, your hands flail, eyes struck permanently bulging.

At some point, everyone starts to break. No time table to give you an estimate, forewarning.

It just bubbles until bursting.

“I don’t… I don’t want to do this anymore..” Voice a desperate plea, sobs wrack your body numb.  “Why can’t…” You begin, eyes flitting to Minho.

“Why can’t we all just die together?”

Heaved between sharp inhales is your face taken between calloused hands, his brows knitted.

“Cause who’s going to take our place? Who else is alive?” He whispers, kneeled upon the floor, staring at you nonsensically.

“This once, let me be selfish. I won’t let you die. You can’t die because I want you alive. Do you understand?” 

Slow to nod, bleary vision situates upon the man, cursing the dip to your usually strong tone — cracking, weakened.

“Can… Can I just.. forget?” 

His eyes flit to your lips if only for an instant, like that time a month ago, stolen. 

And for a moment, you think he may have just read your mind.

“Minho, please… I want to-“

Ah.

And he kisses you, and then, no, more. More and more, till you’re tangled up in sprawled blankets and sleeping bags. Smoke tainting the air from outside, calves dangling from his shoulders, toes curled. 

Minho makes you forget, forget and forget, leaving you to helplessly utter his name past chapped lips — till another round turns into what feels to be a lifetime. 

Your palms pressing to his jaw like a plea, head tossing back once more with a sound purely guttural. 

It’s sloppy, it’s clumsy. Sweat-stuck kisses to sweat-stuck skin. Nails digging into already moth-eaten clothing, his lips permanently pressed to your pulse, hammering and hammering in a wordless incantation of bliss. 

And yet, no amount of greedy, mindless sex, no amount of his doting kisses, his careful assurances, praises, can deter your mind from a reality unavoidable.

There’s no euphoria, no recovery your skin can even acknowledge as he flops to your side, both out of breath.

“.. Am I selfish for a pleasure I can’t even enjoy?” 

Silence breached, your eyes flutter closed, an involuntary tear slipping down your cheek where you lay upon the bunched sleeping bag.

This had been a dream, to be burned by the Man of Fire. Allowing his kiss to brand you, his touch searing every ounce of skin raw.

Little did you know you’d already scorched it all yourself.

Cruel. Irrevocably cruel.

Not even clarity grants your senses, emotion muddled between undergarments feeling too tight and grimy and the lack of fresh air rendering sticky bodies into a cold sweat.  

From beside you, his hand extends to your cheek, thumbing away the salty droplet with a weary smile.

“There is no selfishness, just… grasping onto what’s left. You’re not selfish for taking what you can get, not when everything is being taken from you.”

Hellion Inn was not your safety, it was the one gazing at you, the seven others outside. 

This is only a house, Minho is your home.

Fifth month arising, a conclusion is met. Amongst not-so-helpful input, bickering, and plenty of runs to libraries to gather more books on Ophiocordyceps unilateralism for a very studious Seungmin, he presents a possibility, an option.

Of its known enemies, the zombie-ant fungus doesn’t have many. There was the initial hypothesis on ways ants protect from the parasite, but with the Monster already infected, those methods were out of the question.

Then came the breakthrough.

Torrubiellomyces zombiae, or T.Z. An additional, fanciful word for a more powerful parasite. A Hyperparasitic fungi, zombie-ant fungus’ predator.

Create an ultimate beast without known opponents? Simply double the size, the power.

That’s where T.Z arrived, the species a core option for the Monster’s destruction. Get the spores on the Monster’s skin, and stay alive until it takes over and stabilizes the fungus’ infection.

Much easier said than done, which left room for the organized members of the group separating steps into phases.

Phase one focuses on collection of the spores. Extra photos Chris took that first encounter in the pharmacy unveiled the likely presence of the desired spores, which Felix, Hyunjin, and Seungmin have been elected to collect as Team C.

Phase two regards locating the Monster, introducing the presence of a harpoon gun (an idea Han loved (for the sole reason of fooling around with the harpoon gun)).

The point of the harpoon will be coated in collected spores, teams of three with three members each (A, B, and C) dispersed throughout the surrounding area the monster before Team A shoots.

And of course, courtesy of Han’s mention on what phase three should be: 

Run like hell. 

Phase two enacting in exactly a week, Hellion Inn spends its days in preparation, plaguing each breathing moment with gathering necessities and ensuring utilities are present.  

Between those lines comes the lividity.

Kisses in the night, his kisses. The shared cockiness, incessant teasing when the others are around as original as it comes despite such tenderness in private.

Your souls bared, secrets spoken into the air for only your ears to hear.

While the others sleep, you love till your heart hurts, watching him fall asleep against your palm where he’d kissed each of your fingertips minutes prior.

“I love you,” He whispers one night, his nose buried into your cheek with a heavy sigh. 

There’s not a single doubt within your mind, a hesitation, a hint of surprise.

Plenty of times it’s been said without words, repeated in the peck he presses to your skin.

“I love you too.”

And you repeat the words in a kiss to his lips. Slow, careful.

Savor. As if it were your last.

Dark clouds wrinkle your vision, spitting rain nothing short of irritating as you, Han, and Minho slip through cluttered underbrush.

Gathering of the spores had been successful by Team C according to the flare gun’s signal, and Team A—consisting of Changbin, Jeongin and Chris—tracked the location of the monster. 

Itaewon hasn't changed apart from the lack of bodies, assumed to be the Monster’s doing. Debris prominent, scavenging animals littering the streets without the usual congestion of people.

When the second flare blooms into shaded sky, that’ll be the indication the last stage: shooting the monster, is underway. For now, the three of you wait, listening in as hurried footsteps of Team C come thundering towards you.

Seungmin offers the vial, Minho lifting the harpoon gun to plunge into what appears to be an oddly shaped mushroom, your arm already lifted to the sky to fire Team B’s own flare gun.

Half way. Not done yet.

Now for Phase three, but, prior to the “run like hell” notion.

Jeongin is the retriever of the harpoon gun, angling through side streets past a lingering monster in the center to deliver the catalyst.

Almost there, almost–

His foot clashing against the metal of an alleyway trash-can disrupts that peace, and synonymously do you feel all breath held.

Chris was supposed to deliver the shot. Jeongin was supposed to make it to Team A unnoticed.

The world seems to grow mute, Han’s wrenching scream from beside you fallen upon deaf ears as the Monster’s gaping jaws beeline for Jeongin, claws extended, the boy kneeling to the ground.

Then, a ping! resounds, and your eyes are slow to open in fear his mutilated body would sit there, bright eyes lifeless.

It’s almost slow motion seeing it. Centimeters from Jeongin’s face does a palm outstretch, twice the size of his head, fingers twitching as if frozen in space.

Then you see it.

In the middle of that palm, the mere edge of the harpoon—only able to get halfway from its sheath—embeds.

Cavernous jaws of the creature part, incisors poised as if disbelieving of the matter itself. Disbelieving of the parasite taking over, altering its blood stream. 

Wilt.

White, almost decaying in the manner the alternate fungi destroys the weaker one, its muscles failing, body freezing.

You half anticipated the creature to at least try fighting in the meantime, land one last swipe. 

But the more time ticking past as you lean forward disproves any chance of movement, able to physically see the blood cells permeating the creature ashen, once curved claws diminishing simultaneously like that of crumbling embers.

Just then does Hyunjin’s voice breach your focus, curdled in urgency. It’s his cry that beckons Jeongin back to his feet, racing back after the others, tip of the harpoon still wedged within the Monster’s palm.

Oddly enough, as you watch the last of it dust into the wind as if melting, it doesn't feel real.

Too simple, uncanny. As if millions hadn’t extinguished in its horrid maw—a single parasite killing off the apocalypse bringer as easy as that.

Yet, it wasn’t easy at all.

Testing every last ounce of your wish for life, wish for a reality snatched from not just you, but eight others’ fingertips.

It was taxing. Surviving, experiencing the start of new love you didn’t think could sprout among a wintery wasteland included. 

But it did sprout, and the way you’re the first person Minho’s eyes drift to speaks that loud and clear.

Twin blossoms of the most brilliant colors, growing brighter the nearer they are. 

Closer than love, truly. 

We made it.

The Monster is gone.

There isn’t a word spoken as you make back for Hellion Inn, make back for home. The crunch of footsteps along gravel rings in your eardrums, breath exhaled from parted lips, matted, grease-ridden hair the least of your concern. No joyous shouting, no celebratory behavior in the slightest.

What is there to celebrate anyway? So many lives lost, too many to mourn.

Progression of your footsteps carries each soul with it, allowing them a final sleep in their eternal resting place.

Sleep well, Seoul. 

“It’s all over.” 

Whispered amidst roaring flames, you can only stare at the pharmacy as fiery flickers—vials, chemicals, ants included–swallow whatever has been left, torching hell’s origin once and for all.

One last stop. One last goodbye to all that was, the last chapter.

Without a word, Minho’s pinky links with your own.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @linocvp1d

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

With water, your powers return. Only to be used in a betrayal that ends up feeding everybody.     

[Part one]  [Ao3] [8] [10]

TW: Major Character Death, Cannibalism, Nyaaa :3 Did I tell you guys nobody is safe :33

9 * Eat It [7.5k]

"So let your real flag fly, you fuckin' freak."

To Cleveland (And Beyond) - Go Hang

        Day seven.

        You can drink by your lonesome. Move and walk, but not very fast or far without feeling woozy. Use of your powers made your vision black out for seconds at a time. Gray advised against it until they could find food. They still hadn't found anything.         

        The cave extended beyond the chasm you'd landed in. Walls of stalagmites had to be carefully demolished to reveal off-chutes. Most of the Marks had gone into the dark to explore. You stayed in the main room, feeling like shit, hungry enough to think about eating sand but alive.

        The cavern was shaped like a loaf of sourdough, that's all you could think of. Bread. Half of it was flat enough ground, slightly slippery with the humidity. Stalagmites coming up from the ground had been sliced in half, made into low stools. The other dropped down deep into a seemingly endless source of water.

        Sheets of metal were brought down from above, laid on the ground. Topped with sand then the trash fabric. Best joint bedding the desert could buy. Gray and Baldie were still working on more trash fabric bedding for more beds, but the work was slow. For now, the first bed was yours, Gray who'd made the thing, insisted. It was tucked into a corner, the fire pit close enough to warm you, with more stools and makeshift benches wrapping around it. There was room for more on the mattress, but you invited nobody, letting them rest their heads on rocks or bundled-up cloth. Though Mohawk, Lensless and Scars tried to invite themselves to your side often. They were pulled away or told outright by you and your power, to buzz off. They just liked the fight, to see how far they could push until you couldn't shove back anymore. You were thankful to be alone on the bed now, watching the wind blow sand around hundreds of feet above the caves entrance. 

        Maskless was sleeping even though he was supposed to be watching you. You were glad to have someone on the same page. This whole babysitting thing was stupid. Okay, sure, you'd almost died from dehydration, but you weren't going to die now. Probably. 

        The others were above or below, searching. You were alone and safer than you had been in days. You sat up, blinking away the dizziness and doing your best to ignore the gnawing at the inner lining of your stomach.

        The boots Baldie found yesterday come to the ground, the black GDA soldier pants swished around your legs. Baldie was out there somewhere wearing only his prison pants, you had kept the shirt.

        No helmet or armor, but you were covered up enough to feel a little more comfortable. Warmer in the cool cave. There were complaints when your clothing returned, they just wanted something to look at. Some desert entertainment.

        It was disgusting, and you couldn't tell the teasing from the actual threats, so treated all mentions of your body the same. 

        You crawled to the pool, a sunbeam from above guided you. You drank out your hands despite what Gray had said. All water needed to be boiled before consumption for safety. He'd taken a chunk of limestone, punched out its center (which took multiple attempts) and deemed it a pot. It was more of a shallow basin than anything, but you weren't going to argue. He wasn't around now and you didn't want to wake Maskless by starting a fire. He was part of the reason you were still alive, and you weren't going to say thank you, so being civil was the best you could do. 

       What had started as drinking from your hands, turned into scrubbing blood and soot from your face, turned into half pulling yourself into the water to take a fully clothed bath.

        "Hey." Maskless didn't open his eyes. "Don't contaminate the water."

        "Boiling it gets rid of germs." You don't go further in than you already had. Rational thought caught up with your body, you were definitely too weak to tread water at this point. Let go of the ledge and you'd slip under. Unsure if Maskless would save your ass and not waiting to find out, you slid back. "You not sleeping?"

        "Can't. Listening for something."

        You roll back onto your haunches. "For what?"

        His eyes open with a scowl, "I can't hear if you're talking."

        You decided you dislike him more than you already did. The others had something off about them, un-Mark-ish and bordering on inhuman. But Maskless was a dead ringer, same face, same inflection, same bitch attitude. You couldn't be in the same room as him.

        You got up. 

        "You can't see in the dark." He says like you'd forgotten. 

        You pulled your phone out of your pocket and flicked on the flashlight. If you could leave a review on your phone case it'd be a glowing five stars. Thing was still working even after being thrown a few hundred miles into sand. 

        He sighed and floated off his ass to your side, "Let's go then." 

        "I'm going alone." You pick a direction arbitrarily, and move toward the opening. 

        "I'm not going to tie you down or anything, but if I let you leave and you die, they'll kill me." He says with very little enthusiasm.

        "Poor you." You swallowed, gathering power, "Why don't you go sit back down?"

        You sway, stumbling forward a step, and catching yourself on a wet rock. Maskless is halfway across the cavern to his stool when he stops and turns.

        "They told me you'd do that." He stayed in place, waiting. "Why don't you go sit back down?"

        "Fuck you." Breathe, regather, and, "Sit down."

        You tip forward before you can see if it works. On the ground, you lie in a groaning heap. Hunger ebbing away at your very soul. 

        Maskless sighs, long and loud. He grabs the back of the jail shirt and half-carries, half-slides you back to the makeshift bed. "You can try that again when you didn't almost die two days ago." He drops face-first onto the garbage despite your protests.

        Maskless floated back to his stool, crossed his legs, and tried to listen. The sound had gone. A faint, so very faint, skittering he could only hear if everything was still and he paid no mind to his own beating heart.

        "You ruined it." It's more a fact than a biting insult. He is too tired to be as nasty as Emperor. Honestly, where the hell did the guy get the energy to be so annoying?

        You didn't reply. Fighting unconsciousness before your brain kickstarted and you peeled yourself up. "You could've stayed where you were but you had to follow me."

        You were so tired of the tails. You just needed to be alone or with someone who doesn't scare the shit out of you. But you can't. Groups are good for survival and the longer this goes on the more you realize. You couldn't kill them without food. The murders were postponed even further than they already had been. 

        "I already told you, they'll kill me." The sentence ends with a laugh, though nothing about it is funny. "I don't even know you." The intonation made you remember Mark in the GDA hospital wing. You're angry all over again at someone that is and isn't him.  

        You'd heard it before, but the words are an honest to God relief. He was a blank slate. Hated you right back. Now, this was a normal relationship to have while stranded in the desert.

        Despite his assurance, you're suspicious. "Not even a little?"        

        "I mean I met you but I don't want to fuck you." He says it plainly. "I have a boyfriend."

        Your ears perked up at that. "What?" 

        "William Clockwell." He throws the name at you like a knife.

        A knife you pick up and examine. "Mark's best friend, who's dating that guy D.A. Sinclair maimed?" Thrown right back.

        It hits him square in the chest, bullseye. His turn to say, "What?"

        Invincible had long since turned tail and left Machine Head's business alone, which meant Machine Head would forevermore have his nose in Invincible's business. He had plenty of enemies and plenty of money to hire people to watch the family of his enemies. Nothing better than kidnapping and ransom to get people to do what you wanted. It was funny that the GDA did the same thing, just higher tech with more red tape. Maybe you wouldn't have minded a job there, you liked intel being thrown around like gossip. 

       "Rick something or other." The words are a one-two punch to his gut.

        His brows knit, he leans forward a fraction, unable to hide his interest.

        "That guy from high school?" Jealousy and bitterness soak through his tongue. You knew the tone and feeling all too well. Seeing the misery swimming in his eyes was like a baby's laughter and butterflies.

        "They just graduated college together." You boasted like you were proud of them. Like you and William were still friends. "Going steady a few years now." You had him on the ropes now. Finish him! "Probably getting married soon." Honeyed eyes go black, and you knew you'd gone too far. You couldn't help push further, a thrill at getting a reaction. Hunger had made you worse than a cunt, you'd started acting like a man. "Unless they died when you guys ran through the planet."

        The hand has closed on your throat before you could even think up the next insult. "Shut up. Shut up, you're lying." Yet his hand loosens enough for you to answer. 

        "The Mark Grayson in my timeline was only friends with William Clockwell." Fingers don't press in hard enough to bruise; he's careful. Knows if the others see he's fucked.

        That wasn't the answer he wanted. "Where did they live?"

        "Some college in Chicago."  

        His eyes go bug-fuck wide. "Chicago?" One of the cities they hit. His grip loosens, hands shaking. You'd said the truth, which was apparently the wrong thing. He floated back to his seat, head in hands, muttering, "Chicago, Chicago..."

        You don't say anything and neither does he until the others return, when the sunbeam goes orange and soft and the cold starts to creep in.

        Marks returned for the evening usual, a bonfire debrief where the only thing cooking was water. 

        Baldie built the fire. Orange light reflecting off his thick muscles. Nothing to report from his end. Lensless took the floor first, pacing as he talked about the winding caves he'd walked. It was hard to follow, but there were more caves than what he'd explored. Mohawk said he'd found another pool of water. Scars had no luck in the desert besides some more trash to weave. Tracksuit had nothing. Gray reported the cave system was bigger than thought. Warned it'd be easy to get lost like Lensless, but never find their way back. A map would need to be made. Warned that breaking through the roof of the cave system to the surface could collapse the tunnels. He said this with eyes on you. 

        "You've been awfully quiet." Mohawk flicked his fingers toward Phantom, who sat still on a stalagmite stump directly across from you. "Got anything?"

        ***

        According to the numbers in his lenses, the nest was four hundred miles below the surface. He hadn't seen the narrow entrance at first, and when he did, didn't consider squeezing through it. Until a tiny spec of green lit the screen on his lens. A moving spec. Something living. He crept closer to the wall, the tiny holes coming into focus. More silhouettes outlined in green, limbs too fast and small, they looked like a blur. 

        He tore out a chunk of wall, set it aside and stepped into a new cavern. Bigger than the rest. Roof so high it could've been a cathedral. He'd come in by its apex, looking down at the comings and goings of the creature mass. Paths well worn deep into the earth where they moved, wide as pipes. Winding, twisting, into a wider network of dugout tunnels. But here, in this space, all roads led to one place. 

        Her subjects crawled up her body, holding morsels so small he couldn't see or detect it with his lenses. Fungus perhaps. They made their way under her twitching pedipalps. Drop the mold or sand morsels or whatever into her mouth, and make their way back down the body. Tiny, useless wings on her back flutter in buggish satisfaction. 

        She lay on limestone, a pool of water around her like a moat.

        He leaves after a shallow investigation of the closest caves. Finding eggsacks buried in the walls in one cavern. Spore-filled air in another. He slid the removed rock back in place, careful to push it flush to the wall. The others were unlikely to find the secret hideaway. Unlikely to find you both if you left together in secret. Living off bug meat and cave water, forever. Disgusting, yes, but you'd have each other.

        If only he could get you to come with him, unnoticed and without a fight.

        ***

        Phantom shook his head. 

        "Of course, you have nothing." Emperor spat like he didn't also have anything to report. "We won't have anything unless everybody is pitching in." The white of his lenses flash firelight, set on you.

        "Am I supposed to magically recover from almost dying?" You shoot back. "You think I like hanging around while you do shit?"

        "What shit has he done since we've got here?" You almost don't hear his voice.

        You have to look around to see who spoke and find Emperor glaring at Maskless. "Got something to say?"

        "I found water." He says, hand coming up to gesture to Phantom, "we found water. All you've done is sit and complain."

        Emperor scoffs. "Like you've been around to monitor my progress."

        "I didn't have to be. People talk." He says as if you didn't catch him leave with Phantom a half hour ago into one of the caves. Since digging out your new home, they were definitely closer than the rest of you.

         Tension starts to tighten in the air. Baldie and Mohawk shift on their asses, bring themselves closer to you to block any incoming strays from hitting you. 

        Emperor is off his seat, standing while everyone remained seated. "If any of you have anything to say to me now- say it!"

        "Your voice makes my ears ring." Said Scars, who loved hearing himself talk.

        "You do jackshit, dude." Lensless adds.

        Emperor turns on them, waving a fist. "I've got a lot more on my mind than you idiots! My empire has to be falling apart without me, and I'm stuck with you useless, brain-dead, backwater versions of me! You can't even survive on a desert planet, how could so many of you not rule Viltrum- you are the bloodline of Argall! Are you too stupid to know that or just too weak to ascend!?" His words echoed around the cave. Lingering.

        The detail hung over the Marks who did not rule Viltrum. Thragg did just fine ruling, so why should they? They saw no need, some never knew they were descendants of Argall, or anything about the lost royal bloodline. There were questions to ask but none of them spoke up, a show that what he said didn't matter. That his insults were unsubstantiated and weak, like him. 

        "On the second day of the attack, were you in Chicago?" Maskless says.

        "Why does that matter?" Spit flew off Emperor's lip. Cheeks red under his mask when no one seemed to be bothered by his fury- widely feared in his universe.

         Maskless was all even calm. Muscles relaxed, whereas Emperor was tensed up. "Yes or no." 

        "I don't answer to the likes of you." It was said in a snarl, "To any of you!"

        Maskless blinked slow, cat like. Head turned slowly to you, "Make him answer."

        The unexpected attention made you stiffen. You sat up a little straighter. Weighing the options. Don't, and be resistant. Do and cooperate. Either way you were picking a side you didn't fully understand. You didn't know which would provide the bigger bane or boon. So you went with what your heart wanted, to see Emperor get his teeth knocked in.

        Emperor spun on you, finger up and wagging at you in warning, "Don't you da-"

        "Answer the question." Your head falls, chin smacking against your chest before coming back up. Vision bobbing in and out. Baldie had scooted closer, hands poised to support you, but backs off against your wakeful sneer. 

        The power was watered down, though it should've been back full force by now. Starvation made you weak and the weakness made you edgy.  

        Emperor answered all the same. "Chicago was mine to destroy, so I did."

        A muscle in Maskless's jaw ticked. You cough out the hammer so he could nail down his own coffin, "What about Upstate University?"  You slump onto your thighs, a streak of blood dripped down your nose. Vision swimming and body uncooperative for a few seconds. Coming back to Baldie holding you upright by the shoulders, clear worry across his hairless brow. 

        "Burnt it to the ground," Emperor said even, uncaring. 

        You cared little about the answer. You tried to pat Baldie's chest, get him away but no words come out. Your head lolls forward, unable to hold it up and sneer at him. 

        He turned to Mohawk who'd apparently seen you use the powers before, "What do we do?"

        "I dunno," He crawled forward, considers reaching for the codeine in your pockets before remembering how you'd almost vomited on him. "Just wait it out?" His palm goes to your cheek, lifting your head to look at your face, skin clammy, eyes glassy and unfocused. After a few days you seemed okay enough, but he wasn't familiar enough to know if this was normal. God damn it, why couldn't you just trust them with the details of your powers- of your past?

        His machinations are cut short by a blur of movement. You catch it too, thanks to your head being held up. 

        Emperor is still stunned. Fingers twitched as your control slipped away, but Maskless was too fast. The side of his palm and wrist cut through the air. Slapped your face with wind and a splatter of blood. You could barely register what you're seeing.

        One second Emperor was standing and Maskless was sitting. The next, Maskless was behind him, arm bloodied, body all tense rage. Emperor still stood proudly, sans an important addition. Too stubborn to acknowledge the blood rhythmically spurting out of his stump of a neck. His head toppled to the ground, rolling over once before Maskless's foot came down. Sinking into the skull and meat with a sickening crunch.

        Then and only then does Emperor's twitching body fall to its knees. Arms jittering as his nerves try too late to fight for his life, before his torso finally drops, fwump, against the cave floor. Blood pooled quick, the smell already permeating in the air. 

        Gray is up with his fists but does not lunge. Mohawk and Baldie are a wall of muscle blocking Maskless's eyes from sliding on you. You watch from between their legs. Phantom is still, calculating what's to come. Tracksuit's hands go to the back of his head. Lensless is laughing. Scars looked down at the body, fallen directly at his feet, blood staining the yellow of his boots. 

        Maskless looks at none of them, turning back to his seat before settling back down. Seemingly oblivious to the fresh blood that soaked into his uniform. 

        Gray's muscles relax, deeming the threat neutralized.

        "He was weak and uncooperative." He says, "But you couldn't have killed him any cleaner?"

        "He killed my boyfriend." Is all Maskless can say.

        Gray's nod is terse. Annoyance hid well. "The blood can not stay on the campsite." He'd already moved past the murder, like it was nothing. Onto nagging Maskless. "It is unsanitary."

        "Unsanitary?" Tracksuit flipped out his hand, splaying his fingers, that quintessential New Englander gesture for 'what the fuck'. "He jus' killed that guy!"

        "Yes, we all saw," Gray replied.

        "He was a douche bag anyway." Mohawk said.

        The wall of Baldie and Mohawk undid itself. Mohawk first beside you, hand on your back to support you. Baldie too slow, settled on his knees on the edge of your mattress, he didn't want to crowd you if it wasn't necessary. Despite how deeply in his bones he wanted to melt into your skin, to wipe the blood off of your face. 

        Phantom ignored the body. Watched Baldie's lingering look. Saw how you shifted away from Mohawk, toward Baldie. Your hand briefly landing on Baldie's as you tried to sit up. You didn't know it, but you'd chosen a favorite that was not him, Phantom. Something had to be done about that.

        "Couldn't have left some action for the rest of us?" Lensless prodded the corpse with the toe of his boot. Smiling when it twitched, frowning when the movement stopped. 

        You supported your own weight, but just barely, pushing off of your arms to sit back upright. Used to death and not too deeply surprised Emperor was first voted off the island. You swat away Mohawk's supportive hand from your back. Hissing out a, "I'm fine."

         He opens his mouth to fight, but Scars voice takes up all the air in the cavern. "We should eat him."

        Tracksuit is the only one to voice, "Dude, what the fuck?" 

        "Think about it." Scars grabbed Emperor's limp arm. Warm, fresh, red meat. "We've searched this entire fucking planet for days and found nothing. This," he jostles the arm, making Emperor's wrist flap and violently snap, "is how we survive. How she," he pointed the limp hand toward you, "survives."

        "No." The thought made you sick. Empty stomach churning around nothing, your hands going to cradle yourself. Insides growl in protest, wanting the meat but you wouldn't indulge. "I'm not a fucking cannibal."

        Scars grabbed Emperor's hand, twisted it off at his forearm with a wet snap. "Do you want to die here?" The hand is discarded, Scars pulling to break the joint at his elbow like a crab leg.

        You don't answer. Watch as Scars tears the fabric off the bloodied limb. Yellow-coated digits digging harshly under the skin. Pushing. The flesh bulges with the intrusion. Scars slowly peeled up the skin with a grunt, removing the humanity from the lean meat that would melt in your mouth if cooked. You felt sicker. He can see the urge to puke in your bobbing throat. "You'll come around."

        "We could find food any day now and you're just gonna-" Tracksuit stopped himself when Scars bit into the broken end of the arm. Pulling out a slip of pinkish tendon with his teeth. "Alright, dude."

        The meat slipped between his lips. Swallowed without a single chew. He moaned. Met the stump halfway with his lips and began to shred with teeth. Piece after piece torn off the bone. Blood stained his chin so completely it seemed like he'd never be clean again. You would've been able to hear a pindrop if he wasn't chewing so loud, so wetly.

        You all watched. Rapt attention gone from Maskless to Scars in a matter of moments. Murder was one thing but this? No one knew what to say as he continued to eat, but you felt each swallow in the pit of your stomach, a creeping suspicion that he had done this before. You don't realize how hard you're gripping Baldie's hand.

        Across the room, Phantom wants to throw up, though he cares little about the gore.

        "We should preserve the rest." Scars set the remaining meat atop Emperor's unmoving back. "He won't last long." Before rot sets in. Or before he is eaten entirely. Which would come first?

        No one spoke. Scars continued. "You," he flicked fresh bloodied fingers at Gray. "You took over a bunch'a planets, right?" Gray's nod is stiff. "So you know how all this survivalist bullshit works?" Another nod. He's comply but he would not trust, not after that show of loyalty to Emperor's body.

        Scars lifted Emperor's still leaking corpse by the back of his suit, "You know how to make jerky?"

        "Holy shit, dude." Tracksuit answered for Gray. "You can't be serious."

        "I am." Scars says, "This is the only food on this entire fucking planet. Be a pussy if you want but I'm not dying like this. Now, do you know how to do this or not?" Scars jostled the body for Gray's attention. A thick splatter of blood hit the fire, sizzled, and released a scent that made your nose curdle, your nails digging into your stomach. 

        Gray floated from the ground, up and out the hole in the ceiling. Scars followed, Emperor's limbs swaying as they both rose. Blood rained in thick, lazy drops until they both were gone. A single rivulet landed under your nose, rolled down your cupid's bow and slipped between your lips. Your tongue darted out automatically. The taste lingered in your mouth as your stomach ate itself.

        Lensless was first to move after a long, thick silence. He crouched by the smashed head, poking idly at the eye that blasted out it's socket, the other smashed in with Emperor's brains. "We should clean this thing up. Put it on the wall. Decoration." 

        Nobody in the room hadn't not killed somebody, but the suggestion felt wrong. Like a bad omen. 

        "Dude, no." Tracksuit said.

        Lensless rolled the head, a gooey slab of brain matter stuck to the floor. Your throat twitched, a gag rocked your body. He grinned at you, fingers pulling out Emperor's front teeth. "Don't worry, if you clean it right it won't smell."

        "I don't think..." You can't finish the thought before another gag rips up your throat. Nothing comes out. 

        Maskless rose from his seat and grabbed the basin. "I'll clean up, it's my mess."

        He got to work, dousing the floor with water, guiding the dirty sludge to a slope leading to another cave as to not contaminate the drinking water. By the time he was done, Lensless had removed all the teeth from Emperor's mouth. He shoved the bloody things into his pockets, adding to his collection. 

        Maskless scooped up the remnants of Emperor's head best he could. Lensless pouted but didn't fight as Maskless floated to the surface to deliver the meat to the butchers. You stared at the red spot on the floor where it'd been, a single chunk of brain sitting in a dim sunbeam.

        ***

        He touched down to the empty sand field. Directionally challenged, he was not, this was where he'd taken off a month ago. Yet the dunes were drastically different, shifted. There was no beginning of a tent or improvement or ruins. There was no evidence of anybody else. The chasm that had begun to yawn open in the depths of space, deepens.

        He removed the oxygen mask. Newfound beard heating his face. He rose to the sky. Floated miles above the planet, pace meandering when he should've been frantic. He'd lost all hope for you to still be alive. You. Not the person he'd thought you'd be. The person he threw everything away for just to see one last time. He'd never know if it could have been worth it, if under the hurt and the fear you were still his. What a waste, for both of you. 

        He wondered if the others were still alive. If he left and they all killed each other. He wondered if he was alone, destined to go mad between the desert dunes.

        A hairdryer breeze assaulted his face, a welcome change from the frigidness of space. On the wind he smells it, cooking meat. He is gone before he can think. 

        ***

       He was undressed like a pig skinned. Slices of thigh removed with a quick chop of the side of a hand. Holes poked through the cuts at their tops for a metal rod to be fished through before the slices were hung above the fire from a rickety rack. The setup wasn't ideal or very good at all, but it was the best they could do.  It'd be days before the whole body was processed. 

        It'd be hours before the blood-sopped meat would dehydrate into jerky. Viltrumite bodies were resistant to lava in life, but upon death and the release of stress hormones and loosening of muscle- could be cooked. According to Gray at least.

        "You done this before?" Scars had asked only because of how little time it had taken the man to set it up, almost suspiciously so. Like Gray planned on being the first to turn to cannibalism, already planning a jerky recipe.

        "No." Gray said, "But my mentor has."

        Scars does not ask who. He doesn't care about Gray's life. He only cares about you. "This'll make it safe for her to eat, right?"

        Gray's jaw ticks. "It should, but you should know how weak human stomachs can be. Consuming the body in front of her was a poor choice. She will not wish to eat it, no matter the preparation method."

        Scars snapped the other arm off Emperor's body. Unrolled the muscle from the bone, which he set aside on a rock. The marrow could be eaten. The bones could be boiled in water for soup. He began to sheer off arm meat, saying, "Don't be a pussy."

        "Cannibalism is not common on Viltrum but we do what we must to complete our missions. You know this."

        Scars knew some things about Viltrum. He had never gone, never absorbed the culture. What he knew had come from his Dad at an early age. He thought he knew it all, but upon meeting Gray, he realized he knew little. He should've let Dad live longer, if only to teach him more- but the idea was so absurd it almost makes him laugh. 

        "Sure." He says instead. 

        "But I will not eat until she does." Gray finished. He would not try to assuage you. He would wait patiently. You would crack and cave, you were not made for a hunger strike. Your human morals would fold like wet towels under the slightest pressure. To a Viltrumite enforcer like himself, a week of starvation was nothing. 

        Scars secured the meat slices onto a pole and set them aside. "Okay, pussy."

        Unsatisfyingly, Gray does not react to his jabs. At least not visually, he just speaks evenly, "Father taught me humans are brought comfort by eating side by side with their mates. It makes the most sense to wait for her."

        He remembers his Father and Mother together on Viltrum, so strangely in love. Him foolishly thinking he could have the same, taking you, becoming so unexpectedly infatuated. It softened him. Such a waste what had happened but then again, that chain of events brought him to you. The stronger, better version of you that would fit so well into Viltrum society. He feels soft all over again at the idea of your strange human courting rituals. So silly and unnecessary, but so tempting, so easy to indulge in. He nearly forgets to whom he is speaking. 

        Scars didn't know what to laugh at first. The reverence in his tone at Father or the word, "Mates?"

        "Yes," Gray retrieved the latest wrack Scars finished and hung the swaying meats over the fire. His stomach clenched at the smell. 

        Conquering was the most Dad taught Scars of Viltrum culture, and conquer he did. "Why not just call it what it really is? She's a pet to people like us."

        Gray considers kicking him in the stomach. Making him vomit up the meat and an apology on your behalf. He withholds, thinking it'd be a better idea to have Scars on his side. Scars was as strong as he was unpredictable. Scars under his thumb meant you being much, much safer.

        "It is simply the word we use." He says, "Though Father said he called Mother his girlfriend, then wife back on Earth." The word girlfriend felt clunky in his mouth. Too many syllables, too simple, yet complicated, whereas mate just felt right. 

        Scars laugh is a whip. "You really care about those assholes, huh?"

        Gray does not answer, for it is not Scars' business and also- it was rather obvious how he felt. Though Viltrumites shouldn't feel. He was considered a strange boy on his home planet, but he wouldn't trade his childhood and lineage for a thing. He felt justified in this just speaking to Scars. Looking at how a different, loveless life on Earth made him into a rude and impulsive man. Ugh, those garish colors and that cape. So ugly.

        Gray senses the atmospheric shift and moves out of the way long before Scars thinks to. 

        Sand is kicked from the ground in a wave, dousing the afternoon fire, coating the still-wet meat. The man who fell from the sky did not care. He grabbed two slices at a time and shoved them into his chapped mouth. An uncharacteristic groan rumbling out of his chest. 

        Gray and Scars watch, poised from their vantage spot hovering over the ground, as Omni feasts. 

        "I thought you were dead." Scars is first to touch down, moving closer to the smoking sand and meats. 

        Omni chewed and swallowed, throat bulging like a snake. He grabbed two more slices of meat. "Hungry." Is all he says before biting down.

        "Not even gonna ask what you're eating?" His gaze slid significantly to the mound of sand. Emperor hidden under the kicked-up sand. 

        Omni's mouth does not slow as Scars kicks the sand off Emperor's bare back. "Things went batshit after you left." 

        Omni does not process as he swallows. Realization hits when the meat reaches his stomach and his eyes focus unsteadily on the corpse. Oh God. He lunges, grabs Scars bruisingly hard by the shoulders. He was weak, exhausted, but now, pumping with adrenaline and desperation he didn't know he still had. "Where is (Y/n)?"

        Gray does not want this haggard madman near you, but Scars does not give a shit about what Gray wants. Gray opens his mouth, "Don't-"

        Scars pointed to the massive cone in the ground leading down to the caves, they were only a few feet away. "Down there, dumbass."

        Omni is a red-white bolt streaking down the hole. Gray is at his heels but faster, reaching the cavern first and stopping in front of you before Omni can reach you. 

        The air splits at their sudden pause. You are sent backward, careening for the wall but Mohawk is there to catch you. The rest of the Marks are on their feet, bristling at this new threat, tense until they realize who they're looking at.

        "You're back early," Gray says, standing tall, trying to block his view of you. He does not like how glazed Omni's eyes are behind the lenses. Does not like how they won't focus on him, the immediate threat, but over his shoulder, at you. 

        "It's been a month." His voice is brittle. 

        "It's been a week." Gray bites back. 

        "Time isn't right out there." Omni's voice doesn't feel a part of him. Nothing feels right in his body, because nothing is right about any of this.

        "What'd you find?" Baldie asked.

        Phantom crept up behind him, ready to strike Omni if Gray needed the backup.        

        "Nothing." Omni moved a degree and Gray moved with him. "Let me see her."

        "Yeah, dude, just let the crazy guy touch your girlfriend," Tracksuit spoke when Gray wouldn't.

        Mohawk sets you down but does not let go of your shoulders. Omni is looking at you like his dead puppy. You ache with hunger. Know you are weak.

        Yet you say, "Don't touch me." Before passing out.

        ***

        The explanation is winding. Nonsensical at best, but the other Marks turn it over in their heads, reexplaining it to each other while Omni fitfully rests in your bed. He did not get to hold you like he wanted, but seeing you alive, sharing a bed with you, no matter how unconventional, was enough for now. In moments when he awoke, sparse because of exhaustion in his body, he only looks for you. Mulling over in his mind how he could prove to himself, to you, that you were the woman he married.

        You sit on the edge of the sandy garbage mattress as they tell you the bad news. Woozy. Aching with hunger that even excess boiled water could not quench. Twelve days you'd been stuck in the desert now. Twelve days of heat and near death and starvation. A week sat doing nothing in this suffocating cave. They refuse to let you move beyond the littlest things. Gray says you must conserve energy so long as your hunger strike lasts. But you had an eternity of suffering left. There was no other planets to go to, no one who could come save you. Just the slow creeping annihilation of the universe, and you, starving to death.  

        Mohawk was the first to cave when the first batch of jerky was done cooking two days ago. He ate across the fire, relishing the dehydrated thigh meat with a moan. Lensless rose to the surface for his own slice not long after. Tracksuit and Prisoner held out, but their morals were starting to get shaky by day ten. They could survive long periods without eating, but they were unused to the hunger pains, it was starting to get to them. Scars had not eaten since the first day. Claiming it'd be good to ration. Gray and Phantom held out, seemingly unaffected by the hunger.

        Gray was steadfast. Phantom was not. He snunk away to the bug cave under the guise of exploration. Ate the fingerpad sized insects by the handful to satiate himself. Plans tumbling around in his head. He couldn't make the moves he wanted until you were strong enough to eat, until there weren't eight pairs of eyes watching you at all times. So he waited for you to give into the long pig jerky.

        Baldie, Tracksuit, and you kept each other in check like a hunger pact. 

        "Just hold on, we'll find something else." Baldie would say, hand supporting your back as you swayed while simply sitting. You never swatted him away. Trust a slow, creeping thing growing between you like mold.

        "No way I'm leaving a cannibal," Tracksuit says, fingers flexing on his knees. "I can't be the only one not leaving a cannibal."

        Day Fourteen. 

        You wouldn't do it. 

        You pass out on the bed, wrapping yourself in Omni's cape to try and escape the cold of your body eating itself. Feeling the pain even in sleep. 

        Day Fifteen.

        They search hard, find nothing. You are looking worse and worse. Snappish and downtrodden when awake, a rock when asleep. Phantom thinks of telling the others but sees how Baldie frets over you, how you don't swat him away, and doesn't. A plan, a real plan, started to form in Phantoms head. 

        Day Sixteen. 

        Scars hovers over you. Thin sticks of dried meat in his fist. You refused to eat, choose to die with the universe. He would not allow it. 

        You do not stir as he sits on your hips. Nobody stops him. Though Baldie says, "She doesn't want it."

        He breaks a piece off one of the already slight pieces. "She's dying."

        He goes to stuff the piece between your lips when his wrist is grabbed by Baldie. "I said-"

        "Do you think letting her starve to death will get you pussy?" Scars spat. "She hates us regardless. Making her eat won't change anything, but she won't die." Baldie's hold falls reluctantly away. 

        "People have survived much longer than this without food." Omni says, watching your sleeping face and despite his proximity, doesn't stop it. None of them want to see you continue to suffer. With you out of commission, they were starting to creep more toward edginess. Snapping at each other, fighting over nothing. Only Maskless and Tracksuit immune to the status of your state but not of the men around them.

        Piece after piece was slipped between your lips. You dreamt of the grocery store. Of being in the snack aisle and grabbing the closest thing to you, a Slim Jim. You tear open the wrapper, greedily swallow it down, taste it.

        You wake, chunks of meat, slimy with spit, crammed into your mouth. You cough, gagging, and nearly choking. Brownish meat splatters onto Scars face but he doesn't seem to care.

        "Eat it." He held the meat to your lips but you sealed them closed, sucking them in. He pinches your nose shut. You can't breathe. Head already starting to feel like a balloon, you thrash, trying to sit up despite his weight on your body, reaching to push his hand away. Omni moves, you think to save you, but he just holds your right shoulder down, his other hand holding yours as it spasms in panic. Baldie watches horrified. Mohawk moves around him and holds down your left, unable to look at you. Not for Scars safety, you couldn't hope to hurt him with human fists but to prevent you from hurting yourself. The ease with which he holds you down makes him sick, easier than it should be. 

        Screams are trapped inside of your throat, shrill, but they do not listen. Your vision darkens, darkens, darkens until your brain forces your lips apart to take a heaving breath. The meat is forced inside your mouth. Scars slams your jaw shut, sealing your lips with the warmth of his palm, his one eye watches you coldly. 

        The meat is freshly cured, almost melting on your tongue. Telling you to just give in. To enjoy the smoked pork taste but you can't, you won't. 

        You shake your head in their grip. Tears forcing themselves past your eyelids. You look from Omni to Mohawk, pleading with your eyes for them to help. They don't. You look to Scars, willing him to move his hand so you could give the order for him to die.

        He sees it in your eyes and grins, leaning closer. "You wanna kill me, don't you? If you wanna kill me, you have to eat."

        You do. You want to kill him so bad. For everything he'd done. For everything he's doing. For the fact that if it weren't for him forcing you to eat, you'd starve to death. You hate him so much. You cry looking into his one exposed eye. You willfully swallow.

        "Good girl."

[moon-ttokki-x]

obsessed with noona!9th member reader :0 what if she gets harrassed by a stage invader during a show and end up tearing a calf muscle or something and cant join the boys in performing for a while?

okay damn shit calm down why is this so intense TT . . . interesting request, my anon !! however, ask and you shall receive <3

will i be okay? - ot8!skz x injured!9th member reader

pairing: ot8!skz x injured!9th member reader

summary: when a stage invader injures you in the middle of a performance, skz help you build yourself back up, little by little.

genre: idol!au, 9th member!au, mentions of blood, wounds, bruises, fainting, general medical procedures, mentions of eating and drinking, soft skz all the way :(

a/n: omg it's been so long since i wrote . . . did yall miss me . . . (silence)

skz masterlist

You never saw it coming.

One minute, you were singing the chorus of 'Walking on Water', scrunching your nose and throwing a hand at the audience in passion, and the next, you were thrown face down to the stage floor, feeling the metallic clatter of your mic dully hitting the side of your face.

A throb in your shoulder, the wet feeling of something sliding down your skin. The sickly tang of iron in your mouth, and the incredibly sharp, stabbing pain in your calf.

"Y/n!" the fans had screamed in panic, unheard by you. "Watch out!"

There were screams; several yells, a confused start from one of the members who was singing, and the audience had gone quiet, dissolving into hushed murmurs and worried whispers.

It was Minho who first rushed to your side, almost tipping himself over as he pushed back the strange, dark-haired man who threw a half-hearted kick at your side.

You heard swearing; low and dark, a musty smell coming over your senses, and then the buzz of security as they manhandled the stage invader into the dark wings off the sides of the platform.

Dizzy.

You felt hands; worried hands brushing over your form, the latex gloves of the medical staff, Chan's strained reassurances in your ear as he scanned the stage for any other threats. Vision blurry, you turned your head to the side and saw the boys clustered in a group, Hyunjin and Seungmin calling out to the fans with their hands out, trying to calm them down.

Something wet swiped across the side of your face, cold and dripping against the clammy, salty heat of your cheeks. Shaking, you raised fingers to your face, brushing them lightly against your skin. It felt numb; your fingertips came away as scarlet as the lip gloss you'd put on earlier before the show.

Chan's voice broke through the haze, low and steady. "Breathe, Y/n, you'll be okay. We've got you, you're safe, yeah?"

Then, black.

.

"Ow- fuck-"

"Almost there," Lia, the JYPE company nurse, cooed at you gently as she pressed a new gauze pad to the wound on your shoulder. "Y/n, you really need to be more careful. It won't heal properly if you keep trying to push yourself before the wound is scabbed over..."

"I wonder how that happened," Minho remarks dryly from the door, hair messy, leaning against the frame. He watches as Lia disposes of bloody tissues in the bin. "Surely it can't be because of a certain Stray Kids member attempting to do a late-night practice on her own."

You scowl. "Shut up."

Felix interjects with a sigh, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "It won't be a long time, noona. Just until it's healed. You need the rest..."

"I'm fine," you insist, standing up and trying to fight the sinking feeling in your chest. "I'm going back to the studio-"

"No, you're not," Minho says firmly. "You're going back to the dorm to rest. You're not leaving until Chan-hyung and I say you're allowed to."

You're about to shoot back in irritation, stubbornly refusing to listen, until your eyes catch Lia's. She gives you a look.

You groan. "Fine."

.

"I brought you tea," Changbin says quietly from your bedroom door. "Thought it might help."

You sit up as he walks in, and you take the steaming cup from him gratefully. It's soothing, the heat seeping through the porcelain and warming the frozen bones in your fingers.

Your eyes meet his as Changbin sits down on the edge of the bed, running his fingers over the duvet. The purple lights above your headboard bathe him in a soft, violet glow, and part of you feels bad for keeping him up this late.

You feel bad for waking Hyunjin, too. Not that he seemed to mind; he'd just gently chided you as Minho led you back to your dorm with a firm hand on your shoulder, and ruffled your hair as Changbin had helped you settle into bed.

You can hear him clattering about in the kitchen, no doubt searching for a late-night snack. Changbin is clearly used to the noise, because he doesn't blink as Hyunjin swears from the kitchen, whining about not being able to find his chips.

You take a sip of the tea; it's slightly minty, cooling you down even though the liquid is hot. It makes you immediately sleepy, warmth flooding your body and replacing the dull feeling that's been settling itself in your gut for the past few days.

Changbin's eyes flick to yours as you set the cup down on the beside with a clink.

"Tired?" He says softly. His hair is rumpled with sleep.

You shift on the bed, sliding down the pillow. "It's uncomfortable to sleep. I have to keep my leg up all the time."

"It'll be easier once you find the right position," he replies, picking up a pillow from the floor. "Here."

You take it from him and prop your leg up, nestling into the sheets. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"Not at all. I don't think Hyun minded either. Speaking of, did you want something to eat?"

You shake your head quietly, downcast. If Changbin notices, he doesn't say anything, and he gently kisses your crown before closing the bedroom door softly behind himself.

You gnaw at the inside of your cheek. You feel even worse than before you'd tried to sneak out and practice alone. It was just so inconvenient; being harassed by a stage invader in the middle of a performance you'd worked so hard for, and you hadn't even been able to finish it.

Part of you wishes it had been one of the boys who'd gotten hurt. But that thought scares you more than the fact that you're injured, so you chase it out of your head and try to rest.

You fall asleep with the pillow soaked in tears.

.

"And one- Switch, Jisung to the back, Felix's part, and here, we go-"

Minho's voice rings out loud and clear as he shouts instructions to the members, music blaring out over his tone. You watch in amazement from the side of the studio floor, knees tucked to your chest.

It's common practice for him to shout moves and parts to the boys and you during practices, but the fact that he's dancing effortlessly at the same time makes your jaw drop a little. You can't believe it never occurred to you earlier, the level of breath control and strength he possesses.

He's amazing.

So are the rest of them.

It's been an hour, and none of them show any sign of slowing down. It doesn't matter who you look at, or when; all of them are dancing at full power, giving the routine and song their all, from Jeongin, whose vocals are stable even though he's constantly moving, and Hyunjin, who executes his switch to the back without missing a beat.

Part of you is glad to be able to sit back and watch; the feeling of pride sits in your chest like a warm, happy bubble, especially as your gaze meets the younger members' forms. You can't believe how far they've come.

But something about the way they glance at each other, even slapping each other's butts as they move past and grinning at each other in the mirror between moves tugs sadly at your heart.

You want to be a part of that again.

It's been two weeks, and Chan and Minho still aren't letting up. Neither is your manager, or JYP, no matter how much you nagged at him. Any of them. Lia was also in strong agreement that you rest more, but you've had enough. You want to get up and dance. Sing. Perform with your group members.

You scratch lightly at the sticky bandage on your shoulder. It hasn't come off yet, a miracle, and you sigh as you roll it back and forth, trying to alleviate the sensory feeling of it stuck to your skin. Hopefully you won't end up with a square of skin lighter than the surrounding tanned area once the bandage comes off.

You turn your leg from side to side, flexing the calf muscle gently. It only aches a little, the painful, sharp throb from the first impact a distant memory.

But not any less painful.

"Hey," you hear Chan's voice next to you. "Feeling any better?"

"Fine," you say bitterly, looking away. He's sweaty, the faded scent of cologne and musk washing over you in a soft, familiar wave. He flicks open the top of his electrolyte drink, leaning against the wall behind both of you.

He doesn't seem too upset by your harsh tone; taking a swig of blue liquid and then setting the bottle down, he turns to you. "I know it's hard, Y/nnie-"

"You don't get it, Chan," you snap at him suddenly, upset anger bubbling in your stomach unexpectedly. "You can perform and dance and sing and do everything properly while I'm stuck here, unable to even get up without someone fussing over me. I'm fine, okay? I want to join practices and performances again. I'm sick of this. All of it."

He doesn't blink, eyes softening. And suddenly, as quickly as it appeared, the intense emotion evaporates. It's replaced by the hot, wet feeling of tears sliding down your cheeks.

A calloused thumb reaches out and brushes them away. "I'm sorry, Y/n. It's awful not being able to perform. Trust me, I know." He turns to face you. "But if you keep trying to push yourself before you're healed, the time you have away from activities will only increase."

You sniff. He's right.

"It's just not fair," you whisper.

"No, it's not," Jisung says, sitting down next to you. Like Chan, he's sweaty, and you fight the sad, watery urge to smile as you spot a hint of last night's sparkly stage eyeshadow still smeared across his lids. "But we'd rather you rest safely than go out there injured, and risk getting hurt again, okay? We care about you."

"It's not as fun," Chan admits quietly. "On stage. We miss you. So do the fans. They've been ranting about the stage invader left and right. We're all here to support you, okay?"

You nod and wipe a hand across your eyes. "When can I get back to schedules?"

By now, the rest of the members have come and flopped down near you. You run a hand through Jeongin's damp hair as Seungmin toys with the clip on your leg bandage.

"You're gonna be okay, noona," Felix says softly, leaning his head on Hyunjin's shoulder.

The rest of the members nod eagerly and interject with their own reassurances, and it's all you can do not to cry. You sniff and Chan's hand covers yours in a warm flood of heat.

"Hey," Minho says dryly. "At least you don't have to slave away at the choreography like the rest of us-"

Chan clears his throat. "Minho."

He grins as the rest of the members and you dissolve into giggles.

a/n: i have an exam tomorrow . . .

ttokki's taglist: @emilywhyyy @galaxy4489 @hyuneskkami @justsomekpopstuff @wavetohannie @strayingawayy @its-stayville-forever @sillyseob @wickedbutlovely @headfirstfortoro @lov3yv4mps @possum-playground @bear8585 @astraystayyh @m-325 @gnabnahcbby @mbioooo0000 @akindaflora @tsunderelino @hhwangsmoon @crazyforthatbangchandude @bluebellsringinghereandthere @ladylexis @tillaboo @geni-627 @jsngprk-vhs

send a dm, comment under the taglist post, or send an ask to be added !

[nineteenninety-six]

"I like doing daughter! and sister! readers but I struggle with ideas so if you have any ideas for them or even just general friendship platonic ideas then please send them my way <3"

You just made my day, I loved your abbot and Robby one ughhh so good written

Hmm what about finally getting alone time with your dad and you’re just about to go inside with him, his shift has ended and boom you slip on black ice, ouch your head hits the ground and your arm with it, now honestly if it’s Robby or abbot doesn’t matter, it’s just fun if it’s abbot he ends up in the er on Robby’s shift and opposite , like she gets a concussion and like maybe a Dana cameo, some fluff since you know angst so well

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ Slip and Fall

Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x daughter!Reader

AN: Don't ask me why this is 2k words, I just couldn't stop. Also idk if any of you are watching tlou but I can't bring myself to watch the new epsiode, like I'm sick at the thought of it.

Pittsburgh was knee deep in a rough winter, snow fell harder this year and the combined rain and negative degree weather had meant that ice was also a major problem. The roads were plowed and salted but there was no keeping up with the sheer volume that fell.

You were on your way home, looking forward to a night in with your dad who had promised to cook a hearty meal that would heal you from the horrible weather despite his long day and her offer to cook. He had also promised to watch at least two movies with you though you knew he would fall asleep halfway through the first one but that didn't matter to you, you were just happy to spend time with him after a long week.

The biting wind froze you so deep that not even the heat blasting from your dad's car vents warmed you up and so you were incredibly grateful when your dad finally pulled up outside of your house.

You gingerly stepped out of the car, making sure your winter boots were firmly planted  on the ground before you stood to your full height. Your footsteps were slow and steady as you closed the car door behind you and made your way up to front steps where your dad was already waiting for you.

"Be careful. Half the cases that came in today were from accidents due to the weather." Your dad warns as he watches you with hawk eyes.

Once you've reached the bottom step, your dad finally turns around to unlock the door. You clear the second step without any problem but it's not until your boot hits the top and last step that things go wrong.

Your foot disappears from underneath you as you slip on an unseen piece of ice and the momentum wipes you clean off your feet, forcing you to hit the concrete driveway with a solid whack!, your head ricocheting off the ground, and your vision goes dark.

Your father turns around at your startled yelp and watches in frozen horror as slip and falls backwards. It happens so fast that he cannot do anything but watch. There is only half a second of stillness before he springs into action, dropping the bags he held to the ground as he raced over to you, dropping down to his knees and calling out your name, he hesitated to touch your head, fearing a possible head or neck injury.

Robby fished out his phone with one hand and dialled all whilst he rubbed his fist on your sternum, releasing a choked sign of relief at your responding moan as you slowly regained consciousness, eyelids fluttering open.

As he explained what your injury was and told the address to the dispatcher, Robby rested a hand on your abdomen, grounding himself with every inhale and exhale you took.

"D- dad?" You cry out, trying to move your head to search for him, only to be stopped by your father, "Dad?!"

"I'm here sweetheart, I'm here" Your dad's voice brings a wave of comfort that washes over you and he moves so he hovers over you so that you can see him.

"Don't move, you've hurt your head and we don't want to make it any worse" Your father gently wipes the tears off your cheeks, "Don't worry sweetie, I'm here, you're okay."

"It hurts" You sob, pain now spreading across your body. "Help me"

"Tell me where it hurts sweetie "Robby listened out for the ambulance's sirens, waiting for their saving grace.

"All over... my head hurts the most" You gasp, "I feel dizzy and sick"

"Other than that?" Robbie presses his hands up and down your body, searching for any other injuries.

You're halfway through a refusal when he touches your right wrist causing a cry and a fresh set of tears to erupt.

Robby immediately snatches his hands away from your body and apologizes to you.

"You must have landed on your arm when you fell"

"FUCKKK!" You swear, overwhelmed before shiver racks through your body, the chill of the snow and ice finally breaking through the shock you were in.

Finally the sound of sirens sounded down the street as the ambulance made their way to you before they pulled to a stop at the end of the driveway and as soon as the EMT's stepped out their rig, your dad turned into Dr Robby and detailed what happened and what her injuries were.

Robby watched closely as the EMTS placed a C-collar on your neck along with stabilizing your arm before they transfer you to the gurney and take you towards the ambulance where they'll give you painkillers to take the edge off. Robby only has enough time to throw your bags into the house and lock the door before he's climbing into the back of the ambulance to sit alongside you.

Robby grasped your uninjured hand, squeezing it as his stress eased the closer they got to PTMC along with the pain free expression on your face as the painkillers kicked in.

"Who is working tonight? "You ask.

Robby thinks for a moment before answering, "Abbot. Shen and Ellis too I think."

"Shen and Ellis?" Your eyes light up.

"Don't think about it" Your father laughs, "I know they usually get you a coffee and a donut but it's far too late for a coffee."

"What about the donut?" You ask as the ambulance parks in a familiar ambulance bay.

"I think about it" Your father says as you're wheeled out and following after you.

Dr Abbot did a double take when the EMT's rolled the patient into the emergency department, rattling off your injuries and vitals.

"What the hell happened?" He asked as he snapped on gloves before they transferred you onto a hospital gurney and took you to a private room.

"Slipped on ice and fell off the front steps, hit my head" Your murmur, "My wrist too." 

Abbot let out a low whistle as he looked down at you, "Damn kid"

As Abbot ordered scans, tests and more pain meds, your dad took a seat by your side, hand finding yours once again, rubbing his thumb across the back of your hand.

"You'll be okay," Your dad whispers, "Jack is a really great doctor, he knows what he's doing."

"Better than you?" You joke before your expression settles into a slight frown, "I know…I'm just scared I guess, of the possibility."

"You're showing good signs, you're conscious and alert and you can move your arms and legs," He reminds you.

"What's your official doctor's opinion?"

Robby knew you were scared and that's why you were asking so many questions but you were getting lost inside of your head and spiralling into a panic.

"I don't have one, I'm off shift."

You roll your eyes as Abbot returns with the results, the lightness of his shoulders suggesting it was good news.

"The scans for your head came back clear so we can take the collar off and we can clean and close the wound on the back of your head." Abbot says as walks over to you, "You've fractured your wrist but you won't need surgery, just a cast."

"Concussion?" You dad asks.

"Highly likely" Abbot nods, "We'll test after we set her wrist."

Robby nods as leaves your side when the nurse arrives with the stuff for the cast, taking the moment to speak to Jack.

"So she's okay?"

Jack threw him a knowing look, a faint smile on his lips, "All things considered, yes. She'll just have a killer headache and a sore wrist but she's okay."

Jack spoke again at Robby's relieved nod, "You're calmer than I expected."

"If I worry, she worries. I'm trying to keep her calm."

Jack nods, "You're doing a good job."

"You think?"

"I know." There's no space for arguments in Jack's words.

At your fathers insistence you were staying the night in the ED, despite your protests and Jack's reassurance of your wellness but your father was determined. 

You were sitting in bed scrolling your phone with your dad sitting by your side reading the book he had taken from Abbot when a knock sounded on the door before Shen and Ellis stepped in.

"Heard you took a trip." Shen jokes, "How was it?"

Ellis huffs at the man at his lack of tack before she turns to you and holds out what she held in her hands, "We got you some things, hopefully they make you feel a little better"

"It's not coffee is it?" Your dad says, leaning forward with a raised brow.

Ellis laughs and shakes her head, "We've got you guys some hot chocolates and donuts."

"Don't worry they're not from the hospital, we got DoorDash." Shen told you.

"You splurged on the good shit, thank you." You grin as you happily take the hot chocolate into your hands.

You and your dad thank them again before they leave, having to return to their patients.

You inhale the hot chocolate and donuts with ease only then just realising that you had missed dinner but as they day caught up to you, you found that the only thing you wanted that moment was to sleep and so you quickly drifted off, the sounds of your father reading through the book comforting you.

Your legs dangled off off the edge of the hospital bed as you waited for your father to return after going to sign the discharge papers. You were itching to leave, you were starving and in desperate need of a shower as well. 

Abbot had offered to drive you back since you had arrived via ambulance and so your dad said he'll take you all out for breakfast. It was nearing seven in the morning so the night shift were finishing up with the last of their patients and preparing for handover while the day shifts were just arriving, getting ready for their day.

A knock on the door was shortly followed by a blonde head poking through the door,

"Hey hon, I heard you were here. Can I come in?"

You quickly nod and melt into the hug Dana pulls you into.

"What happened honey?" Dana ran her thumbs over your cheeks.

"Slipped on some ice, banged my head and broke my wrist."

Dana makes a pained sound as she pulls you into another hug, "You poor thing. You heading home soon?"

"Yeah dad signed the discharge papers and Abbot is dropping us home since we came in an ambulance but dad is taking us to breakfast."

"That's good, you need a proper meal, the little sandwiches they have here aren't any good at all. Let your dad spoil you."

As if he knew we were speaking about him, your dad stepped into your room, "You ready to go kid?"

"Uh-huh"

Dana steps back and supports you as you hop off the bed before all three of you head towards the charge station where Abbot waited for you. You say goodbye to Dana and everyone else before you finally leave the hospital.

As you followed Abbot, your dad wrapped his arm around your shoulders and kissed the top of your head, "I'm glad you're okay kid, you really scared me for a moment."

"Really? You seemed so calm." You peer up at him.

"Really." Abbot calls out to you having overheard your conversation, "He was scared out of his damn mind. Now hurry up, I want pancakes in front of me in at least twenty minutes."

You and your father exchange a laugh before you hurry to catch up to Abbot.

[prettygirl-gabi]

“To the Moon and Beyond” pt.3

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd x Reader (Pazzi x Reader)

Fandom: NCAA Women’s Basketball / WNBA

Warnings: cheating, revenge cheating, eventually in later parts there will be 18+ content (smut, alcohol consumption, strong language), polyamory, public teasing/flirting (in later parts)

Summary: A tangled history of love, heartbreak, and hidden desire leads three elite players into a secret relationship—and the WNBA spotlight.

A/N: yes this is hella long… I got in a groove and couldn’t stop writing… but yeahh enjoy!! This is also one of the longest fics I’ve ever written… will be multiple parts….cause it’s too long for tumblr…

Also thank you @paige05bby for the banner/header

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @unknowgirlypop , @yailtsv , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @imnotkaizer , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @alwaysobsessedwithwbb

The morning sun filters through the curtains in warm streaks, slicing golden light across the hotel suite like it’s trying to hold us in this moment a little longer.

Azzi’s still asleep, curled into Paige’s empty side of the bed, hood up over her curls, one hand tucked under her cheek like she’s holding on to a dream.

Paige and I wake before the alarms. We always do on big days.

There’s no talking at first—just movement, quiet and familiar. I stretch. Paige yawns. She slides out of bed, glances back at me with a soft, crooked grin, and reaches her hand out without saying a word.

I take it.

The water is already warm by the time we step into the shower. Steam rises around us like a curtain. It’s not about sex—it hasn’t been, not in a long time.

It’s about softness. About care. About the hundreds of mornings like this one, where we didn’t need words to say what we felt.

I wash her back first, fingers tracing over old bruises, familiar scars. I work the shampoo into her hair and she tips her head back, trusting. Her eyes flutter closed.

When it’s my turn, she’s even gentler. Paige’s fingers card through my hair, nails scratching my scalp just enough to make me lean into her. Her hands find my shoulders, then my ribs. She kisses my temple, then the tip of my nose.

“You ready?” she whispers.

“No,” I murmur. “But I’m glad it’s you next to me.”

When we step out, Azzi’s still asleep—though she’s shifted now, arms wrapped around one of Paige’s pillows, like her body knows what her heart won’t say out loud yet.

We towel off quietly, get dressed. By the time the suite starts buzzing with stylists and cameras and texts from agents, we’ve buried that moment in the quiet part of ourselves again.

But it lingers. Like steam on a mirror. Like a promise we’re still too scared to say out loud.

Brittany is now floating around the suite, one AirPod in, one hand fixing Azzi’s necklace while the other tosses my hairstylist a hair touch-up kit that was to far out of reach. Her voice is calm, surgical — but she’s in the zone, flitting between the three of us like a runway coach with a game plan…

“Okay, Azzi, baby, your dress is zipped. Hair’s laid. You’re a vision.”

Azzi spins slowly in front of the mirror, her long black dress hugging her like it was sewn in silence by angels. Her earrings sparkle, catching the low light of the suite, and for a second I just… stare.

“You’re the prettiest person I’ve ever seen,” I say honestly.

She turns, smiling — soft and warm and knowing. “You only say that when Paige isn’t looking.”

I grin. “No. I say it more when Paige isn’t looking.”

From across the room, Paige snorts. She’s perched on the arm of a chair, half-dressed in her first look — the custom Coach suit that makes her look like a films fever dream. Classic, but sharp. Her hair and makeup half finished, and somehow, she still looks like she owns the building.

“Whatever,” Paige says, smirking as she meets my eyes in the mirror. “Y’all act like I’m chopped liver.”

“You’re like… foie gras,” I tease, walking over to let her pick out my earrings to go with my first look. “Fancy. Expensive. A little controversial.”

Azzi laughs as she leans toward the mirror, applying her lip gloss with steady precision. “If y’all start kissing while I’m putting on this glass bomb, I’m leaving this suite. Deadass.”

“You literally watched me contour Paige’s jawline with my thigh like three weeks ago,” I say, not looking up as I finish the last curl on my left side.

Azzi doesn’t flinch. “Different context,” she mutters, smacking her lips together to smooth the shine. “That was preseason. This is glam season. There’s a difference. One had soft lighting and a full-body mirror. This has E! News updates and potential Getty images.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Paige chimes in from behind me, already in her first look and scrolling casually through her texts. “Besides, if she kisses me right now, my lip liner’s gonna survive. Can’t say the same for yours.”

Azzi turns, pointing the lip gloss wand at her like a dagger. “Try me. I’m wearing Hot Chocolit. I will end you.”

Next thing I knew it was my turn to get ready. Brittany coming to me with the biggest grin and unzipped the dress cover bag.

Carefully I slipped into the dress like I was stepping into a moment I’d been waiting for my whole life.

The black velvet corset hugged my torso, cinching me in tight, like it was built to hold all the nerves and excitement that came with being one of the big prospects for the WNBA draft pick.

The sweetheart neckline dipped just enough to make me feel bold, but not distracting—just powerful, grown, ready.

The skirt flowed from my waist in layers of matte black fabric, soft but sculpted, gathered into a dramatic bow on my hip. That bow felt like a final touch, like a ribbon on a gift I was about to give the world: me, at my best. The slit ran high up my thigh, and every time I took a step, I felt the cool air kiss my leg, grounding me in the present.

Brittany and I kept the heels simple—thin, black straps that didn’t fight for attention—and let the dress do the talking. But if you looked hard enough you could see the red at the bottom. My necklace though, that was a moment. Emeralds and diamonds, like little drops of confidence around my neck.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I didn’t just feel pretty. I felt unstoppable. Like the girl who grew up hooping on outdoor courts in worn-out sneakers had finally become the woman who deserved to take up space—bold, glamorous, and absolutely ready for the league. Azzi looks up and immediately pauses whatever she was typing.

“Jesus, baby” she breathes, standing. “You’re not real.”

I smirk and walk over to the vanity as I got a close look at my necklace and my earrings that matched. “Stop it.”

Behind me, there’s a soft shuffle of shoes on hotel floor.

Paige.

She’s finally done with hair and makeup—clean, lashes soft and fluttery, lip gloss barely there but devastating all the same.

She’s traded her usual hoodie and sweatpants for something sparkly, custom, and lethal. And still, she walks over like it’s just another morning.

Her eyes find mine in the mirror first, then trail down to the curve of my shoulder. Her hands slide around my waist from behind, fingers splaying just under the hem of my blazer.

“You look…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. Just breathes it in.

She dips her head, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“You think they’ll let me sit at your table instead of my own if I begged?” she murmurs.

I smile but don’t answer. Not with Azzi and Brittany here.

Speaking of—

“You three are stupid hot,” Brittany says as she walks in holding a steamer and a lint roller like weapons. “Honestly? Power throuple behavior.”

Azzi snorts. “You been knew.”

Brittany shrugs. “I’m just saying — any color carpets should be paying you for the photo op.”

Paige wiggles her eyebrows. “So we’re charging per angle now?”

Brittany rolls her eyes but grins, then waves Azzi toward the mirror. “Okay, Azzi. It’s your moment. Hair’s perfect, and I brought both watches for you to pick.”

Azzi walks over and looks between the two — one sleek and delicate with a thin band, the other bold, diamond-encrusted with a heavy face. She looks torn.

“I don’t know which one’s the move,” she mumbles. “Big or small?”

I step up beside her, eyeing her full look in the mirror. The strapless black dress hugs her in all the right places, showing off her arms and collarbones, sleek and timeless — like a modern-day Audrey Hepburn with just the right amount of edge.

“Go with the smaller one,” I say, lifting it off the tray. “It compliments the look and adds to it at the same time.”

Azzi meets my eyes through the mirror, a smile ghosting on her lips. “Good call. You’ve got taste.”

“Obviously,” I say, glancing toward Paige.

Brittany sighs with affection. “God, I love y’all. Now go break hearts.”

We leave the hotel suite in shifts, like pros. Paige goes first.

Her Coach suit is the definition of tailored seduction — a fitted yet loose three-piece with flowy pants that move with elegance, a matching vest worn over nothing, her skin golden and glowing, and a blazer to top it off. She carries a black clutch and exits like she owns the damn planet.

Next is Azzi. She steps into the elevator like she’s about to shut it down. And she does. Her hair’s pressed out flowing as if it was silk, her earrings are statement without screaming, and her dress glides when she moves — confident, clean, unstoppable.

Finally, I step out. My heels click against the pavement. Brittany gives me one last fluff and an approving nod.

“Ten outta ten. No notes.”

At the orange carpet, Paige is already making headlines. Flashes go off in every direction as she stands poised, one hand in her pocket, the other adjusting her blazer like it’s a throne. Her eyes lock on me the second I arrive.

Azzi meets me halfway and tugs me in for a picture, her hand casually wrapped around my waist, Paige stepping in on the other side.

Three of us. Together. In sync, yet separate.

And the world has no idea.

We take the pictures—laughing, whispering between poses, Paige sneaking her hand down to brush against mine once when no cameras are aimed our way.

It’s flawless.

And it’s only just begun.

Once we step off the orange carpet and duck behind the divider curtain, the world behind us fades. Brittany claps loudly the moment she spots Paige and me, her headset swinging around her neck. Azzi is a few paces behind us, following a production assistant who’s offering to walk her to Paige’s table.

“Alright, you two, first look is done,” Brittany says, motioning like a coach calling in a timeout. “Time to change into your second fits before y’all go to your respective tables. Let’s go, move it, fashion waits for no one.”

We follow her down the hallway toward our private dressing room — a cozy little suite tucked backstage, draped in garment bags and flooded with soft, golden lights.

The moment the door shuts behind us, Brittany’s already unzipping my dress like she’s a pit crew in the final lap of the Indy 500.

Azzi’s POV

I wanted be backstage with them still. Should be watching Paige and Y/N pick out which rings sparkle most under the camera flash, laughing when Brittany scolds them for smudging lip gloss onto the collars of their second looks.

But instead—I’m already at the table.

Sitting between Amy and Bob, trying to ignore the way my knee keeps bouncing under the tablecloth.

Paige’s mom reaches out to pat my hand. “She looked so beautiful,” she says softly.

“She always does,” I murmur back.

My eyes scan the room—this glittering ballroom filled with nerves and history and too many lights. I do a few rounds, say hey to some of the other prospects. It helps me breathe. A little.

Eventually, I drift toward the section where our teammates are seated. Nika’s already throwing a peace sign toward the stage, Aaliyah with her biggest grin watching me approaching, Ice’s got her camera out, and KK’s cracking jokes like she’s on a mic. It feels like UConn even here. Home stitched into every seat.

But something’s still tugging.

Because I know that in a few minutes, Paige will be walking out under those lights. And right behind her… so will Y/N.

I don’t know if the world will ever see it—what we had. What we tried to build. What we never really stopped feeling.

But I know it.

And that’s enough to make this night burn a little brighter.

Y/n’s pov

Brittany had a look in her eye — the kind that said, this next dress is the one. She moved like a woman on a mission, holding the blush pink gown delicately in her arms like it was art.

“Okay,” she grinned, “time to give them something soft but unforgettable.”

I laughed nervously, the adrenaline from the first part of the night still humming beneath my skin. My palms were sweaty, but Paige’s were steady and cool as she reached for my hands.

“Here,” she said softly, fingers wrapping around mine, “I got you, lover girl.”

I held on tight as I stepped out of my first look. Paige didn’t let go, even when Brittany started easing the new dress over my hips. The fabric was cool, silky, and it slipped into place like a whispered secret. Paige’s hands found my waist for balance while I stepped into the blush pink heels Brittany passed me — delicate things with wraparound straps that matched the dress exactly.

The gown hugged me in all the right places. Ruching drew my waist in, the cowl neckline dipping low with soft elegance, while the high slit on my right leg made me feel like I could command the room with just one step.

I turned away from Paige and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, the silver cross necklace Brittany fastened at my collarbone gleaming under the lights, and my breath caught.

“Damn, baby” Paige whispered behind me. “You’re… wow.”

I turned my head slightly, our eyes meeting the second I looked back. “You think this is too much?”

Paige shook her head slowly. “No. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Brittany smirked stepping away from me. “That’s the look. A whisper dipped in blush.”

The fabric is soft and dreamy, with delicate shade of pink that catches the light like stardust.

I slip on new earrings — small teardrop diamonds that dangle and dance with every turn of my head.

Paige pulling me into her body and lowers her head to mine. Our foreheads press together, a familiar gravity pulling us close.

“This feels real,” she whispers, breath warm against my lips. “Too real.”

I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “Because it is.”

She nods, her thumb brushing against the dip in my back. “If I kiss you now…”

“Nope. No kissing. No lipstick smudging,” Brittany cuts in from the other side of the room, not even glancing up from steaming Paige’s second look — a stunning, all-black Louis Vuitton masterpiece that looks like it was tailored in the shadows of a Paris runway.

“You’re evil, Britt.” Paige mutters without letting go of me.

“I’m practical,” Brittany fires back. “Kiss her after the event. Or before the cameras come back. Not now. Not when I just fixed that lip line.”

I laugh, resting my head against Paige’s shoulder. “Rain check?”

She gives me a wink. “I’m collecting with interest.”

Ten Minutes Later

Brittany helps Paige step into her second look and honestly, I had so forgot how to breathe for a second.

She was already beautiful, but this? This was something else. The tailored black suit hugged every line of her frame like it was made by hand—and knowing Brittany, it was damn near close.

Beaded lapels shimmered subtly with each step she took, catching the light like stars on midnight fabric. The jacket was buttoned low, just enough to make it clear there was nothing underneath. No shirt. No bralette. Just skin and the kind of confidence only she could wear so naturally.

Her hair had now been pulled back loosely with Bobby pins, since her first look, strands flowing loosely, a soft beach like wave curls brushing past her collarbone. She looked powerful. Elegant. Dangerously calm.

“You like?” Paige asked, her voice soft but edged with mischief.

“Is that even a real question?” I breathed, still staring. “You look… insane.”

She grinned and turned slightly, pretending to check her profile in the full-length mirror—though I caught her watching me through the reflection instead. “Britt said I needed to bring out the ‘draft night closer energy.’ So.”

“Well, you just shut the whole show down,” I said, stepping toward her. I ran my hand down the lapel, feeling the intricate beadwork under my fingers, then rested my palm flat against her chest, just over her heart. “You’re gonna break the internet.”

She leaned in, just enough that her lips brushed my ear. “Good.”

Brittany made a noise of faux disgust behind us. “Okay, lovebirds, save the flirting for the after party. Let’s go.”

“I wish we were sitting together,” she says quietly, eyes flickering to mine.

I reach for her hand, squeezing once. “We’ll meet in the middle.”

Before we leave, she pulls me in again — a fast kiss, not long enough to ruin my makeup, just enough to say I’m yours.

I pull back slowly and look her up and down one last time this close in private space.

She smirks, stepping closer again, just cause she knew what she was doing. “You sure you can walk away from me after that kiss?”

“I’ll try.”

And we kiss again. Quick. Soft. Charged like every second matters. Her hand stays on my waist a beat too long.

When we pull back, she exhales. “Go. I’ll be down in a sec.”

I’m the first to walk back out. As I make my way through the venue, I spot Paige’s table near the center — her mom is mid-laugh, her dad standing behind his chair, and Azzi is already seated next to an open chair — Paige’s.

I walk up like I’ve done a dozen times before.

“Hi, Mama,” I smile, giving her a quick hug. “Hi, Mr. B.”

He pulls me into a warm hug. “Wow, you’re all grown up. I’m so proud of you, Y/n, I really am. You did great kiddo.”

They both beam like I’m family. Like I’ve always been.

Azzi stands to hug me, warm and tight. “You’re beautiful,” she says in my ear, soft and honest. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I wave at Coach Geno as I slip away to my own — where a custom basketball sits in the middle with my name on it, flanked by my family. I sit down, stealing one last glance across the venue.

That’s when Paige walks in again — new outfit, new vibe, same soul.

She catches my eye from across the floor and sends a quick, subtle wave.

I mouth, I see you.

And she mouths back, Always.

I tuck the smile into my cheek, turning just in time as the lights begin to dim very slightly, one the announcer’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. A hush of anticipation blankets the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 2025 WNBA Draft.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[coveofsecrets]

“𝙷𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝙱𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝙻𝚒𝚙𝚜”

-> Platonic! Yandere! Whitebeard Pirates x reader

-> Warnings: small descriptions of violence, attempted kidnap, implied reader having an abusive family, drugging (didn’t actually happen), tugging on self’s hair, possible ooc-ness since this is my first time writing for Whitebeard pirates

-> Word Count: 4.5k words

-> This was HEAVILY inspired by @rollinouttahere-writes’s vampire Ace au!!! Most of the ideas/hcs(?) here is from them. I just felt really inspired from their au, so I wanted to write this!!! If anything seems historically inaccurate, please let me know! Also, even if it says Whitebeard Pirates, it’s… mainly just. Thatch. I love him too much <3.

─── ✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

"Eat up."

A bowl is held out to you; one full of thick liquid and solid things, contents sloshing inside of the container as it’s moved towards you.

"I haven't cooked human food in a long time, but I largely remember how to make it, so it shouldn't be too bad."

The person holding the bowl of soup gestures in your way, silently asking you to take it.

Honestly, it doesn't look bad.

In fact, it looks delicious.

Filling, too.

An orange color, bits and pieces of meat and vegetables peeking through the liquid, soup bubbling due to the soup’s warmth…

Your stomach rumbles.

The one across from you tilts his head, lips pulling into a fang-bared smirk as his black eyes raise in knowing mirth.

Despite the aching in your midsection, you look away from the man, pushing the soup away from yourself- a bit too rough, with how some of it has spilled out.

"No thanks," You grit out, poorly concealing your distaste for the vampire. "I… have rations in my bag."

A laugh is all that comes as a response, the soup pushed towards you to the point it invades your vision.

"Not to be rude, but your bag looks near to empty," He points out, "Whatever you've got in there won't last you to the next town."

He's right.

He's right and you know it.

He's right, you know it, and you know that he knows.

The only things being a half-eaten apple and a reusable water bottle in your traveling bag, it doesn’t take a genius to guess there’s not much in there.

...you wanna rip your hair out.

A scowl making its way onto your face, you practically bare your teeth at the one before you.

"So? I have no reason to accept food from you, Thatch. For all I know, this shit could be drugged! Hell, I wouldn’t even be surprised, because all you’ve ever done for me is make my life more difficult than it needs to be!”

Well, Thatch is not the main aspect of your headache.

Rather, he's a part of that problem.

A ginormous, powerful, and vampiric problem.

To frame what’s been going on, it all started a long time ago (a year), in a run-down establishment you managed to find for temporary shelter (a gas station off to the side of the street), where you met a man who had the look of a person with nobody to call his own family (he seemed lonely), standing in wait to sacrifice a part of what was to his name (he was waiting for the customer in front of him to stop arguing with the cashier).

Since you also needed to sacrifice a part of your dignity, you were behind him.

Thus, with the two of you bored, interaction sprouted- quite beautifully, in fact. A stem of a topic took place, leaves of conversation forming, and flowers of bonds blooming.

It was nice.

Ace, as he called himself, was nice.

Being one of the first people you talked to after moving out, that guy was... pretty cool.

A warm fire, heating up your palms and sending its head across your body, letting you find comfort from the stormy winters outside.

Until the fire turned hot, scathing, forcing you to pull your hands back before the skin burned off from the muscle.

"Thirteen?" Ace echoes, "That's a young age to be traveling. Do your parents know about this?"

To that, you stiffen, and the man seems to piece together a bit of your situation, moving on from his question.

“You don’t have to answer that, but… going exploring at a young age probably isn't good for you. Lots of people would love to hurt a young thing like you.”

You sigh, "I know, I know… but, I just… can’t necessarily find anybody to travel with? I mean-” A laugh is forced out of your throat. “I don’t think any other thirteen-year-olds are exploring the world. Plus, l've been fine so far, haven't l? I'm in one piece."

Ace's eyebrows furrow. "Haven’t you been only going around for a month? That's too little time to make any sort of assumption. I'm not saying you should go back to your parents, though.”

Oh.

You feel your shoulders droop.

Well that's nice to hear.

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that it’s best to stick with a group, for now.” He reaches a hand up, rubbing at the back of his neck. “And assuming you don’t exactly have anybody to travel with, how about traveling with me for a bit? I’ll introduce you to this group I’m with. They’re pretty groovy, been with them for a few decades-”

Decades? This guy doesn't look a day over nineteen.

"-and they’re absolutely wonderful.” As he speaks about his buddies, you notice how Ace’s tone has gotten softer- warm, like the sun retreating into the mountains to offer the people underneath it respite from its fiery wrath. “We’re like a family, always taking care of each other and making sure we’re not too reckless. Pops makes sure it’s that way.”

Pops???

"If you stay with them, you'll be safe. I'm sure they'll treat you nicely. Whaddya say?”

Expectantly, Ace looks at you, a kind smile on his face as he waits for your answer.

The only thing you can answer with is silence, as you ponder his proposal.

The Whitebeard Vampires…?

Vampires??

You've heard about certain groups that go around.

Traveling groups, to be more specific.

Some are wannabe hippies who only do drugs and preach about love and acceptance as a joke, others are dangerous gangs that hurt defenseless people in order to fulfill whatever sick desires they have.

The Whitebeard Vampires, though…

You can vaguely remember hearing about them every now and then; small whispers among townspeople, newspapers bored (usually old) individuals read, and WANTED signs brought up on TV.

So really, all you know about them is that they’re popular, and also illegal- any other information is now up to you to imply.

Vampires... mythical bloodsuckers, right? I don't exactly know what the 'Whitebeard' stands for, but ‘vampire' could imply something more sinister, like blood…

All of a sudden, the smile on Ace's face doesn't look friendly anymore.

No longer the setting sun, it is now the star that rises from the mountains, preparing to enact scathing hot violence for the denizens of its green empire.

Yeah, no. I'm not taking any chances.

Hesitantly, you smile.

"I, uh, appreciate the offer, but I'm good!" Is your answer.

Your newly made acquaintance’s face falls.

You feel as if a mistake has been made.

Before you could remedy the situation, though, Ace is quick to speak.

“Listen,” Your name is huffed out. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep on travelling alone. Being absolutely straightforward with you, I’m worried. I mean, any sensible person would be. Imagine seeing some eight year old out by themself- you’d be worried, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess, yeah, but I’m not eight?”

Why is he insisting after I said ‘no’?

Ace sighs, “You’re right. You’re not eight, but to me, somebody who’s a lot older than you, you seem that way- and seeing you all alone, it’s worrying. Staying with the Whitebeard Vampires is the best choice for you; you haven’t been travelling for long, and you’re likely unaware of the dangers out there. You could get kidnapped, or maybe worse. You’re lucky to have been safe so far, but who knows what could happen later? Hell, right when you leave the store?”

This is uncomfortable.

Deciding that turning him down politely won’t work anymore, you decide to be firm in your response.

“Listen, I really do appreciate the offer, but I’m fine. Plus, as much as it was fun talking to you, I barely know you, so why would I join some group I don’t even know about?” As you speak, the previous calm you felt is erased, stress taking over once more.. “You’re making me uncomfortable, and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop.”

The older one’s mouth snaps shut.

For a moment, you feel relieved, but it’s soon burnt away when his expression turns steely, lips spreading into a thin line and eyes narrowing in a way that seems like he’s thinking of something you won’t like.

Before he could say anything, though, the customer in front of him finally, finally stops arguing with the cashier; he’s next in line to come up, and he turns back to the cashier, leaving you relieved that was the end of that.

Alas, God is real and he hates you.

Not even five seconds of stepping out of the store pass when your wrist is snatched and, all of a sudden, you’re being yanked across the street.

Wha-?!

The lights of the gas station blur by you, and you can barely see who is dragging you along in the dead of night.

You’re in an unfamiliar place, with nowhere to go home to, and you don’t even know who has you in such a tight grip.

You don’t know anything.

All these unknown variables, uncertainty in this very situation, unknown whether you’ll live or not, what might happen if you live, what might not happen if you die…

What’s going on-!

Your heart is seized by the cold hand of fear, and you’re not able to even think as a scream rips itself from your throat-

“STOP!”

You plant your feet firmly into the ground, trying to take your hand back from the thief.

Who is-?!

Your thoughts, an intelligible mess of screeching banshees, can’t do anything for you.

They can only drown in the sea of variables, flailing around to grab onto something, only for your thought’s oxygen supply to run out, running on the little rationality it has left.

All you can rely on is your body, activating your flight or flight, forcing your veins to feel as if they are pulsing. They beat and thrum against your skin; begging, pleading with you to escape the muscles that trap them and flee.

Flee, far away from the threat.

Flee, far away from the man who’s kidnapping you.

Flee, far away from…

“Don’t panic, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’ll just take you to see the Whitebeard Vampires, and you’ll see for yourself that it’s okay!”

The voice makes its way into your mind, a clear bell within the roar of screams in your head.

Recognizable, known, recent.

Ace?

His tone, calm and encouraging, does nothing to ease the fear running across your spine- in fact, his tranquility is only making everything worse.

I was right about my bad feeling!

The grasp on your heart only becomes tighter, stomach dropping to the pits of your midsection, vision becoming blurry with the terror you’re supposed to feel.

Uncaring of anybody who might turn to see the spectacle playing in this gas station, a sob escapes your lips.

“No, no, no! I don’t wanna!” You almost shriek, “I don’t wanna see your crew, I don’t wanna! Let me go- LET ME GO!”

Another fruitless yank from your side, another fruitful tug from the other side; you’re almost sent stumbling, having to catch yourself before face planting.

Ace, his voice a bit more rough now, continues to speak against your fright. “It’ll be okay, really! Cmon, just give it a- chance-!”

With a grunt, he tugs on your arm again, and you can’t do anything but follow.

“It’s for your own good,” Your name is said through a bite, “I’ve got food inside, so you’re not gonna go hungry!”

What the hell is he saying-?!

“Does that matter?!” You cry, “Let go, let me go-! I don’t wanna go-!”

Before you could prepare to tug at his arm again, somebody shoves the two of you apart- an old man, you think, coming to your rescue.

He turns, yelling at Ace; the words are unknown to you, as you took the opportunity to escape.

Ever since then, you’ve met all sorts of people from that gang of his.

A samurai looking as if he’s from the Edo period, a doctor dressed as if he time traveled from the Black Plague, and a swordsman seeming like he was there when the British colonized India.

Without fail, when they found you- whether by individuals or them in a group- they have tried to recruit you into the same group Ace is in.

Threatening, coaxing, or storytelling; many tactics were implemented to try and take you in as one of them. The storytelling almost worked on you once.

Grand adventures the Whitebeard Pirates go on; exploring land nobody dared set foot on before, collecting treasure that shines brighter than all of the stars in the sky, and experiencing freedom unbound by any rules or regulations…

If it weren’t for the fact that they seemed like a dangerous bunch, you would’ve joined.

And, also, if they weren’t vampires.

…yep.

Apparently, the name Whitebeard Vampires was meant to be literal.

Whitebeard for the name of their leader, and Vampires for the fact that everybody in that crew is a one of those bloodsuckers.

You learned it from that fancy, British-looking guy a few months back… what was his name again? Vest? You don’t really remember. All you could focus on was the revelation that the mythical beasts you’d wet the bed over as a child were real.

Snapped out of reminiscence, Thatch’s voice brings you back to reality.

“Listen kid, I know that our methods may seem…” The vampire pauses. “Unorthodox, but it comes from a place of concern.” His tone is, for a creature such as him, surprisingly soft.

Almost fatherly.

It… it almost reminds you of, when you were young, how your dad would crouch down to be eye-level with you, gently explaining why you should or shouldn’t do something.

“All we know is that you refuse to go to your home, and we’re not going to question it, but we want to see a kid like you safe and happy.”

…you feel small.

“You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know if I’m happy out here.”

A pathetic defense from you, but Thatch takes it as a real one.

“You’re right, we don’t. All we know is that you’re some kid who’s sticking it out on their own. You could be happy, but my crewmates have noticed how they see you suffering, whenever they find you. Throwing up, blood on your face, or a bone broken… isn’t that reason enough to be worried?”

In front of you, fire crackles, shadows flickering across his face.

Through that dancing, one expression remains clear:

Worry.

“We’re not trying to harm you, kid. We’re just trying to help. I’m just trying to help, especially now. I mean-” A small chuckle, “I don’t think you’re going to make it far with that injury of yours.”

It doesn’t take a genius to guess he’s talking about the nasty gash on your leg, caused by the chance encounter with a humanoid wolf thing.

You bring your leg close to you; a pathetic attempt to hide your injury. “shut up,” you mumble, “I can make it just fine.”

The cook raises a nonexistent eyebrow. “Really?” He leans forward. “Just a few minutes ago, didn’t you collapse when trying to stand?”

To that, you say nothing, letting silence occupy the both of you for a bit.

Soon, Thatch sighs, “Listen, just… take the food, kid. We’re not trying to harm you.”

“How am I supposed to know?”

You feel so, so small.

The man speaking gently towards you, stern yet kind, can’t help but make you feel as if you’re a child learning how to regulate your emotions for the first time.

You hate it.

You hate it so much.

Who does he think he is, treating you like some sort of kid? Some sort of- of- dependent, needing an adult to hold their hand and keep them safe from all the dangers of the world!

You’re not like that.

You’re far from that!

You’re independent, you’re strong; hell, you’re not home right now because of your strength!

So who does he, the man who’s been making everything miserable for you, think he is, huh?!

“Ever since I’ve started travelling…” Your voice, a low growl, soon rises to a yell. “You lot have been nothing but trouble for me! First, I have to deal with randoms trying to kidnap and sell me for profit, then constant injuries ‘cause of falling down and breaking something, and now, I have to deal with you lot?! For the past year, everywhere I go, you guys are always there! All I wanted-” a rough wheeze, “All that I wanted was just to get away from my parents, but you just have to fuck everything up!”

You’re not sure why you’re being so emotional right now.

Maybe it’s due to the throbbing in your leg that’s travelling all the way to your head, or the stress of the trip that’s only built up from its starting point.

Either way, you’ve opened your lips, and now, Pandora’s Box can’t be closed.

“I hate it- I hate it all! I hate how you’ve made everything worse- I hate you! I hate you and your stupid crew, and I’d wish you all would go die!”

If you were in less of an emotional state, you would’ve noticed that the forest has gone quiet due to your volume.

“Out of the frying pan, and into the fucking sun, I guess! First I had to deal with parents who won't respect my basic rights, and now I have to deal with vampires who want to suck my blood?!”

Like a pressure cooker that’s exploding, you continue to yell at Thatch, uncaring of any consequences that might follow.

He deserves it, after all- he and his stupid crew deserves it, for making your life a living hell!

“I thought I’d be happy, y’know! I thought- I thought that after getting kicked out-”

The event is fresh in your mind.

Painfully vivid, you can remember being in the house you’ve grown up in, with your parents in the living room you’re so used to; you all were screaming at one another, throwing things, calling each other names, and exchanging fists until you were thrown out, told to never show your face here again.

No matter how long it’s been, the memory still hurts when you think about it.

Like the tears in your eyes, it still stings.

“-that I’d be fine, that- that I could stick it out. But now… now, I have to deal with everything that wants to kill me!”

At this point, you’re screaming at the vampire.

The horrible vampire, who says nothing as you break down in front of him- who looks at you with such warmth, eyes full of kindness for the screaming teenager in front of him.

The evil creature, who’s lips upturned are nothing if not compassionate, treating your problems as if they are real.

The monstrous thing, whose expression reminds you of your mother’s.

“Not just your stupid crew,”

You violently jab a finger in Thatch’s direction.

“But everything! Faeries, centaurs, and other people, too!”

A sharp pain comes into your scalp.

You’re tugging on your hair.

“I thought- I don’t- I don’t know what I was thinking!”

What am I even saying?

What’s coming out of your mouth, is now indecipherable to your ears.

Covered up and muffled by the heavy weight of your stress, brain muddled by all of it coming to crash down on you all at once, you don’t know what you want to say.

All you do know is that you want to scream.

So you do it.

You scream, cry, and wail at him with all of your might, screeching your grievances towards the monster that dares sit by you, as if he’s your friend!

As if he deserves to act like somebody that has your best intentions in mind, when in reality, all he wants to do suck your blood and then throw your corpse out to the rest of the mythical beasts that exist, letting them rip your remains apart.

He’s no different than those other monsters.

He’s no different than the faeries that try to steal your life, no different than the centaurs that want to make you a flattened mess of broken bones and burst organs, and certainly not any different than the rest of his kind that wants to drain you of your blood.

He’s no different.

So you throw everything you have at him.

You throw all of your insults, your trauma, your stress onto him.

Maybe it’s to make him understand what you’ve been through because of him so that he and his crew stop harassing you.

Maybe it’s because you need somebody to listen to your woes, to hear you out on all that’s been harming you since you’ve started to travel.

You don’t know.

All you know is that by the end of your fit, you’re a mess.

A weak, exhausted, vulnerable mess, able to be toyed with by the demon in disguise.

Yet, to your surprise, nothing happens to you.

Nobody roughly grabs you, hurts you, or even so much as laughs at you.

The only thing that happens is that the smell of soup wafts over to your nose, making an excess of saliva build up in your mouth.

“Seriously?”

Your voice stuffy as you speak, you lift your head up; Thatch is sitting next to you, the bowl of soup held closer.

To answer, the vampire warmly- gently, like a cool rain of shower dabbing your skin- smiles at you.

“That breakdown of yours probably took a lot out of you. It’s good to regain your energy.”

…you hate how much he reminds you of his parents.

Before everything went bad, at least.

When your dad would give you those carefree, easy grins, hoisting you over his shoulders to let you see over seas of people; your mother right next to him, laughing with your amazement of the scenery before you.

You miss them.

You miss them a lot.

Even if it was, in a sense, your own choice and fault you got kicked out, you can’t help but want to go back to your old house.

To experience what was already experienced, to feel the warmth you’ve felt before, and most importantly…

To be loved, like you were once before.

What’s done is done, though, and the actions you’ve taken have led you to your predicament.

Stuck with a vampire, who probably drugged your food so he can kidnap you and suck your blood later.

But…

…For these past few hours, he’s been nothing but kind.

At any moment in time, he could’ve just killed you- snapped your neck and drained you of your blood- with your bad leg and exhausted state, you wouldn’t even be able to run.

Thatch didn’t do any of that.

Throughout your tirade, he smiled kindly at you as he listened, not interrupting once, even when you slandered he and his crew.

Hell, he even made you food.

The vampire, who can’t taste human food, decided to make something edible for you.

He’s from the same crew as all those other vampires, but… maybe you should give him a chance?

Maybe.

Possibly.

…

A quick ‘screw off’ flying off your mouth, you snatch the food from Thatch, contents inside shaking with your hands.

Hopefully it doesn’t take like shit.

He did say he hasn’t cooked this kind of thing in a while…

Hesitation grabbing hold of your phalanges, you have to force yourself to move past it, lifting the wooden bowl up to your lips so the liquid can shyly touch your lips.

…huh.

The broth dances over your tongue, blessing its taste buds with the faint taste of chicken as slides down your throat, soothing the strained muscle with a sweet lullaby, your belly warming up from the gentle fire it carries-

…huh!

This is… this is one of the best meals you’ve ever had!

Mm!

And without a second thought, you scarf the thing down.

Practically chugging the dish, you allow the chicken to go down with little chewing, the other fruits (tomato? Lettuce??) adding a lovely harmony to the lullaby.

Oh, how delicious!

Truly, this is wonderful cooking; cooking that should be brought to the best chefs in the world and praised for its superior taste.

Off to the side, you hear the cook laugh, a ‘slow down, you’re gonna choke!’ leaving him.

You find yourself caring less about his warning.

All you can care about is this dish from the Gods, granting a blessing of survival and flavor to you, allowing you to live and enjoy what you’re eating.

Whatever god out there exists, thank you.

Within too short of a timeframe, you finish your soup. Your stomach is filled and pleasantly warm, your body once again able to produce energy for you.

Yet, all that energy is transferred to the action of closing your eyes, exhaustion washing over your body.

That breakdown you had must’ve taken a lot out of you…

“How was it?”

A hand wraps around your shoulders, and you’re pulled close to Thatch, the person’s chest used as a support pillar for you.

You hum, “It was good…” hands coming up to try and push against him, not appreciating the close contact. “Really good.”

…you can’t… push away.

You’re too weak.

Within the swamp of your mind, something sharp pricks into the mud.

You could be too tired to push away, but… it’s odd.

You have nothing to fight with.

No energy.

None.

The pricking turns into a full-on stab, creating a hole within your consciousness.

I have no energy.

“Why am…”

The words die on your tongue, syllables too heavy to force through your teeth.

Oh no.

This isn’t normal.

The lack of energy isn’t normal.

The way you can barely speak isn’t normal.

The way everything around you has become blurry, Thatch’s face nothing more than a mesh of colors, isn’t normal.

He did something.

He did something.

He did something to your food-

You feel yourself shift, the white coat of the cook all you can see.

He-!

Your teeth grit. “You…!”

“Shh…” Thatch interrupts, “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m not… hurt y… didn… ythi…”

What the hell…?

Whatever he’s saying is gibberish from the sea floor of your hearing; all the while black dots slowly accumulate your vision, brain begging to leave the cage of your skull-

No-!

No matter how much you fight, you fall unconscious, pliant to whatever Thatch plans for you.

-

“Damn���”

Looking down at your form, Thatch winces.

“You’ve really been through it.”

Sunken eyes, broken leg, permanently-knitted eyebrows…

How did you manage to live this long?

The cook hums, holding you a bit tighter against himself.

Facing so much danger, all on your own… he didn’t even need to drug your food. You just- fell asleep after eating his untouched cooking, because you were that tired.

And starving, possibly.

…god. He hates that thought.

Though, he supposes that doesn’t matter now.

From now on, you’ll be safe in Pops’ care.

Never again, will you have to think if you’ll have only a singular meal today.

Never again, will you have to worry about whether or not you’ll survive the next day.

Never again, will you have to recover alone from the mortal danger you faced yesterday.

Not as long as you’re with Pops.

[sunskisser]

hellooo, hope you’re doing well! could you write a hurt/comfort for poly!marauders with dhampir reader, specifically the headcannon where Remus and reader go on walks and talk about their insecurities regarding their identity. reader talks about their immortality and that they fear the day the marauders are gone, maybe James and Sirius come in and comfort reader? Idk just make it as painful as possible, thank you sm!!

aaaa yes!! thank you so much for the request babe <3 this is my first time writing a poly!marauders fic, so i hope i got the dynamics right :, )

for anyone wondering, the headcanon the anon was referring to can be found here

alone | poly!marauders

tw: two mentions of sex, but absolutely nothing explicit

half-vampire, half-witch!reader, poly!marauders x reader

“Dove,” Remus breathes, a false picture of calmness even though concern seeps into his tone. “Deep breaths, please. Deep breaths for me.”

His thumb continued to apply gentle pressure between your shoulder blades as you sit there, red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Remus thinks he can feel his heart breaking everytime you sniffle, the pitiful sound from deep inside your chest.

The two of you sit by the black lake, the moon lighting up the space. This was almost a weekly occurrence; both of you pulling yourselves out of your other two boyfriends’ sleepy embraces to sneak out and sit together on the expanse of grass.

You’d talk about the blood-thirsty monsters haunting parts of you till the sun started to rise, and fall asleep holding each other’s hands. The next morning, you’d wake up on the grass wrapped in James’ arms with Sirius peppering kisses all over your faces, and everything would be alright again.

This time was different, though; Remus knew it, and he was sure that by some form of instinct, James and Sirius would be able to sense it too despite the distance.

You were absolutely distraught, and he had no idea why. The two of you were sitting in silence when you broke down all of a sudden, and now he was desperate to make you smile again.

He was right — soon enough, the shuffling of leaves and poorly concealed whispers could be heard behind you.

“I told you something was wrong!”

“What? What’s wrong? The only thing wrong here is that they’re getting cosy without us!” Remus can hear Sirius grumbling, unable to stop a small smile from curving his lips despite the situation.

“Pads! She’s crying,” James huffs quietly.

Within seconds, Sirius rushes to crouch down in front of you, his eyes wide with panic. His eyebrows are bunched in concern, mouth set in a frown. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice coming out shriller than he intended to.

You tense and shrug noncommittally, gaze fixed on the ground as you try to blink away the tears blurring your vision. He softens slightly upon seeing the look on your face and gently takes your hands.

Sirius opens his mouth to speak again but James holds a finger to his lips, a silent plea to let you be. He rolls his eyes but keeps his mouth closed, starting to rub your palms with his thumbs.

James looks at Remus quizzically for an explanation, to which he shrugs — he had no idea what had triggered you so terribly. James sighs, and you feel his warmth instantly as he sits down beside you.

“Hi angel,” he murmurs, turning to you with a small smile. He reaches out and brushes a few strands of hair off your face, and you find yourself involuntarily leaning into his touch.

“Hello,” you mumble.

James feels his heart sink at the sound of your defeated voice, and he can tell how much effort it was taking you to hold back tears. “Can you tell us why you’re upset?”

“I… I don’t—“ you warble, “I’m fine, really.”

It takes all of Sirius’ willpower not to roll his eyes at your blatant lie. “Love, you’re crying. Just spit it out.”

Remus and James both turn to glare at Sirius, but he just shrugs and eyes you impatiently. Apparently, Sirius’ goad was all you needed to get you started. “I was just…. I don’t wanna be alone,” you croak pathetically.

Remus’ ministrations on your back still immediately, completely abandoning his project as he drops his arm to the ground. Sirius furrows his eyebrows, looking at you strangely as though you were some sort of crossword puzzle.

“Alone?” James echoed, pouting with puzzlement. “What… what do you mean, alone? You have us, sweetheart. We’re never leaving you.”

“Yeah,” Sirius pipes up, gently lifting one of your hands to press a chaste kiss to your knuckles.

“But you are,” you insist, and James can hear the desperation in your voice. He tugs you closer to him, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulder silently.

“Why would we ever leave you?” Remus speaks up softly, lifting a hand to gently comb through your hair. “What did we do to make you think that we would?”

“It’s not— you guys didn’t—“ you let out a frustrated sob, roughly raking your fingers through your hair. There was no easy way to go about this conversation, and you hated yourself for having to do this to them.

James makes a pitiful sound in the back of his throat and starts rubbing your arm encouragingly. He presses a quick kiss to your hairline, feeling more worried by the minute.

Sirius squeezes your hands firmly, applying pressure until it hurt and you finally raise your eyes to look at him. You’re scared of the anger, or worse — disappointment — you’d find, but there’s a bountiful amount of love in his gaze. He looks at you imploringly, saying nothing yet everything with his eyes.

You sigh shakily. “You’re all gonna die one day, and… and you’re gonna leave me here. Alone,” you warble, your voice growing softer with each word until your last one came out as a whisper. “And — and I’ll have to live without you, and I’ll be so loveless, and —“

James can’t take it anymore, and pulls you into his lap without warning, bringing your head to his chest. The walls of your dam start to break as you let out a sob, feeling the fear and sadness pouring out of you. He rubs small circles into your back, nestling his chin in your hair as he glances at his boyfriends worriedly.

You’re scared; to say the least. The three of them had been by your side for years, and your world revolved around them. You didn’t think you knew what else to live for if it wasn’t for them, their bright grins and heartfelt love. The way James crouched slightly to hug you, how Sirius pulled you into his side and peppered kisses all over your face, Remus’ hand in yours as he pressed his lips to your own — you didn’t think you could last a day without them and their endearing little quirks.

Living alone wasn’t something you had in you to do; because it wasn’t really living if it wasn’t with them. The thought of waking up in an empty bed sends a shudder through you as you squeeze your eyes impossibly tighter.

“Baby,” Sirius speaks softly, and your heart clenches at the way his voice cracks. He places a hand on the nape of your neck, slowly rubbing up and down. “Maybe… maybe you won’t have us in the future. But —“

That was the wrong thing to say, as you let out a wail and cling impossibly harder to James. Remus flicks the side of Sirius’ head chidingly as James rolls his eyes. Sirius lets out a sad exhale, blinking away tears. He never knows how to fix things.

The tall boy notices the way Sirius’ head was lowered, and immediately wraps both arms around him, pressing kisses to his hair. James tries not to smile upon seeing Sirius melt into his touch.

He locks eyes with Remus, and nods quietly to let him know he can handle it.

“Angel,” James coaxes softly. “Look up at me, please?”

You sniffle softly, raising your head to meet his gaze. James frowns when he sees your puffy red eyes, reaching out to wipe your tears.

“Do you love us for our bodies?”

The question catches you off guard, your eyebrows arching. Was he joking? In a situation like this? You hear the unmistakable sound of Remus snorting behind you. “What?”

“I said,” James repeated, “do you love us for our bodies?”

“No!” you splutter, some of your melancholy leaving to make way for confusion. “What — why —“

“Exactly,” James says firmly, immediately shutting you up with the sincerity in his voice. “You don’t love us for our bodies, for our physicality. You love us for us, for our love. And let me tell you, our love is something that’s gonna stay with you until the end of time.”

You immediately soften at his words. “But I won’t have you here, you won’t be —“

“We will,” James responds softly, jabbing a finger into the left side of your chest. “We will be here. Right here.”

You feel your heart swell with sad affection; feeling nostalgia towards something that hasn’t even happened yet.

Remus scoots forward to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling your back snug against his chest. “And we’re here with you now. We’re going to be with you for years, dove. We’re not going anywhere anytime soon, okay?”

You let your eyes flutter closed, let yourself indulge for a moment as you nod blindly. It was impossible for you to stay upset when your boys were comforting you with saccharine voices and sweet touches. Perhaps they were right, they always were.

You hear a sniffle from your left, and open your eyes to look at Sirius. He had tears running down his cheeks, and was looking at you with his mouth open and a heartbroken look on his face. Remus let out a quiet chuckle, and you turn to give him a death glare as you crawl out of his lap and over to Sirius.

Sirius immediately pulls you into a strangling hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he cries. “Why are you crying?” James questions, bemused with the slightest hint of concern in his tone.

“My poor baby, she’s gonna be all alone,” he blubbered, earning a small smile from you. He pulls away and raises his head to look at you, gripping your cheeks with a fervour and desperation you’ve never seen before. “I’m gonna write you a letter everyday, so you can read them all when I’m gone. And… and I’ll make you a scrapbook of my most handsome pictures.”

You smile indulgently at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he blabs on, wiping his nose. “And we can make sex tapes in case you’re extra horny when you’re old, and…”

“Okay, I think that’s enough,” Remus says loudly, earning a giggle from you as James swats the back of Sirius’ head.

You rest your head on Sirius’ shoulder, feeling James peck your cheek and Remus’ arm wrapping around your waist.

Grief was inevitable, but it was just love coming back to haunt you, wasn’t it? Even after they passed, you’d find them in the way the wind travels on chilly nights, the glimmer of the sun at dawn, and maybe even the occasional sex tape. In everything you see, you would see them.

Their unconditional devotion to you transcended the blurry lines of mortality, and you knew that as long as your heart continued to beat, they would never stop loving you. James was right — they had left the mark of their love in every corner of your heart and home; and weren’t ever going to leave you alone.

[admirationandromantics]

Tension-Filled Moments

Another request I got! Hope everything's fine with everyone, currently remodelling my posts, so I guess having some sort of intro here is obligatory? Anyways, requests are still open, so come with more if you want to. Enjoy! <3

Word count: 2,9 k

“Sam, I look ridiculous!” I complain, walking out of the fitting room. I’m wearing a horrid-looking orange-red dress. It highlights my worst features. 

“Okay, I hear you” she sighs. “It looked better on the rack, try the red one instead” she waves her hand dismissively, urging me to get this filth out of her vision. At least she didn’t have to wear it. I take it off, making sure to be careful. I swear to god, if I ruin this and have to pay for it, it’ll be the end of me. The end of my wallet to be specific. Anyone who bought this type of clothing should be ashamed of themselves. I hang it back on the handler, taking forth the red short dress and putting it over my head. It’s dark, fitting, with a neckline that’s a little too low. I love it. I walk out, spinning and parading in front of Sam, and she cheers in response. 

“That’s what I’m talking about! See, you kiss a thousand frogs, you’ll eventually find your prince!” 

“Well, all that time trying on outfits paid off when this was the result” I exclaim, turning and looking at myself in the mirror. I look amazing, hot, sexy. Just like I was planning. 

“Ashley’s wearing brown, right?” I ask, looking over. It was a colour-party, but since no one wanted a colour that had the same letter as the first one in their name, everyone improvised. Sam was gonna wear gold, Chris green, Matt orange… Everyone was different. “I know, she said she wanted to go for something homey, though I think she and Chris will match more than we think” she smirks, and I smile in response. How can the both of them be so oblivious? 

“Think anyone will end up in the same colour?” she asks, a bit worried. 

“Nah, I think Jess made sure of that. She was scared for the same thing” 

“Well then, nothing to worry about” 

***

We make our way up to the Washington residence, the cold autumn wind flowing through our hair. The music is loud enough to be heard from where we parked, and the lights inside are blinking furiously. Sam opens the door for me, and I walk inside, surprised by the lack of people. We are late, at least by half an hour, but only Ashley, Chris and the Washington siblings are here. 

“Hey guys” I greet, walking over. Ashley looks stunning. How can someone look so approachable and glamorous at once, in brown? Chris didn’t put his heart in the outfit, a dark green shirt and tie paired with black pants. Beth arrives, wearing a dark grey suit with a white undershirt. It looks amazing, exactly her style. 

“Hey girls” she greets, walking over to us. She holds out her hands to Sam, signalling for her to take off her jacket. 

“Wow, such gentleman behaviour” Sam comments, taking off her coat, revealing her glittering golden dress. She looks stunning, like a goddess. Everyone looks at her in awe, and I get a glimpse of a slight blush on both her and Beth’s faces. 

“You’re like the sun, like a literal glowing person” Hannah comments, walking past her sister and giving her a hug. She’s wearing a long dark purple dress, almost so dark I can’t see the colour. 

“Matches her personality” I state, opening my jacket to hang up. At this moment, I suddenly feel a warm presence behind me. Something dark, something big. Two hands go to my shoulders, slowly dragging off my jacket. 

“I guess I’ll take this” he whispers, and I immediately recognise the voice. The famous Josh Washington. His breath is going hot against my ear, sending small shivers down my spine. I let him pull off the clothing, painfully slow, head near my neck the entire encounter. I try not to blush, try not to let the erotic images in my head get to me, but it’s hard. Each second feels like several minutes, like the whole room goes dark and we’re the only ones here. 

Safe to say I might have a thing for Josh, but he’ll never know that. We’re those types of friends who always flirt, always take the joke a tad too far, always do something to fluster the other. Everyone has gotten used to it by now, our bickering and small comments. They are never mean, but always have some sort of suggestive undertone to them. As he whispers in my ear, no one pays attention, everyone being busy with each other. If they only knew what goes through my head every time he does something like this. 

I turn around, the jacket finally being far enough down to not be in the way. I meet his face, now awfully close to mine. The things I’m thinking about, the things I want to do right now… 

“Well, I guess chivalry goes in the family” I state, looking him up and down. He’s wearing all black. A black suit with a black shirt. His eyes stand out as the only colour shown. 

“Maybe it does, but you wearing that dress isn’t gonna make it last long” he whispers, just out of earshot for the others. 

“Say, are you staring down my chest right now Joshy?” I ask, a smirk forming on my lips. 

“Hard not to” 

“Funny guy”

“I try to be” 

I clap him on the shoulder in a joking manner before turning to walk over to the others. 

“Well, keep trying” 

They’ve started drinking, everyone having some sort of colourful drink. I grab a blue one, making my way to Hannah. 

“Wow, look at you!” she shrieks, eyes widened. “You look like you just came out of Vogue!” 

I laugh in response, thanking her. “What about you though, looking like you’re about to go to a gala”

She twirls in response, the dress following in a graceful manner. It is truly a stunning one, and the colour is breathtaking. We talk for a while, not about serious stuff, just random things that happened during the week. 

“Mike came to see me” she suddenly says, taking a long sip of her drink. I furrow my brows in confusion. 

“Why?” 

“Well, he had some down-time from his studies” she smiles, giving me a wink. A dark feeling grows in my chest. They’re not close friends, they never have been. 

“And you…” I start, hoping that she finishes my thought. 

“Oh no, no!” she laughs, waving her hand. “Nothing happened, of course not. I would never do that to Emily. We just talked” 

“Right” I sigh, uncomfortable with the whole situation. I know Emily is very insecure, at least deep down. I don’t think she would appreciate her boyfriend coming over to her friend late at night to talk. I look over at Sam, and she’s on her way to the bathroom. 

“I’ll be right back Hannah, just have to accompany Sam to the bathroom” I quickly say, making my way to the hall, following the blonde. 

“Psst, Sam!” I whisper-yell, and she turns around, noticing me. She shakes her head, holding her hands forth. 

“Let me come with you, please” I beg, making a pouty face. She rolls her eyes and signals for me to join her. 

“This better be important” she huffs, linking our arms as we walk down. 

“I just wanted a break, heard a little more than I wanted to” I state, relaxing against her. 

“The late visit Hannah got from Mike?” she asks, and I look at her face, confused by how she already knows it. She notices my stare and laughs, a small and gentle one. 

“Heard it from Beth” she explains, and I nod in reply. That makes sense. 

“How long do you need to be gone for?” she asks impatiently.

We stop, a couple of doors away from the bathroom, and I look at her accusingly. She seems anxious, like she doesn’t really want me here. 

“Sam, what’s going on? Are you okay?” I ask, sensing her impatience. 

“Um- I just” she starts, unsure of what to say next. A switch in my head clicks. She snuck out, she doesn’t want me here, and her cheeks are red and flushed. The realisation hits me in a flash. 

“You’re going to have sex with Beth in the bathroom!” I exclaim, proud of my mystery-solving skills. Her hand flies to my mouth, shutting me up. I didn’t realise how loud I was. 

“Are you insane” she scolds, and I immediately feel bad. 

“Sorry Sam” I muffle under her fingers.

Her hand moves away from my mouth, a little at first to check that I won’t scream. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep her away” Josh says, suddenly standing beside us. 

“Josh?” we both say in unison. What is he doing here? 

“I was just-” Sam starts, stammering even more than before. He holds a finger up, and she stops. 

“I absolutely DON’T want to know about my sister’s encounters. Please don’t make me kick you out”

Sam smiles in response, giving him a nod before continuing to the bathroom. She disappears down the hall. 

“Wow, you saved yourself a murder trial” I comment. “I was positive she was gonna kill me” 

“Nah, Sam couldn’t, but Beth would” he adds, holding out his hand for me. I take it, and we start walking back. 

“You know, you should wear suits more often” I say, looking over at him again. 

“Oh, really? Are you into this?” he smirks, eyes catching mine. 

“Maybe a little” I shoot back, and he takes a deep breath. Two can play this game, and he should know how easy it comes for me. I only say what I think. 

“Let’s say I were to slam you against this wall right now, and feel myself up your thigh” he starts, and my cheek flush. Thank god it’s dark here. “How would that make you feel?” 

I feel my heat getting wetter just from the thought. It would never happen, but it’s still something that I think about every night. Often ending in a cold shower. 

“Fine, we can both do this” I say, and he gives me an intriguing look, eager to see what I can come up with. “Let’s say, Josh, I was to slam you against this wall. I would kiss your neck, bite your skin…” I continue, stopping us, and letting my finger trail his upper body. I slowly move it down as I continue. “And I would bend down in front of you, lower, and lower, and lower” I say, each repeating word slower and more sensual than the last. His breath quickens as my hand makes it to his lower stomach. He’s quick to take hold of my wrist before it goes further. 

“You’re good at this” he whispers, faces closing in. He smells good, a mix of pine and cinnamon.

“Don’t start a fight you can’t win Josh” I tease, dragging him over to the party. 

The others have finally arrived. Jess in a stunning light blue, Emily in glittering silver, Mike in white and Matt in orange. 

“Hey guys!” I greet them. Jess gives me a loud shriek, jumping up and down like a child. 

“You look beautiful!” 

“So do you, Jess” I exclaim, and she gives me a little spin. I look over at Emily. She’s got shiny silver pearls in her hair, complimenting her 20s dress. Classy and elegant, like she always is. Hannah approaches her and Mike, and I take that as a sign to leave. If something breaks out, I don’t want to stand in the middle. 

I walk to the kitchen, quick to make myself a drink. I don’t care about which colour, just that it’s strong. Suddenly, a hand makes its way to my waist, grabbing my skin harshly. I bite my lip to stop a sound about to escape from my mouth. If he only knew what doing these small things did to me. Not only this, but the small touches too. The slight brush of our fingers when walking past each other, those beautiful eyes narrowing just a bit, that small lick to his lip whilst talking. Everything gets me going, and it’s exhausting. I turn around to face the culprit. 

“Well, hello again” I smile. 

“Felt the need for another break so quickly? You were barely out” Josh comments. Again, everything seems to fade away as we talk, every single person and object being blurred out in the background. 

“Or maybe I just wanted to get your attention” I tease, biting my lip a tad too noticeable. He glances down at them, his own lips parting slightly in response. 

“You certainly got it” he whispers back, head slowly moving closer to mine. 

“Guys!” Chris shouts, running into the kitchen and slamming the door close. The heat of the moment fades as fast as it came. 

“What’s up Chris?” I ask, and Josh takes a step back, moving to lean on the counter on the opposite side of me. Chris is panting heavily, a light pink shade covering his cheeks. 

“Calm down bro, what’s going on?” 

“I think I’m about to fuck Ashley”

I stare at him, eyes widened. Where did this come from? I thought this would take an eternity for the both of them. 

“Chris, you need to take a breather” I state, holding my hands up for him to calm down. “We already know you want to, but you’re about to?” 

“It just- it happened so fast!” he exclaims, rambling on. 

“Wait, have you already had sex with her? How many people are gonna take advantage of my house tonight?” Josh asks, looking over at me. I smile. 

“Everyone but you darling”

“Oh, but believe me, princess, I’ve got someone on the hook tonight” he winks, and I roll my eyes. 

“Guys listen to me!” Chris yells, stealing our focus back to him. “We were in the hallway, and I think we’re both drunk, I don’t know-”

“You’re definitely both drunk” I interrupt, earning a glare in response. 

“Anyway, and the moment was there, everything was heating up and… Well, she kissed me” 

“Oh my god!” I exclaim. Finally it happened. 

“Dude, are you serious? Well done!” Josh moves to give him a high five, but Chris leaves him hanging, causing him to disappointedly take down his hand again. 

“And what happened after?” I ask, intrigued and excited. 

“Well, we made out for a while, and she said something about ‘being sooooo tired’ so I ran over here to you guys” 

We both look at him, mouths wide open. He just left? She gave him such a hint and he came here instead of being with her? 

“Dude, you messed up” Josh says, hand moving to his head. 

“Ashley is probably waiting for you” I add. It’s like he has a major realisation, eyes widening and a surprised look. 

“Shit, shit, shit” 

“Run man!” Josh urges, and Chris thanks us before running out of the kitchen again. 

When he leaves, I look over at Josh, who’s already facing me. We both burst out laughing, and keep going for at least two minutes. We finally calm down after a bit, and I try to regulate my pulse. 

“God, I can’t breathe” I smile, flapping my hands for air. I feel hot, my face is probably super red and my stomach hurts from all the laughing. 

“You know, there’s other ways to get your breathing like that” he says, and I look up to find him smirking, both hands leaning on the counter behind him. He looks stunning in the black suit, and I can already imagine him taking off the jacket and choking me against the wall. 

“Does that do something to you?” he asks, biting his lip. 

“I’m positively dripping right here where I stand” I answer, not exactly lying. 

“Then you know how I felt in the hallway” 

“Luckily for me, it doesn’t show, you however” I say, pointing to his nether region. 

“You think I don’t know when I turn you on?” He takes some steps closer, leaning a bit over me. 

“As if you’ve ever seen me turned on” I whisper seductively. 

“Trust me, I know. There’s a slight blush on your cheeks” he starts, hand moving to cup my face. “And your body gets incredibly warm” he continues, the other hand moving to my arm. “Of course, there’s also those small squirms, the way you subtly rub your thighs together, as if waiting for me to do something about it” his hand graces down my arm, following down to my hips. 

There’s no air in the room, no way to breathe. His face gradually moves closer, heads tilting a little in opposite directions. My heat pools as his hands continue feeling me up, groping me. One flies to the back of my head, tangling in my hair and pushing me towards him. His hot breath graces my skin, the smell of alcohol and wood mixing. Or noses touch, and- 

The door abruptly opens, and Emily barges in. We hop away from one another. 

“Fucking hell Josh, can you please control your sister?” she asks, irritated and going right for the strong stuff. 

“What’s going on Em?” I ask, almost afraid of the answer. 

“She’s all over Mike, my Mike!” she shouts pouring her drink all the way to the brim of the glass.

“Just chill Emily, everyone knows he’s your boyfriend, she’s not gonna do anything” Josh says, trying to calm her down. 

“You’re right, at least she won’t if her big brother is in the room. Come on, both of you!” she urges, waving her hands like one does with dogs. We look at each other before obliging, walking with her out to the living room.

[cece693]

Cece!!!! drop another fic and my life is yours!!!!!!

I love the joker fic you wrote. I love love love it. Please i humbly request that you maybe write a part 2. I really enjoyed it.

Please and thank you <3

Painted Devotion Pt. 2

pairing: the joker x male reader tags: harley quinn appearance, she's jay's wingwoman, never underestimate a girl's devotion to the crazy clown, kidnapping, forced to admit feelings

You thought you’d heard it all before. The Joker had been oddly insistent the last time you fought—proclaiming in that maddening cackle of his that he loved you. You brushed it off as another of his twisted jokes, something to keep you off-balance in the heat of battle. Heroes don’t fall for their arch-nemeses, right?

After that night, you did what any good, cape-wearing hero would do: you ignored it. Weeks passed. You put more thugs behind bars, broke up a few shady deals, and spent your evenings patrolling the city’s rooftops. Whenever the Joker’s name came up, you responded with the usual calm detachment. If the clown was serious, you reasoned, he’d show up again soon enough.

It turned out you weren’t wrong, but it wasn’t the Joker himself who paid you a visit first.

It all went down late on a Tuesday evening, when the city’s neon lights glowed under a cloudy sky. You jumped from building to building, scanning the streets below for trouble—typical hero business—when a sudden whack against your head turned everything to black.

You came to your senses strapped to a battered office chair in a musty old warehouse. Why were these villains always obsessed with warehouses? Blinking away the starbursts in your vision, you looked up to see the beaming face of Harley Quinn.

“Took ya long enough!” she chirped, tapping a bat against her shoulder. “I was thinkin’ you’d never wake up.”

You winced, testing the ropes around your wrists. “I don’t suppose you’d consider untying me, Harley?”

She only threw her head back in a bright, almost musical laugh. “Aw, you’re adorable—but no. Listen,” she leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I need you to see somethin’. And I know you’re all buddy-buddy with logic and morals and justice, so I figured I’d have to knock you out first to get ya here.”

Before you could protest, she hopped behind the chair and gave it a firm shove. You were forced to roll along the cracked concrete floor, deeper into the warehouse. Doors creaked. Muffled laughter (and maybe a scream or two) echoed down some corridor. Eventually, Harley kicked open a metal door and shoved you inside.

The room was…Well, let’s just say the décor put your most devoted fans’ ‘Wall of Weird’ scrapbooks to shame. You saw your face plastered on almost every surface—pictures from tabloids, newspaper clippings, freeze-frames from TV news. Some were ringed by messy hearts in red marker. A few were dotted with random notes, scrawled in that unmistakable loopy handwriting: “My favorite hero.” “Do-gooder with a spine.” “Ugh, I love to hate him.”

At the center of it all, like some twisted shrine, sat the Joker himself. Except…he looked different. His face was devoid of makeup, pale skin showing stubble along his jawline. The vibrant green hair was half faded, revealing scruffy brownish roots. His clothes were wrinkled and rumpled, like he’d been wearing the same outfit for days (and by the smell, he probably had). He stared blankly at the collage of your photos on the wall, barely acknowledging your entrance.

Your eyes flicked around the room. “What is this?”

Harley prodded the back of your chair again, rolling you closer. “This is our problem, handsome. Mistah J’s been moping around for weeks—weeks!—all ‘cuz you’re treatin’ him like the punchline to a bad joke. No pun intended.”

Still bleary-eyed, you caught the Joker’s gaze. He lifted his head only slightly, half-lidded eyes meeting yours. There was something—dare you say it—sad about him.

“You okay there, Joker?” you ventured, voice hesitant.

“Okay?!” The Joker’s voice cracked in a mockery of his usual mania. “Oh, yes, I’m marvelous, darling. Nothing like heartbreak to add a dash of * zest * to life.” His sarcasm dripped, but the spark in his eye was faded.

Harley sighed, pulling a collapsible chair (because apparently she was prepared) out from the corner and flopping down in front of you. “All right, kiddos, gather ‘round. Therapy time. I’ve been watchin’ Dr. Phil reruns, so I’m basically an expert.” She clapped her hands, then pointed the bat in your direction. “Now, let’s address the big, honkin’ elephant in the room: What’s the deal with you ignorin’ my puddin’ after he confessed his oh-so-genuine feelin’s, hmm?”

Caught off guard, you just stared. “What do you want me to say, Harley? He literally told me in the middle of a fight that he…that he loved me.”

At that, the Joker—still slumped in the makeshift shrine—rolled his eyes. “So that’s what’s got you all twisted, is it? You can’t possibly fathom that the Clown Prince of Crime might have genuine emotions?” He offered a weak, mocking laugh, but it turned into more of a pathetic cough. “Ridiculous.”

You shifted in your chair, still unable to free your wrists from the ropes. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I just—didn’t want to engage with…this.” Your eyes flicked around the shrine. “I mean, look at this place.”

Harley tsked, crossing her legs. “Now, that ain’t so nice. Mistah J put a lotta care into it.”

Joker’s mouth twitched, as though a grin was trying to emerge but couldn’t quite make it. “I tried not to, you know. Tried not to let you worm your way into my chaotic heart.” He gave a theatrical sigh. “But there you are every time I close my eyes.”

You felt a flush threaten your cheeks. “Well, you’re not exactly easy to forget either.”

“Aha!” Harley pointed her bat at you triumphantly. “Progress!” She scribbled an imaginary note on her open palm. “You acknowledge you can’t forget Joker. Step one: acceptance of repressed feelings.”

“Harley, stop reading into every single—”

“Shh!” She pressed a finger to her lips, spinning her bat like a pen. “We’re in therapy. No interrupting.”

You groaned but stayed quiet.

“Now.” Harley turned to the Joker. “Mistah J, it seems like your love life’s gotten messy. You can’t keep starin’ at that collage. Gotta talk it out. Go on, say something sweet.”

The Joker gave another drab cough, then locked eyes with you, his voice quiet and oddly sincere. “I meant what I said,” he began. “For all the times we’ve danced our little dance, you’re the only one who’s ever made me second-guess my own madness. I hate it—and I love it, all the same.”

The room felt eerily still. You swallowed, faint warmth creeping into your chest. “You love that I chase you around the city, busting your plans?”

He shrugged. “I love that you bother to. No one else sees me the way you do. You try to understand my next step. You push back. You hold a mirror up to all my chaos.”

“It’s more than that, though,” Harley interjected, not-so-subtly. “Right, Mistah J?” She gave him a pointed look.

The Joker released a long, melodramatic sigh. “Yes, yes. I find you utterly fascinating beyond the usual cat-and-mouse business.” A half-smile tugged at his lips. “And you have those hero’s eyes; bright with idealism. It’s both nauseating and addictively sweet.”

A flicker of genuine sympathy welled up in you, despite your better judgment. “What do you want from me?”

He rose to his feet, standing unsteadily but with some of his old swagger returning. “Just…don’t pretend it never happened. This feeling—whatever it is. If you hate me for it, so be it. But ignoring me completely?” He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “That’s more torture than Arkham’s solitary confinement.”

You glanced at Harley, who was watching with rapt attention, bat propped under her chin like she was enthralled in a rom-com. Then you looked back at the Joker, disheveled and oddly vulnerable in his half-washed face and patchy green hair. With a deep breath, you admitted, “I…can’t ignore you. You’re in my head, too. Maybe not in the same way, but—”

“Oh, hush.” He cut you off with a wave of his hand, yet there was a trace of relief in his voice. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Harley squealed in delight, springing up from her chair. “Then that’s settled, right? You’re gonna stop mopin’, Mistah J, and you—” she pointed to you, “—quit actin’ like none of this is happening.”

She spun around the room, picking up a pair of scissors with a flourish. “Now, the therapy rules say if a hostage is no longer needed, I free ‘em.” She winked, then came over to snip the ropes at your wrists. “Ta-da! You two can figure out the rest yourselves.”

With your wrists free, you stood, rubbing the raw lines where the rope had been. Harley strolled off, humming some jaunty tune, leaving you and the Joker alone in the messy hideout. An awkward silence fell between you. Then the Joker nudged a stray newspaper clipping—one featuring a huge, front-page photo of you—underneath a loose pile to hide it.

You met his eyes. They still had that glint of madness, but a note of exhaustion, too. “Listen, Joker,” you started softly. “I’m not saying everything’s changed, just because—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, though his voice was calmer than usual. “Don’t try to define it. It’s not a fairy tale. It’s just…us.”

“…Right,” you said. “But maybe we could handle it better than, you know, kidnapping, murder, property damage, etc.”

He gave a half-hearted chuckle. “We’ll see. Old habits die hard.”

Before you could formulate a witty retort, he leaned in, surprising you with a swift, almost gentle press of his lips against yours. The sensation was oddly quiet, lacking the usual theatrical flourish you associated with him. Just a moment, then gone.

His grin returned—small, but unmistakably the Joker. “Consider that my official invitation not to ignore me next time.”

Your cheeks flared hot, but you managed a smirk. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

And with that, he stepped aside, allowing you a path to the door. There might have been a million unresolved questions swirling in your head—where do we go from here? Is this a trick? Am I supposed to arrest him now?—but in that instant, you simply took a shaky breath and turned away.

You left the hideout feeling strangely lighter. You still had your duty, and he still had his mania, but at least the air between you wasn’t suffocating with unspoken truths. And behind you, in that dingy warehouse, you knew he was probably already painting his face with renewed gusto—maybe even re-dying his hair that trademark green.

[moxiepower2]

Nevermore theory based on RnF’s latest post!

I think the eyeball in the center is both a reference to both the Old Man with the pale blue eye from “The Tell-Tale” Heart AND Ligeia’s eyes from “Ligeia”

(1/3) First of all: Ligeia’s Eyes

The coloring of the eyes doesn’t quite fit with the art in the post (Ligeia’s has black eyes) BUT I find it hard to ignore the star and dream imagery used when it’s VERY present in “Ligeia”.

The narrator (the husband) studies astrology and is DEEPLY in love with the darkly beautiful and intelligent Ligeia. She is described almost like a vampire with long raven hair, ivory skin, and a wild appearance. He is especially fascinated by her unusual large black eyes which he compares to the “twin stars of Leda” and describes them as “luminous orbs” (this last part also reminds me of the “orbs” from the 1st episode btw).

Ligeia later dies of illness, telling the narrator of her deeply love and reciting a poem about the unfairness of mortality on her deathbed. In his grief, the narrator becomes addicted to opium and later remarries Lady Rowena whom he doesn’t love. He ignores her, preferring to find comfort in “opium dreams” during which he has vivid visions of Ligeia.

Two months into his new marriage Lady Rowena also falls ill and is rendered into a state of half-slumber. Rowena also often has fits and starts crying out in her sleep leading the narrator to believe that some “phantasmagoric influence” is haunting Rowena in their bedchamber.

The narrator’s sanity/accuracy is honestly questionable before the “haunting”. He has a bad memory and doesn’t even remember MEETING LIGEIA OR HER LAST NAME?? The narration given is honestly pretty dreamlike itself as it’s hard tell what’s real or not between the husband’s opium addiction, bad memory, and debatable sanity.

At the end of the story, Lady Rowena dies and according to the narrator, her dead body turns into Ligeia. The corpse awakens the next day as newly risen and alive Ligeia who has seemingly defeated death.

“Here then, at least," I shrieked aloud, "can I never --can I never be mistaken --these are the full, and the black, and the wild eyes --of my lost love --of the lady --of the LADY LIGEIA."

(What a very sane human being as per usual in Pow stories. Also, this went on a bit long sorry)

(2/3) The Old Man

Hang in there with me, this part is much much quicker to explain!

So, Tell-Tale Heart. I think this is a Poe story everyone pretty much knows. Guy is seemingly driven to madness out of fear of his old neighbor’s pale blue eye. He secretly watches the Old Man while he’s sleeping and later murders him and stuffs the body parts under his floor. When the police later arrive at the house, our narrator believes he hears the sounds of the Old Man’s heart and confessed his guilt.

Some imagery: Not much star imagery but definitely some of dreams/sleep. Much like Ligeia, the narration is definitely dreamlike. The Narrator is unreliable/insane so it’s hard to tell what observations he makes are actually real. The Old Man and the Narrator struggle with nightmares. A good chunk of this story is spent with narrator as he watches the Old Man sleep every night for a week.

Also, the eye in RnF’s post is a SINGLE PALE BLUE EYE. (Yeah, this last one is definitely surface-level evidence but I don’t think it’s without merit)

That’s pretty much it.

(3/3) How does this all connect?

The main reason I think that this new art piece connects to Ligeia AND The Tell-Tale heart is largely due to THESE GUYS

That’s right, Deans Merry and Mourn.

The Tell-Tale Heart

Awhile back I made a post theorizing that Annabel is connected to The Tell-Tale Heart due to the heart imagery surrounding her character (such as her spectre design). In the reblogs, me and @muzetrigger discussed more detailed theories (off-topic but @muzetrigger made a VERY convincing argument that Annabel Lee might play the role of the Narrator)

One of the topics that came up was the possibility of the Deans representing the character of the Old Man. @blacknedsoul-blog made a post a while back “I Think the Deans Are Fucking Lovecraftian Gods” (highly recommend) which pointed out that the Deans’ white/black heterochromia could be a reference to the Old Man’s cataract-ridden eye. Upon a closer look, it’s even possible that their white eyes are actually a very very pale blue.

I would also like to add on to this theory by pointing out that much like the Old Man’s Eye drove the Narrator to murder and madness (though unwittingly), the Deans are driving the students to those very same things by forcing a bunch of already traumatized people to participate in a death game.

Ligeia

Earlier in this post, I mentioned that the husband from Ligeia compared her eyes to “the twin stars of Leda”

These TWIN stars, Castor and Pollux named after a pair of TWINS from greek mythology are widely known as the “Heavenly TWINS” and form part of the constellation Gemini. Hmmmm….

A few more similarities to Ligeia:

The Deans also have the ability to get in people’s heads and MESS WITH THEIR MEMORIES. In Ligeia, the Husband is completely consumed with thoughts/visions of Ligeia for most of his waking and sleeping hours. He is seemingly unable to focus on anything else and this continues even when his new wife Lady Rowena is dying. As mentioned before, the Husband also has a memory problems and can’t remember meeting Ligeia or even her full name, just that he loved her. This is not unlike the memory loss of all the students at Nevermore Academy, particularly Lenore & Annabel Lee.

By the way, have a mentioned how interesting this panel from the Bell Arc is? It’s very suspicious the we glimpses of the eldritch forms of the Deans and their Pale Blue Eyes right before Annabel Lee experiences a flashback of hearing the news of Lenore’s death. Not to mention they are physically lowering Annabel INTO THE MEMORY. Its almost like the Deans are the ones took the memories in first place and are just “returning” them or part of their job is being responsible for guiding students to their memories. HMMMM……

Not to mention they spend most of their time in DREAMLAND, a special dimension where you can relive past memories and even reach those whom you unable to speak with. Like say… a certain French man who’s UNCONSCIOUS in a brick wall.

Also, I seem to recall there’s definitely some night sky related imagery with these two. Especially when we are getting glimpses of their spectrey/eldritchy side.

Lastly, let’s go back to the Deans’s heterochromia. They both each have one BLACK EYE and together that makes a pair.

Also, I might be reading into this WAY too much but, take a good close look at the black eyes. In each, you’ll notice there’s a small white pupil. Kind of like a a single bright star in the black night sky. Two twin stars.