#but also my brain has been So Strange lately and i do not know. i may try and journal. i may also just be hungry.

[milflewis]

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[miabebe]

The Intruder's Eye (CSC)

Was it really love if it didn't include just a little madness? What was love if it didn't cross the line? And how was it love if it didn't make one want to keep an eye at all times?

Pairing - Afab!reader x Choi Seungcheol

Word count - 6K (I failed the below 5k challenge T.T)

Genre - Oof buckle up my friends. This is a halloween special so I tried not hold back - its a psycho-thriller, there's smut and a whole lot of pyscho-ness whelp Warnings under the cut!

A/n - It's the week leading up to Halloween folks! Unfortunately I'm not the biggest fan of clowns and ghosts and vampires etc, but I do love me a good dose of psychos (who I think are scarier btw) so here you goooo! You can also check out Jeonghan's and Joshua's!

Again @tusswrites and @tomodachiii - what would I do without y'all 🫂 this piece is basically all you guys!

warnings - intruder in the house, mentions of stalking, medications, deranged characters, triggering descriptions of a home intrusion, smut, homemade porn (lol), bondage (mouth and hands), blowjobs, cum eating, riding, rough sex, mentions of toys and anal, manhandling, psycho behaviour, please forgive me I can only allow myself to be this unhinged during spooky season

It was the soft pitter patter of the rain against the car window that woke you up. 

Slowly fluttering your eyes open, you looked out down the dark, lonely road on the other side, at the street lights were still obscured by the downpour. It's not as torrential as it was when you stepped out of the grocery store a while ago. It was too heavy for you to even drive then so you settled in your car for a while, waiting for the rain to get less harsh. You didn't realise when you fell asleep. 

Looking at the 8pm flashing on your phone screen and the way darkness had engulfed everything around, a strange panic rose in you. You weren't really afraid of staying out too late but given the things that had been happening around you recently - you didn't want to take the risk. 

Turning on the engine and shifting the gears, you took a deep breath, and started driving  towards home. 

The street was empty for the most part - not many cars were on the road given the warnings for the incoming storm earlier that day. You didn't have a choice but to leave - you were suddenly running low on supplies, the shopping list in your hand was almost a page long. You glanced at the groceries at the backseat with a satisfied sigh - guess the newfound cardio routine was doing a good job in working up your appetite. 

As you neared your house, the streets became more illuminated, much to your relief. Unlike the rest of the town, your neighbourhood was a much safer space - there were streetlights, surveillance cameras and disguised cops always patrolling the area. Most people who resided here didn't know but many of the inhabitants of these row houses were in fact people placed on witness protection. You knew because you were one of them. 

One year ago, your testimony in a high profile case had led to some very bad people finding themselves behind bars. In exchange, you were promised protection, leading to your identity being morphed and your life being relocated to this locality. You were promised that nothing would happen to you here, that you would be very safe. You believed it then, but not so much now - not when you turned into your street and noticed the camera at the end of it was short circuited. Perhaps the storms over the last few days had a hand in it. 

You didn’t think much of it.

But maybe you should.

Because as you grabbed your groceries and ran to the door, fishing for your keys, you realised you didn't need them. The door was not locked. 

You racked your brains to remember if you had locked the door before you left or if you were in too much of a hurry to beat the incoming rain. Your memory is a little fuzzy, it has been like that for awhile, but you were too cold and aching to just get inside to give it any further thought.

 You must've forgotten to lock it - what other explanation could there possibly be? 

Balancing the bags in one hand, you slowly pushed the door open as you stepped in, flipping the switches with bated breath. 

Everything seemed fine, nothing felt out of place. Releasing a breath you tell yourself that everything is fine - you were clearly overthinking things. Paranoia had been a part of your life ever since the proceedings of that case - you were always wary, always suspicious, always scared. Though, you shouldn't be feeling that way anymore, you had taken your medication - you should be fine.

But how were you supposed to feel fine when every small thing made the hair on your skin stand. Like the curtains in the living room being open for example. You never kept the curtains open, especially not since your new neighbour moved in a few months ago. 

He called himself Choi Seungcheolwhen he knocked on the door to offer an introduction. You didn't know if that was his real name or the one the cops had given him as a part of the programme. Either way you didn't ask him lest he might ask you yours in return - you didn't need your identity compromised, not when the gang of those convicts was still actively looking for you. You had simply nodded and shut the door. 

Since then, you’ve always had the curtains closed. You had to, because somehow every time you looked out, Seungcheol was by his window, watching you. If you were being honest, Seungcheol was hot as fuck and a year ago, if a man like that was interested in you, you wouldn't have let him go. But things were different now - you couldn't trust anyone anymore.

Walking up to the window, you stumbled over the dumbbell in the way as you glanced at the neighbouring house. The two of your houses were the only ones on the street that weren't covered in Halloween decorations. It made sense - you were both single and did not have to deal with whining, crying, demanding children so there was no need for this facade. 

But you weren’t that lackluster, you did buy and keep some candy for the trick or treaters though you wouldn’t know if Seungcheol had done the same - he didn't seem too particularly fond of children. He never let them near the house. In fact he never let anyone into his house. You had never seen a woman or a friendly face from town or even a family member step into his place - he pretty much always kept to himself. It’s not like anyone else in this neighborhood had the luxury for such anyway.

At present, there was no sight of him or even his silhouette, with how the curtains of his house were drawn but all the lights were still on. Sighing a little in relief, you do the same, shutting the blinds. Still feeling the weight of the dumbbell against your foot, you pushed it out of the way, wondering how it had displaced itself from the rest of the workout equipment in the first place. You hadn’t even used those in a while now. 

Still lost in thought, you walked into the kitchen and as you turned the lights on, a shiver ran down your spine. 

Something was off, something did not seem right. 

At first glance everything seemed fine, but looking again carefully–nothing seemed right. The apron wasn't in its usual place by the spice rack, you don’t recall leaving out a glass of water on the counter, or leaving a packet of corn chips open. You never leave things out when you leave, you always put them away.

But things like this had been happening ever since you started your medication. You were more forgetful, and that was inconvenient but without your daily dosage it was like a fight between your nerves and caution - anything that moved invoked fear in you, every small sound made you shiver. There was no choice but to take those pills everyday. It was the only think keeping you sane. 

Shaking your head, you organized everything back in place again. Everything was fine. You had taken an extra dosage right before you left the house, you were just a little fazed from all the chemicals. Surely it was just your imagination, it wasn't like anyone could have entered the house in your absence….right? 

But there was a half eaten bowl of cereal in the sink and you… you were lactose intolerant, you didn't drink milk - that couldn't be yours. Hands shaking, you took a step back. 

Someone was in this house. 

Quickly opening the drawer, you grabbed a knife, gripping the handle hard and tight. The only question was, were they still in the house? 

Wiping the sweat off your face, you took a small careful step out of the kitchen. 

It was quiet, deadly quiet, there was not a sound to be heard, but the hum of the electrical appliances and the soft patter of the rain outside. Then you heard it, ears sharp and sensitive to the sound of water dripping. Slowly you moved towards the washroom, holding your weapon out, breath shaking. 

When you cautiously pushed the door open you noticed the floor was wet, water leaking from the shower head, drop after drop. You've never had this problem before, did you have a plumbing issue?

Stepping in, you tried to fix the faucet with your free hand. But no matter how many times you adjusted the hardware, water continued to drip, rendering you unsuccessful in your attempts. It felt like a really strong hand had broken the tap which was silly because you were definitely careful with how you handled your things? Neither could have broken this nor clearly, could you fix it. Annoyed by your failure and the thought of calling maintenance, you stepped out of the shower, catching sight of yourself in the mirror. 

There was a strange tiredness etched all over your features, hiding a stranger something behind it. Your eyes had sunken further into their sockets, thin wisps of hair framing your face - You’ve definitely had better days and was… was that a knife in your hand? 

You glanced at it quizzically. Why did you step into the shower with a knife? 

Softly smacking your head at your silliness, you walked back into the living room, leaving the tap for another day. Half yawning with tiredness were ready to retire for the night when your eyes fell on the grocery bags still waiting for you on the table - you had forgotten about it. Groaning at the thought of having to put everything away, you set the knife on the dining table and grabbed your purchases instead, taking them into the pantry. Perhaps it was because you were too deeply immersed in your organisation, but your otherwise sharp ears missed the rustling of the leaves outside, crunching under someone’s footsteps.

Going through the grocery checklist scribbled in horrible handwriting to make sure you had gotten everything, you swiftly began putting them all in their place. The pastas in the jars, the fruits in the baskets, the sauces in the tray. The heaviest thing you bought was perhaps those huge jars of protein powder. You weren't really sure why you decided to buy it - sure your doctor said you were too weak and needed to exercise to build strength but you didn't need to buy all of the products the Internet recommended to you. 

Telling yourself you'll find use for it later, you pushed them onto the shelves and turned to the meat instead, throwing them into the fridge. You didn't really know how to cook meat too well but you wanted to try. Seungcheol had once grilled some meat in his backyard and came over to offer you a few bites. When you tried to take it from him at the door, he pulled his hand back and cocked his head. 

“Are you not going to invite me inside?” 

He was always trying to make a move on you like that. You knew what he wanted, you knew what he had his eyes on but the answer was, no. You could take the deliciously cooked meat from him but couldn't let him into the house. It was too soon to trust him. 

But Seungcheol was relentless. 

It was evident with how he was the only one in town who turned up at the video store where you worked. And he came everyday. Normal people didn't borrow a new movie everyday, right? Clearly he was flirting with you. Or at least he was trying to. You only ever behaved professionally with him . Except sometimes, when he asked for movie recommendations of a very specific genre. You didn't really know many serial killer documentaries or crime podcasts to suggest, so you would simply ask a colleague to take over. Over the days, you watched him consume every last bit of thrillers available in the store and distantly wondered if he had a life outside of this consumption. 

Perhaps not. Seungcheol seemed a bit odd like that. 

He talked to everyone in town but didn't really seem to have any friends. He wasn't home for days together sometimes - you didn't really know the nature of his job so you couldn't tell why his absence was so frequent. He always drove that tiny pickup truck of his with some weird boxes and bags hidden under big blue plastic sheets in the trunk. . 

The whole deal about him was just not right. You knew something about him was not right. Even though he was incredibly pleasant on the eye, you had to be wary of him. 

You had to be wary of everything. . 

But maybe you weren't always as alert as you should be. Because it  was only as you were putting away the last of the snacks that you heard that sound - the thumping. 

It seemed like it was coming from outside…. Or was it upstairs? It felt like it was coming from right above, like the sound of someone's feet. 

And just like that,, you remembered the intruder again - the one who might still be in your home. 

Quickly you rushed to grab the knife from the table once more and held it out in defense. Whoever came to the house was most definitely still here, you could feel it in your bones. 

As you slowly made your way towards the stairs, trying to maintain a soft footfall to avoid the creaking of the stairs, another sound took you aback. 

No, not your racing heart - The doorbell. 

Turning sharply, you glanced at the door with wide eyes. Who could it possibly be?  At this late hour?

The ringing only became more persistent, morphing into knocks while you inched towards the door, grip on the knife tightening. 

As you slowly pressed down the handle and slightly opened the door, you were met with cheerful voices, much to your relief. 

“Happy Halloween!” 

Before you was a tiny ghost, a pirate, a couple of princesses and a buzz lightyear, all half your height, looking at you surprised. 

“Ms. L/n!” 

“Hey kiddos.” 

“Where's Mr. Choi?” The pirate pouted. “We thought we could finally get him to be nice to us, hand us some treats.” 

“Aw.” You pinched his cheek with your free hand. The one that was not hiding the knife behind the door. “Mr. Choi isn't in town sadly.” 

The little kid looked at you quizzically. “Then what are you doing in his house?” 

.

.

.

Oh. 

You blinked at him while he looked up at you expectantly. 

Then your lips split into a sweet, saccharine smile. 

“He asked me to look after it while he was gone.”

“When will Mr. Choi be back?” 

You glanced at the inquisitive little ghost, fiddling with the knife in your hand. 

Please, please don't make me use this. 

“Do you want an answer or candy?” You cocked your head cheekily. “I'm only giving out one.” 

“Candy!” They screamed as you laughed and reached for the packet you had just bought, ripping it open with the knife.

They watched excitedly as you dropped handfuls of chocolate into their little baskets and plastic pumpkins. With a scream of “Ms. L/N is the best!” they scurried away to their next target of the night. And so did you, tossing the knife onto the table once again.

You clutched your head and released a low hiss of irritation at the dull throb.Those stupid medicines were really getting to your head now, you were forgetting too many important things. Thank fuck for the children, otherwise you would have never remembered what really had to be done. 

Locking the door behind you, you quickly made your way up the stairs. There was no need to head softly - the stairs had a tendency to creak in your house, not in Seungcheol’s. 

The thumping from earlier was more pronounced now as your senses slowly cleared up, much like how the light flooded from underneath the bedroom door. The soft thumps are getting louder and louder as you neared it. With a twist of the knob and swing of the door, you tilt  your head with a smile. 

Light flooded from underneath the bedroom door, the soft thumping sound getting louder and louder as you neared it. Opening it wide, you cocked your head with a smile. 

There he was. 

Sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, Seungcheol was looking gorgeous as ever. He was dressed in just his grey sweatpants, the thick muscles of his shoulders and pecs bared before you. His biceps too were popping on either side thanks to the fact that his hands were tied at the back of the chair. Oh and his mouth was gagged shut, his words turning into muffled whimpers as he looked at you wide eyed, halting the stomping of his feet.

“I know, I know, I'm sorry.” You raised your hands apologetically. “I meant to be back soon but you know how I am, forgetful little me. I'm sorry baby.” You neared him, walking around his chair, bending to whisper in his ear. “But I see you're having your fun.” 

Your eyes flickered from the tent in his pants to the laptop you left on for his entertainment, right in the line of his vision. You see yourself on the screen, dressed in the hottest lingerie you owned, looking right in the camera with the vibrator held just where you needed him and only one name spilling from your mouth - Seungcheol. 

This wasn't the video you played from him before you left for the grocery store - perhaps they were auto playing, lucky him. You had hours of such footage of yourself - in all kinds of positions, with every possible toy, in role play costumes, in every possible color of lingerie, you had an unmatchable variety. The only thing common among all of them was his name. Choi Seungcheol. 

Could you be blamed? The man was unbelievably attractive. It wasn't like you didn't try to avoid him, to repel all that magnetism. You were well aware of your nature - it hadn't been long since you had gotten a chance to start afresh and you didn't want to spiral again. You really really didn't. 

But Seungcheol was persistent. He wouldn't stop flirting with you at any given chance, he kept trying to invite himself home, he was consistently intrusive. You kept him at bay for the longest time, at least until the day you had to return the box he had left with you, the one in which he gave you the grilled meat. 

You didn't expect him to open the door with his shirt off, slick with sweat, flushed and half panting. When you caught sight of the dumbbells behind him,  could tell he was working out but somehow you couldn't help but think this was probably how he looked when he fucked and god did that make your mouth water. 

That day he shouldn't have invited you in. Then you wouldn't have found your resolve crumbling so weakly. You wouldn't have found yourself under him being pounded like there was no tomorrow. You wouldn't have crossed the line like this. 

What started that day set off a cascade of events. Sleeping with Seungcheol became quite a regular act - there was no part of you that he had left unexplored, untouched. He was in every crevice, every cell, you were entirely consumed by him. When you were at work, all you could think about was how well he fucked you the day before. When you were on the way home, all you could think about was how well he was going fuck you today. Even after you reached, you always made it a point to immediately wash up, wear your nicest underwear and knock on his door. You always did it at his house. 

He did try to come to your place a couple of times but you consistently steered the two of you back to his house somehow. It was one thing to let him cum in you but to come into your house? You couldn’t have that happening, he’d ask too many questions - why do you never use the garage Y/n? Why was it always locked Y/n? Why did you have a ridiculous number of gardening tools in your house when you don’t even grow any plants Y/n? You knew the questions wouldn't seize and the answers weren’t good for him. They weren't good for anyone who's heard them all these years. 

Another reason you didn't want him home was because you didn't want to ruin the surprise. 

Now, Seungcheol was a self-sufficient man. He was happy with himself, his life, his home, his solitude. It was evident all he was looking for in you was a good fuck - afterall, he would never ask you to stay the night or to be his girlfriend even though you'd been seeing each other for months. You were okay with that….. for now. The two of you were still exploring, still understanding each other's bodies and limits. You didn't mind him taking his time, you needed your time as well. 

You see, Seungcheol loved his home. He loved every piece of furniture, every bowl, every mat - he was incredibly fond of his space, taking all the time and effort in the world to curate it. You, on the other hand, didn't really care much for your house. As long as it could fulfill basic needs and keep you safe, you were good - it wasn't like you stayed for long in one place anyways. But your heart knew that you wanted to stay with Seungcheol for the rest of your life. There was something dark about him too that told you he belonged with you the way you belonged to him. You wanted him to feel like he belonged to you too, you wanted him to feel at home with you. You wanted to be his home. 

That's why you took months together to design and turn your house into an identical replica of Seungcheol’s. 

And when you say replica you mean down to the T. Everything was the same. You made sure it was the same. All those times he was away for days together thanks to his job, you found yourself slipping into his house taking detailed notes of every object, every piece. You would only see, not touch or take anything away. Come on, you were no thief, thieves are bad people.. 

After that you had spent all your time online or going from store to store, finding originals and duplicates of his belongings. Given that he loved to have really exclusive pieces in his house they were not easy to procure but with a little sweet talk, a little threatening and a little unspeakable things, you had somehow managed to bring them all home. To the home you were making for him. 

Earlier this week, you had gotten hold of the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle - a childhood photo of Seungcheol's family, framed and hung on the wall. It was the hardest thing to get your hands on. His estranged sister would not leave her house for long enough - it took a major occupational accident at her husband's construction site to finally get her moving. 

With everything finally in place today, just as the sun began to set, you went over to Seungcheol's house to bring him over at last, to show him what you had done for him. Seeing how his front door was unlocked you stepped in, curiously looking around for him. But that feeling evaporated the moment you heard that sound - the sound of a woman moaning. 

It felt like the ground under your feet had slipped. Perhaps that was why you grabbed the baseball bat leaning against the wall, to give your shaking hands something to hold on to as you made your way to his bedroom…. He didn't even bother to shut the door. 

There he was, sitting on the bed with his laptop open before him, frantically getting himself off to the video of some pizza delivery girl getting her “payment”. 

Porn. He was watching porn. 

The moment his eyes fell on you by the door, he quickly tucked his length into his sweats and jumped off the bed, looking at you like you were crazy. Oh no Choi Seungcheol. He didn't just do that. He shouldn't have. Maybe then you wouldn't have swung the bat and knocked him out cold. Maybe he wouldn't have found himself in the middle of the room all tied up when he came around. 

You just couldn't understand him. What was the need for him to look at other women or even think of one when you were right there? Was he bored of you? Were you not enough? You did everything you could to keep him - every depraved fantasy, every humiliating act, every time he was rough to bruise you for days together, you took it all, you begged for more. Then why was he doing this? 

When he finally opened his eyes, he didn't answer your questions, he was simply screaming to set free. Well of course the only thing you could do was to shut his mouth in some way and with him unable to speak, you had to find other ways to get answers. You needed to find out if Seungcheol was just not attracted to you anymore. 

That's why you brought out your video collection, little films you had taken of yourself back when you were still pushing him away, all while wondering what it was like to get fucked by him. His mouth may say whatever but anatomy couldn't lie right? There was something else that could stand up and answer you. 

You had meant to stay and watch, afterall, you were proud of the quality of your content but the flashes of thunder outside told you that perhaps it was wiser for you to go to the store first. You knew whatever was going to transpire wouldn't be over any time soon, you had to stock up before the storm locked you in. Besides, it was Halloween night, all the cute little kids would be coming around for candy, you didn't want to miss out on that. 

You didn't and thanks to them, you didn't succumb to your forgetfulness and miss out on this either. 

“There there.” You cooed, removing his gag and he coughed, unable to regain his ability to speak just yet. You waited for him to come around, walking back to sit on the edge of the bed as he looked at you meekly. 

“Water.” He whispered, voice just a little horse. 

You raised your eyebrow. How did he manage to sound so sexy all the time? 

“Thirsty are we?” You smiled. “I thought my gift might have helped.”

“Y/n please.” He groaned. “What kind of sick joke is this?” 

Oh. He thinks it's a joke. A little Halloween scare perhaps. A prank gone overboard. Oh he has no idea.

“I think it's me who you take for a joke.” You glanced down at his raging boner. “Or not, considering how excited you are.”

You got up, leaning over him, hand gripping the back of his chair. 

“I'll help you.” You licked your lips. “Either I'll untie you, take my little collection and get out of here. Or I'll help with your not so little predicament with any and every hole I have…. Pick your poison.” 

Seungcheol looked at you wide eyed. His breath was shaking, lips were quivering and a hundred and one things seemed to be running behind those pretty eyes. 

Slowly gulping, his Adams apple moving with a bob, he shut his eyes. 

“It's unbearable.” He mumbled. “It's just…. Please help me.” 

And you knew exactly what he wanted you to do.

Sliding off the bed, you got on your knees, crawling up to him, slotting yourself between his legs. Seungcheol’s eyes flew open when your hands found his thigh, a soft sigh tumbling out of his mouth. He loved to fuck your mouth. He loved how eager to please you always were, always trying to take in more of him, always trying to do better. God he loved it.

He watched as you pulled his sweats down the best you could and wrapped your tiny hand around his dick. He was raging hard, the tip flushed in an angry red, precum smeared all over. You were lucky he was in your control now. If he were allowed to have his way, he might just break you. 

Stroking him agonisingly slowly, you inched closer to place a small kiss on his tip, the softest interaction that had ever happened between the two of you. Before Seungcheol could even relish that moment you wrapped your lips around his length and took him all the way in. Fucking hell. Seungcheol thought he was going to pass out with how intensely you were blowing him. He wished you'd untie his hands. He'd go anything to just push your head down his dick and feel himself in your throat. That was a sureshot at making him come, these shallow and fast bobs of your head were only aggravating him. 

Maybe that's what you wanted. Because the moment he let out his tell tale groan, letting you know he was close, you pulled away with a pop and wrapped your hand around his cock instead. Before he could complain about losing the warmth of your mouth you began stroking him fast thanks to the wetness of your spit and before you knew it, he felt himself reaching that high, meaningless words leaving his mouth. With a few more jerks, he came all over himself in spurts, ropes of white coating his abdomen. 

As he tried to battle his feelings of relief after finding a much needed release, disappointment for not coming in your mouth, and slight fear, not understanding what the hell was going on, you slowly let him go, wiping your hand on his sweats. Looking straight into his eyes, you leaned forward, gathering the cum all over his skin with your tongue and showing it to him before you swallowed it. Fuck, Seungcheol felt the blood rushing down there again. He was far from done tonight. 

Getting up you looked at him questioningly though you were well aware of the answer. 

“Do you need more?”

Unable to do anything else, he nodded slowly, whispering please. 

Smirking, you quickly stripped yourself out of your clothes. You would have made a show out of it, tease him slowly but you were equally desperate to fuck him so you quickly abandoned that idea. Throwing your garments somewhere, you clambered onto his lap, aligning yourself over his dick. You didn't need any prep or lube, you were practically dripping from just blowing him. 

Slowly sinking onto his length you threw your head back, finally feeling full. Seungcheol moaned too, burying his face between your boobs as you bottomed out, your grip like a vice. Holding onto his shoulders you began fucking yourself on his length, snapping your hips relentlessly. You could tell the feeling was too much for Seungcheol too as he bit on the soft skin of your breasts. It stung painfully but you let him - you always let him do whatever he wanted to you anyways. 

“Tired?” He looked up at you with a triumphant smirk as your pace began to falter thanks to the not so comfortable position of your legs. “Are you finally going to ask me for help?”

You shook your head. You didn't want him to have the upper hand anymore.

“Don't be stubborn, doll. You know it's better when I have my hands on you.” He ran his tongue along your breast, relishing the sweet and salty taste of you. “Untie my hands and we can make this better y/n. I know how much you love my fingers up your ass, and how much you like the grip on my hands all over you and how much you want me . Come on baby, untie me.”

You didn't want to, you really didn't want to but a part of you knew he was right. He could make you feel so good. 

Reaching over you pulled on the knot holding his hands together and in a flash his hands gripped the bottom on your thighs and with the sheer strength of his that you loved, he got up, lifting you along with him. Immediately pinning you to the wall, he began thrusting into you, drawing out the most exquisite moans from you as he hit the spot again and again and again. When unable to hold it anymore, you came around him, he tossed you onto the bed, pounding into you mercilessly, making you cum around him one more time before he painted your ass and back with his own release. Even then the night was far from over. 

After that he fucked you almost till dawn, pushing you to the limit as he made you cum so many times, you couldn't even keep count anymore. All you knew was that every bit of your body was screaming and creaming in pleasure - it was confirmed, you had to have Seungcheol for life, you had to do whatever it took to keep this insane man forever. You didn't know how but you could think about that later. For now, as day break approached, the two of you passed out in his bed. 

Seungcheol looked at you under the afternoon sun streaming into his room. You were fast asleep - he tried waking you up a couple of times but you just would not budge. Finally giving up he resorted to just staring at you. 

Last night was…. better than Seungcheol’s wildest dreams. He always knew he was a bit of a freak, but he didn't think he'd find someone to match it in this quiet town he had been reluctant to relocate to. Even when he first met you, he thought you'd be one sweet love making session at most but you took him completely by surprise. You were as wild as he was - you were down for anything he asked, you never said no and most importantly, you enjoyed it all. Seungcheol thought he had hit the jackpot with you. 

But yesterday was most definitely not normal. At that time he was thinking with his dick because all the blood in his body was clearly there but as he looked back at what happened, nothing about it was right. You had knocked him out, tied and gagged him up before you left him. You had hours of footage of you pleasuring yourself to the thought of him… 

Seungcheol had noticed the dates. It was way before the two of you had begun your little arrangement and he didn't know what to think about that. There were tiny sirens going off in his head telling him to run as fast as he could but Seungcheol couldn't stop staring at you. You were ridiculously beautiful and he just had the best sex of his life last night. 

When you whined softly and turned over in your sleep, Seungcheol finally rolled off the bed and dressed himself. Finding your scattered clothes on the floor he gathered them, looking at them with a frown. He couldn't have you wear these again and his clothes were far too big for your tiny frame. Maybe it was time to start making room in his closet for a few of your clothes.

Knowing how tired you must be given last night's events, he silently fished out the keys from the pocket of your pants and decided to bring you a fresh pair from your house. 

He shouldn't have gone over. He never should have stepped into your house. Maybe then the tiny sirens in his head wouldn't have become a full blown ringing. 

If he had never discovered the truth of your house, if he wasn’t staring at an exact replica of his space, maybe he would've never come to terms that last night was indeed extremely abnormal. 

You were not normal. 

Something was very very wrong with you, the dozens of medications on the dining table were a testament of that. Seungcheol knew he had to go. He had to leave you and that house and this town. He needed to run away from this madness.

But when he turned to leave, he felt his heart stop just for a second. 

There you were, right at the door, dressed in yesterday's clothes, looking at him expressionlessly. Your eyes ran over his face as he felt the hair on his skin stand. 

He had to go, he had to get the hell out of here. 

“Oh baby.” 

You cocked your head at him, leaning against the frame with a small smile. 

This was an expression you had never seen on Seungcheol's face before - a mix of shock and fear and repulsion. You could tell he wanted to run. You knew he would end things now, you knew it was over but alas, it was too late to let him go. 

You couldn't let him go. 

Taking a step ahead, you slowly closed the door behind you, inching closer to him, yesterday’s knife stashed safely in the back pocket of your pants.

“Do you want to see what's in my garage?” 

A/n - As usual, comments and reblogs are much appreciated - I'd love to hear your thoughts, it really helps :) You can also read Jeonghan's and Joshua's :)

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

sweeter than blood │ Spike x Summers!Reader

everything he wants 'verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Part 1 │Part 2 (Work in Progress!)

Returning to Sunnydale for the first time since Angel lost his soul—older, bitter, unprepared for grief—you never expected to fall for Spike. Through the eyes of the others, it's obsession, danger, betrayal. But to you? It’s the only thing that still feels real. (Set post-episode 14 of Season 5, "Crush".)

Hey, guys! Briefly showing up to post a short fic I wrote after getting whacked by the Buffy bug lately. Not going to be frequently updating or anything - I'm literally just posting this and popping back out. Couple notes: this is a three-chapter fic that I'm posting in one single hit. It's like, 22,250 words, so it's long. Also, it's mixed POV from pretty much all the main characters. Keep in mind that my writing style doesn't exactly fit in the Reader or in the OC category; best way I can describe it as nameless, vaguely-described OCs written in second person. Enough from either category to justify calling it both. If that's not what you're after, I recommend you don't read.

Buffy rolls her eyes when she recognizes who’s behind all the commotion by the door, turning away from Giles to give the intruder one of her meanest eyebrow-raises.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, fists clenched and knuckles white as she glares at Spike, tension etched into every line of her body. Her voice is a low, warning growl, her fingers itching to wrap around something sharp and stabby. Anything will do, really. “It’s the middle of the day.”

It’s been only a few weeks since bizarro entered Spike’s brain and he tried to tell her he loved her, and in that time it’s like it never really happened. Sure, he’s been loitering around the house like a pervert, glances lasting a little too long on her as she deliberately ignores him to unlock the door and retreat to the safety of a freshly-Spike-free zone, but his focus is all screwy. It’s like the tap of grossness has spun itself off, still dripping a bit but like… not flooding. Or something. She’s bad with figures of speech.

The evil bleached wonder sneers over at her, still furiously smacking at the smoke trails rising from his exposed skin and stinking up the shop. “None of your business, Slayer. Ain’t my bloody keeper. I can go where I like.”

“Does that have to be where Buffy is?” Xander snipes. “You know you’re never getting a shot with her. Why make us all put up with you?”

Dawn’s here, so Buffy makes a cutty-motion with her hand at him, warning him off the tangent he’s on. Even though Dawnie’s just as mad as the rest of them about Spike’s confession, she still gets huffy and moody whenever anyone spends too long mocking him for it, and Buffy totally can’t deal right now.

Spike shakes his head. “Look, I dunno what Buffy told you about that stuff with Dru―”

Giles advances on him, shielding her from view. “Spike, you’re not welcome here.”

“Yeah, and by the way, we’re working on a way to de-invite you from here,” Willow adds. Though there’s nothing super snarky about the indifferent way she looks Spike up and down, for Wills it’s positively cruel. “Even if it is a public place.”

Spike looks away, lower lip curling under his teeth as he scoffs. “Alright, maybe there was some expression of feelings, but ’m all―”

Whatever he was gonna say dies in his throat. He straightens himself up and runs his fingers through his hair, which, strange, isn’t slicked back like he usually wears it. Has he suddenly realized―re-realized, or whatever―that she’s there and is doing some uber-sketchy peacocking thing? She’s just about to ask him what the hell is up when you brush past her, bookbag swinging as you rifle through its contents.

“Buff,” you say, absent-minded, “d’you know where I put my―oh, hey, Spike. Nice hair.”

You look up and smile at him, a bit unfocused as you wander over to the table, scattering the items inside on its surface. Pens and textbooks go skidding across the wood as you dig through, muttering an aha! when you find your tube of chapstick buried at the bottom. Dawnie shoves at the stuff that’s rolled onto her homework, but you don’t seem to notice at all.

“Afternoon,” Spike says. Buffy narrows her eyes at him. “Settlin’ in alright?”

“Mm,” you hum, smiling, lips freshly glossy and reddened. “Stuff’s unpacked, classes all sorted… everything’s coming up me. How ’bout you?”

“Can’t complai―”

“Seriously, Spike,” Buffy snaps, folding her arms. “Clear outta here.”

She’s such a hypocrite for being so freaked by him basically ignoring her, she knows that. It’s not like she wants him stalking her, but she’s Puzzle Girl. She solves things, and the mystery is that Spike is acting stranger than usual. She hasn’t had time to figure it out, not between helping Mom, rearranging Dawn’s room—well, your shared room now—and grilling you about Hank’s way-too-young girlfriend. That doesn’t even begin to cover the stress of keeping Glory’s demon goons off Dawn’s back. Time is against her at the moment. And after Mom told you about the tumor? Yeah, no wonder you were all in for moving back.

“Wait,” Anya says, frowning. “I thought Spike didn’t know her. Why are they talking?”

“Introduced meself, yeah?” Spike’s stink-eye is ineffective as usual. “S’what civilized people do and all that rot.”

“If that’s civilized,” Anya mutters, too low for anyone but Buffy to properly catch, “then I’ve been using the wrong definition. Civilized people don’t pant like wolves in heat—”

“He’s nice,” you say.

“—yeah, most men pretend to listen,” Buffy hears her whispering to Tara. She tunes it out. “Vampires probably do it better. Less hormonal noise.”

Patting your sides down―looking for pockets, though as usual you’re wearing a dress that doesn’t have them―you shove your chapstick down the neckline before going back to sorting through the things you’ve discarded. Buffy watches Spike watch you, watches his eyes settle where the balm presses through your bra. Disgust curdles in her belly—but it’s not just disgust, and that’s the worst part. It shouldn’t matter. Really. He should look anywhere but at her. Still, the absence of his usual obsession lands like a slap. Her chest tightens, breath caught in her throat. Embarrassing. She rolls her shoulders back, forces her focus elsewhere.

“We talk sometimes,” you add. “He’s a good listener.”

“Thanks, pet.” Spike’s smile looks genuine enough to fool even her.

“Uh, he’s a vampire.”

“Good for you, Xan,” you say, levelling him with one of your are-you-the-dumbest-person-in-the-world? looks. You’ve always been good at that. “Your observational skills are A-okay. Congrats.”

Xander sputters. “He’s evil!”

“Not this again,” you mutter. Continuing in a deceptively mild tone, you say louder, “Evil’s relative, isn’t it? Is the lion evil for hunting and eating the gazelle? No, because you can’t moralize about the predatory drive of a completely different species with different—”

“He’s not another species, though,” Giles interrupts, taking his glasses off and scrubbing at them with his cloth. “He’s a demon.”

You cock your head, slight curve to your lip. “So, not human, right? Ergo, another species.”

“Okay, difference of opinion, agree to disagree!” Buffy calls out loudly. She really doesn’t want to deal with broken-brain Giles, and he always comes out when you prod at his whole Watcher upbringing. “We’re wasting time. Can we seriously get back to the whole April thing?”

Her resolve face is enough to get the Scoobies moving back to the counter, and though the conversation begins flowing in the right direction once again, Buffy can’t help but pay a little more attention to what’s going on across the room. You’ve sat down opposite Dawnie, tugging out the worn copy of Emily Dickinson poems that Buffy had to read when she was in junior year, too. You probably borrowed it from her closet, actually, where she keeps all her old high school stuff. That’s not the problem, though. It’s that Spike’s gone and swung himself across the seat right next to you, spread-kneed with arms folded and resting on the chairback. You shift obligingly, murmuring something just out of earshot to him, and he seems to be considering your words thoughtfully—for him, at least—gesturing to the text on the open page before you.

She watches Spike watch you as you’re preoccupied with getting your essay perfect. He used to look at her like that. In fact, he hasn’t so much as glanced her way like he would usually. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

“It’s weird, right?” Willow’s nervous voice interrupts her focus, and she turns to find her staring in exactly the same direction. “That. It’s like, all sorts of ooky.”

“Spike’s, um… he was a poet, wasn’t he?” Tara asks, uncertain. “It’s no–not that weird. He prob–probably knows a lot and wants to he–help with her assignment.”

Suddenly, you laugh, drawing their eyes back to you. Buffy’s stomach twists. That laugh—light, happy, normal—doesn’t belong here. Not in this context. Not with him. Spike’s grinning at you, unaware of all the attention on him. Even Dawnie seems a bit startled, her gaze darting from you to him and back again. And you… you’re looking back at him like he’s a good friend of yours. Like he’s safe. Like he’s normal, and not the soulless demon who’s caused so much hurt to so many people in the room right now, who would go on to cause even more pain and suffering if not for the leash in his brain keeping him from harming them. It’s like watching someone pet a cobra and call it a puppy. And Spike just… lets you.

“Yeah, right.” Xander huffs, scathing. “He’s probably thinking ‘gee, maybe the Slayer’ll get the lust on for me if I play besties with little sis’―”

“Unlike the rest of you,” Giles cuts across, adjusting his glasses, “I have little care to understand why Spike does what he does. So long as he is being useful and is leaving Buffy be, then by all means… Shall we return to the problem at hand?”

Buffy nods absently, mind still whirling as she tunes back in to the previous discussion. She can totally do two things at once. Xander’s right. Spike’s probably just trying to get her interest. Is it that you’re her younger sister, or is he trying to make her jealous? That won’t work. You don’t get involved in stuff like that. She’s wondered if you even notice boys sometimes, let alone get dragged into some messy demon-y love triangle. Line. Whatever. So it must be him thinking that you’ll get him on her good side or something, which ew. Talk about desperate.

It’s a good explanation. Perfect, actually. If only her chest didn’t feel tight in that way it gets when she knows, deep down, that she’s missing something. Not danger. She knows that feeling too well. This is worse. It’s something personal. Something close.

“… your thoughts, Buffy? Buffy? Buffy!”

“Huh?” Giles’s face is unimpressed. Buffy smiles apologetically, turning to face him properly. “Sorry. Problem-Solver Buffy, reporting for duty. Hit me again.”

For now, she’ll have to deal with the weirdness. She’ll figure it out later. There are more important things to worry about… like superstrong robot girlfriends causing havoc across Sunnydale. When did it begin?

Since you came back. The thought pops unbidden in her head as she tunes in to Slayer mode. Hm.

The muscle below his eye twitches as he watches Spike across the cemetery, moonlight tracing the sharp lines of his face. The graveyard is silent now, empty of mourners, the solemn faces of those in black who came to watch as Joyce Summers was laid to rest in the ground. Even Buffy is home now, numbed and tired from the hours spent cradled in Angel’s arms. Just faintly, his senses pick up the murmur of hushed voices: yours soft and raw, Spike’s a slow, gentle rumble. Of course he’s found a way to worm his way in, always lurking where he doesn’t belong.

You stand too close, arms wrapped tight around yourself and shivering despite the mildness of the night air. It’s the first time he’s seen you since you were sent away. Since Angelus. You were small then, too. Frightened, stalwart in your sadness over Buffy having convinced Joyce that spending some time with your father might make the night terrors go away. A cover that should’ve put you out for a month, maybe two, and instead led to years of isolation, all because of him. Guilt congeals acrid in the back of his mouth, from memory and from here and now, blurring together. He didn’t even think to check on you, so wrapped up in Buffy’s grief as he’s been. You look like Buffy did after the funeral. But not the Slayer version—the kid version. The girl who used to beg her mother for a later curfew. The one he couldn’t save from heartache, then or now.

He sees Spike shrug off his duster and drape it around you, fingers lingering on your shoulders. You tug it closer, inhaling deeply, the sleeves all but swallowing your hands. You look like a child in too-big clothing, hunched as though grief itself is sitting on your shoulders. Your eyes are puffy and red as you look down at the hole in the dirt, the place where what is left of your mother now lay, your cheeks streaked with the gloss of tears that glimmer under the glow of the night sky. Angel can hear the ragged edges of your breathing, the way you try and fail to even it out.

And Spike—

His posture’s casual, the type of relaxed Angel knows is deceptive, calculated. His focus is wholly on you, head bowed, eyes flicking over your face as if memorizing every twitch and quiver. His fingers find the crook of your elbow, stroking gently. Too practiced. Too careful. As if care could be learned by imitation. He’s never mastered the art of guile, for all that Angelus tried to beat it into him. Too soft. If not for the hair, the coat, Angel might mistake the demon ahead for the human he’d been.

It’s not just the way he looks at you that bothers Angel. It’s the way you look back. The small, anxious clutch of your fingers on his lapels, how you lean instinctively into the rumble of his voice, unguarded, drifting closer as though the space between you is a safety net. Spike’s too close, saying something low that makes your lips quirk up in a wobbly, trembling smile. His answering smile, lax around the edges, is unsettling—not the predatory leer or cocky smirk Angel’s used to seeing on his face. You step toward him, easily accepting the embrace he offers, and the way you fold into him makes the hairs at Angel’s nape rise.

He clenches his fists. It’s an act. It has to be.

Pushing forward, his bootfalls are deliberate and heavy, purposeful, and the noise draws your attention as he knew it would. The talking stops. You glance up, startled, and Angel takes note of how quickly you wipe your eyes, trying to hide the tears. Spike’s features harden, his mouth curved into a stubborn, disdainful sneer.

“What are you doing here, Spike?” Angel demands, crossing his arms. The chill of the air seeps through the layers of his clothing.

Spike smirks. “Nice to see you too, Peaches. Out for an evenin’ stroll?”

Angel’s glare doesn’t waver. “Get away from her. Now.”

You wince, but Spike doesn’t move. Instead, he lets his thumb brush the back of your arm, a gesture so brief, so casual that Angel might’ve missed it if he wasn’t watching so closely.

“Girl’s having a rough go, not that you’d notice,” Spike says arrogantly, “trailing after Buffy like you’re her bitch. Thought someone ought to check in.”

Angel’s eyes dart back to you, ignoring the barb. “You can talk to Buffy. Or Giles. Not him.”

“I tried, but… She’s got so much on her plate. She’s doing her best. I don’t��I don’t blame her.” You sigh, weary, pulling Spike’s coat tighter around you. “I just… I needed someone who could listen. Without trying to fix it.”

Spike glances down at you, the hardness in his gaze melting like ice in the heat. “Gotta let yourself feel it, pet. S’not weakness.”

You look up, eyes wet. It’s as though you’ve forgotten Angel exists. “It’s stupid,” you whisper. “I keep thinking she—she’s gonna just… walk in, tell me to wash my face, snap out of it.”

“Not stupid.” Spike’s mouth twitches. “Just means you love her.”

The words hang heavy in the air for a beat; two; three. Your chin dips, face crumpling, and Spike’s grip tightens, hand sliding to span the back of your head. You lean fully into him, forehead pressing to his chest, and he mutters something too low for Angel to catch. It makes you nod, knuckles clutching his red jacket. His hand drifts to your spine, drawing soothing circles, gentle and patient. It looks practiced. Habitual. Wrong.

“You’re using her,” Angel growls at him, feeling a bit of fang slip with the flare of his temper. “Trying to get to Buffy. It’s pathetic.”

Spike rolls his eyes. “Oh, right. Because I’m raring for the Slayer’s approval. Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep, mate. Assuming you can.”

Angel’s jaw clenches. “If you think for a second that I’ll let you manipulate her—”

“Not manipulating anyone,” Spike snaps, snarling. His arm curls tighter around you, unconscious. You glance between them, wary. “She’s grieving. Thought I’d help.”

“Help yourself, more like.”

Spike’s eyes flash, his own fangs bearing down against his lip. “Don’t care what you think, sire. M'here here for her. So unless you plan to dust me, sod off.”

Angel hesitates. He’d like to. It’s bad enough that Spike’s been after Buffy. But she can handle herself—you’re too easy a target.

“It’s okay,” you say then, shifting in place. You press closer to Spike’s side, entirely unbothered by the appearance of his game face. “He’s… he’s my friend. He’s kind.”

Spike scoffs. “Careful, pet. Man’s liable to think I’ve gone soft.”

“Nah.” You shake your head, the side of your mouth curling up ever so slightly. “You’re evil, remember?”

“Too right.” It’s warm, indulgent.

The words land heavy in Angel’s chest, like stones in a sinking ship. He glowers. “This isn’t a game, Spike.”

He’s not talking about Spike’s sudden helpfulness. The meaning is clear. ‘Not her. She’s too good for you.’

Spike stiffens, drawing himself up to height. “Never was. That’s your problem, Angel—you think everything’s about you. S’nothing to do with you, or anyone. Just me ’n her.”

Angel’s scowl deepens. “If you hurt her—”

“Get in line,” Spike interrupts, all arrogant swagger. “A popular threat, where she’s concerned.”

Angel’s stare lingers on you, on the openness of your expression: face relaxed, eyebrows tilted upward, lax jaw. He watches the way you lean into Spike, nonchalant, his grip proprietary.

“You deserve better,” Angel says.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” You hold his gaze, unconcerned and unafraid, bolder than he remembers. Surely, it’s easy for you to front up to him when you’re tucked under the arm of someone like Spike. “Either way, it’s my choice to make.”

He eyes Spike, who glares back with an unspoken challenge. ‘Leave,’ he says without speaking. ‘Go back to where you came from. You aren’t needed here.’ Eventually, Angel turns away, shadows clinging to him. “If he lets you down—”

“He won’t,” you say, conviction lacing your voice.

The certainty makes Spike’s eyes widen, smile hinting at the edges of his mouth, a glimmer of something raw and unspoken to be read in the planes of his face. Angel’s frown deepens. How can you trust him? What has he ever done to deserve your confidence? Angel earned Buffy’s affection, her faith, and look where it got him: no girl, no love, no happy ever after. It’s as though Spike hasn’t even had to try, the resentment a sword to his chest all over again. He murmurs some vague attempt at goodbye, an invitation to reach out if you need anything, though you and he both know you’ll never do it. You’ll never need it. Spike, he snubs entirely, suddenly exhausted, not wanting to see the victory in the set of his frame. As he sets off, a shade in the moonlight, he expects some final dig to reverberate across the cemetery, some juvenile taunting yell that’s so typical of the other vampire. Instead, nothing. Angel turns, taking one final look at the pair of you, standing together so damn closely.

Cigarette smoke drifts up, curling in revolutions from Spike’s loose grip. “Brave girl,” he tells you, fond.

“Or stupid.” You sigh.

“Never that, pet.” Spike’s palm drops to the small of your back, spanning wide. He cards through your hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers. “Never that.”

Angel swallows, flexes his fists once, again, and walks away.

He doesn’t hear what Spike says next. Doesn’t see the way you press your cheek into his shoulder like you’ve done it a hundred times before. He never sees it coming. That’s what hurts most of all.

The sun is setting, the sky colored in bruised purples and fiery oranges. Anya leans against the half-wall that separates the porch from the side of the Summers house where she slumps, watching as night falls. A storm is brewing. A metaphor, maybe, but it definitely feels like something’s up with the world. It’s like the Earth knows what’s about to happen. What they’re up against. Dawn’s in trouble, and they have to save her from the hellgod who wants to bring death and destruction to this dimension.

Everyone inside is tense: dealing out weapons, talking through battle plans, trading worried looks. Buffy’s on a rampage, taking everything anyone says the wrong way, as an attack on her littlest sister—especially Giles. He only suggested killing Dawn once, and he apologized for it, but Buffy won’t let it go. Willow’s busy trying to distract Tara from walking out the door until it’s time to fix the brain-suck Glory pulled on her, so she can’t stop them from fighting like she would normally. Xander’s the one trying that, and even though Anya loves Xander, he’s not the best at calming people down. So yeah, everyone’s freaked, driven to it by all the waiting, trying to pretend like they aren’t secretly hoping for some miracle.

Anya doesn’t believe in miracles. She’s lived for a thousand years. She believes in what’s real: power, blood, the occasional loophole in cosmic prophecies. She knows the sound of desperation, though, the smell of it, even if she doesn’t have her old senses anymore. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t understand what she’s seeing now.

Spike’s standing in the front yard under the tree, far enough away that he probably can’t tell she’s out here too, smoking one of his cigarettes with a too-casual stance that only makes the tension on his face more obvious. He’s not alone: you’re with him, arms hugged to yourself like you can keep all your bottled-up worry and fear from exploding out. Anya’s watched the two of you skirting around each other for weeks now. She’s not the only one who’s noticed. Most of the others have. They’re just too determined to pretend they don’t know what it means.

She remembers the argument from earlier, how Buffy and the others tried to order you to stay behind, to leave Dawn’s fate to the rest of them. ‘Too young,’ they said. ‘Too helpless.’ Anya disagrees. She knows better than most that appearances can be deceiving. The fire in your eyes reminded her of a certain vengeance demon who once went toe-to-toe with hell lords and never flinched. She wasn’t all that shocked when you refused them, furious, but it was Spike’s support that threw her a bit. He sneered at them, claiming he’d make sure nothing happens to you. After you stormed outside, he rounded on the Slayer, reminding her how headstrong you were when you thought you were right, asked how she planned to stop you from following after. That exchange was ugly.

Buffy’s eyes narrow, lips pulled into a thin, furious line. “You think you can keep her safe?” she snaps, crossing her arms. “Like you kept Dawn safe?”

Spike’s jaw tightens, muscles twitching. “That was a trick. Can’t fall for the same one twice.”

“Doubt you’ll get the chance,” Buffy says, voice cold as a blade. “If you even think of letting her get hurt—”

“Yeah, yeah. Big, scary threats,” Spike drawls. “But if you think anyone’s gonna keep her from fighting, you’re wrong. Least this way, I’ll be there when the fists and fireballs start flyin’.”

For a moment, Buffy looks like she might argue, but then her shoulders sag, and she nods sharply. “Fine. But if she dies—”

“I’ll be dead first,” Spike interrupts. The promise lands heavy and solid, and Buffy’s glare softens, but only slightly. She turns away, shoulders stiff. He watches her go, tension simmering, then stalks outside.

Anya ducks a bit further down when Spike starts speaking, not wanting to get caught. Something’s telling her she’ll want to hear whatever it is that’s going on.

“I might die tonight,” he drawls, flicking ash to the ground. His voice is rough, a strange sort of fragility lurking underneath. Her brows arch. It doesn’t sound like his usual bravado.

Anya’s eyes flicker over Spike’s tense stance, and she huffs softly. She’s never understood him. A vampire with no bite, a demon mooning after a Slayer and now her sister. Pathetic, she’d say, but he fights for them anyway, chipped or not. Sometimes, she thinks he’s a fool. Other times, she wonders if he’s the only one who really gets it—that love comes with a cost.

You startle, brows knitting together as you frown. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

“Why not? Might be true.” Spike’s smirk is twisted, bitter. “Glory on the rampage, me all chipped ’n useless. But if—”

“Stop it,” you mutter, grabbing his sleeve. “Don’t give me your ‘if I die’ speech.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. “Feels like the end, luv. Night like this—you say your piece or regret it forever.”

He tosses the cigarette, the cherry glowing and then fading in the grass. He doesn’t look at you, jaw tightening. “Bloody hell. Can’t believe I’m doing this. Stupid. Pointless. But when you’re up against a soddin’ hellgod and odds that make death look cozy, what’s the use in leavin’ things unsaid?”

He huffs, scrubbing a hand through his hair, agitation radiating off him. You stay silent, but the concern shows in your face, your posture.

“Suppose I should’ve said something sooner,” he continues, half to himself. “Not like I’m any good at this. Maybe never was. Back when I was… well, different story. Used to be all flowery words and grand gestures. Always had to prove meself.”

He risks a glance at you, eyes flicking away when they meet yours.

“Not much of a man now, am I? But the way you look at me… bugger me if it doesn’t make me feel like I could be.” He forces a chuckle, brittle around the edges. “Maybe it’s my own foolishness talking. Wouldn’t be the first time.” Spike stops, swallowing hard. “But if this is the end, I need you to know that… that every stupid poem I scratched out, back when my heart was still beatin’—they were shadows of what I feel now. For you.”

You take a slow, shuddering breath, eyes wide and lips parted in a soft ‘O’ as you stare up at him. The porch light’s come on, the glow shading warmth into your expression. His fingers reach out and touch, delicate across your cheekbone, down to cup your chin. “You’ve gone and wrapped yourself ’round me. Tight as sin, sweeter than blood. I can’t stop wantin’ more… Reckon I never will.”

You’re voiceless, your mouth opening once, then again, before giving up. Anya smirks to herself. Powerless in the face of blunt truth. You mortals and your weird little problems.

Spike rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “Said more than I meant to already. Should shut up before I make an even bigger mess. Send you runnin’. Hell, maybe I deserve it. Always cocked things up when it mattered.”

You inhale sharply, staring at him. “Oh…” You swallow. “Spike…”

His smile widens, but it’s not a happy thing.

“S’alright, pet,” he says, stepping back a foot. Ash is smeared across your cheek. “Not expectin’ anything. Just wanted to say it.” He hesitates, gaze dropping. “Never thought I’d be worth a damn to anyone, not really. But you—hell, you make me feel like I am. Like I’m enough. Like there’s somethin’ good left in me worth savin’.”

He turns to go, but you stop him. “Wait―I―”

The surprise on his face might seem deliberately put there to anyone who doesn't truly get demons. Anya knows it’s real. He really wasn’t expecting a response.

“You are enough. You are. And I―” You huff, biting your lip and averting your eyes. “You weren’t supposed to… be this—this important. To me.”

He looks at you then, eyebrows drawing together. You twist at your fingers, looking as though you’re desperate for something to hold on to.

“You drive me crazy,” you say suddenly, words tumbling. “With the attitude, and the way you think you can just―just―say stuff like that, like it doesn’t mean anything. Except it does. It does, and I—” You stop, breath trembling. “I can’t―I can’t lose you.”

His eyes widen, mouth opening, but you plow on, words spilling over themselves. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did. You make me feel… like I can breathe, even when everything is falling apart. And I know it’s insane, and I shouldn’t, and everyone will hate it, but I—” You take a breath. “But I’m already lost. I don’t want to find my way back.”

Something startlingly human spreads across Spike’s face. He cocks his head as he stares down at you, shy wonder making his features less cutting. It’s as though he’s just a guy and you’re just a girl, and this is just a scene out of an ordinary life.

Suddenly, you laugh, a short, small sound, but it breaks the oppressive atmosphere. “Damn. This is so cliché,” you say, shaking your head ruefully. “It’s like we’re in a movie.”

The mood shifts, and with it Spike’s distinctive brashness returns. His posture adjusts, less bumbling fool and more leonine hunter, tongue curling behind his lip in invitation.

“Yeah?” he asks, sauntering into your space, up close and personal. “Pretty sure the sort you mean ends in a kiss. Rounds out all the talk.”

He’s goading you, trying to recoup and save face, but it’s also an offer veiled by provocative words. Anya sees your uncertainty, the red flush working its way across your skin, and her anticipation begins to fade. Darn. She should’ve expected you to quail under the full force of his charm. She’s realistic enough to recognize that even she wouldn’t be unaffected by him. He’s very pretty for a vampire, and he knows it.

But wait—

After a moment of vacillation, you surge forward, fists grasping the collar of his duster to pull his mouth to yours. Spike’s eyes widen briefly before sliding shut, hand tangling in your hair. She watches your lips mash together awkwardly for a second before Spike takes over, tilting your head just so until you slot together like puzzle pieces, your bodies converging to match. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the taste of you, like it’s the last time he’ll ever kiss anyone—and it might be. It’s intense. Desperate. Romantic.

You let out a squeaking sort of sigh, muffled, a sound answered by the bass growl of the vampire attached to you as his arm spans across your waist, raising you up on tiptoes and into him even further. The flickering globe lighting the front of the house paints shadows across your entwined forms. The corners of Anya’s mouth lift.

You look very nice together. The sex will be great, she’s sure—when you’re ready, of course. And you could do worse than someone like Spike, who definitely has decades of experience in giving pleasure. She’s happy for you. Quality orgasms are necessary.

But there’s an obvious catch. Buffy, Giles, Xander—they’ll hate it. Spike is nothing but a monster to them, a rabid animal on a choke chain. No way they’ll tolerate his increased presence, never mind the very idea of him even touching you. You might get Tara and Dawn on side—and if you have Tara, you’ll most likely get Willow, too—but the possibility is far-fetched. Even if you do, it’s easy enough to sway them. Anya’s seen it in action time and time again. She knows how it’s going to go, when this gets out: they’ll call it disgusting, wrong, the scheming of a soulless demon. She can already hear it.

In her heart, she wishes they were more understanding. Humans make love messy when it doesn’t have to be. Demons love simpler. When they want something, they take it. No wringing hands, no guessing games. But there’s something intoxicating about all the fussing. She understands why some demons get obsessed.

Anya crosses her arms, thinking back to Xander’s proposal—so clear, so certain, like he’d already made the decision a hundred times before asking. It’s a rare, beautiful thing, certainty. Not like the mess playing out on the lawn now. She thinks about the ring, nestled in the little black box Xander offered. She didn’t take it then—no point in promises if they don’t survive the night—but the offer sparked something bright and unexpected in her. Delight, disbelief, a warmth and depth of emotion she didn’t know she was capable of. A reminder that demons, ex or otherwise, can know love as fiercely and deeply as any human.

Watching as the kiss breaks, Spike’s forehead resting against yours, she sighs. When it blows up, and it will, she’ll inevitably be dragged into it. Great, she thinks. More drama.

But, as she sees you embrace under the steadily darkening sky, she can’t help but feel a pang of… something. Envy, maybe, at your audacity. Nostalgia. Or the bitter understanding that love is a gamble, and fools are the only ones brave enough to take it. But it’s a gamble worth fighting, worth losing, maybe even dying for.

Giles stands in the corner of the back room, pretending to clean a counter already spotless. The pretence is for your benefit, perhaps Spike’s too, but not his own. He knows exactly why he’s here. Buffy is dead. And you, her younger sister, are throwing yourself into the very life she died living. He tells himself it’s just concern. That he’s watching to ensure you’re safe. But it’s more than that. With Buffy gone, everything he failed to protect now rests in you. And Spike—compulsive, volatile—is the one you’ve chosen to help carry that weight.

The Magic Box is still and dim, cloaked in that aching quiet that has lingered since her death. The only sounds are the thud of your fists on the heavy bag and Spike’s low, muttered instructions. You’re quick, focused, but Giles can see it in the way your shoulders tighten, the way your mouth presses into a hard line. You’re angry. You’re hurting, and Spike is right in the middle of it.

Once, he stood in this very spot and watched Buffy move.

Not like this.

She was light, fluid, grace sharpened into purpose, a dancer in motion even at her most frustrated. He remembers the flash of her blonde ponytail in the air as she twisted into a spin-kick that sent the padded dummy reeling. How she bounced on the balls of her feet with a smirk and said, “Again?” even when sweat was dripping into her eyes.

He remembers correcting her stance, only for her to adjust slightly wrong on purpose to get a rise out of him. The way she’d laugh when she nailed something new. How she complained, always, but never stopped trying. Now, the echoes of those moments sit in the corners of the room like ghosts. But watching you move—raw, stiff, driven by pain instead of instinct—feels like watching someone drown slowly under the weight of her shadow.

You decided to train properly just days after her death. It’s understandable: each of you have found your own methods of working through your sorrow, Dawn blaring her uncomfortably loud music from within the confines of her room while you find yourself here, or away from the house, out at all hours of the night. The others are wrapped up in their own hurt, the wound too fresh to consider the plight of the Summers girls beyond the most basic of necessities. While Giles cannot make himself comfortable with the notion of you in any sort of battle, at least here he can keep vigil. For her.

You aren’t built like your elder sister: your frame is too slight, too small, and your punches lack the power to truly hurt. You’re about as threatening as a fly, but Spike does not coddle you.

“Potential there, yeah?” he said enigmatically when last Giles asked, smirking. “Something raw ’n fierce. She’s no Slayer, but she can surprise a nasty or two.”

When Spike offered to train you, he framed it as a way to keep you from getting yourself killed on the patrols you’d abruptly become insistent on joining. It is your way of honouring your sister’s sacrifice, Giles thinks, though he wishes you might choose some other means. With the Slayer gone, there were none suited to the task save Spike, and thus the proposition was reluctantly agreed to. The chip in the vampire’s head makes his sparring with you impossible, much to everyone’s relief, but he has turned instruction into drills for evasion, for striking with speed and precision, for using your size to your advantage. You’ll not make for a spectacular fighter, no, but Spike ensures you might hold your own.

“Footwork,” the vampire barks as you stumble back from a missed hit. “You’re dancing like a drunk. Move your feet.”

You scowl, breathing hard. “I am moving.”

“Yeah, like a duck. Gotta be faster, light on your toes.” His gaze flicks over you, lazy but appraising, lips curling. “All that talk about training—wouldn’t want to bruise anything too delicate, would we? Keep your face pretty. Gotta keep the goods intact, yeah?” He leans closer, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Though you might wear a bruise well, pet. Bit of edge suits you.”

You bristle, cheeks flushing and indignation flaring in the pout you level him as you obey, focusing on the way Spike glides predatory, almost elegant. He demonstrates a simple but effective series of moves, unnaturally fast, hands ghosting close but never touching. Giles can see your mounting frustration at your inability to replicate the finesse of the supernatural, limbs shaking with exertion.

You lunge abruptly, no rhyme or reason to it, throwing a punch that flies wide. Spike dodges easily, grinning. “That it? Come on, you can hit harder than a wet noodle.”

“Not like you can punch back,” you mutter, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

His eyes narrow, playful. “Then make me dodge.”

You strike again, quicker this time, a low jab aimed at his ribs. He twists away, swift as a snake, but instead of stepping back, he moves into your space and catches your wrist in a carefully firm grip. Before you can react, his other arm wraps around your waist, pinning you flush against his body. Giles jumps, box slipping from his hands to the counter with a dull thud. Neither of you appear to notice.

“Close,” Spike is murmuring to you, voice a rough rumble, “but no.” His hand slides a bit lower, fingers splayed against the curve of your hip. His mouth brushes your ear. “Distracted, baby? Can’t blame you. Hard to focus when you’re all tangled up, yeah?”

His hand twitches lower―just enough to provoke, to threaten―before releasing you with an odd little twist to his lips. Giles stiffens, teeth clenching as he looks on, sees Spike’s regard intent and glimmering on you. For a moment, he thinks the vampire wishes to bite you, to drain you dry, but in an instant, the moment is past and you return to starting positions.

It is hard to watch. But watch he must, for it has long been his mandate to guard against the malevolent creatures who hunt and slaughter innocents. Not only that, but in Buffy’s absence―the pang each time the memory resurfaces of her lying there atop the rubble nearly bowls him over―someone ought to keep their eye on this strange development between the pair of you.

“Ready?” Spike’s tone is clipped, stance relaxed. “Again.”

Giles watches as you push harder, your muscles trembling, frustration mounting with every falter. Spike’s needling is mild but targeted, sustained, enough to build up the uncharacteristic anger in you. The vampire never raises a hand against you―he cannot, after all―but he pushes, demands, making you curse your own limits and curse him just the same. He’d perhaps be grateful for the efforts Spike is undertaking if not for the way his gaze lingers a fraction too long, or how carefully he listens when your voice cracks.

He’s tried to intervene. Truly, he has. It seems from the very second you returned to Sunnydale, armed with a superciliousness that can only come from having attended an institute like Thacher for near three years, you have met his every entreaty with a discourse on the intellectual failings of dichotomous thinking. Spike has no soul―one cannot unilaterally quantify a soul’s impact on the quality of personhood. Spike is evil―‘evil’ is subject to time, place, culture, any number of qualifiers that make it impossible to define concretely. Spike can only cause harm―then that is your cross to bear, and your lesson to learn. Interesting, certainly, but gullible. The accusation that Giles is in some way lacking rationality is galling, though he sees your point. However, he’s seen Spike in all his unholy glory, knows what he is capable of. You can question the basis of his suspicion all you like, but it does not change the simple fact that Spike has done things that even the most abominable human beings would shudder to behold, and he has rejoiced in the horror.

Ben, hand clawing at his arm, weakly trying to twist away—No. His thoughts turn back to you.

You protest Giles’s every exhortation, strong-willed, resilient and reckless in such an unassuming manner that it terrifies him. You aren’t a Slayer, but you are a Summers, and let no one tell you what you can and cannot do. You insist that Spike is helping. That you need the distraction, the outlet. That you need someone who sees you for more than the grief and the guilt that plague your waking hours. And perhaps that’s what terrifies him most: that Spike might actually be helping. That darkness, once cut loose from consequence, can learn the shape of meaning, wear it like a mask.

Over the following weeks, Giles observes from a distance, acutely aware of how your dynamic with Spike has changed. The vampire’s instruction has become softer, more invested. Confident, maybe, in the lack of challenge to his conduct. Spike encourages you, listens to you. Something protective lays in the way he steps closer when your voice wavers or when fatigue drags your movement. Giles sees it all.

The contradiction bothers him. Spike has no soul, his every innate impulse leashed by the metal sliver in his skull. And yet, here he is, teaching you, protecting you, caring. The chip keeps Spike in check, but it does nothing to curb emotions. Even a soulless vampire can develop fixations, obsessions that mask themselves as something softer, sweeter. Spike is a being of passion, his fascinations consuming. His almost violent preoccupation with Buffy has transmuted, found a new form in you as he reveals himself a man possessed, but it is the way you look back that worries Giles more. Longing, visceral and bursting. You cling to him like a tether, held together by someone just as lost and just as dangerous. He knows that Spike would chomp at the bit to take you in hand, to save you, possess you; though for what purpose, he knows not. It gnaws at him.

Giles lingers late in the shop now, a Watcher in a ghost town, listening to your sessions with Spike. He tells himself it is concern that keeps him still, ears searching for snippets of conversation―but the more he hears, the more he realises with growing dread that there is something more to your connection. Mouths too close. Bodies too familiar. Words too tender, hidden behind closed doors and from averted eyes. Spike is no longer a distraction. He’s become vital, like breath, like blood. A companion, a confidant. The full scope of it hides below the surface and out of Giles’s sight, save for the ripples of recognition that make themselves evident in gradual increments.

The question eats at him: what happens when Spike’s obsession inevitably turns darker, when fleeting touch and veiled intent no longer serve his desires? Will you recognize the danger before it consumes you? Will you even care? Though it keeps him up at night, Giles cannot bring himself to confront you. Not yet. Grief drives people to foolishness, the need for comfort outweighing common sense. He’s considered confronting Spike directly—pulling him aside, demanding he explain himself, threatening consequences if he oversteps again—but what good would it do? Spike would only smirk, lean back with that insufferable slouch, and twist concern into something vulgar. A taunt, a dare. He would make it a game, because that’s what vampires do. They play at humanity. And Giles is so very tired of playing.

The time for subtlety is drawing to a close. He must make you understand the risk, even if it costs your trust. Watching isn’t enough. Not anymore.

Upon an evening after your training comes to a close and you rest, smarting and sore as Spike prowls away to his shift on patrol, Giles corners you.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he begins, the edge in his voice betraying his fear.

You look up at him. He sees it in your face when you grasp his meaning, your nostrils flaring just the once, frustration fleeting. “I know what he is,” you say after a pause, quiet and tired. “But that doesn’t mean he can’t choose to be more.”

Giles sighs. “He’s a vampire. Change isn’t in their nature.”

“Isn’t it?” you challenge softly. “He protects Dawn. He fights the good fight. He ca―He’s… trying. That has to mean something. Maybe he just needs a chance. Maybe everyone does.”

“Naive,” Giles mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Evil doesn’t change. It adapts.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” you admit, gaze unwavering. “But if people never get a chance to be better, what’s the point? Even you gave Angel a chance. Or was that different?”

Giles looks away, ashamed at how small the truth sounds when you say it like that. He absently pats the pocket of his jacket, fingers brushing the edges of a plane ticket he hasn’t yet decided to use. He doesn’t know if it’s cowardice, or mercy, that’s kept him from boarding it. “He had a soul.”

“And Spike has a choice.”

Silence hangs between you. Giles wonders if you’ll ever understand what he’s seen, what he’s lost. But the fire in your eyes is familiar. Unyielding. He thinks of Buffy, of her tenacity and persistence, and then of you: juvenile, grieving, determined to carry burdens too heavy for your shoulders. With her gone, he is supposed to protect you. But how can he protect you from yourself?

There is no future to be found here. Not with Spike. Not like this. And if Giles does not leave while he still can, he will remain stuck, resigned to watching the inevitable fall.

God help you both.

Dawn’s tears feel cold as they slide down her cheeks. She’s not sure if she’s crying because she’s angry or just tired—but either way, she’s so sick of them.

She doesn’t mean it. Deep down, she knows that. They’re trying. They get her up in the mornings, drive her to school. Pick her up, spend afternoons making stilted conversation. They help you with the bills, with dinner, with making sense of all of Buffy’s ID stuff so that Social Services still thinks she’s in the picture. Dawn sees the self-help books they hide whenever she enters the room, the step-by-step how-tos on helping their child cope with loss. There probably isn’t one on ways to fix a ball of mystical energy after her fake mom and fake sister die. She hates how they avoid it, how they won’t say Buffy’s name. The looks, the half-finished sentences, the careful choice of words. It feels like they’re all pretending. Months have passed, and nothing’s better. Mom’s dead. Buffy’s dead, and no one wants to say it out loud.

Tara’s soft voice echoes in her ears, gentle, soothing, so understanding it made Dawn want to scream. Willow’s hovering didn’t help either. It felt like drowning in marshmallow fluff. She had to get out. She needed air, space, somewhere she wasn’t the Key or a broken kid sister. Somewhere no one would baby her, hover, be in her face all the time.

It’s kinda depressing, but the cemetery has always felt peaceful to her. It’s familiar: the dirt beneath her sneakers, the rot of dying grass, the mildew dirtying the headstones that stick up like crooked teeth out of the ground. It’s bleak, but honest. The air feels cleaner here, cool and bite-y, a reminder that she’s still alive.

“The hardest thing in this world is to live. Be brave. Live… for me.”

Buffy’s last words hit her like a hammer, shocking her with a fresh wave of sadness prickling in the corners of her eyes. She looks up. The stars are out, cold and distant, glinting in the sky so far above her. It’s comforting, in a way. They’re all trapped in their own galaxies billions of light years away, never getting to meet each other. Alone in the dark, just like her.

Her vision blurs. She swallows hard, the lump in her throat thick and heavy. Everyone leaves her. Mom and Buffy, bodies in the ground, Dad and Giles an ocean away. She feels small. Insignificant. But at least here, the quiet feels less accusing, less full of expectations. She drags in a breath, shaky but grounding.

Shivering, she looks around as she nears Spike’s crypt. Everyone thinks she’s pretty weird for hanging out with him sometimes, but he’s the only one who doesn’t try to tell her everything’s going to be okay. He doesn’t try to make her talk. Sometimes, he doesn’t even say hello to her. He just nods at her, lets her sit there in silence until the anger and the hurt melts away. Spike is… Spike. He gets it. She remembers what he was like before: obsessed with Buffy, creepy and desperate, kinda vicious in his insistence that her sister felt something for him. The way Buffy looked at him—like he was disgusting, an ant under her shoe, like he was less than a bug to her—comes back to her. That was always painful to watch. But he learned from it, grew, turned his feelings into something else. He got less threatening and aggressive; pulled back, focused less on her and more on what was important to her, on you and Dawn. Showed Buffy that he could be someone to rely on, someone to help with the Slayer���s kid sisters.

Guilt eats at Dawn. She hasn’t come to see him a while. All the Scoobies have taken up so much of her time by dragging her through the motions, convinced that she’ll move on with her life if they remind her to do her homework and stick a chore chart on the fridge. She’s seen him plenty at home, but it’s always hard to tell how someone’s doing when they’re just visiting.

I guess I’ll find out, she thinks with a slight prickle of nerves.

As she draws closer, she instantly notices something off. She squints, taking in the sight of the stone outside. Is the door… painted? Yup. Still has that slightly funky chemical smell, so it’s gotta be pretty fresh. The stoop is clear for once, none of the crackly dead leaves announcing her presence under her feet, and there’s a broom tucked behind the pot plant. Weird. There’s even a flowerpot sitting next to the column, a splash of bright. The inside is cleaner than she remembers. Swept floors, no cigarette butts, the beer bottles gone. A faded throw is tossed over the back of the armchair Spike took from their house, and the moldy damp smell seems a little less intense.

Huh. Spike isn’t exactly Mr. Domestic. What gives?

It takes her a moment to realize that the trapdoor is open. He doesn’t usually leave it like that, whether he’s out or staying in. She’s heading for the ladder before she’s fully aware of it, careful not to make a sound as she goes down. Her steps are light, careful, not wanting to disturb Spike, or whoever’s in here.

Edging along the wall—not too close, because erghh and ick with the spiderwebs—she’s just before the bend when her ears pick up voices. More than one. Muffled, but clear enough to hear the difference. One is definitely Spike’s—gruff, low, offensively British—but the other one is… softer. Younger. Familiar. Her heart lurches before she can stop it.

What are you doing here?

Her curiosity outweighs her sense, and she peers just around the corner to see you. And Spike. You and Spike, together.

Her eyes widen. Spike lays in bed—a real one, not a ratty cot or a stone slab—bare-chested and propped up by kitschy pillows that match the new rugs on the floor. You’re spread out atop him, equally free of clothes, your chest pressed to his so that all she can really see is the span of your back and the way Spike’s fingers trace lazy circles across your skin. Your cheek rests in the crook of his neck, your hair messy. The rumpled sheets barely cover some seriously X-rated stuff, though Dawn can tell that your legs are tangled together, and that his other hand is on your thigh beneath the coverings. It’s obvious what you’ve been doing. The scent of it clings to the air: sweat, skin, warm and strong. Heat climbs her cheeks, but she can’t look away.

She knows this is a scene she was never meant to see. Something private. It makes a strange, painful knot form in her stomach, but at least she’s finally figured out where you’ve been going now that you’re not at home as much. You’re here. With Spike.

Privacy, boundaries, respect, blah blah blah, she thinks, intending to back away until you speak again, finally near enough that she can hear you.

“… and I—I can’t fall apart,” you say, voice thick with sadness. She finally takes in your expression: crumpled, eyes rimmed red. The kind of face you make when you’ve cried too much and can’t anymore. “Buffy’s… she’s gone. Mom’s gone. And I―”

Spike hushes you, gaze locked on you in a way that makes Dawn’s heart skip a beat.

Your breath hitches. “I’m supposed to hold it together. For Dawnie. I’m the oldest now. And everyone expects me to―” You stop, hesitant.

“You can say it, sweetheart. Go on,” Spike encourages softly. “Let it out.”

You choke on a sob. When you begin again, your voice is small. “I… I’m her sister. Buffy’s. Her real one. The one with real memories and real love, and I have to… I have to bury it all. Because if I don’t, who steps up? Buffy’s the Slayer, but I’m the strong one, and I can’t―”

Your words break, face turning into his throat as a noise unlike anything Dawn’s ever heard escapes you. She almost throws up. Wants to storm in, yelling, asking you if that’s what you really think of her, if you see her as just some thing instead of a person. It hurts something fragile and breakable in the very darkest parts of her to hear you say what no one else will: that she’s a fraud, a phony that doesn’t belong. Not real. Alone. If that’s how you feel, then why do you even bother?

But then, Spike’s arms tighten around you, holding you even closer, and she pauses.

“Not wrong for what you feel,” he murmurs. “Bloody awful mess. Not fair. And you’ve been carrying too much of it alone.”

Your fingers curl against his chest. “I hate feeling this way. I hate that I even thought it. Dawnie… I love her.”

Spike presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re allowed. Doesn’t make you a bad sister. Makes you human.”

“I… I miss her,” you say, unsteady and so, so young. “I miss Buffy. I miss… I want my mom. I want them back. How do―how can―how am I supposed to do this?”

“I know, baby.” His hand slides up to cup the back of your head. You grip him like a lifeline. “It’s rotten, the hand you’ve been dealt. But you’ll get along. You’re brave. And you’re not alone. Never alone.”

Dawn presses a hand over her mouth, backing away slowly. The quiet, broken sound of your crying follows her as she slips out, heart pounding. She makes it halfway home before her legs wobble, forcing her to sit on a crumbling stone wall.

The way he held you… Like you were something precious to him. She swallows back the lump in her throat. You and Spike. You and Spike, together. It’s weird, and part of her wants to be grossed out, but the look on his face sticks in her mind. He’s never looked at anyone like that before. Not Drusilla, not Harmony, not Buffy, not Dawn. No one. No one but you.

She gets it now. Why Spike’s around so much. Why she seems to always find him with you at the Magic Box, at the house, in the cemetery, the Bronze. She wonders when it all started. What she’s seen tonight isn’t random. It didn’t look like two people just trying to cope. It looked like… it reminds her of Buffy, how she was with Angel.

Dawn sighs. Sure, it stings, but she gets it. Her rage has left her, replaced by something stinging and bittersweet. She can’t unhear the pain in your voice, can’t unsee the way Spike held you like you matter, maybe more than anyone else in the world. She knows she should tell someone what she saw—maybe Willow or Tara—but the idea makes her stomach churn. It would hurt you, betray you. And Spike, he would never forgive her.

She rubs the salt from her eyes with the heel of her hand, then grips the edge of the wall like it might steady her. The choice settles into her chest, warm and a little heavy. She’ll keep your secret. For now.

The house feels thinner tonight, hollowed out. Smaller. Quieter than she’s used to.

Buffy’s away, dragged by Willow and Xander to the Bronze in the hopes that bass and bodies might shake loose the shadows she’s been carrying since her resurrection. Dawn’s at Janice’s, sleeping over, probably halfway through a horror movie and a bag of microwave popcorn, equipped with gossip and a parent who can pretend not to notice how late they stay up. And you—you’re usually the one who stays behind, always so gentle with Buffy lately, so patient with Dawn. Steady, in your own quiet, hurting way. Tara assumes you’ve gone to sleep already, or out again, whereabouts unknown.

For once, she can breathe. No awkward silences. No Buffy’s thousand-yard stare across the table. No tiptoeing around the tension that still clings to the walls like smoke. She’s been floating for weeks, a warm presence pressed into the background, not quite seen, not quite necessary. The only time anyone touches her anymore is when she initiates it. She can’t remember the last time someone held her like they needed to.

She moves softly through the hallway now, mug of tea in one hand, the intention simple: grab the spare quilt from the room you share with your little sister and curl up on the couch with a book. But then she hears it. A sound, soft and aching. A moan, breathy and real, the kind of sound that doesn’t come from pain.

Tara pauses outside your bedroom door, which hangs slightly ajar. She should walk away. She knows she should. But something makes her glance through the gap. She tells herself it’s concern, not curiosity, that the sound you made could’ve been from pain. Just checking. One breath. One heartbeat. Just long enough to see something that will never leave her.

She freezes.

You’re on the bed, bare from the waist down, hips tilted to the edge of the mattress and thighs parted in surrender. Spike is on his knees on the floor, shirtless, pants riding low and sagging, undone, skin pale as milk in the moonlight. His shoulders ripple with restrained tension, arms banded tight around your thighs as he buries his face between them like a man starved. The lamplight from the corner casts long shadows across his back, glinting along the ridges of his spine, the curve of his neck. One of your legs is slung high over his shoulder, trembling. The other braces against the mattress, and you're huffing, squirming.

Your head tosses back on the pillow, lips parting on a soft, drawn-out moan. He’s working you over with slow, luxuriating confidence, worshipping, hungering. His tongue traces slick, purposeful circles, every movement intentional. Tara hears him, hears the filthy little noises he makes when you twitch and jolt beneath him, the wet suck of his lips when he draws your clit between them, savoring you like sin.

“Spike,” you breathe, and he groans like it’s the only word that matters.

Her breath catches.

Spike pulls back only to spear into the furl of your entrance, pressing his nose in hard and inhaling. Your body judders helplessly, your fingers digging into the bedspread, into the air, into nothing at all. The muscles in your stomach flex, then tremble. You whimper, low and wrecked, and he makes a sound in return: primal, appreciative, entirely unashamed. It’s obscene. And yet, there’s a softness to it.

Tara’s seen Spike grin through blood and violence, heard him mock the pain of others. But this—this isn’t that. She remembers the tower: his hands slick with blood, the way he stood, shaking and hollering your name as a stray hit sent you reeling to the ground, afraid. Broken. She hadn’t known then what it meant. She might now.

His hands aren’t being cruel. His mouth isn’t taking. It���s giving. Something in him is folded open, gentle. Wanting. He moves, draws his tongue over your clit with careful precision, then slips lower again, teasing your opening before easing back in, slow and sure. One hand trails up to splay wide across your belly, grounding you. He growls, eyes half-lidded like it’s better than blood.

“Such a sweet li’l cunt. Heaven,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and decadent, velvet dragged over grit. “Could die here, buried in you. Wouldn’t even mind.”

Tara flinches, face flaming. But you—you make a shuddering sound of agreement, helpless and high-pitched. Your hand fists in his hair, pulling without thought, and Spike laughs, low and delighted. Not mocking; giddy, like a man dizzy with luck.

“Greedy thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles, nosing along your thigh before dipping back in, tongue wicked and unrelenting. “Already twitchin’, beggin’ for more. Look at you. Bloody gorgeous when you come undone.”

Your hips cant forward, chasing his mouth.

“C’mon then,” he urges, licking slow and deep, practically cooing. “Lemme feel you break.”

Tara swallows, heart thudding. The room smells like skin and salt and something sweet, air balmy and thick enough to taste. She presses the mug to her mouth like an anchor. Doesn’t drink. Just holds it, fingers damp with warmth. Everything else goes quiet.

She should look away. But the way you move—hips lifting, breath catching—draws her in. You whisper his name like a plea, and he doubles down, suckling hard enough to make you arch off the mattress. Crying out, you twist the sheet in one hand and reach for him with the other. He catches your wrist and kisses your palm, never pausing.

Then—

“Oh god,” you sob. “Please, please, I—”

“Shh,” Spike soothes, voice ragged against you. “Give it to me. Let go, baby, I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You crest with a gasping, hitched cry, back arched and mouth open. Spike moans against you like he’s the one unraveling as you tremble, thighs clamped around his ears. Your chest heaves. Your lips part. For a moment, you look unmade: tears streak your cheeks, sweat glistens on your skin, and your breath comes in gulps, shallow.

He doesn’t pull away, his caresses softening, slow and adoring. It reminds Tara of how Willow once touched her wrist in a crowded room. She envies it, the ache turned to tenderness. To be truly seen, desired. She mourns how rare that feeling has become. There’s awe in it, and something worse. Need, maybe, or love. Ever since Buffy came back, the world’s been tilted slightly sideways—sunlight too yellow, silence too thick. But this? This feels real, loud, alive.

Spike presses his mouth to your thigh as you come down, uttering affection too low to catch. He licks up the mess he’s made of you, gentle now, like you’re sacred.

“Too much,” you whisper, blinking. “Can’t…”

He eases back, wiping his chin, then nestles into the cradle of your hips. His fingers trace the wet between your legs—not to arouse, but to relish in, the tip of his nose gliding along your belly, devoted. He lingers, lips brushing the slope of your mound like prayer.

Tara starts to move. She should leave. Any longer, and it won’t be an accident. If you see her, it becomes something else. A breeze shivers through the hallway and she stills, heart pounding, suddenly certain that if Spike turns his head, he’ll know; that if you catch her, it will live between you like a ghost. She tells herself it’s only curiosity, that it’ll vanish from her memory come morning. But she knows it won’t.

She stays. Listens.

“I didn’t mean to cry,” you mumble, throwing an arm over your eyes.

“I like it when you do.” He kisses your hip and climbs up over you, licking his lips. It doesn’t sound cruel. “Means you feel me. Means ’m not just makin’ this up in the dark, yeah?” He pulls you into the crook of his arm, palm cradling your cheek, thumb gentle beneath your eye. You sniffle. His mouth skims along your temple. “There she is. My brave girl.”

The way you melt into him, it’s not only comfort. It’s trust. Tara knows love doesn’t always look gentle. He coils around you like you might vanish, nose grazing your temple, hand stroking your back. You toss your leg over his, and he slides his fingers to touch where you’re still slick, to which you wriggle but say nothing.

“Still with me, kitten?” he asks.

You nod. “You didn’t have to be so—”

“Didn’t have to. Wanted to.” He nuzzles your hair. “Wanted to make you feel good. You always make me feel like I’m still… real.”

You bury your face in his chest. He exhales.

Tara never thought vampires spoke in anything but hunger—but Spike does. He calls you gorgeous. Brave. And the way you twine around each other… it’s not lust. It’s sanctuary.

“Love you,” he whispers. It sounds like confession, like surrender. “So much it hurts. So much I’d burn for it.”

Your fingers curl against his skin. “I know. I love you, too.”

That’s when Tara steps back. She closes the door gently, careful not to make a sound, her hand lingering too long on the knob before letting go.

She should feel horrified. She doesn’t. What she saw wasn’t twisted, wasn’t wrong. It was private, fierce, soft in a way Spike isn’t with anyone else. If Buffy knew, it would break something. If Xander knew, he’d burn it down. But Tara understands the truth of it—the strange, aching, imperfect truth. She saw you: the girl clinging to something fragile and fierce, and the monster who looked like he was terrified to let you go.

That truth belongs to you and Spike. Not the rest of the world. She walks away, silent and thoughtful, and decides she didn’t see anything at all.

Buffy will come home tonight with mascara smudged and shoulders slumped. She’ll shuffle through the door like a ghost who got lost on the way back to her grave, and Tara will hand her tea and ask about the music. Neither of them will mention how long it’s been since anyone laughed.

The house still feels hollow, but not lifeless. Something still beats beneath its ribs, reckless and messy and lit with want. Tara doesn’t know if it’s hope, but it’s something. She doesn’t know what it is she envies more: the hunger, or the way it’s fed.

He wants to tear his eyes out, rip his eardrums from his skull and swallow them all. Anything to escape the full-on assault in front of him.

Well. Not an assault. It’s pretty quiet, all things considered. But still. There’s a special kind of hell in watching whatever the crap this is. Your face is pretty much all Xander can really see of what’s going on―brows furrowed, mouth open, eyes hooded―but the uh. Bouncing. Yeah. That’s painting a pretty graphic picture. And the sounds. Wet, gross, thrusting sounds.

Your hands are clasped against the back of Evil Dead’s neck, fingers twisting and twisting away in the ungelled hairs at his nape as you make those haunting little wounded noises with each―oh god, yuck―drive of his hips against you, pushing you further into the wall of the dusty old crypt you’re hoisted up against. Xander’s eyes flicker down before he can stop himself―bare calves jolting with the rhythm, skirt hiked high—and snaps them back up just in time to see Spike’s mouth dragging along your throat. Hands flex on your hips, steering you squirming into each harsh roll of his body. Thank the Powers That Be that he’s still fully clothed.

Well―

Nope. Not thinking about what’s unclothed right now.

"Spike…” you gasp, high and pitchy, but whatever you were going to say is swallowed by a vicious kiss, Spike’s bleach-blond head blocking your face from view as he devours you. The sight jolts Xander’s heart sideways, but he can’t—can’t—look away.

You used to call him Xan the Man. Used to ask for rides home from school and come to him for help with the printer. Now you’re wrapped around a monster like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“The thing he’s doing with his tongue,” Anya whispers, wide-eyed. “She’s probably having multiple orga―”

He waves a harried hand at her, the universal motion for shut the hell up, Ahn, partly because he so does not want to hear the end of that line of thought and partly because he doesn’t want Spike to know they’re here. Also, to be honest, because he’s still kinda trying to process what he’s seeing. It’s like watching a train wreck: he can’t look away. Are you under a spell?

“Shh, shh,” he can hear Spike murmur then, voice low and coaxing, his nose dipping to glide along the arch of your throat as he hitches your legs higher. “Gotta stay quiet, yeah? Don’t want any beasties coming ’round.”

You yelp, and Xander flinches. The bleached wonder makes his own series of sounds, then, deep and growly, and his lips curve in a wicked smile against your ear. Fingers curl tighter against your hips in a way that should be making that chip of his fire off, make him scream in agony, stumble off and away. But nope, of course Xander’s not that lucky. You writhe closer, gasping.

His pulse pounds. A hundred bad scenarios run wild through his head—Buffy’s face twisting in rage, Dawn crying, you lying cold and broken after Spike gets bored. He feels sick.

“You want that, then, baby?” Spike croons, lips skimming your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Want ’em to see you hanging off the Big Bad’s cock, slack-jawed ’n titties bouncing? Mm, give ’em the treat of their lives. Show off my girl and her tight li’l quim.”

“Oh my god,” Anya mutters. Her expression is fascinated and maybe a little aroused, but she doesn’t seem surprised, which is one to file away for later.

Xander’s stomach revolts. He’s heard Spike talk like this before—sick, lecherous, all swagger and filth—but hearing it directed at you is… it’s wrong. You’re too young, too trusting, too damn human. You’re Buffy’s sister. Dawn’s sister. Hell, you’re practically his kid sister, still fourteen in his mind, still asking him to reach the cereal from the top shelf. And Spike? He’s leering at you like a prize to ruin. But you don’t look ruined. You look… hungry. Yearning, with the bright flush spreading across your face and your arms winding tighter around his neck, ankles locking round his back like a limpet.

You’re shaking your head, but your lower body is curving off the stone to grind back down on him, keening out, “No, no―”

Spike grins, tongue flicking against your earlobe as his hips roll deeper. Xander wants to snap something—an insult, a threat—but he can’t risk it. “Course not. You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Selfish, I am. Plucked you for my own and I’m keepin’ you, all mine. My good girl.”

‘A good girl.’ The phrase slithers down Xander’s spine like ice water. The edge in Spike’s voice freaks him out. Maybe… maybe we should’ve been more wigged out when he started spending time with her instead of sniffing around Buffy.

His gut clenches hard as you cry out, clearly in pain as the vamp staccatos his thrusts like he’s stabbing you through to your core. The chip still doesn’t go off and you’re writhing closer, not away, completely unbothered by the slamming of the hand by your shoulder and the rock that crumbles under superstrong fingers digging into the wall.

Xander keeps hoping the chip’s gone dead.

Because that’s easier than admitting you’re not fighting back.

God, do you even want Spike to stop?

Xander’s stuck, warring with his desire to burst through the thicket concealing him and Ahn and stake Spike for what he’s doing to you, but he can’t figure out if the chip’s malfunctioning or not.

“You gonna cum, kitten?” Spike’s asking, teeth fixated on the skin where your neck and shoulder meet, nipping and sucking like he’s getting ready for a feast. You’re clinging to his hair, crunching the gel all out of it, knees scrabbling but unable to find purchase against the leather coat until he hooks his arms under them. He folds you near in half so you let out a squeal, feet kicking. “Yeah? Feel you gettin’ hot for it, squeezin’ down all desperate … Come on, gimme it, get me all drippin’ with it, yeah―”

You seize up like you’ve been tazed, electrocuted, a sobbing whimper bursting out as he works you up and through it, pace frantic―

“Yeah, baby,” he’s moaning, “came like a dream―know it’s hurtin’, jus’ gotta let me finish, lemme―”

―and you wilt, limbs loosening to jelly so much so that Spike’s all but shoving you through the crypt wall. Your voice is fervent and cracking as you say, “Please, Spike, please—want it inside, want you in me—please, please—”

You whine high and clear while Spike pounds at you, animalistic, though you clutch yourself to him tight as he grunts and blusters his way to his end. Making little encouraging cries, you arch back obligingly as his chin dips and―hoo boy, that’s definitely more of you than Xander ever planned to see, thanks, never mind the tongue and teeth all over you. The movements slow and slow until there’s nothing more than a lazy shuddering roll of Spike’s lower body against yours. You tilt your head back, eyes closed and sighing.

“Wow,” Anya breathes. Yeah, wow’s right.

Xander feels like he’s been gutted. He’s seen plenty of things on patrol, but this… this is something else. Something private and raw and so, so wrong. No, not just wrong. It’s unwatchable. Buffy’s sister, tangled in Spike’s claws, and he can’t do a damn thing about it. The helplessness burns.

Spike kisses you again, touches you like he’s starved for it, his body cradling yours with sickening tenderness.

“Come back with me, sweetheart?” he asks you softly.

Huh, still with the nickname-y thing. Xander’s mind twists back to Drusilla, how she used to cling, how Spike would all but melt into her, feral and indulgent. The comparison knots something ugly inside him.

“Got you all messy,” Spike’s still saying. One of his hands disappears, and you make a noise Xander can’t really place until he sees the vamp stick his fingers in his mouth, lewdly suck them with a pop. “Can’t go off leakin’ all the way home.”

“If I had my panties back,” you say, laughing, “maybe that wouldn’t be a problem.”

Zipper sounds, and Spike lowers you with more care than Xander’s ever seen him use, fiddling with the skirt of your dress. Your knees are pressed tight together.

“Were you wearin’ any?” he asks with false innocence, tucking strands of hair behind your ear and following the plane of your shoulder, your arm, winding his fingers with yours. “Can’t remember.”

You laugh again. You keep doing that. “Spike.”

He tugs you from the wall, arms holding you like a vice against him. The expression on Spike’s face as he looks at you… Awareness feels like nausea.

This isn’t just screwing around, is it?

Of course. The way Dawn hovers. Tara’s looks. Giles leaving—not after Buffy died, but after something else. They all knew. They just didn’t say it. How long has this been happening while everyone’s looked away?

“Feel better when you’re with me,” he says, voice low. His forehead presses down against yours and you sway together, idle, caught in a spell. “Watchin’ you sleep, heart beatin’… Get to hold you, too. S’nice. How ‘bout it, hm?”

Too soft, too soft.

Your eyes are wide, adoring. “I’ll call home. Tell them I’m out for the night.”

Suddenly, Xander’s thinking back to all those times Buffy or Dawnie or Willow or Tara have mentioned you staying over with a friend, going out late and coming back the next afternoon, or the afternoon after that. How many of those times have you actually just been with Spike?

You shriek, nearly cackling as the vamp hoists you up into a carry, spinning in an arc so your hair flies gleaming behind you. “Oh my god, Spike!”

“Yeah, baby, say my name.” He stalks off into the night with you, no doubt to make good on taking you back to his crypt.

Xander stands there.

He wishes he never agreed to go patrolling tonight; wishes he decided to turn right instead of left; wishes he didn’t hear those noises and decide to stop, to creep up and scope out the source beyond the cover of bushes. Wishes he didn’t have to know that you and Spike are together, and that―worst of all―this isn’t just some fling. You’re in deep. Maybe he is, too.

He lets out a slow, deep breath, searching for his inner calm. “That was… disturbing as hell.”

“Why?” Anya tilts her head, frowning. “Because they’re in love?”

“Wha―No! No, that’s not the issue!” He rubs his face, trying to ignore the heart palpitations at Ahn’s use of the word love.

Her eyes narrow slightly, brow set in an even deeper furrow. “I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

“I don’t—” He stops. Don’t lash out. Inner calm. He sighs. Starts again. “This is bad. This is very, very bad.”

Anya nods, clearly not understanding. The great thing about her is that she doesn’t push when she doesn’t get it. “Okay. Should we―should we just go home for now? Maybe you’ll feel better about it there.”

If Buffy finds out and doesn’t stop it—if she looks at this and says it’s fine—then maybe the world’s already broken beyond repair.

Xander shakes his head, already pulling out his phone, scrolling to ‘B’. “Not yet. I gotta make a call.”

He doesn’t even know what he’s gonna say. Just that someone has to know. Someone stronger. Someone who can stop it before it’s too late.

Willow steps through the front door like she’s bracing for a spell to blow back in her face.

The house feels wrong the second she enters. Too still, like the quiet after a slammed door. The air’s brittle with tension, the kind of tension that’s made her call in sick to work and grab the first bus back across town. It’s been a while since this atmosphere settled, long enough for her to head back out, get her copy of Witchcraft from where she’d left it behind the counter at the Magic Box. It was Buffy’s request. She thinks Spike’s put some kind of love spell on you. No one has the heart to tell her that you’re not acting like you’ve been under a spell.

Tara’s waiting in the entryway, pale and subdued.

“She knows they know,” she murmurs, voice soft but heavy. “I called her.”

Willow nods, avoiding her gaze. It’s painful, seeing her so soon after she moved out. “Thanks.”

Dawn’s been sent up to her room. The conversation that’s coming isn’t one for her ears, though Willow assumes she’ll probably just hide herself in the hall upstairs so she can listen in. For once, though, she didn’t put up a fight against her oldest sister’s demand. There was something sad in the set of her mouth, like she knew what was about to happen.

In the living room, it’s a standoff. Buffy’s pacing like a caged animal, arms crossed so tightly they could splinter bone. Xander’s by the fireplace, jaw set and eyes sharp, practically vibrating with righteous fury, while Anya is perched on the arm of the couch, watching everything like she’s about to start taking bets. That leaves her and Tara, awkwardly dancing around each other. Willow doesn’t know what to think. She doesn’t have long to figure it out.

The front door opens again. You come in first, proud and tense, daring anyone to speak. You’re holding Spike’s hand, clutching it with knuckles white. He remains a half-step behind you, his usual leather and arrogance somewhat marred by the tired, guarded expression on his face, like he’s expecting a stake through the ribs at any second but will gladly take it if it means standing with you. You pause in the entry to the living room, hovering, indecisive.

Willow’s stomach flips. She doesn’t mean to stare, but she can’t help it. The way your fingers are laced with his, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world—as though you’re not standing in a room full of people who once would’ve bled to keep you safe from evil like him. It’s shocking.

Buffy’s the first to speak. Of course she is.

“Really?” she spits, voice like a lash. “You thought this was a good idea? Bringing him he―”

“We didn’t come for your permission, or your blessing,” you say flatly, raising your chin. A blaze burns in your eyes, threatening. “We came because I’m tired of hiding.”

Spike raises his eyebrows slightly, clearly amused despite everything. Willow wants to scream.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Xander cuts in, face red. “No one thought you did. But maybe you should have. Or, I don’t know, used the part of your brain that goes ‘hey, maybe I shouldn’t be having freaky sex with the guy who’s tried to kill everyone in this room?’”

Buffy whirls around to glare at him, but you beat her to it.

“Shut up, Xander,” you snap, the hostility so unlike you. Perhaps you’ve finally been pushed to the edge. Or maybe―just maybe―you’ve found something, someone worth the fight. “You don’t know a damn thing about us.”

“Please,” Xander scoffs. “What, you think that because he’s not killing people anymore, it makes this okay? He’s a monster! He’s—”

“He’s not!” you snap, stepping forward unconsciously. “He’s more human than half the people in this room.”

Willow finally speaks. “He’s a vampire with no soul. Do you even hear yourself?”

You look at her like she’s failed a test you thought she’d pass. “Yeah. I do. Better than you do, apparently.”

She flinches. That stings.

“You think this is some epic romance?” Xander scoffs. “This is Spike. He doesn’t love; he obsesses. You’re just the next thing he’s latched onto.”

Shaking your head, you say, “You’re wrong. He cares about me.”

Buffy’s in Spike’s face before Willow can blink. “Stay away from her. Stay away from my family. You touch her again and I swear to god—”

“Buffy.” Willow tries, she really does. But her voice is small, hesitant. She doesn’t know how to fix this. She doesn’t even know what this is.

Anya chimes in, voice low but unflinching. “This isn’t helping. Yelling at her like this. It’s not going to make her stop loving him.”

Everyone freezes for a moment, surprised. Anya shrugs, then folds her hands primly in her lap. “If yelling could fix love, none of us would’ve ever made a single relationship mistake. But here we are.”

The bite in the room is momentarily thrown off.

You’re shaking now, but not from fear. “I’m not some toy you can shove in a box when it makes you uncomfortable! I’m not yours to protect, or judge, or decide for. I’m the only one who gets to decide who I love.”

“Oh, god,” Buffy mutters, eyes wide with something between horror and heartbreak. “You really think this is love?”

“I know it is.”

Buffy’s breathing is sharp now, unsteady. She’s staring at you like she’s seeing someone else, someone she can’t recognize. Her voice, when it comes, is cracked at the edges. “Giles knew, didn’t he?”

The words land with more weight than Willow expects. There’s no venom in them, only something raw and wounded, almost betrayed.

You flinch, barely. “What?”

“That’s why he left,” Buffy says, eyes narrowing. “He couldn’t watch it. Couldn’t watch you… this.” She gestures to you and Spike like the very sight of you burns.

Willow stiffens, heart sinking. She knows Giles’s departure had nothing to do with you—at least, not directly. But Buffy’s not really asking for answers. She’s lashing out because it’s easier than facing the loneliness that’s been creeping closer every day since he left. Willow can see it in the clench of her jaw, in the brittle shine of her eyes. Buffy’s not stupid. Deep down, she knows the distance between her and Giles is her own doing. But tonight, she needs someone to blame, and it’s fallen on you.

“Don’t put that on her,” Spike says, low and warning.

“Don’t speak,” Buffy snaps, flicking her gaze to him. “You don’t get to talk. You’re the reason she’s like this.”

“I’m not some project he corrupted,” you fire back, shaking now. “I chose him. I wanted him. And he—”

“Stop,” Buffy barks, stepping forward. “Stop talking like… like it means something! Like this is anything but sick.”

The heat radiating off you is palpable. “You don’t get to judge me just because I love someone you couldn’t handle! You want someone to hate? Fine. Hate me. But don’t pretend this is about Spike!”

“Like hell it’s not,” Buffy growls. “You’re dragging him into this house again like he belongs here. Like you do, while you’re—you’re letting him crawl inside you like some… some thing.”

Willow doesn’t even have time to intervene before you go cold, your voice like ice. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, I dare,” Buffy spits. “Because someone has to! Someone has to tell you how disgusting this is—”

“No,” you snap, sharp and clear. “You don’t care about what’s right. You want someone to blame. Someone to scream at, to shove out, so you don’t have to feel the way you feel. Because you’re still mad the world kept turning without you in it.” You gulp, unsteady, readying for the killing blow. “Because my vampire gives me what yours never could. Guess a soul doesn’t count for much after all, does it?”

Buffy raises her hand. Time slows.

The slap cracks across your cheek, the sound sharp and awful. For half a second, everything stills—and then Spike moves, shoving past Willow, fist meeting Buffy’s jaw with a brutal crunch. It sends her stumbling back against the wall.

“Don’t you touch her!” he growls, yellow eyes scorching as his human mask slips, revealing the demon below.

She’s already pulling a stake from her waistband. Tara moves at last.

“Buffy, no!” she gasps, her voice trembling as she reaches out instinctively, but she doesn’t make it far. She halts behind Willow, one hand outstretched like she’s forgotten what she meant to do with it. Her voice cracks. “Don’t do this. This won’t help. None of this will.”

It’s not loud. It’s not enough. But Willow hears it like a bell: clear, desperate, and already too late.

“Buffy, stop—” Willow adds, stepping forward, but you’re already in between them.

“If you kill him,” you warn, “you lose me too.”

Buffy’s hand is frozen mid-air, stake shaking. Like a puppet with its strings cut, her arm falls, stake clattering to the ground. “I can’t even look at you.”

“Then don’t.” You inhale, but it doesn’t steady anything. A strange look passes over your face, your shoulders squaring in some unknown resolution. “Isn’t that what Mom said to you? When you wouldn’t stop being the Slayer long enough to be her daughter?”

Buffy’s face crumples, just for a second. A tear falls. Then she whispers, devastating in its quiet: “Get out.”

No one breathes.

She walks away, slips through the back to the kitchen, and Willow hears the kitchen door slamming shut, the silence that follows unnatural.

You turn to the door.

“Come on,” Xander says, stepping a foot toward you. His hands are raised, his voice placating, like he’s speaking to a little kid. “Don’t… she didn’t mean it. She’s just angry. It doesn’t have to be a―a thing. Cut him loose. That’s all it takes. Let him go, and things can go back to the way they were.”

“That’s all it takes?” you repeat, quiet but deadly. “Toss him aside so Buffy feels better? Like he’s garbage I dragged in and forgot to take out?”

Xander shrugs, defensive. “I’m saying it’ll fix things. Make it right again. So we can… we can all move past this.”

Your eyes lock on him. “So you can all breathe easier. Buffy stops feeling grossed out, you stop feeling threatened. As long as I pay for it—right?”

Willow tries to interject, voice uncertain. “That’s not what he meant—”

You cut her off, sharp.

“It’s exactly what he meant.” You look back to Xander. “You, of all people, Xander. You’ve loved people you weren’t supposed to. What makes me different?”

Xander’s face tightens. Willow has no words.

“I love him,” you say. “He loves me. And there’s nothing any of you can say or do to make me give him up.” It rings with finality, lines drawn once and for all.

A hush descends for a beat. Spike’s voice sounds out, hesitant, uttering your name.

“No,” you tell him firmly, shaking your head. “Don’t even think it.” Your tone gentles, wavers, lower lip trembling. “Let’s… let’s just go, okay? Please?”

He wavers for a moment, searching for something in your expression. Willow sees the subtle slackening of his rigid frame, certainty propelling the nod he directs at you. “Yeah, kitten.”

A wan smile crosses your face. Without so much as glancing back, you let him open the door, hand on the small of your back as you both leave.

Willow casts around the room beseechingly. Xander’s all but shut down, staring at the space you just occupied with an inscrutable look. Anya’s folded in on herself, chin pressed to bent knees and avoiding meeting anyone else’s gaze. Tara clutches the banister, face deathly pale and eyes bright, distraught. A sliver of brown hair at the top of the stairs. Dawn. No one’s moving.

It’s up to her, then.

“Spike,” she calls out, rushing out onto the porch. One final attempt at ending this insanity. “Don’t―don’t let this happen. Don’t… there’s no going back. From this. If she goes now…”

You won’t even look at her. It’s like she’s ceased to exist. Staring up at Spike, you let him lay a hand on your cheek, let him nudge at your temple with the jut of his nose. Your arm’s tucked under his duster, held fast to his waist.

“Wait for me, sweetheart,” he says to you. “I’ll deal with Red for a mo’.”

He pushes you gently in the direction of the tree and you go, sinking to the ground with your back against the trunk. You stare out at the street, something horribly lost and afraid in the shape of your body curled up in a ball. Spike makes his way back up the steps, murder in his eyes. He does nothing―just halts. Stares expectantly.

Willow wavers. “Why are you doing this? Haven’t you hurt us enough?”

Spike barks out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“You know, I held back in there. Let my girl handle it.” He snorts, though there’s nothing funny about this. “Bunch of self-absorbed wankers, you are. S’not about you lot.”

“Then what?” She frowns. She wants to understand. “What is it about? Why?”

Just like that, the fight goes out of him. He sighs, sounding every inch a creature that’s spent the last hundred years scrapping for everything he had, everything he needed. It’s strange, coming from him. Resigned. Weary. Sad.

“Got used to takers, didn’t I?” he says at long last, soft and reminiscent. He’s gazing at you. “Dru. Buffy. Needed me, never wanted me. Never saw me.” His voice is low, guttural. “She… she sees me. She gives. It’s simple, with her. No proving myself. No trying to be something I’m not.”

His eyes flicker to Willow, not accusing. Honest.

“Thought I knew love, before her. I didn’t. Not really.” He taps his chest, softly. “She’s in here. Part of me. I’m not giving her up. Can’t.”

She’s speechless. Her throat is tight, her pulse thrumming with guilt and something else she can’t name. She’s seen people walk away before. But this feels different. Final.

He doesn’t add anything else. Just sighs again, presses his lips together like he’s steeling himself, and slinks back down the walkway that leads away from the house. You reach up to him, childlike, his grasp solid and gentle as he helps you up from where you’re sat. Together, your head against his arm, you leave.

This time, she doesn’t stop you.

Willow stands alone on the porch, heart hammering like she’s finally feeling the spell’s backlash, too late to undo and too late to stop. Her hands tremble at her sides. Some part of her, deep and insistent, whispers that there’s a way to fix this. A ritual, or incantation. A simple one: memory, clarity, obedience. A few words, and she could make this right again. She could make you see sense. Make Spike let go, make Buffy forgive. Make Tara come back.

Just a few words, the magicks whisper. So simple. So clean.

But she doesn’t move. She watches you disappear into the night and tells herself it’s not the magicks calling her. It’s grief. It’s fear.

She doesn’t believe it.

You didn’t mean to cry.

You wanted to keep your head held high, secure in the knowledge that it wasn’t you who broke in that messy, vicious confrontation that you’d known for a while was coming. But the second the crypt door shut behind you, Spike looked at you. Just a look: expectant, forlorn, waiting. You didn’t mean to, but one glimpse of that expression and you crumbled—violent, choking sobs, wilting like a flower left too long without water. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He just gathered you into his arms and let you bury your face in the curve of his neck, let you shake apart against him as you mourned for what could no longer be. And, afterward, when you’d turned into yourself, hollow and spent, he carried you like a baby to bed, nestled you up tight and wound around you like you’d float away if he didn’t.

Days later, he still treats you like glass.

The Spike who once barked sarcasm and wore his smirks like armor has been replaced by someone quieter, gentler, his fingers featherlight and his gaze fixed on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. When he kisses you, it’s a confessional. He pours out all his sins into the open maw of your mouth like your touch can absolve him of everything he is. When he’s inside you, he moves slow and aching and careful, his words sweet and gasping.

“You’re the most incredible thing I’ve ever had," he murmurs on one occasion, voice thick with awe as he stirs against you, body covering yours. He feels hard and real in you, deep, grounding. His thumb strokes your cheek. "Dunno what I did to deserve this. To deserve you.”

Each thrust is a question, each brush of his lips a promise, his hands holding you like you’re made of silk, like he’s never been capable of destruction. When you call his name, he exhales like it’s a prayer. You both shake by the end, your fingers curled against his spine, his mouth against your temple crooning things neither of you will remember clearly later on.

It’s like he thinks one wrong move will make you bolt. You wish you had the words to convince him of your certainty, but he’s the poet. Words can be manipulated, used to lie and misdirect. He doesn’t believe you when you tell him that you’re staying, that this is for good—but you know he wants to. You know it has less to do with you and more to do with his past, with all the many people who’ve screwed him over and hurt him so badly, so you try not to take it to heart. You let him hover, let him treat you as though you’re a porcelain doll, easily breakable. You should resent it, probably, and part of you does. But mostly, you’re grateful. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask you to prove anything. He just stays.

That morning, he’s pressed against your side, bare skin against bare skin, fingers lazily tracing patterns over your lower back. Save for school, you haven’t left the crypt in days. The bed below ground is new—plush blankets piled over a surprisingly good-quality mattress that he’s dragged in from who-knows-where. He probably stole it, but that habit of his has never bothered you. Besides, you sleep better here than you ever did at home.

“You gonna go back today?” Spike asks. It’s spoken softly, vibrating low against your shoulder. “Get your stuff?”

“Nah.” You shake your head against the pillow, mussing your hair even further. “Last night, while Willow and—while the others were busy, Tara brought Dawn over. She packed my suitcase. Couple important things. Birth certificate, stuff like that. The rest… some other time, maybe.”

Spike was patrolling then, safe in the assumption that you were asleep. It’s not really that surprising that he hasn’t noticed the bags over in the corner.

Now, he hums, lips trailing across your neck. It’s aimless, casual in its intimacy. So like him, like all the love he has to give. Effortless.

“Dawn hugged me,” you add quietly, trying hard to hold back the tears. “Said she saw us. Before. Said Tara and Anya knew, too. That they’re on our side.”

Spike doesn’t reply—just tightens his hold a little. You don’t have to say what you’re both thinking: that support from a few doesn’t make the silence from the rest hurt any less.

You sit up eventually. The crypt can be cold and damp at times, but Spike’s done a pretty great job at softening it up, making it almost livable. There are little touches of normality now: rugs plastering the dirt floor, a mismatched set of mugs, a bookshelf that wobbles only slightly whenever you walk by.

“Come on,” he says, slipping out of the bed like a panther, naked as the day he was born so long ago. It’s a fantastic sight, one that not even low spirits can stop you from admiring: cut muscles, lean form, perfectly proportionate everywhere. He’s a god among men. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You grin. The makeshift shower he’s rigged up is more affection than function. A pilfered showerhead duct-taped to the end of the pipe, a clunky water heater that hums loudly and makes the whole wall clank. It’s not pretty and it doesn’t hide the fact that this really isn’t a place to be living in, but the water is warm. Mostly. He helps you wash your hair, fingers gentle, nails never scratching. You can tell he’s muttering his usual sweet nothings against your skin—jokes, compliments, promises—but as always, it’s impossible to hear over the heater’s groaning.

When the machine abruptly turns off—another short, probably—you can actually hear him curse under his breath.

“Time’s up, baby,” he says, quickly rinsing the last of the conditioner from his bleached hair. You’d helped him touch up the roots yesterday. “Gotta get dry before the pipes go cold again.”

He wraps you in a towel, glaring at the run-down thing like he can make it work through sheer will alone. If anyone could, it would be him, and the sight makes you laugh. It’s the first real one in a while.

Later on, you’re perched on the bed, your homework splayed around you. Spike’s horribly insistent on you getting a good hour a day on it, at least. It reminds you of how Hank should’ve been: razor-focused on your success. Unbearably proud. Insistent that you’re “gonna go places, just you wait.” Instead, all he did was ship you off to boarding school at the first opportunity. Even though you’re probably going to get valedictorian, that reminder always hurts. Like in all things, Spike eases the pain.

You’re about to double-check your references when your phone buzzes. Unknown number. Huh.

You answer. “Hello?”

“You’re living with him?” Angel’s voice is unmistakable, if crackly. The reception’s not so great down here. “Buffy told me.”

Hearing her name pinches something in your chest. You ignore it, rolling your eyes. “Hello to you too, Angel. Sorry, but I’m not interested in hearing your self-righteous opinion today, thanks.”

“You don’t know what he’s like—”

“Don’t care.”

Spike appears in the doorway. He takes the phone gently from your hand.

“Go on, kitten,” he coaxes. You catch the flicker of anger in his eyes, but his voice stays calm. “Finish your essay. I’ll deal with the poof.”

You watch him go, surprised by how civil his tone is as he says, “Oi, Peaches. Got nothin’ better to do with your time than bother my lady?”

When you stick your head upstairs after wrapping everything up, he’s still on the phone. Pacing back and forward, his words are too hushed to pick up. Damn vampire senses. It’s weirdly civil for an exchange with his so-called undead enemy, though you wouldn’t call it friendly—he looks as though he’s about ten seconds away from beating the wall in. Still. You wonder what’s making him so… controlled.

Days bleed together. School, home, school, home, the occasional patrol in places you know Buffy isn’t. You see Dawn in the halls at Sunnydale High, or sometimes when she stops by in the late afternoon with Tara or Anya. You watch Passions with Spike, though most of your focus is occupied by his reactions to whatever mess is going on on-screen. You get your schoolwork done, and you try to get used to this new normal, patching up the giant hole in your heart with these small little glimpses into your old life.

Spike keeps bringing things home like a magpie nesting: a tiny gas stove that sputters and clicks but usually works well enough to make dinner. A battered washing machine that walks a few inches every time it’s used. A foldable hanging line with half its wires snapped. He insists they’re all only temporary, but he never says what he’s waiting for. Neither do you.

Graduation looms nearer. Your final scores are out, though the victory is hollow. No one will be there to celebrate, will they? Or only some will. You wonder which option is worse. When school gets out, you begin the trek home in despondent silence. Usually, you’d hum a tune to yourself or maybe even read as you walk, but you just feel drained. Going through the motions, you stop by the bathroom next to the cemetery’s reception building. After, you meander through the grass, letting your feet take you along your customary route while your mind spins in circles, lethargic.

That’s when you see her.

Buffy.

She’s waiting outside the crypt, sitting on the stoop. Smaller than you remember. Her expression is weary, aged. She looks how you feel. When your feet crunch on dead leaves, her head snaps up and she makes eye contact with you. The corner of her mouth twitches in an almost-smile. That’s how you know she’s not here to duke it out again. Not intentionally.

Steeling yourself, you move toward her, step around her form as you dig through your pocket for the key to the lock Spike’s jerry-rigged to make things safer. The door swings open, too loud in the stillness of this moment. You enter, but don’t shut the door behind you—an unspoken invitation. She takes it.

You turn and watch Buffy look around with something like disbelief. She takes in the kettle, the electronics, the random décor. The laundry line, full as it can be with yours and his clothing. The half-dead pot plant Spike brought home because you mentioned you liked sunflowers. The photographs you’ve tacked to the musty walls of friends, family, of you and him.

“I thought… I thought this was just a phase,” she says finally. No hello, then. Her gaze travels back to you, wide and vulnerable. “I thought you’d leave him.”

You fold your arms, chin high—not combative, just done entertaining this. “I’m not stupid, and I don’t do things for the hell of it. You should know that.”

Something unreadable flickers in her face. A fight, maybe. But no—she sighs, a sound of complete and utter defeat. “I do now.”

Neither of you talk for a moment. Spike chooses this time to appear from the trapdoor, deliberately slow, telegraphing his movements like your sister’s a wounded animal backed into a corner. She stares at him as he approaches. He lowers himself carefully into the beaten-up armchair. You settle on his knee, in part to shield him from any attempt by her to follow through on her actions from the other week, but mostly because you can. You want to. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t comment on it. It’s awkward. Painful.

Finally, Buffy clears her throat.

“Come home,” she urges you. You blink. You weren’t expecting that. She pushes on, ignoring the snort from Spike beneath you. “I’m not saying I’m okay with—with this. I’m not. But I’ll… I’ll deal. Maybe he’ll grow on me.”

“Thanks ever so,” he mutters. His hand tenses on your thigh when she levels him with a withering sneer.

“No,” you tell her. “I’m not going to let you or anyone else try to trick me into giving him up. We’re a package deal. Where he goes, so do I.”

She frowns. “That’s—I’m not gonna try and break you up. I’m not that petty.”

“Well, then,” you say, “I guess I just don’t trust you anymore. How am I supposed to believe you?”

Buffy flinches, looking away. Her arms fold on themselves as her eyes begin to glisten.

“Ouch.” She takes a breath. “But… I deserve that.”

A pause.

“I meant it, Buff.” The words come out quiet, but firm. “When I said I love him. I know that it—I know you’re upset, but I’m not sorry for what I feel. And I won’t be made to believe it’s wrong. It isn’t.”

She raises her hands, a white flag. “Okay, okay. It’s just…”

Again, she glances around, but this time it’s like she’s looking at something particularly disgusting. You bristle despite yourself.

“What—what kind of life can he give you?” she asks, pleading as she turns once more to you. You notice that she’s not once stepped foot down the steps into the main area. “I mean… are you really going to stay here? What about a future—marriage, kids? How are you gonna support yourself?” At your scoff, she adds, “I’m just being realistic here. Somebody’s gotta be.”

“God, Buffy,” you snap, standing up. “Not everyone wants the same things you do. And who’s to say I’ll even live long enough to seriously consider stuff like that? It’s the Hellmouth.”

“Oi.” Spike taps the outside of your knee—the nearest part of you in reach—in reprimand. “Don’t say things like that. S’not good for my constitution.”

Buffy huffs. “You don’t have a constitution, Spike. You’re a vampire.”

“Do too,” he retorts immaturely. Then, all of a sudden, he coughs awkwardly, scratching his neck. “Dunno about the rest of it. But I—uh—I got a place. Decent, but not much. Has a proper bathroom, bedroom. All the fixings. Near the cemetery, so I can still keep my hunt. Near your bus stop, too, baby.”

This is news to you. “Huh?”

Spike raises an eyebrow at you, gesturing around. “What—think this here was my choice? Dru took all me cards ’n stuff when she ran off with that chaos demon. Order of Aurelius’s got a fair bit of dosh squirrelled away.”

Here, his chin tips up arrogantly, smug as any vampire with a lineage like his would get. Your nostrils flare, a smile tugging at your lips even in the tense atmosphere. Buffy’s not interested in discussing pedigree, though.

“Then why didn’t you just get it back?” she asks skeptically. “Not hard to call a bank.”

“Is when it’s a demon bank, Slayer.” He rolls his eyes, shifting uncomfortably. “‘Sides, gotta get permission for that. Most senior member, all that rot.” He looks down. “Didn’t want to give Peaches the satisfaction. Y’know, of asking for help,” he mutters. “Sodding wanker.”

Oh. Oh. That’s what he was talking about on the phone with Angel. Something warm and impossibly affectionate wells in your chest.

Buffy studies him. “What changed?”

The weight of his stare falls on you, full of significance. It’s an answer all in itself.

I love him, I love him, I love him, you think, heart full to bursting. You’re overcome with the urge to reach down, kiss him, thank him with everything you have for tearing up his pride and throwing it away just to give you a home. A real one—with him.

You see Buffy’s face change as she begins to understand. To see what you see. It’s dawning on her, that maybe she’s got the wrong idea about him. You’re sure the shattering of her worldview is as painful to her as her slap was to you. A strange sort of peace follows this realization.

No one says anything for a while. It’s strained, but not hostile. Not anymore.

“I’m—I’m gonna go now,” she says at long last. There’s no dejection in her voice now, but a quiet sort of acceptance instead. To Spike, she adds, “Take care of her. I’m… I’m trusting you.”

You know what it means to him to hear that—not just for your sake, but for everything he once felt for her. When he nods, it’s full of unspoken confidence. “Of course.”

She turns to you, and you’re heading toward her before you even realize it. Coming face-to-face, eye-to-eye—for the first time in a long time, it feels—a stone in the pit of your stomach starts to finally work its way free.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice breaking.

You step into her arms, hug her, feel the iron band of her arms squeezing you too tight, too much for your bird-bones. You feel them grind below your skin. It hurts, not only physically, but you do it anyway. You breathe her in—shampoo, sweat, and that familiar weight of the world she always seems to carry. She’s trying. You can feel it, the way you’re trying too. When she pulls away, there are tears in her eyes. You don’t wipe them away.

What’s broken isn’t fixed. Not nearly. But maybe, one day, it could be.

Spike waits until she’s gone to speak. “You alright?”

You glance toward the door, then back at him—this strange, stubborn vampire who’s built you a home out of scraps and love.

“Yeah,” you say, reaching for his hand. And this time, you mean it.

Spike loves his unlife.

He hasn’t always. There’d been a decade or two of repletion—rage and rot and revelry, blood from the veins of whores in Paris and cowards in Prague, nothing lasting, nothing real. The rest? Just endless nights and meaningless hunger, and the thrill of fear cracking open in a scream. Thought he had something, with Dru, ’til she pissed off and left him. Then Buffy came along, all fire and fury, and he thought, Yes. This. This is meaning. Purpose.

He doesn’t know. Not until you. Not until now.

Not until this: you on your knees, bent forward across the mattress, spine a taut bow beneath his palms, back arched as he thrusts into you with filthy, measured force. You’re folded down over the bed, your cheek pressed to the pillow and drooling, hands fisted in the sheets, body trembling beneath the relentless pace he sets. Your thighs are already drenched with both of you, his cock disappearing into your perfect, aching cunt over and over, the sound of it obscene, wet and sharp and constant.

The room is dim and hot, the air choked with sex and the smell of skin and sweat. Tangy, piquant. Gorgeous. The sheets are kicked down to your calves, twisted up under your knees. Your moans are high and bitten off, teeth buried in the pillow as you try to quiet yourself. Habit, that—leftover fear. For so long, you’ve both lived in the silence, in the shadows, sneaking and muffling and hushing every cry.

But not anymore.

“Go on, baby,” he rasps, bent over your back, his mouth dragging slow kisses over your spine. “Let ’em hear you. Nobody left to catch us now.”

You whimper, hips pushing back instinctively, greedy for more. He grins, sharp and delighted, bringing his palm down on your arse in a light slap, the sound echoing. Your whole body jolts. You keen around the pillow, voice breaking into something raw and helpless.

“Uh—Spike!”

“That’s it,” he says, all gritting teeth as you squeeze down hard, dizzying enough to choke the veins in his prick. The demon peeks out for a moment, control slipping. “That’s my girl.”

It still astonishes him sometimes—how much you like this. How much you crave being split open, filled full, stretched past your limit until you’re crying and shaking and still begging for more. Turns out the chip doesn’t fire when the victim likes the pain, and bloody hell, do you ever. You like it when he’s reverent, whispering soft, desperate poetry into your cunt, but you love it when he’s like this: filthy, possessive, shagging you like he owns every inch of your body.

And he does.

He watches the way your shoulders shake, the flushed skin of your back shivering each time he slams into you. Watches your fingers clutch the pillow like a lifeline. Watches your body bloom under him, red and marked, so alive.

“Bloody goddess, you are,” he growls into the crook of your neck, panting against the salt of your sweat. “Tightest little snatch I’ve ever had. Made for me, weren’t you?”

You nod frantically, breath catching on a sob as you try to speak. Can’t. The words never make it past the pillow, and you give up trying. Instead, you just feel, bucking back against him, desperate and loud now, your cries slipping free without shame.

“Say it,” he hisses, slamming into you harder, deeper. He feels the twinge of your answering wail in the back of his head, threatening, splitting his lips apart in a vicious smile. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp, nearly sobbing. “Yours, Spike, ’m yours—”

Your orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave. You yowl into the pillow, cunt knotting around him so fiercely it makes him snarl, hips stuttering for only a moment before he keeps going. You’re whimpering now, all breathy and high and wrecked from the overstimulation, your voice cracking every time his cock punches deep into your oversensitive walls.

“S’too much,” you whine, but your body never stops moving, still pressing back against him, still so greedy for it.

“Oh, you can take it,” he pants, mouth at your ear, voice low and hungry. “You’re so good like this—fallin’ apart for me, still lettin’ me fuck you through it.”

He’s obsessed. Obsessed with how you quake under him, how your cunt keeps fluttering and squeezing like it doesn’t want to let him go. He groans, driving into you harder, chasing his release with a fervour that borders on worship. You sob again, and he can’t stop himself. He wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you back, chest flush to your spine, shoving up into you at a brutal, punishing pace.

When he comes, it’s with a guttural shout, hips grinding deep, prick pulsing as he fills you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try to pull out. Knows you like it messy and trickling afterward, how it makes him mad with wanting.

You collapse to the mattress, winded and utterly stunning. He stays braced over you, breathing hard even though he doesn’t need to, pressing kisses to your spine and shoulder and hair. You’re trembling, still twitching beneath him. You don’t let him go. Instead, you reach back, grab his hand, pull him down to lie with you, still buried deep in the slick patch you’ve both made.

He rolls the both of you onto your sides, panting, trembling, your sweet little quim keeping him locked inside like it means something. Like it always has.

“Don’t go,” you murmur, voice hoarse and wrecked, fingers clutching his arm like a tether. Your face is rosy, flushed with exertion, and so bloody beautiful it twists something violent inside him.

“Not planning on it,” he says, kissing the top of your head.

The bed is new. Big. Expensive. Mattress so plush it makes him want to roll around like a pampered tabby. The apartment is still shite in a lot of ways—rickety fridge, a coffee table with one short leg—but it’s his. Yours. And Glinda’s out for the night, enjoying her life instead of staying on the pull-out sofa in the living room as she has since realisin’ she’d got too used to the peace of rooming off-campus. There’s all the time in the world to lay here, linger, or at least it feels that way.

You’re still wet around him. Still clenching, pulsing every few minutes with aftershocks, like your body hasn’t quite gotten the message that he’s finished. Greedy. Filthy, greedy girl. His baby. His sunshine princess, all aglow with love and lust.

Spike’s cock twitches in response, and you both feel it. You tilt your head, meet his eyes. He kisses your collarbone before raising a brow, smirking.

“Fancy round two?” he asks, sick with the feeling racing in his veins. The need. A constant, thrumming thing, near breaking him into pieces.

You laugh, breathless and delighted and gorgeous.

Things have settled into something approaching normal; or, well, a new normal. Spike’s never had a normal quite like this before. Little Bit’s over all the buggering time, mostly to steal your clothes and pilfer through his things and fill the place with her junk food and loud music, but she likes the apartment. Likes the big window in the living room when the blackout curtain’s pushed to the side. Likes the sitting area, big telly showing MTV in crystal clear graphics, and the way his stuff looks less ramshackle and stolen and more deliberately incongruous. She really likes the bathroom, with its big tub and generous vanity. It’s why he got the place, to be fair: something nice for his girl, forced to walk into the chill of night to use the loo for all those months. None of that here.

The rest of the lot trickle in too, one by one. Always awkward, always uncertain. Like they’re not sure if this is a visit or reconnaissance. Red’s come by twice, once with baked goods she barely managed to make eye contact while offering. No one else wants to put up with her right now, so he entertains it best he can. Demon girl stops in randomly with opinions about the wallpaper and detailed suggestions about spicing up your sex life. You laugh, Spike doesn’t. Bint’s awful presumptuous, thinking he needs help getting you off. The Slayer shows up, digging into every nook and cranny like she’s trying to find a reason this won’t work. She offers a strained smile at the end of her visit, unsatisfied. Bitch. Even the boy shows up once, a six-pack in hand and his mouth pressed in a tight line, nearly disappearing off his ugly mug. He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t have to. He looks at you—glowing, happy, curled up against Spike’s side in that ratty old blanket—and nods. Doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t start fights. For now, that’s enough.

And then there’s Peaches.

He arrives like a thundercloud, tall and grim, taking up too much space and too much air. He walks the apartment like he’s cataloguing faults, eyes landing on the ghosts of water rings on the coffee table, the mismatched pillows, the scuff on the wall from when you’d tripped and knocked over the lamp. He doesn’t say anything outright, but the judgment radiates off him like heat.

Spike doesn’t bother pretending. Your legs are slung over his lap, and he strokes lazy circles into your calf with his thumb, teases his fingers under the hem of your skirt. Loves your dresses. How wicked it makes him, copping a feel of all that innocence. You shift closer to him, head resting against his shoulder, fingers tracing patterns over his collarbone, casual and affectionate and utterly his. Spike feels like a king. Tall, dark and forehead scowls the entire time you make harmless small talk. It’s glorious.

Later, after you disappear down the hall to dig through the pantry or put away some other sundry item—Spike’s not even sure—Angel finally makes his move. He waits until your footsteps fade, until the apartment quiets. Spike doesn’t look at him at first. Just listens to the silence. Then, slowly, his gaze returns to his grandsire.

Angel’s arms are crossed, his brow a storm cloud. He looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. Wanker. “You really think this is going to last?”

Spike leans back into the couch, cool as sin, folding one ankle over his knee. “Dunno. Been plenty long already. She’s still here, yeah? Still laughs at my jokes. Still screams my name. That’s gotta count for somethin’.”

Angel winces like someone’s sprayed holy water up his arse. Spike savours it.

“You’re reckless,” the big, strapping hero mutters. “You always have been. This—her—she’s not just a fling you can—”

“Watch your bloody mouth,” Spike snaps. The amusement’s gone in a blink, replaced with something cold and lethal. “You don’t get to talk about her like that. Not after the way you dangled the Slayer on a chain like she was the only thing between you and damnation.”

Peaches opens his mouth, then shuts it again. There’s no defense.

Spike leans forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low. “She’s not some passing fancy, mate. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And if you can’t see that, maybe it’s not her you should be worried about.”

Angel looks away. “She’s not like us,” he says finally. Quietly.

Spike’s smile softens. “No,” he agrees. “She’s better.”

The silence hangs for a long beat. Angel doesn’t have anything left. Nothing worth saying. He looks like he wants to argue, wants to do something, but there’s nothing left to fight. Spike’s not giving him anything to push against. Then you come back in, grocery list in hand, all nonchalant in your ease.

“Honey,” you say, “I’m heading out. You want more Weetabix?”

Spike beams. “Yeah. And maybe those little marshmallows?”

Your grin is blinding, waving the list about like he’s guessed correctly. He knows you’ve already written it down. “I know what you like.”

It hits him like a sledgehammer, then. How you see him―not the vampire, not the body, not the snarl, but all of it. And you love it anyway.

He reaches into his wallet, pulls out his brand-new credit card—the one Captain Forehead set him up with, the only thing he’s ever been good for—and hands it to you. “Take this, yeah?”

“I’ve got money,” you say, stubborn as ever, but smiling.

“I’ll spank you if you don’t let me pay,” he teases, voice low and fond. “And don’t pout. Gonna get that lip if you ain’t careful.”

You giggle, step in close, lean down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Pervert,” you whisper, your lips lingering a second longer on his skin.

“Only for you.”

And then he watches, all dumbstruck and dopey, as you take the card, tuck it into your purse, and head out the door.

The silence that follows is thick. He doesn’t look at Angel. Doesn’t need to, because—for the first time in a long time—he doesn’t care what the poof thinks. He’s got everything he wants, and the poor sod knows it. The satisfaction in shutting the door on his slack, stupid face makes Spike want to laugh and laugh until his dead lungs crumble to dust.

His days pass in a blur of disgusting bliss. Truly, it makes him think sometimes that he should hang up his post as Big Bad. He’s got to be testing some cosmic force, being so unbelievably happy with his lot, but he doesn’t get struck down by a flying spell, or staked, or zapped into some other dimension. Nah, he keeps kicking. He gets to be with you.

Attending your graduation day is hell: sunlight everywhere, too many people, a mish-mash of scents that, if he were living, would make him gag. But he does it anyway. Sneaks in through the sewers, creeps up through the sub-basement of Sunnydale High, taking his awkward place by Little Bit and the others in the bleachers.

It’s all worth it when he sees you. Radiant, cap tilted, gown a little too big.

You cross the stage with that bright smile he loves, all cheeks and squinted eyes, shaking hands and collecting your little rolled-up paper. And, when you step up to the podium to give your big first-place speech, it’s like you were born to it—clever, kind, full of biting humour and practiced to perfection. The whole damn place hangs on your every word, and he feels pride well up like it’s his own achievement, seeing you up there.

His clever girl. His light.

Afterward, he lingers with your sisters, with the odd assortment of people you’ve chosen as family. He sticks out like a sore thumb, so clearly not part of the group, but that’s never bothered him before. You rush to them, beaming, diploma in hand and cute little cap askew as they take their turns congratulating you, voices overlapping in their relief and pride.

Spike doesn’t bother with platitudes. When you turn to him, he does what he does best and shows you how proud he is by tugging you into his body, mouth pressing down against yours. Long. Hungry. A little too much tongue. He overhears someone nearby make a fuss about it, but he doesn’t give a fig, and neither do you. The world is your oyster now, and he’s too excited to see what you make of it now that you’re free.

That night, he takes you dancing.

The Bronze is a hole, always has been—one day soon, he’ll take you to the real spots he’s seen on his jaunts through unlife—but it’s what passes for a good time in this sorry town. He lets you spend a few paltry minutes with your friends, decent bloke that he is. Besides, it means he gets to relish in the look on their faces when they realise for the thousandth time that your presence is only temporary, that soon enough, you’ll head back to where you truly belong. To him. So he nurses his beer as you laugh with them, dance with Dawn and the Slayer, bounce around like a stoned rabbit with Lackbrain and demon girl and Glinda, and he waits.

Eventually, you come to him as you always do.

He doesn’t need to be asked. Taking you in his arms, he presses close and sways you about to some pathetically sappy slow song that you probably don’t even like. But you’re warm, and happy, and he can feel the eyes on you both.

Spike’s always felt them.

They’ve all seen you together at some point. By accident, by circumstance, through open doorways and down dark hallways. They’ve seen the truth of it: the way you cling, the way you gasp, the way you let him worship you with teeth and tongue and desperate hands. He doesn’t give a single rat’s arse. He’s evil.

And god, Christ and all the saints he’s ever remembered the names of, he loves you.

He never expected this. Never expected you. You were cute. Smart. Sharp. He thought you’d be a momentary distraction, a splash of intrigue while he waited for Buffy to make her mind up about him. Buffy: a splash of color in his grey, dismal world. But then—you. Accepted him, listened like the stuff he said was important, like he mattered. Defended him, never shied away, never called him a thing or a demon or a monster, even though that’s what he is, what he’ll always be. You crept up on him, quiet and subtle-like until he caught sight of you across the room, laughing at something Xapper was saying to you, and it hit him over the head like your mum with that axe all those years ago. You happened, and he realised the truth. You have his dead, unbeating, black heart in your hand, and it fits there like it was always meant to.

He knows now. You’re the Gem of Amara in bitty, beautiful human form. Not just colour, but a supernova, blazing and teeming with vitality. Being with you is like feeling the sun on his face every goddamned day. Spike’s whole world is brighter with you in it.

Still, even now, there’s a flicker of doubt in his chest. A shadow. The part of him that’s been broken too many times. This can’t last, it whispers. This is too good, too soft. Things like this—things like her—don’t stay.

Then you look up at him, eyes sparkling under the Bronze’s lights. Your arms loop around his neck, your forehead presses against his. You breathe him in like you mean to keep him, and you say, “I love you, Spike.”

He closes his eyes, and just like that, the shadow’s gone. Everything’s still.

“I love you, Spike.”

He closes his eyes, and for once, the world is quiet. There’s only you.

It’s always been only you.

Read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64333024/chapters/165146395

[tartadxfresa]

The Raven Cycle fic rec list

Lately I’ve been deep reading Raven Cycle fanfics on Ao3, so as promised this a fic rec list. These are a few that I’ve read recently, and felt so intimately connected with to a level I can’t even begin to explain, and all of them have inspired my writing in one level or another. This is super talented people with beautiful minds. You should definitely give them a chance and keep the TRC fandom alive on ao3, pls. 

This list took forever to put together, and it’s just a short selection. If you like this, I can for sure make another one! 

Gator Country by anonymous Adam Parrish/Ronan Lynch | E | 9,8k |

This one is so unhinged and beautiful. It’s weird and wild and you get Pynch being little freaks, Florida, alligator tours and strange dreams.

come hold me 'neath the water's skin by cathedralight Adam Parrish/Ronan Lynch | T | 14,6k | 

So beautiful. So raw. So aesthetic. It really makes you want to get your head inside the water and become holy. It has religious imagery and references to Greek myths, so, what else do you need. 

kissed your scalp and caressed your brain by earthquaker  Adam Parrish/Ronan Lynch | E | 3,2k | 

Adam shaves Ronan head. The intimacy in this one almost made me cry. 

fetch-life by thesehands Adam Parrish/Ronan Lynch | E | 14,8k | 

Anything by this author, truly. They write as they know Adam and Ronan down to the bone. It gets lonely, and it gets beautiful, and a little feral. 

No Oracle by nonbeenarys Richard Gansey III/Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish | E | 17k | 

This one is a stunning exploration of the Rodansey dynamic. Adam wants a lot in this one, and it’s tender and complicated. 

experiments in french kissing by sunflowersandscreams Richard Gansey III/Adam Parrish | T | 2,8k | 

A dive in the Adansey dynamic. It’s intimate, physical, and emotionally loaded in a way that’ll make your brain tingle. I think the title is pretty self-explanatory.

I also have stuff on ao3, if you want to check that out ♡ 

[fireinmoonshot]

PART 0.5 OF A BEST FRIENDS TO LOVERS JOAQUÍN x READER. Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Reader Warnings: Mentions of food and drinking. Word Count: 994 A/N: Thank you for the response on the first part of this little best friends to lovers series. Here is the second drabble. I hope you guys continue to enjoy it and are looking forward to the third part!

“Joaquin, you’re doing it again,” Isaac nudges Joaquin’s shoulder, breaking him out of the trance he’d been in – staring at you like you were the only person on Earth.

He blinks, turning to look at Isaac. “Doing what?”

Isaac only rolls his eyes, claps his hand on Joaquin’s shoulder, and walks away, attempting to catch up to the rest of the group consisting of you, Kira and Eddie. You’re all walking from Joaquin’s apartment, where you’d all met up, to a new bar not too far from it for a night out. Apparentlythe place does really good chips, according to Joaquin’s neighbour. 

As Isaac catches up with the rest of you, Joaquin watches as you drop back a little and stop to wait for him. He’s well aware that Isaac had caught him staring at you before. How, he’s not sure, considering he was walking behind you and could only be staring at the back of your head. But somehow, Isaac knew. 

“Feeling a little lonely back here, Torres?” You ask, falling into step beside Joaquin as he reaches you. “You’ve been quiet this afternoon. You feeling okay?” 

How was he supposed to answer that? Oh, I’m only quiet because just as you arrived at my apartment earlier, I heard you talking to Kira about how the guy you’ve been seeing has been an asshole towards you. That I’m quiet because I’m mad that you keep ending up with punk-ass men that don’t treat you the way you deserve and yet, I’m somehow jealous of the fact that you are going on dates with men that aren’t me. Yeah, that would go down so well.

Instead, Joaquin shrugs his shoulders and tries his best to smile at you. “I’ve just had a busy week, that’s all. Y’know, now that I’m the Falcon and whatever,” he jokes. “There’s a lot of public pressure that I’m not used to.”

He almost stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk as you wrap your arm through his. The feeling of your hands on the bare skin of his forearm and bicep goes straight to his brain like an electric shock. He’s surprised that he manages to continue walking straight. 

“Babe,” you frown at him, gripping his arm in what you hope is a comforting way. You’d figured that holding hands might be a little too much for best friends, but you also can’t bring yourself to not touch him in some way. Ever since he’d gotten all weird in the car a few months back, you’d been trying to feel him out and gauge his feelings to suss out why he’d gotten so strange over your date. “You’ll get used to it with time, I’m sure you will. And I bet that Sam Wilson is looking out for you while you do. I’ve only met him once but I could tell he’s a genuine guy.”

Joaquin glances down at you and his breath hitches as he sees you still looking up at him. You obviously trust him enough to keep an eye on the sidewalk for you while you look at him. The thought makes him feel a little warm and fuzzy. Your gazes stay focused on each other for a few moments, a little longer than necessary, until you both look away at the same time. 

“Anyway,” he clears his throat. “How have you been?” 

You think on his question for a few moments. “I’ve been good. Honestly.”

“That’s all you’re gonna give me?”

“Well, you don’t like hearing about my dating life, and apart from work, that’s all that’s been going on for me right now, Joaquin,” you admit. 

Joaquin huffs, pouting a little. “Maybe I’ve changed. Any good dates lately?” 

You glance up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “You seriously wanna know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I’ve been on good dates,” you say, keeping an eye on him to gauge his reaction, a little surprised at him actually wanting information on how your dates had been lately. “Have I found the one yet? I don’t think so.”

Joaquin nods, trying not to overthink his words too much even though his head is spinning – both from the way you’re still holding his arm and the fact that he’s desperately wishing that he was one of the men you dated. Well, the man.

“Maybe there’s a reason for that,” he says, as nonchalantly as possible.

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,” you laugh. “There’s a reason I haven’t found the one? Like, I’m not ready yet or he’s not ready yet? Or there’s some kind of cosmic timing that isn’t going to happen for another five years? You know something I don’t, Joaquin?”

He’d usually laugh at something like this, but all he can bring himself to do is make a small chuckle and shake his head. Under his breath, he mutters the words “Why don’t you get it?” Thankfully, they’re too quiet for you to hear.

You tug on his arm to get his attention again. “You gonna explain, babe?”

There it is. That nickname again. You’re calling him that more and more often these days and it’s definitely not helping with the matters of his heart. That’s the kind of thing that you call your partner in a couple, not your best friend, right?

“I’m sure that the one is out there somewhere,” Joaquin says, scrunching up his nose a little. He’s glad when you turn the corner and he sets eyes on the bar on the opposite corner of the street. It means he can escape this conversation very soon – before he starts digging himself into a hole he can’t get out of.  “I guess you’ve just gotta keep looking.”

He sighs, then, and detaches your arm from his own before jogging ahead to reach the rest of your friends, trying not to let the feelings of sadness and jealousy weigh him down too much. He’s definitely getting drunk tonight…

Joaquín Torres Tag List (Please let me know if you’d like to be added!)

@sidkneeeee @dead-inside-but-happy @lay-lay-5 @marchingicenotes7 @phucboy @davinashifts333 @lomlbuckybarnes @laurenjbb @chansburgah @blackwidownat2814 @mischiefmanaged71 @madzlovez @marvelwitchergilmore @brittnicki @rheas-ripley @bcystar @victorsbathroomstall @giona45-5 @voodoo-tofu @happypopcornprincess @antixsocialx2 @innazra @lllucere @moonxnite @peacefangirl @ahoodgirl @ssinphetel @hiireadstuff @florkt @daisydadestroya @nanni197

[legendofmorons]

Written in the stars (forever on loop) chapter six - Black hole sun

Pairing: pre poly!chain x reader, Wind & reader

Rating: T

Summary: Your group finds a town which gives you the chance to visit the local library, it also gives Four the chance for a peer review and Time the chance to spiral. Dark Link watches from the shadows and you experienced another strange dream. (Aka: Dink kicks down the door to drop some lore and be in love, Four gets a turn to break down, reader ignores evidence, and I need to pay for the chain's therapy.)

Warnings: cursing, grief, plotting, possessiveness (Dink and Dreader/ Onyx)

Other: If I missed anything please let me know

Current curse counter: two :)

Previous masterlist next

-------

The group of you all find the next town the evening after your talk with Legend. It's a small thing by your standards but a large town by hylian standards. Watching most of the group get dragged away on side quests to help the residents within the first ten minutes isn't a surprise.

Time, Wind, and you are the only ones not dragged into work, and of course, Epona is with you.

You look around, able to read everything despite it being in hylian and not any language you remember learning. This goes promptly in the 'examine after your the boys leave' pile. This pile is always growing lately. It could probably build a fairly good giant sand castle at this point.

Wind stands on your other side, doing something to a small trinket of some sort in his hand.

"Are you going to be okay here?" Time asks you stiffly.

You nod, "I should be. Are you going to be okay on the road?"

Time gives you a strained smile, as if he's going through the motions. "We'll be fine. We've faced worse."

"That dosen’t mean it's easy, but I hope you're all able to go home soon," you say, trying your best to convey sympathy.

"Thank you. I hope you make it home soon too." Time says.

He dosen’t sound right. Something about the cadence of his words is wrong. Very wrong.

You can't name it, but it makes your brain scream.

It makes you want to wrap him up in a hug. It makes you want to ask him if he's hurt. You don't do either.

Wind has hisntounge poking out when you glance ovedthis time. At least he seems okay.

"I should probably try to do that, I don't want to be on buzzfeed unsolved." You say with a half shrug.

"I - have no idea what that is." Time frowns.

"It's a buzz feed series - It's like a video show about unsolved things." You try to explain, quickly realizing that you have to explain what a video is.

"Video?" Wind asks, finally piping up from where he's been fiddling with something in his hand.

"Like a moving picture with sound."

"That seems strange." Time says.

You have to bite back the laugh.

The man who can time travel, summon storms, summon a horse, and heal with a song thinks a moving picture sounds strange? The world of Zelda is bizzare.

Nope, we will examine that 'world of Zelda' bit later.

"There's a lot about my world that is probably strange to you," you offer.

"Perhaps," Time says.

"No, definitely. I think if you saw what light pollution has done to the night sky, you'd riot," You smile a little at the thought.

Time turns his gaze to you, heavy as ever. "What is light pollution?"

"Too much light blocks out the stars."

"How strange." Time says.

"That sounds made up," Wind scoffs.

You shrug, "That's how it's always been."

"Your world sounds wild," Wind laughs.

"You would love how to train your dragon, sailor," you grin, fairly confident in the idea.

"Dragons?" Wind frowns, looking somewhere between intrigued and disgusted.

Time also seems less than pleased. "Dragons are not easily trained."

"It's - like a video story."

"How odd. Tell me, does your world have a hero?" Time asks.

You aren't sure how to answer that. There's so many answers and viewpoints.

Time and Wind both watch you.

Time has an exhaustion you can't understand. There's a grief that you only ever see turned on you that's deeper than the grief he wears at all times.

Wind seems curious, with bright eyes and rapt attention.

"Sort of... There's no tri-force or anything like that back home. But heroes exist."

"No tri force?" Wind asks.

"Only in the stories." You say.

"Stories." Time muses.

"Is there a ganon?" Wind asks.

"Only in stories."

"Count yourself lucky." Time says.

Traveling with them, you definitely find yourself greatful that there's no Ganon nack home.

"I do." You say honestly. "Ganon is a real piece of work."

"He is." Time nods.

Wind laughs. "Sword through the head works wonders."

You snort, recalling that particular moment in the game - examine that later. "I'm sure."

"What's going on with you and Legend he went from being a major fucking asshole to stiff but friendly.... or friendly for him," Wind wonders to you.

"Languagyou. Time hisses.

"I'm a pirate!"

"We talked... He apologized. It's not perfect but he's obviously stopped being an asshole." You shrug.

"I'm glad. He was being rather rude," Time says.

You have to ignore the urge to roll your eyes. Time hasn't been too much better. He just hasn't been hostile.

The man has been a silent weight that's stiff and formal and distant.

"You've all been asses," Wind rolls his eyes.

You bite your cheek. At least Wind is on your side.

"Sailor." Time says with a world-weary sigh that might as well start in his toes.

"It's fine, Wind," you say quickly, not wanting to be the cause of any issues.

Wind rolls his eyes again. "You shouldn't let people treat you bad."

"Wind," you sigh, "It's okay. Time hasn't been bad to me."

"Whatever." The teen scoffs.

Time sighs, slow and heavy. "We'll talk later, Wind. (Y/n), I apologize if I have treated you poorly."

"It's okay. I think I'm going to go check out the library, I'll see you guys at dinner?" You ask.

"Of course." Time says.

You detach from the two heroes and make your way to the library, hoping to get some sort of answer about anything. Maybe they have something to explain the portals, or the dreams, or how you are in a video game world.

Alright, again, we aren't examining that until after the boys leave.

You smile at the librarian and go to the shelves to see what you can find.

There isn't anything too promising, but you find a book titled 'tales of heroes: a children's story collection'. There's that curiosity that wells up from where ever it is the dreams and half memories originate from.

You take out the book and go to sit at a table alone.

It's the introduction that makes your brain pause, something telling you that the words are important. That the words hold answers.

You just don't understand how yet...

' When you read the stories ahead, I caution you that they are centuries old and also aimed at children, but they stay true to the spirit. When you read these stories, you will see the soulmate of the hero never lives long, but how lucky is it to have a soulmate who reincarnates with you every time?

They say that the shadow version of the hero was created with a shadow version of the soulmate.

These stories are an ode to our heroes, princesses, and everyone else who has ever helped save our world. When you read them, may you find your own courage to pursue whatever you desire. '

Wow.

Okay.

First of all, the fact that the stories are passed down is good, your the heroes deserve that and more.

Secondly, the soulmate thing is new. You've played the games, read the lore, and seen playthroughs... but this is the first time you've ever heard of a recurring soulmate.

It dosen’t sound like the princesses are the soulmate either...

Since when does Link have a soulmate?

Maybe you can find more about this?

Is it rude to go looking?

Why does the soulmate never live long?

If it's common knowledge and in a children's book.... does it cross a line to learn more?

In theory, you won't see the boys again after they leave anyway... and you have always had a hard time ignoring your own curiosity....

You shut the book before standing to go see if you can find anything else about this supposed soulmate to the hero.

You're able to find quite a few things, especially after checking the 'triforce' section. You sit yourself down and start wading through everything you can.

' In the ever reincarnating cycle that is the triforce wielders, there is a soulmate to the hero that joins them every lifetime. Many believe that Ganon or whoever is following Demise targets the soulmate every time.

There is no proof of whether the soulmate truly dies early or simply steps out of the public light each time, and the further back in history, the more muddy the details get.

Many believe the soulmate is a late add-on to the already muddied stories of barely remembered heroes.

The most frequent account of the soulmate regards them as being named (Y/n), and they are often depicted as kind and loyal to the hero. '

Woah. Okay. Apparently, you have the same name as this soulmate. That's weird.

That... might explain the reaction the chain had to your name when you met, too.

If this is real, you think it's better that the media in your world never mentioned the soulmate... fans get a little strange sometimes.

You keep reading, there's so many questions you have now, but frustratingly few answers.

Any answers you do manage to find are either repeated everywhere or incredibly vauge. Sometimes both.

Apparently, most of this was passed down orally.

-------

After dinner, Time finds himself pacing in his room, mind entirely too loud. He is so - Time is tired of everything. All he wants is his lover. All he wants is his dearest.

Here he is, though, leading a group of heroes to hunt after an enemy he thought slain while juggling grief and duty.

Oh, it isn't your fault.

Time knows that.

But your presence is digging up a loss he thought he was over.

(How could he ever actually be over it? He spent a year of time loops trying to change their fate. He never ceased to fail...)

You are the best and worst ghost he's ever seen. You sound and act like his lost love, and yet you are not them.

If you were... You'd have thrown yourself into his arms when you saw him.

Though... his lover never did see him this old... did they? They didn't live much past twenty...

You aren't them, though. You would have recognized him by now.

You are the closest to them he will ever get now.

He groans lowly, pulling his hands down his face.

Hiding and pacing aren't going to handle his problems. He should really be checking on you and making sure you have enough gear to be okay on your own for a while.

He's a hero. He's a leader.

He already failed you when he let you get sent away with Epona.

You got ambushed all alone!

He was glad he found you and that you were still standing... but he still failed you.

Failure is not a luxury he can afford, it hasn't been since her was a boy the first time.

Time takes a deep breath and sets his shoulders. He has a responsibility to you as a hero to make sure you are going to be okay.

He leaves his room, going towards where he can hear Wind leading a sea shanty.

He hopes that you are near the sailor as you often are.

You prove him right, laughing next to Wind as he struts around on a table, leading the tavern in a sea shanty about drunken sailors.

Your laugh is the best and worst sound he's faced in a while.

He knows he should move, but he can't make himself.

Here, without you looking at him like a man you barely know, he can pretend that you're his lost lover.

Time lets himself pretend a moment that you're his Beloved.

He lets himself pretend they are here on this adventure with him, laughing as they cheer on the youngest of the group. Smiling as they clap along to a beat.

He lets himself pretend that they just haven't noticed him yet, and when they do, they'll run to him.

Time is a fool, a fact he knows all too well.

When you see him, your smile loses some of its brilliance. You offer a weak little wave to him.

Time waves back, heart cracking further still. He works his jaw to keep from letting his grief show. (He fails.)

He turns around and leaves because he can't look at you again without breaking. He will always be that scared little boy who had to rewind time over and over and over to finally save a town.

Time will always fall short, and others will always pay the price.

He supposes all he can do is try even harder next time.

Maybe his Beloved can forgive him for all his mistakes.

Maybe he can find a way to make up for everything.

-------

Dark sits in the shadows of the forest around the town, his darling lamb - Onyx - to his right. He holds their hand in his own, idily swiping his thumb across the back of their hand.

He allows himself to bask in the shadow and in the presence of his darling lamb. How he has missed them, the years without them have been nothing but torture.

Their place at his side being filled is a soothing balm to his festering soul.

He can't stop marveling at the ethereal beauty that is his darling lamb.

"Once your goody two shoes counter part is left behind, we can focus on tearing the heroes apart," Dark says with a sharp smile.

Onyx gives a hum, leaning their head against his shoulder. "Thank Demise, the heroes have been so obnoxious."

"I'm sure, being stuck in (Y/n)'s shadow until you were strong enough to move, you saw far more than I."

"I'm still mad about that," They say as they squeeze his hand.

It isn't quite mean, but it's tighter than usual. Perhaps a warning, perhaps only checking to be sure he is real.

"I know," he assures as he returns their squeeze.

The solid shadowy flesh in his grasp is cool to the touch and a perfect reassurance it's all real. He's had to many dreams of Onyx only to wake alone.

He both loves and hates those dreams.

"I meant what I said. If you ever send me away like that again, I will stay gone. Don't you ever fucking do that to me again," Onyx turns to give him a dirty look even as they lean against him.

The spite and dark promise in their voice is a beautiful steel blade that he will never tire of witnessing them wield.

How lucky he is to be given such warnings from his darling lamb. They never warn others, preferring the satisfaction of surprising others with their vengeful plans.

Dark smiles softer, the way he only does for them. "You won't get away from me again."

"Good. Being in that magicless realm was horrible."

"I know." Dark sighs, moving to press a kiss to their head. "I know, my darling lamb."

Onyx sighs heavily, "You're still a fucking asshole for sending me to that stupid realm."

"I won't do it again," He says.

He dosen’t apologize, he probably never will. He does know that he won't do it again, not when it weakened his sweetheart so much.

But he can't make himself be sorry for attempting to save them.

"Good." They say as they scoot a little closer.

"We need to get the heroes away from (Y/n), then I think we shall overwhelm the men with a few gleeocks," Dark muses, raising their hands up to press a kiss to the back of his darling lamb's hand.

Onyx laughs, delight drips from the sound. "Electric?"

"Of course."

"Good. They deserve it, they have no idea that their soulmate is right here and they're being fucking dicks."

"I don't doubt it."

"Thank Demise you saved them from those Lizafos."

Dark huffs, using his free hand to run through his hair. "Sending their soulmate away on a horse without the ability to fight atop a horse was reckless and incredibly poor planning."

Onyx laugh again, darker and meaner. Eyes crinkling with mirth they say, "They are the bumbling heroes."

He snorts, squeezing their hand in his once. "I wouldn't care if your life were not on the line too, darling lamb."

"You're a true saint, Dark," They roll their eyes, squeezing his hand back anyway.

"Only for you."

They hum once, low and pleased. "Good, I don't share."

"Neither do I."

They turn their silver eyes up to him, shadowy form flickering a little in the gentle breeze. They still haven't leveled out their magic levels, but they are better than when they arrived yesterday.

They offer him a sharp, borderline, vicious smile. As beautiful as it is deadly. "My strong man. Shall we arrange those gleeocks?"

Dark feels his chest swelling with pride and affection like flowers in the damnable season of spring. "Anything you want, my darling lamb, you shall have."

"And if I want your heart?" They ask sweetly, as if they don't already know.

"I shall serve it to you on a platter," He informs sincerely, giving them a soft look that is only ever for them.

They preen at that, moving to press a kiss to his cheek. "I think I prefer you alive over physically possessing what is already Mine."

"How generous."

Onyx scoffs, "Only for My beloved viper."

Dark hums, letting himself smile at them. He has never much enjoyed being owned. He is nothing but a pet to Demise some days... but he dosen’t mind belonging to them.

Why should he?

Onyx is His. They are his to cherish and protect through Any Means Necessary.

What is love if not reciprocation of all you are gifted? What is love, if not the willingness to do what you need to even when it hurts?

"Oh, my darling lamb, I shall not waste my time with you. Perhaps we will get a longer go around."

"I'm not so sure... That pirate already really likes (Y/n). The curse very well may already be tripped."

"That blasted curse! Of course, the heroes manage to trip it."

Onyx hums, sitting up and turning to fully face Dark. "We'll figure it out."

"Once we take down the heroes, Demise will break that damnable curse. Your life force will no longer be tied to the Hero's soulmate's. Never again will you face death," Dark declares with a grandeur he must have learned from Demise.

His lover just laughs a little, softer with him. They are always softer with him. "I look forward to eternity with you."

"And I with you."

Onyx leans in, pressing a kiss to his lips before pulling away with a vicious smile. "Let's finish this."

Dark returns their smile, wondering how he got so lucky to have such a spiteful sweetheart. "I think I like that plan."

"Good."

-------

Four finds himself alone finally in the night as he settles near the town garden. He lets the night air flit about as he finally lets out a deep, slow sigh that has his shoulders dropping.

His mind is still too loud. The colors all have their own thoughts, but being alone is far better than he expected.

He groans as he stands by the garden, looking up at the sky.

Splitting will help the headache, at least...

Maybe it will help the emotions, too.

He straightens up and holds his sword up to the sky.

With a flash of light, Four is split into his colors, and the headache of a week is gone.

"This is bullshit!" Blue hisses as he kicks the ground with a glare.

Green sighs heavily, "Blue, we can't control these things."

"I know this is hard, but we got (Y/n) to a town, and they'll be safe here," Red chimes.

Red offers a weak smile, as if trying to convince himself as well as the others.

Blue groans loudly, dropping his head back even as he stands. "So? The only good thing is we're leaving them behind."

Blue!" Green hisses.

Vio sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No wonder I have to take control around them."

"Be nice," Green chides with a heavy tone.

Red sighs, "Guys, we've already gotten through the hard part!"

Blue rolls his eyes and shoots a glare to the optimist. "How do you want to go on knowing there's a perfect copy of them?"

"What choice do we have?" Vio challenges as he raises one brow.

He would like to know. Ehst other option is there but to suck it up and keep going?

"I don't know!" Blue scoffs, throwing his hands up.

"Guys, please," Green sighs.

"We have to figure something out. We can't keep going the way we have been," Vio crosses his arms.

Red bites his lip, raking his brain for some sort of helpful idea. Repression isn't working, obviously, but what else is there?

Perhaps there's crying?

There is also sleeping until things suck less, but that's not sustainable.

"Why don't we talk about it?" Green suggests.

"Yeah!" Red agrees immediately.

The relief that floods Red at not having to offer a solution is immediate, which makes his throat feel thick anyway.

"You want to talk about it?" Blue scoffs and rolls his eyes, "I'll fucking talk about it."

"Go for it," Vio motions to the ground with one hand while watching the other.

Blue gives a dirty glare. "Our soulmate is fucking dead and there's a perfect copy who isn't them. I miss our soulmate, Vio. I really fucking miss them and I am so fucking mad that they aren't actually here!"

Red frowns, hugging himself. "Blue, we all miss them."

"Yeah, I know. But it's like our soulmate is right there! But they fucking aren't! They're still gone and this is just another fuck you from the goddesses!" Blue snarls as he balls his fists up and starts to shake.

Green winces, realizing just how much they've actually been repressing.

If Blue is this worked up... it's no good.

That can only mean they are even worse off than they thought.

"You can't be mad at (Y/n)... They didn't do anything wrong," Red says with a sigh.

"I'm not mad at them! I'm mad that they're fucking with our heads because we're too fucking stupid to stop missing someone!" Blue crosses his arms again, nails digging into his arms

Green sets a hand on his brother's shoulder, trying to will something softer to the other. All he wants is to help Blue...

Vio sighs. "So we should get it all out there then? I am barely holding on because the resemblance to our angel is too much to bear."

"You're telling me," Blue huffs, letting his hands loosen against his arms.

Red sighs, "I can't help hoping that it's them somehow..."

"I miss them so much," Green breathes out.

Blue clenches his jaw for a moment. Then he sighs heavily. "I would do anything to see them one more time... What would they even say to us? They passed before - before we ever touched the four sword."

"Do not insult them by insinuating they would turn on us," Vio warns in a low hiss.

Green frowns, "I'm sure that's not what Blue means."

"We don't know what they would do!" Blue scoffs.

"I think... I think we're looking at this wrong," Red says as he looks at each of his brothers.

"Oh?" Vio prompts.

"Maybe... instead of being upset that (Y/n) isn't our soulmate like we want we should focus on the fact that someone so much like our angel is living a life away from all the danger that follows us," Red suggests.

"That's... not the worst idea we've had," Vio hums, allowing himself to sit with the idea.

Blue just glares at the ground, kicking a small group of pebbles away from himself. All he wants is his angel here. Apparently, that's too much to ask.

Green bites his lip before he sighs. "That's probably a better solution than what we've been doing."

"We can try it," Vio reasons.

"I think we should," Green offers a weak smile.

Red smiles back, "Okay."

"Blue?" Green prompts.

Blue sighs heavily, looking up to the stars. "I guess."

--------

You allow yourself to bask in the forge, soaking up the heat after the cold air outside thanks to winter. Watching your boyfriend at work is interesting as ever. His blacksmith work is something he enjoys.

Watching his muscles flex is always a treat, too. Your sweet boy works so hard.

"Are you sure you don't mind staying until I'm done? I don't mind if you want to go home." Link calls, turning to look at you during a break in his work.

You shake your head with a smile, "I'm sure, Link. I like to be around you."

"If you're sure."

"I am."

Link flashes you a smile over his shoulder, hair falling a little out of his headband. His blue eyes all but sparkle.

You let yourself settle into the chair you take up.

You listen to him work, muttering to himself as he hammers out the metal into whatever form he needs it to be.

It's hot in the forge, but you expect that.

Existing within the same space as Link is relaxing, soothing to your heart.

It's nice, being able to watch him working at his craft. He's good at it. Everything Hes ever given you from his work table has been amazing.

You absolutely adore the damascus steel dagger he gifted you for your last birthday.

Minutes and hours feel the same as you bask in the atmosphere.

It's not until your stomach growls that you give in to the fact you should really go make dinner.

You stand, stretching your arms above your head before you call out to Link. "I'm going to start dinner."

He turns to look at you over his shoulder, flashing a smile. "Thank you, angel."

"Of course."

You exit the forge and go into the house to start dinner.

It's been a good day.

You enter the kitchen humming -

You bolt up in bed, head spinning like a broken carousel.

What on earth was that?

--------

After one last breakfast made by Wild, you stand at the edge of town with the group of heroes you've been traveling with.

This is it.

The boys will leave and you will stay.

For reasons you doubt you could name at sword point you crave to follow them despite all danger and strange attitude. Despite the video game thing, your dreams, and all safety, you want more than anything to go with them.

You shove that into a far away box in your mind.

"I guess this is it," you say with a weak smile.

"You promise you'll send the letter for me?" Wind asks.

You nod, "Of course I will, sailor."

"And you'll write me?"

"If you want me to."

Wind hums, then snaps his fingers. "Hold on, I have something for you!"

"You don't have to do anything for me, I'm just grateful to have your friendship," you counter quickly.

Wind rolls his eyes.

The others stand behind him, all looking somewhere away from you except Legend, who just stares at you with a strange, almost seasick look.

At least you won't have to deal with all the tension.

Wind pulls something out of his bag with a triumphant grin. "Aha! Here, I wanted you to have this. It can be a good luck charm for you."

You smile a little, looking at the hand he holds out and finding a small seagull figurine carved out of a dark wood. It's small enough to fit in Wind's palm and your own as well.

"Really?" You ask.

Wind nods. "Of course! You obviously need it. You fell out of the sky."

You laugh, "I did. Thank you."

You take the small figurine and smile at the boy.

Wind grins up at you, "You better write me."

"I will. Don'tcause too much trouble."

"Good, and I don't cause trouble!" Wind grins before he hugs you tightly around your middle.

You smile as you hug the boy back.

When Wind steps out of your arms, Legend steps up to you, holding something behind his back. He gives you a straining smile.

"Hey, I have something for you too." The veteran says.

You smile a little at him, "You really don't have to do that."

"Consider it an apology for being an asshole?" He offers after a moment, voice half playful.

There's a choking sound from someone in the group behind him.

You snort a little. "You already apologized."

Legend rolls his eyes, "Then call it me, taking a step to do better by you."

The words are easy enough, but there's something weighty in his gaze and tone.

His eyes are like lavender, and for a second, you swear you can remember them lightning up just for you.

You hum once, considering. "Alright."

Legend pulls his hand out from behind his back and holds out a red health potion. "This is for you."

You gasp, well aware that the potion isn't cheap to obtain or to make. "Legend! Are you serious?!"

He gives a nod, "I am."

"You're sure that for me? Those aren't cheap."

He rolls his eyes this time, "Yes, I'm sure it's for you, trinket."

Your brain short circuits.

Trinket?

("It's for you, trinket," a man with lavender eyes smiles as he presses your favorite candy into your hand.)

You smile as best you can. "Thank you, Li-egend."

You catch yourself halfway through his name, but hopefully, no one notices or calls you on it.

Legend presses the potion into your hand, "Try not to die, okay?"

You laugh, "You try not to die too."

He frowns, looking you over.

Whatever he was thinking seems to pass, he gives you a lazy smirk. "Take care of yourself."

"I will." You say.

You put the potion and the little wooden seagull into your bag.

Legend steps back, falling into the group.

No one else comes forward, not even Sky.

Sky looks rough, red eyes and staring at the nearest tree...

Maybe it was a bad night for him?

"Well, I 'spose this is it... Take care of yourself." Twilight says.

You smile, "I will."

Epona walks up to you, nudging your shoulder.

You laugh, patting her neck, "You be good, sweetheart."

Epona knickers a little, nipping your shirt before she backs up, trying to pull you with her.

You stumble but catch yourself, "Epona hey, I'm staying here."

"Damn." Wind sighs.

"Language." Time calls.

Twilight grabs Epona's reigns, "I'm sorry she dosen’t usually act like this."

"It's okay, at least she isn't being mean," you assure as you gently pull your shirt from her.

You step back again, readjusting your top.

"Don't be a stranger." Time says to you, stepping forward to put a hand on your shoulder.

You look at him, trying one last time to make sense of the man. "Okay."

The man squeezes your shoulder, nodding once before he steps back.

"Remember you have a shield for a reason. Okay?" Warriors asks as he looks at you with a pinched expression.

Seriously, what is it about you that upsets them all so much? Is it their soulmate? Maybe it's your name.

That makes sense.

They just miss their soulmate. Too bad you can't help them.

You nod, "I definitely will."

"Keep your weapons sharp," Four chimes in helpfully.

"Stay safe," Hyrule says with a weak smile.

Wild steps to the front of your group, offering a fairly convincing smile. "Try to have some fun too."

"Good luck," Sky tells you absently.

You smile a little sad this time. "You too."

"Stay outta trouble if you can," Twilight says.

That's the last thing any of them seem to need. All of them turning and leaving, though Wind waves to you as he leaves, and Epona trails behind.

Legend shoots you a smirk as he leaves at least.

You wave them off and wait until you can barely see them before you turn to go back to town.

Everything is so strange...

You sit yourself on the edge of the town square fountain, trying to figure out what you do now.

Sighing, you look towards the library again. Maybe you could go read more?

There's a low meow that makes your attention jerk to the right - and holy fuck that's a panther!

What the fuck?!

The heroes leave and now the animals decide to attack?!

The panther stalks towards you, tail swishing slowly.

You can't remember if you're supposed to get big or small. Running seems bad though...

You won't out run a panther probably...

In a moment of desperation you take a deep breath and decide to try taking your way out if this one.

"Heeeeey, pretty kitty," you manage in a mostly steady croon.

The animal keeps stalking until it's a foot away from you.

It stares at you with an intensity that's frankly a little terrifying.

Spooky.

That's not really enough of a descriptor but it's what your brain has.

"Who's a good kitty?" You ask.

The panther sits down, yawning at you.

Wow that cat has giant, pointy teeth.

"You're a good kitty! Look at you, not attacking, such a good panther," You say in what is probably terror.

The large cat stretches it's front paws our until it's laying down, paws two whole inches from your boots.

Well... they aren't attacking. That's good! You like not being attacked by large ambush predators!

It's still fairly spooky to be so close to the animal... but if they aren't attacking maybe they'll let you try to touch them?

There's the animal loving part of you that starts to awaken now that you aren't positive you're going to be attacked.

You move so you are crouching, holding your hand out to the panther.

The animal sniffs your hand carefully, then immediately nudges your hand with it's nose as it shuffles closer.

Well fuck.

Okay.

Are you the animal whisperer now? First Epona, now this panther?

There are probably worse things to be.

You cautiously try to gently scratch their chin, almost preening when they lift their head to allow you better access.

Smiling, you wonder if you'll see them around more?

Maybe you can call them Spooky, the previous descriptor seems a nice.

Forget the library, you're going to soak up this previously impossible experience.

As you move to use both hands to dole out gentle scritches Spooky begins to purr.

A low rumble that makes you want to giggle.

Maybe it won't be so bad here.

-------

Taglist:@danyzta @vrsin @silver-the-pendejo @tulip-does-stuff @justanotherweeb666 @yourlocaltreesimp @blueberrysungie @victoryssong23 @shu-leepy @sleepifonlyigoti @sour-patch-delight @phlying-squirrel @pumpkincitrus

Next

[romaniacs]

▌ㅤNATASHA ROMANOFF — I MISS YOU MORE THAN LIFE

( read more ) synopsis — natasha's harsh words are like a knife twisting inside your already mean brain as she's been dealing with an imminent breakdown due to work-related stress, and so she soothes you from the pain she causes herself. warnings — female reader x natasha romanoff, crying, a little bit of everything; fluff + angst… so hurt-comfort.

"y/n- you're still up?" natasha sounds tired just before her breath catches in her throat as she sees the mess she's caused, your teary eyes lifting to rest on her worried face. "baby, no, why are you crying? are you in pain? having cramps?" and your silence is brief yet loud. "is it something i said? did i… did i make you cry?"

her hands roam over your wet cheeks as she feels a wave of that nurturing energy she usually has taking over her again, as strongly as it could be after a long time of giving you nothing. when she said i don't think i wanna go out in a stressed-out tone, looking over the paperwork she had to finish yesterday, it felt a bit off to you. when she had the last bites of the food you had kept for yourself, you just sulked in a corner. woman had to eat, it was fine. when she stopped kissing you goodbye before leaving, you understood. but when you were on a call and she started cussing out as she dealt with a sudden work issue that popped up and sounded rude to you too, it was a bit too much for you.

i'll hang up, she said not long ago. i'm a bit too mad to talk right now and you're not helping. your headache will pass, just go to bed.

you feel the distance natasha's putting between you two solidifying with time, and things don't seem to be going well with your job either.

it's just been hard. in general.

and now that she finally got home and entered your bedroom, reality hit her like a truck.

"it's nothing" you bring her hands down, off your face, but don't want to be rude. it really is nothing much. you just want to be left alone, as she seems to have been trying to make happen. "it really isn't, don't mind me. just sleep. it's late."

"are you kidding me? you're crying, y/n" her voice is not as soft, strangely. "if i did anything wrong, you can just tell me."

"can't you see it yourself?"

her eyes are suddenly locked onto your face, even though it's dark. she's also finally coming down from the long-lasting stress she's been through. "well, yeah" she sounds weird. calmer. confused. way more aware of herself, and consequently her eyes water up in a second. "yeah. sorry. i think i've been a bit harsh lately. it's just…"

"work, i know" you pat her hand softly as you give her an understanding look. "it's fine. just rest, okay?"

natasha can't bring herself to say much anyway, so she takes the chance to take off her jacket and lay down beside you. after a while, she rests an arm around your waist, pushing some hair off your forehead.

"i'm really sorry, y/n" natasha mumbles on your back. "i don't love you any less. i just haven't been doing so right. it's hard keeping my cool, and i try not to be harsh, but…" her voice trails off. "i've been under a lot of pressure. and not managing it well. but i love you."

"you don't have to explain anything to me, i understand. just don't treat me differently if you can just not treat me in any way and avoid making me second-guess my own actions" you whisper. "i love you a lot, nat. i don't need calmness, i just need to be sure you still love me. so it's okay."

"mhm. just hate myself for making you cry, you don't deserve that" she places a gentle kiss on your skin, her body warmly placed behind yours. and things almost feel normal for a second, just as they used to be before the mission she's been on. "i won't stop loving you even when hell freezes over, detka. trust me."

and you do, you can finally fall asleep. you feel wanted again, even if things still hurt, even if work won't stop on the way of your relationship, but whatever it is that tries to bring you down is fortunately none of your heart's business; even when your heart is heavy, it's still hers.

[amateurvoltaire]

Listen to the post (trust me, it's a long one and I've done my best to read the whole thing out...):

Embroidery, Work, and Women in the 18th Century

One of my resolutions for 2025 was to learn embroidery. Why? Partly because my brain can’t stand still. It needs a dozen hobbies going at once just to keep from falling apart. Also, I like beautiful things. And small, careful stitches on cloth seem beautiful to me.

But more than that, embroidery has always been part of women’s lives. From Helen of Troy to Mary Queen of Scots and beyond, women have picked up the needle, sometimes in peace, sometimes in despair. It has been an art, a pastime, and a sentence.

So let’s talk about embroidery today. More precisely, embroidery in late 18th-century France. What it meant to the rich and the poor, and how it worked, strangely, as both a kind of cage and a kind of release for women of the time.

First of all,  before we start, you need to know that it was everywhere. Truly everywhere. In France, embroidery was a fashionable and expensive way to decorate clothes, furniture, and church vestments. The most elaborate designs showed flowers, landscapes, or scenes from myth, stitched in silk, gold and  silver. Garments like men’s waistcoats or women’s gowns were embroidered by hand, usually by professionals, and filled the wardrobes of the wealthy.

But just because the finished products were aimed at the elite did not mean embroidery itself was limited to them. Quite the opposite. Because the tools were simple  (a needle and some thread) the practice spread through all levels of society. It became, in many ways, the defining domestic craft for women.

Embroidery, or the Quiet Discipline of  the 18th-century Woman

The education of a French woman in the late 18th-century is well summed up by a line from Rousseau’s Émile. Describing the education of Sophie, Émile’s intended, he writes:

“The education of women should be relative to men. To please us, to be useful to us, to make themselves loved and honoured by us, to raise us when we are young, to care for us when we are grown, to advise us, to console us, to make our lives agreeable and sweet, these are the duties of women at all times, and what they should be taught from childhood.” (1)

I could be sarcastic about Rousseau all day, but I will not. This is not about him (2). What matters here is the idea, widely held in 18th-century France, that women’s education was meant to complement male reason with female charm. Rousseau valued obedience, delicacy, and virtue, and considered domestic work the most effective way to instil these traits. Something as thoroughly domestic as sewing or embroidery was seen as both moral instruction and quiet, necessary containment.

So embroidery became central to women’s education, regardless of class, although the reasons shifted depending on social rank. For bourgeois and aristocratic girls, needlework was seen as a form of moral training.

This was not mere theory. Girls’ finishing schools in Paris and provincial cities rigorously taught embroidery alongside catechism and musical instruments.

For upper-class women, it was also a social act. French society in the 18th and 19th centuries was deeply performative. Embroidery became a marker of bien séance (3), a way of displaying virtue while remaining present in social life. The sociability it enabled was no accident. By stitching in company, women carved out a space where they could speak freely, while appearing to live within the boundaries society had drawn for them.

An art form from mother to daughter

Have you ever tried sewing or embroidering from an antique pattern? Especially something from the 18th or 19th century. Even if you manage to find the right thread and cloth, reproducing these old designs can seem almost impossible. Why? Because most surviving patterns from that time are simply terrible. How do we know? Because some still exist.

The Lady’s Magazine (1770–1818) (4) was one of Britain’s most influential women’s periodicals of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. It offered a monthly blend of fiction, poetry, moral essays, fashion reports, biographies, recipes, and notably, embroidery patterns.

The embroidery patterns were usually published as detachable supplements or illustrated plates, intended to embellish clothing and accessories with the flowers and foliage popular in Georgian textile art.

Few of these patterns survive intact, precisely because they were detachable and meant for immediate use. Most were removed, damaged, or simply lost, making intact issues of the magazine incredibly rare. Yet, some do survive. But if you get your hands on one, you'll soon realise there's not much you can actually do with it.

These patterns weren't instructional in the modern sense. They had no step-by-step guides or even a basic materials list. They served more as visual templates, meant to be traced or adapted. But why? Why would editors of a women’s magazine produce such unhelpful patterns?

No, the reason isn’t that the pattern designers and engravers were probably men who disliked women.

The answer is simpler: these patterns weren't poorly designed at all. In fact, they were perfectly adequate for their time, precisely because everyone knew how to sew. The magazine correctly assumed every reader had a basic level of skill.

And yes, I mean every woman. Not just those who went to finishing schools.

For most families, embroidery was a fundamental part of mother-daughter relationships. Mothers taught daughters, grandmothers shared techniques and patterns. This wasn’t purely practical, it was also moral instruction. Embroidery taught patience, neatness, and submission, but also created intimate moments of maternal bonding and a way to preserve memories.

Sampler-making (marquoirs) was especially significant. Girls stitched alphabets, dates, names, or even short verses under the supervision of mothers, schoolmistresses or female adults they looked up to. These samplers served as both educational exercises and personal milestones, often kept or displayed proudly as part of a dowry. Embroidery thus became part of life’s rites of passage. It wasn’t just a useful skill or an idle pastime. It was heritage.

A  male-dominated industry

In Enlightenment imagery, embroidery often stood for feminine leisure and elegance. But it remained, in practice, a skilled and demanding trade linked to luxury consumption, ecclesiastical ornamentation, and court attire. And like most things involving money, it was dominated by men.

Charles-Germain de Saint-Aubin, embroiderer to Louis XVI, published L’Art du Brodeur in 1770. In it, he described a profession regulated by the Parisian guild of embroiderers (jurande des brodeurs). This guild upheld a strict hierarchy: apprentice, journeyman, master. An aspiring embroiderer began with a years-long apprenticeship under a master. Once completed, he could become a journeyman. To rise to the level of master, he had to produce a a masterpiece (chef-d’œuvre) judged by the guild’s existing members. If accepted, he joined their ranks.

The guild maintained control through rules on quality, materials, technique, and design. Workshops were inspected. Violations carried penalties. The guild also limited membership to avoid market saturation. It was a business like any other, and its rules were meant to protect those already inside.

The guild statutes from 1566 allowed a modest space for women. A girl could join the guild through apprenticeship and submit a chef-d’œuvre of her own. Once accepted, she could run a workshop, even if married to someone outside the trade. But this changed. By 1648, the rules had tightened. Only widows or daughters of masters could keep a place in the trade, and only if they remained unmarried. If they remarried outside the guild, they lost their rights. Any master employing them risked a thirty-livre fine.

In short, for most of the 18th century, a woman’s access to the profession depended heavily on her ties to men: her father, her husband, her deceased spouse.

Still, exclusion was never total. A 1723 record shows 307 embroidery masters in Paris, alongside 65 widows who also held the title. A small number of girls were accepted as apprentices. The path was narrow. But it existed.

There was also another path

While the legal one narrowed, the informal one widened, and women took it. The guild’s grip was strong, but demand was stronger. A great deal of embroidery was done outside official structures, and much of that work was carried out by women. Not just isolated housewives earning a few coins in the evening, but networks operating on a larger scale.

In 1750, the police raided embroidery workshops in the faubourg Saint-Antoine (5), a district often outside guild jurisdiction. Among those charged was Louise Pineau, known as veuve Duport. She ran an illegal operation of no fewer than twenty-eight frames and even maintained what authorities called an “embroidery academy.”

But what enraged the guild most was not her scale. It was her success. One of the king’s own embroiderers, Louis-Jacques Balzac, had subcontracted to her a commission for the Dauphin’s ceremonial vest. Her work was so fine, it was nearly indistinguishable from that of the official guild. The same masters who condemned her were secretly hiring her.

This was not an isolated case. The guild explicitly banned subcontracting beyond a master’s own workshop, especially for gold and silver work. But bankruptcy records reveal widespread, illegal subcontracting to women who worked from home. They were paid by the piece. Everything was tracked. Even the gold thread was weighed before and after to prevent theft.

Everyone knew this was happening. But,  as long as it stayed quiet, it was tolerated.

The Path to Female Entrepreneurship

By the 1770s, women were no longer just running hidden workshops. Some began to appear in public as business owners in their own right. One of them was Madame Neuville, later known as veuve Neuville.

She presented herself as a merchant of gold and silver embroidery. Her clients were elite men: military officers, foreign envoys, members of the tribunal du point d’honneur. Her work included ceremonial insignia, ecclesiastical ornament, and embroidered garments worn for status, not comfort.

Neuville ran a dual operation. She had a workshop with salaried staff, but also subcontracted a significant amount of work. Her records show both men and women in her employ, including several widows of guild members. But the payroll tells a familiar story: women were paid nearly half what men earned per hour, even when they did the same work.

Conditions in her workshop were intense. In 1772, detailed logs show the arrival times, total hours worked, and instances of night shifts. The official working day ran from six in the morning to eight at night. But for the women, the hours were often longer, more irregular, and extended into the early morning during periods of high demand.

It was hard, exhausting work for not much money.

One regular worker’s case stands out. In June 1772, over 18 days and three night shifts, she earned 23 livres, 6 sous, and 8 deniers. That was roughly equivalent to what a male day labourer might make in the same period. The sum was modest, but for an unmarried woman, it offered a rare degree of independence. In most other sectors open to them, the chances were worse (7).

Female Labour at the  End of the Ancien Régime

One common misunderstanding about women’s lives in eighteenth-century France is the assumption that they did not work. Lower-class women, before, during, and after the Revolution, did not spend their days serenely raising children and keeping house. Nor were they driven by any self-conscious desire to assert economic independence. They worked because they had no choice.

The issue was never their access to the labour market, but how their labour was valued. Madame Neuville’s pay structure, where women were paid significantly less than men for the same work, was not an exploitative anomaly. It was standard practice. The value of women’s labour was systematically diminished through wage discrimination, occupational segregation, and social invisibility. Even when women’s work was essential to household survival or trade production, it was often treated as supplementary, even incidental.

By the final decades of the Ancien Régime, Paris had at least five all-female guilds, which indicates that women’s participation in economic life was not hidden. It simply wasn’t valued on the same terms as men’s.

In 1776, as part of his broader attempt to modernise the economy, the king’s prime minister, Turgot (7) moved to abolish the guild system. He argued that guilds restricted economic liberty and disproportionately harmed women and their freedom to work. While his reforms failed and guilds were reinstated, his successor included a clause forbidding sex-based discrimination.

The measure had contradictory consequences. It removed formal barriers preventing women from entering male-dominated trades, but it also dismantled the institutional protections on which women’s guilds had relied. In practice, this left women exposed. The protections that had once secured a space for them in the labour market were gone, and male competitors increasingly pushed them aside.

By 1789, as France stood on the edge of revolution, the cahiers de doléances (8) included appeals from women, needleworkers, flower sellers, and others, demanding the reinstatement of their guilds and the exclusive right to their métiers. These were not framed in terms of abstract rights, but in terms of survival and human dignity.

Freedom, But at What Price

The Revolution brought two major changes to the embroidery trade: one economic, the other moral.

Economically, the abolition of the guilds in 1791 under the Le Chapelier Law removed the protections once offered by the embroiderers’ guild. In theory, this made it easier for women to enter the profession. But at the same time as trades were opened more widely, the Revolution also raised a deeper question: should women even have a place in the economic order?

Views ranged from one extreme to the other. On one end, some argued that women should be full participants in work and public life. On the other, many believed they should be confined to the domestic sphere. Most people fell somewhere in between.

Nicolas de Condorcet (9) stood firmly on the side of equality. He called for women to have the same civil and political rights as men, including access to education, participation in public affairs, and the ability to support themselves. In a 1794 letter to his daughter, he urged her to learn a trade so she might “support herself without serving a stranger,” and escape the dependence that, in his view, undermined both dignity and freedom. For Condorcet , the right to work was bound up with the right to self-rule.

Others saw things differently. Pierre-Louis Roederer (10) argued that civil society was built on protecting women from labour, which he considered a burden meant for men. In his eyes, women were destined for domestic life and motherhood. Giving them rights in the economic sphere, he warned, would only unsettle the social order and defy nature.

Roederer’s vision won out. In rhetoric and policy, women were increasingly pushed back into the household.

But rhetoric is one thing, reality another. Women did not disappear from the labour market. They remained central to the Parisian garment trades. Though the guilds were gone, production methods stayed largely the same.

What truly affected embroidery was not ideology, but emigration. Embroidery was a luxury trade, tied to noble wardrobes. As the aristocracy fled, lost their titles, or were imprisoned, demand collapsed. On top of that, ornate fashion came to be seen as anti-revolutionary. The heavy silks and gold thread of the ancien régime gave way to plain whitework.

This collapse in demand hit women hardest. Embroidery and other luxury trades faced mass unemployment. Women scrambled for short-term, piecework contracts, often under male employers. The result was a growing supply of cheap, unprotected female labour. The old belief that women’s work was worth less only deepened.

The Revolutionary government made some effort to respond. The Convention (11) awarded state sewing contracts, mainly for army supplies, and local sections distributed work to seamstresses, prioritising families of enlisted soldiers. For a brief time, some Parisian women had stable, paid employment.

But this didn’t last. By 1795, under the Directory (12), the state withdrew. Private contractors took over. Women’s protests about exploitation were ignored.

What Comes Next?

Embroidery meant many things. It was work, it was teaching, it was discipline. It was done by women who stitched under orders, for money, for their daughters, or simply to stay sane. We’ve followed the needle through eighteenth-century classrooms and parlours, through guilds and illegal workshops, from gold thread to government contracts. Always the same art. Always under different constraints. It was art, labour, education, survival. Sometimes resistance. Often just what had to be done.

Which brings me to what I want to do next.

I’m starting a project: one hundred embroidered portraits of figures from late eighteenth- and nineteenth-century France. A hundred lives. A hundred threads in the fabric of a brutal, brilliant, collapsing world. The portraits won’t be stitched by hand but by machine. I’m a product of the twenty-first century. I like tools. I like toys. I like the meeting point of industry and art.

For each person, I’ll try to reconstruct, as faithfully as possible, who they were, what they did, and what they meant to the world around them.

This isn’t a Wikipedia entry. I’m not making a record. I’m making a story, a kind of chronicle of sorts. The aim is to give something back: their humanity, their contradictions, their texture. To remind us that they were, in fact, people, flawed, vivid, complex, even if they lived and died more than two centuries ago. No heroes. No villains. Just facts, and what can be seen clearly when set in the context of their own time.

The first will be Camille Desmoulins. Because on the 12th of  July 1789, it was he who he climbed onto a table at the Café de Foy (13)  and cried out to the crowd. And from that moment, something irreversible began.

I hope you’ll come with me.

Notes

(1) The original French text: “L’éducation des femmes doit être relative aux hommes. Leur tâche est de nous plaire, de nous être utiles, de nous faire aimer et nous estimer, de nous élever quand nous sommes jeunes, de nous soigner quand nous sommes grands, de nous conseiller, de nous consoler, de rendre notre vie agréable et douce. Voilà les devoirs des femmes dans tous les temps, et ce qu’on doit leur apprendre dès leur enfance.” (Émile, Livre V; original edition 1762).

This passage appears in Book V of Émile, ou De l’éducation, Rousseau’s educational treatise structured as a philosophical novel. The first four books follow the development of an ideal male child, Émile, from infancy to adulthood, shaped according to natural principles. Only in the final book does Rousseau turn to the question of women’s education, in the person of Sophie, Émile’s future wife , and the contrast is stark. Whereas Émile is trained for autonomy, reason, and citizenship, Sophie is shaped entirely in relation to male needs. In effect, Book V naturalises patriarchal domesticity under the guise of Enlightenment pedagogy.

(2)…And because I could rant for pages about him: it’s no accident I’m Amateur Voltaire and not Amateur Rousseau.

(3) Bien séance: A term referring to proper behaviour, decorum, and socially sanctioned conduct, particularly in elite society.

(4) The Lady’s Magazine (1770–1818) was a British publication, but French women’s magazines such as Le Journal des Dames et des Modes (1797–1839) and its short-lived predecessor Cabinet des Modes ou les Modes Nouvelles (1785–1786) also featured embroidery as part of fashionable culture, especially as it related to dress, accessories, and decorative refinement.

(5) Faubourg Saint-Antoine: A historically working-class district on the eastern edge of Paris, known for its artisanal workshops

(6) Turgot: Anne Robert Jacques Turgot (1727–1781), economist and reformist minister under Louis XVI. As intendant of Limoges, he wrote extensively on rural labour and women’s economic roles; as Controller-General, he attempted liberal economic reforms that failed politically but remain ideologically significant.

(7) And yes, I do mean worse. To the despair of anglophone observers like Thomas and Abigail Jefferson, French lower-class women worked. They worked in fields. They hauled water and firewood. They laboured in ways English gentry wives would never imagine. Working in an embroidery workshop was brutal and underpaid — but it wasn’t ploughing in the mud while pregnant.

(8) Cahiers de doléances: Literally “notebooks of grievances.” These were lists of complaints and demands drafted in 1789 by each of the three estates (clergy, nobility, and commoners) in the lead-up to the Estates-General.

(9) Nicolas de Condorcet: Philosopher, mathematician, and, agruably,  early feminist. Author of Sur l’admission des femmes au droit de cité (1790), in which he argues that excluding women from citizenship is a contradiction of revolutionary principles.

(10) Pierre-Louis Roederer: Liberal publicist, member of the National Assembly, but very much against women’s right to work and be educated.

(11) The Convention: The National Convention was the revolutionary government during the Revolution.

(12) The Directory: The post-Terror regime (1795–1799), marked by thermidorian backlash, economic liberalism, and sharp limitations on popular political participation.

(13) Café de Foy: A famous café near the Palais-Royal, known for its revolutionary crowds. Camille Desmoulins delivered his famous call to arms here on 12 July 1789, reportedly standing on a table, pistols in hand.

Sources:

Brian, Isabelle. "La trace de l’ouvrage: les brodeuses dans les archives parisiennes." Bulletin de l’Association des historiens modernistes des universités françaises, no. 43, 2023. DOI: 10.4000/bahmuf.302.

Coffin, Judith G. The Politics of Women’s Work: The Paris Garment Trades, 1750–1915. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996.

Fayolle, Caroline. "Le sens de l’aiguille. Travaux domestiques, genre et citoyenneté (1789–1799)." Cahiers du Genre, no. 53, 2012.

Lilti, Antoine. The World of the Salons: Sociability and Worldliness in Eighteenth-Century Paris. Translated by Lydia G. Cochrane. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015.

Offen, Karen. The Woman Question in France, 1400–1870. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017 - Chapter 6

Saint-Aubin, Charles-Germain de. L’Art du brodeur. Paris: Saillant & Nyon; Desaint, 1770. Source: gallica.bnf.fr / Bibliothèque nationale de France.

Thillay, Alain. "La liberté du travail au faubourg Saint-Antoine à l’épreuve des saisies des jurandes parisiennes (1642–1778)." Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine, vol. 44, no. 4, 1997, pp. 634–649. DOI: 10.3406/rhmc.1997.1890.

[purple-plum-petals]

⊱ You Can Do Better Than Me ⊰ || Boothill X Reader

╭─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╮        Character(s): Boothill (Honkai: Star Rail)        Reader Type: Human, Not the Trailblazer (Gender-Neutral Pronouns)        Warning(s): Break-up (Miscommunication/Assumptions… Not Permanent), Negative Body Image/Self-talk (Regarding Boothill), Use of Petnames (Boothill calls Reader “darlin’” and “sweets” and Reader calls Boothill “honey” and “love”), Slightly Suggestive Ending.        Genre: Drabble, Angst, Fluff (Hurt/Comfort), Pre-Established Romantic Relationship        Word Count: ~2500 words       Prompt: “What part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?”        Author’s Note: Hello everyone, I come back to you briefly with a random Boothill drabble because this cowboy has been on my brain for the past three months and I needed to get something written for him ASAP. I actually got both him and his lightcone on release day, so I’m still hyped about that (didn’t even need to break my F2P status either hehehe 😎). I will get around to writing a multi-chapter fic for him as soon as my summer semester is over and all of the current requests in the ask box have been answered. I’ve been managing the workload relatively well so far, but it’s genuinely been so overwhelming in terms of content/information that my brain can barely form coherent sentences after class and work. 😭 Anyways, have some self-conscious Boothill and my beloved hurt/comfort. Maybe instead of saving the horse, we should save the cowboy. Also… let me know if anyone is interested in a part two, and I’ll be happy to write it. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)             Tag-List: @anonima-2 – I know you wanted me to tag you if I got around to writing a Boothill X Reader fic, so here it is! It may not be a multi-chapter one, but I hope you enjoy this little drabble.

→ If you enjoyed my work, please reblog it if you can! Exposure on Tumblr is based on reblogging content rather than liking it, so your support would be much appreciated!  ♡ ╰─━━━━━━━━━━━━─╯

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

You had known Boothill for quite some time now. You had crossed paths with the elusive Galaxy Ranger throughout the years, so many times that you eventually lost count. Three times was uncommon, five times was rare, but over twenty times? That was absolutely unheard of given the vast expanse of space. It got to the point where you both noticed how frequently you would meet, the two of you making jokes that the universe was pushing you together.

Boothill had thought for a while you were sent to capture and/or kill him by the IPC but, after a particularly intense “discussion” (where he proceeded to hold you at gunpoint, as he frequently did with most people), you were able to confirm that all of the times you two had met were indeed just an exceedingly rare coincidence. It was something you would occasionally bring up to tease him about nowadays, poking fun at the fact he had literally held his future partner at gunpoint. It was a memorable event to reminisce on when asked by others ‘how did you two meet?’.

Years had passed since that unforgettable interaction, and both you and Boothill were happy and content in your current relationship. All of that time together with him had given you insight into how the cowboy typically behaved. He could be brash and rush into trouble head-first, but he was also immensely intelligent and could think of a plan on the fly to get himself out of even the stickiest situations. He was the type of person who frequently spoke his mind, not allowing his tampered-with Synesthesia Beacon to completely censor what he wanted to say… which is why you were as worried as you were lately.

Your boyfriend hadn’t been as talkative as he usually was. He had returned from a three-month-long trek around the galaxy a few days ago, and he had been distant ever since he came back. His replies had been clipped, and he had a strange look in his eye whenever he glanced your way; he hadn’t even looked at you for more than a few seconds since his return.

Tentatively, you made your way over to where he was sitting by an open window in your home, the breeze gently blowing the strands of his black-and-white hair to and fro. You stepped closer to stand next to him as you asked, voice tender as you spoke, “Boothill, honey, what’s wrong? You’ve been more reserved than usual these past few days, and I just want to check to see if you’re ok–…”

Then, he spoke, his voice firm as he cut off the rest of what you were going to say, “…I wanna break up.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach at his words, and you felt your palms begin to clam up with sweat as you whispered, “W… What?” You swallowed harshly, stepping closer to him as you asked, double-checking to see if you had heard him correctly, “What did you just say?”

“I said I wanna break up.” He says once more, voice rough as he turns his head ever-so-slightly to watch you from his peripheral. It felt like the world had stopped moving when he confirmed what you had always hoped you would never have to hear, and you feel your eyes begin to water. He finally, after so many days, looks at you directly after what has felt like eons. Whatever expression was on your face caused him to flinch before he looked away once more, staring at his hat on the nearby table.

Boothill sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he continues to speak, his voice gentler than usual as he tells you, “I don’t think this,” He pauses, taking his hand and gesturing toward himself before finishing his thought, “…is good fer you.”

Your emotions were fluctuating so quickly that your mind didn’t know what to do with all of them. First, you were worried about your boyfriend, then you were heartbroken when he said he wanted you two to go your separate ways, and now? Now you were angry, a sudden burst of frustration filling your veins at his reasoning behind wanting to end your relationship. Your heart aches as you exclaim, trying not to pay attention to the wetness forming along your lashes, “Excuse me? What the hell are you talking about?”

Boothill is back to refusing to look at you, so you try to move into his line of sight as you ask, your hands flailing about as you speak in a desperation-laced tone, “What, exactly, isn’t ‘good for me’ Boothill?”

He turns his head to look at you, standing up from where he had been sitting as he holds his hands out, trying to placate you as he says hastily, “Listen don’t – don’t get the wrong idea, alright?”

“How can I not get the wrong idea when you suddenly tell me you want to end our relationship!?” You yell back, feeling the tears begin to trickle down your cheeks. You were angry, sure, but the soul-crushing feeling of separating from the man you loved so deeply pierced your heart like a knife. Your frustration quickly began to be tainted with sorrow, your voice coming out softly as you ask him, your mind desperate for some kind of answer as you place a hand on your chest, “Did I… Did I do something for you to come to this decision?”

Panic floods his expression immediately as he reaches out, his hands resting on your shoulders as he leans down to look at your face. He quickly tells you, one of his hands coming up to gently cup your cheek as his thumb brushes away your tears, “No, no, no, no – you didn’t do anythin’, darlin’. You’ve been perfect in every way, I just…”

He pauses, gaze traveling to the ground as he thinks of what to say. His cold, metallic fingers against your skin are comforting to you in a way you couldn’t describe – comforting in a way no one else would be able to understand. Boothill’s eyes meet with yours once more as he continues speaking with a bittersweet smile, “You could do so much better than me, sweets. I don’t want to hold you back.”

The anger you had felt was suddenly back in full force as you asked him, brows furrowed as you questioned, “How?”

Your hands come up to hold onto his, the one that was still lovingly cupping your face as you ask, leaning forward toward him as you speak, “How could I do better than you? What are you holding me back from?”

Boothill shakes his head, saying with a frown, “There’s so many things I can’t give you… I can’t give ya a peaceful life, I can’t give ya a family…” His voice cracks slightly at the word, but he continues to speak as he begins to pull his hand away from your face, “You deserve someone who’s around more often – someone who can be there for ya whenever you need ‘em.”

Boothill chuckles bitterly, removing his hand from your grasp as walks over to grab his hat off of the nearby table, and you’ve never felt so cold and empty in your entire life. You watch helplessly as he places the hat on his head, staring as he begins to make his way toward the front door as he tells you, “You deserve someone who doesn’t cause you to jump every time their freezin’ cold hands touch ya – someone who can actually feel ya.”

You step toward him, reaching out to take his hand in yours and effectively stopping him in his tracks as you say firmly, “Boothill, shut the fuck up. Aren’t you going to at least ask me what I think about this?”

Boothill sighs, turning back around to look at you as he speaks. He doesn’t do anything to remove his hand from your grasp, instead gently squeezing it in a comforting manner as he tells you, “Listen, sweets, I just think it’s for the better that–…”

“No, it’s not.” You say, your voice strong despite the tears that had begun to flow down your face. You look up at him, bringing his hand to place on your chest as you tightly hold it over your heart, telling him firmly and genuinely despite the way your voice cracks, “I don’t care if you can’t give me those things. When did I even say that’s what I wanted in life?”

“Why wouldn’t you want that?” Boothill asks, looking down at you as if you had grown a second head, as if everything he said he couldn’t give you was something that everyone would want. He looks conflicted as he tells you, trying to take his hand back as he steps away from you and closer to the front door, “You deserve to be happy – you deserve to have someone who’s there for you.”

“What if all I want is you, huh?” You tell him, refusing to let go of his hand – refusing to let him leave your life in such a way. Your hold on Boothill’s hand was tight because you knew, deep down, if you let his hand slide out of yours, you’d never see him again. You look up at him as you speak, a spark of determination in your eyes which causes Boothill’s cheeks to flush a light shade of blue, “No one else can give me you. You’re the one that makes me happy – not some dream life, not some perfect family – just you.”

“You don’t want me, darlin’ – I promise, once I’m gone, you’ll move on an’ another lucky fella will have the honor of being able to love ya.” Boothill tells you with furrowed brows and a smile, his sharp teeth peeking out from behind his lips as he tries to convince you he’s not what you want. You could feel your eyebrow twitch in frustration at his words, your tears slowing down as you refute his claim.

“What part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?” You ask him, a tinge of hurt and frustration mixed in your voice as you reach out to firmly hold both of his hands in your own. Boothill allows you to do so with no fanfare, a conflicted expression on his face; his fingers twitch in your hold. He watches as you close your eyes and take a deep breath, hesitating for a moment before once again looking at him as you whisper, “Listen, if you want to leave, I’m not going to stop you or hold you back, but…” You pause, smiling warmly at him before continuing, “but I want you. I want to be with you, not this hypothetical ‘fella’ you’ve envisioned who would give me a perfect life.”

Before Boothill could open his mouth to try and argue again, you quickly add on as you bring one of his hands to your lips, pressing a light kiss to his digits as you tell him, “I don’t care that you’re cold to the touch – I don’t care that we won’t have a picture-perfect life together…” You feel the tears beginning to form on your lashes again as you run your thumbs along his knuckles, telling him sincerely, “I’ve never imagined a future without you in it, love.”

Boothill looks down at you, his expression a clash between his adoration for you and the heaviness of the situation. He shakes his head, bringing one of your hands to his lips as he presses a kiss to the back of it as he tells you, voice uncharacteristically quiet as he admits, “I… I don’t want to leave, sweets. I just…” He hesitates as he makes eye contact with you, raising a brow as he once again gestures to himself as he asks, “Are you sure this is what ya want?”

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my entire life,” You tell him, letting go of his hands as you instead wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as your bodies press against one another. His arms wrap around your waist on instinct, pulling you close to him as you press your foreheads together. You stare into his eyes and bring a hand to his cheek, placing your palm against his face as you run your thumb along the skin under his eye. He leans into your touch, turning his head to kiss your palm as you tell him with a smile, “Rain or shine, good or bad… I want to be beside you throughout it all.”

“Heh, well… I’m glad I get to be by yer side.” Boothill says, opening his eyes once more to look at you. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your temple as he whispers, almost as if he didn’t want the world to hear him – to keep this tender moment a secret between the two of you, “…Thank you for choosin’ me out of the rest of the blokes in the galaxy, darlin’. I’m a real lucky guy to have someone as wonderful as you.”

“I’d choose you in every universe, Boothill. That’s a promise.” You reply with a smile, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, almost as if you were teasing him.

He smirks at both your words and your actions, saying with a raised brow as he leans back, tilting his hat up with one finger as he speaks, “That’s quite a big promise there, darlin’. Sure you can keep it?”

“Oh, I’m sure.” You reply, matching his expression as you huff, “Don’t doubt me, cowboy.”

“I won’t, I won’t…” Boothill says with a chuckle. He pauses, his smile faltering slightly as he looks down at you. Your eyes were still slightly red, and the stains your tears had left on your cheeks were still present. He pulls you closer to him, nuzzling his face into your neck as he takes a deep breath in, muttering against your skin, “Aeons, I love ya… I love ya so fudgin’ much.”

“I love you, too, honey.” You reply softly, running your hand up and down his back when an idea pops into your mind. It was a mischievous one, and the mere thought of it causes a smirk to grow on your lips. You reach up and grab the hat from his head as you instead place it on yours, asking him flirtatiously, “Why don’t I show you just how much I love you?”

“Well… I certainly like the sound of that.” Boothill replies lowly, his eyes half-lidded as he gently caresses your face, smirking at his hat now resting atop your head. He leans down and kisses you, whispering against your lips in a sultry tone, “Plus, I’d like to apologize for makin’ you cry… Can I, darlin’?”

The tone of his voice was enough to make your heart start beating faster, and you could feel your cheeks begin to warm as you replied quickly with a simple, “Please do.”

[hrrtshape]

i heard it was ask ema hogwarts questions hour!! i found ur answers to my last ask about this so interesting, especially when you talked about the goblin wars and witch princesses. did you learn anything about how magic was found? or yk like the beginning of witchcraft. cavemen but wizards? do you have to handle anything disgusting for potions? like an animals eyeball or teeth?

what’s the relationship gossip? are sirius and remus together? is james dramatically on his knees for lily? is regulus moody and alone or has he realised he’s cable of love… and with who?

i’m super interested in what the creative subjects are like if there is any. what’s the difference between muggle art and witchy art? is there music or creative writing classes?

is it strange not having a phone? no tumblr for 5 months 💔💔💔

are you on the quidditch team? and is there any other sports you can do?

other than hogsmede, have you ventured out of the castle? to diagon alley or the leaky cauldron? do you have school trips?

have you met moaning myrtle? and since u know where the chamber of secrets is, do you plan on keeping that a secret or going to explore it?

ok some last questions. what’s the fashion like? what’s your fave wizard candy? are there witch/wizard celebrities? are you a animagus? whats it like turning into an animal? i’d freak the fuck out. i’m going to be in ravenclaw, have you been to their common room and what’s it like? okay that’s all thank u soooooo much ur the coolest ever

oh my god, you’re actually my favorite person for asking all of this !?!?!?

ancient wizard cavemen lore

YES, actually. i had so many late-night discussions (arguments) with remus about this. magic has always been there, but how it was discovered is a whole other thing. apparently, the earliest wizards didn’t even use wands. they just felt it and willed things to happen. which, honestly, terrifying. imagine some neolithic dude just thinking about fire and accidentally setting his entire cave on fire. but yeah, magic was raw back then. chaotic. unrefined. people had no clue what they were doing.

potions class horrors

potions is literally a nightmare class. why is there always something festering in a jar? why do i have to desecrate a frog just to pass a test? some highlights of things i have had to touch.......

flobberworm mucus (somehow both slimy and sticky??? defies science.)

an entire rat spleen (it plopped onto my desk. i have never known true horror until that moment.)

something’s eyeball. never identified what animal it belonged to. refused to ask.

relationship gossip

sirius and remus? no. sssorrrryyyy. i love wolfstar truthers but those two were too busy being insufferable and not realising they should be together. tragic, honestly.

james? so on his knees for lily. practically living in that position.

regulus. moody, yes. alone? debatable. i have seen some things. and i have some thoughts. but i’ll let the mystery simmer. 🫣

wizard arts & creativity

SO interesting. muggle art is about technique, but wizard art is alive. literally. paintings move, obviously, but also change depending on the mood of the room. i saw a portrait sulk once. music is enchanted, instruments play themselves, but it’s all very classical. like no wizard rock bands, just dramatic orchestral stuff. creative writing exists, but sometimes the words change on their own if they think you could do better. imagine your journal critiquing you. horrifying.

living without a phone

yes. it hurt. five months without tumblr was a near crisis. but i had scripted it wouldn’t bother me, so it was fine. (except for the fact that my brain still thought in twitter slang. painful. imagine if i had said that we should celebrate my 19th birthday in poland. like. that is what was going on in my mind)

quidditch & sports

seeker for gryffindor, obviously. and listen, me and coryo on the pitch,,,,(NOT LIKE THAT. DON’T EVEN START.) warfare. other sports were wizard duelling was kind of a thing, though very much not encouraged as an official extracurricular.

leaving the castle

yeah!! hogsmeade is the obvious one, but we also had school trips to diagon alley, and there were some special trips for certain subjects. like visiting the ministry for political studies (yes. i had to script that in). also, technically not allowed, but i may have wandered past the usual boundaries of the castle a few times. (listen. curiosity is a disease.)

moaning myrtle & chamber of secrets

met myrtle. love her, but also, girl, please get a hobby besides haunting bathrooms. and yes, i know where the chamber is. and no, i am absolutely not going in there. why would i do that. i value my life.

wizard fashion

robes are standard, obviously, but people get creative. lots of vintage, lots of flowy silhouettes, lots of layers. wizard fashion is like if academia and cottagecore had a chaotic crazy baby. my favourite thing was these enchanted scarves that would shift colours depending on mood. so dramatic. never wore them tho. 70s fashion was crazy.

wizard candy

chocolate frogs (obviously !!!!)

fizzing whizzbees (they make you float. it’s terrifying if you’re unprepared.)

sugar quills (technically candy, but also great for just chewing on absentmindedly.)

wizard celebrities

yes!!! there are famous quidditch players, obviously, but also famous duelists and curse-breakers. and yes we did discuss whether musicians such as david bowie could be a wizard !!!! we didn't find out though : (

animagus life

yes!!! i was a fox. yes, it’s predictable. shut up. transforming is insane. it’s like your body folds in on itself and suddenly you’re seeing the world from a whole different perspective. super cool but also incredibly disorienting.

ravenclaw common room

been there!!! it’s in a tower, and you have to answer a riddle to get in, which is hilarious because sometimes even the ravenclaws get stuck outside debating answers. it’s very airy, very full of books, and the vibe is so pretentious in the best way.

okay. that was a LOT but your questions were elite. 10/10. feel free to send more. 💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌💌

[sorenphelps]

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!"

The Bodyguard AU is slowly coming to an end, but don't worry, there's still so much to come! Now we're picking up right after this ficlet written by @goldenlionprince. This is one of my favourite piece of artwork I did in a while, and I even tried to write again! It's about 1.1K words below! Also as usual, tagging @neverenoughmarauders, @lovelymasks & @diamondmeadow!

Waking up is usually a jarring experience for Sirius, mostly because he almost never lets himself sleep too deeply, unable to shake the strange urgency to always be alert. He’s always been restless, his mind awake and racing with thoughts that just won’t quiet down, haunting him with dreams. He could train his body to endure almost anything, a crazy sleep schedule (or lack thereof) at this point is business as usual. The ever lingering tiredness is a little price to be paid to avoid the nightmares. Sirius has never thought that he would ever reach the point where his whole being just shuts down from exhaustion, but apparently even his extreme resilience has its limits. Waking up this time feels like emerging from a soft, comforting fog. His body feels heavy, yet somewhat... relaxed? There's a sense of warmth and coziness around him. Maybe he is still dreaming? This must be the nicest dream he had in a long time, he doesn’t want to wake up from it. He opens his eyes anyways. It takes him a few seconds to register what he sees: A man with the wildest hair laying on top of him, the golden glow of sunlight dancing across his tanned skin. The sunlight seems to embrace him in an almost ethereal way, bringing a vibrant energy to his presence, as if he’s one with the warmth of the day. It is the most beautiful thing Sirius has ever seen. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!” he greets him gently. Sirius is sure he is definitely still dreaming. He feels fuzzy and confused, his brain taking too long to catch up with the situation. James snuggles closer. “Are you awake yet or you need a true love’s kiss for that?”

He drifted off to sleep again not even halfway in listening to James’ brief summary. The events of the previous few days really took a toll on him, trying to process what has happened and what he has done left him feeling physically and emotionally drained. James being there, with him, makes him both extremely happy and utterly nervous. He is relieved that James is alive, that he was not too late to rescue him, because James is his everything. He doesn’t even feel any remorse over the lives he took, he’d massacre many more again in a heartbeat if it can keep James safe, because that is all that matters. Maybe this overwhelming devotion is not healthy. Maybe he should feel at least a little bad about all the killings. Maybe that’s all he really is, a murderer, motivated by love, but still a murderer. Maybe the Grim is his true nature, that’s why he couldn’t shake it off however hard he tried.

He looks at the nightstand, the flash drive is still on it, untouched. James hasn’t checked it out yet, which makes Sirius tense and jittery like he’s sitting on a ticking bomb. If only it was a bomb instead, that he could handle. The uncertainty of James’ opinion about him, not so much. The last time he went berserk in front of his loved one ended his relationship. And Remus was trained to stomach the violence, and knew him for ages. What should he even expect from James? He helped him clean up, and he seemed all right, chatty and relaxed as usual when they woke up in the morning, and he is still in his apartment... What if he thinks he is held hostage? Or if he is scared of him? He knows he’s spiraling again and at the verge of another breakdown, but he is too mentally exhausted to stop the self-doubt and negative thoughts sneaking in his mind. He needs to do something, anything. His head might be numb now, but he can push his body to move past the fear.

He gets up and walks to his wardrobe to find clean clothes. He puts on underwear and one of his gun holsters with a spare gun. The thought of being armed somehow calms his nerves.

He finds James in the kitchen, squatting in front of the oven. He is wearing an old, faded purple coloured and quite worn-down T-shirt, the dinosaur printed on it barely visible anymore. It is one of Sirius’ most prized possessions, a rare memento from his past. The sight immediately starts to warm his heart.

“Hey, you up? I borrowed some of your clothes, I hope you don’t mind.” James says smiling, when he notices him. “Your food stock desperately needs an upgrade, there’s only canned and frozen food here, it is the saddest fridge and kitchen cabinet that I’ve ever seen! How can you live like this, like a barbarian?!”

“Maybe because I am one...” He can feel the bad thoughts creeping in again. “Aren’t you... afraid of me?”

“Should I? I mean the state of your fridge really is scary, and I am a little concerned about the diet you probably followed before me, but otherwise...”

“I’m serious, James, I need to know if... If you are still just shocked and coping with all the crazy shit by pretending they don’t exist or... I mean, you were kidnapped and forced to do and see some fucked up stuff, you actually shot someone, it’s traumatizing, and now you are at this unfamiliar place of practically a total stranger you witnessed brutally murdering two dozen people...”

“There’s certainly a lot to unpack, but I’m fine and you are not a stranger.”

“Well, technically I am still a serial killer and you don’t even know my real name... You haven’t checked the flash drive.”

“Because I don’t care. You came to save me, even after you were not obligated to do so, that’s more than enough for me. Whatever is on that flash drive and however hard you try to convince me that you are too dark or broken or unhinged, it can’t change how I feel about you. I love you, no matter what.” Sirius is speechless. James takes out a tray of dino nuggets from the oven. “Besides, I already figured out your initials, Sleeping Beauty. You’ve slept for almost a full day.”

“It’s actually Sirius. My real name, I mean, is Sirius Black.”

He looks at James, the problematic IT guy Remus had referred to him as a client not even a year ago, who has managed to completely turn his life upside down. He feels his heart-beat rising, stomach twisting, his senses heightened, his brain focused and dizzy at the same time. The feeling is similar to how he feels when he fights, fuelled by adrenaline, except it is better, warmer. “I love you too.”

[shinysobi]

pretty u

summary: when joshua, your best friend gets engaged, you can't help but feel as though you're missing out on something important. jihoon, your other best friend, kindly offers to set you up with one of his many friends. chaos ensues, seungkwan is an observer who knows everything, and unfortunately, mingyu is a hapless victim.

pairing: woozi x fem!reader

genre: crack, fluff, angst

word count: 10k~ish

warnings: alcohol consumption, general warnings apply

a/n: angst central again lmao but there's something good for everyone ig hehe also dedicated to gigi, who's been the first reader of this hehe

a/n 2: reblogs/comments/likes are, as always, much appreciated! tell me if you like it lmao

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

Chapter 3

I learnt, at a very young age, that the best thing to do in any situation, is to ultimately do nothing. If you do nothing, then you will never fail. I’ve managed to spend my entire life doing the bare minimum, but right now? Right now, with Jihoon’s face half a feet away from mine, close enough for me to see the dried tears on his cheeks, I begin to wonder if it’s the best thing to do.

“You should say something,” Jihoon says, wiping his face, “I didn’t run half a mile uphill just for you to say nothing.”

What does he actually want me to say? I’ve furiously racked my brain to find the correct words to say to him; in the aftermath of the argument, but I’ve always come up empty. Its odd, and strangely humbling, this experience. Should I even say something? Am I allowed to? Jihoon stares at me, and it’s only then that I realise, he’s still holding my hands.

“I’m sorry.” I say, “I’m sorry for everything I said that night.”

“No, you were right. I shouldn’t have forced all those decisions on you when you were not—are not ready.” Jihoon says, “but I really can’t imagine myself in a world where I am not your friend.”

He leans down, picking up a plant, “for your kitchen garden. Your chive plant died last month.”

I take it from him, the lingering warmth of his hands on my skin, “this is your idea of a housewarming gift?”

“This is all I could get at such short notice,” he replies, “all the other stores were closed, so I got this from a street vendor.”

“That’s—unexpectedly sweet of you, Jihoon,” I say, turning to place the pot on the floor, “do you want to come in?”

Jihoon nods, before slipping off his shoes and his jacket, entering my still-unfurnished house. All of a sudden, I’m self-conscious about the state of the place, even if he has seen worse. What am I doing, getting worked up over Jihoon entering my home?

“Look,” he begins, standing in the middle of the kitchen, “these past few weeks have been a personal kind of hell for me. I know you don’t care, but I’m just putting it out there. Life without you, without seeing you every day, without talking to you, has been hell, and I don’t want to live in it anymore.”

“Jihoon,” I begin, but he holds up a hand, silencing me.

“I’ve felt like shit, knowing that you’re just out of my reach, to the point where even if I reach for you, you won’t be able to see me, to talk to me, to be the kind of person I know and love, and it’s been excruciating, having to live with that knowledge.”

“Jihoon, what are you trying to get at?”

He takes a deep breath, as if readying himself for something horrible, “what I mean to say, is that I lied.”

“What? You lied about what, Jihoon?”

“It’s about—” he throws up his hands, “don’t you have any alcohol around here? Why do I have to have this conversation with you while sober?”

“Jihoon, I just moved in today. Of course, I don’t have alcohol, you idiot.” I cross my arms over my chest, “if you have nothing else to say, then you should leave. It’s getting late, and I have a lot of work left to do around the house tomorrow. If all you came here for was to apologise  then it’s fine, I accept your apology—”

“Damn, woman, will you let me finish? I’m trying to get at something!”

“Well then, get at it faster!”

“I lied about getting over you!”

One thing I hate about this apartment is how silent it is.  In my previous apartment, at all times of the night, there would be someone making a noise, and I hated how it would disturb my sleep. Right now, there’s silence. There’s silence and then there’s us, standing in the half-dark. Jihoon looks like he wants to say something, but has been holding himself back. 

“What-what do you mean?” I say, after what seems like a lifetime, “what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I said that I lied about getting over you. I liked you back when I was doing my military service, and I still like you now.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I can assure you, I’m just as serious about this as I am with my work.”

“Then are you saying—”

“I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time, and I think I’ll continue liking you for a long time.”

“Jihoon, I don’t like you like that.”

“I know,” Jihoon looks pained, and for the first time in my life, I want to lie and say that no, Jihoon, I like you too, but I can’t, “look, my feelings are my own. You don’t have to reciprocate them. You and I are separate people, and I don’t want to impose my feelings on you.”

“Then why did you say all this?” my voice communicates all my frustration, “then why did you come here and tell me all this, if you didn’t want to sway me? You were the person who kept telling me to move on, and now you come here and tell me this?”

“Because I felt like I was dying!” Jihoon yells, “not talking to you, not seeing you, not being able to text you, all this made me feel like I was dying. I didn’t tell you anything because I wanted to preserve our friendship, but when I can’t see you around, my heart feels as though it’s stopped functioning. All I could think about was you.”

“Jihoon,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my frustrations, “you don’t like me in a romantic light.”

“Don’t presume my feelings.”

“I’m not! I’m just pointing out that we have been friends for a long time, and that your feelings for me might just be you overthinking your feelings of friendship and thinking its something else when really, its just friendship. I don’t think you like me romantically, Jihoon. I think you’re just confused.”

Jihoon doesn’t say anything for a long time. I would have felt better if he had cursed me, or if he had become angry, but all that remains of Jihoon right now, in this moment, is someone whose feelings are replaced with—just nothing.

Jihoon checks his watch, “look, it’s late, you should get some sleep.”

He turns around,  opening the door, and pauses for a moment before turning around. “I don’t care if you’ve stopped, or if you’re terrified of moving forward. I’ll stay there with you until you’re ready. I don’t care how long it takes.”

“And another thing.”

“Yes?” I ask, voice cracking in the middle of the word. This is going to haunt me in my nightmares.

“Your dream,” Jihoon says, hand on the door handle, “I’ll help you fulfil it. No matter what it takes.”

—

Seungkwan is at my door the next morning, even before I’m fully dressed, carrying a box of Jeju oranges. Even before I can open the door fully, he’s in my apartment, staring at my face. 

“My mom sent these for you, by the way,” he says, then takes a look at my face, “whoa, Sunbae, you look like you haven’t slept all night.”

“I know, I know,”  I mutter, “just had some things to think about, that’s all.”

“Think about?” Seungkwan starts to unpack my crockeries, “you look like hell. I’m not kidding, you look awful.”

“Wow, thanks, Seungkwan, that sounds like a great compliment.” I mutter, settling down into a chair, “coming into my home on a Saturday and telling me I look ugly, way to make a girl feel great.”

“I’m not being sarcastic, I’m concerned. There’s a difference.” He sits in the chair next to mine, “is there anything I can help with?”

“Seungkwan, you’re sweet, but this is something I can’t really talk about.” I mutter, “some things aren’t meant to be shared with everyone.”

And really, what can I say? ‘oh, don’t worry, Seungkwan, my best friend since university, the person with whom I haven’t been talking to for the past few weeks, came to my apartment last night to confess that he had feelings for me?’ How does one even begin that conversation? Not to mention the embarrassment that Jihoon would face if I were to ever spill the beans to the guys. He’s always been intensely private, even in his romantic affairs. To spill his secrets would just be cruel.

It's really, really not as though I haven’t received romantic confessions. There have been people who have asked me out, who have said that they liked me, from university classmates to people at work. Even in school, when all I could think about were university entrance examinations, and how I had to get into a university in Seoul because that was where my sister went too, I had a few people tell me they had feelings for me, I have had people get angry when I turned them down, I’ve had people get sad when I said, no, I’m sorry. Yet, all this feels new. What do you actually say when someone you’ve known for years, tells you that they hold feelings for you? What is the appropriate thing to say, especially if you don’t know what your own feelings are?

“You know, I grew up with three older sisters, right?”

“Yes, you keep reminding me of it every other day.”

“Yes, so,” Seungkwan leans forward, inspecting my face, “you look like you’ve got something weighing down on your mind. And while I might not be Joshua-hyung or Jihoon-hyung, I can be a pretty good listener.”

“No, I don’t think I can tell you this. It’s not my secret to tell, and even then, I don’t want to burden you with something that shouldn’t be your responsibility in the first place.”

“Sunbae,” Seungkwan asks, “does this have anything to do with Jihoon-hyung?”

I stare at him. “When did you get so fucking perceptive?”

“So, it is,” he leans back in his chair, self-satisfied and smug as hell, “I knew it. I knew he’d do something like this.”

“You knew?” I ask, and Seungkwan nods, “you knew, and you didn’t think of telling me? not even once? Not even a single heads-up?”

“And? What would we even say? ‘Jihoon-hyung likes you, please be advised he might try to confess his feelings?’ Would you have even liked it?”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t.” I shake my head, “really? This is something everyone knew about?”

Seungkwan nods, “I think most of us are aware of Jihoon-hyung’s feelings towards you, given how he acts.”

I hold up a hand, “Wait, pause. How he acts? What do you mean, how he acts? I’ve never seen him be anything other than perfectly normal with me.”

“That’s the problem with you,” Seungkwan clarifies, “your baseline is different when it comes to Jihoon-hyung. He treats you much more differently than he does all of us, and you’ve never noticed? Not even once?”

“No, clearly, I haven’t, Seungkwan, explain.”

Seungkwan takes a deep breath, as if trying to gather his thoughts into a proper sequence, and begins, “well, for once, he always does what you want, even if he is initially against it. With anyone else? You can’t even convince him to lift a single finger, but he drove all the way to the restaurant that one time, dropping the recording for Soonyoung’s new album. Sure, he didn’t get in trouble, but he did that just because you called.”

“He ran out of a recording session?” I have to repeat myself, because in all the years that I have known Jihoon, he’s always put his work before everything else. In university, he spent days and nights in the makeshift recording studio he had in his home, only venturing out to get food once every two days. Even his recording studio was off-limits to us, until he had finished working on a project. That Jihoon left Soonyoung in the middle of a recording session to come pick me up because I was drunk? “Should I apologise to Soonyoung?”

“The only person you should be apologising to, is me,” Seungkwan send me a dirty look that would have anyone else cringing, “I come here to help you unpack and decorate your home, and this is what I have to hear?”

“You’re a traitor. You’ve been hiding Jihoon’s feelings from me for god knows how long, and now you expect me to be nice to you? Get a grip on yourself.”

“This is,” Seungkwan wags a finger at me, “this is just shooting the messenger. You think the others haven’t kept his secret from you?”

“What? Even Jeonghan-oppa? He’s betrayed me too?”

Seungkwan smiles, “there are no allies in this stupid game you both are playing. We’ve all known about his feelings ever since he came back from the military and hung up that stupid photo of the two of you on his wall. He would have had it framed it if the quality wasn’t like it was taken on a microwave.”

I think about the picture, Jihoon with the flat cap and me beside him, flashing a wide, toothy smile. “He tried to get it framed?”

“Seungcheol-hyung had to talk him out of it, because it’s insane, having a picture of another girl framed and putting in your bedroom while you’re trying to get a girlfriend is not the best thing to do, in retrospect.”

“Ah yes, wasn’t this when he was dating the music major? The intern at the office?” I’m trying to keep my voice light, but unfortunately, I know everything about his past relationships, the serious and the casual. The girls at university, the intern he dated for a month before she dumped him, and the office worker who he dated for a year before she finally grew sick of him and left. “I don’t remember them that well.”

“Liar. You remember every detail.” Seungkwan grins, “just like Jihoon-hyung can recite the names of all your exes backwards if he wanted to, “You remember every detail about all of Jihoon-hyung’s relationships. Yes, this was when he was dating the intern, and Seungcheol-hyung pointed out that it probably would not be the best look to frame a picture of the girl your girlfriend hates, and put it in your bedroom where you could see it every morning and every night.”

“May we all thank Seungcheol-oppa for his infinite wisdom.” I say, and Seungkwan gives me a high five, “wait, she hated me? but I was nice to her! And not fake nice, which is what I generally am, I was actually nice to her!”

“She still hated you, though. There was nothing you could do about that relationship.”

“Really?”

“Really. It’s the same the other way around, too. Remember when you were dating that artist who hated the idea of Jihoon-hyung being around?”

“Oh, him? I remember that. He once tore down all the pictures I had with Jihoon, insisting that I was cheating on him. in his defence, we were twenty-three, so, I don’t blame him for making bad choices.”

Seungkwan groans, “this way, it’s going to take at least a hundred years before you wake up, too. Sunbae! Have you not realised it yet, or do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Realised what?”

“That you like hyung as well? That its not just him who’s chasing, but also you?”

I scoff, “no, I don’t like Jihoon! I don’t know why you are saying this, but I don’t like Jihoon. He’s simply a friend of mine.”

“You once drove to Hwacheon in the middle of winter for his birthday.”

“That’s different! It was his birthday, he was in the military, I had to do something! Besides, he only got one day for his leave, and none of you guys could go.”

“Sunbae, driving to Hwacheon is a bit too much, don’t you think?” Seungkwan stares at me, “you’re telling me you drove through snow and went halfway to North Korea for your friend?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know!” I wail, falling onto the floor on a heap, “all I know is that I want Jihoon in my life. I can’t live without him; these past few weeks, its as though life has lost its meaning for me. I don’t find my work fun anymore; I don’t have anyone to talk to anymore. I can’t give him up.”

“I don’t know about you, but that sounds pretty romantic to me.”

I narrow my eyes, “you’re just enjoying the fun, aren’t you?”

Seungkwan giggles, “and what if I tell you I am?”

“I’d kill you.”

Seungkwan says nothing, just continues to grin as though he’s watching a sitcom, or a variety show. What would a variety show based on my life look like? Something like I Live Alone, but entirely for people struggling with romance problems; if I worked in a bigger broadcasting company,  I would have pitched this idea. People would get on there, and just talk about their romance problems.

“Sunbae—no, noona.”

Seungkwan calling me by the familiar honorific catches my attention. Since I have known him, Seungkwan has never once referred to me in that familiar a tone, always with the more respectful sunbae, reserved for departmental seniors. Especially since joining the news desk, he has refused to call me anything but. It gives me a sense of respect, obviously, but it also seems as though he has always kept me at arm’s length.

“You’re being familiar with me, Seungkwan,” I say, “what’s happened?”

He sits next to me on the floor, staring at me, “noona, have you ever really done anything for yourself?”

I give him a look. “What do you mean, if I have done anything for myself? Everything I do is for myself; I think we’ve established that. If you made a list of the most selfish people you know, I would probably rank top five in there.”

“That’s what you think. You always keep talking about how you’re doing things for yourself, but in reality, all you do, is based on the needs of others.”

“I think you’re trying to make me into a martyr, Seungkwan, when all I have done is be a selfish person.”

“I also think that you consider yourself to be a selfish person because that’s what you’ve been taught to believe.”

“Seungkwan,” I say, mildly, “look at the society we live in. its either hyper individualistic, or it’s based on outdated systems of collective identity; either way, I’m not actually doing anything I want to do myself. It is all things I’ve been taught. How to be, how to act, how to think.”

“And that isn’t wrong, per se, but you have to think, at some point, that your existence is based on how others think of you. Even with Jihoon-hyung, you’re just going off of what we might think of you, what he might think of you. Have you even figured out your own feelings?”

“And what if we break up? What if I say to Jihoon, that yes, I’d like to date you too, but we break up soon? Within one month, two months? I’m terrified of losing him, to the point where I’m happy to be his friend just to keep him in my life. Why else do you think I rejected him?”

“You rejected him?” Seungkwan screeches, “noona, you’re in love with him, and you rejected him?”

“Being friends with him is more important to me than being his girlfriend,” I say, “to be his girlfriend is something I don’t want to imagine.”

“Because you don’t want to be his girlfriend, or because you don’t want to get your hopes up?”

I groan, lying back down on the floor, “I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it either.”

Seungkwan smiles, “hey maybe, you should try and think about what you want to do, before doing what everyone else expects of you. Even if that’s what you are going to end up doing anyway, maybe, you should at least be aware of what you want.”

—

On Monday, I walk into the office with my eyes bloodshot, and dark circles underneath them, ten minutes after the team meeting has begun. Both the Editor and the Assistant Editor take one look at my face and decide not to tell me anything for showing up late to the meeting.

“We were talking about your column, Sunbae,” Haewon says as I nurse my coffee, “the readers loved it. We’ve been getting so many responses and letters to the office after you began the column.”

“We are?” I ask, “who the hell is screening through the letters, then?”

“I am,” the Assistant Editor says, “I figured you didn’t need one more thing on your plate, and I sorted out whatever you had to. For the first time in a long while, we have fan mail coming to the office.”

“Huh?” I catch the last part of that sentence, “we have fan mail?”

“Yes, and a lot of it, too,” the Assistant editor smiles at me, “at this rate, we might start a radio show if we have the funds for it.”

“We’ll never have the funds for it,” I wave a hand, “having a radio show is out of the question.”

“Still, it seems nice that the desk is getting a lot of other attention too, other than doing book reviews and movie reviews.” The editor says.

“You do realise, all this is coming at the expense of my sleep?” I grumble, “this is the worst idea you could ever have. A radio show? I can barely talk to people. You want me to go on a show and talk to people in real-time?”

“Yes, yes, which is why we are not thinking about it,” the Editor clarifies, “you just need to continue writing the column as you have been. That much is enough for the desk.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Sunbae,” Seungkwan slides an energy drink towards me, “it’s enough for the desk if you just do things as they come by. No one is asking you to do more than what’s required.”

“You say that now, Seungkwan, but pretty soon they’ll be asking favours from you, too.” I smile at him, “don’t let anyone walk over you here. Its difficult to stop them once you’ve begun letting them have their way.”

During lunch break, Seungkwan sidles up to me in the cafeteria, where the members of the desk have congregated (on news of them serving galbi-tang), and asks, “Sunbae, have you finished moving in? Jeonghan-hyung wanted me to invite you to a party this weekend.”

“Why didn’t he invite me himself?” I ask through a mouthful of beef, “has he lost my number?”

“No, he’ll probably invite you personally, but he wanted me to tell you beforehand.”

I narrow my eyebrows, “what am I, some sort of minister? Why are there levels of protocol when approaching me for an event?”

Seungkwan shrugs, “you know how Jeonghan-hyung is. You once told him you were uncomfortable at a party, and he’s taken that to heart ever since.”

I roll my eyes. The party in question was one thrown in the first year of university, after appropriate introductions had been made, and me and Jihoon had been invited out to a party by Joshua and his friends, where I got blind drunk and regretted it the next morning. Ever since that night, the boys have been particular about when to invite me out, none more so than Jeonghan, who apparently vetted all his invitations through Seungkwan, “tell him I’ll be there. And from now on, don’t let him vet his applications through you. If he wants to invite me out, he can call me himself. I don’t mind.”

“You do realise, if I relay your message verbatim to hyung, he’s going to be even more cautious of you?”

“Well, I’ll tell him myself, then.”

“Don’t tell him.”

I stare at Seungkwan, who looks serious, “really, sunbae, let other people care about you once in a while. Jeonghan-hyung is only mindful of your boundaries because he doesn’t want to overstep. He doesn’t see you as a burden, or as someone he needs to treat with kid gloves for the rest of his life.”

“Well, doesn’t matter what he thinks. If he continues to treat me like I’m a child, others might get annoyed with his actions.”

“Others? You mean the people that respect you and are cognizant of your boundaries and your shortcomings?” Seungkwan places a piece of meat in my rice bowl, I’m almost done with eating, “sunbae, people that make accommodations for you aren’t doing it because they secretly hate you, or that they’re bothered by your presence in events. They’re doing it because they want you to be there, and they like you enough to go out of their way to make a place for you at the table.”

“Seungkwan, this is much more complicated than that.”

“I don’t see why it has to be so complicated,” he says, standing up, “you keep being kind to people, but when they want to extend that same kindness to you, you reject it, saying its excessive. Aren’t you hurting yourself in the long run?”

“Seungkwan,” I hold my head in my hands, “I can’t just change my way of thinking.”

“Yes, I know,” he shakes his head, “just that—you should try at least.”

—

When I enter my apartment that evening, there’s a cloud hanging over my head. Its not simply the absence of Jihoon, but also Seungkwan’s words. To think that I haven’t been trying to accept the attentions of people, well, why am I trying to deny it? its correct.

My phone rings, and I pick it up without even checking the caller ID, “hello?”

“I had to hear from Jihoon that you had moved.”

I sigh. This is the last think I wanted to do at this moment, have a conversation with my mother, “sorry, I didn’t have a lot of opportunities to talk to anyone. I was too busy with work these past few weeks.”

“Still, it would have been nice to know that you moved, from you, and not from Jihoon.”

“Wait, mom, why—why are you talking to Jihoon instead of me?”

My mother laughs on the other end. It’s a nice thing, to hear her laugh, “because Jihoon, no, not just him, all of your friends call me more than you do. Jihoon even came by our house a few weeks ago, and had a meal with us.”

I sigh, “really, Jihoon—he’s going to piss me off at this rate.”

“No, don’t take out your frustrations on Jihoon. He’s a nice boy.”

I wonder how my mother would react if I told her that her ‘nice boy’ stormed into my apartment and told me he was in love with me ever since he went for his military service. She would probably jump with joy. “Sorry, mom,” I say, hoping my thoughts aren’t seeping into my voice, “I just started a new column at work.”

“Really? That’s so nice, I hope they aren’t overworking you.”

“No, mom, they’re not. I came home right on time today.”

“That’s good.” She says. I say nothing. What else is there to say? For someone who’s been alienated form their family for so long, all that remains is a string of hollow formalities and conversations that die out in a moment.

“How’s my sister?” I ask, in an effort to continue the conversation, “has she talked to you recently?”

My mother perks right up, “have I told you, your sister is getting married? She’s marrying Yong-Hwa in the spring. Has she not told you yet?”

In fact, my sister had told me, had told me how she was getting married to the love of her life, a prosecutor, and how she was envisioning the rest of her life with him, with children, a happy home, and more. It made me jealous; to see someone achieve their dreams when you are struggling with your own is not an easy thing.

“I heard,” I say, “how’s dad? Are his health problems persisting? Should I send more vitamins?”

“No, no, he’s perfectly fine. He’s still working as a lawyer, even though the doctor has told him not to. He says he’ll continue to work till he’s eighty.”

“Hah…dealing with father is tiring, isn’t it?” I groan, “I’ll come down the next time I get some time off. I’ll talk him into retiring properly.”

“You don’t have to do that,” my mother says, “knowing that you’re working hard is good enough for me, at least, this way, I can think that you’re doing well.”

“That’s good, then,” I reply, “sorry, mom, I’m getting another call. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay, but don’t go for too long without talking to us.”

This is fine. To know that my parents are doing well, its okay. I can hold on for longer if that’s what helps them. I’ll be the daughter they’re proud of.

—

I’ve been wandering for far too long. Always trying to be the best version of myself. But what lies at the end of this journey? Is it just a means of fulfilling my parents’ wishes?

On most days, I want to be alone. So, I push people away, just to benefit myself. It has got nothing to do with how I feel about them, it’s just how I feel most at ease. I’ve always been on my own, its just easier. Its easier to be the person people relied on, instead of the person who had to rely on others. But just for once, I’d like someone to tell me that it will be okay. It will be okay to break down, that it will be okay if I fail. My life has been so barren, that even trying to do anything otherwise is too much. For so long I’ve been someone whose life has been dictated by the wishes of others, that I fear I wont even be able to live well if I decided to live by my own.

What does it mean, to have a dream? I had a letter sent to me, saying that their dream is to find happiness on their own. Well, happiness is something that comes after a long time. I’m searching for it too, but I hope you find it, sincerely. To walk towards happiness isn’t something that’s easy. But I appreciate you for taking that step. To walk towards what you want. What you need.

There’s another letter, that says, ‘I don’t have a dream yet’. Don’t worry, a dream isn’t something that’s complicated. They aren’t supposed to be; you’re supposed to find something that makes you happy, that makes you want to live again. That’s all. that is all there is to a dream. All around us, people are living day to day, they’re living without finding what makes them happy. I hope it finds you soon.

I’m tired. I’m tired of trying to find something that gives me purpose. The way I’m living now, it’s enough for me, to live an average existence, to live in a way that gives me peace, if not happiness.

What happens when that peace is taken away, too?

—

Jeonghan throws good parties. That’s a given. It’s not as though he invites many people, or that his parties are a riot of good fun, but he always makes people feel at ease, if not with his actions, then with his words. Its who he is. A source of constant comfort, that I feel guilty for trying to take advantage of.

I arrive at his house after finishing work with a bottle of wine, hesitating before I press the doorbell. Jeonghan lives in a house in the middle of Seoul that he got for dirt cheap because the people who lived in there were violently murdered in the early ‘00s, a fact that I had asked him about once, and he had simply brushed it of by saying that if there were ghosts, he would befriend them. I’d given up on asking him after that one exchange.

The door opens within ten seconds of me ringing the doorbell, and Jeonghan greets me with a wide smile, “I thought you wouldn’t come! Can I give you a hug?”

I nod, “I told you I would be there,” but the rest of my sentence is drowned out by Jeonghan enveloping me into a large hug. He smells like an expensive perfume, mixed with the familiar smell of chicken and beer. Ah, so its that kind of party.

“Make yourself at home, the rest of them already have.” He says, ushering me into the living room, “the rest of the boys are already here. We were just waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?”

“Because, my dear writer, you’ve always turned down any invites for parties for five years now. Now that you’ve accepted my invite, you’re the star of this gathering.”

I don’t say anything, but my discomfort must have shown on my face, because he suddenly stops me, “hey, just so you know, I meant that as a joke. Seungcheol just got a big promotion at work, so he’s been bragging about that for an hour now. I doubt anyone will pay attention to you.”

“That’s nice.”

All around the low table, there are cans of beer, snacks, and boxes of fried chicken. Jeonghan must have prepared for a lot of people to come. Seungcheol is talking about his job, how he was now the team manager of marketing, and how happy it made him, to have so much responsibility at such a young age. There’s Chan, Vernon, and Seungkwan, gossiping about their respective fields of work, and Mingyu is sleeping on the end of the table, while Minghao and Wonwoo talk about how work has been nowadays. Jun is noticeably missing from the group, but I can see him in the kitchen, making himself another drink, and then, there’s Jihoon. Seated between Joshua and Seokmin, talking about something I can’t hear. I stand still in my tracks, unable to move. What do I say? After rejecting him so painfully, what do I say? I’m sorry, Jihoon? Sorry about what? Sorry about not being able to accept genuine affection in the fears that it might ruin the one good thing I have for myself?

“Aren’t you going to sit?” Jeonghan asks, gesturing to a seat beside Jihoon, “I thought you would be more comfortable if you sat beside Jihoon, since you’ve known him for longer.”

In fact, I’d rather sit anywhere other than beside Jihoon, but I take the seat next to him gingerly, and Seokmin eagerly moves over. Seokmin is like a child, eager, soft around the edges, and someone you want to protect, no matter what. Maybe if I could look into people’s minds, Seokmin’s would be pure, devoid of any harshness of the world; is that why I tried to protect him even when I had no right to?

“Noona,” Seokmin giggles, “have I told you about the play I’m performing in? I’ll give you a ticket, so you have to come, okay?”

His energy is so infectious, I can’t help but smile with him, “of course, I’ll come to see you.”

“Are you okay?” Jihoon asks, his voice so quiet I barely miss it, “you don’t really come to occasions like these.”

“Felt like it,” I mutter, “new year, new me, or should I say new apartment, new me?”

Jihoon laughs, “yeah, you seem like you’ve changed. Your hands are shaking.”

I look down at my hands, and true enough, they’re shaking. Whether from nervousness or something else entirely, I don’t know, but they’re shaking. I ball my hands into fists. Whatever happens, don’t let anyone know what you’re going through. “just tired, perhaps.”

“You have been working too much,” Joshua pipes up, “you never reply to any of my texts anymore.”

“That’s because you keep asking me about flower arrangements,” I reply, “why would I look at flowers when I can’t smell them?”

“Sunbae is very busy at the news desk,” Seungkwan pipes up, “did you know, she has a new co—”

“Shut up, Seungkwan,” I  mutter, reaching over to stuff a chicken leg in his mouth, “the work has been just harder these few days.”

Jihoon stares at me; it’s the same look he has in his eyes whenever he’s landed on something to probe, and sure enough, he asks, “why? What’s going on at the office?”

“Nothing!” I say, far too quick for it to even go past Seokmin or Joshua, (whom everyone, not just me, have deemed as the most scammable) “its nothing! Seungkwan just wanted to brag about his workload to everyone else.”

“Why the fuck would he do that?” Vernon asks, but is largely ignored by Jeonghan (my angel prince saviour Jeonghan) who arrives with drinks, a grumpy Jun in tow, announcing, “who wants shots!” and despite pushing thirty, Seungcheol, who had paused bragging about his work promotion, raised his hands, grabbing one of the shot glasses. Even Mingyu wakes up from his nap, raising his hand in the air and grabbing one of the shot glasses. They’re all going to regret it, I think to myself, then, feeling Jihoon’s eyes on me, grab a couple of the shot glasses myself. The drink is sugary, and multicoloured (Jun once wanted to be a bartender in university). It goes down far smoother than expected, since I’ve had Jun’s drinks since university, and they have tasted like battery acid far too many times for me to expect something nice out of his concoctions.

“This is actually nice,” Chan says, “hyung, what did you put in this?”

“Won’t be telling you,” Jun pulls a face, “you’ll just make it for other people and then take credit for it.”

Of course, this ensues in a squabble, with Chan loudly protesting that he would never do that to his beloved Jun-hyung (he would, I know) and Jun proclaiming that Chan is nothing but a dirty jerk who wants to put his grubby little hands, on Jun’s hard work and his creation (most likely, it was from a Reddit forum on bartending). One by one, the rest of them enter the argument, and I lean back into my seat, laughing at their antics. Its always chaos when I meet the boys, but somehow, its also peaceful. They’re loud, boisterous, and from whatever pictures Joshua and Jihoon had shared from their one shared ‘boys’ trip’, dirty as hell (these people laid out a carpet of towels instead of just drying their feet) but they know how to put someone’s mind at ease. Or at least, my mind at ease. I don’t know about others.

Its almost two in the morning when they quiet down. Jeonghan might have bought this house because it was dirt cheap and he wanted to make friends with the ghosts, but this house has one of the most gorgeous verandas I’ve ever seen. It looks out onto a peaceful Seoul street, and in the middle of the night, there’s no one here to complain if I smoke a cigarette.

I light one up, letting out a puff of air as I sit down on the marble flooring. It has been a long time since I smoked a cigarette (three days), and some of the smoke goes into my eyes when I let it out of my lungs. Its not enough to make me cough, but my eyes water nonetheless.

“You can smoke inside, if you want.” Jeonghan appears at the corner of my field of vision, “in fact, I think Minghao is smoking one right now.”

“Just wanted to get away from the noise a little,” I say, shaking the cigarette, “want to sit beside me?”

He shrugs, but crosses his legs and sits beside me on the marble flooring anyway.

After barely a minute, he turns to me, and without any warning, says, “so, has Jihoon told you he’s in love with you?”

I start coughing. Big, hacking coughs, and he just stares at me while I recover. I cannot believe I called him my saviour. “What—what do you mean?”

Jeonghan, the irritating bastard, still has that same, serene smile on his face, “you can’t possibly think that we all spent the last few years with our eyes closed now, have you? We’ve all known about Jihoon’s feelings for you, and now that you’re here, I can see that its reciprocated.”

“Wha-how are you even making these assumptions? I don’t have any feelings for him!” I whisper, “and yes, I know about his feelings. Even if they caught me somewhat by surprise, I’m aware of what kind of feelings he has for me.”

“And?” he leans close, “how does that make you feel?”

“How should it make you feel? I feel worried.”

“Worried?” he pulls a face, “if you wanted to get him off of your back, you’d say something like ‘I feel uncomfortable’, but you aren’t, because you don’t really feel uncomfortable, do you?”

I stare at him, fuck Jeonghan and his perceptive nature. “it’s not that I don’t feel uncomfortable, I just-don’t see the point in his confession.”

“Why? Why would a mere confession have you feeling this way? If you don’t want to accept it, then just say so. No one here,” Jeonghan points to the room, “will fault you for that. In fact, I think they’ll all commend you for it. Jihoon can be a tad bit difficult at times.”

I scoff, “he’s not difficult, he’s just—Jihoon.”

Jeonghan laughs, “see, I knew it. I knew there was something else there that you weren’t letting on. Now, come on, tell me,” and then spreads his arms wide, “tell oppa what’s bothering you.”

“If you refer to yourself as oppa again, I might have to kill you.”

This time, he laughs loud enough for people to hear inside, “fine, fine. I won’t be doing that anymore. But tell me, my dear writer, have you never thought about it? even once?”

I shrug, “of course I have. Everyone has those kinds of thoughts once in a while, I’m no different from the others, of course I’ve thought about it.”

“And?”

I shake my head, “nothing good will ever come out of it, because it’s a fifty-fifty chance. We either stick together until the end of time, or we break up and I can’t interact with him ever again.”

“So, you’d prefer to not try at all.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it.”

Jeonghan says nothing for a long time, and then finally, shrugs, “it’s your choice. If you don’t want to do something, then you shouldn’t force yourself to. But can I tell you something?”

“Yes?”

“When did he say that he started having feelings for you?”

I think for a moment, “since his military service.”

Jeonghan grins, sly, just the way I know his smile works, “As someone who’s seen Jihoon since his university days, I can tell you something. He’s got it wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Yes. He’s liked you since the day you walked into his life. There has been no moment in time when he was not in love with you. He might have realised it late in life, but he’s always been in love with you.”

I stare. Jeonghan isn’t the kind of person who makes random statements, so for him to say this, its strange. Jihoon has been in love with me ever since the first day? but that doesn’t make sense. “You do realise he’s dated other people too, while he was friends with me?”

“Of course, I know that. Both you and him have been running away from your actual feelings, but that doesn’t make it any more apparent that you have both been in love with each other since the day you met. Or at least, it has been that way for Jihoon.”

With that, Jeonghan stands up, dusting off his trousers, “there’s a guest bedroom in there for you. If you’re tired, just go inside and sleep.”

I look inside, where Chan is currently trying to balance a beer can on his forehead, “and the rest of them?”

“The rest of them can sleep on the couch,” he says, “it’s the least they can do after creating such a ruckus in my own home.”

“But you invited them.”

There’s a slightly evil glint in his eyes as he says, “yes, yes I did.”

—

The next morning, I wake up to people talking all over themselves, and the smell of pancakes wafting in the air. That has got to be Joshua. After cleaning up in the attached bathroom, I walk out of the guest bedroom, coming face-to-face with Jun, who’s carrying in his hands a very large tray, heaped with pancakes and a singular glass of milk.

“Is this for me?” I ask, and he nods, gesturing towards the kitchen, where Joshua is busy cooking a meal for thirteen people. Or fourteen, if you count me.

“Sorry, I can’t have breakfast right now,” I sidestep past him, and Jun follows me out into the kitchen, “sorry, but I have to leave right now.”

“Without having breakfast?” Jun asks, setting the tray down, where Chan promptly picks one up and stuffs it into his face, “you should have something at least.”

“Had too much to drink last night,” I offer up as a feeble excuse, avoiding Jihoon’s gaze. It’s strange, piercing in a way that I am not really used to, “I should probably get going. There’s still so much to be done in my apartment.”

“Speaking of apartments,” Wonwoo speaks through a mouthful of pancake, “when are you going to call us all over?”

“As soon as I can,” I reply, “I’ll host a potluck. You all can bring a dish, and it’ll be a party.”

“Instead of that, just make Mingyu cook,” Soonyoung grins, “he’ll be eager to help if it involves you. And cooking. But mostly, you.”

I open my mouth to say something, but Jihoon stands up, slipping on his stupid khaki jacket, “here, I’ll give you a ride. Come on, then.”

“Ah but hyung, you still have so much on your plate—” Chan is promptly cut off in the middle of his sentence by a swift elbow to the ribs by Seungkwan, “hyung! Why the hell did you do that?”

Jihoon ignores the squabble currently breaking out at the dining table, and stares at me, his car keys dangling from his left hand, “want to come?”

Before I can say anything to accept the offer of a ride, Soonyoung raises a hand, “Jihoon, weren’t you supposed to meet the other producers and sound engineers today? I’m supposed to be there too, but will you not be attending?”

Even though Jeonghan hisses at Soonyoung to shut up, I can already see the cogs in Jihoon’s mind turning. Clearly, he wanted to talk to me, or at least, he wanted to make an effort to talk to me, “I’ll take a taxi, then.” I say, trying to make an excuse for myself, “don’t worry, Jihoon, you don’t have to drop me home.”

“No, I can drop you off and then go to the office,” he begins, but Joshua cuts him off (while wearing a Rilakkuma apron) saying, “can’t Mingyu take her home? He’s going in the same direction as her, so he can drop her easily. You don’t have to overexert yourself and drop her off at the apartment when you’re going in the opposite direction.”

While not one to turn down a free ride, I raise my hand to complain that I don’t need to take Mingyu’s car to go back home, but Mingyu walks into the room at that moment, and before I can say anything, Joshua turns to him, saying, “are you going back home right now?”

“Yes, hyung, I’m off for the weekend since Minghao is handling the meetings this time around,” he says brightly, “I can drop her off!”

“That’s settled, then,” Chan announces, “Jihoon-hyung can take Soonyoung to the company.”

“You brat,” Soonyoung scowls, “why is Jihoon hyung and I’m just Soonyoung? Do you have no respect for your elders?”

“I once saw you vomit into a flowerpot,” Chan says, “at that moment, you lost all respect in my eyes.”

Before another scuffle can break out over breakfast, Mingyu says loudly, “I’m leaving then!”

—

I’m a big fan of travelling in silence. Even if it is with someone I like, I prefer to sit in silence and contemplate, instead of chattering on about my life. That’s a lie. Mingyu chatters on and on about the new collection and how its selling better than he or Minghao expected, “This is such great news for a fashion brand that was launched less than a decade ago, noona,” he says, while driving his fancy car, and I sit still in my seat and pray that he hasn’t noticed the awkwardness between me and Jihoon. I don’t expect him to notice, either. Mingyu might be nice and well-meaning, but he’s also painfully oblivious.

Which is why it takes me by surprise when he turns to me, while the car is halted at a stop sign, and says, “so, have you figured out what to tell Jihoon-hyung yet?”

I cough, “how-how did you know about that?”

Mingyu laughs, “you think we all were unaware of how he feels towards you? Pfft. Noona, we’ve been observing him since he was in university. He’s always been gone for you.”

I stare resolutely out of the window, “you’re evidently kidding.”

“Noona. He used to stay up with you when you had exams, he used to make sure you weren’t dead when you used to hibernate for long periods of time, he even had a space for you in the stupid apartment studio, are you seriously telling me you had no idea that he was in love with you all this while?”

“Of course, I didn’t!” I want to scream and tear out my hair in frustration, “of course not! I thought he was just looking out for me because I was his only female friend, and after university, I thought to myself, that this is how he usually is! Why would I think that he’s in love with me?”

“Well, he thought that it would be enough to impress you.”

“We were twenty-two! I thought he was an immature weirdo who had no idea how to maintain female friendships!”

“Yes, he’s usually like that,” Mingyu resumes driving, “but he’s got degrees of being familiar.”

“I know. Jihoon’s like a cat. He approaches you at his own pace. Doing anything else will just push him off.”

Mingyu laughs, “you know what, noona, I think you’re a lot like a cat too.”

“Kim Mingyu, watch what you’re saying.”

He grins, “you know I’m correct.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to say it this way.”

“The way I see it,” he says, slowing down as the car turns into the parking lot of the apartment, “you’ve always approached people at your own pace too. Seokmin and I were overenthusiastic when meeting you for the first time, and you refused to even acknowledge me for the rest of the semester.”

“Sorry about that, really.”

“We didn’t mind then, and we don’t mind now,” he shrugs, “its just who you are. And to accept the kind of person that one is, and then to continue caring for them, yeah, that’s love.”

“Jihoon’s just my friend,” I say, getting out of the car, “he’s just my friend, nothing more.”

“Noona, the fact that you keep repeating this to all of us, makes me wonder who it is that you’re trying to convince. Is it me, the rest of us, Jihoon-hyung, or yourself?”

“Kim Mingyu,” I warn, “you’re overstepping.”

“Sorry, noona, but I have to ask,” he walks into the elevator after me, “have you always seen him as a friend, and nothing more? I saw how you used to, no, how you still treat him differently than the rest of us. You’ve always had a soft spot where he was concerned. In fact, you still do, and you’re hiding it.”

“Drop it, Mingyu. You have no idea what happened the last time I said anything about this.”

The elevator dings, opening onto our floor, and Mingyu steps out right behind me, “Then tell us, noona. We, all of us, Jihoon-hyung, everyone around you—we are stumbling around in the dark because you’ve been so closed off about your past.”

I shake my head, pressing the keys in the keypad lock, “maybe, you shouldn’t be knowing about this one, Mingyu.”

The door closes behind me with an audible click, and even without pressing an eye to the keyhole, I know Mingyu is still standing in front of my door, deliberating over whether or not to knock. In the end, his loyalty wins over his curiosity; he walks away, over to his own apartment.

I sink into a heap at the doorway. What do I do? I know I’ve told Jihoon to ignore the confession and be exactly as we were before, but that is not possible anymore, now that I know how he feels towards me. every interaction I have with him will be grappling with this same truth, and I’ll always be wondering about how he feels towards me.

Out of habit, I pull my phone out of my pocket, swiping through messages and emails, when one of them catches my eye. It’s a simple, single-line message.

Read your column. I know its anonymous, but I know how you write.

—Sungwon

How bad is rock bottom? Is it possible to go below that? I have to remind myself to breathe, as I slowly collect myself from the floor, and go about the rest of my morning. Of course, I shouldn’t think about the people who have left me behind. It’s a disservice to myself. I’ve spent enough time and money in therapy to know that. But what happens when the past refuses to let go of you?

I dial the first number I can get my hands on. After three rings, Jeonghan picks up, his cheerful voice filling the line, “hi! Did you reach home already? Did Mingyu crash the car?”

“Oppa.” I say, “you have to listen to me carefully.”

“Why?” Jeonghan’s voice, so cheerful moments before, has been filled with anxiety, “what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I lie, even as Jihoon’s voice floats over the line, yelling is she okay? “don’t let Jihoon know anything’s happened, please.”

“Yes, you reached fine?” Jeonghan says, voice nonchalant, “okay, I’m in another room, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Jeonghan-oppa.” It’s taking all  have to not break into sobs, “I once told a friend, that I liked them.”

“Okay, and?” his voice is kind, so kind, that it drowns out the other voices in my mind saying you don’t deserve this, “what happened?”

“He said—he told me that I’d ruined our friendship, and he never talked to me after that.”

“Oh, oh no, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry to hear that. What else can I say, that will help you feel better?”

“Just—hear me out, for now,” I continue, “and he’s never contacted me, but all of a sudden, he sent me an email last night.”

“What did he say in the email?”

“That he’s been following my writing. I don’t understand, how is it easy for people to be like this when they’ve hurt someone else?”

“Are you afraid Jihoon is going to break off all contact with you, and then email you years later like some kind of pathetic loser?” he scoffs, “if he did that, I would be first in line to break his legs.”

“No, I’m afraid I’m going to be that person to Jihoon,” I sob, “I think I’m going to hurt him and leave him behind, and that I’ll be the person to deal him that cruel hand.”

The line is silent on the other end.

“Jeonghan? Are you there?” I ask.

“It’s me.” Jihoon’s voice sounds rough around the edges, as though he’s been crying, “I heard everything.”

“Jihoon.” I plead, “please don’t do anything that’ll hurt you.”

“I’m coming over in ten minutes,” he mutters, hanging up.

And it’s done. Over. Fuck. I’ve thrown away years of friendship because I didn’t want to accept my own emotions and grow beyond the scared girl I was as a child.

I want to cry, but even that effort is too much for me, sinking down into a heap in the middle of my living room, listening to the sounds of the wall clock ticking down every second.

Even before ten minutes are up, the keypad beeps, before the door opens to reveal a very windswept Jihoon.

“How did you know my password?” is the only thing I can say to him.

He rolls his eyes, “you use the same password as my studio. Of course, I know your password.”

“Fair.”

Jihoon stares at me for a beat, then takes a deep breath, before kneeling down on the floor beside me, “I overheard everything.”

“I’m going to curse Jeonghan and his high-volume phone,” I mutter, “I told him to keep it a secret.”

“To be fair, he was only protecting you.” Jihoon laughs, “he didn’t know I was more persistent than he could ever imagine.”

I shoot him a dirty look. Jihoon sighs, “look, I know, the way I said things to you, wasn’t the most ideal—”

“They were horrible, actually,” I cut in, “you yelled at me that you loved me, and then you left.”

“—man, just let me finish,” Jihoon says, without any real spite, “but I wanted to tell you, that my feelings still haven’t, and will not in the future, affect the way I see you. I’ve always been proud to call you my friend, even if you keep secrets from me.”

“I don’t keep that many secrets.” I mutter.

“Really? Then what about the whole anonymous column thing?”

“You knew about that?”

Jihoon scoffs, “I’ve seen you write since the beginning of university. I know how you write better than anyone else, of course, I knew it was you.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I’m respectful.”

I scowl, “continue.”

“I just wanted to say that even if you wanted to push me away, you can’t,” Jihoon says, smug smile on his face, “I’m impossible to get rid of.”

“You’re not selling yourself very well.”

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

“Look, Jihoon, it would never work,” I say, turning away from him, “we know too much about each other. We’ve seen each other’s worst moments. And what if we break up? Who’s going to tell the rest of the boys that we no longer have the same dynamic that we used to have and that its going to be different around us? They have the tact of a bull; you know how they are going to be.”

“That’s them,” he replies, “I’m asking about you. I want to know what you think.”

I sigh. Jihoon’s face is remarkably close to me; from here I can make out the tiny little freckles he has, and the way his eyes are shining, “I’m scared.”

His skin is so soft under my touch, has he always been this way? Jihoon leans into my touch as if he’s never felt anything like this, “scared of what?”

“That I’ll like you too much. That once I take a step forward, it’ll be too difficult to restrain myself again.”

Jihoon laughs, the tip of his nose touching mine, “one step forward, is okay. It’s allowed.”

“Are you quoting Crash Landing on You?” I laugh, even as his lips touch mine.

Kissing Jihoon is an experience; his skin feels soft under my touch, but his lips are insistent against mine, demanding and reverent alternatively, as though he can’t believe his luck that he’s kissing me, or that this is a dream, and what he needs to do is possess it, and then, this memory of a moment will be forever engraved in his heart. My hands go to the back of his neck, where his hair is softer than usual—has he washed it—but all I can feel, under my fingers, is how his heart beats, quicker than I’ve ever imagined it to be, and how it mirrors my own.

I don’t want this moment to end.

[sim0nril3y]

I’m LITERALLY screaming at ghost with a praise kink !!!!!!! That was so fucking good I am foaming at the mouth!! Was that part of the 12 days of kinkmas thing? Also, side note, can we read all of these as civilian!reader? Or will the 12 days of kinkmas be outside that little au?

Also, if I may be so bold, could I request ghost with a breeding kink, perhaps? 🫣

Note: Firstly, thank you so much for sending this request, you have no idea how much I needed to write this down! As for your questions, anything that comes before the 14th of December is totally just for fun and part of my normal writing so these types of things aren't part of the 12 Days of Kinkmas. Also, the Kinkmas will continue to be part of the Civilian series but honestly you can read my fics in whatever way makes you happy! Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!Reader Warnings: No mask Simon (It's my personal headcanon in his regular life he probably wouldn't wear it), established relationship, teasing, breeding kink, P in v sex, lots of talk about pregnancy and knocking up, unprotected sex, canon-typical swearing.

There was no denying that Simon was in a strange mood. Where usually he rarely touched you in public now his arm was draped over your shoulder like some kind of accessory or his hand lingered on your lower back and even drifting down to cup your bum. He’d lean down and whisper into your ear, pressing a tender kiss to the hinge of your jaw. Everything he seemed to do only lead to you feeling a little warm.

It was just unlike him. Simon was usually very reserved in public, sometimes even holding your hand was too much affection for him.

All day you wracked your brain trying to figure out what had changed or what had sparked this sudden alteration in Simon’s mentality. As instructed you were stood by the hob, slowly stirring a pot of whatever Simon had prepared. You had been so deep in your thoughts you hadn’t heard Simon approaching from behind, slinking up behind you, strong arms tying around your middle and sucking you back against his form.

Those skilful lips found your throat, humming as Simon pressed a couple tender kisses to the areas of skint that were exposed. “Si, what has gotten into you lately?” You giggle was breathless, wooden spoon long forgotten in hand as your head tilted back into his shoulder. “Fuck~”

Simon continued to kiss and suckle at your throat before muttering out coldly. “Y’gonna think it’s stupid…” Then resuming his attack on your throat. “You know…” Losing track of your words as his lips nipped at your earlobe playfully. “Nothing… nothing you could say… would ever be… stupid…” The words seemed to trail away pointlessly.

For a few moments Simon remained painfully quiet, his hands roaming around your mid area, rubbing and soothing his hands against it. “Fuckin’ hell…” Like always when frustrated or a loss for words Simon growled out the expletive. “Fine…” He muttered, keeping you firmly facing away from him so that he was able to try and form a sensible sentence. “Been havin’ this dream lately…” Simon let out a low huff. “Sound so fuckin’ stupid…”

“A dream?” You quizzed, pinch forming between your brows. “What kind of dream?” “A dream… it keeps coming back…” Simon smirked. “I don’t dream ever but this one… this one won’t get out of my fuckin’ head.” Those strong hands continued to stroke and caress your stomach before finally he allowed the truth to spill from his lips. “You were pregnant.” The hands on your stomach were so soft and soothing, like trying to manifest his dream in reality. “You were pregnant with my baby… and you looked so fuckin’ good…” The word rolled off his tongue like it was dripping in sin and you knew then you were going to need to change your panties.

A big grin found your face. “Is that right?” He growled in a moment, yanking you over to bend you over the kitchen table. “Simon, the dinner-” “Don’t worry. I’ll fill you up.” Simon growled, yanking down your sweats and underwear in a quick moment. “Need to get this dream out of my head, babe. Can you… can you let me do this… please…” There was almost pleading to his tone and it caused you to rub your thighs together as you leaned over the table, his hand pressed between your shoulders.

“You can do it.” You confirmed gently and in the moments that followed Simon was kicking your legs apart to exposing your sopping cunt. “Look at this…” His hand cupped your sex, watching you shudder on the table. “Looks like you like the sound of my dream too, love.” A couple fingers slipped into your cunt, spreading your walls wide around his thick fingers and making you whimper against the table. “Is that right, baby? You want me to fill you up? Want me to pump you full of cum?”

A tight couple whimpers came from your throat. “Please. Please. Please.” You whimpered lowly, shunting your hips back to practically ride his fingers as they spread you wide. “Please, need you… need you inside me…” It was as if that was all the encouragement that Simon needed, because in the next moment he was unbuckling his belt, taking his rock hard cock in hand, massaging and rolling back the uncut skin as he pressing himself against your tight open and letting out a low groan as he sank inside, feeding you inch after inch until he reached the hilt, hips firmly pressed against your rear. “Good girl… Good fuckin’ girl takin’ every fuckin’ inch of me like I taught you.”

After allowing you a couple moments to finally adjust to his immense size Simon drew back and began to fuck into you, hard and fast, one hand braced on your shoulder whilst the other cupped under your knee to lift onto the table. “Feel… so fuckin’ good…” He growled out, teeth grit, muscles strained, wound so tight you wondered if he might snap, or if this was maybe him snapping. “Gonna look… so good filled up with me… know you’re gonna look so good, baby.”

“Simon-” “I know, baby. I know.” His hips shunted faster and shallower, hardly removing his cock halfway before shoving it back inside of you. “Fuckin’… tight cunt…” He cried out lowly. “Can’t wait… can’t wait to see you dripping… dripping with me…” Simon let out a low groan. “I’m gonna… gonna keep pumping you full… full until you’re bursting.”

The kitchen was filled with wet, slapping sounds. The sound of Simon fucking into you with so much love and adoration. The promises of a future. The prospect of having a full life together. It was enough to make your walls begin to squeeze and tighten, that and the feeling of your clit rubbing awkwardly against the table with each brutal thrust from Simon’s strong hips into your own, pistoning his thick cock relentlessly.

“There. There. There.” Your voice was begging and then following by a couple moans and squeaks as your cunt spasmed and squeezed around him. “There it is…” Simon hissed. “There it is, baby. Fuck, feel so fuckin’ good…” He growled, tilting his head back. “Tell me… Please… Tell me you want it… B-beg for it…” His hips snapped erratically, trying to stave of his own end even as your cunt milked and tried to force it from him.

“Simon~” You squeaked. “Simon… Simon, please… I need… I need your cum… I need you to fill me up… I need you to knock me up…” The words flowed so easily, unsure if you even believe them or wanted it to come true, but it seemed to be enough to throw him wildly over the edge, growling, huffing, snapping his hips aggressively and finally pumping you to the brim with his cum. It was a feeling unmatched, the warmth spreading throughout your walls leaving you humming lowly from the table. “Thank you…” Simon whispered into the air, leaning over your frame to press a couple kisses to your shoulder. “Thank you, babe.”

The two of you stood there, panting and slowly coming down from your highs, the kitchen table completely disgraced from your actions, his cum seeping out from your cunt and around his cock to seep onto the wood, the dinner completely forgotten about and burnt beyond recognition by now and the two of you left with a lot to think about.

Masterlist | Ask | 05-12-2023

[gatawoman]

𝒵𝑜𝓂𝒷𝒾𝑒𝒷𝑜𝓎

Jason Todd x Reader

A/n: Hi my beautiful people so I love Lady Gaga and Zombieboy has been on repeat for me since the album dropped. So I made an inspired story off of it. The highlighted green are the lyrics inspo. I also saw someone like a few weeks ago saying how the song reminded them of Jason also so if it was you i’m please write it :( I hope you guys enjoy!! you can always leave feedback or request too🖤🖤

1:16am. Jason’s watch reads as the pounding music slams into his skull.

The classic saying, “How did I end up in this situation?” sadly didn’t apply to Jason right now — because he knew exactly what led him here. Not like he could forget, especially with Dick’s annoying voice nagging in the earpiece.

“Oh come on, Jason, you’re being a sore thumb just standing there glaring,” Dick says.

Jason let out an annoyed gruff. He knew Dick was just trying to get him to make a fool of himself. He was undercover at the Iceberg Lounge to get intel — not to party. It had all started with a tip about a drug deal they’d been trying to shut down, supposedly set to happen around five minutes before 2am. Dick was supposed to be in position — not Jason. But of course, Tom, Barbara, and Dick started teasing, swearing Jason wouldn’t be able to be undercover and have fun at the same time. Which was total BS, because he’d done exactly that the first time he came back to Gotham.

“Jesus, at least drink som—”

“I’m done with you,” Jason harshly interrupted, muting the earpiece.

As he scanned the club — eyes practically rattling from how loud the music was — something caught his attention and made his heart stop like he’d died all over again.

He saw you.

It was like a quiet beacon of light in a sea of crimson hues and smoke. Easy to miss, but not for him. Never for him. Especially when it came to you. You stood out effortlessly, dressed in a red backless dress that clung to you like a secret, barely reaching your knees. Black heels made your legs look longer, sharper, like you could cut through any bullshit thrown your way. His gaze locked onto your back, and his anger rose again but with a strange twing protectiveness now—because he could’ve sworn he saw you at home before he left.

✦☠︎⋆🧟‍♂️✩♡✩🧟‍♀️⋆☠︎✦ ✦☠︎⋆🧟‍♂️✩♡✩🧟‍♀️⋆☠︎✦

You hadn’t planned on going anywhere. You were happily binge-watching your favorite show, enjoying a much-needed self-care day after a week of chaos in the ER — plus playing nurse to your accident-prone, drama-filled roommate and best friend. You deserved this day off. The universe, however, had other plans.

Just as you were about to start the next episode, the doorbell rang. You opened it to see your best friend standing there in all her mini-dress glory.

“We are going out,” Ashley said, excitement laced in her voice.

“Aww, sweetie, there’s no U in we. I thought you knew that by now,” you replied. And just like that, her excitement morphed into determination.

You already knew your fate.

✦☠︎⋆🧟‍♂️✩♡✩🧟‍♀️⋆☠︎✦ ✦☠︎⋆🧟‍♂️✩♡✩🧟‍♀️⋆☠︎✦

Now here you were — swirling the dark Hennessy in your cup, already regretting the decision. Your heels stabbed into your feet with every shift. You tilted your head back, letting the bitter liquor sting your throat when you suddenly felt a familiar presence behind you.

“I’m not interested,” you said lazily, the words slipping out in a slight slur.

“Oh, trust me, babe. I know.”

That rough voice — one you knew all too well — made your heart skip. You almost lost your balance as you whipped around and looked up into those green eyes you knew like the back of your hand.

“Jay? What are you doing here?” you asked your best friend.

“I thought you were on patrol,” you added in a whisper.

Your brain started spiraling.

Why was he here? Jason hated clubs. On his off days — which usually lined up with your mornings off — he preferred lounging at home with you. But lately, he’d been distant, always coming up with excuses to stay holed up in his room to “sleep.” You would’ve brushed it off, since he was always running himself ragged as a vigilante… but something felt off. He didn’t sleep well, and you knew it.

So, you started spiraling. What if he was seeing someone? You’d caught him hanging with Artemis a few times lately — and considering their history, that stung. You tried to bury it, though. The last thing you wanted was to ruin your friendship with awkward feelings. So you swallowed it down, like always.

Ashley, however, had seen it all. The matching keychains — yours a sun, his a moon. The fridge notes when you guys didn’t see eachother in the day. The way Jason tracked your location and panicked if you didn’t move for too long. She saw the toll the distance was taking on you — and that’s exactly why she dragged you out tonight.

“I can’t tell you everything right now,” Jason finally replied after a pause. “But why are you here? And why are you alone?”

“I’m not alone — Ashley’s dancing,” you said, eyes scanning the club. “Right there.”

Jason followed your gesture and spotted Ashley dancing, a girl pressed closely against her. You saw the way his shoulders relaxed a little.

“You shouldn’t be out here too long, doll. It’s not gonna be safe for either of you.”

His voice softened as he really looked at you. You never drank this much — and it made him wonder what was going on in that head of yours that you hadn’t told him.

“Yeah, well, nice to know you somewhat still care,” you snapped, surprised by your own words. You looked away quickly. Swallow it, Y/N.

“What are you sa—”

“Anyways, where’s your girlfriend? I see she’s not here,” you cut him off, tone sharp.

So much for swallowing it, Y/N.

“Jesus. How drunk are you?” Jason huffed. You didn’t answer — just stared at him, lips sealed.

He knew you weren’t going to say anything, so he gave you what he could offer.

“Artemis isn’t my girlfriend, Y/N. She’s a friend. That’s it.”

Your heart clenched as you looked at him, sadness starting to seep through your facade.

“Then why have you been avoiding me, Jay?”

Your voice had dropped, the fire replaced by something quieter — more vulnerable.

Jason wanted the gods to strike him down right then and there. He never meant to hurt you. Never. If anything, he thought he was doing the right thing. Giving you space. Taking a step back so you wouldn’t have to constantly deal with him, his chaos, his damage.

But every time he stepped back, it felt like he was cutting himself off from the only peace he had.

There was a time he had nothing. Nothing to wake up for. Nothing to look forward to. And then you came crashing into his life like a goddamn sunrise he didn’t ask for—but desperately needed.

He didn’t even realize how much you meant to him until the demon spawn himself, Damian, asked him bluntly: “What exactly makes you happy?”

And the first thing—hell, the only thing—that came to mind was you.

And that terrified him.

So he pulled away.

That scared the hell out of him. So he backed off. He thought it would protect you — protect him. But seeing your face now, he hated himself for it.

It was already 1:30am. He didn’t have much time, so he gave you what he could.

“Doll… I would never avoid you for someone else. Trust me. It’s something I need to figure out for myself first.”

You looked up and saw the way his eyes dilated when they met yours. You always trusted him — and even now, some part of you still did. So you let it go… for now.

Your smile returned, but it had a mischievous twist this time as you felt somewhat bold. You grabbed his scarred hands and leaned in.

“You know, if you’re undercover, you’ve got to blend in,” you whispered.

Jason raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way his pulse spiked at your touch. Before he could respond, you were already dragging him to the dance floor.

“Y/N, I don’t have time for this nonsense,” Jason said, though his tone was half-laughing.

“Come on, Zombieboy. I need some sort of forgiveness from you,” you teased, giggling.

Jason let you take the lead. You grabbed his hands, placed them on your hips, and began swaying. Liquid courage, you thought to yourself. You were definitely going to scream into a pillow about this in the morning.

When Jason stopped moving, you froze, heart pounding. You were about to pull away when his hands began to move again — fingers tracing your waist, matching your rhythm. You could’ve sworn you saw heaven.

After a few minutes, Jason turned you to face him. You’d met his gaze a hundred times before, but this one felt different. More intense. He couldn’t see straight anymore.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Y/N,” he murmured, lips close.

“I never said this was a game, Jason,” you whispered back, voice barely above a breath. You were scared — unsure if he felt the same. But in that moment, you didn’t care. You just wanted him.

Your lips were inches away when his watch buzzed.

1:50am. Time was up.

He pulled away, the Red Hood demeanor slipping back into his place.

“You need to leave with Ashley. Now.” His voice was firm — desperate.

You nodded, slowly letting go of his hand.

“Okay, Jay. But stay safe. You owe me an explanation,” you said, your tone playfully sharp.

“Oh, I owe you way more, doll.” Jason grinned as you gave him a flustered smack to the bicep — your classic move when he flustered you.

Before you could walk off, he yanked you in and his rough lips crashed into your soft ones. Yup you were definitely now levitating to heaven.

He pulled away without a word and turned, walking off quickly — mostly to hide the blush creeping up his face.

You were stunned. You knew you’d be dreaming about that moment for weeks. Eyes around the club were on you, so you scrambled for cover:

“Whatever, asshole! You’re better off a fantasy anyway!” you shouted, stomping off dramatically.

Jason nearly laughed, knowing exactly why you did it — to protect his cover.

As he headed to the back of the club, two men entered — fitting the target’s description. He realized, belatedly, that his earpiece had been muted way longer than it should’ve been. He quickly unmuted it — and immediately regretted it.

“ZOMBIEBOYYYYY — did you know you only muted me from your side?” Dick’s voice sang, mimicking your tone with a dramatic edge.

“Shut the fuck up and focus, Dickhead,” Jason snapped.

“Oh please — says the guy dancing the night away with his girl.”

Jason chose to ignore him. He had a mission to finish — and a promise to keep. One he intended to make up to you, starting the moment this night was over.

[deadpresidents]

On the cliffs of Normandy, in a small holding area, the President of the United States was looking out at the English Channel. It was only six weeks ago, on the 80th anniversary of the D-Day landings, and President Biden had just finished his remarks at the American cemetery atop Omaha Beach. Guests had been congratulating him on the speech, but he didn't want to talk about himself. The moment was not about him; it was about the men who had fought and died there. "Today feels so large," he told me. "This may sound strange -- and I don't mean it to -- but when I was out there, I felt the honor of it, the sanctity of it. To speak for the American people, to speak over those graves, it's a profound thing." He turned from the view over the beaches and gestured back toward the war dead. "You want to do right by them, by the country."

Mr. Biden has spent a lifetime trying to do right by the nation, and he did so in the most epic of ways when he chose to end his campaign for re-election. His decision is one of the most remarkable acts of leadership in our history, an act of self-sacrifice that places him in the company of George Washington who also stepped away from the presidency. To put something ahead of one's immediate desires -- to give, rather than to try to take -- is perhaps the most difficult thing for any human being to do. And Mr. Biden has done just that.

To be clear: Mr. Biden is my friend, and it has been a privilege to help him when I can. Not because I am a Democrat -- I belong to neither party and have voted for both Democrats and Republicans -- but because I believe him to be a defender of the Constitution and a public servant of honor and of grace at a time when extreme forces threaten the nation. I do not agree with everything he has done or wanted to do in terms of policy. But I know him to be a good man, a patriot and a president who has met challenges all too similar to those Abraham Lincoln faced. Here is the story I believe history will tell of Joe Biden. With American democracy in an hour of maximum danger in Donald Trump's presidency, Mr. Biden stepped in the breach. He staved off an authoritarian threat at home, rallied the world against autocrats abroad, laid the foundations for decades of prosperity, managed the end of a once-in-a-century pandemic, successfully legislated on vital issues of climate and infrastructure and has conducted a presidency worthy of the greatest of his predecessors. History and fate brought him to the pinnacle in a late season in his life, and in the end, he respected fate -- and he respected the American people.

It is, of course, an incredibly difficult moment. Highs and lows, victories and defeats, joy and pain: It has been ever thus for Mr. Biden. In the distant autumn of 1972, he experienced the most exhilarating of hours -- election to the United States Senate at the age of 29. He was no scion; he earned it. The darkness fell: His wife and daughter were killed in an automobile accident that seriously injured his two sons, Beau and Hunter. But he endured, found purpose in the pain, became deeper, wiser, more empathetic. Through the decades, two presidential campaigns imploded, and in 2015 his son Beau, a lawyer and wonderfully promising young political figure, died of brain cancer after serving in Iraq.

Such tragedy would have broken many lesser men. Mr. Biden, however, never gave up, never gave in, never surrendered the hope that a fallen, frail and fallible world could be made better, stronger and more whole if people could summon just enough goodness and enough courage to build rather than tear down. Character, as the Greeks first taught us, is destiny, and Mr. Biden's character is both a mirror and a maker of his nation's. Like Franklin Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan, he is optimistic, resilient and kind, a steward of American greatness, a love of the great game of politics and, at heart, a hopeless romantic about the country that has given him so much.

Nothing bears out this point as well as his decision to let history happen in the 2024 election. Not matter how much people say that this was inevitable after the debate in Atlanta last month, there was nothing foreordained about an American President ending his political career for the sake of his country and his party. By surrendering the possibility of enduring in the seat of ultimate power, Mr. Biden has taught us a landmark lesson in patriotism, humility and wisdom.

Now the question comes to the rest of us. What will we the people do? We face the most significant of choices. Mr. Roosevelt framed the war whose dead Mr. Biden commemorated at Normandy in June as a battle between democracy and dictatorship. It is not too much to say that we, too, have what Mr. Roosevelt called a "rendezvous with destiny" at home and abroad. Mr. Biden has put country above self, the Constitution above personal ambition, the future of democracy above temporal gain. It is up to us to follow his lead.

-- "Joe Biden, My Friend and an American Hero" by Jon Meacham, New York Times, July 22, 2024.

[wintersoulwitch]

Stage/Fright report

Spoilers spoilers spoilers

Here are my observations and impressions and as many details as I can remember after my first viewing of Stage/Fright. All written up while waiting for my train home, so pardon any inconsistent grammar etc etc

Right holy shit that was so For The Fans it’s not even funny - yet also entertaining enough for people who had never watched the show which is a hard balance to pull off (but if anyone can rise to a challenge like that, it’s Pembersmith)

First of all I was so chuffed that they started with material from the ‘theatre audience’ unfilmed episode (whoo, one of my predictions!) And the fact that it was Hamlet - nice TLOG nod.

Reece and Steve both looked amazing in this first section. Reece didn’t have a wig and was in an unfussy shirt/jumper/blazer combo. I was in the front row so I was taking the opportunity to soak it up.

And Steve looked great as well! Like, I personally think Steve’s best IN9 looks are Sphinx & Trolley Problem so what I’m saying is: Silver Fox. And in this section he has a thick white wig and a blue jacket that sets off his colouring very nicely indeed.

The story was great - some classic Pembersmith comedy dialogue with malapropisms (“I don’t want him to have a prophylactic shock”) and the whole Reece-as-uptight-Englishman-growing-increasingly-irate-at-ill-mannered-people-around-him

(Also, descriptions of the two actors on stage: “One of them’s rather pudgy, like Uncle Gerald. The other one looks like a homosexual” 🤔)

Steve was so funny as a loud, boorish businessman talking on the phone, texting and using his laptop during the play. There was a nice visual gag where Steve was using speech-to-text and the text messages were projected on a mesh at the front of the stage, but everything was mangled eg “Hope that’s OK” being rendered as “Ho that’s so gay.”

And then - murder!

Reece goes on a little murder spree - poisoning an old man with peanuts (his deathly allergy having already been seeded), pouring water over Steve’s laptop charger so he’s electrocuted, and smashing a noisy woman round the head with a metal canteen.

The sketch ends with Reece saying “Ladies and gentlemen may I remind you you’re in a theatre - no coughing, no eating and no mobile phones.”

Omg the violinists! There were live violinists playing an extended version of the IN9 theme song - each standing in a box either side of the stage. They were dramatically lit so that they cast long shadows which melded with shadows and dust projected onto the stage curtain.

After that, Reece and Steve came to the front of the stage as themselves and welcomed us to the show with some banter

Reece: The beautiful Wyndham’s Theatre which we believe is haunted

Steve: Well - YOU believe it’s haunted. I think it’s bollocks.

Ok so we set up the tension of Team Believer vs Team Skeptic. Reece explains that the scene we’ve just watched was a true story. During a production of Hamlet the theatregoer Mr Dowling had been taken over by ‘a strange presence.’

Steve: He then ran into the grand circle and tried to toss himself off. Another thing which is forbidden by the theatre management

(Ushers hold up “no masturbating” signs)

Steve says that grief can do funny things to the brain and make you see things that aren’t there…

Reece talks about ‘la Terreur de l’asile’ Terror at the Asylum. The lead actress was accidentally killed on stage, and her ghost - Bloody Belle - haunts the stage and so Wyndham’s is a cursed theatre, where terrible people things happen.

Steve: And anyone who saw Kenneth Branagh’s King Lear here a couple of years ago will know exactly what we mean.

They introduce ‘the ghost light’ - which you keep on stage when the theatre is empty. Either to appease the spirits or to keep them away.

Steve suggests that maybe Mr Dowling saw his late wife’s ghost on stage instead of Hamlet’s father. “For what is a ghost but a memory? A way of keeping a loved one’s memory alive? Maybe every ghost story is really just a love story.”

Reece then tries to sneak off stage for a costume change, Steve was supposed to have ‘written something funny’ to cover it and not draw attention to him leaving.

Steve vamps for a bit and gets the audience to chant “Bloody Belle” three times to summon her to prove that the superstition is bollocks. He then says that seat F9 in the stalls is haunted and a spotlight appears (poor member of the public in that seat, ha)

I thought BCDR would be referenced and I actually rewatched it the night before the show so that it was fresh in my memory. Well. What I didn’t expect was that they would PERFORM THE WHOLE FREAKING EPISODE LIVE IN FRONT OF ME. WTF LADS.

As soon as the opening music started I recognised it instantly and was like “Ohhhh!” I thought we would get a short scene but it just kept going!

It was an interesting experience to see the episode played out live - the whole communal thing, the way jokes are funnier in a crowd. Normally I watch IN9 on my laptop sitting on my bed all by myself so it was nice to share it!

I won’t go over the whole thing beat by beat. But some things I noticed…

- The cups! They had the blue and yellow cups!

- When Len makes the tea I don’t think he put whiskey in his cup, he drank from a hip flask and Tommy didn’t see

- Len’s mime bit with his arm in the coat was more developed. Early on Len holds up his hand and points to a (n imaginary) wedding ring. The fake figure is much more aggressive with Len, grabbing his face for a snog

- I noticed the mime arm was wearing a big sparkly ring, which reappears later in the show

- The “Drake and Shelby” / “Shelby and Drake” bit goes on longer, which definitely made it funnier.

- When Len did the spit take at the end of the vent sketch I was really worried that I was going to get sprayed. (I did not get sprayed)

- Joe Pasquale ‘he’s 63!’

- The wall for Brown Bottles has ‘Thatcher Out!’ graffiti’d on it

- The Brown Bottles music is different from the one in the TV show - it’s the traditional 10 brown bottles song rather than the similar-but-distinct version, which I’m assuming was some sort of rights issue?

- They didn’t reinstate the cut dialogue (i’ve always loved you…)

- Bernie Clifton’s dressing room is retconned to have taken place at the Wyndham’s rather than the Glasgow Pavilion

- Omg the ‘you nearly died Len’ was absolutely heartstopping, and the way Reece delivered Tommy’s rant was quite different but so passionate

- When Tommy’s talking about Angry Tomato and says he has 100 people working under him, Len says ‘doesn’t that tickle?’ And fucking gooses him! Like full on slap on the arse.

- They had the same Cheese and Crackers playbill and flyer as in the episode.

- On the back of the order of service for Len’s funeral there’s the photo from Steve’s graduation from Bretton Hall.

Then there was a play-within-a-play moment, with ‘Len’ and ‘Tommy’ acting out a sketch about kidnappers that Len had written… but when it started some familiar music played… Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerti No. 2? It’s A Quiet Night In! (Except I have watched Dead Line way more times than A Quiet Night In, so my brain was adding in the distortion and ghosts)

Tommy reads out the stage directions, which are projected onto the curtain as the set is changed, and we get a sketch that is… A Quiet Night In, the Cheese and Crackers version! Ish. So we have Steve-as-Len-as-Eddie and Reece-as-Tommy-as-Ray, in the black burglar outfits.

So cool to see more of Cheese and Crackers in action! Maybe this is the kind of thing that they had in their TV series? It was really interesting to see Tommy get to be a comedic force in his own right, delivering jokes rather than just setting them up for Len as the straight man. Len did much more clowning (and was definitely sliding into Barry Baggs - to the point where I wondered if we were going to get a Lisgoe-belt-whipping moment)

They brought on their kidnap victim… someone in a paisley dressing gown and a pillowcase on his head. And they were doing charades for the person’s name… Cave-in… Held on… Kevin… wait, what? The Actor Kevin Eldon!!!! My hands flew to my mouth and I let out a scream I was SO delighted. And even more delighted that Steve continuously referred to him as The Actor Kevin Eldon (as is only right and proper! And namedropped Fist of Fun. Only thing that would have made the cook’d and bomb’d forum of my soul happier would have been a reference to a weak lemon drink.) And then I realised that another of my predictions had come true - the kidnap victim is played by a different celebrity each show. Surely a Mark Gatiss appearance is on the cards???

There were references to other episodes scattered throughout… there was a hare statue at the side of the stage, the wardrobe from Sardines, which contained a single black man’s shoe (Diddle Diddle Dumpling), a bit with the number 6 turning upside down to show a number 9 (Once Removed), the use of cockney rhyming slang (Mother’s Ruin), and the house itself is on Mulberry Close.

Something that stood out to me was the different tone of the ending. When Miranda Hennessy came in I didn’t realise she was meant to be Leanne - she seemed like a stranger to Tommy. And the hug at the end was more distant than the hug between Sian and Reece in the ep. You know - the way Tommy holds back at first and then closes his eyes and leans into the hug, and you get this sense of the connection between them? At the end of the ep I felt like Leanne and Tommy might stay in touch and (re)build a relationship, but this time I felt like Tommy was gonna disappear back to France and never look back.

Then instead of ending on Tears of Laughter it goes spoOoOoky, with the lights cutting out and the ghost light appearing on stage, some eerie crackling noises and Tommy looking into the dark calling “Len?”

Then there was a jumpscare and time for the interval.

I stood in a ridiculously slow moving queue and talked to/eavesdropped on conversations - some people were hardcore fans and some had been brought along by partners (“I’ve only watched two episodes of Inside Number 9 and they were both very scary, so I wasn’t expecting it to be so funny” and “I’ve never watched it, I don’t like the League of Gentlemen but my boyfriend does”). Limmy was in the audience tonight and I think I spotted Helen Zaltzmann as well.

The violinists were back for the start of the second half. This time there was a projection of an imposing pair of gates and a 1920s style black and white horror film titles of ‘La Terreur de l’asile / Terror at the Asylum.

Ok so this is the story that Reece and Steve mentioned at the top of the show! Miranda Hennessy and Anna Francolini are a prospective patient (Suzette) and a nurse at Dr Goudron’s asylum. Suzette is dressed in a flapper-ish style with bobbed hair and carries a large green hatbox. She’s wearing the large sparkly ring that the mime was wearing in BCDR.

The nurse has that vintage creepy nun-style nurse uniform with a big white headdress, and strangely pink skin all around her eyes and cheeks. The set has a barber’s chair covered in a sheet (which twitched as if to suggest someone was already sitting in it), there was a bloody saw on the wall and shelves with jars containing various fluids and lumps (Love is a Stranger ref?)

Reece comes on playing a mad scientist type, with a mallen streak and a twirly moustache. He was obviously revelling in it, doing some scenery chewing with lines like “What’s to be gained if they won’t stay awake while I operate on them?” and “I ate them! I ate them up! He sees inside me! He sees everything inside me!”

Reece also performed some of The Elements Song! So random but I loved it.

Turns out that Reece’s character Hugo is an inmate at the asylum, not Dr Goudron at all! The real Dr Goudron - Steve in a white lab coat, coiffed brown wig, and painted on eyebags - appears and Hugo is taken away.

Steve does a turn as a slimy, predatory doctor (Trolley Problem and indeed Sphinx echoes) and recommends trepanation to fix the young woman’s migraines.

Steve: With my methods you won’t feel a thing…

He reveals a bit more detail about his wife’s Unfortunate Demise. (“Her head was never found…” dramatic spotlight on the hatbox)

Then Reece returns, this time being pushed in an old-fashioned wheelchair. Dr Goudron explains that he conducts anaesthesia free surgery through deep hypnosis. He hypnotises Hugo (“I have complete control over his mind and body”), and states that while he’s in the trance he can feel no pain. He demonstrates this by taking a scalpel and slicing Hugo’s face, making it bleed (like Devil of Winter- no, wait, that’s not Inside No 9)

Goudron then asks the nurse to fetch the bonesaw, and asks Hugo to amputate his own left leg below the knee. We’re then treated to the sight of Reece hacking through his own leg and removing it. (I could see his real leg within the chair but it I imagine the illusion looked quite convincing for people further back). He’s then brought out of the trance and we get some patented Reece-in-agonising-pain screams and he’s wheeled away to have the wound cauterised.

Suzette tries to leave and Evil Steve is unleashed.

Suzette: If i could just change back into my clothes…

Steve: No. I’m afraid that won’t be possible.

Suzette: You ravaged her???

Steve: Well as much as one can ever ravage a creature in such a catatonic state… As you will soon find out my dear, after your own surgery has been completed

Things begin to escalate, Dr Goudron reveals he murdered his wife after she caught him ‘in a compromising position’ with a catatonic inmate. Suzette threatens to douse her own face in acid, instead throwing it at the nurse’s face. There’s some nicely gory sfx makeup as half the nurse’s face melts and her eyeball sticks to her hand and comes away, still attached to the optic nerve.

But then! Gaby French appears in an usher’s uniform bearing a coffee order.

Turns out everything we’ve just seen is a rehearsal for a stage play - a performance of Terror at the Asylum to be held at the Wyndham’s. Reece’s character is Markus the Director who berates Gaby’s character Abbie from Front of House for destroying all the tension they’ve built up.

Turns out that the lead is a pop star, Sherry. Steve’s character is Vince, the leading man and a classically trained actor (who likes to do the Guardian Cryptic - Sphinx). He’s frustrated that a leading role in the West End has gone to Sherry, “some bimbo from a girl band”

Reece: It’s not about your CV any more, it’s about how many followers you have on Instagram

Sherry and Abbie have a chat. Sherry has an upcoming audition for series 2 of ‘that Divine Comedy Thing on Amazon’ and if she gets it she’ll have some good scenes with Tim Key (Simon Says/Plodding On).

Abbie reveals that she doesn’t get many auditions - Sherry thinks that’s weird cos she gets “loads” and she’s “not even an actress! Haha!” Some of R&S’s feelings about stunt casting coming through, hmm? Sherry recommends Abbie asks Markus if she can understudy her.

Markus goes through his notes for the actors. There’s some funny bits about bad acting and method acting and fragile egos (Markus’ notes to himself are simply ‘two ticks.’)

The stage is then deconstructed, the naturalistic doctor’s office breaking into modular units and a huge LED screen lifting up. One of the actors comes on with a Steadicam. We’ve gone from early 20th century horror to the cutting edge of digital tech.

Reece: We illuminate the present as well as the past

Steve: But it’s so hackneyed now, you can’t walk down Shaftesbury Avenue without bumping into some cunt with a camcorder filming actors mincing out of the stage door

The steadicam gives a closeup of Sherry, her face is shown in greyscale on the huge screen. They’re going to rehearse the trepanning scene. Everyone acts even more expressionistically and hammy than before with maniacal devilish laughter etc etc. Eventually Markus halts the proceedings and says they need “a gear shift.”

Markus: Let’s make them wonder if Sherry herself has died!

Sherry lies motionless in the chair… is she dead? There’s a long pause… no she was just practicing her dead face.

Then Steve starts talking in his own voice (not the plummy accent he uses for Vince) about Daniel Day Lewis playing Hamlet and walking off stage because he thought he saw his (dead) father on the stage. And then he gives Reece a long, lingering hug, and walks off stage. There’s a moment… huh, what was that about?… and then we’re back in the fiction of the play.

Abbie tells the ensemble about the legend of Bloody Belle - she was playing the role of Suzette 100 years ago and died on this very stage. The prop drill malfunctioned and a six inch spike was drive into her brain. At this point Abbie is standing in the stalls, leaning on the stage, with the camera pointed at her. The scene is bathed in red now, and some of the faces of people in the front row can be seen (including mine during this performance, whoo)

The theatre is now haunted and if someone sees the ghost they become possessed and someone in the company dies. Sherry is appalled that no one warned her about this and storms off.

(Also the offstage tech is called Kevin - I’m guessing this changes with the name of the celebrity guest?)

Later, Sherry is backstage practicing her audition lines for Ninth Circle. Abbie comes to help her with the self tape. The big screen is used again, this time displaying the view through Abby’s camera. Sherry goes through her lines and suddenly there’s A SHAPE AND MOVEMENT in the background. Abbie freaks out and goes to investigate. They rewind the tape to see if they can spot anything. The sound design during this section is lovely and atmospheric, and reminiscent of Dead Line’s musique concrète chorus of electrical hums and sinister drones.

Abbie disappears and Sherry picks up the camera and goes offstage, down the stairs and into the bowels of the theatre. This whole bit is very Dead Line, with human-like shadows/ghostly apparitions, a POV camera with heavy breathing, and a wander through a server room with metal fences etc etc. I was half expecting Steve to scream “jumpscare!” while wearing a rubber mask. That doesn’t happen - but Sherry finds The Hat Box from earlier. It’s illuminated in a spotlight. She opens the box and inside is… the hare!

Suddenly a severed head is dropped from the rafters and lands on stage. Sherry returns, finds the head, and says “Fuck this shit! I’m not putting up with this!” The tension and the spooky atmosphere continues as Sherry protests that she’s not afraid. But suddenly… here comes Bloody Belle!

Markus’ voice comes over the PA “Well done. Great performance. No notes.”

Bloody Belle is revealed to be Abbie. Markus had cooked up a plan to scare Sherry away and force her to quit the play. Abbie says that Markus is “getting off on this,” he says yeah, this is real drama. And it’s “scarier than the actual play.” Abbie asks why doesn’t he “just stage this”?

Reece: What - a Ghost Story with a pop star in the cast? That’ll never work!

Markus thinks the social media chatter about Sherry quitting the “haunted play” will guarantee a sellout show and an extension to the summer. And he plans to recast her with a “proper actress.” Anyone in mind? Yes… Sheridan Smith!

He offers Abbie the opportunity to understudy for Madame Goudron’s ghost. “A bit of skin work… Speaking of which…”

Oh no, he’s a sleazy predator too. Markus starts stroking Abbie’s arms and suggests she comes back to his place. Abbie snaps his neck and he dies. She looks up to the box and whispers ‘thank you.’ Bloody Belle appears and lets out a shriek!

The end!

The company come out to take their bows. There’s a standing ovation. But hang on. When Reece stood up… he’s not Reece anymore? It’s some other guy in the Markus wig and costume? Huh?

Steve says he wants to apologise for walking out of the scene earlier.

Steve: As you can imagine it’s been a very difficult few days and weeks for us as a company. And for me in particular. You probably know that I recently lost my writing partner - the cheese to my crackers. But also my best friend. We’d written this play together, me and Reece. And it said so much about our love of comedy, our love of ghosts and horror stories, and I suppose the difficulty of saying goodbye to someone. So I wanted to honour him with this production. Toby stepped in, who is Reece’s understudy-

(After scattered laughter throughout the speech, there was a big laugh here as any remaining pennies dropped.)

Steve praises Toby’s performance and reveals that sometimes he looked at Toby on stage and “I just saw Reece.”

Then they project Reece’s favourite photo of himself with the text “Reece Shearsmith 1969-2025” on the LED screen

(A missed opportunity to use Paddington Bear Man Dies.)

OK NOW it’s the end.

The cast leave the stage… but the mics are still on. We can hear Steve talking with some of the cast and crew. He says he’s going back on stage to get his mic pack off. The stage manager tells him not to because they’re moving the lighting rig.

“I just need some space, alright?!” cries Steve, heading back onto the stage as the curtain comes down.

Then there’s a crash and a smash! A scream and worried cries of “Steve!” An ambulance siren…

The curtain comes up, Steve is lying on the stage with a theatre light on the ground by his head. Reece appears, all dressed in white, holding two paper cups of coffee. (Two lattes from Planet Organic?) Steve wakes up.

Reece: Here he is! I got you a coffee. Just like old times, you lying on the floor, pretending to be dead. And now you are dead.

Steve:…Toby?

Reece: No, it’s not fucking Toby!

Steve is dead because he summoned Bloody Belle, and Reece fell through the trapdoor in rehearsals and broke his neck.

(And then i was like - is this why Reece hasn’t posted on BlueSky for a while?? Committing to the bit, will he keep it going for the whole run?)

Steve: I can’t believe the twist is that you were a ghost all along!

Reece: Pathetic. Finally ran out of ideas!

Steve wonders if he’s just had a bump on the head and is hallucinating seeing Reece because he missed him so much.

Reece: Maybe. Like you said - what is a ghost but a memory? Maybe every ghost story is really just a love story.

Now they’re going to spend eternity together haunting the Wyndham’s Theatre!

They have some classic bickering banter, Reece suggests that Jason Manford could play Steve’s part in Stage/Fright. Steve isn’t happy about this but Reece snaps back “at least he’s a name! Who’ve I got? Fucking little Toby!

And they have unfinished business… Bernie Clifton’s Dressing Room. Steve cut Tears of Laughter because he couldn’t perform it without Reece.

Reece: One last stop…

Steve: It’s not a bus is it???

And then… the boys leave the stage, some beautiful scenery with painted clouds come down from the rafters, a painted number 9, tinkly chimey music plays, the rest of the ensemble cast appear dressed in white satin and sparkles and maribou. It’s like a Golden Age of Hollywood song and dance number. Reece and Steve return dressed in matching white top hats and tails, and perform a fully choreographed big band version of Tears of Laughter, with new lyrics like:

“Come and dance with us on Cloud Nine”

The other actors leave, they say they’ll leave the ghost light on for Reece and Steve so they don’t get lonely (Til Death ref?), and then it’s just the two of them left to finish the song. For the final “laughter is my memory of YOU” they point at the audience instead of each other.

And that’s REALLY the end. You have been watching… a memorial service for Inside Number 9, and a celebration of the love between Reece and Steve transcending lifetimes and planes of existence. I wish them a very happy eternity together.