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delulusionwl · 2 days ago

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♡ I See You

Pairing ── Neteyam x Fem!Omaticaya!Reader Word ── 3k Synopsis ── In which Neteyam gets jealous about the reader having a lot of suitors, as he wants her for himself. Warnings ── A jealous!Neteyam, a little bit of angry!Neteyam, Neteyam wanting to confess to Y/N but having an internal block, Possessive!Neteyam? Yandere!Neteyam?! o.O (I wasn't expecting this as I wrote it, fr) Fluffy moments ahead! Let me know if I should warn something :) A/n ── This is my first fic/imagine of Neteyam (hearts in my eyes). I saw the film a long time ago, but I never wrote an imagine for this lovely boy. But now, here I am! Let me know if you liked it <3 Images are not mine, so credit goes to the respective owners. English is not my first language!

Neteyam was irritated. Anyone who looked at him could tell he was practically steaming, his narrowed eyes glued to the ground, his firm steps carrying him somewhere far away from the clan before he did something he might regret—or something that would earn him a stern lecture (and punishment) from Jake later on.

Once again, the eldest Sully had seen Y/n being politely courted by one of the other boys in the clan. He chuckled bitterly to himself, almost scoffing. Of course, Y/n was being courted by every young Omaticaya in the hopes of making her their mate.

If this had been a few years ago, back when Neteyam wasn’t even aware of Y/n’s existence—too busy with training and missions assigned by his father—he wouldn’t have cared about her constantly being approached. But from the moment he truly noticed her, something inside him had shifted. And that something drove him to the brink of madness every time another boy approached her.

Of course, he couldn’t expect that not to happen. Y/n was, by far, the most beautiful young woman in the clan. But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t only her perfectly amber eyes, designed so flawlessly by Eywa, or her long, dark hair that seemed to reflect all of Pandora’s natural light, or even her radiant smile that adorned her small, round face so perfectly. No, it was more than just her looks, though the entire clan—especially the young Omaticaya men—had to notice those things about her, too.

Still, Neteyam was utterly jealous. And furious. He couldn’t just hide Y/n away from everyone, keep her somewhere safe where only he could see her, appreciate her, talk to her. Maybe even touch her—if he didn’t combust from the thought alone.

Every time he interacted with Y/n, Neteyam’s heart would pound harder and faster, his face would flush, and his palms would sweat. When he first started feeling this way, the Omaticaya thought he was ill and grew concerned, which drew Jake’s attention. Eventually, Neteyam couldn’t keep it to himself and told his father what was bothering him.

Jake Sully had to fight back a laugh when his eldest said he was in love—though not in those exact words. Still, Jake kept a serious face to maintain his authority. Jake liked Y/n; she was a good girl. He had practically watched her grow up, just as he’d watched Neteyam grow up. But he didn’t like how much she was distracting his son. As a final piece of advice, the patriarch told his son to focus harder on his training until he felt ready to confess his feelings.

And so, until that day came, Neteyam settled for forming a friendship with the young woman. He poured himself into his training, trying harder every day to push those feelings away.

Neytiri, on the other hand, had noticed what was happening without needing a word from Neteyam. She saw how he acted whenever Y/n was nearby during any clan gathering. She saw his reactions as he struggled to hide his emotions, forget them, and behave naturally around the girl. Neytiri liked Y/n, too. She thought the young woman was beautiful, talented, and caring. If it was Eywa’s will, she would gladly welcome Y/n as a daughter when Neteyam finally woke up and claimed her as his mate.

But Neytiri thought that day might take a while—and she hoped it wouldn’t be too late by the time Neteyam finally confessed.

“Neteyam?” Y/n’s sweet, melodic voice called from behind him, breaking through his thoughts. He kept walking, his long, purposeful strides carrying him anywhere far from the girl who occupied his mind—and who was now standing right behind him.

Neteyam didn’t stop walking, but his ears, along with the stiffness in his tail and shoulders, betrayed that he had heard Y/n and was fully aware of her presence.

Y/n was confused but decided to follow him in silence. She trailed after the boy through paths filled with lush vegetation and small animals, eventually arriving at a breathtaking view of Pandora from the heights of one of the great trees. The girl smiled at the sight but quickly turned her attention to Neteyam, noticing how he stood quietly, avoiding her gaze, seemingly trying to calm himself.

“Did something happen?” Y/n asked softly, taking a careful step closer but keeping some distance between them.

Neteyam swallowed down the words that were forming like a lump in his throat—words like: You shouldn’t be accepting courtships when I’m around. But he couldn’t hold back the frustrated sigh that escaped his lips. “It’s nothing,” he replied simply and calmly. He would never burden her with his confusion or irritation. After all, it wasn’t her fault she was so beautiful and skilled.

“Nete, it doesn’t seem like nothing,” Y/n said with a small laugh. The moment the nickname left her lips, Neteyam’s heart jumped wildly in his chest.

Still, he remained silent, his face beginning to flush as he stood there, choosing to focus on the view of Pandora. The sun was already starting to set, making way for the night.

“Well... I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have meddled…” Y/n said softly after receiving no response, her tone a little embarrassed. She had known Neteyam for years and had never wanted to be a burden to him—quite the opposite.

The Omaticaya girl had always had her eyes on the eldest Sully, the first son of Toruk Mak'to, even before they had built their friendship. Of course, her feelings weren’t tied to his status as the son of a leader but rather to Neteyam’s gentle yet strong demeanor.

His sharp, observant eyes. His posture—one that had been largely shaped by Jake Sully’s expectations, yet which Neteyam carried with a natural grace. His careful, steady way of speaking, free of judgment. And, most of all, the way he would laugh wholeheartedly whenever he had to save Lo’ak from his own troubles.

"I... I didn’t mean to bother you, Neteyam. Sorry," Y/n said, clasping her hands together. Her ears lowered softly, and her tail stopped swaying slowly from side to side.

Before she could leave, though, the Omaticaya stopped her.

"No," Neteyam said quickly, finally meeting her eyes. He straightened himself, feeling the warmth on his face intensify, spreading to his ears, neck, and soon, he was sure, his chest. Taking an almost imperceptible deep breath, he added, "You're not a bother. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to." His voice was soft, and he moved closer to the edge of the tree, sitting down and letting his long legs dangle in the air. The last thing he wanted was for Y/n to think she was a nuisance.

The girl smiled slightly at his words, a bit of her earlier energy returning. Being near Neteyam was gratifying, and she loved it. She loved talking to him, feeling close to him in any way. With gentle steps, she moved to sit beside him, admiring the view.

"This is beautiful," Y/n said, her gaze fixed on the scenery—the setting sun casting its warm hues over Pandora.

Neteyam turned his eyes to her again, mesmerized by the golden light illuminating her face, enhancing her already stunning features.

"It really is," Neteyam replied calmly, though his gaze wasn’t on the scenery but on Y/n.

As soon as she looked at him, he quickly averted his eyes, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Is Jake being hard on you with training, Nete?" Y/n tried to start a conversation. "Is that why you were so upset?"

"A little..." Neteyam replied, avoiding her gaze. He wasn’t telling the full truth, but it wasn’t entirely a lie either. Jake always seemed to expect more and more from him. "I’m just a bit tired, that’s all."

"No days off, huh?" Y/n chuckled softly through her nose. "Jake just wants you to be perfect, Nete. You’re the leader’s son, Toruk Mak’to’s son. There are a lot of expectations for you to meet."

"And that doesn’t help me at all," the boy replied, eliciting laughter from the Omaticaya beside him. Neteyam allowed himself a small smile as he listened to her laugh, watching her face light up.

"The hunting ritual is coming up..." the girl pointed out, softly swinging her legs where they hung over the edge. "Maybe Jake will let you rest after that."

"I’m not so sure about that."

A comfortable silence settled between them. Y/n turned her gaze back to the breathtaking scenery, but Neteyam’s eyes stayed fixed on her, admiring her quietly. He loved moments like this—talking to Y/n, sitting in silence with Y/n. Everything about it felt natural. Like it was meant to be.

"You... you’ll have to make a big choice," Y/n began softly, her voice tinged with hesitation. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

Neteyam didn’t entirely understand her words but chose to remain quiet. Deep down, he knew he could listen to Y/n talk for hours—even if, perhaps, he didn’t fully grasp everything she said.

"Have you already chosen?" Y/n asked timidly, her eyes finally meeting his. Neteyam hadn’t taken his gaze off her.

"Chosen?" Neteyam echoed, a little confused, snapping out of the dreamy state her presence always seemed to put him in.

"I mean... your mate, of course," Y/n clarified, her voice quieter now, tinged with embarrassment.

The truth was, Y/n was scared of his answer. If Neteyam said yes, if he already had someone in mind to share his life with, it would crush any hope she had. But even so, she needed to know.

"Mate?" Neteyam repeated, slightly stunned. Her gaze bore into him, making him straighten his posture. He swallowed hard under her careful observation of his sharp, strong features. "No... I-I haven’t," he stammered, finally looking away. His ears twitched anxiously.

The truth was that Neteyam’s heart had already answered the question for him—loudly and undeniably. The moment Y/n mentioned "mate," his thoughts returned to the hunting ritual and the decision he would have to make afterward. And his mind landed firmly on Y/n.

Because it was her. It had always been her. Y/n was the one he wanted as his mate, the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, to share every moment with.

Neteyam grew nervous as he imagined Y/n waiting for him in their shared home, arms open, ready to embrace him, kiss him, and care for him just as he would care for her. And he would do it well—he was certain of that.

A small but happy smile flickered across Y/n’s lips upon hearing Neteyam’s response that he hadn’t chosen a mate yet.

“Have you… noticed any, um, approaches?” Y/n asked softly, her voice almost a purr, knowing this was her chance and determined not to let it slip away. Not when Neteyam stirred her heart in ways no one else could. Not when she longed to hear his voice or feel close to him.

Of course, just like Y/n, Neteyam was a target of attention. The difference, however, was that Omaticaya girls weren’t as aggressive in their advances toward him. Getting close to him without at least being friends with his siblings was no easy task. And even then, finding a moment to be near him during his rare free time was nearly impossible. Yet Y/n managed it every time.

If anyone hoped to be courted by Neteyam, they had to make their feelings and intentions clear due to his limited availability and the fact that he wasn’t exactly the most expressive Na’vi. Y/n had tried to make her interest obvious around him, but the boy didn’t seem to notice.

Eywa knows how many courting gifts Y/n had carefully declined, all the while hoping to receive one from a particular Na’vi—the eldest Sully. With the hunting ritual so close, perhaps it was finally time for her to be a bit more forward in showing her interest, though still delicately. She didn’t want Neteyam to think poorly of her—not that he could, even if he tried.

“No, I haven’t noticed,” Neteyam replied truthfully to her question. The fact was, he rarely paid attention to anything outside of his parents’ demands, Lo’ak’s troubles, his siblings’ safety, and, of course, every move Y/n made.

“Well… plenty of girls would love to be courted by you,” Y/n said sweetly, letting out a soft laugh as she leaned ever so slightly toward him, her tail moving lightly along the ground. Neteyam’s ears twitched at her words, his gaze drawn to her once more. His own tail began to shift, unconsciously seeking hers.

But then, the scene from earlier crept into his mind—a boy standing close to Y/n, talking to her, laughing as if there were no tomorrow, clearly thrilled to be near her. The memory made Neteyam’s brows knit slightly together, and he found himself looking away from her.

“Yeah. From what I’ve noticed, many are courting you,” Neteyam said, trying to manage the irritation bubbling up inside him. He’d almost forgotten it, but now it had resurfaced. A new thought struck him, making him feel both nervous and uneasy. “You… have you already chosen a mate?” he asked carefully, bringing his eyes back to her.

“No,” she answered simply.

“No? Why not? You…” He cleared his throat, fidgeting slightly. “You’re an incredible girl. I’ve seen what you do for everyone in the clan. You tend to the injured, help prepare for rituals, assist mothers with their children… you’ve even helped my mother.” Neteyam’s voice grew a little shaky, his ears flicking nervously, his tail moving restlessly behind him. He vividly remembered the day Lo’ak got himself into serious trouble, forcing him, Neytiri, and Jake to go and drag his brother back. In their absence, Y/n had kept Kiri and Tuk company, distracting them with her kindness and warmth.

Y/n smiled, realizing that Neteyam had noticed something about her. The boy steadied himself before speaking again.

“Why haven’t you chosen anyone?” Neteyam asked simply, his voice low, though his eyes stayed fixed on the girl beside him.

“I’m waiting…” Y/n began in the same tone, looking deeply at him. “…for someone to make me an offer.”

Neteyam averted his gaze, assuming Y/n was talking about a specific Omaticaya in the clan. His thoughts spiraled, imagining anyone but himself in her mind—something Y/n was trying to make obvious with her intent gaze and the subtle movements of her tail inching closer to his.

“Well…” Neteyam said, trying to swallow the frustration brewing inside him over whichever lucky Na’vi had managed to catch Y/n’s eyes and heart. Maybe he’d challenge him to a duel if he found out. “It shouldn’t take long,” he said simply, still not looking at her, his earlier sour mood returning.

“It could happen now,” Y/n suggested, tilting her head slightly, attempting to catch Neteyam’s gaze.

“Now?” Neteyam asked, looking around and confirming they were still alone. There wasn’t another Omaticaya in sight that he could aim his fists at.

“Yes, now,” Y/n replied, his attention now fully on her. She fluttered her eyelashes gracefully, hoping he would understand her meaning.

“How ‘now’? It’s just us here,” he muttered, confused, though his heart skipped a beat as he caught her beautiful lashes in motion, momentarily forgetting his impulse to pummel some imaginary rival.

Y/n sighed, realizing she needed to be more direct if she wanted him to understand what she meant.

“Nete…” She swallowed hard, steeling herself for what felt like an immense challenge. She placed her hand gently over his, watching his eyes slowly widen as his ears perked up in surprise. “…I see you,” Y/n confessed intensely, her breath quickening as her heart raced uncontrollably.

Neteyam, on the other hand, was frozen in place. His wide eyes and dilated pupils were locked on the girl in front of him, his body entirely still as he processed her words.

“It’s true that I was waiting for something from you,” the girl began, embarrassed, avoiding his gaze. “But... you don’t have to feel pressured by me. I know you’ll have other great options for a mate.” She let out a small, almost bitter laugh.

The Omaticaya boy snapped out of his stupor, blinking several times in quick succession, his pupils dilating greatly, his heart racing faster than ever before. As soon as Y/n pulled her hand from his, Neteyam quickly but gently grasped it, not wanting to startle her.

“Y/n,” the boy called softly, still surprised by her words. She wanted to be courted by him.

Even though Neteyam was consumed with happiness, staring at her intensely, the words were stuck in his throat. He wanted to say “I see you” like he had imagined so many times, but with his heart pounding and his shock overwhelming him, he could only open his lips several times, struggling to find the right words.

Y/n looked at him shyly, waiting for him to say something, while the boy still held her hand gently, preventing her from going anywhere. He traced her soft skin with his thumb, his gaze still locked on her, hoping she would understand him without words, because he certainly would stutter if he started to confess.

The girl looked down at their hands joined softly, gripping Neteyam’s hand firmly, but soon she lifted her gaze back to him, watching him swallow hard.

“Do you feel the same?” Y/n asked quietly, leaning in slightly, and the only thing Neteyam could do was nod—quickly, almost too fast, which made her smile even wider.

Even with his heart practically on fire, the boy swallowed hard and tightened his grip on the young woman beside him.

“Y/n, I see you,” Neteyam said as if making a promise, though it was whispered, it was intense. It was clear that his chest was rising and falling quickly, with a brief flush of purple creeping up his face, his ears, slowly descending to his neck.

Y/n smiled wider, the same color beginning to tint her cheeks. With her beautiful smile, Neteyam returned a smaller one, still immersed in emotions. His skin was showing his anxiety and mild embarrassment, and his palm was starting to grow warmer than usual.

The boy pulled back slightly from the girl, still looking at her, her eyes locked on him with curiosity. Neteyam began to undo one of his bracelets, tightly fastened to his forearm, and once the accessory was removed, he looked at Y/n with expectation.

The girl let out a happy sound, lifting her left forearm to Neteyam, who, with slightly trembling fingers, began to fasten the bracelet onto her. Now, anyone who saw Y/n wearing the accessory would immediately know that she was promised to Neteyam, as the Omaticaya wore the matching pair on his right forearm.

"In the hunting ritual..." Neteyam began softly as he adjusted the bracelet on Y/n. "I will bring the largest animal I find for the clan. And after that, I will come to you and ask if you would choose me as your mate in front of everyone." He continued, his voice still quiet, a little embarrassed but happy, watching the bracelet settle perfectly on the girl. "This is my first courting gift. But please, don't worry, I will give you more gifts so you can adorn yourself with them until the ritual. And also, after it." The boy smiled at her, making the girl laugh too, filled with happiness.

"And I will make your adornments," Y/n replied, thinking of the accessories she had already made for Neteyam, but never had the courage to gift him. However, from now on, she saw no problem in doing so.

The Omaticaya boy smiled at her, gently bringing their foreheads together, and she responded without hesitation, closing her eyes in delight and happiness. Neteyam turned his gaze back to the landscape in front of them, feeling Y/n settle close to his body, resting her head between his neck and shoulder. He accepted her presence gladly, holding her close as they both silently admired the beautiful, dusk-lit landscape of Pandora, content in their mutual affection.

With Neteyam holding the girl firmly and gently beside him, his tail swayed slightly, finding hers, and they wasted no time in intertwining them, causing both to share small, happy laughs. And behind the couple, Atokirinas—the seeds of the Tree of Life—floated softly, undisturbed, as the young pair embraced in front of Pandora's giant moon.

#delulusionwl #avatar the way of water #neteyam #neteyam x reader #neteyam sully #x reader #avatar 2 #avatar twow #avatar #neteyam x y/n #neteyam x you

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pedropascallme · 6 hours ago

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Teach Me Something

Pairing: König x f!Reader

Summary: “But the thermal wear was tight, hugging your body and intensifying your silhouette. Maybe it could be considered sexy; maybe part of you hoped that König would think so.”

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) p in v sex, fingering, oral (m & f receiving), face fucking, forced proximity, size kink, mentions of overstimulation, use of honorifics (“Colonel”) in a sexual scenario, dom/sub dynamics, dom!König but he's pathetically needy, rough sex, dirty talk (a lot of it is in German), creampie, implication of cumplay, if I missed anything please let me know!!

AN: One bed trope CAUSE I CAN. Also I don't speak German, so if you do speak German and this sounds like absolute gibberish to you, I'm sorry in advance <3

What had seemed like a promising respite from such a drawn-out mission had swiftly proven to be less than liberating and more of a tease.

On the outside, the safehouse looked like a cabin out of a Christmas movie—something cheesy and re-watchable that you might put on around the holidays as background noise. Sturdy, light wood, powdered with snow.

It didn't look out of place in the forested locale, and anybody passing through would likely think it was a fixture of the area; a quaint vacation home to a little nuclear family.

But on the inside, it was absolutely barebones, and that was putting it lightly.

A raw sort of cold crept in through cracks, and the breeze inched over the thick layers of dust on every surface. It looked like you and König would be the first people to use it in months, if not years.

The chill was uncomfortable, and while the fireplace would've been a delightful way to quell the chatter of your teeth, you knew you couldn't use it—smoke from the chimney could alert anybody of your whereabouts, and the last thing you wanted right now was more practice in self-defense.

There was a small armchair pushed into one corner, and the green velvet faded on the back to reveal frayed weaving. One single bed was pushed to the far side of the tiny room, seemingly frozen in time, and you wondered if the blankets would even peel back from the mattress.

The only source of light was a standing lamp, and when you yanked the cord, it flickered piteously.

Instructions had been clear, and you knew you'd only be here for a night before you had to keep moving, but you couldn't help but huff at the state of the cabin when you had spent all day on the move.

König walked in behind you with a huff; he hated snow, and he abhorred waiting in a safehouse like a sitting duck all the more.

“Mein Gott…” He shook his head, shivering dramatically.

“It’s just a little snow, Colonel.”

You could’ve laughed at the display. You knew he was overreacting; he tended to, and a man of his size couldn’t get cold very easily.

“We will freeze before evacuation, maus.” He grumbled, closing the door with a grunt.

“You’ll live.” You cooed, smiling.

You wouldn't go as far as calling him your friend, but König was certainly a welcome presence despite his intimidating demeanor. He was clever, and an effective soldier; a generally amiable person when he was in the right mood.

And it helped that he was nice to look at.

You appreciated that he actually spoke during operations. Some people—especially superior officers, you'd found—preferred to stay stoic and silent, even at the best of times. But König was chatty, in his own right.

It was clear that he liked the sound of his own voice, but you didn't mind; he could be funny, a refreshing source of entertainment on and off the field. His thick accent and less than stellar pronunciations often led to even more amusement in conversations with him.

He never spoke about himself—you didn't even think König was his real name; you knew it probably wasn’t. But it was the name he responded to, and it was the one you mumbled when thoughts of him forced their way to the front of your mind as you pressed down just right on your clit.

You made your way to the derelict bed, unhooking your chest rig and tossing it onto the mattress. You half expected the frame to collapse, but it was a pleasant surprise when all you got was a quiet squeak from the bedsprings.

“What are you doing?” König watched intently as you lay your belongings out.

“Putting my stuff down.” You looked at him over your shoulder, quirking a brow.

“On the bed.” He was just voicing what he saw, but you knew he had ulterior motives.

“Didn’t see your name on it,” you turned to face him properly, eying him where he leaned against the door. “Take the chair.” You nodded at the armchair in the opposite corner of the room.

König scoffed softly.

“You are joking?”

“Or you could take the floor,” you couldn’t help but smile; you enjoyed riling him up. “Plenty of room for you to stretch out.”

He shook his head, and you watched his eyes narrow behind the mask.

“No. You are smaller than me. You sleep in the chair; I have the bed.” He said it with a sense of finality, reminding you that he was, in fact, in charge.

“That’s not fair.” You argued, crossing your arms.

“You wanted me to sleep on the floor,” he pushed himself off the wall and took a step closer to you, “I am being kind.”

“You’re not,” you scowled, “Not at all gentlemanly, either.”

He chuckled, tilting his head to the side.

“If you will make such a fuss, we will sleep in the bed together, Kleine.”

“Seriously?” You balked at his words, caught off guard.

“Is it a bad idea?” It was almost as if he was goading you; toeing the line to see if you’d agree or if you’d back down.

It wasn’t uncharacteristic of him; he enjoyed teasing you as much as you enjoyed teasing him. He liked to see how hard he could push you when you were deployed together. It brought him a sort of contentment to see you squirm.

It was innocent, as far as you were concerned, and he knew he had the power to do it.

“No…” you decided not to bow to his prodding. “I just—are we allowed to…I mean, I’m fine with it, if you’re fine with it.”

You practically scoffed, uncrossing your arms and gesturing vaguely.

“I just…yeah. No—yeah, that’s a—…let’s just share,” you nodded, trying to reason aloud as you made your decision. “Better for…body heat.”

He nodded, and you were certain he was smiling beneath his mask.

You grabbed your chest rig from the bed and tossed it onto the armchair. Slowly, you began peeling off your kit. The thermal under layer of your uniform was perfect for sleep, and you weren’t about to crawl into bed with the military-grade fabric still on.

But the thermal wear was tight, hugging your body and intensifying your silhouette. Maybe it could be considered sexy; maybe part of you hoped that König would think so.

You shoved your clothes onto the chair with your chest rig, turning back to face the bed.

König had already prepared himself for bed, and you were nearly startled when you looked up to see his mask gone.

It was a rarity; he wore it 90% of the time, probably more as an intimidation tactic, but you also assumed it was a comfort thing.

The more shocking revelation was that he’d stripped down completely, forgoing even the thermals, as he sat on the edge of the bed in just his boxers.

“Not gonna get cold?” You quirked a brow, not at all unsatisfied by the unobstructed view of his form, but still a bit taken aback.

“It is nice in here,” he sighed, rolling his shoulders before rubbing a hand over his chest. “And your body will be warm.”

His phrasing made you roll your eyes, but you smiled just a little.

“Alright, Colonel,” you shook your head, “Sure.”

You ambled over to the bed, pulling the blanket back and frowning when you realized how thin the material was. But you situated yourself beneath it all the same, lying on your side and eager to curl up and allow yourself to get some rest.

When König maneuvered himself beneath the blanket next to you, you threw a look over your shoulder at him.

“No funny shit,” you glared, though it was playful, “Hands to yourself, or I’ll cut them off.”

König laughed lightly, folding his arms over his chest.

“I will not touch you, Kleine.” He was amused by your threat, but humored you.

“Good answer.” You settled back onto your side.

You found yourself unable to relax.

The room hadn’t warmed up in the short time you’d been inside, and you couldn’t seem to garner the warmth to get comfortable enough to fall asleep. The thermal clothing wasn’t doing much, and the wind howling against the wood of the cabin put you on edge.

If you were less proud, you might have pushed yourself up against König in search of warmth and comfort. Instead, you let yourself continue to shiver, huffing softly.

But your exasperated sigh turned into more of a stunned gasp when you felt König reach out for you, tugging you into him until your back pressed against his chest.

“Said hands to yourself.” You mumbled, though the relief was immediate. The warmth of his body permeated the thermal shirt you donned and sept into your skin.

“Sh,” he splayed his hand against your stomach. “Dir ist kalt.”

“I’m not cold. I’m…” You tried to think of a valid argument, “I’m not cold.”

He grunted, a wordless response of disbelief.

The room fell quiet again, and you stayed pressed against his body. Part of you was tempted to grab his hand, lace your fingers with his and lean into the situation. But you stayed still and just appreciated the position you’d been pulled into.

“You understand me often now,” König’s voice broke through the silence. “You did not know German like this before.”

“Hard not to pick up on bits and pieces,” you were whispering, but you weren’t sure why. “Most of what you say over comms is German.”

“You are learning, maus,” he seemed pleased, his thumb brushing over your stomach. “Tell me.”

“I know that maus means mouse,” your voice picked up a bit, eager to share the small amount of German you had learned. “Was war das means what was that. Schnell is quickly, ich weiß is I know.”

You paused, thinking for a moment before you continued.

“Verdammt is damn it, and geh zum Teufel means go to hell. I think.”

He let out a small laugh behind you, and you felt his chest move against your back.

“Gut.” Though you couldn’t see it, you could hear the motion of his head against the pillow as he nodded.

You found the confidence to turn over, adjusting yourself enough to face him while staying pressed to his chest.

“Will you teach me more?” You asked, sincerely curious about the other phrases you'd heard him use.

He smiled. “What do you want to know, maus?”

“Will you…” you smirked, thinking, “Will you teach me more curses?”

“Girl after my heart,” he chuckled, running his hand over your back in an oddly docile gesture. “Ja, I will show you.”

He thought for a moment, squinting into the dark of the room as he considered where to begin.

“Em…to call someone’s mother a whore: huresohn.”

“Starting strong.” You laughed, chancing a glance at him.

“There are no weak curses in German.” He smiled down at you. “Scheiße is shit.”

“I know that one.” You yawned, placing an open palm on his chest.

“Fine, then, you are so proud of your skill; Weißt du was Schlampe ist?” He quirked a brow at you, smug.

“You’re going too fast—” you complained, pushing against his chest. “Do I know what what is?”

“Keep up, Kleine.”

“Kleine means small.”

“No—” He furrowed his brow, “Ja, it does, but also ‘little one.’”

You paused, looking up at him again.

“Little one?” You asked, echoing his words.

“Ja.” He nodded, sighing softly.

“Colonel, when you say things like that, I’m almost convinced you have a soft spot for me.” You smiled, putting your other hand on his chest and playfully pushing against him a bit harder.

“Vielleicht,” he moved to place his free hand over one of yours as you pushed him. “Ja.”

There was a pause, both of you taking a moment to stew in the silence and the feeling of each other.

“König…” You were whispering again, staring at how his hand dwarfed your own.

He looked down at you expectantly.

“I have—…I want to know one more thing.” You shuffled up the bed slightly, trying to position yourself to match his eyeline.

“Ok,” he nodded, now moving his hand to toy with a loose strand of your hair. “What?”

“How do you say…”

You could feel yourself shiver, but it had nothing to do with the cold, which you had long forgotten. You worried about overstepping, about saying the wrong thing and making the situation awkward and uncomfortable.

“How do you ask someone to—to kiss you?” You asked anyway.

You saw a flash of something in his eyes.

He paused, tucking your hair behind your ear and letting his fingers trace down your jawline until he could hook a finger under your chin.

“Küss mich.” He scanned your features, watching for a response.

“Küss mich…” You stared back at him, your lips parted.

You felt dazed, but it wasn’t unwelcome; there was a heat in your lower stomach, and it grew with every twitch of his fingers against your skin and with every word he spoke.

“Braves Mädchen.” His words were muttered as he leaned into you, capturing your lips with his and kissing you.

You squeaked, clawing at his chest before slowly reaching around him to pull him closer by the nape of his neck. You could feel his pulse, the quick thrum of his heart pushing against his skin almost as intensely as your own.

The kiss was covetous. He wasted no time pushing his tongue into your mouth, eager to taste every part of you; and you were eager to let him. You cupped the back of his head, pulling him into you, and he perched his hands on your waist, manipulating your body slowly until you were on top of him.

The position was awkward, but you could hardly notice when you were so focused on him. His touch was so warm, and you felt yourself melting beneath his palms; your skin was on fire, but it was a happily received blaze.

The chill of the room that had crept into your bones was long gone, replaced by the heat of his grip on your body.

You trailed your hands over him, taking in the feel of his skin beneath your fingertips. He was so large, muscular in a comforting way, and you whimpered softly against his lips when he gave your hip a squeeze.

“So long,” König mumbled against your jaw, “Have waited so long.”

“For this?” You breathed, closing your eyes and losing yourself in the way his hands trailed over you.

“For you.” He growled, pressing kisses to your throat.

You giggled at the feeling, his lips tickling your pulse point, but he didn’t stop—if anything, it just spurred him on.

“Liebling,” he spoke against the sensitive skin of your neck, “Meine Kleine. Do you know how you tease?”

“I d—I don’t tease, Colonel.” You moaned when he sucked a bruise into your neck.

“You are doing it now,” he tsked, “Telling me no hands—if that is what you want, shall I stop, ja?”

“No...” You whined; the thought of him removing himself from you now was deeply upsetting.

König huffed a laugh against your throat, straightening back up to meet your gaze again.

“Always teasing,” he reiterated as he brought his hand to your face, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. “In these silly clothes when I invite you to bed with me.”

“Off—” Your plea came out rushed and unfinished, “Take them off, then.”

He laughed louder now, pleased by your zeal.

��Greedy maus,” he ran his thumb over your cheek, “Move, then—I will help.”

You scrambled to push yourself off of him, sitting up and waiting to see what he’d do—whether you’d be faced with further instructions, or if he’d simply take the opportunity to strip you as you’d asked him to.

He sat up with you, studying you as you clamored to kneel next to him on the mattress.

“Come.” He beckoned you, and you shuffled forward until your face was mere inches from his.

He caressed your sides, and despite the gentle, chaste nature of the touch, you whimpered softly. König curled his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head slowly—almost teasingly, as he exposed your top half.

It wasn’t out of any urge to taunt you, he was just so thrilled to be able to see you bare yourself to him; to scan every inch of your flesh.

He tossed the shirt to the side, and you made a mental note to grab it later so you didn’t leave without it.

“Back,” he instructed, pressing on your shoulder to encourage you to lie down, and you obliged happily. “Raise your hips, Kleine.”

You pushed yourself off the mattress awkwardly, trying to give him the space he needed to strip you of the final bits of fabric.

He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your thermals, huffing impatiently when he realized that you had underwear on beneath the thermal layer. But he chuckled as he peeled both articles of clothing down your legs, and you let out a quiet gasp as the cool air of the room hit your core.

“So eager,” he tutted, tossing your bottoms in the same direction he’d thrown your top. “Just a touch. You are so easy to please.”

“Shut up…” You muttered, turning your head to the side to hide your satisfaction.

He grunted, bringing his hand to your face and squeezing your cheeks as he moved your head to look up at him again.

“Cruel girl—this is no way to talk to your Colonel.” The cold blue of his eyes somehow seemed to turn red hot; demanding and predatory.

“König—” you stuttered, “Colonel. Please.”

“What would you like, Kleine?” He kept his hand on your face, enjoying the way his palm swallowed you. “Be honest.”

“Fuck me,” you breathed, “Want you to fuck me.”

Upon hearing your words, he laughed, removing his hand from your face and trailing it over your exposed breasts.

“Fuck you? Already?” He kneaded the plush flesh of your chest. “We will be here all night, meine Liebe—I want to enjoy you.”

“Now you’re teasing.” You whined, arching your body into his touch.

“No,” he shook his head with a smirk, his eyes never leaving your chest as he groped you. “I will make you feel nice.”

With that, he leaned over you. His tongue followed a messy trail over your tits; circling your nipples before pressing his lips against the pillowy skin to suck deep marks into you. He treated it like a game—a meal, even, as he nipped at you, learning and memorizing what would make you squirm beneath him.

When he grazed his teeth over your nipple, you let out a sharp moan, reaching down to press his face further into your chest.

“No hands.” He mumbled into your skin, and you sighed dreamily.

“Think we’re past that…” You let your other hand wander over his shoulder blade.

“We are not,” he pushed himself off of you, forcing your hands away as he rose. He found enough balance to grab both your wrists, pressing them into the pillow on either side of your head. “You must listen when I say these things, Kleine.”

You whimpered, nodding an affirmative.

“Do you understand?” He looked down at you, “You will tell me. Speak.”

“Yes,” you nodded again, swallowing. “I understand, Colonel.”

He let go of your wrists, and his chest heaved; with lust or pride, you couldn’t tell, but it was likely a combination of both.

As he pushed himself down the bed, he couldn’t seem to separate himself from your body; pressing his face, his lips, into your skin; murmuring against you as if he wanted your bones to hear the filth that fell from his mouth.

“Such a pretty girl,” he mouthed just beneath your navel, “Finally behaved.”

You bucked your hips, trying to encourage him to bring his mouth down to where you needed it most. But he bypassed your cunt completely, situating himself between your legs and biting at your thighs, only eyeing your core.

“Maus…” He sighed the petname, pressing kisses to your inner thigh before finally releasing his grasp on your leg. “So wet from kisses?”

He leaned forward, as if to drown his senses in you; your scent and your image, he wanted to appreciate it fully.

“Pathetic, a bit, mm?” He swiped a finger through your folds, collecting your slick, and you whimpered. “So desperate, to drip like this…”

“König,” you were whispering, afraid to warp the charged atmosphere. “You can do anything; just do something.”

He laughed at that, basking in the pleas you directed towards him as he removed his hand from your cunt and pressed a kiss to your clit.

“Schlampe.”

He buried his face against you, pushing his tongue into your entrance and lapping up the slick that dripped from your core.

You moaned, raising your hips off the mattress in an effort to find even more friction. König pressed down on your hips, effectively pinning you to the bed; holding you captive with his grasp and the movement of his mouth.

“Sweet engel,” he moaned against your cunt, “You taste like heaven, Kleine.”

“Fuck—” His actions were one thing, but his words hit you hard; it felt like forever since you’d been with someone who showed so much enthusiasm.

His gruff moans as he lapped you up only served to push you further towards the precipice of total pleasure, and you could feel yourself teetering over the edge already.

“You are so excited, Liebling,” König groaned bringing a hand up to press two thick fingers against your entrance. “Wetting my face this way, but still too tight for my hand.”

He began to nudge your hole, letting his fingers circle your entrance before sinking into you. He went as far as the first knuckle before stopping.

“Scheiße,” he cursed as he watched your cunt struggle around his fingers, “How will you take my cock, Kleine?”

You whimpered at the way his fingers stretched you; penetrating you shallowly, but enough to make you feel so full.

“You can—I’ll—I can take it,” you stammered, “Please, Colonel, make me take it.”

“Bitte…” König’s moan neared a whimper, pushing his fingers deeper into you. He bucked his hips against the mattress in response to your words and the filthy squelch of your cunt around his hand. “Whatever it is you want, maus, I will do for you.”

“More,” you begged softly, “Want more.”

He smirked, more to himself than to you, and continued his ministrations.

He wrapped his lips around your clit, flicking his tongue over you as he fucked you with his fingers. Whenever he heard you let out a soft gasp, he increased his pace.

“Probably one more can fit,” he spoke against your pubic mound, his lips finding purchase on your body again and exploring more of you with his tongue as he threatened your entrance with another finger. “Ja, Kleine?”

“Yes—another one.” You were so hot, maybe even sweating as he worked you open, but the flush of your skin did nothing to discourage you from whimpering for his hand.

He pushed a third finger into you, and the stretch made your body contort; your back arched and your legs tensed. The pads of his fingers danced over your most delicate spot as he thrust them in and out of you.

The pressure in your abdomen was immense, but damn, if it didn’t feel amazing.

And he was thrilled by you. Every sound you made and every clench of your walls around him made König feel lightheaded, grinding himself down against the bed just for a moment of relief; imagining the pure bliss that would be getting to bury himself inside of you.

He could feel his boxers growing damp, the tip of his cock crying for you, just as you cried out for him.

“Little thing, so tight,” he was moaning, his sounds almost as eager as your own as he lay his head on your thigh to watch his fingers work you open. “Verdammt, Schatz—bitte, bitte, cum on my hand like this.”

He dipped his head down to lick the slick that coated his fingers, gradually moving his tongue so that it dragged over his fingers and up to your clit. He sucked the bud between his lips, and you white-knuckled the pillow beneath your head with both hands, the pleasure overwhelming to the point that it was almost too much.

You came with a cry of his name, just as you always did; but this time he was there with you to hear it; this time he was the one manipulating you to feel the rush of ecstasy.

“Hübsche Hure…” König continued to push his fingers in and out of you, determined to push you to the brink and see just how much you could take as your legs trembled from the overstimulation. “So good for your Colonel. So good to let me prepare you.”

You keened under his praise, your eyelids heavy. When he removed his fingers from you, you regained your senses as the pleasure that had wound itself so tightly around your muscles began to dissipate, leaving you in a hazy state of fucked-out bliss and feeling empty.

You reached down to brush your knuckles over his cheek, and he closed his eyes when your hand made contact with him, still resting on your thigh.

“You will look so pretty wrapped around me, Liebling.” He murmured, turning his face and kissing your hand.

He’d seemed to have forgotten about his previous request that you keep your hands to yourself—that, or he was too drunk off of you to care, content with the domestic gesture of your fingers trailing over his skin.

“Show me,” you whispered, the dull ache his fingers had left in your core swelled at his words, and you found yourself squeezing your thighs together in anticipation. “I want more.”

“Eine Schlampe tut es immer,” he muttered. He moved to lick up your thigh, savoring the slick that had gathered there to make your skin shiny and syrupy. “You will stay like that.”

You nodded, watching him perch himself on the edge of the bed before he stood.

You almost felt like you should avert your gaze; he fiddled with the waistband of his boxers, and you noticed the slick spot on the fabric that highlighted his need for you. It flooded you with a new wave of arousal—to want and to be wanted was such a tremendous thing.

But it was when he removed his boxers that you felt your breath hitch, eyes widening slightly in an almost comic way before you turned your head to stare up at the ceiling.

You had figured his mentions of readying you were just rooted in König being typically boastful. But the image of his cock, hard and weeping and big, as it sprung free from the confines of his boxers made you recognize that his preparatory measures were warranted.

Your mouth watered, but you maintained your gaze on the ceiling.

“Look,” König approached the edge of the bed, “Look at me, Kleine.”

You didn’t really need to be told twice, shifting onto your side to admire him; big might’ve been an understatement, and your lips parted as you lay still, just staring.

“Touch.” The harshness in his voice as he delivered the command was undercut by the tender way he reached for your hand and guided it to his cock.

You wrapped your fingers around the base, and König let out a short sound of approval. It made you feel powerful, to have a man like him by the cock, to be forcing such sweet noises up from his chest.

But mostly it just made you want even more.

“Bitte,” he bucked his hips leisurely into your hand, your dry palm creating the friction he’d been chasing, “Your mouth, engel. Taste.”

You hummed at his request, leaning forward to lick circles over the head of his cock. The sound that came from his throat was choked, stifled as best he could manage when you took the tip beyond your lips and hollowed your cheeks.

“Oh—Gott,” he tilted his head back, eyes closing as he relished the way you wrapped your lips around him. “Perfekter kleiner mund.”

You couldn’t tell exactly what he was saying, but you knew enough to know that he liked what you were doing, and it spurred you on.

You leaned further into him, trying your best to take more of him into your mouth and down your throat. A bit less than halfway down his shaft, you found yourself gagging; spluttering around him as you jerked the rest of his length in your hand. He grunted out a curse, bringing a hand to your hair and tugging gently at your roots.

“Very nice, maus,” he groaned when you glanced up at him, lips still wrapped around his cock, choking on him. “Take it deeper.”

You lifted yourself off of him, drooling.

“Too much…” You croaked out, “Too—too big. I can’t.”

It felt so conformist to say; expected, like an actress in a porno, faking it for the camera. And despite the fact that the words that left your mouth seemed almost cringeworthy, what you said was true: there was no way you'd be able to manage taking all of him.

But you loved a challenge.

“I was not asking,” he tsked, tightening his grip on your hair and earning a moan that traveled from your mouth in a breathy puff. “Put your mouth back. I will help.”

You whimpered, rubbing your thighs together as you lowered yourself back onto his cock and wrapped your lips around him. His authoritative nature on the field was always more attractive than it should’ve been, but this took the cake.

König fucked into your mouth like it was a toy, guiding you up and down over his cock, using your hair like a handle as he pulled you over his length.

You choked, spit and tears mingling on your face and dripping down his length, and he seemed to enjoy the sight as much as you enjoyed the feeling; his moans grew louder, the image of you helpless under his grasp getting him off in equal measure as the feeling of your mouth on his stiff cock.

He pulled you off abruptly, removing his grip from your hair and trailing his hand from behind your head to perch on your cheek. He wiped stray tears from your face with his thumb.

“I will cum if we keep playing this way, Kleine,” he panted, “And I would rather fill your cunt.”

You moaned wantonly at his words alone; he spoke so plainly, clear about his intentions, and you whimpered at the notion of having him spill inside of you.

“Fuck me, then,” you sighed, using the back of your hand to wipe your mouth. You took on a playful cadence, “Don’t keep me waiting, König.”

“Not waiting,” he shook his head, grabbing you by the chin and forcing your eyes on him. “Preparing.”

“Show me what you were preparing me for, Colonel.” You smirked, watching his face contort in arousal and a smug sense of assuredness.

He didn’t hesitate to climb onto the bed and hover over you, pressing a kiss to your chest just above your breasts before settling between your legs.

“You are impatient,” he muttered, “I only wanted to make you comfortable, Liebling.”

He held your hip in a vice grip, tugging you down the bed a bit to line himself up with you.

“No complaints when you are given what you have begged for.” He looked down at you, under obvious strain from his desire; his eyes had grown shadowy to the point of turning gray in the dim light of the room.

He ran his cockhead through your folds, grunting at the feeling of your slick mingling with the spit you had left coating his cock. He pushed his hips further, breaching your entrance with a groan.

Your hips moved on their own accord, rising to meet him, as you mewled.

“Ja, gut,” he moaned, “You need more—you need it all.” König kept his eyes glued on your cunt, watching his cock disappear into you.

He was growing impatient, sinking into you slowly had him gritting his teeth and breathing hard. You, too, felt restless at the pace; you could feel the stretch so viscerally, the pressure of his cock against your walls, the pain that faded into pleasure, and you craved more—you craved everything he had to give you. All of it.

“König,” you whined beneath him, squirming slightly, “Give it to me—I won’t break.”

“And if I want you to?” He queried, his voice low and wolfish.

You whimpered. It wasn’t often you felt vulnerable; guns strapped to your hip and a legion of other soldiers behind you. But now you felt exposed, prey waiting for the final act, and you relished in it.

“Do it.” You begged, waiting to see what he would do with the permission you gave him.

You didn’t have to wait long; König thrust his hips forward until they pressed against your own. He bottomed out with a whine, knocking the air from your lungs.

You cried out, full and stretched in such a foreign way. But you wrapped your legs around his hips as you writhed beneath him, locked in a battle with your pleasure.

“So tight,” he was panting, whimpering; six-foot-ten and easily 200 pounds heavier than you, and all it took for König to completely lose his edge was the feeling of your cunt wrapped so deliciously around him. “You—Scheiße, you are swollen with me.”

He traced a hand over your stomach, pressing against the bulge his cock produced, and you moaned at the sinful gesture.

He was just as overcome with lust, entranced by the image of your body squeezing around him, opening for him like a toy. He seemed so content to simply look and feel for a moment, but you grew impatient.

“König…” You pressed your heel against his back, trying to express your urgent need for him to move, to speak—to do anything that would let the pleasure spring free from the coil that had begun to tighten itself so harshly in your abdomen.

He swallowed, nodding in a manner that made it seem as though your words had brought him back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, hesitant to leave the warmth of your cunt, and you whimpered; you could feel every vein, and the round head of his cock dragged against your walls to further overstimulate your core. You bucked your hips, chasing the feeling.

“Oh, meine Liebling,” he shuddered, “Du willst es verdammt nochmal, eh?” He rumbled, drawing his hips back until the tip of his cock just barely penetrated you. “I will give it to you, Kleine.”

He pushed himself back into you just as harshly as he had the first time, and again you screamed for him, grabbing at his forearms and clawing at his skin in an attempt to ground yourself before the bliss became too much for you to handle.

“You want to break?” He muttered in your ear, his labored breaths fanning the side of your face, “Then you will break.”

“It—oh my god, König, please—” You pushed your head back against the pillows, angling your body closer to his to allow him free reign over you. “Fuck, it’s so much—so fucking—please.”

“Was willst du, Kleine?” He cooed, licking over of your collar bone, “You would like more?”

“M—more,” you managed, “Yes. More.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, groaning at your stammered pleas, and he was more than willing to deliver.

He straightened up, grabbing you by the hips and practically hauling your bottom half up like you were a ragdoll; you whined, loosening your legs around his waist as he was clearly able to support you on his own.

He fucked into you like a toy, like your body was for him and him alone to use in whatever manner pleased him, and you relished in the control he exhibited over you.

“Tiefer,” he grit his teeth as he forced himself into you roughly, “You are easy to use this way, schlampe—so beautiful. Take all of my cock, engel, be good for your Colonel.”

You couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone a verbal reply. You stared up at him with lust-blown eyes, expressing your feelings through heady moans as he pushed the air from you.

You couldn’t help the way your hand meandered from its spot beside your head, leaving its home in the fabric of the pillow to trail down your body so that you could brush your fingers over your clit while König ravished you. You just needed that little push, the outer stimulation to match what he offered you, so that you could free-fall into satisfaction.

And perhaps he’d changed his mind about disallowing you to touch—he hadn’t disputed the way you’d grabbed at his arms when he’d sunk into you. Besides, he seemed too focused on your cunt to worry about any previous demands. Either way, there was only one sure-fire method to find out.

But König wasn’t pleased by the initiative you took. He dropped you, pressing one hand roughly against your hip bone to keep you still as his other hand flew to your wrist.

You yelped at the suddenness, but you’d be lying if you said it hadn’t been the reaction you’d wanted.

He stared, almost in shock, at your hand, your fingers still grazing your clit, before practically throwing your arm back to your side and leaning over you, looming.

“No hands,” he pressed his body against yours, engulfing you, “You have not listened, Kleine.” He thrust shallowly into you, not able to stop himself from appreciating the way you felt on his cock despite his urgency in chastising you.

“I thought—” you searched for an excuse, “Thought you wouldn’t mind.”

He chuckled lowly, glaring in a manner that seemed to border on tender.

“I think you are lying,” he accused, “I think you enjoy being treated like this. You are testing me, schlampe.”

You let out a shaky, needy breath in response to his assertion.

“I’m sorry, Colonel.” You mewled, moving to clasp your hands behind your head in an attempt to show him you had seen the error of your ways.

“I do not want your apology,” he grunted, his thrusts increasing in pace suddenly as he planted his hands on either side of you. “I want your pleasure.” He smiled down at you, leering at the way your face contorted in tandem with the way your body contorted to allow the intrusion of his cock. “I would like to feel it.”

He moved to rest on one forearm above you, his free arm snaking between your bodies to replace your hand with his own on your clit.

His fingers were so much bigger than yours, and he was somewhat clumsy as he rubbed circles over you. But the pressure was exquisite all the same, and he pulled new sounds from you that rose from your chest in appreciation of the friction he was granting you.

“Bitte,” he had once again begun speaking through whines, “Bitte, meine Liebe, let me feel how your cunt squeezes. Wet me with your cum—bitte.”

His broken requests, intercut with guttural grunts and whimpered groans, flooded you with heat. He pressed down on your clit right as he pushed his cock deep into you, lifting his hips upward to create an angle that allowed him to press against your most delicate spot.

You tried to stifle the sound that flew from your throat, and found yourself screaming silently into the room as you came.

“O—oh, bitte,” König’s hips stuttered against you, his head falling back as he reeled from the impact your orgasm had on him. “Ja, I—oh, bitte, bitte—”

He let himself fall forward, crushing you under his frame—though the weight of his body was comforting as you trembled through the aftershocks of your high. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, moaning wantonly as he approached his own release.

“Engel, meine Kleine—perfektes Mädchen,” he was only partially coherent as he licked a stripe up your throat. “I—I will fill you, ja? Bitte, would you let me fill you this way?”

“Please, König,” you breathed, overjoyed by the promise of being able to feel his cum leak from your spent cunt. “Cum in me, I want it—I want it, Colonel, please.”

He growled, reaching his tipping point upon hearing your words, beautiful sounds of approval falling from your lips as you expressed your eagerness at the prospect of him finishing inside your perfect cunt.

He came with a loud moan, guttural and sourced from his chest; his hips stuttered erratically against you as he let your cunt milk him.

You whimpered beneath him, accepting the warmth of his spend as it painted your walls.

He stayed on top of you, both of you taking a moment to recalibrate and catch your breath. When your pulse settled, you took the chance and wrapped an arm around him, trailing your fingers in vague patterns over his shoulder blade.

“König,” you whispered, voice hoarse, “You’re a great Colonel, but you’re a fantastic lay.”

He rested his chin on your chest, staring up at you. He seemed to translate your words at a much slower speed than he normally would.

He shot you a smug look when it finally clicked.

“I am glad I meet your standards,” he sighed, pressing his cheek into your skin and letting the sweat that beaded over you cool his face. “Are you tired, maus?”

“Yeah.” You couldn’t have lied even if you wanted to; your muscles felt loose, and your body sunk into the suddenly cozy mattress.

“Sleep.” He shuffled down your body, maneuvering one of your legs over his shoulders and slotting his face between your thighs.

“What are you doing?” You smiled down at him, and he looked back at you with bright, eager eyes.

“I would like to clean the mess I made.” He replied in a tone that made it seem as though his plan should have been obvious to you.

You hummed, squeezing his head lightly with your thighs.

“Mm...so the mask is really just a muzzle, hm?” You mused.

“We will be here all night,” König smiled, nipping at your thigh as he reiterated his earlier words. “I want to enjoy you.”

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drama-glob · 3 days ago

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I know some people have already pointed out some parallels between "Just Look My Way" and the ending of "Sinsmas" with Octavia, but something I thought was interesting too was that when they changed the lyrics from the original version by PARANOiD DJ to make the official music video reflect in canon Stolas/Stolas's growth like this:

They also changed here:

To reflect in canon that while Stolas is aware that he was wrong to make this deal between him and Blitz and that he's got his walls up that Stolas can't get over so long as the deal stands, he's also failing to keep considering how all of this has been affecting/hurting Octavia up to this point because he's been so concerned with making things right by Blitz, all while barely holding onto the chance that the two of them could actually be happy together since he's not even sure if what they have is real/all a lie to serve as his escapism from his life at the palace. :( The illusion he built for his daughter about them all being a happy, loving family growing up is still in Octavia's mind and now thanks to Stolas, she believes he (as well as Blitz based on what we've seen) ruined her family and it's making her become more isolated and feeling unloved because of his choices and how she perceives the situation; Stolas in the original version seems to be at least acknowledging how his daughter might be feeling as a result of him trying to find happiness with Blitz and is wondering if that's what he's feeling now at the prospect that Blitz doesn't actually love him, compared to the canon one of how he's hurt Blitz in his pursuit of him and knows he needs to set Blitz free no matter how much he wants him (or at least that's how I read it, although the "She" could have been referring to Stella, but we've seen her hatred and attacks towards Stolas by that point, so I'm still leaning towards it being about Octavia :( ). Also, just to reiterate the point, since the canon version of the song takes place later in the series, the change in lyrics also likely had to happen because we've seen Stolas repeat the neglect/being stuck in his own head behavior such as in "Seeing Stars" and then later in "The Full Moon," thus why the song needed to continue showing this pattern; plus, he probably felt so sure in Octavia's love for him that he'd be forgiven like in "Seeing Stars" and "Loo Loo Land" for said behavior that he didn't need to work on improving that aspect of how he acts with her. :/ What's crazy is that the original version of the song came out 9 days before "Ozzie's" premiered, where we see Stolas then feel ashamed for how he's handled things with Blitz at the cost of hurting his daughter and not being sure Blitz loves him back, especially with Blitz's words at the end of the episode. Talk about timing. O_O

*On a side note, the flower also changes from being a daffodil that can symbolize rebirth and new beginnings, then becomes a carnation (I think) and can refer to love in various forms, although that one in particular can refer to rejection because it's striped. :( Also, even though it's in the original version of the song, I find it interesting that it was a carnation at the part when he brought up Octavia, although I know the focus of the song is still on Blitz and Stolas's relationship and it changed in realization that it may be his fault things are this way/the reason Blitz doesn't love him. :/ In addition, the song had Stolas trying to talk with Blitz and wanting to see him outside of the full moon at the beginning, which we then saw he was doing via text messages in "Western Energy," so damn on it predicting that too. O_O

By all means, Stolas has a right to be happy, to be loved and to get away from Stella, but as so many have already argued as well, Octavia's feelings are valid and understandable given Stolas's actions and her not knowing the full story. :( (I felt obligated to include this since I want Stolas and Octavia to reconcile in the future and be one big, happy family with Blitz and Loona <3<3<3).

Also:

It's too bad that this lyric about growing cold had some literal manifestation, even though Octavia is also obviously giving her father the cold shoulder here and Stolas was referring to Blitz in the song, but it's still so sad that Stolas believes Octavia truly hates him for all that he's done rather than her being angry, hurt and needing more time to process everything/learn the truth in order to see things from his perspective. :(

*I think someone may have pointed this cold part out already, but I wasn't 100% and it went with the first part of the post anyway, so I included it as well. :/ Also, sorry if it seemed like I was rambling or getting off track here as this wound up being longer than I planned and I kept thinking of other tidbits/observations to include. :/

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rhabbott · 3 days ago

Text

first of all, i’m sorry that i reviewed an dipped 😅 ok, let’s get into it 🌨️

this entire exchange:

"Is this another one of those projects that she starts and you have to finish?" "What makes ya guess that?" The corner of his eye crinkles with his smile; now that you've got something to compare it to, the snow doesn't seem so bright anymore.

like!? wake up babes. new rhett abbott lore just dropped courtesy of the one and only 🍓

and, again, your ability to create atmosphere! paint a picture with a pen (or, a keyboard, i guess lmao)! set a fucking scene! your writing is just so beautiful to read, delly 🌻

You've gotta think of something else before you start drooling and a damn icicle forms.

this line took me out 💀

"Layers 'n a dash of self-hatred."

yeaaah, you just know cecilia abbott made her sons do the bread bag + socks thing from the end of december to the beginning of march. they always whined and complained, but when they were the only kids trudging through wabang snowfall to the bus with dry feet, well…

Your lower belly twists, inexplicably filling with butterflies who have blades for wings. Or maybe they're moths, eating through you like old laundry.

i frequently have to stop myself from copy/pasting your own writing back to you with a smattering of 💖💕🩷💝💓 beneath it, but you really did not need to go this hard (i’m just kidding, please continue to drop the most insane prose)

ENDLESS 🍪 SNACKS 🫘

rhett “i wasn't born during a blizzard but i might as well have” abbott

(he was actually born during a summer rain storm)

"Hey, caterpillars are cute," says Rhett Abbott, the man who yelped when he saw a bright green caterpillar inching up his pant leg last summer.

this man has found many a leggy friend climbing him or simply using him as a giant thruway in spring:summer. and it's hilarious because perry is terrified of bugs—especially caterpillars.

wait Rhett Heaven Abbott has a ring to it 🪽

cool, so like, that scene of rhett eating pussy took me out! i hope you’re happy!

"Were you planning on this, or do you just keep lube on you at all times?" You can't help but ask, can't really believe what you're looking at right now. "Believe it or not, I use it when that fuckin' barn door gets jammed," he pauses, tearing at the corner of a packet with his teeth, "but I'd rather it be you than a rusty hinge."

the scream that i scremt (also, will this man ever learn to not open lube packets with his teeth)

*whispers* do what you must as a writer, but i liked the ending just fine!

and at the end of the day, delly, you write the concept of being in love with rhett abbott so accurately and so beautifully (i’m sprinkling flower petals on your head) and i'm so grateful that we are out here liking the same characters at the same time 💐✨

the kind that money can't buy (calico creek) | rhett abbott x reader

Word Count: 12,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, friends to lovers, size kink, general awkwardness due to a love confession gone wrong. Cunnilingus, creampies, multiple orgasms, hand jobs, grinding, usage of the 'snowed-in' trope, slightly implied inexperienced reader. Reader generally being overwhelmed at times. Notes are subject to be updated because I feel like I'm forgetting something... My almost-late entry for @lewmagoo's holiday celebration!

Brief Summary: Sometimes, all love needs is a botched love confession, broken bridges, a tiny cabin out on Calico Creek, and an inconceivable amount of snow. Inspired by the Stephen Wilson Jr. song, Calico Creek.

"And what's the plan if we die on this mission?"

"There ain't one," Rhett chuckles, his eyes flickering between the bridge and the rearview mirror. Whatever he sees isn't enough, has to twist in his seat to look out the back window. "Might as well write your will and send it via carrier pigeon."

He's gonna die with the left side of his neck, and the lower portions of his jaw smeared in cheap paint, and he doesn't even know it. Hell, there might be some in his hair now that you look at it.

You don't know how he can manage to do this. You can hardly look away from the window for more than a second, staring down at the edge of the bridge. Nothing but rushing waters and wood laid decades before you were born, no guardrail to prevent you from plummeting a hundred-something feet to your rocky, hypothermic demise.

The turn onto this old-fashioned safety hazard is almost too tight for the trailer, one of the tires briefly hanging midair as it crawls onto the bridge. Something creaks below, low and grumpy, an ancient spirit disturbed from its eternal slumber.

"I still think it's cracking beneath us." That sounds like wood cracking. Does he not hear it? Why is he not putting it in reverse yet?

"Well, we don't seem to be fallin' yet." The idiot seems to have left his intelligence back at the rodeo.

You must have forgotten yours, too, because you're the one who stupidly agreed to this whole venture, knowing full well you would have to cross this godforsaken bridge. This thing has been ready to collapse since the day you were born and has threatened to take you down the countless times you've ventured over it. But, like clockwork, the truck crawls out the other side, emerging onto safe, solid ground.

"Oh, I forgot all about this," you don't mean to say it out loud, but it slips past your defenses, a breath that you can only hold back for so long.

Snow-covered trees decorate the sides of the beaten gravel road, arching overhead, their baren branches seeming to kiss the silver sky itself. Icicles hang from some of them, twinkling in the light. Stunning in its own right, but nowhere near as gorgeous as Calico Creek herself, still just as wild and alive as she has always been.

It's a wonder the Tillerson's haven't tried stealing this out from under the Abbotts, too. There's no way they haven't heard the stories about this place, and there's no way they have never wondered about where the water beneath the bridge on Warm Creek Road leads.

"The cabin is still standing?" It looks the same, too. Time itself must stop every time someone leaves this place.

"For some reason," Rhett's nails tap against the steering wheel. "Mom comes out here to pull weeds every other month in the summer."

"Still?"

"Old habits die hard."

And that...fuck, what do you say? Nothing? That was an invitation for a follow-up.

...no, maybe it wasn't. Why are you making it weird? Come on, think.What is it that you usually say when Cecelia comes up in conversation? Oh! You should ask about...no, he already said that she's spent all day cooking a roast.

The tires slip beneath the truck. Rhett reaches for the gear shifter. His paint-mottled hand spins across the wheel, drawing the vehicle off the ice as quickly as it crawled onto it. Focused entirely on the road and nothing else.

Rodeo lights flicker through your mind. Old dirt flies through the air again, a neverending plume of dust that still makes your nose burn. Your stomach is twisting around, working itself into a knot it'll never get out of.

"Hello?" A gloved hand waves in front of your face. "Y' in there?"

"Huh?"

The truck has long since stopped. Crudely parked in front of the cabin with no regard for how it may look to anyone else. It's been stopped for a while, too; you can already feel the cooler air creeping through the vents. How a cowboy like him can put up with a truck that only blows heat when it's moving is beyond you. You would have sold this thing years ago.

"I was askin' if you're ready," Rhett's brow furrows, and for a moment, you're worried that he can see straight through you. "Are you sure you slept last night?"

"Yeah." Lie.

The corner of his mouth wobbles up and down, lips parting with the beginnings of a sentence. Then, flattening into a line. Your eyes meet. You don't know what to say. Neither does he. Your face feels hot all of a sudden.

It's too damn quiet in this truck.

Your saving grace comes in the form of a squealing door hinge. Shrill. Screaming at the top of its lungs as Rhett shoves it open. Yeah. Okay. You'll get out, too, then.

If life were a comic, then the rush of frozen air would have steam rising from your heated cheeks. Fortunately, no such thing happens; it's just your burning skin and the vicious bite of single-digit temperatures eating away at what little moisture you have left, not satisfied until your skin has been left raw and chapped.

Snow crunches beneath your boots, soft at first but growing firm as it compacts under your weight. Every step feels just as unsteady as the last, and with each one, you're nearly certain that this time, you will find uneven ground and go tumbling head-first into this pristine, wintery hell that has encased the entire state of Wyoming. And yet, you continue to find solid footing.

"Remind me again why we're looking for a...?" Your words die in your throat, lost to the howling wind. Did he ever mention what you were looking for out here?

A moment passes. Rhett turns his head to you. Gives you a few more seconds to conjure up the words you're looking for. "Horse-drawn grain drill?" Finishing your thought. "Mom saw a post on Facebook and thinks she can turn it into decor."

You don't know what a horse-drawn grain drill is, but you've got a feeling that it's the old jumble of rusted metal that has been decaying against a cedar tree since you were in kindergarten. Somewhere behind the cabin, beyond the tree line. "Is this another one of those projects that she starts and you have to finish?"

"What makes ya guess that?" The corner of his eye crinkles with his smile; now that you've got something to compare it to, the snow doesn't seem so bright anymore.

"Well, last I checked, she was the one repainting the walls downstairs," the ground shifts beneath your foot. Sends you stumbling. "But half of your jaw is a nice shade of Beacon Gray."

"Shit." His hands rise, blindly pawing at his face with the backs of his gloved hands, digging at it the best that he can manage. "Why didn't ya tell me I had this shit all over my face?" Flecks of gray rain down like snowflakes, scattering across the front of his jacket.

He pauses, those expectant blue eyes landing on your shivering frame. Hopeful, even. Poor thing hasn't the slightest clue that his neck is stained with the imprint of his own hand right now.

You shake your head. "I think you're gonna have to shave to get it all off."

His whine echoes through the empty trees. "But I just got it to the right length again!"

As if it would get to last past the weekend, you can already hear Cecelia fussing at him to shave and tidy himself up for Christmas Service. She'll probably try squeezing him into that old suit she had tailored for him after he graduated high school, too. So tiny and narrow that the fabric visibly struggles to contain those broad shoulders...

You've gotta think of something else before you start drooling and a damn icicle forms.

"What, you don't think it adds character?" Rhett leans over, knocking his arm against yours. If he hears your heart lurch in your chest, he doesn't comment on it.

Looking at him is the worst thing you could possibly do. He's just so close, and he's waited until this very moment to tilt his head down and ease that old cowboy hat on, the felt one with the chipped brim. Rugged, just like his four-day-old scruff and the unruly hair that curls behind his ear and hasn't been cut since spring began.

"It adds...something," you don't know what your conclusion is supposed to mean. Fortunately, he doesn't ask any further; just rolls his eyes and keeps walking.

Against all odds, that old bench Royal built for you is still sitting and facing the creek. The piles of snow almost entirely obscure its frame, but it's the bench nonetheless. Two wooden pallets crudely cut and nailed together, Abbott engineering at its finest.

"Do you remember the tire swings?" You vaguely remember them, hung from trees that once occupied the space the bench now occupies. But they weren't ordinary tire swings. No, they were fashioned to look like horses, with old recycled bridles and name tags. Isabela and Flash.

Rhett shakes his head, chuckling at a memory. "I remember jumpin' off of 'em a lot."

"And breaking your arm because you overshot and landed in the creek?" You can still hear Cecelia screaming at the top of her lungs. "No wonder why you turned out to be a bull rider. You're still chasing the high of nearly breaking your neck in Calico Creek."

All he can do is laugh; there's no defending himself from this one.

Fortunately for him, the conversation dies at the sight of that old hunk of metal. It still lies in the same spot it's always been, somewhat sunken into the soil and leaving behind an indent in the tree it rests against. The thing has all the right in the world to stubbornly cling to its resting place, but Rhett doesn't even seem to struggle when he pulls on it.

It's reasonably light, all things considered.

...or maybe it just feels light because Rhett is doing most of the pulling.

But the metal is frozen in a thin sheet of ice, and by the time you get it within distance of the trailer, it's melted and seeped into your gloves. Frozen water gnawing at your already cold fingers, eating through flesh and straight down into the bone. Solidifying in your joints for extra measure.

You've got no choice but to drag it along for no reason other than you can't let go. Trudging through the snow, audibly crunching with every step, every inch of your exposed skin burning in a frozen fire. And it must freeze your memory, too, because the next thing you remember is the rear trailer gate falling open, clattering against the ground. It creates a ramp of sorts.

"I can pull it up from here," Rhett, ever the gentleman.

You'd love to let him take it, but...well, you're trying, but your fingers are hardly budging. Frozen in place, another piece of the machine. You don't remember when they went numb, but you can hardly feel them anymore; they may have even detached from your body entirely. But, slowly, they pry themselves open, stiff muscles fighting against your effort to pull your hand back to your chest.

Rhett tilts his head. "'s your hand frozen?"

"My glove got soaked," pausing to blow air onto it. The heat of your breath is nice...until it fades and leaves you even more aware of the difference in temperature. "It's fine, just a little cold."

"'Cold' my ass," muttering under his breath. He reaches out, his big hand practically engulfing yours as he pulls it toward him, plucking the soaked glove off before you've even realized what he's doing. "I ain't havin' ya get frostbit."

His other hand dives into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief that's been wrapped around something. You can feel the heat radiating off of it before he's even placed it in your frozen palm. A hand warmer.

The wind nips at your frosty skin, but the handkerchief is big enough that you can wrap the fabric around your hand entirely. A thin shield to block off at least some of the cold.

Truly, you don't think Rhett even needed you to come along in the first place because he gets the old piece of equipment onto the trailer without the slightest hint of a struggle. It's so easy that you almost catch yourself looking back to see if there's a bigger piece to haul up. Why did he ask you to help with something so simple?

And why did you agree to it?

It's something you're still wondering when you heave yourself back up into the truck, squeezing into the corner of the old cloth seat like it'll somehow save you from the burst of frigid air that races out of the vents. God, why were you wishing for snow last week? This is hell.

"How do you put up with this every winter?" You're fighting to keep your teeth from chattering, not even going to make an attempt at straightening yourself out to put the seat belt on. Curling into a ball sounds like a much better option than that; safety be damned.

"Layers 'n a dash of self-hatred." The truck rumbles as Rhett's foot presses on the gas pedal, the beaten tires frantically searching for traction on the slick ground. They find it. Lurching forward. "I shoulda become an accountant or somethin'."

"You as an accountant?" Snickering.

Somewhere, in the effort to almost entirely spin the truck around, Rhett finds the chance to lean over and knock his elbow against yours. "Hey, y' don't see none of them office folk freezin' for a livin', now do ya?"

"I'd love to see you crammed in a little cubicle," you laugh, and all he can do is roll his eyes, shaking his head all the while.

A beam of light bounces off the creek waters. You know it's merely the change in angle that caused it, but the little voice in your head quietly wonders if old Calico Creek is laughing with you. She keeps doing it, too. Light-reflecting in little sparks, bouncing off chunks of broken ice and the rushing silver water itself, following you all the way up to the bridge.

You don't remember the bridge groaning like this last time. Maybe more towards the middle, but certainly not this early. Though, even as you untwist from your huddle and peer out the window, you can't see anything crumbling.

"Rhett?"

"I hear it."

Still, he eases the truck forward, but you can hear the whir of the window as he rolls it down. You would do the same and stick your head out, too, if you weren't just now regaining sensation in your nose.

It sounds like popcorn beneath you. Soft little popping noises that you can feel when you press your feet against the floorboard.

Rhett jumps for the shifter.

Wood snaps.

The truck dips forward.

Something roars. You're going backward. The earth spins. White and silver and brown blurs into one big mess. Metal and tires scream. Your head bounces against the back of the seat.

And everything is still.

You're facing the river. The cabin is on your right, and the bridge is...the bridge is...

"Did it...?"

"Yeah..." Rhett whispers, his eyes as equally glued to the sight as yours are. "it did."

The bridge is gone.

"I have good news and bad news." Rhett's voice bounces off every wall in the cabin, almost makes it hard for you to figure out which of the two rooms he's walking out of. As if you didn't watch him disappear into one the moment that his phone started ringing.

"What's the good news?" You ask, squeezing the hand warmer just a little tighter. But there's no longer any heat radiating from it, reduced to nothing but a dull, rapidly fading warmth.

"The bad news is," it seems he's completely ignoring what you just said. "The roads are shit 'n Perry doesn't think he can plow out the upper path 'till at least tomorrow afternoon."

And then he's gone. Vanishing back into the room he just moseyed out of.

"The good news?" You know he can hear you, but you don't get a reply. Nothing but a load of underwhelming silence. "Rhett?"

Something thunks against the floor. Heavy. Solid.

"Remember that time we snuck out and went over to Idaho for that rodeo mom didn't want me goin' to?" The echo is so bad that it takes a moment to catch up to what he's just said.

A memory stirs to mind. "I remember you getting drunk and busting your lip falling out of the truck."

Rhett's head pokes around the corner, his pale nose wrinkled with what you can only identify as disgust. Maybe a hint of embarrassment. Not his favorite memory, you suppose.

"I don't know if y' remember it, but Dad was so furious that he made me come out here 'n chop every downed tree he could find for weeks." He disappears for another moment. Then, steps back into the room, lifting a chunk of split wood into the air. "Come to find out, all of it's still here."

"Suddenly, I'm considering forgiving you for the grilling your mom gave us after that." You can't resist your smile. For once, your teenage antics pay off, even if it was all his idea.

"It's inappropriate for you two to be alone together like that!" Mocking in the shrillest voice he can manage as he steps over to the fireplace, bending down to load the wood inside. "Don't know why she always thought that we..." His Adam's apple bobs. Glancing at you.

You look away.

...yeah.

Your lower belly twists, inexplicably filling with butterflies who have blades for wings. Or maybe they're moths, eating through you like old laundry. Whatever they are, they worsen when you peek at him through the corner of your eye, the momentary flicker of a memory nearly making you nauseous.

"Do you need help?" You don't know why you're asking when you're already reaching out, ready to take the next chunk of wood from him. It'll be easier for you to put it in; you're already down here on the floor.

"No, it's—it's fine," he freezes mid-crouch. Your fingers brush against the back of his hand. "I've got it. You should..."

Life...stops.

For a split second, you fear that your fingertips have melted and become one with him, stuck together for the rest of eternity. But the blaze of the fire burns before you can reach melting point, jerking away as if burned. Rhett looks away. You do, too.

You're right back at the rodeo again.

Dusty Sunday night air spirals around you. A dry earthy scent burns at your nose, disguising the already vague tinge of sweat and what you can only describe as animal that clings to him. Dirt clings to his glistening jaw, smeared all the way down his neck and the left side of his jeans.

If you didn't know any better, you would think they replaced Rhett with that of a wild-eyed mustang, icy blues damn near about to swallow you whole. It hardly matches his stuttered whispers, so damn shy in comparison to what lurks at the surface.

"I...I uhm..." his boot kicks at the ground, stirring up another plume of dirt. "I know ain't good at this sort of thing, but I—" His tongue hitches, lips still moving, but not a damn thing comes out.

Broad shoulders shiver. Caving in on themselves. And he drops his head, the brim of his hat concealing everything but his mouth from view. Hiding in plain sight. This doesn't nearly match the excitement that the shiny new championship buckle in his hand should warrant, but now it's been reduced to nothing but a toy for him to fidget with. Twisting it round and round in his wavering palm.

"Rhett...?" Hooking your finger under the very edge of his hat, lifting it until you catch sight of red cheeks and impossibly wide baby blues. A deer caught in the headlights.

"I love you."

It's there and gone with the breeze. So swift that if not for the sight of his lips shaping around those three little words, you would think you made it up entirely.

But it was there, still clear as day in your memory; if you try hard enough, you can almost convince yourself that you can step through time. Re-enter your starstruck body and kiss him before the sheriff can cut in and shoo you away to ask questions about another spat between his family and the Tillersons.

But time travel doesn't exist, and that confession still hangs in the air, its rusty hinges squealing every time you think you've finally forgotten about it. What do you even say now? 'Hey, I'm sorry that in the span of a few weeks, I couldn't conjure up a better way to revive the topic, but I love you too. Hope you haven't taken my silence as rejection and moved on already!' What if he didn't even mean it as a love confession?

Rhett hasn't said anything about it.

Neither have you.

The crackle of the fire is the only thing present to fill the silence. Occasionally broken apart by the pops of Rhett's joints every time he goes to fetch another piece of wood, ancient floorboards groaning in tandem with the thump of his boots. Even his jingling spurs are a welcome sound, shrill as they might be.

Nightfall is either your greatest blessing or the biggest curse known to mankind. The darkest corners of the cabin are lost to the shadows in a matter of hours. God knows if anything is lurking in there, ready to pounce at any given moment, but with it, Rhett's solemn face disappears, too. Reduced to glistening eyes and flashes of skin in the firelight.

"Do you remember when we used to beg your mom to let us spend the night up here?" The sound of your voice is borderline shocking. A smidge too loud for the heavy silence that covers the room like a thick winter blanket.

Rhett's hum dissolves into a chuckle. "Guess we really should have listened when she told us to watch what we wish for."

He peeks at you through the corner of his eye, a strand of brown hair falling out from behind his ear and into his face. You catch his gaze, locking for a lingering moment. His mouth rises into a weary smile.

"We should have wished for endless snacks and a million-dollar lottery ticket while we were at it," you can only imagine what other things you two have begged poor Cecelia for. "And maybe a spare blanket."

Rhett blinks. Staring into the fire. His eyes widen, lighting up with a realization. "I got some in the truck."

"Lottery tickets?"

"Blankets," he's trying his best to sound annoyed, but his own grin betrays him.

Something in his knee pops as he stands up, audibly protesting, but he's already on his feet. There go those spurs again, chiming away with every step, glinting in the light, and...

"What is that?" You ask, with a tilt of your head. It doesn't help you see any better, but the effort is there.

Rhett freezes. "Huh?"

"Come here," beckoning him closer. "You've got something on the back of your boot."

"Those are called spurs, sweetheart," but Rhett comes back to you anyway.

He...meant that as a joke. Yeah. That's what it was.

...right?

"No, it's..." There's something silver just above the spur on his left heel, so sharp that it pierces straight through the leather. Something long and gray hangs from it. Feels like plastic. It looks like...a rubber fish?

"'s that a damn Rapala?" Rhett's voice rises in pitch. Confused.

"I didn't know fishing lures could catch cowboys," giggling, you pinch the hook, tugging it from the hole it's created in his shoe. The thing is ancient. Its once brilliant silver scales now a muted yellow, the singular remaining hook mangled and warped into an unrecognizable mess.

He reaches down, opening that big hand of his. The little lure practically shrinks when you place it in his palm, suddenly nothing but a minuscule hunk of plastic and metal. "I knew they were in the creek but I didn't expect them to be all the way up here, too."

You think that you can still hear Cecelia calling out, warning you two to watch where you step and to be careful in the shallow creek waters. It's a wonder how neither of you ever got a hook in your foot. You've lost track of how many summer Sunday afternoons you've spent in Calico Creek. You don't think you even liked visiting their church; you only ever tagged along because of what came after the service ended.

Thump_

"What was that?" You're pretty sure it came from outside, but you're not about to dismiss the potential of someone lurking in the shadows of the room.

"Dunno," but he's about to find out, slinking toward the door like a stray cat. You don't know how he does it, but his boots are suddenly quiet. The spurs on his heels don't even sing. All holding their breath as he opens the door.

It's snowing so hard that you can see the shape of the wind when it bursts through the gap, cloaked like a ghost in a white sheet. Swirling around the room, all too eager to eat away at the warmth of the fire. Circling closer and closer with all the ferocity of a pack of hungry wolves. A shiver races up your spine.

"Hang on."

The door slams shut, and—

"Rhett?" You squeak. Where did he...did he go outside? He must have. You only looked away for a moment, and you would have heard it if he had rushed into the backroom.

In his place lingers, what you can only describe as a sentient winter wind, rushing through the thick fabric of your clothes as you stand and make your way to the door. It doesn't matter how long you've been huddled by the fire. By the time your hand finds the ice-cold door knob, you're shivering again.

Snow bursts through the gap once more, splattering across your face. Clinging to your eyelashes, wiggling down through the collar of your jacket.

"Rhett?" But the midnight air swallows your voice like a sponge. It doesn't even echo. You can't see a thing. Not the truck, not Calico Creek, not a damn thing. "Rhett!"

No such reply. It's as if he was never even here in the first place, but you can vaguely see his footprints in the snow. They don't go far.

Or rather, you can't see them go very far out. You could be floating through space right now, and you would be none the wiser about it. It's all just...black. Even as you step through the door, your unsteady frame slammed by a bigger, angrier gust of wind.

"Rhett!" Your voice should be able to get louder than this, but no such thing happens. Maxed out. "Rhett!"

You still don't see him. What the hell did he go looking for? Shit, what if it was someone lurking outside that grabbed him? And now you've just made it known to the whole forest that you're out here by yourself!

A shape moves in the distance.

You jump back, snow-caked boots sliding across the floor. Your grip on the door handle is the only reason you don't fall.

It's getting closer. You think you can see two legs. Walking closer and closer, and—

"Rhett!" Your voice breaks this time.

But it's him. Shoulders coated in a dusting of snow. Hair blowing into his windburnt face. Some kind of thick fabric bundled up into his arms. Blankets, you think. The wind blows harder, and he disappears into the sea of white once again, the waves trying to suck him back into the abyss.

Snow tumbles into the front door as he steps inside. He's carried half of tonight's snowfall into the damn cabin. But you can't think about that right now.

"Blankets?" You don't know if your voice is shaking from the cold or if you're just mad. "You run out into a blizzard and scare me half to death for fucking blankets?"

Rhett Abbott has had his soul replaced with that of a newborn deer because he looks like one caught in the headlights. Wide blue eyes staring back at you, can't possibly fathom what has got you so mad. As if he's not the one who just inexplicably ran off into the night with no regard for his own safety.

Those snow-dusted eyelashes flutter. "You said you wanted one." Innocent as can be.

And you...you did ask for those, but. "You could have said something before you just up and walked out."

"Were you worried about me?" His head tilts to the side.

"Maybe I was," muttering, you turn back to the fire. There's a chair sitting in the back corner. Wooden. Didn't look all that inviting until just now, swallowed up by one of the many shadows cast by the fire. The chilly air has collected over here, clustering into its own little storm, but you can't feel it. Not with how hot your face has gotten all of a sudden.

The chair creaks beneath your weight. It breaking is the last thing you need right now, but fortunately, it seems to hold. You lean forward, face falling into your hands. Of course. Of course, he went to get the blankets that you asked for. And here you are yelling at him like a damsel in distress as if he wasn't born and raised in conditions worse than this.

Something drapes across your shoulders. Fuzzy. Smells like the bonfire the Abbott's had a few weeks back, burning away the brush collected from the most recent storm. Another one wedges itself into your lap, Rhett stubbornly pushing it onto you as if you're the one covered in snow and not him.

"What are you doing?" Peeking through the gaps in your fingers.

"Buildin' you a cocoon and hangin' ya from the ceilin'," he hums, and if you didn't know him any better, you might have thought he was dead serious. "Wanna see if you'll come out with wings like one of them butterflies."

You're putting on your best frown.

Or at least, you think you are. You can't really feel your face. "This implies that I look like a caterpillar."

"Hey, caterpillars are cute," says Rhett Abbott, the man who yelped when he saw a bright green caterpillar inching up his pant leg last summer."Y' remember that book we used to have where the little dude kept eatin' everything?"

"The one you took a bite out of?" Yeah, you remember that.

"The caterpillar did that." Still just as defensive as he was when Cecelia started asking questions about what happened to the book. "Not me."

"Uhuh." Sure.

The last of the snowflakes scatter from his eyelashes, cascading down onto his bright red cheeks and melting into minuscule little droplets of water that seem to dance in the firelight. A tiny galaxy that is wiped out by a singular stroke of your thumb.

...you're touching his face.

You don't recall when your hand left your side, but it's resting against his jaw, your thumb still damp with the evidence of your crime. He's noticed it. There's no way he hasn't noticed it, but he's not telling you to stop. And...well...you're already here.

Properly curling your hand around his cheek is the easiest thing you've done in a lifetime, his soft scruff tickling your palm. Rhett still doesn't say anything. Hell, it's so quiet that you can hear the minuscule sound of him breathing through his nose. His lashes flutter again. Thinking about something.

He tilts his head, leaning into your touch.

"You're frozen." You noticed that a long time ago, but if you don't break the silence, you're gonna combust.

"Yeah, that kinda..." his mouth hangs open, tongue visibly faltering for a good moment or three, "happens when...you snow."

Your giggle is so loud that it echoes, but you hardly notice it. "When you snow, huh?"

He's running from you.

You can't believe it. He's squirming up to his feet and turning around, his hands rising to cover his face in a fashion identical to what you did mere minutes ago. Mutters something, but it's so muffled that you can't understand a word he's said. You don't necessarily care to figure it out, either. A little bit distracted by the sound of puzzle pieces clicking into place.

You think you get it now.

The floorboard squeals as you stand, the sharp sound eating away every bit of the certainty that you just built up, but your momentum still carries you forward. Feet falling one after the other as if caught in a trance.

Rhett turns to look at you, then back to the door.

He tries to, at least.

It happens on reflex. You grabbing ahold of his jacket collar, pulling so hard that you both stumble. He gasps. So do you. Chest to chest in this tiny old cabin, nothing but the flickering fire to guide your eyes as you drink in his face. The same old, big blue eyes you've always known. Pouty lips wobbling, torn between a lopsided smile and trying to come up with something to say.

If this were a dream, it would be perfect. Seamlessly falling into place like trained actors.

But this is real, and you're both moving at the same time, and your noses clash at the same time your mouths do. You stumble. His arm cinches around you. Pulls you closer. Teeth clatter. It's everything that a Hallmark first-kiss scene isn't, and it's incredible. All those movies, and they still couldn't quite capture the dream of kissing your best friend in—

Best friend.

"Shit, I..." Jerking away. Eyes wide. Breath caught in your throat. "I shouldn't have..." Shouldn't have what? Kissed him without asking?

Oh, but he's grinning at you like a damn fool. Wobbly smile and sparkling gaze, flickering back and forth between your lips and eyes. You don't feel the hand resting on the small of your back until it's pulling you back in, lips crashing once more.

A faint twinge of mint and chocolate still lingers on his lips, the only remaining evidence for his crime of raiding his momma's jar of Christmas chocolates. Or maybe cowboys just taste like that. Rough as stone, carved and broken into jagged edges by the test of time, but sweet as can be on your lips.

He steps forward at the same time you do, already can't stand the minuscule gap between your bodies. But your foot slips between his, and the side of his spur catches on the toe of your shoe, and you're falling.

Your elbow slams into the wooden floor. Chin bouncing off his too-firm chest. It's a damn miracle that he's the one who fell backward. You may not have survived if your positions were reversed, solid as he is.

"Guess I fell for you," Rhett wheezes, groaning low in his throat.

"Idiot," giggling.

Figuring out where your legs have landed is a task of its own, your frozen joints protesting any further movement for fear of another catastrophic fall. Rhett doesn't make much of an attempt to move. Content to part his legs and let your body fit between them, knees resting against your hips.

His palm finds your cheek, calloused fingertips stroking the soft skin there. You're melting into it before you can realize what you're doing, drowning in the sensation of how big his hand is. You think it could cover half of your face without even trying.

"'n here I thought I'd fucked this all up," his hum vibrates through his chest and right into yours; kind of feels like distant thunder.

"I didn't know how to bring it back up after Joy left." It's easy again. Talking to him, confessing exactly what's on your mind without fear of further fracturing things. "Then you didn't say anything either, and I...figured I'd read into it the wrong way."

His thumb finds the corner of your mouth, gently tugging it up into a squished smile. "Oops."

You can't help but reach for him, too, your hand finding his cheek once more, just for the hell of it. In the shadows of the fire, you can see the small chunk of skin permanently missing from his nose. An old scar from a kitchen fight with Perry a while back, courtesy of Perry's wedding ring and an argument that you don't remember the context of. Something about a remark Perry made on an already tense night.

Should you?

Rhett blinks.

Yeah, you should.

"Watcha doin'?" He asks, scrunching his nose as you lean in, pressing your lips to that little scar.

"Something I've thought about doing ever since you barged through my front door with blood pouring down your face," pressing another to the tip of his nose.

"Funny, I recall y' wantin' to hit me at first."

"Because you scared the hell out of me."

"'s that why y' tripped me just now?" There's that light tone in his voice. Taunting. "Revenge?"

"Shut up." You know where this is going.

So does he. "Make me—"

Kissing him quiet. Another thing off your bucket list. Maybe it was on his, too, because he laughs into your mouth like he's been waiting on this his whole damn life. Hell, you know you have.

Your skin prickles beneath your layers of clothing, burning from head to toe, and you can only peel your winter coat off so fast. Pulling away from him might be the hardest thing you've ever done, but in the time it takes you to shrug it off, Rhett has gotten his off, too. That old black undershirt hugs his frame a little bit too well; you almost stop and stare.

Almost.

Rhett's arm loops over your shoulders as you come back to him, hand curling around your bicep, lazily hanging on. Those jackets must have been a mile-thick because you don't recall being this close last time, his chest against yours, heart beating so heavy that you can feel it.

But you're a little bit too far down, an ache blooming in the back of your neck at the strain to reach him. You don't want to move, but now that you've noticed it, the pain is the only thing that you can think about. Gives you no real choice but to dig your knees into the hard floor and scoot up—

"Mmh—!"

You don't remember breaking away from Rhett, but you must have because you're blinking down at him, and he's found time to clamp a hand over his mouth. Eyes the size of dinner plates. Red in the ears.

"Did I...?" Suddenly aware of where your thigh is resting right now.

"Just a little bit," he doesn't seem to have any interest in making you move, either, using the arm around your shoulders to pull you back down once more.

You don't know how you've survived so long without this.

The pressure of his lips, the stubble on his jaw, the awkward bump of noses that haven't learned where to go quite yet. It's all so new, and yet you can already feel the embers of an addiction burning to life, roaring as hot as the fire, and you might need him more than you need to breathe. Heaven is a place on earth, and its name is Rhett Abbott.

Your forearms brace themselves on either side of his head, steadying yourself before you can become inconceivably lost. And again, your thigh unintentionally presses into him, and he's groaning low in his throat, lithe hips bucking up into it. You can't help yourself this time, intentionally grinding into the growing tent in his jeans, feeling his knees flutter around you.

"I'm sorry, I..." clarity strikes like lightning. "I'm rushing things, aren't I?"

"Naw, I'm..." he looks off to the side. Sheepish. "Kind of into it."

Even now, he's still Rhett. Bold one moment and shy the next, his impulses always a moment quicker than everything else. You don't need to ask if he's mortified about saying that out loud; the big dummy is already showing it. Gulping so hard that you can see the muscles in his neck flex with the effort, his cheeks three shades redder.

You throw one of your legs over his, straddling it, the silence broken by the sound of your knee hitting the floor a little too hard. And again, he covers his mouth when your thigh grinds into him, but he fails to conceal the slight roll of his eyes. Breathing hard through his nose, impulsively twitching up into your touch.

"You're something else, cowboy," you can't help but find your way to his jaw, pressing kisses into the soft outline of bone. His legs flutter around your thigh, clinging onto it as you work it against him. The arm around your shoulders tightens; you fear you might be anchored here.

It's on the side of his neck that you can feel the faint rumble of a moan, so quiet that it fails to make its way past his hand, but it's there. You suppose you shouldn't be surprised about it, but your daydreams never involved getting around this obstacle. There's no way you're prying his hand away, not with how he uses the same damn hand to cling onto the back of a thousand-pound bull every Sunday night.

Your lips make their way to the space below his ear, sucking lightly at an old scar that lingers there. He jumps. Hand coming off his mouth just long enough to audibly suck in a breath, cutting off the beginnings of a whine. His back rises off the ground, grinding into you the best he can. But it's not enough. He's still chasing you like he wants more, and you still can't hear him.

You're so quick to replace your thigh with your hand that you can almost deceive yourself into believing you've done this before. Palm pressing firm against his bulge, gently massaging the heel of it into him, and he jerks again. Impulsively reaching for your wrist, head tipping back, lips parted.

"That...you...I..." he can't talk. Words broken apart by surprisingly ragged breaths. Worked up over so fucking little. It has no right to make you clench around his thigh; desperation is a hellishly contagious virus.

You might be drooling.

Lazy, you fall into the space next to him, your leg splayed over his, hyper-aware of the way you've just tucked yourself under his arm and how perfectly you fit. That rodeo buckle falls open at the slightest pressure, button popping open just as eagerly. He shouldn't get anything out of the sensation of you tugging on his zipper, but his hips rise as if he can feel every bit of it.

The moment your hand wraps around his cock, his head thunks against yours. Not hard enough for it to hurt, but the impact still makes you wince.

"Ow."

"I'm sorr—" his teeth sink into his bottom lip. Biting back a noise as your thumb blindly traces the underside of his tip. "Sorry. Shit."

If only you could go back in time and tell yourself to do this sooner. You don't know how you can ever expect to go back from this. Lying with your head propped on the side of his chest, gingerly drawing him through the opening of his jeans, the head of his cock so wet that it glistens in the firelight, a bead of precum spilling over, barely caught by your thumb.

Rhett's scruffy cheek presses against your forehead, blindly nuzzling into you as your hand wanders, gradually working down his length. It's such a simple motion, but his hips rise to chase you on your way back up, a stifled noise rumbling out of his chest. The tip of your index finger glides over his tip, rubbing past his slit and—

"Mmh!" Jumping like a live wire. Still muffled, but louder than last time.

You can't help but repeat it, using your thumb to draw loose circles against his weeping tip. Those hips jump again, slipping from your grasp. But it doesn't take more than a second to get ahold of him again, a sharp little sound slipping out of him as you pick up right where you left off. Swirling around and around and around.

"Who taught you how to..." He sucks in a breath. "Who taught..." But he can't finish that thought, trailing off into nothingness once more.

You haven't the slightest clue where your voice has gone. Lost somewhere in your throat, stolen by the same thing that took Rhett's ability to speak.

All of a sudden, he's moving. Rolling onto his side, blindly guiding himself with his nose until he can properly find your lips, stealing them away before you can find a way to talk. You don't know if you could have come up with words even if you wanted to. Not when he whines into your mouth like that.

Whatever you were trying to do before this is lost to the abyss. Too wrapped up in the feeling of his lips melting against yours and the tiny noises he's making to realize that you're properly stroking him now. Working up and down his cock as if you're already familiar with it, wrist lazily twisting on every upward glide.

"Shit, I'm—" His voice is raspy all of a sudden. "I..."

He doesn't finish that thought, either. Mouth hanging open with a silent moan, his hand reaching to cling to the side of your shoulder. Something to hang onto. He might crumble into a million tiny pieces if he doesn't. And he's panting into your mouth like a dog in the blistering heat; it's hardly even a kiss anymore, but neither of you is making any move to pull away.

His breath audibly catches in his throat. Cock twitching, cumming with a whine. Painting your still-moving hand white, spreading over his length, makes this sickeningly loud squelching sound that ought to make your head swim. Fuck there's so much of it, rope after rope of white, making a damn mess that you haven't the slightest hope of cleaning up.

"Sens—ah!" His big hand dwarfs your wrist as he grabs it. Forcing it still.

"Too much?"

"Too much."

It's quiet.

At least, it is for a moment or two. The wind squeals outside the fragile window, ripping around the edges of the cabin, frantically searching for a crack in the foundation to squeeze through, desperate to steal the heat of the fire out from under you. But the flames still dance, the wood crackling as it burns.

The squeal of the wooden floor is your only indication that Rhett is moving, rolling over top of you in the blink of an eye. His mouth finds the side of your neck, the scruff clinging to his chin brushing against the skin there, as if the heat of his lips alone wasn't enough to make you gasp.

"I thought..." Words. Where the hell are your words? What were you even about to ask him?

"Never said I was done," his voice vibrates up your spine, rattling the thoughts swirling around your head.

His body slips between your knees like it's something you've been doing for your entire lives. And maybe he did wind up there once a few months ago when you snatched the hat off his head and tried to flee the scene, but you don't remember it feeling quite like this.

You don't get to linger on that thought for too long. Not when he's pepering kisses across your sensitive neck, his tongue boldly darting out to trace the outline of a vein. Heat flushes across your body. The tiny, invisible embers of a fire sparking to life, the smoke already beginning to cloud your head.

"Rhett," gasping. Now it's your turn to squeeze your legs around him, vaguely aware of how you can feel his hip bones pressing against you. Firm, nothing but muscle trained from a lifetime of ranch work, rippling under your touch. You can't help yourself, grabbing hold of a bicep with your only clean hand.

And you can just barely catch how he pauses, peering up at you through thick lashes, like something has just occurred to him. Doesn't make any move to voice it, but his smile is enough of a hint.

"Is this," smooching at the collar of your shirt, the flimsiest barrier that you wish wasn't there, "alright?"

On their own, your legs squeeze around him, forcing him closer. "More than alright." Because telling him that you never want him to stop might be a little too much too soon.

Big hands dip beneath your shirt, tracing with his nails as they glide up your sides. Your back arches up off the ground. Not sure if you're chasing the sensation or running away from it. The bottom of your shirt catches on his wrists, sliding up until he's pushed the fabric over your chest.

"So fuckin' pretty," downright marveling at you, his eyes shimmering like he's just found a pot of gold. There's a whole night ahead of you, but he doesn't give himself time to linger. There's a whole lifetime of kisses to catch up on, and he's already getting started, peppering his way down your chest.

You've waited all this time, only to have one available hand to use, forced to let go of his bicep and curl into his hair instead, fingers twirling in the loose curls that rest at his nape. Can't do both. Not without making a bigger mess out of your cum stained hand, and it might just be the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

Because here he is. Real and warm and alive and kissing at the underside of your breast, those big blue eyes flickering up to drink in your expression, and you can't touch him how you want to. You feel like you're gonna float away. One more kiss, and you're gone. Out the window. Never to be seen or heard from again. One with the snow.

Rhett laughs against your belly, almost sends you straight through the roof instead. "'m I takin' too long?"

"Huh?" Blinking.

"You're squintin' at me like you're mad 'bout somethin'," and now that he says that, you can feel your face begin to relax.

"I'm not mad." Have your internal thoughts always been that obvious?

"Your little nose is scrunched up," kissing closer to the start of your sweats, poking his tongue out to lick his way down. "You're mad."

"I'm not mad," holding up your sticky palm, "I'm just frustrated that I can't use my hand."

He was just in the process of curling his fingers beneath your waistband, but he pauses, fishing for something in his back pocket. That red handkerchief again. Passes it off to you before returning to the task at hand, but you're already one step ahead, lifting your hips until he's gotten the fabric over the swell of your ass.

You don't realize he's stolen your underwear until the breeze hits you, thighs shyly squeezing together. Don't really know what for; it's not as if you weren't anticipating this, but now that you're in the moment...

Rhett tilts his head, looks kind of like a confused puppy sitting at your heels, those gears visibly twisting and turning in his head. His eyes widen with a thought, and before you know it, he's reaching for his own waistband, shoving them past his legs and over his ankles.

Now you're both naked from the waist down.

He reaches for your ankle, delicately lifting your leg until he can kiss at the inside of it. Not satisfied until he's marked every square inch of you. But your knees still remain defiantly glued together. Timid, as if you haven't thought about this more times than you'd like to admit.

His hands dip beneath your naked thighs. Raking his nails down the sensitive skin there. And for a fleeting moment, the concept of worry has flown straight out the window, your legs falling open with a shiver.

Fuck just the feeling of him kissing your inner thigh is enough to make you whine. A little spark of heat darting up your core is the tiniest thing, and yet it's the most overwhelming thing you've felt in your life. Because it's Rhett. It's Rhett fucking Abbott sucking a mark into your skin, right where it'll poke out from beneath your pajama shorts and tell everyone who sees it what you've been up to.

"'s this too much?" He hums. He fucking hums. Sends you jumping.

"Yes." That's not what you wanted to say. "Maybe? No? I don't know." Your head thunks against the floor, can't give a damn about if it hurts or not.

Rhett pauses. "Want me to stop?"

"No!" Too loud. You said that way too loud. "No... I—I want you to keep going. It's just...new?"

There go those hands again, massaging the fat of your thighs, stealing away whatever tension was lingering there. His mouth burns against them, working another mark into your skin, just in case the first one disappears too quickly.

"You just tell me when it's too much, a'ight?" He murmurs, peering up at you, and it's all you can do to nod and utter a fragile 'yes.'

There's a rising chance that he'll be bringing you home in a sack and spend the next week gluing you back together because you might fall apart at any given moment. Nerves alight with a newfound anxiousness. You don't know what for. This is Rhett you're talking about here. Same old cowboy that you've known for as long as you can remember.

Lips find the thin skin where your thigh joins with the rest of your body. Jumping out of your skin is suddenly a very possible task.

"Y've no idea how long I've been wantin' to do this." And that's the last thing you hear before his mouth is on you.

You might pass away on the spot. Off to heaven, hell, or whatever the fuck is out there.

But all that comes of it is a hitched breath, a shudder racing through your body as his burning hot tongue licks a long strip up your cunt. Experimental. Does it again when your hips rise up off the floor; he's just started, and you're already impatiently chasing him.

"Hang on, hang on. 'm takin' care of ya," you can hear the smile in his voice as he forces you back onto the floor. "Don't gotta chase me for it."

It's a promise he's already making good on.

Lazily mouthing at your clit, nothing but fleeting barely-there touches that have you squirming and biting into your fist. Oh, shit shit shit, he's twirling his tongue around it now, directly targeting that poor little bud for nothing but a few seconds.

Your whine is too damn loud for this little cabin; his folks probably heard you from ten miles up the road. But all Rhett does is curl his arms around your thighs, dragging you closer. One of your legs wind up over his shoulder, and you don't know when you started reaching down, but you're pawing at his forehead. Helpless as he prods his tongue at your entrance, pushing inside if only to feel you clench around him for a moment or two.

"Rhett," you don't know what you're babbling about. Didn't know you were talking until your ears catch the familiar tone of your own voice.

The bastard fucking hums, vibrating up your lower belly and through your spine, and again you're jumping. But you're not getting anywhere. Not with those arms around your thighs, holding you perfectly still as his tongue glides up through your folds, drawing a little figure eight around your clit.

His lips wrap around it again, gently sucking on it as he flicks the tip of his tongue over it and—

"Too much!" Your hands are in his hair. Yanking him away. "Too much."

You don't know what the hell you'll do with the sight of Rhett's chin glistening in the light, thin lips stretched around a big ol' grin as he climbs back up your body.

"Cute thing," he chuckles; you pretend you don't feel how wet his mouth is when he kisses your cheek.

He's already hard again. Cock so heavy that it can't even stand, resting against a pale, freckled thigh. It's so damn close to where you want him. Can only imagine what it would be like to feel him push into you for the first time, but there's an item critically missing here.

Rhett's nose bumps against yours. "Y' look mad again."

"Because I just realized that we don't have lube," you grumble.

...or maybe you do because he's on the move all of a sudden. Grabbing the pant leg of his discarded jeans and dragging them over, rustling through the pockets until he finds what he's looking for.

Lube packets.

"Were you planning on this, or do you just keep lube on you at all times?" You can't help but ask, can't really believe what you're looking at right now.

"Believe it or not, I use it when that fuckin' barn door gets jammed," he pauses, tearing at the corner of a packet with his teeth, "but I'd rather it be you than a rusty hinge."

Eyeroll. "How romantic."

Even his oversized hand isn't enough to make his cock look any less intimidating; you thought it would dwarf in comparison, but it's almost as if the complete opposite has happened. Daunting, even as he strokes a generous amount of lube over himself. The voice in your head suggests that you might have bitten off more than you can chew, but there's only one way to find out for sure.

The calloused tip of his middle finger glides between your folds. Has you jumping a little bit. A slight pressure blooms, slowly pushing into you, his gaze fixated on the sight. It certainly feels bigger than it looked, if that is even remotely possible, blindly feeling around for a particular little spot.

The asshole knows he's found it before you even do. Pushing a second, dripping finger into you, deliberately crooking them to rub up into it. Heat sparks between your thighs. Pretty sure that's just the lube, but you're convinced that you can feel yourself getting wetter, already hopelessly desperate.

"Rhett," mewling in a tone so unlike you that it's almost insulting.

"What?" Tilting his head.

You didn't really think that far. Aren't particularly sure of what it is you want or why you're saying his name, but your arms lift themselves into the air, hands opening and closing in a vague grabbing motion. You still don't know what you initially wanted, but you sure would like to have him closer.

And he gives it to you.

Carefully settles into your waiting arms without a fuss, his lips wrangled up into another one of those wild grins that you can never seem to get enough of. A strand of hair falls out from behind his ear, just long enough for the ends of it to tickle your cheek, drawing a giggle out of you. And for reasons unbeknownst to you, he giggles, too.

His length rudely bumps against your thigh, demanding attention from both of you. Damn thing is so heavy that he has no choice but to reach down and guide himself, dragging the fat tip through your folds just for the hell of it. A slight pressure appears at your entrance. Then, disappears. Slipping upward and gliding past your clit instead.

But then the pressure appears again, and this time he's not intentionally screwing up to mess with you. Air jams in your throat.

"Gonna have to relax for me, sweetheart," he whispers; there's that pet name again. God, you might legally change your name to sweetheart just so he'll call you that every day for the rest of your life. Something in your lower belly unwinds. "There y' go."

The fat tip slips into you without any further warning, simultaneously puts a shiver in your bones, and steals away the little bit of clarity that you had left. You don't even know what you're shaking for. The fire is still crackling next to you, albeit dimmer than it was before. The room is far from cold, but you can't seem to keep still, quivering like an autumn leaf in the breeze.

Rhett appears like a fucking daydream. Cradling your face in his hands, a sudden presence that you've somehow managed to forget about, murmuring something against your lips that sounds like your name. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't. You don't care to find out, too eager to steal him away in a kiss instead.

Your arms wind around his shoulders, nails biting into the muscle that you find there, clinging to him for dear life as his cock gradually pushes into you. Inch after devastating inch, your chest progressively becoming tighter and tighter, as if you're running out of space to give.

This can't be right. There's no way that you're really doing this. Lying here in the deserted cabin out on Calico Creek, nothing but a fire and Rhett's burning body to keep you warm, thighs squeezing his sharp hips as he sinks into you. It's a scene plucked right out of your own wild imagination. You should be waking up right now. Alone, in bed, like you have every other time this has happened.

But the scruffy chin that your hand has found its way to feels so real. The kiss breaks. Rhett leans back just far enough for you to catch sight of that stupid old grin, and holy shit, you've got Rhett fucking Abbott's cock in you right now.

"Just a little more," he's murmuring so nonchalantly, and you really, truly, have no idea if that 'little more' is gonna fit or not.

It either fits, or you pass away in the process of trying. The jury is still out for that one. One way or another, though, he's bottoming out, body flush with yours, not a centimeter left to take, and you think you've stopped breathing. Rhett has, too, for that matter. Completely and utterly quiet as he leans back, lashes fluttering at what he finds.

"'m almost too big for your poor little pussy, shit." He's not staring; he's marveling at you. "You're sure I ain't hurtin' ya?" The pad of his thumb traces where you're stretched around him, hopelessly bound together with no hope of ever untangling from each other.

Experimental, his hips roll, drawing a little noise past your lips. It's so much. So, so much. Helplessly curling your legs around his waist, heels digging into the swell of his ass, as if that can possibly save you.

Rhett's not doing much better. Dropping his head into the crook of your neck, timidly drawing back by an inch before pushing back in just as slowly as he did the first time. His labored breath burns through your skin, grumbling something incoherent below his breath. But he's doing it again, and now, now...

"Fuck, Rhett," whimpering, clinging to his shoulders.

The fire could go out at this very moment, and you would never feel even a wisp of the cold, not with how he's already finding a lazy rhythm. Hardly pulling out, rocking your body beneath him. His weight is the only thing keeping you from scooting up the floor, little puffs of air knocked out of you with every thrust.

He's got it just as bad as you do. Panting into your mouth like a dog, the softest noises resting in the back of his mouth. Still sensitive from already cumming once.

All of a sudden, he draws back, and for a fleeting moment, you're horrified that he's already pulling out of you. But he's pushing back into you a little quicker now and, and, and...

"'s that feel good?" He's grunting, already peeling back to do that again. The length of his cock grazes against a familiar bundle of nerves. Stars sparkle behind your vision.

"Uhuh," all that you can come up with.

Now that he's found it, he's not letting up. Moving a little quicker now. A wet little noise punctuating the snap of his hips, your poor pussy helplessly fluttering around him, so fucking full of him that it almost aches. Writhing beneath him, torn between wriggling away from the sensation and pushing into it, as if you have any choice when you're pinned beneath him like this.

"Can feel ya clenchin' round my cock, sweetheart," he's grinning as he says it, cocky in the worst way imaginable.

Your face is so hot that you're gonna catch on fire. "Please quit talking."

To his credit, he does exactly as you ask, but that does nothing to wipe the stupid fucking grin off his face. You can't escape it. Not when he's leaning back onto his haunches, just far enough to gaze down at where his thick cock disappears into you, and suddenly you can see it. Such a wide fucking stretch that you feel bite-sized beneath him.

The weeping head of his cock strikes those little nerves. Knocks a cry right out of you. And it's the worst possible thing you could have done because he's doing it again. Tilting his hips, working just a little quicker now, drilling into that same fucking spot.

"'s that the spot?" He coos, breathless, his hands finding your hips, dragging you into. Every. Single. Thrust. "Fuck, I don't know how I even fit in ya."

You don't even know how to talk anymore, never mind put up with his senseless mutterings. Voice caught in your throat, your cries completely and utterly silent. Blindly pawing at his forearms. Squeezing. Clawing. You manage to get ahold of one, dragging it up to your chest like you're trying to hug the damn thing.

"Rhett," your voice wavers, "Rhett, I want—" Closer. You want him closer. But all you can manage to do is pull on his arm.

Those pretty eyes widen. The next thing you know, he's coming back to you. Using his only forearm to brace his weight beside your head, his chest snug against yours once again. You only let go of his arm in exchange for his shoulders, practically pulling him into a hug.

Rhett nuzzles his nose into the side of your cheek, his hot breath tickling your ear. "Don't want me too far away?"

"No," grumbling.

You've got just enough leverage to crane your neck up, mouthing at the sweaty underside of his neck. You're not trying to leave marks. Not when you know that you'll have no choice but to face his family after this; it's only a matter of time before Perry puts two and two together, but you can't help yourself. Lips finding a space just beneath his ear, mindlessly sucking on the skin there, uncaring of what evidence you leave behind.

Rhett whines. Loud in your ear, sends your lower belly twisting with something inexplicably warm, pussy clamping down around him, drawing a second sound out of him. His arms shiver. Fighting to keep his weight up. Hardly has the strength to pull away from your mouth, his hips stuttering.

"Look how well you're takin' me," he's peeled back just far enough for you to get a glimpse, mouth hanging open, can't seem to shut himself up.

"It's mortifying."

"It's hot."

You'd argue. You want to argue, but fuck, you can't. Not when he's got you pinned to the floor like this, fat cock bullying into your poor pussy, panting into each other's mouths like it's the only thing you're good for. A lewd smack of skin on skin defiling every innocent memory you've ever had here.

There's a familiar coil in your lower belly, your cunt clenching down around him, legs locking around him. Your vision blurs. Chest tight. "I'm..."

"Yeah," he's agreeing before you've even finished your thought.

It's the mistake of looking down that does you in. The obscene sight of his wet cock disappearing into you, those strong hips stuttering as you clench around him again, punctuated by that stupid breathy moan that falls off his tongue.

Your back arches off the floor, burying your face into the crook of his neck as it hits you. Heart hammering against your chest. Ears ringing. Cumming around his cock with nothing but a choked wail. Helplessly clinging to him, squeezing him so tight that your arms ache from it.

The fire might as well jump out and engulf you in flames; everything is burning. Distantly aware of how your legs have begun to tremble again, locked so tight around him that you can feel him try and fail to pull away from you. Babbling something about how you need to let him go, one of his hands pawing at your thigh. Pushing, trying his best to peel you away.

But it's too late. His hips are seizing up, and your eyes are opening to the sound of his strangled whine, collapsing back into you. The muscles in his back twitch beneath your fingertips as his orgasm washes over him, cock spasming so hard that you can almost convince yourself that you feel his cum flooding you.

Oh.

Oh shit, he's cumming in you.

You should be more worried about it than you actually are, lazily letting your legs unwind from around him, uncaring about the kind of problems that this is going to cause in a few minutes. Worry is beyond you, on a completely different plane of existence. The only thing your mind has the ability to comprehend is the warmth of Rhett's face nuzzling into the crook of your neck, a final shiver racing up his spine before he becomes dead weight on top of you.

"You..." he tries, breathless. "Was that...too much?"

You don't even know where your voice has gone, wordlessly laughing into his shoulder. "It was perfect," is what you try to say, but your poor tongue can hardly shape around the letters, nothing but a senseless warble leaving you instead. And maybe Rhett's got the same condition because whatever he says next makes no sense, either.

It takes a minute for him to roll off of you, and when he does, you wind up rolling with him, your naked back facing the fire. You don't really mean to, just mindlessly following, can't look away from him for more than a second. The fire isn't nearly as bright as it was when all of this first started, but certainly not any cooler. Heat licking up your sensitive back. Pleasant at first, but the longer it goes on...

"This fire is hot on my ass," your sentence makes sense this time.

His hand drifts down onto your ass cheek. Your eyes roll. Rhett's face lights up with a giggle, lips twisting up into a smile that you need to kiss off of him. Even if you can't really lift your head, noses crashing, kisses reduced to fleeting pecks.

"If I woulda known this was gonna happen, I promise I would've brought somethin' to clean you up with," he murmurs, reaching to brush something off of your jaw. You don't want to know what it is.

"If I had known this was going to happen," your momentum is interrupted by a yawn, "we wouldn't have made it out of my bedroom."

He winks at you. "We can still make that happen."

"Oh my god." Eyeroll. You're gonna walk home.

Or, you would if he didn't curl an arm around your waist and pull you into him like a teddy bear that he's suddenly decided he wants to snuggle. And you just fit into the space below his chin so perfectly that you can't possibly bring yourself to move.

The wind wails outside, and the fire desperately needs tending to, but neither of you are moving. If anything, you're making it worse, tangling your legs together, wedging an arm around his torso, and for a moment, you can convince yourself that you can stay like this forever. Wrapped up in your favorite person, out here on Calico Creek, never to be seen or heard from again. Lost to the magic of winter.

Your stomach growls.

So does his.

Laughter spins through the air.

Maybe forever out on this creek would only work if you had electricity and a snack. But you don't mind losing out on forever, so long as Rhett's with you. Just like he always has been, snowstorm or not.

#rhett abbott

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izumkay · 21 hours ago

Text

~BETWEEN MISSIONS AND DESIRE~

—SATORU GOJO

Pairing- Satoru Gojo×Gn!Reader

Summary- After a grueling mission, you find yourself alone in a hotel room with Gojo. What starts as playful teasing quickly shifts to lingering stares and unspoken desires, the tension between you impossible to ignore. As the night deepens, the lines between banter and something far more intimate blur, leaving you questioning how much longer you can resist him.

Word count- 1.1k

Warnings- Flirty/Suggestive themes, Sexual tention, mild language, no explicit content (just kissing)

The hotel room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft rustling of sheets. The dim light from the bedside lamp flickered lazily, casting a warm glow over the two of you lying in bed. You had just finished a mission with Gojo—another one of those intense, action-packed days that left your muscles sore and your mind buzzing. But now, it was late, and all you wanted was to rest before heading back home in the morning.

Or at least, that's what you thought.

Gojo, as always, had other plans.

"Yo, you asleep?" His voice came from the other side of the bed, playful yet a little too loud for the silence of the room. He was lying on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his chest, staring at the ceiling like he was waiting for something—waiting for you to respond.

You rolled over, one eye barely open, groaning in the dark. "No, not really," you muttered, your voice still thick with sleep. "You just woke me up."

Gojo chuckled lightly, his deep voice cutting through the quiet. "Ah, sorry. But you know I'm not gonna let you sleep that easy. I've got too much on my mind."

You raised an eyebrow, turning your body fully toward him, your eyes now wide awake despite the exhaustion still weighing on you. "You really can't sleep after everything we've been through today?"

A grin spread across his face, and you could just feel the mischief radiating from him, even in the dark. "I could," he said with a hint of teasing in his voice. "But I'm more curious about what's going on in your head. You know, after all this time... we never really talk about the serious stuff."

You blinked, unsure whether he was being serious or if he was just trying to keep you awake for no good reason. "What kind of 'serious stuff' are we talking about here, Gojo?"

His eyes shifted toward you, and you could feel his presence intensify, his usual playfulness suddenly replaced by something more... direct. "I mean, like... us," he said, the words slipping from his lips with ease, like he'd been thinking about them all day. "We've been through a lot together, but we never really talk about what this is. What we are."

You didn't know how to respond. The tension in the room shifted, subtle but unmistakable. You had always been close with Gojo—your friendship was solid, built over years of shared experiences—but this felt different. The way his voice softened, the way his gaze lingered a little longer than usual. It was like something was simmering just below the surface, waiting to boil over.

"Gojo, what are you talking about?" You shifted slightly, trying to act casual, but the tension was already in the air. You could feel the heat of his body beside yours, the slight shift in the way he moved.

"You know what I'm talking about," he said, his voice low now, almost a whisper. "I mean, it's not just me, right? You feel it too. The way we're always close. The way we can't seem to stop wanting to be near each other."

Your heart raced in your chest, your body instinctively shifting closer to his, despite your mind screaming at you to stay in control. "Gojo," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "You're really bringing this up right now?"

He let out a soft laugh, one that was equal parts teasing and genuine. "Why not? We're stuck in a hotel room, it's late, and neither of us are getting any sleep. Might as well talk about it."

You shifted again, now facing him fully. Your eyes locked in the dark, both of you silently acknowledging the tension that had been building between you for God knows how long. The playful banter, the constant flirting, the way your proximity always seemed to mean something more. It was like the lines between friendship and something more were blurring, and neither of you had ever had the courage to address it.

"Okay, fine," you said, voice steady despite the fire building inside you. "So, what do you want to talk about, Gojo? You wanna talk about the fact that you're driving me crazy?"

He smirked, his hand moving from behind his head to rest on your waist, his touch light but firm. "I think you know exactly what I want," he murmured, leaning closer. The heat of his body was undeniable now, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart.

For a moment, you just stared at him, the silence thick between you two. And then, without another word, his lips crashed against yours, hot and demanding. It was like all the tension, all the unspoken words, had finally found their release. His hands moved to pull you closer, the kiss deepening as you melted into him, every inch of your body craving more.

But as much as you wanted to give into it completely, you managed to pull back, your breath coming in shallow gasps. "We... we can't just do this, Gojo," you said, your voice shaky but firm.

Gojo's lips curled into that signature smirk, even in the dim light. He didn't move, didn't pull away, but his tone was lighter now, a challenge in his voice. "Oh? So, you're telling me you don't want this?"

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing, but you kept your gaze steady. "I want to sleep. Do you want to be the reason I'm grumpy tomorrow?"

Gojo paused for a long moment, and then he let out a soft laugh, the heat between you two not yet gone but temporarily put on hold. "Fine," he said, leaning back into the pillows, his arm still around your waist. "But don't think this is over."

You smiled, breathless but satisfied. "I wouldn't dream of it."

And just like that, the night resumed, the mission, the heat, the tension—all put on pause for just a little longer as the two of you settled into the quiet comfort of the room. But neither of you could deny what had just started, and neither of you were in any hurry to stop.

A/n- hoped you like it! Sorry for ruining the fun, let's not ruin sleep!🤭

#jjk #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen #gojo #oneshot

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thebramblewood · 13 hours ago

Text

It seems like the seance ended happily... for now, at least.

Beginning / Previous / Next

Naomi: Ugh, let’s just get this over with.

Micah: Naomi! One must approach the spirits with patience and respectful intent. Right, Grandma?

Cassie: Now, Sadie, you can observe, but I’m afraid you can’t join the ritual. Your mothers would have my head if — God forbid — anything happened.

Sadie: Well, that sucks! Why am I even here if I only get to watch?

Micah: Oh my God, we did it!

Sadie: Hey, random ghost lady, that’s my chair!

Micah: What’s your name? Was this your house? When are you from? How did you-

Naomi: Uh, you might want to chill with the questions. She looks pretty angry.

Cassie: Micah, darling, if you don’t mind letting me steer this conversation, perhaps we should take it someplace more comfortable for our visitor.

We mean you no harm. We only wish to learn what’s keeping you here.

Temperance: If only I knew how to leave! The years have felt endless, so many days wasted calling out in vain, as my beautiful home crumbled around me. The loneliness soon became rage, which only hastened its destruction.

Micah: Can you tell us your name?

Temperance: Temperance.

Micah: Did something awful happen here?

Temperance: They said it was the plague. Took my entire family, one by one, before my very eyes! But it was no plague. It was a demon!

Naomi: A demon?

Micah: Naomi, shush!

Temperance: My baby, not even a year old, snatched by that nasty hooded man!

Naomi: Hooded m-

Temperance: Please, wind up that music box for me.

Micah: This music box?

Temperance: Yes. I’ve longed to hear it, the lullaby I used to sing to soothe my youngest child to sleep.

Naomi: Did the… demon come for you?

Temperance: I thought it was the grief. I wasted away in bed for God only knows how long. But in the end he took me too.

Naomi: I’m not sure that was a demon. I think-

Cassie: Naomi, let’s not cause any more upset.

Temperance: Thank you, my dear. It did my soul good to hear that tune.

Micah: Does that mean you’ll stop shutting off the lights�� and leaving piles of ectoplasm…and moving creepy dolls around in the night?

Temperance: I’ll certainly try my best.

#ts4 #sims 4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 story #story: mourningvale #legacy: g9 #micah uchiyama #cassie 'aukai #naomi uchiyama #sadie uchiyama #i feel like the ghost story is kind of weak #but it's not really the point of all this and i literally made it up on the spot lol #including a very rushed makeover of temperance #not bad all things considered!#also idk why sadie couldn't participate #i've had teens do seances before #but the game wouldn't let her join!#death tw

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meadowfics · 1 day ago

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tall shadows

cho hyun-ju x male!reader

warnings: descriptions of death, guns, injury, mentions of transphobia, i am not a man but I hope I wrote this one right for the male!readers🩷, i am not responsible for the content you choose to read.

requested? no.

word count: 715

the sound of the buzzer reverberated through the cold concrete walls as the players shuffled into the dimly lit room. this was the game… a place where survival trumped morality and every step forward came at the cost of someone else’s failure.

as one of the tallest players, standing at an imposing 6’4”, you naturally stood out.

heads turned to look at you, not just because of your height, but because of the way you carried yourself…a mix of calm and determination. you had been here for hours now, and though no one knew your story, they could see you weren’t here by choice. nobody was here by choice.

basketball had been your life. you were good at it, maybe even great, until that fateful day when a career-ending injury left you broken…both physically and financially. the surgery saved your life but cost you everything else.

that’s how you found yourself here, fighting for a chance to erase the crushing debt that loomed over you like a shadow.

among the sea of players clad in identical green tracksuits, one figure caught your eye. player 120. she stood apart, not just in presence, but in how she seemed to shrink under the weight of everyone else’s judgment.

she was beautiful..her soft features framed by loose strands of her dark hair, her brown eyes betraying a sadness she seemed determined to hide. you noticed how she avoided eye contact with anyone, as if bracing for rejection before it even came.

you had spent time in the states before for basketball, long enough to meet people like player 120..people who were unapologetically themselves despite how the world treated them. it didn’t matter to you that she was different; in fact, it made her all the more interesting.

then came mingle.

the robotic voice called out the rules, monotone and devoid of any humanity:

two players.

the music stopped, and panic spread like wildfire. players scrambled to find someone, anyone, who might increase their odds of survival. the chaos was deafening, but your eyes were fixed on hyunju.

she stood still, staring at the ground, her hands fidgeting nervously. she expects that no one will approach her. that no one even looked her way.

without hesitation, you crossed the room, weaving through the frantic crowd. hyunju didn’t notice you at first, too lost in her own thoughts. it wasn’t until you stopped in front of her and said,

“come with me,” that she looked up, wide-eyed.

“what?” her voice was soft, hesitant.

“the rooms are filling up. come on.” you extended your hand, not giving her a chance to decline.

her gaze darted around the room as you both ran into one of the green doors.. disbelief written all over her face.

the two of you stepped into one of the last remaining rooms, the door sliding shut behind you with an ominous thud.

for a moment, there was silence. hyunju stood near the corner, her arms crossed as if trying to make herself smaller. you leaned against the wall, studying her.

“thank you,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“you… you saved my life.”

“no need to thank me,” you replied.

“besides, it’s not like i was going to let you stand out there alone and get shot by those monsters in shape masks.”

she chuckled softly, though there was still an edge of uncertainty in her expression.

“most people wouldn’t have chosen me.”

“well, i’m not most people.” your tone was light, but your words carried weight.

hyunju glanced at you, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush. “you’ve been looking at me a lot,” she teased, a small smile playing on her lips.

you grinned, unbothered by her observation.

“of course i’m going to look when i see a beautiful lady.”

120’s blush deepened, and for the first time since you’d seen her, she looked genuinely flustered.

“you… you’re something else,” she murmured, her smile growing.

you didn’t know what the next game would bring or if either of you would survive, but in that room, with hyunju standing across from you, you knew that you wanted to protect her. not because you thought she was weak, but because you saw strength in her that she didn’t yet seem to recognize.

masterlist

#cho hyunju #cho hyunju x reader #squid game fanfic #hwang jun ho #squid game #squid game s2 #kang dae ho #squid game season 2 #lgbtqia

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pamwritessometimes · 1 day ago

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The Great Invasion: Chapter 2

Dean Winchester x female!reader

Summary: In a world turned upside down, where monsters hunt and hunters are the prey, Y/N must choose: follow the new rules to stay alive or join a rogue band of hunters determined to reclaim power and change the game for good.

General warnings: dark themes, gore, kind of apocalyptic vibes, language.

Chapter warnings: slight sexual innuendos, depression, ridiculous ghost talk, having dark flashbacks

Theme song of the chapter: Don't Ask Me No Questions by Lynyrd Skynyrd

Set after season 15.

Somewhat canon-divergent.

Catch up on Chapter 1 here

Series Masterlist

Chapter 2: I Just Want A Little Peace Of Mind

This was… not as nice as the Mandarin Oriental. In fact, everything felt outdated and dusty, and the black satin pajama set you were kidnapped in didn’t help you feel any better — it just reminded you of the rapid downhill ride your life was taking. It was something you thought wasn’t even possible:

Everything to get worse.

The room that Castiel guy led you to was smaller than the bathroom of your last suite. While you were used to these kinds of digs back when you were a hunter, being the legendary champion of the First and Second Hunter Games had spoiled you with the perks of luxury.

And not to mention that with that, you got another room that wasn’t quite yours.

Before you slammed the door in his face, Castiel mentioned that this room was one of the last available in the bunker. Apparently, they’d tried to clean it out, but some things from the previous owner stuck around thanks to the lack of storage space elsewhere.

A bunker. You were stuck in a goddamn bunker.

What a twist! Not only were you trapped in a completely unfamiliar place with strange people and the ex-Queen of Hell, but now you were a hunted target. Barbas wasn’t the type to let things slide.

It had been a couple of days now since you arrived, you assumed. You could hear chatter and occasional movements from other parts of the building, which you figured must be the other hunters Rowena had mentioned.

But somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the sturdy walls of your room. You didn’t want to face anyone out there, knowing they’d remind you of how you ended up here in the first place, something you never even wanted.

After a day or two of letting your anger fester, you decided enough was enough. Truth be told, boredom was starting to take over. The room didn’t offer much in the way of entertainment. You could work out — a habit that seemed to stick with you even after your captivity…though, to you, this also felt like captivity.

Still, that didn’t exactly fill up the day.

So, you decided to search the room. Castiel’s words about a previous owner stuck with you, and you couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to them. Maybe sifting through the remnants of their stuff would give you some answers… and it might keep you busy for a bit, too.

Boredom and a healthy dose of curiosity got the best of you, and before you knew it, you were rooting through the various storage boxes you’d found tucked away in the corner of the room. They were a mix of old files, random junk, and a few forgotten knick-knacks that looked like they hadn’t seen the light of day in years. You came across a huge stash of R rated magazines, too.

Great.

Then, you stumbled across a stash of clothes that definitely screamed menswear, which now wasn’t much of a surprise to you: old tees, button-ups, and pajama pants that looked like they’d been on a permanent sabbatical from their glory days. Still, they fit the bunker aesthetic far better than your matching set, which was starting to feel like a bit much for this apocalypse-chic vibe. With a reluctant sigh and a ‘why the hell not?’ shrug, you decided to give it a go.

lThe pants were a nonstarter; they dragged behind you like a sad and worn wedding train, so you stuck with your own. But the flannel? Now that was a surprise. It hung loosely on you, the sleeves comically long, but there was something almost charming about it. And nothing a little roll-up sleeve couldn’t fix. The fabric was soft from years of wear, frayed at the cuffs in a way that made it feel like it had lived a hundred lives before landing on your shoulders.

What really sold you, though, was the smell. Despite their worn appearance, the clothes carried a faint, lingering fragrance, woodsy, warm, and somehow very comforting. Whatever its origin, it was soothing enough in this apocalyptic time to convince you the flannel was a keeper.

After your little bunker chic makeover moment, one box caught your eye. It was a bit more organized than the rest, filled with neatly stacked tape cassettes. Most of them were unlabeled, but one tape stood out. The label on it read:

Dean’s Car Shaking Traxx

Well, that was… something.

Curious, you pried the tape from its resting place and noticed something odd as well: a tape player sitting smugly at the bottom of the box. A little old-fashioned, sure, but it was there. And, lo and behold, there was a set of headphones too, though slightly frayed at the edges but still in one piece.

They both seemed to be in working condition.

You hadn’t heard any music in what felt like forever, not since Hell decided to make Earth its vacation spot. What was the last time you actually listened to songs for the sheer enjoyment of it? Probably it was with your dad before the Invasion. He used to take you out to concerts, your favorite bands, his favorite bands, on weekends. That tradition started when you turned sixteen, and he surprised you with tickets to an Aerosmith show. It became a regular thing, a tradition you kept up for years until—

You shook the thought away, eager for something that would make you feel normal, even if it was just for a few minutes.

You plugged in the tape, set the headphones over your ears, and hit play.

“Well, Dean, please don’t be a country guy” you muttered, glancing down at the flannel you were wearing.

The first few chords kicked in, and you couldn’t help but smile.

CCR.

Up Around The Bend.

You leaned back and thought the tape was crackling slightly, it didn’t matter and you didn’t care. For a moment, you could almost pretend the world hadn’t turned upside down and fish yourself a little piece of peace.

Castiel walked up and down the hallway, clearly waiting for someone. Every now and then, he'd glance at the different rooms and areas in the bunker.

The library was full of hunters, some reading lore books, others chatting casually. A few stayed in their rooms, likely dealing with their own thoughts — that he understood. None of them signed up for this. Others were at the shooting range, either to train for whatever came next or to numb their nerves about the whole situation, the sound of gunshots a clear indicator of it.

He had been running the bunker alone for what felt like ages. Jack was supposed to be back by now, and yet here he was, walking holes into the floor of the building. If he were human, his feet would’ve been screaming by now.

Suddenly, he froze. A familiar voice hit his ears coming from the hall from the west side of the building.

“No, no, explain it to me again” Dean’s voice rang out, equal parts frustrated and confused. “What do you mean Hell invaded Earth? How the hell does that even happen? And where the hell was Rowena—?”

Another voice, Jack’s this time, came. “I told you, Dean. Demons came up earthside, unleashing every monster they could find.”

"When did that even happen?” Sam asked, the confusion clear in his voice.

Castiel took a deep breath and started walking towards them, dreading two facts: one, it’d been Jack knows how long since he met the Winchesters; and two, it seems Kid God didn’t brief them in entirely.

It wasn’t necessarily the reunion he once hoped for.

He rounded the corner, and there they were. Dean, leaning against a table, rubbing his face as if he could somehow erase the last few hours from his brain. Sam, on the other hand, was pacing the room like a human tornado, clearly trying to solve a puzzle that was missing half its pieces and the other half was written in hieroglyphics.

Both of them looked… well, confused and mildly pissed, to put it lightly. But honestly, who wouldn’t be? Their perpetual, much-deserved heavenly nap had been rudely interrupted by yet another apocalypse. They’d dealt with more end-of-the-world scenarios than any human ever should, and now, it seemed they couldn’t even catch a break in the afterlife.

But the second they saw their long-time-no-see friend, everything seemed to stop. Time hung for a beat.

Dean blinked as he caught the eyes of the blue-eyed angel.

"Cas?" his voice cracked slightly, his lips twitching into a genuine smile.

Sam’s face softened too, once he glanced at his old friend.

Dean took a step forward, pulling him into a tight hug. Then, Sam wrapped his arms around both of them, the three of them standing there for a moment in a rare moment of peace. Like the world wasn’t crumbling outside, like there wasn’t a bloody, chaotic mess waiting to tear them apart.

Castiel smiled, a strange nostalgia creeping through his perpetual mind.

Yet, he cleared his throat as he reluctantly pulled away. "It’s good to see you again, too" His gaze flicked from Dean to Sam. "Though I wish it was in a better situation. I'm sorry we had to interrupt your Heaven. But the world... it’s in chaos. Hell’s on Earth, literally."

Dean pulled back slightly, his grin fading into a more serious expression. "Yeah, I figured this wasn’t gonna be all hugs and ‘how’s afterlife’. Can’t even let a guy rest in goddamn peace."

Then, Jack turned to Cas. “Was everything alright while I was gone?”

The angel nodded, then added, “Rowena’s back as well.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “She brought her, too.”

Jack's smile widened a little as he processed the news.

“That’s good” He then turned to Sam and Dean with a spark of excitement in his eyes. “Come on. I want you to meet everyone here.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that. “Everyone?” he echoed, sharing a quick glance with Dean before the two followed Jack toward the war room.

As they entered the room, the on-going conversation quieted and was replaced by the weight of at least a couple dozen curious stares, all pointing to their direction. Hunters of all kinds were scattered around the room. Some were fairly young, almost teens, a few of them older, battle-worn and their expressions ranged from intrigued to wary, all fixed on the newcomers.

Dean furrowed his brows, his gaze sweeping the crowd. Despite the enormous size of the bunker, the room suddenly felt suffocatingly small. It reminded him of the time they offered their home to the refugees from Apocalypse World — except now, it wasn’t just a handful of people. This was at least three times that number, maybe more.

He glanced and Sam and then muttered, “Guess we missed the memo about this place turning into Grand Central Hunter Station.”

Sam pointed a glare at him, then turned to Jack. “So… what are we facing here, again?”

Guns N’ Roses blasted through your headphones, drowning out every thought except the music. You made it your mission to listen to every cassette tape you found in the boxes. By the time you hit cassette number three’s flip side, the music was doing its job at making you feel a bit calmer a little too well. Your eyelids got heavier with every riff and before you knew it, you’d dozed off against the headboard.

The music was loud enough to block out the creak of the door opening, but not the voice that followed.

“Why’s there a chick in my room?” a gruff voice demanded. A pause. Then louder, like the words were physically offensive: “Listening to my damn tapes? Wearing my damn clothes?”

Maybe that last part didn’t bother him as much as the rest, though he wasn’t about to admit it. He was too busy scowling and reminding himself that this room, his room, was supposed to be his sanctuary. Instead, here you were, in his flannel, looking entirely too cozy and he woudln't admit it out loud, but also borderline irresistible for someone squatting in his space.

Or was this Jack’s way of saying, Sorry I yanked you out of Heaven, but hey, thanks for agreeing to help me clean up yet another apocalyptic mess!?

Because if so—

But before Dean could spiral further, you jolted awake at his raised tone. Your heart pounded as your survival instincts kicked in. Adrenaline surged and without fully registering who or what you were looking at, you lunged your fists.

“Whoa!” Dean yelped, stumbling back as your fist connected with his chest. He rubbed the spot but barely flinched, barely feeling anything. It was more the act that bothered him. “What the hell was that for?”

Your breath hitched as you glared at him, still half-asleep and wildly defensive. “Who the hell are you, and why are you in my room?”

“Your room?!” Dean repeated, incredulous. “Lady, this is my—” He didn’t finish before you aimed a swift kick at his shin.

Dean sighed, though it was clear he wasn’t actually hurt. “Okay, seriously, what is your deal?”

“My deal?!” You shot back, breathless and still glaring. “You’re the one creeping around in my room, touching my tapes!”

Dean stopped mid-reach for his cassette player, looking at you with a frown.

“Touching your—?” Dean sputtered, clearly at a loss. “This is literally my room, and you’re wearing my—”

Before things escalated further and you could throw another useless punch in his direction, a firm hand landed on your shoulder.

“Y/N” Castiel’s voice cut in, calm and steady. “This is Dean Winchester. He is, technically, the original owner of this room... and much of what’s in it.”

Your brain paused mid-comeback. You glanced at the man, Dean, then down at the flannel you were wearing, and finally at the stack of tapes you’d been working through.

Wait. This guy made those awesome tapes? This is the guy whose flannel I’m wearing?

Dean didn’t miss the realization dawning on your face.

“Yeah” he said dryly, crossing his arms. “That’s my flannel. And my tapes. And my room.”

Castiel sighed, already sensing the incoming argument. “Dean” he said flatly. “you died.”

Dean turned to him. “Yeah, well, guess what, Cas? I’m back.”

“Technically…”

Dean’s frown deepened. “What?”

“Technically” Castiel continued, “you’re not back in the way you used to be. You’re a spirit now, Dean. You don’t need sleep, which means you don’t need a room.”

Dean’s jaw dropped. “‘Scuse me?”

You finally found your voice again, snapping your attention to Castiel. “Wait, wait, what the hell do you mean he died?”

“Y/N—” Castiel started, but you weren’t done.

“No, seriously, what the hell?” you repeated, panic and confusion rising. “Are you saying he’s a ghost? Or, like, a demon or something? How the hell did he even get in here?”

“He is not a demon” Castiel said, cutting you off. “And he’s here because Jack brought him back.”

“Am I supposed to know who this Jack guy is? And why are you saying he ‘brought him back’ like that’s supposed to make this sound less insane?”

Dean threw his hands up in the air, clearly done with you, starting to pace the room. "Great. How is she supposed to be a part of this team if she doesn’t even know who Jack is? Does she even know our lore?” He shot a glance at Castiel, as if begging for some backup, but you weren’t having any of it.

“Do you know my lore?” you shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. "How about the fact that I literally crawled out of the deepest pits of demon's hell just to survive, and now I'm stuck in this insane supernatural soap opera? Pretty sure I didn’t sign up for this mess.”

Dean stopped pacing and turned to face you. “Listen, princess, I’m not exactly thrilled about this either, but guess what? The world’s ending. Again. And we don’t have time for your pity party.”

“Oh, princess? Real original, flannel boy” you fired back, stepping even closer, toe-to-toe now. “You think you’re so high and mighty because you’ve been doing this longer? Look where it got you! And mewsflash: your tapes aren’t that good.”

Alright, that last part was just you being pity.

Dean gasped like you’d just kicked his puppy. “Not that good?!”

“That’s right, you heard it.”

“You’ve got a big mouth, you know that?”

“And you’ve got a big ego” you snapped back, your pulse inexplicably speeding up as you met his fiery gaze. Up close, you could see the freckles dusted across his face and the slight dots in his green irises, and the way his upper lip curved into a perfect cupid bow. You weren’t sure if you wanted to smack him or just—

“Enough” Castiel interjected, his tone like a bucket of ice cold water thrown on fire. He stepped between the two of you, looking like a frustrated parent breaking up a sibling fight.

Dean and you both took a step back, muttering under your breaths.

“Y/N” Castiel began, his blue eyes meeting yours, his voice calm but firm. “You need to understand. Jack isn’t just anyone. He… well…Jack is… essentially God. Or, at least, the closest thing to God we have now.”

You blinked at him while his words were bouncing around your brain like pinballs. “Wait, what?”

“He’s God” Dean said bluntly, clearly enjoying your disbelief. “The big man upstairs took early retirement for being a shithead, and Jack stepped in to take over. He’s the one keeping this whole crapshow from falling apart.” Dean then leaned toward Castiel, loudly whispering, “So, I’m guessing she also doesn’t know he’s Lucifer’s kid?”

Your eyes shot to Castiel, disbelief written all over your face. “Lucifer’s kid?”

Cas nodded.

“Let me just repeat: wait, WHAT?” You threw your hands up, pacing a small, frustrated circle before spinning back to face them. “So, let me get this straight. Ghost-boy over here” you jabbed a finger at Dean, “is somehow back because the world’s new Devil-God hybrid thought it was a good idea?”

Dean crossed his arms and looked rrather affronted. “Ghost-boy? Seriously?”

“Jack’s not the devil” Castiel said, voice steady and soothing like he was talking to a toddler. “Far from it. He’s actually the one who fixed what Chuck, uh, the former god, broke.”

You let out a slow, sarcastic chuckle. “Oh, sure. The perfect way to fix God’s mess: The Devil’s spawn. Makes total sense.”

Dean let out an exasperated groan. “Alright, you are just impossible.”

“And you are dead” you shot back. “So maybe take a seat, Flannel Casper.”

Dean let out a dry laugh, the kind that oozed disbelief. “Flannel Casper? Oh, that’s real funny. Guess what, sweetheart? This ain’t your room. It’s mine. You’re the squatter wearing my shirt.”

You shot him a glare, tugging the oversized shirt tighter around you. “Well, maybe you should’ve labeled it before you kicked the bucket, Flannel Casper.”

“I swear, if you call me that one more time—”

“What? You gonna haunt me harder?”

“I’m resurrected, not haunting” Dean corrected. “And as much as I’m loving this little spat, Cas is right. Jack’s the real deal. He’s a kid with God-level powers trying to fix what’s broken. Cut him some slack.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving Dean an unimpressed look. “And how’s that working out? Because from where I’m standing, the world’s still a total dumpster fire.”

Castiel sighed deeply, his expression softening a little, clearly happy Dean is at least trying to calm you down now. “We know. We all know. But that’s why we’re here, trying to fix it.” He gave a quick glance toward Dean before turning back to you. “Look, we’re not asking you to like it. Just to… cooperate.”

He paused for a moment, then added, “There’s a meeting tonight at six in the war room. It’s just down the hall.We’d like you to join us.”

He then glanced at Dean and nodded toward the door, silently asking him to lead himself out and let you weigh his words. He sighed, but complied nevertheless.

You narrowed your eyes at his back as he left, but you had to admit, something about the whole situation made you curious. You glanced at Castiel, who was still standing there, his expression unreadable.

“Do we really have God in this bunker?” you asked, finally breaking the silence.

Cas nodded slowly. “Yes. Jack’s on our side. In fact, he’s the one who organized this.”

Your gaze fell to the floor, shaking your head slightly.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me" you mumbled in disbelief.

"Believe me, I'm bad at kidding."

He then turned to leave but paused at the door.

“We’ll be in the war room at six. Think about it.”

And with that, he was gone. You leaned back against the door, arms crossed, your mind a whirlwind of frustration, disbelief, and a healthy dose of curiosity.

God-level powers. Devil’s kid. The Great Invasion. It all felt like you were stuck in the worst kind of fever dream. You couldn't decide if you wanted to scream, cry, or run. Or maybe all three.

By six p.m., the war room was packed. Well, almost packed.

You, of course, were missing.

It was the first official meeting for the hunters living in the bunker. Some had been here for over a year, while others had only recently joined. They’d all arrived, courtesy of Castiel, Jack, or whatever angel Jack had managed to charm into playing cosmic Uber. Some unlucky souls, like you, were recruited, or more like brought here without their consent by Rowena. At first, the whole thing had been met with skepticism. And who could blame them? An underground bunker full of demon traps seemed too good to be true. But, given that hunters were now the ones being hunted, this was their best shot at survival.

And now, with you and the Winchesters finally being dragged into the fold, the recruitment process was officially over. They’d rounded up every hunter in sight. The team was complete and now, it was time to figure out what the hell came next.

But none of that really mattered to you. You were currently in your room, headphones in, pretending that a meeting about saving the world was the last thing on your to-do list. Who needs that noise when you could be busy being a reluctant background character in their season finale of Apocalypse: Part 230?

You leaned back in your chair, giving the ceiling a long, judgmental stare. Maybe you’d just sleep through the whole thing. It’s not like you were going to be much help. And honestly, your bed was giving off some serious come lay down and avoid your responsibilities vibes. A good ten hours of sleep sounded like just the thing to get you through the next apocalypse.

Your body, however, had other ideas. Four days of solid room service (courtesy of mystery snack fairy) had only fueled your inner hermit, and the clock on your nightstand didn’t lie: you were starving. You had no intention of facing the others, though.

So, for now, you'd been making it work. Snacks magically appeared at your door. Just a knock, and then bam. A tray of food, like some weird, celestial version of Grubhub. You’d never figured out who was behind it, but you were grateful, even if you missed Rommer's presence sometimes and the meals he brought.

Today, however, there was no knock. No food. No magical snack delivery.

You glanced at the clock again. Six ten.

Your stomach grumbled in protest. Fine. Maybe you’d have to venture out and loot some food yourself. At least with everyone at that meeting Castiel was blabbering about, you might have a shot at swiping something before anyone noticed.

You sighed, dramatically flopping your feet onto the cold concrete floor and headed out of the room.

“This place is like a goddamn maze” you muttered as you wandered down the hallway.

You’d been wandering for what felt like hours, but only was probably a solid five minutes, trying to remember whether you’d just passed the same door for the third time or if you’d entered some cruel parallel dimension where all hallways looked suspiciously identical. At the end of your latest path, you spotted one lonely doorway, and figured, why not?

You stepped into the threshold, but then froze.

And you’d probably still be standing there, wondering what cruel joke the universe had played on you, if not for the fact that what you found on the other side was, well... a bit of a shock.

The room in front of you was packed.

Your eyes scanned the scene: hunters of all shapes, sizes, and moods. Some looked like they had been at it for decades, their faces as hard as their weapons. Others looked more like they were holding on to whatever shred of humanity was left in a world gone to hell.

So I guess I found the war room, you thought sarcastically.

Your brain had no idea what to do with this. This was the first time you’d stepped out of your room. This was the first time you were actually face-to-face with any of them. Well, all of them.

They were looking back at you, and that, for some reason, scared the shit out of you.

“Is that—” A voice whispered from across the room.

“What the hell is she doing here?” another one piped up, followed by a chuckle laced with disbelief.

“She can’t kiss demons’ asses out of death here” someone else muttered.

Well, isn’t that just peachy? Your reputation had clearly made the rounds before you even had the chance to make an entrance. Perfect.

You had this gut feeling, the kind that whispered, Stay in your room. Don’t go. It’s not worth it. And damn, how you wished you’d listened to it. But hunger had a way of overriding any form of common sense, and now here you were, in the lion’s den.

You clenched your jaw, every fiber of your being screaming at you to turn around and retreat back to your room, where the worst you’d have to face was your own reflection. But instead, you planted your feet firmly in place, squared your shoulders and made an unspoken promise to yourself that you were not going to let their words get to you. You were better than that, right?

Or at the very least you could look like you didn’t care.

The whispers grew louder, the judgment palpable as more people recognized you. A few hunters exchanged glances so loud, they might as well have been shouting.

“She’s gonna get us all killed.”

“Should’ve left her out there where she belongs.”

Nice. A real welcoming crowd.

Dean, sitting at the table and clearly having a moment of ‘where the hell did all this drama come from,’ glanced over at you. He wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, but he somehow saw through the tough act you were putting on. Beneath all that bravado, he could see the raw and jagged edges of hurt just begging to break free.

Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, Dean couldn’t help himself. He turned to Castiel with a mischievous smirk, his voice was dripping with curiosity about you.

"So, room squatter’s real popular here, huh? What’d they mean she can’t kiss demons’ asses out here?"

“It’s… complicated” the angel replied, just realizing Dean is still a bit behind on this whole story. “She, uh, she won the Hunter Games twice.”

Dean squinted, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Wait, that teen novel from the 2010s? With the guy with the bread name?”

Cas rolled his eyes with a quiet, almost exasperated sigh. “No. Not that. It’s a game demons set up for hunters they capture. They… They fight for their lives in an arena against monsters. And she was very favored by the monster crowd.”

Dean’s face contorted, his brain clearly still struggling to process the concept of Hunter Games, but he kept his mouth shut. His attention shifted back to you, standing there like a lion tamer on the edge of snapping.

Stubborn. Broken. Probably both at once.

It finally clicked. You weren’t just some random face in the room. You’d been through hell. Literally. No wonder the anger radiated off you like a force field. You’d been fighting demons for who knows how long. And now, here you were, in a room full of strangers judging you without even trying to understand you.

You opened your mouth to say something about maybe just finding the kitchen (if this place even had one), but before you could get the words out, you were cut off.

“Welcome! You can take a seat, if you’d like to” Jack offered you an encouraging nod.

For a split second, you froze, staring at the guy like you were trying to solve a riddle. Was this guy, with the warm smile and the kind eyes, really God and Lucifer’s kid?

And if this kid was truly God… Should you bow? Kneel? Say Hallelujah? Maybe throw in a spontaneous hymn for good measure? You weren’t exactly sure what the protocol was for meeting a divine offspring, but your instincts were telling you that flinging yourself on the floor wasn’t exactly the best approach.

So, you did the only reasonable thing. You followed his simple instructions.

Your feet felt like lead as you stepped into the room, the stares burning into your back even without you actually seeing them. You spotted an empty chair near the edge of the group, far enough from the center of attention but close enough to hear whatever grand plan they were about to lay out.

As you slid into the chair, someone across the table muttered just loud enough to be heard “Hope she doesn’t screw things up.”

Without missing a beat, you shot back.

“Don’t worry. I’ll leave the screwing up to you.”

A few hunters snickered, and the guy who’d spoken, Joe as you later learned, glared at you like he was about to unleash some righteous indignation but ultimately decided against it.

Smart choice.

Dean leaned toward Sam with a smirk. “Feisty. I like it.”

Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, he muttered under his breath, “Can we focus, please? Wait…” His eyes narrowed as he glanced at you. “Is that your shirt she’s wearing?”

Dean grinned like a kid caught stealing cookies. “Hot, innit?”

Sam facepalmed, but before the verbal sparring could go any further, Jack stepped in.

“Thank you all for coming to this meeting. Some of you may know me, but for the newcomers, my name’s Jack” he said, his eyes sweeping across the room. “We’re here because this is it. Hell’s armies are growing stronger every day, and we’re running out of time. We have to find a way to stop them before they overwhelm us completely.”

Dean, now leaning forward with his elbows on the table, raised an eyebrow. “Alright. What’s the play? Because I’m guessing you didn’t pull us all together just to give us a ‘rah-rah, go team’ speech.”

Jack gave a faint smile but didn’t lose his serious tone. “As you all know, Hell revolted against Rowena’s new leadership. They didn’t like her reforms, making Hell less about eternal suffering and more about, well… governance.”

Your brows furrowed.

Wait a damn minute.

That didn’t match what you’d been told at all. Alright, demons weren’t exactly known for their honesty, but if what Kid God was saying was true, then Rowena’s leadership wasn’t the tyrannical nightmare you’d been led to believe.

Was she… not as bad as Barbas and his demon cronies had painted her?

“Every revolution has a leader” Sam said, clearly still piecing the Great Invasion together in his head. “Who led the uprising?”

“It was a demon named Malgathor.”

The name poked at your brain just a bit, nagging like an itch you couldn’t scratch. Malgathor. You’d heard that name before. But where?

Before you could follow the thread, it hit you — a sharp and searing pain flashing into and through your skull, so sudden and intense it felt like someone was trying to peel your brain apart from the inside with a crowbar.

Your hands shot to your temples as you squeezed your eyes shut and that’s when you saw it.

A dimly lit room. Fancy but not ostentatious. Mandarin Oriental vibes, but more… utilitarian. Probably somewhere in its basement.

You were sitting in a chair, restrained. Across the room, faceless figures moved, one stepping closer. There was something about him that sent a chill crawling up your spine and you instinctively started to tremble.

And then, a voice.

“Hey!” the figure shouted. Harsh, commanding. “Hey! Are you okay?!”

But the voice twisted as the vision fractured, morphing into something softer. Female.

“Hey! Are you okay?”

You blinked hard, the image shattering like glass as reality crashed back in. The dim light was gone, replaced by the suddenly too bright fluorescents of the bunker. Dozens of eyes were on you, their expressions ranging from concern to confusion.

A blonde woman had her hand on your shoulder. “You okay there?” she asked, her voice cautious, like she was afraid you might snap at any moment.

You swallowed hard.

What the hell just happened?

You straightened, trying to play it off. “Yeah, I’m fine” you muttered, though you were acutely aware of how not fine you looked. Your face was pale, your hands trembling like you’d downed five espressos too many.

Dean’s eyed you from the other side of the table. “Fine? You just looked like someone plugged your brain into a car battery. That doesn’t scream fine to me.”

You shot him a look, equal parts defiant and exhausted. “Where were we?”

Dean frowned, clearly unsettled by your lack of snark. No witty comeback? No biting remark? That wasn’t you, not like he knew much about what was you. But if he learned anything from his one encounter with you was that you never shut up. His eyes stayed focused on you a moment longer and he couldn’t help but catch the slight tremor in your hands that you thought you were hiding so well.

Before he could press further, Sam shifted the focus. “Malgathor?” he said, his brows knitting together in thought. “How come we’ve never heard about him before?”

“Because he liked Fergus’ version of Hell” Rowena’s Scottish accent chimed in.

Your gaze flicked to her and your eyes narrowed instinctively. Something about her perfect red curls and sharply lined crimson lips rubbed you the wrong way, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. But then Jack’s words about her earlier came rushing back. Nobody else in the room seemed suspicious. Hell, they barely batted an eye at her presence.

Was it possible… she wasn’t the villain you’d been led to believe?

“Malgathor had no interest in causing trouble before. Fergus, for all his flaws, kept Hell… predictable. Contracts, misery, order. But when I took over and began implementing reforms, he turned on me. Violently.”

“Reforms?” you asked before you could stop yourself, the word tasting strange in your mouth. “What kind of reforms are we talking about here?”

Rowena’s eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, her expression softened. “I ended crossroads deals, stopped the eternal suffering racket, gave the damned something resembling purpose. Needless to say, it didn’t sit well with the traditionalists.”

You blinked, your brain working overtime to reconcile this version of her with the one you’d been told about by the demons who’d dragged you through hell. Had they lied? Twisted the truth? It wouldn’t be the first time.

“So” Dean said, his voice drawing everyone back. “This Malgathor guy was all-in on the Crowley’s Hell playbook, huh? Contracts, fire, long-ass lines, the whole nine yards?”

“Precisely, dear” Rowena replied, her lips curling into a grim line. “Only now, he’s expanded his vision. No longer content with Hell as it was, he’s decided to extend its boundaries. Permanently.”

Sam straightened, his brow furrowing. “You mean… he’s trying to bring Hell topside?”

Rowena nodded.

“Not just bring it topside, Samuel. Recreate it. The whole planet, one giant pit of eternal torment, chaos, and misery. He’s determined to make Earth Hell’s crowning jewel — greater than it ever was below.”

You sat back, watching the pieces click into place for everyone else, but your mind was spinning in a different direction. Malgathor’s plan sounded insane, sure, but it also felt oddly familiar. Like you’d heard of something similar before.

“What’s the plan, then?” Dean asked, breaking the tense silence. “How do we stop this Hell wannabe dictator?”

Jack finally spoke. “We need to find his residence. He’s cloaking himself with magic strong enough to evade even me.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Even you? Aren’t you, like, God 2.0? Shouldn’t that come with a built-in demon GPS?”

“It’s not that easy, Dean” Jack said simply, then turned to you. “I may not have the means to find him… but someone might have heard something about him.”

You froze. The sudden shift in attention made your skin crawl. “Oh, no” you muttered, holding up a hand that was still trembling just a little. “Don’t look at me like that. I have no idea who this Malgathor is.”

Joe, that hunter guy from earlier shot his eyebrow up. “Oh, come on, champ. You’ve been cozying up to demons for how long? You’re telling me not one of them dropped Malgathor’s name during happy hour?”

“Cozying up to demons? Is that what we’re calling ‘being tortured and barely surviving’ now?” you snapped at him.

Sam’s eyes flicked between you and Joe, sensing the brewing storm. “Okay, let’s all just—”

“No” Joe cut him off, leaning forward with a smug look on his face and his arms crossed. “I’m serious. If anyone here knows anything about Hell’s A-list psychos, it’s her.”

“Wow, thanks” you shot back, voice laced with venom. “Really nice to know my trauma has made me your go-to demon Rolodex.”

Dean muttered a low, amused yikes under his breath, but Joe either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

Rowena cleared her throat.

“Perhaps, instead of bickering like children, we could ask the right questions.” Her gaze landed on Joe then softened as it moved to you. It seemed uncharacteristic of her and infuriatingly annoying to you. “Y/N, dear, I understand you’ve been through… well, hell. But even the tiniest scrap of memory could make all the difference.”

“I said” you repeated and drew each word out slowly and sharper than a demon blade. “I. Don’t. Know.”

And with that, you decided this conversation was over.

Next on The Great Invasion (Sneak Peek from Chapter 3):

He picked up the silky fabric that you immediately recognized as your pajama top from earlier. “Except for this. Didn’t take you for a fancy PJ girl… But I gotta admit, this looks nice.”

But my shirt looks better on you, he thought, as he placed the black satin on the chair next to you.

“Dean… I swear, if you don’t get the hell out of here—”

Instinctively, your hand shot under the bed, grabbing the box of rock salt you’d stashed there for just such occasions.

“Woah, no need to get antsy” he said, moving his hands up in surrender.

You chuckled, glancing at the salt in your hand with a wicked smirk. “Wait, does this really work on you?” You raised an eyebrow.

Hey, you! Yeah, I’m talking to you. Looking fantastic in his shirt. 😉

All jokes aside, I hope you had fun reading Chapter 2 of The Great Invasion. Let me know what you think!

Chapter 3: coming soon!

🤍Series taglist🤍

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🤍Jensen taglist🤍

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#jensen ackles #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #dean x you #dean x reader #supernatural x you #supernatural x reader #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles x reader #The Great Invasion

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enlynstory · 2 days ago

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⟢𝒫𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒻𝑒𝒸𝓉

Pairing: Non-idol Sunoo x Reader. Synopsis: On her day off, Y/n’s best friend Sunoo confesses his feelings—for someone else—but it turns out they’ve both been secretly in love with each other all along. Warning:Themes of unspoken feelings and relationship changes. Wc: 1,675

There’s nothing better than a day off from work—the freedom of having no responsibilities weighing on my shoulders, just a day for me, myself, and I.

That was until a certain someone stormed through my apartment door, yelling, “get your ass over here, now!” After a couple of months, I realized giving him a key to my apartment might not have been the brightest idea.

A sigh escapes my lips as I walk into the living room, a hint of irritation bubbling up. “Yes, Sunoo, do you need something?” I watch him stand there, frowning.

“Look, I’m sorry to bother you on your day off,” he says with a sigh, “but I really need your help.” My brows raise in confusion, slightly urging him to go on. “There’s this girl…”

In an instant, my irritation faded. I wasn’t angry anymore that he barged into my apartment at 10 in the morning-no, I was just…disappointed. Disappointed in the fact that he had a crush on a girl that wasn’t me.

My best friend, the one I’d had a crush on for over a year, just confirmed that my suspicions were true-he liked someone else. And of all days, he had to drop this on me today, of all days, my precious day off.

It’s not like I could tell him not to like another girl, so I push my feelings aside and keep the conversation going. “What about this girl?” I sigh, before adding, “Are you planning to confess, ask her out, get her a gift—what’s the plan?”

I watch as he runs a hand through his silky hair before answering, “Kind of… all of those things?” There’s a questioning look on his face, like he’s uncertain about something.

“You seem nervous about this. How about we start small?” I suggest, offering a tight smile, trying to ease his nerves.

“Maybe hang out with her more, make her more fond of you,” I suggest, my voice soft but firm. “Get to know her better, find out what she likes. It’s less about grand gestures at first and more about showing her who you are.” I pause, watching him closely. “And if she starts to feel comfortable around you, then maybe you can take the next step—ask her out, or make your feelings clear.”

I clear my throat, waiting for him to say something-literally anything-after my little speech. His wide-eyed expression makes me chuckle. “You good there?” I ask, half-teasing. He doesn’t respond immediately, only taking a step back before sitting down on my couch, looking like he’s processing something.

“I’m scared to tell her… what if she doesn’t feel the same?” he mutters, his head hanging a little low. I sigh, trying to ease his anxiety. “You never know. Honestly, anyone who wouldn’t like you back is crazy,” I say, offering him a reassuring smile. “You’re a great guy, Sunoo. If she can’t see that, then she’s the one missing out.”

This is the first time I’ve seen him this nervous, and it kind of makes me nervous too. It’s not something I’m used to—seeing him this unsettled. I take a breath, trying to calm both of us down. “Just stay calm, don’t rush this. Really think about it. This isn’t something you have to start immediately.” I offer a small, encouraging smile. “Take your time. There’s no deadline on this kind of thing.”

His eyes lift, finally meeting mine, and I notice a newfound courage in his gaze. “Oh?” I tease, raising an eyebrow. “Seems the oh-so-confident Sunoo is back. Was starting to think I almost lost you there for a second.” A smile spreads across his face as he shifts, looking more relaxed. “Can I stay here today?” he asks, his tone light but hopeful.

I meet his hopeful gaze with a generous smile. “No.”

He freezes for a second, eyes widening. “What? Come on, I—”

“Nope,” I cut him off, holding up a hand like I’m giving a life-altering verdict. “You barged in here uninvited at 10 a.m. on my day off. I’m not letting you ruin my peace with your dramatic love life.”

He pouts, crossing his arms. “You’re harsh.”

I shrug. “Tough love. You’ll survive.”

He groans, flopping back onto the couch dramatically. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling as if it holds the answers to life’s toughest questions.

It was silent for a few seconds, and it felt like something in the air had shifted. “Honestly, I don’t want to wait that long…” he confessed, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “I want her to know that I like her already. We’ve known each other long enough, and we know each other so well that I feel like we don’t even need to get to know each other anymore.”

His eyes flickered up to meet mine, and I felt my breath hitch, the weight of his words sinking in. There was a sudden tension between us, thick enough to almost choke on.

“She even gave me the key to her apartment,” he continued, his voice almost a whisper, “knowing I’m the type of person who’d show up whenever I want.”

I froze, not sure what to say next. The subtle hint in his words wasn’t lost on me. “Sunoo, what are you saying?”

“You,” he said, standing up from the couch, his voice steady but filled with something I hadn’t expected. “I like you, Y/n. I always have… I just never knew how to tell you.”

As if a thousand bricks had been dropped on my head, I feel my heart pounding in my chest and my head feels like it is spinning. I gulp down my nervousness, not knowing how to respond “I…uhm”

“It’s okay if you don’t know what to say, or if you don’t feel the same.” He let out a loud sigh, his shoulders relaxing as he continued, “I just needed to get it off my chest.”

I nod silently, still at a loss for words. I wasn’t exactly prepared for my crush to come crashing into my brain at 10 a.m. like a wrecking ball. As if on cue, he starts walking away, probably assuming I wasn’t going to say anything.

“Where are you going?” I ask quietly, feeling a tightness in my chest. “You didn’t even let me talk.”

He pauses, turning around slowly, his face etched with a frown. “You don’t have to say anything, Y/n. I just wanted you to know… and I don’t want it to ruin our friendship.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “And you think not talking this out won’t ruin our friendship?” I take a step toward him, my heart pounding like it’s about to leap out of my chest. “You think I don’t feel the same about you?”

“Sunoo, I like you… I always have. And as much as I hate to admit it,” I pause, my breath catching, “I’ve been terrified of saying it. But now you’ve gone and said it first.”

He blinks at me, his expression a mix of surprise and relief. For a second, neither of us says anything, just standing there, letting the words hang in the air between us. The tension is thick, like everything’s shifted but we’re both still trying to figure out what comes next.

“You—” he starts, but I cut him off before he can finish.

“Yeah, I’m an idiot, I know.” I laugh nervously, rubbing the back of my neck. “I spent so much time trying to hide it, and you’re over here spilling your guts like it’s nothing.” I take another step toward him, my heart still racing. “But honestly… I was just waiting for you to say something, too.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, and I can see the weight lifting off his shoulders. “Well, glad I didn’t mess that up then,” he says with a quiet chuckle, his eyes softening.

I smile back, feeling the world settle just a little bit. “Yeah, you didn’t mess it up… this time.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh, so there’s a chance I could mess it up in the future?”

I give him a playful shove. “I mean, you’ve got a track record of barging into my apartment uninvited at 10 a.m. So, who knows? One wrong move and I might kick you out again.”

He laughs, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Fair enough, I’ll be on my best behavior. Promise no more surprise entrances.”

I smirk. “Good. And next time, maybe bring coffee.”

He grins, stepping closer. “Deal.”

“Deal.” I repeat after him.

“So, what does this make us?” I ask, a smile tugging at my lips as I step closer to him, suddenly finding the courage to grab both of his hands.

He looks down at our intertwined fingers, his expression softening, then meets my eyes. “I don’t know… but I’m guessing ‘officially complicated’ isn’t the answer you’re hoping for?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Complicated works. I’m not asking for anything perfect.”

He grins, squeezing my hands gently. “Then, I guess it makes us… us.”

I bite my lip, holding his gaze. “Yeah… us sounds good.”

“Perfect.” I say smiling like a clown.

“Perfectly perfect,” he adds with a grin, tugging me toward the couch to sit with him. “So, what movie are we watching?”

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Well, considering how this conversation went, I’m thinking something really light and romantic. Like a documentary on rocks.”

He laughs, throwing his head back. “Rocks, huh? You sure you’re not secretly a geologist?”

I snort. “Hey, they’re fascinating! But fine, we can watch something less educational. Maybe a rom-com. But only if you promise not to judge me when I start crying halfway through.”

He grins, leaning back into the couch. “Deal. I’ll bring the tissues—and I’m not even going to pretend I don’t know all the cheesy lines by heart.”

I laugh, pressing play. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d kick you off the couch for that.”

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galaxymagitech · 2 days ago

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What Makes Robin Magic?

For @jasontoddweek2025 Day 7:

Return | Outsider POV | Crime Alley

Summary: Jason shows Damian around Crime Alley and explains his own interpretation of Robin's magic.

Characters: Jason Todd, Damian Wayne

Warnings: Shockingly, none this time!

You can read it here or on AO3!

When Damian steps outside of prison—sorry, school—he expects to see Alfred’s sleek black car waiting for him. Instead, he sees the standard line of flashy cars and, near the front, a beat-up red Honda Odessey that looks like it has seen far better days. For a moment, Damian thinks he can get away with ignoring the abomination and call an Uber home, but then Todd waves at him from the window.

Grudgingly, Damian marches over to Todd’s dubiously-safe car and slides into the passenger seat. He notices that, instead of Red Hood garb, Todd seems to be wearing a simple leather jacket, a Green Lantern T-shirt, and jeans. “You,” Todd says, “are eleven. You need to be thirteen to sit in the front.” Damian glares at him and does not move. Todd raises his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, it’s just the law.”

Todd does not care about Damian’s safety. No, he simply wants to humiliate Damian, for the sole crime of having obtained fewer years of age. “Tt. Need I remind you that murder is also against the law?”

“Went cold-turkey—try again.” As usual, Todd is making no sense.

“Why is this turkey cold?” Damian asks, tilting his head.

“Cold—it means I quit immediately,” Todd explains. “Eleven means backseat.”

“I am not a child,” Damian insists. “I am a highly-trained agent of justice.” Todd will not convince him to concede on this point. He is no doubt gathering blackmail—perhaps even giving it to Drake.

“Legally,” Todd says, “you’re eleven.”

Damian sniffs. “Legally, Todd, you are a corpse.” Satisfied that he has won the argument, Damian leans back in his seat. “And corpses cannot drive.”

Todd chuckles. “Fine then, brat. But the seatbelt’s going on at least.”

Damian buckles his seatbelt with the distinct feeling that he fell for some sort of trick. “Where are we going?” Damian asks as Todd pulls out of the line of cars.

“You’ll see.”

“Are you holding me for ransom, as you did Drake?”

Todd chuckles. “No. But if you wanna consider this a kidnapping, feel free.”

“If this is a kidnapping,” Damian says, “I will activate my emergency beacon.”

“Kidnapping is a…loose term. You’re being detained for a fun afternoon outing.”

“Is this how you got Drake too?” Damian asks.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Todd says, leaning slightly towards Damian. “Tim didn’t even realize he was kidnapped.”

“How?” Damian is aware that Drake is often lacking in common sense and survival skills, but Red Robin is still a detective. Failing to realize you’ve been kidnapped while your enemy ransoms you back to your…guardian, because Father is not Drake’s father…seems to require uncharacteristic idiocy.

“Well, he just showed up at my safehouse because he thought I might be plotting something, and then fell asleep in the middle of said investigation. I managed to ransom Tim back to Bruce before he even woke up. Kid was shocked when B showed up, all worried. It was hilarious.”

“…I suppose,” Damian agrees. He will need to speak to his ally about this, as he has also noticed Drake’s tendency to fall asleep in bizarre locations. It could be dangerous, in the field. Although, he supposes it would be Father or Richard’s role in that case, as he has been repeatedly informed that he does not, in any way, outrank Drake. “Where are we going, then?” Damian asks.

“Home,” Todd says.

Damian arches an eyebrow. “This is not the way to Wayne Manor.”

Todd raises a hand towards Damian’s head. Damian stares Todd down, daring him to finish whatever patronizing gesture he was intending. Todd retracts his hand. Wise move. “Not your home, Demon Brat. Mine.”

“Crime Alley,” Damian surmises.

“Yeah,” Todd says. “Now shut up. My driving skills are for high speed car chases, not local traffic laws.”

It is foolish of Todd to admit such a weakness, but as Damian desires to keep his life and limbs intact, he remains silent until Todd pulls the car to a stop in a dirty alleyway. “You wanted to show me…cigarette butts?”

Todd rolls his eyes. “C’mon, demon.” Warily, Damian follows Todd out of the car. This is looking like more and more of a trap. He thought Todd was on decent terms with Father at the moment—primarily due to what Todd had called a ‘cold turkey’—but perhaps Todd needs leverage. Or, worse, he has regained his vendetta and is going after the current Robin. Perhaps Damian should have returned the mantle to Drake, if it is a target for Todd’s wrath… “Calm down,” Todd says, ruffling Damian’s hair and then dodging out of the way of his punch with a laugh.

“Why are we here?” Damian asks, composing himself.

“Well, I wanted to show you something.” Damian follows Todd as the man leads him through the Alleyway and down a street. They turn into a second alleyway, and Damian immediately sees what Todd wanted to show him.

The first thing that Damian notices is the color. The alleyway’s concrete walls are covered in a rainbow of bold, striking colors. Mostly reds, yellows, and greens, but there are accents in multiple shades of orange, pink, blue, purple, and white. The paint consumes the walls, eating away at the darkness and transporting Damian and Todd to a dimension of color.

The second thing Damian notices is the recurring image of boy in a leotard, tunic, and cape, leaping into action with a grin on his face. Although Robin’s likeness features red, yellow, and green, the unrealistic colors complement these and bring the mural to life.

Damian allows his gaze to drift around the alleyway. Behind the Robins, Damian sees various settings and objects: bubble-letter names, renditions of storefronts…even a spray-painted basketball. Each one, painted in its own unique style, seems to hold a story of its own.

“Isn’t this vain?” Damian asks, once he regains his voice. The murals are beautiful, but it’s just like Todd to make this about himself. “These are you, aren’t they?”

Todd shakes his head. “Nah. They’re Robin.” Damian steps forwards, reaching out to touch the painted wall. He traces the lines of Robin’s cape, taking in every color that appears within the yellow.

“Robin,” Damian echoes.

“And right now,” Todd says, “Robin is you.”

Damian doesn’t know how long he stands there, his hand resting against the wall. But eventually, he rips his gaze away from the art and steps back. “I didn’t know this was here.”

“Yeah,” Todd says. “I happened upon it when I was—I was in a bad place. It helped, a bit. To know that someone missed me. Even if they didn’t know who I was.”

“Who painted this?” Damian asks. The background is in a variety of styles, but the Robins all seem to have been painted by the same person.

“Olivia Medina. Do you want to meet her?”

Slowly, Damian nods.

As they walk, Todd explains their destination. It’s apparently a restaurant known as a “Diner.” Specifically, it is called “Livie’s Diner.” The owner has lived in Crime Alley her entire life and is nearing retirement. All of her children have moved out of Gotham, but she’s made up for it with a horde of honorary grandchildren. Apparently, her tendency to acquire children is somehow even worse than Father’s. Todd calls her “Livie,” but apparently, most of her own waiters and waitresses, several of the street children, and one very embarrassed cook call her “Grandma Livie.”

When they enter the diner, a bubbly woman with blue hair—grey at the roots—greets them. She kisses Todd on the cheek, and Damian watches in shock as Todd accepts it with a smile. “Is this the little brother you talked about, Peter?” Mrs. Medina asks.

“Yeah, this is little Billy.” Billy, Damian mouths in horror. What sort of name is Billy? He glares at Todd and swears he can see the man smirk. Nevertheless, he gives Mrs. Medina a nod of acknowledgement. “You know, Billy was admiring your work on Doyers Street.”

“Oh, that old thing?” Mrs. Medina asks.

“It was…” Damian searches for the right words. It was not particularly technical art, in the way that he saw in the art museums Richard took him to. But somehow, it seemed so alive, like Robin was really there. Like—as ridiculous as it is—the paint held magic. “It was visually striking.” That feels inadequate, though. “The energy…it felt very real.”

Mrs. Medina smiles. “Thank you. Are you a Robin fan?”

“Yes,” Damian says. He is Robin, so he supposes he could be considered a ‘Robin fan,’ as demeaning as the term is.

“Well,” Mrs. Medina says, “he saved this diner, you know? Mr. Freeze was right there and had frozen half my customers. He said he was going to turn on the permafrost section and was about to kill us all, when Robin leapt in from that window over there. And he said, ‘Freeze right there!’ and dropkicked him through the door. And one of my customers, she was frozen to the floor, but she had this baby and the baby was just bawling her eyes out, poor dear. So, Robin went over and picked up the baby and bounced her until she stopped crying. And then he defrosted all my patrons.”

Todd grins. “You tell that story to everyone, Livie.”

“Well, it’s a good story,” Mrs. Medina says, waving her hand. “Now, you boys go sit down.”

Todd leads Damian over to a booth. “Was that you?” Damian asks, once they’re seated.

“Nah, it was Dick,” Todd says softly enough to hide their words from prying ears. “I, on the other hand, saved the diner from Croc, but that’s not as fun of a story.”

Damian can imagine. If Freeze is in a decent-enough mood and caught early, much of the damage is reversable. Killer Croc, on the other hand…

“You’re vegetarian, not vegan, right?” Damian nods. “You’ll get an omelet,” Todd decides. “Livie refuses to tell me her secret recipe, but they’re amazing here. Want anything else?”

It is not lunchtime, but Damian decides not to argue. He could always use a snack anyway, with the physical exertion required for the vigilante lifestyle. When the waiter arrives, Jason chats with him for a couple minutes in French before ordering their food. He’s mostly silent, then, until the omelets get to their table. Todd was right—the omelets are strangely good. Not better than Alfred’s cooking, but…different enough, that they’re not strictly comparable.

“Why did you bring me here?” Damian asks, once he has taken a few bites of the omelet. He sees why Todd might prize this place—a strangely cozy restaurant in the middle of his crime-ridden territory, run by a talented woman who painted a beautiful mural to honor Robin. But, why would Jason take Todd to this place—to his ‘home’?

“Robin,” Todd says simply.

Damian doesn’t understand, but he certainly doesn’t want to admit it. So, he remains quiet and allows Todd to ramble about the de facto homeless shelter he set up a block away with money from his criminal activities. Damian is uncertain if he is supposed to be impressed or not—Todd is a criminal flaunting his crimes to a sworn crimefighter. And yet, Todd seems proud as he talks about how he bribed the police to leave the place alone.

When they finish the omelets, Todd walks over to the nearby booth and has a brief conversation with the shifty-looking boy sitting there. The man writes down a few notes in a notebook he pulls out of his jacket, nods somberly, and walks back. Damian doesn’t ask. Todd pays for the meal and they leave, walking back out onto the Gotham streets.

Damian trails behind Todd, but this time he looks out at the streets in a way he hadn’t before. Instead of simply scanning for threats and noting the presence of graffiti and cracked pavement, he starts to register each one—the face spray-painted on the pavement beside a bench some Boy Scout troop installed, the dandelion growing out of the cracks in the road, the circle with an X carved into the wooden façade of a bakery that indicates the possibility of food for the needy.

“You know,” Todd says, “when I left the League, I missed the baklava. We could get some from that bakery.”

Damian wrinkles his nose. The baklava he has eaten in America is very different from the Leagues. He says as much.

“Yeah, ‘cos there are different variations. The guy who owns this bakery moved here from Iran, and that’s where the head League chef in Nanda Parbat came from. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

So, they get baklava and walk back to eat the sweet and sticky dessert while sitting on the hood of Todd’s battered car. “Why do you own a mini-van?” Damian asks. “It’s…unbefitting of you.”

“No one suspects the mini-van,” Todd says with a laugh. “Really, there’s just more room to carry guns and dead bodies. Not that I’m transporting any dead bodies, anymore, but…you know. If I needed to.”

“Why did you bring me here, Todd?” Damian asks. Because this was surprisingly enjoyable, but Todd is simply an ally, not a friend or a brother. He has no reason to take Damian around the streets where he grew up and introduce him to the people he knows. This has to be some sort of trick or manipulation, some dastardly ploy to gain Damian’s trust.

Todd frowns, then pulls his legs up onto the hood of the car to sit cross-legged. “Because Bruce doesn’t get it. This is—this is why I’m Hood, why I was Robin. Bruce will tell you all about how this is a Mission, but he won’t show you why it matters. Robin has to…care. That's what makes him magic.” Magic. What a silly word. And yet Damian can't bring himself to disagree.

“I care about being Robin,” Damian says. Of course he does. The position is an honor. He is able to bring justice to the world and fight by his father’s side.

“You have to care about the people too, Damian,” Todd says.

Damian bristles. “I am the best Robin! Except, perhaps, for Richard.”

“I’m not trying to insult you,” Todd says, raising his hands. “Just—you care about your animals, right? You’re not just faking that or something?”

“Of course I am not ‘faking that’!” Damian slides off the hood of the car and crosses his arms. “How dare you imply such a thing?”

“Sorry, sorry. You care about your animals. And you know about what they like—I bet you get a special cat food for Alfred, yeah?”

“Only the best,” Damian says. “He deserves it.”

“’course. And you’d do anything to protect them.”

Damian nods. Is this an attempt to control Damian through his animals? Because Damian may follow Father’s code, but if Todd harms Alfred or Titus or Batcow, Damian will make him wish he was dead.

Todd steps onto the pavement and places a hand on Damian’s shoulder. Damian surprises himself by not trying to shake the hand off. “And that makes you strong, Damian. In a way you can’t get just from having a Mission.”

“But Father does care,” he says.

“Okay, Damian.”

“I mean it!” Damian protests. He remembers a time on patrol when Father found a child sitting outside alone. He knelt down and talked to her while Damian waited impatiently on a nearby rooftop. Father spent nearly ten valuable minutes just listening to the child tell him about her dolls. And then, he lifted her onto his shoulders and escorted her home. Father cares, even if Todd can’t see it through his haze of anger.

Damian hadn’t understood why Father had wasted so much time that night. But now, Damian stares at the brick walls of the alleyway and imagines the Robin murals, with their bright colors and secret stories and magic. He thinks of the taste of baklava still on his tongue, this remnant of his childhood tucked away in an area that no one ever gives a second glance. And he remembers the story of Robin comforting that crying baby in the diner.

He thinks he might understand, now.

“Thank you,” Damian says quietly, too proud to let his voice go above a whisper.

Todd pats him on the shoulder. “I’ve got people to maim and you’ve got homework to do, so let’s get you back to the manor. But—” He gives Damian a smile. “Let’s do this again sometime, alright?”

“I would be amenable to that,” Damian agrees, with the barest hint of a smile.

#jasontoddweek2025 #batman #dc #dc comics #dcu #batfamily #batfam #jason todd #damian wayne #batman fanfic #batman fanfiction #dc fanfic #dc fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #damian wayne fanfiction #jason todd fanfiction

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starmieknight · 3 days ago

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Stars Align

The Inconveniencing

17 Again AU: After a disastrous first day with the twins, Stan swears to do better as an uncle. But fate loves playing tricks on him and the magic 8-ball in the attic is more than it seems.

Now on top of having a pair of twelve year olds around the house while he tries to finish the portal and bring his brother home, Stan has to deal with being back in his seventeen year old body! Summer has never been weirder in Gravity Falls.

Prologue, The Legend of the Gobblewonker, Headhunters Pt. 1, Headhunters Pt. 2, Headhunters Pt. 3, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 1, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 2 (previous), The Inconveniencing

Any joy Stan might have felt from his lingering victory over Gideon and the find that came with it was dampened by his brother’s near indecipherable notes.

It was already hard enough to read his fancy handwriting, but having to slog through the sections written in code only to find stupid little observances that he’d hidden just because he could was maddening. Stan had spent their childhood and teenage years going over his brother’s homework to finish his own then another thirty years going over Journal One over and over again until the spine was soft and the pages embedded in his memory. Decoding Journal Two was easier with the first one on-hand, but it wasn’t without its difficulties.

If he hadn’t spent his entire life forcing his eyes to stay on letters with the tendency to get up and move on him while he read, he might have thought Ford had used some kind of magic on the books to keep unwanted eyes out. As it was, he knew that it was just his own brain struggling to keep up and make the words look right.

Reading aloud helped ― he had a better memory when it came to things he could hear rather than trying to retain information by reading, but he only had a few hours in the dead of night to go over the book.

Dipper and Mabel, though safely sequestered in their attic bedroom after a certain point in the night, didn’t do as much sleeping as they claimed to. Stan could often hear knitting needles going a mile a minute even past midnight, or the compulsive clicking of a pen as Dipper tried to beat the protagonists in his mystery novels in solving the case. And, ugh, why did those stupid Sibling Brother novels have to be so popular? Those guys had been jerks even way back in 1960s Jersey.

Shoulda let the Jersey Devil eat them…

Stan hoped the last Journal would help put the others in perspective. He had no delusions about Dipper letting him keep it for long and had spent a good bit of his time between tours working on the old copier in his office. The thing had been a dinosaur long before Stan had arrived in Gravity Falls and he was only slightly worried that it was another crazy invention of his brother’s. Anything was possible with the leftovers Stan had built his life around here. But if he could just make his own copy of the book, Dipper would be none-the-wiser about why Stan was so invested in it.

And he was sure he’d end up spending more time pouring over the book than he wanted to. It just felt like something was missing ever time he read through them. Something hiding right under his nose.

What he wasn’t missing, however, were the pinecones flying over the Mystery Shack’s parking lot.

He paused on his way to the car, having intended on going into town to get craft supplies for a new exhibit, and turned to squint at the roof.

He hoped it wasn’t the gnomes being assholes again.

Creepy, little―

A pinecone hit him square in the face.

“Gah! My nose! It hit me right in the nose!”

“Oh my gosh!” a familiar voice cried in panic.

Dipper.

Now, really ― Stan could let a lot of things go when it came to being a responsible guardian. He was cool like that. And, besides, it wasn’t like he’d had any good role models to base his skills on growing up.

But the kid had just survived a tumble off a cliff thanks to sheer dumb luck and his sister’s quick thinking.

A sister who was standing beside her twin on the roof.

Along with his lumberjack-in-training cashier.

“Wendy Darlene Corduroy!” Stan bellowed, his face red with anger. “You get your ass down here right now and explain yourself!”

“My innocent ears!”

“You too, Mabel Olivia!”

Oi, he really was channeling his mother these days, what with the ‘explain yourself’ and full naming the kids…

“Ah, man. There goes my hideout.” Wendy sighed, unbothered by being caught. The twins, however, looked mortified. “Oh, hey ― it’s my friends!”

Wendy then did something that nearly sent Stan’s teenager body into cardiac arrest.

With all the casual flippancy that her family seemed to possess in spades, Wendy launched herself off the roof, latching onto one of the pine trees that bordered the house and riding it down all the way into the parking lot. She was in her friend’s van and speeding off before Stan could catch her.

“Later, dorks!”

“Later, Wendy!” Dipper cried, his voice cracking painfully. He seemed to have forgotten the situation he was in.

Well, Stan could fix that!

“Mason Alexander Pines! You’d better be down here in the next thirty seconds or your BABBA collection’s goin’ in the Bottomless Pit!”

__________________________________________________________

Maybe it was a bit childish to still be on Dipper's ass the next day, but Mabel was a lot harder to embarrass than her brother. And Dipper still was trying to find excuses about why he couldn't share the journal yet.

Well, opportunity gave Stan the chance to share a little something of his own!

“Mom used to dress him up in a lamb costume and make him do…” Mabel was telling Wendy eagerly, pausing for dramatic flare.

“The Lamby Dance!” Stan finished for her gleefully, pulling a VHS tape from his jacket and waving it at the kids.

He'd found it after all, buried in an old box of home movies that Ford had kept buried in the lab. There were even a few reels from the fifties and sixties that Stan just couldn't bring himself to watch. But Dipper’s mortifying childhood memories were free real estate!

“Grunkle Stan!” Dipper screeched, his face crimson. “We don't talk about the Lamby Dance! Destroy that tape!”

“Hup, hup, hup.” Stan tutted, easily keeping the VHS tape out of his nephew's reach. “Now, this is a precious memory I treasure. Why would I destroy it? It's not like you can promise me anything in return…”

Dipper groaned dramatically. “Fiiiiine. I'll stay off the roof!”

“Deal!” Stan grinned triumphantly, his expression gaining a slight edge as he watched the boy stomp the tape into oblivion. It was a good thing he had more copies hidden away.

Wendy laughed at the scene, gently ribbing the boy about wearing a costume, when the cuckoo clock in the gift shop signaled the end of the Shack’s hours.

“Hey, look at that!” she said eagerly, pulling her name tag off and shoving it in her pocket. “Quittin’ time ― the gang's waiting for me!”

And then, much to Stan's surprise, Dipper invited himself and Mabel along with them, spinning a quick yarn about their age.

Stan raised a brow at that but kept his mouth shut, curious about where he was planning to go with this.

He crossed his arms, looking at the boy expectantly while they waited for Wendy to gather her things.

“Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't tell her you're really twelve.”

“C’mon, Grunkle Stan!” the boy hissed, eyes darting to the doorway nervously. “This is my― our chance to hang out with, y’know, the cool kids! And Wendy’’ll be there!”

“The same Wendy who jumped off my roof yesterday?” Stan asked, his tone flat and unimpressed. He shuddered. Ugh, he sounded like his father.

“Give him a break,” Mabel soothed, eyes twinkling. “He can't help that he's in love with Wendy!”

She screeched the last part like a particularly excited bird, making Stan grateful he no longer needed his hearing aid. The feedback would have been murder on his ears.

While the twins wrestled in the background over Dipper's apparent crush, Stan mulled over the situation silently.

On one hand, letting them run off with a bunch of teenagers could end horribly. There's no telling what they could get up to, especially in Gravity Falls.

On the other hand, seeing Dipper grow a little bit of a spine and showing the ol’ Pines’ conman spirit tugged at his heart strings. If the kid honed that mindset just a bit more, he'd be a real chip off the ol’ block.

They'd finally have something in common.

“I’ll allow it!” Stan declared suddenly, surprising the twins into silence. “But I want to know where you're going and I get to meet the rest of those kids. If you've got a problem with that, I'll tell Wendy the truth and you twos don't go nowhere.”

The twin shared a look.

“Deal!”

Stan pressed his lips together tightly and trailed after the kids as they met up with Wendy's friends.

The teenagers lit up at the sight of her, cheering her name like many townsfolk did for her dad.

Despite the obvious affection they seemed to have for the girl, something tightened in his chest at the picture they all made. Specifically the twins at the center of it.

Mabel had seemed to charm her way in with the teenagers instantly, like a duck to water. She didn't even fawn over the boys, which relieved Stan.

That was a nightmare he wasn't ready for. Probably never would be.

He knew the dangers of falling for older men.

Dipper, meanwhile, was struggling to fit in with the others, leading to an awkward silence in the group. Yeesh ― maybe the kid did have more in common with Ford than he’d thought.

One of the teens took advantage of the silence to notice Stan. A pale, crater-faced kid with dyed black hair and an air of indifferent despair. The Valentinos’ son.

Stan narrowed his eyes at the kid. He’d been an unwanted interloper, who'd hung around the Shack in the early days of Wendy working there. He was a terrible distraction that had to be run off multiple times before getting the picture.

He knew to be afraid of Stan Pines.

He knew nothing about the new ‘teen’ hanging around with Wendy

“Who's this guy?” the Valentino kid asks, his voice nasally and weasel-like. It grates on Stan's ears and something about the kid makes him want to start punching.

If the way Dipper also tenses is any indication, the boy shares the sentiment.

“Stanley Pines,” Stan offers shortly before anyone can open their mouths. “The Second.”

“Whoa,” one of the other boys grinned at him. His long hair and face reminded Stan of the overly patriotic redneck in town. They might even be related. “ I didn't know Old Man Pines had a kid. Dude, he's not, like, dead or anything, right?”

Stan blinked rapidly for a moment at the question, a lie falling from his lips before he had time to process how the idea of Stanford's identity dying out entirely makes him feel. His chest feels tight again. Stomp it out and put it in a box to deal with later.

“He's on a cruise.” He shrugs noncommittally. The teenagers relax at the lie. Probably uncomfortable with the idea of being forced to offer a stranger their condolences. “Won it in a sweepstakes or somethin’ and he made me come down to run the Mystery Shack while he's gone.”

The teenager with the hat made a sympathetic face. “Dude, that sucks ― having to work all summer.”

“Yeah,” Wendy agrees, throwing an arm around Stan’s neck and nearly choking the life out of him while she grins. There's an edge to her eyes that whispers mischief. “He should totally come hang with us.”

Oh boy…

“What?!” Dipper yelps, mortified by the very idea of Stan tagging along. Which he gets, but also ― ouch.

The Valentino kid looks just as upset with the idea, glaring daggers at the arm Wendy has around Stan.

Oh great, the kid’s jealous of him!

Now would be a great time for Stan to bolt and disappear. Possibly lock himself in the basement so no one could find him and get some extra work done on the portal while the kids are out.

But Wendy had a death grip on him and he was forced into the back row of an unfamiliar van while people he didn’t know shouted up front.

Altogether, a familiar experience made new by the presence of his niece and nephew sitting on either side of him.

Stan crossed his arms and glared at the back of Wendy’s hat.

“I am not okay with this.” he announced flatly, breaking Dipper and Mabel out of yet another argument about Stan’s kidnapper.

“Grunkle Stan,” Dipper began hesitantly, lowering his voice until they were in a little bubble only privileged to their family. “Why did you tell them your name is Stanley?”

Stan does his best to breathe through the cramp in his chest, the sensation lingering from earlier, and fixes his eyes on the dents in the roof. Shoves his hands further into the crooks of his elbows to hide his sweaty hands, the echoes of his mother calling his name ringing in his ears. (Always Stanley and never just Stan.)

“I didn’t wanna be Stanford Junior.” he says finally, hesitating just too long to be a natural answer.

“Who’s Stanley Pines the First?” This time it’s Mabel, her eyes sharp and likely running through all their shared relatives in her head. He’s grateful the majority of the Pines family were back on the East Coast, Shermie’s family the only outliers and not as ready to fill the twins’ heads with cautionary tales designed to keep them from turning out like their ‘no-good, dead uncle’.

‘Stanley’ was practically a swear word in Shermie’s house.

“A dead man.” Stan mumbled, the words nearly lost beneath the cacophony of the teenagers in front of them. “The family’s better off without him and that’s all ya need to know.”

“You must have loved him, at least.” Mabel prodded, ever the optimist. This was the first time it had ever cut into his heart like this. “I mean, to name yourself after him. Rename? Would you name a hypothetical son after him?”

Stan finally turned to look at her and she flinched from the intensity of it.

“Never.”

__________________________________________________________

The old Dusk-2-Dawn looks just as Stan remembers it. The last time he’d been in there was 1995 to buy a few things he was too lazy to go all the way into town for. He’d been in a foul mood, his birthday only weeks away, looming over his head like a coming storm, and he’d barely said two words to Ma and Pa Duskerton while roaming the aisles.

Ma had tried to push the conversation, eyes full of a matronly concern Stan hadn’t seen in over twenty years, but he had resisted to the point of rudeness. It normally wouldn’t bother him to be a jerk, but the old lady had looked so disappointed with him that he’d suddenly seen his own mother’s face staring back at him. The way she’d looked at ‘Stanley’s’ funeral, the only family he’d had there. Even Shermie hadn’t come down, though he’d had the excuse of having an appendectomy on his side.

Stan had mumbled an apology and an excuse about having a headache.

Ma’s face cleared of irritation pretty quickly and she’d pressed a packet of aspirin into his hands, free of charge.

To help keep the town’s best tourist catcher in good health, she’d claimed. The Murder Hut had brought in a surprising amount of revenue to the town once he’d made it into more than just the local papers.

He’d done it again a few years later after rechristening the Shack with a more family-friendly name, but Ma hadn’t been around to see that.

But she’d believed in him at the moment.

Three days later, she and her husband were dead and their store closed down.

Haunted, the townsfolk claimed. Fenced off and avoided at all costs.

Unless, of course, you were a group of teenagers who wanted to star in a horror movie like Wendy and her friends.

Or Dipper, who’d climbed onto the roof to break in.

Wait ― what?!

Stan jolted out of his memories at the sight of his nephew disappearing into a vent and he made a strangled sound of rage.

That knucklehead!

Still, it was pretty awesome to see the kid punching his way through his problems. Just like his ol’ Grunkle Stan!

The boy opened the doors and waved them in, a grin splitting his face.

Stan followed after the other teenagers, most of them chattering happily about the unexpected addition to their group, and paused just inside the doors.

“I’m impressed, kid.” he snorted, ruffling the kid’s hair and messing up his hat. “But don’t do that again!”

The boy laughed at him, always a tad nervous in their interactions, and smiled hesitantly back at Stan.

The resemblance to Ford was too much for him to take in at the moment, so Stan slung an arm around his neck and dragged him inside.

Now breaking and entering was something he could get behind!

He even found himself laughing with the other teens as they trashed the store, throwing food and dusty cat litter at each other. They dropped Mentos into an old bottle of Pitt and Stan just shook the fizz out of his hair with a joyful grin.

He had to hand it to these kids ― they knew how to have a good time. Even the Valentino kid and all the weird staring he did at Stan. It wasn’t even all glares, but there was an occasional splash of color that made the kid go all splotchy whenever Stan caught him in the act.

Stan tried to avoid him, sticking close to the kid with the long face and his friend with the hat. Lee and Nate, though he’d forgotten which one was which.

They seemed to like him the most after Wendy.

The other girl was too focused on her phone to pay him much attention ― though he’d seen her snapping pictures of him on occasion ― and the last guy in the group was too desperate for attention from the original friend group to try and corner Stan.

So Stan gets caught up with the pair of boys who seem to know each other like the back of their hands, so lost in the thrill of finally acting like a teenager again that he fails to notice when something inevitably goes wrong.

“Stan!” Dipper hisses urgently, tugging at his uncle’s T-shirt and pulling him away from the others so they can speak in private. “Something's wrong here! I keep seeing things ― weird things! ― around the store and I’m pretty sure it’s haunted and Mabel’s overdosed on Smile Dip and I can’t say anything to the others because they’ll just think I’m a scared little kid or something!”

Stan takes a moment to just blink at that, because, wow. He’s surprised the kid didn’t pass out trying to get all that out in one go. He certainly hadn’t stopped to breathe.

Then he straightens up, the air of a teenager sliding off him to show the old man he really is inside.

“Where’s Mabel?”

The poor girl looks like the guys Stan had known back during his dark days in Colombia. Living on the streets was rough enough ― seeing them go into seizures after too much ‘edible flour’ was almost as traumatizing as accidentally pushing your brother through an interdimensional portal while he called your name and begged for help.

So… pretty damn traumatizing.

Stan didn’t know if Smile Dip had the same stuff in it to send Mabel into a similar state as the guys he’d known on the streets, but he didn’t want to chance it.

He scoops his niece up, cradling her tiny body to his chest, and wonders what the hell is wrong with him.

How did he get so caught up that he missed Mabel trying questionable substances?! The girl was so much like Ford in his eyes that he forgot how much she was like Stan, too.

It’s just supposed to be a bit of fun.

Until it isn’t.

“We’re leaving!” Stan barks at the others, startling them out of their fun. The Valentino kid is so shocked that he falls off the counter and disappears behind the register. “NOW!”

“Whoa,” Wendy tries to placate, her gaze hardening as it lands on the bundle of turquoise and pink in his arms. “Stan ― breathe. C’mon, guys, time to go.”

A breath leaves his chest in an explosion of air, the tightness in his chest having built up to a vice yet again. It burns and crushes him simultaneously, quickly becoming a feeling both familiar and a hindrance. Every moment the twins spend in Gravity Falls just makes the feeling grow and grow and grow.

The last thing Stan wants to do is send them home to parents who’re contemplating divorce, but that small bit of good sense he has whispers that it may be what he needs to do.

To keep them safe, alive.

“No one is leaving!” a new voice bellows.

Stan can only look on in horror as the Valentinos’ kid rises from behind the counter.

And keeps rising.

They really did end up in a horror movie, the Valentino kid obviously possessed now and floating above them while wreathed in a ghostly glow. His dark eyes are white beneath his fringe, rolled back so far in his head that the veins are visible and bulging.

That… That can’t be good.

It’s a blur after that, the teenagers disappearing one after another until it’s just him and Wendy left, backed up against the doors with the twins encased in Stan’s arms. He’d picked up Dipper at some point, though he had no recollection of doing so.

The ghost is laughing at them now, saying something about hot dogs of all things!

Fury and fear war within Stan until they spew forth from him in an angry wave.

“Oh, can it, Duskerton! You never sold your dogs at a discount and that joke’s thirty years old! Get some new material and let us outta here!”

The possessed Valentino kid scowls at him, his ghostly glow tinged red, but it’s the other face materializing next to him that catches Stan’s attention.

“My, Pa!” Ma Duskerton exclaims in surprise. “That’s Stanford Pines!”

The red fades away and Pa Duskerton fades into view beside the transparent image of his wife.

The Valentino kid drops to the ground, landing with a muffled groan.

“Why, it is, Ma!” Pa says joyfully, floating closer to peer at Stan’s face. “Got yourself caught up in some magic mischief, didya m’boy?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan rolled his eyes at the familiar tone of the couple. For some reason, they liked him enough to ignore his gruff attitude. “The whole baby face’s old news by now. So, ya gonna let us go or what? My kid’s spazzin’ out over that junk you guys used t’ sell.”

Ma’s face crumbled with concern and she disappeared, only to reappear right in front of them. Stan jumped and clutched the twins more tightly. Ma didn’t seem to notice, attempting to pet Mabel’s tangled curls, her hand going right through the girl.

“Oh, the poor dear.” the woman tutted maternally. “I saw my share of kids go through the same thing. Get her some water to break it down and something starchy to soak it up and she’ll be just fine, deary.”

Some of the tension floods from Stan’s shoulders at the reassurance. Already Mabel’s eyes are beginning to clear, every pass of Ma’s hand bringing life back into her tiny body.

“Now,” Pa sighs, crossing his arms. “I really am sore at you kids for the state of our store.”

“We’re really sorry,” Wendy offers sheepishly, the expression out of place on her face. “We didn't think anyone would care after seventeen years.”

Pa flares red briefly but settles down quickly when Dipper flinches in his uncle’s arms.

“Well, I do care, young lady. But you’ve apologized. Your friends, however…”

“Can’t we do anything to help them?” Dipper asks rather meekly. He forces himself to stay steady when Pa attempts to pat his head and shivers when the hand passes through him.

“Now, now, little fella ― say, how old are you, anyway? Y’seem a bit small to be one of them sassa-frassin’ teenagers!”

Once it’s apparent that the Duskertons hate teenagers, Dipper’s con is now on the line.

The boy looks nervously at Wendy before slumping in defeat.

“I’m twelve… technically not a teen.”

“Wonderful!” Pa beams, his ghostly glow becoming almost blinding white at the admission. “Do you know any funny little dances?”

“No―oooo,” Dipper drags out the word in a panic as Pa flashes red. “Well, there is one! The, uh, Lamby Dance… But I can’t really do it without a lamb costume, so―”

Which doesn’t deter Pa in the slightest.

The ghost snaps his fingers and warps reality around them to put Dipper in a fleecy costume, the boy teleported to the center of the store where there’s room to dance.

Stan muffles a distressed moan at the sudden loss and holds Mabel tighter. Whatever the kid was doing, he didn’t want to get in the way. His nephew’s song and dance routine is a familiar comfort, but Stan won’t be anywhere near at ease until the boy’s back in his arms again.

Which probably won’t be any time soon.

The boy’s sacrifice has saved the others and everyone practically crawls out of the Dusk-2-Dawn as Wendy regalls them with a heavily edited retelling of how Dipper exorcised the ghosts.

Mabel’s stirring in his arms and Stan barely has time to put her down before she’s throwing up against the van’s tires.

There’s a muffled chorus of sympathetic noises from the rest of the group as she finishes spewing her guts.

“Oh, man.” Wendy sighs as she comes to stand beside Stan. Her face is contrite and worn, a shadow of nervousness on her face that Stan would have missed if he hadn’t known the girl her entire life. “Sorry about all that, dude. I just really wanted you to let loose a little ― not deal with overdoses and ghosts.”

He bumps his shoulder against hers gently. It barely budges her, only a testament to how tired she really is.

“I’m not happy about the twins getting dragged into another mess, but you didn’t know what would happen.” Stan’s reminded of another teenager who made a mistake, a lifetime and a coastline away, and can’t bring himself to yell at her just yet. “Whaddya say to dumpin’ the gremlins in bed and pigging out on ice cream and bad public television?”

Wendy grins and punches his arm playfully. It actually kinda hurts.

“You got it, man. Better than just staring at my wall for hours until the world makes sense again. Next time we hang out, let’s just stay at the Mystery Shack, okay?”

“Next time?” Dipper, who’d been hovering at their hips and holding back Mabel’s hair, perks up. “You mean, you still wanna hang out with us? Even… even after I lied about being thirteen?”

Wendy pushed his hat down over his face.

“Of course, doofus!” her tone was unbelievably fond. “The Pines Family is the coolest in Gravity Falls!”

The boy is practically glowing as he climbs into the van, only dimming slightly as he and Mabel fall asleep on the ride home. The twins glue themselves to Stan’s sides and only offer mumbled protests when he and Wendy carry them into the Shack. They’re snoring by the time they’re tucked into bed and Wendy and Stan crash in front of the TV to spend the rest of the night binging some old movie they’re too tired to protest watching.

By the end of it, Stan’s crying over Duchess’ long-awaited wedding and appropriately angry when it’s interrupted.

Wendy just laughs at him, long and hard, still grinning half-an-hour later when she finally passes out. Stan follows her soon after, his dreams full of dashing men in waistcoats and fiery young women who challenge the world.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #stanley pines #stan pines #gravity falls stanley #gravity falls stan pines #grunkle stan #de aged Stan pines #de aging #my writing #17 again au #stars align

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separatist-apologist · 12 hours ago

Text

The Prophecy

Summary: No one has seen or heard from Elain Archeron in two months…until she turns up one day in the Spring Court with no memory of where she's been or what she's been doing.

Tamlin and Lucien will have to work together to untangle the mystery of Elain's missing memories.

My gift for @olenvasynyt- but other people can read, too?

@acotargiftexchange

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

“You’re in my dream again.”

Elain sighed. “Were you waiting for me?”

He was shirtless, for starters, and she didn’t believe for a moment that hadn’t been done on purpose, though she didn’t quite know how. She could walk through dreams, but as far as Elain could tell, people couldn’t control what they dreamt about. Case and point—Lucien was half submerged while holding a heavy, iron skillet filled with what appeared to be ham.

“No, clearly not,” Lucien replied, frowning down at whatever concoction he’d been making. He dropped into the inky water but otherwise didn’t move.

“Are you having a nightmare?”

“Starting to feel like it,” he mumbled.

“Get out of the water and conjure a shirt—”

“I can’t,” he hissed, promoting her to look into the opaque water. She saw nothing but thighs, but that was enough.

“You’re naked?!” she screeched, whirling on her heel. She nearly tumbled backward given the rocky shore was slick from the lapping waves and what a nightmare that would have been for her, too.

“You’re the one in my dream,” he reminded her in that matter-of-fact way of his. “I don’t think you get to be outraged.”

“I’m still figuring it out,” she admitted, turning back around to look only at his face. His ruined, scarred face…that was so impossibly handsome it infuriated her. Drag five nails down her face and everyone would call her spoiled. Do it to Lucien, and he was rakishly handsome. She knew the story, of course—he’d defied Amarantha and she’d pried his eye out. Feyre had told her back in the early days when she’d hoped Elain might fall into Lucien’s arms and be settled with one of the fae.

He shifted in the crystalline water lapping around his waist while Elain tried not to notice the sculpted contours of his chest. So he was attractive? Everyone in Prythian was, effectively making it meaningless. Once, she’d been blinded by the beauty of everyone around her but now it hardly phased her at all. Another chiseled jaw—she rather liked the imperfection of Lucien’s face.

Not that she’d ever tell him, of course. But it made him interesting to look at.

“What is it like?” Lucien questioned, pulling her back to the moment.

“A crossroads, I suppose,” she told him, kicking a pebble with her boot. “It used to be impassable but lately I’ve been able to come here.”

“Could you visit anyone?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, though she, too, was curious about it. Would the walls her sister purported to keep up be enough to withstand Elain if she truly wanted to see her? “I don’t understand my magic.”

There. She said it. Lucien didn’t seem surprised by it, resting his palm flat against the water's surface. His long, auburn hair skimmed beside him, half soaked which gave him a cat-like quality.

“Seers are rare,” Lucien reminded her. She’d heard that all before. “No one really knows how their magic works or the limitations of it.” “Feyre said courts would go to war for a Seer,” Elain told him. Was that why Tamlin wouldn’t let her go?

“I doubt it,” Lucien replied sharply, as though mere mention of Feyre irked him. “But they wouldn’t be likely to give you up, either.”

“Like you and Tamlin?”

“I was waiting for you to say that,” Lucien replied with a half smile. “I don’t know if a Seer could tell us anything we don’t already know.”

“If I could, though…?”

“We’re not keeping you—”

“We?” she interrupted, catching the way he kept referring to himself and Tamlin as a unit. “You work for my sister.”

Don’t you?

Lucien’s smile slipped. “Ah. Right. No, I am no longer employed by the Night Court.”

“Why not?”

“It’s time to move on,” Lucien told her, his gaze shifting to look at the fuzzy world beyond her. The scene was only filled out around them, blurred just as soon as she looked away from Lucien. Dreams were strange, half-formed things and she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised he’d only colored in the pieces he needed. “I thought Velaris would be a new start for me.”

“You never lived there,” she accused. “How can it be a new start if you never gave it a chance?”

“Everyone hates me,” Lucien spat, straightening out his shoulders. “Maybe not your sister, but everyone else? They can’t stand the sight of me and make no secret of it. I don’t belong in the human lands, either, though it was…more pleasant than Night. I miss Spring—it was the only place that felt like home.”

“If you stay, we’ll never see each other again,” she reminded him.

Lucien scoffed. “I can’t imagine you’re disappointed by that.”

“They don’t like me either,” she said impulsively. Lucien rolled his eyes, half turning to reveal a back that was lined with more scars. She felt sickened by the sight—why was everyone constantly trying to kill him? Lucien was frustrating, sure, but Elain didn’t think he deserved all this.

“Elain, Rhysand has offered a reward of a million marks to anyone who knows where you are.”

It was her turn to scoff. “Why? So he can go back to looking at me like I’m Feyre’s annoying child he can’t stand the sight of? They don’t like me…they just tolerate my presence because Feyre feels guilty we were turned.”

“Why fight so hard to go back?”

She shrugged. “Just because I’m unhappy there doesn’t mean I want to leave here with you.”

He exhaled, the sound reminiscent of a laugh. “Fair enough. Where would you go?”

She sighed. “Gray and I had these plans, after we got married. I know Feyre and Nesta think I was going to live behind those walls and…I don’t know…have babies and clean and cook, but we were going to travel. His father was still lord and we…”

It hurt to think about, even with so much distance between them. Lucien looked down at the water.

“I once made similar plans. I…I know it’s cold comfort, but I know how you feel.”

Feyre had told Elain that story, too, though Elain wasn’t sure now was the right time to mention it. It seemed like the sort of thing Lucien might want to tell her someday, and the kind of story he deserved to tell for himself.

“You were going to travel?”

“She’d never seen anything outside of Autumn,” he murmured, his eyes glazed over. “I wanted to show her…it doesn’t matter anymore. I only meant, I understand your grief. It’s not just losing the person, but the life you imagined, too. A whole future, gone and no one understands that.”

“They don’t,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her body, though she wasn’t cold. “They just wanted me to move on. To be happy. At least I was immortal, right?”

“‘You’re young, you’ll find someone else,’” Lucien said in a mocking tone, words that Elain had heard, too, though not quite in the same way.

What about Lucien? Have you tried talking to Lucien? Your mate, Lucien?

It was easy to hate him for it. Elain had never bothered to ask if he wanted her—she’d just assumed he did. Afterall, he kept coming around, kept giving her gifts, would sit in the same room with her silently, trying to speak to her before he’d finally given up entirely. How much of that was because he wanted to, and how much was out of dutiful obligation?

“I don’t know where I was during those months,” Elain decided to tell him. Lucien looked up at her, his expression carefully guarded. “If I help you figure it out…will you let me leave?”

Lucien nodded his head. “I won’t stand in your way.”

“And you and Tamlin will help me with my magic,” she added, because it seemed important.

“Deal.”

“You don’t know if he’ll agree to that,” she countered.

“Trust me—he will,” Lucien assured her. “So long as you’re honest with us.”

“Didn’t he forbid Feyre—”

“That was different,” Lucien interrupted, clearly irked. “A different climate, a different…just all of it was different and she knows it. If you want help, I’ll help you.”

There were some things she never planned to tell him—like the wards she could see and how she unchained them the way someone might undo the loops in their knitting. She also needed to be more careful dropping prophecies in his lap—Lucien still hadn’t told her about the last one, though to be fair, they were barely on speaking terms. If he could help her figure out how to navigate this shadowy dream world, Elain thought she could manage the rest on her own.

“You’ll help me with Rhys and Feyre?”

“There’s no one alive that could help you with the pair of them. You’ll have to stand up to them by yourself,” Lucien told her with a mocking smile.

“I can, you know.”

“I believe it,” he replied easily. “Now do you mind leaving my dream?”

“I’ll be back,” she replied, turning her back to him.

“I’ll make sure I’m wearing pants, then,” he grumbled, almost too softly for her to hear. Elain didn’t know why she found that funny. But she caught herself giggling softly as she made her way back toward the flaring light and her own dreams.

—

Tamlin was out, courting anyone who’d remained that he felt he could trust. Lucien had stayed up the night before creating a short list, alongside a deed for titles, land, and money—all Tamlin had to do was put a name on the parchment and stamp it with the official seal to be kept in Tamlin’s manor as an official record. He’d be working out of the estate further north, which also lent a certain amount of credibility if Rhys managed to get one of his bats through the wards.

Lucien had noticed holes in them, always just at the edges—always his wards. He mended them easily enough, but every morning he’d find new holes peeking around the edges—no one should have been able to get through the wards at the border, and when he winnowed down to check, those were still intact.

Perhaps he was simply losing his touch.

Elain was out in the gardens most morning, awake long before Lucien managed to drag himself out of bed. She went to bed much earlier than him, and seemed to wake with the literal sunrise—or before. Tamlin had mentioned once she’d beaten him to breakfast.

He found her, as he so often did, pulling weeds while the hen she’d named Henrietta ambled about. The bird didn’t like him much, which amused Elain greatly. If he was honest with himself, he rather liked the smile that lit over her face whenever the bird would start clucking at him, nipping at the hem of his pants with its beak.

“You weren’t in my dream last night,” Lucien accused.

Elain’s head snapped up. “Yeah.”

“Where did you go?”

“Cassian’s,” she mumbled, her cheeks flaming red. “He didn’t realize I was there…it’s for the best.”

Jealousy clawed at him as he asked, “What did you see?”

“He was dreaming about my sister,” Elain muttered, pulling a weed viciously from the ground. “It was…detailed.”

Lucien could help the laugh that wheezed out of him. He’d smelled the sex rolling off the pair of them, he could imagine what Cassian dreamt about and didn’t think he’d want to see it, either. Elain shot him a filthy look, eyes narrowed. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” he argued. “Sorry about your failed escape attempt.”

“I wasn’t…” her cheeks warmed. “I wasn’t trying to escape, just…tell them I’m fine and they don’t need to worry.”

Lucien laughed a second time. “Maybe you should send Rhys a letter.”

Elain, unaware of the history there, seemed to consider it. Lucien wondered how Feyre and Rhys might take a letter where Elain claimed she’d left with Tamlin of her own free will and didn’t want to be contacted. Would they feel justified hunting her down? After all, who knew what Tamlin might be doing to her?

The whole thing made him feel bitter all over again. Rhys had gotten away with all of it, had been allowed to paint themselves as victims, as if the mask Rhys purported to wear was common knowledge. The rules were simply different for Rhys, for Feyre, for their whole court and sometimes, in his angrier moments, Lucien wished for a violent civil war that would finally oust the Night Court entirely.

He wouldn’t win any points with Elain on that front.

“Does this mean you want to stay?” he questioned, hating how hopeful he felt. Her wanting to stay didn’t mean she wanted him, and a smarter male wouldn’t have let himself think any differently. It was just…well. She was here, and she wasn’t fighting him so hard, and Lucien couldn’t help but think that maybe she’d like him if she spent a little more time.

“Want? No. But I thought about what we talked about in my dream last night and I think if I ever want the life I imagined, I can’t go back.”

She said the words as though she’d rehearsed them, unable to meet his gaze as she spoke them aloud. Practicing, he supposed, for when she inevitably had to tell Feyre the same.

“Besides, Tamlin hardly speaks to me at all,” she added.

“He’s not good with people,” Lucien replied, lowering himself to his knees so he was beside her, though with enough space to not be touching her.

“What happened between him and Feyre?” she asked, pulling off one of her gloves with her teeth.

“Too much to explain, even if it was my story to tell,” Lucien replied, his words edged with frustration. “Maybe they were both cowards for how they handled their relationship, and cowards again for how they chose to deal with the aftermath.”

“I wonder if that’s what Gray thinks about me,” she murmured. Lucien wondered if she’d be angry if he ripped Graysen’s arms off his torso and beat him to death with them. Probably unhappy, but oh. Her fury might have been worth it.

“Why would he think that?” Lucien demanded sharply.

“Tamlin fell apart, didn’t he? So did I,” she said, drawing the absolute worst conclusion from what he’d been trying to say.

“Different circumstances,” Lucien managed to get out. “Tamlin…had a responsibility to his people that he failed to uphold in his grief. You were…Elain, in the Cauldron, did you…”

She blinked up those soft, brown eyes at him. “Die?”

God, he couldn’t say the word, was strangled just hearing her say it. Lucien merely nodded, hoping his face didn’t betray him.

“Yes,” she whispered, looking down at her now bare hands. “It was…it was agonizing. I thought I’d been gone for years, but Feyre said it was a minute.”

“It was,” he whispered.

“And you were there,” she reminded him, as if Lucien had ever forgotten. “You and Tamlin.”

She’d said it once before, lost in the haze of her grief. Lucien had felt shame then, and he felt it now. “We didn’t know,” was all he could say to her, the only explanation for it.

“But you knew about Feyre,” she shot back, her own words dripping with condescension. Sometimes Lucien thought meeting Feyre was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

“I can’t explain—”

“Try.”

His temper flared. “Every single time I ever saw Rhys, he was making a joke about the casual violence he could inflict. He played a role, fine, I accept that, but how was I ever supposed to know? It wasn’t like he informed me when he was joking about my mothers death, or forcing me to bow while your own sister pissed herself with fear at his presence. We’re all dragged under the mountain where he’d lived for the last fifty years as the right hand man to Amarantha. Where he laughed when she ripped out my eye, and suggested she do the same with my tongue. So when your sister vanished with him, of course we assumed the worst. We were desperate—Amarantha modeled her court after his own.”

“She’s allowed to leave,” Elain said softly.

“I never said she wasn’t,” Lucien snapped back, his heart pounding in his throat. “But she was my friend and I—”

Lucien rolled his shoulders, exhaling deeply. “I loved her like a sister. You don’t understand, and I can’t make you understand—and you don’t have to side with me, but when she left, she couldn’t read, and one day we get this letter from her with immaculate handwriting claiming it's from her. Rhys can control people with his mind, it's just…we couldn’t see her, couldn’t prove any of it was true.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Obviously,” he replied, holding her gaze. “But we can’t go back, only forward. Feyre was allowed to move on…the rest of us should, too.”

“She deserves happiness,” Elain offered quietly, as if Lucien doubted that.

“You do, too,” he offered, wondering what that looked like for her. He suspected she was starting to give her future a shape in her mind, even if that shape was merely get-as-far-away-from-this-place-as-I-can. It was better than hiding in Feyre’s sprawling, riverside estate day in and day out. And Elain could say whatever she liked, but he hadn’t seen those dead, glassy eyes since they’d begun holding her captive.

Elain only shrugged her shoulders. “If you’re going to stay out here, you have to work, Lucien.”

A familiar refrain. He wasn’t pretending when he groaned, his back still sore from all the raking he’d done the day before. She demanded perfection, which was apparently somehow achievable though not by him.

“Why don’t you start over there,” she added, pointing to where he’d finished the day before.

Outraged, Lucien replied, “I’ve already done it!”

“The rows need to be straight and orderly, otherwise the plant beds run into each other. You’ve got wavy rows.”

“I do not.”

“I’ve marked them off for you with string,” she continued, ignoring him entirely. “Just carefully carve them out.”

“This is why no one likes you, you know,” Lucien grumbled, rising to his feet. He expected that to piss her off—in truth, he shouldn’t have said it. It was meant to be a little good natured teasing, the same he’d give to anyone else. Elain, though…she always seemed so soft. So fragile. Even when she was snapping at him, her bottom lip seemed to tremble in warning. He braced himself for her sadness, her hurt.

“They don’t like me because I smell like you,” she snapped in response. Lucien’s barked out a laugh.

“Wet dog?”

“And sun baked trash,” she sniffed, sliding her hands back into the soil. A smile tugged at her mouth—she was pleased with herself.

“Get used to it,” Lucien said, earning a raised brow in return. He meant it, though. As long as she was speaking to him, and living nearby, Lucien didn’t intend to go anywhere. Even if this was all he could ever have—even if he could never be more than her friend.

It was enough.

#elucien

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claramelooo · 7 hours ago

Text

CRIMSON REVERIE

Hey guys! It's all crazy and to top it off I'm still sick, I'm getting better thanks to teas and Advil. But here I am...

Enjoy it! <3

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Pairing: Dark!Witch Wanda x Fem Reader

Warning: +18, smut, anal play, impregnation fetish, degradation, jealousy Wanda

Summary: You find out what happens when you're pushed to the limit

Hey. Now I've a masterlist

SHINE

Morning arrived gently, like a whisper only the skin could hear. Light filtered through the curtains, painting shadows and shapes in golden tones across the rumpled sheets. The room smelled of warmth, a faint floral perfume, and something unmistakably Wanda.

Your body was still wrapped in the haze of sleep, but awareness began to surface in waves, carrying with it the presence of the woman beside you. A barefoot touch grazed yours, warm and subtle, as if seeking something more profound than a simple connection: a silent promise of closeness.

Wanda’s nose brushed the curve of your neck, a simple yet devastating gesture. You could feel her rhythmic, tranquil breath, spreading like a caress across your skin. The soft texture of the sheets contrasted with the comforting weight of her arm draped over your waist, holding you as if fearing the dawn might steal the privilege of having you there.

It was in these quiet moments that everything felt different. The lightness that love brought wasn’t an escape but a new weight—one you carried gladly. The fine line between what was her and what was you seemed to blur, like the light filtering through the curtains, merging day and night.

Wanda shifted slightly, pressing her lips to the space between your neck and shoulder—a kiss that felt like a signature on your skin, a reminder that you belonged to her.

You opened your eyes slowly, feeling the warmth of your breath against the pillow. “Are you awake?” you murmured, your voice rough from sleep.

“Maybe,” came the whispered, humor-laden response, her tone magnetic as ever.

You smiled, your heart skipping a beat. “Staring at me again?”

“As if it’s a crime,” Wanda replied, her fingers trailing lightly along your waist—delicate but firm.

“Flirting with me before eight in the morning,” you teased, turning in bed to face her. Your eyes met hers—green like a sunlit meadow.

“I’m entitled,” she said, leaning closer. The gentle touch of your noses was followed by the soft pressure of her lips against yours, a kiss that held everything: the tenderness of the night, the warmth of the day, and the promise of everything to come.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the sweet aroma of bread toasting in the kitchen as you assembled the twins’ lunches at the counter. Tommy and Billy sat at the table, eyes still half-closed, already bickering over who could finish the orange juice first.

Wanda entered the kitchen, her hair slightly tousled, with an expression of pure morning laziness that only made her more irresistible. You felt her presence before you saw her—a warmth that seemed to fill the room.

“What’s your plan for the day, professor?” you asked, a playful smile on your lips as you spread butter on Billy’s toast.

She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, her eyes sparkling with a kind of intimacy that made the world feel closer. “The usual,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “It’s so dull going to work and not seeing your face. Did you know I only took that job to see you?”

You laughed, stepping closer with an intentionally loaded look. “Miss intimidating me in your office?”

Her voice turned naturally seductive as she leaned just slightly toward you. “You have no idea how much.”

Her hand rose to gently brush a loose strand of hair from your forehead, her fingers moving with calculated tenderness. There was an electric charge in the exchange, a tension that seemed to absorb even the muffled laughter of the twins in the background.

“Eww! No kissing!” Tommy interrupted with exaggerated indignation, making Billy burst into laughter.

You and Wanda pulled back with knowing smiles, though the playful glint in her eyes was impossible to ignore.

“Ah, puberty...” Wanda sighed, feigning resignation as she turned to the boys.

“Mom, don’t tell me you never thought it was gross when your parents kissed,” Tommy shot back with a grimace.

Wanda arched an eyebrow, already prepared with a sharp retort. “Of course, I did. But look at me—I survived. Love doesn’t kill, Tommy. Neither does a little romance.”

“Maybe boredom does,” Billy added, laughing and earning a high-five from his brother.

You watched the scene with a serene smile, handing the finished lunches to the boys. “Come on, eat quickly. You’re almost late,” you said, though your voice carried the lightness of someone who was home.

As the boys dashed off to grab their backpacks, Wanda turned her gaze to you, the earlier intensity returning.

“One day, they’ll understand,” she said softly, leaning in to kiss your cheek.

“If they don’t, oh well,” you teased, smiling as you returned the affection. “They’ll have to deal with it, because, sorry, I’m addicted to you.”

Wanda laughed, the sound light and filled with a love that made the day begin just right. “And I’m addicted to you,” she whispered as the boys’ hurried footsteps echoed through the house.

The clock read 10:37 AM when you finally found a moment to pause at work. The teacher’s lounge was quiet, except for the soft clicking of keys in the background. The air smelled of stale coffee, and you took the opportunity to pour yourself a cup. The morning had been intense but rewarding—your students were finally beginning to grasp Whitman’s poetry.

You were about to sit down when Maria Hill walked in. Her deliberate, measured steps immediately drew your attention. The last time you crossed paths had been during a board meeting, and even then, you exchanged little more than a formal nod. Today, however, she seemed determined to speak with you.

"Professor," she began, her voice carrying a casual tone that felt too practiced to be genuine. "It seems your class is one of the most talked about this semester."

You looked up, studying her face. There was something difficult to decipher there—a contrast between professional composure and something far more personal.

"I'm just trying to keep things interesting," you replied with a polite smile, doing your best to ignore the faint unease her presence stirred within you.

Maria leaned against the counter, arms crossed in a posture that appeared relaxed, though her gaze remained fixed on you, observing every detail. "Interesting is an understatement. Some teachers spend years trying to make that kind of impact."

You knew it was a compliment, but the way she said it sounded... odd. As if there were layers beneath her words that remained unspoken.

"It's part of the job," you said, keeping your tone neutral.

Maria smiled—a small, enigmatic expression that hinted at something veiled beneath the surface. "Have you always been like this? Passionate about what you do?"

The question caught you off guard. Before you could answer, her eyes narrowed slightly, as though analyzing more than just your words.

"Are you asking if I’ve always wanted to teach?" you asked, attempting to diffuse the tension.

"Not exactly," Maria said, her tone lowering, becoming softer. "I mean... have you always been like this? Strong? Resilient?"

You paused, feeling the weight of her question. The way she spoke stirred old memories—ones you preferred to keep buried. Times when you had no choice but to be strong, to endure, to survive.

Before you could respond, Maria pressed on, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, but carrying an emotional weight that felt more personal than professional. "Not everyone can turn the scars of their past into something... powerful."

"Do you have kids?" you asked abruptly, steering the conversation away from uncomfortable territory.

"Two," you answered, a softer expression crossing your face as you thought of Billy and Tommy. Just the thought of them brought a brief, calming reprieve.

"They’re lucky," Maria murmured, her voice gentle but with an undercurrent of something more complex. "Lucky to have someone like you looking out for them."

“Your husband must be proud,” she added, the statement sounding casual, though her eyes watched you intently, studying your reaction with what could only be described as calculated curiosity.

"I'm not… married to a man," you replied evenly, though you felt a warmth creeping up your neck at the subtle shift in the conversation.

Maria tilted her head slightly, absorbing your words with a careful consideration. A faint smile touched her lips—not one of surprise, but of quiet understanding, as if you’d just confirmed something she’d long suspected.

"Not married to a man," she repeated slowly, each word deliberate, precise. "Interesting."

The weight of her gaze was palpable, almost tangible, like an invisible pressure pressing against you. Her eyes never wavered, and the intensity of her scrutiny made it hard to breathe.

"And your wife… or partner?" Maria continued, her voice dropping to a lower register, each word laden with significance. "Does she understand who you are? Everything you’ve been through?"

You took a step back, feeling an all-too-familiar tightness in your chest. Maria had a way of asking questions that cut deeper than they should, as though she could peel back layers of your soul with little more than a glance. Whether she intended to or not, it left you feeling exposed.

"She understands what matters," you said firmly, striving to maintain your composure. "And that’s enough."

Maria took a step closer, and the air around you seemed to shift. There was nothing overtly threatening about the movement, yet her proximity felt overwhelming, as though each step carried an unspoken intent. Her presence was suffocating, each motion precise, calculated to unsettle you.

"Does she?" Maria murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Because I remember a version of you who didn’t have anyone. Who was alone. Vulnerable. And I wonder…"

Her words trailed off, but the impact lingered, each syllable like a key turning in a lock you desperately wanted to keep shut.

"I wonder if that part of you still exists," she continued softly, her tone almost gentle, yet with an undercurrent of sharpness, like a blade hidden beneath velvet. "If there’s still something inside you that misses it—being pushed. Being tested. Being forced to the edge."

Her proximity was unbearable, her warmth pressing against you like a physical force. Her voice, low and steady, seemed to sink into your bones, coaxing out thoughts you’d buried long ago. You tried to take a steadying breath, but it felt as though the very air had been siphoned from the room.

Your nose prickled—a familiar, unwelcome sensation—and you felt the warmth of blood trickling down. Instinctively, you brought your hand to your face, recoiling slightly as you pulled back to see the crimson smear on your fingertips.

Maria’s gaze followed your movements, her eyes darkening as she took in the sight of blood. For a fleeting moment, her expression shifted—something crossed her features that you couldn’t quite place. Fascination? Concern? It was gone too quickly to tell. But there was a gleam in her eyes, a flicker of something primal, like she understood more about what was happening to you than you did.

"Are you alright?" Maria asked, her voice carefully controlled, yet carrying a weight that felt almost predatory.

"I'm fine," you said quickly, though your voice trembled slightly. The pounding in your head intensified, each beat reverberating like a drum. Waves of pain radiated outward, distorting your vision and making it hard to focus.

"Are you?" Maria pressed, taking another step toward you. "You don’t look fine. In fact… you look like you’re about to break."

Her words carried a strange satisfaction, as though she’d been waiting for this—for you to unravel, for your control to slip.

You are our sun.

Shine.

Shine for the world.

The voice returned, insidious and relentless. Your parents’ mantra echoed in your mind, weaving itself into your consciousness like a thread you couldn’t untangle.

"Y/N?" Maria’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding. It snapped you back to the present, anchoring you to reality for a fleeting moment.

You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your vision. Maria stood closer now, her eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that bordered on invasive. There was something predatory in her gaze—something that made you feel like prey trapped in a hunter’s sights.

"I said I’m fine," you repeated, taking another step back. But your body betrayed you, trembling under the strain. It was as if an electric current pulsed beneath your skin, wild and untamed, begging for release.

Maria tilted her head, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "No, you’re not. You’re burning from the inside out. I can see it."

Her voice was soft, almost soothing, but it carried an undercurrent of satisfaction, as though she’d been waiting for you to reach this breaking point. Waiting for the cracks in your façade to show.

You are our sun.

Shine for the world.

The pounding in your head grew louder, the mantra intertwining with the pain, with the memories you’d fought so hard to bury. Your vision blurred again, and the room spun, but the voice remained crystal clear.

Maria tilted her head, observing you intently. “You don’t look well. In fact, you look… ready to explode.”

There was something in her voice—a touch of barely concealed satisfaction. As if she had been waiting for this, waiting to see how far you’d go before breaking.

You are our sun.

Shine.

Shine for the world.

The dizziness worsened, the ground seemed to shift beneath your feet. Then, for an instant, you saw something—a flickering image in your mind like a broken reflection. Light. A golden glow radiating from you, warm and relentless.

You stumbled, leaning against the nearest wall. “I just… need to get out of here.”

You left the room, holding your nose—blood dripping hot between your fingers, unstoppable. Your vision wavered with every step, the world around you distorting as if it were unsteady. The sound of your own shoes against the floor felt muffled, distant, while the pain in your head throbbed relentlessly, a pounding drum deep in your mind.

Every step toward the car felt monumental. The pain spread, no longer confined to your head, but racing down your spine, burning like a line of fire. Sharp stabs concentrated behind your eyes, stealing your breath. Your knees threatened to give out, and you clung to anything nearby, seeking balance.

Shine.

Shine for the world.

The voice was incessant now, growing louder, as if merging with the pain itself. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to make sense of it. But it was impossible. Everything was too much—the blood, the pain, the suffocating echo of the words.

When you finally reached your car, your hands trembled so much that you couldn’t find the keys. The dizziness worsened, and the world began to spin. You leaned against the car door, breathing deeply, but the oxygen refused to reach your lungs.

In that moment, that second of pure desperation, you heard something. A different voice. More real.

“Y/N?”

Lifting your eyes with difficulty, you saw Wanda. She was standing at the doorway to the house, her face a mask of worry. You tried to say something, but your voice failed. The pain was unbearable now, a knife buried deep in your mind.

In an instant, Wanda was by your side. Her red magic shimmered around you, and before you could protest, she lifted you effortlessly into her arms.

“Wanda, I…” You tried to speak, but the world was spinning so fast it felt like it was collapsing.

“Shh,” she murmured, her voice low and urgent. “Don’t talk. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

As Wanda carried you inside, her touch resonated within you. But there was something more. You realized she was feeling the pain too, sharing it in some way. Her face was tense, as though every step was a struggle.

“It’s burning me,” she whispered, her voice filled with awe and pain. “What’s happening to you?”

You wanted to respond, to explain, but you had no answers. All that remained was the pain, the blood, and the voice that continued to whisper.

Shine.

Shine for the world.

When you reached the living room, Wanda set you down gently on the couch, her gaze drifting over the blood still dripping from your nose. Her eyes were filled with tears she was holding back through sheer willpower.

“I’ll take care of you,” she said firmly, but you saw the fear behind her words. “I promise.”

As she placed her hand on your forehead, trying to channel her magic to ease your pain, all you could feel was the unbearable weight of that voice. And for the first time, you feared it might be right. That you needed to shine—but at what cost?

The weight was crushing when you opened your eyes. The room was cloaked in shadows, with only the moonlight filtering through the curtains, painting soft lines on the floor. Your entire body ached as if it had been crushed by something invisible, but you knew you had to get up.

With effort, you swung your feet onto the floor, trying to find your balance, but the world spun. The dizziness was overwhelming, and your shaky steps betrayed your weakness.

Before you could take more than two steps, the door abruptly opened. Wanda entered, carrying a tray of food, her eyes immediately locking onto you, filled with worry and irritation.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Her voice was firm, a command that cut through the air. “Lie down.”

You tried to protest, but she was already by your side, guiding you back to the bed with a gentleness that contrasted with her authoritative tone. She adjusted the pillows behind you and placed the tray on your lap, filled with hot soup, bread, and a glass of water.

“You’re going to eat this, and then rest. I don’t want to hear another word about getting up.”

Her manner was almost maternal, but the intensity in her eyes revealed something deeper: concern, love, and an almost desperate need to protect you.

When you finished eating, Wanda took the tray and pulled a chair close to your bedside. She held your hand, her fingers stroking yours. Her voice was softer when she finally asked:

“Now tell me… What happened?”

You hesitated, but her gaze didn’t allow for evasion. Sighing, you began to speak.

“It was Maria. The school principal. Today, at work. She… approached me.”

Wanda’s face immediately hardened, but she remained silent, waiting for you to continue.

“She started talking about the past. About who I used to be under her authority. I… I don’t know how to explain it, Wanda. Something she said threw me off, and my head started pounding.”

You felt Wanda’s gaze intensify, but the words kept flowing, like a painful confession.

“She humiliated me back in high school, pushed me in ways I didn’t understand. I hated it, but at the same time… I liked it. Liked the way she was cruel to me. Like there was power in it, something that made me feel alive in a strange, twisted way.”

The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the sound of your uneven breathing. Wanda remained still, but the magic around her began to pulse in soft red hues, like a racing heartbeat.

“Today, she did it again,” you continued, your voice trembling. “She got close, so close I could smell her. She asked about my life, pressed me with that tone that made me want to disappear. And I… I felt like I did back then. Small and insecure. I couldn’t react. My body just… gave in.”

Wanda’s green eyes were locked on yours now, and you saw something in them that made you shiver: anger, jealousy, and an intensity that seemed capable of setting the world ablaze.

“You’re telling me,” Wanda began, her voice low and controlled but electric with tension, “that this woman… thinks she has any claim over you?”

You tried to speak, but she didn’t give you the chance.

“Thinks she can pressure you, humiliate you, and get away with it?” The veins at her temples were visible now, her magic flickering around her fingers like flames.

“Wanda, I—”

“No.” She stood, her power surging around her, almost tangible in the air. “You are mine. And no one, absolutely no one, has the right to do this to you. Not Maria. Not anyone.”

The weight of her declaration hung between you, and for a moment, you didn’t know whether to feel fear, relief, or both. All you knew was that despite her intensity, Wanda’s presence was the only thing keeping you anchored to reality in that moment.

With a rough gesture, Wanda grabbed your chin to make you look at her.

The air seemed to vibrate with Wanda’s energy, charged with emotions you could barely process. Her power was there, pulsing beneath the surface, illuminating the room in crimson hues like a storm about to erupt. The question hung between you, heavy, impossible to ignore.

“Did you enjoy it?”

Her voice was low, but there was something dangerous in it, something that made your heart race. Her grip on your chin wasn’t gentle; it was possessive. Wanda held you as if the mere act of looking away would be an unforgivable offense.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. All you could do was feel—her overwhelming presence, the heat radiating from her, the knot forming in your throat as you struggled to process everything.

“Answer me.”

Her fingers tightened slightly, her green eyes blazing like fire. “Did you like what Maria did to you?”

Did you know the answer wasn’t simple? Nothing about this was simple. Part of you wanted to deny it, to walk away from this conversation, but another part... the part Wanda seemed to see so clearly... knew there was no escape.

“I…” Your voice faltered, and you swallowed hard, feeling the tightness in your throat. “I hated it. And... at the same time…”

Wanda tilted her head, her eyes narrowing, focused on every nuance of your words.

“Go on. Keep talking.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to summon strength. But all you could see was red �� the red of her magic, the red of her anger, the red that seemed to color every thought in your mind.

“Part of me liked it because... because it reminded me,” you finally admitted, each word an effort. “Reminded me of how I used to feel. Of who I used to be.”

Wanda’s expression hardened, and you saw the pain your words caused. But she didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she stepped even closer, until your faces were nearly touching, her breath warm against your skin.

“And do you miss that?” The question came low, almost a growl.

You shook your head quickly. “No. I don’t want to be that person again.”

“Then why did you let it happen?” Her tone was merciless, but there was a vulnerability buried in it, a fear she couldn’t quite hide.

“Because I’m broken,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Because part of me still believes I deserve it.”

Wanda exhaled slowly, as though trying to contain her fury. Her fingers slid to your neck, pressing lightly, as if she wanted to feel your racing pulse beneath your skin.

“You don’t deserve that,” she said at last, her voice softer, yet still full of intensity. “You never did. You were young, weak… Maybe you still are, aren’t you? Of course, you’d let her have some kind of control over you.”

Wanda tilted her head, her fingers still firm around your neck, squeezing just enough to make you feel the rapid beating of your heart. Her eyes never left yours, piercing, as if she wanted to strip away every secret you still hid.

“You see yourself as a victim,” Wanda murmured, almost with disgust. “A puppet anyone can manipulate. But do you know what I see?”

You swallowed hard, your entire body on alert, every cell vibrating under her touch. “What?”

“I see a woman who needs to be broken in a different way.”

The tension in the room became almost unbearable. The heat, the silence interrupted only by the sound of your ragged breaths, and Wanda’s overpowering presence made the air feel heavy. Every word she spoke was an electric current running down your spine, igniting every nerve, every hidden desire.

Wanda’s fingers slid along your collarbone, the touch as light as a whisper. But there was a promise in the slow, deliberate movement, one that made your skin burn. You knew she was testing your limits — but you also knew Wanda wasn’t the kind to tolerate resistance for long.

“Broken… in a way that you’ll beg never to be fixed,” Wanda continued, her voice low and husky, as her fingers trailed up your neck, closing around your throat. “I can feel your heart beating here.” She pressed lightly, her thumb against your racing pulse. “I wonder who it’s beating for.”

You tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. All you managed was a strangled sound, a mix of surprise and pleasure.

“What’s the matter?” Wanda smirked slowly, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Cat got your tongue, little doll? Still thinking about her?” She spat the words.

You opened your mouth to deny it, but the firm grip on your throat turned any attempt at a response into a shaky moan. Your eyes met hers, and the intensity in Wanda’s gaze made your entire body tremble.

Wanda’s face was a mask of control on the verge of breaking. Fury and jealousy burned in her eyes like a storm threatening to consume you entirely. Her grip on your throat was firm but didn’t hurt — at least not in the way you expected. Instead, every touch of hers made something inside you melt, every word laden with a dark desire that made your whole body hum.

“You should know,” she murmured, her tone low and rough, almost a warning. “You should know that no one else can have you. No one else can make you feel what I do.”

Her fingers tightened slightly, and you felt the pressure increase, the air growing scarce but still enough to keep you conscious. Wanda controlled every breath, every sensation — and you didn’t want her to stop.

“And yet, you let someone else get close,” she continued, her voice dripping with disdain and possessiveness. “You let another woman believe she had any right to you.”

“I—” you tried to speak, but Wanda increased the pressure, silencing you again.

“No,” she growled. “I don’t want excuses. I want you to understand one thing.”

She leaned in until her lips brushed yours, never easing her grip. Her breath, when it finally reached you, was hot and heavy with restrained anger.

“You’re mine,” she declared, every word a command that seared into your skin. “You’ve always been mine. And now… now you’ll pay for letting yourself believe, even for a second, that anyone else could possess you.”

Your eyes closed as a shiver ran through your body. Her tone, the firm touch on your throat, the promise of punishment — it all made the heat inside you rise to an unbearable level. You felt your body respond to her authority as if it were made to fit perfectly under Wanda’s control.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

Your eyes opened slowly, meeting hers. There was something primal there, a raw need mingled with her anger. You didn’t just see jealousy — you saw obsession. You saw love in its most dangerous, possessive form.

“Who’s your heart beating for, Y/n?” Wanda repeated, her eyes narrowing as her thumb pressed against your pulse. “For me… or for her?”

You knew what the right answer was. You knew exactly what Wanda wanted to hear. But at the same time, something pulled you toward the abyss—a desire to provoke her, to test the limits of her control, to see how far she would go to reclaim the authority she never should have lost.

So, instead of answering, you remained silent.

Wanda’s smile faded. For a moment, there was only silence, save for the sound of your ragged breathing and the faint, ominous hum of her magic lingering in the air.

“Silence?” Wanda arched an eyebrow, her tone almost mocking, laced with dangerous amusement. “Still thinking about her, perhaps? Thinking about what she did to you?”

“No!” you cried out, the sound hoarse, choked by the invisible grip around your throat. “I only think of you. Only you, Mommy.”

For a fleeting moment, her gaze softened, a flicker of warmth crossing her features—but it disappeared just as quickly. Her anger returned, simmering beneath the surface, more intense than before.

“Am I supposed to believe that?” Wanda asked, tilting her head slightly, studying you as if dissecting your very soul. “After what you did? After you allowed someone else to touch what is mine?”

She lowered her head until her lips brushed your ear, her voice low, intimate, dripping with both threat and promise.

“I’ll break you, my little doll,” she whispered, her breath hot against your skin. “I’ll make you remember who you belong to.”

The constriction around your throat loosened just enough for you to take a shuddering breath, but Wanda gave you no time to recover. In one swift, calculated move, she claimed your mouth in a fierce, almost brutal kiss, her teeth scraping your bottom lip, drawing blood.

You whimpered against her mouth, your body surrendering entirely to the control she demanded. Tears streamed down your face, the salty droplets mingling with the metallic taste of blood on your lips.

“That’s it,” Wanda murmured, her voice softening as she pulled back slightly, her fingers caressing your cheek to wipe away your tears. “Cry for me. Show me you understand.”

Her gaze locked onto yours, intense and unrelenting. Her fingertips traced the contours of your face, the touch deceptively gentle.

“I want all of you,” Wanda said, her tone a mix of tenderness and authority. “Your body, your mind, your heart. Everything.”

You nodded, your eyes never leaving hers. “I’m already yours.”

“Then prove it,” she whispered, the words carrying weight, dripping with expectation. “Prove to me that you are mine. And only mine.”

The air around you both vibrated with her magic, the energy suffocating and comforting all at once. You knew she was about to push you to your limits—and deep down, you craved it more than anything.

Your tears streamed freely, thick droplets tracing down your cheeks as you whispered, “Do whatever you want with me, Mommy. Punish me. I deserve it.”

Wanda wasn’t finished punishing you. Her rage was palpable—it hung in the air like a storm ready to break, crackling in every word, every movement. She stepped back for a moment, pacing slowly across the room, her footsteps echoing in the tense silence. The suspense only heightened your anticipation.

“What’s your safe word?” she asked, her voice steady, controlled. She wasn’t testing your limits—she was daring you to withstand more.

“Crimson,” you answered, your voice raspy, barely above a whisper.

Wanda stopped pacing, her darkened eyes locking onto yours. Slowly, with deliberate precision, she walked to a nearby wardrobe and opened it. Your heart raced as you watched her pull out a black leather belt, worn and heavy—a symbol of unyielding authority, of her dominion over you.

The sound of the belt sliding through her fingers echoed in the quiet room, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Do you know why you’re being punished?” Wanda asked, taking a step toward you, folding the belt carefully in her hands.

“Yes,” you replied without hesitation. Your voice was steady, but inside, you trembled—with anticipation, with desire, with a desperate need to be hers.

“Then say it.” She stopped in front of you, her gaze smoldering, intense. “Tell me why you deserve this.”

“Because I… I let another woman dominate me,” you whispered, your eyes dropping to the floor in shame. “I let her believe she had power over me.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of your confession hanging in the air. Wanda remained still for several long moments, simply watching you, analyzing every breath, every tremor.

“On your knees,” she commanded, her voice low but absolute.

You dropped to your knees without a second thought, your palms resting on your thighs, your gaze still lowered. Wanda circled you slowly, the sound of her footsteps reverberating through the room, each step increasing the tension, the fire burning beneath your skin.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

You lifted your head, meeting her gaze, and what you saw in her eyes made your entire body shudder. There was anger, yes—but there was something deeper, more profound. Reverence. As if you were a sacrifice offered to her, a precious possession that she would never let go.

“What are you?” Wanda asked, leaning closer, her face mere inches from yours.

“I’m yours,” you replied without hesitation, your voice steady, resolute.

“Whose?” Her grip on the belt tightened, the leather creaking under the pressure of her fingers.

“Yours, Wanda. Only yours.”

A predatory smile spread across her lips, dangerous and alluring. Wanda stepped back, raising the belt, running it slowly through her fingers as if savoring the anticipation.

“Lie down,” she commanded.

You obeyed instantly, lying on the bed, your body tense yet aching for her touch. Wanda climbed onto the bed beside you, kneeling next to you, the belt gliding over your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

“You deserve to be punished,” she murmured, her fingers tracing your jawline with deceptive tenderness. “And I will teach you what happens when you forget who you belong to.”

The first strike was sudden, unexpected. The sharp crack of the belt against your skin echoed in the room, and your back arched instinctively, a strangled moan escaping your lips. The sting burned, yet awakened something primal inside you—a deep, insatiable need to surrender completely.

“Count,” Wanda demanded, her voice unyielding.

“One,” you gasped, your breath coming in quick, shallow bursts.

Another strike, this one harder. The heat radiated from the point of impact, and you whimpered, your body trembling with the overwhelming mix of pain and pleasure.

“Two.”

Wanda maintained a steady rhythm, each strike precise, calculated. Each lash of the belt was a reminder—a mark of her ownership over you, etched not just into your skin but into your very soul.

As you counted each number, the tension between you grew, thickening the air around you. The magic surrounding Wanda crackled, her power tangible, suffocating yet intoxicating.

When you reached the tenth strike, your voice broke, tears streaming down your face. But they weren’t tears of pain—they were tears of release, of surrender. Of absolute devotion.

Wanda stopped, the belt falling to her side. She leaned over you, her fingers once again brushing your tears away with an almost reverent gentleness.

“My little doll,” she whispered, her voice soft, affectionate. “Look at you. So beautiful like this. So completely mine.”

You sobbed quietly, your body trembling under her touch, every part of you laid bare before her.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice cracking with emotion. “Thank you, Mommy.”

Wanda’s smile softened, though the possessiveness in her gaze remained. She leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both tender and consuming. The taste of her was everything you needed—a reminder that you were exactly where you were meant to be

“This,” she murmured against your lips. “Now you understand.”

And you did. Every mark on your skin, every tear shed, every whispered word—it was all an oath. A silent promise that you belonged to Wanda. That you always had.

“My good girl,” Wanda whispered, her lips now brushing against your ear. “And no one… no one… will take you from me.”

The intensity of her words made your heart race even faster. Wanda’s hand ran down your neck to your chest, pressing you into the mattress, as if she were holding you both physically and emotionally.

Her eyes burned with something that went beyond anger. It was adoration, obsession, a love so deep and fierce that it seemed capable of consuming the entire world if it had to.

Wanda’s hands caressed the red skin of your ass. The contrast of the cold of her hands against your hot, abused skin. Her long fingers caressed your outer lips, feeling how wet you were. She uses your lubrication and takes it to your asshole, making your eyes widen in surprise.

“Oh… Look at that,” Wanda murmured with a cruel smile, her fingers still caressing your wet folds, slipping easily between the heat and desire that dripped from you. “So wet just from being spanked? From being put in your place?”

You moaned, trying to hide in the bed, but there was no escaping her. Wanda knew every part of you — body and mind. She knew exactly how to press until you had no choice but to surrender.

She laughed softly, and her laugh was both a comfort and a torture. “You’re such a desperate slut, aren’t you? How does it feel to have my finger in your asshole?”

The humiliation burned your skin, but it was a fire that only increased your desire. You tried to open your mouth to protest, but Wanda was already lowering her hand again. Not to hit you this time, but to slide her wet finger into your other hole, circling it slowly, threatening to enter.

“Surprise?” Her voice was a whisper of pure sin. “Do you think I’ll spare you after what you did? Do you think I won’t claim what’s mine?”

You felt her finger press into your ass, teasing the entrance to your anus, a slight push that made you arch your back and let out a loud moan. Your entire body trembled, torn between discomfort and the overwhelming pleasure that was about to explode.

“Oh. Look at that… A little slut who loves having all her holes used, isn’t she?” She pressed even harder, making your eyes roll back with the mind-blowing pleasure. The massage her fingers did in the spot was skillful, making you want more and push your ass against Wanda.

“Beg.” She said through her teeth, making circular movements in your ass. “Beg mommy to fuck your virgin ass.”

Saliva slowly dripped from the corners of your mouth, forming a shiny thread that fell onto the sheets beneath you. Your mind was in a dense fog, as if reality itself had dissolved around the intensity of the moment.

“Mommy, please…” Your tongue curled as you spoke due to the amount of saliva accumulated in your mouth.

“Try again.” Her rigid voice left no room for questioning.

“Mommy, please— Fuck, fuck me. Use all my holes however you want. Use me.” You cried out, whimpering. You begged for her. You had been a bad girl, but here you were seeking redemption.

“It’s something like this…” Wanda murmured, her voice hoarse as if each word was impregnated with repressed desire and pure fury.

The air around you seemed to vibrate with her intensity—not just her magic, but the emotional storm that Wanda carried within her. Jealousy. Anger. And an obsession that burned so hot it could incinerate anything it touched.

“P- Please touch my pussy, please, please, please,” you cried out, but Wanda only hummed.

“No, you don’t deserve to be touched there.” Wanda said, pushing the tip of her third finger into you.

Removing her fingers from you, she grabbed the bottle of lube and lubed up your strap-on. She pulled the toy out, needing to spread the lube around and what was the perfect way to do that? “You let me know if you need me to add lube, got it?”

“Yes- Yes, just fuck me already.” You trembled beneath the older woman.

You felt your hair being pulled at the roots, making you arch your back towards Wanda and stick your ass up against her strap-on. “You think you can give me orders now? Huh?!” She tugged hard on the strands, making you scream.

The scent of sandalwood filled the air around you, intoxicating your senses, making it impossible to even form a coherent thought. Each breath seemed to pull Wanda deeper into you, until all that was left was her overwhelming presence—burning like a secret you never wanted to confess.

Her fingers slid across your scarred skin, sending shivers down your spine.

“You should be so grateful,” Wanda murmured, her tone thick with contempt and adoration mixed into one sentence. “Even with that foolish mind of yours, that dared to stop thinking about me… I’m still here.” She leaned her face down until her lips brushed your ear, her voice so low it sounded like an inverted prayer. “Mommy is here… giving you exactly what you need.”

The weight of her words made your breath hitch, your entire body shaking under Wanda’s relentless control. Your eyes closed for a moment, letting the warmth of her presence consume you completely.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice weak and broken. But it wasn’t enough. “Thank you, Mommy,” you repeated, more firmly this time, as if each word was an offering.

“You should be grateful. Do you think Maria can give you that?” This sense of belonging, this love?” She growls as she pushes an inch inside you.

“Wands…” You moan needily, and receive a thrust so hard that it makes you gasp in pain.

“That name. You are not to use it now, understand? Not while you are nothing to me, nothing but a hole for me to use.” She snapped, tears welling in your eyes. You turned your head so she couldn’t see.

“Good, now that it’s all in, you will tell me when I can start fucking you. And I won’t start until you give me the green light, Dekta.” She soothed.

You nodded, shuddering as she pushed the rest of the toy inside you. As she promised, Wanda stood still, rubbing your lower back as she waited for you to adjust. You waited ten minutes, wanting to get used to the feeling. The strapon she was using was a size you weren’t used to, especially in your ass. But it wasn’t unbearable, and when you looked at Wanda and nodded, you gave her the go-ahead.

The witch began to fuck you at a slow pace, wanting to make sure she wasn’t actually hurting you. As much of a bad girl as you had been, you were still her girl. And nothing in the world would change that.

“God, the mess you’re making of me just because I have my dick in your ass. You’re so fucking pathetic.” She laughed, picking up the pace.

Wanda leaned over you, her weight crushing both your skin and your soul, making it clear who was in control. Her fingers slid around your waist, squeezing with an inhuman strength, while her eyes burned with that corrosive jealousy that hadn’t yet dissipated.

Her voice came low, slurred, each word laced with venom and possession. "Do you think Maria saw you the way I do? Do you think she felt what I feel for you? No. She only saw something to use. An easy toy to break. And you let her."

You tried to shake your head, but Wanda wouldn't let you. The tightness in your throat tightened a little, not enough to hurt, but enough to silence you.

"You're mine. But do you want to know the truth?" She leaned in even closer, her lips almost touching yours. "Without me, you're nothing."

The words cut deep, a direct blow to your pride, but strangely, you felt heat spread throughout your body. Each insult was a testament to how much Wanda cared—her love was fierce, sickening, but it was also undeniable.

"Repeat it," she demanded, her fingers now slowly sliding to your jaw, keeping your face up so you couldn't look away. "Tell me who you are without me."

Your bottom lip trembled, shame and desire fighting inside you.

"I… I am nothing."

"Louder."

"I am nothing!" You screamed, your voice shaky and desperate, feeling the tears burn your eyes. "I am only something because you made me be!"

Wanda's fury was a weight in the air. Every beat of her heart seemed to set the environment around her on fire, her magic pulsing like a living creature, thirsting for more. Her fingers trembled as they slid through the leather belt she still held, but not from insecurity — it was the anger that bubbled inside her, a storm of emotions she could barely contain.

Maria's name echoed in Wanda's mind like a curse.

Maria.

This woman who dared to touch what didn't belong to her. Who dared to think, for a single second, that she could have you. Who could break you as if Wanda hadn't molded every piece of your soul with her presence, her touch, her burning love.

The jealousy burning inside Wanda was a wildfire, and her magic danced around her in response—deep red, dark crimson, like freshly spilled blood. The energy crackled at her fingertips, leaving a trail of sparks across the room as she paced in slow circles, like a predator stalking its prey.

“Did she have you?” The question reverberated in her mind, and the answer hurt like a raw blade. It didn’t matter that you were here, at her feet, begging for forgiveness. It didn’t matter that your every word was a promise of submission. All Wanda could see was another woman daring to believe she had any control over you.

Wanda knew what it was like to be marked by the past. She knew what it was like to carry the scars of pain, of abandonment, of loss. But to see you—the one thing in the world that made your darkness seem bearable—touched by another? That was unforgivable.

“Did she make you moan?”

“Did she see that look in your eyes?”

“Did she know how to make you beg?”

Each question fueled Wanda’s anger, and the magic around her responded with a perfect reflection of her emotions. The crimson sparks turned into strands of energy that snaked through the air, dancing like serpents around Wanda. The intensity of the magic increased with each dark thought that passed through her mind.

But what really made Wanda burn with jealousy—what made her want to rip out her own heart so she wouldn’t feel so much—was the fact that you let this happen.

You, who were hers.

You, who belonged to her from the moment your eyes met.

You, who were now marked not only by Wanda, but by another woman.

“No, Mommy. She never took me for her own. I’m only yours.” You murmured with difficulty, but firmly.

Wanda’s smile was cruel and satisfied. And it surprised you when you felt your clit being massaged by her fingers. “Mommy was very happy now.” She says and plants a kiss behind your ear, and now, the thrusts become hard and rough.

“Mommy’s little girl’s ass is so tight…” She murmurs without eloquence, just feeling, just corrupting your untouched body.

Wanda’s fingers tightened around your waist, her knuckles turning white. She knew she needed to release this energy before she lost control. But first, she needed something more—she needed to hear it from you. She needed to be sure that every inch of you still belonged to her.

She stepped closer slowly, her green eyes shining like emeralds beneath the crimson glow of the magic that still floated through the room. Jealousy brimmed in her voice as she whispered,

“Say it again. Who do you belong to?”

“You,” you murmured, your eyes brimming with tears.

“It’s not enough.” Her voice grew lower, more menacing. “Say her name.”

You hesitated for a moment, fear and shame mingling in your gaze.

“Maria…” The name fell from her lips in an embarrassed whisper.

Wanda shivered. The magic around her flared brighter, and for a moment, the entire room seemed to fill with that dark red.

“She thought she could have you.” Wanda smiled, but it was a cruel smile, sharp as a blade. “She thought it could be me.”

Her eyes flared, and the anger that had once seemed ready to explode was replaced by something even more dangerous: a calculated calm.

“She won’t think that anymore.” Wanda’s voice was low, a warning. “I’ll make sure Maria understands exactly who you belong to.”

Wanda’s magic fed on jealousy, on the desire to possess. And the more she thought about Maria—this intruder, this threat—the more powerful it became. The crimson sparks began to solidify, forming currents of energy that fluttered around Wanda, as if waiting for an order.

But for now, Wanda turned her attention to you. Because before she could deal with Maria, she needed to make sure you understood.

That you would never make the mistake of giving yourself to anyone other than her again. She gripped your chin firmly, forcing you to look at her.

“You’ll thank me for this,” Wanda whispered. “You’ll thank me for reminding you of who you are. Who you belong to.” Her touch burned, but it was a fire you craved. Because despite everything, despite the anger, the jealousy, the pain—you knew this was where you wanted to be.

“Thank you, Mommy,” you whispered, your entire body shaking under her intense gaze.

“Good girl.” Wanda smiled slowly, satisfied. But deep in her eyes there was still an unspoken promise—a promise that Maria would pay. Because Wanda was not someone who forgave easily.

Your orgasm was building with each thrust, you didn’t even know it could feel this good. But she found you begging for her: “Mommy, please! Forgive me, please, please! I need to be forgiven so much.” You cried, tears streaming from your eyes as you slobbered all over her mattress with your saliva and juices.

The sound of your sobs, the way you begged, made Wanda tremble all over. She tried to hold her breath, but her body betrayed any attempt at control. Her hands were steady, but her fingers trembled slightly as they caressed your tear-stained face. The weight of your words—“Mommy, please! Forgive me, please, please!”—echoed in her head like a song that fed her ego and her obsession.

You were so small, so surrendered, so broken. All that was left was a fragile, submissive creature, molded by Wanda’s hands, desperate for approval. She knew Maria could never have seen you like this. She would never have understood the absolute power that came from reducing you to this—to something pure, vulnerable, wanting to be molded, guided, belonging entirely to her.

The sight of you lying there, sweating, crying, your lips wet and your face pressed into the mattress as your saliva dripped like a glistening stream, was intoxicating. The absolute control Wanda had over you made her own pulse race. The corrosive jealousy of before gave way to something even darker and more pleasurable: the knowledge that you were hers alone.

“Look at you,” Wanda whispered, her voice shaking slightly. She couldn’t help it—a low, incredulous laugh escaped her lips. “So beautiful, so… pathetic. Begging as if your life depended on it.”

She gripped your chin, lifting your face. Your eyes were glassy, lost in submission, and Wanda almost groaned at how broken you were—and how perfect it was.

She began to ease her thrusts into your ass and leaned down to place hot kisses on your back, an affectionate and reverent act. You were so precious, the most beautiful thing Wanda had ever had the pleasure of holding in her hands.

Wanda pulls out of you, missing the feeling of having you squeezing her. You huff, whimper, growl at not getting what you want and Wanda finds it adorable.

“What do you want?” She teased, already massaging the needy entrance to your pussy.

At that moment, there was nothing more urgent than this. You needed this, like you needed air to breathe.

“Mommy! Please touch my pussy. I can’t take it anymore.” You say in a shaky breath, your whole body trembling. “I need to be filled.” You begged, and heard a needy moan coming from her. It was clear, now this was torture for both of you.

“Fuck, turn around. I need to fuck you now.” She growled, pulling you into a claiming kiss.

The world seemed to stop the instant Wanda pulled you in, her strength and urgency drawing a gasp of surprise from your lips. There was nothing soft about the way she kissed you—it was a growl turned into action, raw and hungry, as if she were trying to engrave her possession into every cell of your being.

Her fingers sank into your hair, tugging at it with a firmness that made your scalp tingle, while her other hand anchored itself around your waist, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. The kiss was a fierce collision of lips, teeth, and desire, as if she wanted to devour you whole.

You could barely breathe, lost in her overwhelming heat, in the magic that seemed to vibrate in every inch of your skin. Her taste was a mix of anger and something deeper—something primal and possessive, that made your heart hammer and your legs threaten to give way.

And when she entered you, her eyes turned completely red and frightening. The pleasure she felt was not one of those safe types, it was corrosive, it made you burn inside.

“Fuck, that feels so much better now…” Wanda’s tone seemed lost in you, in your surrender and confidence. “Mommy wants her little girl to cum like this.” She murmurs in a slow rhythm, while biting the curve of your neck and inhaling the scent there.

“Oh, fuck, mommy—” You moaned loudly when you felt her cock hit the spongy spot inside you. “Tell me that you love me. That even after I messed up, you’re still obsessed with me.” You said in a dangerous impulse inside you.

Wanda’s body tensed at your words, her eyes shining with a mix of desire and something deeper—an abyss that she herself seemed unable to control. She didn’t respond immediately, and the silence between you was heavy, heavy, like the pause before a storm.

“Tell me,” you repeated, your voice a little lower, but no less provocative. It was a dangerous impulse, yes, but also a raw need to hear the words come out of her lips.

“I…” Wanda’s breathing was ragged, lust burning like liquid fire in her veins. Her hand came up to cup your face, her fingers trembling with an emotion she couldn’t name as she thrust inside you. “I love you. More than I should. More than is safe.”

The words came out almost like a forced confession, and yet there was an undeniable firmness to them. Wanda seemed lost, as if the intensity of her own feelings were drowning her, but she couldn’t stop.

“Do you think it’s obsession?” She continued, her voice hoarse, almost a whisper. “Maybe it is. Because when I look at you, I can’t think of anything else. I can’t breathe without wanting you closer. Without wanting you all to myself.”

You felt her body tremble against yours, a mix of desire and vulnerability that seemed to swallow the air between you. It was as if Wanda was completely intoxicated by what she felt, unable to contain herself. With you squeezing around her, sucking her cock—extracting all of her milk, making her spill inside you.

“I love you so much…!” Your back arched on the king-size bed, making Wanda bury herself deeper inside you. “So much, mommy…” You curl your fingers between her red strands, feeling the softness.

“Fuck. I’m going to fuck you so fucking hard.” She growled, increasing her movements—frantic and desperate. Wanda was going to cum, and she would cum hard.

Your breasts rubbed together, your nipples hard as rocks with excitement. And it was when she fingered your clit that you lost it. Your hips and legs trembled around her.

“Cum. Cum for mommy, little slut.” Wanda moaned in a slurred, needy tone, thrusting so deep that her hips were uncontrollably slamming into yours. “Shit. You’re so beautiful…”

“Mommy!”

You came, repeating her title like a sacred mantra, your legs shaking and swaying around the woman who kept thrusting—also already giving in to her own orgasm.

Wanda’s orgasm came like a volcanic eruption, a release so overwhelming that it seemed to tear the very fabric of reality around her. It was more than physical pleasure—it was power, pure, intoxicating magic, poured directly into you, as if each thrust was an offering, each moan an ancient chant that awakened something dormant deep within the sorceress.

She had never felt anything like it.

Sweat dripped from her forehead, dripping onto her hot skin, mixing with the tears and saliva you had already shed. But the trembling in your legs and the fire burning in your belly were clear signs that this wasn’t just a climax—it was a fusion. A part of her, an essence, a fragment of her very being, was being deposited within you like a mystical seed that would soon blossom.

“Fuck, this is…” Wanda gasped, unable to find words, her knees sinking into the mattress as her body convulsed with pleasure. The intensity left her staggering, barely able to maintain her balance, as if the weight of the moment were too great to bear. With each tremor, with each contraction of your inner muscles around her, Wanda felt her magic react—sparking, pulsing, flowing into you like a river that overflowed beyond any control.

She gasped, her fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks. “You… fuck, you’re mine.” Her voice came out hoarse, almost like an animalistic growl. “All of this… everything you feel… belongs to me now.”

You repeated her title like a sacred mantra, your voice shaky and punctuated by moans. “Mommy… Mommy…” With each time you said it, Wanda felt her pleasure amplify, reverberating within her own body, until the peak was so overwhelming that she thought she might shatter completely.

When she finally collapsed on top of you, her face pressed against your neck, Wanda could still feel her heart pounding furiously against her ribs. But what truly left her breathless was the absolute certainty that coursed through her body like an electric current: you were marked by her. Indelible. Irrevocable.

“Do you feel it?” Wanda whispered, her lips brushing lightly against your ear. Her voice was low but carried a weight of power. “This is a part of me now, inside you. Growing. Taking root. You’ll never get rid of it.”

The thought made Wanda shiver again. Maria would never have this. She could never touch your soul the way Wanda did. You weren’t just her lover or her submissive anymore — you were an extension of her, the reflection of her magic and her obsession.

It was as if something vibrated beneath your skin, an invisible seed that Wanda had planted within you — something deeper than any physical touch, more penetrating than any word. Her presence was there, latent, like a magical current pulsing inside you, radiating through every cell, every nerve.

It was power.

And at the same time, it was devastation.

You felt your heart hammering in your chest, as if it might burst at any moment, your legs still trembling around her thighs. Your breathing was ragged, but the air seemed insufficient, as though the world around you had changed — as though you had changed.

Wanda had left something inside you.

Something that was growing. Blooming.

Every mark on your skin burned like a silent vow. You belonged to her, and now her magic itself was woven into you — alive, pulsing, demanding to be acknowledged. Your fingers clenched into fists beside the mattress as a tremor ran through your entire body, residual pleasure mixed with a fear you couldn’t trace back to its origin.

Then everything shifted.

The lights in the room flickered.

Once.

Twice.

And then… darkness.

Your head began to spin. You felt a mounting pressure in your ears, a buzzing that seemed to come from within you, as if something were trying to emerge, to break through the surface. Your vision blurred, and the familiar scent of iron filled your nostrils.

Your nose was bleeding.

You brought a trembling hand to your face, touching the blood that slowly dripped down toward your mouth. The metallic taste mixed with the saliva still glistening at the corners of your lips, and you tried to speak, but no sound came out. Everything around you felt distorted, as if the world were spinning on an axis you couldn’t follow.

And then, the voice came.

Shine.

It was like a whisper, but it also echoed like thunder inside your mind.

Shine for the world.

Your body stiffened. The words reverberated within you, pulsing in time with the magic Wanda had left behind. The pain in your temples intensified, as though something was about to explode inside your skull. Each heartbeat sent a wave of agony through your body.

“No… no…” you tried to say, but the voice ignored your resistance.

You are mine.

It was no longer Wanda’s voice.

It was something older. Deeper.

Something that had always been inside you — waiting to awaken.

You rolled onto the floor, pressing your palms against the carpet, trying to anchor yourself to something real, something solid. But everything around you seemed to be crumbling. Your body shook, as if it might shatter under the weight of the magic coursing through your veins.

“I can’t…” you murmured, your voice broken. “I can’t—”

You will shine.

The voice laughed.

Because that’s what you were born for. That’s what you were made to do.

And you knew there was no escape. Wanda’s seed had been planted within you — and now it was beginning to bloom.

But it wasn’t just power growing inside you.

It was destruction.

And, at the same time, a promise that you would never be the same again.

“Please…” you whimpered, not knowing if you were speaking to the voice or to Wanda. “Please, mommy… don’t leave me alone.”

The lights continued to flicker, and the metallic scent of blood in the air made Wanda frown, her gaze darkening with confusion and concern.

“Sweetheart?” Her voice was low, husky, still carrying the remnants of the possessive authority from before, but now there was something more. Something deeply maternal. Protective.

She saw you on your knees, trembling, and the sight hit her like a blow to the chest. The blood dripping from your nose made her heart stop for a moment. This wasn’t the kind of submission she wanted. This was pain. Real. Cruel. And, worse still, it was something she didn’t understand.

“Hey…” Wanda knelt beside you, her fingers trembling as she cupped your face. “Please, look at me. I’m here.”

You couldn’t. Your head was still spinning, the sound of that voice echoing like distant bells inside your mind. Shine. Shine for the world. The words kept hammering at you, as though they were being etched into your skin with fire.

“I can’t…” you whispered, sobbing. “It’s here. Inside me. Something… something is wrong…”

Wanda’s eyes widened, and her concern turned to panic. “Who? Who’s inside you? Maria?” Her voice was a low growl.

You shook your head frantically, your fingers clutching at the fabric of Wanda’s shirt like an anchor. “No… it’s not her. It’s something… A voice. Something that’s trying to use me.”

“No.” Wanda’s voice hardened, and the magic around her began to crackle in the air, sparks escaping from her fingertips. “No one will use you. No one!”

She pulled you into her lap, wrapping her strong arms around your trembling body. Her touch was firm, but there was no anger left. There was a fierce tenderness now, a possessive care that seemed to say: If the world dares to touch you, it will have to go through me first.

“I won’t let anything hurt you,” Wanda promised, her voice a fierce whisper against your ear. “Do you hear me? No matter what it is, no matter who it is. I’m your mother. I will protect you.”

You sobbed against her chest, feeling the security that only Wanda could offer. Even when everything inside you was falling apart, she was there—solid, unchanging.

"I'm so confused," you murmured against her skin. "My head... my head hurts so much..."

Wanda stroked your hair, her fingers gently gliding through the damp strands. "Shh... I know. I know, my love. Mommy's here. You don't have to do anything alone."

Her magic began to envelop you both, a comforting warmth that pushed the darkness away for a moment. Yet, even so, Wanda felt something strange—something coming from within you. A magic that wasn’t hers.

Shine. Shine for the world.

Wanda frowned. Those words weren’t hers, but they lingered in the air like a curse.

"You won't shine for anyone but me," Wanda growled softly, almost as if talking to herself. "You are my light. And no one will extinguish you."

She pulled your face to look into your eyes—her fingers firm yet gentle as she wiped the blood from your nose with her thumb. Your face was streaked with tears and saliva, lips slightly parted in a state of absolute vulnerability. It was the most devastating thing Wanda had ever seen.

"I will take care of you."

Her voice was a whisper, but it carried the weight of an unbreakable promise. "Whatever it is... we'll face it together."

You tried to smile, but the fear still lingered in your eyes. Wanda saw it, and something inside her roared like an enraged bear.

"Whoever did this to you..." Wanda held your face more firmly, her eyes burning with restrained fury. "I will destroy them. I’ll tear apart every single piece of whoever dared to hurt my girl."

You shook your head frantically, panic rising. "No, Wanda... this is inside me."

"Then I'll go inside you too," she said with fierce conviction. "I'll rip it out. I'll cleanse you. I'll keep you safe. And you'll never feel this again."

But as Wanda spoke, you heard that voice in your mind again.

Shine.

It laughed.

Shine… until there's nothing left.

And then, everything went dark.

[...]

While you lay unconscious on the couch, Wanda was restless. She paced the room like a caged animal, her fingers trembling with the magic she was desperately trying to contain. After what had happened—your collapse, the blood, the pain—she felt it. She knew she couldn’t wait any longer. There was something greater, something darker, tied to your necklace, tied to you, and she needed to figure out what it was.

But she didn’t know how.

In a desperate move, she did what she had avoided for months: she reached out to Carol, suspended on the brink between life and death. Wanda had placed Captain Marvel in that state, confining her to a space where her consciousness was held in suspension. But now, the weight of guilt and the need for answers outweighed her hesitations.

Wanda took a deep breath, and with a flick of her fingers, her red magic enveloped Carol. Slowly, she brought her back. Carol's body convulsed, a scream caught in her throat as she opened her eyes.

"You..." Carol whispered, her voice hoarse from so much time in silence, her eyes wide in shock and disbelief that she had allowed herself to be overtaken by Wanda, that she had underestimated her.

"I need you conscious," Wanda said, her tone firm but with an underlying fragility. "This isn’t about you. Not now."

Carol coughed, trying to catch her breath as her senses slowly returned. Her body felt heavy, almost broken, but her mind, always sharp, quickly pieced together what had happened.

"You... kept me like this," she said through gritted teeth, her voice filled with rage. Her eyes glowed, the cosmic energy within her trying to manifest but failing under Wanda's restraints. "How long, Maximoff?"

"It doesn’t matter," Wanda replied firmly. But there was something in her posture—a mix of guilt and desperation—that betrayed more than her words.

"It doesn’t matter?" Carol stood, though unsteady, facing Wanda. "You imprisoned me. You erased me. And now you decide you need me? What gives you the right?"

Wanda stepped closer, her eyes narrowing, her magic still pulsing in her fingers. "I did what was necessary. You wouldn’t understand."

"Wouldn’t understand?" Carol let out a bitter laugh, the sound echoing through the room. "You’re so arrogant, Wanda. You think that just because you have power, you can manipulate people as you please? How wouldn’t I understand? Do you forget who I am?"

"You’re someone who tried to stop me," Wanda retorted, her anger beginning to seep into her voice. "You tried to take her from me. And I couldn’t let that happen. I won’t lose anyone else!"

The two faced each other like two forces of nature on the verge of collision, the tension growing with every second. Carol clenched her fists, the energy within her struggling against Wanda's constraints.

Wanda took a deep breath, her shoulders falling slightly as the intensity in her eyes remained unwavering. The glow of magic in her hands flickered but didn’t fade entirely. She looked fragile, like a branch about to snap, but at the same time terrifyingly formidable, like a storm ready to consume everything around her.

Carol crossed her arms, her expression stern, but there was something different in her stance now. She wasn’t just angry; she was trying to understand, trying to make sense of Wanda’s fierce obsession.

"And what are we going to do then?" Carol asked, her voice a little lower but still filled with skepticism.

Wanda raised her gaze, the red glow reflecting in the dim room. "Take me to Strange."

"Strange?" Carol arched an eyebrow, almost laughing at the idea. "You know he sent me to capture you, don’t you? He gave me clear orders to stop you, Wanda. What makes you think he’ll help?"

There was a heavy silence. Wanda looked at you for a long moment, still unconscious on the couch, your expression soft in contrast to the relentless strength she had shown moments earlier. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost reverent.

"Because she’s different," Wanda murmured, as if the words were a secret she didn’t fully understand herself. "So different that even forces like us can’t comprehend her. There’s something in her, something that doesn’t belong to this world… or any other we know."

Carol followed Wanda's gaze to you, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion and frustration. "This is about her, isn’t it?" Carol repeated, pointing in your direction. "You think you’re protecting her, but you don’t see that you’re putting everyone in danger! Wanda, what if you’re wrong?"

The question hung in the air, heavy, as if the entire universe was waiting for the answer.

Wanda straightened her shoulders, the brief softness in her expression disappearing, replaced by a cold, unyielding determination. She walked slowly toward Carol, stopping so close that Captain Marvel could feel the heat of the magic pulsing around her.

"If I’m wrong," Wanda said, her voice as sharp as a blade, "then I’ll make it right. Because I won’t lose her. Not now, not ever."

For a moment, Carol remained silent, assessing Wanda as if trying to decide whether to keep fighting or simply accept the inevitable. Finally, she sighed, throwing her hands up in a gesture of resignation.

"Fine," Carol said, defeated but still irritated. "I'll take you to Strange. But know this: if he decides you're a bigger threat than anything else, I won't intervene. You're on your own, Maximoff."

Wanda didn’t respond immediately, but a small smile curved the corners of her lips—not one of satisfaction, but of somber relief.

"I'm not alone," she murmured, her eyes drifting back to you.

Carol shook her head, exasperated. "You're insane. Literally insane."

Wanda lifted her chin, an aura of power mixed with her trademark stubborn arrogance. She faced Carol with the confidence of someone who had confronted the impossible and emerged victorious.

"I'm not crazy, Carol," Wanda said, her voice sharp as a blade and as steady as the magic still pulsating in her hands. "I’m just a simple woman... who loves. And when you truly love someone, there’s no sacrifice too great."

Carol narrowed her eyes, still trying to decide whether that response was genuine or just another of Wanda's manipulations. But the Scarlet Witch offered no further explanation. She turned away, walking toward you with determined steps, her crimson cape billowing like fire as she knelt by your side, her fingers gently brushing your forehead.

"She’s ready," Wanda said, her voice softening as she spoke to you, even with Carol standing just behind her.

The last portal closed behind you, swallowing the dazzling glow of stars and worlds dancing on the edge of the possible and the unknown. In the silence of the new space, Wanda held you firmly in her arms, as if carrying not just your fragile body but all the hope that still lived within her.

She wasn’t foolish. She knew the paths she had chosen would lead to dangers that challenged even the strength of the Scarlet Witch. But she also knew that the light she had found in you—the only one bold enough to pierce the darkness that once threatened to consume her—was something she wasn’t willing to lose.

You were her sun, even now, unconscious and vulnerable. You were the center around which she orbited, the warmth she sought even in moments when the shadows of her mistakes seemed endless. No matter how many worlds they had to cross, how many battles they had to fight. Nothing would be big enough, nothing frightening enough to extinguish the radiance you had brought to her existence.

There was something sacred in the silence between you, something no spell could explain. Every step Wanda took, every surge of cosmic energy you crossed, seemed to strengthen her resolve. No matter the cost, no matter the enemy. She would do anything to protect you—and whatever it was you were about to discover.

In that moment, as the Sanctum loomed ahead like a monolith of mystery, Wanda knew she stood on the brink of something monumental. Something that would change not just her story but the course of the multiverse itself. The pendant around her neck pulsed faintly, as if responding to the presence of the place.

She took a deep breath.

Her destiny lay in the shadows of a mystery she couldn’t unravel, but the light? That was with her, in her arms, ready to be defended against all odds.

As she took the next step, there was no doubt in her mind. Whatever lay ahead, she would face it with the ferocity of someone who had seen the brilliance of something real—and would not allow it to be extinguished.

"Shine." That word echoed in her mind, a silent command and a promise. Because even in the deepest darkness, a sun never surrenders.

~*~

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