#i will chew up canon and spit it out

[maldaptivedreamer]

...Ride A Cowboy - Arcane

It’s been quiet, suspiciously quiet, since John skipped town. His presence lingers in your mind, haunts your home. And despite the time that has passed, the strain between you and your mother remains. It may have eased slightly, but it's still there, hiding in every word and whispered with every civil greeting.

And then there's Sevika.

A new kind of tension manifests itself between the two of you. You find yourself stealing glances at Sevika more often than you'd like to admit. Her presence on the ranch has become a constant, almost comforting in its familiarity. Yet there's an undercurrent of something else, a spark that ignites whenever your eyes meet or your hands accidentally brush.

content: Sevika x fem reader, errors/mistakes, wild west au, outlaw/cowboy sevika, young adult sevika, strained mother/daughter relationship, homophobia, fighting/violence, death/murder, blood, gun/knife, name calling, canon character cameos, wlw smut, choking kink cameo, spitting kink, praise kink, pain kink, spanking, grinding, fingering, cunnilingus, tribbing, angsty ending, slow burn where??

wc: ~14.2k

a/n: What’s up gang, this part is gonna end pretty angsty so beware of that. Ignore the song choice being totally inaccurate to whatever time this is placed in. I couldn't not pick the "Save A Horse, Ride A Cowgirl" cover by Chloe Breez and Annapantsu for this story. Not really significant in the story tho. Hope to have the 3rd part done and finished soon. Taglist open, just lmk!!

MINORS DNI NSFW 18+

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Wiping the sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, you glance back at her. “You done already?”

She lets out a soft hum of affirmation and leans against the door, her silver eyes following your every move as you strain to lift a large bundle of hay into a wheelbarrow.

Her gaze lingers on you, admiring you. The corners of her mouth curl up in a mischievous smirk as she speaks up. “You know when I met you, you were wearin’ a skirt. You only save them for special occasions?”

You grunt as you hoist the large bundle onto the wheelbarrow, panting. “I wear ‘em when I can.” You reply with a shrug, shooting her a smile as you adjust the gloves on your clammy hands. “What can I say?… I like my skirts and I like my pants.”

As you push the wheelbarrow out to the horse pasture, Sevika trails behind you. Her slow, admiring gaze travels from your hat down to your booted feet. You feel heat rise to your cheeks under her intense gaze.

"I really do like your skirts." She says, her voice low and husky. She glances down at you, licking her lips. "And I like your pants too, angel." The intensity of her stare makes your core ache with desire.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your bashful smile as Sevika steps closer to you. The heat of her breath dances across your tingling skin as she grasps your face in her hand, the roughness of her callused fingers pressing into your cheeks as she squeezes them.

A teasing glint sparkles in her eye as she scolds you. "You seem to do that a lot, sweetheart." She says, her voice laced with amusement. “That rollin’ your eyes nonsense may get you into trouble one day.”

Chewing on your lip, you look at her through a veil of heavy eyelashes. “Maybe I like trouble, Sev.” You reply coyly.

A smirk curls on Sevika's lips as she rubs her thumb just beneath your bottom lip and you shiver. “Sev huh?” She says with amusement.

“Mhmm.” You hum, unable to suppress a smile.

Sevika's large stallion nudges between you, interrupting the moment and causing both of you to break away with a laugh. You send her an amused glance before turning your attention to the horse, petting him affectionately. “Yah know, you never told me what his name was.”

She takes a step back, her eyes flicking over to you with a questioning glance. “He doesn’t have one. Why would I need to give him one?”

Your eyes widen in shock as you gape at her. Blinking rapidly, you wave your hands at him. “Why wouldn’t you give him a name!? He deserves one!” 

“What like Honey?” She sends you a look and you glare at her. “He's a horse. He doesn't need a name."

Your glare falls as you gasp dramatically, placing your hands over his ears. "Don't listen to her, boy. She doesn't know what she's talkin’ about." You coo at the horse, stroking his mane.

Sevika watches you with amusement, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Fine… What do you think?"

You pause, studying the stallion intently. You shrug. "You know him better than I do. What do you think?”

Sevika snorts, her nostrils flaring in exasperation. "I don’t know. Stubborn shit."

Sending her a smirk, you laugh. "Must take after his rider." Sevika rolls her eyes in response, and you give the horse’s cheek another soft pat. “Maybe just take some time to think on it.”

Sevika silently watches as you hum in the silence, spoiling the large horse with attention. 

Suddenly, her stance changes. Glaring at the sky, Sevika sets her hands on her hips, her frustration palpable. “Why’d your mom keep him ‘round for so long?” She asks bluntly.

You briefly pause before continuing to brush your hand over the stallion’s nose, lost in thought. Sighing through your nose, your voice is quiet and contemplative. “She wanted me to marry him.” Your hand falls from the stallion.

Feeling the need to distract yourself, you move to the wheelbarrow and attempt to lift a bundle of hay above your head and into the feeder. Your arms tremble with effort. “But we got plenty a’ ranch hands, so I don’t mind runnin’ everythin’ myself.” You grit out with a grunt.

Sevika's lips curl up as she watches you struggle. She slowly shifts closer, her silver eyes sparkling.

Seeing her move to help you, you frantically shake your head. “Hey! I can-”

Ignoring your protests, she gently pushes you aside and effortlessly tosses the hay into the feeder. Giving you a cocky smirk, she silently returns to her spot and you gape at her. 

Her smirk widens as she leans back, looking down her nose at you. "Careful, angel." She taunts playfully. “You might catch somethin’ with your mouth wide open like that.”

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you give her an indignant shout, quickly turning to cover your face. Your voice trembles with flustered frustration as you continue. “As I was sayin’… I don’t need a husband to take care of. Mama’s just worried I’ll be lonely, I guess.” Your words become quieter and more guarded.

“No one in town good enough for you?” She pries.

Avoiding her gaze, you scratch at your neck nervously. “I-I don’t think so, no… Plus they don’t really like me, so…” You trail off.

Scoffing in disbelief, Sevika's voice grows indignant. “Why wouldn’t they like you?”

Rolling your eyes, you groan. “Well, it doesn’t matter. There’s not really anyone who’s uhh- my type. Yah know?” You finish with an awkward shrug, feeling self-conscious under her intense gaze.

With a playful nudge, she raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what’s your type, angel?”

Avoiding the question, you forcefully fling off your gloves and toss them into the wheelbarrow. Rubbing your hands over your face in frustration, you begin to pace back and forth.

“Well they don’t like me, cause of this dumb rumor. Somebody started goin’ round town spreadin’ this rumor that I like women. Which means that people keep their distance from me.” You confess, angrily etching a path in the dirt with your steps. “I mean, some of them are nice to my face, but-”

“Do you?” She interrupts, her voice intense but devoid of judgement.

You chew your lip nervously, studying her features for any sign of disapproval. Releasing a shaky breath, you shrug helplessly as your arms flop down by your sides. “I- I think I do… I- I like women.” You finally confess, stuttering over your words. “Have for a- a long time, I guess.”

Her voice is husky and alluring as she gazes at you with heavy-lidded eyes. “Come here.” She commands.

Your heart flutters in your chest at her tone, your breath catching in your throat as you take hesitant steps towards Sevika. 

She reaches out and hooks a finger into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you closer until your bodies are pressed together. Your pulse races as she looks down at you, her silver eyes darkening with desire.

"There's nothin' wrong with likin' women." Sevika purrs, her thumb tracing small circles on the skin of your hip. "Nothin' at all."

You swallow hard, your voice barely above a whisper. "You don't think it's… wrong?"

Sevika shakes her head, a small smirk playing on her lips. "No, angel. I think it's just fine."

Her hand glides up your arm, leaving a trail of raised hairs and goosebumps in its wake. Her hand lingers at your throat, fingers wrapping around the base with a light but firm squeeze. A gasp escapes your lips as you lean into her touch; her chest rumbles against you as she chuckles.

With a gentle lift of her hand under your chin, she tilts your head upwards. She drags her thumb over your bottom lip, tracing the curve in tantalizing slow motion.

Flicking your tongue out, you stare at her beneath your eyelashes as you nip at the tip of her thumb. She releases your lip with a grunt and your eyes drift closed as you feather your lips against hers in a tentative peck. Your lips barely touch and Sevika resists the urge to smile at your timidness.

Swallowing nervously, you grow more desperate for her you kiss her again, deepening the kiss. 

Her lips are like velvet against yours, moving with a practiced ease. You let out a small moan as she guides your movements, her hand threading through your hair, the other squeezing the plushness of your hip. Your body responds eagerly, melting into her touch as your hands find their way to rest on her cheeks.

A small whimper escapes you as Sevika's tongue traces your bottom lip, seeking entrance. You part your lips, and her tongue slides against yours. The taste of her overwhelms your senses - a hint of mint and tobacco, mixed with something uniquely Sevika.

Your inexperience shows in the slight awkwardness of your movements, but Sevika doesn't seem to mind. She pulls you closer, bending her knee and grinding you onto her thigh.

Your legs tremble beneath you at the sensation and your hands fly to her shoulders for support. She consumes the moan that escapes your lips as she rubs your core against the muscle of her thigh.

Sevika breaks the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. As you look up at her, you notice a dark wave of arousal hiding the grey of her eyes. "You okay, angel?"

You can only nod, unable to form words as your lips tingle. Every nerve in your body hums with a desperate hunger for more.

Sevika's thumb traces your swollen bottom lip, forehead resting on yours. "Been wantin' to do that for a while now." She admits with a raspy chuckle.

Your heart races at her words, a mix of excitement and nervousness fluttering in your stomach. "Me too." You reply breathily, your fingers clenching the fabric of her shirt as you grind against her thigh. “I- Can we do more?” You plead.

She nods, her intense gaze locked on yours as her hands find their way to your hips, grinding you down onto her knee. "Like what, angel?" She teases, a mischievous glint in her eye.

Leaning in closer, your lips brush against Sevika's ear as you whisper desperately. "Everything. I want to feel you." You whimper.

A low growl rumbles in Sevika's chest at your words, a primal sound that sends shivers down your spine. In one fluid and powerful motion, she grasps the back of your thighs and effortlessly lifts you up. Your legs instinctively wrap around her waist as she carries you to her horse, your heart racing with excitement.

"Where are we going?" You ask, trying to steady your voice but failing as it trembles with anticipation.

"Somewhere more private." Sevika murmurs.

She carefully places you onto the horse's back before swinging on behind you. The saddle is a tight fit with both of you on it, but you hardly notice as Sevika's hand falls to the horn of the saddle. You gasp as her other hand moves under your shirt and fans over your stomach. Bending to your ear, she hoarsely mumbles into your skin. “Found a spot that I think you’ll like, angel.” 

Your cheeks flush as heat spreads down to your chest and further to fill your core. You can feel the muscles in Sevika's thighs clench as she urges the horse forward.

With each trot, Sevika's hand on the saddle grinds into you, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. “Sevika, how far is it?” You whine, desperate for release.

Pecking your cheek, she hums. “It’s not far, angel. Surely you can be patient for me, can’t you?”

With tears in your eyes and a pleading grip on her hand, you guide it further down to your stomach. “Can’t. I need you, please.”

Biting at your jaw, she cups your core and grinds her palm against you. “Look at you angel, so desperate.” Sevika mocks.

Your hand grips tightly onto her thigh as the other holds her hand against the heated pool between your legs. Your hips buck eagerly into her palm as breathy moans escape your lips.

"That's it, angel. Let me hear those pretty sounds." Sevika purrs into your neck, sucking on a spot below your ear.

You whimper as her fingers increase the pressure against you through the denim. The roughness of the material combined with the rhythmic movement of the horse beneath you creates an intoxicating sensation that has you squirming in the saddle with pleasure.

Sevika's arm wraps tightly around your waist, steadying you. "Easy there, angel." Her warm breath tickles your ear as she whispers softly. "Don't want you fallin' off now."

"Sev, please." Your words come out in gasps, your head falling back against her broad shoulder.

Her words are teasing, taunting. ”What would you have me do, angel? Stuff you full of my fingers where anyone can see?” She pauses, letting out a degrading laugh. “But maybe you would like that, wouldn’t you? If I shoved my fingers knuckle-deep inside of you and showed everyone that you were mine to touch.”

Her lips brush against your skin as she drags her nose up your cheek.

“Oh, but I could never do that to you, sweet girl. I’m greedy.” She growls, her teeth possessively sinking into the skin between your neck and shoulder. “I don’t wanna bless anyone with the noises that fall from your pretty lips. Those are only mine to hear.”

A low growl rumbles in her chest as she nuzzles closer to you, her hand trailing down your side. Your fingers tangle in her hair as she soothes the bite mark with her tongue. "We're almost there." She murmurs reassuringly against your skin.

True to her word, Sevika soon guides the horse off the path and through a small gap between the trees.

You gasp as it comes into view. Surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers, is a beautiful garden. The colors of the flowers range from vibrant pinks to soft oranges, creating a peaceful and enchanting atmosphere.

Carefully dismounting from the horse and leading it further into the lush foliage, she guides you off of the stallion with a gentle touch.

Lowering you down onto the soft grass, her body hovers above yours. Sevika's eyes roam over your face, searching for any flicker of hesitation. "You sure about this, angel?" She asks, her voice filled with a mixture of concern and anticipation.

Wordlessly, you grip her shirt and guide her onto your body. Your hands tremble as you press a desperate kiss to her lips, craving the taste of her. As you roll on top of her, straddling her toned frame, a low whimper escapes your throat. You instinctively move your hips, seeking relief for the intense ache between your legs. She sits up, her body moving in perfect sync with your thrusts.

With a sharp intake of breath, you release a guttural moan that echoes through the air as you throw your head back in ecstasy. Her lips travel down your throat, leaving open-mouthed kisses on your skin. Her hand fans against your back while the other squeezes your ass, rolling your hips into her.

Her name escapes your lips in a breathless gasp. You look at her with desire-filled eyes, drinking in the sight of her heaving chest and tangled hair. Stray blades of grass cling to her disheveled strands. With a burst of energy, you push yourself off of her and hold out your hands. “I’ll be right back!” You promise hoarsely before rushing off towards the stallion.

Your heart races with adrenaline, your fingers fumbling with the saddle buckles in your haste. Tossing off the saddle, you snatch the blanket from the horse's back.

As you approach her, panting and flushed with arousal, her expression transforms from confusion to delight as she watches you spread out the blanket on the ground. Sevika's eyes soften as you carefully smooth out the corners, her heart swelling with an unfamiliar warmth at your thoughtfulness.

Shifting onto the blanket, she reaches for you, pulling you back into her arms. “Well don’t you know how to treat a lady, angel.” She teases, brushing a stray hair from your face and admiring you. "You're somethin' else, you know that?"

You blush under her intense gaze, suddenly feeling shy. "I just… I want this to be special." You tell her earnestly.

Sevika cups your face in her hands, her thumbs stroking your cheeks. "It already is, angel." She reassures you with a soft smile.

Her tenderness catches you off guard, making your heart flutter. You look up at her, searching her silver eyes. For what exactly, you’re not sure. "Did you mean what you said… before? About being yours?" You ask hesitantly.

Sevika nods without hesitation, her silver eyes only growing softer as she gazes at you. "I did. Do." Leaning in, you capture her lips in a clumsy kiss.

Sevika gently rolls you onto the blanket, not separating from your lips. You arch into Sevika's touch as she slowly lifts your shirt, her calloused hands caressing your bare skin. A shiver runs through your body, echoed by the flutter in your core. Sevika breaks the kiss to pull your shirt over your head, tossing it aside.

You whimper softly as Sevika trails kisses along your collarbone and down towards your breasts. Your hands tangle in her hair as she moves lower, teasing you through the thin fabric of your bra. With deft fingers, she stretches it over your head, leaving you exposed.

Sevika takes a moment to admire you, her eyes dark with desire. "You're perfect, angel." She says before slowly, torturously slowly, leaning in to capture one of your nipples between her teeth, flicking her tongue over it teasingly.

A guttural moan escapes your lips and your hands eagerly push underneath her shirt, nails raking over her back. She responds with a low moan and a shiver.

Her fingers, skilled and experienced, unbutton your pants effortlessly. As she slips her thick, warm fingers into your panties, she growls in approval at the wetness that greets her.

She gives your nipple a tantalizing roll between her teeth before releasing it with a wet pop.

As Sevika's thick finger dips into you, coated in your slick arousal, you gasp and spread your legs wider around her. Her intense gaze never falters as she watches your face intently. Her other hand soothingly rubs your thigh as she whispers in your ear. "You’re gorgeous, angel." She whispers, planting a series of soft kisses along your jaw. "So pretty spread out for me."

Every touch and whisper from Sevika's lips sends a shiver down your spine. You force yourself to relax into her ministrations, letting go as she circles your clit with her thumb. The rough pad leaves you moaning and clawing at her shirt.

"That's it, angel." Sevika encourages, adding another finger and curling them both inside you. "You sound so pretty and I wanna hear more. Will you give me more?" Her husky voice rumbles through your chest and you nod eagerly.

Speaking past a pleasured cry, your voice warbles with need. “Need more Vika. Wanna see you.” With shaky fingers, you reach for the hem of her shirt and lift it.

Sevika chuckles, a deep, throaty sound that sends another wave of heat through you. She withdraws her fingers, eliciting a whine from you. But your disappointment is short-lived as she swiftly rips her shirt open, revealing taut muscles and her soft breasts. A white bandage wraps around her stomach and some of your lust fades as you stare at it.

"Better?" She purrs, leaning down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. You feel her hands pulling your pants down your legs, the cool air hitting your skin as your panties fall with them.

Pausing, you press your hands to her chest. “Wait, Sevika. Your stomach. Should we be doing this?” You ask, concerned.

Bending to leave wet kisses on your neck, she mumbles. “I’m fine, angel. Don’t worry about me.”

Sevika’s fingers return to their place in your warmth while her lips find yours. She inhales the surprised gasp that falls from your tongue. She consumes every muffled gasp, every desperate moan.

Your hands roam over her skin, careful of her wound, tracing the lines of her muscles and the curves of her body. She shivers under your touch, breaking the kiss to let out a soft moan as your breasts rub against hers.

With a wet peck to your cheek, Sevika lowers herself between your legs and your hands reluctantly fall from her skin. Rising on your elbows, you watch as she trails kisses down your stomach before her mouth reaches your core. Her eyes darken at the sight and scent of you, and she growls softly before delving into you with her tongue. The sound reverberates through you, and she groans.

Your head rolls back, mouth falling open in a silent plea as you grind against Sevika. Your core clenches at the wet sounds of Sevika's fingers moving inside you.

A sharp intake of breath escapes your lips as she roughly shoves her fingers into you, causing you to yelp in surprise. Your head whips towards her, eyes wide and pleading as she stills. With a harsh suck, she parts from your throbbing clit, her voice a breathy rasp. “Watch.” She demands.

Tears cloud your eyes as you nod, your arms trembling. Her dark eyes gleam with satisfaction as she flicks her tongue out with a harsh lick and a smirk playing on her lips. “Good girl."

“Please, Sevika.” You shakily beg.

Sevika pulls you closer, her arm wrapping around your thigh as she brings you deeper into her mouth. Her warm tongue flattens against your clit as her thick fingers curl inside you with each thrust. Your moans blend with her satisfied groans and skin slapping against skin.

“You taste heavenly, angel.” She praises before diving back into you.

Your hand tightens around hers on your thigh, while the other twists and pulls at her hair. Your body curls, every muscle tensing as a deep, guttural moan escapes your lips. “S’vika!”

As you approach your peak, drool trails down the corner of your lips. Your eyes water as you struggle to keep them open, finding yourself powerless against Sevika's intense grey gaze that holds you hostage as she watches you.

With one hand clenched tightly around both of your fumbling hands, Sevika's fingers continue to twist inside you. Her tongue continues its relentless movements without faltering or slowing down at your cries.

Overwhelmed, you whine. “Vika, I can’t.”

Your trembling thighs tighten around her head as she pulls her slick fingers from your body. Her glistening fingers fall to your thigh as she hungrily devours you, running her tongue up your slit before filling you. Sevika eagerly drinks every drop you have to offer, her mouth a wet and sloppy mess on your core. You can feel the pressure mounting within you again.

Sevika's mouth licks and sucks at your pussy, pushing you towards a second climax. You're teetering on the edge, your hands clawing against her restrictive hand as your breasts heave with each panting breath.

"Sevika, please." You gasp, your voice hoarse and desperate. "I can't take anymore." You sob.

But she doesn't let up, her gaze ravenous as she continues her ministrations. You feel yourself climbing higher and higher, your muscles tensing as the pressure builds.

With a light drag of her teeth on your sensitive nub, you're sent hurtling over the edge. A strangled cry tears from your throat as your back arches off the blanket. Your vision goes white as waves of pleasure crash over you, more intense than before.

Sevika works you through your orgasm, her movements gentler now as she eases you down from your high.

With one final swallow, she rises up and licks her shimmering lips, a satisfied smile on her face. Your entire body is still tingling with the aftershocks of your orgasms and your eyes dilate as she thrusts her fingers into her mouth. Letting out a deep groan, her eyelids flutter as she savors the taste of you on her tongue.

Reaching for your chin, she grasps your cheeks tightly and pulls your mouth open. You instinctively outstretch your tongue.

She drops a mixture of your essence and her saliva onto your waiting tongue, watching intently as it gathers on the pink of your tongue. With a rough shake of your chin, she mumbles darkly. “Swallow, angel.”

The feeling of her touch sends shivers down your spine as you comply with her demand. She grunts, eyes falling down to your throat as you swallow, rubbing her slick thumb over your lips roughly before withdrawing her hand.

Sevika collapses beside you, pulling you into her arms. You curl into her warmth, your body still trembling slightly. She presses soft kisses to your forehead, her fingers tracing soothing patterns on your skin.

"You okay, angel?" She murmurs, her voice tender.

You nod, nuzzling into her neck. "More than okay." You whisper. "That was… Thank you."

"You did so well, angel." She says, tilting your chin up to look at her. Her silver eyes are soft as they roam your face. "So perfect for me."

A blush creeps up your cheeks at her words. You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “You’re awful good with your hands, cowboy.” You murmur against her mouth.

Sevika chuckles, her body shaking beneath you as looks at you in amusement. "Just my hands?" She smirks, a teasing glint in her eyes.

A playful glint sparks in your eyes as you roll them, but your grin only grows wider. Your thumb traces over her plump lips, eliciting a flicker of her tongue against the soft pad. “Maybe your mouth has its uses too.” You purr, teasingly.

"Well, I’m yours to use and put to work, angel." She winks before capturing your lips again, claiming your mouth as sloppily as she did your pussy.

Brushing a thumb over her pebbled nipple, you slowly draw a line down her stomach, tracing the curve of her body. As you reach for the button of her pants, her hand stops you, halting your movements.You feel a twinge of embarrassment, thinking that maybe she doesn't want you to pleasure her in return.

Sensing your embarrassment, she gently lifts your face by your chin and meets your eyes with a soft smile. “As much as I want you angel, this was about you. You can take care of me some other time, hmm?”

You bite down a giddy smile. “Another time?” You say shyly.

She lets out a scoff and leans back, tugging you with her until you're lying on top of her. Her hand rests on the small of your back, pulling you closer to her body.

“Yeah, another time… What? Did you think that once was good enough for me angel?” Her chest puffs underneath you. “Told you, angel. You’re mine. You taste heavenly. And I don’t plan on giving that up anytime soon.”

You press a kiss to her neck with a pleased grin. Snuggling even closer to her, your fingers trace delicate patterns on the soft skin just below her breast.

Her grip tightens and she gives you a light squeeze. “You effectively reassured now, angel, or do I need to whisper some more sweet nothin’s?” She sounds equally condescending and caring.

A soft chuckle escapes your lips, followed by a cocky shrug. “Wouldn’t hurt to hear how sweet and perfect and heavenly I am.” You mumble with a smirk that more closely resembles a gleeful beam.

Sevika's lips curl up into an amused simper. “Oh, it’d hurt plenty. As sweet as you are, seems the more I tell you, the brattier you get. Wouldn’t want to spoil you.” 

With an incredulous gasp, you lift your head. “Bratty? I am not bratty nor spoiled cowboy.” You protest, trying to sound indignant but failing miserably as a mischievous grin spreads across your face. “I am perfectly humble and grounded.”

Before you can argue further, her hand comes down with a sharp smack on your bare ass. A yelp escapes your lips as a flush creeps over your skin.

“Maybe you’re just perfect for everyone else, angel, but on our way over here, you were anything but. Used my hand to get off, angel, right out in the open.” She rasps out teasingly.

With a playful tap on your backside, she begins to knead it beneath her palm. “But we can do that later, right, angel? We have plenty of time to work on your manners.” Your body shivers in response and you nervously lick your lips before nodding. “Good girl.” She mumbles against the crown of your head.

As you both lay in each other's embrace, the outside world begins to invade your peaceful bubble.

Fiddling with her finger, you frown as you look up at her. “I- I don’t wanna hide this but my mama…” Your voice trails off as you swallow the lump in your throat, speaking in a whisper. “I think she knows, but she’s ignorin’ it. Just hopin’ that it’ll go away.” You say stiffly.

Pressing your face into Sevika’s skin, you let her scent, her touch, comfort you. “That’s- that’s one of the reasons I’ve been such a cunt to her. Cause it feels like she wants me to be different. Like she’ll only love me until she can’t ignore it anymore. Until I don’t let her ignore it.”

Smoothing a hand over your back, her voice is steady in promise. “Well, I’ll be here with you either way.”

You nod against Sevika's skin, comforted by her words but still anxious. "Thank you." You murmur softly. "I just… I don't know how to tell her."

Sevika's hand continues its soothing motions. "We'll figure it out together, angel. There's no rush. We can take it slow, tell her when you're ready."

You lift your head to meet her eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Together, huh?"

She nods, her silver eyes soft but determined. "Together."

As the sun dips lower in the sky, you snuggle closer to Sevika's body heat. "We should probably start headin’ back." You say reluctantly with a sigh, pushing yourself to your feet.

Sevika watches you slowly dress, her hand propped up behind her head. A smile tugs at her lips as she sends you small glances and laughs when you roll your eyes while pulling on your shirt. 

“You know, you’re a real bad influence.” You playfully scold her. “Made me miss a whole day of work.”

Chuckling, she sits up and puts on her own shirt. “A bad influence, huh? Didn’t hear you complainin’ much when you were cummin’ on my fingers, angel.”

With a gentle hand on your calf, she pulls you towards her. Lifting the hem of your shirt, she trails kisses along your navel. You resist the growing hunger inside of you and instead press your hands to her cheeks. Tipping her face up, you give her a pointed look at her roguish smirk.

Licking your lips, you place a chaste kiss on her nose. “Easy cowboy. Wasn’t complainin’. I like your influence on me… Can’t wait to return the favor.”

Pressing a thumb to her bottom lip, you give her a light peck. “Can’t wait to taste you. To hear your pretty sounds while you ride my tongue.” Pulling away, you send her a heated smirk as you turn. “How’s that phrase go, ‘Save A Horse’…”

Your teasing words leave Sevika momentarily speechless, her eyes darkening with desire. She quickly recovers, a low chuckle rumbling in her chest as she stands and pulls you back against her.

"Careful, angel." She murmurs in your ear, her hands roaming your sides. "Keep talkin' like that and we might not make it back to the ranch."

You lean into her touch, tempted to give in to the heat building between you once again. But the fading light reminds you of your responsibilities back home.

With a tempted grunt, you turn in Sevika's arms and press a soft kiss to her lips. "As much as I'd love to stay out here with you all night, we better head back before my mama sends out a search party."

Sevika chuckles, snatching up the blanket and intertwining her fingers with yours as you walk back to the horse. "Wouldn't want that. Though I'm not sure how we'll explain why we were gone so long."

You bite your lip. "We'll think of something. Maybe we can say we were… exploring new grazing land for the animals?"

Sevika raises an eyebrow, smirking as she drops your hand. "Exploring, huh? That's one way to put it."

You playfully swat her arm, but can't help your giggle. "You’re right. I’ll just tell her that we were exploring each other’s supple and womanly bodies." Your sarcastically retort, helping her resecure the saddle.

As you both mount her stallion, you sigh leaning back into her. “I won’t tell her what we were doin’, but if she directly asks, I won’t deny it. I meant it when I said I don’t wanna hide this, hide you.”

Wrapping her arms around you, she grips the lead and presses her nose into the skin of your shoulder. She tries to disguise the emotion in her voice as you caress her forearms. “That’s good, angel, cause you look thoroughly fucked and I’m not sure how you’ll be able to hide it.”

A burst of laughter escapes your chest and you roll your head back on her shoulder. “Well can’t say I much mind looking ‘thoroughly fucked’ as you so eloquently put it.” Lowering your hand, you thread your fingers through hers.

As you approach the ranch, the sun has nearly set, casting long shadows across the fields. Your heart races with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. Sevika's presence behind you is comforting, her arms wrapped securely around your waist.

Slowly, your mother comes into view. Just a small blurred figure on the porch, but you can already feel the infuriated aura radiating off of her.

Releasing a breath of air in resignation, you mutter. “If you don’t wanna deal with her, then I’m fine bein’ dropped off here.”

Sevika scoffs and your head moves with the motion. “M’ not gonna make you walk.”

You roll your eyes. “You don’t nee-”

“‘Specially with the way your legs shook around me earlier.” She interrupts, rubbing her hands over the top of your thighs.

Sevika's teasing words make you flush with heat and you elbow her in the ribs, with a small smile.

"Go fuck yourself." You mutter, though there's no real bite to your words.

“Why do that when I have you to do it for me?” She retorts immediately. Shaking your head, you ignore her as you approach the house.

You can see your mother's figure more clearly on the porch. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, her foot tapping impatiently. The sight makes your stomach clench with anxiety.

Sevika must sense your tension because she gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. "It'll be alright, angel." She murmurs, her breath warm against your ear. "I'm right here with you."

You nod, taking a deep breath to steel yourself as Sevika brings the horse to a stop in front of the house. Sevika dismounts and you quickly do the same.

Your mother’s gaze follows every movement. Lingering on the way Sevika’s hands gently steady you as you step down, hovering around your waist before falling away. Her eyes narrow on the soft smile that you send the taller woman. Sharpen into a glare as you step into the light, revealing your disheveled appearance. 

"Where have you two been?" She demands, her voice sharp with worry and anger.

Already exhausted, you sigh out. “Why? Did you need me here to run your ranch?”

Ignoring your thinly veiled jab, she continues. "I almost sent someone out lookin’ for you!"

A soothing warmth radiates from Sevika's presence behind you, dispelling the lingering anxieties and fears within. “Well I’m glad you didn’t mama.” You sigh out. Turning to face Sevika, you chew on your lip.

Sevika observes you in silence, her expression growing pleasantly surprised as your hands gently frame her face.

With a sudden burst of courage, you rise on your toes and plant a short but sweet kiss on her lips. The radiant glow on your face is almost blinding as you smile, whispering to her. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Sevika's eyes search your face for any signs of hesitation, but finding none, she nods, sending your mother a glare. Slowly, she makes her way towards her stallion and begins walking towards the stables.

Inhaling deeply, you face your mother with a mix of determination and nervousness. Your mother's face cycles through a range of emotions - shock, confusion, and finally, a flicker of understanding. Her eyes dart between you and the stables, her brow furrowed.

"Mama." You begin, your voice steady despite the trembling in your hands. "I know this isn't what you wanted for me. But, quite frankly, I don’t give a shit.”

You wave your hands in emphasis. “Sevika… she makes me happy. Happier than I've ever been."

Your mother's mouth opens and closes, no words coming out. You take advantage of her silence to continue. "I'm not askin' for your approval. I'm just askin'- tellin’ you to stop ignorin’ it. To see me for who I am, not who you want me to be."

Your mother's lips press into a thin line, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "How long?" She finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It's new. Like today new." You admit. "But my feelings… they've always been there. Not just for Sevika, but for women in general…"

You lean onto the porch railing, your eyes searching hers. “And I think you’ve known that for a while.”

A heavy silence falls over the porch. You can hear the distant sound of crickets chirping and frogs croaking fills the air. Closing your eyes, you allow yourself to be consumed by the calmness of the night.

Her voice breaks the stillness, raw with emotion. “I want grandkids.” She croaks.

Dropping your head, a shaky laugh escapes your lips. “And I want kids. But it’s too soon to know if it’d be with Sevika.”

She covers her mouth with trembling hands as she stifles a sob. “I-I love you.” She chokes out between tears. “And I’m gonna try. I want to try.”

She shakes as she wraps her arms tighter around herself. “I’m so sorry.”

You silently watch her curl into herself, not reaching out a comforting hand. The softness in your voice matches the firmness of your words. “I love you too… And while I really wish it wasn’t this hard for you, wish that you didn’t feel sorry for who I am attracted to… I appreciate you trying.” Releasing a heavy breath, you tap the wooden rail and turn to walk away.

“I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you. For-for not being there, for not being a mom.” Her voice cracks and you pause, your hand resting on the doorknob.

You don't turn back, but nod in acknowledgement, eyes briefly glancing down at the ground. Letting out a sigh, you twist the doorknob and leave her with her thoughts.

The early morning sun filters through your bedroom window, casting a warm glow across your face. You stretch lazily, a content smile spreading on your face. 

You’re fucking gay.

It feels freeing to admit it. The weight that had been pressing on your chest for so long has finally lifted. The past week with Sevika has filled you with a newfound sense of freedom and joy.

As you dress, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. There's a brightness in your eyes that wasn't there before, a confidence in the way you carry yourself.

Heading downstairs, you find your mother already in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. There's still a tension in the air between you, but it's different now - less suffocating, more like the growing pains of a relationship in transition.

"Mornin', mama." You greet steadily.

As you look up at her, you notice the redness in her eyes. She responds softly, with a hint of strain in her voice. “Mornin’.”

Your stomach grumbles as you eye the toast and strips of bacon on the table. You can't help but sneak a slice and a few strips before she swats at your hand. With a grunt, you shovel the food into your mouth.

“See y’later.” You manage to muffle through a mouthful of food.

You hear her grumble in disgust as you rush out the front door. Excitedly making your way to the stables, you begin unlocking the stall doors connected to the horse pasture. Each lock softly clicks open and the horses trot out of their stalls.

Honey is waiting patiently in her stall, her soft brown eyes watching you with anticipation. You press your forehead against hers, enjoying the tickle of her mane against your nose.

“How you feelin’ girl?” She responds with a huff and nudges you affectionately. “Alright, you wanna go for a ride?” Laughing, you take a step back from her.

Strong arms envelop you, pulling you into a tight embrace. Startled, you let out a yelp as you're twirled around in a circle. Finally coming to a stop, you lean back into the warmth behind you and catch your breath. “I’d love to go for a ride too, angel.” She whispers in your ear, voice still gravelly with sleep.

Giggling, you swat at her before spinning around to face her. You quickly press a kiss to her plush lips and she follows as you lean back, readjusting your hat. Her arms tighten around your body, pulling you closer to her chest while her own hat sits loosely on top of her head.

“Good mornin’ gorgeous.” You greet her with a grin.

Sevika’s eyes narrow on you. “Mornin’.” Drawing a line on your face with the tip of her nose, she huffs. “What kinda kiss was that angel?” She mumbles discontentedly into your cheek.

Removing your hat, you wrap your arms around Sevika's neck and cover her lips with your own. She lets out a satisfied grunt as her hands wander down to squeeze your rear. Tracing her bottom lip with your tongue, you tilt your head to deepen the kiss.

Sevika lifts you effortlessly, her strong arms gripping your thighs as she presses your back against the wall. You moan as her big hands engulf and knead your ass. Your hats float to the ground, forgotten, as you run your fingers through her silky hair.

You gasp for air as she breaks away from you, leaving a trail of wet kisses down your throat until she reaches your chest. Her hips grind into yours, and your thighs tighten around her. Pulling her hair and she separated from your skin with a wet smack. Moaning, you flatten your tongue on her neck. She groans as you nibble and suck on the sensitive skin.

The sound of awkward shuffling feet and throat clearing breaks through the passionate haze. Both of you turn to see a group of ranch hands standing at the entrance to the stables, their eyes wide and faces flushed with embarrassment. Each one looks anywhere but directly at you two entangled in each other.

With a soft sigh, Sevika slowly releases her hold on you and takes a step back. You linger on the wall and roll your eyes at the unmoving ranch hands nearby. Dusting off your hats, Sevika gently places your hat on your head before adjusting her own.

Resuming your task of saddling Honey, you playfully tap Sevika's ass as you pass her. “Ready to ride, cowboy?”

She returns your mischievous grin with a sly wink. “I’m always ready for a ride, angel.”

Saddling your horses side by side, you exchange flirty glances. With a click of your tongue, you hop onto Honey's back.

“C’mon slowpoke.” You tease. “Would hate for your old ass to get left behind.”

Sevika rolls her eyes with a scoff. “My old ass?”

You give her a firm nod. “Remember when you passed out in my arms cause you were tired.”

Narrowing her eyes at you as she swings her leg over the saddle. “Do you mean when I was bleeding out?”

You shrug nonchalantly and scrunch your nose at her as you ride by. “Eh, same difference, cowboy.”

Shaking her head, she follows. “I was right. You’re a real brat, angel.”

“Easy, handsome.” You chuckle out. “Else I’d think you were startin’ to really like me.” With a smirk, you urge Honey faster and take off.

The wind rushes past you as you gallop ahead, Sevika hot on your heels. There’s a playful competitiveness between the two of you as you race down the dusty path.

Giggling, you slow your pace as a familiar set of trees comes into view.

Falling into place beside you, she leans toward you with a playful grin. Her vibrant silver eyes sparkle in the sunlight as she teases. “For the record, I more than just like you, angel.”

As a fuzzy feeling spreads through your stomach, you both move through the trees. The hidden garden is just as enchanting as it was the first time. Budding tulip flowers have begun sprouting among the bouquet of pink and orange wildflowers.

Swinging your leg around, your boots sink into the soft grass. As you reach for the extra blanket you brought, she watches you intently with a hunger in her eyes. You spread out the blanket and turn to face her, slowly starting to undress with a cocky brow.

Her gaze traces over your exposed skin hungrily as she leans forward on her saddle. “Y’know, I’m startin’ to think you just want me for my body, angel.”

Your smile grows wider at her words and you raise a skeptical brow. “And would that be so bad, cowboy?”

Sevika dismounts her horse in one fluid motion, her eyes never leaving yours. She stalks towards you with predatory grace, smirking. "Not bad at all, angel. But I think we both know it's more than that."

She pulls you flush against her body, her hands roaming over your exposed skin. You shiver at her touch, heat pooling in your core. You wrap your arms around her neck, fingers playing with the soft hair at the nape.

"Maybe." You tease, your lips brushing against hers as you speak. "But right now, I just wanna feel you."

Pressing a soft kiss on her bottom lip, your fingers work at the buttons of her shirt. “Taste you.“ You breathe.

Sevika chuckles, the sound low and husky. "Is that so?" Her hands slide down to your hips, squeezing the plush flesh.

Humming your affirmation, you trail kisses down her chest as you gently push her shirt down her shoulders. Sevika's breath catches in her throat and she smooths a hand over your hair as you lower to your knees, gazing at her beneath heavy eyelashes. Unbuttoning her pants, you pull them down with her underwear.

You take a moment to admire her, drinking in the sight of her toned legs and the neat patch of dark hair between her thighs. Licking your lips, you glance up at her with a mischievous smile. "Mind layin’ down for me, cowboy?"

Sevika's silver eyes darken as she nods, her voice husky with arousal. "Sure thing, angel."

She lowers herself onto the blanket. You eagerly move over her, your lips hungrily seeking hers. As your mouths meet, you can feel the quickening of her breath and the tremble of excitement in her lips. Deepening the kiss, you brush your nails through the soft curls between her legs.

Sevika gasps into your mouth as your fingers tease over her. You trail kisses down her neck, savoring the salty taste of her skin. Her hands tangle in your hair as you move lower, lavishing her breasts with attention. You swirl your tongue around a hardened nipple before taking it between your teeth.

A low moan escapes Sevika's throat. Her hips buck up, seeking friction. "Angel." She warns, her voice husky with need.

You smile against her skin, continuing your teasing descent. Pressing a soft kiss to her bandaged stomach, you settle between her legs. The scent of her arousal makes your mouth water.

You press soft kisses along her inner thighs, relishing in the way her muscles twitch beneath your lips. Her hand tangles in your hair, not forceful, just enough pressure to encourage you.

"You look so pretty, Sev." You purr, leaning in close enough that she can feel your warm breath against her sensitive flesh. "So perfect."

With a soft kiss to her mound, you spread her lips open and run your tongue along her slit. Sevika's breath hitches, her fingers tightening in your hair. You moan at the taste of her, your tongue messily exploring her folds.

Sevika's hips buck up against your mouth as you circle her clit with the tip of your tongue. Her thighs tremble on either side of your head. You look up at her through your lashes, drinking in the sight of her chest heaving with each panting breath.

"Fuck, angel." Sevika groans, her voice husky with need. "Just like that." Sevika encourages breathlessly, her hand gently guiding your movements.

Encouraged by her words, you increase the pressure of your tongue, alternating between broad strokes and quick flicks across her sensitive bud. You slip two fingers inside her wet heat, curling them in her like she did you. Your other hand falls to her thigh, holding her steady as you devour her.

Sevika lets out a low groan, her back arching off the blanket. Sevika's breathing grows more ragged, her moans increasing in volume. You can feel her muscles tensing beneath your touch.

"Can you show me those pretty eyes, Sev?" You ask, breaking away for just a moment. Sevika's silver eyes snap open, locking onto yours. The intensity of her gaze sends your own core flooding with need.

You maintain eye contact as you lower your mouth back to her core. You suck her clit between your lips, accidentally brushing the swollen bud with your teeth. She cries out in pleasure, her legs convulsing around you and her hand fisting your hair tightly.

You hum in understanding, the vibrations traveling through her body. You gently press your teeth into the sensitive bundle before soothing it with long, slow licks of your tongue. Adding another finger, you roughly thrust into her.

With a strangled cry, Sevika comes undone, tightening her legs and locking you in place. Her back arches off the blanket, her hand forcefully guiding your head into her core as she grinds herself against your face.

You continue your rough ministrations, teasing her until her grip begins to loosen. Her legs twitch open, releasing you. You press a soft kiss on her inner thigh before crawling up her body, savoring the feel of her skin against your own.

Sevika pulls you into a deep, languid kiss, her tongue tangling with yours. When you part, she's looking at you with a mixture of awe and affection.

"Fuck, angel…" Sevika trails off, still catching her breath.

A surge of pride swells within you at the sight of her trembling thighs. You can't help but grin in satisfaction. "So you like it a little rough, cowboy?”

Sevika chuckles, her chest still heaving slightly. "Seems like you do too, angel." Her hand trails down your skin, brushing her fingers through your soaked folds. "Don't think I didn't notice how loud, how wet,  you got."

A blush creeps up your cheeks at her words, but you don't deny it. Instead, you press a soft kiss to her jaw. "Can you blame me? You taste so good, Sev."

Her silver eyes darken at your words. In one swift motion, she flips you onto your back, hovering over you. "My turn, angel." She growls, her voice husky with renewed desire.

Your breath catches in your throat as Sevika forcefully spreads your legs apart. She crosses her leg over yours, the heat of her skin radiating into yours. Her hand tightens around your leg, holding it in place as she lowers herself onto you. The sensation of her against you is like pure silk as she grinds your clits together.

A loud cry erupts from your throat as you throw your hands out to brace yourself, one hand landing on her bandaged stomach. Whimpering with pleasure, you bite down on your lip and glance between her dilated eyes. Swallowing down a moan, you apply slight pressure to the wound.

Her hips stutter above you and her movements become more erratic and urgent, her grip on your leg tightening to the point of bruising.

"Fuck, angel." She growls, her voice husky and strained. "You're playing with fire."

Sevika's eyes are dark and dilated with a mixture of pain and pleasure, her lips parted in a pant as she glances down at you. Her tousled hair falls around her face as she moves above you, her skin glistening with sweat.

“Maybe I like fire, Sev.” You whimper, your hips bucking up to meet hers. Your hand moves from her stomach to her hip, pulling her closer.

A predatory grin spreads across Sevika's face. She leans down, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers. "Oh, I'm sure you do."

Her teeth graze your earlobe as she leans back. Her palm glides over your thigh, massaging the flesh before striking it.

A cry falls from your mouth as your nails dig into the skin of her hip. With a cocky smirk, she roughly grinds against you. You let out another sharp cry as she delivers another firm hit to your thigh.

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as your core clenches. But just as quickly as the stinging sensation on your thigh appears, it’s soothed by her calloused palm, leaving behind a warm and tingly feeling. Struggling to maintain control, you grip the blanket beneath you tightly with your free hand while your hips continue to buck and writhe against hers.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps. The pressure builds within you, coiling tighter and tighter with each roll of her hips. She drags her nails over the throbbing skin on your thigh.

"Sev, I'm so close." You whimper, your voice high and needy.

"You need my permission, baby?" She mocks arrogantly. Grinning sharpy at you, she growls. “Cum for me, angel.”

Despite her teasing, her words push you over the edge. Your hands claw at her thigh and your vision blurs in a haze of tears as waves of pleasure crash over you. Sevika follows shortly after, her body shuddering above you, grunting out your name.

She collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily. You wrap your arms around her, relishing in the weight of her body against yours. For a moment, you just lay there, heads pressed together, basking in the afterglow.

The humid air is thick with the heavy, musky scent of sex and sweat, a heady combination that mixes with the sweet, floral aroma of the surrounding flowers.

Swallowing, you perk up. “Come to the Saloon with me tomorrow.” You pant out.

Your breath stutters in your chest as you bite your lip. She looks beautiful, in her element. Her usually tense muscles are relaxed as she leans back against the seat, one toned arm casually resting on the back of it. The other hand hovers over her cards.

Your eyes follow the slender cigar pressed between her lips, smoke billowing from the corners of her mouth with each exhale. She inhales, her chest puffing out slightly with a small scoff.

The sight of her bare stomach peeking out from under her shirt makes your teeth clench over your lip even harder as you lean back against the rough wooden texture of the bar.

“You’re droolin’.” A deep voice interrupts your thoughts with a chuckle, followed by the sound of liquid pouring into a glass.

“Got a problem with that, Van?” You mumble tensely, still unable to tear your eyes away from her.

Sliding two glasses towards you, he scoffs. “Not at all, kid. Watchin’ you chase after that woman is entertaining.”

You turn to him and press your elbows into the worn wood of the bar. “I’ve done more than chase, old man.” You retort with a playful smirk, the tension in your body slowly easing.

Your smirk fades into a more genuine expression. You trace the grain of the counter with your fingertips as you continue in a whisper. “Thank you… For never treatin’ me differently.”

Vander's thick eyebrows knit together, creating a deep crease on his scruffy face as he lowers his gaze. A flash of sorrow flickers across his features before he quickly hides it and starts drying a glass. “You don’t need to thank me for that, kid… M’ not doin’ anything special.”

Exhaling a disappointed breath, you speak softly. “Wish that was true, Van. I really, really wish that was true.”

Downing the amber liquid in your glass, you carefully slide it back towards Vander with a light tap. He slowly pours more into the glass, clearing his throat and avoiding direct eye contact with you.

“You’re mum’s not talked to you then? I mean, you’ve uh- you’re bein’ safe, right?” He asks awkwardly, his voice filled with concern. He flashes you an uncomfortable, almost fatherly smile. “Diseases are-”

“Oh my god.” You gasp, your eyes bulging in shock. “Please don’t do this. The last thing I wanna talk about right now are sexual diseases before I have sex.” Your heart races and your stomach churns as you stare at him in disbelief.

He lets out a snort, his broad shoulders visibly relaxing. "Fine. I’ll leave you be, kid." He says, almost sounding relieved. “Just be safe.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing a glass in each hand. “I hope Felicia’s the one to give the kids the ‘talk’.” You pause, chuckling. “Cause whatever the start of that was, was fucking awful.” With an amused smile, you raise a glass in farewell before walking away. You can hear his deep chuckle following you.

Shaking your head in disbelief, you take slow steps towards Sevika's table. 

“-cures all kinds of pain. Bruises. Sore throat. Animal bites. The poss-” Wincing, you tip-toe around Singed as he pulls another patron into his oil sales pitch.

The noise of the crowded bar surrounds you as you weave between tables, trying to keep your balance on the uneven floor. As you step closer, you find yourself pausing.

Your eyes trail over her toned legs, perfectly displayed under the table, until they land on her core - hidden beneath the fabric of her tight jeans. A rush of desire floods through you and your mouth waters, you tilt your head letting out a heavy breath.

But before you can fully lose yourself, Sevika's amused and cocky voice breaks your daze. “Plannin’ on standin’ there all day, angel?”

Darting your eyes to her competitors, you send her an innocent smile and shrug. “Can’t help the way you stop me in my boots, cowboy.” You gently set the glasses on the table.

She reaches out and her fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt, pulling you onto her lap. “Aww, you just might make me blush angel.”

The two men sitting across the table from her are tense, their bodies rigid and their eyes fixated on the cards in front of them. You observe them with a sense of detached amusement, tilting your head in faux confusion.

“Tell me Sevika.” You begin casually. “I don’t really play poker, but isn’t part of the game observin’ your opponents? Callin’ their bluffs?”

Sevika, with her thick brows raised, glances between the men and then back to you with her silver eyes. “It is.” Staging a whisper, she nips at your chin. “But they aren’t very good, angel.”

You cast a quick glance at the cards and the table before turning back to Sevika with a smirk of your own. “Yah know?” You muse. “When I asked you to come with me to the bar, this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

A plume of smoke escapes Sevika's lips as she blows out a cloud of it, her expression teasing. “And what did you mean, angel?” She mumbles, her tone suggestive and playful.

You shrug, leaning back into her. "I dunno." You say with a twinkle in your eye. "Maybe dancin’."

With a casual flick of her wrist, she tosses a few chips onto the pile. Her movements are smooth and confident, exuding a sense of self-assurance. “I don’t do much dancin’, darlin’.” She remarks nonchalantly.

Lowering your lashes and giving her your best smile, you reply in a sugary-sweet tone. “Not even for little ol’ me, cowboy?”

A devilish glint flashes in her eyes as she shakes her head. "Not even for you." She confirms, turning her attention back to the game at hand.

Groaning, you fiddle with her free hand, quickly growing bored. The game drags on, and you find your attention wandering. Your eyes roam the crowded bar, taking in the lively atmosphere.

Suddenly, an idea strikes you. With a mischievous grin, you lean in close to Sevika's ear. "Fine, if you won't dance with me, maybe I'll find someone else who will." You whisper teasingly.

Sevika's hand tightens on your hip, her silver eyes flashing with a mixture of amusement and possessiveness. "Is that so, angel?" She murmurs, her voice low and husky.

You nod, your smile widening. "Mhmm. I'm sure there's plenty of folks here who'd love to dance with me." You make a show of looking around the room, as if searching for a potential dance partner.

Feigning a noise of interest, you nod lazily into the distance. With delicate fingers, you pluck the cigar from Sevika's lips and place it between your own, taking a slow drag. Giving her a quick peck on the lips, you gently return the cigar to its rightful place and slide off of her lap.

“Looks like I found someone, so don’t wait up, cowboy.” You tease, patting her shoulder in goodbye. She snatches your hand and pulls you back into her lap.

Sevika's piercing eyes narrow on you, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she absentmindedly throws her cards down onto the table. The sound of groans and curses fills the air.

Rolling her eyes with a sigh, Sevika stubs out her cigar and gestures towards the jukebox. “Find a good song, angel.” She says in a defeated husk.

With an satisfied giggle, you wrap your arms around Sevika's neck and press a soft kiss to her cheek. The worn floorboards creak under your feet as you skip over to the jukebox, excitement bubbling in your chest.

Your fingers trail over the selection of songs, searching for the perfect one. A slow smile spreads across your face as you spot a familiar title.

The opening notes of "Save A Horse, Ride A Cowgirl" fill the air as you turn back to Sevika. She's watching you with a mixture of amusement and affection, her silver eyes soft in the dim light of the bar.

You extend your hand to her, wiggling your fingers with a grin on your face. "May I have this dance, cowboy?"

Sevika rolls her eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. She takes your hand, her grip firm and warm. "I suppose, angel." She drawls, letting you lead her to a small clear space near the jukebox.

As you step onto the makeshift dance floor, Sevika's arm wraps around your waist, holding you close. Her other hand intertwines with yours.

She twirls you around, and the flowy skirts of your dress billow out like wings. Your laughter rings through the air as you both move to your own rhythm. Sevika's grin widens as she looks down at you, her eyes shining.

As you and Sevika sway together, lost in your own world, the atmosphere in the bar begins to shift. The music fades into the background as hushed whispers and pointed stares fill the air.

You're vaguely aware of the change, but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when Sevika is looking at you like that, her silver eyes soft and veiled in something all-consuming. Her hand is warm and solid on your waist.

"See? Dancing isn't so bad." You tease, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sevika chuckles, the sound rumbling through her chest. "I suppose not, angel. Not with you, at least."

The song comes to an end, but neither of you make a move to separate. Instead, Sevika pulls you closer, her forehead resting against yours. Your hand gently sweeps across her collarbone, tracing the delicate curve of her neck. Your fingers linger on the leather around her neck.

Your hand flattens on her collarbone and you finger at the leather around her neck. “I really like this. Looks good on you.” You mumble.

Sevika's eyes meet yours, and she pecks your nose before pressing her lips against your forehead. She hums, her breath warm against your skin.

Nestled against her warm body, you gently lay your head on her chest and hook your arms around her back. She does the same, holding you close and resting her cheek on your head.

With each gentle rock, a powerful emotion begins to swell in your chest, making it hard to swallow. It's a feeling that you can't quite put into words yet, but it feels overwhelming and intense. Considering the short amount of time you have spent together, it seems almost impossible for this emotion to be so strong.

But as she holds you tight and you feel her warmth seeping into your bones, you know that it doesn't matter how much time has passed. 

You lo-

The heavy wooden doors of the Saloon slam closed with a resounding thud, causing heads to turn towards the entrance. A hush falls over the crowd as they stare at the unexpected intruder.

John.

He saunters in with a casual confidence, his sharp smile oozing with malice as he glances at you and Sevika. His disfigured face, still marred with shades of yellow and green and covered in grime, is repulsive.

Sevika tenses under your palms and you smooth your hands over her shoulders as your eyes cautiously follow John. Seething rage bubbles under your skin at the audacity of the man.

Vander stands stiffly behind the bar, his features hardening as John slowly approaches and takes a seat on a bar stool. Everyone watches, holding their breath as John silently taps his fingers on the counter in front of him.

Vander straightens, his muscles flexing as he wipes his hands on a towel and flings it over his shoulder. His voice is cold as he speaks. “You’re not welcome here.”

John's lips curl into a sneer as he leans forward, his voice dripping with disdain. "That's not very kind of you, Vander. I'm just here for a drink."

The tension in the room is palpable as Vander's jaw clenches. His eyes flick briefly to you and Sevika before returning to John. "I said, you're not welcome. Leave. Now."

John's gaze follows Vander's, landing on you and Sevika. His eyes narrow on your close proximity. "Well, well. Looks like the rumors are true after all." He drawls, his voice laced with disgust.

Sevika's arm tightens around you protectively as she turns to face John, her body partially shielding you. "You got a problem?" She growls, her voice low and threatening. “I’m not sure you’re in the kinda state to be pickin’ fights, boy.”

John stands. The remnants of spit cling to the corners of his cracked lips as he cackles, his laughter echoing off the walls. With a gnarled hand, he wipes away a tear from his crusted face, revealing beady eyes that sparkle with madness. As he stares at you, a twisted grin spreads across his face.

His voice drips with false sweetness, like honey laced with poison. “How’s the ranch doin’?” He pauses, feigning a look of concern.

His gaze moves around the room, taking in every anxious face. "No disasters while I was away, I hope?" A sinister undertone seeps into his words as his leer returns to you. “I’d hate it if somethin’ happened to you.”

Your blood runs cold at John's thinly veiled threat. You feel Sevika's muscles tense beneath your hands as she moves you behind her.

"That sounds an awful lot like a threat." Sevika growls, her voice low and dangerous. Her grey eyes flash with anger as she stares John down.

John holds up his hands in mock innocence, that cruel smile still lingering on his lips. "Just expressing concern for an old friend. No threat intended."

You place a steadying hand on Sevika's arm, feeling the trembling rage in her body.

"The ranch is just fine." You say, your voice cold but steady. "No thanks to you."

John's eyes narrow dangerously, darting between you and Sevika. "Is that so?" He snickers. "Well, accidents can happen so easily on a ranch. Animals die, fences break, fires start…"

"That's enough." Vander's deep voice booms through the room. He steps out from behind the bar, his imposing figure radiating authority. "I won't ask again. Leave."

John's eyes dart between you, Sevika, and Vander. For a moment, it seems like he might back down. But then his face twists into an ugly sneer.

"Or what?" he spits. "You gonna throw me out, old man?"

In a flash, Sevika moves. Before you can even blink, she's across the room, her hand wrapped around John's hair. She slams his cheek into the bar, glasses clinking as she leans into his ear.

You purse your lips in confusion as you glance between her and Vander's face. She leans in, whispering something into John's ear. Seemingly finished, Sevika turns her attention to Vander. They exchange hushed words, their eyes flickering towards you before Vander nods.

Sevika's features contort into a look of disgust as she glances down at the crumpled man on the ground. She turns and extends her hand towards you. Without hesitation, you grab it and she leads you out of the Saloon and into the cool night air.

Untying the reins with steady hands, she carefully mounts her horse. The leather of the saddle creaks as she leans down to you, extending a hand to lift you up. She secures her arms around you as you sit sideways in her lap.

As the horse carries you both through the dark night, the only sounds are the steady beat of hooves on dirt and the occasional whisper of wind through the trees. She leans forward, softly rubbing her hand along your back, offering comfort and reassurance.

The porch light comes into view, the dim glow fighting against the darkness of the night. As Sevika slows the horse to a stop, she gently lowers you to the ground. “Head inside, I’ll be right behind you angel.”

A heavy lump forms in your throat as you stumble through the house, barely registering the familiar creaks and sighs of the old wooden floors. With each step, it feels like your feet are weighed down, dragging on the floor as you trudge up the stairs and into your room. The walls seem to blur as tears fill your eyes, blurring your vision and making you feel like you're walking through a dream. Finally, you reach your room, collapsing onto your bed with a heavy thud.

As you lay down on your side, Sevika joins you a minute later. Slowly toeing off her boots, she lays back, turning to face you, her body mirroring yours as she rests on her side.

Your eyes meet Sevika's, searching her face for answers. Her silver gaze is soft but concerned as she reaches out to brush a stray hair from your cheek.

"You okay, angel?" She asks gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice. "I… I don't know." You admit, your words shaky. "I'm scared, Sev. What if he… I- what if something happens to the ranch? To you or mama?"

Sevika pulls you closer and you bury your face in her chest, inhaling her comforting scent. "Nothing's gonna happen." She murmurs, her voice low and soothing.

You look up at her, your eyes shining with unshed tears. "How can you be sure?"

Sevika's jaw clenches, a determined look in her eyes. "Because I won’t let it. I’ll be here with you.”

“Promise?” Glancing through the window, you whisper, your voice quivering with emotion as you grasp her hand tightly, afraid to let go.

She meets your gaze and nods, her eyes shining with sincerity. “I promise, angel.”

“Do you wanna stay here tonight? Just- just to sleep.” You ask tentatively.

She lifts your intertwined hands, kissing your palm softly. “Of course, angel. It’d be my pleasure.”

You send her a grateful smile, sinking deeper into her in relief.

With a groan, Sevika blinks away the hazy remnants of sleep. Her skin prickles with goosebumps as she shivers. Every hair on her body stands at attention, her senses alerting her to some sort of danger. Glancing around in the dark, she slowly moves out of bed, adjusting her pillow underneath your head.

Glancing back at you, she cautiously makes her way to the window and gingerly pulls back the curtain with a single finger, peering out. Sevika's eyes narrow as she scans the darkened landscape outside. The moon casts an eerie glow over the fields, creating long shadows that dance in the gentle breeze. At first, nothing seems out of place. But then, there’s a rustle in the trees.

A figure, barely visible in the dim light, darts between the shadows of the fence and the nearby trees. Sevika's jaw clenches as she watches the intruder creep closer.

Without hesitation, she moves swiftly and silently across the room. She pauses at the bedside, her eyes softening as they land on your sleeping form. Leaning down, she presses a gentle kiss to your forehead before straightening up. Her expression hardens with determination and she checks the rounds in her revolver.

The chamber clicks closed as she makes her way downstairs, her footsteps silent on the old wooden floors.

Sevika doesn't bother disguising herself amongst the shadows. She wants him to see her coming. She wants him to run.

And run he does.

His beady eyes bulge and his squirrely face contorts with terror as he scurries into the dense forest. Decaying leaves crackle under his feet, branches reaching out and clawing at his face as he runs.

Sevika effortlessly chases after him, her long strides closing the distance between them in no time.

Grabbing a hold of his shirt, she violently yanks him back and throws him to the ground. Scratching her nose, she chuckles darkly. “I told you to stay away. To leave.”

He struggles to get up on all fours, but Sevika forcefully kicks him in the side. He rolls over from the impact and she digs her boot into his stomach. He gasps for air, wheezes whistling past his gritted teeth. “But I’m real fuckin’ glad you didn’t.”

She rolls her neck, savoring the satisfying crackle as she watches him struggle to speak between choked breaths. A sardonic smirk crosses her lips as she watches him glance at the gun holstered on her hip. “You gonna shoot me?” He croaks.

With a scoff, she shakes her head mockingly. “No… That would be too easy.” Slowly advancing on him, she lets her words hang in the air for a moment. “You don’t deserve easy.” She grits out, pressing the weight of her boot into his throat.

Her eyes gleam with a cold intensity as she revels in his desperation and fear. Just as his face grows purple, she relieves the pressure.

John gasps and coughs, desperately sucking in air. Sevika watches him dispassionately.

"You really thought you could come here and threaten them?" Sevika's voice is low and dangerous. "Thought you could scare them?"

John's attempts to speak are cut short as Sevika leans down, her fingers digging into his shirt. Her other hand curls into a fist, and meets his mouth in a punch that rattles his teeth.

"Did you think I lied when I told you I’d kill you if you came back?" She spits. "I know you’re a fucking idiot, but did you think that tryin’ to call my bluff was a good idea?"

Another blow lands on John's cheek.

“They’re coming.” He manages to gargle through a mouthful of blood.

Sevika pauses, her fist hovering in the air. “What?” She pants.

John coughs out a laugh, blood bubbling and dripping down his chin. Sevika releases her grip on his shirt in disgust, watching him writhe on the ground.

Flashing her a red stained smile, his swollen eyes fill with satisfaction as he glances down at her hands. “Seems like you’ve got more than just my blood on your hands… and a lotta people want you for it.”

Her nose flares and she licks her teeth in anger. Her fist clenches at her side, knuckles white with tension.

In a flash, Sevika's hand is around his throat, lifting him slightly off the ground. Her silver eyes blaze with a cold fury as she leans in close, her grip unyielding. “You’re pathetic. Can’t fight your own battles, so you have to tattle to someone who can.” She hisses, her voice like ice. “If they’re already on the way, what’s the harm in killing you?” She snickers.

He struggles to speak against Sevika's iron grip. "Go to hell." He chokes out, a flash of silver glinting in his hand.

But before he can strike, Sevika raises her arm and effortlessly redirects the knife, its sharp edge burying itself in his throat. She steps back, observing the blood splattered on her shirt with detached annoyance.

John gurgles and writhes on the ground, his hands futilely trying to contain the torrent of blood draining from his throat. The metallic scent of blood hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy undertones of the forest.

Sevika watches in silence as John's desperate hand reaches out towards her before falling limply to the ground.

Her throat constricts as she takes in the overwhelming sight of crimson pooling around her feet, her mind flashing back to the image of you, patiently waiting for her in bed.

…

Her mind races as she heads back to the house. She can't stay here, that much is clear. But leaving you behind…

As she enters the dimly lit bedroom, she finds you still curled up in bed, your messy hair framing your face. You’re awake, a patient smile on your lips as you wait for her. “Hey, cowboy. Where’d yah go?” You raise a lazy hand toward her, beckoning her to join you.

She slowly crawls into bed next to you, she pulls you into her side. Curling under her chin, you cross your leg over her.

Sevika swallows hard, her breath quickening. She holds your hand over her chest. “You make me happy, angel… And I…” Her voice trails off into a whisper, her grip tightening.

You furrow your brows, trying to turn and look at her, but her embrace prevents you from doing so. Uneasiness gnaws at your stomach as you hold her closer. “You make me really happy too… You okay, Sev? Somethin’ happen?” You ask, worry lacing your words.

She draws your fingers to her lips, pressing gentle kisses to each one before placing your hand over her chest. “I just wanna hold you. Can I hold you, angel?”

You nod wordlessly, holding her even tighter. Something feels wrong, a foreboding shadow devouring all of the warmth in the room.

But you ignore it. She’ll tell you when she’s ready.

Thump… Thump… Thump…

You slowly relax into her. Blinking heavily, you lazily turn your head and peck her throat.

Thump… Thump… Thump…

The steady, rhythmic thump of Sevika's heart lulls you to sleep.

Thump… Thump… Thump…

Hazily, you feel the soft caress of her lips on your forehead. They linger and her chest rumbles with unheard words beneath your cheek.

Thump… Thump… Thump…

Groaning, you grope blindly at the cold sheets, your fingers searching for any sign of warmth. Grunting, you raise your head blearily, squinting against the harsh brightness of the room. “Sevika?” You mumble, your voice thick with sleep and confusion.

With a loud thud, you flop your head back into the pillow.

Sitting up with a pout, you push yourself out of bed and fumble around for some underwear and your nightdress. As you blink away the remnants of sleep, your gaze falls on a familiar strip of leather lying innocently on your dresser. Your heart pounds in your chest as that feeling of unease returns.

You stare at the necklace, your heart in your throat. Approaching it with cautious steps, your shaky fingers brush against its smooth surface.

Why would-

A jolt of recognition and fear shoots through you. You jump back with a gasp and spin around the room in a panic. Your heart pounds in your throat as you frantically search for any sign of her - but it's all gone.

The stable. She wouldn’t leave without-

You jump down the stairs, twisting your ankle in your haste. “Sevika!?!” You call out, desperation lacing your voice.

Ignoring the pain, you run to the stables. Your thin dress ripples around you as you sprint down the path.

Your mom's hand rests gently on your arm, but you barely feel it as you rush forward. "Sevika!"

Your mom follows close behind, speaking softly in a sympathetic tone. “Baby, she’s-“

Tears spill down your cheeks. “She wouldn’t. Not like this.” You insist through trembling breaths. “Sevika!!”

There’s no answer. 

A warm hand brushes your back trying to offer comfort, but you shrug it off. Your mom’s voice is low and soothing as you stalk toward the stall where her horse should be. “John’s dead. Some of the workers found him in-”

Her voice muffles, growing distant, as static fills your ears. The stall is empty.

Inhaling a shaky breath, you mumble. “I’m goin’ for a ride.”

Your mom's voice pierces the air, shouting and screaming pleas in a desperate attempt to stop you. But you ignore her, jumping onto Honey.

Digging the heels of your feet into her fur, she flies out of the stables, matching your urgency.

A frantic drumbeat echoes in your chest as you jump from Honey’s back and sprint into the garden. Your garden.

The trees blur past as you leap through the gap, scanning the surroundings for any sign of her. Honey picks up on your anxious energy and mimics it, trotting restlessly in circles beside you.

Brittle, browning pink and orange flowers flatten under her hooves. Swallowing down a feeling of nausea, you frantically search for her among the sea of red tulips that cover the ground.

Each delicate petal seems to mock you as your heart aches with longing. With anger and confusion.

Your whole body trembles as the reality of her absence hits you. Your hair raises as the sensation of cold numbness spreads through you. Turning away, you run.

You run away from the house. You run away from the stables. Away from the Saloon. Away from the garden. You run away from every blurred face in town.

…

White hot pain blurs your vision. Your breath comes out in ragged gasps as you slowly pull Honey to a stop. Her sleek fur has grown sticky and matted under your legs.

Nausea rolls in your stomach as you peel your legs from her back. Gritting your teeth, you slowly lower yourself to the ground. Your swollen ankle buckles, your hands flailing to find purchase on the slick fur. Collapsing into the ground, you scream, grasping your foot.

A throbbing burn pulses down your legs and you release your foot with a whimper. With trembling hands, you raise your skirts to examine the source of the pain and are met with raw, shredded skin along your thighs. The pain in your body is excruciating, a constant pulsating that hums through your body.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you resist the urge to scream. Honey nudges you with her nose and you push her away.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

She chews on the cotton material of your dress. You cringe away from her. "Please." You plead weakly. "You're makin’ it worse."

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Ignoring your pleas, Honey continues to gnaw on the fabric while you try to hold yourself. Sniffling, you lift your head and are met with a familiar sight - a stain on a nearby rock. It’s now faded into a rusty grey color. A smeared handprint above a large blood stain.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The piercing shriek that reverberates from your lips is raw and guttural, animalistic. 

Next Part

Taglist: @lez-zuha

[yorsgirl]

In His Arms

Levi Ackerman x Reader

Synopsis: Why should you look for another place to die when you have his arms around you?

Tropes: Angst, major character death

Warnings: Canon Timeline, gn!reader, angst, unhappy ending, non-explicit violence.

Word count: 2.03k

You never liked the sun all that much.

It was always too bright, too warm…always just too much. Even then, the scorching heat did nothing but increase your irritation as you laid sprawled out on the open grass field. Your body felt abnormally paralyzed, heart beating right in your ear; drowning out all the noises of the disaster happening around you.

You don’t remember how you got there.

Honestly, you couldn’t remember anything that happened in the past hour. But you laid there - on the lush green field while the sun burnt your skin, lungs constricting with every breath you took.

You were tired. Exhausted even. Wishing nothing but to fall into a deep slumber. But you can’t. Not in this filthy field (what if some insect crawls up your ear), not when the sun burns so hot (ugh, so annoying), not when your thumping, loud heartbeat almost scared you.

The wish was thrown out of the window when you felt something trickle down the side of your eye. Warm. Assuming it's sweat, you groggily moved your hand to wipe it away. Your eyes drift off to your palm – thick, warm liquid stained it red.

Blood.

For a second, you gazed at it with curiosity.

The next, everything hits you like a bullet to the gut.

The expedition, the unfruitful sighting of two abnormals near your flank, comrades that were trampled or ripped apart by the titans and at last…when it held you in its grasp; ready to chew onto your flesh.

You still didn’t remember, what happened to the accused titan that dared to make you its snack. You groaned but it came out as blood spitting coughs, as you tried to roll over – failed. Everything was still a blur.

Your solitude was cut short when you heard a thud. A figure dropped beside you.

Tufts of Jet black hair and a pair of steel blue eyes hovered through your hazy vision.

“Levi...” Voice strained yet you were able to say his name, without coughing up blood.

The said man kneeled, picking you up in his arms, your head laid on the crook of his elbow and forearm. He gently wiped away the blood aside your eyes and forehead, his touch – like a petal falling on water; almost soothing your aching body.

“I am here,” He assured you, his eyes focused on your face. He didn’t dare look down your body. The sight, even too terrifying for him.

Your right leg was missing from the knee down, the gash running through your abdomen – too deep. The blood loss was significant; staining the grass around red.

In any normal circumstance, he could carry you effortlessly. But this very day, his arms felt weak while supporting just your upper body weight, fingers trembling as he brushed off your hair.

It was minutes ago when Levi reached near the vicinity of your flank (or what once was) after being informed by a fellow soldiers that two aberrants were sighted there. He remembered the moment, the titan’s hand wrapped around your abdomen, as it held one of your limbs in its mouth, the shrieks of horror combined with pain that escaped your lips; enough to break the barriers of his rage.

For a moment, he was pushed back into the utter depths of his memory. A similar expedition, like this one… with a similar scenario where an aberrant took away the lives of his then, only family.

It couldn’t happen again. He couldn’t lose you too…

He just couldn’t.

Seconds, in literal seconds did he disintegrate those titans, their remains were nothing but blobs of flesh accompanied by the blood. The titan- or rather titans, which dared to grasp you; their corpses no- more like what was left of their corpses were left around the bloodied field, steaming into air.

It was painful.

For both of you.

He couldn’t conjure the courage to look down on your injured body, the realization that you wouldn’t make it – too difficult to be accepted. Instead he just stayed silent, as you tried to breathe, all while your chest burned.

“Levi… wh-” You were caught in a coughing fit, spitting blood out of your mouth.

“Easy, don’t talk.” His voice reaches your ears, he gingerly wipes away the blood from your chin. “I am here…” He repeats. You are going to be okay, he wants to tell you that you’d be alright. But he knows the inevitable and he knows you do too.

So the words died down.

Weakly raising your hand to cup his cheek, feeling his skin on yours; one last time. As your trembling fingertips trailed over his cheekbone, his rough hand held yours atop, running the pad of his thumb across the creases of your palm.

Oh… how much you wished for time to stop now.

To let you be like this. In his arms. Just where you were meant to be.

“I am going to die, aren’t I?”

The cursed words lolls off your lips so easily. And Levi just wishes, why does he have to bear this torment?

It’s a question you’ve asked him previously too. A lot of times to say the least. It was annoying, he had thought those times. Shushing you down with the usual - you still have time.

That time is up.

“I told you to not speak.” He rebuked harshly.

But why does this harsh attitude seems to arise from a place of tenderness?

“No,” You state with conviction even though your tone quivered. “You know it too.” You noticed the tighter grip on your hand as well as the stiffening of his body. You were right, he knows it too.

Levi knows he’s in amidst titan territory, he knows letting down his guard is the worst option but… he can’t leave you there. The regret of not staying with you now, would be greater than any regret that he might feel later.

So, he sat down properly, cradling your head on his lap. He stared right into your eyes, memorizing the colour and how the sunlight reflects on them. He gazed down at your lips, memorizing the way it curled as you speak.

 The fluttering of your eyelids does not go unnoticed. He tracd his finger down to the pulse point on your wrist. The rhythm eerily slow.

You held his gaze, focusing on his features through the blur. And even if you don’t like the sun, you can’t help but love how the periphery of his face glowed under its light. You etched the feeling of his touch to your mind.

There are so many words you wanted to say to him, so many sentiments whirling inside you which you wished to let him know.

But you don’t. The declarations too long and time too short.

Even then, in that moment you know he has his tongue tied too. The words left on the tip of his lips, never voiced out.

A silence befell you both, as if pushing you into a trance of your own. A place where these titans don’t exist, the complexities of this ongoing war vanished. Leaving you both at each other’s mercy.

The pain that surged through both of you, for a second stops. Converting into something warm…

You lived in that intimate moment with him. When words fell short, but the thread tying his soul to yours remained strong.

After a short while, a noise erupted from you. Instead of cries of pain or anguish, you let out a chuckle. Causing Levi to give you a look, questioning himself if you had gone insane.

“Ah- looks like I will be leaving before y-you,” You chuckled again, as it was followed by a painful cough.

His eyes narrowed, lips twisting into a frown, “And you are laughing?”

“Would be able to re-rest finally.” Your lips stretch in a grin. “It’s tiring to tr-train under you… every day.”

There’s a reason he found you annoying.

The corners of his lip twitched as he wondered would it be the right time to smack your head and talk some sense into you. But he refrained, just glaring at you. The glare isn’t filled with rage, rather undertones of despair.

“It’s tiring… to train under me?”

“uh huh,” You would have nodded but movement seemed challenging too. He almost wants to flick your forehead for making a joke out of this situation. But that’s just who you were. One of the many reasons he fell for you.

He understood your playfulness. A way to divert his mind. He had sworn to not regret anything but there are times. Times when he can’t help but do so. It were one of the rare times. And you just happened to be the antidote in this predicament.

Humorous, it was. You were standing on the edge of life, still it were you comforting him.

He pondered on what he did to deserve you.

The grin stayed on your lips quickly followed by another coughing fit.

Levi gently rubbed your back and shoulders – his touch again easing the pain that coursing through your ripped abdomen.

“Levi…” You call his name again, the word falling off your lips so sweetly.

Oh, how much, he wished that he’d get to hear it again and again.

His eyes flicker to your face again, even though that blood dripped down the side of your face and your eyes half-lidded; he can’t help but still find you beautiful.

As beautiful as always.

“I’m listening.”

You smile, breathing heavily, eyelids drooping down as you force them to stay open. “O-oh nothing... just wanted to say your name.”

He gulps down the lump forming in his throat, wondering how easily you had always understood him. Through the silent nights you spent on the rooftops or when he completed his paperworks as you prepared him tea.

“But if I had to ask for something… hey… Levi,” You whined with a frown. You assumed he wasn’t listening. But he was listening.

Always listening.

“What?” The heaviness in his voice was evident, he was holding back from crumbling down. His eyes drooped down, the grimace on his lips; an expression you knew all too well.

You breathed in sharply as the smile remained, “Watch it… till the end, for me.”

His eyes flickered with something for a second, before he blinked. Once. Twice. The pad of his thumb running circles on your cheek.

With the tightness in his chest, he nodded, “I will.” The same grin from earlier gets plastered on your face again. That assurance was enough for you.

For, if you can’t see the outside world, to taste freedom in its true form. You at least want him to watch it for you, to live in it for you.

Your chest burned again, the blood loss taking a toll on you as your head felt awfully light. Levi noticed it too along with the coldness of your body, as the pulse rate has almost diminished.

“I am sleepy,” Your voice being a mere whisper.

He knew and you did too.

The time has come.

“Sleep,” He replied, “You’ve fought for long, rest easy now. I’ll be here.”

He gingerly caressed your face once again, his steel grey eyes fixated on yours as if there’s no tomorrow, thumb tracing the outline of your lips.

“And when you wake up…” He gazed at you with so much longing and affection. “I will find you again.”

Your lips cracked into one of the most beautiful smiles he had ever seen. A smile he locked into his memory. With a slight nod of your head, your eyelids closed.

You breathed out once. Then never.

Levi stayed there, holding you tight for as long as he could remember.

As the despicable sun shone on the unlucky lovers, a little too brightly and the noises from the catastrophe elsewhere started to sync in. The grassfield was still as bloody and filthy.

You passed away, in the place you loathed. But didn’t, in your last moments.

Through unsaid words and silent promises, you took your last breath. But it was alright. Cause you were where you were meant to be.

You were in his arms.

[always-just-red]

I loved the Drunked Call with Sylus scenario you made! I like the way you write it and I see you accepting request hehe. Can I request about... Sylus, Zayne and Caleb reaction meeting fem!reader, dates or accidentally met (you name it) and they noticed her long hair has been attached with chewed bubblegum? some kid pulled a prank on her before and she didn't even aware of it

Aw thank you so much!! 💕 I did different pranks for each of the boys just to keep things interesting- I hope you don't mind! They're all equally silly haha, and I had SO much fun writing them. Added Xavier and Raf for good measure, too!

It's Just Not Your Day...

L&DS Boys (& Caleb!) x Reader

Summary: It's you against the kids of Linkon City, and guess what? The kids are winning.

Genre: Humour + fluff!

Warnings/Additional tags: gn!reader, established relationship, swearing, canon pet names, reader gets a little stressed (and with some of these boys you can understand why 🙃)

| Word count: 4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

Xavier ⭐

One of the perks of being a Deepspace Hunter is the way people look at you. You’re used to respect: appreciative nods and gestures, wide-eyed admiration. You’re out in Linkon almost every day, putting your life on the line for everyone in the city. You’re a hero, right?

So why is everyone looking at you so… funny?

“Xavier,” you speak in a hushed whisper, tugging at the sleeve of your partner’s uniform. “I don’t like this. Something weird is going on.”

He yawns. “What do you mean?”

Can he really not see it? Sure enough, a businessman strolls past you, his eyes locked on you as he frowns, mid-telephone call. You think he even stumbles on his words. “Just look around,” you whisper again. Someone is watching you from across the street, their head cocked.   

Xavier is already looking around. You’re on patrol; that’s sort of the point. But he trusts you, so he follows your instruction: casting his sky-blue eyes around a little more carefully. They narrow. “Sorry,” he says, because you’re usually on the same page, “what are you talking about exactly?”

You fold your arms impatiently. “People are looking at us, Xavier.”

“Oh, I…” he seems to hesitate, “I think they’re just looking at you.”

The words could be romantic, but you don’t get the impression they’re intended to be. He’s implying something. He’s uncertain. “What makes you say that?” you ask, hands moving to your hips.

He shifts awkwardly on his feet. “I think it’s your, you know—” his finger waggles in front of his mouth.

You don’t know. “My what?”

“Your moustache.”

“What?”

Your hand shoots to your upper lip, but you don’t feel anything out of the ordinary. Xavier is staring, though, so you reach for your phone and turn the camera on yourself.

A black, cartoon-villain moustache has been sketched onto your face.

You gape at your reflection. “H— how…?” you stutter, tracing your new feature. Then a memory of this morning flashes through your mind: how you’d fallen asleep on the train to work. How there were those two schoolkids, sniggering, when you’d woken up just in time for your stop. Ugh. Really?

Wait— this morning?!

“Xavier!” you exclaim, turning to him like you’d just found his sword in your back. “Why didn’t you say something?”

It’s just gone three in the afternoon, and he’s been with you for hours. “I thought you knew,” he mumbles, rubbing his neck gingerly.

“You thought I…” You’re too bewildered, too betrayed to repeat it fully. Worst of all you feel guilty; how the hell can he look so freaking innocent? You turn back to your phone, desperately trying to rub the ink from your skin. It doesn’t budge. It doesn’t fade.

“Are you ok?” Xavier asks.

Of course you’re not ok, you feel like an idiot. Your cheeks are hot and the redness is spreading to the rest of your face as you fail to reclaim any of your dignity. “No,” you spit back, “honestly, Xavier, how could you just let me walk around like I’m some kind of—”

You glance up to discover he’s no longer listening. He’s not even here; he’s over there, talking to an old man who’s sat completing a sudoku. Great. Wonderful. Why not? At least one of you is making a good impression on the citizens of Linkon City.

With your eyes close to watering, you have one last, futile attempt at wiping the moustache from your upper lip. It’s not working. Gods, you’re gonna be stuck like this, aren’t you?

Someone taps you on the shoulder, and you look up to see Xavier, back at your side. He smiles reassuringly, sporting a drawn-on moustache of his own. The ends of it are curled even more theatrically than yours.

“Xavier…” you half-laugh in surprise, your eyes watering even more. “Why would you—? Now we both look stupid.”

“I look stupid,” he corrects, running a thumb over your wet cheek. “You look really pretty, moustache or not.”

Zayne ❄

“What… happened?”

You sit across from Zayne on a picturesque park bench, like something from a postcard: blue sky stretched above, wildflowers sprouting from the grass below. Birds are singing, butterflies are flittering about, and even the doctor looks perfect— unmarred by the first half of his work day, no matter how stressful it’s been.

It’s a fairy tale you covet: a little reunion with the man you love, on the odd occasion where your lunchbreaks match up and he isn’t drowning in paperwork. And it would be a fairy tale, if it wasn’t for you. You— your uniform soaked and your hair dripping wet. The wooden bench has gone damp beneath you; you’ve literally only just sat down.

“Gee, I don’t know, Zayne,” you hiss, face almost buried in your phone, “what do you think?”

Not too far away from you, some kids are locked in a water-gun battle, their shrieks of laughter loud and infuriating. Zayne glances between you and them, making his deductions. “Why—” he starts.

“Doesn’t matter,” you sniff, wiping your forehead with the back of your sleeve. “They messed with the wrong person, and we’re gonna make sure they know it.”

“We’re going to?”  

“Yeah. Me and you. That a problem?”

You shoot him a glare that sends a shiver down even his spine. “No,” he answers quickly— a survival instinct, uncharacteristically submissive— but his composure returns as you turn back to your phone. “Haven’t you got—”

Another dark look.

“Haven’t we got better things to do than start a war with some children in the park?”

“Not really. Justice is justice.” You shrug before pointing a finger at yourself. “Deepspace hunter.” Then at him. “Cardiac surgeon. Precision is kind of our thing, right? They really don’t stand a chance.” You’re laughing, now: “Gods, I almost feel sorry for them.”

Zayne has been watching your descent into madness with a calmness that does him credit. When he interrupts, it’s gentle. “I don’t think—”

Too gentle; you don’t hear him. “Pick your poison, Dr. Zayne!” Your phone is angled at him to reveal the all-too accessible armoury of an online store. “You’ve got your standard water pistols. Your water blasters.” You’re scrolling and indicating his choices as though you’re the salesman. “This one has two options, single shot or power shot, and— ooh! Look at this one! The AquaJet3000!”

With a soft laugh, Zayne pushes your phone out of his face. He would buy anything you’re selling, although— having seen the prices on your screen— he knows he’d be bankrupt within a week. “Linkon City is fortunate to have you defending it, and whilst I would be honoured, as always, to fight at your side, I was hoping we could… relax. You’re on a break, remember?”

You pout as he peels a wet strand of hair from your cheek. “Justice doesn’t take breaks.”

“Well, justice is going to have to on this occasion, because I said so.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he chuckles. “Besides, you shouldn’t fight fire with fire, or water with water. A lot of people look up to you, you know. Me included. So, set a better example. Save violence for the Wanderers.”  

It ought to be patronising: him, lecturing you on right and wrong when you’ve already added three types of water-gun to your virtual cart. He’s always so righteous. So collected. So moral. You want to be mad at him, but how can you be when he’s looking at you like that? Like he thinks the world of you, even when you’re plotting revenge against ten-year-olds.

You have a point to make, so you fold your arms and turn your back on him, even though he’s making your heart feel so frustratingly warm and fuzzy.

“I have something for you,” he says quietly.

To hell with the point. “What is it?” you ask, spinning eagerly around.

He smiles as he retrieves something he’d concealed behind him. It’s a small-ish box, pale pink, with patterns printed to emulate white lace. There’s a logo in the centre and you recognise it at once. “No way,” you enthuse, “that new bakery finally opened?”

You’ve both been waiting for months. “I couldn’t resist when I saw it,” he confirms, lifting the lid. Inside sit two unbelievably pretty cupcakes, buttercream icing spiralled high and adorned with sprinkles of gold leaf. Zayne plucks one from the box. “Perhaps—” he offers it to you— “perhaps this can make you feel better? Without us needing to, well… attack children.”

You giggle; it does sound pretty stupid when he puts it like that. “Thanks, Zayne,” you grin, reaching out for your reward. You’re glad one of you is vaguely sensible— those water-guns were expensive.

The cake is an inch from your fingers when a jet of water sends it flying from Zayne’s hand. It lands at your feet with an unceremonious splat, and from somewhere behind you, laughter roars.

The doctor blinks down at it in disbelief, his hand still hovering beside yours. He grieves for a long moment, then looks to you solemnly like you’re a colleague and he’s about to ask for a scalpel:

“The AquaJet3000,” he says.  

Rafayel 🎨

“Rafayel, call me stupid one more time, and I’ll—”

You’ll… you’ll… what? He’s looking back at you with wide eyes, his hands frozen when they had just a moment ago been drying the plate you’d handed him. He has some nerve, pretending he’s the victim when he’s spent the entire evening insulting you. This is supposed to be a wholesome moment of domesticity— doing the dishes together before he has to disappear to a late-night gala— so why is he ruining it? Ever since you got home, it’s been: so how was your day, stupid? Hey, stupid, want a hand washing up?

He said he was fine with you sitting out the gala tonight, but maybe he’s not.

“I’ll do this,” you finish, lifting a palmful of suds from the sink and raising them to your lips, ready to blow.

“Puh-lease, you bought me this suit. You really think I can’t tell when you’re bluff— hey, wait! Stop!”

You do blow the bubbles at him, and he recoils, holding the plate and dishcloth up to defend himself. He blocks some of them, but not all of them. “Honestly, Raf, if you’re not ok with me skipping out on tonight then you can just say so.”  

He puts the plate gently aside. “I mean, of course I’m sad you’re not coming,” he thinks aloud as he sets about sweeping bubbles from his suit, “but I’m ok with it, really. You’ve had, like, a crazy week at work. You deserve a quiet night in.”

Compassion? Really? After you just—? Ugh. “So why were you being so mean, then?” you sigh, taking the cloth from him and dabbing away the bubbles he’s missed.

“Mean?”

“You’ve called me ‘stupid’ like fifty times in the span of, what— three hours?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs innocently. “Because you told me to.”

Huh? You stop what you’re doing. “Since when did I—”

He reaches over your shoulder and you feel fingers on your back. “See?” he answers, bringing a piece of paper in front of you. It looks like it’s been torn hastily from a notebook, and it says, in bold, capital letters: ‘CALL ME STUPID!!’

You take the note from Rafayel sheepishly, your lips parted in surprise. How did it—? Wait. “Those kids!” you exclaim, thinking back on your walk home from work. “Oh I knew they were spouting bullshit when they said they saw a Wanderer!”

Your dish-washing companion doesn’t seem impressed by your lightbulb moment. He’s watching you, confusion etched across his face, but you can see right through it. “Rafayel!” you slap a soapy hand to his chest, “you had to call me stupid that many times before telling me?”

“I thought you wrote it. Pet names can be weird sometimes— I don’t know what you’re into.”

He’s still acting. Still lying. Fine, two can play at that game.  

You fall deathly silent, turning back to the sink to retrieve the bowl you’d dropped in there the last time he’d called you your new ‘pet name’. “I guess it suits me,” you mumble, half to yourself.

“What d’you mean, cutie?”

He can call you cutie as many times as he wants; you’re out for blood. You give the bowl another once-over with a sponge. “Some hunter I am. Can’t even tell when some kids are messing with me.”

Rafayel frowns. “Hey, it’s been a long week, yeah? You’re just tired.”

“Tired,” you echo, and you drop the bowl back into the water with a dramatic plop. “Tired? No. I’m exhausted. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I work, there’s always… something. To make me feel like an idiot. To make me feel… stupid.”

“Hey,” Rafayel tries again, and his voice is fraught with worry. “Don’t say stuff like that. You’re not stupid. I’m stupid. I’m supposed to make you feel better and instead I was just screwing around. I’m sorry, ok? Don’t be sad. Please?”

He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, resting his chin on the top of your head. You don’t give in, not at first, but then you hug him back. “Thanks, Raf. I’m ok— really.” You hear his phone buzz from where he’s left it on the counter. “You should go. Thomas will kill you if you’re late.”

“Nah, he needs me,” the artist chuckles. “You get first dibs, though. You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“Yeah,” you laugh quietly back; your heart not quite in it. “Quiet night in, remember? Go on. Go.”

He steps away from you, though not before planting a light kiss on your cheek. “I’ll make it up to you when I get home,” he says, collecting his phone and the rest of his things. He gives you another kiss when he’s done, dodging your efforts to shoo him away. “Miss you already, cutie.”

“Go!”

And he does as he’s told this time, no matter how listlessly. It’s sweet he wants to stay and make things better, but he already has— he just doesn’t know it yet. It wasn’t the hug. It wasn’t the apology. You lean back against the counter with a smirk, savouring the view as he leaves.

It might have something to do with the note you’ve stuck on his back.

…

Rafayel retrieves the note the moment he closes the door behind him, stuffing it smugly into his pocket. He’ll have a story ready for you, by the time he gets home, about just how much you humiliated him. About how he walked around for a good hour before Thomas spotted the note and gave him a lecture about his ‘image’.

He smiles to himself; he’s a really good boyfriend.

Sylus 🩸

“You should know better than to keep me waiting, sweetie.”

Oh, great. This is just what you need.

You peek over the saddle of your motorcycle from where you’re crouched behind it. “Hey, Sylus,” you greet. The man is watching you, his arms folded. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Sorry?” he repeats, an eyebrow raised sceptically. “What— no ‘patience is a virtue, Sylus,’ no ‘oh please, Sylus, we both know you’ve nothing better to do?’”

You had disappeared behind your bike again, but you steal another glance at him. “Wow,” you marvel, “is this what you did before we met? Have arguments with yourself?”

“More or less,” he smiles dryly, then shrugs: “I’m not bad, as far as sparring partners go. You of all people can vouch for that. Besides, what were my other options? Mephisto?” He laughs. “Luke and Kieran?” He laughs harder.

“I’d rate Mephisto above you,” you add distractedly, no longer looking at him.

“Is that right?” he purrs, and it’s very obvious he doesn’t believe you.

He sounds close— too close— so you stand, re-entering his eyeline so he doesn’t come closer. Gods, this is embarrassing. Those stupid kids; he’s gonna have a field day if he finds out. “Yeah.” You wipe your hands slowly with a cloth, disguising the fact that your mind is scrambling. “The things that bird comes up with, just… scathing, honestly. Emotionally devastating.”

“Oh really?” Sylus tuts. “That’s awful. I can’t imagine where he gets it from.”

You smile back at him, resting your hands on your hips. You do feel bad, actually; you’d completely forgotten you were supposed to meet him this morning for breakfast before work. He’d received no texts to cancel. No calls. How long was he waiting at that sweet little café you’d picked out?

Then again, this morning isn’t really going to your plan, either.

“Something wrong with your bike?” he asks, because he’s already figured out that much. “Besides the usual, I mean.”

Your smile drops. Your whole act drops. “It’s nothing, Sylus.”

“You’ve already stood me up this morning, sweetie. Are you really going to lie to me, too?”

You let out an exasperated sigh. Fine. “Some kids graffitied it, ok?”

“This piece of junk? Really?” He toes the front wheel of it, then catches onto the withering look you’re sending him. “Oh no,” he tries again, with absolutely no enthusiasm, “what a dreadful crime against such an advanced, state-of-the-art vehicle.”

Prick. You keep the label behind tight lips as he wanders around the motorcycle to join you, assessing the damage. You’re stood by a bucket of water and the litany of rags you’ve used to try to scrub it clean— each one a testament to your failure. The sight alone makes you want to burst into tears. The skin of your hands is pink. Raw.

You feel cheated; you wish you were at that café right now.

Sylus taps a finger against his cheek, eyes narrowed pensively. They’re spoiled for choice of what to look at: misspelt obscenities, a generous number of crude symbols. All in permanent marker, naturally. “An improvement, wouldn’t you say?”

“I wouldn’t say. No.”

“Art is subjective.”

“Yeah? So is your face.” Not your best effort. Sylus glances up at you, amused. “Shut up,” you dismiss proactively. “Besides, this is my work vehicle. I can’t ride around Linkon on this. It would be—”

“Too staggering a blow to your professional reputation,” he finishes like he’s bored.

“This isn’t funny, Sylus.”

He points at a particularly chaotic drawing of a penis. “It is.”

You smack his hand away. “It’s not.” Your voice wobbles, ever so slightly betraying you. This is serious; you could get in trouble. You stare down at the graffiti, despair setting in.

Keys dangle in front of your eyes. “Here. Borrow my bike.”

“You’re joking, right?” You swat at them. “You really think that’s gonna help? Me— rolling up to work on a bike that costs twice my annual salary?”

“Twice? That’s cute, kitten.”

You glare at him, any guilt you felt about standing him up long gone. “Can you just stop? Being you? For like, two seconds? Please? This is the last thing I need today, Sylus. I’m gonna be late. I’m gonna embarrass myself in front of everyone. And worst of all? I was actually looking forward to seeing you this morning. Before all of this—” you gesture dejectedly at your bike— “all of this shit happened.”

Sylus is looking back at you, his arms crossed again. He does nothing for a few, slow seconds, and it’s just long enough to make you feel like you’re overreacting. Then he leans over, running a hand across your bike, and you watch as the graffiti flakes and lifts, turning to ash under the influence of his Evol.

He brushes his hands together when he’s done, straightening with a hmph and a self-satisfied smirk. Content (more than content— thoroughly impressed with himself) he turns back to you. Your bottom lip has dropped in surprise and he chuckles, reaching a finger to lift your chin. “You can thank me later, sweetie, and I intend to spend the entire day thinking about how you might. Don’t disappoint me, hmm?”  

You’re still silent, and it takes him a moment to realise you’re bristling with something other than awe and adoration. He frowns. “Sweetie?”

The second ‘sweetie’ breaks you, and not in the way he wants. You slap his chest, hard; he doesn’t really feel it.

“Sylus! You could have done that the whole time?!”

Caleb 🍎

“Sit still, dear.”

Sit still? How are you supposed to sit still when you’re brimming with rage? Every inch of your body is tense, waiting, yearning for you to spring into action. It wants you to retaliate. It wants revenge.

“I can’t, Grandma,” you whine, crossing your arms as if to hold yourself back. You’re still fidgeting on the chair as she navigates your hair with her scissors. “This sucks. Everything sucks. The only thing that could make this worse is if—”

You hear the front door swing open, then closed. Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut?

Sure enough, Caleb strolls into the kitchen mere moments later. “What’s happenin’ here?” he asks, dropping a bag of groceries onto the countertop.

“Nothing,” you mumble. “Grandma’s giving me a haircut, that’s all.”

“Ok. So what’s actually happening here?” he tries again. He’s known you forever, after all; he can tell when you’re lying.

You swing a foot out at his shin as he tries to step closer. Nuh-uh. No investigating. No sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. “Nothing,” you hiss again. “Gods, Caleb. What’s your problem?”

“You’re my problem, pipsqueak.” He uses his foot to push yours away. “At least Gran’s on my side—” his amethyst eyes seek her— “can you tell me what’s going on? Please? Pretty please?”

A hand breaks their eye contact. “You don’t have to answer that, Grandma.” You glare Caleb down. “The DAA has no authority here.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

Grandma sighs; she’s had far too many years of this. “You know Mr and Mrs. Lee’s children? Down the road? Well, they—”

“Grandma!” You round on her. How long did she last— all of three seconds? You bitterly regard Caleb, your voice dark with resentment: “They put gum in my hair, ok?”

“Really?”

“Yeah." He wanted the truth, didn’t he? “They lured me in with some nonsense about a Wanderer. I didn’t realise until, well, until…” You wave at your hair. “Too late.”

He considers the story, then shrugs. It’s clearly not as thrilling as he was anticipating, because he disappears from the kitchen, leaving you and Grandma in peace once more. The silence is as uncomfortable as it is sudden. You’d expected laughter— a lot of laughter. Teasing. Maybe even a shot at how gullible you are.

You release an uneasy breath, resting your head back on the chair.

“Sit still,” Grandma repeats, nudging you, prompting you to sit up straight. “I’ve almost got it. Just one more… here!” There’s a decisive snip.

“Thanks, Grandma.” You slump again, staring up at the ceiling.

You’re not sure what you’re waiting for. Maybe for the blush of your cheeks to cool, or for a Wanderer to spring out of the floor, killing you, so you can be dead and not so embarrassed. You hear heavy footsteps— Caleb returning— and you really wish the Wanderer would hurry up.

“Caleb…” Grandma’s tone is wary. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”  

You readjust your head so you can look at him. He’s clutching what must be a dozen rolls of toilet paper; they’re piled up to just below his chin, almost spilling out over his arms. “How about it, pipsqueak?” he asks as he struggles to balance them. “A little team-up between the DAA and The Association— wanna do your part in reclaiming your neighbourhood?”

Now that’s more like it. “Fuck yes! Sorry, Grandma.”

You’re really as bad as each-other. She tuts reproachfully as you leap out of your chair, and she's disappointed, but not surprised.

[whoopsyeahokay]

Bubblegum

summary: Zed has a bad day and needs an outlet before he goes on a rampage. guess who has to save the town from a possible Zombie attack? yep. it's you or no one.

pairing: Zed Necrodopolis x fem!reader

warnings: smut. AU - canon doesn't exist here. zombies being zombies. biting. this is not your Disney's Zombie.

💌this is a little bday surprise for @therosietoesy 🩷 i'm still working on your request, my dove, fret not. i just wanted to actually gift you something 🥰

bonne fête, ma belle

___________________________🫧

Bubblegum

The thing about Zombies, you learned, is that they need to bite. The Z-Bands keep a lot of things in check, basically slow-release sedation to tamp down those violent urges, but if their heartrates rise above a certain level, the technology is about as useful as a chocolate teapot.

And Zed's heartrate? Well, in the wake of the Prawn's devastating loss—that he shoulders the blame for—and another infestation of creepy creature that wants to whisk Addison away forever, Zed is on the brink of a total meltdown. To put it mildly.

His sockets are already black as the abyss when he finds you behind the school, snarling and spitting as he tries to ask for help, for an outlet; need you, now. He grabs your wrist as soon as you get to your feet and tugs you against him. Red lips curled back, yellowing teeth bared, the monster inside him clawing its way out faster than you'd ever seen.

You give him a pretty smile, "You wanna take this somewhere private, big guy?"

And, no, he fucking doesn't. Can't. Too consumed by thoughts of beating his fat cock into you until you scream. At this point, he can barely string together a sentence, words reduced to throaty animal noise. You giggle, sweet as sugar, and raise one hand to cradle his jaw and boldly sweep your thumb across his bottom lip.

"You're in bad shape, huh?" You comment, not surprised when he snaps his teeth at your thumb.

Breathing labored, eyes boring into you as you gaze so fondly up at him, "Want," he manages to growl. You don't consider it an attack when he grabs you roughly and pushes you against the wall, brittle nails digging into your flesh as he lifts you by the backs of your thighs. A long pause wherein he just pants against your neck and then, "Please."

Such a courteous beast.

His Z-band is practically wailing, the sound reminding you to cast that neat little spell you've been using since you and Zed started this thing.

You mutter the incantation between stinging kisses before he savagely shoves his tongue in your mouth, fucking it in and out as he tries to taste every tooth and ridge and soft piece of tissue. God, you live for these moments. When he's completely at the mercy of his darker side. The side he tries so hard to smother outside of Zombietown. The side you love.

Not to say you don't love the whole package. It's just that you're more exclusive with the monster than the man. Person Zed isn't as...upfront about what he wants with you. Less demanding, more cautious. Meanwhile, Zombie Zed is a lot more decisive and has sunk his teeth into your neck to claim you more times than you can count. Hence the rubber-skin spell. Keeps your skin intact and the Zombie cooties from spreading.

He finally releases your mouth, biting and kissing a trail from your jaw to your pulse point. He pins you to the wall with his hips as his hands claw under your shirt, fisting into the fabric before, without warning, he tears it open. Needy. Desperate. Fucking hungry for you in his ragelust.

You can feel him through his jeans, huge and growing as the Zombie takes over completely, and your mouth waters. This is going to hurt in the best way. He grinds himself against your pussy; sharp, vicious strokes a threat of what's to come, all the while panting and snarling into your skin as he chews chunks of flesh that don't tear away from your throat.

Witches and Zombies really do make the best match, you think greedily, equally as frenzied as you yank his shirt over his head. Then it's skin on skin, your bra in pieces at his feet; his big, calloused hand groping your tit just this side of painful. He grunts, hips moving harder, faster, blunt teeth grazing the soft underside of your chin.

"Want," He rasps again, long fingers teasing under your skirt and pressing insistently between your pussy lips through your panties. In a brief moment of clarity, Zed leans back, expression pleading, "Baby, let me—fuck, I can't—" And then it's gone, the green mist rushing back in, making his eyes wild and his movements stiff as rigor mortis.

You don't even have the chance to give him permission before his fingers dig under the edge of your panties and plunge into you, corkscrewing deep as he growls in delight at how wet you already are for him.

"Mine," Zed bites into your throat, and you don't disagree, moaning as his fingers snap in and out, drilling your sweet spot. "Only mine."

There's no point echoing his sentiment, Zed so far under that he doesn't actually care to hear your thoughts, just wants to make sure you're aware that you're owned. He removes his fingers long enough to rip a hole in your panties, then to get his fly undone—the button flying, zipper torn—and his jeans pulled down enough to free his dribbling cock.

His free hand clenches a chunk of your hair and he angles your head, presses his brow against yours, demanding, "Tell me." He teases the fat head between your lips, pushes in the barest fraction, and smirks when you keen.

For a second, you have no fucking idea what he's asking until you remember, "I want it, Zee."

"Again."

Louder, "I want it, please, Zee."

Zed leans in, nips your earlobe and breathes, "Good girl...perfect little prey for me..." and then, fuck, he spears inside you, the feeling like being split in two. He has one hand on your ass, the other tangled in your hair, his teeth deep in the join of your shoulder and neck.

Every thrust is brutal, punching sighs and whimpers from your chest. He doesn't care if it hurts. He needs this. Needs you like this. And you lose yourself in it as much as he does, your nails mauling welts across his back. The sensation coaxes him to move faster, harder, both hands on your hips now to guide you on his cock exactly how he wants. Your tits bounce as he fucks you with everything he has, your brain scrambled from the sheer fucking strength he has at his disposal.

"Close," He grunts. He sinks to his knees, keeps your back against the wall, and fucks up into you with abandon. His head thrown back, lips parted, eyes clamped shut in ecstasy. "Fuck, baby, gonna come."

He slams into you a few more times and then roars his release, biting into your neck with the intention of ripping flesh from bone. Zed stays like that, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills an ungodly amount of Zombie seed, so much that some oozes around his cock. He hitches his hips three, four, five more times before going still.

The wailing soundtrack of his Z-band finally stops. You don't actually need that to tell you he's slowly returning to normal. His muscles loosen marginally, his skin warms; popped veins shrink and his skin adopts a less sickly hue. Still grey, just less dead. It takes a minute for him to calm all the way down, and when he does, he removes his teeth from your neck and lifts his head.

You smile at him, gentle, fond, "Hey, big guy. You with me again?"

Zed swallows. Nods. His gaze falls between your joined bodies, and he licks his lips at the sight before glancing back up at you.

"Did I hurt you?" He has to know, his concern palpable.

"No." You promise, "You never actually do."

He doesn't look like he believes you, but he doesn't argue. Not today, anyway. You watch him take in your torn shirt and basically disintegrated panties and bra. With a cringe, he hands you his shirt.

"You know, one day I'm going to bill you for everything you've shredded," You say playfully in an effort to prove you're okay.

It works, "You'd think by now you'd start bringing an extra set of clothes with you." He teases back, smirking. It's the first time that he's acknowledged how he gets when the Zombie takes the wheel, and you almost miss it because you can't get your brain to get your mouth to work fast enough.

"You keep saying 'this is the last time, cutie, I swear'," You parody his voice as you roll your eyes. "So, why would I prep for something that isn't suppose to happen?"

And Zed looks utterly confused—still cockdeep inside you, mind you, hardly softened at all.

"I mean the last time I'll be rough. You know that I've claimed you, like, eight times," He says, again acknowledging for the first time what happens when his inner Zombie comes out.

You're almost stunned at how casual he's suddenly being about everything after months of ashamed side-eye and stilted aftercare.

"I think that's a pretty convincing argument to be prepared, babe." He tacks on, his expression telling you that you should've known.

Gaping at him, "Wait, I thought all of that was heat of the moment stuff?" You blink wide eyes at him, almost falling back on your ass when he dislodges you and helps you to your feet.

"Heat of the mo—You know I'm still me when I'm Zombied Out, right?"

Actually. No. You didn't know that. You assumed up to this point that Person Zed and Zombie Zed were completely separate entities with conflicting views on what they want from you.

Oops.

"So, when you say I'm yours...?" You ask slowly, not quite able to believe that this whole time you've possibly been Zombie married.

Zed scoffs, hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you into his body, his gaze turning dark and heated. "It means your mine, baby girl." And then, "Why the fuck do you think I come to you when I'm having a meltdown?"

"...because I don't scream in terror and run away?"

"You're an idiot." Zed snorts as he presses a soft kiss to your lips.

You shrug, "Apparently, I'm your idiot."

In playful retaliation, Zed nibbles your neck, bites and pulls the skin, chuckles, "Definitely mine." Then, dangerously, "but it looks like I gotta make sure you really understand what that means," he murmurs right as his Z-band beeps its first alert.

🫧___________fin.____________

also on AO3!

[cheralith]

— urge.

feat. isagi yoichi (with michael kaiser) || wc: 3.0k cw: gn!reader, no pronouns used, non-canon au, dark content/dead dove do not eat: cannibal!isagi, cannibal!kaiser, gore, blood, body horror, descriptions of cannibalism a/n: au is lowk a mix of tokyo ghoul and beastars im ngl

THE URGE: Shortened from "the urge to feast", a strong compulsion felt by cannibals who have previously feasted on human flesh to consume it once more either to satisfy a craving or feel the effects of human flesh again.

It pains him. How easily he’s able to gaze upon regular food like it’s nothing. 

And it should be nothing to him. It isn’t a delicacy. It’s just a regular ham sandwich with potato chips—a lunch served at even an elementary level. A child can make this. But for some reason, when Isagi stares at the piece of meat and vegetables wedged between the sourdough, he feels like he doesn’t deserve it. 

After all, the blood from earlier is still ghosting his tongue. Such a taste would be hard to overcome with just a regular sandwich. He swallows, feeling the ghost of a chunk of flesh run down his throat. 

His stomach growls, twisting from the emptiness consumed in the past day and a half, but still. He refuses to move, not when he understands that his mouth doesn’t naturally salivate at the sight of food in front of him. Literal food. Something is wrong.

“It won’t kill you,” you mutter, watching how warbly Isagi’s eyes and lips get as he continues to stare at the sandwich placed before him. “But what will is your hunger. You need to eat.”

“I don’t think I should…” he whispers. Shame wallows down upon his body, restricting him from moving. His stomach angrily rumbles again, a high-pitched whine.

“You can still eat regular food normally,” you sigh and cross your arms. “You should anyway, it’ll suppress the urge. If you keep your stomach empty, the more powerful it’ll become.”

His stomach gurgles again unpleasantly, begging for the food in front of him despite all odds he places against himself. A shaky breath draws from chapped lips, eyes closing as he picks up the sandwich and takes a hesitant bite out of it. Slow chews draw the familiar bland taste of the bread mixed with the sauces and meat, lettuce crunching all too softly.

It feels too easy to bite through. The bread is too airy; spongy. The crunch of the lettuce is too quiet; it’s not as splitting and shattering as bone. Isagi’s jaw ticks. He shivers. 

It doesn’t feel like the chewy flesh from the salaryman he had feasted upon, his fatty tissue feeling like the most tender of meats when Isagi had torn himself a piece from his skin, spitting out the suit’s fabric and chewing heartily on the skin amidst the heat of the moment, his mind separated from his body that acted on pure instinct. How the intestines had started to spill from how much he ate from the fleshy part of the belly, unravelling themselves from the caverns of the body.

He remembers the slickness of blood coating his mouth, the metallic tang spreading across his palette, along with the odd sweetness of skin—a malt flavor he had never tasted until now, bits of skin stuck between his teeth.

At least his stomach has stopped twisting itself, satiated from the nourishment. But it doesn’t cease the craving. Something is still missing.

“Feeling better?” you inquire as Isagi gulps down his cup of water. 

He sighs as he puts his cup down, wiping his mouth. The water is too thin; it just barely manages to quench his thirst. “Yeah. I think.”

“Interesting,” you murmur whilst pulling out your notebook from your lab coat. You untuck your pen from your ear, scribbling something down. 

He blinks, confused. “Wh-what’s interesting?” he asks worriedly when he sees your pen moving violently. 

You snap your notebook shut, tucking it back into its designated pocket and looking straight at him, a curious glaze over your eyes. 

“You sure you don’t feel anything? Like not even a compulsion?” you ask again.

Isagi pauses, then shakes his head. His mouth still feels dry and he feels full, but not content. Like a mild itch that has yet to be scratched. 

“That’s funny,” you state while tilting your head and point at the now crumb-littered plate. “Because that sandwich you ate wasn’t ham. It was sliced human flesh. Specifically from a teenager’s chest.”

Isagi’s face draws a blank look. Time pauses for a moment for him to digest your words. 

Human… flesh? But, he doesn’t feel as replete as he did when he devoured the man in the alleyway. He doesn’t feel the rush of euphoria, nor the constant salivation to prepare his mouth for more. 

Then, Isagi shouts a swear, scrambling up from his seat and clutches his mouth in horror. It still feels dry, but he can’t risk it. Heavy breaths come and go, a poor attempt to calm him down from the feat he had just done.

“You—!” he points an accusatory finger at you, anger and betrayal on his half-hidden face, tears pricking his eyes. “You tricked me! You said—you said you would help me stop the craving. Why the fuck would you—”

“Do you feel the urge?” you ask suddenly, cutting him off, with your face as calm as ever despite his antics. 

Isagi’s gaze captures your own, your eyes boring into him, clearly analyzing every movement he does. “What?” 

“I said,” you roll up your sleeves, showing off your fresh, unmarked skin off to him. Isagi yelps and closes his eyes, fearing that he’d feel the horrible rush of dopamine that he felt two days ago when he sunk his teeth into the arm of the salaryman. “Do you feel the urge?”

“Please don’t—!” he gasps, desperate and ashamed of what may come.

“Isagi,” you call for him again, more sternly. “Open your eyes and look at me. Do you feel the urge?”

A furious shake of his head makes the blood rush to his head, eyes still glued shut. He wails aloud again, nails embedding themselves into his cheek, his hand being a make-shift muzzle. “I don’t want to hurt y-you!” 

“Isagi!” you bellow. “You need to calm down! Just tell me if you—”

“Cover your arms!” he howls again, his other hand going to clutch his hair. “Before I do something bad!” 

He can hear the clicking of your shoes and smell your perfume as you come closer to him and snatch his arms away from himself, unsheathing his layer of protection. He doesn’t even realize tears are beginning to spill from him until you force him to look up at you, your brows furrowed in frustration.

“Get ahold of yourself,” you state once more, your voice bellowing itself in the clinic’s office. “Ground yourself properly. Then tell me if you actually feel the urge to eat flesh again. You’re being hysterical.”

Shallow breaths run through him, slowing his heartbeat and his mind from all the thoughts of the future that ruptured his consciousness temporarily. He stares incredulously at you, your frustrated countenance making him quiver before you suddenly, feeling small despite his physicalities surpassing yours by miles. He hears the hum of the air conditioner once again, the ringing in his ears suddenly gone, as well as the wind of the ceiling fan and the scent of cleaning products of the clinic.

His pupils dilate, mind returning back to its original awareness once more of where he is. Isagi swallows again, feeling his mouth still dry and devoid of moisture. He glances up at you and at your bare arms, not feeling any sort of desire to latch his teeth onto them despite how tender they looked. 

“You good?” you ask, gripping his arms still. 

A staccato of short, but steady breaths run through his lips. Isagi purses them, then nods slowly, a slight hiccup managing to slip its way through. You sigh, carefully letting go his arms and letting himself gather back up again on the counter, the panic dissolving away as you roll back down the fabric of your lab coat’s sleeve. 

“What you ate,” you start, putting his dishes into the sink and facing him, “was the flesh of a dead human. We give those to people in rehab because the blood has thinned and isn’t as fresh, so you couldn’t feel the fullness of its effects, meaning you’re still at a stage where you can control and not be dependent on it.”

You turn back to him, Isagi fidgeting a little in his seat. “Will I eventually go back to normal then if I learn to control it? Like, not craving flesh, I mean… and just craving regular food like a hamburger,” he states. 

An apt pause runs through the clinic. Isagi looks at you, waiting patiently for your response in anticipation that this hellhole he got himself into has a way out.

Your gaze softens at him, apologetic. Isagi stiffens at your reaction. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, “but once you’ve gotten a taste of human flesh, it’s impossible to go back to living like a regular human.”

His heart drops, his chest icy as if it just plunged itself into deep water. His vision hazes a bit as he digests your words, or at least attempts to. 

You shuffle your cold hands into your pockets, leaning against the countertop. 

“Humans are on the highest level of the food pyramid—ultimately meaning human meat is of utmost quality and is desired the most. Society just happens to have this contract that we aren’t allowed to each other to uphold a peace,” you sigh and roll the tension out of your neck, noticing Isagi’s petrified stare, a stare you’ve grown rather accustomed to from patients like him over the years. They’ll ask if there’s a possibility of normalcy, you’ll say no, and comes the realization that they’ve turned into nothing but monsters. 

“Those who break it, the ones that give into the urge and eat another person,” your eyes flicker to him. “They’re viewed as taboo not only by society, but to themselves. They’ll torture themselves over it, succumbing to madness, which compels the urge to rise back up again. And the cycle repeats.”

Isagi is motionless, still struck by shock at the fact that one impulsive move had led to his entire downfall as a human being—a title that he no longer has the permission of bearing because he’s no longer human, not when he did such a beastly act to another. Not when he feasted upon that poor salaryman like a rabid, starved animal depleted of substance. 

He had looked like one at the time of discovery of his crime. Blood dripping down his chin, crimson staining his teeth, his canines bared. The dead salaryman before him, chunks of his skin ripped off in places where Isagi’s teeth had ripped from his body to eat, to consume, euphoria filling his brain with each chew and swallow. His hands were gripping onto the body so harshly, just in case it got away, despite the beating of the salaryman’s heart stopping minutes earlier. 

You let him take a chance to speak, but when Isagi fixates his gaze to the wooden countertop again, eyes wide and watery, you sigh once more. 

“But that’s where you come in,” you tap on the counter, grabbing his attention at last. “That’s why I wanted you to be my guinea pig for drugs I’m prototyping to help cannibals like you, even thought I’m not one. To stop whatever urges may come before they get worse.” 

Isagi pauses, replaying the memory of you asking the officers to release him on behalf of your pharmaceutical company, that you “helped rehabilitate” people like him. He could barely digest anything outside his jail cell from the time, still barely conscious from the act he had done earlier, but he picked up that much and trusted you instantly when you extended the first kind hand he had gotten since being thrown into the cell.

“My name’s (Y/N). I’m a pharmaceutical scientist from the nearby university,” you had said to him. “I’m here to help you, if you’ll let me.”

“I agreed to be helped,” Isagi starts, a low mutter in his voice. “Not be a test subject.”

You open your mouth to interject, but the door opens suddenly, making you and Isagi pause in your tracks as a blonde stranger walks in in a somewhat straggled manner. 

He’s tall, at least six feet, and wearing red pants with a black button-down that seems to be stained with something, a dark patch in the clothes. His hair chopped into a mullet, dipped in striking blue at its ends. But perhaps the most prominent thing about him was that on his left side of his neck reveals a blue rose tattoo with a black vine running down its arm and leading to a crown tattoo on the back of his hand. Isagi’s eyes narrow at his rather flashy appearance. 

He breathes heavily, a stain of red that matches his eyeliner that frames around sharpened azure eyes that aim towards you painting at the side of his lips.

“Micha?” you question in surprise as the man hobbles toward you. “What’s going on?”

“I ran out—” he heaves dryly, eye twitching, a quick flash of scarlet wavering in and out of his blue hues. “I ran out of vials… shit, do you have any on you?” 

Isagi watches as he pulls out a long, but empty tube flickered with red spots inside of it from his pants pocket. Blood, he suspects. 

“I…” you stagger back, whipping your head around to look for something. “No, I haven’t had time to prepare you a fresh batch yet, you went through them that quick?” 

The man mutters a swear, fisting the vial in his tattooed hand so tightly that Isagi thinks it’ll shatter within it. “Fuck… fuck! Hurry up and prepare me one then! Everything fucking hurts!”

“I don’t have my kit on me,” you say in a gentle attempt to calm him down. “We have some spare frozen fingers the mortuary gave us, will that help?” 

Isagi can see visibly now as the man draws clearer that he’s salivating—a harsh pool of saliva building up in his mouth that he seems to be swallowing every second. 

“No, no I don’t want flesh, I just want blood,” he groans out, Isagi’s presence still unnoticed by him. The man stumbles into the back of the countertop, slamming himself onto it in imbalance. 

Your brows pinch, trying to find a solution to his pain before understanding that there was nothing before you to use. Instead, you pull down the collar of your shirt, where Isagi can see the faint bite marks and scars ridden leftover on your skin. He has to stop himself from reacting. 

“We agreed only for emergencies…” you warn slowly to the man, whose pupils dilate at the sight of your open neck. “Just take what you need for now. You almost drained me la—”

The man snarls and suddenly lurches forward, his teeth baring and latching themselves onto your neck, sinking them so deeply it breaks skin and draws a river of blood down your body, staining your clothes and lab coat a ribbon of red. An extreme howl of pain rips itself from your lips from the impact, your body going limp from the pressure and rapid blood loss as the man licks at the drawn red rapidly, desperately. 

He manages to catch and grasp you before you can fall to the floor, situating you in his arms and moaning at the taste of your raw blood with bits of your flesh that he laps up, eyes flickering madly with red the more he consumes of you.

Isagi stills, just watching the sight unfold before him and not knowing what to do. Clearly you knew him, so he didn’t have to call for help, and had even offered your skin to him, but you look to be in so much pain from the twisted look on your face and the way that you grapple onto him, it worries Isagi. He just merely watches in shock as the man continues feasting, blood dripping onto the floor from your arm, until you let out a cry for him to slow down. 

The man’s eyes suddenly draw towards him, hooded and narrowed, like he was questioning why Isagi was here, but he says nothing and continues to lick at your blood—all the while still maintaining eye contact with Isagi.

The latter can only stare back in a hard gaze, wanting to tell him off and let you go, but as soon as his courage worked itself up, the man detaches himself from your neck, mouth rimmed with ruby. He licks his lips, clearly satisfied, with the blue settling back into his irises. 

A soft groan whispers itself from you, and you weakly fall forward with your eyes closed in the remnants of pain. The man grips you again in his hold, his tattooed hand running up and down your back as if to soothe you—as though he just didn’t commit one of humanity’s most notorious crimes right in front of a witness. 

“Thanks,” he mutters softly into your hair. 

“Anytime,” you heave, defeated. Your eyes crack open and they focus back on Isagi in a tired manner, making him stiff up again at your attention. “Sorry Isagi… let me just clean myself up really quick and I’ll… get back to you.”

He can only nod in silence and widened eyes, questioning what on earth had just unfolded in front of him right now and what to do about it considering he just did witness what could be defined as a feasting right in front of him… even though the man didn’t actually take any flesh from you, just blood. 

You cover up the bite mark with your blood-vined hand and tell Isagi you’ll be right back, with the man helping you hobble your way to the back of the clinic. Just before you and him go behind the door, however, the man throws him another suspicious look from over his shoulder, as if to send some sort of warning message. 

Isagi can only return it back in what he hopes to be equal fervor, brows furrowing and eyes hardened. 

The man’s lips tilt up into a steady smirk. Then, he disappears behind the door with you, leaving Isagi alone with his thoughts.

He reels his gaze back to where you and him stood before Isagi, against the back countertop. Isagi’s eyes narrow, however, when he sees the dropped vial from earlier sitting limply on the floor. 

Next to it, a small puddle of blood. 

Isagi draws a breath, staring at it and its rich color and how strangely enigmatic it was. Isagi gulps, a wetness pouring over his tongue suddenly.

He licks his lips, eye twitching.

a/n: prequel with kaiser: compulsions

[bonnie-the-butcher]

Rip Tide | Chapter VIII

[ MDNI ] [ word count: 7.289 ] [ Masterlist ] 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: Canonverse/Canon-Divergent; Dark! Content; NSFW; Strong Language; Cheating; Drug Use; Mentions of overdose; Some shades of Munchausen syndrome from dear old Rafe; Manipulation; Toxic, obsessive behaviour; Stalking; Violence; DUBCON/NONCON; My writing is really pretentious and English is not my first language, so please feel free to call me out in whichever grammar mistakes you might find find.

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You and JJ have always been in each other's orbit. He's your brother’s best friend, the guy you've known your entire life. He was kind, protective, familiar. You never meant for the two of you to start hooking up. And you never meant for it to last so long. But when this boy you thought you'd come to know like the back of your hand turns out to be no better than the men he'd warned you about, you find yourself in the sights of the guy he hates most, regardless of wether you want that or not.

Likes, asks, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated! Thank you in advance for reading <3

Silence weighs heavy in the kitchen as Rafe remains there, in the door, looking at you. His smirk widens, a flash of perfectly straight teeth between his swollen lips. – The new chef, huh? You already hired?

Kareem stands, frantically wiping his hands on his apron. – Mr. Cameron, this is—

– I was talking to her. – He takes his time scanning the room, gaze sweeping over the kitchen like he’s searching for something out of place, something to pick apart. When his eyes land on Kareem, there’s a flicker of amusement, barely there before it smooths into something more polished, more calculated. He gives you a slow, easy smile, practiced like the rest of him. – Didn’t know we were hiring new help.

Kareem only barely bites back whatever it was that flashed over his face so violently.

Rafe exhales a short laugh, like he’s humoring him. He moves closer, leaning against the counter like he’s settling in for a show, and pushes at your plate. – So? What's on the menu?

Kareem puts his fork down, fidgeting with his hands. – Lunch’s already in the making. The new hire was just showing off.

Rafe’s eyes flick back to you, trailing down to the plate before drifting back up. – Was she now? – The way he says it makes your skin prickle. Like he’s talking about a trick dog instead of a person. Like the whole thing is some private joke only he’s in on. – Damn, – He whistles, tilting his head. – Guess we’re getting fancy. You go to culinary school or something?

You hold his gaze, forcing your shoulders to stay squared. You don’t know what game he’s playing at, but you’re almost thankful he’s pretending not to know you. – No, sir. Just experience.

– Sir? You serious? – Rafe grins. – I like it. Real respectful. Could use more of that around here.

There’s an edge to it. A warning disguised as praise. You don’t miss the way Kareem stiffens slightly, the way his grip tightens around the fabric of his sleeve. Rafe doesn’t like him. That much is obvious. But more than that—he likes making sure Kareem knows it.

He reaches for the plate without asking, plucking a piece of cornbread from the edge. He takes a slow bite, exaggerating the motion like he’s savoring it, like he’s considering whether or not to spit it out. Then he hums, licking a crumb from his hand.

His eyes gleam as when he meets your gaze. – Not bad.

– Glad it meets your standards. – You say evenly.

His eyes flick back up, a flash of something sharper beneath the surface. – Careful, – he warns, low and amused. – Flattery’ll get you everywhere.

Kareem shifts beside you, his hand landing on your shoulder as if he's trying to tranquilize you. He's shaking. – Mr. Cameron, is there anything we can do for you?

Rafe doesn’t move. Just chews, watching you with the kind of patience that isn’t patience at all. – Yeah. Well, not you. But maybe she can do it. – He takes your fork, scooping up some of your mashed potatoes. – Lamb roast, like the one at the Wreck. Kareem over here always fumbles it, his lamb tastes like beef jerky.

– Mr. Cameron, the supper’s already planned.

– Well, then, un-plan it. – He says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, taking some more chicken and mash from your plate, and chewing slowly. – We have a very special dinner guest coming over and I want that lamb for dinner. So chop chop. Go ahead and buy the things. I wanna see if your new hire really is up to my standards. – He looks back at you, mischief glinting off his eyes. – Right, newbie?

You let your eyes drift back to Kareem, nodding quietly. – I think I can handle a second interview.

– Great! – Rafe’s smile is almost innocent, he chuckles lightly, his shoulder brushing yours. – Off you go, Kareem. She can handle a second interview.

The man’s eyes linger on you for a moment. His brows drawn together, eyes overtaken by worry. His lips fall open, but they close again as he reaches for a tote bag on the back door. – I won’t be long.

It's a reassurance, you realize, but as soon as the door closes Rafe starts laughing like a child, covering his mouth as he leans into your side.

– Are you always this charming?

– You know I am, baby. That's what you like about me. – You don’t know what to say. A twinge of discomfort still lingers in your chest after watching Rafe treat poor Kareem, who ranks much higher than you, as if he was nothing. – So… – He pokes at you, eyes wide and intent, and pulls the chair behind you closer with a grin. – You’re officially employed now, huh?

– You could say so.

– You know what that means? – He takes another bite of the chicken and hums, happily. Happier than you’ve ever seen him.

You sit down, and he pulls your chair even closer, his knee brushing yours. – That I don’t have to worry about starving anymore because you saved my ass?

Rafe chuckles, the sound light and careless. He seems so different like this. So different from the guy that was bullying one of his employees not a minute ago. – That too. But mostly, that you’ll have to fulfill all of my cravings, no matter how insane.

His eyes darken as he leans close. You don’t miss the suggestiveness, but you look around, at this giant, pristine kitchen, at the calm surrounding you, at this perfect new job you only have because of Rafe.

You don’t have it in you to be bothered for much longer.

Things never go your way.

You might as well enjoy the smooth sailing while it lasts. – Tell me about these cravings then. I know you like my lamb roast. – He nods, taking the other fork on the counter and handing it to you. – What else do you like?

– Tryna get to know me huh? That's cute.

– Go ahead, Rafe. I’ll make it easy for you: Favorite soup, favorite roast, favorite pastry.

He looks at you, challenge glinting off his eyes. – You’re the professional here, aren’t you? Let’s see if you can guess my taste. Give me your palm reading.

– Palm reading? – You laugh. – I’m a psychic now? Shit, I gotta put that on my resume.

– You’re not gonna put shit in your resume. This is your job now. You ain’t getting fired.

His words are even, level, almost casual. Like he hadn't thought before the words left his mouth. But he is still pressed against you, holding up the fork as an invitation, an attempt to make you feel part of his world.

You take the fork from his hand, twirling it between your fingers as you watch him. His expression changes then. He looks so smug, so sure you’ll get it wrong. But you’re good at this. You've never been good with yourself, but you've always been good at people.

– Alright. Let’s see… – You lean back slightly, crossing one leg over the other. His knee is still brushing yours. – Favorite soup? French Onion.

The smirk on his lips twitches, almost falters. You know you have him.

– Interesting. Why?

– You like rich food. Heavy, but classic. Something you’d get at a steakhouse or some bougie country club dinner with your dad. Here's the thing though, I think, for you it has to be indulgent. Something you could eat for days. It's gotta be tasty.

He nods. – That’s what I'm talking about.

– Cheese too. I bet you put a lot of cheese on your soup. What do you like?

He smiles, leaning so close he's almost glued to your side. – I like a good Gruyere.

– Okay, fancy!

– I'm a man of culture, okay?

– I see it. – You tilt your head, watching his reaction. – That’s my first guess. Am I wrong?

His tongue darts out, running along the edge of his teeth. As if he's thinking about it. – Not bad. Not bad at all, baby.

You grin, triumphant. – Roast is easy. Man like you? Only one option: Prime rib. You like it rare, still bleeding.

His brows lift, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and genuine curiosity.

– You sure about that?

– Oh, I am positive. Lamb is still your number one, but prime rib is a close second. You wouldn’t go for anything too gamey—no pork, no turkey, chicken only if it's fried. – He laughs, the bone of your fried chicken still in his hand. – You like the expensive stuff. The things other people think are only good because they cost a lot, but that are actually better than the rest.

Rafe lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. – You really think you know me, huh?

– Oh, I do.

He’s still grinning, but there’s something sharper in his gaze now, like he’s sizing you up in a way he hadn’t before.

– Alright, psychic. Last one.

You take a beat, tapping the fork against your lip.

– Pastry… You pretend you don’t have a sweet tooth, but you totally do. – His smile sharpens. Rafe licks his lips slowly, his gaze fixed on your mouth. – You’d never admit it, though. So it has to be something subtle. Not over-the-top, nothing too sugary. – You pause for effect, then snap your fingers. – Madame Routledge says... Chocolate croissant.

Rafe stares at you, and for a second, you think you’ve finally missed. But then he lets out a small tsk, shaking his head. – Close.

– Close?

– Chocolate éclair.

Your mouth opens, then closes. That’s—okay, that actually makes perfect sense. – Damn. That was my second guess.

Rafe grins, tilting his head as he leans in just a little closer. – Sure it was. – You narrow your eyes at him, but you’re smiling too. – You’re kind of freaky, you know that? – he mutters, taking another bite of your chicken.

– And you’re easy to read.

His smirk deepens, his knee pressing just a little firmer against yours.

– I’ll let you think that.

– Okay, Bella Swan. What else do I need to guess? – You smirk, teasing him back as your hand grips your cup. You’re not intimidated, but it’s hard to ignore how his presence seems to consume the space around you.

He leans back in his chair, watching you with a new kind of amusement. The food he's eaten entirely, almost licked the plate clean, and even as the plate lies between you two, there’s still an unspoken hunger in the air, only it’s not the kind that comes from a full stomach.

– My favorite drink. What do you think? – He takes your glass and runs his thumb along the rim, gaze never leaving yours. There’s a definite playfulness to his tone, but it’s mixed with a touch of challenge. He’s testing you now.

– It’s hard. – You tilt your head, putting your water down. – Scotch. Or something with vodka, maybe a Moscow Mule if you’re trying to play classy.

– Oh, I see, you think you’ve got me pegged now. – His lips curl up. There’s that cocky smirk again. – I do like a good scotch. But you missed one.

Your brow furrows. – What'd I miss?

Rafe’s eyes gleam with something almost conspiratorial as he leans in, lowering his voice. – Gin. The real gentleman's drink. Never would’ve guessed that, huh?

You blink, surprised yet somehow not. – I'll give you that one. You’re full of surprises.

– I like to keep people guessing. – His voice is low, and there’s something almost predatory about the way he’s watching you.

Before you can respond, he casually throws another challenge your way, his eyes alight with the thrill of the game.

– Alright, let’s go for the ultimate test. You ready?

You laugh lightly, rolling your eyes. – Born ready.

He leans even closer, his lips just barely brushing your ear. – Guilty pleasure.

You pause. He’s looking at you like he’s about to tell you something you’re not supposed to know. You lean in, matching his intensity. – What is it? It's something sweet isn't it?

– Peach pie. – He drops the bomb like it’s the most casual thing in the world, his grin only widening at your confused expression. – I eat the whole damn thing. Never fails. It’s the one thing that can put me in a good mood, no matter what’s going on.

You blink, trying to process it. – Rafe Cameron... peach pie? – You let out a small, incredulous laugh. – You? The ‘I’m so fancy’ guy? Eating peach pie like it's your last meal?

He doesn’t flinch, just smirks. – Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. It’s the filling, sweet, juicy—and the crust? It hits every spot.

You shake your head in disbelief, but you can’t hide your smile. – I guess I see it.

His hand moves, brushing against yours again as his eyes drop to your lips for a moment. – What else do you think you can guess? Maybe... – He trails off, leaning back slightly, a new challenge in his gaze. – ...a favorite movie?

You smirk knowingly. – That’s easy. The one you would say, is The Godfather. Definitely. Eldest son of a legendary man, making the world his own? That's all you, Rafe. – There’s a different glint to his eye now, his smile softens, his eyes round the slightest bit, like one of the walls he's put up just fell to his feet around the both of you. – But that's not your favorite is it? It's cool, but it can get a little boring. Not the sort of thing you re-watch. You like a little feel-good.

– You're getting colder…

– I think... Men in Black?

Rafe laughs. – Nope. – He leans in again, lowering his voice just for you. – Shrek.

You blink at him. – Shrek? – You can’t contain your laughter. It feels so fitting, just the right amount of darkness with a lot of humor. It's Rafe to a T.

He grins wickedly. – What? I like the layers. I’m a complicated guy.

You shake your head, laughing. – Of course you do. You’re a walking contradiction, Rafe.

Rafe leans back in his chair again, that infuriating smugness back on his face. – That’s what makes me interesting.

You narrow your eyes, but your smile says it all. – So, what’s your real secret then? You’ve been dropping little hints, but I think I got you figured out.

He grins, standing up to grab the bottle of scotch. – Not yet, that’s-so-Raven. You still have a lot to learn.

He pours himself a drink, you can’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’s starting to enjoy the game as much as you are. – You want me to dig deeper? Think you can handle that?

– Oh, I can handle it. – He dawns the drink in one breath, flopping back on the seat right in front of you.

– Give me your hands, traveler. Let's see what’s written in your soul. – He’s laughing as he hands himself over, you can see the smallest of shivers blooming in his arms as you cart a finger through the lines of his right hand. – Favorite color, favorite season, favorite ice cream.

– You’re never gonna guess that. None of that.

– Wanna bet?

– What do I get when I win?

– Don’t jump the gun yet, mr. This-is-my-swamp-Corleone. I have not yet revealed all of my talents. – He raises a brow, licking his lips as his eyes trail down your body.

– I’m hoping you’ll show me the talent I’m thinking about when I win.

– Hilarious.

– I’ll guess you! – He grins. – Best of three, how bout that? Loser drinks with every wrong one.

You can feel the smirk tugging at your lips before you even speak. – Someone’s getting cocky.

– I don’t get cocky. I just know you’re not gonna get it.

– You better not bet a drink then. You’ll be owing me a bottle when I’m done with you.

– Fine then, baby. – His eyes flick to your lips. – A kiss then, loser kisses where the winner says.

– With this lipstick? You’re out of your mind.

– I don’t mind if you leave a mark. I like it. – You can see the gears turning in his head. – C’mon. Is someone gonna chicken out?

– Oh, you’re on, mister. Me first. Your favorite color: Judging by the fact that every shirt I’ve ever seen you wear is blue, and your shoes are blue, and your comforter is blue, and your eyes are blue, this is a really tough one. I’d say, blue.

– What kind of blue?

– So I’m right! – You can’t help the giggle. You’ve always been competitive, and this day has you in such a good mood, it falls from your lips before you can even think.

– No! You gotta guess the shade too!

– What am I, home depot? Nobody’s painting walls here, just accept that I won!

– Okay, okay. Where do I kiss? – You laugh, take back your right hand, and point to the floor. It takes Rafe a minute to follow the line. – You’re absolutely hilarious, y’know that?

– I don’t know why you think I’m joking.

– Where do I kiss you?

– Changing the rules, now, Mr. Cameron? – He doesn’t even answer, just leans closer, a smile bright on his face as he pulls back your shirt to kiss your collarbone. His lips remain there for a moment, brushing against your skin like he’s savoring every second. – Sore loser.

– We’ll see who’s losing next. – He squeezes your nose in his fingers as he pulls back, still smiling. – Go ahead. What’s my favorite season?

– Summer.

– You think I’m that much of a plebe?

– Plebe, really?! – You’re laughing now, and he’s holding both our legs as he pulls his chair closer, until his is less than a foot away from yours. – You are a sociological experience, Rafe.

– Wrong. – You can see the pleasure it gives him to say that. – My knee.

You can’t even help the scoff. – You’re wearing pants.

– I can take them off, if you want. – He's squeezing you know, eyes glinting with something almost possessive.

– That's funny. It's just gonna stain.

– Maybe I want it to stain. – He hums, hooking his right hand under your knees and pulling you closer. – Now, you get down there and kiss me.

You shake your head, laughing, but stay put. He doesn’t wanna play your game, might as well play by your own rules.

So you lean in a little closer, just enough that you can feel his breath hitch against your skin, and pull at the collar of his polo. Your lips land just where his had, on the collarbone, and Rafe chuckles lowly, humming with his hand in your hair, keeping you there until you pull away.

You watch the shape of your lips peek from under the cotton of his shirt, deep red and perfectly contoured. It almost seemed like a tattoo. – Your favorite ice cream now. – His fingers are still tangled in the strands of your hair, warm as anything, but still as a stone. – You are a man of hedonisms. You like it sweet, rich, flavorful. But, you are also very layered.

– Thank you.

– That’s nothing. My guess is something indulgent, that’s sweet but not too sweet. Some different textures, some contrasting flavors. A rocky road, if you will. – He smiles, defeated. And you know you read him like a book. – I told you I was good. If I may go a little deeper?

– Go as deep as you want.

– Your perfect rocky road is the dutch chocolate one, with hazelnuts, and marshmallow bits.

– Marshmallow swirl. – He corrects.

– Damn. – You snap your fingers, earning a laugh out of Rafe. – I’ve gotta give it to you, there is not a single thing in your list that is even remotely dubious. Everything is undeniably great.

– That’s who I am. Perfect all-round

You laugh. – Conceited, much?

– Honest. – He corrects. – Now you.

You’re shaking your head before he even starts. – This is not about me.

– You think you’re that hard to guess?

– You’ll never know, Rafe. I will never tell you. My mama always said, remain a creature of mystery. Otherwise people get bored and fuck off. – Rafe raises a brow. – Yeah, that’s it. That’s her whole philosophy.

– Sounds like a bitch. – You laugh, and he does too. You feel a little lighter. – But lets get into it. I wanna know you too.

– That’s too damn bad.

– That's not fair now, baby. You had an advantage.

– Oh, boo-hoo. – You grin. – Told you I would win.

– I still have to kiss you somewhere else.

You hum, tapping your finger on your chin as you smile. Rafe doesn’t even seem angry, his eyes just glint darkly.

You extend your hand. – As Rodrigo Borgia said to Caterina of Forli: Kiss the ring, bitch.

Rafe’s laughter echoes in your ear, low and rich with something dangerous as he takes your hand, his fingers curling around yours. He leans in, lips inches from your hand, but instead of kissing your hand, he trails his mouth up to your neck.

– Careful, – You murmur, almost smiling as you press your palm to his chest, trying to push him away, but his lips keep moving against your skin.

– You said I had to kiss somewhere else. – He whispers, his voice muffled against your neck as he pulls you closer, his hand sliding to your back, pulling you into his body. His other hand is still entwined in your hair, gently tugging to hold you in place.

You roll your eyes, amused by his persistence. But just as you're about to push him off again, something startles you. His phone, tucked in his pocket, rings—a sharp, sudden sound that cuts through the tension between you two.

Rafe groans, pulling away from your neck, a growl of frustration slipping from his lips. His eyes narrow. – No way, – He mutters, already diving in again.

You stop him. – Could be important.

He glances at the screen, and his irritation becomes palpable, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he stares at the name flashing on the display. It’s his father. You can see it clearly from here.

– It’s him, – Rafe mutters under his breath, exhaling sharply through his nose. The smirk he had on his lips fades slightly, replaced by an edge of annoyance. – Of course it's him.

You can’t help but feel the shift in the energy between you two, but you lean back, giving him space to take the call if he has to. – Go ahead. I should get back to work, my boss is really strict.

He shoots you a glare, but there’s something almost resigned in the way he looks at the phone.

– I don’t have a choice, do I? – He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair before answering the call. His voice is low, almost cold as he speaks into the phone, and you can’t help but notice the way the playful, carefree Rafe fades with each word exchanged.

The call doesn't last long, just a bunch of monotone sounds from Rafe, who sits there, sulking, as you clean up and start chopping vegetables. When he eventually hangs up, there's an unsettling silence from him. Rafe sighs, his hand running over his face in frustration.

– Bastard. – he mutters, more defeated than you’ve ever heard him. He looks at you, his eyes softening, but the playfulness is gone. – Guess you got lucky this time, – He says, the words carrying a weight that wasn’t there before.

– No big deal, I can always beat your ass later.

Rafe leans back in his chair, and stands, coming closer. He doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes distant for a moment as he comes up behind you, looking at your work as he leans his chin on your shoulder. – I have to go.

– It's okay. I'll catch up with you later.

He doesn’t seem to hear you. Instead his arms snake around your waist, face burying deeper into your neck.

You look over your shoulder, hoping Kareem is still far.

– Your father's gone, right?

The question stops you cold. The knife in your hand suddenly feeling heavy. – Yeah.

Rafe burrows in a little closer, breathing you in. – Did you ever wish he would drop dead? – A shiver tears through you as he remains there, holding you in that iron grip, as if he was physically grounding himself, as if his father might burst through the doors and try to drag him away.

You think about it, but you don't have to.

The answer is easy enough.

A thousand times.

Every time you walked into a room he was in, he'd sigh, heavy, as if your presence alone made the space uncomfortable. At some point, you stopped wishing you'd die, and transferred over that rage to him.

Whenever he scoffed at you, you prayed for a heart attack.

When he cursed at you, you wished he'd be mugged in the street.

When he grabbed you, when he'd pull you around, your thoughts got more violent. They worsened and worsened until the day he slapped you, and you found yourself laying on the floor, digging your nails into your hands as you thought about the knives you were always sharpening, sitting there in the drawer, completely unwatched.

You fed on that memory for a while. To the point that every time you saw him you were clenching your fists.

But had you meant it? – Yeah. A couple times.

Rafe doesn’t say anything else. He squeezes you one last time, almost as if plucking the feel of your body against his from that moment. You can feel him hanging onto it as he walks away.

His steps echo loud into the house, beyond the threshold you can step through, and you go through the motions almost robotically, cooking and prepping and cleaning as if it was gonna save you from the thought he’d left you with.

Work goes by smoothly, though your mind remains a wasteland. Kareem is quieter, too, after he returns, and he keeps looking back and forth between what he does and the doorway, a strange resentment burning in his eyes. You don’t meddle, your own spirits low after the talk with Rafe.

Lunch goes by in a blur, even without the chaos of lunch rush at a restaurant. You feel yourself drown out the noise around you, diving completely into the work. Your partner makes a couple comments here and there. He checks your roast, tweaks your reduction, analyses your vegetables. His smile is reassuring everytime he turns to you, tasting this dish and the other with the comically tiny spoon he keeps in a special pocket on his apron, and pats your back like a middle aged dad whenever the servants come in to take your trays away.

– You work quick. – He finally comments, finishing the plate you made for him, as Rose and Ward lunch alone in the dining room. – Every time I looked at you you were doing something else.

– You work quiet. – You smile back, and when he widens his eyes, you immediately clarify. – It’s nice! Like working with a zen master. I’ve never cooked for so long without someone screaming at me.

– Working at a restaurant kitchen makes you feel like the world’s gonna end. – He laughs, but his eyes fall back to the plate, suddenly darkening. – I actually used to have nightmares about burning entrees and being late on mains when I still worked at the bar.

You ponder what to say for a moment, clearly caught in a touchy subject. – I can tell you’re sleeping well, now. Your skin is glowing.

Flattery really does go a long way.

Kareem smiles, finishing his food in silence as you clean up, and the two of you don’t really speak much until the dinner prep starts looming closer.

Supper waits for no one, and Kareem snaps back into focus as the time approaches. — He’s methodical, you admire that in him. —So you follow his lead, letting routine take over, movements automatic as you prepare the kitchen. The momentary stillness gives way to the familiar rhythm of preparation—the clatter of knives, the hum of the oven preheating, the weight of expectation settling over you like a second skin.

You take charge of the entrees and the main dish while Kareem handles the sides. The lamb roast is yours to perfect, its success a quiet challenge, a second interview you refuse to fail. You roll up your sleeves, minding the ingredients you laid out, and get to work.

You begin with the prep, sliding the lamb onto the cutting board, fingers tracing the marbled surface, gauging its density, its fat distribution. A perfect cut. You reach for the boning knife, and trim the excess fat—just enough to allow the seasonings to penetrate deeper, not enough to sacrifice flavor. The rendered trimmings will be saved, melted down for later use. Nothing wasted.

Next, the seasoning. Garlic cloves are smashed under the flat of your knife, their oils bursting free, before you mince them into a fine paste. Rosemary leaves are stripped from their stems, crushed between your fingers, the scent sharp and green. You mix them with flaky sea salt and cracked pepper, the coarse grains binding to the moisture of the garlic. The mixture is worked into the lamb with steady hands, pressing into every groove, every fold of muscle, ensuring the flavors seep into the fibers of the meat.

The pan is already waiting, and you’re happy for the freedom of throwing a healthy dollop of butter on the iron without having to watch out for Anthony’s pretentious complaints. The sizzle is loud as you lay the lamb down. The heat grips the surface, searing it to a perfect crust, the scent of browning fat filling the kitchen. You tilt the pan, spooning the bubbling butter over the top, watching it soak into the herbs and garlic, turning the surface deep amber. When every side is sealed, you transfer it to the preheated oven, where the slow heat will coax out the tenderness, the juices locking in beneath the crisp exterior.

Beside you, Kareem dices vegetables with methodical efficiency, the rhythmic tap of his knife grounding like the hum of a monk deep in prayer. You glance over your shoulder, watching as he peels and slices carrots into thin ribbons, tossing them into a pan where melted butter and honey wait to coat them in a glossy sheen. He looks so peaceful, so in his element. It's almost cute. You catch the faintest scent of citrus as he zests an orange, preparing the glaze for the carrots, and there’s a moment where he looks up, meeting your eyes briefly before returning to his task.

Turning back to your own work, you begin assembling the entrees. You lay out fresh slices of crusty baguette, rubbing each piece with raw garlic before topping them with a blend of ricotta and herbs, the creamy spread flecked with chopped basil and thyme. Cherry tomatoes, roasted until blistered and sweet, are gently pressed atop each slice, their juices seeping into the bread. A final drizzle of balsamic reduction finishes the dish, the deep, tangy aroma curling into the already fragrant air of the kitchen.

By the time everything comes together, the kitchen smells like warmth, like the indulgence you and Rafe spoke of, and you find yourself praying this tops every memory of the lamb he had before, just to give you that reassurance. The roast rests, juices settling beneath its crisp, golden crust, while Kareem plates the sides—a creamy potato purée, the glossy, honey-glazed carrots, a crisp asparagus sauté with almonds. Dessert waits to be finished in the background, Kareem’s perfect pie crust resting easy beside the fresh-chopped peaches you left soaking in syrup, soaking up all the flavor until the moment is right.

You step back, wiping your brow, allowing yourself a moment—just one—to take it in. The meal is set, a quiet triumph, and for now, that’s enough.

Kareem slumps down on the chair as the echo of greeting and bickering in the room next door gives way to the hums and awes of enjoyment. – Who knew art could be so tiring, huh? – You say.

He looks up from his hands, an easy smile on his face, and nods. – “it is, perhaps, the price we pay for love, the cost of commitment.” – The hum coaxes a brow raise from you as you wash your hands again.

– Okay, private school. – You laugh, and catch his shoulders shaking slightly as he watches you. – Care to enlighten the country bumpkin here before you?

– It’s a quote by Colin Murray Parkes.

– The actor?

He laughs even louder, delighted with your lack of poshness. – The psychiatrist. Didn’t you have psychology lessons in your school?

– Does the Outer Banks seem like the sort of place that would offer that curriculum?

– Well, no, of course. But you’re not from here, are you?

You gasp:

– Of course I am. – He doesn’t even pretend to hide his shock. – Born and bred in the OBX.

– Seriously, Routledge. Where did you learn to cook like this? Couldn’t have been here. – You let out an incredulous laugh, but the question is so ridiculous you can’t even find it insulting. – I didn't mean it like—

– I know. – You grin. – I learned how to cook because it’s the only luxury I could have, food can be elevated. It's the other things that are hard to come around. Sometimes I forget you tourons don’t read class cues like the islanders. I’m flattered you even considered the possibility of me being a kook.

– I feel like I’ve just been spoken to in tongues. – It's your turn to laugh again, the genuine bewilderment on his face a joke of its own. – Toro? Like bull?

– You’ve been living here for years and nobody taught you the hierarchy? – He shakes his head, earning more laughter from you. – I’m kinda glad. But here it is: OBX 101, brought to you by a Routledge. So the rich folk, inhabitants of the Figure Eight, this lovely little neighborhood we’re currently in, are the Kooks. Golf players, country club goers, the cream of the crop. Now they’re rich, but not rich like you’re rich.

– I’m not rich. – He pouts, and you have to bite back the brow raise.

– Says the man who had advanced psychology in his high school curriculum. You’re private school. Now, that’s not something to be embarrassed about. But, a pogue, the poor people of the island, the ones that live in the Cut, like me, we can tell.

– I think that’s just you. You get a good read on people. How’d you learn that by the way?

– My older brother who hated me kind of poisoned the well for me when it came to friends. I had to get my hands on whatever outsider I could reach.

Kareem’s brows furrow. – He sounds like a piece of shit.

– He used to be. We’re better now. – He seems unbelieving, but you don’t go any further. – Now you never told me where you’re from, but maybe I can guess you.

– I doubt that. – He says, the hum of his voice low and steady.

You tilt your head, and he smiles at you, signing for you to go on. – You’re a Texan, that much is obvious. By the accent, I’d say Dallas. And you’re a farm boy, clearly old money. Blue blood, boarding school bred.

– I’m from Highland Park. Which is, to your credit, in Dallas. – It feels good to be right. – But I’m not posh.

– Never said you were. – He’s the one raising a brow now, but before he can say anything else, the door opens again.

Daniel, one of the servants, stands there, his face almost worried. – Mr. Cameron asked to see the chef. – Kareem swallows thickly, face suddenly void of all the playfulness he’d had just a moment earlier. But Daniel stops him again. – He asked for her.

You stop cold, heart hammering against your ribs. Daniel’s words echo in your head, but you don’t let yourself hesitate. Kareem steps forward, a steadying head wrapping around your arm. – Hey, don’t worry. Look, they probably just wanna compliment you. That lamb, it was great. Don’t worry about it.

– You don’t know that.

– Routledge, – It's almost pleading, the way he says it. A soft lull of a voice brushing against your ears as he tried to tranquilize you. But it doesn’t help. How often did things go well for you? You should’ve known better than to hope.

– I’ll be right back. – You murmur. Kareem tries to argue, but you’ve brushed past him before he can think to say anything else.

The walk to the dining room feels longer than it should, each step pulling tighter at the knot in your stomach. The hall seems to stretch around you as you reach the warm light bleeding in from the cracked door. You push through it, and immediately, the air thickens.

They’re all there.

It’s Rafe who holds your attention first. He’s leaned back in his chair, a lazy grin on his face, self-satisfied. Like he’s been expecting you. Like he’s enjoying this.

Ward sits at the head of the table, relaxed, a glass of wine in hand. Rose is poised beside him, her smile the perfect shade of contempt. Wheezie barely looks up from her phone, and Sarah… Sarah’s expression falls as she sees you, and she looks up from her plate with something can’t quite place.

Then your eyes shift, and you freeze.

At the opposite end of the table, just beside Sarah, sits your brother.

The sight of him steals the breath from your lungs. His expression is cold, unreadable, but the anger simmering beneath the surface is unmistakable. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Your fingers tighten around the towel in your hands.

– Ah, there she is, – Ward's voice cuts through the silence, warm, approving. – When my son told me he had to fire the last cook, I didn’t think he’d go out and find us a new one. I doubted him, but I have to say, I was… pleasantly surprised. That was the best lamb I’ve had in years. Truly remarkable.

The words come out immediately, but no relief fills you as you speak. – Thank you sir. I’m glad you liked it.

– Liked it? Young lady, I loved this dish. I have to give it to Rafe, he’s ordered nothing but this for years, and I never saw the appeal, but, really, it’s fantastic.

Rose cuts in, a sharp drawl that shatters whatever sliver of gladness was building up. – Honey, you don’t need to be pedantic.

– But, I’m not, Rose. Really. Good help is so hard to find these days, especially on short notice. Very few people put their back into their work. And this, this is exactly that. Passion. I can tell you’re good at what you do.

– Thank you sir, really.

He smiles, gesturing toward his plate, then at Rafe, who’s still watching you like he knows something you don’t. – My son’s gonna sleep like a baby tonight. – He chuckles. – Lamb’s his favorite. But I’m sure you know that.

You swallow hard, forcing a nod. – Yes, he did tell me that.

– She used to work at the Wreck. – Rafe hums, his eyes fixed on you, smiling from ear to ear as he swings a glass around. Scotch, by the looks of it. – She was a chef there. Some moron fucked up her order, and I… Well, I couldn’t think of never eating that lamb again.

You feign laughter, as demure as you can make it. – Yes, thank you for that. I really appreciate it.

– You already thanked me, – His grin is sharp, and he averts his eyes for a fraction of a second, gesturing for you to cut him another piece of lamb. You do, thankful for your steady hands and the heavy knife. – in the interview.

His father makes a sound of surprise. – You interviewed her? – He looks at you as you set the plate before Rafe.

– Yes he did. He was very thorough.

Ward seems pleased. – I’ve never seen this side of you, son. I’m glad to see you take an interest in what goes on in this house.

– What can I say? – Rafe looks back at you, signing to the bottle across the table. You don’t know what game he’s playing, but you’re sure it's not meant to be fun for you. – I’m a proactive kind of guy.

Ward hums, taking a long sip of his wine as he watches you pour Rafe another drink. – I’m glad, son. I’m really glad. – You put the bottle back in its place, trying to ignore the gazes burning holes into your skin as you move to your original spot. – And what’s for dessert?

You hesitate only for a moment, wishing you could disappear. – Peach pie. It should be ready in ten minutes.

The reaction is immediate.

Ward smiles, slow and knowing, but before he can say anything, Sarah speaks.

– That’s Rafe’s favorite. – Her tone is cold, almost suspicious.

Your heart stutters, but you keep your face smooth, your voice even. – Really? That’s a coincidence.

John’s voice echoes then, chilling your blood to ice. – Funny, right? It’s my dad’s favorite too. But she knows that. That why she makes it so well.

Ward doesn't miss a beat, even as Rafe turns to glare at your brother. – You two know each other?

John answers for you. – You could say that. – The earth could just split open, and swallow you whole. – Y/n is my baby sister.

– Really? – Ward’s laughter is deep, but somehow not incredulous. – And she’s Rafe’s friend. God, what a small world.

– Looks like it's getting smaller. – John adds. His stare burns into you, hard and unrelenting, like he’s waiting for something.

You don’t let yourself look away first.

Instead, you square your shoulders, holding onto the only thing you can control—the steady rhythm of your breath, the knowledge that you belong here, no matter how much it feels like you don’t.

– Yes. Well, I’ll go check on that pie, and I’ll bring it out soon enough. – You say, voice steady.

Ward nods, pleased. – Good. We’re looking forward to it.

As you turn to leave, Rafe’s voice follows you, low and amused.

– Good job, newbie.

You don’t stop. You don’t react.

But your pulse thunders in your ears all the way back to the kitchen.

Kareem is already there, watching you closely as you step inside. – You okay? – His voice is low, cautious, but the concern is obvious. He nears you as if he’s cornering a wounded animal, warm hands landing on your arms like he’s afraid you’d bolt.

You try to nod, but the motion feels stiff, forced. Your hands are cold, even in the warmth of the kitchen. Kareem notices. He steps forward, brows furrowing as he reaches for your wrist. – You’re pale. Come— C’mere. Sit down for a sec.

Before you can respond, the kitchen door swings open again.

John walks in.

The air turns sharp. Kareem’s hand drops as your brother steps inside, his expression unreadable but heavy with something darker. He doesn’t look at Kareem. Just you.

– You have anything to say? – His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the steel beneath it. – You already lied to me this morning, wanna get it out already?

Your pulse stumbles.

– John, please. I’m working right now.

Kareem straightens beside you, eyes flicking between the two of you. – Sir, you’re not supposed to be here—

– No. – John cuts in, still staring at you. – This doesn’t concern you, okay man? This is family business.

– Don’t talk to my boss like—

– I’ll talk if I fucking want to!

Kareem doesn’t hesitate, his hand resting on your shoulder for a split second before he steps in front of you. – This is not a therapist’s office, sir. She’s working, and you’re not supposed to be back here. So please, leave.

@chatgtfo @bitterdotcom @xmayankax @bluethperson @coralblue35 @munsoncultedits @the-bitch-who-binges @im-julessssss @redkarmakai @hwaaholic @sydkneez

[gingernut1314]

Don't Jinx It ch. 5

Summary: Silco comes to visit you at work to let you know he has a surprise to show you.

Content: female reader, gendered terms, pre-season 1 arcane, Nadia is Viktor's mom, young Silco, young Sevika, young reader, pre-Sheriff Grayson, reader using water manipulation, unrequited love, slight Arcane season 2/League of Legends spoiler (Janna, The Gray)

Word Count: 4.5K

A/N: so I'm still SCREAMING over those Vander flashbacks and Silco--SILCO my loveeee. So we're giving Silco long hair as per canon eheheeheh its perfect. Also we're aged up a bit now so lots of fun! I hope you all enjoy!

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Act 2: 

Four Years Later

For the past year or so the same small batch of enforcers visited at your Boss’ diner-shop. A batch of enforcers you were convinced your boss only let in cause she had made friends with their Sergent. A one Ms. Sergeant Grayson. 

You, Nadia, and Sevika watched Grayson and Boss laugh together in the booth they occupied, chatting with each other like they’d known each other their whole lives. 

“I still don’t get it.” Sevika gruffed, slicing into a gray-scaled fish you two had helped catch that morning. “Boss hates enforcers. Spits on their shiny gold badges any time she spots one, but she’s all but eating out of the palm of that one's hand.” 

“They’re fucking.” You chimed in from where you leaned against the counter watching the spectacle unfold before you. “They have to be fucking. That’s the reason.” 

“So vulgar.” Nadia shook her head at you two, nose wrinkled at your words. “Maybe Boss has just made a friend in her. Is that so hard to believe?” 

“No, no. You’re right.” Sevika started, beginning to slice the pink flesh of the fish into tiny strips. “Boss definitely’s been in her. That’s for sure.” You laughed while Nadia huffed. 

“You two are barbarians.” You flipped around, snatching a bit of sliced fish Sevika had just cut. You grabbed for a second slice before you had even shoved the first into your mouth, the woman chopping her knife all too close to your fingers in her way of telling you to knock it off. 

“You know we can’t help it, Nadia.” You mumbled around chews, the fish nearly melting on your tongue. You offered the second slice to Nadia who took it gently. 

“Unfortunately, I do know.” She huffed, taking a small bite from the bit of fish. 

“You coming to hang out with us tonight?” You asked Nadia hopefully. 

“Forgive me.” You gave a dramatic groan Sevika mimicked. “Nikolai and I are taking Viktor to spy on the newest…eh…flying…ship?” You quirked a brow at her as she bit another near-mouse-sized bite from her slice of fish. 

“Airship?” 

“Yes!” She beamed at you, “I prefer to keep my eyes on the earth and my paints but you know how my boy is.” You nodded, peaking a glance at the fish Sevika was still cutting up. 

“He still gonna build me that mini-fridge?” You joked, slyly inching your fingers closer and closer to the bits of fish. Nadia chuckled at your words. 

“I think in the near future, yes. He’s slowly beginning to toy with bigg--” You yelped when Sevika snatched hold of your wrist and yanked you closer. 

“You keep being a little seagull and Boss’ girlfriend is gonna have none.” You smirked up at her. 

“You think that’s it? They're together together?” Sevika gave you a long roll of her eyes, releasing your wrist. “It’s a perfectly tragic story. Two enemies turned lovers yearning for each other despite everything.” You gave a playful gasp. “They’re forbidden lovers.” 

“You two need to stop meddling in their business. They just seem to be friends.” Nadia chimed in. 

“You’re right, Dee. Enemies to friends to lovers.” Sevika joined in once more, taking a slice of fish and tossing it your way. You caught it just as Nadia sighed deeply. “Makes it even more tragic.” You gave a mockingly mournful nod. 

“You two are insufferable.” She popped the last of her fish into her mouth before she went back to her tables. Tables you and Sevika had purposely made sure were other like Undercitians, not wishing Nadia to be near the true barbarians of the night. 

Nadia was kind. Too trusting of others and both of you feared it would only lead to an enforcer getting the wrong idea.

You and Sevika, on the other hand, had no problem letting those bucket heads know just where they could shove it. And if they needed a bit of help neither of you had any problems doing it for them.

You had just shoved your newest piece of fish into your mouth when the bell hanging above the door gave a ring. 

“Better tell him it’s not a good time before Boss kills him,” Sevika spoke, gray eyes looking to who had just walked in. Excitement shot through your chest fast at her words, knowing exactly who she had spoken them about in moments. 

You tried your best to not whip around in your search for him. You didn’t want him to actually think you were excited to see him. No…nope. Not at all.

Silco’s seafoam gaze found you instantly, a small smile tugging to his lips as he walked over. 

“You have two minutes Silco,” Boss called from her booth, her eyes not lifting once from her glass of wine, which she gave a small swirl. “Before I let this one take you back with her to Piltover.” 

“Be gone in one,” Silco responded, Boss giving a heavy sigh.

Grayson, despite her being a horrid badge-wearing oppressor, was fair. She was one of the very few enforcers, maybe even the only enforcer, who didn’t have a stick shove so far up their ass it stuck out of their mouth. 

And she chuckled at Boss, saying something only she could hear. 

“Gods--I mean their practically fucking right in front of us,” Sevika muttered so only you and the quickly approaching Silco could hear.

“What do you think?” You asked in way of greeting Silco, who pulled so close you could smell the fresh shower he had just taken. It was a smell you thoroughly enjoyed, one you wanted to grab and rub your face all over, but one you knew had a bitter backing. 

The same year you had met Silco, Piltover had reopened the mines they had promised would stay closed forever. Opened them in the promise of progress and ample jobs for all. In helping ease the “struggle of the good people” down here.

You wanted to say it was fine at first. That it gave jobs to those who might not have had one otherwise. That Piltover might be right for once, but you would only be fooling yourself. 

Working in those mines was like dancing with death herself and Piltover knew it just as well as everyone else.

You had the usual risks, cave mouths collapsing and people getting lost within the labyrinth that the mines made up, but then there was the Gray. Smoke that still leaked its way out into The Lanes from past generations, more so now thanks to the mines having reopened as such. 

And the Gray--well, the Gray was death’s lover. 

Smoke so thick you couldn’t see through it. A smog that clogged your throat and made it feel like every breath you took filled your lungs with a thousand tiny needles.

Janna, the very Winds of the Undercity, had been trying ever since its birth to rid its poisonous wrath from us. She told you the story of her first coming to the Undercity a few times over the years. She had been called here on the prayers of the people who were suffering from its oppressive choking hold. She had managed to keep it at bay. To give the people a moment's relief to breathe freely.

But ever since then, she has been struggling to try and purify the smog. 

It was a story she typically told you when she had you practice trying to purify the waters lapping at The Lanes’ jagged edges. 

And every time she had you practice, every time she told you her tale, you asked how you were supposed to do the same if she, who was a goddess, couldn’t even do it herself?

She would settle you with her glowing, unblinking gaze before instructing you to try again. 

All play no work that one…if only. 

You hated that Silco and Vander went down there, especially since there was nothing to be done for the Gray. It was something you told him many times that same year he had started work. So many times he had snapped at you to stop because it wouldn’t change a thing. 

What very little money the boys earned went right into The Last Drop to keep it standing as Piltover rose taxes and Vander’s father passed, leaving every leak and creaky floorboard to him.

So you agreed to stop bothering him with your worries…though it did nothing to keep you from doing so voicelessly. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Silco glanced their way, the two seeming to have grown even closer in the two seconds you had taken your eyes off them. “Seems a perfectly typical interaction between officer and civilian.” His eyes found yours own more, a smirk tugging at his lips. 

You couldn’t help but look over every feature you could get away with looking at. Took in his nicely sharp features, his thinly soft-looking lips, and the shaggy hair he was allowed to grow out. Hair he planned on growing out so long he could braid it and gods did you agree. 

No longer was he the scraggly and bony teen you had first met. No, he had grown rather handsome. 

Painfully so. 

A beauty you struggled to think past most days.

And just as you knew how handsome he had grown, so had the rest of the Undercity. Women and men alike were drawn in by his looks and his smooth talk. 

His all-seeing and ever-calculating eyes only grew sharper. Eyes he used to see just how to make a girl grow ever the more flustered and fidgety under it. Eyes he used to track and log just what they liked to hear from him. 

He had become quite the playboy, capturing the hearts of many but never holding onto them for long. 

You think it has grown into a game to him. A game to see how many he can draw in and claim. See how many he can break in the same breath. 

You think sometimes he tries to play the game with you…and oh do you wish to play, but you knew he never truly meant the looks and the playful words he sent your way. 

You two were…friends. 

Strictly. 

Even when it disappointed you greatly. 

“Nah, they’re screwing.” Sevika huffed, reeling you back in from Silco’s charming looks. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked him, backing slightly away only for your hips to hit the counter. His eyes quickly tracked your movements. Movements he did the opposite of and stepped closer one more. 

“You get off work at seven.” He matter of factly told you. 

“What? Do you keep my schedule pinned to your wall or something?” Silco all but rolled his eyes at you. 

“I have something to show you.” Curiosity sparked at your heart and you instantly leaned closer despite knowing you should keep far away for your own heart's sake. 

“Ooo…what is it?” 

“And ruin the surprise?” You nodded quickly. Surprises were great but you found yourself impatience. Silco teasingly smirked your way. “Never.” And just like that he pulled away, leaving you feeling as if you had been tossed around by a riptide. “I’ll be back at seven.” He called to you as he headed back for the door. 

You swallowed sharply.

“Yeah. Okay.” You called back. 

You watched him give Nadia a small wave goodbye, the woman more than edger to do the same, before he was back out the door like he never was there in the first place. 

Sevika huffed at you, gaining your attention once more. 

“What?” 

“Nothin’.” You watched her sharply as she plated the beautifully cut fish on an equally as beautiful plate. She fixed you with an all-too-teasing gaze. “You two are just as bad. No…no. Worse. You’re worse.” Your brows furrowed in confusion as she passed you the plate to take over to the Boss and Sergent Grayson. 

“What do you mean?” Sevika all but ignored you, looking back over the diner.

“Dee, it’s worse right?” Sevika called to Nadia who was carrying a stack of dirty plates back to the kitchen. 

“Much worse.” She agreed as she passed. Before you could snap at the two for an answer, Boss called your name sounding not pleased. 

“This is not over.” You huffed Sevika’s way who only smirked back at you. 

“Sure, guppy. Sure.” 

You spent the rest of your shift cursing yourself for not having packed a better change of clothes. You had planned on being able to head home to change into something a little more nice before you went to The Last Drop, but Silco’s surprise threw a big wrench in your plans.

Not that you were complaining. Not truly.

You would pick hanging out with Silco over a nicer pair of clothes any day.

You found Silco waiting outside for you just as he had said, messing around with one of his daggers. He perked up instantly when you emerged, dagger put away as you came to his side.

“So…you want to tell me now?” You asked, only for Silco to lean downward so that he was looking directly into your eyes. You felt your heart give another damning flutter in your chest. 

“Tsk, tsk.” He smirked, “Impatient thing aren’t we?”

“This just something you're figuring out?” Silco gave a small, amused huff of air from his nose. Those seafoam eyes danced over your face, not helping the restless movement in your chest.

“Come,” He gestured with his head for you to follow. “It’s not too far away.”

“As soon as I drop Nadia off I’m getting drunk, ya hear you two!” Sevika called as you began following after Silco. 

“Won’t take long,” Silco called back to her. 

“Better not.” She shouted, “I’m itching to beat you at cribbage tonight.” 

“Want to bet on that outcome?” Silco glanced back to the woman, eyes bright in the promise of competition. 

Your two friends were unchallengeable at any card game they played. Their smarts and trickery were not something to go up against lighty.

When the two played against each other, the game always was a close one. One point could determine the winner.

And between the two…you would bet on Silco to win. He was the only person in all of the Undercity you had known to ever beat Sevika and beat her he did every time. 

Sevika, of course, never admitted it.

“Nah, 'cause I know I’m winning. No need to jinx it all to hell on a damn bet.” She called back as she started off with Nadia. 

“If she wishes to win that bad all she needs to do is play against you.” You sharply shoved Silco away who only gave a chuckle. 

“You’re an asshole.” You huffed, pulling the strap of your patched-up bag further up your shoulder. “I can play cards.” 

“You can play Go Fish.” 

“Hell yeah I can play Go Fish! I’m the best damn Go Fish player in all of The Undercity. No--The Undercity and Piltover.” You threw your arms out dramatically as you turned on your heel to face Silco as you walked backward. “In the entirety of Runterra.” Silco quirked an amused brow at you.

“Oh really? The whole world?” You gave a humming nod. “Well then, Go Fish World Champion, we’ll play tonight.” 

“And I’ll beat you.” You knew you wouldn’t. Even in the only card game you had mastered, Silco was still the best at it. 

“Want to bet on it?” You turned on your heel once more to face away from him. 

“Nope. Sevkia’s right. Betting beforehand is only going to jinx it.” You once more adjusted the strap of your bag.

“Jinxes are just a fiction.” You shrugged. 

“Maybe…but what if they're not? Huh? What are you gonna do then?” You asked, craning your head to look back at Silco who was watching you closely, an easy smile on his thin lips that you couldn’t help but mimic. 

“Then I guess I’ll face it head-on.” He quickened his pace a bit to come back to your side. “Let me carry your bag for you.” He offered his hand out for the item. 

“You trying to steal from me?” You asked in mock concern. 

“Oh yes. I want your dirty work clothes and sea shells.” You shrugged. 

“You're right. The sea shells would be worth stealing.” You pulled the tote from your shoulder and handed it to Silco, who slung it over his. “Got a pocket watch in there too.” 

“Oh? And where did that come from?” He asked, pulling at the edge of the bag to look for said watch.

“Those enforcers were so generous. Just gave it to me out of the goodness of their heart.” Silco let the bag fall back against his side. 

“How kind of them.” He huffed. “Why your boss feeds them is beyond me.” You gave a sharp nod. 

“Agreed. That’s why we think there is something else going on. Boss kills enforcers on the spot typically.” Silco shook his head, eyes turning away from you as a deep anger filled them. 

“Shiny things are nice,” Silco started, seemingly changing the topic.

“Very nice.” You agreed once more. 

“But it’s not worth putting you at risk.” Concern. He was concerned for you and was telling you that. 

You couldn’t help that damn fluttering again.

“I thought we agreed a long time ago not to do this.” Silco’s hardened eyes glanced back down at you, seafoam softening at their edge the longer he watched you. 

“Do what?” 

“Oh please be careful. Oh, I’m so scared for you. Oh, those big bad enforcers are going to catch you. Oh please be safe.” Silco gave you a dramatic eye roll at your mockery.

“Please. I’m hardly saying any of that.” You gave him just as dramatic an eye roll back. 

“Really? Then what are you saying?” 

“I’m saying--” Silco’s gaze flickered quickly over your face before looking away once more. “That if you steal from them enough your boss will find out.” 

“Still kinda feel like you're worried about me.” You felt Silco’s hand on your arm only for it to shove you away. A wicked cackle pulled from your throat. 

“Look whose being the asshole now.” Silco gruffed. 

Silco led you down another street, through an alleyway, climbed down a steep stairway that seemed to go on forever, and right back down another street before coming to a small, hardly used bridge. 

You knew you were right on the border of the Promenade Level, where your boss’ diner-shop was located, and the Enthresol Level which was where The Last Drop beat at the heart of the city. 

You had taken this route a few times in the past. Only ever with Silco, so you were familiar with it, but why you two were taking this roundabout way to the bar was what nagged at your curiosity when you could have just walked back with Sevkia. 

“What are you--” Silco pressed a thin finger to his lips, telling you to keep quiet before heading for the metal ladder built into the side of the bridge. 

You followed close behind, the bite of cold metal digging into your palms. Silco hopped onto the grated platform, rusted bits of metal having created holes here and there within its flooring, before turning to offer you his hand. 

You took it, even though you knew you didn’t need his help, but you knew you needed to be able to feel his skin against yours. Chill skin that was covered in tiny scars and callouses that always made you feel like it was just the two of you in that moment.

He didn’t let go of your hand as he led you over the platform and you couldn’t help the growing warmth that his hand was creating in you. A warmth that rushed up your arm and all over your body. Warmth that made that damning flutter grow near pounding. 

You made it all the way to the other side of the platform and that's when you heard it.

It was soft at first. A sound you almost didn’t believe you were truly hearing until you were standing before the source, staring at the bundle of twigs, string, fur, and hair nestled between a rounded design in the arch of the bridge. 

“Oh…Silco…” You breathed, watching the small, featherless baby birds chirping and chirping for their mother, little bulging bellies no doubt starving. 

“Fantastic aren’t they?” You nodded, holding his hand a little tighter. 

“How--they shouldn’t be able to live down here.” Your voice was quiet to keep from startling the babies, but also in disbelief. 

Quiet in a growing dread that they probably wouldn’t make it for very long. 

“Yes…yes, it’s quite strange.” Silco spoke just as softly as you. “I saw their mother and followed her down here. Found these sweet ones.” You felt his hand hold yours just as tightly back. “But this means it can really happen.” You turned away from the miracle before you to look up at him. 

Silco’s seafoam eyes were already watching you.

And you knew that look in his eyes. A look he only got when talking about one thing. 

“Zaun.” He nodded, that hopeful gleam in his eyes burning with passion. It was a dream you all let burn deep within your bellies. A dream you all spoke of often. Spoke of enough you all had given such an outlandish wish a name. 

You turned to look back at the babies, who still had yet to stop begging for food. 

“But what if…those plants don’t even live near the bridge.” You thought of the rooftop you two had first encountered each other on. A roof where someone had been trying to grow tomatoes, though those tomatoes had withered and died before they could even yield a ripe crop.

“We’ll come visit them. Maybe we can help keep them going.” You nodded, even though your negative side nagged at you that it wouldn’t matter. That these sweet babies would wither and die before they had even sported their first feathers. 

As if reading your mind, Silco grabbed your other hand, turning you to face him. To bare his determination for Zuan down onto you. 

“It will happen.” He spoke like he was trying to convince himself it would. You nodded again.

“I believe it. We’ll make it happen.” But that look didn’t fade from his eyes. A look that mixed with something else that told you something was upsetting him. Something outside of the typical truths of your lives you lived down here in the filth. “What--did something happen?” You asked hesitantly. 

“I--” He hesitated himself. It had taken Silco a long time to fully be able to open up to you. Friends you may be, he kept his true feelings, deep dark ones, hidden behind a high wall. And though he more freely spoke with you on such topics now, you knew it was still a struggle. That, even though the wall had created a door for you to peek inside, the door wasn’t always unlocked.

“A mine shaft caved in this morning.” It was all he had to say for you to understand what had happened. For you to know why he had followed the bird down here. Why he had come to visit you at work. Why he had voiced his worry for you. 

Because he’d seen death today. 

More death that only Piltover could be blamed for and Zaun was Silco’s--no, everyone’s last bit of hope for things to get better.

You silently pulled him closer. Silently pulled your hands from his only so you could wrap them around his waist and hold him tight. And Silco silently let you hug him, when typically such affection was slapped away. 

Silco snaked his hands around your own waist, pulling you flush against his thin, yet strong body. You felt his breath against your neck as he buried his face there, warming your skin nicely.

You two stood like that for a long moment. Long enough that the babies stopped chirping, thinking you two had turned statue. 

“I have an idea.” You murmured, giving him one last, tight squeeze before pulling away. Typically you would curse yourself for ending such a moment. A moment you so rarely got but you wanted to try and lift his spirits, if just for a moment. 

Silco watched you carefully as you reached into your bag, which you didn’t bother pulling from his shoulder. You rummaged around for a little bit, making all the random trinkets you carried in it clink together until you pulled out one of the larger shells and your canteen, which you had learned to always carry with you for easy access to water. 

“What are you doing?” He asked to which you tossed him a playful smirk.

“And ruin the surprise? Never.” He huffed in amusement at your repeat of his words from earlier that night. 

He watched you carefully as you found a level spot on the bridge to place the shell, before unscrewing the canteen. With little effort, you reached for the water with your magic, pulling a fist-sized droplet of water out. 

Silco eyes shimmered in fascination, pulling so close his shoulder was pressed against yours. You once more savored the touch, turning yourself so you could peek unstrained glances up at his seafoam eyes here and there as you worked. 

“For their mama. And for these three when they grow up.” You said. Silco glanced down at you as you let the droplet of water fill the shell. “And because it’s magic water.” You gave your fingers a little wiggle at the word magic that further tugged a smile to Silco’s lips. “It’ll never run dry… hopefully.”

“You’ve been practicing,” Silco observed.

“Yep. I’ll be able to create tsunamis next, just you watch.” Silco’s easy smile came back in full then. A smile that brightened his eyes and stirred those damned flutters right back up in your chest. 

“I will.” Silence fell between the two of you, now filled with the returned chirping of the babies. A silence that thickened and made your eyes flicker downward to his lips, which you wanted to feel so so badly against your own. “Thank you…for all that.” You swallowed the growing dryness in your mouth down sharply. 

“Yep--” You gave your throat a little clearing as you turned away from Silco, knowing the longer you looked at his handsome features the more you were going to be drawn in. “Yep. No problem.” You recapped the canteen and all but shoved it into Silco’s arms. 

“Alright, I need a drink.” You announced, making your way towards the ladder and begging your heart to stop beating so loudly. “I’m kinda feelin’ like I might want to bet you about that win now.” Silco laughed, his footsteps sounding as he followed after you.

“I thought you said betting beforehand would only jinx it.” You shrugged, throwing him a mischievous little look. 

“I think I’ll just face it head-on, like you said. I’m feeling lucky.”

Previous | Next

[peachdues]

Phantasmagoria (Part I)

Tell Me to Stop (Sanemi’s Version)

Sanemi x F!Reader, Modern AU

A/N: it's time. This one is very personal to me, and I've drawn a lot upon my own life/experiences to write this. I hope it lives up to expectations, but in case it doesn't, remember there is still a part two and a part three (so more smut/angst/feelings).

Massive TW: grief, loss of parent to cancer, canon character death (in non-canon way), drug and alcohol abuse, anger, unhealthy coping mechanisms galore.

CW: 10.5k words; explicit sexual content. Unprotected sex/oral (F!receiving), mildly dubious consent (Reader doesn't tell Sanemi it's her first time, and there's a question whether he would've done it); both Sanemi and Reader are under the influence. Creampie, lots of cursing, angst.

For the playlist, listen here.

Without further ado!

Speak in tongues / I don't even recognize your face / mirror on the wall / tell me all the ways to stay away

phan·tas·ma·go·ri·a – an exhibition of optical effects and illusions; a constantly shifting complex succession of things seen or imagined.

Once upon a time, as a little girl, she’d believed love was pretty; she imagined it would be soft, pink, and shiny and make her feel warm and pretty in return.

As an adult, she’d come to realize that love wasn’t pretty at all; it was cold, lonely, and painful.

Love was dull and harsh and all-consuming.

Love was black.

For Y/N, loving Sanemi Shinazugawa was like falling into one of the black holes she’d learned about in science class as a child. It was infinite and empty and there was no space for anything but the all-consuming void that promised to rip her apart and condemn her to oblivion.

This love had taken her naïve, romantic heart to chew up and spit back out, leaving her only with a misshapen lump held together by the leftover sinew of her hopes and dreams.

Y/N believed her love for Sanemi would be the death of her. It was a poison that had seeped into her veins and was slowly rotting her from the inside out. She knew it was stupid to love someone who would not and could not love her back, but she hadn’t yet figured out a way to stop.

And since she could not stop loving him, she could only resign herself to its toxicity until it killed her for good.

—————————————————————————

Summer had ended, and Y/N was dreading having to return to Ubayashiki University. Dreading it because she’d spent the entirety of the summer back in her – their – hometown, caring for her ailing mother, and that isolation had meant she didn’t have to wake up every day with a pit in her stomach at the thought of running into him. But then her mother had finally succumbed to her illness a week prior, and Y/N was now forced to carry on in the world as though hers had not just been blown apart.

Looking back, Genya’s death had marked the end for a lot of things, including the once-irreverent trio that had been Y/N, Kyojuro, and Sanemi.

They had been friends – the best of friends, really, since pre-school, in large part because of their parents. Kyojuro, as warm and as vibrant as the sun, had been their grounding force, always wise beyond his years but quick to laugh. Then there was Sanemi, and though he could be prone to his episodes of anger, he was a staunch, loyal defender of his friends and would do anything if it meant making them smile. Last, there had been Y/N, and she’d been so happy to just love her boys and be loved by them. She’d always felt invincible with them by her side, ready to take on the world, together.

And for a while, they did.

Their friendship withstood even the toughest of trials. It lasted through the death of Kyojuro’s mother and the subsequent decline of his father, so unable to cope that he could not function without the bitter sting of alcohol to soothe the pain of Rukka’s absence. Their friendship had even endured the deaths of both Sanemi’s and Genya’s parents at the hands of a drunk driver, the shrapnel from the crash permanently scarring both of the boys’ faces, though Sanemi had born the worst of it.

But because they’d had one another, they’d made it through. Y/N’s own mother, though a single parent, took in both Shinazugawa boys until the state placed them in a home, though that rarely stopped Sanemi from frequenting Y/N’s house after school. Even Kyojuro grew to be a constant fixture around her house, drawn to the warmth and love her mother showed both boys as if they were her own.

And then they all grew up, and they were set to begin their first year of university at Ubaya-U come the fall. The three of them had been eager to set out into the world, to grab at any and all opportunities that arose, and for each of them to become great in their own right.

But not two weeks into the fall semester, Sanemi received the phone call that had brought his world crashing down around him. Genya, his beloved, cherished younger brother, had been shot dead outside of their foster home, killed by some kid in retaliation for some fight Genya hadn’t picked.

Y/N hadn’t been with him when he received the news, instead only getting a text from Kyojuro to getthefuckoverhereNOW. She’d bolted from her class and ran to the boys’ dorm across campus. She’d found Sanemi, curled into a ball on the floor beneath a hole he’d punched into the drywall, sobbing, and she hadn’t known what else to do but hold him along with Kyojuro while her own tears threatened to blind her.

Hours later, when Sanemi realized he would have to return to their hometown to make final arrangements, he’d asked Y/N to accompany him to the train station. Kyojuro would have gone as well, but he’d been unable to call off from work, and so the three had planned for Y/N to return with him the next day, as she was the only one between the three of them with a car on campus.

Of course, Y/N agreed to drive Sanemi to the train station, because she couldn’t possibly imagine leaving him alone. He’d looked so lost, so broken, and she would’ve done anything, anything at all, to lessen the weight on his shoulders.

Because she loved him, and she’d loved him for years, and love meant giving everything you had, everything you were to the other, especially in times of need. So she agreed, and though he’d been unable to speak, Sanemi had rested his head on her shoulder in silent gratitude.

She’d not known that, in her efforts to love and support him at his lowest, she would doom their group’s entire dynamic.

In retrospect, she shouldn’t have said anything. It was the wrong time, the wrong way to tell him what was in her heart, and she’d known that; but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. She’d been unable to stop the way her heart clenched as she walked him towards the platform at Amane Station, his head hung low and his eyes rimmed red from hours of crying. It hurt her to see him in such pain, hurt so badly that she’d been desperate to alleviate it in any way she could. She’d thought it would have been enough to hug him, to give him a reassuring squeeze and a promise that she and Kyo would be back home the following morning and that he wouldn’t be alone.

But then, before she could stop them, those cursed words had fallen from her lips and ruined her, ruined everything.

I love you, Sanemi. With all my heart.

As soon as she’d heard herself say it, she’d known she’d fucked up. She knew, as Sanemi stiffened in her embrace and pulled away from her, that she’d indelibly altered things between them, and that she could never take those words back. And she’d known, the moment she saw the cold, bewildered look in his eyes, so angry it made her stomach drop, that he neither returned nor wanted her love.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” He snapped, stepping back from her, creating a chasm between them that could not be bridged.

His train had finally arrived, and he’d stormed away from her, turned his back to her, and refused to look back as he boarded the car. She’d stayed behind, standing there amidst a throng of travelers and their families, for a long while, tears slipping hot and fast down her cheeks until the salt burned permanent tracks into her skin.

It hadn’t mattered that Kyojuro had called her later, Sanemi having filled him in on what happened, what she’d done, to tell her not to worry; that Sanemi had just been frustrated and overwhelmed, and that all would be well between them after the funeral.

Kyojuro lied. Sanemi hadn’t so much as looked her way the entire time she and Kyo were with him during his brother’s funeral and had refused to even acknowledge her small greeting. Y/N understood he was going through the worst pain imaginable, and she’d known he was angry because she’d dumped her feelings on him when he’d been in no place to receive them, but his rejection still fucking hurt.

Worse than his rejection had been his total ignorance of her, his obstinate refusal to so much as acknowledge her existence. Y/N hadn’t been able to understand how he could be so angry with her to not even treat her like a person, to pretend as though they hadn’t been friends – best friends – since they were in diapers.

Y/N had wanted to give him space, however, and wanted herself to stop loving him so things could one day go back to how they’d been, so she started to distance herself from Sanemi, believing she would still have Kyojuro, her sun, to lean on if she needed it.

But she’d been wrong, so very wrong. Because Kyojuro had defended Sanemi with a not-so-gentle reminder that ‘he’s dealing with a lot right now,’ which only fractured her heart even more because Kyojuro had taken a side and it hadn’t been hers.

Thus, Y/N was left to love them both at a distance, and she was forced to watch them carry on their friendship without her, even though they’d all come to Ubaya-U together and even though her exile from the group meant that Y/N had no friends at all.

So, her first semester at university, the semester she’d dreamed would be life-changing and exciting, became a cacophony of sobs smothered into her pillow at night so her roommate wouldn’t hear her winking out like a dying star. And she had no friends, because her best friend didn’t think she was his, and she couldn’t stop loving a boy who didn’t want to love her back.

—————————————————————————

Her mom got sick in the spring of her first year. Initially, it had been a good prognosis. Y/N somehow managed to balance her busy, pre-law class load with her mother’s care, fluidly alternating between office hours and hospital appointments. But no friends meant she’d had no one to talk to, no one to lean on in those moments when her legs gave out and sobs wracked her body because she’d been so fucking scared of losing her mom. But she’d been kept busy enough to be able to squash that loneliness down and ignore it like her boys had ignored her, and so, she’d pushed through.

By the time summer had come, however, things had grown exponentially worse. Several nights ended in Y/N having to call an ambulance to rush to her home, because her mom had fallen and Y/N wasn’t strong enough to lift her by herself, and there hadn’t been anyone else she could call.

There had been a few times – maybe two or three – when she’d passed Kyojuro on the street, home briefly to check on his little brother, and the fiery blonde would make a face like he wanted to say something like he wanted to talk to her or care about her, but Y/N would turn and run before he had the chance.

She never saw Sanemi, though that hadn’t surprised her. She hadn’t expected him to be able to stomach being back home so soon after Genya.

Her mother’s condition yo-yoed throughout the summer and into the early fall of her second year of university. Just when it finally seemed as though things were looking up for her mother, when she was just days from her last treatment, she died.

No one had been there to hold her – to comfort her – when Y/N began wailing as her mother’s chest rose for the last time and did not go back down.

Her mother had died, and Y/N had been left utterly and completely alone.

Her mother’s funeral had taken place on a sunny October day, the autumn air cool and crisp as an apple. She’d stood beside her mother’s casket as stranger after stranger passed, offering their condolences and personal anecdotes of her mother’s kindness.

Not once had she seen a familiar face. Not once had either of her boys made an appearance, not even for the woman who had loved them as her own.

She’d returned to campus a few days later, and because the universe had decided she’d not suffered nearly enough for some unknown crime, she ran into him. By the cruelest twist of fate, Sanemi decided to cross the street opposite her at the same time, and what was left of her heart skipped several beats.

For all her efforts to put distance between them, she still loved him, and it was a realization so bitter she thought she would start dry heaving right there on the pavement. She tried to duck her head, to avoid catching his attention, but the crosswalk light changed, and he was suddenly walking towards her, and she couldn’t help but chance a glance up.

Lilac eyes collided with her own, and Y/N thought the world was about to open beneath her and swallow her whole.

His gaze lingered for a touch longer than normal for a stranger, and Y/N feared he’d be able to see the scars from her tears on her face or see how her heart still bore the tattoo of his name. But then he blinked, and she took the chance to vanish among the throng of students, dashing back to her dorm before the tears could spill down her cheeks once more.

She barely made it to her room before her legs gave out from under her, her sobs choking from her throat.

She wished her mother had taken her with her.

—————————————————————————

It was fitting that Y/N met the personification of spring at the start of the spring semester.

Her name was Mitsuri, and Y/N sat next to her in her 8:00 AM class. The girl was so bubbly and bright that it was difficult, even for the drab Y/N to resist striking up a conversation with her. Mitsuri was a streak of color that bloomed across Y/N’s eternal gray sky, with her exotic pink and green hair and permanent blush. It took only a few weeks, but Mitsuri and Y/N became the best of friends, and Y/N could not get over how good it felt to have one of those again.

Mitsuri and Y/N began to do everything together, and bit by bit, Y/N felt herself smiling more, laughing as her friend flirted with every him, her, and them who crossed their path. They figured out they shared nearly every class together, and when they weren’t furiously taking notes during their lectures, they were studying together in small corners around campus, dreaming of what was to come after exams and graduation in a year and a half.

Her pink-haired friend helped Y/N feel confident again, like a person. Mitsuri helped bring Y/N back out of the shell she’d so carefully crafted in the wake of her abandonment, and she began to feel a little lighter, a little more buoyant thanks to the happy, beautiful girl at her side.

That wasn’t to say Mitsuri didn’t have her own demons – she very much did. At night, Mitsuri and Y/N push their beds together in the latter’s dorm (Y/N’s first roommate had long since moved out). There, huddled together under the mess of blankets and pillows, they would whisper the names of their heartache with one another – Sanemi and Obanai – and they comforted each other, wiping their tears away with soft promises that as long as they had one another, they would be okay.

By March, Mitsuri convinced Y/N to go clubbing with her. Y/N was hesitant until she looked in the mirror after her friend had spent the evening primping her and turning her into a woman Y/N scarcely recognized in the mirror. Her friend had dressed her in a short, emerald green dress that hugged every curve just right, a teasing slit going high up on her left thigh. Y/N’s hair had been slicked back into a high ponytail that swung tantalizingly between her shoulder blades. Her cleavage was a bit more exposed in the pinkette’s dress than Y/N was accustomed to, but damn if she didn’t look downright sumptuous.

Y/N was determined to let loose, to not think about the black stain on her heart that was him, and so she greedily accepted Mitsuri’s hand as the two braved the chilly, early spring air. Mitsuri pulled her through the doors of the club -- the Kizuki Moon Lounge -- and for the first time in a year and a half, she felt alive.

Beneath the strobe of multi-colored lights, amidst the pulsing bass of the techno-music threatening to rupture her eardrums, Y/N had found herself anew; no longer was she the sad, morose girl who barely existed. Under Mitsuri’s care, Y/N transformed into a raving princess, who owned the sticky floor of the Kizuki’s club each time she and her friend traipsed onto it in their too-high heels, wearing too-short dresses and clutching too-strong drinks in their greedy hands.

In April, Mitsuri introduced her to Shinobu, a wisp of a pharmacology student who was every bit as beautiful as she was terrifying, though Y/N could not exactly place why the petite girl could scare off any ill-intentioned man that tried to swagger over to them, given her ever-present, sugary-sweet smile.

She also met three girls – Hinatsuru, Makio, and Suma – who were beautiful and fun-loving and rounded out the newly-formed friend group with their fire-and-ice personalities.

First, there was Hinatsuru – quieter, but still capable of throwing it back and having a grand old time, especially once her drink of choice (rum and Coke) had the opportunity to work its way through her blood. A pretty blush was always the telltale sign that Hina was ready to jump up on a table and captivate anyone who had the pleasure of watching her dance.

Next, there was Makio, brash and bold, but fiercely loyal. Some asshole had made the mistake of snapping the thong-like top of Mitsuri’s skirt once and found his head shoved down on the table, his arm pulled back in a self-defense maneuver as the dark-haired beauty threatened to wrench the man’s offending arm from its socket.

Finally, there was Suma, who often clung to the other two like a lost child, but once she gained her confidence, would flirt with absolutely anything and everything that moved, with a sultry giggle and a bat of her pretty eyes. Within only twenty minutes of knowing her, Suma had convinced Y/N to make out with her, the beautiful girl tasting like cotton candy and summertime as their tongues lazily danced together beneath the throb of the club lights.

With her new group of girlfriends, Y/N began to lose herself to the alluring beck and call of Ubayashiki’s local rave scene, her nights quickly becoming defined by sticky drinks and jeweled makeup, and the skimpy outfits Mitsuri always shoved her into. But she could not find it in her heart to care, because for once, her mind was on something else that didn’t involve the smell of pine, or lavender eyes, or the feeling of a home that no longer existed.

But even though the sour drinks made her feel so warm and vibrant while she danced, there were still moments when clarity hit and she missed them.

She missed the way Kyojuro’s strong arm would drape around her shoulders, heavy and warm, and how his embrace always felt like home, his deep laugh infectious.

She missed the way Sanemi would pretend to hug her unwillingly but would leave his hands lingering on her back or her waist once she moved to pull away, a small smirk tugging on the corners of his tantalizing mouth. She missed the smell of his cologne, woodsy and clean, as he would lean in close to her face to tease her until she blushed.

She missed them so much that the sharp sting of alcohol eventually stopped dulling the pulsing ache in the cavity where her heart once beat. No matter how many shots, no matter how many sticky acid drinks she tossed back, that gnawing in her chest would not cease.

Then, one night, Shinobu pressed a small, lilac pill into her hand, and everything changed.

Initially, Y/N was apprehensive, because the pill perfectly matched the hue of the eyes of the person she wanted to forget most. But Shinobu promised her that this pill she’d created in a lab for school – Wisteria – will have her feeling like a kid on Christmas, and that promise, coupled with a flutter of Shinobu’s pretty eyelashes made Y/N cave.

At first, she felt nothing, no impact beyond the slight buzz provided by the round of shots she’d done upon first arriving at the Kizuki. But then, as Mitsuri twirled her beneath the flashing lights of pink and yellow, Y/N’s world exploded with a vibrance she’d neither seen nor felt in nearly two years. Everything, all at once, became magical; effervescent; infinite.

The Wisteria seeped into her veins and made her feel like Christmas lights had been implanted under her skin. Y/N felt shiny and beautiful and sparkly under the combined effect of Shinobu’s magical concoction and the balancing burn of her tequila, and with her new group of girlfriends flanking her side as they bumped to and ground against one another to the beat of the music, Y/N felt almost like she did when it was just her and her boys. Only now, Y/N felt even better, because, with her girls, she could ignore the way the black in her heart was slowly beginning to fester, even if that meant Y/N was beginning to feel more and more numb with each passing rendezvous at the club.

Because that numbness meant that at least she couldn’t feel the acrid bite of her unrequited love for him, and that was what she wanted all along, right?

—————————————————————————

(May)

Of course, Y/N should’ve known she couldn’t stay light and resplendent and numb in her neon and black light paradise forever. Because unfortunately, despite the large student body at Ubaya-U, her new friend group just has to intermingle with them.

Really, it was all Shinobu’s fault. Towards the end of the semester, Shinobu began dating a quiet, withdrawn boy named Giyuu, who happened to be good friends with the man that Hinatsuru, Makio, and Suma all have a thing for – Tengen.

Tengen was a recent graduate of Ubaya-U, and an even more recent hire at the local police department, his imposing size and discerning ears a coveted asset amongst the group of detectives who’d scouted him out. Having someone affiliated with the local police be part of their group ended up being a huge advantage to them, however, given the general inclination for people to look the other way whenever Shinobu began dealing her Wisteria in the secluded corners of the Kizuki’s lounge.

What was not an advantage, however, were Tengen’s friends, because Tengen, apparently, had become best fucking friends with Kyojuro, and by default, him.

Y/N stood awkwardly between Mitsuri and Shinobu as the latter presented her group of girlfriends to the new, rag-tag medley of boys that now included the very two Y/N had gone to great lengths to avoid. She tried to ignore the burning weight of both boys’ stares as Y/N finally introduced herself to Shinobu’s new boy toy. Only when she could not possibly avoid them any longer, not without raising questions, did Y/N finally allow herself to turn to them.

“Y/N!” Kyojuro looked so surprised to see her and yet, so overjoyed that it didn’t feel fair.

Y/N could tell by the jerky way the blonde’s arms twitched towards her that he’d been about to envelop her in one of his signature bear hugs, but he’d hesitated, apparently uncertain whether he was still permitted to do so.

Ultimately, Kyojuro’s elation at seeing her once again won over his doubt, and he pulled her in tightly against his chest, his arms squeezing her with a security she hadn’t realized she’d been missing. For the briefest moment, Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut as she allowed herself to thaw, ever so slightly, in the fierce warmth of her friend’s embrace.

It was a mistake; the moment she’d allowed herself to relax, she’d felt the damning prickle of tears behind her eyelids, and an uncomfortable lump had begun to take form in her throat. So with more reluctance than Y/N wanted to acknowledge she felt, she stepped away from Kyojuro, hoping that the dim lights of the club concealed the mist clouding her eyes.

Unfortunately, the end of Y/N’s reunion with her former, fiery friend meant there were no more obstacles, no more distractions, between her and the white-haired, scar-speckled man who gazed at her with an intensity that, to her annoyance, still made her want to squirm.

And as his eyes bore into her, she chanted over and over in her mind for him not to say it, to not let her name fall from his lips, because she could not bear to hear it. It would’ve been easier, so much easier, if he simply pretended like she didn’t exist, because then she could go on pretending like she wasn’t walking around without a heart; like he hadn’t been carrying it with him even all these months later.

His eyes did not match the smirk he had as he said her name, but it still took everything Y/N had not to fold right there.

But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t let him know that he still held any power over her, and so she merely raised an eyebrow at him and smirked back, challenging him.

“Sanemi.”

—————————————————————————

“’Sanemi’ is your name when I’m mad at you,” Y/N warned him, tapping his knuckles with the spoon she used to stir the cake batter. “Otherwise, you’re just ‘Nemi.’”

Sanemi smirked at her, sticking his finger back into the bowl to swipe another glob of cake batter as Y/N mixed Kyojuro’s birthday cake together. “And what about when I’m being annoying?”

Y/N flicked a bit of batter at him, nailing him perfectly on his nose with the chocolate mixture. “Asshole seems the most appropriate.” She squatted down to pull a baking pan out from below her mother’s stove. “Did you remember to get the candles?”

The grocery bag crinkled as her white-haired best friend shook it, the box of candles within jostling. “Sixty-one candles for the sixty-one-year-old man,” Sanemi said proudly.

“Haha,” Y/N mocked, though she swiped the bag from his hand to check to ensure he’d actually bought sixteen and not, as he claimed, sixty-one candles. “I’m impressed. It seems you are capable of following directions.”

Sanemi leaned across the counter and peered up into her face, that damn smirk of his widening as he saw the faint blush creep across her cheeks. “I always follow your directions, Y/N.” He said lowly, raising a finger to wipe a speck of cake batter from her cheek.

“Hardly,” Y/N scoffed, using the need to get Kyojuro’s cake in the oven as an excuse to turn away from him and hide her warming face. “I think you prefer malicious compliance.”

“You wound me!” Sanemi protested, splaying across her mother’s counter in mock-injury. “When have I ever not followed your instructions with a smile on my face?”

Y/N turned back to him with a teasing grin. “’Nemi, since when do you ever smile?”

—————————————————————————

Shinobu’s eyes flickered back and forth between them, a smile forming on her face even as Mitsuri tugged pleadingly at her hand. “Do you two know each other?”

Sanemi said “yes” at the same time Y/N said “no,” and the former’s head snapped to Y/N’s face, who fought to keep her features neutral and cool. “Not anymore, anyways.” She clarified though she refused to acknowledge the way Sanemi flinched in response.

Shinobu looked between them again, her smile fading to something more pensive. Kyojuro only continued to watch Y/N, his expression sad and so very out of place in this castle of infinite pleasure and fun, and Y/N found herself desperate to escape it – to escape them.

Suma, the gods’ gift to the universe, interrupted the tense moment with her arrival, and she produced a small baggie of those lilac pills that promised Y/N’s escape. Y/N could feel both Kyojuro and Sanemi gawking at her as Suma pulled her in close, the little lilac pill already dissolving on her tongue, and kissed her, as they’d done so many times before.

When the raven-haired girl pulled away with a giggle on her lips, Y/N looked back to her former friends and held her tongue out, Suma’s pill now almost completely dissolved in her mouth, and she winked at them. Let them realize that their Y/N was long-gone, buried alongside the mother whose death they refused to acknowledge.

Suma offered the newcomers a pill each, and Y/N was surprised that both accepted. Kyojuro hesitated more than the ivory-haired man next to him, who held Y/N’s eyes as he placed the little tablet on his own wicked tongue, an answer to her earlier challenge. Y/N grimaced at the idea that Sanemi was willing to play along in this little game, willing to impose upon her paradise if it meant torturing her a little more.

So Y/N tossed her hair over her shoulders and turned her back to him, letting Suma and then Makio, tug her back into the crush of people on the dance floor to twirl and grind to the music, as both boys stared after her and she let herself be lost to them once more.

—————————————————————————

He found her the following Friday, as she waited against the bar for her drink.

“And where have you been hidin’ all this time?” Y/N fought the shiver that threatened to lick up her spine at the sound of that cursed, gravelly voice that had always made her weak at the knees.

But Y/N hadn’t spent the last twenty months learning how to keep off of Sanemi Shinazugawa’s radar for nothing, hadn’t learned to keep her grief and rage and pain locked deep inside the empty cavern of her chest, just to crumble under the intensity of that lilac stare.

Y/N threw her head back to swallow the shot of tequila the bartender had placed in front of her before turning to face him. Sanemi looked every bit the simpering, cocky asshole she’d always known him to be, leaning up against the sticky wood of the bar, one fist resting idly under his cheek as he watched her.

She met his gaze evenly, shoulders loose with a relaxedness that she didn’t feel. “I’ve been right here,” she replied smoothly.

Sanemi shook his head, clicking his tongue disapprovingly at her. “Nah, you haven’t,” he downed his own shot of vodka before returning his eyes to her, looking her over in consideration. “Though, I guess it would’ve been hard to know it was you anyways.”

Y/N bristled at the comment but kept her voice light. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Sanemi watched her carefully for a moment, though his eyebrows furrowed, as though he was struggling to choose his words. “I just wouldn’t have expected to see you in a place like this.” He decided, after a moment, a frown tugging at the corners of his sinful mouth.

It was Y/N’s turn to smirk. “That would assume you knew me at all to begin with,” she challenged, motioning to the bartender for another shot.

Something tightened in Sanemi’s eyes as he held her gaze, and it clenched the knot of unease that had balled in her stomach. “I did, once.”

Y/N kept her face impassive. “Maybe, as a girl.” She accepted her second shot from the bartender and brought it to her lips, biting down on a wince as the sharp burn of the cheap liquid slid down her throat. “But not as a woman.”

Though she did not show it, his words struck a wound deep within her that she’d not realized still festered; because, as hard as she tried to pretend that the man beside her was a mere stranger, his words reminded her of the harsh truth.

She was still in love with him; had been, ever since she’d learned what love meant.

A shadow flashed across his face before disappearing, that insufferable smirk sliding onto his face once more. “I guess you’re right; a girl doesn’t wear a dress like that.” Sanemi purred.

Y/N fluttered her eyelashes at him, a foreign boldness taking over her mind even as the echo of her heart begged her to flee. “Do you like what you see, Sanemi?”

Her former friend’s answering grin was wolfish. “I’ve always liked what I’ve seen of you, Y/N,” he grabbed her last shot from her hand, ignoring the protest in her eyes as he tipped the tequila back easily down his throat. “You just always seem to disappear before I have a chance to properly appreciate you.”

Y/N knew she should run away from him, and fast, but her hand betrayed her as it reached up to brush a bit of confetti from his hair that lingered from earlier. She nearly hummed in satisfaction at the way Sanemi’s breath hitched in his throat as she drew close, her fingers just barely grazing the skin of his forehead.

“Guess you’ll have to catch me.” Was her only response, before Y/N departed for the dance floor and her friends once more.

Sanemi’s eyes remained locked on her the entire night.

————————————————————————

The days blurred into weeks, as Y/N and Sanemi’s new relationship took form.

The convergence of their friend groups was inevitable, though Y/N resented it; but now, they all went out as a unit, rather than as two separate groups which just so happened to run into one another, and it annoyed Y/N to no end.

More annoying was the fact that Sanemi seemed as willing to partake in the sacred ritual of taking Shinobu’s precious Wisteria with them, though he seemed to do it less out of a desire to feel like the flashing strobe lights of the club and more so because he wanted to get on Y/N’s nerves.

“Drugs are bad for your health, y’know,” that damnable gravelly voice snapped her attention away from the Wisteria that sat in Shinobu’s palm.

Sanemi’s shoulder bumped into hers as he came to stand beside her in a darkened corner of the Kizuki’s seating lounge, out of sight from prying eyes as Shinobu dispersed her latest batch of tiny purple pills, a smirk on his lips and a challenge in his eyes.

Y/N scoffed, reaching to take the small offering from her friend’s hand. “And so is that vodka you keep slugging back.” Y/N’s fingers were about to close around the Wisteria when Sanemi plucked it from the dark-haired girl’s hand, a cry of indignation squeaking past Y/N’s lips.

Sanemi held the pill teasingly in front of her mouth as Y/N glowered up at him. “Open up,” he ordered, pinching her key to paradise between his thumb and index finger.

Eyes locked with his, Y/N slowly let her lips part and held out her tongue. Sanemi leaned forward, taking her jaw in his free hand as he placed the small tablet on her tongue with the other.

 “Good girl,” he murmured, eyes lowering to her mouth as he watched her, hungrily.

As she accepted the Wisteria from him, Y/N let her tongue flick out and graze against his skin, dragging it lightly up the calloused edge of his index finger before she closed her mouth, letting the tablet dissolve on her tongue. Sanemi exhaled harshly through his nose, his hand gripping her chin possessively as he stared down at her mouth, and Y/N thought for a moment that he was about to give in right there and kiss her.

At the last moment, Kyojuro clapped him on the shoulder as he returned from the bar, and the spell was broken. Y/N blushed slightly as she turned back to Shinobu who made no secret of her raised eyebrow at the exchange between the two former friends.

Later, as she broke away from her friends dancing on the floor, she’d noticed Sanemi for once, was not looking at her, but at the hand he’d used to slip her the Wisteria, an unreadable heat in his eyes.

————————————————————————-

Sanemi liked to watch her while she danced.

At first, it had been unsettling to feel a pair of eyes boring into her back as she bumped and ground against Mitsuri or Suma, head tossed back as she let Shinobu’s pills work their magic, but she’d grown accustomed to it. Now, she craved the knowledge that he was thoroughly transfixed by her, because that meant at the very least, she was filling his thoughts while they were out almost as much as he filled hers every moment of the day, despite her efforts to numb him out of her life.

She’d confided her secret joy in Mitsuri, who’d conspiratorially promised her they would do anything and everything to drive the lilac-eyed man wild with desperation so that he might feel an ounce of the pining he’d shackled Y/N to feeling every time he so much as looked her way.

One night, a gaggle of them had gathered over in one of the Kizuki’s seated lounge areas as Shinobu pressed her Wisteria into their greedy, waiting palms. Sanemi’s eyes were locked on Y/N, as they usually were, as she’d exchanged a knowing glance with her pink-haired best friend and placed her pill beneath the heavy glass of her discarded drink and ground the violet pill into magic dust.

Eyes on Sanemi, Y/N delicately cupped the powder in one hand and brought her free fingers to the low bodice of her corseted top, tugging lightly on the strings to loosen it, inching it down lower to reveal the tops of the twin swells of her breasts, though stopping before she could be accused of exposing herself in public. She then turned her attention back to Mitsuri, her pink-and-green friend watching her with a sugary deviousness that made her stomach bubble with excitement.

Wordlessly, Y/N leaned back on the table, to the cheers and cat-calls of her friends, and she sprinkled some of the violet dust along the exposed top of her cleavage. Mitsuri leaned over her body, all vanilla perfume and pink hair tickling Y/N’s delicate skin as her friend held one nostril closed and inhaled every speck of the amethyst powder with the other. Y/N’s eyes rolled back into her head, and she let out a wanton moan beneath the black lights of the Kizuki, as her best friend kissed her collarbone in thanks.

Sanemi had gruffly excused himself for the bathroom and did not return for another five minutes. In his absence, Mitsuri had slyly let Y/N know that his eyes hadn’t once left her face throughout the entire vulgar exchange, much to her secret delight.

Y/N knew she was dancing closer and closer to the fire.

She knew that Sanemi wasn’t far from snapping, from losing whatever restraint he thought he had when it came to her, as she deliberately pressed each one of his buttons every time their group ventured out.

The next time he came close to breaking was when he saw another put his hands on her.

A hand gripped her ass, and Y/N turned and saw a man with long white hair and odd-colored eyes give her a wink. He was attractive, that was certain, but there was something predatory in his eyes that made her feel gross, so she moved closer to her circle of friends, keeping an eye over her shoulder.

Eventually, the strange man wandered off, and Y/N felt as though she could relax once more as she swung her hips to the beat thumping over the stereo strongly enough to make the dance floor vibrate. Shinobu held out a hand that Y/N eagerly grabbed, her friend twirling her as she laughed, carefree and alive beneath the resplendent rainbow of lights.

The song slowed to something more sensual, and Y/N was about to take her cue and move toward the bar when a hand grazed her upper arm.

Though it had been nearly two years since she’d last felt his touch, Y/N knew only one person capable of bestowing such a warm and gentle caress, even in spite of his hardened appearance.

Sanemi, to her eternal surprise, had made an appearance on the dance floor – his first if she remembered correctly.

His eyebrow was raised in question at her, and Y/N couldn’t help but appreciate he was asking permission to dance with her, rather than just sidling up and grinding on her like any other man would.

Sanemi looked so god damn handsome in that printed short-sleeve shirt. His sleeves had been cuffed to further show off his considerable biceps, and he’d left the top three buttons open, revealing his scarred but downright divinely toned chest. As he leaned in slightly, waiting for her permission, Y/N caught a whiff of his cologne, and it smelled like home.

Fuck it, she thought, her lips curving up into a siren’s smile as he stepped closer to her, bringing one large hand up to hold her waist as they began rocking to the beat of the music. Their foreheads were nearly touching as their bodies pressed closer and closer together, Y/N’s hips completely flush against his as they danced. Their noses brushed, and Y/N realized how dangerously close their lips had come.

Sanemi brought his other hand up to press against the small of her back, the one on her waist tightening slightly. Y/N looped one arm around his neck, her other hand coming to rest against his chest as they ground, Sanemi setting the pace perfectly in time with the beat.

Through her eyelashes, Y/N could see Sanemi’s amethyst gaze drop to her lips.

She knew she should pull away; she knew if she let him close the distance between their lips, she would also be closing the distance she’d spent so much time carefully crafting between her, and him, and even Kyojuro.

But Y/N also knew she couldn’t pull away, either; she’d waited, for so damn long, to know what his lips would feel like, and she was drunk and a little high, so the inhibitions that would normally have sent her running had long since been overshadowed by her unbounded want for him.

She felt his breath against her lips, and she closed her eyes.

Before she could finally achieve her lifelong dream of kissing Sanemi Shinazugawa, the music changed from the slow, sensual beat that they had been grinding to, to something louder, faster, and more exciting.

A scream grew louder as Mitsuri returned from heaving her guts up in the bathroom, and grabbed Y/N’s wrist, wrenching her from Sanemi’s grip and hauling her deeper into the dance floor to rave alongside her.

By the time Y/N was able to emerge from the surging crush of people dancing and raving, Sanemi was already back at the bar, leaning against it with his beer in hand, watching her.

She’d half expected him to look angry, but he only raised his drink at her, in toast.

The smirk that tugged on the corners of his mouth was full of promise.

—————————————————————————

Y/N supposed it was inevitable that this game of cat-and-mouse they’d been playing would end, and end like this.

She’d known where the night was heading the moment she showed up at the club in Mitsuri’s emerald green dress – the one she’d worn her very first time there in that strobe light palace – and saw his eyes darken from lilac to eggplant. Y/N felt the blazing heat of his stare in her bones even as she danced with her girls, could feel his magnetic pull as he watched her like a predator eyeing its next meal.

The more sober part of her was nervous, knew that she was about to cross a line she couldn’t walk back from. She knew that what was about to happen – giving her first time to Sanemi – would do nothing but exacerbate the poisonous love in her heart, but that part of her was so small, so feeble against the fire she felt in her blood as she approached the bar where he stood.

She pretended not to notice that he watched every move she made as she leaned over the ledge to order another shot. Only after the bartender placed the little glass in front of her, only after she tipped her head back and let the acid liquid slide down her throat, did she turn to meet his punishing gaze.

“You really should try joining in on the fun, Sanemi,” she kept her voice at a normal volume, forcing him to lean in slightly to hear her over the pulsing beat of the club music. She resisted the urge to close her eyes as the familiar whiff of his cologne hit her nose, the smell of a home and of a time before he ripped her heart out and stomped it to dust.

Sanemi smirked, and her stomach dipped at just how beautiful he looked, standing there below the pulsing glow of the lights. “I’m havin’ fun watching from here.” His lips were close enough to her ear that she shivered, gooseflesh erupting over her bare arms.

She wouldn’t let him know how much he still got to her, but she also couldn’t resist teasing him a little further, curious to see how far she could push him until he broke. She lifted her hand to pat the part of his chest he’d left exposed, his skin burning under her touch, as she made to pass him.

Sanemi snapped.

He grabbed her hand before she could pull it away and tugged her closer to him, knocking Y/N’s breath from her as he whirled her around and pressed her up against the dirty club wall to kiss her like she’d never been kissed before. He pinned the hand she’d had on his chest against the wall, over her head, while the other burned its imprint onto her waist. His kiss was demanding and hard, but Y/N was addicted to him. She brought her free hand to his neck, digging her nails in slightly to the sensitive skin to elicit a growl from him as he nipped her bottom lip.

Sanemi released the arm he’d pinned to the greasy club wall to hold the side of her face, tilting her head to he could deepen their kiss, his tongue sliding into her mouth to dance with her own. Y/N couldn’t control her body as she pressed into him, desperate to feel him against her, to feel him fill every empty part of her until she felt whole again. She knew she was dooming herself further, knew she was only setting herself up to fall harder than she already had, but she couldn’t stop because it was Sanemi, and she loved him.

She felt his growing hardness against her thigh, and she couldn’t stop her hips from grinding against him, heat pooling in her belly. Sanemi moaned into her mouth as her hips undulated against his, and Y/N felt herself go molten at the sound. She wanted to make him do it again and again, but Sanemi tore his mouth from hers before she could.

His chest was heaving, and his eyes were wild and dark as he looked at her. His eyes fell on her reddened, kiss-swollen mouth, and even in the dim light of the club, Y/N could see his pupils explode. He grabbed her hand, and suddenly he was tugging her through the crowded dance floor, through the groups of people near the exit, until they were outside, the night air cool on their overheated skin.

Together, they stumbled down dark, empty streets, though Y/N could not find it in herself to feel afraid, because Sanemi was there, and while he may not have cared about her enough to love her, he was still a gentleman who wouldn’t let her be hurt by anyone but him. They walked as she laughed because he kept stopping and pulling on her hand to kiss her again and again, as though he too, could not get enough of her.

Y/N didn’t know where they were going, but eventually, they arrived at an apartment complex, and it dawned on her that he’d brought her to his home. His lips were on hers the whole walk to his door, never breaking even as he fumbled for his keys. Sanemi finally unlocked the door and pushed her inside his dark apartment, kicking the door shut behind him.

Sanemi’s hands shot for her waist as he crushed her against him, his tongue licking the roof of her mouth. Y/N was sweaty and slightly sticky from the club, but the way Sanemi held her to him made her feel so god damn pretty like he’d been set adrift in a starless sea and she was his only lifeline. Sanemi’s hands moved from her waist to cup her ass, kneading her flesh as he moaned into her mouth again. His hands slid lower, grabbing her thighs to lift her up so her legs could wrap around his waist.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmurs, her head tilted back as Sanemi’s lips laid claim to her neck, his hips pressing her harshly against the entryway wall of his apartment.

The snow-haired man groaned, his hands fondling the soft curve of her ass beneath her dress. “Then tell me to stop,” he whispered, his breath hot as his tongue teasingly traced across her collarbone.

Y/N whimpered as she tightened her legs around his hips, locking him closer to her. If he stopped then, she thought she would fall completely apart.

“Tch, just as I thought,” his teeth nipped harshly against her throat as Sanemi pulled back to look into her eyes. “You can’t.”

Sanemi set her down, but he did not pull away, instead kneeling before her to run his large, warm hands up the length of her calves before bringing them around to the back of her knees. He tapped each leg one at a time, signaling her to lift it slightly. With a jolt, Y/N was completely suspended in the air with both legs over his shoulders, as he buried his face into her cunt.

He did not even bother removing the flimsy, lacy thong she’d worn under her dress, choosing instead to bypass it entirely as his tongue dragged right up her slit. Y/N’s head smacked into the wall behind her as she moaned, and she couldn’t tell whether it was the Wisteria or Sanemi that had her seeing fractals of light behind her eyes. She found that she didn’t much care either way, however, because what Sanemi was doing to her felt fucking incredible.

Her fingers fisted in his hair as Sanemi fucked her with his tongue, his teeth grazing across her clit in time with his thrusts into her. He was groaning lewdly as he feasted upon her, eyes lifting every so often to meet hers, to ensure she was enjoying it as much as he was.

“I knew you’d taste fucking sweet,” he muttered as he broke for air, fingers digging firmly into her ass as he hauled her back onto his mouth. His tongue darted in and out of her folds, lapping up every drop of her essence that he coaxed out of her, before he dove right back into her entrance, forcing her to ride his tongue as she writhed above him. Y/N desperately sought to grab onto anything for purchase, so that she could grind harder against his face, but Sanemi had her pinned in the middle of the wall, rendering her helpless to let him tear her first orgasm from her, followed by another, and then another, never once lifting his mouth off her tender core.

Eventually, Sanemi decided he’d had enough, and he moved to carry her to his bedroom. Just after he tossed her onto his plush mattress, there was a moment before he pounced on her when Y/N could really look at him. The only source of light was from the full moon outside, casting everything in Sanemi’s bedroom in its silvery glow. The moonlight illuminated the soft platinum of his hair, made his lavender irises melt into precious gems of amethyst as he raked his eyes over her panting, blushing form. His gaze darkened at the sight of her dress strap, hanging off her shoulder, before dropping to the hem that has ridden up her legs.

Y/N barely had time to take another breath before he was on her again, almost ripping the fabric from her in his haste to get it off, to expose her.

“This fucking dress,” he growled in her ear, finally tugging the zipper all the way down and shoving it down her legs, chucking the flimsy material behind him.

She was almost bare to him, but he was still clothed, far too clothed. Y/N sat up and ripped his shirt, the buttons popping all over the bed while he smirked down at her. She couldn’t find it in herself to be embarrassed, however, because then his skin was touching hers, and it felt like heaven even if Y/N knew she was only descending deeper into hell.

Sanemi graced her lips with one more bruising kiss before beginning his descent down her body, and Y/N felt electrified under his touch.

His hot mouth first came to her bare breasts. “Fuck,” he whispered as he let his tongue trace the first of her mounds, swirling around her hardened nipple before letting his teeth nip gently at her. Y/N squirmed under his ministrations, the sensation foreign to her and yet somehow, it felt wholly right, that the first person to explore her body this way would be him.

Not that she would tell him, of course; she didn’t want him to hold back, she needed him to fuck her as though there was no tomorrow. If he knew it was her first time, he would slow, or perhaps insist on stopping altogether, given that they were both high, and she couldn’t have that.

Sanemi pressed his hips down against hers, pinning her against the mattress and stilling her movements as he took his time lavishing her breasts, covering her in small marks that he soothes with sweet kisses that were enough to get her utterly drunk on him. Y/N let out a high-pitched whine as she felt Sanemi grind against the mattress as he sucked on her other breast, his abdomen pressing deliciously against her aching cunt still covered by the lace of her thong, as she desperately swiveled her hips, eager for him to relieve her once more.  

Her desperation spurred his movement, as he detached himself from her breast with a low groan, resuming his descent down her body, pausing only to suck and nip at her stomach, before settling between her legs once more. Sanemi’s lips met the band of her thong and he growled, deep and guttural as he pressed his nose against her, inhaling deeply and letting his tongue flick out once more to lap at her wetness over the rough lace obscuring her from view.

Y/N was nearly sobbing from overstimulation, Sanemi having already ensured she’d finished on his tongue three times in the hallway. Now, she needed him to fill her, and quick, or else she thought she would combust.

“Sanemi,” she whined, and his eyes flicked back up to hers, dark with want. “Please, I need you.”

Her words had an instantaneous effect on the heaving man between her legs, because suddenly his body was covering her own, his weight pressing down on her, and his pants were gone, and he was slamming into her with a force that left her screaming and writhing against his soft sheets.

“Shit!” Sanemi snarled in her ear as his cock plunged into her dripping heat, so tight and so unaccustomed to the thick length now bullying in and out of her with abandon. “You’re so – ah – fuckin’ perfect.”

Y/N was sobbing on his mattress, but not from any discomfort. The combination of Sanemi’s body mixing with the Wisteria had utterly blurred out any pain or unease she felt at the intrusion of his rigid length into her core, and instead, Y/N felt herself shatter into a million pieces, only to be fucked back together again by Sanemi, who kept one bruising hand on her hip while the other ensnared itself in her hair as he thrust wildly in and out of her.

But she was not close enough for him. The silver-haired god above her pulled her legs over his forearms and braced his hands on her inner thighs to spread her wide as he pounded into her, leaning down into her face to make her blush, just like he used to do. Only now, instead of teasing her, he was whispering filth that had her turning scarlet and begging for more.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he grunted, his hips snapping in and out of her with a ferocity that left her breathless. "You've no idea –”

The speed with which he drilled into her propelled them up his bed, but Sanemi moved an arm to come between her head and the wrought iron of his bedframe, protecting her.

“You’re a fucking dream,” he snarled, sitting back on his knees as he began to bounce her against his groin, her breasts jolting with every forceful snap of his hips.

“Sanemi,” Y/N moaned, her back arching off his luxurious sheets as her legs tightened around his hips. Under his breath, Sanemi swore.

“Again,” he croaked, the sticky pap pap of his hips slapping against hers filling his room with the sweet music of their dance. “Say it again.”

Y/N could hardly process his demand over the sensual drag of his cock in and out of her needy walls, Sanemi’s movements chasing every breath from her and replacing it with him, as though there were some parts of her that remained untainted by him.

“Again,” Sanemi insisted, his groin pressing against hers as he ground against her, his rough base swirling over her aching clit demandingly, causing her legs to spasm around his hips.

“S-Sanemi!” Y/N howled as he lifted himself from the mattress by his knees, taking her hips with him as he suspended her half in mid-air and pounded relentlessly into her, rendering her incapable of making any other sound that wasn’t a devotional to him.

Through bleary eyes, Y/N looked to see Sanemi’s own gaze fixed on the way her mouth was frozen in a perfect “o” as he pulled moan after sigh from her throat with his hips, his fingers digging into the plush of her ass as he bounced her up and down his aching member again and again. Y/N arched her back even more, allowing him to hit deeper within her and she felt an unfamiliar pressure begin to build in her stomach.

It was similar to what she felt out in Sanemi’s hallway, beneath his tongue, but this time was different. Every push and drag of his cock into her syrupy wetness had her feeling electric like the lights of the Kizuki club were being strung beneath her skin and plugged in, and she was slowly becoming a beacon of light for the man chasing his own release above her. Her eyes rolled back into her head as that coil wound tightly, Sanemi’s name falling from her mouth like a plea as she begged him to let her fall apart in his arms.

Above her, Sanemi fared no better, as his hips began to jerk and press into her without the steady rhythym he’d so carefully built, a cacophony of snarls and moans pouring from his mouth along with the filth he muttered against her skin as he sucked harshly at her neck.

Sanemi readjusted his stance above her, his thighs pressing hers down into the mattress, and Y/N lost control.

“N-Nemi!” Y/N gasped as the unfamiliar coil in her belly suddenly unwound. She was far too overcome by her pleasure to recognize she’d accidentally used her old, affectionate nickname for him as she reached her peak.

But the slip did not go unnoticed by the snow-haired man rutting into her from above, as the moment the nickname fell from her lips in her haze, Sanemi’s own release followed, his seed barreling into her hot and fast as a pleasured cry of her name tore from his throat.

Sanemi’s hips rolled into hers for what felt like hours as he poured every ounce of himself into her greedy, demanding core, Y/N taking every drip of his cum. It felt exquisite, to have the man she’d so desperately loved for so long be reduced to such a mess by her body, and Y/N savored the way his warmth filled her, as though it were possible of bestowing life back upon her even though it was he who’d chased it away to begin with.

He collapsed atop her, finally spent and satisfied, an arm winding around her waist as he sleepily pressed a kiss into the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Sanemi rolled to his back, pulling her with him, and locking her against his chest as though they were lovers. But the combination of the night’s activities with the dwindling effects of the Wisteria had exhausted him, and it was not long before his chest began rising and falling in a steady pattern of sleep.

Y/N giggled quietly to herself, marveling over the fact that her tolerance for Shinobu’s Wisteria was apparently much higher than his. Under the moonlight, she found her dress puddled in a corner of his room and shrugged it back on, gathering her heels in one hand and locating her bag with the other. She turned back and looked at the sleeping face of the man who still held her heart and smiled slightly, before closing his bedroom door gently and taking off into the summer night.

There was a new ache between her legs, no doubt the product of having her virginity taken in such an enthusiastic way by the man she’d left sleeping in his apartment, though he was none the wiser. Y/N felt oddly satisfied, as though she’d achieved some lifelong goal, as the summer air caressed her face. As she stumbled down the night-warmed pavement back to her apartment, Y/N laughed, her chest feeling light and empty for the first time in a long while.

Want more angst? Smut? Pain? Stick around for part two and see shit literally hit the fan.

Likes, reblogs, tags, and comments are always appreciated!!

[mymoonss]

my all time favourite fics <3

- marauders era! ships are majority wolfstar, jegulus and rosekiller!

coast to coast by lumosinlove | rating: explicit, ch: 9, wc: 59,139

opinion: i love love loveee me some oknutzy. THEY ARE SO CUTEE. (spinoff of sweater weather, another AMAZING fic) also idek if this counts as a marauders era fic but i love them and they need more hype

chew me up, but don’t spit me out by damagecontrol | rating: explicit, ch: 25, wc: 261,000 jegulus

opinion: AMAZING characterization, angsty as FUCK, and HOT

Atelier, Bloom St. by succulent_nurturer | rating: explicit, ch: 17, wc: 101,178 wolfstar

opinion: i’m exposing myself here :’) if you’re gonna read PLEASE read the tags!!!!!!!! it’s a cutie little fic with some smutty friends

Black Friday by gildedingold | rating: mature, ch: 12, wc: 65,477

opinion: just an overall amazing fic! black brothers >>

the golden king by maladaptivewriting | rating: explicit, ch: 160, wc: 711,414

opinion: canon DIVERGENT, jegulus, wolfstar, AND drarry?? what more can i say! angst, smut, and a smallllll bit of fluff, yes please

forget the world by amberlink | rating: explicit, ch: 27, wc: 113,123 wolfstar

opinion: greys au?? yes pleaseeee! the fic is absolutely GUT wrenching, if you’re not sobbing after this there’s something wrong with you

barty crouch jr's three step guide to getting over your ex boyfriend by locomotiveodyssey | rating: explicit, ch: 1, wc: 13,637 rosekiller

opinion: rosekiller.

braving the ocean by unsalted | rating: explicit, ch: 29, wc: 212,776 wolfstar

opinion: band au 🙃 wolfstar is wolfstaring

dark humor and dry cereal by my_castlescrumbling | rating: explicit, ch: 10, wc: 21,554 rosekiller

opinion: dating app au with my fav ship??? yes yes

more than a (sick) love story by seekthestars | rating: mature, ch: 23, 107,102 wolfstar & bitchkiller

opinion: after prank fic 🥲 sirius is going throughhh it! bitchkiller but they’re sooooo toxic, endgame wolfstar :)

A Streamers Guide To Public Simping by siriusblackstwinkbrother | rating: explicit, ch: 1, wc: 13,810 jegulus

opinion: james is down bad and reggie… oml i don’t even know what to say about him. i loveee streamer aus please write more :)

that’s it for now but i might come back and add more 😁

[readerstories]

When You Touch Me - Wolverine x male reader x Deadpool 10/?

Hello hello! Excited for new chapter, a little more world-building adjacent, hope y'all like! Before I posted this chapter I've also gone back and added some more details (and fixed some grammar/typos whoops), like reader wore gloves a lot of the time, so they wouldn't be able to meet their soulmate(s). (AO3) (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9)

Warnings/tags: male reader, canon-typical violence, enemies to friends to lovers, slow burn

Wordcount: 2569

Summary: You’ve heard many stories about how people met their soulmates. Everyone crazier than the last, ranging from typical meet cutes, meeting with one of them at death's door, in war, meeting at your soulmate's wedding to another, and everything in between and outside of that. You had just never expected to add yours to the crazy list, meeting yours in a fight, only realizing after trying to kill each other for at least half an hour. And you certainly don’t expect to have another.

Yet again, in hindsight, you should have stayed longer. Waited until they were both awake, maybe even slept some more while you waited for them (mostly Wade, since you had apparently woken Logan), and then made more concrete plans. The unplanned movie night and nap had helped, but it still didn’t take it all away, your body still aches as you unlock your apartment door.

Closing it behind you, you lean against the wall for a moment, massaging your head. It feels tender, so you press the heel of your hands over your eyes, groaning. You feel better, but not okay. Part of you wants to go back, to make it even better, but a bigger part of you wants to ignore all this soulmate shit.

So instead of leaving again, you take your shoes off, padding into the kitchen to fix yourself some coffee. It’s getting lighter outside, and it’s technically morning, so you might as well stay up.

While you wait for your coffee machine, you stick your hands in the pockets of your jacket.

There’s a piece of paper in your pocket. 

That definitely wasn’t there before.

Taking it out, it turns out to be a pink post-it note with a phone number and a small chibi drawing of Deadpool holding a gun.

Wade must have slipped it into your pocket while you slept. How deep were you sleeping for him to do that without waking you? You must have been really out of it. Or Wade just has really nimble fingers, a thought you do not let yourself expand on. 

Because, the frustrating thing is, under almost any other circumstance, they would have been your type. Two strong men who are skilled with weapons, and a little insane, you would have gladly taken either or both to bed. But mixing in the soulmate thing? Fuck that.

You crumple up the piece of paper, but throw it into your junk drawer instead of the trash, ignoring the other brief flash pink from Wade’s bandana in there. Your coffee is done, so you take your cup and walk over to the couch, the plan now being to watch some tv before going for a workout.

—---

You last about six hours before you think about the post-it again. In that time you’ve drank three cups of coffee, eaten breakfast, worked out, showered, and started watching some TV.

It’s when you spot a loose thread in your shirt and go to grab a pair of scissors from your junk drawer that you spot the post-it again. You stop, staring at the little piece of pink paper.

You should contact him. Not a call, but text him at least. Start the conversation so you don’t get as bad again. You’ve felt a lot better today, and looked it too, well enough that Dave had told you as much when you ran into him at the gym. (“Hey, look who’s not looking like he’s been chewed on and spit out by some monster! Looking good dude!”)

You spend several minutes crumpling and uncrumpling the little piece of paper, before you’re interrupted by your phone ringing, making you jump. You throw the post-it back into the drawer and slam it shut, grabbing your phone to answer Evelyn.

“Hello.” 

“You busy?”

“Nope.”

“Great, lunch? There’s this new bakery I’ve been dying to try, but Olivia’s busy today even though it’s my day off, so I’m taking you.”

“How dare she. Doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice then.”

“Nope! I’ll text you the address.”

—----

When you turn up at the place, it looks like a cute little spot. Flowers in the windows, and if you didn’t have the address, you could have followed your nose to the place. It smells of freshly baked goods and expensive coffee.

Evelyn arrives less than a minute after you, dragging you inside instantly. You chat about what to get, in the end you get a chicken sandwich, blueberry muffin, and coffee. She gets a green tea, BLT, and a slice of lemon cake.

After getting your orders, you find yourself led to a booth next to a window, where you end up sitting across from her.

“So, what’s up with you?” 

“Not much, why? What about you?”

“Just the usual. But I asked you first.” You furrow your bow as you take a bite of your sandwich, chewing a little before answering around the food in your mouth.

“And I answered.”

“Yeah, but only with ‘not much’.” You squint at her, swallowing and putting your sandwich down.

“What is this really about?” She picks at her sandwich, and takes a deep breath.

“You haven’t been looking real good lately, even avoiding working out with Dave-”

“You told me to avoid it-”

“Not for this long. But now Dave told me you’re better. You still look rough, but better.”

“Thanks.” You snort.

“Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“You’ve stitched me up enough times to know I’m often in trouble.”

“Not like this. Not like lasting trouble.” She looks worried, truly worried, not in the annoyed way she gets when you turn up on her table too soon after you promised her to keep out of anything that would need her help. 

You drag a hand over your face, biting your lip.

“It’s not….. trouble, really. Lasting for sure, but…..”

“Could you be any more non-specific or cryptic?”

“I met someone….”

“Okay…. What does….” She looks down on your gloveless hands, you fight the urge to hide them. “Oh!”

“Yeah.”

“Who? When? Where?”

“Remember the guy who slashed my chest and stomach?” You take a sip of your coffee as Evelyn stares at you with wide eyes.

“The guy you killed? How are you not- How did you not-”

“He got up afterwards. He heals, he’s some kind of mutant.”

“Oh.”

“And while fighting him afterwards, I touched him.”

“Your gloves-”

“Forgot em’.” Evelyn blinks, and after a few seconds, to your surprise, she begins to laugh. It’s quiet, but enough that she needs several tries to take a sip of her tea.

“Figures you met your soulmate when fighting him. Fitting.” She teases. “How did it go?”

“Not well, he ran, and I fucking had to track him down.” She raises an eyebrow, tearing off a piece of her sandwich.

“And how did that go?” She pops the piece in her mouth, chewing while she stares you down, very much letting you know you won’t be spared her full and undivided attention until you answer. She grabs her tea cup next, keeping eye contact.

“Considering my second soulmate tried to slice me too, not great.” She chokes on her tea, wiping her chin with her sleeve, mind too preoccupied by gaping at you to grab some napkins.

“Second?!?” You grimace.

“Yeah.” This time when she laughs, it’s a full on cackle. You feel your face heat up as she’s far from quiet. She draws the attention of quite a few other patrons, but quiets down after you kick her under the table.

“So the universe does have a sense of humor after all.”

“I don’t think it does, I just think it likes to be annoying.”

“Of course you do. But you gotta admit there’s some sort of irony in not wanting soulmates in any form, and then you get two. Do you know if it’s just strictly platonic or not?” You don’t want to answer, already so done with talking about it, but you remind yourself she’s your friend, she’s asking because she cares.

“It’s not.” You leave it at that, she gives a little smirk, though it quickly transforms into a frown.

“But you’ve been looking and feeling like shit for a while. Which…..” She sits up, leaning on her elbows on the table, staring you down. You feel like you’re in the principal’s office after pulling a prank that’s gone too far. “Have you been avoiding them?” She fucking knows you, so of course it’s an easy guess to make. You grind your teeth, but nod. In return you get your full legal name, which is never good.

“You know you should fucking take care of yourself, even if it means doing shit you don’t want.” She doesn’t grab your shoulders and shake you, but you assume she’s not far from doing it. “Are they not your type?”

“Um, well yes, but-”

“Then no buts, they are made for you, and you for them.”

“I’m not made for anyone, I don’t want the universe to decide for me.”

“Or are you just afraid of being seen?”

“I thought you were my friend, not my therapist.”

“I don’t need to be your therapist to know you.” She jokes, her smile slipping into something more fond as she looks at you picking at your nails. “I’m just your friend, and I just want what's best for you.”

“How do you, or the ‘universe’-” Here you do air quotes with a grimace. “-for that matter, know what's good for me?”

“Do you?” Annoyingly she is right. “But you looked like less shit yesterday, even worked out.”

“How did-” You cut yourself off and cross your arms, hiding your bare hands from her view. “Dave, of course.”

“He was worried about you, as we all were. But back to it, you looked less like shit. Which means….” She gestures at you. “You did go see them.”  You look out the window, watching people pass for a few seconds. You wish you were out there, in the throng of people, not talking about something you don’t want to even think about over the minimal needed amount.

“Well, I reached my limit. Felt like someone had thrown me in a cement mixer with rocks, and then tried to cave my skull in, so I went back to their place.” She sips on her tea as you look back at her.

“And…?” She prompts as you keep quiet.

“Not much. They ate, we all watched a Barbie movie which I fell asleep during, then I left.”

“Left or ran like a dog with his tail between his legs?” Oh, how wonderful it is to have friends that know you.

“Something like that.” 

“Did you even plan anything for the future? It clearly didn’t fully stop you feeling and looking like shit-” She gestures to you, you roll your eyes.

“Thanks.”

“How are you even going to contact them again? Just turn up and hope they’re home?”

“We didn’t plan for much, but I did get Wade’s number.”

“So call him and set up a date.”

“Don’t call it that.”

“Meeting then.” She rolls her eyes. “You need to, literally.” You rub your face, pinching your nose.

“I know, believe me, I am very much aware.” You glance up at her, and her gaze softens. She puts her hand out on the table, palm up, you put one of yours in hers. She turns it over, grasping it with both hands, massaging your palm with her thumbs.

“I’m happy for you though.” You don’t voice your disagreement on that, you know she means well even though you’re sure she knows your response without you needing to say it out loud. “Promise you’ll call?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Or else I would have banned you from dinners for three months.” You gasp over-dramatically.

“You bitch!” You take the offering of being able to dissipate the heavy talk, switching to wax poetically about her wife’s cooking instead.

—----

Several hours and a lot of chatting later, you’re home again. 

Your junk drawer still holds the post-it note, the pink paper being easy to spot on top of all sorts of bits and bobs.

You grab it, unfolding it again. Taking a deep breath, you pull out your phone. You decide to just start with a simple ‘Hi’ signed with your name.

Then stare at your phone for ten seconds as it almost instantly starts ringing, Wade’s number shining up at you.

“Fucking hell.” You mutter to yourself. “Hi.” Is what you start with as you answer it.

“Fucking finally, was starting to feel like a prom queen stood up during homecoming, I even wore my good panties!” You have to hold the phone away from your ear, as along with Wade’s words, there’s wind blowing into the speaker, crackling.

“Where the fuck are you?” You put the phone closer, luckily having just a minimal amount of trouble hearing him over the wind.

“Ohhhh, are we doing the fun thing of you picturing me somewhere sexy? I am so down for phone s-”

“No Wade, the audio is just awful.”

“Oh, that’s what happens when you answer a phone while riding a bike.” You rub your forehead, feeling a headache forming as you close your junk drawer.

“Is your handsfree that shitty or are you just holding it normally?”

“Nothing I do is normal, pookie, but don’t worry, Logan is the one driving. Say hello Wolvie.” You don’t hear anything except more wind. “He just told me to fuck off for holding my phone in front of his face, don’t think the phone picked up his sexy rumble.”

“It didn’t pick up shit except wind.” You lean your elbows on the kitchen counter, hearing Wade fumble with the phone.

“Logan, stop for a sec! Yes I know we are- Come on! I’ll blow you for being nice later.” Again you don’t hear if Logan responds, but the wind dies down, and now you can hear a bike rumbling, even more clearly as you’re put on speaker phone.

“There we go! Now you can hear both of our sexy voices!”

“You could have just waited, or just texted.” 

“Texting and driving is dangerous!” 

“Didn’t you just say you weren’t driving? And didn’t you have to have an arm free to answer your phone?” You move away from leaning on the kitchen counter, heading towards the couch instead.

“Yes, but texting would have needed both hands loose, I’m a double thumb texter I’ll have you know, and the fabric of the suit is a bitch to get out road rashed skin.” You hear Logan snort, and then a smack. “Anywho, you reached out. Finally missing us?” Your body certainly is, you wince as you sit down on your couch.

“Not in the slightest, but since we’re kind of stuck together, I thought we should at least set up a specific meeting time instead of a vague plan of once a week.”

“I know you said you would see Logan in a week-,” You’re not sure if you are imagining the brief sour tone in Wade’s voice. “-but what about tomorrow at 5 pm? At our place.” Wade offers before Logan speaks up for the first time, his gruff voice almost vibrating through the phone speaker.

“We got dinner with Peter tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah! Hmmmmm, day after, noon, our place?” Logan doesn’t object at the time, so you agree. 

“Sure.” You don’t know what to say next, but are saved by hearing something nearing in the background. It takes a beat for you to realise what it is.

“Are those sirens?” 

“Whoops yeah, that would be our sign to get going.” You hear the rev of the bike’s engine, then the wind starts back up. “Kisses and smooches, pookie, don’t be late!” Wade hangs up, leaving you staring out into space.

What has the universe gotten you into?

[kiss-theggoat]

I’m back again! I’m a sucker for Thomas Hewitt okay, and there isn’t enough about him! I was wondering if you could do another fic about him, a childhood friend of Thomas’s who moved away comes back in town. She ends up staying with them while she is in town, unknowingly having interrupted their killing plans, leaving a victim down in the basement and unknown from reader. But when the family isn’t home (who knows why) victim escapes and attacks reader. Reader attacks back but ends up killing the victim on accident. In fear she hides the body but the guilt kills her and she ends up telling Thomas. (I know out of character stuff)

A/N: Thank you for the request, I really love writing for Thomas and hope you like! 🖤

Surprise!

Thomas Hewitt x F!Reader

Word Count: 3K

Summary: After years of being away from home, you finally decide to visit your hometown…only to see it’s been shut down. Only one family still lives there, and thankfully, you know them, and they offer to let you stay there! But…after a few days, you start to sense that something isn’t right.

TW: Canon-Typical Violence

The drive to Texas was long, but as you watched the dust and sagebrush go by, your chest swelled with excitement. You hadn’t been back in your hometown since your parents made you leave when you were younger, and now that you finally had your own car and your own money, the first thing on your list was to visit that sleepy little Texas town you’d missed since you left. The only issue was that as you kept driving…you noticed that all of the street signs leading to town were decrepit. You thought…well, you’d been gone a long time…just normal wear and tear under the Texas sun, right?

Wrong.

As you drove into town…you felt your chest tighten at the state of things. Almost every single building was boarded up, windows shattered and spray painted, signs on the ground and covered in dust. There was no way that anyone lived here, hell, the only stoplight in town didn’t even work…

Your car sputtered to a stop in front of what used to be your favorite little convenience store. Where you used to go inside and beg your mom to buy you all of the candy she said was off limits. The same store you got caught stealing a candy bar with your best friend and thought you both might get arrested by the sheriff. You slammed your car door shut, dust clouding around you in a plume of sadness in nostalgia. It was so quiet…not even a cricket…until you heard a siren.

How can an abandoned town have law enforcement? You raised a hand to block the relentless sunlight, turning to the source of the sound, where an old cop car rolled up beside you. The tint on the windows was definitely illegal, but thankfully, the sheriff slowly rolled it down, revealing his scowling face, eyes blocked by sunglasses.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in town?” He asked, lip stuffed with chew. His voice was gruff, but sounded so oddly familiar to you. You leaned in closer, eyes squinting in order to get a better look at him. You peered at the name badge…Hoyt. That didn’t sound familiar at all…but then he said your name. You continued to look at him in confusion as he pulled his sunglasses off, his eyes full of recognition. This man obviously knew you…but who was he?

He stepped out of the car and shut the door, leaning against it as he spit a puddle of black sludge onto the ground. “Well I’ll be damned. Thought I’d never see your pretty face again.”

“I’m sorry…it’s been a long time since I’ve been here and…the name Hoyt doesn’t ring any bells.” I told him, pointing at the nameplate on his chest.

“Oh this is a buddy’s uniform. Lost my own badge. The name Hewitt ring any bells? Charlie Hewitt.” He spit again, closer to your shoe this time, making you cringe and step away just a little. At first, you didn’t remember the name Hewitt either…until you remembered Thomas. The one boy in your class that never came to school, was always bullied or called names because of his face. Your eyes lit up as you made eye contact with him, a smile spreading onto your lips.

“Hewitt! Yes! I remember Thomas.” You said happily. If the Hewitt family was still here, then the town couldn’t be completely shut down, right?

This seemed to annoy Charlie in a way, his lip curling up into a sneer at the sound of Thomas’ name. “Course you remember that big oaf. Hard to miss ‘im.” He spat the rest of his chew onto the ground, wiping his lip with the back of his hand, “Where you plannin’ on stayin’?”

This made you sigh. You were hoping the little motel would still be open, but you’d just driven past it, and from the looks of it, its only residents were probably rats and roaches. “Well, actually…I probably have to drive back to Austin tonight. I didn’t know the town had…” you stopped talking, eyes landing on Charlie’s wrinkled face, not wanting to say anything rude about the hometown you shared.

“Gone under?” He broke out into a wheezy laugh, making it very clear to you that he’d probably been smoking like a chimney since you left. “Yeah. Not a lotta folks left. But Austin’s a long way and it’s gettin’ dark…not safe for a pretty little thing like you to be alone.” The way he spoke sent shivers down your spine. You knew him…but he seemed …different. His eyes had a sinister glow to them, the way he stared down at your chest made you want to hop in your car and never come back. “Why don’t you come stay at the house? M’sure Luda Mae would love havin’ another girl around.” He took a step closer to you, eyes still focused where they shouldn’t be.

You spoke quickly, definitely quick enough to make your uneasiness known. “No, that’s okay…I really don’t mind driving back into the city.”

This seemed to amuse Charlie. “Oh, we insist. Tommy will be there…don’t think he’s seen someone like you in his whole life.”

For some reason, the mention of Thomas made you actually want to go. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but your memories of Thomas, while very little, were only fond. He was a big kid for his age, and very misunderstood, but always very kind and quiet. And…he did say there would be another girl there, right? So you wouldn’t just be alone with this creep. Maybe going to visit the Hewitt’s would be a nice walk down memory lane.

“Okay…sure. It is getting pretty late, I guess.” You agreed, making him smile and show off his stained yellow teeth.

“Perfect. Just drive behind me.” He told you, opening the door to his cop car.

The drive to the Hewitt’s home was longer than you’d thought, and their house was huge. As you parked behind Charlie, you stared up at the house in awe, seeing every single window illuminated. You supposed that with the entire town pretty much out of commission, they owned whatever property they wanted. Your shoes crunched against the gravel as Charlie led you inside, and the moment he opened the door, a feeling of discomfort settled deep in your stomach.

The house was cozy, but eclectic. Too eclectic, like every item inside belonged to a different owner at some point in time. It smelled like a mixture of expired perfume and rotting meat, a sickeningly sweet film settling on your sweaty skin, making it hard to breath inside the home. You stuck a smile on your face anyways, not wanting to seem rude as you were led into the dining room. It seemed as though you were interrupting dinner, everyone already seated in front of their bowls, full of some sort of stew. Your presence immediately turned heads, all six eyes fixed on you and Charlie standing in the doorway.

“Well I don’t believe it…” The lady whispered, who you immediately recognized to be Luda Mae. God, she’d gotten old. You remember her being old when you were in elementary school, and part of you wondered how she was still alive. Across from her sat an elderly man, who somehow looked twenty years older than her. He was sitting there, eyes on you but unfocused, like he was staring at the air between you and the table. Last to meet your gaze was Thomas.

Your heart sank when you saw him, or what was exposed. The leather mask covering his face upset you beyond reason. You knew that Tommy had been bullied for his looks when you guys were little, but never thought he’d make a custom mask to wear, even around his family, and at dinner for god's sake. That’s when it occurred to you, he wasn’t even eating.

“Found ‘er down by the old gas station lookin’ for a place to stay. Ain't she pretty?” Charlie asked, his voice low and predatory as walked towards his seat at the head of the table. The way he spoke about you, like you were just a piece of meat, made your skin crawl.

You gave everyone a polite smile and a little wave before speaking. “Well, I expected the motel to still be open…really, I can find somewhere else to stay, I hate to impose if-“

“Oh don’t be silly!” Luda interrupted. “We’d love to have you. You’ve just gotten so pretty…hasn’t she Tommy?” Your eyes shot to a very flustered looking Thomas, his eyes fixed on his steaming bowl of stew, still untouched.

“Please dear, have a seat, you’re just in time for dinner.”

To be completely honest…you didn’t want to eat their dinner. Something about the house and their demeanor made you want to leave, but if there was one thing you learned about growing up in Texas, it was to accept the hospitality.

“Thank you, Luda Mae.” You said softly, accepting the seat beside Thomas. Charlie scooped a full ladle of soup into a bowl and set it in front of you. With clammy hands you grabbed the spoon, noticing that none of their silverware matched. The spoon you had was delicate, handle slim with swirled details adorning the shiny silver.

All of the Hewitt’s stared at you with prying eyes as you scooped yourself a bite. It contained a chunk of meat, a carrot, and an onion, along with the broth they soaked in.

The moment that stew touched your tongue, you knew something was wrong. The meat tasted off, way too gamey. You’d had your fair share of meats, different kinds of game and homemade foods made with hunting prizes but this…unlike anything you’d ever tasted. It was tender, and didn’t taste bad, but the unfamiliar taste tainted the whole soup, causing alarm bells to go off in your head.

You were soon distracted by the sounds of the family scarfing down their own dinner, spoons hitting porcelain and lips smacking. In no time, your bowl was empty, and so was everyone else’s…except for Thomas’. But, this seemed normal among dinner time as Luda Mae cleared the dishes without a word.

“Tommy. Show our guest to ‘er room for the night, would ya?”

The wooden chair screeched against the floor when Thomas stood. He just seemed to keep going…he towered over you. You craned your neck to stare at him, mouth open and eyes widening. You stood from your own chair, noticing how much larger he was than you. You stood at his chest, and he easily doubled you in width.

Without a word he started walking past you, and you figured he meant for you to follow, so you did. The more you explored the house, the less cozy it got, and by the time you made it to the guest room, it was plain and simple, just a bed with white sheets in the middle of an empty room. Thomas stood at the door, taking up the entire entrance.

“Thank you, Thomas.” You said quietly, giving him a small smile that made him turn away from you. “It’s really nice to see you.”

The longer you stared, the more you realized that he was still the same old Tommy. A gentle giant with pretty brown eyes that sucked you in until you didn’t want to look away.

Just as you were getting lost in your thoughts, Charlie shoved Thomas aside, holding your bag that you’d left in your car.

“‘Ere you go, gorgeous.”

“Thanks, Charlie…” you said softly, grabbing the bag. That was nice of him, but you don’t remember giving him your car keys…

“My rooms just downstairs if you need anythin’.” Charlie sent you an uncomfortable wink, reminding you to lock your door tonight, and walked away. Thomas stood with his head down, still in the doorway.

“Uhm…goodnight, Thomas.” You said softly, a smile gracing your face again. This time, he looked at you. And you could’ve sworn that before you closed the door, his eyes crinkled, like he might’ve smiled too. You closer the door, and grumbled at the lack of a lock, finally getting ready for bed.

A shriek yanked you from your peaceful slumber, making you sit up straight in bed. Your heart was pounding, and you reached over to turn on the small bedside lamp. You were hoping it was just a nightmare, something you could just ignore and go back to the weirdly comfy mattress but the longer you sat there, the more you heard. Footsteps, whispering…but they sounded so frantic. Not like someone getting up for a glass of water or a midnight snack.

Slowly and hesitantly, you walked towards the door and pulled it open, bare feet finding every single splinter in the floor until you were finally in the hallway, staring down the stairs in the dark with wide, fearful eyes. Everything seemed fine…until a woman stumbled into your field of vision. She was bloody, open wounds on her back in an odd spot…did she just break into the house? She was near the front door and none of the Hewitt’s were with her. You stared at her, panicking, especially when you made eye contact.

Your blood went cold and you quickly backed up, barely hanging onto the banister.

“You have to help me, please! You have no idea what is going on here, we have to get out, you have to help me!” The girl started to ramble, but her voice was a whisper-like scream. Her bloodied hands hit the stairs and she began to crawl towards you.

You stared blankly, overcome by the fear and shock of seeing her inside the home…before you knew it, she made it to you. She gripped your ankle with a sticky hand, pulling you closer to the stairs. “Please!” She hissed, her eyes wide and crazed.

Instinctively, you tried to kick her hand away from you, pulling away. You felt your breathing speed up, panic overwhelming you. “Get off me!”

Her eyes flashed with realization, and she immediately recoiled. “You…you’re one of them…oh my god!” She wailed, voice full of dread and tears flowing down her cheeks. One of them? What did that even mean? This sorrow and dread only lasted a few seconds…before she turned to rage. Her face scrunched and it was like she’d been struck by lightning, body invigorated and suddenly strong enough to function. She stood and lunged at you, hands on your shoulders.

Your breath left your lungs as she slammed you against the wall, the back of your head aching in a way it never had before. In an attempt to get her off of you, you pushed her as hard as you could, feeling the slick blood on her shoulder and her neck where your hands hit her. Your eyes were closed tightly as you shoved, but it didn’t take vision to know what happened to her. Her body stumbled down the stairs, thumping all the way down, groans and grunts escaping her as she trailed blood all the way down.

You covered your mouth with your trembling hands…you’d just killed someone…you felt nauseous, you could feel your stomach turning as you stared at her body at the bottom of the stairs, laying limp. You prayed and prayed that she’d move, but she never did. A door slammed open from somewhere downstairs and that’s when you realized…

You’d just killed someone inside of someone else’s home. Tears rolled down your face and you slid down the wall to the ground, knees shaking and unable to support your weight anymore. Heavy footsteps approached the dead body at the bottom of the stairs…and Thomas came into your field of view. He stared nonchalantly at the woman, but turned to face you when he heard your sob.

“Thomas I’m so sorry I don’t know what happened…” you whispered, face bright red from crying and entire body shaking. Thomas stood still for a moment, but when he started moving, nothing could’ve stopped him. He knelt on the stairs in front of you, huge hand taking yours.

The warmth radiated through your fingers and up into your arms, making them feel less shaky and cold and traumatized. You stared up at Thomas, bleary eyes filled with tears, realizing that he wasn’t mad…or scared…he wanted to help you. Relief overwhelmed you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from moving closer to him, arms wrapped around his broad waist, head buried against his chest. With your panicking, you barely noticed the fact he wore a button up and a leather apron, droplets of blood smearing against your cheek. You didn’t care. Thomas wrapped his tree trunk arms around you and held you against him…it was like nothing else mattered. Comfort washed over you and for a moment you felt like you hadn’t just killed a woman for no reason.

“S-she just attacked me, she jumped at me and grabbed me and she was yelling and-“

Thomas’ hand gently stroked your hair as if to shush you, his cheek resting against the top of your head as he held you as close as he could.

There was nothing that would stop him from being close to you. Not the three bodies in the basement, and definitely not the bitch that hopped off the hook.

[hotchfiles]

↪ DANIEL 12:1 ─ chapter two.

AN IN NOMINE PATRIS, ET FILII, ET SPIRITUS SANCTI INSTALLMENT

pairing: hotch x fem!consultant!reader. summary: murders committed using catholic symbology gets emily to convince hotch it's time to ask for an expert. luckily for you, you're the expert. content warnings: canon typical violence. religious themes. spoilers to season 4. mature themes. mentions of throwing up. word count: 1.2K

      At that time Michael, the great prince who protects your people, will arise. There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then. But at that time your people—everyone whose name is found written in the book—will be delivered.

      He didn’t reply to your question, how could he? What type of person asks another if they believe in God after an hour of meeting each other? How could he answer a question he himself wasn’t sure if there was an answer to?

      Did he believe in God? What god? His mother’s, the one who allowed her to drink her feelings and spit it out in form of insults and violence towards her family? The one that allowed his father to die of cancer? The one that didn’t do anything to stop the sick men and women Hotch had to catch every week?

      He shakes his head, trying to get his thoughts back to the case presented now in the board of the DC precinct but his eyes land on you, the way your foot shakes, up and now, your legs crossed, your fingers tapping the table quickly and with a rhythm of their own, your bottom lip would bleed out if you kept chewing on them, but what he noticed most were your eyes, wide and focused on the board with all the pictures from the crimes, even the ones Emily hadn’t sent you.

      This was the reason bringing outside people was not a good idea. Not everyone is prepared to deal with death, horrific deaths at that, the way the BAU members were. You clearly weren’t. He might’ve asked you how you were once more, but as quick as he thought about it, you two weren’t alone anymore as the lead detective and Emily came into the room.

      “They were drugged but could feel everything.” The words ring inside your ears, loud and repetitive like a beating heart. Your heart. Your mouth waters in a way you know too well and you feel your palms clamming.

      You’re going to be sick.

      You give the room half a smile and a nod, quietly excusing yourself from the others while making the effort not to make a scene, but you’re barely able to see where you’re going as you try to reach the bathroom.

      Something tells you you’ve done a good job at being discreet, even if you weren’t able to conceal the awful sounds coming from your throat, the light breakfast you had suddenly not seeming very light. It’s probably the fact no one knows you, or maybe because everyone else is busy trying to solve a goddamn murder case.

      The thoughts in your head were quickly brushed over when you heard someone clear their throat, a light knock on the door of the stall you were kneeling at. Your body reacts fast, holding the door with your palms even though it was locked.

      “Sorry, occupied.” Your voice in rough from putting it through too much, but you stay polite regardless.

      “Are you alright?” There is genuine concern in his, it keeps any shame from creeping up on you.

      “Mr. Hotchner! I’m okay… I ate something bad, it’s alright.” The lie comes without a second thought, but it’s obvious he doesn’t buy it. You get up quickly, opening the door as an attempt to leave the situation behind along with the contents you just flushed down.

      “No one expects you to react to these like we do.” His eyes are piecing and you swallow dry, nodding in understanding and thankfulness, but unable to say much else. “I will leave you to it, we are going through the files again, if you need anything, you can text me.” Hotch hands you his card, realizing you don’t really have his number and stands to his word, leaving you alone.

      Truthfully, he’s not sure what made him follow you to the bathrooms, possibly the fact Emily didn’t seem to notice the way your lips had gotten devoid of color or maybe it was just in his nature to care for others, fascinating alike you or not.

      It doesn’t take you too long to go back to the conference room the team was set, only some minutes to wash your mouth and your face, a few deep breaths to control your heart rate.

      “So the motive isn’t religious?” You hear a police officer ask as soon as you get back.

      “It has religious elements but the message doesn’t seem religious.” You smile to yourself as Emily speaks, fascinated by her quickness to get into work mode, to get into the mind of who was doing all of that.

      “It‘s about punishment.” Hotch repeats your earlier insight, it makes you feel useful, and smart. You knew you were intelligent, brightly so, but having something you said be important in something so big as an investigation was… Different.

      “And how is that not religious?”

      “Punishment coming from a religious motive would probably include whipping and at the most extreme, burning. The use of the cross pose seems purposeful, it is a punishment, a shameful one, but also, there’s some… Status to it, because it was how Jesus was killed.” You can be heard by everyone, but your focus is again on the pictures, your finger quietly drawing invisible crosses along the table. “I guess it can be another way to allude to Catholicism, like Saint Michael, they are the religion with the biggest attachment to the image of Christ in the cross. But then again, it doesn’t have any other aspect of Christ’s crucifixion.”

      No one has the time to reply to your rambling, a loud ringtone interrupting the brainstorming, Hotch answers, promptly putting the call on speaker.

      “The widow was no help, she is shaken up and has no idea who would want to kill her husband.” Derek sounds defeated, “And Hotch, he wasn‘t religious.”

      “Mrs. Beckett said she tried to bring him to mass countless times during their marriage but he always vehemently refused to.” Spencer’s voice is higher in pitch but he sounds intrigued, deep in thought.

      “Alright, come back to the precinct, we are waiting for Rossi and JJ and beginning to create a geographical profile.”

      Your puzzled look doesn’t last long, as the team present begins pinning on a map the victim’s homes and where they were found.

      “No churches near the warehouses, but two near Monica Dawson’s place.” Emily comments first looking at the red pins.

      The phone rings again and you wonder if they don’t get headaches from that sound coming out of nowhere all day, but the sweetest and most cheerful voice you ever heard comes on speaker, Garcia, and you smile involuntarily.

      “Garcia, any leads?”

      “You know I do, my darling sweet boss—”

      “Don’t call me that.”

      “Fine, sweet sir, both warehouses are pretty much truly abandoned, but I sniffed around, and by that I mean I went far far back and found some documents I maybe shouldn’t be sniffing around—”

      “Garcia.” You hold in a laugh at the interaction and the supposedly threatening tone Hotch was using.

      “Both were used for military training, like… SEAL type of military.”

      There is a bit of an awkward silence before Hotch thanks and dismisses her, with the mission to find records of everyone who were apart of those trainings.

      “If we’re dealing with a Navy SEAL…” Emily’s voice is a whisper you’ve never heard before.

      “Things might get ugly. We need to be fast.” Hotch’s shows more confidence, but he is worried and as you realize seconds later when an officer barges in, he has every reason to.

      “There’s been another one.”

[teddiee]

Into Each Life: Chapter 17

Summary:

Because how? How does she move through the very same halls Tony does and never once seem to be drowning in it?

Because he still can’t step foot in a briefing room without someone questioning his competence, his fucking biology—like being an Omega automatically makes him a liability.

Carter watches him for a long moment, face giving away nothing. Then, in that same infuriatingly even voice, she says, “I don’t ask permission.”

Tony huffs out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, see, I also don’t ask permission, and yet, somehow, that’s never stopped anyone from trying to drag me around by the scruff of my neck.”

Carter’s lips twitch, just slightly. “I never said it was fair.”

Words: 13,381

Warnings: canon-typical violence/bad parenting/howard stark is the worst dad ever (what's new)

Tony swallows. The dryness in his mouth tastes like old pennies, something metallic and sour.

This part is always the worst—standing here, waiting for Howard to say the first word, never quite sure if it’ll be a yell or a whisper or something in between. The quiet is worse, somehow.

His father turns, gaze tracing over Tony with a kind of predatory calm. His shoulders stay perfectly level, not a single muscle twitching. It strikes Tony as unnatural, sometimes, the way a Beta’s rage can stay so contained.

Bucky could be a whole room away and Tony would still know the exact moment his temper started to fray, the second something in the Alpha’s demeanor twisted into irritation, or concern, or quiet, watchful protectiveness. Steve, for all his restraint, has never been much different—he leaks frustration and fierce, stubborn will like an open wound, his scent spiking whenever he’s gearing up for a fight.

Because Alphas, like Omegas, announce their emotions. Their grief. Their worry. Even when they think they’re hiding it. It rolls off of them in waves, unavoidable, like thunder before a storm.

Howard doesn’t.

His anger has never flared—it lurks. It doesn’t spill into the air the way Bucky’s does, thick with warning and heat and weight. It slithers under the surface, quiet, restrained in a way Tony has never been able to predict or prepare for.

It’s always kind of reminded him of a sealed pressure valve, waiting to blow.

Tony forces a breath. “So, um. Surprise?”

Howard doesn’t respond right away—only lets out a slow exhale, like he’s testing the weight of each molecule around them. Then, finally, he steps forward.

“I’ll keep this brief,” he says, tone clipped. “You’ve done quite enough posturing in front of the Reserve. I won’t have you do any more damage.”

Tony’s pulse batters inside his chest. “Wait a second. This isn’t about me—”

“It’s about your misplaced belief that you hold the upper hand,” Howard interrupts, smooth. Practiced. “You’re claiming to be indispensable. Demanding emancipation. Bargaining with Erskine like it’s your birthright.” He pauses. “But let me remind you who’s kept this entire operation running. Who has the resources, the factories, the staff to build it. If I pull out, you’re left with empty pockets.”

Tony’s stomach clenches at the threat. “You really think you can walk away from a war project like this? The potential PR alone—my God, you’d never risk it. The scandal would blow up in your face. Stark Industries refusing to support the war effort because you’re, what, offended by the presence of your son? The person who was once your heir?”

The words taste bitter, but he keeps going, forging each syllable like hammer strikes. “You’d lose everything you’ve been chasing—government contracts, endorsements. Public favor. They’d chew you up and spit you out.”

Howard’s lip twitches. Not exactly a smile, not a snarl. Something in between, a ghost at the corners of his mouth. “And you’re willing to bet your entire future on that, are you? Seems like a pretty steep gamble just to wriggle out of some bonding contract. You know what? You’re lucky that someone like Stone even agreed to mate you in the first place.”

Tony blinks, then lets out a ragged breath. It saws at his lungs, choppy and staggered. “Believe it or not, Dad, I wasn’t particularly thrilled at the prospect of legally and biologically hinging myself to the unhinged rapist who wants to usurp your company.”

“Stone is loyal,” Howard snaps.

“He’s playing you right under your nose.” Tony’s voice feels hoarse, but he doesn’t look away. “And you’re too arrogant or too drunk off his relentless, second-rate ass-kissing to pick up on the signs.”

For a moment they both just stand there, the overhead light buzzing like it might cut out any second. Tony tries to remember how to breathe in a regular pattern—inhale, exhale, keep the panic from flaring.

It doesn’t come naturally. It never has. Because years of gut instinct have him bracing to expect a slap across the face, a shove into the wall. An ancient reflex he can’t quite kill.

Howard’s jaw flexes. “Look, son, you have no leg to stand on. In the eyes of the law, you’re still my property. An Omega child under my guardianship who thinks a few fancy equations make him indispensable. I’ve seen your notes, heard the committee swoon over them. But let me tell you something: brilliance doesn’t give you power. Resources and connections do. And I’ll remind you, Tony, that only one man in this room has plenty of both.”

Every conversation with Howard has always felt like a boot pressing down hard on Tony’s windpipe. His body reacts before his mind can catch up—muscles locking, throat tightening, the instinct to yield rising in him like a tide.

His biology knows what to do. Knows what’s expected. Knows that when a person in a position of power stands over him like this—voice cold, unyielding, like a verdict—it’s supposed to bend.

For years, he had. Not because Howard was an Alpha—he wasn’t and never would be—but because power never had to be biological to be absolute. Because conditioning was stronger than instinct, and Howard had spent a lifetime training him to fold at the first sign of pressure.

Tony can feel it clawing at him now, the ingrained, gut-deep response to lower his gaze, bare his throat, submit. To show deference.

Deference to a man who has never deserved it, who would take his compliance and turn it into another steel link in the chain binding him down.

His muscles twitch with the urge to drop—to make himself smaller, to shrink the way he’s always been taught to when Howard gets like this.

Instead, he locks his knees and forces himself to stay standing. He clenches his fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He keeps his tone even, though it feels like forcing shards of glass through his throat.

“You really think,” he says quietly, “that I don’t know how the world works by now?”

Howard’s gaze sharpens.

“You think I don’t know what power is?” Tony continues, jaw tight. “That I don’t know exactly how many strings you had to pull just to try and keep me under your thumb?” He lets out a short, humorless breath. “I know what leverage looks like, Dad. And I know how badly it burns when you realize you don’t have it anymore. Because sure. I mean, this is all interesting in theory, but the SSR sure looked a lot more fascinated in my meltdown fix than the depths of your pockets, or the capabilities of your entire second-rate engineering team.”

He can hear the dryness in his own voice, feel the words drag. God, he’s tired. Tired of pretending he isn’t scared. Tired of dealing with paternal sabotage like it’s some unavoidable law of physics. “You want to bail? Fine. Go ahead. But I’ll make sure everyone here knows it’s because you couldn’t handle your Omega son outqualifying you.”

A flicker of pure, seething anger flashes in Howard’s eyes. But he doesn’t lash out, just inhales slowly, as though forcing composure into every breath. “You’re gambling with forces you can’t control,” he snaps, each syllable methodical. “You’re used to scribbling out solutions in your notebooks, manipulating data from textbooks you steal from my library. You think I don’t know about that, by the way? The War Department won’t coddle you once they’ve got what they need. And once they’re done, I’ll make damned sure Tiberius reclaims every right he has to you.”

Tony’s gut twists, a sickening churn that he forces down like it’s nothing. His face slips into the familiar blankness, the mask he’s spent years perfecting.

“I’m with you… If that means we take the risk—look into the bond, or… or figure out another way, I’m in.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, baby. I’m sure.”

Tony’s mouth tastes like acid, each word scraping against the dryness in his throat. But he holds Howard’s gaze. “Tiberius can go fuck himself. And you can take that bullshit contract and shove it—hell, set it on fire while you’re at it, see if I care. If I’m already bonded, it’s void. You won’t have a legal claim. Not you, not Stone, not whatever leech comes sniffing around next, hoping to sweet-talk you into selling off what’s left of your company.”

The words land with the force of a detonation.

Howard’s eyes narrow, surprise sparking for just a second before that frozen anger sets in again.

“What the hell are you even talking about?”

Something shifts in his father’s expression, then—doubt, or maybe shock. For a moment, he just stares, as though Tony’s grown a second head. The moment drags, tension pressing in from all sides.

Then Howard exhales, a slow, controlled breath through his nose.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Howard says at last, voice low and cold. “You have no one. You have nothing. You might think Erskine’s your protector, but once you’re no longer useful—”

“Maybe I don’t have to rely on the SSR,” Tony cuts in, pulse thudding so hard it almost hurts. His voice is frantic, thready. His panic feels like a tangible, visceral thing, and despite his best efforts, it spikes the air. “Maybe there’s… someone else. Another Alpha. So don’t bother trying to lock me to Tiberius. I’ll—”

He doesn’t see the blow coming. One second, he’s talking—spitting out the words in a rush, hardly even aware he’s doing it. The next, Howard’s hand lashes out in a violent, uncoiled arc, the sharp crack of his knuckles slicing through the air before Tony even registers the movement.

The backhand lands hard, jarring, a brutal collision of bone against flesh.

Pain detonates across Tony’s cheekbone like an explosive, snapping his head sideways with the force of it. A blinding burst of white floods his vision, and for a second, everything inside him lurches—his breath, his balance, his ability to even comprehend what just happened. His ears ring, sharp and shrill, drowning out everything but the high-pitched whine of his own nervous system scrambling to catch up.

The sting spreads in a violent bloom, radiating from the point of impact like fire licking under his skin. His jaw throbs, a deep, aching pulse that crawls up into his temple, down the hinge of his neck. His lip stings, swelling fast—maybe split, maybe not. His mouth fills with the thick, bitter taste of copper.

For a moment, Tony just stands there, stunned, his body locked in the kind of rigid stillness that only comes from shock. The whole room blurs at the edges, nausea creeping in at the base of his throat.

Howard, still rigid with fury, breathes hard through his nose. His hand is frozen midair, fingers curled slightly, like even he hadn’t expected to do it. Like the sheer force of his own anger had startled him.

Then his fingers flex, and the tension in his arm unwinds with a slow, deliberate shake. He exhales, the sound barely more than a tremor, but whatever moment of hesitation lingers is gone as quickly as it came.

Tony staggers back a step, one hand flying to his cheek, pressing against the bruising heat searing under his skin. The world tilts slightly—just a fraction, but enough to make him feel unsteady, his balance thrown.

His breath comes short and tight, lungs seizing around the phantom imprint of Howard’s hand. His pulse hammers against his ribs, sharp and erratic, but he forces himself to breathe through it, to tamp down the instinctive nausea curling in his stomach.

For a single, suspended moment, neither of them speak.

Then Howard’s arm falls stiffly to his side, and he inhales again—slow, controlled.

Any trace of regret vanishes beneath the steel of his fury.

His father drags in a breath, glare slicing through Tony like a scalpel. When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Deadly. “Who?”

Tony feels his pulse trip over itself.  A quiet voice in Tony’s head warns him to stay calm, to say nothing. So he doesn’t move, pressing his lips together to keep the details locked tight.

Howard’s gaze flicks over Tony’s reddening cheek, then dips down Tony’s tense form as if scanning for weakness. His own face is eerily composed, but behind it, Tony can smell the rage seething, held only by a thread. “Don’t even think about lying to me. I want a name, Tony. What kind of Alpha do you think is going to mate you?" he sneers. "Some gutter-feeding, low-class knothead looking for a warm body to leash up now that his first bond’s already rotted out?”

Tony’s stomach twists. He clenches his fists at his sides, nails biting hard into his palms. He suppresses his whimper.

“Well?” he sneers when Tony doesn’t answer. “You cry about Stone being a ‘rapist’ and a ‘monster,’ but tell me, how exactly are you any different? You’re just another desperate little Omega spreading your legs for the first Alpha who sniffs in your direction. You have no pedigree, no discipline, and certainly no purity worth bartering for,” he continues, his disgust coiling between them like a living thing. “I had at least hoped you’d have the decency to keep your legs shut until the contract was finalized. But, well—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Guess I gave you too much credit.”

A tremor runs through Tony’s body. He’s so close to snapping back— to spitting in Howard’s face, telling him exactly what he thinks. But the sting of the blow, radiating down his jaw in a sharp, pulsing heat, makes him hesitate. He steels himself instead, shutting down every flicker of emotion that tries to claw its way out.

He lifts his chin, slowly, refusing to break eye contact. “I’m not telling you anything,” Tony manages. His voice wobbles on the last syllable, but he keeps it as steady as he can. His lip throbs where it split, the coppery tang of blood thick on his tongue. “And you can’t make me.”

Howard’s fury crackles, radiating off him in waves. For an instant, Tony’s sure he’s about to be struck again—he can see the shift in Howard’s weight, the tension coiling in his shoulders, the way his gaze snaps up as if calculating an angle. Tony braces, breath locked in his chest. If Howard swings again, he’ll taste blood and dust and everything he’s choked on for years.

The blow never lands.

The door to the conference room creaks open, its hinges protesting under the weight of the silence between them. Tony doesn’t move—his body too locked in the expectation of pain. But Howard startles, his head snapping toward the doorway, his arm still half-raised in the air.

And standing there, poised in the threshold like she’s been here all along, is Agent Carter.

She doesn’t say anything, not at first. Just steps inside, her expression perfectly composed, betraying nothing. Cool eyes scan the room in a single sweep—Howard’s tense posture, the angle of his body turned toward Tony, the way Tony has instinctively curled inward, one hand still cupped over the blooming red mark on his cheek.

Tony barely knows her. They’ve never really spoken—just exchanged the occasional glance in the dining room of his family’s estate, a few passing nods of recognition. She’s an anomaly to him, another Omega, yet not like any he’s ever met before.

She’s striking in a way that most people aren’t—sharp, deliberate. Not beautiful in the delicate, wilting way Omegas are often expected to be, but in the way of something carefully, powerfully composed. Dark, polished curls frame her face, pinned just-so at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place despite the long hours she must work. The deep navy of her uniform contrasts against her fair skin, the crisp lines of her pressed blouse immaculate. She’s poised, unruffled, the very picture of confidence.

But it’s not just the way she looks that unsettles Tony—it’s the way she scents.

Even as harried and exhausted as he is, Tony can pick up on it. Her scent isn’t soft or cloying, not the delicate, faint florals of bonded Omegas who are carefully tempered to suit their Alphas.

No, Carter’s scent is cool, clean, with a sharper undercurrent—something that reminds Tony of fresh linen pressed crisp, of the faintest trace of bergamot, of something precise and disciplined. It’s controlled, carefully restrained, not the sweet, inviting pull of an Omega softened for an Alpha’s comfort, but something steadier, more deliberate. It doesn’t cling or spill into the room like an unspoken plea—it stays close, honed and measured, a quiet warning rather than an invitation.

A scent wielded not as a lure, but as a boundary.

She’s the only other Omega he’s ever seen on SSR premises, moving through its halls like she belongs, like she’s never once questioned her place.

Like no one else does, either.

And she sure as hell isn’t flinching at Howard Stark.

"Mr. Stark," she says smoothly. "Colonel Phillips is looking for you. Something about a last-minute adjustment to the energy displacement model.”

A pause. Not long, but long enough.

"You’ll want to be quick about it," she adds, voice even. "He seemed rather… impatient.”

Howard hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second, but Tony sees it—sees the flicker of uncertainty in the way his fingers twitch, sees the slight hitch in his breath as he recalculates. A man used to dominance, to control, to rooms that move around him, not the other way around.

But Agent Carter doesn’t yield.

She stands there, waiting. Watching.

Howard exhales sharply, lowering his arm. "Of course he does," he mutters. His voice is clipped, but there’s an edge of something else there. A barely veiled frustration that he’s been interrupted. That he can’t finish what he started.

He doesn’t look at Tony again. Just straightens his cuffs with sharp, practiced efficiency, rolling his shoulders back like shaking off an unpleasant conversation. Then he brushes past her, striding out into the hall without another word.

Agent Carter doesn’t move until the door hisses shut behind him.

And then—only then—does she turn her gaze back to Tony.

For a long moment, she doesn’t speak. She just looks at him, eyes unreadable, cool and assessing. Tony shifts, suddenly aware of the way his body is still half-curled inward, how his fingers are trembling slightly where they press against his cheek.

He swallows. Forces his hand to drop.

Carter doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t acknowledge the mark at all, doesn’t acknowledge the overpowering scent of his distress. But she doesn’t ignore it, either. She simply steps into the room fully, the door clicking shut behind her with an air of finality.

“Are you all right?” She asks.

Tony doesn’t answer. Not because he can’t, but mostly because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

She reaches into the pocket of her pressed blazer, retrieves a neatly folded handkerchief, and holds it out between two fingers.

Tony stares at it for a second, brain sluggish, like he’s forgotten how social interaction works. Then it clicks.

Ah. For the blood.

He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth first, just to be stubborn, but the coppery taste lingers, thick and unpleasant. Eventually, he takes the handkerchief from her, begrudgingly, dabbing at his split lip with slow, careful pressure.

"Swell," he mumbles around the sting. “Thanks.”

Carter doesn’t respond, doesn’t move to sit, just watches him, composed and unreadable. He’s not sure what she expects. An explanation? An argument? An embarrassing display of Omega vulnerability?

She’ll be waiting a long time.

The silence stretches, filled only by the distant hum of the overhead fluorescents. Tony keeps his head tilted down, dabbing carefully, but he can still feel her gaze on him, steady and unflinching.

He resists the urge to fidget under it.

"You don’t like me very much, do you?" he says eventually, voice dry, muffled slightly by the fabric pressed to his mouth.

That earns him a faint arch of her brow, but little else. "I don’t know you well enough to have an opinion," she replies, voice as measured as ever.

Tony lets out a short, humorless breath. "Yeah, well. That hasn’t ever stopped anyone else.”

She doesn’t acknowledge the bitter lilt in his tone. Just tips her head slightly, eyes flicking toward the door Howard had stormed out of. “He’s never going to let you go through with this willingly," she says.

It’s not a question. Not even a warning. Just a fact.

Tony presses the handkerchief harder against his lip, wincing slightly at the sting. "Yeah," he mutters. “Figured that one out on my own, thanks.”

Another pause. Then, finally, Carter moves, stepping forward with a slow, deliberate purpose. She doesn’t sit, but she does place her hands flat against the edge of the table, leaning just slightly into Tony’s space.

“What he wants is irrelevant,” she says, voice quiet but firm. “Not if you want something else more.”

Tony lifts his gaze to her, studying the way she says it. The surety in her posture, the way there’s not a single flicker of doubt in her expression. She says it like she believes it, completely, and Tony wonders what it must be like to move through the world like that. To be an Omega and still hold your own like it’s your right, like it’s not something you have to fight for tooth and nail every damn day.

He swallows, looking away first.

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

Carter exhales through her nose. “It never is.”

For a moment, Tony just stares at the table between them. He’s exhausted, every nerve in his body still frayed from the confrontation, from the unrelenting pressure that’s been closing in from all sides.

Tony exhales sharply, tilting his head back against the chair with an edge of frustration that’s been simmering beneath his skin for weeks now. Maybe longer.

Maybe his entire life.

He can feel Agent Carter’s eyes on him still, steady and unblinking, and it makes him prickle with something akin to—bitterness, maybe. Unfair, really; she’s done nothing but help. But he can’t shake the notion that somehow she’s managed to bend this whole damn organization to her will, while he has to fight just to be allowed in a briefing room.

“It must be nice,” Tony says at last, voice coming out sharper than he intends. “Having half the U.S. Army and every high-ranking Alpha government bigwig hanging on your every word. Meanwhile, I can’t walk down the hallway without people staring at my throat or my… whatever. I can’t walk into a single meeting without someone questioning my emotional stability or my competence because, oh dear, I’m an Omega, and might cry if the big, scary men in ugly polyester uniforms raise their voices.”

He regrets it the instant it leaves his mouth.

He pinches his eyes shut and sighs. “Sorry. God, ignore me. I’m an asshole. I’m just—” His lip throbs, stinging each time he speaks. “I’m not in the greatest mood.”

Carter doesn’t even blink. “Apology accepted,” she says mildly.

“I just… I have to ask. How the hell do you do it?”

Carter doesn’t so much as blink. “Do what?”

Tony gestures vaguely in her direction. “This. All of this.” His hand sweeps toward her, toward the closed door, toward the space where Howard had stood just minutes ago, seconds away from putting another mark on Tony’s face. “The whole walking-around-the-secret-government-bunker-like-you-own-the-place thing. And the commanding-the-attention-of-a-bunch-of-insecure-Alphas-without-them-making-vague-threats-about-trying-to-bite-you thing. The part where you’re—clearly—the most intelligent person in the room, by the way, and somehow, no one’s questioning it.”

Because how? How does she move through the very same halls Tony does and never once seem to be drowning in it?

Because he still can’t step foot in a briefing room without someone questioning his competence, his fucking biology—like being an Omega automatically makes him a liability.

Carter watches him for a long moment, face giving away nothing. Then, in that same infuriatingly even voice, she says, “I don’t ask permission.”

Tony huffs out a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah, see, I also don’t ask permission, and yet, somehow, that’s never stopped anyone from trying to drag me around by the scruff of my neck.”

Carter’s lips twitch, just slightly. “I never said it was fair.”

“No kidding,” Tony mutters, dabbing at his lip again. The damn thing won’t stop bleeding. He sighs, mostly to himself, shifting the cloth away and grimacing at the fresh smear of red. “This is great. Can’t wait to go home with another unexplainable injury; my Alpha’s gonna commit manslaughter.”

He’s not even thinking when he says it, the words slipping out on exasperated autopilot. Just another offhand complaint, another small grievance on an ever-growing list. It takes a second for him to realize what he’s just admitted, but by then, Carter’s already arching an eyebrow.

“I thought you were trying to get out of your bonding contract with your Alpha,” she says mildly.

For a heartbeat, Tony just stares, the question rattling around in his head. Then he snorts a humorless laugh, pressing the handkerchief back to his mouth to staunch the new trickle of blood.

“Right. Not… ugh. Not that Alpha.” He drops his gaze, exhaustion weighing on every word. “I meant my Alpha. I have one. A… different one. Not the Count Zaroff-wannabe my father’s trying to legally bind me to.”

Carter's expression doesn’t change much, but there’s a shift—something in the way her focus sharpens, like the fine-tuning of a radio dial. She takes in the words, dissects them, files them away into whatever neat, orderly categories she keeps in her head. And for the first time in this entire conversation, Tony gets the distinct impression that she’s actually interested.

"Hm," is all she says.

Tony lets out a short, incredulous laugh, wiping at the corner of his mouth again. “Can’t say I don’t appreciate your nonchalance. That grand reveal just got me smacked in the mouth, by the way.”

Carter tilts her head, still watching him like she’s figuring something out. “I was under the impression that every action you’ve taken in the last few months was about securing your freedom.”

“Yeah, and?” Tony shrugs, huffing out a breath. “That doesn’t change anything.”

"Doesn’t it?" she muses. "Because I was under the impression that you were fighting to be free. But you’re not, are you?"

Tony stiffens, bristling. “I’m fighting not to be sold off like a damn prize horse, which, call me crazy, seems like a pretty reasonable goal.”

Carter makes another contemplative noise, and it’s just the slightest bit infuriating. Like she knows exactly what he’s not saying but is waiting for him to figure it out on his own.

Tony groans, tilting his head back, pressing his knuckles into his eye sockets. “Okay, fine. Enlighten me, your majesty.”

She doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t so much as crack a smirk at his sarcasm. “You’re not trying to be free,” she says plainly. “You’re trying to be with someone else.”

Tony freezes.

“Technically,” he says breezily, “I am fighting to be free so that I can choose to be with someone else. Which, by the way, is completely different.” God forbid one more person in this damn facility tries to strip him of his autonomy.

Carter doesn’t look convinced.

“That’s a very delicate distinction,” she says mildly. “But at the end of the day, it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? You’re not looking for freedom in the broad sense. You’re looking for a way out of one legally-binding prison and into a completely distinct, emotional obligation.”

Tony scoffs, crossing his arms, then immediately uncrosses them because his ribs still hold a phantom ache from the last time he mouthed off at the wrong moment. “Okay, let’s all just pick apart my brain today, huh? First my dad, now you. You wanna call in a psychiatrist? Maybe get me on a couch, talk about my ‘deep-seated abandonment issues’? Maybe draw some ink blots and ask me what I see?”

Carter remains unmoved. “I don’t need ink blots to see the obvious.”

Tony throws his hands up. “Fantastic! Feel free to share with the class.”

She meets his gaze head-on. “You are not a man who is trying to exist in the world on your own. You’ve already made your choice, Stark. Whether or not you want to admit it.”

The words land like a punch to the gut, though Carter delivers them with all the precision of a scalpel. No unnecessary force, no gloating, just cold, clinical accuracy.

Tony feels a pit open in his stomach.

Because she’s right. Of course, she’s right. He’s already made his choice. He made it the moment he whispered “Yours” into the telephone, the moment he let himself believe there was another way out of this hell that didn’t involve sacrificing himself to it.

He rubs a hand down his face. “God, you’re annoying perceptive.”

Carter’s lips twitch just slightly. “So I’ve been told.”

Tony exhales sharply, his breath shaky, his ribs aching from the tension coiled tight in his body. He can’t decide if he’s angry or just tired. Probably both. Maybe mostly at himself.

Because it doesn’t matter how she says it or how carefully she avoids outright accusing him—Carter is right. He’s not fighting for some grand, noble idea of freedom. He’s fighting for one person.

And that person isn’t himself.

Tony swallows around the knot in his throat. His voice comes out rougher than he means when he says, “You must think I’m pretty pathetic, huh?”

Carter blinks at him, the barest flicker of surprise crossing her features before she smooths it away. “I don’t recall saying anything of the sort.”

“You didn’t have to.” Tony lets out a short, humorless laugh, tilting his head back towards the ceiling. “You’re a real modern woman, Carter. Progressive. Independent. You don’t take shit from anyone, and you sure as hell don’t let anyone claim you. And then here I am, fighting tooth and nail to get out of one contract, just to try and throw myself headfirst into another bond.” He lets his eyes slide toward her, jaw tight. “Bet y’think that’s pretty pitiful.”

Carter doesn’t look away, doesn’t shift, doesn’t so much as blink. “I think you’re misunderstanding me entirely.”

Tony huffs, shaking his head. He’s so tired. Sore. “Right. Sure. Whatever you say.”

Carter exhales through her nose, slow and measured, like she’s deciding whether or not this conversation is worth having. But in the end, she doesn’t let it go. “I don’t think you’re weak for choosing someone,” she says plainly. “I think you’re human.”

Tony glances at her sharply, caught off guard by the sheer lack of judgment in her voice.

She continues, steady and unfazed. “I think it’s easy for people like us to pretend we have no attachments. That we can carve our way through the world on our own. That we don’t need anyone.” A pause, brief but weighted. “It’s easy to believe that. But it’s not true.”

Tony stares at her, waiting for the inevitable ‘but.’ Waiting for the part where she tells him he’s being foolish, reckless, naive.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, she just gives him a long, searching look, like she’s weighing something in her mind. Then, finally, she says, “And I think you’ve risked far too much to be accused of cowardice now.”

Tony’s throat tightens. He looks away first.

The handkerchief in his grip is stained red now, streaked with the evidence of his father’s temper, of his own failure to hold his tongue. He folds it over in his fingers, covering the worst of it.

“I didn’t do this for the war,” he says suddenly. The words leave him before he can stop them. He stares down at the cloth in his hands, watching the way his fingers curl into the fabric, gripping it too tight. “I mean—” He swallows, forcing himself to breathe past the lump forming in his throat. “I never thought twice about winning this thing until him. Until… my Alpha. I don’t give a damn about the cause, Agent. I just want to keep him out of it. I want to keep him alive.”

He lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “I mean, God, can you imagine? I threw myself into designing the SSR’s golden goose because I figured if I made the war end faster, maybe he wouldn’t die in it. If I put my brain to good use, maybe he wouldn’t be one of the bodies they ship home in a nondescript coffin.” His breath shudders. “Maybe he’d actually make it back to me.”

Tony exhales sharply, shaking his head at himself. “I should want to help for the right reasons. I should be doing this for the people out there getting slaughtered. For the soldiers who don’t have a choice. Like… I’ve got this friend, right? He’s not even over there. They won’t take him. Too small, too sick, too everything. But he keeps trying, keeps enlisting under fake names—don’t tell anyone I said that—because he believes in it. In the cause. In what’s right.”

He swallows, throat tight. "I don’t." The confession comes quiet, barely more than a breath. “I never have. I just—” He shakes his head. "I want this war over before it can take him away from me."

There. He’s said it. He waits for the judgment.

Carter doesn’t give it to him.

Instead, she tilts her head just slightly, eyes locked onto his, sharp and unreadable. “And what, exactly, is wrong with fighting for the people you love?”

Tony blinks. “What?”

She exhales through her nose, slow and deliberate. “Do you think war is won by selflessness, Stark? That everyone out there, every soldier, every scientist, every strategist fighting to end this war is doing it out of some moral obligation?” She shakes her head. “People don’t fight for causes. They fight for their families. Their lovers. Their friends. They fight to protect the people they care about.”

Tony swallows.

Carter’s expression is unreadable, but her voice is firm. “You think your friend fights to enlist because he believes in war? In violence?” she asks. “Or do you think he fights because he believes in something worth protecting?”

Tony stares at her, lips parted, but no words come out.

Carter straightens, smoothing a hand down her sleeve. “You’re not selfish, Stark. You’re human. And if your work ends this war faster, if it saves lives—even if the only life you’re thinking about is his—then that’s more than enough.”

Tony’s throat feels tight, his breath shallow as he presses his lips together and stares down at his hands. The handkerchief between his fingers is stiff with drying blood, its fabric crumpled where he’s been gripping it too hard. He swallows against the knot in his throat, lets Carter’s words settle in the spaces between the bruises, the ache of his ribs, the raw sting of his split lip.

Finally, he clears his throat. “Look,” he starts, voice hoarse. He doesn’t lift his gaze to her, not yet. “I’m not running from one contract just to jump into another because I’m incapable of standing on my own two feet. That’s not—” He hesitates, frustrated by the way the words tangle, by how impossible it is to explain something so visceral. “It’s not that I need an Alpha. I don’t. I know how to be on my own. Lord knows I’ve had plenty of practice.”

He exhales sharply, staring at his hands. “But I’ve spent my whole life being told what to do. Where to go, who to speak to, what I’m allowed to study—did they have Omega boarding schools in England? God, I hope not. Absolutely useless. Worst experience of my life. Anyway, as if that wasn’t enough, then Dad decides my bond for me, ties my future to his skeevy business associate who’s useless to do anything except make vague threats pertaining to fantasies he pictures with my mouth.”

Carter doesn’t interrupt. She just waits, silent and watchful.

Tony swallows again, voice dropping lower. “But B—my Alpha… He’s different. He’s the first thing I’ve ever really chosen for myself. The first decision I made that wasn’t dictated by someone else’s plan.” A flicker of a smile ghosts across his face, there and gone in a breath. “He gave me a choice, you know? Didn’t look at me like some prize, or a burden, or a little tool to be bartered for political favors. He just… he sees me as me.”

The silence in the room feels heavier somehow, charged with the quiet hum of overhead lights and all the unspoken words hovering in the space between them.

Tony forces a small laugh that comes out more like a wheeze. “And for some insane reason, he chose me back. Don’t ask me why—haven’t figured that out for myself. Maybe he’s got terrible taste. Hell, maybe he doesn’t know any better yet.”

Carter’s gaze never wavers, but Tony can’t bring himself to meet it. “And I don’t know if it’ll last,” he admits. “If I get out of… all this, if I’m not bound to Stone or forced into another sham contract, I don’t even know if he’ll still—” He trails off, swallowing. “Sometimes I think I’m just waiting to wake up and find out he’s realized how much of a mess I am. That I’m not worth it.”

He finally dares to glance up. Carter’s expression remains unreadable, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze—assessing, measured, like she’s weighing his words rather than offering him comfort.

“And yet you’re fighting anyway,” she says, tone calm, matter-of-fact. “Because that possibility—that choice you made—is worth it to you.”

Tony exhales, shoulders sagging. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “He’s… worth it.”

A beat passes. Carter inclines her head slowly, the faintest hint of an approving tilt to her mouth. “Then I’d say you’re braver than you give yourself credit for,” she says. “Bond or no bond.”

Tony can’t help the tiny laugh that pushes past his lips. “Brave. Right,” he says, voice edged with lingering self-deprecation. “I feel real brave with my father’s fingerprints swelling into my face.”

Carter regards him levelly. “Bravery isn’t about never getting hurt, Stark. It’s about refusing to stay hurt.” She lets those words hang for a moment, then smooths a hand over her sleeve, as though tidying some invisible wrinkle. “Remember that.”

Tony nods, quiet, not sure what else to say. There’s a warmth curling in his chest—a hesitant spark that might be hope. Or gratitude. Or both.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Carter straightens, gaze shifting toward the door. “We’ve been gone long enough. Colonel Phillips will start asking questions if we linger.” A small, wry smile tugs at her lips. “Let’s keep your secrets your own, shall we?”

Tony nods, pushing himself up from the chair. He’s sore, exhausted, and his face feels like it’s been dragged over sandpaper, but at least this conversation is over—he’s never been any good at these soul-searching, feelings-laden exchanges.

“Agent Carter,” he says quietly, just before she can open the door.

She turns, one brow arched in inquiry.

He wets his cracked lips, doesn’t know quite how to phrase it, so he just says, “Thanks.”

And then he waves his bloodied handkerchief for emphasis.

Carter’s expression doesn’t change much, but there’s the barest hint of something softer in her eyes. A flicker of acknowledgment, maybe. She tilts her head, regarding him for a moment.

Then, with the kind of effortless poise that Tony envies, she says, “Call me Peggy.”

Something about that catches him off guard—knocks him off balance just a little, but in a way that isn’t unpleasant. He exhales a small, surprised huff of laughter. “Call me Tony,” he returns, his lips quirking in what might actually be a semblance of a genuine smile.

Peggy Carter holds his gaze for a beat longer, then, without another word, turns and opens the door, stepping smoothly into the corridor.

Tony follows.

***

A week crawls by.

Tony loses himself in the hum of the labs, in half-finished sketches, in the sterile glow of overhead fluorescents. It’s easier to bury his anxiety in the Rebirth Chamber’s schematics than to stare at the gray walls of his makeshift quarters, counting the minutes he’s been cut off from everyone who matters. He’s sleeping worse—nights of fitful dozing on the rickety cot, jerking awake from fragmented dreams of Bucky’s voice calling for him through a haze of radio static.

He’s halfway through re-checking the newest coil alignment calculations when the same guard from before—Bentley? Ballentine?—clears his throat at the lab door.

“Mr. Stark,” the guard says with an odd note in his voice, “communications desk asked me to bring this to you.”

He holds out a single envelope. Plain, unadorned. Tony’s name is scrawled in familiar handwriting across the front.

Time drops out from under him.

The lab noise around him fades: the low whir of machines, the clatter of engineering tools, Reynolds’s distant conversation with a technician. Tony can only stare at the envelope in the guard’s hand.

It takes a moment before his fingers remember how to move. He grabs it, trying to pretend his pulse isn’t hammering in his throat. “Th—thank you,” he manages, voice rasping.

The guard nods curtly. “I’ll, uh, give you a moment.”

Tony nods, not really paying attention as the man steps away. The envelope feels impossibly heavy in his grip, like it weighs more than the entire Rebirth Chamber. Like it might sink him through the polished linoleum if he doesn’t open it soon.

He wants to tear it open here and now, but his nerves flutter, chest constricting with a sudden spike of fear. What if Bucky’s furious? What if he’s written Tony off, if he’s decided he can’t be bothered with an Omega too mired in secrets and chaos?

Tony swallows hard. Carefully, he tucks the letter into the folder of half-sketched design notes, ignoring the curious glance from a passing engineer. “I’m going to—uh—take a short break,” he mumbles to no one in particular. Then, before Reynolds or any other engineer can question him, Tony slips out of the lab and down the corridor, making for the nearest empty storeroom.

The SSR complex is a maze, but he’s memorized enough of it to find a sliver of privacy.

Eventually, he locates a supply closet, partially open, housing shelves of metal parts and rolled blueprints. Tony ducks inside, flicks on the single overhead bulb, and slides the door shut behind him.

Breathing hard, he fishes the envelope from his folder. The handwriting on the front—it’s definitely Bucky’s. Tony’s eyes burn at the sight of each looped letter, the smudge of ink where Bucky’s pen likely paused.

He’s both starved for this and viscerally terrified.

God, just open it.

His throat is dry. With trembling fingers, he slides one nail under the flap, breaking the seal. Inside is a single sheet of paper, folded into thirds. He takes a shaky breath and unfolds it.

He almost can’t read at first, eyes blurring with panic. Then the words come into focus—short, sparse, too few:

T—

I got your letter. I’m glad you’re okay.

Steve’s fine. (Even if I did have to bail him out of another fight—next time, I’m charging interest.)

I don’t know what’s happening over there. I don’t know if it’s Tiberius. But if you think for one second that I’m just going to sit tight and wait for news while you’re tangled up in some goddamn contract you don’t want, you’re out of your mind.

Whatever mess you’re dealing with, you’re not dealing with it alone. I don’t care what it takes, or how long—I’ll find a way.

Just come home to me.

—B

That last line sears into Tony like a hot brand.

His eyes sting. Slowly, he sinks onto a nearby crate, letter clutched tight in his hands, heart pounding so hard it hurts.

He grips the letter like a lifeline, his pulse roaring in his ears. Come home to me. He reads the words over and over, tracing the ink with his eyes until they blur, until he has to blink rapidly to keep from breaking.

His fingers clench tighter. He bites his lip so hard it splits anew. He wants to go home. God, he wants to go home.

But he can’t—not yet. He doesn’t even know how much longer he’ll be here. Two weeks? A month? As long as it takes for Phillips and Brandt to sign off on his legal emancipation, for Erskine to declare the chamber temporarily viable, for them to finally unchain him from this cold, fluorescent prison.

But Bucky’s waiting for him. Bucky’s looking for him.

Bucky doesn’t know he’s safe.

A low sound escapes Tony’s throat, barely more than a breath. He presses the letter against his chest, curling over it like it might somehow anchor him.

He re-reads it over and over, letting each sentence burrow into the hollow ache in his chest. Bucky’s words are sparse, but the fierce protectiveness bleeds through. Bucky’s no poet either, but that final line—

Just come home to me.

But he can’t. Not yet.

Quietly, Tony folds Bucky’s letter, fingers lingering on the words. He can’t answer—he already used up his one precious missive. The idea of Bucky pacing the apartment, waiting for a response that won’t come, makes Tony’s stomach twist. I’m sorry, Tony thinks, cramming the letter into his pocket like a lifeline. Just a little longer.

Swallowing thickly, Tony forces himself upright. He can’t break down here. Not now. There’s still too much to do—calculations, design checks, binding legalities—and no one else is going to secure his freedom for him.

He straightens his shoulders, tucks the letter securely into his pocket, and heads back into the corridor. Another day, another test, another step toward the life he wants.

Because eventually, he’ll be able to slip out of this place for good. And when he does, he’ll go straight to Bucky, slip his arms around that stubborn, reckless Alpha, and maybe this time, he’ll even say the words he’s never said out loud.

Tony’s halfway to the lab when he spots Dr. Erskine, emerging from a side office with a stack of notes clutched in one hand. The older man looks tired—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders drooping under the weight of too many secrets. But at the sight of Tony, he manages a small, weary smile.

“Ah, Tony,” Erskine says softly, adjusting his glasses. “I was hoping to find you. I have a question about the latest meltdown logs—”

“Doc,” Tony interrupts, voice rough. He doesn’t mean to be abrupt, but the turmoil inside him is threatening to boil over. He glances around, making sure no one’s loitering within earshot. The corridor is mostly empty, the overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly. “Can we… talk somewhere? Privately?”

Erskine’s brow wrinkles in mild concern. “Of course.” He gestures toward a nearby alcove—a small storage nook they sometimes use for impromptu meetings when the rest of the lab is too crowded. “Shall we?”

Tony nods, following him in. It’s not the grandest space—just a cramped corner with a battered metal table and a couple of stools—but it’s private enough. Erskine sets his notes down, then perches on one of the stools, folding his hands in his lap and looking at Tony with kind patience.

Tony stands for a moment, arms folded tight across his chest. He takes a steadying breath, heart thudding. The question that’s been gnawing at him for days is right on the tip of his tongue, but saying it feels like a risk he can’t afford. What if Erskine says no?

But… he has to ask. Because if there’s one man in the SSR who might have the leverage—and the empathy—to help, it’s the quirky German in front of him.

“Doc,” Tony begins, voice hoarse. “I know you— you’ve pulled off a lotta strings already. The legal manipulations, the hush-hush contract amendments, my bonding contract being sidelined…” He trails off, mouth dry.

Erskine watches him with a gentle curiosity. “Yes?”

Tony presses his lips together. “This war,” he says heavily. “It’s… it’s going to keep going. Right? Even if we’re somehow successful in creating a magical team of biologically enhanced soldiers, or whatever, it’s not like all this just ends tomorrow.”

Erskine sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sadly, no. Even with this chamber—assuming we are successful—it will not end the war overnight. There are many battles yet to come.”

Tony nods, looking down, knuckles white as he grips the back of the spare stool. “Right. And… and that means more drafts, more call-ups, more men shipped off to fight. My—” His voice catches; he swallows. “My Alpha might… get caught up in that. He will. He’s eligible. He’s not the type to run, either.”

Erskine’s expression shifts into one of understanding. "Ah, I see.”

Tony rubs the heel of his palm against his temple, feeling a headache lurking. “You’ve got so many connections. You made the War Department jump through hoops to get me emancipated—thank you, for that, by the way, seriously—you’re basically bending entire military protocols to give me a shot at finishing this meltdown fix.” He bites his lip, summoning the courage to ask. “So, maybe… maybe you could help me with this, too? Could you keep him from being drafted?”

He doesn’t say Bucky’s name—he never has, not to Erskine, not to anyone here—but he can’t hide the desperation in his voice. “I mean, if the SSR can overrule state guardianship laws, can’t you do something about a local draft board? Delay his deployment, or… or relocate him, or give him some exemption? He’s not—I can’t—”

He breaks off, heart hammering in his chest. Don’t beg, some prideful part of him warns.

For a long moment, Erskine just looks at him, brow creased in sympathy.

“Tony,” he says at last, quietly. “I wish I could say yes. That I could move a few chess pieces around and keep your Alpha safe from this war.”

Tony’s stomach twists with dread. “But…?”

Erskine sighs. “But it’s not so simple. Project Rebirth— this is a research division, primarily, under the Strategic Scientific Reserve umbrella. We do not have broad authority over the general conscription process. We have some influence—enough to secure you an emancipation, because that was tied directly to our project’s secrecy and our immediate need for your specialized skill. It was a national security matter.” He taps his fingertips together, expression pensive. “Delaying or denying a draft notice for an Alpha soldier is… a far bigger matter. It would raise red flags at the War Department. People would ask questions we can’t answer.”

“But you can push the War Department around for me,” Tony insists, voice cracking. “Why not for— for him?”

Erskine shakes his head gently. “We only pushed them because losing you to your Alpha contract, in this case, would have meant losing our chamber progress. And that, in their eyes, was catastrophic enough to justify rewriting certain rules.” He gives Tony a sad, apologetic look. “I do not have unlimited power, my boy. Nor do I have the authority to reorder draft protocols for personal reasons—especially not without revealing certain SSR confidences that must remain secret.”

Tony stands there, reeling. His fingers clench the stool’s metal edge so hard it digs into his palms. His ribs feel like they’re closing in on his lungs. “But… we found those loopholes for me. We rewrote entire sections of federal guardianship code. You’re telling me that we can’t just—”

Erskine sets his notes down, folding his hands atop them. The small lines around his eyes deepen in sympathetic regret. “We did not rewrite the code for you, Tony—only for the project. The War Department didn’t care about you because they admired your independence.” He sighs, adjusting his glasses. “They only cared that losing you meant losing a vital piece of technological construction. That was sufficient leverage for me to plead your case. It was essential to national security, so they indulged my demands.”

Tony’s jaw works soundlessly for a moment, like a fish out of water. “Right,” he manages. “And… my Alpha wouldn’t matter to them.”

Erskine’s shoulders sag at Tony’s weary tone. “I’m truly sorry,” he says softly. “But in their eyes, I’ll remind you, your Alpha simply does not exist. Not legally. And even if he did, he would not be an asset to this project. Therefore, he’s just another potential draftee under the War Department’s purview.”

Tony presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, breathing through the dizzy tangle of frustration and despair. “What if—” He breaks off, licking his lips. “What if I… if we bonded, actually. Like, fully bonded.” The last words come out in a low rush, voice trembling with a desperation he can’t fully conceal. “I mean, there’s no worry of someone else claiming me if I’m already bonded, right? Couldn’t it be the same principle? The SSR wants me, needs me, so they—”

Erskine raises a calming hand. “Ah, Tony. I fear it doesn’t work like that. The special clauses we invoked to nullify your father’s arrangement hinged on your essential role, plus the unique vulnerability of an unbonded Omega engineer in a top-secret project. The War Department was… let’s say, uniquely motivated to ensure you remained unclaimed by a hostile contract. But your Alpha—whoever he is—would remain a separate entity under the standard military system. He’d have no immunity from the draft. Bond or no bond.”

The words strike Tony’s heart like a physical blow. He stares at the floor, knuckles going white where they grip the edge of a dingy metal shelf. “So… there’s nothing we can do?”

Erskine’s voice softens. “Nothing within the SSR’s scope. Not without drawing the exact kind of scrutiny we’ve fought to avoid. If I tried to keep an unknown Alpha off the front lines, the War Department would demand to know why. And unless you wish to reveal his name, or the nature of your arrangement, it would unravel everything.”

Tony forces down a wave of nausea.

It’s all so fucking unfair.

They’ve manipulated half a dozen obscure laws to free him from Tiberius’s claws, but they can’t—or won’t—save Bucky from the same war they’re all trying to end.

He inhales sharply, voice tight. “So that’s it.”

Erskine’s gaze flicks over Tony’s tense posture. “I wish I had better news, Tony,” he says sincerely. “But your Alpha is not part of this project. The SSR has no reason—or authority—to interfere with his deployment, short of enlisting him into our ranks. Which, from the sound of it, would be precisely the opposite of what you want.”

Tony huffs a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Fuck. Definitely not that.”

For a long moment, neither speaks. Tony’s throat bobs as he swallows, mind churning.

He’s going to go… he’ll be drafted, shipped overseas to God knows where…

Erskine clears his throat, softening his tone further. “There’s something else you should consider. If you and this Alpha were to… consummate a bond before he ships out, I’m afraid that would compound your difficulties, not lessen them.”

Tony frowns, looking up in confusion. “Compound how? I mean, Tiberius would be locked out, right? That’s… good?”

A shadow crosses Erskine’s face, something grave. “Yes, Stone could never claim you then. Legally or biologically. But, Tony, once you truly bond—once the physical and chemical link is established—your system will respond quite drastically if your Alpha is absent for long periods. Especially if he’s stationed overseas, with no prospect of returning during your heats.”

Tony opens his mouth, but no words come out.

At the Institute, he had heard whisperings of plenty of previous female classmates forced to endure separation from their Alphas who had been sent off to war, but they had specialized suppressants, courtesy of the government’s interest in preserving a stable breeding population.

Tony knows from gossip and rumor that female Omegas might still struggle, but the meds help dull the cycle, stave off the worst.

Except… those don’t exist for him.

Erskine seems to read his thoughts on his face. “Male Omegas,” he says gently, “are an unfortunately small demographic. The government invests in female suppressants for the sake of fertility control, but they’ve never bothered to develop a counterpart for your physiology in any widespread capacity. I’ve heard rumors of experimental formulas, but nothing… safe or accessible. And certainly not in time for your next heat.”

A hollow dread creeps into Tony’s chest, mixing with old shame. “So what… I just suffer every heat without him? And hope it doesn’t wreck me?”

Erskine meets Tony’s gaze, compassion etched into the lines of his face. “Bonded separation is far harsher on the body than an unbonded heat, especially if it’s your first bond. The withdrawal symptoms can be quite severe if your Alpha can’t return to you or send some measure of relief. I’ve seen it—” He cuts himself off, brow furrowing as though recalling something painful. Then he finishes softly, “It can be dangerous.”

Tony’s throat tightens. He thinks of the nights he’s already spent trembling and feverish, alone in a dorm room or holed up in his childhood bedroom, riding out a miserable heat with no biological alleviation.

The idea that a bonded separation could be worse…

Tony has to laugh, though it comes out more like a strangled sob. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “So, let me get this straight—I spend days here clawing my way out of being forcibly bonded to some sadistic bastard, just for you to tell me that if I do bond—willingly, in theory—it might actually, what. Kill me?”

Erskine doesn’t smile, doesn’t so much as flinch at Tony’s forced levity. “Tony,” he says, voice low and gentle, “I know this isn’t the answer you want to hear. And I am… deeply sorry. But if your Alpha is being deployed, I just urge you to consider the ramifications.” He pauses, watching Tony closely. “If your attachment is strong now, it will be tenfold once the bond is complete. And without him present to support you through your cycles, it will not simply be painful—it will be debilitating. Potentially even—”

“Dangerous,” Tony finishes flatly, not looking at him. “Yeah, yeah, I caught that part.” His fingers tighten into fists against his thighs, knuckles aching from the strain.

The air between them is heavy, thick with the weight of all the unchangeable things. Tony presses his lips together, swallowing the rising sting in his throat.

This is what you fought for, some voice in his head mocks. You wanted to be free. You wanted independence.

But he doesn’t want it. Not indefinitely. Not like this. Not when it means standing by and watching Bucky—his Alpha—get shipped off to hell without so much as a tether to pull him home.

Tony hesitates, mouth suddenly dry. It feels naive—and slightly grotesque—to even say it out loud, but the question’s been gnawing at him for weeks.

Since the godforsaken gala.

“If… if we bond anyway—not saying we will, by the way, this is purely theoretical—and, God forbid, he—” Tony’s voice cracks. “If h-he—dies in the war… would my mark… would it, you know, turn black? Rot?”

Erskine, for once, looks genuinely taken aback by one of Tony’s questions, as if the Omega finally managed to lob a genuine curveball in his direction. “Rot?” he echoes, confusion etched across his usually calm features. “Tony, why would you think—?”

Tony presses his lips together, heart pounding. “Look. I— I’m not exactly well-read on, you know, Alpha biology. Or… or any bond mechanics. I went to a shitty boarding school that force-fed us sterilized propaganda. Lots of questionable textbooks. But I’ve—the Alpha my dad tried bonding me to, Tiberius Stone; he has a wrist bite, and… it’s black. Twisted. Like it’s rotted away.” He drags a shaky breath. “I always assumed it was because he… his first mate died. I mean, that’s what everyone says. There are… rumors. That he, y’know. Killed her. Severed their bond, left it to rot. But then—” He forces himself to hold Erskine’s gaze. “They also say, theoretically, that death doesn’t fully sever a bond. Which is why second bonds for Alphas aren’t as strong.”

Which is why they usually save second Alpha bonds for infertile, second-class male Omegas.

As Tony speaks, Erskine’s expression twists—first with confusion, then dawning realization, before finally settling into something heavier, something wary and deeply apprehensive.

“Black scarring on an Alpha’s bond mark—indicates an intentional sever.” He sighs heavily, clearly troubled. “Tony, if your Alpha were to die in the line of duty, or from any cause not of his own choosing, your bond would… linger. It wouldn’t rot. The scar wouldn’t twist black. That sort of decay only occurs when a mate forcibly and willingly drives the bond to destruction—most often, by one partner ending their own life to break the tie.”

The words settle like lead in Tony’s gut. He can feel them sinking, twisting, pressing against something deep and fundamental inside him, something he’s not sure he has the stomach to face.

Because… oh.

Tiberius didn’t kill his first mate.

He drove her to kill herself.

Tony’s head swims.

Because he knows this, deep down—that severing a bond isn’t something you do. It isn’t a choice, some mistake, an unfortunate accident.

It’s never been some inconvenience a person can just opt out of when it no longer serves them.

It’s—

It’s unheard of.

It’s an abomination.

Even thinking about it feels like trespassing onto cursed ground, like uttering something so forbidden that the universe itself should recoil.

There’s a reason people don’t talk about it. A reason no one even wants to talk about it.

Because a bond is more than a contract, more than a name scrawled on some outdated marriage document. It’s biological. It’s written into the blood, carved into the marrow of a person’s being. To take a mate is to entwine two bodies, two minds, two entire selves so thoroughly that their scents change, their chemistry shifts, their very instincts rearrange themselves around each other.

It’s why bonded pairs don’t survive the loss of their mate.

Not really. Not truly.

The bond itself never fully disappears—it dwells, in fragments, until there is no mated partner left to sustain it.

Tony swallows hard, stomach twisting and coiling. He thinks of Tiberius, of the scar on his wrist—blackened, twisted, something unnatural in a world where everything about mating bonds is meant to be absolute. Permanent.

He had always figured Tiberius had killed her. It wasn’t exactly a leap in logic.

Because of course he had.

It wasn’t a question of if, really—just a matter of when and how.

Of whether it had been quick or if Tiberius had drawn it out just to watch her squirm. Whether it had been a moment of temper, or something calculated, something drawn up like a business plan, signed and sealed with all the precision of a man who had never once made a decision without thinking about how it would benefit him.

Tony had assumed it with the same certainty he assumed the sky was blue, that gravity pulled downward.

Of course Tiberius fucking Stone had killed his first mate.

It hadn’t even mattered to Tony, really—not in the way it probably should have. Not in the way a normal, stable, grounded person would have reacted to that knowledge.

Because the second he had met Tiberius, the second he had looked into those cold, calculating eyes, Tony had known. He had recognized the kind of man he was dealing with.

But this—this is something else.

Because it means she chose it.

It means she had to wake up every day in that bond, trapped with a man like that, and realize—again and again and again—that there was only one way out.

This means she looked at death and saw something softer than the alternative.

The bile rises in Tony’s throat.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers, throat tight, barely even aware that he’s said it out loud.

Erskine exhales, slow and measured. “It is a terrible thing, yes.”

Tony shakes his head, laughter bubbling up in his chest in a way that doesn’t feel remotely sane. “Shit,” he breathes again. “Oh, well, that’s fucking fantastic. Poetic, even,” he says, voice scraping raw. “Good to know the universe has a built-in failsafe for getting rid of shitty Alphas.”

Erskine’s gaze remains steady. “It’s quite barbaric.”

Tony huffs out another breathless, half-mad chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, silver lining with voiding this contract, I guess—at least I don’t have to send him an ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ letter.” He drops his hand, mouth quirking in something that barely resembles a smile. “Talk about dodging a bullet. Though, gotta say—kinda makes me wonder how he planned to get me there.”

Erskine’s brow furrows. “Pardon?”

Tony gestures vaguely, his fingers twitching with restless energy. “You know. To that point. The point where checking out starts to seem like the only viable option.” His voice is distant, detached, like he’s discussing someone else’s tragic fate instead of narrowly avoiding it himself. “I mean, let’s be real—our grand romance was dead on arrival. So what d’you figure his approach would’ve been? Slow suffocation? Mind games? Isolation?” He tilts his head, expression going thoughtful. “Ooh—maybe just sheer, unrelenting boredom. The man loves the sound of his own voice—could’ve droned me straight into an early grave. Probably figured I’d off myself just to escape another monologue.”

Erskine doesn’t react, but something in his expression tightens.

Tony shrugs, a careless thing, like his insides aren’t crawling with something thick and ugly. “Real shame, huh? Guess we’ll never know.”

For a long moment, there’s silence. Then Erskine sighs, long and weary. “Tony.”

That’s it. Just his name.

Because Tony won’t let himself think about what it means—what it really, truly means—that his father had every intention of handing him over to a man who had done this before.

That Howard had known, or at the very least, hadn’t cared. That this was very close to being his future.

Because if he does think about it too hard, if he lets himself actually sit with the horror of it—

Well.

He might not stop screaming.

Erskine exhales, watching him for a moment longer before leaning back slightly. “Come,” he says gently, standing from his chair. “We should return to the lab.”

Tony nods again, but he doesn’t move right away. He takes one more deep breath, pressing a hand over the spot where his own mating gland lies, untouched, unmarked.

Because despite everything Erskine has just laid out—despite the horrors that hover like a miasma around Tiberius Stone—Tony’s fingers linger over the side of his neck. At the base of his throat, where his mating gland rests, still unbitten.

It’s warm. Throbbing.

He can practically feel the rush of his pulse under his skin, like a low-level fever he can’t shake. He doesn’t need Erskine to tell him what it means. He knows this ache, the restless burn that’s been gnawing at him for days, ever since Bucky had kissed him goodnight against the frame of his dorm room door—casual, fleeting, the kind of kiss exchanged a hundred times before without ceremony, without second thought.

Ever since Bucky’s hand had curled at the nape of Tony’s neck, warm and steady, a gentle press of his thumb against the edge of his jaw like he always did, like it was instinct. Ever since Bucky had murmured something soft—sleep tight, sweetheart—before pulling away, the ghost of his breath still warm against Tony’s skin.

Ever since that moment—so unremarkable in its simplicity, so devastating in hindsight—before either of them realized that it wouldn’t just be a weekend apart. That it wouldn’t just be another weekend of separate schedules, of late-night phone calls and rescheduled plans.

Before they knew that it would be the last time.

Before everything fell apart.

And now Tony can feel the absence of that kiss like a missing limb. The restless twinge that’s been gnawing at him for days, ever since he woke up in the SSR with no contact, no scent, no anchor.

Bucky had called it bonding sickness, once. Back when they had first met and they were trying to put words to the physical connection that felt stronger than a name—it feels like a lifetime ago.

But Tony still feels it. The phantom ache that spreads whenever they have to spend a night apart.

Tony, missing an Alpha he can’t even touch, heat swirling under his skin as if he were in a heat cycle, but he isn’t.

He’s just… missing.

He presses his palm more firmly over the gland as though he can quell the steady pulse. It hurts, but in a dull, muffled sort of way—like an echo of a wound that hasn’t happened yet.

Tony forces a tight swallow. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about how Bucky’s the only reason he dared fight off Tiberius at all, the only reason he’s able to stay upright when every cell in his body screams for rest, for relief, for that smell of cedar and smoke and snowfall and warmth.

He exhales sharply and forces his feet to move, falling into step behind Erskine.

They walk in silence through the corridors, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the muted hum of the SSR complex pressing in from all sides.

And still, under it all, under the hum of machines and the distant murmur of voices—Tony feels the pull.

Like something tethered to him just out of reach.

Something calling him home.

A couple of days drift by after Tony’s tense conversation with Erskine, melting into a blur of lab work, restless nights, and silent meals under the hum of flickering lights. He’s lost count of how many times he’s run the meltdown calculations in his head, how many times he’s woken up from half-formed dreams about Tiberius and Bucky and unbreakable bonds.

He’s reviewing yet another coil alignment schematic—barely seeing the lines on the page—when a different stiff-backed guard appears in the lab doorway. “Mr. Stark,” the man says, tone clipped. “Colonel Phillips has requested your presence. Immediately.”

Tony’s pen stills over the blueprint. Finally.

He follows in silence, letting the guard lead him through the twisting corridors. Thirteen days he’s been trapped in this bunker, waiting for the War Department to hammer out the last details of his emancipation, waiting for someone—anyone—to grant him a sliver of normalcy.

The guard stops at a heavy steel door and raps twice. When it swings open, Tony steps inside, pulse skittering.

The room is cramped, no windows, the overhead light casting everything in a harsh, clinical glow. Colonel Phillips stands behind a metal desk, hands braced on either side of a thick stack of papers. Next to him, Senator Brandt waits with folded arms and an impatient line to his mouth. A handful of SSR brass linger at the edges: a couple of faceless staffers, an officer whose name Tony perpetually forgets, and, off to the side, Dr. Erskine—looking tired but faintly relieved.

Tony’s gaze flickers around, half expecting Howard to be there too, lurking with that quiet, coiled anger. But his father is conspicuously absent.

“Stark,” Phillips growls, beckoning Tony forward. “Sit.” He points to a metal chair across from the desk, next to a mountainous stack of documents that look so classified, they might combust at any second.

Tony swallows, nerves twisting.“You know, Colonel, you really have a way of making a guy feel welcome. Ever thought about a career in hospitality?”

Senator Brandt lifts an officious brow. “Stark, we’ve expended a great deal of effort ensuring your… unique circumstances were properly addressed. This—” He gestures at the formidable stack of papers. “—is the outcome.”

Tony eyes the mass of documents. “You’d think you’d at least supply a decent fountain pen,” he mutters. “Or a lawyer.”

Phillips’s mouth tightens. “Just sign, Stark.”

Tony huffs, settling onto the chair. Fine. He flicks open the first sheaf of papers, skimming the headings: Strategic Scientific Reserve—Project Rebirth—Confidential Terms and Nondisclosure. Next: Omega Emancipation Contract—Anthony Edward Stark. Another: Bond Nullification Agreement—Stark / Stone.

It’s all so formal, so heavily notated with legal jargon, cross-references, stamps, and disclaimers. He feels like he’s reading a small country’s constitution.

He glances up, about to crack another wise remark, but stops short at Phillips’s stern glare. “Shut up and sign, Stark,” the Colonel repeats, more slowly. “We don’t have all day.”

Tony bites back a retort—no sense picking a fight now—and flips through the pages. The first sections revolve around the standard hush-hush clauses: how he can’t breathe a word about Project Rebirth to anyone outside SSR approval, what he’s responsible for if there’s a security leak, the standard threats about espionage charges that would land him in federal prison for life.

Joy.

He scribbles his signature (still shaky from exhaustion) where indicated, ignoring Brandt’s impatient tapping. Next come the official forms that sever Howard’s guardianship: disclaimers referencing obscure wartime statutes, half a dozen references to Tony’s “unique strategic importance.”

Tony’s chest tightens with something akin to satisfaction as he scrawls his name across the lines that declare I am no longer property of Howard Stark. The SSR official on the side steps in to notarize each signature with brisk efficiency.

And then Tony turns the page and sees Contract for Nullification of Omega Bond, Tiberius Stone / Anthony Stark.

He stills, pulse picking up. The words blur for a second: Void ab initio… invalidated under special circumstances… rendered non-binding.

There’s a signature line for Tony Stark, a signature line for Tiberius Stone, and another for Howard Stark.

Tony’s eyebrows shoot up. “Uh, is this gonna be an issue?” He taps the names with his pen, glancing around. “I assume Stone’s exactly doing handsprings over our breakup.”

Senator Brandt clears his throat. “We, ah, reached out to Mr. Stone through official channels—without divulging anything sensitive about your position here, of course. As far as he’s concerned, you’ve become indispensable to the war effort, and thus, your contract with him has been deemed a liability.”

Phillips grunts in confirmation. “We might’ve implied you’re under indefinite protective custody. He can’t forcibly claim you if the War Department itself says you’re not available.” The Colonel’s lip curls in something like disdain. “I doubt he’s pleased, but he’s not stupid. He doesn’t want to cross the U.S. Army.”

Tony snorts softly. He can imagine Tiberius’s reaction—rage tempered only by self-preservation. “I take it he didn’t take the news well.”

Brandt’s mouth twists. “If the vitriolic telegram he sent is any indication, no. He did not.”

A hollow satisfaction blooms in Tony’s chest. Good. The bastard deserves to choke on every ounce of frustration.

Still, the lines requiring Tiberius’s signature stand out like black stains on the page. Tony wonders if Tiberius will sign them voluntarily, or if he’ll stall. But from the look on Phillips’s face, the War Department has ways of making him cooperate—likely involving threats of espionage or sabotage charges.

“Right,” Tony mutters, leaning forward to scrawl his signature in the designated spot. His breath catches as the pen scratches across paper, effectively severing the final tie that bound him to Tiberius Stone.

He sets the pen down, half-expecting something—a rush of triumph, a wave of relief.

But mostly, he just feels tired.

Brandt snatches the pages back, scanning them with a pinched expression. Another official (some SSR adjutant, presumably) steps up to notarize, stamping each page with a metallic seal.

“Congratulations,” Brandt says drily, handing the documents to the adjutant for safekeeping. “You are no longer under Mr. Stone’s contract, nor under your father’s guardianship. As of this moment, the War Department recognizes you as an emancipated Omega.”

Tony exhales, shoulders sagging. Finally.

“There’s more,” Phillips grumbles, picking up another stack from the desk. “Nondisclosure agreements, property disclaimers, details of your continued obligations to Project Rebirth, including any future meltdown fixes. You’ll remain on file as a civilian consultant, subject to recall if we have further questions. Sign here, and here, and—”

Tony nods absently, flipping through the pages. It’s all boilerplate: hush-hush about everything, SSR retains the right to rope him back in if meltdown issues resurface, etc., etc. He snatches the pen again, scrawling his signature at the bottom of each form.

His hand aches by the time he finishes. He sets the pen down with a click, rolling the tension from his neck, feeling the eyes of everyone in the room on him. Erskine’s included.

Brandt leans in, swiftly checking each signature. Satisfied, he tucks them away into a thick dossier. “That should do it.”

Phillips nods once, curt. “Welcome to the rest of your life, Stark. Don’t screw it up.”

Tony huffs a tired laugh. “I’ll do my best, Colonel.”

He glances at Erskine, who offers him a subtle, approving nod. The other SSR staffers look relieved—one or two might actually be happy for him, though Tony’s not sure. The rest probably just want their meltdown expert to be done with personal drama so he can finalize the Rebirth Chamber.

The door creaks open, admitting a uniformed aide who steps in to retrieve the stack of completed forms from Brandt. Tony tries to ignore the wave of vulnerability that hits him as he watches them vanish from sight—all that paperwork, the keys to my future, in someone else’s hands.

But it’s done, or close enough.

No more Tiberius Stone. No more forced contract. No more guardianship from Howard.

Tony is… free.

Phillips exhales, flipping through the last of the pages with a grunt of finality. “That’s it, Stark,” he mutters. “We’ll arrange a car to send you back to Manhattan.”

Tony leans back in his chair, pressing his fingertips to his temples like he’s staving off the world’s worst headache. “Oh, no. No, no, absolutely not.” He waves a dismissive hand in the air. “With all due respect, Colonel—and I mean this with every ounce of sincerity in my body—the last time your men ‘transported’ me anywhere, I was abducted, blindfolded, and thrown into the back of a government utility vehicle with all the grace of a sack of potatoes. Just let me call my butler.”

Phillips looks unimpressed. “Stark—”

“No, no, I insist,” Tony says, standing up and stretching his aching limbs. “I’ll spare your boys the hassle. Trust me, they’ve done enough damage to my trust issues—and my kidneys—for one lifetime.”

Phillips glares at him but doesn’t argue. It’s clear he doesn’t give a damn how Tony gets out of the bunker—only that he does.

They’re on the same page there, at least.

Tony, for his part, has no intention of going back to Manhattan. Maybe ever again, if he can fucking help it.

Not like Howard’s going to let him set foot on the property anyway.

No, he’s not going to Manhattan.

He’s going to Brooklyn.

He’s going home.

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Lazarus Rising | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader ( :0 ?? )

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, allusion to a sexual assault, allusion to torture, mentions of kidnapping/missing persons

Word Count: 3831

A/N: Things are gettin' crazy. As a special treat, a chapter from (mostly) Dean's perspective!!!

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Dean’s first thought had been of you. When he woke up in that shoddily-fashioned coffin, he’d thought of you. Before he met you, he would’ve grimaced at how “pussy-whipped” he was. And now, the thought didn’t even cross his mind. 

His mind had become overrun in his walk to the gas station down the road from where he’d crawled out of the earth with thoughts of you, Sam, Bobby, and everything he’d endured in Hell. Dean was surprised to find the station abandoned— along with everything else in the town— but that was just another thing to add to the long list of “weird” things going on. 

Trying to clear his head, he splashed some cold water on his face. When he shook his hands dry, he remembered the wounds he’d sustained from the Hellhounds’ attack. He quickly brought his shirt up to inspect his stomach but was surprised to see no gashes.

And then, he noticed what appeared to be a burn mark poking out from under his sleeve. Dean pulled it up to reveal a bright red handprint. As if the situation couldn’t get any stranger, loud static filled the room and the windows shattered inward. 

Startled and scratched by the shards of glass, Dean got up from his curled-up position on the ground. 

****

Bobby was shocked by Dean’s return, to say the least. “But... how did you bust out?”

Dean shook his head. “I don't know. I just, uh, I just woke up in a pine box—” 

Suddenly, Bobby splashed water in Dean’s face. The man’s eyes closed to avoid the splash, and he spit out the water that invaded his mouth. “I'm not a demon either, you know.”

Bobby shrugged apologetically. “Sorry. Can't be too careful.” He handed a towel to the younger man and headed further into his home. “But... that don't make a lick of sense.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah. Yeah, you're preachin' to the choir.”

Bobby turned back to Dean. “Your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop. And you've been buried four months. Even if you could slip out of hell and back into your meat suit—” 

“I know, I should look like a Thriller video reject,” Dean nodded. “What do you remember?” 

Of course, Dean lied. “Not much. I remember I was a Hellhound's chew toy, and then... lights out. Then, I come to six feet under, and that was it. Sam's number's not working. He's, uh... he's not—” 

Bobby understood what Dean was getting at. “Oh, he's alive. As far as I know.”

“Good— wait, what do you mean, as far as you know?” The pitch in Dean’s voice rose in concern. 

“I haven't talked to him for months,” Bobby explained. 

Dean scoffed. “You're kidding, you just let him go off by himself?” He began to approach Bobby angrily. 

“He was dead set on it,” the older man argued. 

“Bobby, you should've been looking after him!”

“I tried!” Bobby responded. “For both of ‘em! These last months haven't been exactly easy, y’know. We had to bury you.” 

Dean looked at the floor. “Why did you bury me, anyway?” 

“I wanted you salted and burned. Usual drill. But (Y/N) and Sam wouldn’t stand for it,” Bobby answered. 

“Oh, god, (Y/N),” Dean breathed out. “Is she—?”

Bobby shook his head. “Haven’t heard from her, either.”

“Jesus.” Dean ran a hand through his hair. “Both of ‘em just… up and left?”

The older man nodded solemnly. “Last I heard from either of ‘em, Sam said you'd need a body when he got you back home somehow. That's about all he said.” He sighed. “He was quiet. Real quiet. And then, he just took off. Wouldn't return my calls. I tried to find him, but he didn't want to be found.”

“And (Y/N)?” Dean asked, anxiety clawing at his throat. 

“You weren’t in the ground ten minutes before she was gone; long before Sam. Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t tell us where she was going. She’s gone dark, too.”

“Oh, dammit,” Dean sighed, shaking his head. 

“What?” Bobby questioned, on the edge of his seat. 

“Oh, one of ‘em got me home, alright. But whatever they did, it’s bad mojo.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Dean explained what happened to Bobby and showed him the handprint on his arm. “It was like a demon just yanked me out. Or rode me out.” 

It was the first time Dean had seen Bobby truly rattled. “But why?”

The older Winchester brother searched for the words, shrugging, “To hold up their end of the bargain.”

“You think one of ‘em made a deal,” Bobby said as more of a statement than a question. 

“It’s what I would’ve done.”

****

Dean managed to track Sam down to a motel in Pontiac. The two brothers went through the same tearful reunion Dean had with Bobby, and the woman Sam was accompanied by stood awkwardly in the corner. She soon left, seeming dejected, leaving the Winchesters alone with Bobby.

 Dean glared at his younger brother, arms crossed. “So, tell me, what'd it cost?”

Sam grinned. “The girl? I don't pay, Dean.”

Dean remained stern. “That's not funny, Sam. To bring me back. What'd it cost? Was it just your soul, or was it something worse?”

“You think I made a deal?” Sam scoffed.

Bobby chimed in harshly, “That's exactly what we think.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

Dean’s gaze hardened further. “Don't lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

The older brother advanced on Sam. “So, what now, I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy? I didn't want to be saved like this.”

Sam stood to face his brother. “Look, Dean, I wish I had done it, alright?”

“There’s no other way this could’ve gone down,” Dean roared, grabbing Sam’s shirt. “Now tell the truth!”

Sam broke out of Dean’s grip. “I tried everything! That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, alright? You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, alright? Dean, I'm sorry.”

Noticing Sam was growing quite emotional, Dean finally let off. “It's okay, Sammy. You don't have to apologize, I believe you.”

“Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that Sam's soul remains intact,” Bobby said, “but it does raise a sticky question.”

“If he didn't pull me out, then what did?” A horrible realization crossed Dean’s mind. “It must’ve been (Y/N). Dammit! Where is she?!” He turned and ran a hand through his hair.

Dean looked to Bobby frantically, and Bobby shook his head. “Sorry, kid. I wish I knew where to tell ya to start lookin’. Nobody’s seen her.”

“So… So she could be dead for all we know,” Dean worried. 

Sam nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

****

But you weren’t dead, you were very much alive; physically, anyway. Dean figured that out a few days later when he was watching the news. 

“Authorities are searching for this woman—” a grainy image of you looking over your shoulder wearing a wig, a hood, and jeans appeared on screen, and he supposed it’d been caught on CCTV— “whose identity is unknown, but she has been potentially connected to at least seven missing persons cases over the past four months; all of well-respected, family-oriented men across multiple state lines. She is considered to be armed and dangerous, and if you have any information, please call—”

Dean’s mind ran a mile a minute. His anxiety raced at the idea that you may be possessed or possibly even turned while he was in Hell.

“Sammy!” Dean called from Bobby’s couch.

Sam appeared moments later and looked at the television in front of his brother. “Holy crap,” he breathed out. 

“Yeah, man, this is bad,” Dean stood and ran a hand through his hair while he paced. “Whatever’s wearin’ her face is gettin’ her in a ton of trouble. We gotta—”

“Wait, Dean, slow down,” Sam said. “She has the tattoo. There’s nothing gettin’ in her.”

“Yeah, well, maybe something scratched it off,” Dean continued. “Maybe a shapeshifter got a hold of her—”

“Or maybe that’s just (Y/N),” Bobby stated, causing the two boys to turn to him. 

“What?” they asked in unison. 

“A demon wouldn’t be concerned about hiding (Y/N)’s identity, and a shifter wouldn’t keep one meat suit for that long,” Bobby continued. 

“And her eyes didn’t flash,” Sam murmured. 

A heavy silence fell over the room before Bobby gathered the courage to speak again. “Boys, I think that’s just her.”

****

In between flashes of the terror he went through in Hell and trying to help Bobby and Sam discover what had pulled him out, Dean was trying not to go insane in search of you. But he was furious with himself. He couldn’t find you anywhere. It was almost like you were actively avoiding him. 

All three men couldn’t believe what you were accused of, or that you were even capable of doing so. None of them knew you to be that way. Then again, they hadn’t truly known you in months; a lot had changed. 

Bobby stared at the news for hours looking for any new sightings of you. He put his contacts on your trail, and Sam spent his free time scrolling through Facebook pages dedicated to finding the woman responsible for potentially taking the lives of the seven men. And Dean? Dean was such a mess of anxiety and wrath that he couldn’t focus on helping to find you properly for too long.

Bobby said there was a psychic Dean should see about his resurrection. Although hesitant to do anything aside from look for you, he agreed when Bobby suggested she could help find you, too.

Sam could tell Dean was incredibly thankful to be back with his car, his brother, and their surrogate father, but there was something missing: you. Even he was puzzled as to where you could be. 

“There's still one thing that's bothering me,” Dean broke the silence as he cruised behind Bobby down a darkened road. 

“Aside from (Y/N)?” Sam tried to jest. 

Dean just glared in response. “The night that I bit it— or, got bit— how’d you two make it out? I thought Lilith was gonna kill you.” Sam nodded. “Well, she tried. She couldn't.”

That caught Dean off-guard. “What do you mean, she couldn't?”

“She fired this, like, burning light at us,” Sam explained, “I put (Y/N) behind me, and Lilith just couldn’t leave a scratch. Like we were immune or something.”

“Immune?” Dean repeated. 

“Yeah. I don't know who was more surprised, her or me,” the brunet snorted. “She left pretty fast after that.”

“Huh.” Dean considered his next words carefully. “What about Ruby, where is she?”

Of course, Sam lied. “Dead, for now.” He lied again when his older brother asked about his use of his psychic powers. Sam sat brooding for a few more minutes before he dared to break the silence again. “What are we gonna do about (Y/N), man.”

Dean sighed. 

Sam didn’t give him a chance to answer before he continued. “I mean, she definitely doesn’t wanna be found. By anybody.” “Yeah, I know that, man,” Dean replied. 

“Shouldn’t she have been in Pontiac?” Sam suggested. “I mean, even if she wasn’t hunting Lilith, any other demon would’ve led her to it.”

Dean huffed. “I don’t know, Sammy. But maybe not if she’s off ganking random dudes.”

“All I’m sayin’ is,” Sam began, slowing his mind down, “it’s weird.”

“What isn’t weird right now, Sam?” Dean snorted. “I don’t think she’s purposefully hiding from us.”

“No, no,” Sam shook his head. “That’s not what I’m saying. Maybe, she just… quit hunting. Maybe she’s off doin’ hits for someone, or something.”

“What, like a bounty hunter?” Dean scoffed.

Sam nodded hesitantly. 

The older brother refused to believe that. “No. That’s not her.”

“How do you even know you know her, Dean?” Sam argued. “She’s clearly not who any of us thought she was.”

“Well, whatever she’s doing, she must’ve had a good reason for it!” Dean roared, clearly not enjoying what Sam was insinuating. 

Sam shook his head. “Dean, I talked to the victims’ families. None of them were monsters. None of them were possessed. She took out regular people.”

“How do you know for sure? You seen the bodies? ‘Cause nobody else has, either,” the older brother grunted. “She’s not like that, Sam.” Sam shrank in his seat, irritated. 

“Now, drop it,” Dean grumbled. 

****

Before you, Dean would’ve gone right for Pamela. She was attractive, alluring, and had a good sense of humor with a hint of eccentrism. Now, that didn’t even cross his mind. All he wanted her for was finding out what happened to you. 

“So, you hear anything?” Bobby asked. 

“Well, I Ouija'd my way through a dozen spirits. No one seems to know who broke your boy out, or why,” the psychic responded. “I think we’ll do a séance next. See if we can see who did the deed.”

“Any word on (Y/N)?” Dean asked. 

Pamela seemed hesitant to respond. 

“Tell me,” Dean pleaded. 

The psychic sighed. “She knows you’re alive. Someone saw her rummaging around that town you popped up in.”

Dean was completely floored. All he could do was breathe out, “What?”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Pamela said softly.

“Anything else?” Sam prompted. 

The psychic nodded, turning her focus to him. “She’s workin’ with something. Nobody really knows what. Or, at least, they won’t say.”

“Why not?” Bobby questioned. 

“It’s like they’re scared of it,” Pamela responded. “And her.”

Dean found his words again. “Has she— Has she killed anybody?” 

“One person,” the woman answered. “But it seems she did the world a bit of a favor.”

“What makes you say that?” he continued to press. He was both relieved and confused by the fact that you hadn’t killed most of the people you were suspected of killing. 

“The guy had a bit of a track record,” Pamela replied, seeming uncomfortable. “With women, specifically.”

Dean understood at that moment. “The guard,” he said.

Sam turned to his brother. 

“From Deacon’s case. The guy that—” Dean couldn’t push the words out. 

Sam and Bobby both nodded in grave understanding. 

“What about the other seven, though?” Bobby questioned. “What’d she do with them?” 

“Again, the spirits were too scared to say,” she said, shaking her head. 

Dean’s stomach had remained upset throughout this conversation, but he knew he had to figure out what had pulled him out of Hell, too. “So, séance?” he gulped, trying to steel his courage. 

Bobby was clearly still shaken from the last bit of the conversation. “You're not gonna... summon the damn thing here.”

Pamela shook her head. “No. I just want to get a sneak peek at it. Like a crystal ball without the crystal.”

Dean tried his best to smirk. “I’m game.”

****

The day was by no means going as anyone had planned. Pamela had summoned the creature, and her eyes consequently were burned out of their sockets. 

Sam and Dean stopped for some lunch while Bobby went with Pamela to the hospital. She was stable and out of the intensive care unit, thankfully, but the boys felt bad for the poor woman. While Dean thought of possible places you could be or what you could be doing, Sam was busy trying to remember where he’d heard the name “Castiel” before: that was the name of the creature Pamela had given to them. 

“You look like you’re suckin’ on a lemon,” Dean commented, shaking his brother out of his thoughts. “What’s up?”

“I’ve heard of ‘Castiel’ before,” Sam explained. “I’m just tryin’ to figure out where.”

“Well, maybe with the right mumbo-jumbo we could summon him; bring him right to us,” Dean suggested. 

Sam scoffed. “Absolutely not. Pam took a peek at him and her eyes burned out of her skull, and you want to have a face to face?”

“You got a better idea?” Dean argued. 

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. I followed some demons to town, right?” Sam responded. “So, we go find them. Someone's gotta know something about something.”

The waitress reappeared with the two plates of pie Dean ordered and pulled up a chair to the end of the table. 

Dean looked at her, confused. “You angling for a tip?”

The waitress smirked. “I'm sorry. Thought you were looking for us.” She blinked to reveal her inky black eyes. Several other demons revealed themselves and locked the brothers in the diner with them. 

The waitress blinked again. “Dean. To Hell and back. Aren't you a lucky duck?”

Dean smirked, tight-lipped. “That’s me.”

“So you get to just stroll out of the Pit, huh? Tell me, what makes you so special?”

Ever the cocky bastard, Dean hummed, “ I like to think it's because of my perky nipples. I don't know. Wasn't my doing; I don't know who pulled me out.”

The demon scoffed. “Right. You don’t. Lying's a sin, you know.”

“I'm not lying. But I'd like to find out, so if you wouldn't mind enlightening me, Flo—” Dean trailed off, having read the name off her tag. 

She snarled, “Mind your tone with me, boy. I'll drag you back to Hell myself.”

Sam tried to rush her, but Dean held a hand up for him to stop. “No, you won’t,” Dean asserted. 

The waitress laughed. “No?”

“No. Because if you were, you would’ve done it already.” His eyes bore daggers into the demon. “Fact is, you don't know who cut me loose, and you're just as spooked as we are. And you're looking for answers. Well, maybe it was some turbo-charged spirit, or, uh, Godzilla, or some big bad boss demon. I'm guessing at your pay grade that they don't tell you squat. Because whoever it was, they want me out, and they're a lot stronger than you. So go ahead. Send me back. But don't come crawling to me when they show up on your front doorstep with some Vaseline and a fire hose.”

“I'm going to reach down your throat and rip out your lungs.”

Dean leaned forward, almost daring her to do so. With a wicked smirk, he tossed a mean right hook at her face. She took it— albeit, angrily— but did not retaliate. He threw a second one. WIth his voice barely above a whisper, he growled, “That's what I thought. Let's go, Sam.”

Dean dropped a ten dollar bill on the table, almost like an insult. “For the pie.”

****

Once again, the creature caused a ringing in Dean’s ears and glass to come crashing down around him. If anything, it was becoming more of an annoyance than feeling like an actual threat. Sam, however, was nowhere to be found. Although irritated with his brother for taking his car, Dean went with Bobby to summon Castiel. 

Dean wiped the blood from his face given to him by the creature. 

“How you doin', kid?” Bobby asked. 

“Well, my girlfriend’s at large, and there’s church bells ringin’ in my head. So, peachy,” Dean deadpanned. 

After a brief conversation with Sam where he told him a story that Dean wasn’t quite sure he believed, he helped Bobby set up the warehouse they’d gone to to summon Castiel. 

Every wall was covered in protection sigils and traps while Dean laid out every weapon imaginable on folding tables. 

“This is still a bad idea,” Bobby sighed. 

“Yeah, Bobby, I heard you the first ten times. What do you say we ring the dinner bell?” Dean smirked while the older man nodded reluctantly. Bobby followed the instructions for the ritual, and all they could do after that was wait. 

Suddenly, a loud rattling shook the tin roof. Dean grabbed a knife and a shotgun while Bobby grabbed a crow bar. 

“Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind,” Dean suggested. 

The door burst open at that moment to reveal a beautiful man in a business suit and trenchcoat. 

Dean’s eyes widened in surprise, but he did his best to maintain a brave face. “Who are you?” he demanded. 

Castiel’s eyes and smile were kind, contrary to what Dean assumed he would be. “I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

Dean scoffed. “Yeah. Thanks for that.” He plunged the demon knife into Castiel’s chest that had absolutely zero effect on him. 

Castiel looked down, unfazed, and removed the knife. Bobby tried to charge him but was promptly put to sleep. The older man crumpled to the floor in a heap.

“We need to talk, Dean. Alone,” Castiel stated, his voice deep and rumbling. 

Dean checked Bobby’s pulse, glaring up at Castiel. 

“Your friend is alive,” the creature insisted. 

“Who are you?”

“Castiel.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I figured that much. I mean, what are you?”

“I’m an angel of the lord,” the man replied.

Dean’s heart dropped. “Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing.”

“This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith,” Castiel responded. He caused lightning to flash and allowed his massive wings to unfurl.

Dean finally started to believe, but that only made him angrier. “Some angel you are. You burned out that poor woman's eyes.”

“I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be... overwhelming to humans, and so can my real voice. But you already knew that,” Castiel explained. 

“You mean the gas station and the motel,” Dean realized. “Buddy, next time, lower the volume.”

“That was my mistake. Certain people— special people— can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong,” the angel admitted. 

“And what visage are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant?”

Castiel looked down at himself. “This? This is... a vessel.”

Dean’s brows furrowed. “You're possessing some poor bastard?”

“He's a devout man; he actually prayed for this.”

“Uh-huh. Y'know, it might've been easier to show up like this the first time instead of all the burning bush crap,” Dean scoffed. 

“Finding a human vessel durable enough to contain me; it's not easy,” the angel said. 

Dean smirked. “I have that same problem with women.”

Castiel’s expression remained unchanging. “Apparently, not anymore.” The hunter’s eyebrows furrowed again. “What do you mean?”

“I know about (Y/N), Dean,” Castiel explained.

“How?”

“I know everything about you,” he responded. “And I know everything about her.”

“What makes us so special?” Dean challenged. “Why would an angel rescue me from Hell? Why would you be so concerned with (Y/N)? Do you know where she is?”

“Good things do happen, Dean,” the angel insisted. 

Dean’s gaze remained hard despite his quieting voice. “Not in my experience.”

Castiel tilted his head. “What's the matter? You don't think you deserve to be saved?”

“Why'd you do it?” Dean questioned. 

“Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-nesmith @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworldd

[halestrom]

listen. i was yelling about this yesterday and i need to yell about it again.

im forever now thinking about how goose is basically canonized in top gun.

he's held up as this untouchable memory and bradley grows up both in the shadow of that, as well as trying to become that but hes not gonna be bc goose is a memory. hes stuck in time. he can be canonized to that extent because he will never change. he will never grow and make mistakes and that is sad. it is a tragic loss, a pure accident and nothing more. and it was so long ago that time has smoothed the rougher edges he has because goose was human. and bradley??

bradley will never be goose bc goose is long gone but people still look at him and think about his dad first in a lot of ways.

and like.

sure, there are parts of him that are his father bc goose is his dad, and there is some aspect of nature involved. and at which point does he end and goose begins and does he ever stand the chance of knowing when that is?

especially when his godfather looks at him with guilt in his eyes first and love second, even though he tries. and his mom (as far as we can tell) never moves on from that love?

bradley's been in both of their lives so much longer than goose ever did, but hes secondary to goose. they love him, and support him but the way they deal with things regarding bradley feels like they aren't seeing him. they're seeing the same ghost that hovers behind bradley and they're making decisions based on that.

their grief drives them. love for sure as well. but so much grief and that grief is once again used to put bradley secondary.

goose died in a freak accident so that means bradley needs to be saved. it doesn't matter what bradley wanted. it doesn't matter that a child can have the same dreams as their parents and not want to walk the same path. its not bradley trying to be a memory. its someone who grew u around that world and still wanted it.

and like, pulling the papers was never about bradley. it wasn't about wanting him to not join a system that would chew him up and spit him out. or talk about the very real dangers that come with the job, or how isolating it can be because of the travel involved.

they pulled the papers because they didn't want him to become goose. even when they claim to want to protect bradley. they are using the memory of goose to make it happen.

bradley never stood a chance of growing up without that shadow and it kinda makes me sad. hes haunting the narrative in so many ways, but hes also dragging bradley down as well.

[impale-me-radio-daddy]

The Lookalike (Part 9)

☒ Summary: The first thing you remembered after your death was an argument. “No, this isn’t one of my fucking sluts.” The man behind you exhaled, frustrated. “This is a present for you. Something to help you work through your Alastor fixation.” You awaken in Hell as the near-spitting image of a certain infamous radio host. Unfortunately for you, you immediately fall into the clutches of his nemesis, then into the arms of the Radio Demon himself. The final instalment in the Lookalike series (well, maybe there's room for a little epilogue as a treat)- I hope you guys have enjoyed the ride! 

☒ Warnings: hermaphrodite!reader, deer!reader, crying!reader, they/them pronouns used, explicit sexual content, Alastor X reader, Vox x reader, Alastor x Vox, threesome reader is in Hell for a reason, canon typical scenarios.

☒ Series Links: Part I Part2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 6 BONUS SCENE Part 7 Part 8 Epilogue

Who am I? The question chewed at the edge of Vox’s psyche through his ride back to the tower, and through his day. Yeah, who were you? Who the fuck turned up in Hell looking like a freshly minted Radio Demon? Who were you that Alastor was willing to put his signature red tailcoat on your back? Vox swore to himself as he returned to the covert footage of you. Not for the sex, no. But the audio. Sweet nothings on your lips behind closed doors, your unguarded words intended for Alastor’s ears only.

“Oh? You were an antiquarian?”

“Close. I used to curate a museum.”

Vox grinned to himself. It wasn’t much of a clue to your identity, sure, but he also knew the date of your death pretty much to the day. That narrowed it down a lot. One of Voxtek’s most lucrative activities was keeping track of the dead- through obituaries and missing person reports from the living world. More people than not ended up in Hell, and there was always money to be made tracking down a new arrival. Vox put a search out for museum curators dead or missing in the last month, and, on a hunch, narrowed it to the US.

There were a handful of candidates, but running an eye over the list, there was only one person you could be, realistically speaking. Only one museum that you could have run.

“Welcome, welcome, one and all,” you spoke to yourself under your breath, words buzzing behind your teeth in practiced harmony as you walked, the phrasing coming to you without thinking after years of practice, to help you slide into the transatlantic accent. “To the Louisiana Historical Radio Museum.”

The territory that Kennedy claimed as overlord wasn’t far from the hotel, so you walked it, the smell of burning plastic cooling on the evening air. You had a smile on your lips as you strolled, humming an old jazz standard. Sinners cringed, backing into dark alleys and doorways to avoid being in your path, and you twirled your cane. Your resemblance to Alastor was more a hindrance than a benefit here, in that it curtailed several possible avenues of approach. Difficult to form a friendly connection, or talk your way into someone’s home, when you wore an outfit synonymous with the word monster. But that was probably just as well- you were hungry for a kill, and desperation was a quality that people could smell a mile off. Besides, your new body did afford some advantages, ones you had spent your weeks at the hotel honing.

Stepping into one of the back alleys and letting the shadows shroud your form, you pressed your talons to the wall. Sharp and strong, they found purchase, and you scaled the side of the building within a few seconds, crawling up and onto the roof. That was a feat that you would have struggled to replicate with your human body, but here you were a different creature, all sharp edges and horrid, grinning points.

The first thing Vox did after finding your name was to check for it on the Voxtek systems.

There were certainly a lot of people down here who wanted to find you. Most names popped up with half a dozen requests, tops- usually immediate family, a lover. You had… huh, that was a lot. And over how many years? Vox felt his screen lag slightly as he scanned the names. None of them relations. Older than you, or close in age. Unless you were the world’s greatest Lothario and all these guys were queuing up for a post mortem hook-up, there was only one kind of person who got this kind of ask list before they died.

“Jesus tittyfucking Christ,” said Vox, mostly to himself. What the fuck had Val been thinking, dumping you on his bedroom floor without so much as a background check? No wonder Alastor liked you so much.

Years of practice had taught you that killing was more art than science; that the most thorough of preparations could be derailed in an instant and that opportunities would present themselves, if you just allowed them. The universe opened itself to those who were generous, and if you left yourself flexible to the how, the act itself was often simply a matter of having the guts to do what the moment needed. This didn’t mean that the task before you didn’t fill you with trepidation, however- quite the contrary. Kennedy was bigger than you physically, an overlord when you were not, and you had little understanding of how or why physical capabilities varied from sinner to sinner. Niffty, for example, was deceptively strong despite her small size- you had seen her do things like break the lock on the cabinet behind the bar in search of bugs to kill.

You had overpowered Alastor, briefly, but that was with angelic wire and the element of surprise, Alastor with a wound across his chest. Relying solely on physical superiority wasn’t smart, and neither was picking a situation where Kennedy could fight back.

Alastor clearly thought you were up to the task. He’d given you his red tailcoat to wear, and you could tell how precious it was to him, from the way he fretted over the way it hung, the ragged edges on the tails. He wouldn’t have let you wear it if he thought you would fail. But his confidence in you was no reason to be foolhardy.

You stalked from roof to roof across the overlord’s territory, noting the deployment of the soldiers in Kennedy’s livery. They loitered, undisciplined, at street corners and food stands, harassing passing sinners, but they were out in force.

“Ugh, there you are.” It took you a second to realize the billboard was talking to you, another to realize it had Vox’s face, scowling at you from an ad for Vox brand soda. “Why the fuck don’t you have a phone yet?

“Maybe because I don’t want people knowing where I am at all times? Not that that seems to be working.” You walked to the edge of the roof, gauging the distance with your eyes, and leapt the width of the narrow alleyway to the next building, landing with a bark of laughter, a giddy feeling in your chest. In your previous life, parkour hadn’t been so much a hobby as an occasional necessity, but your new body took to it with aplomb, your feet finding their place with a flex of your new ankles and knees.

“Seems like yesterday that you could barely walk, now look at you.” Vox leered at you from a second billboard as you walked the roof, long shadows and sharp angles. On top of your head your antlers thrummed, branching in the darkness.

You glanced up. “You helped me find my feet. I’m grateful,” you said, and felt your smile grow wider as a blush, an actual, honest-to-god blush bloomed on Vox’s wide, rectangular face before you turned away, leaping a second alley. Oh, you were graceful now.

“Hey! Can you stand still for one fuckin’ second? I wanna talk to you.” Vox was on the billboard on top of this building now, his face taking the place of the chef in an ad for Voxtek brand ovens.

You relented, squatting down by the frame that supported the billboard, checking out the layout of the streets below and hooking your cane across the back of your shoulders. “Can it wait? I have plans tonight.”

“Oh, fuck my life.” Vox shook his head and you watched with interest as the giant chef on the billboard crouched down to the bottom on the frame. “Of course you’re going after fucking Kennedy.” It was curious, how his demeanor had changed since the overlord’s meeting- there, he’d been keen to scare you, telling you at length about Kennedy’s powers and deeds- but now he seemed resigned to your hunt. What had changed? Had he actually talked to Alastor?

Your plan for tonight had been to scope out his living arrangement, maybe a little stalking, but Vox didn’t need to know that. Instead, you asked a question. “Are you going to stop me?”

Vox raised an eyebrow, the virtual plate of venison behind him steaming. “The fuck would I stop you, baby deer? Hell’s most wanted making their spectacular debut?”

Hell’s most wanted? You felt your ears flatten to your skull, a shiver in your gut. What the fuck did Vox know? “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Now, now.” Vox grinned, a glint in his eye. “If you wanna pretend to be Alastor, you’ve gotta smile at least,” he said, and you reached to your face, finding your mouth a single, serious line. You corrected it as Vox continued. “Yeah, there’s a few south americans with a longer list of victims than yours, but I think I’m entitled to some fucking creative license on this, ya know.”

He knew. He had your identity, somehow. And likely the names of the people you had killed who had ended up in Hell. Which would be all of them, if there was any justice in the universe. You breathed out, slow and even, careful to keep your smile in place this time. “Alright. What do you want?”

“Why didn’t you kill me in my sleep?” Vox asked. You thought he was joking at first, but the expression in his eyes told you otherwise. You thought of the nights you’d spent with him, body curled round his, your cheek against the lower edge of his screen. He had been completely unguarded in those moments, and you had been his prisoner.

You gave Vox a puzzled smile. “You were giving me orgasms and food, why the fuck would I kill you?”

“Oh.” If anything, Vox seemed taken aback by your response. Was that more pink and red on his screen? “I, uh- I could do that again.”

“Was that all? You’re not going to threaten me?” You stood, spinning your cane around your wrist. “Like I said, I do have things to do tonight.”

“Now, wait! Wait just one goddamn second, baby deer.” Vox followed you across the billboard as you walked. “I can help.”

That did make you pause. In the mortal world you would have refused without a second thought- an accomplice was a witness and a liability. But here? In Hell, there was no law enforcement save what the overlords dispensed. You would never have asked Vox for a favor, but if he was going to offer his services? For free? Alastor would probably be sniffy about it, but who could blame you for making use of all the resources at your disposal? You looked up at him again. “Can you edit camera footage in real time?”

“Uh, sure.” Vox grinned. “You want me to edit you out of it, yeah?”

“Mhm.” You nodded. “And you’re doing this gratis, right?” This bit was important- you didn’t want to end up owing your soul for something like this.

“Relax, baby deer, trust me,” said Vox, eyes half-lidded, and his voice might have sounded seductive if you weren’t thinking about bloodshed. “No charge, just helping a friend out.”

It took most sinners years to get to the point where they could allow their bodies to shift beyond human norms. Even then, most people made it as far as some horns, some claws, a bit of size before their mental preconceptions, or whatever most people had, stopped them dead. But here you were, full fucking cryptid, crawling the fucking walls. Yeah, you didn’t have Alastor’s freaky shadow powers, and you were still pretty much the same size as you had been, but it barely mattered in this context, with the dark covering you. You were still a monster with glowing dials for eyes.

Vox might have assumed Alastor had done something to you to make you this way if he hadn’t known your history.

Vox might have remembered to be scared if he wasn’t rock hard in his pants just from watching you.

It was almost a shame that you resembled Alastor so strongly. A newly fledged sinner taking down an overlord would be big news, enough to fill the channels with speculation and talking heads for half a cycle at least, but someone who looked like Alastor doing it was just Radio Demon bites man, an item for a slow news day.

Editing you out of footage in real time wasn’t difficult for Vox. You were eerily good at finding the blind spots on the security feeds as you made your approach to Kennedy’s building, only lingering in exposed sections when the alternative would see you in a sinner’s line of sight. Sometimes you would look up at a camera, a tilt of your grinning head to acknowledge his presence as a viewer.

The whole thing was kind of fun, if Vox was honest with himself, the only thing missing from the whole caper being an earpiece to let him annoy your with commentary. It reminded him of accompanying Alastor on his errands, back in the old days, when Alastor would display his full demonic form and then give a small, backwards glance to Vox, to check he was being properly admired.

You hummed the opening bars of the saints as you scaled the wall of Kennedy’s building, ascending to the penthouse. Security cameras were trained on the outer walls to prevent exactly this sort of egress, but you trusted Vox enough that you paid only minimal attention to them, keeping to the blind spots where you could, crawling in shadows where you couldn’t.

You’d been through longer dry spells than this one in your lifetime. A six month stint here, a year there; all of them spent in a state of tension, a spring wound tightly enough that the metal threatened stress fractures. In the few weeks you’d spent in Hell you’d had sex and entertainment aplenty, that ought to have been enough to take the edge from your need. Why then, did this feel worse? You could feel the anticipation running through you, taste it like blood in your mouth. You wanted violence. You wanted pain. You wanted control.

Perhaps that was why you felt like this, so needy that your fingernails ached, that your teeth grew long and pointed in your grin. When you’d held yourself back before it had been of your own accord, lying low to avoid scrutiny, from the police or from your quarry, but here you had been a prisoner of circumstance, first a literal prisoner and then constrained by your own nascent body. You hauled yourself over the ledge and onto the external sill of the penthouse windows, briefly confronted by the reddish glow of your own eyes in the reflection. The glass was single glazed, not shatterproof, the latches easy enough to manipulate from the outside. You could get inside any time you wanted.

You crept round the penthouse from the outside of the building, looking into each room in turn. A lounge area, a kitchen with a breakfast bar, open plan. A bathroom, a jacuzzi tub pressed up against the window for a questionable view of Pentagram City’s skyline.

Finally, the bedroom. Kennedy, asleep. But the effects strewn around the floor of the room belonged to more than one person. You remained still, listening, and sure enough there was a sob from behind the closed door of the ensuite bathroom. Partner? Whore? Probably the latter, given the man had killed his last three partners. Either way, it didn’t matter- it was still someone who would scream if they saw you.

You paused. You didn’t really want collateral, but having a witness was bad too. Not as bad as it would be topside, but Alastor wanted the killing to reflect on the reputation of the Radio Demon, which was easier if no-one saw.

You sucked your lip, thinking. Fuck it. You were unlikely to get a cleaner opportunity than this, and even if it went completely to shit, you still had avenues of escape available. It wasn’t like there was a police force in Hell, anyway.

With a well-placed percussive strike to the frame, you damaged the latch enough to slide open the window and stepped into the room, tucking your cane under one arm as you dropped to the floor.

Opening the bathroom door brought you face to face with a pig sinner with running mascara. You clamped a hand over their mouth to stop them crying out in surprise, then lifted a dramatic finger to your own smiling lips. They nodded once, in understanding, and you released their face before gesturing to the bedroom door. Go. Now.

They obeyed, an expression of terror in their panda-ringed eyes, and you turned to the bed, your quarry’s sleeping form, a surge of ardor coursing through your body. The fleeing pig sinner was likely to alert someone, but you stopped to soak in the moment anyway, the air in your lungs feeling briefly like fire, your pulse resounding through your tongue and through your loins. Here you were. Here was your true self. Glimpsed in the mirror of the walk-in wardrobe, your antlers looked like the tops of dead trees before a yellow moon, like old bones emerging from the bayou in a season of drought, and your breath was the noise of rain on powerlines, an ominous, crackling hum.

There wasn’t a struggle. Only release, sweet and wet and bloody.

What the fuck was taking you so long? For some reason that Vox didn’t understand, Kennedy had neglected to install cameras in his penthouse suite, and he cycled impatiently through the feeds outside. There was certainly something happening inside, a few of Kennedy’s goons milling around the doors. But no sign of you. Vox waited.

He was fairly sure you weren’t in trouble, but what if you were? You were a new sinner, after all, even if you were a murderer, no souls to your name, and no-one knew how exactly how the strength of someone’s soul was determined.

Finally, he phoned Kennedy’s number.

You looked up from the mess of blood on the bed at the glowing blue rectangle of the phone on the dresser. Vox, the screen read.

Oh, your hands were so slick with blood. It took you a couple tries to activate the touch screen, your fingertips leaving red-brown smears that made the screen trip out.

“Vox!” You felt so good now; it made you want to sing. There was blood on your tongue and on your face. “I got a phone!”

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, you fucking ate him, didn’t you.” Vox’s irritation seeped through the surface of the phone, and he sighed. “Listen carefully, baby deer- you need to get the fuck out of there.”

“What? Why?”

“Because Kennedy’s goons think the Radio Demon is in there. Look, baby, you’re dangerous, I get that. I respect it. But you’re nowhere near Al’s level. You’re not gonna hold your own against twenty guys with machine guns. Get the fuck out of that building.”

Somewhere between the swearing and the threats, you started to feel a little more like your normal self. You glanced back at the bed- the remnants of Kennedy didn’t look like anything other than random, discarded meat- he wasn’t coming back, and hopefully that would be good enough for Alastor. “Got it,” you said, and after a couple of failed bloody finger swipes, managed to hang up on Vox.

Popping Kennedy’s phone into your pocket, you headed out.

The path to the hotel ought to have been clear. It had been, when you had headed out. But on your return you found the final intersection before the hotel populated by gangsters, guns trained in all dimensions. They looked nervous. You caught a whisper on the air. Radio Demon.

Of course. You had been seen.

Of course. They were waiting for you. For Alastor.

You stared at the line of goons guarding the intersection, the hotel just beyond them. You tried to take a step forward, but something stopped you, the rattle of a chain, and a pressure on your ankle. Of course. No bringing trouble to the hotel. That had been one of the conditions of your original contract with Alastor, and it was coming into play now. No going through. And chances were that Kennedy’s people had surrounded the hotel in the hopes of catching Alastor. What were your options? You could stay on the streets for the night, bloodstained and dangerous, and hope that you didn’t get caught in any acid rain.

Or you could take your second option. Gingerly, you reached into your pocket and pulled out Kennedy’s phone. His contacts list was sadly devoid of people you knew, so you phoned Vox again.

“Yeah?” He picked up before you had the phone to your ear, and you grinned at the thought that he was waiting for a call back.

“Can I crash at yours tonight? Some guys have barricaded the road to the hotel.” You paused a beat. “No funny stuff.”

There was, of course, another reason you wanted to see Vox. The list of your quarry who were still in Hell was a temptation and a half. Even now, when you were full and sated, with Kennedy’s blood still drying on your skin, you could feel the appeal of it, the symmetry- to hunt the bad men that you had hunted before.

Vox sighed as he grabbed a pair of tumblers and a bottle of yamazaki single malt from his liquor cabinet. This would be so easy, if only he could hypnotize you. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t- he could feel the give of your mind with each little push- you were strong willed but that was all. He had taken stronger minds than yours. He had taken Alastor, for fuck’s sake, had made his eyes glaze over and his slight body go limp under his influence. He had pushed Alastor’s mind, and he’d told himself it had been worth it, up until the point when Alastor had found his abuse, and those red eyes had turned from hard-earned trust to betrayal.

So no, he wouldn’t hypnotize you, even if you had just walked straight into his personal quarters looking like you just walked out of an abattoir and asked to use his sound system.

He’d been right about his impression of you over the phone- you were euphoric and reckless, probably as a side-effect of eating Pentagram’s newest overlord. VNN already had reporters on the scene and there was barely a scrap of Kennedy left, with at least two witnesses now claiming to have seen the Radio Demon.

You were sat about a foot from the speakers, cross-legged, sit bones on the floor, your right hoof resting on your left knee as you basked in the music. Vox crouched beside you, pressing a tumbler into your hand, and, as he was close, pressed his face to the back of your head and breathed in your scent. Fuck, you even smelled like Alastor now; the same mix of musk, formaldehyde and blood that Vox remembered.

Gently, you grabbed the edge of his screen and moved him away. “Stop that.”

“Why should I stop?” Vox asked, his voice coaxing. “You’re worried Alastor’s gonna be mad?”

“No, I think he’d be upset. And I don’t think you want him to be upset either.” You raised an eyebrow at him, and Vox felt a chill run down his spine. “Do you, Vox?”

Fuck. Vox pulled a face. “Am I that easy to read?”

“Maybe.” Your smile was small, and your ears twitched at some unheard thing. “You’re going to need another glass.”

Vox frowned. “For you?”

Your smile grew wider. “For Alastor.”

“Alastor?” Vox repeated.

“Speak of the devil,” said Alastor, his elocution crisp as he manifested from the shadow. “And he shall appear.”

One of the most basic workings in Vodou, the one that Alastor’s mother had warned him to avoid being trapped by, was the exchange of fluids. If a man consumed the menses of a woman, it was trivially easy for her to control him, track him, whatever she wanted. The same was true with men and their seed, and it behooved any practitioner to be careful who they accepted food from. A mutual consumption was a stronger link still, a little of the practitioner in the target and a little of the target in the practitioner.

Though you were neither male nor female, his own personal blasphemous sacred twin, there had certainly been enough exchange of fluids between you. Alastor could feel the power latent in the link; an ancient, primal sort of magic. It wasn’t the sort of thing he usually dabbled in, and if his microphone had been intact he wouldn’t have even considered it, but in his current state it was a comfort. He tuned out the banal late night chatter at the hotel bar in favor of the link to you, the smile on his face automatic. He felt you as you moved across the city, to your intended location, and then your return path to the hotel.

And then, your failure to return.

“Sir?” Niffty asked, a small hand on his knee. Something must have showed in his eyes, because both Angel and Husk were looking at him too. “Is something wrong?”

Alastor gave a terse smile. “Never better,” he said, rising from his seat. “I have merely remembered an errand I must run.”

And run was the operative word, as yet again the conditions of his deal with you compelled him. He would keep you free of being Vox’s prisoner. He had promised.

He had slid across the city and through the tower, a shadow, depleting precious reserves of power, his compass to you unerring, and his heart had lurched when he had found you in Vox’s personal quarters, sat in front of the sound system. When Vox had knelt to smell your hair, Alastor had felt his antlers creak as they grew, fierce and territorial.

Vox’s voice was wheedling, the same tone that had always worked on him somehow. “You’re worried Alastor’s gonna be mad?”

“No,” came your voice, a touch more forceful than you usually were. “I just think he’d be upset. And I don’t think you want him to be upset either. Do you, Vox?”

“Am I that easy to read?” Vox’s face was pathetic, and Alastor’s heart lurched again, with something like pity this time, or perhaps regret. They had been friends once, great friends.

“Al-” Vox breathed, eyes wide.

Alastor stepped past him, to you. His smile was wan. “Darling, you smell like bloodshed,” he said, proffering a red-taloned hand and helping you to your feet. “We should go.”

“Vox was just pouring us drinks,” you said, not wanting the evening to end particularly. Vox still had your list of victims, and the sound system was just as sublime as you thought it would be.

Vox gave you a grateful look, and waggled his expensive bottle of single malt. Alastor looked between the two of you, and sighed. “I suppose we can stay for a round or two,” he said, spreading his fingers. “But at least put some decent music on.”

That was how you had ended up on the couch in Vox’s private quarters, half sitting on Alastor’s lap, a glass of whiskey in your hand, listening to the musical stylings of Papa Celestin on Vox’s frankly impressive sound system as Alastor, now down to shirtsleeves, told stories about some of the band members- who had played with who and who had cheated at cards. It seemed like every time you had nearly finished your drink Vox was there with the bottle again, not just for you but for Alastor. A few drinks later, the playlist had moved on to Johnny Hodges ballads and Alastor was handsy, his talons tracing lines over your antlers, your neck, your back, and down over your hips.

“And then his brother formed a band with Scrapper Blackwell’s bassist,” said Alastor, fingers pressing over your tail. “Mimzy was dating their percussionist for a while.”

“Wait a damn minute Al, you’ve told me this one before.” Vox was temptingly close on the couch next to you, but he made no overtures, apparently content to watch Alastor run his hands over you. “I thought you said it was the pianist?”

Alastor hummed, one claw hooking its way into your already loosened bow tie and pulling it open. “Maybe it was both. That would explain why the rhythm section was so lively.”

You relaxed into his touch, your earlier violence rendering you satiated and languorous; content to go where he led you. You smiled up at Alastor, baring your neck to him as he undid the top button of your shirt.

Vox made a noise in his throat. “Al? Are you-”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Alastor’s grin was lopsided as his attention flicked to Vox. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, after all.”

To make a point, Alastor dipped his head to kiss you. It was messier than he usually was, Alastor’s breath reeking of alcohol, and his tongue caressed your lips and cheeks, tasting the blood that stained them.

“Fuck,” Alastor breathed, his pupils wide as he broke the kiss. “Darling, you taste like dead overlord.”

“You would know, Al,” Vox shot, and Alastor grinned.

“Vox,” he called, like a man trying to coax a pet dog. “You really should have a taste.”

You sat up and watched with amusement as Vox feigned insouciance, shuffling closer to you on the couch as Alastor held you, one arm possessive around your waist. You wondered for a second if he would take the coward’s way out, and press his tongue to your forehead or your cheek, but Vox, with an expression close to awe, pushed a little of your blood-matted hair back from your cheek, his talontips under your jaw, and kissed you.

Vox’s lips were the tingle of static, his tongue shivering hot as it twined against yours, pressing up against your teeth and your gums, and you groaned into the kiss. Alastor’s grip on your waist tightened, and you felt him grow turgid, cock pressing up against your ass as Vox kissed you.

When Vox broke the kiss his eyes held something akin to despair, fingers trailing on your jaw as Alastor pulled you to him, a fierce, possessive look on his face. You rolled your hips back, grinding against Alastor’s erection through layers of fabric, and enjoyed the shiver he gave; the way his cock grew hard and hot, his face pressing into your neck, points of his teeth grazing your skin with lines of hot sensation that you would probably regret in the morning.

Vox hesitated, wary of Alastor’s jealousy, and you caught him by the collar, pulling him in for a second kiss. His chest pressed against yours, sandwiching you between him and Alastor, Alastor’s tongue tracing hot lines against the sensitive skin of your neck as Vox’s tangled in your mouth, the heartfelt groan that Vox gave resonating through the three of you.

“Thank you,” gasped Vox, his eyes closed, though you weren’t sure if it was directed at you, Alastor, or God. It didn’t matter. You traced the hard lines of his square face with your fingers, feeling Alastor’s hands on your hips, pulling you firmly against him, as if to remind you whose bed you slept in. You turned your head to kiss Alastor, the kiss breathless and full of urgency, his teeth nipping bloody at your lips, and Vox’s hands were at the buttons of your shirt, peeling back the fabric that stuck to your skin with half-dry overlord blood.

Vox’s talented lips kissed over your chest, then your stomach, the static from his screen making your skin prickle as your hairs stood on end.

“You want the television demon to blow you, darling?” Alastor murmured, his lips brushing the fur on your ears, the tips of your antlers, and his words went straight to your cock, stirring you to half-mast. “You want his mouth on you?”

“Yes,” you murmured, and that was all it took for Vox to have your pants off, Alastor releasing your hips for long enough that Vox could maneuver you into a position where Vox could blow you. The upper edge of his rectangular head was level with your diaphragm as he took you in, his tongue gentle as he coaxed you to hardness. The inside of his mouth was warm, his tongue almost buzzing against your cock as he wound it round in a spiral, and you shivered as he did, resisting the urge to grab him by the edges of his face and fuck into him. A whine escaped your throat, low and needy.

Alastor kissed your neck, his eyes curious as he watched Vox take you to the hilt in his mouth. “But where does it go?” he asked, his gaze on the back of Vox’s extremely flat head, red eyes narrowed.

You closed your eyes, still basking in the sensation of Vox’s tongue around your shaft, the soft flesh at the back of his mouth. “The Head Dimension, of course,” you said, and you felt Vox nearly gag with laughter; not an entirely unpleasant feeling, except that he pulled his mouth from your cock almost immediately.

“Jesus, Bambi, don’t make me laugh like that!” Vox gaped at you, wiping a digital tear from his face. “Fuck!”

Alastor tittered, the noise silvery, his narrow chest shaking with mirth as he leaned into your shoulder. “He’s just pissy that he didn’t think of that first,” he said. “Wordplay was never his strong point.”

“I’ll show you my strong point,” muttered Vox, peeling off his own shirt as he did.

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll get to that eventually,” said Alastor, and you remembered how his cock had twitched inside you each time he had teased Vox in the armchair. “In the meantime-” he continued, hooking a clawed hand around your hip and pulling you to him once more, turning you to face him in his lap. “We have more important things to deal with.”

“The fuck did you do to their back, Al?” complained Vox, his hands warm on the furrows that Alastor’s claws had carved across your shoulders the night previous, but Alastor ignored him, kissing you lightly as he guided your hand to his fly, the fabric there taut with his arousal. You touched him, through the fabric first and then unfastening his fly and easing him out, a surge of sympathetic lust through your core as you held his cock in your hand, palm curling round his hardness. The noise he gave was a soft one, an exhalation of breath through his nose accompanied by a beat of deeper than appliance pitch humming.

You palmed Alastor’s cock, and his fingers went to your antlers, dancing lightly across the tines, each touch of his a musical note that resonated through your skull, your spine and down to your core, making you tremble, aching with want as you watched Alastor’s antlers expand in turn. Vox didn’t touch them, but you could feel him watching keenly, his own electrical powers a fuzzy interference at the periphery of your senses as you pumped Alastor’s cock with your hand.

“Inside me?” you asked Alastor, not least because having his cock in your palm made you ache with desire, and Alastor nodded, leaning back a little to let you straddle him. You guided him with your hand as you lowered yourself onto him, watching the delicious way he smiled as you did so; the way he bit his lip, his eyes fluttering half closed.

“Fuck,” Alastor spoke the word like a prayer rather than a curse as you sank onto him, Vox’s hands on your shoulders, then your waist, Alastor spreading his knees to let Vox between them.

“You look so fucking pretty like that,” said Vox, his voice full of gravel as he reached around you, hand finding your cock and folding around it, but his eyes were on Alastor, as well as you, as he spoke.

Vox’s grip was as firm as it had been when he had crawled into bed with you on your first night in Hell, and no less effective, pumping in time as you rode Alastor, your thighs working to lift and lower you. At first it seemed like Alastor would be content to be ridden, his face flushed and his hips staying in place as he made soft groans of appreciation, but when he kissed you and a squeeze of Vox’s hand made you whimper against his lips, Alastor’s hand joined Vox’s around your cock, talons curling around the back of Vox’s hand and forcing him to tighten his grip.

There was a moment of electricity then, Vox’s breath stilling in his throat, his bare chest pressed flush against your back.

“What’s the matter?” Alastor asked Vox, his expression sly and teasing as he forced Vox’s hand to grip you, started it moving again at a steady, sublime cadence. “You’ve never objected to a guiding hand before.”

Vox’s audio glitched before he spoke, accompanied by a myclonic jerk that you felt through his chest against your back, his hand involuntary squeezing around your shaft. “A-Alastor,” he stuttered, his audio still clipping, for all the world as if their hands were clasped around Vox’s cock rather than yours. “Oh, god.”

Alastor smirked against your neck, pretending careless superiority, but he couldn’t hide the pleasant twitch of arousal his cock gave inside your cunt when Vox moaned his name. Vox was right, though; Alastor did look beautiful, color on his cheeks that could have been the drink or arousal or both, his lips parted, as he panted through his jagged teeth, still smiling, always smiling, as his hair fell in strands across his face, his antlers handsomely tall.

When had you become so fond of him, you wondered, as he guided Vox’s hand in a pattern that had you aching for release, a pulse through your core as precum beaded at your tip. You stilled your hips as the sensation of their hands together on your cock threatened to overwhelm you, sinking down fully onto Alastor’s cock and pressing your face into his shirt with a whimper.

“What’s this?” Alastor turned his teasing smile on you now, rather than Vox. “So close already?” He nipped at the edge of your ear, not hard enough to do damage, but enough that you could feel the fine points of his teeth, and you gasped. “You know, of course, that it won’t save you? That we will keep going until we’ve had our fill of you?”

“We?” Vox repeated, his voice uncharacteristically quiet and hoarse, and your stomach swooped as you caught the implication too. “That mean what I think it means, Al?”

“My delightful friend here has two holes, after all,” said Alastor, pressing his cheek to your antler. “It seems a waste to use only one of them.”

You half expected Vox to run off and get a toy, but instead he fetched a bottle of lubricant from a compartment under the couch, and kissed his way down your back, over your shoulders and the claw marks that Alastor had made, his screen warm against the small of your back, making the fur on your tail stand on end.

“You’re gonna love this, baby deer,” said Vox, one hand on your back pushing you forward over Alastor. “Trust me,” he added wryly, when you gave a doubtful backwards glance.

“With your tongue?” Alastor’s tone was both scandalized and fascinated as he peered over your shoulder at Vox.

Vox didn’t bother answering him, simply spread your ass apart a little with his hands and set to work. His tongue was like white noise on your skin as he lapped at your entrance, wet and hot as he dragged it over sensitive flesh. You felt exposed; even like this, with Alastor’s cock to the hilt inside your cunt, you felt exposed. You cried out as Vox’s tongue made egress, the narrow tip pushing past your tight ring of muscle and then inside.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your face in Alastor’s collar again, and Alastor must have noticed how Vox’s tongue pressed against your walls, against his cock inside you, because he looked sharply at Vox.

“Keep doing that,” he said, a sharp note of desire in his voice, and you felt Vox’s groan as he pushed his tongue a little further in, the sensation all slickness and pressure as his tongue stroked Alastor’s cock through the thin layer of your flesh.

Alastor found your cock with his hand again, his smile cruel as he caressed your shaft. “You’re going to come, aren’t you, darling? You’re going to spend yourself with Vox’s tongue up your ass.”

It wasn’t fair. You could barely think straight, let alone give any answer other than an obscene, whorish whimper, not with both of them working your insides and Alastor’s knowing hand on your cock. The first time you’d met, he’d shown you how he knew your body better than you did yourself, and that was still true now, the strength of his grip and his tempo nothing other than perfection as he ground his hips up into you, rutting into you and rutting against Vox’s tongue, each movement one of blinding ecstasy, sensation so strong that it seemed to bleed into senses other than touch. You had no chance to catch your breath, no surcease from the assault, and no choice other than to feel yourself fall, your whole body seeming to seize in orgasm, the cry in your throat free of static as your cunt and cock pulsed in time, painting a white line up Alastor’s red shirt and spattering his cheek.

“See? What did I tell you?” Vox’s grin was triumphant as he pulled his tongue from you, his claws caressing your tail. Your body was still sensitive from the aftershocks, and his simple touch brought another one on, an involuntary animal cry in your throat. Vox scoffed and squeezed again, threading his talons through your fur, the sensation alone enough to make your stomach flutter, and through the corner of your eye you saw him take one of the discarded whiskey glasses and drain it, swilling it around his mouth before he swallowed.

“Oh, oh, sweetheart,” Alastor wiped your cum from his cheek and brought his fingers to your mouth, slipping his talons between your lips for you to suck clean. His voice was a croon, his breath hitching with each spasm that wracked you. “You fit me just perfectly, don’t you?”

You hummed around his fingers in response. It was an act of trust, just as much as the sex was- your teeth were every bit as sharp as his- and his fingers felt good in your mouth, like a gift. You closed your eyes, tracing the delicate lines of his fingers with your tongue, and felt as Vox lined himself up behind you, the warm tip of his cock resting first against your tail, then sliding down, the tip leaving a trail of wetness as he lined up with your entrance, the tip brushing against the flesh he had lapped with his tongue a few moments before.

Vox breathed out heavily, talons cradling your hips. “Are you sure about this, Al?”

“I think it’s customary,” said Alastor, a little snippily. “To ask that to the person you are about to fuck.”

“Shit.” You felt the tension in Vox’s body at Alastor’s rebuke. “You, uh, doin’ okay there, baby deer?”

You released Alastor’s fingers from your mouth, and turned your head to Vox, as far as you could twist with Alastor still inside you. Vox leaned in to accommodate, and you caught his lips with yours, hooking your forearm round his screen to keep him close as you kissed him, Alastor pressing his lips to your neck as you did. Taking the kiss as assent, Vox pushed into you, slowly.

Your inebriation and your orgasm helped make you loose, and Vox had been liberal with the lubricant on his tongue, but with Alastor inside you as well the fit was a tight one. Alastor tensed when he felt Vox push his way into your ass, his hips stilling and the soft hiss of static escaping his lips.

“God,” mumbled Vox as he bottomed out, his claws on your hips tight enough to mark you. “Fucking god. Al.”

Alastor didn’t bother with words, but the strangled noise in his throat might as well have been agreement.

Both of their eyes fluttered closed, and you felt a tremble in Vox’s arms. They could feel each other. They could feel each other inside you, both of them together stuffing you to the brim.

“I- I’m gonna move now,” said Vox, a pleading edge to his voice. He swallowed, edge of his screen knocking briefly against your antlers. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” you managed, briefly getting yourself to a state where you could form actual words rather than animalistic whimpering. “Just full.”

“If he hurts you,” said Alastor, into your collarbone. “I will eviscerate him.”

“Fuck me.” Vox exhaled again, sounding more like himself. “I have never seen him this fucking protective. Of anyone. But sure thing Al, I'll go gentle.”

True to his word, Vox went slowly as he fucked you, fucked both of you. Post orgasmic and still sensitive, the sensation of it filled your awareness; at the apex you were so full that everything pressed together, Vox’s cock pressing into Alastor’s through your thin divider of flesh, Alastor’s cock pushed almost by default into the sensitive spongy tissue that he would usually need to angle his hips to find. There was no escape, not for you nor for Alastor- Vox’s cock stroking his as much as it was fucking you, and you found yourself crying out in tandem with him, the same sweet noises from both your throats, the sound so close that it made strange beats and harmonies around you. Vox kissed you, sensuous and open mouthed, then Alastor kissed you, fierce and possessive, then Vox again, lapping up the blood that Alastor had drawn from your lips, your head swimming as two sets of claws held you in place.

You grew hard again, your body responding to being pressed between the two of them and fucked, and Vox took your cock in his hand, a victorious growl from his throat.

“You wanna cum round Al’s cock again, don't you, baby deer,” Vox’s voice was thick with desire, his hand firm as he handled your already overstimulated cock. Even a gentle stroke would have been too much, and his manipulation was more than that.

“I can't-” you managed between gasps of air. With both of them in you, you were stuffed to the brim, each roll of Vox’s hips bringing tears to your eyes. “Too much. Please.”

“You want him to feel you twitching around him, though, don't you?” Vox’s voice was coaxing, the hand that wasn't stroking your cock hooking round your waist, the heel of his hand pressing into your stomach, below your navel, pressing everything together inside you. “You want him to feel good, don't you?” said Vox, his breath hot on the back of your neck, and you stared into Alastor's lust-blown eyes, feeling the way Alastor trembled each time Vox ploughed into you, only your inner wall separating them.

“Yes,” you whimpered, but it was Alastor who cried out, drawing blood from his own lip, his hands tight on your hips. Alastor came a second before you did, his seed inside you a wave of heat as your cunt pulsed around him, your cock twitching weakly in Vox’s hand.

“Fuck-” Vox breathed, clinging to you tightly, the edge of his screen digging hard into the tops of your shoulders as the feeling of you and Alastor coming dragged him over the edge, his composure lost, and you made a noise in your throat as you felt him shoot his load in you, into your already overstuffed hole.

For a moment, the two of them inside you filled the entirety of your awareness, the pulsing warmth that filled your stomach, the tight grip that both Alastor and Vox had on you. Then you sank forward onto Alastor’s shoulder, and the grips became slow caresses, claws gentle against your bruised skin. Both of them praising you, neither man quite ready to look the other in the eye. They pulled out of you, and it occurred to you that you needed a shower, but you had barely enough energy left in you to lay back on Vox’s couch, your forearm over your eyes.

The last thing you remembered before you blacked out was Vox pouring another finger of obscenely expensive Japanese whiskey, some Ella Fitzgerald playing as the two of them admired how pretty you looked with their cum leaking out of you.

If this was Hell, then what the fuck went on in Heaven?