#is this ANYWHERE NEAR AS PAINFUL as the truth? no

[neon--nightmare]

forest fire by ajj is SUCH a loveball fresh song to me bro

[rinhaler]

DEATH IS NO MORE !

you know you shouldn't be here, right? what would possess you to visit an underground fight club? one of the fighters is kinda cute though...

✧˖*°࿐: 18+ only, no minors.    ✧. ┊ underground fighter!ryomen sukuna x f!reader

Genre: porn with a plot Notes: ty penny for beta reading again! picturing sukuna like this art by @innaillus bc i have had nothing else on my mind for days. Warnings: 18+, fem!reader, violence, blood ♡, daddy!kink, size difference ♡, age gap, degradation, fingering, orgasm denial, pussy spanks, dacryphilia, finger sucking, vaginal sex, choking ♡, creampie, squirting ♡, pet names (princess, sweetheart, baby). Words: 10k

As your heels snap against the pavement, you can almost feel the pulsing bass from the music surge from your toes and throughout your entire nervous system. The music is loud enough to hear, even from a distance, and it only gets louder as you step closer and closer to the abandoned warehouse.

You shouldn’t be here.

The voice is yours, internally. Though it feels like an out of body experienced as you venture head first towards a destination you have no business being anywhere near. The music muddies your thoughts. It’s confusing you, deeply.

Is there a dress code?

That doesn’t matter, because you shouldn’t be here.

The bass is hypnotic. That pounding bass that makes you feel weak and ethereal all in one dizzying bout. It’s like you’re going to a rave, though you’re not even close to being dressed the part. You’ve been at work all day. The last thing you should be doing is trespassing into a building that has been off limits for five years.

You just couldn’t resist, this.

Not with the rumours flying around and the hushed whispers of secrecy luring you in to investigate for yourself.

With the double doors in sight, you finally see that the entrance is being manned. Is it security or just a ticket holder? You aren’t sure you want to find out. They might take one look at you and shoo you away. There’s no way you can leave until you get what you came for.

You slip out of sight as you see another pair of men get out of a car parked near the entrance and approach. Your breathing is egregious, though you try to calm it. The adrenaline swirling through your every vein and muscle is enough to make you pass out. But the agonising desire to enter and see the truth for yourself is holding you steady.

$100 for a ticket.

“Christ.” you whisper to yourself.

You put your hand in your pocket and fish out your purse. As you open it and begin to look, you halt. The way your hands are trembling is abnormal, even for being this worked up. The pumping of your heart transfers to your brain. The pink, mushy organ pounds dramatically against the inside of your skull, and really, you think melodic beat of the music inside must be slithering its way into the creases of your braincells.

There’s a pain behind your eyes. You feel a migraine coming on and you’re all too familiar with the agonising feeling as you often leave your work days suffering from them.

You deepen your breaths in a bid to steel yourself. And eventually, you find the money to pay the fee. So you wait, patiently, for the other two men to enter the warehouse before you reveal yourself from the shadows. There’s an air of confidence to you as you approach the entrance.

Though it fades, slightly, as the man holds his hand up like a crossing guard.

“Women don’t come around here,” he starts, checking a clipboard that looks too small in his comically large hands. He flips through the pages and then looks at you again. “You’re not on the list.”

“I have the fucking money.” you tell him, slapping it on top of his stupid clipboard hard enough for him to almost drop it. He tries to stop you as you attempt to barge by him, though it isn’t a strict action.

More like a warning.

“It’s not a sight a lady should see, I think.” he tells you, still putting your hard earned money into a tin of other generous donations, you expect. His eyes focus on your own as he continues to speak. “You’re rich. Expensive clothes… shouldn’t have worn those here. Gets messy. Be careful.” he tells you. And with that, you enter the warehouse and heed his warning.

You walk slowly, but with purpose. A chill stabs down your spine as you approach a flight of stairs a group of men are running down. They wolf whistle upon seeing you and it curdles in your stomach. You try to keep your head held high as you climb and follow the sound of that intoxicating bass. Wherever the music is coming from is surely the source of the action, too.

The time of day is indicative of the lighting. It’s pitch black outside and it it’s even darker, still, in the warehouse. Though the moonlight manages to break in through the shattered windows enough to illuminate your path.

There’s a smell that you’re beginning to notice that invades your senses. A potent stench that is so specifically masculine and territorial. It’s sweat. Blood, too.

Once you get to the top of the stairs, there are double doors with a red light bleeding through the cracks. The music is louder, too, as well as the vociferous shouting being contained solely by the big, heavy duty doors.

And now, truly, you worry things have gone too far. The doors part and you slink into the shadows, still approaching without hesitation. You’re scared. God, terrified, really. But the adrenaline keeps you from retreating. There’s one goal you have in mind, and once complete, you can return back to your peaceful, suburban life.

A man holds the door as he waits for a friend to leave with him. You watch them walk away together, bragging about their earnings before you slip inside inconspicuously.

The red light contrasts from the rest of the building. And you think your retinas might explode from the change, you don’t let it divert your attention, though. But it’s hard to deny how distracted you are.

As the atmosphere has changed you begin to feel heady from the scent of sweat and testosterone. You do your best to continue undetected as you try to keep to the edges of the crowd. But a few eyes find you. Nudging and laughing when they see a woman, God forbid, enter their sacred male space. You notice there’s no malice mostly. It’s more leering and ogling despite doing all you can to not give them any attention or feed into their sex drive.

But you scream.

Scream could even be an understatement as you feel a tight squeeze on your upper arm flesh yank you away from the crowd and into the background of the room. Your adrenaline seems to die the instant one red eye matching the ambient lighting filling the room like a brothel in a red light district stare into yours.

Half of his face is covered by some sort of black mask.

Protecting his battle wounds, you assume.

There are a few laughs and stares before they’re pulled back to the main attraction. There’s a feeling of embarrassment rushing through you, but you can barely dwell on it as you look up at the man who had dragged you away so carelessly.

He’s easily the tallest man you’ve ever met. At least 6’5 and towering above you like you’re a puny child as you try and stand confidently beneath him. But the little gasp you emit when he bends down to whisper in your ear gives you away, instantly. He smirks, knowing just how scared you are. He knows just how worried you are and how out of your depth you are.

“And just what is a fragile little thing like you doing in my club?” he asks, a tantalising lilt in his words that would have your knees folding like outdoor furniture if you didn’t have one reason and one reason alone for being here. He pulls away from your ear, an intimidating glare staring back at you as he waits for an answer. “You don’t look like you can fight. Not that I’d allow it, anyway.” he tells you.

“I’m looking for someone.” you blurt out, unsure if you should have said that or kept it to yourself. It’s too late, now, and you see a sadistic smile transform his ravenous expression into one of sheer entertainment.

“Oh? Don’t tell me you’ve got a boyfriend you’re worried about fighting here.” he laughs, and it doesn’t go unnoticed how his eyes move from your face to your breasts. They’re covered, entirely. The decision to wear a turtleneck for work has come back to bite you as the sweltering heat feels enough to knock you unconscious.

It’s suffocating.

He isn’t really looking at your tits, however. His eyes instead seem to hone in on the silver necklace you’re wearing. And you can see how his eyes squint as he tries to think of anyone fighting here who’s initial begins with M before letting his dirty mind race at the thought of the letter slipping between your cleavage had you opted to wear something a little more revealing.

“You look like a cop, sweetheart. Not a good place for you to be all by yourself.” he informs you. A cop? You hadn’t even thought about how you’d stand out in that way. “I don’t need the fuzz poking around here, what do you want?” he asks, his voice a little more pointed and venomous as he raises your necklace with a single finger to toy with it.

If you weren’t so frozen in fear, you would have backed away and hid your necklace down your sweater. But you were scared, statuesque. The only movement you were able to perform was moving your lips.

A pretty trait for you to possess, he thinks.

“My brother is here, I think.” you tell him, calmly, hoping your honesty will earn you some favour in his eyes. His eyebrow quirks as he thinks about you possessing a family resemblance to anyone here. “He’s underage.”

He smiles at that. The pieces suddenly all fall into place as he knows exactly who you’re talking about. And he parts space between you both, grabbing the collar of your white, wool coat and pulling you along with him. The two of you get through the crowd with ease until you’re standing at the front.

A shriek leaves you as the losing opponent hurtles towards you, though your self-appointed escort gets in his way before your clothes can become ruined by the blood that has now smeared on your saviour’s skin. You’re sure he’s thankful that he wore a black vest so that you can’t really see the stains on it. Realistically, he probably doesn’t care, you think.

He wouldn’t be running a fight club if he cared about something as tedious as stains.

As he moves out of the way to reveal the victor, your own blood begins to simmer and spill from you. Megumi raises his arms triumphantly, spitting a glob of blood onto the ground next to the wounded man he’s evidently just beaten to a bloody, unconscious puddle. And you could tear his head off with your bare teeth with the rage that you feel.

But you can’t.

Not when the man who led you here steps into the makeshift ring of people surrounding them and hands him his earnings. And your brother smiles, gratefully, as he accepts and counts it.

“There’s someone here to see you, kid.” he tells him, tilting his head in your direction. Your foot taps against the dirty warehouse floor as you wait for him to notice you. And boy does he notice you. “Oh, are you that scared of her?” he laughs, noticing all of the colour draining from Megumi’s face as he processes the fact that you’re here. That you’re really here.

“The fuck are you doing here?!” he asks, running up to you and attempting to conceal the money as best he can. But it’s too late, you snatch it from his hand and look at him with contempt.

“Me? What are you doing here?! You’re seventeen! You’re not Tyler fucking Durden, Megumi.” you slap him upside the head and drag him away from the crowd. “I’m furious, I don’t even know where to start with you.” you tell him as you approach the heavy doors that are keeping this disgusting little community trapped in the sweaty, blood soaked room.

“Get off.” he shakes himself loose. “I left my stuff in Sukuna’s office.” he announces, leaving before you give him permission. You huff, following him up the steel stairs as you continue your onslaught of verbal abuse and anger at his sheer stupidity.

He should see a doctor, really. But you worry he’ll get in trouble if the police get involved. And he might end off worse, still, if he rats out this place and gets everyone else in trouble. It’s too much, you know you’ll have to cover for him.

You could cry, now. But you aren’t sure if it’s anger or genuine upset. And honestly, you don’t want him to see you cry over this. Weakness is not something you need him to see right now, you want to keep it together. You’re his guardian and you can’t be soft with him just because he’s your brother.

He picks up his gym bag from a locker in the room. Your eyes are laser focused on him, all of the trust you felt towards him is long gone. And now, you aren’t sure if you’ll ever be able to take your eyes off him again.

“Megumi… how did you even get involved with this?” you ask him, earning nothing more than an infuriated grunt as if you have no right asking. How dare you care about him and his wellbeing when you’re all each other have? You want to scream, to fucking scream at him for being such an idiot. “I thought you were getting bullied at school. I asked you if—”

“Drop it. Can we just go?” he asks.

“Tsk.” you kiss your teeth. Your gaze suddenly stolen as the man you can only presume is Sukuna walks into the office like he owns the place. He does. You close the distance between yourself and Megumi as his sadistic boss sits on a comfy looking chair behind an old battered desk. “Give me your phone. Go wait in the car. Do not go anywhere.” you warn him as you hand him the car keys.

He sighs, placing his phone in your hand before turning to leave. You don’t look at him, though, too focused on Sukuna to even pay him any mind.

Your blood continues to boil, bubbling under the surface of your skin as you look at Sukuna. A smarmy smirk plastered on his face as he kicks his feet up onto the desk. So, Megumi leaves. He knows better than to push you when you’re this pissed.

“Before you start, princess,” Sukuna stands back up and circles around the desk. Your eyes vibrate with fury as you watch him, backing up as he gets too close. “I didn’t force him to do this.”

“Don’t call me princess.” you tell him, shutting down the cutesy pet name in an instant the minute you get an opening to speak. You rest you hand on your hip as you point at him furiously. It’s rude, you know it’s rude, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not after seeing your little brother like that. “He’s just a kid. I don’t want him involved in this stuff, I’m trying to be a good role model and you’re fucking everything up. He’s not coming back, ban him.”

“Fuck no.” he chortles. “He might be a kid but he’s good. I pay well. ‘n I like him, I do. He’s a moody little brat but he makes me laugh and earns me a shit ton. I’m not banning him for you. Or anyone.”

“Maybe I should call the police, see what they have to say about all of this.” you threaten, immediately regretting it, when the smile drops from his face and is replaced with something akin to bemusement. He hadn’t expected you to threaten him. But the incredulous stare is soon replaced by another smile.

“You wouldn’t risk getting Megumi in trouble… nice try though.” he speaks, leaning back against his desk and crossing one ankle over the other as he folds his arms. He’s thinking. Genuinely thinking of a way to compromise. “What do you do?”

“I’m… a doctor.” you tell him. Earning a set of raised eyebrows and an amused scoff as he looks you over once more. He supposes it explains the fancy clothes and snooty attitude.

But—

“You’re too young to be a doctor, aren’t you?” he wonders.

“I’m a primary care physician.” you tell him. He nods in understanding, but you’re confused now. You shake away his questions and his interest in you before staring at him again with intent. “This needs to stop. I’m not going to call the police but I’m not letting my brother come back here, it’s too dangerous. He’s a child.”

“He’s a man, you’re babying him. He made three grand tonight, he’s earning money and staying out of trouble because he has an outlet for his anger.” Sukuna tells you. The amount of money he’s made surprises you, and you’re holding it in your coat pocket right now. He’s going to be down $100 after you take it out of his earnings, though. But still. Even you can’t deny that it’s impressive. “Stuck up princess. Snooty doctor. Think you can come in my fuckin’ club and tell me what to do? Fuck that.” Sukuna claims.

He doesn’t say anything else as he waits for you to speak. But, truthfully, you’re still thinking about Megumi. The fact that he needs an outlet for his anger is worrisome. You’ve tried to get him to see a therapist, but he isn’t interested in the least.

It’s been hard being a single parent to him when you’re too selfish and irresponsible to even look after yourself, let alone a teenage boy. He probably thinks you’re useless. You have no control over him, really. All you do is make sure he’s fed and has a place to sleep and get his school work done.

But after discovering this, you’re sure he hasn’t even been bothering to attend school.

“Oi.” Sukuna speaks, stealing your stare again as you’re finally brought out of your troubled gaze. “You’re a sheltered little princess, aren’t you? A place like this is just full of scum to you.”

“I don’t care about this.” you laugh, minimally, not really seeing the funny side but you have nothing else to offer by way of expression. He hesitates a little, seeing the defeated look in your eye. “The injuries and psychological damage these places can cause…”

“Not everyone’s got a fancy college education like you, girl.” he tells you, patronisingly, as if you don’t know that. But he doesn’t let you interrupt. “Some people need a quick buck to get out of trouble. Other’s like the thrill. But who the fuck are you to come into my club and tell us all we’re wrong? Comin’ in here in your doctor clothes… looking down your nose at us.”

“That’s not—”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what you’re doin’, sweetheart.” he continues. “You get to sit behind a desk all day and tell people what pills to take to feel better and then go home to your cosy house in the suburbs without a care in the world.”

“Don’t fucking patronise me.” you warn him, though you don’t have the muscle or means to back it up. He reminds you a lot of how your dad used to be. You didn’t particularly take shit from him, and you certainly won’t be taking it from Sukuna if you can help it. “If you’re letting a seventeen year old walk away with three grand, I’m sure you’re making a lot more money than I am behind my desk. I work hard. You’re lining your pockets from other people’s pain.”

“Only a little,” he smirks at that, knowing you’re right but not entirely. “I fight. I bleed.”

And you scoff. It’s so fucking archaic and you can’t help but pace around with your hands on your hips as you try and decide where to even start with that. What can you say, really? Congratulations? No, definitely not. You stop in your tracks as you realise how close he is to you, now, deciding he wanted to close the gap between the two of you while your mind was elsewhere.

You breathe a little heavier as you fall backwards onto the couch behind you while he towers above you. His eyes rake over your body as he drinks you in. The slight fear lingering below the surface, shrouded by a cloud of false confidence as you do all you can to not succumb to his intimidation.

His arms almost cage you in.

Almost.

He’d let you free yourself if you tried to escape.

But you aren’t trying.

You’re just staring into his eye.

And he likes that.

“Watch me.” he orders. The sentence is soft but with a hard, seductive edge. It’s an offer despite it sounding like a command. You aren’t sure what he’s asking you to watch but your heart rate is imploring you to decline, whatever it may be. He tilts his head, it’s barely noticeable, and somehow you do notice. You notice the way his eye flits from your eyes to your lips. Not once, multiple times. He has no shame, he doesn’t care that you know he’s looking. He doesn’t act on it, anyway. “Watch me fight.”

“Pardon?” you ask, instantly. Bewildered that he would even dare to dream that you’d do something so idiotic. Your brother is waiting, patiently, for you to take him home. Unless he’s stolen your car, of course. But you’d like to think he knows he’s in enough trouble than to do something so stupid.

“You’ve never seen a fight. Watch the best at work, you might change your opinion. Watch me.” he repeats.

He watches as your eyes glaze over with a watery sheen, smirking. There is a breeze left in the wake of him quickly freeing your body from his caging arms and heading towards the entrance to his office. Your breathing is intense and your hands begin to shake. You think to text Megumi and check he’s okay, before remembering that you have his phone.

You look over your shoulder to see Sukuna leaning over the railing. He’s yelling about something but your ears are ringing in your confusion. The music isn’t helping, either. You look down at your phone to check the time, not even really taking it in before you place both Megumi’s and your own in each of your pockets.

Sukuna returns, entering with a cool swagger before leaning on the edge of his desk again.

“You’ve got ten minutes to decide.” he tells you.

Decide?

You’ve already decided. There’s no way you’re sticking around to watch him beat someone within an inch of their life. Or vice versa if his opponent proves to be too much. But with his physique and confidence, you doubt he’ll lose. And almost as if he’s read your mind, he smirks.

“I’m going to win.” he informs you, a cocksure grin saturating his lips as he drinks in your reaction to his words. You cross a leg over the other and fold your arms, still determined to remain and appear defiant as you listen to him. He can sense you’re weakening resolve, though. “I always win, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.” you remind him, and he tuts in response. You can’t tell him what to do. You can try, but he won’t listen. And he hears the wavering in your words. Your desire to appear cold and callous towards him crumbling the longer you spend time in such close proximity to him.

“I think you like it.” he tells you, smiling. “Why are you still here?”

“I’m thinking.” you tell him in turn, scowling as you decide whether or not to leave right now or actually think this through. If you leave, you know your pride won’t allow you to change your mind.

“Don’t have all night for you’re thinkin’, doll.” he speaks. “Oh… I know, how about we make a little wager?”

“No.”

“Awe, c’mon, live a little.” he laughs, menially. He smirks as he hears you gasp whilst lifting you up like you’re nothing. He sits you down on his desk and for some reason you find yourself tightly wrapping your legs around his waist. Your chest heaves, panicked from the process. You aren’t sure how that happened and you can’t seem to shake any of it away. Not when your fingernails are digging into his biceps and your lips are ghosting each other’s. What is he doing? “How about if I lose, I’ll tell Megumi he can’t come around here anymore.”

“You said you’ll win.”

He smirks, at that. Scarred hands nip and grab at your entirely covered flesh. He wishes he could just rip the material off you right here, right now. But he wouldn’t feel right about sending you to your car in torn clothing, telling your little brother exactly what kept you busy for so long.

“That, I did…” he speaks as if recollecting an ancient memory. But he looks at you, eyes traversing your body again. “So what—”

“’m not betting with you. I know you’re gonna win.” you tell him, moving your head back slightly so your lips are no longing tracing each other. Instead, you’re looking at him intently. “You’re just trying to get me to agree to something that I won’t be able to back out of. ‘m not stupid.”

“No, you’re not stupid.” he agrees. He tucks some hair behind your ear and grabs your chin so that you can’t break your stare from his own. “I know we both want the same thing right now, though. That pride will do you no good, y’know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” you lie, feigning ignorance as the heat between your legs begins to pool and seep into your panties. You hope he doesn’t notice. God you hope he doesn’t fucking feel it. You hope that your trousers will protect you, the fight should be starting soon. “I’m taking my brother home… but I hope you enjoy your little fight.”

“You’re not going anywhere or you would have left already.” he tells you, matter-of-fact. “The things I could say… I’m gonna say it all after I win.”

“I won’t be here. ‘n I’m not giving you my number.”

“You’ll be in the front fucking row watching me.” he sneers.

You inhale a sharp breath as he forcefully moves your head. A finger hooks into the collar of your turtleneck, lazily pulling it downward to reveal the bare skin of your neck. His lips are close, breath dancing over the expanse of your skin. It’s a battle to withhold the shudder that is creeping through your veins. It makes your eyes water, a tear threatens to spill but you refuse to let it. You weld your eyes shut as he continues to torment you, and they appear even more watery when you open them again. The way your body trembles is harder to mask, though it’s nearly imperceptible as you accept you need to release it. All you can do is hope that he hasn’t noticed.

But he does.

The intensity of your breathing increases as you think he might kiss your neck. Your eyes flutter shut in preparation, but all he does is tease. And when you feel a near empty chuckle fan across your neck, your eyes widen once more.

“It’s time, princess.” he tells you, pulling away completely. He doesn’t wait for you to respond, heading towards the exit to his office before turning back to face you. “Come.”

And like you’re a voice activated toy, you follow him. He quick steps down the stairs while you struggle in your heels. You cling to the railing as you descend, and he waits patiently for you at the bottom.

He’s agnate to a God in this warehouse. You see how people respect and admire him as he enters the room. People part for him so that he can walk through with ease with you in tow. You’re really going to watch an authentic fight.

You wonder how different it will be in comparison to movies. You’re scared, shaking, but part of you is telling you that you need to see it. You need to see the state that Megumi could one day end up in if you don’t scold him correctly.

“Should I go easy on him, sweetheart?” he asks, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “She’s going to decide your fate tonight, listen up.” Sukuna tells his opponent. You want to kill him yourself for drawing everyone’s attention to you. You struggle to find words, mouth drying every time it opens.

“Just… don’t kill him.” you shrug. “But don’t get yourself killed, either.”

He laughs, shrugging his shoulders too. Neither of them look scared, though you suppose that’s the point. Neither of them would be doing this if they didn’t think they could win. They wouldn’t be here if they were afraid of getting hurt.

“She wants me to go easy on you…” Sukuna smirks.

You watch, nervously, as they circle around the ring for a while. He looks at you, briefly, as you fiddle with your necklace as you try and occupy your mind.

A ragged breath leaves you as they both lunge at each other. The way Sukuna dodges and weaves away from each and every attempt that should be hitting him is almost like watching a beautiful ballet.

It’s art, here.

Between these walls and amongst this audience. It is a true art form that is celebrated and enjoyed. The casualties don’t matter, not even a little. Everyone is a willing participant, even you, now. You could have left but decided not to.

It’s for Megumi, you tell yourself.

You need to be better and act better for him. And you can’t possibly do that without the knowledge of how truly dangerous this can be.

But now, seeing it for yourself, you’re starting to understand.

Sukuna is strong. Heavy fists affix themselves to his opponents face again and again until he’s on the ground. Blood pours from the man’s nose and you think he might suffocate from lost teeth and gurgling blood pooling in his throat.

And Sukuna… he’s been starved of this.

You start to think that maybe he doesn’t fight as regularly as he claims. It seems too easy for him, now. No one can beat him, so what’s the point? But he has missed this feeling. The feeling of seeing blood gush from an adversary who whole-heartedly believed they could take him on.

He takes pleasure in it, violence. Particularly the brand inflicted by him. He profits from it regularly, but this is a rare treat nowadays. He’s happy to sit in his office and let idiots do what idiots do as long as his pockets and wallet fill with each event.

This fight… it was on a whim.

Was it just to impress you?

He straddles his opponent as he repeatedly smashes the same fist into his face again and again and again. And he’s laughing. It’s maniacal, borderline insane laughter as you see blood spatter and clots form and congeal against the poor man’s skin.

And why…

Why are you loving this?

You can practically feel hearts and glitter adorning your eyes as you watch on in horror, unable to turn away. You’re mesmerised by it. You should be ashamed, really, you’re meant to be a doctor.

If you were a good person, you’d be breaking this up. You’d be rushing to the man’s side and calling an ambulance to help him. Instead of watching on in astonishment, you should be doing all you can to keep him alive after such a vicious assault. But instead, you’ve sunken to the balls of your feet so that you can be on their level and watch each and every punch land with excruciating detail. You don’t want it to stop. You could watch this forever.

Watch him forever.

You’re sick.

This is sick.

“Sukuna!” you yell, standing upright again and looking down at him. He stops short of landing one final blow to his opponents bulging and split nose so that he can look up at you. There’s worry in your eyes, and it makes his brows furrow. His eyes squint as he examines you. He isn’t sure how to read you or what you might be thinking. But he realises worry isn’t the only thing lingering behind those glimmering, wide eyes.

Something else entirely resides there that he’s longed to see since the moment he set eyes on you.

“Sorry, I got carried away.” he speaks down to the near dead man beneath him. “Were you done or did you want to keep going?”

“D… Don—”

“Thaaaaat’s great.” he responds to the man’s choked attempt to end the fight. Sukuna jumps to his feet, barely a scratch on him, and walks by you without looking back. You hasten behind him, almost unable to keep up in your stupid shoes. You see a man hand him something before walking away. You scrunch your brows as you look between them both.

Oh, he’s been paid.

He reaches the top of the stairs to his office and holds the door open for you to pass through. You duck by him, hiding in the room like you shouldn’t be there. You shouldn’t. You feel so small and inconsequential when you’re near him.

It’s his height, you realise.

It’s effortless intimidation. He’s a giant and you have to crane your neck just to look up at him when he’s close to you. His giant frame and bulging muscles don’t put you at ease, either. If you make him mad enough, you wonder how far he’d go. Would he use his strength to his advantage? Maybe he’d just take pity on you.

“You’re still here.” he rasps, locking the door behind himself and closing the blinds to the room. He likes the privacy as he counts his money. It excites you, for some reason, to see so much in a big fat wad. He looks up at you briefly before focusing back on it. “You liked it.”

“No.”

“Yeah ya did,” he laughs. You watch him as he collects a heavy looking bag from another locker in the room. It’s different to the one Megumi used. It looks shinier, newer. Sturdier. “I can tell you liked it.”

“Well, I’m going now.” you start, turning to walk away before he stretches out an arm to stop you in your tracks. He walks you backwards until your ass collides into the edge of his desk. He doesn’t pick you up, though. He just sizes you up, slowly, purposefully. And what a pathetic size you are in comparison to him. “Megumi needs me…” you whisper, meekly.

His presence is truly all consuming as he lords above you. You’re trapped between his large frame and the tattered old desk that resides in this seedy office. He could afford something nicer. But what would be the point if the place gets raided?

“We wanted the same thing earlier,” he starts. His voice quiet but commanding, still. You look between his lips and his pressuring gaze. He smiles, at that, he can see the way your mind is running rampant with thoughts of him. The dirty criminal who wants to fuck you on his desk. “Bet ya want it even more now.”

“N-No.”

“Yes.” he argues, placing a bloody hand on your pristine coat and making a mess of it. His hand snakes around to your waist, eventually. You gasp when you feel him tug your body closer to his by your belt loops, grinning as the little noise you make hits his ears. “Stutterin’ over yours words and making pretty sounds for me, sweetheart. Did you get all excited from seeing the blood? Bet ya did… bet you’re wet from seein’ daddy get violent.”

You gulp, heartily, your breathing gets heavier the more he speaks. His words rush straight to your cunt and you can barely ground yourself. The only thing keeping you from floating is your fingers curling around the edge of the desk as he continues to tease you.

“You’re fucking frigid.” he continues. Your eyes begin to water as he undoes the button on your pants and goes to pull down the zipper. You grab his hands to stop him, though it’s in vain. “Why are you so frigid, huh? When was the last time you had a good, hard, fuck?” he asks you, each word dripping like venom in a bid to make you squirm.

“That’s none of your—”

“Stop being such a bitch.” he tells you, slight laughter leaving him as he speaks. “Let me guess… got too occupied with your career, right? Bet you had a long term boyfriend who wouldn’t know how to fuck you properly if his life depended on it. ‘n then you got saddled with the kid… bought a vibrator and a plastic cock ‘n thought that would make do… you’ve never been fucked before.”

“Stop it.” you tell him. You turn your head away but he quickly forces it back with one heavy, dominating hand. “I have to go.”

“Sure.” he agrees, not letting go or moving aside for you to leave.

Nothing is said, not another word. Several beats of silence pass by as you stare at each other. The hypnotic music continues to play outside, though it’s muffled slightly by the locked office door. It isn’t enough to mask how hard either of you are breathing. Panting. Unable to break your stare from each other as the silence, that cogent fucking silence gets louder and louder.

Not another word is spoken as his lips press roughly against your own. You kick off your shoes and he kicks them aside as you continue to kiss him. Your hands are all over his body, grabbing and squeezing his skin as you lose yourself to the feeling of his lips. He forces down your trousers so that they’re resting around your thighs before lifting you onto the desk. You moan, desperately, as he breaks the kiss to fully remove them from your legs.

He lets them fall and kicks them away in the opposite direction of your shoes. The kiss breaks once more as he laughs lightly as your hips begin to rock eagerly for him.

“Knew you were wet for me earlier, y’know.” he tells you, kissing you briefly before deciding to tease you further. “Felt how your cunt was droolin’ when I lifted you on here before.”

“You’re vile.” you tell him, not caring that much as you lock your lips with his again. His attitude, the way he talks, the way he is. It’s all so nauseatingly macho and you thought you were better than this. You thought you knew better and wanted better for yourself. But having it presented so perfectly for you… you were always going to succumb.

“You like it, you like me.” he continues, forcing your snow-white coat down your arms and off your body. The way his knuckles continue to gush blood, you expect the liquid to seep and stain the white material and paint it the same red as his eyes. “Mmmm, I’m right. Why else would you be so wet?”

The air is snatched from your lungs as he pushes your legs apart from each other one at a time. You don’t dare close them as you watch him pull his vest over his head and reveal his perfectly chiselled body in all of its glory. It’s pervasive. It’s gorgeous. You aren’t even sure it’s humanly possible to look this good.

A soft ‘unf’ sound leaves you and you feel him sink his bloody knuckles inside of your panties. Deft fingers swirl and tease around your firm clit, and your mouth seals shut.

“Tell the truth, princess.” he swipes two fingers over your clit at a heightened pace, desperate to coax another utterance of admittance from your soft lips. “You wanna get fingered by a dirty old man. Go on, let me be your bit of rough, sweetheart.”

“Fuck.” you breathe, unable to withstand his filthy mouth. You’re truly powerless to being spoken to like this. Maybe you’re tired of people speaking to you so politely day in day out.

He doesn’t respect you, though.

Right now you’re nothing but a wet, desperate hole, with a pretty face attached.

“Let daddy finger you, yeah?” he asks, and you can’t stop your eyes from filling with water. He thinks it’s adorable. How the mighty hath fallen for nothing more than a few little rubs on your neglected clit. It makes him sick, truthfully, how many precious little things like you go without being touched properly. You’re about to learn, now, just how quickly you can become addicted to a person and the way they touch you.

“I should- I r-really have to go!” you tell him, still so desperate to remain defiant to the bitter end. He knows you’re bound to crumble any second. You’re biting your lip to keep quiet, but it will do you little good. Not when you are instinctively widening your legs for him. Wider than you knew they could go.

He pushes a single finger into you, hissing when he feels just how tight you really are. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume you were a virgin. He presses the heel of his palm against your clit, constantly adding pressure to the needy nub as he continuously pumps and curls his finger in and out of your sopping hole.

“Sukuna! I can’t d-do this, I shouldn’t be here.” you tell him as you wrestle with your guilt.

“This is exactly where you should be,” he tells you. “You’ll feel better when you cum f’me. Maybe you’ll stop being such a stuck up bitch.” he laughs, again, because you don’t dispute it.

No, instead, you lean back and rest your hands on the desk. Your hips roll urgently against his hand, chasing the stimulation to your clit. He looks down between you, tugging at your panties with one hand until you take the hint. You stop rutting against him, closing your legs so he can pull them down without stopping his rough touches.

They come down enough, the white lace dangling on one ankle as he forces your legs apart again. His vision meets your cunt. The way you’re swallowing one finger with ease now calls him to add another.

And you hiss from the stretch, but your humping doesn’t relent. You’re taking his fingers all of the way to the bloody knuckle until your eyes cross from the pleasure. And he grunts, at that, an attempt to conceal the moan lodged in his throat.

He revels in the way your cunt clenches as he allows a glob of spit to drip to your clit. His jaw hangs low as he massages the heel of his palm into it harder. The way you wriggle from his touch is better than any drug he can imagine existing. It’s addictive, seeing a once so proud woman regress to a needy little pet from the touch of a common man.

“D-Don’t stop.” you whisper, unsure of where that even came from. It was entirely involuntary. Your brain begins to fog as he repeatedly batters your g-spot again and again until your vision turns white. “Fuck, fuck! ‘m cumming, Sukuna! Ah- aaah~!” you cry out.

And just as it was getting good. Just as you were about to topple over the edge, he withdraws his fingers.

“You’re a real slut when you get going, aren’t you?” he smiles, landing a wet slap on your twitching pussy. You yelp, but don’t speak. “Barking orders at me like you’re in charge. Remember who’s office you’re in, now. It ain’t yours, princess. You’re spread open on daddy’s desk. Know your place.”

“I’m s-sorry.” you whimper, trying to focus and ignore the aching pulse you feel between your thighs. You need to cum, now. You need him to make you. It’s not fair, you can’t comprehend how close you were before he stopped you from reaching your high. “I’ll be good, d-daddy, just don’t… please don’t stop.” you beg, the title feels foreign on your tongue. But you don’t hate it.

He tuts, slapping your cunt again and again, repeatedly striking until tears spill from your pathetic, wet eyes.

“Fuckin’ love it when you look at me like that. Needy little whore.” he chortles, moving away from you entirely as he goes to grab something. “I’m gonna do something no one else will ever be able to do for you, jus’ because you look so pretty.”

“Wha—?”

“Lose the sweater, now. Wanna see your pretty tits,” he commands, lifting up the bag he grabbed from his locker earlier. “Hurry up. You need to be naked for this, you’ll enjoy it more.”

You do as you’re told, hurrying to strip yourself of the restricting material that has been suffocating you all night. And you toss it God knows where, breathing a sigh of relief as you feel cooler despite the sweaty heat that is trapped in the office with you.

“Good, good girl.” he smirks, unzipping the bag. You brace yourself for whatever he’s about to pull out. Some kind of sex toy, you assume. Knowing his ego, it’s probably a mould of his cock, hoping he can double stuff you.

But he doesn’t pull anything out.

Instead, he tips the bag upside down. There’s no time to think about what horrible things he could be pouring onto you. Because it doesn’t happen. Instead, you’re showered in bank notes. You laugh, excitedly, as you feel a never-ending stream over hundred-dollar bills pour over your body and onto the desk.

Sukuna laughs, too, admiring the sight of you dressed in nothing but money.

His money.

And it’s everywhere.

You writhe around on the desk before looking at him. He pulls down his sweats, hungrily, just enough to free his length. And, fuck, he’s huge. You knew he would be just by looking at the rest of him. It’s a scary sight, but you don’t care. He was right, no one else will ever be able to do this for you.

“Fuck me.” you request, opening your legs for him again. “Want daddy to fuck me stupid.” you finish.

And he doesn’t need to be asked twice. His fingers are shoved between your lips for you to suck as he lines his threatening cockhead up with your throbbing cunt. You’re too distracted by the taste of his fingers to properly react to how he stretches your hole.

The taste of copper stains your tastebuds along with the flavour of your essence. He watches you, intently, as he bullies his cock all of the way to the hilt without remorse. Though he hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath while examining you, panting desperately when he’s fully sunken into your restricting walls.

“Took that like a champ,” he praises you, withdrawing his fingers from your lips and opting to squeeze the sides of your neck instead. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, swallowing me like this.” he smirks, thrusting his hips shallowly to help you adjust. But the composure is lost when he feels how tight you’re wrapped around him. Like you’re claiming what yours as if he belongs inside, buried deep in your cunt to depths no one has been before.

He's yours.

“Fuuuu—” you start, cutting yourself off as you pout and groan through every pummel of his hips against yours. “Daddy! D-aaddy!” you wince, unable to believe how perfectly each vein adorning his cock stimulates you so beautifully. His leaking tip serves as a painful reminder to how irresponsible you’re being to fuck a literal stranger raw.

But you don’t care.

You honestly don’t care as you think about the desperate desire you feel burning between your thighs for him to fill you up like you’re his. To be claimed in such a disgustingly primal way by this behemoth of a man while you just lie there and take it is the only thing higher on your list of priorities than actually getting to cum yourself.

“No one will fuck you like this again, hear me? No one.” he reminds you. And all you can do is nod dumbly as you can’t even find it in you to formulate one word on your tongue to say in response. “Not a doctor, not a lawyer. No one will fuck you in the money they earn like this. And you look so pretty, princess. Knew you’d like it, can act high ‘n mighty all you like, but you like the blood money, don’tcha?”

“Y-Yes.” you barely managed to squeak out.

“Yes what?” he repeats.

“Y-es, daddy,” you pant, forcing yourself to fix your eyes on him as you speak in a feeble attempt to ground yourself. “I l-like the money.”

“Little money slut.” he chuckles, the angle he fucks in you seeming to hit deeper and deeper the longer it goes on. “I should fuck you up against the window, let everyone see how fucked out you are. Hah? Show everyone you’re not such a stuck up princess after all.”

“N-No, please, don’t.” you beg, gasping as he pulls his cock out of you and drags you away from the desk. He pushes your face against the window and you instinctively close your eyes. Your back arches as he slots himself into you from behind, powerless to his body as he starts fucking into you again. And you’re so thankful for the blinds, despite the fact the ridges dig into your skin as he ploughs you. “Fuuuuck, ‘Kuna, fuck, s’big!” you tell him, feeling him deeper still as he hits you from behind.

“I should let them all see what a whore you are.” he laughs, fingers gripping deeply into your sides as he uses you for leverage to pull you down on his length whilst battering into you. “Pretty mouth is droolin’ for me, look like you’re gonna break.”

Your heart begins to race as he reaches for the cord to open the blinds. There’s no doubt in your mind that it’s something he’d do. You brace yourself, preparing to be put on show for all of the lecherous men below to see.

But instead, he picks you up and forces you to bend over the table again. Your feet don’t even touch the ground as rams his cock into you again and again and again.

“Megumi wouldn’t be able to live it down if everyone knew how much of a slut his sister is,” he tells you. “He’d get the shit kicked out of him every time someone described what your face looks like when you cum.”

Fuck, Megumi.

You’d forgotten all about him, waiting in the freezing cold car for you while his pseudo-boss fucks your brains out.

“Don’t,” you huff, “tell him, about this.”

“Of course not, I’ll be your dirty little secret.” he laughs. “You are a vessel for my cum and nothing more.”

You’ve never felt such self-hatred for yourself as those final, scathing words have you cumming violently around his cock. You tremor and shake as you finish, collapsing entirely onto the desk as he continues to plough into you.

“Fuck, fuck!” you cry, feeling even more embarrassment wash over you as you think you might have pissed yourself. But he gasps, amazed, admiring the stream of clear liquid gushing from your cunt drenching him and his money on the floor.

“Awe, baby just squirted. What that your first time?” he laughs, fucking into you harder so that he can follow you along in your bliss. He bends over, his mouth lining up with your ear so he can whisper more of his rendition of sweet nothings into your ear. “You’re shaking ‘cause of me. A-And now, you’re gonna have to drive your little brother home with every drop of my cum in your cunt.”

“Please, please fill me up. Need it s’bad. Wanna be full of you…” you babble, reality still not fully resonating with you as he carries on fucking into you at a brutal pace.

He grunts and moans as he cums deep inside of you. You’ve made some mistakes in your life but this has to be one of the better ones. Despite your healthcare knowledge telling you that you should know better, you’ve never felt so content as you feel him shoot rope after rope of searing hot cum into your womb.

He pulls out, wiping his dick off on your ass cheek before fingering you slowly.

“Keep my mark inside of you.” he utters, forcing you to squeeze your thighs together so you don’t waste a drop while he gathers your clothes for you.

He hands you your underwear first while he keeps looking, and you pull them up quickly. It feels so revolting and lewd as his cum leaks into the seat of your panties. You sigh as you feel the cold letter M on your chest before you can dress yourself.

“I don’t have a first aid kit here.” Sukuna speaks, not looking at you as he hands you the rest of your belongings.

“I’m fine.” you tell him, quickly pulling on your sweater and instantly feeling sick as the warm material meets with your hot, clammy skin.

“I’m not.” he tells you, watching as you pull up your trousers and fasten them in a hurry before slipping into your high heels again. “Bet you have one at home. You’re a doctor, you’ve gotta look after people.”

You eye him up, cautiously, before your expression changes to a smile. “You’re asking to come home with me?” you wonder, pulling on your coat and making sure you still have two phones in your pockets as well as your purse and Megumi’s wad of cash. “But Megumi will—”

“I’ll drive behind you. C’mon, princess, don’t want my cuts do get infected, do ya?” he asks.

You cannot believe you allowed his dirty fingers inside of you. As good as they felt, it was so stupid. You’re sure there’s probably blood stains on your inner thighs because of him.

Though the thought of him all over you makes your cheeks fill with warmth.

You just nod, opting not to speak as you head towards the office door. You walk ahead of him, finding confidence in your strides again. He puts his vest back on and makes sure he’s decent before leaving the office. He watches you leave ahead of him and stops to talk to his favourite subordinate.

“Clean the mess up there. And I’ve counted the money so don’t get cute.” he says, handing the key to the office over before following your path out.

He’s a little surprised how far ahead you’d gotten. Long gone from the building as you approach your car.

The guilt of leaving Megumi alone for so long got to you, he thinks.

“Hi.” you say, simply, sitting behind the wheel of your car and hoping not to have to talk much for the ride home. He’s a moody teenager who rarely has a word to say to you. And for once, you’re hoping it’ll stay that way. You adjust yourself and quickly put on your seatbelt so that you can drive off without another word.

“What took you so long?” Megumi asks, huffing as he looks at you. His eyebrows knit as he sees his bossapproach with a confident swagger. He wonders if he forgot something or he didn’t pay him the right amount.

Sukuna leans into his open window with a shit eating grin on his face. He wants to question it, to question you. But his eyes meet your not so pristine white coat as he turns to look at you again. “Is that blood?” he asks, eyes looking up at you as he waits for an answer.

You look down at your jacket, holding your eyes closed with a sigh as you realise what a nightmare it’s going to be to remove the stains. Megumi leans in closer to you, moving your hair out of the way as he examines you.

“Um…” you mutter, too frozen to even continue starting up the car.

“It’s on your face and neck too. What did you—?” he stops, turning around to look at Sukuna and see if he can fill in the blanks in his mind with any form of answer. But they’re filled, instantly, as his eyes fall to see Sukuna’s bloody knuckles. “For fuck sake.” he speaks, quietly, covering his face with both hands as the revelation dawns on him.

“I’ll be right behind you, lead the way.” Sukuna winks as he walks away from your car and heads towards his own.

You don’t say anything, copying your brother’s action as you both sit in silence and absorb the never-ending supply of cringe filling the atmosphere. Until eventually you decide, this won’t do. Sukuna honks the horn of his Mercedes to signify that he’s ready.

So you start to drive, fleeing the scene while your partner in crime follows behind.

“Fucking good role model you are.” Megumi speaks sarcastically. “I can’t show my face there again. Why do you ruin everything?”

“Nothing happened!” you lie, earning a scoff from him.

“Let me get this straight. You came here to tell me to stop fighting, and then you fucked the man who pays me to do it. So, am I allowed to fight or not?”

“Obviously not, Megumi.”

“You’re a fucking hypocrite.” he scathes, turning his head to face away from you while he sulks. “You can’t tell me what to do after this. Some fucking moral compass you got there.”

“Oh shut up.” you respond, trying to keep a cool head as you continue. “Nothing. Happened. I watched him fight and I hated it, we talked it out and here we are. Stop being so pissy.”

“Why’s he following us home, then?” he wonders, turning to face you and see if he can detect an honest answer or a lie from you.

“He doesn’t have a first aid kit.” you tell him, which is true though it isn’t really an answer. And you feel his green eyes burn into the side of your face as he waits for you to elaborate. “I’m a doctor, he needs his wounds tending to.”

“… Oh my God.” he starts. “Oh my God you actually fucking like him. You’re so embarrassing.” he huffs, pulling a cigarette out of his jeans. He closes the window to light it and opens it again just as quickly. You’ve never liked that he smokes, but you know nothing you say or do will stop him.

Just like the fighting.

And then, you find yourself laughing. Unable to stop yourself as you think about what a stereotypical angsty teen your little brother is. And, God, you’ve made yourself into his biggest enemy just because you care about him. But now… Christ, you’ve gone above and beyond.

“I lied. We fucked. And it was great.” you laugh harder when you see Megumi’s horrified expression the longer the conversation goes on.

“I can’t stand you.” he sighs. “He’s never gonna let me forget this. What is wrong with you?”

“Serves you right, you little shit. Lie to me again and see what happens.” you warn him, your laughter lets up a little as you try and focus on being serious.

You’re never going to be his mother, and you’d never want to be. But what you can be is his big sister. You can be an annoying pain and embarrass him whenever he acts up. But you’ll always be here to take care of him and keep him on the right track when needs be.

“I love you, shit head.” you smile, and he sighs.

“… love you too… bitch.”

�� 2023 rinhaler

m.list | chapter two

[yoonjae20]

Ric(hard) Fenton; Part 1

(Once again slightly inspired by @saltymarshmall0w 's prompt.)

Read on ao3.

Masterpost. Next.

“B, didn’t you promise us as you’d tell if there was a possibility of another secret child?” Tim asks as he stares at the black haired boy, who looks like he had been to hell and back to get here, with blue eyes — because of course, they are blue —  in front of the Manor’s door. 

He can’t help but feel unnerved by the way the boy evaded their security measures and how he hasn’t said a single word since Tim opened the door even when he can see the boy’s hands tremble.

“Yes?” Bruce's voice floats from further in the Manor, his barely audible gaunt drawing near.

“Then who the hell is this?” he asks just as the man turns the corner. He freezes at the sight of the kid, literally blue screening as he takes him in. 

“Actually he’s mine,” a too chipper voice announces and Tim nearly jumps out of skin as he turns to Dick.

The young man must see both Tim and Bruce doing the mental calculations in their heads because he interrupts before they can draw the wrong conclusions.

“If Bruce can go around adopting children, I can do the same.” Then he turns to the boy. “You can come in, Danny.” 

Tim is eerily reminded of a wary, frightened cat as the boy — Danny moves inside. His steps are too silent for a mere civilian. 

Bruce and Tim share a look and Tim knows that they are both asking themselves when Dick met the boy and why he never mentioned him with how familiar he acts around him as he easily tucks him into his side. 

Although neither of them wants to accept it, Dick has changed since the one year where he disappeared without a trace. He’d told them that he was shot leading to him to lose his memories and that he only retained his memories a few days before he came back, but Tim always had a feeling the older man was not telling the whole truth, hiding it behind an easy-going smile. He didn’t speak a single word about what happened during that year, claiming he didn’t remember much of it ever since his memories returned.

Not only that, but it had become even rarer than before that any of them would meet Dick at the manor (even Jason was at the Manor more often) — and when he was present he was always studying them with an intense stare as if he was searching for something in their expressions.

“Dick,” Bruce starts but the man waves him off.

“Later,” he says. “I need to see if I have any fresh clothes for Danny.”

Dick pulls the boy away and they head up the stairs. Tim gives it a minute before he follows, nodding at Bruce, who does the same. He hears them stop in the hallway and he pauses in his steps.

“What’s going on?” Tim hears the man's question and he sneaks closer when he can’t hear the boy’s response. He subtly uses his phone’s camera to peek around the corner. 

“What about Mom and Dad?” Dick asks in a hushed whisper and Tim knits his eyebrows together — confused about who his brother is talking about.

Danny winces with a pained expression.

“The GIW got them in custody for affiliating with and aiding an ectoplasmic entity,” he explains. “You are my only chance.”

“Jazz, Sam, Tucker?” Dick almost seems desperate and when the boy just shakes his head after each name, he runs a hand through his hair and curses. 

“And you are sure we can’t go to them?”

Tim can’t help but ask himself who they are talking about that Dick’s voice is so full of disdain. Danny vehemently shakes his head, eyes squeezed together like he is remembering something painful and when he speaks his voice is shaky.

“I don’t know what to do, Ric,” he says, clutching the top of his shirt like his heart is hurting and Tim’s eyebrows climb to the top of his hairline at the unusual nickname. “I can’t- I can’t do this alone…” 

“Fuck.” Dick takes a deep breath as he hugs Danny. “Okay. Yes, of course I’m coming with you, baby ghost. Just let me grab my things and then we’ll go on our way.” 

“You will not go anywhere.” 

Bruce steps in Dick’s path before Tim can stop him and he narrows his eyes at the pair. Danny flinches away from the man and Dick steps protectively in front of the boy.

Tim knows Bruce and Dick had their rough patches in the past but never like this. Never had Dick looked at Bruce like he was a threat. 

“I’m not in the mood, B,” Dick warns sharply. 

“And I’m not about to let you go off with someone that I haven’t vetted.”

Dick lets out a bitter huff of a laugh.

“Of course that’s the only thing you would focus on.” His voice is cold. “You’ll bulldoze your way through, and prod and condemn, not caring if you hurt someone innocent in the process as long as you can justify your actions. I don’t even know why I’m surprised at this point. It’s what happened to Jason after all.”

Bruce reels back like he’s been punched. 

“Now if that is all, I have to go save the people who actually treat me like family.”

This time nobody stops Dick as he leaves the house, Danny in tow. 

“Master Bruce, Master Tim,” Alfred’s voice tears Tim out of his trance and startles Bruce who froze in his spot. “Where is Master Dick?”

Dick trembles with barely suppressed fury as he leads Danny to his car.

He wanted to believe that Bruce was better — that he wouldn’t have led the Justice League on a hunt after a child, but the longer he is back in Gotham as Richard Grayson — the longer he is around who were supposed to be his “actual” family, the more he grows unsure about that fact. There is no easy trust between them — not the steadfast determination that no matter what happens, they’ll take his side. Not like the Fentons have. (It’s been barely 2 months and he misses being Ric Fenton — misses being Jack and Maddie’s son and Jazz and Danny’s older brother.)

Bruce has contingency plans about them for fuck’s sake. And while he understands that there might be situations where they would be on other sides — the time where he and the Teen Titans had to fight their mind controlled mentors comes to mind — it’s a scary thought. For the first time since ages — since Bruce had taken Robin away from him — he feels like he is on his own. 

Back then he had turned to Clark — to Superman. He was the one who gave him the name Nightwing but Dick is plagued by the nightmares he witnessed Danny having. He doesn’t think he can look at his uncle ever the same again. 

At the same time, he doesn’t know if Danny and him can do this alone. He glances at the boy as he drives out the gates to the manor — he looks incredibly drained. He’s even paler than usual and there’s a sheen of sweat over his whole body as he leans back in his seat, breaths shallow. 

As he drives through the streets of the Bowery a sudden thought comes to his mind. He tears the steering wheel around, tearing Danny out of his doze. He blinks at Dick, eyebrows knitted together when he sees that they are still in Gotham.

“Where are we going?” he asks and Dick gives him a smile that is all teeth.

“Just a little pit stop.”

Jason and Dick don’t talk much — or to be more precise they don’t talk about the important stuff. Not about the — ‘I broke down when I heard about your death and I blame myself for not being there’ or ‘I was sure you hated me and you were glad I was gone’. They barge into each other's apartments, spar or get drunk together and cling to each other when they are sure the other isn’t awake to witness it. It’s not quite healthy — but it’s something better than when Jason was still Robin.

So when the door to one of his safe houses gets slammed open, Jason isn’t concerned. He knows Dick had been off the past few weeks and had been expecting his visit for quite a while now. 

The look in Dick’s eyes is different this time around though. It’s not quite the mix of depression coupled with anger he normally expects — it’s something stronger — righteous fury.

“I need your help,” Dick demands before Jason can question what’s going on.

Jason knits his eyebrows together. 

“What about Bruce?”

There’s a dark look in the man’s eyes for a moment before it passes and that’s the moment Jason realizes that this something more serious than the usual spats he normally has with B. 

“You are the only one I can trust with this.”

He spins around on his heels and is out of the safe house before Jason can blink. Getting a bit impatient and angry about Dick not getting straight to the point and still expecting him to follow — Jason storms out. What he doesn’t expect is the passed out half-dead kid in the passenger seat. A tinge of green enters his vision as he glares at Dick.

“What the hell is going on?”

The story Dick tells as they speed on the highway leaves Jason reeling. If the man’s tone wasn’t carefully monotone as he spoke about Ghosts and an entire town being shifted to a different dimension, Jason would have already declared that Dick finally snapped. He wants to question why he lied to the rest about losing his memories about the year he went missing, but the desperate look he sends him and the way his hands shake on the steering wheel hold him back. It’s only the boy’s quiet snores that have Jason’s volume not climbing above a hiss.

“Are you sure this all happened? That this is real?”

“I was there, Jay,” Dick’s tone leaves no arguments. “I almost watched Danny die, again — fighting Pariah Dark. I would have never forgiven myself if another of my brothers…” He gulps and shakes his head. “I was there this time. I should have made a difference and once again I was helpless”. He slams a fist against the radio, cursing when it turns on, blaring loud music. 

He quickly turns the volume down and both of them wait with bated breath as Danny stirs in his seat, before he goes limp again. Dick lets out a deep sigh.

“How do you think I felt once I realized the situation?” Dick questions. “I was in the middle of nowhere with no recollection of who I was. If the Fentons hadn’t found me-” He shakes his head. “Next I know I’m watching a kid fight fucking Ghosts twice his side and getting thrown around like a ragdoll like it’s a normal Tuesday. That shouldn’t happen Jay, it just shouldn’t.”

Jason stays silent.

“And worst of all, I still knew how to fight,” Dick barrels on. “But no matter how much I tried to help Danny and teach him, it was useless because it wasn’t humans or even metas he was up against. How could my moves counter beings that can fly and go intangible and invisible at will?”

Jason still can’t fathom why Dick hid this from them all — but he knows enough to understand why he needs his help. 

“So what’s the plan?”

Dick shoots him a relieved smile.

“We still have 12 hours of driving ahead of us,” Dick glances at Danny. “I’m reckoning he’s gonna be out cold for at least half of it if not more. I need you to switch with me after half of the drive so I can get a power nap in, then I’ll take over again.”

“Not trusting me with the car?” Jason teases.

“Show me your drivers license and maybe I’ll reconsider.”

They start bickering, and for a moment Jason can convince himself that this is a normal road trip.

Jason’s at the wheel when the boy wakes up. Dick is out cold and despite the man’s protests Jason can drive normally if he wants to. There’s no reason the man has to over exhaust himself.

They had tossed their phones once they crossed the border to Illinois and Dick had withdrawn a couple of thousand bucks. Jason had questioned why they hadn’t done sooner if they wanted to keep Bruce off their trail, but the man told him he’s not the one he is worried about. Considering what Dick told him about the elusive GIW, Jason can harbor a guess on who he is talking about. It’s after that, that Jason wrangled him into another nap — Dick was in no condition to drive any further. 

“Ric?” Danny questions sleepily as he sits up and Jason keeps an eye on him out of the corner of his eyes.

“He’s asleep,” Jason answers and it’s only because he’s used to Damian that he blocks the instinctual kick as the boy realizes he’s not alone. 

“I can see that Dick kept you sharp” Jason huffs out a laugh. “I’m Jason, in case he didn’t mention me.”

Danny blinks at him and shifts so he is sitting cross legged. He knits his eyebrows together, clearly thinking.

“You were the pit stop?” he questions.

“Apparently.” Jason shrugs. “Great work, by the way. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Dick this pissed.”

The boy frowns, gnawing at his lips as he stares out the window.

“You’ve died too, haven't you?”

Jason suppresses his initial reaction to snap at the boy. Instead he grits his teeth as he stares straight ahead, the road blurring together. 

“And?”

“Ric shouldn’t have let you come.”

He grips the steering wheel until his knuckles are deadly white, green hazing his vision. 

“They’ll cut you open too.”

It takes the wind out of his anger and he lets out a curse. The brakes screech as he stops at the side of the road, nearly catapulting them forward with the force of it. Jason finally turns to look at Danny properly. The boy peels down his t-shirt to reveal a gnarly, ugly red Y-shaped scar as he gulps.

“Ric doesn’t know,” he says as he releases the hem of his shirt, covering the scar once more. “I haven’t told him.”

“Then why me?” Jason’s voice rises without his consent.

“Because you’ll get it,” the boy murmurs. “How it feels to die.”

The boy leans back, turning away from Jason to look at the corn field.

“How it haunts you.”

Jason wants to puke and he lets his forehead fall onto the steering wheel.

“Fuck,” he says emotionally and the boy laughs — broken and hysterical. Jason doesn’t comment on the tears streaming down Danny’s face.

Jason starts up the car again, leading the car back on the road.

“Next time Dick asks for my help, I’ll send him to hell.”

Jason hides a smile when the boy snorts at that. 

Dick comes to himself as they are about to cross the border into Amity Park. Jason and Danny are quietly talking and he wipes away a little bit of drool as he sits up. It’s dark outside and Danny directs Jason as they enter the city. He leans forward as he enters the conversation.

“You’ll think the GIW’s detectors will sense us?”

Danny glances at Jason, before he turns his attention to Dick.

“We should be fine for a few hours at least as long as I don’t have to turn ghost,” he says. “Half of the town is liminal at this point so you and Jason shouldn’t raise any alarms either. They had too many false alarms in the months since you left.”

Jason looks at Dick strangely once they park where they can hide for the night.

“Since when did you have contact with Lazarus Pits?”

“Never,” Dick retorts. “But living above a portal to the Infinite Realms for a year will do the trick.”

Jason's face scrunches up.

“Who the hell builds a portal in their own basement?” 

Both Dick and Danny snort. 

“Gotta love Mom and Dad,” the boy says as Dick nods in agreement. “Only they are insane enough.”

Dick makes a face.

“I could do without reanimated meatloaf for the rest of my life though.”

“Don’t remind me,” Danny shudders.

Jason stares at them in bafflement. 

“You do know how crazy that sounds?”

“Crazier than Ghosts?” Danny questions with a smirk and Jason pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head

“To give it to Mom and Dad they did stop storing samples in the fridge after we lectured them about it,” Dick adds. At Jason's aghast face he just shrugs. “They are passionate about their work.” 

“Insane, absolutely insane,” the man mutters and Dick suppresses a smile.

It had taken him a bit to get used to the Fenton's and their flavor of insanity and chaos. At first he had been worried about them being neglectful at best, but it turns out that they just needed someone to remind them when they got into “hyperfixation” mode. He and Jazz had to stage an intervention and both Maddie and Jack were embarrassed once they realized they took it too far. Dick doesn’t know who is worse — them or Tim when he’s awake for more than three days. 

He was very relieved when his initial hunch didn’t turn out to be true after Danny revealed himself as Phantom to his parents. They did a whole 180 on their research, focusing on learning about the intricacies of the Infinite Realms, their culture and even politics instead — resigning from their high positions in the GIW. That’s when the trouble really started. 

Dick hadn’t lied about getting amnesia after he was shot and it was also true that his memories had only returned — thanks to Frostbite — two months ago. But the only reason he went back to Gotham had been to get Danny help (the longer they waited the worse the situation with the GIW became) — to find out if the Justice League could be trusted. Once he heard what happened with Freakshow and the Reality Gauntlet (and had the memories to properly realize what that meant) he had been horrified. He had given himself a deadline to — if need be, confront the Justice League by the time Danny’s birthday came around and find out the truth. (He had desperately hoped that this was all a misunderstanding, but Bruce’s words still taste bitter on his tongue.)

Dick knows bringing Jason along was a risk — considering Danny’s theory that the Lazarus Pit were corrupted ectoplasm, but they need the manpower to get through the GIW’s defenses. Even if he’s scared shitless about what they’ll do to Jason when they find out just how liminal he is. He knows this is a death mission. But it doesn’t have to be for Jason.

“We need to establish some ground rules,” Dick says reluctantly and Jason narrows his eyes at the wording.

“If we get captured, I want you to save yourself, Jason.” Jason scoffs and Dick raises a hand, silencing his retort before it can come. “I’m the sole reason you got involved in the first place. Me and Danny may be willing to die for them, but I’m not letting you sacrifice yourself for something that isn’t even your problem to deal with.”

“If you think I’m gonna agree to those, you are more than stupid than I thought Dick,” Jason’s voice is scathing. “It started being my problem when you came to me for help and we drove for 12 straight hours to get there. If you say those people are your family — then they are mine as well.”

His lips perk into a smirk.

“Besides, I want to meet the people that might be even more batshit insane than B and got you to call them Mom and Dad.”

Dick flushes slightly — the Fenton’s had always insisted on him calling them Mom and Dad and he doesn’t know when the titles became genuine. Even with his memories restored, Ric Fenton feels more alive  — more loved — than Richard Grayson ever did. 

Danny just shrugs as he leans back, arms crossed behind his neck and feet rested on top of the glove box. 

“I guess I have not only two sisters but two older brothers now,” he adds cheekily. 

“Brat.” 

Jason playfully shoves Danny and Dick gapes at the fond tone in his voice. 

“How?” he stammers — they should barely know each other. “When?”

Jason tucks Danny into his side, angle a bit awkward, but grinning as he ruffles his hair.

“You missed a lot, sleeping beauty,” Jason jests and Dick groans.

“I was only asleep for 1 hour!” he bemoans. 

“Two,” Danny corrects and Dick glares at him, raising a finger.

“Don’t you two dare gang up on me!”

“This is sweet revenge for when you and Jazz teamed up against me,” Danny grins.

“We were literally trying to help you!” Dick complains, shoving Danny’s face away as the boy cackles, Jason watching on with amusement.

Dick might have to leave Ric Fenton behind for good now that his two worlds have collided, but maybe he can still be Richard “Dick” Grayson-Fenton instead.  

[heliosunny]

Yandere Phainon with vampire reader. The story starts with him taking reader in to stay at his house cause they didn't have anywhere else to go. Due to reader not wanting to hurt innocent people, they would rather suck blood from dead animals or blood from hospital. But one day, due to not being able to find any stocks to suck on, they started to isolate themselves in their room, not wanting to go out of control, especially hurting Phainon. But seeing their state, Phainon decided to offer himself so that he wouldn't have to see them suffer any longer (and cause he wants them to suck his blood)

At first, reader argued with him, backing up cause they didn't want to suck his blood (for they wouldn't be able to resist cause of hunger) but Phainon caged them in his arms, pushing their head towards his neck and coaxed them gently to just feed on him.

Looking forward to how u will write this one!

Yandere!Phainon x Vampire!Reader

The night you first met Phainon, the sky wept. Rain poured in relentless sheets, soaking through your cloak as you stood before the grand wooden door of his isolated home. The cold bit into your skin, not that it truly affected you, but the exhaustion did. You had been wandering for too long, seeking refuge, hiding from hunters who would have slaughtered you on sight.

So when the door finally creaked open, revealing a tall man with silver-white hair and piercing blue eyes, your breath caught. His gaze was wary, assessing, lingering too long on the damp edges of your cloak, the pallor of your skin.

"You shouldn’t be out here." His voice was deep, smooth, yet edged with caution.

"I have nowhere else to go" you said honestly, suppressing the natural tremor in your tone. "Please."

For a moment, he only stared. Then, with a sharp exhale, he stepped aside. "Come in."

You entered, shaking off the rain, your sharp eyes flicking around the space. The scent of silver, the faint traces of dried blood, the glint of well-maintained weapons along the walls, you had walked straight into the home of a predator. He's a hunter. His name is Phainon as he introduced himself.

You should have left. Instead, you stayed. You hid what you were, blending into his world while carefully avoiding suspicion. You learned his habits, watched the way he moved, how his fingers always lingered near a blade. You cooked for him, helped him track beasts of the night, shared in the silence of lonely evenings.

Then one day, you made a mistake.

A hunt went wrong. A slip of the tongue. A wound that healed too quickly. And just like that, the truth spilled from your lips.

You were a vampire.

You had expected anger. Hatred. For him to raise a weapon against you.

But Phainon only stared. Then he sighed.

"You should have told me sooner" he muttered, rubbing his temple.

"...You’re not going to kill me?"

"Do you want me to?" His gaze was sharp. "Because I don’t."

You didn’t understand it then. His patience. His forgiveness.

And when you offered to help him with his work, tracking creatures, setting traps, cleaning up after his battles, he only smirked and let you.

For months, it worked. You found stored blood from hospitals, drained already-dead animals, survived without ever tasting the warmth of a living vein.

But eventually, the supply ran out. And then the hunger came.

You locked yourself in your room, curling into yourself as the pain clawed at your insides.

The scent of Phainon was everywhere, his heartbeat, his warmth, the life that pulsed beneath his skin. It was maddening.

You couldn’t risk it. You wouldn’t risk it. So you hid.

But Phainon wasn’t the type to let things fester. The moment he noticed your absence, he sought you out.

When the door creaked open, you flinched at the flood of light, your body stiff as Phainon stepped inside, his sharp gaze locking onto you. His expression was unreadable as he took in your trembling form, the way your fingers dug into your arms, the dark circles beneath your eyes.

"You're starving" he murmured.

You looked away. "It’ll pass."

"It won’t."

Then he stepped closer.

"I’ll fix it."

Your head snapped up, panic flaring in your chest. "No."

Phainon ignored you. He was already rolling up his sleeve, exposing the pale skin beneath. A quick, precise motion, and a thin line of red welled up.

You inhaled sharply, instincts screaming at you.

No, no, no.

"Drink!" he ordered, offering his wrist.

You recoiled, shaking your head violently. "I can’t."

His expression darkened, but his voice remained soft. "Yes, you can."

"If I do, I won’t stop," you gasped.

"I don’t care."

"Phainon—"

In a blur, he moved. His arms caged you in, one wrapped around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. His scent overwhelmed you, warm, intoxicating, too alive. Your body tensed as he tilted his head, exposing the vulnerable curve of his neck.

"Drink" he whispered, "Take what you need. I want you to."

You shook. "You don’t know what you’re saying."

"You think I don’t?" His fingers slid into your hair, gently coaxing you closer. "I know exactly what I’m offering. And I won’t let you suffer when I can fix it."

Your breath was shallow. You couldn’t win this. Your fangs ached, your body screamed, and Phainon was right there.

He tightened his hold. "Do it."

With a strangled gasp, you sank your fangs into his flesh.

A sharp breath left him, followed by a low, satisfied hum. His blood flooded your senses, hot, rich, unlike anything you had ever tasted. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, burning through your veins like liquid fire. You gripped his coat, trembling as you drank deeply, surrendering to the hunger you had fought for so long.

Phainon exhaled, fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns down your back. "Good" he murmured, voice thick. "That's it."

You should have stopped. But he felt too good, his warmth, his steady heartbeat against your lips. He didn’t push you away. He let you take from him.

And he smiled. Because this was what he wanted all along.

The fever came that night. Phainon lay sprawled on the couch, skin burning, breath uneven. His body struggled to adjust, to accommodate the loss of blood. You hovered nearby, guilt twisting deep in your gut.

"You knew this would happen" you murmured, voice tight.

Phainon smirked, half-lidded eyes gleaming even through the fever haze. "Worth it."

"Phainon..."

"You’re mine" he said, voice dark and amused. "And now… you can’t deny it."

He was right in a way. You had tasted him. And you would never be able to resist him again.

The fever burned through him relentlessly. His silver-white hair clinging to his damp forehead. Despite his words, despite how much he wanted you to take his blood, you had known the consequences. The first offering always left the giver weakened, fevered, caught between the edges of life and death as their body adjusted to the unnatural bond. And yet, even in his delirium, Phainon smirked.

"You’re staring" he rasped, voice rough but undeniably amused.

You scoffed, crossing your arms. "You’re half-dead, and you’re still insufferable."

"Not dead enough for you?" His eyes flickered with something dark, teasing. "You can always take more."

You stiffened. "You want to die?"

His chuckle was weak but genuine. "Not at all." A slow inhale. Then, softer, "I just want you to need me."

Your fingers curled into your palms.

"You risked yourself" you muttered. "For what?"

Phainon let out a slow exhale, his fevered gaze never leaving yours. "Because I couldn't stand watching you suffer." His voice was uncharacteristically raw, honest. "And because I wanted you to drink from me."

You shook your head sharply, standing up. "You need rest."

Phainon only watched you, silent.

Then, as you turned away, his voice came—softer, but laced with an undeniable edge.

"You’ll need to drink again."

You froze.

"...No."

"You will." His smirk widened slightly despite his exhaustion. "You’ve already had a taste. Do you really think you can go back to starving yourself?"

Your throat tightened.

For the next few days, Phainon recovered, though his smirks never faded. If anything, he seemed pleased by the fever, by the proof that his blood was now inside you.

You tried to act normal. You helped with his work, stayed by his side, convinced yourself that you could forget.

But then, the hunger returned.

It came quietly at first. A dull ache, a fleeting thought, a phantom memory of warmth.

Then it grew.

You began noticing things you hadn’t before. The scent of his skin when he stood too close. The steady pulse in his throat when he spoke. The way your fangs ached when he brushed his fingers against your wrist.

It was unbearable.

You started avoiding him.

But Phainon wasn’t stupid.

One evening, he cornered you.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room. You stood near the window, your hands gripping the sill, breathing slow, steady.

Trying to suppress it.

Trying to fight it.

But you felt him approach before he even spoke.

"You’re doing it again" Phainon murmured, voice smooth as silk.

You didn’t turn. "Doing what?"

"Hiding. Hiding the fact that you’re hungry." he continued, tone almost gentle. "I can feel it."

He was right.

"I won’t drink from you again" you forced out. "I won’t put you through that."

"Who said it’s up to you?"

Before you could move, arms wrapped around you from behind. Phainon caged you against the window, his body pressing into yours, the heat of him seeping into your cold skin.

"Phainon—"

"You will drink from me" he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. "Because you need it"

You shook your head, trying to push him away, but he didn’t budge.

"I won’t let you starve yourself" he continued.

Your fangs throbbed, instincts screaming at you to obey.

You clenched your fists. "Let me go."

His grip tightened. Then—he tilted his head, exposing his neck.

"Take it" he whispered, coaxing. Tempting.

Your breathing grew uneven. The scent of his blood was intoxicating.

You trembled. "I can’t—"

"You can" he corrected, pressing your head closer. His fingers slid into your hair, stroking, soothing, trapping. "And you will."

You clenched your jaw, resisting with every ounce of willpower you had left. But Phainon knew already. He felt you breaking.

"You belong to me now" he murmured, pressing his lips near your ear. "And my blood belongs to you."

And then—

Your fangs sank into his skin. A sharp breath left him.

You clung to him as the warmth flooded your senses. His arms never loosened. Phainon wanted you, and now, you could never escape him.

-----

The first time, Phainon had anticipated pain.

And he had felt it—sharp, piercing, the sudden shock of fangs sinking into his flesh. His body had instinctively tensed, heat rushing through his veins in a violent surge. But then came the pull.

A slow, intoxicating drain that left him lightheaded, yet unbearably aware. He had never felt anything like it, the way his blood coursed through his veins only to be drawn out, siphoned into you.

And it wasn’t just the sensation of loss.

It was the way your body trembled against his.

The way your fingers curled into his coat, desperate, clinging.

The way your breath came uneven against his throat, heated and hungry.

It was powerful.

And as much as he had intended to offer himself to you, he hadn’t expected it to consume him, too.

At first, he convinced himself it was just the aftershock. The fever. The inevitable consequence of giving too much.

But the next time—The next time, he craved it.

It happened again days later. Earlier than he expected.

You had resisted at first, still stubborn, still trying to push him away. But he had been patient.

And when you finally gave in

When your fangs pierced him once more

A sharp gasp left his lips.

The pain barely registered this time. It melted away almost instantly, drowned out by the rush.

The heat.

The pull.

Phainon had always been in control of his body, his senses. He had fought beasts, endured wounds, trained his body to withstand agony.

But this was something else.

It was dizzying, like sinking into deep, burning water. A fire that spread through his limbs, up his spine, into his very bones.

It wasn’t just the blood loss that left him breathless.

It was you.

The way you clung to him. The soft, involuntary sounds that left your lips. The desperate way you needed him.

The way his body responded to it.

A low, involuntary groan escaped him. His fingers curled into the fabric of your clothes, gripping tight as the dizziness settled in.

It became a cycle.

You needed his blood.

And Phainon— Phainon needed the feeling of giving it to you.

Each time, it became easier. Each time, the pain faded faster, drowned out by something darker, something dangerously close to pleasure. It was twisted. It was addictive. And he didn’t care.

----

It started as a whisper. A fleeting suggestion. A dangerous temptation.

"Turn me."

At first, you thought he was delirious again, fevered and reckless, like the first time he offered himself. But the look in his eyes told you otherwise.

Phainon was serious.

And the worst part? You could feel it.

That same pull.

The same desperate, consuming hunger that gnawed at you, but mirrored in him.

A different kind of hunger. One not for blood, but for something far more insidious.

For you.

You stepped back, shaking your head. "No."

His smirk barely faltered. If anything, it deepened. "Why not?"

"Because it's a curse." Your voice was firm, but he saw the hesitation. "It’s—"

"A curse?" He interrupted smoothly, tilting his head. "Or a gift?"

You swallowed. "Phainon, don't-"

His hand shot out, grasping your wrist before you could put more distance between you. His grip was firm.

"Do you think I haven’t noticed?" he murmured, voice low, coaxing. "The way you try to resist, but you keep coming back to me?" His thumb brushed over your pulse, slow, deliberate. "You’re mine. And I’m already yours—whether you like it or not."

"Isn't this better?" he continued, "No more suffering. No more fevers. No more weakness." His blue eyes gleamed in the dim firelight. "If I become like you, we both get what we want."

Your fangs ached at the way he said it.

It was terrifying. Because you weren’t sure if you had the strength to deny him forever.

Phainon was relentless.

He let you think you could resist.

But he knew the truth. Because every time you fed from him, every time you drank deep and felt his pulse beneath your lips, every time you felt his body shudder against yours-

You got closer.

And closer.

Until one night—

You lost.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t a decision. It was an instinct. A moment where you had drunk too deep, where your senses blurred, where his breath hitched in something close to ecstasy.

And he didn’t pull away. He leaned into it. And in that haze-

He whispered, "Do it."

His voice was hoarse, pleading, desperate.

"Make me yours."

Your vision swam. Your hands were shaking. Your breath was uneven.

Your fangs sank deeper.

Not just to drink.

A violent, irreversible exchange. The taste of blood changed—thicker, darker, rich with something new. His body tensed against yours. A sharp inhale. A choked sound.

For a moment, everything stopped.

And you realized: You had done it.

Phainon was changing. And when his fever finally broke, when his eyes opened again— They weren’t the same. He wasn’t the same. And neither were you.

"Now nothing can ever separate us."

[jaikuoo]

How about an evie x reader where evie is trying to get with reader just how she was with chad. Except reader isn’t a jerk, just clueless

Her Oblivious Charming

Evie x Charming!Fem!Reader

Summary: Where Evie tries to charm Cinderella's daughter, not knowing you're an oblivious idiot.

Words: 2.3k

WARNINGS:Oblivious!reader, Chad is your brother, Mention of bugs, not proofread and rushed ending.

A/N:Y'ALL THE EVIE REQUESTS MIGHT BE DELAYED 'CAUSE SCHOOL IS COMING UP AND I HAVE TO GET READYY, I'M SO SORRY OMG. ANYWAY, I loved writing this tysm for the request, also ty for prompt writers, they're my saving grace fr.

"Any chance she's in line for a throne?" Evie inquired, her head tilted sideways as she leaned on her knuckles, her gaze fixed dreamily on you. "Anywhere in line?" she continued, her eyes wide with fascination. You, oblivious to the conversation, were grappling with a complex science equation, your pen poised above the paper as you furrowed your brow in concentration.

Doug followed Evie's line of sight with a raised eyebrow. "Y/N, Princess Charming, Cinderella's daughter?" Evie's head snapped up, a brilliant smile lighting her face

"Y/N inherited the charm, but not a lot of there, there, know what I mean...?" Doug trailed off, gesturing vaguely. Their attention returned to you as you winced and rubbed your nose after accidentally tossing your pen in the air and catching it with your face.

"Looks like there-there to me," Evie sighed dreamily, returning her head to her knuckles. "Any chance she's single?" she asked, her voice soft and hopeful as she turned to Doug.

Doug exhaled slowly. "Despite living up to her last name, she's never had a romantic partner," he admitted, continuing to scribble on his paper. "At least, not that I know of," he added as an afterthought.

Perfect. Evie loved a challenge.

She was wrong.

You weren't single because you were guarded,commitment-phobic,

or anything like that.

The truth was far simpler: you were clueless.

No offense, but you were an absolute oblivious idiot.

She let out a frustrated sigh, collapsing onto the side of her bed. The memory of her failed flirtation attempts replayed in her mind like a painful montage.

There was that time in science class, for instance. Partners for a project, where she saw her chance.

[ The science lab was a cacophony of bubbling liquids and crackling test tubes. As you bent over a Bunsen burner, carefully heating a test tube, Evie’s voice cut through the lab’s hum.

"There's something on your face," Evie's gaze was fixed on your face, her lips curved into a subtle smirk as she hovered a hand near your cheek.

Your head snapped up, your face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and panic. "What?" you managed to squeak out.

Her lips curved into a sly smile as she started, "Beautifu-" but before she could finish, your brain had already processed the word "something" as a code red for "bug." Terror seized you, you were terrified of bugs.

"Is it a bug?! GET IT OFF, WAIT!" you shrieked, your hands flailing wildly as you tried to dislodge the imaginary insect.

Your desperate attempts to rid your face of the nonexistent bug sent your elbow crashing into a shelf of glassware. Test tubes, flasks, and beakers rained down, shattering on the unforgiving tile floor. A cloud of white smoke rose from a broken container, setting off the fire alarm.

Evie's smirk vanished, replaced by a mixture of amusement and disbelief. She glanced at Doug, who was silently contemplating the ceiling, his palm pressed dramatically against his face.

That’s how their science project ended in disaster, earning them both a failing grade and a week of detention. It was also Evie’s unfortunate discovery of your knee deep(IN THE PASSENGER SEATT) fear of bugs.]

Undeterred, she tried again.

[After enduring a week of detention and her relentless, albeit unsuccessful, flirtations, Evie finally asked you out—a walk outside that is. You interpreted it as a purely platonic gesture, of course.

Under the night sky, during a post-detention walk, she took a chance, Evie turned to you with a hopeful glint in her eye. "My hands are a bit cold, " she said, her voice soft. "Would you mind holding them?" Her hands rubbed together dramatically.The classic move, she thought, a smirk tugging at her lips.

To her surprise, you took her hand. Her heart pounded in her chest. This was it, the moment she'd been waiting for.

But instead of the anticipated warmth of your hand, she felt the rough texture of fabric. There you pulled out a pair of mittens out of God knows where and slipped it on her hand

Where the hell did that come from?

"Here, you can take my gloves," you said with a completely innocent smile. You carefully fitted the mittens onto her hand, your touch gentle. It took a full five minutes of awkward fumbling before both mittens were securely in place.

She managed a small “thanks” as she tried to hide her flushed face. No! You were supposed to be the flustered one, not her!

And so, they continued walking. Plan failed, spectacularly? Well, at least she’d had her first physical contact with you. She’d take it.]

"At this point you'd have to be pretending not to know," Evie sighs a hint of exasperation coloring her voice as she pushed herself up from the bed, her body still bearing the imprint of the soft mattress. Her hand instinctively reached for the hand mirror lying beside her, and she began to fuss with her hair to fix it, the disarray a reflection of her internal frustration.

"Right?" Evie started, her words hanging in the air as her reflection revealed Mal, sprawled out on the bed in a deep slumber. An exasperated roll of her eyes followed, and she brought a finger to her lips in an attempt to fix the smudged lipstick. Her voice was muffled by the gesture as she muttered, "Very helpful." The sudden, forceful intrusion of their dorm room door startled her.

Didn't they lock the door?

The door swung open, revealing you in an oversized jacket, your face etched with panic. Your left hand gripped a key tightly.

Evie, still preoccupied with her hand mirror, glanced up, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Is that a key to...our dorm?" she questioned, her voice laced with confusion.

You nodded frantically, your urgency palpable. "My brother— it doesn't matter. You have to help me!" Your words tumbled out in a rush as you darted towards Evie, your foot catching something on the floor, causing you to stumble.

"You know how to sew, right?" You breathed out sharply, landing on Evie's bed with a bounce.

Evie's eyebrows shot up in question. "Yeah, why— hey!" Her hands instinctively flew to your chest as you began to unzip your hoodie with surprising urgency. She'd love to get there, but not so soon!

"No, my— blouse, I broke it!" Your explanation was breathless and rushed. The hoodie finally fell open, revealing a cream-colored blouse with three missing buttons.

Evie swallowed hard, hergaze flickering away from the slight exposure of your cleavage. "R-right, of course," she coughed, trying to regain her composure.

"My brother, I—this is his blouse," you stammered, your voice barely audible. "I need to get it fixed now before he sees it and tells Mom! He's looking for me right now! And if I—"

Evie's hand gently covered yours, silencing your frantic words. Her touch was surprisingly calming, grounding you amidst the chaos of your thoughts. With a steady exhale, she removed your hands from your face and placed them gently on your lap.

"Alright, calm down," she said, her voice firm yet soothing. "I'm going to get my sewing kit."

Rising from the bed, Evie walked towards a cluttered table overflowing with sketches and fabric scraps. After a brief search, she returned with a small box and sat down on the bed.

"Can you..." Evie began, her voice barely a whisper. Her gaze flickered between the damaged blouse and your expectant face. You tilted your head, curiosity evident in your eyes. She knew what she wanted to say, a simple request to make her task easier. But the image of you without the blouse flashed through her mind, and a blush crept up her cheeks. The distraction would be too much. With a frustrated sigh, she abandoned the thought. "Nevermind," she concluded.

Your impatience was growing by the second. "Please hurry," you pleaded, your voice rising slightly. Your hands fidgeted nervously in your lap.

She nodded in agreement and gently lifted the lid of the sewing kit box. With practiced hands, she rummaged through the assortment of supplies until she found a button that perfectly matched the color of the blouse. Carefully selecting a needle of suitable size and a length of matching thread, she gathered her tools. Leaning in closer, she gently grasped the loose placket of your brothers blouse with her thumb, steadying the fabric as she prepared to sew the button securely in place.

Your breath caught in your throat as you became acutely aware of Evie's proximity. Her warm breath fanned across your collarbone, sending shivers down your spine. Her concentration was intense, her eyebrows drawn together in a furrow, but her eyes held a captivating allure that you hadn't noticed before. Their rich, brown color was like melted chocolate, flecked with golden specks.

Your gaze darted away, desperate for a distraction. The room, once neutral, had transformed into a suffocating chamber.

Your hands, seeking an anchor, found their way to the bed sheet, gripping it tightly as if it were a lifeline. A wave of relief washed over you as Evie momentarily broke the intense proximity, her head turning to retrieve another button.

Tick

Tock

The ticking of the clock, normally a soothing rhythm, now seemed to mock your escalating discomfort. It was as if the universe was conspiring against you.

Evie's voice, soft and laced with genuine concern, pierced through your turmoil. Her honey-brown eyes, filled with empathy, met yours, and in that moment, you felt exposed and vulnerable. A strangled sob threatened to escape your lips, but you managed to suppress it, replacing it with a shaky exhale. Your grip on the bed sheet tightened, a desperate attempt to ground yourself. A feeble excuse formed on your lips, a claim of oppressive heat, which Evie accepted with a sympathetic murmur.

As she moved to the third button, a knot of anticipation formed in your stomach. Her fingers brushed against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. The delicate tendrils of her dark blue hair grazed your chin, carrying the intoxicating scent of mint that seemed to seep into your senses. Unconsciously, you leaned in, drawn to her comforting aroma as if it were a lifeline in a stormy sea.

"There, all do-" Evie announced triumphantly, her face breaking into a smile as she looked up at you. Unprepared for the sight of you leaning in so closely, her eyes widened in surprise. Every thought in her mind evaporated, replaced by a single, overwhelming impulse, as your eyes locked onto hers - a desire, a pull, a magnetic force drawing her closer. Her heart pounded in her ears as she tilted her head, her gaze dropping to your lips. Their lips were mere inches apart and then—

BAM!

The abrupt crash of the dorm door against the wall jolted them apart, their hearts pounding in their ears.

"You two idiots! They were about to kiss!" Mal's voice, laced with irritation, cut through the silence. Your heads snapped in her direction to find her sitting nonchalantly on her bed, a pillow clutched in her hands.

A wave of embarrassment washed over you both as you realized she'd witnessed the entire ordeal. Your mind raced, trying to decipher how long she'd been awake and if she'd seen the desperate grip you'd had on the bedsheet earlier.

"Mal – oh, why's she here?" Carlos's voice echoed through the room as he stumbled in, Jay trailing behind him. Jay caught the pillow Mal had tossed in his direction and hurled it back at her in playful retaliation.

Mal caught the pillow with a practiced ease, her eyes rolling as she regarded the newcomers.

"They were about to kiss," she repeated, a smirk playing on her lips.

"We weren't!" you stammered, your voice barely a whisper, but your words were cut short by the sharp, insistent sound of your brother's voice calling your name. Your heart pounded in your chest as his voice grew closer, the panic rising within you. "You guys have to hide me!" you pleaded, your voice rising in desperation.

"Come on." Evie's hand found yours, her grip firm and reassuring as she pulled you towards the closet. Together, you squeezed into the cramped space, your bodies pressed close together, as Mal quickly shut the closet door, muffling the sounds of the approaching chaos.

A low, indistinct voice, muffled by an intervening barrier, reached your ears. It was your brother's voice, inquiring about your presence.

"I heard her voice!" Chad exclaimed, his tone filled with alarm. "Did you kidnap my sister?!"

Mal's response was swift and defensive. "Why would we kidnap your sister?"

Their voices began to fade as Evie's fingers gently turned your head, forcing you to face her.

"Be honest, do you know?" Evie inquired softly, her face partially illuminated by the dim glow seeping from outside the closet. Her voice was as gentle as a whisper.

"Know what?"

A playful chuckle escaped her lips as she placed her hands on your shoulders. "That I like you, Dummy."

Your mind raced as you tried to process her confession. "You do? But I like you too! I thought you liked my brother, because I overheard you and Doug talking about a charming sibling, and I- I thought you were straight becau-" Your stammering attempt at explanation was abruptly halted as Evie's lips met yours.

Surprise washed over you, but you instinctively responded to the warmth of her kiss. Her hands found your waist, pulling you closer as your knees threatened to buckle. The taste of cherry lip balm lingered on your tongue, Your heart pounded in your chest, sending a rush of excitement through your body that felt like a cascade of fireworks exploding within your stomach.

"You're an oblivious idiot." She chuckled, pulling away from the kiss with a playful smile. Her eyes sparkled as she took a moment to admire yours, her hands gently cupping your cheeks. She leaned in slowly, savoring the moment before kissing you again.

"I'm your oblivious idiot."

Can you tell the ending is rushed? ;)

[natalievoncatte]

It wasn’t Kara that destroyed her.

In her secret heart, Lena craved that. She wanted Kara to give back everything Lena had thrown at her. Defeat her. Crush her. Cast her down and treat her like a villain. After all, why had Kara lied? Conspired? Tricked her and manipulated her? Why do all that if she wasn’t a villain?

In her quietest moments with Myriad in her hands or staring at the twisted visage of an alien murderer, a quiet voice from deep within her whispered the truth she could never let herself feel:

This is what you are. It’s in the blood.

If Kara would just treat her like a villain, it would all make sense. There would be no more nagging doubts, no more questions, no more hateful longing. Lena has done everything she could to carve it out of her chest, but it gave her no relief, only the raw throbbing pain of a ragged wound that wouldn’t close.

Then she had been at L-Corp when Jess ran into her office in a blind panic, shouting that she had to turn the television on now, that something terrible had happened.

Lena stared at her dumbly because she already knew. She could feel it somehow, a wash of graveyard chill that enveloped her from nowhere and froze the rotten lump where her heart had been. Her hand shook as she lifted the remote and turned on the screen.

The news chyron stuck her like a hammer blow to the chest and her pathetic excuse for a last meal -a cold half of a Big Belly burger she’d eaten the night before- leapt into her throat, trying to escape.

Supergirl Dead?

They hadn’t called her, and why would they? Why seek her help after all she’d done?

Lena pushed to her feet, almost tumbling to the floor in the process. The news was repeating a ten-second clip, showing a red-white beam slicing through the midday air, so bright that it distorted the image as it struck a tiny blue and red blur and knocked her out of the sky as if a giant hand had swatted her to the ground.

She was moving before she realized she’d taken a step.

“Cancel all my meetings,” Lena snapped.

“But the Japanese investors,” Jess said, lamely.

“Fuck the Japanese investors, cancel all my meetings!”

She pushed past Jess and stormed to her private elevator, twisting the key so hard it nearly snapped. She paced the full two minutes it took to to descend to the garage. There would be no summoning a driver. She ran barefoot across the parking garage floor to the Bugatti and threw herself inside.

When she arrived at the DEO, there was chaos. It took a moment before anyone noticed a barefoot, red-eyed Lena Luthor running into the lobby in a blind panic. When they did notice, she was immediately tackled by two of their goons and handcuffs slammed on her wrists.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded. “I’m here to help!”

“Shut up,” the agent growled.

They sent jolts of pain up her arms as they took her in. She thought they were going to take the handcuffs off, but instead they cuffed one hand to a chain locked to a ring in the middle of a concrete table in an interrogation room.

“What the hell?” Lena screamed. “I’m here to help her!”

The door slammed heavily shit and Lena raged, yanking at the handcuffs in a futile gesture that only left her wrist raw. She thought about trying to pick them, but at this rate they might shoot her if she looked to escape. Her stomach sank and she began to spiral.

She’s dead. She’s dead and they’re going to blame me.

Hot tears burned in her eyes and she willed them not to fall, holding them back with all her might, but it was inevitable.

Finally, after what felt like half a day, Alex walked in. Lena knew at once that something terrible had happened. Kara’s sister looked like hell, with dark circles under her eyes and a pained look. She regarded Lena as if she were some ugly thing that crawled out of a crack in the foundations.

“What are you doing here?” said Alex.

“I told your thugs, I’m here to help. You’re wasting time, I need to see her now.”

“Why,” Alex said, “why on God’s green earth would I let you anywhere near her?”

Lena blinked. “At least tell me what’s wrong. I might be able to…”

“You locked her in a kryptonite cage. You talked her into breaching her morals to carry out your sick schemes. You aimed a kryptonite cannon at her face.”

“I…”

“You what? You didn’t mean it?”

“Alex,” Lena began.

“Shut up. You had me fooled, Luthor. Kara always believed in you. I didn’t. I tried to convince her to be as afraid of her as I was. I just want to know, why now? She left you alone like you wanted. You’ve been quiet. Kara insisted we give you a chance and let you be, a choice I now deeply regret. So why now? What did she do to deserve this?”

The cold fury radiating from Alex choked Lena up for a moment. Her mouth worked silently.

“You think I did this?”

“Why not? You’ve hurt her twice already.”

“I didn’t. I would never. I didn’t want her to die. I just wanted to…”

“To what?”

Lena swallowed hard, speaking before thinking.

“I wanted her to feel what I was feeling.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed and her expression went dark and hard, something vicious twisting her lips. Her hand twitched towards the bulky alien gun on her hip.

With her other hand, she pulled out a phone and turned it to Lena.

Lena’s stomach flipped when she saw Lex’s grinning face.

“I hope you enjoy your new present,” he said into the camera. “A Kryptonite particle beam enhanced with a high-powered laser tuned to a wavelength that will instantly negate her powers.”

Lex’s grin widened.

“Lena sends her regards.”

Lena blinked a few times. She wanted to thrash, yank her chain, accuse, scream.

“That’s impossible.”

“Why, because you wouldn’t?”

“I killed him,” Lena breathed.

“What?”

“Lex. Lex is dead. I killed him. I killed him!” she was almost hysterical. “I put two shots in his chest and one in his head like he taught me himself. After he escaped last time I killed him.”

Alex’s expression faltered.

“You think I’ll believe that?” she said, but sounded unsure.

“When I was twelve and Lex was away at school, Lillian got drunk and threatened me. I was scared to death she meant it. Lex gave me our father’s gun and taught me to shoot.” A brief, weak smile cursed her lips. “I didn’t realize until a lot later how fucked up that is, but it’s one of my favorite memories of him.”

“You’re telling me you killed him,” said Alex. “After you went behind our backs and used the Hardin-El to heal his ‘cancer.’”

“He was my brother.”

“And you say you killed him.”

Lena looked down, away from her. Tears fell on the table with a soft patter and she choked back a hitching sob.

“She became his new fixation. He was never going to stop. I did what I had to do.”

Alex went silent. Her hand hung by her hip and part of Lena hoped she’d make it fast, the same part that flinched when Alex moved.

The key twisted in the lock and the cuffs ratcheted open. Alex gave her arm a sharp tug. “Get up.”

Lena wobbled to her feet.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up and walk.”

Alex led her to the elevator, and down a corridor. Kara’s frail form lay behind a layer of plastic curtains, bathed in brilliant light from sunlamps.

“If she comes around,” Alex said, her voice flat. “You can never tell her. She’ll blame herself.”

Alex parted the curtains and led Lena inside. Kara lay n a stretcher with a layer of bandages wound around her bare torso, looking pale and drawn. Her skin shone with a cold sweat and there were dark circles around her eyes. She lay in a nest of wires and was on oxygen.

“My God,” Lena whispered.

“It was like he said. Some kind of particle beam combined with the laser. It’s like she was impaled through the chest with superheated Kryptonite. If Jon hadn’t caught her, the impact would have been fatal.”

Alex rattled it all off with a cold, medical detachment, except for the tension creaking in around the edges of her voice and the way her shoulder hitched.

“You’ve hurt her so much,” Alex whispered. “I don’t think I’m ever going to fully trust you again. But for the love of God, if you can fix her then fix her.”

“I will,” Lena said, the CEO creeping back into her voice. “I’ll need materials from my lab. I’ll give a Brainy a list. I’m not leaving her.”

Lena did not sleep for another thirty-six hours. She worked tirelessly alongside Brainy, who regarded her curiously as she hunched over lab benches and uploaded instructions to nanites.

Finally she said, “what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

He turned back to his own task without answering her.

An hour later, Alex stormed in.

“She’s getting worse. Whatever you’re doing, you have to hurry.”

Brainy turned from his lab bench and took Alex’s arm. He led her into the hall and they had a clipped, quiet conversation that Lena could not hear, except for Alex’s startled cry of “WHAT?”

It didn’t matter, she was finished. She took the devil in her hands and rushed through the door.

“Let’s go, we can’t waste anymore time.”

Alex openly gaped at her, then looked at Brainy. The expression of utter shock on her face arrested Lena in her tracks.

“What?”

“I,” Alex began, but Brainy grabbed her arm and squeezed hard.

“Let’s go,” said Alex.

Lena swept into the lab carrying the module in her hands as if it were made of precious gold.

“Turn off the sunlamps,” Lena ordered the technicians. “If the poisoning progresses, they’ll kill her faster than they heal her.”

Once they were off, Lena placed the device on Kara’s chest and stepped back.

Its sensors detected the Kryptonite and the system deployed. The pod unfolded like a delicate composite flower, and a wave of nanobots poured over Kara’s skin, instantly devouring and reprogramming the nanites in the wreckage of her suit while consuming the linens and bandages to grant the system more mass.

The entire process unfolded in seconds. It ensconced her in a protective layer and expanded, rapidly building an entire protective pod around her body. Dozens of tiny needles inserted dozens of cannulas into her arms and legs and began pumping her full of nanites, sending them storming through her bloodstream.

Lena bit her lip: there was nothing to do now except watch as the system’s AI administered rapid pulses of red and yellow light to balance the speed of her healing as the nanites in her bloodstream identified irradiated particles and consumed them, using them to make more of themselves.

She sat down. She knew this would take hours.

It ended up taking three days.

Lena slept in the side chair by the bed until someone brought her an uncomfortable recliner. Alex came in and out, as did Brainy and Nia, all of them looking at her oddly.

Finally the pod made a pleasant tone and unfolded. Kara lay on her side within, the nanites having formed a new suit top around her to preserve her modesty. She still wasn’t awake, but she was breathing normally and looked for all the world like her usual beautiful self. Lena was alone with her when it happened, and was glad of it. No one saw her brush the loose strands of gold from her face, and no one saw her rest her palm on Kara’s warm cheek.

They all piled on eventually.

Kara did not wake up.

“Why isn’t she coming around?” Alex demanded. “Why doesn’t she wake up?”

“She’s in a Kryptonian healing trance,” said Brainy. “It’s part of the healing process. She will wake when she is ready.”

“When the hell will that be?”

“We should give Lena the room.”

“What? Why?”

“Trust me,” Brainy said firmly.

Lean was as bewildered as Alex. What was she supposed to do?

When they were gone, she caught herself reflected in the monitors around the bed. She looked like shit, with barely one day’s sleep in four. As haggard as she looked, she didn’t care.

What the hell? It couldn’t hurt.

Lena bent over the bed, leaning on one hand, and took Kara’s in the other.

“I don’t know if you’re in there, but if you can hear me, it’s safe now. You can wake up. We’re all here for you. I’m here.”

It might have been the exhaustion, or the desperation, or the sorrow that filled her to bursting like a molten pain, but something happened and Lena let slip something that she’d held so tight she was sure her heart had long since crushed it.

“I love you, Kara. You don’t have to love me back. You don’t even have to like me. But I need you in the world. I need you. I need you, not Supergirl. I need Kara. I need my Kara. Please, if you’re in there at all,”

Kara’s eyes fluttered open. “Lena?”

“I’m here.”

Kara blinked a few times, and her hand closed gently around Lena’s.

“I had a bad dream,” she said. “It hurt so much, it felt like my heart was ripped out and I was in a dark place, and then I heard your voice leading me home.”

Lena grinned in spite of herself, tears stinging her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Kara. For everything.”

“Hush,” Kara whispered, her angelic voice full of quiet wisdom. “We can do that later. You’re tired. Lay down.”

Lena hesitated for a bare moment and then kicked off her shoes before climbing on next to her. Once she was lying down, sleep came crashing down on her like an avalanche as Kara threw an arm over her and tucked in close.

As she drifted off, Lena heard Alex, somewhere in the hall, snap, “Brainy, you knew this entire time?!”

[chewingcyanide]

𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 | 𝐣. 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬

₊⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — secrets are best kept buried, just like your tangled relationship with your best friend’s older brother.

₊⊹ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — unrequited love ( that heart wrenching shit ), cursing? weird mentions and descriptions of blood, cursing ( lots of it ), yelling / arguing ( LOTS of it ), heavy angst with a dash of laughter, kind of OMC x reader but not too much, jealousy, kinda possessiveness ( from jack… had to do it ), emotional distress and all that good stuff

₊⊹ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — jack hughes x f!reader , OMC x f!reader (briefly), best friend!luke hughes x f!reader

₊⊹ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 — i’ve returned from a million year hiatus with this BIG BITCH and i’m sorry for it. may write a pt. 2 w a happy ending bc i’m a slut for them. anyway, enjoy! request if you’d like. love you guys.

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You had existed within the world of Jack Hughes since your freshman year of high school.

Existed. Not an integral part, nor a spoke on the wheel of many friends he already had. Truthfully, you were only acquainted with him because of his younger brother, Luke; your freshman biology lab partner, and eventual best friend. Years had passed since you first met Luke—no longer were you the wide-eyed fifteen-year-old crossing the threshold from child to near-adult. Now, you were an adult. Twenty, with two more years of college stretched out before you, seemingly everything had changed.

Well, except for the lead weight chained to your ankle—the fundamental and inexorable truth that you were still in love with Jack Hughes.

It started as most consuming things do: a small idea, watered by brief looks, a brush of heated fingertips against your hand, or arm, or waist—or anywhere, really. A head rush that sent you meters under waves of excitement and anticipation. Loving Jack was like having a fever that never broke; it persisted, a dull ache that squeezed your skull each time he was near. Even now, five years later, the flashing of blue eyes—never brimmed with what you knew was embarrassingly reflected in your own—was enough to make sweat bead at your palms.

It never grew into more than a hope, a wishful desire. But wishing seldom got anyone anywhere, and it surely hadn’t helped you. When the months turned warm and spring faded into summer, the overwhelming ache of freedom that came with warm weather and the end of the hockey season drew Luke and his brothers to Sanibel—a beach so wrought with memories of youth and foolish memories that the idea of going another year made dread settle like steel in your bones. They’d bought it after a vacation there a few years ago, and the rest was history.

But, of course, Luke—the youngest of three—never took no for an answer.

“You can’t miss this year,” he had insisted. The Devils had their hopes cut short once more—this time in an second round exit to Carolina. Ergo, the expected departure time had been bumped up significantly. Vancouver had missed the playoffs altogether.

You stood silent, tearing away skin from your nail-beds as Luke leaned against the kitchen counter. The cold metal of the fridge pressing into the bare strip of skin on your back was the only thing keeping you present in the conversation.

You hated how Luke did this—he’d take your silence over text as an invitation to barge his way into your apartment, destroying the barrier of safety and excuses a phone provided, and ask you face-to-face. And how could you say no? You never had before, and look where that got you. No closer to removing hooks branded with the name Jack from your heart.

“Luke…” you sighed, only dropping your hands when blood bubbled to the surface of your torn skin. Pain rippled down your fingertips, but you ignored it. The dread that quickened your pacing heart was too overwhelming a sensation. “I don’t know—maybe I should—”

“Skip out?” Luke rounded the kitchen counter and came to stand in front of you. “No way, Bells. You have to come. Otherwise I’ll be alone all summer.”

You could have scoffed if you cared more. Bells. That dumb nickname Jack had given you years ago—according to him, it was because you were such a silent walker, you required a bell to be heard. Aside from the embarrassment you got from being called a childhood nickname even now, it reminded you that your existence was always going to be tied to Jack. A piece of him carried with you, a cage keeping your heart from beating without him; the bright red ribbon tied around your wrist that screamed I Love Jack Hughes!

No matter what, it would always be him. You tried; God, did you try. Hearing stories of his hookups, the life of a single, superstar hockey player should have been enough to send your stupid childhood crush to its grave, but as if cursed by a necromancer, the mere mention of Jack brought it right back to life. It was a cruel cycle that just wouldn’t end. And you knew going to that damned beach house would only prolong the life of the indestructible feeling more.

Jack was tarnished jewelry, rubbing your skin green and raw and wrong, and yet—you could never seem to take it off, even when it made you look foolish.

Silence fell like thick fog. Luke’s eyes roved along your face, as if trying to read a book with the letters smudged. “C’mon, Bells. You have fun every year, and I don’t want to have a summer without you.”

“Jack and Quinn will be there,” you said, voice low. Pathetic anxiety swelled in your chest like the forecast of a hurricane. Even saying his name tightened your veins. “Trevor, Alex, and Cole, too—I don’t need to go, Luke. Won’t it be weird?”

An unamused look graced Luke’s face. “You go with us every year. Why would it be different now?”

You wanted to curse Luke for being so persistent. Part of you wished you could just scream that you loved his brother, but couldn’t. You never could. Loving Jack ensured you lost someone—Luke, who would never get over the thought of you potentially sleeping with Jack; and well, if that failed, you also fully lost Jack. Unrequited love confessions made fools of ghosts.

To Jack, you were a ghost. Haunting his life, disrupting some times, but never there long enough to be seen. And even if he did, he convinced himself you weren’t there, that you didn’t even exist. Maybe it were best if you moved on and let yourself rest. Ghosts haunt their murderers, but Jack hadn’t killed you, you’d killed yourself—hoping, wishing, praying he would take a moment to believe and see you. But he never did. So you floated through his life until the moment you were no longer confined by unfinished business.

And maybe that was what you needed. Closure, the severing of a tie that was only hurting you to hold on to. And maybe, closure would come this summer. To look on Jack and not feel your heart race, but settle into a quiet murmur, a healthy pace—to free yourself from the confines of this painful love and finally move on. Haunt the graveyard no longer; sitting by and hoping he would place flowers by the grave.

“Okay,” you said quietly, glancing down at your sweater. Crimson marks stained the white fabric. You’d accidentally wiped your fingers on the cloth. “You win.”

Maybe this would be the summer you let go of Jack Hughes.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

The cry of gulls and gentle breeze of salt-bitter air welcomed you back as the car breezed past the Welcome to Sanibel Island! sign. It felt like a taunt, as if you were passing into the circus, the main star of a show you never signed up for. With Sanibel came Jack, and the potential end to a love you’d clawed onto for dear life for the last half-decade. It felt strange, almost wrong, to imagine a world where Jack Hughes didn’t exist as the basis for all romantic interests. To hold someone’s hand and not compare the texture to his. To lose the anticipated blush that warmed your face each time he glanced at you. Because losing Jack was like losing a piece of yourself—all your life you’d associated love with him, and what would there be afterwards?

Sandy beaches rolled endless at the horizon, dotted with the figures of vacationers and locals alike. You glanced to Luke, his hand working the steering wheel as he drove the long-winded path to the beach house. Strands of your hair were roused by the invisible hand of the wind, no doubt knotting it, but you were too enraptured in what ifs and a potential future to much care.

“Are you excited?” Luke asked, looking to you. Elbow leaned against the doorframe, you managed to work your mouth into a smile. Even if it was twinged with apprehension.

“Of course. I love it here. I’m glad you guys were rich enough to buy it.”

Luke laughed.

And that was true. Summer here felt endless. Nights spent on the beach, the tickle of warmth from a stick-lit fire cradling you against the rush of cold blowing off the ocean. The bitter rush of alcohol that stung your veins. Hair made wet by the sea, drying beneath the warm fingertips of sunlight. Skin richening into a burn, soothed only by aloe vera and a cold shower. Laughter between friends and the restless nights talking. All of it was perfect. For you, summer was Jack. Brief and sweet, the thing you looked forward to seeing each year. But it never lasted long enough to truly feel, something you could never touch.

You wondered if you made it obvious. If Luke suspected, or Quinn; the eldest Hughes was always the most perceptive. Any time Jack said something that made your teeth clench with hurt, Quinn glanced at you. A reassuring smile. The extended hand in the dark. But if he knew, he never commented on it.

“Who’s already here?” you asked, eyes catching on the brightly colored houses lining the beach. Blue, pink, the odd green, melding together as the car breezed into the strip of land the beach house rested on.

You almost dreaded the answer. “Quinn and Jack,” Luke responded, voice a little distant—his eyes scanned for the house, too focused on his task to much care for the cringe you gave at the mention of Jack’s name.

You shouldn’t have been surprised, really. It was his house. Yet you found yourself hoping you’d at least beaten him here so you could mentally prepare for his arrival. As it were, you had about five minutes to do that.

Tires crunched against sand as Luke pulled into the driveway. Lead solidified in your bones until you felt as though you were going to sink straight into the earth. A deep breath expanded your chest, and you watched as Luke took out his phone—presumably to text that he’d arrived. Escaping the car, Luke stared at you expectantly. Your body pressed against the doorframe, eyes glanced out at the horizon. Smeared like a painting across the sky, a myriad of colors—oranges, pinks, yellows—foretold the coming of night. Maybe you could stay in here until everyone was asleep, to sneak past Jack and not have to—

The door to the passenger side opened, and there stood Luke, a hand on his hip. Making grabby hands like a toddler, he motioned for you to come. “What’s up with you, Bells? You’re so… quiet.”

You snorted. “That’s not news.”

“You know what I meant,” retorted Luke, grabbing your elbow with a gentle grip. “What’s got your head off to sea?”

Your brother! you wanted to scream, but found your tongue bolted to the bottom of your mouth. Offering instead a smile, you allowed Luke to help you out of the Jeep. Soft sand caught your feet, cushioning the drop. It felt strange to be back here again, but somehow, you knew it wouldn’t be the same. A rueful feeling ached your bones. This would maybe be the last time you’d ever come to the beach house. If your closure went as you intended… there would be no more summers in Sanibel. No more late beach nights. No more salt air creating a stick sheen on your skin. No more Jack Hughes.

“Just thinking about summer,” was all you said.

Like everything, its temporariness was what made it special.

Together, you and Luke began to unpack the bags from the trunk of the Jeep. “Any fun activities planned this summer?” you asked, hoping to alleviate the tension making your head pound.

Luke gave you a backwards glance as he practically leaned his whole body into the trunk. “New bar opened on the strip,” he told you. “I think we have to go.”

Your eyebrows crinkled. “We’re twenty, Luke. And this is a tourist town, they’re going to ID.”

Luke only smiled, clearly not thwarted by your pessimism. “Lucky then that you don’t have to worry. I’ve got it all figured out.”

You didn’t want to ask how, so instead you sighed, hauling your bag onto your shoulder. “Whatever. But I am not ending up in jail because you want to underage drink in public, Luke.”

There was no response to that. Slinking past you with elegance you thought his large frame incapable of, Luke began walking up the driveway and towards the beach house. It looked exactly the same as it had last summer—a gentle gray exterior, like the storm clouds that sometimes brewed over the sea, and a darker roof. White wood bordered the many windows, some with their own balconies. Rust spotted the metal of the garage, slowly encroaching from the outside. A simple wood fence enclosed the sides of the house, leading to the back where you knew a pool hid. Everything was exactly the same, yet so different. Last time you were here, it all felt so unknown, like the end of the summer would make or break the rest of your year. You’d hoped then that maybe Jack would notice, that it would finally be the year he looked at you as more than Luke’s best friend. You’d packed your cutest outfits, the bikinis your friends said would make any man double-take, yet nothing worked. It had been the same as every year before. Jack was nice, but indifferent. Friendly, but inattentive.

However, this year wasn’t like every other year. You didn’t come here with starry eyes and a child-like hope that Jack would pick you after years of oblivion. You came here to finally let go of him, to move on, to bury a love you’d kept on life support for years and years, in the hopes it would come back to life.

Feet making indents in the sand as you walked up the driveway, you saw Jack’s car—a silver Mercedes-Benz—parked a bit ahead. You hated the stutter in your step when you saw it, and you hated more the stoppage in your heart when you heard laughter rounding the side of the house. There was two voices, interwoven and nearly indistinguishable, but you’d know his laugh anywhere, know it blind. All the feelings you’d shoved aside in favor of an aloof disposition crawled their way out of shallow graves. A shaky breath, the fluttering of your eyes, and suddenly—there he was.

Trailing behind Quinn, soaked black swim shorts clinging to wide thighs, a bare chest coated in droplets of water, tousled hair styled by the unconscious hand of water. He smiled, maybe at something Quinn had said, you weren’t sure, and it all came back. How could you get closure when he incited such a deep, profound longing in your soul? When he tugged you towards him the the moon to the tide?

You’d stopped walking. When, you weren’t sure. Time became an endless thing as Jack’s eyes flickered to you. Those blue eyes shot through with something you weren’t sure how to describe, but he grinned—at you—and then he was walking towards you. All at once you wanted to lob a rock at Luke’s head for making you come, and then kill yourself for even thinking for one moment closure would be remotely possible when you still were in love with Jack.

His presence was all-consuming, like stepping to close to the fire. Fingers worn by years of use brushed your own when he took your luggage, carrying it with ease. Even older than you, Jack never lost that youthful sense of delight you’d seen on kids when they got a new toy. He’d always been the sun. For you, and for everyone around him.

You’d never deluded yourself into thinking you were the only one who loved Jack, or wanted him. But it didn’t stop you from wishing you were the one he’d choose.

“Bells,” Jack greeted, warmth oozing from his words, so much that you wanted to yell at him that he wasn’t being fair. How could he expect you not to want him? How, when he was so nice to you, yet so indifferent? “How was the trip?”

Blinking, you allowed him to gathering your luggage and begin walking back to the house. Water transferred from his body to your tote bag, but you found yourself not caring. He could ruin everything you’d brought and it wouldn’t matter. They’d at least be stained with his touch.

“Good,” you managed, trying to keep your feet even on the lumpy sand. Why they’d decided not to install an actual drive way would never make sense to you. “Not a lot of traffic. Luke didn’t kill us, so that’s a plus.”

Jack laughed. It rumbled through his chest and echoed like a victory trumpet in the air. “He’s a shit driver,” he said. “Shoulda convinced him to let you drive with me.”

Tar filled your lungs. Words failed you, and so stupidity, you said: “But you drove with Quinn.”

Jack quirked an eyebrow. Readjusted your bag on his shoulder. “Quinn’s a big boy. He can travel alone.”

Before you could stop yourself, the words flew out of your mouth, “So you think I’m a little girl?”

Jack paused. Glanced over at you. The meeting of two sets of eyes holding extremely different emotions. After a moment, he cut the tension with another laugh. “You are two years younger than me.”

“So is Luke, and last I checked, he was the tallest,” you retorted, offering up a chuckle yourself. You didn’t want to give more, to give in. You had to keep that wall, even if there was already so many holes in it.

With his free hand, Jack tussled your hair, wiggling your head around. You batted him off, feigning annoyance, when really, you wanted him to keep touching you. You could have groaned. God, you were pathetic.

Entering the beach house was like entering freedom. It was typically decorated, that seaside aesthetic Ellen had done herself the first year the boys bought the house. Fishing net and shells in jars, accompanied by hanging hammocks and white coral displays hadn’t moved, and you felt the air greet you, blowing in from the open back door that looked over the pool—and the beach. Salty air snaked up your airway, a welcome sting. A missed one. You weren’t sure if you’d miss Jack or the beach house more.

Luke disappeared with Quinn, the latter offering a gentle smile—perhaps a little pity twinged in. That left only you and Jack, standing in the wide mouth of the living room, the sunset sky bathing your skin in those candle-light oranges you so loved. Beside you, the gentle pat, pat, pat of water dripping off of Jack’s shorts was all that was heard. You took a moment more to enjoy the feeling of peace you got from being here, before Jack snapped you back to the current with a throat clear.

“Want me to bring your stuff to your room?” Your room. The one you’d claimed all those years ago. A room that—after this summer, perhaps—would bo longer be yours. You’d spent hours decorating it, little trinkets imposed with sentiment covering the room. The sea blue sheets. The balcony overlooking the ocean. All of it would be gone.

You had to inhale to stave off the melancholia crawling up your throat like bile. “Yeah, thanks.”

It was hard not to look at Jack. He was always the center of attention—on the ice, off the ice; in his personal life, in the eye of the public. He just was. Never asked for it, always had it. Girls wanted him, boys wanted to be him. You imagined it got tedious after so many years, but at the same time, you wondered what it would be like to be that loved. So adored you could have anything and anyone. You found you’d trade it all for him, for Jack, if he simply asked. You knew he wouldn’t do the same. Why give up freedom for a small-town girl that his brother had dragged around for longer than he probably should?

Up the stairs, through a hallway, and there your room was. You tried to revel in it, in the finality of it all. Convinced you were never coming back here. That Jack would never carry your luggage for you again, making a mess of the floors just to help you out. Inside, you saw the bed was made just like how you left it. A small whale plush—affectionately named Hershey for the chocolate it had been holding when it was won at the arcade—was sat just before the pillows. You hadn’t left him there. Hershey was a cherish piece of history; Jack had won him for you, two years back. Whales were your favorite animal, a gentle giant, the crown of the sea. He knew it, and he had gotten him for you. Maybe that was what kept your hope alive, the little things, the moments where he was more than just an unreachable deity you prayed to repeatedly just for him to notice you.

You glanced over your shoulder as Jack placed your luggage down with a thud. He rubbed his hands together. “Found him downstairs,” he said, gesturing to Hershey, “figured I’d bring him home.”

Home. A word that made your gut turn. His home, but never yours.

“Oh, yeah,” you said lamely. “Wouldn’t want to lose Hershey. You tried so hard to win him.”

Jack scoffed. “I was playing against Trevor. I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t win.”

“Don’t talk about Trevor like that,” you teased with a smile. Finding yourself slipping back into the dynamic. You’d try to make him laugh, just to make him smile. Just to make him see you could make him happy.

Jack only rolled his eyes. You attempted to side-step him, only for your foot to catch his own. A hand immediately came to your rescue, steadying you. A hot flush pinkened your cheeks and slid down your spine. His breath fanned over your temple, a catalyst for every single one of your nerves fraying. You hated that he could do this to you, without trying, without caring, when you tried so hard to avoid falling back into him like a fool. It wasn’t fair—but when was love?

Jack pulled his hand away, the phantom of his fingers imprinted on your skin. Marked. Just like you’d always been. “Sorry,” you muttered, embarrassment eating at you.

His laugh was a reward. “It’s fine,” he responded. It was always fine with Jack. Never hard feelings. You didn’t think he had a aggressive bone in his body, even after years and years of playing physical hockey. “Even after all the years, you still can’t stay on your feet.”

A reference to your clumsiness. Which wasn’t clumsiness. It was just Jack. You never stumbled around anyone but him. “Yeah,” you bit out, probably harsher than intended. “Guess I haven’t changed.”

But you had. And you needed to find a way out of the hole that was Jack Hughes before you were buried alive.

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Letting go of things has never been easy. Marked with scratches and tears, everything you’d ever relinquished never left the same. How could it, when you’d spent so much time loving it, cherishing it, only for it to be cruelly ripped from your grasp? Letting go had never been easy, because you’d never been ready to lose what was taken, because it was never ready to leave you either. That’s why it was so easy to reason with yourself about finally moving on from Jack Hughes.

It wasn’t mutually assured destruction. There would be no blowing out of stars and creation of supernovas when you finally put the love to rest. Because it was you. It was never him. He didn’t love you—hell, he didn’t even know you loved him. Perhaps there laid the foundation for burial, a tomb within the dunes, marked with a single shell. When the time came, no claw marks would mar Jack’s skin. He was never yours to mark.

Two weeks had since passed. Settling in had always been easy, but this time, it felt like a final meal before execution. A good thing before the inevitable end. Nights spent by the pool, the reflection of the water a perfect mirror of Jack’s eyes. Drinking and laughing and talking—a chosen family, but one you’d soon depart. You’d always have Luke, the last cord of the fraying rope, unbreakable and timeless. But never again would you tug on that rope, just to see the other end. To move on from Jack would be to forget him, as much as you could.

The summer sun blistered overhead, biting your skin until red bloomed. Splayed out on a beach towel, you opted to suntan while the boys enjoyed the water. You’d get in, eventually, preferably when Jack was not in. You didn’t want the distraction of his body to further make you doubt your ability to handle change. Back facing the sun, you remained entranced by the book in front of you, instead imagining your love life was as explosive and beautiful as the story written for you. When you went to flip the page, something hit your back—a ball, you guessed, from the feeling of impact—making your already sunburnt skin sting like hell.

“Shit,” you cursed, placing your book face down in order to stand. Glancing to the side you figured the ball bounced off to, there sat the culprit: a black-and-white soccer ball, covered in patches of sand.

You heard some shouting, and opted to be a good samaritan and grab it. As you bent down to pick up the sandy ball, another pair of hands invaded your vision and brushed your own. Rightening, you saw a tall man—your age, presumably—who immediately began spewing apologies of all kinds.

He had that youthful look to him, the same as Jack. Golden curls fell around his eyes, slightly sandy, a bit wet, but gleaming like rays of sunlight. Familiar eyes, the blue of the sky after a storm, peered at you with a mixture of concern and apology. He was beautiful, in an artful way—a hand-sculpted effigy, lain in the town square to be worshiped. You figured with age and maturity he presently lacked, he’d be all the more beautiful.

But he wasn’t Jack.

“I am—so sorry!” he spewed words like bullets, hoping one apology landed. You bit down a laugh at the desperation leaking into his voice. “I wasn’t watching where I was kicking. Sorta shanked it—scratch that, really shanked it. Are you okay—I meant to ask—”

“I’m fine,” you cut him off, sparing him. As endearing as his apology was, you could see red rising to his face—you knew what it felt like. “Although I don’t recommend you shoot for the Premier League.”

Upon realizing you weren’t angry, the boy relaxed. “Yeah, as if,” he laughed, tossing the balls back and forth between his hands. “You are okay, right?”

Your eyebrow quirked. “Unless you’re secretly the Hulk, I don’t think you kicking a ball at me could do any serious damage.” Your fingers grazed the spot the ball struck. “Might have a weird mark on my back, ‘s all.”

Goldie Locks, as you’d taken to calling in him your head, circled around you and bent at his knees. His fingertips grazed the small of your back, rattling your spine into a shiver. You heard a subdued sound—something between a giggle and a sharp exhale of air through his noise—and twisted to look down at him.

“It looks dumb, huh?” you said, trying to feel the patter marked on your back with your fingers.

Goldie Locks shook his head. “You wear it well.”

“I better, or I’ll give you a matching mark,” you teased. He stood up, imposing. “Really, though, I’m fine…”

He caught on swiftly. “Jackson. Or Jack.”

You could have cursed the Gods and Fate and her trifling ways. Of course the first cute guy you find has to be him, but not be him. The great irony of life, you supposed it was. Finally ready to move on, and your tugged right back to square one.

A tight smile made its way onto your face. “Jackson.”

Jackson opened his mouth to say something, but the voice of the man you quite literally could not escape interrupted him. “Bells? You okay?”

You thought briefly of faking fainting.

“I’m fine,” you responded, without looking at Jack. You couldn’t. But you wanted to. “He just hit me with a soccer ball and was apologizing.”

Jack imposed into your vision anyway. Jaw working, the rapid flex of his muscles that told he ran to you. Suddenly, the sweltering heat was no longer the cause for your sweating. “Hit you?” he repeated, glancing to Jackson with a raised brow.

Shoved into an unwanted spotlight, Jackson immediately backpedaled. “Accident. Didn’t mean to hit your girl.”

Your girl.

Your girl.

Your girl.

Those two simple words repeated like a scratched vinyl in your mind. Jack’s girl. His. It was something that would have made past you puff your chest. It made present you feel sick. Another pull towards him. Another lock trapping you inside of the room. In the past, you wouldn’t have said anything—wouldn’t have fought it. You’d have waited to see if Jack would deny it; he always did. Another nail in the coffin. How many were needed until you finally understood?

But you were now actively trying to fight the feeling seemingly hardwired into your blood. The instinct that told you to love Jack. “Oh, we’re not dating,” you told Jackson. Blue eyes flittered to you—was he surprised? For once you denied, distanced. Was he confused? “He’s my best friend’s older brother.”

You didn’t know why you added that part. It wasn’t necessary—Jackson didn’t care about your relationships to Jack past the words not dating. But here you were, petty pride swelling in your chest at finally getting to stick it to Jack. Finally being the denier instead of the denied.

“Oh,” Jackson quirked his brow. Glanced at Jack; he said nothing. “Is it okay if I have your number?”

That shocked you. And it clearly shocked Jack, as well. His shoulders tensed, eyes darting to you. Gauging your response. You would have said no before. Would have made some dumb excuse. If you accepted, you distanced yourself from Jack, showed indifference. Past you couldn’t have that.

Present you could.

“Sure,” you said.

This summer would be different.

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You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been on a date. Michael Neely in eleventh grade, but that was in major part because he looked entirely too similar to Jack—didn’t act like him, however. Didn’t smile like the sun’s envy. He just wasn’t Jack. For as long as you could remember, no one had been. Isolating yourself for years because of the off chance Jack would finally admit it, as if he’d been pulling a big joke on you and had actually wanted you back. But he never did. And you couldn’t wait around forever hoping he would. He never asked you to.

You went through your hair with a brush one final time before deeming yourself presentable. A knit green tank-top paired with denim shorts, warm vanilla perfume—one you’d used since Jack had offered a compliment on the scent—and a smile that you hoped appeared genuine. For once you were excited, not thinking of Jack, measuring Jackson up to him. You let Jackson be himself, undeterred by the ghost of your unrequited love.

The downstairs of the beach house was alive with loud laughter and conversation—you hated you could still pick out Jack’s laugh, could imagine his face when he did; the gentle scrunch of his nose, the squint of his eyes. You wondered if it would ever go away, that sixth sense. If you’d ever be truly and unapologetically free.

Rounding the corner, you were met with the sight of the three brothers playing what looked to be Chel, their eyes fixated on the large TV in front of the couch they were splayed on. You debated slinking out of the house, silent as they’d always teased you for being, just to avoid the awkward conversation you knew would come from the knowledge you—Bells, infatuated devotee of Jack Hughes—were going on a date with a boy you’d known a week.

Fiddling with your fingers, you stood at the back of the couch. Not wanting to interrupt their game, you went to simply tap Luke on the shoulder, hoping he’d eventually pause it. He wasn’t the one to do it, however. Luke and Queen groaned in annoyance when the screen paused, glancing over to the only person who could have done it. Jack didn’t spare them a glance. His homely blue eyes were on you, eyebrows furrowed. Following his gaze, Luke and Quinn gave you a once-over.

“Hell are you going all dolled up like that, Bells?” Luke asked, flicking you on the wrist.

You didn’t really think you were dolled up. “I have a thing called a date, Luke.”

That incited the expected awkward silence. As if drawn by a unbeatable force, you found yourself glancing to Jack. White-knuckled, he gripped the controller with such force you were surprised it didn’t break on him entirely. You briefly wondered what his issue was before Quinn spoke.

“With who?” Surprise laced his question, and you hated it. Hated that he thought you were incapable of moving on from Jack—or maybe he didn’t think you incapable, just averse.

“That guy from the beach, right, Bells?” Luke piped up, turning his body on the couch to face you. “What was his name? Jack?”

You ground your jaw. “Jackson.”

Luke shrugged. “Same thing.”

It wasn’t. You really hoped it wasn’t.

You turned to leave, intent on scurrying out like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, when a voice called you back. Always calling you back, just when you tried to leave.

“Bells,” Jack spoke, voice drawled. You didn’t turn. “Where are you going?”

You blinked at him, dumbfounded. “On a date…?”

“Where?” You figured it could have been a growl if he were less careful. Luke and Quinn glanced at each other. You fought back a scream.

Why do you care? Why now? When I’m about to move on? I spent so much time waiting for you. I’m done.

You wanted to scream those words at him, but of course, like most confessions, they went unsaid.

“The cove,” you humored him, eyes flicking to your fingers. When had they started bleeding? The cove, of course, was as it sounded: a small chunk of land past the rock barrier at the beach, cornered in by mangroves and hidden away from sight, Jackson claimed it the perfect place for a seaside picnic. You weren’t one to argue.

When Jack made no effort to respond, you finally left. Jackson wasn’t even there yet, but you couldn’t stay inside anymore. Indecision and confusion were eating away at your gut, turning your mind into a war zone. You didn’t understand—couldn’t understand. Years spent in the shadow of Jack Hughes had taught you to fear the light, that if you even for a second let the rays touch you, came the consequence of losing the shade forever. And you’d tossed those fears aside, let yourself into the light, and that only made the dark come back in full force.

It wasn’t fair. Why weren’t you allowed to move on? To finally break the bonds that you yourself had made? Jack had never kept you near, and yet now he didn’t seem to want to let you go. Like a child unwilling to relinquish a toy just because it was theirs.

You tried not to dwell on it. Not when Jackson pulled up, his 4Runner breaking the noise of gulls calls and rumbling cars. Not when he led you out to the cove, picnic basket in hand, like an old-timey romance your mother used to watch. You tried, but just like everything concerning not thinking about Jack, miserably failed. Jackson was attentive, sweet, he did it all right. And as much as you hated yourself for thinking it, it was true: he wasn’t Jack.

“Are you a local?” Jackson asked you. Your mouth closed around a strawberry, staining your fingertips red—better than blood, you supposed.

The tide lapped gently at the sand before your feet, spanning out from beneath the quilt laid beneath you and Jackson. Always coming close, but never quite enough to wet your feet. Gnarled roots of mangrove trees split the sand, boxing the little cove in. You remembered coming here with Jack once, when he was trying to make up for throwing you in the pool with your phone in your back pocket. He hadn’t set up a picnic, only sat beside you in the sand and offered you Hershey. A silent apology. One you never forgot.

Trying to build over that memory was like trying to filter the salt out of the sea. There was too much to ever fully get rid of it.

A breeze tickled your legs. Sand parted between your toes. Everything felt normal; normal, you realized, wasn’t always right.

“No,” you responded after some time, tossing the strawberry head to the sea. “I come here every year with my best friend, his brothers, and their friends.”

Jackson nodded. “The guy from the beach, the one I thought you were dating—” You fought the urge to cringe, “—that was Jack Hughes, right?”

Always the icon. Beloved, beautiful Jack Hughes.

You glanced at Jackson. He smiled. “Yeah, I’ve known him for years. His brother is my best friend.”

“Yeah, I remember you saying that,” he laughed, a whimsical sound. Off-key; pitched too high. You didn’t think you’d be able to differentiate it in a room of others. “How’d that even happen?”

You grinned. Memories of freshman year. Restless nights spent studying in Luke’s room. False trips to the bathroom just for a chance at a glance of his brother. “Luke and I met in our freshman year biology class. He absolutely sucked. Had to tutor the poor kid so he wouldn’t fail.”

Jackson shook his head, the mess of golden curls crowning him danced with the movement. Raising a finger, he wagged it at you as if apprehending a naughty dog. “Hold on now. Biology is damn hard, cut him some slack.”

You giggled. Almost cringed. You felt like a schoolgirl again, trying to slow time as a cute boy walked past. “Maybe if you’re a loser.”

More time passed, the sun’s rays dulled to a warm orange instead of a blinding yellow. The sea calmed. Unseen birds chirped and sung their tunes, never to be understood. Jackson asked questions, answered some. He indulged, dug deep, hoping for treasure. It was strange, to fix your hair and bat your lashes in the hopes of impressing a boy who wasn’t Jack Hughes. Stranger yet you were enjoying Jackson, even fantasizing about a second date. The cold fingers of the wind rose gooseflesh in its wake; your arms rose to combat it, folding against your body in hopes to retain heat. Jackson peered over.

“Cold?” he asked, presumptuous and forward and hoping; one arm already out of his cardigan.

You nodded, murmuring a thanks as Jackson draped his sweater over your shoulders. At once the smell of salt and secondhand smoke snaked up your nose, invaded your airways. It was so different from the warm amber you imagined your skin would faintly smell of if Jack made you his—he smelled like heartbreak and sleepless nights and longing, something you feared was permanently smeared on your flesh. You found yourself heating at the scent, blushing, a slight twinge of excitement at the thought of being claimed by another boy. Foolishly, maybe, you thought it could purge Jack from you, draw over the marks he’d made all over your flesh.

You’d had boys like you before, liked them back—felt the head rush that accompanied youthful yearning. None had ever compared to Jack. Like a stain on your favorite shirt, he’d never come out of your heart, a scar that pulsed every so often, a reminder that he was still there. That he’d never go away. You realized now, looking at Jackson—the soft lines that sprouted next to his eyes when he smiled, a mess of curly blond hair that seemed to fall perfectly in front of his eyes, catered specifically to his beauty—that the memories of wounds weren’t always bad. They weren’t just reminders that you’d been hurt, but that you survived.

Before your mind could conjure any wishful images of you and Jackson, he spoke, “Tomorrow night, there’s a beach bonfire.” His finger extended, curled a stray piece of hair out of your eyes. “Something the locals do every year to kick off summer.”

You smiled—genuinely smiled, not just a flash of teeth forced in order to hide a grimace. Not the smiles you got so used to giving Jack. “And you’re telling me this because…”

Banter. He could tell you knew where he was getting, yet wanted him to spell it out anyway. “Go with me? I think you’d enjoy it,” he said, voice gentle over the lap of waves against the shore. You could almost feel the world hold its breath, awaiting your answer. Would you cling to a hope and dream, or go with what was sitting in front of you? “Plus, having a pretty girl with a perfect personality on my arm wouldn’t hurt too bad.”

“Hmm…” You faked contemplation, tapping your chin. When Jackson flicked your forehead, you scoffed, batting at his hand. “Well now I’m reconsidering my answer, ass.”

Warm fingers wrapped around your wrist, caught it midair, a fish hooked on a line. Feverish, a heat you’d only associated with one person your whole life rose to your head as Jackson’s eyes met yours. Not blue, green. Your mind didn’t even attempt to paint over them, to erase his color, to make him him. Lips wet by eager tongues, a mutual desire. When had you last even considered another man romantically, sexually?

The answer was: not since Jack Hughes barged his way into your life and trapped your heart behind a wall, tossing away the key.

Before anything could be realized, before you could experience your first kiss in what felt like forever, a dull vibrating ripped the moment to shreds. Annoyance flashed in your heart, and a part of you told you to ignore it—but you couldn’t. What if something had gone wrong? Apologetically, you tore your eyes away from Jackson and dug your phone out of your back pocket.

The name flashing on the screen had your heart clenching.

Jack.

“Yes?” Confused, clipped. Why was Jack calling you?

“Oh, uh, hey,” came Jack’s voice—you frowned at his tone. He sounded as if he didn’t even know why he was calling. “I was just… calling to see when you’d be home tonight.”

A scream bubbled in your throat. This is why he was calling you? “This could have been a text.”

Jack laughed dryly. “Guess so. Figured you wouldn’t have seen it.”

You didn’t want to admit he was right. “It’s what…” You took your phone away from your face to look at the time. 8:43. “8:43? I’m not sure, Jack. We’re still at the cove.”

Shuffling on the other end. Your eyes darted to Jackson; he seemed intrigued at who was calling you. “Right, well… Luke wanted to know, so…”

You frowned. “Then why didn’t Luke call me?”

“Playing Chel,” was all you got in response.

Pettiness whirled in your chest like a maelstrom. For once you had the upper hand; cards hidden against your chest, not splayed out for all to see. Maybe with the right move, Jack would fold after so many years of winning. It was childish, you knew that, but the child in you who’d hoped and hoped and hoped only to get turned down every single time awoke—wanted Jack to feel the burn she’d felt when he’d sunk his hooks into her heart.

“I may not come home tonight,” you told him, relished in the pause. Jackson’s eyes flickered to you, curious.

“What?” Jack asked, voice darkened with knowing and other terrible emotions. “What do you mean?”

He knew very well what you meant.

“Absolutely fucking not.” You resisted the urge to recoil at the scorching flame simmering in Jack’s tone; he rarely ever spoke to anyone like that, least of all you. “You met him this week, Bells. If you aren’t home by 10:30 I’m coming to find you.”

Rage flared. You weren’t sure why. Maybe because you could pretend like he cared. As if he had any right to tell you when you had to be home. “So what? Now I have a curfew?” You didn’t want Jackson to overhear the spat, but it’s clear he was watching, listening, picking apart the conversation. “Forgot the part where you were my mother, Jack.”

“You’re staying in my house,” he retorted sharply. “10:30. I’m not kidding.”

After that, the line went dead.

Fire lashed in your veins, threatening to burn your being to ash. How dare he? Just as you inched out of the cage, he tries to drag you back in. Why did he care now? Why couldn’t he have before?

Why?

Why?

Why?

Tears taunted you. Tried to slip past your eyes. You had given so many tears to Jack, expected him to bottle them and place them on a shelf, a reminder to never hurt you again. He never did. The moon’s rays were a solace, an extended comfort from who knew loneliness better than anything. Soft fingers touched your arm, didn’t push—only rested there, a reminder of consolation.

“He’s like an older brother, huh?” Jackson tried to alleviate your melancholy, revive your playful spirit like a necromancer.

It only made you sadder. If only Jack were like an older brother, if only your heart hadn’t chosen him to beat for.

“Yeah,” you chuckled dryly. “Let’s be glad he won’t be there tomorrow.”

A bright grin tugged on Jackson’s lips. “So you’re coming?”

You smiled.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

10:15.

The bright light of your phone screen cut through the darkness as you walked up the sandy driveway to the beach house. The departing rumble of Jackson’s 4Runner interrupted the ballad sung by the cicadas and crickets, a sound that followed you all the way to the front door. Sliding your sunflower-adorned key out of your pocket, you fiddled with the lock before finally managing your way into the house. The biting cold of the summer night was promptly chased away by the inviting warmth, but you found yourself unwilling to remove Jackson’s green cardigan. Plastic buttons twirled between your fingers, a few stitches unraveled. Well-worn, loved—smelled like summer nights and escape. You smiled to yourself.

The hum of the TV, along with its vibrant glow startled you as you crossed into the living room area. Despite the somewhat early time, you hadn’t expected anyone to be awake. But there Luke was, curled up on the couch, watching Grease. You could have laughed if you weren’t more aware; Luke had always had a major small crush on Sandy, his guilty pleasure movie, one that came with summer nights and hours talking into the AM. Rounding the foot of the couch, you plopped down next to Luke, startling him out of what appeared to be oncoming sleep.

“Back already?” he asked groggily, clearing the gravel out of his throat. He straightened, blinked a few times. “I take it you didn’t get laid.”

You glared at Luke, silently cursed his teenage-boyishness. “Not everyone fucks on the first date, dick,” you retorted, smiling. “Someone here gave me a curfew. Said he’d come looking for me if I didn’t come back in time; I wasn’t too keen on testing him.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “Cockblock,” he muttered. “Which of them was it? Quinn? He seems like the type.”

“The other one,” you corrected, earning a confused look from Luke. “Exactly! That’s what I thought. Also, did you ask Jack to ask me when I’d be home?”

“No,” Luke drawled, raising an eyebrow. “Why would I?”

That son of a bitch.

Was he just dead set on denying you happiness? Why couldn’t he just admit to caring even a little about you? Why dress up good deeds as the requests of others? Nothing about Jack made sense; it never had. You supposed that was part of the appeal, the mystery of it all. A puzzle gathering dust on the shelf, tried and forgotten for its difficulty. You’d always had a knack for choosing the hardest games.

You waved Luke off, not wanting to hear his conspiracies tonight. Maybe tomorrow, when you didn’t have the weight of a thousand unanswered questions close to caving in your chest. “Nothing,” you said. “Are Quinn and Jack awake?”

Luke eyed you. He saw through you—always had. Yet, for the sake of your dwindling sanity, chose silence. “Quinn isn’t, no,” he told you. “Went to bed like an hour ago.”

“Old man,” you commented, earning a laugh. “And Jack?”

Luke’s eyes flickered to the door leading to the back porch. A warm orange glow was visible through the drawn curtains. “He’s in the pool, I think.”

You nodded. Came to a resolution in your withering heart. “Right,” you murmured, standing. Before departing, you pressed a kiss to Luke’s cheek. “Night, Luke. Go up to your room, if you fall asleep here, I won’t be able to carry you to your bed.”

Luke rolled his eyes, nudged your leg with his knee. “How unfortunate.” Then, he stood, and disappeared up the stairs.

Dread swarmed in your stomach like a tornado, wrecking every defense you’d built up these past weeks to keep out a certain boy. You feared damage control wouldn’t be enough this time, that you couldn’t rebuild if Jack shut you down now. But you had to confront him, had to at least tell him to stop controlling you if nothing else. This summer was meant to be your closure, the final chapter in a book you never thought would end. It felt more like the procession to the grave, not the closing of a door.

What if losing your love for Jack lost you him?

The back door swung open with a squeal, piercing the once thick silence. With your presence swiftly outed, you forewent attempting discreetness, and eased out onto the pool deck. Fingers of frost grabbed for your exposed skin, only combated by Jackson’s cardigan. Bones rattling, you wondered why on earth Jack was going for a swim right now of all times.

You heard the lapping of water, roused by movement, before you saw him. The fluorescent underwater lightning cut through the darkness and reflected on your face, a myriad of whites and blues that was distinctly Jack. When you came to the pools edge, your eyes focused on him—clad in nothing but a pair of blue swim shorts—floating ok his back, eyes closed, as if imagining himself in a different place. You almost felt sorry to ruin the fabrication of his mind. Remembering your anger, you pushed aside the feeling. Why should he be given peace when he’d never given you any?

Before you could even open your mouth, his eyes opened, as if sensing you. He adjusted, treading water, as you merely assessed each other. Waiting. Who would draw first? You. It had always been you.

“I’m home now,” you bit out, your leash gone; Jackson wasn’t here to judge you. “Happy?”

Water lapped at Jack’s collarbones. You almost envied it for being able to touch him so freely. His eyes darted around you, then stopped on the cardigan. Forest green, like Jackson’s eyes. You knew he knew; you hadn’t been wearing it when you left.

“Cute,” he commented, sarcastic and dripping with cruelty you’d never heard from him before. He parted the water with ease, as if he expected everything to bend to his will.

Jack stopped where you stood at the edge. You looked down on him for once, a prick of pride stinging you as for once you had the high ground. For once, he wasn’t able to confine you with his overwhelming presence and being. Fingers curled around the edge of the pool, his hair dripping tears of chlorine-tainted water down his face, Jack merely watched you, waiting a scolding, the tantrum of a child who had what she wanted torn away.

You thought if unfair someone could be so beautiful, especially when he could never be yours.

“What is your issue?” you snapped finally, folding your arms, protecting your glass heart from his insults he’d fire like arrows. “I asked Luke, he said he never asked you what time I’d be home. Was it fun for you? To ruin my date?”

Jack scoffed. Arms corded with muscle flexed, rose from the water; a heave and he was on his feet in front of you, your leverage lost. Water bled off his body like a torrent, soaking your shoes. Droplets flicked on Jackson’s cardigan, the water staining through. You stepped back instinctively, throat tight. You hated how, even now, he had an effect on you.

“Ruin?” he echoed, eyebrows creased. “Don’t be dramatic. It wasn’t like you were planing on staying out with him past 10:30. I was doing you a favor, giving you an out.”

Classic Jack; thinking he knew better than everyone else. “You weren’t, actually,” you hissed. “I didn’t need an out, Jack; I was enjoying myself. So much so I’m going out with him again tomorrow night.”

That was unnecessary to say, you knew. A bite only given to wound him, to prove you were capable of rising from your knees and tearing down the shrine you’d devoted to him for years. Because if Jack Hughes was no longer your sun, you didn’t need to revolve around him—shine only when he was near. Pathetic and driven by childish need to probe yourself, you wanted Jack to hurt—even if you knew he never would, that he couldn’t care less about who you loved and who you were with.

You just wished that he did.

A flicker of confusion. A frown, and then, “What?”

“Jackson invited me to the beginning of summer beach bonfire,” you told him, watching Jack’s jaw tense. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t—he’d always been so encapsulating. “It’s tomorrow night.”

His presence invaded every defense you’d placed up. Chin tipped to look at him, you felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if boxed in—everywhere you looked was him. Deep breaths made each muscle of his chest flex and tense, well-sculpted from years of punishing activity. You hated the flush that almost burned your face. You hated the thunder of your pulse that drowned out any noise but your racing heart. You hated the effect he had on you.

“You aren’t going,” he said simply, as if he had any say.

You frowned. “Yes, I am.”

Jack’s lip wrinkled. Condescension dripped from his voice. “No, you aren’t.”

You could have strangled him. You really could have. “You aren’t my father, Jack. You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do. I’m going.”

He smiled at you. Smiled like he thought you opposition was funny. “You met this guy this week, Bells,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Not only that, you have no idea who’s going to be at this bonfire. What if something goes wrong? You think Golden Boy is going to play the white knight?”

Ignoring what Jack had called Jackson, you turned to leave. You were absolutely not having this argument with him. Not when it was ultimately your decision and your life. Before you could even make it a step, a wet hand clamped around your arm, fingers closing around you like a vice—Jack spun you, unsteadying you. In an effort to save yourself a trip straight down, you threw up your hands, connecting palms with the rigid plane of Jack’s chest. Heat rose to your face, a feverish high sinking the logic of your brain. All of a sudden, you were sixteen again hoping Jack would come out of his room while you were in the hallway.

Breath deepened, you searched for an out—a way to defend yourself. The sword lying at your palms was cheap, but effective, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

But you did know better. And you knew he wasn’t; you just wished he was.

Jack smiled. Predatory. “Of Jackson?” Fingers loosened—you took the chance to escape, pulling yourself free of Jack’s hold. “If you’re going to try and make me jealous, maybe do it with someone who doesn’t have my fucking name.”

He breezed past you, disappearing inside like a shadow.

You looked down. Eyes grazing the cardigan. A wet handprint stained the arm. Jack’s handprint.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆

Smoke thickened the air into a husky, palpable haze. Dozens of conversations overlapped into one massive dissonance, drowning out the harsh crash of waves upon the shoreline. Bathed in an amber glow provided by a massive fire housed upon a hearth of triangularly-laid sticks, the beach was alive with drinking and laughing and dancing. Sand cushioned your feet, sandals dangling in your hands. Jackson haunted your side, keeping close. He led you in deeper, parting throngs of people like the Red Sea. Greeting a few of them, introducing you.

Excitement turned your blood hot. Rebellion made it all the sweeter. Despite Jack’s vehement opposition against your coming here, you’d done it anyway. When the boys had decided to get a few drinks at the new bar that opened up, you feigned sun sickness as a result of a day at the beach. Whether or not they believed you didn’t matter much—they’d left, which allowed you the chance to be here.

All you had to do was be home before them, which shouldn’t have been difficult. They’d be home in the early hours of the morning.

Mingling with Jackson was simple enough—people didn’t much care who you were. Just that you existed. Beers were handed to you, drank quickly. You wanted to have fun, to let yourself exist without the shackle that was Jack Hughes dragging you back from any romantic venture. A heated hand slipped in your own; Jackson smiled at you. Stomach knotted in a ball, you downed the rest of your White Claw and grinned back.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asked, bending down to better carry his voice to you. The proximity of his face warmed your chest.

“Mhm,” you hummed, relishing in the head rush. Being drunk wasn’t something you did often, what with being underage. There were parts you hated, parts you sought. Like the current buzz of warmth that whispered false confidence through your bloodstream.

The confidence that made you lead Jackson to the water’s edge, hidden from the glow of the fire, shadows outlined by the light of the moon. Rosy-cheeked, you tossed your arms around Jackson’s neck and peered up at him. Although his countenance was lost in the darkness, you could make out blown pupils overtaking his eyes, parted lips lightly doused in alcohol. Water lapped at your feet, danced around your ankles. You didn’t care. Everything in your mind was screaming at you to just do it—kiss him and get it over with, get over with Jack.

Jack.

You hated that even in a moment like this, your mind went to Jack.

It was then—arms tossed around Jackson’s neck, the waves kissing your bare legs—that you realized you’d never let go of Jack. You couldn’t. He was too well in your heart, the patchwork of two souls. If you could, you would turn tail and run, find happiness on the road of abandonment. You wouldn’t have to worry about being alone, isolated simply because people found a piece of your life more interesting than the whole. You wouldn’t have to rebuild your shattered heart when another summer passed by without Jack loving you. You wouldn’t need to remind your heart not to give in to his toothy smile and infectious laugh.

But then, you wouldn’t have Jack. His smile, the devil’s disguise, a shot of oxytocin to the system. Touching of skin, unintentional yet entirely wanted, setting ablaze the wildfire that burned down your castle of wood. Nights spent by the pool, his face illuminated by the glow of underwater lights. The way he made your heart break and mend all at once, the high of a drug that you could never quit. Every time, you relapsed, reminded yourself why you loved Jack—why he was your favorite love, your only one. He didn’t want you for anything, he didn’t even want you.

And maybe it was that; the hypothetical, the possibility. The construct you’d built inside your head, trying to fit into the narrative every summer, but never getting the part.

“Jackson?”

He looked down at you. Green, not blue. Never blue. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think—”

All at once, your arms were falling, cradling empty space as Jackson was ripped away from your touch. A splash of water sent droplets launching into your skin and clothes. You shrieked, stumbled, looked for the culprit. And of course—there Jack stood, huffing, as if he’d run to you. You could barely make out his face, but you didn’t need to; you’d know him blind, by touch alone. Your eyes went down to Jackson, body engulfed in the shallow water. You pieced it together, came into the frantic understanding that Jack had pushed Jackson.

Immediately, you went to help Jackson, only to be tugged back by your elbow. “Jack! What the hell?”

He didn’t grace you with an answer—didn’t even look at you, actually. Those stormy blue eyes were on Jackson, murderous and heated. He shoved you behind him. “What are you doing, huh?” he barked. “Did you know you were giving a minor alcohol? She’s twenty, you fucking idiot!”

Tears of frustration turned your eyes wet, and air became scarce. You wanted to do something, but what could you even do? Jack was accustomed to ignoring you. Stares nipped at the back of your head. Conversation dulled into a lapse.

“Jack, enough,” you begged, the sheer desperation in your voice normally something you’d hate—you couldn’t be bothered to care now. “Please. I’m fine. It wasn’t Jackson’s fault. He didn’t do anything.”

“Stop,” Jack interrupted, eyes flashing to you, a warning. “I told you not to come. Stay out of this, Bells.”

“I had no idea, dude, I swear!” Jackson responded, pulling himself up from the water. Soaked head-to-toe, and dully embarrassed. “She did it herself, I didn’t offer her anything!”

It soured your mouth he was trying to shift the blame to you, even if he was being honest. Your eyes flicked to Jack, and all at once you were reminded why you chose to love him.

His hair was tousled, worked one too many times by frustrated fingers. Eyes wild and concerned, so raw that you could’ve convinced yourself he was that cut by your situation. You knew it wasn’t you; he was just a good person, an empathetic one. But still, you liked to imagine. You’d spent your life imagining what it would be like for him to love you.

“Jack, please, just—”

“Don’t you dare blame her,” Jack’s voice was strangled, as if barely bypassing a wall of fury. “What the fuck do you think this is? The blame game? I don’t care who gave her the alcohol. You brought her here.”

“Please, Jack, let’s just go,” you pleaded, voice tight—embarrassment crawled up your spine like the cold. Everyone was looking, observing the screaming match you’d unfortunately found yourself a part of. “People are looking.”

“I don’t give a shit,” he hissed, advancing on Jackson. Chest-to-chest. A size up; one you hoped wouldn’t result in traded blows. You’d never seen Jack so angry, so wrought with violence. He’d always been docile—kind.

“Why do you care?” Jackson finally snapped, shoving Jack backwards. You tried to intercede, only to be shut down. “She said she wasn’t your girlfriend. Stop acting like a jealous dick.”

Jack laughed. He turned around, facing you as he spoke. “She may not be mine,” he conceded, “but she sure as hell will never be yours.”

Everything was happening to quickly. Your mind struggled to process the entire interaction, how quickly it had all gone sour. Before you could question Jack, scold him, consider the root of his rage, you were being lifted by the middle, and promptly tossed over Jack’s shoulder.

Air fled your lungs, your head pulsed—both from the swift movement and your consumption of what was likely too much alcohol. Jack’s hand stayed on you, keeping you steady as he carried you through the crowd, cutting through blots of people who all looked just as confused as you felt. Anger sparked then, fanned by embarrassment and anger and frustration.

Slamming your fists into Jack’s well-muscled back, you spewed profanities at him. “Put me down, asshole!” He didn’t. Kept walking, over the boardwalk and into the parking lot. Jackson’s 4Runner taunted you. “Jack, let me go! Jack!”

And he did. Your feet felt unfamiliar as he placed you down with little preempt. He steadied you before you could fall, kept a hand on your arm even after. Your heart felt pulled in a million directions, throat filling up with sand—fossilizing in your own skin, mortification sawing pieces off of your soul. Jack looked furious, pacing in front of you. His silver Mercedes gleamed in the moonlight.

“Bells—” He cut himself off. His throat bobbed, ran a hand through his already messed hair. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Your teeth bared. “Me? And what about you, barging into my night and accusing my date of being a criminal? The fuck is wrong with you, Jack?”

Jack laughed. Mocking, mean. You half-wanted to punch him, felt the itch in your fingers. “Oh, forgive me for trying to help you,” he hissed. “What if cops had busted the bonfire, huh? If they’d got you? Do I have to remind you that you’re twenty, Bells? That’s a felony.”

He was right, and you hated it. “But did you have to do all that? Jackson didn’t even give me the alcohol, why did you push him into the water?”

“I already said I don’t care who gave it to you,” Jack grunted, closing in on you. A step back, and you felt your back press into the cold metal of his car. “He was with you. He let you drink.”

You rolled your eyes, tried to muster up a semblance of control. “He doesn’t know my age, Jack.”

“Then he’s a fucking idiot.”

Scoffing, you shoved him away from you. “Oh, is he? Or were we just on a second date, one that you completely ruined! He’s never going to speak to me again, Jack, so thank you for that!”

Faintly, you wondered how you went from adoring Jack to despising him. Maybe it was always meant to be like this. There was a fine line between love and hate.

Eyes flashing, Jack rounded on you. “A second date you shouldn’t have been on,” he snapped. “I told you not to go.”

“New flash: you’re not my keeper,” you said, feeling the anger wane into something worse—fatigue. You didn’t want to fight. Fighting with Jack felt like fighting a part of yourself. “How’d you even find me? You guys were at the bar.”

Jack paused; he noticed your deflated shoulders, sullen face. “SnapMap,” is what he said. He didn’t expand, and you didn’t ask him to.

Silence felt like the worse fog—thick and impenetrable, falling over you like a suffocating blanket. You didn’t know what to say. What could you even say? Jack would never tell you why he was so upset, you didn’t want to ask—didn’t want to hear another made up story he’d spew just to tear apart the hope in your heart.

It hit you then that maybe Jack did love you—or care about you in some capacity, but he’d never admit it. Dancing in circles, a choreography that never ended, you’d never know what Jack truly wanted; didn’t know if he even did. Probably figured you’d screw it up, would ruin a friendship—his and yours, yours and Luke’s. It was a losing battle either way. Every word he uttered cut to the bone, because it was meant to. When the shift started, you didn’t know. Maybe when he realized you were not always going to kneel at his alter, when you tried to escape.

Maybe then he understood, and still avoided—lied, all to protect himself and his brother. He knew, you knew. One wanted, the other avoided. None of it ended well. Heaven was breakable, and he couldn’t dare threaten his own peace. Not even to have you.

You knew then where you stood.

“Why?”

He shook his head, chewed on his lip. “Don’t.”

“Please, Jack,” you whispered. “You owe me an explanation.”

Did he not believe in love? Had a girl hurt him? Was it really Luke, or something else? Why wouldn’t he just try?

“Bells, don’t.”

Your hand reached out. Hoping, praying—it brushed his shirt-clad chest. He didn’t move back, finally looked at you. “You owe it to me, at least. I’ll drop it, I’ll never ask again.”

“We’d just… we’d screw it up,” he managed out, the blue of his eyes richening into a navy. His eyes darted around your face. “I can’t…”

What did it matter anymore? Everything was being bared. All of it. Your fear disappeared into dust; the yearning for a conclusion to this twisted knot of a love died. Just like it always did with Jack—you’d want him, try to forget him, and fail. A never ending loop. But before there had been no chance, now—now you weren’t sure.

“Can’t what?”

Jack didn’t respond. He dug into his pocket. Grabbed his key. “Get in the car.”

The stark change of situation caught you cold. “What—?” You shook your head. You weren’t going to lose this opportunity. “Jack, no. Talk to me. Please.”

“Get in the fucking car.”

You didn’t budge for a moment, then finally, “Okay.”

The drive was silent, thick with awkwardness. What could you say? You’d been so close to coming clean, to finally—after five years—admitting everything. It seemed like Jack had too, but something stopped him. Something always stopped him. You wished you could pick his brain, lay it all out to see the moment he’d stopped seeing you as a ghost, as Luke’s high school best friend. All because you’d tried to move on, because you’d hoped for happiness beyond his black hole persona. But of course, he always managed to drag you back in.

“It’s not fair,” you muttered aloud, semi-an accident. Jack’s eyes snapped to you, the dark road rolling out in front of you.

He worked his jaw. Adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “What isn’t?”

“You,” you grunted, looking out the window. “I try to be happy, move on. You’ve never wanted me before, I didn’t think it would matter. But when I try, you turn it into World War III.”

Jack didn’t say anything. Barely even moved. You wanted to scream, to leap out of the car, if only to see if he’d care enough to come back for you.

“Why now, Jack? Why not before?” you whimpered. Alcohol made you pathetic, even more so than usual. “What changed?”

“Bells,” he warned, nostrils flaring.

“No,” you protested, swiveling your body his way. “I deserve an answer, Jack. Please.”

Silence still.

“Stop the car.”

Jack looked at you. Up and down, before his focus returned to the road. “No. Stop having a tantrum.”

That nearly sent you into a murderous rage. “Stop the car or I’m jumping out.”

Jack scoffed. “You’re not going to jump out of a moving car.”

You clicked off the lock. Fingers tested the handle. When you tore the door open, the alarm blared; wind whipped your arm as you gripped the door, the darkened road greeting your eyes. Thankfully, no one else was out this late. Jack grabbed you with his free hand, slammed on the breaks and veered off onto the side of the road, just beyond the dunes. Beachgrass surrounded the car, the distant buzz of crickets the only thing you could hear as Jack cursed at you. Unbuckling his seatbelt and slamming the door shut, Jack glared at you.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped. You felt something akin to pride; he finally had a reaction to something. Cared enough to stop you.

“You won’t answer me,” you said, eyes darting around his face. The emergency interior lights of the car blinked into existence, lighting up your bodies. Jack’s face was flushed, eyes wild. “Please, just—”

“Fuck, stop saying that,” came Jack’s strangled plead, his head dropping.

You blinked at him. Confusion welled like a storm in your eyes. “What? Please?”

Silence. Jack’s head raised lazily, he looked distressed, mouth parted ever so slightly. A hand ran through his hair, mussed it more. “Fuck,” he cursed, low and gravely. “Luke is going to kill me.”

What was he on about? He looked like he was struggling, his hand gripping the steering wheel which such force his knuckles blanched. “What?”

“You’re his best friend,” Jack said. His tongue darted out to lick his lips. “If I… Bells, please…”

You had no idea what to do. What to say. “Jack, what do you mean? You aren’t making any sense.”

“I want to fuck you,” he bit out, leveling you with a furious look, as if he hated himself for that very fact. “But I can’t. If Luke found out, he’d hate you, or me, or us both. I can’t risk that, Bells, I can’t.”

He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than you. The very fact that he wanted to sleep with you sent you into a dizzy spell; normally, you would’ve wept with happiness at the sheer fact that Jack Hughes wanted you, in any capacity, but all you felt now was a resounding emptiness. He wanted to fuck you, to have you carnally, without anything attached. You loved him; not because he could give you brief pleasure, but because you knew how many freckles were on his back, how he drove with his left hand predominantly, how he quoted Camus but never actually read him.

It occurred to you then that this summer was different. Not because you were getting closure, or because Jack Hughes finally loved you back, but because you finally understood that the devotion you’d put in him for years should have been put in yourself.

You looked at Jack, and for once, didn’t feel that biting desire to touch him, to be wanted by him; now you knew you were, but for what? For once night, just to fade into obscurity? Either you had Jack entirely or not at all. You couldn’t tease yourself with a taste only to never be given the full experience. You didn’t think you’d survive the memory of it.

“I love you,” you said. Watched his reaction. The confession felt like the greatest heartbreak and the biggest relief.

He said nothing back.

And you weren’t heartbroken that he didn’t. You were relieved. Free.

[peace-hunter]

one (1) time right after optimus obliges one of the primes' sillier requests he teases them, asking what they would've done if he hadn't become prime, if they'd gotten someone less willing to go along with their shenanigans. he says something along the lines of "aren't you happy i'm the one that got the matrix?"

and the primes don't know how to tell him that... no. they're really not. that if they'd had a say on it, he would've never been anywhere near the matrix.

not because they don't think he's not worthy of being a prime, not at all, but because they don't believe he deserves what it'll mean to be one. they cannot in good faith be happy orion became optimus because they know what it cost him and they know the pain it will bring him.

someone had to be chosen and they truly believe there was no better bot than optimus but they wish with all their sparks he hadn't had to. they wish he could've remained free from the burden he will carry for the rest of his life. that he could've remained just orion pax. even if it meant not getting to know him. they love him enough to wish they had never met him.

but they don't know how to say any of this in a way that won't hurt optimus. so they simply smile and tell him they can't think of anyone who would do a better job than him.

it's simply the truth. as much as they wish it wasn't.

[urdreamydoodles]

X-Men x Reader (Part.1)

You are being mind-controled by a villain and you believe your lover cheated on you (Part.1)

A fog has settled between you, a cruel illusion woven by unseen hands. You now look at your beloved with wounded eyes, twisted by whispers that cloud your trust.

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Ororo Munroe, Rogue, Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier & Bobby Drake

Logan Howlett aka. Wolverine

- You stormed into Logan’s quarters, your heart pounding and your fists clenched, fury mingling with disbelief. You’d seen what you thought was proof—evidence that he’d betrayed you with someone else, leaving your heart cracked and bleeding. Logan’s stoic expression softened the moment he saw your face, but the pain and mistrust in your gaze threw him off. The look in your eyes seemed to strip him of his tough demeanor, revealing a wounded vulnerability as you accused him of something he couldn’t even fathom.

- “Darlin’, you know me better than that,” he said, voice rough with confusion and the beginning tremors of hurt. His hands were up in a calming gesture, yet you took a step back, unable to bear the thought of him reaching out to you. The raw agony in his voice almost made you falter, but the accusations burned too brightly in your chest. His face contorted with frustration and sadness, but he let you finish, taking each verbal blow without pushing back.

- Days passed, and the silence between you two felt like an endless canyon, too wide to cross. Logan tried reaching out once, showing up near your room or during training, but you brushed him off coldly, unwilling to let him anywhere near your heart again. You knew you’d hurt him, but the thought of betrayal consumed you, filling your mind with a vicious loop of lies you’d unknowingly been fed. Logan’s presence felt like a haunting reminder of the love you’d once shared, now tainted by supposed deception.

- When the mind control lifted a week later, the weight of the truth came crashing down, leaving you stunned and guilt-ridden. The realization hit hard: he’d never betrayed you; he’d never once given you a reason to doubt him. The villain’s twisted manipulation had clouded your mind, robbing you of the trust you had once shared so naturally with Logan. Shame settled like a stone in your stomach as you processed the damage you’d caused, your accusations like knives you’d driven into him.

- You found him in the training room, his shoulders tense as he focused on striking a dummy with restrained but undeniable fury. He paused when he noticed you, his hardened expression flickering with something softer, perhaps hope, though it was tinged with hurt. As you approached, your voice came out small, shaky, an apology tangled in each word as you tried to explain the manipulation you’d been under. “I’m so sorry, Logan… It wasn’t real, I—” you stammered, voice thick with remorse.

- Logan didn’t respond right away; his jaw clenched as he looked down, processing your apology in silence. But then, with a heavy sigh, he pulled you into his arms, the warmth and familiarity of him enveloping you, melting the tension from your body. He whispered, “Next time, come to me first, darlin’. I’d fight the whole world before I’d ever hurt you.” There was forgiveness in his voice, even if the pain lingered, but he held you close, and you felt the pieces of trust slowly knitting back together.

- That night, you lay beside him, listening to the soft rumble of his breathing, finding comfort in his closeness as he traced gentle patterns along your arm. He didn’t speak much, but his steady presence reassured you that, though scarred, your relationship could heal. You both knew it wouldn’t be easy, but Logan’s quiet strength gave you hope, his forgiveness a balm for your wounded heart.

Remy LeBeau aka. Gambit

- You barged into Remy’s room, the image of him with another woman branded into your mind, his playful smirk twisting into something cruel as you confronted him. Your heart ached, not understanding how someone who’d once held you so gently could betray you like this. Remy’s easygoing demeanor faltered as he met your gaze, surprise replaced by hurt when you spat accusations, your voice trembling with sorrow and anger.

- “Chère, I swear to you, it ain’t true,” he tried to insist, his tone serious, stripped of the usual teasing warmth. But you didn’t let him finish, words spilling out like poison as you described the pain his supposed betrayal had caused. Remy listened, mouth set in a line, his dark eyes clouded with anguish, but you turned away before he could respond, ignoring the way his outstretched hand dropped back to his side, fingers curling in frustration.

- A week went by, each day feeling like a splinter under your skin as you avoided him, memories of his charming smile now laced with bitterness. Remy, ever the gentleman, respected your space, though you often caught glimpses of his devastated expression from afar. You overheard others speak of how he’d thrown himself into training, his usual flair dulled, his laughter absent. Yet, every time you passed him, his gaze still followed you, a silent plea hidden beneath his usually confident gaze.

- When the villain’s hold on your mind finally dissipated, clarity returned, bringing with it a crushing wave of guilt and self-reproach. You realized the image of his “betrayal” had been a malicious trick, a deceitful seed planted to tear you apart from him. The weight of your harsh accusations pressed on you, a constant reminder of the pain you’d inflicted on him without cause. Heart pounding, you steeled yourself and set out to make things right.

- You found Remy in the rec room, the lights low as he tossed a deck of cards absentmindedly, flipping each one into the air with his usual deftness. He didn’t look up right away, but when he did, his gaze softened, and his lips curved slightly, though you could see the shadow of hurt still in his eyes. Taking a deep breath, you poured out your apology, explaining the mind control that had twisted your perception, your voice filled with regret.

- He listened in silence, watching you with an unreadable expression until you finished. Then, a small smirk crept onto his lips, though his eyes were still vulnerable. “Chère, you broke my heart, y’know,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. But then he pulled you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his embrace as warm as it had always been. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna make me stop lovin’ you, though. Just don’t make me wait so long to fix things next time.”

- That evening, as you curled up in his arms, Remy gently traced circles along your back, his familiar scent and warmth calming your guilty heart. His fingers laced with yours, and the soft whisper of “I love you, chère” melted away the last remnants of doubt, grounding you in his unwavering affection.

Kurt Wagner aka. Nightcrawler

- You found Kurt in his room, your voice trembling as you confronted him, eyes filled with tears. The image of his supposed infidelity haunted you, the kind-hearted, compassionate Kurt you loved now tainted by betrayal. His golden eyes widened as he listened to your accusations, his expression crumpling with shock and heartbreak. He reached for you, his voice soft and pleading, “Liebchen, please… I would never…” But you pulled back, too hurt to listen.

- Kurt stood there, his tail swishing nervously, torn between reaching out to comfort you and respecting the painful distance you’d created. He watched helplessly as you turned and walked away, leaving him alone, his prayers for understanding left unanswered. The sadness in his eyes stayed with you, even in your anger, like a haunting reminder of what you’d shared, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of betrayal weighing on your heart.

- Days passed in agonizing silence, Kurt’s usual warmth missing from your life, replaced by a cold emptiness. You avoided him, and he, respecting your wishes, didn’t try to bridge the gap. Yet, you could feel his sadness from afar, a sense of sorrow that tugged at you each time you caught a glimpse of his shadow in the halls or heard his voice. The playful spark you’d once shared was gone, and the regret began to gnaw at you, though the pain of betrayal still held you back.

- Then, the fog lifted, and the truth of the mind control emerged, crushing you beneath a tidal wave of guilt. You realized how the villain’s manipulation had poisoned your mind, distorting the love Kurt had shown you into a twisted illusion. Heart aching, you felt the sting of your unfounded accusations and the weight of the hurt you’d caused him, each memory of his pained gaze lancing through you.

- You found Kurt in the chapel, praying, his silhouette outlined by soft candlelight. He looked up as you approached, his face a mixture of hope and trepidation, his usually joyful smile subdued. As you explained everything, your words laced with remorse, he listened intently, his golden eyes shining with unspoken forgiveness. The apology spilled from you, a torrent of sorrow and regret.

- Kurt took your hand in his, squeezing it gently as he spoke, “I forgive you, liebchen. My heart knew it wasn’t true.” His voice was tender, each word a balm to your guilty heart. He pulled you into a tight embrace, his warmth soothing the ache of your mistake, and you felt the comfort of his unconditional love envelop you. “Let us leave this behind us,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

- That night, as you lay beside him, your fingers entwined, Kurt’s laughter returned, soft and comforting. His playful smile reappeared, and the joyful glint in his eyes sparkled anew. His forgiveness, given so freely, renewed the light in your relationship, reminding you of the deep, unshakeable bond you shared.

Scott Summers aka. Cyclops

- When you stormed into the war room, your anger boiled over as you accused Scott of betrayal, the stoic leader you’d trusted having seemingly shattered your faith in him. Scott’s face fell, his usually composed demeanor shaken as you poured out your pain, describing how you’d seen him with someone else. His lips parted in surprise, but you didn’t give him a chance to explain, too hurt by the thought of him being with someone else.

- Scott’s initial shock shifted to pain, his jaw clenching as he listened, unable to find the words to defend himself against accusations he didn’t understand. His eyes—so often shielded behind his visor—seemed to reveal a vulnerability he rarely showed. He tried to reach out, his voice low and steady as he denied your claims, but your trust had been severed, leaving you feeling distant and alone.

- The following days felt like a hollow void, each passing moment amplifying the absence of Scott’s steady presence in your life. Scott continued his duties with the X-Men, though his usual precision and focus seemed dimmed. You caught glimpses of him, his shoulders tense, his face etched with a sorrow he tried to hide, and though a part of you ached to believe him, your mind remained clouded by distrust.

- A week later, the fog lifted, and with it came the crushing reality of the villain’s manipulation. Realizing you’d been deceived into doubting Scott tore at you, guilt consuming you as you remembered each harsh word you’d thrown at him. You’d wounded him deeply, casting him out in your pain, and now the weight of that regret sat heavily on your heart as you prepared to make amends.

- You found Scott in the danger room, his focus intense as he trained, his body moving with practiced precision, though there was an underlying tension in every motion. He paused when he saw you, his face a careful mask as he waited, giving you the space to speak. Your apology tumbled out, words spilling over each other as you explained the mind control you’d been under, your voice breaking with regret.

- Scott’s face softened as he took in your words, nodding slowly, though a hint of hurt remained in his gaze. “I understand,” he said quietly, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his embrace. His hold was gentle yet reassuring, a reminder of the unshakable trust he placed in you. “Next time, talk to me first,” he added, his voice a mix of relief and gentle admonishment, and you nodded, knowing the advice was well-deserved.

- That night, as you lay with him, his calm, steady breathing beside you, Scott’s familiar hand rested over yours, anchoring you in his quiet strength. He leaned down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, and with that simple gesture, the sense of peace returned, his unwavering loyalty rekindling the trust you’d thought you’d lost.

Jean Grey aka. Marvel Girl / Phoenix

- When you confronted Jean, the weight of betrayal and disbelief surged through you, making it hard to catch your breath. Your accusations spilled out, each word sharpened by hurt, as you described seeing her with someone else. Jean’s emerald eyes widened, her expression reflecting your own pain as you accused her of infidelity. Her mouth opened as if to defend herself, but the words didn’t come. You could feel her shock and sadness pulsing back at you, a faint psychic echo that only deepened the ache in your heart.

- “Please, you have to believe me, it’s not true,” she murmured, her voice gentle but edged with hurt. Jean tried to reach out, fingers trembling as they stretched toward you, but you pulled back, retreating from her touch. Her face fell as you turned away, her pleading expression remaining etched in your mind as you left her there, feeling shattered and alone. The telepathic bond you once shared now felt cold, a reminder of the trust you thought had been broken.

- For days, Jean kept her distance, though you’d catch her watching you with a quiet sadness whenever you passed each other. Her usual warmth, the fiery passion she radiated, seemed dimmed, like she’d wrapped herself in a barrier to shield from the hurt. You tried to push her out of your mind, but her absence left a hollow ache, one that only deepened each time you remembered the way her eyes had softened as you walked away.

- When the villain’s manipulation lifted a week later, the truth hit you like a tidal wave, leaving you reeling with guilt. You’d been tricked into believing Jean had betrayed you, but in reality, she’d been loyal to you, her love unwavering. Shame washed over you, knowing that you’d hurt her without reason, tearing apart the trust she’d cherished. You could only hope that it wasn’t too late to make things right.

- You found Jean alone in the gardens, her gaze distant as she sat in silence, a small frown creasing her forehead. Her shoulders tensed as you approached, but she didn’t look up. Heart pounding, you poured out your apology, explaining the mind control that had twisted your perception. She listened, her expression unreadable, though a glimmer of hope began to soften her gaze as you continued.

- After a long pause, Jean reached for your hand, squeezing it gently as tears brimmed in her eyes. “I wanted to reach out, but I could feel your pain too deeply,” she whispered, voice trembling. She pulled you into a soft embrace, her presence like a warm blanket around your heart. “Please, let’s promise to trust each other from now on, no matter what,” she added, and you nodded, feeling the first glimmers of relief.

- That night, as you held each other, Jean’s fingers gently traced along your arm, her psychic presence soothing and warm as she shared her feelings with you. The silent bond between you two, once bruised, began to heal, mending the hurt that had divided you. You found comfort in her arms, her forgiveness a balm that promised a fresh start, her love as unbreakable as ever.

Ororo Munroe aka. Storm

- Your voice shook as you confronted Ororo, disbelief and betrayal twisting inside you as you accused her of infidelity. Ororo’s calm gaze held your own, her eyes wide with shock and a hint of sorrow as your words struck her like thunder. You saw her usual composure flicker, her regal presence momentarily faltering as you laid out your accusations, heart aching with each word you threw at her.

- “I… I don’t know where this is coming from,” she replied, her voice soft, laced with heartbreak. She reached for you, a gentle attempt to reassure you, but you stepped back, hurt mingling with anger as you turned away. Ororo watched you go, her hand still outstretched, her usually warm expression now marred with the anguish of unspoken words. Even as you walked away, a part of you felt the sorrow radiating from her like a storm brewing in the distance.

- Days passed with silence filling the void between you two, the peacefulness she usually brought into your life now replaced by a cold emptiness. Ororo respected your space, though you’d catch glimpses of her from afar, her shoulders tense, her face etched with the sadness she struggled to conceal. Every time you saw her, it felt like the calm before a storm, the ache of loss lingering as the reality of her absence settled around you.

- When the fog of mind control finally lifted, understanding hit you like a gust of wind, and you felt the weight of guilt pressing down on you. Ororo had never betrayed you; her loyalty and love had remained steady. The villain’s manipulation had twisted your perception, turning the warmth you shared into bitter suspicion. Heart pounding, you knew you had to find her, to make things right and ask for her forgiveness.

- You found her in the garden, surrounded by blooming flowers and a soft breeze. She stood with her back to you, eyes closed, as if in quiet communion with nature. When she sensed your approach, she turned, her expression unreadable, a mixture of hope and lingering hurt. Words tumbled from your mouth, the apology spilling out as you explained the mind control that had manipulated your mind, your voice breaking with remorse.

- Ororo’s expression softened, her serene gaze meeting yours as she listened. After a moment of silence, she placed a gentle hand on your cheek, her touch soothing as she whispered, “I forgive you. I know the heart can be clouded by lies, but our love is stronger than that.” Her words were a calm reassurance, her forgiveness like a gentle rain that washed away the doubt and guilt that had lingered in your heart.

- That night, you sat together beneath the stars, her hand entwined with yours as she told stories of her childhood under the open sky. The peaceful presence she exuded settled around you like a comforting blanket, and as you rested your head on her shoulder, you felt the scars of your doubt fading, replaced by the steady strength of her love.

Anna Marie aka. Rogue

- You stormed into Rogue’s room, accusations slipping out before you could even consider the impact of your words. Rogue’s eyes widened in disbelief as you described what you’d seen, your voice laced with pain and anger. She shook her head, stepping back as you continued, your heart aching as you accused her of something you never thought she’d do. Her lips parted, her shock transforming into sorrow, as if each word was a blow that left her more vulnerable than you’d ever seen.

- “Ah wouldn’t ever do that t’ you,” she whispered, her voice thick with hurt, her Southern accent laced with a trembling sadness. Rogue reached out instinctively, her gloved hand hovering as if to reassure you, but you pulled away, the ache of betrayal too fresh. The sight of her slumping shoulders haunted you as you walked out, her sadness lingering in your mind even as you tried to push her from your thoughts.

- The following days felt hollow, the vibrant spark that Rogue usually brought into your life now replaced by a dull ache. Rogue didn’t try to push her way back in, though every time you saw her, her gaze lingered, a mixture of hurt and confusion visible in her green eyes. You’d catch her in training, her laughter absent, her confidence dimmed, each glance at her a reminder of the trust you’d once shared, now seemingly fractured.

- A week later, the villain’s hold on your mind lifted, leaving you reeling with regret. The image of Rogue’s “betrayal” had been nothing but an illusion, a trick meant to sever your bond. The guilt weighed heavily on you as you remembered each accusation, each moment of doubt you’d forced on her. The damage was done, but you knew you had to try to mend the hurt you’d inflicted, to apologize and hope that she’d understand.

- You found her on the mansion’s balcony, gazing out at the sprawling landscape, her expression pensive. She turned when you approached, her gaze wary, the pain still fresh in her eyes. Taking a deep breath, you offered a heartfelt apology, explaining how you’d been manipulated, each word laced with sorrow and remorse. Rogue listened, her expression softening as you spoke, though a hint of hurt remained.

- She was quiet for a moment, studying you, before her lips quirked in a sad smile. “Ah figured somethin’ was off, but it hurt, sugar,” she murmured, her voice raw with the vulnerability she rarely showed. But then, in true Rogue fashion, she pulled you into a tight embrace, the warmth of her hold seeping through your guilt. “Just promise me you’ll trust me next time, alright?” she whispered, her voice thick with forgiveness.

- That night, you lay side by side, the moon casting soft light across her face as she told you stories of her past, her gloved hand tracing gentle patterns on your arm. She forgave you with a grace you hadn’t anticipated, her love steadfast and undiminished. As you held her, you felt a renewed trust blossom between you, a bond that had withstood the storm, now stronger than ever.

Erik Lehnsherr aka. Magneto

- When you confronted Erik, anger and heartbreak mingled in your words as you accused him of betrayal. His normally sharp, guarded gaze softened, showing a flicker of vulnerability you’d rarely seen as he absorbed your accusations. Erik’s face darkened with pain as he denied your claims, his usual calm and confidence faltering as you recounted what you’d seen. He reached out, trying to make you understand, but the hurt clouded your judgment, leaving you feeling shattered and disconnected.

- “You know me better than that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, a hint of desperation in his tone. Erik’s hand dropped to his side as he watched you turn away, his shoulders tense with a restrained sorrow that only deepened the ache in your heart. He didn’t chase after you, respecting your choice to walk away, though the look in his eyes haunted you, a mixture of regret and confusion that lingered long after you’d left.

- In the days that followed, Erik returned to his usual demeanor, his powerful presence now tainted by an unspoken sadness. Though he resumed his work, his moments of quiet solitude grew longer, the stoic mask he wore cracking slightly under the weight of the distance between you. You saw him standing alone on the mansion grounds more often, his expression hardened but with a flicker of sorrow that betrayed the pain he carried within.

- A week later, as the fog of mind control finally dissipated, the truth hit you with a crushing force. The betrayal you’d seen had been nothing more than an illusion, a cruel trick meant to drive a wedge between you and Erik. Regret flooded through you, the weight of each harsh word you’d thrown at him settling heavily on your heart. Determined to make amends, you knew you had to find him, to confess the truth and ask for his forgiveness.

- You found Erik in the metal workshop, his focus intense as he worked, manipulating metal with quiet precision. When he noticed you, his hands stilled, his face carefully guarded as he met your gaze, waiting for you to speak. Taking a shaky breath, you apologized, explaining the mind control that had twisted your perception and pushed you to doubt him. Erik listened silently, his eyes never leaving yours, a mix of hurt and understanding etched on his face.

- Erik stepped closer, his hand reaching out to rest against your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle. “I know the world often gives us reason to doubt, but I hoped you’d trust in me,” he murmured, his voice heavy with both forgiveness and a lingering sadness. He pulled you into a strong embrace, his arms wrapping around you in a way that felt protective, as though he’d keep you close, despite the pain you’d caused.

- That night, as you lay beside him, Erik’s fingers traced gentle patterns on your arm, a soft reminder of his silent devotion. He held you close, his presence both reassuring and grounding, a quiet promise that your bond was stronger than any villain’s lies. In his arms, you felt the forgiveness you’d feared you’d lost, a renewed trust settling between you as the weight of doubt faded away, replaced by a love that defied all odds.

Charles Xavier aka. Professor X

- When you confronted Charles, the words spilled out in a painful rush, your heart aching as you accused him of something you’d once thought impossible. His calm blue gaze wavered as he listened, the hurt in his eyes clear as he took in each painful accusation. Charles tried to reach out telepathically, his gentle voice brushing against your mind, but the hurt pushed you to block him, leaving him standing there, stunned and sorrowful.

- “Please, if you’d just let me explain,” he pleaded, his usually steady voice faltering as he took a step toward you. Charles’s outstretched hand fell back to his side when you backed away, his face softening with regret and a sadness that tugged at your heart. He watched you leave, his expression a mixture of sorrow and helplessness, a silent question lingering between you that neither of you could answer.

- In the days that followed, Charles kept his distance, his presence around the mansion more subdued than usual. Though he carried on with his responsibilities, his usual warmth and reassuring smile seemed dimmed, a hint of sadness in his eyes whenever you passed each other. You noticed him sitting alone in his study more often, his gaze distant, as though wrestling with the hurt of your accusations in his own quiet way.

- When the villain’s manipulation finally lifted, the realization of the truth hit you hard, guilt flooding your heart. You’d been deceived, twisted into believing a betrayal that had never happened, and in doing so, you’d hurt the man who had trusted you so deeply. Shame filled you as you remembered each accusation, each cold look you’d given him, and you knew you had to make things right.

- You found Charles in his study, his gaze focused on a book but distant, lost in thought. When you entered, he looked up, his expression a mixture of surprise and guarded hope. Stumbling over your words, you explained the mind control that had been used to deceive you, your apology spilling out as you begged for his forgiveness. Charles listened, his expression softening as he absorbed your words, though a trace of hurt lingered in his eyes.

- “I understand, my dear,” he replied gently, reaching out to take your hand in his. His touch was warm, comforting, as he squeezed your hand reassuringly. “The mind can be a fragile thing, easily manipulated. But I believe in us,” he added, his voice a gentle reminder that trust, once broken, could be rebuilt. Charles pulled you into a soft embrace, his forgiveness radiating through you like a quiet, calming balm.

- That night, as you sat by the fire, Charles shared memories of times you’d spent together, his voice soothing and full of love. With each story, he reassured you of his unwavering trust and commitment, your bond gradually healing in the warmth of his presence. The quiet strength of his forgiveness wrapped around you, giving you a renewed faith in the love that had weathered even the darkest of manipulations.

Bobby Drake aka. Iceman

- You confronted Bobby with a whirlwind of hurt and frustration, accusing him of betrayal with an intensity that left you both shaken. Bobby’s usual carefree grin vanished, replaced by a look of shock as he absorbed your accusations, his blue eyes wide with disbelief. He tried to protest, to deny what you were saying, but the pain in your voice silenced him, leaving him looking lost and wounded.

- “I would never do that to you,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with sincerity, hurt flickering in his eyes as he searched your face for any sign of belief. He reached out, his hand trembling as he tried to reassure you, but you pulled back, the ache of distrust making it hard to accept his words. Bobby’s shoulders slumped as you turned away, his usual bright spirit dampened by the weight of your accusations.

- For days, the once lively mansion felt colder, the warmth Bobby usually brought replaced by an uncomfortable silence. He withdrew, giving you the space you needed, though his gaze would linger sadly whenever you passed each other. You missed his humor, the lighthearted moments that had once filled your days, but the cloud of suspicion remained, leaving a hollow ache that only grew with time.

- A week later, the villain’s hold on your mind finally lifted, and with it came the realization of the truth. Bobby’s supposed betrayal had been nothing more than a cruel manipulation, meant to tear you apart. The guilt was overwhelming as you remembered the hurt in his eyes, the way you’d rejected him despite his protests. Heart heavy, you knew you had to find him and apologize, to explain the lies that had clouded your mind.

- You found Bobby in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, his posture tense as he focused on an ice sculpture he was absentmindedly creating. He looked up when you entered, his expression guarded, a flicker of hope in his gaze as you began to apologize. Your words tumbled out, explaining the mind control that had twisted your perception, the regret heavy in your voice.

- Bobby’s expression softened, his usual playful spark returning as he let out a soft laugh, though there was a hint of lingering hurt in his eyes. “Guess I can’t stay mad at you,” he said, a playful grin breaking through the sadness as he pulled you into a tight hug. He held you close, his embrace warm despite his powers, a silent reassurance that he forgave you and that he’d missed you too.

- That night, as you lay together on the couch, Bobby’s arms wrapped around you, he cracked jokes, his usual humor returning in full force as he playfully teased you about your suspicions. The lighthearted banter soothed the remaining tension, reminding you of the joy he brought into your life. In his laughter and his forgiveness, you found the comfort you’d missed, the love between you rekindled with a warmth that melted away all doubts.

[eu-nicola]

down the tree

summary: you find Rafe after spying on him with the pogues

warnings: nothing

word counter: 1766

author’s note: english is not my first language

The air was thick with tension as you crouched next to Sarah, John B, and JJ, hiding in the branches of a tree near the Chateau. Kie and Pope had gone on a date, leaving the rest of you to plan the next move against Rafe and Barry. However, that plan quickly unraveled when you heard the distant sound of a car door slamming shut.  

John B’s urgent whisper broke the silence:  

“Climb the tree, quick!”  

You didn’t have time to question him. Grabbing the nearest branch, you climbed as quickly as you could, your heart pounding in your chest. From your elevated position, you could see Rafe and Barry approaching the area. Barry looked uneasy, inspecting every corner of the property, while Rafe stood under the tree, visibly frustrated about something.  

“There’s nothing here, Rafe. Let’s go before someone sees us,” Barry said, trying to calm him down.  

But Rafe’s patience wore thin. He began shouting incoherently, and before you knew it, a gunshot rang out. The sound was deafening, and your heart nearly stopped when a second bullet whizzed dangerously close to your leg. You stayed completely still, praying they wouldn’t look up. Barry, terrified, finally managed to convince Rafe to leave.  

When they were gone, John B gave the signal to climb down from the tree. Unfortunately, you were the last one to descend, and as you jumped from the last branch, a wrong move made you twist your ankle. A muffled cry escaped your lips as pain shot through your leg, and you collapsed to the ground.  

“Are you okay?” Sarah asked, concerned, but before you could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps caught your attention.  

Rafe was back.  

He moved stealthily, and when he saw you on the ground, his eyes reflected a mix of confusion and alertness.  

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone cold but tinged with nervousness.  

You tried to stay calm, though your heart was racing.  

“Nothing. I twisted my ankle,” you replied, trying to sound convincing.  

Rafe narrowed his eyes, clearly suspicious.  

“Don’t lie to me. What were you doing with those pogues?”  

You looked up at him, trying to hold your ground even though his presence was intimidating.  

“When have I ever lied?” you replied, your voice trembling slightly.  

Rafe crouched down until his face was level with yours, his piercing eyes trying to read your expression.  

“Don’t play dumb. You were with them, weren’t you?”  

“Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t,” you answered cautiously.  

His patience snapped. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look directly into his eyes.  

“Don’t mess with me,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.  

You finally sighed, resigning yourself to the truth.  

“Yes, I was with them, but nothing else happened.”  

Rafe released you, standing up as he looked down at you, his expression a mix of anger and something else you couldn’t quite decipher.  

“If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth this time?” he asked, crossing his arms.  

“Yes.”  

Rafe leaned down again, close enough for you to feel his intense gaze.  

“Did you see anything?” he asked, his tone laced with distrust.  

“Yes,” you admitted, though you weren’t exactly sure what you had seen.  

His brow furrowed.  

“What did you see then?”  

“I don’t know. My mind went blank when I saw you.”  

Rafe looked puzzled by your answer, though he quickly let out a frustrated sigh.  

“What do you mean, your mind went blank?”  

You tried to stand, but the pain in your ankle made you stop.  

“I don’t know, but what I do know is that I need to leave.”  

As you tried to move, Rafe grabbed your wrist, stopping you.  

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said firmly.  

“What do you want from me? I already answered your questions,” you said, starting to feel suffocated by his proximity.  

Rafe forced you to sit back down, his gaze unwavering.  

“I have more questions. I can’t let you leave after seeing you with those pogues.”  

“One more, and I’m leaving.”  

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your defiant attitude.  

“One more? And then you’ll leave?”  

“Yes.”  

Rafe gave a crooked smile, leaning closer to you.  

“Alright, let’s make a deal.”  

“I’m listening.”  

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to read every thought in your mind.  

“I’ll ask you one question. If you answer truthfully and I believe your answer, you can go.”  

“Deal.”  

He was silent for a moment before asking,  

“How much do you like those pogues?”  

Your response was instant and honest.  

“A lot. I won’t lie.”  

Rafe clenched his jaw, clearly displeased by your answer, but he tried to stay composed.  

“Really? Why do you like them so much?”  

“For their pretty faces.”  

Rafe let out a sarcastic laugh, clearly incredulous.  

“Their pretty faces? Seriously?”  

“Sure, maybe,” you said with a playful smile, trying to ease the tension.  

He shook his head, laughing to himself.  

“You have strange taste, pogue girl.”  

You shrugged.  

“I like a lot of things.”  

Rafe seemed intrigued by your response.  

“Oh, yeah? What else do you like?”  

“I already answered your question. Goodbye.”  

You tried to stand again, but he grabbed your wrist once more, stopping you.  

“Oh, no. You’re not going anywhere, princess.”  

“Let me go.”  

A dangerous smile spread across his face as he pulled you closer to him.  

“Why would I do that when I finally have you where I want you?”  

“What do you want?”  

Rafe reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch unexpectedly gentle.  

“Isn’t it obvious?”  

“I’d rather you say it.”  

His smile widened as he leaned even closer.  

“I want you.”  

“That won’t be easy.”  

Rafe let out a low laugh, his fingers brushing your cheek.  

“I never said I liked things easy.”  

You couldn’t help but smile.  

“I like that.”  

He lowered his hand to your chin, tilting it slightly upward.  

“I get the feeling you like a lot of things.”  

“Oh, I definitely do.”  

His gaze softened, but his smile remained arrogant.  

“You know, you’re being pretty cooperative now, princess.”  

“Well, I like your face.”  

Rafe blinked, surprised, but quickly recovered.  

“Oh, yeah? What do you like about it?”  

“I can’t say the things going through my mind.”  

Rafe laughed, clearly intrigued.  

“Come on, princess. Don’t leave me hanging.”  

“You’ll have to find out someday.”  

He leaned even closer, his lips just inches from yours.  

“And how do you suggest I do that?”  

Without thinking twice, you whispered:  

“Just kiss me.”  

Rafe stared at you, processing your words. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t do anything, that maybe he was just playing with you. But then, something in his expression changed. His arrogant smile faded, and his gaze grew intense as he studied every detail of your face.  

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his deep voice resonating in the quiet night.  

“Very sure,” you replied, barely audible but firm enough to leave no doubt.  

Rafe leaned in slowly, testing the waters, waiting for any sign that you might pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you stayed perfectly still, meeting his gaze head-on.  

Finally, his lips brushed against yours, a light touch at first, almost like a test. Then, the kiss deepened. His hands, firm but surprisingly gentle, slid to your neck, holding you with a care you didn’t expect from someone like him. The world around you disappeared. There was no tree, no twisted ankle, no danger. Just the two of you in that moment.

When the kiss ended, both of you were breathless. Rafe rested his forehead against yours, his lips still dangerously close to yours.  

“That was…” he murmured, but he seemed unable to find the words to describe it.  

“That was unexpected,” you finished, with a smile you couldn’t contain.  

He let out a low laugh, the kind that seemed to mock the whole world but now was filled with something different.  

“Unexpected, but good, right?” he replied, his tone softer than you’d ever heard before.  

Nodding, you tried to move, but the pain in your ankle made you let out a slight groan of discomfort. Rafe frowned as he watched you try to get up on your own.  

“Wait. Let me help you,” he said, standing up and extending a hand toward you.  

You took his hand, and he lifted you effortlessly, but the motion made you stumble toward him. Before you could fall again, Rafe caught you, his arms wrapping around you tightly.  

“Are you okay?” he asked, his lips just inches from your ear.  

“Yes, but I definitely need some support,” you joked, looking down to avoid his intense gaze.  

Rafe couldn’t help but laugh. Without letting go of your waist, he helped you stay upright, his hand firm but careful as he slowly guided you to a safer spot. Before you could say anything, he leaned in once again, capturing your lips in another kiss. This one was shorter but just as intense.  

When he finally pulled away, you felt his warm breath against your ear as he whispered:  

“I bet your pogues are watching us from somewhere.”  

The comment made you laugh, though the idea of your friends seeing the scene caused slight embarrassment.  

“Probably,” you whispered back, enjoying Rafe’s closeness more than you cared to admit.  

“Then let them watch,” he said loudly, with an arrogance that seemed innate to him.  

Before you could react, Rafe turned his head toward the tree and shouted:  

“Hey, Sarah! Hope you’re enjoying the show!”  

Your face instantly turned red, and you gave him a light shove on the chest, though you couldn’t help but laugh.  

“You’re impossible!” you said, shaking your head as he kept laughing.  

“Come on. Let’s go to my house,” he suggested, still holding you securely.  

“To your house?” you asked, looking at him with suspicion.  

“Yes. It’s safer than here, and besides, your ankle needs ice. Unless you’d rather have your little friends keep spying on us from the shadows.”  

You sighed, knowing he was right.  

“Fine. But no touching.”  

Rafe raised a hand as if making a pledge, though the mischievous smile on his face remained.  

“No touching … yet.”  

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help smiling as he helped you walk to his car

[magical-reid]

 Worth Staying For

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Setting: Post-Hogwarts, during a quiet moment at Feldcroft

Word Count: 83

Prompt: 9: “If I asked you to stay, would you?”

26: “I’ll be damned if anyone makes you feel like you aren’t worthy of being loved.”

Summary: As the golden sunset bathes Feldcroft, you stand with Sebastian Sallow, both weighed down by past pain and unresolved emotions. In a moment of vulnerability, Sebastian confesses his fear of losing you, and you assure him that, despite the struggles, you will stay by his side, ready to face whatever comes together.

The dusty golden glow of the setting sun bathed the rolling hills of Feldcroft, a quiet village that rarely felt calm these days. You stood at the edge of the Sallow property, gazing out at the horizon, a cool breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers. It would’ve been beautiful, peaceful even, had your mind not been spinning.

Behind you, footsteps crunched across the dry earth. Sebastian Sallow appeared beside you, his silhouette darker against the waning light. He didn’t speak at first—just stood there, hands shoved into his coat pockets as if unsure where to start.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, watching the way his jaw tensed. There was always something about Sebastian, a boy who had endured far too much pain for someone his age. You both had.

“You’re quiet today,” you finally said softly.

“Am I?” he muttered, his voice low and distant.

“Yes. It’s unlike you.”

Sebastian huffed out a laugh, though it lacked any real humor. “Even I get tired of hearing myself talk sometimes.”

You turned your head fully then, facing him as the wind tugged lightly at his dark hair. “What’s on your mind?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the horizon before settling on you. “You’ve been spending a lot of time away from Feldcroft. From me.”

You blinked, taken aback by his bluntness. “I—”

“Not that I can blame you,” he cut in, shaking his head, almost like he didn’t want to hear your explanation. “Feldcroft is a dreary place. People here can be cruel. Distrustful. You don’t deserve that. You deserve better than…this.”

He gestured vaguely to the broken land surrounding you, a place scarred by both time and the lingering effects of his past mistakes.

“Sebastian,” you started, your voice firm, “that’s not why—”

“Then why do you leave?” He looked at you, really looked at you, his brown eyes full of a vulnerability he rarely let show. It made your chest ache.

“I…” You faltered. You had been away more often lately. Not because you didn’t want to be near him, but because the weight of his guilt, his self-loathing, made it hard to breathe sometimes. You hated seeing him like this, punishing himself for things he couldn’t change. For things he wasn’t to blame for.

“I know I’ve made mistakes,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost hoarse. “Merlin knows I’ll spend the rest of my life paying for them. But I’ll be damned if anyone—anyone—makes you feel like you aren’t worthy of being loved. Including me.”

The words struck you like a thunderclap, sudden and powerful.

“Sebastian—”

“No, listen to me.” He stepped closer, his face set in determination even as his hands trembled slightly. “I know you don’t believe it sometimes. That you feel like you don’t belong here, or anywhere. But you do. You belong here…with me.”

Your throat tightened, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. For so long, you’d felt like you were caught in between—torn between staying close to the boy who meant everything to you and running from the pain that came with it.

“If I asked you to stay,” he said, his voice breaking slightly, “would you?”

The question hung in the air between you, fragile and desperate. You looked into his eyes, saw the quiet plea there, and realized the truth of it all. Despite everything—despite his guilt, his grief, and the scars the two of you carried—you couldn’t imagine walking away.

“Of course I would,” you said softly, stepping toward him. “Sebastian, I’m not leaving. I never planned to leave.”

The tension in his shoulders eased, and for the first time in weeks, you saw the faint flicker of a smile at the corner of his lips. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” you murmured. “Wherever you are, that’s where I want to be.”

He looked at you like you’d just lifted a weight he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and brushed his fingers against your cheek, as if testing whether you were real.

“You’re far too good for me, you know,” he said, his voice soft now.

“And you’re an idiot if you think I’d let you decide that.”

Sebastian let out a short, choked laugh, and the sound warmed you more than the setting sun ever could. His hand cupped your cheek fully now, thumb brushing against your skin as he looked at you with something that felt so close to hope.

“You’re not allowed to leave me, you know,” he whispered.

You smiled faintly, reaching up to place your hand over his. “Then stop giving me reasons to.”

For the first time in a long time, Sebastian leaned in, resting his forehead against yours as the two of you stood there, the world fading into the background. Whatever came next, you knew this—he—was worth staying for.

And you always would.

[kinardsevan]

the future haunts the memories

maybe, someday, love - part 3 cw: hospitalization, helicopter crash, related injuries; word count: 2203, total wc: 5467 (so i guess we're just gonna keep going here)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

Tommy’s gaze on the three men makes it clear that they’re not going to get away with just walking away and leaving him to rest, so after more than enough time to contemplate—and quietly bicker—over who’s going in and what they’re going to say, all three men enter the room. 

Tommy lifts a bandaged hand to the mask on his face and pulls it down, inhaling and exhaling in ragged, noisy breaths. How he and Evan managed to survive a helicopter crash that resulted in multiple severe injuries and smoke inhalation from the inevitable fire that the crash still doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, and yet.

“Where’s Evan?” 

Chimney, Bobby, and Sal all exchange a look, none wanting to speak first. 

“T, you literally just woke up-..” 

“And I want to know where Evan is,” Tommy growls at Sal, wincing at the pain in his throat. He tries to push up on the bed, but Chimney and Sal are both at his sides quickly, pushing him back down lightly by his shoulders. 

“Hey man, you have a chest tube. You can’t just go climbing out of here,” Chimney states. 

Tommy glances up at him, briefly shooting a glare at Sal when the other man moves the oxygen mask back over Tommy’s face. He inhales several breaths before moving it again. 

“Where is Evan, Howie?” 

“Do you remember what happened,” Bobby interjects. 

“I remember being in the helicopter,” Tommy answers. “With Evan.” 

Chimney glances over at Bobby, and they both look over at Sal, who is all but glaring at them to keep their mouths shut. 

“He’s downstairs,” Chimney comments after a few more seconds. “Doctors are watching him like a hawk.” 

“So he’s okay,” Tommy comments, half a question and half a statement. He exhales heavily and closes his eyes. “Good.” 

“Just rest for a while, Tommy,” Sal tells him. “You can see the kid later.” 

Tommy doesn’t answer him, but the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the steady rise and fall of his chest make it clear that he’s resting. Sal looks back at them and jerks his head toward the door. 

When they’re outside the room once more, he pulls the door shut and moves far enough away that Tommy won’t be able to see them through the window. 

“What the hell, Howard,” Sal growls. Chimney lifts his hands in offense. 

“What? You didn’t want us to tell him the truth, and we had to tell him something,” he argues. “Besides. He can’t get out of that bed right now, so let him believe that things are okay. He’s going to know the truth eventually.” 

Sal still glares at him, but he doesn’t argue further. 

“Tell the rest of them to be careful now that he’s awake,” he states after a few seconds. “If he sees you all over there, he’s going to figure it out.” 

. . . 

They manage to keep it quiet for almost twelve hours. In the end, it isn’t any one of them saying or doing anything. A nurse comes through with the portable x-ray to check in on the progress of the tube in Tommy’s chest. In the process of shuffling in and out, he sees Maddie and Chimney across the ICU, Maddie clearly emotional. 

“W-what’s happening over there,” Tommy stammers at the nurse when she comes back in for the machine. 

She glances over across the hall and then back at him. 

“Rough situation,” she comments. “I’ve seen some of them over here. You know the other guy?” 

Tommy pushes up on the bed, his eyes widening as he tugs the oxygen mask off of his face. “What do you mean do I know him? E-Evan?” 

She looks down at him, and the way panic flashes through her expression and then instantly disappears tells him everything he needs to know. Still, the heart monitor gives him away too as his heartbeat speeds up. 

“Mr. Kinard, I need you to remain calm-..” 

“I need to know what’s going on with him,” he argues, trying to push up off the bed. She tries to get him back down, but while he’s not anywhere near full strength, the past few hours have given him back at least a little of it, because he tries to fight her anyway and get up. 

“Mr. Kinard-..” 

Seconds later, Chimney and Sal rush through the doorway, and he glares at them. 

“Why the fuck would you lie to me about Evan,” he growls. The two men exchange a glance as Tommy huffs through his nose audibly. 

“I can fucking see you out there, Howie,” he continues. “A-and Maddie. He’s over there, isn’t he?” 

“Tommy-..” “T-..” 

“Let me talk to him.” 

They all turn toward the door as Maddie steps into it. Sal looks at her with something akin to a concerned expression because even though he doesn’t know her, he understands the gravity. Chimney, on the other hand, is immediately moving toward her, trying to change her mind. 

“Maddie, it-..” 

“It should be me,” she tells him, her voice wavering. She dares a glance at Tommy before looking back at her husband. “I’m the one who asked him to wake up.” 

Skepticism passes over both men’s faces, but eventually they agree, and they exit the room. The nurse follows closely behind them, insisting that Tommy stay in the bed. Although it’s clear he’s on the fence about that option, he doesn’t argue. 

Maddie moves to the chair beside the bed and Tommy keeps his gaze on her, looking less than pleased, even though the worry in his eyes does nothing to dissipate. 

“He is across the hall,” she confirms to him. “They still have him under sedation because he’s had multiple seizures from a brain bleed that they keep saying will clear up on its own, but it’s not critical enough to do surgery on yet.” 

“B-brain bleed,” Tommy stammers. 

Maddie looks up at him tearfully. “H-he’s alive. But…” She gulps, and he doesn’t need her to finish the sentence. 

“I should’ve taken us into the mountain,” Tommy rasps. 

Maddie glares at him, her eyes widening. 

“No,” she argues, shaking her head. “Th-they said you both would’ve died if you had done that. The trees helped cushion the crash.” She pauses for a moment and lets out a humorless laugh. “However that was supposed to work out.” 

Tommy pushes up as best he can on the side of the bed, leaning towards her. 

“Maddie, if he doesn’t-..” 

“We’re not going there right now,” she tells him, reaching out for his hand on the bed. “He’s going to wake up. He has to.” 

Tommy shakes his head, his eyes burning as she squeezes his hand. He swallows past the knot in his throat. “It should’ve been me.” 

She glares at him again. “Don’t you ever say that. Evan is so in love with you.” 

“And he’s the one fighting for his life right now,” Tommy counters, his own voice tight. “I’m-..” 

“Here by the skin of your teeth,” Maddie counters. “Or did you miss the chest tube, the busted clavicle, six broken ribs? Not to mention all of the stitches and the fact that you’re down a few organs.” 

Tommy doesn’t argue with her. There’s something in her tone—Evan mentioned it a few times in the past, most notably when he’d come down with the flu late in the summer. He’d been determined to keep showing up to work because Gerrard was making everyone miserable and he was concerned he’d get fired, but Maddie had been all over him to take care of himself and get the rest he needed, and while Tommy hadn’t experienced her mothering tone personally, he’d heard it through the phone, and he knew there was no fighting her on the subject. 

“I need to see him,” Tommy states after a few moments. “I…I need-..” 

“i’ll see what I can manage,” Maddie responds after a few moments. 

. . . 

It takes almost twelve more hours, but there are examinations and discussions required, and the removal of Tommy’s chest tube all before he can move from his hospital bed. As it is, the doctors are less than enthused at the idea of him moving from his bed, given that it’s the ICU, but the fact that he’s not leaving the ward does work in his favor. 

When Sal arrives in the room with a wheelchair, Tommy all but clamors out of the bed, shoving away Sal and the nurse’s hands when they try to help him up. Still, once he’s on his feet, he’s required to take their assistance in lieu of falling on his face. 

“Only across the hall,” the nurse warns as she stares down at him with her best stern look. Tommy nods with a weary breath, although he’s not going to let on his own exhaustion just at the little bit of movement. Evan needs him, and he needs to see Evan. 

Sal pushes the chair out of the room after the nurse drapes a blanket over Tommy’s lap and shuffles them across the space, past the nurses station. When they reach Evan’s room, he knocks twice, and a moment later, the door opens to Bobby. He gazes at them both briefly, clearly having his own skepticism at Tommy being out of bed, but after a few seconds, he steps aside. 

“I’m going to get coffee,” he tells them.

Sal pushes the wheelchair right up to the bed, although Tommy’s vision is already blurring by the time they cross the threshold into the room. He aches in at least half a dozen different places on his body, but he needs to be here more than he needs to be in a hospital bed. 

“I think I’ll join the mook for coffee,” Sal tells him before patting gently on his good shoulder. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

Tommy nods, reaching up for Evan’s hand on the bed. Once the door has shut behind Sal, he focuses his attention entirely on Evan. 

He’s surrounded by monitors, with leads all over his body and head. He can see the machine tracking Evan’s intracranial pressure, hear the steady rhythm of the ventilator he’s still attached to, and the constant drone of his heartbeat from the ECG. 

“Hi baby,” he rasps, squeezing Evan’s fingers. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I-…” He pauses, his chest shaking with the weight of each breath. “You have to wake up, okay? I need-…we have to say it properly. Not in an argument, n-not in the middle of a flight where I can’t focus on you. You have to wake up s-so you can tell me again properly, and I can say it back.” 

There’s no miracle reaction, no sudden squeeze of his hand. Evan’s eyes don’t flutter, and the heart monitor doesn’t suddenly pick up speed. Even though all of that had been explained to Tommy before he’d even been allowed to make the trip across the hall, it’s gutting to him. 

He lifts Evan’s hand to his mouth and kisses his fingers, forcing deep breaths down as he closes his eyes against the warm tears that run down his face. 

“I love you so much, Evan,” he rasps, his throat tight. “I need to have more than just one utterance of it and six months of…” He pauses and shakes his head. There aren’t words to describe the way he spent th first six months of their relationship, constantly teetering between falling in love and trying not to let himself give in to those feelings so he wouldn’t get hurt. Granted, that didn’t get him very far in the end, anyway. “Of learning each other, I guess. Baby I need years. Decades, even.” 

The heart monitor continues it’s rhythmic drone and he blinks away more tears, holding the back of Evan’s hand to his mouth once more. 

When Sal and Bobby arrive back some ten minutes later, there’s no way for Tommy to hide the exhaustion of obvious pain he’s in, being upright in the wheelchair. His eyes are drooping against the drip of the medication in his IV line. 

“T, we gotta get you back to bed,” Sal tells him when the other man’s head jerks up at the slightest movement of his wheelchair. Tommy grumbles unintelligibly to him, and Sal looks over at Bobby and then back at him. “Your blood pressure is through the roof right now. You can’t lie about being in pain.” 

“Evan,” Tommy rasps back, still holding onto the younger man’s hand. 

“You can come back in a little while,” Sal tells him. 

“We’ll keep you informed of any changes,” Bobby adds. 

Tommy grumbles again, but he’s too tired and weak to fight when Sal keeps moving the chair, eventually being forced to drop Evan’s hand. Three minutes later with the help of several nurses, he’s shuffled back into his hospital bed, and gratefully cheerful to the one who administers more medication to his line as he tries to keep fighting his eyes closing. 

“Love him,” he mutters, his words slurring as his head dips into the curve of his pillow. 

“I know, buddy,” Sal tells him. “We all know.” 

[imnotokayhru]

The symbolism in Mouthwashing is so yummy

It has so much substance and I love it

Let’s take it back to our first time as Curly

It’s days before the crash and we’re talking to Anya because she just finished our psych evaluation

She expresses that she doesn’t wanna do Jimmy’s because he gives her answers like “I have found myself sexually excited at the sight of cartoon horses.” (This is a mystery tool that will help us later)

Curly offers to do it for her since he knows Jimmy won’t try any bs with him

Anya’s avoiding Jimmy, obviously, but we’re not sure why aside from him making a joke about the pony express mascot

But then, every interaction Anya has with Jimmy, she’s always with another person or someone is at least in the same room as them

Very first scene of Jimmy talking to Anya “alone”, injured Curly is there, laying on the bed

Another one, she’s talking to Swansea

When she runs out of the room because Curly’s noises gross her out, Daisuke is chillin in a chair not too terribly far from her

She’s only alone with Jimmy one time

And that one time he yells at her, griping about all the stuff he has to do as captain

The game makes it increasingly obvious that Anya shouldn’t be and doesn’t like being around Jimmy

Then, when it’s revealed she’s pregnant, she’s just as surprised as Curly

That wasn’t a consensual pregnancy

It would make sense if Curly reprimanded Jimmy for his actions against Anya, but he never does

Thus, his consequence for not doing jack shit is being the one in the cockpit at the time of the crash

He’s disabled and can only watch people out of his one eye

That’s why Anya dies in medical, near Curly

He’s watching the consequences of his actions being done with something that he’s grown familiar with; his pain killers

Another thing about it, though, is that Anya died by suicide

She died on her own accord

A direct contrast to her choice in pregnancy; she didn’t get to become pregnant on her own accord, or with consent

So, her ODing only makes that much more sense

If she couldn’t have a child on her terms, she was dying on her terms

And she could’ve done it anywhere, but she did it near the last person she felt safe near

The man who listened to her talk about her pregnancy

Maybe she died near him out of spite, but that’s not Anya

She died near him because she felt safe; safer than with anyone else

Her dialog with Jimmy in direct contrast to her dialog with Curly; she’s more anxious around Jimmy

But with Curly, she’s not

The vent scene, way later in the game, it shows Daisuke has a small memorial with his picture and some flowers

Swansea is the axes around the vent hole, showing he’s not quite dead yet, but he’s in Utility waiting for it

But Anya…is nowhere to be found

Unless you consider the ultrasound scene

Jimmy is looking for little baby horses in a uterus

If you step back and look at the uterus structure, it has eyes

That’s Anya to Jimmy

Daisuke and Swansea are people, the gentlemen who work alongside him

But Anya is simply a uterus with eyes

And that’s the sad truth

THE SYMBOLISM IS SO GOOD

[fanged-fanfics]

☆ Rather Cold, Isn't It? — Jayce and Viktor x GN Reader during winter ☆

Genres: Fluff, Mild Angst || they/them pronouns for reader || Can be poly or separate, up to you || Warning for discussions of ableism and trauma

A/N: Eermm hi. Saw a lot of HC posts about Viktor and Jayce dealing with the cold, and I needed some ideas to post fics in-between opening requests soooo ya

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Jayce hates the idea of you being cold. Seeing his mother nearly freeze to death in front of him left no small impact, he's always worried when temperatures start dropping too low to be safe. He'll always have a coat or warm place to stay to offer you

ᯓᡣ𐭩 If need be, he'll try to offer up his own coat to you, a bit persistently. Which might seem a bit counterproductive, and in truth, it is. But Jayce wants you to see how much he cares, and he completely misses thinking about himself at times trying to accomplish this

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He feels absolute safest if you two can sneak off to a warm little corner of your own somewhere. His room, his office, the lab, anywhere he can turn up the heat and carry a blanket to wrap you up in. He'll also keep his arms around you as much as possible, especially if he feels your hands turning ice cold.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 If you tell him it's a little much, he'll joke that he'd rather have you be a little too warm than ice cold. But in all seriousness, he'll try to dial it back. He doesn't wanna come off as overbearing, he just can't stand the idea of you ever feeling the way biting cold can fade to terrifying numbness. Either way he's gonna fret for you until it's warm again

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Viktor is moreso the one who tries to ignore the cold. Keyword tries. The drop in temperature often irritates his bad leg and back, which makes walking around the lab even more of a pain. Though, as you come to find out, Viktor's a little defensive towards offers of help. Not in an aggressive way, he's just occasionally very stubborn when anyone implies he can't handle himself

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Not that he hates help, absolutely not. He'd actually be glad to have someone even halfway understand him any day of the week. But he remembers far too many instances where Piltover residents offered help merely out of pity. They'd look at him like a frail bundle of glass shards, unable to do a thing himself. Or, when he did rarely want some assistance, they'd shy away from getting near him because he's a Zaunite

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Once you reassure him that your offers come from concern and not condescension, he eases up. It's not your fault, he reassures, but he hopes you can understand where he's coming from. He let's you start setting the area where he works to be warmer. If he's gonna refuse to step away from the desk, the least he can do is let you make sure he'll be comfortable there

ᯓᡣ𐭩 In those moments he's usually lulled into being more receptive to a break, both by the comfort from the warm environment and your presence. Eventually he gives in, putting aside his work for just a second to make sure you're warm as well. He'll 100% chastise you if you fuss over his health while ignoring your own

[yan-lorkai]

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: Leona's birthday is coming soon so I wrote something for this grumpy little man, hehe. I was debating about rather or not posting this on the 27th but I want to post this now. I don't write enough for him but I do think is a very interesting character :D

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Warnings: Soft yandere content, death mention, gn!reader

"Look at them, darling." Leona's voice sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and chilling, as he pointed to the prisoners with a venomous tone that dripped with malice. Each word carried the weight of his disdain, echoing through the grand stadium halls with a ferocity that demanded attention.

His murmurs held the intensity of a primal growl, a silent but potent threat hanging in the air, urging for retribution to be exacted. "For every injury that is marked on your body, every cut and bruise, let their punishment bring you comfort, my beloved."

You settled beside him, suppressing a grimace that threatened to surface as you adjusted in your throne. It felt as though tiny needles pricked at every inch of your skin, sending great waves of discomfort coursing through your limbs like a hellish torment. Clenching Leona's hand tightly, you drew in a steadying breath, your gaze scanning the faces of those who had wronged you.

These were the individuals who had never fully accepted you because you were someone with no royal backstory or noble blood. A commoner, an outsider who didn't the deserve the title of Prince /princess consort. They spread rumors about your nature, twisted it, said you only wanted Leona for his money and to warm his bed. Though the rumors were hurtful, you had initially chosen to ignore them, understanding that their minds were steeped in outdated prejudices.

You thought that with time they would see you for who you really are. You were wrong.

Their malice didn't stop at mere gossip; they took your silence as incentive to take things to another whole level. That was... An attempt against your life.

"Leo..." You call out to him, searching for him as if he was all the air you needed to live for another day. The mere space between you two seeming like a wall to you, so cold and cruel. And he realizes it instantly.

He realizes it as he realized that you liked to pepper his face with little kisses when you thought he was asleep or how he realized that you liked to curl all over his chest, like a little kitten. He acts on his instinct quickly, softly. He doesn't even think.

Leona's arms encircled you in a tender embrace not caring that everyone was watching each and every move he made. He couldn't care less, he just wanted to comfort you, to show you he was here for you and always will be. Shivers ran down your spine but in the warmth of his arms, you felt a surge of mixed emotions — most of all was relief. You were safe here, those wounds felt somehow lighter, as if his presence alone had the power to heal even the deepest of hurts.

As if on his arms, there was nothing that could hurt you. No danger, no pain, no nothing.

"I'm here, beloved." He whispered right in your ears, nuzzling his face agains the top of your head. "And I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to protect you from everything and everyone so don't ever feel afraid again."

You knew he was telling the truth. You felt yourself calming down, watching over his shoulder as the executioner sharpened his axe calmly. This whole thing was an spectacle for the others to see and learn, not to touch you, not to talk or be near you.

You let your head fall to Leona's chest, holding onto him for dear life. And as you gazed into his eyes, you knew that in his embrace, you had everything you needed. You had love, protection, you could stay like this forever. His heart was beating lazily on his chest, slow rhythm making you close your eyes and surrender yourself to him. He would protect you after all. You had no doubt about it.

A trumpet sounded loud, annoyingly loud as a man informed everyone of the execution that was about to take place. Your attackers, three men and a woman, started walking. You peeked in their direction. Their complexions were worn and weak, ears lowered to their heads as they walked in a line, staring at their feet. It was a sad sight that you wouldn't have had to see if they didn't had stuck their noses where they didn't belong. This could no longer be avoided.

"I know it's shocking for you," Leona murmured to you, fixing your hair as it fell across your face with quick fingers. He slightly turned his head to send a look full of disdain towards the prisoners. “But that’s how we do things around here. I need to show them, show them that nobody can't mess with someone I love. Close your eyes if it becomes unbearable to watch."

The sun was high in the sky, casting long shadows across the stadium. Murmurs of expectation and horror ran through the rows of spectators, who anxiously awaited the morbid spectacle.

On the gallows, the four prisoners knelt, hands tied behind their backs, heads bowed in resignation or perhaps in silent prayer. The executioner, a burly man with a leather mask that hid his face, wielded a large, sharp axe, the blade reflecting the sunlight. Beside him, an assistant read aloud the crimes of the condemned, each word echoing in the silent now stadium.

"The first prisoner, accused of attempted bribery and obstruction of justice," The assistant announced, as the prisoner raised his head, staring at the crowd. His eyes, full of defiance, met those of a specific spectator, who was holding a handkerchief, tears falling freely.

You felt nauseous, bile rising on your throat. He had someone waiting for him, who would mourn his death. Why would he do something so drastic like this?

The executioner stepped forward, positioning himself next to the prisoner. With a firm movement, he raised the axe, waiting for the assistant's signal.

"Let justice be done," Said the assistant as Leona nodded, and the axe descended in a deadly arc.

The crowd held its breath, only to let out a collective gasp as the blade did its duty. The lifeless body was quickly kicked from the gallows by the executioner. He was so nonchalantly too, almost as if he didn't cared that he just killed a person. You squeezed Leona's hand, closing your eyes as the assistant read over the crimes committed by the second prisoner.

The latter, visibly shaking to anyone paying close attention, screamed prayers under his ragged breaths. He was terrified. Terrified of death just like you had been.

Asking for forgiveness, pleasing, crying.

Your eyes remained closed as you heard the axe descending, the sound it made every time it made contact with skin was indescribable. It made you sick. It was rough, dry. Blood soaking the ground, never dripping, forming a red puddle. You didn't open your eyes till you the assistant started reading the fourth prisoner crimes.

The fourth prisoner, a frail-looking woman, scanned the crowd with her hard, uncaring eyes. If she was looking for a familiar face, you didn't know. You'd rather not know, as she was the mastermind behind the attack even if she pretends not to be.

"Accused of contaminating evidence, attempted intentional homicide, and contempt of authority," The assistant said, his voice reverberating with a mixture of disdain.

She raised her face to the sky, accepting her fate with surprising calm. The executioner, although ruthless, hesitated for a brief moment before raising the axe one last time.

"May the gods have mercy on your soul," He murmured, inaudible to everyone except himself.

The axe came down and the final sound was drowned out by the clamor of the crowd, divided between applause and screams of horror. The justice had been served, leaving a trail of blood and death on the gallows, as the sun continued its relentless ascent across the sky, not paying attention to the human suffering below.

It was over. It was over, you were never going to see those people again. A shaky sigh left you as you turned to Leona.

"Let's go home?"

He looked at you, little smile on his lips as he nodded. Home, where you would be safe inside the palace's walls, home, where you would cuddle him and he would embrace, and protect you and love you forever.

He stand up, as customs dictate, his eyes travel through the stadium and pass briefly by the headless bodies. He turns to you, taking your hand on his, Leona guided you without looking back. To home.

[stew-ob-blog]

Needing More Time

(Birth, nerves, sex, orgasmic birth)

Claire barely raised an eyebrow in surprise as another long and slow contraction squeezed around her abdomen. She checked the clock. It had been more than fifteen minutes since the last had been and they said her first baby would take hours, even days to come for most new mothers.

She clenched her fist lightly and took a long drag of air as it tightened to its crest within her. They were certainly noticeable now, but just barely. Earlier, she hadn't even been certain she was in labour yet, but she was in no doubt now. She could tell though, she was nowhere near ready to move anywhere fast.

There was still plenty of time for things to slow down, hold up, or even stop for a day or two. She'd read all the books, watched all the videos, she was ready for anything to come.

So early in the process, Claire was enjoying a raft of new sensations and motions her body was going through to prepare her. She thought of it as a calm reminder of the storm that was still to come.

She had been preparing for this, and even looking forward to it, for years now. She was determined to bask in every second of it while she could.

She thought she'd felt anxious, eager to move things along, nervous about what was to come, and panicked about what was happening. There was, she admitted to herself, a certain amount of those feelings deep down inside. But the nervous fear she had expected to dominate her thoughts was barely even on her mind as early contractions gently gripped hold of her stomach and slowly but surely released their grasp again. It wasn't a pleasurable sensation, exactly, but a reminder of what was still to come in the hours ahead.

Her mind was calm, at ease, and unhurried as she sat in her own home. Her most intense urge was to nest, make the space ready and comforting in anticipation of the arriving baby. During this phase Claire wanted, more than anything, for Dan to be home soon. To be with him, to be close, and to have him at hand there and ready for whatever she needed.

While she thought about Dan arriving home from work, with her already in labour, she thought about what his reaction might be. Another contraction hit. Instinctively, she reached out as if to hold on to Dan, but he wasn't here yet. She steadied herself instead and took a couple of long and steady breaths as her stomach tensed under her.

Dan would be home from work shortly anyway, she felt no need to call him quick to ask him to rush. She knew that he would if she did, but found herself enjoying those early moments to herself too much to disrupt them by rushing around in a panic.

She gathered together what felt like every pillow, cushion, and soft furnishing she had in the house and laid them across the living room floor. She might want to lay down soon, or rest on something later, she wasn't exactly sure but it felt good to be doing something.

Lighting a second candle, then a third, and then a fourth she giggled at the sight of the room. Then, she laughed out loud as she figured out what Daniel was going to say when he walked in. A hippie commune, she imagined him calling it. Admitting there was more than a little truth to the thought.

Another contraction interrupted her thought. Barely stronger than the last Claire relished the moment as her abdomen tightened and contorted in long slow shifts that seemed to take forever to build and even longer to fade away.

Standing up straight, she found herself swaying side to side in a way that shifted the cramping pains between one side and the other. As the contraction climbed through her body it caught her breath for a second or two as it crested and caused her to break into a smile as it began to climb back down from its peak. With music playing in the background her gentle sway turned into a slow dance she found herself singing along to in the comfort of her home.

Give a little bit Give a little bit of your love to me I'll give a little bit of my life for you Now's the time that we need to share sSo find yourself, we're on our way back home

By the time both the contraction and song was well over she found herself still moving and still dancing around the home. She watched Dan's car pull up on the driveway outside while she continued to dance. A mixture of relief and nervous excitement welled up in her stomach as she watched him leave the car to come inside. They were both in it now.

When Dan walked through the door he looked surprised to see Claire waiting for him with a smile on her face.

"Everything ok?" he asked as he took off his jacket by the door.

"Yes! In fact, it's better than ok, I think we're in labour!" her smile broke into a grin.

"What?!" dan replied, taken aback for a second. "for how long, why didn't you call? How have things been?"

"It's the early, early stages yet," she replied. "It's only been a couple of hours and I didn't want to worry you, there's still a long long ways to go…"

In that moment another contraction began to swell from inside and she felt her abdomen begin to twist and contort once again. She winced for a second.

"Look! Feel here!" She grabbed Dan's hand and pulled it into her navel. Under the palms of his hands, Claire's body tensed as a contraction passed through her. Dan's face turned from confusion to shock and then to amazement as the physical realisation of what was beginning to happen dawned on him.

Throwing his coat on the floor he took his other hand and placed it on the top of Claire's now shifting stomach. "Oh my god," he exclaimed as Claire closed her eyes and let the contraction surge through her. It was the strongest yet.

"What do we have to do?!" Dan asked.

"Nothing yet" Claire replied with a light giggle. "It's still very early and they're barely coming once in a blue moon. We can wait a while yet before doing anything"

Dan stood up again, his hands still around Claire's belly, they looked into each other's eyes.

"Good," Dan replied. "I was hoping we'd have some time first"

Claire poured her arms around Dan's neck where they stood and the pair swayed together as they felt the last of the contraction tail off into the background.

Claire smiled. She leaned her head back to look up at Dan and kissed him slowly in the long and relaxing space she had before the next contractions began. Dan was clearly nervous, excited, and eager to do something—anything—to help. She wanted him to relax into it as much as she had.

Guiding him to the sofa she sat him down in his regular chair so that he was eye level with her enormous stomach at it protruded out between them.

"Listen," she said, guiding Dan's ear to the tip of her belly.

As he did so he could hear the familiar "thump, thump, thump" he had listened to every night since their pregnancy had started. It proved to be as comforting as Claire had hoped. She felt dan relax into her just a little more as he let out an amazed "wow".

She waited until he turned to meet her eyes again and leaned over with a certain degree of difficulty to kiss his lips again. Locked together, she gently pushed him backwards until he was seated back into the couch. There, she pushed herself forward, carefully straddling his legs and bringing himself over Dan to sit on his lap.

A light, gentle kiss quickly progressed into a passionate make-out session as he wrapped his arms around her body and pulled her in close. Her swollen round belly rested against his body and he could, for the first time, feel the warm heat and gentle movements of her labouring stomach.

She relaxed into his arms, pulling him in close and enjoying the warmth and passion of their embrace together.

A soft moan escaped from her lips and Claire realised how much she was enjoying this moment between them. She leaned into Dan and felt him grow engorged and rigid against the inside of her thigh. She relished the realisation that he too was basking in every second of it.

In one motion she pulled her dark blue sundress up and over her head exposing a rounded, low, and rigid belly lying between them. It had been no accident that she'd choose Dan's favourite underwear for today and she enjoyed his reaction as he pause for a second to drink in every bit of her body.

While he did, Claire pulled at his belt until the buckle came free. Unzipping his jeans and reaching inside she found his rigid shaft straining hard under cotton briefs as if trying to escape their captive housing.

She ran her fingers down its length, feeling it twitch and spasm as it strained to break free.

His warm breath poured onto her soft skin as she liberated it from its soft cage. With a breath of relief from Dan, his pulsing cock stood to attention as Claire began rhythmically sliding back and forth up and down his lap. Teasing her way closer to him, and backing away just a little she smiled as Dan let out a soft moan of playful frustration.

With one more slide forward she climbed up above the length of his shaft. Towering above him. with his head pressed gently against the outside of her lips, Claire moved her underwear aside to push him gently inside her until just the tip rested within her. With gently, soft, tiny actions she teased him some more until she felt him moan out, louder this time. He seemed to pine for more, almost beg and twitch against her smallest movements.

She smiled again, resting one hand on the top of her belly, allowing herself to slide down his shaft in one steady mover. She closed her eyes and bit her lip as she felt Dan push inside her with ease. He felt warm, comfortable, reassuring, and safe.

Her heart bounced with joy and she began to rise up again, gently riding along the full height of his shaft. Electric pulses of bliss shot through her body as she gently climbed and fell over Dan. His movement inside her felt slow, deliberate, and pleasurable.

"Yes," she gasped out in half-whisper, half-moan. "Oh yes, that's it!"

Dan's hands fell into the curves of her back where he gripped her tight and close with a deep, passionate embrace. The worries and concerns that had gathered in her mind in the hours before were fading one by one as her mind fogged into a blank fog of pleasure and love.

As she rode, Claire could feel another new, yet now familiar sensation penetrating through her. The next contraction was building now her and allowing sharp, gripping pains to take hold of her.

"Oh, god… oh fuck" she grimaced as her body began to tighten and stiffen in many directions at once.

Orgasmic contractions were fighting a battle against labouring contractions to decide who was going to come out on top. Sensations of ecstasy and agony collided, stacked, and co-operated with each other from within her hips to climb up through the rest of her body.

Wave after wave came and went. Tight, heavy, gripping contractions reared up against flowing, electric, orgasmic pleasure and crashed into one another until it became hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

Both would grow by many orders of magnitude before the pair were finished. Claire lost herself to the electric sensations of her body as she writhed and squirmed on top of Dan. She found her muscles gripping tight around Dan's shaft until every movement with him inside her felt as if it was stretching through her body.

With the pair seemingly locked together, Claire grew closer and closer to orgasm with every second that passed. Her breath grew short, her hands and knees trembled under her.

She ached to cum. She wished for it, willed it closer and fought to bring it near. She needed to cum.

Quickly and barely a second or two from could release, Dan slowed them to a stop.

Claire whimpered and tensed around her abdomen as the ecstasy that was drawing so close began to scurry back into the shadows. Her eyes opened wide and she looked down to Dan.

With a wry smile, he pushed his index finger over his lips and indicated that she should wait just a little longer. Claire didn't know if she could.

"I'm going to need you to hold that," he whispered with a grin.

Claire didn't want to hold it though. Agonising contractions had been pulsing through her for hours now. She needed it.

While her body fought against her to reorganise itself around the, probably huge, mass of his baby, Claire could think of little else other than the eventual relief and excitement of pushing out his child into their arms. With release so close she could almost already feel it she was ready to beg for him to let her cum here now.

She needed this more than anything. She needed this one moment of bliss amidst several hours of pain before she could even think of bearing his child out into the world.

Before she could argue, a new set of contractions broke against her body. Claire bucked forward around her swollen belly and fell against Dan. Her hands landed on each of his broad shoulders, using them as leavers to pull him in close as she moaned out in agony. Everything felt so much more agonising and intense now.

Dan caught her as she fell, wrapping both his arms around her and grasping hold with open palms as he felt her body heave and strain against her.

They sat there for seconds that felt like hours. Claire pulling down on Dan, Dan holding her tight against her body. Her soft voice moaned and whimpered down into his chest with every pulse of energy that wrapped around her torso. She wanted to curse him, both for this agonising pain breaking through her and denying her relief at the last possible second, but she didn't have the energy to spare.

While they'd made love, they had both enjoyed the rhythms of labour that had helped to control, amplify, and pace them through a prolonged session. Now though, the rhythm was changing and they could both feel the shift. There was a difference in Claire's voice that even took her by surprise.

A shocking, gripping desperation had set in that told her she was far, far deeper into this labour than they'd thought. Waves of pain that had earlier been curtailed with pulses of pleasure were now bare and raw. They frayed at her body and caused her to yell out and wail as they gripped hold of her body.

She needed that orgasm, the one stolen in the deepest throes of passion, now more than ever. Yet, she had nothing left in her to go looking for it. She had a battle ahead of her first, and the shape of the fight was changing to one not just filled with pain, but with pressure too.

"It's time!" she managed to gasp out in a lull between contractions.

"Time to go?" Dan asked, noting that things had gotten more intense very fast.

"No," she snapped. "It's time to push!"

Claire knew for certain now that all the books she'd read and classes she'd done were wrong. She knew her body and it was about to begin pushing out a baby right here and now whether she choose to or not. There was no time to go anywhere else.

"Ok" Dan replied, raising them both to sit on the edge of the couch. Without parting from each other's arms, they both pair felt themselves shifting to a new way of thinking. They knew what was to come, and knew what they had to do to get through it.

Already, Claire could feel a contraction begin to rise through her body. She distanced herself from Dan, shifting her body back to sit on the edge of Dan's knees. There was room there, space to breath, space to labour.

With his feet flat on the floor, Claire moved her legs out till they were spread out wide and only her thighs rested only on Dan's legs. She cradled her hands around Dan's neck, embraced his hands resting on her hips and took long and steady breaths staring down at her stomach as it tightened and contorted under her.

A charge of pain shot through her lower back and wrapped itself around to grip hold of her abdomen. Instinctively, she took in a gasp of air and braced herself against its agony.

"Arghhhh ow, ow, owwww" she moaned out as it continued to grow in strength and intensity.

With it, just like the last, the pressure was already bearing down against her and into her body.

Just a minute ago, she thought, she was on the cusp of ecstasy. Already deep in the throes of pleasure, she could almost feel it take hold of her and give her the relief she so desperately needed. Now, she was deep in the depths of agony, barely able to imagine how she could fight to bring this baby down through her body.

She was beginning now to lose control. The pressure bearing against her was getting too much and she had to begin working with its efforts rather than fight against them.

She reared her head back, took in a deep breath of air, and jerked her body downwards into Dan's lap with every bit of energy she knew she could find.

Her teeth grit tight, her face contorted into an agonised expression of effort and power. Her belly, already drawn tight by the intensity of the contraction, rounded and tensed as she poured all her energy through its core.

"Huaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarghhhhhh" she roared out as she continued to bear down.

Dan watched transfixed as the power she had seemed to increase and grow the longer and longer she pushed against her contractions. His hands moved around her sides and traced long lines up and down the sides of her belly. Beneath them, the shape of her bump seemed to shift and change as each ongoing contraction moved through its own phases and Claire poured her power into its efforts.

Five, six, seven seconds passed as Claire bore down as hard as she could. After eight had gone she felt as if she might explode if not for another gasp of air.

"Gaaaaaaaaaaah" she moaned out as she released her pressure. She looked to the ceiling again. The same familiar agony returned as her contraction took control again. She wasn't done yet though.

After a few quick breaths, she took one more gulp of air and bore down into the space that sat between them both.

"Huaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarghhhh" she cried out as she bore down with an intensity and energy that made her feel as if her head could explode from her exertion.

Already, pushing began to feel somehow familiar. It was comforting. It reassured her that now they were doing something productive and making forward progress towards bringing this baby down and out into the world. But it was still agony.

Her abdomen tightened more as she fought against her contractions and she got nothing in return for her momentous pushing efforts. It felt as if she were pushing for nought, and yet, it felt like the only thing she could do.

When her contraction faded away, Claire finally had an opportunity to rest and recover again. Gathering in a breath she adjusted her position on top of Dan's knees. A position and place that she hadn't even considered labouring in during the days and weeks leading up to her labour. Now that she'd found it, though, she found herself in love with it.

"Oh my god," she gasped. "So big, and heavy. I don't think I'm getting any movement at all"

"You got such a good, strong push in there though, a few more like that and we'll be flying" Dan smiled.

"Yeah, easy peasy" Claire replied, rolling her eyes at him.

Dan laughed. He wished he had a witty retort to reply with but already the next contraction was visibly evident on Claire and he was already out of time.

Claire writhed gently on his lap, shifting her hips and moving her body backwards and forth as if the contraction was building with the rhythm of a slow dance.

Intensity continued to build and Claire leaned across his body and locked her lips into his. She needed him close.

There, the pair shared a slow and passionate kiss that felt as if it extended for hours. Claire could feel herself trying to ignore the pressure and agony that was building through her hips. Locked right here, stuck in this moment, she felt as if she could prolong the next contraction to just stay here with Dan.

Her knees tensed and squeezed Dan's thighs as she fought to prolong the inevitable. When ignoring her pains was no longer an option she broke their kiss and let out a gentle sigh between them both. They locked eyes.

Staring into each other, Dan gave a slow and gentle nod as he parted his knees and spread Claire's legs out under her. In response, she leaned her forehead onto his, kept her eyes locked on his, took in a deep breath of air and pushed it down into her abdomen as hard and as long as it would possibly go.

With her teeth clenched tight and her expression shifted into a heavily pained grimace, her eyes locked on Dan and she continued to bear down with all the strength she could muster. Locked so tightly together, with Dan's gaze looking back at her, Claire felt as if they were now pushing in harmony. Working together to bring their child out.

Seconds passed, though Claire couldn't tell how many. Again there was nothing. Just fruitless attempts at pushing without any real tangible result.

"Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!" she exhaled in a long continuous moan.

This time she didn't take any time at all to catch her breath. Instead, she simply gulped in as much air as she could carry in a single breath and pushed down again with every bit of strength she had.

Her stomach tightened and tensed. She felt as if her entire body was changing shape around this mass as agony radiated through her hips and up through her heavily swollen belly.

Now, though, now she could feel the smallest hints of movements taking place inside her.

The intense pressures that had kept her at bay were now beginning to move. It wasn't much, but it was real, and she could finally begin to feel it taking place. Weight and energy shifted slowly through her. Moving barely a fraction of an inch at a time as she finally felt as if she was making progress now for the first time since they'd started.

It was exhilarating and addictive. She pursed her lips and blew out her air only to take in one more gulp and bear down with a new kind of enthusiasm and excitement.

Rolling her head forward to rest on Dan's chest, she arched her back to find every last ounce of leverage she could get to bring to bear against this weight now beginning to move through her body. She felt it again. A huge head moving down towards her pelvis as she heaved against it with everything she had.

"Yesss," she whispered as she exhaled again. A smile broke across her face for the first time since she'd begun to labour hard.

She wished Dan could feel what she was feeling now. The sense of relief and satisfaction was already intoxicating, but she reminded herself she still had such a long way to go. She rose up and kissed him with a slow passionate embrace once again.

"It….it's coming now," she whispered into Dan's ear.

"already?" Dan asked in surprise. "Damn, I told you you're good.."

This time it was Claire's turn to miss out on a witty retort. The next contraction was barrelling into her and it was becoming clear that now the baby had begun moving, it wasn't going to slow down soon.

As if by instinct more than thought, she began pushing again with a contraction that had grabbed hold of her body with an overly tight embrace.

Deep, guttural moans escaped from her mouth as she bore down against her body.

Now, the head was moving a little further down with every effort she could give. Each movement spurred her on, inviting her to apply more pressure and intensity with every push. Even just fractions of an inch at a time were enough to encourage her on. Pushing and pushing and pushing, Claire felt Joy and anticipation flow through her as she edged towards a goal not far on the horizon.

Dan could see a new wind of confidence and effort come through Claire. With it, they both felt energised and enthralled by the birth. He reached out and rest his hands across Claire's belly. It was tight to the touch, stretching and swelling backwards and forth, and as hot as a skillet under the tips of his fingers. With her weight over his legs, he supported her body as she rocked backwards and forwards while contractions crested and swelled through her.

Holding on to her body, observing her labouring on him, embracing the clutch she had around his broad shoulders—Dan too relished every second they had as the pair of them worked to spar against her labouring efforts.

He watched her expression change from a blissful, hazy smile, into a pained, effortful grimace and then back again as pains came and went through her. Now, he could sense things were changing. Pleasure was beginning to balance the pains she felt as she brought this baby down.

Claire had previously felt it too, but it had only now become a force too powerful to ignore. With the head engaged firmly down into her birth canal, each fresh push was bringing with it a jarring yet joyful ecstasy as it stretched through her body and brought her closer to the goal.

Her legs trembled under her and her arms began to shake as she rounded the summit of everything she could put into every available push. More and more effort piled through her body and into the birth as the large weight eased its way down and stretched its way into her birth canal.

Electric pulses radiated from her pelvis and coursed through her veins to reach up through her chest and down to the tips of her toes and the soles of her feet. She would spasm and jerk as jolts of pleasure weaved their way around and through agony and pain. They quickly became so strong and so dominant that they caused her to curl around her swollen belly and very nearly interrupted her intense pushing efforts.

Her head rolled back to look to the sky and she felt the warm, deep satisfaction of the head slide back up inside her as she released the hold she had on its mass.

"yessssssss," she whispered to the sky as her body rode on an orb so impossibly large and so impossibly deep she would struggle to form the words to describe the sensation. She couldn't yet tell if it was pushing up into her or if she was the one in control of its movements. Her toes curled tight and her breath escaped her chest as it pushed back to its deepest point deep inside her.

She understood now. She understood why Dan had denied her before at the most pivotal moment she thought she could face. She understood why she couldn't be allowed to cum then to assist her with everything she needed now.

She closed her eyes and swayed her hips from side to side. Enjoying the moment between the moments, enjoying the sensation that had just gone and the ones that were about to come. She swayed in time to the music and danced lightly on Dan's lap as if a slight breeze blew through them both.

Dan watched, transfixed and mesmerised by the beautiful woman in front of him. Claire's hair floated down past her shoulders, her breasts, full and round, sat on top of a swollen belly that moved as if it weighed nothing at all on her petite frame.

Another contraction was building fast, but now it was welcomed with an eager smile that anticipated its arrival. Claire steadied herself for another push. This time, leaning back on his lap to support her weight with her arms and create more room within her hips.

As Claire did, Dan looked down and could see already an opening begging to part to allow the head through. Claire moaned out in a low, steady tone and dan could see her stomach and her hips strain at her body.

"Yes, that's it," he exclaimed, his hands still resting in the curve just above her hips. "You're making such good progress! I can't believe you've come this far so fast. Just a little further now"

Claire couldn't reply. Her mind was as now involved as her body, flooding with emotion and sensations that she'd never dreamed of before. Instead, she took a deep breath in and bore down again against a mass that had risen up so impossibly deep again inside her.

Slowly, it began to descend again. Riding down through her body as she pushed at it with everything she had. Stretching from the inside she could feel every little ounce of progress and victory that she won over the weight.

With her victories came the spoils. Her mind would shift from forceful concentration to a hazy fog of pleasure as she felt this weight she'd grown inside her ride down through her birth canal. Stretching, teasing, shifting within her as it did. She gasped out in shock and joy as she reached halfway, took a sharp intake of breath as it moved back inside, and bore down again with everything she could muster.

Now, dan could see the top of the head beginning to crown. Eagerly awaiting its arrival, his excitement dialled up more and he all but yelled encouragement for Claire, but even sat on his lap with her hands grasping hold of his shoulders she could barely focus enough to hear his voice.

Agony and ecstasy were crashing into each other once again inside her body. Now, they had an intensity and speed that she didn't know she could keep up with.

Arching her back towards the ceiling as she bore down, the head rode downwards, putting pressure onto the backside of her clit and stimulating her body from the inside out. Her teeth clenched shut and her skin flashed beet red as she used every bit of power she could find. Her back arched more and the head rode through her again until her mind was filled with almost nothing else but the intense pleasure this large hard mass-produced.

With every effort now, the head was moving down and emerging further and further from her. Every time she pushed she was stretching herself to greater and greater heights and clambering towards an orgasm that remained so impossibly large and just barely out of reach.

The only thing offsetting the intense agony coursing through her hips was the intense joy that shot through her like sparks of electricity.

This pleasure was more than a mere luxury now. She needed this to continue. Moaning out with a ferocious scream she took in more air and used it to continue their journey.

Pushing and pushing and pushing, Claire thought her head might come off her shoulders before this baby emerged from her body. It was all she could do to hold her breath and stretch around this head. To keep pushing in pain amidst these crashing waves of pleasure that wracked through her body felt like a unique kind of torture, yet she couldn't let go

Her legs were trembling hard, her eyes clenched tightly shut, and her jaw fell open as if frozen in a yell, or scream for help or relief.

Slowly, the head emerged further and further from her body. Almost a quarter of the way now, she was reaching its widest point, but if her mind had any spare capacity for instruction or pain, Dan didn't know where to find it.

She was too far now to stop pushing against it. She writhed and squirmed on top of Dan's lap, barely able to hold herself from bucking and gasping against the sensations that jolted through her.

"OH. Ohhh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,"

Suddenly, her body went silent. The pleasure that was consuming her a half-second ago vanished for a beat before returning with a ferocity of rolling waves and shuddering ecstasy that capture her mind and her breath.

She gripped hold tight to Dan, muttered out a phrase unintelligible to them both, and curled herself around her belly as she convulsed, screamed, and contracted in a chattering orgasm that shocked them both.

Dan reached out, one hand on either side of the head as Claire's body shuddered and spasmed. Emerging rapidly, the head appeared first, closely followed by the shoulders in two waves of earth-shattering pleasure over his lap.

Claire gathered herself for a second, clinging to Dan's shoulder before resting herself down back on Dan's knees where he brought a healthy baby to rest between them. Claire looked up to Dan and smiled. Already her thoughts were back on how not just how easy the birth had been, but how joyful and pleasurable too.

"You were right," she teased with a smile and a roll of her eyes.

"Well, so much for the birth plan," Dan replied, gesturing to a thin plastic folder tacked against the wall.

Claire looked to the folder and then back at Dan. If they'd gone by the book they'd be in a hospital right now and in a different kind of state altogether. Claire smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

"I thought we had more time"