#like imagine being that kind of human being

[mintyys-blog]

BABY DADDY OMNIMARK PLEASEEEE IM BEGGING U😭😭🙏🙏🙏🙏

MY BABY | omni mark x pregnant! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: pregnancy

IMAGINE THIS: Reader is pregnant with Omni!Mark’s child, and the two work through their fears and expectations as he slowly commits to being a real father—not a tyrant—for their baby.

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work, whether AI-generated or otherwise, without my permission.

© @mintyys-blog

“You’re carrying my child.” His voice is like gravel and thunder. You expect the usual cruelty in his tone—the kind he saves for his enemies and subordinates—but this time… it’s quiet. Nearly reverent.

You sit on the edge of the silken bed, one hand over your barely-there bump. You hadn’t told him. Not because you were afraid (okay, maybe a little), but because you didn’t know what it would mean to a man who carved an empire out of bone and blood. He ruled Earth like a god. A child was… insignificant, right?

But he knew. Of course he knew. He always knew everything.

You barely whisper, “Are you mad?”

He crosses the room with slow, deliberate steps. You expect him to shout, maybe even lash out—this is Omni-Mark, the man who killed his own father without blinking. But instead, he lowers himself in front of you, kneeling like a sinner before something divine. His hand—big, scarred, trembling just slightly—reaches to touch your stomach.

“Mad?” he echoes, brows furrowed. “No. Never. You don’t understand…” His voice cracks, just barely. “This is ours.”

You’ve never seen him like this. His lip twitches like he’s not sure whether to smile or break.

“…I will level the stars for them,” he says, pressing his forehead to your stomach like it’s holy. “I will end worlds to make them safe. No one will ever lay a hand on you again.”

You finally find your voice. “You’re serious. You want this.”

He looks up at you, eyes glowing faintly, pupils blown wide.

“I want everything if it means it comes from you.”

And just like that, Mark—villain, warlord, tyrant—becomes something far more dangerous: A father in love.

The room is quiet except for the sound of his deep breathing. You’re lying back on the couch, legs curled beneath you, cradling your now-visible bump. Mark stands near the window, arms crossed, staring out over his empire.

The silence between you feels heavier than usual.

“You’re not saying anything,” you murmur, fingers idly tracing the swell of your belly. “That’s never a good sign.”

He doesn’t turn around. “I’m thinking.”

“That’s never a good sign either.”

He finally glances over his shoulder. His expression isn’t angry—but it’s unreadable, tightly controlled. That look he wears before obliterating someone who dared question his rule. But this isn’t about enemies. This is about you. About your child.

“When they’re born,” he says slowly, “you’ll be under more scrutiny than ever.”

You raise a brow. “You think I care about that?”

“You should,” he snaps. Then stops. Swallows. “You should… because it won’t just be about you anymore.”

He walks toward you, slow and deliberate. His armor has been shed, leaving him in only the dark fabric of his undersuit—something more human, more bare. He sits beside you, close but careful. His fingers twitch once, then settle on your knee.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, quietly. “I was raised by a man who saw me as a tool. I killed him. I led an empire into chaos. I’ve committed atrocities in the name of order. But this?” His hand slides gently to rest on your bump. “This is something I don’t want to destroy.”

You reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his.

“I’m not asking you to be perfect,” you say, voice soft. “I just want to know if you’re going to be there.”

His jaw tightens. “You’d let me?”

You blink. “Let you? Mark, it’s your child too.”

He looks down at your joined hands, and for a second you see it again—that flicker of something unguarded, fragile.

“…I don’t want them to fear me,” he finally says, voice barely audible. “I want them to look at me the way you used to.”

You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. “Then be here. Be their Mark. Not a ruler. Not a god. Just… their dad.”

He exhales through his nose, eyes closing. “You’re asking me to be something softer than the world I built.”

“And I’ll keep asking,” you say, pressing his hand harder to your stomach. “Because they deserve it. And so do you.”

Mark doesn’t answer right away. But his other hand comes up, brushing your cheek, so gentle it makes your chest ache.

“I’ll try,” he whispers. “I’ll try—for them. And for you.” He just looks like a man—afraid to fail, desperate to love, and holding the future beneath his hand.

[ihaznoclue]

For once requests are open, could we get a Ken x wife reader??

Pairings -> Ken the Butcher x Wife Reader

Warnings -> None

Note -> Reader and Ken are together in this

Genre -> Fluff, Headcanons

A/N - Guess who burnt my brothers pizzas... this is why I'm not allowed in the kitchen when I'm sick ;(

KEN

Man you never knew how it would come to this, marrying and being a wife to a Mafia butcher rolting who is part of the smiling dead, well the leader of the smiling dead

Raising a family, a golem son that is made out of bread and a daughter.. (Who is human)

Ken has been the most loyal and trustworthy kind of a guy but with anger issues, a switch in the brain that would make him go mad even the sight of blood on you

He is really protective I mean LIKE REALLY protective

Some days Ken would go out on missions while you take care of the buthershop which he knows that you would handle it pretty well without him there and once he comes back, the whole place is clean and spotless and the cashier is filled with Scarabs which impresses him in the most way

But if you are the one to finish a mission, he would most likely take care of the shop with his family and would sometimes worry for you like he worrys for Mel

I mean you're his WIFE

But you usually come with a whole heap of blood on you which is of course not yours and he immediately falls in love with you over again

He's even more prouder of you as you told him that you got the job done and cleaned the crime, he has taught you well

Ken would mostly spoil you like he spoils his children, I mean YOUr children

He would maybe give you some stuff here and there, maybe a few nice hair accessories, some jewelry like rings or braclets and you would wear them every day and every night

You would literally never take it off and Ken loves that for you

I feel like Ken would be a snorer ANd a heavy sleeper, like imagine one night you are trying to go the bathroom and this man has his arm around your waist and he is gonna be heavy, snoring away as you struggle to get him off of you so you would have to push him away and if that doesn't work then maybe give a hit or two that would surely wake him up

I would also feel like Ken would be the type to go for sweet like ladies that would turn aggressive if someone messes with their family

Like Sweet but crazy kind

Overall Ken is just a sweetheart that just has anger issues sometimes meaning that you two argue a lot, time when it happens on missions, maybe that you want to do something but Ken is saying no because it's too "dangerous"

Oh you can show him dangerous

But it would end up him apologizing for being wrong and that you were tougher than he thinks

But you apologize too to him which makes it equal

You just love to be apart of this family

-A<3

[revelboo]

Inhaled through your fics like I'm doing a line, you write like a god 🙌🙌

Fave has got to be the angst portion of your LL/ MTMTE series where the humans got transported back, it's just so interesting seeing all their stories connect all at once

And I know it follows a different flow but how do you think the TFP cons would react if the same thing happened to their humans? At the very least, I just know TFP Megs will go berserk mode considering he's all sparked up too

Oh, yeah. They’d not be okay at all. Except for Breakdown if he’s not actually attached to the human yet. He’d think it’s funny up until realizing that Knockout is legitimately upset

Maybe try the stuff under Lost Light- the humans get yeeted to wherever Cybertronians are by accident. The Vehicon story is pretty much reader being adopted and fawned over by the TFP Vehicons. You might like ES Bumblebee, too. Blaster, the human accidentally kidnaps him in his boombox mode. Waspinator pretty much adopts his human, too and just won’t leave.

Gone

TFP Decepticon Scenario

• Primus, there’s another one. Frozen Smokescreen grimaces as the alarm klaxons scream, because you’re staring up at him, tensing and standing on Soundwave’s berth, little fingers fisted in a blanket. Obviously terrified and probably traumatized. How many is this? Feeling absolutely awful as he approaches and like all of the rest of them, you try to bolt even though there’s no where to go. And you scream when he catches you. “I’m so sorry, but you’re safe now,” he says, subspacing you with the rest. Poor things, doesn’t even want to imagine what the Decepticons have been doing with so many humans.

• Snarling in outrage as he charges through the Nemesis, Megatron’s spark constricts. Alarms going off everywhere, but no one can seem to even find the Autobot intruder. And Starscream almost runs into him, the Seeker frantic, yelping when Megatron grabs him by a wing, intending to take his frustration out on someone. “Lord Megatron,” Starscream gasps in pain, twisting. “The humans are gone.” And he feels it. Feels the loss of his bond, cutting into his spark. Venting raggedly, he shoves the Seeker away from himself, not running. But striding for his habsuite, servos flexing as fear seizes him by the throat. Shoving the door open hard when it doesn’t open fast enough and staring at where you should be.

• Roaring out his fury, Predaking smacks a Vehicon out of his way with his tail, mandibles flaring as he chases the scent of the intruder. And Knockout swears as he barrels past him, not caring who gets in his way. Needs to find you and punish whoever has you, because if you’re hurt? Death would be far too kind. You’re so small and he’d left you unprotected, assumed you were safe here.

• Staring at the chaos over a handful of little organics, Breakdown clears his vents. Because, honestly? Good riddance. Humans have no place among Cybertronians. But turning toward Knockout, it’s a shock how blank his friend’s expression is. He looks lost almost. Knew Knockout was soft on you, but didn’t expect him to care this much and swearing, Breakdown joins the search for the intruder. Because if Knockout needs you, then he’s going to have you.

• “Little one?” Servos trembling, Dreadwing flattens a palm against a wall. Trying to get his worry under control. You’re just so small, fragile. Still so weak from your ordeal and someone snuck into his habsuite. Took you from him. You were supposed to be safe there, trusted him to care for you. Venting raggedly, he keeps looking for any trace of who took you from him.

• Can’t move, standing at the door of his habsuite, your blanket in his servos. Aware of the klaxons, the yelling about an intruder, an Autobot taking the humans. Servos crushing your blanket, Shockwave’s antenna flick, cannon smacking against the wall as he staggers slightly, processor in chaos. Frantic with the need to find you, hold you. Needs to move, to help in the search and he can’t move. Coming apart without you there to keep him together.

• Tendrils lashing as he pulls up feed after feed, trembling, Soundwave watches the Autobot sneaking through the Nemesis. To his habsuite. Slipping inside. Taking you. Stealing what’s his. His family. His little mate. Where did the Autobot go? What did he do to you? Where are you? The intruder leaves his habsuite with empty hands, but you’re gone. Can’t even sense you and he can’t stop trembling. Teetering between fear and rage, unable to get himself under control. Where are you? Are you hurt? Crying out for him?

[rhube]

Because people wants answers to things. Especially things that are so damn horrific it's hard to imagine how a human being could do them.

And we might learn a little about that random dude's past, and get at least some explanation about what led up to that, be it, 'Dude was sick. He was known to be mentally unwell and he wasn't getting help because Victorian London was not really a place where you got help for that and/or it was the kind of mental unwellness you can't really do much about,' or 'Dude had a fucked up childhood and was in and out of what passed for mental health treatment in London and it fucked him up'.

Because even though we won't recognize the name, he couldn't actually be any random guy. The most misogynist arsehole you know, even the scary violent ones, are not Jack the Ripper. And most guys you know, whatever biases they have, are not scary violent arseholes.

It is not random that he up wound up doing those things. There will be reasons. But because we don't know them it's terrifying that such a person could come seemingly out of nowhere. We want the answers to soothe ourselves and we can stop having the irrational fear that any random man could do things like that.

We want to remove the monster and replace it with a human being. Someone who, no matter how terrifying, can be understood and put away in a little box in our minds.

Also: human beings are curious buggers and the weirder and more grotesque something is, the more most people will want to know about it. It's really not that hard.

(And it would lay to rest some of the sensationalist, anti-Semitic bullshit that's circulated about him.)

Why the fuck do people want to “solve” Jack the Ripper like do you realize if you find out who it was it’s still just going to be some random guy

[rassicas]

QUESTION, how do Inkfish have milk/milk flavoured things if there are no mammals to produce it? And if they synthesized the milk, how would they know that its nutritional? Or that it can be made into cheese/yogurt?

Even if theyre using oats or nuts to make milk substitues, i dont think those can be used to make other dairy products right? Idk im not a biologist

for this ask i thought about just linking the wikipedia pages for plant milk and vegan cheese or the video where i touch on this topic and leaving it at that, but i thought that would come off as too passive aggressive and i dont like that with how often i see this question floating around still i think its worth going into a bit more so i can just link this post in case anyone ever asks again.

“One thing we know about the world of Splatoon is that mammals are basically gone,” said Nogami, seated across from me in a small room behind Nintendo’s booth. “So they don’t eat beef or pork or the meat of mammals.” With Splatoon 2 playing on a screen, Nogami walked his Inkling over to a corner in Inkopolis square where a bright ad played for cereal. A crab chowed down on a bowl of milky carbs. “There’s no mammals, so whatever is being poured over the cereal might not be milk,” Nogami laughed. Hm. Okay. So what do Inklings eat? “Veggies, birds, fish,” said Nogami. “Some bread.” -- What do Squid Kids Eat? Splatoon’s Producer Explains

So the facts are: -Mammals are basically gone (excluding Judds/Grizz) -They drink milk that isn't real milk -There are crops cultivated in the Inkling world The obvious conclusion is that they use plant-based substitutes. there are a few questions that could spawn from this.... Q1: a bunch of stuff went extinct in the splatoon world. what kind of dairy substitutes could they use exactly? A: canonically, inklings have a variety of rice and soy-based products. a few types of nuts are confirmed to exist. they eat coconuts too. you can make milk out of all of these, as well as other dairy products like cheese and yogurt. They're not limited to plants either...

i swear everyone ive shown the left image goes like EWWW THEY EAT INK but like. squid ink is edible in real life. i dont get why this is weird?? nobody said ewww at the squiddymelon which i imagine would absorb ink to change colors like that. the concept that inklings figured out Ink-based dairy products is fucking awesome. anyways Q2: how did they figure this out? A: I think the answer can be found by looking into the history of plant milks in our world. Humans have been making and consuming plant based milks like soy and almond milk for centuries. the consumption of coconut milk goes back millennia. plant based cheeses are not as old, but still go back a hundred or so years. a lot of other dairy substitutes emerged in the past 50 years. Inklings figured out plastics, fish egg energy, and computers, surely at some point in their 2000+ year history, they figured out plant-based milks, cheeses, and yogurts. It's also possible that recipes from the human era survived. maybe they learned about dairy products that way. oh wait isn't there a sunken scroll about human era recipes?

yes There's also a non-zero chance that Judd could've taught the inklings about the human era and their food. The other question i can think of is... Q3: is there any specific mention of a plant based substitute being used instead of a mammalian product in splatoon? A: yes<3

In 2019 there was JP only splatfest, pineapple vs. no pineapple. It's about whether you put pineapple on subuta (japanese sweet and sour pork.) (i dont have strong opinions on pineapple, but the subuta at gyoza no osho. bro it will make me hurt myself and others. literally licking the fucking plate its so yummy. anyways.) Now pigs are extinct. How would pearl and marina have opinions on a pork dish?

「だな！ アタシんちの古い書庫で見つけたレシピで ロブに作ってもらったやつだろ？」 「豚という生き物が 絶滅しちゃってるから 大豆とかで代用した 「酢豚風」でしたけどね♪」 Pearl: "That's the recipe you found in the old archives at my place, and Crusty Sean made it for you, right?" Marina: "Yeah, though since those creatures called pigs are extinct, he substituted it for soy and some other things to make a "subuta-style" dish~ "

this is the only thing i have seen that confirms plant-based substitutes being used for mammal meat in splatoon's setting. i learned of this just recently and i was SO happy this was confirmed somewhere<3 I think this gives a lot of weight to the idea that they'd use soy milk and other soy-based dairy products.

[ch33z3grits]

Crimson Obsessions | A Terry Richmond Vampire Series

pairing: Aaron Pierre as Terry Richmond x Justine Skye as Camille DeWaterson

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut (oral m and f receiving, p in v, overstimulation), dark romance, obsessiveness/possessiveness, pet names (baby girl, princess), cheating, financial abuse, mentions of BDSM themes, mentions of mental breakdowns, angst, manipulation

word count: 10,853

glossary:

Indulgences: human beings that vampires deem romantically and sexually desirable

The Veil: the dark magic that enhances supernaturals’ ability to manipulate the human world

Imps: demon-like supernaturals that can easily pass as human

a/n: Hi everyone! Thank you so much for your patience. I really needed this break to focus on my school and life priorities, so I appreciate you all for waiting. Also, thank you thank you thank you to everyone who wished me luck or gave me encouraging words under my last post. As always, comments and reblogs are appreciated. Enjoy! p.s: there are are several flashbacks in this chapter, which are the sections in purple :)

Camille's song: Fantasy-Mariah Carey and ODB | Terry's song: I'm Sprung-T-Pain

Pt. Ten

Camille

Two months.

Two months of undisturbed peace and joy Camille had once thought was the stuff of fairy tales.

Every time she woke up nestled in the protective, steady embrace of Terry, she had to resist the urge to pinch herself, sure that she was just dreaming. But each hypothetical pinch only reaffirmed the truth: the past few months of her being Terry’s girlfriend was real. Being free from Aston was real. The radio silence from her parents was real.

As the morning sunlight stretched across Terry’s bedroom walls, Camille blinked herself awake, her body unwilling to leave the comfort of Terry’s warmth. Her thoughts drifted to the day everything had changed. That devastating fire had left her apartment in ruins…But in that ruin, something new had begun. Terry had opened his door to her, offering nothing more than a cup of tea and a quiet place to grieve. But that night changed it all.

One minute, she was curled on his couch, hands trembling around a warm mug and eyes puffy from crying. The next, she was in his arms, being held like she was precious, kissed like she was unforgettable. Being carried off to his bedroom and tossed onto his bed. Getting turned every way but loose. Up until that moment, she had never experienced sex that explosive and consuming. The way he kissed her, the way he held her, the way he wrung orgasm after orgasm out of her…

It was as if he were casting a spell with every word, every kiss, every stroke.

And if that was Terry’s intention, then he had succeeded completely. Camille was his, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

And as if his tenderness weren’t already overwhelming, he had offered her a kind of aftercare and reassurance that far exceeded anything she had ever imagined. Gentle words murmured against her skin, soft touches that anchored her, and an unwavering presence that made her feel seen, safe, and deeply cherished:

Camille’s breaths came out shallow and ragged as her body quivered from the intensity of her fourth orgasm. She felt the fullness of Terry’s lips give her shoulder a light kiss before he gently pulled her from her stomach and onto her back. But she couldn’t quite focus yet. She was still seeing stars as she barely processed his fingertips tracing along her jaw and cupping her cheek. Her eyes fluttered, the pull of sleep calling her. But four words brought her back to the present moment.

“I love you, Camille,” Terry’s deep voice whispered, sending a shiver down her spine.

Camille’s breath caught in her throat. He loved her? The man whose smile had haunted her daydreams, whose touch she craved, whose presence had slowly, steadily claimed her heart…he loved her? Somehow, she had his heart too?

She searched his face, trying to find even the faintest trace of doubt. But there was none. His gaze was steady, open, and unflinchingly sincere. And just like that, something inside her softened, broke, and bloomed all at once.

A smile tugged at her lips, trembling with emotion. Laughter bubbled up in her chest, light and disbelieving, as a single tear traced a warm path down her cheek. “I love you too, Terry,” she whispered through the giggle.

In that moment, lost in his eyes, she felt weightless. Wrapped in a happiness so pure it made her dizzy.

Terry gave her a tender smile and let out a soft chuckle that vibrated in his chest.

 “Good to hear, baby girl,” he murmured, his voice like velvet as he gently brushed the lone tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Now let me get you cleaned up.”

With effortless grace, he stood and scooped her into his arms, cradling her in a bridal-style hold that made her heart flutter. She instinctively curled into him, the steady beat of his heart echoing against her ear. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss to her forehead as he carried her, his steps unhurried.

He carried her into what she assumed was his bathroom, though it felt more like a private spa tucked away in a luxury hotel.

With careful precision, Terry lowered her onto the smooth marble countertop, the surface cool beneath her thighs and a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from his body. She let her fingers trail along the stone’s polished edge as she watched him move.

Terry crossed the expansive room with quiet confidence. He knelt beside an oversized soaking tub and turned the sleek taps. Water gushed out in a steady flow. He dipped his hand in, adjusting the temperature as he saw fit.

Steam began to rise almost immediately, coiling upward in slow, ghost-like ribbons. Camille watched him quietly as he reached for a glass jar, pouring what seemed to be a generous scoop of Epsom salts into the churning water. It was followed by a generous pour of fragrant oil from a dark bottle. He swirled them in gently, and within seconds, the air was thick with the grounding, refreshing scent of eucalyptus and something faintly citrusy.

The tension in her shoulders eased as she inhaled deeply, the aroma working through her like a balm. Everything about this moment, the serenity, the care in his movements, the warmth around her, felt like something sacred.

Terry moved toward a tall door on the far wall. Camille guessed it was a linen or supply closet. He disappeared behind it for a moment, the soft sounds of rustling fabric and the muted thump of stacked items shifting as he rummaged through the shelves.

Left alone, Camille let her eyes wander. The bathroom was a masterpiece of modern design and understated opulence. The floor beneath her feet was a stunning mosaic of black and white marble. Golden fixtures caught the light like glittering gems. A glass-enclosed rainfall shower stood in one corner.

Her gaze drifted back to the bathtub, still slowly filling with water. It looked like it belonged in a high-end spa rather than a bachelor’s apartment.

For the first time in a long time, Camille didn’t feel like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. Instead, it felt as if the universe had finally paused so she could exhale. For once, everything felt like it was exactly where it was supposed to be.

Terry reappeared at her side, holding a thick fluffy washcloth in his hands. Camille watched as he turned the sink’s faucet and slipped the towel under the warm water, waiting until it was just right before wringing it out. Then he turned to her, his eyes soft but focused, silently asking for permission as he stepped between her knees as he parted them. She didn’t say a word, she didn’t need to. Her body responded to him instinctively, trusting him completely.

He began to clean her, gently yet thoroughly, where their bodies had just been joined. There was no rush in his movements, no awkwardness or detachment. Only care with an intimate, featherlight touch. When he was finished, he cast the used cloth aside and met her eyes again.

No words passed between them, but Camille felt something deeper than conversation. And as she looked into his eyes, she silently hoped that he felt the same from her.

Terry stepped in closer, hands sliding beneath her thighs, tugging her gently until she was perched right at the edge of the counter. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and she marveled at how effortlessly her body aligned with his.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for a moment like this,” Terry murmured, his lips brushing against her forehead.

A soft sigh slipped from Camille’s lips as her eyes fluttered closed. She leaned into him, pressing her body closer to him.

“Me too,” she whispered.

But as the dreamy, love-drenched fog in her mind began to clear. And with it came the voice she knew all too well. The overthinking Camille. The worrisome Camille.

What if this doesn’t mean what she thinks it does? What if he only said “I love you” because it was easier than dealing with silence? What if he meant it now, but woke up one day and simply… didn’t?

Her stomach dropped.

I shouldn’t have done this, Camille thought. I shouldn’t have let myself feel this much. Shouldn’t have handed my heart over so easily.

As if reading her thoughts, Terry pulled back slightly. His hands moved to grab her face. His thumbs brushed against her cheeks, coaxing her to meet his gaze.

“What’s on your mind, baby?” Terry asked softly, eyes scanning hers. “Something’s bothering you, I can feel it.”

His thumbs brushed against her cheeks as she closed her eyes shut for a moment, summoning some courage. She just hoped he would meet her vulnerability with truth.

“What… what are we now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “I-If you don’t want a relationship, I get it. I promise, I get it.”

Her stomach dropped even further at the idea of being nothing more than a temporary fling for him. 

“But I just… I want us to be on the same page,” she finished.

Terry exhaled a quiet grunt as he looked her over thoughtfully, as if he was forming his words carefully.

“Camille,” he began slowly, his voice calm but firm, “I’ve told you how I feel. More than once. You really think I’d say that if I didn’t mean it?” His brow furrowed slightly, not with anger, but hurt. “I’d never play with you like that. Ever.”

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss against her lips. “How can I help you trust me more?” he asked.

Camille bit her lip, guilt prickling beneath her skin. The truth was, it wasn’t him, it was her. It was the way her past had conditioned her to see love as conditional and transactional. Her parents only loved her when she performed and made them look good. Aston only loved her when she bent to fit his expectations. No one, outside her siblings and a few close friends, had ever loved her simply for being her.

And Terry… she couldn’t see how she could make herself valuable to him. 

“I-I don’t think you’re misleading me,” she said quietly, her eyes falling to her hands. “I just… I know how feelings can change. How they can fade without warning. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve felt it happen. And I know sometimes we mistake chemistry for something it’s not.”

She took a breath.

“I just don’t want to be blindsided… if one day you wake up and realize I’m not what you want.”

Terry’s expression softened. “I don’t understand why you think my feelings would just… disappear,” he said gently, his voice carrying genuine confusion. “But…”

His tone shifted. The assertive, confident tone returned. “If you’re willing, can I show you how serious I am? Camille, you’re more than worth the effort to me. I’ll pull out every stop, no hesitation. I want to give you the kind of love and relationship you’ve always deserved. If you’ll let me.”

Camille’s heart swelled, but doubt still ran through her.

“But… what if I can’t give you the trust you deserve?” she asked.

Terry didn’t hesitate. “Then we’ll deal with it,” he said simply, firmly, like it was already decided. “Together. I’m way too sure about you to let a little fear keep us from something real.”

Her eyes welled up, and she turned her head away, unable to meet his gaze. “I just don’t want to disappoint you,” she whispered.

His hand gently cupped her jaw, coaxing her gaze back to his. “And you won’t, princess,” he murmured. “I promise you, this will only get better with time. I’m not going anywhere. Alright?”

She hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “Alright,” she breathed.

Terry’s signature grin broke across his face. “That’s my girl,” he said, his tone rich with affection and pride.

He tightened her legs around his waist and lifted her with ease.

“Now,” he said, his voice taking on a protective edge as he walked toward the tub, “tell me about all the stuff that’s been troubling you. I want my baby relaxed and at peace. So I’m gonna do whatever it takes to make sure you never have to deal with that shit again.”

And with that, he stepped into the warm, fragrant bath, the water wrapping around them in a soothing embrace as he settled with her in his arms.

Warm arms tightened around her, gently pulling her from her flashback. Camille stirred from her thoughts with a smile, turning just enough to catch the soft glint of Terry’s half-lidded eyes. Sleep still clung to his lashes, but his gaze was locked on her, lazy and affectionate. Without a word, he nuzzled closer, burying his face into the curve of her neck and wrapping her tighter in his embrace.

She sighed and let herself sink into him. Her mind wandered back to everything that had unfolded since the day their relationship officially began.

True to his word, Terry had shown up for her in every way that mattered.

The day after they first made love, he had taken it upon himself to help her tackle the chaos that had been quietly draining her. He gently, but firmly, encouraged her to consider a leave of absence from work, sensing her burnout before she even had the words for it. At first, she had questioned the idea. But he made a compelling case and she realized just how much she had been carrying without complaint.

Thanks to his unwavering support, and probably a healthy dose of his signature charm, her FMLA approval process was seamless. She was stunned when they approved her request without hesitation, granting her three months of leave. It was unpaid, yes, but came with the golden promise of job security. 

Without the daily stress of her job pressing down on her, she found space to pour back into herself. She began to prioritize her mental health, reconnect with forgotten hobbies, and strengthen the relationships she still had. And Terry was there through all of it, not hovering, not controlling. Just present, a steady force.

And then there was the apartment.

She almost didn’t believe it when he showed her the listing. A sun-drenched one-bedroom with modern finishes, in a luxury building right across the street from his apartment. It sounded too good to be true, especially for the price. But it was real, and the space had turned into a lease within a week.

The apartment itself was perfect, almost eerily perfect. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a panoramic view of the city, Terry’s building directly across from hers. She couldn’t see the penthouse that was at least 10 floors higher than hers. But it still felt symbolic somehow, like the universe had placed her close enough to love but still gave her something entirely her own.

But perhaps the most life-changing gift Terry gave her wasn’t something he did, it was something he allowed. He encouraged Camille to become a fuller, more authentic version of herself. Not the version she’d spent years perfecting to survive. Not the polished, agreeable, overachieving mask she wore for her parents, for Aston, or for work, but the real her. The layered, imperfect, evolving self she’d once been afraid to show.

Terry never obsessed over status or success. He didn’t care about impressing the right people at the right parties or scaling some invisible social ladder. Instead, his conversations flowed with ease, always perfectly in tune with the moment. One minute, he could dive deep into a thoughtful topic that left her contemplating long after he had stopped speaking. The next, he would be making her shake with laughter with a ridiculous impersonation or an absurd scenario he had made up just to see her smile.

He was effortlessly multidimensional. Playful, charismatic, seductive... He wore every shade of himself openly, without shame. And in doing so, he gave her permission to do the same.

With Terry, Camille didn’t feel the pressure to perform. She didn’t have to shrink herself to fit someone else’s ideal or soften her edges to keep the peace. She could be opinionated. She could be silly. She could cry without apology, laugh without restraint, and admit when she didn’t have the answers.

She’d started to share parts of herself she’d kept tucked away for years. Her weird humor, her childhood dreams, her random obsessions. And instead of recoiling or dismissing her, Terry leaned in with genuine curiosity, as if each layer of her only made her more fascinating to him.

And somewhere along the way, Camille realized she no longer feared being seen. Not by him. Not by anyone else. Not even herself.

Camille smiled as she felt lips subtly press against her neck, inching closer and closer to her ear.

“Baby, come on, I have to leave soon,” she giggled, feeling her naked body warming with each kiss. If Terry hadn’t shown her anything these past few months, he definitely showed her he was insatiable. Whether he had just fucked her with ferocious passion or made love to her with the most fulfilling care, he was always wanting more after. And Camille almost always succumbed to him. That’s how she ended up spending the night.

As cozy as she felt in Terry’s embrace, Camille knew she had to start moving. The day ahead was already full. She needed to head back to her apartment to freshen up before driving to the airport to meet her sister, Chloe. After months apart, the idea of finally seeing her in person had her buzzing with excitement. Texts and video calls were comforting, but they could never replace a real hug, the inside jokes exchanged through glances, or the way they could fall into step with each other like no time had passed at all.

After picking her up, they would drop her bags off at her hotel. Camille had offered her place, but her sister declined with a polite smile and a promise that it wasn’t personal. Camille suspected she just needed some space. This trip to Houston was Chloe’s first real break from what seems to be a pretty demanding marriage. Camille didn’t want to crowd her, but she couldn’t help the tiny pang of disappointment that they wouldn’t have a chance for a sleepover.

Terry stirred behind her. His arm tightened around her waist, and she felt his lips brush against her shoulder with a smile.

“I know,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep, “but five more minutes, baby? I just want to hold you a little longer.” He pulled her closer, burying his face into the curve of her neck. She let out a soft laugh, rolling her eyes playfully. “Fine,” she sighed, melting back into him, “but only five.”

Terry hummed in satisfaction, the low sound vibrating against her skin like a contented purr. Camille relaxed into his hold, fingers absently tracing the arm wrapped around her. Then she remembered something. “Don’t you have plans today too? Something with Jabari?” He didn’t respond right away, but she felt the subtle shift in his energy.

Camille had noticed it more and more lately: the quiet pride Terry carried when he talked about his protégé. He didn’t speak on it often, but in rare moments, it was obvious that Jabari was more than just a mentee. He was like a little brother to Terry. Terry had mentioned in passing that Jabari was getting promoted within the realty organization that he co-owned, and the gleam in his eyes when he said it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“You're proud of him,” she said softly, half teasing, half admiring. Terry’s smile widened against her skin. “Yeah,” he admitted. “He’s worked hard. He deserves this.” Camille’s heart warmed at the sound of it. Even in moments like this, Terry’s capacity to care, to invest in others, never failed to move her.

“But, that’s later tonight,” he chuckled, his hands sliding down to squeeze her ass. “So I’m in no rush.”

“Hey!” Camille mildly chastised. “Keep your hands above the waist only, sir.” 

“Yeah?” Terry breathed, his hands moving up to cup her breasts, lightly pinching her nipples. She gasped, lightly hitting his hands as their laughter filled the room.

A few minutes later, Camille stood in the middle of Terry’s walk-in closet as she sifted through several of his drawers. She reached for one of his t-shirts and tugged it over her head. She paired it with a pair of his basketball shorts that she had to roll several times to keep them from sliding off her hips.

True to form, Terry insisted on walking her back to her building, even though it was quite literally across the street. Each time he did it, Camille bit back a grin. The distance between their front doors couldn’t have been more than 200 feet, but you’d think she was trekking through a war zone the way he hovered protectively by her side. Still, she couldn’t help but appreciate the gesture. 

Once they reached the door to her apartment, he wrapped her in a long, lingering embrace. They shared several slow, affectionate kisses, each one softer than the last, like punctuation marks on a sentence neither of them wanted to end.

Then, as Camille reluctantly pulled back, a thought sparked in her mind. “Terry, do you think Lorenzo could take us to lunch and bring us back later? I have a strong feeling Kali and Chloe are going to want to split a margarita pitcher.”

Terry chuckled, already reaching for his phone. “Yes, ma’am. Just tell me what time you want him outside.”

Camille grinned. She liked Lorenzo, the friendly driver who occasionally chauffeured them to dinner dates or events. He was polite, occasionally engaging in light conversation when prompted. Every so often, she caught him staring a little longer than necessary in the rearview mirror, but he never crossed a line, and she brushed it off as curiosity more than anything else.

“Okay,” she said, stepping onto her toes to give him one more kiss. “Love you. Let me know how tonight goes, please?”

“I love you too, Cam. And I will,” he murmured, his smile easy. With one final squeeze of her hand, he turned and made his way back toward the elevators. Camille lingered in her doorway for a moment, her heart full.

Terry

Words could barely describe how good life had been to Terry these past two months. Every time Camille stirred beside him, kissed him freely, moaned his name, or shared a moment with him, it confirmed that all the sacrifices, the calculated moves, the chaos he created to get here had been worth it. Every last bit.

The abrupt relocation to Houston had been a gamble. Uprooting his life in D.C, convincing his most trusted people— who were spread out across the country—to make the leap with him, had taken more effort than he cared to admit. And settling into a high-profile corporate law firm filled with white faces, polished egos, and superficial smiles hadn’t exactly thrilled him. 

Then there had been the nuisance of navigating her ex. Aston. Just the thought of him still made Terry’s jaw tense. Dealing with that mess had tested every ounce of his restraint, but he had handled it without dragging Camille into a situation she couldn’t get out of. And of course, there was Stephanie… Using her to get closer to his goal had almost turned messy. But it had served its purpose. All of it had.

And now?

Now, he woke up every day either beside or across the street from the woman who had been the object of his obsession. Each sleepy blink of her eyes in the morning light, every smile that tugged at her lips when she found his arms around her, it reminded him why he had done it all. Camille wasn’t just someone he loved. She was the reason behind his moves. His endgame. His peace.

And with her…because of her, he finally felt that his too-long life was complete.

His immortal existence, stretching over two centuries, had given him much: power, wealth, and influence that was beyond his imagination. But it had come at a steep cost. Though he didn’t mourn the frailty of his human body, there were parts of his humanity he missed with a quiet, aching intensity.

He missed being a part of a human community, missed the joy of true companionship. He missed the urgency of finite time. The way humans cherished a sunrise, or a last kiss, simply because they knew it wouldn't last. That sense of fragility, of impermanence, once gave life a sweetness he hadn’t realized he craved until it was gone.

For decades following the night he was turned back on a Georgia plantation in 1792, he practically got high off his new identity. The unimaginable strength. The ability to control those around him. Interact with white folks any way he pleased without consequence. For a while, nothing could top those feelings and experiences.

But eventually, even the finest pleasures dulled. The money grew tedious. The influence felt hollow. And the years, so many endless, unchanging years, began to weigh on him.

Desperate to feel something real again, he turned his efforts toward connection. Philanthropy. Leadership. Immersing himself in the lives of humans without ever fully belonging to them. He built charities, sat on boards, shook hands and made speeches. Volunteering gave him glimpses of what he’d once been. Moments of borrowed humanity.

But no matter how hard he tried, something always pulled him back into the truth of what he was. The thirst for blood that popped up at the most inconvenient times. The constant lust that curled like smoke beneath his skin. The violence that simmered just beneath the surface, ready to rise. And even as he smiled in public and tried to pass as human, he always knew: he could never truly go back.

He accepted the duality eventually and crafted a persona that could exist in both worlds. But it never stopped hurting when he saw other vampires slowly find their way back to something meaningful. Some found human partners. Some even built families. Others discovered faith, or purpose, or peace.

But not him.

For years, Terry watched the others move forward while he remained locked in place. He told himself it didn’t bother him. That he was above needing those things. But deep down, bitterness grew. A quiet envy bloomed.

And then he met her. Something shifted the moment he first laid eyes on Camille. It wasn’t the typical thrill of attraction, though she was beautiful. It was something deeper. A pathway back to humanity. 

Their connection gave him hope for a new beginning for him. And in that moment, he made a decision: he would move heaven and earth, push through any obstacle, burn through any lie or legacy if it meant holding onto her.

Now, months later, he was living it. Waking up beside her. Laughing with her. Learning her rhythms, her fears, her heart. And slowly, feeling parts of himself return that he thought he had lost permanently. 

Camille didn’t just make his existence bearable. She made it matter.

With this newfound appreciation for life, Terry had begun to look at everything in his world with sharper eyes and deeper gratitude. Tonight’s gathering was no exception. It wasn’t just another formality, it recognized Jabari’s growth as a vampire.

The ceremony would mark his formal recognition by the elder vampires, blessing him with the knowledge of the Veil. The power was reserved only for those the elders deemed trustworthy and mature enough to wield it. It wasn’t given lightly. But these past few years, no one could deny that he didn’t earn it.Jabari was still considered young by immortal standards. It’s barely been seven years since he turned. He was just doing his job and protecting others, breaking up a club fight gone wrong. But he ended up getting shot and bleeding out on the club floor while people scrambled away. Whoever had turned him had likely acted out of guilt. They were perfectly capable of stopping the fight, but left a human to do it. But no one will ever know. No one ever stepped forward to claim responsibility. All anyone knew was that he was dropped outside the doors of Crimson, unconscious. Just dumped at Terry’s doorstep like a problem someone else didn’t want to deal with.

Normally, Terry would’ve just offered a few words of counsel and sent him on his way. Let him figure out immortality on his own, like so many before him. But there was something about the kid that gave him pause. Maybe it was how devastated he was, the disbelief when he realized what he had become. 

Terry had pitied him at first. That pity turned into a job offer. But Jabari refused to stop there. He began shadowing Terry, watching how he moved through both the human and vampire worlds. He asked questions. Took notes. He was determined to wrestle back control of the life that had been stolen from him. And over the years, their mentor-mentee relationship evolved into an unspoken bond similar to brotherhood.

Terry had never admitted it aloud, but watching Jabari find his footing in this strange life gave him a sense of pride. The boy’s success felt like a shared victory. 

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, as Terry slowly sifted through rows of dark, tailored jackets and crisp, expensive shirts, searching for the right ensemble for the evening ahead. 

But it was fleeting.

The smile dissolved just as quickly as it came, replaced by that all-too-familiar ache that had been haunting him ever since the first time he had Camille in his bed. He groaned under his breath as the sensation surged through him. His fangs descending slightly, brushing against the inside of his bottom lip. A thin thread of drool followed, and he swiped it away with the back of his hand, jaw clenched tightly.

It wasn’t just desire anymore. It was need. A hunger that had taken root deep in his gut, demanding Camille’s blood more and more with every passing day.

Ever since they made love, his body couldn’t find satisfaction in other sources. He tried everything to curb the desire. Stockpiling rare blood types in his hidden mini fridge, mixing dark liquor into his rations, increasing his overall intake…but it was no use. Sure, he was still able to sustain himself the way he always did. But, the hunger remained. Persistent.

It wasn’t just that he wanted to feed, he wanted to feed from her. And only her.

The smell of her blood called to him like a siren, stronger than anything he had ever experienced. It was somewhat maddening. Most days, he wrestled it down, buried it beneath restraint and reason. But even his centuries of discipline were being tested now. Any time she was around, his mask threatened to slip. But it never did. But one night last week, he almost lost all control:

The scent hit him before he was even in front of the door. Rich butter, slow-roasted garlic, and a hint of something sweet and peppery curling through the air, tugging at him, coaxing him into Camille’s apartment.

Camille had offered to cook for him after he had mindlessly mentioned how annoying his day had been on a call they had earlier. He hadn’t meant it as a complaint, but she heard the fatigue in his voice anyway. “Come over,” she had said gently. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Of course, he accepted. The promise of her food and her company had been the one thing that helped him grit his teeth through the remainder of the workday. He left the office a half-hour early, tore through traffic, and only paused at his own place long enough to change into a fitted tee and sweatpants.

Then he made the short walk across the street and up to the apartment that he secretly owned and leased to Camille at only thirty percent of what it was worth. He had no shame in making her believe their close proximity was just a happy coincidence. Besides, it was one of the more respectable things he had done behind her back. What he did to her parents to get them to leave her alone… that was actually a little shameful. But he couldn’t care about that now. He had dinner to eat.

She had left the door unlocked for him, allowing him to slip inside without a sound. He turned the corner into her kitchen, the view stopping him cold.

Camille stood at the stove, back turned, swaying ever so slightly to the music playing low from her phone. One of his t-shirts clung to her in the most perfect way, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, hanging just long enough to tease the curve of her thighs. She was barefoot, standing on the balls of her feet as she reached up for a spice jar, the stretch accentuating her ass barely covered by tiny sleep shorts and her shapely, smooth legs. 

She was humming some tune. Completely at ease in the warmth of her kitchen, bathed in the golden light that spilled from overhead. 

Damn, she was beautiful.

Terry stood in the doorway, his hands clenching slowly at his sides as he soaked in every detail. The smoothness of her skin. The faint scent of jasmine, lavender, and vanilla cutting through the smell of food. The subtle shift of her heartbeat. Each beat thudded in his ears. And it called to the darkest part of him, the primal part that wanted her blood spilling down his throat as he filled her up with his cum. 

And as she stood there, humming and stirring a pan of something that smelled too good to be real, she had no idea how close he was to losing control.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe and keep the monster leashed. He decided he would channel his hunger into a… different appetite for her. 

She turned slightly, her eyes landing on him. Her entire face lit up with an eager, radiant grin that nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Hi, baby! You’re early,” she greeted. Without hesitation, Camille wiped her hands on a dish towel before rushing across the kitchen to throw her arms around him. 

“I’m making your favorite,” she added, pulling back just enough to look up at him with a sparkle in her eye. “Figured you’d want that after the day you had.”

He didn’t answer. 

He just grabbed her chin to pull her into a sloppy, slow tongue kiss, making her moan into his mouth. He pulled away to let her catch her breath and he stared down at her with hooded eyes. 

“Can I have my dessert before dinner?” He asked, already tugging her shorts down and slipping to his knees. She sucked in a breath, nodding as she looked down at him. 

“Only if it doesn’t ruin your appetite,” she murmured, bracing herself against the kitchen island. He smirked, pulling her panties to the side. Trust me, it won’t, he thought as his tongue slipped between her folds, her taste making him groan and his bulge throb. 

A sharp gasp caught in her throat as she threw her head back.

Nearly breathless moans and sharp cries of his name spilled from her lips as he devoured her. He didn’t stop when her legs shook uncontrollably. He didn’t stop when her juices soaked his chin. He didn’t even stop when her thighs started to squeeze around his head. This wasn’t just for her. He had a thirst to quench.

But he knew the burning desire in him wouldn’t settle down until he was inside of her. So he eventually rose to his feet, pulled his dick from his sweatpants and moved in between her legs as her hands caressed his torso. He teasingly rubbed his tip against her sensitive clit, pulling a weak whine from her. He smirked as he leaned in to pull her bottom lip into his mouth, sinking into her at the same time. He paused to give her time to adjust to his fullness, deepening their kiss. He hissed as he felt her flutter around him.

Then, he buried himself deep inside of her. Each roll of his hips was deep and reverent, fogging his mind with intoxicating pleasure.

Each moan from his baby’s lips brought him closer to his high. But it also seemed to make the smell of the fluid pumping through her veins even more noticeable. As he got lost in Camille, he got even more lost in her scent. He moved from her lips to her neck, trailing wet kisses and nips everywhere.

It would just be one bite. One quick bite. It would hurt for her at first, but the pain would be swiftly replaced with pleasure. She would have the best orgasm of her life. She would be able to forgive him, wouldn’t she? For him making her his entirely?

The thoughts clawed at the edges of Terry’s mind, his hunger scratching at his self-control with every passing second. Camille’s body pressed against him, her scent, all of it wrapped around him like a drug. It fogged his senses and all that remained was instinct.

His jaw unhinged, fangs lengthening and aching to pierce. His hands tightened around her spread thighs, holding her in place, and his head dipped toward her neck. The delicate thrum of her pulse beneath that soft skin was too tempting. Too close.

Just one fucking bite…

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The piercing shriek of the smoke detector shattered the moment like glass.

Camille let out a startled yelp. Instinctively, they both turned toward the stove.

The pan on the burner hissed angrily, oil crackling at the edges, while faint curls of smoke spiraled into the air. Camille rushed forward, snatching a dish towel to drag the pan off the heat, twisting the knob to kill the burner.

At the same time, Terry stretched his arm upward with unhurried precision, flipping the tiny switch on the smoke detector until the shrill noise cut off with a final beep.

For a moment, they just stood there in front of the stove. Then, they looked at each other. Without warning, laughter erupted between them and they began to adjust their clothes. But beneath the sound, under the surface of his smile, Terry was uneasy. He had almost lost control. Again. And he would have fed from her if not for the goddamn smoke detector.

The laughter felt hollow in his chest now, a cover for the panic pounding in his veins. He’d been seconds away from something that would have shattered everything they had.

He needed to meet with Elijah. Soon. He couldn’t afford to let this craving spiral any further. Because next time, there wouldn’t be a smoke alarm to snap him out of it.

“It was just the truffle sauce,” Camille giggled as she stared into the pan. “That won’t take too much time to remake. Do you mind the extra wait?” She asked, giving him an expectant look. Terry smiled. “Of course not, princess.”

“Good,” she hummed as she slyly approached him. His eyebrow raised as she began to crouch in front of him, pulling at the band of his sweatpants, freeing his still-hard dick. She licked her lips as she watched it slapped against his stomach. Then her eyes met his again, full of seductive promise. “Because we weren’t finished.”

The chime of his phone snapped Terry out of the memory. He blinked, and with a low exhale, he pulled the device from his pocket and glanced at the screen.

A message from Lorenzo lit up beneath his thumb: Just picked up Camille and her guests. Heading to the restaurant now.

Terry liked the message, the corner of his mouth twitching with faint approval. He made a mental note to light a protection candle for them before he left for the ceremony. He didn’t think anything would happen, but he wanted to be extra precautious.

Sliding the phone onto a nearby dresser, he returned to rummaging through his closet. Anything to distract from the primal hunger still simmering low in his gut. He clenched his jaw. Forced his breathing steady.

It was ridiculous, this ache. Irrational. He’d lived for over two centuries with perfect control. He had resisted worse. But Camille was something different entirely.

He would hold himself together, though. He had to.

Lorenzo

Lorenzo sat idling in front of Camille DeWaterson’s apartment building, the engine of the sleek black truck purring softly beneath him. A chill settled over him as he thought about the day ahead. He would cherish the moment he would have to see Camille without Terry looming over them. Usually, their paths crossed only when Terry took her out on a date and didn't feel like driving. Maybe eight times in the past few months. Every encounter, he walked on eggshells, keeping conversations light and superficial, never daring to flirt or show his attraction to her. He didn’t want to set off Terry, a terrifying man who he knew would rip him apart if his gaze lingered on her for too long. 

But today was different. Today, he might have a chance to speak with Camille more freely, even if she was accompanied by others. His heart quickened at the thought and he smiled as he imagined her laughter. 

But as he continued to wait, his smile disappeared as his mind wandered to the evening ahead. Later tonight, he would be reminded of his place in the vampire world. Or rather, his lack of it. He'd be driving Terry to the ceremony dedicated to Jabari's promotion, a promotion that should have been his. Sure, Jabari had the support of one of the most high-ranking supernaturals in the state by being Terry’s right hand man. But Jabari had been turned only seven years ago, while Lorenzo had been turned over eighteen years ago. Eighteen years of being overlooked, of being nothing more than a chauffeur in the eyes of those who held power.

No one had ever given him a chance to prove himself. No one had ever offered him access to the inner circles, to the spaces with Indulgences. He remained the lowly driver. Yes, he was paid handsomely, no other driver in Houston was raking in five-figure months. But this was beyond the money now. He had aspirations beyond being in a driver's seat. He wanted power, respect, a place among the elite. But no one gave a damn.

So when a mysterious older white man approached him a month ago, promising him power beyond Terry’s and a chance to take what belonged to him, he didn't hesitate:

Lorenzo eased the sleek black car to a stop in front of the building that served as the public face of the vampire den. By all outward appearances, it looked like it was only some snobby, upscale club. But the adventurous sex enthusiasts of Houston knew it was a BDSM club. And beyond that, vampires from all over convened there for council, ceremony, and control. Or they scouted for Indulgences. Or both. It was a sanctum for the powerful, and a symbol of everything he didn’t have.

With a practiced motion, he popped open his door and circled around to the back, smoothing out the front of his jacket. He wore the usual polite half-smile he wore for Terry, not too eager, not too indifferent. Just enough to appear professional. Subservient.

He swung the car door open, and Terry stepped out without even glancing at him, eyes too glued to his phone. He brushed past Lorenzo with quiet authority.

“I’ll only be thirty minutes,” Terry said over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be here,” Lorenzo replied evenly, forcing the words out through clenched teeth.

And then Terry was gone, swallowed by the heavy doors and the shadows behind them.

As soon as they shut, Lorenzo’s smile crumbled. He muttered “motherfucker” under his breath and stomped back into the driver’s seat, yanking the door closed. He sat for a moment, jaw tightening in resentment. 

“Thirty minutes,” he scoffed, starting the car with a low growl. “Whatever, nigga.”

He pulled away from the curb and headed down to a bar a few blocks away. He was a regular, so he got deals and it had just enough noise from the TVs to drown out his thoughts.

A beer. Maybe two. Something to take the edge off. And maybe, if the stars aligned, a game worth half a damn to distract him from the reminder that he would always be the one waiting in the car.

After parallel parking along a nearly empty street, Lorenzo stepped out into the humid night and made his way into the buzzing bar. The door creaked open to reveal a dull roar of conversation and clinking glasses. A few TVs flickered overhead, each tuned to something that barely held anyone’s interest.

He claimed an empty stool near the end of the bar. With a quick nod to the bartender, he ordered a cold beer and planted his elbows on the wooden countertop. As the glass slid his way, he pulled out his phone and set a timer for ten minutes. No more than that. Just enough to unwind without getting distracted.

He turned his gaze toward the nearest screen and groaned inwardly. Soccer. And golf. That was it. He took a long pull from the beer anyway, letting the bitterness dull his frustration.

Then he felt a presence settling beside him. Someone had slid into the seat to his right, quiet but deliberate. Lorenzo didn’t look at first. He didn’t care. Until a glint of an expensive watch caught his eye. Far too expensive for this side of town, let alone this time of night. His brow furrowed as he stole a better look. Not just expensive. Elite. The kind of piece worn by men like Terry when walking into high-stakes deals.

The man beside him spoke, his deep Southern voice smooth and confident.

“It’s a Patek Philippe.”

Lorenzo blinked, turning his head slightly. “What?”

The stranger angled toward him, offering a tight-lipped smile. “The watch,” the man said, lifting his wrist casually. “Patek Philippe. You should remember the name. Maybe one day you’ll own one.”

Lorenzo stared, skeptical. “Right…”

Another rich asshole slumming it for kicks, he thought. A rich, dumb human. He shook his head and muttered, “Sure, man. At the rate that I’m going with my job, I won’t be seeing that kind of money in this lifetime.”

He took another sip of his beer, expecting the conversation to dissolve into nothing. But it didn’t.

Instead, the stranger stayed silent for a moment, then leaned in just enough for his next words to only be heard by him. “Would you like for that to change, Lorenzo?”

Lorenzo stiffened. He turned slowly, the glass halfway to his mouth, becoming much more alert.

“…Do I know you?”

The man’s lips curled and his eyes glinted with something unsettling. 

“Not yet,” he replied smoothly. “But we have something in common.”

And then it happened. So fast, it almost didn’t register. The man’s pupils rolled back, revealing irises that glowed deep crimson, slitted like a serpent’s. Lorenzo’s breath caught in his throat.

An imp.

The kind of demonic supernatural you only heard about in hushed conversations. They were rarely a direct threat to the powerful vampires, but they were unpredictable. And Lorenzo didn’t want to take any risks.

He fumbled for his wallet, yanking it from his back pocket and preparing to slap a ten down on the bar. He didn’t care about the drink or his little pity party anymore. Everything in him screamed to move.

But just as he began to rise, a pale hand closed around his wrist. 

“Relax, Lorenzo,” the imp said softly, voice low and strangely calming. “I’m not here for trouble. I’m here to offer you something I think you’ll want to hear.”

Lorenzo didn’t sit, not right away. He stayed half-standing, poised to run. His eyes flicked to the bar’s exit. Then back to the imp. The stranger tilted his head slightly, unbothered by the tension radiating from Lorenzo. His expression was patient.

“I took the time to learn your name,” he added. “Don’t you think that makes me at least worth listening to?”

Lorenzo hesitated. It was a risk. But if this imp knew who he was, then maybe walking away wasn’t the safest option either. Slowly, cautiously, he sat back down, eyes never leaving the man.

“Alright,” Lorenzo said, voice low and guarded. “Talk.”

“Atta boy,” the stranger drawled. “How would you like to take Terry’s place?”

Lorenzo's breath caught, a dry chuckle escaping his lips as he tried to mask the unease creeping up his spine. “What is this about?”

The imp sighed. “Fine, I’ll just hop straight to it. Terry has got my son, Aston, into some trouble. And to get him out of that trouble, I need you to get Terry to separate from that little girlfriend of his. I’m sure you know her. Camille?”

Lorenzo tensed, his pulse quickening. The imp continued, his tone unchanging. “Now I don’t want to bring any harm to Camille. I know you’re sweet on her. I just need to get her to my son. You see, they’re old friends—”

“Why can’t your son do all this for himself?” Lorenzo interrupted, his voice sharper than intended. An imp, in theory, was strong enough to take on Terry.

The imp's smile cracked for a moment, a flicker of something darker passing through his eyes before he regained his composure. “My son, unfortunately, came out human like his mother. He could never have the power to separate a vampire from his Indulgence.”

Lorenzo's skepticism deepened.

“I’m sorry, sir, but this sounds ridiculous. I’m not interested,” Lorenzo said, his voice steady despite the unease gnawing at him. As his ten-minute timer went off, he stood to leave. “Have a good ev—”

“Seven million dollars. With a ten percent cut upfront.”

Lorenzo froze, the man’s words hanging in the air. He blinked, stunned by the number he was offering. His mind raced, trying to process the proposition.

“All you gotta do,” the imp continued, leaning in slightly, his voice low and persuasive, “is expose his identity to her and show her the monster he really is. That’s it. I’ll take care of the rest. Terry will be long gone, and you’ll be free to take his place.”

Lorenzo's heart pounded in his chest. As he tried to find words to respond, the imp stood, throwing a sleek business card onto the bar. 

“Call me McCoy. Let me know when you want to change your life.”

With that, he clapped Lorenzo’s shoulder before strolling towards the exit, his presence lingering in the air long after he left.

The very next day, Lorenzo had dialed the card’s number, fingers trembling slightly as the call connected. When McCoy answered, Lorenzo gave his answer. “I’m in.”

This was his shot at the life he was owed. A life that had been dangled in front of him for far too long.

And the best part? All it would take was a little doubt. A few carefully planted seeds in Camille’s mind, maybe even some planted evidence. Nothing too aggressive, nothing that would raise red flags. Just enough to tip her curiosity, to get her to peer past the charming mask Terry always wore. Once the cracks formed, all he had to do was guide her toward the truth. 

He could be patient. He had already waited a month. But now he has a plan. He just needed an opportunity to get her to ride with him alone. 

Right on cue, he spotted her. Camille emerged from her building, two women following close behind. All three moved with confidence, knowing the beauty they possessed.

Lorenzo’s breath hitched for a beat. Damn, He thought. Terry knows some fine ass bitches.

He exhaled, adjusted his expression into something casual and professional, and stepped out of the car. As he rounded the vehicle to open the back door, he let his eyes rest on Camille for a second longer than he should have.

“Hi Lorenzo,” Camille greeted politely as she got closer. “How are you?” 

Lorenzo gave her a full sweep of her body, clad in a sexy top and matching skirt, as he responded, “I’m doing just fine, Ms. Camille. How about yourself?”

“I can’t complain,” Camille cooed. She flashed a radiant smile at one of the women, who returned it with equal brightness. “My sister’s in town!” The women all giggled.

“Good to meet you, Ms...?” Lorenzo trailed off, his tone polite yet expectant.

“Chloe,” the woman replied, offering a brief smile before gracefully sliding into the car. He nodded, then turned his attention to the other woman, who regarded him with a sharp look.

“And you are... Ms...?” he prompted.

The woman gave him a swift once-over, her expression serious. “Kali,” she muttered curtly, then slid into the car without another word.

Stuck-up bitch, Lorenzo thought. He returned his focus to Camille, the only one of the three who seemed to acknowledge his presence with any warmth, as she slid in behind the lightskin broad.

He shut the door with a soft click and jogged back to the driver's seat.

“El Jardin, right?” he asked, settling into his seat and snapping on his seatbelt.

“Yes, please!” Camille responded sweetly. Lorenzo smiled to himself, reaching up to adjust the rearview mirror to get a better look at her. But as he did, his gaze met the suspicious eyes of Kali, who was watching him intently from the backseat. He quickly averted his eyes, sensing that she would be a problem if he tried to engage in conversation.

“Oh, by the way, Lorenzo,” Camille cooed, leaning toward him with a smile that made his pulse quicken. “I’m so sorry for the late request, but do you think you could take me somewhere tomorrow? I’m lending my sister my car for the rest of the weekend.”

Lorenzo’s heart skipped a beat. This was it, the opening he’d been waiting for. His lips curled into a smile, concealing the surge of excitement bubbling in him.

“That’s not a problem at all,” he replied, his exterior calm. “Just let me know what time you want me to be outside.”

Inside, however, his mind was ablaze with possibilities. This is my chance. To make her question everything she believes about Terry.

“Great! Thank you,” Camille beamed, her eyes sparkling with gratitude before she settled back into her seat, rejoining the conversation.

Lorenzo started the car, pulling away from the curb. The lively chatter from the backseat filled the car, but his focus remained on his next move.

Aston

Aston sat across from Stephanie, his hands trembling slightly and mind racing as he ate his dinner. For over a month, he had been trapped in a mental prison, his body and mind no longer his own. He had watched helplessly as his actions and words were controlled by Stephanie Hodges, his former crush and coworker. But a little over a week ago, something had changed. The fog in his mind had lifted, and he had broken free from whatever spell had ensnared him. Yet, the relief was bittersweet. The woman sitting across from him was still a looming threat.

If these past few months had taught him anything, it was that Stephanie was dangerous, far more dangerous than he had ever realized. She was obsessed with Terry, despite knowing that he was a vampire. She talks about him all day long when she thinks he’s not in earshot. Her plan to lure him to whatever remote location she had them living in. Her desire to marry him and force him to turn her. Her plan to turn Aston into her blood slave once she turned. All of her plans sent chills down his spine. But the one he feared the most was her plan to sell Camille to the highest bidder once she used her to pull Terry into a trap.

His poor Camille. Aston's heart ached at the thought of her. When he had first fallen under Stephanie's control, he had fought desperately to regain his autonomy, to warn her, to protect her. But each battle with his own mind had only led to breakdowns and sedation. Eventually, he had stopped fighting, submitting to the control, hoping it would end. And now it has.

But before he could even think about seeing Camille again, Aston knew he needed a plan, something solid, something smart. Reckless hope wouldn’t be enough. He didn’t know where he was, didn’t know how far from home Stephanie had taken him. The house was isolated, surrounded by acres of flat, open farmland that rolled out like a green sea in every direction. No roads. No signs. Just wind and the occasional whinny of horses somewhere in the distance. He didn’t even know if they were still in Texas.

And he didn’t know what Stephanie would do if she caught wind of his awareness. He’d seen enough of her unhinged behavior to know she was capable of just about anything.

At first, he had pinned his hopes on his parents, who showed up from time to time. But their visits only deepened his confusion and fear. They were worried, he could tell. But they weren’t helping him. Instead, they acted like all of this was normal. Whatever leverage she had on them, it was powerful enough to make them play pretend too.

So now, as he sat across from her at the worn dining table, finally free in mind and body, he made the only choice he could. He played along. He continued to act like Stephanie was his whole world. Gave her the exact version of himself she expected. Because that was the only way to buy time. To stay invisible. To strategize.

If he had to smile through gritted teeth, laugh at her twisted jokes, nod at her obsessive monologues about Terry, then so be it. He would keep the mask on until the time was right. Until he had an opening. And when he did, when all the pieces finally fell into place, he would take off.

And he would make sure Camille was safe. No matter what it cost him.

Chloe

Chloe exhaled happily as she steered Camille’s car away from her apartment. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the city, and she felt a profound sense of peace settle within her.

Her trip to Houston had already been like a dream, each moment more fulfilling than the last.

She was overjoyed at how her sister had blossomed since their last visit. No longer weighed down by the expectations of their parents, Camille had found a new rhythm in life. With Terry by her side and a fresh start in a cozy apartment, she radiated a warmth and joy that Chloe hadn't seen in years. Her laughter was more frequent, her conversations lighter, and her spirit undeniably brighter. She had even rekindled her passion for floral arranging, a hobby Aston encouraged her to abandon.

It was only day one, and Chloe was already happier than she had been since her wedding. The lunch she had earlier that day with Camille and Kali had been a highlight of her year. They had updated each other on their lives, shared yummy tapas and drinks, and laughed until their bellies ached. Chloe couldn't remember the last time she had felt so connected, so at ease. It was the perfect beginning to her vacation, a much-needed respite from her life as a married woman. 

She couldn't wait to dive into the week further. Shopping at unique boutiques, attending wellness events, and, most importantly, spending quality time with Camille. This trip was more than a getaway; it was a chance to nurture their bond and create new memories together.

But… she would be lying if she said that her sister was the only thing that pulled her to Houston. She also came to see her long distance situationship, Jabari.

The bouncer she had met at Crimson all those months ago had reached out to her on social media, and she found herself eager to continue the connection. Jabari was different. Interesting. Sexy. Dangerous. 

She knew what she was doing was wrong. Cheating on Simon was a betrayal she couldn’t justify. But her marriage had been a cage. Simon dictated every aspect of her life and any deviation from his expectations resulted in financial punishment. Her inheritance had been signed over to Simon by her father, leaving her financially bound to a man who saw her as an extension of his social status rather than a partner.

She had once believed in the fairy tale of their childhood friendship blossoming into love. But now, she saw the truth: Simon had been groomed by her father to be the perfect match, someone who would uphold his control over her life. Their marriage was never about love; it was a strategic alliance, a business transaction.

So Chloe didn’t feel too bad for running to another man. Besides, she was sure that he had his own share of partners. So Chloe happily welcomed Jabari into her life and her bed. Whenever he would visit New Orleans to make sure Crimson was running smoothly, she would sneak down to his hotel and let herself get lost in him.

Now that she was in Houston, it would be no different. Days would be for her sister. Nights would be for Jabari. That’s why she got a hotel instead of opting to stay with Camille. She didn’t want her sister to know she was cheating on her husband. Not yet at least. And she didn’t want to depend on late night or early morning Ubers, which were connected to Simon’s bank accounts. So she made up an excuse to borrow her sister’s car. Camille didn’t need to know she was using it to go see a man about a very, VERY big horse.

As Chloe drove through the center of Houston’s downtown, she took in everything around her, happy to just be there. But something, someone rather, made her slow down slightly. Across the street she was driving on, she could see the driver who took them to lunch earlier. He was standing outside of some club it seemed like. But some of the people outside were decked out in latex, collars, and leashes, and Chloe immediately realized that was no regular club.

“No way,” Chloe giggled, pulling over to park and get a better look at the driver and what he was doing. She knew he was some kind of pervert. He couldn’t stop staring at Camille’s body earlier that day. It creeped both Chloe and Kali out, which they told Camille. She laughed them off though, thinking they were exaggerating.

Chloe pulled her phone out, ready to send a picture of him with someone in one of those BDSM costumes to her groupchat with Camille and Kali. But instead, a beautiful woman, someone way out of his league, came out of the building and approached him. Chloe’s brow furrowed as he handed her a stack of money.

Maybe he’s a pay pig, she thought, almost about to put her phone away. But the woman reached under her dress and began to tug down her sparkly red panties. Chloe gasped, snapping several pictures as her hand flew to her mouth. She snapped another picture as the woman handed them to him. Chloe expected the guy to put them in his pocket. But instead, he seemed to tuck it under the passenger seat, as if he was saving them for later. She took one last photo, hoping it captured the strange action. But she decided against sending it in the group chat, sensing that there was something strange about that situation.

----------

@nayaesworld @slvt4her @writingsbytee @notapradagurl7 @23jammy @kaylaahisthebestest- @theogbadbitch @wabi-sabi1090 @hotgyalaroad @nubiagurllll @lovedlover @dimepiece09 @lavaniiii @simplyzeeka @susanhill @next-bex-bet @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @ranikyani @daddyslittlevillain @blackchickinthedesert @sparklytemi @sonotlauryn @hello-therree @solunaseira @hotebonynearby @key05marie @moebuttta @winorlosetogether @nohatingpplbczhtingpplr @alexinmotion @queencb2462 @kismet83 @bruleecream @playingaymes

[waynes-multiverse]

Time After Time – Chapter 7

Summary: Unable to control your abilities, you’re stuck in the present with Billy Butcher, his team, and America’s first asshole. At this point, you’ve become Soldier Boy’s personal punching bag. But when an accident leaves you stranded in 1942, you run into a familiar face and suddenly rely on your future tormentor’s help as your only hope.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x supe!Reader

Warnings: 18+ for language, reader is a supe with chronokinesis (time manipulation), 1942 says hi, SB being a nice and kind human, freely invented historical gossip, major angst alert & a bit of fluff

Word Count: 10.5k

Posted on Patreon April 11, 2025

A/N: Three angsty converstions in this one, three women, and one very upset Ben! Plus, a deep dive into Mrs. Brooks! If ya can't tell by the word count again, I clearly loved writing this part 😂🫶 �� Chapter title comes from The Wizard of Oz (1939)

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 7: Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!

It had been an agonizing hour of pacing, second-guessing, and questioning everything that had led you here – to this strange, impossible life you had stumbled into.

A huge fucking pile of steaming hot shit, basically.

You hadn’t been able to sit still since Ben’s parents returned, your thoughts racing in a thousand different directions. Each time your footsteps neared the door of the guest bedroom, they became anxiously quiet and soft, however, not wanting to alert anyone to your presence. Every moment in this mansion felt like a misstep, a mistake you couldn’t undo.

The knot in your stomach twisted tighter.

You should’ve left a long time ago, but you had gotten too comfortable here – too cozy and snuggly with Ben, like he was your goddamn security blanket. But you cared about him and cared about what would happen to him, so the last thing you wanted at this point was to cause any more trouble for him, especially with his father.

So, you decided to leave.

You started throwing a few outfits from your closet onto the bed, only wanting to take the most necessary items before realizing you didn’t even own a bag big enough to stuff it in. But you had your magical remote control back, so your plan was to hit pause on the whole fucking mansion, grab a suitcase from somewhere, sneak out, and maybe rob a bank for some pocket change on your way out of dodge.

Yup, good plan.

But what about Ben? Were you leaving him behind, too?

Realistically, you knew it was the smartest choice. As wonderful, otherworldly, and addicting as that newfound, blooming feeling in your heart was, you knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere but into turmoil. This relationship didn’t have a future.

Period.

Either you’d lie to him for the rest of both your lives – however long that would be – or you’d hurt him. There was no other option.

Could you tell him? Could he handle the truth? Vought didn’t even exist yet. Right now, the Nazis were working on Compound V. To Ben, people gaining superpowers would be an alien concept.

‘Hey, uh, by the way, I have superpowers that let me control time, and I’m also from the future, and we don’t actually like each other there. And oh, yeah, you’re still alive in 2023 because some crazy Nazi geneticist will inject you with this serum that turns you into an invincible asshole.’

Nope, you couldn’t imagine that conversation going over well. He’d be either incredibly mad or not believe you at all. Then what?

Fuck.

With fingers trembling, you moved toward the window, glancing out at the muddy street, knowing the path to your escape lay beyond the mansion’s high gates. You were in a mess of your own making – a mess that had to end before you caused any more disruptions. His father was back, and that in itself was a disaster waiting to happen.

It had all been doomed from the start.

But then, just as you were about to gather your courage to finally get the fuck out of here, a knock at the door startled you from your thoughts and broke the tension in the air. Cautiously, you approached it, hand hovering on the knob as you braced yourself for the inevitable.

However, as you twisted it and opened the door a crack, your eyebrows shot up in surprise as you spied your visitor. It wasn’t Ben, his father, or even his mother.

“Dottie?” Your brow furrowed in confusion before you noticed the silver tray with a plate of food and a cup of tea in her hands.

“I brought you something to eat,” she said as she stood in the doorway, her expression one of tentative curiosity. You quickly wiped your palms against your skirt, standing a little straighter as she entered and set the tray down on your nightstand.

“Did Florence or Frances send you?” you asked warily. You knew you weren’t her favorite person, but she shook her head.

“No, just figured you were hungry since you’re missing dinner. I didn’t think Florence wants you starving up here,” she replied, her lips curling into something between a smirk and a sigh. “You dodged a bullet there, by the way. Family dinner is a bit… tense tonight. Lots of awkward silences and judgmental glares. Not that it’s something new per se…”

You were close to a migraine the way you strained your brow, blinking at the young maid in bemusement and shaking your head. “Thank you, uhm… I honestly didn’t think you cared about me… or even liked me,” you noted with an uncertain smile.

Dottie eyed you with a hint of mischief and approval in her gaze, a secretive smirk playing on her lips. “You’re not like the other girls who have come and gone through here. They fall over themselves trying to impress Ben, you know? But you don’t play that game. It’s… refreshing. You’ve got some fire in you. I respect that.”

“Fire?” You cocked an eyebrow, sitting down on the edge of the bed to nibble on your food. You were almost too nervous to eat with your ever-knotted stomach.

Dottie gifted you a warm smile. “Yeah, I’ve heard how you talk to him. I also overheard what you said that night about me at dinner. You stood up for me. Just wanted to repay the favor.”

Your lips hiked a smile. “You’re welcome. And thank you… again.”

Your head bobbed, your fingers playing with a piece of bread roll. You were unsure if you should be flattered you were considered special or uncomfortable with the apparently long list of girls that had waltzed through this house.

Dottie seemed to notice your unease and plopped down on the mattress next to you. “Anyway, I thought you might need someone to talk to. We all like you, you know? The whole house. Especially George. He thinks you’re the smartest woman he’s ever met. You’re different.” She shrugged and sent you another encouraging smile.

Cheeks blushing, you swallowed thickly and met her gaze. “So, things are tense downstairs?”

“Oh, yeah. The old man is furious because Grace’s father called him in upset, saying his daughter had been crying all night because of what Benjamin did to her,” Dottie told you and rolled her eyes back, scoffing. “All fake, of course. Charlotte, the maid of the Du Pont’s, said she was completely fine and consoling herself with one of the Kennedy boys when they were visiting in Cape Cod.”

“Whoa, hold on…” You vividly shook your spinning head and held up a hand, blinking at Dottie’s waterfall of information. “Du Pont? As in the chemical industry empire?”

“That’s the one,” Dottie sang in bitter nonchalance, a bit of judgment swinging in her voice. She clearly wasn’t a fan of the people she worked for – the elite families that not only excluded people like her and you but also disregarded you as human beings altogether.

“And you guys talk among each other? I mean, the staff?”

Dottie snorted a laugh, heavily nodding. “Yes, we gossip a lot. These people always think they’re better than us, but they got more shit on them than you can find in a pigsty.”

You weren’t as shocked by the revelation as you probably should’ve been. In this house, the gossip was as much a part of the walls as the portraits and velvet curtains.

“And Grace got with a Kennedy?” you asked, not resisting the curiosity bubbling inside of you and seeing Dottie nod. “Which one?”

“I think it was the oldest – Jack,” she replied.

You gaped at her. “John F. Kennedy?!”

Dottie giggled at your reaction. “Yes, I believe so. Do you know him, too?”

Innocently, you pursed your lips and shook your head. “No, no, not all. Just heard of him, you know?”

Jesus fuck, Kennedy might have gotten around as much as Soldier Boy. And if those rumors of The Legend were true, did Soldier Boy kill the future president for personal reasons?

Now you understood why the Kennedy assassination had attracted so many conspiracy theories. Well, you could check, theoretically, and see for yourself…

Nope. Don’t open that Pandora’s box!

“Look,” Dottie said after a pause, chewing softly on her lower lip in thought, “I’m sorry if I’ve been a little cold toward you. It’s not personal. I just don’t like the way Ben’s been acting recently. It’s... complicated.”

Your brows drew together as you watched the young woman next to you. “Complicated?”

She let out a dry laugh. “Honestly, complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it. You don’t know the half of it. You’re not the only one who feels out of place here, you know?”

“What d’you mean?”

Dottie leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a quieter, more intimate tone. “Ben’s a good guy, but he’s got a bit of a soft spot for… the wrong things. Florence talks about him like he’s still that little boy who needs his daddy’s approval. I know how it happened, you know – how he ended up with Grace? It wasn’t his idea. It was his father’s. And you know what? Grace wasn’t exactly an unwilling participant in that either. She begged her father to arrange the engagement.”

Her words hit you harder than you expected. You’d known about Grace, but you’d never heard the full story. “She begged?”

Dottie’s lips twisted into something halfway between a grimace and a smile. “Yeah, she begged,” she confirmed, hazel eyes glinting with a mixture of bitterness and amusement. “She thought she could change his mind, get him to fall for her. They had a fling, sure, but she knew Ben didn’t want her like that. They had a big argument about it a few days before. She stormed off, screaming he’d regret it.”

The weight of Dottie’s words pressed down on you, but before you could respond, she carried on.

“His father then announced the engagement at one of his parties here before even telling Ben about it. I mean, he didn’t even ask,” Dottie shared in exasperation. “Ben couldn’t stand it, so he rebelled in the only way he knew how. He found me, we got drunk and pissed off and then ended up in a closet together,” she said matter-of-factly, her tone flat and almost casual, but you could hear the bitter undertones of a scorned woman. “Ben had always been nice to me, you know? We’d gotten along, so when he came to me that night, I thought it was different. But he started ignoring me after. Couldn’t look at me – like I didn’t even exist... So yeah, I guess you could say I’m a little mad at him.”

You hesitated, studying Dottie’s face, looking for any hint of malice. But there was none – just brutal honesty. And you knew what this was by now. Just like Florence on your first day here, Dottie was warning you before you stepped off the ledge and fell.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Dottie said when you still sat in silence, “I’m not trying to paint him as a bad guy. I’m telling you because I care, alright? I just think you should know what’s going on around here. Ben’s got his demons, and his family is a nightmare. He can’t escape what his father’s set up for him. He’s got a leash on Ben, and the pressure’s never going to let up.”

Her words cut through the haze of your thoughts like a sharp blade. You nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. You’d seen bits of that pressure already.

“No, I get it. I appreciate it, Dottie. Thank you,” you said softly. “But Ben’s not like his father. At least, he doesn’t have to be.”

Dottie shrugged, as if the truth was somewhere in between. “Maybe. But Mr. Brooks got a tight grip on him. The kind of grip that can make anyone do things they don’t want to. Even Ben.”

A pang of sympathy reminded you of Florence’s story once more – and all the other cruel acts you’d witnessed in your dreams. Were you blind or just foolish for believing he could change the path he was on?

“Ben’s not as immune to his father as he pretends to be. He’s not as strong as he thinks. Don’t get it twisted. His father’s got his claws in him,” Dottie emphasized. “You’re not the first distraction Ben’s found. Just-… be careful, alright? You don’t know what you’re getting into, but if you’re going to be a part of it–,” she paused, her eyes flicking back to your scattered clothes all over the bed, “–you better be sure about it.”

“Thank you, Dottie.” You nodded with a heavy lump in your throat.

She gently clasped your hand on the bed in a comforting manner and then sent you a kind smile, pulling out a deck of cards from the pockets of her apron. “How about we distract you for a little while, huh? You know how to play Gin Rummy?”

Your lips rose to a smile. “I haven’t played before, but I’m willing to learn.”

Dottie giggled, shuffling the cards in her hands. “Alright, how about I teach you the rules if you tell me about college?”

“Deal.” You grinned.

The clock read past midnight, the only sound coming from the shuffle of cards and the occasional giggles and whispered stories between you and Dottie. The minutes stretched on as you tried to forget what was happening downstairs, Dottie’s words of warning still running on a loop through your mind.

It couldn’t be a good sign that two people in this house have warned you now, could it? Shouldn’t you listen at some point?

An abrupt knock at the door ripped the two of you from your game and disrupted the fragile peace, Dottie’s eyes widening in panic. You both knew who it was.

“Shit,” Dottie muttered and hurried to gather the cards from the bed, stuffing them back into her apron. She hid in a blind corner of the room as you moved to answer the door, not opening it more than a crack.

“Hey,” you said softly and feigned an innocent smile as you met Ben’s gaze, noticing immediately he wasn’t alright. His usually shining emerald eyes carried a glaze, his smile turning lopsided as he took you in with a leer, but the distinct smell of whiskey that clung to him like a second skin was the dead giveaway.

“You’re still awake. I was hoping you’d be. Came to check up on you, sweetheart.” He smirked with shaky pupils.

Before you could stop him, he stumbled forward into the room on unsteady legs and fell straight into your arms. His large hands found purchase on your hips, dragging you closer against his body. He captured your lips, eager, hungry, and with a sloppiness that told you he had a few glasses too many.

You were close to pushing him away, hands already softly pressing against his chest before noticing Dottie trying to sneak past him, so you deepened the kiss instead, your arms winding around his neck, causing a groan to rumble through him. But on her last step, the door creaked on its hinges, and Dottie froze as Ben’s head snapped up.

Glassy eyes wide, he warily turned to the young maid, brow wrinkling into more creases than a crumpled letter. “Dottie? The fuck are you doing here?”

You placed your hand on his arm, forcing him to look at you and ground him at the same time. “She-, uh, she brought me dinner. Florence sent her. She didn’t want me to starve. You know how she gets about food,” you deflected with a giggle.

“Right.” Ben nodded, eyes flickering back and forth between Dottie and you.

“And you know, I guess I got a little nervous, so she’s been keeping me company. We’ve been playing cards,” you added with a reassuring smile, already anticipating his next question as you watched the cogs in his head turn.

“Oh.” Ben licked his lips for a moment and then looked at Dottie. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Dottie said, sending you a quick look of gratefulness.

“And, uhm, Dottie?” Upon Ben’s call, Dottie halted in the doorway, shoulders tense on her way to freedom. “I’m sorry…” he said, surprising you both as you shared a raised look with the maid. “About what-, uhm… what happened, you know?”

“It’s-, uh, it’s okay,” she replied, eyes flicking toward you, clearly unsure of how to respond. You gave a slight shake of your head, and she subtly cleared her throat. “I mean, it’s not okay… but I-, I forgive you.”

You gave her a quick thumbs up, and as Ben looked over his shoulder at you, brow knitted in suspicion, Dottie quickly fled down the hall and closed the door behind her.

Yeah, you might’ve been coaching her a little in those last few hours on how to deal with assholes like him in the future (which you realized was super ironic). But if you couldn’t save yourself from that man’s charm, at least you could save the rest of your gender.

“Didn’t know you and Dottie were friends,” Ben noted, turning his full attention to you now.

“Oh, uhm, it’s a new thing,” you said quickly, and it wasn’t even a lie. You gave a shrug of your shoulders. “I like her.”

“Yeah? What’s she been whispering into your ear, huh?” His voice was rough, his fingers gentle as they brushed along your cheek.

“She didn’t say anything, okay?”

Ben’s lips curled, clearly not believing you. “You know, I didn’t mean to… hurt her.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt those people.”

“Heard that one before,” you muttered, scoffing under your breath. You averted your eyes to the floor, the motion causing Ben’s hand to drop from your face.

“What?” There was no anger in his voice, only confusion.

You shook your head, forcing yourself to look at him. “‘Cause you’re not a bad guy, right?” you said a little louder, feeling the drops of venom like castor oil on your tongue.

And Ben picked up on it, his brows drawing together, facial muscles twitching as he tried to solve what triggered the change in mood. What happened between now and the moment you’d shared in the drawing room only a few hours ago?

You knew you were being indecisive. You knew you were being unfair. But you couldn’t let go of that feeling. That tiny, tingling thing that kept gnawing at every bit inside of you. The feeling that kept screaming at you that something was amiss. It was there – right there.

And you still couldn’t fucking grasp it.

Ben contemplated, then smacked his lips, taking a step closer to you and ironing out his brow a little. “No, I-… Well, I’m no Boy Scout, but you know me.”

Your mouth opened and closed, lips trembling. You didn’t know how to respond. He was both right and wrong. But it all sounded too fucking familiar. It was that maddening feeling of déjà vu all over again.

One long stride of bow legs, and Ben was only mere inches away from you, warm palms cupping your cheeks like you were a precious gift, rough thumbs stroking along your cheekbones, and hot breath tickling your skin like a whispered breeze in summer heat. You melted in his grasp in a matter of seconds like an ice cube on hot asphalt.

“I didn’t mean to freak you out earlier,” he said, deep voice only a low murmur against the shell of your ear as he tucked a strand of hair behind it, careful like you could break in his hold. “Just hadn’t exactly broken the news yet that you’re staying here, y’know?”

“Ben–” You sighed, trying to clear the fog from your mind with a shake of your head.

“But I did now, okay?” he cut through that first brick in your wall of defense. The tip of his nose dragged against yours, coaxing. “I want you here, alright?” His lips ghosted over yours, a faint brush, barely there but enough to make you feel the heat crawling into your lower belly. “Had kind of a rough night. Thought you could make me feel better.”

He claimed your lips with a bruising force before he’d even breathed out his last word. The scent of expensive whiskey and nicotine enveloped you and clouded your mind. He smelled like he drank a liquor store and smoked a pack, but you couldn’t resist the pull – the desire, the chemistry. Your head was floating, but doubt still kept your feet tethered to the ground.

“Ben, don’t,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady, but it wavered despite your efforts. “Not like this. You’re drunk.”

“Don’t give a damn. Maybe I need to be drunk to feel something real for once. I need this. Need you,” he muttered, words slurred, voice rough.

He leaned in then, plump lips sinfully trailing down the column of your throat. The world seemed to stop spinning on its axis, your heart racing in your chest as he slid his hand to the back of your neck, tugging you closer.

For a moment, you gave in and almost let yourself go, forgetting every drop of worry and fear that plagued your mind. His hands moved to your waist, grip tightening as he pushed you flush against his blazing body. But the blinking red alarm inside of you reminded you of the lines you didn’t want to cross.

“Ben…” Your hands pushed against his chest, gentle but firm.

He stopped then, breathing ragged and confusion gleaming in the lush green of his eyes. His gaze drifted to your face, lingering there, as if searching for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. “I want you. Don’t you want me too, hm?”

The air thickened around you, sharp and overwhelming, threatening to suffocate you as you wrung for words. His thumb traced over your bottom lip, heavy against the soft, pink flesh. His pull was magnetic, his need evident.

“I don’t wanna be just another distraction for you,” you said quietly, voice shaking slightly, heart hammering in your throat. You tried to sound firm, but the way his eyes held you made your breath hitch.

Ben stepped back, hurt flashing across his freckled face like you’d just knocked the wind right out of him. His presence felt too large in the room, his emotions pressing down on you.

“A distraction?” His eyes hardened, his expression twisting with frustration and something darker. “That what you think you are? What Dottie told you? She’s been filling your head with this shit, hasn’t she?”

You flinched at the mention of Dottie’s name, not wanting to drag her into your mess. You hesitated with a thick swallow, tension creeping into your shoulders. “It’s not about her.”

“Damn right, it isn’t,” Ben huffed, shaking his head. And then, his eyes landed on the bed – on your clothes spread out, half-packed. He froze, demeanor shifting immediately, color draining from his face. “What the hell is going on here? Are you fucking leaving me?” The baritone voice was suddenly sharp now, carrying an edge that cut through the haze of his drunkenness.

“I don’t wanna cause more trouble for you,” you confessed quietly, panic rising in your chest.

“So that’s it? Just like that? You’re just gonna fucking walk out on me?” His voice was jagged with emotion, gripping a handful of his hair in disbelief.

“No, but I-… I don’t belong here, okay?” you argued, your tone laced with desperation. What else could you say?

“Dammit, you think I don’t fucking know that?” His jaw tightened, and for a heartbeat, there was an unsettling silence between you two. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck Dottie told you, but this-… this isn’t some game to me. You think I do this with everyone? That I’m using you because I’m bored? That I’m just some spoiled rich kid who gets whatever I want?” He stared at you, disappointment, incredulity, and betrayal swimming in his eyes.

You shook your head, your heart thumping painfully in your ribcage. “I didn’t say that. But Ben... I don’t know what I am to you… what this is.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” He scoffed bitterly, running a hand through the disheveled, dirty blond locks. “I’ve told you things… things I’ve never told anyone before. I’ve let you into parts of my life that I don’t show anyone else.”

“I know. I just–”

But Ben cut you off, his frustration spilling over. “I’ve been nothing but honest with you. And this is how you repay me? By fucking running away? You’re not walking out on me. Not like this.”

Your heart stuttered, the words cutting deep and tightening your chest, aware he was right in a way, knowing he’d put himself on the line for you – more than you’d ever expected him to. But you couldn’t ignore the doubts that rose inside you.

“I’m scared, okay?” you admitted, your voice only a whisper, and it made his eyes soften slightly. “I don’t know if I can trust you.”

Ben shook his head, huffing a humorless laugh, almost amused. “Oh, you think I can’t be trusted? That I haven’t given you enough reason to?” He stepped closer, his look pointed. “Kinda ironic, don’t you think? I don’t even know your real name. I don’t know a fucking thing about you, and yet, here you are, accusing me of being dishonest. You really think I’ve been fucking lying to you?"

You didn't respond. Silence.

"If you want to walk away, then go. But don’t you dare tell me you’re just a distraction. That’s insulting. I’ve been nothing but honest with you. I’ve given you everything I can, and you think I’m just trying to fuck around?”

You stood there, speechless, caught between the weight of his words and the fear that still clawed at your heart. Ben stepped closer again, his features softening just slightly, as if trying to calm the storm inside both of you. The promise of something more, something different with him, tore at the part of you that had been holding back.

“How do you know I’m the right person for you? You don’t even know what you want. And you’re right, you know? You don’t know me. Not in the way it matters. Not in the way you should,” you said, barely above a trembling whisper, the tears pricking your eyes.

“Then tell me,” he demanded, voice softer now, almost pleading. “Tell me who you are. Tell me your real name. Anything, really.”

Your breath caught in your throat, head shaking. “I can’t. I never meant to keep things from you, but I can’t tell you either. I’m sorry.”

Ben rubbed his mouth with his fingers, head bobbing in thought. “Look, maybe I haven’t made my intentions clear enough with you, but I care about you. I don’t know everything, but I know that I want you. I want this. All of it. The whole damn mess, alright?”

The raw emotion in his voice made you falter, but you couldn’t let yourself be swayed. You looked up at him, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could be telling the truth. That there was something worth fighting for here. The vulnerability in his green eyes made your knees weak, cracking both his armor and your walls.

Ben stared at you for a long moment, the hurt, confusion, and anger warring on his face. Then, without warning, he took a step toward you, closing the space between you two for good, and you swore you could even feel his wildly beating heart in his chest. He searched your face for something, a connection to hold onto, his hands slightly outstretched like he was reaching for you.

“Maybe it’s not meant to be.” The words stung as they left you, the first tear slipping down your cheek.

Ben’s resolve crumbled then and there. He pulled you into his embrace, softly kissing the top of your head as you sobbed into his chest. And then he just held you like this for a moment. You’d never felt fucking safer while your heart was breaking.

“Hey, look at me.” Gently, he lifted your chin, wiping your wet cheeks with his thumbs. “You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t want to change things?” He held your gaze, eyes intense as the weight of his words hung between you. “I can’t just walk away from everything, but I’m trying. I swear, I’m trying to figure this all out, but you have to let me.”

“How?” Your voice cracked, the fear of getting too close, of falling too hard threatening to crush you.

Ben cupped your cheeks, the kiss on your temple an oath. “I’ll make it work, okay? I don’t know what else to say, but I promise I will. I’ll find a way out of all this... for both of us. But I need you here. I need you with me. I can’t do this alone. I don’t wanna go back to that life without you in it. I just need you to trust me, okay? I need you to believe in me.”

You could see it then, clear as day – he was afraid of losing you, the desperation brimming in the green seas of his eyes. You were his lifeline, the last thing that held his head above water and kept him from drowning in his father.

“I swear I’ll take you with me, wherever that it is. I’ll take care of you. I’ll fight for you. I’ll protect you. All I need is a little more time. Can you give that to me? Can you do that?”

The heaviness of a decision almost decimated you, but for the first time since you’d entered his world, the fear of losing him was stronger than the fear of staying.

You nodded, hesitantly at first before it became stronger – certain. “I’m not leaving you. I’ll stay.”

The space between you evaporated then as he closed the gap, pressing his lips to yours with a force that left you breathless. His mouth was desperate, clinging to the assurance that you were still here. Still with him.

The kiss wasn’t just a kiss – it was everything. It was apology and regret. It was yearning. It was fear.

Ben was kissing you like he never wanted to lose you again, as if each second was a prayer that you’d stay. He pulled you even closer, his hands threading through your hair, his body so tightly against yours like he was trying to make sure you were real. To make sure he hadn’t just imagined this moment.

You melted into him, your hands gripping his shirt, your heart beating faster than it had in days, weeks, months, maybe years. The kiss deepened, grew more urgent, as if he was trying to tell you everything in the language of touch, in the frantic meeting of lips and breath – everything he could never say out loud.

You felt the warmth of his skin, the blazing heat of him, and you realized you both were clinging to the fragile thread that held you together, afraid to let go.

When he pulled back, both of you panting, there was a quiet between you that spoke louder than any words ever could. His eyes searched yours, his thumb caressing your cheek, forehead resting against yours.

Ben licked his lips, still holding onto you as he shut his eyes for a beat, his chest still rising and falling with the remnants of the kiss. “Look, uhm, I hate doing this to you right now, but my father wants me to leave with him for two weeks,” he told you, voice heavy with exhaustion before a dark scoff escaped him. “Wants to show me how business is really done.”

You cupped his cheeks softly, looking up at him. “Don’t let him get to you, okay? You’re smarter than him.”

Ben’s lips twitched with a small smile, nodding like he understood. “My mother’s staying here with you, but don’t worry about it. I doubt she’ll bother you. She doesn’t really care about anything. I told them you’re a friend from school, so just go with that.”

“What school did you go to?”

“Choate. It’s in Connecticut,” Ben replied, a hint of amusement in his smile, noticing how carefully you were solidifying your alibi. “But it’s an all-boys school. You would’ve gone to Rosemary Hall.”

You grimaced. “So, total sausage fest, huh?”

Ben snorted a loud laugh, throwing his head back. “Oh, you have no idea, sweetheart.” He chuckled and pulled you against his chest, resting his chin on top of your head. “You know, sometimes I wonder what school taught you all those words.”

You giggled, burying your face into his dress shirt. “Oh, college taught me those. You would know if you’d gone.”

“Ouch.” A deep and amused laugh rumbled through his chest.

“Didn’t John Kennedy attend Choate as well?”

Ben’s head tilted slightly. You could feel the movement atop of yours. “How do you know Jack?” He inched back slightly, peering down at you with a raised look. “Something you wanna tell me, sweetheart?”

You snorted into his chest, shaking your head. “No, nothing like that, I swear. I just heard of him.”

“Oh, so it was just me you were immune to, huh?” Ben retorted, but you recognized the playfulness in his voice. It was your favorite side of him.

“Guess so,” you teased, giggling.

“Well, thank fucking God you didn’t sleep with him,” Ben muttered as he tightened his arms around you. “I hate that guy. Total fucking pussy.”

“Didn’t he graduate Harvard?” you muttered, feeling Ben’s jaw grind on top of your head. Yeah, you weren’t doing JFK any favors now.

“Well, he didn’t make it into the Army. I can tell you that much,” Ben blew right past your point, making you stifle a chuckle. “Heard he got a placement in the Navy, though.”

“Huh. Kinda sexy,” you quipped. Teasing. “He’ll probably learn a lot of sailor talk.”

Ben’s lips pursed in amusement as he looked down at you and was met with your grin. “Yeah, also probably gonna be a real sausage fest on that boat.”

You let out a crippling laugh, burying yourself in his chest as he joined you. Of course he’d only learn the things you didn’t want him to learn.

Ben’s fingers then snuck under your chin, lifting your lips to meet his. The kiss was soft, gentle – a goodbye. “You’re gonna be okay here?”

You nodded reassuringly. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be here when you come back.”

Ben didn’t say anything, but his Adam’s apple bobbed with a thick swallow, eyes gleaming with a mixture of relief and gratitude before he pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was a tender, almost reverent gesture, and it made your heart swell.

Exhaling a long breath, he let go of you and turned to leave, his shoulders slumping more with every step he took toward the life he didn’t want. He paused at the door, his hand on the knob, and for a moment, he seemed smaller, more fragile, like the weight of everything he’d been holding in was finally starting to break him.

“I’ll never stop fighting for you,” he said with conviction as he looked at you one last time, raspy voice laden with words he couldn’t say. A promise. “Never.”

And deep down, you knew then that no matter how hard things would get over the next decades, you’d never let go, either.

The door closed for the last time that night, and then, Ben was gone.

The mansion felt quieter the next morning, Ben having left with his father for DC before the break of dawn. After getting dressed properly for breakfast for once, you descended the grand staircase, your footsteps quiet on the polished wooden floors.

You spied Margaret Brooks, Ben’s mother, sitting in the sunroom, but before entering, you decided to make a quick pit stop in the kitchen, where the faint murmurs of the staff seeped through the door.

As you stepped inside, the three women were busy at their tasks. Florence was bent over a pot on the stove, her movements brisk and efficient. Dottie was humming to herself as she arranged flowers on the counter. Frances, a bit more weathered and stern, was dusting the shelves, her eyes darting disapprovingly at Dottie, who had a tendency to daydream more than work.

“Good morning, ladies,” you said softly, your voice low enough not to carry too far.

“No breakfast in the kitchen, young lady,” Florence reminded you swiftly, which you countered with a knowing smile.

“Don’t worry, Florence. I’ll be outta your hair in a minute,” you said, making Dottie snort a giggle. “Just-… Before I go in there, can you guys give me the down-low on Mrs. Brooks?”

“The down-low?” Frances cocked a brow at you.

“Yes, the details,” you corrected. Half of your vocabulary was practically useless in 1942. “What’s her deal? Why is she so… withdrawn?”

After Dottie’s revelation last night, you thought you might as well make use of the love for gossip in this house.

Florence didn’t look up from the stove, her hands moving quickly with purpose. “She’s always been quiet,” she replied, her voice neutral but not unkind. “But over the years... well, she shut herself off. Hard to blame her. Her husband isn’t a good man, not to her or to Benjamin.”

Dottie, who had been nervously twisting the flower stems in her hands, let out a little sigh. “Yeah, Mr. Brooks is awful. He treats her like she doesn’t matter. And now she’s kind of… well, I think she just gave up. You know, stopped trying.”

Frances, who had been listening intently, fixed Dottie with a sharp look. “Not everything is so simple, Dottie. Mrs. Brooks has always been a lady – always. She’s tried for years, but the man she married–” She sighed, her voice dropping. “It broke her. And now she watches the boy becoming just like him. It’s no wonder she retreats.”

You could feel the undercurrent of sadness in the house, a grief that wasn’t just tied to the past but to the present, too.

“I see,” you said quietly, your mind racing as you thought of what you could do. You glanced at the three women. “Well, I think I’ll go see if I can say hi to Mrs. Brooks this morning. She must be lonely.”

Florence gave you a distracted nod, her attention still on her cooking. Dottie shot you a hopeful look, while Frances simply grunted in acknowledgment, not sure how much help you’d be.

You sauntered into the sunroom, the air cool inside and the glass panes still thick with the chill of winter. Outside, patches of snow clung stubbornly to the ground, a few spots melting into sluggish pools. However, along the edges of the garden, the first hint of spring dared to show – croci pushing up through the soil, small and defiant against the lingering cold as they waited for the thaw.

It only reminded you of how long you’d already been here. It felt like an entirely different life at this point. Had Ben been serious last night? And what did it even all mean?

He said a lot, but you weren’t sure your head woke up any clearer this morning.

The future was an unknown, and you weren’t used to that feeling.

As you entered, Mrs. Brooks sat at the small round table by the window, her face drawn, her green eyes distant as she stared into the steam rising from her cup of tea. She didn’t seem to notice you at first, and when she finally lifted her gaze, it was with a quiet recognition.

“Good morning, Mrs. Brooks,” you said, smiling softly. “I’m not sure if your son has mentioned me. I’m a friend from school. Benjamin’s been kind enough to let me stay here for a while.”

“Oh, I believe he mentioned something like that, yes,” she said in a soft, tired voice, her lips curling just slightly at the corners. “You’ll have to excuse me. I wasn’t listening to everything last night. I was quite exhausted after the long travel, and that boy never knows when to stop.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. Ben does have a way of going on, doesn’t he?” You smiled gently at her words and sat down across from her. “Ben did tell me a little bit about all your wonderful tea parties, though. He said you liked going to tea rooms as well. What are they like? I have to admit I’ve never been to one myself.”

At the mere mention, Mrs. Brooks’ posture seemed to shift ever so slightly. Her eyes sparkled, and you saw something like life stir behind them, as if your words had opened a door she hadn’t realized was there.

“Oh, tea rooms,” she repeated, her voice soft and reflective. “I used to love them. So charming. So civilized, you know? A proper place to spend the afternoon with a good cup of tea. I haven’t been to one in ages, not since...”

She trailed off, her gaze becoming distant again, but then something changed – her eyes brightened just a little, like a light flickering on.

“You’ve never been?” she asked, her tone a mixture of surprise and mild disbelief. You shook your head. “Oh, my dear, it’s almost a must for a young lady to experience. A proper tea room, with all the delicate china and the soft music in the background – it’s simply marvelous.” She sat up straighter in her chair then, the flicker of a genuine smile appearing on her lips. “I should take you, shouldn’t I? There’s one in the city I adored. It’s been years since I’ve gone, but I’m sure it’s just as lovely as it was. Would you like to go? This afternoon, perhaps?”

You couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope inside of you, seeing that flicker of light in her. “I’d love that. Thank you, Mrs. Brooks,” you said with a warm smile.

“How wonderful! Then it’s settled. We’ll go!” She clasped her hands together with joy. “Do you have something to wear? I could call my seamstress, Ms. Vivian, for you.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. Benjamin already did that,” you replied, hoping for dear life you didn’t have to endure another makeover. You were already sacrificing yourself like a lamb for slaughter by agreeing to this.

“Well, good.” She nodded and sipped on her tea, muttering, “Seems like I’ve done something right with that boy, after all…”

Well, judging by that statement, you were surely in for an interesting afternoon.

The soft tinkling of porcelain cups and quiet chatter filled the air of the elegant, well-lit tea room as Margaret Brooks looked across the table at you, her plump lips curling into a rare smile. She had almost forgotten how much she enjoyed these outings – the delicate atmosphere of the tea room, the soft hum of conversation. She had imagined, for so many years, that one day she would have a daughter to share these moments with.

Unfortunately, that hadn’t come to pass.

Instead, you sat across from her, eager eyes wide as you took in the ambiance. Mrs. Brooks noticed the nervousness in your posture, the way you clutched your teacup a little too tightly and stared at the other girls, feeling utterly out of place.

“Isn’t it charming?” Mrs. Brooks said, her voice light, almost affectionate. “I’ve been coming here for years. There’s something about the smell of the Earl Grey and the clink of silver spoons that makes you forget the world outside. You’ll grow to love it, I’m sure.”

You gave a nervous nod, your lips curving upward in an awkward imitation of a smile. “I’m not really used to places like this.”

You hesitated, glancing around the room at the white-gloved waitstaff and the carefully arranged plates of scones and finger sandwiches, wondering how many distractions Ben had found here and hoping you wouldn’t run into any of them. You could certainly feel the occasional looks and quiet whispers directed at you.

Mrs. Brooks chuckled softly, her gaze warm as she met your eyes. “One gets used to it. It's like breathing. I’ve been doing this for years, and there's nothing wrong with forgetting the world in here, just for a moment.” She leaned in slightly, her tone dropping conspiratorially. “Don’t be nervous, Cindy. It’s only tea and gossip, and we all need a little of both.”

Something in Mrs. Brooks’ tone calmed you slightly. It was as though she was slowly pulling you into her orbit – offering more than just a tea outing, but a sense of belonging, of understanding.

“Look over there,” Mrs. Brooks continued, gesturing subtly with her gloved hand, clearly eager to share more. “Do you see that woman sitting by the window? That’s Mrs. Berwick. She’s very fond of trying to climb the social ladder, always inserting herself into the right circles. Her husband’s a banker, but don’t let that fool you – he’s a dreadful bore."

You snorted a laugh and leaned in, intrigued despite yourself. You couldn’t help but feel a little lighter. Mrs. Brooks had a certain warmth now that softened her more formal edges.

“And there,” she carried on, “that’s Mrs. Hadley. She’s got more money than God, but she’s also got a tongue that can cut glass. No one dares to cross her, but I’ve never cared much for her. She’s the type who never forgets a slight.”

“Seems like they all have their… quirks,” you noted, amused, remembering Dottie’s words.

“Quirks,” Mrs. Brooks repeated with a smile. “Yes, one might call them that.” Her eyes twinkled as she leaned in closer to you, lowering her voice. “But there’s one thing they all have in common: They love to gossip. It’s their favorite pastime. And I’m sure,” she added, giving you a knowing look, “they’ll be more than eager to talk about you.” You stiffened, but Mrs. Brooks, oblivious to your discomfort, sipped her tea and continued. “Don’t mind them. They’re all still talking about Benjamin, I’m sure. The whole lot of them think they have some sort of claim on him. But they don’t, do they?”

At her little wink, your heart almost dropped to the sparkling marble floor. Did she know? But you figured it was easy to suspect if she knew her son even a little.

“Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Brooks! I haven’t seen you here in ages.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you recognized the familiar voice. You’d heard it once before, even if it had been louder and more upset than now.

Grace.

Mrs. Brooks’ expression flickered momentarily before settling into something more controlled. “Grace, dear,” she said with a polite smile, turning her head toward the speaker. Her tone was cool, masking any warmth. “You’re looking well.”

Your stomach dropped when you saw the woman standing at the table: tall, blonde, impeccably dressed in a way that screamed money and status – poised and perfect. By now, you’d heard plenty about Ben’s destined fiancée, but seeing her in person was another matter.

Her blonde hair was sculpted into a flawless wave. She wore an elegant dress with the subtle sheen of luxury and a sharp gaze that seemed to take in every detail of you with calculating precision.

Grace gave a sly smile, icy blue eyes flickering to you. “I couldn’t resist coming by. I simply had to see Benjamin’s current project.” She tilted her head slightly, a deliberate gesture, and leaned down to examine you like you were a specimen under a microscope. “Interesting choice.”

Did that bitch just call you a fucking project?!

You didn’t flinch under her scrutiny, however. You’d been dealing with bitches like that your whole life. The only tragedy about this was that you couldn’t rant about her to your friends – the hot blonde, the gay redhead, and the mute Asian chick.

Fuck. Why the hell couldn’t you remember their names? You swore they were on the tip of your tongue. Was it Andy, Mabel, and Kim? No, that sounded wrong. Dammit!

“I think I’ve seen you before, right? And you are?” Grace asked, her voice dripping with feigned sweetness as she looked at you.

“Cindy,” you replied with a slight edge.

“Ah, Cindy,” Grace repeated, like she was tasting the name. “Such a... simple name. How quaint.” She smiled then, a thin, shark-like smirk, and you were blood in the water. “I must say, I’m surprised to see you out and about. Benjamin has always been so... difficult to predict. But I suppose you already know that, don’t you?”

Unbothered by her baiting, you took a casual sip of tea. “Oh, I know exactly who he is, Grace. Better than you.”

Grace’s smile tightened. “How refreshing,” she said, then looked over at Mrs. Brooks. “I do hope Benjamin’s settled down by now. I hear he’s been a bit of a... free spirit lately. He always had a rebellious streak. He gets bored rather quickly.”

Mrs. Brooks stiffened slightly, but she recovered quickly, placing her teacup down with a slight clink. “My son is a grown man, dear. He’ll make his own decisions, as he always does.”

“Of course,” Grace replied smoothly, though there was a clear, sharp edge to her words.

“‘Sides, aren’t you a bit of a free spirit as well?” you quipped with an innocent smirk. “I heard about you and Jack Kennedy in Cape Cod. How’s that going?”

“Oh, you are seeing Jack?” Margaret chimed in with delight, but you could tell her smile was as taunting as yours was.

Grace’s face fell abruptly. “Yes, it’s… going,” she replied quickly, subtly clearing her throat. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips twisting into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she leaned in, her tone almost too sweet. “I imagine you must be enjoying the novelty of being with someone like Benjamin. Here you are, in the lap of luxury. It’s a bit of a thrill, isn’t it, darling? But you know, I should warn you – Ben isn’t exactly the most reliable partner. I do hope, for your sake, you’re not just a phase.”

You were about to slap her harder than she’d slapped Ben at that diner. Would it matter to history if you choked her right now?

You forced a tight-lipped smile as you ground your teeth. “Thank you for the warning, but I’m not here to judge him for his past.”

If anything, you were judging him for his future.

“Well, that’s nice,” Grace pressed through her teeth, her polite mask finally crumbling. “But you don’t get it, do you? You’re just the latest distraction, darling. Someone to amuse himself with, and as soon as this little rebellion ends, he’ll come crawling back to someone who knows the rules, and you’ll be just another notch in his belt.”

Jesus fucking Christ, why did he always have to date the biggest bitch in the room? And you’d once thought Crimson Countess was a piece of work.

But you grew up in a trailer park in fucking Jersey. If a girl like Grace thought she could scare you off with a few words, she had another thing coming.

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” You looked at her challengingly, not an ounce of fear in your voice. “Here’s the thing – Ben’s not a puppet for his father. He makes his own choices. You’re not his future, Grace. You’re the past. Trust me on that one.”

Grace’s eyes blazed with a venomous glare. “Well, we’ll see how long this lasts, darling. I do hope you won’t make a fool out of yourself.”

You were about to open your mouth again before Mrs. Brooks cut in, her tone suddenly sharp, a protective edge in her voice. “Enough, Grace. We all know about Benjamin’s history. You’ve made your point, and it’s getting tiresome.”

Grace’s eyes fixed on Ben’s mother, a muscle twitching in her jaw. She clearly hadn’t expected that. “Well, it’s so lovely to see you two getting along. I mustn’t take up too much of your time, Mrs. Brooks. It was nice running into you both. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

With that, Grace stormed off, her heels clicking on the sparkling marble. You exhaled a slow breath, slumping back into your chair. But as you glanced at Mrs. Brooks, you saw the faintest glimmer of approval in her eyes.

“You handled her beautifully, dear,” Ben’s mother said, her tone soft but genuine. “Don’t let women like her make you question yourself. They thrive on making others doubt their worth, but you’ve got something she doesn’t – confidence and a damn backbone.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brooks,” you said, your heart swelling with gratitude. “That woman really knows how to lay it on thick, doesn’t she?”

Mrs. Brooks rolled her eyes in exhaustion. “She’s always been like that. Charming when it suits her and venomous when she feels threatened. I’m almost glad Benjamin’s been so awful to her. God knows I couldn’t have endured another dinner with that girl in my house.”

You snorted under your breath, chuckling.

“You know, I was just like you when I first arrived here – someone who didn’t quite fit in.” Margaret leaned back in her chair with a faint smile, the faraway look in her eyes sharpening, a subtle sadness creeping into her voice. “Before I met Benjamin’s father, I came from humble beginnings, you know? My parents were good, hardworking people. We didn’t have much money – just a small house in the lower part of town. My father was a carpenter, working long hours, and my mother would sew clothes for other people, often staying up well past midnight, just to make sure we had enough to get by. But there was a beauty in that simplicity. I used to take walks through the alleys, admiring the flowers growing between the cracks in the sidewalks. We didn't have wealth, but we had love, you know? And we had each other.”

You listened intently, your heart breaking a bit for her, knowing that wasn’t what she had now with her own family.

“I remember,” she continued, a slight smile tugging at her lips, “how we’d all gather in the kitchen at night. It was small, but it was ours. My mother would hum while she worked, and my father would tell me stories about how he built his first house with his own two hands. He was proud of that. And I was proud of him.”

You couldn’t help but notice the way Mrs. Brooks’ voice softened when she spoke about her parents. There was a sadness there, a longing for something simple and real that had been lost somewhere along the way.

“I can’t imagine you like that. It sounds so different from who you are now,” you said softly.

Mrs. Brooks gave a gentle laugh, her gaze growing even more distant. “I was just a girl back then. I had no idea what awaited me. But when I met Richard, everything changed.” She paused, her voice darkening slightly as she pushed away the memories of her childhood, like the warmth they brought was something she couldn’t bear to hold on to for too long. “He was everything I’d never known. He was wealthy, educated, and had the kind of connections that I could only dream of. He swept me off my feet. He promised me a life of comfort, luxury, and security. And I thought, ‘This is it. This is everything I’ve been working for.’”

Your brow furrowed. “But it wasn’t?”

Mrs. Brooks shook her head slowly, the distant melancholy returning to her features. “At first, it was. But over time, I realized something. The life Richard offered me was a gilded cage. It wasn’t freedom – it was control. I was expected to fit in, to play the part. When I married him, I entered a world where every inch of my life was dictated by money, status, and image. It’s strange how quickly you can forget yourself when you're surrounded by wealth. People like this–,” she gestured with a faint nod around the room, “–don’t care about character. They care about who you know, where you’ve been, and what you wear. And even then, it’s never enough. You always have to be more.” She leaned forward then, her expression softening as she saw you swallowing thickly. “I know it sounds harsh, dear, but it’s the truth. High society is an illusion. People want you to smile, to wear the right clothes, to speak in a certain way, but it’s all just a performance. Your soul gets lost in it.”

“So, you never wanted this life?” you asked quietly, your heart breaking for her.

“I didn’t know what I was getting into. These women here, they’re not your friends,” she replied, her fingers curling around her tea cup. “They’re rivals. Each one of them trying to prove they are the best at being the most perfect version of a woman they can be. It’s exhausting. And no matter how hard I tried, I never truly fit in.”

“You said Benjamin was different when he was young,” you said gently, wanting to know more. “How was he before everything changed?”

Mrs. Brooks’ eyes softened, and for a moment, you could see the mother she had been – a woman who adored her son, who once had hope for his future.

“Benjamin was always sensitive,” Mrs. Brooks said, her voice full of tenderness. “He was a sweet little boy who loved to ask questions about the world. He was curious about everything. He’d sit with me for hours, just asking me how things worked, why things were the way they were. And he had this soft smile that would light up a room. I’ll never forget how he used to look at me, with such trust in his eyes. He would bring me flowers and tell me stories from his little world, and I would see the softness in him, the kind of softness a mother always hopes for in a child. People always said he was a ‘dreamer,’ and I thought he would always stay that way. I loved that about him. But Richard didn’t. Richard thought it was a weakness.”

Mrs. Brooks’ voice cracked slightly, as if the memories were too painful to recount. She looked down at her cup.

“Richard did everything he could to ‘toughen him up.’ He took him hunting, made him go to boarding school at an early age, sending him far away from me,” she continued, her voice drowning in sadness. “He wanted to shape Benjamin into something he could control. He had a vision for his son – one where Benjamin was a carbon copy of him. Strong. Cold. Ruthless. My husband’s world is one of steel, and his love is just as hard. My sweet boy never stood a chance.”

Your heart sank. “And Ben – he didn’t want that?”

“No,” Mrs. Brooks said, a slight bitterness creeping into her tone. “Benjamin didn’t want any of it. But he was young, and he couldn’t fight his father. So slowly, he started to change. He stopped asking questions. He stopped dreaming. And one by one, the things that made him unique faded away. I watched my son slip away from me, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

You wanted to reach out to comfort her, but you felt helpless. How could you fix this? Could you fix him?

“I’m so sorry,” you said softly. “I had no idea.”

Mrs. Brooks gave you a wistful smile. “It’s not your fault, dear. You’re not here to save him. You can’t save him, not from himself. But you might be able to remind him of who he was before the world changed him. I think that’s why I like you so much.”

Your heart tightened as you listened. You could see the sadness in Mrs. Brooks’ eyes, a depth of loss that you hadn’t expected.

Ben’s mother let out a sigh, soft and weary, as though she had been holding it in for too long. “You know, from the moment I met you, there was something about you. Something I never had the chance to share with Benjamin.” She paused, gathering her thoughts as if she hadn’t shared this kind of honesty in years. “I’ve always wanted a daughter for many reasons, you see? I dreamed of having someone who could see this world as I see it. A confidante. You remind me a lot of myself when I was younger. You have a fire in you – a light. And I don’t want my son to put it out.”

Your heart halted its beats abruptly. You were taken aback by her blunt honesty, shaking your buzzing head lightly, trying to make sense of her words. “What d’you mean?”

“You don’t know what your getting into, either. You’re not like them. You’re not meant for this kind of life. That’s why I want to warn you, dear,” she said, her gaze sharp.

Oh no, not another warning… How many was that now? Three? Four, if you counted Grace?

Great.

“Benjamin might love you now, but he’ll be just like his father in the end. Cold. Hard. Empty,” she said harshly, the weight of regret in every line of her expression. “The man you think he is, may not be the man he turns out to be. Benjamin isn’t the boy I once held in my arms anymore. He’s not the man you think he is. I see his father in him more every day. I can see it in the way he looks at the world, in the way he reacts to the people around him. I don’t want you to end up like me. You’ll be the one left behind. Trust me.”

You felt a knot in your throat, your heart pounding with an ominous sound like an ancient war drum. You didn’t know how to respond. Your thoughts spiraled in every direction.

You swallowed hard, tears pricking your eyes like salt in a wound. “I don’t know if I can walk away. I think I love him,” you confessed quietly, barely audible over the chatter of the tea room.

The words shocked you. You’d never said them out loud before, but they didn’t seem to rattle his mother at all.

Her eyes softened, her hand reaching over to clasp yours on the table in a sad understanding. “I know you do. But that’s the problem, dear. When you love someone like him, you’ll always be fighting a battle you can’t win.”

▶️ Chapter 7: Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My! – MAY 9

Ooof, looks like not even Ben's mother has much confidence in him... What did you think of all the warnings? And if Ben was already this upset now, then well, imagine what he feels like when it really happens. Choo-choo, all aboard the angst train! Get ready to meet the man of the hour next week 😉

(Fair warning: Chapters never really got any shorter. I don't know what to tell ya, but half of the next one is smut, so there's that 😂🤷‍♀️)

Coming Up:

“I remember you mentioned a girl from school staying here.” The patriarch of the steel empire carved into his roast with casual violence, sipping his wine like it was penance, a pair of almond-shaped, glacier blue eyes zeroing in on his son. “Didn’t think you meant still staying here.”

You managed a polite smile. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Brooks.”

He gave a short nod that might’ve been a grunt, reaching for the wine glass before saying, “Likewise.”

Ben’s mother – composed in a deep jade green dress that complimented the glint in her eye – broke the tension with a dry, almost teasing, “She’s been keeping me company. And sane.”

You glanced at her in grateful surprise, but she didn’t look at you. Her gaze was squarely on her husband, almost daring him to challenge her.

Oh fuck. You had a feeling that dinner would derail soon enough. You still remembered how your own mother always looked when she wanted to pick a fight with your father. You could see that same desire in Mrs. Brooks tonight.

Richard’s eyes flicked to you as cutting as a scalpel. “Rosemary Hall, was it?”

You smiled, knowing your alibi by heart. “Yes, sir. We, uh, crossed paths with Ben’s group at Choate once or twice. We’ve stayed in touch.”

“Mmm.” He sounded unconvinced, like he already had a list of questions and was working through them in his mind. “And what is it you do, exactly?”

You gave an innocent shrug of your shoulders. “A little of everything. Read a lot. Try to keep busy.”

Mr. Brooks leaned back with a hum, wine glass in hand. “You read. Anything useful?”

Ben’s hand tensed slightly on the table. You felt it even without looking.

🚀 Read up to 4 chapters ahead on Patreon now

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

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@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[chrissssssmut]

You heard of parasocial relationships where fans of a celebrity feel like they know the celebrity and am close to them even though they aren't?

Imagine a reverse yandere parasocial relationship where an idol sees social media posts from a guy online who is a fan of her and she becomes obsessed with him and goes full yandere

NOTICED

Yandere Kazuha x Male Reader

AN: Sorry I take so long writing! I've been super busy recently and I hope you all could understand!😭♥️

You didn’t expect your K-pop fan account to go anywhere. It was just a place to dump your edits, fancams, and long-winded rambles about how “Kazuha doesn’t even feel real sometimes,” or how “no human should move that gracefully unless they were sculpted by the gods.”

You were just one of thousands. One more voice in a sea of fanboys.

But… she saw you.

And she never stopped looking.

It started small. A like.

You noticed it one night around 2:12 AM, while lazily scrolling through your old posts, chasing dopamine. Your most recent tweet—“If I ever get reincarnated I hope it’s as Kazuha’s phone charger”—had a new like.

From her official account.

You sat upright so fast your spine popped. The checkmark stared back at you like a blinking cursor on a love letter.

“Okay,” you whispered, screen glowing in the dark. “Okay, that’s not… normal.”

Your heart wouldn’t stop racing. She had millions of followers. Why your post? Why now?

Maybe it was her social media manager? Maybe it was random?

You retweeted it anyway, captioning it with:

“No way Kazuha just liked my tweet???? Is this real life???”

You didn’t know it then, but she was already watching. Already scrolling.

Next Day — Seoul

Kazuha scrolled through your feed, her thumb trembling ever so slightly as she lay on her hotel bed. The blue light carved shadows into her face.

Every post. Every caption. Every breath you typed into the void—meant for her.

“He thinks I’m not real,” she murmured, eyes glinting. “He thinks I’m a goddess.”

A slow, eerie smile tugged at her lips.

“Then I’ll become one.”

Three Days Later

Your account was exploding. Kazuha had liked three more of your posts.

One was your fan edit—her rehearsal shots layered with angel wings and a dreamy filter.

Another was your tweet:

“Kazuha's smile should be registered as a WMD.”

And the third?

“If Kazuha ever looked at me the way she looks at the camera, I’d pass out. Actually pass out.”

You were losing your mind. Your DMs were flooded. Kazuha had liked three more of your posts, and the internet was combusting over it. Your phone buzzed non-stop—mentions, retweets, follows, and angry fanboys and fangirls trying to decode what black magic you used.

Some of the messages were just chaotic:

@swanfeetfanatic:

BRO??? WHAT DID YOU SELL TO THE UNIVERSE FOR THIS?? GIVE ME THE RITUAL CIRCLE???

@kknuckles:

This is rigged. You’re not even her biggest fan. You don’t even tag your fancams right.

But then came the jealous DMs.

unknown:

“Seriously? SHE liked you? You barely know anything about her. You said she looked ‘unreal’ like three times. That’s lazy simping.”

user82837:

“You're just a thirst account. If anyone should get noticed, it's people who actually care about her art.”

zuha4life:

“You think she’s gonna date you now or something? LMAO. Delusional.”

private account (no pfp):

“She follows me too. You’re not special. Stop pretending you matter.”

The bitterness dripped off every word, but you couldn’t lie—it kind of made it sweeter. You knew it was petty, but something about being the one she saw… it stirred something in your chest.

You refreshed again.

Another like.

This time, on your old post from months ago:

“If Kazuha showed up at my door soaked in rain asking to stay the night, I wouldn’t even ask questions. I’d just pray she never leaves.”

You stared at it.

And then the DM came from that private account with no posts.

unknown:

"You wouldn’t pass out. You’d fall to your knees."

Then it vanished.

Same Night — Hotel Room

Kazuha grinned at her burner account. She had watched your reaction through the reflection in her hotel window, playing your stream on mute.

She could see you squint at your screen, confused and flustered. She could practically taste your pulse.

“That’s enough teasing for now,” she whispered, rolling onto her back. “He’s almost ripe.”

Next Day — Fanmeet

You had to fly out. You couldn’t resist anymore. Kazuha was attending a public fanmeet in Seoul and you had to see her.

You didn’t expect to get in. You didn’t expect your fan letter to even be read. But someone—somehow—pushed your name to the top of the list.

You were called up.

And there she was.

Kazuha, smiling up at you from across the small table. Her skin glowed. Her eyes—deep, unreadable—fixed on you like you were the only thing left in the world.

You stammered. “H-Hi…”

“Hi,” she said sweetly, but her tone was low. Slow. Intimate.

Your heart did a backflip.

She tilted her head. “You look… just like I imagined.”

You blinked. “W-What?”

Kazuha leaned in, lips just a whisper from the mic.

“Your voice. Your face. I’ve seen all of it. So many times.”

You stood frozen. The staff gestured for you to move along, but she raised her hand—delicate but firm.

“One more minute,” she told them.

Then her eyes turned back to you.

“I liked your post,” she said quietly. “The one about reincarnating as my phone charger.”

You let out a half-choked laugh. “I-I was joking, of course—”

“I wasn’t.”

Silence. Her stare burned into you.

“Would you let me keep you in my room?” she asked. “Just… on the floor. Warm. Plugged in. Close.”

Your throat dried.

She smiled. “I’m kidding.”

But her eyes weren’t.

Two Days Later — Your Apartment

You couldn’t shake her from your mind. Every notification made your heart stutter. Every shadow in your hallway felt like it was holding its breath.

You told yourself you were being paranoid.

Until the note appeared under your door.

“I know where you live now. I liked it better when I was the fantasy. But I’ll make reality better, don’t worry. — K”

You dropped the note like it burned.

Outside, the wind howled.

You couldn’t sleep. Every sound outside your window had you glancing over your shoulder. You checked the locks again. You checked your phone.

No notifications. No messages.

Then the lights flickered.

You turned—slowly—to see her.

Kazuha.

Standing in your living room.

Barefoot. Hair wet. Dressed in one of your oversized hoodies.

“Hey,” she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Miss me?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

She walked toward you, slow and deliberate.

“I told myself I’d wait. That I’d be patient. But you kept posting. You kept calling me a goddess. You kept making me real.”

You backed up, bumping into the wall.

Kazuha raised a hand and gently pressed it against your chest. “So here I am.”

Her smile was soft. Her eyes weren’t.

“I’m yours, right? You made me yours. You manifested me.”

“I—Kazuha, this isn’t—”

“Shh,” she whispered. “Don’t ruin the fantasy. You prayed for this. Every post. Every word.”

She leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Let me be what you worship.”

The words lingered in the air, thick with heat and danger.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding so violently it echoed in your ears. Kazuha was inches from you now—too close. The hoodie she wore was yours, you could tell from the faint detergent scent and how it draped perfectly over her dancer’s frame. Her bare legs, toned and poised, brushed against yours like it was deliberate.

“Kazuha,” you whispered, as gently as you could. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

She tilted her head, feigning confusion. “Why not? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

“I—”

“You said it yourself,” she murmured. “Over and over. You wanted me in your room. You said you’d let me stay the night. That I could do anything. Be anything.”

She pressed her forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, breath warm.

“You told the world you’d worship me. So why hesitate now that your goddess is standing in front of you?”

You didn’t know what scared you more—how calmly she said it, or how much of you wanted to give in.

Your hand moved up, instinctively reaching for your phone, but she caught your wrist with gentle fingers.

“No,” she said, smile still soft. “This isn’t something you share.”

Her grip tightened slightly.

“This moment is ours.”

Hours Later — Same Night

You didn’t sleep.

Kazuha sat curled up on your bed like a cat who had always belonged there, scrolling through your phone as if it was hers now. Occasionally, she'd let out a soft giggle or hum.

“Oh,” she said, waving the screen. “This one’s cute.”

She read aloud:

“I’d let Kazuha slap me with a ballet shoe and I’d thank her. I’m sick in the head.”

She turned to you with wide, amused eyes. “That was you?”

You nodded mutely from the corner of the room, where you sat—legs pulled up to your chest—trying to make sense of the nightmare you were trapped in.

“God, you’re adorable,” she cooed. “You’re so loyal.”

She crawled toward you, slow and deliberate, dropping the phone beside you.

“You made me feel seen. Real. Not just some perfectly sculpted robot for the stage. You talked to me like I was art. Like I was holy.”

Her hand slid against your cheek.

“So I’ll treat you like my most devoted worshipper. Isn’t that what you are?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

She smiled, tapping her forehead to yours again.

“Don’t be scared. You’re mine now. That’s all this is.”

You awoke to the smell of breakfast—burnt toast and eggs, slightly too salty. Kazuha was dancing barefoot in your kitchen, humming a Le Sserafim song under her breath like she was home.

Like she belonged here.

She turned when she saw you, eyes lighting up.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” she chirped. “I made food. It's probably bad, but you’ll eat it anyway, right?”

You stared at her.

“Zuha… you can’t stay here. This isn’t normal. People will notice—”

“Let them,” she said, expression unchanging. “Let them see what real love looks like.”

“But your fans—your company—”

Her face shifted just slightly. A small, almost imperceptible crack in her serene expression.

“I don’t care about them,” she said flatly. “I care about you.”

Silence.

Then, quietly:

“You think they’d still love me if they knew what I was willing to do for you?”

You didn’t move.

She stepped closer.

“If they knew how long I’ve been watching? How many of your locations I’ve tracked from tweets? How many people I blocked from your replies—using sock accounts—so you’d feel like I was the only one who cared?”

“Kazuha—”

“They’d crucify me,” she whispered, smiling. “But you wouldn’t. You’d kneel.”

Later That Day — Twitter

Your account was different now. Your follower count had mysteriously dropped. Your tweet replies were unusually quiet—no more chaotic DMs. No more angry fangirls or jealous snark.

They were gone.

You opened your DMs and saw nothing.

Nothing.

Except one new message.

From @onlyzuha (a private account with zero followers).

“You’re welcome. I cleaned up the noise. I want to hear you clearly.”

“Post something for me. Something true. Tell the world who you belong to.”

And somehow… you knew if you didn’t, she’d find another way to make it clear.

You hovered over the tweet button.

Your hands were shaking.

“I don’t know how this happened… but she’s mine now. And I think I’m hers.”

You hit post.

Seconds later—liked by @Kazuha_official.

Your post went viral.

Not viral like before—no chaotic memes or fan envy. This time, it was quiet.

Sinister.

Everyone could feel something was off.

Your tweet:

“I don’t know how this happened… but she’s mine now. And I think I’m hers.”

Got liked only once—by Kazuha’s verified account.

No replies. No fan jokes. No chaos.

Just silence.

And then, one by one, your tweets started disappearing.

Not the ones Kazuha liked—those remained, carefully pruned. But old ones, ones where you casually mentioned your friends, college, exes, late-night gaming buddies—they all vanished. It was as if someone was scrubbing your digital identity clean.

That Night — Your Apartment

Kazuha was humming in your room again. Sitting cross-legged in your chair, scrolling through your timeline like it was hers.

“Your friend Dan,” she said calmly, “he called you pathetic once in a Discord voice call. I saved the clip.”

You stared at her. “How did you—”

“I joined with a throwaway,” she smiled. “Voice mod and everything. Cute, right?”

You stood frozen, bile creeping up your throat. “You… you were listening?”

“I am listening,” she said softly. “All the time.”

She got up, walked to you, and gently took your face in her hands.

“I know you better than anyone. Better than your mother. Better than God. Because I chose to.”

“Kazuha,” you whispered, barely breathing, “I’m scared.”

Her smile didn’t falter.

“I know, baby. It’s always scary when divinity touches you.”

Next Morning — Trending Tab

#FREE___

Your name.

It started trending without context. Just your name. Bold. Empty. Dozens of fans began asking:

“Why has this guy’s account been completely wiped except the Kazuha tweets?”

“Did he delete himself or did someone else delete him?”

“He was super active and now he’s silent af. Where is he?”

“This is giving Black Mirror.”

You tried to post something. Anything.

But the tweet wouldn’t send. Your drafts vanished as you typed them.

Kazuha walked past behind you, brushing her teeth, wearing your shirt. “Internet issues?”

She spat in the sink, smiling through the mirror.

“I locked you out. Just for a bit. You were shaking too much.”

Sometime later, a secret video is leaked.

A blurry video was posted by a burner account and quickly deleted.

It showed you—clearly distressed—sitting on a balcony. Kazuha beside you, holding your hand, smiling into the camera. Whispering something into your ear. You looked like you were crying.

Fans lost it.

“No idol should be that close to a fan, ever.”

“He doesn’t look okay. He looks like he’s being held hostage.”

“If this is real, we need to help him.”

But the video disappeared in minutes.

The account that posted it? Nuked.

The people who reposted it? Suspended.

Your last tweet remained.

Still liked.

Still pinned.

Still yours.

You sat on the edge of the building, wind tugging at your clothes. Kazuha sat beside you, her hand on your thigh, casual like always.

“I think people are starting to notice,” you murmured.

“They’re irrelevant,” she said. “They don’t understand us.”

She leaned her head on your shoulder, like a girlfriend in a drama.

“I used to think I needed the world. The stage. The lights. But it was all so… hollow.”

“Then I found your words.”

“You made me alive.”

The wind howled. You didn’t speak.

“If the world burns because I chose you,” she whispered, “then let it burn.”

She looked up at you.

“So choose, baby. Me or them.”

Your lips trembled.

“Kazuha…”

“I won’t ask again.”

One Week Later — You were declared missing.

It started with a welfare check.

Neighbors hadn’t seen you in days. Lights on all night. Packages stacked outside your door. No noise, no movement. Your parents tried calling—you didn’t answer. Your friends, the few who hadn’t been pushed away, filed a report.

By the time police reached your apartment… it was empty.

No sign of a struggle. No signs of violence.

Just your phone—cracked, screen facing the wall. And a note:

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve gone somewhere better.”

Your name hit the trending tab again.

#RIP[YourName]

#JusticeFor[YourHandle]

#WhatHappenedToTheSimpKing

Memorial edits popped up. Fan theories ran wild. Some blamed Kazuha—pointing to the tweets, the video, the possessive behavior. But HYBE’s legal team moved fast. Every accusation was buried. Every account mysteriously suspended.

It was dark when you woke up. Dim yellow lighting. A room with no windows. Your limbs ached from disuse, your body heavy. The bed beneath you was soft. Too soft. Sheets freshly washed. The scent of clean linen mixed with something sweeter—like jasmine and static.

Then you heard her voice.

“There he is.”

Kazuha stepped into the room, barefoot, wearing a flowy white dress that made her look like a dream—or a ghost. She sat beside you, brushing your hair from your face.

“Sleep well?” she whispered.

You tried to sit up. “Where am I?”

“Safe,” she said, like that explained anything. “The world thinks you’re gone. And for once… they’re right.”

You stared at her, mind spinning. “You faked my death?”

Her smile didn’t waver. “I set you free.”

The bunker—because that’s what it was—had everything.

Soft lighting. A stocked fridge. A mattress. Speakers playing Le Sserafim on loop. No internet. No phone. Just books she picked out. Sketchbooks. Headphones. Her.

She was always there. Always.

Feeding you. Bathing with you. Stroking your hair as you lay on her lap like some prized possession she could finally keep.

“You were too soft for the world,” she said one night, straddling you with a featherlight touch. “Too pure. They would’ve ruined you.”

“But I kept you.”

You stared at the ceiling.

“You stole me.”

She giggled, kissing your cheek. “And yet… you haven’t run.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t even know where the door was anymore.

Above Ground — Fan Reaction Shifts

A user posted screenshots of your old tweets.

“Guys. Look. She liked every single one that hinted at him wanting to disappear with her. This wasn’t random.”

“What if she saw him coming? What if she planned it?”

They were shut down instantly. IP banned. DMCA strikes. Cease-and-desist.

Kazuha’s fans pivoted.

“He was clearly unstable. Poor girl must’ve been traumatized.”

“She hasn’t smiled once onstage since it happened.”

And it was true.

Kazuha’s performances changed. She danced slower. Sang with empty eyes. But in between sets, a ghost of a smile would return. Not for the cameras. Not for the fans.

Just when she looked at her phone.

Because she still had photos of you.

Videos.

Recordings.

Proof that you were here, beneath the floorboards of the world.

It had been over a month. You couldn’t tell time anymore. Kazuha walked in with two mugs—one for you, one for her.

You didn’t even look up.

“Are you ever going to let me leave?” you asked softly.

She sat beside you, curled her legs underneath her. “No.”

You finally turned to her. “Then why pretend this is love?”

She looked at you, long and deep, like you were scripture.

“Because you loved me when no one else saw me. You wrote about me like I was more than skin. More than choreography. You called me sacred.”

“You gave me that godhood. I’m just returning the favor.”

You laughed bitterly. “You buried me.”

“I immortalized you,” she said, tone still calm. “You're legend now. The fan who loved me so much he vanished.”

She kissed your knuckles.

“And now you’re mine forever.”

Final Scene — A New Fan Surfaces

Far away, in a different country, a new Twitter thread begins.

Someone posts an edit of Kazuha.

Captions it:

“If Kazuha kidnapped me, I’d say thank you.”

The tweet goes viral. Harmless joke. Just another fan craving attention.

But in the shadows… a new account likes it.

@onlyzuha

💬 “Do you really mean that?”

[uneducated-author]

I was playing with the idea of HuaLian having a child in my head, partially because I adore Wangxian as parents, and somehow, I really can't imagine it.

Like, this is NOT an attack on anyone who writes/draws/headcanons Hualian children, just some of my own thoughts.

Wangxian really are immediately set up by the narrative as caring parents, or at the very least responsible adults who act as guardians for kids. We have Wei Wuxian repeatedly teasing, but guiding the Gusu Lan juniors, and even his POV makes clear just how much he prioritises the protection of these kids. And while Lan Wangji appears cold and intolerant of excitability in the flashbacks, we see his as a calm, reassuring and trusted source, one of his first appearances being to respond to a signal flare. Throughout the story we see them excel in managing the Juniors, care for children in their vicinity and also reflect on their own ideas of family dynamics and how children are incorporated into that.

Hua Cheng and Xie Lian don't really emulate that sort of energy. We see Xie Lian alternately a guardian or teacher to Ban Yue & Lan Qianqiu, but that feels more like a reflection of his caring personality rather than a reflection of his wish to be a parent. Xie Lian certainly has affection for children, and prioritises their safety and wellbeing, but in the same way you prioritise children when evacuating, you know? That these humans are more helpless and require aid and care. We see him mourning children and the loss of innocence and crime against young ones who couldn't understand the horrors that killed them, but there never really seems to be some longing to actually raise or have a child.

In fact with Gu Zi being sort of kidnapped by Qi Rong, the kid kind of... Feels forgotten? It's not that Xie Lian doesn't care for the child, or that he isn't concerned for his well being, but it never feels like a priority for him to protect Gu Zi or take him away from Qi Rong. To his credit, when Gu Zi is with him, he does take good care of him and acts affectionate towards him, but even when he notes Gu Zi's mistreatment, there never fully seems to be followup through the narrative? Of course Xie Lian is busy with other stuff, it would be an unfair expectation for him to actually be launching rescue missions at the same time, but the lack of focus feels somewhat out of character and intentionally dismissive.

Same with Lang Ying honestly. Again, Xie Lian is affectionate and kind and a good guardian to the child, but their relationship never truly seems a focus and even the tragic ending of his story feels quickly skipped over. As a reader I never fully felt confident that their relationship was something super strong or important, and it certainly doesn't truly feel parental.

My point ISN'T that Xie Lian is neglectful or cruel towards children, he is NOT. He is very caring and affectionate towards children, but it never seems like he's actually interested in raising or nurturing them of his own volition. When a child is in his care, it feels like his point of view is 'well, there's nobody else that will help, so I will' which is accurate to his general character and philosophy.

There's a fair argument to be made that Xie Lian feels unstable in his own life, and knows that he could not provide a child with a healthy environment to grow, but honestly the same is true of Wei Wuxian, but his relationship with children feels much more sincere and longing.

Hua Cheng, honestly, feels overfocused on Xie Lian. LWJ is seen repeatedly taking his role as teacher and guardian seriously but Hua Cheng generally either is seen fawning over Xie Lian or handling the affairs of Ghosts/running his gambling den. Again, of course he's not outright cruel to children, but beyond the general 'Gege thinks that children should be protected and therefore the children in my realm will not be hurt' there's never any focus on his character with children. I also think that, given his distaste for his younger form, and the fact that he intentionally doesn't truly speak of his own childhood, he is viciously aware of how horrible it is to be a child in a household that does not want to, and is unwilling to replicate that environment. Of course if Xie Lian wanted a child he would do everything in his power to be a good father, but again, it never feels that he truly longs for a child.

(I really want to write a story where Xie Lian asks Hua Cheng if he thinks that a child would be welcome, and for the first time, Hua Cheng hesitates over granting Xie Lian's implied request, because he's self aware enough to know that he would not truly be able to love the child, and he knows that a child can tell when they're unloved, and wouldn't want to put Xie Lian through that. Cue detangling the trauma around generational abuse and not passing down the treatment you had to heal from and Hua Cheng treating E Ming kindly. Whether or not they wind up with a kid is undecided.)

Basically, I kind of firmly like HuaLian in the fun uncles category. They're comfortable and kind with children, will always adore the opportunity to babysit, but they're comfortable enough to be certain that having children is not what they want, and respect that children should have parents that want them. HuaLian facing the woman in her thirties treatment of 'But surely you'll change your mind in time? You two are so happy, you ought to have children, nothing fulfills you like children'.

Yeah, this is too long a tangent that I'm sure a lot of people will disagree with, but I like Hualian as a confident couple that reminds people that they do Not Need child to 'complete' or 'fulfill' their family, and fully content in their own company.

[opiopal]

imagine mc being in the human realm,

and they start noticing crows slowly begin hanging out around the areas mc visits frequently(like their home, stores, and work), until one day a crow (very politely) knocks at their bedroom window with their little noggin. mc, since the crow was being ever so polite, opens the window and the crow hops in and onto a nightstand, then drops a little folded up note infront of Mc. they take it, confused, and open it. And isn’t very surprised to find it to be a letter from mammon! it’s a little cheesy, honestly it kind of seems like he wrote it in the middle of the night while thinking about them. Maybe there’s even a little doodle of a heart here and there. mc giggles and decides to write one back and give it to the crow, though before hand they had thanked the little messenger and pat its head with their fingers.

Anyways, but I think it would be funny if they send each other small gifts and letters through crows whenever mc is in the human realm:)

[gatorbites-imagines]

My favorite mermen are ones based on either eels, deep sea fish, or octopi.

Bucky as an Eel merman makes my brain brrr cause eels are seen as creepy and scary but honestly they can be super sweet. Yeah, they are dangerous, electric eels can generate up to 600 volts which is enough to kill a person on it own (but typically muscle spasms and paralysis cause the person to drown)

Especially when they become accustomed to humans, they are literally just DOGS. My favorite is Valerie Taylor and the spotted moray eel she befriended, like. It acts like a puppy around her 😭

Merman Bucky Barnes x male reader 

Headcanons 

Happy mermay everybody

I went with moray eel Bucky, cuz I think their pharyngeal jaw is cool. I think thats what its called,,,, ive been thinking about other avengers, and I feel like Tony would be some colorful fish. I like the mental image of seal Steve,,, its cute,,, 

Imagine in this world, SHIELD is a company of some kind, that researches the ocean, environment, and helps preserve it. And then imagine, you being one of SHIELDs “agent”, aka, researchers. 

You get your own comfortably sized home near the ocean, quite isolated from the rest of the world, but the nearest town is only 45 minutes away in your truck. 

you have everything you need, and incredible internet, thanks to the tech you were given by your employers. Nicky Fury was a scary and intense guy, but he provided his people with the best gear out there. 

The first good while, nothing special happens. You put on your wetsuit, oxygen, fins, a bag for all the interesting things you find, and everything else. And splash, you are in the cold waters every single day, looking at this and that. 

You were too amazed by the marine-life and cool rocks to notice the large shape huddled amongst the rocks staring at you, he just blended really well with the shadows. 

Bucky would of course be interested in you, since where you were sent to research hadnt been visited by many people, and especially not ones diving underwater. 

Imagine the absolute terror you feel when you swim past his huddling place, and his hand reaches out and loosely grabs your ankle. Bucky would be amazed at the massive amounts of bubbles coming out around your mouth-piece as you scream 

Merpeople weren't extremely rare, but most lived deeper in the sea or in warmer areas of the world, so seeing one here was a shock to you. 

It was easy to see that he was a moray eel merman, from his tail, to his markings and claws, as well as the second set of jaws you could see in the back of his throat between his parted lips. 

Merpeople weren't stupid, and a good chunk knew at least a little of the local language, so you two were able to have a stunted conversation after you tempt Bucky to swim to the surface. 

Seeing Bucky out of the water, draped across the beach, made it obvious how very attractive he was. You did feel bad when you finally noticed his missing arm, and the many scars on his body. 

You two end up growing closer, Bucky even allowing you to touch his long powerful tail. Its pretty gross, covered in mucus and squishy to the touch. You are lucky his mucus doesn't have toxin in it. 

His human half is covered in the mucus too, but after realizing you don't like the feeling of it between your fingers, Bucky starts washing it off in the water before dragging himself ashore. It secretes out after a while, but all his effort is very cute. 

All the time you two spend together helps Bucky learn a lot more English, and he's very quick to pick it up, meaning the conversations go from surface level to something deeper. 

Its not on purpose that Bucky ends up becoming pretty possessive over you, he just does. And yeah, he's chasing off any other curious mer, or fish. This is his territory now, and only he is allowed to drape himself across your lap and receive scritches. 

I could see Bucky being just as curious about your human body as you are his mer body. So, expect to wear a lot of shorts so he can pet your legs or wiggle your toes.  

He will flop his long heavy tail over your lap in the meantime. Its both because you are curious as a scientist or whatever you are, but also because it feels nice to be touched. Your hands and body are just so nice and warm compared to his clammy body. 

With SHIELDs help, you are able to make an arm for Bucky. And Bucky, well, he immediately takes it as a courting gift, because why else would you give it to him. 

Plus, he's been able to smell your attraction to him whenever you guys go swimming, especially the times where you just wear swim trunks and paddle along beside him. 

Kissing a mer is really clumsy and awkward the first multiple times, especially one with sharp teeth and more than one row of teeth like Bucky. 

The first time you two try to slip tongue into it, Bucky almost bites your tongue right off with his second set of jaws. The merman feels horrible about it and ends up curling up inside a rock formation for a few days. He only comes out when you put on your gear and swim down to see him. 

I could imagine Bucky, after you two become a thing, mourns how he isnt human. He will always be stuck in the sea, and he knows you love the ocean, but you are human, and there are times when you need to leave him behind. 

Those times where you have to leave, be it to pick up supplies, report to SHIELD, or the time or two where you had to present a subject to a huge crowd, Bucky always lingers around, waiting for your return. 

Maybe you two figure out a way for him to drag his way into your home, like, having dug out a path he can drag himself without being dried out, and placing a huge tub he can soak in. Maybe those in the floor beds.  

That means he can at least watch tv when you are away, he's always waiting and yearning though. It's so strange to yearn for someone when he's been alone for so long, but love does that to a person, or mer. 

You are just as excited to get back to him as well, meaning you are always hurrying out of whatever meetings you were called into.  

[transformers-spike]

I’m currently getting my car inspected so my brain has time to think (despite just waking up maybe 30 minutes prior to getting here lol).

So instead of the tfp bots and cons becoming human, imagine their humans becoming Cybertronian for a brief time. (Likely from some bs that Mech/Silas was working on)

Like…imagine the mind fuck it would be for them to realize “frag, do I even find my own kind attractive anymore?”. Like, their humans are finally on an even playing field, they look good, they’re fucking hot, but where’s my soft and squishy? My pookie is no longer a small, warm, fuzzy little thing, they’re still sexy but not the right kind of sexy. Y’know?

I just thought it would be funny, the chaos that would ensue, ESPECIALLY with the Decepticons (queue the montage of them teaching reader how to be a Cybertronian in cheesy movie fashion).

- Predaputhy

(Also, my phone now has an autofill option for Predaputhy and that’s so fucking funny to me)

(lmaoooo dying over your phone accepting you as Predaputhy)

I love the idea of a montage. If you're Megatron's especially, he's going to have EVERYONE teach you how to handle being a Cybertronian. They all start off annoyed, but it sort of derails and turns into a comedy where they're rediscovering the joys of life despite being in a war for longer than humans have existed

Also i'm DYING at the bots missing you being soft and squishy and tiny. They miss their special little human

[lorimnnn]

Werewolf!Yandere x Reader (Imagines) Summary: You abandon the city for a cottage in the woods, hoping for a peaceful change of pace. But something waits for you in the trees, watching, waiting. Obsessing. Synopsis: It had taken exactly three days; in the first, you bought the house. The second, you packed up your whole life and shipped it to your new, small-town address woven into the deep wood of the far reaches of the countryside. The third: you moved in. It had taken three days for you to forfeit the city and all you had ever known, hoping to start fresh in a place where the only person who could determine the trajectory of your life was the one that was keeping you company: you. Or so you thought. You have the strangest feeling that you are being surveilled, but it's hard to tell. Surely the wild dog pacing outside your door can't have anything to do with it, right?

TW: afab + fem!reader, obsession, mentions of animal attack, mentions of stalking and fraud, mentions of graphic night terrors Word count: TBD

Werewolf!Yandere who was abandoned in the snow as a child. He knows no gentility, no kindness, no tenderness. He is a killing machine who is more animal than man and dominates the seemingly quiet wood that you have just moved into-- naive, little you, fresh out of the city.

Werewolf!Yandere who watches you from the moment you move in. He surveils your every movement and observes you through the windows you so innocently expose to him. You don't realise that you aren't alone in this forest.

Werewolf!Yandere who appears to you during the day, hoping to intimidate you with his presence.

Werewolf!Yandere who doesn't know what to do when you mistake him for a wild dog.

Werewolf!Yandere, killing machine and king of the wild, who lets you pat him. It's the first token of kindness he has ever experienced, and it's... warm. It feels nice. It bleeds into every cell of his body and awakens the part of him that he had long-since forgotten about; his human soul.

Werewolf!Yandere who has found his mate, but doesn't realise it. Nobody ever taught him this

Werewolf!Yandere who greets you every morning and waits for you to come back every night. You start feeding him as though his fangs aren't red from his prey, and it's insulting. But he eats it anyway.

Werewolf!Yandere who keeps the other animals and creatures away from your house. There is an unspoken claim laid upon the cottage and the human that resides inside. It is a claim that nobody questions, and yet you believe that you lucked out with the real estate.

Werewolf!Yandere who starts aching for his daily pats. He becomes pathetic for it before he even realises it, and suddenly he is trembling with desperation, following your scent to the edge of town so he can walk you back, drunk off the intimacy of a walk with just the two of you.

Werewolf!Yandere who lets you domesticate him. You give him a dumb name and he wants to yell at you, but seeing you happy becomes his most dominant and primal need.

Werewolf!Yandere, free spirit and predator of the wood, who lets you put a collar on him.

Werewolf!Yandere who has only ever slept in the hard terrain of the forest floor, and occasionally a wet bed of soil. He doesn't know what to do with himself when you let him into your house and set him up a place to sleep by the fire. The house is a flower field of your scent and he is overwhelmed. The smoke is the only thing that neutralises the newborn, disturbing erring in the back of his mind.

Werewolf!Yandere who hears you scream in the middle of the night. He darts into your room, growling, and can't understand why you writhe and squirm with your eyes closed. You only calm when he licks your face, and so hesitantly, he invites himself into your bed. It's impossibly soft. It's nothing like he's ever felt before. It's almost uncomfortable.

Werewolf!Yandere who feels your arms slip around his body, your face nestled into his fur. That previously muted, disgusting human instinct crescendos into a scream in his mind, and he is overwhelmed by an obsessive call to claim. Whatever that means. He barely manages to sleep.

Werewolf!Yandere who spends almost every waking hour with you from dusk until dawn.

Werewolf!Yandere who has reconciled with his fate to be a housepet.

Werewolf!Yandere who is the first to notice something wrong one night. The grass crunches and a foreing scent wafts into the cottage. You are outside, cleaning to calm your mind after another terror. You're too late to come inside.

Werewolf!Yandere who tears the local pack's wolf who was stupid enough to attack you apart. The mangled, bloody mess is barely reminiscent of the animal it once was, and it is a message to all who have plotted similar ideas, assuming that the tyrant of the wood had grown weak, and his rule had diminished. It had not. Especially not after that night.

Werewolf!Yandere who acted in a rage against the other wolf, but was too late to save you from the start of a vicious attack. He can't take you to the doctor in this form. Dragging you through the snow was not an option, and it would take him too long. You were losing too much blood. He could smell your life draining inside your body--- fast.

Werewolf!Yandere who transforms into a human for the first time since he was only a discarded child. He transforms for you, and carries you, walking barefoot and naked in the snow until his toes are blue and his teeth chatter.

Werewolf!Yandere who delivers you to the doctor and transforms again, barking desperately at the man inside the clinic who doesn't understand him.

Werewolf!Yandere who refuses to leave your side as they work on you.

Werewolf!Yandere who is there, starving for days, waiting for you to wake up.

Werewolf!Yandere who gets kicked out of the clinic for getting too territorial. He's never had to contend with other people before. This is all new, and he's finding it difficult to adapt.

Werewolf!Yandere who paces outside the clinic for weeks on end. He can't function. The break in his routine is raw and jagged; he can't sleep without your warmth, can't breathe without the distant pattern of yours in the peripheral of his hearing. Can't eat. Can't do anything.

Werewolf!Yandere who becomes feral and hostile with anxiety. There is a feeling that runs hot in his veins and has no name for it. When he forces himself to go hunt, he finds himself turning human against his control. The feeling is much more acute in that form; he is sweaty, trembling, and his heart pounds in his chest to the thought of you.

Werewolf!Yandere who waits for weeks upon week until you are released, and only relaxes when he sees you limping back up to the cottage. He noses your hand to try help you back into the cottage. You laugh at the sound is everything he has longed for and needed.

Werewolf!Yandere who notices a flower tucked behind your ear. There is a rosy glow swept over your cheeks and your eyes are bright with a different kind of excitement.

Werewolf!Yandere who freezes when he smells the doctor on you. The same doctor that had tended to you and kicked him out. His blood boils with possessive instinct. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Werewolf!Yandere who is no longer content with being your dog when the doctor is considered your 'man'. He wants to be seen as a man.

Werewolf!Yandere who blocks the door on the night of your first date.

Werewolf!Yandere who's heart shatters at your scream.

Werewolf!Yandere who gets on to his knees, his head at your feet. The ferocious hunter that once terrorised the deep wood is nowhere to be found. The beast, the creature, the predator, the monster --- he is now a pathetic, crying ball at the foot of your door, begging for you to recognise him as your dearest and closest companion who had found home at your side for the last six months.

"Please," he whispers. His hands clutch the edge of your skirt to his face, hemming it with tears. He has never felt so small in his life. So pathetic. The burn of shame and humiliation radiate from him like smoke, but he is helpless against it. He is sick with most fervent, instinctual longing, and there is no going back. "Don't go."

A/N: what do you think? I've been so deeply invested in hybrid yandere fanfiction these days and it's lodged an idea so deep in my mind that I haven't been able to think about anything else. I've also been listening to some audiobooks these days--- have you heard of the Pumpkin Spice Cafe by Laurie Gilmore? It's this adorable small-town romance with CHEMISTRY in it, and it's a slow-burn, too!! Anyway, my point was that I've been on a small-town romance high and it ended up workiing out perfectly with my werewolf OC. I do need some help though. I haven't given him a name... And I'm not really keen on calling him Werewolf!Yandere every time I write about him in story format. Help me decide? Note: I'm keen on using slightly non-human names because he doesn't remember/have a birth name!

As always, thank you for reading! I'm working on the full version of this story as we speak. I'm so excited. I almost want to work on it seriously! LOLOL! Please share your love and follow to keep up with the updates!

[junkdrawerfan]

You know those AUs where Bruce is actually the will of Gotham or some kind of living Shadow creature? And you know how dimension travel is possible?

Okay so… stay with me: Human!Bruce and some of the kids dimension travel to a world where Batman is a living embodiment of Gotham’s vengeance who takes on a more human mindset and appearance to take care of Dick and later all his kids.

Imagine the reaction of Human!Bruce when he sees his counterpart melt into the shadows and turn into blorb!Batman. Or a little black blob of shadow clinging to Dick’s shoulders with the iconic bat ears twitching to show he’s happy or sad!!

Dick: and then when I was ten he had to take over the missing Bruce Wayne’s life so we could explain where I came from and also have enough money for food! Alt!Dick: So… your Batman became a new person to take care of you? Dick: Course! You know how he is! Alt!Dick: **tearing up after being forceably reminded of all the ways Bruce has quietly shown his love throughout the years** yup…

Blob!Bruce: **wiggles between Alt!Tim’s fingers as he keeps trying to scoop the shadow puddle up** Alt!Tim: It feels like I'm holding a newtonian liquid but also cold and… shadowy? Tim: It’s his preference actually. Apparently it’s tiring having to keep his bones in place.

Alt!Bruce: So why create the persona? It would have been easier to stay a myth wouldn't it? Blob!Bruce: Dick said you have to have thumbs to color. Alt!Bruce: **overthinking** oh...okay?

Just the cuteness. The crack potential.

[scary-grace]

Skin Hunger (Chapter 4) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

There's no such thing as a good night at work when you work in the world's most infamous brothel for monsters, but your night takes a turn for the worse when you find yourself serving drinks to visiting half-vampire Shigaraki Tomura. You don't mean to catch his interest, and you don't mean to start a conversation.You definitely don't mean to get him drunk. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Chapter 4

“They’re here.”

You don’t know who begins the whispering, but you hear it crest, moving from the maids in the antechamber to the servants who are ferrying supplies to the maids like you, tucked all the way out of sight in Asylum’s deepest recesses for fear that you’ll be spotted. It’s a little courtesy of Chrono’s, on this full moon as well as the last one, although it’s not one you requested. Still, Asylum is your home, the only one you’ve ever had, and the news travels quickly when you know how to listen. They’re here.

You hear it repeated over and over again, until a new phrase enters the lexicon. “They’re here,” someone says. “They’re early.”

There’s no such thing as late or early in Asylum – since it’s always open, guests come and go as they please. But on a full moon, arriving before it crests in a guest’s home time zone is considered odd for anyone who isn’t a werewolf. You wonder who the guests are, and what led them to arrive early. And why everyone’s so concerned about it. In any case, you don’t need to be. You’re so far from front of house that you’re unlikely to see or be seen by any guests until the full moon’s passed.

You’re used to full moons being busy, chaotic, dangerous, but last month, you spent it in the toy shop, cleaning or disposing of the ones that had already been used and sending out new ones to fit the guests’ needs. This month, you’re in the costume department – not because you have any skill with costuming, but because Chrono’s judged it to be the last place the vampire Shigaraki Tomura would come looking for you. He looked for you last month, or so the other maids say. When you asked Chrono after the full-moon crowds had ebbed, he laughed at you.

“He doesn’t miss you,” he told you. “He’s simply bored. You’ll vanish from his thoughts completely the instant his master finds him an appropriate victim.”

Shigaraki can probably find his own victims now that he’s a full vampire, or else he’s got Overhaul hunting down unique victims for him, too – but if that was what was going on, why wouldn’t Chrono have rubbed it in your face? You don’t know much of Shigaraki’s master, but you’re pretty sure what happened two months ago was a one-off, just a trick to lure Shigaraki into transforming himself at last. The kind of victims Overhaul finds for Shigaraki’s master are expensive. Shigaraki’s master has probably gone back to sending Shigaraki after the maids.

Thinking about that makes you feel sick. Shigaraki’s left the other maids alone because he’s been following you around, and with you hidden far out of the way, there’s nothing to distract him from hunting the others. The other maids are humans. They won’t have a prayer of fending off a full vampire. You imagine being called to clean blood-spattered hallways, to send bloodless corpses down the disposal trapdoors. Then you imagine walking in on him in the act of draining one of them, and the sickness multiplies until you’re dizzy with it.

Your transformation into your half-fey form is complete, and with it, your magic’s settled into the set of abilities you’ll be working with for the duration. Your strongest gifts are still in the realm of glamours and illusions, and they’re still not strong enough to hide your appearance from the kind of direct scrutiny you’d face if you lived full-time in the human world. You’re stuck, even more stuck than you were before, and where you were once resigned to your fate, now you’re miserable with it. There wasn’t even a split second where you believed you and Shigaraki could escape this, where you thought he’d really take you away. But you remember him saying it, remember how sincere he seemed to be, and that’s enough to haunt you.

It haunted you through the last full moon. It haunts you when Chrono summons you to his room at the end of your shift or pulls you into a supply closet on your breaks. And it haunts you whenever you have a second to really think about what your life looks like, and the fact that you’re going to have to do this forever.

It’s best if you don’t have a second to think about anything. You bury yourself in repairing costumes, ignoring the whispers that echo through Asylum’s halls, until a message from Overhaul zips in through the door.

It opens at your touch. Come to my study at once.

You’ve never gotten a message like that before. You wonder what you did. Maybe he’s got an assignment for you. Chrono won’t be happy if you abandon your post, but there isn’t usually a person manning the costume department, anyway – it’s basically self-serve. You leave a note explaining the situation to whoever comes in looking for an outfit, then make your way back up to Overhaul’s study, using the secret passages rather than walking the halls. You know Shigaraki and his master will be here at some point. You don’t want to risk running into him.

The door to Overhaul’s study is open part way. You knock. “Come in,” Overhaul says.

You push open the door and step through, and it slams shut behind you. You have a split second to realize that something’s gone wrong before Overhaul snaps his fingers and chains appear out of thin air, draping themselves around you and pulling tight. Your arms are pinned to your sides, your hands locked down tight, and worse than all of that, a mask comes down over the lower half of your face, preventing you from even opening your mouth. You can’t move, and you can’t talk. “This is almost certainly an overreaction, but I don’t believe in taking unnecessary risks,” Overhaul says. Who is he talking to? “Is she the one?”

“Yes,” a familiar voice says. You’ve heard it only twice before, but you know instantly – it’s Shigaraki’s master. “I saw her only briefly, but there’s no mistaking her scent.”

A bolt of terror breaks through the confusion. You thrash against the chains. They sting your skin in a way they shouldn’t, and you realize that they’re iron. Pure iron, reinforced with warlock magic. There’s no way out. “Half-fey are quite rare,” the master vampire continues. “How did this one find her way into your employ?”

“She’s the child of a former worker and a guest. Unplanned, obviously, but accidents happen.” Overhaul sounds bored. “Her magic is weak, and she’s contained for the moment. Would you like to inspect her further?”

“Of course.”

The master vampire’s shadow falls over you. An enormous hand descends toward your face, and one clawed finger tucks beneath your chin, forcing you to look up and keep looking. The master vampire’s face is a ruin, absent eyes, absent nose, but his mouth is smiling, distorted by the presence of enormous fangs. He leans down towards you and a forked tongue flickers from his mouth, brushing across your cheek, collecting a tear you didn’t realize had fallen from your left eye.

If it’s possible, his smile widens. “Delicious,” he pronounces. “Just the thing to tempt my reluctant apprentice.”

What? “No,” Shigaraki says. You didn’t realize he was here. Your stomach drops. “I don’t want her. I can pick my own victims.”

“I gave you the chance to do so,” his master says. He’s still smiling, but you hear a dark note in his voice, one you’ve never heard from Overhaul only because every threat Overhaul makes is a direct one. “You chose otherwise, and I’m not surprised – with this rare delight awaiting you here, why would you waste time with ordinary humans? And you showed the appropriate respect for Overhaul by hesitating to take one of his more prized possessions without payment.”

“Indeed,” Overhaul drones. “It’s appreciated.”

“Now that I understand the true nature of your hesitation, Tomura, I’m happy to assist you,” Shigaraki’s master concludes. “You were willing to wait for the perfect first victim to complete your transformation. I’m certainly willing to pay for her.”

First victim? Your head is spinning, but that’s enough to break through the temporary fog. You take a breath and realize all at once that the scent of old blood and rot is only coming from a single source, and it’s not Shigaraki. You thought he was a full vampire already. You watched him drain someone to death. “Remind me,” Overhaul says, “what does the transformation require?”

“Simply for Tomura to consume every drop of her blood,” Shigaraki’s master says. His clawed finger caresses your face once more, and you retch. “Only then will his true nature assert itself.”

Finishing off his master’s victim wasn’t enough? He was still a half-vampire last month? Somewhere in the terror and disgust, you feel a surge of fury with Chrono. He lied to you. If you’d known – if you hadn’t hidden, like an idiot – “I must ask about her history,” Shigaraki’s master says. “For Tomura’s first victim, I want only the best. Has she been sold before?”

“Once, but not for blood.” There’s a moment of silence before Overhaul elaborates. “It was a standard sale.”

“To whom?”

“A faery, of course. The Fair Folk are discerning buyers, like yourself,” Overhaul says, “and she was the best I could do.”

Your face is burning with shame now. Listening to Overhaul talk about you like this makes you feel like he’s peeling off your clothes publicly – and not just your clothes, but your skin, human and fey both. “I have no concerns about that,” Shigaraki’s master says. “As long as her blood’s gone untainted. We’ll take her – and we’ll need a private room.”

“No.” Shigaraki speaks up again, louder this time. “I told you. I don’t want her.”

“Truly? You were so unhappy on our last visit,” Shigaraki’s master says. Shigaraki says nothing, and his master sighs. “I see. As you and I are both aware, I cannot force you to drink. But while your control may allow you to leave the maid untouched, mine is not up to such a task. If you refuse to drain her, she will take the place of my meal for this evening.”

Your heart goes still in your chest, then lurches into a panicked sprint. “No,” Shigaraki snarls. “I won’t let you have her.”

“If you don’t wish for me to have her, claim her yourself,” Shigaraki’s master says. That almost-indulgent note is back in his voice, cloying as rotten fruit. “One of us will taste fey blood tonight. Which of us it will be is entirely up to you.”

It’s over, then. The knowledge of your fate settles over you like a shroud. You’ll die tonight, one way or the other. But there’s one way to die that’s far more preferable than the other, and for the first time since you realized he was here, you turn your head in search of Shigaraki. Your iron restraints barely allow it, but you ignore the sting, and with two iron cords biting deeply enough into the side of your neck to burn, your eyes finally meet his.

He looks the same as he has every time you’ve seen him, but he’s never worn this expression before. You’ve never seen him so angry, never seen him boiling with hopeless rage, and with no way to talk, all you can do is pray that his anger won’t lead him to defy his master. You don’t want to die at the hands of a vampire, your spirit drained to nothingness along with your blood. You don’t want to die at all. But if you have to, and you do, you want Shigaraki to be the one who kills you.

He holds your gaze, and you wish you could read his mind, or he could read yours. You wish you could remind him of all the times you’ve saved him from his master’s wrath, tell him he owes you one rescue in return. You wish you really were one of the Fair Folk, that debts to you were binding after all. But you’re as useless as ever. Your blood’s more valuable than your life. All you can do is hope that Shigaraki will see it the way you do. All you can do is wait.

“Well?” Shigaraki’s master prompts him.

Shigaraki looks away from you at last, and answers through gritted teeth. “She’s mine.”

You’ve been slipping in and out of rooms at Asylum for your entire life, but you’ve only entered one as a worker once before – and that time, you didn’t know what was going on until it was too late. This time, you’re agonizingly aware of what’s about to happen to you, and as a result, you fought back when the people you used to call your coworkers dragged you into room 941. They weren’t expecting you to fight. You have no idea why they weren’t expecting it, but you did some damage to every last one of them, Rappa included, before they managed to subdue you again.

You’d like to say it’s because you’re stronger than you thought, but you’d be lying. The only reason it took your former coworkers so long to restrain you is because Overhaul forbid them from leaving marks. When Nemoto, who caught the worst of your frantic efforts to get free, raised his hand to strike you, Overhaul seized his wrist and blew his arm apart.

That was the first time you heard the price you’d fetched for Overhaul – when he snapped it at Nemoto as he writhed armless and eyeless on the floor. “At that price, she’s worth more to me than all of you put together,” he said. “If she’s damaged at all when she’s delivered to the half-vampire, the sale is void, so keep your hands to yourself – or I’ll remove them.”

You had no doubt that he’d do it, and neither did anyone else. No one laid another finger on you for the rest of the march to room 941, but when they got there, they took no chances. You’re tied to the bed, on your knees with your hands strung up between the bedposts in a web of delicate iron ribbons, unable to do anything more than turn your head and rattle them. Overhaul called in a ropes specialist to ensure you were arranged pleasingly, and if all of that wasn’t awful enough, you’re almost naked. All you’ve got is some awful piece of lingerie that exposes all your pulse points and every patch of fey skin your body has to offer.

With one significant exception, being displayed like this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. The only consolation is that it’ll be over soon.

You don’t know what to do with your last minutes alive. You have a feeling you wouldn’t know even if you were free to use them as you liked. Your mind keeps dragging you towards what’s about to happen, then dragging you back to the jealousy you felt when you watched Shigaraki drain the other worker, and what a stupid thing it was to feel. Stupid of you, too, to take Chrono’s word for it, to hide on his orders instead of confronting Shigaraki yourself. It didn’t have to happen this way. This is your fault.

There are voices in the hallway – Overhaul’s, and Shigaraki’s. “I would advise dispensing with the matter quickly,” Overhaul is saying. “Waiting will not make it easier.”

“Shut up. What do you know about it, anyway?”

“I know that particular employee of mine deserves the quickest death you can manage.” Overhaul’s voice is as flat as ever, but there’s an edge to it. “Your master paid handsomely. I would not have sold her otherwise.”

You didn’t think you were that valuable to Overhaul. “Here are the keys,” Overhaul continues. “When you’ve finished with her, simply leave. The maids will take care of the rest.”

“I want to keep her.”

Your stomach clenches. “Her body? By all means,” Overhaul says. “I can repair many things, but death at a vampire’s hands is not one of them.”

It’s silent for another moment. “Enjoy your meal,” Overhaul says, and leaves. A moment later the door opens, and Shigaraki steps through.

He shuts the door behind him and stands facing it for long seconds before turning the lock. When he finally turns and spots you, his reaction is instant – his face turns red, and he whips back around the other way. “I didn’t tell them to do that.”

“They wanted me to look appetizing,” you say. Your voice sounds strange. “Did it work?”

Shigaraki doesn’t answer, and while you could fake resignation before, you can’t fight the nerves that are beginning to claw at your insides. “Remember when you asked about the rest of my skin? You can see it now. They made sure.”

“Not like this.” Shigaraki still doesn’t turn. Why is he dragging this out? Would it be insane for you to tell him to hurry up and kill you? “I didn’t want – not like this.”

It’s not what you wanted either, for the two seconds you let yourself think about wanting it at all. Your eyes sting with tears. “Then let’s get it over with.”

Shigaraki’s head snaps up, and he turns back to you, crossing the room to stand before you in a scant handful of steps. The key to your chains dangles from his left hand. With the way you’re restrained, on your knees on the bed, you’re not quite at Shigaraki’s eye level, and that’s the only reason you don’t panic when he leans in – he’d have to bow his head a lot further to sink his teeth into your neck.

His voice is quiet. “Are they watching?” In Room 941? You nod, and Shigaraki asks again. “Can they hear us?”

You nod a second time, and Shigaraki curses. He steps back from you, grimacing, his hands curled into fists at his sides. “What?” you ask. “Why does it matter if they’re watching?”

“Because I don’t want them to watch!” Shigaraki’s voice is harsh. “Do you?”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” you say. “I never have to see them again.”

Shigaraki’s expression twists, and he takes another step backwards from the bed. You grit your teeth. “The longer this takes, the harder it’s going to be,” you say. “I’m the one who has to die. I don’t want it to be any harder than it already is. And I want –”

You trail off, almost losing your nerve – but what would be the point of losing it? You’re already losing your life. You might as well try to get what you want. “If I’m going to be your first victim, I want to make sure you don’t forget me,” you say. “And I want to feel something good before I die.”

The color was going down in Shigaraki’s face for a little bit there. It comes back up all at once, in such a visible head rush that you’re shocked he doesn’t pass out. He comes a few steps closer to you, lowers his voice. “Are you joking?” he asks, and you shake your head. “Two months ago I told you – and then you hid –”

“I saw you feeding,” you interrupt. “I was jealous.”

Now he’s looking at you like you’re out of your mind. Your eyes are stinging again. “I didn’t want to die. I wanted –” You break off, struggling to describe a set of feelings so intense that they led you into the worst decisions you’ve ever made. It’s not possible. “Unchain my hands and I’ll show you.”

Shigaraki takes another step closer, and another. His face is still bright red, but you see determination settle over his features, the same as despair must be falling over yours. “I’ll unchain you,” he says. “But you don’t need to show me.”

The hand that’s not holding the keys comes up to cup your face, tilting your chin up to the necessary angle. Shigaraki hesitates for a split second before leaning in.

His lips are dry and rough as they meet yours – rough in texture, not in pressure. If he’s kissed anybody before you, you wouldn’t know it by his hesitation, but at the same time, it doesn’t matter at all. Confident or not, Shigaraki is in complete control of you, because you can’t move with the way you’re chained up. You can’t set your hands on his narrow shoulders or run your fingers along the web of scars at the side of his neck, or sink your hands into his hair the way you’ve thought of so many times. You can’t even lean in the way you want to. Whatever happens now is up to him.

He said he’d unchain you, but as you kiss him back, his hands find your waist. You’re expecting him to put his hands there and leave them there, not for him to slide almost immediately into motion, and yet it’s only seconds before one hand drifts down to your hip, fingers ghosting over the curve of your ass. The other draws upwards along your spine, a slow, almost delicate motion that feels wrong for what’s happening here. This isn’t a seduction, where you can take all the time in the world exploring each other. You’ll be dead at the end of this. You don’t want to drag it out.

You kiss Shigaraki back with more fervor than before, opening your mouth against his, catching his lower lip between your teeth. He catches his breath, and you deepen the kiss further, as much as you can with your movements constrained. “Let me out,” you say again. One of his sharp teeth catches on your lip, digging in and spilling blood. “I want to touch you.”

Shigaraki’s tongue skids across your lip, collecting the drops of blood that have oozed out. “Stop, then,” he mumbles. “I can’t think when you’re doing that.”

You stop with what feels like a herculean effort, and Shigaraki’s hands leave your body. They’re shaking as he unlocks the chains, and when they come loose, you slump like a puppet with cut strings. Shigaraki catches you, crushes you against him. His lips are slick with your blood when he presses them to your ear, speaking in a cracked whisper. “Trust me,” he says. “I have a plan.”

What plan? How can he have a plan? Any thoughts you might have about it are knocked out of your head when Shigaraki drops you back on the bed, kicks off his shoes, and climbs on top of you to pin you down. You’re trapped, probably for good, but your hands are free. You tangle one of them up in his hair as he leans in again, startling at the way his body jerks, at the sharp gasp that exits his mouth when you pull ever so slightly. Shigaraki’s hair is rough, tangled. You imagine taking your time to untangle it, tugging here and there until he’s slumped in your arms, tilting his head back for more – and then you remember where you are, what’s about to happen, and it’s an effort not to cry.

Your lingerie, such as it is, barely presents an obstacle, but Shigaraki’s clothes are more difficult. You wrestle him out of his tie and then his shirt, but there’s no time for you to do more than reach for the button on his pants before one of his hands is cupping your breast, toying with your nipple while the other slides between your legs. You’re wet. Shigaraki looks surprised, and your face heats up with shame, worse when he raises his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, eyes going half-lidded in enjoyment. He shouldn’t look at you like that. Not when he’s going to kill you.

Shigaraki’s fingers are rough, inexperienced, as he works his hand back between your legs again, but his enthusiasm is undeniable. So is the way he reacts when your body responds to him, and you’re struck again by just how awful it is that this is all you get. All you’ll ever get, and you’re going to die tonight, so you want all of it. You grab his wrist and pull it away. “What?” Shigaraki complains. “If you don’t like it, say something. I don’t –”

He breaks off as you undo his belt buckle, then the button on his pants, freezing in place when you palm his cock through his underwear. There’s a damp patch in the fabric, one you’d maybe sit up and taste if this wasn’t what it is. As it is, you stroke his cock awkwardly until he struggles halfway out of his pants and underwear and gives you the access you need. Looking at him while you touch him is too hard for you. It’s too hard to see the pretty flush in his cheeks and know that you’ll never see it again, to see the almost frantic look in his eyes as he slumps back into the pillows. No matter how hard you try to lose yourself in him, it’s not enough.

“Stop,” Shigaraki gasps, desperation evident in his voice. “Stop, I’ll –”

You stop, and Shigaraki sits up, dragging you roughly into his lap. It’s not hard for you to guess what he wants. Maybe this will be it – the thing that wipes your mind clean, that lets you forget that you can have what you want, but only once. You sink down slowly onto his cock, shuddering and struggling to adjust. He won’t stop squirming beneath you, clawing at your hips, telling you to move faster or to slow down, instructions you couldn’t listen to if you wanted to. Shigaraki’s twitching stops as you settle fully into his lap. For a moment, the two of you just look at each other.

This is what you wanted. You wanted him, and you’re going to die for it. “When you do it, just do it,” you say, your voice shaking along with the rest of you, beyond your power to steady. “I don’t want to have to choose.”

Shigaraki nods, his pupils blown wide. One hand tears away from your hip to cover the back of your neck, pulling you in close for a kiss even as he shifts beneath you. “Trust me,” he says, his voice nothing more than a breath of air against your skin. “I have a plan.”

The question you’d ask about what plan, about what he thinks could possibly save you now, vanishes as he shifts beneath you again, and twin surges of need and despair force you into motion, chasing the only thing that could make you forget.

You kiss Shigaraki, when the uneven rhythm the two of you have set allows for it. His hands are all over you, sometimes guiding your pace, sometimes clamping down over patches of fey skin and holding on tight. Every time his mouth strays from yours, you tense up. You thought letting him choose when to kill you would make you less frightened, less sick with horror. You were wrong, but every time panic seizes you, Shigaraki kisses you again, tightens his grip again. Maybe he thinks he’s helping. All he’s doing is dragging your nightmare out.

You move faster, hoping he’ll see what you’re doing and kill you, but instead of responding to your frantic efforts, Shigaraki’s hands glue themselves to your hips and hold you down. You’re not riding him any longer so much as you’re being fucked from below, uneven rolls of his hips that leave you gasping. You can barely breathe, let alone kiss him, and in spite of knowing you’ve got minutes left to live, your body seizes around his cock.

Shigaraki swears under his breath, holds onto you tighter, buries his face in the side of your neck. “Now,” you whisper as the tension in your body builds. You’ll never feel better than this, and you want the last thing you feel to be good. “Just do it, now – please –”

Shigaraki swears again. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stop, and as you fall apart in his lap, his teeth sink deep into the side of your neck.

It hurts. You knew it would hurt, never expected anything less, and although the sweeping agony of your blood being drained is more than enough to counteract the pleasure still making you shudder, it’s exactly what you wanted your last moments to be. For the last few moments of your life, every aspect of Shigaraki’s existence is focused on you. The warmth of your body, the taste of your blood, the sensation of your fingers scrabbling uselessly at his shoulders, too weak to leave a mark that will outlive you. Right now, you’re all that matters to him, and as he consumes you in desperate, greedy swallows, you burn one of your last true thoughts on telling yourself it’s enough.

Your vision blurs, nausea sweeping through you, and a terrible cold begins to seep through your body, starting at your fingers and crawling upwards. You go limp in Shigaraki’s arms as your breathing stutters and your heart rate slows. Don’t forget me, you think faintly, as everything around you fades into a frozen void. I still want to matter to you.

You know it’s over. Your body doesn’t. You can feel it fighting back, refusing to give in, right until the moment it all goes black.

<- Chapter 3

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[lilcreaturethingfromthewoods]

Was watching fnaf playthroughs and started imagining what might happen if Mike didn’t stay in the pizzeria at the end of Pizzeria Simulator. Like what if he got out and turned up again in one of the games later in the timeline?

Imagine you’re playing as a kid in one of the security-breach-era games and you start seeing, here and there, a figure out of the corner of your eye. And you can’t see much of them, but you shy away from them, just in case, because you can’t trust anyone here.

And then something happens, and you finally meet them, coming face to face with this being that looks somewhat human, and they seem to be trying to help you, but there’s something odd and uncanny about the way they move (shambling, more like a zombie than a human) and the way they speak (like they’ve seen things, things that happened long before your time) that you can’t quite pin down.

Maybe he wears the uniform of a security guard. Maybe he wears gloves to cover his hands. Maybe he even wears a mask, but you can still see the eyes (dark eyes, with some kind of unnatural light behind them). Maybe you can catch glimpses of skin at the collar and sleeves, and it’s oddly coloured, like his whole body is one big bruise. Maybe his voice has a strange rasp to it, like the inside of his throat is rough and burned.

Maybe he writes on the walls, names of people you’ve never heard of but who he can’t forget, a grim reminder of some past event that corrupted everything it touched.

Then it gets weirder.

His flesh is cold as death. He doesn’t bleed. He should be dead, but he isn’t. Maybe he can’t die. Maybe he won’t die. Maybe he can’t stay dead. Maybe he dies every second every day, but his body picks itself up, over and over again, held together by pain and shadow-whispers because he still has a purpose, something he has to see through, a duty he can’t abandon, and if there’s one thing, one thing he can do to atone for the past, it’s to make sure that there are no more victims.

You are not dying here. Not this time.