#mantra to control parents

[kalki-tarot]

Spiritual advices from a Hindu spiritual freak 🪷

These are my personal opinions and piece of advice and may or may not work for everyone, pls do what you feel is right for you, I'm not forcing any advices on you, anything which is written below is not intended to harm anyone or any group of people🙏🧿💓

Karma is REAL, what you do definitely comes back at you at some point in your journey as a soul. Nothing happens without a reason.

You need to remove the fears associated with living for yourself instilled by your religion(s), parents, peers, etc.

There is no heaven and hell, they are just states of conciousnesses.

There is no "SATAN" or "GOD", good and bad are two sides of the same coin. Without one, another can't exist.

God is just the highest level of consciousness, which even transcends dharma.

Religion and politics are tools to limit and control you from inside and outside.

Dance is one of the deepest meditations possible.

There is no definite path to become one with godliness.

Everything is "maya" i.e, an illusion. It's all a play, and we all are actors. You are not the body, you are the eternal atman.

Love doesn't need marriage. Is love itself not powerful alone that it needs marriage? Love is natural, while marriage is not.

True love always dies at some point, just like a full blooming rose sheds after sometime. True love is momentary and can happen with multiple people throughout life.

Yoga is not what the west shows it to be, it has more spiritual significance. The west potrays some bs like beer yoga, lemonade yoga etc. Which is utter bs.

Never let other people, other ideologies, religions, etc mould your mind. Be who you are, not what you're conditioned to be.

Don't repress your shadow parts, like lust, sexual desires etc.

Meditations works for real. Try it yourself.

Tantra is not only about sex, it's much more than that.

Never practice tantra without a proper guru. Never chant special mantras without an authentic guru's advice.

People who trigger you are actually mirrors of your own deepest darkest fears and shadow parts.

Everything is temporary, you as a human being too, are temporary.

Practicing mindfulness actually does wonders.

Don't donate money, instead buy things with it like clothes, food, etc. Then donate it to the needy.

[bamgyw]

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ c.bg; six nights ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

summary: six nights of emo boy gyu sneaking into your room without your daddy knowing. aberrational catholic guilt ridden catcher in the rye wannabe porn document. afab reader x softdom!beomgyu. warnings: everything, unfortunately. minors dni. heavy smut ahead. lots of pretentious writing, too. catholic guilt and imagery. abusive behaviour, parental neglect. drug use. violence. everyone is sad. i’ll keep on updating part-specific tags. index: prologue: the house of god, first night, second night, third night, fourth night, fifth night, sixth night, dawn of the seventh.

prologue: the house of god

when daddy wanted to hide something from you, he would turn to his beloved bible. and ever since you turned fourteen, he had been holding on to a passage that he would repeat to you every night before going to sleep: 

"let no one say when tempted, "i am being tempted by god," for god tempts no one. but each person is tempted when lured by his own desire. then desire gives birth to sin, and sin brings forth death."

that is the only sex talk your daddy ever gave you. it was more of a sex mantra than a talk, or a warning, or even a prohibition. just a rule of nature that he wanted you to have engraved in your mind: desire is sin, and sin is death.

when daddy didn't want you to do something, he'd blame the rule on god. and there's little you could say against that. 

as you grew up, you realised that god might not be real, but daddy most certainly was. a punitive, disciplinary god. and one feels much more compelled to obey divine rule when god lives under your roof. when you can touch him, and he can touch you.

when god lives in your house and his wrath can tear your flesh apart not in hell, not in heaven, but in this life; you become more cautious than the most devoted of christians. so even when everyone in your grade started drinking, dating, having sex; you had it very clear that the priority was to protect yourself. not from the dangers of drinking, dating, or sex; but from daddy, that is to say, from god.

none of your friends from school understood it, that the fear of god was not irrational. you had scars and bruises that god had given you which you could perfectly show them. but then daddy would get in trouble. besides, he wouldn't like you showing your body around. 

none of them could ever understand what living with god was like, so they were the kind of people who would ask that stupid question; if god loves us, why does he hurt us? 

the first person to understand god was a boy called choi soobin. 

daddy had remarried choi soobin’s mom the year before you started college. she was a beautiful woman, lively and hopeful to start a second life after becoming a widow. it must be thrilling to get a chance at a second life when your first one has gone wrong. soobin’s mom could have been very happy in another universe. you felt sorry that she had stepped into daddy‘s trap. 

you had always wondered how daddy had managed to get a woman like her. bright, cultured and affectionate. but then you figured that maybe, as he was god, he didn't necessarily need to be yahweh, or elohim. he could also be zeus and disguise himself as a swan to kidnap and rape leda. 

you found out later that soobin‘s mom had never fully recovered from the passing of her first husband, and she often suffered from major depressive episodes. daddy saw that void in her, and her urgency to fill it. he forced himself into the hollowness of the void, and obstructed her veins, bones, and heart with the word of god.

soon enough, soobin’s mom had no limb or internal organ she controlled herself. she had once had colours, you remembered; rosy cheeks, a hazel head of hair, lips tinted with vibrant red. but daddy had turned her grey. 

soobin’s mom had been kind enough to see the good sides of daddy, you had liked her for that. but you regretted that she hadn't learned to hide her colors so that daddy couldn't steal them away, like you did. 

she became a shadow of herself, an almost non-verbal phantom trapped between the real world –that is, the confines of daddy's house– and the world of hopeful prayers and the salvation of soul.

the boy called choi soobin would never forgive daddy for that. but it was alright. you understood. in a sense, he had killed his mom. you had to love daddy because he had created you, but you didn't think choi soobin was obliged to. 

people said choi soobin had changed, too. that he used to be a gentle kid, polite and sweet, but he had turned hostile. that, like most teens, he had become self-absorbed and belligerent without a cause or that he had gotten those adolescent mood changes so late in his life because he was an attention seeker. people say things like that when they don't understand what living with god is like.

you were the only one who didn't believe daddy when he said that soobin had a demon inside. you knew better than that, you knew that daddy saw demons everywhere. but soobin’s own mom believed it. when daddy tried to exorcise the demon away from soobin with fist and blood, she looked away.

all that soobin had wanted by acting up against daddy was to save his mom. to bring her back from the dead. but after that betrayal, he stopped trying. 

soobin had never been violent towards you, though. not once. not even mean. you were the only one who understood him, the only one who told him he wasn't evil. you knew that god's tyrannical rule could break a person, fill them with hate. and so soobin and you became close, often talking against god. every whispered defamation, every blasphemy, the danger of it felt so exciting. not because of the mischievous sin, or because of the disobedience, but because you felt like you could speak your mind at last.

your first kiss was soobin. you felt loved when it happened, something you realised you weren't used to. the feeling bloomed throughout the following week as you hid from god's watchful eye to be together.

soobin told you a hundred times that you were the most beautiful girl in the world, kissing all over your face, clasping you as close to him as he humanly could. he would sneak his hand under your skirt and whisper, "don't think about him right now. it's just you and me." and though his touch never went very far in the magnitude scale of sin and punishment, it was enough to breathe a new life into you.

you sensed that a big part of why soobin wanted you so bad was because he got turned on at the idea of defying daddy, and groping his holy daughter was the greatest offence he could commit. but that was alright. you felt the same way. and you hoped that that hate-induced lust would turn into love, in time. you could then be happier, even in the house of god. 

or you could have been happier. because god is omnipresent. and he would soon act to see you separated. the blossoming flower was brutally ripped from the soil.

when daddy found out, he locked himself into the master bedroom with soobin one morning and didn't let him go until the sun began to hide. soobin left that room broken and dead in life, just like his mom, but he didn't have one single bruise. maybe daddy really was god, after all.

soobin never talked to you again. spoken, yes, but it was hollow. you never felt loved again. you learned a lesson that day: your pleasure brings pain to everyone around. the mantra became true. desire is sin, and sin is death.

so if there was any need left in your body to touch, to kiss, to lick, to possess or be possessed; you confined it to the darkest pit of your ribcage, way past your heart, never to be accessed again. 

until choi beomgyu came around.

he was the second person to understand god. but he had brought his lesson learned from home. he knew god’s ways even before he met daddy. he had a god of his own. you called yours daddy, he called his ‘that narcissistic sadist’. but strangely enough, you felt like they meant the same thing. 

choi beomgyu was sort of soobin's friend, if you could even call it that. they never labeled each other as such, never sought out each other's company for the sake of friendship. they just wanted to live through their loneliness while sitting in the same room.

beomgyu’s dad was a dealer. he made a living out of ruining people's lives, as beomgyu saw it. growing up, he had promised himself that he would never be like that, the kind of person who doesn't care about poisoning someone's body if that meant keeping the cash flowing. but as he grew up, he learned that it wasn't all black or white. that all of those fools kept showing at his father’s doorstep, like they had no other choice. like they enjoyed hurting themselves. 

beomgyu, like soobin, had become hateful. one of the things that bothered him the most was the "why me?" question. how unlucky he could have been to be born of such a father. but then again, he could run away. he could sort his shit out, get a job, never see his father again. but he kept going back. like he had no choice. like he, too, enjoyed hurting himself.

his dad barely knew he existed, and if beomgyu ever tried to make himself heard, he would silence him in cold blood. so any semblance of love or validation beomgyu could aspire to, he sought out with mathematically strategised plans. he craved the drug of attention and knew exactly where to get it.

he'd linger around fancy schools and church events, scoping out a certain type of girl. there was always a few of them going through a rebellious phase, desperate to go out with a bad boy and piss off their high-official dad. 

it didn't take much effort for him to get what he wanted. he was handsome enough to make it easy, and even though he was a spiteful nihilist, he could be charming on command. just a smirk, a tousle of the hair, and some cheesy lines like, "i'm messed up, but with you, i feel like maybe i could be better," or "you're too beautiful for a screw-up like me." and he would have them wrapped around his finger. 

he would bring them over to his place and fuck them rough on his drug-money-bought mattress. if there was shouting, or a gunshot coming from another part of the house, he'd fuck into them harder, muffling their fear with a rough kiss, using their panic to fuel his own twisted thrill. you fucking scared? i've gone through this crap every day since i was a kid. 

if he could crack the shell of a privileged princess, dragging someone along with him down to his mud, his pain would slightly numb out.

for just a little, but never enough.

that pattern of behavior didn't lead to happiness. not even to satisfaction. it was a vindictive way of muffling his pain with the aching moans of someone who had it easier. but in reality, it only pierced what was left of his soul, making him even more hollow. it was soobin who made him realize that.

until that day, beomgyu saw soobin as almost a kid—pitifully weak and too sheltered. but when he told him about his exploits of going after posh girls, soobin didn't applaud in shared bitterness as he often did.

beomgyu explained to him how hard he got seeing the fear in their eyes as they realised that the life he led, that freedom of the rebel, wasn't as cute and bohemian as they had romanticised.

soobin responded curtly. "and then what? you cum, the spell wears off and you stare at the ceiling in silence, thinking of how miserable you are." he said. "and then you feel guilty for being a piece of shit and using that girl as a blow-up doll. and because of that you feel even worse about yourself, which means becoming more hateful and ruining more people. its not a you thing, you're not that special. that loop has been said and done. probably how your dad feels after beating on you."

beomgyu was taken aback. he didn’t even find it in himself to get offended. he remained pensive for a while before saying, "hyung. do you think i'm a bad person?"

soobin replied; "i think you can choose not to be."

and beomgyu took the advice. he put an end to the hunter-gathering of rich girls. he respected soobin from then on, too. soobin had therefore been a good influence, one could say. or at least an influence beomgyu was willing to accept. he started hanging around your house more, to the point of almost never leaving.

you learned about him as if he were a mythological figure—someone everyone talked about but whose existence you couldn't confirm. as a friend of soobin, beomgyu was bound from the start by an unspoken rule to maintain the least possible contact with you.

beomgyu was made aware of that rule very early on. what he didn't know, because he had been misled, was your age. that's why he didn't think much of it at first; he thought you were a kid. so, whatever—he couldn't talk to soobin’s annoying little stepsister. big deal. he didn't care about kids anyway.

this, combined with the prison-like structure of daily life in that house—minimal time in common areas and endless hours rotting in your own cell—fulfilled daddy's command to keep your life and soobin's, and therefore boemgyu’s, completely separate.

but even though you hadn't seen choi beomgyu in person, you had been able to construct a fairly accurate forensic portrait of him, pieced together from your father's warnings about people like him.

about the piercings, daddy believed that the body is holy, and anyone capable of mutilating within sin. about the music they played when locked up for whole afternoons in soobin’s room, he believed that god is serene, and disturbing that peace is a sign of the devil. he considered long hair on a man an abomination, and much like the eccentric clothes, a mark of a sodomite.

daddy didn't approve of him, and saw him as no more than a threat to the sanctity of his home. but beomgyu was quick to remedy the situation.

beomgyu was most acquainted to the ways of gods. he knew they were capricious, proud and pathologically narcissistic. so he made sure daddy could see he was a troubled young man and played the role of the lamb seeking guidance. he convinced daddy that he could abduct him, like he had done with soobin and his mother.

when soobin recounted the scene to you, his voice had sounded more hopeful, more full of admiration than you had ever heard. "he went to your dad and talked to him as if he was the buddha. said that he was lost and needed someone to guide him on the right path." soobin said. "he had some quotes from the prodigal son parabole learned, and he just delivered so naturally. not a trace of shame because when he lied to his face like that. it was like watching a play. your dad bought everything."

from then on, beomgyu became an unsung hero in your eyes. the boy who had outmanipulated daddy into having it his way. the boy who had defeated god.

around halloween that year, beomgyu and his dad had a terminal fight. it ended on a threat so destructive that beomgyu thought it was for the better if he stayed away from his father's place for a couple days. maybe a week. soobin, knower of the impotence and humiliation of having to sleep under the roof of the one who lacerated you and torn you to pieces, offered him shelter.

daddy's eyes lit up with greed. he saw the definitive chance to welcome a prodigal son into the fold. for beomgyu it was almost a joke. he was amused at how fast daddy allowed him in. so clueless and hasty, like one of the girls he used to charm into his bed.

in truth, beomgyu wasn't even to blame when he inevitably bumped into you. it had been daddy's mistake, he had let him in himself. you thought maybe that made daddy more human, somehow. that he forgot to close the back door to the prison and the devil strolled in.

but it wasn't really a matter of having let his guard down. daddy was still as stern, still as disciplinary, still as paranoid as he had always been. choi beomgyu was just much smarter than daddy.

he was a demigod, he was a promise. he was soon to make you his.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ next part

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ please let me know if you think reading about booty sex is gross (i'm doing market research)

[ulltraviolences]

let the light in | haymitch abernathy

pairing: haymitch abernathy x fem!covey!reader

synopsis: deciding to indulge in old habits after a particularly hard night & glimpses of his past life, haymitch doesn’t expect to be comforted by the voice of a beautiful songbird in the hob of 12.

warnings: mentions of war, canon violence, ptsd, alcohol, mention of blood, flirting, age gap (reader is in early 20s), slight sexual themes, kissing, fluff-ish, sweet haymitch

song included: the ballad of lucy gray baird

a/n: this is something I’ve had for so long in my drafts & now that we’ve got the prequel announcement, what better time than to post it! <3

Maysilee’s loud screeches echo through the trees, the mockingjay’s repeating the blood curdling sound as they start to encircle him. Haymitch’s feet moving fast beneath him against the dirt trail in order to lose the career pack behind him. His movements beginning themselves before his mind can process them and the fact that she’s gone. The wind being his sole helper in drying the tears that threaten to keep flowing, catching a glimpse of his hands still stained red from the way he held her before she passed.

The only thing on his mind now being that he survives this, for her, for his family, for his district, and more importantly so he can show that they don’t control him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The sound of glass shattering against the hardwood floor is what finally pulls his consciousness out of the nightmare of the arena. Flailing his arms around as if to protect himself from ever being touched again, haymitch is quick to his feet to stand up and surveil the empty dining room for the slight hint of the ghost of a past tribute looking to attempt to take his life once more.

He stands completely still as he finally takes into account his surroundings, his heart still pumping out an extra beat per minute and silently waiting as he catches his breath. it’s just a dream. you survived. you’re here. you’re home. He repeats the mantra in his head over and over again till it hopefully sticks this time.

It isn’t until he feels a slight trickle drip down onto the table that he sees the fallen glass shatter all over the floor and mixed with the hint of crimson from the shards stuck to his palm.

It feels like a cruel joke almost, a reminder. The blood that he’ll forever have stuck to his hands. The mess of blood that no matter how hard he tries to clean up will just keep flowing in an endless cycle no matter what he does to prevent it from happening again.

A bitter chuckle escapes him at the thought. Amused by his own misery and the situation he’s found himself in. He backs up and slowly treks himself to the kitchen sink to turn on the faucet, relishing in the slight sting that the lukewarm water elicits from his wounded hand.

A small price to pay for the families he thinks about every waking moment that he’s, no doubt, wounded for life by surviving the games against their children. Their loved ones that they’ll never get the chance to see again. Yet, whose faces and names haunt him every night since he’s stepped foot out of that arena.

The pain of not only them but his parents. His sisters. His girl. And Maysilee. Her family. People who he couldn’t save even here at home and after the games. All because he wanted to show them, the capitol, that they couldn’t control him they way they did everyone else.

The growing pit in his stomach now feeling inescapable the longer he stands in front of the running faucet. Shaking his head, he slams the faucet switch off, grabbing the alcohol beside him to disinfect the wound. Hissing and banging his leg against the drawer beneath his sink when when the liquid hits his palm. He slowly bends down to open the drawer and finds the bandaging wrap that he keeps for instances like these, which have happened to become routine for him. He bandages up the rest of his hand until he looks down and hums in slight satisfaction at his work.

As soon as he’s finished, his mind is already preoccupied with what the next choice, or beverage, of distraction he is in need of. It can’t be here though. Anywhere but the empty, cold house in the almost unoccupied, lone victor’s village.

Walking towards the front door, he quickly shrugs on a light coat and his boots. Stepping out into the cool, autumn night out in district 12. He continues down the path towards the main part of the district. Letting the sound of the wind be the only thing present in his mind before he decides to sit down at the hob and think more about his decisions in life so far.

As he nears the hob, he can hear the slight sound of music making its way through the open doors to the outside. Both young and old residents of the district out tonight and drinking, the only semblance of fun and normalcy you’ll find them indulging in despite the circumstances of their situations.

He walks in, immediately making a straight beeline towards the bar. Trying as hard as he can to ignore the lingering stares and pointed whispers of those who recognize him. The only lone alive victor of district 12. Eyes filled with both curiosity and pity as they follow his frame to the bar. All were surprised that he had decided to grace them with his presence for once. As his absence was growing long enough for him to almost be forgotten till the painful reminder on reaping day each year.

Haymitch settles onto the stool near the end of the bar, ordering whatever scarce brew is available for the night. Once it’s placed in front of him, it’s almost gone just as it was full. Already raising his hand to catch the attention of the bartender for another glass. Opting to ignore the judgmental stare and low warning given to him before the bartender hesitantly slides another glass his way.

Lost in thought of the nights earlier events and his second helping of beer, his mind is pulled away by the loud cheers of the people in the hob. Still nursing his beer, he takes a small peak from the corner of his eye to where everyone else’s attention is on to the girl twirling her way onto the stage with guitar in hand.

He’s a bit taken aback for a second, not ever having seen much of her before around the district or even hearing of her name. Yet, he might be the only clueless one as to who this girl is, he thinks. Spotting even, off duty peacekeepers who’ve decided to join in once they see the young woman take the stage.

“Well hey y’all!”, The girl beams, “Now just how might all of you fine folks out here in district 12 must be doing tonight?”

The crowd roars in excitement at the question. Never had he ever seen in life someone command the attention of a majority of a district in such a way that wasn’t related to the games. In a joyful way, nonetheless.

“Alright! Alright! Settle down y’all, I hear you all quite clearly, no need to go rupturing my ears now!”, You say as you playfully roll yours eyes at the crowd, “For those of you who may not know, or have been living under a rock, my name is Y/n Ivory!”

As the crowd around him laughs at the charming display of your personality in full force, Haymitch finds out he’s not immune to the power of your charisma either. He finds himself, still secluded in the dark corner of the room, cracking a small smile at your undeniable stage presence.

Pale white dress flowing freefully over your body landing just right above your knees with flowers woven through your hair and all. You’re the purest untainted vision of beauty he’s ever seen dancing in a place that has seen so much violence and pain as 12. It’s a wonder, he thinks to himself, how he’s gone so long without ever seeing or hearing of you.

He doesn’t know if he should be mad at himself for not getting out more or grateful for the fact that he chose to leave tonight. By having it lead him right here tonight as he watches you illuminate the room with every step you take and smile never breaking off of your face for even a second.

“Now don’t you worry, I’m gonna sing y’all a special one tonight,” you say, strumming the guitar as you continue to speak, “this one is a little tune some of you might know, a ballad we’ve all heard passed down, figured something slow is fitting for a nice night like this”

Haymitch watches you slightly clear your throat a little as you strum the chords on your worn leather guitar. He marvels at the intactness of it, such a prized possession to be in hold of that he’s sure has seen so much in its time. Figuring to himself that it has to be some sort of heirloom, as he knew at least no one, not even him, could afford such a luxury except if you lived in the capitol.

“ When I was a babe I fell down in the holler

when I was girl I fell into your arms

we fell on hard times and we lost our bright color

you went to the dogs and I lived by my charms ”

Your voice is sweet, he thinks. Melodically beautiful, just as he expected, yet it doesn’t take away his surprise nonetheless. The glide of the strings paired with your voice forces him to shake his head a bit just to make sure he wasn’t dead yet from the alcohol and your voice was mistaken as angel from above.

He concludes that regardless, there’s not much of a difference. As he takes in your frame, almost floating above the crowd as high as the sound of your lungs can take you, he figures that you might as well be an angel.

“ I danced for my dinners, spread kisses like honey

you stole and you gambled, and I said you should

we sang for our suppers, we drank up our money

then one day you left, saying I was no good

well, all right, I’m bad, but then you’re no prize either

all right, I’m bad, but then, that’s nothing new

you say you won’t love me, I won’t love you neither

just let me remind you what I am to you

‘cause I am the one who looks out when you’re leaping

I am the one who knows how you were brave

and I am the one who heard what you said sleeping

I’ll take that and more to my grave ”

The lyrics are familiar, he concludes to himself. He remembers the ballad well, one his mother would often sing to him & his sisters when they were younger. It would be a way for her to calm them down each night before a reaping.

He remembers the stories she would tell along with it, of how before the rebellion, there were these people who’d call themselves, “covey”, traveling from district to district singing to their hearts content for the enjoyment of others. She knew them well, she’d tell them. Telling them how the covey eventually settled into district 12.

His mother would talk about the nights where she would go to the hob and dance away. Making great friends with the girl who sang these infamous songs that had been passed down. The girl who also coincidentally introduced his mother to his father one night. Pushing his father until he asked his mother for a dance.

She would end each story by telling Haymitch, “well, now you know that you have someone to be thankful for making sure that you exist”.

The story seemed so mythical to him then, as it still does now. To think of a time when there was so much free will that people once held, especially outside of the Capitol’s restraints. To how something so frivolous as singing was enough to be one’s way of survival. A life of fulfillment and light melodies sung with no threat or existence of the games to ever ruin them.

The sound of Y/N’s voice sweetly coaxes him out of his thoughts. It is then, as he hears her, that he does believe in the stories. That if he continued to hear her voice for the rest of his life, it would be enough to ensure his survival for good. Not even the games would be enough to take him away from her. Not if he could help it.

This line of thinking scares him as it does entice him. He hasn’t felt this way since his first love, the one that they took away him. He feels like a teenager once again, heart practically bursting at the sight of the girl in front of him.

Her eyes roam the crowd as she continues singing, before they eventually catch his awe stricken expression. She smiles slightly, lightly fluttering her lashes at the attention. All before closing her eyes, swaying and losing herself in the music once again.

Not one for ever caring about appearances, he suddenly feels hyper aware of himself. He’s not used to feeling like this, he’s not quite sure how to process it. Just desperate, hoping that when her eyes linger a bit longer on him that she hopefully is feeling what he is too.

When she eventually looks away, he finds a part of himself chasing the high that she had bestowed upon him. Thinking how nothing could ever compare to the way he’s feeling now, not even the smooth liquor that would soothe his mind enough to make him forget things that have happened to him.

Now abandoning the half drank pint in front of him, he finds himself wanting to remember this night. This moment where he doesn’t need anything stronger than your presence to tell him that everything is okay.

The song ends, much to his dismay. The last few chords of your guitar lingering in the air before the hob breaks out in a harmonious applause, praises & hollers being shouted out your way. He watches you graciously thank the crowd, letting the band behind you take over. His eyes linger on you as you exit the stage, watching you laugh & thank everyone who meet on your way through the crowd.

It isn’t until he sees your frame slowly getting nearer that he suddenly feels shy, quickly diverting his attention down to his drink. Hands getting slightly clammy as he registers your sweet voice beside him, asking the bartender for a pint for yourself.

“Well my, my, to what do I owe the pleasure of dragging a victor out to one of my shows tonight?”, you say while letting out a slight giggle at the sight of him.

He’s a bit bewildered at first. Not exactly not knowing how to respond out of fear of embarrassing himself. His mouth slightly opens, letting out a playful scoff at the nickname victor, before replying back in the same playful manner you had.

“Just had to come down to hear what all the yapping around the district was about a pretty girl singing her heart out here each night”, he lightly flirts, hoping it lands well with her.

The action is thankfully welcomed as her laugh floats through the air. He wishes he could bottle the sound up so he could hear it over and over again.

“Now you’re just a peach aren’t you? Trying to butter me up .. hm?”, she says. Poking fun at his attempt of flirting before adding on, “And? Did I meet your expectations?”

His heart flutters at the question, chuckling to mask his nervousness that she so easily seems to trigger.

“That you did, sweetheart. Better than I could’ve thought”, he says, relishing in the way her wide eyed expression lights up at the praise he gives to her.

He feels himself mirroring her contagious smile. Nerves still present, but easing themselves when he sees her relaxing into his gaze.

“You’re a very sweet man, Haymitch Abernathy”, you tell him. Warmth slightly flooding your cheeks as his eyes remained fixed on you.

Quickly, taking the opportunity to glance away from the intense eye contact to take in the details about him. You take notice of the way his hair falls around his face, carefully framing it in a way that was too-professionally done to be of his own doing as the rest of the men in the district. A small testament to his time back and forth between his home and the calling of the Capitol. His slightly rugged appearance combats this, a small show of rebelliousness in the appearance the Capitol attempts to smooth over in a Victor, yet still seeming so distinctively him.

To anyone else, his demeanor would have been enough to ward off lingering stares here in the district. To you, it radiated a rare aura of comfort & warmth around him that you had never felt around another man before. You had wanted to get lost in it, envisioning yourself spending late mornings, running your fingers through his locks and humming a secret tune just for you both.

He chuckled dryly, swirling around the ale in his pint before glancing back up at you, “Sorry to disappoint sweetheart, tell anyone else here that and you might get a different answer”.

He watches as you cock your head to the side, a sly smile on your face, “Well good thing I wasn’t planning on asking anyone else”, sternness lacing your tone before scooting closer towards him, “Anyways, I think I like that I might be the only one in this damn district that can tell the difference”.

Haymitch could feel the way the way his heartbeat practically sped up, his hands fidgeting around the handle of the pint in front of him. Taking a deep breath before turning his attention back to the way your wide eyed gaze is fixated on him, eyes slowly analyzing him as if he’ll run right off. The thought crossed his mind for a minute, more so out of fear of embarrassing himself.

Taking a leap of faith, he brings his hand up to run his hand through a lock of your hair, tucking it behind the flower adorned between your ear. He hums at the pretty detail before plucking it to hold out in his palm, “A primrose?”.

You can feel your body still at the motion, warmth pooling in your chest at the feel of his hand. Carefully eyeing his expression, something that reads as a mixture of wonder and adoration at you. You remember to let out a small breath in the midst of the intimacy this situation, softly smiling as he hums in notice of the flower that lays against your hair.

“It was one of my mama’s favorites”, he can feel the wistfulness in your tone as you recall her, “She used to tell me stories of how my grandma and her great aunt would collect different flowers from their travels in the covey to use to bathe her and her cousins, since the borders between districts closed in the dark days, she gathered primroses here from the fields instead for me”.

He takes notice of the way you softly grasp onto his hand, your smooth palm contrasting with his hardened one and its tiny scars littered that hold unspoken memories of the arena. Your finger lightly traces the petals he holds in his palm, he watches as the mixture of nostalgia and sadness battle in your mind as you recall these memories.

Haymitch feels his own heart twinge, thinking back to what he can remember of his own mother, her voice, her stories, her mannerisms, anything. There’s a thick layer of understanding in the air between the two of you, unspoken feelings and experiences of loss and familiarity. The scattered chattering of the hob and instrumentals seem far away as the two of you take in each other’s presence.

He makes the first move to break the stillness between you two, bringing his hand back up to place the flower in your hair once again. You sigh softly as you feel his hand go to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb softly tracing back & forth on your skin. Haymitch feels the ghost of a smile threatening to overtake his lips as he feels your nestle your face further into his grasp before asking, “Would you wanna get out of here?”.

You softly nod at his question, not trusting your own voice to betray you and tremble at the delicateness in which he’s treating you. Standing up, you envelope your hand into his as his other finds it’s way onto your waist to lead you through the crowd. A motion so easily done as if it is second nature to you both. There is nothing but comfort and safeness in the act.

The cold air hits you both as you walk out, not feeling quite sure if the goosebumps forming on your skin is a result of that or the proximity of the man that still has a firm hold on you. You don’t seem to mind either way. You take a small peek over to him, watching the internal battle with himself as it plays on his face, eyebrows creased in deep thought. Yet still, he holds onto you, as if it’ll ground him.

You stop walking after a minute or so, watching the confusion in his expression as he snaps out of his thoughts. You pull him over to the small alley way, taking his face in both of your hands and forcing him to look into your eyes. His eyes trace over your questioning expression, taking a hard swallow before he speaks, “I .. I haven’t done this in a long time, sweetheart”.

“And what exactly are we doing?”, you say while lightly laughing.

He feels his nerves dissipate little by little at the sound of your amusement, still battling with the lingering fear in the back of his mind. He hesitates in his action, slowly leaning in to rest his forehead against yours, hands tightening their hold around your waist.

He can feel your breath hitch, your nose slightly touching against his own as your lips part, begging for him to make a move.

“If I do this, I don’t think I’d want to ever have another day where you’re not near me, at least to where I know you’re safe”, he whispers gently as his lips begin to ghost above yours.

“You won’t have to, I’ll be right here”, you whisper back. Your voice filled with reassurance and desperation, willing to give almost every part of you to him if it takes.

You feel the wind knocked out of you, as if you’ve forgotten to know how to breathe once you feel his lips against your own. Your mouths molding perfectly against one another as if this is what you’ve both have been waiting for your entire lives.

You whine softly as he deepens the kiss, his mouth claiming you with purpose. Whether it’s his way of subconsciously ensuring to himself that he won’t let anything happen to you or to convey his own worthiness to you, he can’t tell. The only thing taking up space in his mind being the way you sound as he familiarizes himself with you, tongue exploring yours while his hands grasp at your body.

You both finally break apart after what feels like an eternity, your heart racing as you try to catch your breath. Unable to shake the burning feeling of that his lips left against yours in their wake. Your lids flutter open, already finding his gaze with what reads as both love and protectiveness staring back at you.

“I …”, he clears his throat before finding a way to gather the right words he wants to say to you. He goes over every possibility of what this could mean between the two of you, of letting you in. It would be easier if he could just act like this was meaningless, that he could walk away now and never think of it again. But as with everything else, he knows that you will ruminate in the back of his mind forever with no avail. Not now that he already has you in his arms.

“I won’t be able to give you much”, is all he is able to choke out. A twinge of disappointment lacing his words.

“That’s okay, I’m not looking for much anyways”, you hum. You tip your head up slightly to look at him, “Just want you, it’ll be enough for me”.

“Yeah?”, he says softly. His eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt, relief blossoming in his chest when he doesn’t find any. The only thing staring back him being the firmness in your vulnerability as you hold him in your palm. He pulls his hand from your waist to grab ahold of your hand against his face, bringing your knuckles to his lips, before leaning back in to press another kiss to your lips.

A part of him knows that it’ll always never be this simple. He will do his best to make sure he can protect you from what he can, if it ever comes to it. But right here, right now, in this moment. It’s not something even, Snow himself, can ever take from him.

[bradshawssugarbaby]

Meet The Teacher - Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

summary: Bradley Bradshaw's re-entering civilian life with a new mission - teaching second grade.

a/n: thank you to @nerdgirljen for suggesting the idea with her breakdown of Bradley's military file, and thank you to @floydsmuse, @mamachasesmayhem, and @purelyfiction for reading this over for me last night 😅

pairing: teacher!Bradley Bradshaw x single mom!reader (last name is given to reader) warnings/content: mentions of trauma/injury, mentions of death/parent loss, Bradley pining for a student's mom, allusions to smut (masturbating (m)).

word count: 2.9k

taglist: @avengersfan25 @nouis-bum @sorchathered @hangmansgbaby @sarahsmi13s @jessicab1991 @atarmychick007 @b-bradshaw @djs8891 @primroseluna @silversprings-mp3 @drxgxnslxyer @gardenavenue @seitmai @unhinged-bitch @mattyskies

“You’ve got this, Bradshaw. You’ve got this. It’s just two dozen second graders. You’ve flown fighter jets and stared enemy aircraft in the eye, shot them down midair, you can handle a classroom of second graders.” 

Bradley repeated his mantra over and over in the rearview mirror of his car, taking a deep breath as he nodded his head. He adjusted the collar on his baby blue and white striped dress shirt, fingers tracing over the silver chain of his dog tags. His breath hitched in his throat as he ran his fingertip over the beaded chain, letting it out in a strained sigh. He was venturing into uncharted waters here, and he was beginning to wonder if he was in over his head. 

Six months ago, he was flying planes, one of the US Navy’s finest aviators. He’d never cared much about what he could have been doing if he hadn’t become a pilot - he’d known as long as he could remember that he wanted to fly. Since his accident though, he began to process all the things he’d let himself miss out on over the past 18 years. At 40 years old, he knew he was pushing his body to its limits, but he didn’t think he’d reached that threshold yet. 

He was wrong. 

It’d been a routine flight exercise, the kind he’d done about 40,000 times before in his career. His plane’s engine cut out, a mechanical failure beyond anyone’s control that couldn’t have been predicted. He kept his composure, pulled the ejection handle and parachuted his way to the ground below. In an ideal situation, he would have landed perfectly, safe and sound and taken to the hospital for observation but released the next day. 

Instead, he’d blown his knee out on his landing, making walking next to impossible, let alone flying. 

Presented with his options, returning to flying seemed unlikely. His knee would only likely get worse, and he realized, he sort of liked the idea of settling down someday — he knew forty was a little late in life to realize it, but damn it, he did want a family. He didn’t want to be that dad who couldn’t keep up with his kid. He wanted to be an active, fun parent like he’d remembered his mom being in her lifetime. He wanted to be able to dance with his new bride at his wedding, if it ever happened, and he couldn’t do any of that if his knee was fucked beyond repair. 

Dreams of coaching Little League and dancing around kitchens in the soft, yellow glow of overhead lights had suddenly flashed before him in his hospital room, and when the proposition of an honourable discharge came up, an offer absolving him of any guilt for abandoning his post in the pursuit of a civilian little fairytale life, he seized it. He loved flying, but he knew he couldn’t do it forever, despite his best efforts. He needed something to fall back on. And if these hopes and dreams suddenly crossing his mind — having a wife and a family, being a doting dad — were to come true, he needed to start somewhere.

Bradley always swore he’d never leave a wife and family behind. He’d seen what happened when a service member didn’t come home first hand - his dad was killed in a training incident when he was just over two years old, and he’d seen how his whole world turned on its side when it happened. Even as a toddler, he remembered a lot of crying from his mother, and suddenly noticing a huge absence in his life that couldn’t be explained. 

He didn’t understand what happened until he turned five, when he finally worked up the courage to ask his mom where his dad was. Why he left. Why he didn’t want to be home with Bradley. The moment he was old enough to decide his career path, he knew he wouldn’t be able to put a wife and children through the things he and his mom had been through. He was better off alone if he was serving. And it suited him just fine for the most part. The odd pang of jealousy when a colleague got married, the occasional feeling that he was missing out on something each time someone he knew announced the arrival of a new baby — they were easy enough to ignore when he focused his attention on his work.

Now, sitting in his parked car, an hour before the start of the school year, he was talking himself through how to survive his first day in his chosen back-up profession — teaching. 

He’d minored in education studies at university when he went. He’d promised his mother when he was applying to colleges that he’d pick a good back-up option to flying, just in case he didn’t get into the academy, and everyone knew he was great with kids. He’d often babysat for his mom’s friends, volunteered to coach softball teams and run summer camps at the community centre throughout high school. Teaching seemed like a no-brainer.

He let out a heavy sigh as he strolled into the school, his head held high, lesson plans tucked neatly in a file folder under his arm, his coffee cup in the other hand. He was ready to face the day, and whatever these seven-year-olds had to throw at him.

The day went on without a hitch, much to Bradley’s relief. Twenty-three little darlings sat in their desks, on their best behaviour for their first day of class. He knew it was unlikely that they’d continue to be so well-behaved, but he savoured it while it lasted. His co-workers seemed laidback and relaxed, friendly smiles and waves exchanged frequently in passing, words of advice and encouragement spoken at length over lunch and prep times. 

Three o’clock came faster than anticipated, and Bradley felt like he’d barely covered any of his plans for the day. At dismissal, he’d politely waved goodbye to each and every child, introducing himself to the parents he’d missed that morning at drop off, and greeting the ones he’d already met with brief updates about their child’s day. The last child to be picked up was a sweet little boy, with blonde hair and hazel eyes, freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose. Bradley’s brown eyes scanned over the attendance record in his hand. Wells Montgomery. 

At 3:10, Wells had grown bored of kicking his soccer ball around the grassy area around the side of the school. He picked his ball up under his arm and hurried back to Bradley. 

“Mr. Bradshaw, is my mom here yet?” 

“Not yet, bud. She’s probably stuck in traffic coming over the bridge into town. You know, it gets really busy around now. Do you want to come inside and read for a little bit in the classroom?” Bradley squinted, the sun shining brightly into his eyes as he scanned the parking lot for anyone who might be Wells’ mother. 

“Ok,” Wells said with a heavy sigh. Bradley furrowed his brow for a moment before looking back to Wells as the two of them headed back into the building. 

By 3:20, Bradley was beginning to worry about his new pupil. He didn’t anticipate a parent going missing-in-action on him on his first day of teaching, but faced with the possibility, he began going through the list of possible actions he could take. Just as he pondered over the idea of taking Wells down to the staff room to rummage the cupboards for a still-at-school-after-school snack, you came practically flying through the door, a panicked expression on your face, cheeks reddening when you saw Wells sitting at his desk, quietly reading. 

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I got held up in a meeting until 2:45, and then traffic was a nightmare, everything was backed up and there’s only two ways onto the island but I couldn’t ditch my car to take the ferry over, I’m so sorry,” you apologized profusely, nodding your head as you looked from Wells, to the teacher seated in the desk and back again, unsure who you needed to apologize to more.

Bradley turned to face you, his eyes raking over you as he assessed the situation. Dressed in a fitted lilac coloured pencil skirt, white tank-top and matching lilac coloured blazer, you looked like something out of a dream to him. He’d never given much thought about what his type in women was before. He’d dated blondes, brunettes, redheads, the occasional girl with bright pink hair, curvy girls, petite girls, mid-sized girls - he never had much of a preference one way or the other as far as appearances went, but God, if he had to sum up his dream girl right now - you were it. 

“It’s alright, honestly,” Bradley nodded his head, smiling warmly at you in an effort to ease your concerns. “I’m Mr. Bradshaw, Wells’ teacher for second grade. He’s had a great day today, we were just about to head down to the staff room and see if there were any rogue granola bars hiding in the cupboard for him and I to share.”

“Thank you,” you nodded, your expression softening as Bradley spoke, an instant wave of relief washing over you. “You ready to go, Wellsy?” 

“Mom, please,” Wells whined, shaking his head as he grabbed his book and shoved it into his backpack. “She thinks I’m a baby,” he griped, turning to Bradley for a sympathetic smile.

“Moms, huh? Mine was the same way with me.” Bradley laughed softly, waving as you and Wells headed out.

Later that night, Bradley sat on his couch, settling in to watch a baseball game as he poured over the plans for the upcoming week. Cracking open his beer bottle, he sipped the drink, sighing tiredly as he read over the social studies plan, visiting the list of important historical figures he was expected to familiarize the class with over the course of the school year. With one hand, shakily written notes were made in a notebook, scribbling out ideas for fun ways to engage the kids with each important person he was required to introduce. 

Setting the beer down on a coaster, he exchanged it for a slice of greasy pizza, his reward for himself at the end of a successful first day of school. He shovelled it into his mouth, sighing as he watched the baseball game unfold. The Padres were down 3-7 in the bottom of the eighth, with not much hope left for them to pull through tonight. Bradley swallowed his mouthful, brushing the grease off his hands onto the leg of his grey sweatpants.

Bradley yawned, tired bleary eyes blinking as he padded down the hallway to his bedroom. He sighed softly and settled into bed, his mind wandering as his head rested on the pillow. Before he realized it, you were on his mind. He’d thought about you a lot that evening, brief intrusions of your smile flashing through his mind as he tried to plan out the upcoming week. 

This time though, as he laid there looking up at his ceiling, he thought about your apologies for being late, how it felt like you were pleading with him or Wells to not be upset with you. He thought about how your hair, although tousled from clearly running through parking lots to your car and to the school, framed your face perfectly, and how even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the classroom, you managed to look nothing short of beautiful. 

He thought about how well the soft, purple hue of your skirt and blazer suited you, bringing out the glow of your skin and the colour of your eyes. He thought about how it hugged your curves as you left, hand in hand with Wells, the swish of your hips as you walked down the hallway. He thought about how he was pretty sure he didn’t see a wedding band on your finger, but also admonished himself for even checking. He couldn’t date a student’s parent. He knew better than that. 

But still, he couldn’t help but think about you. 

The next couple of weeks went by and Bradley’s interest in you grew fonder. He’d begun watching for you subtly at morning drop-offs and pick-ups, hoping to at least say hello once a day. On the last Friday of the month, you stopped him as he headed for his car, watching as Wells played on the playground equipment facing the parking lot.

“Mr. Bradshaw!” you called out, and Bradley couldn’t help but feel like you were making his name sound like a chorus of angels singing. 

“Hey, Mrs. Montgomery! Is everything ok?” Bradley asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Everything’s fine, yes,” you nodded, smiling as you gently corrected him about your name. You hadn’t been Mrs. Montgomery in two years, but, you couldn’t fault Bradley for slipping up, you knew the school secretary likely didn’t alert him ahead of time. You stifled a giggle as Bradley’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, now his turn to apologize profusely to you.

You waved a hand dismissively and smiled, turning to watch Wells play once again. 

“You know, it may have only been a few weeks, but Wells speaks very highly of you,” you started, nodding in confirmation as you watched him play, your gaze turning to land on Bradley for a moment, “He hasn’t been this interested in anything since his dad moved across the country.” 

“Oh? I’m glad I could help him enjoy school again. I try my best to keep things fun and exciting in the classroom — kids learn better when they’re excited and interested in something. No one has fun being read to from a textbook over and over again all day,” Bradley explained.

“Well, Mr. Bradshaw, you’re doing a really good job of it. He came home excited to tell me that he learned about George Washington yesterday. I’m pretty sure two days ago he had no idea who that was.”

“Please,” Bradley laughed softly, shaking his head, “You can call me Bradley. It’s less formal.”

“Bradley,” you repeated, nodding as you chuckled to yourself, “Bradley Bradshaw?”

“My dad had a sense of humour,” Bradley shrugged, looking out at the playground as Wells chased one of his friends around. “He’s a good kid, you know. Wells.”

“I know, I’m proud of how well he’s handling things now that his dad got relocated. Pensacola’s a lot further than he anticipated. He was hoping for Corpus Christi at least.”

Bradley’s ears piqued at the mention of Wells’ dad relocating. Pensacola and Corpus Christi both housed Naval Air bases, he was more than familiar with both of them. He’d only ever been stationed between Oceana, Miramar and North Island, but in his eighteen years of service, he’d met plenty of service members who hailed from one of the two bases originally. 

“Wells’ dad is a pilot?”

“Mhmm, well, mechanic, actually. He doesn’t fly them in combat,” you commented, raising an eyebrow at Bradley. “You seemed to guess that really well. Most people don’t guess pilot.”

“I used to be a Naval pilot, m’am,” he nodded, smiling proudly as he thought about his accomplished Naval career once again. “Lieutenant Commander Bradley Bradshaw, US Naval Air Force. I was stationed at NAS Oceana, transferred here to North Island, wrecked my knee, now I’m a teacher.” 

“That’s quite the pipeline into teaching, Lieutenant Commander.”

“Please, it’s Bradley. It’s nice not going by my rank, actually.” 

“Well, Bradley, I’d love to hear how exactly you landed on teaching second grade as a backup to flying F/A-18s for the United States Navy some day.” You nodded, hoping Bradley wouldn’t take offence to the suggestion of getting together at some point. Even if it was just as friends, you’d welcome it.

“That sounds like a good idea to me, actually. I’d love to.”

As Bradley headed to his car, he felt a little bounce in his step. He couldn’t help himself. Even if this just turned into a friendship and nothing more, he felt grateful that you wanted to spend time getting to know him better. 

His drive home was filled with more thoughts of you, thoughts of your pretty pastel coloured outfits you always seemed to favour, thoughts of your perfect smile, always beaming and cheerful, bright enough to brighten his entire day in a way that should make the sun jealous, thoughts of your hair, how it always looked so perfectly imperfect. 

In bed that night, Bradley thought about your legs, how they were long and lean, curving at your thigh. He thought about how good your ass looked in your skirt earlier today, how the material hugged it tightly. He thought about your thighs, how they looked so perfectly smooth and soft, how your plain white t-shirt that was tucked into your skirt did little to hide the swell of your breasts, and the way the curve of your neck looked irresistible, how badly he wanted to plant his lips on your skin and cover you in a trail of kisses. 

Bradley thought about you in a lot of ways that night. None of them were ways he was proud of. But as he stared up at the ceiling this time, you were the only thing on his mind. He didn’t know much about how he’d go about this newfound infatuation with you. All he knew was that if he was going to settle down with anyone, he was almost positive it would be with you. 

[herstoryheaven]

Descendants James Hook x Reader: Melting Under His Gaze

Request: Hi, me again! You don't have to do this lol, but I was wondering if you could do one where Elsa's daughter / us go to Auradon or more so Merlin Academy and meet James.

Reader: Female

Word count: 4307

Average reading time: 15 min 40 sec

Category: Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: This story contains themes of grief, self-doubt and fear of losing control. If you are sensitive to these topics, please read with care.

Author's note: Due to the time period of the movie, the reader is Elsa's sister instead of daughter.

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Disclaimer: All events portrayed in my stories are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events is purely coincidental. Any actions or behaviours portrayed by the characters may differ from reality and cannot be connected to any actual person. This work is purely fictional and intended for entertainment purposes only.

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Y/n had always known her place in Arendelle. As the middle child, she was neither as responsible as Elsa nor as carefree as Anna. But like Elsa, she was burdened with a secret. The same icy powers coursed through her veins, a frosty magic she was taught to suppress. "Conceal, don't feel." had become her mantra, whispered to herself during sleepless nights and quiet, lonely days.

After the devastating news of their parents' death at sea, the castle felt emptier than ever. The corridors that once echoed with laughter now held only the heavy silence of grief. Elsa, at eighteen, was suddenly thrust into the role of queen, while Y/n, at sixteen, found herself struggling to keep her emotions and her powers in check. Anna, fifteen and still full of youthful innocence, tried her best to lift everyone's spirits, even as she dealt with her own heartbreak.

Tonight, as the sisters sat together in the dim light of the castle’s drawing room, Y/n unfolded a letter she had received earlier that day. The parchment crinkled in her trembling hands, the weight of the words inside pressing down on her.

“What’s that, Y/n?” Anna asked, glancing up from the embroidery she was working on. Her voice was light, but there was a trace of concern in her eyes.

Y/n hesitated, her gaze flickering to Elsa, who sat quietly by the window, lost in thought. Elsa met her eyes and gave a small, almost unnoticable nod. Y/n took a deep breath and forced a smile. “It’s... just something from school.” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

Anna’s face lit up with curiosity. “School? Are they starting classes again? It must be a distraction at least, right?”

Y/n nodded, though her thoughts were far from the normalcy of schoolwork. “Yeah, something like that.”

Anna frowned slightly, sensing something was off, but she didn’t press further. Instead, she returned to her embroidery, her movements slower, more distracted. Y/n could tell that Anna was still struggling with their parents’ death, just as they all were.

As the evening wore on, Anna excused herself, saying she was tired. “I think I’ll head to bed.” she said, standing and stretching. “You two should get some rest too.” She leaned down to hug Elsa first, then Y/n, before slipping out of the room with a soft, “Goodnight.”

The moment the door closed behind Anna, Y/n let out a shaky breath. She unfolded the letter again, staring at the elegant script. “I’ve been accepted to Merlin Academy.” she said quietly, more to herself than to Elsa.

Elsa turned her gaze from the window to Y/n, her expression a mix of pride and concern. “It’s a great opportunity, Y/n. You’ll be able to learn so much about your powers, about yourself.”

Y/n’s voice trembled as she spoke, the fears she had kept buried for so long surfacing in a rush. “But what if I can’t control it, Elsa? What if I hurt someone? What if they find out?”

Elsa stood and crossed the room to sit beside Y/n. She took her sister’s hand in hers, her touch cool but comforting. “I know it’s scary. I feel that fear too, every day. But Merlin Academy is where you’ll be safe. It’s where you’ll learn to control your powers, to understand them. You won’t be alone.”

Y/n nodded, but the doubt lingered. “And what about Anna? She doesn’t know. How can I leave without telling her the truth?”

Elsa’s expression softened with sympathy. “Anna has already lost so much. I think it’s best if we keep this between us, at least for now. She doesn’t need another burden to carry, not right now.”

Y/n’s heart ached at the thought of keeping such a big secret from Anna, but she knew Elsa was right. Anna was already struggling to cope with their parents’ death, adding the truth about their powers might be too much for her to process.

“I’ll write to her often.” Y/n said, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ll tell her it’s just a regular school. But Elsa... I’m scared.”

Elsa wrapped an arm around Y/n, pulling her close. “I know, Y/n. I’m scared too. But you’re strong, stronger than you think. And no matter what happens, we’ll always have each other.”

Y/n leaned into Elsa’s embrace, drawing strength from her sister’s calm presence. The path ahead seemed intimidating, filled with uncertainty and fear. How could she hide what she was for an entire school year?

-----

When Y/n arrived at Merlin Academy, the grand stone castle seemed to tower over her, its ancient walls full of mysteries and magic. The place was alive with energy, a big contrast to the quiet halls of the castle in Arendelle. Here, students openly showcased their powers and talents without fear. Fire danced on fingertips, water swirled effortlessly, and the earth itself seemed to respond to the commands of one particularly enthusiastic student. But Y/n, true to her promise, kept her powers locked inside, her heart frozen with the weight of her secret.

Everywhere she looked, there was something magical happening, yet Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of place. Her steps were cautious, her demeanor guarded, as if any wrong move might shatter the fragile control she had over her powers. She avoided the crowds, keeping to the edges of the bustling groups, hoping to remain unnoticed. But she quickly realized that in a place like Merlin Academy, secrets were hard to keep.

It was during one of those early days, as she wandered the academy’s grand gardens alone, that Y/n first encountered James Hook. The moment she saw him, she knew he wasn’t like the other students. He stood out in every possible way. His crimson coat, tailored perfectly to his tall, lean frame, contrasted sharply with his dark hair, which fell in unruly waves just above his sharp, blue eyes. There was a dangerous sort of charm about him, the kind that warned of trouble even as it invited you closer.

Y/n had heard the rumors, of course. Whispers that followed him wherever he went about him being a ruthless pirate, about the lost treasure he was supposedly seeking within the academy’s walls. She knew enough to keep her distance, but it seemed that James had other plans.

While Y/n tried to find a quiet spot to study, she heard a voice behind her, smooth and laced with a hint of amusement. “What’s a delicate thing like you doing all alone out here?”

She turned sharply to find James leaning casually against a tree, his piercing blue eyes locked on her with a gaze that felt almost predatory, yet strangely protective. Her heart raced, a mix of fear and something she couldn’t quite place. 

“I prefer it that way.” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady. “Less… complicated.”

James’s lips curled into a sly smile as he pushed off the tree and came closer, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path. “Less complicated, hm? Or less risky?” He tilted his head, his gaze never leaving hers. “You don’t strike me as the type to avoid a little danger.”

Y/n swallowed, instinctively taking a step back. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, I think you do.” he said, his voice dropping to a low, teasing tone. “I’ve seen you, you know. Always on the outside, watching, but never participating. It’s as if you’re afraid of your own shadow.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. How could he have noticed her when she’d tried so hard to go unnoticed? “I’m not afraid.” she lied, lifting her chin slightly, trying to appear more confident than she felt.

“Is that so?” James mused, stepping even closer until he was just a few feet away. He looked her over, as if trying to unravel the mystery she had so carefully wrapped around herself. “You don’t fool me, Y/n. There’s something different about you. Something… intriguing.”

Y/n’s breath hitched at the way he said her name, like it was a secret only they shared. “What do you want, James?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from trembling.

He smirked, leaning in just enough that she could catch a hint of the sea on his clothes. “Maybe I’m just curious. You don’t seem like the other students. You’re too… restrained. It makes me wonder what you’re hiding.”

“I’m not hiding anything.” she insisted, her voice sharper than she intended. She could feel the cold creeping into her fingertips, and she clenched her hands into fists, trying to suppress the icy magic that threatened to reveal itself.

James’s eyes flickered down to her clenched fists, a glint of understanding or perhaps amusement crossing his features. “Everyone has something to hide, darling.” he murmured. “The trick is knowing when to reveal it.”

Y/n felt a chill run down her spine, and she stepped back again, desperate to put some distance between them. “I need to go.” she said quickly, turning to leave before he could say anything more.

But James wasn’t one to be dismissed so easily. “I’ll be seeing you around, princess.” he called after her, his voice laced with a promise that made her heart skip a beat.

As she hurried away, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that James Hook was more dangerous than she’d first thought and that he had already set his sights on discovering her deepest secret. But there was something else too, something that lingered in the back of her mind, unsettling and confusing her. The way his gaze seemed to see right through her, as if he understood her fear better than anyone else. Y/n found herself questioning whether she could truly keep her powers and her heart, frozen.

-----

One afternoon, Y/n sat near the sea, trying desperately to lose herself in the pages of a book. The rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore had always been a way to calm herself, a place where she could momentarily forget the icy storm brewing inside her. But today, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t escape the thoughts swirling in her mind, the fear, the loneliness, the unbearable weight of her secret.

The book in her hands was just another attempt to distract herself, but the words blurred together as her anxiety crept up, tightening its grip around her chest. Just as she was about to close it in frustration, a shadow fell over her, blocking the sunlight and pulling her back to reality.

She looked up to see James standing before her, his familiar smirk playing on his lips. His dark hair was tousled by the sea breeze, and his blue eyes sparkled with a mixture of curiosity and something else, something that made her heart skip a beat, even as her fear bubbled beneath the surface.

“Mind if I join you, princess?” he asked, but without waiting for her response, he settled onto the bench beside her, his presence both comforting and unsettling all at once.

Y/n stiffened, clutching her book tighter as if it could shield her from the emotions threatening to spill over. “I was hoping for some peace and quiet.” she murmured, her voice betraying the fear she was trying so hard to hide.

James leaned back, completely at ease. “Aye, I could tell.” he said, his voice smooth and warm, like honey. “But it’s the quiet ones who always have the most interesting stories.”

She kept her eyes fixed on the book, even though she knew she wouldn’t be able to read another word. “There’s nothing interesting about me.” she replied, her tone flat, hoping to end the conversation before it could begin.

“Is that so, princess?” James raised an eyebrow, his smirk softening into something more genuine, though no less intense. “I’ve seen the way you look at the others, like you’re afraid to get too close. What are you hiding?”

His words hit her like a punch to the gut. He was getting too close, digging too deep, and Y/n felt her control slipping. She stood up abruptly, the book nearly falling from her grasp. “Nothing that concerns you.” she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. Panic was clawing at her now, threatening to break free.

But as she turned to leave, James reached out, his hand catching her wrist with a gentle but firm grip. His touch was warm, so different from the cold she carried within. “I think it does concern me.” he said softly, his voice losing its usual playful edge. “I can see it in your eyes, darling. You’re afraid, but of what?”

Y/n tried to pull away, but the warmth of his hand, the sincerity in his gaze, it all made her want to crumble, to let go of the iron grip she had on her emotions. She could feel the cold creeping up her spine, could sense the frost forming on her skin, and she knew she was losing control. “You wouldn’t understand,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the effort to keep herself together.

“Try me.” James urged, stepping closer, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a soothing, almost tender gesture.

But it was too late. The storm inside her was raging, and she could no longer hold it back. The fear, the loneliness, the crushing weight of her secret, all of it surged to the surface. A cold gust of wind whipped around them, and before she could stop it, frost began to spread across the ground, spiraling out from where she stood. The book in her hand fell to the ground, forgotten, as she clutched at her arms, trying to contain the icy power that was slipping out of her control.

“No, no, no…” she whispered, terror lacing her voice as she backed away, but there was nowhere to go. The ice was curling around her like a cage, and she couldn’t stop it. She felt the cold seeping into her bones, the frost creeping up her arms, and she knew she was seconds away from losing herself completely.

But instead of backing away in fear, James stepped closer, his eyes locked on hers, determent. “Y/n.” he called to her, his voice cutting through the chaos in her mind. “Look at me.”

She did, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her vision blurring with unshed tears. The ice crackled and snapped around her, but James wasn’t afraid. He reached out, cupping her face in his hands, the warmth of his touch chasing away the cold that threatened to consume her.

“You don’t have to be afraid.” he said, his voice low and steady, grounding her in the here and now. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/n’s breathing was unstable, the panic still clawing at her insides, but James’s touch, his words, they were like a lifeline pulling her back from the edge. “I—I can’t stop it.” she choked out, the tears finally spilling over and freezing as they fell.

“Yes, you can,” James whispered, leaning in until their foreheads touched, his warmth seeping into her skin, melting the frost that had begun to form. “You can control this, Y/n. I know you can.”

She wanted to believe him, but the fear was still there, gripping her heart in a vise. The cold was still there too, a deadly force she had never been able to fully tame. “I’m going to hurt you.” she whispered, her voice breaking with the weight of her fear.

“You won’t.” James murmured, his thumb brushing away the frozen tear on her cheek. “Not as long as I’m here.”

And then, before she could protest, before the fear could take hold of her again, he closed the distance between them, capturing her lips in a kiss that was both gentle and firm. The world around them seemed to freeze for a moment, literally and figuratively, but then the ice inside her began to melt, slowly, as if his warmth was thawing the cold she had kept locked away for so long.

The kiss deepened, and with it, Y/n felt the storm inside her calm. The frost that had been spreading across the ground withdrawing, the biting cold in her veins dulled, and the panic that had consumed her began to fade. All she could feel was James, his warmth, his strength, the way he held her like she was something precious, not something to be feared.

When they finally pulled apart, James rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the cool air. “You’re not alone anymore, love.” he whispered, his voice full of quiet determination. “You never have to be.”

Y/n let out a shaky breath, her heart finally starting to slow to a normal rhythm. The ice inside her had faded, leaving only a faint chill that she could handle. She looked up at James, searching his eyes for any hint of fear or regret, but all she saw was warmth and an unexpected tenderness that made her want to cry all over again.

“Thank you.” she whispered, her voice still trembling but stronger than before.

“Anything for you, princess.” he replied with a soft smile, stealing one more kiss that made her feel a warmth she hadn’t known in years.

As the warmth of James’s kiss lingered on Y/n’s lips, the tension that had build up inside her began to loosen. The frost on the ground had melted away, leaving only damp patches where the ice had once spread. For a moment, the world felt still, as if holding its breath with her. But reality crept back in, the weight of what had just happened settling heavily on her shoulders.

Y/n took a shaky step back, her hand still entwined with James’s, but her mind already racing with a thousand thoughts. What had she just done? She had lost control, let her powers loose in a way that could have endangered him, and yet… he wasn’t afraid. Not only that, he had calmed her, brought her back from the brink, something no one had ever been able to do before.

“James,” she began, her voice hesitant as she tried to find the right words. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I could have—”

He silenced her with a gentle kiss on her hand, his eyes soft as they met hers. “You don’t have to apologize, Y/n.” he said, his voice steady, reassuring. “I told you, you don’t have to hide from me. I’m not afraid of what you can do.”

His words were like a balm to her unsettling nerves, but they also stirred something deeper within her,something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time, hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to carry this burden alone anymore.

“But you should be.” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the waves. “Everyone else is. They always have been. Just like they have been of Elsa… She tried to protect me, to help me, but I could see it in her eyes. She was scared too.”

James’s expression softened even more, his gaze filled with understanding. “People fear what they don’t understand, love. But I’m not like them. I see you, really see you. And I’m not going anywhere, other then being by your side.”

Y/n felt her heart squeeze painfully in her chest. She wanted to believe him, wanted to hold onto the warmth he offered, but the fear was still there, gnawing at the edges of her mind. “But what if I lose control again? What if I hurt someone?”

“You won’t.” James said firmly, his grip on her hand tightening just enough to ground her. “Not as long as I’m here with you. We’ll figure this out together, okay? You don’t have to do this alone.”

The sincerity in his voice, the confidence he had in her, was almost overwhelming. Y/n felt the last of her defenses crumble as she nodded slowly, her heart aching with a mixture of fear and gratitude. “Okay.” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

James smiled, a genuine, warm smile that made her heart flutter in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. “Good ” he said, pulling her into a gentle embrace. She hesitated for a moment before leaning into him, letting herself be held, letting herself feel safe.

For a few minutes, they stayed like that, the sound of the waves crashing softly in the background, the world seeming to fade away. Y/n felt herself relax more with each passing second, the ice within her settling into a quiet, manageable calm. 

But as the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the shore, Y/n knew they couldn’t stay here forever. She pulled back slightly, looking up at James with a mixture of resolve and uncertainty. “What now?” she asked quietly.

James tilted his head, considering her for a moment before responding. “Now,” he said, “if we’re going to figure all this out, maybe it’s time you started practicing, really using your powers.”

Y/n held her breath, her eyes widening slightly as she looked at him. “You mean… now? Out here?” The idea of intentionally using her powers, after everything that had just happened, sent a shiver down her spine, but not entirely from fear. There was a part of her, buried deep, that longed to be free, to see what she could truly do.

James nodded, his expression earnest. “Why not? You’ve been holding back for so long, love. What if you tried letting go, just a little? You don’t have to be afraid. I’ll be right here.”

His encouragement, so simple yet so powerful, struck a chord within her. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to stop hiding, to stop fearing herself. She took a deep breath, feeling the familiar cold rise within her, but this time, she didn’t push it away. She let it fill her, let it flow through her veins like a river of ice.

“Okay.” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sensation of the cold, on the power that had always been a part of her. The air around her began to chill, the wind picking up as she let the ice take form.

James stepped back slightly, giving her space, but his eyes never left her. There was no fear in his gaze, only wonder and something that looked very much like admiration. “Don't fight it.” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “Just feel the ice course through you and work with it, not against it.”

Encouraged by his words, Y/n opened her eyes, her heart pounding as she raised her hands, palms facing down toward her clothes. With a gentle flick of her fingers, the cold surged outward, wrapping around her like a second skin. The fabric of her clothes shimmered and began to change, the colors deepening into a rich, icy blue. The material lengthened and flowed like water, forming into a dress that sparkled with the light of a thousand tiny snowflakes. The bodice hugged her figure, intricate patterns of frost weaving themselves into the fabric, while the skirt flared out in an elegant, sweeping train. Even her shoes transformed, the delicate heels now made of glistening ice, as strong and tough as winter itself.

When she finally lowered her hands, Y/n could hardly believe what she had done. She stared down at herself, at the beautiful dress she had created, and for the first time, she felt a sense of pride in her powers, in who she was.

James, who had watched the entire transformation in awed silence, let out a low whistle. “Y/n.” he breathed, his voice filled with genuine admiration. “You… you look absolutly stunning, I have never had the honor to be in the pressence of such a beautiful and powerful woman.”

His words made her blush, the warmth of his gaze almost overwhelming. She glanced up at him, suddenly shy, but the way he looked at her, like she was something you would only read about, made her heart skip a beat. “Thank you.” she said softly, her voice tinged with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief.

James took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “You should never have to hide this, Y/n. You’re amazing, and what you can do… it’s indescribable how beautiful it is.”

Y/n felt her breath catch in her throat. No one had ever spoken to her like this, had ever made her feel like her powers were something to be celebrated rather than feared. The sincerity in James’s voice, the way he looked at her with such affection, it was almost too much to take in.

He reached out, gently taking her hand in his. The warmth of his touch melted the last of her doubts, and she found herself smiling, really smiling, for the first time in what felt like forever. “I don’t know what to say.” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to say anything.” James replied, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gesture that sent a thrill through her. “Just remember this feeling. This is who you are, Y/n. Not the fear, not the doubt, this.”

The intensity of his words, the raw honesty in his eyes, made Y/n’s heart swell. Without thinking, she stepped closer, drawn to him by something she couldn’t quite name. And when James didn’t pull away, when he instead cupped her face with that same gentle touch, she knew, this was where she was meant to be. Y/n found herself glancing at James, feeling something new, a warmth that had nothing to do with her powers and everything to do with him.

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Requested by: @GlitchyDaRat

[a-yellow-van]

Wish You Were Here | Part 3

You and Joel get stuck in a blizzard during patrol. It leads to something unexpected.

Series masterlist

Pairing : Joel Miller x f!reader

Fanfic tags : canon compliant, slow burn, romance, some smut, angst, hurt/comfort, joel and the reader are terrible at feelings, female reader, no use of y/n, reader is in early 30s, past relationships, trauma/PTSD, grief, loss, post-apocalypse, jackson joel, joel is a good parent to ellie, protective joel, major character death, original characters, queer characters, bisexual main character, age difference, canon-typical violence

WC : 8.9 k

Warnings for part 3 : Minors DNI! swearing, drinking, mentions of trauma and PTSD, mild violence, explicit sexual content (masturbation, unprotected sex, p in v sex, rough-ish sex, praise kink, pet names, limited aftercare), more hurt than comfort I'm sorry

Writing this one hurt a lil. But I'm happy with it. So please enjoy.

It’s been half an hour. Thirty minutes of riding side by side in complete silence, interrupted only by the sounds of Old Beardy and Willow’s hooves rhythmically crunching in the snow.  It seems like an eternity. The tension is so intense it’s almost palpable. Your presence, a blur in Joel’s peripheral vision, is putting him on such an edge that, at any given moment now,  he could turn around and gallop back to Jackson, or start saying things he’d better keep to himself, or get you off your horse and take you by the waist and…

No. Nope. Stop it. 

His grip on the reins tightens and he bites his inner cheek until the stab of pain rips his mind off that absurd train of thought. He stares straight ahead at the deserted highway, the stretch of the 191 carved in a broad valley. The landscape is lost in a sea of white, the concrete below  invisible, crashed cars resembling large animals sleeping in a snowy den. Joel’s face is numb from the cold, rugged skin humid, a few wild strands of hair on his forehead pearling with ice. The brim of his insulated cap isn’t enough to shield his eyes from the stinging wind, but still, he stares, almost unblinking. His neck itches with the urge to turn and glance at you; he has been actively fighting it ever since leaving. He has to remain collected, he has to concentrate on the job. That sentence is playing on loop in his head like a mantra, so much so that the words are getting jumbled, barely making sense anymore. 

He doesn’t understand why it’s been so difficult to just move on from what happened. Not one day during those two weeks has passed without his thoughts drifting back to that brief intimacy he shared with you, without wondering what you’re doing, how you’re doing. And he loathes it. Hates being confused, hates not having control, hates that you’re having such an effect on him. So, before he drives himself crazy, he decides to start counting the cars until the both of you reach the first checkpoint on the Hoback route. Joel has calculated about five miles since Jackson, only around three to go until the job gets more active. There are two cars on the right, their shapes stuck together in a permanent collision, and one on the left. Joel can make it. 

Small, repetitive rituals like this always helped him focus; back when he was working construction, a lifetime ago, he’d recite stupid ad jingles to himself, trying to remember as many as he could and associate them with the correct brand. There was a famous one that Sarah used to sing just to annoy him, delighted when it worked without fail every time. He’d be reading the newspaper in the morning, or watching a game, or driving her to school, and she’d pipe up out of nowhere. And then it’d be stuck in Joel’s head for days. Some annoying rap about credit reports. How did it go again? F-R-E-E, that spells free…something something dot com, baby. Sarah’s mischievous giggles, after he begged her to stop, echo around his mind. Less than a year back, it would have sent him down to a dark, sunken place with slippery walls nearly impossible to climb out of. Not anymore, after Ellie. The memory’s still stained with grief, but it doesn’t feel so crushing to carry. He’s accepted it as part of him. Joel tries to recall the rest of the lyrics to that damned song; he thinks Ellie might get a kick out of it. She’s always so eager to learn about even the most meaningless things that existed before the outbreak. 

It does the trick to distract him from you. It works so well, in fact, that he nearly misses the turn to the checkpoint. He pulls on Old Beardy’s reins suddenly, steering him in the right direction. The horse neighs in protest. 

So much for concentrating. 

You’ve certainly noticed the mishap, but you don’t comment on it, much to his relief.  

Get a fucking grip. 

Joel begins down the side path to an abandoned gas station, the tension rising. Maybe, if one of you were to point out the obvious, it would make this whole situation a bit less miserable. But Joel isn’t going to be the one to do it. It would come out all wrong, anyway. 

The place is small, a few pumps decaying under a canopy that’s barely holding on to four crumbling steel rods. The convenience store isn’t in better shape, its windows shattered, the signboard crashed by the entry. You take initiative and move towards the back of the building; Joel takes it as a cue for him to check out the front. The advantage of being an experienced patroller is that you can do your job without much communication; at least there’s that. He jumps off Old Beardy and walks up to the building, unworried but readying his weapon nonetheless. If there were infected around, he’d have spotted them already. Just as he thought, the interior is empty, what’s left of it is covered in a thin film of dirty snow. Just for good measure, he checks the storage and the restrooms in the back. Still nothing. He jogs back to his horse just as you turn a corner, you and Willow coming back into view, calm, unperturbed. 

You don’t wait for him to leave. He scrambles to mount Old Beardy, and you’re already back on the highway. It sustains Joel’s growing irritation; he almost yells out for you to slow down. Sure, ignoring each other is one thing, but being unsafe and disrespecting patrol rules is another. So, as a punishment, Joel spurs Old Beardy into a run and catches up before overtaking you, almost knocking you off Willow. He hears you gasp out in surprise. You try to swerve to the right, but he blocks the move. He wants to make you crack. Because he can’t be the one to do so first. You try the same move, to the left this time, and again, Joel is faster. He takes things a step further and lets out a dry, arrogant scoff. 

That’s it. You’re about to rip into him. But only the whistling of the wind responds; you keep stubbornly quiet. You don’t even give the man a glance when he finally lets you pass and get back on his side, your expression set in stone. 

Damn it. You’re good. 

Joel doesn’t attempt anything else, deciding it’s wasted energy. You both continue on the road, status quo, for another hour. You stop at a few other checkpoints around the highway : an old RV park, a fire station…Warm, sheltered places that would draw in people, or things, at this time of year. But there’s no sign of life anywhere. By this point, Joel would usually have had to take out at least a stray runner. It’s almost unsettling. Like the calm before a storm. That little seed of concern plants itself inside his mind, heightening his senses. You must feel it too, because you guide your horse closer to his, and he notices your right hand leaving the reins to rest on the rifle hanging from your shoulder. 

Sombre clouds are accumulating in the sky, hanging low, menacing. The wind increases as you both reach the highway exit to the small village of Hoback, carrying sharp snowflakes that cut Joel’s exposed cheeks. The path is narrow, flanked by tall conifers that grow denser, their branches drooping down from the weight of the snow. You’re forced to get behind the man, your gaze on his back piercing, nervous, uncomfortable. The both of you still don’t talk, but the atmosphere has shifted, the unspoken conflict momentarily forgotten. 

Joel moves forward cautiously on trot, alert, scanning his surroundings. The first cluster of residences comes into view, simple log cabins settled at the foot of a hill a couple yards away. From the distance, nothing looks out of place. He signals for you to follow him, and you patrol up and down the short street, hastily inspecting the houses on both sides. They’re frozen in a dead silence, immobile, ravaged by years of negligence and harsh elements. Instead of being reassuring, the absence of movement only causes Joel’s foreboding feeling to develop. Something is very off here. The both of you repeat the process through the village, falling into calculated, practised gestures. And, while patrollers have the habit of checking some key places for supplies to bring back to Jackson, this time, your pair instinctively works as fast as possible, not entering a single house. There’s an unwritten agreement to get the hell out of here as soon as you can. 

You’ve cleared out most of the village and, at last, you reach Snake River, the sounds of its turbulent waters mixed with the wind is tumultuous.  There’s a bridge ahead, just large enough for a car. Its wooden structure is unstable, some slats have fallen, the rest are icy and split in places. This next part has to be done on foot; the horses would collapse through the bridge and drown if they even took one step on it. Once you cross the river, you’ll need to walk a couple miles to the outskirts of the village, finishing off the route at an old golf course. The clubhouse is a great lookout to the area; it holds the patrol logbook. Joel halts Old Beardy before the river, and you stop next to him. The animal shakes his head, freeing his mane from the layer of snow. Joel hesitates, not quite ready to leave the protection and speed horseback offers. He’s debating if an acute gut feeling is reason enough to turn back and leave patrol unfinished. 

That short moment of doubt is precious. Because a second later, nature seems to fall completely silent around you. As though a predator is roaming nearby. Sudden, horrible snarls erupt from the woods stretching to your right. The ground trembles beneath fast, uneven footsteps. A lot of them. Too many. Time stops as Joel looks in your eyes for the first time in hours. They’re full of fear. 

And then a runner stumbles onto the trail about three hundred feet behind, twitching, its mangled head snapping in your direction. Followed by another. And another. It jolts the man right into action. 

“COME ON!” He urges you, spurring Old Beardy to a gallop. 

There’s no way to go, but forward. Joel barrels around the bridge and down the slope, reaching the riverbank. You don’t leave his side, thighs clenched around Willow’s flanks, arms straining with the reins. And as your horses hooves hit the ice, the horde has crossed the distance, pouring down the embankment. There’s at least twenty. Some of them fall into the water, the current seizing them immediately. But it’s not enough to stop them. Joel’s heart is hammering out of his chest, his body rocking with the movement as Old Beardy pushes on, fueled by the danger. Joel lets go of the reins, expert fingers grasping his rifle. He swiftly points it at the first runner that lunges at his left, and lodges a bullet in its brain. The next one steps on the corpse, ready to attack. It meets the same fate. The gunshots coming from your side clearly indicate that you’re handling yourself. Before long, Joel has emptied the chamber, not one bullet wasted. 

“RELOADING!” He shouts. 

You cover him, taking out an infected, mere inches before his claws dig into Joel’s ankle. He doesn’t have time to thank you, however, pulling the trigger the second he readies the rifle again. You both maintain the rhythm up for what seems to be hours, the horses snorting through the effort, runners dropping like flies. Joel has lost all sensation; he doesn’t feel his lungs burning or his muscles pulling; the adrenaline has completely taken over. He keeps riding. Shooting. Reloading. And…Yes, there.

Only two of the fuckers left. 

One on your side, one on his. He fires. Perfect shot. He thinks the two of you might make it out unscathed. 

But then, something happens. Your weapon is pointed at your own runner, about to shoot. But you hesitate. Joel watches as the creature strikes. Willow panics. She rears up. And you are thrown to the ground.   

——————————

That runner. 

It looks so much like her. 

Your body hits the riverbank, head bouncing on a rock, wind knocked out of you. A sharp pain erupts in your skull, high-pitched ringing explodes in your ears, stars appear in your vision. In a fraction of a second, the creature is straddling you. You weakly push an elbow against its chest, keeping its jaws from locking around your neck. It twitches, screams, clacks its teeth. 

And you just…accept it. Twenty-one years of surviving, and this is how it ends. 

You close your eyes. 

And you’re back in the forest. That day. You’re running, faster than you’ve ever done in your life, branches grabbing at you, slicing your skin, like they want to prevent your escape. You glance over your shoulder. She’s gaining on you. Her eyes have turned a milky white, her clothes are ripped, her skin bloodied. But she still looks so much like herself. She still sounds like herself. Your baby sister. Her discorded weeps fill you with a gutting terror. You can almost make out the repeated word. Your name. Tears fall down wildly as you dart between trees, your breathing erratic, throat on fire. 

“PLEASE! ANI! STOP!” you howl. But she’s gone. She can’t understand. So she chases, and you run. 

Until your foot catches on a large root, sending you tumbling through the underbrush. Your gun clatters away from you. You lay there, stunned, dirt in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, ankle bent at the wrong angle. 

She pins you to the ground, broken nails digging in the skin of your arms. You flail around, kick at her, trying to free yourself from her impossibly strong grip. 

“STOP IT! ANI! STOP!” you cry out again, voice raspy, hollow, desperate. 

Your right hand pats around blindly for the weapon, your left is pushed against her forehead, forcing her mouth away from your exposed shoulder. Your heart is beating so fast it seems like it’s stopped. Maybe it has. Maybe you’ve died, and this is just a flash of your last moments as you drift into peaceful, eternal rest. Or maybe it’s a horrible nightmare, and you’re about to wake up, a hand laced in your sister’s soft hair, light snores escaping her lips. She always looks so innocent when she sleeps, like all worries have washed off her, like she’s been sent back to a happy childhood in her dreams. 

Your fingers brush against cold metal. You close them around the handle. 

Bang. 

The shot echoes, in the past and in the present. 

You’re still alive. 

The runner’s corpse slumps down against you, coating you with gore, a foul smell making you gag. You’re paralyzed, trembling, chest rising and falling erratically, gasping for air. You look up at the angry grey skies, the snow plummeting down, catching in your eyelashes. Everything stands still for an instant. 

It all comes rushing back as the dead infected is ripped off your chest, discarded to the side like a rag doll. You sense a presence crouching down next to you, and Joel obscures your view. 

He calls out your last name, loud, snapping you back to reality. You focus on his face; it’s flushed, expression tight with stress, eyes darting, searching for yours. 

“Hey! Are you okay?” he yells. 

Joel takes you by the shoulders and pulls you into a sitting position, the sudden movement making you dizzy. You stare back at him, eyes wide, blinking rapidly, unable to answer. Stunned.

“HEY! Did it bite you?” he continues, shaking you. 

You move your head side to side in response, causing it to throb in pain. You wince, raising a hand to your occiput. Your glove comes back crimson. Joel’s eyes fall to the blood, and he mutters a curse. He reaches into his coat pocket to take out a rag, balling it up and pressing it to the back of your skull. 

“Keep that there for me. Can you do that?” He speaks in a low, steady tone, but there’s an edge to it you pick up on. You nod and execute yourself. Willow comes over and nudges you with her nose; her way of apologising. You pat her with your free hand, reassuring. It was your fault.

Joel runs back to Old Beardy, the poor beast trembling from the fright. He takes something out of his pack’s front pocket and brings it back : a small bottle of rubbing alcohol. He twists the cap off with his teeth and kneels behind you, taking the rag and pouring some of the liquid on it. He rubs it on your wound, eliciting a shriek.

Holy shit that hurts. 

Joel inspects the injury, parting your hair to expose it, the rough fabric of his gloves like sandpaper on your scalp. 

“Cut isn’t deep. But you’re gonna get a mean bump.” Joel explains, applying more pressure. He stops the bleeding, aided by the cold, and wraps the rag around your head, securing it with a tight knot. “We gotta keep moving. Can you stand up?” 

This version of Joel, assertive, protective even, catches you off guard. It’s such a stark contrast from his attitude earlier in the day. It nearly makes you forget how close to death you just came.

“Uh, I-I think so-” you reply, regaining your voice, before attempting to push yourself off the ground and falling back down. Your head spins. 

Joel offers you his hand, which you take to pull yourself up slowly, your whole body protesting. Bile rises up to your oesophagus. You lean over, breathing through your mouth. 

“Shit. I think you have a concussion,” you hear Joel say, from far away.

And, then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the storm picks up. The snow gets so dense you can barely see five feet in front of you. The man takes the lead, urgently guiding you towards Old Beardy. He helps you mount, taking you by the waist, and you don’t even think to resist. There’s no way you can ride by yourself in this condition. Joel gets on and takes the reins while you hold on to him, chest pressed against his back. He whistles for Willow over the wind. She follows right behind. 

Joel leads his horse out of the riverbank and into the surrounding woods, visibility getting even poorer. You’re blinded by snow, breathing it in, wheezing. You put all trust in Joel’s sense of orientation, praying that somehow, he gets you back onto the road. He presses forward, a hand raised in front of his face to protect it. 

What a stupid fucking way to go out. Lost in a blizzard. With Joel Miller. At least the town would have something to talk about. 

But then, miraculously, the trees begin to thin out; ahead, you can make out the faint outline of a trail. 

He did it. 

You squeeze Joel’s torso tighter, as if to thank him. Old Beardy perseveres, pushing one leg in front of the other. Your head is getting heavier, the concussion pulling you towards a dreamless sleep. 

“Hold on. We’re almost there.” Joel affirms. You’re not sure who it’s destined for : himself, you, or the horses. Maybe all four. But it’s all you need to let go, and you pass out, head slumping on Joel’s shoulder. 

——————————

You wake up to the sound of snow pelting against glass. Your skull feels like it’s being drilled into with a jackhammer. You pry your eyelids open and try to get your bearings, vision foggy, as though you opened your eyes in a chlorine pool. You find that you’ve been laid out on a frayed, deformed couch, springs digging into your back, a quilt smelling of mothballs thrown over you. Your winter attire has been taken off. You push yourself up on your elbows and look around the room. It seems to be the small living area of a cabin; there’s a rustic coffee table where both packs lay next to the bloody rag that acted as your bandage. To your left is a large, frosted-over bay window; the outside is an infinite, oppressing white. Two sets of jackets and ski pants hang from antler-shaped hooks next to the front door, a puddle forming underneath. A stone hearth takes up the wall in front of you, fire crackling inside. And, to your right, a plaid armchair. Joel is sitting in it, leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, watching you intently with knitted brows. His expression is hard, severe, unfriendly; he’s back to his normal self. You hold his gaze, your sight slowly getting clearer. 

“Uh. Hey,” you speak hoarsely, throat dry. It makes you cough, which prompts Joel to get up and rummage through your pack to retrieve your canteen. He tosses it to you carelessly, and you fail to catch it. It lands on your lap with a thump. Joel plops back into the armchair, huffing. He is very transparently upset with you. 

Great.

You take a long gulp of water and wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve, the day replaying in your mind like on a movie theatre screen, pausing on your near-death experience. And you’re baffled, ashamed of your own actions. You can’t believe Joel had to step in and save your sorry ass, like you’re some kind of damsel in distress.  

Fucking rookie mistake. And now you have a goddamn concussion. 

You massage your temples and suppress a groan. “How long was I out?” you ask instead. 

“About an hour.” Joel answers, tone glacial, deprived of any sympathy. 

“Did you try calling Jackson?” You nod over at the small radio sitting on the ground by the window. 

“Couldn’t get a signal,” Joel answers, gruff, as if it’s an obvious fact. 

You roll your eyes. You know he’s right, but still, you stand up despite sore muscles, and go over to the device, cranking it a few times before trying the channel knob. You’re met with static. Joel mumbles something under his breath; it doesn’t sound pleasant, or polite. You put the radio back down and return to the couch, avoiding eye contact with the older man.

You glance at your watch. It’s right after 3PM, and the blizzard hasn’t let up. You’re going to be stuck here a while. You rest your head on the arm of the sofa, staring at the beamed ceiling, lost in reflexion. About how genuinely worried Joel seemed when you got hurt, how he jumped right in to take care of you. It makes you seethe. He tucked you in so you’d stay warm. He even changed your socks; the wet pair is drying by the fireplace. How dare he? You shift on the cushions, stiff, ill at ease. And Joel chooses that moment to break the silence. 

“What the hell was that back there?” He questions, his tone accusatory.

You tense up. The blame you’re putting on yourself is more than enough. He doesn’t need to twist the knife. You ignore him, your jaw clenching. 

“Hey. I’m talkin’ to ya,” he nags. 

It makes your blood boil, and you sit up to glare at him. “Won’t happen again,” you grumble.

“Yeah? You sure about that?” He continues, harsh. 

You take a deep breath. “Look, I-”

He interrupts you. “You don’t freeze up like that. Ever. You understand me?”

“Oh, wow. I had no idea!” You strike back, not missing a beat. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Miller,” You spit out. 

Joel lets out a chilling chuckle. “Oh, you’re welcome, by the way!” He barks, “You know. For keepin’ you alive an’ all.”

You spring to your feet, heat shooting to your head, exacerbating the migraine. “I didn’t ask for your fucking help,” you utter. 

Joel gets up too, towering over you, hands balled up into fists. “Right. Next time I'll just let you get infected. That what you want?” 

“I told you. There won’t be a next time!” You shout, holding yourself back from punching him in the gut, or kneeing him where it would hurt most, or pulling him down to the couch and pushing your lips to his neck and letting him- 

No. Nope. Not again, not here, not now. 

You desperately need some air. You move towards the front door, but Joel strides up to you and blocks the way, arms crossed. 

“You ain’t going anywhere,” he warns. 

“Let. Me. Out.” You command. Your head is so painful you think it might explode. 

Joel chuckles again. “You got a death wish or somethin’? Settle down, girl.” He talks down to you as if you were a child, smug, condescending; but that word makes your heart skip a beat. 

You try to make a pass for the handle, but he grabs your wrist and shoves it backwards effortlessly. You’re seeing red. So you opt for the next best thing; you spin around abruptly and storm off to the other side of the cabin, into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you. 

“Oh yeah. You do that. Real mature.” Joel yells out. 

You hear the creak of the floor under his steps and the rustling of fabric as he sits back down. You take your frustrations out on the shower curtain, displacing thousands of dust particles, before biting down on your hand to muffle a scream. When you’re done, you climb into the bathtub and curl up against the lime-scaled cold porcelain, forehead on your knees. The space is dark, stuffy, suffocating. You wonder how you’ll be able to make it through the storm without ripping Joel’s head off. Or doing something exactly opposed to it. How easily that man is able to just get to you is incomprehensible. Enraging. And, worst of all, despite how reluctant you are to admit it… 

Arousing.  

It must be the concussion dysregulating you completely. But the feeling grows, and you extend both legs to squeeze your thighs together, trying to release the pressure building between them. It’s no use. There’s only one thing that would satisfy it, and he’s right outside the door. Without your control, your right hand moves to the waistband of your jeans, undoes the button and goes down, past the elastic of your underwear…Fingers reach down to your entrance, already slick, and glide back up to the hardened nub, the touch sending a rush of pleasure through your body. You rub clumsy circles around, slow at first, mind filling with Joel, his calloused hand there instead of yours, stretching you out, whispering filthy things in your ear. You increase the speed, biting your lip to keep yourself from moaning, cheeks flushed, the pressure becoming almost unbearable. You push two fingers inside, curling them to stimulate that sensitive spot, bucking into your own palm to deepen the sensation. In a matter of seconds, you’re unravelling, free hand gripping the side of the tub, your walls clamping down on the other, come seeping in the fabric below. Your lips part and you can’t help a low squeal from escaping them. You immediately clap your left hand over your mouth, heart racing. 

Fuck. 

Did he hear?

You take a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself. The reality of what you just did comes crashing down. It only worked to heighten your desire. And your anger. You button your pants back up and step out of the bathtub, wiping your hand on a scratchy towel you find in the linen closet along with a colony of spiders. 

You’ve been in here for too long. You have to go back out. It would raise suspicion if you didn’t. 

——————————

Joel is oblivious, too busy sulking over the events of the day as he tends to the fire, flames illuminating his face in a flickering glow. 

That was too fucking close. 

The image of you, frozen up under the runner, keeps snaking its way into his thoughts. It infuriates him. How you just gave up, like your life was worthless, like you deserved what came to you. And yet, the sentiment is so familiar it makes his chest ache in a burst of empathy. He can sense the burden in you, the intense trauma you endured. Most people have, in this unforgiving world, but you…There’s something more. It was the look in your eyes when you saw that infected, as if it reminded you of something so vivid it stole you away for an instant. He knows because it’s happened to him. It still does, sometimes, although less frequently. They’re these moments of sheer panic, where he’s choking, the world blurring around him. He has to count things he can see, or touch, or hear…He feels so miserably weak after it’s passed, as if he’s just a small, scared old man. Maybe it reveals his true nature. 

And he’s so angry at you for making him care. Because for some reason, he does. Ever since that night at the tavern. Maybe even before. How scared he got when he thought you might be done for is direct proof of it. 

He can’t afford to have another person to protect. 

A quiet cough brings him back to the present. He peers over his shoulder. You’re standing behind him, seemingly troubled by something; you fiddle with the hem of your sweater, gaze glued to the ground. 

He turns back to the hearth, sighing, and forces out an irritated “You good?” The thing is, he actually is concerned with the answer. 

“Fine.” You reply, your tone not an ounce more affable than his. 

That is as far as the conversation goes. Joel eventually gets tired of rotating the same log with the fire poker, pretending the action is crucial to keep the flames alive. He goes back to the armchair, glancing at you. You’ve reclined on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, mindlessly chewing on a piece of dried meat. He decides to imitate you, because he needs something to do with his hands. So he digs in his bag for the sandwich he’d packed; it’s mushed, tasteless. You both eat in thick, loaded silence. 

The sunlight is starting to decline, and the storm rages on, casting the room in an eerie shadow, the cold seeping in through every tiny crack in the cabin’s foundation. Joel shivers despite himself, shoving both hands under his armpits in an attempt to preserve his body heat. 

A second later, you’re out of your seat. Joel watches as you climb up the spiral staircase that leads to the loft bedroom. You shuffle around the space, partially concealed by the railing, and come stomping back down, carrying a crumpled blanket. You hold it out to him at arm’s length. Joel cocks a brow; the sudden kind gesture leaves him completely confused. You jiggle the blanket under his nose, impatient. He decides to take it, and drapes it around his shoulders, the relief immediate. 

“Uh. Thanks,” he mumbles. 

You give a shrug in response, dismissive, wrapping yourself in the quilt and retreating to the sofa.  

What the hell? 

An hour ago, you were fiercely arguing with him. Now this. The flip-flopping is giving him whiplash. 

Time passes, excruciatingly slow, nor Joel or you daring to say another word. The sun fully sets; the darkness outside is opaque, as if the little cabin is drowning alone in an abyss. There’s no way around it, you’ll both have to spend the night here. Around half past 5PM, Joel can’t stew in the tension anymore, so he goes to check on Old Beardy and Willow, confined to the veranda at the back of the house. They’re cramped, but otherwise fine. Joel risks a short trip to the yard to fill an old, warped bucket with snow for the horses to drink. As he shines the beam of his flashlight around, he notes that the blizzard has weakened slightly. This mess might be over in the morning. Just a few hours. He can last until then. It’s not like he has any other choice. 

He feeds the animals with a pile of straw forgotten in a corner of the veranda, behind some gardening tools. At the start of the outbreak, he couldn’t help but imagine who inhabited the places he used as shelters, what their daily lives looked like, if they were still alive. Sometimes, he’d come across evidence of the contrary. It used to disturb him, he’d feel like an intruder, but he’d quickly grown desensitised. Cordyceps didn’t spare anyone. It made suffering the new normal. It’s useless to dwell on what was or wonder what could have been. So, he doesn’t pay more attention to the objects scattered around the space as Willow eats from his hand. 

Once he comes back inside the cabin, he finds you exploring the kitchenette that’s crammed underneath the loft. You’ve opened the cupboards, revealing stacks of chipped, dusty dishes. You’re going through a drawer, a few utensils clinking inside. You haven’t noticed Joel, too focused on your search for something of value. He observes quietly as you move on to the second drawer, when he decides to make his presence known. He clears his throat before speaking. 

“Don’t bother, I already checked while you were sleepin’.” 

His words only make you search harder, meticulously inspecting the contents of the drawer, bent over, your back turned to him.

Goddamn it. You’re exasperating. 

And yet, his eyes are drawn to a specific part of your anatomy, the curves made obvious by your position, your jeans hugging them so well he could just-

“Or do whatever the fuck you want,” he mutters, the hostility compensating for the sudden surge of lust. 

He plants himself in the armchair, once again, the noises of your continued investigation grating, setting his nerves on fire. After a few minutes, they stop. And you come walking back to the living area with a subtle, conceited smirk on your lips, and a bottle of very nice, before-the-apocalypse whisky clutched in your right hand. 

“Didn’t check well enough, Miller,” you say, failing to hide your satisfaction. 

“Where was it?” He asks, upset at himself for missing the item. 

“Back of the sink cabinet,” you answer smugly. “Quality stuff,” you add, reading the label. You’re absolutely right, but Joel isn’t going to recognise it. 

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky,” he grumbles. You don’t waste time and unseal the bottle before raising it to your mouth. 

“Don’t think that’s smart,” Joel cautions, making you pause mid-air. “Y’know. Concussion,” he continues, his tone more unpleasant than he anticipated. 

You don’t listen to his advice, staring at him tauntingly as you sip. He’s quickly learning that you thrive in defiance. And this audacity you possess, it’s…Attractive. Joel inexplicably likes that you’re provoking him. Your expression remains neutral as you swallow, even when Joel knows for a fact it must sting like hell. You offer the bottle to him. 

It’s been a long time since he’s had liquor that didn’t have an aftertaste of battery acid, and the sight makes him crave a good drink. It’d certainly make the night pass by faster. He knows it’s a terrible idea, considering where getting drunk with you led him last time, but it’s so damn tempting…

He takes the whisky from you. 

——————————

You’ve made a considerable dent in the liquor. It’s dulling the pain in your head, reducing it to a distant ache. You’re sitting cross-legged in front of the hearth, and Joel has joined you on the ground, close enough to pass the bottle back and forth without having to stand up. His back is resting on the bottom panel of the couch, legs spread out casually. The fire, as well as the whisky, is enveloping you in a calming warmth, eating away at your inhibitions; you’ve taken your sweater off as a result, stripped down to a tight thermal shirt. There’s silence again between you and Joel, but this time, it doesn’t make you want to claw out of your own skin. It’s strikingly comfortable. And you find yourself wanting the man to come closer, longing for contact, connection. You haven’t forgotten your little adventure in the bathroom; in fact, the liquor is feeding those feelings,  and they’ve risen to a nearly overwhelming level. 

You take another sip, and, during the exchange, Joel’s fingers graze yours, sending your heart in a frenzy and a burst of flustered heat to your face. You jerk your hand away. 

Idiot. 

You play it off by brushing it through your hair. Joel’s mouth twitches upwards before he drinks. 

“What?” You ask, defensive. 

“Nothin’.” Joel passes the bottle back to you with a faint air of amusement. You decide it’s a good time to stop, and you set it down on the floor. 

“Done already? I was expecting more from ya,” he teases. 

You hate how well it’s efficient in riling you up. “Like you said. Concussion,” you retort, pointing at the site of injury. 

“Hm. So now it's a good enough excuse,” he presses on, narrowing his eyes at you. 

“Yup,” you answer simply. 

“Really? That’s all you got?” His smirk is more assured now. 

You give a drawn-out sigh in response, studying the fire like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. 

“Damn. I was startin’ to like the snark,” he says. It seems like the liquor has taken a toll on the man’s reservations, too. 

“Don’t wanna waste my breath on you,” you reply, unable to resist the banter. 

Joel chuckles. “Ah. There she is.” 

You had forgotten how lovely Joel’s laugh is. How natural it feels to talk to him like this. Funny how booze seems to have that impact on the both of you. And, after a tortuous day of being at each other’s throats, you welcome the change of mood. “Did I just hear you say you like me?” You turn to gaze at him, an eyebrow raised. 

“Nah. Must be your concussion.” He answers, deadpan, unfazed. 

You can’t hold back a smile as you reply. “Hm. Sure, Miller.”

He pauses and appears to consider something, chewing on his bottom lip. “Uh. Joel,” he finally lets out, voice deeper, more serious. “Just- call me Joel.” 

You’re taken aback by that sudden request. 

His first name. It feels informal, intimate even, as though you’ve moved past the status of coworkers, into murky, foreign territory. You know you should refuse. You’ve dropped too many of your principles with this man already. 

“Alright. Joel.” You gulp. “Uh, same goes for you.”

He gives a short nod, and mirrors your sentence, only with your name instead.

It’s significant. This moment. It feels like the two of you have reached a point of no return. Like from here on out, things can’t just go back to the way they were. 

“Man, this isn’t how I was planning to spend the night,” you revert to humour to diffuse the returning tension. 

“Yeah?” Joel follows your lead. “Got somethin’ you’d rather be doin’?”

“Pretty much anything else,” you quip. “I was gonna work on this painting I’m late on.” You’re not sure why you’re opening up about that aspect of your life, but it’s the direction the whisky has picked. It’s futile enough. Still safe. 

“Oh. Right. Painting,” he says. “I knew you did that.”

He does?

“Didn’t you do one of Tommy and Maria?” He continues. “For their wedding?” 

The man truly is full of surprises. And to think you were convinced he was completely indifferent to you, at least before today. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that was me,” you reply after a few seconds. 

“It’s good work. You managed to make Tommy look half-decent. That’s talent right there,” he jokes. 

“Yeah. Thanks. I tried.” You chuckle, and your stomach flutters at the compliment. You’d shoot those butterflies one by one with a tiny gun if you could. “What about you? What’d you have on the schedule?”

“Hm,” he answers, “not much either. Was gonna ask Ellie to join me for dinner. And get rejected again.” 

“I don’t blame her,” you comment, a teasing grin forming. “What teenager wants to hang out with a grumpy old guy?” 

“Hey. Rude.” Joel feigns offence. “I can be fun,” he adds. 

“Won’t believe it until I see it,” you push further. 

“Okay then. Just you wait.” He glances around the room for inspiration, until he is hit by a stroke of genius. 

“Truth or dare?”

You snort. “Are you twelve?”

“Truth or dare?” Joel repeats, voice raising in pitch. 

You shake your head in disbelief. 

Joel fucking Miller.  

“Fine. Truth,” you capitulate. 

Joel smirks. “Okay. Uh,” he concentrates, “What’s your favourite colour?”

You take a second to process the words that just came out of his mouth. And then burst out laughing. 

“Come on,” Joel protests, a grin brightening his eyes, deepening the wrinkles around them. “What’s wrong with that question?” 

It makes you double down in laughter. You wheeze, trying to catch your breath, and Joel joins in with a few low chuckles. The stoic mask has vanished. Why does he look so sweet? 

“That-that- was the best you could come up with?” you get out between deep inhales. 

Joel doesn’t back down. “You gonna answer it or what?” 

“Okay, okay. Uh-” 

You realise you haven’t thought about that tiny aspect of yourself in about two decades. Cordyceps has had that strange effect of destroying souls, personalities, the little things that used to make one human. By infecting some, and coercing others into survival. You’re not sure which fate is worse. 

“It’s yellow,” you finally reply. Yellow like the sunshine. That was your sister’s nickname. And you were Moonbeam. Opposites who completed each other. And now there’s only one left, lonely, broken.

Joel nods. “Fitting.”

“Hm?”

“Your tattoo.” He gestures at your exposed collarbone, where a sun made up of a multitude of ink dots is etched into your skin. Joel is scarily on point; that was for her, too. 

“Yeah.” You don’t linger on the topic. “Your turn. Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Joel replies instantly. 

You’re not prepared. “Uh- I dare you to-” Your mind is sluggish, moving in slow-motion as you try to come up with something. “I dare you to sit next to me.” It comes out without your control. 

Shit. 

“Easy,” Joel brags. He pushes himself off the ground with a grunt and takes five steps before settling back down so close that your legs are touching. He doesn’t acknowledge it, eyes on the fire ahead, and neither do you. But it sends a chill up your spine and your thoughts to a dangerous place. You determine you’ve taken a long enough break from the whisky and take a swig of the liquid courage. Joel does too. 

“Your turn,” he reminds you. 

“Truth.” You still have enough wits left to be worried of what he’d make you do as a dare. 

“Takin’ the coward’s way out?” He teases. 

You drink again, ignoring the remark. 

“Alright. Uh, tell me about- your first time,” he says, glancing over at you with a sly smile. 

That’s a huge jump from the innocence of his first question. You shoot him an unimpressed look. “You’re gonna have to be more precise.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Now start talkin’,” he playfully orders. 

You sigh. “I was seventeen. With a friend I had in the QZ. Nothing special to it.” Your teenage years aren’t a period you like to reminisce about; you had to grow up much too fast. 

Joel stays quiet for a moment, and bumps your knee with his, in a movement that could be passed as accidental, or as an attempt at comfort. You’re not certain which is the truth. “D’you love him?” He asks, his tone genuine, devoid of mockery. 

“Her,” you correct. “And…I don’t know. It was years ago. Doesn’t matter.” It’s a lie. You remember it like it was yesterday. And you did.

Joel’s expression is one of surprise, and embarrassment. He turns a shade of red deeper than he was the second before, the temperature having nothing to do with it. “Oh. Uh. I- Sorry, uh, didn’t mean to assume- That’s- Good for you- I-” 

You’re very entertained by his reaction. People usually fall into one of two categories when you tell them; awkward ally or plain bigot. You’re glad it’s the first one. You cut him off before he digs the hole deeper. “It’s fine. Don’t beat yourself up. Your turn.” 

He seems rather grateful for the change of subject. “Uh. Right. Truth,” he replies, regaining his composure. 

You give him a taste of his own medicine. “Same question.” 

Joel is unbothered, and tells the story nonchalantly. “Okay. It was my date at senior prom. Back of my car in the school parking lot.”

It makes you laugh. “Wow. How very original. I gotta know what kinda car it was.” 

“My dad’s busted old Wrangler. I put that car through a lot of shit.” he replies, chuckling. 

“I could have guessed that.” 

For a second, you and Joel look at each other, smiling. He almost appears timid. And for a second, the horrors of the world retreat into the shadows that birthed them. For a second, everything is alright. You could stay here forever. 

——————————

Joel could, too. He wishes time could stop here. Because he’s confident that the night will inevitably end in something he’ll regret. No way around it. It’s taking an enormous effort already to keep himself from reaching over and closing the distance between your lips and his. The booze isn’t helping. You’re not either, with that radiant smile that’s melting his hard shell little by little, and your eyes that keep wandering around his face, his chest, and lower too, though you try to be discreet. He’s doing the same, and he’s certain you’re aware of it. Now, it’s a matter of who will succumb to the temptation first. 

You speak up again. “One last thing, Joel. Did you get the girl?” The question is lighthearted, but the memories it brings back certainly aren’t. 

He sighs. “Yeah. I did.” Sarah’s mother. They’d been high school sweethearts. Young. Dumb. A tale as old as time. “Got married. Had a kid. The whole nine yards. Then she wasn’t ready to be a parent. And, well-” He trails off, the words slipping out, motivated by the liquor. He’d never have confessed such a thing in a different context. Especially not to you. And just like that, he’s ruined the mood. 

Your eyebrows shoot up in shock, before your expression softens, as you realise what must have happened to said child. Pity? Compassion? Joel can’t be sure. “Oh. Uhm. I-I’m sorry. I didn’t know-” 

“‘S’okay. It’s, uh, it’s been a while. And I got Ellie now,” he reassures, slurring the words slightly. 

“What-what was their name?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Sarah,” he answers after a pause. He’s only recently started being able to talk about her out loud without breaking down. He doesn’t know if that still applies when he’s inebriated. And he’s not willing to test it out. He drowns the sentiment in more whisky, before giving you the bottle. 

“Uhm. That’s pretty.” You take a swig and hesitate. “I, uh, I- know what it’s like. To- to lose someone like that,” you say, softly. The pain the words cause you as they escape is evident. Joel believes you.

And then something happens. Your right hand leaves your lap, moves to the side and comes to rest on his. 

His gaze travels from your hand, up to your face. It’s full of doubt, eyes wide, as though you’ve just made a horrible mistake. 

It’s all it takes for the floodgates to open. 

——————————

Joel grabs your forearm and pulls you into his lap. His mouth collapses on yours. You don’t protest, accepting the kiss immediately, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself, knees on both sides of his thighs. 

A rugged hand goes to the small of your back, pressing your chest to his, while the other slides up to the back of your head, carefully tilting it to deepen the kiss. Tongues collide, hungry, eager. He sucks on yours, stifling a moan.  

You’ve been pent up so long you’re soaking already. He breaks away from the kiss to trail his lips across your jaw, before going down your neck, biting and swirling his tongue on your pulse point, not mindful of the mark he’s undoubtedly going to leave. He earns a gasp, your fingers interlocking with his hair, holding him in place. You grind against his growing bulge to try and alleviate the fervent pressure rising at your core. He thrusts his hips up to meet yours, the friction sending sparks of electricity to your hazy mind. A hand wanders to your breast, fingers groping the soft flesh, flicking the nipple raised through your shirt. But you need more. Need him inside of you. Now.

And you tell him so, voice quivering with desire. “Please,” you add in a whimper.

It isn’t long before your clothes are ripped off, his lips refusing to break apart from yours for more than a few seconds. He lays you down right there on the floor, bare, trembling, aching for his touch. He sits back on his heels and admires you for a moment, eyes darkened, intense, reflecting the flames as if they are blazing behind his pupils. You watch, mesmerised, as he undresses in the dim, dancing light of the fire, casting him in an aura that’s almost ominous.  He stands up to take off his underwear, cock springing free and hitting his lower stomach.

The sight makes your mouth water. God, he’s big.

He climbs on top of you, your legs encircling his torso, granting him access to your entrance. And he pushes into you. Hard. You’re so wet his cock slides in without resistance, filling you completely, nearly hitting your cervix, the jab of pain delicious. The act isn’t kind, or tender; and it’s exactly what you want. For him to use you, to ruin you. And he does. He fucks you senseless, each stroke bringing you closer to oblivion, to forgetting who you are. The sounds he’s letting out are outright sinful, grunts laced with dirty sentences that could make you finish on the spot. But you’re holding on. Until he lifts you up by the waist, angling himself to hit that bundle of nerves over and over again, making you cry out in ecstasy, clawing at his back. You’re almost there, your walls pulsate around him, driving him deeper inside. 

“Think you should come for me, darlin’,” he hums into your ear, nibbling on the lobe. 

You obey. 

The orgasm ripples with such force it blinds you. You can’t even scream. You’re gone. Not a person anymore, but a being of pure pleasure. Joel coaxes you through it with a few more thrusts, erratic, uneven, as he reaches his own release. He pulls out of you at the last second, painting your belly with spurts of the thick, warm substance. Your entire body spasms before going limp. 

All the fight has been drained out of you. You’re reduced to a panting, throbbing mess on the floor, arousal pooling out of you, coating your inner thighs. 

“Did so good for me,” Joel praises, hands cupping your face, left thumb rubbing circles on your cheek. “So fuckin’ good,” he repeats.

You stay still, eyes closed, brain shutting down your functions one by one. As you’re about to drift off, you feel strong arms carrying you to the loft, carefully placing you on the bed, cleaning you off with a soft cloth. He climbs in and embraces you, limbs tangled with yours, and you nuzzle your head in the crook of his neck. His fingers gently brush the hair from your face to plant a kiss on your forehead. 

“Sleep tight, darlin’,” he whispers. 

It’s so vulnerable it makes your heart ache. 

Because you know this’ll all be gone tomorrow, along with the alcohol evaporating from your system. 

——————————

You’re right.

The sky is clear by the next morning, harsh sunlight brutally waking you. You’re alone in the bed, shivering, sore, his scent all over your skin. You get dressed, head pounding, filled with excruciating remorse. 

Joel is waiting for you by the front door. Glacial. Austere. Haunting. The person that you went to bed with a few hours ago has been torn to shreds. As though he never even existed. Maybe he was a product of your imagination.

And, once you’re outside, standing side by side on the horses, ready for the return trip, Joel utters a sentence that reverberates in your head all the way to Jackson, its echo deafening as you ride in silence.

“What we did. It meant nothing. Understand?”

You keep the tears in until you’re back home. 

To read on AO3

[velvetcloxds]

LITTLE BIRD | S.B.

word count: 2.2k

warnings: mafia!sirius, secret agent!regulus (not related to sirius in this au), prince!james, princess!reader, potter!reader, bodyguard!lily, future prince!remus- when I tell you I want to make this a series sooo badly, I've so many ideas

summary: when your parents go missing and hoards of people are trying to get into the palace to hurt you and your brother, you have no choice but to go and get help from the last person your parents would have you be associated with

There was a vibrant hum in the palace as you walked down the stairs, hearing aggravated groans filled with words that you simply knew they’d have swallowed had you already been in the room. You expected no less in your parents’ absence, everyone wanting to have their say in managing the situation at the gate, nearly hundreds of men and women gathering in angry hoards as they tugged at fencing, threw at windows, and cursed into the air. There were many opinions, always were, however, a queen and her husband missing and leaving her children to command her country while she was indisposed, prompted all the more than usual.

The door to your mother’s office opened from inside, strange faces meeting you as you stepped into the doorway, a silence shivering over the small space as James sighed, almost relived as men backed away from the corner, they’d talked him into, merely bowing their heads in acknowledgment of your presence.

“Ah,” he began and brushed his shirt into place as he nodded towards you. “Little sister, I assume you’ve come to enlighten us on the only right way to handle our little predicament?” he mused, and you knew his tone to have a familiar mix of sincerity yet belittlement to it.

Your brother was an odd creature, unlike either of your parents, unlike you for that matter. Never one for the politics of your home, the weight of your family, much rather cooped up in his room with his paintings, he’d have himself starved yet inspired instead of sitting about the throne dealing with issues of state. He was wise in his personal endeavors, but foolish in his belief that the Potter name held no purpose in his life, despite your shared responsibilities he’d always managed to twist your lives to benefit his own, though admirable for some, it left you plastered in his misfitting shoes.

“Consider the problem already solved,” You began and as if on cue, Lily came stumbling into the room behind you, momentarily stealing the men’s attention before demanding eyes fell back onto you. “Though I’m sure my parents appreciate council being offered so graciously to their children, I can assure you that we are capable of managing our own affairs,” You explained and cleared your throat as you stepped aside, hands folded in front of you as you waited for them to understand your request.

“I think what my sister is far too kindly trying to say, is that our mother fairs well without a bunch of old men telling her what to do and so will we,” James agreed and with a tired shrug he plumped down onto the leather office chair, gesturing the gaping men out of the room with an outstretched hand as he smiled at you. “So, what’re you going to do?” he asked once the room had cleared, assuming you’d miss the way his gaze lingered but a second too long on the woman who hovered at your side, hand resting on her gun halter as she looked at her feet.

“What I always do,” you informed him, allowing an arrogant smile to tilt into your lips, knowing it had no place there yet having no control over it all the same. “Clean up your mess.”

It was not long before you were pulling your coat around your body, ignoring the warnings that Lily was mumbling, a well-known mantra much like the one she’d heard from Regulus when he was training her to be your guard and much like you did to him, you paid the words no mind. You pulled the hood over your head as you reread the map on your phone to guide you in your escape, feet leading you past the staff rooms, through the fire escape that led you right into the hidden gardens where James thought he could smoke in secret.

“Princess, your parents wouldn’t approve of this,” Lily whispered, peering around the lawn as you opened the hidden latch that was made by the very person you were running to see. “Now is not the time to take this risk, not when they’re not here to get you out of trouble.”

“I have no choice, you know that, and they’d know that as well,” you bargained, knowing she had no intentions of making you stay when she followed you out of the gate and to the outside, the shouting and stomping growing louder as the two of you looked around for the car that he’d sent for you.

Not a word more was exchanged on the way from the palace, familiar apprehensive looks shared as the driver kept his eyes on the road, only looking down when his phone chimed with a text from the man in question, you presumed. You were unnervingly accustomed to the entire ordeal, knowing that despite the risk you were taking, the reward would be far greater, worth much more as you considered your choices. Lily was right when she spoke about your parents. You were making your own bed, as they’d taught you to, but they’d never approve of who you were inviting into it. You thought you’d have more time, time to butter them up to what was shaping up to be a yearlong conversation in hope for peace, but you’d never accounted for riots at your front door or death threats with blood stains thrown through your window.

The car eased to a still in front of the cold brick building, a hand on your back guiding you out of the street, away from wondering eyes as you looked back to see if Lily was close behind, the route was no different than before, the unhappy glares and whispered musings of disapproval being of no bother as you waited to be taken to his door.

“Princess,” a voice snarled, and you had no restraint as a frustrated breath left your lips, your mission was brought to a stop as a man stumbled into your way. “It’s been quite a while since we entertained royalty on this side of town,” he noted and you mustered a look of faux surprise, shaking yourself from the grip on your back as you looked him up and down.

“That might be true, but I am not here as royalty.”

“Aye? Who are you here as then?” he persisted and you scoffed, knowing that by the sudden silence that sauntered into the air the man in question was not far from the little scene that’d been formed, disrupting his time.

“My friend,” the thick accent fled through your senses as though it filtered through your veins, his frame begging your gaze to drift to him and it obliged, always did, a teasing smirk on his lips as he looked down at you from atop the stairs. “Does anyone have a problem with that?” he prompted, and it was as though the simple words held piles of threats as the men separated to make room for you to walk.

“Princess,” Lily gave a frustrated scoff as she was stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Be careful,” she insisted before you followed the man of the house to the office that you’d spent many nights hiding from the world, debating a settlement for families only known as foes.

“Sirius,” you sighed, closing the door behind you and smiling when he pushed himself onto the empty desk that sat askew in the corner of the bare room, his eyes trailed slowly over your face, trying his best to decipher why you were there without you saying anything, he had a frustrating habit of doing so quite successfully. “I need a favour,” you breathed after a second that seemed to last forever, squirming slightly under his gaze despite it being far from strange.

“I assumed as much,” he teased, nodding for you to go on as you walked towards him, tugging the hood from your head, fingers moving to ease everything back into place.

“There are people rioting in front of my home, threatening us, promising to kill us,” you began and stilled right at his side, looking down at the city as it lay in the streets, cars pulling up and then pulling away after mere minutes, a notion that you would’ve questioned in the past had you not learned to keep your nose from his business.

“I saw,” he leaned back against the wall to see you again, no doubt missing the smile that dipped into your mouth as he proved without much prompt that he cared at least slightly if you had managed to escape unharmed. “How did you get out?”

“Same way you get in.”

“Clever girl,” he tutted, and you’d have laughed at him if you weren’t to be in his debt in the future. “What exactly do you want me to do, hmm? Riots at the palace seem more like a job for the police, no?”

“They’re wearing your name, Sirius.”

You didn’t know how long you were supposed to pause after that. You were somewhat expecting him to jump to his own defense, half expecting him to accuse you of mistrusting him, yet you knew neither was to happen. Trust was a rather strong word to use for whatever the relationship was that you had. You knew he was true to his word, knew he would not allow you to come to any harm and though your power was much less than his own, you’d try to do the very same for him. Though beyond all of that, you knew that as many troubles lay with your name, there were many that laid with his own. He was a criminal, after all, some of the worst of his kind and you were in his home, begging him to help you when you knew it would earn you heaps of problems in turn. Your mother would have your head, she’d have his too. She didn’t take out his family, his entire line of kin just for you to allow their kind right back into your lives.

“They’re not mine,” he offered, and his hand settled on the table next to yours, tilting his head to see what you were looking at, humming as if to acknowledge your train of thought. “That’s part of our little agreement, is it not? Our little settlement of peace? I may not harm your family as revenge for what your mother did to mine, and you let me make a quick buck off taking out the bad guys the police miss,” he sighed at that, noticing the way you rolled your eyes at his almost mocking tone as he mimicked words that you’d spoken out of serious intents to do good. “Those men are trying to hurt you, Y/n, if they were mine then I’d have them tied and beaten already, you understand that don’t you?”

“Of course, I do,” you sighed, and though you should be very much appalled by his words, you found an odd sense of comfort in his reassurance, smiling with him as he nodded at you.

“Good. Now, do you want me to take care of it for you?” he asked and needed no answer to know that that was exactly what you’d come here for. “I sent men down as soon as you texted me. The gate will be cleared by the time you get home,” he explained and chuckled softly at the shock that sifted onto your face. “You think I’m not the first one to know when you’re in trouble, little bird?  Though, I’ll admit, you were very brave coming all the way here, would not have known you were nervous had it not been for those,” he informed you as he pointed to your shaking hands, you’d hoped your grip on the table would’ve hidden it, but it seems you were very wrong, warmth spreading across your cheeks.  “You’re shaping up to be quite the leader, you know, your mother would be proud.”

“So would your father.”

“Oh, I would not say that, bowing to a Potter is what he regrets most.”

“I’m sure,” you smiled, looking up to the door when Lily stumbled through it, just like before, the same look on her face as she looked between you and Sirius.

“Your parents were just brought home by Regulus and the rest of the CIA,” she explained, holding the phone out to show you the picture of them arriving at the palace and you had to shake your head at the timing, Sirius’ words being anything but empty as there was not a single soul out on front of the place, barely any evidence left behind of the reason for your visit except for abandoned signs and makeshift weapons.  

“I have a new car waiting for you outside,” Sirius announced and shrugged when you looked at him with what any normal person would describe as awe, though you’d never dare to label it as such, merely an appreciation for his capabilities. “I’ll call when you get home.”

[heavywithourbabies]

Going Feral

The wooden chair beneath Abby creaked softly. She couldn’t see her feet, but she felt their width, expanding over the past several days, radiating with soft pain. Her tank top, having given up its pursuit, hung limply over her engorged breasts, large circles of moisture encompassing each nipple. Having forgone panties that morning, she slid the hem up over her monstrous belly, noticing the convex line stretching vertically, dissecting her belly into two hemispheres.

“That’s what I am now - a globe.” She thought sadly to herself. She was a world containing two, wriggling baby boys who refused to emerge. She remembered her hunger for cum. Back when her stomach was flat and untouched, she yearned for that stickiness deep within her womb. But She didn’t realize this would be the result: a body foreign to her, blown up to caricature proportions, working against her. And the ceaseless hunger between her thighs.

She had met David online through a forum about breeding and the pair instantly shared a connection. It wasn’t long before messages over Reddit turned into texts and phone calls. When he finally revealed where he lived she was almost in shock. He was less than an hour’s drive away from her. She was apprehensive about this but couldn’t deny the fact she was more than just drawn to him. She ached for him. He would make her laugh and was refreshingly earnest and empathetic. A kind and gentle man that had a biting sarcastic tongue and was just as intelligent as she was. All of these factors made her attracted to him. But it was his other side that made her desperate for him to fill her. When he was aroused he became an almost completely different person. His voice would go deeper and when he was excited he couldn’t help but growl with excitement. Driven by desire he would whisper the filthiest things she had ever longed to hear and she was reduced to knee shaking orgasms when she heard him cum. There really wasn’t any way to fight the eventuality. She gave in and agreed to see him. She told herself that she wouldn’t sleep with him on the first date. She swore up and down that she wouldn’t give in to her own libido. That she wouldn’t dare tempt her want to be taken and claimed by this man.

5 hours later after they first met face to face, she was on the edge of the bed with her legs up and over his shoulders as he mercilessly drove into her. The sheets beneath her drenched in sweat and her own cum. She begged and pleaded with him to fill her, an endless mantra in her head kept saying “cuminmecuminmeohpleaseohpleasecuminmecuminmeeeee”.

As she felt his cock twitch inside of her and his pace quickened she couldn’t believe how loud her orgasm was when he snarled “Do you want to be my swollen pregnant cum dumpster?”

She was silently ashamed of that. That something so crude and misogynistic would bring her such pleasure. Little did she know that was exactly what he would reduce her to in the following nine months.

Her life completely turned upside down. First there were the positive test results she cried over. The doctor’s appointment that confirmed the news. Having to tell her parents who seemed so disappointed. And then telling him. He could barely contain his joy or how eager he was to take care of her. Abby tried to tell herself that she could do this mostly on her own and that she would handle the hardships but once she found out it was twins she began to panic. As she swelled larger and heavier with David’s babies she lost more and more control over her life and her body. It was if carrying his sons only made her want him more. To give in to him. To let him own her. She couldn’t resist or deny his want for her and that also seemed to get worse the larger she grew. One time during the 6th month she found herself crying as she was unable to fit into a former favorite dress. She turned to him and whimpered “I’m so pregnant” and the next thing she knew she could barely catch her breath after three straight hours of the most intense sex she had ever had. It didn’t matter to him that she was tender and sensitive all over or that she was the mother of his children. It didn’t matter to her either. They both just gave in more and more to their basic instincts and became two wild animals fucking each other with abandon. It was at the start of her third trimester that she quit her job and moved into the secluded house with him. And that’s where she stayed, growing bigger every day and waiting for his return.

It was late in the day, and she knew he would be home soon. She was a week overdue with the boys and she was more desperate than ever. She literally hoped he would fuck the babies out of her. That his thrusts would be so hard that her water break over both of them. All she wanted was to safely play at breeding. Now she would give anything to finally have the babies out of her. She would cry over the cumbersome weight of her belly that taxed her hips so. She wanted them out. She wanted her libido under control. She wanted to think straight and to have her light body back. She wanted herself back and to try and forget the swollen sex crazed creature she had allowed herself to devolve into.

A wave of exhaustion washed over her like a heat wave, and she didn’t want to move. But she knew she needed to be ready. She had promised him that today she would finally start getting things together and the house would be cleaned. They had made a pact last night as they finally calmed down on their soaked sheets that they would do better and have more control over themselves.They were even going to get the nursery ready on Saturday. She leaned forward bending her knees to stand, and the edge of her chair softly clipped her exposed and engorged clit. There was no pain, but she cringed before she even felt the bolt rush between her legs. Suddenly she was leaking down her aching thighs. She could feel the moisture coating her lips, her legs moving easily against each other as her natural lubrication entered overdrive.

Pressing both palms against the oak table, she tried to steady herself, one breeze away from collapsing with the hunger in her sex. Her knees bent as she pushed back against the desire she felt.

“I can’t be like this. I can’t let myself react this way.” She thought for the millionth time.

Remembering the rough, delicious romp that brought her here, running over the memory of him pumping his cum into her unprotected cunt, she dropped a hand to her clit. Her arm circles around the globe, stretching, stretching a little more. Slowly, She rotated two fingers in circles. Her belly bumped up against the table edge gently. Her head droped back as her lips parted with a gasp. Her other hand caressing the top of her stomach. “Your daddy do this to me,” She thought. “Your daddy made me this way. And I like-“

She heard his car pulling up and parking outside. She turned quickly as she could and began slowly waddling her way across the room to retrieve some pants, shorts, a skirt - anything. The engine turns off. A door opens, slams. And the softer sound of gravel under boots. She is still bottomless, her chest heaving with desire, her face flushed, and her pussy drenched. She had wasted another day going from one extreme to another. Moping and feeling sorry for herself or unable to keep her hands off of her own body.

David entered and saw her there. Without realizing what he was doing he took in a deep breath, smelling her pheromones permeating the air. His hand instinctively went to the crotch of his jeans and he had to fight himself to pull it away. “God that smell” he thought. It was everywhere now. That deep earthy musky scent that made it hard to think. It had gotten steadily worse as Abby entered the third trimester and it seeped off of her in waves. “She’s just started her ninth month. What will it be like in a week? Two?” David thought as he silently put down the grocery bags on the kitchen counter. “Will we be nothing more than animals fucking each other raw?”. He began to put away the items he purchased for the two of them. Soon to be four. “And what about the twins if we keep up like this? What if I can’t help myself and hurt her or send her into labor when she’s not ready?” David looked towards Abby who was stretching as best she could with her hands on the small of her back. The massive dome of her belly shot out into the air. New angry red stretch marks had appeared and he could see the veins in the taut firm skin. “What if she begs me to stop but I won’t because I can literally feel her contracting around my cock?” David groaned at the idea as he felt himself twitch in his pants. It was almost like he could feel the weight of his full testicles sitting on his warm thigh. It was starting to hurt. David tried to focus by looking at their home and any hopes he had for normalcy were put out. Half of the clothes which he had washed were still sitting in the basket while the rest had been thrown all over in a frenzy. “She couldn’t find anything comfortable to wear” he noted. Dishes still sat untouched and stacked on the kitchen counter and sink. The kitchen floor was covered in crumbs and take out boxes sat untouched by the mounting garbage bags. Random “debris” was everywhere. Items they had knocked over and slammed into when they tore into each other were still strewn about. She hadn’t done anything all day.

He sighed as felt useless frustration rise up inside of himself. We just - we talked about this -"He stopped dead in his tracks when he looked at her. She had tears welling up in her eyes as she stood there, feet aching from the weight. “I’m sorry” she trembled as her left hand caressed her massive belly. The other hand was below her belly with a mind of its own. Her fingers running through the dark thicket that grown wild and taken over. “I don’t want to be like this” She whimpered as a tear ran down her cheek. Her dark nipples were rock hard and poking through the soggy material of her tank top.

[cedarmoonzz]

quiet, the winter harbor

ship: mentioned kurapika x reader

warnings: none. just angst and pain and more pain.

summary: in york new, the snow is harsh and unpredictable. kurapika thinks of what once was and what can be.

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

Winter is a dream and I love you, Kurapika.

His mother used to say that.

Always in the same breath, a run-on sentence that drifted on chill winds, rendering them almost poetic. Fragmented whispers intertwined, swirling like the storm outside, seeping into your clothes, your nose, your chest, and residing there forever. This ritualistic chant kept the cold at bay; that's what his mother taught him, repeating the phrase until the boy could murmur it in his sleep.

In his dreams, the syllables rose and fell like points of a star folded into a circle, endlessly repeating. Perpetually.

WinterisadreamandIlove

Learning it this way, reciting it so, turned the season gentle no matter how bitter the air bit.

Now that he is older, Kurapika has discovered that the blizzard-rhyme mantra doesn’t always work. But it helps.

He repeats the words to himself now, watching the weather unfold, years and a lifetime away from the home where he first heard the incantation. Night deepens, from sunset into a realm beyond indigo. It's dark, almost black, and when he lifts his hands to the sky, Kurapika’s fingernails merge with the bleakness. His knuckles become pale night-clouds, obscuring the few stars that dare to appear.

A poem of exhalation whispers from his mouth, unfurling from his throat, fogging the air. The freeze of winter invades within. The warmth of his breath escapes without.

It’s beginning to snow.

The first flakes arrive quietly, like early visitors hoping to go unnoticed as they settle. A few land on Kurapika’s upturned palms, and by the time he lowers his hands, they have already melted away. In York New, the snow is harsh and unpredictable, its gentleness stripped away. Without a layer to insulate yourself from it—fabric or nen, glass or glove—you destroy what you seek to touch, ruin it with your very existence. Snowflakes require time to study. They are like people.

No two alike.

At times, the quest for closeness seems as elusive as a mirage in the desert. Kurapika reminisces about the moments spent with Y/n, where the intimacy was as delicate and ephemeral as the snowflakes he yearns to capture. The closeness he sought felt akin to grasping at snow before it vanished—intense, yet fleeting. Similarly, Y/n’s presence was a paradox of familiarity and enigma, their bond a beautiful tapestry that remained vulnerable to the caprices of fate. Much like snow, their connection was governed by forces beyond their control, and though they reached for each other with heartfelt desire, instances of genuine closeness were as rare and precious as capturing a snowflake on the tip of a finger.

Kurapika was enchanted by that mystery early on, while his mother brewed hot teas to keep him safe from the flu, and his father laughed, bringing extra blankets. The windows of their ramshackle home were heavy with frost that year. His parents insulated the cracks and panes with Kurtan tapestries, leaving only a tiny slice of view for Kurapika to part the curtains and peer out at the storm.

Winter is a dream, his mother sighed, song-like, touching her slender hand to the windowpane, dwarfing his own stubby child-fingers. And I love you, Kurapika.

His father joined them, tucking the blanket around his wife’s shoulders, dropping a fold on his child’s head. The coarse weave rubbed against Kurapika’s cheek as he leaned into it. The knobbiness of his father’s knee pressed against his back, assembling his limbs on the bed where they all sat. With his arms wrapped around his family, the man bent his head to kiss Kurapika’s hair, watching the evening unravel into midnight.

His mother understood the delicate way snow fell. Kurapika could see it in her eyes. The reverence for nature’s fragility, the awareness of how easily it could be destroyed; she knew that what once existed could never be revived, only remade at best. Refrozen.

Flakes descended by the thousands, never individually noticed, buried beneath the shrouds of their companions, but Kurapika’s mother seemed intent on memorizing every single one as they fell.

Even when the boy was fighting sleep, lids heavy and head resting against his father’s chest, Kurapika’s mother was still touching the windowpane.

Understanding.

You couldn’t piece people together the way you made ice, pouring water into molds and sliding the tray into the freezer, timing the process with a watch. When snowflakes melted, you could never freeze them back into the same shape.

But you could try.

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Know No Evil | Chapter 05 Chapter 05 | awakening force⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The thrill of your newfound power lingered as you walked home. A shiver danced down your spine—a delicious mix of fear and exhilaration.

You were no longer just ____. You were something more, something... powerful.

Reaching your house, the murmur of conversation drifted from the kitchen.

Inside, you found your mom chatting with a couple perched at the table—Hiro and Shisuki, your parents' old high school friends.

You vaguely remembered them stopping by a few weeks ago to celebrate your dad's promotion.

Hiro, tall and tan with a shock of lime-green hair and light brown eyes, flashed a friendly grin. Shisuki, his wife, offered a wan smile. She was pale and slender, her lavender hair mirroring the color of her eyes.

You noticed something subtly off about them. You couldn't quite put your finger on it.

Your mom, ever watchful, intercepted you before you could linger. "____! There you are, sweetie. Let me see those hands." Her voice held a familiar edge of worry as she inspected the scrapes from your encounter with Bakugo.

Before you could protest, she whisked you upstairs, muttering about "rough-housing" and "being careful."

With a sigh, you resigned yourself to a quick bath. Wrapping a towel around your head, you picked up a rag and began drying your hair as your mom hurried downstairs, called upon by your dad to help entertain the guests while dinner simmered.

Alone in your room, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the floor, you replayed the scene in your mind.

The memory of your helpless rage, the shove that sent Bakugo sprawling— it all felt distant now, overshadowed by the chilling realization of what happened next.

The way Bakugo crumpled, his whimpers replaced by a strange, terrified silence—it was like you'd flicked a switch, taking control of him not with your body, but with your will.

Suddenly, the image in your mind flickered. Bakugo's tear-streaked face contorted, morphing into an older visage. Golden-brown eyes, framed by a mess of unruly blond hair, stared up at you with an unsettling intensity. A wide, toothy grin stretched across his face, revealing a chipped canine tooth.

The boy—no, the young man—held a chainsaw in one hand, the whirring blade a constant hum against the silence. Yet, despite the weapon and the wildness in his eyes, the most unsettling aspect was the way he looked at you.

It wasn't just fear or submission; it was a kind of god-worship, a bizarre adoration that promised nothing but utter obedience.

The distorted voice echoed in your mind, the words spoken with a reverence that bordered on obsession. "You... have control..."

You blinked, the mental image dissolving like smoke. Your heart hammered against your ribs, the echo of the phantom voice lingering in your ears.

The room seemed to vibrate with your nervous energy. You grabbed a stray pillow, squeezing it until your knuckles turned white.

This power... it was intoxicating, a forbidden fruit that promised both dominion and danger.

The memory of Bakugo's terrified face warred with the strange, exhilarated feeling of controlling the distorted figure in your mind. It felt wrong, alien, yet strangely exhilarating.

You practiced the word in your mind, a mantra of your newfound power: "Control." The word resonated within you—a dark promise of possibilities.

Curiosity gnawed at you. Could you do it again?

Glancing out the window, you saw a familiar sight—a plump robin perched on the sill, its head tilted inquisitively.

This little visitor often graced your window ledge, a welcome distraction from the monotony of your days.

Today, however, it served a different purpose. It was a test subject, a pawn in the game you were starting to play with your own abilities.

With a slow, deliberate movement, you pushed the window open a fraction. The robin cocked its head again, then with a bold chirp, hopped inside.

It fluttered around the room for a moment, its bright red breast a splash of color against the now-beige walls (you utterly despised the pretty-pink-princess aesthetic and threw an absolute fit until it was gone).

A cruel amusement bubbled within you.

This was your domain now, and this little creature was subject to your will.

You focused your mind, picturing the bird in your control. "Fly." You willed the bird to take flight.

It obeyed instantly, launching itself from the floor in a flurry of feathers. You guided it through the air with your thoughts, a puppeteer manipulating its movements.

The bird performed aerial flips, swooped low to the ground, then ascended again in dizzying spirals.

A giddy smile stretched across your face as you willed the robin to perform another daring maneuver. It swooped low to the ground, skimming the throw rug with its wings before launching into a spectacular corkscrew climb.

You felt a surge of exhilaration, a sense of power you'd never known before.

This—this was your Quirk!

Suddenly, the urge to share your newfound ability with your parents overwhelmed you.

You bolted for the stairs, the excited chirp of the robin echoing in your wake. Reaching the top of the stairs, you paused.

Your parents were in the living room, your mom topping off two glasses of whiskey for their guests.

"So, how's ____ doing these days? Anything new?" you heard Hiro ask, his voice laced with a hint of amusement.

"Oh, you know," Wino replied, his tone dismissive.  "Same old, same old. Still no sign of a Quirk manifesting."

A bitter taste filled your mouth.

Here you were, bursting with the revelation of your newfound power, only to be dismissed by your own father.

Hiro chuckled; the sound sharp and unpleasant. "Poor kid. Stuck being Quirkless in a world like this.  Rough luck."

Your father laughed along, a hollow sound that grated on your nerves.

Mei, ever perceptive, picked up on the shift in the conversation. "Dinner will be ready soon," she announced, her voice laced with annoyance. "Winnie, please try not to discuss such sensitive topics about our daughter while I'm here." With a huff, she turned and stalked back towards the kitchen.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

You stood frozen on the stairs, the joy of your discovery replaced by a cold anger. They didn't believe in you.

They pitied you.

You stared at them, a cold emptiness settling in your chest. Their flippant dismissal of your prior Quirklessness, the way they treated it like a minor inconvenience, stung more than you cared to admit.

Without a word, you turned and retreated back up the stairs, the robin fluttering after you with a soft chirp.

Reaching your room, you sank onto the bed, the bird landing gently on your shoulder. Staring down at the bird, a flicker of defiance sparked in your eyes.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. You reached out a hand, gently rubbing its soft feathers. Focusing on the bird, you willed it to fly away.  "Fly," you whispered the order once more.

The robin launched itself into the air, soaring effortlessly around your room. A surge of satisfaction coursed through you. You could do it again.

You were powerful.

For the next hour, you spent time honing your newfound ability. It was like playing a video game, but with a living creature as your avatar.

You sent the bird on dizzying spirals, weaving through furniture and dodging obstacles with practiced ease. But as minutes turned into an hour, the thrill began to wane.

The bird, once curious, now fluttered erratically, its tiny body exhausted by your relentless commands.

You released your control, and with a tired chirp, the robin landed on your outstretched finger. You stroked its soft feathers, a sense of boredom replacing your amusement.

A different idea took root. You remembered the innate feeling that nearly swallowed you as you willed Bakugo under your control.

With a deep breath, you focused on the bird, visualizing a pressure building within its tiny body. Staring intently at the robin, you willed that invisible force to constrict its organs.

The bird froze, its bright eyes filled with sudden fear. You broke eye contact and released the pressure. It chirped weakly, its body trembling.

You hadn't seen any outside physical harm, but the raw terror in the bird's eyes was enough.

The robin let out a relieved chirp and took shook its feathers, before looking up at you, waiting for its next command.

As the bird sat before you, a surge of exhilaration washed over you.

You hadn't just controlled something; you'd inflicted pain, a mere taste of the power you now wielded.

A chilling realization settled in your stomach—this wasn't just dominance; it was manipulation on a terrifying level.

Suddenly, a familiar voice jolted you from your introspection. "____! Dinner's ready, honey!" It was your mother's voice, laced with a warmth that seemed to pierce the fog of darkness clouding your mind.

With a sigh that carried the weight of the world, you sat the bird down and pushed yourself off the bed, heading downstairs. Every step felt heavy, a chore rather than a movement.

As you reached the bottom stair, something strange caught your attention.

It was a smell. Not unpleasant, but amplified.

Your mom's familiar scent of lavender soap and cinnamon rolls mingled with the sharp tang of cleaning supplies. But these were just base notes. A new layer of perception had been added.

You could smell everything with a startling clarity.

Your father's cologne, a cloying mix of citrus and musk, suddenly seemed overpowering.

Shisuki's perfume was a sickly sweet floral that made your stomach churn. Hiro's scent was worse—a combination of stale beer and something vaguely acrid, like sweat that hadn't quite dried.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, you came to a screeching halt. The world smelled different, and not necessarily in a good way.

Then came sight.

You recognized the scene unfolding before you—your mother setting dishes, your father laughing with a man by the TV. But a chilling disconnect settled in your gut.

You knew who these people were supposed to be—your parents and their friends, Hiro and Shisuki. Yet, their appearances seemed...wrong.

Your mother turned, her smile widening at the sight of you. "There you are, sweetie! Come sit down, dinner's ready." She gestured towards the table, her familiar voice a grounding presence amidst the sensory overload.

You shuffled forward, eyes glued to the couple beside your parents.

Hiro, you vaguely remembered, was tall and tan with brown eyes and lime green hair. Shisuki, his wife, was pale and slender and had hair the color of lavender with matching eyes.

But staring at them now, their features seemed blurry, their colors muted. Like someone had smeared their image with dirty fingers.

You tried to focus, to etch their appearances into your memory. But the harder you concentrated, the more their forms dissolved, details slipping through your grasp like sand through your fingers.

Panic clawed at your throat.  What was happening?  Why couldn't you remember their faces?

A sudden realization dawned on you. The heightened sense of smell came at a cost. You could distinguish people by their scent, yes, but now, your ability to differentiate faces seemed to have dulled.

It was a strange trade-off, one that mirrored how a dog identifies others through scent.

You had gained a quirk, yes, but it came with a price—quickly, you darted your eyes down to your plate, unable to bear looking at the distorted couple any longer. But even that small movement seemed to draw attention.

"Honey, is everything alright?" Mei's voice filled the room, laced with concern.

You wanted to scream, to blurt out your questions: Were those really Hiro and Shisuki? Was your mind playing tricks on you? But the words wouldn't come. The fear was paralyzing.

Stealing another glance at the couple before forcing your eyes back to your plate, you mumbled, "I don't feel very hungry anymore."

Your mother's eyes widened significantly, a hint of worry flickering across her face.  "Oh, sweetie," she began, her voice taking on that fretful tone you knew all too well.  "Is there something wrong? Maybe you don't like what I made? I could fix you something else—"

Before she could launch into a full-blown worry spiral, your father cut in.  "____," he started, his voice heavy with irritation, "stop acting childish and just eat your dinner."

The room fell silent.

You felt a prickle of defiance rise within you, but it was quickly squashed by the overwhelming confusion and fear.

You stared up blankly at your father, then reached across the table for your water glass, taking a slow sip before setting it back down with a clink.

"You know what—" your father started, his voice rising in anger.

But before he could explode, Shisuki interjected, her voice firm but strangely calm.  "Wino," she said, clearing her throat slightly, "why don't you take a breather? Maybe go outside for a smoke or something?"

A beat of silence followed, then Hiro spoke up, his voice warm and friendly.  "Yeah, man. Take twenty. We'll keep an eye on things."

With a heavy sigh, and a final glare in your direction, your father pushed himself away from the table.  "Fine," he grumbled. "But someone's gotta go get some dessert. There's nothing decent in this house."

Without waiting for a response, he stormed out, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

As soon as the front door slammed shut, the air crackled with a tension you hadn't noticed before.

Shisuki, with a cruel edge creeping into her previously saccharine voice, leaned towards your mother and remarked, "Honestly, I don't know how you two deal with it, Mei. All that screaming and tantrums—it's no wonder people are rethinking having kids these days. It honestly makes us so grateful we don't have to deal with any of that with Yumi."

Hiro, previously sporting a smug smirk, let out a bark of laughter that grated on your nerves.  "Yeah, Shisuki's right. Yumi's such a sweet, well-adjusted child. Always top of her class, never a complaint," he chimed in, his voice laced with a smugness that turned your stomach.  "____? She's a walking advertisement for abstinence if I ever saw one."

The words struck you like a physical blow. Your breath hitched, and a hot ember of anger ignited in your chest, growing with each passing insult.

You clenched your fists so tightly your nails dug into your palms, but it wasn't enough to contain the surge of power that threatened to erupt from within.

Your mother, bless her heart, attempted a feeble defense. "She's just going through a tough phase, that's all," she stammered, her voice wavering. "She'll grow out of it."

Shisuki scoffed, the sound harsh and dismissive. "Oh, honey, this is more than just a phase," she condescended, her eyes flickering towards you with a cold, calculating gleam. "What you need to do is take her to a professional. There are specialists who can deal with these...issues."  Her voice dripped with a false sympathy that made your skin crawl.  "After all, I am a child psychologist. I've seen my fair share of troubled youngsters."

Wino's absence hung heavy in the air, his departure emboldening the couple like vultures sensing weakness. They felt free to dissect you like a lab rat, their words slicing deeper with each cruel pronouncement.

Mei, clearly struggling, could only stammer a weak response, overwhelmed by their condescending assault.

Then, a horrifying realization dawned on you. They weren't just talking about you—they pitied your parents for having you, while in the same breath, celebrating their own perfect child.

A dangerous glint flickered in your eyes, mirroring the growing inferno within your chest. The memory of Bakugo's compliance surfaced, a chillingly sweet reminder of your newfound power; the image of the robin, tweeting in alarm, hapless and in your mercy.

For a terrifying split second, the world seemed to blink. Shisuki was crumpled sideways, her head lolling at an unnatural angle as crimson bloom spread across her once-pristine white blouse, a silent scream trapped behind her lips.

Hiro slumped forward, his chair clattered onto the floor, eyes wide with terror as a similar stain blossomed on his lime-green shirt. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, a sickening counterpoint to their choked gasps and desperate clawing at empty air.

Their bodies convulsed into a grotesque form of flesh and bones, their lives draining away before your very eyes.

The image was so vivid, so real, that you almost choked on a gasp. Your breath hitched, the taste of iron flooding your mouth. But before you could succumb to the darkness, a flicker of self-preservation sparked within you.

No, they won't get the better of you.

With a deep breath, you wrestled the power back in, forcing it down into the churning depths of your being.

Slamming your fork down on the table, the harsh clang echoed through the room, effectively halting the conversation.  All eyes turned to you, surprise etched on their faces.

"I'm not hungry anymore," you declared, your voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor running through you.  "Good night."  Without waiting for a response, you pushed yourself away from the table and headed towards the stairs.

"Honey, wait!" your mother called after you, her voice laced with concern.  "Are you sure you're alright?  Maybe I can make you a sandwich..."

You paused on the bottom step, the sound of her fretting already starting to grate on your nerves.  "No, really, I'm fine," you said, forcing a smile.  "Thanks anyway."

As you ascended the stairs, you could hear your mother's voice trailing behind you, a mixture of concern and indecision.

Reaching your door, you spared a final glance back at the scene unfolding downstairs. Shisuki and Hiro were engrossed in conversation again, their faces devoid of any worry about your abrupt departure.

The moment you were out of sight, however, the conversation shifted. Their voices, though lowered, were still audible.

"Honestly," Hiro scoffed, "what a useless child. Quirkless and a constant burden."

Your mother gasped, a sound of wounded pride. "Hiro!" she protested.  "That's not fair.  And besides, Wino and I are Quirkless too, remember?"

Shisuki, her voice dripping with condescension once again, waved her off dismissively.  "Darling, at least you two contribute to society. Your husband's a decent accountant, and you tutor those college kids on the side. But what good is that girl?  She's a walking black hole of wasted potential. Honestly, she'd probably be better off in some kind of...  well, you know."

Their words hung heavy in the air, the unspoken implication a sledgehammer blow to your already fragile ego.

Your hand instinctively closed around the doorknob, knuckles turning white. A cold fury burned in your gut, fueled by their callous disregard for your feelings.

As the last of their conversation faded away, you finally closed the door, the sound a small act of defiance.

Slumping against the cool wood, you slid down to the floor, knees pulled tight to your chest. Your fists clenched, nails digging into your palm until a crescent moon of pain bloomed.

The heat in your chest bubbled over, a volcanic rage threatening to erupt. Your body trembled, wracked with a potent mix of anger and fear.

Flashes of the power you wielded, the intoxicating satisfaction of controlling Bakugo and toying with the bird, looped through your mind like a cruel highlight reel.

"I...need it," you muttered, the words barely a whisper. The urge to unleash that power, to silence the voices that taunted and belittled you, was overwhelming.

But then, a soft chirp pierced the storm raging within you. You glanced up to see the robin perched on your desk, its head cocked inquisitively.

The sight of the small creature, so full of life and innocence, was a much-needed anchor.

Taking a shaky breath, you pushed yourself to your feet, legs wobbly like a newborn foal.

Stumbling towards the bird, you reached out a hand. It chirped again, a single, questioning note, before hopping onto your outstretched palm.

Walking over to the window, bathed in the soft glow of the twilight sky, you gently stroked the bird's head. Below, you could see your parents saying their goodbyes to Shisuki and Hiro.

Their laughter, strained and forced, grated on your nerves.

Eyes going blank, you entered a state of intense focus. The world narrowed, the air crackling with invisible energy. Walking back to your bed, the small bird remained motionless on your finger.

You settled against the pillows, propping yourself up for a better view. "Fly." With a chirp, the bird nestled in your hand took flight around your room once again. Its tiny wings beat a silent rhythm as it zipped and zagged.

With a sigh, you dropped your hands, severing the mental connection.

Well, kind of.

The moment the bird was outside of your window, a harsh caw ripped through the air.

"Caw!" You recognized it instantly—the hunting call of the large falcon that had been terrorizing the smaller birds lately.

Right on cue, a blur of feathered fury streaked into view, diving for its prey

Just as the falcon was about to snatch the smaller bird in its talons, you clenched your fists, focusing your power inwards. It was a forceful contraction, like crumpling a piece of paper with your mind.

Staring intently at your clenched fist, you imagined the falcon instead. You envisioned every detail, its sharp beak, powerful wings, and piercing eyes.

Then, with a flick of your wrist, you imagined it crushed, its body crumpled like the paper you'd envisioned earlier.

A beat later, a sickening thud echoed from outside, followed by a strangled cry.

You scrambled to your window, flinging it open despite the cool night air.

Below, on the sidewalk in front of your house, a gruesome scene unfolded.

Shisuki and Hiro, caught completely off guard, stood frozen in shock. Blood splattered across their clothes, a horrifying reminder of the falcon that lay lifeless at their feet, its body mangled beyond recognition.

You stared, the image searing itself into your memory. A wave of apathy, as familiar as an old friend, washed over you.

The dream, the impossible dream, of a life with Pochita—a family built on fear and adoration, flickered through your mind.

Even if you'd been devoured by Chainsaw Man himself, even if you'd been granted a twisted rebirth in that blood-soaked world, the machinations would have continued.

Schemes and plots would have brewed in the dark corners of your mind, always focused on the same objective: eliminating the blonde parasite, Denji, and securing your place at Pochita's side.

But here, in this mundane reality, such grand ambitions felt pointless.

With a sigh that carried the weight of extinguished dreams, you slumped back against the pillows. The power you possessed was a burden, a constant reminder of the darkness that lurked within you.

Maybe, you thought with a flicker of morbid curiosity, there was a way to use it for good.

But for now, the allure of apathy was far too strong to resist.

You closed your eyes, the image of the lifeless falcon and the horrified faces of Shisuki and Hiro swirling behind your eyelids.

The future is now stretched before you, an uncertain path riddled with both possibilities and perils.

Would you become a conqueror, wielding your power for dominion? Or could you learn to control not just others, but yourself?

Who knows? But there one thing you do know...

The game had just begun, and the choice was yours.

A/N: Ahh, denji my bby 😭❤️

[crackinwise]

I shouldn't be this mad about story changes, but every loser fan is allowed one (1) Purist tantrum.

1) I know they're not gonna wait 16-years since Wandavision so Billy & Tommy can be completely reborn into new families (even if it feels like they're taking for-fuckin-ever getting shit together for a YA movie anyway). But it still hurts to do the Kaplans dirty this way. In the comics, they're still Billy's parents because he was born to and raised by them. They didn't lose or grieve a son, bc their William and Wanda's Billy is one in the same.

Also: "This kid and all his friends are totally only 13!" Sure, sure. Didn't even try making him look shorter or to use makeup or cgi to give him a baby face. The show really said "go with it, we don't want to hire minors for 10 minutes" and I respect that.

2) You're trying to tell me Billy killed Jen and Lilia? The MCU!Billy we just saw get upset about Alice and kindly buried Sharon? The comics!Billy who is constantly terrified of accidentally hurting and/or controlling people with his power, like Wanda, and one of the few times we saw him wish death on another was to protect his loved ones? Nah. That better be a trick and he really sent them somewhere safe because otherwise fuck right the hell off.

3) Ohhh, so the boyfriend isn't Teddy? MCU is still ignoring the existence of the galaxy's greatest prince, huh? ....Why make the names so close tho?

4) Please, when they find Tommy, let him be related to Bohner. That'd be hilarious. I don't care if Bohner never becomes Pietro, but he can still be the weird supportive uncle. Seeing him is the only time I experienced joy watching this show.

5) I still hate that Billy isn't manifesting/focusing his power with mantras. Why tf would this child have a spellbook and know Latin? Killjoy mcu, dude.

[thrashkink-coven]

So i want to start my practice but unfortunately i don't have the tool incense tarot card pendulum and especially i still lived with my parent. The deity i want to work with is a demon from ars goetia andromalius, i already did the ritual but i Haven't got any respond what should i do?

I received this ask in June so you’ve probably already figured this out but keep on tryin!

If you don’t have access to tools like a pendulum or tarot cards you do still have the option to do some good old meditation on your demon’s sigil. In fact you’ll probably be doing this way more than using cards or other tools. All you need is a pen and a piece of paper. On the front you should write your demon’s sigil. Bonus points if you can find a coloured piece of paper or pen that you associate with them. For Leviathan I would probably use blue, whereas I’d probably use red for Asmoday and green for Belial.

On the back of the paper write a short petition or prayer. Be sure to address yourself by name (doesn’t have to be your legal name, just the name that you identify most with). Detail what exactly it is that you want from them and be precise about how you want them to manifest. If you hope to see them in your dreams write that down. If you just want some mundane sign that they’re listening write that down too.

For example: “To the Great Lord Lucifer, keeper of the hidden gnosis and liberator of all, I Shi, your loyal devotee, invoke your presence and healing light. I request that you appear to me in my dreams, in perfect human form. I wish to see your face and feel your warmth upon me. I wait patiently here, in this, your temple (referring to the altar) for your messages to touch my heart. So it shall be, as it has been, and shall be again.”

For first introductions it’s always a good idea to bring offerings. Something as simple as clean water is fine if you don’t have access to incense. A piece of fruit, a yummy pastry, or a piece of candy works too. Some demons are more particular than others, but they almost all unanimously appreciate alcohol. If you don’t have access to wine or rum, white vinegar also works.

Now, you can anoint the sigil with blood. I usually only do this for my patron who I trust and feel safe offering dna to. Some rituals will insist that you anoint all your sigils with blood but it’s not mandatory in my experience. A simple kiss can work, as can just charging the sigil in your hands. Focus all of your intention into the sigil until it almost seems to vibrate with energy. Then, when you feel ready, you can begin chanting their enn if they have one. If not, you can come up with your own mantra. For example, I wasn’t sure what invocation to use with Hermes, so I always just repeat “Holy Hermes, Holy Hermes, guide my spell.”

As you chant, focus your entire attention towards every syllable coming out of your mouth, feel your vocal cords vibrate as your intention becomes sound. I like to say Lucifer’s enn deep in my chest.

As you do, continue to stare at the sigil. There is a good chance you’ll experience some kind of imagery or physical sensation. If you see a terrifying face or a graphic image, do not freak out, this is very normal. Not all demons are pretty lol. You may altogether have an idea or voice enter into your mind out of seemingly nowhere, that is likely your demon responding. You can respond to them aloud or in your head. Try to stay focused on the sigil as you do, don’t think too hard about your answers.

As an added step you can attempt to do automatic writing. This is when you allow a demon to take control of the muscles in your hand to create a drawing or sentence on a piece of paper. Whilst holding the pencil, completely relax and continue to focus on your demon’s sigil. Don’t resist the subtle movements that occur involuntarily. Sometimes this can result in amazing communication and sometimes it results in a bunch of gibberish. It’s worth a shot but don’t be dismayed if it doesn’t work the first few times.

If you don’t see or feel anything, that’s okay, these things don’t always manifest right away. Do not beg your demon to show up. They find it very annoying. Continue the ritual for a few days until you get a sign. Pay very close attention to the subtle details in your life.

You should probably recreate the sigil every time you reach out rather than using the same one from last session. You’re also perfectly okay to destroy the sigil either by burning or just throwing it in the garbage. Be sure to say goodbye and close down the connection before you destroy the sigil. If you do get a solid communication, remember to say thank you.

[dropintomanga]

You Can Learn Something from Banned Manga

For those who haven't heard, Sho Harusono's Sasaki and Miyano got banned in the state of Florida because a parent didn't want their child exposed to LGBTQIA material at a public school out of fear of exposure to porn. This ban got a lot of attention from the manga and education worlds because one misinformed parent's words suddenly became statewide authority - which is nutty as the parent only read the description and based their decision off of that.

If you've read the manga and/or watched the anime, you know that this series is pretty wholesome. BL stories are fun to read, like Sasaki says. So why does it matter, right?

That made me think about the Florida government right now. They have shown how anti-LGBQTIA they are with their "Don't Say Gay" mantra. There has been pushback against their policies, but it's sad to see what the state is like now. There are still parts of the state that are trying to quell anything related to LGBTQIA topics.

I think back to something I listened to in 2019 about Americans accepting gay marriage. Gay rights advocates pitched the idea that gay couples are just like heterosexual couples. They valued love and commitment and family. Linking those common values allowed for greater acceptance of gay marriage. The podcast talked about anti-gay bias has dropped considerably over the past two decades.

But here we are now. A big reason why Florida is falling down the cracks is because it's being driven by organized religion in a very conservative sense of the word. They think "left-wing rhetoric" will ruin society. About Sasaki and Miyano, it's about two young men who are trying to find themselves in an all-boys school. It's about the two of them learning what does love truly entail and how it's not always constrained by sexual/gender norms. More importantly, it's about two teens who are gaining agency without being bound by authority. The beauty about BL stories is that they're often written as a ways to express oneself against an authority that thinks sexual relations should be heteronormative.

The freedom to express yourself with no qualms is frightening to those who want to control others' ways of thinking. America, to be honest, loves to emphasis strict control in a Puritanical sense in the guise of freedom. Their whole history has been linked to organized religion in awful ways. I think some people really don't want to think for themselves because TRUE freedom is scary when you have only yourself to rely on.

And we still have so much trouble talking about sex of any kind here.

In any case, we have to fight against unjust bans of books of all kinds because books are kind of a last bastion against poor education. There's bad influences that want us to be unable to criticize anything that puts people in harm's way. They want people to fight each other via discrimination tactics as a distraction from serious issues caused by poor institutional oversight.

If you haven't read Sasaki and Miyano, go read it. I I love the relationship dynamics between all the characters. I love the humor. I like how the story is about learning how to slowly embrace your weak side with confidence in order to gain the love you need. Reading is fun. Manga is fun. People have fun enjoying these types of stories.

If someone of a certain community wants to ban fun that enriches lives because their definition of fun doesn't match, that's a community no one should be a part of.

What I got from reading a banned manga wasn't pornographic. What I got was a message that while we've come a long way, the fight for marginalized groups and feelings to exist is never truly over. We all got to be like Sasaki and stand up for our Miyanos in the best way we can.

[evermore-grimoire]

The Evermore Grimoire: Shapeshifters

The Hale Family is a well-known, well-respected, centuries-old and powerful family of Werewolves and one Werecoyote. Most of the family members also have the rare and unique ability to fully shape shift into a wolf. However not everyone in the family inherited lycanthropy gene from their supernatural parents, meaning that they remained human. Those that were born as werewolves used a Triskelion Medallion to help learn control over their shifts. It involved having the young shapeshifters focus on the medallion and repeat the family's mantra, ‘Alpha, Beta, Omega’ while taking deep breaths in order to regain control over themselves whilst highly emotional or during the full moons. This mantra was used to remind them that all werewolves can rise from one rank or fall to another, with Betas ascending to Alpha status, and Alphas falling to Beta or even Omega status, in some situations. Sadly though most of the Hale family located in or around Beacon Hills were killed in a tragic house fire that was started by a ruthless werewolf hunter name Kate Argent. 

original artwork by Allagar

[shutyourfacemonsterlover]

There's an element in many BATB stories that I feel goes a little unnoticed by the general audiences, and it's something lost in the year of white feminism / pearl clutching / Buzzfeed media analysis, that categorizes these stories as "problematic" and in that...when you strip these stories down, these stories are about disabled people finding humanity. Abuse survivors attempting to gain control of life after years of trauma.

I mean it's a bit obvious, but you take out the allegory, the fantastical elements...the Beast is disabled, in a way, that their physical functions can't allow them to function in society.

Like, even Quasimodo is mute. the fantasy isn't even that dense some times lol.

Their abusers (and often the true villains) are often figures in power: parents, religious leaders, politicians...Precisely the type of people in reality that mistreat the disabled in the first place, from abusing at home to passing laws in society that invalidate and downright exterminate their existence.

Like, there's no coinicidence why a lot of these stories shaped the horror genre. and how both genres attract a lot of neurodivergent or queer fans.

So to see these stories being transformed to be thought of "ew creepy incel nice guys" fantasies is so tone deaf. Men dont fantasize being ugly, traumatized and living isolated by society, fam. they like imagining themselves being either the Luke Skywalkers or the world or the Darth Vaders, lol. Something active and with power. (And why Fr*llo in Hunchback isn't the same- he has power and represents society, but that's a talk for another day)

And if you think disabled, deformed, neurodivergent people aren't mistreated, mocked or osctracized anymore...like girl what fairytale you livin' in. i want in lol.

And why these stories hit stronger when the Beast was born a monster (or deformed as a child), instead of a relatively "normal" man committing an accident (but that's just me). Life can be cruel to you just for something you can't control, and a lifetime of pain changes you, not often for the good, but it's real. (and also why that mantra of "abuse turns you kind" can be very very dangerous talk, not all victims respond the same to trauma)

And that's also why BATB adaptations where the Beauty also is an outcast herself (Elisa, Entrapta, Dea, modern adaptations of Esmeralda), and can relate to the Beast's alienation, hit stronger in my eyes. Because compassion is often the key to these stories, and well, who understands your pain better than somebody who's gone through the same thing? (and also why "female monster"-type characters are also very fascinating to read about but also rarer to see ).