#mask with filter pocket

[oepionie]

— "HE'S THE OTHER MAN!" . the corpse groom

SYNOPSIS: A ghost groom has claimed MC as his unwilling bride. Unfortunately for him, she's already got a lover

⊹ [ c.w ] — violence, possessive behavior, malleus blows a fucking green laser down ramshackle, mentions of blood, yuu is poor but we alrdy knew that, papa crewel crumbs

⊹ [ w.c ] — 1.6k opening post with malleus! if this gets enough attention, I might do more :P

"You what?" Crewel seethed, eyes wide as an unsettling smile stretched across the red of his cheeks.

"Repeat that."

"I…I accidentally released that ghost from the spellbook," Grim sobbed, his glossy eyes reflecting both fear and guilt as he looked up at the imposing figure of the professor. "And he's taken my henchhuman as his bride!"

Oh, Great Sevens. Not again.

Crewel groaned, his hands reaching up to frantically rub at his burning eyes. The flickering candlelight cast erratic shadows across his face.

"Please, do tell. How in Wonderland did someone with your lackluster skills manage to—" The professor was abruptly cut off by a loud, almost obnoxious cry that echoed from the doorway. Turning sharply, Crewel saw Crowley hunched against the entrance frame, hysterically sobbing into his palms. Fat tears dripped beneath his ornate mask, glistening in the low light. "They grow up so fast! My dear child is already getting married!"

Crewel's eye twitched as he took in the scene: Grim shaking like a leaf, and Crowley, dramatically weeping, pathetically looking to him for a solution.

"Fools," Crewel snarled, striding out of the room as he fished his phone from his coat pocket. "If you two won't be of use, then I'll have to enlist the help of those mutts instead."

The day had started like any other in Ramshackle, but you certainly didn't expect it to end with a wedding. Surrounded by the ghostly residents of the dorm, you stood dressed in all white, a bouquet clutched in your hand. Curling in yourself, you sighed and rested your head in your hands, avoiding everyone's gazes which felt like icy needles on your skin.

Ramshackle's old lounge, with its worn-out floorboards and faded wallpaper, was the chosen venue for your ceremony. Whispers rustled through the gathering, carried on a faint breeze that stirred the dust motes in the dim light. Somewhere in the background, the somber notes of an organ piano echoed. You didn't even know you had a piano…

"Dear?"

Jumping with a shriek, you whipped your head around. A ghostly visage, bathed in a deathly pale blue glow, hovered inches from your face, an unnaturally wide grin stretched across their blue lips. Bony fingers gently traced up your cheeks, sending tingles down your spine.

With sunken eyes and high, sharp cheekbones, Elizan—a "visiting" friend of one of Ramshackle's ghosts—was truly a sight to behold. His complexion had a pallor that matched the moonlight filtering through the decrepit windows of the form. Wisps of long, flowing indigo hair framed his face, swept back as if caught in a breeze that only he could feel.

"You look wonderful," he cooed, pressing a featherlight kiss to your forehead, leaving your cheeks burning.

"Ah. Thank you," you stammered, averting your gaze and gently pulling away. You could hardly focus on the words being spoken to you, your mind spinning with the surrealness of it all.

"You look... Good as well," you forced out with a cough, tugging at your hair nervously. "But... Listen... I—"

Before you could finish, the door to the entrance slammed open, nearly breaking off the hinges with a sound that could wake the dead, sending cracks spider-webbing through the already dilapidated walls.

On the inside, you screamed louder than the hinges.

You had painstakingly patched up the door after Grim's recent screw-up—a feat that had tested your patience and carpentry skills to their limit. Unless you wanted to survive on a diet of stale canned food and cafeteria leftovers for another year, you couldn't afford any more repairs.

While you were busy mourning the loss of having decent meals, heaving and leaning against the door for support, your friends called out your name in a panic, their bleary and furious gazes zeroing in on your figure. Clad in white, you stood there, the perfect picture of a pretty blushing bride.

The uninvited guests didn't go unnoticed by your "groom," and in seconds, you were pulled into a suffocating grip. Elizan's usually serene demeanor shattered like fragile glass. His deathly pale features contorted into a snarl, veins pulsing ominously beneath translucent skin. His typically gentle eyes blazed with an unsettling fire, icy whites now narrowed and piercing.

"Mutt!" Crewel seethed, his foot slamming into the floor and shattering the newly installed tiles. Your soul nearly left your body as you screamed inside again. There go a thousand thaumarks…

"What in the Sevens is this!?" Crewel shrieked, running a gloved hand through his tousled hair. With sharp movements, he pointed a finger at Elizan. "I'll have you know I can have you arrested for trespassing, unlawful detention, and violating the sanctity of this academy!"

"How... How dare you? Barging into this sacred ceremony—Who even are you?!" Elizan snapped back, his arms coiling tightly around your torso. The crowd erupted in a haze of shouts and muddled answers. Unable to understand anything, Elizan's intense gaze shifted and bore into yours, demanding answers. You gulped nervously, suddenly feeling small and vulnerable in his grasp.

"Who is he?! Who are they?!" he barked like a dog, flashing his sharp fangs at you.

"Uh… That's my professor—uh, Crewel," you stammered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "And those are… They're my… friends?" Your gaze flickered to the group of men who had entered, their expressions ranging from confusion to anger.

Elizan's wide eyes now filled with shock, white orbs glossed over with luminescent blue tears. He pushed you away as if you had burnt him, recoiling from your touch as though it pained him physically.

"You know other men?!" the ghost cried out, his hands clenching into fists, his midnight blue hair cascading wildly around his face like a tempestuous sea. The tortured cries of the groom echoed through the room, sending a shiver down your spine as you awkwardly shifted on your feet, feeling like a character caught in an soap drama.

"…Yes?" you replied, unsure.

"How could you do this to me?!" He sobbed, a dark shadow covering his face. "Running off on an affair the DAY of our marriage?!"

"Well, that's a rather dramatic accusation—" you started, but Elizan shook his head in anguish.

"Answer me! Do you have another man?!" His voice shook the room, and you took a few cautious steps back.

"Elizan, please," you uttered gently, your eyes darting nervously toward one of the men in the room.

Your lover didn't meet your gaze; instead, his eyes were locked onto the ghost, a storm of emotions brewing beneath his features. As you jumped down from the makeshift podium, you shot an apologetic frown at the ghost, hoping to diffuse the escalating situation. "Don't you understand? You're the other man."

"No! You're married to me!" Elizan shrieked, lunging forward in a frenzy, his nails clawing at the air as if trying to grasp something intangible. "Whoever he is—He's the other man!"

MALLEUS DRACONIA

"Whoever he is—He's the other man!"

Lilia raised an eyebrow with a chuckle, his form reclined against a fogged-up window of the room. The weather was gloomy and stormy, the skies tinted green outside, casting an eerie glow over the scene. The window pane, streaked with raindrops and mist, blurred the view of the turbulent skies beyond. Lilia hummed a tune under his breath, a calm figure amidst the brewing storm.

With a sidelong glance, his eyes locked onto Malleus, whose entire figure shook with a barely contained wrath that threatened to engulf the very air around him. The young prince's chest heaved in violent, choked breaths as smoke wisped from his mouth and nose—tendrils of flames flickering amidst the swirling dust and ash.

A deafening crack tore through the air as a vivid surge of green emerald lightning erupted from the heavens, descending upon the roof of the venue with explosive force. The blast of energy painted the sky with a blinding flash of green as it crashed into the building, sending broken glass and wood raining down upon the venue.

Cursing, Elizan moved you both aside, a large chunk of debris hurtling past, narrowly missing your startled form. As more debris crashed down, he shielded you with an outstretched arm, a shimmering barrier briefly forming to deflect a particularly large piece of wood.

"Spectral pest," Malleus seethed, his eyes aglow with an eerie green hue as his nails elongated into sharp claws. With a click of his tongue, he raised his hands, summoning thorns that spiraled towards Elizan, ensnaring the ghost in their sharp embrace. Simultaneously, from the floorboards below, vines emerged like serpents, their tendrils gently but firmly pulling you away from Elizan's protective embrace and guiding you into the safety of Malleus's arms.

"How—?! Ngh!" Elizan writhed against the thorny vines. The prickly tendrils twisted around him like serpents, their sharp points digging into his ghostly flesh.

Malleus paid no mind to the struggling spirit, keeping his gaze fixed on you as he checked for any signs of harm. His expression softened with relief upon finding you unscathed, albeit a bit dusty.

"Beloved," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm amidst the lingering chaos. His gloved hand moved delicately, sweeping away the clinging dust from your shoulders and arms. Pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingered there briefly, conveying a warmth that contrasted starkly with the raw power he had displayed moments ago.

"Are you alright?"

Blinking up at him with wide eyes and frazzled hair shooting up in every direction, you nodded dumbly. Turning away from him, you nearly gasped aloud to see the room in shambles, debris scattered everywhere, and the eerie green glow of energy still lingering in the air. The ghostly residents were in a state of panic, their translucent forms flickering as they moved frantically.

"My dorm," you whimpered, your mind racing as you calculated the cost of the damage.

With a chuckle, Malleus adjusted his grip on you, his muscles flexing as he gently set you down. Your legs felt shaky as you tried to steady yourself.

"I will handle the cost of repair, my dearest," Malleus assured you, bending down to your height, his voice dropping to a whisper. Green eyes bore into yours, strands of his midnight hair falling over his face. "You will not need to worry about such things once we are formally betrothed."

You froze, your face suddenly warming and burning.

"What?!"

Malleus reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek, claws dragging across your supple cheeks. "Yes, my dear," he murmured, chest rumbling as his lips curved into a sharp smile. "You heard me correctly."

"I… I don't know what to say," you whispered, feeling dizzy with emotion.

"Will you consider it?" he asked softly, a faint hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Please?"

Caught in the depth of his gaze, you felt your resolve melting away. "I-I guess?" you breathed, your voice trembling. "I'll… consider it."

A smug smile spread across his face, and he tenderly pressed his lips against yours. "That's all I ask, my dearest."

After ensuring you were alright one last time, Malleus redirected his focus to Elizan. With a flick of his wrist, the thorns under his control tightened around the ghost. Elizan shrieked and thrashed about, his translucent form writhing in pain as the thorns dug deeper.

"Do try to exercise some restraint, my boy," Lilia drawled, tapping his sharp fingers idly against his crossed arms. "We do not want Ramshackle to be bathed in blood. It would be very unsanitary."

not too sure if i am continuing but feel free to suggest some peepl bookies

[teddiesworldd]

after the world ends.

ghost finds you out in the woods during a zombie outbreak and falls in love with you. (2.6K words) read part 2 here!!!

a/n: this idea has been on my mind for a while and it was so sweet i just had to write it down and share it with you <3 also, if you'd like to be added to a taglist, let me know!

pairing: simon ghost riley x female reader

tags/warnings: nsfw, mdni!!, apocalypse au, mentions of weapons, killing (zombies), survival situation, unprotected p in v sex, cute fluffy stuff in the middle of a zombie apocalypse because why not?!, soap makes an appearance

day 17 of the apocalypse, 3 weeks after the first outbreak.

you had lasted this long purely by camping out in the back of your car, driving somewhere more remote to avoid the infected and rationing whatever you'd managed to bring in from your kitchen at the beginning of it all. but as supplies got low and you were down to your last water bottle, you were forced to venture out into the nearby woodland, gathering whatever you could forage from the streams and bushes. you knew absolutely nothing about surviving out here. you couldn’t hunt and could barely light a fire. the first day of winter was in less than a month and you had no real shelter to keep you warm. you had no idea which berries were safe to eat or how to filter water. all you had was your kitchen silverware for protection and your best winter jacket for the weather.

you’d last about 2 weeks out here at best, and that’s without the fucking zombies. 

you'd been walking for about an hour since leaving your car, and to be honest, you didn’t think you could find your way back now. everything looked the same. you had found only a pocketful of what you could only guess was edible, and a protein bar from the pocket of a dead guy’s jeans. every single noise scared the hell out of you. and the bite marks on his neck raised your adrenaline tenfold. 

thud. thud. snap.

footsteps. sticks breaking underfoot. 

“who’s there?” you called out. “i’m- i’m serious, come any closer and… and… i’ll kill you!”, shouting now, cold hand gripping your rusted kitchen knife tightly.

you saw a huge figure behind the trunk of a nearby tree, and he chuckled lowly at your brave attempt to scare him away. “you don’t scare me, sweetheart”, the voice said, deep and rough, walking out from behind the tree, “thought y'were a rabbit or something - cute lil' thing, rustling in those bushes. and if i was infected, you’d be dead by now, with a mouth on you like that.”

he was an absolute giant of a man, 6 and a half foot at least and built like a brick shithouse. he was in full military gear, skull mask over his face, armed with a rifle in hand and knives strapped to his chest and belt. he approached you slowly, palms facing you like he was trying not to spook a stray cat. part of you wondered if you were hallucinating - you'd not been sleeping well from the nightmares of the infected night after night.

“no use shouting, anyway - they’ll find you straight away making all that noise.” he continued, leaves crunching under his black boots, walking closer, “what’s a girl like you doing out 'ere, all alone?”

you were frozen in place, like a deer in headlights. he was already intimidating as fuck without the massive armoury hanging round his waist, but now he was so close you could feel his breath on your face. a thought crossed your mind that if he tried to kill you now, there would be absolutely nothing you could do to stop him. it made a shiver run down your back.

his gloved hand reached out to hold your chin. you looked up at him, eyes welling up from the pure fear that ran through you.

“lost?” he said quietly, tilting his head to get a proper look at you. 

you nodded slowly.

“well, you won’t get far with that old thing, love” he smirked through the mask, eyeing the blade in your hand. “here, i’ll take you back to camp with me, make you a proper meal, yeah? when did you eat last?”

you engaged in some light small talk on the way, finding out he was called “ghost” and he used to serve in a special operations unit for a private military company. i guess it made sense that the best survivors would be the soldiers. you mentioned how you’d been living in your car for the past two weeks, which seemed to amuse him. he probably thought you were just some dumb girl who’d somehow managed to scrape through until now.

he wasn’t wrong, really.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

his camp was much nicer than the back of your car. 

it wasn't far from where he'd found you. they had lots of weapons and food and beds. and people. there must of been about 10 men in total. the infected weren’t really an issue with their impressive arsenal. there was a large fence surrounding the camp and the men took it in turns to kill anything that tried getting inside. it was pretty clear that ghost was closest to one of the other ex-military guys called "soap". they sat together when they ate and stayed up late at night talking together around the fire - matching dog tags glinting in the dim light. you often watched them through your tent door - enjoying their company but not wanting to interrupt their conversation. you listened as they talked deeply, recounting their time serving together, telling stories of bravery and bloodshed. it became your routine to fall asleep listening to them.

after about 3 or 4 weeks, following the first snowfall, you’d adjusted to life in the camp. soap had taught you a few things and often spent the mornings taking you hunting or showing you how to use the guns - a hand on your waist as he lined you up for the kill shot. he had a sweet nature and silly charm to him, telling you ridiculous jokes that only made you laugh because they were so stupid. you would never tell him that though - he thought you found him hilarious.

however, it was ghost you’d grown closest to, giving you anything and everything you needed. he was mysterious and that drew you to him. one time, he took you down to the river to wash the cookware and yourselves, and you'd caught a glimpse of him pulling off his clothes and mask, blonde hair and muscles seeing the light of day. you couldn't deny it - he was gorgeous.

he often checked on you in the evenings, making sure you’d settled in okay. he sat next to your bed, running a gloved hand over your hair, rubbing small circles into your scalp.

“you like the boys?” he’d ask, “they treating you okay?”

and you’d nod, just like you’d do every night.

“not scared, are you, doll?”

you shook your head.

“good. just making sure.”

and with that, he’d leave, heading to his own tent to rest, or out to guard the fence.

but one night, before he got up to get some sleep, you grabbed his hand. he looked back at you, dark eyes watching yours.

“stay?” you whispered.

and he did, without a word. stripping off his heavy gear and perching next to you in bed, rough camo trousers scratching against your bare shoulder. 

and he stayed, just like you asked. watching over you like a dog and keeping you safe.

sometime in the night, you’d turned to face him where he sat, resting an arm over his thigh. but he didn’t push you off. he just let you rest - your warm breath causing a dampness throughout the tent. 

it was only when the winter sunlight streamed through the tent that you realised he really did stay - all night. you opened your eyes to see he’d settled in next to you, his sleeping body alongside yours in the small camp bed, your arm still around him. 

and when you tried to pull yourself away out of embarrassment, he pulled it back, keeping it over his chest. 

“for warmth, yeah?” he said quietly, voice all deep and sleepy.

and how could you argue with that? these were trying times, after all. 

after a moment's silence, he said “you’re a pretty thing, love. always thought so, even when i first met you and you were all scared and dirty.” he continued, heavy eyes looking down at your vulnerable form. “soap thinks so too, but you’re mine, yeah? i found you - you’re mine.”

there was something about the possessive glint in his eye that showed you he really meant it - his gaze trailing down from your face to your uncovered hips that had shuffled out the sheets in your sleep.

"cm'ere" he said, taking your arm in his grasp and pulling you towards him. "i mean it, love. do you wan' to be mine?" eyes watching your face to see how you'd react to his question. your faces were close now, closer than they'd ever been. he'd looked after you so nicely, giving you everything you needed, protecting you from harm all this time. you couldn't help but agree with him. how could anyone not fall for this attractive man who cared for you so much? and the feeling of his chest under your hand made you fall for him even harder.

"yeah," you whispered against his masked face "...yours."

your small hand reached up to reveal his lips under his mask. he pulled you in, kissing you softly. it was short but there was so much behind it. you could tell he wanted more but he was holding back. he didn't want to accidentally push you away by moving too fast. he pulled back to look at you, hands cupping your soft face, which was still clouded with sleep.

"you're so beautiful, you know that?" he spoke so softly now. it was like the walls he'd put up had fell instantly. he just wanted a moment to be yours. no one else's. not the camp's cook or the guard or the hunter. just yours and nothing else.

you pulled yourself back to his face, kissing him again but soon moving your lips down to kiss his chin, and then his neck. but you didn't get far before he stopped you.

"no, no, love. let me take care of you - you deserve it." he said, turning you around so you were on your back, head resting on your plush pillow as his touch relaxed you.

it was almost as if for just a moment, you weren't in the middle of a fucking nightmare. you were at home, in your own bed. maybe you'd met him at work or out on a date - anywhere that wasn't in a forest full of zombies. and he'd taken you out for dinner a few times and you'd decided he was sweet enough to be kissing down your body, rolling his tongue over your nipples.

but here you were, in a camp full of strangers, being transported by this man who you barely knew, covered only by the walls of a thin tent. but it just felt so right to let him take you like this. you trusted him with your life. and in return he worked your body like magic. his touch was so gentle - yet his skin was so rough compared to your own.

"you want me inside you, baby?" he spoke to you so softly, having kissed down to the top of your underwear now. his eyes watched you, waiting for your permission to carry on.

"please," you replied, "i want you."

that was all he needed to hear. he pulled off his shirt and your underwear, tossing them both to the side. he admired your body shamelessly, eyes tracing the outline of your waist and your body. you couldn't help but do the same, entranced by the way his muscles practically glowed in the light that came through the tent. he was built like a rugby player, pure muscle but with a good layer of fat on top to smooth everything out. you watched as he unbuttoned his pants and pulled out his cock.

he was huge. you knew he was a big guy but you weren't expecting it to apply to all of him. it was definitely bigger than anyone you'd ever been with. his tip was an angry shade of red from how hard he was, precum running down his shaft. noticing the expression on your face, he reassured you.

"don't worry, i'll be gentle with you."

he lined himself up with your entrance, your wetness being enough to allow himself to push slowly inside. it stretched you more than you ever had been, causing you to hiss as it dipped inside you. he bent forward down to kiss you sweetly, silencing your pained noises, shushing you each time his lips left yours. he continued to move in until he bottomed out inside of you.

"you okay?" he grunted, "tell me when to move, love."

you paused for a moment, adjusting to his size before nodding to let him know he could start moving.

he didn't fuck like you expected him to. you thought a guy like him would be railing you like an animal, but no. he made love to you, his slow but deep thrusts hitting all the perfect spots in your gummy walls. it was pure bliss, and he thought so too, struggling to keep back his grunts each time he thrust into you.

"fucckkkk baby," he'd say, dog tag hanging down as he fucked you, "your pussy is so tight, gripping me so good". he hooked your legs behind his back and moved his big hands onto your hips to hold you in place. " is it good for you too, doll? you look so pretty with that fucked-out look on your face." he went on, smirking at you like he was proud of his work.

you couldn't even form words, let alone piece together a decent response. he felt amazing, pulling all the way out so only his tip was inside of you and then pushing all the way back in again, until you were an absolute drooling mess, jaw slack and whining on his cock. and just when you thought it couldn't get any better, he moved his hand between your legs and rubbed lazy circles on your clit with his thumb. almost instantly your pussy started pulsing around him - with you blubbering out incoherent swears and moans - having sent you completely over the edge in a matter of minutes. he wasn't far away either - your clenching making his hips stutter back and forth as he helped you ride through your orgasm. you could of swore you were seeing stars by the time he pulled out of you and came over your stomach with a moan, pressing his forehead to yours.

it took you both a few minutes to come back down again, giggling and kissing his lips once more. your arms found their way around his neck, holding him close to you. you were both a panting mess, clothes discarded across the tent floor and the scent of sex heavy in the air.

"my girl- you're gorgeous," he managed to huff out, catching his breath. " 'm never getting over you."

when news broke that a zombie apocalypse was spreading, you had no idea it would lead to this hunk of a man in bed with you - spoiling you and loving you like this. you weren't complaining, though. not at all. at least something good came from it.

he cleaned you up so carefully, being sure not to press too hard on your sensitive body. and when he'd made sure you were okay, he brought you something to eat and led down with you, stroking up and down on your back, drawing shapes and letters on your skin. part of you couldn't believe this was the same guy who you watched shoot a zombie in the face through the fence the other day. his hands were so gentle, always cautious not to hurt you under his touch.

and as your eyes grew heavy again, revelling in his embrace, you heard him say something into your skin.

"simon," he said quietly, face buried in your neck. "my real name's simon."

˚✧. thank you for reading!

˚✧.please reblog to support me <3

˚✧. dividers by @ saradika-graphics and @ si-eunnis

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[matchesarelit]

Imagine If You Will...

Acting as the Frontman's PA, and having the Guard harem wrapped around your finger.

This part is:

PA Announcer

Musical Fan!reader

This will be a choose your adventure kind of thing where there will be multiple with jobs/specialties/interactions.

a/n: Hope you like Mamma Mia xoxo

Please don't hesitate to request!!

Walking a few steps behind the Frontman, peering through your silver mask and analysing the clipboard in your hands you updated your boss on the status of everything being prepared for the games.

Based on the grunts and scoffs he let out you crossed out and marked different items on the list. For a man of little words, he sure was good at communicating. After the large doors to the hall closed, you looked first to your boss then to the militia-like staff.

Handing over the checklist to the closest square, you nodded to your boss and turned to leave.

“Squares 1 through 16, Your men will be painting the halls. Squares 18 through 21, Your men will construct the bridge. Squares 22 and 23..." As you approached your office the front man's voice faded away.

There was a surprising amount of paper work for a company that strived to leave no traceable evidence, you supposed they needed to be completely aware of the crimes that the company had committed as to better cover their tracks. That being said, you would swear that the pile had grown since before breakfast.

So sitting down in your little office you pulled off your mask and began to sort through the first few files. After certain issues and unauthorised branches sprung up in the command structure of the previous year's games, you been given the tedious task of vetting all potential contestants.

The main rules were; no one with medical training, we cant have another spout of organ harvesting, no one with knowledge that could reduce or alter the difficulty of the games, aka no more glass guys, and so on and so forth for what seemed to be an unending and ever growing pile of filters.

You'd made it through half of the pile, removing a few of the contestants for their quote unquote leadership qualities, when an alarm chimed from your phone. Tugging forward the microphone you grabbed the notes from today's agenda, before crackling the speakers to life with the press of a button.

'It is now midday. Lunch will be available to grab under the sun for the next 90 minutes. Today's music choice is... mine and will be the entire Mamma Mia musical soundtrack followed by twenty minutes of me replaying my favourite songs.'

Pressing play on the album and turning off the microphone you opted to return to your work for the time being, only now there was the occasional humming along.

When a tapping came from your window you finally stopped, slipping your silvery mask back into place and tugging back the unnecessarily extravagant curtain you observed a single circle giving you a thumbs up.

Waving to him you stepped closer and peered to the side, down the hall stood a group grooving, and as you pressed your ear to the glass you could hear their voices singing along.

Sneaking your secure and very dumb brick of a phone out of your pocket you started to record, before noticing the circle was now waving for you to join them.

Deciding... screw it you leaned your phone against the sill and slipped out of the office to join the gaggle of guards. Only then did you notice just how loud the PA system was set to as the concrete under your feet vibrated with the music.

Dancing and singing along, the group seemed to grow as the album played on... until your boss' brash tone cracked over the system;

'Okay that's enough, go get your food.'

Oh yeah... lunch.

[please-destroy]

No Matter What

Pregnant!Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 3k

.

You hadn’t been given enough time. You lay flat to the ground as the explosions around you continued with an unrelenting pace.

You couldn’t move. The hot trickle of blood running down your calf told you enough. You’d been watching the thick white cloud of gas roll slowly towards you, and now it was here.

You could feel the cool moisture as it cloaked your bare ankles, beginning to envelope you.

You continued trying to inch your phone out of your pocket, twisting yourself awkwardly with the action. 

The part of you that was still clinging to hope needed her desperately. All you wanted was to hear Wanda’s voice telling you it would be okay. 

You couldn’t let yourself think about the baby. You didn’t think losing your future would hurt like this. You didn’t expect to feel such grief when you were the one dying.

It felt like fingernails raking along your throat when you choked on the realisation that you’d never see the baby. You’d never know if they really did have Wanda’s eyes. Your chest went tight with the hope that they did. 

You brought your phone level to your face, wincing at the brightness. 

One text, Wanda.

‘Stay safe, check in when you can, we miss you.’

You dropped the phone and closed your eyes. The clouded air smelled sweet, you could taste aniseed. You couldn’t call her, you were out of time.

You hoped the baby had Wanda’s smile too. Selfishly, now, you hoped that little pieces of you would be in there too. That people would still talk about you. You didn’t want to be another ghost, another unspeakable shadow that haunted the corner of Wanda’s eye.

You slipped into delirium a moment later and unconsciousness a minute after that.

.

You had plenty to live for, but when you heard your name being called you still didn’t want to wake up.

Your eyes shuttered open and you gasped out a breath like it was your first. You’d been moved, the gas was gone, the air seemed clean.

It took a moment to recognise the inside of the helicarrier. Even longer to understand it was Natasha who was underneath the industrial gas mask. 

You lost control of your panic, hyperventilating at the shock of her appearance. The rattling sound of her gas mask filtering the air was unsettling. It also meant there was still danger. Your hand went to your throat in confusion. Why weren’t you wearing one too?

‘You’ve been infected.’ Natasha called, staying carefully away from you in the med bay. ‘We think it's hallucinogenic, your pupils are blown wide.’

As if Natasha's words were a premonition, the world around her started to tilt. The edges of her figure started to blur and merge with the background. You tried not to fall back on the stretcher as the dizziness hit.

‘Wanda.’ You huffed out, fighting against the heaviness dragging you back under. You tried to find Natasha’s eyes behind the dark tinted glass of the helmet. Tears pricked your eyes, you could feel yourself slipping away. You were out of time again.

You felt a hand grip your arm at the last moment.

‘No matter what.’ Natasha’s voice assured you. It was the promise she’d made you a long time ago, Wanda would always be kept safe.

.

The next time you woke up, you were in a small room. The walls were concrete, the floor was concrete, the door was metal. 

You crawled to the corner, trying to remember if you’d been captured. Your mind felt heavy, thoughts blurring together.

Then, you heard her. 

A high pitched scream slid through the crack under the door, you flew against the wall at the shock of the sudden noise.

You lurched forward as you recognised it, stumbling to your feet. Your hands found the door handle. 

The scream came again, louder this time.

‘Wanda.’ You cried out, trying desperately at the door. It wouldn’t budge. Her screams sounded mangled now, choking off into sobs. 

Where was she? What were they doing to her?

You remembered nothing else as you slammed your shoulder against the door, shouting out your wife’s name.

The screams got louder and consequent images flashed through your mind. They were torturing her. The worst thoughts filled your mind. You were sure you could smell blood. Wanda must be close. You shouted again, slamming yourself desperately into the door.

Then, Wanda screamed your name and something inside you stopped responding. A feral panic made you more animal than human. 

You were going to have to get through concrete. Your fingernails scraped down the walls, the only thought driving you was that Wanda was on the other side. She wouldn’t stop screaming.

The disorientation was overwhelming, you lost yourself completely in the haze of her ceaseless screams.

Eventually you came to, seeing the bloody tracks already scraped into the wall. You knew it must have been you, but you couldn’t remember.

.

Natasha’s voice echoed suddenly into the room. Your head spun as you sought her out wildly. The room was still empty.

‘Wanda.’ You choked out, tears immediately flooding your cheeks in relief that someone could help. You couldn’t focus on what she was saying. 

‘You need to get Wanda, please Nat, please. They’re hurting her.’

Wanda’s screams began again, echoing off the walls and ricocheting around your mind. Your nails scratched your scalp as you fell to your knees.

You heard Natasha’s voice again, muffled and distorted like she was somewhere underwater.

‘Why are you still here?’ You screamed at the door. ‘Why aren’t you helping her?’ 

You buried your head in your hands, muffling another scream that bubbled out of you.

Confusion turned to rage and you seethed at Natasha’s continued unmoving presence behind the door. You hated your own uselessness. 

‘What about the baby?’ You shouted again, hearing the desperate edge plaguing your own voice. ‘Please Nat, please, she’s pregnant. They’re gonna kill her.’

You broke off into a cry at the words. You couldn’t hear anything but the neverending screams. 

You curled yourself against the wall, shakes wracking your body. You wondered how you could ever have feared death for yourself. 

Now Wanda was dying, she was being murdered. You’d never see your baby. The last piece of her was going to die along with her. You couldn’t fix it.

Your screams mixed with Wanda’s and you felt the emptiness slam into your own chest, like your baby was dying inside of you instead.

You wanted to die. You wanted it all to be over. There wasn’t anything else.

Wanda’s screams quietened and you sat, taut with the tension of waiting desperately to hear her and also dreading her voice.

Were they letting her rest, or was she finally dead?

Your heart beat stuttered erratically as you waited for some noise. Time dragged hellishly. Now, the silence was the worst of all. 

You drew your knees up to your chest, burying your face against them. You started to sob, some animalistic moan building in your chest at the inexpressible pain.

No future. No baby. No Wanda. 

Would there even be bodies to bury? You choked on the thought, and you heard your cries like they were someone else's.

.

Natasha’s voice echoed into the room once again. You froze at the sensation, looking around desperately for her figure. A grim hope flared in your chest once again. Natasha could still get you out, even if she wouldn’t help Wanda and the baby.

Once you were out of this room, you could get to them. You could still try.

‘(Y/N?)’ You recognised your name in Natasha’s voice, she sounded panicked. 

You lifted your head fully to lean against the wall, waiting for her to tell you the news you didn’t know how to hear. You were too late.

‘Wanda’s okay. She’s okay. Remember? No matter what.’

Your eyes closed at Natasha’s words, somehow, inherently, you trusted them.

‘No matter what.’ You rasped out, throat wrecked from your own screams. You heard Natasha’s message. There was still hope, this was still part of the mission.

As if called upon by Natasha’s words, Wanda’s voice returned again. 

Now, you heard the soft scared whimpers that you’d only heard before when you’d held her through the worst of nightmares.

‘Why is she still crying?’ You moaned out desperately, confusion clawing at you.

‘Your mind is playing tricks.’ Natasha told you again.

Wanda started begging. Begging for the baby, begging for you. You heard her desperate pleads and bile rose in your throat.

Natasha was lying. There was no way that your mind could invent this. 

You lay against the cold concrete floor, wishing you had been killed in one of the explosions.

They were still hurting her. You could picture the sharp knife from the way she whimpered quietly. She’d always been scared of knives. 

Tears rolled down your cheeks. You closed your eyes, desperate for unconsciousness.

You no longer had any concept of time. You only opened your eyes when you next registered a change in Wanda’s voice.

She was calling your name. It was soft like air. Your head flew up from its place on the floor and you turned disorientedly to find her. Before you could scramble to your feet, you registered her voice.

‘(Y/N) loves you.’ Wanda’s voice came softly into the room. You were sure the sound was sneaking in with the bright cracks of light surrounding the door. You inched closer, wanting to be near her more than anything in the world.

‘Even when I’m not here. (Y/N) is going to love you extra just for me.’

Your stomach rolled as you realised who Wanda was saying goodbye to. Misery pinned you to the floor. You stared upwards, unable to do anything but listen, as Wanda comforted the baby she knew she’d never see. 

Tears flooded down your cheeks and numbness started to creep in.

Time dragged on. You stayed close to the crack of light by the door. Your hand trailed the concrete wall miserably, wishing you could touch her skin instead.

Wanda was crying to herself somewhere nearby. You didn’t want her to be alone. Why didn’t she know you were here and that you loved her? Screams choked and died in your throat, knowing they’d be as useless as the ones you’d made before.

The worst part of their torture was the monotony of it all. You didn’t know how many times they brought Wanda to the edge of death, until her screams were uncontrolled and her desperate cries for you filled up the awful tiny room. But, every time they stopped, the only real certainty was that they’d start again.

You thought you might have slept, but time moved differently now. Your dreams seemed like reality and the two felt increasingly indistinguishable. You only stopped crying as the thirst began to kick in.

.

Eventually, small pieces of reality started to trickle back in. Thick white gas and metal faces swam abstractly in your mind. You clung to these thoughts hoping there’d be some clue in them to lead you to Wanda.

It took forever until you remembered Natasha’s words on the helicarrier.

Knowing that you were hallucinating didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. You knew it wasn’t really Wanda now. 

Still, the cries sounded real. Image after image of her lying dead just behind the metal door attacked your mind.

You couldn’t trust that she and the baby were safe. 

You tried to block out her voice, begging again for you to be spared.

You’d have thrown up. But, you hadn’t eaten either. Thirst parched you and your stomach felt hollow. You kept staring at the ceiling. 

You started hearing the desperate wails of an infant and you closed your eyes again. Waves of agony rolled through you at the sound and the urgent need to find your child. 

Wanda’s baby was screaming and that meant she was gone.

You started to cry again.

.

The bolt of the door scraped open slowly and, at first, you were sure it was another hallucination. You could see Natasha’s face this time.

Her hand extended out with a water bottle in it. Her eyes stared deep into yours.

‘Wanda is okay.’ She said clearly. ‘Do you understand?’ You tried to nod as new sobs of relief flooded through you. You believed her. You started to rock yourself again. 

Natasha crouched down next to you, one hand on your knee.

‘Quarantine is over.’ She told you succinctly, forcing the water bottle into your hand until you took it, obediently starting to drink. You emptied it in a few gulps, your thirst reminded you of the eternity you’d spent in here.

‘How long?’ You croaked out. 

‘Two days. We told her the mission got extended.’ Natasha’s tone told you how little she’s enjoyed keeping your pact.

‘She doesn’t know?’ You checked.

‘She’s not here.’ Natasha told you, as if this was answer enough.

You tried to speak again, but your throat closed up.

‘You can see her now.’ Natasha said simply, taking your hand and pulling you to your very shaky feet. You used her hand as a crutch as you moved gingerly towards the door. 

The corridor outside was unfamiliar, but you knew it was the Avengers Medical Wing from the logo on the wall. First you entered a small room, a fresh set of clothes lay folded. A bathroom stood off to the side. Natasha waited outside the door as you hurried through the tasks.

Soon, you shuffled through to a generic waiting room. Clint sat on one of the uncomfortable seats, head in his hands as he stared at the ground. He looked up as soon as he heard you coming.

‘Fuck. You look like shit.’ His eyes tracked your face worriedly. You didn’t have the energy for a comeback. You kept moving forward, turning your head only as you passed him.

‘Thank you.’ You told him. Clint glowered, knowing you meant keeping Wanda in the dark. He left quickly, kicking over a chair as he left the room. You understood why he couldn’t say ‘You’re welcome’.

Natasha’s arm moved tentatively around your shoulders but she didn’t make you slow your pace. You moved to the elevator, pressing the button for the floor you shared with Wanda.

You ached at how close she’s been the whole time.

‘And she’s fine?’ You checked again.

Wordlessly, Natasha handed you over your phone. The battery was nearly dead, but you saw the list of texts and calls. Wanda was safe, but she knew something was up. You swallowed nervously.

The doors opened onto your floor and you moved forward to the last door between you and Wanda. 

Natasha stayed in the elevator.

‘Thank you.’ You remembered before the elevator doors closed. Natasha just nodded once, and her eyes filled with a rush of worry you’d never seen before.

‘No matter what.’ She muttered. And you nodded. She didn’t know yet, but she was going to be a godmother soon.

.

You turned back to let yourself into the apartment. Your hand was shaking as you gripped the door handle. That recurring image of Wanda lying bleeding on the floor flitted through your mind.

You opened the door, fearing your worst nightmare. You held your breath.

Your first and only thought when you saw her, was that she was safe.

Wanda was sleeping in a chair, somehow sitting half upright. It looked uncomfortable. If her eyes had been open she’d have seen you enter, obviously having fallen asleep facing the door.

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. 

Your mind chanted the only thing you’d prayed for in the last two days.

You moved wordlessly into the room, only knowing you wanted to touch her. To feel her warm and pressed against you.

Your hand grazed her arm softly. Wanda’s eyes opened instantly at the touch. She gave a small gasp at the sight of you.

‘I’m back.’ You said unnecessarily, trying to remember how to smile.

Wanda’s hand flew to her mouth, muffling a sob. Her cries were horrifyingly familiar to you. You knelt in front of her, trying to block out the sound automatically. Your hands gripped her thighs and your lips touched her belly, pressing a kiss there. 

You tried to remind yourself of reality.

Wanda’s hands gripped your shoulders, and you looked back up to her teary face.

‘Thank God.’ She mumbled, shifting forward in her seat. You rose to stand as she did the same, catching her in an embrace as she fell into your arms.

‘They wouldn’t tell me anything.’ She mumbled into your shirt.

 ‘Oh God, I thought they didn’t know how to tell me -.’ Wanda’s words trailed off into another round of sobs. 

You focused on the feeling of having her in your arms.

‘It was just a mission that ran long.’ You soothed, feeling her hot damp tears soak through your shirt. Wanda’s fingers clung to your shirt. 

‘You didn’t text me back.’ She whimpered. The aching familiarity of the sound reminded you all over again.

‘I wanted to.’ You promised, tears starting to run again down your own cheeks.

‘Are you okay?’ You had to ask, the fear of everything still eating you up inside. ‘And the baby?’

Wanda moved back in your hold, eyes searching yours. 

‘We’re fine.’ She whispered to you softly and you saw the tear tracks staining her face. ‘All we needed was you.’

You nodded dumbly, swallowing the hot lump in your throat.

Wanda’s fingers slid into your hair and she pulled your face to hers.

Her lips were soft, tasting a little of salt after all the tears. Her warmth was familiar, her touch held you safe.

You were home.

‘I’ll always come back.’ You mumbled a moment later against her lips, knowing now how difficult that promise was. 

‘No matter what.’

[bread-crum206]

A Game of Hearts

Chapter ten: Umasked Tension

Summary: Y/N’s father is a VIP for the games, he makes a deal with the Frontman that if he marries his only daughter that he will continue to sponsor the games. However, Y/N is not fond of this decision as she loathes the games and in turn, loathes the Frontman as well. Will she grow to love him? Will he let his walls down?

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3 Pt 4 Pt 5 Pt 6 Pt 7 Pt 8 Pt 9 Pt 10 Pt 11 Pt 12 Pt 13

The sun barely filtered through the narrow windows of your quarters as the hours before the VIPs’ arrival drew closer. It was a strange, almost oppressive calm in the air, as though everything was waiting for the storm to hit. The excitement, the nerves—they buzzed just below the surface, threatening to bubble over at any moment.

As the clock ticked closer to the arrival of the VIPs, you began to get ready, slipping into a dress you had reserved for this moment. It was sleek and fitted, a deep shade of emerald green that brought out the natural warmth of your skin. The fabric shimmered faintly, catching the light as you moved, a quiet elegance that felt at odds with the world you were stepping into. The heels you chose were sharp, pointed, giving you a little more height, a little more presence as you prepared to walk into a room full of powerful, untouchable men.

When you finished dressing, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your reflection was almost foreign to you. The confident and powerful demeanor that you wore was ready, set aside for the moment, but the truth behind your eyes wasn’t hidden yet. There was a sadness there that even the most beautiful dress couldn’t conceal.

The door to the bedroom opened just then, and In-ho stepped in. He was dressed in his usual dark attire, the mask firmly in place. His presence filled the room, but there was something different today—an unspoken understanding between you both. Neither of you needed to say it aloud. You both would have to deal with stuck up rich guys.

“You’re ready,” he said, his voice softer than usual, but still carrying that familiar calmness.

You nodded, biting back a sigh. “I guess.”

There was a brief moment where he just looked at you, his eyes scanning you from head to toe. His gaze wasn’t cold this time. It was different—something that made your heart skip a beat. It was almost like… concern? You couldn’t be sure, but the heat in your cheeks made you wonder if you were imagining it.

Then, without a word, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something. A mask. The same black one he always wore.

“This is for you,” he said, his voice quieter now, but still firm as he handed it to you.

Your fingers brushed against his as you took the mask, and for a moment, everything felt still. The mask was a reminder. A symbol. You weren’t you anymore. You were a piece of this twisted game.

You glanced at him, feeling the weight of the moment. “I’m ready.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but the look he gave you told you everything you needed to know. It wasn’t just about protecting your identity. It was about playing the game. And you both had already gotten too deep to turn back.

When you stepped into the grand hall, the atmosphere shifted immediately. The VIPs were already gathered, a mix of loud voices and expensive fabrics filling the room. The second you walked in, their eyes landed on you. It was like the room held its breath. The way they looked at you—like a rare piece of art they wanted to own, but could never touch—made your skin crawl.

You tried not to let it show. You couldn’t.

Your father was standing off to the side, his back straight, his expression as cold and distant as ever. He didn’t acknowledge you when you entered, didn’t even glance your way as you walked past him.

That sting—the ache that you couldn’t shake—came rushing back. You tried to hide it, bury it deep beneath the mask you wore. But it was hard. It hurt. More than you cared to admit.

In-ho must have noticed the change in your posture. His hand, warm and firm, landed on your shoulder for a brief moment. The touch was gentle, but it grounded you. Reminded you that, at least for now, you weren’t alone in this.

“You’re doing fine,” he whispered, his voice low, reassuring.

It didn’t fix the pain. Nothing could. But it was enough to keep you moving forward.

It wasn’t long before the VIPs began to circle. Their eyes stayed glued to you, their gazes hungry, eager to inspect, to dissect. They made comments—subtle at first, but the undertones were clear.

“You know, I’ve heard the Frontman is very protective of you,” one man said, his voice dripping with something darker. “But I bet he’s hiding something interesting behind that mask.”

Another VIP, younger, with a smug look on his face, stepped forward. “Maybe we should all get to know each other better,” he said, his eyes lingering on the ring on your finger. “If you’re interested, of course.”

The way they looked at you—it was like you were a puzzle they wanted to solve, something they couldn’t have, but would do anything to possess.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced a smile. You had to. It was part of the game. You had to play along, pretend you were just as interested in their hollow words as they were in your appearance.

Before any of them could step closer, In-ho was there. Like a shield. He placed a hand at the small of your back, guiding you toward the VIP room with quiet authority.

“We’ll be escorting you now,” he said, his tone final, and for a moment, the VIPs seemed to respect the unspoken boundary.

You walked beside him, the tension between you both palpable, but at least for now, you were free from their unwanted attention.

When the VIPs had settled into the room, you thought you might finally get a moment to breathe. But the truth was, there was no escape. Not from the eyes that followed you, not from the games you were forced to play.

And then, you saw him again. Your father.

His eyes flickered to you once more. That cold look. No warmth. No recognition. He just… looked right through you.

It hurt.

———————

Chapter 10!!!!! Woohoo! Lemme know what you think! Thank you!

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[leaderwon]

HATE THAT...

chapter 55 — comforting unknown

Synopsis :- In a world where lovers are destined and written by fate, You hated the idea of a soulmate, or maybe you just hated him. Jake wanted a soulmate, a lover to be with for the rest of eternity. Just not you. Not wanting eachother, the both of you occupy yourself with someone else. But the universe had other plans.

luna's diary : my struggle to write this was actually real.

wc : 1.4k

prev — masterlist — next

The morning sun filters weakly through your curtains, casting pale streaks across your room. You sit up slowly, the weight in your chest settling in as reality seeps back in. Today is the day. The parent-teacher meeting where everything about Iseul’s harassment will be laid bare. You’ve waited for this moment, for the truth to come out—but it doesn’t stop the nerves twisting in your stomach.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, staring blankly at the floor. A part of you is scared, anxious. The thought of everyone’s eyes on you, watching as you share those screenshots and messages, is enough to make you second-guess everything. But you remind yourself that this is necessary. After all the hurt, the lies, and the silence, the truth has to come out. You’ve been carrying this weight alone for too long.

You pull on your clothes, trying to shake off the lingering dread, and head out, bracing yourself as you make your way across campus. When you reach the meeting hall, a small group is already gathered: professors, administrators, and some students. The tension in the air is thick, and every glance in your direction feels loaded with curiosity and judgment. You glance over at your friends—Yunjin, Ningning, Huening Kai, Shotaro, and Jake—all of whom had sided with Iseul at first. They stand together, casting hesitant glances your way. You can’t ignore the sting of betrayal, even if they’re here now.

As the room quiets, you step forward, clearing your throat to get everyone’s attention. “Thank you all for being here,” you start, surprised at how steady your voice sounds. “I’ve stayed silent for a long time about what’s been happening. I kept thinking if I just ignored it, it would stop. But I was wrong. It only got worse.” You pause, glancing at the floor, gathering the courage to go on. “Iseul has been harassing me for months. I didn’t tell anyone because I was afraid no one would believe me. And when I finally tried to speak up, I was… shut down.” Your eyes drift to your friends, the words hanging between you.

The professors exchange glances, visibly surprised, but they don’t interrupt. Taking a deep breath, you continue, “Iseul spread rumors, twisted my words, and turned people against me. But today, I want to show everyone the truth.” With a shaky hand, you pull the pendrive from your pocket and pass it to the professor.

The lights dim as the video begins, displaying messages that no one can deny. Line by line, the reality of Iseul’s cruelty unfolds, each message colder than the last. The accusations, the threats, the venomous lies—it’s all there, undeniable and raw.

It’s undeniable. Every line is clear, every timestamp visible. A few gasps echo through the room as people realize the extent of what’s been said, the cruelty laced into every sentence. You watch Iseul’s parents stiffen, shock and embarrassment written across their faces as they look at their daughter, who now sits slouched in her chair, her face a mask of horror and shame. She’s no longer the untouchable, invincible presence she used to be—now, she looks small, exposed.

You glance over at Jake. He’s not looking at the screen; instead, he’s staring down at his hands, fingers fidgeting nervously. He hadn’t known the full extent of Iseul’s messages either, and you can see the regret etched across his face. His loyalty to Iseul had faltered once he learned the truth, but that realization had come too late. You’re grateful he’s no longer blinded by her lies, but the damage had been done. You’d faced the brunt of her words alone, while the people you thought would stand by you chose to believe the worst.

Iseul’s parents sit in stunned silence, their expressions shifting from disbelief to anger. Her father rises first, his voice low but sharp. “How could you do this?” he demands, while her mother’s face twists with disappointment. A harsh slap rings out as her mother’s hand meets Iseul’s cheek, leaving her momentarily stunned, a flicker of panic crossing her face.

Scrambling to regain control, Iseul’s eyes dart to Jake. She steps closer to him, her voice barely a whisper. “Jake, you know me,” she pleads, her hands reaching out in desperation. “You know I’d never do something like this, right?” But Jake’s gaze is cold, his jaw clenched. He takes a step back, shaking his head. “I didn’t think you could…but I guess I was wrong,” he says, his voice laced with regret.

Before she can argue further, the principal steps forward, breaking the tension with a formal announcement. “Iseul, effective immediately, you are suspended pending further disciplinary action,” he declares, the words final and unyielding. Iseul’s shoulders slump, the fight draining out of her as her parents usher her out of the room.

As the last of the crowd disperses, a weight lifts from your shoulders, replaced by a quiet, unfamiliar sense of relief. You breathe deeply, letting the air fill your lungs fully for the first time in months. It’s over. The lies, the manipulation, the endless, gnawing dread—they’re all over.

A burst of laughter and cheers interrupts your thoughts as Yunjin, Ningning, Huening Kai, and Shotaro approach, their faces lit with excitement. Ningning reaches for your hand, squeezing it with a warm smile. "You did it, Y/N. Finally." There’s genuine happiness in their voices, but beneath it, a tension lingers—an unspoken weight that reminds you of everything that’s happened between you.

You manage a small smile, feeling the tightness in your chest ease, but before long, you turn to leave. Just as you reach the door, Yunjin steps in front of you, blocking your path. “Hey, don’t go yet,” she says softly. “Let’s stay together, hang out for a while.”

For a moment, you’re tempted. It would be easy to go back, to slip into that comfort again. But then you remember all the times they doubted you, the way they chose Iseul’s words over yours without question. The sting of betrayal returns, sharp and undeniable. You shake your head, trying to keep your voice steady. “I can’t, Yunjin. I know you’re sorry, but it doesn’t change what happened. All of this…it damaged our friendship. I don’t think we can go back to how it was before.”

Yunjin’s face falls, and a quiet disappointment shadows her eyes, but she steps aside, allowing you to leave. As you step out, the quiet hallway stretches before you, offering a fragile sense of peace—until you hear footsteps behind you. Turning, you find Jake, hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze filled with regret.

“Y/N, please,” he begins, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can we just…try again? I made a mistake. I should have listened to you, I know that now.” You swallow, your heart aching as you meet his gaze. “Jake, I don’t think I can. Not after everything. This isn’t the first time. You hurt me when you believed Iseul over me—and that’s not something I can just forget.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he looks at you with a desperate, pleading expression. “I know I’ve hurt you. I was wrong, I admit it. But I want to make it up to you. Please, give me a chance.”

You sigh, feeling the sadness settle over you. His apology doesn’t change the scars he left. “I’m sorry, Jake,” you say softly. “But I don’t think anything can fix this.”

With that, you turn away, leaving him standing there in the hallway as you walk forward, finally free from the weight of Iseul’s lies—and from the ties that once held you back.

As you step outside, the cool breeze hits your face, carrying away the remnants of the day’s tension. For the first time in what feels like forever, you feel light—unburdened by secrets, unchained from betrayal. There’s an ache in your chest where the closeness with your friends used to be, but somehow, that emptiness feels freeing. The road ahead is uncertain, but it’s yours alone, and right now, that’s all you need. With a final glance back, you let go of everything holding you down and walk forward into the quiet, comforting unknown.

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[rosesareredrosa]

One More Chance

Mattheo Riddle x fem reader

Summary: Y/n stumbles upon Mattheo while going to the library after they broke up but Mattheo wants One More Chance in their relationship

w/c: 832

The dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts were quiet, the echo of footsteps bouncing off the ancient stone walls as Y/N made her way towards the library. The evening was drawing in, the golden light from the setting sun filtering through the narrow windows and casting long shadows. She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, more out of habit than need—after all, it was late autumn, and the chill had only just started to creep in.

As she turned the corner, she nearly bumped into someone. Y/N took a step back, her breath catching when she recognized who it was.

"Mattheo," she greeted, her voice coming out steadier than she felt. She hadn't expected to run into him, not here, not now. Her pulse quickened, memories she had tried so hard to bury threatening to resurface.

Mattheo Riddle stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his robe, his dark eyes watching her intently. There was a glimmer of something—mischief, perhaps?—that danced behind his gaze, something that had always drawn her in. His tousled curls and easy smirk were as infuriatingly attractive as ever.

"Y/N," he replied, his voice smooth, carrying a hint of surprise that he didn't bother to mask. "Fancy running into you here."

She stiffened slightly, unwilling to let herself be swayed by the familiar charm in his tone. She had built walls around her heart since they had parted ways, and she wasn't about to let him chip away at them again.

"I was just heading to the library," she said coolly, sidestepping him. "Excuse me."

But Mattheo moved too, blocking her path. "In a hurry?"

Y/N sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "What do you want, Mattheo?"

He tilted his head, studying her as if trying to unravel a mystery. "I just wanted to talk."

"We have nothing to talk about," she retorted, keeping her tone brisk, despite the way her heart thudded in her chest.

"Is that so?" Mattheo mused, not moving an inch. "You don't still have feelings for me, do you?"

The question caught her off guard. Heat rose to her cheeks, but she forced herself to meet his gaze with a sharp glare. "Oh, why would I? We broke it off for a reason, didn't we?"

Mattheo's smirk faltered, replaced by a more serious expression. His eyes softened slightly, and for a moment, the bravado dropped. "We did. But it doesn't mean it was easy. Or that it didn't matter."

Y/N felt her resolve wavering, memories of late-night conversations, shared secrets, and stolen kisses flooding her mind. She had convinced herself that ending things was for the best, that they were too different, that he was too reckless and she too cautious. But the truth was that she had never really let go of him.

She shook her head, determined to keep her emotions in check. "It doesn't matter anymore, Mattheo. We made our choices."

He sighed, his posture relaxing as he leaned back against the wall. "Maybe. But I can't help but wonder…if we made the right ones."

Her heart clenched at his words, but she forced herself to stay firm. "You can't change the past."

"Maybe not," he conceded, "but the future? That's still up for grabs."

Y/N bit her lip, torn between the desire to walk away and the pull of what could be. The chemistry between them had always been undeniable, a spark that never quite fizzled out, even after they parted ways.

"Why are you saying this now?" she asked, her voice softer, almost vulnerable. "What's changed?"

Mattheo looked at her with a seriousness she hadn't seen before. "I realized that letting you go was a mistake. I've been thinking about it a lot, and I can't shake the feeling that we gave up too easily."

She stared at him, unsure of what to say. Part of her had hoped he would say something like this, while the other part was terrified of reopening old wounds. "Mattheo…"

He stepped closer, his voice low, earnest. "I'm not asking for everything to go back to the way it was. But I am asking for a second chance. To see if we can figure this out, together."

Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as she looked up into his eyes. She saw sincerity there, a glimmer of the boy she had fallen for mixed with the man he was becoming. The future was uncertain, but as she stood there, she realized that maybe, just maybe, it was worth taking the risk.

"Alright," she whispered, barely believing her own words. "One more chance."

A slow, genuine smile spread across Mattheo's face, one that made her heart skip a beat. "One more chance," he echoed, his voice filled with promise.

And as they stood there, in the quiet corridor of Hogwarts, it felt like the beginning of something new—something that had been left unfinished, but was now ready to be written.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Sephiroth falling asleep in the chopper is adorable, but it makes me wonder: where else does he fall asleep randomly? Or does he have enough selfcontrol to avoid dozing off anywhere?

It depends on how serious the situation is. High stress environment? He's alert and focused. Boring meeting that should've been an email which Genesis has interrupted six times already to ask Lazard to re-explain? He's not above using his hair as an eye mask. Anyway,

Random Places Sephiroth Has Fallen Asleep, A List:

• In the elevator at 4 in the morning, exhausted after pulling three consecutive all-nighters. "I'll just close my eyes for two seconds" turned into rock, paper, scissors between Angeal and Genesis over who would have to wake him up, startle him, and take the involuntary slap to the face.

• In the corner of the briefing room using Genesis' balled-up coat as a pillow.

• A mandatory lecture at HQ, where Hojo was the speaker and he was wedged between Angeal and Genesis. He woke up briefly. made direct eye contact with Hojo, and then proceeded to snuggle up on Angeal's shoulder, use Genesis' arm as a cuddle item, and falling back asleep.

• Angeal.

• In the men's room at SOLDIER when Genesis was taking too long. Lazard walked in and saw Genesis manically fixing his hair. Then he noticed Sephiroth sleeping, cross-legged, arms crossed underneath the hand dryer for warmth. He then checked their pockets for drugs.

• On the couch in Genesis' apartment right before a night out, cuddling a bottle of liquor Genesis asked him to hold. Genesis then took a photo of this to use as blackmail.

• Sprawled out in the sunlight filtering through the windows in the lounge. On the floor. Zack tripped over him.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Back home p.12

Hii guyss, here's part 12 of the story. If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist and if you missed part 11, here it is.

Your life in Monaco was idyllic, growing up alongside the Leclercs. But everything changes when you're forced to leave. Now, returning to the place you once called home, you're confronted with a dilemma: not one, but two Leclerc brothers vying for your heart. Old bonds and unresolved emotions collide-what will you do when the past and present merge in unexpected ways?

The morning sun filters softly through the curtains, and as you stir awake, you realize you’re wrapped in Charles’s arms, his chest rising and falling against your back. Strangely, there’s no awkwardness; it feels natural, as if you both belong there. You’re enveloped in his warmth, and for a quiet moment, you simply savor the feeling. Slowly, you turn, and he stirs awake, blinking a few times before his lips curve into a soft smile.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice a little raspy from sleep.

“Morning,” you whisper back, a smile creeping onto your face.

A few minutes later, you’re both dressed and ready, and Charles guides you out of the hotel and into the bustling paddock. Cameras flash, but he keeps you close, expertly shielding you from the media frenzy. You’ve barely taken in the sights when you arrive at Ferrari’s motorhome, and Charles turns to face you with a grin, pulling his signature cap from his bag. He tugs it down on your head gently, giving you an amused look.

“You’ll need this. I expect to hear your cheers even from the car,” he teases, adjusting the cap on your head.

You laugh, giving him a playful nudge. “Oh, I’ll make sure you hear me, Leclerc.”

He grins, and in a moment of spontaneous warmth, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a hug. “I’m really glad you’re here,” he says, his voice low and sincere as he looks into your eyes. The world around you fades, and for a moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.

Just then, your phone starts vibrating persistently in your pocket, breaking the trance. You glance at the screen and see Arthur’s name flashing.

“Oh,” you say, breaking into a slightly nervous smile. “It’s Arthur.”

Charles’s expression changes subtly, but he masks it with a quick smile. He releases you, stepping back, though his hand lingers on yours for just a second longer. “Better take it,” he says, his voice warm but with a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.

As you answer the call, Arthur’s familiar voice fills your ear. "Hey, just wanted to check in. How’s it going?”

You glance back at Charles, who’s already striding confidently towards the Ferrari garage, giving you one last wave. “It’s great,” you say, “just… great.” You hold the phone close as you watch Charles disappear into the Ferrari garage, his last glance making your heart beat faster.

“Arthur?” you say, shifting to a quieter spot. “So far, everything’s been amazing. Charles has been… well, honestly, he’s been incredible.” You can practically feel Arthur’s silence on the other end of the line, but you continue, biting your lip nervously. “Actually, I have something to tell you… but you have to promise you’ll keep it between us, okay?”

Arthur’s voice comes through, trying to sound casual. “Of course, anything for you. What is it?”

You take a deep breath, feeling your cheeks warm. “I think… I think I might have feelings for Charles. I don’t know; it’s just, this whole trip has been—”

Arthur cuts in, his voice strained but controlled. “Y/N, you know Charles. He’s… well, he’s been talking to some girls on Instagram lately. Pretty regularly, actually.” His tone is casual, almost as if he’s mentioning it offhand, but each word hurts you more. “I mean, I just thought you should know. Might be better if you didn’t get your hopes up.”

The air around you seems to shift, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to think. “Oh… really?” you say softly, your chest tightening.

Arthur lets out a faint sigh, though his hand clenches around the phone on his end. “Yeah. Look, I’m just looking out for you. I don’t want you getting hurt. You’re important to me, Y/N.” He pauses, his voice softening. “Maybe… maybe it’s best if you don’t put too much stock in Charles.”

Your head feels a little heavier with the news, but Arthur’s voice sounds so sincere, like he truly cares. “Thanks, Arthur. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“Always,” he replies, his voice low and possessive, though you don’t quite catch it. “Just remember, I’m here for you—whenever you need me.” You finish your conversation with Arthur, his words lingering in your mind like a shadow over the excitement you’d been feeling. He said he was just looking out for you, and you know he cares, but somehow, his words have left a weight in your chest.

“Y/N?” Charles’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, and you look up to find him watching you with a gentle smile. “I’m heading out for some tests now. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

You nod, giving him a small smile, but it’s not as bright as before. Charles notices immediately, his expression shifting. “Hey… you okay?”

“Yeah,” you reply, trying to sound upbeat, but there’s a distance in your tone that surprises even you. “I’m just… good luck out there.” You force another smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Charles looks at you, frowning slightly, like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong. He steps a little closer, placing a hand on your arm. “Are you sure? You seem… different.”

You glance down, feeling suddenly unsure if you should share what Arthur said. But you don’t want to burden him before his tests, so you nod quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Go on—focus on your practice. I’ll be cheering from here.” You manage a soft laugh, trying to ease his worry.

His eyes linger on you for a moment, as if he’s searching for answers, but then he nods slowly. “Alright, if you say so.” He gives you a reassuring squeeze on the arm before stepping back. “Just know, I’m here if you need me, okay?”

You give him a nod, watching as he walks off with a hint of reluctance, casting one more glance over his shoulder before disappearing down the paddock.

Tag list: @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @janeh22, @victoriaholland, @abq654, @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @anaferreira-4, @larastark3107, @itgirlofthecenturysposts, @boherahpsody, @iamkaku, @jz12, @boherahpsody, @urfavouritef1girly, @meglouise00, @charlesgirl16

[pandemic-info]

A Review of Filtration Performance of Protective Masks - PMC

With H5N1 reported in at least two* humans in the past month, we need to talk about airborne transmission and how masks work. Again.

(*edit: https://www.cidrap.umn.edu/avian-influenza-bird-flu/oregon-reports-first-h5-case-farm-worker-california-reports-5-more)

Is flu airborne?

Generally yes. Even if it is not the most efficient mode of transmission for every virus.

Citations:

https://www.nih.gov/news-events/nih-research-matters/testing-transmission-infection-h5n1-cows

https://newsinhealth.nih.gov/2023/12/clearing-air

"...recently measured how often virus is exhaled by people with the flu. He found that about 80% exhaled some influenza, the virus that causes flu. Most of the virus was found in the tiny airborne aerosols. People didn’t have to cough or sneeze to expel these viruses into the air. The flu virus was detectable in the air after normal breathing and talking."

Do N95 masks protect against viruses smaller than 300 nm (.3 microns)?

Also yes, because masks do NOT work like a sieve:

N95s employ electrostatic filtering to keep viruses stuck to the mask rather than passing through.

Brownian motion (particles moving through fluids / air randomly) also helps them get stuck to the surface.

And this is why you don't want to be touching the front of your mask, nor storing it improperly. For example, if you take it off and put it in your pocket, and then your hand later goes in that same pocket, then wipes your nose...

See also:

For the time being it should be relatively easy to avoid other modes of transmission since we have protective measures for public health — like pasteurization. But certain individuals who entertain "alternative facts" directly state that they want to dismantle such protections in favor of Appeal to Nature fallacy (e.g. "raw milk is best"), and they are currently being picked to lead government agencies.

[urfavoritewriter]

Werewolf Appetite

A commission for an anonymous user over on Discord, a long read (~15,000 words) so grab some snacks.

Content: M/M Vore, Oral Vore, Digestion, Multiple Prey, Unwilling Prey, Cruel Pred, Sentient Fat, Permanent Fat, Teen Wolf, Incest, Forced Body Worship

The thick canopy of the forest cast dappled shadows on the forest floor as Tyler, a seasoned hunter with a reputation for ruthlessness, stalked through the undergrowth. His movements were calculated and deliberate, each step cautious yet purposeful. He wore dark camouflage cargo pants that were stained with dirt and grime from countless hours spent in the wilderness. His boots, heavy and sturdy, crunched softly on the fallen leaves beneath him as he moved. A black tactical vest adorned with an array of pockets and pouches hugged his muscular frame, the weight of his arsenal distributed evenly across his torso.

Tyler's face was set in a grim mask of resolution, sweat beading on his brow despite the coolness of the forest. His eyes, sharp and alert, scanned the surrounding foliage for any sign of movement. A thick layer of stubble lined his jaw, evidence of days spent in pursuit of his elusive quarry. Strapped across his back was a sleek crossbow, its polished wood gleaming faintly in the dim light filtering through the trees, a common weapon of choice for werewolf hunters.

Suddenly, a rustle in the underbrush caught Tyler's attention, and he whipped around, his finger tightening on the trigger of his rifle. "I know you're out there, you son of a bitch!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the silent forest. "Show yourself, or I'm fucking shooting you where you stand!"

His heart pounded in his chest as he waited, every muscle in his body tensed and ready for action. The tension in the air was palpable, a silent testament to the deadly game of cat and mouse that was about to unfold. And then, without warning, a figure emerged from the shadows, moving with a speed and grace that belied its size.

It was Peter Hale, his lithe form darting between the trees with the agility of a wild animal. His clothes were simple yet elegant, a fitted henley shirt clinging to his muscular frame and a pair of well-worn jeans hugging his powerful thighs. His hair was tousled and unkempt, the sunlight catching the subtle highlights in its dark strands. And in his eyes burned a fierce intensity, a primal hunger that sent shivers down Tyler's spine.

But before Tyler could react, Peter was upon him, his movements a blur of motion as he deftly dodged the bullets Tyler fired in rapid succession. Each shot rang out like thunder in the stillness of the forest, but Peter moved with a preternatural speed and agility that seemed almost impossible to comprehend. He hoofed between the trees with the grace of a predator on the hunt, his movements fluid and effortless as he closed the distance between them.

Despite his best efforts, Tyler's shots went wide, each bullet finding nothing but empty air as Peter continued to evade his every move. Panic surged through Tyler's veins as he realized that he was no match for the supernatural creature before him. He was just a man, armed with nothing but a gun and his wits, while Peter was something else entirely—a being of raw power and primal instinct, driven by a hunger that Tyler could scarcely comprehend. And as Peter closed in for the kill, Tyler knew that he was truly and utterly fucked.

“We hunt those who hunt us,” Tyler huffed, out of breath as he grabbed his crossbow now that his gun was out of ammo. “We hunt those who hunt us,” He repeated, almost as if he was reassuring himself and reminding himself of all the hunter training he’s successfully gotten through.

As Tyler fumbled with his crossbow, his hands shaking with a mixture of fear and adrenaline, he felt a sudden weight slam into him from behind. With a cry of surprise, he stumbled forward, the crossbow slipping from his grasp and clattering to the forest floor. Before he could react, a pair of strong arms wrapped around his torso, pulling him off balance and sending them both crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Gasping for breath, Tyler struggled against his unseen assailant, his heart pounding in his chest like a jackhammer. He could feel the hot breath of his attacker on the back of his neck, the scent of earth and pine filling his nostrils as he fought to break free. But whoever—or whatever—it was, they were strong, far stronger than Tyler had ever imagined possible.

"Get off me, you bastard!" Tyler spat, his voice laced with fear and defiance. But Peter only laughed, a low, menacing sound that sent shivers down Tyler's spine.

"You think you can stop me, little hunter?" Peter growled, his grip tightening around Tyler's throat. "Not so tough without your neat little weapons, eh?"

Tyler struggled to speak, his words choked off by Peter's vice-like grip. He clawed at the ground beneath him, desperately searching for something—anything—that he could use to defend himself. But it was no use. Peter was too strong, too fast, too...inhuman.

As Tyler's vision began to swim with black spots, he knew that he was fighting a losing battle. He could feel the strength draining from his limbs, his body growing weak and sluggish as Peter's hold tightened around him.

As Tyler's struggles began to weaken, Peter's grip on him shifted. Instead of tightening further, it loosened slightly, and Tyler felt a strange sensation wash over him. It was like a wave of hunger, raw and primal, crashing over him with such intensity that it stole his breath away.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Peter considered ending Tyler's life then and there, the thought of his blood staining the forest floor sending a thrill of excitement coursing through him. But as he looked down at the helpless hunter beneath him, something else stirred within him; Although his primary goal was to end the lives of anyone involved in the Hale House fire, his predatory werewolf instincts have taken over, irresistibly so.

With a low, guttural growl, Peter leaned down, his lips brushing against the curve of Tyler's neck as he inhaled the heady scent of his fear. The hunger clawed at him from the inside, demanding to be sated, and Peter found himself unable to resist its call. Without another thought, he pressed his lips to Tyler's skin, his tongue flicking out to taste the salty tang of sweat and adrenaline.

Tyler gasped at the sensation, his body tensing beneath Peter's touch as a shiver of adrenaline-filled pleasure through him. He could feel the heat of Peter's mouth against his skin, the rough scrape of his teeth as they grazed his flesh, and a shudder of fear.

As Peter continued to lick and bite at Tyler's neck, his hunger grew more intense, his senses sharpening with each passing moment. His eyes burned with an otherworldly light, their color shifting from deep brown to a piercing shade of blue as his werewolf instincts took hold. His sideburns lengthened, his muscles rippling with newfound strength as he hovered over his prey, his breath hot and heavy against Tyler's skin.

With a low, feral growl, Peter leaned in closer, his lips brushing against Tyler's ear as he whispered words that sent a shiver of dread down Tyler's spine.

"You taste...delicious," Peter murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "I think I'll have you for dinner."

Tyler's eyes widened in horror as he realized what Peter was about to do, but before he could utter a single word of protest, Peter's mouth descended upon him.

As Peter's mouth closed over Tyler's head, he could feel the hunter's hair brushing against his tongue, the salty tang of his sweat mingling with the metallic taste of blood as Peter's teeth grazed against his skin. With a low, guttural growl, Peter swallowed hard, the muscles of his throat contracting as Tyler's head disappeared down his gullet in a single, ravenous gulp.

"What the fuck!" Tyler's muffled voice echoed from deep within Peter's throat, his protests cut off as Peter's esophagus closed around him, sealing him inside the darkness. But despite his frantic struggles, there was no escape for Tyler now, no hope of salvation as he felt himself being pulled inexorably downward into the depths of Peter's belly.

Next came Tyler's shoulders, his clothes tearing and ripping as Peter's jaws stretched impossibly wide to accommodate his prey. With each swallow, Tyler could feel himself being compressed, the pressure mounting as he was forced further and further down into the pit of Peter's stomach. He thrashed and struggled, his fists pounding futilely against the walls of flesh that surrounded him, but it was no use—Peter's grip was too strong, his hunger too overwhelming to be denied.

As Tyler's abdomen disappeared into the darkness, he could feel the acidic burn of Peter's stomach acids beginning to seep into his wounds, the pain shooting through him like a bolt of lightning. He screamed and cursed, his words becoming increasingly muffled as he was swallowed deeper into the abyss, his body contorting and twisting as it was crushed and compressed by the sheer force of Peter's appetite.

As Tyler's thighs disappeared into the darkness of Peter's throat, he let out one final, desperate cry for help, his voice barely a whisper as it was drowned out by the roar of Peter's digestive system. And then, with one final gulp, Tyler's legs vanished from sight, consumed by the darkness within.

For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the sound of Peter's satisfied burp as he settled back on his haunches, his belly swollen and distended from his recent meal. And as he rubbed his hand over his full stomach, feeling the faint movements of Tyler's struggling form within, a satisfied smile curled his lips.

"Delicious," Peter murmured to himself, his voice low and contented. "Absolutely delicious."

Under the cover of darkness, Peter sat beneath the sheltering branches of a tall oak tree, the hunter's crossbow clutched in one hand as he idly played with it. With his other hand, he rubbed his distended belly, feeling the weight of his recent meal pressing against his palm.

As he leaned back against the rough bark of the tree, Peter let out a satisfied burp, the taste of the hunter's flesh still lingering on his tongue. He smirked to himself, realizing just how delicious humans truly were, their succulent flesh providing a tantalizing feast for his insatiable hunger.

Turning his gaze towards the night sky, Peter chuckled softly to himself, his voice carrying on the cool breeze. "Looks like you failed your mission," he taunted, his tone mocking. "Guess that means lots of people are going to end up just like you—swallowed up and digested alive."

As the nights passed in Beacon Hills, California, a sense of unease settled over the small town. Men, one after another, began to disappear without a trace, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions and fearful whispers among the remaining residents.

Families fretted as their loved ones failed to return home, their absence a glaring absence in the close-knit community. Rumors swirled through the streets, whispered conversations speculating about the mysterious disappearances and the dark shadows lurking in the shadows.

Some claimed it was the work of a deranged serial killer, while others whispered of supernatural forces at play. But no matter the speculation, one thing remained certain: people were vanishing into thin air, leaving no clue as to their whereabouts; Only leaving behind a tangible reminder on Peter’s growing belly as he digested more and more.

"Come on, come on... Shit!" Stiles muttered under his breath as he crouched in front of the door to Peter Hale's penthouse, the thin metal of the hex wrench feeling awkward and unfamiliar in his hand. He glanced around nervously, making sure no one was watching him attempt to pick the lock. It wasn't exactly the most legal activity, but Stiles was desperate for answers.

Lately, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about Peter Hale. It wasn't just the way the man had been putting on a bit of weight around his midsection, though that certainly hadn't gone unnoticed by Stiles. It was also the sudden string of disappearances in Beacon Hills, particularly among young men. Stiles had a knack for piecing together clues, and something about Peter's behavior just didn't sit right with him.

Focusing his attention back on the lock, Stiles cursed softly as the hex wrench slipped again. He knew he was taking a risk by breaking into Peter's penthouse, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was onto something. If he could just find some evidence to connect Peter to the disappearances, maybe he could stop whatever was happening before it was too late.

“Fuck, how difficult is it to get into one old man’s house?” With a determined sigh, Stiles refocused his efforts, his fingers working deftly to maneuver the wrench into the lock. It was slow going, each movement careful and deliberate as he tried to coax the tumblers into place. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he concentrated, the tension in his muscles making his movements slightly shaky.

After what felt like an eternity, Stiles felt a satisfying click beneath his fingers. With a triumphant grin, he twisted the wrench, and to his surprise, the lock gave way with a soft snick. Stiles froze for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest as he listened for any signs that he had been caught.

When no alarms sounded and no footsteps approached, Stiles let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. With a quick glance around to make sure the coast was clear, he pushed open the door and slipped inside Peter's penthouse, his heart racing with excitement and anticipation. He was finally going to get some answers.

As Stiles cautiously made his way into Peter Hale's penthouse, he was immediately struck by the decor. The space was adorned with sleek mid-century furniture, each piece carefully selected to create an atmosphere of sophistication and elegance. It was a stark contrast to the chaos that swirled in Stiles' mind as he took in his surroundings.

Navigating through the living room, Stiles couldn't help but notice the meticulous layout of the space. The clean lines of the furniture and the strategically placed accent pieces gave the impression of a well-organized and thoughtfully curated home. But as he moved further into the penthouse, Stiles began to notice something unsettling.

Scattered throughout the rooms were mementos, seemingly random items that appeared out of place among the carefully curated decor. A baseball cap hung on a coat rack in the foyer, a pair of sunglasses sat abandoned on a side table in the living room, and a leather wallet lay forgotten on the kitchen counter. Each item seemed innocuous enough on its own, but as Stiles pieced together the puzzle, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.

These were the belongings of Peter's victims, the men who had disappeared without a trace from Beacon Hills. Stiles felt a shiver run down his spine as he realized the significance of what he was seeing. These were not just random items left behind by careless guests; they were mementos, trophies collected by a predator.

As he moved from room to room, Stiles couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled over him like a heavy cloak. Each item he encountered served as a chilling reminder of the danger that lurked in the shadows of Beacon Hills. And as he paused to take in the scene before him, a sense of dread washed over him like a tidal wave.

"What the hell..." Stiles murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he surveyed the room. The realization of what he was seeing hit him like a ton of bricks, and he couldn't help but feel a sense of disbelief. How could Peter be capable of something so monstrous? It was a question that lingered in the air, unanswered and ominous.

With a heavy heart, Stiles tore his gaze away from the scene before him and pressed on, his mind racing with questions and fears. He knew he had to find answers, no matter the cost. But as he ventured further into Peter's penthouse, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking straight into the jaws of the beast.

As Stiles hurriedly made his way toward the exit, his heart pounding in his chest, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gripped him like a vice. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind racing with questions and fears. How could he have been so blind to the danger that lurked in the shadows of Beacon Hills?

Just as he reached for the doorknob, a voice cut through the silence, freezing him in his tracks. "Leaving so soon, Stiles?" The voice was smooth and taunting, sending a shiver down Stiles' spine.

Stiles turned slowly, his eyes widening in horror as Peter Hale emerged from the shadows, his presence looming like a dark cloud. "Peter," Stiles stammered, his voice trembling with fear. "I-I was just..."

Peter's lips curled into a predatory smirk as he closed the distance between them in a matter of seconds. Before Stiles could react, he found himself pinned against the wall, Peter's bulging belly pressing against him with a force that left him gasping for air.

"Mind your business, Stiles," Peter purred, his voice dripping with malice. "You've done an impressive job of deducing who's behind the disappearances. But curiosity killed the cat, as they say."

Stiles swallowed hard, his anxiety reaching a fever pitch as Peter's words sent a chill down his spine. "Well, I take after my pops," Stiles retorted, his voice laced with sarcasm despite his fear. "He's in law enforcement."

Peter raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "Sarcastic, even at a time like this?" he mused, his tone mocking.

Stiles shrugged anxiously, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. "It's all I got, man," he replied, his voice trembling with uncertainty. "Pale skin and a little bit of sarcasm."

As the weight of Peter's gaze bore down on him, Stiles couldn't help but feel a sense of dread settle over him like a heavy cloak. Whatever happened next, he knew one thing for certain: he was in way over his head.

Peter's smirk widened into a sinister grin as he leaned in close, his eyes sufficed with malice. "You know, Stiles," he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement, "I think I'll make an exception for you. I'll take my sweet time digesting you, longer than any of the others. After all, you've been such an entertaining little detective, and it’ll be rude not to give pack members special treatment."

“Y… You what?” Stiles' eyes widened in horror at the realization of what Peter was suggesting. He struggled against the grip of Peter's belly, his heart pounding in his chest. Stiles' mind raced as he frantically searched for a way out of his predicament. How could he have been so foolish to think he could outsmart Peter? The truth was staring him right in the face, and now he was paying the price for his curiosity.

Peter's smirk only widened as he saw the realization dawn in Stiles' eyes. "Ah, I see it now," he taunted, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "You didn't figure out as much as you thought, did you, Stiles? But don't worry, you'll get to experience it firsthand."

"No, no, you can't!" he protested, his voice trembling with fear. "You-you can't just...swallow me whole like that!"

Peter chuckled darkly, the sound sending a chill down Stiles' spine. "Oh, but I can, Stiles," he replied, his tone laced with malice. "And I will. Consider it a...reward for your persistence."

Stiles felt a cold chill run down his spine as the full weight of Peter's words settled over him. He was trapped, at the mercy of a ruthless predator who had no qualms about devouring him whole.

Peter chuckled darkly as he observed Stiles' futile struggles, his enhanced werewolf strength making it effortless to overpower the younger man. With a swift motion, he grabbed Stiles' legs and forced them upward, beginning the process of swallowing him feet-first.

Stiles thrashed and kicked, his fists flailing wildly as he shouted defiantly, "You won't fucking eat me, you hear me? I won't let you!" His voice echoed off the walls of the room, filled with a raw mixture of fear and anger.

But Peter paid little heed to Stiles' protests, his focus solely on the task at hand. With each gulp, he felt Stiles' body slide further down his throat, the sensation both exhilarating and satisfying. He ripped open Stiles' pants, revealing his underwear, and pulled them down to expose his manhood, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

Stiles continued to fight, his struggles growing weaker as he realized the futility of his efforts. "You fucking bastard!" he spat, his voice choked with emotion. "I won't let you do this to me!"

But his words fell on deaf ears as Peter continued to swallow him down, relishing in the feeling of power and control. Stiles' protests grew more muffled with each passing moment, until finally, with one last gulp, he disappeared entirely into Peter's gullet.

Peter smirked triumphantly as he rubbed his distended belly, feeling Stiles' struggles growing weaker with each passing moment. He had claimed another victim, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him.

Peter paused, relishing in the sensation of Stiles squirming helplessly within his belly. He could feel the young man's struggles growing weaker with each passing moment, his movements becoming more frantic as he realized the inevitability of his fate.

But instead of continuing to swallow him whole, Peter decided to have a bit of fun. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he focused his attention on Stiles' exposed manhood, stroking and teasing it with a wicked grin as his mouth navigated around his balls and hard shaft.

Stiles gasped in surprise, his eyes widening in disbelief as he felt Peter's touch. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, his voice tinged with a mixture of embarrassment and desperation.

Peter merely chuckled darkly in response, his fingers dancing lightly over Stiles' sensitive flesh. "Just enjoying the view, Stiles," he replied casually, his tone dripping with amusement. "After all, it's not every day I get to play with a meal as tasty as you."

Stiles gritted his teeth in frustration, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he struggled against the overwhelming sensation of pleasure coursing through his body. "Stop it," he pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please, just let me go."

But Peter paid no heed to Stiles' protests, his touch paired with the licking of his tongue becoming more insistent as he continued to tease and stroke. Stiles' resistance began to crumble under the onslaught of sensation, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he felt himself growing more and more aroused.

And then, with one final, desperate cry, Stiles succumbed to the overwhelming pleasure, his body trembling as he released his load under Peter's skilled touch. He collapsed against the wall, his muscles trembling with exhaustion as he tried to catch his breath.

Peter smirked triumphantly, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he watched Stiles' reaction. "Fucking bitch, enjoyed that didn’t you?" he remarked casually, his tone filled with amusement.

Peter's laughter echoed through the room as he continued to swallow Stiles down, his belly expanding with each gulp until it protruded out like a rounded bulge. With a satisfied smirk, he reached out and cupped Stiles' face in his hand, holding him in place as he leaned in closer, his mouth gaping wide open.

Stiles squirmed and protested, his muffled cries falling on deaf ears as Peter positioned him directly in front of the mirror. With a wicked grin, Peter met Stiles' gaze in the reflection, his eyes glinting with amusement as he slowly lowered his head into his waiting mouth.

Stiles watched in horror as his head disappeared past Peter's lips, the sensation of being swallowed whole overwhelming his senses. He struggled against the tight confines of Peter's throat, his frantic movements only serving to hasten his descent into the depths of the werewolf's belly.

With a final, satisfied gulp, Peter swallowed the last of Stiles down, his throat convulsing around the struggling figure as he disappeared from sight. He leaned back against the wall, his hand resting lightly on his distended belly as he let out a contented burp.

"Fucking delicious," Peter remarked with a smirk, his gaze lingering on his reflection in the mirror. "You're the best I've had yet, Stiles. Shame you won't be around to enjoy it."

Peter chuckled to himself as he stood before the mirror, his hands moving to his distended belly. With a playful smirk, he began to rub and knead the bulging mass, reveling in the sensation of Stiles' struggling form trapped within.

"You really outdid yourself this time, Stiles," Peter mused, his fingers tracing lazy circles over his taut skin. "I'll have to remember to thank you properly for that little release."

As he continued to play with his belly, Peter's gaze drifted to the torn shreds of fabric that had once been Stiles' underwear. With a wicked grin, he plucked them up from the floor and held them up to the light, examining them with amusement.

"These will make a perfect addition to my collection," Peter remarked, his tone filled with dark amusement. "A little memento of our time together, wouldn't you say?"

With a casual shrug, Peter tossed the torn underwear aside, his attention returning to his belly. He ran his fingers along the curve of his navel, teasingly tracing the outline as he thought about the other mementos he had collected over the years.

"Perhaps I'll keep them with the rest," Peter mused, his voice dripping with malice. "A reminder of all the delicious meals I've enjoyed."

Peter stood before the mirror, admiring his reflection with a smirk. The image staring back at him was that of a powerful predator, his chest bouncy and his stomach adorned with the bulging presence of Stiles, a silent testament to his latest subjugation.

"Damn," Peter muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "I look good."

Peter smirked to himself as he made his way out of his penthouse, not bothering to put on a shirt despite the way his distended belly bulged out in the shape of Stiles' trapped form. He relished in the feeling of the cool air against his skin as he stepped out onto the bustling streets of Beacon Hills.

As he strolled down the sidewalk, Peter couldn't help but notice the way people's eyes lingered on his bare torso, some with curiosity, others with outright shock. But Peter paid them no mind, instead reveling in the attention as he made his way toward the local grocery store.

With each step, Peter's mind wandered to the errands he needed to run, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he thought about the groceries he planned to purchase. He imagined Stiles squirming helplessly in his belly as he loaded up his cart with food, teasing the boy about how each item would soon join him in his digestive tract.

Entering the grocery store, Peter was greeted by the familiar sights and sounds of the bustling aisles, the smell of fresh produce and baked goods wafting through the air. He wasted no time in making his way through the store, his bare chest drawing stares from other shoppers as he moved with purpose.

A group of teenagers whispered amongst themselves as Peter passed by, their eyes darting nervously between him and his distended abdomen. One of them, a bold young man with a cocky smirk, couldn't resist blurting out, "Dude, what's with the gut?"

Peter paused in his tracks, fixing the teenager with a cool, calculating gaze. "What are you looking at?" he replied, his voice laced with thinly veiled amusement. "Never seen a man with a healthy appetite before?"

The teenager blanched, taken aback by Peter's confident demeanor. "Uh, no, I mean... sorry, man," he stammered, quickly averting his gaze and shuffling away with his friends in tow.

Peter chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head in amusement. It wasn't the first time he'd been met with such reactions, and he doubted it would be the last. But he didn't mind the attention; if anything, it only served to bolster his sense of power and superiority.

As he browsed the aisles, Peter couldn't resist the urge to tease Stiles, imagining the boy's muffled protests as he tossed various items into his cart.  "Looks like you'll have some company soon, Stiles," he chuckled, running a hand over his distended abdomen. "I hope you don't mind sharing your new home with a few groceries." He grabbed a bag of apples, imagining how their crisp sweetness would lessen as he chewed it up, mixed it with his saliva, and swallowed it down, and chuckled to himself as he added them to his pile of groceries.

Moving on, Peter grabbed a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread, imagining the satisfying crunch they would make as they were crushed beneath his teeth. He tossed a few cans of soup and a box of cereal into his cart, relishing in the thought of the hearty meals they would provide as he digested his latest victim.

As he made his way to the checkout, Peter couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the thought of the delicious meal that awaited him at home. With a smirk, he paid for his groceries and made his way out of the store, his belly still bulging out proudly as he headed back to his penthouse.

As the days passed, Stiles found himself immersed in a surreal and nightmarish ordeal within the confines of Peter's digestive tract. Each day brought with it a new wave of sensations and experiences as his body slowly succumbed to the relentless onslaught of Peter's stomach acids.

On the first day, Stiles was greeted by a warm, tingling sensation as the acids began to break down his flesh. It started as a gentle caress, almost soothing in its intensity, but soon escalated into a burning sensation that spread throughout his entire body. He cried out in pain and frustration, his pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears as Peter's mocking laughter echoed in his ears.

"You're really putting up a fight, aren't you, Stiles?" Peter taunted, his voice reverberating through the cavernous expanse of his stomach. "You do know  you will never beat a werewolf’s physique, do you? You belong to me now, body and soul."

Stiles gritted his teeth in defiance, his anger boiling over at Peter's smug demeanor. "Screw you, Peter!" he spat, his voice laced with venom. "You can't keep me trapped in here forever. The others will find out what you've done, and they'll make you pay for it!"

Peter chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down Stiles' spine. "Oh, I highly doubt that, Stiles," he replied, his tone dripping with malice. "By the time anyone realizes you're missing, you'll be nothing more than a distant memory. Just another victim of the big bad wolf."

Despite his bravado, Stiles couldn't shake the gnawing sense of fear that threatened to consume him from within. With each passing day, he felt his strength waning, his body growing weaker as the acids continued their relentless assault. But even in the face of impending doom, he refused to go down without a fight.

As the second day dawned, Stiles found himself sinking deeper into the abyss of Peter's belly, his screams of agony muffled by the suffocating darkness that surrounded him. The pain was unbearable, a constant reminder of his dire predicament, but still he clung to the faint hope of survival.

"Please, Peter," he begged, his voice hoarse with desperation. "Let me go. I won't tell anyone what happened. Just please, let me out of here!"

Peter's response was a cruel laugh that sent chills down Stiles' spine. "Sorry, Stiles," he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "You’re too smart for your good."

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Stiles realized that his fate was sealed. Trapped within the confines of Peter's stomach, he could do nothing but await his inevitable demise.

Day by day, Stiles felt himself being slowly consumed by the relentless tide of Peter's stomach acids. Each passing moment brought with it a new wave of pain and torment, his body wracked with agony as his flesh melted away beneath the relentless onslaught.

But even in the face of unimaginable suffering, Stiles refused to surrender to despair. With every ounce of strength he possessed, he fought against the inevitable, clinging to the faint hope of survival even as it slipped further and further from his grasp.

"Damn you, Peter!" he screamed, his voice coarse with pain. "I won't let you win! I'll find a way out of here, no matter what it takes!"

But Peter's only response was a mocking laugh, the sound reverberating through the cavernous expanse of his stomach. "Keep telling yourself that, Stiles," he taunted.

Peter chuckled to himself as he stood before the mirror, his hands moving to his distended belly. With a playful smirk, he began to rub and knead the bulging mass, reveling in the sensation of Stiles' struggling form trapped within.

"You really outdid yourself this time, Stiles," Peter mused, his fingers tracing lazy circles over his taut skin. "I'll have to remember to thank you properly for that little release."

As he continued to play with his belly, Peter's gaze drifted to the torn shreds of fabric that had once been Stiles' underwear. With a wicked grin, he plucked them up from the floor and held them up to the light, examining them with amusement.

"These will make a perfect addition to my collection," Peter remarked, his tone filled with dark amusement. "A little memento of our time together, wouldn't you say?"

With a casual shrug, Peter tossed the torn underwear aside, his attention returning to his belly. He ran his fingers along the curve of his navel, teasingly tracing the outline as he thought about the other mementos he had collected over the years.

"Perhaps I'll keep them with the rest," Peter mused, his voice dripping with malice. "A reminder of all the delicious meals I've enjoyed."

Peter stood before the mirror, admiring his reflection with a smirk. The image staring back at him was that of a powerful predator, his chest bouncy and his stomach adorned with the bulging presence of Stiles, a silent testament to his latest subjugation.

"Damn," Peter muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. "I look good."

Peter smirked to himself as he made his way out of his penthouse, not bothering to put on a shirt despite the way his distended belly bulged out in the shape of Stiles' trapped form. He relished in the feeling of the cool air against his skin as he stepped out onto the bustling streets of Beacon Hills.

As he strolled down the sidewalk, Peter couldn't help but notice the way people's eyes lingered on his bare torso, some with curiosity, others with outright shock. But Peter paid them no mind, instead reveling in the attention as he made his way toward the local grocery store.

With each step, Peter's mind wandered to the errands he needed to run, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he thought about the groceries he planned to purchase. He imagined Stiles squirming helplessly in his belly as he loaded up his cart with food, teasing the boy about how each item would soon join him in his digestive tract.

Entering the grocery store, Peter was greeted by the familiar sights and sounds of the bustling aisles, the smell of fresh produce and baked goods wafting through the air. He wasted no time in making his way through the store, his bare chest drawing stares from other shoppers as he moved with purpose.

A group of teenagers whispered amongst themselves as Peter passed by, their eyes darting nervously between him and his distended abdomen. One of them, a bold young man with a cocky smirk, couldn't resist blurting out, "Dude, what's with the gut?"

Peter paused in his tracks, fixing the teenager with a cool, calculating gaze. "What are you looking at?" he replied, his voice laced with thinly veiled amusement. "Never seen a man with a healthy appetite before?"

The teenager blanched, taken aback by Peter's confident demeanor. "Uh, no, I mean... sorry, man," he stammered, quickly averting his gaze and shuffling away with his friends in tow.

Peter chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head in amusement. It wasn't the first time he'd been met with such reactions, and he doubted it would be the last. But he didn't mind the attention; if anything, it only served to bolster his sense of power and superiority.

As he browsed the aisles, Peter couldn't resist the urge to tease Stiles, imagining the boy's muffled protests as he tossed various items into his cart.  "Looks like you'll have some company soon, Stiles," he chuckled, running a hand over his distended abdomen. "I hope you don't mind sharing your new home with a few groceries." He grabbed a bag of apples, imagining how their crisp sweetness would lessen as he chewed it up, mixed it with his saliva, and swallowed it down, and chuckled to himself as he added them to his pile of groceries.

Moving on, Peter grabbed a carton of eggs and a loaf of bread, imagining the satisfying crunch they would make as they were crushed beneath his teeth. He tossed a few cans of soup and a box of cereal into his cart, relishing in the thought of the hearty meals they would provide as he digested his latest victim.

As he made his way to the checkout, Peter couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at the thought of the delicious meal that awaited him at home. With a smirk, he paid for his groceries and made his way out of the store, his belly still bulging out proudly as he headed back to his penthouse.

As the days passed, Stiles found himself immersed in a surreal and nightmarish ordeal within the confines of Peter's digestive tract. Each day brought with it a new wave of sensations and experiences as his body slowly succumbed to the relentless onslaught of Peter's stomach acids.

On the first day, Stiles was greeted by a warm, tingling sensation as the acids began to break down his flesh. It started as a gentle caress, almost soothing in its intensity, but soon escalated into a burning sensation that spread throughout his entire body. He cried out in pain and frustration, his pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears as Peter's mocking laughter echoed in his ears.

"You're really putting up a fight, aren't you, Stiles?" Peter taunted, his voice reverberating through the cavernous expanse of his stomach. "You do know  you will never beat a werewolf’s physique, do you? You belong to me now, body and soul."

Stiles gritted his teeth in defiance, his anger boiling over at Peter's smug demeanor. "Screw you, Peter!" he spat, his voice laced with venom. "You can't keep me trapped in here forever. The others will find out what you've done, and they'll make you pay for it!"

Peter chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down Stiles' spine. "Oh, I highly doubt that, Stiles," he replied, his tone dripping with malice. "By the time anyone realizes you're missing, you'll be nothing more than a distant memory. Just another victim of the big bad wolf."

Despite his bravado, Stiles couldn't shake the gnawing sense of fear that threatened to consume him from within. With each passing day, he felt his strength waning, his body growing weaker as the acids continued their relentless assault. But even in the face of impending doom, he refused to go down without a fight.

As the second day dawned, Stiles found himself sinking deeper into the abyss of Peter's belly, his screams of agony muffled by the suffocating darkness that surrounded him. The pain was unbearable, a constant reminder of his dire predicament, but still he clung to the faint hope of survival.

"Please, Peter," he begged, his voice hoarse with desperation. "Let me go. I won't tell anyone what happened. Just please, let me out of here!"

Peter's response was a cruel laugh that sent chills down Stiles' spine. "Sorry, Stiles," he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "You’re too smart for your good."

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Stiles realized that his fate was sealed. Trapped within the confines of Peter's stomach, he could do nothing but await his inevitable demise.

Day by day, Stiles felt himself being slowly consumed by the relentless tide of Peter's stomach acids. Each passing moment brought with it a new wave of pain and torment, his body wracked with agony as his flesh melted away beneath the relentless onslaught.

But even in the face of unimaginable suffering, Stiles refused to surrender to despair. With every ounce of strength he possessed, he fought against the inevitable, clinging to the faint hope of survival even as it slipped further and further from his grasp.

"Damn you, Peter!" he screamed, his voice coarse with pain. "I won't let you win! I'll find a way out of here, no matter what it takes!"

But Peter's only response was a mocking laugh, the sound reverberating through the cavernous expanse of his stomach. "Keep telling yourself that, Stiles," he taunted. He stood in front of the mirror in his penthouse, adjusting the collar of his shirt with a satisfied smirk. He glanced over at the corner of the room where Stiles’ underwear memento lay, torn and cum-soaked from his prior release.

"Looks like they've called a meeting to find you," Peter taunted, his voice dripping with amusement. "Funny how you'll most likely be dead by the end of it."

Stiles groaned weakly, his eyes fluttering open as he struggled against his restraints. "You're sick, Peter," he muttered hoarsely, his words barely audible.

Peter chuckled darkly, turning back to the mirror to straighten his tie. "Perhaps. But at least I'll be entertained while I wait for your demise."

With a final smirk at Stiles, Peter left the penthouse, and headed towards the designated meeting spot– Derek Hale & Noah Stillinski had called for an emergency meeting, as one of their members had suddenly disappeared without a trace.

As Peter sat in on the pack meeting with Derek and Noah, the tension in the room was palpable. Noah's usually calm demeanor was replaced by an air of frantic worry, his brow furrowed and hands clenched into tight fists. Derek, ever protective of his pack members, especially Stiles, was visibly agitated, his posture rigid as he leaned forward in his seat.

"So, any leads on where Stiles could be?" Noah's voice was strained, betraying his desperation as he addressed the group.

Derek shook his head, his jaw clenched tight. "Nothing yet. I've been trying to pick up his scent, but it's like he's vanished without a trace."

Noah let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. "This doesn't make any sense. Stiles wouldn't just disappear like this. He's not the type to run away."

Peter, leaning back in his seat with a smug grin, interjected, "Perhaps he's just off on one of his little adventures. You know how Stiles can be, always getting himself into trouble."

Derek shot Peter a glare, his eyes flashing with irritation. "This is serious, Peter. Stiles wouldn't just up and leave without telling anyone. Something's not right."

Noah nodded in agreement, his gaze hardening. "Exactly. Which is why we need to figure out what happened to him, and fast."

“What if he fell victim to the same disappearances that have been happening around Beacon Hills?” Peter said, “Maybe what got them, got him.” He added, feigning concern and intending it to be an indirect tease to the almost-fully-digested Stiles in his gut, having to hear them mutter about his fate when he’s only a few feet away from them.

“Don’t say that.” Noah said, not wanting to comprehend the possibility that he will never find his son again.

The group fell into a tense silence as they pondered their next move. Noah's mind was racing with worry for his son, while Derek's thoughts were consumed with concern and determination to find Stiles and bring him home safely.

Finally, Noah stood up from his seat, his expression grim. "I need to attend to my duties as Sheriff. Derek, I'm trusting you to lead the search for Stiles. Find my son, Derek. Bring him back to me. Please."

Derek nodded solemnly, his resolve hardening. "I will, Sheriff. I promise."

With that, Noah left the meeting, leaving Derek and Peter to plan their next steps in the search for Stiles. But as they began to discuss their strategy, Derek couldn't shake the feeling of dread that gnawed at him, a sinking suspicion that whatever had happened to Stiles was far more sinister than any of them could have imagined.

“You might be right, Peter.”

Peter watched as Derek's expression hardened, a flicker of vulnerability slipping through his stoic facade. He leaned forward, his curiosity piqued by Derek's sudden intensity.

"You think my suggestion is true, don't you?" Peter asked, his voice carefully neutral, though a glint of amusement danced in his eyes.

Derek hesitated, his gaze fixed on the table before him. "I didn't want to say anything in front of Noah, but... yes, I think you might be right," he admitted, his voice low and serious.

Peter raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "And why is that?"

Derek sighed heavily, his frustration evident. "Stiles... he told me he had a hunch about who was behind all this. He wanted to investigate further, but before he could..."

His voice trailed off, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air. Peter leaned back in his chair, his mind racing with possibilities.

"And he disappeared," Peter finished for him, a note of understanding in his voice. "Without ever knowing if his hunch was right."

Derek nodded grimly, his jaw clenched with determination. "I'm almost certain his hunch was right," he admitted, his voice tinged with regret. "And now... now he's gone."

Peter studied Derek's expression carefully, sensing the guilt and remorse that lingered beneath his steely exterior. He knew Derek blamed himself for Stiles' disappearance, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud.

"Well, we'll just have to find him, won't we?" Peter said, injecting a note of false optimism into his voice. "And when we do, we'll make sure whoever's responsible pays for what they've done."

Peter's confident facade faltered as a sudden wave of nausea swept over him, his stomach churning violently. He clutched at his abdomen, grimacing as a series of guttural gags and deep burps erupted from his throat, each one more forceful than the last. Saliva dribbled down his chin, mingling with the bile rising in his throat.

Derek watched in concern as Peter doubled over, his face contorted in discomfort. "Peter, are you okay?" he asked, his voice laced with worry.

Peter waved him off, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought to regain control of his rebellious stomach. "Fine," he managed to choke out between gags. "Just... a momentary... hiccup."

But the spasms only intensified, each one wracking his body with increasing ferocity. His vision blurred with tears as he struggled to contain the rising tide of sickness threatening to overwhelm him.

And then, with one final heave, Peter expelled a thick wad of saliva and bile, followed by a sudden burst of pressure from his throat. His eyes widened in shock as he felt something solid lodged in his esophagus, blocking his airway.

With a desperate groan, Peter reached up to his mouth, his fingers probing frantically at the obstruction. And then, with a sickening squelch, he felt it give way beneath his touch, sliding up his throat and into the open air.

Derek's eyes widened in horror as Peter withdrew a half-digested jacket from his mouth, its fabric stained and sodden with digestive juices. The sight of it made his stomach churn, bile rising in his own throat at the realization of what had just transpired.

Peter's face paled as he stared down at the jacket in his hands, a cold shiver coursing through his veins. He had never experienced anything like this before, never lost control of his own body in such a humiliating manner. But Derek didn't need an explanation. The truth was plain to see, written in the horrified expression on Peter's face and the undeniable evidence clutched in his trembling hands.

Stiles was gone, and he wasn't coming back.

"I..." he began, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the words to explain what had just happened. But he didn’t need to; 

Before Peter could utter a word, Derek was upon him, his fist connecting with brutal force against Peter's abdomen. The impact sent shockwaves rippling through Peter's body, knocking him off balance and sending him stumbling backward with a pained grunt. The force of the punch was enough to warrant another, abrupt burp that erupted from Peter’s mouth–

BuuUuurRrP!

–surprisingly just as loud as his previous one. Peter hadn’t anticipated how fast it happened: Derek's transformation was swift and violent, his fangs elongating into razor-sharp points and his eyes blazing a furious shade of crimson. The air crackled with the raw power of his Alpha aura as he surged forward, his movements fluid and predatory.

The force of Derek's blow was enough to drive the breath from Peter's lungs, leaving him gasping for air as he struggled to regain his footing. He looked up at Derek with wide eyes.

"Derek, I—" he began, but Derek cut him off with a fierce growl, his lips drawn back in a snarl of rage.

"Don't you dare try to deny it," Derek spat, his voice low and menacing. "You fucking ate him, didn't you? You swallowed him whole like some goddamn monster!"

Peter's heart pounded in his chest as he watched Derek advance, his gaze filled with a primal intensity that sent a chill down his spine– But it wasn’t out of fear, it was pounding out of the intense excitement that he gets to swallow Derek, too. He could feel the weight of Derek's accusation bearing down on him, the truth of it echoing in his mind like a relentless drumbeat.

But even as Derek loomed over him, his fists clenched in fury, Peter had to tease. “Didn’t think Stiles had it in him to be so loud,” He said, “Guess he wanted his final words to be heard.” He had consumed Stiles, yes, and he had burped up Stiles’ last effort at wanting to be seen.

"Save it," Derek snapped, his voice dripping with scorn. "I trusted you, Peter. We all did. And this is how you repay us? By eating one of our own?"

“You should be thankful” Peter replied, lifting up his top to show Derek his churning gut. Loud, fattier, squishable, and the most prominent change: A tattoo of Stiles's face around his naval, a permanent reminder of what he had done and a power symbol to brag about. “I’m one-for-two now, Stiles is still here. Just, different.”

“You fucking…” Derek growled, “…You fucking got his face tattooed?!”

“On the contrary,” He spoke, giving the place where Stiles’ face was imprinted a squish. “He got it tattooed, must’ve liked what happened enough in there to want to stay on it.” Subtly implying that this was simply a byproduct of the digestion.

“W-Wha–?!” Derek stuttered before being cut off by the predator.

“That punch you gave me earlier? Stiles felt it as much as I did. Can still faintly hear him in there.” He taunted, rubbing in the fact that beating Peter is indirectly beating his friend-turned-fat.

With a guttural roar, Derek lashed out again, his fist striking Peter's face with bone-crushing force. Peter was in agony, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought to keep from keeling over.

“Stop fucking with me!” The alpha shouted, jumping in for another punch– He wasn’t buying Peter’s shit, thinking what he said was either intended to rub it in or discourage him from beating the shit out of him.

Derek's fist sailed through the air with deadly intent, but Peter was already moving, his reflexes honed by years of survival instinct. He dodged Derek's punch with a swift sidestep, then retaliated with a powerful kick to Derek's abdomen.

The force of Peter's blow sent Derek staggering backward, his knees buckling beneath him as he struggled to remain upright. With a growl of frustration, Derek dropped to his knees, his hands clenching into fists as he glared up at Peter.

"Now now, you really want to hurt your boy this much?" Peter taunted, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Derek's anger flared, his instincts urging him to launch himself at Peter in a blind fury. But just as he was about to strike, a sudden wave of hesitation washed over him. Even if he didn’t believe Peter, what if he hurt Stiles in the process? What if it was real? The thought paralyzed him for a split second, just long enough for Peter to seize the opportunity.

With lightning speed, Peter swung his fist forward, his knuckles connecting with Derek's jaw with a sickening thud. Derek's head snapped back, pain exploding behind his eyes as he crumpled to the ground.

Before Derek could react, Peter was upon him, his weight bearing down on Derek's chest as he pinned him to the ground. Derek struggled beneath him, his muscles straining against the crushing pressure of Peter's bulk, his belly.

"You think you can stop me?" Peter taunted, his voice low and menacing. "You're nothing, Derek. Just a weak little Alpha who couldn't protect his own pack."

Derek's chest heaved with exertion as he strained against Peter's hold, but the weight pressing down on him was relentless. He could feel his strength waning, his limbs growing heavy with fatigue.

But just as he was about to succumb to the suffocating pressure, a surge of determination flooded through him. With a fierce roar, Derek summoned every ounce of his remaining strength and pushed against Peter with all his might.

For a moment, it seemed as though Peter might be overpowered, his grip faltering ever so slightly. But then, with a final burst of effort, he tightened his hold, his belly pressing down even harder on Derek's chest.

"You're going to– Uunngh… Pay for what you've done, Peter," Derek growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "I swear it."

Peter's taunts cut through the air like a knife, each word dripping with malice as he leaned in closer to Derek, his smirk widening into a cruel grin.

"You know, Stiles was still alive when you came in for that meeting," Peter sneered, relishing the anguish that flickered across Derek's face. "Who knows if he died from digestion mid-meeting as we obliviously discussed where he went during his final moments, unable to help as he died... Or if your punch was the one to finish him off?"

Derek's fists clenched at his sides, his jaw set in a tight line as he fought to hold back the wave of despair threatening to consume him. "Fuck you, Peter," he spat, his voice thick with emotion.

But Peter merely chuckled, the sound grating on Derek's nerves like sandpaper. "Oh, don't worry, Derek. You'll be joining your pack member soon enough," he taunted, his tone dripping with sinister promise. "The pack’ll reunite, as fat on my fucking belly."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence, sending a shiver down Derek's spine. He knew he had to find a way out, to break free from Peter's suffocating hold before it was too late. But as he struggled against the crushing weight pinning him down, he couldn't shake the sinking feeling that he might never escape from this nightmare.

With a cruel smirk, Peter leaned in closer to Derek, his eyes glinting with malicious intent as he spat on Derek's face, the spittle landing in a disgusting splatter. "You're going to make such a nice, fat addition to my belly," he taunted, his voice dripping with sadistic glee.

He continued to rub his distended belly against Derek's chest, the pressure making it difficult for Derek to breathe as he forced him to hear the sickening gurgles emanating from within. "Just imagine how much fatter you'll make me once I've digested you and Stiles together," Peter teased, his tone mocking.

Derek gritted his teeth, his fists clenched in impotent rage as he struggled against Peter's overwhelming strength. He knew he was no match for the werewolf in his current state, but he refused to give up without a fight.

Peter pushed his belly further against Derek’s chest and up on his face, forcing him to listen to the gurgles of digestion and feel the remaining weight of Stiles in his beer belly.

But before he could muster a response, Peter's tone shifted, his smirk widening into a predatory grin. "But not now," he mused, almost casually. "I think I'll save the best for last. Noah Stilinski seems like he'd be a delicious appetizer, don't you think?“ He said, ”Family first, right? Poor dad must be missing his son.“

And with that, Peter delivered a swift, powerful punch to Derek's jaw, the force of it knocking him unconscious in an instant. As darkness closed in around him, Derek couldn't help but wonder if he would ever see the light of day again.

Peter's muscles rippled beneath his taut skin as he effortlessly lifted Derek's unconscious form from the ground, his strength belying his lean frame. With a grunt of exertion, he hoisted Derek's limp body over his broad shoulder, his arms securely wrapped around his waist to prevent him from slipping.

With Derek's weight settled against him, Peter began the journey back to his penthouse, his steps purposeful and steady as he navigated the dimly lit streets of Beacon Hills. The cool night air brushed against his skin, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and earth, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within him.

As he approached the entrance to his building, Peter's pace quickened, a surge of anticipation coursing through him at the thought of what awaited them inside. With a flick of his wrist, he unlocked the door and stepped into the opulent foyer, the soft glow of the chandeliers casting eerie shadows across the marble floors.

Carefully, Peter carried Derek through the spacious penthouse, his footsteps echoing in the silence as he made his way to the makeshift holding area he had prepared in the basement. With a grunt of effort, he lowered Derek onto the sturdy metal cot, his muscles straining with the effort as he secured the restraints around Derek's wrists and ankles, ensuring that he wouldn't be able to escape.

Once Derek was securely bound, Peter stepped back, a satisfied smile curling his lips as he surveyed his handiwork. With Derek safely restrained, he could finally focus on his next target: Noah Stilinski.

"Now, off to Noah's workplace..." Peter murmured to himself, his voice low and menacing as he turned on his heel and made his way back upstairs.

The Beacon County Sheriff Station stood as a sturdy fortress against the encroaching darkness of the night. Its exterior was composed of weathered bricks, their surfaces marred by the passage of time and the elements. At the lower few meters of the building, the bricks transitioned into a different type of tile, arranged in a neat pattern that offered a subtle contrast to the rough texture of the bricks above.

A dusty, old sign adorned the top of the double-sided glass doors, its letters slightly faded from years of exposure to the elements. The white frames of the doors gleamed faintly under the dim glow of the street lamps that flanked the entrance. Two additional lamps, one on each side of the doorway, cast pools of light onto the cracked pavement below, their buzzing hum adding to the eerie ambiance of the night.

Peter approached the entrance with purposeful strides, his gaze fixed on the illuminated interior beyond the glass doors. Despite the late hour, the station was still abuzz with activity, the sound of ringing phones and hurried footsteps echoing through the empty streets. Most of the deputies had already ended their shifts and gone home for the night, leaving only a skeleton crew behind to maintain order in the quiet hours of the evening.

As Peter pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped into the station, he noted the tired expressions of the few deputies who remained already packing their things to leave, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion as they went about their duties, while most had already gone home far earlier, after their shift ended. The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows on the linoleum floor, illuminating the worn desks and filing cabinets that lined the walls.

At the far end of the room, Peter spotted Sheriff Noah Stilinski, in his office, hunched over a stack of paperwork, his brow furrowed in concentration. Despite the late hour, Noah seemed to be working overtime, his dedication to his duties evident in the way he tirelessly poured over the files spread out before him.

Peter's lips curled into a smirk as he made his way toward Noah's desk, his footsteps echoing loudly in the empty station. Tonight, he would pay a visit to the sheriff, and nothing would stand in his way.

As Peter approached Noah's desk, the sheriff looked up from his paperwork, a flicker of surprise crossing his features at the sight of the unexpected visitor. "Peter," Noah greeted, a note of relief in his voice. "What brings you here at this hour?"

Peter offered a sheepish smile as he leaned against the edge of Noah's desk. "Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not here with any groundbreaking leads," he admitted, his tone apologetic. "Just happened to be in the neighborhood, thought I'd drop by and see how things were going."

Noah nodded, understanding. "Well, it's always good to see a friendly face," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of exhaustion. "Especially on a night like tonight."

Peter raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering over Noah's fatigued expression. "You look tired, Sheriff," he observed, his tone laced with genuine concern.

Noah chuckled softly, a weary smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You could say that," he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's been a long day. But sometimes, being here helps take my mind off things, if only for a little while."

Peter nodded in understanding, his expression sympathetic. "I get that," he replied, his voice soft. "Sometimes, it's nice to have a distraction, even if it's just for a moment."

Noah offered a grateful smile in return, appreciating the sentiment. "Exactly," he agreed, his eyes meeting Peter's with a hint of camaraderie. "Besides, it's all part of the job, right? Gotta keep pushing forward, even when things get tough."

Peter nodded in agreement, his gaze lingering on Noah's weary form. Despite the sheriff's outward strength, Peter couldn't help but feel a pang of empathy for the man who carried the weight of the town's safety on his shoulders.

The sheriff chuckled, “…It’s funny, because as much as I used to bicker with him, I miss him like crazy.” He looked thoughtful, “I say I try to get my mind off things, but truth be told, I couldn’t focus on shit today.” Performance suffered, and working overtime was not just a way to distract but a way to make up.

Peter glanced around the now-deserted sheriff's station, ensuring that they were alone before turning back to Noah with a solemn expression. "You know, I think I might have a lead that could help ease your mind for a bit," he began, his voice low and serious.

Noah's eyes widened with hope, a surge of adrenaline coursing through him at the prospect of finally getting some answers about his missing son. "You do?" he asked eagerly, leaning forward in his chair. "Where did he go? Did you find him?"

Peter hesitated for a moment before responding, his gaze flickering with a mixture of guilt and determination. "He's right here," he said quietly, reaching down and lifting the hem of his shirt to reveal the tattoo of Stiles' face etched into his skin.

Noah's brow furrowed in confusion, his initial excitement fading into frustration. "Peter, I appreciate the sentiment, but now is not the time for jokes," he replied sternly, his voice tinged with annoyance, thinking that getting a tattoo of stiles’ face now was bad timing.

But Peter's expression remained deadly serious as he lowered his shirt, his eyes locking onto Noah's with an intensity that sent a shiver down the sheriff's spine. "I'm not joking, Noah," he said quietly, his tone devoid of humor. "I swallowed him whole."

Noah's heart skipped a beat as the full weight of Peter's words sank in, his mind struggling to process the horrifying truth of what he was hearing. "What do you mean, you swallowed him whole?" he demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and horror.

Peter's lips curled into a cruel smirk as he recounted the gruesome details of Stiles' fate, his words dripping with malice as he described the agony of his son's final moments. Noah's stomach churned with revulsion as he listened, unable to comprehend the sheer brutality of Peter's actions.

"You monster," Noah spat, his voice trembling with rage as he glared at Peter with loathing. "How could you do something like that? How could you take my son away from me?"

But Peter remained unfazed by Noah's outburst, his expression cold and impassive as he shrugged indifferently. "It's nothing personal, Sheriff," he replied casually, his tone devoid of remorse. "Your son just tasted fucking delicious." He said, licking his lips and clutching his fat belly.

Noah's hands clenched into fists at his sides as he fought to contain his anger, his chest heaving with the effort to keep himself from lashing out at Peter. But deep down, he knew that there was nothing he could do to bring his son back, nothing he could do to make things right, and with his most effective werewolf weaponry far away, nothing he could to avenge.

Peter forcibly rushed, rapidly transforming to his werewolf form as his predatory instincts took over, pinning Noah against his desk with a strength that was impossible for the sheriff to resist. Noah's heart pounded in his chest as he felt the weight of Peter's massive body pressing down on him, his muscles straining against the powerful hold, and his belly pushing against his body– The same belly that relentlessly digested his son.

Despite Noah's tough exterior and years of training as a police officer, he felt utterly powerless in the face of Peter's relentless assault. His mind reeled with shock and disbelief as he realized the true extent of the danger he was in, and he was weak; Mourning his son’s death, his squirms and struggles were instinctual, but he had long given up.

With a savage growl, Peter tore away Noah's clothes, leaving him exposed and vulnerable beneath his predatory gaze. Noah's skin burned with shame as he lay helpless beneath the werewolf's relentless onslaught, his muscles tensing with every agonizing second that passed.

But as Peter's tongue traced a path of fiery heat across his exposed flesh, Noah's resistance began to crumble, his senses overwhelmed by the raw intensity of the sensations coursing through his body. Despite his best efforts to fight it, he found himself succumbing to the overpowering force of Peter's touch, his defenses crumbling beneath the weight of his own despair.

Peter licked down to Noah’s exposed member, licking it all the way down to his balls. Tears streamed down Noah's cheeks as he felt Peter's lips close around his dick, his body wracked with a mixture of pleasure and pain as the werewolf forced him to submit to his desires. He continued to suck on it, Noah’s dick growing hard in the werewolf’s mouth, his veins rubbing against the fangs.

Before Noah could find any reprieve from the unwanted pleasure, Peter abruptly withdrew his attention from his groin, leaving Noah gasping for air and shuddering with a mix of relief and lingering arousal. But his moment of respite was short-lived, as Peter's tongue trailed up Noah's body with a ferocity that sent shivers down his spine, leaving a slick trail of saliva in its wake.

With a low growl, Peter leaned in close, his hot breath washing over Noah's face as he licked and nipped at his skin with reckless abandon. Noah could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he gazed up at the werewolf towering over him, his mind reeling with a dizzying mix of fear and desire.

As Peter's lips brushed against his own, Noah could feel the weight of his words hanging in the air like a heavy shroud. "Reuniting son and father," Peter teased, his voice dripping with malicious intent. "Isn't that what you wanted, Sheriff?"

Noah's breath caught in his throat as he struggled to find the words to respond, his mind spinning with a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Part of him wanted to lash out in anger and defiance, to fight tooth and nail against the fate that awaited him, but he had no leverage; Peter caught him at a most unfortunate time.

"Please," Noah begged, his voice barely more than a desperate whisper. "Don't–"

But before he could finish his plea, Peter's hand clamped down over his mouth, silencing him with a forceful gesture. With a savage grin, Peter shoved Noah's face into his gaping maw, his lips stretching wide to accommodate the sheriff's head as he forced him down into the darkness of his throat.

Noah's world erupted into chaos as he felt himself being swallowed whole, his body writhing and convulsing with a mix of terror and revulsion. He could feel the walls of Peter's esophagus closing in around him, squeezing him tight as he was dragged down into the depths of the werewolf's belly.

As Peter's jaws clamped shut around him, Noah felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness wash over him. He could feel himself being drawn inexorably downward, his body slipping and sliding against the slick, saliva-coated walls of Peter's throat as he was swallowed whole.

First, it was his head, squeezed tightly between the muscular walls of Peter's esophagus, the darkness closing in around him like a suffocating blanket. Then came his shoulders, his arms pinned tightly to his sides as he was pulled further and further into the depths of the werewolf's belly.

Noah's chest was next, compressed and constricted as he was forced deeper into Peter's gullet, the pressure mounting with each passing moment. He could feel the heat of Peter's stomach looming ever closer, the acidic tang of digestive juices burning at the back of his throat.

Finally, it was his legs, his feet kicking and flailing uselessly as they disappeared into the gaping maw of the beast that had consumed him. With one final, desperate gasp, Noah felt himself vanish entirely into the darkness, his entire body enveloped by the relentless grip of Peter's insatiable hunger.

A deep, rumbling burp echoed through the chamber as Peter swallowed Noah down, the sound reverberating off the walls with a sickening finality. With a satisfied grin, Peter patted his distended belly, the outline of Noah's form visible beneath his stretched skin.

"Ah, that hits the spot," Peter chuckled, his voice muffled by the layers of flesh that separated him from the outside world. "Looks like it's just you and me now, Sheriff. Hope you enjoy your stay." He said, before correcting himself teasingly. “–Er, and what little consciousness left of your son.”

Peter positioned himself on the sheriff's desk, his massive belly protruding obscenely as he straddled the wooden surface. His legs dangled over the edge, his feet grazing the floor below as he leaned forward, his hands planted firmly on either side of Noah's abandoned chair.

With a low, guttural growl, Peter began to grind his hips against his swollen belly, the pressure sending waves of pleasure coursing through his body. His movements were slow and deliberate, each thrust punctuated by a low moan of satisfaction as he reveled in the sensation of his distended stomach pressing against his groin.

"Mmm, you like that, Sheriff?" Peter purred, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Feels good, doesn't it? Knowing that you're just another meal for my appetite."

He continued to hump his belly with increasing fervor, the friction sending sparks of pleasure shooting through his veins. His moans grew louder, more urgent, as he lost himself in the ecstasy of the moment.

"God, I love the feeling of a full belly," he groaned, his voice thick with desire. "And you, Sheriff, you're going to make the perfect addition to my collection. Your son and now you, all snug and cozy in my gut."

With each thrust, Peter could feel himself drawing closer and closer to the edge, his arousal building to a fever pitch. He could practically taste the sweet release that awaited him, the culmination of his twisted desires.

And then, with a final, shuddering gasp, he came, his orgasm washing over him in a tidal wave of pleasure. He collapsed onto the desk, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he basked in the afterglow of his release.

"That was... fucking hot," he panted, his chest heaving with exertion. "Seems like you’re good at three jobs, Sheriff."

Peter sprawled out on the sheriff's desk, his massive belly rising and falling with each labored breath. His skin glistened with sweat and his clothes were rumpled and disheveled, evidence of the intense pleasure he had just experienced.

With a contented sigh, Peter shifted slightly, making himself more comfortable on the hard surface beneath him. He stretched out his limbs, his muscles relaxing as he allowed himself to sink into the desk's worn surface.

"Don't mind if I nap here a little, do you?" he murmured, his voice slurred with exhaustion. He closed his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids offering a welcome respite from the harsh fluorescent lights of the station.

As he drifted off to sleep, Peter could feel the gentle rocking of his belly as it churned and gurgled around him. It was a soothing sensation, like the ebb and flow of the tide, lulling him into a state of blissful relaxation.

Peter's eyes fluttered open as the early morning light streamed through the windows of the sheriff's station. He sat up slowly, stretching his arms above his head and yawning as he glanced around the dimly lit room.

Checking the clock on the sheriff's desk, Peter muttered to himself, "Shit, almost got caught by your underdogs. I'm one lucky wolf." He chuckled softly, a smug grin spreading across his face as he thought about how close he had come to being discovered.

With a satisfied sigh, Peter climbed to his feet and adjusted his clothing, smoothing out the wrinkles and straightening his collar. He took a moment to admire the sight of Noah's empty office, the memories of their encounter still fresh in his mind.

As he made his way out of the station, Peter's belly churned and gurgled loudly, a constant reminder of the meal he had consumed the night before. He could hear Noah's faint groans of pain echoing from within his gut, the sound sending a thrill of pleasure coursing through his veins.

"Looks like your old age is catching up with you, Sheriff," Peter taunted, his voice dripping with amusement. "Barely lasting in there, aren't you?" He chuckled to himself, relishing in the thought of Noah's suffering as he continued on his way, eager to start his day, as his belly’s occupant barely had any air to breathe in.

Peter lazily strolled down the quiet streets of Beacon Hills, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he whistled a tuneless melody. The early morning sunlight cast long shadows across the pavement, warming his skin as he ambled along.

With a leisurely pace, Peter made his way to a nearby café, where he ordered himself a large coffee and a pastry, not bothering to hide the bulge of his distended belly as he leaned against the counter. The barista shot him a curious glance, but Peter paid it no mind, too preoccupied with the delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Sipping his coffee slowly, Peter found a comfortable spot by the window and settled in, idly watching the world go by as he enjoyed his breakfast. He could feel Stiles' face tattoo stretching further across his bloated belly, the ink distorting slightly as his gut churned and gurgled in protest.

After finishing his meal, Peter decided to take a leisurely stroll through the park, enjoying the peaceful solitude as he wandered beneath the canopy of trees. He paused to admire the vibrant colors of the flowers in bloom, the sweet scent of spring filling the air.

As the morning wore on, Peter eventually made his way back to his penthouse, feeling pleasantly relaxed and content. He let out a satisfied sigh as he sank into his favorite armchair, his belly now even more swollen and round than before.

Meanwhile, deep within Peter's gut, Noah continued to be slowly digested, his body breaking down bit by bit until only a few hours later, he was nothing more than a distant memory. Peter's waistline expanded, getting much fatter, and another tattoo of Noah’s face appeared on his gut, next to Stiles. Peter gave it a big, nice squeeze.

“Did say I was going to reunite you, didn’t I?” He said, squeezing even tighter. He knew that both Stiles and Noah could feel what he felt, and he could barely hear their incomprehensible thoughts in the back of his mind, the fat on his belly sentient and permanent. “One more, and the pack’s complete.”

Peter descended the stairs to his basement, the cool air enveloping him as he reached the dimly lit chamber. There, tied-up and bruised, was Derek, his gaze fixed on Peter with a mixture of defiance and resignation.

"Ah, Derek, my dear nephew," Peter said with a smirk, stepping closer to where Derek was restrained. "It seems you've been busy trying to escape. But you know what they say – it takes a werewolf to know how to tie one."

Derek's jaw clenched, his muscles tensing as he struggled against his bonds. But Peter merely chuckled, circling around him like a predator sizing up its prey.

"You're not going anywhere, Derek," Peter continued, his voice dripping with malice. "Not until we've had a little chat. Not until I decide that it’s time for you to join the others."

Derek's eyes narrowed, his gaze flickering down to Peter's distended belly. And then he saw it – the tattoo of Noah's face stretched across Peter's skin, a grim reminder of the fate that had befallen his father.

"Why, Peter?" Derek demanded, his voice thick with emotion. "Why are you doing this?"

Peter chuckled darkly as he pressed his distended belly against Derek's face, feeling the werewolf's struggling breath against his skin.

"You know, Derek," Peter said casually, "I've discovered that eating others whole has some... benefits. It's made me stronger, more powerful than ever before."

Derek groaned, his muscles straining against his bonds as he struggled to break free. But Peter merely tightened his grip, relishing in the sensation of Derek's helplessness.

"Now, here's the deal," Peter continued, his voice low and menacing. "You can either give up your alpha status and be a beta in my pack, or..."

He paused, letting the implication hang in the air as he leaned in closer to Derek's ear.

"...you can become my next meal."

Derek's eyes widened in horror as he realized the full extent of Peter's intentions. He growled, his werewolf fangs showing as he sweared, “Fuck you, I’m doing neither.”

With a sinister grin, Peter leaned down to Derek's face, his tongue snaking out to lick a slow trail across Derek's cheek. The werewolf recoiled at the sensation, disgust etched across his features, but Peter paid no mind.

As Derek's nostrils filled with the scent of blood and decay, his stomach churned with dread. He knew that smell all too well—it was the unmistakable scent of death.

Before he could react, Peter let out a loud, guttural belch directly in Derek's face, the noxious odor overwhelming his senses. Derek gagged, his eyes watering as he struggled to keep from retching.

As the smell of decay lingered in the air, Peter began to remove the shackles that bound Derek's wrists and ankles, the metal clinking loudly in the silence of the basement. Derek tensed, his muscles straining against the bonds that held him in place, but it was no use—Peter's strength was far greater than his own.

With a predatory gleam in his eye, Peter leaned in close to Derek, his breath hot against the werewolf's ear. "Don't worry, Derek," he whispered, his voice dripping with malice. "You'll be reunited with Stiles soon enough. And all the others I've consumed."

Derek's eyes widened in horror at Peter's words, his mind reeling at the realization of just how many lives Peter had claimed. "How many, you sick fuck?" he demanded, his voice trembling with rage and fear.

Peter merely shrugged nonchalantly, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "I lost count after twenty," he admitted casually, as if discussing the weather. "But who's counting, anyway?"

Peter's belly rumbled loudly, the sound echoing through the dimly lit basement. "Looks like it's dinner time," Peter chuckled, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. With a predatory grin, he advanced toward Derek, who struggled against his bonds with renewed desperation.

As Peter loomed over him, Derek's eyes burned with fury. "You won't get away with this, Peter," he snarled, his voice laced with venom. "I'll find a way to stop you, no matter what it takes."

Peter merely chuckled in response, his amusement evident. "Oh, Derek, always so defiant," he taunted, his tone mocking. "But resistance is futile. You're mine now."

With that, Peter lunged forward, his jaws snapping shut around Derek's neck. The werewolf let out a muffled shout as he was dragged into Peter's gaping maw, his struggles growing more frantic with each passing moment.

Peter relished in the sensation of dominance as he swallowed Derek down, inch by inch. He could feel the werewolf squirming and writhing inside him, but he paid it no mind. All that mattered was establishing his superiority, both as the stronger werewolf and as the one who held Derek's fate in his hands.

As Derek's protests grew louder, Peter's grin widened. "That's it, Derek," he purred, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Just relax and accept your fate. You're going to make a delicious addition to my collection."

With a final gulp, Peter swallowed Derek down to the halfway point, his belly bulging obscenely with his captive's form. He let out a contented sigh, reveling in the feeling of power coursing through him.

With a final gulp, Peter swallowed Derek's legs and feet, the last parts of his struggling form disappearing into the depths of his churning belly. As Derek's muffled protests faded into silence, Peter let out a satisfied belch, the sound reverberating through the basement.

"Ah, that hits the spot," Peter remarked, rubbing his distended belly with contentment. "Another one down, another step closer to domination."

Leaving the basement behind, Peter ascended the stairs, his heavy footsteps echoing in the quiet house. He decided to stay awake for Derek's digestion, eager to witness the full extent of his power as the werewolf's struggles slowly subsided.

Grabbing a bag of popcorn from the kitchen, Peter settled onto the couch and flicked on the TV. He scrolled through the movie options, selecting a thriller that seemed fitting for the occasion.

As the opening credits rolled, Peter leaned back and munched on his popcorn, his gaze fixed on the screen but his mind elsewhere. He couldn't help but feel a thrill of anticipation at the thought of Derek's inevitable demise, another victory in his quest for dominance.

With a satisfied smirk, Peter settled in for the show, eager to savor every moment of Derek's agonizing digestion.

As the movie played on, Peter reclined comfortably on the couch, munching on popcorn and occasionally letting out a satisfied belch. Bits of chewed-up popcorn and saliva mixed together as they fell into his churning stomach, joining Derek in his acidic prison.

With each passing minute, the acids in Peter's stomach began to build up, creating an increasingly hostile environment for Derek. He could feel the burning sensation as the stomach acids lapped at his skin, searing his flesh with each movement.

Derek's struggles grew more frantic as the stomach filled with acidic fluid, his attempts to escape becoming more desperate by the second. But Peter merely chuckled at his predicament, taunting him as he watched the movie.

"Quiet down, I can't hear the movie over your ass," Peter remarked, his tone mocking as he shifted on the couch to get a better view of the screen. He took another handful of popcorn and tossed it into his mouth, relishing the taste as he savored Derek's futile attempts to break free.

Derek, contrary to Peter’s remark, squirmed more in protest; Partially because of the pain he was in, but mostly because he refused to lose to him as the alpha. He felt a weight rising up to his chest, and after thumping it, let out a tremendous burp that squeezed his stomach tightly with how much air it purged.

BuUuuuUuuurRrrrrrRrprppppPp!

After letting out a massive belch, Peter noticed that Derek had stopped moving altogether, his struggles coming to an abrupt halt as he became dead weight. With a satisfied grin, Peter began to massage and rub his distended belly, helping it along in the digestion process.

As he kneaded his bloated stomach, Peter could feel the remnants of his latest meal churning and squirming within him, slowly breaking down under the relentless assault of his stomach acids. With each passing moment, Derek's form grew softer and more pliable, his body gradually dissolving into the sludgy mess that would eventually become nothing more than nutrients for Peter, joining the other pack members as permanent fat.

Content with his meal, Peter settled back onto the couch, the weight of his distended belly pressing heavily against him. The warmth and comfort of his food-induced stupor washed over him, lulling him into a state of blissful relaxation.

Before long, Peter succumbed to the inevitable pull of sleep, his eyelids growing heavy as he drifted off into a deep slumber. The movie continued to play on in the background, the sound of gunfire and explosions fading into the background as Peter's consciousness slipped away.

Wrapped in the warmth of his food coma, Peter slept soundly, his belly still churning and digesting its latest meal as he dreamed of the countless feasts that lay ahead.

As Peter awoke from his food-induced slumber, he felt a surge of energy coursing through his veins, a newfound strength that pulsed within him like a beacon of power. Rising from the couch, he made his way to the nearest mirror, eager to see the physical manifestations of his newfound status as alpha.

As he gazed into his reflection, Peter's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of his irises glowing a fiery shade of red, a telltale sign of his ascension to alpha status. A grin spread across his face as he took in the changes that had occurred to his body overnight.

His once lean physique had been transformed into something more robust and muscular, his frame filled out with the remnants of his recent feasts. His belly, in particular, had grown rounder and more prominent, the tattoo of Stiles' & Noah’s faces stretched even further as it adorned the bulging expanse of his abdomen. Moreover, a third tattoo had appeared as he slept; The face of his nephew, Derek.

Feeling a surge of arousal at the sight of his altered appearance, Peter couldn't help but indulge in the newfound power that coursed through him. Stepping closer to the mirror, he positioned himself in front of it, his hands roaming over his bloated belly as he savored the sensation of his own touch.

With a low groan of pleasure, Peter leaned back against the wall, arching his back slightly as he allowed his hands to roam lower, tracing the curve of his distended abdomen with a mix of fascination and desire. His fingers danced lightly over the stretched skin, relishing in the softness and warmth that radiated from his newfound source of power.

As he continued to explore his own body, Peter's mind wandered to the possibilities that lay ahead as the new alpha of Beacon Hills. With Derek's power now coursing through his veins, he knew that he was destined for greatness, destined to rule over the town and its inhabitants with an iron fist.

His hands traced down to his erect member, fingers curling around the shaft as he began to stroke himself with increasing fervor. The sensation sent waves of pleasure coursing through his body, each stroke bringing him closer to the edge of ecstasy.

As he pleasured himself, Peter couldn't help but feel the presence of the individuals he had consumed swirling within his belly. The fat that enveloped his abdomen seemed to pulse with a life of its own, and he could sense the consciousness of Derek, Noah, and Stiles stirring within him.

“Little fuckers, how does it feel to be part of my body?” He said, speaking them to directly as he continued to pleasure himself, pushing his dick up against the sentient fat on his belly. “You like that I’m getting off to you, don’t you?”

Their thoughts whispered through his mind, mingling with his own desires and fantasies as he surrendered himself to the euphoria of the moment. He could hear their voices, faint but distinct, as they cried out in protest, their fear and confusion adding to the heady mix of sensations that flooded his senses.

But instead of recoiling from their presence, Peter found himself drawn to it, his arousal spiking as he reveled in the power he now held over them. With each stroke of his hand, he felt their fear and desperation fueling his own pleasure, driving him ever closer to the brink of release.

His hands continued their relentless motion, fingers sliding up and down his throbbing member with practiced skill. With each stroke, he couldn't help but revel in the sensation of his own touch, the pleasure building with every pass. As he pleasured himself, his thoughts turned to the recent events—the meals he had consumed, the power he had gained, and the control he now wielded.

As he pleasured himself, Peter moaned softly, the sound mixing with his thoughts as he teased them about their fate. "You're all mine now," he whispered, his voice laced with dark amusement. "You'll be with me forever, trapped in this fat," he continued, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "No matter how hard I work out, I'll never lose you."

The thought sent shivers of pleasure down his spine, intensifying the sensation as he continued to stroke himself with increasing fervor. His mind was consumed with images of their struggles, their cries of pain and desperation echoing in his ears as he relished in his newfound power over them.

And then, with a guttural groan, Peter reached the pinnacle of ecstasy, his body convulsing with the force of his release. Wave after wave of pleasure washed over him as he ejaculated load after load, his seed spilling forth in a torrent.

As he lay there, spent and sated, Peter couldn't help but smile to himself, his mind still buzzing with the euphoria of his conquest. “Fuck…” He moaned, his gut coated with his cum, particularly around the faces’ tattoos. “That felt fucking good.”

Peter grabbed his belly and squeezed it tight, “Can’t wait to eat more people, and have all of you feel every bit of it as you help digest them.”

[redfoxwritesstuff]

The dim moonlight filtered in from the trees, shining down from the false sky in the pocket dimension that existed within the room. Black things snaked across the ground as your feet took you as fast as you could. By the door, discarded and dropped was the pot of tea you had brought for what you believed was the sickly hotelier.

Alastor was sick, that was for sure, but not with anything a cup of tea would fix.

"Ah!" You screamed, foot catching on what you had hoped was just a root. Please, let it just be a root.

The thing tightened around your ankle, pulling you backward. It wasn't a root at all. He had caught you. Kicking at it, you tried to free yourself.

Your efforts only earned you his aggravation, masked behind a bright chuckle that cut through the darkness. More tentacles joined the first, circling your other ankle. He pulled you up, hanging you in the air by your feet.

Grabbing at your shirt, you struggled to keep it from falling too far up your torso. In a matter of seconds, you were no longer able to do that as he captured your wrists as well.

The pressure on your joints eased as fifth tentacle wrapped around your waist, supporting the bulk of your weight. You had thought he only had four and now you were left fearing just how many appendages he could form.

"Let me go!" You demanded, though your voice wavered with fear as Alastor stepped forward from the darkness, grin wide and eyes shining full of something you couldn't begin to understand.

"HA! But, my dear! If I were a spider, it appears you're trapped in my web. Like a spider, I’d never let you escape." Alastor ran a clawed finger up your cheek as he spoke, reaching up to trace a long line along where the tentacle around your waist dug into your skin, "It's funny though, because I don’t even think you realize how charmingly entrapped you are right now…" You trembled in his grasp, unsure if this was the terrifying Radio Demon's form of flirting or if you were truly in danger!?

[karlachismylife]

Sick Boy

#PriceGhostWeek

Day Two: Heart/Alpha (@gomzdrawfr)

I took a lot if inspiration from Ren's videos (and music) about his health jorney, but I didn't even try to be medically accurate with it. This is about feelings and a bit of wordplay, not facts.

Click-clack of the round dispenser. Echoey pop of a child protection lid on a rattling pill bottle. Crinkles of aluminum foil breached like a chest of a parasite victim in an Alien movie. A big see-through red one shaped like a rugby ball. Two tiny flat circles, pale pink. Three elongated whites: two pills with a word pressed into them, one gelatine capsule with magic dust inside.

Filtered water, one swallow, two hollowed cheeks, three blinks, infinity of scars.

Simon holds back the usual wave of bile, hungry stomach disturbed by the chemical cocktail foaming in the acid and breaching thin walls of his vascular system. His reflection in the mirror blurs, sunken eyes disappearing in dark sockets of a pale skull for a split second, and then everything comes back to normal – insomnia painting his face better than any skeletal makeup could.

His jaw bone feels foreign, an ill fit, accidentally swapped with the one he dug himself out with.

Humming of an aquarium filter. Plastic cracking of a single use white cup. Gurgles of an abused water cooler boiling with fat bubbles in its blueish head. Psychiatrist’s lobby smells of coffee and cleaning products poorly masked with a chemical lemon air freshener.

Simon swallows another retching urge and stands up thirty seconds before a door with a fake wooden pattern swings open to let him into a cabinet with no straight angles.

“Is this all making sense, Simon?”

It isn’t. It isn’t making any sense why being a good boy and swallowing pills hasn’t fixed him still, hasn’t made him suitable for medical tests she won’t write off no matter what Simon tells her. Brain damage, she says with a matte lipstick smile, C-PTSD. He’s stuck in a sympathetic response, she says, and Simon feels maggots crawl on the underside of his jaw – he’s not stuck, he’s choosing it.

Being always alert is a necessity once you learn what happens if you get sloppy.

“Simon? Oi, Simon! Bloody hell, boy, snap out of it.”

Price’s figure enters the bathroom of a cold safe house, already crowded with Simon alone inside, and flicks the switch on before closing the door. Grey light washes off the skull blur off the mirror, leaving Simon to stare into his own eyes. There are some eyelashes missing from the already sparse lines.

“M fine. Jus’ mornin’ sickness. Gonna approve my maternal leave, sir?”

Simon’s broad shoulders slump, muscles rippling and bulging underneath an ugly cross-stitching of scars across his back, he pushes himself off the sink and plops down heavily on the toilet lid, reaching into his sweats’ pocket for a tangled knot of wires.

“What’s tha’ for?” Simon’s eyes flick over to his cross-armed Captain, leaning on the locked door with his unshaven chin tucked into his chest – unmoving, studying, attentive. Curious.

“Humane shock therapy,” he swallows a curse as his aching fingers struggle to untangle the mess and nearly drop the whole device on flesh pink tiles. Finally managing to find loose ends, Simon clips both of them to his earlobes and takes a breath. “Hits my brain wi’ electricity t’ force it into “alpha state”. Means I’m relaxed. Apparently can’t do it on my own, need a bloody remote control t’ fix me.”

His thumb hurts from pressing on the upper arrow too hard. The dizziness creeps up too fast, another attempt to make him barf, and reluctantly pulls back with the single digit dialed down.

Four minutes into his half-hour brain frying session little device clutched in a fist with scarred knuckles dies.

“Fuckin’ hell!” Plastic case cracks in Simon’s palm. His jaw doesn’t fit, teeth grinding remains of six pills into white foam on a mangled scowl. Wide open eyes go blind with maggots swarming panicked pupils.

Price grips his wrist before he can smash a pricey stimulation device into pieces, steady and warm hold on his sweaty skin. John pries it out of his hand, carefully unclipping the clamps from his ears, rough fingertips rubbing cold flesh unconsciously to get blood running again.

“Shh, easy. Easy. Oughtta make ya relaxed, innit? Don’t need a machine for that. Ya have it in ya, Simon, I know.”

One hand leaves him to put useless device away, but the second one stays, sliding further behind and cupping the back of Simon’s head. With no hesitation, Price pulls him against his chest, forcing his face into a shockwave of warmth – there’s too much at once, slightly coarse chest hair rubbing against skin he’s suddenly extremely aware of instead of reserving all his senses for the bones underneath; rich scent of a recently awakened man flooding Simon’s nose and wiping pills’ bitterness from the roof of his mouth.

Simon swallows the urge to stick his tongue out and drag a filthy lick between his Captain’s tits and gets rewarded with a squeeze on his nape lighting up his brain in all those little spots they stuck electrodes for a scan in an 80-s sci-fi looking cap.

“Yer heart’s barely beatin’, sir. Need me t-”

“My heart’s perfectly normal. Yours is jus’ going at it like a bloody jackhammer.”

He knows now – finally feeling his blood flow where previously only worms slithered over naked bones, Simon tries counting beats and loses track too fast. It’s pricking in his forehead, pressed into a fine chest, pulsing in his fingertips suddenly squeezed in a desperate fist grip on Price’s hips.

“Tha’s it, good lad, breathe. How long ya sit with those clips usually?”

Big hand carefully covers one of Simon’s grasps and eases it into an open palm, still allowing it to stay on Price’s back, fingertips throbbing with suddenly warm blood pressing into the soft flesh needily.

“Thirty minutes, sir.”

He relaxes his second palm on his own, fingers splaying over the small of John’s back. Jittering knees bracketing Price slow down and stop, leaning slightly inward to let Simon’s thigh brush against his Captain’s leg.

“Your brain generates different signals every day, which means required settings of the stimulator will vary too. The easiest way to determine the level needed today is to raise it until you feel dizzy and then lower it by one. Is this all making sense, Simon?”

It is. It is making sense, he’s one step shy from dizzy, nausea finally dissolved deep down in his stomach. Eyes closed – not gouged out – and resting, he’s being a good lad and getting fixed. There’s a steady pressure on the back of his neck, thick fingertips massaging where maggots used to be.

Simon doesn’t notice how his jaw finds it way to fit perfectly into Price’s palm until John turns his head up and to the right, forcing Simon’s chipped ear against slightly quickened heartbeat and baring his face to the piercing gaze of two blue eyes.

There’s an astronomical map of freckles scattered on the universe of his boy – something no bone would be able to bear.

A thumb presses into the ugly cleft of his upper lip, sliding torn flesh further up – before Simon’s lashes can flutter open, Price shushes him, and Simon obeys. He keeps his eyes closed while his Captain measures his pulse through the wet thin skin of his scarred lips.

His mind doesn’t alert him, when John leans down and presses his own mouth down.

That same palm that fixed his jaw slides up his face reverently to cover Simon’s eyes, determined to keep them closed for the required thirty minutes, and Price deepens the kiss, licking into the pills-tasting mouth. Simon feels him, initial novelty and excitement of a hot tongue rolling over his teeth and soft facial hair brushing against his skin quickly get drowned out by a calm call of weighted peace pouring over him like caramel.

There must be something wrong with him for having no reaction to a sudden kiss from his Captain, but his psychiatrist would be proud of the steadiness of his alpha brainwaves today.

“What happens if ya keep it longer than thirty, eh?”

Price’s voice sounds hoarse right above his ear, big hands still holding his head close and blind. Simon doesn’t know what happens – maybe more brain damage, maybe an anxiety attack.

Maybe he becomes sloppy again and forgets how to be constantly alert.

“Runnin’ late to a briefing, sir.”

Simon’s hand slides lower, skims down the chiseled hip and tries wrapping around Price’s thick thigh, little finger pressing into the vulnerable hinge of his knee until John gives in and allows to pull himself into his Lieutenant’s lap.

“Good thing there’s no briefing today then. Ya feeling relaxed yet?”

Price feels thin blonde eyebrows move under his blinder palm into a momentarily pleading position and needs no other answer. You can’t expect same result as when using a proper device.

It’s making perfect sense.

[cumironi]

CURSEBOUND HEART : RYOMEN SUKUNA

THE HIDDEN CURSE

Satomi Gojo, a talented sorcerer with a mysterious past, senses an unusually powerful cursed energy and decides to investigate. Her search leads her to an abandoned building where she encounters Yuji Itadori, the vessel of Sukuna. As Sukuna temporarily takes control of Yuji, he recognizes Gojo’s sister as his reincarnated wife, sparking a tense confrontation and revealing a dark, shared history.

⠀⠀⠀Tokyo Jujutsu High buzzed with the controlled chaos of students training under the watchful eye of Satoru Gojo, the enigmatic sorcerer known for his limitless potential and mysterious past. The morning sun filtered through trees in the training ground as Gojo guided his charges through rigorous exercises. His blue eyes are watching his sister closely, intensely.

⠀⠀⠀In the tranquil serenity of Tokyo Jujutsu High's secluded training grounds, Satomi Gojo moved with effortless grace, her movements a testament to years of disciplined training. Surrounded by ancient trees and the soft rustle of leaves, she focused intently, channeling her energy into precise strikes and intricate seals. She can feel her brother's eyes on her, watch every move she makes, every breath she takes, every blood that pumps in her heart— like he's waiting for the second she's made a mistake and makes fun of her like when she was a kid.

⠀⠀⠀But amidst the calm, a sudden ripple in the air disrupted Satomi's concentration. A familiar, sinister presence stirred within her, sending shivers down her spine. Cursed energy, ancient and malevolent, surged around her like a spectral tide, awakening memories buried deep within her soul.

⠀⠀⠀As she continued her exercises, snippets of another life flickered through Satomi's mind like shards of a shattered mirror. She saw herself in a distant past, clad in robes of another era, standing before a figure wreathed in darkness—the enigmatic King of Curses, Sukuna.

⠀⠀⠀In those fleeting moments, Satomi glimpsed fragments of a forbidden love that defied the boundaries of time and reason. She remembered the whispered promises exchanged under moonlit skies, the tender moments stolen amidst the chaos of battle, and the bitter anguish of betrayal that tore them apart.

⠀⠀⠀A sudden surge of cursed energy snapped Satomi back to the present. The sensation was unmistakable—the same chilling aura that once bound her heart to Sukuna's in a tumultuous dance of fate. Her pulse quickened with a mixture of dread and determination as she realized the implications of its return.

⠀⠀⠀The moment she got pulled back to reality she could feel her heart beating faster, hurting her in the process. Satomi coughed and fell to her knees, she clutched her hand to her heart and felt the pain as if a thousand needles rained down right to her heart. At the same time, she also could feel the same pain in her right eye. With one hand covering her eyes, Satomi looks to her left where her brother stands. Just as she knows Gojo is already looking at her. Satomi couldn't figure out what he was thinking behind that blindfold and one thing that she was sure of was that Gojo knew what happened to her, maybe.

⠀⠀⠀Suddenly, a sharp ring pierced the air, breaking the rhythm of the training session. Gojo’s expression shifted imperceptibly from you, his usually playful demeanor giving way to a mask of focused determination. With a fluid motion, he retrieved his phone from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID—a fellow sorcerer from the Jujutsu world.

⠀⠀⠀“Gojo-sensei,” the voice on the other end crackled with urgency, “we’ve detected an anomaly in the heart of Tokyo. Cursed energy levels are off the charts. It could be Sukuna.” Gojo’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Sukuna, the infamous King of Curses whose existence posed a perpetual threat to the delicate balance of the Jujutsu world.

⠀⠀⠀Without another word, he ended the call and turned to his students, to you, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Class dismissed,” Gojo’s tone brooked no argument. Before he went, he looked at you from afar, without saying a word you know he doesn't want you to do anything stupid and know your place.

⠀⠀⠀Gojo, he sensed the anomaly spreading like a festering wound within the city and the last thing he wanted was your stupid and careless behavior. So he gathered a team of trusted students—Yuji Itadori, Megumi Fushiguro, and Nobara Kugisaki—and briefed them on the urgency of their mission.

⠀⠀⠀“Gojo-sensei!” Yuji waves his hand in the air once a glimpse of his favorite teacher comes into his vision. “You guys here!” with his back pressed against the car door and both hands in his pocket, Gojo smiled and waved back. “So what are we gonna do here?” Nobara asked, holding her hammer in one hand.

⠀⠀⠀“Listen up,” Gojo began, his tone devoid of its usual lightheartedness. “We have a situation in the city. Cursed energy levels are off the charts. It’s highly likely Sukuna is involved. This is serious. We need to move out now.” Yuji's eyes narrowed. The mention of Sukuna sent a chill down his spine. The King of Curses was a perpetual threat, one that required immediate and decisive action.

⠀⠀⠀Even tho he felt scared, Yuji, always eager to help, nodded determinedly. Megumi’s eyes narrowed in focus, while Nobara cracked her knuckles, ready for whatever came their way. Unbeknownst to them, Satomi Gojo, Satoru's younger sister, and a skilled sorceress, silently volunteered to join the mission. Driven by a personal stake in the unfolding crisis, she blended into the shadows, her presence unnoticed but her determination unwavering.

⠀⠀⠀The team moved swiftly through the bustling streets of Tokyo, the vibrant cityscape a stark contrast to the dark energy they were tracking. Gojo led them with unerring precision, his senses finely tuned to the anomaly’s location. Satomi trailed behind, her heart pounding with anticipation. The cursed energy she sensed was unmistakably familiar, stirring memories of a past life intertwined with Sukuna’s.

⠀⠀⠀Their journey led them to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, where the cursed energy pulsated with a sinister rhythm. Shadows danced eerily along the walls as the team cautiously entered, each step fraught with tension and uncertainty.

⠀⠀⠀As they ventured deeper into the warehouse, Yuji’s senses suddenly sharpened. “Huh?” he stopped in the middle, making the two of his friends stop in their tracks as well. “What is it now, Yuji?” Nobara asks, seems like she's not really in the mood for Yuji's bullshit in the middle of the mission. Megumi just looked at his friend with a bored expression. “Didn't you guys feel that? Suddenly the air feels so heavy,” he says.

⠀⠀⠀“Is it Sukuna?” Nobara asks.

⠀⠀⠀The air grew heavy with an oppressive presence as Sukuna’s malevolent energy coalesced around them. Satomi’s heart skipped a beat as she somehow recognized the familiar aura, her instincts screaming a warning of imminent danger.

⠀⠀⠀In the dimly lit confines, Yuji’s body tensed, a vessel for the ancient curse that lay dormant within. As if drawn by an invisible force, Sukuna emerged, his gaze locking onto a girl with unsettling familiarity. Satomi stood her ground, eyes locked onto him, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and determination. The cursed spirit's smirk was as sinister as ever, but beneath it lay a flicker of something more—recognition, perhaps, or even regret. Yuji's bare face is now covered with Sukuna's tattoos.

⠀⠀⠀“Hina,” Sukuna’s voice echoed through the cavernous space, a whisper laden with centuries-old secrets, “you've been hiding from your past for too long.” Satomi had no idea who Mirumi was, as hard as she could to try to connect the dot she had none, but somehow she knew it was meant for her, that Hina was her. Satomi’s breath caught in her throat as she stared into the abyss of his gaze, seeing echoes of love and a betrayal that transcended lifetimes.

⠀⠀⠀Sukuna’s taunts cut through the silence like a blade, dredging up memories of their shared past—moments of passion intertwined with betrayal and heartache. Yuji struggled against Sukuna’s growing influence, his internal battle mirrored by the turmoil raging within Satomi’s heart.

⠀⠀⠀Satomi's jaw clenched. Instantly she feels rage buried beneath her flesh like she's never felt before, like she never knew it was there. “And you’ve been wreaking havoc for centuries. What do you want from me, Sukuna?” She doesn't know why she recognized him, as she had known him for as long as she can remember. Her six senses can recognize him but only the basic one, but her soul? it's like it already belongs to him.

⠀⠀⠀Their confrontation was electric, each word dripping with the weight of a shared history neither she nor the other three fully understood. “What the fuck is going on?” Nobara whispered to her friend next to her, Megumi. The man shrugged his shoulder, having no idea just like her, “No clue, Nobara, no clue. But just get ready, we don't know what sukuna might do,” he informed her. While for Satomi and Sukuna, memories of their intertwined fates, of battles fought and losses endured, flashed through Satomi's mind. She had always known there was more to her connection with Sukuna than she cared to admit, but now, facing him directly, the truth was unavoidable.

⠀⠀⠀Satomi stepped forward, her resolve hardening. She would not let Sukuna's taunts break her. With a swift motion, she summoned her cursed energy, a radiant blue aura enveloping her form. Her skills were formidable, honed by years of rigorous training under her brother's guidance.

⠀⠀⠀Sukuna smirked, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and challenge. “You've grown stronger, Satomi. But have you grown strong enough?” Without warning, he lunged at her, his speed blinding. Satomi met his attack head— on, their energies clashing in a brilliant explosion of light and shadow. The impact sent shockwaves through the warehouse, causing the very walls to tremble.

⠀⠀⠀Yuji, struggling to regain control, watched in awe and horror as Satomi and Sukuna engaged in a deadly dance. Each strike from Sukuna was met with a counter from Satomi, her movements precise and calculated. She fought not just with power, but with the weight of their shared history driving her forward.

⠀⠀⠀As they clashed, Sukuna continued to taunt her. “Do you remember the night we first met? The promises we made under the stars? How you swore you'd never leave my side?” Satomi's eyes flashed with a mixture of pain and determination. “And do you remember how you betrayed those promises, Sukuna? How do you turn your back on everything we stood for?” Their battle was not just physical, but emotional. Each strike carried the weight of their past, each taunts a reminder of wounds that had never truly healed. Sukuna's power was overwhelming, but Satomi's resolve was unyielding.

⠀⠀⠀In a moment of desperation, Yuji found an opening. Drawing on every ounce of his strength, he fought to suppress Sukuna's influence, his will battling against the curse's malevolent force. “Sukuna! Get out of my body!” For a brief moment, the warehouse was filled with a blinding light. Sukuna's hold weakened, and Yuji regained control, his body trembling with the effort. Satomi, sensing the shift, delivered a powerful blow, sending Sukuna reeling.

⠀⠀⠀The skirmish ended as suddenly as it began. Sukuna's presence receded, leaving Yuji gasping for breath, his body drenched in sweat. Satomi stood over him, her expression a mixture of relief and sorrow. “Are you okay?” she asked softly, helping Yuji to his feet. Yuji nodded weakly, his eyes reflecting the emotional weight of what had transpired.

⠀⠀⠀“Yeah...thanks to you.”

⠀⠀⠀Back at Tokyo Jujutsu High, the team regrouped, the atmosphere heavy with the gravity of their encounter. Satomi and Gojo retreated to a private sanctuary, their voices hushed with concern.

⠀⠀⠀The atmosphere in Tokyo Jujutsu High was tense as the team returned from the harrowing encounter with Sukuna at the abandoned warehouse. Satomi Gojo, her mind still reeling from the clash with her ancient nemesis, sought out her brother Satoru in his private study.

⠀⠀⠀Entering the dimly lit room, Satomi found Satoru standing by the window, his back turned to her. His usually composed demeanor was tinged with an underlying current of concern and frustration. Without turning around, he spoke, his voice quiet yet laced with unmistakable authority.

⠀⠀⠀“Satomi,” Satoru began, his tone betraying his simmering emotions, “care to explain why you decided to join the mission without informing me?” Satomi hesitated for a moment, the weight of her actions settling heavily upon her shoulders. She knew her brother's strict protocols regarding missions involving high-level curses, especially one as dangerous as Sukuna.

⠀⠀⠀“I... I felt compelled to go,” Satomi started cautiously, choosing her words carefully. “I sensed the cursed energy, Satoru. It felt... familiar. I had to see for myself.” Satoru finally turned to face her, his expression a mix of exasperation and concern. “Familiar? Satomi, do you realize the risks involved? Sukuna is not to be trifled with.”

⠀⠀⠀“I know, Satoru,” Satomi replied earnestly, meeting her brother's gaze head-on. “But there's something about this encounter... something personal.” Satoru sighed heavily, running a hand through his unruly hair. His blue eyes were no longer covered with the blindfold he usually used. He is looking at his sister, trying to see right through her, what's on her mind. “Personal or not, Satomi, you endangered yourself and the mission. You could have jeopardized everything we've been working towards.”

⠀⠀⠀Satomi felt a pang of guilt at her brother's words. She knew he was right. Her impulsive decision could have had dire consequences, not just for herself but for everyone involved. “I'm sorry, brother,” Satomi whispered, her voice tinged with regret. “I didn't mean to cause trouble. But I couldn't just stand by and do nothing.”

⠀⠀⠀Satoru's expression softened slightly, his concern for his sister outweighing his frustration. “I understand, Satomi. But next time, please trust me to handle these situations. We're a team, and we need to act as one.” Satomi nodded silently, acknowledging her brother's wisdom. She knew she had acted recklessly, driven by emotions she couldn't fully comprehend.

⠀⠀⠀As they stood in the quiet of the study, a heavy silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant sounds of students training outside. The encounter with Sukuna had brought to light old wounds and unanswered questions, casting a shadow of uncertainty over their current mission. “Satomi,” Satoru spoke again, his voice softer now, “what did Sukuna say to you?” Satomi hesitated, the memory of Sukuna's taunts still fresh in her mind.

⠀⠀⠀“He... he remembered me, Satoru. From another life. He spoke of promises and betrayal... things I thought were buried in the past.” Satoru's brow furrowed in concern. “Promises and betrayal... Satomi, what aren't you telling me?” Satomi looked away, her thoughts drifting back to the haunting memories of her past life with Sukuna.

⠀⠀⠀“There's so much I don't understand, Satoru. But I fear our connection to Sukuna goes deeper than we realize. And I'm afraid that whatever happened in the past might threaten our future.” Satoru placed a comforting hand on Satomi's shoulder, a rare display of vulnerability from the usually stoic sorcerer. “We'll figure this out, Satomi. Together. But for now, we need to focus on the mission at hand.” Satoru brings his feet to his sister and ruffles the white-haired girl before kissing her forehead. “I'm here for you, Satomi,” he whispered as he hugged her for a moment.

⠀⠀⠀Satomi nodded solemnly, grateful for her brother's support. The weight of their shared burden hung heavily in the air, a reminder of the challenges they would face in the days to come. As they parted ways, the study door closing softly behind her, Satomi couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that lingered in the depths of her soul. The encounter with Sukuna had opened old wounds and unearthed buried secrets, setting the stage for a drama that would test their bonds and reshape their destinies.

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[anonymous-dentist]

Bleeding Heart Part Three

Part One | Previous Part

-

Cellbit leaves his apartment an hour after midnight, hoping to make a bad impression. He's going to be late. He's going to be rude. He's going to be annoying. He's going to be the worst person that Hombre Misterioso has ever met, and he is going to make them hate him and never want to associate with him again.

The aquarium is clear across the city from Cellbit's apartment, and the busses don't run this late at night (especially not in the Favela.)

So, naturally, Cellbit skateboards, and he ignores the car following him the whole way there.

He has had just under a week to plan out exactly how this meeting is going to go. And he's sure that it's going to be the worst meeting ever. Of all time.

After a solid hour and a half of skating, he finds himself in front of the aquarium's main entrance holding his skateboard and trying not to pass out because, wow, he's out of shape. Fuck.

(The car pulls into the parking lot and idles under a broken streetlight. Inside, the driver reaches into the passenger seat and opens a backpack.)

Doubled over and struggling for breath, legs sore and shaking like jelly, Cellbit looks up at the two ceramic dolphin statues flanking the aquarium's doors. The lights at their bases paints them a bright pink, and Cellbit kind of fucking hates them, actually. (Bad memories.)

He's two and a half hours late, so he takes his time picking up his skateboard and tucking it under his arm. He takes even longer to pull out his phone and text his accomplice the first code phrase of the night:

'I'm awake.'

A few seconds later, the aquarium's doors audibly click themselves unlocked, and the security cameras hidden in the dolphins' eyes go a bit fuzzy. Their video feed will already have been looping footage from eleven p.m., but now they're also looping audio. (Or something, Cellbit never was the security guy of the team.)

With a sigh, Cellbit brushes a chunk of hair out of his eyes and behind his ear, and he enters the aquarium.

Tonight, nothing is going to happen. He's decided this. Whatever deal Hombre Misterioso wants to make with him won't happen. Nothing will happen.

Cellbit walks past the first coral reef of the building. The tank's lights are off, so he can't see the fish inside. But the emergency exit sign by the nearby bathrooms light the whole room a vibrant (beautiful) red.

Nothing will happen.

Hombre Misterioso hadn't told Cellbit where exactly in the aquarium to meet them, so he's stuck going through each and every room in order looking for them. Which. Sucks.

Even his accomplice in the car hadn't been able to find Hombre Misterioso on any of the cameras on the way to the aquarium; he'd apologized even as Cellbit asked him why he was hacking and driving at the same time, Really? That's the kind of example you're setting here? Being reckless? What'll Richarlyson think?

So Cellbit goes through the first coral reef. He passes the penguins. He walks past the freshwater fish.

...He pauses in front of the tank full of piranhas. Pygocentrus nattereri, the red-bellied piranha.

He looks at the sleeping fish. The tank is dark enough that he can see himself in its reflection, and he does not like what he sees.

His phone buzzes in his pocket:

'Isn't he cute??? 🥰😭'

And then there's a picture of Richarlyson asleep in the car's back seat snuggled up against a huge Pikachu Squishmallow and wearing one of Pac's hoodies and using it as a blanket.

Despite himself, Cellbit smiles.

His smile freezes as a gust of cold wind brushes against the back of his neck.

He spins around, phone buzzing with picture after picture after picture being uploaded to the family group chat. And he finds himself inches away from Hombre Misterioso's face.

"You're late," they plainly say.

They're so close to Cellbit that he can actually feel the faint exhales through the gas mask's filter. But, despite the proximity, he can't see their eyes. It's too dark, and the glass is too thick.

Silently, Cellbit turns his phone off with a press of the button. He slides it into his back pocket.

Hombre Misterioso's head tilts curiously to the left. "You aren't wearing a mask."

Cellbit shrugs, crossing his arms. "Figured there wasn't a point. What do you want."

It isn't a question. Cellbit already knows what they want. He's just being polite.

Hombre Misterioso doesn't move.

Cellbit blinks, and then they're crouched in front of the piranha tank poking a gloved finger against the glass repeatedly.

"-name was originally supposed to be 'Piranha'," they say, apparently in the middle of a sentence that Cellbit didn't get to hear the first part of, "but you said that that's actually some sort of slang in Brazil."

Cellbit's mind races, what? When did he...

Oh.

Cellbit snorts humorlessly. "Never let journalists name you. The Demon learned the hard way, he wanted to be called 'the Muffin Man'."

"That's terrible," Hombre Misterioso comments. They stand and turn to face Cellbit again. "I learned from you. I gave the police my name, just like you did."

"Yeah, because you're stupid," Cellbit snaps. "Why would you even contact the police?"

"Because they're stupid. They really thought that I was you."

Cellbit can practically hear their offended eye roll; he doesn't know whether he should be offended or not. No, right?

Whatever.

"Still stupid," he huffs. He can feel his phone blowing up with texts in his pocket. What is Pac doing?

Hombre Misterioso's head tilts again. This time, their entire body tilts with them as if they're trying to get a look at Cellbit's back.

"You were late," they say, "and you're communicating with someone."

They finally notice his skateboard, and they visibly double-take.

"Did you skateboard here?" they ask, looking back up at him.

Cellbit ignores them. This is a bad meeting, and nothing will happen.

"Whatever you're doing with the Federation, you should just give up," he tells them. His mouth tastes sour just from the insinuation that he's on the Federation's side, but it's fine. It's part of the plan.

Judging by the way Hombre Misterioso's shoulders tense, the plan is working.

Cellbit bites back a smirk and continues, pacing away from them and heading further into the aquarium: "It isn't worth it. They're too strong."

He turns the corner towards the manta rays, and Hombre Misterioso is by the touch tank. Waiting.

"What are you talking about?" they quietly ask, and, wow, even their voice modulator sounds offended. Perfect.

Cellbit just shrugs. "I retired for a reason, man. It's pointless to even try."

Hombre Misterioso's fists curl at their sides. "Right."

"I'm telling the truth! After Sharkboy fought me that day, I realized that there was no point in continuing to fight the Federation."

He walks calmly past Hombre Misterioso and the rays. (He makes a mental note to bring Bagi here one day soon; they can make up for lost time.)

"Enigma-"

"Enigma is dead!" Cellbit snaps. (Rude, irritable, annoying-)

He's walking into the next room as his phone actually rings.

Oh, no.

Hombre Misterioso can fuck themselves, if Cellbit's accomplice is calling, then something has gone terribly wrong.

In a flash, he has his phone out, and he has it to his ear.

"What?" he demands in Portuguese (can't take any risks...)

"I'm so sorry," Pac breathes, "I tried to stop him, but-"

Cellbit freezes. "Stop who? What happened?"

"Thank goodness the cameras are still hacked, Bagi would kill us if she got this footage..."

Ignoring Hombre Misterioso's still form in the other room, Cellbit leans against the big open doorway and puts his face in one hand with a groan.

"Calm down," he says. "Just tell me what happened. Do I-"

He's cut off mid-sentence as he hears a very familiar voice shout from the piranha room, "Stop, villain!"

And then he's dropping his phone to the floor and booking it across the room. Fuck Hombre Misterioso, fuck Hombre Misterioso, fuck the plan, fuck, fuck-!

Hombre Misterioso is still by the tank.

And then they aren't. They're running towards the door to the piranha room with their sword drawn.

And a bunch of piranhas with legs are running out of the piranha room and right towards Hombre Misterioso.

Cellbit grins proudly despite the whole Thing going on. That's his kid!

His face pales. That's his kid.

"What the fuck is this?" Hombre Misterioso demands, swinging their sword at the piranhas.

Cellbit answers by pulling out his skateboard from under his arm and swinging it right at their big stupid head. It CRACK!s against their skull and splits right down the middle, sending them staggering forward right into a piranha's jaws.

Suddenly, the aquarium's lights all turn on. That'll be Pac, then. But... why? What the fuck are the lights going to do?

Abandoning his skateboard, Cellbit runs past a very angry Hombre Misterioso and into the piranha room.

Richarlyson, standing by the tank holding his iPad, grins and waves with one hand.

"You," Cellbit hisses, running forward and scooping his son into his arms, "are so grounded."

Over Cellbit's shoulder, Richarlyson continues drawing more piranhas on his tablet. More fizzle into existence around the two of them and charge towards Hombre Misterioso.

Entirely unconcerned, Richarlyson shrugs and says, "They put you in the hospital. Fuck them."

"You were supposed to stay in the car!"

"You really thought I was gonna do that?"

Cellbit groans, "He said he was going to have you under control!"

"Get a babysitter next time. I want Uncle Bad."

"Do you know how late it is?"

"Uh, yeah. Uncle Bad lets me stay up this late all the time."

"Then Uncle Bad is grounded, too," Cellbit declares.

He manages to take one step with Richarlyson in his arms before he's being choked from behind by two very strong hands.

"Leaving so soon?" Hombre Misterioso taunts. "We haven't even gotten acquainted yet!"

Richarlyson gasps and squirms, trying to get free, but there's no way Cellbit is letting him loose in a room with a supervillain. What kind of parent would he be if he did that?

But. But he can't breathe.

(But he can smell blood.)

"Now," Hombre Misterioso muses, leaning in close, so close that Cellbit can feel their voice rumble down the length of his spine, "who do we have here?"

Frantically, Cellbit's eyes flick towards the room's security camera. Pac, hello? Fucking hello?

Richarlyson responds by smashing his iPad into Hombre Misterioso's face.

They shout in alarm and recoil, hands momentarily lifting from off of Cellbit's neck.

But that moment is all Cellbit needs.

He spins and takes off in the opposite direction from the entrance. It'll loop around eventually, he knows it.

As he brushes past Hombre Misterioso, he subtly extends a hand towards their body, and then he closes said hand into a fist. He runs, and he gets farther away, and he pulls, and-

And Hombre Misterioso is in front of him with their sword pointed directly at his chest- at Richarlyson's back.

At Richarlyson's back.

Cellbit skids to a stop. He takes a step backwards.

Hombre Misterioso follows him, step for step, inch for inch, head slowly cocking to the side with every passing second.

"I see," they lowly say.

They laugh, slowly. Deliberately. "Hah. Hah. Hah."

Teeth grit, Cellbit adjusts his hold on his son- one-handed.

(He can smell blood.)

He whispers, "Be ready to run back to the car. And take the board with you."

Richarlyson grumbles, but he knows better than to argue when it comes to the skateboard; it's sacred.

To Hombre Misterioso, Cellbit says, "Fun fact, piranhas are actually pretty chill animals. They're omnivores."

"Cool," Hombre Misterioso responds. "But what about you?"

By his side, Cellbit's hand angles itself towards Hombre Misterioso's body. They're bleeding somewhere...

"Oh," Cellbit mildly answers. "I like meat."

For whatever reason, Hombre Misterioso pauses at that. And it's a real pause, not one of their... weird pauses.

That's fine! Perfect, even.

In one swift, motion, Cellbit turns on his heel and ducks towards the ground. With one arm, he puts Richarlyson on the floor. With the other he closes his hand into a fist, and he jerks his arm back as if he's shooting a bow and arrow.

Immediately, blood comes shooting out of a wound on the back of Hombre Misterioso's thigh, hidden by their cloak but absolutely caused by Richarlyson's drawings.

They cry out in pain and crumple to the ground, dragged down by their own blood as it ties itself around the leg of a nearby bench into a knot, signaled by a flick of Cellbit's wrist.

"Go!" Cellbit shouts, not looking behind himself.

He hears Richarlyson run for it, little feet tapping against the floor.

And then, it's just him and Hombre Misterioso once again.

Sniffing back a nosebleed, Cellbit stands. He wobbles on his feet slightly, but he manages to walk past Hombre Misterioso and towards his abandoned phone. He picks it up and sighs at the cracked screen.

Great.

Hombre Misterioso struggles to stand, but the blood rope keeps them on the floor.

"I told you before," Cellbit tells them, sliding his phone back into his pocket. "I'm not interested in helping you."

He looks at them and shakes his head.

"I can connect you with the Order," he continues, "but that's as far as I'm willing to go. I'm done. With... with all this."

Hombre Misterioso's grip on their sword tightens.

And then they laugh, tossing their sword to the side and collapsing onto their belly on the floor.

Cellbit takes a hesitant step backwards, body tensing as they just laugh and laugh and laugh.

"Good!" they cackle. "Good! You've still got conviction! I'm impressed, Enigma!"

"There is no Enigma. There hasn't been in years, and there never will be again."

"Mhmm, I get that. But you've convinced me. I don't need Enigma anymore."

(As they look up at him, Cellbit swears that they're smiling.)

"I just need you."

With that, the aquarium's lights shut off again, probably Pac trying to help.

Cellbit's eyes adjust to the darkness. When he can see again, Hombre Misterioso is gone, and a trail of blood is left where they laid on the floor.

...Fuck.

---

A/N: Let me know what you think in the tags or in my inbox! I want to hear your theories, thoughts, opinions, everything!

[osamucide]

⊹ YOU CAN BE THE BOSS

ACT I: HE HAD A CIGARETTE WITH HIS NUMBER ON IT.

wc: 3.1k

cw: alternate universe, pm boss!dazai, pm+gn!afab!reader, alcohol, cigarettes, implied/referenced drug use, canon-typical violence and referenced violence, implied/referenced ilicit activities including but not limited to prostitution, extortion, drug dealing, and fraud, kind of exposition heavy+not proofread sorry, more specific chapter warnings to come with each

reid: after losing almost all of it, chapter one is here! i hope you enjoy - im excited for whats to come. do let me know where you see this going, and if you'd liked tagged <3

⊹ SCENE I: He gave it over to me, “Do you want it?”

You consider it with an interest masked well-enough by years of practiced stoicism. If there’s one thing the mafia has taught you, it’s to never give anything up easily—not your money, not your body, not your time, not your interest. But the end of the filter touts a brand you've never heard of before, and the man who holds it in your direction, hands deceivingly delicate, is almost too well-known to you.

You are already smoking a cigarette of your own (albeit a brand likely far cheaper and less foreign), but then you spot the writing. A phone number.

Your eyes flick up to his. Dark. Dark as the night you stand in on the rooftop. The lights from the LED floor below, twitching with color, paint him deep red for a moment.

You bow only slightly, as smoothly as you can—that was the first thing you probably should've done, would’ve done if you weren’t a few cocktails deep, but the smirk already on his face—one you knew for a fact you’ve never seen through his own rehearsed mask throughout all the years you’ve worked for him—just cracks deeper.

"Boss," you address him, shuffling your drink into the same hand as your lit smoke before reaching to take the unlit invitation. "Need me to run it?" The number, you mean. Regardless of what implications are initially prompted by a phone number, you settle it on taking it as he needs it traced immediately, and you need to settle on something before you start stuttering at where the nuances of this seconds-long interaction have taken your silly little brain so far. You were mostly on the ground, giving up time and other things when and where you needed in order to get what you wanted—what you needed, and more importantly what the Port Mafia needed, but you'd skulked around intelligence enough to know standard prodecure, and right now you have, at the very least, your personal device and your work phone on you. You were nearby. He had a job for you. For someone. For anyone. That's all.

"No, no," he speaks in a cadence like a fairy jumping from one cloud to another as he taps his own smoke out of the pack. He feels his pockets and looks to you. "My personal phone number. Light?”

Oh, you almost verbalize it, but you're tucking the information in your shirt pocket so quickly and absentmindedly at the following command (if you could even call it a command—it's more a request, but anything he might ask of you, especially directly, certainly holds the weight of a command) before scrambling for your lighter. Any assignment you might be sent on would regularly be passed from him to one of the executives to a subexecutive to your division leader to you, never skipping those middlemen. You hardly ever met with the man who employed you throughout your years at the Port—you could count on less than one hand the times you had—so you look to him, confused, as you open a flame for him, but he just leans forward, dark eyes lit and melted brown for a single second as he cups a lithe hand around the end of the cigarette and puffs, puffs, silently. He almost looks like a kid. Not a god. Just a twenty-something in some club lights. But he is, indeed, more than that, you know. The first bit of smoke flies toward your face. You feel the need to step back, but he does first.

That relaxed, cryptic half-smile returns as he nods his thanks.

You bow again, so shallowly it feels like a crime—even, or maybe especially, among the company you're in—before you can flinch at the realization of where you are, what you're doing, who exactly is in front of you.

You drink often, sure, but clubbing is a luxury, and clubbing in one of Yokohama's most exclusive rooftop lounges is even more rare to come by, but the Port had recently made consequential strides in swaying a legislation to expand on both the individual and business rights of ability users, and the boss—the very man in front of you, who used successes like this as an excuse to get fucked up just as much as anyone else in the organization—is now putting his subexecs as well as his political allies and prospects up in hotels, buying them hundred-thousand yen bottles of wine, hooking everyone up with the best drugs for the low, showing his fucking face and painting himself as best businessman he can possibly be and if you're honest, the subtlety so coy it's almost theatrical and that sick little smile he wears would’ve worked on you if you weren’t so lost. He's notoriously cunning, always had been, even when he was young. His displays of grandeur, penchant for the dramatic—you certainly wouldn’t be alone in saying it only makes him more terrifying.

You're going to chalk it up in your liquor-fuzzed brain to just that—the fuzz of the liquor. But he doesn't seem especially intoxicated, nor has he done anything especially attention-stealing, and yet, here you are, lips parted for words as you watch a ring of smoke curl around him. You feel stupid for thinking he’s ever looked in your direction before this moment. Maybe he doesn't even realize you're one of his employees.

But no, all of what he does, and this you know about him, even if you're unsure what he knows about you, none of it is without motive. So you wonder what his aim is here.

“Pardon me, sir,” you continue, slowly, mindful that your tongue might be a little loose. Not like you socialized with many people on occasions such as this, let alone your boss. The boss. “But for what?”

He looks briefly as if he doesn't hear you. With his face turned to the sky and the filter on his lips, you do your best not to stare. The lights are not doing his sharp features any disservice.

“To call me.”

You wind yourself tight so you don't reel. He says it so casually; he examines the smoke between his fingers like it's an expensive piece of jewelry. A tremble threatens you. You're glad he's still turned to the stars. A pull off your cigarette, a sip of your drink. An inaudible sigh of amazement. Confusion.

The world becomes red from below again as his eyes slide back to yours.

“You’ll call me,” his voice softens in a way that catches you off-guard more than anything else he’s done thus far, “right?”

You try to recount everything you’ve done over the past few years. Surely this isn’t a ploy, right? Your loyalty to the Port is virtually unwavering. If you’d done anything wrong, you weren’t aware of it. In fact, you pride yourself on how many fingers you still have compared to how many you've seen cut off at the first knuckle. Still, he was famed in his youth for his capability to torture without mercy. You’ve seen plenty, but even you hate to imagine some of the things you've heard.

Your pounding pulse registers in your consciousness; you've pinched the filter of your cigarette so long that it’s gone out. What can you say? Or rather, what can’t you say? You must look exceptionally thoughtful in the lifetime-long space of the half-second it actually takes you to respond because, really, whether you want to or not, whether it dragged anxiety up your throat, you would do it anyway. How are you supposed to say no to the man in front of you, the leader of the Port Mafia, or worse—lie and not follow through? That itself might warrant some sort of accusation. Some sort of trouble you don't want. If you knew for a fact it was that, truthfully, you would've thrown yourself at his feet like a dog and began apologizing immediately.

But no, this would be roundabout, even for him. He's extravagant, but he's mechanical, too. A grandiose machine. He could shoot you between your eyes right now and maintain his balance, his image, whatever he wants. If he wanted you dead, you suppose you wouldn’t be standing against the rooftop railing with the sweat of your drink dripping through your fingers. So you answer, dutifully.

“Yes, sir.”

And in your good training you even raise the corners of your lips to mirror his. A defensive move away from a man you should probably feel safer with than you do. Your boss. The boss.

Defensive. For what?

Cryptic. He smiles again, vacant and chilling. You can only hope you hold enough of an air to match.

And he disappears back into the pulsing nightlife as wordlessly as he’d emerged from it. Only after he's gone do you let yourself look aghast. Your lips, slightly parted. Your smoke, tamped. The ice in your drink watering it down. Your eyes unfocused. You feel suddenly more drunk, and you didn’t know if it's for better or for worse.

It isn't really complicated—the reason you're with the mafia. You're resilient and hardworking and you're too aware that traditional routes of employment are decreasingly offering security to honest people with drive anymore and all the more, honestly, you’ve been slipping through the cracks for as long as you can remember. Although you have scars to show for it and a list of dirty laundry to do each week, the Port has yet to steer you wrong. Your integrity is celebrated. You justify a whole hell of a lot of what you do by telling yourself it isn’t all bad—the legislation that would come to pass soon, for example, largely thanks to the influence of the leaders of your faction, would benefit more gifteds around Yokohama—throughout Japan, even—than just those in the mafia. You understand yourself as a common person doing what you need to get by, and really, who wasn't? Your work gets done with the interest of the unfortunate majority you've always been a part of in mind, more than any stuffy office job could ever claim to be.

And your boss, for as horrifying of a man as he's known to be, runs an operation that's put more money in your pocket in the last few years than working your way up the ladder of some miserable corporate office would in a lifetime. You're comfortable. Safe, by your own standards. Happy, even, after your few and fair promotions within your division over the years.

Happy as you can be, anyway. And maybe that’s what this is: another promotion, if it wasn't an invitation to get your ass beat on your personal time. Everything about either of those seems more likely than an opportunity to get anywhere near him on equal ground or whatever lit up in your brain at first before you shoved it down, turned it off like the good soldier you are. Your stomach twists either way. You imagine your name after the title division leader.

So you’ll call him. But right now, you down the rest of your drink and seek out the bar—the open bar which he had paid for for the entire night—sure to tumble yourself into overserved territory with one more.

"Same thing." You waggle your empty glass at the bartender as one of your divisionmates stumbles to your side, drink of her own empty in her hand.

Her name is Iyomi, and you've had enough amicable interactions with her to consider her a friend. Maybe that's stupid in the mafia; it certainly goes against your original philosophy—from some years ago when you were younger and maybe even more jaded than you were now—which was that you were here to fly solo, get your work done, stay quiet, and find time to repair the parts of yourself you had so long sought the stability in order to do. But you're older now—still jaded, undoubtedly, but you've lost that certain determination that's only available to the youth; anymore, you feel a hopelessness about you that grows like a tumor, and it makes things difficult to take seriously. You're dying, and so is everyone, and that's why you will let yourself get so wasted tonight. Your bartender slides your glass back to you, and Iyomi latches onto your arm.

"Is that—was—were you just talking to the boss?" She slurs loudly and incredulously, and you hush her, hush her, laugh because you can't help it, hush her again. She moves on soon enough; she's swaying, flagging down the bartender, complaining that she hasn't been able to find her friend and her drinks have not been strong enough all evening, but even in the state you're in, you consider motioning for someone to fill her glass with water instead of whatever neon blue concoction she's been downing.

When you shuffle back to your post on the railing to light another cigarette (not the one with the number on it, pointedly), Iyomi follows you like a loyal dog. It's a bit endearing, how you're seasoned enough in your work that newer recruits tend to look up to you—people like Iyomi soften your stony heart a bit, so you let her start up again.

"That's—I don't think I've ever even spoken to him, like, ever—like, what was he—bleh!" She waves your smoke away from her face as it stings her eyes and puts a few inches between you; granted, she was falling all over you. You can't help your smile.

"It was nothing. Tell you the truth, I think he's as drunk as the rest of us," you said. You remind yourself to relax a little to avoid incrimination on behalf of your shaking hands. You could probably play it off as the nicotine, but Iyomi's too plastered to notice anyway.

"So strange!" she giggles, adopting your pose—elbows rested on the rail, feet crossed at the ankle. "Anyway, I saw Akane dancing with one of Nakahara's subexecs, and I wasn't gonna say anything but I think they left together and I..."

She continues to chatter in the sweet voice of hers, and you scan the rooftop for any sign of the boss. He's disappeared. It was about the time of the night (or morning, rather) when people were doubling over sick, passing out in their VIP seating, damning themselves to a tomorrow of work with a thrumming hangover. You decide you'll help yourself to a few more drinks, maybe dance with Iyomi, and then go home. The cigarette in your suit jacket pocket is heavy like a gun.

⊹ SCENE II: . . . I knew it was wrong, but I palmed it.

If you're honest—which you are often, as previously established (your correspondence with Iyomi last night aside)—you can't remember getting back to your apartment.

You remember very well talking to the boss. You remember agreeing to call him. You remember smoking cigarette after cigarette until you finally did leave, but the leaving itself is blurry—you think you'd walked most if not all the way back if your sore calf muscles were anything to go by, but you end up fishing a crumpled train ticket out of your jacket pocket the next morning with the cigarette.

The cigarette. You let it roll side to side in your palm before it settles.

The writing is less than neat, but impressive enough for obivously being done on the tubing after it was rolled. Treasurer is what the filter reads, beneath an elegant printed seal. Unknown brand of pen ink disregarded, you briefly wonder about the monetary value of the thing in your hand. He's daunting to you—the boss and all his wealth and influence, even in the privacy of your home.

After tucking it neatly between two books on the decorative table near your slider, you shake the feeling and go about your day.

It's less than notable. You run into colleagues who were shitfaced just six hours ago. Some are very obviously still hopped up on something. You flash your teeth and play nice with everyone, just as always, despite the slight headache thumping at the inside of your skull. You're usually never achy after a night of indulging—it had to be all those damn cigarettes you smoked.

You do your little to-do's. You go represent your division at a meeting in a bar with your branch's subexec, and you're surprised to see the executive your division falls under there—her name is Koyou, and she's a stunning woman with scarlet hair and a voice that's always set you slightly on edge. She never says much, and this meeting is no different; she nods, she hums, she drinks a glass of wine and speaks a total of seven words before you're dismissed. You follow up with your division leader on the meeting—routine reporting, monthly headcount, housecleaning—as well as some paperwork about a small foreign syndicate your division had been assigned to sniff out. Everything's in order and nothing's come of the group. Not yet, anyway. Everyone's in good spirits in light of the recent private endorsement. Your overtime pay could increase soon enough, so it's enough to keep you regarding your associates with pleasantries throughout the day.

And you get home, unreasonably tired from scampering around the bars the rest of the evening. You had little to drink, only one at each, but you're warm enough and your headache's disappeared completely and you remember the cigarette on your little table.

The sliding door leads out to a balcony—a modest one, but it allows you to recline with a smoke, so it's all you'll ever need.

You're seated when you glare down the number again. Your pack is on the little table—the one outside, almost identical to the one just inside your door but more built for withstanding the elements—but you punch the number into your contacts and snatch up your lighter before you can wonder if the next day is too soon. Or, if any longer would lack punctuality and respect for the boss's time. Or what this is at all. What are you doing?

You almost feel stupid again as your thumb hovers over the "call" button. This is something you will have to face. This is something you will have to do. Isn't it?

You stick the filter of the Treasurer between your lips and flick your lighter. The 0 at the end of the number goes up in ash.

And it rings.

It rings a few times, and you don't expect anything other than that from here on out. In fact, through your first puff off this exquisite tobacco, you resign yourself to lowering all your expectations for this. You're nervous in one way, but you're dying in another. Maybe either your hands are holding the thing that'll do it. Whatever. You're tipsy enough. It's nighttime and no one can see you but God.

You're ashing the Treasurer into your tray as the line clicks and your name is spoken in a voice you can't mistake. One that, too, sets you on edge. But you play the part right now, for no one but yourself. Maybe for God.

"Boss," you respond, softly, dutifully. Your smoke dissipates on the quiet breeze.

"I'm glad you called."