#mom: for me? its for your religion!

[themuseoftheviolets]

'the bible says a man who doesn't work doesn't deserve to eat' literally kill yourself

[lago-morpha]

seeing what catholics do to eat meat on 1 day is insane as someone that keeps kashrut. WEAK

[blossomzip]

lord i thought you'd at least be here, elizabeth metzger ◇ not strong enough, boygenius ◇ psalm 39:7 (nrsv) ◇ for lovers who hesitate, jannabi ◇ kindness, naomi shihab nye ◇ coming to this, mark strand ◇ epilogue (finale), les misérables ◇ haven, novo amor

‘Hope is situated within the framework of the trial, not only corresponding to it, but constituting our being’s veritable response’. Such trials are a potential cause of despair in which subjects ‘go to pieces’ or lose themselves […] Marcel is concerned not with intentional hopes, but ultimately with a particular form of dispositional hope which he expresses as ‘I hope in thee for us’. […] Marcel locates such hope against a background of faith in God.

— 5. Marcel on hope

‘til god breaks this spell

joshua's devotion to you rivals his devotion to his god.

♫ spell by niki pairing: joshua x fem!reader word count: 4.6k cw: a lot of religious reflection (catholicism) tags: childhood best friends, angst, not the happy ending you probably want sorry, the one that got away, joshua is a good catholic boy, reader is atheist a/n: the very first fic i wrote was a bts jinkook fic that was inspired by la la lost you by niki. seems fitting that i start my svt writing journey with another niki inspired song hehe. other than that, idk what compelled me to torture myself (and now you) like this. also, this was written in one, flustered go so it's barely edited oops!

“mom, what would you do if i married someone who didn’t believe in god?”

joshua’s mother immediately set her novel down, glasses slipping down her nose as she frowned at her one and only son. he didn’t look up at her, choosing to stare down at his hands instead while he twirled the friendship ring he shared with you around his pinkie finger.

“married?” she repeated. “i wasn’t even aware you had someone in your life.”

he shook his head quickly, frowning down at his open palm as he began to massage it nervously. “i don’t. i’m just… curious, i guess.”

it might be silly to be as worried about this as he is, seeing as things haven’t progressed into a relationship yet, but he’d rather figure this out now and say nothing than risk it, go all in, and then cause unnecessary pain later on.

his mother stays silent long enough that he forces himself to look at her. her eyes are no longer on him, instead seemingly zoning out on the space straight ahead. he follows her gaze and grimaces when he realizes she’s staring at the wooden carving of the last supper hung on the wall.

“i wouldn’t do anything,” she begins carefully. “you’re a grown man, after all. but i would worry that marrying a partner who didn’t believe in god—any god at all—would make you stray from your own faith.”

it’s a diplomatic answer and he expected it; his mom has always been supportive of him, always allowing him the space and freedom to make his own mistakes and learn from them—or not.

“so you’d prefer i marry catholic?”

“i mean, of course, but that’s not what i said, was it?” his mom retorts, giving him a pointed look. she knew joshua had a way of misunderstanding a lot of the things she told him. “i would prefer you marry catholic the way i would prefer you marry at all—nice to have but if you don’t, it’s not the end of the world.”

joshua nods, feeling a little bit of the tightness in his chest dissipate.

“i would just hope you think about it long and hard enough to know that you won’t compromise any of your own beliefs for someone who lives without a god,” she emphasizes.

joshua mulls that idea over. is his faith strong enough to withstand a lifelong partner who didn’t share his belief and love for god?

he wants to say yes. it’s you—of course he wants to say yes. you’ve been friends your whole lives, and he’s been in love with you for most of that time. of course he wants his answer to be: yes, my faith will survive a relationship with an atheist.

but he thinks about the conversations you’ve already had years ago, and the tightness in his chest returns tenfold.

is there anything that could happen that would make you believe in god?

probably not. it just seems too convenient that there’s someone out there in charge of everyone’s lives.

would you marry someone religious?

i don’t know. i guess it depends on the person. i don’t think i’d participate or convert or anything if i did, though.

what about kids? would you baptize them if you did marry someone religious?

dude, what’s with the interrogation? i don’t know! if it’s important to my partner, maybe? but i’d be most comfortable just letting my kids figure it out themselves. can we watch a movie now?

and each time you answered his question, instead of accepting that maybe there was a major incompatibility between the two of you, joshua would find himself thinking of the things he could compromise on.

okay, sure, he doesn’t need you to convert or participate; he’s already been going to church his entire adult life so far without anyone accompanying him. and if you didn’t want children baptized, that’s fine too! adults go through catholic confirmation later in life all the time! so what if you thought that the idea of a “big guy” controlling everyone’s lives was weird? he could just refrain from talking about that around you… or correcting your line of thinking because it’s a bit of a gross oversimplification of catholicism.

and as he sits there, his mother already back to her novel, he realizes his faith isn’t strong enough to survive you. because his love for you has become somewhat of its own religion to him, and if it came down to a question of his faith to you or his faith to god, he has to be honest with himself and admit that his mother’s fears are valid. he would put it all on the line if it meant being with you.

and he can’t do that.

he’s committed all kinds of sins by now. he’s been flexible in his beliefs—supportive and progressive in areas where other catholics have been unforgiving and in his opinion, outdated and bigoted. he’s compromised a lot at no cost to him or his god. but he can’t completely lose everything he’s known and loved for you. he can’t lose himself to you.

he can't forget that it isn't fair to you either—to have to try and appease him and his religion. he'd be doing you both a mercy, letting this spark die before it ever really takes flame.

joshua leaves his mother’s house knowing one thing is for sure: it’s time to let this dream of having you go.

the end is short and uneventful.

you two had only kissed once, and things hadn’t gone far enough for either of you to confess your feelings—whatever they were. so when joshua told you he thought it was better to stay best friends, you took it like a champ and agreed, smiling and hugging him tightly, promising him that nothing would change.

the end was short and uneventful, yet somehow the most devastating thing joshua has experienced. he had you. you were right there. he had a whole life with you in his palm, and he let it go.

he hates himself for it, but he saw it all. the moment his lips met yours, he saw hands intertwined together, late nights, car rides with his hand on your thigh, hugs from behind while he cooked for you, a suit and a white dress, a small, innocent face that looked like the both of you—your smile, his eyes.

and he feels like maybe you saw it too.

because when you both pulled away, you looked up at him like this was it—like you had just run a marathon and you had reached the finish line. like you’d grabbed his hand and crossed it with him. you smiled widely, wrapped your hand around the back of his neck, and caressed the skin there as your foreheads met. and you fell asleep wrapped up in each other like it was where you were both meant to be.

maybe you saw it too. and now he’s the reason it’ll stay a dream.

you stay true to your promise. joshua is almost saddened by how easy it seems for you to revert back to being only friends. every time he sees you, hears you, brushes up against you, he feels like his heart is cracking wide open and the world might just end at that very moment. it’s dramatic but he can’t wrap his mind around any other way to exist.

it hurts for a while, but the years pass a little easier.

he watches you date, and even though he’s secretly and unfairly relieved every time you throw someone else to the curb, he takes it well. he meets some of them and welcomes them warmly, agreeing to hang out with you and whoever you’re dating any time you ask him to. he even thinks one or two of them could give you a good life; he can live thinking of you with these ones forever. but you inevitably leave them behind and he hates that it makes him happy to watch you shake off a good guy that isn’t him.

just as he planned, joshua’s faith remains strong. he goes to church. he volunteers with his mom and her bible study friends. he sings and plays guitar on the praise and worship team from time to time. he meets a a catholic woman he thinks could be a match for him. he never asks her out. he politely declines when she musters up the courage to do it herself.

he thinks this could be fine. maybe he’ll be single forever and maybe you’ll find some average guy he can stomach, and his love for his god and for your happiness will keep him warm enough at night.

but then, you meet kwon soonyoung.

you’ve never been one to fall and tell; most of the time, joshua doesn’t know you’re dating someone until you decide it’s time to get his stamp of approval. he knows soonyoung is different from the jump.

your time starts to get tied up. it starts with only seeing him sporadically throughout the month instead of almost every day. it becomes rescheduling all your hangouts until you’re only seeing each other briefly at mutual friends’ events. it ends with missed calls and ignored texts.

he’s driving himself crazy wondering what’s going on, and when you post a photo on your story of a dinner date with a faceless man, he understands what’s happening. you’re falling in love. and he knows it because you never have—not truly—and this is what it must look like.

you don’t fall and tell, but joshua knows you too well to pretend it’s anything but this. he doesn’t try to take up any more of your time out of respect, and you don’t reach out.

you prove him right when a few months later, you bring soonyoung to a friend’s dinner party, and you introduce him as your boyfriend. it hits joshua like a truck. you’ve never introduced someone to him as a boyfriend. he’s always met the people you’ve dated before it progressed that far. he also had the privilege of meeting them privately, not with the rest of the friend group, none of who are privy to the way his heart collapses in on itself when he watches the way you lean into soonyoung all night. the way you laugh with him. the way his eyes disappear from how fondly he smiles at you. the way he seems to fit right into your life so perfectly.

you hug joshua tightly that night before leaving, and you tell him you miss him so much and you two need to catch up soon. neither of you follow up, though, and a year later, you’re engaged.

the week before joshua is due at your wedding as a guest—not your “man-of-honor” the way you’ve always planned your entire life—he gets completely shit-faced drunk.

he’s sitting on the sidewalk in front of a puddle of his own vomit when you quietly sit beside him, slipping your arm around his shoulders. he doesn’t know why you’re there. he doesn’t know if he’s hallucinating. he smiles anyway.

“hey, you.”

“hey, shua,” you whisper, smiling at him sadly. “what are you doing?”

“oh, y’know,” he shrugs, grinning at himself pathetically. “just hanging out.”

you hum, nodding.

“what are you doing here?” he asks.

you look at him with an inscrutable expression. “i just wanted to see you,” you answer. “i wanted to see my best friend.”

“am i?” he asks, looking up at the sky. the moon is covered by clouds tonight. “your best friend?”

“of course. you always will be.”

he smiles at the thought. he’s too drunk to realize there’s no possible way that’s true, not since soonyoung came into your life. he’s too drunk to remember there’s no room in your life for another man who’s just as hopelessly in love with you as your fiance is.

“say, do you believe in god yet?” he asks suddenly.

you raise an eyebrow at the suddenness of the question. “um, i haven’t thought about it lately.”

he nods. “okay.”

“joshua, what are you doing here?” you ask again. “what are you really doing here?”

he doesn’t remember what he tells you. what he does remember is waking up in the room he grew up in instead of his apartment, with his mother at the foot of his childhood bed, tears welling in her eyes.

“was it y/n?” she asks.

he frowns. “what?”

“when you asked what i would do if you married someone who didn’t believe in god all those years ago,” she explains, sniffling a little as she does. “were you talking about y/n?”

he doesn’t answer.

the events of the previous night catch up to him, and he remembers where he is—where his life is. he’s a handful of days from watching you marry someone else. he’s a handful of days from losing the one person he’s ever fallen in love with to someone else.

and all joshua has to show for it is his goddamn faith, and suddenly, for the first time since he asked his mother that question, he’s not sure it was worth it. because either way, he knows he’ll be devoted to you until the day he dies; he might as well have had you by his side all this time.

he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. when he fails, he can’t help the sobs that begin to rack his body.

he buries the heel of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars.

“she’s marrying him,” he groans through his sobs. “she’s marrying him, mom.”

“oh, joshua. i know.” he feels his mom’s hand squeeze his leg. “oh, baby, i’m so sorry.”

“i can’t do this. i can’t do it,” he wheezes, feeling like his lungs are collapsing under the weight of his ribs. “why did i do this? i can’t do this.”

she doesn’t try to convince him he can do this. she doesn’t try to argue that he didn’t do anything wrong. she doesn’t tell him to calm down. she collects him in her arms and she holds him, comforting him the way only a mother knows how to.

when he starts to calm down, she kisses the crown of his head.

“the pain you must’ve endured all this time. i’m so sorry, joshua. if i had known who you were talking about, i would’ve said something entirely different.”

he untangles himself from her embrace to look at his mother. “what do you mean?”

she wipes at her own tear-stained cheeks before cupping her son’s face. “oh, sweetheart. it’s y/n. you grew up with her. i know her like i would my own daughter.”

his mother shakes her head and joshua feels like he sees all his regret mirrored in her face. she pulls him to sit against the wall his bed is pushed up against, joining him as they both stare out the opposite window.

“there are some people who lead godly lives without even knowing it,” she informs him. “you say she doesn’t believe in god, but i don’t believe you.” his stomach lurches. “that girl has lived as godly a life as you and i have. she doesn’t need to be catholic to do that, baby. you know her. there isn’t a single universe where that girl would’ve led you away from your faith.”

joshua stammers now. “but… i…”

“all the sundays she tagged along for mass with us because she just wanted to be with her best friend when she could’ve been out on the playgrounds,” his mother begins listing. “she always respectfully bowed her head when we prayed before meals even though we both knew she wasn’t praying.”

his head is reeling now. is it possible he rewrote his own memories? could he have created his own narrative of what life with you would look like?

“remember when you were both 14 and she learned what lent was? she tried giving up soda and ended up crying, begging me for forgiveness when she forgot and accidentally had coke with her school lunch.”

his mother’s shoulders shake with nostalgic laughter.

“you would’ve thought i was god the way that girl wailed,” she reminisces. she sighs in the silence that follows. “joshua, my son. some people… they show you they love god in a way different than we do, and it’s my fault i never properly taught you that.”

he turns his head to look at her but her gaze remains trained on the window. he sees now that it’s not his regret she mirrors but her own.

“i think i was too preoccupied with ensuring i raised you to be a good, catholic man—too preoccupied with making sure you didn’t become anything like your father.”

he breathes in deeply and returns his focus to the window.

“but i should’ve made it clear. i should’ve shown you that god exists in all the little acts of love we give and receive. i should’ve shown you that organized religion isn’t the only marker of faith.” she pauses, taking a shaky breath. “maybe then you would’ve recognized y/n as a woman of god. maybe then you wouldn’t be so hurt now.”

the words are enough to make joshua even more nauseous than his hangover is already making him.

“y/n… she shows godliness in the way she respects you and your beliefs. she shows it in the way she supports and loves you through every season of your life. it’s unfair to say she isn’t good enough for you because her faith lies in a different place.”

“i never thought she wasn’t good enough for me,” he interjects quickly. his mom doesn’t argue that, simply nodding. “she’s perfect. i just… i thought we were incompatible.”

“and maybe you are,” she agrees.

she doesn’t need to say it out loud; they both know what comes next. but now you’ll never know.

“i just wanted to apologize,” his mom tells him, taking his hand in hers and squeezing. “i feel like i’ve failed you.”

“you haven’t, mom,” he says quietly. “i failed me.”

“we’ll agree to disagree,” she announces, making him smile a little. “but i’m sorry anyway. there are a lot of things i’d change now if i could.”

he feels the familiar tightness in his chest. it’s his companion at this point, the heartbreak. “me too, mom. me too.”

joshua played with your hair from where he was laying on your couch. you were sitting criss-cross in front of him on the floor, clicking through netflix and trying to find a movie you both wanted to watch.

"is there anything that could happen that would make you believe in god?" he suddenly asked you. you frowned at the abrupt question, setting the remote down on the floor.

"that's random."

"just curious," he murmured softly, like he was so relaxed he was about to fall asleep.

"hmm," you hummed in thought, resting your head back so you could stare at the ceiling. he adjusted your hair so it fell over his lap. "like what, some kind of miracle that can only be explained by god?"

he shrugged. "sure. whatever."

"probably not..." you answered with hesitation. "i can't really think of a kind of miracle that would have me questioning god, though."

"like, if someone you loved were given a terminal diagnosis—three months to live. and suddenly, their illness clears up with no explanation. even doctors are astounded. what would you think?"

you shrugged. "i would be too happy they're not dying to question how it happened." he blew out a breath of exasperation. "okay, okay," you laughed, trying to figure out a more definite answer for him. "no, i don't think there's anything that could happen. it just seems too convenient that there's someone out there in charge of everyone's lives."

he nodded along but said nothing. you fidgeted in the silence. the quiet wasn't something the two of you ever shied from; it was always comfortable with joshua. for some reason, you felt awkward. so you kept talking to fill the silence.

"i think i could be open to believing something, though," you admitted honestly. "i just don't want to get to a place where i would blame this... thing or person for the things going wrong in my life. but that's just me. i still love that people believe so strongly in it. faith is a beautiful thing."

joshua taught you that. faith withstood a lot of things, and your best friend was the prime example. nothing was quite as beautiful as his love for his religion, his god, his spirituality. even if it scared you sometimes—even if it unintentionally made you feel too small to be someone lucky enough to have joshua's heart—you knew it was still precious.

"would you marry someone religious?"

you snorted. "where are these questions coming from?"

"indulge me."

you sighed, closing your eyes and enjoying the way his fingers carded through your hair. "that's so hard to answer without knowing who it is. it depends on the person. i can't make a decision based solely on how religious they are."

"okay, i guess that's fair." he paused. "would you ever convert for someone?"

"i don't think so?" you said, hating how unsure you sounded answering all of these questions. "but who knows? i really can't say for sure without knowing who it is, shua. how about you? would you marry someone who wasn't religious?"

your heart pounded at the silence that followed.

"it depends on the person," he finally said with a playful tone.

you rolled your eyes. "exactly."

"alright, what about kids?"

"shua, why are you interrogating me right now?"

he snickered. "i'm having a conversation with my best friend. is that not allowed?"

you lifted your head and turned to glare at him, your hair slipping between his fingers. he dropped his hand now that he had nothing to play with. he raised his eyebrows at you slightly.

"of course it's allowed," you scoffed. "it's just... so out of nowhere."

"well?" he prodded, ignoring your comments.

"okay, what about kids?" you relented.

"would you baptize them if you did marry someone religious?"

you laughed. "so much religion talk tonight."

he didn't dignify that with a response.

you groaned, again having no idea. if you took all these questions and made them about joshua, they would be a million times easier to answer. but he wasn't asking about himself, he was asking about some faceless, nameless nobody, and you weren't invested enough to answer accurately.

"i don't know... if it's important to my partner, then of course i would consider it," you finally said. "but i guess i'd be most comfortable just letting my kids figure it out themselves."

"that's wise," he remarked.

"mhm, sure" you hummed. "can we watch a movie now? i'll even let you choose an anime if you stop asking questions that make me sweaty."

he smirked and nodded. "okay, come up here, though."

you joined him on the couch and you spent the rest of the night binging anime episodes. you wouldn't be able to say what you watched, though, because the entire time, your mind was stuck on what the answers would've been if they were about joshua.

the end is long and beautiful.

you marry kwon soonyoung in front of all your loved ones, and you do it knowing full well this man will give you the happiest life. you spend the night eating the food you both painstakingly chose together, dancing to songs recommended by your guests on their RSVPs, and laughing so hard, tears stream down both of your faces.

and when you sidle up to your best friend as he leans on the bar, waiting for his drink, he has the strength to look happy for you. you’re sure he isn’t. at least not quite all the way.

“i’m happy you’re happy, y/n.”

you smile. “thank you, shua.” you pause, tilting your head a little in thought. you add: “for everything.”

“what’s everything?” he asks, smiling in confusion.

“for everything... for being my best friend all this time. loving me like you did. letting me love you," you list, ignoring the way his eyes widen at you. "most of all, i guess i just want to thank you for everything you gave up so we could be here,” you finish before placing a soft kiss on his cheek. you pull away, cupping his face, and smiling. “i’ll never forget it. thank you.”

you’re swept back onto the dance floor by your bridesmaids. it was a short exchange, but you know it was enough.

you’re not dumb. you knew what joshua had to give up so you could be here, happy, in love, and with the man perfect for you.

everything. he had to give up everything. he chose his devotion to god over his devotion to you, and you never faulted him for that because you knew it was a decision that would destroy him, and maybe it did at one point, having to bury his love as deep as he did.

you didn’t believe heaven was real, and still, he chose to love you until it hurt like hell and you knew it. there might have been a younger version of you that was heartbroken he couldn’t possibly imagine a life with you where you were capable of supporting his beliefs wholeheartedly regardless of yours. because you would have. you would have done everything in your power to make him feel loved while keeping his door to his god wide open.

there might have been a younger version of you that would’ve hated him for this.

but tonight, as you slow dance with your husband, feeling the safest you’ve felt in your entire life, all you can do is thank joshua hong for all the choices he made without asking you first.

ironically, because of him, you can see god now. you can see god in the way soonyoung holds you like you’re the most precious person in his life. you can see god in his patience and care. in his kindness. in his dedication to making you smile and laugh.

you’ve never seen god in a clearer light.

you think back to your last, honest night with joshua, on that deserted street, when he drunkenly called you.

“what are you really doing here?”

“i’m mourning,” he answered. “i’m mourning the life we could’ve had.” he frowned as tears began to fall down your face. “don’t cry. i don’t want to make you sad. i’m okay, i promise. i’ll be okay. i’m just letting you go now... for real this time.” he hiccuped. "for real, for real."

“you didn’t have to, you know,” you whispered.

“i think i did.”

you got him to his mother’s home that night, not wanting him to wake up alone with the weight of his sadness. you didn’t exchange many words, but you knew she knew. she hugged you, told you she was happy for you and soonyoung, and she looked at you for several, long seconds. you felt like she could see right through you because she probably could—she always did.

“you’ll always have him.”

“and he’ll always have me.”

“i know.”

the end is long and beautiful, and it’s simultaneously the best and the most devastating night of your life.

but your lives go on, and you and joshua both find what keeps you warm at night, and you hold onto it for as long as you can.

and you’re okay with that. you hope he is too.

[comikbook]

so you talk about your religious trauma and it’s a major theme in your art, and i was wondering what your current relationship with religion is? is in, do you practice any religion or consider yourself religious? if it isn’t too personal :)

im willing to answer !! i dont talk about it on most of my socials outright because people tend to misinterpret things intensely when it comes to this kind of topic, but ill give it a shot trying to write it out. In fact, I will give the whole story of my experience with religion. So its gonna be long.

there will be talk of psychosis, eating disorders, delusions, and self harm in this post. However I will not be graphic in my descriptions.

To start out I suppose for context, my parents are not catholic. my mom doesn’t talk about religion, and my dad doesnt follow anything in the real sense, but practices a lot of principals of buddhism. My nana was catholic, and my extended family vary in their religious beliefs.

That being said, (i think to my nana’s influence) when i started school i attended a small private catholic school which has since been shut down. fun fact ! if you’ve ever watched the Netflix doc “The Keepers” my school was only about 3 miles from where one of the nun’s bodies were found. The priest who was suspected to be the one to blame previously taught at the school i went to before moving to the one he is known for teaching at. Not really relevant, but i did always feel a bit uneasy there as a child so it was a weird thing to find out later.

Anyways, I attended this catholic school for 3 years. pre-k, kindergarden, and first grade. I would often ask to use the restroom and just wander around the halls or hide in the bathroom. I would get scolded for asking questions that were “inappropriate”. The one i remember most vividly was “If God created all of us, who created God ?” to one of the nuns, who became upset with me. We weren’t taught whar we should have been, and when I did move to public school i was far behind my peers in specifically science, math, and history, but I digress. This is my one class photo from our yearbook !

It is important to note that my first remembered instance of psychosis started when i attended this private school. My mom was picking me up one day, there was heavy traffic. She was trying to get over and was complaining no one would let her. I caught myself staring at my reflection in the front mirror of the car, and the clicking of the blinker kind of overwhelmed me. In the constant clicking I “decoded” a message that involved me being told to do something particularly violent. In my small brain in addition to my outside influences, I thought the person that sent this message to me was God. I was confused as to why, but I felt i did something wrong to deserve it. i quietly prayed in the back seat internally for forgiveness.

So I started to receive more messages from “God” commanding me to do something or another, typically vile in some way. i would hear this voice in my head frequently, until eventually it faded out and stopped. I dont remember when it stopped, i just remember i had this experience as a child and then when i was a little older i just didnt think about it anymore.

I do have gaps in my memory of my childhood, pretty big ones, for reasons im still struggling to understand to this day. So that makes things fuzzy. I do remember falling back into religion briefly in middle school, but eventually fell out of it again.

As i approached the end of highschool my mental health was tanking. Mostly with depression and anxiety, however this wouldnt be the worst it would get. In 2019 I was in college and things were getting increasingly worse. I was one of the few people that loved the isolation of the quarantine actually, i fear if not for that what was to come would have been way worse.

My symptoms of psychosis started to creep back into my life. I was already isolating before the quarantine, but got worse after it had started. I know i said i enjoyed it, and i did, but it also fed into some bad habits. Anyways I was becoming increasingly scared and paranoid, I was actively self harming, I was extremely depressed. I had plans to take my own life, a few of them actually. I started eating less. I didnt think much of it, I was just depressed, i have been depressed most of my life so this was just a particularly bad bout for me is what i thought.

That is, until one night where I had my first psychotic episode. It remains to be the worst and only very big episode i have had. I dealt with it mostly alone, never alerting my family of it. I was on the phone with one friend i had at the time, although they were not the kindest to me overall. Despite that they sat with me. This episode led to me standing in one place for over 2 hours too scared to move. When I finally did, it seemed to trigger a more violent outburst.

I wont go into too much detail but i left the experience cried out, bloodied, and heavily bruised. My legs were entirely black and blue for over a month following. After this episode I finally decided to try to get help, and I met with my psychiatrist for the first time. I was immediately put on several antidepressants which ended up being beneficial but in the beginning caused me to lose my appetite entirely. This is when i fell more and more into my eating disorder. With this though, I was still experiencing delusions and hallucinations and got put on my first antipsychotic.

It helped with my symptoms, and it helped me get back to a normal weight. Even tho at the time I was abusing my adderall I was still able to get my body (mostly) back to normal, at least physically. That being said, while my symptoms were lessened they were not gone, it just became less scary to me. Maybe it was because I was being desensitized, but thats something to ponder another time.

I started to become more and more infatuated with catholicism again from that original episode forward. I was obsessed and that voice of god returned to me. I started hearing clicking and chirping coming from the back of my right ear, which ive dubbed as a “chip” in my brain placed by god for me to receive his messages. I thought there was an evil inside of me that needed to be let out, which i did by participating in frequent bloodletting to force out the bad, and make my body create newer, cleaner, and holier blood. This was something i felt I had to keep up often so that this evil force wouldnt take over. I was eventually able to stop self harming, and have been clean for over 2 years now. It is hard and i still feel the need to “cleanse” myself, but i try my best to push it down.

Fast foreward to 2022 and I would start the first piece in my painting series. I still experienced symptoms but much less frequently ! I started to detail my experience thru art. I would finish the first piece in my series titled “Forgive Me Father” in 2023. Since then I have made many more.

So we finally get to today. I have waited to talk about my current relationship with religion until the end as I felt the context was necessary, and to be honest it is complicated. As you can tell, It has effected me greatly and has come and gone in my life.

I would say from where I am now, I am not religious. A better way to put it i suppose is i consciously make the choice to not be. Like I said its complicated.

I like to think of it as there is two of me in my body. One is paranoid, scared, and extremely delusional. This is the part that still believes god is communicating with them. This is the person that still prays for forgiveness and cries over the fear of being sent to hell for their sins, all approved and constructed by god himself. and then theres my rational side, which exists im sure solely because of my medication. This part is extremely self aware, can tell when i am being delusional or irrational, who knows this is something caused by my illness. They exist side by side, at the same time, always. They fight in my head for control but always exist simultaniously, think of it like a pie chart. one may be more prevelant but the other is still always there.

So in a way, there is a lot I do personally believe. That being said the reason I do believe is because of my schizophrenia. So I choose to navigate my life as someone who actively does not believe as an attempt to not let the delusion control me. do i think people who are religious are delusional ? I do not, but I know in my personal case what leads me to believe these things is an unwell mind.

I still have an intense fascination with catholicism and religion in general. I think its a beautiful thing, it moves me, but i must keep it at a distance to avoid hurting me. It is not something I can actively engage in outside of general interest because it would kill me, and despite my previous statements i would like to live at least a little longer haha.

With all that said, and I doubt anyone will read this whole thing, its been a rollercoaster of a ride. If anyone has questions about it, feel free to ask. Im an open book about this stuff online most days, and Im willing to offer any information about it.

[itsrlymine]

i apologize for the really long ask but i really wanted to share my thoughts and i would make my own loa blog but i dont have it in me to deal with anons so i fear i will dump them all on you 😔 first off i want to say THANKKKK YOUUUUUU you literally changed my manifestation journey i used to be really into manifestation back in 2021/2022 and i was trying to manifest my dream face but it never happened no matter how much i affirmed or listened to subs or anything so i was just like fuck it this manifesting stuff isnt real imma just move on with my life and thats how i went about my life until you popped up on my dashboard a month ago and usually i would click not interested on any loa content but i was like you know what lemme give this stuff a chance again bc i did try the non manifesting route and it didnt work out bc when i tell you my life went DOWNHILL i used to protect myself from negative experiences by having the belief that i was simply the exception to terrible stuff but the moment i left the loa behind and was like no thats unrealistic anything can happen well guess what!! so many bad stuff happened in my life the last 2 years its genuinely crazy. so i was like lemme try this again and i went through your blog and really tried to materialize everything you were saying and read it with the attitude that what you are saying IS real instead of the doubting attitude i had towards loa advice/info back in 2022 and things really shifted for me.

so the first thing i learned is that MANIFESTATION IS REAL and more importantly NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE what i went through these past two years was proof to me that manifestation is real because once i adopted that negative mindset and dropped any positive beliefs i had my life became a nightmare and all those terrible thoughts manifested right before my eyes. for example i used to believe that i always looked pretty no matter what, this was just something part of my belief system but when i abandoned the law and everything i told myself no thats crazy i cant mAniFeSt looking pretty its unrealistic if im not pretty then im just not and bro when i tell you i was at my lowest appearance wise I WAS AT MY LOWESSTT my classmates at school would come up to me and tell me i looked so different and so dull even my mom would say the same stuff to me and tell me i changed i also noticed a difference when i looked in the mirror. the reason why i felt like manifestation wasnt real was because it just seemed really crazy to me, i felt like things materializing out of nowhere and appearances changing drastically was just like something fantastical and just not possible here in the real world. well i am here to tell you that is NAWT THE CASE! the world is not logical and im gonna tell you why. most of us here have grew up religious, and whats more illogical than religion? there are so many stories in the bible where illogical stuff happen like youre telling me some guy can turn water into wine? doesnt that sound like something out of a fantasy movie? but it happened, right? you believe in the bible so you believe in all the stuff that happened in it even the magical stuff. and another thing with growing up religious is that we always hear stories about miracles where for example a neighbor who was really sick suddenly woke up completely healthy. and we also were taught that we can ask god for anything and that god can make anything happen. i remember when my dad would teach me about religion he would say that god can make the grass is purple if he wanted to. it isnt just in religion but also in another spiritual communities and stuff they also have their own stories where things that dont really make sense logically happen. this goes to show that the world and humanity were never logical and that illogical things can happen, they've been happening since the dawn of time. people just came up with their own explanations. so get that thought that you cant change your entire face because its too crazy out of your head because it isn't. anything is possible. we literally live on a rock and we somehow move and speak and talk and somehow atoms exist so pls get with the program aint nothing logical in this life and the sooner you come to terms with that the better. nothing is too crazy because existence itself is crazy.

the second thing i learned was that MANIFESTATION IS NOT A PROCESS. i used to hear this all the time back in 2022 and it never made sense to me i was always like what tf are yall talking about???? my understanding was that manifestation is the act of trying to get something, but i was so so wrong. everything changed for me when i started approaching manifestation with the attitude that i was reminding myself of what i have, not trying to get what i want. basically stop thinking of manifestation as manifestation if ykwim. to really understand this im gonna have to talk about the whole "decide that you have your desire > affirm that you have it > keep presisting" thing and break it down.

so what do people mean when they tell you to decide that you have your desire? does it mean saying out loud "i have __" and then a few seconds going "alright wheres my ___?" no. it means you in your mind decide that its ALREADY YOURS and that you ALREADY GOT IT. i dont know how to word this any differently because its so simple its literally in the words. im gonna try an example. im assuming that youre reading this with your eyes so you have eyes. are you trying to 'manifest' having eyes? when you say "i have eyes" are you using an affirmation to get eyes? is having eyes a desire youre trying to 'manifest'? no because you literally already have eyes bro how else are you reading this with your bootyhole??? so when you say "i have eyes" you arent manifesting via affirming, youre just saying it to remind yourself because well you have eyes. you arent trying to manifest eyes because you already have them. thats what it means to decide that your desire is yours. it means to stop treating what is yours as a desire because its literally yours. stop seeing it as something youre trying to manifest because you already have it, wtf do you need to manifest for? do you get it? don't think of doing this as you tricking your mind into thinking you have your desires because AGAINN you arent tricking anything you literally already have it. when you say "i have eyes" and you have eyes are you trying to trick gour brain? no. that sounds silly. im sorry that this is so repetitive but its literally that simple idk what everyone else is doing complicating the most simple thing ever.

and now, what do people mean by affirm that you have it? does that mean using affirmations to manifest your 'desire'? (i put desire in quotations bc you already have it since you decided you do) no. it simply means reminding yourself that you do. ill go back to the eyes example. if you were to say "i have eyes" right now would you understand that as some woo woo manifestation affirmation technique? no because you already have eyes. what youre doing is simply stating a fact and reminding yourself of it for funsies. you arent trying to manifest anything because you already have it. affirming doesn't mean tricking your brain or your subconscious that you have your desire or whatever, its just you reminding yourself.

and finally, what does it mean to persist? does that mean fighting for your life trying to convince yourself that you have your desire? no. because you already have it. it simply means that everytime you ask yourself "oh why isnt this showing up in my 3d?" you tell yourself "bro what tf are you on about were not manifesting anything we already have it are you crazy?" that's all. going back to the eyes example, you know you have eyes, so if someone came up to you rn and was like "hey did your eyes come in yet?" you'd probably think they hit their head or something because your eyes are literally right there its how youre seeing their dumbass. that's the same attitude you have to have towards your 'desires'. stop thinking of your 'desires' as desires, stop thinking youre trying to manifest anything, stop thinking you have to wait for anything to show up in the 3d or that the 3d is lagging behind or whatever, stop seeing manifestation as manifestation, stop imagining yourself sending in success stories asks when you get your desires, basically just stop dawg. you already have it. "dont contradict yourself" (although again you arent contradicting anything bc you already have it im just running out of ways to simply something thats already so simple). thats what it means to manifest instantly.

anyways thats all i wanted to say. im so sorry for the horrendously long ask i would make it even longer by talking about my success now but i think you would beat my ass if i did. bye bye love u

!!!!! you ate this whole thing up. y'all better come read this.

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

Pt.3 SILLLY LITTLE BAT.

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ There are only memories, fragments of a past that, like shadows, will haunt you until your last breath, whispers of what was and will never be. Gotham cries out for a guardian, a soul to face the darkness, to challenge fate in its shadowy alleys.

But tell me, who will rise to protect you, traveler of scars and broken dreams? Who will watch over your light when the world swallows your hopes?

In the eternal night, amidst the echo of fear and longing, there is only one path: to confront the monsters and become the hero this city needs, even if the price is the forgetting of oneself.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, Religion, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Street Fights, Gaslight, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation.

Chapter guide! Pt.1 Pt2. Pt.4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is— Here is the continuation of the other parts. There will be a few more parts but you should know that we will soon reach the end, but there are still things to clarify and so on. I don't know if you would like me to do another Batfam yandere series in the future or similar. Send me your ideas if you want :3

They are upset because I left

Where they never included me.

The car moved slowly under the gray sky of Gotham, as if the universe itself understood the weight of the pain you carried in your small figure. Commissioner Gordon, with his firm hands on the wheel, cast furtive glances at the rearview mirror, where he saw you curled up in the back seat. Wrapped in an old blanket, the same one you had hugged for days, your face was hidden among the folds, but the silent tears that fell could not be disguised. There were no words that Gordon could offer to heal the recent wound of losing your mother, but his empathy, though silent, was there, wrapping around you like the coat that couldn't quite warm you.

In your lap, a small Batman doll rested, pressed against your chest, as if that fabric toy could protect you from the world that had just destroyed your innocence. Your eyes, still swollen and red, looked out the window without seeing, watching the city that seemed so distant, so foreign.

"You will be loved and cherished," Gordon whispered, breaking the silence that had weighed like fog in the car. "Bruce Wayne... he will take care of you, I promise."

But you didn't respond immediately. The name Wayne felt strange, distant, as if he spoke of someone living in a story, not in your reality. You looked up, your eyes meeting Gordon’s for a second in the rearview mirror.

"And if they don't want me...?" you murmured, insecurity clouding your childish voice. "I don't know them, Commissioner... and they don't know me. What if they leave me in an orphanage? Mama always told me those places aren't nice."

Gordon swallowed hard, understanding the depth of your fear. "You were just a child, but you had already learned that love was not a guarantee." The world had taught you that cruel lesson too soon.

"The Waynes..." he began, searching for the right words, "are good people. You might not understand it at first, but I assure you they have suffered too. Bruce..." he paused, recalling the losses that man had faced. "He understands what it is to lose someone. He will do everything he can to make you feel safe, to help you find a home again."

But you kept looking at the doll in your hands, your fingers squeezing it tightly, as if it were the only stable thing in a world crumbling around you.

The silence grew heavy, uncomfortable, as if the words wanted to come out but didn’t know how. Again, Gordon spoke, his voice low, almost afraid to break the stillness.

"And/y/n... what was your mom like?" he asked softly, not taking his eyes off the road, as if by doing so, he could give you space to be honest, to not feel pressured.

You fell silent for a long moment, your small fingers nervously playing with the edges of the blanket. The world outside the car seemed a reflection of what you felt inside: cloudy, cold, distant.

Finally, you exhaled, as if gathering the courage to speak. Your voice came out shaky at first, filled with a mix of sadness and a hard-to-accept truth.

"My mom..." you murmured, not taking your eyes off the window. "She wasn't a good person, but... she wasn't a villain either."

Gordon nodded slowly, without interrupting you. He knew things were rarely black or white, that life had that cruel ability to mix the two.

"She... told me she grew up in an orphanage. She never had anything that was really hers." You paused, your eyes glassy as you recalled details that now seemed more painful than ever. "Well, except for me."

"Gordon felt a knot form in his throat." He knew that loss was a terrible burden to bear, but there was something more in your words, something suggesting that, amidst it all, there had also been love. An imperfect love, but real.

"She always dreamed of having a little house..." you continued, and for the first time, a faint smile appeared on your face, though it was tinged with melancholy. "A house with a garden, lots of Barbie dolls, and a little dog. She didn't need more. She just wanted something that was hers."

You stopped for a moment, as if the simple act of recalling those dreams your mother had hurt you. You knew she would never have them. That the world had been cruel to her, denying her even the small things she wished for so fervently.

"But... she never got it. We were always moving around, fleeing, searching for something better. And now... she doesn’t even have that."

The car seemed to shrink, the air denser. Gordon felt a wave of compassion for that woman who, though perhaps not perfect, had dreamed of something so simple, so human, and yet had not achieved it.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n," he murmured.

"Commissioner, what if... what if I can't forget her?" you asked, almost in a whisper. "What if I can't stop thinking about Mom?"

The silence in the car became heavy, almost tangible. Gordon wanted to tell you that you didn't have to forget, that it was natural to carry that pain. But the words didn't come, and instead, only a long sigh escaped his lips.

"It's not about forgetting, Y/n," he finally said, his voice low but firm. "It's about moving forward, even though it hurts. Your mother would want you to find happiness again, even though it may not seem possible now. And I’m sure Bruce will do everything in his power to help you."

The car turned onto the long, dark road leading to Wayne Manor. The trees formed a tunnel of shadows, as if the road were wrapped in the same mourning you carried within. The mansion, with its imposing grandeur, appeared in the distance, its walls as high as the secrets it held. "You were so small in the face of the immensity of this new life that awaited you."

"We're almost there," Gordon said softly, as he slowed down. "The wind outside whispered through the trees, like an echo of everything you had lost."

You didn’t know it at that moment, but that house would be full of stories, some broken, others in the process of healing. And although you felt like a stranger in a strange land now, Gordon hoped that, one day, that place would become your refuge.

The car stopped in front of the enormous gates. Gordon looked at you one last time before getting out. In his eyes, you could see a mix of sadness and hope, an empathy that went beyond words.

"You are not alone, Y/n," he said, his voice now firmer. "You will never be alone again."

You remained silent, gazing at the mansion as you clung to the blanket and the Batman doll. The weight of the world still rested on your small shoulders, but for the first time, there might have been a glimmer of relief in knowing that someone, even if he was a strange and distant man, was waiting for you inside."

And in that moment, although you still felt the burning pain of your loss, a ray of hope began to break through the shadows of your heart.

Y/n was sitting in the BatCafé, that corner of the city where the tables wobbled and conversations were woven into murmurs, as if the place knew how to keep secrets that even you wouldn’t dare to share aloud. The walls, a mossy green, were filled with stories that no one had asked for. She looked at her lukewarm latte as one looks at a future that hasn’t quite arrived, a liquid mockery evaporating before it could warm her hands. It had barely been a month since she left her family home, but she already felt that independence was more of a myth than a fulfilled dream. At first, the heroism of having thrown herself into the world had filled her with pride, but now reality lurked like a treacherous chill seeping through the cracks, and the fact that she was waiting for her potential roommate didn’t help matters.

“Well, at least the rent will be cheaper,” she told herself, or rather to the coffee, as if the dark liquid could reply with something sensible.

Sharing an apartment was, for Y/n, the only way out. Her salary barely covered survival, but only if she fed on fresh air and broken dreams. And there she was, waiting for someone named Pamela Isley, who, according to the ad, didn’t even seem to be from this planet. "I hope she’s not one of those people with invisible cats," she thought. Of course, the alternatives weren’t very promising: people who collected Batman figurines or guys who made friends with cockroaches in the kitchen. She had seen it all; after all, her apartment was in one of the most dangerous areas of Gotham, and she knew it all too well.

You were born in that area. One could say the neighborhood chose you before you had a chance to choose it. You didn’t remember exactly which apartment; in that hive of broken windows and half-painted bricks, all the floors seemed like a blurry copy of the previous one, each with the same square footage and an air of silent resignation. In the end, it didn’t matter, because in a way, everything was the same. Dust in the corners, worn tiles, cracks in the walls that seemed to form a map of some invisible and secret city, a place that only you could decipher if you stopped to observe long enough.

It was an unpretentious place, where people rarely smiled, but neither did they let themselves be trampled. There was something in the air, a kind of poorly disguised pride, as if every neighbor, every stray dog, knew that surviving there wasn’t a matter of luck but of will. Heroes didn’t exist in that corner of the world, but villains didn’t dare impose their law without facing some gaze that, without saying anything, said it all. It was rough terrain, where kindness camouflaged behind growls and complaints, and malice grew tired before it could fully settle.

And yet, you loved it. It was absurd, but you loved it with that devotion reserved for things you don’t choose, for roots that sink into your chest without asking for permission. The place was filled with memories you didn’t ask for, stories you never wanted to hear but that seeped into your skin. Tales of people who vanished in alleyways, of broken promises around the corner, of loves that drowned in factory smoke. And yet, those same tales were like echoes that held you, reminding you that you were born there, in that half-hell where life was always a fight but never a complete defeat.

The clock in the BatCafé struck six ten when the door opened. What happened next was hard to explain, like when you dream and you don’t know if it’s the pillow or the universe holding you. Pamela Isley walked in, and it was as if the wind, that autumn wind that brings memories, had gently pushed her in. Y/n looked up, and the first thing she noticed was her hair, a red that was out of this world, more fire than pigment, more nature than dye. The roots tangled as if they were living branches, and for a moment, Y/n wondered if the sun had made a mistake and was shining only on her.

Pamela walked as if she had a pact with the earth. Her steps were slow but firm, as if her feet waited for the ground to respond before settling. She wore a jacket that was impossible to describe without sounding crazy: green vines and small buds peeking out, as if at any moment the plants would grow over her. "Where does this woman come from?" Y/n thought, feeling something beyond mere curiosity. There was something she couldn’t deny, an attraction that felt unsettling, like those waves that, without warning, sweep you away when you think you can still touch the bottom.

Pamela approached the table with a calculated calm, a calm only nature or time can sculpt. And then she smiled. In that smile, Y/n felt something familiar yet strange, as if she were facing a younger version of her mother, but instead of being terrifying, it was comforting. What was happening?

“Y/n L/n?” Pamela said, her voice reminiscent of the whisper of dry leaves underfoot.

“Yes, that’s me,” Y/n answered, trying to make her voice sound normal, even though everything inside her felt out of place.

Pamela sat down across from her, crossing her legs with an almost feline elegance. The BatCafé seemed to conspire around them; the air smelled of wet earth and freshly brewed coffee, a strange mix, like the combination of what was about to be born and what had already died.

“I didn’t expect you to be…” Y/n began, not knowing exactly how to finish the sentence. She wasn’t even sure what she was expecting.

“Strange?” Pamela completed, with a playful smile that left Y/n with a sense of defeat and fascination in equal parts.

“Something like that,” Y/n replied, looking at Pamela’s hands. Her long, slender fingers were covered in small green spots, as if she had just planted a forest with her own hands. There was something almost magical about her, as if every part of her being was connected to the earth in a way that Y/n couldn’t quite understand. And there, amid that confusion, was the fine thread of attraction.

Pamela let her gaze fall on her own latte, turning it between her hands as if it were about to reveal some hidden secret in the foam.

“So, what do you do? I mean… aside from, you know… looking like you walked out of a Tim Burton movie,” Y/n said, attempting a bit of humor to ease the tension she felt in her stomach.

Pamela glanced at her and laughed softly, a laugh that felt like an unexpected breeze on a hot day.

“I’m… a caretaker. Of plants.” She paused, gauging Y/n’s reaction. “And other things.”

“Other things?” Y/n asked, intrigued but also amused by the way Pamela toyed with the mystery.

“Yes, like people who don’t know how to water a plant without drowning it,” she replied, arching an eyebrow mischievously.

The response made Y/n laugh, a laugh she hadn’t expected, as if Pamela had found a way to touch something deep within her, something that hadn’t bloomed in a long time. And without being able to help it, she felt drawn, not just by the way Pamela moved, spoke, or even by the air of mystery surrounding her, but because there was something more, something familiar, something that reminded her of her mother, but without the shadows of authority and judgment. It was like a wild, free version of what had once been security.

“So… are you going to save my cactus or criticize it?” Y/n said, trying to sound casual while feeling that her heart had started playing a game of chess with her emotions.

Pamela smiled again, and this time it was a different smile, one that seemed to carry a promise.

“It depends. Would you let me stay to try?” Pamela said, with a playful seriousness that left Y/n unsure whether the question was about the cactus or something much larger.

Y/n blinked, trying to process the phrase, but deep down she knew that any answer would sound awkward. Pamela’s question hung in the air between them like a leaf falling slowly, right at the perfect point where it was neither entirely a joke nor completely serious. And there she was, caught in that space, wondering whether she should laugh or just blush.

“Well… you can try,” she finally said, trying to hide the warmth creeping up her face. “But I can’t promise the cactus will survive. I’m something like… a serial plant killer... When I was younger, I had time to care for them as they deserved, with help from… from my father. But now work consumes me a lot, and the truth is I’ve neglected them too much… they must feel the same way I felt when… sorry, I talk too much about myself, don’t I?”

Pamela raised an eyebrow, with a smile that seemed to say more than either of them dared to voice at that moment.

“Oh, no, keep talking about yourself; I’m used to it. I have very… eccentric friends, to be honest.” She leaned a bit closer, as if about to share a secret. “Though I prefer not to work under threats, so don’t look at me like I’m going to be your next plant murder victim. But I doubt a little scared bat can kill even a fly.”

Y/n laughed nervously, surprised at how easy Pamela made everything. She, who had always been clumsy with conversations and glances, felt like the words flowed with Pamela in a way she didn’t quite understand but didn’t want to question either.

“...Little Bat?” Y/n asked, with a clumsy and blushing smile as her fingers nervously toyed with the edge of her cup.

Pamela let out a low giggle, that laugh that always seemed to carry the sound of dry leaves being trampled in autumn. With a gentle gesture, she pointed to her clothes.

“Is it that obvious?” she said with a half-smile, raising a playful eyebrow as she leaned a little forward.

She wore a dark fur coat, enormous, with a wide fall that, under the dim light of the BatCafé, seemed to have the precise shape of bat wings extending. The high, well-fitted black boots completed the image of a figure that seemed to have emerged from the very shadows. And for a moment, Y/n didn’t know whether to laugh or get lost in that air of mystery that Pamela seemed to wear like a second coat.

“Well…” Y/n diverted her gaze with a shy smile, “it’s not like you’re hiding it much.”

Pamela smiled with that touch of mischief that characterized her.

“Does it bother you? I’m sorry, it’s just… I’ve been fascinated by bats since I was little.” she asked, her voice low and slow, as if measuring every word, as if the world were a delicate plant that required to be touched with the tips of her fingers.

Y/n let out a small nervous laugh, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks again.

“No, not at all. I think it’s…” she hesitated for a second, searching for the right word, unsure how to avoid the obvious, “I think it suits you well.”

Pamela watched her for a moment, and then, with that look that always seemed to go beyond what words said, added:

“You’re turning red, you know?”

Y/n’s eyes widened a bit more, surprised by Pamela’s directness, but all she could do was laugh at herself.

“Well, it’s just that, I’m not really used to… this.”

“This?” Pamela repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Sharing coffee with someone or bats?”

“Both,” Y/n admitted, shrugging, which provoked another smile from Pamela. “I always wanted one as a pet… but I have a vegan little brother who’s very… spooky… so I’ve always been afraid he’d steal it from me or accuse me of having exotic pets.”

Pamela settled into the chair, not taking her eyes off Y/n.

“But you’ll get used to it,” she paused, letting her words float calmly.

Y/n felt a shiver run down her spine, a mix of nerves and a spark of something she couldn’t quite define. Pamela’s dark coat and relaxed smile were a disconcerting yet strangely familiar contrast, as if they had always been there, waiting for her. And suddenly, all she could do was wonder how soon that would happen… getting used to it.

“Although I can’t promise my apartment isn’t… a battlefield,” Y/n said, trying to sound confident, but noticing the slight tremor in her voice.

Pamela looked at her intently for a moment, with that mix of flirtation and something deeper, something that seemed impossible to decipher completely. Then she relaxed in the chair, as if the game had just begun.

“A battlefield, huh?” she said, playing with the spoon of her coffee. “Well, I like challenges. And chaotic places have their own charm if you know where to look.” Pamela let the phrase slide smoothly, like someone throwing a stone into a lake and waiting for the ripples.

Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that every word Pamela spoke carried a double meaning, but far from making her feel uncomfortable, it sparked something akin to contained laughter, as if they were sharing a private joke that she was just beginning to access.

“Don’t you have plants at home?” Pamela suddenly asked, as if the question had sprung from the foam of her coffee.

“Well, there are a couple of cacti… and a fern that I think hates me,” Y/n replied. “But I always forget to water them. Or I overwater them. Seriously, it’s like plants come to me already doomed.”

Pamela smiled, one of those slow smiles that seem to grow little by little, like a sprout deciding when the perfect moment to emerge into the light is.

“It’s not just about water, Y/n,” she said, with that voice that seemed to carry the calm of the wind and the weight of centuries of nature. “Plants need attention. Patience. Sometimes they just want to know you’re there, even if you don’t say anything.” She paused, letting Y/n’s gaze get lost in her eyes. “Sometimes, like people.”

Y/n felt a little shiver. It wasn’t what Pamela was saying, but how she was saying it. There was something in her voice that disarmed her, as if every word had been calculated to penetrate a defense that Y/n hadn’t even realized she had up. And then, almost without thinking, she let slip a truth she rarely shared.

“I’m not very good with people.” The confession came out of her mouth before she could stop it. She said it without drama, almost as if she were talking about the weather. But something in Pamela changed, barely perceptible, like a leaf moving without the wind touching it.

“Really?” Pamela asked softly, but without an ounce of pity. Just curiosity.

Y/n looked down for a moment, fiddling with the edge of her cup, before daring to continue.

“I grew up in a huge house, but… empty. My father… well, he was busy with his things. Business, parties, the usual. Shrugging it off, wanting to downplay it, even though inside she knew it wasn’t something that could easily fade away. Alfred, the butler, raised me. And yes, he was amazing. But it was always just him and no one else. It’s not the same as having… friends.”

Pamela listened in silence, but not in that awkward way where people listen just to see how you respond afterward. No, there was something in her attention that enveloped Y/n, as if she were giving her space to bare herself without fear of being judged.

“You never had friends,” Pamela asserted more than asked.

Y/n shook her head.

“Until now,” Pamela said, with that same softness that seemed to have become her trademark, and something in Y/n’s chest stirred, as if she had just heard the most important thing in the world.

There was a moment of silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence that somehow connected them. And then Pamela broke the spell, with a mischievous smile that lit everything up again.

“So… are you going to let me be your first friend, or would you rather keep killing plants?”

Y/n couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips, a sincere and liberating laugh, as if something inside her had broken an invisible chain. After all, it was clear that Pamela wasn’t just another person passing through her life. There was something different about her, something that made the air feel lighter, that made the future seem less uncertain.

“Well, if you can survive the cactus…” Y/n said, leaving the sentence unfinished, but knowing Pamela would understand.

And then, for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt that everything might be okay. That maybe, just maybe, Pamela Isley wasn’t just a roommate, but the first person in a long time with whom she could imagine a less lonely future. She was already caught in that web, and the worst, or perhaps the best part, was that she didn’t care at all.

Bruce Wayne was sitting in the mansion's garden on a gray afternoon that seemed to drag memories along like the wind drags fallen leaves. In his hands, a cup of black coffee, still steaming, its strong and bitter aroma mingling with the scent of damp earth after the rain. In front of him, on a small wrought-iron table, rested a piece of dark chocolate cake topped with melting strawberry ice cream, forming a pink puddle around it. But he found no pleasure in the view. It was more of a bitter symbol of a routine he once believed unbreakable.

In the garden, where the wilted flowers swayed gently, a little girl flitted about with contagious energy, as if the chill of the afternoon did not exist for her. Her laughter, so innocent and pure, filled the air, breaking the sepulchral silence that seemed to reign in that old home for a moment. She wore a pink dress with small white dots, an 80s style that would have been charming in another time but now seemed out of place with the scene. Her patent leather shoes shone as she ran back and forth, chasing her dolls.

In her small hands, she held action figures, one of the Batman her father portrayed and another of the Joker, his eternal rival. The girl, no older than six, organized her battles with adorable seriousness. In a high-pitched, mischievous voice, she brought the characters to life, staging an epic duel between hero and villain.

“You won’t defeat me this time, Batman!” she exclaimed, raising the Joker figure with a malevolent laugh.

“I will stop you! I always do...” she replied with her other hand, giving voice to Batman, but with a childlike touch that contrasted with the darkness of the character.

Bruce watched the scene with a mix of tenderness and pain. He knew she wasn’t really there, that this vision was nothing more than a distant echo of what never was. Y/n, his little Y/n, had vanished months ago. And he… he had never given her the love she deserved, always wrapped in his own shadows, in his endless struggle to protect a city that never rested.

The air felt thick, heavy with nostalgia and regret. The girl continued to play, laughing, talking to her dolls, oblivious to the weight of the years, to the loss. And Bruce, although he knew it was an illusion, couldn’t look away; he couldn’t stop imagining what it would have been like to give her what he never knew how to offer. What it would have been like to see her grow, to laugh more, to run through those gardens with the carefree spirit only childhood allows.

Suddenly, the sound of soft footsteps interrupted the daydream. Alfred appeared at the garden entrance, always elegant, always with that air of discretion and understanding that only he possessed. He approached slowly, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder as if he understood the pain that kept him trapped in that scene.

“Mr. Wayne” he said in a low voice, filled with compassion, “it’s time to come back.”

Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, letting Alfred’s words seep into his consciousness. He knew what they meant. He knew that girl, in her 80s dress and her dolls, was nothing but an idealized memory, a distorted reflection of what never was. Because Y/n wasn’t like that. She didn’t like those old dresses; she had always preferred the fashion of the 2000s, with its vibrant colors and comfortable clothes. And she never enjoyed the chocolate cake now sitting in front of him. She liked carrot cake, simple and sweet, but he had never paid attention to those details when he still could.

How did he know those little details about his daughter? Bruce often wondered. It wasn’t because he had learned them by being close, because proximity had been a luxury he never allowed himself. No, those small fragments of her life he had discovered in the album that Alfred kept with an almost reverential discretion. That album was more than just an object; it was a silent refuge where Alfred had archived what the big house, always filled with shadows and echoes of footsteps that never came, had refused to hold.

The day the children learned of the album’s existence marked the beginning of a chaos he still remembered with a mix of exasperation and a contained smile. They had decided, like little conspirators, that treasure belonged to them. A kind of all-out battle had ensued in the mansion, something that over time acquired the quality of family legends.

Bruce, standing in the study, could still see the sparkle in Damian’s eyes, the intensity, the almost playful fury with which he had taken that assault as a personal mission. Damian, with his perpetual impatience, had been the fiercest of all. He vividly remembered how his youngest son had burst into the room wielding two katanas, with the cold precision of a millennia-old warrior, even though his hands were still too small to fully grasp the handles.

“It’s mine!” Damian shouted, with that mix of stubbornness and vulnerability that only the youngest possess, as if he could cut not only the air but the very uncomfortable silence that always floated between them.

“It belongs to all of us, Damian” Bruce had tried to intervene, with that authoritative voice that, curiously, never managed to control his own children as he did with the chaos of the city.

But Damian wasn’t listening. For him, the album was not just an object; it was a relic, a bridge to something he felt but couldn’t name. His sister Y/n, so distant in daily life, was closer in those pages than in any superficial conversation they had ever had. She was his sister, but not enough. He wanted those photos, those notes that Alfred had kept, he wanted to understand what it was about her that slipped away from him daily.

Bruce watched from the threshold, not really intervening. He let the chaos unfold, as if it were necessary. The children fought, but it wasn’t just for the album. They fought for something deeper, a kind of silent reclamation of what they had never been able to have: time, connection, perhaps even love. Alfred, from a corner, merely smiled with that quiet wisdom, knowing that those battles of childish katanas, of shouts and disputes over photos and notes, were actually the way they tried to find each other in a house full of absences.

Bruce sighed, remembering. Alfred had always known more than he did, always understood those invisible things that Bruce, no matter how much he wanted to, could never quite grasp. And so it was that he himself, at the end of it all, also ended up snooping in that album, with a silent curiosity he would never admit. There, in those carefully tended pages, he found his daughter. Or at least, he found the idea of her, the pieces of a life he hadn’t shared but that, somehow, had always been present in those photos, in those little notes that Alfred, more of a father than he was, had kept with such love.

“She won’t come back, Alfred... I lost her... maybe forever... ” Bruce murmured, his voice barely audible, as if admitting it aloud would make her absence more real—“and I… I was never there for her as I should have been.”

The old butler sighed, his tired eyes filled with infinite patience.

“It’s never too late to remember, sir. It’s never too late to honor her memory in the right way.”

Bruce opened his eyes, looking again at the scene, but this time more clearly. The girl had disappeared.

The wind blew gently through the Wayne mansion's garden, carrying away the murmur of the dry leaves. Bruce remained motionless, as if the weight of the years, of the mistakes, had turned him into another statue in that landscape. The aroma of coffee had dissipated, and the cake before him remained untouched. Y/n’s figure still floated in his mind, her laughter like a distant echo that wouldn’t fade but also wouldn’t console him.

Alfred, with the patience only a father at heart could have, stood by his side, his firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder, as if in that gesture he could transmit strength to face the pain that gnawed at him.

“Mr. Wayne” Alfred began, his voice soft but laden with meaning, “the kids have gone looking for Y/n again.”

Bruce closed his eyes, allowing those words to sink into his consciousness. He knew all the Robins and Batgirls had been following leads, searching for answers in the darkest corners of Gotham, but the emptiness he felt remained overwhelming. They had failed so many times… what did another attempt matter? The city, always hungry for its heroes, seemed more a trap than a cause.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Alfred” Bruce replied, his voice rough, worn down by years of struggle. “None of this will change what happened. Y/n… is gone.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Alfred interjected, this time with a firmer tone, “Y/n is still out there. And as long as there’s a single chance to find her, you cannot allow yourself to give up.”

Silence stretched between them. Bruce’s gaze remained fixed on some point in the garden, lost in thought. But Alfred, with his usual insight, knew he needed more than empty words to awaken him.

“There’s something else,” Alfred added, taking a breath, “a new figure appeared last night during a robbery in the East District. They call her Kerosene. The White Bat. She was seen taking out a group of assailants in seconds.”

Bruce didn’t react. Kerosene. The city had always generated figures willing to fill the void he had left every time he stepped away, every time Gotham lost the light of its vigilante. But this time, he didn’t feel the urgency to learn more. What did it matter? He repeated to himself. Gotham already had its heroes.

“I don’t care” he murmured, his voice empty, as cold as the air surrounding the garden—“Let others deal with Gotham. Kerosene, the Joker, or whoever… the city doesn’t need me anymore.”

Alfred tightened his grip on Bruce’s shoulder, almost like a father refusing to see his son give up. He stepped forward, and this time his voice was lower but more incisive.

“This isn’t about Gotham, sir,” he said with an intensity Bruce hadn’t expected—“It’s about Y/n.”

Bruce lifted his gaze, his eyes finally meeting Alfred’s, as if those words had ignited a spark within him.

“If you don’t want to protect this city, do it for her ” Alfred continued—“Because you will find her, sir. I’m sure of it. And when you do… how would you want her to find you? Destroyed? Defeated? No. You need to be ready, you need to be strong, for her. Wherever she is, Y/n is still waiting for her father.”

Bruce felt the pain in his chest intensify, a constant reminder of his failure, but Alfred was right. Y/n was somewhere out there. Alive or not, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that as long as he didn’t find her, he couldn’t give up.

“The kids have done everything they can to find her,” Alfred said, softening his tone—“They’re still at it. Every day they search for new leads, explore new corners of Gotham… but there’s only one man who can put everything in order. There’s only one father who can bring her back.”

The air tensed between them, and for the first time in a long time, Bruce felt a slight tremor inside. He remembered the moment he decided to become Batman, driven by the guilt and pain of losing his parents. Now, that same guilt, that same pain, called to him again, but this time, it wasn’t for Gotham. It was for Y/n. His daughter.

“Tell me, Alfred, who is this Kerosene?” Bruce murmured, finally reacting to the information Alfred had given him.

“Yes, sir. Her abilities are astonishing, according to reports. Agile, fast… but her true identity remains a mystery. Some say she’s just another vigilante trying to fill the void you left. But the important thing is that she is acting with lethal precision.”

Bruce stood slowly, leaving the cup of coffee on the table, already cold and forgotten. He looked at the empty garden, but this time, with a new determination blooming in his chest.

“If this Kerosene is connected… if there’s any link to Y/n, I will find out,” he said, his voice firmer, closer to the one Alfred had known for so many years—“And if not… then I’ll find her myself.”

Alfred nodded, a mix of relief and satisfaction reflected on his face. He had managed to awaken the man Gotham needed, but more than that, he had awakened the father Y/n deserved.

“ Very well, sir,he replied with a slight smile, always the unwavering servant—“The Batcave is ready for your return.”

Bruce turned toward the mansion, but not before glancing once more at the garden, where Y/n’s figure, so real in his mind, faded like morning mist.

Wherever you are, I will find you.

Richard “Dick” Grayson knocked forcefully on the old apartment door, the echo resonating in the narrow hallway of the building, where dust gathered in the corners like forgotten memories and the lights flickered as if trying to perform one last dance before going out. Beside him, Barbara Gordon, the commissioner's daughter, crossed her arms, staring at the door with an intensity that could have splintered the wood.

Jason Todd, restless to his left, kept his gaze fixed on the doorknob, his body tense, as if each passing second brought him one step closer to breaking through that wooden barrier. Above, on the roof, Red Robin, The Spoiler, and Batgirl waited, shadows in a world that seemed to ignore their pounding hearts, ready to act.

“I don’t know why we always have to deal with the worst specimens of humanity,” Barbara murmured, adjusting her coat as she shot a sidelong glance at Dick, who seemed to have a plan in mind.

“Because we’re lucky,” Jason replied, sarcasm lacing his words, a crooked smile on his lips that didn’t quite fit the situation. “And when I say ‘lucky,’ I mean we’re carrying someone else's karma because we… are screwed.”

Dick knocked on the door again, this time with more force. The echo reverberated through the hallways, a declaration of intent.

“We should break it down. You know it’s not going to open just from a gentle knock,” Jason said, stepping forward, his intention clear and palpable.

“Calm down, Jason. Not all problems are solved with violence,” Barbara retorted, though a part of her knew that idea faded every time they found themselves in a situation like this.

“Sure, as if we have another option. Do you want me to schedule a tea date instead of kicking down the door?” Jason frowned, the tension palpable.

Finally, a sound came from behind the door. Chains, the metallic echo of locks being unlatched with a maddening slowness, as if someone on the other side knew that every second of wait was boiling the blood of the three standing before the door. At last, the door opened just enough to reveal a face: the landlord. A short man with small eyes and a slimy smile that seemed to ooze like dirty oil through his yellowed teeth.

“What do you want?” he asked in a thick voice, looking at Dick with suspicion, but his gaze soon dropped to Barbara, lingering unpleasantly on her figure, and then to Jason, who had already tensed the muscles in his jaw.

“We’re looking for Y/n Wayne L/n,” Dick said, trying to maintain his composure, the heat of anger threatening to overflow. “We know she lives here. And we know you know where she is.”

The man let out a laugh under his breath, a rusty squeak that resonated like a heavy joke.

“Ah, the pretty girl… yeah, yeah. And who are you all, huh?” he asked, his slimy tone sending chills that seemed to crawl over Dick's skin.

“It’s none of your concern. We just want to know where she is,” Barbara said, her voice firm and resolute, although the tension in her body betrayed her impatience.

The landlord tilted his head, like a cat playing with its prey, and smiled with a disturbing mischief.

“Well, if you haven’t found her in five months, maybe you don’t want to know,” he said, letting the words drop like stones in a pond, creating ripples of discomfort.

“I warn you, this isn’t a game,” Jason interjected, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t make me remind you what can happen when a man plays with fire.”

The man shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned, although the glint in his eyes betrayed him.

Jason's hand rested near his belt, right where he kept his gun, and although he hadn’t drawn the weapon yet, the threat was clear.

The landlord noticed but instead of being scared, he wore a repugnant smile, like a predator that had just spotted a wounded prey. His gaze shifted back to Barbara, and then, without the slightest respect, murmured something that made Dick’s fists clench.

“Ah, Y/n... yeah, I remember her. She came around when she had just turned eighteen. Good material, if you catch my drift. She looked innocent, but... those are the most interesting ones, right?” The man's gaze darkened, scanning Barbara again, as if evaluating merchandise.

“Say that again,” Jason growled, drawing his gun in a motion so quick that the landlord barely had time to blink before feeling the cold barrel pressed against his forehead. “And I swear I’ll blow your brains out right here.”

The words hung in the air, sharp, loaded with contempt and a lust that twisted like a snake inside him.

The man let out a cynical chuckle, relishing the moment.

“The last time I saw pretty Y/n was a while back. I don’t know what she’s up to now, but I kept some pictures of her and her friend.” His tone was defiant, almost mocking.

Rage was bubbling in Jason. His fists were clenched, a deadly spark in his eyes.

“What did you say?” His voice trembled between anger and control, like a string about to snap.

The landlord, feeling invincible, continued. “I don’t know if they’re lesbians, but seeing them together was quite the spectacle. Both of them were hot, you know?”

Jason could no longer hold back. The anger erupted like a volcano.

“Shut up!” he shouted, and the sound echoed like a gunshot in the tense silence that had invaded the room.

Before the landlord could react, Jason pulled his gun, aiming with precision.

“I’m going to give you one chance. Tell me where Y/n is. Now.”

The man’s laughter faded, his eyes widening in shock. “Wait, wait, there’s no need to…”

“WHERE?!” Jason's voice thundered, firm and filled with rage, like a storm rumbling in the atmosphere.

The tension became palpable, the air thick with promises of violence.

“Alright, alright!” the landlord stammered, but Jason’s voice turned even colder.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“She just left for work at night and that’s it…” he started to say, but Jason could no longer hear. The man had photos of Y/n. Compromising, crude, and that simple mention ignited hell in his chest.

In an instant, the sound of an explosion resonated in the hallway, and the man fell to the ground, his silly smile erased by the terror that had overtaken his face. Blood gushed forth in a dark torrent, staining the floor and nearby walls.

Barbara covered her mouth in shock, while Dick stood frozen, stunned.

“Jason!” she exclaimed, but the image of the landlord lying on the ground with his vacant stare was etched in her mind.

Jason holstered the weapon, his breath rapid and uncontrolled. He had crossed a line, and in that moment, he realized there was no turning back. Anger had found a way to break free, but at a terrible cost.

“I won’t let anyone hurt Y/n again,” he murmured, his eyes filled with determination. No one else would stand in his way to find her, no matter the price he had to pay.

The room was saturated with the echo of the gunshot, and the silence grew heavy, almost palpable. Barbara took a deep breath, the anger sparking in her eyes as she looked at Jason, who still seemed dazed by the act he had committed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she said, her voice contained but sharp as a blade. “That’s why we didn’t bring Damian along, because he would have gone off just the same, but in a much more reckless way.” Her gaze fixed on the corpse, lying in a pool of blood, a scene that could have come from the mind of a disturbed artist.

Jason, with his chest heaving and jaw clenched, simply shrugged.

“I couldn’t just stand by. He knew something, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away.” The fervor in his voice didn’t hide the confusion that was beginning to seep in, like the cold of the night creeping through the windows.

Barbara didn’t respond, but the silence that filled the room grew even denser when the others entered, alarmed by the gunshot. Tim, Stephanie, and Cass arrived, their expressions filled with concern that quickly transformed into indignation.

“What happened here?” Tim asked, his eyes widening at the scene. Blood slid across the floor like a dark river, and the landlord’s body faded beneath the flickering light.

“Are you crazy, Jason?!” Steph exclaimed, disbelief palpable in her voice.

Cass crouched down, her expression grave as she looked at the fallen man. She didn’t need to speak to convey her disapproval; every glance said more than a thousand words.

“It doesn’t matter how we got here,” Dick intervened, his authoritative tone trying to restore order. “We need answers. Let’s investigate.”

With a determined movement, Barbara approached the body, while Jason still breathed irregularly, as if the weight of his actions began to settle on him. Barbara looked around; the apartment was a dusty and sad place, filled with shadows that seemed to whisper secrets.

As the others searched, Tim found a series of photos pinned to the walls, each one showing Y/n and other women from the area, frozen laughter in time, trapped between moments that should have been happy. However, there was something unsettling about the way they were arranged, a disorder that seemed a declaration of possession.

“Look at this,” Tim said, pointing to the images. There was Y/n, always smiling, but next to her was a figure that couldn’t be ignored. The silhouette of Pamela Isley, better known as Poison Ivy, stood beside her, her red hair like a fire that seemed to consume the sadness of the place.

“Pamela…” Cass murmured, her voice almost a whisper. “She’s been in Arkham for three months.”

Barbara moved closer, examining the photos more closely. “This is more complicated than we thought. Ivy has been involved, and that changes everything.”

Jason, still trying to comprehend the chaos he had unleashed, ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll find Y/n. I don’t care what I have to do.”

Barbara looked at him, her expression one of challenge but also understanding. “We can’t do this recklessly. We have to be smart. Silent.”

The group nodded, realizing that the road ahead would be filled with dangers, but also promises of redemption. They were all willing to kill for Y/n, but they had to do it quietly, like shadows slipping through the streets at night.

“Listen, we’re going to find her,” Dick said, his voice resonating like a mantra. “No matter how many doors we have to break down, how many truths we have to drag into the light.”

And so, in the echo of the silence that followed the violence, the five united in a tacit pact, intertwining their destinies in the search for Y/n. Each lost in their thoughts, each remembering that shadows sometimes have the power to conceal not only secrets but also the light that clings to hope.

The shadows stretched as they moved away from the apartment, leaving behind the vestige of a dead man and the echo of trapped laughter. The search had begun, and Y/n’s fate hung in the balance, a thread of light in the darkness that promised to bloom amid the ruins of despair.

The city lights flickered in the distance, like lost stars in the asphalt.

The tears of Y/n fell onto the slippery ground, forming puddles that blended with the blood, a dark ruby staining every part of her thin body, as if sins were being tattooed onto her skin. The humidity of the place smelled of iron and fear, of broken promises and a destiny she had chosen but didn’t quite know how to accept.

“It doesn’t feel good, little one?” said the Doctor, his voice a bitter whisper echoing off the damp walls of the room. He, with his dirty blonde hair falling messily over his forehead, wore a white coat that looked more like a rag than a symbol of authority. A cynical smile spread across his lips, revealing teeth that seemed sharper than the fate he had designed for her. “Bathing in the blood of enemies, isn’t it an exquisite pleasure?”

Y/n, her gaze lost at a point on the floor, nodded slowly, as if each movement cost her an eternity. The blood, warm and sticky, slid between her fingers, a sensory experience that drowned her in contradictions. On one hand, there was a dark delight in the power that image conferred upon her, a power she had learned to wield. But on the other hand, there was an abyss of pain threatening to consume her.

“It’s…” she whispered, barely able to form words. Her voice trembled like a leaf in autumn, indecision etched in her features. Guilt suffocated her, and each tear that fell was a reminder of what she had lost, of what she had left behind.

“What is it?” asked the Doctor, leaning toward her, his eyes lit by a glow that was not exactly compassion, but rather a cruel satisfaction. His gaze seemed to pierce through the layers of her being, scrutinizing the dark corners of her soul. “Is it pleasure you feel, or is it fear?”

Y/n recoiled, feeling her skin burn under his gaze. The Doctor’s words tangled in her mind, forming a knot that seemed impossible to untie. Her voice, almost a cry for help, resonated in the air.

“I don’t know! I don’t know if it’s pleasure or pain.” The words shot out like arrows, but only managed to embed their tips in the empty air, finding no destination. She trembled, caught between repulsion and the desire to free herself from the invisible chains that kept her anchored in that place.

The Doctor let out a cold laugh, as if he were enjoying the spectacle unfolding before him. With a careless gesture, he threw another bucket of blood onto the floor, creating a small puddle that slid toward Y/n.

“That is the beauty of your situation, my dear. You have been chosen to cleanse Gotham of the scum, and along the way, you will discover that pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin.”

“Chosen?” replied Y/n, her voice shaking with the fierce mix of disbelief and rage. “Chosen for what? To be your puppet?”

The Doctor stepped closer, letting the distance between them fade. His presence was oppressive, like a shadow that swallowed light.

“You are not a puppet, Kerosene” he said, pronouncing her name as if caressing it. “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution. The tears that fall now are the ashes of the old you, and it’s time you embrace what awaits you.”

Y/n felt the air grow dense, as if the Doctor’s words were trying to envelop her, to convince her. But there was a truth in his voice, an echo of what she had longed for deep within her being. Hadn’t she been searching for purpose, a place to belong?

“No… I don’t want to be what you’ve made me.” she said, though her voice sounded more hesitant than determined. It was as if reality slipped around her, like the slippery ground she stood on.

“Of course you do, Y/n.” He smiled, and there was something unsettling in that smile, something that made her feel she was on the brink of a revelation. “Your pain is the echo of the city, and you, little one, can be its savior.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, and Y/n felt herself teetering on the edge of the abyss, the possibility of becoming Kerosene, the force of vengeance and power. She fought against the idea, but there was a part of her that was beginning to awaken, to open like a flower in the desert.

“So, what do I have to do?” she asked, finally facing the reality that surrounded her. The tears, instead of being a sign of weakness, now seemed a recognition of her new identity.

The Doctor looked at her with a mix of satisfaction and complicity, like a teacher who sees the spark of greatness in his student.

“First, you must accept that the past does not define your future. The blood that surrounds you is only the first step toward freedom. Become what you have always been. Your destiny is to burn, and in doing so, illuminate others.”

Y/n felt the weight of her decision slowly fading away. By accepting her destiny, she had found a new way to free herself, a purpose that shone like fire.

“Then I will do it.” she said, her voice now firm and resonant, as if she were finally embracing the darkness that had always dwelled within her. “I will be Kerosene.”

The Doctor smiled, and in that smile lay a world of possibilities. Together, they could shake the foundations of Gotham.

“That’s right, my dear Kerosene.” He stepped back, allowing his figure to fade into the shadows..“And remember, every decision you make will be a step toward glory or toward downfall. The line is thin, and you are destined to cross it.”

“What about them?” Y/n asked, pointing to the shadows surrounding her, referring to the Waynes who remained silent in their luxurious prison of silence. “Where is Batman?”

The Doctor paused, his gaze turning serious and contemplative.

“Since your appearance, the Waynes have become shadows of what they once were. Batman has vanished, as if fear has locked him in his own game. They don’t want you to know the truth, and I wonder if, deep down, he fears what you are capable of.”

“Fears?” repeated Y/n, incredulity splattering her voice like a rain of dead stars. “Why?”

“Because the truth is that there is no longer space for the good in this city.” The Doctor stepped closer, his tone low but filled with fervor. “Soon you will go after the Court of Owls. We will expose those monsters in the streets, as they deserve, and they will have no one to defend them. Not even their beloved bat.”

A chill ran down Y/n's spine. The idea of stepping out into the night, of facing the villains who had ravaged her city, filled her with a strange power. She remembered Pamela, laughing amidst the shadows, her voice like an echo urging her to fight.

“I will not be their puppet. I do not want to be a pawn in a bigger game.” The words erupted from her with the force of an approaching storm, and the vision of Pamela dancing among the flowers filled her with a sudden sweetness.

“You will not be a pawn, Kerosene.” The Doctor smiled, and in his eyes was an air of admiration. “You are the queen in this game. Your vengeance will not only bring down those villains, but it will also seek the man behind the mask of Batman. We need to end him.”

“End him?” The question hung in the air like a trembling whisper. Her heart stopped for an instant, remembering the nights spent with Batman, the unspoken words, the caresses of an absent father.

“Yes. Because he, like them, has become a legend that needs to fall.”

Y/n felt the darkness looming over her, a shadow whispering promises of power and pain. But there was something more, a spark igniting within her, a fire burning with the strength of a new dawn.

“Then I will do it.” said Y/n, her voice resonating with a clarity that surprised her. “I will expose the Court of Owls and make my father see.”

The Doctor watched Y/n with palpable satisfaction, as if he had finally ignited a spark deep within her being. With a gesture of his hand, he made the invisible shackles that kept her trapped fade away. In that moment, a strange freedom slipped over her skin, a freedom laden with dark responsibility.

“Come, Kerosene.” he said, his voice now a hypnotic chant rising among the shadows. “There is something you need to see.”

He led her through a labyrinth of damp hallways, each step resonating like an echo of past decisions. The walls seemed to whisper forgotten secrets, tales of those who had fallen into the abyss before her. As they advanced, the light of day faded, and the gloom became an accomplice to their thoughts.

Finally, they reached the balcony of the building, a place where time had stopped its march. The Doctor gently pushed Y/n toward the railing, forcing her to look out over the vast expanse of Gotham that stretched before them. The city was a canvas of flickering lights and deep shadows, a portrait of intertwined chaos and order.

“Look, little one.” the Doctor whispered, his voice wrapping around her like a veil of mystery. “This is your city, a monster that feeds on the secrets you hold in your chest. The blood that stains your skin is a symbol of the struggle that lies ahead.”

Y/n leaned over the edge of the balcony, feeling the cold wind caress her bare skin. The city glimmered like a sea of dying stars, each light a story, each shadow a whisper of betrayal. The vision enveloped her, and for a moment, she felt like a spectator of her own destiny.

Her bare skin, still stained with blood, prickled at the chill of Gotham, a freezing breeze sneaking through the cracks of crumbling buildings, as if the city itself reminded her that she was alive, that darkness embraced her with its mantle of forgetfulness and despair. Each small contact of the air made her more aware of her vulnerability, and at the same time, of the power that blossomed from within her. It was a reminder that, amidst chaos, she was the spark of a new flame.

The puddles of blood that had stained her skin, silent witnesses to her transformation, shone like a dark ruby under the dim light of the moon. In that moment, each drop was an echo of past decisions, a symbol of the life she had left behind. And yet, in her mind, the Doctor's words echoed: “You are the spark that can ignite the revolution.” The irony of her state wrapped her in a sweet and bitter confusion; deep down, her nakedness felt like a release.

The city stretched before her, a vast ocean of twinkling lights and lurking shadows. Gotham, in its complexity, seemed to breathe, a living being pulsing with stories of pain and longing. The streetlights flickered as if about to go out, and Y/n felt that each flicker was a whisper calling her, a reminder that she was destined to be part of something much larger than herself.

As she gazed at the horizon, her mind filled with images: the faces of those she had lost, those she had loved, and those she had to confront. Her heart wrestled between the desire for vengeance and the longing for redemption.

“What do you see?” asked the Doctor, his eyes shining with an unsettling intensity.

“I see…” Y/n began, but the words slipped away like sand through her fingers. The city was a labyrinth of emotions, a stage where pain and pleasure intertwined in a macabre dance. It was a reflection of her own internal struggle, her desire for vengeance and her yearning for redemption.

“I see a sea of shadows, a stage where illusions collapse like houses of cards.” she finally replied, her voice echoing. “Each light, a hope; each shadow, a whisper of unhappiness.”

“Perfect.” The Doctor smiled, his face illuminated by an almost fraternal satisfaction. “Gotham is a mirror, and you are the light that can break the darkness. You must be able to see beyond what shines.”

The Doctor’s words resonated in her mind, tearing through the veil of confusion that enveloped her. In that instant, Y/n understood that every tear shed had fed the city, that every drop of blood on her hands was an echo of what she had lost. And yet, vengeance offered her a new purpose, a path into the unknown.

“The city cries for change, for a fire to purify it” she whispered, her voice gaining strength in the night breeze. “And I… I am that fire.”

“That’s right, dear.” The Doctor nodded, a mix of pride and malice in his expression. “The fire that will purify Gotham and, in its wake, consume everything that stands in your way.”

Y/n felt the air fill with electricity, a palpable current connecting her to the city, to its pain and desire. Deep within her, something began to change. She was no longer just a puppet; she was no longer merely the shadow of her past. She was Kerosene, the spark that would ignite the flame of change.

“But, Doctor, what about those who love the darkness?” she asked, her voice now an echo of what she had learned. “What if they cling to their shadow?”

The Doctor stepped closer to her, his penetrating gaze filled with complicity.

“Darkness is a possessive lover, but there is always a price to pay. The truth is that they cannot hold onto it forever. And when the fire burns, only those ready to be reborn will be saved.”

Y/n felt a mixture of anguish and determination. The city before her became a symbol of her internal struggle, a stage where light and shadow intertwined in an eternal game. Every street, every building, every corner whispered her name in a song of warning and challenge.

“And when the fire consumes everything in its path, will there be anything left of me?” she asked, her voice trembling with the fragility of a leaf in the wind.

The Doctor smiled, a smile that seemed to mock the questions still dancing in her mind.

“Perhaps, dear Kerosene, you will find yourself in the act of burning. Or maybe, you will fade into the ash. That is the enigma of transformation: in the fire, death is merely the prelude to a new beginning.”

As she gazed at the city, Y/n felt her identity fragment and fuse, in an endless cycle of creation and destruction. The image of Gotham before her became a metaphor for the human soul, a reflection of the struggles everyone faced in the darkness. The city, with its chaos and its heartbreaking beauty, enveloped her like a hug.

With one last look at the flickering lights and lurking shadows, Y/n stepped back, a firm decision rising within her.

“There’s no turning back now” she murmured, her voice an echo of her new reality. “I will be the fire that illuminates this eternal night.”

The Doctor, with a gesture of approval, retreated into the shadows, leaving her alone in her revelation. As the city spread before her, a mantle of mystery and power, Y/n knew that the true journey was just beginning. The line between fire and ash was thin, and in her chest burned the certainty that by crossing it, nothing would ever be the same.

“So be it, Kerosene” she said to herself as the wind enveloped her in secret whispers. “Let the fire speak in your name and let the night receive your lament.”

And looking at Gotham, she understood that, in the end, her destiny was not merely to be a spectator, but an unstoppable force, a storm that would unleash chaos. And so, with her heart beating to the rhythm of the city, she prepared to embrace her truth, her fire.

☆

A/N — Here is the long-awaited third part of this series. Thank you for all the support and love you have given me. I decided to make this part longer (at the cost of not being able to include the last image :( ) so that you can enjoy it more.

I was reading your comments where you were asking if Y/n and the Doctor would have a romance (which horrifies me a bit :d, but it gave me an idea) or if he performed a lobotomy on her. Well, that will be answered in the next part or in a headcanon, whatever you ask me.

By the way, in the tag list, there are some users I couldn't add, sorry about that 😔. I really appreciate your understanding and patience. Your enthusiasm keeps me motivated to keep creating and sharing these stories. I hope you find this installment engaging and that it brings you the excitement and emotions you’ve come to expect from the series. Enjoy!

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

take a bath!

Tag list! ◇ — @amber-content @toast-on-dandelioms @feral-childs-word @sweetconnoisseurgardener @victoria1676 @toasted-cat18 @nosyrobin @beeaskewwrites @yandere-enthusiast @telltaletoad @dhanyasri @vanessa-boo @m3vl0vesu @jellypotato66 @midnightgrimoire @cherryxxxxyoongi @imnotdumbimstupif @plsfckmedxddy @h0neysiba @mybones537 @erikasurfer @sheepintherain @pix-stuff @yan-rai @uniquecutie-puffs @arlandvery @theblonde777 @alishii

@maicenitas @ti-girl1226 @vanilliona @chickenwings435 @thedramabrotherss @bat1212 @imnotdumbimstupif @somebodyrandom-613 @aelxr @jsprien213 @sheepintherain @lovebug-apple @zenychwan @starsdotalk @holylonelyponyeatingmacaron @misdollface @clementinesyummy @bunbunboysworld @lunaluz432 @kiarst @meowmeeps @adeptusxia0 @mettatons-number-1fan @fairygardenprincesss @nervousalpacalady @mottysith

Inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams ' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

Curse Your Name

𖤐❝Prologue❞𖤐

❥Vampire Ateez x fem reader

❝What is destined cannot be avoided.❞

Masterlist + Visualizers

➯a/n: WAAAAAH VAMPIRE ATEEZ I FINALLY DID IIIT HOLD ONTO YOUR PANTIES

✫彡wordcount: 2.1k

(✯◡✯)genre: yandere, fantasy, smut, angst

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: see general warnings in the masterlist: visions of violence and blood, hunting fishies, fictional religion, fictional culture and dialect, soulmate au, supernatural elements, not beta read

✫taglist✫(i can't think of something clever help lmao) @soobieboobiebaby

✩index: Caethnor dialect: ka - spoken before or after a sentence to make it more serious or stern. ba - spoken before or after a sentence to make it softer. mi - added after someone's name to show affection. ula - mom.

there will only be a few instances where i use an entirely made up language but when i do the translation will be written next to it {like this}

❝Drink from me and live... forever.❞

MDNI.

𖤐❝This is not a prediction. It is a certainty. ❞𖤐

    "Another daughter to welcome into the village, I hear." The elderly witch stumbles into the small home with her canes support, a smile on her wrinkled face.

    The new mother is resting upon the bed, her child held closely to her chest. Her husband sits only a few feet away, watching his wife with a fond look. 

    "She's a healthy little thing." He says as he stands, placing a hand over hers gently, "Tihilda, will you see our daughter's soulmate?"

    It was only asked as a formality, because of course she would. She had been speaking with The Goddess since she was a child, and had been the villages oracle for over sixty years now. She read everyone's soul mark when they were born. She had read his palm when he was a baby. And read his wife's a few months later.

    Now, many years later, she will read their child's.

     "Let me see the babe," she hums as she sits on the edge of the bed.

    The young woman sits up with a groan, carefully handing over her newborn. Her spouse comes to sit next to her and takes her hands gently as they watch the seer unbundle the baby from the quilt. "She's precious," he whispers to her, looking at her with stars in his eyes.

    The elder settles the precious thing in her lap, smiling as two innocent eyes look up at her. "You two have a beautiful daughter," she nods, gingerly taking the wiggling left arm, "let's see what love awaits her, shall we?"

    She turns the palm face up, looking at it intently. As she reads the lines — she falls into a trance.

Upon the day which blue becomes red and the sun becomes void, the darkness comes for its bride.

"I have waited an eternity."

Eyes turning crimson. Fangs. Blood. So much blood.

"You are promised to us!"

Blue becomes red. 

"Do you remember when I said that I know little of love?"

Screams. Terrible, horrible screams.

"Hold your breath, bite your tongue, close your eyes — do what you must while I do the same."

The sun becomes void.

"You are mine, and I take care of what belongs to me."

Tears from pure eyes. Hands upon hands on virginal flesh. The tainting of innocence.

"My soul craves you in a way that aches. It aches in my bones."

Corruption of the soul.

"We are only haunted by things which that we refuse to accept."

The darkness comes for its bride.

"Drink from me, and live... forever."

    She takes in a sharp breath, trembling as she quickly drops the child's hand.

    "Tihilda!" The woman gasps, "are you-"

"Your child is... cursed. She is to be the soulmate of demons. Of... vampires."

     It's quiet save for the soft pitter-patter of the rain on the roof. The couple stares.

     She knows that the witches predictions are always right, but she refuses; "ka don't jest in such a way." She sniffs as she gathers her child. She holds her to her chest, a frown on her lips as she looks down at the chubby cheeks of her precious first born.

    "This is no jest... This is not a prediction. It is a certainty."

      The man stands up abruptly, gesturing to the door, "I think it's best that you leave."

    "Indeed. I will give you some time, come to me when you are ready."

    He just shakes his head, scratching at his beard.

    She stops with her hand on the door knob. "What is the child's name?"

     The woman wipes her eyes, not looking away from the child. "We have named her (Y/n)."

    "I will pray for her soul."

𖤐❝I bid you, come to me.❞𖤐

     You are six years old the first time you hear it, at least — that's the first time you can remember.

    You're along the rivers edge, learning from your mother how to fish. Your feet freezing cold as you stand deadly still in the ankle deep water, your fingers riddled with splinters that still need tending to after crafting your own wooden spear.

    "Don't move a muscle, (Y/n) mi," she whispers just above the wind whooshing past. "They can feel every little move in the water, they can hear us as well."

    "Is that why you're whispering?" You smile; you're still sporting your baby teeth. You're a slow bloomer. It makes your mother's heart melt.

    "Yes, exactly," your mother smiles back. "Now focus ba. I will go first. Watch closely."

   You watch her every move as she shuffles slowly just a bit deeper into the water, the fish are slightly startled; but they stick around her legs and swim carelessly.

    "T'chu!" You squeak as she moves her spear at the speed of light, piercing both the water and a large fish. {Awesome!}

    "Easy, right?"

    "No way, Ula! I can't move that fast," you pout as she takes the fish and slides it off the spear and into your wicker basket.

    "Not yet, you can't. You will get there!"

    Repositioned and waiting for the fish to settle down once more, you hear a voice in the whipping wind. Over the rushing water around your feet.

    "...feel her... I can feel... hear... me?"

   You look up, brows pushed together as you glance around the river. The words are broken up, incomplete. In a language you don't fully understand at first. It's the realm's language, not your villages. You search for the source.

  It's only you and your mother.

   "Can... hear me?"

  "Yeah..." You nod to the disembodied voice.

   Your mother looks up, curiously. "Hey, focus."

   "Didn't you hear him, Ula?"

    Her face drops, and she knocks the side of her spear against your arm lightly, "focus. Pay no mind to wind spirits ka. Catch yourself a fish." She tightens her grip on the weapon as she looks around.

    You sigh, looking back down at the quickly swimming fish.

    A soft ghost of a hand touches your braid and lifts it up.

    "Ah!" You whip around so quickly that you lose your balance, falling into the shallow bank and soaking your dress in ice cold water. But no one is there.

   Your mother has her spear raised defensively, slicing the air with it as she moves it around.

    You swear you see the ripples in the water coming ever closer to you. Like an invisible force is wading through it.

    "I bid you, come to me."

    "Ula!" You yell, terrified as the voice echoes more clearly in your head.

    "Come to us."

    "Ba swai ulaa fla," she comforts you in your native language as she drops her spear in water and pulls you up; holding your soaked form close as she runs away from the river. {Ba it's just mommy.}

    You certainly get some strange looks as she bolts through the village near dusk with your crying and sodden figure. But she pays them zero mind.

    "Tihilda!" 

   The elderly oracle turns around from her place on one of the pews as your mother bursts into the church at the edge of town.

    She stands up slowly. "The bond is growing strong as she grows. I told you this would happen ba."

    "Please, please, Tihilda," your mother begs as she kneels with you in her arms, "I'm not ready to lose my little girl to... to..."

    "Bring the girl here," she waves with a slight trembling hand, shuffling up the aisle and all the way to the statue at the end of the room, "lay her down."

    She does so, cradling your heated face as she lays you on your back, soaking the rug. "What are you going to do?"

   "Not me. We. We will pray."

  "Pray?" Your mother nearly scoffs, "what good will prayer do if The Goddess is the one who gave her such a horrible destiny?"

    You don't understand much of what's going on. All you know is that you're cold, and you're scared.

     Tihilda slaps her upside the head. "Ka watch your tongue. Kneel with me, and we shall pray for your girls soul to be free of this evil."

You stare up at the stone statue as their voices fill your ears, drowning out the haunting whispers in your head.

𖤐❝My dreams are just dreams!❞𖤐

    When you were thirteen, you had come to terms with the fact that you had no soul mate.

    When you were seven, your parents broke the news to you. You were promised to nobody but The Goddess Grentizia, and you would become a nun after your first bleeding.

    Your friends in the village were off to find theirs in neighboring communities or spending more time with them, leaving you behind.

Perhaps you were lucky that you were a late bloomer. It meant you had more time to do... whatever it is you're doing.

Drawing patterns in the dirt with a stick as life bustles around you.

"(Y/n) mi," Tihilda calls for you softly, "have you gotten lost in your mind again?"

"No ba," you hum, sitting up from where you were laid on your stomach. "I was just... recalling a dream that I had."

"A dream?" She hums back, leaning forward in her seat on the stone bench.

"Ka," your father groans from beside her, closing his holy book. He had become a preacher a few years after your birth. "How many times have we been over this, uh?"

"What's the matter," Tihilda's wrinkled forehead becomes more so, "a child can't dream?"

"My dreams are special."

"(Y/n)!" Your father stands abruptly, making you shrink, "your dreams are just dreams."

"Lir-" {Ok-}

"Say it."

Tihilda sighs deeply, tapping the man's arm, "give the girl a break."

"My dreams are just dreams..."

"Again."

"My dreams are just dreams."

"Again."

"My dreams are just dreams!" You yell with a sudden defiance deep in your voice, staring up at him boldly, and he goes to step towards you when —

"Make way for the Kings Lieutenant!"

In your own world, you and your father had failed to notice the man's arrival. Failed to notice that he was almost in the town center.

"Come," your father ushers you forward, and all of your previous arguments are lost upon you as you run into his arms.

He hurries to take his preachers robes off and drapes them around you, uncaring as the white fabric drags in the mud.

The atmosphere in Caethnor has never been so thick. Your little village is so far out of the way, none of the royal council bothers to visit.

    And for that you were grateful. There was "rumors" about the actions of your undead rulers. And the fact that the royal Lieutenant was here could only mean bad things, especially unannounced.

    He stops in the center of the square. From behind your father, you can see him.

    He seems to be taking deep inhalations through his nose, his lip curling up.

   His head snaps to you. Lieutenant Kim Hongjoong meets your eyes — only for the briefest second before you're hiding behind your father.

    "Hello~" He sing-songs, in front of you both in the literal blink of an eye.

    Your father jumps, startled, and holds your shoulder comfortingly even though his hand is quaking.

   "Hey," he says more sternly when he doesn't get a response, "it's rude to ignore people, child."

   You look up to Tihilda, your eyes wide and uncertain. But she has no answers for you. You have to decide on your own.

   "H-hello ba..." You whisper, cowering behind your father. 

    He takes another deep breath through his nose, lips pressed together. "Hello ba?" He hums, crouching down to your height and meeting your eyes again as you peek.

    "Forgive her, My Lord," your father butts in quickly, "she has never left the village, she only knows our dialect." 

    "How cute... How old are you, child?"

    "I'm-"

     "She's ten! She's only ten! Eleven in Plusu!" He laughs nervously, pulling you further behind his back when the undead man reaches out. You keep your mouth shut. You aren't ten. And you weren't born in Plusu. But he has to be lying for a reason.

     "Ten, huh?" He tuts his tongue, taking one more sniff before standing and rolling his eyes.

     The girl he's looking for is thirteen by now...

    "You shouldn't eat so many golden deadnuts," Hongjoong takes one last glance at you over his shoulder as he walks away, "it makes your blood smell sweet."

His sharp fangs peek from his lips as he smirks. He's as terrifying as the legends.

...But why do you want to go after him? Why was he in your dream?

"Not here. Let's search again on the way back."

𖤐❝PROLOGUE❞𖤐

𖤐❝NEXT TIME❞𖤐

Hongjoong blinks a few times as he surveys the horrified looks of the townspeople. A smirk spreads across his bloody lips — "boo."

The simple word spooks a great deal of them, the broken silence is enough to make them jump. The scarlet liquid in the corner of his mouth makes the children hide.

He and Wooyoung laugh at their reactions, the latter playing idly with your numb fingers.

Yunho places his hand on your cheek slowly, looking down at you like you hung the stars in the sky. You're breathing heavily, eyes dazed as you force yourself to keep your eyelids open. The sweat on your skin doesn't stop the way he strokes your face adoringly. "Where have you been hiding, huh?" He chuckles quietly, the question clearly rhetorical.

Hongjoong is tired of all of these eyes on you. "Everyone out." He turns to you, then back quickly, "leave the preacher. Boys, you can feast."

Villagers start scrambling quickly, yells and cries of panic as the handful of lower ranking Vampires chase them out of the church.

It takes a good few moments for the chaos to clear, and he joins Yunho and Wooyoung in inspecting you slowly while everyone clears out. "How did I miss you, little one?" He hums, rubbing your waist leisurely, "you've grown a great deal. I forget that humans do that."

𖤐❝CURSE YOUR NAME❞𖤐

[chimcess]

❆ Chapter One: Homecoming Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Other Tags: Hockey Player!Jungkook, Figure Skater!Reader, Hockey Player!Taehyung, Hockey Player!Jimin, Hockey Player!Namjoon, Hockey Player!Hoseok, Figure Skater!Jin, Coach!Yoongi Genre: Hockey!AU, Figure Skating!AU, Olympic!AU, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Self-Discovery, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn Word Count: 24.1k+ Summary: Y/N Y/L/N has always been destined for greatness as a competitive figure skater, her dreams of the Olympics sparkling like the ice beneath her blades. But when a devastating injury sidelines her, those dreams seem to melt away. Just when she feels lost, she unexpectedly meets Jeon Jungkook, a talented NHL hockey player. Warnings: Reader is injured and still using crutches, meet-cute reference to an unhealthy relationship with mom, absent father, parental issues, pining, low self-esteem, reader has anxiety, reader is very stressed out, honestly my girl is just exhausted, very pushy neighbors (but we love them for it), Taehyung is adopted, this is really just an introduction to everyone so not many warnings here... A/N: Happy New Year! Let's kick things off with a new massive series. This one will touch on very heavy topics such as toxic parents, mental health issues, and non-consensual touching. Please proceed with caution. New Chapters every month!

masterlist || next

I never used to think about what came next.

Why would I? Back then, the future felt like a far-off, shapeless thing—something for other people to worry about. I was too tangled in the middle of my story to even consider its ending. Life moved fast, like pages riffling under a restless thumb, each chapter running into the next before I had time to catch my breath. There was no pausing, no foreshadowing. Just motion. Just noise.

And sometimes—if the stars aligned, if the right song played through the speakers and your body remembered everything it had trained for—sometimes, it felt like you were brushing up against something holy. Like a dream you hadn’t dared say out loud. It sat there on the edge of your reach, glowing with possibility. But just when your fingers grazed it—when you let yourself believe it might be real—life had a way of snapping its fingers. Books closed. Lights cut out. And you were right back where you started, blinking in the dark.

I don’t think I ever really knew what “normal” meant.

Normal was something other people lived. People who wore buttoned-up shirts and had reliable morning routines, who drank coffee in break rooms and complained about meetings. My days started before the sun—slipping out of bed in the pitch black, lacing up my skates while the cold gnawed at my skin. Stretch until it hurts. Practice until the movements melt into muscle memory. The rink always smelled like frost, metal, and sweat. And underneath that, something sharper—hunger. Not the kind that fades with a snack, but the kind that lodges in your ribs and won’t let go.

That was my rhythm. That was my religion. Until it wasn’t.

I don’t remember the first time I stepped onto the ice. I just know I never wanted to step off. It was the one place that made sense. My body knew what to do there. My brain went quiet, finally. The chaos in me stilled, every time. That’s what made it home.

My mom, Emily, was the first to see it in me. That spark. That thing you can’t quite name but can’t ignore, either. And once she saw it, she refused to let it go. Her love didn’t come in soft words or warm embraces. It came in early alarms, packed bags, and a pressure so constant it eventually felt like air.

Some people called her obsessive. They said she was chasing ghosts, trying to reclaim something she’d lost. And maybe they were right. Maybe I was her second chance, her do-over. But I never resented her for it. Not really. Her ambition burned hot—too hot, sometimes—but it kept me warm. Even when it singed the edges of us.

She’d been a skater, too. Once. Before everything changed. Before the pregnancy, the marriage, the slow surrender of all the things she used to dream about. Her life narrowed, like a funnel, until all that remained was me and the rink. That was the shape her love took—sharp-edged and relentless, but real.

She met my dad when she was still trying to outrun her own shadow. He was in town for police training. They fell hard and fast—or maybe just fast enough to not question it. I came along not long after. A courthouse wedding. A move to Olympia. A life that never quite settled into the one they’d imagined. Eventually, we left. Colorado was calling. Or maybe just the ice.

Jim—my dad—stayed behind, burying himself in his routine, in a house that still smelled like old coffee and missed chances. I became the in-between. Tugged between two versions of love: his quiet, distant steadiness and my mother’s blinding storm.

And now here I was. Back in Michigan.

The intercom snapped me out of my head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’ve begun our descent into Detroit, where the local time is 5:18 p.m., and the temperature is a brisk fifteen degrees Fahrenheit. Please make sure your seat belts are fastened and tray tables are locked.”

Fifteen degrees. Michigan always did have a flair for the dramatic.

I pressed my forehead to the window, watching the clouds give way to gray city lights below. My knee ached, a deep, pulsing throb. The kind that doesn’t fade. I was supposed to see Dr. Jeon on Monday. Everyone said he was the best, that if anyone could fix it, it was him. But I wasn’t waiting on a verdict—I already knew.

The moment it happened, I knew.

The rink had been quiet that day, sun slanting in through high windows, music drifting through the speakers—Swan Lake, soft and haunting. I wasn’t competing. Just skating for myself. My mother sat in the stands beside my coach, their heads bowed in conversation. I picked up speed, moving into a fan spiral.

Then—nothing. Just the wrong angle. The wrong second.

The blade caught. My body twisted. My world flipped sideways.

When I hit the ice, it wasn’t the pain I noticed first. It was the sound. The dull, sickening crack, and then silence. My breath caught somewhere in my chest.

The plane touched down with a jolt, the wheels screaming against the runway. I flinched, the memory scattering like glass.

Around me, seatbelts clicked and passengers jostled for overhead bags, their conversations humming back to life. I stayed seated. My crutches were wedged beneath the seat in front of me, cold metal pressing against my legs.

A few months ago, I moved like wind. I was weightless. Now, every step felt like a negotiation. Every breath like a debt I didn’t remember agreeing to.

At baggage claim, I stood off to the side, crutches tucked beneath my arms, watching the carousel churn. Suitcases slid by in slow, looping circles like planets on a lazy orbit. My hands were full. My leg, stiff and aching, was practically dead weight. I had no idea how I was going to get them off the belt.

“You need a hand?”

The voice was sudden, close, and I turned too quickly. My balance shifted. One crutch slipped from my grip and clattered to the ground with a metallic thud.

“Shit—sorry,” I muttered, trying to grab for something—anything—to hold onto, but he was already there.

He caught me. Hands on my arms, steady and instinctive, like this wasn’t the first time he’d stopped someone from hitting the floor. His touch was firm but careful. Measured. And somehow, without a word, he anchored me.

Everything else—the hum of the baggage belt, the rolling wheels of suitcases, the overlapping voices echoing through the terminal—blurred around the edges. Like we were in a brief pause. A pocket of quiet inside the chaos.

“You okay?” he asked. His voice was warm, level. Unrushed.

I nodded before I even knew what I was saying. “Yeah. Fine.” A lie, of course. But a reflexive one. The kind you tell a stranger who just caught you in more ways than one.

He didn’t let go right away. Just lingered a second longer, maybe making sure I was stable. Then he crouched down to retrieve the crutch, his movements easy, unfazed. When he handed it back, his gaze didn’t carry pity—just something thoughtful. Attentive.

“Thanks,” I said, too quietly. I took the crutch and gripped it tighter than necessary.

He smiled a little, the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything. “No problem.”

Around us, the terminal snapped back into focus. Suitcases banged onto the carousel. A family argued about car seats. A baby cried somewhere in the distance. But for a few seconds more, he stayed beside me, his presence quiet but undeniably solid.

His eyes flicked toward my luggage—still waiting, still unclaimed. “Need help with your bags?”

My first instinct was pride. “I’ve got it,” I said, automatically.

He raised an eyebrow, not judging, just mildly amused. “You sure?”

My knee pulsed in answer, sending a sharp signal up my thigh. I sighed. “Okay, maybe not totally.”

“No shame in that,” he said easily. He stepped forward, grabbed my suitcase like it weighed nothing, balanced my carry-on on top without breaking stride.

We started walking together, or rather, I hobbled while he adjusted his pace to mine without comment. His steps were smooth, unrushed. Like he wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“Someone picking you up?” he asked, guiding us toward the exit.

“Nope. Just grabbing a cab.” I didn’t look at him when I said it, but I was aware of him next to me—his quiet presence, the low warmth of his voice, the way he carried my bags without making it feel like a favor.

“I’ve got my car in the overnight lot,” he said, voice casual. “Could give you a ride, if you want.”

I hesitated—too long. “That’s okay,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

His face didn’t change much, but something subtle shifted. Not disappointment exactly. Just... a beat skipped.

We pushed through the sliding doors and were hit with a blast of cold so sharp it stole my breath. I hissed through my teeth, pulling my coat tighter.

He glanced over. “Forgot what Michigan feels like in January?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Something like that.”

The air felt cruel. Not just cold, but personal. The kind of cold that didn’t just bite—it burrowed.

“So,” he said, voice soft and clouding in the air, “where were you before this?”

“Nevada,” I said. “Before that, Colorado. We moved around a lot.”

“We?” he echoed, like he already knew the answer.

“My mom and me,” I said. “She never liked staying in one place too long.”

He nodded like that made perfect sense. “Sounds like it kept things interesting.”

“It did,” I said, laughing softly. “And exhausting.”

He smiled at that, and it reached his eyes.

The conversation, somehow, didn’t feel forced. It flowed the way snow falls—quiet, natural, layering into something without you realizing it.

“You staying in town a while?”

“For the foreseeable future,” I said. I hadn’t said it out loud until now. It sounded strange. Final.

“Good,” he said simply. And the way he said it—low, certain—made my stomach flip for reasons I couldn’t explain.

I looked at him then. Really looked. He had that quiet kind of good looks—the kind that crept up on you. Tall, broad-shouldered, a little scruffy, like he hadn’t shaved in a couple days. His eyes were dark, warm. Like they’d seen things and still knew how to look gently.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he added, running a hand through his hair. It flopped back into place like it belonged that way—messy but deliberate.

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe.”

“Where are you staying?” he asked, the question light but laced with something... expectant.

“Royal Oak,” I said. “Just moved in. The old houses there are so old and beautiful. I like that.”

He smiled. “Me too.”

The space between us felt thinner suddenly, like a thread pulled taut. His gaze flicked down to my hands, and without warning, he reached for them.

His fingers wrapped around mine—bare, stiff from the cold. His hands were warm. Startlingly so. The kind of warmth you notice because it feels like it doesn’t belong in a place like this.

I froze. Not physically—at least not entirely—but inside. Some part of me flinched without moving, unsure what to do with that kind of contact.

It wasn’t just the touch. It was the way it spread. Quick. Quiet. Everywhere.

“We should get you a cab,” he said after a beat, his voice softer now. “You’re gonna lose a finger if you stay out here much longer.”

“Probably,” I murmured, managing a half-smile, though I didn’t pull away right away. He was just so warm, and his skin was so soft.

But eventually I did. I stepped back, and the cold rushed in like punishment.

He didn’t seem to notice the shift. Or if he did, he didn’t say anything. He flagged down a cab like it was second nature, raised one hand, and the car pulled over within seconds. Everything about him felt smooth, capable—like someone who knew how to move through the world.

He opened the door for me, then grabbed my suitcase and hoisted it into the trunk like it weighed nothing. I watched, rooted to the sidewalk, arms wrapped tight around myself as the wind bit harder.

He turned back around and looked at me—his expression open, calm. Like maybe this was all normal. Like I wasn’t just standing there, blinking through what felt like the end of something before it even had a chance to start.

“Thanks,” I said, finally. My voice was small. Not shy, exactly. Just unsure. Of him. Of myself.

He hesitated, just slightly. Then: “Jungkook.”

It took me a second to realize he was telling me his name. Offering it, like a kindness. Or a beginning. Maybe both.

“Y/N,” I said, a little too quickly. It came out sounding strange in my ears. Like I was saying it for the first time.

He smiled, like he liked the way it sounded. “Y/N,” he repeated, quietly. Testing it. Letting it sit on his tongue for a second longer than it needed to.

There was a shift then—a lean, not quite forward, but enough to make my heart catch. He looked like he was about to tell me something else. Something private.

“My friends and I go to this bar on Grand, on Tuesdays. It’s called Bronx,” he said. Like it was nothing. Just a casual thought. “You should come by sometime.”

I felt the flicker. That sharp, involuntary flutter in my chest.

But I shut it down fast.

Because guys like him—tall, kind-eyed, warm-handed guys who looked like they belonged in glossy photos and movie trailers—didn’t mean anything by that. They didn’t say you should come by because they wanted you, specifically. They said it because they were polite. Friendly. Because that’s the kind of person he probably was—someone who didn’t leave people hanging out in the cold without an invitation somewhere.

I forced a smile. “Yeah, maybe.”

My voice betrayed nothing. Not the pulse in my neck. Not the creeping question that had already started unraveling in the back of my mind: *Did he mean it like that?*

He brightened a little. “Great,” he said. Simple. Genuine.

And then that was it. He stepped back, shut the cab door behind me, and just like that, it was over.

The cab started rolling forward, and I twisted in my seat, looking back through the window. He was still there. Hands in his coat pockets, watching me go. When he noticed me looking, he lifted a hand in a wave—casual, easy.

I raised mine back, but it felt stiff, awkward. Like I was pretending I knew what I was doing.

I sat back and let the silence fill the cab around me. Pressed my forehead against the icy window and closed my eyes. The cold helped. It grounded me.

And still, I could feel the moment pulsing behind my ribs. Like it had already dug itself in.

But I pushed it down.

He probably wasn’t even flirting.

He was just being nice. Helpful. Friendly in that way extroverts often are to the damaged and weirdly quiet.

It didn’t mean anything.

I didn’t do this. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t meet strangers and imagine possibilities. I didn’t let myself believe that someone like him could look at someone like me and see anything worth lingering for.

Still…

That smile.

The way he said my name, like it had a shape he wanted to memorize.

I told myself not to read into it. I told myself to be smart.

But even as the cab turned away from the curb, my thoughts refused to listen. For the first time in a long time, they wanted to drift somewhere else.

And against all logic, I let them whisper the one thing I’d trained myself never to ask.

What if he meant it?

It was a little past seven when the cab pulled up in front of my new apartment building. The sky had already slipped into that deep, smudged purple that comes right before full darkness—like the city had been bruised by the cold. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting soft, yellow halos on the sidewalk. My breath clouded the window as I leaned forward, squinting at the building like seeing it from the inside of the cab might make it feel less... foreign.

The driver popped the trunk without a word. I climbed out carefully, my crutches clacking against the frozen pavement, the wind slicing straight through my coat like it didn’t care I was already exhausted. That specific kind of tired had taken over—the kind that didn’t just live in your muscles, but somewhere deeper. Bone-tired. Soul-tired. I felt like I could lie down on the sidewalk and not move for a week.

The doorman was waiting. Late fifties, maybe older. Graying beard, wool gloves, an expression that said he’d seen this a million times before. He seemed almost bored with me, but I had never claimed to know much about faces. Emily usually had two or three and all of them usually meant roughly the same thing.

“New tenant?” he asked gently, taking in the crutches, the suitcase, the half-zipped coat.

“Yeah. 311.”

He didn’t smile, but there was something kind in his face—steady, nonjudgmental. “Elevator’s this way. I’ll get the bags.”

He moved with a quiet kind of efficiency, hoisting my luggage without fanfare and leading me through the glass doors. Warm air hit me the second we stepped inside, but it didn’t do much. The chill had already settled too deep.

The ride to the third floor was silent, except for the elevator’s low mechanical hum and the quiet squeak of my crutches on tile.

The apartment door opened with a stiff creak.

It smelled faintly of fresh paint and wood shavings—like the place had been redone recently, maybe just enough to feel new. But it was empty. No trace of a previous life. No leftover energy or forgotten curtain rod brackets. Just a blank, echoing box.

My footsteps bounced off the hardwood. There was no couch, no bed, not even a lamp. The walls were bright white and clean, but they felt more like placeholders than personality. It was like walking into the first draft of a home—raw, unfinished, waiting.

I stood in the middle of the living room and exhaled slowly. The air inside was still, untouched. A different kind of cold.

The silence pressed in. I reached for my phone and ordered pizza—not because I was hungry, but because I didn’t know what else to do. Pepperoni and mushrooms. Breadsticks. Something easy. Something normal. If I could just do one ordinary thing, maybe I could trick myself into believing this wasn’t so strange—being here, being alone, being... untethered.

The moment I hit "order," the silence rushed back in. I looked around, trying to imagine the space with actual furniture. A couch against the far wall. A coffee table. Maybe a bookshelf or two, even though I didn’t technically own any books that weren’t dog-eared paperbacks from airport terminals. Still—it would be something.

I’d never lived alone before. Not even for a week. My whole life had been spent sharing space—with my mom, with coaches, with other skaters during training seasons. I didn’t even know what someone needed to live by themselves. Like, did people just... know what to buy? Dish soap? Lamps? Rugs?

I turned slowly in place, studying the layout. The kitchen was a compact galley tucked into the left corner—sleek gray cabinets, bare countertops, a fridge that still had the protective film on the handle. No dishes, no groceries, not even a roll of paper towels. A kitchen that looked like a display model in a catalog—neat, untouched, uninviting.

The bedroom was small, but bright. Big window. Narrow closet. Enough space for a bed and maybe a nightstand if I got creative. And the bathroom was all clean lines and white tile—cold and clinical but functional. At least the water pressure seemed good.

But the best part, the one thing that made me pause, was the little alcove near the entrance. A window seat built into the wall, framed by two narrow bookcases on either side. It was unexpected—this soft, quiet space in an otherwise utilitarian apartment. I could picture myself there on some future night, curled up with a blanket and tea, snow falling outside. I didn’t even drink tea. But maybe I would. Maybe I’d become the kind of person who did.

For a few seconds, that vision held. A glimpse of what this place could be.

I sat down carefully on the window seat, resting my crutches against the wall. Outside, people moved along the street below, bundled in coats, heads ducked against the wind. They looked like they knew where they were going. Like they had homes to return to. Dogs to walk. Rooms that felt lived in.

I had a suitcase, a half-eaten past, and a blank canvas I wasn’t sure how to fill.

I tried not to think about it too hard. I’d figure it out. Eventually. Probably.

My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket, and I answered without thinking.

“Hey,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Did you make it?” My mother’s voice came through flat and sharp, like she was trying not to sound annoyed but failing anyway.

I knew that tone. Tight, clipped—meant to sound like concern, but edged with something else. Resentment maybe. Or disappointment.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just got here.”

There was a pause, but not the kind that invited conversation. Just the kind that preceded more instructions.

“You need to eat something. Something with protein. And make sure you stretch tonight. Five reps of the ankle series. And don’t forget the quad hold—it’s been long enough. You can’t let the muscle atrophy. The longer you wait to get back into a routine, the worse it’s going to be.”

Her voice didn’t rise, but it built. A rolling list of reminders and critiques I’d heard so many times they might as well have been tattooed on the inside of my skull.

“You’re slipping into bad habits,” she continued. “I get that you’re upset, but taking a break from discipline isn’t going to solve anything. You have to stay sharp, even now.”

Even now. As if everything hadn’t already fallen apart.

I didn’t say anything. I just held the phone to my ear and let her talk. She didn’t ask how the flight was. Didn’t ask how I was feeling. Didn’t ask what the apartment looked like, or if I’d managed to bring the bags in by myself, or if I was scared. She never did. And part of me hated how unsurprised I was by that.

Eventually, after a solid five minutes of talking at me—not to me—I cut in. Gently.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” I said. “I need to unpack.”

There was a beat of silence, like maybe she heard something in my voice she wasn’t sure what to do with. But it passed.

“Alright. Night.”

The call ended. And with it, the noise in my head stopped—abruptly and completely. The silence filled the space around me like water in a tank. Heavy. Quiet. Cold.

I stood in the middle of the apartment and looked around again. Still just walls and windows. Still too bright, too clean. Not a single thing to suggest a life had ever been lived here—or was about to be.

I wandered a little, dragging my fingers along the blank drywall. I couldn’t tell if it felt like a beginning or an ending. Maybe both.

Jungkook’s face surfaced in my mind, uninvited. His voice, the way it wrapped around my name like it was something rare. The way he’d looked at me—really looked.

But that was probably just him being nice. He seemed like the type who was nice to everyone. The type who smiled at baristas and helped old ladies carry their groceries. That kind of warmth wasn’t about me, personally. I just happened to be the one standing in front of him at the time.

Still... part of me wished I had asked him more. Or said yes, just to see what it felt like to say yes to something I didn’t overthink to death. But instead, I was here. Alone. In an apartment with no furniture, no food, and not even a mug for water.

I didn’t know how people did this—built homes out of spaces like this. What did you even buy? A rug? A lamp? A plant? I didn’t own any of those things. I didn’t even know how to *want* them yet. My whole life had been about function. Goals. Time splits. Physical therapy. Not... candles and color schemes.

I didn’t know what kind of person I was supposed to be without someone else dictating the shape of my day. But maybe that was the point.

Just as I started to sink into that thought, a knock at the door pulled me upright. I glanced at my phone. The pizza.

Finally.

I moved toward the door, my crutches tapping across the hardwood. But when I pulled it open, it wasn’t a delivery guy standing there.

It was a girl.

Tiny but sharp, like a spark wrapped in velvet. She wore a black knit sweater dress that clung just right and a sequined mini that caught the hallway light with every small movement. Her boots were scuffed in a cool-on-purpose kind of way, and her hair was buzzed close to her scalp—soft and dark, like velvet. She was beautiful in that specific, intimidating way that made you wonder if you should already know her name.

Her eyes were the thing that caught my eye the most. Deep brown and wide, with this gentle openness that made it impossible to look away. The reminded me of him.

“Hey!” she said, bright and familiar, like I was someone she already liked. “I’m Mina. I live next door. The pizza guy knocked on our door by accident—rookie mistake. Figured I’d deliver it myself and say hi.”

I blinked, caught off guard. My stomach grumbled loudly enough for both of us.

“Thanks,” I managed. “Would you mind putting it in the kitchen? I’m kind of...” I glanced down at the crutches.

“Oh, totally!” she said, stepping inside like it was already her second time visiting. She walked with the confidence of someone who’d never questioned whether she belonged.

She set the box down on the bare countertop and turned back toward me.

“So... what happened?” she asked, tipping her head toward my crutches.

“Sports injury,” I said. It was short, vague, and mostly true.

Mina nodded like that was good enough. “Bummer. You doing okay?”

I hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yeah. Getting there.”

“Well,” she said, hands on her hips, “moving sucks enough when you’re healthy. Doing it like this? Brutal.”

I laughed, surprised. “Yeah. It’s... a lot.”

She grinned. “No kidding. So, what’s the plan? Sleeping bag on the floor tonight?”

“I’ve got a suitcase and a yoga mat,” I said, a little defensively. “I’ll survive.”

Mina’s expression shifted like I’d just told her I was planning to spend the night on a sidewalk.

“God, that’s so depressing,” she said, but not unkindly. “You don’t even have, like, a chair?”

“I said I’ll survive.”

She squinted at me, like she was deciding something. Then, without another word, she picked up the pizza box and marched back to the door.

I blinked. “Wait—are you taking that with you?”

She looked over her shoulder with a mischievous grin. “Relax. You’re coming with me. You can eat at my place.”

“I—what?” I gestured helplessly to my clothes, to the emptiness around me. “I just changed into sweatpants. I don’t even have a plate.”

“Perfect. My kind of dinner party.”

Then she was gone. Just like that. Down the hall, pizza in hand.

I stared after her, stunned. Did she really just steal my dinner?

I stared at my reflection in the hallway mirror across the entry, still wearing my old track jacket and fleece pants, socks mismatched, hair shoved under a beanie.

She wanted me to come over?

I stood in the hallway for a moment longer than I needed to, crutches tucked beneath my arms, heart racing for no good reason. It wasn’t far—ten steps, maybe twelve. It wouldn't hurt to try. I grabbed my keys, my phone, and whatever was left of my courage, then made my way to 312.

I knocked, light at first, then louder when there wasn’t an answer right away.

The door creaked open.

But it wasn’t Mina.

A tall blonde woman stood in the doorway, her posture relaxed but somehow elegant. She had this understated confidence, the kind you couldn't fake. Her long hair hung smooth and straight over her shoulders, catching the hallway light like silk. Sharp, dark brows. Almond-shaped brown eyes so deep they were nearly black.

Where Mina had this kinetic, almost manic energy, this woman felt still—centered. Like nothing could rattle her.

“Hey,” she said, her voice low and a little husky. “You must be the girl from 311. Mina said you’d be joining us tonight.”

Her tone was warm but matter-of-fact, like my presence was expected. Mina was very quick. She'd only left my apartment less than thirty minutes ago.

“Yeah. Uh, thanks,” I said, suddenly aware of how I looked—sweatpants, old track jacket, socks that didn’t match. “I don’t want to impose or anything, I just—”

She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Don’t bother with that. Mina’s made up her mind. There’s no use resisting. You might as well come in and let it happen.”

Before I could think of a response, Mina appeared in the hallway behind her, now in yoga pants and a faded concert t-shirt that looked like it had survived a dozen years and maybe even a festival or two.

“I knew you’d come,” she said, triumphant.

“You left me no choice,” I replied, trying for dry humor, though my voice still felt small in my throat. “You literally stole my dinner.”

Mina beamed like I’d just complimented her. “Exactly. Look how well it worked out! Way better than eating alone in your echo-chamber of an apartment.”

She stepped aside to let me in, then made a dramatic gesture toward the kitchen. “Oh my God, wait. I just realized—I didn’t even ask your name. I get so excited about people sometimes I forget basic manners.”

“Y/N,” I said. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Y/N,” Mina repeated, like she was adding it to a mental guest list. “Perfect.”

The blonde woman smiled from where she was leaning against the counter. “I’m Leera,” she said. “But everyone calls me Lucy.”

“Only because I care,” Mina said, opening the pizza box like she was unveiling treasure.

The apartment felt like the polar opposite of mine—warm, mismatched in the best way. The walls were painted a dusty green, and string lights wound their way lazily across the ceiling beams. Plants sat in mismatched ceramic pots on nearly every available surface. The furniture didn’t match, but it didn’t matter—it worked. A soft, oversized armchair in the corner. A chipped wooden bookshelf filled with actual books. Framed photos on the wall that didn’t try too hard to impress. It felt lived in. Loved.

And it smelled amazing.

“Wait,” I said, eyeing the counter. “Why are there four pizzas?”

Mina shrugged, already opening another box. “We ordered ours before your guy showed up with yours. Honestly, we probably would’ve ordered four anyway. This way it just feels fated.”

Lucy opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Diet Coke—mine. She held it up with a raised eyebrow. “Want a glass? Ice?”

“Sure,” I said, my shoulders relaxing without my permission.

We gathered around the island, and before I knew it, I had a plate of food in front of me and a drink in my hand. Mina talked fast, hopping from subject to subject like her thoughts didn’t have brakes, and Lucy chimed in occasionally, always measured, always with that quietly amused tone like she was used to this routine and liked it more than she let on.

Mina was an event planner, which made perfect sense—she had that sort of wildly creative energy. Her life, she told me, was a mess of spreadsheets and glitter, and she wouldn't have it any other way. Her family was originally from Wisconsin, though her grandparents had emigrated from Korea. She had two brothers, both overprotective in different, exhausting ways, and one fiancé—Jimin—who she described as “obnoxiously supportive, like it’s his full-time job.”

Lucy, on the other hand, rebuilt classic cars for a living. I actually laughed when she said it, not because it was funny, but because I didn’t believe her at first. She had this sleek, polished air that made me assume she worked in design or luxury retail or something that involved perfectly tailored coats and clean fingernails.

But no. She spent her days under the hoods of aging Corvettes and vintage Mustangs, smelling like motor oil and coffee.

“People are always surprised,” she said with a faint smirk. “But it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do. My dad started teaching me when I was twelve.”

As they talked, I found myself nodding, laughing in places I didn’t expect. It didn’t feel forced. It didn’t feel like I had to earn my seat. They weren’t waiting for me to prove anything.

They were just... letting me be there.

It wasn’t until I glanced at the clock that I realized it was almost midnight.

Somehow, a night that had started with stolen pizza had turned into something else. Something warmer. Easier. Something that felt dangerously close to *belonging*.

“Get used to late nights,” Lucy said, bumping her shoulder against mine gently. “Being friends with Mina means you’re on her time zone.”

Friends.

The word hit differently than I expected. Like something I wasn’t sure I was allowed to claim.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used that word about myself—friend. Maybe never. There hadn’t been room for it growing up. My life was airports, hotel rooms, ice rinks. Mornings that started in the dark and ended long after the sun went down. Everything was measured in routines and results. Emily made sure of that. Friends, she said, were distractions. Noise. And eventually, I believed her.

So I learned how to keep my distance. I got good at it—stepping back before anyone could step away first. It was easier that way. Safer.

But Mina and Lucy weren’t trying to fit me into a box. They weren’t asking what I could do for them or weighing my worth. They just made space. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that scared me more than being alone ever had.

“So, Y/N,” Mina said suddenly, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of late-night stillness, “what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

I blinked, pulling myself back into the room. The warmth of the apartment, the soft light overhead, the smell of garlic still lingering in the air—it all felt too good, too easy.

“Big day,” I admitted, stretching slightly. “Furniture’s supposed to be delivered in the morning. Then all my stuff from Nevada should arrive by mid-afternoon. I need groceries. And I thought about picking out paint colors, but... that might be pushing it.”

Mina’s face lit up like I’d just suggested a road trip to Disneyland. “Need help? I’m free tomorrow. I thrive on chaos. We’ll have you fully moved in and halfway redecorated by dinner.”

She gave me a playful glance, eyes flicking toward my crutches. “You know, considering your... limited mobility.”

I hesitated, instinct pulling me toward the automatic no. But Mina didn’t wait for invitations. She made herself part of the plan before you even knew you had one. And somehow, saying no to her felt more exhausting than just letting her bulldoze her way through my life.

“That’d actually be great,” I said. “Thanks.”

Lucy looked over from the sink, where she was drying a mug with practiced ease. “Just don’t let her bully you into a theme,” she warned, smirking. “She’ll have your place looking like a Pinterest board before you can blink.”

Mina gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me, I have taste. I’m just trying to help her create a home. Is that such a crime?”

Lucy tossed the towel onto the counter. “I’m just giving her fair warning. Once the throw pillows come out, there’s no going back.”

I laughed, a real one this time. The kind that rose without effort, uncoiling something tight in my chest.

A yawn crept up before I could stop it.

“Go freshen up,” Mina said, waving me toward the bathroom. “I’ll set up the couch. It’s not a luxury suite, but it’s better than sleeping on the floor.”

Gratefully, I slipped down the hall, ducking into the small guest bath. I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth with the travel toothbrush I kept in my purse, and stared at my reflection under the soft bathroom light. I looked tired—really tired—but there was a softness to it now. Less like unraveling, more like unwinding.

When I came back out, the couch had been transformed. A mountain of blankets, layered pillows, even a folded throw at the foot. It looked lived-in, warm—inviting in a way that my entire apartment hadn’t managed to be.

“Thanks,” I said, lowering myself onto the cushions. “This is a serious upgrade from what I had planned. You’ve both officially saved me from a night of regretting every decision I’ve ever made.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. “We aim to please.”

“I’ll stop by around four tomorrow,” she added. “Just in time to pull you out from under Mina’s pile of fabric swatches.”

“Much appreciated,” I said, flashing Mina a grin.

Mina feigned indignation. “Rude. You’re going to love every second of it.”

Then her eyes brightened again. “Actually, I’ll see if the guys are around this weekend. They can help with the heavier stuff. They’ve got a game in Anaheim Friday, but they should be free after that.”

I froze mid-sip of my Diet Coke. “Game?”

Mina blinked like she’d forgotten the detail. “Oh—yeah. Jimin, Taehyung, and my other brother, Jungkook? They play for the Michigan Red Wings.”

I stared at her.

“That’s... hockey, right?”

Lucy snorted into her sparkling water.

Mina nodded slowly. “Yeah. NHL. You know... National Hockey League? Ice, sticks, fighting?”

I shook my head, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. Hockey wasn’t really on my radar.”

“Shocking, coming from someone who lived on a rink,” Lucy teased, eyes amused.

“Emily used to complain about hockey guys hogging ice time. That’s about all I know.”

Mina’s face lit up again. “We’re taking you to a game. No discussion. The energy, the speed—plus, we sit in the family section, so you get snacks.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Mina thinks snacks are a recruiting tool.”

“They are,” Mina said. “And you’ll love it. Even if you don’t know what’s happening, it’s fun. And loud. And stressful. In a good way.”

I laughed. But inside, I was still stuck on the name.

I hadn’t said it aloud, but it echoed in my chest like a dropped pin in an empty room. Could it be... him? No. That was ridiculous. My Jungkook—if I could even call him that after a fifteen-minute conversation—had been a stranger with soft eyes and too-warm hands and a smile that had made something shift inside me.

This Jungkook played professional hockey.

I felt ridiculous for even making the connection.

But then Lucy, as if reading my mind, added casually, “He hasn’t dated anyone since Sky last year. It’s honestly kind of tragic. A guy like that shouldn’t stay single for long.”

Mina’s playful energy dimmed slightly. She gave Lucy a look, then turned to me. “Jungkook’s not like that. He’s not into flings or drama. He’s waiting for the right person."

Lucy lifted her sparkling water in a mock toast. “Not that it’s stopping every woman in Detroit. Pretty sure the entire city knows he’s single.”

Mina groaned. “Don’t even get me started on the girls who hang around the rink. I swear, some of them think it’s a dating service.”

I smiled, curling deeper into the couch, the blankets pulling up around my shoulders like armor.

“Duly noted,” I said. “I’ll be sure to stay on your good side.”

Mina pointed at me with mock severity. “Wise.”

But then she softened again, her voice quieter. “I just hate when people use them. They’re my family.”

And in that moment, I saw something deeper in her—a fierce kind of loyalty that burned hotter than all her jokes. It wasn’t about hockey. It was about the people she loved.

“Well,” I said honestly, “they’re lucky to have you.”

Mina blinked, like the words caught her off guard. But instead of responding, she just smiled, murmured, “Goodnight, Y/N,” and padded down the hallway, her socks sliding slightly on the hardwood.

Lucy lingered a little longer, eyeing me with that calm, assessing gaze of hers.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” I said. And I meant it. “Thanks again. I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

She nodded. “We get it. Starting over’s rough. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Then she disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone in the quiet.

Only I didn’t feel alone.

I sank further into the couch, the smell of lavender detergent in the blankets, the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen. My body felt heavy in a way that wasn’t painful for once—just... tired. In a good way.

My eyes closed without permission. My last conscious thought was of a crooked smile and dark eyes that had somehow felt like a beginning.

And that night, I dreamed of snow falling quietly and the warmth of someone reaching for my hand.

I woke up the same way I had every day for the past eight weeks—my knee throbbing like it had something to prove.

The ache was dull at first, the kind that makes you think maybe, just maybe, this morning would be different. But then I shifted slightly and a sharper, more insistent pain flared behind my kneecap, reminding me that hope was a luxury I couldn’t quite afford yet. I winced, pulling my leg toward my chest, stretching it carefully, slowly. The stiffness resisted. Then surrendered. Barely.

Moving furniture today was going to be a blast.

I stayed there a moment longer, curled on Mina’s absurdly comfortable couch, tangled in blankets that smelled faintly like fabric softener and lavender. The apartment was quiet, the kind of deep quiet that only exists early in the morning—when everything and everyone is still. The radiator hissed softly from the corner, fighting a losing battle against the Michigan winter pressing in from the windows.

I didn’t have to check the time to know it was early, but I did anyway. 5:48 A.M.

Typical.

Sleep and I had never been on great terms, but these days it felt more like a breakup. I closed my eyes again, not to fall back asleep—just to rest. Just to delay the day starting for a few more minutes.

Yesterday flickered back in fragments. The flight. The cold. The quiet, empty apartment. Then Mina. Then Lucy. Then... Jungkook.

Even just thinking his name made something shift in my chest. Not painful. Not entirely pleasant, either. Like a muscle tightening that didn’t know it was still sore.

Which was ridiculous.

He was just a guy. A good-looking one, sure—but not in the way people are in magazines. In the way that made you forget your next sentence. In the way that felt *unfair*. The way that made you certain people like him didn’t cross paths with people like you.

We’d talked for what—fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty? Long enough for me to catalog the exact shape of his smile, but not long enough for it to mean anything.

And yet... here I was. Thinking about him before six in the morning like some walking cliché.

I sighed, scrubbing a hand over my face. This wasn’t high school. This wasn’t a crush. This was just a kind moment from a stranger who happened to look like a movie star and carried himself like he didn’t know it.

Still, the memory of his voice saying my name was lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.

But none of it mattered. Even if he *had* meant something by it—and I wasn’t convinced he had—what was I supposed to do with that? I barely knew how to talk to people, let alone date one. Affection had always felt like someone else’s native language. My version of love was performance-based, transactional. Achieve, and you were worthy. Fall short, and the silence grew colder.

So no, I didn’t have a roadmap for this.

I shifted again, and my knee screamed in protest. Right. Focus.

I hauled myself upright with a groan, planting both crutches beside me, letting them take most of my weight. I needed coffee, but that required bravery—or at least caffeine-fueled motivation. Neither of which I had yet.

Instead, I wandered into the kitchen and finished off the warm, half-flat Diet Coke from the night before. Desperate times. The fizz scratched at my throat just enough to wake me up a little. I didn’t open any cabinets. It felt too intimate to rummage through someone else’s kitchen before sunrise.

The microwave clock blinked: 6:04 A.M.

Mina definitely wasn’t up. Lucy probably wouldn’t be either. I stood there for a moment longer before deciding to head back to my place. Shower, stretch, take my meds. Try to feel like someone capable of handling a full day of adulting.

By 8:30, I had managed it. Mostly. My hair was damp, my knee was taped and braced, and I’d done the stretches Dr. Thompson insisted on, even though they still felt pointless. The painkillers had kicked in, and I had just enough energy to start a to-do list:

Groceries. Unpack. Figure out where the hell a couch goes. Try not to cry about how bad I was at interior design.

I was halfway through scribbling down Find real food (no more pizza) when there was a knock at the door.

Mina stood there in a puffer vest, hair spiked every which way, holding out a steaming travel mug like it was an offering. “Morning. You live.”

I took the coffee with both hands. “Bless you.”

She pushed her way inside like she belonged there—and honestly, she sort of did now. “Ready for some chaos?”

“You’re a morning person,” I said, not quite accusing, but close.

“I’m an anytime person,” she said cheerfully. “You’ll learn to adapt. So. What’s the plan?”

I handed her the list.

“Furniture delivery at nine. Then unboxing. Then... Target?”

Mina studied the list with the focus of someone preparing for battle. “This is light work. You’ll be fully settled by sundown.”

She dropped onto the floor and whipped a notebook from her bag. Before I could blink, she was sketching out a floor plan, complete with boxes labeled “COUCH” and “TV?” and arrows noting things like natural light flow and ideal throw blanket zones.

I stood above her, blinking. “Is this normal behavior?”

“For me? Absolutely,” she said without looking up. “Trust the process.”

The furniture guys arrived just before nine. Mina sprang into action, directing traffic like she was born to manage chaos. She didn’t even glance at her phone, just pointed and ordered and thanked them all with charm turned up to eleven. The movers didn’t stand a chance.

For once, something in my life was going... weirdly well.

Boxes had arrived on time. The movers had only dinged the wall once. And now, for the first time since I left Nevada, I had furniture that wasn’t a yoga mat or a borrowed couch. It felt surreal. Like maybe, just maybe, things were finally starting to settle.

Mina, however, looked personally offended by the number of boxes stacked in my living room.

“That’s it?” she asked, one eyebrow raised as she scanned the pile like she was waiting for a second shipment to roll in.

“Yep,” I said, leaning against the counter and sipping the lukewarm coffee she’d brought me. “That’s the grand total.”

She stared at the labels like they’d betrayed her. “‘Books,’ ‘Books,’ ‘Books,’ ‘Kitchen,’ ‘Miscellaneous,’ and—oh look—‘More Books.’ Y/N, I’m gonna say something radical: you don’t own enough crap.”

I shrugged. “Less stuff, less mess.”

She blinked. “That is objectively false, but okay.”

“I travel light.”

“You travel like a monk,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “Even Taehyung’s freshman dorm room had more personality, and that boy decorated with thumbtacks and gas station signs.”

I snorted. “I can literally see the gears turning in your head. Just... please. Let’s focus on the basics before you start planning a ‘vision’ for the apartment.”

Mina lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But we will be revisiting this. I refuse to let you live in a space that screams ‘mid-2000s divorcee who owns a futon and a single pan.’”

“You’ve known me for fifteen hours,” I pointed out.

“And in fifteen more, I’ll have completely restructured your life,” she said, beaming. “This is just the soft launch.”

“This is you holding back?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Isn’t it terrifying?” she said sweetly. “Now grab your list—we’re going shopping.”

I moved toward the entry table and grabbed the notebook I’d scribbled on that morning. “Just a heads-up, I don’t have my car yet. It’s still at the dealership getting the tires replaced.”

Mina didn’t even blink. “No problem. I’ll be your chauffeur. I insist, actually.”

“You’re really committing to this whole sidekick role.”

“Oh no,” she said, unlocking her phone with a flourish. “You’re the sidekick. I’m the eccentric lead with a heart of gold.”

She fired off a text, then made a call so fast I didn’t even catch who she was dialing until I heard her say, “Jimin? Babe, question—can we borrow your truck for the afternoon? Y/N has the cargo capacity of a shoebox and we’re going to Super Target.”

A pause.

“Thank you! Love you. I’ll wash it before we return it.”

Another pause.

“Okay, you wash it then. Delegation is a skill.”

She hung up and turned to me like nothing had happened. “We’re good. He left the keys under the flowerpot.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was clinging to the door handle of Mina’s blindingly yellow Porsche as she maneuvered through downtown traffic like she was being chased in an action movie. She drove like someone who thought stop signs were optional and speed limits were more of a friendly suggestion.

“Do you... drive like this with everyone?” I asked, voice tight.

She flashed a grin. “Sometimes. There's a reason Jimin doesn't let me hold the keys most of the time.”

By the time we screeched into Jimin’s driveway, I’d made at least three desperate mental promises to become a better person if I lived to see the afternoon.

We swapped cars—Mina took the driver’s seat of Jimin’s much more reasonable pickup like she owned it, adjusting the mirrors and setting her phone to Bluetooth before I even closed the passenger door.

“You know,” I said, finally exhaling, “this already feels like a full day.”

“Oh honey,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder as she backed out, “we haven’t even begun.”

Two hours and three shopping carts later, I came to two very solid conclusions:

One—Mina was a force of nature and should never be allowed in a Super Target unsupervised.

Two—I actually kind of adored her.

She wasn’t just energetic. She was unstoppable. She flitted from aisle to aisle like a whirlwind, throwing things into the cart with the confidence of someone who truly believed in her choices—an area in which I had very little experience. A full-length mirror. Bath towels that were “the perfect neutral.” A utensil drawer organizer, which she insisted was non-negotiable.

“You’ll thank me when you’re not stabbing yourself with a rogue whisk,” she said, tossing it into the cart.

I, on the other hand, moved slower. I hesitated over cereal brands and stared too long at trash cans. I felt the need to justify every purchase—do I need this? will I use it? is it too much?

Mina didn’t ask. She just filled the space with warmth and commentary and the occasional unsolicited recommendation for scented candles.

“This one smells like baked apples. It’s cozy but not try-hard.”

“I’ve literally never bought a candle,” I said, and she stared at me like I’d just confessed to murder.

“Okay, you’re lucky you’re cute because that’s criminal.”

By the time we made it to the checkout, I was leaning heavily on the cart like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

We wheeled our loot through the parking lot, the cold air a slap after the warmth of the store. Mina popped the truck bed and we started loading everything in, box by box.

“You know,” I said, pulling my jacket tighter, “I really didn’t think I’d end up doing any of this today.”

She glanced at me over the tailgate, her breath puffing into the air. “What’d you think you’d be doing?”

“I don’t know. Sitting on the floor. Feeling overwhelmed. Ordering another pizza. Crying, maybe.”

She smirked. “That was the original plan, huh?”

“More or less.”

“Well,” she said, tossing in the last bag, “you still might cry, but now your apartment will have paper towels and a decent shower curtain. Progress.”

As we climbed back into the truck, my phone buzzed with a new text. I didn’t check it right away. I just sat there for a second, watching Mina fiddle with the heat and turn the radio down to a low hum.

It was past noon. I was sore. My knee was aching. And I was completely, utterly exhausted.

“I’m telling you, Y/N,” Mina said, tossing shopping bags into the bed of Jimin’s truck like she was confetti-bombing the neighborhood, “those shirts were a necessity. When something fits that well, you don’t overthink it. You buy it in every color. It’s science.”

I raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, leaning awkwardly against the side of the truck while balancing on my good leg. “I’m pretty sure science has nothing to do with impulse-buying three identical button-ups.”

“They’re not identical,” she said, tossing the last bag in with a flourish. “One’s black. One’s navy. One is... I don’t know, ‘stormy sage’? Fashion is nuanced.”

I looked down at the shirts she was now proudly referring to as if they were designer pieces. Converse button-ups. Cropped. Surprisingly flattering. Cute, yeah. But three of them?

“I don’t even know how you did it,” I said, shaking my head. “I blinked and suddenly we were checking out with thirty more things than I planned, including three shirts I definitely don’t need.”

Mina grinned, hands on her hips. “I’m persuasive. You’ll thank me when those shirts become your entire personality.”

I laughed under my breath. She was impossible. And probably right.

“Fine,” I muttered, cracking the passenger door open. “The shirts are great. But now the gimp requires sustenance.”

“The gimp?” she said, snorting as she walked around to the driver’s side. “You really know how to sell the sympathy angle.”

“I’m just saying, if you don’t feed me soon, I will collapse in the parking lot and you’ll have to explain it to your fiancé.”

She started the engine, still grinning. “How do you feel about Korean food? There’s a spot on the way back that does bibimbap so good it might actually heal you.”

“Perfect,” I said, already daydreaming about something hot and homemade and not packaged in plastic wrap. “Just promise me there’ll be rice. And something spicy. I need to feel alive again.”

“You got it. Spicy, salty, and life-giving. Just like me.”

“Debatable,” I muttered, and she stuck her tongue out as she peeled out of the lot.

The drive back to my place was slower this time—probably because she’d burned off her daily need for chaos at the store. The truck was full to the brim with our haul: paper towels, dish soap, cleaning supplies, a shower curtain Mina swore would "tie the whole bathroom together," and of course, the trio of button-ups that I was already regretting less than I wanted to admit.

Halfway there, Mina launched into an enthusiastic pitch about why Jimin needed to help paint my apartment this weekend.

“The walls are so beige,” she said, one hand gesturing wildly while the other stayed loosely on the wheel. “It’s giving rental. It’s giving dentist’s office. We need warmth. Color. Maybe an accent wall.”

I shot her a look. “I just moved in. I haven’t even figured out where the forks go yet.”

“That’s why you need me,” she said, smiling smugly. “And Jimin. And maybe Taehyung. Although he’s more of a ‘music and snacks’ helper than a ‘holds the ladder’ type.”

“No painting,” I said firmly.

“But—”

“No.”

She sighed, long and dramatic. “Fine. But I’m bringing swatches over. Just so you can think about it.”

“Compromise,” I said, holding up a hand. “I’ll look at swatches. No promises beyond that.”

“Deal. For now.”

By the time we got back to the apartment, the adrenaline had worn off, and we both looked like we’d survived a war. We unloaded the truck one bag at a time, neither of us speaking much, just working in sync. The wind had picked up, slicing through our jackets, numbing our fingers.

The second we got inside, we dumped the grocery bags on the kitchen counters in a completely chaotic pile—frozen pizzas leaning against laundry detergent, cleaning sponges nestled beside a head of lettuce. No one was winning any organizational awards.

We shoved the cold stuff into the fridge in a way that would haunt any dietitian—boba cans, leftover takeout, half a dozen condiments, and nothing resembling a proper meal plan. Then we collapsed on the couch with steaming takeout containers and the kind of hunger that bordered on desperation.

I hobbled over with my box of rice and kimchi stew, trying to navigate the living room without tripping over the legs of the coffee table. My crutch caught on the edge once—then again. And then a third time, jerking my arm forward so hard the lid nearly popped off the container.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

Mina watched from the couch, chopsticks in hand, expression somewhere between entertained and alarmed.

“You okay there, Y/N?”

“I’m about this close to burning these crutches in the parking lot,” I said, gesturing with my free hand and nearly dropping my food in the process. “I swear they’ve gained sentience and are actively working against me.”

Mina bit back a laugh. “You’re over it, huh?”

“So over it.”

I sank onto the couch next to her, balancing the container in my lap, my knee throbbing in protest. “Walking used to be hard enough without props. This is like trying to tightrope across a canyon with ski poles.”

“Well, the good news is: you only have to survive a few more weeks.”

“Three weeks and four days,” I corrected. “Not that I’m counting.”

“Of course not.”

She passed me a can of sparkling water, then flipped on the TV, scrolling past half a dozen crime dramas before settling on something soft and slow—a cooking competition where everyone was too nice to be entertaining but too charming to turn off.

After lunch, Mina disappeared into the glossy pages of a wedding magazine she’d snagged from the mail pile, her fingers flipping through dresses and flower arrangements with laser focus. It was the first real lull in hours. No furniture to move. No errands to run. No decorating debates to lose.

I curled up on the far end of the couch, stretching out slowly, carefully—testing how far my knee would let me go without complaint. I exhaled, head leaning back against the cushion, and let the silence settle around me like warm water.

And of course, the second my brain had the space, it wandered right back to Jungkook.

I barely knew anything about him. Not his last name, not what he did, not whether he liked cats or had siblings or believed in fate. All I really had was a twenty-minute interaction at baggage claim and the way his name had sounded when he said it—low, warm, almost shy.

Still, I kept replaying it. The way he looked at me. The way he said my name like it was something he wanted to remember. It wasn’t dramatic, and yet... it stuck.

Ridiculous. But also kind of undeniable.

He was impossibly good-looking, yeah. The kind of good-looking that made you glance twice without meaning to. But it wasn’t just that. It was how he moved, how he listened. How he’d reached for my hand like it wasn’t even a decision, just instinct. There was something about him that had made the world feel quieter for a moment. Lighter. Less sharp around the edges.

And now, here I was, replaying it like some girl in a coming-of-age novel. Like I didn’t have more pressing things to worry about. Groceries. Doctor’s appointments. Building a life from scratch.

Bronx. Tuesday nights.

He’d said it like a suggestion. Easy. Offhand. But it hadn’t felt offhand. Not to me.

Could I actually go?

Part of me wanted to. Just to see if that strange, electric hum would still be there. To see if I’d imagined it. To see him again and maybe say something smarter this time.

But then there was the other part—the louder, older part of me that had spent years learning how to protect itself. That part was already rehearsing the excuses. Maybe he was just being friendly. Maybe he said that to everyone. Maybe it wasn’t an invitation at all, just a casual, polite mention of a bar he happened to like.

But then again... why mention Tuesday? People don’t give you days unless they want you to show up.

I sighed, tilting my head back and staring at the ceiling like it might hold some answers. If this were a song—some cheesy country track—you’d just check a box. Yes or no. Done. Simple.

But life wasn’t simple. Not for me. Not for anyone, probably, but especially not for someone who’d spent most of their teenage years building routines instead of relationships. Who’d been taught that attention had to be earned. That being wanted came with strings.

Even now, the idea of someone like him being interested in someone like me felt... farfetched. I couldn’t even picture it without flinching a little. Not because I didn’t want it. But because I didn’t know what I’d do if it was real.

Before I could sink deeper into my overthinking, Mina’s phone exploded with a series of high-pitched tones that could only mean one thing: bridal emergency.

She groaned, already reaching for it as she stood up, balancing her plate in one hand and pressing the phone to her ear with the other. “What now?” she muttered, then rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

She turned to me as she shoved her feet back into her boots. “Promise me you won’t touch anything while I’m gone. That includes trying to alphabetize your books or reorganize the pantry. Lucy and I will help you tackle the mess later.”

I raised my hands like a suspect in a crime show. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

She pointed at me like she wasn’t entirely convinced, then turned toward the door. “Back soon. Don’t burn the place down.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Then she was gone, already halfway through a conversation before the door even clicked shut behind her.

The quiet that followed was different than before—thicker, somehow. Not empty, just... still. The only sounds were the hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the building settling around me.

I looked around the room, at the shopping bags still stacked near the kitchen, the unopened boxes lined up against the wall. The place was technically furnished now, but it didn’t feel lived in yet. It still felt like a set waiting for someone to walk onstage and make it real.

I didn’t have the energy to try.

Instead, I let myself sink deeper into the couch, pulled my phone from my pocket, and scrolled to a playlist that always helped me think—instrumentals, soft indie stuff, a few moody movie scores that reminded me of long drives and late-night practices.

I popped in my earbuds and hit shuffle. The music slipped into my ears like a sigh, wrapping around my tired thoughts and pulling me under.

And then, somewhere between the second and third song, I closed my eyes.

I managed to avoid Mina for two full days—an impressive feat, considering she lived across the hall and had the persistence of a golden retriever with a tennis ball. Jet lag and my still-aching knee made the perfect excuse. I leaned hard into both.

But Saturday morning came, and so did Mina—arms full of coffee, muffins, and what she proudly announced as a “battle plan.”

“Today,” she declared, kicking my door open like she owned the place, “is Divine Design Day.”

I blinked at her from the couch, where I’d been trying to read through a headache and ignore the existence of daylight. “Is that a real thing, or are you just making up reasons to rearrange my life again?”

“Both,” she chirped, setting down the coffee with the precision of someone used to delivering caffeine with urgency. “And don’t even try to wiggle out of it. The reinforcements are already on their way. Jimin and Taehyung will be here by ten sharp. Painting, organizing, general transformation of your sad little loft—consider it handled.”

I groaned, flopping my head back against the cushion. “Can’t we just live in the mess for a few more days? I haven't even decided if you could paint, yet.”

“Nope. Inspiration waits for no one. Plus, you’re lucky. If you’d given me one more day, I would’ve started mood-boarding your whole apartment.”

There was a part of me that wanted to protest, but... another part that was curious. She and Lucy had been hyping these guys up for days, and I hadn’t exactly met many people since moving in. Still, the thought of spending a whole day with strangers—loud, close-knit, apparently good-looking ones—made me wish I had more than half a muffin’s worth of energy.

“Wasn’t Jungkook supposed to be part of this decorating army?” I asked casually. I would like to meet both of her bothers. She talks about them so much it felt like I knew them personally.

Mina made a face. “Took a hit last night during the game. Spent the morning with the team doctor. He’s fine, but they’re keeping him out of practice for a few days.”

I’d heard the game through the walls—cheers, shouting, cursing, more cheering. Mina and Lucy had invited me to watch with them, but I’d passed. Something about crowds, even just two people shouting at a TV, still made me feel uneasy. I’d curled up with a book instead, but the next morning’s dramatic play-by-play had made me regret it a little. It had sounded... fun. Loud, chaotic, communal. The kind of thing I’d never had much of.

“Alright,” Mina clapped, snapping me back to the present. “Let’s hit Home Depot before the guys show up.”

I glanced down at my knee, already aching from the mild activity of existing. “Can’t Lucy come with us? She’s the one who probably cares whether my walls are ‘cool gray’ or ‘ash cloud.’”

Mina rolled her eyes. “She threatened to spike my coffee if I woke her before nine. So, no. You’re stuck with me. And you just said paint is fine, so I can assure you grey is out of the question.”

I sighed and started gathering my things—wallet, phone, crutches. “Just promise me you won’t go overboard. I don’t want this place ending up looking like an HGTV fever dream.”

“You wound me.” Mina held a hand to her chest in mock offense. Then, smiling mischievously, added, “But okay, compromise: you get veto power. Use it wisely.”

We took Lucy’s BMW since Mina’s Porsche could barely fit two people and a purse. As I awkwardly hoisted myself into the passenger seat, I muttered, “I still need to pick up my car. It’s just sitting at the dealership.”

“Hard pass,” Mina said, already pulling out of the lot. “You’re not driving until you’re off those crutches. And possibly not even then.”

“I’ve got a new doctor. Appointment’s Monday. Dr. Jeon.”

Mina nearly swerved. “My dad? You’re seeing my dad?”

I blinked. “...Did you not think to mention your last name?”

“I guess not?” she laughed, shaking her head. “Oh my god. This is perfect. You’re in good hands. He’s basically the unofficial Red Wings physician. He’s fixed more joints than a mechanic.”

“That’s comforting,” I muttered, feeling strangely reassured.

Home Depot was a blur of color swatches, paint samples, and Mina flitting between aisles like a woman on a mission. She had a clipboard. She was terrifying and weirdly efficient and somehow made it through the whole trip without spilling coffee on her all-white outfit.

I couldn’t lie—by the time we checked out, some part of me was genuinely excited. The thought of my walls not looking like the inside of a beige envelope had its appeal.

When we pulled up to the building, Jimin’s truck was already there, parked next to a rugged Jeep that looked like it had seen actual mountains.

“Right on time,” Mina said, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. She pulled out her phone. “I’ll call the guys. And no, Y/N, you’re not allowed to feel guilty. You’re not lifting a finger.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I said, holding up my hands.

“You weren’t,” she said sweetly, “but I know you. You hate asking for help. Tough. Today, you get to sit there and be adorable while other people carry your heavy stuff.”

“Your dad’s my doctor, not you,” I shot back, and she just winked as she dialed.

“We’re here. Come get the stuff,” she barked into the phone, then ended the call without waiting for a reply.

A few minutes later, Lucy came strolling down the front steps, looking completely put together despite just waking up. Behind her were two guys. I recognized Jimin from Mina's lockscreen—dark hair, lean and strong, with easy confidence and a smile that lit up his whole face. The other was taller, leaner, but still broad. He moved with this lazy grace, like the world would move around him if he waited long enough.

Mina launched herself at Jimin before he made it halfway up the sidewalk, and he caught her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The taller guy—Taehyung, I assumed—was already slinging bags of paint out of the backseat like they weighed nothing. His arm was around Lucy’s shoulders, and he had a grin that looked both infuriating and charming.

He gave me a once-over as Lucy led him over.

“So, you’re the new recruit, huh?” he said, voice warm and teasing.

“That’s me,” I said, returning his smile. “Fresh out of basic training.”

“I like her,” he said to Lucy. “She’s got good banter. Can we keep her?”

“Only if you behave,” Lucy muttered, elbowing him.

He noticed the crutches next, his brow lifting.

“What’s with the wingmen?” he asked, nodding toward them.

I blinked. “The what?”

“The crutches,” he grinned. “Your wingmen. Not very discreet, but I respect the commitment.”

“Oh. Sports injury,” I said, half-laughing.

“Ah,” he said, then mock-whispered to Lucy, “I don’t know. She doesn’t look like she can keep up.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Keep pushing it and I’ll replace you.”

Taehyung turned back to me, grinning like a kid with a secret. “Tell you what—I’ll carry you, and Jimin can handle the actual work.”

And before I could respond, he bent and scooped me up like it was nothing. My crutches clattered to the sidewalk, and I let out a yelp somewhere between startled and outraged.

“Taehyung!” Mina shrieked, rushing over. “She’s injured! You can’t just scoop people like produce!”

“She’s tiny,” he said, unbothered. “And I’m gentle.” He looked down at me, still holding me like a rom-com cover. “You don’t mind, right?”

Still processing the fact that I was somehow four feet off the ground in the arms of a complete stranger, I blinked at Taehyung, unsure whether I should laugh, scream, or demand a refund from the universe. But instead—because apparently my brain had no interest in logic—I nodded.

“Uh... sure, Taehyung,” I muttered, my voice wobbling somewhere between confusion and reluctant amusement.

He grinned like I’d just handed him a gold medal. “See? Knew I liked you.” Then, louder, over his shoulder, “Y/N’s my homegirl now. No take-backs.”

Lucy snorted. “Oh, you know it, G,” she said, like this all made perfect sense. Like a guy carrying a semi-stranger across a parking lot was completely standard behavior.

Still on Taehyung’s back—because why not—I caught sight of Jimin approaching, a lazy smile playing at the corners of his mouth like he’d seen this happen before. Which, honestly, he probably had.

He reached out a hand to me, his voice warm and soft. “Pleasure to meet you, Y/N,” he said, and it wasn’t just politeness. There was something about the way he looked at people—steady, kind—that made you feel like you could take a full breath around him.

I adjusted my arm and leaned forward just enough to shake his hand, my own awkwardness bubbling at the edges. But there was something about him—maybe the calm in his eyes, maybe the way he didn’t flinch or rush—that made it easier than I expected.

“Thanks,” I said, managing a smile. “You must be the sane one.”

“God, I hope not,” he replied with a soft laugh. “But I *am* the quiet one. You’ll get used to these lunatics. Eventually.”

“I’m starting to think I don’t have a choice,” I said.

Before I could say anything else, Mina’s voice cracked through the moment like a starter pistol.

“Alright, enough with the welcome parade!” she barked, clapping her hands. “We’re not here to flirt—we’re here to work.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jimin said with a mock salute before peeling off toward the truck to start grabbing paint supplies.

I shifted awkwardly on Taehyung’s back. “Okay. Time to put me down now.”

“Nope,” he said, the word sharp and final, like we’d made a legally binding agreement. “I said I’m carrying you in, and I meant it.”

“I have legs,” I pointed out. “At least, technically.”

“And I have arms,” he replied cheerfully. “So really, this works out for both of us.”

“You’re seriously carrying me and the paint?” I asked as he reached for a box without a hint of effort.

Taehyung didn’t even look at me. “Multitasking is a lifestyle.”

I sighed. “Can someone at least grab my crutches?”

“Lucy!” he called. “Get Goose and Maverick, will you?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t ask for clarification. Just bent down to collect them with a kind of long-suffering patience that told me this wasn’t the first time she’d played interpreter for him.

“Goose and Maverick?” I asked, giving him a sidelong glance. “Really?”

He looked at me like I was the one missing something. “They’re your wingmen. You literally can’t take off without them.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ve been told,” he said, grinning. “Repeatedly. But people still keep me around, so I must be doing something right.”

By the time we made it up to my apartment—me, Taehyung, the paint, and my dignity all jostling for space—I had stopped trying to argue. It wasn’t worth it. And, if I was honest with myself, there was something kind of... nice about it. Not being in control. Being carried, even if it was chaotic and borderline absurd. It was the kind of closeness I wasn’t used to, the kind I usually deflected with a joke or a polite smile.

Inside, the rest of the crew filed in behind us, arms full of supplies. Mina immediately took over like she was hosting her own HGTV show, issuing orders about where tarps should go and what walls needed taping. Jimin unpacked the brushes with surgical precision. Lucy cued up a playlist. Taehyung, still carrying me like some kind of absurd prince, finally set me down gently on the couch.

“There,” he said, dusting off his hands dramatically. “Safe delivery. No scratches.”

I adjusted my brace and flexed my knee. “Do I get to rate you on the app?”

He grinned. “Only if I get five stars.”

“You get four,” I said, deadpan. “Docked a point for dramatics.”

Taehyung gasped. “Rude.”

Mina leaned over, handed me a muffin from the tray she'd brought earlier. “Don’t feed the monster. He thrives on attention.”

“He thrives on being carried in song,” Lucy said, tossing him a paintbrush. “Start with the baseboards, Prince Charming.”

The room hummed with laughter and easy movement, brushes unwrapped, music starting low in the background. It didn’t feel like a decorating day—it felt like some strange, spontaneous little family had formed inside my apartment. No one was looking at me like I was fragile. No one was asking for anything. And I hadn’t laughed this much in... I didn’t even know how long.

Somewhere between the paint fumes and the dance breaks, something inside me softened. My body still hurt, sure, but my chest didn’t feel quite as tight. The anxiety that usually sat behind my ribs had, at least for now, gone quiet. And I realized that I was smiling.

As the afternoon wore on, it became increasingly clear that this wasn’t just about paint and furniture. It was something else entirely.

It was friendship. It was kindness.

They didn’t say it aloud, but I could feel it in the way they handed me brushes without hesitation, the way Lucy made sure there was music playing that I might like, the way Jimin quietly rearranged a chair so I could get through on my crutches without asking. This was how they welcomed people in—not with big gestures or declarations, but through movement. Through presence. Through effort.

And they didn’t seem to need anything in return.

By lunchtime, I’d made Taehyung laugh so hard he nearly dropped his roller. I’d tossed out a sarcastic one-liner that had Lucy wheezing. Mina had crowned me “queen of passive-aggressive commentary,” and I didn’t even flinch when Jimin tried to nickname my crutches again. The air was warm with paint fumes and music and the kind of easy conversation that comes when no one’s trying too hard.

For the first time in a while, I wasn’t just reacting. I was participating. I was letting people in.

By late afternoon, the loft had started to change—walls no longer blank, corners no longer empty. It wasn’t just a space anymore; it was starting to look like a home. One I could actually picture living in. Unpacking didn’t feel like a task to avoid now—it felt like a step forward.

So I started with what I knew: books.

Jimin carried the boxes over, stacking them carefully by the shelves. “These yours?” he asked with a crooked smile, already knowing the answer.

I nodded. “My version of comfort food.”

He grinned. “Respect.”

I opened the first box, and the scent hit me instantly—familiar, musty in a good way. The smell of ink and paper, of nights spent in bed with a flashlight and early mornings tucked into the corner of rinks. These books had followed me everywhere—Nevada, Colorado, hotel rooms, off-seasons, injuries, airports. They were mine. And in a way, they were the only thing that had ever really stayed.

I sat on the floor, carefully stacking them by genre and alphabetically—because of course I did—and let myself get lost in the quiet comfort of order.

Until Mina’s voice rang out from the living room.

“Hey, Y/N,” she called, tone casual. “Do you want us to start unpacking these other boxes? The paint’s dry in here.”

I glanced up from the shelf. “Yeah, go ahead. They should just be boring essentials.”

“One’s labeled ‘Miscellaneous,’” she said, “and the other... has no label.”

I frowned. “That’s weird. I thought I got everything.”

“You want me to open the mystery box?” she asked, and I could already hear the curiosity revving like an engine.

“Sure,” I said, distracted as I slid a copy of The Secret History into place. “It’s probably just chargers or socks or something.”

Then came the sound of tape being torn back—followed by a sharp, high-pitched squeal that nearly knocked me sideways.

“Mina,” I groaned, setting down the next book, “are you trying to communicate with bats?”

No answer. Instead, a second later, her head popped around the corner, eyes wide, smile even wider. That look she got when she was seconds away from chaos.

“What?” I asked, already bracing myself.

She strutted into the room like a cat who’d just dragged in a very shiny mouse. In her hands was something rectangular and gleaming.

And the second I saw it, my stomach dropped.

The plaque.

The one with my name on it, etched in gold under the words Olympic Silver Medalist – 2020.

It glinted in the late afternoon light like it had been waiting for its cue.

“Oh my god,” I muttered, the back of my neck prickling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mina beamed. “Explain.”

“I—where did you even find that?”

She held it up like it was an award she’d won. “In the unmarked box. Along with a lot of other sparkly surprises.”

Of course. Thanks, Emily, I thought bitterly. Who else would’ve made sure that box made the journey, whether I wanted it to or not?

Mina looked like a detective who had just cracked a very personal case. She wasn’t smug, exactly—more amused. Intrigued. Like she’d found the missing puzzle piece to a picture she didn’t know was incomplete.

“So, care to tell me why you’ve been living in my building for days without mentioning that you, I don’t know, competed in the freaking Olympics?”

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. I could feel the heat crawling up my throat. I wasn’t embarrassed, exactly—but I wasn’t ready either. Not for this. Not yet.

“I was going to tell you,” I muttered. “Eventually. It just... didn’t come up.”

“Didn’t come up?” she echoed, laughing. “Y/N, this isn’t like forgetting to mention you’ve been to Italy. You were on a cereal box.”

I flinched. “Only once.”

She waved the plaque again. “You medaled. At the Olympics. And I’m your friend. Friends share things like this.”

“I know,” I said, my voice quieter now. “I know. I just... liked that you didn’t know. That for once, I wasn’t the skater or the medalist or Emily’s daughter. I was just... me.”

Mina’s face softened. She lowered the plaque.

“Okay,” she said gently. “That I get.”

I exhaled slowly. “It’s not that I’m ashamed. I’m not. It’s just—when people find out, everything shifts. They treat you different. They expect something. Or they think they know who you are. I didn’t want to start off like that.”

She nodded, sitting beside me on the floor. “And now that the cat’s out of the box?”

I gave her a sideways look. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

She grinned. “Anytime.”

I hesitated. “Does it... change anything?”

Mina nudged me with her shoulder. “You think a medal’s gonna scare me off? Please. If anything, it just makes you more interesting. Besides, Jimin and Taehyung probably don’t even know how figure skating works. You’re safe.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

She reached back into the box and pulled out more relics—photos, laminated programs, a couple of medals, and even a few old costumes, sequins still clinging to the fabric.

One had a note pinned to it. My mother’s handwriting, Just in case. I stared at it for a beat.

“Subtle, Emily. Real subtle.”

“Who’s Emily?” Mina asked, peering over my shoulder.

“My mom.”

Mina picked up one of the magazines from the box, the glossy cover catching the light, my teenage face frozen in mid-spin, smiling in a way I barely remembered. She turned it over in her hands like it might explain something if she looked long enough.

“So...” she said slowly, almost gently. “I’m guessing you didn’t pack all this yourself?”

I shook my head. “Not even close.”

She looked up, eyebrows raised.

“I left all my skating stuff back in Vegas,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, like it wasn’t a topic I still hadn’t fully figured out how to talk about. “But Emily has her own ideas. She thought I might need a little ‘reminder’ of who I am.”

“Or, like... a museum exhibit’s worth of reminders,” Mina muttered, holding up one of my old costumes. It shimmered in the afternoon light, all rhinestones and careful stitching.

I reached for it instinctively, my fingers brushing the fabric like it might sting. “I didn’t want this here. Any of it, really. I’m not even sure if I’ll ever skate again, so... why surround myself with sequins and medals and expectations, you know?”

Mina’s smile faded. She set the costume down and placed a warm hand on my knee, her touch gentle. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I said quickly, even though it wasn’t. “I just didn’t expect to see all of this again. Not now.”

We sat there quietly for a moment. Not awkward—just still. Her hand stayed on my knee, grounding me while my thoughts spun. I looked around the room, suddenly aware of how surreal it felt to be surrounded by my past in the middle of what was supposed to be my fresh start.

“She thinks I’m being dramatic,” I added after a beat, voice quieter. “That this injury is just a bump. That I should already be back on the ice, training. That I’m wasting time.”

Mina frowned. “But you’re recovering from surgery. Doesn’t she know what the doctors said?”

“Emily only hears what fits the version of reality she wants,” I said, with a dry laugh. “And her version doesn’t include me being uncertain or scared or... done.”

“She’s insane,” Mina said flatly. “You don’t just bounce back from something like this because someone else decides you should.”

“Yeah, well... she’s been pushing since I was little. It’s what she does. I think she believes if she just shoves enough glitter at me, I’ll snap out of whatever this is and turn back into the girl she remembers.”

Mina leaned back, still watching me like she was trying to figure out how to carry some of the weight I’d just handed her. “Well, screw that. Whatever version of you is here now? That’s the one we’re rooting for.”

I smiled, feeling something in my chest ease. “Thanks. I’m not really great at this whole... emotional honesty thing.”

“Please,” she said, scoffing playfully. “I grew up with three brothers and a father who thinks hugs are a form of weakness. This is practically therapy compared to that.”

I laughed, a real one this time. “I’m really glad I met you.”

Mina grinned and bumped her knee against mine. “Same. And just so we’re clear, we’re not just friends, Y/N. We’re best friends. You’re stuck with me.”

I bumped her back. “Best friends it is.”

We sat like that for a while, surrounded by old photos, forgotten trophies, and glittering ghosts of the life I’d been trying to leave behind. And for the first time, it didn’t feel suffocating. It just felt... like part of the story. One I didn’t have to erase to move forward.

Just then, Lucy’s voice called out from the back room.

“Hey, lazy bums! Are you two just gonna lie around while we do all the work?”

“Yep, that was the plan,” Mina called back immediately, not missing a beat.

“Sounds good to me,” I added, smirking.

Lucy appeared in the doorway a second later, a paint roller in hand and a grin on her face. She flopped onto the floor beside us, stretching out like she hadn’t just spent the last hour painting trim.

“Well, if you’re being lazy, I might as well join you,” she said, wiping her hands on her jeans.

Mina turned toward her with a sly look. “So, Lucy. Did you know Y/N here is a certified Olympic figure skater?”

Lucy’s brows shot up for half a second before she shrugged like someone had just told her I was good at baking.

“No shit? I knew your name sounded familiar.” She looked me over with a nod, like it all made sense now. “That’s pretty badass.”

I blinked. “You’re really not fazed by this, are you?”

“Nah,” she said, lying back on her elbows. “You kinda give off badass energy even without the medal. The glitter just confirms it.”

“Seriously,” Mina added, rolling onto her stomach, chin in her hand. “The things you can do with your legs—I’m just saying, if I had that kind of flexibility, Jimin wouldn’t let me out of the bedroom.”

I groaned, covering my face. “Mina.”

“What?” she said, unrepentant. “It’s true.”

Lucy smirked. “She’s not wrong. I mean, flexibility like that? You could probably win gold medals in other areas.”

“Wow, thanks for the visual,” I muttered, face burning as I tried to redirect my attention to literally anything else.

“Not for me, you dork. For guys. The one's you'd want to attract in this scenario.”

I forced a laugh, trying not to let the heat rising in my chest show. “Well, I wouldn’t really know.”

There was a pause.

Mina blinked. “Wait. Are you saying... like wouldn’t know, wouldn’t know?”

I stared at her, then stood abruptly, heart thudding. “Okay! That’s definitely enough over-sharing for one afternoon.”

“No way,” Mina said, sitting upright, eyes wide with disbelief. “Are you—Y/N. Are you a virgin?”

The word hit the air like a firework, and I froze, eyes darting toward the window like I might escape through it.

“Mina,” I hissed, “could we not announce it to the world?”

She looked more shocked than judgmental, which helped, but only slightly.

Lucy didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at me—really looked—her expression softening into something that felt neither surprised nor judgmental. Just... curious. Thoughtful. Then she shrugged.

“Honestly?” she said, voice even. “Kind of refreshing.”

I blinked. “Sorry—what?”

She leaned back onto her elbows like this was the most casual conversation in the world. “It took me a while, too. I didn’t have sex until I was twenty-one. And even then, I felt behind. Like everyone else was speaking some language I hadn’t learned yet.” She paused, her mouth quirking up at the edges. “But it turns out most of them were just faking fluency.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Huh.”

“Seriously,” she added. “You’re not weird. And it doesn’t say anything about who you are or what you’ve done or how together your life is. It just... is.”

That’s the thing about Lucy. She said what she meant, then gave you room to sit with it. I wasn’t used to that. Most people either tried to fix things or pretended they didn’t matter. But she just let it hang there, uncomplicated.

Mina, on the other hand, was already recovering from her shock with the energy of someone who’d just discovered a juicy plot twist. She grinned and grabbed the nearest throw pillow, launching it in my direction. “Okay, okay, we’ll drop it—for now. But just so you know, this is absolutely going on the future girl's night conversation list.”

I ducked the pillow with half a laugh. “Do you guys always interrogate your friends like this?”

“Only the ones we like,” Mina said sweetly.

“Pillow fights optional,” I muttered as I stood and made my way toward the kitchen, mostly for an excuse to breathe.

“No secrets between best friends, Y/N!” Mina called after me, her voice lilting with dramatic flair. “We’re basically emotional archaeologists. We will uncover every layer.”

I opened the fridge door just to have something between us, gripping a bottle of water like it might offer emotional protection. The cool air hit my face, and for a second, I just stood there, letting it settle my thoughts.

The truth was, I hadn’t meant to say anything. Not really. The words had just come out—too fast, too raw. But instead of judgment or awkwardness, I’d been met with honesty. Warmth. A kind of acceptance that didn’t require explanations or apologies. And maybe I wasn’t used to that. But standing there, with their voices still drifting in from the living room and laughter bubbling up again like nothing had shifted—I realized I didn’t really want to hide anymore.

Monday morning arrived dark and quiet, the kind of morning where the sky barely bothered to shift from night. I woke up before my alarm, as I usually did, but this time I didn’t rush to the kitchen or swing into a stretching routine. I stayed exactly where I was—wrapped in a cocoon of downy pillows Mina had sworn were “life-changing.”

I wasn’t sure they’d changed my life, but for once, staying in bed didn’t feel like avoidance. It just felt... necessary. Today mattered. More than I wanted to admit out loud.

It was the kind of day that split a timeline. Before. After. The day everything might shift—one way or another. My first appointment with Dr. Jeon. A new specialist. A new city. A new shot at figuring out what came next. Or maybe just confirmation of what I was afraid to say out loud. I wasn't sure if I was ready for this to be over or not.

Back in Vegas, Dr. Banerjee had tried to be gentle, but his words had still landed like punches. He’d told me not to count on a full recovery. Not to get my hopes up. Emily, of course, had immediately decided he was being negative. She was convinced I was dragging things out. Playing the victim. Acting fragile for attention.

And the worst part? Some days, I almost believed her. Was I being dramatic? Was I just afraid of the truth?

I threw off the covers and sat up slowly, stretching my arms over my head before bending into my usual warm-up—first the good leg, then the bad. My knee felt tight, but not terrible. There was a faint ache, sure, but I’d woken up to worse. It wasn’t a sharp pain, at least, and I could still move with control. That was something.

I stood carefully and tested my balance. No major complaints from my joints. A small flicker of hope lit up in my chest, tentative and trembling. It had been so long since I let myself hope. Too long.

I moved into deeper stretches, more out of habit than optimism, and felt a twinge of pride when I realized I was still flexible. Still strong. The months off the ice hadn’t erased all of it. The grace was still in me somewhere, buried under layers of doubt and bruised confidence.

For a second, I let myself imagine it—spinning again, arms lifted, back arched. Spirals on clean, untouched ice. The moment where the world went quiet and I felt like I could breathe. I missed that feeling more than I knew how to say.

The first couple of weeks after the surgery had been a strange kind of relief. I wasn’t training, I wasn’t performing, I wasn’t pushing. It was the first time in years that no one expected anything from me. I sank into it like a vacation I hadn’t realized I needed—reading entire novels in one sitting, binge-watching trashy reality shows, eating grilled cheese at two in the morning just because I could. But it didn’t last.

By the time mid-December rolled around, the stillness stopped feeling restful and started to feel like a weight I couldn’t shake. Emily noticed before I did and took it as an excuse to “intervene.” She hauled me back to the rink, under the pretense of helping me “reconnect” with my roots. What she meant was: prove you’re still useful. Prove you’re still capable. Prove this wasn’t a waste.

She stood at the edge of the boards like a judge with a stopwatch. I hadn’t even taken five steps before my knee buckled and I fell. Flat. In front of Yoongi. In front of the kids who used to look up to me. That was the last time I let her drag me there.

It didn’t stop her from trying, of course. Emily didn’t believe in stillness. She believed in productivity, in motion, in proving people wrong—even if those people were her own daughter.

She had me “consult” with Yoongi for weeks after, pretending it was useful. But all I did was sit at the rink, freezing and frustrated, trying to pretend I wasn’t quietly unraveling. That’s when the idea of leaving started to feel like more than a fantasy.

Dr. Banerjee had mentioned specialists in Michigan who had worked with athletes recovering from similar injuries. I clung to the idea like a lifeline. If I was going to make a decision—if I was going to have any chance at figuring out whether skating was still possible—I needed space. I needed air. Emily wouldn’t give it to me, so I had to take it.

She hadn’t liked the idea of me leaving Vegas. Said it was impulsive. Said it was a waste. But when she realized I wasn’t going to budge, she pivoted to control in the way she always did—organizing everything from five hundred miles away.

She found the apartment, bought the car, booked the appointment. She made the calls, set the schedule, tried to package my new life like it was her idea. I let her. I didn’t care who pulled the strings as long as it got me on a plane and out of that house. And now... here I was. In a new city. In a quiet apartment with half-painted walls and friends I hadn’t known I needed until I found them. I still didn’t know exactly what I was doing.

I got ready slowly, moving through the motions with mechanical care—shower, dry my hair, jeans, a soft navy sweater. Something neutral. Something that wouldn’t make me feel like I was trying too hard. The familiar rhythm of routine helped. A little.

I ate a lemon poppy seed muffin while standing at the counter, brushing the crumbs away absently. My mind kept drifting ahead, to the waiting room, to the questions Dr. Jeon might ask. To what he might see when he looked at my scans. Would he see potential? Would he see damage beyond repair?

Would he see me? Was I still Y/N Y/L/N, elite figure skater? Or had I already become someone else—and just hadn’t admitted it yet?

A knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts.

“Morning!” Mina’s voice rang out cheerfully before I even made it halfway across the room. The lock clicked, and a moment later, she strolled in like she owned the place—radiant, caffeinated, and entirely too awake for how early it was.

I’d given her a spare key yesterday. Or more accurately, she’d insisted, and I hadn’t come up with a good enough reason to say no.

“Good morning,” I said, my voice lighter than I felt. She floated into the kitchen, grabbing a banana from the counter like it had always belonged to her.

“Happy Lose-the-Crutches Day!” she said, throwing her arms in the air like we were celebrating a national holiday.

“You’re so weird,” I said, shaking my head, but I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.

“Oh, come on. You can't tell me you're not excited to ditch your flyboys.” She nodded toward the crutches leaning against the wall. “I’m just saying, maybe with fewer metal limbs, you’ll stop knocking over every piece of furniture in your path.”

“I make no promises,” I said. “I’ve been tripping over thin air since before I could walk.”

“Not your fault,” Mina said breezily, now halfway through the banana. “You were born to glide. Gravity doesn’t apply to you unless you're off the ice.”

I raised an eyebrow at her, skeptical.

She met my gaze without flinching. “I’ve seen you skate. It’s like watching something—” she paused, searching for the word, “—weightless. Like you’re built for it.”

I’d heard things like that before, mostly from articles or overzealous fans, but coming from Mina, it felt different. She wasn’t trying to flatter me. She just meant it.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, my throat tightening in that annoying way it did when someone was kind and I didn’t know how to receive it.

Mina grinned again, apparently satisfied. “Come on, babe. Grab Goose and Maverick and let’s roll.”

I rolled my eyes at the names she’d assigned to my crutches—her Top Gun obsession had resurfaced with alarming enthusiasm—but I grabbed them anyway. The sooner this appointment happened, the sooner I’d know if I could finally start moving forward, or if I’d have to figure out how to live with where I was.

We made our way outside, the cold morning air biting at our faces as we slid into her car. She cranked the heat, and the vents roared to life.

“Thanks for driving me,” I said, trying to sound casual, even though my stomach was twisting itself into knots.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” she said, pulling out of the lot. “I don’t mind. Besides, it gives me a reason to stop by the hospital and bug my dad. Makes me look like the responsible child.”

“I’m guessing that’s not a hard title to hold onto.”

“Okay, true,” she said with a laugh. “But I like going there. Seeing him in his element. We’re all so different, my brothers and me. Taehyung’s like this human tank on skates, and Jungkook moves like he was born doing crossovers. But they’ve always had my back. Being the youngest with two protective hockey-playing brothers definitely has its perks.”

I smiled, glad for the distraction. “How’d they end up on the same team? That doesn’t seem like something that just happens.”

“It doesn’t,” she admitted. “Taehyung wasn’t a huge name going into the draft. Scouts overlooked him for years. But then the Red Wings saw him in one showcase game, and that was it. They picked him up late, and it turned out to be one of the smartest moves they ever made. Jungkook came up a year later—he was already on their radar, but I think having Tae here made the decision easier. Plus, hometown brothers? The media eats that up.”

“Guess I’ll need to start brushing up on hockey,” I said, trying to sound more relaxed than I felt. “You know, now that I’m basically related to the Red Wings through you.”

“It’s practically required in Michigan,” she said, flicking her turn signal on. “We don’t mess around about two things here: winter and hockey.”

As we pulled into the hospital parking lot, the familiar knot of anxiety settled lower in my stomach, tight and insistent. This was it. The appointment. The one that might tell me if I had a future in skating—or if I had to start imagining something else entirely.

But the fear wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been in Vegas. Maybe it was the distance from Emily. Maybe it was Mina’s steady presence. Or maybe it was just the quiet sense of possibility that came from being somewhere new.

“You okay?” Mina asked, cutting the engine and turning to me.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I think I’m ready to find out.”

She nodded. “That’s all you can do.”

We sat there for a beat, the car ticking softly as it cooled. Then Mina, never one to let a moment sit too long, launched into a new story—this time about the Jeons’ childhood road trips to Canada for tournaments, how Jungkook used to get carsick but refused to admit it, and how Taehyung once brought a lizard in his hoodie and didn’t tell anyone until it crawled across Mina’s lap at a border checkpoint.

I laughed, really laughed, and felt something settle in my chest. Not peace, exactly, but something close to it.

Mina’s stories were full of color and warmth, and the more she talked, the more I could picture it—their house full of noise and teasing, her dad coming home in scrubs, her mom in the kitchen, Taehyung trying to sneak snacks upstairs, Jungkook glued to a pair of rollerblades in the driveway. A family that made room for each other. Who didn’t just push, but protected. Who loved out loud. For the first time, I realized how much I’d missed that. Or maybe just never really had it. Not like that, anyway.

I looked out the window at the hospital entrance. Whatever Dr. Jeon had to say, I wasn’t alone walking into it. That mattered more than I ever would’ve guessed.

The front desk was all clean lines and hushed conversations between the receptionists. Signing in felt oddly ceremonial, like I was handing over the last of my denial with the click of a pen. Five minutes later, when the nurse called my name, the nerves that had been quietly simmering suddenly surged to the surface—tight and sharp, crawling up my spine and gripping my chest like a vice.

The exam room was exactly what you’d expect: bland, sterile, steeped in the sharp tang of antiseptic. The cold linoleum sent a chill straight through my sneakers, and I felt it settle in my bones. The nurse was quick and impersonal—height, weight, blood pressure—before she disappeared behind the door with a soft “Doctor will be in shortly.”

I climbed up onto the edge of the exam table, its paper crinkling beneath me, and folded my hands so tightly my fingers went pale. Mina sat in the chair beside me, swinging her foot gently, her presence steady and grounding, but even that couldn’t slow the drumbeat of anxiety pounding through me.

It was ridiculous how fast my heart was racing. I’d stood in the center of Olympic arenas, lights blinding, crowds watching, expectations weighing heavy on every jump and spin. But this was different. This wasn’t about a medal or a score—it was about who I was without all of that. About what I’d have left if the ice was no longer mine.

My foot tapped an anxious rhythm against the cabinet. I barely noticed until Mina reached out and rested a hand gently on it. The pressure was light, but it was enough to still me.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice soft.

I nodded, but it felt hollow.

The door opened with a soft click.

The man who stepped in looked more like someone you’d want to sit next to at a backyard cookout than a doctor about to deliver a verdict on your future. He was tall, lean, probably in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair combed back in a way that said he’d either put zero effort into it or had perfected the art of making it look that way. His suit was understated—charcoal slacks, a navy sweater under a white coat—and the warmth in his brown eyes contrasted the clinical chill of the room.

He glanced at the clipboard in his hands, then looked up. “Y/N Y/L/N?” His tone was even, pleasant.

Then his eyes landed on Mina, and everything about him softened. A genuine smile cracked across his face, crow’s feet appearing at the corners of his eyes.

“Well hey der, Mina! Didn’t see ya there!”

I blinked. Did he really just say ‘hey der’? The accent was unmistakable—Midwest, probably northern Michigan or somewhere not far from the Wisconsin border. Mina had said he'd grown up in Green Bay. It was so gentle and earnest, I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

Mina jumped up and threw her arms around him. “Hi, Dad.”

She stepped back and gestured toward me. “This is Y/N. She just moved in next door, and I thought I’d tag along to introduce her.”

Dr. Jeon—or Suho, apparently—turned toward me, his smile still warm, still easy. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Hope she’s not driving you too crazy already.”

“She’s been great,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steadier than I felt. I was still trying to untangle the ball of nerves sitting like stone in my stomach.

He nodded. “Good to hear. And call me Suho—everyone does. Any friend of Mina’s is a friend of mine. I’ve got a feeling you’ll be around more than a little.”

Before I could say anything else, Mina piped up, practically bouncing where she stood. “Oh! Are you and Mom still going to the Red Wings game Friday?”

“You know it. Wouldn’t miss it.”

She turned to me, eyes gleaming with excitement. “You should come with us. Lucy and I always go, and after the game, we meet up with some of the players—it’s actually a blast. Please come?”

I shook my head with a small laugh. “You’re doing the puppy eyes again.”

“They work, and you know it. C’mon, please?”

I looked at her—hopeful, grinning, her hands clasped in mock prayer—and felt the last of my resistance crumble.

“Alright. I’ll go.”

“Yes!” she cheered, clapping her hands. “Can I pick your outfit?”

Suho held up a hand, chuckling. “Okay, let’s maybe not plan her wardrobe while I’m trying to be a doctor here.”

“Oops,” Mina said, kissing his cheek before heading toward the door. “See you Friday!” She waved at me before slipping out, the door closing softly behind her.

The air shifted almost immediately—less playful now, quieter. Not uncomfortable, just... different. Like we’d all remembered why I was here.

I looked at Suho, who was already pulling up a stool and flipping open my file.

“She always been like that?” I asked, my voice still light, but something in it cracked slightly.

He smiled without looking up. “Since she learned how to talk. She hasn’t stopped since.” He turned a page, scanned it, then glanced at me. “But she’s got a good heart. And she’s stubborn—runs in the family.”

I let out a soft, distracted laugh, but the nerves were already crawling back in.

Suho adjusted the file in his lap. “Your orthopedic in Nevada sent over everything. November, right? ACL tear, surgery a week later, concussion from the fall?”

I nodded slowly. My throat felt tight again. “Yeah.”

The memory was sharper than I expected, cutting through the surface like ice cracking underfoot. One second I was mid-jump, body precise and controlled, and the next, everything was wrong—air, noise, then the sound of the impact, the searing pain that came before the lights even fully faded.

Suho didn’t rush. He flipped another page. “Looks like you’ve been doing your post-op rehab consistently. That’s good. Really good.” He looked at me again. “How’s the knee feeling now?”

“Sore,” I admitted. “Mostly at night. And if I’m on my feet too long, it kind of... throbs.”

He nodded. “That’s normal. Ligaments take time to recondition. It’s not just the muscle you’re rebuilding—it’s trust. Between your body and your brain.”

He moved closer, gently lifting my leg and rotating it with practiced care. “Range of motion looks decent,” he murmured. “And you’re not wincing—that’s a good sign.”

He set my leg down gently and looked at me fully. “I think you can start weaning off the crutches. Short walks at first. Around the house. No hills, no stairs yet.”

A small breath escaped me, part relief, part fear. “So... does that mean skating’s on the table?”

He didn’t answer right away. He leaned back slightly, rested his hands on his knees, and studied me for a beat. I could see the gears turning behind his eyes—professional caution, tempered by experience.

“If you’re diligent—if you give this the time it needs—then yes. I think it’s a real possibility. But don’t rush it. Your knee isn’t ready for jumps or spins. We’ll start small—treadmill by the end of the week. Gentle walking, just to get it used to bearing weight again. If that goes well, we’ll try light skating. Easy glides, no tricks.”

It wasn’t a promise. But it was hope. And right now, that was more than I thought I’d get.

“Thank you,” I said, and my voice wavered just enough that I had to look down.

“One step at a time,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to do it all at once.”

I nodded, swallowing hard.

He flipped through the last of the pages in my file. “Let’s get you scheduled for a follow-up in early April. That’ll give us time to reassess—see where you’re at in terms of strength and mobility.”

I hesitated. The real question was still there, sitting in the back of my throat, bitter and impossible to swallow. I stared at the floor, then forced myself to look up.

“Will I be able to compete again?” My voice barely made it out.

Suho looked at me for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his tone shifted—gentle, but unflinchingly honest.

“It’s possible. But I won’t lie to you—there are no guarantees. Some athletes make a full comeback after an ACL tear. Others plateau. It depends on how well your body responds to the rehab. And how patient you’re willing to be.”

I nodded slowly, even though part of me was still frozen. Still scared.

“The hardest part,” he added, “comes when it starts to feel like you’re better. That’s when you’re most vulnerable to reinjury—when the confidence comes back faster than the strength. So take it slow. Let your body lead. We’ll reassess in April and see what’s next.”

He met my eyes, steady and kind. “Can you promise me that? That you won’t rush this?”

I nodded, but my mind was still spinning. Everything Suho had told me was looping back on itself, piling up before I could properly sort it out. ACL rehab. Crutches. No jumps. Maybe skating again. Maybe competing. There were so many maybes, and behind each one was a risk I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to take.

And underneath it all was the fear—quiet, patient, always waiting. It hadn’t left. It just shifted shape. I stared down at my hands, the knuckles still pale from how tightly I’d been wringing them, and tried to breathe through the weight in my chest.

Then Suho’s voice cut through the spiral. Not sharp, not rushed. Just steady.

“Y/N,” he said gently, “I know this isn’t easy to hear. And I know how hard it must be, having your future suddenly look different than you planned. But listen to me—don’t lose hope. You’re frustrated, sure. That’s normal. But recovery isn’t just physical. Mental strength is going to be just as important. Probably more.”

I looked up, caught off guard by how serious he looked. Not grim—just honest. Like he was telling me something he’d learned the hard way, something he really meant.

“If you stay patient, stay consistent, and keep showing up for yourself,” he continued, “you give yourself the best possible chance of getting back to where you were. And maybe even beyond that.”

A small, cautious warmth sparked somewhere inside me, like someone had lit a match in the dark. I swallowed hard. “You really think I can come back from this?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “I’ve seen a lot of athletes recover from worse. And I’ve seen some of the best give up—not because their bodies failed, but because they let fear win.” He leaned forward a little. “I can’t make any promises. But I wouldn’t be saying this if I didn’t believe you had it in you.”

I didn’t know what to say. The part of me that had braced for another clinical assessment—something cold and distant and definitive—didn’t quite know how to absorb this. It wasn’t a guarantee. But it was hope. Honest, measured hope. And after the months I’d spent waiting for the other shoe to drop, it felt like the first real breath I’d taken in a long time.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. Then, catching myself, “I mean—thank you, Suho.”

He grinned. “There you go. Getting the hang of the whole first-name thing.”

A faint laugh slipped out of me, and for the first time all day, it didn’t feel forced.

Suho stood and moved toward the counter to jot something in my chart, then turned back to me. “Just remember, you’re the one doing the work. I’ll guide you, sure. But this journey? It’s yours. Own it. Take your time. Don’t skip steps. There’s a time to push—and this isn’t it.”

“I hear you,” I said, managing a half-smile as I picked up my crutches. “No hero moves yet. Got it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yet.”

I nodded again, and this time it felt steadier. Not because I suddenly had all the answers, but because I had something to aim for. A thread to hold onto.

Suho opened the door for me, then gave me a last look as I passed through. “I’ll see you Friday. At the game.”

I blinked. “Right. I almost forgot.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “Mina never lets anyone forget.”

I smiled—really smiled—and stepped into the hallway.

Outside, the January cold slapped against my skin the moment the sliding doors opened. The wind cut straight through my coat, and my breath came out in tight little clouds. But strangely, I didn’t mind.

After the appointment, Mina wouldn’t take no for an answer. She claimed we had to eat, and I didn’t have the energy to argue. So we ended up at the little café on Maple—the one with the scratched wooden tables and the chalkboard menu that hadn’t changed in three years. The kind of place where the barista already knows your order and slides it across the counter with a wink. Comfort food, warm light, good coffee. Safe.

We ate slowly, mostly in companionable silence, only breaking it to talk about the game Friday or how Minnesota had a “better winter” than Michigan, which, according to Mina, was a hill she was prepared to die on. Eventually, she checked the time, grabbed her keys, and gave me that look—the one that meant she had a plan I hadn’t agreed to.

“Come on. Emily said your car would be ready today, right?” she said as we slid into her car.

I nodded, suddenly queasy.

By the time we pulled into the dealership lot, my nerves had twisted into a tight knot at the base of my stomach. I spotted it right away—sleek, shining, sitting in the front row like it knew it was being shown off. A brand-new Mercedes-Benz SUV, polished to a mirror finish, reflecting the cloudy winter sky.

Of course it was a Mercedes. Emily didn’t do practical. She did statements. To her, this was a gift. To me, it felt like every moment of my life rolled into one big fucking joke on four wheels. She has no idea who I am.

I swallowed the knot of disappointment and climbed into the driver’s seat. The leather was buttery soft, the scent of new upholstery too strong, too sterile. Everything felt untouched, untouched by me at least. Like it belonged to a version of my life I hadn’t chosen.

I adjusted the seat, turned on the ignition, and rolled out of the lot with careful hands. A few seconds later, my phone buzzed. Emily. Right on cue. She’d probably been watching the time, waiting for the appointment to end so she could debrief like it was a business transaction.

I stared at the screen for a second before letting it ring out. She could go to voicemail. I’d blame driving later if she pressed. It wasn’t a lie—not completely.

We pulled up to the apartment just as Lucy’s BMW came around the corner. She practically leapt from it before the engine had even settled.

“There she is!” she called out, beaming, arms already wide like she was announcing me to a crowd.

Mina laughed, waving her over. “Perfect timing.”

Lucy jogged up, flushed from the cold, her scarf trailing behind her like a cape. She had that kind of contagious energy—bright, earnest, just a little chaotic—and it made it harder to hold onto a bad mood around her.

“You guys wanna do a lap around the block?” she asked, already bouncing in place like a wind-up toy. “Gotta break in your sea legs, Y/N.”

“It’s January,” I said flatly. “In Michigan.”

“So?” Mina shrugged, already pulling on gloves. “You’re a figure skater. Cold’s your natural habitat.”

“It’s twenty-two degrees out,” I reminded them.

Lucy grinned. “Exactly. Practically tropical.”

I stared at them for a moment—two overexcited lunatics in head-to-toe winter gear—before sighing and grabbing my coat. “Fine. But if I slip and die, I’m haunting you both.”

They whooped like I’d just agreed to join a flash mob.

The walk was slow but steady. The air was sharp, biting at my cheeks, but after the stuffy silence of the exam room and the hollow quiet of the dealership, it felt... clean. Real. Every step without the crutches was a small win, even if I could feel the strain creeping in by the second block.

About a minute in, my phone buzzed again. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. I thumbed it silent and slid it into my coat pocket before either of them noticed.

Mina noticed anyway. “Emily again?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll call her later.”

“You were living with her up until... what? A week ago?” Lucy asked, not unkindly—just curious, like she was building a timeline in her head.

“Yeah,” I said, watching my breath cloud in the air. “My parents split when I was a kid. My dad moved to Washington, and my mom and I kind of... floated. Wherever the best training was, that’s where we ended up.”

“That sounds like an adventure,” Mina said, wide-eyed.

I gave her a smile, but it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Mostly it was rinks and airports. Hotels that all looked the same. The places blur together after a while.”

“No sightseeing?” Lucy asked, her nose wrinkling.

I shook my head. “Not really. It’s a job, you know? Early mornings, late practices, physical therapy. You don’t get a lot of time to explore.”

“That kinda sucks,” Lucy said matter-of-factly.

I laughed, and this time it felt genuine. “Yeah, a little. I mean, I’m grateful, but it’s not exactly the glamorous life people think it is.”

“Not a lot of friends on the road?” Mina asked gently.

I looked up at the gray sky, thinking. “Mostly other skaters. But it’s competitive—cutthroat sometimes. You don’t always know who’s rooting for you and who’s waiting for you to fall.”

“Ever seen someone pull a Tanya Harding?” Lucy teased, grinning.

“Not exactly,” I said with a smirk. “But there’s definitely sabotage. Just... quieter. More backhanded.”

We all laughed, and for a second, the tension that had been riding my shoulders all day eased.

Then Mina’s voice softened. “That’s not how you got hurt though, right?”

I shook my head. “No. Just a dumb accident. My blade caught in a rut, and I went down hard. Concussion. Torn ACL. Game over.”

Lucy winced. “God, that sounds awful.”

“It was,” I admitted. “Still kind of is.”

“There wasn’t much about it in the news,” Lucy said, eyes narrowing in thought. “I didn’t even realize you were off the circuit.”

“That was on purpose,” I said. “She’s also my manager. She wanted to keep it quiet in case I bounced back fast. Didn’t want to spook the sponsors.”

“Is that... weird?” Mina asked. “Having her as your manager?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never known anything else.” I shrugged. ���She took over after the divorce, when I was still competing in juniors. It just kind of became her job.”

“Do you miss her?” she asked softly.

The question caught me off guard. I looked ahead, watching the sidewalk stretch out in front of us. “It’s... complicated. I think we both needed space. She’s always been so focused on the next step—the next medal, the next competition. I don’t think she knows how to see me outside of that.”

“That would drive me nuts,” Mina said.

“It did,” I said quietly. “For a long time.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—just thoughtful. And then, just like that, the conversation drifted. Mina launched into a story about the latest drama with her cousin’s wedding—a florist who ghosted them mid-consultation—and Lucy added commentary so animated she nearly tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.

By the time we got back to the apartment, I was tired, but not drained. My knee ached, sure, but I’d made it. The elevator ride up was calmer than we had been outside. I leaned back against the wall and looked over at them.

“So,” Lucy said, dragging out the word like it held a secret, her grin widening with each syllable. “It’s Monday night. None of us have to be up early tomorrow. The guys are off doing whatever it is they do when they disappear for hours…”

Mina looked up from her phone, eyes lighting up like a switch had flipped. Their eyes met. And just like that, I could see it—the silent conversation, the plan forming between them before I even knew what was happening.

“You know what that means?” Lucy asked, already bouncing on the balls of her feet.

I blinked. “No clue.”

“Girls’ night!” Mina squealed, throwing her arms in the air like she’d just won the lottery.

“Girls’ night?” I echoed, my brow furrowing slightly, still trying to catch up.

“Oh, you have *no idea* what you’ve been missing,” Lucy said, sliding an arm around my shoulders like we were lifelong best friends instead of new neighbors. “It’s basically a sacred ritual. We eat junk food, drink ridiculous cocktails, wear the comfiest clothes known to mankind, and watch movies until we can’t keep our eyes open.”

“It's just a movie marathon where we get wasted and eat too much food,” Mina added helpfully.

I raised an eyebrow, not quite convinced. “And this is... fun?”

Lucy gasped, placing a hand over her heart like I’d just insulted her entire personality. “Y/N. It is everything.”

“I mean, I’m not really much of a drinker,” I said, hesitating, suddenly aware of how uncool that probably sounded.

“Lightweight or just not your thing?” Lucy asked, her voice genuinely curious, not judgmental.

“Neither, really. I just... never got around to it,” I said, and immediately felt the heat rising in my face. “Training and alcohol don’t mix, and I’ve basically been in bed by nine since I was twelve.”

Mina’s eyes went wide, her jaw dropping with mock horror. “Wait—you’ve never had a drink?”

“Not never,” I said quickly. “Just... not casually. Not like this. Not with friends.”

“No religious reasons? Family rule?” Lucy asked, gently.

“No, nothing like that,” I said, shrugging. “It just wasn’t part of the world I lived in. Between competition schedules, meal plans, and early flights, I didn't have time for parties or experimenting. And if I’m honest, it’s always made me a little nervous.”

“Well, tonight,” Mina said, taking a dramatic step forward and pointing a finger in the air like she was making a toast, “we right this injustice.”

I laughed. “What, no bedtime tonight?”

“Exactly. No curfews, no counting macros, no stress,” she said, linking her arm with mine. “Just sugar, salt, and emotionally irresponsible rom-coms.”

Before I could answer, Mina and Lucy were already halfway out the door, calling over their shoulders.

“We’re grabbing the essentials. Don’t go anywhere!”

Their front door swung shut, left half open in their wake. I stood there for a moment, dazed and smiling.

From inside, I could hear them already arguing about what to watch. “We are not watching ‘The Notebook’ again,” Mina insisted.

“Oh, come on! You cried harder than I did last time!” Lucy shot back.

I leaned against the doorframe, listening, letting their chaos fill the quiet spaces that had been echoing in me since the fall. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to brace myself for anything.

A few minutes later, their door flew open again.

Mina emerged first, barefoot and already in sweats, carrying a stack of DVDs taller than her torso. Lucy followed behind her, using a laundry basket as a makeshift party kit—bottles of something pink and sparkling clinking against bags of chips, boxes of cookies, a jar of marshmallow fluff, and three mismatched wine glasses rattling with every step.

“What kind of movies do you like?” Lucy asked, not even looking up as she wrestled the basket onto the kitchen counter.

“I’m easy,” I said. “Whatever you guys are into.”

“Perfect,” Mina said, flipping through the stack. “We’re going for maximum serotonin: rom-coms, teen drama, and something slightly trashy just to round it out.”

Lucy held up a pack of rainbow-colored popcorn like she’d found the Holy Grail. “We’re starting with 10 Things I Hate About You. It’s non-negotiable.”

“I approve,” I said, laughing as I took a handful of snacks from the basket to help sort. “Do people actually eat this much during girls’ night?”

“This?” Lucy said, looking insulted. “This is restraint.”

“And sweats, Mina?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Do you even own sweats?”

She placed a hand on her chest. “Excuse me. I am making a sacrifice for the integrity of the night.”

I headed back to my apartment to change, pulling on a pair of fleece joggers and an old, oversized Team USA hoodie that still smelled faintly like eucalyptus from my gym bag. I didn’t spend long in the mirror—just tied my hair back and grabbed a pair of fuzzy socks.

The moment I stepped into Mina and Lucy’s apartment, I paused at the threshold, overwhelmed—in the best way—by the transformation that had taken place.

The lights were low, the soft yellow string lights overhead casting a cozy, almost magical glow across the living room. A mountain of blankets and pillows was already spread across the couch and floor like the aftermath of a slumber party tornado. In the kitchen, Lucy was mid-chaos—bottles, bowls, and bags scattered across the counter like she was preparing for a sugar-fueled siege. Mina was hunched over the DVD player, muttering about the remote being possessed.

It was warm, loud, alive. The exact opposite of how my life had felt lately.

A slow smile spread across my face. Emily would’ve fainted if she saw this—junk food, mismatched glassware, alcohol in cups that weren’t crystal. She had once made a comment about goldfish crackers being "what people without standards feed their children." But tonight wasn’t about control. Or image. Or what looked good in a press photo. Tonight was about firsts.

First girls’ night. First drink. First time letting go, even just a little.

“So, what’s the first movie of the night?” I asked, slipping off my slippers and stepping into the living room like I belonged there.

Lucy tossed a bag of Doritos toward Mina, who caught it one-handed and grinned.

“We’re saving the emotional wreckage for later,” Mina said with a smirk. “We’re starting light. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.”

Lucy gave an exaggerated sigh as she plopped onto the couch. “Ugh, McConaughey in his prime. That man could make me move back to Texas.”

“You lived there for two years,” Mina shot back.

“Details,” Lucy said, waving her hand dismissively. “Point is, he makes me nostalgic for accents and bad decisions.”

“You and Jimin both went to school in Texas, right?” I asked.

“Texas Tech,” Lucy nodded. “But Jimin actually paid attention in class. I was mostly there for the marching band and the tailgates.”

“And you still ended up with Taehyung,” Mina said, nudging her.

Lucy grinned. “I mean... not mad about it.”

Their easy back-and-forth made me smile, even though I still felt like I was learning how to exist in conversations like this—casual, intimate, no agenda.

“Speaking of accents,” I said, “your dad, Mina... his Wisconsin thing is strong.”

Mina burst into laughter before I even finished the sentence. “Oh my God, I should’ve warned you! I’m so used to it now, I forget how intense it can sound to normal people.”

“‘Hey der, Mina!’” I mimicked, and she doubled over, gasping.

“Stop, stop—I’m crying,” she wheezed. “Seriously though, it gets worse when he’s tired. Or if he’s talking to my grandma. It’s like full lumberjack mode.”

“Honestly?” Lucy chimed in, already halfway back to the kitchen. “Your dad is kind of... hot. Like, weirdly hot. Not for a dad. Just... in general.”

“Mmm, no comment,” I muttered, face flushing as I reached for a pillow to bury it.

Lucy reappeared with three glasses in one hand and a bottle of something in the other. “Don’t act like you didn’t notice, Y/N.”

“He’s... attractive,” I said carefully, trying to sound neutral.

Lucy raised her brows. “That’s it?”

“Isn’t he basically your future father-in-law?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Lucy raised her glass like it was a mic drop. “Exactly. Means I have good things to look forward to.”

“You guys are insane,” I mumbled.

“Oh, please,” Mina said casually. “I’m not blind. I know my dad’s good-looking. My mom jokes about it all the time. She says it’s why she puts up with his weird hobbies and the way he leaves coffee mugs in every room of the house.”

“I’m going to need to un-hear all of this,” I said, laughing into my hands.

“Welcome to girls’ night,” Lucy said, plopping down beside me and handing over a glass. “Where boundaries go to die.”

I took the glass warily. “What is it?”

“Just a little something light,” she said. “Promise. Fruity, barely any alcohol.”

I took a sip—and immediately choked. It tasted like fruit punch spiked with jet fuel. “*That* is not light,” I coughed.

Mina winced in sympathy. “Oof. Lucy, you always do this.”

“Fine, fine.” Lucy rolled her eyes and stood. “One ‘starter drink’ coming right up.”

She returned a moment later with something pink and frothy in a mason jar. “Try this. It’s basically a melted popsicle.”

I sniffed it cautiously, then took a sip. Sweet, fizzy, tangy—like raspberries and lemon sherbet. Still a little warmth on the back of my tongue, but nothing aggressive.

“Good, right?” Lucy asked, eyeing me over the rim of her glass, her grin twitching at the corners like she was holding back a celebratory cheer.

I nodded, a little more confidently this time, and took another sip. “Really good, actually.”

“Told you,” she said, clearly pleased with herself.

“Just... pace yourself,” Mina added from where she was curled up in a blanket on the floor. She raised a brow in my direction. “It tastes like juice, but there’s more vodka than fruit in that drink.”

“Duly noted,” I murmured, though I was already taking another sip.

The hours passed in a haze of warmth and movie quotes and laughter that felt like it belonged to another life—one that didn’t involve injuries or ice or expectations. We made it through Clueless and Legally Blonde before any of us realized how late it had gotten. I was sprawled out across the couch, my head resting against Lucy’s leg, Mina draped over the other end of the couch with her feet tucked under a pillow like a cat in hibernation.

It was the kind of comfort that felt rare—unguarded, unpretentious, easy.

“The night is young,” Lucy mumbled into a pillow, stretching out with a satisfied sigh. “What’s next?”

“Leo,” Mina declared, eyes lighting up as she reached for the next DVD. “It’s not a real girls’ night until Leo shows up in a tux.”

Lucy groaned playfully. “You and your Titanic obsession.”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece,” Mina countered, already loading the disc.

“I mean, she’s not wrong,” I offered, earning a grin from both of them.

Lucy ambled into the kitchen to grab another drink. Her footsteps had a slight sway now, like the cocktails were finally catching up with her.

“Anyone else?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“I probably shouldn’t...” I began.

“Nuh-uh,” Mina said, cutting me off without even turning around. “You’re still too coherent.”

I let out a breathy laugh as Mina pressed another glass into my hand. “If I end up passed out on this couch, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” she said, raising her own drink like she was making a toast.

By the time Jack started sketching Rose, we were full-on tipsy. The drinks had softened all the edges. Conversation got louder, the laughs longer. At some point, Lucy and Mina reenacted the "I'm flying" scene on the coffee table, arms stretched wide and teetering dangerously close to the bottle of wine Mina had insisted on opening. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

When the credits finally started rolling and the room settled into a comfortable hum of silence, Mina looked over at me, eyes gleaming with something between mischief and curiosity.

“Alright. Real talk, Y/N.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I feel like I should be bracing myself?”

“You’ve really never?” Lucy cut in, more serious now, though the playful edge hadn’t entirely left her voice.

I groaned, letting my head fall back against the cushion. “Why are we circling back to this?”

“Because,” Mina said, poking at my leg with her toe, “you’re too mysterious. We need to know everything.”

“There’s not that much to know,” I muttered.

Lucy stared at me like I’d just told her I didn’t believe in birthdays. “Y/N, you’re twenty-four. You’ve never had sex? Not even once? I mean, I know I waited for a while, but I still fooled around a bit before that. You haven't done anything?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Nope.”

Mina gasped like I’d confessed to never having tried pizza. “Are you serious?”

“There are plenty of people who wait,” I said, more defensive than I meant to sound. “It’s not that weird.”

“Sure,” Mina said, leaning her chin on her knees. “But you’re gorgeous. You could probably have your pick.”

“I’d totally jump you,” she added casually, reaching over to flick a bit of lint off my pants.

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “Wow, thank you. That’s very touching.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied with a proud smile.

Lucy looked genuinely perplexed. “So... no one? Not even a hot skater guy during training camps or some European fling after a competition?”

I shrugged. “Never really had the opportunity. Or... I guess I just didn’t make one.”

Mina stared at me, incredulous. “You mean to tell me that with all those hours at the gym, there wasn’t one shirtless Russian worth risking it all for?”

“Some of us actually used the gym for training,” I said.

“Some of us used it for both,” Lucy said with a wink. “Multitasking is a skill.”

“Perv,” I muttered.

“Proudly,” Lucy said, tossing a popcorn kernel into her mouth like she’d just dropped a mic.

Mina sat up a little straighter, the gears in her head clearly turning. “Okay. We need to find you someone.”

“No,” I said instantly. “Absolutely not. I don’t need a setup.”

“But think about it!” Mina said, suddenly looking far too serious for someone wrapped in a blanket burrito. “Lucy, who do we know?”

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “Please. Stop.”

“You can’t just tell us you’ve never and then not let us help,” Lucy insisted.

“I can and I will.”

Mina narrowed her eyes. “Unless... you have met someone.”

“No,” I said way too quickly.

Lucy sat up like she’d just heard a dog whistle. “You so have.”

“There’s nothing to tell!” I insisted, feeling heat crawl up my neck.

“Oh my God,” Mina gasped, eyes sparkling. “You met someone. Who is he? Is he cute? Is he here? Did you kiss?”

“You guys are relentless,” I muttered, laughing despite myself.

Lucy folded her arms, raising one perfectly shaped brow. “We’ve been in long-term relationships for years. We live for this stuff now. Spill.”

I sighed, realizing I wasn’t getting out of this. “Fine. I met a guy at the airport. He helped me with my bags. We talked for a few minutes. That’s it.”

“Was he hot?” Lucy asked, already leaning forward like this was the climax of the story.

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?” Mina repeated, scandalized.

“I mean, he wasn’t just cute,” I admitted. “He was... kind of next-level.”

“Tall?” Lucy prompted.

“Yeah.”

“Dark?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Handsome?”

I exhaled. “Ridiculously.”

Both of them squealed so loudly I nearly dropped my drink.

“Did you get his number?” Mina asked.

“No.”

“Did he get yours?”

“No.”

“Y/N!” Lucy groaned. “What the hell?”

“I didn’t know if he was just being polite! I wasn’t going to throw my number at him in the middle of baggage claim like some rom-com extra.”

“But he said he wanted to see you again?” Mina asked, her voice softening.

I nodded slowly. “He mentioned grabbing coffee sometime. But that was it.”

“Girl,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “We need to manifest this man’s return into your life.”

“I’m not holding my breath,” I replied. “I’ll probably never see him again.”

Mina rested her head on my shoulder. “Maybe. But maybe not. You never know.”

I smiled faintly, grateful for their enthusiasm even if it made me feel more exposed than I’d planned. The movie was still playing in the background, the soft sounds of Celine Dion bleeding through the speakers. The room had gone quiet again, but this time it wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable. Safe.

Mina looked up at me, her expression suddenly serious. “Your butterflies are still out there, Y/N. You just have to be ready when they land.”

Taglist: @smartkookiee @knightofmidnight @mar-lo-pap @jjeonjjk7 @somewhatjungkook @lovingkoalaface @jimineepaboya @iswearimover5feetall @blissingtaehyung @futuristicenemychaos @kooloveys @jenniebyrubies @8thmuse @beattiestreet @tatzzz-25

[l3tm31nn0w]

At His Mercy

Mr. Reed (Heretic) x fem reader

You’re a PhD theology student wasting time at religious convention, bored out of your mind until you meet a charismatic older man who shares your interest in religion and blasphemy.

Warnings: p in v sex, religious trauma, age gap (reader is of age, nearly 30), degradation, oral (m and f receiving), overstimulation, wax play, religion used in an erotic way

(I have never written fanfic in my LIFE that’s how down bad I am for this man, forgive me if this is a mess lol)

You walked up to the mediocre coffee station for the third time that morning, preparing to stay awake through another dull lecture. It was day two of the Colorado Theology Conference and you had lost patience halfway through day one. You had hoped for more academic and agnostic speakers, but so far you’d heard nothing but actual Christian pastors and priests rambling on about the state of modern religion. For Christ sakes the keynote speaker was a goddamn prosperity preacher! You had to stay as long as could to please the big wigs at the university, each program had to send a PhD candidate for “professional development” and this was all they could find for religious studies. Lucky you.

As you poured the burnt coffee into your already stained styrofoam cup you glanced around the table trying to spot the little creamer cups to no avail. “Are you fucking kidding me?” You said under your breath, clearly louder than intended. “Well there’s always sugar!” You whipped your head to the direction of the voice, fearing youd get scolded by some pastor for daring to curse. The voice, a posh British accent that felt out of place in this cursed convention center, belonged to a middle aged man. He had a kind smile that reached his blue eyes effortlessly. He produced three small sugar packets and handed them to you. “I wish I could drink it black but I can’t handle the bitterness.” He chuckled as you mixed the packets into your cup. You smiled back at him and squinted to read his name tag, delighted that pastor was missing from his name. “Thank you Mr. Reed, I’m just glad to see a man that’s not a preacher in this room.”

His eyes traveled across your body and you almost called him out but he spoke before you could say anything. “I take it you’re not a woman of the cloth yourself, I hate to judge a book by its cover but I doubt many Christian churches would want that on display.” He pointed to the tattoo on your sternum. You giggled and relaxed, realizing he hadn’t been in ogling you, he’d simply been looking at your tattoo. He was the first person this weekend to look at it and smile, most had sneered at you once they realized what it depicted, not that any of them really knew beyond thinking it was a demon. “I know it’s not a good look for an old man like myself to be staring at a young ladies chest, but indulge me” his posh voice lowered with the last words and you felt yourself growing unexpectedly warm. “That fellow there” he said point towards collarbone “is Asmodeus, yes?” You looked up at him, realizing how handsome he really was up close. He had a classic attractiveness to him that no doubt made him popular when he was younger, but there was a bookish innocence to him even at his older age that drew you in. His instant recognition of the demon on your chest must’ve made you visibly light up because he beamed a smile right back at you. “You’re the first person to actually know who he is this entire weekend! I’ve gotten lots of comments but I’m sure you can imagine they were less than kind based on the crowd we have here.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded, enthusiastically agreeing with you about the overly zealous convention goers.

Relieved to have met someone with a more academic background you blurted out “I’m Y/N! Please sit with me during the next lecture? I think I’ll die if I’m stuck sitting between anymore church moms or worship leaders.” He smiled again, making the crows feet surrounding his blue eyes wrinkle up. “Absolutely Y/N, but only if we can sit in the back and whisper nasty jokes about whatever nonsense is being said on stage.” You laughed, a genuine laugh, and began walking towards the ballroom where the next lecture was taking place.

“So what brings you here Mr. Reed? You must be an academic if you’re not a Bible thumper like all these people. Forgive me for judging a book by its cover as well, but you must be a professor?” He certainly looked like one with autumnal colored cardigan, grey slacks and large clear rimmed glasses. “Oh goodness no, you flatter me! I’m just an old man with an interest in religion. I’ve been studying it for decades at this point. I’ve been to quite a few of these things, but usually they’re filled with academics not religious nuts. I think this one was advertised a bit incorrectly. I’m guessing you’re on your way to being a professor though?” He quiered back at you. “Yes, I’m getting my PhD in religious studies. I’ve been into religion as long as I can remember as well, I guess not as long as you. Oh god sorry that was rude!” You blushed a bright red realizing you’d called Mr. Reed old. He simply laughed and said “Darling don’t apologize for having eyes, I’ve clearly got a few decades on you! You must be what? 30 at most?” The blush from early only deepened at the pet name. Attempting to gain composure you coughed and replied “30 in April!” “Trust me, I’m ancient history compared to you.”

The two of you settled into the back row of the ballroom and you nodded toward the speaker, a Baptist minister who looked like he’d been alive during the crucifixion. You lowered your voice to a whisper “well not as ancient as HIM.” Mr. Reed stifled his laughter, a challenge you both attempted and mostly failed as you whispered back and forth for the next hour.

After the lecture the two of you slinked out the back worried you’d get a talking to for being too loud during the lecture. You looked at the paper schedule from your pocket and sighed “the damn keynote is next. I don’t think I can handle that grifter.” Mr. Reed grimaced in agreement. He looked down at his watch and then up at you. “Would you allow me to take you lunch darling?” There was the pet name again and with it came a flush in your cheeks. You chewed your lip, deliberating it. You were supposed to sit through the scheduled lectures and bring back notes for your thesis team, a way to prove the university’s investment in professional development wasn’t wasted even though it most certainly was in this instance. You looked up at Mr. Reed, studying his expression. You wanted to know more about this mysterious religious enthusiast full of dirty jokes who got excited by demons. Surely he had stories that would be more impactful than that prosperity preacher! You lied to yourself saying it was purely academic when in reality the heat pooling in your stomach was getting hard to ignore. You’d always fancied older men, but until now it was always talk. Always a day dream. Here was a handsome older gentleman who had a lot in common with you who was seemingly flirting without being creepy. You couldn’t let this chance pass. “It would be my pleasure! Let’s get out of here.” Your new companion’s face lit up and he guided you out the door of the convention hall. “Don’t laugh at how cliche this is, but there’s a rather good English pub down the road how does that sound?” You tightened your scarf around your face and nodded, a slight giggle escaping at that suggestion coming from the posh accent.

After a couple of blocks you’d reached your destination and settled into a booth at the back of the dark, cozy pub. “Can I ask a personal question that may be slightly uncomfortable?” Mr. Reed posited. You were becoming slightly infatuated and really had nothing to lose at this point. “I’m an open book, ask away!” “What is your reasoning for getting our good friend asmodeus etched upon your lovely collarbone? I know you’re far too smart for the standard answer of “he looks neat.”” You knew this would be coming the second he had recognized the demon on your chest. If you were going here, you wanted to play with him a little. “Well Mr. Reed, I can answer that, but first I need you to tell me what you know about Asmodeus.” Your older companion smiled at you dangerously and began, “Well, he’s present in all the abrahamic religions, usually as a demon king. He’s closely associated with the Angel Raphael. And, forgive me for being so crass, I hope this last reason may have motivated your tattoo: in the late Middle Ages the Malleus Maleficarum posited that he was the demon of lust.” His final word went straight to your core. You were almost dizzy from the rush of endorphins hitting you, sure it was hot that was boldly and blatantly flirting with you, but his knowledge of all the things that interested you the most may have been even sexier to you. You smiled coyly. “It’s your lucky day then Mr. Reed. His association with lust was absolutely the motivating factor.” He grinned at you and gave a look suggesting he wanted you to elaborate. “I was raised Catholic. My parents were all about it, we were constantly volunteering at the church. So at one point in high school me and this friend, Gabe, are put in charge of cleaning out the sensors. One day I walk in and see the parish priest trying to put a move on Gabe and I put myself between them. I tell the creep I’m running straight to the diocese and to my parents to get his ass fired. Well by the time I get home my mother is SCREAMING at me calling me a whore of Babylon, a jezebel. My father won’t look me in the eye. Turns out the creep priest had called my house and told my mom he caught me and Gabe fornicating in the church office and that Gabe told him I let all the other high school altar boys take turns with me. Obviously none of it was true, I was a virgin and Gabe was in the closet, which father creep knew and probably used to get Gabe to fall into line with his story. For the rest of high school I was the Catholic school slut and that came with all the cat calling and groping you can imagine. You’d think that would break my spirits when it came to religion, but it had been with me so long I couldn’t let it go. I didn’t believe the way my family did, but the stories, the imagery it all meant so much to me. So I fuck off at 18 and go to college in a different state for theology. Turns out I’m good at it. I graduate with honors. I get into a top choice masters program. I graduate from that program with honors. I know I’m hot shit and I feel like I’m hot shit and that I’ve come a long long way from being the Catholic school slut so I find the perfect image of Asmodeus and get him smack dab in the middle of my slut chest. Because he’s more than lust, he’s power, he’s danger. It’s a shame though, I spent so much time with my head in a book I never got to live up to my alleged Catholic slut persona.”

The second you finish your story your confidence falters and you feel your cheeks flush. You cannot believe you just shared all that with this man you’ve only known for a few hours. Mr. Reed broke the silence by quietly saying “You’re extraordinary.” You could tell he was being sincere and it made your heart beat faster. If he kept this up your old reputation may come true. “Well now you know my edgy religious trauma backstory, let’s hear yours!” He chuckled. “Well I can’t say I was ever accused of being the town harlot, though I don’t think I’d fit that part visually anyway.” You rolled your eyes at him, sick of his subtle self deprecation. He had to know he was handsome. Sure, he was old enough to be your father, but his age suited his features. The lines around his mouth and eyes came to life when he smiled. His greying hair was touseled in that messily attractive sort of way. The large glasses that sat in his face added to the sexy professor vibe he gave off. “Honestly I’ve got no tragic backstory. I’ve just craved the connection to a higher power since as long as I can remember. I wasn’t raised religious so as soon as I could read I started searching for the one true god. There’s so many religions is exhausting. Each of them have their own special qualities, but there was always something that let me down. I learned literally as much as I could. I’ve collected so many books and artifacts that my house looks like a damned theology museum. Then I found it. After my years and years and years of searching. I found the one true religion, the one true god.” He said those final words very seriously which contrasted greatly with his general quirky demeanor. You let out a little gasp. “So you’re not agnostic or an atheist then? I just assumed the way we were talking with each other you were agnostic like me!” “I was the picture of agnosticism for many many years. I don’t know what my discovery makes me. There’s no way to describe it.” Ok, now you were a little nervous. Was the handsome academic before you secretly a cult freak? He clearly sensed your discomfort and lightened the mood. “Enough of that though, you’re not some religious nut who needs to be convinced. I respect a solid agnostic. It’s good to be open to anything.” You smiled back at him, feeling just a bit more at ease.

You continued to chat about yourselves and various religious facts and oddities as you ate. Eventually you exited the restaurant and realized how long you’d been lost in conversation. The sun had begun to set and you weren’t quite ready to leave your new companion. His assertion of knowing the one true religion wouldn’t leave your mind. An old building across the road caught your eye. You looked over to Mr. Reed, his nose starting to flush pink with the cold. “Humor me?” You said as you stuck your gloved hand out to him. He smiled and placed his much larger hand in yours. You pulled him across the road and into the old stone building, a rundown yet still beautiful Catholic Church.

Despite your distaste for your family and your upbringing, you always felt a warmth and a comfort inside a Catholic Church. This one was small, but still had all the hallmarks of a cathedral: stained glass, wooden carvings of the stations of the cross, a giant crucifix of Christ in all his gory glory dead center of the aisle. You always found that there was a certain blasphemous sensuality in the depictions of Christ. Maybe you weren’t beating the Catholic slut allegations after all.

As you guided Mr. Reed into the church you paused to anoint yourself with holy water, old habits die hard after all. He skipped the water but followed you as you trailed around the church, your eyes on the architecture and decor, his eyes never leaving you. You finally settled into a few towards the front near the donation candles. The two of you were the only occupants and you closed your eyes, savoring the moment. Eyes still closed, you rested your hand on his and whispered “Thank you for seeing me. Nobody has ever seen me the way that you have.” You were met with silence, but his larger hand covered yours. After a continued moment of silence you opened your eyes and turned to him. “Please. What is this one true religion you believe so much in? I have to know. I can’t fathom parting ways and never knowing.” He looked at you very seriously. “Are you sure you want to know?” “Please.” You whispered desperately. “Ok, then close your eyes again.” He said in a hushed tone. You did as you were told and you felt him brush a strand of hair behind your ear. He leaned in close enough that you could feel his lips graze your ear and whispered “Control.”

Your entire body felt as if it was engulfed in flames. You squeezed the hand that still remained in your grasp and your eyes fluttered open. His gaze was hungry. You stared directly at him and said, louder than any of your previous conversation in the church, “Mr. Reed I think I’d like you to take me to see that theology museum you mentioned earlier.” “Of course darling.” In stark contrast to the way you had lazily lead him by his hand into the church, he quickly lead you out with his hand pressed firmly onto the small of your back. The old woman working the volunteer desk shot the two of you a puzzled look, she had no doubt assumed you were father and daughter until she saw the way his hand rested just above your ass.

He whisked you back to the convention hall parking lot and opened his car door for you, ever the gentleman. He had asked if you’d driven to the convention and if you wanted to drive separate, but you had ubered from your modest student housing. The two of you continued to make conversation as you had all evening, Mr. Reed even mentioning specific artifacts he would show you when you arrived at his house. Despite this the sexual tension was thick and heavy in his small sedan. A small part of you was screaming to yourself that this was insane and reckless, going to a second location with a man you just met today. But you had secretly wanted your day to end this way nearly the second you met him. His course whisper of the word control had sent you over the edge. All you do is think and decide and it gets so fucking exhausting. The idea of turning yourself over to him to do with you as he liked was just too good to pass up.

He pulled up to his house and opened up the car door, leading you into his house. You couldn’t help but smile as you walked in. It was adorable. It had the soft welcoming quality of a grandparents house. You wouldn’t dare say this aloud for fear of making him self conscious about his age. “Oh Mr. Reed your house is lovely! It’s so cozy!” You exclaimed. He smiled at you and then noticed you were shivering. “Cup of tea to warm you through?” He asked. You nodded and he disappeared into the kitchen. You settled onto a couch and before long he returned with two cups of tea. As he handed you yours his fingers brushed your hand for an extended moment and it sent shocks through you. Much to your embarrassment he noticed and winked. You drank your tea and continued to talk aimlessly until finally he said “Would you like to see some of my collection?” You nodded enthusiastically. Sure, “seeing his theology museum” was a ploy for him to take you home and fuck you senseless, but you also were dying to see his collection and he knew it.

He grabbed your hand and guided you down a dimly lit hallway into a large office. It was chock full of books, artifacts and paintings. You could’ve lost hours in here. He had things from just about every religion you’d ever heard of, there were probably a ton that you had no clue about. He let you wander around for a moment then retreated into a corner, returning with an intricate crucifix. “I think you’ll love this one, I saw how you looked at the one at the church.” He handed it over to you and you brought it close to your face to inspect the detailed paint job. It was a wooden carving, probably late medieval or early northern renaissance. The paint had faded, but the details of Christ’s wounds still shone a bright red. You rubbed your finger absentmindedly up the naked torso of the figurine and you felt Mr. Reed’s breath on your neck. “I watched you look upon the lord in that church and could tell your thoughts weren’t so holy. Is that your grand rebellion against your upbringing? Fantasizing about fucking Jesus?” You whipped around and faced him, your lips nearly touching. His pale eyes bore into you and for the first time this evening you were genuinely speechless. That serious, almost scathing tone from back at the church had returned. “How many times have you sat up late at night and touched yourself looking at him while you study? Do your droll professors know you’re soaking through your panties when they’re running through their slides?” Your face had to be deep red at this point and he was clearly relishing in your embarrassment. “When was the last time you got fucked y/n?” You looked away from him and that was all the answer he needed. “At what point today did you start imagining me fucking you?” He asked smugly. You thought back, trying to pinpoint the exact moment your thoughts turned to sin. “When you pointed out my tattoo. I thought you were checking me out, but realized you were genuinely curious about the tattoo. You knew what he was.” His eyebrow raised, seemingly pleased and shocked at your answer. “I thought you were handsome from the moment you handed me the sugar packets, I have eyes after all, but your intelligence is what sent a fire through me.”

You felt brave and brought your hands up to his hair, rifling your fingers through his soft greying locks. He closed his eyes and hummed an approval. After you broke the seal by touching him, he finally placed his hands around your waist and pulled you towards him, your chests flushed against each other. Your lips were barely grazing when he whispered

“Behold, you are beautiful, my love;

    behold, you are beautiful;

    your eyes are doves.”

Who was this man? One second he’s degrading you, the next he’s holding you tenderly quoting the Song of Solomon.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he broke the small gap and kissed you. It was a a chaste kiss, perhaps revealing he simply talked a big game and he himself hadn’t had a lover in some time. That was fine by you, there was something alluring about breaking him in. You went in for another kiss, hotter and heavier than his, your hands gripping his scalp, a moan building in the back of your throat. You broke the kiss and began placing kisses across his face and neck, settling in to craft a hickey on his right side. You left his neck with a pop, satisfied by the red mark left behind. You whispered into his ear “and when was the last time you fucked, Mr. Reed?” He brought his hands up to your face, pulling it to look him in the eye. “I must confess darling it’s been quite a minute. Once you reach my age the options slim out. I’m also not one to just stick my cock in whatever makes itself available. You, my dear, are special. And if you’ll let me, I can show you that while it may have been awhile for me, I promise you I’m not out of practice.” You answered him with another kiss. He smiled and released you, causing you to frown at the lack of contact.

“Give me just one second!” He called back to you as he began running around his office. He began putting together what you could only describe as a nest in the middle of the floor laying blankets and pillows around. He grabbed your hand and guided you to the floor. “Now darling, will you let me show you how a man treats a lady? I doubt those piddly little boys you’ve messed around with had a clue how to make your body sing.” His words went straight to your core. The idea of an age gap alone always turned you on, the allure of an experienced, tender older man who knew how to treat a lady. You let him lay you down and said “I’m at your mercy now Mr. Reed.”

He lay next to you and resumed kissing you passionately. As he slipped his tongue into your mouth he began slipping his hand under your sweater. “What a good Catholic slut you are!” He mused, pinching one of your nipples. You rarely ever wore a bra, especially under your thick winter sweaters. You let out a soft moan in response. He massaged your breast further and you stifled another moan. “Darling it’s just us, you can do better than that. “O come, let us sing to the LORD; let us make a joyful noise”” He tweaked your nipple at the end of the quote and you moaned deeply, both at the stimulation and the persevere use of a psalm. He pulled your sweater off leaving your chest bare, the cold air hardening your nipples. He wasted no time taking one into his mouth, licking and sucking while he stimulated the other with his hand. It was all going straight to your core, you needed him to touch you where it mattered.

“Please” you huffed out. He brought his face close to yours and asked “Please what? You’re a big girl use your words.” Your face flushed, suddenly feeling a wave of embarrassment. You were never one to talk dirty or ask for specifics when you had sex, you always worried it would kill the mood. Deep down you knew this was part of the turn on for him though so you managed to sputter out “Please play with my pussy. I need it, I need it so bad it hurts.” He places a kiss on your forehead and replied “what a good girl using her words. How I could I ever deny you.” Despite the slight condescending tone, the use of “good girl” made you moan. He would remember this.

He brought his hand down to your jeans and rubbed through the thick material. It did practically nothing and you knew this was just another ploy for you to beg him using your words. “Mr. Reed please please touch me bare, please I need your fingers.” He smiled and began sliding your jeans off. He chuckled when he got to your underwear. “Listen I didn’t imagine I’d be getting lucky at the religious convention!” You squeaked out hiding your face. You’d absentmindedly thrown on a pair of boy short style underwear patterned with French fries. “Is it too forward to say suddenly I’m craving a McDonald’s?” You playfully kicked his leg and you both chuckled. “I would never allow a poor old man to starve.” You replied faux dramatically.

As he went to pull down your underwear he exclaimed “my god, am I this powerful? These are sopping wet.” It was true, he’d been turning you on for hours at this point and by the time you’d made it back to his little chapel your underwear was so wet it almost felt like you’d had an accident. “Then do something about it!” You huffed. He pulled the garment down your legs and you were finally laid bare before him. You had no clothes on and he had everything still on, down to the grandpa cardigan. Laid out in his office decorated like a church you felt like a sacrifice. That only turned you on more.

He pulled your legs apart as wide as they could go and gazed up your sex. Despite his academic cool guy demeanor, you were really beginning to see just how turned on he was. His face was flushed, his hands trembled slightly as they gripped your thighs. His erection was straining through his trousers, clearly large enough for you to have plenty of fun with later. He moved his hands from your thighs to your vulva and spread you open, sighing lustfully as he did. He took an index finger and rimmed it around your entrance, gathering your juices before bringing his finger in lazy circles around your clit. You moaned, a deep guttural moan. You were too caught up in the ecstasy of finally being touched to see just how much this affected him. He continued to slowly stroke you while he brought his lips back to your nipple, sucking and nibbling. The dual stimulation was heavenly. He brought his lips to your ear and whispered “Darling may I taste you?” You moaned at the thought and then, in a moment of theological clarity, caressed his cheek and replied “My beloved has gone down to his garden, to the beds of spices, to browse in the gardens and to gather lilies. I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine; he browses among the lilies.” He seemed just as turned on by religious quotation as you, his eyes widened before he slunk back down to your pussy, spreading it wide before feasting upon you.

He took an experimental lick from your entrance to your clit and you cried out. Clearly amused by your reaction, he focused on your clit, alternating between licking and sucking in a painfully slow fashion. You were moaning in a way you would’ve considered deeply embarrassing had you had the clarity to hear yourself: a high pitched whiny squeal that sounded like something out of a porno. This entire scenario, the dashing older man eating out the young bookish girl, was straight out of a porn so perhaps your wailing was fitting.

As you felt your climax build, he cruelly pulled away. “Noooo don’t stop please!” You whined, lightly kicking his arm. He looked up at you and you found that his gaze had shifted back to the confident, predatory one you’d seen at the actual church. He climbed up your body until you were face to face and he held your chin in a strong grasp. “Are you going to be a good girl? Because only good girls get to cum.” You nodded frantically. “You said earlier you were at my mercy, I’m going to put that to the test now. If you disobey me I’ll leave you crying on the floor with no release and no chance at getting my cock.” Your eyes widened, what on earth did he mean with his test? Your mind was too clouded with lust to question anything. You needed him. “Anything Mr. Reed I’ll do anything you want. I’m your good girl please let me show you.” He chuckled at your desperation. “Wait right here then my good girl, I need to grab some things. Something from me and something from you.”

He left you laying on the floor wondering what he could possibly mean by something from you. After what felt like ages he returned. In his hands he held an ornate candlestick with the Virgin Mary carved into the side. A deep red candle was affixed to the top. “This” he said setting the candle on the ground “is from me.” He rifled into his cardigan pocket for something. “And this is from you. I think most people would say good girls don’t carry this in their purse, but I would wager I’m not most people.” He produced a small black rubber ball with a small hole at the top. You stared at in, confused, and then realization set in. It was a vibrator. You had gone out to lunch with your roommate from undergrad a week ago and she had given it to you as a joke, calling it your date for Valentine’s Day. She’d been married with kids for 5 years at this point and constantly nagged at you to settle down so the vibrator was par for the course, a usual humiliation from her. At the time you’d rolled your eyes at her and thrown it in your bag forgetting about it. Your companion must have rifled through your belongings when you got up to use the bathroom at the restaurant. He sat down on the floor and motioned for you to come to him. “Lay against me pet.” He said patting his chest. You backed into him, your ass against his straining erection and your head leaning back onto his shoulder. It was almost too intimate a position for a one night stand. If that’s all this was.

“Here is what’s going to happen. I am going to take this candle, light it, and drip its wax down your delectable body. While I’m doing that I will be holding this vibrator firmly against your clit. Now I know I’m not some big muscle freak, but I am certainly strong enough to hold you down and I will do so. You will not cum until I give you permission. If you agree to this right now I will not listen to any pleas of stop or no, but I know that you won’t dare even utter those words.” Your heart was racing and you felt yourself grow even wetter, something you didn’t think was possible at this point. Earlier when you’d mentally imagined fucking your new friend you’d imagined he would kiss you and fondle your breast a little before fucking you in missionary. You’d never anticipated wax play and edging from an aging British amateur theologian.

“I told you Mr. Reed. I’m at your mercy.” You huffed out, snuggling your head into his neck as if to prove how serious you were about staying. “Atta girl” He said, placing a kiss on your forehead. He started by lighting the candle. Once the wax began dripping down to the candle holder he lifted it off the ground and hovered it above your naked body. “You, LORD, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light.” The psalm slipped past his lips as the hot wax hit your breasts. It felt incredible, especially as he held you flush against him. His right arm held you firm in place against him even as his hand, which held the vibrator, snaked closer and closer to your core. Finally you felt the cold silicone divot pressed firmly over your clit. You shuddered at the contact, already sensitive from his fingers and mouth. He hit the button on the side of the device and it whirred to life. Just as the vibration began he poured more wax down your torso. The stimulation was already mind numbing. He began whispering passages from revelation in your ear, the twisted words of angels unleashing chaos on mankind only sending me further into your hedonistic frenzy. The Catholic slut had been fully realized. The vibrator attacked your clit you felt yourself teetering just on the edge of release, somehow holding out simply to please him, to serve him.

Tears began rolling down your cheek, not from the pain of the hot wax, but from the pure ecstasy this man was inflicting upon you. There was nothing left in the world, just you and him. His soft cardigan against your skin, his wispy grey curls tickling your eyes as you hid your face in the crook of this neck, his gentle voice in your ear. Suddenly that voice switched from revelation back to a passage from a psalm: “Deep calls to deep at the noise of your waterfalls. All your waves and your billows have swept over me.” Your entire body erupted into white hot light, your climax racking through your very being. Mr. Reed set down the candle and turned off the vibrator and brought you even closer to him, bringing you fully into his lap with his arms around your waist. You sobbed into his neck, so overwhelmed and overstimulated by what you had just experienced. “Oh my beautiful girl you are more marvelous than I could’ve ever imagined.”

Once you had stopped crying and come down from your orgasm a little, he tapped your side and helped you stand up. He guided you out of his faux church and down the hall into what you assumed must be his bedroom. He laid you down on the bed and left for moment, not without kissing you first. While you waiting for him you took in your surroundings. The walls were covered in a deep red floral wallpaper. The bedding was soft, though a little worn. He had more religious artifacts adorning his walls and shelves. You even spied Dan Brown’s Angels and Demons amongst a stack of books. You would tease him for that later. He returned with a large glass of water and handed it to you. As you sipped the cool water he started undressing, stripping down to a white tshirt and plaid boxers. You set the glass down on his bedside table and held your arms out to him. He climbed in the bed next to you and began kissing you fervently. His hands explored your body and despite the previous orgasm you found yourself growing slick with want yet again.

Now that he was freed from his trousers you reached your hand down and stroked his length through his boxers. He let out a delicious moan in response, his cool demeanor fully melted away and replaced with need. As you kissed him through his moans and continued to palm at him you wondered how long it had been since he’d been this intimate with someone. That’s really what was happening here, this was far more than a one night stand. You wanted to make him feel good, to elicit an orgasm that brought him to tears just like he had done for you.

Breaking the kiss you slid your hand under his shirt and gently guided it over his head. Once you’d removed his shirt you kissed him deeply, leaving his lips and trailing kisses down his chest. When you reached just above his boxers you raised an eyebrow, surprised to see a happy trail leading to your main event. You kissed along the patch of hair and slowly slid his boxers down. His cock sprung forward and you couldn’t help but moan a little at the sight of him. He was a good 7inches and decently thick. Circumsized too, so god must be pleased.

You began stroking his bare length and he shuddered. Leaning forward, you took his entire length into your mouth in one quick motion and he yelled. As you went to work he gripped your hair holding you tight in place. “Oh my sweet girl my good girl you make me feel divine” he sputtered out between moans. You loved how vocal he was and you couldn’t wait to hear him when he was inside you.

Suddenly his grip on your scalp released and he pulled your head off of him. Fearing you’d done something wrong you looked up at him with big doe eyes, waiting for a response. He pulled you up so that you were straddling him and brought your head to rest against his. “And the two shall become one flesh.” He whispered before pulling you into a kiss you could only describe as romantic. Sure you were both naked and your wet cunt was planted firmly on his rock hard cock, but there was something innocent and pure about that kiss. He scooted up against the headboard and pulled you firmly onto his lap, your tits right at eye level. He lifted you onto him and you both groaned in ecstasy as he entered you. Unable to control yourself you began riding him, needing to feel him go deep inside you. The sounds coming from your soaking union were obscene, complimented by your once again pornographic high pitched squeals and his guttural moans. He held you flush against him, your breasts smothering his face. He nipped and sucked at your nipples again, feeling the rush of warm wet slick it caused. “Imagine what your old classmates would think of you now, piercing yourself on an old atheist’s cock.” The dirty talk was back and you knew his voice alone could guide you to a second climax. “If god was real then he designed you just for me, he made your sweet little cunt ripe for my taking. MY perfect little Catholic slut.” He growled out the word “my” emphasizing the feeling you already held near and dear to your heart, you were his. With those words ringing in your ear you came hard and fast around his cock and he followed shortly after. You could feel his warm seed filling you and mixing with your own cum, dripping out of your weeping hole.

You both just held each other, his cock softening inside you. He finally pulled out and the two of you hobbled to his bathroom. He guided you into the shower and you both just enjoyed each other’s silent company as you cleaned off the evidence of your lecherous evening. You stayed under the warm water awhile longer after he left, just soaking in the steam. When you climbed out and began drying yourself off he re-entered the bathroom holding a pair of plaid boxers and a faded old Radiohead t shirt. “I get to stay?” You asked grabbing the clothes from him and pulling him into a kiss. “Darling if I had it my way you’d never leave.” You pulled on his clothes and climbed into his bed with him, falling asleep in his arms as if it was the place you were destined to be.

***

Four months later when you crossed the stage to accept your doctoral diploma, you beamed with pride and relief that for the first time in your academic career they didn’t call out the last name that belonged to your family who had thrown you out so carelessly. No, they announced you as Dr. Reed.

After a whirlwind month of romance and hedonism, Mr. Reed had proposed to you. It was insane, your friends thought, marrying a man old enough to be your father that you’d just met, but when they saw the two of you together the couldn’t argue. It truly seemed that you were two halves of a whole.

You were hired by the university you’d graduated from as a theology professor and you and your husband lived a blissful life. You opened him up more and would bring your friends around for dinner parties and game nights. He would still linger at your side like a puppy dog even as he grew more comfortable around people. The house you shared was always ooh’d and ahh’d at by company. Occasionally you’d be asked “what’s behind those twin doors in the office?” and you’d smile and politely reply “oh it’s just old storage there, nothing fancy to show off. In fact it’s a mess, I’d be embarrassed for you to see!” and your husband would squeeze your arm and smile at you, proud that you’d converted to his one true religion.

[dosshie]

my mom, that studied african religion for more than a decade and is part of umbanda, live reaction to ororon and iansan:

"I don't care if you make them white with blue eyes, at least study the gods you're basing them from!!!!"

im too afraid of twitter so imma post this here, but for short: the skin color is not the only problem! lol

i asked my mom who is very knowledgeable of the religion for her opinions and this is what we talked!! please don't take this post as an flawless analysis, you should also hear the opinions of people from umbanda, candomblé, and specially from nigeria. i'm mainly doing this because this religion barely gets any representation at all, so this will be the first time many people will be introduced to this culture and while i'm happy that it's included in a game that i play, it's important to recognize its shortcomings, anyway enough rambling!

for iansan, her character is based on iansã, the orixá (deity/god) of the winds and storms, she is seen as a warrior and is associated with the color red

she said that they easily could've given her buffalo horns on her mask, since iansã's animal is the buffalo (tho i know some people may think this is insensitive since yknow, giving one of the few dark-skinned charactes an animal skull doesn't look very good), the other thing she said is that they could've given her some braids in her hair, because in history thats what iansã and her army used to wear when they were going in combat (which was like, VERY on point??? i didnt tell her natlan was the nation of war beforehand)

other than that she didn't gave much imput, probably because her design does look like someone who fights

now, as for ororon... he is based on olorum, the orixá closest to a god/creator, and is commonly associated with...... the color white..... and one of his visual features is his staff

she said that they could've easily given him light hair/eyes, for her ororon doesn't seem to resemble olorum in the slightest, i also asked jokingly what she thought about him being a wolfboy and she said that it was fine lol

she asked me what power (vision/weapon) they gave to him and i said that i didn't know, but from the leaks they said that he's a bow character, and she immediately said that they made logunedé, in her words: "HE'S A HUNTER AND HE LOOKS A BIT SISSY, IT'S LOGUMEDÉ!"

logumedé is the son of the orixás oxóssi and oxum, he is a hunter like his father and takes care of his looks like his mother* (that's why she called him sissy LOL), his weapon is the bow, his colors are blue and yellow and he's associated with the animal peacock, which was what made my mom make that connection, ororon's scarf reminded her a lot of a peacock feather

*the word used here is vaidoso but... that doesn't exist in english lmao?? the closest we have is "vain" but vain is much more akin to superficial, which is not a synonymous of vaidoso, so yeah, weird translation quirk here, vaidoso means that you care of yourself/your looks because they are important to you

erhmmm anyway 1 like and i'll redesign them based on the actual orixás (/hj i still have artfight attacks to finish lmao)

[belokhvostikova]

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐁𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | Perhaps the karma gods of the world were just as perverted as Hawkins’ residential Freak, Eddie Munson, himself, as the perfect opportunity to lay his hands on you arose when you go searching for helpless students to tutor.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, brief mentions of religion, naivety, feelings of embarrassment, perversion, and explicit sexual content: fondling, minimal spanking, mentions of virginity, mentions of female masturbation, male masturbation, tiny praise kink, stuffed animal humping, clit rubbing, handjob, oral (both receiving), corruption kink, cum eating and dubcon (just precautionary).

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | I tried to be gross! Sorry it took so long. It's quite hard writing about a plotline that doesn't pertain to Eddie being mad at us for taking his picture and putting it in the yearbook (my series, you should read it). I'm trying to get into the groove of writing, so I apologize in advance if this is literal butt cheeks, I tried. Also, you will be getting an unwarranted history lesson.

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

“…Man, I told Jeff that my mom would get pissed off if he left his beer cans in the garage, and he was all like, “Nah, dude, I promise I’ll pick ‘em up,” and he didn’t! Of course, he didn’t…”

In retrospect, tuning out the complaints of Gareth Emerson may not have been the smartest moves, as Corroded Coffin had just lost their only space to freely practice. You know, where they wouldn’t get dirty looks and threats of the police for public disturbance. And surely, as lead guitarist and singer of such an aspiring band, Eddie Munson would have been fully engrossed at the sudden mention of the deterrence into their path to wealth, fame, and glory… right? No. Because this is Eddie Munson we’re talking about here. And behind that domineering rockstar facade of leather jackets, clinking chains, gaudy jewelry, and a tight- tight pair of denim pants, yes, behind those pair of pants was a pulsating cock that was desperate to grow twice its softened size just two minutes and twenty-three seconds before he had to face Mrs. Wither’s biology class, all because Eddie Munson saw you.

Why- why on God’s green Earth would he ever choose to listen to the cracking voice of Gareth Emerson, when you were literally standing right across the hall, not even four yards away? The skirt. The fucking teeny tiny, baby pink, short skirt you decided to wear, the one Eddie was sure that if you bent forward even just a little bit, he would be flashed with the sexy crease of your fat ass cheeks meeting your doughy thighs, and he was desperate to be smothered by it. 

“…So yeah, we can’t practice at my house anymore.” Gareth lamented. That’s when he noticed the oh so obvious, blatantly clear, totally discernable trance of his friend, realizing his entire tangent just deliquesced into thin air with no acknowledgement whatsoever. Gareth slammed his locker shut. “You weren’t even listening to me!”

Eddie’s eyes finally shot away at the bleated tone of Gareth’s rightful attitude. “‘Scuse me? I totally was listening.” He hissed back, evidently not amused with the embarrassing fact that he was caught red-handed. 

“No, you weren’t.” Gareth groused, looking back to follow the ghost trail that once was Eddie’s distracted eye line, which is when he landed on you. “You were just checking out that girl.”

“That girl has a name, y’know?” Eddie retorted.

“That girl isn’t going to help us find a place to practice!” Gareth retaliated. “Stop looking for chicks to score, I’m serious.”

“Hey,” Eddie perked, as he stood straight, countering his friend, “y’know, she’s actually really smart and, like, super fucking funny-”

His friend could only incredulously scoff. “Oh, right, because you’ve totally had a conversation with her.”

“I-I’ve… stood next to her a-and have heard her talk to her friends.” Definitely not the riposte Eddie hoped to shoot out. The stuttering sure as hell didn’t help.

“Oh, so you’re a stalker.” Gareth nonchalantly derided, leaving Eddie to deadpan him. “Look, whatever, man, you can perv on girls all you want, but we have bigger issues at hand, dude. Where the hell are we supposed to practice?” Eddie’s chest ended up being victimized by the harsh poke of Gareth’s stern finger. And if he wasn’t so annoyed with his friend, he would have winced, because that actually kinda hurt a little. But just a little. Eddie’s ego wasn’t about to take a hit today. 

He rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Relax, alright? We’ll work our way around it.”

Truthfully, Eddie had no actual plans of working their way around it, in fact, it was quite a large issue he should have prioritized, but that could wait. Should it? No. But it would. Yes. Surely, staring at you was more of a fun game. He’d done that for the past two years he’d known of you, and he never got tired of it, I mean, how could he? One day—he always chalked up—he would get the balls to actually speak to you. You were always so nice, so sweet, skirting around the halls of Hawkins High that Eddie felt were too unworthy for your leisure, smiling and waving at any and everyone. Last Tuesday, the day you met his perverted eyes—oblivious to his hungry stares—and kindly threw him a beguiling smile as if it wasn’t the most dangerous weapon on Earth, was the day Eddie Munson skipped fourth period and jerked his aching cock in the dingy stall of the boys’ bathroom, before speeding home to fold his pillow in half and slide himself into the makeshift pussy just to fuck it with screwed shut eyes to invision the perfect image of you laying on your back with bouncing tits.

But unfortunately, that was just a dream Eddie Munson would have to deduce himself into every night, because the reality of you ever actually speaking to him was tragically low. Mostly because Eddie was scared he’d stutter and fuck up in front of you. It was embarrassingly shameful when it occurred in the comfort of his own bedroom, as he acted out what he would say to you in the mirror. You literally weren’t even there and he still tripped over his words!

But maybe the karma gods were finally aligning with his life, because he watched you happily place a “Need a Tutor?” sign on the bulletin board of the main hall, with little slips of your phone number ready to tear off and grab for anyone needing some “intimate one-on-one session time.” And, my god, was Eddie Munson anguished for that, so when the pink thumbtack stabbed your preciously designed poster into the cluttered corkboard, and you walked away with a innocent smile that was ready to help anyone in need, Eddie could hear an angel receiving its wings in the distance, as a harp played, and a choir harmonized heavenly, because his mind was stirring with the endless possibilities of raunchy and crude wet dreams. And Eddie was finally receiving a chance to dive into some pussy galore. Gross. 

“Oh, yeah, and how exactly do you plan on doing that? My drum kit can’t fit in your trailer, Grant’s grandma nearly had a heart attack the last time we practiced at his place, and Jeff’s mom still thinks it’s the “devil's music,” so what exactly is your plan here, hotshot?” Gareth scoffed.

“My plan?” Eddie chimed with a menacing smirk. “Oh, well I plan on getting tutored by my future wife.” He slyly leered, as he sauntered his away to your advertisement, Gareth following behind feeling beyond the definitions of vexation. 

“You’re actually insane, y’know that?” Gareth exhaled, as he watched Eddie eagerly tear off a slip and examine it with a prodding tongue through his lips. “This says for anyone needing a tutor in history.” Gareth pointed out. 

Eddie shrugged, as your number slipped into the back pocket of his jeans. “So?”

“You’re not even taking history!” Gareth stressed, as the bell rang to commence class. “What are you gonna do when you show up completely clueless?”

“Dude, she’s looking for idiots to tutor,” Eddie patted him on the shoulder, “she’s expecting cluelessness. And I am the perfect guy. Kay?” He triumphantly smiled. “Stop stressing, go to class. And don’t worry, I’ll send you an invitation to our wedding. Thinkin’ of making it BDSM theme.”

Gareth grimaced. 

Eddie Munson may not have caught onto the obvious insult he just hurled to himself, but that didn’t matter. Not when he had a call to make after school.

-

The ticking minutes of the afternoon couldn’t have passed by any slower, as Eddie managed to work up every excuse in the book to get his uncle, Wayne, to leave early for work: grab some lunch at Benny’s before hand, stop for some coffee at the local cafe, show up an hour early to impress the bosses—though, the bosses didn’t pay Wayne enough for him to feel the need to turn up before his scheduled shift—and soon the minutes turned into hours, and the sun would be setting soon. Eddie could feel you slipping through his grasp, as someone who probably actually needed a tutor was bound to call you before he could- or worse, some sick perv with the same bright idea as him would call you. Though Eddie Munson was adamant on the fact that none of the other guys who creeped on you could take care of you like he could.

Sure, the only experience he ever had was when the older bartender with bouncy hair offered to show the lead singer of Corroded Coffin a “special thank you,” which promptly led him to losing his virginity in the loathsome bathroom of the Hideout, which also led to a frantic eighteen-year-old Eddie anxiously running to the local health clinic for STDs testing when it dawned on him that he just had unprotected sex with a stranger during the dangerous minutes of post-nut clarity. But, Eddie Munson was still a hormonal teenager, and once the negative results cleared him from the nerve-wracking chlamydia or gonorrhea scare, he laid back and relished on the memory of having sex and, well, by the sounds of it—if his memory serves him right—she seemed to enjoy it, too. Granted, Eddie never engaged in any more of her efforts to try again because- well, he was left scarred, but all that is beyond the point. The point is Eddie Munson wanted to be the one to love on you, dote on you, make you feel so fucking good that you were programmatically addicted to him- to his cock. 

Oh, fuck, he’s hard already. 

But finally, as the clock struck six o’clock, his uncle waved him goodbye, and Eddie had ran through the numerous piles of clothes in the trailer—ones he promised to fold—and slammed into the wall phone to begin his endeavors. The crumpled slip of your phone number had been retrieved from his back pocket, and he skimmed the digits, letting his fingers dial as he read each number. It was nowhere near remotely possible, but Eddie Munson had even managed to find your phone number to be so sexy. Mm, so even and divisible. God, he was sick. But nonetheless, the phone rang and rang, and he was muttering the “c’mon, pick up, pick up” mantra to lead him one step closer to you. Communicating through a phone would surely ease his worries about potentially screwing up. He just had to take a deep breath and let the conversation flow itself. But, shit, it was ringing for far too long. You were probably already knees deep into some boring textbook with a helpless classmate, or getting flirted by Nathan Cavanugh, who Eddie once saw check you out; or you were probably cuddling up with Bryce Walters, who would always lean against your locker to sweet talk you during school; or, fuck, you could have already been getting handsy with Harrison Moran, who would always come up and hug you after a footba-

“Hello?” Oh, shit.

“Oh- I mean, uh, hi.” This wasn’t going to work. He was already slipping up. Eddie had never internally cringed so hard, his hand pragmatically slapped his forehead in disbelief, but his mouth just kept moving. “It’s, um, me.” Me?! How the fuck would you know who me is?!

“Oh, my god, hi, Eddie!” You perked with giddiness. What the fuck?

He stammered with confusion, “Wait… how’d you know it was me- like, me, Eddie?” 

“Duh, your voice, silly.” You giggled, as Eddie huffed a breathy chuckle, and leaned against the wall with a curling lip. Maybe this could work. 

“Oh, yeah? You recognize my voice, sweetie?” His lit into a teasing, sultry crisp that had you flustered on the other line. 

“Well, yeah. I mean, you’re always making quite the scene during lunch.” You delicately laughed into the receiver. “I guess it just kinda got stuck in my head, like, you know, when you hear a catchy song?”

Eddie sucked in a breath, as his hand played with the hem of his shirt to tease his sensitive naval with soft touches, and you could thoroughly hear the smirk of his grin oozing through his words. “Oh, really?” He teased rhetorically. “Yeah, no, I understand. I can happily say the same for you, sweetheart. Got such a pretty voice.”

“Oh,” you were clearly rattled, as his compliment hit you, “th-thank you, Eddie. You’re so nice.”

“Aw, well, actually, sweetheart, it’s you who’s so nice. Offering others your help with tutoring, just so sweet, aren’t ya, huh? It’s actually why I’m calling.” He smiled. “You wanna… help me out, princess?”

“Yes, I’d love to!” Your bubbly voice made it certain that you were ready to genuinely help him with his studies, and provide him with the needed lessons. It could almost make Eddie feel guilty. Almost. But his dick was thumping with eagerness, and he was containing all restraints to keep from pressing his bulge against the paneling of the wall to your sickly sweet voice, and thrusting his hips. That would be a new low. Even for him. “I’ve been waiting forever for someone to call, Eds, you don’t even understand. I was beginning to think nobody needed a tutor.” 

“Oh, no, sweet girl, I can assure you I desperately need a helping hand.” He sighed, as the rings on his finger began dancing around the protrusion of his pants, applying just a small amount of pressure. “And I’d fucking love yours.” Your innocent mind absolutely swooned at the opportunity to aid his learning, completely unbeknownst to Eddie’s perverted meaning.

“That’s great, I’d love to help you, Eddie.” You gushed, and Eddie’s teeth had to bite down onto his lip to uphold the self-control of being so desperate he was debating dry humping the wall. “Are you able to come over tonight?

“Oh, yeah, baby, I’ll definitely be coming tonight.” As soon as the call would end, Eddie Munson would drop to his knees and repent all the wrongdoings of his life, if it meant this actually working out for him. It’s doesn’t necessarily fall under the codes of Catholicism to exactly pray in front of the random “Bless this house, O Lord we pray, Make it safe by night and day” calendar with the hopes of finally having sex with his high school crush, but Eddie wasn’t exactly the type to carry around his own crucifix for an impromptu prayer, and he was truly just really fucking horny for you. And he was also smart enough to know his luck. If his life taught him anything, you would actually say that plans came up and you would be too busy to tutor him, and just like that, his opportunity would have disintegrated into dust. Now, while the possibility of that occurring was plausible, it genuinely should not have garnered him the idea to suddenly believe in divine interference and pray to a calendar that he’d get laid, but Eddie Munson did it anyway. Because you had him that fucking forlorn.  

“How does seven-thirty sound? You can come over then, does that work for you?” You were already planning the layout for your study session, when all Eddie could think about was caressing your figure.

“Absolutely.” He affirmed with a tight breath when his teeth bloodied his lip.

“Great, I’ll see you then, Eddie- oh, wait, before you go, do you like cookies? I can make us some as a snack.” God, you really were so fucking sweet.

“Shit,” Eddie mumbled under his breath, “cookies? Yeah, I like cookies, sweetheart. Can’t fucking wait to taste them.”

“Okay, good, I’ll gladly make you some!” You cheered with excitement. “I’ll see you soon!”

Attending high school for six years would surely be more than enough time to, I don’t know, memorize at least one thing about the many lessons Eddie had to endure—science, math, hell, even construction—but nothing cemented into his mind more clearly than the address you’d given him- the address he’d fuck you at… hopefully. God, he could already picture it so vividly. Your pink room of frills and silk. The room where you study. Where you sleep. Where you change. Where you lick your fingers and snake your hand under the lace of your panties to rub your pussy to the thought of being fucked- 

Oh, how the hell was he ever going to survive being in your house?

-

Eddie Munson had stared about the likes of your neighborhood for a good five minutes, finding the audacity to suddenly play undercover detective as a means of “scoping out the scene” to ensure the sanctity of his sexual endeavors. Perhaps the karma gods were desperate to get this twenty-year-old man laid—they had to be tired of the countless prayers for pussy that flooded their heavenly inbox—as Mrs. Winthrop, the forty-something-year-old lady of fancy tracksuits and shiny pearls who loved to patrol the regulations of the HOA, was, fortunately, accompanying her newlywed seventy-something-year-old husband at the City Hall’s Annual Fundraiser Banquet. Had she decided to not meddle into the world of small town aristocrats to weasel her way into her elderly husband’s will, she would have surely caught wind of Eddie Munson’s suspicious activity, and had your house flooded with flashing reds and blues as he sat in the backseat of a police car; hands in cuffs and boner in boxers. 

But Mrs. Winthrop hadn’t been home. And Eddie had deliberated the risk of a possible wandering neighbor catching a glimpse of his dubious acts, and taken it, because in doing so, he was met with the glory of an empty driveway to your home. Where a car—like the silver sedan he learned your mother drove to drop you off to school or the black truck he learned your father drove to pick you up from school—was typically parked had been abandoned to an emptiness, leaving the cemented path to your garage exposed. And peering just a little to the left, he would come face-to-face with the familiar fateful sentiment of that of an empty driveway: an empty curb.

Long gone were the risks of parental interference.

Eddie Munson was fucking you tonight. 

Your doorbell had diffused into quietness. Hidden behind the denim pockets of his jacket, his fists balled tightly, as his mind ran through the notions of how he would manifest this to occur. Worst case scenario, you’d reject his advances… possibly realize his agenda… might call him a freak… definitely a perv… probably slap him in the face, he would deserve it… you could tell the whole school… it would surely spread across town… then the torches and pitchforks would come out- yeah, okay, he should really stop overthinking right about now. But then there were the other thoughts. The thoughts- the debauched thoughts that filled his head of just you and your body completely at his mercy. Best case scenario, you’d fall into his arms… he’d shove his hot tongue down your throat- ooh, better yet, his cock… he’d certainly grope the fattiness of your ass… might tug on your nipples with his teeth… spit on your clit… fuck, then undoubtedly plunge his cock into your cunt until it was drowning in his sticky cum. There was only so much space behind the seam of his zipper before his growing dick would burst through.

The ten seconds of impending footsteps held no merit of preparation for Eddie Munson to secure the steady breath of cool, calm, and collected like he wanted to. He was supposed to up his bravado, put on that bad boy demeanor he knew to flaunt while strutting the streets of Hakwins, Indiana to ensure his character was never physically targeted by the clear disdain the town held for him. And it worked. Never once had it failed to be intimidating. In fact, that very intimidation that was going to be his reliable source of timidly scaring you tino pulling up the soft cotton of your top to flash him the bouncing volume of your boobs for him to pervertedly grab. If it had to get that far. 

But that was all too easy. 

And Eddie Munson hadn’t accounted for the fact that his breath would hitch at mere sight of you beaconing him into your humble home with a peachy “Hi, Eddie” and that sinful skirt that seemed to love your body just as much as he did from the way it clung to your dips and curves. 

“H-Hi, sweetness.” His lips hungry rolled against themselves, as his eyes raked your silhouette upon entering the foyer of your house. “I, uh, I didn’t see anyone in the driveway. C-Can I assume we’re, um, alone?” Eddie shyly smiled.

You were there to kindly answer. “Oh, yeah! My parents drove out of town to attend a familiar friend’s wedding.” See, this is where an attempt at a nice conversation could have occurred, had you not daintily secured your hands together behind your back with pristine posture. With your puffed chest, Eddie’s eyes had absentmindedly diverted to the now pebbling outline of your nipples that seemingly hardened from the draft Eddie had brought in. Heaven truly was a place on Earth- or whatever the hell that Belinda chick sang about. “I hope that’s alright.” You giggled.

“Huh…?”

“I mean, I’m definitely nowhere near as good a cook as my mom, but I made those cookies for you as a treat, and I hope you’ll like them.” You bit your lip. “But, um, if you’re still hungry, we can totally order something for dinner.”

Eddie didn’t know what was louder, the beating in his heart or his cock. Either way, it was blatantly obvious the effect you had on him, and his body was desperately lurching for yours. “Oh, yeah, no, uh, no worries. I-I, um- sorry, I’m just a bit… nervous.” He shied away with a teasing grin.

What more could be expected? Out of the kindness of your heart, your face contorted with concern. “Oh, please don’t be nervous!” You held a soft grip to his bicep, pulling him close. Hook. “I know it can be a little scary being tutored, but I promise you’re totally in control here.” And reel. “We’ll go at your pace. I’m here to help you, remember?” You’d be doting on him the whole night. 

If intimidation wasn’t going to get him to see your pussy tonight, maybe the kicked puppy act will.

A sickening smirk consumed his face, and his hand flew over his heart. “Aren’t you just the sweetest? Got the prettiest heart and face in this town, huh?”

Oh, and how that compliment had you flustering in his grace, looking away with a breaking smile of demure. Being tutored may not have been the most conventional way of getting laid, but the favor was working on his side, and Eddie was loving his ingenious idea of stealing your advertising slip. “I- well, um, thank you, Eddie.” You smiled, attempting to meet his eyes again. “You know, you’re really nice, too. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to Donna.”

“Donna?” That crank with a stick up her ass, who seemingly tried to control every little thing you did? That Donna?!

Now, say all you want about the morality of following around someone you love, but don’t misconstrued things here, Eddie Munson was not a stalker. Nope. Nuh-uh. Sure, he liked to linger around you, who wouldn’t? And, while, yes, oftentimes- no, all the times, you didn’t know of his presence, but still, it wasn’t stalking. He was just learning things about you. Yeah, learning things. Learning the make and model of your parents’ vehicles. Learning your class schedule in hopes of catching glimpses of you in the hallways. Learning about your favorite subjects and what you hated. Learning the acts that guys did that made your face scrunch up with disgust. And yes, learning about Donna fucking McIntyre, who did seem to catch on to his stalking presence- no, linger presence (totally not a stalker).

In the many instances Eddie stood close enough to eavesdrop on your conversations, he’d grown quite a distaste for Donna McIntyre. Actually, it’d do no justice to deduce his hatred as “distaste.” Eddie Munson fucking hated Donna McIntyre. Listening to her speak was like shoving a knife through his eardrum. He’d only endure it if it meant hearing your honey voice and learning more about you. This particular disdain for your close friend hadn’t appeared from thin air, no, Eddie Munson had complete reasons to hate the ginger; Donna McIntyre had sensibility. Where your naivety had you blissfully unaware of Eddie’s hungry stare, Donna McIntyre had caught onto every one of his perversions. Call it bias, he didn’t care, he hated her. In hindsight, your two year friendship with her had truly saved you from some compromising situations in which creepy men bestowed themselves upon you. Donna McIntyre was there to save you. Leave no girl behind. And you loved her for it. 

Eddie Munson, on the other hand, despised her for it.

A daily routine had manifested itself between the two rivals. One where Eddie would lovingly stare at your perched breasts spewing from your low-cut top, only to accidentally make eye contact with Donna during his spare seconds of eyeing you, being met with one of the most—rightfully—disgusted stares from her. He was left scoffing every time she grappled onto your elbow and pulled you away wherever you stepped within his vicinity. 

“Yeah.” You sorely pouted. “See, she’s, like, my best friend ever, but she always says the nastiest things about you.”

“Like what?” He questioned with squinted eyes. 

“Well, I don’t want to say the mean names she calls you, but she always mentions how I need to stay away from you; something about you being bad news.” You huffed. “I mean, literally before you came here, I called her all excited that I was finally tutoring someone tonight, because it looks really good on college applications, you know? But when I told her it was you, she completely lost it, saying you were just taking advantage of me.” Fucking divine interference?!

Eddie Munson had to give it to her. She may have been a pain in the ass, but Donna McIntyre was smart.

“Uh, well, y’know, princess, some people are just downright rude.” He dejectedly suspired. “People have been pickin’ on me since I was a child, y’know? Just because I’m different.” Maybe the bruised kid was taking it a little too far, but a special place in hell was already being dedicated to Eddie Munson, with a fiery plaque being engraved with the devil’s sharp talon, so did he care? No. Not when his sob story had you jumping to console him with a sympathizing hug, one where your tits squished against his chest, and he reveled in the feeling of your poking nipples brushing against his body. 

A more than content hum groaned out of Eddie’s mouth, as he wrapped you close, and inhaled a waft of your perfect smell. “I’m so sorry, Eds.” Your heart of gold oozed out with all sadness for him.

“It’s okay, baby-”

“No, it’s not.” You pulled back to pout at him. “People shouldn’t treat you like that. It’s mean. People shouldn’t be mean to you.” Eddie cooed, copying your protruding lips, and sighed happily at your word of action. “You have me as a friend now! And I promise that I’ll never be mean to you. I just want to be nice to you. All the time, be nice to you.”

There’s no way you couldn’t feel his boner pressing into your tummy. “Aw, precious, I’d really like that. You’ll be nice to me? Do anything for me? Make me feel good?”

The quickness to your fervent nod had a sickening grin formulating on Eddie’s expression. “Yes, of course! Always, that’s what friends do.” You smiled. In a flash, you acted on impulse and pressed your lips to his cheek, where your gloss had marked his skin and burned his body. Witnessing you shyly smile at him afterwards had his eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head. “I just wanna help you out.” You whispered.

“You can definitely help me, princess.” He spoke in hushed tones. “Y’know how you can help me?” His face gravitated to yours, target of interest aiming for your lips.

And you looked at him with those innocent, round eyes. “Tutoring you!” You beamed, like you just answered the million dollar question on a game show- well, not Eddie’s preferred game show.

“Oh,” he cleared his throat with a forced laugh to keep you smiling, “yes, of course, sweetheart, tutoring me. That’s the only reason I came here, anyway.” He internally perished. 

You squealed in excitement, jumping from the giddiness of being helpful. “Yay!” You beamed, forcing Eddie to follow suit, his faux enthusiasm compelling him to swallow thickly in order to constrain the blood back to his brain if he was going to sit through a tutoring lesson before seeing your ass in whatever baby pink thong he pictured you wearing. You laced your hand within his—being his only saving grace for enduring schoolwork after hours—and tugged him into the coziness of your living room. “So, are you taking American History or World History?”

“Uh…” Two years ago, Wayne Munson urged his nephew to exercise his newfound 26th Amendment Right to vote at the ripe age of eighteen for the 1984 Presidential Election. Granted, not so much newfound, given that Eddie was still falling off of monkey bars when protests about the monstrosity of what was going on Vietnam managed to lower the voting age; but nonetheless, Eddie had gotten severely tired of being bombarded by Reagan signs that infested every neighborhood street he drove past, enabling him to proudly wear Hawkins’ very own rendition of the ‘I Voted’ sticker. Though, the excitement was short lived, when the Munsons gruffed in disappointment watching Ronald Reagan win his reelection and haunt their lives for another four years to come. Eddie Munson didn’t know what the hell was going on with the world fifty years ago, but the CBS Morning News was raving about the wave of the conservative movement, talks of Gorbachev meeting Reagan was happening, something called the internet was kinda freaking him out, and Eddie Munson voted, so how’s that for American history for you? 

“American- yeah, yeah, American History.” 

“Perfect!” He followed your movements, and joined you on the couch, textbooks and cookies laid out in uniform perfection against the wood of your coffee table. Just for him. “With Mr. Conklin? Or Mendez?”

“Mendez.” At least, he did when he was still a junior and vandalizing the back desk with engravings of immature pornographic sketches. 

“Oh! Donna’s also in that class.” Eye fucking roll. “She told me about that killer quiz you guys had today. Said something about how none of the questions were on the study guide that Mr. Mendez gave to y’all.”

Eddie drawed out an exasperated sigh. “Yeah, yeah.” He lied right through his teeth. “I-It’s why I came to you, sweetheart! I completely flunked that quiz, and- well, then, you- you were just like this angel sent from heaven, offering your help.” He grinned watching you heat up from his heavy stare. “Just meant to be, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Your nerves flustered, as your teeth bit into your lip. “I’m happy to help you, Eds. Anytime you need.” You could feel his breath fanning across your cheeks. “Um, did you, uh, bring your books?” Actually getting a good look at him, Eddie hadn’t brought anything. At all. “Or, um, at least… some notes?”

A whistle of slow realization escaped Eddie’s mouth. “Uh… oh, y’know what happened? See, I was just spiraling from the quiz, a-and then I got so nervous for our tutoring lesson that, y’know, it just completely slipped my mind. I’m sorry, princess.”

“Oh, well, that’s okay.” A sweet reassurance came from your part. “We can just share my book.” You patted the distant space of cushion between you two, one which Eddie gladly took up.

And, my god, was he happy he did, because thighs touching thighs, scents mixing with scents, body pressed against body, and one look down, Eddie was exposed to the glory of low-cut shirts, and your tits presented themselves so beautifully to his eyesight. But a worn textbook weighing the size of a fat dog had slammed into his lap, and suddenly his eyes were tainted by the image of an old, white man who surely didn’t arouse him like the picture of your boobs.

“Great… Thomas Jefferson.” A tight-lipped smile concealed his dismay.

“Uh,” your shy giggle captivated his attention, “no, Eddie, that’s actually James Monroe.”

“Psh.” He puffed his cheeks, nonchalantly waving his hand in the air to brush off his blatant error of mistake. “Right. Totally knew that, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay if you didn’t.” You smiled. “I’m here to help you, remember?” 

“Mhm.” His arm circled around your shoulders, letting your rest back in the comfortable bliss of soft cushions and his presence. He hummed seeing you tuck within yourself, thighs pressing into one another, and he could only imagine what you were trying to relieve. Because Eddie Munson had made you feel things. The sweet tingles you would get when you were alone at night and had all the time to yourself. When you would visualize what it would be like to have a boy like you, enough to want to be your boyfriend, and what you two would get up to. Lacey Fisher, four weeks ago, returned from her weekend birthday trip, and confided in you on how her boyfriend, Henry Aronofsky, took her virginity. She detailed to your curious mind that it had hurt. The initial intrusion, it stung. But then he kept going. And it started to feel good. But what was even better was the closeness. His body on hers. His lips on hers. 

You craved that. And having Eddie’s domineering heat radiate on your skin had your pussy pulsating with a thumping tingle that you didn’t know what to do with. Eddie was cute. Cuter than Nathan Cavanugh, Bryce Walters, or Harrison Moran. Eddie Munson had an edge that made you question why your cotton underwear was becoming uncomfortably wet under his stare. How could Donna McIntyre not like him? He was scarily hot. 

“W-What,” You cleared your throat, “what, um, period are you guys on… in Mr. Mendez’s class?”

Shit. “Uh…”

“It was period four, no?” You opened the textbook on his lap, flipping the silk pages to thumb through the chapters. “Donna had mentioned it, said she wanted me to help her study this weekend.”

Thank god for Donna McIntyre’s big ass mouth. Even if it did shit-talk him. “Yeah, yeah, period four, mhm.”

“Okay, so lucky for you, we will be talking about Thomas Jefferson today.” You chuckled. “Period four spans from 1800 to 1848, which will cover different aspects like the developmental growth of political parties as a result from the expansion of suffrage, and definitive aspects of American culture expounded by the Era of Good Feelings…”

Fuck me.

-

Eddie Munson sat through forty-seven minutes of the Jeffersonian Era, listening of the profoundness of the Revolution of 1800s, and America’s god given right to expansion and the manifest destiny- or whatever bullshit propaganda that damn textbook pounded out to high schoolers just to get to some pussy. But if the United States could gain the delusional superiority complex to conquer and prosper on westward, Eddie Munson could do the same- well, on you. This was just one obstacle. One hurdle. One step closer to obtaining his holy grail of getting his dream girl. Shoving a dozen of the triple chocolate chunk cookies you’d baked him was enough to get him through the painful lecture of the demise of the Federalist Party, though, the events of the Mexican-American War was interesting enough to get him into cheering on Mexican troops over Texan volunteers during the Battle of the Alamo, but enough was enough.

“…With the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the U.S was able to gain the southwest territory, which would include New Mexico, Utah, Nevada, and California, but Mr. Mendez likes specifics, so also be sure to remember we gained the majority of Arizona and Colorado, which bled into parts of Kansas, Wyoming, and Oklahoma.” You huffed in one breath. “Oh! And recall the Monroe Doctrine! Given that we had now warned European countries of the potential threats that would happen if they continued to colonize the western hemisphere, the American win over Mexico had further cemented the U.S as growing world power, which gets into the promotion of democracy and isolationism, which we can get into next-”

“Okay, sweetheart, stop right there.” Eddie scrunched his eyes in agony, cutting you off from proffering anymore mush that was stirring in his already confused brain. “Sorry, uh- sorry, but, like, can we take a break?” He sighed.

“Oh.” Embarrassment rushed to your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, sometimes I can get too much into things, we can totally take a break or, um, call it a day if you’d like-”

“No, no, no, no.” He adamantly interjected, closing the textbook with crumpled notes of his compulsory—upon your request—chicken scratch handwriting, brandishing it away next to the crumb-filled platter that once was delicious baked goods. “No, baby, trust me, I don’t want the night to end.” He delicately nudged your chin with his finger, a teasing smile to pair. “I just got a little headache, s’all.”

“Well, are you sure you don’t want to leave to get some rest?” Your brows molded with concern. “We can pick this up tomorrow, or whenever you’re free.”

Eddie Munson played into his bluster of confidence, leaning in close to run a rough-tipped finger down the dough of your thigh, letting your skin wake and react to his heated touch. “What if I wanna rest here with you?” He whispered. “Have you take care of me?”

You gulped. “Um, l-like what?” You nervously giggled. “I can, like, make you soup for-for your headache.” 

“Well, I was thinking more like we can lay down.” He pouted to emphasize his pained facade. “Will you take care of me in bed, baby?”

You licked your lips timidly. “Um, I-I don’t really know if that’s, like, a-appropriate for, um, study sessions. Like, I don’t want you to think I brought you here under the guise of doing… stuff.”

“You can say it, princess.” He smiled. “Say it. You didn’t bring me here to have sex.”

Hearing Eddie’s sultry voice whisper the word had sparked up the special tingles nestled between your thighs, and he could see the sensation consuming your being. “Um, y-yeah. I didn’t bring you here to h-have sex.” Heart racing, you could barely gain the courage to force your eyes upon him. “That’s what, um, Harrison thought when I offered to tutor him.”

“Aw, no, I know, pretty girl.” He cooed, as he firm hand squeezed down on your thigh, pressing the hem of your skirt high. Your sunken teeth had become your only extenuative from letting out a squeal from the jolting sensation. “God, those morons are just dicks. Don’t appreciate how good of a tutor you are. How much of a good girl you are. Right, baby? You’re just such a good girl looking to help, huh?”

You nodded to confirm his sentiment. “Yes, Eddie.”

His hand creeped to separate yours, where they stayed tightly clasped within one another, and he rubbed his fingers against the softness of your warm palm, before confining your hand with his. “Why don’t we go to your room to just relax for a bit, sweetheart? You smell so good, bet your room smells just like you. I love it so much.” 

“Uh…”

“It’ll make me feel so much better, princess.” He cajoled. “C’mon, that’s what friends do, right? You said it yourself, sweetheart.” 

“And then we’ll study again?” You eyed him with a twinkle in your eyes. 

“Man, you really like history, huh?” He teased with a chuckle. 

“Of course!” You happily answered, which had him smiling at your enthused face that glowed giddily. “Why wouldn’t I like something I’m good at?” Spoken with all the confidence. 

Eddie softly laughed in admiration. “You’re so cute.” He gave your thigh another tender squeeze. “Why don’t we do this: you make me feel good, like friends do, and I promise to make you feel extra good?” He stuck out a promising pinky, as he watched you consider his all too innocent proposition. “I’ll make you feel so good, precious.” He whispered. 

“Just relaxing? A small break?”

“Mhm.” He smirked. Fairly ambiguous; not necessarily a lie if not clearly verbalized. But just enough to get you alone in your bedroom. Pinky promised. 

Hands held together, you guided Eddie Munson through the halls of your house to reach your beloved bedroom, where secrecy and intimacy laid between the silks and cottons of your sheets. Each step had Eddie’s dick thumping with excitement, just as anticipated as his heartbeat racing out of his chest. You had never had a boy in your room. In fact, this would have to go untold to the authority of your mother and father, too archaic to understand the innocence of it all. Because that’s all it was. Right? Helping a friend in need to aid him to recovery. Headaches can be killer. Mrs. Weber's fourth period chemistry class often had you succumbed with migraines. Science wasn’t like history. As how Eddie Munson wasn’t like Harrison Moran. He wouldn’t do you as the star quarterback tried with you. Because Eddie Munson was different. Nothing like Donna McIntyre tried to get you to believe. He was different. Right?

“We can just relax here for a bit.” You spoke, as you both entered the confines of your room.

The essence of your own personal girlhood defined the sacred space of your room. Where clean, white walls brightened the mood, personal pictures and feminine posters had livened it up. Sweetness had invaded Eddie’s nose, as he was surely met with the arousing smell of your perfume, predicted to the exact notion. Gold jewelry, the one that complemented your skin beautifully, where dainty necklaces would become suffocated in the valley of your tits, where shiny earrings would decorate your earlobes that Eddie wanted to mouth on, had displayed themselves neatly amongst the products of beauty and self care. Pinks and silks, frills and lace, embodying your sweetness to a T. Effeminate in all aspects of nature.

And Eddie Munson was ready to defile everything. 

Unabashedly, Eddie had breached beyond the realms of a visitor’s right, and taken advantage of the whole ‘make yourself at home’ sentiment that you had actually never spoken; nonetheless, he’d marched his way to your comforting bed occupied by a number of stuffed animals that unfairly got the privilege of seeing you in your most intimate times. 

He splayed himself on the expanse of cushions, a groan leaving his mouth as he relished in the feeling of a bed that wasn’t stabbing of springs, starfishing the expanse that left you giggling on the sideline. “What’re you laughin’ at, you little punk?” He perked. 

“Don’t be mean.” You laughed, watching him grab onto one of the many companions that inhabited your bed. 

“Mm, I think I’m deserving of pokin’ a little fun at someone who owns like fifty stuffed animals.” He smirked, as he beckoned you with a curling finger. 

Given his limbs had almost entirely taken up the breadth of your bed, you were left to sit back on your heels, posture pristine as ever, with your hands neatly kept on the safety of your thighs. Such a sight for sore eyes. Brazen without a care, he hungrily eyed you top to bottom. Bitten lips to round boobs to soft waist to expanding hips. Your revealing skirt inching away and away, giving him a sneak peak to his next meal. 

But while his stares lingered on your body, yours had unintentionally followed suit. Laid flat, the apparent bulge beneath worn denim did not hold merit to the art of concealment, and a quiet gasp left your mouth as you scolded yourself for even peering at your newfound friend like that. “N-Not fifty.” You sternly stated with a smile to get your head straight. “Just four.”

“Still a lot.” He said, investigating the furriness of a chubby bumblebee, one where pink and white instead took over the naturally occurring black and yellow.

“Oh.” His comment had suddenly hit you in a way that made you shame with embarrassment. Unbeknownst to him, of course, he was still finding amusement in the flappy wings of the plushy insect. “Um, d-do you think it’s, like, childish? N-Not mature?” You scratched the back of your neck. Perhaps it was the attachment to the juvenile interest—referred to as by Montgomery Davis, a former love interest that didn’t last too long—that prohibited you from finding an adequate boy to be with.

He had chuckled at the fat stinger. There’s no way that could impale someone. But he had heard the apprehension in your voice, peering up from your stuffed animal to see your more than disappointed face. “Oh, no, baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He quickly forwent Bugsbee the Bee to the side, as a calloused hand landed on your knee for reassurance. Sitting up, Eddie Munson overstepped the boundaries of a tutee to whisper his hot breath against your lips. “I fuckin’ love ‘em. So cute, babe. Just like you.”

“Really?” Your dough eyes scanned his face.

“Would I ever lie to you, sweetheart?” He pinched your cheek. “That’s just not what friends do.” He smiled, as he laid back down. “So, is that what you like to do for fun? Get stuffed animals?”

“Um, not necessarily.” You beamed. “I just like having them around, you know? Keep me company for the things I do like to do.”

“Like what, baby?” He squeezed your knee. “Tell me all that you like doing.”

“Well, let's see, oh, uh, I love journaling. Like, writing my feelings down.” He nodded along, prodding as encouragement for further information. “Uh, typically it started out just in the morning, like, when I wake up, I’d write about what I’d like to accomplish for the day. But then, I kinda realized it’d be nice to vent after a long day, so now, I really just do it whenever.” You shrugged. 

Boys didn’t care about this stuff, but Eddie Munson asked questions. “Yeah?" He grinned. “That sounds nice, baby. Feels like some therapy shit I need.” He chuckled. “Does it make you feel good to write about your feelings?”

“Yeah!” You happily answered. “Um, sometimes it's hard to talk about what I’m feeling to my friends. Like, Donna, for example; she’s got her whole life planned out, she’s so smart. If it’s hard for me to understand what I’m feeling, then I know Donna won’t. I’m scared she’ll judge me.”

“Donna’s a bitch.” He gruffed, with a groan of disdain. 

“No, don’t say that, that’s mean.” You chastised him. “She’s my friend, Eddie.”

“Right, right, sorry, baby.” He quickly made up for it. “It’s just hard to get along with her, s’all. But, uh, this journaling… what kinda feelings do you write about? Like, uh, I don’t know, private ones? You can tell me, honey.”

You nervously laughed, squirming in the seated position of being on your calves. “Y-Yeah, like, uh, well sometimes I worry that I won’t ever get, like, a real boyfriend. Like, a serious relationship. Not like whatever gross hookup the boys at our school want. I don’t want that.”

Eddie caressed the skin of your leg. “Totally, babe. Don’t waste your time with the little boys at our school. You need a real man, huh? Someone who’s gonna take care of their pretty girl.” He smirked, as you nodded in agreement.

Your heart lumped out of your chest, as you followed the languid movements of his large hand encapsulating your bent knee. His touch felt fiery against your skin, creating a series of goosebumps in his guided path, like a mark of territory. Your thighs, once again, clenched at his mercy. Seeing the prominent blue veins reveal themselves from under his alabaster skin had you striked with a familiar heated tingle. The tingles you’d have to satiate alone at night. “You think I can find someone like that?” You softly asked with all vulnerability. 

Eddie snaked his hand upward to gently hold one of yours. “Ugh, absolutely, princess, are you crazy? Sexiest and sweetest thing in the world, remember I told you? I meant it, baby. Sometimes you just gotta look right in front of you.” He smugly smiled. Your mouth went dry, as you attempted to ease your flustered smile. “Just like me, I need a princess to take care of.”

“Mhm, you deserve someone nice, Eddie.” 

“But, uh, I also need someone who’s not gonna judge me.” He perfected a pout that had you sympathizing at his feet. “Y’know, like I said before, some people are just so mean, wouldn’t understand me. Would you judge me, princess?”

“Oh, no! Never, Eddie! Solemnly, I understand the feeling, I’d never do that to you.” You preached with such vehemence, it had Eddie’s blood pooling to the length of his dick with a sickening smile eating his face. 

“So, you wouldn’t judge me if I told you what I like to do for fun, baby?” He played with your fingers, an act of innocence that had your heart soaring. 

“Nuh-uh.” You affirmed with a shake of your head. “You can tell me.” You delicately approached. 

“Well, sweetheart, I really really love touching myself.” He whispered, reveling in the sensation of your hand automatically squeezing his in a tightening hold, eyes rounding in surprise. “I do it all the time, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” Flustered beyond recognition, the single word had become the only thing trusted to speak, as his admission had ignited millions of sparkling tingles, letting a gush of wetness uncomfortably soak your precious underwear. 

He sneered with delight in power. “You’re not judgin’ me, are ya, baby?”

“No, no!” You rushed out. “I, uh- it’s totally n-normal… um, doing that. People- everyone does it.”

“Yeah?” He piqued with interest, watching you unfold into his ingenious trap. “You do it, too, princess?”

Your cheeks were invaded by hot blood, tainting your face with humiliation at the thought of giving up such intimate information. But he was your friend. You didn’t want him to feel judged. And lying was awful. Taught by the man, himself, Honest Abe. Great, and now history was being brought up again! It felt as if the devil had blown his burning breath to flame your face with embarrassment, but the devil was enticing, inching you to the darkside, where you’d be gifted with the persuasion of pure hedonism for the rest of your life. Eddie Munson was the devil. Materialized in the most euphoric way possible. 

You were wriggling, letting spiking friction torment your pussy under his glare. He was waiting. “Um, y-yeah, Eddie. I-I do it. Sometimes.”

An airy groan left his mouth, one he didn’t obscure, simply letting it out for you to witness. “Mm, I knew you would. Pretty girls like you love to touch themselves.” Holding his hand seemed to be the only form of comfort to enduring his gross words. You didn’t want to let go. “Love rubbing your pussy, don’t you baby?”

You didn’t like that word. But words deemed filthy by your definition only seemed to burn you coming from the mouth of Eddie Munson, himself. Harrison Moran once said he’d like to see your pussy. It made you scowl in disgust, and kick him out. But Eddie Munson had you enamored. 

“Yeah.” You whispered bluntly, feeling that his trust could leave you to softly speak with no repercussion. 

“Tell me, sweetheart, with your fingers?” He embraced your hand. “You play with your pussy with your fingers, put ‘em inside to fuck yourself?” Before you could reason, your head had taken the liberty to shake itself for you. No. Eddie’s brow lifted in confusion. Not to define you by the shyness of your nature, but you hadn’t necessarily struck the pervert, himself, as a user of sex toys. Well, at least, he hoped not. Something about introducing you to the world of vibrators and dildos made his cock jump with joy. “You don’t finger yourself? 

“Hands are too small.” You meekly answered, so lightly he could barely hear it.

“What do you do then, baby?”

Perhaps the alchemy of wizardry and spell casting from his beloved hobby of Dungeons and Dragons had magically manifested itself into his current reality—at the very least, it felt as though it had—as Eddie Munson’s words had you reeling in a sudden candid behavior too unfamiliar to your prospective nature. Not to say fibbery came as an innate trait for you, in fact, you honored yourself in the frankness of your words. 

But you had never acted on impulsion. 

And it felt as though Eddie’s provocative language had you destined at his mercy, forcing your body to act with no regards. There was no thinking under his gaze. No hesitation. For the briefest second of quickness, your eyes had landed in the ivory plush of an adorably stuffed bunny sat just three inches away from his shoulder, that had answered his ribald question. 

Your cheeks had ablazened when his quick eye followed your glance that lingered in the air. The corner of his lip had disgustingly peaked into a diabolical smirk, as his perverted mind exploded at the revelation. “Aw, sweetheart.” He groaned, a curious hand reaching out for your bunny.

“No, Eddie!” You tried to jeopardize his movements with urgency. “D-Don’t touch it, it’s not-”

“What is it, sweetheart?” He picked up the bunny, despite your protests. Eddie examined the cute stuffy, his perverted reflection shining back at him through the glassy, round eyes that mimicked your humiliated ones. “Shit, princess, you rub your pretty pussy on your bunny, hm? Does humping your stuffed animal feel better than fucking your fingers inside your cunt?”

“Eddie.” You whined with embarrassment, so shamefaced, dropping your head in your hands to conceal your burning expression. 

“It’s okay, darlin’.” He smiled, loving the twisted feeling of having his dick pulsate at your sheepish state. Eddie pried your hands away, revealing your timid face to him. “Remember, baby, I’m not judgin’ you, I just wanna know. Friends, they tell each other everything and help one another out, you gotta tell me, baby.” With a single hand gripping both your wrists tightly, you refused to look him in the eye, fear consuming you at the thought of Eddie Munson finding you gross for your actions. A wave of tears were threatening your eyes, and you hoped peering at the organized clutter of your nightstand would be enough to withstand the mortifying experience of crying after having him learn what you did. 

“You’re gonna make fun of me.” Your trembling lip managed to mutter out. 

“Aw, no, baby, I would never.” He turned your chin to force you to face him. “Honestly, sweetheart, thinkin’ of you doing that is so sexy.” He groaned with a bite to his lip. “God, picturing you humping your little stuffed animal has me feeling a little hot, see.” His hand deserted your face to rake over his pronouncing bulge, that seemed larger than before. “Mm, got me so worked up, baby. This is all your fault.” He moaned, squeezing his cock with a heavy hand.

Your mouth had opened at the sight of him touching himself over his pants. Those funny tingles had bursted between your thighs, and so insecurely, you questioned him. “Really?”

“Ugh, absolutely, babe.” He returned to your bunny, laying back to play with the small arms of your teddy, as his hand remained stationed on his boner, massaging his erection with breathy grunts leaving his mouth. “You’re so fucking beautiful, princess.” While attempting to ease your emotional nerves, Eddie had taken a good look at your bunny, the evidence of your usage being found in the matted fur surrounding the pink nose of your innocent companion. “Shit, did you fuck yourself this morning, baby?”

“That’s why I didn’t want you to touch it!” You dreaded. “I promise I’ll clean it, give it here-”

A loud gasp left your mouth, as Eddie rejected your request, bringing your stuffed bunny nose to nose, inhaling a waft of the lingering scent of your pussy. His eyes closed in ecstasy, moaning loudly as your raw smell invaded his being, rubbing the tent in his pants harshly for any form of relief. “Fuck, baby, you smell so good. I gotta touch myself.” He flung your precious stuffed animal back, in reach for his belt, cursing under his breath as his abrasive movements momentarily caused the leather to tighten when needing to be off. 

“W-What?” Your brows jumped to crease your forehead. 

“I can’t help it, baby, you’ve got me so fucking hard right now.” Eddie tugged opened his belt, rushing to undo the brass button of his pants. “Fuck, you’re not gonna judge me, right? That’s not what friends do. In fact, friends help each other out. Especially when they’re as sexy as you, baby.”

Swollen to a girth of thickness, Eddie’s cock smacked out with eagerness to fuck, and his precum oozed out, as he watched your face morph into surprise at seeing the first cock in your life. His ringed hand wrapped around himself, cursing under his breath as he felt the jolts of pleasure crash over him. “I touch myself like this, baby, fuck.” He squeezed the head of his cock, smearing his precum down to his base. “Do it so much to you, god, fuck me, princess, I think about you all the time. Can’t stop myself from jerking off at the thought of your pretty, little face.” Eddie whined. 

Your lips stayed stationed agape from the divulgence and sight of what was occurring in front of you. You hadn’t even prospered the fact that your body was reacting more candidly than your mind had anticipated, and Eddie nearly blew his load watching your thighs swish against one another to relieve your arousal. “Y-You think about me?” You delicately spoke. 

“Of course, fuck, fucking look at yourself, mm.” He tightened his grip. “Shit, baby, are you feeling horny, too? Is lookin’ at me making you wanna rub that fucking pussy?”

“U-Um, I-I don’t know.” Nervous eyes attempt to look around for anything that wasn’t Eddie Munson masturbating in your bed. “I-I don’t wanna do anything… anything bad. I don’t wanna get in trouble, Eds.”

“No, no, baby, it’s not bad, it’s good- so fucking good.” He sucked in his breath, as his hand picked up the pace. “Fuck, you’ll feel so good, darlin’- let me make you feel good, princess.” Eddie heaved, inching his large hand up your thigh until his fingers brushed your risened skirt. “Don’t tell anyone, and we won’t get in trouble.”

You watched with heavy pants, as Eddie’s strength managed to dig his fingers into the fat of your inner thigh to part them, and reveal those drenched baby pink panties he so perfectly predicted in the filth hive of his mind. “L-Like this- um, Eddie I’ve never done this with someone else, I-I don’t what to do-”

“Shh, shh.” He demanded, saving your breath from a wrecking tirade of being inexperienced. “Just let me touch you like good friends do.” His fingertips skimmed the puddle in your panties, causing an unwarranted squeal to escape your mouth, as you bucked your hips into his touch. “Oh, my-”

“Mm, Eds, you’re making me feel funny!” You attempted to close your legs, but his hand was quick to lightly slap your thigh in refusal. 

“Don’t fucking close your legs, fuck, just let me touch you.” His grip held you exposed to him, and he was aggressive with the way the pad of thumb smushed against your covered clit, forcing you to ball your sheets into your tightening fists. 

A guttural moan was ripped from you, as his thumb worked intricately to circle your clit, letting your hips ride his fingers. “E-Eddie!”

“That’s right, just hump my fucking hand, baby.” He whined, as he continued to jerk his cock, until his hips were following in sync with yours; his pivoting to thrust into his hand, yours grinding in desperate need for release. “Shit, touch me like I’m touching you- fuck, put your hands on me.”

Eddie’s slick hand grappled onto your wrist, pulling your resisting fist from your balled blanket onto his dick, where he maneuvered your fingers to wrap around his girth and mimic the strokes he once gave himself. A surge of wetness gushed at your given ability to elicit a deep groan from Eddie Munson. Seeing him react to your touch as such spurred a wave of confidence to continue your ministration, tightening your grip around his dick and providing him the languid movements that had his heavy sack pulsating with a need to cum. 

But Eddie Munson’s ego was growing expeditiously. 

And he wasn’t about to be putty in your hands- your oh so tiny, soft hands that gripped him like a vice and made him to want to fuck it for an eternity. No. Not when his hand was cupping your hot pussy, fingers becoming moist through your wet underwear, as they dug between your lips to rub that sensitive little clit and had you whimpering at his command. 

“Fuck, stand up, princess.” He shoved your hand off his cock, simultaneously choosing to regrettably tear his away from the warmth of your cunt.

Whining in despair, you stuttered. “W-What? Why?”

“Because,” Eddie positioned himself to the edge of bed, grabbing your hand to guide onto wobbly feets, pins and needles pricking your legs as they woken from their previous position, “I’m gonna put my cock between your pretty, little lips.” 

Manspreading, his thighs parted for your residence, Eddie’s penis burning red with desire, as it hung heavy against his abdomen, each protruding vein slimed with a coat of his precum. His hands rested on your hips, and he smirked as he took in the sight of your body, one he desired so much to just touch and violate for his pleasure. The blatantly obvious was shown in your face; your undivided attention had primarily focused on his dick, and he couldn’t help the chuckle of egotism that erupted from his chest, as he smoothed down the bumps and curves of your body. 

“Aw, you like looking at my cock, princess?” He sneered with a drenching voice of condescendment that had your head snapping with embarrassment.

“I-I’m sorry-”

“No, no, baby, don’t be.” Eddie’s focus began shifting to the hem of your shirt, teasing it up to reveal the soft navel of your belly.  “It’s all yours to look at. Just like your pussy is all mine.” He bit his lip. “Especially when I fuck my cock inside of you, hm, you gonna let me, baby?”

That had your chest heaving with bursts of nerves, both good and bad. To know Eddie wanted that closeness with you was profoundly what had your heart fluttering with the idea of him loving you to a committed relationship. One where he was a boy calling you his girlfriend, and you were a girl calling him your boyfriend. But Lacey Fisher’s words had suddenly begun playing in your head like a record on loop. “It hurt.”

And Eddie Munson’s cock was pulsating at a length in which both of your hands had to wrap around his girth just to mount it. 

“Um, I-I don’t, uh- Eddie I’ve never done that b-before… I want you, like, to be my boyfriend, right? Like, this is what boyfriend-girlfriends do? B-But maybe I should wait- or we should… as boyfriend and girlfriend.”

There was a little hint in your voice. The way you suggested your ending in a lighter octave, fear that Eddie didn’t want to be your boyfriend, that he’d be just like Harrison Moran. But Eddie Munson wasn’t Harrison Moran, and his smile lit up at the timidness of your stature.

His dream girl. 

“I get to be your boyfriend, baby?” He leaned in to press a tender kiss upon your thigh. 

A shy smile corrupted your face, as you nodded to his question. “Mhm! Is it okay if we kiss like boyfriend and girlfriend?”

He chuckled at your cuteness, squeezing the meat of your legs in frustration at the overload he was feeling for you. “Of course, princess, c’mere.” Bending slightly at the waist, Eddie took the liberty of enduring most of the labor of stretching as far as he could until his lips crashed upon yours. Your mouth just as sweet as your being, Eddie moaned at the moisturizing sensation of the vanilla strawberry lip gloss that conjoined you together. His hands were aggressive to suddenly keep your cheeks in place, forbidding you to leave his mouth until he was ready to let go. It’s why you squealed when learning Eddie had no shame being the messy kisser he was; pushing his tongue between your lips, clashing teeth with teeth, consuming your mouth, and plunging an obscene amount of spit to your tongue, as his ravished in exploration. “Mm, fuck, love kissing you.” His delirious voice murmured against your lips. “Remember, honey,” he finished you off with one more peck, “you can’t tell Donna and friends about this. Not about how we got together, okay?” Eddie stroked your face. “They wouldn’t understand, only say mean things about you and me.”

“Okay.” You quietly agreed, wanting to protect your boyfriend from the harsh words Donna would possibly say. How could she pull you away under the guise of protection, when Eddie Munson’s been nothing but sweet to you? What was she seeing that you weren’t? Surely, you always kept your mouth closed, deciding against your sour opinion of Tucker Walsh, who Donna had on-and-off dated for months. 

“Yeah, you’ll be a good girl and won’t tell anyone?” He cooed, stroking your face. 

“Uh-huh.” You gently beamed, seeing his eyes scan your face with proudness. 

“Perfect.” Eddie pecked your nose. “Now, c’mon, sweetie, don’t you wanna show your boyfriend your tits? Always dreamed of seeing ‘em.” Untrustworthy of your awkward movements, you had let Eddie take the reins, simply standing straight to have him, once again, persist the labor of handling you to undress in front of him. His fingers tickled your sides, as they grappled with your shirt to pull it over your head, and spring your tits from the confinements of the tight material. Eddie dramatically sucked in his breath upon sight, mumbling swears because your nipples had hardened from the chill air. “So fucking pretty- fucking beautiful, sweet girl.” He groaned, taking advantage of your topless self, and having a squeeze at your boobs.

“Y-You think I’m beautiful?” You whimpered, loving the beguiling feeling of his callouses scraping your tits, only to pull and pinch at your sensitive nipples. 

“So fucking beautiful.” Eddie was quick to answer, placing a kiss to your belly button, which had butterflies fluttering in your stomach, making you swoon over your kind boyfriend. Boyfriend. “Most gorgeous fucking girl I’ve ever seen. Just wanna be with you so bad- always wanted to be with you, sweetheart.”

“You are with me… now.” You giggled, which had him grinning salaciously. 

“Yeah, I am, huh?” He hand traveled down to your skirt, playing with the soft fabric. “Got the prettiest girl in school at my hands, I’m so fucking lucky.” He teased his way to the hem of your underwear, teetering between gently pulling them down, only to secure them back in place just to have your squirming with want. “I want you to do somethin’ for me, baby, okay? Just wanna see you out of these cute, little panties, but, honey, turn around and do it.”

Ready to please him, you obliged, turning your backside to him, leaving you to look back and watch him sit back to enjoy the incoming show, as his hand wrapped around his cock and, once again, began his slow strokes. “Like this?”

“Mhm.” He breathily sighed. “Just bend over real deep, princess, so I can see up your skirt, and I wanna- fuck, I wanna see you take off your panties just like that, shit.” 

Eddie Munson was a little weird. 

But maybe that’s what makes your boyfriend so interesting. Getting to know him will be fun. But for right now, you’d do as he says. The idea of making him happy made your heart flutter with joy, as a little voice in your head spoke to you that Eddie Munson was there to make you happy, as well. Bending forward, your skirt had completely risen, exposing your ass to him and that darkened spot in your panties waving at him as a tempting testament to how horny he was making you feel. 

“God, what a fucking ass.” Eddie grunted, spurring his hips to fuck up into his hand. “Go ahead and take those panties off, baby, show me what’s waiting for me.”

Grabbing the lace of your underwear, you tugged down the cotton, fighting the bit of resistance from when Eddie’s fingers buried your panties between the lips of your pussy. But they peeled off, showing him strings of sticky wetness that clung to the gusset and glistened your cunt. Eddie had to immediately stop touching himself, almost shooting his cum out from the sight of your puffed pussy lips squished between your thighs. As your panties teased down your legs, pooling at your ankles, you were startled from the abrupt groping from your boyfriend, feeling him grab handfuls of your cheeks that kept you spread wide, as you stood straight. 

“Eddie!” You shrieked into small laughter.

“Oh, my god, you’re gonna fucking kill, baby, fuck, look at you- this ass, look at this fucking wet pussy.” He kneaded the dough of your butt, before placing a stinging spank to watch the fat jiggle from his heavy hand. 

“Ow, Eddie!” 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He was quick to land delicate kisses to the burning area, as the incriminating hand ran over your skin to soothe you. “Just can’t fucking help it.” Securing your hips, Eddie turned you around until your pretty face was smiling down at him, letting his cock twitch with all love and adoration for you. 

“What now?” He loved your curiosity. Getting to corrupt your innocent mind into wanting more, until you were his eager slut, begging to shove his cock into all your holes until you were leaking his cum. 

“Now,” he smiled, reaching behind him to bring forth your plushie bunny, one tainted with your cum and it had his dick jumping for joy, “you’re gonna show me how you fuck your little bunny, baby.” You swallowed thickly at his request, a twinge of embarrassment coursing through you at the request of showing Eddie something so carnal. But he was your boyfriend. And you could find trust in your boyfriend to make you feel good. “But I also need you to work that little mouth around my cock, honey. Can you do that? Suck it for me?”

You feared disappointing him. “I-I don’t know how. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay, I’ll teach you, baby. Just get on your knees for me, yeah?” Last month, Eddie nearly combusted into the crotch area of his jeans watching you suck on a red lollipop during the chaotic minutes of lunch. Safe to say, an entire monologue teasing the meaning behind the potential return of hooded cultists had been ruined in the midst of advertising his upcoming campaign to his eager friends, who embarrassingly had to watch their Dungeon Master choke on his spit, when Eddie found your tongue twirling around the cherry ball of candy, only to suck up the syrupy saliva into you mouth. The head of his cock was no different than that lollipop. You’d do just fine. 

Letting your knees rub against your carpeted floor, your hands find perch onto his denim thighs, and you outlined the length of his cock with eyes, wondering how something of that thickness could fit into your mouth. Eddie parted ways with his pants, shuffling out of the rough material, with a metal chain and leather belt clanking along the way, to ensure enough room to have you get off on your stuffed animal.

“Go ahead, baby, start humping your little stuffie for me.” Eddie had meticulously placed your bunny between your legs, watching you for the moment your pussy came in contact with the nub of its nose. 

Eddie hissed at the affliction of pain from your nails digging into his hairy thighs, as you became too enlivened by the friction of your clit grinding against your little bunny to account for the provocation you were besetting against him. But Eddie Munson loved it. His immoral mind found arousal in watching you abuse his skin from pleasure, compelling his cock to jerk with profound need. 

“Yeah, feel good, princess? Rubbin’ that fucking pussy?” You pathetically nodded, gentle whispers of whimpers leaving your mouth, as you humped your teddy with all conviction. “God, just love usin’ that little bunny as a fuck toy, huh?” He pinched your chin to force your glossy gaze upon him. “Just like I’m gonna use you, right, honey?”

“Mhm, oh my- mm, fuck!” Your tummy clenched, as your hips picked up the momentum to circle the stuffed animal's face, and defile its fur with your wetness.

“Yeah, you’re gonna be my sweet, little bunny?” Eddie’s thumb began pulling at your bottom lip, leaving him cursing as it bounced back to its plumpness. “My sweet, little bunny who’s gonna be my little fuck toy to use whenever?”

“Y-Yes, Eddie… whenever.”

“Fuck, open that pretty fucking mouth for me, and stick out that tongue, baby.” Holding his cock up, Eddie smiled as you obliged so kindly, letting him smack the angry tip of his dick against your tongue, as you finally got a taste of him. 

“This w-will make you feel good, mm?” You pondered through mumbles, as you lost yourself in the sensation of pussy buzzing from the burning friction against your clit. 

“Yes, baby, fuck, just keep your mouth open.” Eddie’s hand fell heavy upon the top of your head, as he beckoned you to take him deeper, letting his cock to become enveloped in the soft warmth of your mouth. It became no question of whether this would feel good for him, the guttural moan that left his mouth upon intrusion had your hips bucking with fervency. 

The viscid coating of his cock with pungent precum made you hum, igniting a series of grunts from your boyfriend, as hissing vibrations exploded in his body. Eddie guided your hands to the base of his cock, encouraging you to massage the leftover that wasn’t occupied by your mouth. “Fuck, yes! Make it messy, baby, just spit all over it!” 

Eddie Munson sat back in rhapsody, losing himself in the delirium of having you choke on his cock, as your spit puddled his length, escaping your lips as you suckled on the frenulum of his head. His hair cascaded down, letting his body become too heavy to support as your mouth was bringing him a gratifying high that he never wanted to come down from. Your humps grappled against thumping his thumping veins, enclosing him into a vice grip that had him moaning at your mercy.

“Mm, sh-shit, princess, your—ugh, aaahh—mouth!” He huffed against his restricting lungs. Eddie’s hips began to mimic your bucking, as you moaned at the fizzing rub of your bunny scratching that greedy itch on your clit, allowing him to shove his cock to the gummy constriction of your throat, forcing you to gag on his invasive cock. Sweet spit raining down to his heavy balls, letting his pelvis of bushy pubes become soak with your secretion. 

You pulled off with a sore throat, thick strings of spit sticking from his cock to your lips, as your watering eyes scarily gleamed up at him. “Ugh! Y-Your too big- I can’t-”

“Yes, you can, fuck, it’s feels so fucking nice when you choke!” He urged your head back down, now blubbering with a need to finish on your tongue. “J-Just keep fucking yourself, shit! Don’t stop until I tell you.”

Your tongue reached to tickle the underside of his dick, memorizing his stern rigids that had your jaw hurting from breaking open. Eddie sat up to spy down your backside, where he virtually lost it at the sight of your ass cheeks recoiling from the lively movements of your hips humping your stuffy. “Ugh, you gonna cum, sweetheart?” He cupped your face, guiding your languid movements up and down his cock, as you went through the endeavor of nodding to his question. “Fucking cum, baby, cum all over your little bunny!” He demanded. 

His heavy hand landed on the back of your head, shoving your face to become suffocated in the unruliness of his pubic hair. Nose inhaling his musk, you sputtered on his cock, gagging at his length prodding at the back of your throat, all to bring Eddie’s long arm down to reach for your ass. A burning sting from a substantial slap had you wailing on his fat cock, “Fucking faster.” He dictated your movements, spurring your hips to drive into the plushy with spanks to your tormented ass. “Cum with me, fuck! M’gonna cum! Cum, baby, cum!”

The bundle of nerves in your pussy began detaching from one another, like a rope inching to snap. Rutting into your stuffed animal, your muffled moans were buzzing his cock, bringing you to the brink of a gushing explosion. Your thrusting became uncoordinated, as your tummy bursted with euphoria, and your release adulterated your white bunny. 

Sobbing on his cock, his stomach muscles tightened into an agonizing cramp, as his balls clenched to pump out his seed, flooding your throat with his hot cum. “Ah! Shit, shit, shit—ugh! Fuck me!” Gagging, your hands repeatedly swatted his thick thighs—decorated with the crescents and blistering scratches of your nails—to release you from potentially vomiting on his dick. 

His hand relinquished his hold, allowing you to come up for air. Gasping, struggling to find a breath of fresh air, as a concocted mixture of spit and cum dribbled out from your mouth, but you had no hesitation licking your lips to consume the strange taste of his release.

“Holy shit, that was incredible!” Eddie dropped back onto your bed, hands gripping his sweaty curls, as he urged his mind to collect the events that just transpired before him. Chest heaving, teeth gritted, skin moist, this- this is what that Belinda chick was singing about! It wasn’t until a warm head landed on his thighs, that his thoughts jumped to prioritize your wellbeing. In retrospect, the notion of his sticky balls pressing into your temple with his flaccid cock resting upon your forehead shouldn’t have been so idyllic to Eddie Munson, but my god, was his heart constricting at your exhausted state—half-lidded eyes begging for rest, plump lips parted for airy breaths, and your manicured fingers delicately tracing against the hairs of his thigh to soothe the injuries you were beginning to feel remorseful for inflicting. 

His hand gently stroking your cheek, garnering your attention, letting you tiredly peer up at his rosy state of pink cheeks and glistening skin. “You okay, princess? Too much? I shouldn’t have gone so rough, I’m sorry, baby. Fuck, just lost myself, you felt so good.” 

“It’s okay.” Your saccharine voice assured him. “You’re my boyfriend, you can do anything to me.”

Eddie Munson lovingly smiled at you, as he caressed your hot face. “As long as you want it. Only. Okay?” You nodded with confirmation, and you gazed up at your boyfriend with endearing eyes that had him bubbling with devotion to you. “Such a good girl, did you cum?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I promised to make you feel extra good, didn’t I, baby?” He smirked. “C’mere.” His strength guided you onto your bed, laying you against your cloud-like pillows, before reaching down to grab a hold of your bunny. Soiled with your cum, Eddie’s menacing grin cracked through his face, as he lightly pressed a finger into the wet fur. Your tummy stirred watching his tongue delve into the drenchness, and humming with delight. “Fuck, your pussy taste so good.” He groaned, discarding your stuffy to climb between your thighs.

Steady on his knees over you, he peeled off his ragged shirt, exposing his ivory skin of sharp bumps and squishy softness, ornamented with scary images of permanent ink your parents would surely scowl at if they ever saw. You beamed at him. “You’re so pretty, Eddie.”

His teeth stabbed into his lips, as he teasingly smiled with giddiness. “Thank you, darling. Never as pretty as you, though.”

While wanting the intimacy, you couldn’t help the surge of anxious nerves that brought an onslaught against you, as Eddie began trying to liven his cock with small strokes while eyeing your glistening pussy. “W-Wait, um…” His brows jumped into his bangs, as he awaited your concerns. “No.” You swallowed thickly. “Eddie, I’m not ready for… that.”

He could be Harrison Moran. He could break up with you. He could scoff at your prudeness. But Eddie Munson was simply a perverted man who devoted his longing into the beautiful girl that graced the halls of Hawkins High. He wasn’t Harrison Moran. And you learned that as Eddie stayed silent, merely leaning down to place an electrifying kiss to your lips, pouring out all his adoration for the girl that captivated his dreams every night for the past two years. 

“I still wanna keep my word, sweetheart.” He murmured into your kiss. “Can I do something else?”

You meekly looked into his darkwood eyes. “Will it hurt?”

“Not at all, princess.” He eased the scrunch of your worriment brows with a peck to your forehead. “I’d never hurt you.” 

With the nod of your head and the words of your mouth, Eddie had your corroboration to do as he please, and his mouth had traveled down the junction of your neck, sucking small love bruises to the column length; to the valley of your breasts, where his lips unclosed your hardened nipples with gentle suckles; and the softness of your bell, decorating your stomach with appreciative kisses that made you feel beautiful to the touch; before his breath became hot over your needy cunt. Sugary kisses of mawkish desire met the plushness of your inner thighs, inching to your swollen pussy lips, irritated and slick from the rawness of rubbing against your bunny. 

His long tongue dragged its way to part your cunt, leaving your breath to hitch at the newfound contact of his wet muscle ravishing you. If this is anything close to what he felt when your mouth was on him, surely you could forgive him for the bruised throat you’d have to aid in the following morning. Eddie became brutally gluttonous at the tangy arousal he slurped from your pulsating hole. So small and unused, he’d have a fucking field day when the moment would come he could drill his cock into you virgin pussy.  

The tip of tongue burned against your abused clit, agonizingly teasing swirls around the nub just to flick it with fervency, and have you crawling away from the unbearable overstimulation. “E-Eddie!” You stumbled for air. Your foot had planted itself against his hot forehead at an brutish attempt to push his determined mouth away, but Eddie Munson triumphed you in the realms of physical strength, and his arm had pried you open, before securing themselves to ground your squirming thighs. 

Latched like a leech, Eddie was becoming feverish from the deliriums of being pussy drunk. Sucking onto your clit, his head shook to abuse you, forcing the muscles in your legs to tighten with trembles. Your scent had engulfed him, as his nose smushed against your clit to snake his tongue into the clenching walls of your velvet pussy. Incoherent words were tumbling into your pussy, entirely unheard from your wrenching moans. 

“So fucking good.” He gargled into your cunt, groaning into your pussy, and making out with your entrance. Heaven was a place on Earth, and it was you. 

“I-I can’t, Eddie! Too much!” Though, your actions had conflicted with your words, hands buried into his hair, shoving his face to be submerged between your thighs, as your hips gyrated against the dimensions of his pretty face. On the precipice of letting go, your back flew off the surface of your bed, shaky legs lovingly crushing his head, with a moan beyond hotter than the numerous porno films of corny lines and exaggerated screams Eddie consumed just to perfect his skills. “I’m c-cumming- aahh!”

Eddie slurped your remaining juices, tonguing your pussy in search for anymore of your delicious cum that he would relish in. Patting your throbbing clit with a cherishing kiss goodbye, Eddie climbed your limp body, with a mouth and chin laminated with your wetness. One he smashed into your mouth with a smearing kiss against your lips, giving you a taste of the tarte sweetness of your pussy. 

“You’re such a good boyfriend.” You breathily giggled against his mouth, leaving him chuckling at your inebriated-like state. “Best one I’ve had.”

“I’m the only one you’ve ever had.” He laughed, as he guided you to rest on the thumping beat of his full heart. 

“So?” You smiled. “Donna’s always complaining about Tucker, and you’re nothing like him. I could never complain about you.” You were making him melt into a puddle of mush, as your words erupted in his tummy. He smiled down, kissing your hairline, before nudging you to grab a hold of your lips to his. “Mm, you smell good.” You hummed with delight.

Eddie guffawed. “Princess, that’s your pussy on my face.” He bumped your scrunching nose with a tender finger. “I probably smell like sex, sweat, and cigarettes, sweetheart.”

“But it’s you. I like you, Eddie.” Your round eyes peered up at him, and he held your contact.

“Yeah?” He whispered. Insecurity was swirling within him. Surely you were just babbling from the orgasm gifted upon you from him. Eddie Munson was Eddie Munson. You were fucking you. His vulgar behavior and profligate mind was undeserving of a girlfriend like-

“I’ve liked you for a while.” You smiled with closed eyes. Relishing. The bombshell of the revelation had his bursting with cinching brows of astonishment. “Remember, two years ago, we had art class together?” Remember? It was the day Eddie Munson first laid his eyes on you, of course, he remembers! Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t s- “I saw you, and you were just so cute doodling in your sketchbook. These scary monsters, and stuff. But they were good. I always wanted to compliment you on it, but I never got the courage. Just stuck to having a crush on you.” You delicately giggled. 

Eddie Munson could have been fucking you for the past two years?!

You were quick to hum into a light slumber. Eddie was stupefied at the actual idiocy he was currently metaphorically forehead-slapping himself for. That was until your sudden jolt had him jumping with concern.

“Oh, my god! Eddie, we completely forgot to go over the promotion of democracy and isolationism coming into the late 1800s!” You heaved.

He cooed. “Oh, sweetheart…”

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 | @sierrahhh

[stickthisbig]

"But Sabine," I have been asked, and I genuinely have been asked this, this isn't just a rhetorical device, "you've studied so much about cults, you'd never join a cult, right?"

You are correct that I know an unreasonable amount about cults and cult psychology. That's why I need you to know this:

You are not immune to a cult.

First off, "cult" is a post hoc description, not a productive category. You don't register as a cult somewhere. Some people do start off to start a cult, I'm not gonna lie and say that's never happened, but if it says Join Our Cult on the flyer, it's probably an improv show or a LARP. You think you know what a cult looks like, but all the things you'd name would be negatives that you associate with things you don't like. There are loads of very devout Christian churches who believe things that you hate, and they're not cults. Other people disagree with me about this, but not all MLMs are cults; a pyramid scheme and a cult aren't the same thing (until they are). You find these people distasteful and you think they're harmful, so you associate malfeasance with them. If they're tacky and gross, must be a cult.

It also means that some of y'all literally wouldn't recognize a cult if you walked into one. When people are talking about getting great results through group living and you like what you see, they're just an organization with good ideas. Did you know I was taking a government management training in the year of our Dark Lord 2025 and it held up a Synanon youth center as one of its examples??? I felt like I was going fucking crazy, and the instructor clearly just didn't know he had anything to worry about.

A cult is never just some people you don't agree with. A cult is always about coercion and control, and it is insidious by its very nature. What's gonna happen when it's that cool barista who wants you to come to this meeting? What's gonna happen when it's just some nice ladies from your mom's church who want you to come and have tea? What's gonna happen when it's just a rabbit hole you fall down on the internet, but man, it sure makes a lot of sense, doesn't it?

Don't fucking convince yourself knowing what happened at Waco is gonna save your life. Learn some actual signs, which you should just be following so you're not a fucking chump in general:

Does everyone you meet understand you? It's fine to think you can see yourself among a group of people, but do they think the same thing immediately?

Do they want to introduce you to their leadership right now?

Do they want you to commit to a lot really quickly? Does it seem like they don't want you to leave the premises?

Do they have secrets about the world that you only really glimpse? Do they answer your questions about their faith/exciting business opportunity/social club in generalities when you're asking for specifics?

Are they asking for money? Are they giving you a lot of free materials? Does it seem like the materials aren't really free, but a ploy to ask for money?

Are these all the same steps not to get screwed at a car dealership? (Yes)

Are they offering psychiatric or addiction services but it sure doesn't seem like there's a doctor around here anywhere? Do they say they have a natural cure? (Still very bad at a car dealership)

In a real social organization that's just folks having a good time, at least one person isn't gonna like you, or they're gonna be cold, or they're gonna acknowledge you and move on. The vast majority of legit religions will just give you the tenets of their faith flat out and/or explain their worldview to you, and if they have hierarchies or advanced mysteries, most people who follow that religion can at least say something like "yeah idk you have to go to classes for that I think, those guys are a little weird but good for them".

Stop thinking that book learning and judgmental looks will save you when the question requires street smarts. You are not immune to cults for the exact same reason that you are not immune to propaganda. Your sense of security in your moral superiority is like delicious catnip to manipulative people in general and to cults in specific. You don't want to join a cult? You're better off just learning to doubt people's motives than reading yet another book about fucking Scientology. You already know what Scientology does. You probably won't have a huge problem avoiding that one.

Shit, if I avoid a cult, it'll almost certainly because I was so damn deep into the Southern Baptist church that it ruined my ability to experience faith in any meaningful way, not because I watch a lot of documentaries.

And we're not even gonna discuss the time I was forced to go to AA

(My favorite book about this is the graphic novel anthology American Cult, it will change your mind about everything you thought you knew about cults and their victims)

[thaleleah]

𝓖𝓸𝓭𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼 (𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓞𝓷𝓮)

Pairing: Billy The Kid x Fem!Nun!Reader

Warnings: ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Dark!Billy, Virgin!Reader, Oral (female receiving), Fingering, P in V, Corruption Kink, Creampie, Possessive Behavior, Masturbation, Wet Dreams/Sex Dreams, Seduction, Emotional Manipulation, Religion and Religious Beliefs, Explicit talk of gunshot wounds, blood, and the bullet's removal (kinda? Idk if it's explicit explicit, but its a little more than just mentioned), Mention of physical abuse/child abuse (not from Billy), Childhood Trauma, Mention of alcoholism, Moral/Religious conflict within one's self, My bad Spanish, Nun breaking her vows, Probably too quick of a healing process to be fucking someone but I'm not a doctor so 🤷🏻‍♀️, Using the word "drawers" instead of "panties" which is kinda cringe to me but I wanted to be somewhat accurate

Word Count: 9.6K

A/N: Billy's passed out for most of this but I hope y'all like it anyway. Please know I'm posting this and then running away. Okay, byeeeeeeeeee

Summary: When Billy stumbles into your clinic, hurt and in desperate need of care and refuge, you don't hesitate to help him. Perhaps this is God's will. Perhaps He has brought him into your life to help heal the parts of him that the cruelness of the world has soiled and broken. You are a healer by trade, both of the physical body and of faith. If this is to be God's mission for you, then it shall be done. How could you have possibly known that the young man who begged for help that fateful night would turn out to be the devil himself?

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Translations:

Por Dios - Oh my God

Que Dios te bendiga - May God bless you

Qué sorpresa! - What a surprise!

Y él no quería que su mamá lo supiera. Así enterró la carne en el jardín - And he didn't want his mom to know. So he buried the meat in the garden

Pero el perro la desenterró y ella se descubrió de todos modos. Tuvo que lavar platos él solo por dos meses - But the dog dug it up and she found out anyway. He had to wash the dishes by himself for two months

Ese niño - That kid/child

Parece que era un buen amigo - Seems like he was a good friend

Sí, él era - Yes, he was

De nada - You're welcome

Gracias, Hermana - Thanks, Sister

They say the devil can take on many forms.

He is a demon figure - with the face of a goat, horns, hooves, and a blade pointed tail.

He is a great dragon - large and terrifying, destructive and formidable in the power he holds.

He is a roaring lion - hungry and fierce as he stalks God’s children, waiting for them to fall into his trap before he attacks them like prey.

But the devil was once God’s favorite angel, amazingly beautiful and wise. The angel of light, God’s morning star - a traitor now, a trickster . . . evil.

The Lord teaches love for all, compassion and understanding despite another’s upbringing or current situation. All humans are God’s children, all made in His perfect image, brothers and sisters in unity under His loving and eternal care. You are thankful to know this, grateful that you can feel His presence coursing through your veins despite the horror that you’ve come to face daily while working at the clinic. His gift to you is your endless drive to help those in need, sitting by the bedsides of the sick and dying, applying a cool rag to their sweaty foreheads, or spoon feeding them soup to give them strength when they are too weak to do it themselves. 

It is a taxing life, and the sorrow you feel when you cannot nurse someone back to health is ever present in your heart, but the Lord is clear in your life’s mission and you will be forever thankful for the lessons you learn in this lifetime. 

He has made you a healer, using you as a vessel for His healing touch for all you come across - regardless of wealth, status, religious affiliation, or criminal record. 

Which is why when he stumbles into the clinic during the late hours of the night, face pale and hand pressing hard to his side where blood is streaming through his fingers despite the pressure, you don’t hesitate to help him. 

You think you should have - should have let him bleed to death on the clinic floor. Would God have abandoned you if you had?

“Sister Maria!” You cry instead, running to the injured man and looping his arm around your shoulders to help him lean against you. “We need fresh towels and water! And sutures! Hurry!”

Sister Maria runs in the room, bedsheets still cradled in her arms from where she had been turning over a recently discharged patient’s room. She gasps at the scene, dropping the linens on the floor as she rushes to the main utility closet. You guide the man to a bed, helping him drop onto the thin mattress with a tortured groan. One of your hands splays over his, helping to maintain pressure on the wound until Sister Maria can bring in the needed supplies. Your other hand lays gently on his sweaty forehead, thumb caressing the straight line of his nose trying to soothe him. 

His baby blue eyes stare up at you through their pained haze. 

“P-please, help,”

The devil can take on many forms and carry many names.

And yet, despite all you’ve heard about who he is and what he’s done, you never once considered Billy the Kid to be one of them. 

Misguided and uncared for - sure, but never evil. 

He’s so young. You can’t even imagine what horrors he must have had to go through to lead him to the path that he’s on now.

Perhaps it’s fate that you’ve been brought together, an opportunity for you to spread the healing power of your Lord’s love and mend not only his body but his bruised heart as well. You’ve seen too many times where hardships have hardened the minds and spirits of others, caging them off from God as they struggle with their wavering faith. 

“Don’t you worry,” You say. “The Lord is here with us. He will see you through.”

Whether he groans from your words or the pain, you’re not sure.

Sister Maria is quick to grab the supplies, dumping them on the side table. She dunks a clean cloth in the water, wringing out the excess, but pauses when she sees his face. 

“Is that— ” 

“Nevermind that!” You hiss, pulling the cloth from her hand. 

You lift his shirt, exposing the injury and the dirt dusted skin framing it. It looks horrible, blood seeping from the laceration in a steady flow and a part of you is thankful that the sight of blood doesn’t make you immediately drop to the floor like your cousin, Paul. He gasps when you touch the cloth to the wound, blood immediately seeping into the white of the cloth and marring the pure color. 

His fingers dig into the fabric of his trousers, gripping it tight as he clenches his teeth against the pain. Your free hand rubs lightly against his forehead, trying to soothe him as best you can while you clean the wound. 

You think it must be God’s mercy that he passes out before you can pull the bullet out. The pain of the forceps digging into his body as you pulled out the thick ball of lead and the shock that would have come with it would have surely dragged him under had blood loss not gotten to him first. It’s better this way - he’s safer cradled in sleep’s loving hold rather than crying and jerking about as you try to save his life. 

Sister Maria holds a small bowl out in front of you with one hand while the other delicately holds his wrist, feeling his pulse between her dainty fingers.

The bullet comes out easy, your forceps finding the lead and guiding it out of the wound’s entrance with ease. It clanks as you drop it into the tiny bowl, and you send up prayers of thanks for allowing such a quick and simple removal. The grace of your Lord has certainly just saved this man’s life.

With quick fingers, you stitch him up, practiced movements securing the wound shut before covering it with a generous dressing of cloth to keep it clean from any dirt and debris. 

His sleep isn’t restful, the pinch in his brow and the way his cheeks twitch in the flickering candlelight of the small room make that clear. Your own brows pinch as you reach a hand out to trace the furrowed skin, smoothing it out with a gentle thumb. You don’t like seeing people suffer, but it’s more often than not that the people you come into contact with while working in the clinic are in pain, or suffering, or at Heaven’s doorstep. You help who you can and pray for the souls of the ones you can’t so they may be guided to God’s kingdom where they can live in an eternal paradise by His side. It always hurts when you can’t heal someone, the feeling of failure is a stark reminder that ultimately it is the Lord who chooses to give us life, and he can choose to take it away just as quickly. 

It feels different this time though, somehow more personal in a way you can’t understand. The young man before you still has his whole life ahead of him, still so much to do and so many lives to touch. The sins that he’s committed thus far can be forgiven, if only he lifts them up to Him and asks for forgiveness. You can feel it, deep in your bones, that you need to save this man. You can’t fail. 

He’s alive, for now. And you can only do your best to make sure he stays that way. 

“He cannot stay here,” Sister Maria says quietly, gathering the red stained water and rags. “They will find him.”

You nod, gathering the small bowl with the bullet remnant and the sutures kit. “We’ll keep him here tonight and move him to the back room in the morning after he’s rested a while,”

“No,” Sister Maria says. “He cannot stay here. Helping an outlaw is punishable by death. They will hang us,”

“God will not abandon us,” You say, firmly. “We are all His children, servants and outlaw alike. He wouldn’t want us to toss him out on the street to die.”

You look over your shoulder towards the sleeping man again. His brow is furrowed again, the sweat on his face glistening in the light. You sigh before turning back to Sister Maria. “Don’t worry, Sister. I’ll think of something,”

The pacifying words seem to offer Sister Maria no comfort, and her worried eyes snap upwards as she looks towards the ceiling, voice cracking as she breathes a pleading, “Por Dios,” up towards the roof. 

The room is silent to her plea.

You don’t leave Billy’s side the entire night, sitting in the chair directly next to the bed, dabbing at his heated face and neck with a damp washcloth and changing his bandage when the first one had soiled through. He wakes a few times during the night, icy blue eyes fluttering open and locking on yours for the briefest second before slipping closed once again, a quiet sigh escaping through his slightly parted lips. 

This is the hardest part - the waiting. Waiting to see if your hard work to heal someone was enough. You keep a close eye on him, looking for signs of pain or illness, keeping an eye on the injury site to try and prevent infection. You flushed it with alcohol during the dressing change, having found an extra bottle hiding in the supply closet while grabbing some fresh cloths. Supplies like alcohol for disinfecting, while needlessly abundant in saloons and brothels, are difficult to acquire for the clinic. You think it's foolish, wasting something that can be used for healing purposes on something as pointless as getting drunk. Your father had been a drunk, drinking away his cares and woes, his only goal was to make it to the bottom of a bottle. 

You wish you would have found it sooner so you could have actually disinfected the entire wound instead of just the outside and stitches, but this is better than nothing, you suppose. The smell as you pour it over his wound makes your stomach turn, reminding you of all the times your father came home reeking of the stuff, belly full of poison and his mind, hazed with drink, still evil enough to find your mother and make her suffer as if she were the reason he deemed himself a failure in life. Billy lets out a pained moan in his sleep, body subconsciously tensing in pain as the alcohol flushes the stitched up skin, but thankfully he doesn’t wake. You don’t want him to be in pain, but there’s a part of you that selfishly thinks he’s sharing your own pain, the memory of your childhood trauma somehow seeping into his brain as you recover his wound. 

You know it’s not true, but you’re thankful he’s there with you anyway. 

When morning arrives, you’re beyond exhausted. 

The night shift always takes more out of you than the day shift and your eyes have been threatening to close since the first rays of the sun started spreading across the dust covered floor of the clinic. 

Sister Ann and Sister Catherine arrive before the sun does, the first rays of it only starting to spill over the New Mexico horizon line when their footsteps echo through the entryway. You lean forward in your seat at the sound of them, glancing over at Billy’s still sleeping frame as Sister Ann’s gentle humming of a nursery song her mother used to sing to her spreads throughout the clinic. Quick footsteps cut through the song, the humming stopping entirely as frantic whispers sound from the entryway. And then three sets of running feet are getting closer to the corner room. 

“Oh, good heavens,” Sister Catherine breathes, eyes locked on the special patient taking up the small bed. 

Sister Ann has a dainty hand clasped against her mouth in shock and Sister Maria nervously wrings her own together from behind them. 

“He was hurt,” You say, immediately defensive of the injured man. “We couldn’t leave him to die. The Lord says–”

“You don’t need to preach to us, Sister y/n,” Sister Catherine interrupts. “It’s the right thing to do. The Lord is on our side.” She’s confident in her words, and it gives you comfort you didn’t know you needed to have your beliefs validated. But she pauses, eyes flickering once again to Billy before they meet yours - the fear in her brown orbs clear as day. “The law, on the other hand, will not be.” 

“We need to move him,” You say.

“To where?” Sister Ann whispers frantically. “The sheriff and his deputies are sure to show up here. They know he’s been shot, it’s only a matter of time.”

“It is a blessing they have not come already,” Sister Maria adds.

They’re right. With Billy injured, they have to know he couldn’t have gotten far. Their only saving grace is that the Sheriff more than likely would have never believed Billy would have come to the clinic for medical attention if on the run from the law. Perhaps holed up in some abandoned alley, bleeding out while propped up against a wall. Or maybe they think he tried riding out of town, desperate to get as far away from the people hunting him as possible before inevitably succumbing to his injuries and falling off his horse in a nearby field. 

You rise from the chair, leaning over the bed slightly to rest a gentle hand on Billy’s forehead. It’s still clammy against your palm and he shivers slightly in his sleep, subconsciously pressing his head a little harder against your hand looking for comfort in his pained state. He needs to get away from here, away from any prying eyes because if he’s found, his life on this Earth is over. He is in no position to run or fight for his life. The road to recovery for him is a long one if he hopes to heal well enough to regain his strength and usual mobility. The only thing he will have to look forward to if discovered before he can is a necklace of rope and a quick fall. 

“Help me get him to the back room,” You say, sternly. In moments of uncertainty and panic, someone needs to be the guiding light. Your fellow Sisters are still as stones in their spots, all in various states of distress as they look at the man who, if discovered under their care, could very well be the catalyst that marks the end of their missions here on Earth. The Lord brought Billy to you - you need to protect him. “He can stay in the alcove until we can figure out where to take him.”

“He cannot stay in the clinic!” Sister Maria exclaims. “They will surely check every room searching for him!”

“Trust me,” You soothe. “Please, Sister. We need to move him before they come or we will all surely pay the price.”

There is a short pause, but to your frantic brain it feels like an eternity before Sister Catherine nods and gently nudges Sister Ann to the opposite side of the bed. 

“Let’s hurry,” She says, reaching to pull away the thin blanket you threw over Billy’s shaking frame at some point during the night. “I fear we don’t have much time left.”

Together, the four of you lift Billy from the bed. It’s a struggle. Even for multiple women to carry a fully grown man, it's a task and a half just to get him from the small patient room to the back area of the clinic. He whines in his sleep, his wound jostling and stitches pulling from the regretfully poor stability you have on his body as you carry him. But, somehow, he doesn’t wake. 

The back room is small, but comparatively large compared to the patient’s rooms. The entire width is the size of two patient rooms combined, but that’s not giving it much grace. It makes you sick sometimes, to see people with money spending it on lavish items, large houses and grand parties just to show off their wealth when there are people in need all around whose lives would change if they only had a fraction of the wealth the ones in good standing do. As it is, the back room of the clinic is despairingly bare - limited backstock of supplies, linens, and food are scattered among the wooden shelves lining the room. If only those wealthy men who think to only fill their pockets would hear the Lord’s call to give to the needy instead. It would make your heart happy to see these shelves filled just once. 

There’s a small alcove in the back of the room that you and the other Sisters use when times prove most trying. On the days when things are difficult, emotions are too much for you to handle alone or a patient isn’t doing well and there’s nothing you can do other than wait and pray for their recovery, you visit the alcove. It's been adorned with simple yet revenant items, a small yet beautiful cross nailed to the center of the wall, a small ceramic dish holding a wooden beaded rosary placed on the floor below it, resting on a pleasantly fluffed up pillow - ready to help guide their prayer. 

Resting against the side wall of the alcove is a folded up cot. It’s not uncommon that one of the Sisters might have to sleep at the clinic during their off shift. More often than not, they are able to return to their lodgings to sleep and reenergize for their next shift. But there are times when too many people are injured, too many of the townspeople have fallen ill to whatever flu or illness that’s crossing through the town and all hands are needed here. The foldable cot is their home away from home, and while it might not be the most comfortable, you are thankful the Lord was able to provide it lest you be made to sleep on the floor behind the extra blankets neatly folded on the shelves. 

You all adjust your grips on the young man allowing for Sister Maria to release her hold and pull back the thick blanket shielding the entrance to the alcove. You grunt under the presence of the additional weight, the awkward grip you all have on him unhelpful in the way his limp body bears down on you all. Sister Maria is quick in tying back the privacy blanket so that it stays to one side, and works to wrangle open the finicky cot. Once it’s unrolled, you help in depositing Billy down onto the makeshift bed, quickly checking his wound to make sure no stitches accidentally ripped in the journey back here before turning to accept the fresh blanket Sister Ann hands you from the shelf. 

Billy’s brow is furrowed again, breathing a little harsher probably from the pain of being jostled. You lay out the blanket over top of him and pull it up to his chin, your hand reaching out to smooth the wrinkled skin between his eyes again. 

“What do we do now?” Sister Ann asks, and Sister Catherine pulls her hand away from where it was plucking nervously at the skin at the sides of her fingers.

“We wait,” She responds, cradling Sister Ann’s damaged hand delicately between her own. “We won’t be able to move him out of the clinic before the Sheriff arrives. We’ll have to keep him hidden here until then and pray they don’t find him.”

The thought of the Sheriff and his men finding Billy here makes your stomach churn. The undeniable fate that waits for you if he’s discovered is one that you’re willing to sacrifice. He’s come here for help, God has brought him here to you for your healing and protection and you can’t fail Him just because your humanity makes you fearful of your end. It’s supposed to be a beautiful thing - death. The moment when your soul on this Earth fulfills its mission here and your granted eternal life at the side of God in the Kingdom of Heaven. It’s what you’ve wanted your whole life, a life of peace and serenity that seems so out of reach here on the soil. Fear will not keep you from looking forward to it. But you’re not done here yet, you have many years left of helping others and spreading His love to those in need. This is not your end. But if it is, it’s worth the sacrifice to try to save Billy. 

You’ll hang with him, if need be. 

Your fellow Sisters though . . . the thought of them hanging for your own choice, regardless of if you think it was the right thing to do, makes you sick. Your decisions are your own, and they shouldn’t suffer for your choices. 

Billy’s forehead unwrinkles under your gentle fingers, and you can feel your heart break as you look down at him. He’s so young still, a young man just at the beginning of his life. He has so many fine years ahead of him. He’s handsome, fit and strong - he would make a fine husband for some lucky lady, a dutiful father for his children. He’s not as evil as they say. You’ve learned to trust your instincts when it comes to people. Sometimes the most misunderstood people are the kindest, and you can’t help but think Billy is the most misunderstood of all. You can’t sense a single whisper of badness in him. 

You stand up and pull the privacy blanket back in front of the alcove, hiding Billy from sight in the safety of God’s makeshift altar. Together, you and the other Sisters make your way out of the back room. A few rooms down a sickly man is coughing up a storm, and from how hard and continuous his coughs are, you know his throat is raw. Sister Ann shoots the rest of you a worried look, but turns to grab a water carafe off of a side table before rushing down the hall towards the coughing man and away from the current situation. 

“You can head back, Sister Maria,” You say, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “Get some rest. It’s going to be a long day and we’re going to need you for the night shift.”

You can tell she’s torn, both wanting to stay and help in any way she can but seeming to know that there’s nothing she can do. All there is to do is wait. After a few moments, she nods, her own hand coming up to rest on top of yours. “Que Dios te bendiga,”

You watch as she makes her way towards the front, pushing open the wooden door before jerking to a halt. “Sheriff Garrett! Qué sorpresa!”

Her words sent a spark of panic through you. It��s so soon! You knew it was coming, but it’s still so incredibly soon. You had hoped for at least a while longer to try to gather your thoughts and think of a plan of where you can take Billy, but it feels like time moves slowly as the Sheriff and two of his deputies step into the clinic.

“Sister,” Garrett responds, respectfully tipping his hat. 

Even through your panic, you still feel a twinge of irritation. A gentleman would take off his hat, but you suppose it’s better than the two men standing behind him who do nothing but trail their eyes around the clinic's entrance suspiciously (and with a clear bout of judgment).

You know for a fact these men with gold lined pockets have never given so much as a dime to the clinic. 

Sister Maria turns back to look at you and Sister Catherine, desperation clear in her eyes and you're glad that none of the men are looking at her anymore or you think her obvious distress might have given you all away.

“Have a good rest, Sister,” You say, urging Sister Maria away. Thankfully, she listens, nodding to you and then Garrett before scurrying out the door. 

“How can we help you, Sheriff?” Sister Catherine asks. 

Garrett takes a few leisurely steps along the entryway, observing the interior of the clinic with the aura of a man who thinks he can see everything. You suspect he sees nothing at all. 

“I apologize for the interruption, Sisters. I know you’re hard at work," He says. “But we’re looking for an outlaw on the run.” He pauses, looking over at the two of you with pointed eyes. At your silence, he continues. “William H. Bonney, otherwise known as Billy the Kid,”

“Oh, dear,” Sister Catherine gasps. 

You feign concern also, bringing your fingers to your mouth as a sign of shock. Garrett nods in agreement at your supposed horror. 

“As you no doubt know he is a very dangerous, very unlawful, man,”

“So we’ve heard,” Sister Catherine says, nodding solemnly. “Is that what brings you in today?”

“Yes,” He says. “There was an altercation last night between him and I. I was able to shoot him so he is very hurt, but he got away before I could arrest him or finish the job.”

“Kinda stupid to come to a clinic when you’re a wanted outlaw, Pat,” One of the men behind Garrett grumbles. “We’re wasting our time here.”

You can’t help but agree, despite that being exactly what Billy did. But maybe that’s what makes it smart. You're hopeful that Garrett will listen to his friend, will assume that Billy couldn’t possibly be here and leave the clinic without investigating it. 

The small spark of hope dies as Garrett laughs without mirth. “The Kid’s not stupid. But we’re covering all our bases,” 

“Helloooooo,” A voice calls from another room opposite the patient still occasionally coughing up a lung. “Can someone please pay attention to the sick people around here? Hellooooooooooo?”

Sister Catherine smiles tightly. “Mr. Taylor,” She says by way of explanation. “A rather problematic patient here. He’s a good man, just impatient.”

Sister Ann’s voice can still be heard attempting to soothe her own charge, so Sister Catherine has no choice but to tend to Mr. Taylor. When she disappears from sight, you turn back to Garrett, trying your best to deter suspicion. 

“I can assure you, Sheriff, that we haven’t seen any sign of Mr. Bonney around here,” The lie leaves your lips far too easily for it to feel like the sin that it is.

Garrett nods, and you can tell he believes you, but puts his hands on his hips all the same, one hand pushing aside his coat to rest freely on the hilt of his gun. “Mind if we have a look around?”  

You force a smile on your face. “Not at all. As long as you don’t bother any of the patients. They need their rest,”

“Certainly,”

You lead him around the clinic allowing him and the deputies to search the rooms for their missing outlaw. When they get to Billy’s old room, the room they just vacated not minutes before the Sheriff arrived, you tell them that a patient was recently discharged and that you hadn’t had the time to turn over the room yet. 

“Why is there blood on ‘em?” One of the deputies asks, nodding to the blood stains still covering the stark white of the sheets. 

“A cooking accident,” You reply. “An incorrect knife hold can sometimes do that,”

Another lie. You feel this one a little more than the first. 

Eventually their search comes to the back room. You can’t keep them out, that would be too suspicious, so you allow them to walk through the half filled shelves. It's more than clear that there’s no place to hide anyone here other than the alcove and you're naively hoping they won’t even realize it’s there. 

It’s a large blanket hanging on the wall. Of course, they’re going to notice it. 

And, sure enough, one of the deputy’s eyes cut to the blanket. He heads towards it with a gruff “What’s behind here?” but you intercept him, rushing over to stand between him and the alcove.

The Sheriff and his deputies have their eyes on you now, each one closing in closer to you and the alcove, much too close for comfort.

“Sister,” Garrett says, voice stern with authority. “What’s behind the blanket?”

“It’s our place of prayer here,” You say, voice calm despite your nervousness. “Our altar.” You can’t mess up now. If you show any sign that you’re being untruthful, both you and Billy as well as your fellow Sisters out front will be on a one way trip to the courthouse. You’ll all die hanging from its top banister. “When healing doesn’t seem to be enough, it helps to have a place dedicated to God to call upon his everlasting power to perform miracles.”

Garrett nods. “Mind if we take a look?”

“Yes, actually. I do,” Your quick denial clearly catches him off guard, his eyebrows raising towards his hat. “Just as God bids us to modesty with our clothing, we must also show privacy and modesty in our places of worship. They’re sacred spaces. Surely you understand that, Sheriff,” 

The words feel like poison on your tongue. Using worship and prayer to cover up a lie is the catalyst that makes bile feel like it's rising in your throat. It’s not a lie, you have to remind yourself. It is a makeshift altar, you do use it as a place of worship and prayer. Just . . . not right at this moment. 

The reality of the situation is catching up with you, and you hide your slightly shaking hands by folding them together in front of you. You haven’t lied in years. You lied a lot as a child, a necessity of living with a father who’s anger could strike at a moment’s notice. You resented having to do it back then, forced to sin for the sake of trying to keep peace in the home. It’s much like the situation you find yourself in now, having to lie to try and protect another person. To protect yourself. 

When you found refuge at the convent all those years ago, you were told you would never have to be untruthful ever again.

“God is granting you freedom from your woes,” You were told, and you remember how light those words had made you feel. “Thank him for His good graces with your undying loyalty and strive to always be who He guides you to be.”

You hadn’t lied since, no matter how tough things seemed. Sickly patients lying on their deathbed, scared and begging you for any kind of reassurance that it wasn’t the end for them. You wouldn’t give them false hope. Instead, you would tell them to turn their worries to the Lord, clasping their hands in yours and praying with them.

“Your soul is strong, bright and ever-present,” You would tell them. Sometimes you would let them hold your rosary so they can find comfort in it. “The body is a temple, and we do our best in our life to care for it. You’ve done that. If it weakens now, it is because God is calling your soul back to Him.”

The guilt is clawing at your chest, but you force it back as best as you can as you meet Garrett’s eyes. “I ask that you don’t force us to desecrate that,” 

Garrett just stares at you, an unreadable expression on his face. One deputy just looks between you and Garrett, uncertain with how to proceed in the face of defying authority, and the other deputy that sneered at the thought of Billy even coming to the clinic scoffs at your words. 

“Listen, lady, the law–”

“John, enough,” Garrett interrupts, voice shockingly hard as his eyes cut to his deputy. “She’s a Sister and you’ll show her respect.”

You feel a quick spark of satisfaction at the way the deputy’s confident, power hungry facade dies under the Sheriff's ridicule. He mumbles a quick apology to which you accept with a nod despite how insincere it sounds. 

Garrett nods his head towards the door, silently gesturing for the other two to head towards the exit before he tips his hat at you directly, thanking you for your time and apologizing for any inconvenience their visit may have caused. 

You want to tell him it was no inconvenience at all, but you’ve already sinned enough today and you can’t bear the thought of intentionally adding to the tally without justified need. Instead you settle on curving your lips into a convincing smile, thanking the men in return for their brevity and understanding and wishing them a good rest of their day as you usher them out of the back room and towards the front entrance.

Every single muscle in your body relaxes once they are completely out of the clinic, relief washing over you as you whisper out a quick prayer of thanks to God for allowing everyone to get out of the overwhelmingly dangerous situation unscathed - at least for now. 

Sister Ann and Sister Catherine peek out of their respective rooms when they hear the front door swing shut, their wide eyes mimicking the relief you know is shown in your own. 

“I can’t believe they didn’t find him,” Sister Ann admits, and it pains your heart to see tears begin to well up in her eyes. “I thought this was truly the end for all of us.” 

You have her in your arms in an instant, cradling her small frame against your chest as she begins to cry in earnest. For as scary as it’s been for you so far, you can’t imagine what she’s been going through. Sister Ann and Sister Catherine have only known about Billy for less than no time at all. And yet, despite the short period of time between finding out about Billy, getting him into the alcove, and the entrance and departure of the Sheriff - you’re sure it probably felt like an eternity to her. 

“Hush now, Sister,” You whisper, running a soothing hand along her back. “You’re safe, I promise.”

Sister Catherine places one of her hands on Sister Ann’s back as well, but she’s looking at you when she speaks. “He still can’t stay here,”

You know that. You know. You got lucky that the Sheriff didn’t find Billy this time, but who's to say that he won’t come back when he’s unable to find his missing outlaw anywhere else? Covering all his bases, that’s what he said. He’ll come back again when he sees that his other ‘bases’ have turned up nothing but dead ends. 

Your older brother, Joe, has a cabin just outside of town. It’s a hidden place, specifically built for peace. No visitors. He lives alone, no wife or children to keep him company and he prefers it that way. 

“If I’m alone, I can’t turn into him,” 

You're positive he wouldn’t. Your brother is far from being anything like your father, but the task of trying to prove that to him seems to be out of your skillset. He tells you he’s happy with his life, that he’s chosen the path he feels he needs to be on just as you have. Who are you to pass judgment?

Joe likes the solitude, that much is certain. But he also has an adventurous spirit which guides him on lengthy trips from town to town, exploring all the world has to offer while never having to be tied to one place. He’s away now according to the last letter he sent you, planning to stay in Chihuahua, Mexico for a while and that he’s not sure yet when he’s going to be back. 

“It’s dangerous,” Sister Catherine pushes, taking your silence as reluctance.

“I know,” You say. “I know. I think . . . I think I have an idea.”

The cabin will be empty. Joe isn’t due back for the immediate future, and even if he does return earlier than you suspect he will, you and Billy won’t be in danger. Joe can be trusted. He’ll help you, if need be. You can’t imagine that the Sheriff would ever know about it. It’s secluded - far off of any of the usual paths. It’s safe there. The perfect place to hide the wanted outlaw for a while. He can rest there, heal up uninterrupted for a few weeks until he can safely move around on his own two feet again. 

Sister Catherine listens openly to the idea, but her face is pinched in displeasure. 

“We don’t have much of a choice,” She says, reluctantly. “It seems like the best place for him to disappear to until he’s healed.”

You can hear the underlying pause in her agreement loud and clear. “But?”

“The clinic cannot spare two of us. We would lose half of our staff and it is too much for one person to handle alone per shift,”

“I wouldn’t ask any of you to come with us,” You say. No, for as much as you believe God sent Billy into your life for a reason, this was your mission to bear. You’ve already put your fellow Sisters through enough.

“You want to go alone?” Sister Ann sniffles, raising her head up from your chest.

“You need to think about this,” Sister Catherine says, sternly. “You shouldn’t be alone with him. He is a child of God, yes. But he is also an outlaw and a man. Sometimes, one of those is worse than the other.”

They’re being protective. The more rational part of you is grateful for their concern, and you think that if the positions were switched and one of them were in your position instead, you would react the same way. But a part of you is bitter. They’ve heard the stories. You know exactly how cruel men can be and you know exactly what they’re capable of. It’s a risk you’re taking, but you feel called to take it anyway. Billy needs your help, and God would never put anything in your path that you can’t handle.

“The Lord will protect me,” Despite the truthfulness of your words, you can see how they do little to reassure them. Your next words are better. “The Lord will help me protect myself.”

Sister Ann looks at Sister Catherine, once again bringing her hands together to pick at the reddened skin at the edge of her nail. Sister Catherine sighs, and the back of her hand reaches up to tap her forehead as if feeling the temperature or wiping away sweat. 

“Alright,” She relents. “How do we get him to your brother’s cabin?”

“I don’t know,” You admit. “We need a wagon. Or a large wheelbarrow that we can put him in and attach it to a horse. I haven’t ridden a horse in a long time, but I’m sure I can manage.”

“Where are we supposed to get that?” Sister Ann’s tone borders on exasperated. 

As if answering your unspoken prayer, the door to the clinic opens once more, this time revealing a bright faced Samuel Anderson, carrying a crate full of fresh supplies. And behind him, lit up by the sunlight like a bright blessing, is his wagon.

Sam Anderson is the son of local store owner, Edward Anderson, the clinic's top provider for basic supplies that are not strictly medical. While medicine shipments and more specialty items are donated from suppliers farther away, and frankly much less frequent than necessary, Mr. Anderson and Sam never fail to come through with plenty of food for you to make soups and nutritious meals for your patients. On occasion, you even have enough to give away to the families who are stacked together in a small two bedroom on the edge of town. With eight children total between two families, you're honestly not sure how they manage - but you do your best to help when you can. 

Seeing Sam walk through the front door is like a beacon of light from Heaven is shining down on him. He’s smiling already, the crate of food handled carefully between his hands as he lets out a cheery, “Good morning, Sisters”. But as soon as he sees your faces, more specifically when he sees the tear tracks still visible on Sister Ann’s cheeks, he’s placing down the crate and across the clinic’s entrance in a second. 

“What’s going on?” He asks. His hands automatically reach out towards Sister Ann’s face as if to cup it, but he stops himself. Instead he just looks at her worriedly, his concerned gaze leaving her face for only a moment to glance at you and Sister Catherine before they’re back on her, voice low and gentle. “What’s wrong?” 

It’s no secret that Sam harbors some romantic feelings towards Sister Ann. There are days when you feel sorry for him - a young man, good and kind and generous, who you have no doubt would make a fine husband to any lucky woman is in love with one of the four women in the entire county who are incapable of returning his affection. But it’s moments like this when it’s easy to see God’s presence in other people. Sam is as respectful and kind as they come. He accepts his feelings can never be reciprocated and in turn uses his undying love and loyalty to Sister Ann by helping you all at the clinic with anything he can. 

Somehow, he doesn’t expect anything in return, never stares at Sister Ann with an ounce of lust in his eyes, and it warms your heart to see the godly quality that’s usually so absent in men so prevalent in him. 

“Something’s happened,” Sister Ann tells him, her voice still wobbly with emotion. 

“What?”

“Sam,” You say, calling his attention back to you. “I know I have no place to ask this and I won’t fault you if you decline, but– I’m asking.”

“Tell me,” He insists, pulling his hat from his head and holding it to his chest, and God bless how the sincerity in his voice bleeds into his words. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” 

So you tell him everything. Sam listens with wide eyes, shooting panicked glances at Sister Catherine and Sister Ann when you tell him about the Sheriff’s visit, and he’s genuinely sorrowful when your voice gets caught in your throat as you tell him that you had to tell some lies to get him to leave without discovering Billy. He’s nodding already when you mention your brother’s cabin.

“I’ll take you there,” He offers before you can even ask the question. “My wagon is always at your disposal.”

“It’s dangerous. If we’re caught, you would hang with us,” 

Sam lets out a breath, unconsciously glancing over at Sister Ann again. “If the four most wonderful and religiously minded people in town hang for trying to do the right thing, then this isn’t a town or even a world that I want to live in anymore. Please let me take you. It would be my honor,”

A small smile graces your lips as you reach out and gently cup his cheek in thanks. For as many men pull and grind on your nerves with their endless greed and manipulation tactics, Sam is a breath of fresh air - a truly God-fearing man with a good heart.

He’s another person that you’re putting at risk, another life in danger because of the choice you’ve made. You try not to think yourself too selfish. Surely the fact that Billy has turned up in your life is God’s plan, and He does not put obstacles in your way that you cannot overcome. 

He tells you that he’ll come back tomorrow. He has a delivery that’s expected in a town over and if he’s going to make it there and back before nightfall, he needs to leave before the sun comes up. 

“I’ll stop here first,” He says. “We can load him into the back of the wagon while most people are sleeping and make the trip to your brother’s before I head on my way.”

“Thank you, Sam. Honestly,”

“My pleasure,” He nods his head at you, replacing his hat and tipping it kindly towards Sister Catherine and Sister Ann. “Until tomorrow, Sisters,”

The door swings shut behind him as he leaves and you let out a deep breath, hands smoothing over the dark veil covering your head just to feel a bit more grounded before you pick up the crate of food Sam brought. Billy needs to eat something. You're not quite sure how long it's been since his last meal, but even if he ate a minute before bursting through the clinic’s doors in the early morning, he would surely still be hungry and in need of sustenance by now. His body is weak and it needs nourishment to heal. 

Billy’s still sleeping when you peek around the privacy blanket. His head is turned to the side and buried in his pillow as much as he can get it, mouth hanging open as he breathes. Your hand itches to reach out and touch him again, to smooth against his forehead or cup his cheek, maybe place your fingers under his chin to help close his mouth in hopes of him breathing through his nose instead so his mouth doesn’t dry out. 

You’re not sure where this desire is coming from. You’re as affectionate with your patients as any nurse should be - kind and supportive, offering comfort when needed, but not overly so that it can be considered inappropriate. You’re all brothers and sisters, children of God - yes. But there are still social norms that must be considered. 

It feels different with Billy for some reason. 

“I’m going to get you to safety,” You whisper. You’re unsure about if he can hear you in his sleep or not, but you feel the need to tell him anyway. “I promise.”

You fall asleep at some point during the night, slumped against the wall next to the alcove’s entrance. 

You don’t remember falling asleep. You remember feeling tired, exhausted by the stress of the day’s events, and how your eyelids were threatening to close permanently more and more with each blink. The soup you had made still sat out in the small kitchen, and you had wanted to stay close to Billy so that whenever he awoke, you would be there ready to help feed him.

Instead, you wake to the sound of Sister Maria giggling to your left and a low, unfamiliar but still soft voice speaking in Spanish to her.

“Y él no quería que su mamá lo supiera. Así enterró la carne en el jardín,” The voice lets out a small chuckle, the smile on his face evident in his tone despite you not being able to understand most of his words. “Pero el perro la desenterró y ella se descubrió de todos modos. Tuvo que lavar platos él solo por dos meses.”

“Ese niño,” Sister Maria laughs. “Parece que era un buen amigo.”

You can’t see his face, but you can hear how he loses the smile in his voice. “Sí, él era,”

Pushing yourself to your feet, you step over to where Sister Maria is kneeling in front of Billy’s cot. It’s only now you see the mostly finished bowl of soup in her hands. Billy’s sitting up slightly, back propped up against his pillows enough to allow him to sit up a bit straighter but not enough to pull too much on his stitches.

At seeing your movement, his eyes snap to your approaching frame, big blue orbs staring up at you and you can’t help the relief you feel at seeing them.

“You’re awake,” You breathe, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Thank the Lord,”

His lips twitch a bit in what looks like a suppressed smile. “Kinda sounds like I should be thankin' you,” He says, and you notice how prominent the shift in his accent is as he seamlessly switches from Spanish to English. “Sister Maria says that you’re the only reason I’m alive right now.”

You shake your head, humbly. “Oh, no. Sister Maria and I work together as a team. I couldn’t have done it without her aid,”

“You show no fear,” Sister Maria insists. “Where I hesitate, you show mercy and strength. It is because of you that we are all alive now.”

“See?” Billy says with a blinding grin, and you can’t help but notice how handsome he is while no longer at death’s door. “My angel,”

You feel your face heat up at the endearment. An angel. Surely the comparison shouldn’t fluster you like it does. You’ve thought of your fellow nuns as the embodiment of angels before, angelic beings put into human bodies by the grace of God to spread His word. You know that’s not exactly true, that you’re just using your belief of what God’s angels would be like and seeing those beings in your fellow Sisters just like Billy is doing with you now, but you’ve never once thought yourself to be comparable to such a holy being and the compliment makes you flush.

You run a hand across your face, feeling the warmth under your palm, and clear your throat. “Oh, well, thank you,”

Sister Maria stands, taking the nearly finished bowl of soup with her. “He has eaten plenty and I changed his covering as soon as he woke up. You will want to change it again when you get to the cabin.”

“That’s great. Thank you,”

“De nada. I’ll go check on the patients and keep an eye out for Sam,”

She nods to you and Billy before she turns to leave, a small smile pulling at her lips when Billy rasps out a soft, “Gracias, Hermana,”

When she’s gone, you take her place in front of Billy, kneeling at his side and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better thanks to you,” He responds, wide eyes trained on yours, a smirk playing at his lips as he continues. “Don’t feel much like I’m dyin’ anymore,”

A small laugh escapes you at his morbid joke. “Well, I’d say that’s a very good thing then,”

“Sister Maria said the Sheriff came lookin’ for me,” 

“He did,” You confirm. “The Lord kept us all safe though and has given us an opportunity to get you to safety.”

Billy’s eyebrow raises skeptically. “Sounds like it was more your doin' than the Lord’s,”

You try to not let the slight against God rattle you. You had sensed this was coming anyway. William H. Bonney a.k.a Billy the Kid is an outlaw afterall, and no outlaw becomes an outlaw while still maintaining a positive relationship with the Heavenly Father. He’s gone through many hardships no doubt, and has more than likely deemed his bad luck in life as God’s personal vendetta against him.

“The Lord speaks through all of us, if only we have an open heart to hear him.” You tell him.  “Fear can make His words harder to hear, and I’m thankful that He was able to guide my mind and heart enough through the fear for us to get to safety.”

“Hm,” Billy hums, and you can tell how much he doesn’t believe your words. He doesn’t argue though. “And where exactly is this safe place you’re gonna take me?”

“My brother has a cabin just outside of town. It’s well secluded and unknown to most. We’ll be safe there until you’re healed enough to go on your own.”

Billy’s eyes drop to your hand still resting on his shoulder, thick dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks before his bright blue eyes are locked on yours again. “You gonna be takin’ care of me, Sister?”

“Of course, I will,” You reply. “We shall see you well again, Billy. I promise.”

His own arm crosses his chest so his hand can rest on your own, his eyes wide and so earnest as he whispers a quiet, “Thank you,”

It’s only about an hour longer before Sam arrives. It’s still early morning, the sun still a ways away from coming up behind the horizon line, and town is silent. Sam pulls his wagon up to the back door of the backroom before coming around the front to help push it open from the inside. It’s been so long since it’s been opened. The door was once used for the scheduled delivery of goods for easy access to the storage area, but as years went on and the county and surrounding counties became overrun with greed and poverty, the shipments became less frequent. Now, anything needed just comes through the front door. It’s never too much anyway, so what’s a trip or two to the backroom while carrying a crate. 

Sam slams his body against the door a few times, the wood groaning in protest under his weight before it finally swings open. Billy watches from his place on the cot, his eyes threatening to close but forcing himself to stay awake. You want to tell him to sleep, he needs his rest to help him heal and recover, but you’re too busy checking your bag to make sure you haven't forgotten anything before tossing it in the back of the wagon. You need to leave before the townspeople start to wake up. If someone sees you, if just one person witnesses you smuggling away a wanted outlaw, then all of this would have been for nothing. 

“Sister y/n,” Sam calls, squatting at the head of the cot. He’s got his arms wrapped around Billy’s torso. “Come grab his legs. We’ll do our best not to jostle his wound,”

You come to a kneel at Billy’s legs, placing a comforting hand on his knee. “Do your best to relax, okay? If you tense, you might tear your stitches,”

Billy lets out a harsh breath through his nose, clearly nervous, but he nods anyway, brows furrowed in determination. 

Together you and Sam hoist him up. He gasps, groaning as his wound pulls but you can see how he’s trying to keep his stomach untensed. Getting him into the back of the wagon is not graceful, and you find yourself spewing endless apologies the whole time despite the relatively short journey. 

Sam’s laid out a bed of hay covered by two thick blankets throughout the entire bed of the wagon. Crates of food and other supplies take up half of the bed, but he’s managed to make it so Billy will have enough room to lay comfortably on his designated side. Billy sighs as he’s laid down on it, one of his legs bent at the knee and his palms pressing into the makeshift mattress as he cranes his neck up to look at you. You ball up a spare blanket, tucking it under his head before you push him back down with a gentle hand on his forehead.

“Rest now, Billy,” You tell him, crawling out backwards and helping Sam slide on the rectangular backing on the wagon to secure it shut. “We’ll be there when you wake up,”

His eyes stay locked on you as you circle the wagon towards the front. Sam helps you up onto the spring seat before jogging around the rear and hauling himself into the driver's seat. You smooth out your tunic, looking around the dark street for any suspicious or wandering eyes that might be peeking out from around buildings or through windows. You don’t see any, even as one of the horses whinnies when Sam urges them forward. The clinic is located towards the edge of town, so it only takes a few minutes of nervous eyes and your head on a swivel before the wagon is passing the final few buildings that mark the town’s end of population and you can relax.

You blow out a deep breath, meeting Sam’s equally relieved gaze as he snaps the reins and nudges the horses a little faster. You look over your shoulder to check on Billy and you’re expecting to see him sleeping, no doubt still exhausted from the trauma of taking a bullet. Instead, he’s looking at you, head twisting so he can see your elevated frame from his laid out position. His eyes seem to pierce into yours, so blue and intense as he watches you that it makes your breathing hitch in your throat. 

You’ve never seen eyes so beautiful before. Like endless pools of glistening water. Surely God must have taken much care when crafting them for him. 

You feel your skin prickle under his stare, body straightening in your seat. He doesn’t stop watching you.

“Sleep,” You tell him. “You’re safe, I promise.” And thankfully he listens, eyes trained on your face for just a moment more before closing his eyes. The tingling feeling in your body dissipates with the removed gaze. 

Your gaze turns around the front again, looking out to the vast stretch of land before you as you leave the civilization of town behind.

“Sam,” You start, looking for anything to pass the time and distract from whatever unusualness just happened between you and your charge. “How’s your mother?”

[greenerteacups]

would love to read a version of dune that's (a) from the fremen perspective (natch) but also (b) doesn't glorify the fremen as this noble victim civilization that gets taken in hand by iterative generations of colonial forces and religious brainwashing, but rather as its own civilization with complex plans for liberation that have ALSO been built up over thousands of years. like maybe you're several nations — a PLANET's worth — of tribalistic nomadic peoples, with significantly different cultures and traditions, who have over centuries and centuries finally aligned and coalesced into an alliance for military support, developed an intercontinental transport system (worms), acquired technology capable of fucking up galactic imperial siege weapons, AND you have the means to take down significant portions of the spice harvesting operation. BUT. you don't reveal to the colonists that you have it. because you only get one shot at this. once you lose the element of surprise, the empire is going to park its nukes in your front lawn and you're never gonna see liberation. so you have to take this thing in one go.

AND THEN suddenly the ruling colonial house of your planet gets deposed by one of its colonial rivals, and there's this skinny teenage warlord wandering around helplessly in the desert with his mom, and you take him in because (a) hey, you're not made of stone, you're not gonna just a kid bite it out there, but also (b) this kid is technically acknowledged as the "ruler" of your planet under imperial law, and he's incredibly politically valuable. and you've just not only saved his life, but effectively hold his only remaining family member as hostage. so THEN you give that family, his mother, a corruptive psychedelic that permanently rewires her by implanting psychological imprints of centuries of your religious figures into her mind, which like — I mean, she's technically a hivemind for your religion now? and that's his mom. and then he falls in love with someone from your culture and she becomes pregnant with his kid. which he's treating as his official heir. and you're telling me the fremen don't see an opportunity?

and like you could still do the messiah prophecy, thing, right, because surely, with that many fremen on the planet, some of them are going to believe he's the lisan al-gaib. a lot of them, probably. the cult's still huge. and THAT'S THE CLINCHER. from a fremen leader's perspective, this is a once-in-a-millennium opportunity to unite all the fremen tribes behind your banner — because you're the one who found this fucker, right, his mom is your priestess, he's grown up with you — and rally an army under the pretense of an Atreides restoration. and then once Paul actually gets on the throne, of Arrakis or the Empire or whatever, what's he going to do? give Arrakis back to the fremen! immediately! or he's going to die, and his children by Chani will take power, putting a fremen on the imperial throne. meaning that not only fremen, but stilgar's tribe in particular, will end up immensely powerful. because paul has institutional respect and ability to parlay with the great houses, making him the perfect vessel for fremen political ambitions. and you get to spend years sculpting him ideologically into someone who wants both your philosophy and your political ambitions.

only then he actually gets power, and suddenly: whoops! you created a kid who thinks he's a god. and he wants your civilization to expand over the whole imperium, spreading your philosophy and securing his political reign. and you're going: uh, that's fine, actually, we just wanted this one planet? but it's too late, because he thinks he's the messiah, because you told him he's the messiah, and a lot of people now agree with him. and so now the fremen, though ostensibly in political control of the imperium, have to deal with the problem of a child-emperor who thinks he's jesus, and thinks you're his apostles. figure that one out.

[zoesshortstories]

The Party (Fancy Pants chapter one)

Words: 2.3k

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x actress!fem!oc Ava Radmall

Thanks to Cam, Paige and Ava meet and have an instant connection. Slow burn and rising tension, mutual pining but idiots who won't admit feelings.

TW: discussion of religion (Christianity)

Paige

I answer the knock at the door since Cam is busy with other hostess duties. It’s 8:15 pm and her house and yard is already bustling with people. Her holiday parties are always a hit. 

On the other side is a woman with big beautiful brown eyes and long swooping brown hair partially held back in a clip. Her face is practically glowing in the light, but I’m sure she’d look angelic in the dark too. 

“Hi, I’m Ava” she says and reveals almost perfectly straight and white teeth with a smile. She reaches her right hand out to shake mine. It makes my fingertips buzz. 

“I’m Paige.” I muster and return her smile, coming to my senses. I step to the side so she can come in and try not to stare as she slips off her big black scarf shawl to reveal that her long red longsleeve dress she’s wearing has an open back. I can’t help that my eyes linger on the curve of her spine that practically points down to the way the fabric gracefully gathers at her hips before flowing to her ankles. 

She must notice me staring because she says, “It’s from Reformation.” 

“Uh, what?” I say, feeling caught in the act.

“My dress, silly.” She says with a smile and then Cam comes up to hug her from behind. Cam is still a good height taller than her despite Ava’s sleek black heels. 

“Ugh it’s so good to see you!” Cam squeals when she releases Ava from her grasp. 

“Oh my gosh I know! I’m so glad I made it back from Montana in time. It was snowing so bad that when they delayed my flight I thought they were gonna cancel it and I was so worried!” 

She goes to hug Cam again and they sway back and forth. 

Eventually Cam seems to remember I’m here too and introduces us, despite remarking it looks like we’ve already met. 

“We were roommates at Stanford,” Cam mentions. That helps me bridge the gap as to why the Ava Radmall was here. An on the rise star currently in the middle of her huge rise to fame. I don’t know how she has enough hours in a day or days in a year to be the love interest in the next Marvel movie and the funniest character in the latest season of Wednesday. Not that I was paying too much attention to what she was doing, it’s just hard not to hear her name thrown around. 

“You already know Paige’s a rookie on the team, but come and I’ll introduce you to the rest of them out back!” Cam exclaims and they walk through the party arm in arm. I decide to walk behind them. 

We reach her backyard with the pool and the high top standing tables. Ava gracefully shakes everyone’s hand and then Cam points her to the open bar. 

“I’ll have a dirty Shirley, please.” She asks the bartender as I stand next to her. 

“Ooh make that two please.” I add. “Another dirty Shirley fan, that’s kind of rare.” 

“Yeah well I had a 24-48 rule and Cam’s season didn’t align with mine so I figured why not just add alcohol to my go-to?” 

“Oh what sport did you play?” I ask. This makes her even more interesting. An athlete? 

“Soccer. Midfield.” She answers as our drinks are placed. We thank the bartender and head back to the team, continuing our small talk. 

Ava

When I step into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water (and maybe to check out the snacks Cam didn’t put out for the party), I can feel Paige following behind me.

It brought me this warm feeling. I’m excited to talk to her again, especially outside of the group setting. There’s something about her that I can’t put my finger on but that’s so compelling to me. 

“I like your necklace,” she nods towards the pearly white cross outlined in shiny gold that has hung from my neck everyday since my mom gave me the it when I was sixteen. Some days I wore it more for her than for its meaning. 

Then I get to watch unabashedly as her slender fingers dip into her crisp white dress shirt. She pulls out a plain silver cross of her own to show me, like it’s our little secret. 

“How long have you been a Christian?” She asks, looking like she’s burning this memory into her brain. 

“I was raised Presbyterian but had a bit of a hard time in high school before coming back to it.” I responded. The alcohol flowing through my veins seemed to have made me extra talkative since I normally wouldn’t even say that much to someone I just met. It took me two years to tell Cam that and we were roommates practically glued to the hip. 

Paige doesn’t say anything but her face looks like she understands. Before my mind convinces me not to, I open my mouth to speak again. 

“Can you keep a secret?” I ask and she says yes both quietly and with her full chest. We both lean slightly closer and I drop my voice. “Well it’s not really a secret, most real people in my life know, but I’m not like out out. But I’m not really in either. So just like please don’t go running right to the media about it.” 

Her blue eyes bore into mine and she crosses her heart, zips her lips, and throws the key behind her back. The gesture of it all makes me giggle.

For some reason it makes me suddenly shy about telling her my “secret.” I take a sip of my drink. She quirks her eyebrow asking if I’m going to just finally tell her. 

“I’m gay or something,” I say and wave my hands around.

“Or something?” 

“Not really or something, I’m just gay got nervous.”

She laughs. The sound does something to me that’s more intoxicating than any drink a bartender could make.

“Well can I tell you a secret that’s also not really a secret?” 

I nod.

“I’m gay too.” 

For some reason when she says this it makes me smile. She’s trying to ease my nerves and relate. Although she hasn’t spoken on it publicly, it definitely did not seem like a secret. Especially considering how hot she looked in her dress shirt and navy pants, it would be a shame if she wasn’t at least a little bit gay. 

For another (maybe related) reason it makes my whole body feel warmer than it normally does when I drink. It’s like my Asian flush acting double.

“And what about your faith?” I ask. Now it’s her turn to take a sip of her own drink, but she finds it empty and I don’t stop her when she reaches for mine. I’m either way past my limit or there’s something about Paige that’s knocking all my walls down. I don’t want to tell her my classic charming stories, I want to tell her the truth.

“Also raised in the church.” She nods her head down but brings her eyes back up to you. “Never had a problem with my faith and sexuality though. I pretty much knew I liked women since I knew what a woman was.” 

“How?” I ask. 

“How did I know I was gay?” She asks, although it’s clear she knows what I’m asking about. I purse my lips and she leans back from the counter to hold her hands up in fake surrender. “Aight I’m just playing. My parents probably knew before I did but definitely before I told them, and I think because of that they were always very strong on teaching me my faith is between me and God and that He made me in His image as His child just the way I am.” 

“That’s beautiful, Paige.” I say and my eyes start to feel a little more teary than when our conversation started. 

“You alright, Ma?” She asks and places a warm hand on my shoulder, her pinky finger falling off the fabric of my dress and making contact with my skin. Her hand is warm and yet it still sends a shiver through my body that I try my best to resist.

“Oh yeah sorry that’s embarrassing,” I gush. “I think it’s just a sign I’m reaching the end of my night.” 

I place my glass in the sink and make my way towards the hidden stairwell in the side of the kitchen. 

“Where are you going, Ava?” Paige asks and I turn on the second step to look at her. 

“I always crash in Cam’s guest room after these parties.” I notice the crinkle in Paige’s brow this seems to cause so I keep going. “don’t worry I always do this so she knows, we like to debrief in the morning. What’s a night out without a roomie debrief?” 

“No it’s not that, it’s just I thought I was staying in her guest room.” 

I pause for a second before turning back to the stairs. “Don’t worry, I’m not a cuddler.” I tell her and continue unbothered on my way. 

Paige

When Cam knocks on the door the next morning I feel like she’s hitting me directly in the head. I roll back over and ignore it, glad we’re in the off season.

But when the door opens I hear the covers shift next to me as someone sits up. 

Ava. 

I fully lean into this whole fake sleeping thing as I eavesdrop on their conversation. But some nagging questions are coming back to me. Did I sleep with Ava Radmall? In Cameron’s guest room? At her holiday party? No. I must have more class than that, right? And I sure hope I would remember if that ever did happen.

“So are you gonna let me in bed so we can debrief?” Cam asks. 

“Just a second let me sit up.” Ava says and I hear her yawn. “Wait a second. If you’re wearing your Sparks sweatshirt, then whose am I wearing?” 

So that’s where my sweatshirt went. I had come back a few hours later than Ava had and patted down the armchair I thought I tossed it on but couldn’t find it. I was drunk enough to leave it to the morning, I guess. 

Cam gasps and I can only imagine her eyes going wide with it. 

“Paige!” 

“Huh?” I mumble and turn over to face them. 

Somehow this sends Cam into a fit of laughter and she’s leaning her hands against her knees with tears in her eyes before she speaks again. 

“I totally forgot that I said you could stay in my guest room and that Ava was coming! I’m so sorry guys,” she says. 

Ava pokes me in the arm. “Scoot over so Cam can cuddle up for the debrief.” She commands and so I listen. 

She props her pillow against the headboard and sits up, lifting up the comforter so Cam can get in too. I scoot to the edge and turn on my stomach to face them, remaining horizontal. 

I let the two of them chit chat away about Cam’s last few weeks of off season and her wedding planning, followed by Ava’s two weeks shooting in Montana and her plans for flying her mom out here for Christmas. Then they get around to debriefing what happened at the party. At multiple points in Cam’s story about one of her fiancé’s friends jumping fully clothed into the pool, Ava’s jaw drops. At the punchline she throws her head back and lets out a deep belly laugh that gets Cam laughing too. 

I smile at the sight of Ava and her laugh instead of laughing at Cam’s story that I wasn’t listening to in the first place. In the morning LA light her hair looks more golden bronze than the brown it was last night. It’s barely messed up from sleeping because she didn’t move once. Her bare skin was bright without her makeup, and I could see the tiny marks on her face that only made it more interesting. I want to memorize them. Then she tucks her hair behind her ears, exposing her neck, and against my better judgement I allow myself to imagine the sweet taste of her skin and what it would be like if she let me leave a mark. 

Ava leans into Cam’s shoulder and sighs. 

“I missed you. We need to hang out more.” 

“I so agree.” Cam says. “It’s both terrible and great we tend to be busy at the same time.”

“I’m pretty free in January. Not even press outside of LA.” Ava says and Cam seems to squeal again. 

“I better get back,” She says and peels out from under the covers. Cam starts talking to me as I try not to look at Ava’s pretty long legs as she looks for her dress on the ground. Her black seamless underwear has lacy sides that hug her hips just right. It looks so effortless, because of course Ava Radmall would look so fucking fantastic in her underwear, but I have this sneaking suspicion she worked to find the fit because it’s almost too good. 

She finds the dress and pulls it over her hips and then up under the sweatshirt, which she tosses off and onto me. 

Then the three of us make our way downstairs, hug Cam goodbye, and make our ways to our cars parked next to each other somehow on the curb. 

“Hey, thanks for letting me borrow your sweatshirt. And sorry for borrowing your sweatshirt.” Ava says as she opens the door, standing in the crease. I unlock my own car and turn to her.

“Hey anytime. See ya around, Ava.” 

“Goodbye, Paige.” 

[coffeeandfreethoughts]

I’m not even a Nicholas Alexander Chavez Stan but y’all are getting pathetic now.

Watching religious people fall to their knees and start wailing over Nicholas Alexander Chavez taking bts pictures and doing a popular TikTok dancing while in dress for his role shows just how fickle religious people really are.

First people need to stop being obtuse, he is in character. The lack of acknowledgement of that fact gives “anti intellectualism core”. Stop acting like he dressed up as Jesus randomly. It isn’t a costume it’s a role he’s portraying. The character he plays isn’t Jesus or Jesus adjacent.

In the show a cult of people are going around killing others and leaving religious symbolisms behind. His character, Dr Mayhew, is killed and staged. Nothing more to see here people. Also the lack of knowledge about the show is throwing me. The show is a thriller that heavily deals with religion and the deadly sins. Much like many of its counterparts the show isn’t going to portray religion in a respectful or holy way. It wouldn’t be a fictional thriller if it did. Stop acting as if this was a religious documentary meant to explore the significance of the crucifixion. It isn’t and hasn’t been that. So please don’t start now.

And let’s be so for real half the people in his comments weren’t screaming blasphemy when the priest and nun (two people who have very sacred roles known for their dedication to faith and their chasity) were pictured having xes under a crucifix. Suddenly him doing a TikTok dance while in his character is to far. Please, this is a Ryan Murphy production not the Passion of Christ.

I’m convinced the same people frothing at the mouth about this are lukewarm Christians with a complex. They pick and choose when something is disrespectful and when it’s not. I’m sorry mom didn’t teach you this in kindergarten, but everyone doesn’t share the viewpoint or reverence for your beliefs as you do and they don’t have to. It’s understandable to want others to have respect for your religion but the current art(the show) was not created to do that.

Go ahead and unfollow, turn the tv off, and go to bed. I promise Nicholas isn’t loosing any sleep nor money over your lack of support.