pink-cell-art

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

i am living for some angst 👀

especially some satoru angst

Hold me. Console me.

Tags: Satoru x fem!Reader, angst, hurt/comfort, depictions of poor mental health, depiction of a panic attack, Satoru’s a little bit of an asshole here.

An: Same… same. Before you read this and blame me for how fucked this story is, know that one of my moots (cough. cough. @theuniversesnepobaby cough.) was sending me sad angsty edits last night. this is partially her fault too.

Satoru was normally a very doting and attentive boyfriend. He’s the type to beg to be in your presence. He’d kill to feel your touch against his skin. “Casual” isn’t a word in his dictionary. When he loves, he loves loudly.

So when he got quiet with his love, your body started to fill with a sense of dread. Cold and bitter feelings crawled their way between you two. No longer did you two laugh until you were out of breath and red in the face. No longer did he surprise you with gifts or try to scare you when you’re unaware of his presence.

His strong arms hadn’t wrapped around you in so long. The ruthless chill of being utterly alone plagued you, while Satoru seemed fine. He was even taking on extra hours at his job. So many nights he didn’t come back until nearly midnight.

How could he not see what’s happening? How could he not notice how much you’re drowning?

“I’m going out.” His words are flat with no care put into them. He’s telling you because he feels as if it’s obligatory — not because he doesn’t want you to worry.

“Where are you going?” So many times have you tried to reach out. It was as if you two were passing back and forth a candle of your relationship. You had ignited the flame and passed it to him so many times, but each time, he snuffs it out without a second thought — leaving you in the dark. Maybe one more time, you metaphorically light the candle in hopes to kinder your relationship…

“Out.” Flame snuffed.

“Oh.” He’s done it so many times, but it hurts just as bad each and every time. Being single wouldn’t hurt this bad. At least you wouldn’t be getting rejected by your own boyfriend on a daily basis.

“See ya.” He doesn’t even give you a second glance as he grabs his coat and saunters out the door. Another night spent alone. Another night filled with a barely eaten tv dinner and a shitty reality tv show droning on in the back while you doomscroll on your phone.

You two use to watch these reality tv shows together and laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Satoru would hold you so close to his body, and he’d whine anytime you tried to adjust. When was the last time that happened? You never suspected the end of affectionate gestures would come while you two were still in a relationship.

You check Geto’s story on instagram. Sometimes, you’d catch small glimpses of Satoru in the back. Sometimes they were at a cafe or an arcade together. Tonight, it seemed as though Suguru was at very packed party scene.

You hold your breath in your lungs as you rewatch the story again and again — searching for a white head of hair. Your boyfriend makes it too easy for you to stalk him. Though, it feels like a fitting punishment for the turmoil he’s put you through.

No Satoru in sight. You sigh quietly before you check Shoko’s story. It was less likely that Satoru would be captured there, but he has made his appearances in the past. It seemed like tonight Shoko wasn’t present at whatever rager Suguru was at. She posted a picture of her beautifully written notes. She must be studying.

Nanami never posts on his story, so you don’t even bother going to check his barren profile. Haibara never features Satoru in his stories, so you skip his as well. This leaves you with one last option.

Your hand is a little shaky as you click on Utahime’s story. You don’t know when it started, but your cheeks and ears were wet with tears already. Your body had some sort of sick sixth sense for knowing when something was wrong, and something was terribly wrong.

You had always had your little insecurities about Utahime ever since Satoru indulged that he had a small crush on her back in high school. Of course, these were just fleeting thoughts. Up until recently, you knew with full confidence that you had Satoru’s heart. He wouldn’t stray from you. 

You didn’t have that same confidence anymore. Satoru had withdrawn, and it seemed as if he took his heart with him.

You hate being right. You wish you were wrong sometimes. On Utahime’s story, she’s seemingly at the same party that Suguru’s at. Her story is littered with pictures of her with other girls that you don’t recognize, videos of the loud music and people dancing in a crowd, and there’s just one last video on her story that makes your heart sink to your stomach.

Your boyfriend’s pretty blue eyes illuminated by the flash from her back camera. He smiled and laughed as Utahime filmed him. His face was littered with wine red lipstick kiss marks. Utahime had a grab on your boyfriend’s collar, obviously trying to hold his drunk self still while she filmed his crime.

It felt like a punch straight to your gut. You couldn’t even think straight, but you knew you needed to keep this evidence in case she deletes it. Your fingers shakily screenshot the story, logging the picture of Satoru covered in someone else’s affections.

He was out there feeling an overwhelming sense of happiness, receiving kisses from another, dancing to his heart’s content, and enjoying his life while you were sat at home weeping over the loss of your boyfriend.

The tv dinner, now cold and stale, was thrown into the garbage, and whatever little bit you had eaten came up soon after.

The picture was seared into your memory. You didn’t have to look at it to know every minor detail. The way his white hair was messy. His glasses were pulled down ever so slightly to reveal his devastatingly beautiful eyes. His coat hung on his shoulders while his muscular neck peaked out from his shirt.

Every time you closed your eyes, you thought about how many kiss marks he had on his face. How many times had he allowed himself to cheat on you? Was this the first time? Had it gone farther than this? Was it Utahime or some other girl?

You cried yourself to sleep, knowing that Satoru wouldn’t even come home to try to console you.

The next morning, you were disappointed as soon as you woke up. You wished sleep would’ve taken your body and whisked it away far, far from here. Instead, you’re still in your bed, sleeping on a pillow that was stained from your mascara.

If you could, you’d rot in bed all day and try to forget the godforsaken video you saw last night, but you had to make a trip to the restroom.

Forcing your weak body out of bed, you let out a small pained moan. You haven’t eaten a proper meal in so long, and you threw up whatever you did eat yesterday. Your appetite was completely diminished. Satoru use to say that food tasted better when it was shared. He always shared his meals with you, unbeknownst to him, helping you maintain a good schedule for eating.

Your apartment was too bright when you stepped out of the bathroom, and it smelled too much of food. The sizzling on the stove finally caught your drowsy attention.

The man of the hour, Satoru, was at your stove, shirtless and cooking something. Sleeping pants casually hung around his hips, and the dimples at the bottom of his back were so graciously being shown off. Did someone else know about those two little dimples? Even though back was facing you, you could already picture his face, littered with those stupid kiss marks.

Making a b-line for the bathroom, Satoru doesn’t even get the chance to greet you. Your hands were cold and clammy as your body uncontrollably heaved over the toilet. You had nothing left to give, but Satoru was taking everything from you.

Hot tears burned your cheeks as they slipped down your face. You didn’t want to do this. You wished you would’ve never saw that fucking video last night. You should’ve given yourself plausible deniability, but now, you had to face the music.

You slowly returned back to the kitchen after trying your best to clean yourself up. Your eyes focused on Satoru. He was finishing up cooking bacon when his eyes finally met yours and drove daggers through your heart.

“Good morning, sweetness. Something wrong?” He asks with so much care in his tone. You fantasize about hitting him — just once. How dare he suddenly care when you have to check out?

You don’t even know what to say to him. Like, yes, something is clearly fucking wrong, Satoru. I’m dating an unfaithful jerk.

“What are you doing here?” You ask bluntly, wiping your face of the remnants of tears and makeup that had stained your skin. He shouldn’t be allowed to see how badly he hurt you.

“I… live here?” He responds in a questioning tone, furrowing his white eyebrows as he studies your face. “Are you okay?” If only he had asked that question weeks ago, then maybe you two wouldn’t be in this mess today.

“No, and you don’t live here anymore.” You snap, causing him to slightly flinch back — not out of fear but out of surprise. He’s never seen you like this before.

“What do you mean, sweetness? I-“

“Cut the shit, Gojo. Don’t act stupid with me. It’s unbecoming.” You interrupt him completely, not wanting to hear him try to act innocent when you have all the proof you need on your phone.

“Woah. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I don’t really appreciate the insult and the use of my government name. I genuinely have no idea of what you’re talking about.” His voice is firm, laced with sternness, so you can see that he’s not playing around with you.

You take a deep breath until your lungs burn. You want to scream at him, chase him out of the house, and light his shit on fire. Instead, you silently go to retrieve your phone. Pulling up the picture of him with kiss marks all over his face, you shove the screen in his direction.

Gojo takes a few seconds to take in the photo, and he lets his shoulders drop. “This is what you’re mad over, sweetness?” He asks in a much more calm tone, looking up at you with almost puppy dog eyes.

“Don’t call me that.” You snap while swiping your phone back from his hands. “I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you, but we’re fucking done.”

“You seriously believe that I would cheat on you?” He asks in that stupid arrogant tone of his, completely ignoring your blunt rejection.

“Why else would your high school crush post a picture of you with kiss marks all over your face!? You look so fucking dumb and in love. I fucking-“ Your throat chokes up as if your body was trying to stop you from saying something you didn’t mean. The words “I fucking hate you” die right there on your lips. Tears fall down your cheeks, and you place your palms over your eyes to hide yourself from his impregnable gaze.

“This, again?” He asks in a frustrated tone before letting out an exasperated sigh, He turns the stove off - abandoning his food before walking over to you. He bends his knees a bit to get on your level. “Look at me.” He demands before his hands go to pull yours away from your eyes.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” You cry out, jerking back away from his presence. Your breath speeds up. The oxygen isn’t having enough time to enter your bloodstream. Your body is vibrating, forcing the air quickly from your lungs. Everything is moving so fast and why the fuck is he so close to you-? He’s suffocating. Fuck, catch your breath. Whyhim?Whyyou?Why?Why?Whatdidyoudotodeservethis???

A gush of air is blown harshly onto your face, and you can feel the bitter cold feeling of something touching your skin. Your eyes see Satoru’s hand holding an ice cube, guiding it along your warm skin on your arm. Your body is so hot that it’s melting faster than he’s moving it.

“Breathe. Match my movements.” Satoru guides in a calm yet steady tone. Your eyes find the way his chest is slowly rising and falling with each breath. You want to tell him to go play in traffic. You don’t need him to ground you. You don’t need him to do anything for you. You don’t need him.

Still, your body matches his slowly. Your breath becomes more stable, and you can feel your heart starting to settle into a more natural rhythm. Your bleary eyes meet his empathetic ones. It’s been so long since your last panic attack, but he remembers just how to calm you down.

It only makes it all hurt so much worse.

“It’s almost over. You’re doing a good job.” He takes his chances at encouraging you. It feels so sickening, more tears flee your eyes. Where had your boyfriend been, and why is he only just now back after he did the unthinkable?

“Sing with me.” It’s an odd request, but it’s something he found that grounds you better than most grounding techniques. Saying repeatable phrases in melodic tone is comforting for your mind.

“No.”

“Come on… Just one time. Your favorite.” He tries again. Metaphorically, lighting the candle and passing it back to you.

You shake your head in response. Flame snuffed. How can you sing with him after what he did to you?

“Come on, don't leave me it can't be that easy, babe” He starts with such a soft angelic voice. You fold in on yourself unable to keep the sob from escaping your throat. What method of torture is this??

“If you believe me I guess I'll get on a plane. Fly to your city excited to see your face.” He continues, lighting that same candle. It’s so small, barely there anymore from how many times you two have tried to relight it.

“Hold me, console me and then I leave without a trace.” The ice cube has completely melted, and his hand is resting on your arm. He slowly guides you to his chest, and you indulge in his warm embrace for just one last time.

“Come on, don't leave me it can't be that easy, babe.” His chin rests on top of your head. You’ve always fit so well in his arms. He’d always tell you that whatever higher power is out there made you specifically with him in mind.

“If you believe me I guess I'll get on a plane. Fly to your city excited to see your face.” His skin is so warm against yours, and your tears are sticking to your chest.

“Hold me, console me and then I leave without a trace.” You finally indulge him, softly joining in on his singing. His body slowly starts to guide you two into a soft subtle sway.

“Come on, don't leave me it can't be that easy, babe.” It’s not that easy. This fucking hurts so bad. Why would your soulmate do this to you?

“If you believe me I guess I'll get on a plane. Fly to your city excited to see your face.” You feel so pathetic — seeking out comfort from the one who hurt you this bad. If your friend could see you right now, she’d slap some sense into you.

“Hold me, console me and then I leave without a trace.”

You’re sniffling softly into his chest, and his hand carefully pets your hair. “Those kiss marks weren’t from Utahime.” He explains in a soft tone. “We were filming a TikTok. The punchline of the joke was that Suguru and Haibara were the ones who kissed all over my face.”

You look up at him with an unsure look on your face, not understanding what he meant. Satoru carefully picks your phone up, and he clicks on Haibara’s Instagram story from last night.

Sure enough, Haibara posted a TikTok of him, Suguru, Satoru, and Utahime. The camera points at Satoru, showing the kiss marks on his face, and the sound plays. “Bro, what happened to your face? Did you do that?” The camera then pans to Utahime to which she mouths the words, “I did not do that.” The camera then pans to Haibara with smeared wine red lipstick on his lips who says, “Then, who did?” The camera is then panned towards Suguru. He also had wine red lipstick smeared on his lips. “Yeah, who?” The two boys start laughing along with Satoru, and the video cuts.

It only comforts your weary heart slightly.

“It was just a stupid TikTok… I should’ve consulted you or warned you… done anything to respect you.”

“This doesn’t take back how awfully cold you’ve been over the last few weeks…” You sniffle out quietly, and Satoru nods his head knowingly.

“I know, sweetness.. I know. I’ve been terrible.” His arms squeeze you a bit tighter — frightened that he was so close to loosing you, still scared of losing you.

“That’s not an apology… or even a reason.” You try to squirm from his grip, but Satoru holds you tighter.

“I’m so fucking sorry, sweetness.” He breathes out a shaky breath, and you realize the shakiness in his voice. Glancing up at him, you feel yourself clam up with the sight of tears in his eyes. Christ, his eyes are somehow even more blue when he cries. “Shit got crazy at work then-“

“You still had time to party it up with your friends. You left me without even telling me you love me.” You finally break away from his grasp. The cheating accusation was only the surface of the main problem.

“You know I love you…” His voice is small, and he wipes his eyes of the tears that are threatening to spill.

“Do I know that?”

“Don’t… don’t say that.. I love you more than life itself.” His shaky hands go to reach for you again, but you move back away from him.

“You’re only doing this because I’m leaving you. If I hadn’t mentioned it, you’d probably still be half assed ignoring me.” You stare at him, and your eyes start to water for the nth time today.

“That’s not…” Satoru bites his tongue, and he runs a hand through his messy white hair. “I came home this morning… saw the uneaten tv dinner in the trash… Your reality tv show was still playing in the background, and I saw how you fell asleep with your makeup messed up… I realized then how much I neglected you… I planned a full day for us to enjoy each other’s presence… Please, don’t leave me for this. I can fix this.”

“How did it feel to look at me everyday when I tried so fucking hard to reach you?”

“It killed me.” He breathes out, and he tries to reach for you again. “Please, I missed you so much. Work was just so fucking much, and I don’t know why I took that out on you.”

You stare at him, and you shake your head silently. “You should go, Gojo..” Your voice cracked as it physically pained you to tell him to leave. Your body craves him more than anything else in the world right now.

“No, please, princess. Don’t do this… I can fix this. I’ll do whatever it takes… just don’t leave me…” Satoru’s on his knees, literally begging you not to leave him. Tears are falling down his cheeks as he bows his head to you.

It’s humiliating, but he’s so humiliatingly in love with you. He’s so dead serious. He’d do anything for you to stay with him.

“Toru..”

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I-I don’t know why I did it. I just pulled away from you, and I don’t know how it happened. You’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened t-to me. Please. I can’t function without you.”

You stare at your boyfriend with concern as his head literally touches the floor beneath him. You don’t even know what to say to him. The thought of leaving him hurts so fucking bad. It steals the breath from your lungs.

“Please don’t leave me… puh…. please stay with me.” He’s groveling at your feet, unable to stop the tears that escape his eyes. The thought of living in a world where you aren’t his girlfriend… he wouldn’t. He’d be a shell of who he once was. He’s nothing without you.

You slowly sit on the floor in front of him, and your hands stroke his soft hair gently. Satoru’s breath slows as he finally gets a grip on his emotions. He realizes just how pathetic he looks. He slowly leans up, and he looks at you. Both of you looked like complete messes, and it was all his fault.

“I don’t deserve you,” He murmurs quietly. “but please, I can make this better… I love you so much, sweetness… I wouldn’t dream of ever cheating on you.”

“I don’t forgive you.” Your voice is barely a whisper. The metaphorical flame is so small and shaky, but if you two both shield it from the wind, it’ll be able to grow once more. “You have a lot to prove me, Toru.”

“I’ll spend every waking minute of my life fixing this. I promise you, sweets.”

and he did. Satoru went back to loving you loudly. He didn’t merely shield the flame from being blown out, he fanned it himself so it grew in intensity. He was back to doting on you constantly, and he did frequent check-ins to make sure you weren’t feeling neglected. He took frequent vacations from work with you. He usually took you two out on holidays to wherever your heart desired, but sometimes you two would use his vacation time to just lounge around the house and enjoy each other’s presence.

Your confidence slowly returned to you over time. It wasn’t easy by any means. It took many nights of Satoru’s consistent reassurance and overwhelming love and support for you to slowly start feeling comfortable in your relationship with him.

He put in the work, nourished your flame, and he never made you feel guilty for having a second thought because when he loves, he loves deeply. Casual is not his strong suit.

[steddiehyperfixation]

with blonde hair and a tan

steddie brainworms so bad i wrote this silly little thing immediately after watching the rocky horror picture show for the first time the other night lol @steddie-spooktober day 30: "where in the hell did you find that costume?" | 1083 words | T |

Eddie can hear Steve and Robin squabbling as he makes his way up the stairs to Steve's room. 

“I just don't know about this, Rob.” 

“It was your idea!” 

“It's too much. I should wear something else.” 

“Little late for that now.” 

“Well-”

“Where in the hell did you find that costume?” Eddie stops in the doorway, frozen in a state of shock at the scene in front of him. His mouth hangs open, eyes wide, and a sudden heat rises in his cheeks. 

Because Steve is standing in front of his mirror wearing only a tiny metallic gold speedo and matching gold boots, his great expanse of tanned skin and muscles and body hair on full display. Robin stands next to him with a spray can of wash out bleach-blonde hair dye at the ready. 

Steve looks over at Eddie. “It's too much, isn't it? I knew it. I told you,” he says to Robin, gesturing at Eddie as if his reaction proves his point. “Look at his face, even he's embarrassed for me.” 

Robin snorts. “Yeah, I don't think that's why he's blushing, Steve-o.” 

“No one’s even gonna know who I am,” Steve continues to complain, thankfully ignoring Robin’s comment. 

“Rocky,” Eddie says. His voice comes out weird and cracked; he clears his throat. “You're Rocky, from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” 

“See?” Now it's Robin’s turn to gesture towards Eddie in vindication. “Totally recognizable. Totally good. It's just one party, and you've got all that unwarranted jock confidence, you'll be fine.” She pats Steve on the shoulder, then turns and tosses the spray dye at Eddie. “Here. You can take over spraying his hair. I have to finish getting myself ready.” 

Eddie fumbles trying to catch the spray can, his attempt to stammer out a protest falling on deaf ears as Robin pushes past him out of the room. “Okay.” He sighs. This is fine. He can totally handle being left alone with this literal golden adonis without getting heart palpitations. He can be cool and chill and normal. He can. 

Steve looks amused. “You don't have to. I can probably manage spraying my own hair just fine,” he says when Eddie still hasn't moved. 

“No, I got it.” Eddie shakes his head, shaking himself into motion. “You won't be able to get the back right on your own anyways.” He approaches Steve - with great restraint, he might add, because there's a part of his brain that's all animal right now and it's just raring to pounce on him. “So are you done trying to talk yourself out of this costume, then?” 

Steve chews at his lip as he studies his reflection again. “I think so,” he decides. His gaze flicks up to meet Eddie's eyes in the mirror. “You really don't think it's too much?” 

Eddie breaks the mirror eye contact before his face can turn any more red, fixing his focus singularly on starting to spray the blonde dye onto Steve's hair. “No, you uh, you look good. You really should've warned me- told me, I mean, what you were gonna be. I would've matched your theme, could've gone as Dr. Frank N Furter.” (His current costume in comparison is quite boring, just a basic vampire - albeit with some pretty impressive fake blood around his mouth if he does say so himself, but ultimately nothing special.)

“Now that would be something,” Steve mutters, the words a little breathier all of the sudden, but Eddie still doesn't dare let his glance wander from his hair. His voice is back to normal in a second anyway. “Well, there's always next year.” 

“Yeah, next year,” Eddie echoes. That really would be something, both of them in flamboyantly skimpy costumes. He's not sure if that would make this situation better or worse for him. 

He pushes up some of Steve's hair to make sure he's covered all the layers in the back, his fingers accidentally brushing along the skin of his neck, and Steve shivers. Eddie finds himself watching with an odd satisfaction as the goosebumps ripple up in the wake of his touch. 

“I think I might freeze to death like this, though,” Steve comments with a self-deprecating chuckle that just barely conceals that weird breathiness that's returned to his voice. “I probably should've considered that before I decided to go out half naked at night in the middle of fall.” 

“I bet you could easily find someone to keep you warm tonight,” Eddie tells him, forcing detachment. He locks his attention back on his hair dyeing work. “You walk in there looking like this and you'll have all the girls at the party falling at your feet. Probably even some of the guys too,” he adds, remembering Steve recently came out as bisexual. 

“Yeah?” Steve sounds like he's smiling, or maybe smirking. He tries (unsuccessfully) to catch Eddie's eyes again as Eddie moves in front of him to get to the last few pieces of hair. “And what about you?” 

“What about me?” 

“Would you be one of them?” 

Eddie finishes with the hairspray, nothing left to keep using as an excuse to avoid his attention. He finally looks at Steve's face and raises an eyebrow, deflecting. “You want me to fall at your feet, Harrington?” 

Steve shakes his head almost imperceptibly. He glances down for a moment, then looks back up at him from under his lashes and takes a step closer. “I want you to keep me warm,” he clarifies in a murmur as he reaches for Eddie's free hand and guides it to hold his waist. Eddie's blood ignites at the touch and the look Steve's giving him, flames racing along his veins. 

That's as good an invitation as any, and Eddie's restraint shatters. He draws Steve hungrily to his lips. How could he not? The spray can falls from his grip in favor of using both hands to pull Steve closer and roam his body. And if Eddie's wandering hands linger for a while in their investigation of that perfect gold-clad ass, well that's between them and the lovely little sound Steve makes against his open mouth. 

And Robin, who has the misfortune of poking her head back into the room right then. 

She yelps and jumps out of view of the scene, banging her fist against the wall just next to the doorway to get their attention instead. “When you guys are done being gross,” she shouts, “there's a party we're gonna be late for!” 

[kira-fluff]

no feelings, just lust - wakasa imaushi x fem!reader

what happens when FWB -> feelings? tw: language, casual sex (obviously), trust issues/mental health issues a/n: hello! you all know the drill, i've been busy with all uni. i've been wanting to write again and i finally had some free time tonight. am i once again venting my own psychological issues in the form of writing? yes. but honestly lets be so fr for a second i feel like some of my other girlies relate to this shit. idk, lmk. i hope i'm not the only one. (i'm scared of men)

wakasa didn't "do" relationships. too much work. too much shit he's got on his plate already. and hey, a girl deserves more in a serious relationship then a guy who doesn't give a shit, right? there are plenty of fuckers who treat their girls like trash just because they want the attention but not the commitment. in all honesty, wakasa didn't do friendships either. it's easier in his line of work to keep everyone at a distance. helps it hurt less when they leave - when they die, or shit, they betray you. but through shinichiro, he met you.

turns out, you weren't really all that into relationships either. it was funny that both of your lack of commitment stemmed from trust issues, but that wasn't something you both exactly said out loud. for you, it was easier not to get hurt or rejected if you never gave someone the chance to get close. so, you would play nice, act the part of a friendship, smile, placate, but at the end of the day, no one was really your friend. they were part of an act you played in your head. you assumed various roles, went through your script, amused your audience. and for what? so people can like you? at this point, you weren't even sure. this, of course, didn't even begin to touch on your commitment issues caused by your struggles in your own identity. you don't know what the fuck you want in a relationship, so whenever shit got serious, you cut it off. you decided relationships weren't your thing because guys didn't deserve to have their feelings played with by someone who approaches them half-heartedly.

when you met wakasa, it was perfect. neither of you wanted anything beyond just casual sex. no commitment. you don't care who else the other is fucking, so long as your clean. you can quit whenever you want. no strings attached and with it, no feelings. there were no expectations. you were free to do what you want, and if it wasn't what you wanted anymore, you could call it off without hurting anyone. you just happen to be satisfying each other's needs. it's both selfish, but in a way, also a symbotic give-and-take. if it is mutually beneficial, is it really all that selfish? maybe you shouldn't be giving as much thought to the semantics, but your proclivity for overthinking is part of the reason your real relationships are a clusterfuck.

shinichiro introduced you at the club, where you were languidly sipping on a cocktail. "this is y/n, she's chill. comes out to hang with us sometimes." "yeah, when i got shit else to do," you laughed. your gaze met his purple eyes as you blinked slowly. the smell of weed permeated throughout the club, adding a slight fog to the already densely populated club. "wakasa." he said, and that was it. no "nice to meet you" or any of that other shit. yeah, he wasn't up for the play acting either. good. as he ordered a drink, you took another sip, searching the club for anything amusing to pass the time. blaring music, sweaty bodies, lustful and uninvited hands...yeah, it wasn't really your scene. but you were bored, and honestly a little lonely. with that combination, you hit up shinichiro asking if he and his gang were doing anything this weekend. they always are. how do they not get exhausted just being around all these people? it's a task already just spouting off conversation with these braindead fuckers.

wakasa took a seat next to you, surveying the club just as you were. after taking another sip of his scotch, he said, "this shit gets old pretty fast." you smirked. "can't say i disagree." wakasa licked his lips, taking a long look at your figure. "you doin' anything tonight? 'sides sitting here bored as fuck." you turned your eyes to him once more. "what did you have in mind?"

-

wakasa slammed you against the door to your apartment, kissing you urgently as you attempted slipped off your shoes while just a little bit wasted. you weren't wasted enough to see this guy was fucking hot. and as he rubbed up against you, you realized he had plenty to offer. "so fuckin' hot," he sighed as he kissed you, "i wanna be inside you." you groaned as he licked your lip, then plunged his tongue into your mouth. there, you two melded into a rhythm of twisting tongues, sighing, moaning, drawing back for a breath, and then repeating it all over again. of course, this only lasted so long before wakasa grabbed your ass, lifting you up and carrying you to your bedroom and tossing you onto your bed. as he unbuckled his pants, you make quick work of removing your tight-fitting dress. at last, you basked in each other's well-endowed features. as you looked at him, his purple eyes were nearly pitch black with desire. he wants you. and you can have him. like letting go of a rope, wakasa met your body and slid his cock in between your wet folds. his pace was a steady rhythm as he gazed at you, analyzing what make you feel good. "mmm... harder..." you sighed, to which he quickly responded with more aggressive thrusts, causing the bed to whine as he pounded into you. "yes, oh my god, yes," you sighed. he sucked air through his teeth. "fuck, you're so tight. feels so fuckin' good." as his hips rocked into yours, you couldn't take your eyes off him. your fingers found the nape of his neck, where you pulled at the purple and blond strands, eliciting a groan from him. suddenly he stopped. "fuck, not gonna cum yet. wanna make you feel even better." he pushed your body futher up the bed, then spread your thighs until they touched either side of you. slowly, he leaned his head down toward your pussy, his eyes on you. then, he licked a stripe up, teasingly. you couldn't hold back your whimper. a corner of his mouth turned up as he sucked on your clit, then once again licked up your slick, swirling his tongue around your entrance. you felt your pussy getting wetter as he continued to taste you. "tastes so good. lemme see you cum, baby girl." he moves his fingers inside of you, thrusting them in and out of your pussy at such a rapid pace you began moaning. along with it, he removed his tongue, licking what was left on his mouth, and moved his other fingers to rub against your clit, making slow circles. your breathing became shallow, just gasps of air. your mind went completely blank, only able to focus on the sensations he brought with only his hands. and fuck, those hads were like magic. slowly, slowly, the pleasure built up inside of you until you let out a moan, shaking as you orgasmed. as you sighed, calming your rapid breathing, he eyed you up and down. "you don't think we're done, do you? we're just gettin' started." he said, curling his lips in amusement. you huffed out a laugh, "of course, we wouldn't want you leaving without your dick soaked." his mouth twisted downward, as if he was fighting against a smile. "alright then, make me cum."

-

you awoke to light stubbornly illuminating your room through the blinds. thank god you didn't have a hangover. you sighed in contentment. you felt so full. it had been awhile since you'd had sex that good. well, fuck, it was great. out of this world. mind-blowing. you lost count of how many hours you were at it, how many times you made each other cum. all you could remember was the sensation of wakasa inside of you and your mouth around his cock. and goddamn, the wonders he worked with that tongue. fuck, did you get his number? you glanced over to the other side of your bed. predictably, it was empty. well, at least he wasn't expecting some kind of morning pillow talk. better to just fuck and be done with it then sit there talking about your feelings. lamenting your oversight, you lazily walked toward your kitchen, thankful for your coffee maker preprogrammed to make you the good shit without you fucking around with the machine when your mind wasn't yet awake. after taking a few sips of your highly-caffienated, highly-sugar-filled coffee, you noticed a slip of paper on the counter. thanks for the fun night. if your up for it some time again, text me. xxx-xxx-xxxx - wakasa you smiled. at least one of you had your head on straight this morning.

pulling out your phone, you typed out "hey wakasa. it's y/n. definitely down for another night sometime." not two minutes after you sent your message, you heard your phone ding. "glad to hear. free sunday night. your place or mine?" "your place. wanna see if your place is as glorious as mine, with the shitty white paint over the holes in the wall from my landlord. ya know, the luxurious shit you get when you can just barely pay the bills." you replied. "sounds good. here's my address: xxxx xxxx xxxxxxx." you pouted. not a laugh? well, he's not really the "lol" type, you supposed. but why did you even care? maybe just because he doesn't have a good sense of humor - what a piece of moldy cheese. but the sex was good, so even if his personality is moldy cheese (just because he didn't think you were funny) you can put up with him. and did his personality even matter? you guys were just fucking. it's just sex. nothing more.

-

wakasa breathed out a laugh, looking at your text. the corner of his mouth quirked up despite himself, resulting in an eyebrow raise from his unwanted observer. "the fuck you smiling at?" shinichiro asked, grinning. "damn, get off my dick, shin. none of your business." "it's that girl you fucked last night, isn't it?" he said, moving his eyebrows up in down in the most obnoxious way. "well, yeah, we're gonna meet up and fuck again sometime. nothing serious. you're always so interested in making everything sound like some damn romance." wakasa rolled his eyes. shinichiro frowned, replying incredulously, "well, sor-ry for having a fuckin' dream! not all of us can fuck girls left and right." wakasa scoffed. "not my fault your bitchless." "i'm not 'bitchless', i just prefer a girl to like me for more than my cock." shinichiro defended. "it's really not that serious. if you go into it thinking it's gonna be this whole romantic and idealistic shit, it's not. yeah, they want you for your dick. but you want them for their pussy. it works out." it was shinichiro's turn to roll his eyes. "not everyone can just sleep around like it's no big deal. i want someone who likes me for more than just my amazing, gorgeous, sexy body." wakasa shook his head, "well good luck, because you don't even fit that bill either." shinichiro gasped, "shut the fuck up! i can dream, okay?!" with that, he stormed away. wakasa shook his head. shinichiro was always getting his heart broken. how did he not see that keeping things casual was better than wasting your time trying to win someone over for more than just sex? it wasn't worth the time.

-

for the next few weeks, something idiotic was developing in his mind. after those hours of fucking, wakasa found himself wanting to stay. he thought about coming over earlier so he could try your cooking that you bragged about but probably tasted like dog shit. he wanted to watch the stupid movie you were raving about when you stayed up late talking after a few rounds. he spent sleepless nights thinking about the time when you were drunk and told him that he was so sweet behind all his "bad boy" exterior (whatever she meant by that). more than a few times he awoke to dreams of fucking you senseless. but more concerning were the dreams in which you held his hand, gentely smiling at him as you walked toward a street food vendor. it was like, dating shit. he didn't do dates. so why the fuck was he dreaming about corny shit like some walk-around-town time with you? he briefly considering calling the whole thing off. just biting the bullet and texting you he just wasn't feeling it anymore. but then he'd hear his phone ding again, and it was a text asking if he was doing anything tonight. or fuck, sometimes it was just some "cursed image" (as you called it) that made him question your sanity. but also made him smile. like, what the fuck, wakasa? just block her. don't have anything to do with her. you don't need that investment in your life. it was goddamn embarassing how fast he'd grab his phone when he hard his phone ding - hoping it was from you. so he couldn't let go. the sex is too good, he reasoned with himself. he hasn't had this level of physical chemistry with anyone. so, he can't take the chance of hoping to find someone else.

-

as you sat cuddled against wakasa's side, watching the most iconic movie ever (that you forced him into sitting his ass down and watching), you realized something. you and wakasa were... friends. not fake friends were you had to play the part of whatever the fuck he wanted from you. like, genuine friends. you felt you could be - as lame as it sounds - yourself. after the movie ended, you looked up at him. for some reason, an image of him pushing back your hair to kiss your forehead flashed through your mind. but friends didn't do that shit. and neither did hookups. but eh, everyone gets like that sometimes, right?

-

"'m gonna order some food. what kinda rice do you want?" "just get me whatever you're having. don't feel like thinking right now." he laughed. "lazy ass." you grinned at your position on the couch, watching him as he leaned against the dining table. "says the guy who lives his entire life on 'minimal effort mode'." "it wasn't an insult." "damn. here i was thinking you were being a big meanie, but you're just a real sweetheart, aren't you?" he rolled his eyes. "shut up. 'm ordering a bunch of shit because i know you always want egg rolls." "this is true. i'm big back and proud." he shook his head, withholding a grin, much to your amusement.

it was such a stupid moment. he was just ordering food while chatting with you idly. but fuck. he has feelings for you. and not just "i wanna fuck you" feelings. the kinda mushy, lame shit shinichiro was always yappin' about. the kind of shit that made him think of the future rather than always looking toward the past. he wanted to be more than just a fuck-buddy. in some ways, he felt like you already were. but how the hell is he supposed to ask that? the whole "what are we?" sounds dumb. but exposing his true feelings sounded even more foolish. with that, he decided, it's better not to say anything. it'll go away anyway.

-

news flash, your feelings were not going away. and yeah, you knew at this point that things were changing. you looked at him not with soley physical attraction, but also a deep, emotional connection. you felt like you clicked on a whole different level than any of the other guys you'd attempted to date before. it's not like you could help it. wakasa... there was just something so magnetic about him. something inexplicable that drew you to him. that made it impossible to leave him on read. more than a few times you texted until the sun shone through your windows. and it wasn't sexting. it was talking about stupid shit, or sometimes even getting down to a little bit of some of those issues you've been pushing away because it's easier to ignore them than address them and work through all the mountain of garbage you've carried your entire life. you understood each other the way no one else did. falling in love with him - if you dared use that "L" word - seemed like it was set in stone. once you went beyond sex, it was like love was unavoidable. even when you tried to search for reasons to dislike him - any part of him that made you decide was too much of a red flag to have any sort of loss of feelings - you came up empty. sure, he's not perfect, but fuck if he isn't perfect for you. how could you burden him with your feelings? you already knew talking about it would ruin everything. both of you didn't do relationships. how stupid would it be to suggest one?

-

you both lay panting on either side of your mattress. unexpectedly, wakasa asked, "...are you..." he exerted another breath, "seeing... any other... guys?" your eyes widened in surprise. "...not currently... why?" you hated that a part of you desperately hoped that he was jealous. he glanced away from you. "ah, it's nothin'." you sat up on your elbows. "is it really nothing? waka, are you upset?" he shook his head fervently. "nah, no. it's really nothin'." you raised an eyebrow but conceded. "...well, okay. if you say so." wakasa's eyes found your own. and he stared into your eyes like he never had before. like he was studying them. memorizing every color, every outline, every speckle. his eyes darted from your eyes to your lips, then back again. "can i..." he licked his lips, "can i... kiss you?" you let out a small laugh. "you've never asked before." he looked down. "...nevermind." yet, you understood what he meant. asking.... it was different. it meant something. something deeper than just expressing lust and bodily desire. so, you leaned forward, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and pulled him in for a deep kiss. your mouths moved against each other, yet it was delecate. reverent. like both of you wanted to savor this moment forever, rather than pull apart for something as trivial as air. as you parted at last, after a quick breath, wakasa leaned in for a gentle kiss on your mouth. as he parted, his eyes found yours. and you could no longer deny that your hopes were not unfounded. "i love you, waka." he blinked slowly. "i love you, too."

a/n: rahhhh i think this might be one of my favorites. please share your thoughts!

[moonselune]

I don't know of you have done something like this, but if not, could you do scenarios for the dark au where tav gets hurt by someone who wants to take their place? Maybe they think they are unworthy? Adore your writing 😊

Ahhh thank you so much !! This was super fun to write !

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Dark!BG3 | Replacement

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

For: Conqueror!Minthara, MotherSuperior!Shadowheart, God!Gale, Ascended!Astarion, Naturist!Halsin, GrandDuke!Wyll

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

CW: Controlling, manipulation, coercion, forced memory loss, blood, murder, F!reader only noticeable in Wyll's though

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Conqueror Minthara:

The dark silence of the Underdark gardens wrapped around you like a shroud, broken only by the echo of your own hurried footsteps. The recent fight with Minthara had left you frustrated, her possessive nature grating at you until you’d finally stormed off. You knew it would unsettle her; Minthara wasn’t one to let anyone, least of all you, slip from her grasp so easily. Still, you had hoped she’d give you a moment to breathe. As you heard footsteps approaching, you rolled your eyes, assuming she had come after you, too possessive to let even a single disagreement take you from her.

But something felt wrong.

The figure moving toward you was silent, controlled—lacking Minthara’s usual predatory grace. You barely had time to react before you saw a glint of steel, and a sharp pain seared across your side. You stumbled backward, clutching the wound, blood slipping through your fingers. As you looked up, your gaze met with the cold, disdainful eyes of Minthara’s second in command, the drow who had always regarded you with thinly veiled contempt. Her smile was a twisted thing, cold and malicious.

“Surprised?” she sneered, moving closer, her weapon dripping with your blood. “You really thought Minthara would care about some pet who has no place here? I’m going to end this—make it look like you couldn’t handle the Underdark after all. That you tried to escape. Minthara will believe it. She’ll have no choice but to move on.”

A chill ran through you as you realized the depth of her envy. This wasn’t just hatred; it was the envy of someone who despised what you had with Minthara, resenting that Minthara would choose you over anyone else. She stepped forward again, preparing to strike. But before she could make contact, you shoved her back with all the strength you could muster, sending her stumbling.

She staggered, then stopped short as her back hit something solid.

No… someone.

The second-in-command whirled around, eyes widening in horror as she came face-to-face with Minthara herself, who stood in the shadowed path with a deadly calm. Minthara’s gaze was dark, her face set into an expression of quiet, simmering rage that made the air feel even colder. Her eyes flicked from her subordinate’s trembling form to the blood dripping from your wound, taking in the entire scene in an instant.

“It’s not what—” the second-in-command stammered, scrambling for words, but Minthara cut her off with a look that could freeze fire.

“Silence.” Her voice was low, yet filled with an icy fury that sent a shiver down your spine. She reached out with a quick, brutal motion, grabbing her second-in-command by the throat, squeezing hard enough to cut off any attempt at explanation. The drow gasped for air, her eyes wide with terror as Minthara’s grip tightened, her nails digging into the delicate skin of her neck.

Minthara leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper.

“You thought you could lay a hand on what belongs to me? You dared to assume you had any right to touch them?” With a powerful surge, Minthara threw her to the ground, her movements sharp and precise, her eyes blazing with an almost unhinged rage. “You’ll wish for death before I’m done with you.”

The second-in-command lay incapacitated, her body twitching as Minthara’s magic left her unable to move, trapped in a state of suspended agony. Only then did Minthara turn her attention to you, her expression softening slightly as she moved toward you with an almost predatory care. She knelt beside you, her hand reaching out to steady you as she examined the wound on your side.

“You were hurt,” she murmured, a faint trace of anger still lacing her tone, but there was something else, too—a flicker of concern beneath the dark fury. She ran a gentle hand over your wound, applying enough pressure to stem the bleeding, her touch unexpectedly tender.

Despite the pain, you found yourself laughing, a soft chuckle that echoed through the silence.

“I knew you wouldn’t let me out of your sight,” you managed, your voice laced with irony. “Couldn’t lose control over me for even a moment, could you?”

Minthara’s eyes met yours, a dangerous glint in them, but there was something close to satisfaction there too.

“And a good thing it was,” she replied, her lips curving into a dark smile. “Or perhaps I would’ve had to hunt down the fool who thought they could steal you from me.”

Her hand moved from your wound to cradle your face, her thumb tracing your cheek in a gesture that was both possessive and strangely affectionate.

“You belong to me,” she whispered, her voice fierce. “No one else. Don’t ever forget that.”

She helped you to your feet, her arm around your waist, her grip both a support and a reminder of her control. You leaned into her touch, feeling the strength in her hold, the unyielding protection that came with her possessive love.

Behind you, her second-in-command lay helpless, bound by Minthara’s spell, and you knew without a doubt that her fate would be brutal. You didn’t need to watch to know that Minthara’s punishment would be swift and merciless. She would make an example out of her former subordinate, a warning to anyone who dared threaten what was hers.

As Minthara led you back through the garden, her hand firm around you, you felt a mixture of relief and resignation. She had saved your life, yes, but the possessiveness that drove her had been there all along, the dark and consuming love that wouldn’t allow you even a moment of freedom. She had saved you, but it was all to preserve what she saw as hers.

The pain in your side pulsed, but Minthara’s hand remained steady on your waist, her grip almost comforting in its possessiveness. In her twisted mind, her actions were justified. She had protected you, saved you from harm—she would do anything to keep you, even if that meant wrapping you tighter in her control.

As you walked together, you glanced up at her, and for a moment, you thought you saw a hint of something soft in her gaze. But then her expression shifted, her smile dark and triumphant. In her mind, she had won; she had kept you safe, defeated any threat to her claim on you.

And as she led you deeper into her realm, into the shadows where you would remain by her side, you knew that you would always be hers.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Mother Superior Shadowheart:

The courtyard of the cloister was cloaked in the muted gray light of early morning, shadows creeping along the stone walls as you squared off against your opponent. You took in the young Sharran before you, an ambitious acolyte whose eyes gleamed with a familiar hunger—a dangerous mix of ambition and jealousy.

You’d noticed their glances toward Shadowheart, the way they lingered when she walked past, barely concealing the devotion in their gaze. It was almost amusing to you, for no one in this cloister could threaten the place you held at her side. The memory gaps may have left holes in your mind, but your body moved with sharp, instinctual precision, honed through countless battles. You didn’t need memory to remind you that you were one of the best.

You circled each other, fists raised, and the acolyte’s stance was confident, too confident. You could feel the arrogance radiating from them, and it made you chuckle under your breath. They thought they were someone to be feared, someone with the skill to challenge you. And yet, as the fight began, it was clear they had underestimated your reflexes, your raw power.

Blow after blow, you dodged, struck, and blocked with a near-effortless grace that left them seething. It was obvious now they were outmatched, but there was no sign of retreat in their eyes. Instead, their lips curled into a sneer, and they muttered something under their breath—something too low for you to hear, but the bitterness was evident. And then, with a swift, practiced motion, they reached inside their cloak and pulled out a dagger, its blade glinting sharply in the dim light.

You felt a flicker of surprise. This was supposed to be a sparring match, nothing more, and yet they’d brought a knife into the fight. You tensed, muscles coiling as your eyes narrowed on the blade in their hand.

“So,” they taunted, their voice laced with venom, “the Mother Superior’s pet isn’t as sharp as she used to be. Gaps in memory, isn’t it? She doesn’t tell you everything, does she? How does it feel to be kept like a mindless tool, only good for taking orders?” They circled closer, eyes glinting with malicious amusement. “You don’t belong by her side. You’re just… convenient. Nothing more.”

The words stung, gnawing at the back of your mind. It was true that there were holes in your memories, pieces that didn’t quite fit, details that you couldn’t fully recall. But you pushed the thoughts aside, refusing to let them take root. Whatever was missing, whatever had been forgotten, it didn’t matter. You were here, and you were hers. That was all that mattered.

But the Sharran sensed your hesitation, a flash of doubt, and they pressed their advantage, lunging forward with the dagger. You dodged, narrowly avoiding the blade as it sliced through the air, but their relentless attacks began to push you back. You caught glimpses of their smirk, their taunting gaze, as if they were relishing every missed block, every moment of weakness.

And then, in a swift, brutal move, they managed to slip through your guard, the dagger cutting across your arm. You hissed in pain, blood dripping from the fresh wound, and you staggered back, feeling the weight of the fight suddenly shift. They saw the opening, and their eyes lit up with a triumphant gleam. They lunged forward again, the dagger poised for the killing blow.

But just as the blade was about to strike, they stopped—frozen in place, eyes wide with terror. Their limbs were rigid, locked in a stance of helpless fury, and a faint, dark aura shimmered around them. You looked up, following the line of their terrified gaze, and saw her.

Shadowheart stood at the edge of the courtyard, her eyes blazing with fury, her hand raised in a silent spell. With a flick of her wrist, the Sharran acolyte’s head twisted sharply, an audible snap echoing through the air as their body crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

For a moment, the only sound was your own ragged breathing as Shadowheart strode forward, her expression a cold mask of wrath. She didn’t even glance at the fallen acolyte, her focus entirely on you. She knelt beside you, her hands gentle as they traced over the wound on your arm, her fingers glowing with a faint healing light.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice soft, a sharp contrast to the deadly fury she had just displayed.

You nodded, your gaze flicking between her and the lifeless body nearby.

“They… they mentioned something about gaps in my memory,” you said cautiously, searching her eyes. “They said I don’t belong here. That I don’t know the whole truth.”

A shadow passed over her face, and for a moment, her grip on your arm tightened slightly. But then she softened, her fingers brushing over your skin as if to soothe the hurt beyond the physical wound.

“They were just trying to weaken you, to plant seeds of doubt in your mind,” she replied, her voice steady and calm. “Your place is here, with me. By my side. You belong nowhere else.”

She leaned closer, her gaze locking onto yours with a fierce intensity. “The gaps in your memory… they’re a consequence of the life you had before. A life that no longer matters. I saved you from that. I brought you here, to the cloister, where you can be who you’re meant to be. With me.”

The warmth of her magic seeped into your wound, and you felt the pain ebb away, replaced by a comforting numbness. The lingering doubt in your mind was overshadowed by the strength of her conviction, her unwavering belief in the path she had set for you. Shadowheart was your anchor, your guiding star, and you could feel the weight of her possessive devotion wrapping around you, a reminder that whatever had come before no longer held any power over you.

You managed a small smile, nodding as you reached up to brush a hand over her cheek, feeling the coolness of her skin.

“I trust you,” you murmured. “And I’m grateful to be by your side.”

She returned your smile, her gaze softening as she covered your hand with her own.

“Good. Because that’s exactly where you belong.” She cast one last, dismissive glance at the body of the acolyte, her lips curling in distaste. “No one else will threaten you. They don’t deserve to stand in your shadow.”

As she helped you to your feet, her arm wrapped around your waist, guiding you back to the cloister, the doubt faded away entirely. Whatever shadows lingered in your past, whatever memories had been lost, it didn’t matter. You were hers, and she was yours, and no one would ever take that from you.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

God of Ambition Gale:

The dim candlelight of the summoning chamber cast flickering shadows over the cold stone walls, and the air was thick with incense and chanting. You shifted slightly, testing the limits of the runic circle that bound you in place, but every movement was met with an oppressive, invisible force, pressing down on you with unyielding weight.

As the realization settled in, your initial smirk of amusement at this mortal’s audacity faded, replaced by a gnawing unease. It was almost laughable how easily they had managed to capture you; Gale’s control over your divine power left you vulnerable, deliberately kept weak to prevent you from ever fully escaping his grasp. And now, as you felt your strength ebbing, you understood the gravity of your situation.

The follower knelt before you, a zealous glint in their eyes as they recited incantations, their voice laced with fervor. Dressed in elaborate robes, they wore talismans devoted to Gale, symbols of their fanatical devotion etched into every surface of the summoning chamber. The entire place was a shrine to ambition itself, each detail meticulously designed to honor your god—and your captor.

The follower finally lifted their gaze to you, a manic smile stretching across their face.

"You don’t deserve him," they hissed, their tone a poisonous mix of reverence and disdain. "You’re a weak god, nothing more than a hollow vessel given power by him. But me…" They leaned forward, their voice trembling with adoration. "I could worship him in ways you never could. Gale deserves undivided devotion, unbroken ambition. Not… someone as faint and powerless as you."

You opened your mouth to respond, to laugh off their words, but the runes pulsed, and with each pulse, you felt a new wave of your strength drain, seeping out of you and into the lines of the ritual. Your heart sank. This wasn’t just a simple binding. It was a siphoning—a slow, deliberate draw on your power, meant to weaken you enough to fuel the summoning of Gale himself.

They took a step closer, their eyes wide with triumph as they watched the light fading in your eyes.

"How does it feel, I wonder, knowing your own god keeps you shackled like a plaything? To be so close to greatness, yet to never truly be allowed to touch it?" They tilted their head, enjoying your silence, interpreting it as surrender.

And for a moment, there was fear in you. Not for yourself but for the terrible emptiness left behind as your power faded—a hollow reminder of Gale’s relentless control. You knew he saw you as his own, a piece of his ambition that could never exist independently, even as a god. This mortal, in their arrogance, had taken advantage of that very control, and now you were helpless in a way that gnawed at you.

The ritual circle blazed with renewed energy, and the room shook as a presence took form in the air—a dark, powerful force pressing down on everything within the chamber. The candle flames flickered and bowed as if in reverence, and a sudden silence swallowed the chanting, the air itself holding its breath as Gale stepped into the room, his very presence swallowing up all light and sound.

The follower fell to their knees, eyes wide with reverence and ecstasy.

"My lord!" they whispered, their voice filled with adoration as they reached out toward him. "I have shown you my devotion, captured this… pretender, to prove my worth. I am yours, my lord. Take me in place of—"

Gale’s gaze shifted from you to his devotee, a glint of curiosity sparking in his dark eyes as he studied them. His expression was unreadable, his face set into that unsettlingly calm mask he wore whenever he assessed someone who had piqued his interest. For a moment, the acolyte seemed to believe they had earned his favor, their face glowing with hope as they knelt before him.

But then Gale’s eyes narrowed, and a chill swept over the room as his expression darkened.

“You misunderstand your place,” he said, his voice soft, the calm tone belying the fury simmering beneath it. "You, a mere follower, believed yourself capable of taking what is mine?" He took a slow, measured step forward, his gaze never leaving the trembling form before him. "Did you think that capturing a god under my domain would earn my favor? Or did you simply seek to undermine me, thinking yourself worthy of such… ambition?"

The follower’s eyes widened in terror as they tried to back away, words of apology tumbling from their lips, but Gale’s power was already wrapping around them, a dark, suffocating force that held them immobile.

“It seems you lack an understanding of devotion," Gale continued, his voice chilling in its softness. "Let me show you what happens to those who overstep their bounds."

With a flick of his wrist, the follower’s body seized up, their breath catching in their throat as they gasped, unable to move. Gale’s magic seemed to compress around them, their bones creaking as his power slowly crushed the life from them, his face a mask of calm detachment. Their eyes rolled back in agony, their limbs contorting as Gale made his judgment swift and final, using them as an example of ambition misguided.

And then, in a flash, it was over. The follower’s lifeless form crumpled to the ground, leaving a chilling silence in the air.

Gale finally turned his attention to you, his expression softening as he regarded you, though the possessiveness in his gaze was as strong as ever. He stepped into the circle, effortlessly dispersing the runes with a wave of his hand, releasing you from the binding that had held you so helplessly in place. He reached out, fingers brushing over your cheek with a strange tenderness, his touch a reminder of both his power and his control over you.

“Fear not, my muse,” he murmured, his voice rich with dark affection. “No one else will touch what belongs to me. Not even those who worship me.”

You nodded, your head dipping in a gesture of submission, knowing that he would take no other answer. Gale smiled, his thumb tracing your jawline with possessive satisfaction, and he pulled you close, his hand settling at the back of your neck.

“You are bound to me,” he whispered, his voice soft but laced with command. “Your power is mine to grant or withhold, and none shall touch it, or you, without my will.”

And with that, he led you from the chamber, the empty remains of his follower a silent warning to any who dared question the place he had carved out for you in his unyielding ambition. Gale was your god, your captor, and your guardian all in one—and no one would come between you and his dark, consuming love.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Ascended Astarion:

The sunlight was unforgiving, searing down on your skin the instant you were thrown into it. Agony flared as the delicate warding spell that had protected you disintegrated, leaving you exposed to the relentless rays of the sun. Pain consumed you, blinding and unbearable as your flesh burned, blistering and cracking in mere seconds.

You stumbled, gasping as the raw heat seared through muscle and bone. You tried to scream, but your voice died in your throat, choked out by the fire consuming you. The world was blurring in and out, and through the haze of agony, you could make out the blurred silhouette of your attacker, smirking from the safety of the shadows just inside the door, watching with satisfaction as you writhed.

The spawn had been relentless in their ambition, and it was only in that agonizing moment that you finally understood just how deeply their envy ran. They thought themselves worthy of Astarion’s favor, the one destined to be his dark consort, and they had waited for the right opportunity, the chance to strip you of your place by his side.

Your vision dimmed as the fire ate away at you, the edges of consciousness fading. You barely registered the door bursting open again or the cold shadow that swept over you as hands—cold, firm hands—gripped you and pulled you away from the merciless light. The next thing you felt was the cool press of stone beneath you, the oppressive heat gone, and then… nothing. There was nothing but pain and darkness.

Through the haze, you felt something pressed to your lips—warm and metallic, filling your senses with the rich, familiar scent of blood. Instinctively, you drank, the sensation grounding you, soothing the burning wounds with each pull. Slowly, the pain dulled, replaced by a distant, comforting hum. Your senses began to return, the blurry edges of the room coming into focus as you felt the charred skin mending, painfully knitting back together as life returned to your broken form.

As you finally blinked the haze from your eyes, you found yourself staring up at Astarion’s face, his crimson eyes softened with an uncharacteristic tenderness, though his mouth was drawn into a taut line. His hand cupped your cheek as if you were something fragile, his thumb brushing over the fresh, healed skin where burns had marred it only moments ago. He was murmuring softly, words flowing over you in a tone both soothing and possessive, though you could hardly process them in your dazed state.

“It’s all right, my sweet,” he cooed, his voice low and warm as he leaned over you, his face barely inches from yours. “You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone harm you, not like that.”

You blinked, slowly looking past him, only to freeze as the full scene came into focus. Scattered around you were bloodied remains—the spawn, or rather, what was left of them, was strewn across the room. Their limbs had been torn from their body, reduced to a gruesome pile of parts on the cold stone floor. The once-confident smirk you had seen on their face was gone, replaced now by a horrified stillness in their lifeless eyes.

Astarion’s grip on you tightened as he followed your gaze, his expression darkening.

“Oh, don’t waste your energy on them,” he murmured, his tone smooth but edged with a chilling coldness. He tilted your face back to him, forcing your gaze to meet his. “They thought they could take what’s mine, dared to strip you of the protection I gave you, to hurt you. But they forgot one simple thing.”

His hand traced down from your cheek to your throat, where his fingers rested possessively, feeling the steady pulse of your blood.

“You’re mine. Body, soul, and everything in between,” he whispered, his voice a velvet command. “No one else could ever take your place.”

The fear, the agony, the helplessness of moments ago seemed to fade as he held you, his arms wrapped around you with a fierce protectiveness. His fingers stroked through your hair as he continued to murmur assurances, the words as binding as a spell, each one a reaffirmation of your place at his side. There was no room for doubt; in his arms, you were shielded from the pain, shielded from everything but his absolute, consuming devotion.

“They all think they’re special, my dear,” he said, casting a disdainful glance at the remains. “But they’re not like you, none of them. You, my sweet, are the only one worthy of my power, my attention. You belong to me—and I to you.” He smiled, a cold, dangerous glint in his eyes as he brushed a lock of hair back from your face. "And I won’t let anyone interfere with that."

You managed a weak nod, leaning into his touch as he continued to hold you close. The last vestiges of the agony you had endured melted away, leaving only the soft, possessive murmur of his voice, the steady rhythm of his fingers tracing over your skin, as he soothed and calmed you back from the brink. He was your anchor, your constant, and in this moment, his power was a shield around you.

As he held you, the remnants of his wrath still lingering in his gaze, you knew that no one else would ever challenge your place beside him. Astarion had made his stance clear in the most brutal way possible, a warning to any who would dare cross him—and a reminder to you that, no matter what, he would always keep you close, bound to him in his dark, all-encompassing love.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Naturist Halsin:

The grove was quiet, the leaves whispering softly as a gentle breeze passed through, but that night, something felt amiss. Halsin lay beside you, watching the steady rise and fall of your chest as you slept, and assumed you were simply exhausted from the long day spent in the forest. He smiled, pressing a light kiss to your forehead, and closed his own eyes, content to rest with you beside him. But when he stirred from sleep later in the night, something had changed. A low, strangled sound pulled him from his slumber, and in the faint moonlight, he saw your body trembling, the tremors rolling through you like a shiver from the deepest cold.

You weren’t asleep; you were convulsing, and a dark glisten of sweat clung to your brow. Alarm shot through Halsin, who immediately recognized the signs of poison—a potent, slow-working concoction he’d seen used in rare cases within the grove.

His mind raced as he searched for the antidote, pulling it from his stores and carefully administering it, tilting your head back to help you drink, whispering words of encouragement as he steadied your shaking hands.

After a few agonizing moments, the worst of your spasms subsided, and your breathing leveled out. Weak and shaken, you looked up at him with hazy eyes, trying to focus. Halsin kept his gaze soft, filled with concern but tinged with a growing anger simmering beneath. He held you close as you regained your strength, his hand a steady presence on your back.

Once you could stand, Halsin supported you, guiding you from your resting place out into the heart of the grove. Under the canopy of starlit leaves, he called upon the druids, summoning them with a low, commanding tone. His voice reverberated through the grove, uncharacteristically severe, and one by one, the druids gathered in the clearing, forming a loose circle around you both.

Halsin’s protective arm around your shoulders lent you strength as you looked at each of their faces, searching for the one who had betrayed you.

Though your hands still trembled, your gaze hardened as you focused on a single figure at the edge of the circle, a druid whose stance was too stiff, whose eyes averted yours. The poisoner looked back at you, a faint glint of resentment flashing in their eyes before they began to back away, inching toward the cover of the trees. Without hesitation, you raised a shaky hand, pointing directly at them.

"It’s… it’s them," you whispered, your voice weak but sure.

The druid’s face twisted with fear and defiance, and in one swift motion, they turned, making a desperate break toward the edge of the grove, hoping to escape into the shadows.

But Halsin would not allow them to flee. His jaw tightened, his fury coming to the surface in an uncharacteristic, brutal wave. With a single gesture, he summoned thick, thorned vines from the earth.

They erupted from the soil with a life of their own, coiling like serpents as they slithered after the fleeing druid. The vines caught up quickly, wrapping around the traitor’s legs and yanking them down to the ground, winding up over their body with fierce intent.

The thorned vines tightened, digging into flesh, piercing through clothing and skin alike. Blood began to pool, dark and stark against the earthy ground, as the vines tore through, showing no mercy. The grove seemed to hold its breath, watching as the very nature that the traitor had twisted for their own purposes now turned on them. Halsin’s gaze was unyielding as he watched, his expression set, the compassion he usually reserved for his people absent.

The druid let out a strangled cry as the thorns pressed deeper, breaking skin and severing tendons, each tightening coil met with a gory result. Their blood soaked into the earth, nourishing it, just as Halsin had intended, a grotesque reminder of what happened to those who threatened his own. For him, this act was justice—a stark, undeniable message to any who might dare undermine the safety of his grove or his kin.

Finally, as the druid’s life slipped away, Halsin released his hold, the vines loosening and receding back into the ground, leaving only silence and the faint scent of blood on the forest floor.

When it was over, he turned to you, his expression softening as he placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

"You are safe now," he said, his voice a blend of calm and the fierce protectiveness that had driven him to act so ruthlessly. “No one will harm you here again.”

Though you were shaken, you found strength in his touch, nodding as he pulled you close, his embrace as unyielding as the very nature he had summoned to protect you. The grove was a place of sanctuary, of balance—and Halsin had shown that he would stop at nothing to keep it that way, even if it meant spilling blood into the very soil he had sworn to protect.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Grand Duke Wyll:

The opulence of the ballroom shimmered around you, chandeliers casting warm light over the swirling dancers, the ornate fabrics, and glittering jewels. You held your head high beside the Grand Duke, finding solace in the joy of the night despite the whispers that trailed in your wake. Nobles murmured, their words carrying faintly over the music. Most of it you had learned to ignore, but tonight, the gossip felt sharp and unrelenting. Snippets of conversation floated past, just loud enough to reach your ears.

“Can you believe they let her into the ballroom at his side?” one of them whispered with a haughty laugh. “She looks more suited to a servant’s position,” sneered another, their words laced with contempt. You clenched your hands at your sides, taking steady breaths to brush off their malice. But then, their murmurs grew darker.

“I heard the Grand Duke only keeps her around for amusement. How long, I wonder, until he tires of her?” someone murmured, laughing softly. “It would be such a scandal if she were to just… disappear, wouldn’t it?”

Their venomous words stung in a way that you hadn’t anticipated, pressing upon a wound that you had tried to bury. You excused yourself, weaving through the crowd until you found the balcony, stepping out into the cool night air. The stars twinkled overhead, their beauty a quiet comfort against the bitterness of the nobles’ words. You leaned against the balustrade, the city lights below calming you, giving you a moment’s peace. But that peace was short-lived.

Behind you, the same group of nobles had followed, lingering just by the doorway. One of them tittered, their tone thick with false innocence.

“Out here on the balcony, alone?” another mocked, their tone feigning concern. “Careful, dear. You wouldn’t want to lose your balance.”

You turned to leave, but they circled around, blocking your path with thinly veiled malice. Their eyes gleamed with an unsettling intent as they crowded closer, nudging you further out toward the edge of the balcony. Your pulse quickened as your back met the cold stone of the balustrade, the space behind you yawning into open air.

“Oh, no need to look so frightened. We’re simply having a little chat,” one of them cooed, their smirk betraying their intent. They pressed closer, each small movement edging you nearer to the ledge.

Then, a voice rang out, slicing through the tension like a knife:

“Enough.” Wyll’s voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable, sharp edge beneath it that cut the air like steel. The nobles immediately straightened, stepping back from you, their sneers evaporating as they turned to face the Grand Duke himself.

“We were only talking to her, Your Grace,” one of them stammered, their tone suddenly meek. “No harm intended.”

Wyll’s gaze was dark, his eyes smoldering as he took in the scene, his jaw set and expression unreadable. He looked at you, his expression softening for a moment.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice gentler, the protective undercurrent unmistakable. You swallowed, brushing off the fear that had crept in.

“Yes, Wyll. I’m fine,” you replied, trying to steady your voice.

But he didn’t release his hard gaze from the group of nobles before him. His mouth curved slightly, a hint of a chilling smile playing at his lips as he issued his next command: “Jump. Off. The. Balcony.”

The nobles’ eyes widened, shock rippling through their features. One of them dared a weak laugh, disbelief clear in their tone. “Your Grace, we were only—”

Wyll’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of cold steel. “You heard me,” he said, his tone low and final, his gaze unwavering as he pointed toward the balcony’s edge. “If you think it’s amusing to dangle someone on the edge, let’s see how you enjoy it.”

You placed a hand on his arm, trying to dissuade him. “Wyll, it’s not necessary,” you murmured softly. “They were… they were just being cruel.”

He turned to you, his eyes softening as he spoke, but the resolve remained.

“No one threatens what is mine,” he replied, his words more promise than explanation. “No one.”

He looked back at the nobles, who now trembled under his gaze, each one of them calculating their next move. They understood the Grand Duke’s reputation well—his ruthlessness and sadistic side were spoken of in hushed tones among court circles, and none of them were willing to test his patience further.

With shared glances of terror, one by one, they stepped up to the edge, each steeling themselves before casting nervous glances back at Wyll. They preferred to take their chances with the fall than face his wrath.

With a reluctant step backward, the first noble swung a leg over the edge, preparing to lower themselves down rather than leap, followed by the others, each descending with as much dignity as they could muster. Their terrified breaths and grunts of effort echoed faintly as they made their way down to the ground below. Each fall was punctuated with a sickening thud that made your stomach lurch each time.

When the last of them was gone, Wyll turned back to you, his expression softening again. He reached out, brushing a gentle hand against your cheek, his voice lowering to a soothing murmur. “No one will ever make you feel less than what you are, not while I am here. Do you understand?”

You nodded, his touch grounding you, the earlier fear beginning to fade. Wyll wrapped an arm around you, drawing you close, his gaze lingering protectively as he looked back over the balcony, ensuring that no one was there to help any unfortunate survivors, he wanted to let them rot, let the world see what happens to those who threaten what is his.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Okay so no cambions in this, I'm going to add them when I finish their catch ups because I kind of follow a narrative with these and I have not fully fleshed out their narritives yet. Hope you guys enjoyed this ! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[cmdrfupa]

You sat on the edge of the bed, tugging on your socks as the morning sounds kept you awake. An unusually early Saturday morning for the both of you as Toji hummed in the bathroom while you got the last of a large yawn out.

The sunlight slanted in through the half-open blinds and the early chill to the day filled your bedroom as you moseyed to browsed over what to wear in the closet.

In the bathroom with the door cracked open, Toji’s rich, gravelly voice drifted out over the soft hum of the electric razor.

“Gonna be a long day,” he says, the razor going silent as he rinses his face. “That realtor said we’ll see, what… four or five places?”

“Four.” You glance over a skirt and hold it up to you, contemplating before looking in the mirror hanging on the wall. “But you know how it goes. If we don’t find something, we have time. Housing market should remain stable for another 6 months. There’s no rush.”

“Right. But if we don’t start wrapping things up, Megumi’ll be in college and Tsumiki’ll be visiting with a grandkid before we settle anywhere.” He lets out a low chuckle, warm and amused.

It didn’t register just how much time had passed until Toji realized he’d hit the goal amount to buy a house. 3 years of playing house and marrying turned into being worried about if a house will have proper irrigation systems that will last.

There’s a brief clatter, then the faucet comes on full blast as he rinses off the last of the shaving cream. “Speaking of which, you ready for those college visits?”

You laugh, slipping on your blouse and buttoning it up. “Ready, yes. Prepared? Not a chance. You know he wants to tour every campus in this province and a few overseas. He’s keeping you on your toes.”

“Kid’s got ambition,” Toji says, amusement lacing his voice. “Wonder where he gets it from.”

You can picture him leaning forward to scrutinize himself in the mirror, the way he sometimes squints as he checks for stray stubble along his jaw. Groaning at the small patch of gray he shaves off first every single time.

It’s one of those everyday scenes you never quite get tired of. He’s steady, predictable in his habits, but there’s an ease in the familiarity.

“So, what’s the dream house, huh?” he asks after a pause. There’s a hint of something lighter in his tone, playful almost. “Big yard for maybe another kid to practice in, good schools, fancy kitchen for you?”

“A quiet neighborhood would be nice.” you say, tugging on your jeans. “And, yeah… I wouldn’t mind a spacious kitchen.”

Toji snorts, as the idea of him caring about school districts is somehow amusing. “Skipping over the yard part? Come on, what’s one more kid? A little mini me running around. Would be nice.”

You laughed grabbing your belt, pulling it through the loops as you stepped out in the bedroom. “Let’s get the house first. Then we can discuss having a kid with your big head and features. Sound good?”

“Guess we’re going full domesticated life now, huh? Yard sales on Sundays? Book club on Tuesdays? Starting to think you’re losing your touch, pretty lady.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes even though he can’t see it. “You’d love it. Don’t even pretend.”

A beat later, Toji steps out into the bedroom, adjusting the collar of his dark red polo. The sleeves were fitted just enough to hint at the broadness of his shoulders, the solid strength of his arms bulging. The deep red complemented his dark hair perfectly. His khakis hug his waist and tapered down, showing off the powerful lines of his legs and the definition there—he looks effortlessly good, a little rugged but undeniably refined.

He catches you looking, his lips curving into a sly, knowing grin. “Like what you see?”

“Your ass.. Jesus,” you tease back, though your eyes are unabashedly admiring. The camel colored pants fit him like a glove. The way they accentuated his thighs made you want to scream. “Since when do you go for khakis?”

“Hey, I clean up nice.” He closes the distance between you in two easy strides, dropping a casual hand on your shoulder. He gives a slight squeeze before letting his fingers trail down your arm.” I bought them from that wholesale store. You know the one with the family size peanut butter?”

“The one that you single handedly empty out for your thick ass smoothies?”

“That’s the one.” Toji squeezes your rear and winks. “Anyway, figured I’d match the high standards. Realtors are probably used to dealing with rich types. Gotta look the part, right?”

“Eh. If nothing else, you’ll charm them into knocking down the price.”

He chuckles, bending down just enough to press a quick, lingering kiss to your forehead then your lips.” I’m starting to think you married me for my looks and devilish charm.”

“For the last time, Toji,” you gently wiped his chest, loosening the wrinkles before. “Yes. I did.”

He picked you up with ease, laughing as he wrapped your legs around him. “You’re unbelievable. And I thought you loved me.” Toji laid you on the bed, kissing your neck and holding your waist letting your pleas and laughter warm him up inside. “Am I just a scary dog and eye candy for you?” He teased.

“You’re much more than that. Great support system, incredible cook, inhumanely patient.” You ran your fingers over the nape of his neck as he hovered over you. “Hefty wallet when you aren’t losing during horse racing season.”

“I don’t lose often… anymore.” His lips curled into a boyish smile as he helped you sit up on the edge of the bed. He grabbed your shoes, lacing them on you before helping you stand. “Now. Let’s go get your dream house, baby doll. It’s been a long time coming.”

“Let’s go get it, baby boy.”

There was always something grounding about the routines you had together. Those quiet moments where you planned for the future with the same unhurried certainty that he shaves with, that he presses his lips to your skin with.

The thought of the three of you wandering through endless corridors of empty houses, each one holding the promise of a new start, filled you with a gentle anticipation.

And no matter where you ended up, it was always going to feel home if you had one another.

[ninetqs]

lesbian lestappen oh my god you've written SUCH an excellent little brainworm i am never going to stop thinking about them tysm <33

here's all of what i wrote for it (unfinished) just for you anon (unfinished) (did i mention it will never be finished) 6k words. some of those words are nsfw so be warned

Charles barely has time to rip her helmet off before Jenson’s grinning face fills her vision.

She’s seen this scene before. Twice, actually. And neither time did she see it directly from the sidelines; she watched the post-race interviews later, once she was back in her apartment and thoroughly wasted. 

Jenson, with all the bright-eyed joy and energy only someone not strapped into a car for hours could have, thrusts a microphone into her hand. His eyes practically sparkle.

“Charles, congratulations!” His hands flail a little, a gesture that looks like it wants to be a hug but doesn’t quite have the nerve. She manages an apologetic smile. Under different circumstances—sans camera and crowd—she’d probably take him up on it. He knows it too. “How are you feeling?”

She’d rehearsed this answer in her head a hundred times, crossing the finish line, and yet now, with Jenson in front of her, the script has evaporated.

“I am…” She shifts the mic awkwardly between her fingers, and it feels heavier than it should. “Overwhelmed. Happy. So, so happy.” She breathes in deep, trying to ground herself, though it’s no use. The adrenaline’s still surging, refusing to let go. When she looks up again, Jenson’s nose is scrunched, his smile all shaky like he’s seconds from tears. Cute, she thinks distantly. “We—the team—have worked for years for this moment. Hoped for it. To see it come true is a dream.”

It’s not the polished, eloquent answer she wanted, but it’s something. Her skin’s slick with sweat, her pulse still hammering. She should be forgiven for not having it all together. If anyone deserves a pass, it’s her.

Jenson bobs his head, a blur of motion. “I can only imagine,” he says, enthusiasm practically bubbling over. His grin is infectious, pulling a tired but genuine smile from her. “You didn’t look nervous at all out there.”

“Of course, I was very nervous, but—” Charles falters, the words forming a knot in her throat. It’s impossible to articulate this feeling. Jenson knows—he’s been there, lived it—but the fans, they deserve to understand. “Once I got into the car, though, I didn’t think about anything else. Even if the race seemed uneventful, I couldn’t let my focus slip, not for a second. Especially not on this track. But then, in those last few laps… my mind started to wander. To Jules, and my father…”

She glances sideways at the camera, wondering if the vultures online will feast on this—call her an attention-seeker for dredging up the dead. But it’s the truth, isn’t it? 

Again, Jenson nods, hanging onto her every word.

“Being the first Monégasque to win here at home—just incredible,” he says, laughing a little. “And with the weight of all that pressure? Wow.” Charles feels the heat in her cheeks, letting the praise sink in, filling her up like water on dry earth. Then, cruelly, he adds, “Plus, being only the second woman after Max? Your family must be doubly proud.”

A chill runs down her spine, something inside her curling up, shrinking into itself.

Max. Always Max, like a shadow she can’t outrun.

“I hope so,” she manages, clutching the microphone tighter. “And I hope I can do it again next year.”

Not entirely unprecedented, then. She takes in the crowd and reminds herself that at least Max will never have the support of the entire nation. 

It leaves a bitter sting in her mouth nonetheless.

-

Three years ago, Charles spent her Sunday evening after the Monaco Grand Prix curled up in her bed with a giant tub of ice cream and a twitchy finger that kept tabbing between fifteen different YouTube videos. Some were of random stuff to take her mind off the race, others were of the race her mind refused to let go of. One was called Funny Charlotte Leclerc Monaco Compilation. A handful were interviews of people who actually finished the race. Unfortunately, she spent the most time watching those.

She popped open a bottle of wine Pierre had given her years ago when she reached Max’s. She can distinctly recall the sweet taste of plums down her throat as she listened. 

“How does it feel to be the first woman to ever finish the Monaco Grand Prix?” the interviewer had asked. Maybe it was Jenson. It could have been Rosberg. Her memory of that day is fuzzy.

It was windy out, but Max’s hair stayed stuck to her red cheeks, making her look like a cherry. She had answered in a joke like she always did. “I’m the first woman to win at many tracks, it never gets old.” She laughed, and waved her hand. “No, no, but more seriously, Monaco is a very historic place, of course, so…” Charles tuned out after that. 

Historic, yes. But not home. Max might live in Monaco—Charles sees her against her will sometimes, at the grocery store or the gym—but it will never be her home. 

Then, unimaginably: 2022 was even worse.

Charles didn’t even bother with the wine that night. The bottle sat untouched as she pulled out the small box stashed under her bed, the one filled with things Andrea would have a coronary over if he ever found out. She got high enough to see colours she didn’t know existed, hoping to blur the sharp edges of another disappointment. 

And still, through all the haze and frustration, Max remained unaffected. Well, not entirely unaffected—Max had sent her a text, asking if she was okay, if she wanted to go out, do something to take the edge off. It was thoughtful, even kind, but all Charles could think was: I’d rather you care about the race than about me. 

Who gives a damn if Charles is the second woman to win anything, when the first woman doesn’t care at all about keeping track? It makes Charles furious, how effortlessly Max shrugs off everything that matters to her. It’s easy for Max, of course. Easy to be nonchalant about records when you’re winning all the time. Meanwhile, Charles claws her way to pole by the skin of her teeth and more hours in the sim than she can count.

Now, standing in the chaotic, neon-lit depths of Jimmy’z, two tall glasses of something fruity already down, she’s still thinking about Max. The absurdity of it stings. It’s embarrassing, if anything.

“Charles, another!” Joris shouts, shoving a third glass at her. The second one is still in her other hand, empty. “You are not allowed to zone out, not today!”

Charles smiles, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude towards her friends. 

“Take this one back at least,” she jokes, and shoves the empty glass towards him. “Get yourself another too and we will drink them together!” 

Joris grins. “Sure, princess.”

Charles huffs, but the effect of the alcohol on her mood can’t be understated; she doesn’t feel more than a stir of annoyance at the nickname. 

It’s fine if her friends say it. They love her. They’re happy for her. They care that she’s the first woman to win the Monaco Grand Prix and not be in a Red Bull. That, and the thousands of fans who cried for her today, are who matters.

-

By the time Charles and Joris are done, they’ve probably downed enough alcohol to fill an entire bathtub. She can barely stand on her own by the time they leave, her legs wobbling like they’ve forgotten how to hold her up. Andrea tuts softly and hooks an arm around her to guide her back home. Her feet, suddenly aware of their existence, throb painfully with every step, and she winces. Andrea keeps giving her sharp little pinches to keep her from nodding off mid-walk.

“Water,” he commands, sliding a tall glass across the kitchen counter once they’re inside. Charles slumps into a chair, the effort of just sitting upright making her feel like she’s run another race. “And painkillers for tomorrow.”

“Those don’t even work,” she mutters, her words slurring slightly. “You know that.”

Andrea rolls his eyes in that way he always does when she’s being difficult. “Drink the water, then. I’ll text everyone and let them know you’re still alive.”

Of course she’s alive. She’s a Formula One driver. She drives really fast cars for a living. Like, really fast. A few litres of alcohol? Please. That’s nothing compared to what she does on the track. 

In fact, she feels fantastic. A strange, buoyant kind of euphoria settles over her, and she can’t even remember why she was pissed off earlier.

“This is amazing,” she tells Andrea, almost giggling at how brilliant it all seems now.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, ruffling her hair with a half-amused sigh. “To bed with you, champ.”

Charles stumbles through her nightly routine with Andrea watching over her like a prison guard. By the time she gets the toothbrush in her mouth, her awareness of him fades into the background. The minty aftertaste hits her like a freight train—far too intense—and she pulls a dramatic face that has Andrea snorting with laughter.

“You won today,” he reminds her, his voice soft but firm, as if grounding her in the moment as she sits on the edge of her bed in freshly donned pajamas. “You fucking won, Charles. You don’t need to dream tonight.”

Charles hums, a sleepy, noncommittal sound, her body already too heavy with exhaustion to respond properly. The next moment, she’s out cold.

-

Monaco is a very small place. Charles goes grocery shopping and sees Lando picking out bananas. Charles goes to the gym and comes face-to-face with George’s attempts at a thirst trap. Charles drags her friends to the movies and the person in front of her in the popcorn line is Kevin. 

Charles exits her apartment, and two seconds later she’s staring at Max. They’re in the middle of a sidewalk, for fuck’s sake.

“Charles,” Max greets. Her tone is as unreadably affable as always. “I’m surprised you aren’t still hungover.”

“Hah,” Charles forces a laugh. She only drank on Sunday night. It’s Wednesday. “I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

She already knows what Max will say before she says it. “I didn’t ask,” with a shrug and a good-natured grin. “Where are you headed to?”

Charles glances down at herself. She’s in her running clothes: headband to soak sweat, cotton white shorts for easy movement. It’s pretty obvious where she’s headed to.

“Pier,” she answers anyway, because she’s nice. 

Max’s face lights up. “I’ll join you.” 

She doesn’t look dressed for a run. Charles would bet a hundred euros Max had been on her way to the grocery store. But she can’t say no without seeming rude, so she just nods.

“Okay.”

The jog to the pier is uneventful, save for a few people pulling out their phones to snap videos of them running side by side. Charles feels the weight of Max’s gaze on her back, a persistent itch she can’t shake, but at least Sylvia will be happy. Free PR, if nothing else.

When they stop in a quieter area, Max wipes sweat from her brow, raising her arm just enough to flex her bicep. Charles isn’t sure if it’s on purpose, but it feels deliberate.

“I haven’t seen you around,” Max says, her tone conversational, like it’s perfectly normal to expect to run into each other daily.

“I’ve been busy,” Charles replies. It’s true, at least. “Celebrating, and then resting.”

Max nods, but there’s something unreadable in her expression. “Looked like a fun party, Sunday night.”

Ah. Charles should’ve seen this coming. She should’ve lied, avoided this little jab of pettiness. She bites the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay calm.

“It was,” she says lightly, not giving Max the satisfaction. “All my friends and family were there. Even my mother.”

She watches Max’s expression flicker just the tiniest bit, but it’s enough. Small victories.

“Is the Prince of Monaco your family now?” Max’s brows lift.

“Obviously not. He is just—supportive.” 

Max doesn’t seem to notice. Or, more likely, she just does not care. “It must have been quite the celebration then. A win in Monaco, the Prince attending...”

“Yes, it was.” Charles wipes sweat from her forehead, wishing she could wipe away this conversation too.

Max’s eyes linger on her, bright blue in the sun. “You didn’t think to invite me?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” Charles says.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Max tilts her head, seeming genuinely puzzled.

Charles pinches the bridge of her nose. “You didn’t want to party the last time I won.”

“That was two years ago,” Max points out, unhelpfully.

The statement pierces through the little threads of patience Charles still has like a needle through fabric. She digs her nails into her palms to stop herself from balling her fists. Don’t do something you will regret.

“Alright,” she says, the word clipped. “I apologise, then. I should have asked.”

“Why are you mad at me?” Max asks, instead of saying anything normal like it’s okay or no problem.

Charles rolls her eyes this time. She can’t help it. “I’m not mad, Max.”

“You are.” Max’s relaxed tone finally snaps. Her thick brows furrow, concern etching lines into her forehead. “You’re like this sometimes after this race—after Monaco, but I thought since you finally won this year, you would be happy.”

“I am happy,” Charles bites out. Again, not a lie. “I am very happy, actually, and I don’t think you know me well enough to say otherwise.”

Max goes quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, it’s slower, measured. “Well,” she says carefully, “as I’ve tried to tell you before, I’d like to know you better.”

“Putain,” Charles spits, her cheeks going bright red. 

There’s almost certainly someone filming them right now, tucked away on a balcony, phone raised, ready to capture their moment for TikTok. The video will get clipped, stitched, dissected. The comments will roll in: Charlotte Leclerc is so arrogant lol, how does she have the audacity to yell at the only other woman in the sport? Especially when Verstappen is a three-time WDC and Leclerc barely has six wins! Laughing emojis, rolling eyes, the works. She can already picture it.

“I am not having this conversation, Max,” she says, voice stiff and low. 

“Why not?” Max openly frowns now. “You’ve been avoiding me for days—”

“You are not so important to me that I have to go out of my way to avoid you,” Charles laughs, somewhat in disbelief.

“Yeah, okay,” Max scoffs. “We live like a block apart from each other, but I haven’t seen you in a week. Not to mention you normally—”

Charles cuts her off with, “Good talk. See you in Canada.”

“Oh my god, Charles, will you just—”

Charles turns on her heel and jogs back the way they came. After two blocks, she glances over her shoulder and finds Max isn’t in sight anymore. 

She allows herself a measure of relief by exhaling without feeling like her chest is about to cave in.

Fucking Max, she swears in her head, and isn’t that the problem?

-

Max is not very clingy. They rarely talk outside of work, and Max never seeks her out on purpose. They cross paths by chance, yes—often at that, but Max would never stoop so low as to show up at her hotel doorstep begging for attention. 

What Max is is affectionate. Touchy, more like, given that there’s little actual affection in it. When Charles happens to be near, Max will touch her just because. A hand around her waist or fingers digging into her shoulder. 

Or like now: squished together in a booth at the dinghy club Lando dragged them all to, to celebrate his second win. 

Charles isn’t exactly in a celebratory mood given everything that’s happened recently, but Pierre requested she come and she can’t say no after bailing on the post-Silverstone festivities. There’s only so many parties one can miss before people start nagging.

The high from winning Monaco wore off just as quickly as it came, but so did her annoyance. Now, seeing Max’s smile doesn’t make her fume, at least not beyond its normal extent. 

“Another?” Max asks, nudging Charles in the side. Charles blinks at her, dazed and overwhelmed by the pounding music reverberating throughout the room. She’s pretty sure Lando took over the DJ booth, and it shows. “A drink,” Max clarifies.

“Oh.” Charles says, looking down at the empty glass in her hand. She hadn’t even realised it was empty. “Sure.”

Max waves someone over and shoves the empty glass towards them. Charles watches the movement of her hand and thinks about how unfair it is that Max’s hands are two centimetres wider than hers. It must affect her grip strength, make it easier for her to hold the wheel. 

“I’m glad you’re not mad at me anymore,” Max says, chuckling as her hand drifts to rest on Charles’ thigh, right where her dress ends. The touch is casual, almost too casual, and Charles feels a prickle of irritation despite herself. “Even though I still don’t know why you were mad.”

“I wasn’t mad,” Charles lies for what feels like the twentieth time.

“Sure,” Max says, a playful glint in her eyes, her hand still resting exactly where it was.

It’s like being back in that alley again—the heat rising to Charles’ cheeks, spreading too fast, too obvious. She can already feel the flush creeping up her neck, but at least the dim, awful lighting in the club might pass it off as alcohol instead of what it really is: embarrassment.

Max knows her too well. She leans in, close enough that Charles can feel her breath on her neck, waiting. Waiting for her to give in, to glance back, to react to how casually Max is touching her in the middle of a club with half the grid and their partners milling around.

“Max—” Charles sighs, her voice low, strained. “Not in public.”

Max’s hand slides off like it was never there, her laugh light and breezy. “Okay, okay,” she says, amused. “I’ll let you drink a little more. Maybe that’ll help get that stick out of your ass.”

Before Charles can snap back, the server arrives, placing two tall glasses of something pink and syrupy on the table. Max grins and hands one to her without missing a beat.

“Let’s just drink,” Charles mutters, her patience running thin. If she’s going to have to deal with Max and her casual provocations tonight, she’d rather not do it sober.

Max’s grin widens, all easy confidence as she lifts her glass in a mock toast. “Cheers, baby.”

Charles clinks her glass against Max’s with a grimace and a pooling heat between her legs.

-

It was always “princess” when she was younger, but not the flattering kind. When they called her that, they meant to dismiss her, to belittle her. You’re too pretty to belong here. You don’t really want this. They couldn’t stomach how well she drove, so they pinned her success on everything else. Her father, Jules—it surely had to stem from them, as if her talent were just a product of her surroundings rather than her own blood, sweat, and tears.

No matter what she did, how well she performed, it was always too pretty, too privileged, too lucky.

Until the wins started piling up. Then “princess” took on a new flavour, but it still didn’t taste any better. Now it’s said with a smile, a nod to how perfect she looks even after hours in the cockpit. Her dimples, her curls that never seem out of place, her lashes that stay long and dark. 

There’s only one person who can get away with saying it without lighting that spark of irritation.

“You are such a princess,” Max says with a chuckle, her eyes dropping to the bright red panties Charles is wearing. Still, somehow, despite Max’s best efforts.

“Not everyone fancies going commando in public,” Charles huffs, though her cheeks betray her.

“I wasn’t judging. I think they’re cute.” Max pinches the edge of the fabric between her fingers, pulling lightly at the hem. “They’ll look even cuter around your knees, though.”

Charles rolls her eyes, but the flush deepens. “Just get on with it before I change my mind.”

Max doesn’t hesitate. Her hands are strong as she lifts Charles by the thighs, positioning her with ease, before yanking at her panties with a deliberate roughness. The seam catches against her skin, sending a sharp jolt through her, heat pooling low in her belly, spreading like wildfire up toward her chest.

Months of dancing around each other, teasing, resisting. And for what? To give in so easily?

She squirms under Max’s gaze, feeling exposed, too open, laid out on the scratchy hotel bed. But exposed is exactly how Max likes her. There’s no question about that.

“You’re very pink down here,” Max observes. “Little princess with her princess parts.”

Charles swings a leg over Max’s shoulder, a warning more than a real kick. “You are so annoying,” she says through gritted teeth. “You can put your tongue to better use, no?”

“Your wish is my command,” Max drawls, and lowers her head to do exactly that.

-

Monza is glorious, and it’s easier to drown her own trepidations out among the roar of the Tifosi. Charles is on top of the world as she hoists the P1 trophy, basking in the elated cheers of the crowd.

As she stumbles off the podium, Carlos wraps her in his arms and presses their wet foreheads and noses together. Carlos squeezes her ribs tight enough to bruise. She can’t find it in herself to mind. Charles has to pull away lest someone get the wrong idea, half-laughing as they nearly tumble onto the green.

“You did it!” he shouts.

“I did it!” she shouts right back.

The team hoists her up for photos, and the noise never stops. People rush around her—a wave of hands and congratulatory touches—and she’s almost overwhelmed by the love and admiration emanating from them.

She feels like a god, almost. It’s a terrible, arrogant comparison, but it’s true. She’s transcendent. Her supporters cry, they weep, they break down into tears of joy on the grass as they sink to their knees. What kind of power does a person have to make someone fall to their knees in ecstasy? Not in bed, but over a fucking sport? She would know.

After the interviews and the onslaught of media and congratulations comes Max. There’s no hesitation as Max walks toward her across the bar. Charles feels that same rush, but this time, she doesn’t push it down.

“You won again,” Max states. Simple. Not quite soft. Just an observation of the obvious.

“Yes,” Charles affirms.

“A little iffy if you only win at your own tracks,” Max teases.

Over Max’s shoulder, she sees Alex shoot her a look. A look that says don’t rise to the bait. Just ignore her.

But if I don’t bite, I will never win, is what she said to Alex in a darkened bathroom before the press started to arrive, shoulder to shoulder at the sinks as Charles washed her hands.

What will it be, when Max loses a championship? When Charles doesn’t just take pole, take a win, but something far greater? Will Max still want Charles after she gets it?

She needs to savour it while she can. She deserves it, tonight. Deserves all of it, more than anyone has ever wanted to let her have.

“There’s no ‘if,’” she tells Max.

“Touché,” Max hums. Her lips crook, and a slow, vicious shudder of anticipation roils through Charles, to the marrow of her bones. “You’re probably eager to celebrate. Am I allowed to join in on the festivities this time?”

Max’s words are so measured, so controlled, but Charles knows better than anyone how much that mask holds back.

“You seem to be the eager one,” Charles says pointedly.

“How could I not be?” A hand settles on her arm. It feels familiar. Max leans closer so that no one else hears what they whisper to her. “You know what happens when you win. Your cheeks get all pretty and red. That’s my favourite look on you.”

“Such a charmer,” Charles says, voice hoarse. The glass she’s holding sits between them, and a gentle touch from Max guides it to her lips. The cool glass presses up to her mouth and Max’s lips brush her ear. Max’s cologne, perfume—whatever it is—slithers in through her nose, and it’s sharp, tangy, like a fresh spritz on a hot neck.

Charles closes her eyes. It would be easy enough to steal a kiss. No one is paying them much attention anymore; not even Alex.

Just as she’s about to do something stupid, Max pulls away and smiles at her.

“My hotel is nearby?” she says, sounding so unabashedly hopeful that Charles can’t even make fun of her for it.

“I think I’m needed here,” she whispers back.

Max’s lips twist into a pout. “I guess so.” She sighs. “Maybe later?” Charles watches her fingertips, follows their slide down her chest, away from her chin. “If that’s—If you’d like.”

It’s not quite a stutter, but for someone with double her wins this season, it’s awfully hesitant.

“Later,” Charles promises, and waves Alex over, finally.

-

Max’s tongue is sharp in ways that aren’t limited to her words. No matter how many times this happens, Charles is always surprised by how deftly she works her, mouth hot on Charles’s thigh.

“Let me—” Charles thrashes, but Max’s arm is secure around her stomach. “Let me, fucking—not like this,” she whines.

She hates it when Max makes her come before Charles can put so much as a hand on her. It feels a bit like she’s losing at something. Even though Max always insists she’s happy on her knees, Charles doesn’t buy it. Nothing feels better than being worshipped.

Max, predictably, ignores her and pushes a third finger in, her tongue tracing a slick pattern up her belly. “You come best when you have a little bit of a hard time with it,” she says.

“Fuck you—”

Max’s palm grinds against her clit, and Charles grunts. When she glances down between her legs, Max has a cheeky grin in place.

“I’ll fancy my chances with that,” Max replies easily, and nips Charles’ inner thigh like a cat. Charles throws her head back and moans.

There will never be enough time. Not enough to catch her breath fully while her heart races like a jackrabbit, and certainly not enough to do everything she wants to Max.

“Roll onto your stomach and spread your legs.”

Charles obeys without thinking. The first orgasm rolls through her when Max pulls at her hair, grinding her own cunt against Charles’ hips, dripping onto her. Then the second comes after Max forces her head down and rims her, the thumb on her asshole sending shudders through her whole body.

She never gets Max on her back that night.

-

Mornings after are Charles’ least favourite part of this, probably. This isn’t a concept she can touch without being burned, but somehow that’s only worked to entrench the fever in her skin more deeply.

Max’s hotel room is predictably fancy, and Charles gazes around it now, with Max still dozing off beside her. She looks like a curled-up bear. There’s something small and appealing about her sprawled on the sheets like this—something different to her larger than life presence on the podium, or on the track.

Charles slips out of the bed without jostling her, somehow. Quietly, she tiptoes naked through the room, and tries to find something of hers in the piles of clothes. Her bra goes on first. She fishes her panties out from between the bed and night stand, where they’d been tossed aside and forgotten. They’re a lost caught; her jeans go on commando.

As she’s slipping on a sock, something hefty and warm wraps around her middle, nearly knocking her off her feet.

“You should know better than to bend over in front of me,” Max says.

“Good morning,” Charles huffs, standing up properly. She lets Max turn her around, and she tries not to let her face flush when she gets a face full of Max’s bare tits. “I have a meeting in an hour, just so you know.”

“A virtual one, I assume,” Max says. “An hour is a long time.”

She looks down the bridge of Max’s nose. Charles’ fingers hover up against the muscles of her chest, almost touching.

“Not when it comes to you,” she says.

Max doesn’t even bat an eyelash, just smiles. “For breakfast, Charles. Not sex.”

Inside Charles, anticipation simmers. For the food, naturally. “Well, hurry up then.”

Max doesn’t waste time in calling for room service. Charles takes care to stay quiet in the background, careful not to let the staff member on the other end get any juicy gossip about there being a woman in Max’s room at seven in the morning. When she hangs up, Max prowls towards her again. The kiss she plants on Charles’ lips is just long enough to make heat bubble and spit at the bottom of Charles’s stomach. Soon, Max’s fingers are tangled in her hair and her tongue is in her mouth. Just the suggestion of Max’s breasts up against Charles’ makes her breathing unsteady.

“Already?” Max murmurs, amusement colouring her words. “You do have stamina, I’ll give you that.”

“You started it,” Charles accuses.

“Can’t blame me for being greedy,” Max points out, as her fingers trail down to Charles’ chest. Charles wishes she hadn’t found the bra, now. “We don’t usually get mornings.”

Charles thinks about what Max said at the pier. I’d like to know you better. Here, with the morning sun coming in, she feels closer to letting Max take a crack. “Better make the most of it, then.” Not an invitation, just a quip.

The food comes after a few minutes of frantic, slightly delirious making out. Max releases her and goes to the door to answer, taking care to wrap her towel completely around her torso.

[sungbeam]

𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 — part one

nonidol!ji changmin x f!reader

messing around with demonic rituals isn't exactly how you imagined getting bound to changmin's soul. (note to self: salt circles don't work when you draw the pentagram inside it...)

▷ genre, warnings. f2l, technically a college au, demon au (it's different from night terrors i swear. also it's not as intense lol), comedy, suspense/mystery, swearing (a lot... sorry 😭), drinking, low fantasy/supernatural elements, mentions of chronic illness, mentions of rituals and pentagrams, self induced soulmates? 🤔 but ofc 😂, kissing, mentions of blood, very small amount of violence (like one scene), what is a mfking slow burn like who needs to take their time w falling in love i sure don't 🤷🏻‍♂️, one allusion to death

▷ part word count. 16.3k out of 34.8k / read part two here

▷ inspired by. incantations (composed by richard meyer) it's not like,,, the fic's "soundtrack" or anything. i just think it sounds cool lol

this is my submission for deoboyznet's boyz who bite event! HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

a/n: i'm telling u that i resisted the idea of another demon changmin au for ONE WHOLE MONTH. i went through THREE OTHER IDEAS BEFORE FALLING BACK ON THIS DRAFT. I SWEAR. so pls reblog + comment + enjoy! :') and thank u to @justalildumpling as usual for reading this for me 😭💖

PART I: THE CATALYST

THERE WERE WORSE WAYS TO GO OUT, you supposed. However, the paranormal wasn't often a subject you frequented, so sitting atop an ashy-white pentagram wasn't exactly how you expected to be spending a Friday night.

“Changmin, you're always hooting about this shit,” Juyeon said as he peered over his shoulder at the boy lurking in the far corner of the living room. “Are you seriously all bark and no bite?”

No one really paid attention to Changmin's response besides you and Juyeon (kind of—he was busy lighting the candles). Technically, it was a new behavior; Changmin was usually the one obsessed with horror movies and the paranormal, constantly getting you all to participate in Halloween horror nights and haunted houses, and bringing his beloved (cursed) Chucky doll to any and every group movie night. But now that you were finally acting on his demonic big talk, all of that stuff and nonsense dissipated like the snuffing out of a candle.

A shadow fell across his face. “I already warned you guys. This isn't something you should be toying around with.”

“It's a Ouija board—what could go wrong?” Shuhua wrinkled her nose as she began tapping out a circle of salt around your body and the pentagram on the floor. “I saw them on sale at Toys R Us for half off.”

Because you were the last one to arrive tonight, you were chosen as the sacrifice. It wasn't really fair because this was literally Juyeon and Changmin's apartment, but it didn't matter much in the end. You didn't believe in this stuff and it wasn't your salt being wasted. (You were also exempt from venmoing Hyunjae a portion of the paycheck he spent buying candles and chalk. Save fifteen bucks and sit on a pentagram in a salt circle? Why the fuck not.)

“Don't we need to draw blood or something?” you asked, half joking.

“No.” Changmin's expression somehow grew even darker. Your eyes widened slightly; you'd never seen him so serious. “Absolutely not. Do you want this to turn out worse?”

“Changmin, dude, you gotta chill, man.” Hyunjae dumped the Ouija board he'd dug out of his parents’ attic onto the floor next to you, just outside the salt circle.

Shuahua squawked. “Oy! You're ruining my perfect circle!”

“Just redo it, dumbass!”

“You redo it, asshat,” she growled back, tapping out some salt to finish it.

Juyeon, as if to placate your friend, said to Changmin, “The salt will protect her.”

You blinked. “Oh, that's what it's for?” You could've sworn that was what the candles were for, but again, you didn't believe in this, so why would you know a thing about it?

Changmin's face hit the palms of his hands with a resounding slap. “Absolutely not. You can't have Yn in the circle if she doesn't even know what the Hell is going on.”

“So do you wanna be in the circle?”

His left eye seemed to twitch as he cocked his head to the side. Something about that movement made a shiver crawl down your spine. The sensation was akin to watching a predator consider its prey from the brush… but that wasn't right. Changmin was all dimpled smiles and goofy shenanigans and twinning with his horror doll child. There wasn't anything remotely scary about him, unless you made him mad (you hadn't yet). So why were your inner alarms screaming for you to run? “That's actually not a bad idea—”

“Okay!” Hyunjae called his hands together. “Let's get started, shall we?”

The thoughts were brushed beneath the dusty rug in your head. You shrugged at Changmin. “Too late, I guess.”

You thought you heard him mutter out something under his breath in frustration, but you didn't understand the language.

All of your other friends began to gather on the side of the circle where the Ouija board was. You weren't even sure what all the pomp and circumstance was for, but Changmin didn't seem up to correct anything. He continued to sulk in the corner with his arms folded over his chest, eyes shaded by the brim of his cap as he stared onward.

Hyunjae's eyes fluttered closed as he, Juyeon, and Shuhua placed their fingers upon the planchette. “To the spirits who may be here in this room with us—”

“And demons,” Shuhua murmured.

A choked sound came from Changmin's side of the room.

Your eyes flickered open and saw him rub a hand down his face as if he was stressed.

“We are opening the veil between your world and ours,” Hyunjae continued. “My name is Hyunjae, and with me are Shuhua, Yn, Juyeon, and Changmin.”

Shuhua inhaled shallowly. “Is there someone here with us?”

The apartment was consumed in a dead silence as the five of you waited. You sat cross-legged in your ring of salt, cheek resting against your fist. Your eyes were drifting to half-mast—it’d been a long day for you, and considering it was approaching midnight already, it was about time you went to bed.

“We brought you a sacrifice,” Hyunjae said. “We were wondering if you could tell us your name.”

A chilling breeze brushed past your cheeks and you glanced up, expecting the air conditioning to have caused it. There was no vent above you, however. Strange.

You wrung your hands in your lap. “You could possess me if you'd like.”

Your eyes joined your friends’ as you all pinned your gazes to the Ouija board. The planchette remained still.

After a beat, your patience ran thin, and you sat up to lean back on your hands—wasn't something supposed to happen?

The amber glow from the candles in the living room wavered violently. In your surprise, your fingers grated against the salt and hardwood as you nearly fell backward. You yanked your hand back to you at the sting.

The bodies in the room went taut, speechless.

A gust of wind—something impossible in this enclosed space—whipped past you in a wide circle. The salt circle was no more, the candle flames were snuffed.

You sat stiff as a board. For a moment, you could swear you felt some invisible, foreign weight rest upon your chest. It sank deep into you, a phantom hand reaching into your body as if to latch onto your very soul.

Ba bump ba bump ba bump, your heart drummed wildly in your chest.

Howls and gasps of delight were drowned out by the blood in your ears; they were sounds of awe from your friends. You placed your hand over your sternum in the dark to feel for that unseen force, but there was nothing.

The room flooded with warm light. It chased away the shadows to the furthest corners.

You glanced up and saw Juyeon at the light switch with a boyish grin stretched across his lips. “That was crazy! Yn, how do you feel?”

Eyes darted to you.

The pentagram beneath you was smudged, the white chalk staining your pants and your hands. You managed a smile, and then a slow nod. What you felt earlier was probably nothing.

“I'm good,” you chirped. You glanced over at Changmin in the corner, his eyes still shaded by the brim of his cap, but with the muscle in his jaw clenched. Why? Why did you look at him? You couldn't fathom why survival instinct had you encoded to turn toward that which was capable of your demise. “Yeah, I'm good.”

A yawn tore through you as you stepped into your darkened apartment. Your hand fumbled for the light switch and you tucked your shoes away on the rack, before depositing your keys onto the table with a noisy clatter. The remainder of your time spent at Juyeon and Changmin's had been spent cleaning up the failed ritual, and you hit the road as soon as it was over.

Your roommates were all out for the night, so the apartment was cold and quiet as you stumbled down the hall to your bedroom. Compared to your friends, you'd left rather quickly because of a text you'd received from Lee Chan, a good friend of yours and former neighbor from childhood. His home life hadn't been the most spectacular, so you and he became fast friends during the moments after school when you hung out on your front lawn.

He'd swung by your apartment earlier to drop off banana muffins, but you hadn't been home. I'm home now! But you can totally come by in the morning instead, you texted him after setting your backpack down and peeling off your jacket.

As you sat in the dim gold illuminating from your desk lamp, the pressure in your chest returned. You could feel your heart pick up speed in your ribcage and you lifted your finger up to your mouth to suck on the dollop of blood that had welled to the surface. It was a small scratch from when the candles went out—your own clumsiness—but it was nothing a My Little Pony bandaid couldn't fix.

A featherweight sensation drifted over your arm, and you slapped your palm over it as if to catch whatever invisible insect crawled atop your skin.

There was nothing though.

You glanced over at the window to your right. The sky outside was an unpeculiar ebony riddled with the white speckles of distant stars. No breeze drifted in from outdoors and you double-checked that the window was closed.

You startled as your phone vibrated on top of your desk.

dino!!: oh it's okay! i have dance practice early in the morning, so i'd rather bother you while ur still awake haha dino!!: i'll be by in about 10ish min if that's cool? your phone: sounds good lol and tysm :’)) love mingyu's banana muffins

You smiled to yourself at the thought of those delicious pastries. Chan's friend Mingyu baked whenever he was stressed, and he usually gave out the results of his stress-bakes to friends. The first time you'd tasted his banana chip muffins was the closest you would ever get to heaven on Earth.

“I'm glad he makes you smile at least.”

Your phone clattered to the floor, your physical body leaping five feet in the air as your soul flew out of its encasing. Everything in you jolted like one, big heart palpitation, and your wide eyes took in the sight of a person standing by your window.

Ji fucking Changmin had nary an apology on his lips for scaring the everloving Hell out of you. It was as if he hadn't even moved out of his position at his apartment: the crossed arms, the tense posture, the clenched jaw.

Except, his eyebrow was cocked this time, unamused by your very valid fear.

“Oh, fuck you.” You braced your palms against your bed as you stood opposite from him. “Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you.”

“I got it the first time.”

You could have blown steam out of your ears. “What the fuck are you doing in my room, you creep?”

He raised his palms up, finally breaking pose. “I know what this looks like—”

“You know what this looks like?” You let out a scoff, throwing your arm out in wild gesticulation to match the throttle of your heartbeat. “This looks like Edward Cullen in Twilight, except this isn't a movie, you're not Robert Parkinson, and you just climbed up a five story building!”

Changmin stepped forward, and you took a very obvious step back. He exhaled, pressing his lips together. “Okay, I deserve that,” he muttered.

“No shit. I should call the cops on you, friend or not. What is the matter with you?” You had known Changmin for as long as your college career thus far. The five of you had met in the freshman dorms and stuck together like a package deal since. You were all quite close, and you'd spent more than your fair share of quality time with Changmin.

But this—nothing could warrant this behavior.

“I need to talk to you about something important.”

You enclosed your palms around your arms, defensive. “Then you call or text or use the front door. My window was locked—”

“The lock on your window should be the least of your concerns,” he huffed. There was a firmness in his voice and behind his words, and a matching gleam of desperation in his face. He pressed his fingers against your bedspread and the air seemed to still.

That phantom breeze had returned and it drifted against your arm. It came accompanied by the weight in your chest. “What,” you stammered, “do you mean?”

He glanced away then, that tension seizing his shoulders again. He scratched his jaw seemingly at odds with words. “The ritual that happened tonight… that was real.”

You paused. “You have got to be shitting me.”

“I'm not.”

“Changmin, I'm way too exhausted to deal with your pranks right now. If tonight was all an elaborate thing you guys did to get back at me for waking you up at 4AM—”

“Yn.” The tone of his voice made you stop. It made you think. You considered the graveness of his expression differently; you had never seen him so serious. It was jarring. “I am being incredibly serious. The thing that happened to you tonight? That was a summoning ritual, and you were actually put into contact with Hell.”

You remained quiet, unknowing of how to answer. All logic in your brain was countering his statements profusely—it wasn't possible. There was no way something as little as chalk, salt, and candles could open up a portal to Hell.

At your lack of response, Changmin continued, “Tonight, a line to Hell was opened. The ritual was meant to contact a demonic entity. Usually, ritualists use it to make deals and bargains with whoever answers the call. The human link—the 'sacrifice’” —he looked at you pointedly— “is one half of the signing party responsible for fulfilling whatever the bargain is.”

A shudder rattled down your spine at what he revealed to you. This had to be a joke, you thought. This could not be real. But every time you looked at Changmin, the expression on his face did not change and his voice did not waver.

You swallowed, hard. “So,” you said finally, your voice barely a whisper, “you're saying…”

A lone nod. “You made contact with a demon tonight.” He paused for a beat, something warring behind his eyes. “You made contact with me.”

What. You sputtered out a laugh.

Changmin released a small, but sharp exhale, patiently waiting for you to let your giggles out. There were undoubtedly better ways to reveal it, but any way would still evoke such a reaction from you.

“Okay, now I know you're fucking with me,” you said with the lingering curl of a smile on your face. “You're saying that you're a demon?”

He seemed to weigh an idea in his head for a millisecond before caving. He flicked his chin out toward you. “You cut yourself tonight?”

You flinched and instinctively curled your right hand, your other fingers running over the small slice in your index finger. “What?”

“Come on. Let me see.” At your balking, he lifted up his hand. “I bet you I have a matching mark.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What hand and where?”

“Right hand. Index.”

“This doesn't count because that's the most predictable hand and finger.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yn, don't be silly. I literally have the same mark.”

Slowly, he stepped his way around the bed to your side, stopping only close enough where you could inspect his hand from a distance. Lo and behold, the flesh of his index finger was neatly sliced open, slightly diagonal in the top right quadrant of the finger—exactly where yours was.

The breeze returned like a cool breath, gentle against your cheek, as you raised your eyes to meet his again. The horror in your gaze must have confirmed that he'd convinced you of who—no—what he was.

“So what does this mean exactly?” you asked him. There were no giggles this time.

Changmin sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. “We are now bound via soul,” he said and extended his hand out slightly. His fingers curled inward and he gave a tugging motion level with your chest, and something deep within you moved.

Your eyes went as wide as a full moon. “What the Hell…”

“That's the line we're connected by.”

“I'm on a leash?”

Changmin glanced toward the ceiling as if mentally counting to three, then took a breath. “Not a leash; it's just a line. That's what was created between us when I became the demon on the other end and you spilled your blood on the pentagram. It doesn't mean we're restrained to stay within physical proximity of one another, but it does mean that you can't run away and hide from me.”

You shuddered. “That sounds scary.”

“It would be if you didn't fulfill your end of a bargain, but you never made a bargain.” He lifted his baseball cap up to card a hand through his blond hair before replacing the hat on his head. “Which basically means that we're stuck like this. We are emotionally and metaphysically bound to one another.”

There were a lot of words that had been said over the past few minutes, and most of them were difficult to wrap your head around. The worst truth of all was the brief, but very real sensation you had felt when Changmin had tugged on the invisible link between the two of you. That weight on your chest from earlier… had that been the “bond” settling into place?

“How could sitting on a chalk pentagram even” —you waved your hands around as you attempted to formulate words— “how was all of that possible? I thought Ouija boards were fucking toys?”

“I told you guys that you shouldn't play around with those things.”

“Well, how the Hell were we supposed to know this was going to happen?” you countered. The four of you had done some innocent fooling around, and now, you were “emotionally and metaphysically bound” to Changmin. Whatever the fuck that meant.

Changmin sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. “We can undo it. I think.”

You think? “How?”

“I—I need to do some research,” he said with a grimace. “I've never heard about instances like this and I didn't think it was even possible. I thought I could just intercept the call—”

Intercept the call? You shook your head. “I need you to start from the beginning, but slowly, as if you're speaking to a five year old.”

He opened his mouth to retort, then stopped abruptly.

A change in expression flickered across his face. It was brief, almost instinctual. You swore it looked like mild irritation, but it was gone before you could be sure. “You should probably answer the door.”

“Answer the what?”

You nearly yelped at the sound of loud knocking at the apartment door. Confusion pummeled you first, then you were swearing. “Chan.” You forgot he was stopping by.

“I'll be right back,” you said, moving toward the bedroom door.

“It’s fine. I need to go looking for answers.” Changmin stopped you before you went out, and you couldn't suppress the violent shudder when the invisible line in your chest pulled taut. “And Yn? Don't do anything stupid.”

You made a face at him from over your shoulder. “I'm already soul-bound to you by accident. How much more stupid can this get?”

He threw his hand up in the air. “Just don't do anything Hyunjae or Shuhua would do. Actually, just don't tell any of them about what I just told you.”

Why not? You were about to ask when you heard Chan's voice at the door calling out to you. Another swear fell from your mouth and you rushed out into the hallway to rip the door off its hinges.

Chan startled as it opened, his eyes going wide like a deer's in the bright hallway lights. There was a loose blue hoodie hanging over his green dinosaur pajama pants. He had his phone in his hands along with a paper bag undoubtedly carrying the legendary banana muffins. “Oh, hi. Sorry, is someone here with you? I thought I heard another voice.”

You braced a hand around the doorframe. Don't tell anyone. “Ah,” you winced, the lie curling up your tongue, “I was just on a call with a friend and he wouldn't shut up. Sorry about the wait.”

“No, it's no worries,” he insisted with a classic, easygoing smile. It made the adrenaline in your veins calm somewhat. Chan had always been a good presence to be around. There was something perpetually warm about his persona that made you want to stay in his orbit. “Oh, right!” He handed you the bag. “These are all yours. Mingyu says to let him know how they taste this time around, as always.”

As you accepted the bag, your face lit up like a Hollywood billboard. “I can guarantee that they will taste as divine as always. Tell him thanks for me” —you glanced up sheepishly from the paper bag— “and also, thanks for stopping by. I wish I was home earlier so you didn't have to drive all the way back.”

You didn't realize your face had contorted into a grimace. If only you had come straight home instead of indulging your friends’ curiosity tonight. Then, you would have been here with the banana muffins and one less soul-bond to worry about; and you would have been none the wiser to the fact that one of your college friends was a demonic entity.

Hadn't Changmin mentioned that you were now emotionally and metaphysically bound? Did that mean he could feel your emotions?

The smile had long since slipped from your face, but now your hands grew cold. When you got your muffins just now, did he know—

“Yn?” You perked up at the sound of your name. Chan's hand froze midair, then retracted back to his pocket. Concern shone on his face as stark as day. “Are you okay? You look like you just forgot you have something due tonight,” he chuckled half-heartedly, but the sheen in his eyes told a different story.

“Oh.” You forced out a laugh. “I'm fine! Yeah, I was just reminded of something. Actually—uhm, I shouldn't hold you up for any longer. It's getting late.”

Chan stared at you for a moment longer, and for that seemingly infinitesimal second, you feared he could see the invisible knot tied to your ribcage. “Right,” he said suddenly while shaking his head. “You should get some sleep.”

Your hand reached for the doorknob. “Thanks for dropping by again.”

“Wait” —his palm pressed against the door to keep you from closing it— “are you sure you're okay?”

It was as if your guilt was written in plain words across your forehead: No! I just became magically handcuffed to one of my demonic friends! And I also sat in a pentagram salt circle less than two hours ago! Please help me!

You channeled all your energy into a convincing smile. “Yes, I promise I'm okay. Have a good night, Chan.”

It was enough. That easygoing beam graced your eyes once more and he took his hand back. “Okay,” he said, “good night.” He waved to you as he turned on the ball of his foot, and you waited until he turned the corner before closing the door.

Your entire body deflated as you let out a rather dramatic sigh. That sigh turned into a loud groan, which eventually escalated into a borderline scream.

Like a woman possessed (would possession have been a better outcome than this?), you slunk back into your bedroom with your treasures in your grasp. “Hey,” you muttered as you kicked the door closed, “I'm… back.”

The room was vacant. Not a trace of the blond demon could be found.

“Son of a gun.” You settled into your desk chair and pulled out one of Mingyu's stress-baked muffins. As you peeled the parchment wrapper from the muffin's bottom half, you attempted to process all that had occurred within the past two hours. Every time you rewound the events, you met the same dozen or so questions. If only Changmin were still here to answer them, but he mentioned something about going off to answer questions of his own, including ones pertaining to undoing this rather inconvenient situation you’d found yourselves in.

“He should have stopped us,” you garbled between bites of banana chip muffin.

Your chewing came to a gradual halt as you marinated on that thought. “He… should have stopped us.” Why didn't he stop the four of you? If he had stopped you and suggested a movie instead, or any other activity for that matter, you wouldn't be here and he wouldn't be stressed.

He should have stopped you since he knew what you were getting yourselves into.

You crumpled the now empty muffin wrapper in your fist. Ji Changmin had far too much to explain to you.

PART II: THE CONSEQUENCES

IF THERE WAS NO REST FOR THE WICKED, Changmin didn't want to be wicked anymore. By popular perception, he and half his heritage were “evil.” While his father was a human from this mortal plane, his mother hailed from one of the nine circles of Hell. They'd fallen in love, conceived a halfling child, and the remainder was history.

“You look like shit, Ji.”

Changmin's eye twitched as irritation needled beneath the surface of his skin. “Thanks,” he drawled, not bothering to spare Lee Chan a glance. If he had limited energy reserves, he wasn't about to spend a drop on giving Chan the time of day.

Plus, Changmin was more than aware of the thick shadows that lingered beneath his eyes like fog clinging to cobblestone. He had woken up from his ninety minute power nap, trudged into the bathroom, and faced his own gauntness in the mirror. Why the fuck did Lee Chan think it necessary to point it out?

Chan's stare lingered on him through the practice room's mirror for a moment longer until he was called away by Kwon Soonyoung. Only then, when Chan's attention was passed elsewhere, could Changmin release the breath he was holding onto.

It was one thing that Changmin couldn't shake the offputting energy he felt whenever he was near Chan; he could stomach being on the same dance team as the guy, even though they each harbored an unspoken dislike for one another; but it was another thing entirely that he and Chan were both friends with you. The two boys attempted to be civil in front of you because your comfort was more important than their pettiness, but currently, said truce was nowhere in sight just as you were.

Simply, there were less reasons for him to be amiable today, including his thinning patience. Last night’s debacle had drained him of his energy. He was a halfling, not a pure-blooded demon. Additionally, his mother wasn’t a high-ranking demon by any means, which basically screwed him in the area of power stores. He had magical capabilities, but it could only handle so much. Answering ritual calls and creating soul bonds required a decent amount of power, which was why they were usually only answered by the more powerful demonheads of Hell. They enjoyed making human suffering a pastime.

Tacking onto that Changmin’s brilliant idea of warping into and out of your room last night instead of using his own two feet, as well as spending hours digging through the occultish corners of the internet, added all together to make for one exhausted, stressed, and grumpy halfling.

A presence—this one being far more welcome than the previous one—appeared by Changmin’s side in the mirror. “You really need to start going to bed when you say you're going to bed,” Juyeon said as plopped down onto the laminated hardwood to stretch out his calf muscles.

Changmin followed his lead onto the floor, but opted to slide into a left split. “I was tossing and turning the whole night,” he dismissed with an innocent lie. (Well, “innocent” was subjective.)

“You should try this new matcha that Hyunjae got from his hyung. He brought it back from his recent trip from Japan.”

For a second, Changmin let the words feed into his head one by one: matcha… from Hyunjae… from Hyunjae's brother… which one was he? Oh, the one who just got back from Japan, Sangyeon. When his tired brain finally caught up, he gave a nod. “What about it?” he asked, raising himself up to switch his hips into the right split.

Juyeon looked on with envious admiration, even if this was the thousandth time he stretched with Changmin. “It’s really refreshing and has a bit of a caffeine kick, but it's not as awful as coffee. Indigo likes it, too—said something about it being one of those rare finds that you can only get in the secluded countryside or something.”

Changmin paused. Juyeon's girlfriend Indigo was someone Changmin got along with well, but that wasn't why he was slightly interested in the matcha now. What Juyeon wasn't aware of was Indigo's witch heritage. Just as Changmin was hiding in plain sight, so too was Indigo. And if she recommended some countryside matcha powder, he was going to be inclined to try some.

“Yeah,” he coughed, “sure. Sounds like it wouldn't hurt to try.”

Pleased with the outcome of the conversation, Juyeon smiled and nodded. “I'll get you some later today then. Hopefully it'll help with the weird headaches you've been having, too.”

Changmin had nearly forgotten about those with everything that had happened. He'd recently been struck by random headaches; there were no patterns to their appearance, and no remedy—human, at least—that could soothe them until they faded on their own. He'd failed to ask Indigo about it because, well, he didn't think it was important enough to act on. But if this tea could help him out, then it would be taking out two birds with one stone.

Practice went on swimmingly. Though Changmin could only boast about his ninety minutes of sleep, when it came to dance, it was as if he was possessed. This was a hobby—a passion—that never failed to drive a fire through his veins. It didn't matter if he'd had the worst week in the history of worst weeks; when the music started, he was cued in, and he gave it his all.

As a river of sweat poured down his face and the room suffocated with the humidity of everybody's labored breathing, practice came to an end. Changmin hiked his duffle bag over his shoulder and poured water down his throat. Juyeon wasn't far behind as the two of them waved goodbye to their teammates and headed out.

Saturday mornings usually occurred in similar fashions: dance practice was held from 7AM to 10AM, then Changmin and Juyeon would return to their apartment to wash up; Changmin would then eat about an elephant's worth of food while he caught up on lecture recordings—unless he had something else to distract him.

In the case of this Saturday, as soon as Changmin had finished showering, he plummeted face-first into his pillows and was out like a light.

Demons could dream, one must understand. However, the demonic body tended only to dream when it was well spent—exhausted. Demons liked to correlate a weakness with having dreams, because foolish visions meant that one was unable to control their own mind. Control was rather important when dealing with magic.

Even if the dream was about, say, something real and occurring right at the moment Changmin was asleep—it was still considered a dream. Because he had not yet learned to leash his mind from meandering down his fresh soul bond, he found himself in a body that was not his own.

Yours. It was your body.

Was this real, he wondered, as he soaked in the familiar sight of your bed, the desk, and the closet space. He'd been in here just last night—albeit, in a fashion that wasn't agreeable—and he didn't expect it to change, but it did look real.

It was like he was actually sitting in your room, except he wasn't able to move or control his own body. The heart that beat in his chest was yours, the blood that pumped in his ears was yours, and the breath that fell from his mouth was yours.

He inwardly sighed as you adjusted your position at your desk chair. What a predicament he found himself in. He could feel the ache in your back from the uncomfortable piece of furniture beneath you, as well as the knots in your shoulders. (Did that mean you had a bad night of sleep?)

Though, it wasn't all bad, he supposed. He did adore the smell of your perfume lingering in the air and clinging to the sheets, the walls, the furniture… You would never know this of course, if he could help it.

You were currently reading a book—for class or for enjoyment, he hadn't the foggiest. The left side of the novel you clutched in your hand was riddled with colored sticky tabs, and you had the back of a ballpoint pen pressed between your lips. (His lips? …No, this was a precarious line of thinking.)

Changmin followed along as you read. Well, he tried. Whoever designed the layout of this book must have had perfect vision and no sympathy for someone visually challenged. The font size was likely less than ten point, and good grief, the line spacing—

“Holy shit.”

He paused. Right, that was you and not him.

You leaned forward and brought the book closer to your face as you read over the line again.

“Oh my gosh, Eliot, you incredible, talented woman.” This earnest compliment was swiftly followed by a colored tab to mark the passage. Changmin was about to read what you tabbed, but your eyes went down to the desk to scrawl a thought onto a post-it note. “Dorothea, you poor, poor soul. Casaubon needs to get the fuck over himself—you are fifty, dude.”

Changmin, frankly, had no clue what was happening. But he didn't entirely mind, because the pure joy that fluttered in your (his) chest was enough to keep him satisfied. There was something oddly serene about being in your sphere of presence, and in this state of being, that kept him at ease.

The stress of breaking this soul bond ebbed away like the receding edge of a tide.

Alas, all good things had to come to an end. Changmin couldn't tell how much time passed before you bookmarked your place with an index card and pulled your phone toward you.

12:04PM was what your lockscreen read.

Oh, so he was definitely catching up on sleep, at least.

Wait—had you not eaten lunch yet? The unmistakable void in the pit of your stomach…

Yn! Eat lunch, you silly girl! Eat—

“He could just be away from his phone,” you muttered to yourself. There were a few app notifications waiting for you, but each dismissal was fueled with mild disappointment.

Who were you talking about, he wondered.

A flash of bitter annoyance pierced his chest at the memory of who you'd been texting last night with that big smile on your face. However, any of that sentiment was dashed clean away when you pulled up your text chain with him, not Lee Chan.

Changmin's heart sped to a gallop as he watched you swipe out just as quickly as you'd checked in. The reason was two-pronged: one, you were wondering about him; and two, you had texted him while he was currently asleep and he did not know how to wake himself up.

Ji Changmin, he chastised himself, you're not only intruding, you're also inadvertently ignoring her.

He could understand that he put you (and abandoned you) in a worrisome place last night. If he could tear out the strands of his fried, blond hair he would.

You were his friend, were you not? He cared about you, and this soul bond wasn't only stressful to him, but to you as well. Maybe ignorance really would have been bliss in this case.

Your phone emitted a low vibration as it rang. Changmin had missed the moment you decided to call someone. Juyeon's contact name and photo was displayed in the middle of the screen, and he answered before the call went to voicemail. “Yn, what's up? You're—you’re not mad about last night, are you?” The wince in Juyeon’s voice was audible.

“No, I'm not mad,” you promised him as you leaned your cheek against your palm. “I was just wondering if you know where Changmin is. I texted him an hour ago and he hasn't answered yet—I guess I'm just a little antsy.”

Shuffling, then, “Oh! Changminnie's sleeping. He didn't sleep well last night, so as soon as we came home from practice, he was knocked out.”

Relief made your shoulders sag. “Ah, okay.” A smile, self-deprecating in nature, curled up on your mouth. “No worries then. Thanks, Juyo.”

“No problem. I'll let him know to call you once he wakes up.”

“No, it's okay” —you began putting your materials away— “have you had lunch yet? I can swing by with food; I haven't eaten yet.”

“Really? I haven't eaten yet, and Changmin hasn't either. I'll split the cost with you.” Changmin wished he could say that he would also split the cost. Why were you coming over? He hadn't gotten a good look at the texts you sent before.

(It had to be because you wanted to see him, right? To talk—of course to talk and not for any other reason.)

You stood up from your chair and stretched out the stiff muscles in your back. “I'll be by in—maybe twenty or thirty minutes?”

“Sounds great!” Juyeon chirped. “Thanks Yn-ie. See you in a bit.”

You let out a small laugh. “Yeah, see you.”

As the call cut off, Changmin was left with a daunting task: to wake himself up. There didn't seem to be many options as to do this. If demonic dreaming was activated based on lack of control, that meant he had a lack of energy. Thus, if he couldn't yet regain control, it could only mean that he was still tired.

There were a great many things that he had yet to figure out about this kind of magic. It wasn't like his mother ever anticipated he would need to know about it, so she never explicitly taught it and he never asked.

He was kicking himself in the head now.

Meanwhile, you had busied yourself with getting ready to leave. You'd selected a jacket from your closet, swiped on a thin layer of lip gloss, and spritzed yourself with that divine-smelling perfume. It made his toes curl and his chest feel fuzzy.

Just as you were filling your purse, your phone jolted with an incoming call.

Changmin soured as he saw the caller ID through your eyes and felt, not disdain, but pleasant surprise. He couldn't fathom what you saw in Lee Chan, but he never said anything; you and Chan knew each other longer, after all. It wasn't his place to say anything, especially when his reason revolved around something as subjective as a “vibe.”

“Hi Chan,” you greeted when you accepted the call.

It was funny—a dull, but annoyingly familiar pulsing appeared in Changmin's head. It beat steady against his cranium, hard and relentless. The longer it continued, the more it hurt. Could you feel it, too? The sensation was recognizable at this point after so many instances of the random headaches popping up. Was he seriously getting another stupid headache during a dream?

He winced to himself, but suddenly felt his heart drop into the pit of his stomach when he heard you audibly grimace.

Was this headache yours or his? Should he be worried?

“What was that? Are you okay?” asked Chan from the other side.

Changmin/You clenched your jaw as your vision went spotty for a moment. Your hand whipped out to catch yourself against the table.

Panic seized his chest as you muttered out a reassurance, though unconvincing. The invisible string that tied Changmin to you tightened, stealing the breath right out of his lungs. It was as if his own physical body was yanking him back.

He was waking up.

No, he thought, no I need to make sure she's okay—

Distantly, he heard yours and Chan's voices. Your words between one another were muddied and distorted to Changmin. Before he could even begin to understand what was happening, his eyes opened.

“I could smell lunch through the door,” Juyeon sang to you in greeting as he eagerly beckoned you into the apartment.

You chuckled, shucking your shoes off under the rack by the door. In your hand, you held onto a large bag containing a box of delectably fragrant fried chicken and fries. Oh, glorious sodium and cholesterol. “Yeah, well, imagine my suffering as I was driving over here with it in the car,” you mused.

Juyeon locked the door behind you and took the bag out of your hands.

It was another thing to return to the site of last night's ritual. You'd been in this apartment dozens of times before, but it was difficult to look at the specific spot on the living room floor where the chalk and salt had been. Even if the vacuum cleaner had taken care of all that remained, you couldn't help but choose to sit on the end of the couch farthest from that spot on the floor.

“Oh, could I get a glass of water, by the way?” you asked Juyeon as the two of you began taking things out of the bag to lay them out on the coffee table. “I was feeling a bit lightheaded earlier.”

Juyeon's eyebrows creased as he straightened to head into the kitchen. “Shit, yeah—of course. You drove here while feeling like that? What if you passed out, Yn-ie?”

You snuck a fry into your mouth, murmuring your thanks as he handed you the cup of water. “I'm fine,” you insisted with a vague wave of your hand, “it was just the blood rushing up to my head, I think. And besides, you were already expecting me and I was hungry.”

“I would have woken Changmin up and dragged his ass out of bed.” Juyeon settled onto the couch with you and cracked open the can of Sprite he'd gotten out of the fridge. “You know, Changmin's been getting these random headaches, too. I guess not exactly nausea, but you guys have gotta be more careful,” he waved a fried potato at you as he said this.

The irony could not escape you, and you failed to keep a sarcastic smile to yourself. Uh huh. Be more careful, you say? Too late for that. You took a ginger sip of the water. “Is that right? Maybe he just needs more sleep or something.”

“That's what we thought at first,” Juyeon hummed, idly scratching the back of his neck, “but they happen no matter what he does. There's not really a noticeable pattern.”

You wondered if it had anything to do with his demoness. You couldn't be too sure because you hardly knew anything about his species yourself, but that could explain the seemingly randomness of the headaches. Perhaps it was another question to add to your list.

“Huh.” You frowned. “Well, I hope they go away for him soon.”

Juyeon nodded solemnly. “Yeah, same. Hyunjae's gonna bring over some matcha for him to try… oh, hey! You like matcha—do you want some?”

“Sure, I'd love—”

Your phone buzzed violently in your jacket pocket. A laugh of disbelief flew from your mouth when you saw the caller ID, and you flashed the screen at Juyeon. “Speak of the Devil.”

Juyeon chuckled as you answered. “Hello?”

“Hey, I'm so sorry I missed your text.” His voice, rough from sleep, was accompanied by heavy breathing and the sounds of fabric shuffling in your ear.

You nearly choked, but you remembered that Juyeon was none the wiser to the weird spike in your heartbeat, nor the reason for it. “It's all good; I was being impatient. Juyo said you didn't sleep well.” Your eyes darted to his closed bedroom door and wondered why he hadn't come out yet.

“Yeah.” A brief pause. “Are you—are you okay?”

“Of course, I'm okay,” you drawled, glancing over at Juyeon. “Why? Should I not be okay?”

“No, I mean—” His voice in your ear and behind his bedroom door overlapped one another like two ocean waves colliding along the sand. His door ripped open.

Changmin stood on the threshold with his phone in one hand and the other clutching the doorknob. He was in a loose white T-shirt and sweatpants, a thin layer of sweat making his cheekbones shine. His eyes, a wild creature of their own, landed on you—all of the tension in his body melted away.

He exhaled and sank against the doorframe, ending the call. “Hell…” he muttered under his breath as he dragged a hand through his hair.

Concern had you rising to your feet. “What? What's wrong?”

Changmin closed his bedroom door behind him and collapsed onto the couch somewhere between you and Juyeon. “Bad dream,” he grunted. “How much are we splitting?” The latter was asked as he shoved a fry into his mouth and pulled out the Venmo app on his phone.

You and Juyeon exchanged glances over the blond head: what just happened?; you think I know?

Juyeon sent you a shrug. “Well Yn?”

Now their focus was on you. You took your seat again and reached for your glass of water. “Ten bucks each.”

All of the food that you brought turned into crumbs faster than Cinderella's carriage at midnight. Considering all three of you had barely eaten all day, it was expected. At some point, Juyeon dipped out of the apartment to meet someone for a group project, so that left you and Changmin alone. It was the perfect opportunity to get what you came here for.

“You left pretty abruptly last night,” you said to him as you returned to the couch with a full glass of water. Changmin stood nearly opposite to you, his back against the wall by his bedroom door. He also nursed a cup of water. “And I have some questions.”

He let out a small laugh, his lips pressing his dimples into his cheeks. “I'm sure you do. Sorry, I realized that after I left,” he admitted and raised his free hand up to grab the back of his neck. “So shoot.”

It was strange, you thought. There was no way this guy could be a demon, but was that leaning into stereotype? Last night, that feeling you got when he looked at you from beneath the shadow of his cap… your hairs had stood on their ends and you couldn't shake the spike of adrenaline in your bloodstream. It had been undeniable.

But here he was with a pretty, boyish smile as if he was a completely different person.

“What did you mean by 'intercept the call?’ What exactly happened during the ritual last night?” you asked.

The smile slipped from his face a little, and his eyes flitted over to the spot you had been sitting twelve hours ago. “Like I said,” he began, “you opened a line to Hell—like a phone call, basically. I channeled enough energy to answer it before anyone else from Hell could. And instead of, y'know, appearing in front of you like another demon would, I was already there and just chose to stay quiet when the candles went out.”

You straightened. “So the breeze in the room was your doing?”

Changmin cocked his head to the side with a wince. “I think so? At least, I can't control it yet. Think of it as a physical manifestation of power.”

A physical manifestation of power—you imagined last night's scene from Changmin's point of view, where he stood in the far corner. He would have focused his energy toward the breach between the worlds, and that fulfillment swept through the room like a gust of wind. But then what about all the other times? That moment wasn't the only other instance of a cool breeze on your skin.

When you brought this up to him, Changmin pressed his lips together. “Ah. This?”

On cue, something lightweight and cool brushed past your cheek. Your hand darted up to cover it, and you looked over at Changmin who arched a brow at you. “You get creepier and creepier the more I know you.”

His mouth burst at the seams with a smile. He ducked his blond head, shaking it. You were missing some kind of joke here. “Don't speak too soon,” he said. When he raised his head back up, he ran his tongue over his smile. “It happens when I want it to, it happens when I don't want it to. Just depends.”

“Great.”

“I'll get it under control,” he promised.

You leaned forward onto your knees and pressed your mouth into a slight pout. “Is there anything I can do to bug the shit out of you? This seems like it's only entertaining for you.”

“Well,” Changmin shrugged helplessly, “that's kind of the point of why demons started to do this. They find humans entertaining, and they also like to hold them accountable. The line” —he gave a gentle tug at the invisible string you still couldn't find— “is an insurance policy.”

“Saying it like that just implies it's that much harder to work your way around it.”

“Pretty much.” A grin split his face, and you were struck by the ease you smiled back without having meant to. “Don't look too excited now.”

You flattened your face and voice. “I'm thrilled.”

Before Changmin could respond, you suddenly remembered the main question that plagued you last night. You cleared your throat, your fingers dancing around the sides of your glass. “By the way… why didn't you stop us last night?” You watched his facial expression and how it was carefully knitted into something blank. “If you knew what was going to happen, you could have insisted we stopped, and we would have. Why let us get to this point?” you asked, gesturing between the two of you.

Changmin's throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I was pretty confident that I could intercept it, so there wasn't any real risk with doing the ritual if you guys wanted to have fun. I just didn't count on…” He lifted his right hand, where the pinkish scar was left on his index finger.

He hadn't counted on you getting cut and sealing the bond.

You pinched the space between your eyes. “Ah. My clumsiness has now doomed me to be metaphysically handcuffed to you.”

“I wasn't going to say it…”

“Oh, go to Hell.”

Changmin laughed. “Only if you come with me.”

Heat rushed to the surface of your skin. Sometimes, his mouth moved too fast. You snuck a glance at him through your fingers while he sipped on his water. If you peered close enough, the tips of his ears were flushing to a light pink.

He lowered the glass from his lips, and a crease formed between his brows. “Also,” he said carefully, his tone starkly different from less than a minute ago, “I do have another side effect to add to the list.”

Your stomach flipped. Not another thing—

“I may or may not be able to occupy your physical body when I'm dreaming—”

Changmin grimaced as the bottom of your glass banged against the wooden coffee table. That expression only deepened at the wide-eyed fury—fear—on your face. “And when I was asleep earlier,” he continued on, dooming himself to walk the plank, “I kind of intruded on your reading session, and when you called Juyeon, and when Chan call—”

“Can I murder you? Would that harm me in any way?” you cut in.

His mouth was open, but no words were coming out.

You stood, abandoning your seat on the couch and your water glass, to step across the room toward him. “Because if I could,” you said while pressing the back of your knuckles to your lips, “I can rid myself of the absolute creep of a friend I have!”

Changmin's eyes widened as soon as it hit him—your hand. Your hand hit his shoulder.

He bolted.

“Hey, let's talk about this, Yn-ah!” he exclaimed and dove into the kitchen to duck behind the counter. Some monstrously high-pitched scream left his mouth as he scrambled to stay out of your reach.

“We are talking about this, Changmin-ah.” You charged after him, chasing him around the counter and back out of the kitchen. If you didn't respect Juyeon like you did, you would have fully embraced becoming a bull in a china shop.

Your fist hit the solid plane of his bedroom door just as it slammed in your face. You let out a sound suspiciously close to a growl. “You possessed my body without my consent!”

“It's not like I consented to it either! It just happened!”

“That's not a valid excuse, you panini head!”

“I don't want to possess your body!” he insisted through the door with his voice going higher than the Eiffel Tower. “Why would I want to possess your body? I don't wanna be around when you and bestie Lee Chan gush about Star Trek.”

On certain occasions you really wished you had Superman's laser vision. Then you could burn through this stupid piece of door and roast a demon. “You're not helping yourself, Ji.”

A beat passed. “Look,” he huffed. “It only happened because I was exhausted as shit, okay? I really had no control of it, I swear on my life.”

You remained still with your arms braided across your chest without a word coming to mind.

“I didn't see anything sensitive, I promise, and my body woke me up and pulled me out of it when you got that really bad headache.”

Huh? That bout of lightheadedness… was that related to how the connection was severed? Or at least, hindered? You brushed the curiosity aside; weren't you supposed to be mad at this guy?

“Which was also why I was worried when I woke up and asked if you were okay,” he added in earnest. He did look worried like you were going to die when he woke up…

You glared impetuously at the closed door to the point you were sure even the wood grains were two seconds from apologizing to you. “Okay, fine,” you relented. “But you're not fully off the hook; I just won't use the kitchen knives.”

A choking sound filtered through and you felt the corners of your mouth tug upward.

“What can I do to make it even?” Changmin asked, though he continued to remain behind the closed door.

Frankly, there weren't many things he could do to even the score unless you chose to be creepy and sit in on his private moments. You shuddered—you’d rather not. Those were private for a reason. Maybe he could burn his eyes out with bleach. (Kidding… ish.) “I don't know,” you said half-heartedly, ”tell me a secret.”

A moment of silence passed. “I thought it was hot when you asked if you could kill me.”

Not even an ounce of shame with this one, huh? “You're sick. I'm leaving.”

For the second time today, his bedroom door ripped open. “No, wait, I was kidding! Yn, I was kidding.” (He was not kidding).

You stopped, half-whirled around. In your periphery, he stepped out of his room, but refrained from getting too close. When you turned around fully, the red that dusted his cheekbones was unmistakable. Unfortunately, seeing him flustered was enough for you at the moment.

With a feigned, heavy sigh, you motioned to him. “C'mere.”

Changmin perked up like a confused puppy.

“Come here,” you repeated with more urgency this time. You curled your hand toward you to beckon him closer.

He crept closer to you. There was a gleam of uncertainty and suspicion in his eyes as you continued to gesture at him closer… and closer still. Your heart throttled against your ribcage; your physical body was even unsure of what exactly you had in mind.

Only once his face was close enough you could count his eyelashes were you satisfied. You could hear him gulp.

And maybe you let the moment linger too long. His gaze flickered away from your eye contact for a heartbeat, eyelashes fluttering as he considered something out of the bounds of friendship.

You raised your hand up to his forehead and flicked him between his eyes. Hard.

Changmin yelped and fumbled backward to the boisterous sound of your laughter. He rubbed his forehead furiously where an angry, red mark formed and smarted. He snarled at you, “Not cool!” His face was nearly as red as the mark… oops.

“That's what you get!” you countered with an accusing finger. “Now. Promise me you'll never purposely possess my body in your dreams, you perv.”

A grumble came from the depths of his throat—agreement. “I never did it on purpose,” he mumbled, slapping his hand with yours in a binding handshake. He sounded like a teen boy who's gaming console was just taken away.

“And promise me that you will take care of yourself, so that we can get out of this binding thing and so that you don't accidentally possess me.”

“Didn't you offer to get possessed last night?” Changmin stiffened as the words left his lips. “I didn't mean that! Don't get the kitchen knives!”

His giggles pierced the air, sharp but endearing, as he scrambled back into his room with you clinging to his heels. “Or get the kitchen knives—it’s kind of hot.”

“Ji Changmin.”

PART III: THE RELATIVE

WHEN YOU APPEARED IN YOUR 8:30 biopsychology lecture on Monday morning, you had nearly forgotten that the world had not completely turned upside down when you bound your soul to Changmin’s. No one else but you and he knew about it, and it seemed he was determined to keep it that way. Nonetheless, when you settled in your usual seat about midway up the lecture hall, close to the exit on stage right, you looked into Yeh Shuhua’s terrifyingly beautiful eyes and almost blurted your secret.

It was because of that reason, and the fact that she was one of your close friends. She was one of the participants of the ritual; it was only right that you disclosed to her the consequences of all your actions. However, the reminder from Changmin echoed in your head like a dull heartbeat: Don’t tell any of them. Don’t do something stupid like Hyunjae or Shuhua. He realized that ‘stupid’ applied to him, too, right?

“You seem antsy,” were her first words to you as you finally decided on how you would roll up your jacket. It had taken a couple tries and configurations before you settled on just draping it over the chair behind you.

You straightened in your chair. Perhaps subtlety was not with you this morning. “My coffee was too strong,” you said.

She snorted, a bright and unassuming sound, as she pulled her laptop out from her bag. “Honey, you don’t drink coffee.”

…Right. You let the words sink in to properly register your dumbassery, then settled on the most basic excuse known to college students. “It’s too early for this.”

“Amen.” Conversation saved.

When you first signed up for this class, you were under the impression that it would be a riveting insight into the brain and its inner workings. Alas, your professor from Psych101 did you a disservice by testifying to Psych210’s interest factor, because it was entirely lacking in interesting things. The majority of what was being discussed in lecture could be read about via the slides, but unfortunately, participation was mandatory. Even worse was that this class was the prerequisite to the neuroscience class that was actually interesting.

You didn’t like to critique the teaching skills of a professor who was meant to research and not to teach, but you were going to for the umpteenth time.

Beside you, Shuhua barely swallowed a yawn and hid the last bits of it behind the lid of her coffee tumbler. She took a sip, then leaned over to you. “I’m pretty sure I learned all of this in freshman year biology.”

“Is that right,” you murmured. You hadn’t taken the introductory biology series because you were only minoring in psychology, whereas Shuhua was a neuroscience major. “You must really be suffering then.”

Her head slowly touched down onto your shoulder. “Tell me about it… by the way, did you hear about the house party that’s happening on Saturday?”

You hummed. “Who’s hosting?” House parties were usually something you needed to be a part of a friend group to be invited to. Though, that was usually the case for all parties in college, you’d found out. Fraternity parties were oftentimes exclusive to Greeks, or if you knew a frat brother or sorority sister. Other parties were spread by word of mouth and required an entrance fee that amounted to a fraudulent sum of money. Thus, if you went to any party, it was either a house party hosted by a friend of a friend, or one of your friends’ birthday parties.

“Hm… it’s my family friend’s kid’s friend group.” She paused, then clarified her statement, “Yangyang. You know Yangyang, right?

You made a sound of acknowledgement. “Isn't he friends with Xiaojun, Kevin, and Yuqi, that group?”

“That's the one,” she chirped. “But he only lives with Xiaojun and a couple other guys. It's a house in one of the neighborhoods nearby.”

“I see. Are we going?”

“Of course we are, silly.” Shuhua blindly patted one of your hands and you imagined that her eyes were likely already closed. You and your friends were accustomed to forcing one another to socialize outside the group from time to time; it made the college riptide a bit easier to swim through. “I just didn't know if you were aware or not yet.”

“Well, now I am,” you chuckled.

“You sure are.”

The remainder of the lecture went by as dull as it usually did, and 9:30 could not come faster. You and Shuhua bumbled out of the packed auditorium among the crowd of others filing out.

A yawn stretched your mouth open as you checked your phone. “You've got a class after this, right?” you asked Shuhua.

She nodded. “Unfortunately. Do you wanna have lunch together afterward?”

“Ah” —guilt anchored itself to the pit of your stomach, allowing the urge to spill your secret to dwindle— “I'm actually hanging out with Changmin today.” Neither of you had terribly busy Mondays, so you both decided to do some solution-hunting together, whatever that meant. He just needed to be back by the time his dance rehearsal started.

Her mouth quirked to the side in a slight frown. “Oh, okay. Just you two?”

“Yep.”

For a second, you thought she was gazing right into your soul where the invisible knot was tied linking you to your mutual friend. But she suddenly smiled and blew you a kiss. “No worries! Have fun.”

You blinked, the anxiety lingering. “Yeah… thanks. You, too.”

Shuhua left first to hurry off to her next class while you remained in the lobby. You had fully expected that she would at least ask what the two of you were doing, and you were prepared to come up with another dumb excuse. It wasn't suspicious that you and Changmin were hanging out alone, right? There were plenty of instances where you hung out solo with your close friends.

You brushed it away. It was the paranoia talking.

You headed toward the nearest parking lot. Because you lived relatively close to campus, there was usually no need to drive, but since you and Changmin were going elsewhere in the city, you opted to drive.

As you settled into the front seat, you sent him a text to let you know you were on your way over to his apartment. It would be convenient if you could somehow use the soul-bond to communicate with him instead, you thought as you navigated through campus to a nearby neighborhood. Alas, based on what Changmin told you before, the bond was more useful to him than it was for you. How wonderful.

You let your car run as you pulled up to the curb outside of his apartment complex. Through the windows on the first floor, a periwinkle sheen caught your eye. There wasn’t much doubt in your mind that it was the ribbon Changmin tied to his bicycle. It was his favorite color—not that you knew that for any particular reason, other than the fact that you were friends. It was useful information for birthday cards, was your reasoning.

Before you could meander down some weird mental road of thoughts, the passenger side door opened and closed. Your counterpart was dressed in dark green today: dark green sweater, a darker but muted shade of cargo pants, followed by a matching cap shoved over his blond hair. “Hi,” he said, strapping himself in with the seatbelt and setting his bag down by his feet.

He looked particularly pocket-sized today with the cheeky, dimpled smile on his face and you smiled in greeting. “Hi!” you chirped back. “Where to?”

“An aunt of mine lives downtown. Do you know how to get to Union Station?”

You nodded, tugging the car into drive, “Yup. Wow, she lives down by the waterfront?”

“Yeah,” he laughed. When he did, he ducked his head so you only caught a glimpse of that dimpled smile. “She’s married to a siren.”

Your eyes went wide, and his laugh grew louder. You flattened your expression into a deadpan as heat rushed to the back of your neck. “Don’t laugh,” you muttered. “Why are you laughing?”

“I’d say for you to not pout then, but it’s cute,” he replied with that smile lingering on his face in the form of a half-smirk. He had pulled his phone out to text someone. “I’m only laughing because I had a feeling you’d react like that, and I was right.”

You huffed. “I feel like I’m at too much of a disadvantage around you.”

“You have more power than you think.” Changmin passed you a glance and deposited his phone in the cupholder. He leaned his cheek against his knuckles. “You just need to exercise it.”

“Well, I can’t exactly threaten you with kitchen knives and forehead flicks all the time.”

He shrugged. “That’s not what I meant, but it’s whatever. How was class?”

Changmin, Juyeon, and Hyunjae were all aware of yours and Shuhua’s disdain for your shared biopsychology class. The complaints had filed (flooded) in as soon as the first week of classes were over. You could gab on and on about the boredom that plagued you, but you hardly wanted to be a broken record when there were other things to talk about. “It was fine,” you said, then swiftly moved to something else. “I think I almost told Shuhua, like, twice about the soul bond thing. Why can’t we tell them again?”

“Do you really think they’d believe us?”

You thought about it—about the twin cuts on your index fingers, the unseen string that tethered your souls together, the dream that Changmin had. They would think Changmin had roped you into his regular shenanigans, and in a way, he had. You sighed, albeit reluctantly. “True. But it just feels…” you grimaced. “Is it weird that I feel guilty?”

Changmin shook his head. “No, I’ve had to tiptoe around my mom’s and my true nature around you guys for years. It’s natural to wanna be truthful to your friends, Yn, but some things are better left unsaid.”

“Is there a reason why the supernatural community stays hidden? Is that something I can ask?”

“Of course,” he said easily, turning his gaze out the window. “It’s just that it’s better—safer—for us this way. Humans can hardly handle differences amongst themselves as it is; imagine what would happen if they found that even more species of sentient beings existed, y’know?”

Truth was a difficult pill to swallow. It was a capsule that often found itself lodged in a throat rather than being digested. And even if it eventually managed to make it to the stomach, it sank to the bottom like a body anchored by bricks in a river. There was, unfortunately, much merit to what Changmin said.

Your eyes flickered to your side mirrors as you merged onto the highway. “I see.”

“It’s definitely relieving that at least one of my close friends knows the truth now, though.” He knocked the back of his hand against your arm in a warm gesture, and although you were unable to return the expression or even look at him then, he was looking at you.

Because you and Changmin set off just after rush hour passed, the drive through the downtown scene was relatively easy. The rest of your time in the car was spent chatting about the party Yangyang and his housemates were throwing, as well as Changmin directing you to his aunt’s residence by the marina. His ability to give directions left much to be desired; your car was filled with shouts and bickering whenever he told you to turn too late.

Somehow though, you arrived at the right street, and he even helped you find a parking spot along a curb that didn’t involve ungodly hourly parking rates. You wouldn’t call it a complete redemption, but he was on his way toward one.

“Are you sure it’s cool if we just show up unannounced like this?” you asked him, tilting your head back to peer up at the apartments that towered above you. Some of the windows were left open and their curtains drifted whimsically in the mid-morning breeze; some of the fire escapes were connected by copper-colored ladders, fitting together like a puzzle. You liked to think that complexes like this housed residents who were friendly to one another like some fantasy video game—a pair of friends hanging out of their windows to gossip across the fire escapes, a cat sleeping in the window—that sort of thing.

Changmin stood next to you, but his gaze was turned out to the marina in the distance, the sails of boats in the foreground of the slate blue-gray of the bay water. “Yeah, it’s cool. And we’re not exactly unannounced; I told her we were coming.”

“When?” You followed him in through the front door. The hinges squealed upon use and the door shuddered violently when it closed.

“In the car.”

You deadpanned at his back as you followed him up the stairs. “You’re an awful relative.”

“Don’t all relatives show up to their other relatives' homes unannounced?” he jested. “I’m a model nephew, actually.”

“A model in what standard? Hell?”

He shrugged up ahead, glancing back to pass you a boyish grin. “Yeah, basically. My mom says demons just kind of teleport into their relatives’ homes unannounced.”

“So that’s where your incredible lack of boundaries comes from,” you said and glowered up at him.

You met Changmin on the landing of the second floor and ducked out of the stairwell into the dimly-lit corridor. It was quiet here in the middle of the day, but you could hear the muffled sounds of television programs and voices emanating behind different doors you passed by. The carpet was well-trodden and didn’t kick dust up when you walked, and the overall smell was vaguely fishy and reminiscent of the seafood section of a supermarket.

“Cultural difference,” he replied cheekily. “This is hers, Aunt Jenna’s.” He gestured to the door he stood at with a rusted, gold B29 hanging on its surface just above the peephole.

You tucked your hands into your jacket pockets. “Anything I should know before going in?”

Changmin paused and his face flashed with realization. It translated roughly, but accurately enough, to ‘Uh oh.’ He opened his mouth to say something, but the door beat him to it.

Correction: his aunt beat him to it. Or at least, she was who you assumed was his aunt. Her facial features and bone structure weren't similar to Changmin’s at all, but those eyes—dark like the deepest corner of a shadow; engulfing, embracing, enveloping—her eyes were what made familiarity pang in your chest where the soul-knot sat.

Her mouth stretched into a bright smile. “Changmin-ah! And his significant other, isn’t it—or kids these days say partner instead, hm? Don’t be strangers now; come in, come in!”

What did she just say? You have got to be kidding me.

Too overwhelmed to think, you let his aunt usher you and Changmin in through her front door. You threw—chucked—an alarmed glance over at your counterpart, who could only meet your wide eyes with his own. Shoes were exchanged for slippers, and you were guided toward a couch settled in one part of the cozy living space.

“It’s nice to meet you, Aunt Jenna,” you finally managed to say through the heat flaring up your neck and behind your ears. “But I do have to, uhm, correct you.”

Changmin coughed beside you on the couch as his aunt perched on the coffee table across from you both. “She’s not my romantic partner, auntie. Yn’s just a friend.”

You nodded earnestly.

His aunt’s face flickered from that sunny smile to a more somber surprise. She broke into a sheepish sort of laugh, absentmindedly brushing a lock of hair behind her shoulder. “Oh, well how silly of me. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable—I got embarrassingly excited,” she confessed. She addressed Changmin specifically, reaching over to whack his knee, “You used the word for lover when you texted me earlier!”

Changmin’s hands rocketed up as both you and his aunt fixed him with pointed looks. “It was a typo and an honest mistake,” he swore. “I haven’t spoken or written in that demonic dialect in awhile,” he said to you, “and the words for friend and lover are, like, one letter different.”

His mouth had pursed into an unconscious pout, and you reached over to flick him between the eyes. Bone against fingernail, and the dense thunk sound the impact produced was quite satisfying.

“Ow! I'm sorry!”

You turned to a rather amused Aunt Jenna. “I'm sorry I did that in front of you. I swear, I won't make a habit out of it.” That remained to be seen, however. How had you refrained from flicking him for his behavior before this?

She chuckled. “I'm sure he's warranted it more than once. It's nice to meet you, Yn.”

“Likewise. You have a lovely home.”

Changmin held his forehead with his hat now sitting in his lap, and his eyes narrowed at the two of you. “This was the worst idea I've ever had.”

“Do you drink tea, Yn?” his aunt asked you, waving aside her nephew's comment. “I'll make us some tea and we can talk about whatever you both came to discuss.”

Tea was served on an elegant tray made of polished dark wood. The color was a deep red, as if it had been dipped in a vat of blood, and was engraved with images of what you assumed to be flowers with long stems crowned with big, beautiful petals. You nursed a Finding Nemo mug between your palms, gently blowing on the steam that wafted out of the aromatic floral tea.

Just the fragrance of the drink was enough to put you at ease. The muscles and knots in your shoulders loosened, your frown lines smoothed over. You took a gentle sip and savored the tangible warmth that streamed down your throat and into your stomach.

You nodded to Aunt Jenna who's dark eyes gleamed knowingly over the rim of her mug. “That's very good,” you said.

“Isn't it? Would you like to take some home?”

Changmin harrumphed from beside you after taking a hulking gulp of his own drink. “Guys, please.”

“Mm yes, yes.” Aunt Jenna waved her free hand flippantly. “Your problem.”

While Jenna had prepared the tea, you and Changmin explained to her how your souls became tied together. Most of the explanation consisted of specific details of the ritual itself, not the circumstances before. You described the physical sensations on your end, and Changmin added in his out-of-body experience.

When your piece was said, it left Aunt Jenna to marinate on all the facts. She took a sip of her drink first. “Well, you're both fools, but you” —she wiggled an accusing finger at her nephew— “especially. How could you be so irresponsible as to let your friends go through with a bargaining ritual?”

Changmin grabbed the back of his neck and hung his head like a kicked puppy. “It didn't seem like the end of the world if they wanted to have fun.”

“I suppose,” Jenna muttered, but not without some sympathy. She was a demon living amongst humans, too, after all. “But look where that's gotten you both. There are just far too many unforeseen variables that could have made this situation ten times worse. You and Yn becoming soul-bound is probably the best outcome, frankly.”

You would beg to differ, but you kept your lips stitched together and attached to the rim of your mug.

“But as for undoing it, I'm afraid there aren't many options.”

You detached your mouth from the mug.

You and Changmin exchanged a glance with one another. He asked, “What are our options?”

Aunt Jenna's mouth pursed slightly to form small divots in the sides of her cheeks. “The one most accessible to you is to bargain with another, more powerful demon to take over your bond with Yn.”

“Absolutely not,” he interjected. “That's out of the question.”

“I guessed as much,” she said, taking another sip. “Then it's quite literally impossible—unless you used cursed magic—but even if you didn't care about facing the hellish consequences, gaining access to a Book of the Diabolical is insanely difficult.”

Though you were completely ignorant to almost everything Aunt Jenna was saying, you weren't so ignorant to her message between the lines: you were fucked. Supremely.

Looking over at Changmin only confirmed what you were thinking. There seemed to be a war being waged behind his eyes as he clutched his mug in his lap and glared at a grain in the hardwood floor. This situation was partially your fault and his, and now, the only thing you could do was to drown in the consequences.

You turned to his aunt. “Then how can we live with it?” In your periphery, Changmin's head raised. “I mean, are there techniques to better control this situation, like on both Changmin's end and my end if we can't simply rid ourselves of it?”

Aunt Jenna considered you for a moment, then nodded slowly. “There are,” she said. “Control is something very valuable to demons, Yn. I don't know how much Changmin's told you—”

You sent him a thin smile.

“—but mastering your own body is one of the most integral things young demons first learn. If you don't have control over your mind and body, then how could you possibly be trusted to control anything else?”

That made sense, you thought. It was a thoughtful principle, too, that others (humans) could learn from. What other parts of demon culture and values were there that these two would be willing to share with you?

Jenna had finished her cup of tea by now and set her empty mug back onto the tray. “So the easiest way, I think, to safeguard yourselves against one another is to strengthen your minds.”

What exactly Aunt Jenna had in mind was meditation. Because you were human and couldn't exactly perform the same demonic energy rituals and mind exercises that Jenna and Changmin could, meditation was the next best group activity. In order to do this, Jenna shut all of the curtains and sealed the living room off from the outside world. The coffee table and sofa were shoved to the edges of the room, while the empty space was occupied by three bath towels and a Bath and Body Works candle.

It was reminiscent of the ritual from That Night, but your heart rate sat a little more stable with the belief that you were in capable hands this time.

The three of you arranged yourselves in a loose triangle around the lit candle, its small flame shuddering at the force of your breaths.

“You can place your hands wherever you're most comfortable,” Aunt Jenna said lowly, softly—a vocal embodiment of the small head of fire upon the candle. “Sit up straight, close your eyes, and breathe in deep… let the darkness envelope you.”

There weren't many moments when you considered yourself petty, salty, or bitter. But at this very moment, you were most certainly all three at once.

“Are you really still mad that you fell asleep?” The question was posed with as much audacity as there was incredulity in his voice.

You didn't have to direct your glaring eyes at Changmin for him to feel the edge. “It was embarrassing,” you grumbled.

“Aw, it's okay. Not everyone has the mental fortitude to meditate.”

And you do? you wanted to snap back like a five year old. Instead, you tightened your grip on the steering wheel and focused on not steering the two of you off the road. “I will literally ditch you on the highway.”

He leaned his head against the window to watch you with a twinkle in his eyes and a toothy grin on his lips. “And I will literally haunt you in your sleep.”

The pair of you were in the car driving back up to the university. You had just left Aunt Jenna's about fifteen minutes ago after the failed meditation session (for you) and her insisting you both stayed for lunch. With your stomachs full and your heads quite literally empty, there was nothing left to do but to return home.

There had been a moment before you both left when Jenna pulled Changmin aside to have a private conversation. You had lingered outside the apartment door, but couldn't hear anything despite it being left slightly ajar. There must have been some crazy soundproofing done on her apartment. A charm, perhaps?

But when Changmin came to join you, you picked up the tail end of their talk. It had to do with Changmin pleading with her not to tell his mom about what happened; Aunt Jenna would only agree if he promised to babysit her kids next week.

That thought made you smile to yourself even through the cloud of salty pettiness in your vision. What was Changmin like around kids? The guy was rather childish himself, but… you wouldn't deny that he would probably be good—

“What are you smiling about?” he mused as he peered out from under the brim of his cap. He reclined his seat back a little and crossed his arms over his chest, settling himself in for the ride back.

You scoffed and forced the smile away. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He hummed. “Methinks it was about me,” he teased and tugged his cap further over his eyes so even his mouth was barely visible. At your silence, he murmured, “Also, I hope you're not bothered about earlier.”

“Hm?”

“I mean—the fact that you weren't able to meditate. And,” he added quickly, “I'm not trying to make fun of you. It's just that that was the only way Aunt Jenna could think that you could safeguard yourself against me. I'm gonna be really good about this, Yn, I swear. I don't—y’know, I don't want anything to change between us.”

Ah. Well, since his hat was over his eyes, you allowed your smile to slip back into place. The weight in your chest was warm, a comforting sort of tightness. You were gradually getting more accustomed to its presence, and at this particular moment, you were glad to be aware of it.

“I believe you,” you said to him. “And I don't want anything to change between us either.” You were friends before the ritual, and you would continue to be friends after it.

You were content with being accompanied by your thoughts and the radio for the remainder of the ride. Your companion in the passenger seat had drifted to sleep at some point when the highways began to grow rather congested with the early afternoon traffic. Changmin had a dance rehearsal in a couple hours, which gave some leeway as to what time you needed to get him back by.

By the time you hit the university district, the sun perched lower in a sky spotted with cirrus clouds, wispy and drifting in the autumn breeze. The filter it cast over the world was a mute gold, warm.

Changmin peered out his side window as you navigated through the busy streets, his face nearly pressed up against the glass because his cap was turned around. There was far too much foot traffic at three in the afternoon, but it was unfortunately a popular time to be out and about for students on a Monday. “Could you drop me off at the sandwich shop on the corner over there?” he asked suddenly, his voice gravelly from disuse. He inclined his chin further down the block, and you had enough time to switch lanes.

“Yeah, sure,” you murmured, glancing over at him. “You don’t want me to drop you off straight at the dance hall?”

“Nah, I’ve got a couple hours, so I think I’m gonna get another bite to eat first.” He rummaged around in the bag at his feet, double checking that he had brought along everything he needed. “D’you wanna…” His voice trailed off as he turned his head up toward you.

You hummed in question and furrowed your brows in concentration to direct your car into a parking spot along the curb.

“Did you wanna come in with me? I don’t know what your plans are after this.” Changmin had one foot out the door, but the rest of his body remained here with you, in the car, as if hesitant to leave just yet. With the brim of his cap turned around, you could better see his face, the hair pushed out of his dark eyes. There was a small smile seated upon his lips, hopeful in the way it curved into his cheeks in the way you always found slightly endearing.

Your hand lingered by your seatbelt. What were your plans after this? Nothing, right? “I mean, if you don—”

“Yn, is that you?”

The voice and the interruption elicited similar jolts from both of you. Your head whipped around on instinct to locate the person who had called out to you.

Crossing the street to you now was Lee Chan. He had his backpack slung over his shoulder, and he waved a hand at you when he caught your eye. But they flickered away from you to someone behind you—Changmin straightened to his full height, his head appearing over the roof of the car.

You glanced back at your counterpart. That smile, so boyish and innocent, had grown an edge.

“Thanks for the ride, Yn,” Changmin said to you, ducking his head to address you. He reached into the car so he could clasp your hand, his fingers clutching yours as he stole your gaze away… they lingered. “I’ll talk to you later, hm?”

You nodded, unsure why you were so dumbfounded. “Yeah, sure,” you stammered out. “I had fun today.”

“Same.” And there was that smile again. It wasn’t exactly the same, but it had softened out at the corners. With a final raise of his hand, he shut your passenger door and jogged off toward the shop.

You blinked as air suddenly filled your lungs again. Had you been holding your breath the whole time? You forgot to wish him a good rehearsal.

A knock on your window had you swiveling your head around. Chan grinned as you rolled your window down. “Hey, what’ve you been up to?”

Not a mention of Changmin, you noted. You were aware of Changmin and Chan’s dislike for one another, and though it caused you a torrent of internal conflict, there was nothing that you could do about it. If they were unwilling to talk about it with each other or with you, then there was no use. Both of them were important figures in your life, so it was just as important that you could keep them both—was that selfish? It seemed that they were able to somewhat coexist, however, if they participated on the same dance team. How did that even work out?

“I was out with Changmin for most of the day,” you said. “We were just… y’know, visiting a relative of his downtown.” There was no harm in saying that, right?

Chan’s expression didn’t even shudder. “Oh? I didn’t know he had relatives downtown.”

Of course, you didn’t. You appreciated that he tried to be civil about Changmin around you, but sometimes the pretense was more aggravating than the petty disdain. “Yeah, they were really nice. We drank tea and chatted a bit.”

“Glad it was a chill time,” he smiled. “Ah, speaking of—I was wondering if you wanted to go visit Chaeyoung noona with me sometime this week? I've been trying to figure out the best time to go see her before midterms.”

You brightened at the mention of Chan's older sister. Though his parents had passed away before Chan graduated high school, he was supported mostly by his older sister, Chaeyoung. You'd heard and seen for yourself the chronic illness that she was cursed with, however. There had been a decent stretch in time when her situation looked much better, but recently, she had been forced back into long-term care at the hospital.

“Yeah, definitely! It'll be nice to see her after so long. Just text me and let me know what day you decide.” The last time you saw Chaeyoung was probably at the start of the past summer break when you went home to see your parents with Chan. Though you and Chan were around the same age, he acted more as an older brother figure to you, likely because of Chaeyoung's good influence.

The golden hour sun glinted its rays into your eyes, and you were reminded of the time. “Oh, don’t you have dance practice soon? Need a ride over?”

“Yeah, I do, but I don’t need a ride,” he said. “I was about to meet Vernon in the cafe down the street though. Do you wanna come with?”

The idea of accepting his invitation crossed your mind, but the ache in your legs and at the nape of your neck were suddenly a lot more prominent than before. You hadn’t even realized how tired you were. “Not this time; I think I'm a little tired. Thanks for the invite, though!”

He pressed his mouth together in slight disappointment, but waved it away with a casual hand motion. “Of course. Drive home safe, then.”

“I will. Have a good time, Chan.”

Chan returned the sentiment back to you, but instead of leaving right away, his lips parted another time. He paused, concern gleaming in his eyes—or was that the setting sun? You couldn’t tell the difference, but there was something he couldn’t quite articulate with words that his facial expression was desperate to reveal to you instead.

You frowned. “Something wrong?”

He let out a small laugh and brushed away the thought. “No, don’t worry about it.”

Are you aware that you've been cursed?

Aunt Jenna's words echoed in Changmin's head ceaselessly throughout the dance rehearsal. They had been subdued slightly when he was asleep in your car earlier, but consciousness tended to surface more nightmares than the unconscious state. Even in the bright light of day, those shadows found a way to creep in and force him into some horrific tunnel vision.

No, he wasn't aware that he'd been cursed. How could he?

Out of everything he thought she pulled him aside for, that was the last thing he expected. The look in her eyes—those dark irises that mirrored his in depth—had been stricken by a grave worry. Those all-knowing eyes, far surpassing his in experience, had taken one look at him coming in through the door and determined something horrible had happened.

A curse?

You haven't been feeling strange lately? She had grasped him by the shoulders, her hands firm in their iron grip. Any strange aches and pains?

The headaches. He told her about the random, spotty headaches that had been plaguing him recently. It hadn't occurred to him at all that they could even be a side effect for a curse.

I've heard some strange things have been going on to the demons in your area. The curse has subsided for now because of your half-humanness, but…

Changmin could fill in the blanks.

His appeal to Aunt Jenna about not telling his mom about any of this included both the soul-bond and the curse. Based on what his aunt told him, there have been demons in this area who have been forced into critical conditions by an energy-stealing curse. That would explain his frequent headaches and his increased exhaustion. Though, the headaches had been on the decline as of late, which coincided with the other part of Jenna's warning.

He was at odds. He couldn't simply sit around and wait for whatever maniac was at large to suddenly stop. He and all the other demons around him were sitting ducks. Worrying about the soul-bond was one thing, but he supposed this now took priority.

Changmin hunched over his bag in one of the darkened corners of the practice room. The lights had been turned down slightly as their four reserved hours drew to a close. It was a hard night, but the sweat, heat, and adrenaline was a delightfully addicting mixture.

Absent-mindedly, he rubbed a palm over his chest. The invisible knot there that linked you to him tightened at the attention. He had made a habit of this over the course of the past few hours; the physical sensation of the string tugging grounded him and kept him from disappearing into his head too much.

Could you feel him on the other end? He was certain you could if he made it obvious. If he tugged just right—

“Ji. I need to talk to you.”

The only sign of surprise Changmin let Lee Chan see was the raising of his eyebrows. “I don't need to talk to you.”

“It's about Yn.”

Changmin's movements froze. He let go of his bag's strap and zippers with a sigh, then straightened up to meet Chan eye to eye. He crossed his arms over his chest. “What about Yn?” You were his problem now, whether you liked it or not.

Chan's eyes narrowed at him, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “I don't know what you think you're doing with her, but you need to stop. It was enough that she's friends with you—”

He couldn't help but scoff. What the fuck is he going on about? Changmin's mouth twisted into an incredulous smirk, the points of his canines peering out from under his lip as he jabbed his tongue into his cheek. “I was wondering when you'd finally drop the Nice Guy act.”

“This isn't about me putting up a front,” Chan quipped in hushed tones. He wouldn't have done so if he wanted to make a scene. “This isn't even about us not liking each other. My problem is that you're roping Yn into your—your fucking bullshit.”

Changmin furrowed his brows. “You're being vague and dramatic, Lee Chan. I really don't have the time or the patience for this.”

“I know who you really are, Ji.” In any other context, those words in that order would have made Changmin bark out a laugh.

Changmin shuddered as he sized up Lee Chan in a different light. It was almost funny how perspective could change everything. In the daylight and bright fluorescents, Chan was a model kid with a charming smile and unshakeable charisma. He cared about you and watched over you like a brother. But without the presence of light was when Changmin was most afraid of what he saw. It was not because he was afraid of the dark—the shadows, frankly, were a demon's ally—it was because the dark did something to Chan in the same way blood infested clear water.

Chan's mouth was set in a firm line, and nothing about his facial expression or stance gave even an inkling that he was bluffing.

“I still have no fucking clue what you're talking about,” Changmin replied lowly, scooping his bag up and brushing past Chan.

He went to find Juyeon. The organ in his chest pumped his blood wickedly fast through his system; the blood thundered in his ears, loud and deafening, like an oncoming train. Aunt Jenna was in his head, you were in his chest, Lee Chan was at his back.

Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom—

He and Juyeon were out the door in a flash, but Changmin glanced backward—because we always turned toward that which was capable of our demise; that was survival instinct—and he flinched when Chan's eyes caught his again.

Changmin let the door slam behind him as he stole into the cold night. If only the darkness could hide him from whatever just happened.

read part two here (if the link isn't there yet, refresh out of this page and it'll be linked at the top)

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[brattyfics]

Swampbound VIII

Adla drifted into sleep fitfully, the remnants of her panic attack still hovering just out of reach. The warmth of Terry’s hand had grounded her, anchoring her to the present, yet as she sank deeper into slumber, another world unfurled around her.

She found herself standing in a dense fog that seemed to wrap around her, chilling her skin. Shadows stretched in every direction, shifting and curling like they were alive. The landscape was strange but somehow familiar, its jagged trees and twisted branches the stuff of old memories that weren’t her own.

A figure emerged from the fog ahead, its form only partially visible in the swirling mist. Though her features were blurred, they bore an unmistakable resemblance—a woman dressed in simple, homespun attire, her hair forming a thick halo around a solemn face that mirrored Adla’s own. 

The woman raised her hand, beckoning Adla forward with a thin, weathered arm that spoke of time and resilience.

“Adla,” the woman whispered, her voice carried on a faint breeze that prickled Adla’s skin. “The shadow... it still walks among us. You and the protector must face it as one."

Adla’s heart raced as the woman’s gaze turned from solemn to sorrowful. 

“To save him, you must face the dark,” she murmured, her voice fading as the fog began to thicken.

In her vision, the ground crumbled beneath her, and Adla found herself teetering at the edge of a gaping pit, a darkness so thick and stifling it seemed to swallow every flicker of light. Within the chasm, bodies lay twisted and piled atop one another—human legs tangled with fur-covered arms. Their eyes glowed amber but lacked the warmth, frozen open in haunting stares.

She felt a pull, something in her blood responding to the abyss below, yet her instinct screamed to back away.

A warm hand landed on her shoulder, and she turned to see Terry standing beside her, his expression steady, unwavering. He looked to her, a silent assurance passing between them. She felt his presence steady her, like a tether to the earth, the strength of him keeping her rooted even as the pull from the dark deepened.

The image blurred, fading slowly, leaving her with the steady beat of her heart, the warmth of Terry’s hand, and a lingering echo of her ancestor’s words: You and the protector must face it together.

She woke, her breath shallow, heart pounding in the darkness. The words clung to her mind like cobwebs, fragments of a forgotten past stirring something deeper in her.

They needed to find Mike.

But as she replayed the vision, the urgency now felt even greater, like something far more sinister lurked in the shadows, waiting.

She pulled on Terry's arm.

He jolted awake, muscles tensing instinctively as his eyes snapped open. The bright light spilling through the window made the room feel disorienting. He blinked a few times, struggling to shake off the lingering drowsiness.

“What is it?” he murmured, his voice a low growl, a blend of protective instinct and fatigue. “Everything alright?”

“No,” she said, her voice trembling. “Something ain't right. I keep seeing things.”

"Like what?" Terry rolled onto his side, squinting as he searched for her gaze in the bright light.

She struggled to put it into words—the vivid flashes of scenes she’d never known, yet felt deep in her bones like they belonged to her. They started the moment she laid her hands on that book, and they hadn’t let up since. They lingered in her mind as she drifted off to sleep and jolted her awake. It felt like she was teetering on the edge of madness, but in some strange way, they were guiding her too.

"They’re whisperin’ to me—faces I ain’t never seen, voices I don’t recognize. But it’s like they know me… like I should know them too. It’s all mixed up in my head, and it’s scaring me something fierce.” She admitted, wrapping her arms around Terry.

Terry’s hands were on her then, stroking her back with his long fingers and grounding her in the chaos swirling in her mind. His voice was low and steady, wrapping around her like a soft quilt. “What are they telling you?”

“I… don’t know,” she stammered, the images of the trees, that woman, and the pit filled with twisted, lifeless bodies clawing at her mind—half human, half beast. People like Terry and his cousin Mike. What did it all mean?

She needed answers, and right now, Terry was her only lifeline. Her heart hammered in her chest, each question spilling out before she could hold them back. Each one was a thread pulling her further from the darkness closing in around her.

“They're haunting me,” she decided, desperation creeping into her voice. “What brought you here? Before you lost Mike, before everything went sideways?”

Terry went quiet, his eyes drifting off somewhere far away.

“Terry?” she asked, breaking the silence. He shifted beside her, leaning back against the headboard with a soft sigh. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment as if bracing himself for the conversation he clearly wanted to avoid. Yet he understood it was something he had to face.

"My daddy passed too," he said, and she felt a sharp ache bloom in her chest. "Just a few months ago. He was the last of his brothers. So many losses in our family lately. Lost one brother to a heart attack, and Mike's dad in a freak accident. My daddy went peacefully in his sleep. Wasn't sick or nothin’, just didn’t wake up one morning."

What were the odds that she and Terry carried the same burden? Everything about them seemed to fit together like pieces of a puzzle—two sides of the same coin, destined to be intertwined.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked softly. Terry shrugged, a hint of discomfort crossing his face. “It ain’t exactly something I like to discuss.” She got that, but given the circumstances, he should’ve mentioned it. Adla felt a knot of frustration in her stomach; this was important. “We got a letter in the mail two weeks back, saying we had some family property here in Shelby Springs that now belongs to us. Mike and I came to check it out.”

“We never even made it there; Burne caught us as soon as we rolled into town. Don’t know how he got the drop on us—what we were up to, when we’d be here—but he was waitin’. Ready.” Terry’s gaze drifted into the distance, lost in thought.

“He had his boys run us off the road. My truck flipped, and I had to climb out through the window. They were firing shots and some kind of mist to keep us from seeing. Now that I think about it, I couldn’t smell a thing either.”

Adla leaned in close, hangin' on his every word like it was gospel.

"A couple of them grabbed me, held me down like I was nothing. I could hear Mike hollerin’, but I couldn't get to him.” 

The memory was a dark cloud casting a shadow over him. Mike had always been his little cousin, the one who turned to him for strength and safety. For the first time in their lives, Terry had let him down. 

“That bastard carved those marks into my back—the ones you helped clean up. The knife was real silver. It burned like fire and left me paralyzed."

She caught sight of his pulse quickening, dancing just under the skin of his neck.

“They dragged Mike off somewhere; I couldn’t see or turn my head to catch a whiff of him. It was pure mayhem.” He recalled their mistake. “Burne got cocky, backed off to let one of his boys have a turn at carving me up. But then something took hold of me—a surge of strength, determination I didn’t know I had left. I broke free. It was slow going, but I managed to escape, and I put a hurtin’ on two of his men pretty good too.”

She pictured a misty road, the sharp burn of gun smoke still thick in the air.

"I broke off into the woods and shifted to protect myself better. I didn’t stop; I couldn’t." That fact clearly bothered him; it was written in the tension of his shoulders. "My instincts led me to the swamp back there," he pointed toward her window. "I drained a deer and whatever else I could scramble up just to regain my strength. But whatever was on that knife kept burning, like I was getting cut over and over again. So I came to you."

“Why me?” Adla asked, the question weighing heavy on her mind since Terry had shown up.

“I saw you out there in the woods, clearing up after the storm. There was something about the way you moved—like you were part of the swamp, like you had a deep respect for it. It felt better to trust you than to be out there by myself.”

Adla found that she felt the same inside. It’s better to trust you than to be alone. Whether it was a spark of romance or just a response to the chaos swirling around them, she felt the truth of it resonate in her core.

“Mike’s not at their police station; I stood outside for hours, but there was nothing. Burne won’t go home either—I waited there too. They’re keeping busy, moving as a pack to make sure I can’t get to him. Burne knows I’m coming for him.”

“And that’s where Jesse fits into this,” she said, filling in the gaps.

“Yeah, there ought to be a spell in that book—probably more than one—to help track down Mike. I’m not sure what he’ll need or how he’ll pull it off, but that’s our only way to find him.”

Time was slipping through her fingers like grains of sand. Adla couldn’t let another moment slip away; she had to push through her own heartache to ease Terry’s pain. “I’ll be back,” she told him with a soft smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She pushed herself up from the bed and made her way to the living room, determination guiding each step.

Adla gripped the phone tightly, her heart racing as she dialed Jesse's store. Each ring reverberated through the stillness of the room, heightening her anxiety with every echo.

“Jesse,” he answered, his voice gravelly and sharp, cutting through the tension.

“Hey, it’s me,” she replied, fighting to keep her voice steady despite the tremor creeping in. “I—I need to talk to you.”

“Adla? What’s wrong?” His tone shifted, now laced with concern.

“I know you’ve been keeping things from me.”

A heavy silence fell over the line, and she could practically hear the gears grinding in his mind. The air between them crackled with unspoken truths. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t lay it all out right now,” she pressed, urgency spilling over into her voice. “I just know I’m in way too deep, and I need you.” Her words rose, trembling with emotion. “I know you’re a witch, Jesse.”

She heard something clatter to the floor. “Adla, you don’t know what you’re talking about. That was just a game Granny ran on folks who didn’t know any better. You know that,” he replied, his voice a low rumble tinged with caution. 

“Game? Don’t play with me, Jesse—I know what’s really going on. You’ve been lying to me!” Her anger flared, but she took a deep breath to steady herself. She couldn’t afford to lash out at him and then turn around and ask for a favor. “I already know part of the truth, so there’s no point in hiding anymore. I need your help.”

He let out a heavy sigh into the receiver.

“What do you need?”

“A spell.”

“What sort of spell you mean?”

“It’s a locating spell, I reckon. I need to find someone.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know him.”

“So how you know him?”

She dodged his question with one of her own. “What do you remember from earlier, when you stopped by?” She heard some rustling on the other end, like he was shifting in his seat.

“Not a whole lot. Why? What did you do?” His tone dripped with suspicion.

“Nothing!” she insisted, though doubt crept in, gnawing at her confidence. “What do you remember, Jess?”

“Just bits and pieces,” he replied, frustration lacing his words. “I remember pulling up, seeing you outside. Then it goes blank. Next thing I know, I’m waking up on the porch with a sore head and neck.”

He truly didn’t remember. She didn’t know what to make of it—could a whispered chant over his head really wipe his memory clean like that?

“What did you do?” he pressed again, the weight of his words hanging heavy between them. Jesse's heart raced as he braced for the answer he feared would shatter everything they had built. Years spent shielding Adla from the truth, all in the name of her safety, now felt futile—like trying to hold back a tide that was always destined to wash over them.

Adla took a deep breath, her gaze turning toward the bedroom where Terry remained in her bed. 

“I didn’t listen to your warning. I opened the door, and a shapeshifter walked in.”

Chapter 9.

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[toomuchracket]

Omg YES vampire Matty night - does he share his whole story after girlie finds out he’s a vampire? What’s the story on how he turned (on purpose, accident, victim of a vamp attack)? So much lore!!

he shares his story right after you find out, yeah!! i think he was human during the late victorian era, to be honest - grew up in a middle-class northern family ("dad owned the farm, but we all worked on it"), was honestly a little bit of a fruit/too into literature and music so he moved to london (the way he phrases it to you is "you know... teen angst. like in lady bird where she says she wants to go where culture is. and that one bronski beat song") and hung around the literati ("oscar wilde used to flirt with me, you know. m'serious. i'm the basis for dorian gray" "nice try, healy, he was blonde in the book" "...ah, fuck") of the era. as it turns out, he was turned by an unknown vampire in the early 1900s, when he was in his early thirties, after almost dying from tuberculosis (ironically, also named consumption); he's like "i don't know why they chose me of all people-" and you interrupt like "because you were beautiful, matthew. you were beautiful anyway, and then you got TB, which everyone thought was a flattering malady - one of the brontës said that, i think - and whoever turned you probably thought it would've been a waste to let you die". and matty thinks for a second, and you worry you've offended or upset him, but he just smiles shyly and says "you think i'm beautiful?", the little shit, and you just roll your eyes and grin like "a little bit, yeah". anyway, he laid low for a bit after that, coming to terms with vampirism and relearning how to be a part of society, which meant he missed ww1, and spent ww2 working in paris for the resistance and chilling with sartre and camus - he stayed there for part of the 50s, then split his time between london and new york in the 60s and 70s ("punk was SO fun"), and spent the 80s back in manchester being angsty and emo again on the indie scene, and he's been in london ever since. all his money was made from an invention, inspired by the punks he hung around with: tattoo ink that didn't dissolve in vampires' venom-filled blood, which he patented and made a fucking FORTUNE from, a fortune that only keeps increasing and means he doesn't have to work and can get away with being part of the nightlife. he's gorgeous, he's sweet, he's funny, and he's totally head over heels for you in a way he's never been before. i love him <3

[thekiltongrammarwriter]

Told you not to worry, but maybe that’s a a lie. 18+MDI

Summary: In the quaint, seemingly peaceful town of Whitfoshire, Pippa Fitz-Amobi leads a double life. By day, she’s the diligent and charming girlfriend, but by night, she transforms into a relentless vigilante, righting the wrongs that the law overlooks. You remain blissfully unaware of Pippa’s nocturnal activities, until the eerie atmosphere of Halloween begins to unravel the truth. As the town prepares for its annual Halloween festival, Pippa’s behavior grows increasingly strange. She becomes distant, her eyes shadowed with secrets, and her once comforting presence now sends chills down your spine. Determined to uncover the cause of Pippa’s odd demeanor, you follow her one fateful night, only to stumble upon a scene that shatters your world.

Warnings: UNHINGED PIPPA FITZ AMOBI, vigilante pippa fitz Amobi, suspecting reader, agad pip making a turn for the worse. 18+ descriptions of sexual acts and of course with the subject of crime and violence. Pippa fitz Amobi being unsettling. Description of crime. Blood, gore, knife play. Toxic relationships. Halloween vibes. Pip does it for justice…what agad pip could be. Emotional turmoil. Aggressive behavior. Pip giving off stalker vibes. But we love our agad pip…pip covered in blood…reader fancing it…pip being toxic and forcing reader sleeping pills. Fluff and angst with no comfort.

Pippa fitz amobi x fem reader

A/n: Went very dark with this one. Wanted to give my agad pip a oneshot to shine. I wrote pip in this one shot a very specific way, I wanted her to feel so unlike pip in the first book. Unsettling at first. This is all my own imagination and therefore she might be Characterized in a different fashion. Had to read AGAD multiple times to get her just right. And even then I feel I could have wrote pip better.

Words: 6.244k NOT EDITED. If any of my readers would like to be tagged in my works just let me know.

@caitlynskitten hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I want all the thoughts you can muster. 🫶

You remember so many things now that make proper sense. They all flit together like a puzzle, the pieces perfectly interlocking in such a manner that makes your head spin. The day DI Hawkins had knocked on your flat door, his Polar eyes as he asked for pip. The way Pip had halted her fingers on the chopping board, you could still see the slight stiffness in her form, the way her eyes had flitted up. you knew her well enough to know something was off. She had known what it was about. But you had just mistaken it for her utter disdain for DI Hawkins after refusing to listen to her claims. And you had thought nothing of it.

Pip had quickly put the knife down, the muscles in her cheeks clenching. Her blue irises darkened as she neared the doorstep, fingers immediately seeking your waist and pulling you farther from the door. Farther from DI Hawkins.

“May I help you?” She had gritted out, venom laced on her tongue, her fingers causing the edge of the wood on the door to creak. You still remember DI Hawkin’s feeble attempt to smile, rather by force or by his own guilt of not listening to the clever girl. His fingers had halted over his long coat, his boots glistening on the cobblestones that adorned your flat steps. It had been raining, a ghastly day. Something uncomfortable and ugly flashed across the man’s face and he gulped.

“Jason Bell was found dead at his place of work. Green scene in Knotty Green. Bashed with a heavy object it seemed like, whoever did this had it in for him. Awful bloody mess it was-“

You remember the intake of breath Pip had let out, remember her icy eyes flashing wide with what you thought was shock, but now you realize it was guilt. Perceived and acted perfectly upon that even DI Hawkins had been fooled.

You too. You immediately moved to hug her from behind, slotting your head against the slope of her neck, feeling the way her heart was rattling against her chest. Her fingers interlocked with yours over her shoulders, clinging to you like a lifeline.

“At the moment we are treating this death as suspicious-“Hawkins's voice was a lull in your head. You had been too preoccupied trying to keep Pip calm. You knew the disdain she had held for the man. Knew the anger and the pain he had caused his two girls. Becca still wouldn’t speak of him, but you knew well enough that the man brought chaos.

“We’d like you to come in-“

You had watched as a pip stood in the mirror, face a pale colour of grey, the edges of her eyes dark from lack of sleep, her eyes, a usual calm blue was the shade of a frosty cold day. She moved almost robotically, dusting of her trainers and tying them with a strong enough knot to break the circulation of her fingers.

“Can I do anything for you?” You had asked, moving to it on the bed, afraid to touch her, to set her off. She had been so on edge lately, with the Billy Karras case. Her run ins with aunt Lowe, the fall out of Lauren and Charlie green and Stanley-. It all seemed like too much and you wished you had the power to take it away.

Pip had flinched at your touch, and you had apologized, you mistook her hand trembles as anger, as her deep white hot heat that lurked beaneath her small body. Looking back at it now, how Pip had took your hand from her shoulder, had whispered a small, “come here…let me get a look at you” in her gruff drawl. Had positioned yourself in front of her, her sitting on the edge of the bed, you on your knees in front of her. At the time you had thought it sweet. How soft and utterly romantic Pip was being. Forehead leaning against yours, her deep dark hollow eyes peering into your soul. How her breathing had been shaky.

“I’ll fix this. I won’t let this break us—I cannot. Will not. You don’t worry one toss, alright my sweet?”.

The declaration was said through gritted teeth, and soon Pip had peppered kisses onto your forehead. “I should call Becca whilst I’m on my way to Amersham station-she probably hasn’t been told. I think the news would best be heard from me-“ Pip rambled, moving to grab her mobile, dialing the number.

“Why would DI Hawkins want to speak with you? You told me you haven’t seen Jason round in months since the memorial and Jamie?” You spoke, voice shaky. You knew Pip would never lie to you, and never on purpose.

The way Pip had halted her movements, her eyes moving to you, the soft tone in her voice as she neared, her fingers curling under your chin with the softness of a child, “It’s just to say they talked to me. To say that my troublesome self got the message. To ask-they’ll probably ring you and ask you some questions too. About me-but you’ll say the right thing won’t you?”.

You swallowed, what was the right thing? You hadn’t exactly been with Pip that day. Going about town and having done some errands you needed to finish— the thought alone had made you recoil, what were you thinking? This was your girlfriend. Your pip…the girl who would cuddle you at night and never let you open the car door till she had opened it for you. Your love was a love for the novels. With her adoring eyes and keen eager lips.

“I just tell him you were with Cara and Naomi?”

The edges of Pip’s lips lifted, her finger dancing along your lips. Like she got some sort of high seeing you uncertain and rather unknowing of her real true schemes. “That’s right…such a clever girl. My smart resourceful girl”.

True to her word DI Hawkins had reached out to you in the days following. You had been out, walking the little kilton streets and had been about to pay for a coffee at the kilton cafe when a large hand had shot up and payed the 6 measly pounds for you. You had thanked him, with nothing but a cordial smile. You weren’t fond of the man by any means. He had treated your girlfriend like muck on the bottom of his trainers more than once. Disregarded her during the Andie Bell case and Jamie.

You were thankful Pip hadn’t been there. You were sure if she had been she would have swooped in with her hands over your waist, that deep inner slight Possesive gaze, put her body over yours, and say in that calm ‘I should put you in the ground too’ cadence, “There’s no need. I can pay for my girlfriend’s coffee just fine”.

But it was Hawkins who had smiled and seemed to find you sweet, asking if you wouldn’t mind answering some mere measly questions.

Pip had prepared you well for events like these. Being her girlfriend meant many things. Especially in Kilton. There were many places where Pip was not welcomed. She had personally thrown the tiny town in a whirlwind. The Daily Mail had called her a ‘sleuth with no regard for the town’s inhabitants’ the Telegraph had vetoed her as ‘the adolescent crime chaser’ and that didn’t even count BBC’s own trademark of her. At best an insult of its own.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with details of my girlfriend’s whereabouts on the day poor Jason Bell was murdered. I was out shopping for most of the day, well off into the evening. But I can tell you my girlfriend accompanied Cara Ward and Naomi Ward on a small trip. Would you like time stamps?” You had questioned as soon as Hawkins had sat down, his curious eyes seeming to analyze you with a look of utter surprise.

The edges of his lips lifted a mere small smile. “Your girlfriend taught you well. Very clever girls you are.” But then his smile vanished, eyes moving to peer out of the cafe Windows. It had been a ghastly day again, England’s answer to droughts it seemed. “There’s been a development on the Jason Bell case. We believe the suspect involved in his murder is still out there. We’ve received reports from nearby towns of multiple stabbings.” Hawkins reached into his coat, pulling out a few photos. You would have gone sick all over the floor if you hadn’t looked away.

Blood, metallic tasting you could just feel it. Bodies ripped and broken. You could never understand how Pip could eye these type of photos and not bat an eye.

You held a hand to your mouth, feeling your stomach twist. Who could do such a thing?

Hawkins seemed sympathetic to you. Moving to put the photos back into the file. “This killer has a tell. For one thing, the killer after a kill writes these letters.” He produced another photo. This time the image was grainy and far too clear. But you could just about make the letters.

DGW

“I-I don’t understand what does that mean?”

Hawkins shook his head. “We-we haven’t a clue. And my constables don’t exactly give a toss. We-“Hawkins's voice halted, his eyes swirling from you to the letters on the photograph. His face contorted in an uncomfortable fashion, his lips pinching. Almost as if the words hurt to say. “We were hoping Pip would be available to lend us some of her—thoughts”.

You had actually chuckled. Feeling the rise of disbelief at his tone. Hawkins had done nothing valuable to Pip’s cases, nothing valuable except give your girlfriend a very healthy case of disdain for the police, for the justice system. And he hadn’t exactly been kind after Pip had reported her stalker. Which conveniently had disappeared into the space of the earth.

Hawkins had thought he could stroll in and buy your way in. Well…he had thought wrong. Because now you were angry.

“If you would like to have a sit down with my girlfriend you can ask her Detective. But I’d wager and say you won’t even get pass the threshold of our door”.

Hawkins’s cheeks clenched, the muscles pinching in his jaw, “don’t you think I know that? That’s why I’ve come to you. Pip can be stubborn. At least bring it up to her. This is a case she won’t want to pass up”.

You did bring the topic up.

Pip had been studying, cramming in as much as she could before her final exams. You had sat across from her reading one of your romance books. The type that Pip would giggle at and often recite sentences for you till you were both hot in the face and enveloped in cotton sheets and hot mouths.

You watched her, eying the way she held the pen in her hand, her blue eyes which were roving over the maths book. Her jumper was on, big and rather soft. Her hair was pulled down. Chestnut waves and pale skin.

“That romance book not interest you anymore little one?”.

You had rolled your eyes at that, tossing the book at her playfully. “No…I’ve just got a lot on my mind. It’s too distracting to read”.

Pip hummed, eyes still on the maths equation, eyebrows raised, “Fancy a talk?”

You smiled and immediately moved into your girlfriend’s lap. Feeling her arms wrap around you, her lips already kissing the crown of your head. Fingers swirling over your hair. You softly moved to pick a strand of hair, twirling it in your fingers. You knew now was the best time to air what DI Hawkins had said.

“I had a run in with Hawkins today on my errands out”.

As soon as the words were uttered from your lips Pip had stiffened, arms slighty tighter round your middle. Her eyebrows pinched in that pippa fitz Amobi way that you knew meant she was processing.

“What did that pathetic old excuse of a detective want?”

You licked your lips, moving to comfortably sit on her lap. You wrapped your arms around her shoulders, making sure her eyes met yours.

“He wanted me to pass on a message. Although he did ask about your whereabouts on the day Jason was killed. As you said. I was the perfect actress if I do say so myself-“ you playfully spoke.

Pip cracked a minuscule smile, her fingers ghosting against the dip of your back, softly and sensually tracing the muscles underneath. “No doubt of course. High marks all round.”

But soon the playful pip was gone, the edges of her lips smoothed out, and she looked almost nervous.

“What is the message exactly?”.

You sighed, playing with Pip’s dungarees that had fallen, “Oh, apparently there is a new case popping up in towns quite near here. Stabbing victims apparently. Hawkins showed me a picture of the crime scene…ghastly ugly affair. I couldn’t stomach one photo”.

You had been too busy tracing the edges of her dungarees to notice the way Pip’s eyes had stilled. Her breathing halted for a fraction of the moment. Eyes dark.

“He let you see pictures of the crime scene?” Her voice had been brittle. Cold, alarmed. But you hadn’t noticed.

“Yes. Apparently, there’s been multiple stabbings. All done by the same person. DGW is written on almost all the crime scenes like some act of pride. His team is having trouble working out what those words mean. He wanted to have you have a look.”

You had moved to eye pip, and perhaps you had been to star struck by her blue eyes and sharp jaw to notice the now nervous almost stone-cold look in her eyes.

“I’ll have to have a chat with him about that. I’ve got so much on my mind I don’t think I could handle this case”.

You had shrugged. Thought it done with. As Autumn approached and the England air turned even more brittle and cold you had started to notice things. Small disturbances in Pip’s mood. She was never cross or angry with you. Her night terrors had gotten worse. Waking up in full body sweats with a heart-racing over the normal 100 beats per minute. She spent more time walking at night. You had offered multiple times to go with her.

But pip would kiss your head and tell you to stay. That she needed to clear her mind. A quick jog in the night's cold air would do the trick. So you let her.

You would watch her as she walked out of the flat, her jumper on as she would begin her jog. Her breath no more than wisps of condensation as she would run off into the pale night.

You wouldn’t sleep. You’d lie awake and wait. She usually wasn’t more than two hours. And after she would come in with steady breaths and a face so clear of troubles you were hardly certain she had even had a panic attack.

She talked about Stanley less. Saw him less in her dreams and in her daily thoughts. Or so she reported to you and both her therapist. She was sleeping better. Eating better.

She was the picture perfect of your girlfriend pre Andie Bell case. With her normal natural quips and Pippa fitz Amobi air. She was keen on you, touching you and kissing you anytime she could. She was an avid passionate pleaser when it came to you. Often nights you spent pressed up against her bed frame with your knees lifted up to your chest as she thrusted into you with the stamina of a young man. Her kisses were hot and heavy and her moans were loud and steady as she would take you over and over again. Pull you apart with eager fingers.

Often two times a week.

Her fingers were a lesson in beauty. It was absurd how all she had to do to get you riled up and a whimpering pathetic shell of your former self was a heady make-out session and a few minutes of eager tongue sucks and laps at your hardened embarrassingly pink nipples.

Her fingers would descend upon your soiled panties and pull them down with her teeth, her eyes a dilated blue as she would push them down all the way to your heels. From there on she would proceed to press soft kisses against your skin, till she would keep the apex of your thighs, where then she would gently let your legs open. Her eyes taking in your gleaming wet aching folds. Pip would close her eyes, breathing in before opening. Then with curious fingers, she would slowly ghost her fingertips over your enlarged clit, playing with it between her fingers and prying it open just the way you liked. Till she could feel it jump at her touch.

Then she would allow her fingers to play with your folds, puffy and wet. She spent her nights between your legs, and her mornings eagerly thrusting into you with her strap. And you welcomed it. Needing it. Wanting it. Aching for it. She took care of you with every breath she had. She would tell you she loved you whilst you ate her out or she ate you out, clawing at you like a woman mad. Fingers sensually interlocking with yours as she thrusted in and out, sweaty forehead a mess, and grunts a toss between gasps and moans. “I love you….. I love you I love you I love you-“.

You had no reason to doubt her. Why should you? Pip had spent a whole portion of her life dedicated to Andie bell, to Jamie Reynolds, to Sal Singh. You knew her intrinsically. Had tried to be as understanding of her moods and mental health since Stanley’s death and the fire.

The first inkling that something wasn’t right hadn’t been some massive sign. It had been something as simple as picking up her trainers and noticing some small minuscule dots of crimson. It was too dark to catch a perfect glimpse, the red bled onto the patch of the converse.

Your heart had done summer salts. Because the blood was across the sole, falling away like a drip from a knife. Even the thought alone had made you wonder. Surely there was some logical explanation for this. Pip must have cut her hand on a walk or jog. Or maybe Cara had done or even Ravi.

You had asked Pip about it. She had given you a calm smile, “Oh Ravi was helping me take the bins out the other day and sliced his hand on a tin of beans. I told Josh to put those farther down the bin but he didn’t listen. Got a healthy dose of blood on my trainer. I should wash it out with some cleaners so it doesn’t stain”.

You believed her. Had even asked Ravi how his hand was. He had replied with a slight nod like he was trying to get it over with. The answering. You hadn’t made it easy, assessing him like a trained detective yourself.

Your mind started playing tricks on you. What if your girlfriend is up to something? What if Pip is in danger? What if she’s taking more pills from Luke Eaton?

What shook you to your core was coming back to the flat and catching Pip standing in the middle of the kitchen sink. Trainers in hand as she dabbed some cleaner on the crimson flood. Your heart had nearly bugged out of your chest. The way her eyes had darkened, her mood seeming to be far away. Her eyes focused on the shoe almost automaton-like. She’s still focused on her task, scrubbing at her trainers with a fervor. The sound of water rushing from the faucet drowns out the sound of your footsteps as you back away. She doesn’t seem to notice you, still stuck in her own world.

You feel like a nutter. A crazy person. Your world was spinning. You want to tell yourself to stop. That pip is still the same girl you met before the cases. That she stands for justice and truth. That she would never hurt a fly. But then you remember her dark eyes and the way she had looked at Stanley’s funeral. The fury as she had chased after the crowd. Throwing the boards and all.

And maybe…just maybe a part of you had known then. But love was a powerful tool. And so you remained naive.

Till one autumn cold night as you, pip, Cara, and Connor strolled through Little Kilton’s excuse of a Halloween funfair. The lights loud and obnoxious. Children running in eager little legs as they run past you. Everything seems normal. Pip clings to you, hands on your waist, and a few kisses lingering here and there. Cara teases Pip, teases you till you're red in the face. Pip drags you to a camera booth. Pulling you inside and putting you on her lap, the first pic is a rather Pippa picture. Pip’s clever face contorted into a silly face. Her laugh is beautiful and makes your heart race, reminding you of Pip before the cases. Of the fun clever girl you fell in love with.

Halfway through the second pic pip snatches your chin, pulling you against her, lips eagerly meeting yours in a Frenzy passionate kiss. One where her tongue reaches the seam of your mouth and you can’t do anything but grip onto her, hoping she’ll go even deeper and twirl her tongue over your teeth.

Cara teases you about those pictures too. Saying pip can’t go a single minute without violating your space. Pip giggles and agrees. You rate your weight in candy floss. Fish and chips. Connor and you have a candy floss contest and he is half way, moaning over his upset stomach. Cara and Pip ride the merry-go-round like eager children while you sit and Pat a stomach-grumbling Connor. You can’t help but the rush of emotions as you watch Pip come into view, her giggles and large smile wide as she waves at you from the horse she’s on. Blowing you kisses. It’s a sight that makes your heart flutter. You know that before the nights are over you’ll be begging her to take you. To ravage you.

Once the ride is over and Cara and Connor have had their fill you three make your way to the entrance. You’re just about to call it a night when Cara states she has to go to the loo. Connor quickly follows. Pip agrees, spinning you around back to the loos that line the fair.

Cara and Connor scramble inside, racing each other like children till they both disappear behind the swinging loo doors. Your eyes are heavy and your limbs tired. Stomach tired from all the foods you’ve eaten. You lay against pip’s solid body, feeling her comforting touch. Soaking in her warmth. Her arm which is protectively around you. Her kisses are warm as she misses the crown of your head.

“Did you have fun tonight? It was nice of Cara to invite us.” You whisper, eyes closed.

Pip hums, “Cara’s treat. I had a rather nice with you tonight. Felt lighthearted. Just what I need. And now all I require is a night with just my girl naked and whimpering and writhing under me-“ she playfully smiles.

You’re too embarrassed, hiding your face in her jumper that you don’t notice the way Pip’s smile drops. Her blue eyes caught sight of someone in the crowd. The way her hands tighten on your hips. The way her eyes trail after the person. She licks her lips, eyes moving to the bathroom. She’s logical. Thinking of a way to discreetly get you away from her.

“Pumpkin, why don’t you go join Cara in the loo? You drank an awful lot of water after your candy floss contest. Don’t want you getting a stomach ache”. She’s saying into your hair. You sigh, moving to eye her. All sharp jaw and unfocused blue eyes. But you’re too tired to notice. Your body is not on high alert.

“You know me so well. I’ll just be a minute” you say, kissing her cheek eagerly.

You move into the girl's bathroom, it’s rather packed and Cara waits for you outside the stalls. She’s eager to rehash the night, going on and on about the fair and Connor’s upset stomach. Talking about her girlfriend Stephanie and how much she’d like the fair.

You end your taking longer than you want. You wash your hands and walk out with Cara, arm in arm. Connor meets your gaze. An inquiring look on his features as she catches you with Cara. You both seem to have the same question without even communicating. It’s Cara who voices it

“Where’s Pip gone? I figured she was out here waiting”.

An uneasy edge fills your veins. The thought waking your once tired and flimsy Brain up. “S-she’s not out here with you Connor?”. You don’t like the way your voice shakes, the uneasy edge to it.

Connor shakes his head.

“When I came out she was gone. I assumed she was with you. She never leaves your side. Especially in places this crowded.”

Cara doesn’t seem to notice the way your heart is rattling against your chest. “I’ll just phone her. Come on let’s go to the car. She probably got tired of waiting on us lazy hens.”

You feel the way your stomach spikes and suddenly you let go of Cara’s hand. “I think I see her. Just over there” you lie. “We’ll catch up”. It’s a lie, you don’t see her. But you want them to leave, for some unknown reason. For a reason, you hope you won’t find.

Cara’s eyes flit to yours, sensing something. She’s good at that now. Has been ever since her father. But she must sense your determination because she nods, “Come on con. We’ll wait by the car”.

Soon they become distant figures. You can feel your hands shaking from nerves. But you take a big breath. Eyes open before you make your way into the festival. Body moving just on account of your logical mind. You press your phone to your ear, dialing Pip’s contact, it’s a picture of Pip blowing a kiss, and it only serves to make you even more nervous.

The shrill of the ring in your ear is loud and seems to mess with your mind. You walk the fairgrounds, pass shrieking children, and pass the carousel Pip and Cara had rode in. You eye every face that passes, and each face makes your stomach drop. She’s not here. You make it to the edge of the fairgrounds, where the hill dips into the moors. The sound of the small lake meeting your ears. It’s dark and off the edge of the grounds. The lights from the grounds are far away.

You stare into the unknown moors, the dark playing tricks on you. Nothing but the sounds of a few badgers and lazy frogs in your ear. The sound of giggling shrieking children behind you. You’re just about to turn back, telling yourself this is all your brains way of coping with the stressful situation. You turn on your heels dialing pip’s number again hoping it’s Cara telling you Pip made it back to the car park when you hear it.

It stops you dead in your tracks. Makes your body freeze with adrenaline. Pip’s mobile. A distinct rustle of Vivaldi’s four seasons behind you in the dark of the moors. Where the small lake lies. Or just bellow. It’s too dark to see.

You feel sick. Think you will be sick. But still, you follow the sound. It’s dark as you move farther away from the fair, nothing but endless darkness. It isn’t till after a few minutes of walking you meet the calm English cliffside. Where the sea meets the beach. Nothing but the rocky beach and the moon light your path.

There are no people on the beach, and you can see the fairgrounds up on the hill, getting smaller as you walk. The ringtone has gone silent now. But as you near you hear it again. In the opposite direction, you were heading. Cara keeps calling, but you press it to voicemail.

As you move to silence another call you hear it. A muffled vibrating sound. Coming from the small secluded cove near the beach.

Your feet don’t move. You stay still for a moment. Your heart racing in your ears, ‘please god don’t let me find what I think I’ll find” you voice in your head.

But as soon as you near you spot it, wedged on the rocky ground. Pip’s mobile. Lighting up with a dozen messages. All in a span of ten minutes. First your messages, then Cara’s. A few miscalled from Pip’s parents. You pick it up, cleaning some rocks from it. The tiny pebbles fall of the screen. It’s been discarded here. On the rocks like someone just threw it without care.

You know Pip is strong enough to care for herself. She’s got fight in her. This has been proven time and time again.

And then you hear it. A squelching sound. A sound you know too well from your girlfriend’s line of work. Well, obsession. You freeze. It sounds like gurgling, and then you hear a loud scream. It’s male-like and makes the back of your hair stand up, your heart races and immediately you take a step back. Your whole body thrumming. You’re about to run off back to the fair when you realize. Pip’s phone is out here. She’s out here.

And immediately without a second thought, you move into the dark cave. Your phone lights off. The cave is dark and musty, water drips from its edges.

You’re tired and just want to find Pip. You’re hoping with all your might she’s in here. Playing some sort of sick twisted game. Find the detective. A game to sharpen your skills.

You hear a voice, now. Clearer. A male voice. It’s high and loud and—terrified. And then another scream. It makes your heart shatter and your body shakes, but you continue on. Mustering the last ounce of your courage.

It’s then you meet the dip in the cave, and you catch sight of two shadows. There’s a shadow on the floor, a man by the looks of it. It’s too dark to tell but you can easily spit the dark indents of blood on the floor. He’s whining and gasping. The type of gasps you hope you never have to hear again. Like he can’t breathe. It’s a desperate type of gasp, one that makes you want to cry.

But then you catch the second shadow. And your whole world stops. Your chest stops breathing. Your heart stops beating. Your mind stops moving.

You know those curls anywhere.

And then you watch as Pip moves the glinting knife into the man’s backside. Over and over again.

Squelch. Squelch squelch.

Scream. Scream. Scream..

Your breath hitches and suddenly you feel sick. You’re dizzy. Images of Pip as she kissed you before going on her jog. In the dead of night. The stabbings Hawkins had been investigating.

And suddenly you remember Hawkins words.

“Jason Bell was found dead at his place of work. Green scene in Knotty green. Bashed with a heavy object it seemed like, whoever did this had it in for him. Awful bloody mess it was-“

You remember Hawkins hadn’t disclosed the details. But pip had known. You had been to tired and naked and whimpering and used that night to recall pip’s words.

“It’s a shame he got pummeled six times in the head. Must have been a heavy hammer”.

Six times.

Hawkins hadn’t disclosed that.

And then you could hear pip, her voice taking on a dark cadence.

“You shouldn’t have ran. You shouldn’t have come here. You stupid pathetic little fuck—thinking you could come here and eye those girls in line…I knew what you were doing to their drinks. And this is what you get-“.

And then you watched as your girlfriend of six years, six wonderful dazzling albeit crazy years stabbed the man clean through. Blood soaking her cheeks and falling down her knife.

The man was silent. And you were too.

And then you were slipping on a rock. The panic in your chest seizing. You feel for sure you’re about to have a heart attack. Everything you know is a lie—

And then you hear it. The metallic sound of a knife falling to the floor. And you try to see past your tear-stained eyes.

Pip’s seen you now. It’s evident by the way her eyes widen and it’s like she’s a deer trapped in headlights. The blood on her cheeks is slowly caked into her face.

She lifts her hands in a calm motion, her blue eyes wide and so pip like you want nothing more than to sink into those arms. Those sweet, protective arms. Your arms.

But one look at the bleeding man on the floor and you feel panic rise in you.

Pip senses the way your eyes are flirting to the man.

She perceives the way your breathing, heavy breathes and wide tear stained eyes.

“It’s alright…you’re ok…look at me—look at me. Look at me y/n…” she speaks, she takes an eager step towards you.

You step back. A sob falls off your lips. Your chest aches. Your heart aches.

“I’m sorry you had to see that my love I thought you were with Cara-“.

She eyes your trembling chin, your sobs that wreck your body and her eyes are suddenly more beautiful and pip like than ever before. You see flashes of protectiveness in her gaze, you can see the way her body immediately moves but halts.

“Don’t cry….please don’t cry my love. You don’t need to afraid…it’s just me”.

Her voice is calming. The tone and Candace she uses when she hums you to sleep, and you feel revolted. Like you just might throw up all over the floor. And you think you will.

“Don’t-don’t get near me. You’re sick…I knew this all whole time and I didn’t-“ you choke, feeling your heart burst. You eye pip with blood on her cheeks and a knife in her hands. She’s shaking, eyes wide and looking guilty. Not if the crime itself. But if you.

“I knew it was you!! From the very first time Hawkins ever mentioned it! Why?? I don’t know! But god pip-you-you fucking—“ you yell. Your voice sharp.

“You’re sick—I can’t-I can’t do this anymore. I have-I have to get away I can’t-I can’t breathe” you gasp.

That gets pip’s attention. Gone are her adoring eyes, immediately she’s dropping the bloodied knife and scooping you up, you feel panic rise in your chest, and soon your kicking to get her off, but pip knows you well and immediately pushes you the ground.

She’s crying. Hot tears slide down her eyes, her cheeks need your neck even as you whine and yell and beg for her to let you go.

“Get off me!! Let me go!! I never want to see you again! You lied to me you’re a liar! You’re a liar and I hate myself for loving you—!” You sob.

Because even now with a bled out man and couple feet away and pip covered in blood and grime and the metallic smell of iron you still love her. Undoubtedly so. Devotedly so. Pip allows you to kick and thrash. To scream and cry.

She cries with you.

Murmurs of “I’m sorry” and “i would never hurt you pretty girl” pass through her lips. She can sense the panic in you, it’s wild and untamed and soon you’re throwing her off all unbalanced limbs as you struggle against her. You have no logic left. All your brain can perceive and know is she’s dangerous. No matter how hard your heart wants to forget. To keel over and have her arms around you. Make her forget these last three years. Three years of blood and cases and police and missing people and trauma…

Pip lets out a pained cry as you step on her foot, hard. She yelps and let you go, fingers moving to her foot.

It’s a juvenile act you know this. But it gets you out of her arms. And soon you’re running out of the cave. Your legs fast and wild as you run on the beach rocks. You don’t look back.

Tears spill down your eyes and you’re only half way when a body tackles you. Pip’s fingers are kind as she pins you to the beach floor. Your hair gets dust and grime on the edges. You cry out, begging pip to let you go.

But pip’s a mess too. She’s all pained blue eyes and tear stricken tears. She brings you to her chest, she can feel your heart and your limbs. Trembling beneath her.

You won’t be rational. Not for a while.

So pip fumbles with a packet in her pocket, tiny pill like substance in her fingers. With a look of utter hurt and guilt she immediately waits for you let out a gasp and when you do, your lips forming a perfect opening she slips the pill inside. Her palm covering over your mouth.

Instantly your eyes widen. Fear.

She shushes you, holds you as you fight against her hand. Trying to pull with your eager hands.

“Stop….stop my love. It’s just a sleeping pill. Stop fighting it…I-Ineed to think. I need to think and I can’t have you distracting me”. She utters into your hair. Her lips ghosting over your skin. Gentle like given the circumstances.

Her voice is a beautiful melodic orchestra of pain and agony.

Her eyes are downcast and tears escape her eyes as you struggle.

“Swallow it” she chimes, fingers ghosting over your mouth. It’s a command. Her fingers tighten on your mouth, your neck.

You know she would never hurt you. Or maybe she would? That thought makes you physically weak. And you cry harder. Fresh tears racing down your cheeks into her palm.

At that pip’s eyes soften, she brings her forehead against yours. Breathing in your quiet sobs.

“I would never hurt you. I would never—I love you. I love you my precious girl. This is why-this why I do it. Now you need to swallow that pill. And when you wake up-“ her fingers ghost your cheek. Over your trembling cheeks.

“When you wake up everything will be right in the world again. And this-this will all be a dream.” Her words are toxic and chill you to the bone.

But maybe you want that. Maybe you can live with that. Forgetting. So in an act of utter desperation you allow the dry pill to fly down your throat.

“That’s my girl….such a good girl. Even when you’re scared.” She observes.

Pip kisses you, over your cheeks over your hair, over your neck. Her neck and lips smell of blood. Eventually you feel the soft lull of her bloodied fingers, and see the blue of her eyes in the darkness. You’re to terrified to move. You feel the way your body is heavy. The toll of screaming and crying. The toll of the pill.

And yet…you can’t ever imagine a life without her. It’s horrific….the way you know you’d carry this secret to the grave. Look Hawkins in the eye and lie. Stand in front of a jury and lie. But it’s for her…you would.

A familiar quote comes to your bleary mind. Pip kisses you as she watches you exhaust yourself, rubbing calm circles on your back, still atop you.

“I’ll fix this….I promise….everything will go back to normal-just-just you sleep. Just sleep” she repeats between breathes.

Your body is tired and fatigued, your throat sore, and soon your eyes close. You hear once last word before you drift off, “I love you” and you hate yourself for echoing it. The last word you see as your eyes close is the blood bouncing off the cave walls.

DGW. Dead Girl Walking.

When is a monster, not a monster? Oh…when you love it.

[engeorged]

The Sugarman’s House

A Halloween sequel to Obi’s Place, Santa’s Otto and prequel to Aster’s Maze

As it’s Halloween, I thought I’d tell you the story of one of my near misses in my search for Obi. You’d think by now I’d have learnt my lesson. I mean, if chasing down fae-related clues across multiple countries isn’t a red flag that my life has taken a bizarre turn, I don’t know what is. But there I was, chasing another clue like some kind of enchanted scavenger hunt. This time, it was a tip I’d received in a seedy little café in Strasbourg, where a man with a thick German accent and a glint in his eye mentioned that if I were truly looking for the fae, I should check out a market in Munich. He said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, like I’d find the secret to magic between a bratwurst stand and a booth selling antiques.

So, off to Munich I went, because at this point, I was following even the faintest whispers that might lead me to Obi. It wasn’t that I’d given up on finding more practical clues; it was just that nothing else had panned out, and desperation can make even the most ridiculous leads seem plausible. Besides, the idea of magic hiding in plain sight among lederhosen and steins of beer was almost charming.

The market itself was sprawling, a maze of colorful stalls and wares that seemed to stretch on forever. It was the kind of place where you could find anything from hand-carved wooden toys to dusty antiques, and probably a cursed amulet or two if you knew where to look. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I wandered through the stalls, trying to seem casual while discreetly searching for…well, anything that felt off. As I walked past a bakery the smell of the pastries made my stomach rumble but I didn’t come to have a snack, I had to find something. I didn’t have to look for long.

Amid the piles of yellowing postcards and forgotten family photos, one card stood out seemingly calling to me. I mean literally calling, I’m pretty sure I heard to shout my name! Its edges were crisp, and the colours were strangely vivid for something allegedly old. It depicted a charming little house, tucked away in a forest, with icing-like snow on the roof and a glowing warmth emanating from its windows. The scene looked more like a holiday card than a genuine photograph, which should have been my first clue that it was a little too perfect. It had the title ‘Der Zuckermann’s Haus’ on the bottom in a neat rectangle. But what caught my attention was the writing on the back, penned in elegant, old-fashioned script: Für den, der wirklich sucht—“For the one who truly seeks.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity. “For the one who truly seeks,” huh? If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear someone was mocking me. But I knew better than to dismiss a clue when it practically fell into my lap. Sure, it sounded ridiculous, but I’d chased stranger leads. What’s one more mad quest in a forest when you’re already balls-deep in fairy tales?

The back of the postcard had a smudged postmark and what looked like a set of coordinates scribbled in the corner. I pulled out my phone, plugged in the numbers, and found that they pointed to the edge of the Black Forest. “Great,” I muttered, “just where I wanted to go—deep into a dark, possibly cursed wood.” Still, there was a tugging in my chest, a feeling that this was the kind of crazy I needed to embrace if I ever hoped to find Obi.

I found myself at the edge of the Black Forest, a strange calm settled over me. There was a stillness in the air, as though the world had paused just beyond the tree line, waiting for me to take the next step. It wasn’t just the chill that ran through the air; it was something deeper, something that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I couldn’t help but think that if magic existed anywhere, it would be in a place like this—a place that seemed to hold its breath, as if it were keeping secrets.

I took one last glance at the postcard, then tucked it into my pocket. “Here goes nothing,” I whispered to myself, and stepped into the forest.

The deeper I ventured into the forest, the more the air seemed to shift around me. There was a damp chill that crept through the trees, but I could also feel a warmth radiating from somewhere up ahead, like the promise of a fireplace at the end of a long walk. I’d been wandering for what felt like hours, and I could feel every step. My legs ached from navigating the uneven ground, and the extra weight I’d picked up from the last year wasn’t helping. My growing belly had rounded out somewhat and I had noticed that my shirts were starting to feel a bit tighter around the middle. The irony wasn’t lost on me—here I was, searching for the fae that made me fat with a lot of extra fat they had put on me.

As I trudged further into the woods, the scent of something sweet floated on the breeze. It started out faint, just a hint of something spicy, but as I followed the trail, the smell grew stronger, richer—almost decadent. I could practically taste the caramel in the air, the warmth of cinnamon and cloves wrapping around me like a soft blanket. It felt like the woods were trying to lure me in deeper, coaxing me forward with promises of warmth and sweetness.

Then, I saw it.

The house came into view as I rounded a bend in the trail, and for a moment, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. It was beautiful—picturesque, even—like something you’d see on the front of a biscuit tin at Grandma’s. It had steep gabled roofs, tall windows with little wooden shutters, and ivy crawling up the sides in a way that seemed almost too perfect. As I drew closer, however, I noticed the details that weren’t quite right. The walls didn’t look like wood at all, but a dark, rich brown that seemed almost edible. I squinted and stepped closer, peering at the surface. It wasn’t wood—it was fucking gingerbread. The entire house was covered in thick layers of icing, with candy canes lining the corners and massive gumdrops studded along the roof’s edges. I even spotted what looked like strips of marzipan wrapped around the window frames.

This couldn’t be real, could it? Who would build an entire house out of sweets in the middle of the Black Forest? It was absurd, and yet there I was, standing in front of it, breathing in the intoxicating aroma of freshly baked gingerbread and sugar.

I circled the house, looking for a way inside. The front door was made to look like a giant chocolate bar, with squares that seemed ready to snap off. I tried the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge, and the windows, though invitingly decorated with thick icing, didn’t give me any way to see inside. If there was any sign of magic or fae, it was well hidden. But then again, in stories like this, magic often required a little… participation.

I glanced at the wall next to me and reached out, breaking off a small piece of gingerbread. It crumbled in my hand, still warm to the touch, and as I brought it to my mouth, the flavors hit me in waves. The sweetness of the icing blended with the deep, spiced richness of the gingerbread. It wasn’t just the taste that overwhelmed me; it was the sensation of warmth spreading through my whole body, as if the bite had ignited some kind of inner glow. I hadn’t tasted anything so comforting, so perfect, in a long time.

Encouraged, I broke off another piece, this time from one of the candy canes lining the doorway. It was surprisingly soft, and when I bit into it, the peppermint flavor burst across my tongue, refreshing and invigorating. I couldn’t help but take another bite, and then another, sampling different parts of the house as though I were at a dessert buffet.

But as I continued to eat, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I paused, a piece of chocolate-coated marzipan halfway to my mouth, and glanced around. The clearing was empty, and the only sounds were the wind rustling through the trees and my own heavy breathing. Still, the sense of being observed lingered, like the hairs on the back of my neck were trying to warn me of something I couldn’t see.

I hesitated, then shrugged it off and took another bite. If this was some sort of enchanted test, I figured I’d already thrown myself into it by eating half the front porch.

I was just reaching for another piece of candied fruit embedded in the windowsill when I noticed him—a figure standing at the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded in shadow. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a surprisingly muscular frame that looked almost out of place in the delicate light of the forest. His dark hair fell in thick strands, just long enough to brush against his collarbones, framing a face that was both rugged and striking. His eyes, a vivid shade of purple, gave his nature away and they seemed to glow faintly in the fading light. There was an intensity in his gaze, something that made my breath hitch and my pulse quicken, though I couldn’t quite say why.

“Hey,” I said, swallowing the bite I’d just taken. “Do you, uh, live here?”

The man’s expression didn’t change, except for a small, closed-mouth smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. There was a mystery to that smile, as if he knew something I didn’t—a secret that he had no intention of sharing.

“Right,” I continued, trying to fill the silence. “I’m, uh, looking for something. Someone, actually. Maybe you could help?”

Still, he said nothing, just stood there watching me with those strange, captivating eyes. It was unnerving, but I found it hard to look away. There was a power in his gaze, like a magnet drawing me closer, making it difficult to think clearly. I felt a strange flutter in my chest, a mixture of curiosity and… something else.

“Okay, well, if you’re not going to say anything,” I muttered, glancing down at the piece of gingerbread in my hand. “I guess I’ll just—”

“Eat.”

The command hit me like a physical force, reverberating through my whole body. It wasn’t just a suggestion; it was a deep, urgent compulsion that I couldn’t resist even if I’d wanted to. The word echoed in my mind, sinking into my bones, filling every crevice of my thoughts. Without thinking, I brought the gingerbread to my mouth and took a bite, then another, and another. I couldn’t stop. It was as though my hands and mouth were no longer mine to control.

The flavors seemed to grow richer with each bite—caramelized sugar, dark chocolate, buttery cake—melding together in a symphony of sweetness that was as intoxicating as it was overwhelming. I felt a warmth spreading through my chest, trickling down into my belly, which had already begun to swell slightly from all I had eaten. The sensation was… familiar. Comforting, even. But as the moments passed, I could feel my stomach pushing against the waistband of my jeans, the fabric beginning to strain.

I tore off a piece of peppermint railing, biting into it eagerly. The coolness of the mint mixed with the lingering spice of the gingerbread, and I could feel my body responding, a heaviness settling in my limbs, my movements becoming slower, almost languid. As I continued to eat, my belly pushed out further, pressing against the front of my shirt. I could feel the buttons straining, the fabric pulling tighter and tighter, until finally, one of them popped loose, flying off into the underbrush with a soft ping.

I paused, just for a moment, my hand hovering in front of my mouth with another chunk of gingerbread. “Is this… some kind of test?” I managed to ask, my voice thick and heavy. But the man—whoever or whatever he was—only watched, that same enigmatic smile curving across his lips.

I took another bite, then another, unable to stop myself. The swelling in my stomach grew more pronounced, a deep, full feeling that seemed to fill every inch of my being. My shirt strained and stretched over my expanding middle, and I could feel the seams digging into my skin, cutting across the surface as my belly rounded out further. It wasn’t painful, exactly—more like a slow, relentless pressure that was both unnerving and oddly pleasurable.

The man’s smile deepened, and his eyes gleamed as if lit from within. He took a step closer, his presence somehow filling the clearing, making it feel smaller, more intimate. “Eat,” he repeated, his voice soft and smooth, like velvet sliding over my skin. The word wrapped itself around my thoughts, dissolving any hesitation I had left. I ate for what felt like minutes but must have been hours judging by the size of my gut. This man had to be one of them, and there was only one way I would find out. I took a deep breath and leaned in, tearing off a chunk of chocolate-coated marzipan from the doorframe. As I chewed, I could feel the weight of my belly pressing outward, stretching the skin taut and forcing my waistband to dig deeper into my sides. Another button popped, then another, until the front of my shirt hung open, exposing the round curve of my stomach.

I reached out again, this time for a piece of glazed fruit decorating the roof’s edge. I didn’t even bother to question the absurdity of it anymore. I was lost in the rhythm of eating, the compulsion to keep going, as my belly continued to swell, heavy and distended.

The figure’s voice seemed to deepen as he spoke again, a low murmur that sent a shiver down my spine. “Come inside.” There was no room for resistance in his tone. I obeyed, my legs moving on their own as I followed him through the front door, which swung open as if by magic.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of freshly baked pastries, chocolate, and cream. It was as though I had walked straight into a bakery’s dream. In the center of the room stood a long, wooden table, and it was covered end to end with cakes, tarts, pies, and other treats. Rich chocolate éclairs, fluffy cream puffs, golden-brown strudels glistening with sugar—every imaginable dessert was laid out before me, and the sight of it made my mouth water, even though my stomach was already straining from all the gingerbread I had eaten outside.

“Sit,” the figure commanded, and I found myself dropping into the chair at the head of the table. Without hesitation, my hands reached for the nearest dish—a slice of dark chocolate cake that oozed rich ganache with each bite. I ate greedily, as though I hadn’t eaten in days, and the compulsion that gripped me grew stronger with every mouthful. My belly pressed outward, swelling more with each decadent morsel I consumed, and I could feel my shirt tightening again, though there was hardly anything left of it to hold me in.

As I continued to eat, I felt an odd mix of sensations stirring within me. There was a familiar enjoyment—something about the way my stomach filled and stretched reminded me of those strange, thrilling moments back at Obi’s place, when I’d let myself indulge in ways I never had before. But there was also a creeping dread in the back of my mind, a small voice whispering that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

I swallowed the last bite of a sugar-dusted pastry and reached for another slice of cake, but then I noticed something in the corner of the room—a large, brick oven, its iron door glowing faintly red as if there were a fire raging just behind it. The sight of it pulled me back from the fog of pleasure, and for the first time, I started to question what was happening. Why was this here? Why was I here?

I glanced back at the figure, my hands trembling as I set the plate down. His expression hadn’t changed, but there was something darker in his eyes now, a glint that hadn’t been there before. His smile widened, revealing a set of teeth that were far too sharp, too large to be human.

“What… what is this?” I managed to gasp, my voice weak and unsteady.

The figure took a step closer, and when he spoke, his voice was smooth as velvet. “You are the feast,” he said simply, his words curling around me like smoke. “You are the source of power I need—the nourishment that fuels me.”

I tried to push back from the table, but my body felt heavy, sluggish. My belly was huge now, pushing out over the waistband of my pants, which had long since torn open under the strain. The exposed skin was taut and round, flushed red from the pressure of being so full. I struggled to stand, but the weight of my gut made it difficult, almost impossible to move.

“More,” the figure commanded once more, his tone sharper this time, edged with irritation. The word cut through me, sinking in deep, and I felt the compulsion return, stronger than ever. My hands reached for the nearest pastry, and I stuffed it into my mouth even as my mind screamed at me to stop. Each bite seemed to add more to my already swollen middle, my skin stretching to accommodate the relentless expansion. I could feel my belly pushing against the table’s edge, the wood digging into the taut flesh, and still, I kept eating.

I tried to form a coherent thought, but it was hard with the sensation of fullness drowning out everything else. “Why… why me?” I mumbled through a mouthful of cake.

The figure’s smile was all teeth now. “Because you were willing,” he said. “You sought indulgence, and now you will give me what I need.”

Panic surged through me, and I pushed harder against the chair, the table, anything to get away. My gut was enormous now, ballooned out in front of me, hindering every attempt I made to rise. I felt the sweat prickling on my skin, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I stumbled to my feet, finally managing to break free from the spell enough to back away from the table. The figure’s eyes followed me, his expression calm and almost amused, as though he found my struggle entertaining.

I glanced around wildly, and that’s when I noticed that the walls of the house seemed to shimmer, as if they were not entirely solid. The bricks that I had thought were gingerbread now appeared more like plaster, the sugary decorations fading into ordinary paint. It was then that I realized the true nature of my surroundings. The whole place began to dissolve, fading away into the familiar sights of a bakery. The table of cakes and pastries became rows of bread loaves and buns, and I was standing behind the counter, surrounded by shocked customers who stared at me in disbelief.

I blinked, the haze in my mind clearing just enough for me to take in my surroundings. The gingerbread house was gone. I was standing in the middle of a bakery, surrounded by rows of bread, pastries, and wide-eyed customers who looked at me as if I’d just sprouted a second head. My head was still spinning, but I recognised the place almost instantly—it was the same shop I had walked past earlier, back at the market in Munich. Somehow, I had never left.

I glanced down at myself, trying to make sense of what had just happened. My shirt was, hanging open to reveal a round, bloated belly pushing against the waistband of my jeans. It wasn’t as grotesquely swollen as it had been in the enchanted cottage, but it was still painfully full, bulging outward in a way that made each breath feel tight and shallow. The skin of my stomach was flushed red, covered with a light dusting of hair that trailed down from my chest. I could feel the cool air of the bakery against the exposed curve of my belly, the bottom of my shirt riding up to reveal just how far I’d expanded. I must have looked ridiculous.

My hand instinctively reached for my back pocket, where I found the postcard—the very one that had led me to the Black Forest in the first place—crumpled but still intact. I pulled it out, staring at the faded image of the gingerbread house and the cryptic words on the back. It was as if the whole experience had been a waking dream, conjured by nothing more than an old piece of paper and my own curiosity. But the tightness in my gut told me otherwise. I hadn’t imagined any of it.

I scanned the bakery for any sign of the figure—the man with the purple eyes who had commanded me to eat. For a moment, I thought he might be gone, but then I saw him outside the shop, standing just beyond the glass door. He was exactly as I remembered—tall and handsome, with that same closed-mouth smile that seemed to hide far more than it revealed. His eyes glinted with a faint purple hue, and there was a hint of amusement in the way he watched me, as if he found my confusion rather entertaining.

I stumbled toward the door, my belly jostling uncomfortably with each step, but just as I reached the entrance, the figure’s image wavered like a heat mirage and then disappeared altogether, leaving only the reflection of the empty street beyond. I stared out into the marketplace, the postcard clutched in my hand, and felt a strange mixture of relief and dread.

The reality of what had just happened—or what I thought had happened—was slipping away from me, fading like a half-remembered nightmare. But the ache in my belly and the taste of sugar lingering on my tongue were all too real. Whatever magic had been at play, it had left its mark on me. And as I turned away from the door, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was far from over. There were still answers I needed to find, and this time, I would be more careful about what I chose to taste.

For more of my stories click here

[m4rv3l-girl]

A Confession

Bucky x Y/N

An awkward encounter leads to some exposed feelings…

Requests Open!

Warnings: None.

The evening air was crisp and cool as you returned from your jog with Bucky, breath visible in little puffs as you exchanged laughs and easy conversation.

You'd fallen into this comfortable rhythm over the past few months. What started as two friends going on runs together had quickly become one of your favorite parts of the day, a time where it was just you and him, away from the chaos and noise of everything else.

He grinned as he held the door for you, his cheeks tinged slightly pink from the cold, that subtle warmth of his smile lingering as you headed into his apartment to grab a towel.

“Thanks, Buck,” you murmured, giving him a grateful nod.

“Anytime. I’ll be right here, just getting my water, let me know if you need anything, Doll ” he replied, that gentle glimmer in his blue eyes making your heart flutter, though you quickly pushed the thought aside.

Once inside, you kicked off your shoes, relishing the quiet.

Bucky had let you borrow his bathroom while your apartment was getting some long-overdue repairs done, and the routine had somehow settled into something comfortable. The cold morning left a chill on your skin that only a hot shower could fix, so you slipped into the bathroom, set the water to just the right temperature, and stepped under the stream.

With your eyes closed, you let the warmth soak into your skin, humming a quiet tune as you started to unwind.

In that moment, the world seemed to melt away, just the sound of water and your own soft humming filling the room.

Meanwhile, Bucky had downed his water bottle, already looking forward to the breakfast you usually cooked together after your run. He moved toward the bathroom to ask if you’d wanted him to start on coffee, but as he got closer, he noticed the faint sound of water running and stopped, remembering you were in there. Normally, he would’ve just waited—but there was something about that humming. He paused, catching himself leaning in just a bit closer than he probably should have.

Without thinking, he lightly tapped the handle, the door opening a few inches before he could stop himself.

The scene caught him entirely off guard. There you were, the mist swirling around, head tilted back under the stream. The blurred outline of your body arched under the water was almost ethereal. The moment felt like something from a daydream he hadn’t realized he’d been having, and every instinct told him to look away, to back out silently. But for one suspended heartbeat, he didn’t. He felt his shorts tighten at the mere sight.

And then you turned around.

"Bucky?” Your voice snapped him out of it instantly.

His face flushed a deep, instant red, and he yanked himself back into the hallway, letting out a mortified laugh. “Oh my God, I am so sorry, Doll—I didn’t mean to… I just… uh…”

The door clicked shut, leaving you with wide eyes, an embarrassed chuckle escaping your lips.

Later, the moment replayed between you both as you cooked dinner together.

The silence that usually sat so comfortably between you was now charged, heavy with an unspoken tension neither of you could ignore.

Bucky, nervous but unwilling to show it, tried to bring it up casually. “About earlier—I swear, I wasn’t trying to, y’know, walk in or anything. Just wanted to check if you wanted coffee,” he said, his eyes flickering to yours before quickly turning back to the stove.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the tension melting a little. “It’s okay, Buck. It was… an accident,” you murmured, though even as you said it, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. His gaze lingered a little too long, his cheeks a little too flushed.

The days that followed felt strangely electric, like you were each waiting for the other to say something that was always left unsaid. The stolen glances, the little laughs, the familiar touches—all took on a new weight.

One night, after a particularly long day, the two of you ended up sprawled on his couch, feet propped up on the coffee table as you laughed over some random show.

Somewhere between jokes and casual conversation, you realized Bucky was watching you, his gaze soft and filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

“You’re staring,” you teased, giving him a light nudge.

He didn’t break eye contact, didn’t laugh it off like you’d expected. Instead, he took a breath, voice quiet but firm. “I know, Kitten. I think… I think I’ve been staring for a long time.”

The sudden intensity in his voice caught you off guard, your heart skipping a beat as you looked back at him. “Bucky…”

“Let me get this out,” he said quickly, as if afraid you might brush it off. “You’re… you’re more than just a friend to me, Doll. I’ve been pretending that it’s fine, that I could just be around you every day without it meaning something more, but I…” He paused, searching for the right words. “I want to be more than just the guy you go jogging with, or the guy who cooks you breakfast, or who’s there just to laugh with. I want… I want all of it, with you.”

The room felt still, his confession hanging in the air like a secret finally set free.

You swallowed, heart racing as you looked into his eyes. “Bucky, I… I’ve been wanting the same thing. But I didn’t know… I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

He let out a soft chuckle, reaching out to take your hand, fingers lacing with yours in a way that felt as natural as breathing. “Doll, you couldn’t ruin it if you tried,” he murmured, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles. “You’re my best girl. I’ve known it for a while now. Just didn’t know how to say it.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, letting the weight of those words settle between you. Then, slowly, he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was soft and tentative, yet filled with everything that had been building up for so long. The world faded away, leaving just the warmth of his hand on your cheek, the taste of his lips on yours, and the gentle strength of his arms pulling you closer.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless and grinning, he brushed a stray hair from your face, his smile warm and easy. “Guess that means no more awkward bathroom encounters?”

You laughed, the sound light and free. “I mean, it wouldn’t be the worst way to start a morning…”

“Then let’s start tomorrow morning together,” he murmured with a mischievous smirk, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice soft. “And every morning after, if you’ll let me.”

……..…………………………………………………….……………………………………………..

Welcome to my imagination. Hope you liked it!

[stardewvalleybut-i-draw]

Hi! New to your blog, I was curious about your thoughts on Shane? :’) I was gonna marry Eliot but was too lazy to find all his loved items, so I just went with Shane instead. I have definitely grown to love him (I’m his number one apologist and defender)

Welcome! Welcome!

Honesty, Shane's story was kinda spoiled for me cuz of Youtube so when he was being kinda mean I brushed it off knowing it was a character flaw in the beginning that changed later.

so IMMEDIATELY, I'm biased.

I only saw snip bits here and there out of context and I was more confused by why a bright colorful farming game was talking about depression, addiction, and sui**dal ideation.

Shane's also one of the easiest villagers to befriend so when I first played, I accidentally befriended him, and OH BOY! Were his scenes a whiplash 😅 I kept forgetting how dark they were LMAOOO

(I was just trying to get chickens💀)

I can kinda understand some of the critiques on the character but it's really dependent on how you interpret Shane. He's no saint, he has behaviors that can be explained but not necessarily justified.

But to comment on two of the criticisms:

Some people dislike how Shane drinks even after the event.

It's more of a gameplay mechanic flaw but also I think it unintentionally matches with real alcoholism recovery. Depending on how much alcohol you have drank and how bad your liver is...you can't just stop drinking.

If your body is used to a certain level of alcohol in its systems and then one day you just stop, you go into shock AND YOU DIE :D

Fun Fact!

There's also the comment on how the Player "fixes" Shane and criticisms on the players who choose to like Shane but that's a critique on the player. Not the character. So I can't really comment much on that one. And my personal interpretation of the fixing thing: nah.

I'll use the metaphor Shane used.

When you're stuck at the bottom of the abyss and you can't see the light anymore... if someone throws down a rope from the top...it does not mean they saved you. You have the choice of using the rope to climb out or staying at the bottom.

ANYWAY

Personally, I like flawed characters! They usually give you a lot to dissect and reflect on so I think he's chill😎👍

Probably gonna be a while until you see a fully drawn piece of Shane that isn't doodle. Sorry Shane enjoyers, this is all I got 😅

[animasola86]

👻 A KNIFE TO REMEMBER

ghostface x f!reader 🔥 very explicit 🔥 words: 3.8k

As you try to find your way through the mysterious house, someone finds you first...

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Masks/costumes! Knife kink/knife play! Fingering! Anonymous sex! Creampies! (READ ON AO3!)

A/N: This is part of my CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE smut series! This is OPTION 1 - but can be read individually, let me just set the scene:

CONTEXT: You were invited to a Halloween party in a mysterious house, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, and on your search for the bathroom, you come to a long hallway full of doors, and you decide to reach for the door closest to you.

Just when you reach for the door knob, you feel someone coming up from behind, and before you know it, a pair of hands blocks your vision. You gasp in shock, but a low voice vibrates in your ear as you're being pulled against a firm body.

“Shh, no need to panic,” the male voice drones, making you stiffen in his hold. It sounds a little muffled. “I won't hurt you. Unless you're into it...”

You reach up and grab onto his wrists, squirming against him. “Let me go,” you plead, but he only shushes you.

“Ah, come on, little Red. You're here for an adventure, aren't you?”

His hand moves to your mouth now, and you blink into the dimly lit hallway. He holds your face tightly, making it impossible to turn your head and look at whoever has you in his grasp, but you can still see that he's wearing a black costume, something like a robe. No gloves, though, just big veiny hands. Strong, and very adventurous.

With one still on your mouth, muffling the noises of protest, his other hand roams along your body, rubs up and down your side, gropes at your breast, grips your throat and gives it a light squeeze, before moving back down, teasing under the hem of your skirt. You must be in shock, because you can't find the courage or willpower to fight whatever is happening. This guy is clearly taking advantage of your confusion, and without another word, he pushes you forward, opens another door and guides you into the dark room beyond it.

You stumble, and when he finally lets you go, you fall onto something soft. A bed. Scrambling on your hands and knees, you're not quick enough as he grabs you again, pushing you flat on your stomach. A garbled scream escapes you, coaxing a low chuckle out of him. He has his hand on your nape, a tight grip, and you whine and struggle, but he's strong, and when you suddenly feel something cold press against your neck, you freeze on the spot.

“Tsk, tsk,” he makes. “Be a good little victim now, okay? I really don't want to make my shiny new toy dirty too soon. Can you feel it? The cold blade?”

You don't even dare to breathe at this point, because, yes, you can feel it, see the large knife in your mind's eye as it teases against your delicate skin. He eases the pressure slightly when he curls one arm around your middle, pulling you back and flush against him. You'd expect his breath on your ear with how close his voice is, but you can't feel anything – except something hard like plastic pressing against your cheek. He's wearing a mask.

“So, let's have a bit of fun first, yeah?” he whispers and leans around you, and even in the dark room, with only the moonlight falling through the window, you can see the long white face with its wide open mouth and droopy eye holes glaring at you. Ghostface. “Hi,” he says, tilting his head menacingly, a low chuckle in his muffled voice. “Or would you have preferred a different sicko with a knife? We do have quite the selection tonight.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. The sight of that face, frozen in plastic, gives you the chills, but you can't deny the little flutter in your stomach. May it be your sensitive guts or something else entirely, but whatever the case, you are rendered immobile by this strange encounter.

“So, how would you like this? Shall I chase you through the house first?” he continues in a mocking tone.

You blink, trying to calm your thundering heart. “Just... let me go?” you gasp out when he raises his knife again, poking the sharp tip against the side of your neck. “Please!” you cry out with a whimper, tilting your body away.

“Aw, baby, don't worry, I won't kill you,” he says quietly, pressing his other hand against your stomach. “I just want to have some fun! And I'm sure you do too. I saw you come in, all alone, lost and lonely. Won't you like some company? Isn't that why you came here on your own? To meet people? Let loose?”

His words have the desired effect as you find yourself agreeing with him. Maybe not like this, but then again, this is a Halloween party, spookier things have happened than having some fun with a masked stranger (who teases you with a very real knife...). You can't deny that your body is already accepting whatever may happen next. The man behind you seems to sense its willingness too as his hand suddenly slips down your stomach and under your skirt and curls right between your legs, eager fingers pressing against your underwear.

“Ah, yes, see? You're so ready for this,” he hisses into your ear, and you look away in shame. “So wet. Maybe you have a knife kink?” he asks, simultaneously pressing the blade against your throat and his fingers between your wet folds, making you gasp and stiffen. As you fight the urge to squirm, he keeps rubbing along the drenched fabric of your panties, pressing hard and deep, teasing your entrance. “Would you like to have something bigger in that cute little cunt, hm, baby? I promise I brought more than just this pretty knife...”

To underline his words, he presses his groin against your back, and you can feel just how happy he is to see you. Your heart beats faster. It's a strange sensation. This feels wrong, being cornered by a stranger (with a knife no less), forced to have some fun, but then again, maybe you needed the push into the right direction. You only live once, as cheesy as it sounds, and you have to admit you've (more or less shamefully) masturbated to the occasional rape fantasy story before.

Sure it's something else to actually experience this, but your body seems to disagree. It's a thrill, an actual adventure, and the fact that you could have fought more and tried to run away but never actually did speaks volumes. Maybe you want this? And he does seem to ask you for your consent in his own twisted way, even if he has a knife pressed to your neck and his fingers between your thighs – he could have just taken you with how much bigger and stronger he is, but in the good old villain fashion he had to hear his own voice for a bit instead.

“Well?” he whispers, rubbing his plastic mask against your cheek. You can hear his labored breaths through it now, he seems just as excited as the wetness dripping against his fingertips makes you appear.

“Mhm,” you croak out, unable to find your voice or any words to make this whole situation make sense in your protesting mind. You can't believe you just agreed to this, whatever this is, but before you can ponder it any longer, he suddenly pushes you forward and you land on the bed again. Too shocked to move, you let him manhandle you onto your back, and before you know it, he's crawled over you, pushing your skirt up and your legs wide apart, holding them open with his knees.

His hands roam up your body, and you realize he's dropped the knife somewhere, as his long fingers knead your breasts through the fabric of your blouse. You lie beneath him like a stranded beetle on its back, hands palm-up next to your head, unable to even twitch, and all you can do is watch the large shadow above you, with only the white mask glowing in the dark. It's eerily intimidating, but at the same time you feel the telltale tension in your stomach, alerting you just how aroused you are.

“What a good girl you are,” he says, fingers fidgeting with the buttons of your blouse. “So submissive. Are you just as breedable, hm?”

His words make you shiver. You inhale sharply when his rough hands make contact with your soft breasts as they slip right beneath your bra, pushing it up, and you can't help pressing your chest against his touch, wanting more. He's strangely gentle in how he touches you, despite his costume, despite the power he clearly has over you. And it only adds to your arousal, making you squirm beneath him.

“Little Red's excited, huh?” he mocks as he gropes your tender tits until you feel your hard nipples pressing into his palms. “Don't worry, I'll fill you up in no time. But maybe... hmm...” he makes, slowly leaning back on his knees. His fingers grip the sides of your blouse, pulling it open and exposing you completely, before trailing over your stomach until he reaches to the side and grabs the knife again. “Maybe I want you to beg for it...”

You let out a surprised whimper when you feel the cold edge of the knife press between your breasts, teasing at the soft mounds. He's looming over you, his head (and the mask) tilted ominously to the side, the grotesque face staring down at you. You swallow hard, barely daring to move with the blade so close to your skin.

“Come on, baby, beg me to fuck you... or beg me not to kill you?”

Suddenly his hand is on your throat, and you gasp voicelessly as he closes his fingers around it, while pressing the knife firmer against your chest, the blade scratching along your skin with every rapid breath you take, no matter how hard you try not to move.

“Please,” you whimper, a series of shivers crashing down your spine. “Don't... hurt me...”

“Hmm, can't promise that, lovely,” he replies with a sigh. “I'm sure you'll like a bit of rough sex as well, won't you? And what's pleasure without a little pain, hm? Try again!”

The knife pokes a little deeper, and you're sure it broke your skin now, but he keeps holding your neck, that unnerving mask staring down at you. “Please, don't kill me,” you whisper, playing along, somehow not as frightened as you should be. “I'm too young to die!”

His laugh is low and menacing. “And too pretty as well, right? Yeah, you are,” he says with another chuckle, leaning closer until your entire vision is filled with that white face and its black eye holes. “Well, then, whatever else could we do? You know I like to kill people, slash them up real good... if only there was something I could do to you instead...”

“F-fuck me,” you croak out, surprised by your own words.

He leans back abruptly, a triumphant “Ah!” falling from behind the mask. “Good girl, Red. I can do that!”

Your head is spinning as you have a moment to contemplate what you just said, but only until you feel his hands lifting your hips before his fingers pull your panties down. He's shifted to kneel beside you, and you realize he's placed his knife right on your fluttering stomach. Your hands claw at the edges of the pillow as you ground yourself, still not even thinking about fighting back or even escaping. Why would you? You've never felt this exhilarated. Sex with a stranger. Your mother would be so disappointed, but it's all the more incentive to go through with it.

You watch his dark figure, noticing that he's rid himself of the long black robe, and you can see muscled arms and a tight black shirt, and you wished you could see it all in more detail, but it's too dark, so you just have to imagine the rest of his build. Not that it matters much, you're already aroused enough as it is (though the mental image of a big strong guy with bulging muscles pinning you to the bed certainly helps with it).

When his fingers are back between your legs, you gasp in surprise, blinking your eyes into focus as he rips you from your thoughts. His fingertips move expertly, slipping between your labia, teasing at your hooded clit, poking at your hole. All you can do is squirm slightly, moaning softly the more he touches you. He watches you, or so you think, his head tilted comically to the side, that white face leering at you ominously.

Suddenly he moves, hands on your thighs as he pushes your legs wide open, before he grabs the knife and teases the pointy tip down your stomach, over the fabric of your bunched up skirt, until you feel the cold metal against your inner thigh. You let out a croaked whimper, forcing yourself not to move too much. While he teases you with the blade, he puts his hand over your mound, pumping his palm against your wet folds until a lewd squelching sound rings in your ears that makes you blush deeply.

“Nice and wet for me, aren't you?” he mocks quietly, repeating the motions a few times before he pulls his hand back and probes two fingers against your core instead. You brace yourself for the intrusion, but you still cry out softly when he pushes inside you. Big hands with thick fingers, and two of his feel like four of yours, as he stretches your entrance and presses hard against your protesting muscles. You groan in response, thrashing your head back.

He keeps fingering you, his digits slipping in and out in a lazy rhythm that he mirrors with his knife as it scratches up and down your inner thigh, and every time he presses the blade harder against your skin, you feel your walls clenching around his fingers.

“You like that, huh?” he whispers menacingly. “Knife kink confirmed.”

You bite your lip hard to suppress more telltale noises of pleasure, but he only keeps going, teasing you, playing with you, pushing hard and fast into you, and when he curls his fingers just right, you inhale sharply, that tension in your stomach building relentlessly, almost painfully, but it's only when you suddenly feel the cold metal of the blade right against your throbbing clit that you come with a loud howl, hips bucking up, no longer caring about getting cut, as you ride the waves of bliss as if nothing else matters.

“Beautiful,” you hear his distant voice as you slowly come down from your high, bright lights dancing behind your eyelids, and you feel him still massaging your squishy walls as they contract around him. “Can't wait to feel that around my cock...”

You hear a soft clinking sound when he seems to fumble with his belt, the knife back on your belly, heavy and cold even through the fabric. His hands are on your waist then, pulling you down a little until he drapes your legs over his thighs, guiding your crotches together. You barely register any of it, your mind reeling from your orgasm, but also anticipating the feel of his dick inside you. You can't see it in the dark, but with how he is built, you can only imagine it must be equally impressive.

You don't have to think about it for long as you feel its tip pressing between your wet folds when he rubs it against you to gather your slick. Breathing harder, you open your eyes, trying to watch him. The moonlight is enough to show you a big strong body kneeling between your legs, and only the glowing mask makes it all a little eerie, but when he finally enters you, you don't care about appearances anymore. He feels glorious.

Big, oh so big, filling you out more than you would have expected as he presses deeper, nudge by nudge, little rolls of his hips until he bottoms out inside you. His hands dig into your waist, holding you against him, and you feel bruises forming, but you don't mind, you need this. His first thrust makes the knife on your stomach bounce, and you gasp loudly. The second is equally harsh as he withdraws slowly to slam back in with force.

When he finally settles into a slow but steady rhythm, you're mewling softly, overwhelmed by how he feels inside you, how your walls cling to his shaft, sucking him in and dragging along it with every push and pull, rubbing so deliciously you feel a scorching tension building up inside you, burning brighter with every snap, every deep plunge, filling you up more and more.

His hands leave your waist to grab your throat, turning your soft moans into voiceless gasps, as he slowly picks up the pace and really rams into you, using his hold on your neck as leverage to angle his pelvis against you, allowing him to hit all the good spots with ease and fervor. You cry out soundlessly, your eyes rolling back, the last thing you see that ominous white mask above you, before you come hard around him, clamping down on his pistoning cock, your wetness gushing past him as you convulse beneath him.

You feel lightheaded, blinded by bliss, barely able to breathe, but you couldn't care less. He fucks you through your literally mind-blowing orgasm, pushing you higher and higher, until you feel it building up all over again. He lets go of your throat, allowing you to cry out hoarsely as you come a second time (or so you think, not that you could think at all, much less count the highs he's forcing upon you).

He pushes you down into the bed, one hand on your shoulder, holding you steady, while his other hand grabs the knife off your stomach, and you only realize that when you feel the cold blade against your cheek, gathering your sweat on its tip. Or maybe your tears, you can't be sure, your body feels like it belongs to somebody else at the moment, and you're just here to enjoy the ride.

“Open wide,” he tells you, his voice muffled and strained, and you comply, parting your lips before you feel the blunt edge of the blade pressing against them. “Tongue out.” You follow through, still too dizzy to question anything.

He presses the knife flat against your tongue, holding it there while he keeps pounding his cock into your fluttering cunt. You can hear his labored breaths from behind the mask, his movements becoming jerkier as you just lie there, staring up at him, goosebumps rippling over your skin as your legs twitch against his sides.

The white face is looming over you, unmoving, unnerving, while the man behind it gives his all to chase his own orgasm as he thrusts into you feverishly. Your own sounds are muffled with how he holds your mouth open, and you have to really force yourself not to move your tongue against the blade. He leans down more, putting more of his weight on you, pinning you down, his hips snapping against yours in a wild rhythm, until he finally stills, a loud groan echoing in your ears as he falls forward, mask pressed to the pillow beside your head, the hand holding the knife to your tongue shaking slightly.

That last thrust made you whine as he pushed as deep as he could possibly go, bullying your cervix, and before you can even wonder if he's used a condom or not, which you doubt, but again, your mind is swimming in bliss, unable to worry about anything at all, you feel him throbbing inside you, his balls drawing up against your folds as he empties himself in your depths, filling you with spurt after spurt of hot cum. You clench around him, trying to milk him, and the motion only makes you moan into the blade pressed against your tongue as another wave of pleasure crashes over you at the sensation.

He eventually leans back up, propped on his elbow, that mask so close to your face it's all you can see. Slowly he lifts the knife, the cold pressure gone, and all that remains is a numb feeling and a whole lot of spit. You close your mouth and swallow hard, but freeze when he suddenly reaches out and wipes his fingers over your wet lips, a gentle gesture you haven't expected. He traces your mouth with his thumb, and for a moment you're tempted to pull that stupid mask off and kiss him, deeply, properly, but that's not part of your play, unfortunately.

He stares at you a moment longer before he sits up again, his chest rising and falling almost as heavily as yours. His hands trail down your body, giving your breasts a few more squeezes before he grips your hips and pushes you off him, his mask tilting down as he watches his cock slipping free from your cunt, followed by a large warm dollop of his cum spilling from between your puffy lips. He exhales loudly as he slowly gets off the bed and puts his spent cock away.

“Well, wasn't that fun,” he then says, his low voice a little strained. “Thanks for the ride, Little Red. I'll make sure to recommend you to the others...”

His words should have irritated you, but you're still too fucked-out to care. All you reply with is a soft sigh as you sink back into the bed, finally relaxing into the cushions. You watch him out of hooded eyes as he puts his robe back on, hiding those strong arms, then leans closer once more to pick up his large knife.

And then he's at the door, opening it, letting the light from the hallway spill into the room and over your soiled body. He raises his knife, waving at you almost menacingly, then slips out of the room, closing the door behind him, vanishing like a shadow in the night, leaving you alone in the dark.

You groan and thrash your head back. What a ride indeed. Not how you have planned this party to start, but what's done is done. When you eventually scramble off the bed, bra pushed back over your breasts, your shaking fingers trying to button your blouse, you realize you can't find your panties anywhere. He must have taken them. Fuck. If he wouldn't have pumped you full of his cum, you wouldn't even mind, but as you stand, you can feel it dripping down your leg, warm and sticky.

Sighing deeply, you squeeze your thighs together. Just another reason to finally find that bathroom, you think as you slip out of the room and back onto the hallway full of doors.

⚠️ CHECK BACK ON NOV 5th FOR THE FULL EXPERIENCE!

YOUR NEXT OPTIONS ARE: (soon!)

check the door opposite you Nov 2nd

go to the end of the hallway Nov 4th

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

[darkstarofchaos]

Having seen some frankly irritating opinions from both sides of the aisle, I think some of y'all need to chill about the way the Decepticons were handled in EarthSpark.

Decepticon fans are allowed to be upset that the faction's depth and potential for development was tossed aside in favor of "Decepticons are just evil".

However, depth and potential doesn't mean the Decepticons have to be buddy-buddy with the Autobots. Depth is amoral, you can be a villain who resists "redemption" and still be a well-rounded character.

My issues with S2 vs S1 are as follows:

The lack of good explanation for why the sides are fighting again. I am not upset that the Cons are villains again. They have no reason to like or trust any human or Autobot, and gratitude for having your life saved only goes so far. My issue is that S2 literally opens by saying the Cons started the fight again just because that's what Cons do. Obviously the story is from the perspective of the main cast, and there are hints that they could be intentionally unreliable narrators (Starscream refers to them as oppressors, Breakdown challenges Bumblebee about giving up on Cybertron), but we aren't given enough time with the Cons to draw a solid conclusion about the intentions here.

The way the heroes treat Spitfire, i.e. a literal newborn. She was 100% in the right when she said that she didn't know the moral rules she was being expected to follow. But because she wasn't born with morals and an understanding of mortality preinstalled, the heroes condemned her instead of trying to de-escalate and take responsibility for their part in the situation (granted, Megatron was the only flight-capable adult present and he argued against de-escalation. Which tracks because he's Megatron. But someone should have pushed for a peaceful resolution).

How much depth do individual Decepticons still have? Who knows, Starscream, Shockwave, and Breakdown are the only ones with any focus. The others are only seen fighting, causing trouble for fun, or just standing around growling. Twitch - i.e. one of our main characters - literally spends an entire episode in the Con camp and we still manage to see nothing of Decepticon life when they're just hanging out. And yes, I know that the more characters you have in a scene, the harder it is to show their personalities. You can still show them playing cards or arm-wrestling or something. Anything to show that they're actually people and not just a hive mind that exists to fight.

Starscream. Specifically the last 20 minutes of the S2 finale, because everything else in his characterization fit S1 until that point. He literally calls the Autobots oppressors, so of course he's going to fight them. He wants Aftermath kept out of the way (that's a child, so that's perfectly reasonable) and he's frankly patient with Twitch-as-Spitfire, in spite of Skywarp's incredulity that he lets her "get away" with causing trouble (again, that is a child. Patience is the correct response). He even seems to like Spitfire after meeting the real her. The only issue I had with Starscream leading up to the second half of the finale was that his motivations didn't seem to be much deeper than "I want power" (I could be misremembering that point - there may have been an "Earth is going to be our home, let's make it better to live on" when he and Shockwave discussed Cybertron). And then the last 20 minutes happened and I can't see any logical extrapolation from S1 to that. It was just a generic "Starscream goes mad with power", and it came completely out of left field. Not even any remorse about what he "needed" to do or any attempt to justify himself, it was just, "Yeah, I'm worse than the people I called out for being oppressors, isn't it great?"

If there is some big plot twist where it turns out the heroes were unreliable narrators all along, some of my issues will actually be fixed. However, I find that extremely unlikely, for one major reason: all of the non-Decepticon characters who disagree with the heroes are either villains or they "come around". The Quintessons felt betrayed by Quintus? Nah, Quintus was a great guy, you can tell because he tortured a kid for wishing she had never been chosen by him. Prowl doesn't like the Autobots' reliance on children? Silly Prowl, those kids are special, we want them to fight. The narrative never, at any point, entertains the idea that those dissenting voices might have a point. Which means we're probably meant to take the heroes at face value on most, if not all things.

TL;DR: the Decepticons being villains makes perfect sense, even with the context of S1; it's the heroes acting like they're only fighting for power after we had several episodes about second chances and not all Decepticons being the same that makes it feel like a cop-out. And Decepticon fans are allowed to be upset that some of their favorite characters had interesting stuff going on only to be functionally relegated to Voiceless Grunt Number 3 (and yes, several Autobots have also been relegated to Voiceless Grunts. If one of your favorite characters has fallen victim to this affliction, regardless of faction, you have my sympathies).

[localcanadiancreature62]

Additional lore for Perfect Plan/Perfect World au

EVEN MORE of these guys cuz i love them dearly and i'm planning out a entire story as i type this out. This time,i give you all the characters besides Bill and Ford.

There's a non sentient copy of everyone in canon within Ford's perfect dream world. Fidds,Stan,Dipper,Mabel,Wendy,and Soos. They're non sentient because.. they have no independent thought whatsoever. Their job is to be in Ford's favor and make him happy,keeping him busy so that he doesn't go insane from the lack of company besides Bill and the Henchmaniacs. Making Ford happy means that they aren't capable of going against him or having their own wants and needs,they're just soulless puppets that are only there to entertain or talk to the genius. Fidds is Ford's lab assistant and Co-C.E.O at the Oregon Institute of Oddology,he doesn't have a wife or child or Mcgucket Labs as he devotes his entire life to Ford's cause regarding the company as he literally exists to make the researcher happy and so he doesn't NEED his own desires or dreams :],he still acts as the old friendly kind and slightly unhinged Fiddleford from Ford's og world but with no more flimsy things like conscience and feelings and stuff like he ACTS that he cares about Ford but in his heart there's nothing but a random set of instructions,he mostly helps Ford with his anomaly research or his gadgetry experiments as well as paperwork in the company that the genius dumps all on him so that he could spend more time with his husband which he doesn't mind at all cuz he DOESN'T *HAVE* A MIND AHAHAHAHA. Stan is a highly successful businessman who makes money off of his comic book franchise called SCC (Stanley Co Comics) while he gets the rest of his million dollar net worth by robbing banks and pickpocketing and committing various other crimes,showing that he's still as chaotic and crime obsessed as the Stan from Ford's og world,he has a big heart and supports Ford in EVERYTHING he does,even when it hurts him or bothers him such as a law that replaces paper money with plastic money in order to conserve the environment and Ford did this despite knowing that stand prefers the paper version more because it isn't "scratchy" like credit cards whenever he swims in cash,he cares about Ford SO MUCH that his comic company is often sponsored by the Oregon Institute of Oddology and there's comics about the man's research which ends up advertising both companies as a whole. Dipper is Ford's apprentice and heir in taking over the Oregon Institute of Oddology for him,he idolizes Ford with every inch that the og Dipper did but somehow more extreme as this boy will die for the researcher if it means being included in his experiments as a test subject,Ford doesn't once suspect that this isn't normal child behavior because he's too busy being happy with his "family" and his triangular husband. Dipper isn't as anxious or insecure as the og version,he's more confident and unhinged as a result of spending more time with Ford than his parents,he often spends his time researching anomalies with Ford or hanging out with Mabel,he wants to run Ford's business while doing his own anomaly stuff on the side specifically more biology based studies however this is fake as Bill MADE him think that. Mabel is a little ray of sunshine who makes Ford happier than he already is just by existing,she makes a buncha pins and hats for herself that she changes a lot while also helping her Grunkle Stan with his comics by putting in her own cutesy scenes into them,she wants to be an artist like Stan but that's just another set trait made by Bill,she is just as wild and optimistic as og Mabel but without her dreams. Wendy is an assistant scientist that works at Ford's Oregon Institute of Oddology for the summer,she is just as chill and badass as og Wendy however she's probably TOO chill considering that Ford could be doing an experiment involving ripping people's limbs apart while she just watches with a passive thumbs up.

Soos is Ford's bodyguard and the resident handyman for fixing the Institute's machinery,he's just as goofy and weird and silly as og Soos plus he thinks of Ford as his father figure which is why he's so loyal to him but he isn't actually attached to Ford as his father figure cuz he doesn't really care on the inside as he is a hollow shell of a person like the other copies :D.

Only Fiddleford is the "advanced" one out of the non sentient Perfect World copies,as he displays independent thought at times such as wanting to explore the world beyond the isolated town of (dream world) Gravity Falls or desiring to take on a different job than the one assigned to him by Ford but Bill makes sure to fix it immediately by snapping these thoughts away with his fingers. Although the triangle doesn't know that this particular copy will be the very cause of his downfall in the future.. Bonus - Robbie is an emo jerky but slightly less depressed and irritable teen who's in a successful rock band Robbie V and the Tombstones,he also works part time as Stan's comic story writer at the Stanley Co Comics company. Pacifica lives with her rich mudflap factory parents Preston and Priscilla Northwest,and she's NOT getting abused as Preston lets her do what she wants while still keeping an eye on her like a good parent. She is nicer and more kind as well as less entitled but is still sassy as ever,plus she has a hobby of making clothes and she wants to become a fashion designer one day. She's good friends with Dipper and Mabel,with Mabel being her best friend/friendly rival when it comes to having the best crafts (instead of the one sided hostile rivalry in canon). The Northwests have no influence in the Perfect World,as Bill reigns supreme although they're known to have history with the town regarding it's founder Nathaniel Northwest who is ACTUALLY the founder rather than him being a fraud that took Quentin Trembley's place (except these are also lies that Bill made up to make the Perfect World more believable to Ford,what kind of history is historical events that never even happened?). Gideon is a kid psychic that owns the Tent of Telepathy,except he ACTUALLY has psychic powers given to him by Bill rather than him tricking people for his own gain. He's a nice boy who's sassy and cute but NOT manipulative controlling or creepily obsessed with a certain bubbly artist girl,he happily lives with his parents Bud and Erin Gleeful (hc name) who wholeheartedly support his sideshow endeavors while Bud works as the owner of a successful car dealership called Gleeful Auto's (Bud's auto shop but it's actually a serious business instead of a quick get rich quick gig).