#so now i feel bad to even try reaching out again

[strang3lov3]

Better or Worse

“So,” Joel says, wrapping his arm around your side and pulling you against his bare torso, “Daddy’s gonna stuff ya full and slow the bleed. That way you’re not soakin’ through the mattress all night. S’that make sense, Pumpkin?”

Tags - dark daddy!joel, one shot, dubcon, smut, unprotected piv, daddy kink/ddlg dynamics, kinda icky/invasive at times, girthy legal age gap, diminutive nicknames, period sex, liiitle bit of blood kink, cockwarming, big dick joelie makes it fit, blood as lube, the cramps that hurt you feel good for joel lmao, fingering, somno, dark fluff, implied captivity, pms symptoms - reader is described as feeling/looking bloated and having some acne, was previously malnourished and missing her period. Joel's not so scarydaddy here, guys. Pretty gentle and sweet in this one if I do say so myself. 5k words A/N - hey gamers :) told yall I didn’t forget about dark daddy!! Thank you for your patience, and I hope it hits the spot. Love y'all.

You’ve been reading the same sentence over and over in your book for what feels like hours, maybe. Can’t remember the last time you turned a page and at this point, and you can’t remember what’s going on in the story. All you feel is an awful, nagging throb in your skull, pulsing in your fucking ear. It’s like TV fuzz in your brain. 

You get up with a stretch, pausing to sit back down because you stood up too fast, and all that blood rushing back to your brain makes your head pound even worse. At least it’s overcast out, right? God, the thought of sunlight makes you want to puke. You have no clue why you feel so bad right now. You’re not sick. 

When you’re ready, you head to the kitchen and open the cabinet where Joel keeps some odds and ends. A basket full of old, loose bandaids that have long since turned yellow. Petroleum jelly. Allen wrenches and Flintstone vitamins that are all melted together and stuck at the bottom of the bottle. Just shit that should’ve been thrown away long ago, or made its way down from the medicine cabinet upstairs and never returned home. 

Tylenol. It’s right on the top shelf, just out of reach. You stand on your toes to reach it, using your fingertips to nudge it closer to the edge. You try to catch it before it falls, but a larger hand beats you to it. “Nuh-uh,” Joel says, snatching the bottle right up. “You save that for your old man, hm? My back’s thirty goddamn years older’n yours, kid.” 

“So?” 

“So,” Joel drawls, “You leave ‘em be. Them pills are in short supply, too.” And old, and losing potency. Joel idly wonders if they even do anything anymore, if they’re just placebos at this point. Placebo or not, they’re his. “Whatcha even need Tylenol for, honey?” 

“I have a headache,” you answer, mentally cursing yourself as soon as the words slip from your lips. “Fuck.” 

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up at the swear; a simple, wordless warning is all the acknowledgment he gives it. “I know you didn’t just say a headache. What am I gonna tell ya?” 

“I don’t knowwww,” you murmur, avoiding Joel’s gaze. 

“Yes, y’do. What’m I gonna say?”

That you’re probably dehydrated. But you don’t answer Joel. You just slide past him and reach for the knob of a different cabinet door, picking out your favorite glass - it’s decorated in images of a little black cat, the paint faded and scratched and gray. Joel says the cat’s name is Felix. Was a cartoon he used to watch as a kid.

You fill your glass with water and drink it, eyeing Joel the whole time. He stands with his arms crossed, biceps bulging in his t-shirt as he wears his stupid, knowing grin, a grin that you can’t help but smile back at. Joel chuckles fondly at you smiling into the glass. 

You sigh as you set your glass down, refreshed by the cool water. “Attagirl,” Joel praises, then takes a couple of strides across the kitchen and meets you at the sink and fills your glass right back up. “Again.” 

“Again?”

“Mhm.”

You drink the second glass, glaring at him the whole time. Making a little show of it, just to rub his nose in your irritation a little. “Oh, I know. It’s so terrible, havin’ clean water to drink. I torture ya, don’t I?”

“You do, though.”

You take your place back on the couch, opening up your book again. Joel follows you, then gently removes the book from your hands. “Hey–” He finds your bookmark and places it between the pages, remembering when you told him, “I don’t like when you do that.”

“Do what?” he’d asked.

“Fold the pages.”

He hasn’t dog-eared a page of yours since. Joel places the book on the end table, then takes your head between both of his large palms, and tilts it back, back, resting you against the plush upholstery of the couch. And then, oh. Joel’s rubbing your temples with his calloused thumbs, watching as those favorite eyes of his slide shut. “Mmm…” you sigh, melting under his warm hands. 

“That helpin’ a little?”

A lazy nod of your head has Joel chuckling. You’re just like a kitten, happily purring like he’s scratching your fuzzy little chin with those big fingers of his, all curled up and blissed out. 

“What’s got your head achin’, Pumpkin?”

You shrug. Joel looks out the window at the blooming flowers you’ve been watering on his porch, taking very special care of. God, you. Your innocence. Joel’s sweet, tender-hearted girl. It really does drive him fucking nuts that you leave food on the porch, attracting raccoons all sorts of other critters late at night. Chipmunks in the morning, chipmunks you’ve named and fattened up and giggle at. Joel sighs, “Maybe it’s the weather changin’. Or allergies, or somethin’ like that.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “Maybe.”

Hours later, Joel finds you in the hallway, standing just inches away from the big, dusty mirror. You’re pulling the fabric of your shirt taught over your stomach, frowning at the reflected image before lifting the shirt’s hem and poking at yourself experimentally. 

He stands behind you, putting his two, large palms on your shoulders. “Whatcha poutin’ about now, sweetheart?” he asks, rubbing you with his thumbs. He kisses the top of your head to see if you’ll smile, but you don’t. “Thought we fixed that achy head’a yours.” 

“I’m like…bloated or something,” you mumble, pinching and prodding at your soft stomach. You turn to the side and then suck in your gut, and frown harder. 

Joel hates the look on your face. Your brows pinched together, eyes narrowed at your reflection as you visually pick yourself apart, scrutinizing every little detail of yourself that Joel loves. Trying to fix a problem that’s not there. “Hey, knock it off, kiddo. S’enough.” Joel pushes your hand away. “A lil’ tummy never hurt no one. S’okay,” he urges softly, rubbing your arm. What’s going on with you?

“No, Joel. Lookl–” 

“Listen, Pumpkin,” Joel jokes, patting his own stomach, “Your old man ain’t exactly model-thin, either. See?” hoping it’ll make you laugh, but it doesn’t. Instead, you’re ignoring him and onto the next thing, focusing on a tiny little blemish on your chin. He exhales through his nose, “I said, enough, sweetheart. Quit pickin’ at yourself.” 

“But I have a zit.” 

Joel spins you around, looking at the little mark himself. He frowns and furrows his brows, chewing on his lip as he examines your face. “Daddy, please,” you whine, pulling away from him. “Don’t look at me. I look horrible.” 

Joel wonders where a comment like that came from. He’s saddened by it, honestly, and confused. You don’t look horrible. Just the opposite, in fact. 

“M’your daddy, an’ I’ll look at that beautiful face if I wanna.” He holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger as he turns your face slowly to the left and then to the right, admiring every detail on your skin - including that little zit. 

After pausing, Joel clicks his tongue. “Ah, shit. Y’know what, I think you’re right,” he mutters solemnly. “God. This is just terrible, honey.” 

Your face drops, and your eyes go wide at his words. “What?”

“Mhm. Reckon we’re gonna have to amputate.” Joel tsks then, a smile playing at the corner of his lip. “Damn, what a shame. I kinda liked ya, kid. Ooohhhhh welllll…” 

Now that earns him a smile. And an eye roll, of course, and you gently shoving him away. But Joel catches your arm and pulls you in for a hug, kissing the top of your head again. 

“You’re not funny, Daddy.” 

“Eh. Maybe so. Think I’ll live,” Joel shoots back. 

“You don’t get it. I look…I don’t know. It’s like - like–” you stutter, trying to find the words. Everything is wrong. Your face, your body, your hair. Your mood. You. You almost feel claustrophobic, surrounded by your own upset. There’s this constant, nagging storm cloud that follows you around, and it’s raging inside you too. Inescapable.

“Daddy sure as hell ain’t ever won a beauty pageant in his whole life, darlin’. See all these wrinkles? Y’got my ugly mug beat by a landslide, honey.”

“But those are wrinkles,” you argue. “Not a fat fu…” you stop yourself before you swear again, “Zit,” you say.

“What if I told you I had a face full’a zits when I was your age?”

“It wouldn’t matter. That was forever ago.” 

Joel scoffs. Always have an answer for everything, don’t you? “Watch it. Wasn’t forever ago.” Joel’s brows briefly pinch together as he quickly does the mental math - it kind of was forever ago, actually. “‘Sides. There’s always gonna be somethin’ on ya that you don’t like. Gotta learn to live with it, right?”

“I guess,” you mumble.

“Sweetheart, y’look fine,” Joel whispers, holding your cheeks in his palms. “You’re beautiful. Ain’t no two ways about it.” He rubs your soft skin with his thumbs, so profoundly tender and gentle. “What’s gotten ya feelin’ so blue today?” 

“I don’t know,” you tell Joel, initiating a hug on your own. You don’t always do that, and it catches Joel off guard a little. He just hugs you back, watching the two of you in the mirror. Your face buried in his chest, looking so…down. Joel cups the bottom of your skull in his large hand, kisses the top of your head, and then trails his fingers down your spine. 

You’re squirmy on the couch. Constantly shifting as you shove handful after handful of popcorn into your mouth. Joel hasn’t seen you eat so voraciously since he found you all those months ago, and returned to you the second day with a warm thermos of chicken and noodles. Not like he minds, though. Eat him out of house and home, that’s what he’s there for. Joel makes no comment on your appetite. 

“My stomach hurts,” you mumble through a mouthful of popcorn. 

But he does have an inkling of what may be going on. 

“Maybe y’need to go potty,” Joel offers. 

“No,” you shake your head. “Not like that. It’s like…I don’t know.”

It’d make sense, right? You’ve been in his care for months now, healthy again. No longer malnourished, eating proteins and fats and vegetables on the regular. And if he is right, it’d explain the bloating, and the acne - again, not that he gives a shit. And it’d explain your mood, too. Or not. You’ve always been a little testy with him, a little bratty. To be expected. Joel’s given you boundaries, and it’s natural for you to want to push on them. Find out how serious he is. You’ve learned many times, though it never seems to stick. Persistent, persistent girl...

Joel guesses that he’ll see. 

You sit up and peel off your blanket, dropping it on Joel’s lap. “Where are you off to?” Joel asks. 

“I think I’m ready for bed,” you yawn, holding a hand on your lower stomach. 

“Yeah?” Joel stands up, the blanket falls to the floor. “Okay. Well, lemme tuck ya in and kiss ya goodnight, honey.”

You take his hand as you lead Joel up the stairs, dragging him by two of his fingers. His knees pop with every step he takes, god. He’s getting so old. Joel follows you into your bedroom, watches as you lie on the bed, then turn onto your side and clutch your tummy. You’re all curled up, like you’re attempting to hide from the pain. Poor thing. 

The dresser groans as Joel opens the drawer second from the top. He’ll have to grease those wheels inside soon. He picks out a nice pajama set - flowy white shorts and a shirt with little ducks on them. Joel turns around, then hovers over you on your bed. He pulls off your pants and panties with ease, then tosses the garments into your laundry basket and wriggles the pajama shorts up your legs. “Lift up for me,” he says, and you moan as you lift your hips. He takes you by the hand and lifts your torso up next, shushing your cries of discomfort. “Arms up, baby girl. Real quick.”

Joel takes your shirt off and dresses you in the pajama top next, and smoothes out the fabric over your curves with his wide hands. “I always liked these on ya,” Joel murmurs. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. They’re my favorite, I think. I like those ducks.” 

Joel smiles warmly. You smile back. You’re not feeling so good, but it’s been a good day with Joel. Tender, easy. You don’t always get to have good days with him. So often, it’s the push and pull; the tide meeting the shore, crashing together and pulling apart. You’re too similar for your own good, and sometimes, too different. But the good days are good. 

Joel kisses you on the forehead, then on the nose, and finally on your lips. Soft, gentle. “G’night, kiddo.” Joel gives your hand a comforting squeeze. “I love ya. M’always thinkin’ of ya,” he rhymes, tucking you in under your covers. With one last kiss, he bids you goodbye, and turns out the overhead light and takes care to turn on your nightlight. He shuts your door, hoping you’ll feel yourself in the morning.

When you wake up hours later, there’s still a dull, pulsing ache in your abdomen. Like a fist is groping at your insides, and then - a long, firm squeeze, or more of a pinch, rather. It’s so extremely painful that it has you squirming and twisting, crying out in agony. 

And there it is - the sticky feeling between your thighs. You’re utterly soaked, inner thighs slick and warm with, with…blood. You turn on your lamp and your eyes widen at the sight in front of you. 

It’s everywhere. Shades of crimson and brown soaking through your sheets, staining those patterned pretty stars all red. The fabric is shiny with your blood, as are your pajamas. It’s all between your thighs and running up your back. Fucking everywhere. 

You forgot all about your period, as it’s been so long since you’ve had one. You knew it’d come back when Joel brought you to his home, but it still takes you by surprise. The bleed is so fucking heavy you can feel it dripping from you, that slippery, awful, visceral feeling. Your face burns as you rip your sheets off of your bed in a panic, swallowing nervously when you see that your mattress is stained, too. 

You drag everything to the bathroom and toss it into the tub, frantically rubbing a bar of soap on the stains as water pours over it. You take off your pajamas too, crying at the image of those blood-stained ducks. Joel’s favorite set. Oh god, he’s gonna be so upset with you. He’ll, he’ll - fuck. You brace yourself for the inevitable, for the rage.

Joel wakes up to the noise of the tub, the loud stream of water drumming against the sheets. There’s rattling and commotion coming from the bathroom, quiet sniffling and crying. He’s all but completely sure he knows what’s wrong as he gets out of bed and takes heavy steps towards the hall and - his intuition was correct. Drops of blood on the floor, a large stain on your mattress. Joel sighs deeply and taps his knuckles against the door, its frame outlined in the warm, yellow light coming from inside. 

“Open up, Pumpkin.” 

“Fuck,” you curse, eyes blurry with tears. “Joel - I can’t, Daddy.” Your voice is thick with tears. Joel’s heart aches at the way you choke on your own sobs. 

“Yes, y’can. Open this door,” Joel repeats, and his voice is measured, patient. 

“I really - I can’t,” you tell him, hands on either side of your head as you panic. The blood isn’t washing out much, and you - fuck. You’re covered in it yourself. As is the bathroom. 

“M’not gonna be mad at ya, kiddo. Whatever it is.” 

Joel listens to you take a couple of deep, shuddering breaths. “P-promise?”

“On my life.”

There’s a couple of footsteps, and then the door opens about an inch. Joel’s brows furrow as he takes in what he can of you - eyes stained by tears, blood dripping between your thighs. You nudge the door open just a little more, then fit your hand through the crack and offer Joel your pinkie. Joel raises his own hand, loops his pinkie around yours, and kisses your knuckles. He raises his eyebrows, silently asking again that you let him in. Those dark eyes are soft and patient. Warm. 

You open the door the rest of the way, allowing Joel to take it all in. The mess in the bathtub and on the floor, and you standing before him, dripping a vermillion mess. “Oh, Pumpkin.” 

Joel pulls you into a tight hug, hushing your sobs as you tell him over and over, you’re so sorry. You’re so sorry, Daddy. 

“What the hell are you sorry for, sweet girl?”

“F-for the sheets, and for ruining the mattress. And m-my-m–”

“Deep breaths, hon.”

“--My pajamas,” you continue, without stopping to breathe. 

Joel nods, understanding. “Nothin’ t’be sorry about. It’s a natural part’a life, right?”

“Y-yeah, but–”

“But nothin’. It ain’t your fault, sweetheart.”

“Please don’t be angry,” you whimper. “I really tried.”

Joel feels a pressure building behind his own eyes. He’s getting so soft as he ages, and he knows what he’s done to you. The fear he’s instilled. The guilt eats him alive, sometimes. 

“Ohhh, I’m not mad at you a bit, sweet girl. Not a bit.” Joel gently pushes you an inch back, pinching at your hair that’s stuck to your sticky cheeks. He clicks his tongue as more tears fall, wiping them away with his rough fingertips. It hurts a little, the skin under your eyes so sensitive and raw and puffy right now. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up, huh?” You nod. “Go wash your face in the sink,” Joel tells you, crouching by the tub. 

He grabs the sheets and chuckles as he squeezes the water out of them. “Well, ya can’t use warm water, knucklehead. Stain ain’t gonna budge an inch f’ya do that.” 

Joel’s eyes widen as you let out a sob at the comment, crying hard once again. Jesus, your emotions are all over the place. Poor girl. “Heeey, enough. Enough with the waterworks, alright? I’m gonna take care of it.” 

“B-”

Joel bunches up the wet sheets and stands up, holding your chin between the fingers of his free hand. “I need you to calm down, kiddo. It’s okay. Y’understand me? It’s all gonna be okay.”

“Okay,” you sniffle. “Okay.” 

Joel leaves the water on. “Gonna clean this up and see if I can’t find ya somethin’ for your monthly,” he says. “You get in the tub and rinse yourself off a little, alright? An’ the water’ll feel good on your achin’ tummy, too,” he advises.

Joel’s right. You sit in the tub and put the rubber stopper in the drain, letting the water fill up and soothe your cramps as Joel takes care of everything else. He scrubs your mattress and the sheets with peroxide, watching the bloodstains bubble up in shades of red and orange. It’s not perfect, but nothing is. It’ll do.

He tosses the sheets in a laundry bag, and will probably end up dropping it off at the laundromat tomorrow morning. He checks his supply closet for some old tampons or pads or something, but there’s nothing. Unless he wanted to get creative with some washrags, but…

…In truth, Joel’s been waiting for this. Maybe even planned it. He knew one day or another you’d get your period, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make his cock twitch to think about it. Sinking inside that warm, wet, bleeding cunt…

Joel comes back into the bathroom, running a hand through his graying hair as he checks behind the mirror and under the sink. “Got bad news for ya, kiddo,” he sighs, shutting the cabinets. “I’m empty.”

“So I just have to sit here until it’s over?”

“Nah, ‘course not. Gimme a minute and I’ll show ya what’m gonna do with ya.” Joel bends over and touches your scalp, then presses a kiss against your forehead. “Empty the tub an’ dry off. Come to my room when you’re done.” 

Joel leaves you and leaves the bathroom door open. You listen to him grab a couple of things from the closet, and the sound of rustling fabric and blankets coming from his bedroom. The drain gurgles as you let the water out and dry yourself off, cringing at the blood staining the towel, too. You tiptoe to Joel’s room.

His bed is made neatly with layers of old blankets and towels, and he has you sit on them. You squirm, uncomfortable with the idea of bleeding freely. “But I’m gonna ruin these, too.”

“Nah, don’t fuss over it. They’ve all seen better days,” Joel laughs. “Get comfy. Lie down.” 

You lie on the bed, shivering as Joel joins you. He removes his clothes and his cock is standing at half attention already, bouncing between his thighs as he adjusts his pillows. “You’re bleedin’ too heavy to go bare,” Joel explains, pumping his cock with his fist. 

“Okay…”

“So,” Joel continues, wrapping his arm around your side and pulling you against his bare torso, “Daddy’s gonna stuff ya full and slow the bleed. That way you’re not soakin’ through the mattress all night. S’that make sense, Pumpkin?”

It does. You turn your head and nod, but Joel can see in your eyes how nervous you are with the idea. That, coupled with your bleed. Of course you’re anxious, insecure. 

“We’ll go slow,” he promises. “An’ in the morning I’ll fetch ya some supplies when I drop your sheets off. Sound good?”

“Okay, Daddy.” 

Joel kisses you on the lips, then adjusts the way you lay on his bed, pulling you onto your back. “M’gonna give ya my fingers first, alright? Get ya ready for it.” He parts your legs, smiling as you take your place. You bury your head into his neck, same as you always do. The eye contact is hard for you sometimes, not that Joel minds. He finds it endearing how bashful you get. 

He licks his fingers - force of habit - and drags them up and down the seam of your wet, bleeding center, smiling at your sigh of relief. Poor thing, you’re all pent up, too. And your cunt aches, and simply needs a loving touch. 

Joel circles your clit, waiting for your body to relax into him. It’ll take a minute, sure. He whispers to you how beautiful you are, how much he loves to make you feel like this. How special that is, sweetheart. It’s Daddy’s favorite thing. 

He’s quiet as he dips one thick finger inside you, then two. Slipping them slowly inside, palm pressed against your mound. Joel pumps them in and out of you, acclimating you to the intrusion. And then, he curls them. Curls them, pulses them rhythmically up towards that special, spongy spot deep inside you. Joel feels your body warm as he fucks you on his fingers, listens to the quiet, breathy whimpers of your pleasure. 

Joel pulls his fingers from you, and notices the frown on your face as you see your own mess on his hands. “Don’t look,” he tells you, and wipes them on a towel. Blood remains caked around his fingernails, though. “Eyes on me.” 

You nod, and Joel turns you so your back is faced to him. He pushes your legs apart, then poises his cock at your entrance. “I’m goin’ easy on ya,” he promises. “Nice an’ slow.” 

“Yeah,” you murmur, reaching for his forearm as he presses against you. 

“An’ I know it ain’t - fuck - ideal,” Joel grunts, notching his tip inside your aching, bleeding cunt, hushing your cries of pain as his length starts to fill you. “But we gotta make do. Just can’t have ya bleedin’ everywhere, honey.” 

“I - I know, but it hurts, Daddy,” you warn, squirming at the intrusion. “It’s - yeah. It’s hurting.” 

“Oh, I know it hurts, pumpkin.” Joel licks his fingers and reaches between your legs for your clit, rubbing the sensitive part of you as he eases his way inside. “You’re bein’ a real trooper. Deep breath,” he instructs, “Do it with me. In–” and sucks in a breath, motioning for you to follow. “And out.” 

On your exhale, Joel pushes all the way in, bottoming out with a grunt, and a whimper follows from your own lips. “There it is. Piece’a cake,” he pants through a grin, throbbing inside of you. 

You squeeze your eyes shut at the painful pinch, focusing instead on the way Joel rubs your sore, cramping abdomen with his warm palm. “M’so sorry you’re not feelin’ good. But you’re bein’ so good f’me,” he coos, his cock twitching. “My sweet fuckin’ girl.” 

Joel holds you against him as he reaches for his lamp, then pulls the chain and shuts the light off. He drops against you, sighing deeply as you squirm on his cock. 

The pain of the stretch dissipates as the minutes pass, and Joel’s breathing steadies. The ache is replaced by a different pain, a squeezing, aching cramp that overtakes your whole body. You groan in discomfort, clenching tightly around Joel, and it makes his breath catch in his throat. 

“It’s - it’s hurting, still,” you grimace. 

“What hurts, Pumpkin? Where?”

“It’s not you,” you answer. “My - fuck, I’m sorry. My cramps.” 

Joel rubs your belly harder, though it doesn’t do so much to soothe your pain. You whimper as another particularly bad cramp washes over you, balling your hands into fists around Joel’s fingers. “Oh, honey. M’so sorry,” he whispers. “Aint’ fair what you girls gotta go through.” 

Joel thinks for a minute, considering your pain and his own discomfort. Fuck, you are tight. And every horrible cramp that plagues your body only serves to pleasure him, what with the way you squeeze and pulse around him through the pain. “M’gonna try somethin’, sweetheart,” he whispers, shifting on the bed. 

Joel pulls out of you slowly, then thrusts back inside. Not hard, not fast. Gentle and steady, nice and slow. He does it again, conscious to rub that sweet place inside you, and not to bruise your cervix with his head. 

“S’that better or worse?” he asks softly. 

Joel does it again. A slow draw out, that gradual push back in. The cramping fades into the background as that special, satisfying feeling takes over instead. 

“Hurtin’ or helpin’?”

“Y– Oh, Daddy,” you coo, your grip softening around his fingers. 

Joel smiles, satisfied. “Ohh, s’helpin’, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s helping.” 

Joel keeps fucking you slowly, dropping your hand to reach for your clit. He noses your ear and presses kisses against your neck, feeling your heartbeat pulse under his lips. The way he rolls his hips against you has you biting your lip and moaning his name, though it all comes out in little half-syllables. “Daddy’s here,” Joel whispers. “I gotcha.” 

He builds the speed a little, focusing only on your pleasure at the moment. The head of his cock rubs exactly where you need it to as he massages your clit with practiced circles that have you sighing in pleasure, inching closer and closer to your release. “Go ‘head and cum for me,” Joel rasps, “Let go, Pumpkin.” 

It’s not immediate, but it’s close enough. Just one, two, three more strokes and you’re cumming hard on Joel’s length, pulsing and clenching around him in non-rhythm. Joel fucks you through your climax until your quiet moaning subsides, and all that’s left is heavy breathing. 

…But the groans of pain return. Such a sour ending to something so sweet. It’s how it always seems to go with you, though.

Joel winces, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “Goddamn, kid. Cramps still ain’t lettin’ up, are they?”

“Guess not,” you murmur. 

“Want me to whoop ‘em?”

You laugh, and the motion of your body on his cock has Joel humming. “M’serious. Let me give ya one more, baby. You need’a get your rest.” 

Joel fucks you again, just as he did before. He’s a patient, patient man. Achingly hard and focused on your pleasure, focused on easing your hurt. When you cum again, when Joel’s drawn out every bit of pleasure from you that he could, he waits with bated breath for your whine of pain to follow - and it never does. 

What he does hear, however, is your gentle snoring. Joel exhales in relief, and begins fucking you for the third time. This time, for himself. 

He does so slowly but still at his own pace, focusing on his pleasure. Just a steady rocking of his hips, a consistent drawing in and out of your wet, bleeding pussy. Joel holds you tightly against his chest, breathing in that comforting, familiar scent of the top of your head. He savors the specific heat coming off of your body - you’re a little warmer than usual - and the feeling of his bare skin against yours. 

Joel’s so hard and rigid, and there’s a pressure quickly building in his balls and deep in his gut. He pulls you flush against his chest as he cums with a deep, guttural groan that escapes through his teeth, moaning while he paints your insides, all those muscles tensing and relaxing. 

He relaxes against you, kissing your ear as he settles into the soft mattress, cock going soft inside your body, still pulsing with every beat of his heart. 

Joel loves you so much. He tells you this as he drifts off to sleep, as that pretty, pinkish mixture of his spend and your blood drips down, down your thighs, seeping into the old towel underneath you. 

-

More dark daddy!joel here

Aaaaand kitty pics, cuz it’s been a while. If you enjoyed, please reblog with something sweet and horny or hop in my inbox and dirty talk me there :) your kind words keep me so motivated to write.

[222col]

bimbo!reader x art donaldson

summary: your friend goes missing...

cw .ᐟ missing person, murder

꒰ notes ꒱ more of joe goldberg!art

art had been so good recently. kept his emotions in check, didn't make an rash decisions. he was focusing on you, wasn't letting anyone get in the way of your relationship. until, of course...

"artie!" your bloodshot eyes appear unannounced at his dorm, thank god he'd already gotten rid of the guy in his bathroom. his heart clenches at the sight of you, sniffling through your tears as your hands reach out for him immediately. art's already working out a new hiding spot at the sight of your tears, and he doesn't even know what happened yet.

his strong arms carry you into his room, cradling you in his lap, stroking through your hair as he waits for you to be ready to speak. he'd never rush you, art does everything at your pace. "my– my– she–" you mumble, choking out the words through sobs. "what is it, princess?" art coos, gently tilting up your chin to force your eyes onto his.

"y'know my friend lexi?" oh, fuck. he definitely knows lexi. lexi is currently in the trunk of his car, he was planning on discarding her body today, before you arrived. shit, shit, shit.

art nods softly, pushing down all feelings of panic that are threatening to boil over. he has to be here for you right now, not thinking about himself. "yeah, baby, i know lexi, she lives in your building, right?" of course he knows that, it's where he killed her. "mhm, yeah," you mumble, wiping your nose on your sleeve as you sniffle through more sobs.

"she's– she's missing," you whisper, as though saying it any louder would make it more real than it already was. your lip trembles as your doe eyes look to art for comfort. "oh, princess," he murmurs, pressing his lips gently to your forehead. christ, was this girl miss popular or something? art only killed her in the early hours of the morning. fuck, he's in deep shit. she's still in his fucking car and the whole campus is looking for her.

no, it's fine. a missing persons report can't be filed before she's been gone for twenty-four hours. art has time. the police will think she's just some college student who got too drunk and didn't come home. she'll turn up, they'll say, don't worry. yeah, she'll turn up. in a fuckin' ditch somewhere as soon as art's ready for her to be found.

and hey, look, art didn't have a choice, okay? he's not just some psycho that kills people for the fun of it. it's not fun. it's fucking hard work, actually. he had to find out exactly where she'd be, when she'd be alone, make a copy of her dorm key, make sure her roommate was out. and that's all before he killed her. he had to get her body out, unseen, bleach her dorm, get her into the trunk of his car, and he's still got to get rid of her body, now with everyone looking for her! it’s fucking hard to be a serial killer. especially one that doesn't get caught.

it's her own fault. stupid girl shouldn't have been bad mouthing you like that. to do it so out in the open too? bitch had it coming. yapping around campus how she only kept you around 'cause other people liked you. nuh uh, no one talks about art's girl like that. she'd been getting too close to you anyway, it was only a matter of time before art took things into his own hands.

"oh, baby, i'm sure she's fine," he murmurs, rubbing up and down your back under your, his, sweater. art's trying so hard not to let his mind run away with him, especially with the feeling of your skin under his and how fuckin' pretty you look with tear stained cheeks and that pout on your lips. "she probably just stayed at some frat boys house, lexi can be like that." lexi can be a slut, is what art's trying to nicely say. always dragging you with her to stupid frat parties, that art hates you going to. he's the only boy who should be seeing you all dolled up.

brows knitted, bottom lip still poking out as you meet his eyes again. nodding in agreement, always taking art's words as gospel. he would never lie to you, right? "think you should stay here, until she's back though, baby." art murmurs softly, holding your cheeks in his hands, breath ghosting across your face. any excuse to have you staying with him, he'll take. "yeah?" art hums, a smile threatening his features. poking your side, making you giggle, when you don't respond to him.

"yeah, artie." you mumble, smiling up to him. you're too easy. he'll have you convinced lexi was a horrible person by the time he's even dumped the body.

© 222col. do not steal or repost my work without permission.

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ stargirl interlude: chapter iii.

wnba!paige x pop star!azzi. men & minors dni.

⋆ 🪩 masterlist.

cw: implied familial issues, fluff, first kiss, medium burn?, suggestive content, paige is never beating the down bad allegations, implied mental health issues.

notes: hello, hello. this is one of my favorite chapters. the songs used are "tinsletown in the rain" by the blue nile and "78fahrenheit (unreleased)" by ethel cain. i hope you enjoy yourselves. love you. can't wait to see you in my inbox.

III: INTERTWINED.

» please don’t break up with me, but i accidentally watched two episodes ahead of you

azzi smiled as her phone vibrated with an immediate response. since their dinner, there had been coffee. then another. and then another. another, another, another—until the cups blurred together, indistinguishable from habit. paige was so easy to slip into her life. a stone in the creek, changing the flow of water without trying.

azzi wished she could have kept her in new york forever, tucked her inside a pocket, but paige had to go back to dallas, a reality that nearly tore her apart. distance became a thing to work around.

they read the same books (paige used her ipad, which azzi found vaguely offensive—she was on a quiet, private campaign to convert her to a kindle). they made each other playlists, exchanged photos of their separate days. street signs, sky colors, the shine of oil on the concrete beneath their identically booted feet. this reminded me of you. 

azzi had even mailed paige a dark denim jacket she spotted in a boutique window in the east village. paige washed it immediately, wore it out the next day, prompting the internet to go feral trying to find the designer.

they had inside jokes now. a growing, shifting list of them. one of azzi’s favorites: “please don’t break up with me,” a melodramatic phrase they’d stolen from a book and used whenever one of them committed an unforgivable offense, like finishing a show too soon or forgetting to send a good morning text. 

the light ping of another message brought azzi back to the moment. 

» i’m never speaking to you again » wait which show?

watching things together was their ritual. the old-fashioned way: facetiming at the same time, counting down, pressing play in sync. there were easier ways to do it, probably, but azzi liked the effort of this. the reaching. it made her feel like she was participating in her own life, actively choosing it.

» chef’s table

azzi held her breath as she sent it.

» i can’t believe you, az!! » p, i fell asleep i swear it wasn’t on purpose. rehearsal was brutal and i went straight after the studio » the show is really calming and i was so sleepy from the warm shower » idc you KNEW

then, 

» mind you, YOU crashed out over ME watching FITEEN MINUTES of anthony bourdain 

azzi pressed her lips together, failing to contain the joyous twist of her mouth. the grin eventually broke free and spread through her cheeks. she tucked her hair behind her ear.

» that was different » bro, how????? » whatever! look, p, i can rewatch! i don’t mind, you know i don’t » … » i’ll consider it

with a soft huff of laughter, azzi rolled out of bed and opened her blinds. her joy seemed infectious, coaxing the sun through the open pane of her window. she stood in the middle of her bedroom for approximately three minutes, her feet bare against the wooden floor and one arm up and stroking the hill of her shoulder. 

she felt both unreasonably young and, in some absurd way, already old in the faint light of the morning. she looked down at herself, taking in the wrinkled pink-striped boxers and the vintage yale sweatshirt that seemed to have settled around her with a tired resignation. she remembered when she'd wanted to go there, when her mother had taken her on a visit, the two of them wandering new haven, pretending it could be a future. the thought hurt, brief but sharp. she couldn’t remember the last time she and katie had been…right, together.

her phone buzzed—a quick, familiar pattern. katie.

azzi twisted her hair into a messy knot at the back of her neck, securing it with an elastic, and lowered herself into a half-hearted yoga pose. three more buzzes. then, the phone would ring.

azzi sat cross-legged beside her bed, feet pressing into the floor like she was willing herself to grow roots. she picked up the phone.

“hey, mom.”

“hey, honey. were you in the shower?”

“azzi’s face scrunched as she lied, a gesture so automatic it felt like a tic. “um, no, just doing some stretches. i started wearing earplugs to block out the morning traffic. sorry. what’s up?”

“you shouldn’t do that, baby,” katie said, that casual tone that still landed like a reminder. “look, i’m outside your apartment. brought breakfast.”

azzi almost groaned but swallowed it, layering her voice with fake enthusiasm. “yum,” she said, but it came out flat before lifting just enough at the end to sound like a decent person.

⟡

her mother had gotten a haircut.

katie’s blonde hair had been cut into a sharp bob, and azzi noticed it immediately. it suited her, the kind of sharp, neat cut that was popular on magazine covers in the coffee shop she liked to frequent. azzi felt a small pang of something—resentment, maybe, or just recognition that katie was doing things for herself again, things azzi couldn’t quite figure out how to do.

still—she was glad her mother was finding things to do outside of managing her. thanks, max, she thought.

she opened the door still in her pajamas, and katie was standing there, two large boxes of breakfast from the diner a few blocks away, the coffee holder hanging from her hand like a prop. katie didn’t say anything, just gave her the kind of look that azzi couldn’t place but that made her chest feel tight. azzi leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her mother’s plump cheek, the skin softened by her morning creams and serums. 

azzi wandered into the kitchen, pressing her finger against the surface of her rose gold ipad, searching for the song paige had sent her a few days ago. she’d been meaning to listen to it, had actually enjoyed it when she did.

she found it—‘mythological beauty’ by big thief. paige had sent it to her with the message:

» idk why spotify recommended this to me, seems more up your alley » discover weekly my ass, half of these songs suck

azzi had hidden a smile behind her hand while standing in line to pick up that night’s pizza order. she’d texted back teasingly, saying,

» this may be a sign to let go of drake  » i ain’t holding on to him 

azzi hadn’t replied until later, sending back a grainy video shot on her old iphone se, its shaky camera making her look soft-focus. she was sitting on her bed, a sage-colored silk scarf holding back her curls, listening to the song. the video ended with an awkward thumbs-up and a muffled giggle. “i love it,” she said, like it was a confession.

now, azzi snapped a photo of the song on the tablet and sent it to paige.

» miss you

“azzi?”

azzi turned around, startled by the sound of her mother’s voice.

“yeah, sorry. what were you saying?”

katie, looking shy, busied herself unpacking the breakfast boxes, rearranging food on pale green plates with hand-painted garlands of pink roses.

“i was saying that, well, i miss you.”

azzi didn’t know what to say to that. “oh,” she said, and immediately regretted it, as if the word had been a reflex she hadn’t meant to expose. 

katie’s posture deflated, and azzi rushed over, sidling up to where her mother had begun cutting up the eggs into neat squares. she grabbed a plate and began assembling breakfast, the rhythm of the task comforting, familiar. she pulled away to grab glasses from the cabinets.

“you know, i was thinking about our yale visit when i was obsessed with going.”

katie looked up, eyes softening. “i remember.”

azzi half-smiled. “i wouldn’t stop playing that song, and you were so close to kicking me out of the car. i can’t remember the song, though.”

katie’s lips curved into a fond smile. “'need you now' by lady a. you played it on repeat because you were convinced you could sing it better than they could.”

azzi laughed then. she sat on a stool at the counter, the ache of the morning light catching her in its awkward glow as she ate, chewing slowly, mindlessly.

“why the hell was i so obsessed with yale anyway?”

“honestly? i think you saw it as your last shot at normal. you could dream about college, like the other girls, instead of being in the studio all the time, surrounded by everyone except your family. you were twelve when you got discovered, fourteen when you had your first album out. and now you're twenty-three, still trying to figure out what the hell you're doing.”

azzi didn’t say anything, but the words settled in her chest like something unexpected. there was a relief in it, in hearing it out loud, in realizing that, maybe, they weren’t as different as they sometimes seemed.

“i guess i fed into it because i felt guilty,” katie added softly, almost to herself.

once again, azzi was unsure of how to respond, but she felt it—the weight of that invisible truth that had always sat between them. she felt herself relax, the air clearing just enough for her to breathe a little easier.

“maybe i should release a country album,” azzi said, and katie barked out a laugh, sharp and familiar.

if azzi didn’t know better, she might’ve thought the sound was her own.

⟡

but azzi’s largest issue remained: she was unable to be content for long periods.

happiness came, stayed long enough to fool her, then drained away in increments. moreso now, as she slogged through the laying of the bones of her new album. she found herself withdrawing.

since that morning with her mother, it had gotten easier to admit to minor irritations, the small inconveniences of daily life. but there were still things she kept to herself. like how badly she wanted paige back in new york.

their movie nights had transitioned from ‘facetime + film’ to just ‘facetime.’ azzi hadn’t asked for it outright. she had just postponed pressing play, filling the space instead with long, looping stories, tangents about nothing, stalling without meaning to. eventually, paige caught on. and being paige—being someone who never let anything slide—she finally said,

“if you wanna talk to me, just say that.”

azzi looked up from her desk. she’d started handwriting songs again, her moleskine journal thick and inflamed, its strap barely holding it together, blood red cover scuffed and soft at the edges.

it took a second to process what paige had said, her voice still rough from sleep. only an hour between them, but it always felt like more. when the meaning finally settled, azzi flushed hot, ducking out of frame.

paige smiled, amused, rolling onto her stomach so her face pressed into the cotton of her pillow. she looked soft like this. angelic. her blonde hair waved around her shoulders, those blue eyes dark in the low light, the lilac strap of her nike sports bra just visible. azzi focused on that instead of responding.

“you don’t sleep in that, do you?” she asked instead. “it’s bad for circulation.”

paige grinned, pearly teeth gleaming. “oh yeah?”

“yes,” azzi said, exasperated. “it can, like—affect development. it’s not good for you.”

paige hummed like she was considering this. then shifted just enough for azzi to catch the dip of her cleavage. “yeah, i think we're past that point, baby.”

azzi turned a deeper red, arms crossing over her stomach. she tried to sink further into the gaping mouth of her navy blue hoodie. paige could see the whisper of a dress beneath the hem.

“shut up,” she muttered. “i wasn’t—i wasn’t trying to comment on your tits. i was just saying.”

“oh, my bad. sorry, princess.”

“i’m hanging up,” azzi deadpanned, face blank.

paige held back a laugh. “aight, chill. you just so easy to fluster.”

azzi scoffed. “i’m easy to fluster? be serious. when my calvin klein campaign dropped, you quite nearly went into cardiac arrest.”

paige’s face immediately went pink.

“aight, now.”

“no, not ‘aight now.’” azzi leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “you left me on read for two days. if i hadn’t dmed kk on twitter—of all places—i wouldn’t have even known you spent the entire time curled up in a little red ball.”

paige shrugged, still a little pink, biting down on her lip. she was thinking. then deciding. letting her lip slip free, her expression turning lazy, sharp. azzi felt something hot unfurl low in her stomach. 

“okay, yeah, i had a minor crashout,” paige admitted, dragging a hand through her hair. her cross pendant dipped into the hollow of her throat. “a lil’ itty-bitty breakdown. but can you blame me?” she looked into the camera then, voice low. “az, you looked so fucking good. the baby pink ones were my favorite.”

azzi stilled, fingers twitching.

paige grinned. “you get to bring a pair home?”

azzi hung up.

the callback was immediate. she let it ring, took her time answering. finally, just before it stopped, she picked up.

“did you just hang up on me?”

“no,” azzi said, voice smooth, wide-eyed like she meant it.

paige let out a slow, dry laugh, her nose flaring. “aight. keep playin’.”

azzi rolled her eyes. “will you fly out if i do?”

paige’s face softened.

azzi sighed, already standing. she drifted away from her desk and set the phone down on her floor, balancing it against the nearest stack of books. she slipped away, and when she came back into the frame, she’d changed.

the hoodie was gone. instead, the soft curve of her shoulder, the clean line of her collarbone, the faintest trace of tan lines against her skin. the dress was simple—cream-colored, thin-strapped, almost weightless. the silk shifted when she moved, clung to her like a second skin.

paige didn’t say anything at first. just stared.

azzi adjusted the strap where it had slipped. “are you okay?”

paige’s voice was slower now, almost slurred. azzi’s body began to tingle with the recognition of desire. “you just look real… delicate.”

azzi’s brows furrowed, but the flush was already creeping up her throat, settling at the tips of her ears.

paige watched her, half-lidded, half-smiling. “like, if i touched you, you’d bruise.”

“do you want to bruise me?” azzi asked, tucking her legs beneath her neatly. 

paige didn’t have an answer, and the silence made azzi press her tongue to the back of her teeth. she made a face, pressing her lips together, but she laughed a little, shaking her head. 

paige was still watching.

azzi fidgeted, like she might change the subject, then reached for something off-screen. a small, instinctive movement. when she lifted the moleskine journal into the frame, she didn’t say anything. just held it there and tilted her head. 

paige raised a brow. “you gon’ show me?”

azzi exhaled. then nodded, shifting the camera down.

the pages were a mess, ink heavy in some places, light and faded in others. words crossed out, rewritten, and pressed deep into the paper. paige recognized azzi’s handwriting—messy when she was in a rush, looping and neat when she was careful. there were little angel wings in the margins. a few water stains. coffee, too. 

azzi flipped to a page near the middle. “this one’s kinda about you,” she murmured.

paige felt something warm unfurl in her chest, slow and blooming. she cleared her throat. “yeah?”

she could see some of the lyrics, but the words were twisted and reversed. azzi reached forward, picking up her phone, switching the camera so she could see them more clearly. paige knew she should’ve been reading, but her eyes caught on the strong bones of azzi’s hands instead, the slight tension in her knuckles, the chipped ballerina-slipper pink clinging to the edges of her fingernails.

do i love you? yes, i love you will we always be happy go lucky do i love you? yes, i love you but it’s easy come and it’s easy go all this talking talking is only bravado

“it’s a dance song. kind of 80s. i wrote it forever ago, but now i—” azzi hesitated, just for a second. “i feel it again.”

paige blinked as the camera flipped back, azzi’s face coming into view.

“it’s me singing about you,” she said. “but also asking myself if i’m gonna fuck it up. if it’s gonna last before i—” she made a little motion with her hand, something between a wave and a slow collapse—“bring myself down.”

she paused, tilting her head. “but the beat pulses. it kinda—” she hopped her fingers across her thigh, gave a small, absentminded shimmy of her shoulders—“jumps around, so you can’t tell if i’m happy or sad. i remain an enigma, and you really hope i’ve got it under control.”

her voice was light, teasing, but something about it snagged in paige’s chest, caught in the tender spaces between bone.

azzi tapped the page with her pen. “mm. it’s not done.”

paige smiled, slowly. “sing it to me.”

azzi’s lips parted like she might object. but then something in her expression shifted, went softer. she turned the page over, tapping her nails against the paper.

her throat trembled, a melody climbing inside it. then, she sang.

her raw voice was husky but light, full of something old and unnameable, something that had always been aching. it knew nothing of peace, and it invaded paige in the same way. the sound of it as it peaked—high and breathless, curling at the edges—went through paige like a pulse, like a shock of warm water against her ribs.

it was orgasmic. it felt like a million birds bursting into flight underneath her skin.

⟡

the venue smelled heavily of varnish and sweat, the air thick with the ghosts of girls azzi had been before, versions of herself she was trying to slip back into, feel out like old sweaters. some still fit. some itched against her skin, wrong in ways she couldn’t quite name. 

she had been moving for hours, letting muscle memory guide her through old material, testing where her voice still lived in them, where it wavered, where it no longer belonged. it was a relief for her body to find the old melodies still inhabitable, to still understand where best to collapse and rebuild. 

barefoot, azzi traced slow circles across the stage, rolling her shoulders, stretching her arms above her head. the room was empty except for a single spotlight pooling around her, turning the sweat at her collarbone to gold.

she had yet to notice that paige was there.

paige had slipped in through the side door, keeping to the shadows, her heart pounding hard enough that she could feel it in her fingertips. the flight had been an impulse, the need to see azzi—unshakable. now she sat in the darkened auditorium, watching azzi move like she was underwater, like she was feeling her way through something only she could hear.

the usual spectacle was stripped away—no sequins, no stage makeup, no cameras angled to catch her best side. just azzi, raw and untethered, her voice curling into the dark like smoke. paige could feel it under her skin, the way it lifted, shimmered, the way it sent something sharp down her spine. even the music was muted and warbling; azzi relied on her own words to paint the picture of what she envisioned.

she lost herself in the song, body twisting, spine arching, a prayer in motion. and when she reached the last line— is it something i did? and did i do it to you?—she reached blindly into the air, fingers grazing nothing before coming back to wring loosely around her throat. but something in her must have felt it, some part of her must have known.

then she rolled, first onto her stomach, then onto her back, arms flung wide. her head tipped back until it hung off the edge of the stage. she opened her eyes, her mouth—

and saw paige.

she was upside down in the seats below, watching her, blonde and breathless.

for a moment, neither of them moved. azzi’s chest rose and fell, her breath still uneven. paige’s hands had curled into fists in her lap. her pulse slammed against her ribs. she felt eerily close to claiming something; it was the same feeling that rocked her when she was on the court. 

and then, like she was being pulled by something outside of herself, she stood. climbed onto the stage, moving toward azzi’s sprawled-out form, laid out like an offering. azzi blinked slow, gaze molten and unfocused, but she wasn’t stopping her.

paige didn’t think. she moved.

her fingers found the warm column of azzi’s throat, thumb pressing just below her jaw. she felt her swallow, felt the rapid, unsteady beat of her pulse.

then she bent down and kissed the damp, brown skin just below azzi’s ear.

azzi made a sound, soft, almost imperceptible. paige might have imagined it, but she didn’t pull away. so paige kept going, trailing her mouth along the sharp edge of azzi’s jaw, moving slow, reverent. when she reached the corner of her mouth, she hesitated, just for a second—

azzi turned her head the tiniest fraction. not much. but enough.

paige exhaled shakily, then kissed her, lips parting, tasting sweat and something animalistic, something electric. azzi sighed into it, a quiet, complacent thread of air, and the sound sent a shiver through paige, sharp and unbearable. she wasn’t sure if she was shaking or if it was just the world moving underneath her.

somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. the spell snapped. paige pulled back, breathless. azzi stayed where she was. 

lips parted; eyes hazy. a beat. then another.

azzi’s lips curled, just slightly. “i didn’t even know you were coming,” she murmured.

paige laughed, suddenly and breathlessly. she pressed their foreheads together, her head heavy with the force of her blood flow.

“yeah,” she whispered. “you knew. you asked me to.”

⟡

karnold: i feel as president-elect of bueckers-fudd nation, it's my duty to let you know that paige might in fact be locking in ⤷ drewbuckets: she’s going to murder you in cold blood ⤷ uconnsports: who elected you?? ⤷ username: the question we all need to be asking ⤷ username: mind you why is uconn’s update page here if paige is now in dallas??? ⤷ dallaswingsofficial: we’re all invested ⤷ username: omg wait are they gfs??? ⤷ karnold: mind the business that pays you ⤷ karnold: but no #wives 

© hcneymooners.

[thedemoninme141]

The Maiden Of Death Part 5

Pairings: Wednesday x Female reader. Wordcount: 10.5K-ish

Part 1 -- Part 2-- Part 3- Part 4--Part 5

Summary: Enid's plan gets Wednesday a bit close to you, and she found out, who you were, on the night of Raven.

A/n: Sorry for taking so long with this, really was so busy with life and all. It's kinda hard to maintain time for me these days. But I am trying my best :(

Warnings: Down bad Wednesday? A small reveal at the end? Rom-com turns into horror?

“I will now present to you—” Enid spun dramatically, “—the Six-Part Dating Strategy!”

Wednesday stared blankly. “I will burn this room down.”

Enid ignored her.

PLAN ONE: “Subtle compliments!” Enid clasped her hands together. “You know, like, ‘Oh wow, Y/N, your hair looks really nice today even with all that blood.’ or ‘Wow, Y/N, I love the way you almost murdered me during fencing'."

Wednesday’s face remained impassive. “I do not compliment people.”

And yet, here she was, standing across from you in the fencing hall, rapier in hand, watching as you sidestepped her latest attack with infuriating ease.

Your movements were a spectacle—fluid, efficient, entirely unreadable. But this time, you barely engaged in offense, your sword more of a guide than a weapon, your real focus resting on evasion. You moved as though the air itself bent to accommodate your existence, as though gravity had little hold on you.

And it irritated her.

No. That wasn’t quite right.

It fascinated her.

Wednesday gritted her teeth and struck again, but you were already gone before the tip of her blade could meet your shoulder, ducking at the last possible second, gliding just out of reach.

Why?

Why weren’t you hitting her?

Even when she had given you an opening, moments where any experienced fencer would have capitalized on a misstep, and yet you never took them.

Not out of pity. No, you weren’t the type.

It was deliberate.

Intentional.

You were training your reflexes, perfecting your dodging. Using her.

Wednesday felt an unexpected warmth creep into her chest at the thought, a strange mix of irritation and satisfaction. That you deemed her skilled enough to be a challenge for your evasive techniques, that you were using her in your own training, was something she couldn’t quite bring herself to dislike.

But it also meant she had yet to truly test your limits.

Her grip tightened.

She lunged.

You let her get close this time—dangerously close—but at the last moment, you twisted your body, turning just enough for her blade to skim past your side, and in one fluid motion, your rapier met hers with a decisive clash, knocking her weapon off course.

Her balance wavered.

Your hand met her shoulder.

The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back, the cold flooring of the fencing hall beneath her as your sword hovered just inches from her throat.

Damn it.

Wednesday sat up, watching as you turned away, as you always did after your fights, moving to the benches to remove your gloves. It was an unspoken routine now—you never lingered, never exchanged words. You were a ghost even in the moments of your victories.

She just… didn’t understand it.

Her fingers curled against the floor as she inhaled sharply.

Compliments.

Wednesday nearly grimaced.

This was going to be simple. A compliment was nothing more than an observation, a statement of truth. She was always honest—this was no different.

Her lips parted.

“…Your—”

You glanced at her, barely acknowledging her presence.

Wednesday inhaled.

Just say it.

“…Your, uh…” she hesitated, feeling an immediate and unfamiliar heat crawl up her spine, like her body was physically rejecting the act. She forced herself forward, jaw tight. “Your reflexes are… adequate.”

A long silence followed.

You blinked.

It was the most she had ever seen you react to anything.

You just stood there, half in the middle of removing your glove, staring at her with an expression that very clearly read: What the hell is wrong with you?

Wednesday wanted to die.

Or at the very least, vanish into a void where she could pretend that hadn’t just left her mouth.

Your head tilted slightly, as if trying to decipher her.

Wednesday felt something in her stomach twist violently, but she held her ground, keeping her expression unreadable.

Finally, you gave her a slow, almost lazy nod. And without a word, you finished pulling off your gloves and walked out of the fencing hall.

Wednesday remained rooted in place.

A sharp exhale escaped her.

That was…

She didn’t even know what that was.

"PLAN TWO: “Mysterious gifts!” Enid beamed. “Leave little trinkets! Like, oh! A fancy dagger or—wait, you’d probably leave something super creepy, wouldn’t you?”

Wednesday considered it. “Bianca's severed hand might be an appropriate token.”

“Wednesday, NO.”

She had the perfect item in mind.

Wednesday watched from the corner of the hallway, watching from a safe distance as you stepped out of your room.

There it was. The small, unassuming black box, sitting neatly at your door.

You stopped.

Wednesday observed the way your gaze narrowed, suspicion flashing across your features. You stared at it for a moment too long, as if assessing whether it was some kind of elaborate trap. Your hesitance was telling. Her lips curled slightly. You were always prepared for the worst. She liked that about you.

Had no one ever left you a gift before?

The thought made something unpleasant stir in Wednesday’s chest.

Wednesday noted the way your shoulders tensed, the way your gaze flickered over the hallway, sharp and calculating. As if you were analyzing every possible threat before approaching the box with the same caution one might have when dealing with an explosive device.

At least you weren’t foolish.

You knelt down, carefully lifting the box, turning it over in your hands as if weighing its contents. Then, finally, you opened it.

Wednesday’s breath slowed.

Your eyes widened. Just barely.

Wednesday had seen you fight, had seen you maneuver through attacks with unnerving ease, had seen you reduce your enemies to mere obstacles in your path. But this—this fleeting moment of surprise—was something else entirely.

Something rare. Something fascinating.

Your fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the skull before you lifted it from the box, holding it in your hand... as if caressing it.

Wednesday felt something unfamiliar stir in her chest.

Satisfaction.

She had done this. She had caused this reaction in you.

But then without hesitation, you turned your head—directly toward where she stood.

Wednesday pressed herself further into the alcove, heart rate steady. You hadn’t seen her. That much she was certain of.

When she risked another glance—

You were gone. Your door remained open.

“What is this for?”

Wednesday stiffened.

Slowly, she turned her head.

You stood beside her.

Wednesday ignored the way her pulse had jumped at the sudden proximity.

Her mind scrambled for an answer. This was supposed to be a mysterious gift.

She had not anticipated you catching her in the act.

It was supposed to leave you wondering.

Not questioning her.

Words, normally so precise, felt fleeting in her mind. She had not prepared for an interrogation.

“…It is a talisman,” she finally stated, voice level despite the odd twisting sensation in her chest. “A symbol of fortune.”

You regarded her, eyes narrowing slightly.

Wednesday refused to squirm beneath your scrutiny.

After a pause, you asked, “Why didn’t you just give it to me directly?”

Wednesday faltered. She never faltered.

Her mind worked frantically, scrambling for something that made sense.

“…It is a tradition,” she finally settled on, forcing her tone into something impassive. “A gift left to be discovered rather than handed over. It is more effective when received unexpectedly.”

Your eyes held hers for a long moment, dark and unreadable, before you hummed, almost as if you were amused.

Wednesday’s fingers twitched slightly against her palm.

"Goodnight," she said, abruptly turning on her heel.

No, she was not fleeing! She just had no further reason to linger.

And yet, long after she had returned to her room, long after she had laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, she could not erase the sight of your expression from her mind—

The way you had looked at her.

Like she was something worth understanding.

"PLAN THREE: Small gestures." Enid practically vibrated with excitement, clasping her hands together like she was reciting a sacred text.

"Subtle things that let her know you care. Like offering her her favorite dessert, or pushing her out of the way of a moving car!"

Wednesday hummed. "I'd rather push her into the way of a moving car."

Enid gasped in horror.

"Wednesday! That would hurt the car!"

You sat with your usual unreadable expression, quietly sipping a black coffee, right beside Enid, right in front of Wednesday...

A strategic choice on Enid’s part.

One that Wednesday refused to acknowledge as useful.

"I still think we should have a dedicated gaming club," Ajax was saying. "Like, come on, we have fencing, but we can’t have video games? Kinda unfair, if you ask me."

Bianca scoffed. "What, so you can lose to me in two different kinds of competitions?"

"Okay, first of all, ouch. Second, I’d totally win."

"In your dreams, Medusa Boy."

"Oh by the way, you should definitely join a club Y/n. " Enid asked you.

Wednesday noticed the way your fingers barely twitched, how your gaze flickered toward Enid before settling back onto your untouched food.

"Maybe hummers?" Enid suggested and Wednesday knew it was because she was there.

At that, Eugene nearly choked.

You said nothing.

Enid waited for a moment, then let out an awkward chuckle, glancing at Wednesday for help.

Wednesday didn’t bother offering any. Your mood was unreadable, but there was something… restrained in the way you sat, something distant.

If Enid noticed, she didn’t mention it.

But Bianca did.

"Let me guess," Bianca drawled, her voice laced with a thin layer of amusement. "No clubs. No interests. No social life. Just endless brooding in some dark corner."

Wednesday turned her gaze toward you, waiting for a reaction.

But you gave her nothing.

You didn’t look at Bianca. Didn’t acknowledge her presence. Didn’t breathe in her direction.

"You know, I’ve seen this before," Bianca said, voice laced with faux amusement. "The whole dark and brooding thing? It gets old fast. You might want to work on having an actual personality before people lose interest."

You didn’t even flinch.

You simply continued sipping your coffee, as if Bianca were no more than the air around you.

Wednesday wasn’t sure if it was self-restraint or if you truly didn’t care, but it was making Bianca’s irritation worse.

"Silent treatment, huh? Not surprising. I guess when you don’t have much to offer in a conversation, silence is your best bet."

Wednesday placed her fork down with a deliberate slowness.

"It’s amusing," she said, her voice cutting cleanly through the air, halting whatever Bianca had been about to say next. "How the most bitter individuals are always the first to reach for weak insults. As if degrading others somehow makes up for their own lack of control."

The table quieted.

Bianca’s eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Did I stutter?" Wednesday’s gaze was unwavering. "You're attempting to provoke her because she refuses to acknowledge you. It’s a rather sad display of wounded pride."

A flicker of something passed over Bianca’s expression—frustration, maybe. Annoyance. "That’s not—"

"You lost," Wednesday continued, her voice remaining void of emotion. "Accept it and move on, like any self-respecting individual would. Or are you so insecure that you need validation from the one person who doesn’t even care enough to respond?"

The table went silent.

Bianca’s expression hardened. "Careful, Addams."

Wednesday tilted her head. "Or what? You’ll resort to more pathetic attempts at insults? I expected better."

"Wednesday," Enid hissed under her breath, clearly panicked.

Bianca looked like she was ready to kill her.

But Wednesday did not care.

She had watched Bianca push, had watched her try to tear into you, to get a reaction.

And Wednesday had not liked it.

She was not entirely sure why.

She only knew that she had acted.

But what truly caught her attention—what made her pause for a fraction of a second—was you.

You, who had remained still and silent throughout the entire ordeal.

Now, you finally looked at her.

Your eyes met hers, gaze unreadable, something flickering within them as you regarded her for a long, quiet moment.

A question that was never asked.

"What was that for?"

Wednesday had no answer.

"PLAN FOUR: Talk to her more! You need to talk to her more. Casual things. Nothing about death or destruction!" Enid announced, her hands gesturing wildly as if she were unveiling some grand strategy.

Wednesday gave her a flat look. "Both things that relate to her?"

Enid opened her mouth, then shut it again, blinking. "…Good point."

Wednesday had no trouble talking—when it mattered. When words were necessary, sharp, and deliberate. But the idea of casual conversation felt foreign, unnatural, something trivial and unnecessary. Words should serve a purpose, not be thrown into the void for the sake of social norms.

And that was how Wednesday found herself in botany class, standing beside you, a pair once again. It wasn’t surprising, everyone was too afraid to be partnered with Wednesday or You.

Oleander, a beautiful thing. Deceptive. Deadly. Wednesday could admire that. She could focus on that.

But instead, her mind was on another similar kind of poison. You.

She found her gaze drawn to you in spite of herself, taking in every precise movement, every quiet breath. There was something hypnotic about the way you worked, the way your fingers grazed the edge of a leaf without hesitation, the way you handled the plant as if it posed no threat to you at all. You were utterly unbothered, your focus entirely on the task, unaware—or perhaps unconcerned—with the way Wednesday was watching you.

Talk to her more!

Wednesday exhaled. This was ridiculous. But, if she was going to do this, she would do it on her terms. She picked up her shears, trimming a precise section of the oleander before finally speaking. “You work efficiently,” she observed.

You didn’t look up. “I prefer to get things done.”

It was a neutral response. Not unkind, not welcoming, but not dismissive either. An opening.

She debated her next words carefully. A compliment? An observation?

The silence stretched, and before she could overthink it further, she stated, “I assume your efficiency extends to more than just plants.”

This time, you did look up, your gaze meeting hers with mild curiosity. “It’s necessary.”

Wednesday tilted her head slightly. “For what?”

You hesitated. For a moment, she thought you wouldn’t answer. But then, you returned your attention to the oleander, carefully plucking away an unnecessary stem. “For surviving.”

Wednesday considered that answer. It was true, but also deliberately vague. You always did that—spoke just enough to satisfy a question, but never enough to be understood. It was a habit Wednesday recognized in herself, and that realization was... unsettling.

“Efficiency is a virtue,” she said finally, falling back into her work. “But perfection can be a limitation.”

You glanced at her, “What do you mean?”

Wednesday hummed, trimming a leaf between her fingers. “Perfection leaves no room for unpredictability. And predictability is fatal.”

You studied her for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

It was simply an acknowledgment, a consideration of her words as something worthy of remembering. Wednesday found herself gripping her shears just a little tighter.

For the remainder of class, the conversation continued in fragmented moments—small remarks, simple exchanges. And though the air between you never lost its tension, it was less suffocating than before. You still spoke little, but so did she. In some twisted way, it felt like a mutual understanding.

When the bell rang, Wednesday watched as you collected your materials without a word and slung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door, and before she even realized it, she was following.

It wasn’t intentional—at least, not consciously. But her feet moved before her mind could catch up, and soon enough, she had fallen into step beside you.

“You were avoiding striking me during our last match.”

You didn’t stop walking. You didn’t even flinch. But there was a flicker of something in your eyes when you looked at her, the kind of emotion that was impossible to decipher unless one knew where to look.

“Was I?”

“Yes,” Wednesday said, unwavering. “You had openings. You didn’t take them.”

For a moment, she thought you might deny it outright. But instead, you merely hummed in acknowledgment.

“You notice everything, don’t you?”

It wasn’t said with annoyance, nor admiration. Just another observation.

Wednesday tilted her head slightly. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Do you always follow people after class?”

Wednesday tensed. She should have anticipated that. But rather than offering an excuse, she merely met your gaze, unwavering. “No.”

You nodded once. “Alright.”

It was a deflection. But Wednesday let it slide, because this was the longest conversation she had ever had with you, and despite herself, she didn’t want it to end.

She realized, with no small amount of frustration, that Enid had been right. Small gestures, small conversations—they made a difference.

Wednesday did not remember deciding to walk here.

She had left her dorm long before the first light of dawn, her body moving with its usual rigid purpose, but for once, she had no clear objective. At least, not one she could immediately justify.

She had simply walked, following an unspoken direction until her feet slowed, her gaze lifting to find you seated beneath the same tree she found you last time.

You hadn’t noticed her—or at least, you didn’t acknowledge her. Your back rested against the rough bark, legs stretched out, one knee bent.

Your breathing was steady, deep, eyes closed as if even the end of the world couldn't disturb you.

It was a familiar kind of quiet, yet somehow one that unsettled her.

The early morning air stirred strands of your hair with each passing breeze gently. You looked… calm. Too calm.

Wednesday hated how long she stood there, watching you.

She had made progress, hadn’t she? You tolerated her presence, which was more than could be said for the majority of those who attempted to get close to you. Others received a wall of cold indifference, but Wednesday…

You spoke to her the most.

You weren’t warm, nor particularly friendly, but she never expected you to be. That wasn’t the goal. And yet, the knowledge that you were equally as tolerant of Enid gnawed at her. But that was different. Enid was persistent, impossible to push away. Wednesday had earned her place.

Hadn’t she?

She noticed the way your gloves—were worn from use. You had been working last night.

Hunting.

And now, she needed to confirm it. She needed to watch you. Study you. She needed to know. She already has seen you enough in action and yet she needed to confirm it with her own eyes. Your precision, your efficiency—the real you.

“Have you done staring?”

Her breath caught—just for a fraction of a second.

You still hadn’t opened your eyes. You hadn’t moved. But you had noticed her, as if you could sense her presence without ever needing to look.

Wednesday’s jaw tensed, irritation flaring at herself more than you. She had not intended to be caught so easily. “You would be none the wiser if you had simply remained silent.”

“I was hoping you’d go away,” you murmured. “Clearly, that was a mistake.”

Wednesday ignored the dry remark, stepping forward and lowering herself to sit beside you under the shade of the tree. She kept a careful distance—not enough to invade your space, but just close enough to make it clear she had no intention of leaving.

Your head tilted slightly in her direction, your eyes still closed. “I didn’t say you could join me.”

“I don’t remember asking your permission.”

There was a pause. Then, a slow exhale—not quite a sigh, but something close to it. You didn’t tell her to leave.

A small victory.

She forced her thoughts into order. Conversation. Small talk. That was the goal.

Wednesday glanced at you, considering her options. “Are you always this early?”

“I can ask you the same question.” you countered.

She had walked into that one. Annoying.

But then, after a pause, you added, “I don’t sleep much.”

Wednesday turned her head slightly toward you, watching the way your fingers curled against your knee, absentminded but controlled.

“Why?”

You exhaled slowly, tilting your head back against the tree trunk. “A habit.”

Vague. Unhelpful. But she didn’t press, not yet. Instead, she shifted tactics.

“You usually use techniques that aren’t standard in fencing. Some of your movements resemble kenjutsu, but they’ve been altered for a different style of combat.”

“You’ve been analyzing me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Wednesday didn’t bother denying it. “I analyze everyone.”

“Hm.”

She waited for you to shut down the topic, to divert the conversation elsewhere, but instead, you merely tilted your head toward her, finally cracking open your eyes. The sun had begun its slow ascent, catching against your irises in a way that made something shift uneasily in Wednesday’s stomach.

She ignored it.

“What about you?” you asked, voice low, almost absent. “Where did you learn?”

Wednesday blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift of focus. She had prepared for resistance, not reciprocation.

"Fencing is an important part of Addams family tradition. My Uncle Fester trained me before I ever set foot in a tournament. My father also contributed, but his focus was on dueling rather than form.”

You nodded slightly, as if that answer made sense to you. “Explains the way you fight.”

Wednesday hesitated, the conversation unfolding easier than she had anticipated. For once, it didn’t feel like pulling teeth.

“You must have learned a lot in H/n.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she realized her mistake.

Your expression didn’t shift but Wednesday felt the subtle shift in the air, like the sharp, invisible drop in temperature before a storm. Your gaze hardened, the once passive calm in your posture turning rigid.

“I never told you where I was from.”

There was no accusation in your voice, no outward hostility, but that made it worse. It wasn’t anger—it was scrutiny. You were assessing her, picking apart the misstep with a practiced, surgical precision.

Wednesday’s mind raced through possible responses, damage control, ways to steer the conversation away from the pit she had just dug herself into. But nothing would be enough. Lying was pointless, you would see through it instantly. But the truth was just as damning.

Finally, you leaned back against the tree again, expression unreadable. “So, you do your research.”

Wednesday clenched her jaw, frustration curling deep in her chest—at herself, at the situation, at the way your voice held no visible anger, just quiet, measured understanding.

“I do,” she admitted. Lying would be pointless.

You exhaled slowly, gaze turning back to the sky. “I figured as much.”

Wednesday watched you, unsure of what came next. You didn’t seem upset, but you weren’t brushing it aside either. You were merely… thinking.

Not forgiveness. Not acceptance.

Just… choosing to let it be.

Wednesday wasn’t sure which was worse.

PLAN FIVE: Ask her to the Raven!

Not this again.

She was certain she had made herself clear—she had no interest in this year’s Raven. No interest in its frivolous spectacle, the music, the pointless dress. It had been a waste of time last year, and it would be no different now.

“You are fabricating this to make me attend the Raven.”

Without hesitation, Enid shot back, “YES!”

Perhaps she can use this now. “I had to conduct research before asking you something.”

You remained still, watching her.

“And yet,” Wednesday continued, watching you carefully, “I found nothing.”

Even now, you gave nothing away. Your face remained unreadable, your posture relaxed in a way that was entirely too controlled. As if you had expected this, as if you had prepared for it.

Wednesday’s mind turned, examining every angle, every possibility.

“No history. No records before Nevermore.” She tilted her head, voice measured. “It’s as if you did not exist.”

“What did you want to ask me?”

A simple question. A direct invitation. And yet, Wednesday felt her mind stall for the first time in… longer than she cared to admit. She folded her hands in her lap, composing herself. “The Raven is approaching.”

You gave no reaction.

She tried again. “Nevermore’s annual formal gathering—”

“I know what the Raven is,” you interrupted, voice as impassive as ever. “Get to the point.”

Wednesday’s fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her skirt. “Enid is attempting to coerce me into attending.”

“Sounds like Enid. So what about it?”

She had rehearsed this. Thought through every possible phrasing, every logical approach. But as she sat here, faced with the actual moment, the words tangled themselves in knots before they could leave her tongue.

“I—” She stopped. Tensed. Then began again, voice flat. “It is a proposition of—” No. That sounded transactional.

A breath. A pause. A recalibration.

Why was this difficult? It was a simple inquiry. A proposition dictated by logic. She was merely extending an invitation. Nothing more.

She straightened her posture, collecting herself.

“I was considering—” No. Wrong. Start over.

Your silence was unbearable.

She exhaled sharply, jaw tightening.

“I am asking if you would go to the Raven with me.”

You did not react at first. Not visibly. You merely blinked once, slowly, before tilting your head, considering her in the way one might examine a riddle with an answer just out of reach.

Then, finally, your voice, calm and even. “I know you aren’t the socially gathering type. And neither am I. So why do you want to go there with me?”

Her first instinct was to craft a logical excuse. Something about observation. Something about data collection. But as she opened her mouth, the words felt thin, transparent, unworthy of the truth that pressed heavy against her ribs.

She exhaled quietly, accepting the inevitability of what came next.

“I want to know you.”

Your gaze flickered. Just barely.

“Know me?”

“…Know you.”

It felt like vulnerability.

Wednesday did not like the feeling of exposing herself like this. She was not used to it. But she could not bring herself to regret saying it.

You considered her words for a long moment.

Then, finally, you spoke. “Curiosity kills the cat, Wednesday.”

She felt it again. The way her name sounded from your lips. Not the way others said it—casual, indifferent, obligatory. No, there was weight to it. Something deliberate. And it affected her more than she cared to admit.

But she refused to let you see that.

"I am not afraid," Wednesday stated. "Are you?"

This time, you did smirk. Slight, but undeniable.

Then, her dark gaze locked onto yours, sharp and searching. "Are you?"

Wednesday felt a sharp, bracing satisfaction curl inside her, something darkly electric. You rarely gave people anything. But she had pulled it from you.

Again.

“I am not wearing any sparkling dress,” you said.

“I do not expect you to,” Wednesday responded immediately.

Your expression remained neutral, but something behind your gaze gleamed with consideration. It was impossible to tell what you were thinking.

Wednesday was patient. Mostly.

“So?” she asked, “What is your answer?”

You considered her, then exhaled slowly. “I'll go.”

She had won.

The Raven had already begun, the rest of the school had already begun making their way inside, laughter and muffled music spilling from the doors yet she remained where she was, waiting.

Waiting for you.

You had told her you would meet her right outside. You had given her your word. And yet, here she was—alone.

She wasn’t worried, of course. That would be absurd. But her fingers twitched at her sides, betraying the lingering frustration creeping in. It wasn’t like she had been standing here long. If anything, she had arrived early. Perhaps too early. But the idea of making you wait for her had been unacceptable.

And so, she had come before the arranged time, preparing herself for whatever was to come.

Her fingers twitched against the fabric of her dress. A new dress. Something Enid had forced her into acquiring, insisting that her usual attire was “criminally outdated” and that “if you’re going to court someone, you need to at least look like you put in effort.” Wednesday had wanted to strangle her.

Courtship. The mere thought of the word made her want to scoff. It was absurd. Yet, here she was, standing outside a school dance, waiting for someone. Waiting for you.

She had spent the week preparing—not that she needed to. She had already analyzed every potential outcome, calculated every possible scenario in which she might extract more information from you. She had thought about your answers, your reactions, your frustratingly unreadable expressions. And, though she hated to admit it, she had found herself wondering… how you would look tonight.

And now, as if summoned by the mere thought, she felt something.

Not the usual sense of awareness, not the subtle shift in the air or the telltale footsteps that always gave people away. No, this was… nothing.

Like an absence of presence.

A void in reality itself.

A shiver ran down her spine, and for the first time in a long time, she hesitated before turning.

You were standing there. Right behind her.

Her senses were honed, trained to detect the faintest disturbance in the air, the softest shift in movement. No one could sneak up on her. It was impossible. She hadn’t felt a thing.

She turned fully to face you, her breath steady, though her mind was not.

You were dressed in black.

A suit.

Not a dress. Not the standard gown the other girls had conformed to. A full, tailored suit—black from the crisp collar down to the polished shoes. The fit was precise, sharp lines and dark fabric making you look like you had stepped out of a world untouched by color. It suited you in a way that felt inevitable—as if anything else would have been unnatural.

Wednesday stared.

You looked—

No. She would not finish that thought.

Wednesday inhaled carefully, composing herself.

"You’re late," she said.

You merely blinked. "You’re early."

Wednesday scowled slightly. She should have expected that response. "I was beginning to wonder if you had changed your mind."

"I always keep my word."

With a quick inhale, she tilted her chin slightly, sharpening her gaze. “You do realize there was a dress code.”

You blinked at her, unbothered. “And?”

Wednesday had to fight the inexplicable urge to smirk.

“Most people would have at least tried to blend in.”

"Most people aren’t me."

That was an understatement.

Wednesday’s eyes flickered over you again, and for a moment, she swore she felt her own pulse betray her.

No.

She would not entertain these thoughts.

You exhaled softly, pulling her out of her reverie. “Are we going in, or do you just plan to keep staring at me?”

Wednesday’s spine stiffened instantly. “I wasn’t—”

You arched a brow, waiting.

She exhaled sharply. “Let’s go.”

You nodded, falling into step beside her as she moved toward the entrance.

Eyes.

It was just like last year. The moment she had entered, the weight of a hundred stares had settled onto her like a cloak. She had never cared about the scrutiny before—let them look, let them judge, let them fear. It had never mattered.

But tonight, something was different.

Tonight, the eyes weren’t only on her.

They were on you too.

The entire room seemed to shift the moment you stepped inside, as if the very presence of you disrupted the delicate balance of the event. Students who had been chatting freely just moments ago fell silent, their laughter fading into hushed whispers.

Some turned their heads quickly, pretending not to look, but their shoulders remained tense, their postures rigid. Others weren’t as subtle, their eyes wide, cautious, as if being caught staring too long might summon something unspeakable. And as if one accidental touch with you might be enough to disintegrate them.

No one had ever looked at her like that. People feared Wednesday for what she might do. But with you… Wednesday was sure they themselves didn't even know why they feared you.

Cowards.

She wondered if you noticed. If you cared.

Glancing to her side, she found you as unreadable as ever. Walking beside her with the same detached, effortless indifference, as if the entire world could set itself on fire and you wouldn’t so much as blink.

Had she ever touched you?

Not once.

Not while fencing, not during your so-called “training sessions” after sunfall. Even in proximity, you had always been… distant. And now, standing beside you, Wednesday found her gaze flickering downward—toward your hands.

You were wearing gloves. Dark, sleek, as always.

A part of her wondered if it was intentional. A precaution. A shield.

She had sometimes seen you without them, but not too much.

A fact that normally wouldn’t have mattered, but now settled in her mind like an itch she couldn’t quite reach.

She wondered what that might do. Would she see something? Feel something? Would it be cold? Warm? Would it give her a vision?

Would you let her?

"OH. MY. GOSH! There you are! Finally!”

Wednesday barely had time to react before she was ambushed by an overly pink werewolf.

Enid beamed up at her, practically vibrating where she stood. “You actually came! And—” She turned sharply, eyes locking onto you like a predator spotting new prey. “You actually came!”

You stared at her blankly. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No, no, you were, I just—wow.” Enid took a step back, arms crossing as she gave you an exaggerated once-over. “Okay, seriously? You really committed to the whole ‘color is evil’ thing, huh?"

You blinked at her, expression unchanging. “It’s a funeral theme.”

Enid hesitated, confused. “Wait, whose funeral?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Possibly yours if you keep talking.”

If Wednesday had ever doubted that someone could be even more socially intolerable than herself, you had long since proved her wrong.

Enid, being Enid, merely huffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Ha, ha, very funny. You and Wednesday are totally made for each other.”

Wednesday felt something at that but promptly crushed it into nonexistence.

“Seriously, though, you guys look cool tho. It’s like… Dark Princess and Mysterious Assassin Chic.”

You raised a brow. “That sounds ridiculous.”

Enid shrugged. “Yeah, well, I was gonna say ‘Goth Girlfriend and her Shadow’ but I figured Wednesday might actually kill me for that one.”

Wednesday’s glare was instantaneous. “Keep talking, and I just might.”

“Oh, hush.” Enid grinned. Then, in a move as seamless as if it were a natural part of the conversation, she threw in, “At least it’s better than last year, when you came with Tyler.”

Wednesday stiffened, but it was your voice that broke through first.

“Tyler?”

It was the first time you had asked anything about her past. Your tone remained the same—flat, impassive—but Wednesday noticed. The way your eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The way you processed the name, as if filing it away for later analysis.

“Oh, right,” Enid chirped. “I forgot, you weren’t here back then.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Tyler Galpin. The Hyde who was responsible for all the murders and Crackstone last year.”

You were silent for a moment, then, “Interesting choice.”

Flat. Emotionless. But Wednesday could feel the weight behind the words, the quiet judgment hidden beneath the surface.

She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t know he was the Hyde back then.”

Enid grinned. “Yeah, yeah. To be fair, it was a shocker. But I beat him, you know!” She puffed out her chest, absolutely radiating self-satisfaction. “Wolfed out for the first time and tore that guy apart!”

You tilted your head. “Really? You? With what? All your sunshine and rainbows?”

Enid gasped. “HEY.”

Wednesday almost—almost—smirked.

“No,” Enid huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “I beat him with friendship and LOVE!”

Wednesday caught it. Something flickering behind your eyes. It was gone in an instant, but she saw it. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obvious. But Wednesday noticed.

She always noticed.

You repeated Enid’s words, but softer, almost… distant. “Friendship and love?”

“Duh!” Enid beamed. “What else are we supposed to fight for?”

Your reaction was brief—so brief that Enid didn’t even register it—but Wednesday did. The smallest flicker of something worn, something almost bitter.

And then, just like that, it was gone.

Your mask slipped perfectly back into place, and you gave a simple nod, offering nothing else.

But Wednesday had seen it. And wondered, what exactly had you lost?

Wednesday barely had a moment to register the scene before Enid latched onto her wrist and yanked her away from your side.

"Alright, spill it!" Enid practically vibrated with excitement as she dragged Wednesday toward a less-crowded corner of the room. "What’s the plan?"

"There is no plan," Wednesday deadpanned, prying her wrist free from the werewolf’s overly enthusiastic grip.

Enid gave her a knowing look. "But Plan Six is about—"

"I don’t care," Wednesday interrupted, voice sharp as a blade.

Enid narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “So you’re just gonna—what? Wing it?” She looked genuinely disturbed by the thought. “That’s so not like you, Wens.”

Wednesday’s patience was running thin. “I fail to see why my actions, or lack thereof, are of any concern to you.”

“Because you’re you, and she’s her, and you two are just—” Enid waved her hands wildly, as if trying to pluck the correct words out of thin air. “You know! And I know you’re, like, emotionally stunted or whatever, but don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it!”

Wednesday arched a brow. “Thought about what exactly?”

Enid let out a strangled noise, clearly resisting the urge to shake her. “You like her, Wednesday! And no, I don’t mean in your usual ‘I tolerate their existence more than most’ way. I mean actually like her.”

Wednesday narrowed her eyes. "Don’t be absurd."

Enid’s grin only widened. "Oh, please. You so do. And if you don’t do something about it soon, someone else will—"

"Let them try," Wednesday said flatly.

“Oh my god. You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” Enid clutched her chest dramatically.

Wednesday didn't answer.

"Wait, you really don't!" Enid gasped again and before she could revel in her discovery any further, the unmistakable sound of upbeat music shifting into something slower caught her attention, and she immediately perked up. “Ooh! This is my song! Okay, okay, I’ll leave you to your brooding or whatever, but just think about what I said, okay?”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and practically skipped off into the crowd, leaving Wednesday standing there, irritation simmering beneath her skin.

With a sigh, she turned back toward where she had last seen you, only for her gaze to freeze.

Bianca.

Interesting.

The siren stood before you, her arms crossed, her expression neutral yet unreadable. The two of you weren’t bickering.

Bianca had never liked you. That much had been clear from the very beginning.

And yet, here she was, standing in front of you, speaking in low tones that Wednesday couldn’t quite make out from this distance.

She had always assumed the hostility was mutual, a silent agreement between two people who simply had no desire to tolerate each other’s existence.

So why now?

Why this?

She had spent enough time around Bianca to recognize her mannerisms—the way she spoke when she was attempting diplomacy, the way she shifted when she was preparing to manipulate a situation.

This wasn’t that.

And she didn’t like it.

She was still debating whether she should intervene when an annoyingly familiar voice cut through her thoughts.

“So… you and Y/N, huh?”

Wednesday didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. Instead, she merely narrowed her eyes and leveled Xavier with a glare. "Leave."

Xavier, of course, completely ignored her warning.

"You know, I should’ve seen this coming," he mused, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward where you stood. "But, what can I say? It’s my bad for always falling for the odd, dark, unattainable ones."

Wednesday’s fingers twitched toward the knife strapped beneath her dress.

Xavier, either suicidal or just entirely too used to her homicidal tendencies, only smirked. "I guess she’s all yours then."

Wednesday had already reached for the knife when Xavier bolted.

Coward.

Her irritation barely had time to settle before her attention was drawn back to you—back to Bianca, who was still standing in front of you, speaking in low tones.

Wednesday moved closer.

“—guess we got off on the wrong foot," Bianca was saying. "Are we good now?”

You held her gaze for a moment before nodding.

"Since when did you two become acquaintances."

The words left her mouth before she could stop them, sharp and cutting as a blade, her presence slicing into whatever conversation had been occurring.

Both you and Bianca turned toward her at the same time.

There was no flicker of surprise in your expression as if you sensed her coming.

"We haven't."

She wasn’t sure which part of this conversation annoyed her the most—the fact that you had been standing here with Bianca in the first place, the fact that she had no idea what you had been talking about, or the fact that you seemed entirely unmoved by the situation while she, for some godforsaken reason, was very much not.

Bianca sighed, shifting her weight as she glanced between the two of you. “It’s nothing dramatic, Addams. We were just discussing how we don’t need to be at each other’s throats all the time. It's not like we are best friends now.”

"A riveting discussion, I’m sure," Wednesday said flatly.

Bianca rolled her eyes. "Relax, Addams. I’m not trying to steal your girlfriend."

There was a beat of silence.

Wednesday felt her jaw clench.

You merely blinked. "I didn’t know I was something to steal." Wait why didn't you deny the.. "girlfriend" part?

Bianca smirked. "Exactly my point."

Wednesday’s grip tightened at her sides. "If you’re done wasting both our time, I suggest you leave before I decide I’m in the mood for violence."

"Fine. I’ll let you two get back to your whatever this is." She sent you one last glance. "Just don’t make me regret this, Y/N."

"I probably would." you said flatly.

Bianca groaned before finally turning and walking off, disappearing into the crowd.

Wednesday exhaled slowly, turning to you fully now. You were watching her, gaze steady, unreadable as always.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, a new song started playing.

And still, you stood there, watching her.

And Wednesday too found herself uncertain of what to say.

You weren’t supposed to dance.

Yet there you were, standing alone in the eye of the storm, unmoving at first—unblinking, your gaze tethered to hers

You say you're not afraid to die. But take off the armor 'round your chest What's left inside?

It starts slow. A shift of your shoulders, the roll of your neck. Controlled. Calculated. The crowd doesn’t notice at first. But Wednesday does. The way your foot drags against the floor, deliberate, the way your spine curves—not yielding, but commanding.

Li-li-lion licking your blade Do you really bleed if it washes away?

The music grows teeth. The beat snaps, and you move with it.

Your arm jerks upward, before your body twists. Not fluid, not elegant

Take a ride, rough as you can Tell you a secret, right as your dogs are closing in

You were doing it to be visceral.

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin

Your chest rises and falls with the rhythm, your fingers twitching, slicing through empty space. The lyrics carve into the air, and you let them shape you.

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin.

Your head jerks to the side in sync with the words, as if something unseen has struck you. Then, a collapse—your body folds inward, a marionette with cut strings, only to snap back upright in the next breath.

A shadow unbroken.

Tell me the walls are closing in Into the fire and born again

Wednesday’s pulse hammered against her skull. She had never been one for frivolity, for mindless displays of social pleasantries. And yet, Her legs moved before she could rationalize it.

She stepped into the eye of the storm.

Taste the pain and drink it in I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin

The first onlookers take notice. A few heads turn. Murmurs.

The moment she crossed the threshold, the world condensed to the space between the two of you. You tilted your head, watching her approach, your lips barely parting as if in amusement.

A challenge.

Lou-louder the bark and the bigger the blade One seat on a throne, one foot in the grave

Wednesday’s body responded before her mind did. Her movements were sharp, calculated. The macabre fluidity of her limbs fell into step with yours, a duet that somehow, made perfect sense.

Lou-louder the moth then the bigger the flame Do you really bleed if it washes away?

Wednesday is struck with something she does not understand. You lifted your arms, crossing them over your chest in a sharp X before suddenly letting yourself drop.

For a second, Wednesday expected you to hit the ground.

But you were gone, as if the ground itself had opened to devour you.

Her breath hitched. She hadn’t seen where you had gone. It wasn’t possible.

Wednesday turned slowly, and there you were.

Wednesday felt something strange claw at her ribcage. It was not fear, nor disgust—she knew those feelings well. This was something else. Something far more dangerous.

Intrigue.

Fascination.

Desire.

You turned again, your body rolling, shifting—your hands dragging down your face as if peeling away a mask. Then you tilted your head, eyes locking onto hers once more.

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin.

Your bodies circled, inches apart but never touching, two predators weaving between the spaces left by the other. When your head snapped to the side, Wednesday followed suit. When you twisted, she mirrored, but it was not mimicry. It was a battle. A silent war waged between motion and breath, between two creatures who did not yield.

Tell me the walls are closing in Into the fire and born again

Wednesday is struck with something she does not understand.

She knows of death. She has danced with it since childhood. But this? This is something else. This is not a dance. This is a ritual. A possession. And she is the one ensnared.

Taste the pain and drink it in.

She stepped forward.

You stepped back.

No—she would not allow it.

PLAN SIX: KISS!

Wednesday lunged, a sudden, sharp movement that brought her directly in front of you. For a moment, the two of you were impossibly close, the air thick with something electric, something raw.

She could feel your breathing, you could feel hers.

I like it when the bite marks 

Your lips were too close... almost... almost brushing...

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin.

You were gone.

Vanished into the crowd.

Wednesday stood in the wreckage of what remained. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her fingers twitched at her sides. Wednesday remained standing in the same spot long after the music had faded, her breath just slightly uneven, her pulse just slightly too fast.

She despised you. She wanted more.

No word, no parting glance. Just—gone.

She should not care.

But her feet were already moving.

She scanned the crowd. The sharpness in her stare sent some students skittering out of the way, but she ignored them. Her focus was singular. Methodical. If you were going to disappear on her, then she would simply find you herself.

The first stop was Enid because Enid had an unfortunate tendency to be in everyone’s business. If anyone had seen where you had gone, it would be her.

The werewolf was perched by the refreshment table, downing an energy drink with alarming speed.

Wednesday wasted no time.

“Where is she?” she demanded.

Enid choked mid-sip, coughing as she wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “Huh?”

“You heard me,” Wednesday snapped. “Where is Y/N?”

“I don’t know, she kinda just vanished? I was watching the whole time, and it was like one second she was there and then poof! Super ninja mode activated. It was actually kinda scary.”

Wednesday’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Well,” Enid continued, her grin shifting into something more knowing, “you could always ask around. But considering how you two were dancing, I’m pretty sure she’s off somewhere sharpening a knife and brooding about you.”

Wednesday did not dignify that with a response.

The next stop was Eugene. She found him near the entrance, “Eugene.”

He flinched. “Oh, uh, hey Wednesday.”

“Where did Y/n go?”

Eugene looked at her like she had just asked him to walk into a hornet’s nest. “Uh… do I have to answer?”

Wednesday’s gaze sharpened.

“I-I mean, I don’t know! I saw her leave after the dance but—uh—I didn’t follow! She’s… kind of terrifying?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not in a bad way! I mean, okay, kind of in a bad way. But not, like, the murder-y bad way. Well, maybe the murder-y bad way. Are you sure you even want to find her?”

“Yes.”

Eugene swallowed.

Bianca was next, and Wednesday already anticipated the headache that would come with it. She found her near the courtyard, casually leaning against a stone pillar, talking to Xavier.

"Shit, you have that face on. The ‘I’m about to interrogate someone’ face. Am I gonna get arrested again? ” Xavier said as soon as he saw Wednesday.

"Where did Y/N go?" Wednesday asked completely ignoring Xavier.

Bianca arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Wow. No hello? No please?"

Wednesday's patience, thin at the best of times, was rapidly eroding. "I do not have time for pleasantries."

Bianca smirked. "Shocker."

Wednesday simply stared, unblinking.

With a dramatic sigh, Bianca relented. "Last I saw, she was heading outside. Maybe she needed air. Not that I blame her—this place reeks of teenage desperation."

It was the most useful information she'd received yet. Without another word, Wednesday turned.

"You're welcome," Bianca called after her.

She ignored it.

She had followed Bianca’s lead, stepping outside the hall without fully understanding why she was still searching for you.

Why was she looking for you?

The question clawed at her, demanding an answer she wasn’t prepared to give. Normally, when she pried into someone’s secrets, it was with the cold precision of a scalpel, detached, methodical, unyielding. People were puzzles to be solved, mysteries to be unraveled, nothing more. She had never once cared about their comfort, their feelings, or whether she had the right to pry. The idea of restraint was laughable.

But there was something different about this.

About you.

And then there was that moment—that nearly catastrophic, almost unforgivable moment—where the space between you had shrunk to nothing. Where she had nearly—

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She would not dwell on that.

Her gaze swept over the landscape, the silver-blue light of the moon illuminating every detail, but what caught her attention was the lack of light, a void, a shadow.

It slipped just at the edges of her vision, moving toward the forest. Almost imperceptible, but Wednesday had been watching.

You.

She recognized the way you moved—too fluid, too controlled, like a predator that knew exactly when to make itself known and when to disappear. Even now, you were almost gone. If she had blinked, she would have missed it.

Wednesday inhaled sharply and moved.

Her instincts screamed at her to be careful. She had seen firsthand what happened when someone tried to sneak up on you. Xavier almost learned it the hard way.

You were fast, impossibly so, and lethal when you needed to be.

Which meant that Wednesday had to be better.

She moved with practiced precision, keeping her distance.

Your black attire blended effortlessly into the darkness. More than once, she had to pause, reassess, find you again among the trees.

And Wednesday?

She was following a monster into the abyss. The thought should have unsettled her.

It didn’t. It never did.

Instead, her chest tightened with something else. Something she refused to name.

She moved faster.

Deeper into the forest.

Then—

You stopped.

Wednesday halted instantly, slipping behind the cover of a wide oak, sharp eyes watching as you stepped into a clearing.

At the center of it lay something wrong. Some sort of summoning circle. Its symbols twisted into unnatural shapes, burned into the ground with something that shimmered like embers.

You stood at the center, utterly unbothered.

For the first time since she had met you, Wednesday felt something close to unease.

The glow of the circle intensified, the embers shifting, moving, as if alive. It painted you in crimson light, casting harsh shadows over your face, making you look like something out of a nightmare. Or perhaps, something meant to hunt nightmares.

She had known that you were dangerous. That you were more than just another student at Nevermore. That you were something other.

But this?

This was confirmation.

This was proof.

Wednesday’s heartbeat remained steady.

She should have left.

She should have walked away, returned to the safety of the school, and let you do whatever it was you did when you vanished into the night.

But she didn’t.

Because she couldn’t.

She had spent so much of her life uncovering the grotesque, the horrifying, the things that lurked in the dark. And yet, for the first time, she found herself hesitating, not out of fear, not out of uncertainty, but because something else was clawing at the edges of her mind.

A hesitation she did not understand.

The circle ignited.

A rift tore through reality itself, opening into something that should not exist, a swirling abyss of pure darkness, something alive and moving, something that watched.

And you—

You were swallowed by it.

Wednesday’s breath hitched, but her body moved before her mind could catch up.

She leapt.

Into the dark.

The ground was cold beneath her.

Damp earth pressed against her palms, the scent of moss and decay thick in the air. Wednesday inhaled slowly, her lungs adjusting to the weight of it.

Her eyes opened to absolute darkness.

For a moment, she remained still, allowing her senses to recalibrate, to process. She was lying on her side, her body stiff from the impact of the fall—if it had even been a fall. Had she fallen? Or had she simply ceased to exist for a moment before reappearing here?

She had woken in a jungle. It felt different...

The thought sent irritation curling through her chest. She had never liked being disoriented. Uncertainty was an unfamiliar, unwelcome sensation. She pushed herself up, wincing as her limbs protested, but forced herself steady. The air was thick with humidity, the scent of unfamiliar flora curling at the edges of her senses.

This wasn’t Nevermore.

This wasn’t anywhere near Nevermore.

Where are you?

Wednesday stood, brushing the dirt from her skirt. The realization settled in her chest like a slow-moving storm—she had no idea where she was.

She turned, eyes scanning the darkness, but it was too deep, too complete. The moon was absent here. No soft glow to guide her, no stars above, she couldn't even see your footsteps.

She couldn’t even be sure how long she had been unconscious.

That should have unsettled her. It didn’t. It never did. Panic was for the weak.

She would find you. She moved carefully, her fingers brushing against the rough bark of trees as she navigated blindly. How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? Time felt different here. Stretched, distorted.

And then—

A glimmer.

Faint. Just at the edges of the horizon, cutting through the trees.

Light.

Wednesday’s pace quickened, her steps deliberate but silent as she pushed through the thick foliage. The jungle began to thin, the oppressive darkness easing as she approached a clearing.

And there it was.

A house.

Not a decrepit ruin, not some abandoned structure swallowed by time, but a home.

Warm light spilled from the windows, illuminating a well-kept courtyard. The architecture was sturdy, lived-in, its exterior worn with time but undeniably occupied. The furniture on the porch, the faint glow of a lantern swaying in the breeze—it all spoke of something human.

And then—

You.

Standing just outside the house.

Wednesday froze, pressing herself against the nearest tree, her breath slowing.

What was this place?

What were you doing here?

Before she could begin to piece it together, the door creaked open.

A man stepped out.

Tall, bearded, his eyes sharp as they settled on you. Behind him, a woman lingered in the doorway, a small girl at her side.

A family.

Wednesday’s breath slowed, her fingers curling against the bark of the tree she had hidden behind.

She watched.

She waited.

And she listened.

"You are her, aren’t you?"

The man’s voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—a weight, an understanding. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anger. It was acceptance. Like a man who had spent years looking over his shoulder, only to finally turn around and see the shadow looming over him.

You did not answer.

He sighed, exhaling as if he had already made peace with what was to come. "I thought you would be older…"

The moment the words left his lips, Wednesday watched as you lifted your hand, your katana materialized in your grip. Wednesday felt her breath still in her chest.

It was happening again. That pull. That same, dark magnetism that had drawn her to you in the first place, something deeper than fascination—a warning.

"Tell your daughter to go inside," you said, your voice calm, cutting, spoken with the certainty of someone who had already seen the end of this story. "You don’t want her to see this, Kalzorran."

The man flinched. Visibly. As if the name itself had sharp edges, slicing through the years he had tried to bury it beneath.

"I left that name," he muttered, his jaw tightening. "That life. Long ago."

"Yet, you live free of consequences."

"There is no life free of consequences from him!" Kalzorran snapped, his voice suddenly raw, desperate, heavy with something dangerously close to fear. "I escaped. I earned it. We all did."

"You have lived free enough," you said. "Lived good enough. But it's time you returned to him. Keep your part of the deal."

Wednesday observed everything—the shift in his stance, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands hovered near his sides like a man prepared to either fight or plead.

“Papa?”

The girl.

Wednesday saw something shift in his face.

"Get her inside, Laura," he ordered, his voice firm but not unkind.

His wife hesitated, sadness pulling at her features. She understood. She knew what was about to happen.

But she obeyed.

Kalzorran exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face before letting out a bitter chuckle.

"You," he muttered. "You are his greatest hunter, aren’t you? Death's very emissary."

Wednesday felt her heart slow. She saw the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides, the way his throat bobbed as if he was trying to swallow something heavy.

"You alone, all by yourself… hunted so many of us," Kalzorran continued, his voice quieter now. "Killed our greatest defenders. No other hunter has done that. Ever." He let out another hollow laugh, shaking his head. "You made us all go back into hiding, living like animals again."

You said nothing.

You only stood there, katana in hand, the blade reflecting the dim light.

Kalzorran’s voice turned sharper. "So you have potential. More than any of us. More than me. And you sold your soul for it, just like we did." His gaze locked onto you, something desperate, something searching flickering behind his eyes. "For what? Power? Wealth?"

"Revenge." Your answer was immediate.

Wednesday felt her breath catch.

The word landed with the weight of a tombstone.

Kalzorran’s lips parted slightly, his expression unreadable. He let out a slow, exhausted exhale before shaking his head.

"And was it worth it?" he asked. His voice was softer now, almost... mournful. "Tell me, oh great huntress... how much of his soul, his torment did he give you for yours? Maybe a handful from his billions?"

There was no hesitation.

"Half."

Kalzorran went completely still.

For a moment, there was no sound but the distant hum of the jungle, the whisper of leaves rustling in the wind.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"...What?"

"Half." You repeated.

Wednesday watched as the color drained from the man’s face. His bravado wavered, his stance stiffened—not in preparation for a fight, but in something closer to dread.

Kalzorran staggered a step back, his breath coming out uneven. "That's not possible…" He swallowed, his expression flickering between disbelief and something far worse—recognition.

"No…" He shook his head. "No, that would mean… you…" His eyes widened. His lips parted, struggling to shape the words he didn’t want to say.

"The prophecy…" he whispered. "You… you are…"

His eyes widened and Wednesday saw fear. Not the fear of death. Not the fear of you. But the fear of what you were.

"Lucifer's chosen one…"

She only stared. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense. The pieces didn’t fit—except they did.

The shadows. The power. The way you moved, the way you hunted, the way people feared you in ways they couldn’t explain.

Lucifer.

The Devil.

You were—

"I am the Maiden of Death."

[End note: Yeah, things are gonna get real from here lol. Enid wasn't scary when she said "She’s not just like Wednesday. She’s way scarier" Comment who would win a fight Her Heartbeat's Y/n or Tmod's Y/n 😂 pookie y/n vs spooky y/n.]

taglist: @rqizzu @sevyscoven @kingoftheracoons @kingofthings2 @masterofpuppets-10 @alexkolax @ognenniyvolk @mally-ka @protozoario @machyishere @freakshow2501 @101rizzlrr @casbrawel @jinxslapdog @just-zy @gray-cheese @hellenheaven @cheerlanader @pikachooo3 @jennaswifey @thyhooligans @caffeine-pup @gayerthanmylittleponys @sabrinasgirlfren @neoeleoo @deflatedducky

[so-writing]

don't forget to water the plants (3) - Quinn Hughes

‘It’s lovely. Don’t forget to water it.’

It feels similar to a kick to the fucking gut but Quinn expects it. He knows you aren’t going to cave easily, maybe even not at all, but he has to try. You’re too important to him. He knows he’s done a shit job of making it known, but he’s got to start somewhere, right?

‘I won’t forget. Do you have any tips? Never really paid attention to plants before, what a fuck up that was.’

It’s a pathetic excuse, as flimsy as cardboard, but if it buys him a tiny bit of your attention, he’ll take it. Quinn lets out a sigh of relief because you’ve taken the time to respond to him, but on the other side of the city, you roll your eyes and scoff at his message. 

Vancouver feels like the biggest city in the world, until it doesn’t anymore. 

This isn’t what you want, and it’s the opposite of what you expected. You figured Quinn would leave easily and without commotion, hopefully moving on to the next one eager to jump into his bed.

He’s never really had any issue removing himself from anything he doesn’t want to be a part of but this isn’t that. Quinn is reaching out because he wants to. After dropping the ball for as long as he did, he’s now trying to pick it up and continue with business as usual. 

It’s fucking infuriating. 

Just when you feel like you’re ready to release Quinn and all his bullshit into the wild, here he fucking is, coming back begging to be leashed again. 

‘I have a few tips, but you’re absolutely not getting them. Are you kidding me with this shit?’

He isn’t ‘kidding you with this shit’ but he can’t help the chuckle that passes his lips. You’ve caught him, just like you always do. Quinn has always thought himself to be pretty intelligent, but he’s never been as sharp as you. It’s one of the things about you that he misses most. 

‘I’m trying here. Please talk to me.’

He regrets it as soon as he hits send because he knows, he knows, it’s going to make you go fucking nuclear. He should probably try to respond with something to fix what he’s just said but he’s scared, because he knows that will only make it worse.

What he doesn’t expect is a phone call. He answers and fully expects to be ripped apart. 

Quinn gets exactly what he expects.

Nearly twenty minutes of you yelling at him about how bad he fucked up and how entirely too late it was to change anything, and he just took it. You shouted into your phone until your voice went a little hoarse and he didn’t try to refute any of it. 

“Are you going to fucking say anything?!”

He wants to, he wants to say a lot of things but after all the yelling you’ve done, and to be fair, points you’ve made, Quinn isn’t really sure there’s anything left he can do. 

“You done yet?”

Quinn smiles a little because he knows that he’s going to set you off again. He struggles with that because he loves to fire you up and see the light in your eyes when you’re passionate about something. In the past, you’ve always been his girlfriend and (mostly) on his side, so this disdain you’re spitting at him is both brand new and entirely too familiar at the same time.

“Yes, yeah, Quinn, I’m fucking done.”

The call ends and Quinn hopes, though he knows it’s probably in vain, that you’ll send a follow up text. 

You don’t. He sleeps like shit that night, and a decent amount of nights after.

--

final part coming next week <33

part one || part two

[10byten]

where the day gets softer-

★just a fluffy moment between you and this guy you adore more than anything. ★words : 1k

Your day has been long. The kind of long that sinks into your bones, makes your limbs heavy, makes your brain static. You drop onto your bed the second you step into your room, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing and everything at once. Moving? Not an option. Thinking? Barely. You just wish you could skip ahead—to the part where you’re clean, wrapped up in blankets, and today is nothing but a blur in your memory.

Your phone buzzes. You ignore it. It buzzes again. You groan, blindly reaching for it, glancing at the screen.

Mark.

Your lips twitch into something close to a smile. Suddenly, you have the strength to lift yourself up on your elbows.

Markie - Hey, babe. You done with classes? Wanna see me for a quick kiss?

Yes. A million times yes.

Your reply is instant, desperate in the way you don’t even try to hide. The thought of seeing him makes something in your chest untangle, makes your ribs feel a little less tight. You sit up, glancing around your room, half-heartedly straightening things up. You should shower before he gets here, at least try to make yourself presentable—

The doorbell rings. Not even ten minutes later.

“Shit.”

You roll your eyes at yourself, but honestly? You’re not mad. You’re already moving, already reaching for the door, already smiling before you even open it.

And there he is.

Messy brown hair. Ridiculously pretty eyes. That smile—the one that always makes your stomach feel like it’s folding in on itself. He steps inside without a word, without hesitation, arms slipping around your waist, body fitting against yours like it was made to. A kiss on your forehead, soft, lingering.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

You exhale against his chest, sinking into him.

“Hi,” you mumble against his chest, breathing him in. Suddenly, today doesn’t feel so bad anymore.

“You got here so fast.” You pull back just enough to look at him. “Were you nearby?”

“Mhm. And I was kind of excited to see you, so I didn’t waste time.” His fingers slide through yours, effortlessly, like second nature. Leading you toward your room, toward the quiet comfort of your space. “Should I have given you more time?”

“No, it’s just—” You hesitate. “I thought I’d have time to shower before you got here. I feel gross. I wanted to look cute for you.”

His head tilts. Something amused, something fond in the way he looks at you.

“That’s an easy fix.”

Before you can ask what he means, he’s steering you toward the bathroom.

You blink. “Wait—”

“If you need a shower, let’s shower.” His voice is soft, but firm, like he’s stating the most obvious thing in the world. “I love being clean. And I love seeing you naked. This is a win for me.”

“You’re impossible—”

You don’t finish, because his lips are on yours, and your brain goes quiet.

It’s slow, unhurried, his hands moving with the kind of gentleness that makes your heart ache. He pulls your shirt over your head, unbuttons your jeans, sliding them off inch by inch. Every movement deliberate. Worshipful. And then his own clothes hit the floor, and the warmth of his skin against yours makes your breath hitch.

The water turns on.

He watches you with something close to amusement as you shiver at the warmth seeping in, presses a dozen tiny kisses across your face, like he’s mapping you out.

“So,” he murmurs, “how was your day?”

You huff, tilting your head up to look at him. “Not great. Until now.”

“On a scale of 1 to 10?”

You pretend to think about it. “Before you texted me? A 3. After your text? A 7. Once you got here? 8. In the shower? 9.”

He hums, pleased. “Excellent. That means I’m doing my job right.” Then, lower, softer—“Turn around.”

You do, closing your eyes, waiting.

For a second, his hands disappear. Your brows knit together. But then—

The scent of your body wash.

The warmth of his palms returning, slow and deliberate, moving over your skin in soft circles.

And just like that, the weight of the day dissolves.

“Mark…”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your shoulder. “Let me take care of you. It’ll feel nice.”

And it does. God, it does. You let yourself sink into it. Let yourself exist here, in this moment, where everything is warm and quiet and safe. He rinses you just as carefully, and by the time the water shuts off, you feel boneless.

Then—softness. Warmth. He’s wrapping you in a towel, his hands impossibly gentle. You grip his shoulders, barely thinking, just following. He leads you back to your room, and you let him.

You sit on the bed, half in a daze, watching as he kneels in front of you, rummages through your drawer like it’s his own. He pulls out a pair of underwear, slides it up your legs, his touch featherlight.

“I can do that myself, you know.”

“I know.” He presses a kiss to your knee. “But you need someone to take care of you tonight. Let me.”

He smooths the fabric into place, then smirks. “Though, I usually prefer taking these off of you.” A wink.

You laugh, breathless, fingers sliding into his hair.

“And now?” His voice is quieter, lower. Eyes locked onto yours.

“10/10.”

The smile he gives you is something secret, something warm, something that makes your chest ache.

He smiles, pulling you down into bed with him, tucking you against his chest. His arms wrap around you, warm and steady, and you think—this. This is the safest place in the world. You could stay like this forever, feeling his breath against your neck, letting the rest of the world fade away.

And in this moment, you know. You’ll cherish this. This little pocket of happiness, this unexpected ending to an otherwise forgettable day.

“And now?” he whispers against your ear.

You smile, eyes fluttering shut.

“20/10.”

He kisses your temple.

And just like that, you fall asleep. Wrapped in warmth, in safety, in love.

Mark will always be your safe place. And nights like this always remind you why.

“Goodnight, babe.”

Your last thought before sleep takes you is simple.

You are loved. You are cherished. You are home.

-

[lapdogchase]

and as for 6.14 private lives. i think contextualizing it as being only a few episodes after cameron leaves is important. they haven't even signed the divorce papers yet, he's still very raw from it all and trying to figure out what he did wrong (eg., when he says "it's cameron's favorite book. i don't even know what it's about," and wilson replies, "don't do that to yourself") (or as he tells her in lockdown, "i spent months wondering how i made it go bad. if you never loved me, then i didn't do anything wrong")

after the speed-dating incident with house and wilson proves to him that he's pretty (and that women can be superficial) he's clearly ruminating on it. he so quickly is like man. this means that all women ever have only cared about me for my appearance. when he asks thirteen how good looking he is he clarifies that he's asking bc the speed definition "cost [him his] definition of [him]self. and women."-- what was he defining himself by before? what is he defining himself by now? considering how heavily he leans into the 'slut' role after this and thru s7- probably that, for a while. not in as many words, but he seems to do what's expected of him and fill any role that needs to be filled and right now that role is, again, slut.

he talks to thirteen again after he asks a nurse for her car keys and she gives them to him no questions asked- he says "i've been deluding myself that I'm actually connecting with people"- he's worried every connection he's ever made in his entire life is irrelevant because of the possibility that they only cared about him for his looks. and thirteen, who smoothly brushes over a very concerning age gap between her and her ex, tells him that he can live his life assuming people all have ulterior motives if they try to get close to him or he can accept that maybe people are just nice sometimes. it's good advice that he doesn't take. he keeps ripping himself up over this and brings it up to her again at the end of the episode, and she realizes he's so upset because he thinks cameron didn't actually love him. which she gently but firmly tells him is stupid.

he gets a few episodes of buffer time between this whole, "worrying every woman he's ever cared about only wanted to sleep with him and didn't actually care about him as a person," thing- time where he and cameron talk, and they sign the divorce papers- and when he starts sleeping around.

which, i thought started in 7.03 when he leaves after work to hook up with a woman he won't see again- but it was 7.01. when thirteen's leaving and he asks if she wants to have sex with him (because "the deadline's been moved up") and then "follows up" (his words) to "confirm" (his words) her disinterest because he would "be remiss" (his words) not to. (first of all, uncertain how he's gotten this many sexual partners when him propositioning someone sounds like he's sending an email. second of all-) i never really got the impression that chase was interested in thirteen that way at all, maybe i just missed it but i saw them as entirely platonic thru all their interactions. it seems to come out of the blue and i'm choosing to read it less as a "he's had feelings for her for a while and is just now choosing to act on them" situation and more as a "semi-desperate reach for a connection with someone," or a "this is what i'm supposed to do, this is how you connect with people"- either way, it's (understandably) denied

and it's after that when he really starts to go off the rails. which definitely isnt thirteen's fault (or cameron's fault for that matter), but after that is when we see him with a new woman every episode, his colleagues are teasing him about it, patients are noticing, it's impacting his work life, in 8.12 he finds out patients know about his chronic sleeping around because the nurses gossip about him- etc etc. it takes over his life in a way that continues well into s8

fascinated and distressed by chase's disordered relationship with sexuality + his emotions abt his own trauma & abuse

thru the beginning of the show he doesn't even realize he's hot despite being objectively attractive. when he finds out he's hot he then realizes people pretend to be interested in him as a person in order to have sex with him and gets super upset about it

he starts having a bunch of meaningless sex as a coping mechanism when cameron leaves him. and also a lot of other times. whenever something bad happens, basically, he starts going out with a bunch of women, just to feel something, presumably

^to the extent where hes known within the hospital as a slut. and has had sex with an insane amount of nurses. as well as presumably women who are not at his place of work.

he says doing this made him hate himself so he stopped. it's the b-plot for an episode and then he's back having meaningless sex again by the end of the episode

even his coworkers know this about him. and have called it out, masters even says she thinks he doesn't respect women bc, in her words, he's with a different one every few days or maybe he finds comfort in meaningless relationships

goes back to having meaningless sex within weeks of getting stabbed. which is really bad for wound healing reasons too. genuinely it seems like such compulsive behavior for him considering he keeps doing it even when its objectively not only a bad idea but actively dangerous

house even directly says he's "a serial slut" because he's "terrified of intimacy." incredibly accurate assessment

his relationship with his sexuality reads so heavily as someone who thinks they're not good for anything else

see also: dissociation & avoidance

we know he has a lot of trauma especially in childhood- he never really gets into it let alone into how he Feels about it but what we know is already bad & that's just the stuff he's okay with sharing with his coworkers or patients

in general he's very avoidant of his own trauma- when he gets stabbed he says he "can't change what happened, can only make better choices from here" as if it was his own fault, and refuses thru the whole episode to acknowledge that being traumatized by this would be a really normal reaction that he is definitely having. instead he just blames himself

also, he dissociates from traumatic things that happen to him - says "there was a stabbing" rather than "i was stabbed" for instance

when he's talking abt his childhood trauma he does it in a very similar way - he talks about it very bluntly and doesn't ever get into how he actually feels about it.

see also: dr. fawn response

general passive willingness to go along with anything- when cameron says they should have sex in s3 he's surprised and then he just kinda goes along with it. not bc he didn't want to bc he obviously did, but he's just generally very much someone who does whatever other people want him to do. i feel like he and cameron both tend to seek validation thru sex in an unhealthy way that i'm still gnawing on like a dog with a bone i have to go rewatch s3 to really articulate it though

he has a sort of desperation for praise and approval especially from anyone he views as an authority figure. he does whatever authority figures tell him out of this idea that it'll bring him approval and therefore safety

like no matter what house does or says to him he doesn't argue or retaliate or anything. even when house punches him he collapses on the ground in pain and then just keeps talking about the patient like nothing happened.

the scene in 3.10 after house punches him where he's in the ddx room and house walks in and throws the file at him and chase is startled and tries to pretend he's not. and he looks up with this huge fuck ass bruise on his jaw swallows heavily and pretends not to be upset. and house asks if he got that looked at as if he wasn't the one to give it to him and chase just swallows and says he's fine. dr fawn response :(

[shyamanuensis]

i love you - m.r

third off the list is mattheo. bit of a different direction. hope you enjoy the i love you - slytherin boy series. tom and theo are already posted xo

The Hogwarts Express hums with character; with life – the steady clatter of wheels against steel tracks creating a rhythm in its sway which almost feels like a heartbeat. The scent of polished aged wood and lingering sweets from the trolley in the corridor mix in almost artistically with the faint chill that seeps mildly through the window. The window perfectly frames the endless stretches of countryside you try as best you can to appreciate and take in; evergreen bathed in a warm golden glow of late afternoon signalling the end of summer and the beginning of something new.

Within the compartment that you sit, the warmth is familiar; comfortable, even with the subtle buzz of anticipation crackling through the air from the boisterous younger years all excited for adventures of the year ahead. You stretch your legs out, shuffling across the navy cushioned seat, head resting against the window as eagerly yet in silence you watch the sky shift from gold to the looms of dusty pink, deep purples and royal blues.

Mattheo sits across from you – legs now stretched out that your friends had left to catch up with others – his foot casually nudging yours for some playful attention. His dark curls are messy from the wind gusting along the platform earlier and his tie hangs loosely around his neck with a carelessness you’ve fondly become use to. Friends since first year – now something more in seventh, you notice the way he watches you with that amused smirk you’ve grown to recognise oh so well.

“You’ve been staring out that window for hours”, he breaks the silence, propping his chin up in his hand. He raises a brow, glancing out the window for a few seconds before turning his attention back to you curiously. “Already plotting how to ditch me first thing this year?”

You snort, an unlady like chuckle escaping your lips as you shift on your seat, your knee brushing his. “Oh absolutely Riddle. I’m thinking of requesting a last minute transfer to Beauxbatons.”

He scoffs, shaking his head in response. “Terrible idea love. I’d have to chase you halfway across the continent for a kiss.”

Without realising, your lips curve into the smallest of smiles; the banter back and forth between you both as easy as breathing. Fortunately, this had always been your dynamic – sharp words softened by something deeper; something that neither of you acknowledged, agreed upon, felt compelled to tap into until a fateful night involving firewhiskey and a game of truth or dare which consumed you both a few months ago. That was when the friendship transitioned and shifted into something more.

As casually as he can, Mattheo leans back, arms stretched out across the top of the seat, his fingers idly tapping a familiar rhythm you’re not exactly sure the name of but have heard before against the plush upholstery. His dark eyes linger on you; more thoughtful now than earlier. “You nervous about this year?”

You hesitate, but only for a second before shrugging. “I guess a little”, you admit in a murmur, “..feels different. Our last year here. It’s like everything has just passed in the blink of an eye you know? Like everything might or is about to change.”

He hums in agreement. The tune matching that of his rhythmic tapping. His foot nudges yours again but a little more deliberately this time. Two of your friends walk by the compartment, almost about to step in before the damning look Mattheo shoots them sends them walking away.

“Perhaps, yeah – but not all change is bad.”

The both of you fall into a beat of silence. The pause is charged electrically as it lands between you. before you have a chance to think much of it, Mattheo reaches forward, his fingers brushing against the back of your hand as he gets up and moves across to sit beside you. Eventually, his fingers lace with yours. It’s not the first time he’s done this, but nonetheless, it still sends a warmth across your skin which curls comfortably deep within your chest.

“You know..”, he drawls quietly; his thumb now tracing tiny circles over your knuckles. His free hand coming up to brush some hair clear back from your face. “I spent all summer thinking about this...”

Turning to face him, you tilt your head to study his expression and smirk. “Thinking about what?”

Mattheo huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe that he’s about to relay the words and thoughts running around chaotically inside his head.

“You know – us. You. How we got to where we are.” His grip at your hand tightens slightly as his voice begins to lose its usually teasing edge. “Never really been one for grand speeches or public admissions but --- … I love you.”

You bite your tongue not to just blabber something back, but your cheeks begin to flutter scarlet and your lips tug into a smirk. A smirk that would rival the amused one Mattheo wears himself oh so well. As the words begin to settle between you – warm and certain, for a moment all you can bring yourself to do is stare at him. What feels like out of nowhere – your heartbeat thuds like crazy in your ears. Squeezing his hand back, you let your fingers tighten around his own as you close the tiny gap left between you.

“You know..”, you begin your response the same way he had started his confession just before, “ – you could have just said something instead of spending all summer brooding. I was starting to think that perhaps something was wrong.”

He lets out a laugh, his grin immediate to return but this time it’s softer – almost vulnerable.

“Yeah – well. You love me anyway, right?”

Biting your lip before smiling, you nod; eyes glittering with smitten mischief. “Mhmm, you’re right. I do.”

Mattheo’s expression shifts from exposed to something almost triumphant which flickers behind his gaze. He leans in close, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before moving down to skim across your jaw. “Good. Knew it.”

As the train rumbles on, nearing its final stop you remember that there’s a future waiting for you both you can’t begin to comprehend, but right now – in the small space of the compartment; with Mattheo’s fingers tangled tenderly with yours, everything feels as if it is exactly as it should be.

[edamameimei]

Perhaps, Even This —chapter 39

A year ago, you were known as your friend group’s “sunshine.” You were able to light up a whole room with your energy and everyone could rely on you for your quick wit and easy humor. You lived life simply one day at a time. However, seemingly out of nowhere, that all changes. Now a Junior in university, you find it extremely difficult to do all the things you used to do. Especially being the Resident Assistant for the Geffen Dorms. New residents begin to move in and one them is a girl you could only describe as “radiant." Her name is Megan Skiendiel, and at first, you don’t welcome the positivity but as you two continue to meet and hang out, you find yourself becoming the person you used to be. Will you be able to be that person you were a year ago? Or will everything just stay the same?

39. yn n friends

half written (wc: 867)

Jen, Soobin, and Yeonjun squeeze together sitting down on your bed. They watch as you pace the room, your head down in silence as you try to think of the words to say. Talking about your feelings was always hard, but this was a lot more to unpack than anticipated. Finally, you stop, facing your friends with a distressed look on your face. 

“I’m scared of getting hurt again.” 

The moment the words leave your mouth, you begin to feel sick. Tears brim your eyes and you shake your head, willing yourself to continue, “So, I thought, if I pushed everyone away then my life would be so much easier.” You laugh, looking up at your ceiling because you can feel the tears streaming down your face. Your friends all look at you, waiting for you to finish. They sit patiently and for once, you know that they’re here because they care. You tell yourself, I’m not a burden. You convince yourself, they don’t think I’m weak. You look at them with a pained expression on your face. You whisper, “But It’s just really fucking hard right now without you guys.”

You look down at your shoes, fidgeting at the hem of your shirt at an attempt to find control over your emotions. Your voice cracks as you speak, “It’s really hard without Megan and I- I messed up so bad,” You wipe your eyes and sigh helplessly, running a hand through hair, “What do I do?” It’s almost inaudible, but they hear you loud and clear. Soobin reaches out to you first, grabbing your arm and immediately pulling you into his arms. Suddenly, you feel everyone’s arms around you as you finally allow yourself to cry freely. They rub your back, soothing you comfortingly. They allow you to cry knowing you had it pent up for months.

After a few minutes, your cries finally subside, now sniffling quietly. You pull away from your friends, your eyes swollen and red from crying for so long. Jen reaches out, her hands cupping your cheeks. She wipes the remaining tears from your eyes and looks at you, worried. She whispers the question that has been asked of you so many times before. And this time, you know you can’t turn away from it.

 “What happened last spring, Y/n?” 

Yeonjun wraps his arms around your neck, resting his chin on your shoulder. He murmurs quietly, “Take your time.” You nod, looking down at your lap. You take a sharp breath, bracing yourself. “Yeji… She hurt me a lot more than I led on…” You close your eyes tightly, shaking your head as if you were trying to rid yourself of the memories that swim around in your head. “She was so awful. She didn’t just hurt me emotionally… She also- She- fuck.” You choke up, covering your mouth when the words don’t seem to leave your lips. But your friends knew exactly what you were trying to say. And they were furious.  

Yeonjun’s arms tighten around you. You can feel his anger rising as you continue opening up, taking another deep breath to recollect yourself. “She was always so mean. She would say all these awful things. But she somehow convinced me it was because she loved me– I’m so fucking stupid.” Tears brim your eyes once more and you cover your face with your hands in an attempt to shield how vulnerable you are. But Jen grabs your hands, pulling them into your lap. She squeezes them tightly, tilting her head to look at you softly. She furrows her brows. “Y/n… You’re not stupid. This was never your fault–” 

You cut her off, your voice breaking as you speak loudly, “This is all my fault! I hurt everyone! I hurt Megan, I hurt you guys, and I’m the reason why Yujin is still with Wonyoung…” You look at Jen, pain in your expression as you continue, “I never told anyone that it was Wonyoung… The person Yeji cheated on me with.” Her eyes widen at your admission. You start crying again, looking down at your lap in shame. You felt terrible for never saying anything. It’s as if your friends read your thoughts because they hug you again, holding you tightly. You hear Soobin whisper, “This was never your fault.” His words sit with you as you clutch onto Jen’s shirt. You take another deep breath before shakily responding, “What do I do now?” 

There’s silence in the room. No one one knows how to respond. They all just hold you, letting your words settle amongst everyone. Yeonjun runs his hands through your hair and looks at the others with a determined look in his eyes. He looks back down at you, grabbing your shoulders to force you to look at him. He leans in close to you, his eyes staring into yours. 

“You're not gonna fix this, Y/n,” He cups your cheeks, his brows furrowing with sincerity in his eyes, “We're gonna fix this,” He continues with a small smile on his face. His next words light something in you, as if you were brought to life again.

“We’re gonna do this together.”

a/n: omg what they finna doooooo (i know exactly what happens next LMAO)

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✧.* taglist is open ✧.*

[kinardsevan]

i'm coming home to you (every night)

(I have a very firm theory on where 816 will go and ofc had to write it.)

Evan wakes up in the hospital, still on a ventilator. He’s already attempting to vocalize, trying to tell anyone available to listen about the god-awful nightmare he’s just woken up from. He’d thought his first coma dream had been bad after the lightning strike, but somehow, it couldn’t even compare to the version of events he’s just woken from. A world without Bobby in his first coma dream had been terrible, but somehow, the idea of a world in which he was able to have Bobby and then lost him after the cartel had set fire to his home feels even worse. 

He tries to make noise again, his brow furrowing at the vibration of the tube in his throat irritating him enough to fill him with at least half a dozen questions. 

“Fuck, you’re awake.” 

Evan’s gaze trails up as he looks next to him where the voice had come from and sees Tommy. His eyes soften at the pilot. For the two times he’s now seen Tommy look devastated, there’s something entirely different about the way he looks today. Maybe it’s the fear, but the redness around his eyes makes it clear that he hasn’t been doing well. The bags beneath them suggest he hasn’t been sleeping either, and Evan wants to ask questions about that as well, but his current predicament is preventing that. 

Tommy brushes the back of his fingers over the side of Evan’s cheek, and the younger man leans into it, lifting his hand up to Tommy’s and interlacing their fingers. 

He doesn’t remember everything from the last time he was awake, but he’s pretty clear on the last thing Tommy said to him.

“I need to get the doctor,” Tommy tells him, sniffling. More tears are coming down his face, but the small smile on his face suggests that they’re probably of relief. Evan squeezes his fingers tighter and his smile grows a bit. “I know, baby. I’ll be right back. Stay awake for me, okay?” 

Evan nods, letting go of Tommy’s hand. The pilot crosses the room and opens the door, only to return a few seconds later, tailed by a physician, Maddie, and Chimney. 

“Thank God,” Maddie states tearfully. She’s wearing a mask and gloves, which is mildly concerning to Evan, but her bump is a quick reminder to the fact that she’s pregnant and it’s not just her at risk of any room she enters. 

He points at her as he looks up at the doctor, his brow furrowed in confusion. 

“We’re just taking extra precautions,” Chimney explains. 

“There’s no reason to assume that you’re still contagious,” Tommy adds. 

The physician that accompanied into them into the room does a quick check of Evan’s vitals and the various machines he’s attached to before opening his chart on the tablet in his hands. 

“You’re doing much better than you have been, Mr. Buckley,” the man explains. “Your oxygen saturation was pretty low when you came in, and we’re working on weaning you off the ventilator as your sats have continued to rise back up. We should have it out in the next day or so.” 

Evan nods at the man before his attention is back on Tommy and Maddie. When she reaches the side of his bed, he rests his hand over her stomach, feeling the firm pressure of his nephew’s kicking. His fever dream nightmare hadn’t just had Bobby dying in the housefire. It was also a version of the world where the woman who kidnapped Maddie got away with her actions due to Athena’s inability to deal with losing Bobby. 

“How’s his fever,” Maddie asks as the doctor runs the temporal thermometer across his forehead. It takes a few seconds, but the machine beeps and he lifts it. 

“Still hovering just under 102, but it’s a marked improvement even from earlier today,” the man answers. 

“But the half-life of the virus-..” 

“Was about twenty-four hours,” he answers her. “He stopped being contagious before he got here.” 

Maddie, Tommy, and Chimney all nod at the doctor’s explanation, and he turns back toward his tablet. He makes notes in it and then promises to have regular check-ins before leaving the room. Tommy settles into the chair beside him while Maddie squeezes the hand still resting over her stomach lightly. 

“We were worried about you,” she tells Evan. He looks up at her with sad eyes, wanting to tell her that she shouldn’t worry—that it’s not good for the baby—but he knows it wouldn’t do any good. 

Evan turns his head toward Tommy and then looks back at his sister, using his free hand to point at the pilot. Maddie snorts. 

“I tried. He refused to leave,” she comments. Evan looks back at the pilot, scowling at him. 

“Evan, you literally passed out in my arms,” Tommy tells him, his voice gruff. “I wasn’t-….I couldn’t.” 

There are so many responses to the end of that statement that he knows the pilot isn’t saying. Couldn’t leave you behind. Couldn’t be without you. Couldn’t let ‘I love you’ be the last thing said between us. 

He lifts his free hand to Tommy’s cheek, staring up at him as the pilot looks back at him. He brushes his thumb against Tommy’s lips, vaguely aware of the fact that their helipad kiss could’ve put the pilot at risk after he’d spent an entire day trying to survive hijackers with a live virus in his helicopter. All of Athena’s work could’ve been for nothing. 

The pilot stares back at him, his eyes shiny with tears unshed—maybe tears he’s too exhausted to give at this point—but there’s a knowing between the two of them as Evan stares at him. Tommy turns his head and kisses Evan’s palm as the younger man blinks wearily at him, clearly starting to fight keeping his eyes open. 

“Baby you’re out of the woods, but you’re still very sick,” the pilot murmurs as he leans forward toward the bed, resting his arms on the edge of it. “Please rest.” Evan’s thumb moves against his cheek as he stares back at the pilot, only having his gaze to communicate begging the other man to do the same. Tommy just smiles wearily at him. 

Eventually, Evan’s eyes slip shut, and they don’t open again. 

“Buckaroo, you need to stay calm,” Athena says from beside him as they wait by the elevator to the helipad. “Raising your heart rate is only going to make the infection spread faster.” 

He knows that. He’s well aware of the fact that whatever these people managed to smuggle out of CalTech’s labs and somehow infect him with on a timeline; that if he’s not careful, he could expire before Tommy and Bobby bring the antidote to save him. 

Still, Tommy and Bobby risked their lives to get this antidote. They’re still risking their lives by trying to stop those involved from creating a full-on outbreak of another pandemic, and he just… he needs Tommy to know. 

The helicopter grows closer—close enough that he can practically feel the whipping from the rotor blades in his bones as it lowers down, until the helicopter is finally down on the helipad, and then the machine is whirring down as Tommy turns it off. 

When he and Bobby finally emerge from the bird, all bets are off. He takes off in their direction, and by the time he and Tommy reach each other in the middle, the pilot’s arms are already ready for him, quickly wrapping around him as Evan’s go tight around his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into Tommy’s neck. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I never meant it.” 

“I know,” Tommy murmurs into his ear, holding him closely. “I’m sorry, too. I should’ve stayed, both times. I should’ve-..” 

“I love you,” Evan says, leaning back enough to look at Tommy as he cradles the pilot’s head in his hands. “I love you so much. I’ve loved you for so long now, I just-..” 

“I know,” Tommy tells him, brushing a hand down his face. “I love you too, baby.” His gaze skates down Evan’s face and then back up to his eyes. “But baby, you’re so warm. We need to get you inside.” 

“I know,” Evan answers, feeling the bone-tired weariness in his bones as the words leave his mouth. “I just- I needed to tell you. I needed you to know.” 

Tommy nods quickly, still staring down at him. “I do. I do know.” Evan pulls him into a kiss, and the pilot doesn’t stop him, kissing him back, though they both keep their mouths closed. When they part, Tommy’s eyes are on him again. “I’ve loved you since that first night in your kitchen. I’ve- Evan. Evan?!” 

. . . . .

He wakes up coughing. Monitors beep out-of-sync, loud and erratically as people funnel into the room. He’s still only half-awake and his vision is blurry at best as doctors talk to him. It all happens so quickly that one minute he’s choking, and the next, the breathing tube is out as he sucks down gulps of air as an oxygen mask is fitted over his face. 

There’s more talking, and then doctors are leaving the room, and he finally becomes aware of his surroundings again as Tommy perches on the edge of the bed, looking down at him as his fingers brush across Evan’s cheek. He looks as though he’s gotten some sleep as well, if his eyes are anything to go by, although Evan doesn’t think that the chair beside his bed is the best option. 

He takes a few seconds to remember the feeling of saliva in his mouth, inhaling and exhaling in deep breaths still as he looks up at Tommy. 

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he rasps when he finds his words. 

“What do you mean,” Tommy asks, still staring down at him. 

“Could’ve killed you,” Evan answers, bringing his hand up against Tommy’s on his cheek. “The infection-..” 

“Had run its course by the time we saw each other again,” Tommy answers. “I was fine.” 

“Are you sure?” Evan asks. 

Tommy nods. 

“I had a nightmare fever dream,” Evan states. “Bobby died in the fire. We broke up sooner and Gerrard still ended up at the 118 again. Eddie still left. Maddie died.” 

Tommy frowns at him. “That sounds awful.” 

“It was,” Evan murmurs. “Bobby-..” 

“Bobby’s taking some vacation days right now, but he’s been up here keeping vigil,” Tommy tells him. “He worries a lot about you.” There’s a wistful smile on his face, and Evan can’t help but be reminded of their conversation a year ago when Tommy had mentioned the jealousy of their relationship. 

“I’m glad you weren’t alone,” Evan tells him. Tommy’s gaze flits back up to his eyes and he shakes his head as a small laugh escapes him. 

“I wasn’t. There wasn’t a single moment I was here alone,” he states. If anything, I was reminded that it’s not just your crew.” 

The corner of Evan’s mouth pulls up at his words. 

“Our crew,” he murmurs back. 

“Always around when things go wrong,” Tommy adds. Evan nods. “Especially when things go wrong.” 

The younger man closes his eyes briefly, and Tommy’s fingers brush through his hair in a way he usually only does after sex, and it always puts Evan to sleep. He huffs after a minute and opens his eyes.

“Don’t wanna sleep right now,” he murmurs. “Wanna…wanna know what’s next.” 

Tommy inhales a breath, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Well, first you get better, and then you go home and get better some more.” 

“And then,” Evan asks. 

“And then we take it a day at a time,” Tommy replies. “We lay it all out on the table, and see where that takes us.” 

Evan nods. He closes his eyes again and focuses on breathing for another minute. When he speaks again, his eyes are still closed. 

“Said I didn’t know what I was ready for last year,” he murmurs. “But I do know now, and I still think that it could be with you, if you’re willing.” 

He opens his eyes, feels them getting heavy again, but he’s determined to see Tommy when the pilot answers. 

The older man smiles down at him, his fingers brushing through Evan’s curls again. 

“I’m more than interested,” he responds softly. “But for now I just want you to focus on getting better. Think you can do that for me?” 

Evan nods, lets his eyes slide shut again. He turns into Tommy’s hand once more, sighing softly when the pilot rests it against his cheek again. 

“I love you, Tommy,” he says, hardly above a whisper. 

Light fades around him, and then warm lips press into his temple. 

“I love you too, Evan Buckley,” Tommy whispers next to his ear. “So much more than I ever thought possible.” 

[vmlnrzmp4]

shidou ryusei — an oath to never break up.

you don't look like you could defend yourself. you've heard it many times. from this shidou guy mostly. but you can. you really can. not in the martial arts class though. you're the weakest one there. 

often times during practice, shidou peaks through the door, bursting into laughter everytime he sees your ass getting kicked. and then he also laughs about it after school as he walks behind you. he keeps getting on your nerves. he really does. 

but he's adorable in a way. he's more innocent than you imagine. if you exclude those questionable things he says and does. like now, he looked really really adorable while looking at the strawberry-flavoured lollipops. 

you thought your laugh wouldn't be heard but his ears instantly perked up to that sound. "what?" he looked at you all confused.

"just noticed something."

"noticed what?" he questions.

"you pick pink colored snacks, or just anything. it's all pink."

"so?" he raised his eyebrow. oh now he looked offended. "just because im a boy, i can't like pink? is that what you're saying?"

"i never said that." you quickly get defensive.

you don't even know why he follows you. he doesn't either. maybe simply because he likes chasing. he's too persistent for his own good. 

after paying for whatever junk food you bought even after your sensei strictly told not to, both walk out with calorieful bags. while you and him fuss about who gets to carry the bags, your eyes fall on a certain person. and you call shidou's name to make him pay attention. 

"this guy again—" shidou cracks his knuckles, ready to throw punches but you stop him. as you tell him that multiple times, finally ending up pulling him away. "shidou, that guy is danger. im serious, don't try to fight him."

many factors including the fact that you consumed too much junk food is the reason why you're stopped at the end of your marital arts class. you had to own it up. you had to take every harsh insult your sensei threw at you. 

while shidou waited for you outside your class. ready to laugh at you as you walk out. and when you did, he started with those playfully mocking words as he pinned you to the wall. but you. you just hugged him. and let few tears spill. 

shidou was given a detention for trying to roundhouse kick the sensei. and you were too for whatever reason. in the classroom of only you and him, the silence never was found since you kept nagging at him. 

"what were you thinking trying to kick sensei!?"

"that's a really good question." 

you didn't feel like matching up to his energy. you never did honestly. but this time you told him you needed to be alone. so he didn't walk with you after school. shidou went to the convenient store out of boredom. buying the strawberry flavoured pocky cause he had it planned. besides, he's not used to walking alone. he's fast, he probably could run up and reach behind you. 

shidou walks out of the store, re-counting the change he got, shoving the coins in his pocket. but his eyes fell on that thug who's found everyday outside the convenient store. so he takes one coin, and throws it hard enough so that it sticks onto the thug's forehead. 

the time must be fucking with shidou cause how the hell did that man suddenly appear so close, ready to punch shidou. but that never happened cause the punch was taken by your forearm. and tears prick your eyes as you let out a little ouchie.

"OUCHIE???"

"run you idiot!" you say as you quickly grabbed shidou's wrist and started sprinting as fast as you could. soon it became shidou grabbing your wrist as he ran, dragging you. 

"i take back what i said. your defence is awesome, and your reflexes too."

"yeah not the time! a thug is running after us!"

"now is the time. i kinda feel bad but when you hugged me and cried, i got hard."

"ryusei what!?"

"nevermind, how about this...i think i like you. well, i used to. but now im sure i like you."

"ewwww!"

"don't ew my feelings man! not cool!"

"can you just—"

pant. pant. pant. 

after that thug was finally out of sight, both of you sat by the bus stop, panting so damn heavily.

"i really meant it. don't think i confessed just cause i got lost in the moment."

"i know." 

"..."

"..."

"so we're datin—"

"yes."

"really—?"

"shut up."

"...just to be on the safe side, let's make an oath to never break up."

taglist: @anyaminz @luciddre @kongkhoi @illyriakrasniqi2007 @passw-0-rd @x3nafix @levihanmyotp @vellichorira @sapph1r3x @tamashithe2nd @p1z-d0n7jud6em3 [open]

[lil-bitty-lubdubs]

The Basement Series:Septima pt.1

OK SO IM RESTARTING MY BASEMENT SERIES. IM DETERMINED TO FINISH IT. IVE HAD SOME IDEAS FLOATING AROUND MY HEAD FOR LIKE 3 OR 4 YEARS NOW. SO ILL REPOST THE OG WRITINGS AND THEN HOPEFULLY CONTINUE ON WITH THE NEW ADDITIONS. PLEASE ENJOY AND LIKE AND COMMENT. REBLOGS REALLY HELP TOO.

Always remember my stuff is dark cardio and resus!

~~~

She awoke slowly, the world coming into her consciousness at snail speeds. Her brain felt heavy as if cotton was stuffed into its membranes. Her vision foggy though every light about her shimmered too bright for her to directly look at. Her strength was sapped, too weak to even raise her head up off the floor…

            Table. It’s a table… or bed,  she told herself. She was too far up for it to be the floor. Where is this? It was a dark room. Windowless. High celling. A basement. She tried to remember. Glove. A black glove covering her mouth. She remembered as fractured pieces of her past her coming into her consciousness. Rag. The glove was holding a soaked cloth. The stench- awful. Then darkness took her.

oh shit! She tried to panic but her heart was slow. Abnormally slow though steady. She turned her head to look around. There was bright earth blinding lights above her but the rest of the room was in shadow. It was a dark, dank place with no windows, no soul. It was the kind of place Bundonians would go to pay homage.

            “Oh God…” she crooned softly to herself, but someone heard.

            “Ah! You’re awake darling.” A man’s voice startled her though her heart only elevated slightly.

It was as if her heart was carrying a wide load behind it reacting too little too late, but the longer she was awake the more the weight was lifting. “Good. I’m glad to see those eyes.” His shadow appeared approaching from the left. That’s when she noticed it. The heart monitor just next to her bedside. She peered at the lines moving and shifting on its screen. She was confused a moment. Then she saw the wires attached to it. She traced them with her eyes from the machine straight to their source. Her chest. She realized she was unclothed save a thin white sheet covering her nudity. Her awakening heart picked up its beat, fear setting in. “What the hell…?”

            “I see you’re beginning to understand the fun we’re going to have together.” The man’s voice was cheerful, calm, and slick as a snake’s skin. He was out of the shadows now. He was not very tall though a bit heavyset, but muscular probably around 35. Brunet. He wore a white lab coat like a doctor would on a bad TV show. He took her wrist gently, pressing in to feel her pulse.

            “What?” She asked. “What do you mean? What the hell are you talking about? “Who are you?” she spoke each phrase louder than the next until she was yelling. “You’re crazy. You’re insane! Let me go!” she whimpered trying to get her other hand out from under the sheet.

            “Oh but you will see …uh…”he looked at a plastic ID card…”Septima is it darling? I’m Cal. Dr. Cal if you will. We’re about to embark on a journey, you and I, and have so much fun along the way. He reached down under the sheet and slid a hand between her legs as she wiggled. “Mmm. Wet.” His eyes glistened lust.

            “Nooo!” she let out a scream. “Don’t you touch me!!” she yelled as loud as she could. He remained unphased. Taking his hand out as he yanked off the sheet uncovering her completely.

            “No!” She screamed again, feeling exposed and vulnerable. This is not going to end well.

            “Now, now, its alright.” He murmured and patted her hand locking his whole palm over her wrist while pulling her arm well above her head, holding it down.

            “Let me go!” She railed. “Stop. Let me GO!” she thrashed weakly.

            The doctor used his free hand to turn a nozzle and a sizzle was birthed into the air. An oxygen mask descended towards her face.

            Septima willed her heart into overdrive and flailed one handed even harder. She tried bringing her legs up to kick him but found they were already strapped to the table. She held her breath as he fixed the mask over her head and attached it with the elastic straps holding it in place with his hand as she tried to claw at it. In the pool she had a 4 minute breath hold. She could probably hold out for 2-3 now with all the energy she was exerting.

            Clearly the doctor was surprised how long she could hold it and began to feel impatient. Perhaps even angry. Good.

            “No. No. No darling Breathe. You need to breathe in Septima.” he urged. She refused.

He turned and grabbed a toilet plunger looking thing with his free hand as he locked her other arm together with the one above her head. He settled the contraption right in the middle of her abdomen, just underneath the ribs. “Breathe in. Breathe in. BREATHE!” He willed her, but she stubbornly held out.

            By now her heart was thudding in her chest right up against her sternum. She could feel the urge to breathe rise up, but it didn’t overwhelm her. Yet. He held out a moment longer giving her a chance to comply before thrusting his weight behind the plunger. It riveted a shock wave of air from deep within her chest all the way up her esophagus. It resulted in what sounded like a grunt as air left her lungs. A significant amount of air, but she refused to take a breath. He thrust again. More air leaked out of her. “Come now darling.” he said through gritted teeth. Yep. He’s angry. That strengthened her resolve. Maybe he’d run out of gas soon. He thrust 3 more times in quick succession though these weren’t as forceful as the first 2. But now, her lungs were empty. The burning in her chest grew every second. Spots danced before her eyes.

She needed to breathe. She had to. AIR. It was all that mattered. She gave up the fight and inhaled. A pure deep, clean lungful of cold oxygen tainted with sweet tasting gas. Relief flooded her chest, her eyes rolled back. She took another shallow breath. Her head already spinning.  But she was still intent on resisting further.  Clearly he knew what she was thinking because he leaned into the plunger contraption again. The breath left her inflated lungs. Too soon!  she screamed inside. She breathed in deeply again mouth open, desperate for air, her resolve failing.

One more time he thrust. By now she was barely conscious though still aware, lungs automatically filling in half bursts. Her body just stopped responding. Her precious heart slowed its rate again. Abnormally slow. It was calm and steady no matter how much she wanted it to kick into gear.

What the hell did he give me? she wondered. “Wrraanmrg…” was all that escaped her mouth.

“Yes. That’s it darling. That’s it. Give in to it! That a good girl. Gooood. That��s right. Take a deep breathe. Just give in. Good girl! Yes darling, that’s it! Breathe! Just breathe in.” he crooned into her ear, one hand sliding right between her breasts to feel the surge of her chest rise and fall.  She was no longer in control and she was losing consciousness. She yielded herself to him, no longer caring as his two fingers nestled into her carotid pulse.

[belliexpog]

The Flour Fight-B.E

Synopsis: Billie is a nightmare in the kitchen, which is because you do the cooking while Billie watches and tries to help. But one afternoon you try to change that by trying to teach the girl how to make her favorite dessert

Pair: B.E×F!Reader

Warnings: none.

Words: 4,2k

Style: Fanfic | Imagine | Headcanons

Credits: @cafekitsune

If there's one thing Billie doesn't know how to do, it's cook. She is a nightmare in the kitchen, putting too much salt in her food, or confusing black pepper with cinnamon, or simply burning her food. So, obviously you are the one cooking in that house, with a little soul behind you always watching you.

But not today. Today, you would teach Billie how to make her favorite dessert: your cookies. You mentally prepared yourself for disaster in the kitchen, but this was going better than usual.

"Okay, so now that the dough has rested and stretched, we're going to get a clean board...Get the white one please." Billie silently nodded and opened a drawer, taking out a light wooden board and placing it on the counter.

"What now?" Billie asks anxiously, looking at you. You smiled and placed the bag of flour in front of her.

"Let's put a little flour on the tray, so that when we take the tray out of the oven the cookies don't stick to the tray. Do you understand?" You explain, slowly and delicately placing the flour on the board.

Billie goes silent, no longer paying attention to what you were saying, but to you. You turn to look at her, and smile.

"You're staring."

"Sorry, I was trying to figure out how someone so annoying can be so hot." She replied, approaching with her smug smile.

You looked at her in disbelief, which made Billie's smile grow even wider. You slowly nodded and smiled mischievously.

"You know what else is annoying?" You ask, turning to face her with a mischievous smile.

"No...Tell me" Billie murmurs, placing a hand on your waist and squeezing lightly.

Without breaking eye contact, you reach into the bag of flour, grab a handful, and—before Billie can react—poof! You toss it right in her face.

She freezes. White powder covers her nose, cheeks, and hair. She blinks, completely stunned.

"You," you say sweetly, grinning.

Billie lets out a dramatic gasp, stepping back in shock. "You did not just do that."

"Oh, but I did. See, now you have white roots, it's almost completely rainbow in your hair."

Billie looks at you, still static - mouth half open and body still - and you laugh at the girl's figure.

"Okay, stay there while I-" You gasp, as you feel the white powder hit your face.

You hear Billie's shuddering laugh, and take a deep breath before grabbing another piece of flour and throwing it at the girl's face, shutting her up.

And that's how the kitchen quickly became full of flour, the two of you fighting with your faces and clothes covered in flour.

Until Billie, trying to attack you again, ended up slipping on the flour on the floor and fell on her butt, starting to laugh. Your laughter mingles, and you reach out a hand to help Billie to stand up.

"My ass hurts, fuck..." The girl complains, rubbing her tailbone. You let out another laugh, gently running your hand over her face, taking some of the flour.

"It's your fault. You're going to clean this all up!" You exclaim, feeling the girl's arms around your waist again.

"Oh, shut up!" The girl leans in, pressing her lips to yours. You grab the girl's face, returning the kiss, but when you feel a taste of flour, you pull away and shiver at the bad taste.

"You taste like flour, ew"

Billie gasps, hand over her heart. “Are you saying I taste bad? Wow. I’m wounded.”

You laugh, wiping some flour off your lips. “Yeah, well, you do. I think I just kissed a sack of raw dough.”

“Oh, that’s it.” Billie’s eyes narrow mischievously, and before you can react, she swipes her flour-covered fingers right across your lips.

“There,” she says smugly. “Now we both taste bad. Kiss me again.”

You scrunch your nose, swatting her hand away. “Absolutely not.”

She pouts dramatically, but you shake your head and turn back to the counter. “No more flour fights. We still need to make these cookies, and if we don’t finish them, I’m not letting you eat a single one.”

Billie gasps like you just told her the worst news of her life. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Groaning, she reluctantly helps you, though not without causing more trouble. She keeps bumping into you “accidentally,” wrapping her arms around your waist while you’re rolling out the dough, and stealing cookie dough when she thinks you’re not looking.

And so your afternoon passed, in which you cooked, and Billie once again distracted you or just watched.

you ask, i do.

hope you liked it babies

xoxo

[dinnersyummy]

2/14 part 2 (Megumi x reader)

Cw: use of y/n, slightly ooc, a tad bit of yuji x reader if you squint hard enough, fluff, not proof read, dont think there's anymore? If so, lmk!!

wc: 1k

a/n: you guys are rlly nice!! Please do request stuff!! I do have a list of fandoms im in soo dont be afraid to hmu! Fucking Boyfriend by Birds and the Bee was some of the inspo for this fic ;)

Link to part 1: 2/14

—----------------------

It had been almost a month since Megumi brutally rejected you. Most of you is over him but a small part of you is gnawing away at you because maybe just maybe there was a sliver of a chance that he might have changed his mind. But for the most part, how could you forgive him? You were nothing to him, he hated everything about,  and your “pitiful” attempts at trying to reach out. On the other hand, Yuji was a stable pillar in your life. During your lowest times he was there, Yuji’s always been there for you. Especially once he heard about what happened between you and Megumi. He's been at your every beck and call. Something that had seemed like the end of the world for you, he had managed to turn it into something wholesome. 

—----------------------

It had been 3 weeks and 4 days since Megumi rejected you. The feelings he had tried so hard to suppress had started bubbling up again mixed with a side of regret and guilt. How could he explain this and apologize to you? He was a coward. He ran away from his feelings thinking it was something time could easily fix. He was a fool, maybe it wasn't too late to apologize, nothing but wishful thinking. He had seen the way Yuji was getting closer to you. The way you laughed carefree, lingering touches, and happier than with Yuji then you’ve ever been with him. Maybe it really was for the better but he couldn’t help but fume with jealousy. There was always a pit in the bottom of Megumi's stomach telling him to interfere between you and Yuji but he never did. What could he do? He's already been an asshole enough towards you, and now he had the audacity to pry you away from your own friend? Yeah no. Megumi's sister had been egging him on to go apologize to you, yet he never budged. He didn't believe he would undo what's been done. But yet again, he doesn't even wanna ask for forgiveness, he just wants to let you know he fucked up. He makes up his mind, he’ll apologize. 

—---------------------

Megumi had the guts to text you to meet him after all he's done and said to you, Yuji told you not to go but you had the heart to hear him out. It was a warm winter day. You leaned against a tree waiting for him. You heard a familiar voice cough behind you. Ah, you haven't seen him in a bit. 

“Y/n..I wanted to apologize. Please know that I didn't come here for forgiveness nor a second chance. I know that I fucked up big time. Everything I said that day was nothing but a lie, it was me being a coward and running from my feelings that I now know I can't hide from. I tried so hard to suppress what I was feeling, I tried so hard to push you away. I tried everything to make you hate me but you never did.” Megumi takes a deep breath in and out before picking up again. You were in disbelief, how were you meant to digest that all? Should you forgive him or not? All this was weighing on you. “You were like that of a pillar grounding me, the warm sun shining down upon me on a cold winter morning, your smile radiating like no other. I felt bad for you, you could do so much better than me. I’m helpless, but yet you're so patient with me. You're my calm after the storm. I’m a fool, an idiot, an asshole, I know. Call me anything you want, I deserve it. I’m not the one you want, but you're the one I want.” Megumi's gaze was on the ground, he was nervously fidgeting around with his fingers. You didn't know what to say. Your heart clenched at the sigh of Megumi drowning in self loathe. You cleared your throat and spoke up, “Megumi, thank you. Thank you for apologizing. Though I'm not sure if I’m ready to forgive you just yet. I can't put that year of ignorance and coldness behind me. But I wanna try again from here on. I believe we can become something beautiful, genuine, Megumi. So please if you're willing to put in the effort, I’m willing to do the same.” He looked at you, his gaze was warm; loving at that. His breath was shaky and his tone needy. “Please Y/N, I’ll do anything it takes.” His hand found its way to yours, you suddenly realized how close he was. “Anything?’ You murmur. Megumi replied with a soft “Yes.” And with that you closed the gap between you two, leaving a soft peck on his lips behind. You pulled away, looking into his eyes as he was pulling his collar up to hide his red cheeks though the tips of ears were giving him away. You smiled at him gingerly and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze and he did the same back. You quickly turned on your heel ready to move somewhere more secluded, “Wait!” Megumi stammered. He pulled you in for another kiss but this one was passionate, tender, and deep. You were taken aback by his boldness. You brought Megumi in for a hug. “I love you” You mumbled against his chest, “Love you too..” He whispered only for your ears to hear. And with that, new memories had started to blossom. 

[plaidpajamallama]

Road trip: RHEA RIPLEY X JEY USO X DAMIAN PRIEST

———————————————————————————

Warnings: hand jobs car sex hand jobs in the car threesome? Maybe it’s three people together cussing DomSub undertones Dom Rhea Dom Damian Sub Jey

———————————————————————————

Summary: Jey Rhea and Damian are headed to TV but Jey gets hungry and starts complaining a little which Rhea and Damian decide to shut him up for a while

Inspired my @acute-crashout-jeyuso

_________________________________________________

Jey was sitting in the passenger seat. Damian was driving, and Rhea was lounging in the back seat.

They were driving up to Georgia for Raw this week; they had been on the road for a couple of hours. The hard metal music of Rhea’s playlist blasted throughout the car as they drove down the highway.

Yo, do we have any more snacks back there? He asked, making Damian smile and shake his head.

Rhea laughed. No, we’re all out, baby.

He groaned dramatically. Ugh! When’s the next truck stop? He said, looking at Damian.

Aren’t you the navigator? He chuckled.

Right, right, my bad. Because he grabbed his phone out of the cup holder.

Maybe you should look for something else other than a truck stop so you can get full. Rhea said, leaning forward against the back of his seat.

Yeah, we should probably eat something better than just gas station junk.

The next diner is a damn hour away. I don’t know if I can wait that long; I’m hungry.

She stole a glance at Damian, who gave her a slight nod.

A smirk came across her face as she leaned forward more now on the edge of her seat.

Baby, you've been complaining a lot lately, right? She looked at Damian.

Yeah, he has more than normal, even.

Ha, thanks, uce, he retorted.

Jey immediately realized what she was up to and tried to protest but was quickly shut up.

Shh, baby, relax. She brought her arms around, letting them rest against his chest. Damian didn’t care, baby, she mumbled against his ear. She heard his breath hitch.

He looked over at the man driving, eyes focused on the road, paying no mind to them.

Rheas hands roamed across his chest as she started to kiss and bite his neck, pulling small groans out of him.

Her left hand slowly found its way down, stopping at the waistband of his sweats that were growing tighter as she continued.

He nodded silently, giving her consent to go on, giving one final glance at Damian before his head fell back, hitting the headrest.

She wrapped her hand around his length, his eyes fluttering shut as she started to move her hand up and down.

He shifted down in his seat, biting his lip to fight the sounds that were trying to come out.

Her other hand reached up into his hair, giving it a tug, making him groan, Shit! He whispered.

Don’t hide your pretty moans, baby, she said, rubbing her thumb against his sensitive tip.

He moaned, gripping the middle console. Fuck Mami.

Ahh, there you go, baby boy. Let me hear you here.

Breath was hot on his neck. Let Damian hear you, she whispered, her voice filled with lust.

Fuck His legs were shaking; his mind was clouded as she rapidly stoked him, more moans escaping him as he white-knuckled the console.

He felt another hand touch him, a stronger one grabbing his knees.

She felt him tense up under her, Damian clearly feeling it too and looking at her as he was about to pull away. Jey relaxed, almost leaning into his touch.

He felt a shiver up his spine as Damian's hand moved up his thigh.

He was a whining mess, his body trembling, only broken words coming out of his mouth.

She loved watching him break from her, giving in and letting her take over and take care of him.

He let out a low whine, feeling his hand brush against his clothed cock.

Fuck, that feels good, he moaned.

Do you want to feel more? Damian asked, rubbing his thigh, brushing against him again, sending waves of pleasure through his body.

Ugh, shit! He threw his head back harder into the headrest, all his senses becoming overwhelming as a warmth started to sizzle up his spine.

Baby, lift up a bit for me. He didn’t need to be told twice and lifted her up, whimpering as her hand left him.

She pulled his sweats down his thighs along with his boxers, letting his dick hit his stomach.

He hissed, feeling the cool leather against the back of his thighs as he sat back down.

She reclaimed her spot on his neck, her fangs scraping his skin.

Damn, he forgot she had those. He leaned his head more to the side, giving her more room; her hands quickly found their way under his shirt, making themselves busy.

Uce, come on, I don’t bite, he smirked, his voice husky, aching for someone to touch him again.

He let out a loud moan as Damian's hand wrapped around him.

His hand was big. Rhea’s hand never could wrap all the way around him, but Damian could, fingertips to palm.

He gasped, which turned into a moan at the cold metal of his rings.

Ahh, fucking hell! He gripped the console again as Damian began to move his hand rapidly, giving him no time to adjust to the new feeling.

God, you're so hot, baby, she mumbled, grabbing his pec and making him groan. Such a pretty boy, isn’t that right, Priest?

Oh yeah, it’s a surprise I haven’t crashed the car from how much noise he is making.

Oh, he loves to make noise, doesn’t he, baby boy? She took one of his nipples between her thumb and pointer finger, pinching it.

He let out a pathetic moan that echoed through the car, bucking up into Damian’s hand; pre-cum rolled down his tip onto his hand, acting as a lube.

His body started to tremble, his legs shaking. I’m… I’m…. I’m close. Mami

Don’t tell me, baby; tell Papi. She whispered loudly into his ear, her tongue running against it.

He was gripping the middle console so hard he thought he was going to break it.

Please, please, he begged, bucking into his hand again. Come on, Mami.

I’m not the one who can give you what you want, baby; he is….so tell Papi how bad you want it.

He groaned, throwing his head back. Please, please, Pa—please, Papi—Oh shit! Right there, Papi! That feels so good! Yeah, right there, SHIT!

He was breathing heavily as he came down from his high, Damian's hand and part of his own thighs covered in his cum. Rhea's hand is still under his shirt, rubbing his chest.

Your stop is on the next exit on the right.

He let out a breathless chuckle at the cars. Siri breaking the silence

Are you good, baby? Rhea asked, kissing his cheek.

Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Just catching my breath, Mama.

Rips, did we get some napkins or something back there?

Yeah, one sec, she moved away from Jey grabbed a pack of wet wipes from her bag.

She grabbed Damian's hand, bringing it to her mouth and licking Jey's cum off it, making both the men groan.

She smiled, handing him the wet wipes. I would clean you off too, but I can’t reach all the way up there.

Damian shook his head. I can’t wait till we get to our hotel.

Meeither, Papi. She leaned forward on the middle console. Hey, are you down for some more fun?

He looked between the two, a grimace appearing on his face. Hell yeah, I’m always down, Mami, and I guess now Papi, huh?

_________________________________________________

I was bored and decided to write a little something for these three because I love them 🖤

[wannabanauthor]

Is it wrong that I want Buck and Tommy to fight some more? Not in a bad anti-ship way, but in a messy ass romcom/drama way.

Little snips at each other. Rolling their eyes. Ignoring each other. Little quips. Talking loud when the other is around so they’re forced to acknowledge each others’ existence.

Or even better, talking to someone else in a lecture way but wording it so that it applies to their ex while also standing near their ex.

And then 118 and 217 watching it all go down like a tennis match.

Even better yet, both crews get called to a scene and Tommy ends up flirting with a cute guy right in front of Buck, and he uses his talent for targeted flirting to really up the ante.

And Chimney still remembers the basketball incident, so he swoops in and steers the cute guy elsewhere because Buck is about to blow a gasket and probably tackle the guy.

Maybe Buck even tries to apologize for what he said in the kitchen the morning after they hooked up, but Tommy plays it off like it didn’t actually hurt him. He just says “noted” but doesn’t continue the conversation. He walks away because he doesn’t trust Buck enough to be vulnerable around him again.

And Buck being Buck doesn’t know what else to do to try and mend things with Tommy. He tries to get more advice from the FireFam, but they put up a boundary “Buck, he’s your ex, not ours. We’ve done all we can to help you, but this time you’re going to have to figure it out yourself. You two dated for six months, and if you don’t know how to fix things with him by now, maybe this is just your lesson to learn. Tommy’s a great guy. He can find someone else easily. If you want to be with him, you’re going to have to put in some real effort that comes from your own brain and heart.”

Buck is not happy with that response and storms off, but later realizes that they were right.

And meanwhile Tommy is getting chewed about by his own crew:

“He was practically begging you to talk to him and fix things. He’s trying, and you refused to even give him an inch.” Cue Tommy smirk because he’s given Buck more than just one inch if you know what I mean.

It earns him a smack to the back of his head.

Back to the lecture: “We know he hurt you, but considering all you two went through, he was right to snap at you out of frustration. You held back when he thought you were being honest. You blindsided him with the Eddie accusation and dismissed his own feelings and Eddie’s sexuality, not cool. You can keep playing aloof to hurt him, but at some point he’s going to give up and walk away for good. If that’s what you want, keep at it. But if it’s not, talk it out life the adults you are.”

Essentially both crews end their speeches/lectures with “You guys were so happy together, and even when you fight, there’s this sunshine aura that surrounds you two. You both have just hit a major pothole in an old rickety car. It’s a total loss, and you need to salvage what you can to find a better and safer car.” (Yes, I’m talking in car insurance terms, but it works here).

They take some alone time to figure out what they want, then Tommy finally reaches out to talk.