#the abyss is -- swallowed up by the abyss in that way

[misaerabl]

Fading Lines ; p2

“Even the lines that fade… we’ll redraw them. No matter how far apart we are.”

part two of In Between The Lines - m.list

SUMMARY: The quiet calm of Ellie's return to the facility is disrupted by buried emotions that resurface unexpectedly. As the two of you navigate your growing bond, the weight of her past and the secrets she carries come to light. Old wounds and new fears threaten to pull you apart, but amidst it all, Ellie begins to dream of a future—a future you might share. However, just when you think things might be turning a corner, the truth of her next step comes crashing in, leaving you both to grapple with the fear of losing each other again. WARNINGS: majority set in a mental health facility, mentions of SH, mental illnesses, mentally ill characters, mentions of drugs/drug use, mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts A/N: i fucking hate writers block

The silence in the waking world is heavy, almost suffocating, but it’s in your dreams where the true weight of it all settles. Every night, Ellie comes to you—not in the way you want, but in a way you fear.

You find yourself standing on a beach, the sky a canvas of soft blues and the sea stretching endlessly before you. Ellie is there, with her hair rippling in the breeze, the kind of freedom you’ve always wished for her. Her laughter is soft, carried by the wind, and for a moment, it feels like everything is okay. Like the world is still whole.

But then, the water shifts. It churns with an unsettling intensity, rising higher and higher, swallowing the shoreline, pulling Ellie closer. You reach out, your hands trembling, but the distance between you grows, the sand slipping through your fingers like time itself. You call her name, but it’s lost in the roar of the waves, and Ellie is pulled under—vanishing into the dark abyss.

You wake, heart pounding, sweat beading on your forehead, the taste of salt on your lips. The silence of your room is deafening. You feel it—that sinking in your chest, the terror of losing her. It’s as if she’s drowning, not in the water, but in the space between you. In the brokenness of what once was.

The dreams don’t stop. They come again and again, relentless, the haunting image of Ellie slipping further away. Every night, you try to save her, but you’re always too late.

The line between sleep and wakefulness blurs, and you’re left wondering if you can ever reach her—if you can ever pull her from the depths of whatever’s pulling her under.

You finally see her again.

It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind where the light filters through the windows in soft, golden beams, casting long shadows across the floor. You’re walking through the facility, the usual hum of conversations and footsteps in the hallway almost drowned by the sound of your pulse in your ears. And then, as if the universe itself has breathed life into the air, you spot her.

Ellie.

She’s in her usual spot, her sketchbook open, a pencil moving effortlessly across the page. The way she sits—head slightly tilted, brows furrowed in concentration—feels so familiar, so untouched by time, like she never left. Her hair, though shorter now, still catches the light, and her fingers curl around the pencil with the same grace they always had.

For a heartbeat, you stand frozen, caught in the tangled mess of emotions you’ve been carrying since her absence. The anger. The guilt. The fear. And yet, beneath it all, there’s a relief—an overwhelming, undeniable relief—that she’s here. That she’s alive.

Without thinking, your feet move before your mind can catch up. You rush to her, heart hammering in your chest.

“Ellie,” you breathe, and it’s like the air leaves your lungs all at once.

She looks up, her eyes meeting yours. For a second, there’s a flicker of recognition, something behind her gaze that softens, like she’s not sure whether to pull away or pull you closer.

But before either of you can say another word, you don’t hesitate. You wrap your arms around her, feeling the warmth of her body, the reality of her presence. It’s as if you’re holding onto a piece of yourself you thought you lost.

Ellie’s stiff at first, unsure of the touch, but then she sighs, her body melting against yours, and for the briefest of moments, everything feels right. Like the world outside doesn’t exist. Like the brokenness you both endured is no longer between you.

“I thought I lost you,” you whisper into her hair, voice trembling.

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. But when she finally speaks, it’s so quiet, so raw, that it feels like a confession.

“I’m still here.”

There’s something different about her now. Something that doesn’t sit right with you, even as you hold her in your arms, feeling her warmth seep into your skin. She’s calm. Too calm. The fire, the defiance, the rebellious spark that once danced in her eyes—those things are gone. Instead, her gaze is steady, the corners of her lips slightly curved in a way that feels… almost resigned.

She’s drawing again. Birds. Like she always used to. The way her pencil moves across the page is effortless, but there’s a stillness to it now, a carefulness that wasn’t there before. Birds have always been her escape, her refuge, something she’d sketch endlessly, as if drawing them could hold together the fragile pieces of herself. You’ve always loved the way her hand flew across the paper, how the birds took shape—wild and free, the wings outstretched, almost as if they could take her with them. But this time, it feels different. There’s no urgency to it, no passion in the strokes. It’s like she’s going through the motions, as if the act of drawing is just that—an act.

You want to ask. You want to say something. You want to pull her back into the chaos that you both shared—the laughter, the fights, the messiness of it all. You want to know why she’s so quiet, why she’s acting like everything is okay, as if the days of heartbreak and confusion never existed. But instead, you just watch. You sit beside her, the silence wrapping around you both, thick and heavy.

Is she fine?

She hasn’t looked at you like she used to, not with that vulnerability or the unspoken weight of everything she’s been through. There’s a calmness now, a sort of peace that feels artificial. You trace the edge of her hand with your finger, but she doesn’t react. It’s like she’s somewhere else, in a place you can’t reach, her mind somewhere distant, unreachable.

“Ellie…” you murmur, trying to catch her attention, but she just keeps drawing. The birds are endless, a never-ending series of lines and shapes, like she’s lost in them.

“Are you okay?” The words are barely a whisper, as if speaking them too loudly will shatter the fragile peace between you two.

She finally pauses, her pencil lingering in midair, as if she’s considering the question. Then she looks at you, her eyes different now—calm, yet unreadable. She’s fine. That’s what she says, and you want to believe her. You want to wrap your arms around her and make it all better, but there’s a hollow ache in your chest that says it’s not that simple.

She’s fine.

But is she really?

The question lingers in the space between you, unanswered. It doesn’t matter. Because when she finally speaks again, her voice is steady, distant.

“I’m fine. I’m here.”

But in her eyes, there’s something you can’t ignore. Something that says, maybe, she’s not really here at all. Maybe she’s already slipped away—one step at a time—into a place that you can’t follow.

And you’re left wondering if that’s the Ellie you know now. The one who’s still here, but not really here at all.

Throughout the next few days, you keep doing everything you can think of to help Ellie feel just a little better. You bring her snacks, try to crack a joke or two, and do anything to break through that calm wall she’s built around herself. But nothing seems to stick. She’s still there, distant, lost in her own quiet world.

Today, though, you’ve got something new. You’ve been practicing drawing—well, trying to. You know you’re not an artist, but you’ve got an idea in your head, and you just have to show it to her. With a nervous breath, you grab a piece of paper, quickly sketch something, and then, feeling a little ridiculous, you roll it up and hide it behind your back.

You find her in the usual spot by the window, where she’s sitting, staring out at nothing in particular. Her pencil’s in her hand, moving in slow, deliberate strokes. When you approach, you try to keep it casual, but your pulse picks up with the little hope you have.

"Hey," you say, a little too loudly, holding the paper behind you like it’s some big reveal. "Got something for you."

Ellie glances up, raising an eyebrow. "What is it this time?" she asks, her voice soft but a little curious.

You hold the paper up and, with a dramatic flourish, unroll it. "Well, I’m not an artist," you start, looking at her with an exaggerated frown, "but I thought I'd give it a shot."

You show her the drawing. It’s not much, but it’s definitely her—sitting at the window, hair falling messily over her face, pencil in hand, and looking… a little ridiculous.

She stares at it for a few long seconds, her lips twitching, clearly holding back a laugh. You can already feel the weight of her gaze, and you brace yourself for the judgment.

Finally, she breaks, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Okay, first off," she says, leaning in to get a closer look, "what’s going on with my hair? It looks like a bird’s nest."

You squint at the drawing, and she’s right. The wild curls are exaggerated into what looks like a messy explosion of lines on her head. "I tried," you admit, laughing. "You’re always drawing birds, so I thought I’d give your hair some wings."

Ellie snorts, then stifles it with a hand over her mouth, looking at you with an almost mischievous smile. "And what’s with the eyes?" She gestures to the drawing, where her eyes are comically huge, like a cartoon character. "I look like I’m going to hypnotize someone with these. Are you trying to give me a superpower?"

You laugh, rubbing the back of your neck awkwardly. "Well, maybe you have superhuman vision. You know, like a hawk or something." You grin, hoping she’ll take it as the joke it was meant to be.

She raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Yeah, right. And what’s with my pose? Do I always look like I’m about to fall off the chair? I look like a confused flamingo."

You chuckle and shrug. "I mean, you're always sitting in that one spot like it’s your throne. I just… tried to capture your majestic pose."

Ellie stares at the drawing for a moment longer, her lips twitching again, but this time, it’s less about holding back a laugh and more about something else—something softer. Then, without warning, she lets out a soft giggle, one that feels genuine and warm. It’s the first laugh you’ve heard from her in what feels like forever.

"You know," she says, her tone quieter, "this is really bad… but in the best way possible. Thanks, I think. I needed that."

You smile, relieved that she’s actually laughing. "Yeah, well," you tease, "maybe I’ll take a class or two. You never know. Maybe I’ll become the next Picasso."

She shakes her head, but her smile doesn’t fade. "Sure, sure," she says, still chuckling softly. "Just try not to give me any more superpowers next time, okay?"

"Deal," you say, grinning. "But you have to admit, I’ve captured your grace. You are, after all, the majestic, possibly-hypnotic flamingo of the facility."

Ellie looks at the drawing again, and her smile softens. “I never thought I’d see myself like this,” she says, almost to herself, “but it’s kinda nice.”

You glance at her, catching the vulnerability in her voice. The teasing joke lingers in the air, but there’s something deeper between the lines now—something real, something that’s been missing. The tension has lifted, and for the first time in a while, Ellie looks… okay. Maybe not completely whole, but at least she’s laughing again.

And that’s enough for now.

That night, the dream returns, as it always does.

You’re on the beach again. The air feels warm, the golden sun stretching its light across the horizon, and Ellie is standing there, her auburn hair swaying in the breeze. She turns to you with that familiar, easy smile, the one that used to feel like a promise that everything could be okay.

It’s always the same at first—Ellie calling your name, her voice soft and light as the waves lap gently at the shore. You walk toward her, the sand cool beneath your feet, and when you reach her, your hands meet. Her fingers are warm, grounding.

But then the shift comes, just like it always does.

The sea grows restless, waves rising higher and higher, their deep, rumbling growl swallowing the sound of her laughter. The sky darkens, storm clouds rolling in to smother the sun. Ellie’s smile fades, her expression twisting into fear as the tide pulls at her feet.

“No!” you shout, your voice muffled by the roar of the waves. You reach for her, but the ocean surges forward, rushing around your ankles, pulling her away.

Ellie stumbles, her hand slipping from yours. The connection—the one thing that mattered most—breaks. She’s swept back, her body lost in the violent pull of the water.

“Ellie!” you scream, thrashing against the tide, but the ocean is relentless. Her auburn hair vanishes beneath the surface, and the storm rages on.

Then, silence.

You wake with a gasp, your chest heaving, the echo of her name still trembling on your lips. The room is dark, the shadows unmoving, but the pounding of your heart is deafening.

This dream—it’s not the first time. It’s been haunting you since Ellie’s return, pulling you under night after night. No matter how much you tell yourself it’s just a dream, it feels too close, too real.

Every time it ends the same way: Ellie slipping away, lost to something you can’t control. The dread sits heavy in your chest, and you run your hands through your hair, whispering her name into the quiet.

You can’t keep waking up like this. You need to find a way to reach her, to understand the depths of what’s pulling her under before the dream becomes reality.

The garden is quiet that afternoon, a sanctuary of stillness broken only by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant hum of conversation from the facility’s common area. You find Ellie sitting under her favorite tree, her sketchbook lying forgotten on the grass beside her. She’s staring at the horizon, her knees drawn up to her chest, and the sunlight filters through the branches, casting dappled shadows over her face.

You approach cautiously, the weight of unspoken questions hanging between you like a fragile thread. When she hears your footsteps, Ellie glances up, her eyes meeting yours. There’s something in them—an old ache, softened by time but still present, like a bruise that hasn’t quite healed.

“Hey,” you say softly, sitting down beside her.

“Hey,” she murmurs back, her voice quiet, almost distant.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You watch as her fingers trace absent patterns in the grass, her gaze fixed somewhere far away. Then, unable to hold it in any longer, you break the silence.

“Ellie,” you begin, your voice gentle but steady. “I need to know… what happened. The day after—” You pause, your cheeks warming at the memory of your first kiss. “That day.”

Ellie flinches slightly, her shoulders tensing. For a moment, you think she’s going to deflect, to brush you off like she’s done so many times before. But then she exhales a shaky breath and turns to you, her eyes shimmering with unspoken truths.

“It wasn’t the kiss,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Not directly.”

You nod, encouraging her to continue.

She hesitates, her fingers clutching the fabric of her jeans. “The kiss… it was beautiful. You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope. Like maybe there was a future I could want. But—” Her voice cracks slightly, and she looks away, her jaw tightening. “That same day, I got a letter.”

Your brow furrows. “A letter?”

“From my mom’s family,” she explains, her tone bitter yet resigned. “I hadn’t heard from them in years. And then, out of nowhere, they sent this… reminder. About how I didn’t belong. About how they didn’t want me.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy and raw, each one cutting deeper than the last.

“It was like everything hit me at once,” Ellie continues, her voice trembling. “The kiss, the letter… it stirred up everything I’ve been trying to push down. The pain, the anger, the feeling that no matter what I do, I’ll always be…” She stops, biting her lip, her eyes glistening with tears she refuses to shed. “Unwanted.”

You feel your heart break for her, the weight of her confession settling like a stone in your chest. “Ellie,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re not unwanted. Not to me. Not to anyone who truly knows you.”

She shakes her head, a sad smile tugging at her lips. “You don’t get it. That day, it wasn’t about you. It was me—everything inside me felt like it was collapsing. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. And I didn’t know how to ask for help.”

Her honesty is both heartbreaking and healing. For the first time, you see the full scope of her battle—not just with the world around her, but with the wounds she carries inside.

You reach for her hand, your fingers curling around hers. “You don’t have to go through this alone anymore,” you whisper. “I’m here, Ellie. I’ll always be here.”

She looks at you then, really looks at you, and for the first time, you see the faintest glimmer of something other than sadness in her eyes. Hope.

The air between you softens after Ellie’s confession, like a weight has been lifted, even if just a little. The two of you sit in silence for a while under the tree, her hand still in yours. It feels fragile, this moment, like a piece of glass that could shatter if either of you moved too quickly.

Eventually, Ellie lets out a small sigh and leans back against the trunk, her head tilted to the sky. “You’re going to get tired of me someday,” she says, her voice light but laced with a self-deprecating edge.

You shake your head immediately. “Not a chance.”

She gives you a skeptical look but doesn’t argue. Instead, she reaches for her sketchbook, brushing off some loose grass before opening it to a blank page. “Alright, let’s test that theory.”

“What do you mean?”

Ellie smirks, the faintest glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “I’m going to draw us. In the future. Let’s see how long you can stand me once I sketch you as an old lady.”

You laugh, the sound breaking through the lingering tension like sunlight through clouds. “Fine. But only if you give me the same treatment.”

“Deal,” she says, already setting to work.

As her pencil glides across the page, you watch the way her brows furrow in concentration, her tongue peeking out at the corner of her mouth. It’s so achingly familiar and so Ellie that you feel your chest tighten with something close to affection.

After a few minutes, she holds up the sketch. It’s a surprisingly detailed drawing of the two of you sitting on a porch, surrounded by lush greenery and a few potted plants. You’re both older, wrinkles creasing your faces, but there’s an undeniable warmth in the way she’s captured your smiles.

“And, of course,” she adds with a grin, “we’ve got a couple of dogs. Big ones. Like, the kind that take up the whole couch.”

You tilt your head, inspecting the drawing. “Okay, but why do I look like I’m about to fall off the porch?”

“Because you probably are,” she teases. “You’ll still be clumsy, and I’ll still have to save you from yourself.”

You snort. “Fine, but I’m drawing you now. Let’s see how you like it.”

Ellie leans back, arms crossed, a playful smirk on her face. “This should be good.”

You grab her pencil and make a valiant attempt, but after a few strokes, it’s clear you haven’t improved since your last effort. The result is a cartoonish version of Ellie, her features exaggerated and uneven, with a giant dog looming behind her like something out of a comic strip.

Ellie bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, is that supposed to be me? Why do I look like I just got hit by a bus?”

“Hey!” you protest, holding the sketch protectively against your chest. “It’s abstract.”

“It’s a disaster,” she counters, still laughing.

But then, as her laughter dies down, she looks at you with something softer, something deeper. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she says, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world narrows down to just the two of you.

The conversation shifts naturally, flowing into bigger dreams. Ellie starts to talk about places she wants to see, things she wants to do—things she never let herself believe she could have. “Maybe one day we’ll travel,” she says, her voice tinged with wonder. “Somewhere with mountains. Or maybe the beach, like in your dreams. Except, you know, without the drowning part.”

You smile, your heart swelling at the hope in her words. “And then we’ll come back to our little porch, with our dogs and our plants. And we’ll grow old together.”

Ellie hesitates for a moment before saying, quietly but firmly, “And get married.”

It’s the first time she’s spoken about the future with such certainty, such hope. And you can’t help but cling to it, holding the vision of a life together close to your heart.

It’s a normal day—or at least, it feels like it should be. You walk down the hallway, the usual sounds of people talking, footsteps echoing against the walls. It feels routine, almost comforting. Everything is as it always has been. Until you turn the corner and see her.

Ellie.

She’s standing by the door, but something’s off. She’s not sitting at her usual spot near the window or sketching away in her book. Instead, she’s holding a bag, her back turned to you as she speaks with her adoptive father, Joel. His voice is low, but the worry in his eyes is impossible to ignore. His expression changes when he notices you walking toward them, and for the first time, you realize something is wrong.

Ellie’s shoulders are tense, her eyes darting nervously as she looks between you and Joel. Her grip on her bag tightens, and your stomach drops.

You stop dead in your tracks, the reality sinking in. Your heart skips a beat. “Ellie… what’s going on?”

Ellie freezes, her eyes locking with yours. You see it then—the bags under her eyes, the way her lips press into a thin line. It’s not just that something’s off; she’s leaving.

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat. The air is suddenly thick, suffocating. Your breath hitches, and you feel like you’ve been knocked off balance.

Joel looks at Ellie with a heavy, almost apologetic expression. He opens his mouth to say something but then turns his gaze to you, offering nothing but the truth. “She’s being transferred. To a different facility. One that’s more equipped to help her,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

Ellie doesn’t say anything. She just stands there, her hand still clutching her bag like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

You feel a cold rush of panic. “You’re leaving?” The words come out of you before you can stop them, and you hate how weak they sound. You’re afraid. Afraid of what this means.

Ellie’s expression cracks, the walls she’s built around herself crumbling for just a moment. She opens her mouth, but no words come out at first. She finally speaks, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

You’re rooted to the spot, heart racing as the reality of her departure presses in. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The hurt in your voice is unmistakable.

“I thought… I thought it would be easier this way.” Ellie’s voice falters, and she looks down, not able to meet your gaze. “I didn’t want to make you feel like you were losing me again.”

The pain of those words hits you harder than anything. It’s not the fact that she’s leaving; it’s the fact that she’s been hiding it from you. It feels like a betrayal, and your chest aches with the weight of it.

Ellie steps forward then, hesitating before pulling you into a hug. You hold her tightly, not wanting to let go. The scent of her, the warmth of her body, it’s all fading too quickly. You’re both too close and too far apart at the same time.

“I’ll be okay,” she whispers against your shoulder, though neither of you believe it.

“I don’t want you to go,” you murmur, gripping her even tighter.

“I’ll be back,” she promises softly, though her voice cracks. “We’ll figure this out. I’ll come back. I swear.”

But the uncertainty in her voice echoes in your mind as she pulls away.

And just like that, she’s gone.

The door swings shut behind her.

The days blur into one another, each one a shadow of the last. You wake up, breathe in the quiet of your room, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like Ellie’s still there, like the world hasn’t shifted beneath your feet. But then reality crashes in, as sharp and cold as the space where her laughter used to fill the air.

You move through the motions, your heart still half asleep, still holding onto the dream of her, of the way she once was. The dreams have returned, the same ones that haunt you: Ellie standing on the beach, her auburn hair tangled in the wind, her eyes meeting yours with that same smile that made the world feel endless. But then, the waves rise, violent and unrelenting, and she’s pulled under, slipping away from your grasp. Every time you wake, the sense of drowning stays with you, heavier than before.

One afternoon, when the sky seems to bleed into dusk, you sit in the garden, the same garden where you and Ellie once talked about the future as if it were already written in the stars. The world is quieter now, the hum of life somehow muffled, as if the earth itself is holding its breath. You pull out the sketchbook she gave you, the one filled with her art—moments frozen in time, stories she told in lines and shades.

You run your fingers over the pages, each one a lifeline to her, but the last one, the last page, is a void. An empty space where there should have been something—a message, a sketch, a promise.

You close the book, pressing it against your chest, and close your eyes, letting the tears slip quietly down your face. The wind stirs around you, and for just a moment, you hear her laugh in the rustling of the leaves. It’s a sound you’ll never forget, but it’s fading. Like the lines in a drawing, the edges slowly blurring until you can no longer make out what it was.

You’ve always feared that one day, the lines between you would fade completely. That she would slip away, like the last fleeting star in the early morning sky, swallowed by the coming light. And yet, here you are, still holding onto her, still searching for something solid in the ever-shifting tides of time.

You stand, the weight of the sketchbook heavy in your hands, and walk to the door. The breeze catches your hair, and for a brief second, you swear you feel her beside you. You whisper into the wind, not sure if it’s meant for her or for yourself, “Even the lines that fade… we’ll redraw them. No matter how far apart we are.”

And as you stand there, in the quiet of the garden, you realize that some lines never truly disappear. They may blur, they may fade into the distance, but they remain, like a quiet promise in the night.

Because love—like the stars, like the dreams that haunt you—never truly fades. Even when it feels like everything is slipping away, there’s always something left behind. And you will wait. You will wait for the day when those lines are redrawn, when Ellie finds her way back to you, just like you’re finding your way back to her in every waking moment.

! in between the lines masterlist

[thedailyvio]

Day 246

[elegyofthemoon]

me rewatching fena is half ooo daydream inspo and half "i want the ph reboot so bad" its giving me vidual ideas of how id like ph to be but itll never happen so i have to sit in a corner and cry instead

[dromaeotrash]

.

[marxism-lelouchism]

honestly i really loved the concept of the pale in disco elysium. there’s a two millimeter hole in reality, the nothingness it produced swallowed most of the earth and is still expanding, prolonged exposure to it makes people lose their minds…to me it is an excellent metaphor for how it feels trying to properly grasp the full scale of the depravity of the modern capitalist world

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Part 2/2

By the time Stanley had realized he wasn't as alone as he believed himself to be entrapped in this ravenous abyss; he had honestly begun to suspect that he was finally starting to properly lose his mind.

In all the ceaseless miles that Stanley had journeyed during his apparent permanent residence within the dark devouring void, not once had he encountered another conscious, walking, talking being similar to himself. Every other formerly living creature that he had crossed paths with had been so... silent. Empty. Dead, in every sense of the word. It was as though the very essence of life itself had been sucked out of their bodies with a straw, their forms slowly falling apart piece by piece under the vicious gluttony of the darkness that surrounded them. They looked like they actually were supposed to be there, unmoving and comatose, unlike him.

So, when Stanley first began to encounter the twins, all of a sudden, he wasn't the only one in the dark.

When meeting the first pair of them, he found himself standing in a lake.

He hadn't even noticed the changes at first. It felt as though he had been walking for weeks on end, his body moving purely on autopilot and his aching legs leading him towards a destination only it knew. A thick fog of forgetfulness and flickering memories had descended upon his brain like a heavy blanket of numbing static as he had traveled. In this absentminded state, he hadn't even realized that the ever-present undulating, buzzing darkness surrounding him had begun to gradually shift and morph to form a horizon line; stretching into tall looming cliffsides that almost seemed to close in on him. Once the nonexistent floor beneath his soles abruptly began to ripple and warp, like the disturbed surface of a shallow puddle; only then did he finally notice his transformed environment.

The transition was seamless, almost dream-like. One moment, he was still surrounded by that filthy, overwhelming abyss; and the next, his boots were suddenly plunged deep into the cold, dark lake water.

The silence didn't leave, however. It still choked and stuffed its way into Stanley's ears to clog up his mind with thick cotton; the eerie quiet not quite matching the calm, almost serene scenery the void seemed to have abruptly transformed itself into. Like a movie with its sound cut off; leaving only the unsettling hum of the projector to fill the empty air.

It was odd. The lake was surely incredibly deep. He could obviously tell from how thin and pathetically small the shores appeared all the way from where he now unceremoniously stood in the middle of the lake. Stan could look down and see the darkness below his feet swallow what meager light that managed to break through the murky waters. The overwhelming black almost seemed to beckon him, gaping and haunting; a bottomless underwater pit of pitch black that never seemed to end.

And yet, he didn't sink. Stanley remained perfectly level, the almost ink like waters stopping just at ankle level, as though he were held up just above the surface by some invisible force. Even the writhing waves seemed small and low, as though the waters were shy to climb up his legs further than that. It was odd, so very odd.

However, it wasn't nowhere near as odd as the sight that greeted him when he finally lifted his eyes from the waters.

Stanley had crossed paths with truly unbelievable sights in this strange somewhere; from bursting, collapsing stars; to the imploding heat death of entire universes, but none of them seemed to hold the candle to what he saw then when he lifted his eyes:

Children.

Two, to be exact. Two, nearly identical looking children stood motionless before him; completely soaked through to the bone as though they had taken a plunge into the frigid water that pooled around their ankles. It was a girl and a boy, both adorned with twin expressions utterly devoid of emotion, their wide eyed stare seeming to burn holes into his thin jacket. Their drenched clothes sagged off of their scrawny frames; thin rivulets of water dirpping off of them and disturbing the glassy surface of the water at their feet. The little girl's hair had messily stuck to her face in thin sodden strands, her cheeks still full and round with youth just like the boy's. They looked young. Too young to be in a place such as this.

Oh, but their eyes; their eyes.

They burned with such anger; such injustice, brighter than any dying star or galaxies he had ever seen. Anger towards the world, to fate, to whatever cruel deity that had deemed them fit to be sent to this wretched place so prematurely. They were too young to be here; to be entrapped like he was amongst this hungry darkness. And yet, here they were, sheer denial against their own untimely deaths being the only thing keeping them awake and conscious amongst the dead and rotting. A show of juvenile defiance to nature itself so vehement even the all-consumign darkness seemed hesitant to devour them whole just yet.

It saddened him. It saddened him to know that they belonged there, that they were supposed to be there. He could see it, he could feel it; they were dead. No amount of determination could deny that universal fact.

When they spoke, Stanley could hear anger:

Stan chuckled in a futile attempt to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere that threatened to crush him whole. "A lake monster? You kids and your imagination," he teased, hoping to somehow rid the poor kids of the haunted look that seemed to whirl in their glares. No child should have been burdened with such a knowing look; such eyes that looked like they had seen everything there was to see about the world, the horrid and the good.

Clearly, it had been the wrong thing to say, and Stanley's faux pas was rewarded with a scowl from the little boy. A world's worth of sour contempt etched into every contorted groove that his grimace seemed to dig into his much too young face. Stan suddenly felt guilt squeeze at his weary bones for having caused that.

"That's what they all said," the boy spat out, eyes shining with a sheen of wetness Stan wasn't sure he was prepared to deal with.

Stan left that first interaction with the twins with the feeling of guilt and sorrow still clining to him.

He couldn't have known, at the time. He couldn't have known that this wouldn't be anywhere near the last time that he would meet the pair. He hadn't realised just how many of them there were. After that first pair, his endless journeying within the Abyss was hardly be spent alone anymore. Countless more times, he came face to face with the exact same two young and impossibly worn faces; forced to meet one pair of beaten and bruised kids after another.

Not one pair had died the same death as another. Some had gotten lost, prey to whatever threat that had snatched them up out in the open; some had fallen from high up; some had been crushed under an incredible weight; some had burned; some eaten alive; some zombified. Some didn't even seem physically harmed at all, body perfectly intact, and yet that same faraway, distrubed look in their eyes remained.

He thought the worst ones were the ones he found alone. A little girl or a little boy, left all lonesome without their other half there. Twins, he remembered a pair of them telling him once.

Once, he had come across a town full of silent, stone statues. It was a rustic, shabby, almost nostalgic looking town- odd and strangely familiar. The sight of it had tugged at an aged memory that had long since wasted away in the back of his mind. It was serene, almost deceptively so. The sun shone; the air smelled crisp and fresh; numerous waterfalls continued to crash down from the tall cliffsides; and a soft nonexistent breeze whistled through the thicket of pine trees that blanketed the outskirts of the town. None of it seemed to match the gruesome scene of the hundred wailing statues that littered every inch of the town.

He had found the boy's statue on the other side of town, deep within the green forest and toppled over the gnarled roots of a towering tree. Like the rest of the townsfolk, he too, was frozen mid-shriek; his stone face twisted and contorted into a mock impression of a silent scream as his body lay paused in a writhing struggle. He made sure to be gentle when he carried the boy's statue over to place it beside the girl's, whose statue stood far deeper into the forest, sporting the same rictus grimace of terror as her brother's. It somehow felt wrong for them to have been so far apart from one another, even in death.

He had come to dread meeting of the twins. He hated every second he had to confront yet another pair of dead children that did not belong here, but fate had decided they did. He despised having to listen to their tales of woe as they wept about the injustice of the world, of having died young; he despised himself for being unable to do more than weep with them.

"We don't belong here, Grunkle Stan," he would listen to the little girl weep, calling him a title he didn't recognize. He never remembered if they had ever told him their name, but they all seem to know his, without a fail. "If we're dead, then what about you? What about Grunkle Ford? Mom? Dad? What about them? We can't be dead, we can't be," they would say, confusion and frustration written all over their faces. They didn't understand. They didn't understand why they had come to the darkness so early, so unfairly.

He never knew what to say, he'd never been good with words.

All he could do was kneel down to their levels and engulf them in his arms, hoping he could somehow squeeze the pain straight out of their bodies in his embrace. He hugged them, because what else could he do?

[yurilvr4]

mr scarlettela thirst drabble ! ⁀ .°୨ৎ

cw for confinement and obsession on his part, gn!reader, yandere!scarletella ꒰ᐢ. ̫ .ᐢ꒱ (reader is not mc!) [MDNI.]

it all began when you decided to give him your name. a small gesture of exchanging words yet the man who asked for it grovelled before you absolutely infatuated.

it was odd at first, you remember scrunching your nose at his actions. he says you two belong together, a twisted fate tangled in a web of whatever depiction he had for love.

you still regret giving in to his whims so easily, bending at every form of affection he gives you and you swallow it like water.

apart from his overbearing nature..he's actually pretty sweet to you. grovelling at your feet and begging you to stay when all you want to do is leave. he would grip your knees and rest his chin on your lap, staring at you with those abyssal eyes of his with desire.

"come...here." mr scarletella shifts himself to grab your hips, completely disregarding his umbrella and laying you down on the bed.

a little hum, sort of like a giggle releases from his mouth when he nuzzles his face into your neck. his legs dangle off the bed, though he makes sure to swipe a knee in between your thighs.

his knee digs slightly into your crotch as he nuzzles his hair into your skin. you sigh disgruntled and let him use your body like a damn pillow.

"love...love..you." he says, voice deep into your ear. he nips your ear, large hand grazing over your abdomen and groping your chest.

you place your own hand over his and you squeeze in warning, "scarletella, no."

he smile would falter a little and his grip would tighten. "say.. love me..back." he would demand, visibly irritated at your lack of affection.

while you were busy plotting of a way to escape this damn prison of a room, you were so obscured by your thoughts of freedom that you didn't notice scarletella snaking a hand up your shirt.

"woah! hey-!" startled you grip his wrist. he doesn't budge one bit and leant close to your face, inches apart that he could very easily kiss you if he wanted.

"you...love me." he says, pressing himself against you, gripping your sides possessively as he nuzzles into your chest.

"love me. love me. ....only me." he repeats over and over, his 9 ft body over yours and you roll your eyes at his absolute delusions.

wow, you've ever heard him say anything else other than the word "love", it started to irk you.

but...you did feel bad. you haven't met anyone this clingy since ...ever. he was the only one that came to you when you needed protection, all you had to do was reciprocate.

you furrow your brows in thought, your hand subconsciously petting his head softly.

"hey. me..uh..sorry." you apologize, carding your fingers through his red hair and his eyes meet yours instantly.

dark momo eyes stare right into yours, his mouth slightly parted until it stretches into a huge, manic grin. your fingers flinch from his instantaneous reaction and he hugs your form tight and secure around his lanky arms.

"me....glad. you, me..together." he says, finally closing the distance between your lips.

he kisses you for a while, long fingers wander into your hair as he practically salivates into your mouth. a trail of saliva dripping down the sides of your lips and you slap a hand over his chest to push him away.

his hard-on presses against your thigh and you pull away forcibly from his mouth, only to see him twitching with desire that you could practically see hearts in his eyes.

"scarletella...?"

his irises snap to yours when he hears his name, his smile never faltering. "mine....mine, mine, mine."

he grips your thighs and spreads your legs apart, a startled gasp leaves you. "wait- please-" his hands held the back of your knees and bends your legs near your face so your clothed ass is exposed to his lovesick eyes.

"...mine."

[foxy-eva]

Damaged Goods

Summary: The belief that they were both undeserving of love led Spencer and Reader into each other's arms. If they can’t find love, they can at least soothe their need for physical affection, right?

“You kiss me with your mouth wide open like you’re not afraid of swallowing poison. I taste the good and bad in you and want them both. We call this bravery.” - Anita Ofokansi

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Smut, Angst with a hopeful ending

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) negative self-talk and self-deprecation (both Reader and Spencer, also in the context of sex!), implied past trauma (nothing explicit), some dark/cynical humor, loneliness, crying (also during sex), showering together, oral (fem receiving), unprotected penetrative sex

Author’s Note: I hope you guys are ready for some smangst! This is my entry for @imagining-in-the-margins Friends with Benefits challenge! 

Word count: 4.3k

Masterlist

It was as if Spencer had expected you when he opened his door, a sympathetic smile spread over his face and the first buttons of his shirt already undone. As if he had known that you weren’t planning on wasting any time to get him undressed once you stepped inside his apartment. 

“He stood you up, huh?” Spencer concluded after reading your expression. 

A defeated sigh escaped your lips. “I don't even know why I still try with those stupid dating apps.”

“Probably because you don't want to end up old and alone like me,” he chuckled, his tone laced with cynicism. 

“You're not old,” you countered as you stepped closer to him. “And right now you’re not alone either.”

“Technically correct.”

You came to a halt not even an arm’s length away from him. His sight wandered over your face, obviously trying to interpret your current state of mind. It was rare that Spencer made the first step in your encounters. It was important to him to make sure you were the one in control. 

“I need you, Spencer,” you finally confessed. 

There was a certain desperation audible in your voice but it was nothing Spencer hadn’t heard before. He stepped towards you to close the distance between your bodies. 

“Come here,” he whispered as he placed his hands on your waist. 

What Spencer had to offer was the next best thing to love you could get. So you didn’t hesitate to give into the temptation of feeling his body pressed against yours for the umpteenth time in those past few weeks. 

Unlike the men before him, Spencer was not scared to get close to you even after telling him the secrets from your past. He didn't budge when you tried to push him away, well aware of the darkness he’d face once he stepped closer. He wasn’t afraid that you could suck him into the void that captured the place in your chest where your heart once was. 

What he saw when he looked into the abyss that was your soul felt familiar, almost comforting. It reminded him of the demons that possessed his own soul. It broke his heart to see you hurting. However, as morbid as it was, it also made him feel less lonely in his own suffering. 

One particularly lonely night a few weeks ago led you into his arms for the first time – and subsequently into his bed – to at least soothe the yearning for physical affection.

There was no romantic attraction to be found between the two of you. You came to an agreement that you were both too marred to even speak of romance hypothetically. Too large was the risk of  potential self-destruction that could follow a union of two such damaged hearts. 

This was a purely physical thing – a way to pretend that your love lives weren’t completely doomed. Sleeping with Spencer was like committing to a symbiosis, a mutual agreement to use the other’s body to appease this pain that wouldn’t go away. 

You reminded yourself of that when his lips made contact with yours that night. He kissed you like a starving man, never quite able to satiate the burning hunger of his soul. What you had to offer was good enough for now, though. 

As he walked you into his bedroom, it almost felt like following a routine the two of you had adopted. Just a few skilled movements were enough to stand completely bare in front of each other, greedy hands groping whatever flesh was in reach. 

When you finally lay down on the mattress, Spencer’s lips chased every curve and dip of your body, almost as if he was determined to find the secret remedy to finally end your suffering. 

Only there was none. 

The inner turmoil never went away but during those hours you were able to tune it out. It was nothing but a distant memory once Spencer laid down between your legs. He collected your honeyed wetness on his tongue until you were squirming underneath him, desperate to find relief. 

“Not yet,” he breathed as he sat up between your legs. 

He leaned over you, sharing your own taste with you as he kissed you again. At the same moment his tongue entered your mouth, you could feel his hardness pressing into your entrance. There was no need to be reluctant, no moment of questioning if what you were doing would taint the other one. His mouth left your lips to bite into your neck instead, unafraid that his venom could ever hurt you. 

Everything I touch starts rotting, Spencer once chuckled when you tried to save one of his house plants. Cynical as ever, he had said it with a grin on his face but you knew that there was more meaning behind his words than he would ever admit.

It was different with you, though. The damage had already been done by the hands of other people. There was no innocence that could have been defiled. There was nothing Spencer could do to wound you worse than them, no matter how little he thought of himself. 

Maybe that was the real reason it was so easy for him to lose himself inside your embrace. You could see it in his eyes as he entered you. He was allowed to be himself with you, to feel lust and affection despite his hardship, despite the lack of true love. 

Those sensations were a mutual experience, too. With Spencer you were never worried about being rejected. Together you had created your own safe space, a bright pink bubble within the darkness where you could truly be yourselves with one another. 

In perfect unity you began moving with each other, each thrust of hips answered by your body grinding against him. Together you chased the feeling of sweet release, the moment of pure bliss. 

“Fuck,” Spencer muttered against your lips, announcing that it wouldn’t be much longer now. 

You slowed down your movements, desperately trying to prolong this moment, to indulge some more in this short reprieve of the mess that was your life. 

“Please, hold on,” you begged him as you felt tears pricking in the corners of your eyes. 

Suddenly and without a warning Spencer stopped moving to kiss away the tears from your cheeks instead. He tasted the saline on your skin and imagined that it had been kissed by the ocean instead of the cruel reality.

“Are you okay?” He cooed when he found your eyes.

“No,” you breathed. “But when am I ever?” 

“Do you want to stop?” He offered, obviously concerned with you. 

You shook your head as you pushed against his shoulders to urge him to lie down beside you. Climbing into his lap, you found your place on top of him while Spencer’s hands grabbed your hips. 

“Is that okay?” You wanted to make sure before continuing. 

“Yes,” he confirmed. “You know very well that I need this just as much as you do.” 

With your hand wrapped around his length you guided him into your body once more. Spencer threw his head back into the pillow as you started moving at a slow, almost torturous pace. Not much time passed until the both of you danced along the edge of euphoria again. 

It only took a few skilled motions until you finally fell over the edge, taking Spencer right with you. The high subsided a lot quicker than you would have liked and with that the bright pink bubble you had created burst again.

Spencer held you for the rest of the night, even after the both of you had long fallen asleep. Only when morning came did he dare to let go of your body as he got out of bed. When you heard him turn on the shower, your entire body began tingling as the longing to bask in the warmth his skin radiated became overwhelming. 

With quiet steps you approached the bathroom and opened the door. 

“Do you need something?” You heard Spencer’s voice from behind the shower curtain. 

You stepped closer to the shower before asking, “Can I join you?” 

“Of course.” He pulled back the curtain to let you step in, offering a hand so you wouldn’t slip. 

It was only a little awkward to stand in front of Spencer completely naked in bright daylight. He didn’t hesitate to pull you into his arms, sharing both the warm water and the heat his body provided with you. You weren’t sure what it was exactly that you were looking for when you joined him in his morning shower, but it was nice to just be close to him. 

You stepped back to find his eyes and he noticed your ambivalence. Before he had a chance to ask, you giggled, “I’m trying to decide whether I want to get clean or dirty.”

Spencer joined you with his own laughter. “Well,” he chuckled as he grabbed the shampoo bottle, “let’s start by getting you clean.” 

He began shampooing your hair as if it was the most natural thing in the world to him. This act of innocent affection shocked your entire system. Suddenly you were unable to form a coherent sentence, the only thing that mattered in that moment was the sensation of Spencer running his fingertips over your scalp. A part of you wanted to fight this experience of being taken care of but a much bigger, much more desperate part simply indulged in the sensation. 

When you couldn’t get much cleaner, you reciprocated this pure act. Spencer didn’t resist, instead his body became pliable under your touch as you helped him wash his hair and skin. It almost felt like a sacred act to rid him of the remaining soap. Your sight followed the bubbles as they ran down his legs and disappeared in the drain. 

You couldn’t quite explain it but somehow this shower felt more intimate than any sexual act you had shared in the past. It wasn’t your intention but it felt like something between the two of you had shifted as you stepped out of the bathroom and got dressed. 

It felt like the safest option to lighten the mood with your usual playful banter. 

“My therapist said something stupid the other day,” you finally broke the silence. 

“Did she say that you should stop sleeping with me? Because then I might need to have a serious conversation with her,” Spencer joked. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Dr. Reid. I never mention you in therapy,” you lied. 

He saw right through you but let it go anyway. “Right,” he said instead. 

Spencer walked right behind you as you made your way over to his kitchen to make some coffee. 

“She said that I need to start learning to love myself before someone else can fall in love with me.” The coffee maker made a hissing noise right as the last word left your lips. 

“Yikes,” Spencer deadpanned. “Good luck with that.”

“I know, right? I’ll probably end up old and alone like you,” you snickered.  

Spencer laughed at your words. “I was talking about the coffee maker but I deserved that.” 

The ringing of your phone distracted you from your mission to make coffee. When you got it out of your purse, you saw a message from the guy who stood you up last night. 

“The guy from last night is asking for another date. Apparently he didn’t show up because of some work emergency,” you explained with your eyes still glued to the screen. 

Spencer huffed in response. “You're not seriously considering it?” 

“What choice do I have? It’s not like people are lining up to finally date me.”

He rolled his eyes as he poured some coffee in a mug. “He’s not the right person for you. You should say no,” was his final advice. 

“That's the thing with damaged goods though, isn’t it? People can sense that we are not worthy of their time, that they can do better. So we have no choice than to settle for something, or rather someone not quite perfect.”

Months ago you had come to an agreement to stop cheering each other up when it came to your love lives. There was a mutual understanding that telling the other one they would for sure get their happily-ever-after soon didn't help at all. It was sort of comforting to be able to talk about the unadorned truth with one another. 

“There's a difference between not quite perfect and absolute dipshit though,” Spencer retorted.

His choice of words made you laugh. It was rare that Spencer used crude language but he never minced matters when talking about your Tinder chronicles.  

He found your eyes and added, “You deserve better than that.”

Half jokingly, half seriously you asked, “Do I really?” 

A smirk formed on his face when he teased, “Well…” 

You playfully punched his arm and laughed, “Don't be a dick, Spencer! Now I’m going to go on this date out of spite!”

Spencer had seen the worst of you and he was aware that you’d probably fall back into old habits quickly, even if that guy was decent. That poor man didn't stand a chance to fight through all those walls you had so carefully built to protect your heart.

There was another, unspoken reason why the two of you had stopped cheering each other up so long ago. In the unlikely case that you would actually finally find your soulmate, what would that mean for Spencer? That he had been more broken than you all along?

It’s not that he didn't want you to find happiness. But the thought that he might be left behind was devastating. Ending up old and alone was only a tolerable thought if he could have you by his side. 

So Spencer did what he knew best and started pushing you away.

Several days passed without hearing a word from him. It wasn’t the first time this had happened and it was nothing you could hold against him – you had done the same thing before. It couldn't have been a coincidence that right when you were supposed to leave for your date, you found yourself standing in front of Spencer’s apartment door instead. 

Three firm knocks announced your presence. You heard some shuffling on the other side of the door but he didn't open. It was to be expected. You got his spare key out from your purse to enter his place uninvited. 

It was the couch where you found him, his arms wrapped around his knees, making him appear so much smaller than he really was. He was wearing an old Caltech shirt and sweatpants and his hair looked even more unruly than usual. The redness around his eyes revealed that he had been crying.

Instead of greeting you, he groaned, “I shouldn't have given you my key.”

“Well,” you shrugged as you sat down beside him. “Too late.”

“I mean it, you shouldn't be here.”

“Nice try,” you quipped. “You should know by now that you can't scare me off that easily.” 

The truth was that he didn't want you to leave, even when the words that left his mouth claimed the opposite. You had proven to him over and over again that no matter how many of his scars he let you see, you stayed.

Old habits die hard, though. So he still tried walking away, even if he wouldn't get far. You watched as he disappeared in the bedroom and threw the door shut behind him. The sound didn't even make you flinch. 

Slowly you counted to ten before you got up to follow him. He knew you better than that but he still had a surprised expression on his face when he saw you walking through his bedroom door. A part of him still believed that there would come a point where all this darkness became too overwhelming even for you. 

“I won’t leave,” you reminded him, a loving softness laced over your voice. 

You sat down beside him on the bed when he started crying again. To your surprise he didn’t wince when you reached for his hand. 

“Talk to me,” you finally offered.

“You don't understand,” Spencer whimpered. “I feel so alone.”

Right as the words left his lips, he looked up at you, tears still running down his cheeks. He looked at you and remembered that what he said was wrong. 

Because you did understand. 

And he knew that very well. 

That was when he remembered that it wasn’t his apartment you should be at right now. He took a deep breath before wiping away his tears. 

“You're gonna be late for your date,” he stated, his eyes glued to the floor. 

Your words were genuine when you countered, “You're so much more important than a stupid date, Spencer.”

After hearing those words, he leaned over to catch your lips with his without a warning. The fervor he displayed knocked the air out of your lungs. He kissed you greedily, his hands grabbing your waist to push you against his body. 

His tongue begged for entrance and you granted it, melting into him with this kiss that tasted more salty than you would have liked. How easy it would have been to fall back into your old routine, to lose yourself inside his arms as you both chased a quick solution to a problem that couldn't be fixed. 

His hands started searching for the softness your body had to offer, calloused fingertips brushing over the velvet of the skin he found underneath your shirt. It was not like you didn't yearn for it too, for this make-believe game you liked to play. More than anything did you crave the sensation of his touch, this moment that briefly let you forget all the marks past lovers had left on your body. 

It didn't feel right, though. Not anymore. 

Spencer instantly sensed your hesitance and pulled back to find your eyes. Never before had he looked more vulnerable than in that moment. 

“I don't think it’s a good idea,” you breathed as your hands found his face to wipe his tears away. 

Spencer pulled away from you, denying you the access to his skin. 

“So it's okay if you cry during sex, but when I do it, that's where you draw the line?” He huffed. 

The harshness of his words shocked you but you could see the regret in his eyes instantly.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

You reached for his hand as you softly spoke, “It’s okay. You're upset, I get it.” 

Several moments of silence passed. Seconds of contemplating how to proceed until you decided to offer him the comfort he craved anyway. 

You leaned in for another kiss. It was a lot softer and slower than before but Spencer took what he could get. When you got ahold of the hem of his shirt to take it off, he pulled back. 

“Wait, I’m not sure about this,” he stuttered. “I don't want you to feel like–”

“Spencer,” you interrupted him. “Do you trust me?”

A quiet breath fell from his lips before he nodded. “More than I ever thought possible.”

With that there was no more resistance to be found when you continued undressing him. He moved with you until only underwear was covering your bodies. 

“Lie down,” you cooed and he did as you said. 

Unlike your previous encounters, it was apparent that what the both of you craved was not sex this time. You laid down beside him to pull him into your arms, no distance allowed between the two of you. His skin was pressed against yours, so much so that it became impossible to tell where your body ended and his began. 

He left featherlight kisses on your neck before resting his head against your shoulder. You held him as close as you could, not daring to loosen the grip you had around his body. 

With his arms and legs all bent and folded to fit inside your embrace, there was no more trace of the tall man he usually was. He seemed small, almost fragile. Even more so when another fit of sobs shot through his body. 

Spencer trembled inside your arms and you held him. You held him until he had successfully cried himself to sleep.

At least that was what you thought. The harbingers of your own slumber had already begun numbing your senses when you suddenly felt his lips brushing over your cheek. 

“I think I’m in love with you,” he whispered almost inaudibly. 

I know, you thought but were already too far gone to answer him. 

When you opened your eyes the next morning, you found Spencer already awake, looking at you. His eyes were still a bit swollen but his facial features looked soft, almost content. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whined as you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. 

“Like what?” He mumbled. 

“Like a lovesick fool!” 

Spencer didn't seem surprised at your words. It seemed like he was aware that you had heard what he said to you last night. 

“What if I am?” He asked, a smirk spread over his face. 

Now was not the time for your usual sarcastic banter. Not when everything you had with him was about to implode. 

You sat up in the bed and warned him, “Stop it, Spencer.”

He shook his head, “I can’t keep pretending. It’s the truth.”

You got up to get dressed while you huffed, “How can it be true after you have seen the worst of me.”

“I have seen the worst of you and I still love you.”

You started pacing up and down his bedroom, trying to come up with something to say to that. Spencer got up too and put his clothes on. You came to a halt about an arm’s length away from him before you said, “This is not what love should feel like.”

“How would you know?” He countered. 

His words seemed cruel but they were true. You didn't know what love actually felt like. There was this image you had in your head of an innocent, saccharine kind of love that probably only existed in fiction.  

Spencer didn't let it go just yet. There was a certain insecurity audible in his voice when he practically begged you, “Look at me and tell me that you don’t feel the same way ” 

Instead of looking at him, your sight fell to the floor. “What I feel is the urge to leave.”

It was to be expected that this would be your reaction. Spencer knew you well enough to be aware of the risk he took by confessing his feelings. He suspected that you reciprocated them but were still too afraid to admit it. 

He stepped out of your way and gestured towards the door. “I’m not gonna stop you.”

To your own surprise, you hesitated.  

“What are we doing, Spencer?”

A very timid smile appeared on his face when he realized that you didn't follow your instincts to leave. Maybe there was hope after all. 

“I’m not sure,” Spencer answered. “…but I’m willing to find out.”

It wasn’t like this thought had never crossed your mind. In fact, there was a part of your brain that sometimes overpowered anything else and let you fantasize about a potential future with him. 

However, you were very familiar with the demons Spencer had to fight every day. And you were even more aware of your own darkness. You were afraid that the combination of those things might become a poisonous mixture that had the potential to destroy the both of you. 

So it was only logical to voice your concerns. “I don’t think I can make you happy.” 

“It’s not your job to make me happy,” he sighed. “But maybe there is a chance that we could find happiness together. In little those moments, just like before, when we woke up together. Or when we took a shower the other day. Maybe those little things add up one day to something bigger. To something better. Something worth taking the risk.” 

You looked at the door once more but decided to sit down at his bedside instead of leaving. 

You found his eyes and breathed, “Okay.” 

Spencer sat down beside you. “Okay?”

What you had with him was imperfect and not at all what you had imagined. Some might think what you were about to do was stupid, maybe even reckless. It was only a matter of time until one of you got hurt, got caught in the crossfire of the intensity of your emotions. But maybe it was worth giving it a chance. 

Yes, some might call it reckless. But in that moment you thought of it as bravery. 

“Yes.” You confirmed. “Let’s give it a try.” 

A split second after you said those words, you felt Spencer’s lips on yours. The kiss felt different than the ones before. There was no desperation or insatiable hunger noticeable in his actions. This kiss was sweet, almost innocent. It was a way to melt into one another with no hurry, no need to compensate for something you’d never truly experience. 

Soon you were both shedding each layer of clothing before lying down on the bed to continue the kiss without any barrier between you. His chest was firmly pressed against yours and you could feel his heart thumping against your skin, almost as if it was looking for its counterpart inside your ribcage. 

You could feel your heart calling out to him. For the first time you didn't want to be with him to shield your heart from the rest of the world, no. This time you wanted to open up, to give Spencer a chance to feel your affection.

“I love you,” you whispered between kisses. 

He leaned back to smile at you and you could feel how his love entered your body, how it was on a mission to bring light to even the darkest corners of your soul.

“I love you, too.”

Please like, reblog and leave a comment! I need your lovely words to stay motivated to write more stories.

Taglist: @nomajdetective @reidsbookclub @gspenc @samuel-de-champagne-problems @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @malindacath @luredwithpretzels @reidselle @alexxavicry @frickin-bats @spencersprettyslut @sebs-oxygen @happymangospot @cynbx @hotchandspencearedilfs @kobaltdragon @castiels-majestic-wings @emiliaserpe @velvetthunder93 @saturnstringz @missabsey @spencerslove @guacam011y @hugyourlungs @reiderwriter @hales-17 @loaksulluyswife @ecneremili @xserenax-13 @grumpyy-bearr @super-nerd22 @pleasantwitchgarden @r-3dlips @evvy96 @torigorie @meyaareads @luvdella @bunnylovesani @spenciesslut @billie-lover8 @indyvelazquez @evrmorets

[lilacwants]

gibson girl.

18+ notes: ethel cain is one of my favourite artists ever and this song really reminds me of homelander and how a relationship with him would actually be. summary: caught in the web of Homelander's intense charm and power, you find yourself swept up in a dark, consuming love. warnings: themes of manipulation, obsession, and dark romance. word count: 1.4k

part 1. part 2.

You’d always been a small-town girl, living in the shadow of towering skyscrapers and the omnipresent gaze of Vought International’s superheroes. Homelander was a distant figure, a god among men, his blue eyes and perfect smile plastered on every screen. You never imagined you’d catch his eye.

It started with a simple act of bravery. A bank robbery gone wrong, and you, a mere bystander, had thrown yourself into the chaos to save a child. Homelander had arrived in a blaze of glory, dispatching the criminals with effortless precision. When he looked at you, cradling the child in your arms, there was something in his gaze—a flicker of interest.

“You were very brave,” he’d said, his voice smooth and commanding. “Not many people would have done what you did.”

From that moment, your life changed. Homelander began to visit you, always unannounced, always when you were alone. His presence was overwhelming, his charm intoxicating. He made you feel special, and chosen, like you were the only person who truly mattered in his world.

“You’re different,” he’d whisper, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re not like the others.”

The more time you spent with him, the more you realized how dangerous he was. His love was all-consuming, a dark abyss that threatened to swallow you whole. He’d appear at your doorstep with gifts, flowers, anything to make you smile. But there was always a possessiveness in his gaze, a hunger that could never be sated.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you found yourself alone with him in your small apartment. However, solitude was now a foreign concept, as it didn’t take too long for Homelander to come and see his dearest.

“I could take you away from all this,” Homelander said, his eyes burning with intensity. “We could be together, always.”

“But what about your responsibilities?” you asked, your voice trembling. “The world needs you.”

“The world can fucking wait,” he replied, cupping your face in his hands. “I need you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You knew he was dangerous, that being with him meant walking a razor’s edge. But the way he looked at you like you were his salvation, made it impossible to resist.

You leaned into his touch, your lips brushing against his. “I’m yours,” you whispered, sealing your fate.

From that moment, you were caught in his web. Homelander’s love was a prison, gilded and beautiful, but a prison nonetheless. He watched over you, and protected you, but his protection came at a cost. You were his, completely and utterly, your life entwined with his in a twisted dance of obsession and desire.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Homelander's visits became the highlight of your life, a mix of excitement and dread. He would arrive unannounced, his presence filling your small apartment with an electric energy. He brought you gifts, each one more extravagant than the last. Jewellery that sparkled like his eyes, dresses that hugged your curves just right, and once, even a small, fluffy puppy that he said reminded him of you.

But with each gift came a reminder of his power. He would tell you stories of his exploits, the people he saved, and the enemies he destroyed. There was a darkness in his tales, a ruthless efficiency that sent chills down your spine. You knew he was capable of great violence, and that knowledge made his affection both thrilling and terrifying.

“You’re my hero,” he would say, his voice a soft purr as he held you close. “You saved that child, and you saved me. You’re the only one who understands me.”

You tried to maintain a semblance of normalcy, going to work, and seeing friends, but it was difficult. Homelander's presence loomed over every aspect of your life. You stopped going out as much, afraid of missing his visits. Your friends noticed the change, and you could see the concern in their eyes, but what could you tell them? That you were in a relationship with the most powerful man in the world? That he loved you, but his love was suffocating?

One night, you decided to confront him. It was late, and he had just appeared at your door, a bouquet of roses in hand. You let him in, and as he placed the flowers on your table, you took a deep breath.

“We need to talk,” you said, your voice trembling slightly.

He turned to you, his blue eyes narrowing. “About what?”

“About us,” you replied. “About what this is.”

He took a step towards you, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“This… relationship,” you said, struggling to find the right words. “It’s… it’s too much. I feel like I’m losing myself.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, you feared you had made a terrible mistake. But then he sighed and took your hand in his, his touch surprisingly gentle.

“I know it’s overwhelming,” he said softly. “But I love you. I need you. You’re the only thing that keeps me grounded.”

“I love you too,” you said, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “But I need space. I need to feel like I still have control over my life.”

He studied you for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “Alright,” he said finally. “I can give you space. But don’t ever doubt how much you mean to me.”

You nodded, relief flooding through you. “Thank you.”

True to his word, Homelander gave you more space. His visits became less frequent, and you began to reclaim some of your independence. You started going out with friends again, picking up hobbies you had neglected, and for a while, things seemed to be getting better.

But even with the space, he was never far from your thoughts. You found yourself looking over your shoulder, wondering if he was watching. Sometimes, you would catch a glimpse of his figure in the distance, a reminder that he was always nearby, always watching over you.

One evening, as you were walking home from work, you felt a familiar presence. You turned to see Homelander standing a few feet away, his expression intense.

“I missed you,” he said simply.

You smiled, your heart fluttering. “I missed you too.”

He closed the distance between you in an instant, pulling you into his arms. His kiss was passionate, filled with all the emotions he struggled to express. You melted into him, your fears and doubts momentarily forgotten.

As the weeks passed, you found a new rhythm. Homelander still visited, but he respected your need for space. You began to understand him better, seeing the vulnerable man beneath the powerful exterior. He confided in you, sharing his fears and insecurities, and you realized that his love for you was genuine, if not a bit overwhelming.

But there were still moments of darkness. Times when his possessiveness would surface, and you would see the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes. You learned to navigate these moments, soothing his fears and reassuring him of your love.

You became adept at reading his moods, knowing when to give him space and when to draw him close. It was a delicate balance, but one you managed to maintain. You realized that being with Homelander meant accepting all parts of him—the hero, the lover, and the monster.

And despite everything, you loved him. You loved him with a fierceness that surprised even you. He was your hero, your protector, and the man who had stolen your heart.

In time, you found a strange kind of happiness. Your life was far from normal, but it was your life. You were no longer just a small-town girl living in the shadow of superheroes. You were Homelander’s girl, and that meant something.

It meant danger, and it meant love. It meant walking a razor’s edge every day, but you were willing to do it. Because in the end, you had made your choice.

And as you stood by Homelander’s side, his arm around your waist, you knew that you had become an actual Gibson girl—beautiful, desired, and forever trapped in the arms of a man who could destroy the world with a single thought.

[seungminsleftear]

Six Years, Five months and Two days | FIVE X READER

pairing: five hargreaves x reader

Word Count: 5470

Genre: angst

General Notes: Lila x Five did happen here folks :/, sexual themes, crude language, this does not correlate with whatever happens during seasons 4 other than Lila and Five jumping into a different timeline together for seven years,, Reader is referred to as female and wife,

Trigger Warnings: Infidelity and Betrayal, Emotional and Psychological Trauma, Unresolved Grief and Loss, Intimacy and Relationship Issues, Family Conflict, Self-Worth and Identity Crisis, Anger and Violence, Emotional Isolation, Suicidal Thoughts or Self-Harm, Intimate Relationship Details

Author’s note: I have not watched season 4 and yet I know about Five x Lila… Kms

Spoiler: All you get is, There will be a part 2

Click here for part Two!

I MOVED ACCOUNTS THE REST OF THIS FIC WILL BE PUBLSIHED ON @seungminsbaldspot !!

They had been missing for a few hours now, and the anxiety was beginning to gnaw at your insides. You could only guess that Five and Lila had gotten caught up in a different timeline—something your husband was well-acquainted with doing. You tried not to think the worst. After all, Five was skilled, perhaps the most skilled among you, but the worry persisted like a shadow clinging to your every thought.

He had told you stories about when he was young, disobeying his father, and jumping through time. He saw the apocalypse, lived through it, unable to return to his original time. He would speak of the chaos and destruction, the sense of being unmoored in a fractured world. Then he told you about the moment the Handler found him, plucked him from that desolation, and invited him to join the Commission. And that's when he met you.

And oh, how he hated you.

You were, and still are, the complete opposite of that grumpy old man. You were always precise, a stickler for the rules, never one to color outside the lines. The Handler loved you for it—your discipline, your meticulous attention to detail, your unwavering commitment to the Commission's goals. You were reliable, the perfect agent, the kind who made her job easier.

He, on the other hand, was a wildcard. Reckless and unpredictable, he saw rules as suggestions rather than absolutes. He didn't care about the consequences, not when there were bigger things at stake—things only he could see in the chaos of time. He was a man who thrived in the midst of uncertainty, a constant challenge to your carefully ordered world.

But that was part of what drew you to him, wasn’t it? That contrast. The way he lived life like he was on borrowed time, like every moment was his to seize. You hated how he would disregard protocol, how he’d show up late to missions or disappear altogether, chasing his own ghosts through the folds of history. And yet, there was something about that fearlessness that fascinated you. Something about the way he could stare into the abyss of time and laugh, as if daring it to swallow him whole.

The Handler loved assigning the two of you missions together. You were the perfect team, each of you balancing out the other's weaknesses. She liked to say you were two sides of the same coin—your precision and his improvisation, your strategy and his audacity. Together, you were unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with.

It wasn't always smooth, of course. He had a way of getting under your skin, pushing your buttons in ways no one else could. He loved to rile you up, to watch that carefully maintained calm of yours crack, just a little. He’d tease you mercilessly, call you names, question your every move. But you never let it show, not in front of the Handler. You knew she was watching, always assessing, always deciding where her next move would take her. And despite your irritation, you couldn't deny that he had a knack for getting results.

And you hated that. Hated that he could bend the rules, defy protocol, and still come out on top. But the more time you spent together, the more you began to understand him, to see the method in his madness. He wasn’t just a reckless fool; he was smart, sharp, and had an uncanny ability to read a situation and turn it to his advantage. There was a reason the Handler kept pairing the two of you up, and it wasn’t just because she enjoyed watching the sparks fly.

You had never thought Five had cared so much about you—not until that one particular mission.

It had been a long day, the kind where the hours blurred together, each minute weighed down with tension and danger. You were both exhausted, having fought your way through the tangled threads of time, dealing with threats at every turn. Endless close calls, contact after contact, each encounter more chaotic and draining than the last. You were used to this kind of work, but that day felt different. Maybe it was the weight of the mission, or maybe it was something else—a premonition, a sense that something was off.

You and Five had been tracking a target across multiple timelines, chasing down a loose end that the Commission desperately needed tied up. The mission had seemed straightforward enough at first, but complications arose as they often did, turning what should have been a simple extraction into a drawn-out battle. After hours of fighting—ducking bullets, dodging blows, and navigating through the chaotic flow of time—you were growing weary. You prided yourself on your precision, your ability to remain sharp under pressure, but even you had your limits.

You weren’t thinking straight. The fatigue was getting to you, and in a moment of distraction, you let your guard down. It was only for a second, but that was all it took. A sharp pain tore through your side, and when you looked down, you saw the knife buried deep in your abdomen. The world seemed to slow around you, a haze of shock and disbelief clouding your vision.

You staggered, clutching the wound, trying to maintain your balance, but the pain was overwhelming. You heard Five shout your name, his voice cutting through the fog of agony. There had been a strange edge to it, a raw urgency that you hadn’t heard before. You had always thought of him as the consummate professional—gruff, detached, always in control. But now, there was something different in his tone—something almost frantic.

He was at your side in an instant, his figure blurring with the speed of his movements as he dispatched the remaining threats with a brutal efficiency that was startling even to you. His face was tight with concentration, but his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes that were usually so unreadable—were filled with something you couldn’t quite place. Fear, maybe? Or was it… concern?

“Stay with me,” he had commanded, dropping to his knees beside you. His hands moved quickly, one pressing against your wound to staunch the bleeding, the other rummaging through his coat pocket for something—bandages, maybe, or some kind of first aid. He was muttering under his breath, a stream of curses and commands, as if he could will you back to health with words alone.

You tried to speak, to tell him you were fine, but your voice came out in a weak, strangled gasp. The pain was spreading, a hot, searing sensation radiating from your abdomen and up through your chest. You could feel yourself slipping, the world around you growing dim and distant. But even through the haze, you could still hear his voice, sharp and insistent, pulling you back.

“Look at me,” he snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument. You forced your eyes open, focusing on his face—his furrowed brow, his clenched jaw, the way his lips were pressed into a thin, determined line. “You’re not dying here, got it?”

There had been a fierceness in his voice that surprised you, a kind of raw intensity that you hadn’t heard before. You’d seen him angry, sure, and you’d seen him frustrated plenty of times, but this was different. This was personal. And it was then that you realized: he wasn’t just afraid of losing a colleague. He was afraid of losing you.

“Five,” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of your ragged breathing. You wanted to say something comforting, to let him know you’d be okay, but the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was reach out, your fingers brushing against his, a silent acknowledgment of his efforts, of his fear, of his care.

He grabbed your hand, his grip firm and unyielding, his gaze locked onto yours. “I’m not losing you,” he said again, his voice softer now but no less intense. “I’ve lost too many people already. Not you. Never you.”

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, the chaos around you fading into the background. It was just the two of you, caught in this strange, suspended moment, connected in a way that was deeper than words, deeper than time.

He worked quickly, efficiently, binding your wound with a piece of his own shirt, his movements precise and controlled despite the tension radiating from him. You could feel the energy building around you, the familiar sensation of time beginning to warp as he prepared to jump you both back to the Commission. His hands were steady, but there was a tremor in them that betrayed his calm façade.

“Hang on,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Just hang on a little longer.”

And then, with a blinding flash of light, the world around you shifted, the familiar pull of the time jump tugging at your very being. The pain in your side flared, a sharp spike of agony that ripped through your consciousness, but you held onto his hand, your grip tightening as you were pulled through the fabric of time.

When you opened your eyes again, you were in the Commission’s infirmary, the sterile white walls and the faint hum of machinery a stark contrast to the chaos you’d just left behind. Five was still there, his hand still holding yours, his face pale but relieved. He didn’t say anything, just sat there, his eyes never leaving your face, as if making sure you were really, truly okay.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” he muttered after a moment, his voice rough, but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “You scared the hell out of me.” Despite the pain, you managed a small smile. “Didn’t know you cared so much,” you replied, your voice weak but teasing.

He rolled his eyes, but there was a softness in his gaze, a kind of tenderness you’d never seen before. “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head,” he said gruffly, but you could hear the relief in his voice, the unspoken gratitude that you were still here, still alive.

And in that moment, you knew that things had changed. You’d always been a perfect team, but now, you were something more. You had seen a side of Five you’d never seen before, a vulnerability he’d never shown anyone. And you knew, without a doubt, that he cared about you—deeply, fiercely, in a way that went far beyond mere partnership.

As you lay there, your hand still entwined with his, you felt a strange sense of peace, a quiet understanding passing between you. Whatever happened next, whatever dangers awaited in the tangled web of time, you knew one thing for certain: you wouldn’t face them alone. Not as long as Five was by your side.

Since that day, he had been inseparable from you. At first, you found it strange—his constant presence, the way he seemed to hover just a little too close, always watching, always ready. Five had never been the type to show affection, to offer comfort. He was all sharp edges and quick wit, a perpetual storm in human form. But now, there was a softness to him, a quiet protectiveness that he tried, and mostly failed, to hide. And you no longer minded. In fact, you found it endearing. You came to cherish his closeness, his silent support.

You liked the constant teasing and the bickering that filled your days, a steady rhythm of banter and back-and-forth that felt more like home than any place you had ever been. It was comforting to have someone with whom you felt so... normal, someone who could keep up with you, match your pace, challenge you in ways that no one else could. The loneliness you’d once felt in the vast corridors of the Commission faded away with him by your side, replaced by something you never thought you’d have—companionship. Friendship. Love.

Many years later, during a quiet moment in the middle of another mission, Five finally confessed that he loved you. It wasn’t a grand declaration, nothing like the romantic stories you’d heard growing up. It was simple, almost matter-of-fact, the way he said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. You had been stitching up a wound on his arm, your fingers deft and practiced, when he suddenly blurted it out.

“I love you,” he had said, his voice gruff but sincere, his eyes not meeting yours. For a moment, you thought you had misheard him. But then he looked at you, really looked at you, his expression more open and vulnerable than you’d ever seen. “I’ve loved you for a long time,” he added, softer this time, as if testing the words.

Your heart had skipped a beat, and you found yourself smiling, a real, genuine smile that you hadn’t felt in years. “I love you too,” you replied, your voice barely more than a whisper. It was the truth, the simplest and most profound truth you had ever known.

Not long after, he asked you to marry him. It was as unceremonious as his confession of love, almost awkward in its delivery. You were in the middle of cleaning your weapons, preparing for yet another jump, when he looked over at you, his brow furrowed in that familiar way of his. “We should get married,” he said, as if he was suggesting you grab a cup of coffee.

You blinked, taken aback by his suddenness, but then you laughed—a soft, genuine laugh that felt good, felt right. “Yes,” you said, without hesitation. “Of course, yes.” There wasn’t a doubt in your mind. The life you’d built together, the bond you shared—it was more than enough.

The two of you quietly eloped, keeping your marriage a secret from the Commission. It wasn’t their business, after all. They didn’t need to know about the life you were building together, the small moments of happiness you stole between missions, the way you found comfort in each other’s presence amid the chaos of time. You had your little secrets, your private world carved out of the madness, and you intended to keep it that way.

And when Five decided he needed to go back to his family, “The Umbrella Academy,” you didn’t hesitate. You went right along with him, standing by his side as you always had. You knew how much he had sacrificed, how much he still carried with him—the weight of his past, the ghosts of his mistakes. But you also knew that he had found a new purpose, a reason to keep fighting, to keep moving forward. And wherever he went, you would follow.

And with that, you find yourself back into the present. You’re pacing around the room. Every minute feels like an hour, and every second that ticks by without a word from Five or Lila makes your heart pound harder in your chest. The silence is broken only by the occasional murmur of conversation or the soft shuffling of footsteps.

Then, suddenly, the air around you seems to shift. A low hum fills the room, and the familiar tingling sensation of a temporal disturbance ripples through you. Everyone turns toward the source, eyes wide with a mix of hope and apprehension.

A flash of blue light erupts in the center of the room, and for a moment, it’s blinding. You shield your eyes, your heart leaping into your throat. When the light fades, you blink, trying to clear your vision, and then you see them—Five and Lila—standing there, slightly disheveled but very much alive.

The two of them share small, strained smiles, a strange new tension between them that wasn't there before. Diego rushes at Lila, hugging her tightly, his strong arms pulling her close. "I thought I'd lost you," he whispers, his voice breaking, betraying the tough exterior he usually maintains. Lila laughs softly, but it sounds different—almost forced—as she returns the embrace, her eyes darting briefly to Five.

Five stands apart, his expression carefully neutral, he struggles to make eye contact with anyone — especially you. He scans the room as if searching for a distraction, his posture stiff, his hands clenched at his sides. "Good to see you're all still in one piece," he mutters, his tone flat. When his gaze accidentally meets Lila's, he quickly looks away, as if the sight of her is too much to bear.

You smile at Five, offering a small nod. You both aren’t much for public attention, and you hoped a subtle acknowledgment would be enough to connect, to let him know you’re there. But Five never meets your eyes. His gaze is distant, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Your smile fades, replaced by a furrowed brow. What’s your deal, Five?

You feel a knot of worry tighten in your stomach. Something is off with Five, more than usual. You’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s hiding something, but this is different. It’s like he’s shut down entirely, locking everyone out—including you.

The others, caught up in their own reunions, don’t seem to notice the tension radiating from Five and Lila. Diego pulls back from Lila, holding her at arm’s length to look her over. “What happened to you two?” he asks, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the subtle changes in their appearances—the slightly haunted look in their eyes, the way they seem older somehow. “You’ve only been gone for like 4 hours”

Lila’s smile is tight, almost brittle. “Feels like a lifetime,” she says with a small, hollow laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. Her gaze drifts back to Five, and for a moment, there's something almost like longing—or maybe regret.

Five flinches at her words, just barely, but enough that you notice. He looks down, his jaw clenching. “Doesn’t matter,” he says quickly, cutting off any further questions. “We’re back now. That’s all that matters.” But his voice wavers slightly, betraying a crack in his composure.

You step forward, unable to keep the concern from your voice. “Five…what happened?” you ask softly, hoping to reach him, to break through whatever wall he’s put up.

He finally looks at you, but there’s a hardness in his eyes that makes your heart sink. “Drop it,” he snaps, a sharp edge to his tone that makes everyone else in the room go quiet. The silence that follows is heavy and uncomfortable, the unspoken tension between him and Lila now impossible to ignore.

Lila clears her throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, maybe we should all just… take a breather,” she suggests, trying to lighten the mood, but there’s a nervousness in her voice that makes it clear she’s not as relaxed as she’s pretending to be. She glances at Five again, and you see it now—how her eyes linger on him just a moment too long, and how his jaw tightens in response, his expression guarded.

Diego, picking up on the strange atmosphere but not fully understanding it, frowns. “Did something happen between you two?” he presses, his eyes narrowing as he looks between Five and Lila. His gaze drops to Lila’s wrist, and his eyes widen slightly. “You hate wearing bracelets,” he points out, suspicion creeping into his voice.

Lila instinctively pulls her wrist closer to her side, but not before Diego catches sight of the handmade leather bracelet. “No, I like them,,” she says but her voice lacks conviction. Diego shakes his head, his frown deepening. “Yeah, you do. You traded the one I gave you for a vacuum, remember?” His voice is heavy with accusation, his eyes now fixed on the bracelet. “Where’d you get that one?”

Diego’s eyes narrow even more, his gaze shifting to Five. "Did you make that?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. The question hangs heavy in the air, charged with accusation and disbelief.

Five’s expression hardens, his eyes narrowing as he glances at Lila, then back at Diego. His jaw is set, his posture rigid. “I sure as hell didn’t make that bracelet for you,” he replies coldly, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade. There’s a finality in his tone, a hint of something unresolved but unapologetic.

Your breath catches in your chest, a painful tightness forming there. He made it… For her…? The thought is like a dagger, twisting in your gut. You blink, trying to process the revelation, the reality of it sinking in like a stone. A handmade bracelet—something so personal, so intimate.

You glance at Five, but he’s not looking at you. His gaze remains locked on Diego, unwavering, as if bracing for whatever comes next. A storm of emotions swirls inside you—betrayal, hurt, confusion. The room seems to close in around you, the walls pressing in, the air thick and suffocating.

Diego’s gaze shifts from Lila to Five, and you can see the pieces slowly clicking into place for him. His face hardens with a mix of realization and fury. “Did you screw my wife?” he demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl. The words explode into the room like a bomb, the air suddenly charged with tension.

Five’s eyes remain steady on Diego, his face an unreadable mask. He opens his mouth to speak, to say something—anything—but Diego’s not interested in hearing it. His fists are clenched at his sides, his entire body radiating a barely restrained fury.

“You did, didn’t you?” Diego’s voice rises, each word heavy with the weight of betrayal. "All this time, and you—you were cheating on me?” His accusation shifts to Lila, his eyes burning with hurt and anger.

Lila quickly steps between them, placing a hand on each of their chests as if trying to physically push them apart. “Guys, let’s not do this right now,” she urges, her voice firm but laced with a hint of desperation. “This isn’t the time or place.”

You stand frozen, disbelief washing over you. Your mind reels at the weight of Diego’s words. Cheating? The idea feels like a punch to the gut. You’ve spent countless years with Five, fought battles by his side, faced the end of the world more than once. And he gives it all up—for what? For his brother’s wife, over the course of seven years in another timeline?

Your breath catches, a sharp pain blooming in your chest. You try to swallow it down, but it’s too much, too fast. The reality of what you’re hearing—of what Five has done—feels like a betrayal deeper than anything you’ve faced together. The walls seem to close in around you, the weight of the revelation pressing down on your shoulders, threatening to crush you.

You look at Five, searching his face for some sign of denial, of regret—anything that might soften the blow of this new reality. But he’s still staring at Diego, his expression unyielding, almost defiant. His jaw is set, his eyes cold and distant. There’s no apology there, no remorse—just a cold, hard acceptance of what’s been done, of what can’t be undone. The sight of his indifference twists the knife deeper into your heart.

You feel your chest tighten, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Your hands are trembling, fingers curling into fists at your sides as you fight to keep yourself together. You want to scream, to cry, to lash out and demand answers. But you know it won’t change anything. The damage is done, and the betrayal runs too deep. You feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not now. Not in front of them. Not in front of him.

You shake your head, unable to look at Five any longer. The pain is too raw, too intense, and being in the same room with him feels unbearable. You can’t handle this—not now, not like this. The walls are closing in, the air thick and suffocating. Your heart is pounding in your chest, each beat a painful reminder of what’s been shattered between you.

Without another word, you turn on your heel and leave the room, your steps quick and unsteady. You feel the eyes of the others on you as you push past them, but you don’t care. You can’t stay here—not in this room, not with them. Not with him. The hallway stretches out before you like a lifeline, and you move toward it, your movements frantic and desperate, as if putting distance between you and Five might somehow ease the ache in your chest.

You stumble into the hallway, your vision blurred by unshed tears. You don’t know where you’re going—only that you need to get away. Away from the pain, away from the betrayal, away from the suffocating weight of it all. Your feet carry you down the corridor, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you fight to hold back the sobs threatening to break free.

You finally reach an empty room, but as you reach for the door, you realize with a jolt that it's the one you and Five share. The one where you slept beside him last night, completely unaware of the storm that was about to hit. The memories of your shared moments—whispered conversations, late-night confessions, stolen kisses—flood back, now tainted with a sense of betrayal and loss. You hesitate, your hand hovering over the doorknob, but then you push it open and slip inside, closing it behind you.

The moment the door clicks shut, you collapse against it, your legs giving out beneath you. You sink to the floor, your back pressed against the wood, and the tears finally come. Hot, angry tears spill down your cheeks, and a broken sob escapes your lips. The room is quiet, painfully so, and the sound of your cries seems to fill every corner, bouncing off the walls and echoing back to you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, as if trying to hold the pieces of yourself together, but it’s no use. The dam has broken, and the flood of emotion is too strong to contain. You bury your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs. You cry for the loss of trust, for the betrayal, for the love you thought was unbreakable. You cry for everything you’ve lost and everything you can never get back.

The bed looms in the corner of your vision, a cruel reminder of the intimacy you once shared with Five. It’s still unmade from this morning, the sheets tangled from where you both slept. You remember the warmth of his body beside you, the way his hand would always find yours in the dark. The way he would hold you when you were scared, whispering promises of forever. Promises that now feel like lies.

You lift your head, your eyes red and swollen from crying. You look around the room, and all you can see are the remnants of a life that no longer feels like yours. The books on the nightstand that you read together, the photos on the wall of happier times—all of it feels like a cruel joke, mocking the trust you placed in him. The room, once a sanctuary, now feels like a prison, filled with ghosts of a past that will never return.

As the tears flow, you realize something with a cold, hard clarity that cuts through the haze of your grief—nothing will ever be the same again. Not between you and Five, not between any of you. The damage is done, and there’s no going back. You feel a hollowness settle in your chest, a void where your love for him once lived. You wonder if you’ll ever feel whole again, or if this betrayal has shattered you beyond repair.

It’s been a few days since the cheaters blinked back to your timeline. Each day has dragged on, an endless cycle of numbness and pain. The initial wave of tears has subsided, replaced by a slow-burning anger that simmers just below the surface. How could he? How could she? The questions run through your mind on a loop, feeding the fire that burns inside you.

You try to go about your daily routine, but everything feels off, wrong. The house feels different—colder, emptier. The others tiptoe around you, unsure of what to say, how to act. They’ve seen the hurt in your eyes, the way you flinch whenever Five enters the room. They’ve heard the way your voice trembles when you speak, how your words are laced with a bitterness you can’t seem to shake.

And then there’s Five. He moves around the house like a ghost, his presence a constant reminder of the betrayal. He tries to talk to you, but you can’t bear to look at him, let alone hear what he has to say. His words mean nothing now; they’re empty, hollow, like the promises he once made. You’ve built walls around yourself, high and impenetrable, to keep him out—to protect what little remains of your heart.

Your anger grows each day, festering like an open wound. It fuels you, giving you strength when the pain becomes too much to bear. It’s the only thing that keeps you going, that stops you from collapsing under the weight of it all. You cling to it, because without it, all you’re left with is the emptiness, the loss, the heartbreak.

We have been married for years, you think bitterly, and yet we never even once slept together, let alone him see me naked. How in the hell could he have fucked Lila over the span of seven years? The thought is a searing ache, cutting through the numbness that has settled over you. He always said we were too busy for such nonsense.

The double standard gnaws at you, a relentless, cruel irony. All those times he claimed there was no time for intimacy, no room for such personal moments because of their dangerous, high-stakes missions. And now you have to grapple with the fact that he found time for Lila—time to build a relationship, to share moments that were supposed to be sacred between the two of you. It feels like a betrayal of not just your love but the very essence of your marriage.

You remember the conversations where he would dismiss your need for closeness, brushing it aside with promises of better times to come. “We’re too busy,” he’d said, “We have a world to save.” Yet here was the proof that when it came to Lila, the rules were different. The lies, the excuses, all of it crashes down on you, leaving you gasping for breath.

The anger is raw, a jagged edge that you can’t seem to smooth over. It’s not just about what Five did; it’s about the betrayal of trust, the violation of promises made. The fact that he could share himself so completely with someone else, while withholding even the smallest gestures of intimacy from you, cuts deeper than any physical wound could.

You pace the empty room, the anger simmering, demanding an outlet. It’s a fire that consumes everything in its path, burning through your hope, your trust, your love. And it leaves behind a desolate landscape, a place where you’re forced to confront the stark reality of what’s been done.

How could he justify this? you wonder. How could he reconcile the intimacy he shared with Lila while claiming there was no time for us?

[kisses4kaia]

patrick likes his girls mean!! he loves the stuck up, entitled, princesses who demand their every need be catered to. so when he meets you, all designer rackets and chanel sponsorships, he’s gotta bite.

you’d heard of patrick, of course. whom of your peers hadn’t? the effervescent tennis prodigy with a blinding career practically inscribed in his fates.

you couldn’t lie, learning about his reputation as not only a tennis god, but as a sex one, too… you had to bite.

hell if you were going to make the first move, though. that was quite literally never happening, and so you bided your time.

luckily for you, patrick was rather impatient—much differently to yourself—and would never miss the opportunity to make his way towards you at one of your dad’s events at your exorbitant, cherrywood-littered, home.

“that’s your third glass of champagne.” his voice startled from behind you. you swiveled on your heels to face the owner of such a bold tenor. “excuse me?”

patrick smiled to himself, nodding towards your glass. “tough night?” he’s suave, a large, single, step and he’s right next to you.

about to spit at him the meanest offended verbiage you could offer, your eyes found themselves catching onto his broad shoulders, and then practically raving all over his figure. his forearms, worked and muscled, were cut off from your view at the wrists, hands shoved deep into his pockets. there was a shock of dark, gelled, curls on his head, pairing dangerously fine with the honest and abyssal ultramarine of his eyes.

“you gonna keep checking me out or are you gonna answer my question?” he wore a stupid, smug smirk that had you scoffing. “sorry, do i know you?” you wished you could have looked down at him when saying this, but even with your heavy platform versace heels, you still had to crane your head to meet his eyes.

and of course, your question was redundant, but from the sounds of him thus far, he could do with a little ego death.

“patrick, zweig. i play tennis. and you do, too, don’t you?” he knew the answer to that question and he knew exactly who you were, because your father’s foundation that this very event was being held for, was titled in your name. “oh, that’s right. yeah, your parents were, i think.. third place at last year’s st. jude’s fundraiser?” his face twisted up in shame so satisfactorily, you had to physically bite back an evil giggle of victory. “well, patrick. it was really nice talking—“

“i’ve got something stronger than champagne in my car.” his tone was flat, practically monotonous, but his words had an implication of sheer fun, and who were you to skip out on that?

so, here you were, orange vodka bottle in your right hand as you jerked a whining patrick off with your left. “god, you’re so fucking pent up. what is it, tennis? or is it that no girl wants to fuck you, so you haven’t blown a decent load since back at school?”

ooh, he would tell it to you so straight, spit out evidence-backed statements of how easy it was to get a pretty girl on her knees for him whenever he wanted, he would. he would, if his mind wasn’t so fogged up with the pleasure, and the drinks, and mostly you. you you you.

“fuck—t’s so good, so good. please, i wanna cum, wanna cum,” he’d plead through the thick steam growing in the increasingly too-small cockpit of his car.

“how bad?” nipping at his ear, you were waiting to hear him beg, and he was waiting to swallow his mass of pride enough to get it out. “so bad, really fucking bad. i need it, need you, fuck. shit—please, need it so much,” he was so convincing, and it would’ve swayed a kinder soul, but then again, patrick likes his girls mean.

“no.” with your hand lost on his stupidly bricked length, patrick groaned, and bitched, and whined, and complained about how unfair you were being, and how he’d never do that to you, and blah blah blah. “well, i can’t say i care, so. maybe i’ll see you later. bye, patrick,” your fingers twinkled goodbye in a wave, and you were out of the vehicle and back inside the party without another word.

it wasn’t over then, of course not, and you knew it. thus, it came as no shocker when an unknown number randomly applepays you $1000 in the middle of the night, along with a text that reads as follows.

had a great time. hope we run into each other again sometime soon. and, don’t spend it all in once place, yeah? - 💸

[star-sim]

too sweet ☆ jay park

☆ bad boy! jay x nerd! fem! reader ☆ summary: after months of an on-and-off relationship with you, jay feared that he'd hurt you. you know that he won't. maybe a few sweet words (and kisses) could convince him. ☆ genre: angst to fluff, suggestive, inexperienced! reader (-ish), jay is really really really DOWN BAD, insecurities ☆ warning(s)? n/a ☆ word count: 2.0k words ☆ everyone clap for hozier’s “too sweet," for my starved jay stans

reblogs and feedback are appreciated!!

"So, you're telling me that you want us to end?"

Jay sucked in a sharp breath, clasping his hands together. "That's not what I mean."

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him. The thin gold chain hanging around his neck kissed his honey gold skin deliciously, his silvery hair falling over his brows. You watched as Jay rubbed his knuckles, his jaw clenching with each thought that ran through his mind.

"Then what do you mean?"

If he thought that you'd ever let him go, he was insane.

Jay took a moment to think, before words tumbled from his lips in a slow drawl, as if he was afraid of them.

"We can't be together because I'll hurt you," he said simply. 

Jay watched your expression closely, eyeing your swollen lips— God, were they perfect, like always— as they curled. He could hear the cogs turning in your head, and for a second, Jay thought that he could win the fight.

You and Jay met under rather interesting circumstances. He was slacking in his classes, running the risk of not passing the semester, so the counselors stepped in and had you to help. 

At first, Jay thought you were the most insufferable snob there was. But the next thing he knew, he was pinning you against the wall, hungrily kissing you like he was a starved man and you were his salvation. There was always something so intoxicating about you, the way you were able to chide into his ear why he was failing his classes, yet stayed silent with wide, innocent eyes as his fingers squeezed your thighs. Jay longed for the way you could read him like a book, the way that your black pawns stacked up against him, cornering his white king that made it impossible to escape, all the while holding a polite smile on your face.

It was always unconventional; how could the school's most notorious slacker and shady delinquent even be in the same room as the smartest girl?

Everyone seemed to have something to say about it, and for a second, Jay couldn't help but drink up every word, falling deeper and deeper into the abyss that was his mind.

You were too good for him. You had everything laid out for you, you were just perfect. He wasn't. He was troubled, and stupid, and brash. 

He was mean and bitter, you were bright and sweet. 

So sweet.

Too sweet.

"You'll hurt me?" you scoffed again, looking at him incredulously. 

Under your critical gaze, Jay nearly faltered, as if this wasn't the millionth time that he reconsidered this entire conversation, as if he didn't crave your touch every waking second.

Just ten minutes ago, you were on top of him, your fingers tangled in his hair, ravaging his lips like they were your last meal. Knowing that he was the one that taught you that— how to devour him like a starved hyena— made him feel dizzy.

"When have you ever hurt me?" you pressed, your face pinched.

It was only when your delicate fingers began to unbutton his shirt, soft, but desperate, breaths brushing up against his collarbone, that Jay gently pushed you away, taking you off of his lap and letting you sit beside him on your bed.

"I haven't," Jay swallowed the lump in his throat, unable to ignore the nerves bundling in his stomach, gnawing at him, almost like they were screaming at him to stop. "But I can, a-and I know I will if we don't stop seeing each other."

"What makes you think that?" 

Jay chewed on his lip, thinking about his next move.

Loving you was like playing a game, a game where life and death were at stake. He was willing to roll every dice and destroy every odd if it meant being with you.

You were stone-faced, save for the questioning quirk of your eyebrows, but Jay knew better. 

The moment that the words "I think we should break up" left his lips, Jay could see your pawns retreating; he could see the way that your walls were beginning to come up again, the cage wrapped around your heart tightened, and all he wanted to do was hold you and apologize. 

But he couldn't, because this was for the best.

He'd rather hurt you once, than hurt you a million more times in the future. 

He was afraid of himself, of what his hands could do, of what tears you would shed over him.

He was fundamentally flawed, someone who could not be fixed. That was something that both you and him needed to accept.

"You know me," Jay murmured, his eyes glued to the fluffy carpet on the floor. He couldn't look you in the eye after this, after hurting you. "I'm not good for you."

You stayed silent for a few pulses, only the sound of your shaky breath filling Jay's ears. 

Then, you reached out for him. But, the moment that you soft fingers met his shoulder, Jay violently flinched away.

He knew that if he let you touch him, he'd never be able to pull away.

"Jay..." Your voice was small, and when he looked up to see your face, your brows were furrowed together. You looked hurt, and he wanted to punch himself; he wanted to melt into your warmth, feel your hands on his skin, and taste the paradise that was your lips.

You slowly retracted your hand, something that made Jay's heart ache. 

"Sorry..." he mumbled, quickly averting his gaze once again. After today, he didn't deserve to look at you.

Another few pulses pass in sheer silence, a silence so suffocating that Jay felt his throat tighten.

"Did it mean anything to you?" you finally asked shakily. 

"W-What?"

"Did anything that we did at least mean something to you?"

The word "yes" almost came spilling out of his mouth, eager to prove to you that he indeed loved you— loved you enough to save you. But, Jay stopped himself.

You would never take an explanation that didn't make sense. You'd push and push and push until you got the truth.

He couldn't draw this out any longer, or else he'd crack.

"No," Jay pushed out of his mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste on his tongue. 

He heard you take in a breath, before you clicked your tongue. 

You didn't believe him, and you weren't going to take no for an answer.

"Tell me the truth," you murmured. "All those times we've kissed, why would you kiss me first if it meant nothing?"

He really couldn't do this, he couldn't lie to you.

"W-Well, it's because you're always close to me." Horrible explanation, and he knew it.

You cocked a brow. "No one’s forcing you to kiss me."

Jay gulped. You were reading him like a book, seeing right through him.

"Any man in my position would kiss you," he stammered, unaware that the way his nose scrunched gave him away. Jay's eyes glazed over you. God, you were just so beautiful. "I mean, look at you."

His ears burned with shame, blinking back hot tears that brimmed his eyes. He couldn't believe that he was actually doing this, purposefully lying to your face. He felt disgusting; weak. You were the first person that he's ever loved, the first person that made him feel all sorts of weird, giddy feelings, the first person that made him feel safe and loved. He was ruining it for himself, but he'd rather ruin himself than ruin you. After this, how was he ever going to recover? He couldn't imagine his life without you, not after feeling your warmth, not after having the privilege of seeing you beneath him, pretty eyes filled with stars gazing up at him—

If Jay wasn't so caught up in his head, he'd notice the way that you observed his flickering expression, before suddenly climbing back onto Jay.

"H-Hey—!"

You pushed Jay down onto the bed so that he was lying on his back, sitting right on his abdomen, pinning him down for good.

"You're a horrible liar," you muttered before grabbing his face, pressing sticky kisses against his jaw.

No, no, no! This isn't supposed to happen! You're supposed to hate him!

Your lips trailed from his jaw to the crook right below his ear, the spot that you knew was Jay's sensitive spot. You bit down just enough to make Jay let out a high-pitched sigh. You pulled away, admiring the purple-pink mark you left on his skin, before trailing down to the birthmark on his neck. You ran your tongue over the heart-shaped mark. Jay's hand jerked out for your waist, squeezing it.

"B-Baby..." he breathed, slipping back into his habit of using that name for you. His mind was doing everything in its power to resist you, but all he could do was tilt his head back to give you better access to his neck.

"Baby?" you purred against the shell of his ear. "Thought I didn't mean anything to you."

"I— Shit, don't do that, Baby—" you slid your hand under his shirt, your lips making vulgar noises as it attached to his honey skin. 

"I don't fucking care if you hurt me," you spat in his ear, and chills ran down his spine. Since when were you so... obscene? 

What has he done to you, for you to start off as an innocent and curious girl and end up shamelessly touching him? Had he corrupted you too much?

"You said you wanted to give me the best firsts?" your voice was so harsh, so mean that Jay almost questioned how someone so sweet could be so ruthless. It also made him question why in the hell it made his stomach do a flip. You bit down on a collarbone. "Then stop being a pussy and just let me love you."

Jay threw his head back, letting a groan escape his lips. God, how was he going to win this? How was he going to ignore the shudder of his shoulders as you touched him? How was he going to act like his body wasn't yearning for you?

"I'm pretty and you know it," you rasped in his ear. "So stop resisting me."

Your words were candied, sweet like syrup, seeping into his head and swaying all resolve he had. He almost gave in. Almost. 

"L-Look, I know you’re hot and all," it took every fiber in Jay's being to not give into your tantalizing lips, "B-But you know this is wrong."

You hummed against his skin. "But I don't."

Jay's rendered speechless when you press your hips against his, squeezing his eyes shut. His stomach did a flip, a wave of heat coursing through his body. It felt electric, it felt wrong.

"I don't know that this is wrong, and even if I did, I wouldn't care" your tone is so soft, so innocent, but your actions were so dirty. "Ignorance is bliss."

Jay opened his mouth to let more dumb words pour out, dumb words that were his final (and extremely futile) attempt to restrain himself, but his breath got caught in his throat when they ran your hands through his silver hair, gripping it and pulling it back. You held his head in place by his hair. The sensation of pain on his scalp was delicious, enough to make him feel like putty in the palm of your hands.

"If you don’t stop," his voice was airy and high-pitched now, labored breaths escaping his lips. He wasn't going to win this fight. He never was going to in the first place, not when you were his opponent, "I don't know if I'll be able to control myself."

"Then don't," you said simply against his neck. You looked up at him, meeting his eyes. Your eyes were wide and shiny, innocently staring up at him. Your voice was so pretty and sweet, so sweet that he couldn't believe that you were doing and saying all these things to him. "Don't control yourself."

As Jay fell back into the comfort of the mattress, letting heat spread across his chest and face as you hungrily sunk your teeth into what was his heart, his Adam's apple bobbed.

You were too sweet for him, too sweet for a bitter person like him. 

He wouldn't mind getting tooth decay, yeah?

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Metanoia ;

Aemond Targaryen x Transmigrated!Strong!Reader

>> Chapter II : The deal.

Summary: Viserys proposes a deal to undo the drift between the families.

WARNINGS: CANON TYPICAL INCEST, SPOILERS FOR S1 AND S2, nothing serious, mildly suggestive (extremely mild to the points it's unnoticeable) + not proof read.

A/N: divider credits to @cafekitsune

<- prev || masterlist || next ->

The ride to King's Landing was tough, you were not used to riding a dragon after all. You were surprised when you found out that the dragon you bonded with was Vermithor, he was a free dragon in the original show.

There have already been changes in the plot by your existence, the petition hearing was delayed because of you, will it change anything? It likely will.

Your mind was preoccupied with all these unnecessary details to the point you were unaware that you had already reached the keep, rhaenyra, your mother, had to call you out from your daze to get you off the carriage.

Weren't you just on your dragon a moment ago?

Time passed weirdly for you.

You lifted your skirt slightly before stepping on the carriage steps, reaching out your hand to hold the awaiting guard's hand to step down. The sand and rocks beneath you looked unfamiliar, you were more used to seeing asphalt and concrete.

You fix your skirts, letting go of the guard's hand, before you look up, and the sight shocked you. It was the red keep, in its glory, right in front of you, standing tall and erect. A castle that you merely saw in a show was now real and it was standing right in front of you.

Soft dizziness overcomes your body when you realise this, a sense of feeling trapped begins to bloom in your heart when your mind spirals to compare the world you knew with the world you are in.

Your breathing grows heavy as you try not to break down due the overwhelming feelings, when will you get used to this? Can you truly ever get used to this? You wish to return to your world.

“..sis…..si... sister!” The voice of Lucerys wakes you up from falling into the abyss of your mind, “Yes?” You face him, “Are you okay?” He asks, with a frown on his face and a genuine look of concern. You give him a tight lipped smile, “Yes, I am fine.” You reassure him.

“Let's go inside then, mother and father have already left.” Jacaerys grabs your hand and drags you inside. You stumble behind him, trying to catch up with the fast paced walking.

He lets go of your hand once all of you are inside, and your body suddenly moves according to its own will, taking you forward. You were unfamiliar with the inside of the red keep, yet it seems that your body knew the way, and soon you found yourself in a strange hallway, where at the end, laid two big doors.

Your body continued forward, the hallway seemed strangely deserted because everyone was focused on preparing for the petition, and the guards that were likely guarding this room might've gone to watch over important areas.

Wait, how do you know this?

You could only watch as your hands pushed the door open, revealing shelves upon shelves of books, every literature piece in the westeros could be found here, perhaps this was the keep's library.

You look behind to see if anyone has followed you, yet nobody did, why did your body bring you here? You finally seem like you are in control of your body again, so you move around the library, looking through the shelves.

“Niece.”

The voice sends chills down your spine, and you immediately turn around to the direction where it came from.

There he was.

Aemond Targaryen.

He was sitting, looming over the books on the table, but he was now facing you with an expression of intrigue, he eyed you curiously.

“Have you come to read?” He asks and you suddenly get an odd sense of deja vu.

Character encounter has changed.

Your mouth went dry trying to come up with a response, it seemed as if there was a big lump in your throat which you couldn't swallow. There was an odd sense of anxiety that did not belong to your consciousness on your body, his presence intimated you.

“Hmm?” He tilts his head in a questioning manner, waiting for your answer.

“I- uh.” You stumble your words, hands curling up into fists as you try to stop them from shaking so much.

Aemond gets up from his seat, his feet taking a few steps forward to you. He stood in front of you, his eye roaming your form, taking in every bit of your details. “It has been a while since we saw each other.” He speaks once again, and you close your eyes wondering why your body is behaving this way around him.

You take heavy breaths before forcefully putting on a small smile on your face, you look at him once again, “Yes it has been, uncle.” You spit out the words in a hurry.

He raises his eyebrow slightly before returning a small yet condescending smile back. You lick your lips, wetting them. Aemond eyes the action intently, his lips parting slightly before he too mimics the action of licking his lips.

You clear your throat.

“I have to go, bye.” You give him a small bow, and before he could respond you turn around and bolt in the other direction, leaving the library immediately.

Your hurried footsteps echoed among the hall, and once again your body took charge from there and took you up the stairs, making you halt in front of a room. The guard gave you a bow before he opened the door and you wasted no time entering.

You gasped at the interior design.

And as expected, you weren't familiar with this place at all yet you didn't feel out of place or foreign, this room provided you comfort more than anything. It had a bed, and oddly, all the furniture and everything were in the shades of your favourite colours, excluding the wooden furniture.

It must've been this body's room in the keep.

But isn't the body yours?

Yet at the same time, it didn't feel like yours.

Even earlier, you knew where to go, though you've never been in this place before.

What is going on?

You felt internally conflicted, your head began to spin rapidly, your heartbeat pounded in your ears, your skin felt all prickly and you felt your knees buckle and soon your body was thrown off balance.

You fell to the floor with a loud thud, you attempted to grab the table nearby to prevent you from hitting the floor; only for the table to fall along with you, hitting the floor with a shattering pierce, spilling all of the contents onto the floor next to you.

“Princess! Are you alri—” The last thing you heard was the guard's voice before you drifted into unconsciousness.

Muffled voices of concern could be heard, they sounded so distant yet so nearby, you furrowed your brows, annoyed at the fact that you were being woken up from your slumber, you didn't want to wake up, you wanted to sleep a bit more.

But the noises got louder and you got frustrated and opened your eyes, sitting up straight.

You deep down hoped that you would wake up on your sofa again— only for it all to come crashing down when you heard Rhaenyra's troubled call.

“Y/N! Oh seven hells! You scared us.” She rushed to your side and you looked at her confused, you looked at your surroundings, noticing a maester and your siblings spread across the room.

Oh right, you fainted.

“It seems that it was nothing serious, your grace, she must've fainted. Her body showed signs of insomnia, she must not have been able to fall asleep these few days.” The maester speaks up, and Rhaenyra just nods at him. She grabs you and hugs you tightly, “Oh my sweet daughter.” She kissed your hair, her hands were shaking, she must've been really anxious.

Your head was on her chest, you could hear her heart beating loudly and frantically, and for an odd reason you felt a sense of comfort in that, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, wanting to feel comforted.

She must've been really scared.

“I- I am alright.” You speak, voice hoarse and scratchy as you just woke up, and she caresses your hair, “I'm glad you are.” She replies and you bite your lip, trying to hold back tears.

Your feelings brew up a storm everytime, you do not know whether you can truly accept this life now because you don't belong here, but that doesn't mean you can distance yourself from the characters as well, because as you just witnessed, your existence is very real to them.

You are Rhaenyra's daughter.

Didn't you wish she had one to fix the plot?

You might be the key to prevent a lot of loss if you play your part right.

“Princess, The petition is about to begin soon.” A guard announces, “Already? But my daughter is sick.” She asks, letting go of you, you stare at her. “The hearing was already delayed further, they do not want to waste anymore time.” He replies and Rhaenyra sighs loudly. “Very well, we shall head over in a bit.” She informs him and he doesn't leave, “Is there anything else?” She asks and he bites his lip, “The queen has also commanded that princess Y/N also be present in the throne room for the hearing.” He answers shakily.

“What?! My sister is sick—”

“Jace.”

Jace tries butting in but Rhaenyra stops him, “Oh don't worry, tell her I'll be there.” You reply with a smile, not being able to read the room as you were excited over the idea of witnessing the iconic Vaemond scene live.

“What do you mean—? You're not well—” Your mother tries arguing with you but you stand up immediately, “I'm fine, I just didn't get any sleep.” You rub your eyes and fix your hair, ready to leave.

Rhaenyra lets out a heavy sigh.

The sound of a mother's disappointed sigh.

The hearing was pretty boring, realising you're in a moment of unnecessary dialogue and argument, the fun part of Vaemond bluntly calling your siblings bastards hasn't arrived yet.

So you zone out.

Aemond couldn't stop looking at you, in fact, he stared at you throughout the entire session, not looking away once, Alicent noticed this and immediately became uncomfortable and fidgety.

He tried not to show it, but he was feeling excited deep down, his gut churned with giddiness, you looked so frail and out of place, he noticed your lack of attention to the hearing which made him smile slightly.

He heard you had fainted right before the trial, and expected you to take rest but you were standing in front of everyone as if nothing happened.

You were still stubborn.

‘So how do people poop here?’

‘Are they all naturally hairless on their bodies?’

You look at your arms, concluding they are.

Those stupid questions circle your mind, your thoughts keeping you entertained.

You jumped when you heard the doors open as the entry of the king was announced, your heart pounded in your chest as you witnessed the king enter.

You were a bit bummed that there was no background music.

You witnessed the original script of the scene take place with Viserys reaffirming Jace's claim to the driftwood was settled.

Wait what.

Jace's claim? Wasn't this Luke's plot?

What the fuck is going on?

This could only mean one thing.

You were the next heir to the throne.

After Rhaenyra, your mother, being the eldest daughter and the oldest child of hers. ‘What the genuine fuck.’ You think, realising how much of a big deal your existence is.

You couldn't really focus much on the next conflict since you already knew what would happen, so you excitedly waited for the iconic scene to occur and it did.

It left you traumatised.

You forgot that this was your reality, it was only reconfirmed when you felt Vaemond's blood spurt out onto the floor.

Viserys falls down on his chair tiredly.

“One… more thing.” He wheezes, Alicent rushes over to grab him but he protests. “My second son Aemond… and my granddaughter shall be wed by the next moon.” He announces randomly and your eyes widen.

What.

You can tell it was unexpected and unplanned by the way both of the families reacted, Alicent and Rhaenyra immediately wanting to protest.

“Father—”

“Husband—”

“It is not a request, it is a command, a King's command, protest against it and you will pay the consequences.” He breathes heavily before he stumbles forward, the guards immediately rush over to him and take him out of the room.

Everyone is left silent.

You turned to look at Aemond, and his face held no expression, not even surprise, so you immediately looked away.

“It is a "King's command," he said! How foolish.” Daemon mutters, frustrated under his breath, “Your father is willing to sacrifice your daughter for the sake of undoing the rift amongst the families.” He grits his teeth.

“We cannot disobey the word, for it would be disobeying the law.” Rhaenyra sighs, trying to calm daemon down.

“I don't mind.” You chime in and they all turn to look at you.

You were currently back in your chambers, with your family members pacing back and forth, Daemon sitting down on the table frustrated at his brother's decision whilst you stood nearby the door.

“It would be beneficial.” You shrug, hoping to convince them that it will be alright, perhaps this is a major sign that's confirming that you'd be the one fixing the plot.

They ignore you and whisper amongst themselves, making your jaw drop in offence. You realise that your attempt of assurance only made it worse so you turn around and leave the room, nobody questions you or bothers to stop you as you leave the room as they were occupied with the matter at hand.

So you decide to trudge through the corridors, making your way to the gardens, wanting some fresh air.

Of course, to your luck, you ran straight into Aemond at a turning corner. He grabbed your arm so you don't fall, balancing both of you. He immediately lets go, clearing his throat.

“I was looking for you, niece.” He breaks the silence, to your surprise, your body isn't behaving weirdly around him anymore, which means you get to be in full control, so you smile at him before you grab his hand. “Let's go for a walk, Aemond.” You tug at him.

He feels nostalgic when he sees your form dragging him, it reminds him of the time when you both were young, you always used to drag him around with you, asking him to spend time with you.

He grabs your forearm and pulls you into a secluded hallway, taking control before he pushes you up against the wall. You let out a surprised squeal when you feel the cold wall hit your back.

He trapped you in his arms.

He hand travelled up towards your face caressing your cheek, your eyes widened.

No way.

Are you two about to kiss?

Did you both have a thing in the past?

Your mind spiralled with these questions.

Aemond presses his thumb against your cheek bone, increasing the pressure slowly.

Is this a type of foreplay he enjoys or what?

He distances himself from you and immediately leaves, stranding you confused.

You rub the spot he pressed harshly against and felt a cut that was leaking blood. What the fuck did he does this for?

You wanted to curse him, what if his nails were dirty and you got an infection? There isn't even proper treatment for infections in this era, you'd die.

You shrugged it off and left the hallway as well.

Aemond hurried back to his chamber, his heart drumming against his rib cage violently as hot lava courses through his veins, his fists were curled up as he was reminded of something very bitter.

How could he ever forget?

Was he so happy that you'd woken up to the point he had forgotten everything?

He hates you.

He despises you.

Of course anyone would.

After all, you were the one that took his eye on that eventful night.

TAGLIST <3

@intheheartoftheking @dracaryxzs @ladyoffandoms @spear-bearing-bi-witch @myheartfollower @jom3leo @zoleea-exultant @saturnssrings @uniquecutie-puffs @aleemendoza2425-blog @marvelita85 @feelingfaye @anaya-rhys @visenyareads @sylvievil @cypherpt5fttaehyung @ttysmfwna @void21

[starsofang]

Change of Heart

hitman!ghost x f!reader / part 1

tw: mentions of suicide, alcohol use

When life has completely and utterly failed you, you hire a hitman to take you out, too afraid to do it yourself. Instead of killing you like you had planned, he strikes up a deal with you, and you’re too stubborn to bail out.

You tapped your fingers anxiously against your knee underneath the table, the tea you ordered growing cold as you waited. Your eyes darted around the coffee shop, thankfully rather empty apart from an older couple in the corner and a few schoolgirls ordering at the front counter.

You were early, so it was no surprise he wasn’t here yet, but the waiting game proved to be brutal on your mental as you checked the clock that sat perched on the wall. You could practically hear every antagonizing tick that passed with every second.

The ugly monster that reared its head rattled the thoughts consuming your mind. You were making a huge choice, one you wouldn’t turn back on, and the monster named reality was beginning to bare its teeth at you the more it set in.

The sound of your name being spoken in a gravelly voice had you snapping out of your daze, and when you looked away from the clock, you came face to face with the man in question. Tall, very tall, practically looming like the shadow of doom that seemed to wash over you the longer you stared. His face was covered with a mask, successfully hiding his face away and destroying any bouts of curiosity you may have had before this meeting. Thick arms covered by a black hoodie, the hood pulled over his head where you saw tufts of hair poking out.

“Yes. Yes, that’s me. You must be Ghost?” you confirmed woefully, voice small in comparison to his baritone one.

He gave you a curt nod before settling into the seat in front of you. He hunched into it, eyes low as he stared at you for a long moment from across the table. Eyes that kill, you thought to yourself.

“I’ll cut to the chase. Make it easy for you,” he began, and you held your breath in anticipation. “Just need a name, location, date an’ time, an’ a form of payment. Don’t need the logistics or reasonin’, just need what’s necessary.”

You swallowed nervously, shifting in your seat as you scrambled through your mind for the information.

Risking a glance at the older couple across the shop, they were in their own world, not minding the two of you. The thought lingered in the back of your mind that you were sitting here with a hitman you had hired on the dark web after months of scrounging around for one, and they were blissfully unaware of the exchange.

“Right.” You cleared your throat, sitting up and returning your gaze to his. The way he looked at you was all business, and it nearly sent a shiver down your spine.

“‘M waitin’,” he gruffed impatiently. It didn’t settle the nerves.

“Well…” You cleared your throat again, and his eyes slightly narrowed as he watched your throat bob. “It’s me, actually.”

He said nothing as he stared at you, and you briefly wondered if he’d ever gotten this request before — somebody hiring him to take them out because they were too afraid to do it themselves.

“I’d like it to be on Friday. It’s my favorite day,” you began quietly. Your hands continued to fiddle with each other under the table, picking at the skin around your nails and creating a slight sting. “Eleven PM. I’ll be going to bed by then. I’d… like it to be as painless as possible, so I’ll make sure I’m sleeping to make it easier.”

It was Monday now, so that gave you time to prepare.

Still, he said nothing, and his expression didn’t change. It was hidden beneath the mask, but his eyes were enough to convey what he was thinking — or at least, you thought it’d be enough. But they told you nothing. Blank and emotionless, like you were staring into an abyss of nothingness. A void.

Reaching into the pocket of your jacket, you pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, setting it down in front of him. It contained the address of your apartment you spent most of your time in, and would eventually spend dying in.

“I have the money. Won’t be needing it anyway, so whatever your price is, I’ll have it.”

Finishing your spiel, you expected to feel relief, but instead, you felt a mix of things you weren’t sure of. Dread? You thought you’d be comforted by finalizing the deal to end your life from the hands of another, but it certainly didn’t feel that way.

“Alright,” he agreed after the stretch of silence. He sniffed, adjusting himself in the small chair, placing his arms on the table. “You can leave the money for me in your place. ‘M sure I’ll find it anyhow.”

Releasing a breath, you nodded, watching as he took the wadded paper and shoved it in his own pocket.

“That all?”

You nodded again, mouth too dry to speak. After all, it wasn’t everyday you hired a hitman on yourself, let alone did it in the comfort of a coffee shop downtown.

“I’ll see you Friday then. Eleven PM.”

“Okay,” you breathed, watching as he stood up from the table. He gave you a nod in farewell, and your eyes followed his back as he ducked out of the coffee shop, disappearing like a shadow in the night.

Monday went. Then came Tuesday. Then Wednesday, Thursday, and eventually, Friday.

The week came and went like a breeze, and you had spent it making preparations. You told yourself it was for the best. A letter, written and rewritten over a hundred times, explaining what you did and why you did it — even if it wasn’t really you doing the job.

Life had a silly way of treating people. Everybody came from all sorts of backgrounds, some worse than others, and many came out of it alive.

You weren’t one of those people. You didn’t think you’d have the strength to succumb to the standards of basic living if it meant spending the rest of it miserable and alone.

Sitting in your apartment was a constant reminder of how void it was of any sign of life. Of course it had you, but considering you a sign of life was pushing it. You were barely hanging on by a thread, and all you were waiting for was for somebody to come around and cut the last bit with a pair of scissors so you could fully be free.

Time seemed to pass even slower when you knew death was on its way. You spent the majority of the dreadful Friday cleaning your apartment. You didn’t want Ghost to think you were a lousy slob, after all, even if part of you was — but you had your reasons. What point was there to tidy up on a regular day, when the only thing that ever filled your brain was numbness that extended to all parts of your body?

It was truly a never ending cycle, this life. You hoped that when it ended, whatever lay beyond death was much kinder than how life had treated you. The red-headed stepchild. Long forgotten, but forced to remain. It was punishment to even be alive.

When the sun fell beyond the horizon outside your window and the night sky welcomed the moon, you knew it was only a few hours until the course of your destiny would forever be altered.

You laid in bed, eyes locked on to the old ceiling of your apartment. The clock read 8:54 PM, which left approximately two hours before Ghost would arrive to finish the job. Two long, stretching hours by yourself, consumed in your own cage of a mind.

You couldn’t help that they lingered. Shifting focus between your unhappiness, your selfishness, your resentment towards the world and the people in it that had failed you. The pain brought upon you was almost too much to bear, even in these two hours of waiting.

Why had life been so unkind to you? Why you?

Nevermind that. It wouldn’t be long until you could finally get some rest, for good.

You don’t recall getting up from your bed to enter the kitchen, but you found yourself yanking open the cupboard that held an array of liquor you swore to yourself you wouldn’t touch again. It was as if your mind was in a fog, and you were acting purely out of blinded instinct.

Twisting the cap off of one of the bottles, you took a deep chug of the liquor, allowing the burn to slip down your throat and encase you with a temporary warmth.

Soon enough, that bottle became your companion in bed when you returned, sitting up against the headboard with it resting in your lap, cap lost somewhere along the journey back.

Your eyes stared blankly at the wall as you took the occasional sip, time continuing to tick by as you waited. Time stopped for no one, not even in the wake of death.

Eleven o’clock.

You were far from drunk, but you had definitely nursed the bottle enough to give you a buzz that allowed your mind to cloud over with a sense of fuzziness. It didn’t halt the thoughts from revealing themselves, but it certainly made the self deprecation easier to handle.

You hadn’t moved from your spot on the bed, nor had your eyes shifted away from the dinginess of the walls.

The faint sound of the door rattling almost went unnoticed, but even in the broken state of you, you weren’t sure you would’ve noticed it anyway. It wasn’t until that looming shadow from before had appeared next to you at your bedside that you knew what time it was.

“You’re not asleep,” Ghost gruffed out, voice quiet but nonetheless deep and void of much emotion. It was a nice voice to listen to, you thought, and it would be comforting to hear it in your final moments.

“Sorry,” you murmured quietly, finally lifting your head up to look at him. You looked a mess.

When he took in the sight of you, he could see the slight redness of your eyes, how they sunk into your skin, making you appear ghostly. Your lips were thin and chapped, pressed into a line on your face and making you look older than you were. Ghost saw a client nonetheless, but he also saw a tired girl who had reached the point of breaking. He wondered what had caused you to become this way, but it wasn’t his job to care.

“S’fine,” he huffed out, shifting his weight on his feet. “In no rush to kill you, anyway. Mind if I ‘ave a smoke?”

Ghost nodded his head towards the sliding door to your balcony, and you gave him a nod in return, watching as he walked away with a sniff. The door slid open and he went to step outside, before his eyes turned back to you.

“…Wanna join?” he asked, and you stared at him in surprise. “Figured you might enjoy one last smoke before you go about dyin’.”

You blinked dumbly before setting the bottle of liquor on your nightstand and standing up on bare feet to join him.

Outside was cold, the bitter chill causing goosebumps to rise along your skin. You joined him on the balcony, standing by his side like a lost child while he leaned against the railings.

He lifted the bottom of his mask to rest over his nose, placing a cigarette between scarred lips. The lighter illuminated the bottom portion of his face, and you stared as he took a deep inhale, letting the smoke exude out moments later.

His gloved fingers held the cigarette out towards you, and his sunken eyes watched as you took it from him. You inhaled it, feeling the burn of smoke fill your lungs and temporarily numb you for a brief second, before coughs erupted from your mouth.

“Fuck,” you breathed, eyes brimming with tears as you wiped at your mouth.

“Never smoked before?” he asked, and if he was amused, he didn’t show it.

“No,” you confessed grimly, handing him the cigarette, which he took gently. “Alcohol’s more my thing.”

“Mm.”

You stood in silence as he puffed on the stick, eyes casted out to the city around you. It was quiet despite the lit up buildings cascading a faint glow around the two of you, and for once, you felt peaceful.

“Must be going through quite the trouble if you’re askin’ somebody else to kill you,” he spoke after a pregnant pause in conversation. It snapped you out of your daze, and you turned your head to look at him. He didn’t look back. “Coulda just took a bunch of pills an’ called it a day.”

His words had you feeling a bit dumb, and you looked away from him, feeling a frown form on your face. You knew he was right. You could’ve just done it yourself instead of getting another person wrapped up in it, even if it was his job.

But you were weak. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it, couldn’t pull the trigger, couldn’t open the pill bottle, couldn’t throw yourself over the balcony.

“Must not really wanna die all that much if you can’t do it yourself.”

“I do.”

He chuckled, but it was so quiet, it got taken away with the breeze.

“Who are you tryin’ to convince?”

You stared at him in stunned silence, unsure of how to defend yourself. You knew how much pain you were in, and you knew you wanted it to end. But you also knew how much of a weak link you were to your own mind, and how much stronger you could be if you had just put in the effort to get better.

After all, alcohol only solved problems temporarily until they ended up creating more of them.

“I don’t really feel like killin’ you. Pretty girl like yourself doesn’t deserve a fate like that, much less from somebody like me,” he started, taking a pause to inhale another breath of smoke. “So how ‘bout I cut you a deal?”

“A deal?” you asked, frowning at him. “Isn’t it your job to kill, no questions asked?”

“Mm. That it is,” he confessed with a careless shrug. “But I’m not completely heartless.”

That was comical, coming from him. People hired him to kill whoever they requested, no strings attached, and no evidence left behind. He was a hitman, it was his entire livelihood to do just that, yet here he was, cutting you a damn deal.

“…What kind of deal?” You couldn’t help but be a bit curious.

For the first time since meeting, his lips quirked into a smile. It was small, barely noticeable, but in the dim lighting of the butt of the cigarette as it burned, combined with the glow of the city around you, you could see it.

“Two weeks,” he said, shifting his eyes to you. “I’ll give you two weeks to figure out what’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours. If you’re still wantin’ to die, then I’ll do it for you. If not, then congratulations. You live to see another day.”

Two weeks to convince yourself to not want to die? The idea seemed silly to you. You had already went through the trouble of finding a hitman, hiring him, and coming up with a payment for when he completed the job of killing you. Wasn’t that convincing enough?

Still, though. You might’ve been a broken woman with little dreams and little remedies, but you were also stubborn. If he wanted to wait two weeks to try and prove you wrong, you’d gladly accept the challenge.

“Okay.” You nodded, tapping your fingers along the railings mindlessly. “It’s a deal, Ghost. Two weeks, and then you’ll be sure to kill me.”

He huffed out a laugh through his nose and extended a gloved hand for you to shake, cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Deal.”

starting another au when i already have one ongoing but this came to me in the middle of the night and i literally woke up mid sleep and was like, good lord i wanna write that!!! so i did 🤌🏻

[morgana-ren]

i love angst, and i love your writing, but please, PLEASE, i beg you, could you write some hope of tav ever returning now that the imbecile, has realised the error of his ways 🥺😭 (either way, thank you so much, for all your astarion writtings, it has made me feel things, the angst is real and my masochistic heart loves it🥲)

First part of the story HERE

Common complaint I got on that one! So I fixed it just for y'all. This ending is much less sad and much more sappy, so here is the comfort you need after all that angst!

"Darling, will you smile for me? Just once more. Please--"

He feels her cheeks in his palms, the soft skin against his battle-hardened callouses. Desperation cradles his unbeating heart, and for a moment, the emotion is far too much. A searing flame after centuries of frost. A bonfire in a blizzard. It hurts-- it burns--

"My love, I just need you to--"

"Anything my lord, anything at all for you. Simply command me and I will do anything you ask."

"No, I can't-- I-- I won't do it. I won't. I won't!"

"My lord?"

Her head cocks, turning slowly to look upon him, but her eyes-- they are empty; beetle-black and hollow. Her smile is uncanny as a painted doll, her movements disjointed and inhuman. Her teeth are stained crimson with blood, dripping, dripping, ever dripping down, never swallowed, only pooling.

She is light as a feather as she slips away from him, her skin marbling into a sickly gray before ash spreads across her body as a disease, smearing her form into nothingness. Only her face is left untouched, pretty as porcelain, unflinching and unfalling save a small crack that splinters down from her forehead down to her eyes, revealing inky black abyss beneath.

"My lord-- Oh, my tender, vicious lord. I can feel your anguish-- your hunger. Devour me to be whole once more--"

Her blood smells of rot and she--

She is too far gone to save. Too far gone to ever be saved.

"I won't!"

Whirlwind. Pain. Confusion and dread and seeping anguish. A maelstrom of rage and all-consuming despair swelling from within his soul—

—his soul?

The world around him falls away, a wicked tornado thrashing him about, his mind howling in the eternal winds--

And suddenly he is in a chair.

Not a throne. A chair— and a rather uncomfortable one at that.

"What in the hells—"

His vision spins, nausea curling his gut into a wicked tide of sickness barely restrained by his teeth. He tastes stale blood crawling up his throat, threatening to overturn onto the faded rug beneath him.

"Did you see what you wished for, little spawn?"

The voice takes him by surprise. It is not hers, but another, less familiar voice. The wailing animal in his head retreats to a dull roar as his memory creeps back. A brightly colored tent assaults his vision, piecemeal rugs and odd, foreign trinkets abound on makeshift shelves, and before him sits a strange old woman, hood pulled heavy over her straggling gray hair.

"I-- What was that?"

He sees her cracked, aging lips upturn, gnarled hands placed protectively over a strange orb on the table touching his knees. "I have shown you your future, vampling. Was it to your liking?" Panic rises within his stomach again, and though he does not breathe, he clutches his chest. The smell of incense clogs his nostrils and again, the wave of sick threatens to spill forth. Wretched taste of metallic, aged blood sits heavy on his tongue, all sensation too much-- all of it too much.

"No-- No, that cannot be it!"

"This is your path, Pale Elf. The road you walk. The power you seek is well within your grasp, but as I told you before, it will cost you everything."

He vehemently shakes his head, denying it. Denying it before her and all the Gods.

"You told me upon entry that no price was too great for your reward. Do you still agree with this sentiment?"

"No! Not-- not her. Not her. Not that! I couldn't--"

"You can and you shall, sure as the moon follows the sun. You will have everything you ever wanted, but cost of this ritual is plain before you. You cared not for the many souls left to your mercy that are crushed beneath your tyrannical fist in your ascension, but what of the sole one that resides in your heart?"

Her. The light of his life. The air he breathes. The sun on his frigid flesh, the warmth that melts his icy heart.

"No," He hisses, trying to stand, but ultimately unable to muster the strength. "I won't! There-- There must be another way. Show me!"

"There is no other way," She says, solemnly. "It is inevitable."

He swallows down the information like a boulder lodged in his gullet. Her words echo endlessly in his mind, bouncing off the walls and lodging shards of ice directly in his soul.

"What if I-- What if I don't ascend? Tell me, what if I don't?"

She smiles again, teeth flashing through her thin lips. "That is another path, little elf." "I need to know. I-- I need certainty. I won't do this to her, but I--" He pauses, grappling with everything in his mind, desperately flitting about to absorb it all. "If I am going to forgo this, I need to be certain. I need to know that I can protect her, that she will be safe--"

But the woman simply shakes her head.

"Everyone must choose. For some, the path is dark, but for you, you see more than most will ever have the comfort of knowing. I can offer you nothing more. Should you initiate the Rite, you know this will come to pass. I can tell you nothing more if you choose to not. The future is yet unwritten, and the quill resides in your hands." "Then why can I not have both!" He slams a fist on the table, clawing at the soft wood. For the first time in ages, tears prick at his pale lashes and frustration wells a knot in his throat. "Why--" "Because one path is wholly your own, while the other is a tangled web, such is the nature of deals with the Hells. You will get everything you ever wanted and lose everything that made it worth having."

His head slumps, defeated and miserable. Silvery tears slide down the curves of his cheeks, even as he attempts to bite them back. He thought he would find comfort in knowing the future, but all it has given him is utter horror.

"Despair not," She continues. "Yes, you will wither under the sun, an eternally cursed dweller of the night, but all is not lost, is it? The one you love, will she stray from your side?" "I wanted her to have better than that," He sniffles, needling his lip with a fang. "I cannot brave the sun, but her-- She deserves better than that-- better than me."

"And what of what she feels?"

His brows furrow, and he peers up at the woman from tear-beaded lashes.

"You are a night walker; it is in your nature to be selfish. But love is not selfish, little vampling. You must fight your nature, your inherent self-loathing, or your love will always find the fire. What of what she desires?"

"She loves me," He says with absolute certainty. "And I--" "Do you love her?"

"Yes," He hisses, almost insulted that she would ask. "More than anything. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Then the rest matters naught. If you love her, you will allow her the agency to choose-- something you deny her as an ascendent. You must grow past your own follies. To love is to be vulnerable, and you must allow both yourself and her this freedom."

They are hard words to swallow, and yet, he feels the truth resound in them. She would not leave his side, even as he tried to force her to understand. Even as an instrument of his manipulation and schemes came to light, she stood steadfast with him, hand entwined in his, ready to face the fire together.

"I-- I need to know she will be safe."

Again, the woman shakes her head. "You cannot. You must fight fate if you wish to overturn it. You face dire odds, though throwing the dice in your favor now will doom you later should this outcome be the confirmation of your fears."

He sighs, face crinkling as he sniffs once more, summoning the willpower to swallow down the agony of his choice. He finds the strength in his legs to push himself upward from the chair, weak and shaking as a newborn fawn as he does so. "I will do whatever I need to. Anything."

"Then you may yet see this through."

He can hear the fanfare of the circus outside, the bawdy bards strumming away on their lutes and banging on drums, the elated screams of the children and their parents. Facing the light now seems impossible, but he must find his way home to her-- he has to be with her now now now--

"The coin first, boy."

He snaps out of his delirium only long enough to fish his hands into one of his pockets, bringing out a coin. Aged and neglected, the sinister engraving of a skull peers up at him from his palm, ruby eyes gleaming in the light as he tosses it into the woman's knobbily-jointed hands.

"Best of luck to you, night-child," She tucks it away. "We may yet meet again." "No offense, but I hope not."

"Me too, Little Star."

He pays little mind to the bustling streets and bursting taverns of Baldur's Gate, his feet carrying him back to camp as swiftly as his body will allow. It takes him until sundown even as he damn near jobs, ripping through the tree line and into the ruins with the intensity of a man starved.

"Astarion!" Karlach greets him, trying to wave him over. "I've got a bet with Gale about--" "Where is she?" Astarion immediately cuts her off, looking around frantically.

"Who?" Karlach raises a brow.

"Who else?" Wyll crosses his arms, looking intrigued at Astarion's intensity.

"Oh! In her tent, I think. Why? Gotcha a special something' in town for her, eh?" Karlach tries to rib at him, but he pushes past her without a second glance.

"Bet it's a fancy new dress he needs to tear off of her immediately," Karlach rolls her eyes before returning to her business.

He bursts into her tent to find her hunched over a book, tongue poking from between her teeth, as she scans over the page. This only lasts a few seconds before he scrambles onto the bed, squeezing her as tightly as he can manage, burying his nose into her hair, tears brimming in his eyes once more.

"Woah, hey!" She laughs, carefully setting her book aside, trying to discern what in the hells he is mumbling endlessly into her neck.

Need you-- need you-- love you-- can't lose you-- don't ever--

She hushes him, realizing something has gone terribly, terribly wrong, kissing his head and tugging him close. "Hey, what's wrong?"

She tries to cup his cheeks and bring his face up but he adamantly refuses, hard-swallowing the urge to bawl into her shoulder with every ounce of willpower he has. All he can manage is to cling to her, half sobbing, visions of that terrible future swimming in his head. He cannot let it come to pass, he will not--

And she holds him, cradling him in her arms, hushing him gently. Her face creases with worry, running her hands through his silvery hair as he pulls him into her lap.

"Little Star, what's wrong? You seem so upset. What can I do to make you happy, my love?"

"Is it done?" Ulma leans down as she enters the tent, carefully dodging the intricate tassels of the blanket strewn over the entryway.

"It is," The strange old woman replies, still rubbing the coin with her worn thumb.

"And?"

"I showed him nothing but truth," She says quietly. "I did not manipulate his vision. Only channeled it."

"That tells me nothing. I need to know if our children are safe."

"I cannot tell you this, Ulma. You know of the ways of our tribe; our relationship with these magics." Ulma's lips purse, her exasperation evident in her humorless expression. "I need to know--"

"His reaction was genuine. That was not my doing. He knows the price of power. I cannot tell you if he will pay it regardless," The old woman's head lifts, a slight mischievous smile playing on her lips. "But I can tell you what I think."

"And what do you think?"

"I have seen his soul-- the heart of it. I believe you will see our children yet. He will spare our heart to spare his own in kind. It beats in that woman," Her eyes twinkle in the low candlelight, a genuine smile widening across her cheeks. "I believe he can find redemption yet."

[eepwtf]

PUNISHABLE—soldier boy x catholic boy part 2

find part one here ⤷ part numero uno

warnings; religious guilt and themes, power dynamics, somnophilia, degradation and humiliation kink, jerking off to underwear (i think my boy has a fetish for that, ben lock your underwear drawer), handjobs, jerking each other off, blowjobs, (not lasting even a minute because first time blowjob, ben being a little shit about it) wc: 5.5k

“you’re such a fucking perv,” benjamin continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as though discussing the weather. “jerking off into my underwear like some desperate little bitch. did you think i wouldn’t notice?” he pressed harder, his hand gripping you through the fabric, and you couldn’t hold back the quiet whimper that escaped your lips.

“liar,” he sing-songs, his tone dripping with regalement. “you act like such a good little saint, all those prayers, all that piety—s’just a cover for the filthy little pervert hiding underneath.”

after that night, you couldn’t look at benjamin the same way. the memory of his hands on you, his voice low and coaxing, lingered like a brand burned into your skin. it churned in your gut, twisting and gnawing until it felt like your insides were corroding, eaten away by the acid of shame. each time you saw him—his easy smirk, the casual way he draped himself over the furniture, the faint smell of him that hung in the air—you felt your stomach turn, the shame rising thick and bitter in your throat.

you couldn’t stay in the room. the air felt too close, too full of him, his presence pressing against you like a weight you couldn’t bear. so you fled. the small catholic temple on campus became your refuge, though it offered no comfort. it was little more than a cramped chapel tucked into an old building, the stained glass faded and chipped, the pews scarred with years of scratches and carvings. the faint smell of candle wax and incense clung to the air, mingling with the scent of mildew from the damp stone walls. the temple became a tomb, and you were the corpse, rotting from the inside out.

you spent hours there, more time than you did in class or the dorm. you’d sit in the shadow of the crucifix, its weathered wood warped and splintering, staring up at the lifeless eyes of Christ as if begging him to look back. the silence was oppressive, heavy and suffocating, but it felt right—like the weight of your sin, tangible and inescapable. you sat for hours in the shadow of his body, staring at the weathered wood, splintering and warped, as if waiting for him to come alive and condemn you. his hands were outstretched, pierced and bleeding, his face frozen in agony. you imagined he looked at you with that same pain, that same accusation, and it broke something inside you.

you tried to pray, the rosary beads dug into your palms, leaving angry red marks that faded too quickly to feel like real penance. you clutched them tighter, grinding the crucifix into your skin until it almost bled, muttering the Act of Contrition until the words blurred together, but the guilt remained, festering like an open wound.

o my God, i am heartily sorry for having offended Thee... the words came out cracked and hollow, meaningless, swallowed up by the suffocating silence of the chapel. …because i dread the loss of heaven, and the pains of hell... but it was too late for heaven. ...but most of all because they offend Thee, my God...

the guilt felt like chains around your chest, tightening with every syllable, dragging you down into an abyss you could never climb out of. …who art all good and deserving of all my love. You didn’t deserve his love. you didn’t deserve anything.

you took to kneeling on the cold stone floor, refusing the comfort of the pews. the sharp bite of the stone against your knees felt like punishment, the only tangible way to feel the weight of your sins. sometimes you stayed there until your legs went numb, until the pain turned into a dull ache and then into nothingness. other times, you pressed your forehead to the ground, curling into yourself like a body at a wake, wishing the earth would swallow you whole.

your whispered prayers became desperate, broken things, half-choked with sobs you tried to silence. “i’m sorry,” you’d mutter, over and over, your voice cracking. “God, i’m so sorry. please, forgive me.” but no forgiveness came. only silence.

at night, you dreamt of fire. the memory of benjamin played on an endless loop in your mind: his hands gripping you, his voice low and coaxing, the heat of his breath against your skin. it burned you from the inside out, an inferno you couldn’t escape. when you closed your eyes, you could still see the smirk on his face, the way his gaze had locked onto yours in the mirror. “such a pretty mess.” the words echoed in your skull, a taunt, a curse, a brand seared into your very soul. you felt it sinking into your flesh, carving itself into your bones. you’d wake up gasping, clawing at your skin, trying to scrape it away. but it was always there, a stain you couldn’t wash off.

you thought about confession, about spilling your sins to the priest behind the screen. but the idea of speaking the truth aloud, of hearing it in your own voice, made your stomach churn. The words “i touched myself, i wanted him, i wanted it” felt too filthy to utter, even in the privacy of the confessional. so you stayed silent.

the darkness festered inside you, growing like a sickness. you began to wonder if this was your punishment—not the fires of hell, but this slow, quiet decay. a part of you hoped it was, because it meant God was still watching, still listening, even if only to damn you.

and yet, no matter how much you prayed, no matter how deeply you knelt, the memory of benjamin lingered. his touch, his voice, his scent—they wrapped around you like chains, dragging you down. you were no longer yourself. you were a sinner, a vessel for guilt and shame, rotting in the shadow of the cross.

each day bled into the next, the hours merging into a haze of suffocating monotony. time slipped through your fingers like sand, gritty and coarse, leaving only the weight of your sins behind. the chapel became your entire world, a dim, crumbling sanctuary where you sought absolution and found only torment. you avoided your dorm, your classes, even the dining hall—anywhere benjamin might be. the thought of facing him, of seeing his smirk twist into something cruel or indifferent, made your chest seize.

still, he haunted you.

he was in every shadow, every flicker of light that danced on the stone walls. his voice lingered in the back of your mind, a low, mocking drawl that you couldn’t silence no matter how many Hail Marys you whispered. and the worst part? it wasn’t just shame you felt.

in the deepest recesses of your mind, where the guilt couldn’t reach, a darker truth festered. you wanted him. you still wanted him. the memory of his hands on you, the sound of his breath in your ear, the warmth of his body pressed close—it didn’t just torment you; it consumed you. late at night, you found yourself replaying it all in your mind, over and over. your body betrayed you in the quiet, a burning need rising up that you couldn’t suppress no matter how tightly you clutched the rosary, no matter how fervently you prayed for absolution.

the shame was unbearable, searing hot and cloyingly thick, but it wasn’t enough to stop the betrayal of your own body. your cock ached, straining against the fabric of your sweatpants, a constant reminder of your weakness. you rolled onto your side in your bed, clenching your fists, digging your nails into your palms until they left crescent-shaped marks. you whispered prayers under your breath, begging for the ache to subside, for your body to stop betraying you. but it didn’t.

it never did.

and then there was benjamin, sleeping across the room. the rise and fall of his chest, slow and steady, filled the small space with a rhythmic calm that only made your torment worse. the soft sighs he gave in his sleep, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed—it was maddening. you hated him for being so effortlessly beautiful, for existing in a way that made it impossible for you to look away.

your hand found its way to your cock before you could stop it, the need too overwhelming to resist. you pressed your face into the pillow, biting down hard to stifle the shameful sounds threatening to spill from your throat. your other hand clutched the rosary still tangled around your wrist, the beads biting into your skin as you stroked yourself, slow and deliberate, trying to stay quiet.

your eyes stayed fixed on him, on the faint glow of moonlight that traced the curve of his jaw, the soft shadows that played across his face. each breath he took seemed louder than the last, each shift of his body under the covers like a whisper meant only for you.

it was wrong. it was so fucking wrong. but you didn’t stop. you couldn’t stop. the crucifix above your bed seemed to watch, its lifeless eyes boring into you as if condemning every shudder, every gasp, every sinful thought. you imagined Christ’s agony, his blood dripping from the crown of thorns, his body nailed to the cross for your sins—and here you were, defiling his sacrifice with every stroke, every filthy thought. it should have stopped you. it should have made you fall to your knees in repentance. but instead, it only made the guilt more unbearable, the shame more suffocating, until the pressure inside you broke. your lips moved in silent prayer even as your strokes quickened, the contradiction tearing you apart. "forgive me, Father," you whispered, your voice choked and broken. but even as you begged for absolution, your body craved release.

your gaze flicked to benjamin. he had shifted in his sleep, one arm flung above his head, his shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin. the sight made your mouth go dry, your hips bucking into your fist as a low, shuddering moan escaped you. you imagined his hand replacing yours, his voice a low, mocking drawl coaxing you to give in. the thought alone sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your breaths coming faster, more desperate. “ben,” you whispered, the name slipping past your lips before you could stop it. the sound felt sacrilegious, an invocation of something dark and forbidden.

the beads of the rosary dug deeper into your wrist, the pain grounding you even as your strokes grew frantic. pre-cum slicked your fingers, the wet sound obscene in the silence. the shame was suffocating, a thick, rancid weight that settled in your chest, but you couldn’t stop. your gaze stayed fixed on him, on the soft curve of his jaw, the soft fluttering of his lashes. the ache inside you swelled, sharp and consuming, until it was too much to bear. your body convulsed, thick spurts of cum spilling over your hand, your hips jerking against the mattress as you bit down hard on your pillow to muffle your cries.

the shame was instant and suffocating, crashing down on you like a wave. you froze, your body trembling as the reality of what you’d done settled over you like a shroud. benjamin stirred, a soft murmur escaping his lips as he shifted again, his face relaxing back into the peaceful stillness of sleep. you watched him, your heart pounding in your chest, and the weight of your sin crushed you.

you wiped your hand on the sheets, bile rising in your throat as the reality of what you’d done sank in. you whispered a broken prayer, the words cracking in your throat, and vowed never to give in again. but deep down, you knew the truth. you would.

the shame should have stopped you. it should have dragged you to your knees, should have compelled you to throw open the chapel doors and confess everything—every sinful thought, every wretched desire, every stroke of your hand that mocked the sanctity of your faith. and yet it didn’t.

the guilt had only festered, growing into something dark and rotten that you couldn’t contain. and now, hidden beneath your blankets in the suffocating quiet of your dorm, it had led you to this. benjamin’s underwear was clutched in your trembling hand. you’d stolen it—there was no other word for it—plucked it from his laundry basket earlier that day when the dorm was empty, your chest pounding with adrenaline and revulsion. you had told yourself you wouldn’t do anything, that you just wanted to hold it, to feel the weight of him, the scent of him.

but now, here you were, your cock throbbing in your palm, slick with pre-cum as you wrapped the soft fabric around yourself. it was warm from your grip, but not nearly as warm as you imagined it would be if benjamin were still wearing it. the thought sent a shiver through you, your hand tightening as you began to stroke yourself again, this time slower, more deliberate. the waistband of the underwear brushed against the sensitive head of your cock, and you bit down on your lip to stifle a groan.

in your mind, benjamin wasn’t asleep in his bed across the room. he was here, standing over you, wearing nothing but the underwear now wrapped around your cock. you imagined the way it would cling to him, the fabric stretched taut over his hips, his cock outlined against it. you imagined the heat of him, the weight of him pressing against your palm as you slid your hand beneath the waistband, your fingers brushing against his skin.

you imagined him smirking down at you, his voice low and mocking. "you couldn’t help yourself, could you?" he’d say, his tone dripping with condescension. "you’re so fucking desperate for me." your hips bucked at the thought, the motion jerking the fabric tighter around your cock. the shame clawed at you, hot and suffocating, but it only made the pleasure more acute, more overwhelming.

you closed your eyes, the image of benjamin vivid behind your eyelids. you imagined his cock hard against the fabric, slick with his own pre-cum, mixing with yours. you imagined the way he’d groan, low and guttural, as your cum spilled over the fabric, soaking it, staining it. your hand moved faster, the friction of the fabric almost too much, almost unbearable. the scent of him clung to your skin, faint but intoxicating, filling your lungs with every breath. it was wrong—God, it was so wrong—but you couldn’t stop.

"ah—fuck, ben," you whispered again, the word slipping out unbidden, dripping with need and desperation. the sound of his name on your lips sent you over the edge, your body convulsing as your cum spilled over the stolen underwear, thick and hot and endless. for a moment, you couldn’t move. the shame was immediate, cold and biting, sinking into your chest like a blade. the crucifix on the wall seemed to loom closer, its lifeless eyes staring down at you in silent condemnation.

you looked at the mess in your hand, at the fabric now stained with your sin, and bile rose in your throat. you felt filthy, wretched, unworthy of the air you breathed. but even as the shame suffocated you, even as the bile threatened to spill, a darker thought twisted its way into your mind. you imagined slipping the underwear back into benjamin’s laundry basket, unwashed, unclean. you imagined him putting it on, feeling the dampness against his skin, not knowing—never knowing—that it wasn’t his sweat, but yours.

the morning light filtered through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the room. you pretended to sleep, curled beneath your blanket as benjamin stirred in the bed across from you. your body felt heavy with the lingering weight of guilt, your stomach churning as the events of the night before replayed in vivid, shameful detail.

you could hear him moving around—footsteps padding softly across the room, the faint rustle of his laundry basket as he dug through it. your pulse quickened, a sick sort of dread rising in your chest as you realized what he was doing. you squeezed your eyes shut, your breathing shallow and uneven, your entire body tensed as you waited for the inevitable moment when he would find it. the underwear, his underwear. covered in your mess.

the sound of fabric being shifted stopped abruptly, and for a moment, there was silence. your heart pounded in your ears, so loud you were sure he could hear it, but you didn’t dare move. “fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, and your stomach twisted into knots.

you risked the smallest glance, peeking through your lashes just in time to see him holding the underwear up, his brow furrowed as he inspected the faint, crusted stains on the fabric. your breath hitched, panic clawing at your throat. he knows, you thought, the words ringing like a death knell in your mind. but then he shrugged, tossing the underwear onto his bed. “guess it’s just detergent or something,” he said to himself, his voice casual, unconcerned.

relief flooded through you, hot and dizzying, but it was short-lived. because then, to your absolute horror, he began to undress. you turned your face back into the pillow, your entire body trembling as you tried to feign sleep. but no amount of self-control could stop the way your breath quickened, the way your cock stirred traitorously beneath the blanket as you listened to the soft rustle of his shirt being pulled over his head, the faint thud of his sweats hitting the floor.

and then, the sound of him slipping on the underwear.

you couldn’t see him, but you didn’t need to. the image was burned into your mind: benjamin, his toned body half-dressed, the stolen underwear hugging his hips, clinging to him. you imagined the fabric pressing against his cock, damp and sticky with your dried release. “shit,” he muttered suddenly, a note of irritation in his voice.

and then, benjamin turned. you quickly shut your eyes, feigning sleep as your heart hammered in your chest. the sound of his footsteps grew louder, closer, until they stopped right beside your bed. “you awake, perv?” his voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine.

you didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch, praying he’d lose interest and go away. but instead, benjamin chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through the quiet room like a taunt. “yeah, that’s what i thought.” you felt the blanket shift, a slight tug as he pulled it down just enough to reveal your growing bulge. the cool air hit you, making your cock twitch beneath the thin fabric of your sweats, and you cursed yourself silently. “look at this,” benjamin murmured, his tone dripping with amusement. his palm pressed harder, rubbing against you through the fabric. you bit down on the inside of your cheek, struggling to suppress the gasp threatening to escape.

“can’t even keep it down in your sleep,” he said, palming you through the fabric. “what were you dreaming about, huh? was it me?” you wanted to die. you wanted to disappear, to sink into the mattress and never resurface. your hips shifted involuntarily, just slightly, into his touch. it was instinct, pure and pathetic, and you hated yourself for it. and oh, benjamin didn’t miss it. “oh, you like that, don’t you?” his fingers curled around the outline of your cock, stroking slowly, teasingly, as if to prove his point. the friction of your sweats and the heat of his hand made your entire body tense, a shudder running down your spine.

“bet you’d like it even more if i used my mouth,” he mused, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “or maybe my hand. would that make you feel better, freak?” your breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, as his hand moved with deliberate, maddening slowness. you could feel the heat of his palm, the friction of your sweats against your sensitive skin, and it was driving you insane. “you’re such a fucking perv,” benjamin continued, his tone light, almost conversational, as though discussing the weather. “jerking off into my underwear like some desperate little bitch. did you think i wouldn’t notice?” he pressed harder, his hand gripping you through the fabric, and you couldn’t hold back the quiet whimper that escaped your lips.

benjamin froze, his smirk audible even before you opened your eyes. “oh,” he said, dragging the word out, his voice dripping with mockery. “so you are awake.” you couldn’t help it; your eyes cracked open, just barely, and you met his gaze. his green eyes were bright with amusement, his smirk sharp and predatory. “figures,” he said, his voice soft and cutting. “couldn’t even keep up the act, could you?” before you could think of a response—or even move—benjamin’s hand moved again, his strokes deliberate, slow enough to make you squirm. you hated him, hated yourself, hated the unbearable heat pooling low in your stomach, but most of all, you hated that you didn’t want him to stop.

and then, to your shock and mounting arousal, he slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of your sweats, his touch hot and unforgiving against your skin. benjamin’s smirk only widened as his fingers curled around your bare cock, stroking with a firm, teasing grip that made your breath hitch. he watched your face, his green eyes sharp with predatory amusement as he took in every twitch of your features, every shudder of your chest. “look at you,” he murmured, his voice low and taunting. “so fucking hard for me. bet you’ve been dreaming about this for weeks, haven’t you? jerking off into my underwear, imagining my mouth on your cock.”

the words sent a fresh wave of shame crashing over you, burning hot and stifling in your chest. the guilt churned, twisting your stomach into knots even as your hips bucked into his hand, completely betraying you. you felt trapped between the two warring parts of yourself—the part that wanted to resist, to run, and the part that wanted nothing more than to give in, to let him ruin you completely. “you know what your problem is?” ben said, his grip tightening just enough to make your vision blur. “you’ve been holding back, keeping all that tension bottled up. you’re so fucking repressed it’s almost sad.”

your throat tightened at the accusation, the words hitting a nerve you didn’t even realize was raw. he wasn’t wrong. every day spent in the chapel, every whispered prayer for forgiveness, every shame-fueled confession—it had all built into this. the weight of your own guilt loomed heavy over you, wrapping around your chest like a vice even as benjamin’s touch ignited a fire deep in your core. “you probably think this is a sin, don’t you?” he whispered, leaning in close enough that his breath was hot against your ear. “some terrible, shameful thing. but you don’t look very sorry to me.”

his voice was like a devil on your shoulder, coaxing you further into the abyss. your lips parted, a faint, broken sound escaping as his hand moved faster, slick with precum now, the obscene sounds of his strokes filling the air. “you’re not gonna pray your way out of this one, baby,” benjamin murmured, his tone mockingly sweet. “but don’t worry—i’ll take care of you. all you have to do is let me.” before you could process what was happening, he dropped to his knees, his smirk softening into something almost reverent as he looked up at you. the sight was enough to steal your breath—benjamin, kneeling between your legs, his hands on your thighs as he tugged your sweats down just enough to free your cock completely.

“fuck,” he muttered, his eyes darkening as he took you in. “look at you. so hard, so desperate. you’re fucking dripping, sweetheart.” you wanted to deny it, to shrink away from his words, but the evidence was undeniable. precum beaded at the tip, glistening in the soft morning light. benjamin’s thumb swiped over it, smearing it down the length of your cock, and you couldn’t hold back the broken sound that escaped your throat. he gripped your cock at the base, his hand firm and unyielding as he guided it toward his lips.

the first touch of his mouth was almost too much. his tongue flicked out, teasing the tip, before he took you in slowly, inch by maddening inch. the heat of his mouth was overwhelming, soft and wet and perfect, and your hands clenched the sheets in a futile attempt to ground yourself. “ben—” you choked out, your voice cracking as your head fell back against the pillow.

he hummed around you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. his eyes flicked up to meet yours, sharp and teasing, as he took you deeper, his throat constricting around you in a way that made your vision blur. “relax,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak. his lips were slick and red, glistening with saliva and precum. “let me take care of you, sweetheart. just let go.”

you wanted to. God, you wanted to. guilt clawed at your chest, sharp and suffocating, as your mind flickered with memories of whispered sermons and fire-and-brimstone warnings. this was wrong. every touch, every flick of his tongue, every obscene sound he made was a nail in the coffin of your soul. but benjamin’s mouth was so hot, so wet, and his hands gripped your hips with a strength that kept you grounded, kept you present. “you’re thinking too much,” benjamin said, his voice low and commanding. “stop fighting it. just let me make you feel good.”

he didn’t give you a chance to argue, his mouth enveloping you again with a renewed determination. his hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he worked you over, his pace slow and deliberate, savoring every moment. you barely lasted a minute. the pressure built too quickly, the heat coiling tight in your stomach and shooting down your spine. your breaths came faster, shallow and desperate, and you tried to warn him, tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let you.

“don’t you dare,” he murmured, his voice muffled around you. “i want it. cum for me.” the command was your undoing. with a choked cry, you shattered, your hips jerking as you spilled into his mouth. stars burst behind your eyes, your entire body trembling as the release hit you like a tidal wave. benjamin didn’t pull back, didn’t flinch. he took everything you gave him, his throat working to swallow it down, his hands steady on your thighs as he held you through the aftershocks.

when he finally pulled away, his lips were swollen, his smirk impossibly smug as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “damn,” he said, his tone full of mockery and amusement. “came so fast i barely got started. guess all that religious repression really does a number on you, huh?” you buried your face in your hands, your cheeks burning as fresh waves of shame crashed over you. But benjamin wasn’t done.

benjamin didn’t hesitate, tugging his sweats down in one smooth motion. the sight hit you like a punch to the gut. he was hard—thick, flushed, and straining against the fabric of the underwear you’d stolen just last night. your stomach churned when you noticed the faint, crusted stain near the waistband, the humiliating evidence of your lack of control.

“unbelievable,” benjamin said, his lips curling in disgusted amusement as he ran a hand over the bulge. “you actually came in my underwear.” he let out a short, derisive laugh, holding the elastic band out so you could see the stain more clearly. “for this?” He shook his head, the smirk tugging at his lips making your stomach flip. heat rose to your face, shame and arousal twisting together into a nauseating cocktail. you tried to look away, but your body betrayed you again, your cock twitching faintly despite the raw, overstimulated ache still pulsing through you.

“oh, no,” ben said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low timbre. “don’t you dare act embarrassed now. not after everything.” His green eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unyielding. “you’re into this, aren’t you?” you shook your head weakly, your voice caught in your throat, but benjamin wasn’t buying it. “liar,” he sing-songs, his tone dripping with regalement. “you act like such a good little saint, all those prayers, all that piety—s’just a cover for the filthy little pervert hiding underneath.” before you could muster a response, Benjamin grabbed your sweats and yanked them the rest of the way down, leaving you completely bare beneath him. his gaze swept over you, predatory and hungry, and your stomach flipped at the way his lips curled into a smirk. “you’re hard again,” he pointed out, his voice thick with amusement. “didn’t even give yourself a minute to recover, huh? you really are desperate.”

benjamin stepped back just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband of the said stolen (and stained) underwear, dragging them down his legs with an exaggerated slowness that had your pulse hammering in your ears. when his cock sprang free, flushed and leaking, your breath caught. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered without thinking, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

“close,” benjamin quipped, his grin widening into something wicked. “but i don’t think He’s gonna save you now.” he wrapped a hand around himself, his thumb swiping over the head to gather the bead of precum there. his gaze flicked to you, his smirk deepening when he saw the way your eyes lingered.

“guess i can’t blame you for wanting me so bad,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “look at what you’ve done to me.” he gestured vaguely to his cock, his hand stroking slowly, deliberately, as if to taunt you further. the heat of his body was overwhelming as he climbed onto the bed, his knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your thighs. the heat of his body was overwhelming, his cock hovering just above yours, so close you could feel the faint pulse of it. the sight of him straddling you, his lips twisted into that infuriating smirk, was enough to make your breath hitch.

“i should make you clean up your mess,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, sending a shiver down your spine. “wouldn’t that be fair?” you swallowed hard, unable to respond. your mouth was dry, your mind spinning, every nerve in your body alight with tension. “but,” he continued, leaning down until his face was only inches from yours, “i think i’ve got a better idea.”

before you could process what was happening, benjamin reached down, his hand wrapping around your cock again. his grip was firm and confident, his thumb brushing over the sensitive head in a way that made your hips jerk involuntarily. then, to your absolute shock, he shifted, pressing his cock against yours. the heat of him, the weight of him—thick and pulsing beside you—sent a bolt of arousal shooting through you so intense it made your vision blur. benjamin hummed, clearly enjoying your reaction, as he wrapped his hand around both of you, his fingers curling tightly to hold you together.

“fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice low and strained as he began to move. his hand stroked the length of both of you in a slow, maddening rhythm, the friction electric. the slick mix of precum made the slide effortless, each stroke sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

your head fell back against the pillow, a choked sound escaping your throat as the pleasure built quickly, overwhelming you. benjamin’s gaze stayed locked on your face, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he took in every twitch of your features, every broken gasp that slipped past your lips. “look at you,” he murmured, his tone thick with mockery. “so fucking desperate. you’re not even trying to hold back, are you? just letting me ruin you completely.

you tried to shake your head, to deny it, but the words caught in your throat, tangled up in a mess of shame and arousal. your hips bucked helplessly into his hand, chasing the friction despite the raw ache of overstimulation. “s’not true,” you choked out, your voice weak and trembling.

ben laughed, low and derisive. “no? then why are you fucking into my hand like a goddamn slut?” his words cut deep, but the pleasure was overwhelming, drowning out everything else. the tension coiled tight in your stomach, building faster than you could control. benjamin’s grip tightened, his strokes growing firmer, rougher, as if he could sense how close you were. “pathetic,” benjamin said, his voice a low, teasing growl. “you’re gonna cum already, aren’t you? can feel it—feel how close you are.” he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “do it. make a fucking mess. show me how much you need this.”

his words pushed you over the edge. with a low groan, your body tensed, your release hitting you like a tidal wave. hot, sticky ropes spilled across your stomach and benjamin’s hand, the sensation so intense it left you trembling beneath him.

but he didn’t stop, his hand stroking both of you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last ounce of your pleasure. his own breathing grew heavier, his pace quickening as he chased his own release. “fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as his hips jerked forward. a moment later, he came, his cum mixing with yours in a sticky mess across your stomach and his hand.

for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the sound of your ragged breathing. benjamin sat back slightly, his chest heaving as he looked down at the mess between you. “well,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “guess you weren’t the only one who couldn’t hold back.” you groaned, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away, but benjamin only laughed, leaning down to press a kiss to your jaw. “don’t worry,” he murmured. “i think it’s cute.”