#the right balance of pretty and unsettling

[emjayewrites]

Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton) (12/15) - Part II

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @queenshikongo3 @cocobutterqwueen @mauvecherie-writes @a-moment-captured @yeea-nah @lovebittenbyevans @alika-4466 @saintslewis @cherry2stems @liamundi @trinitoldyouso @scorpiobleue @certifiedlesbianbaddie @httpsserene @motheroffae @perfecttrashface @xoscar03 @saturnville @weetjy @pinkcatcus @lewlewlemon44 @cranberryjulce @chaoticcoffeequeen @vile-harlot @periodjosh @melanin-queen369 @destinyg237 @niahxo @purplelewlew @tremendousstarlighttragedy @henneseyhoe @serpenttines-library @f1-football-fiend

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist. The headers/dividers are by @inklore

The warehouse stood inconspicuous amidst the arid Palm Springs landscape, its weathered exterior masking the creative pulse within. Inside, the vast space was a stark contrast - state-of-the-art sound equipment lined the walls, and a professional-grade stage dominated one end of the room. Soft, ambient lighting created an atmosphere conducive to artistic expression, while the air conditioning fought a constant battle against the desert heat.

Rorie stood center stage, her voice resonating through the cavernous space as she ran through the chorus of "The Zone."

"I never meant to make you feel alone, a non-chivalrous tone you've used since I got home..."

Ms. Tee, her vocal coach, nodded approvingly from the side, occasionally calling out suggestions. "Remember to support from your diaphragm on that high note, honey!"

Van, the choreographer, moved in sync with Rorie, demonstrating the fluid movements that would accompany the lyrics.

Rorie nodded, sweat beading on her forehead as she repeated the sequence. The knowledge that Beyoncé had once rehearsed in this very space for her legendary Beychella performance added an extra layer of pressure.

From his seat not far from the stage, Lyric's voice piped up. "Go, Mama!" he cheered, his little hands clapping enthusiastically.

Ms. Tee chuckled, shaking her head. "That baby is too cute!"

"And he knows it," Rorie quipped, shooting a wink at her son.

As they moved into the next song, Rorie's mind briefly wandered to the mysterious text she'd received weeks ago. The sender hadn't responded when she'd asked who it was, leaving her with an unsettling sense of curiosity.

After running through the set twice more, Yael called for a lunch break. The team dispersed, grateful for the respite from the intense rehearsal.

Rorie scooped up Lyric, making her way to a table laden with an array of healthy options. As she settled in next to Yael, balancing Lyric on her lap, she couldn't help but marvel at how surreal this all felt.

"So," Yael began, taking a bite of her salad, "have you given any thought to the Mercedes event? They're really pushing for you to be there for the G Wagon unveiling."

Rorie nodded, helping Lyric with his lunch. "Yeah, I think we can make it work. It's after Coachella, right?"

"Car!" Lyric exclaimed, pointing at Yael's phone which displayed an image of the new G Wagon.

Rorie laughed, ruffling his hair. "That's right, baby. It's a big car."

"He's growing up so fast," Yael remarked, smiling at Lyric. "Seems like just yesterday he was saying his first words."

Rorie nodded, a mix of pride and nostalgia washing over her. "I know. It's crazy how quickly they develop. He's stringing two or three words together now. The other day he said 'Mama sing pretty.' Nearly made me cry right there in the kitchen."

Yael chuckled. "Well, he's not wrong. Speaking of which, how are you feeling about the performance? Three songs is a lot, especially with the choreography."

Rorie took a sip of water, considering. "Honestly? I'm nervous as hell. But also excited. I've never been on a stage that big."

"You've got this," Yael assured her. "The rehearsals are going great, and the crowd is going to love you."

As they continued to discuss the logistics of the upcoming events, Rorie felt a familiar mix of excitement and nervousness. Coachella was a big stage, one that could make or break careers. She absentmindedly stroked Lyric's hair as she listened to Yael outline the schedule for the next few days.

"We've got two more full rehearsals here, then we move to the actual festival grounds for a tech run," Yael explained, scrolling through her tablet. "Lil Yachty's team will join us for the final run-through."

Rorie nodded, her mind already racing with all the details she needed to perfect. "What about wardrobe? Have we finalized the looks?"

"Almost," Yael replied. "The stylist wants to do one more fitting tomorrow. She's got some ideas for a quick change between songs."

As they delved into the intricacies of the performance, Lyric began to fidget in Rorie's lap. "Mama, play," he said, pointing towards the small play area they'd set up in the corner of the warehouse.

"Okay, baby. Just for a little bit," Rorie smiled, setting him down. She watched as he toddled off, his little legs carrying him with determined enthusiasm.

"He's handling all this travel and chaos like a champ," Yael observed, following Rorie's gaze.

Rorie sighed, a mix of pride and guilt washing over her. "Yeah, he is. Sometimes I worry it's too much, you know? But he seems to thrive on it."

"He's resilient, just like his parents," Yael reassured her. "Speaking of which, have you heard from Lewis? How's he feeling about the DNF in Australia?"

Rorie's expression softened at the mention of her husband. "He's frustrated, of course. But he's channeling it into preparation for the next race. You know Lewis, always looking forward."

Yael nodded, then added with a hint of sympathy, "It's a shame he'll miss your performance at Coachella though. The scheduling conflict is unfortunate."

"Yeah, it is," Rorie agreed, a touch of disappointment in her voice. "But he's got the GQ Global Creative Awards in New York that weekend. It's a big honor, and I wouldn't want him to miss that." She brightened a bit as she continued, "Besides, the Biebers will be there, and my sister's coming too. They'll make sure Lyric has plenty of support in the crowd."

"That's great," Yael smiled. "It's good to have your people there. And I'm sure Lewis will be watching the livestream, cheering you on from New York."

Rorie nodded, grateful for the support system she had. "Absolutely. We've always made it work, no matter the distance. This is just another one of those times."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of Lyric's delighted laughter. He had discovered a small ball and was attempting to bounce it, his coordination not quite matching his enthusiasm.

"Should we get back to it?" Rorie asked, her eyes still on Lyric.

Yael nodded, standing up. "Absolutely. Let's run through the transitions one more time before we call it a day."

As they made their way back to the stage, Rorie felt a renewed sense of purpose. The nerves were still there, but they were overshadowed by excitement and determination. This performance wasn't just about her; it was about showing Lyric that dreams were worth pursuing, no matter the challenges.

With one last glance at her son, happily playing in his own world, Rorie stepped onto the stage. The music began to play, and she lost herself in the rhythm, ready to give it her all. Coachella was waiting, and she was going to make every moment count.

_____________________________________________

Rorie cruised down the Palm Springs street, the desert sun casting long shadows as evening approached. From the backseat, Lyric's voice joined hers in a sweet, if slightly off-key, rendition of Daniel Caesar's "Get You."

As the song faded out, Lyric piped up, "Bwent!"

Rorie chuckled, shaking her head. "Being toxic isn't cute, sonshine." She skipped to Brent Faiyaz's "Clouded," the smooth R&B filling the car as they pulled up to their rental.

Waving to the security guard at the front gate, Rorie parked and unstrapped Lyric from his car seat. She held his hand as they made their way inside, Lyric gleefully jumping up each step to the front door.

Roscoe greeted them enthusiastically, and Rorie let Lyric play with the dog while she headed to the kitchen. After washing her hands, she pulled out pre-made cookie dough from the fridge.

"You want cookies, baby?" she called out.

"Yes, Mama!" came the eager reply.

Rorie scoffed, muttering, "Of course you do," as she arranged the dough on a cookie sheet.

Struck by a sudden craving, she grabbed a popsicle from the freezer. Then, following an odd impulse, she dug into the cabinet for chunky peanut butter. Scooping some onto the popsicle, she savored the unexpected combination of salty and sweet on her tongue as she slid the cookies into the oven, setting it to 380 degrees.

Just then, her phone rang. Seeing Martin's name on the screen, she hesitated before answering.

"Hello?" she said, her voice cautious.

"Rorie, hi," Martin's voice came through, a mix of nervousness and hope. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," she replied, her tone neutral. "What's this about, Martin?"

"I... I wanted to talk to you. About Athena, about everything. How's Lyric doing?"

Rorie paused, conflicted. "He's good," she finally said. "Growing fast."

"That's great," Martin said, his voice softening. "Listen, Rorie, I was hoping we could meet. I know things are complicated, but-"

"I don't know, Martin," Rorie cut in, glancing at the oven timer. "Things are pretty busy right now."

"Please," he pressed. "I want to make things right. I want to be part of your life, of Lyric's life."

Rorie sighed, the weight of the situation settling on her shoulders. "I need time, Martin. This isn't something I can decide on a whim."

"I understand," he said, a note of disappointment in his voice. "But will you at least think about it? For real this time?"

"I'll think about it," Rorie conceded. "But I can't promise anything."

As she hung up, Rorie leaned against the counter, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions. The timer dinged, jolting her back to the present. She pulled out the cookies, the sweet aroma filling the kitchen.

"Cookie, Mama?" Lyric's voice called from the living room.

"Almost, baby," Rorie replied, forcing a smile into her voice. "They need to cool first."

As she set the tray on the counter, Rorie took a deep breath. Coachella, Martin, the constant juggle of family and career - it was a lot to handle. But as Lyric's excited chatter drifted in from the other room, she knew she'd find a way to navigate it all. She always did.

The desert night hummed with anticipation as Rorie stood in the wings of the Coachella stage, her heart hammering against her ribs. The bass from the previous set reverberated through her body, but the nausea rolling through her stomach had nothing to do with the vibrations.

"Five minutes, Mrs. Hamilton," a stage manager called out, then paused, studying her face. "Hey, you're looking a bit pale. You okay?"

Rorie nodded, though her complexion said otherwise. "I'm good," she managed, willing her stomach to settle. Somewhere in the VIP section, she knew Lyric was watching with Aaliyah, the Biebers keeping them company.

"You sure?" The stage manager pressed. "You look like you might puke...."

"I said I'm good," Rorie cut in, more sharply than intended. She softened her tone. "Just pre-show jitters."

The opening notes of "The Zone" filled the air, and Lil Yachty's voice boomed across the festival grounds: "Y'all make some noise for my girl, Rorie!"

Taking one final deep breath, Rorie stepped into the lights. The crowd's roar washed over her as she emerged, and suddenly, the nausea didn't matter anymore. This was what she was born to do.

Her voice, clear and strong, cut through the night air. The choreography she'd practiced countless times flowed naturally, her body moving in perfect sync with the music. Each transition, each note, each movement came together in a performance that felt both carefully rehearsed and effortlessly spontaneous.

But as the adrenaline of the first song began to fade, that unsettling queasiness returned, stronger than before. Rorie pushed through, determined not to let it show. She had two more songs to go, and she was going to give this crowd everything she had.

The crowd surged with energy as Rorie finished her planned set, their cheers echoing across the festival grounds. Sweat glistened on her skin under the stage lights.

"One more! One more!" The chant built like a wave.

Rorie exchanged a glance with her band, a slight nod passing between them. As the opening notes of another song filled the air, the crowd's roar grew even louder.

But it was the second encore that would become the night's most talked-about moment. Rorie stepped to the microphone, her breath slightly catching as she spoke.

"Y'all have been amazing tonight," she said, her voice carrying across the field. "I want to share something special with you. A few years ago, my husband and I wrote this song together. Some of you might know him as XNDA…"

The crowd erupted at the mention of Lewis's musical alter ego. A smile played on Rorie's lips as she remembered the late nights in their home studio, the two of them writing and rewriting lyrics, finding the perfect melody to express their love story.

The stage darkened, and then a recorded voicemail played through the speakers: "Hey baby, just wanted to hear your voice…" Lewis's distinctive accent filled the space, intimate and warm.

The soft melody began to build, and Rorie's voice floated over the instrumental, telling their story of love found in the fast lane of life. When Lewis's pre-recorded vocals joined in for the chorus, their voices intertwined in perfect harmony, the chemistry evident even through the playback.

"When the world's moving too fast You're the one thing that lasts Through the curves and the breaks You're the risk I'll always take…"

The crowd swayed, phone lights dotting the darkness like stars. Somewhere in the VIP section, Rorie caught sight of Lyric on Aaliyah's shoulders, his little hands waving in the air.

As their voices rose together for the final chorus, Rorie felt tears prick at her eyes. This song, this moment, was everything - their love, their family, their journey, all wrapped up in melody and rhythm.

The final note hung in the air, and for a moment, there was complete silence. Then the crowd exploded, the cheers almost deafening. Rorie took a final bow, her heart full to bursting.

Walking off stage, she quickly checked her phone. A text from Lewis was waiting:

Killed it, baby. Wish I could've been there. So proud of you.

Rorie smiled, the nausea from earlier completely forgotten in the glow of the night's success. This performance would definitely be one for the books.

Following her triumphant performance, Rorie took a long drink of water before her bodyguards escorted her to the VIP section. Aaliyah immediately engulfed her in a tight embrace, tears streaming down her face.

"You were incredible!" Aaliyah sobbed, overcome with pride for her sister.

Rorie's own eyes welled up as Lyric toddled over, clutching a piece of paper in his tiny hands. "Mama!" he exclaimed, holding up his drawing of her on stage. "I love you, Mama," he said, his toddler pronunciation making the words even more precious.

Rorie dropped to her knees, gathering him close as tears spilled down her cheeks. The Biebers joined the group hug, everyone congratulating her on the spectacular show.

After a while, Justin excused himself to prepare for his set with Tems and WizKid. Rorie and Hailey settled into comfortable chairs, falling into easy conversation and shared laughter.

When a waiter approached, Rorie ordered vodka, water, and lime. "What about you, Hails?"

"Just water is fine," Hailey replied.

Rorie shot her friend a questioning look. "When do you ever say no to a drink?" she teased.

Hailey grew bashful, shrugging. "I'm fine with water."

"What's going on, Hails?" Rorie pressed.

Hailey opened her mouth to respond but closed it as the waiter returned with their drinks. Once he left, she gave Rorie a sympathetic look.

"I don't want to talk about it, Ror, especially with what's going on with you and Lew," Hailey explained.

"What do you mean?" Rorie asked, setting down her drink.

Hailey shrugged again. "With you guys going through IVF again… I don't think..."

"It's fine, Hailey. We're fine," Rorie assured her, taking her friend's hands. "It's okay."

"Honestly?" Hailey questioned.

"Yes, Hailey. It's fine."

They stared at each other in silence before Hailey opened her oversized leather jacket slightly, revealing a small rounded belly. "Justin and I are pregnant," she confessed, tears running down her face.

Rorie felt a complex mix of emotions - genuine joy for her friend tinged with a hint of sadness for her own situation. But happiness won out as she pulled Hailey into a tight hug.

"It's still early, though," Hailey said after they separated. "I'm barely ten weeks, but I'm showing really soon for some reason."

"It's a boy," Rorie said instinctively.

"How can you tell?"

"I was showing early with Lyric. It's definitely a boy and he probably has a big head," Rorie joked.

Hailey laughed. "Just like his father."

As their laughter subsided, Hailey grew serious. "I want you to be a godmother. You're an amazing friend and Justin and I love you so much."

"I would love to be the godmother, Hailey. Thank you," Rorie replied, wiping away fresh tears. "Damn, tonight is making me such a sap!" Hailey's smile widened. "But thank you. Seriously. Not only for asking me to be a godmother but sharing this and taking note of everything. I love you so much."

The two friends embraced again, the desert night wrapping around them like a warm blanket, full of joy, hope, and the promise of new beginnings.

The week after Coachella felt like a whirlwind. Rorie scrolled through her phone, taking in the flood of coverage about her performance.

@/MusicInsider: "Rorie's surprise performance of XNDA collab brought Coachella to its knees. The chemistry is undeniable, even through a recording. #PowerCouple"

@/ChartData: "Rorie's Coachella performance garnered over 2M livestream views, highest for a guest appearance this year."

Of course, there were also the less favorable takes:

@/PopCultureTakes: "Sure, she can sing. But is anyone else tired of the Hamilton PR machine? #Coachella"

Rorie rolled her eyes at the last one. Her nausea had finally subsided, and she was grateful to chalk it up to pre-Coachella nerves. With Lewis in Shanghai for his race, she missed him, but they had a packed schedule ahead - the WhatsApp collaboration in New York, Miami Grand Prix, and then the Met Gala. The thought of reuniting made her smile.

Stepping out of her G Wagon onto the black carpet at the Mercedes-Benz G-Class premiere, Rorie was immediately engulfed in camera flashes.

"Mrs. Mercedes! Over here!" "To your left, Rorie!" "Give us that smile, Mrs. Mercedes!"

She couldn't help but laugh at the nickname - an extension of what they called Lewis. As she posed for photos, a familiar figure caught her eye. Miles was making his way down the carpet, pointing at her with an exaggerated gesture. She returned the gesture, and he came bounding over. They posed for several shots together before heading inside, arm in arm.

"I didn't know you were going to be here!" she said as they stopped at the bar.

"Sort of last minute, honestly," Miles revealed. "But look at you, Miss Superstar - that Coachella performance though…"

"How was it?" Rorie asked, genuinely curious.

"Off the fuckin' chain, lil' sis. You did that."

"Thank you," she smiled, taking a sip of her drink.

As Miles and Rorie made their way through the event, they were stopped every few feet by familiar faces. Kendall Jenner pulled Rorie into a warm embrace, gushing about the Coachella performance.

"You absolutely killed it," Kendall beamed. "And that song with Lewis? Everyone's still talking about it."

Before Rorie could respond, Ciara joined them, her megawatt smile lighting up the space. "Girl, when were you going to tell me you were performing again? That was incredible!"

The conversations flowed easily, punctuated by genuine laughter and warm exchanges. Tracee Ellis Ross swept by, wrapping an arm around Rorie's waist as they posed for photos, while Snoh Aalegra complimented her vocal arrangements.

The evening progressed with typical Hollywood glamour - Travis Scott's performance had the crowd energized, the bass reverberating through the space as he commanded the stage. During dinner, Rorie found herself engaged in easy conversation with those around her, the kind of mindless chatter that filled these events.

As the night wound down, Rorie decided to head home early, missing Lyric and feeling the weight of the day settling in her bones. The drive started peacefully enough, the lights of LA streaming past her window as she thought about the upcoming reunion with Lewis.

Then her phone lit up with an unknown number.

Rorie hesitated before answering, but something compelled her to pick up. The moment she heard the voice on the other end, her blood ran cold.

"Rorie—"

"You must have a fucking death wish," Rorie cut in, her voice sharp with anger.

"Please, just hear me out—"

"I'm calling my lawyer," Rorie snapped.

"Wait!" Deja's voice was urgent. "I want to meet in Miami. We need to talk face to face."

"You've lost your rabbit ass mind!" Rorie couldn't believe her ears. After everything - the lawsuit, the leaked information, the media circus - Deja really thought they could just meet? The audacity was mind-blowing. Rorie clenched her jaw, her hand gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles went white. She could almost picture Deja on the other end, probably desperate, maybe even smug, as if she’d thought Rorie would just give in to this little stunt.

Deja doubled down. "I'm not settling until we talk. Face to face."

"I don't give a fuck what you want. We're going to win anyway - you violated my privacy, remember?"

They went back and forth, Deja pleading her case while Rorie's anger mounted. Finally, Deja suggested Rorie bring her lawyer if it made her feel better, but insisted they needed to meet.

"I'll think about it, bitch," Rorie spat before hanging up.

Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit her hard. "Pull over," she managed to tell her driver, who immediately complied.

Rorie barely made it out of the car before emptying the contents of her stomach, her hands braced on her knees.

"Are you okay, Mrs. Hamilton?" the driver asked, concern evident in his voice.

Another wave hit her, and she groaned as a headache began to pulse behind her eyes. "Call my husband, please."

The driver quickly dialed Lewis, putting the phone on speaker just as Rorie retched again.

"Baby, are you okay? You're scaring me!" Lewis's voice rang out.

"It's Deja…" Rorie managed after a moment.

"What about her?"

"I'm going to kill that bitch, Lewis."

Lewis let out an exhausted "Fuck," followed by, "Let me call Julian."

Rorie stayed bent over, the cool night air doing little to settle her churning stomach. This night had definitely taken an unexpected turn, and somehow she knew it was just the beginning of whatever Deja had planned.

The Miami Grand Prix was a spectacle of color, sound, and energy—a vibrant mix of fans, press, and celebrities, all eager to catch a glimpse of the action on the track. Rorie moved through the paddock with an effortless confidence, dressed in a chic Tommy Hilfiger ensemble—a red mini dress paired with a tailored jacket that bore the iconic brand’s colors. As a Tommy Hilfiger ambassador, she was there to represent, but her mind was constantly pulled to her family, to Lyric, who was wide-eyed and curious, soaking in everything around him.

Julian, their lawyer, had been adamant about his involvement from the start. He wasn’t thrilled about the meeting, and honestly, neither was she—but at least they’d agreed that Julian would be there too, ensuring Deja wouldn’t pull any more stunts. When Julian had looked her in the eye and said, "We’re not letting her turn this into another circus," Rorie had felt an odd sense of relief. Knowing he’d be present gave her the peace of mind to enjoy the weekend with Lewis and Lyric.

Rorie’s attention snapped back to the present as she felt a tiny hand tug at her fingers. Lyric was pointing excitedly to the rows of cars lined up, his face lit with pure awe. She bent down to his level, taking in his excitement with a soft smile.

"Vroom! Vroom!"

"Yeah, baby," she murmured, brushing a soft kiss over his braids. "Those are Daddy’s friends’ cars."

"Where Dada?"

Rorie grinned. "He’s around here somewhere."

Just then, as if on cue, she spotted Lewis, looking impossibly focused and handsome in his race suit, his head bent as he spoke with one of his team members. When he looked up and saw them, his face transformed, a wide grin spreading across his features. He lifted a hand in greeting, then broke into an easy jog to close the distance between them.

"There’s Daddy," Rorie murmured to Lyric, moving aside so he could see his father approaching. "Look, sweetheart."

Lewis bent down, scooping Lyric up and spinning him around, making their son laugh with pure joy. Then, Lewis turned to her, his eyes softening as they met hers. "You’re a vision today," he murmured, his voice low and warm.

Rorie smiled, feeling her cheeks flush a little. "All part of the ambassador duty," she teased, tugging lightly on the lapel of her jacket.

The three of them shared a quiet moment, standing close amid the bustling paddock. For a while, it was easy to forget about Deja, about the upcoming meeting, about everything that threatened to intrude on this moment. But she could still feel the tension, a low hum of anxiety that sat just below the surface.

Julian’s text from earlier that morning flashed in her mind: Remember, we’re handling this our way. She doesn’t get to make the rules.

It was a reminder she clung to, something that kept her grounded even as she stole another glance at Lewis and Lyric. This weekend, she’d focus on them, on supporting Lewis and creating memories with Lyric. Whatever Deja had to say could wait—she wasn’t about to let that woman spoil the joy of watching her husband race, of seeing her son’s eyes light up in wonder.

But just as she settled into the moment, she heard a familiar voice calling her name. Turning around, she was greeted by the sight of KiKi, striding over with her typical swagger, dressed in a sharp, stylish outfit that turned heads as she passed.

Rorie raised her brows, genuinely surprised. "KiKi? What are you doing here?"

KiKi grinned, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "Lewis called me in for backup," she said with a shrug, flashing Lewis a knowing smile.

Lewis, still holding Lyric, gave a small, guilty grin. "Figured it wouldn’t hurt to have some extra support this weekend," he said, adjusting Lyric on his hip. "Especially with everything going on."

Rorie couldn’t help but feel a rush of relief. Having KiKi around meant an added layer of support, someone who understood the intricacies of their situation with Deja and who would have her back if things got tense. But she was also wary; KiKi wasn’t exactly known for her subtlety, and Rorie wanted this meeting to be as low-key as possible.

"I don’t know if having you there is the best idea, though," Rorie said, keeping her tone light but firm. "You know how things can get."

KiKi put a hand on her hip, feigning offense. "Girl, please. I can be chill when I need to be," she replied, but the glint in her eyes suggested otherwise.

Rorie sighed, giving her friend a look. "I mean it, Ki. The last thing I want is for this to turn into a showdown."

KiKi held up her hands in a placating gesture. "Promise, I'll keep it cool. I’m just here to have your back. Besides, I’m curious to see what Deja’s got to say for herself."

Rorie gave a reluctant nod, knowing KiKi meant well. She’d always been fiercely protective, and Rorie knew that no matter what, KiKi wouldn’t let anyone disrespect her or her family. Still, she wasn’t entirely sure how Deja would react to seeing KiKi there.

"So, what’s the plan with her anyway?" KiKi asked, lowering her voice slightly. "You really think she’s trying to play nice?"

Rorie bit her lip, glancing over at Lewis, who was now trying to entertain Lyric with exaggerated car sounds. "I don’t know. She claims she wants to talk about boundaries, but I’m not sure I buy it. It feels like another setup."

KiKi snorted. "Wouldn’t put it past her. But hey, at least you’ve got Julian there to keep things on track. And me, if she tries any funny business."

Rorie managed a small smile, grateful for KiKi’s support even if she was apprehensive about the meeting. "Yeah. Julian’s already set some strict ground rules. We’re meeting in a neutral space, and he’s keeping it professional. He won’t let her turn this into another circus."

"Good," KiKi replied, crossing her arms as her gaze turned serious. "Just remember, she doesn’t get to call the shots here. You’re in control."

Rorie took a deep breath, nodding. "Right. I just don’t want her stirring up drama when all I want is to focus on this weekend with my family."

KiKi gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "You’ve got this, Ro. And if she steps out of line? Well, I’ll be there, chillin'... but keeping an eye out."

Rorie laughed, the tension easing slightly as she glanced back at Lewis, who had Lyric balanced on his shoulders now, the little boy giggling as he held onto his father’s head.

"Thanks, Ki. I appreciate you being here," Rorie said softly.

KiKi smirked. "Girl, you know I’d be here even if you didn’t want me to. Now, let’s enjoy the day and not let her mess with our vibe. Besides, your little one looks like he’s having the time of his life."

After watching Lewis' Free Practice, Rorie found herself alongside Mick Schumacher at the Tommy Hilfiger pop-up store in the paddock. Their easy rapport made the ambassador duties feel less like work and more like hanging out with a friend.

"The new collection's fire," Mick said, adjusting the collar of his Tommy polo. "But I think Lyric's stealing the show."

He wasn't wrong. Lyric, now dressed in a miniature version of the collection, was charming everyone who passed by.

After wrapping up the promotional duties, Rorie made her way to watch the F1 Academy practice sessions with Susie Wolff. The sight of female drivers commanding their machines around the track filled her with pride.

"It's amazing to see how far we've come," Susie remarked, her Scottish accent warm with emotion. "These girls are the future."

Lyric, perched on Rorie's hip, pointed excitedly at the cars. "Fast! Mama, fast!"

"That's right, baby. They're very fast," Rorie agreed, pressing a kiss to his temple.

Later, they ran into Kevin Magnussen near the garages. Lyric immediately perked up, looking around expectantly.

"L'waura?" he asked, his little face scrunching up in confusion when he didn't spot his friend.

Kevin laughed warmly. "She's with Mommy today, but we can FaceTime her later. Would you like that?"

"Yes!" Lyric clapped his hands excitedly.

The lightness of the afternoon stood in stark contrast to what awaited Rorie that evening with Deja. She wanted nothing more than to end whatever bullshit Deja was on, but she knew that not everything will be easy coming from her.

____________________________________________________

Later that evening, away from the excitement of the track, Rorie arrived at the offices of Ocasio & Associates, one of Julian's trusted colleagues in Miami. The sleek high-rise office space felt appropriately neutral and formal for what was about to unfold.

Julian was already there, reviewing documents when Rorie walked in with KiKi. They settled into the conference room, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the Miami skyline at dusk.

When Deja walked in with her lawyer, her face immediately darkened at the sight of KiKi. "What is she doing here?"

"I'm here for moral support, honey," KiKi drawled, her tone deceptively sweet.

Julian cleared his throat. "Let's focus on why we're here."

What followed was an hour of increasingly tense discussion. Deja insisted on rehashing her version of events from All-Star Weekend 2017, her voice growing more animated as she described what she claimed was a meaningful connection with Lewis.

"We had something real," Deja insisted, leaning forward in her chair. "Before she came along—"

"You're delusional," Rorie cut in, her patience finally snapping. "You had a drunken hookup - if that even happened - and now you're trying to rewrite history."

"You don't know what—"

"No, you don't know what you're talking about," Rorie stood up, her voice firm and final. "Julian, we're done here. No more settlement talks. Take her ass to court and drag her to fucking filth."

As they left the office building, KiKi fell into step beside her. "You good?"

Rorie nodded, her jaw set with determination. "I'm done playing nice. She wants to live in her fantasy world? Fine. But she's about to learn what reality feels like."

As they walked down the quiet Miami street, the humid evening air thick around them, Rorie suddenly felt her stomach lurch. Without warning, she lurched toward a nearby trash can, barely making it before emptying the contents of her stomach.

"Rorie!" Julian rushed out after them, producing a clean handkerchief from his pocket. He handed it to her as she straightened up, her hand trembling slightly as she wiped her mouth.

KiKi was at her side instantly, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her back. "Girl, are you okay? What's going on?"

Rorie took a deep breath, trying to settle her churning stomach. "I'm fine," she managed. "Just stress, I think. This whole situation with Deja…"

"Nah, you need to calm down," KiKi said firmly, keeping her hand on Rorie's back. "This isn't worth getting sick over. Remember that wine bar we used to hit up when I lived down here? The one with the amazing cheese plates?"

Despite her queasy stomach, Rorie felt a small smile tugging at her lips. "God, that sounds perfect right now."

"Then let's go," KiKi decided, already steering Rorie toward the street to hail a car. "Julian, you good?"

Julian nodded, still looking concerned. "Call me if you need anything. And Rorie? Try not to worry about Deja. We've got this handled."

As they climbed into the car, Rorie leaned back against the cool leather seats, grateful for KiKi's steady presence beside her. Maybe what she needed right now wasn't more strategy sessions or legal talks. Maybe what she needed was just this - a night with her best friend, some good wine, and a chance to remember who she was beyond all the drama.

"Thanks, Ki," she said softly as the car pulled away from the curb.

KiKi squeezed her hand. "Always got your back, girl. Always."

TO BE CONTINUED....

[badassbutterfly1987]

(ID: A light brown-skinned teenager standing in a forest of birch trees. The viewpoint is from the ground looking up at the girl. Her brown hair is pinned up and braided around her head. She wears a white suit with a white furred cloak that is wrapped around her and extends into the foreground. There are splotches of blood on her upper body, on the knife in her right hand, and drenching her lower legs and entirely covering the lower half of her cloak, resembling a river of blood extending from her. End ID.)

The child queen of a world born anew!! What will she do!

[nereidprinc3ss]

just like heaven

in which flirty!reader finally confesses her feelings to a pining spencer reid after a night out. she's slightly buzzed. it's complicated.

fluff (some angst) warnings/tags: fem!reader, reader drinks alcohol, dirty jokes, so much flirting and banter, some arguing kinda, but spencer is such a gentleman, everyone gets flustered at least once, they really wanna kiss, happy ending a/n: gif :D I hope u like this! not bandages reader but like same vibes. like an AU for my AU

“Emily!”

You drawl the ee sound long, the same way you reach across the table and wiggle your fingers at her half-empty glass. Thin dark brows dart up beneath that glossy sweep of reddish-black hair. 

“Oh, wow. That’s unsettling. What?”

It’s been at least an hour since you had a drink of your own, but enough alcohol is still flowing through your veins so as to render her offensive comment inoffensive. You love Emily. You love the Tequila Sunrise sweating onto the sticky table in front of her which she’s not going to finish. 

“I think she wants your drink,” JJ assists, cheek balanced tipsily on a propped up fist. 

“Uh…”

Emily’s doe-sweet eyes flash uncertainly behind you. 

“I’m basically sober,” you insist, laying your head on your outstretched arm and letting your hair cascade as you bat your lashes, offering her your sweetest smile. “Please, Em?”

It does not go according to plan. She scoffs. 

“Are you flirting with me right now?”

“... Would that work?”

“Oh my god, just… cool it with the fuck-me eyes,” she laughs. “You can have the drink.”

You sit up, turning just barely over your shoulder to address Spencer. 

“See? Emily buys me drinks. Basically.”

She slides the drink toward you, with a subtle roll of her eyes that you choose to interpret as affectionate under the dim canned lighting. As you sit back, content and free drink in hand, her eyes slide to Reid in the seat next to you, brows arching. 

“Are you sure you can handle her all on your own?”

“Handle me?” You frown deeply as Emily gathers her purse and slides out of the booth, followed shortly thereafter by JJ. “I don’t need handling.”

“Then why do you have a handler?” JJ teases.

You slump against the worn vinyl, stirring what is mostly orange juice. 

“He most definitely is not my handler. He’s my science project.”

“I got it,” Spencer assures your friends, with his trademark flattened smile. You can’t help but watch him with a grin of your own, flipping the straw in the drink and nibbling on the end until it’s stained sparkly pink. Goodbyes are issued, and soon it’s just the two of you. Perhaps it’s a tipsy delusion, but you think he seems to relax slightly when you’re alone. His eyes are easy on you. “You know, you’re not actually decreasing the amount of germ transmission by using the other end of the straw.”

“Mm… pretty sure alcohol kills germs, Doctor.”

At that, you giggle. 

Doctor. 

Soon you’re covering your face and having a full-fledged laugh attack. 

“What?” Spencer asks. From between your fingers you can see that he’s smiling guardedly, brows furrowed in a way that reminds you he’s often worried about being the butt of a joke and not knowing it. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” you assure him quickly, gathering yourself. “I just… can’t believe you’re a doctor.”

“Why not? What’s so unbelievable about that?”

“You’re so young.”

And handsome. 

“I’m not that young. I’m older than you,” he defends. Only by a handful of years, but you know he’s defensive about his age after a lifetime of being told he looks young for—well, everything. 

“You’re… 32?”

That’s not right—you know as soon as you say it.

“Thirty three.” He very politely captures a hand—your hand—that had at some point ended up a little too close to his eye. You’re not sure what you planned to do once it got there—you don’t recall moving it at all. 

“Sorry.” You take your hand back, choosing to instead fiddle with a button on his coat ponderously. “33 is a good age.”

“Yeah?” Spencer laughs, angling his head as if to regard you from a new angle. It warms you all over. Burns in some places, like a shot of liquor down your throat. Makes you just as dizzy, too. “You have a lot of experience being thirty three?”

“No, I just…” your cheeks heat and you wrestle with a timid smile, averting your gaze and dropping your hand for fear his grin this close up might actually kill you. “I like 33 year old you.”

“So… you didn’t like me when I was thirty two?”

“Stop,” you beg, a self-effacing laugh into the cup of your palm. “I can’t banter. I’m not at peak performance.”

The truth of it hits you, and you sigh, folding your arms on the table and resting your cloudy head. Only then, from this new perspective, do you allow yourself to fully admire Spencer Reid. He is smiling at you, and your heart does skip a beat like you’ve got some school girl crush. These days he wears his hair falling over his face, messy on purpose, and always smells so nice. You wonder when he started caring about that stuff. You want to see what products are in his shower, and learn why he chose that cologne, or how he decides to pair his socks. He probably has some sort of algorithm. 

“Spencer,” you begin, the serious quality of your voice diminished by the smush of your cheek against your arm. Still, he tries to respect your tone, zipping the smile and answering with a playfully twitching brow. 

“Hm?”

You want to push the hair out of his face. Why is he looking down at you like that? Like he likes you?

“You’re a very good handler.”

His eyes narrow as he considers this, but the glimmer in them could still spark a forest fire. You’re probably grinning like an idiot. 

“Oh, I couldn’t handle you. You know this.”

You hum thoughtfully. 

“I bet you could. Wanna try?”

Spencer shakes his head, huffing a laugh through his nose. To his credit, your bold-face innuendos don’t always send him into a tailspin these days. 

Just sometimes. 

“You need a ride home, don’t you?”

You sit back up, stretching your arms out. 

“You don’t have to. I could get a cab.”

“I know,” he assures you, still a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. Why. Is. He. Looking. At. You. Like. That?

“Will you let me drive?”

“I would. But, you know, my affairs aren’t in order.”

You roll your eyes as he gets out of the booth and offers you a hand. 

“I’m not that drunk.”

Spencer just wiggles his fingers. 

“If you can recite the alphabet in reverse you can drive my car.”

You roll your eyes again. Obviously he’s fucking with you, because 1. He’d never let you drive even the slightest bit inebriated, and 2. He knows you can’t say your ABC’s backward when you’re dead sober. 

The truth is you’re more buzzed than anything. You could get up and walk fine without any assistance, but he’s offering you his hand, so you take it. After you’re standing, you wonder how many excuses could you possibly dream up to get it back in yours. Should you pretend to fall?

No. Not quite worth your self respect. 

“You know…” you muse, reveling in the brief brush of him against your back as he holds open the door for you, “it’s a good thing you didn’t become, like… a medical doctor.”

Now walking side by side on the street, he glances over at you, a poorly veiled smile on his perfect face. Like a trap door brushed over with a few leaves. He wants you to see it.

“Why’s that?”

A breeze ruffles your hair. The brisk cold and the walk seem to be making things crisper already. You shrug, bunching your sleeves in your hands against the increasingly frigid night. The skirt and tights you’d chosen were perfect for a stuffy dive bar. Not so much for an early DC spring. 

“Nobody wants a hot doctor.”

He looks down at the sidewalk, hands pocketed, but the curve of his lips doesn’t lessen.  

“Hm. You’re drunker than I thought.”

“What? No! I’m—barely!” Again he laughs at you, and again you flush, looking down and counting the cracks in the pavement as you journey slowly under the bath of yellow street lights. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you called me hot.” He sounds almost delighted as he grins sheepishly around the final word. 

You snort. You’ve said worse things, more graphic things within the past few hours alone—but you suppose they’ve all been more like dirty jokes than compliments. 

“Yeah. You think you aren’t?”

Sandy locks fall side to side as he carefully measures a response. His cologne is warm—sort of smoky. It’s very nice. He doesn’t seem like he’d wear cologne. Have you already thought about his cologne tonight? Once was probably enough. 

“I just think sober you wouldn’t have said that.”

“But don’t you prefer it when I’m aggressively flirting with you? I mean, I know I do it sober too, but it's not as good, right?”

A silent stretch begins and shortly ends, and you don’t mind it. Right now, everything is a winding path through the woods. You’re willing to follow any fork off the trail if it means spending more time with him. 

“I guess I wasn’t aware that was what you were doing.”

“Oh, bullshit,” you laugh, and it echoes through the canyon of a nearby alley, “I’m not subtle, Reid.”

“I don’t know! You—for all I know that’s just how you are! I mean, what did Emily call them earlier, your—your fuck-me eyes?”

Like he does when he’s flustered, he gets shrill and stuttery. It’s nice to be reminded that he’s still a complete dork on the inside—and the outside, too, as pink stains his cheeks like watercolor. You smirk at him in your periphery, watching him against the darkened city backdrop. 

“You noticed those, huh?”

“No,” he denies forcefully, but his brow is pinched like he doesn’t quite believe himself, “I mean, yes, I notice when you look at other people like that, but that’s not what I would call them—I wouldn’t call them��anything, I’d just call them your eyes, you know? Not that you always look like you’re soliciting… the implication isn’t there, it’s just—I notice when you flirt with other people! With Emily, and Derek, like, not even half an hour ago. You’re lucky Hotch wasn’t there. You’d probably have given him a heart attack.”

“I’m more concerned with yours, to be honest.”

“My heart is fine,” he laughs. “Worry about my dignity.”

“Hm. I was going for both. Guess I’d better try harder.”

You don’t notice you’ve come to a stop until you’re face to face in front of his vintage Volvo. Spencer is standing closer than usual, hands perpetually stuck in that nice wool coat. He’s all windswept and pretty, smiling crookedly and eyes sparkly with humor. A strand of hair sticks to your lip gloss, and you brush it away, tucking it behind your ear and squinting up at him against the chilly breeze. The flush is either from the nip in the air or your brazen flirting. 

“Or, you could go easy on me. I’m frail. Like a… sickly Victorian child.”

Again his brow knits and he smiles like he knows what he’s said is ridiculous. But his tone is gentler now. Softer. Invites you to fall in deeper and see what you might find. 

“And ruin all my fun? Toughen up, Reid.”

For a long moment, you don’t get a response—only his eyes, soft and thoughtful on you, before you’re distracted by the sweet bow of his lips. If he notices you’re staring, it doesn’t seem to bother him. 

But something evidently does, as when he next speaks, it’s troubled. Curiosity straining against a rope that says maybe it’s better if I don’t ask. 

“Do… do you actually flirt with me? When you’re sober, I mean.”

He expects to be ridiculed. In his most vulnerable moments, he’s still bracing for rejection—turning his cheek slightly so he’s ready for the stinging blow. It opens a fissure in your chest. You frown, and speak gently. 

“Yeah, Spence. More than anyone else. You really don’t notice?”

Sometimes his face is so expressive, in the pull of his brow and tightening of his eyes and the way he wets his lips. But he probably doesn’t know that. And he can’t seem to meet your eyes, instead choosing to study the leather of your heeled boots. Sounds of late-night traffic, of tires on wet asphalt buffer the pauses between sentences. 

“I notice… when you talk to Derek and Emily and JJ and Penelope the exact same way you talk to me. I didn’t think…”

Another gap in conversation, filled with the chatter of some group pouring out of a bar somewhere. You realize he’ll need some gentle prompting to bridge it. 

“You didn’t think what?”

When his eyes flash back up to meet yours, you have a feeling like he’s shutting the pipes off. 

“It’s—uh—” he clears his throat— “it’s not important, we can—we’ll talk about it a different time. We should—”

“Wait.”

He’d been turning away but snaps right back to look at you as if on command, wearing a brand new face that tells you he’d like to wipe the past minute or so completely away. 

“Yeah?”

“Spencer. I wanna know what you were going to say.”

“I told you. It’s nothing.”

“You didn’t tell me. You mumbled evasively and walked away. We were in the middle of something and I want to know what you were going to say. Please?”

“Well, you’re drunk,” he finally sighs, and it’s a bit sharp. Stinging. 

“I am not drunk,” you defend, and it feels true, with a bitter cold lashing at your cheek and blood heightened from the walk. “You know I’m not too drunk to have a coherent conversation. Why are you being weird?”

“Because I asked you to drop it! We can’t have this conversation right now, all right? I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Your stomach flips, and your breath comes a little heavier. Spencer is clearly frustrated with you. Maybe being on the wrong end of this mild vexation, and so suddenly, should make you feel guilty, or some kind of bad—but all you feel is a sort of buzz in the tips of your fingers and the thrum of your heart, something deeper than excitement pooling in your veins at having inspired this sort of passion. It means he feels something. Something for you. 

“I’m sorry,” he tries halfheartedly, unable or more likely unwilling to stay angry at you for very long, “you didn’t—”

“What conversation?”

It’s jarring how quickly this has spun on its head. The very air you’re breathing seems to have changed. The metropolitan soundscape is a rife undercurrent of tension and louder from all the words unsaid. 

Finally he swallows. 

“There’s no conversation. I’m—it was a poor choice of wording. I just meant we should get you home.”

Before he can make it to the driver’s side door, you’re calling out. 

“You think I don’t like you. And I just flirt with you ‘cause I flirt with everyone.”

Spencer stops, and turns to face you once more, sighing and head dropped to one side like you’re doing something incredibly inconsiderate. He’s never looked at you like that before, but you don’t let it shake you. 

“That’s what this is about, right?”

He says your name, but you don’t let him get further than that. 

“No, I think there is a conversation here, and saying I’m not sober enough to have it isn’t fair and you should have said something before and I think you should just say it now.”

You’re pushing his buttons with a heavy hand, though your own voice shakes. He’s feeling it too—you’ve never been so short with each other. His voice is raised. 

“What am I supposed to say?” 

It boils over. 

“That you like me!”

It rings. 

Then it’s silent. 

His face is mostly blank. A little sorrowful around his eyes. 

It’s cold, jumping into the deep end like this. 

“We can’t talk about this right now,” he finally says, glancing to the side as if to suggest a situation the size of the whole city. 

“Spencer, I—”

“It’s impossible to have a meaningful discussion until your judgement isn’t impaired, otherwise it’s—”

“I am telling you that I flirt with you because I really like you.”

“I—”

It appears you’ve truly thrown him for a loop.  For a moment his jaw works at nothing, a soliloquy of words go unspoken, and then he’s stuttering and fumbling for the right thing to say, looking everywhere but at you. 

“I can’t—that’s—regardless of whether or not it’s even true—”

“It is true.”

“Could you—stop?” He pleads. “You can’t tell me that. I mean, the power imbalance when you’ve been drinking and I haven’t—it’s—I mean, it's coercive. Because I brought it up, I asked an inappropriate question—or at least started to ask it, and you—not that it was your fault, I’m the responsible party in this instance, but if tomorrow you realize you never wanted to tell me—so I have to take that with a grain of salt. I’m just—I have to pretend I didn’t hear that, alright? And you can’t say it again.”

He’s ridiculous. You shift your weight onto one foot casually. 

“That’s not very nice. I just confessed to having a huge crush on you and you’re gonna leave me hanging?”

There is an undeniable sort of pleasure in the bright of his eyes, and you phrased it that way on purpose, just to see him preen and glow—also to see if you could make him trip all over himself some more. Right now, despite the liminal space your relationship may or may not be occupying, you’re teasing him like you always do. Like he’s a friend, because he is. Before anything else. 

He tries to glower, barely. 

“Were you listening to me at all?”

“It was hard with all the stammering. I thought you might pass out.”

“I might,” he grumbles, and the admission pleases you greatly. Your lips tug as you admire him for a moment—watch his defenses go down and his features ease into something more inviting. 

God, maybe you really had been too hard on him. Maybe he really didn’t expect that you would like him back. 

You’re struck with the need to reassure. 

A dampened clack emits from your shoe where the heel hits the ground as you step down off the curb. 

“You know… I do like you. A lot. I mean it. And I’m glad I told you, because... you like me too, right?”

He raises his brows, like don’t do anything stupid, as you approach unhurriedly. It’s good to see that you haven’t broken his spirit completely. 

Less than a foot away, you stop. Close enough to be in his space. Too far for him to have the grounds to step back. 

His eyes are careful on you, analytical as always, constantly predicting an infinite number of outcomes to any given scenario. That’s how he keeps his footing in the world. But he’s never very good at predicting you. And it helps that his razor sharp intellect is dulled, some, with affection. Attraction. 

It shows in his eyes. He’ll let you push boundaries he knows he shouldn’t. More so if you keep speaking to him this softly. Almost whispering.

“Tell me you like me, Spencer.”

Because he hasn’t yet. All the heavy lifting has been done for him, and that just won’t do. 

First, he opens his mouth, and you watch the internal debate, a million things he could say, spinning round in his eyes like pinwheels. Rules, and buts, and caveats.

In the end, he just clears his throat. Speaks in the same secretive tone. Low enough to be intimate.

“I like you.”

Such a simple thing has never made you feel so airy before in your life. You steal another glance at his lips.

“So it’s really not that complicated. We could probably just kiss.”

He tinges pink.

“We definitely can’t.”

“You also said we couldn’t talk about it, and yet…”

“Talking is different. As far as I’m concerned, nothing you say to me tonight is binding. Whatever just transpired happened completely off the record. We can… talk about it tomorrow, but right now, you and I are friends.”

You shrug.

“Friends can kiss.”

“No, they can’t,” he says definitively, though not without a healthy dose of sardonic self-awareness and a dark smile. His hand finds your waist, and it’s glancing, if anything a light push, but you’re delighted nonetheless. Almost as pleased as if he really had kissed you. “It’s cold. I’m ready to leave.”

You’ve pushed him enough for one night. And it is cold. So you shuffle around the car with quick steps to the passenger side door, hooking your fingers under the biting metal handle and waiting for him to unlock the vehicle. 

You’re shivering as your thighs press against leather upholstery, only the thinnest layer of synthetic material protecting your legs. Spencer is already starting the car, but the engine is too cold to bother turning the heat on yet. 

“I think it’s colder in here than outside. Look at my hand.” You hold it up for him, and it is discolored, waxy, as he mindlessly takes it between his own much warmer ones. “I thought alcohol was supposed to keep you warm. Didn’t that chef on the Titanic survive hours in the ocean because he was hammered?”

“That’s a myth. Not the chef—he did survive, but it was a complete anomaly. Alcohol causes vasodilation in the dermis layer of the skin, so you feel warmer, but it draws blood flow away from your internal organs and significantly raises your likelihood of developing hypothermia.”

Does he notice how he’s holding your hand? Carefully pressing his thumbs to the center of your palm and pushing up through your love and life lines, cupping the fingers, before sandwiching them between his own and generating friction the way a child furiously rolls a play-doh worm?

“I guess I’m really not that drunk, then.”

He’s not expecting it, and maybe he doesn’t know what to make of your exceptionally gentle tone at first. It was a mistake, you think, as he relinquishes his hold on your hand, and you curl it to retain the memory of his warmth. But then he tucks hair behind your ear, like he’s done once or twice before, and smiles in a way you don’t quite understand. 

“I know.”

You won’t push him. You won’t ask for anything else, and you won’t demand an explanation. Spencer is special. It can all wait, because you have something good with him already. Something important. Something like holding hands. 

It comes as a surprise when he leans across the console, and you lean in a trance to meet him, and another surprise when he gently redirects, pressing his lips to your cheek, close enough to match the corners of your mouths and nothing more. 

You’d let him do it a hundred times over, but he draws back after a fraction of a lingering second, and finds your hand to stroke the back of it, forgotten in your lap. 

“You said no kissing,” you murmur, as if in a dream. If you had the wherewithal to be embarrassed maybe you wouldn’t be ogling so much. 

“Compromise.”

If anything, you should be the cheek-kisser. But there will be time to feel slighted about that later. Time to amend. For now, you look ahead robotically. 

“Is there a rule against friendly hand-holding?”

“Probably,” he says.

But he lets you hold his hand in your lap the whole drive to your apartment, anyway. 

[targaryenluvs]

TOO SWEET / SOULLESS!SAM WINCHESTER

PAIRINGS: Soulless Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: You were simply just trying to get through your day, he found himself enticed by your kindness and unwilling to let go.

WARNINGS: Innocence kink, teasing, flattery, size diff kink, dacryphillia, hair pulling, non-con/dub-con, rough, angry Sam, p in v, fingering, cream pie, babying, virgin reader, blood, scratches

WORDCOUNT: 3K Words

A/N: I can’t just write a sweet Sam fic and not balance out the scales! This is a bit self indulgent so short!reader. Also I’m not an avid drinker so bare with me at the bar 😭 @lady-ashfade here it is!!

Gif not mine, credits to the owner!

A03 Link

You hadn’t meant to bump into him, no one bumps into people on purpose. But you were scared of running out of time before the shop closed and weren’t really caring about your surroundings.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry!” You immediately apologised whilst grabbing everything that had dropped to the floor. His hands grazed yours and you froze up, making eye contact with the man. “No, it was my fault.” His voice mocked the concern in yours, even if it didn’t reach his eyes.

You laughed, “Are you kidding? I totally bumped into you, I wasn’t watching where I was going.” You stood up with all your belongings in hand and with a smile. “I should be on my way. Again, I’m so sorry.” Sam shook his head, “You don’t need to keep apologising.”

Your lips pressed into a tight smile as you nodded, “Okay.” The awkwardness of your interaction was practically unbearable. “I’ll be on my way, have a nice day.” Sam watched as you walked away, and he couldn’t help but laugh. Not out of happiness but intrigue.

He wanted more, and he wasn’t going to stop until he did.

You were sweet, unnaturally so, he wanted a taste.

So with out your knowledge of course, he followed you. For the rest of the day he was right behind you, and you were blissfully unaware. You finished up with your groceries about an hour later and finally crossing off everything to do that day.

As you stood near the exit with your cart you couldn’t help but sigh. Seven bags, loaded, and paper with only two arms. Your car was in the shop so you’d put off a lot of things, which resulted in them piling up.

So you decided for a delivery instead, but you had to wait until the truck came back to allow them to pick your groceries up and eventually drop them off. You wondered if they’d give you a ride in all honesty.

You waited outside the doors whilst reading a magazine you bought, which was surprisingly interesting.

You really should be more aware of your surroundings.

“Do you need some help?” You glanced upwards at the sound of a familiar voice, the man from before. He was so tall and pretty, “Oh! No, I’m just waiting.” You smiled widely as you placed the magazine inside a bag. “I didn’t catch your name back there, I’m Y/n.” Sam smiled, “Nice to meet you Y/n, I’m Sam.” His eyes trailed down, you were wearing a low cut dress, it sure as hell suited you.

“Completing some shopping are we?” He chuckled at the notion, Sam, grocery shopping like a normal person. “I was about to, until I saw your gorgeous self.” His words made you giggle, you could feel your face grow hotter. “Oh god, you are— that’s so sweet.” Your hands intertwined with eachother as you looked down to your feet, a strand falling in front of your eyes.

Sam’s hand darted out to tuck it behind your ear, “Oh, thank you.” Your voice was sweet, he wondered if you were this shy in bed. “No problem. I was wondering—,”

“Ma’am?” A worker came outside with a smile, “Trucks here, would you like me to unpack it all for you?” You nodded quickly, “Oh yes, please.” You were always so polite. “Someone as pretty as you shouldn’t be doing it all herself am I right?” Sam’s jaw tightened as he watched your face flush, “I’ll help her unload.”

You both turned to Sam, “No you don’t need to seriously.” The look in Sam’s eyes was unsettling, and you thought the worker noticed it too. “I’ll help.” It wasn’t an ask, he was telling you. And you were the furthest thing from confrontational, so you let him take the cart. The worker passed a clipboard to you to fill out your address, Sam passed it onto the driver.

Sam couldn’t figure out for the life of him why he wanted you so badly, he couldn’t care less usually about some random girl. But there was something about you that drew him to you, you were so, innocent. In need. And he wanted to sink his teeth into you, badly.

Once he was done you offered him a tight lipped smile, unsure of his mood, “Thank you Sam, you didn’t have to at all.” He knew he didn’t have to, “It’s nothing really, you needed the help.” Sam couldn’t help but grin when he noticed you quite literally straining your neck to look up at him. You were so, pocket sized.

As if I can’t load groceries into a trunk? His words made you seem weak, but you brushed it off. “I don’t how to repay—,”

Bad choice of words sweetheart.

“Let me take you out.”

Somehow you’d managed to let him smooth talk you into a hang out. So here you were, sitting with him at the bar. Sam was anything but boring. He had about a million comments locked and loaded for every second. You found yourself enthralled by him, it’d been far too long since you enjoyed yourself on a night out.

“You’re lying!”

“I’m not, at all. Believe what you want Sweetheart.” The nickname made you want to kick your feet and smile. Sam was so, amazing. He was tall, handsome, funny and kind. You could’ve maybe added chivalrous to the list. Sam waved over the bartender, he’d finished his third beer whilst you nursed a Cosmo.

Sam raised an eyebrow at your drink, you’d had it for about twenty minutes and before it a coke. “Pacing yourself are we?” The glass turned in your hands as you sighed, “I don’t drink that often honestly.”

“No?” Sam feigned interest, “Yeah, I’m more of the designated driver. I find it better to have fun sober in all honesty rather than waking up with a pounding headache and unaware of my surroundings.” Getting blackout drunk wasn’t on everyone’s to do lists which was respectable he guessed. “Good girl.”

The words made your eyes widen as you took another sip, Sam noticed. He found your shyness cute. Usually by know a girl was pawing at him, hinting towards a get away to her place or at least flirting. But you were just, talking. Like you wanted to get to know him rather than fuck him.

He found it adorable at the start, you barely knew what you were doing. But with your tits on display, and him being more than tall enough to look down your dress, he wanted nothing more than to get out of the place.

It’d been thirty minutes since his third beer. He was on his seventh and you were on another coke. Sam was so close to blowing up. The way you looked up at him, when your lips chased after the liquid in your cup, and your cute little body in that short dress.

You glanced at the clock on the wall and gasped, you had work you needed to submit by 11 and it was already 10. “I completely lost track of time, oh my god!” Sam watched as you smiled at the bartender, swiftly tossing down a thirty as you swung your bag over your shoulder.

Sam placed his beer down, undeniably irritated by your sudden departure, “Thank you so much for such a nice night Sam, it was really nice getting to know you. I hope we can maybe see eachother again?” You barely waited for an answer before placing a peck on his cheek.

“I’ll see you around?”

It was the last thing you said before you bolted out the door. Sam was surprisingly stunned, within a minute you’d upped and left him alone. Not once did you overtly flirt or bat your eye lashes, it was honestly refreshing. A challenge is what he saw you as and a kind man is what saw you in him. How wrong you were, and how badly he wanted you.

Sam downed the rest of his drink before deciding, he was coming after you.

The night air nipped at your bare skin, you’d idiotically forgone a jacket or shawl. All you wanted was to get home and debrief with your friend who was proud of you for finally going out with someone. You really did enjoy yourself with Sam, but at the same time in your opinion there was something off about him.

He’d make a good friend.

As you entered your apartment you immediately sighed, if there was something you loved more than shopping or going out, it was your home. You quickly removed your heels and placed your bag on the counter before moving to your room. Makeup wipes disposed of, clothes picked out and the weekend was tomorrow.

You decided to wear a simple gown since it was a bit too warm in your place. As you were about to turn down the heat—

The lights went out.

Your hands trailed along the walls until you reached your living room curtains, thankfully you lived in the city. As you looked out you realised it was probably only your building. A creaking from behind caused you to turn sharply, “Hello?” No response. You slowly made your way to the kitchen, grabbing a flashlight from your drawer.

The living room seemed empty, shadows drawn out by the light. Another creak came, but closer this time, “If there’s someone here, I’m so close to calling the cops.”

You screamed as you heard a chuckle from behind you, “How are you going to call without a phone?” You knew that voice, “Sam?” He stepped out from behind you with a wide grin, his eyes were trained on you, like a predator. The way he stared sent shivers down your spine, “What the hell are you doing here? How did you even—,”

“I saw your address on the delivery sheet. You really shouldn’t just pass around personal details sweetheart.” You swallowed before backing up, he continued walking forwards, “I— I didn’t show it you on purpose.” Sam shook his head disapprovingly as he tutted, “It’s no excuse, it was reckless of you. Imagine what would’ve happened if the wrong person saw?”

The tears were welling quickly, this was not the Sam you’d met, the one that you laughed and drunk with. This Sam was intimidating, “You are the wrong person.”

Your back was up against the wall, “Ouch, I wasn’t the wrong person when you needed help right? I wasn’t the wrong person when you wanted to go out. You’re a bitch, you know that? Wearing that little dress, that black lace and leaving me by myself. What was so important that you had to go? Or do you just get kicks out of leaving guys high and dry?”

You shook your head vehemently, tears dropping down your cheeks. Sam’s thumb caressed your cheek whilst the other traced upwards, “No.” You cried out, “No?” Sam mocked as he raised his eyebrows, “No to what sweetie? No to being a slut or something else?” His fingers ghosted over your panties as you jerked your hips upwards, “Sensitive aren’t you, not so sure if you’re a slut anymore Y/n/n.”

You refrained from puking at the nickname, “Something else.” Sam smirked as he took you in, teary, puffy eyes with a tear stained face. You struggled with getting your words out, his presence was overwhelming. You knew you couldn’t actually put up a fight, this man was a giant. And he’d absolutely crush you, no chance.

“No to this?” His fingers slipped your panties to the side and laughed when you began to sob into his shoulder. His finger presses against your clit as a gasp falls from your lips, “Can’t tell me you don’t want it when you’re acting like this Y/n/n.” You cringed at the lewd squelch that came from you.

Sam groaned as your fingertips dug into his biceps, “Sammy please.” He wanted to hit you the second you called him Sammy, but the wide eyes that stared up at him were too cute. “Tell me, tell Sammy what you need.” It was tedious at this point, his fingers had withdrawn from your clit, his touch was light and never where you needed it to be.

“Please just— just do something!” You wanted to cry even more, the apartment was warm and so were you. Your head was foggy, and all you could focus on was Sam’s large hands and thick fingers. “Please, I need you.” He pressed a finger to your clit and you moaned out, “Sammy!”

“You’re so wet Y/n/n, all for me yeah?” You were too far gone as he entered a finger, in and out. “When I say something,” Not even giving a minute to adjust, Sam added another finger as your fingernails scratched down his arms, “You respond.” His other hand came around your neck, his own fingernails imprint upon the smooth skin.

You whined at the loss of contact as Sam pulled out, feeling discomfort as you could feel your own slick coating your thighs, “Jump.” Sam had his hands on your ass as you jumped up, “Good girl.”

He laid you down on the bed before taking his own clothes off. You expected him to continue with fingering you but Sam had different plans. Because if there was one thing he put on top?

His own pleasure.

When you felt him rubbing his cock on your cunt, you immediately began to crawl away, “What do you think you’re doing Y/n/n?” Sam’s hands circled around your wrists as you squealed, his grip was tight and bruising.

“I’ve never…”

Oh this was too good. As if he wasn’t already having a good night. When you finally stopped fighting him, realising the stupidity of it, you looked at him.

His face was twisted in concern and you felt your heart swell, he was going to let you go. But then, you watched in horror as he began to laugh.

“Baby, you think I care? More fun for me.”

Your bedroom was filled with lewd sounds of skin and groans from Sam, your hands were pinned down above your head courtesy of Sam. He thrusted meanly and with so much force that you had scratched his back bloody.

“Shit Y/n/n, I knew you’d have a tight cunt but, fuck.”You hated him, how gorgeous he looked above you, how the sweat made his abs glisten and how your body reacted to his words.

Sam’s one hand was more than enough to hold both of yours, he traced your tits before pinching your nipple causing you to scream out. “Does it hurt? Poor baby.” He continued plunging into you, his dick twitched inside as he noticed the crimson on his dick.

Sam slowed his movements down as he noticed your eyes fluttering, “You keep your eyes on me Y/n. Close your eyes on me again and see what happens.” You quite literally couldn’t help it, Sam had already came inside you twice and your body had given up on fighting long ago.

“Please, just stop it Sam.” He scoffed at the plea, “What, I’m not Sammy anymore?” Sam teased as his hand came down to your clit, pressing down.

“This is all your fault y’know? Leaving me at the bar like I’m pathetic? Only pathetic thing here is you. Can’t even fight back now?” You barely managed to shake your head as Sam’s strong hands squeezed your hips before lifting and a slap landed on your ass.

“Cute little thing aren’t you?”

Sam pulled out before flipping you onto your stomach, pulling you back by your hips he ground against your ass. He prodded at your ass using your slick to stretch you out, “Cute ass too, maybe next time?” You shook your head at the notion, “Baby, Y/n/n you gotta use your words.”

He slid back into your tight cunt and groaned, “Fuck you’re so good. All— all for me.” You found yourself clutching onto the bed as he drove in and out mercilessly. You felt your legs begin to quiver as your cunt throbbed and clenched and you closed your eyes, trying your hardest to hold back. His hand tangled itself in your hair.

Sam’s hand on your ass kneaded and slapped, leaving it throbbing. “Fuck I can feel you, cum. Cum for me.” As much as you didn’t want to give him the pleasure of knowing you felt as if you were going to explode. Sam was there too, you could feel his hips falter and his grip on your hair tighten.

“You’re mine, fuck, You’re mine. You understand?” His voice whispered against your ears and then you felt it. Sam’s cock throbbed inside of you, you could feel it with how deep he was inside of you, and thick, hot, ropes of cum filling you up as he came.

Sam’s hand pressed down onto your stomach, “Feel that Y/n/n?” Sam’s voice was prominent by your ear, “Yes Sammy!” You exclaimed, it felt as if you were filled to the brim as he bottomed out in you.

He grinned before pulling out, you immediately collapsed onto the bed. You closed your eyes hoping it was over now. You jolted as you felt Sam’s fingers stuff his loads of cum back into you, “Keep that in there, or I’ll take you again.” Sam smiled as you nodded.

He surprisingly didn’t leave, instead he laid next to you. Sam had given you a break, two minutes was enough right?

Your peace was taken again as you felt a hand crawl around on your hip, “On second thought,”

“I might just take your ass now.”

[libingan]

— an unhealthy obsession.

warnings: stalking, dark themes, idk how to put warnings but both simon and the reader are obsessed with each other

a/n: part two, maybe??? idk, if you guys want something sexier just lmk ig

simon has been obsessing over you for months on end. ever since he saw you bartending at the local bar he and his buddies hung out at, he knew he just had to have you. your laugh, your smile, the way you effortlessly moved through the crowd—it all drew him in like a moth to a flame.

he followed you home that very same night to find out where you live. he watched you unlock the door to your apartment complex, making a mental note of the building. the next day, he began the process to secure a place in your building. he contacted the leasing office, inquiring about availability, and swiftly filled out the necessary paperwork: a rental application, proof of income, a background check consent form, and references. he signed the lease agreement with a sense of grim satisfaction, ensuring he was just a few doors down from you.

which is why simon is currently perched on a tree outside your window, giving him a clear view of your bedroom. he observed you intently, watching your favorite sitcom along with you. with a packed dinner and some coffee beside him, he sat silently, his eyes never leaving you as you laughed at the show. he memorized your expressions, your routines, the way you curled up on the couch.

he waited until you fell asleep, then sneaked into your room through your window, moving with the stealth of a shadow. he collected small belongings—items you might not notice missing right away. a pen from your desk, a single pair of underwear hidden at the back of your messy drawer. he snapped a few photos of you as well, capturing your peaceful, unaware state. these mementos were little pieces he could add to his growing shrine, a secret collection that fueled his obsession.

as he slipped back into the night, simon felt a twisted sense of satisfaction. he was getting closer, his presence in your life growing stronger with each passing day. it was only a matter of time before you would realize you were meant to be his.

unbeknownst to simon, his feelings aren’t as unrequited as he thinks.

you had been thanking your lucky stars the moment you saw simon enter the apartment a few doors down. it was hard to get any information about simon without directly asking him. so when you saw a familiar face and a familiar mohawk at the bar you worked at, you immediately recognized this guy as simon's friend.

as a bartender, you knew how to read people and manipulate the situation. you casually served him drinks, adding a little extra alcohol to his glass each time. it was a subtle touch, just enough to make him more talkative and less aware of his surroundings.

by the time he was noticeably tipsy, you engaged him in conversation, guiding it towards simon with a practiced ease. the more intoxicated he became, the more he spilled about simon—his habits, his quirks. but it was when the friend, in his drunken haze, let slip that simon was currently “crushing” on his neighbor that your interest piqued.

“aye, simon’s got this neighbor he’s obsessed wi’,” the friend slurred, his scottish accent thickening as he struggled to keep his balance. “they’ve got this smile that lights up the whole room, and they’re always, like, glowing, ye know? pretty as hell. simon’s always bleedin’ talkin’ about ’em.”

you pressed for more details, feigning curiosity as the friend described you. the way he spoke about your laugh, your style, even the way you move around your apartment—it was all too precise. you realized with a shiver that simon must be paying an unsettling amount of attention to you. but instead of fear, you felt a thrill.

the night ends and you’re thankful for the alcohol. that idiot—simon’s friend—won’t remember a damn thing he’s said tonight. it was a risky move, but it paid off. as you sent him off, a small, satisfied smile played on your lips. you had gained valuable insight into simon’s world and were one step closer to understanding him.

knowing he was so close made your heart race. that’s when you started to notice the little things—how he followed you home, the way he watched you from a distance. however, instead of fear, you felt a thrill. you’d leave your window slightly ajar, hoping he’d sneak in. you even left small items deliberately out of place, knowing he’d take them. hell, you even started sleeping in more… revealing clothes hoping that simon would touch you.

you found yourself dreaming of the day he’d make his move, the day he’d reveal himself to you. each night, as you settled into bed, you whispered a silent invitation, hoping he could hear it.

you were ready for him, ready to show him that his obsession was mirrored in your own heart.

[secondbeatsongs]

alright my friends.

it’s time.

look! the wall I always take my pictures in front of is blue now! so much has changed. aeons have passed.

this looks unsettling

ohhhh this is dry milk powder! I’d know that taste anywhere - I used to love the stuff, and it’s pretty flammable.

hmm. tastes like there’s a bit of salt in this, and definitely some poppy seeds. fascinating.

I was gonna just go right to cooking it but hahaha holy shit this looks so gross now that I've added water to it

look at it! it looks like a really scummy pond with dead bugs floating in it!

okay. waiting-four-minutes time

Jackie why are you squeaking at me. I’m not letting you climb in the dishwasher again

(look at all the claw marks on the woodwork! she's a menace)

hmmm.

it doesn’t have a strong smell - it smells mostly of noodles with just a hint of garlic and caraway underneath

oh! all the sauce sank to the bottom, but stirring it up there’s definitely some creaminess in the texture of the sauce

hmm. now that it’s stirred up and there’s steam coming off of it, it smells mostly like hot milk, but specifically the instant kind. unsurprising.

okay, I’ve put this off for long enough.

oh the noodle texture is particularly slimy. and...huh.

on their own, the noodles taste like nothing. maybe some milk taste, but not much otherwise. but when I get a bite that has lots of seeds in it, I definitely taste them! and some bits of onion, too.

it’s not outright disgusting though, so that’s something

does it taste like an everything bagel? no. it tastes like noodles with caraway, poppy, sesame, onion, and salt.

does the sauce taste like cream cheese? disappointingly, no! it’s got a milky creaminess, but no sour tang to it at all!

weirdly, I feel like if it did have that sourness, it might taste more like an everything bagel.

speaking of...

it’s time for some science

so the first thing I have is popcorn that’s supposed to be everything-bagel-and-cream-cheese flavored. my sibling gave me this specifically for this experiment, so everyone say thank you to them for enabling me.

interesting! this doesn’t taste bad. it still doesn’t taste like bagel (and actually hold on...no, the popcorn on its own doesn’t taste like bagel either, just garlic) but I think the flavoring on the popcorn has added some much-needed taste to the noodles, and so it mildly improves it. three stars

next for the cream cheese

oh, significantly improved! ...or maybe I just love cream cheese. it adds such a nice tangy creaminess to it, and balances out the spices and seeds. four stars.

still tastes nothing like a bagel, though.

and so we try: packaged everything bagel seasoning!

ah. this was a lateral move. the seasoning on its own tastes good, but when added to the noodles it does nothing but make it a bit more salty. one star.

so now, I have to reveal to you. that I have one final trick. one last thing I can do to attempt to make these noodles taste like an everything bagel.

behold: an everything bagel

(and it’s a fancy one too! not a pre-packaged one! it’s even got sunflower seeds on it!)

I’m going to try a couple bites without cream cheese, and then I’m gonna add cream cheese and try that

...

hmm...

conclusion: this was a waste of a good everything bagel

I liked the cream cheese variation better, simply because I stopped being able to taste the noodles at all. five stars!

so when I started out I said the noodles themselves were not outright disgusting, but I’ve changed my mind. after tasting this really good actual everything bagel, these noodles do disgust me. partially because of their flavor, but more because of their (and Nissin's) moral integrity.

how dare they claim that this is what an everything bagel tastes like. this is an insult to bagels everywhere, and I find it truly offensive.

...anyway I guess I’m gonna go eat the rest of this now, because this is my actual breakfast today.

welp.

oh god. and I still have two more of these cup noodles! I forgot; I bought extras just in case!

wish me luck -_-

[plaguedocboi]

Waterfalls! These gorgeous, powerful features of nature have been oddly lacking in my past lists, I think in part because their danger has always seemed more “obvious” to me. But doing the research for this list has reawakened my phobia of the water. Some of the later entries (numbers 9 and 10 especially) brought back anxieties that I thought I had gotten over long ago, but it was kind of thrilling. Like watching a particularly scary horror movie. Let’s get into it!

1. Underwater Waterfall, Mauritius

No, it’s not really a waterfall. It’s just an optical illusion caused by sand falling off the island’s slope down into the deeper water below. But it looks cool and scary, and the drop-off is 2.5 miles deep so that’s pretty impressive and I think it deserves at least a mention.

2. Blood Falls, Antarctica

There’s nothing particularly dangerous about this one, it just looks incredibly creepy. Obviously, it’s not actually blood, it’s just water that’s very rich in iron. But the really fascinating part of this waterfall is that its source seems to be a subglacial lake that contains a unique microbial ecosystem which has been isolated for two million years! These microbes are like nothing else we’ve ever observed in nature before. They live in an incredibly cold and extremely saline lake, and metabolize sulfur and iron ions with no oxygen present. They are being used as a model to study what life on ice-covered alien planets could be like.

3. Khone Falls, Laos

This waterfall is not nearly as famous as some of the others on this list, which is surprising because it’s the widest waterfall in the world, with an average width of six miles! Although not particularly tall, it is the second most powerful waterfall in the world, more than double the power of Niagara Falls! The Khone falls divide the Upper and Lower Mekong river, making travel by boat between the north and south impossible. What makes it kind of unsettling to me is that during the rainy seasons the falls are basically swallowed up by the river, turning them from a spectacular waterfall to a series of massive rapids.

4. Huntington Gorge, Vermont

When water levels are low, this river is a popular and scenic swimming spot, and the canyon has an almost otherworldly quality with its unique bends and overhangs. Unfortunately, these very features are what makes it so dangerous. Much like the infamous Strid, the gorge is full of holes, steep drop-offs, and powerful currents hidden beneath the water, which can suck people in and trap them against the cliff walls. Over fifty people have died here since the 1950s, and many more have been injured. With proper precautions, one can safely explore the gorge and swim in the river, but don’t forget that this water has swallowed up many people before you.

5. Victoria Falls, Zambia

I’m sure most of you already know about Mosi-oa-Tunya, more widely called Victoria Falls, as the largest waterfall in the world. Formed as the Zambezi river pours into a series of massive gorges, this curtain of water spans nearly a mile and falls 300 feet with such force that columns of rising spray can be seen for miles around. Despite this, the pools around the lip of the falls can be relatively tame, and locals have fished while balancing on the edge of the cliff for generations. The safest and most famous of these fishing holes is the Devils Pool, which allows you to literally swim right up to the edge of the world’s biggest waterfall. The pool is actually very safe when the correct precautions are taken, and I can only find one death attributed to the pool specifically, when a tour guide in 2009 fell while trying to help a man who had slipped and was dangling off the edge (and, honestly, I was expecting a lot more deaths given the amount of clickbait articles advertising it as the most deadly swimming hole in the world). Although that was the only death from the Devils Pool, there have been many other deaths at Victoria Falls, mostly tourists who underestimate the power of the river or get too close to the edge. So if you ever visit this spectacular waterfall, please observe it from a safe distance and follow all the rules.

6. Huka Falls, New Zealand

This is not a traditional waterfall, but rather a series of small waterfalls along a narrow stretch of the Waikato river, creating an incredibly turbulent chasm that ends in a whirlpool. The 300-foot wide river is funneled into a 50-foot wide stream, causing a torrent of water that flows at a rate of 58,000 gallons per second. Obviously, this is not an area that you should get in the water, but not everyone takes that advice. There have been multiple deaths at this waterfall, and a few narrow escapes, including two swimmers who, incredibly, survived after trying to raft down the falls on pool toys. Please, for the love of god, don’t do that.

7. Niagara Falls, US/Canada

These falls are the only place on this list that I’ve visited, and I can tell you they are certainly an incredible sight, but also rather intimidating due to their sheer size and power. These three massive waterfalls are fed by the Great Lakes and, combined, have nearly 700,000 gallons of water thundering down every second. There is also a permanent whirlpool in the river that has existed for over 4,000 years and reaches depths of 125 feet! Besides being huge and awe-inspiring, these waterfalls are known for their appeal to daredevils who have gone over the edge in barrels or, in one case, a giant rubber ball. But these famous success stories are punctuated with tragedy. Roughly 20-30 people die at Niagara Falls every year. Most of these, sadly, are suicides, but others are failed attempts to replicate the successful daredevils of the past, and others are accidental. An estimated 5,000 bodies were recovered at the bottom of the falls between 1850 and 2011.

8. Murchison Falls, Uganda

Also known as Kabalega Falls, this is the worlds most powerful waterfall. Formed as the Nile River flows from Lake Kyoga to Lake Albert, this waterfall is so strong it literally causes the ground to shake around it. Here, the Nile is constricted from a river nearly 400 ft wide to a passage only 20 ft wide, creating an incredibly turbulent and violent tunnel of water that tears its way into the pool below at 79,000 gallons per second. And this is no ordinary pool. Waiting below the falls is the highest concentration of large crocodiles observed anywhere in the world, waiting for any dead or stunned animals caught in the falls to wash into their lair. Although the waterfall and surrounding park are now a beautiful tourist attraction and wildlife refuge, the history of the falls includes tales of human and animal sacrifices, thrown in alive to appease the gods that some believed resided beneath the raging waters.

9. Bath Fountain, Jamaica

This is just a random little waterfall along a hiking trail, but the video triggered some intense bathophobia in me for the first time in a while. Like, I was scared to get in the shower after watching this. Proceed with caution:

10. Kipu Falls, Hawaii

This one scares me because, despite my research, I can’t actually figure out what the hell is happening here. Multiple people have died here; all tourists, all drownings, all of seemingly very unclear causes. Kipu Falls is a beautiful and popular swimming spot, and locals frequently dive off the top of the falls with seemingly no danger. However, five deaths over the course of five years from 2006-2011 challenged its reputation of being a safe swimming hole. All the articles I could find seem to repeat the same information; there is no current in the pool and the waterfalls are not especially powerful. Despite these established facts, all five deaths were the same. Someone jumped in, surfaced, and then were dragged back down to the bottom of the pool and held there until they died. This has resulted in a lot of speculation, including everything from a hidden whirlpool current to evil spirits. I’m just. Really unsettled by the lack of information on this one. Every article I found was published in 2011 and I couldn’t find any updates, which hopefully means people aren’t still dying here, but… what the fuck???? Was going on????? Sorry guys this one might not be as dangerous as some of the others but it freaks me out a lot so it’s getting a higher rating. I want to know what’s going on but I’m sure not going to investigate it myself.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A special sort of craving 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Summary: A stranger appears at your cafe and leaves you unsettled.

Part of the Backwood AU

Note: I found this in my docs and then I was like this could be an AU and people will hate me but here we are. I am heavily considering adding at least one other character to the AU bc I have an idea I don’t think i’ll ever get to full length with.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The man finishes his pie and milk. You continue on busying yourself with tasks you've already done. You don't want to welcome any more conversation with this stranger. He belches and pats his stomach loudly.

"Delicious," he comments as the chair legs scrape on the floor.

"Oh, glad you enjoyed it, sir," you look over the counter as you work at shuffling the pastries from oldest to newest in the display.

"Mmhmm," he hums emphatically, "so, do I get table service or..."

You hide your chagrin behind a smile and close the back of the display, "of course."

You push through the little swinging door and come out to gather up his empty dishes. He watches you as you do your best not to acknowledge that fact. You just want him gone so it's quiet again. Usually, you'd mourn the lack of business but you don't welcome his.

"So, your husband must be the numbers guy, huh? Handling all the heavy duty work?" He intones as he bends his arms behind his head and stretches.

"No," you say as you back away.

"No.... what? He doesn't do your accounting or no you don't have a husband?"

"It's my business. I manage it," you insist.

"Right," he drops his arms and shifts on the seat, "think I should get a coffee for the road. Long way back to The Grove."

"Of course," you retreat behind the counter and set the dishes in the bin for washing. "Which roast?" 

He clicks his tongue, "hmph, you're... very attentive. That husband sure is a lucky man." He stands and dusts off his shirt, "I'll take the rest of that cherry pie too."

You nod and face him, "what size and roast?" You prompt again.

"Light roast, large-- hold up, actually, I'll take an americano. I could use the pep."

"Sure," you slide off a tall cup from the stack and go to work.

He watches you, his gaze bearing down as hotly as the steam of the hot water. You fill his cup and return to the till to ring him up. You punch in the amount for the espresso and what's left of the pie. He taps his fingers on the counter, a fifty folded between his knuckles. He holds it out and you go to take it as the drawer snaps open. He hangs on to it, keeping you in a tug-of-war.

"Keep the change. You earned it," he winks.

"Oh, that's too generous," you say.

"I can be," he smirks.

He lets go and you count out his change. He sighs and leans on the counter, "I said keep it, honey bun."

"Really, it's too much--"

"Can't be making much in this place," he says, "go on, buy yourself something pretty."

You look at him, scrunching up your lips with a gulp. You drop his change in the tip jar. He scoffs in victory.

You pack up the pie and slide it across to him. He clings to your every move as he blows over the cup of coffee. He grabs a lid and clicks it on.

"I'll save a piece for you," he promises, "in case you change your mind."

He takes the box and winks. He struts to the door and balances the cup on the flat box as he lets himself out into the street. You chew your lip and quickly turn your attention to the counter. Those city types just stick out like a sore thumb.

🥧

The routine of your work quickly wipes the strange encounter from your mind. Early mornings filled with steam and the scent of cinnamon swirl by in a cloud. Melinda helps set out that day’s pies as you put on the coffee to brew. There’s usually an opening rush, as much as you get in a place like this.

Eden and Frigga enter with a jingle of the bell above and you greet them with a smile. They always come on Friday. You already have their order started as Melinda cashes them out. An oat latte with vanilla and cinnamon for Eden and simple black tea for Frigga. And a peach crumble to go, her first son’s favourite, Frigga proclaims each time.

That morning, however, she surprises you with a different comment. A question.

“Darling,” she stops you at the window as she grasps the wire handles of the paper bag, “are you available tomorrow night?”

“Pardon?” You bat your lashes in surprise.

“I’m sorry for my abruptness,” she touches the collar of her crisp white blouse coyly as Eden inhales the smell of her latte. “We’re having a special dinner and you did such a marvelous job last yule.”

“A dinner?” You wonder, “I suppose I could ask Carla if she can pick up an extra shift.”

“That’s wonderful. Apologies for short notice. It’s only we have an unexpected guest at the hotel, she does have particular tastes and it’s Thor’s birthday. He wants to celebrate. I have a list,” she sifts around in her handbag, “I may have been a touch presumptuous. He’s hoping for a cheesecake, rather than sponge. Oh and the younger one, he said it’s too rich so some of your shortbread shall do for the dissidents.”

“Right,” you accept the piece of paper as she unfolds it. It wafts with perfume as you read her elegant cursive. “I should be able to do most of it. I’ll need to do a run for some of the savoury ingredients… what time?”

“Oh if you could arrive at three or four, that would allow for set up and some last minute details. Oh, could you also make sure you and your little helpers wear red? Thank you so much, dear,” she reaches into her handbag again, “a deposit, of course.”

She hands you a check, signed by her husband. You’ll have to take this to the bank but you won’t mention the trouble to her. You smile and tell her you’ll figure it out. She claims her tea and crumble and sets off with Eden on their weekly excursion.

“I can’t do Saturday. Husband’s mother’s comin’ round,” Melinda says over the till as you approach her, “Carla was talkin’ about some party too.”

You frown and chew your lip. You suppose you could ask Katherine. She’s always eager to help, even with her meagre two shifts a week.

“Right, no problem,” you smile, “nothing you need to worry about.”

“I can help with some prep today. Do some shopping with Carla’s in for the afternoon.”

“Sounds good,” you fold up the list and the check and tuck it into your apron.

You grab a receipt and start on the next order. It’s a single tea latte; the blueberry oat. You go through the motions and bring it to the counter, calling out the item. A woman you’ve seen around sways as she sends a glance to a man still in line. You don’t recognise him, another new face. She shies away as he returns her gaze and she quickly scurries to claim her drink.

She gives a tiny wave as she comes up, “um, sorry, er, to eavesdrop,” she murmurs and you lean in to hear her, “if you need some help, I could do some… stuff.”

“Oh, uh…”

“Just for the night?” She pleads, “sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“No, no, that’s nice,” you assure her, “you live with your grandmother, right? Up behind the ridge.”

“Yeah,” she squeaks, “we could use the money.”

“Sure, not many jobs to go around in Hammer Ford,” you sniff, “can you be here for one?”

“Uh,” she peeks over again at the man by the register. The way he watches her makes you uneasy.

“Yeah,” she answers shakily, “I’ll be here. Thank you so much.”

“You know what, we have a special on, how about you sit and have a scone,” you offer.

“Um…”

“You got a far way back, you should enjoy your latte,” you insist, eyeing that man again.

“Okay,” she agrees easily. Too easily. That man is listening, he must notice that as well.

“You go sit down and I’ll bring you the scone,” you smile again, “if you stick around, we can chat a bit about tomorrow when it slows down.

“Oh, yeah, makes sense,” she accepts, “thank you so much.”

She turns and awkwardly moves around another customer. She weaves her way to the corner and sits at a table alone, cradling her cup daintily. You’ll have to keep her in the kitchen.

[thelonelyshore-if]

How the ros would act if they were going to have a baby with mc? Sierra and Willow would have a niece to pamper

Oooooh interesting! Answers below the cut <3

Beck- is not ready to be a parent, will never be fully ready to be a parent, but if being a parent was imminent and unavoidable, they'd try to hype themself up the best they could! They'd try their best to be a 'cool parent'. They'd be a bit too permissive and a bit too lax with their kid, but they'd also be a fun parent. Could balance well with MC, depending. They would think it's kind of fun to have a little buddy. Probably would be more confident once the baby was older.

Croft- also does NOT want to ever be a parent. They don't like kids as a rule. But, once again, if it seemed they were going to be a parent, they'd do their best to step up. They'd end up being a bit of a distant and awkward parent, but would be ultimately loving. I think they'd be a better parent of a teenager than a baby ngl--they'd be veeeerrryy awkward with a baby or toddler lol--but would throw themself into researching parenting as much as physically possible.

Jay- doesn't feel ready to be a parent now, but if it happened they'd honestly get pretty damn excited pretty fast. They want to be a parent someday, and if they and MC were expecting a baby, they'd be very excited!! And Cricket would absolutely be psyched, haha. That all being said.........Jay would struggle with balancing their job and the S&R team and a baby. They'd be utterly doting and loving, and would be a very warm and affectionate parent, but wouldn't want to give up the (admittedly very dangerous) S&R team in particular.

Perri- would be a nervous wreck ngl. They aren't opposed to parenting someday, and would even be really excited after some time, but that wouldn't stop the fact that they'd be terrified. The adults in their own life were vastly not the best, and Perri doesn't have a lot of confidence in themself, but honestly they'd be a good parent. They'd get really into decorating, and once the baby was born they'd loooove to have a lil baby to hang out with and take care of.

Ravi- pretty shocked and unsettled and scared, to be honest. He's fascinated with the idea of parenting, but he's also pretty sure he'd do a bad job at it. Though I think he'd surprise himself once the baby was actually born. He's very patient, and would actually be great with a baby. I mean. He'd be a weird parent lmao, but a very loving and responsible one. Would bring the baby in a baby wrap to funerals and wouldn't think there was anything weird about that lmao.

Yasmin- would be psyched. It isn't something she's actually interested in right now, but if it happened, she'd get pretty excited. She'd be a killer mom, too. She'd get big into decorating and buying clothes especially. While she's happy being childless currently, she'd get into it. Future PTA mom no questions asked. She'd love bringing the baby to the library and would buy a billion books for the kid.

[artificialbreezy]

Hey let's imagine Jolly chasing you down with a mask on and holding a knife to you while he fucks you hard and makes you cry(cause the crying turns him on)

i’ll never know peace with you, god fucking dammit. sorry i switched up a teeny tiny bit i got so mf carried away.

This blurb may contain content that is unsettling to some, please continue with caution. your mental health matters.

TW: a game of cat and mouse (he chases her), masks, crying, mean!jolly, knife play, a teeny tiny bit of blood, no actual p in v, mentions of breeding

it’s his favorite game. before he leaves for tour he sends you up the cabin, just so you can relax and decompress and he’ll join you when he gets home. he’ll go straight there from the airport.

and you never hear his car pull up, you’re too invested in the book you’re reading when the lights just go out. the panic is only a little at the moment, you’ll go outside, down by the tree line and check the box. quick and easy fix right? wrong.

something in your gut told you not to go down there, stay right in that cabin. go find your phone and call Jolly. he should’ve landed by now. you decided against your better judgement you were fine, nothing bad has ever happened here before.

when you hear the snaps of the branches, and the breathing of someone else behind you that’s when the panic fully set in. no shoes, no phone, just run.

you’d never been in the woods before, Jolly always told you there was no need. he’d take you eventually. you didn’t know where you were going and how you ended up thinking that the woods was the place to hide but fuck it.

seeing what you thought to be a tree, you ran off to the side a little hoping you could catch your breath before you went any further.

what did i get myself into? Jolly’s gonna get home and see my car and not me in the cabin, my phones there and i’m not. oh my god, he’s gonna find me dead. thoughts were running rapid in your brain. this can’t be real. crouching down next to the tree trunk, you set your hand out to balance yourself to met with a shoe, and a dark chuckle.

you didn’t have time to scream before his hand was over your mouth. tears falling at a rapid pace, panic flooding your veins. all you could do was cry.

“missed you a lot, can’t believe you ran from me, pet.” voice was muffled by whatever was covering his face. “promise i won’t hurt you too bad, just wanna play a little game.”

“i’ll give you a head start. i catch you, i ruin you.” his voice was just above a whisper. “run, little lamb.”

my feet were moving faster than my brain. just go. get inside. hide.

i hit the cement outside the front door, a wave of safety rushed over me. taking a breath, i reached for the door knob when a hand much larger than mine pushed itself against the door. “caught you.”

no sounds came out of my mouth, just freezing in time. unable to process fully what was happening, why i was excited, what was gonna happen to me, why was he chasing me?

he stepped forward, placing his hands against my hips. “remember the safe word?” he spoke. “yes,”

that’s all he needed. he picked up, putting half my body over his shoulder. his one hand opening the door, the other creeping up the back of my thigh.

Jolly didn’t have to walk far since the cabin was pretty small. i was falling onto the bed before i had a moment to think. “Jolly, lights”

“no. you trust me yeah?” you nodded up at him. “then you don’t get to see. you’ll feel what i give you, and you’ll say thank you. read that little book i over heard you talking about. does all that dirty, fucked up stuff turn your little brain into mush?”

his hand disappeared from my body. listening to the sound of rustling next the bed. “been thinking about all that gross, mean things huh?” there was a piece of cold metal against my ankle, slowly dragging it closer to my center.

he pressed the point into the flesh of my thigh harder, a sharp pain shooting up your leg. “pain is pleasure, pet. always remember that.” the metal no longer cold, and unwelcoming.

“thank you, Jolly.” breathless words leaving my lips.

he chuckled, dragging the blade up the front of my thighs. stopping once he reached the lace of my panties. “think if i were to press this against your cunt, you make it shine?” the back of the blade worked its way against the clothed part of my center. pushing against the damp spot that’s been building since i felt his breath at the tree line.

“would you look at that? think you really are pathetic. this turning you on that much? don’t even need to get you prepped huh? could just slip right in there. listen to the sweet whine that you make when i stretch out your cunt after a while.”

rolling my hips against the blade, a whine rolling out of my throat. his big hand pressed firmly on my lower stomach, pushing me back against the bed. “stay. still.” he grumbled.

his fingers pushed the lace away from my slit, soft touch against my skin. “mmm, knew you’d be ready. you’re fucking soaked, already making such a mess.” finger slowly slipping into my hole, “she’s just sucking me in, pet. think she needs more? bet you do, greedy fucking cunt.” his other hand pressing a smack against my thigh.

“feel you squeezing, you close already? fucking pathetic.” his finger curled slightly, lips pressing soft kisses against my mound. “she just needs to be filled up, huh? needs to have my cum leaking out of her just for me to push right back in, can’t waste any of it. wanna see you nice and round. bet you’d like that, walking around showing everyone who you belong to.”

“fucking, shit. Jolly, please.” begging the man to let you have it.

“yeah, come on. let me feel you, baby. ohh, atta girl. there is she.”

his fingers stilled, head laying against my leg. “did so good, thank you for trusting me.”

“always, love you tons.”

i felt his cheeks move, telling me he was smiling.

“i love you too, let’s get this light on and you cleaned up.”

[f2e5b1]

bitter orange — okkotsu yūta [2/3]

pairings. okkotsu yūta + f! reader/original character (main); past!orimito rika + f!reader; past!okkotsu yūta + orimito rika word count. 3.5k previous

PART TWO: sour grapes

You visit her grave often.

We’re sorry. She was too young. We knew how much she meant to you. Although you knew they didn’t actually care, because they never liked her in the first place. None of them mattered, none of it mattered. You stay in your room most days, walking home by yourself all the time. Yūta stopped talking to you after a couple weeks, stopped waiting for you at the gates to walk home together. You were fine with that; he’s got the ring, you don’t. Eventually, you stopped seeing him all together—it’s as if he disappeared along with her. Good, you hate him less that way.

In your first year of middle school, you start to see… them: deformed and grotesque, a glimpse of unimaginable nightmares that live among the shadows. They were smaller when you were younger, hiding away in small spots and silent and anxious but watching—always watching. They look bigger now, and, as you learn quickly, are very dangerous. Nobody else sees them, though, so you’ve always chalked it up to hallucinations.

But one day, a mysterious man with white hair visits you, calls himself Gojō Satoru and says he’s a “jujutsu sorcerer,” whatever that is. Cursed spirits, he calls them, born from humanity’s negative emotions. A sorcerer’s job is to “exorcize” them—so like a shaman but not really. What’s even funnier? He says you’re one of them—these sorcerers, that there’s this school who’ll train you to fight them, where you’ll meet others just like yourself.

Sometimes, you think of her whenever they’re around. They’re ugly and loud, always spewing indecipherable sentences and crying in the shadows, and they aren’t pretty, but you think of her anyways. It’s a disservice, you think, to have such thoughts, not when she had been so kind and beautiful, and these curses are so clearly not. They don’t have her long brown hair shining under the sun, don’t have her sparkling brown eyes crinkled in delight. Don’t have her smile either, upturned and sweet, with the little beauty mark on the right. And worst of all, they don’t have her voice, a beautiful melody in comparison to their unpleasant wailing. She wouldn’t have sounded like that.

You visit her grave often, but she’s never there. The ichigo daifuku rot on the cement, then get cleaned up after a day or two.

+

Okkotsu Yūta looks too close to death.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, hands clutching onto his bag like a sad attempt at a lifeline. When he stands, he visibly slouches, eyebags darker than his unruly hair. His head hangs like he has a noose around his neck, and if you look a little closer, his shadow consumes, almost like a sentient being, an insatiable darkness pooling under his feet. “I’m sorry.”

Funnily enough, it’s comforting.

“I didn’t do it for you,” you say, adjusting the strap of your bag as you walk ahead. He almost stumbles from trying to catch up, but falls within a steady pace a few meters behind.

“... Oh, okay. Um. Still, thanks.”

“I did it because they were being annoying.”

“... Yeah.”

You turn around to face him. “Are you embarrassed?”

He pauses. “What…?”

“Are you embarrassed because you were saved by a girl?”

He blinks, confused, with his wide blue eyes staring back at you. Then, he flushes, a dust of color finally appearing on his pale skin, “N—no! It’s just… we just haven’t talked in a while, so…”

“So, you don’t wanna talk?”

“No… I—... No, I do,” he stammers, as if trying to find his balance in the world. Gone was the energetic Okkotsu Yūta you knew from your childhood, who used to be stricken with adoration for his since-then-dead-fiancée, and now reduced to a gloomy, unsettling, lonely boy who gets bullied in side empty classrooms in his third year of junior high.

He finally catches up with you, having taken advantage of you gradually slowing down. He continues following you to somewhere you don’t even know where, perhaps home, but he follows you regardless. He’s too close, you think, but make no move to push him away. It’s not so bad to only hear your footsteps and the occasional car or two, even if you were making up most of the initial conversation; it’s a scenario that’s comforting, much like the shadow that trails after him. Though you don’t exactly know why it has that effect on you, not when it’s just Okkotsu Yūta—bane of your existence Okkotsu Yūta since you were nine years old. Why one glance at his shadow is like salvation for you is something completely beyond the realm of understanding, but it isn’t as if—

You pause. Oh.

It’s Rika, isn’t it?

“... Your knuckles are bleeding,” Yūta comments quietly, looking down at your hand. You both come to a stop, observing the scratch and cuts on your knuckles before he takes it in his grasp, inspecting it further. “I’m sorry,” he says, annoyingly guilty.

“Don’t apologize,” you say.

“Sorry—...”

He keeps his mouth shut.

You sort of understand now, why he has avoided everyone since then, why he doesn’t fight back even when it hurts, why he always looks like a dead man on the last thread of survival, eyes hollow and skin cold and pale, with darkness following him and darkness consuming him. Whether it be from divine punishment or an unfortunate mishap, at the wrong place at the wrong time, it is clear that Okkotsu Yūta is being haunted by a vengeful cursed spirit, because of course he is.

Of course he turns your first love into a curse.

He drops your hands, adjusts the straps of his bag, and continues walking, unknowing of your revelation. You watch him for a moment, your eyes dropping to the heavy shadow that encompasses him. That heavy, familiar shadow of his—

… And you go with the impossible.

You take his hand in yours.

There’s a pause after that, a sudden change in the air that makes the hairs on your necks stand up, a chill go down your spines, and you think you hear a low growl in the distance, a warning you do not obey. Yūta doesn’t look at you, as if he’s afraid something entirely out of his control will happen, a scene he’s seen countless times already, and yet he doesn’t let go. He grips your hand tightly, instead—afraid and unsure. For you, maybe? You don’t exactly know.

But a few moments pass, and nothing happens. So he relaxes just a bit, heaving out a shaky exhale and then he’s finally looking at you, tired eyes meeting your firm gaze.

Something clicks, then. Like the last piece of a puzzle is found.

And for the first time since Rika’s death, you walk home with Okkotsu Yūta.

+

It becomes a routine. You’d meet by the gates of your school, say nothing to each other, and start walking. After you cross the first street, you’d grab his hand and continue on without a word.

He adapts to it quickly, doesn’t even flinch or pull away. He hasn’t said anything about it, and neither have you. It feels incessant to do so, not when it feels… right. Like a gap has been filled somewhere in your heart, so close to making you whole, but so far it hasn’t really been enough; like you need more, but you’re also fine with this, whatever it is. Rika has been silent this whole time, an anvil of obsession resting on his shoulders that it's almost a good thing; she’s always been a jealous girl, so it’s nothing short of a miracle that she hasn’t even ripped you to shreds just yet. She knows you know she’s there, watching you—she has all the power to take you away from him, and you’d let her. You’d let her do anything to you if it comes down to it, really.

Yūta reeks of death, still, but you don’t mind anymore. It’s Rika, and that’s all that matters. You know it’s her because who else can it be? If Yūta’s being haunted by a cursed spirit then you would’ve long since exorcized it the moment you saw him—but who was the one who saw her get hit by a truck right in front of him, saw her bleed to death as she called out his name in her last breath? Who was the one who screamed out her name, begging for her to come back, to not leave him and was traumatized to hell and back at the sight of her small body crushed to nothing, the sound of her bones cracking underneath the pressure?

Who was the one who turned her into a curse?

You hate him for it, sometimes, for keeping her away from you, for not telling you. She’s a cursed spirit—but does he even know that? Does he know that there are people in this world capable of eradicating her? Does he hate it? To have her attached to him like a conjoined twin, so inseparable it makes you drown in your own envy, the green-eyed monster who has risen from the depths of your heart now that she is here. Is he afraid of her? Of what she has become? Of what he has made of her?

You aren’t. You love her, after all.

But he’s the one she haunts, because she loves Okkotsu Yūta. He wears the ring even now, buried deep under his shirt, and connected to his heart. You’re close enough to rip it away from him, leave him bleeding with nothing to hold onto the memory of her. But you don’t do it, even though you still hate him just a little bit without really ever doing anything about it; your heart is not so fickle to forget what he had stolen from you.

“What highschool are you going to?”

You slow down. “Why are you asking?”

He looks at the ground. “I don’t know—I just wanna know, I guess. Have you taken any entrance exams yet?”

“I’ve already decided where to go.”

“Oh… to where?”

“Still here, in Tokyo. It’s a religious private school, but it’s all the way up the mountains.”

He pauses. “I didn’t know you were religious.”

“It’s Buddhist.”

He’s silent for a while, thoughtful. And then he looks back at you, dark eyes boring into your own. “Did they give you a scholarship, or something like that?”

“Something like that,” you pick up the pace, and he’s forced to follow.

“Is it related to kendo? I didn’t know that religious private schools offer that kind of scholarship—especially those by the mountain-side… Isn’t that too rural?”

“Why do you think of kendo?”

His eyes flick over to your shoulder, where your cursed weapon usually sits in lieu of your school bag. This time it’s absent, since it’s mostly useless now that you’ve figured out your technique. “You always walk around with this long bag—like it could fit a shinai or something. Isn’t that what it is?”

“I guess so,” you don’t elaborate further, he doesn’t ask anymore questions.

Truthfully, you don’t know what to do. You’re elated at the fact that Rika has always been here, although silent and brooding and definitely now a dangerous entity capable of destroying a whole nation, perhaps even a Special Grade, what with all that cursed energy bursting forth from the seams of Yūta’s shadows that you can now sense from a mile away, but at the same time you find that you don’t really care that a powerful cursed spirit has been plaguing this city for years—not when it’s her.

All you know is that you don’t want to be the one to exorcize her.

You probably won’t be the one to do it anyway.

+

A month before graduation, Yūta tells you that he doesn’t want to say goodbye. As he speaks, you notice that his grip on your hand feels a little tighter than usual.

“Why not?” you ask calmly, though you think you’re doing a bad job at being nonchalant.

You don’t wanna leave Rika, either. She hasn’t shown herself to you yet, mostly remaining somewhere within Yūta without a single peep or squeak, but you think it’s better that way. You’ve long since resolved that you’re alright with being near her without actually seeing or confirming if she’s really there, not when you can feel her through Yūta anyway. It’s enough for you.

But he’s not looking at you, instead adamant at finding what’s so interesting about the ground. Somehow, he trusts you enough to guide him as you walk, to look out for poles or signs or walls that could hit him. You don’t exactly know how to feel about that information, so you store it away for another time.

“Okkotsu?” you call when he doesn’t reply.

“Yūta,” he’s looking at you now, hair falling over his dark, blue eyes.

“What?”

“You can call me ‘Yūta’,” he clarifies. “Ume-chan.”

You pause, slowing down to a halt. He gets a few extra steps ahead before he’s forced to stop, looking back at you curiously. Since when had he gotten such confidence? Last month he had just been a bumbling, timid boy, so much so that one misdirected glare from you could send him freezing on the spot.

“Okay,” you breathe out. “Yūta.”

He smiles, giddily, but then the atmosphere darkens just a little bit. He quickly falters at this, smile disappearing almost as fast as it appeared. He grips your hand tighter, looking down at the ground once again.

“Are you scared?” you ask.

He shakes his head weakly, looking up. “No…?”

“You’re lying,” you say.

Yūta looks down again. You wait for him, feel the coldness of his skin, and the slight chill of the weather.

“I want to go with you,” he finally admits. “I don’t wanna go somewhere you’re not.”

And you’re quiet, the silence filled in by the sound of people from the playground just a few miles ahead. Yūta gains the courage to look up to you, to see your reaction, hoping you aren’t too angry even though you hold so much hate in your heart for him. He knows that, at least.

(But you’re holding his hand, aren’t you? You fight his bullies, knuckles red and bruised, even though you don’t need to. You stay with him, even though you don’t have to. You make his life a little bit easier, even if you don’t really want to.)

“Why?” you ask, face betraying nothing, just plain curiosity. “Why do you say that?”

Yūta thinks that maybe he is afraid of her sometimes, even if he doesn’t want to be.

So he says, “It’s quieter when you’re around.”

He must have said something wrong for you to suddenly let go of him.

“I’m sorry—“

But then you take his hand again, not intertwining it, but settling it within yours so he can feel the warmth of your touch, like you never even let go in the first place.

“Don’t apologize,” you command, like you always do.

“… Okay.” And Yūta listens.

You squeeze his hand. He holds on to it tighter, like letting go once again will mean letting you go, and yet he’ll have to do that in a month anyway even if he really wished that isn’t the case.

“You can’t come with me,” you say, like it’s final. “That school… it doesn’t suit you.”

He searches for something in your eyes, and finds nothing. “Why not?”

Because they will kill her, you think. They’ll kill the both of you, and then you’ll be alone forever.

“It just won’t,” you say with finality.

“Okay,” he says, staring at you thoughtfully.

Your available hand reaches out to adjust the scarf around his neck, adjusting it so it hangs more loosely around him instead of tightly like a noose. The teal fabric bunches up in your hand as you move it around, patting it down before you find his dark eyes boring into yours. The spring chill caresses his face gently, softly swaying the unruly spikes of his hair as he watches you tend to him, the way you make him feel like a burden but he doesn’t mind if it's you.

You eventually finish with your work, moving on to continue walking home.

The silence disappears, because Yūta’s heart is too heavy with want.

+

There’s a few things that happen when you dream, but it mostly goes like this:

There’s a bench in the middle of a white void and a huge cherry blossom tree behind it, petals slowly falling onto the ground and covering it in a mass of light pink. Just a few feet in front of it is a koi pond, filled with differently colored koi that make them seem like a bunch of koinobori instead of the actual thing—black, red, white, yellow, green, and blue koi. You’re sitting on the bench, an unopened box of three ichigo daifuku sitting on your lap as you observe the fish swimming inside the relatively small pond.

It always starts this way when you dream of Rika; things change very little and progress nothing. But you find comfort in it either way, as it remains to be the only way you can see her, deep within your REM sleep where nothing in the world can disrupt it.

She eventually appears from the other side, sitting next to you without a word. When you turn to face her, she’s a bit visually different from the last time you saw her in reality—coming up to your height, her brown hair is just a little bit longer, but instead of her familiar dark blue dress, she wears a normal uniform from a normal high school you hope to get into. In your dreams, Rika has continued growing alongside you, blessed and healthy and happy. In your dreams, Rika is alive.

“You’re so sweet, Ume-chan,” she praises, taking the box of ichigo daifuku you offer her. “You always know what I want!”

Of course you do.

“Anything for you, Rika-chan,” you respond fondly.

She giggles, the soft lilt of her voice like an enchanting melody you’ll never get sick of. You like it. You like this. You like her.

When you take her hand in hers, she doesn’t protest, instead squeezing yours in return as some form of quick reassurance that yes, she’s here, and she’s right next to you. The both of you continue sitting on the bench for who knows how long, staring into the small pond with the colorful koi without uttering a single word—a serene silence that cannot be measured by time passing, every flick of the fish’s tail, the fall of the petals from behind.

Your dreams always start like this, and end like this. It’s not much, but you’ve long since found contentment in what this fantasy can give you, long since convinced yourself that anything is fine as long as you get to see her.

You close your eyes, preparing for the dream to finish up, to miss the warmth of her hand in yours and wake up to another day without her—but it doesn’t end there.

“Ume-chan?” Rika calls, slowly.

Your eyes open. “... Yeah?”

She’s properly facing you now, torso turned to your direction with this impassive expression. You watch her stare at you, mapping out her features, the curve of her nose, the length of her lashes—something, anything that could tell you that this could all be real, that this is not just a dream. That Rika is still alive and not merely a figment of your imagination, stuck behind the bars of your subconsciousness. Because all you are is a liar, and not once were you ever content with just seeing her here.

You just want her back.

Rika brings her palm up to your cheek, caressing your face with her tender touch. “Don’t cry, Ume-chan,” she says in her soft voice.

You didn’t even realize you were.

“I love you, Rika-chan,” you all but practically sob, leaning into her hand. It’s warm, it feels so real. “I love you so much. Please come back to me.”

Rika just smiles, wiping away your tears with her thumb. You can’t breathe, vision foggy from your tears and panic rising in your chest when her figure becomes nothing but a blurry mess in front of you. You reach out to her, knowing deep down that you’re just grabbing onto loose threads but—

Then, you wake up.

+

Yūta looks at you with wide eyes.

“... You’re bleeding!” he stammers, breath quickening as he stumbles away from you in a fit of fright. “Rika—Rika-chan attacked you…!”

He cowers away into the corner of the classroom, head in his hands, begging the world for nothing else to happen, for Rika not to come out and lunge at you again like she did with all his other bullies, like you’re one of them. Idiot, idiot, idiot Yūta! He should have seen this coming, should have known that nothing will stop Rika from endangering anyone, not even you. He can’t lose anyone again, not Rika, not you—especially you—he can’t take another loss anymore.

But when Yūta gathers enough courage to see how you’re doing, he can’t fight the surprise that crawls up his throat.

Because as you’re sitting there in front of him, fingers gently grazing the nasty gash on your cheek, staring back at him so quietly it’s too suffocating, and he feels so guilty, so miserable—

And yet, you’re smiling.

next

[chillinglyadventurous]

Spooktober Day 18 - “Hey, look at me! It’s not real!”

Sorry I was late again...

You descended the stairs into the basement of Mystery Shack. Your flashlight casted long shadows down the corridor with each creaky step you too. Ford had told both you and Dipper to stay out, but after one of his solo adventures, his pleas became more desperate and demanding. There had to be something good down there. Dipper had wanted to go with you, but you had told him to stay behind. You would tell him what you found, of course.

Now, the strange noises and whispers you had been hearing all week, drifting up from the floorboards, were louder now as you leaned into the retina scanner. The sounds were deafening, but so quiet all at once. It was a strange combination that your mind couldn’t wrap itself around. Curiosity had been getting the best of you. Ford was gone for the day, giving you the perfect opportunity to investigate.

When you entered the lab, long shadows danced along the walls. The atmosphere was unsettling. The basement was damp and the air was heavy. The smell of mildew filled the air. Then, you saw it. There was a large, full-length mirror sitting against the opposite wall. The wooden frame was dark and intricately carved. It looked ancient, a gateway to the past. As you moved closer, you expected to see a glimpse into the past, some ancient land.

Instead, you saw something else. Goosebumps dotted your body. Your reflection stared back at you. Well, you were pretty sure it was your reflection. It looked like you, but its face was twisted into a smirk that you knew was not on your face as its moves matched your own. You approached cautiously.

Your reflection’s movements were smoother than your own and much more confident. Once you got a good look, your breath hitched in your throat. It was a more beautiful version of yourself, but its eyes were black entirely. The way it smiled back at you was eerie and as if it knew something you didn’t. Before you could look away, heavy footsteps echoed behind you. You couldn’t pull your gaze away, heart racing. 

Ford stood there with his eyes wide with panic, “Don’t trust what you see!” His face was pale. “Hey,” he shouted, “look at me! It’s not real!” 

He rushed toward you. His voice was shaking as he tried to pull you away from your reflection’s gaze. His own in the mirror next to yours only tempted you forward. The people in the mirror drew you in further. You were frozen in your spot as your reflection began to move closer to you, Ford’s smiling behind it. It reached out a hand to beckon you ever closer. Ford’s smile behind your reflection twisted up much too wide.

Ford’s hands gripped you shoulder, shaking you hard. “Listen to me, [Y/N]! It’s trying to pull you in. it’s not real!”

At that moment, you weren’t sure. Your mind was clouded  by a trance. Something about your reflection felt right. It was as if it had always been there, just waiting for you to fulfill some great destiny. You stumbled back when Ford pulled you away.

The darkness around you was pressing in from all sides. Ford’s voice and calling for you sounded far away as it bellowed around the room. His grip on you tightened as he forced you to look at him. “Focus!” He demanded, his voice sharp. “It’s not real!”

You blinked. The basement seemed to shift back to normal. Your surroundings came back into focus. His intense stare as you finally saw him brought you back to reality. Your head felt dizzy as if you had just been spun around and dropped from a great height. 

When you lost your balance, he caught you. “I told you some things are better left alone.”

You nodded, letting him lead you out of his lab. As you moved toward the steps, you glanced back over your shoulder. Your reflection stared back at you, its smile still wicked as it waved back at you.

[bkaulitzz]

𝐆𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝

more on my wattpad b_kaulitzz :)

TW: a UNSETTLING PICTURE IS UNDER THIS, kinda ish it depends on if u find it scary, IM NOT GONNA MENTION ANY TW THO BC I DONT WANNA SPOIL BUT THIS IS A HORROR

** NOTE - I DONT CONDONE THIS AND I KNOW REAL BILL WOULD NEVER DO ANY OF THIS, THIS IS JUST FICTION

info: fem x bill, u go to visit bill for dinner

I curled the fingers of my right hand, running each finger over the knitting of the itchy sweater. His apartment door stood still as it stared back at me. Weird...he should be home. I reached back for my flip phone, flipping it open.

—

BILL <3

Me - 10:43 PM

"hey babe, wya?"

BILL <3 - 10:45 PM

"im soso sorry ml ^^, i was working on the stew"

Me - 10:45 PM

"stew?"

BILL <3 - 10:46 PM

"yes, beef stew :)"

Me - 10:46 PM

"i'm only staying for a bit tho"

BILL <3 - 10:47 PM

"just eat a small bite at least"

—

Before I could respond, cold air hit me as Bill swung the door open. I flipped my phone closed, looking up at him as he leaned against the doorframe. The smell of onion and spices filled my nose as I stared at him. He gave me a small smile as his eyes were hooded, coated in messy eyeshadow. I always love how much time he would spend on his looks just for me.

"Are you just gonna stand there?" He asked, the wrinkles of his formfitting t-shirt flattening out as he stood up.

"Oh- I-" I winced, feeling him grab my wrist gently. He furrowed his brows, watching me pull away to rub my wrist through the fabric.

"You okay?" He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head.

"Yea...just let me in, " I cleared my throat, looking away from my wrist and back at him. He chewed the inside of his cheek, looking down at me for a few seconds before moving aside.

"Just sit at the table, I'll bring the stew out, " He said, turning around to make his way to the kitchen. I took steps into his apartment, balancing on one foot as I closed the door, taking off one of my boots at the same time. The zipper pressed into my skin harshly as I tried to pull it down, causing me to slide down to my butt. This stupid zipper always does the same thing every time I try to put it on. I groaned, sitting against the cold, wooden door, trying to pull off the shoe. Bill looked over at me from the table with a raised eyebrow. His hands were in cute, plaid oven gloves as he set the pot down on the table. The smell of the stew was stronger from here, the light over the table giving the pot a makeshift spotlight.

"You alright, babe?" He took the gloves off, placing them on the table before stepping towards me.

"I got it, I got it, " I shook my head, my fingers burning by now as the zipper was still stuck in place. He sighed, getting down as he was close by now. The carpet molded his knee as he took one of my ankles in his other knee.

"If you ever need help, just tell me, " He said, sweetly. His gentle hands took hold of the metal zipper, easily pulling it down. He placed the boot aside, sliding off my leg to take the other. "I love you, okay? I'm here to help, don't ever feel scared to tell me, " He looked up at me through his eyebrows, sliding the zipper down. My heart raced as it skipped a beat to each word that left his lips. He slid the boot off, revealing my fuzzy socks. He grinned, looking into my eyes as he rubbed my ankle, aligning my boots together with the other hand.

"I will, don't worry, " I gave him a small smile. My eyes followed him as he stood up, reaching down to help me up afterward. I grunted as I stood up, the fabric of my socks mixing with the beige carpet. I looked up at him, his pretty lashes coated in the mascara that I knew I recommended by the way he blinked. I shivered slightly, feeling his cold touch on my cheek.

"Good, just making sure you know, " His voice was delicate, each hard sound being smoothed out. My face heated up, feeling him kiss my nose, swiping his thumb over my right cheek. "Let's eat, yea?"

"Mhm, " I mumbled as a smile stayed on my lips. He reached down for my hand, gently taking it as he leaned back. I followed along as he pulled me to the table which was only a few steps away. Bill always had casual dominance, no matter what. As much as I enjoyed it, I just hope he knows that I can be independent just as much as dependent. The chair shrieked against the tile floor as he pulled it out, the dining and kitchen area being separated from the living space. My feet hit the cold surface as I slid into the chair, watching him make it to the opposite side of the table. "Did you just pull this off the stove?" I watched the steam fog up the empty glasses nearby. The table was set nicely as if he waited for me since eternity. Each bowl's design was identical to the others, the paint strokes were seamless.

"Yea, it just got done cooking, " He hummed, picking up the ladle. He scooped out some beef pieces, pouring them into my bowl. My mouth salivated as I looked over the pieces, the cuts of meat were nothing like I'd seen before.

"Bill, what kind of beef is this?" I asked with a small chuckle, joking. He lifted his eyebrows as he looked at me, not exchanging a laugh as he scooped carrots into my bowl.

"The best kind, just for you. I know people who can get their hands on this stuff, " He filled my bowl as he spoke, filling his after. I swallowed a lump in my throat, the growing tension squeezed me up. It was silent afterward as he fixed his bowl up, pushing the pot to the side of the table. He picked up the pitcher of water, filling our glasses. His chair creaked as he finally took a seat, the lamp glowing on his porcelain skin. I bit my lip as I kept my hands on the table, keeping my stare on him as nothing else lit the area. I didn't know if he was mad or offended as he kept a straight face. The silence could suffocate me as the only other company was the light above us.

"I'm sorry if I made you mad, " I swallowed in between, shaking my knee a bit. "I just wanted to ask since I know how important cooking is to you."

"It's fine, babe, " He gave me a small smile. I nodded before picking up my spoon and taking a spoonful. Bill propped his elbows onto the table, resting his chin on his hands. I blew into the perfect bite that I had ready. It had an even amount of soup, beef, and vegetables.

"Are you gonna take a bite, Bill?" I raised an eyebrow, as I continued to cool it down.

"Mhm, I just wanna know your thoughts first, " He grinned, tilting his head slightly.

"I know it's gonna be good, " I snickered as I took the spoonful. I widened my eyes as the broth filled my mouth. The meat instantly melted as I tasted it and the vegetables perfectly blended out each chew. I moaned in delight as Bill's eyes squinted, smiling from watching me enjoy the dish. "This is the best stew and beef that I've ever had, " I gasped softly as I took another spoonful, the meat being even more tender than the last bite.

"I'm so glad you like it, " I could hear the excitement in his voice as he spoke, the tone was as close as a teen girl seeing her celebrity crush. He picked up his spoon, taking a bite after me.

"I'm gonna be so sad when I have to leave, this is so good, " I licked my lips, continuing to savor the stew.

"You don't have to go, you can stay as long as you'd like, " He let go of his spoon, taking a sip of his water. I held the spoon in my mouth, frowning a bit before placing it into the bowl.

"I know...I'm so thankful for you, Bill, but you know I have to get home early. You know how my dad is, " I shook my knee again, slowly stirring at the half-eaten bowl of stew.

"Just a bit? Come on, just this once?" He frowned as he placed his glass down.

"I can't, " I felt my heartbeat in my throat as I picked up a nice bite of meat and carrots.

"But it's Christmas, babe. Just break the rule this once, " He held his spoon, tapping his finger against it.

"Bill, he's even more strict on Christmas. I really can't, I'm sorry. If I could I would, " I spoke into the spoon, before taking it into my mouth.

"He needs to learn that you're not a little girl anymore. You should be able to be out and about, I don't understand why he thinks he should cage you up, " His other hand on the table balled up into a fist. I nodded as I slowly chewed, my brows furrowed as he spoke. I mean he was right, dad is super strict. Maybe this once I could-

"Ow!" I winced, holding my cheek as I bit into something firm yet flexible. The sharp edges of the item tickled at my gums before I spat it out onto the table.

"Are you okay?!" He exclaimed, his eyes following the piece. I widened my eyes as I looked at the ridgid fingernail that I had just spat out. I shuddered, covering my mouth as I gagged. It was as if it was freshly torn off.

"Bill. What the fuck. Is that fucking yours?" My eyes were watery from the gagging as I picked up the glass of water, taking large sips.

"Oh, shit..." He muttered, his eyes looking up towards me.

"Fuck. I think I should go, " I cleared my throat, trying not to look at the fingernail. I knew if I kept my gaze on it, I would actually just start to vomit.

"No, no, you can't. We haven't watched a movie yet, " He shakingly spoke, watching me slide out of the table. I shook my head as he stood up right after me.

"I need to go, " I said sternly as turned around, making it to the door.

"Why? Please, fuck. I know I messed up. I should've watched the stove, " He said. I turned to him, walking backward as he was already a few feet away from me with his bowl in his hands.

"My dad, the earlier the better, " I gulped as the distance from the door was longer than I remembered. My steps were no match for Bill's strides. I felt my heart race as sweat formed, clenching my fists. "Bill, please, " I bit my lip as I continued stepping back, the light slowly fading from his face.

"I can fix something else for you, please stay, " He frowned as he came close. My breath hitched as my back hit the cold door. He looked down at me as he took a few more steps, inches away from breathing the same air as me.

"Bill, I can't. My dad, " I spoke, my knees began to feel weak as I felt the ceramic bowl press into my chest.

"He's already here, babe, " He held a straight face. Bill reached for a spoonful of the stew, the bowl and the spoon jingled as they hit each other.

"What?" I stammered a bit, feeling my sweat turn cold.

"He's already here, " He hummed, bringing the spoon to my lips. I furrowed my brows as I felt my face heat up, forming tears.

"Bill, what?..." My lips parted, allowing entrance as he pushed the spoon past my teeth. He leaned closer.

"He's here, " His voice caused shivers down my spine as he spoke down my neck. He leaned back, grinning as he pulled the spoon out. I couldn't bear to swallow, looking up at him. "Swallow, babe, " He dropped the spoon into the bowl, reaching up to caress my cheek. I spat the stew into the face, receiving a groan as I turned around. I wiggled the doorknob, weeping as my stomach turned, the lock was stuck in place. I squealed, feeling Bill press his whole body against mine, gripping my wrists and putting them above my head. It only caused me to squeal even more with the pain on my right wrist.

"You're so fucked up, " I snarled as I breathed heavily, my face turned to the side as I was pressed up against the door.

"Calm down...acting out isn't good for you, " He whispered into my ear, running his thumbs over the back of my palms as he had me pinned. His gaze was calm as he was in my peripheral vision.

"You're fucking saying that? You killed someone, " I felt tears run down my face as he breathed against my cheek, leaving no room apart.

"I didn't kill your father, I would never do such a thing, " He frowned as he kissed my ear, gently. I shuddered from even the slightest contact. "I told you I knew people, didn't I?"

"Don't fucking touch me, jackass. You're crazy, " My voice was strained.

"I only did it for you. I do everything for you. I get it, you're shocked. You'll get used to it, " His voice was like hot honey; keeping a smooth voice to try and soothe me, yet all that came out of his mouth only caused a shiver down my spine.

"For me?? I didn't ask for this, " I said through bared teeth. He tilted his head, and his right hand began to tug at the fabric around my wrist. "No, fuck. No! Let go of me!" I cried as I squirmed under him, feeling my wrist grow cold as he pulled my sleeve down to my elbow. He stared up at it as it was scattered with purple and yellow bruises, holdimg down on my elbow. "My dad is a good man!" I sobbed.

"Then, tell me why you have all of these bruises. Your dad doesn't love you like I do, " His nose against my head as he spoke. I sniffled, continuing to squirm only making him press me against the door more.

"This isn't love. You're sick, " I continued to weep, my knees finally giving up on me as I slowly slid down the door. Bill kneeling along as I fell. He took a seat, awkwardly pulling me somewhat into his lap. He shushed me, caressing my cheek. I looked up at him with a clouded vision as he frowned. Even at this moment, he was more loving than any other partner I had.

"I love you, though, " He wiped the tears off my face.

"I know, " I spoke shaking, my chest heaving as it did. My flight or fight response barely worked as I felt his touch.

"Everything I do is for you. Even if you hated me, I'll still love you, " Bill continued. I sniffled, blinking slowly as his efforts to calm me down worked.

"I know, " My knees could barely work. It felt as if I was paralyzed. I don't know if it was whether I was calm or frozen in fear.

"I would never hurt you, babe, " He whispered as he came down to kiss my lips. I couldn't help but kiss back. His lips melted into mine like metal being welded. His hand slowly slid down, taking grasp of my throat. "You know I love you, " He pulled away a bit, tightening his grasp around my neck. I gasped, widening my eyes as I choked. I slapped at his hand, trying to pry him off. His hand was firm, not lifting a single finger as I struggled for my breath. "It's only for the better, " He frowned as he leaned down, kissing my lips again. My pulling and slapping slowly weakened, and everything went black.

if u want pt 2, it’s on my wattpad, same title

:3

bill, bill kaulitz, bill horror, bill kaulitz horror, bill horror

[blood-orange-juice]

I want to overanalyze everything Arle says and how others interact with her. 4.1 spoilers ahead

(meanwhile Fontaine is the nation of human trafficking, actual slums exist and the law doesn't really apply to the wealthy)

She's very good at being unsettling. Half of what she says is a double-bind, she states things and the opposite of them at the same time. It's not even lies, she just rules out any possibility of truth. A conversation strategy the only goal of which is to throw people off balance. This creates a feeling that she might stab you right now in broad daylight or maybe give you a poisoned piece of cake.

A truly lovely woman.

Also an interesting parallel:

(first meeting with Furina and Arle's farewell to us)

Similar words but we understand what she meant each time, right? She's good. One has to constantly guess with her. It's your fault if you guessed incorrectly.

Demanding too much before she voices her actual request. The classics of bargaining. Again, she's good.

Traveler: "he would not fucking say that"

Personally, I think she's bullshiting to check our reaction. One of the best ways of getting information out of someone is to say a thing that is obviously untrue.

As a side note: interesting how hoyo are keeping the story suitable for all headcanons. Haters and indifferent people "know" that he had no chance of learning what food the traveler likes (their character doesn't interact with the boy that much). Shippers can "know" that we share Childe's love for spicy seafood and honey roast, not cake. Shippers who like cake can assume that she reads his letters. I also don't think he knows anything about Arle's taste in desserts, he's too self-centered for that. Anyway, lovely.

Alternative: it's a metaphor. This is obviously not a tea party, it's a battlefield. Childe would totally say *that*. But that's too subtle for most players, I doubt hoyo would do it.

Everyone who had read Tartaglia's actual letters to home stifled a laugh there. Anyone who has *seen* our dear boy really. He doesn't write about what he contemplates or feels, only about actions. Here's a headache medicine for our dear father. Please tell Anton that people in Liyue don't eat stones, it would be ridiculous. I'll take the first boat home once I've finished making a bloodbath out of this lovely city.

(a reminder in case anyone forgot)

So. Bullshiting again. Is she trying to check how close we are? Or to demonstrate that she doesn't, in fact, read his letters (even if she does)? I'm not considering the option that she's actually clueless, she's the Fatui spymaster after all.

(if she's trying to learn from us how to mimic his style to get to his family it would mean she's clueless and it would be bad writing)

Also I know that a lot of people are shouting "have you forgotten about the Vision??? stupid traveler, you have a proof that he's alive" and honestly I'm surprised. Why would we want to share *any* information with her? The traveler was visibly upset when Paimon blurted what she blurted. Also, yeah, let's tell a totalitarian country military official that her colleague recently gave one of his favorite weapons to an enemy of the state. Surely it will go swimmingly. That was intentional.

And then her farewell and her thanking us for helping the twins. Her unhingedness is suddenly gone. She might not be genuine but there's no double bind at least. She starts to say things that could be true or untrue.

Also this:

Not even a guess that the Gnosis could be used to power the Oratrice? After the Akasha terminal plot it's a pretty obvious option to anyone, would she really miss something like that?

Is she trying to push us to do something? It's hard for me to believe that she genuinely doesn't understand. But also she shares that info about a curse. Meh. I don't understand what's happening here.

[honeyjars-sims]

3.22 Boys Club

Later that evening we arrive at the restaurant. I feel a bit awkward at first; after all, I’m having dinner with my boss. We’ve been pretty friendly lately and I wouldn’t want anyone at work to get the wrong idea. With her husband there, though, it feels less intimate.

Her husband’s name is Christopher and he seems pretty laid-back. I can see that he and Lucy are well balanced, and they have an ease with each other that leaves me longing to find the same.

Lucy’s phone buzzes and she checks her notifications. “Matt says the boys are having a blast with their cousin and not to worry about rushing back.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Christopher laughs. “I’ve barely even sipped on this glass of wine."

“You have kids?” I ask. “I guess I don’t know much about your personal life.”

“Yeah, 2 boys. One of my brothers is babysitting for us,” Lucy explains.

“One of your brothers? How many do you have?”

“4. I’m the only girl.”

“Get out! I have 4 sisters and I’m the only boy!” For some reason this mundane similarity excites me.

“Finally, someone who can relate to my pain! Nah, I’m kidding. My brothers are great. We all get along for the most part.”

“I’m pretty close to my sisters, I guess.” Last year I wouldn’t have tacked on that last bit, but my siblings were still a little salty about my summer of sin. “Sometimes we get on each other’s nerves, but it’s all love. How old are your kids?”

“We have 2-year-old twins. They’re pretty much inseparable.”

“Especially when they’re fighting! They’re really hard to separate then!” Christopher joked.

“I bet! You know, I have a twin. Her name is Chantal.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that! That’s so cool!” Lucy takes a sip of wine. “It was definitely unexpected, but we feel blessed. I guess I’m destined to be surrounded by boys.”

“She wouldn’t have it any other way,” Christopher tells me.

“Yeah, I’ve always been able to hold my own around the boys club. I guess I’m more comfortable with what I grew up around. Is it the same for you? I noticed most of the people you talk to at work are women.”

“Are they?” I hadn’t really thought about it, but I suppose she was right. “Hmm, I guess I am close to a lot of women, and I don’t really have any guy friends that I hang out with regularly.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that. We’re not big fans of gender norms ourselves,” Christopher says. “That’s something that factors into our parenting for sure.”

“Yeah, I have 2 dads and one of them is a drag queen, so gender norms weren’t really a thing in our house either,” I explain. “I lived with my mom until I was 14, though, and that was a different story.”

As soon as I mention my mom’s house a familiar chill starts spreading up my spine. My breaths get shallow and unsteady and my heart begins to race. I know what's coming and I try my best to stave it off. I grab my water and shift my focus to the coldness of the water in my mouth and how the glass feels in my hand. Luckily, this is enough to ground me.

After a few seconds of silence, Lucy leans in and says quietly, “Well, it’s good that you had some positive influences.” I can tell from the concern on her face that she knows the topic upset me, but she doesn't pry. Still, I feel exposed. “If you want, I can invite my brother so there will be at least one other guy there.”

“Cool,” I reply, still unsettled. Lucy reaches over and silently squeezes my hand. I can imagine her doing the same to one of her sons when they're upset and it comforts me. “Thank you,” I tell her softly.

“For what?”

“I don’t know. For inviting me to dinner, and…everything, I guess.”

A woman approaches the table, smiling warmly. She’s around the same age as my parents with golden blonde hair that almost matches Lucy’s exactly, save for some silvery strands woven in. “How was everything?” she asks, placing her hands on Lucy's shoulders.

“Mama!” Lucy exclaims as the woman leans down and embraces her. “I was wondering where you’ve been, I haven’t seen you all night. Johnny, this is my mom Lucinda. Johnny is my assistant.”

“Nice to meet you, Johnny!” Lucinda tells me. “I hope you enjoyed your meal.”

“Oh, it was terrible,” I joke, grateful for an opportunity to change the tone. “Just awful! I definitely didn’t eat way too much of it and give myself indigestion.”

Lucinda laughs heartily. “Oh, you’re a little smart ass! I like you.”

I can tell she has good taste. “I’m glad someone appreciates it!”

“I do, and I want to let you know that your meal is on the house. Since it was so terrible and all,” Lucinda says, winking.

“Well, thanks! A good cook and generous, too. If you’re looking for another son, my parents would probably be glad to have someone take me off their hands.”

“I think I’m good on sons for now, but I’ll keep feeding you if you keep coming back.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

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[spotaus]

New Age AU (The Camp)

Hello and welcome back to another New Age drabble! As always, fuck it we ball, no editing or rereading! This one is fresh off the press!

And!! Hello to @ancha-aus @papiliovolens and @mutzelputz ! Hope y'all enjoy!

Things had been looking up.

   Now, the bar for what was 'better' was set pretty low, but this time, right now, managed to reach it.

   Shortly after the collapse of his former kingdom, Cross had known there was no way he could ever show his face there again. His closest friends were dead, his brother was trying to rebuild things from the ground up, and his presence would only hinder them. If he, the king's loyal dog, stayed? It'd cause he'll to break loose.

   So he left. Alone. In the night. Nowhere to go but anywhere better than there.

   He walked.

   And walked, and walked, and walked, until he came across a town where he could find a place to sleep, a spot to eat, and to find out what the hell he'd do next.

   He had almost hoped that no one would recognize him in the neighboring kingdom. That he'd get off scot-free, but they knew. He was too focused, too quick to draw his blade, too alert.

   He unsettled the patrons at the inn, he was too efficient for the dock work, and the shops wouldn't have him keeping his sword on his hip. He refused to be without it.

   And so within a few months he'd exhausted his resources and had to move on.

   But. Just before he boarded the ship that would set sail for some new dock, he had been rushed into by a wirey, tiny skeleton. Knocked clean off his feet and almost directly into the lapping sea below the docks.

   Cross was not easily placed off-balance. The skeleton was stronger than he looked.

   And he looked... really nice.

   Cross, as he stood his ground, found that the skeleton paused to stare at him. Big, colorful eyelight filled crescent sockets which squinted in delight. A big smile reached the corners of his eyes, and a huge smudge of some darkness patterned his cheek, breaking up the pure while bone of his skull.

   Cross hadn't seen another skeleton monster in ages, aside from his brother. Especially not one with as much expression as this one. Dressed head to toe in colorful fabric sashes and pouches and bags, every one with a new vibrant color. It must've been expensive to-

   And then he'd spotted that this ethereal skeleton had a familiar pouch in-hand. A pouch with a hand-embroidered "X" on it. His coin purse.

   The moment he'd seen it, it seemed the skeleton had noticed, because he practically rocketed off the dock. Cross had followed without a thought. That was his pouch! One if the few things that were ever his. He needed that back, boat be damned.

  

   And so Cross had chased this mysterious skeleton all about town, not losing his track for long when the other managed to slip away.

   It felt like the worst game of cat and mouse he'd ever been a part of. But, it was somewhere outside if town that the skeleton led him to. He wasn't even out of breath when he came to the clearing just off the path. The skeleton had been out of his sight for twenty minutes, but his transportation magic was pungent. Cross knew exactly where he'd gone.

   And he'd found him.

   Grabbed him by one of his scarves abd snatched his pouch back. It was empty, but that was fine. Most of his gold was inside his armor anyhow.

   But before he left, the skeleton had laughed. Had said he was impressed he'd been followed. Wondered what he was doing setting sail on that dingey of a ship before. Cross hadn't intended to sit down, he hadn't wanted to. After all, this guy had stolen from him.

   Yet, the skeleton mentioned he might have work for a soldier like Cross. Paying work. Work that would have him moving about. Away from whatever he was running from.

   And Cross had sat. And asked about the work. And Ink had introduced himself.

   Ink was an assassin for hire, something which had made Cross grimace and almost leave once more, but Ink swore Cross wouldn't be expected to kill anyone. Just... make sure no one killed Ink while he was moving from job to job. A bodyguard of sorts, just until his name was off the radar again.

   He promised gold, and food, and respect. People knew him everywhere he went, a sort of folk hero (though that wasn't what he'd said) and so Cross wouldn't be as judged for his past.

   It had been an easy sell. Scam or not.

   Cross had some things to get used to. The first being that Ink had no soul. He hadn't noticed it because the other was draped in magical items, but Ink was entirely soulless. Along with that, he had an awful memory.

   To work around it, Cross had taken one of Ink's scarves to replace his bandana that was destroyed in a fight. The familiar item seemed to keep Ink from getting spooked by Cross. It was almost familiar to Cross, how to Ink he was no different than one if Ink's other cloth-wrapped belongings.

   And it was two years, traveling with Ink. Helping him keep on track for his kills, keeping folks from trying to ambush him. Fighting local city guards attempting to arrest them.

   It was a life on the run, but it was better than being dogged in his own hometown, missing his friends and family. Some shadow of a fallen king.

   But, now, things were looking up.

   Ink had said he was going to be going dark for a bit. To help an old friend. One who Cross might like.

   One who was setting up a rebellion against the evil tyrant who'd taken over his home kingdom in order to defend his peoples. A righteous warrior.

   Cross had to admit, the closer they drew towards the encampment, the more excited he became. He wasn't able to help in the last coup he lived through. Maybe he could be of help during this one.

.

.

   The chattering and happy voices weren't what Cross had expected upon finally reaching the end of the game trail. Ink had insisted there was no main road to the encampment, and that they had to use the secret entrance, which consisted of a thin trail that wove between all sorts of flora and snagged at his fraying uniform.

   When they'd emerged, Cross had certainly not expected to find himself standing before a beautiful flower garden.

   It was a landscaped space reminiscent of the gardens back at the palace. It was smaller, obviously, with less variety, but the first step onto the rocky path which led towards the back of a meager cottage made his heart skip a beat.

   The colors were to plentiful, and a butterfly flitted past him in a way that completely had him enamored. It was thanks to muscle memory that he didn't freeze up completely to admire the flawless plants in more detail.

   Instead, he soon found himself up a set of wooden steps, just behind Ink, hand on his swords hilt in preparation.

   Ink knocked on the door.

   It sounded thin, and Cross wondered just how old this building was. Colorful curtains drawn over the windows gave an impression of a fresh life to a building which clearly was on its last leg. The ground creaked under the slightest shift of weight.

   The door swung open.

   His focus was entirely absorbed by the person on the other side of the door. Another skeleton.

   Of course, Ink was shorter than Cross, but this new skeleton was shorter than Ink. He had bright blue eyelights and was wearing what Cross could only recognize as training armor. Old iron scraped up in battle and worn more casually when a soldier was among allies. It was adorned in shades of blue and yellow heavy fabric, and Cross was a little amazed that the little guy wasn't dying in the summer heat right about now.

   "Oh, Ink!" The skeleton inside greeted. "You're... actually right on schedule! That's unheard of for you." He seemed to look over his shoulder a moment.

   Cross followed his gaze, catching a slight view into the inner portion of the cottage. It seemed warm, and decorated, and homey. Too messy for his tastes just at a glance, but he had to imagine it was cozy for those who lived inside.

   "You can thank Cross for that one. He's been keeping me on-schedule for..." Ink trailed off at that, reaching a hand back to knock his knuckles against Cross's padded tunic, just over the center of his ribs.

   "Just barely two years now." Cross supplied meekly, focusing on Blue, "It's a pleasure to meet you."

   Blue seemed to perk up at Cross' words, and nodded a bit.

   "Right! Yes, forgive me, I am Blue." The skeleton, Blue, supplied with a grin. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Cross."

   Then, after a moment, he peaked it head back inside to look at something beyond the door, then looked back out to the pair. He was clearly guarding the threshold.

   "If you wouldn't mind waiting out on the front veranda? Dream and I will coke to meet you and guide you to the planning tent." Blue requested, and gestured to the left.

   Cross could only imagine the porch wrapped around to the front, and he nodded in agreement as Ink shot off in that direction without a warning.

  

   Blue shut the door, and Cross took his time walking around the side of the old cottage.

   Dream.

   That was the name of the person leading this revolution. Cross was eager to hear more, solely because Ink didn't always have his facts straight. His memory made it more likely that he was making things up to fill the gaps than anything else.

   He'd made this Dream guy sound like a saint, and frankly Cross didn't believe it. Kingdoms can be bad, but the things Ink was saying sounded cartoonish. Blood sacrifice and godlike power? No way was any of that right. He needed to meet this guy and hear what sort of real threats this tyrant posed, and hear how Dream planned on going about claiming power.

   Cross had seen a plan like this go poorly before. He didn't plan to let another one happen on his watch.

  

   As he turned the corner, he was greeted with a shocking sight.

   Not far past the front fence of the cottage, was a large clearing with a river running through it. Dotted around the edges of the grassy clearing were all sorts of large canvas tents. Ones that reminded him a bit too much of a battle encampment.

   Only, the tents were strung up with colorful flags atop, banners of what had to be the Royal insignia of the kingdom in gold and purple, and, most strikingly, that was where those sounds of joy had been coming from.

   People were talking, there was a dirt patch in the center of the place where it seemed there were people training, others cheering them on. The scent of warm food wafted past him and made his mouth water. Just from a distance, it seemed like a little sanctuary. Hidden away on the outskirts of a kingdom.

   When he finally reached Ink's side, the other had hoisted himself to sit on a low-bearing railing that circled the porch. It barely seemed to hold his weight, but he coukd care less. He seemed content to kick his feet and watch the people out in the main area.

   Cross remained vigilant (then again, when didn't he?) and was quick to turn when the front door behind them eventually swung open with a heavy creaking noise.

   There, trailing Blue out of the front door, was a radiant skeleton.

   His magic alone felt like a warm breeze had passed a summer path and let flower petals gently drift by to make a scenic masterpiece. It was unlike anything Cross had ever felt, and he tried not to look dumbfounded when the skeleton's eyelights skimmed up and over the scene before him.

   "Dream!" It was Ink who practically stunt-fell backwards from his perch and rushed over to the skeleton's side without so much as a stumble.

   Cross didn't need to see his eyelights to know they were probably both a bright, striking color. His excitement was evident.

   "Ink, it's good to see you again!" Dream greeted, and to Cross' utter surprise, he reached out and pulled Ink into a quick hug. "I heard from Blue that you brought a reliable friend?" He pulled away just as quickly as he'd tugged Ink in, but he seemed to watch Ink closely with caring eyelights. A soft yellow.

   Ink seemed to take a moment to process, before he gave a single nod and whipped around. In just a moment he bounced off of Cross's side and nudged him for emphasis.

   "Right, this is Cross! He's been helping me, but I thought he'd help a lot with that job you needed done!" Ink introduced, and Cross gave a half-bow. He just hardly kept hinself from saluting in his old fashion.

   Dream finally took a moment to look at Cross as the door to the cottage finally clicked shut on its own behind him.

   It took a moment, before Dream smiled gently at him.

   "Cross, it's a pleasure to meet you, truly." He greeted, reaching out a hand. Cross took it without thinking, shaking it firmly. "I am Prince Dream, and this is my knight, Blue." He added on.

   Suddenly, Cross wished he hadn't accepted that handshake. A prince? Ink hadn't mentioned anything about Dream being royalty?? Surely he'd have been on better behavior if he'd known!

   Dream released his hand, but gave him little time to devolve into panic, and he raised both hands placatingly.

   "Please, don't fret." He asked, "I can see you are not from this kingdom and you don't know the plight we face."

   It was a nice tone. An understanding one, which gave Cross a moment to breathe and think better of dropping to his knees for forgiveness.

   Dream continued, "Undoubtedly you are a brave soul, and a strong one as well. If you truly are interested in assisting us in this fight, I can explain more to you in a moment," He paused, "Though, you have a burden on your shoulders, even so young. Where do you come from?"

   Something about the question was so gentle. So... genuine.

   Cross faltered a bit, "I-" A breath. "I come from the fallen kingdom of Ritten. A high guard, disgraced once the castle fell." He admitted, trying to will his throat to not grow tight in shame.

   "And, may I ask, what brought you to this place?" Dream prodded gentle.

   "My family suffered because I was not strong enough to fight against the oppressive might of my king. I ran away, and now cannot help them." He'd thought hard and long about this. Where he'd gone wrong. Every night for the past two years. "I thought that, perhaps, I might save someone else from the pain of an unhonest rule. At least, based on the picture Ink painted for me of your cause."

   There was a moment of quiet.

   "Mm, I don't remember painting anything of Dream yet though, Cross." Ink chimed in.

   The tension felt broken and Dream's tense, serene aura burst into one of fondness and he turned to giggle at Ink. Blue, behind him, sighed.

   "Figure of speech, my friend." Dream clarified to Ink, before returning focus to, a frankly startled, Cross. "It seems you're passionate. I cannot promise that helping my people will fill that gap on your soul, but I can swear that you will be doing good for them." Dream assured, and Cross couldn't help but agree.

.

   From there, Dream, Cross, Blue, and Ink crossed the lawn. Dream was greeted excitedly by every person they passed, abd Blue helpfully held open a flap to a particularly small canvas tent. One whose walls seemed to block out all the noise from outside, and which most likely prevented any eavesdropping from outside in.

   The four of them settled around a table, Cross sat across from Dream, Ink and Blue facing eachother.

   The table was strewn with a single map, and that map was covered in all sorts of pins and charcoal scratches. Clearly a planning guide.

   Along routes, there were several red X's.

   "Cross, how familiar are you with this kingdom?" Dream asked him as he examined the spread before him.

   "...Admittedly, I don't know anything at all aside from what Ink has told me. We just arrived two days ago." He said.

   Dream nodded as Blue chimed in that Ink was 'unreliable at best'.

   "Then I shall start from what I know." Dream said softly.

   "I am the crown prince of this place. I was raised alongside my twin in the Wooded Castle." He began, and Cross was already a bit surprised. Twins? For monsters, having twins was practically impossible. It was unsafe, and deadly... "We were inseparable. I was to one day claim the throne, and he was to be my closest confidant. My advisor. We had always been thrilled by our coming futures. I was to be crowned and gifted our familial magic on our 13th birthday."

   There was a deep, deep sorrow that suddenly seemed to overtake Dream's face. Blue slumped a bit in his own seat as they both seemed to have their eyelights glued to Dream.

   "Just months before our celebration, Nightmare became paranoid and distant. He told me that if I went through with the ceremony that something bad would happen. I'm not sure who placed this idea in his head, as I had been trained from a young age to withstand and control the power. A birthright handed on from my mother's father to my mother, and from my mother to me." He explained, "He did not listen to me, did not trust me."

   A miniscule flinch of Dream's shoulders. "During the ceremony, as I was presented with my birthright. An apple, meant to pass on my mother's life energy as well as untold power. My brother rushed up and snatched it from my hands. Consumed the fruit, and was changed by its overwhelming force. He did not inheret the full power, nor was he the same after it washed him in a dark and potent magic." Cross was uncertain. Anxious. What kind of kingdom was this? "Shortly after he took the crown, he... he cast me out. Banished me to a neighboring kingdom."

   Dream seemed to take a deep breath. "Since that day, my people have been suffering. Someone or something is in my poor brother's head, whispering horrible lies to him. I was unable to help him when we were young, and it has led to the horrible state of our kingdom. He is using the power granted by our ancestors to flood the people's crops and to destroy their sources of income. The people cannot survive this way much longer. I need to liberate my twin from those who are twisting his mind. So I may reason with him and help guide him back towards the truth."

   Cross was taken aback.

   Dream literally had an evil twin, and was meant to take the throne.

   "There have been many attempts to gain information on the king's whereabouts, but anyone the smaller rebel groups have sent have never made it back." Blue took over the story. "Dream has been searching for a person strong enough to infiltrate the castle to bring us back direct information. We are blind aside from the word of the people."

   And the dots fell into place. Cross would be this spy, if he agreed on taking this job.

   The others seemed to sense his hesitancy.

   "You can back out this moment if you like, no hard feelings." Dream had added hurriedly, "I am aware that our circumstances are looming for an outsider, and it is a lot to ask of a stranger."

   It was sincere, but Cross knew himself too well. He was in too deep the moment Ink had told him of Dream's plight. There was no way he would turn down this fight.

   "I... want to help you. What else do I need to know?" He replied simply.

   The room seemed to fill with a sort of relief at his admission.

   It seemed to take Dream a moment to collect his thoughts, before he gestured to Blue. The Knight was already out of his seat and rushing out of the tent. Cross figured this meant they were getting serious.

   "My first rule," Dream stated, "Please, for your own safety, avoid facing my twin at all costs." That was... a strange one. "I would fear for his death at your hands, as I truly don't wish to see him dead. Only, he is too powerful for even an army of men to face, let alone one skilled warrior. It would be your death, and I do not wish to send you to the gallows."

   Then Dream sighed, "I have had Ink searching for a worthy candidate for this mission. I would send him, but I fear he would forget his goal and attempt to assassinate my twin. And be killed in the process."

   Cross gave a nod.

   "The second thing to know, is to avoid the Knights. They always wear masks, visages of big cats from across the realm. As far as we are aware, there are three of them. A tiger, a lion, and a black panther." He informed, brow furrowed, "You are not from this area, but I can tell you that the masks are a tradition of our heritage. They are only given to those whom royal blood deem as their most trusted. The masked monsters cannot be trusted, and when together, cannot be faced alone."

  

   Cross hardly had a moment to place the information into his mind before Dream seemed to jolt, "The panther is the strongest of them magically. The lion the strongest. If you come across them on your own, please, just flee with what you've found. All of these people are criminals and vagrants, the lowest of the low. Hostile and dangerous." He reiterated, until he gained another nod from Cross.

   That was when Blue entered the tent once again, his arms filled with maps and scrolls and... was that armor?

   "We have reason to believe that the power in the castle does not keep a close eye on their guard. The plan would be for you to slip in among a grouping of new recruits and investigate further once you are dismissed from your first round of duties." Dream explained.

   Cross figured that could work. He was already a soldier, always had been one, so he wouldn't have to employ his terrible acting skills.

   There was only one thing eating at him.

   "And... what will I be searching for while I'm there?" He asked boldly.

   That was when, almost like a cue, Blue set a scroll before him. It seemed to be a list of locations, people, and imports and exports.

   "That is a list of all the things in which Nightmare has destroyed in the past year. All the locations and people affected by his wayward deeds." Dream explained, "I ask of you to listen, and find word of where his next area of disaster is planned to be. That way Blue, myself, Ink, and the others might intercept his Knights before they cause more harm to my people."

   Okay. Just information.

   Cross almost wondered if it was fate which brought him here, to sit before the radiant prince and his loyal followers.

   He'd eavesdropped on his father and spoken with his siblings enough to understand exactly what Dream was hoping he'd find. Plans, schemes, people even thinking of slandering this king who he could crush under his boot.

   This list was full of names and towns, written in a gentle cursive script, no doubt written by hand by Dream. Like there was a mourning etched into every stroke of the quill.

   "Alright. I'll do it." Cross confirmed, though mostly to himself. Then, "When do I set off?"