#they take orders from the surface god remember

[crow-perch]

"It felt like I was being pulled out of him. The painter was losing something as he painted me."

[approx. 21 hours and 30 mins elapsed work time.] I have studied this man's apartment to an absurd degree. It seems like nothing on surface glance, but man does it get dark. humor me as i analyze god's saddest québécois it's over 2k words. i've gotten out of hand with thinking about this dude. help.

Through the combination of the original painting's titles, we can (pardon the pun) paint a picture of the person Frederic may have been before all of this, as if we take Scared's words literally, the Original lost these things when creating his auto-portraits. These were significant enough to be observed by the visitor when he saw his painting for a second time, and thus altered him physically as he went. He may have named them after the experience he had, but the aspect of himself they represent were all part of him prior.

Fear, Divine, Treachery, Confusion, Rage, Agony, Darkness, Blinding Light, and Faceless I will go into what I believe the aspects these portraits "took" from him when being created below, Fear: Scared Fred is the most prominent to me. He's built primarily from the pigment the Original had on his pallet in his sprite. That dreaded sky-blue. I do believe this ties them together fairly heavily, as fear was the first thing he felt when he saw the Visitor, and the fear of what had happened to his friend (?), Fabrice. (I'll get into why I put that question mark there later) leading me to come to the conclusion he was the first one painted. Scared Fred is also the most certain on the others not being the real deal, he also has memories of the Original's childhood to some degree. His unique ability to spread panic to your whole team is something worth mentioning as well. This, in combination with the prescription medication you find in his bathroom, leads me to believe he struggled with Anxiety to at least a semi-significant amount. It was the first instinct his mind goes to, in terms of reacting to things. Scared Fred also exhibits trust issues, and agoraphobia as well. Divine: Godhead's a bit of a strange one. He starts off the encounter by putting on a front, an act, of divinity. Making use of his appearance to try and sway Sam onto his side. Of course, if you show enough disinterest, he simply drops it. He knows he's not real, he remembers being painted pretty vividly, and simply wants to survive the civil war the apartment is engrossed in. Not to mention he believes the Original to be the most dangerous, and yet he can't bring himself to think of killing him, or the others. (I'll bring up the joint smoking w/ a different painting, I haven't forgotten about it.) I believe him to have inherited the Original Frederic's ego, and self-worth. He's confident, in spite of believing himself to be a "gatdamn freak", and fairly laid-back. Also the whole "painting yourself as a god" thing- He believes himself to be the best-looking out of the nine paintings, saying the others just looked like barf in comparison to him. His attacks are also all charm based, swaying your whole time to his side to fight you. Might imply the Original was confident himself, at least about his appearance and art. Enough to play around with acting, and knowing how to work a crowd as well. Would make sense if he were a theater kid as well, honestly.

Treachery: Just how many goddamn paintings are trying to sway you onto their side? How many of them want you to believe that they're the real deal? Toxic's cunning, almost scarily so. He creates an army of paintlings to slow you down, fun accessories to try and prey on your greed as a player, in order to get you to do his bidding, and has learned to split himself into three parts in order to have better odds against you in a fight. He's the painting with the actual plan to kill the rest of the paintings. He's conniving, and yet the venom in his words really ruins the ingredients he's prepped for a terrifying encounter. His temper gets in the way, inviting you to attack him. He doesn't retreat to get another vantage point. He just insults you. He spits insults and poison, throwing out whatever he can to hurt you and your team. I think the original, while being intelligent, let his temper get in the way sometimes. May have goaded people into fights, likely as a defense mechanism when cornered. If you lose control of a situation, some people are willing to do anything to get some shred of it back. Toxic banks on the predictability of the player in order to try and get what he wants. ...There's also the fascination with hats? Maybe he liked accessorizing. I dunno. Confusion: I think we can agree Wriggly's a fun one to talk to. Right out the gate he gives you the major indicator on picking out who the original painter was, putting a heavy emphasis on a red ring. The one you talked to to start of this had a green one- that instantly puts him in the line of suspicion. He's not nearly as good at acting, or coming up with excuses for his appearance like Godhead or Toxic. His way of speaking is almost nonsensical. He struggles to control his volume, hisses at you when attacked, and is quite expressive. (Him being in a fridge is a thing I'll reference later) I'm not sure how this funny guy has a connection to how the Original was before all of this, outside of his whimsy. Frederic does have comic books, video games, and other novelty items scattered about the house. There's a bit of playfulness there. Perhaps it was the confusion about just exactly what was on that canvas.

Rage: Despite the painting's title, Fred who Bites is... honestly a bit tragic. He can't control who he lashes out at, biting anyone who gets close- even himself. He expresses genuine remorse towards anyone caught by the teeth, and wishes he could have a normal life. He wants to get along with the others instead of fighting. If you let yourself die to him, he's devastated. ...He was painted with rage, rather than embodying it. A portrait meant to vent the disparity and decline of quality of the paintings being crafted after viewing the painting of the sky a second time. And I don't think he was painted by the Original because of that. His amorphous, shifting form is more reminiscent of the Faceless painting, and how it turned into the Face Taker. He has a lot of guilt built up, and encourages others to stay away from him. He knows he struggles to not lash out when overwhelmed, and can't control it nearly as much as he wants to. ...Makes you wonder if all of the alcohol and empty bottles around the apartment, as well as the weed, was the original trying to dampen something else. Like how the tranquilizers get Bitey to stop hurting himself and others, to his own relief. Kinda sounds like meltdowns, to me.

Agony: Tumor is a sad case. The embodiment of the pain felt during whatever transformation the Original may have been afflicted with- the agony of the paintings being created. He can't really speak, only writhing in pain. You don't find out much from this, aside from him wishing to be put down. He's surrounded by pain medication, like he tried to take it for himself, but dropped the bottles, and couldn't pick them back up again. Godhead's smoking is also a form of pain medication as well, as he's likely trying to soothe the headache each painting seems to suffer from, and perhaps calm Bites down by proxy, given the short distance between their hiding spots. Did the original suffer from a chronic pain condition? Is that why, if he were to be in on the hivemind, he's so nonplussed about the painting's continued existence? Was he just used to chronic headaches?

Darkness: Shadow's admittedly a bit underdeveloped. He hides in the dark storage, pointedly away from the side room the sky painting is stored in, and lunges out at you when approached. He just doesn't want to be looked at. I could possibly theorize that he was made after Bright, the darkness left behind in the wake of witnessing the Visitor. Or perhaps whoever painted him had begun to see the Shades? I'm unsure. Blinding Light: Another painting that was potentially mimicking the Visitor, like Scared. Bright is empathetic, caring, and altruistic. He suffers with the headaches the others are plagued with, but does not wish harm on them, only to heal. He has quite a bit of knowledge about that, as well. Notably checking for fractures, symptoms of illnesses, and fevers. He's also a bit naive, believing Sam to be wholly friendly, and lamenting about how he doesn't know what he did wrong if you were to attack. This painting's existence is what keeps me from going down the route of "Original Frederic was an asshole", but rather "Original was likely an unintentional asshole". Bright immediately gets chummy with you, offering up whatever he can, simply because he's just friendly like that. Combined with Godhead and Toxic, Original may have genuinely wanted friends, but struggled to keep them, with outbursts like Bitey's hampering him and warding others away. Faceless: Admittedly another one of my favorites. Described by Scared as: "I remember painting one that looked just like the real thing, but without a face." "That one scared me the most. It radiated with malevolence." You never actually confront the real Face-Taker, not how it was originally depicted. It is only after you confront him with the reality that he is not real that he begins to distort, becoming the monster you fight in order to return the Original's face. That anger and resentment he holds for the other paintings- the ones with an actual identity separate from their aspects is something I find to be incredibly compelling. All he is, is the art he spawned from. How bitter would you be, if you were created for no purpose, but were unable to attain one as you are currently? And when he steals the Original's face, all he can do is masquerade to be him. When you're incredibly good at one thing, people tend to tie that very heavily with who you are as a person, intentionally or not. Perhaps the original felt he was nothing without his art, and in creating that impression of a distant Visitor, and the subsequent decline in quality of his work, he felt himself losing who he was, becoming hollow.

Faceless also gives us some very interesting information about another individual we don't recall meeting, at least... not while they were still lucid. Fabrice. Or, as we encounter him- The Rat King. Fabrice and Frederic had at been friends at the very least, having met together for coffee when Frederic had shown him the painting that ultimately unleashed hell for the first floor in it's entirety. It's because of that painting, that so many people were turned into rats as Fabrice's failing mind led him into a vicious, infectious rampage. Now, the Rat King drops three items. The Rusty Crown that lets you talk to rats, a Giant Rat Skull (1/4 chance), and the Filthy Ring (1/32 chance).

How odd, that that is something is so specific a drop for one enemy, at an incredibly low rate. How odd, that one of the major indicators of the "True Frederic's" identity is tied to his ring. It's just about this one's opposite- gold with a red gem, rather than emerald and a tarnished silver-y copper. It's also interesting just how close it is to Faceless' ring as well. Outside of simple game mechanics, why would they paint a ring deliberately incorrect? Perhaps to signify another core part of the Original's identity. Would he tie himself so heavily to this person, that when making a portrait signifying how hollow he felt, that he'd include a nod to the friend he just caused harm?

There's also another nod for just how significant Fabrice was in starting this chain of events. A friend pointed out to me that Wriggly's hiding spot in the fridge was a bit suspect, as none of the other paintings shared a room. The trope of being "stuffed into a fridge" or "fridging" is when a loved one is hurt, killed, maimed, assaulted, or otherwise traumatized in order to motivate another character, or move their plot forward. Do I also mention how bizarrely massive the painting apartment is for one person alone? There's two bedrooms. [And they were roommates!] [Oh my god they were roommates-]

And finally, The Original Frederic. [CW for Mentions of Self-Harm, substance abuse, and suicidal idealation] The man you meet inside the closet is an echo of the person he once was. Having lost so much of himself to his paintings, it's a miracle he's as put-together as he is. Though, I've already discussed just how good he is at putting on an act. He's quite a bit more put together visibly compared to Faceless, as well. Wearing nice clothing, a gold ring with what's likely a ruby on it, clean shoes, with a coordinated color pallet. Although, his face is quite a bit more exhausted looking in comparison to his attire. Somewhat dark circles around his eyes, frazzled hair, an unkempt moustache- Though these might just be attributed to his face being ripped off and maltreated by a painting who wouldn't instinctively know human hygiene. If anything, Faceless might have a more accurate visual of what he was really like on the inside, versus the refined and practiced appearance he may have put on the exterior. Godhead's certainly good enough at seeming like something he's not, and he got that from somewhere. The paintings really didn't treat him kindly as well. Being locked in a closet with only two bottles of turpentine, perhaps in hoping he'd save them the trouble in just using them on himself? Yeesh. But after the frenzied state he'd just been in, after losing someone so close to him by just showing off his own work? I don't think he was doing alright. The scattered bottles of alcohol around the apartment, empty and full, the loaded shotgun found in the room Godhead resides in (Guy has faces on his hands, he can't exactly wield that thing), the spilled prescription medications around Tumor, the fear of the sky and agoraphobia Scared exhibits- In a way, the Original has a few parallels with the (ironically) blank canvas of a protagonist, Sam. Reclusive, having to sell his creations in order to make a living as an alternative form of employment, having some relatively nerdy interests such as collecting retro video games and vintage comics, and both now at their wits end trying to survive the hellscape that's spawned in their absence from the greater world. There's also the connection to Sybil. She mentions remembering conversing with him in the past. Were they acquaintances? Friends? Neighbors just making small talk? Admittedly I hope we can get some more insight on her past relationships to the other residents.

I think I've covered everything I wanted to here? I hope this is coherent as well, put a LOT more time into it this past month compared to my Hellen theory/hcs. So flattered w/ the tags on that y'all are too nice. I'm glad it made sense, I was worried I was rambling incoherently ;-; Thank you for reading! I hope I might be able to look into Henderson's apartment when that's fully implemented, the atmosphere there was INSANELY good on my first playthrough. The Mirrored Apartment + Edwin is also something i'm looking at now with 1.5 officially out :]

[majosullivan]

I was feeling a underlying grossness with the clear implications that the flyfin created their own prophecy last episode, but actually reading it…it just makes my skin crawl. The absolute dehumanization of Kappa for their plan. The way they view his free will. How this connects to the way Fizz treated Siren. An absolute spit in the face to all the clear discomfort Kappa has shown to his role as the beacon even in the short time he’s known them, to the vulnerability Kappa showed in front of them when he admitted he didn’t care if he died when he tried to swim for surface, feelings that were a result of his life as the beacon. Seeing all the small bits of manipulative language they used going back…I don’t think I have the right words to describe just how gross Fizz’s words made me feel. There is something truly disturbed about him. The way his siblings are just behind him hollowly. They’re just as bad as him. Part of me has been wondering about the possibility that the flyfin had something to do with the whale’s past illness, as some form of attempt to wake them up that backfired. After this episode, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case

[melanchoire]

PLEASE DON'T STOP THE MUSIC ──── kim minjeong.

── ( 🪷 ) being a brat is fun, until minjeong, the most patient woman you know, decides your behavior at the party warrants a... correction, proving that even sweethearts have a dominant side you never suspected.

pairing. dom!girlfriend!kim minjeong x sub!girlfriend!fem reader

warning(s). almost cheating if you squint, cunnilingus, degradation, fingering, making out.

word count. 4,8k

requested? yes, by 🧸 anon (sorry for the delay my love) i used their idea and transformed it a bit based on my thoughts and ideas for the plot.

“what time are we leaving?” you ask, the question a low rumble against the backdrop of laughter and chatter that fills the apartment. you’re perched on the edge of a plush, velvet couch, the kind that screams ‘expensive’ and ‘don’t spill anything,’ surrounded by laughter and chatter that feels miles away. each nervous laugh, each shared joke, each clinking glass is a tiny hammer blow against your patience.

minjeong, your girlfriend, is across the living room, locked in an animated conversation with a woman you vaguely recognize as one of her colleagues. her head is thrown back in laughter, her eyes sparkling with a carefree joy that you envy. you watch as she leans in, whispering something that makes the other woman giggle and playfully shove her shoulder. you feel a strange pang, a mixture of affection and resentment. affection because she looks genuinely happy, resentment because that happiness doesn’t seem to include you.

you shift uncomfortably, the plush fabric doing little to alleviate the growing tension in your back. the party, thrown by one of minjeong’s acquaintances, is exactly what you’d feared: a suffocating sea of unfamiliar faces and forced pleasantries. you don’t know these people, and frankly, you don’t particularly want to. they’re all successful, polished, and brimming with an effortless confidence that you find intimidating. you’ve caught a few sideways glances, a few polite but dismissive smiles, and the barely-veiled curiosity in their eyes as they try to place you in minjeong’s life. you’re the odd man out, the square peg trying to fit into a round hole.

you try to engage in the conversations around you, throwing in the occasional comment or question, but your attempts usually fall flat. your jokes land with a thud, your observations are met with polite nods, and you quickly retreat back into your shell, the feeling of being an outsider growing with each passing minute.

you can’t help but feel like an outsider, an alien dropped into this strange habitat. minjeong’s friends are… fine, you suppose. polite enough, at least on the surface. but their easy camaraderie, their shared jokes and knowing looks, all serve to highlight your own isolation. It’s not that they’re actively excluding you, it’s just… you don’t fit. you don’t understand their references, you don’t share their history, and frankly, you don’t really want to.

minjeong knows this, of course. you’ve made it abundantly clear. you’d much rather be home, curled up on the couch with her, watching some mindless reality show and ordering takeout. but she'd insisted. it was yizhuo’s birthday, and she really wanted you to come. you love her, of course, so you agreed, sacrificing your saturday night to the social gods. but the gods are cruel and unsympathetic, as you’fe quickly finding out.

minjeong doesn’t seem to notice your discomfort. she’s animated, her eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter as she talks to yizhuo and another girl whose name you can’t quite remember. she seems to be in her element, radiating a carefree joy that you rarely see. it’s a beautiful sight, and a part of you feels guilty for wanting to drag her away from it. but the other part, the selfish part, just wants to go home.

you glance at your watch again. 10:47 PM. it feels like you’ve been here for an eternity.

you take a sip of the water you’ve been nursing all night. minjeong had offered you a beer when you first arrived, but you’d declined, knowing that someone had to be the designated driver. you silently curse your responsible nature, wishing you could loosen up and let the alcohol numb the awkwardness. minjeong is a little tipsy, her words slightly slurred, her laughter a little louder than usual. she’s having a good time, and you can’t begrudge her that, but it also makes you feel even more isolated in your sobriety.

finally, minjeong disentangles herself from the conversation and makes her way towards you, her steps a little unsteady.

“hey, you okay?” she asks, her voice a little too loud for the relatively quiet corner you’ve sequestered yourself in.

you force a smile. “yeah, i’m fine. just… a little tired.”

she sits down beside you, her arm brushing against yours. “you’ve been really quiet tonight.”

“just not feeling it, i guess.” you admit, trying to keep the resentment from creeping into your voice. “this isn’t really my crowd.”

minjeong’s expression clouds over slightly. “don’t say that. they’re nice people, you just need to give them a chance.”

“i have given them a chance, minjeong.” you say, your voice a little sharper than you intended. “they’re not exactly rolling out the welcome wagon. when are we leaving?”

“soon, babe.” she calls back, her voice slightly slurred. “just a little longer, okay? jimin wants to do karaoke."

karaoke. the word hangs in the air like a death sentence. you shudder inwardly. the thought of enduring another hour, let alone participating in a drunken karaoke session, is enough to send you running for the hills.

“what time are we leaving?” you ask again, the words slipping out before you can stop them. this time, your voice is a little sharper, a little more desperate.

minjeong sighs, a tiny furrow appearing between her eyebrows. “i told you, soon. stop worrying. just try to relax and have fun.”

“have fun?” you can’t help the incredulous tone that creeps into your voice. "how am i supposed to have fun? i don’t know anyone here. and the people i do know seem to be actively avoiding me.”

she frowns, her tipsy happiness momentarily fading. “that’s not true. yizhuo was just asking about your new project."

“yeah, after pointedly ignoring me for the first two hours.” you mutter, earning yourself a glare.

minjeong clearly doesn’t want to argue, not here, not in front of her friends. “okay, okay.” she says, holding up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “i get it. you’re not having a good time. but can you just try? for me? it’s important to me that you get to know my friends.”

“why?” the question is out before you can think, and you immediately regret it. it sounds accusatory, defensive.

minjeong’s expression hardens slightly. “because they’re important to me.” she says, her voice flat. “and if you care about me, you’ll at least make an effort.”

her words sting, a sharp jab to the gut. you do care about her, more than anything. that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? that’s why you’re enduring this torturous evening.

“i am making an effort.” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “it’s just… hard.”

minjeong sighs again, running a hand through her hair. “i know, babe. i know. just give it a little longer, okay? i promise, we’ll leave soon. i’ll even rescue you from karaoke.” she manages a weak smile, and you can’t help but soften.

“fine.” you say, forcing a smile of your own. “but if i hear one note of bohemian rhapsody, i’m staging a coup."

she laughs, the sound light and airy, and the tension in your chest eases slightly. “deal. now, stay here. i‘m going to get you a soda.”

before you can protest, she’s already on her feet, weaving her way through the crowd towards the makeshift bar in the corner. you watch her go, a wave of guilt washing over you. you know she’s trying, that she wants you to feel comfortable and included. but it’s just not working.

you lean back against the uncomfortable couch, closing your eyes for a moment. okay, you think to yourself. you can do this. you can survive a few more hours of awkward small talk and forced smiles. for minjeong.

but as the minutes tick by, your resolve begins to waver. you watch as minjeong disappears into the kitchen, and a wave of loneliness washes over you. you feel like you’re standing on the outside of a glass wall, watching everyone else enjoy themselves while you’re trapped in your own little world of anxiety and discomfort.

you glance around the room, trying to find something, anything, to occupy your attention. a group of people are gathered around the coffee table, playing some sort of card game. their laughter is loud and boisterous, and you can’t help but feel a twinge of envy. you wish you could be that carefree, that comfortable in your own skin.

your eyes land on a bookshelf in the corner of the room. you stand up, needing an excuse to move, to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the couch. you wander over to the bookshelf, pretending to be interested in the titles. you scan the spines, recognizing a few familiar authors, but mostly it’s a collection of books you've never heard of.

the bass vibrated through the floor, a dull, insistent throb that matched the restless energy buzzing beneath your skin. you replayed the conversation you’d just had with your boss, the promotion dangling just out of reach, the familiar sting of inadequacy pricking at your confidence. lost in the labyrinth of your anxieties, you hadn’t noticed the plush velvet of the sofa until you’d sunk into it, seeking a temporary refuge from the swirling chaos of the party.

the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and cheap beer, a discordant blend that mirrored the unease churning in your stomach. you closed your eyes, trying to block out the flashing lights and the shrill laughter, attempting to ground yourself in the quiet space within.

that’s when it happened. a disruption. a warm weight dipped the cushion beside you, interrupting the fragile peace you’d managed to conjure. you opened your eyes, ready to politely excuse yourself, but the words died in your throat.

“rough day?”

you startled, turning to see aeri settled comfortably next to you, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. or was it giselle? you always got confused. she had told you once that giselle was her american name, the one she used because it was easier for people to pronounce. that was the confusing part. you knew her as giselle. that’s the name she introduced herself as when you first met her at a mutual friend's birthday party. the name on her Instagram handle. the name everyone seemed to use.

but now, looking at her, she felt different. maybe it was the way the light caught the sharp angles of her cheekbones, highlighting a subtle intensity you hadn’t noticed before. or maybe it was the knowing glint in her dark eyes, a hint of amusement playing around her lips.

“hey.” you managed, the greeting sounding surprisingly breathless. “giselle?”

her smile widened, a brief flash of teeth that sent a shiver down your spine. “aeri.” she corrected softly, her voice a low, melodic hum that seemed to vibrate in the air around you. “please. call me aeri.”

you frowned, a knot of confusion tightening in your chest. “but… everyone calls you giselle.”

she shrugged, the movement graceful and effortless. “i know. it’s easier for some people. not everyone knows how to pronounce aeri properly, and honestly, sometimes i just don’t have the energy to correct them.” her gaze met yours, and the amusement intensified, turning almost… mischievous. “but i like it when you say it. it sounds… nice.”

your cheeks flushed, and you found yourself strangely flustered by her simple statement. You cleared your throat, attempting to regain your composure. “okay.” you said, the word a little shaky. “aeri, then.”

saying her name felt different, somehow. more intimate. more real.

her smile widened, a dimple appearing in her left cheek. “aeri, please. tonight, i'm aeri.”

“aeri, then.” you echoed, the name feeling foreign and yet familiar on your tongue. “and yeah, you could say that. rough week, rough month, rough life, maybe?”

she chuckled, a light, airy sound that somehow managed to cut through the cacophony of the party. “i know the feeling. sometimes it feels like the universe is just conspiring to make you spill coffee on your favorite shirt, every single day.”

you laughed, finding yourself inexplicably drawn to her easygoing demeanor. “exactly! it’s like, can i just catch a break, universe? just one day of no existential dread, please?”

aeri leaned closer, her gaze locking with yours. “i think you deserve more than just one day.” she said, her voice dropping to a soft murmur. “you deserve a whole galaxy of good days.”

your heart fluttered unexpectedly. you hadn’t been planning on flirting, hadn’t even considered it, but aeri’s words, her gaze, the way the light caught in her hair — it was all strangely captivating.

“that’s… a very kind thing to say, aeri.” you managed, your voice a little breathier than you intended.

“so,” she continued, leaning closer, her arm brushing against yours. the contact sent another jolt through you. “what’s got you hiding out here in the shadows? not a fan of the music?”

you hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal to someone you barely knew, someone who was suddenly making you feel incredibly self–conscious. “just… thinking.” you mumbled, avoiding her gaze. “work stuff.”

“work, huh?” aeri’s voice was laced with intrigue. “sounds serious.”

you sighed, relenting. “it’s just… there’s a promotion up for grabs, and i thought i had a good shot, but… well, apparently not.”

aeri tilted her head, her dark eyes studying you with an intensity that made you want to squirm. “why not?” she asked, her voice gentle, almost coaxing.

you found yourself pouring out your frustrations, the words tumbling out in a rush. you told her about the long hours you’d put in, the projects you’d spearheaded, the sacrifices you'd made. you told her about the feeling of being overlooked, of being underestimated.

aeri listened intently, her gaze never wavering, her presence a comforting anchor in the swirling chaos of the party. when you finally ran out of steam, she remained silent for a moment, her expression thoughtful.

“you know.” she said finally, her voice low and sincere. “sometimes we’te so busy trying to prove ourselves to others that we forget to appreciate our own worth. you sound incredibly talented and dedicated. don’t let someone else’s judgment define you.”

her words resonated deep within you, a balm to your wounded ego. you looked at her, really looked at her, and saw a depth of understanding and empathy that surprised you.

“thanks.” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “i needed to hear that.”

aeri smiled, a genuine, heart–stopping smile that lit up her entire face. “anytime.” she said, her voice soft. “that’s what friends are for.”

friends. the word hung in the air between you, both comforting and slightly disappointing. you wanted more than friendship, you realized with a jolt. you wanted to bask in the warmth of her attention, to lose yourself in the depths of her dark eyes, to explore the subtle curves of her smile.

she leaned closer again, and you could feel the warmth radiating from her body. the scent of her perfume, a complex blend of jasmine and sandalwood, filled your senses, intoxicating you.

“so…” she whispered, her voice a husky murmur that sent shivers down your spine. “now that we’ve established that you’re amazing, how about we ditch this boring party and go somewhere a little more… interesting?”

your heart pounded in your chest. this was it. this was the moment you’d been subconsciously waiting for. the chance to escape the mundane, to embrace the unknown, to surrender to the magnetic pull of aeri’s allure.

“i…” you began, your voice catching in your throat.

that’s when you heard it. a familiar voice, sharp and laced with irritation, cutting through the music and laughter.

“there you are!”

your head snapped up, and your stomach plummeted. standing there, framed in the doorway, was minjeong, your girlfriend. her eyes, usually warm and loving, were narrowed into slits, her jaw clenched tight.

“minjeong.” you said, your voice a strangled whisper.

“minjeong.” aeri echoed, her voice devoid of any emotion. she didn’t even look at her.

minjeong stalked towards you, her gaze fixed on aeri, radiating hostility. “what’s going on here?” she demanded, her voice dangerously low.

“nothing.” you said quickly, trying to defuse the situation. “we were just talking.”

“just talking?” minjeong repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “that’s not what it looked like to me.” she turned her attention to aeri, her eyes flashing with anger. “who are you?”

aeri finally looked up, her expression cool and composed. “a friend.” she said simply.

“a friend?” minjeong scoffed. “i don’t think so.” she grabbed your arm, her grip surprisingly tight. “come on.” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. “we’re leaving.”

you looked at aeri, a silent plea in your eyes. she met your gaze, her expression unreadable. then, with a barely perceptible shrug, she looked away.

the air crackled with unspoken tension. you could practically feel the temperature in the small space plummet.

aeri, sensing the shift in atmosphere, gracefully began to extract herself. “well, it was lovely talking to you.” she said, flashing you a dazzling smile. “i should probably go mingle. see you around?”

“yeah, see you.” you managed, your eyes lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary.

as aeri walked away, minjeong turned to you, her eyes narrowed. “what was that about?”

“what do you mean?” you asked, trying to play it cool, even though your heart was hammering in your chest.

“don’t play dumb. you were practically flirting with her.” her voice was dangerously low, barely audible above the music.

“we were just talking.” you protested, but the defensive tone in your voice betrayed you.

“talking? it looked like a lot more than talking. you know i don’t like it when you do that."

“do what? talk to people? minjeong, i can’t just sit in a corner all night. and aeri is a friend.”

“a friend? is that what you call it now? because it looked like she wanted to be more than just a friend.”

the argument escalated quickly. accusations flew, fueled by jealousy and underlying frustrations that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks. you found yourself saying things you regretted, things you had been holding back for too long. minjeong, in turn, retaliated with her own grievances, her voice rising with each word.

the party faded into the background, the music and laughter becoming a muffled hum. all that existed was the two of you, locked in a bitter battle of words, your relationship crumbling before your eyes.

“i can’t believe you’re doing this.” you said, your voice trembling with anger and hurt. “at yizhuo’s birthday party, no less. you’re making a scene."

“and you’re making me look like a fool.” minjeong shot back. “i come here to support our friend, and you’re over here, cozying up to someone else.”

you were about to retort when minjeong grabbed your arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “we’re leaving.” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument.

“what? now? i’m not leaving now.”

“yes, you are. i need to talk to you, and i’m not doing it here, in front of everyone.”

before you could protest further, she was pulling you towards the door, navigating through the throng of partygoers. people stared as you were dragged past, their faces a mixture of curiosity and concern. you caught yizhuo’s eye, her expression a question mark, but you couldn’t bring yourself to offer an explanation.

outside, the cool night air hit you like a slap in the face. minjeong didn’t release your arm until you reached her car, a sleek black sedan parked a block away. she unlocked the doors and practically shoved you inside.

“get in.” she said curtly, unlocking the car door.

you obeyed, sliding into the passenger seat, your heart pounding in your chest. the car ride was tense and silent, the only sound was the hum of the engine and the occasional sigh from minjeong.

the silence in the car was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the engine. you sat rigid in your seat, your arms crossed, staring straight ahead. minjeong started the car and pulled out into the street, her knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel.

neither of you spoke for several minutes. the tension in the car was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

finally, minjeong broke the silence, her voice strained. “i don’t understand you sometimes.” she said. what was that all about?” she demanded, her voice trembling with emotion.

you hesitated, unsure of what to say. “i don’t know.” you mumbled, avoiding her gaze. “we were just talking.”

“don’t lie to me.” she snapped. “i saw the way she was looking at you. i saw the way you were looking at her.”

you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “minjeong, nothing happened. we were just having a conversation.”

“a conversation that involved her flirting with you?” she challenged.

you flinched. “i don’t know if she was flirting.” you protested weakly.

“oh, come on.” minjeong said, her voice laced with disbelief. “you can’t be that blind. she was totally coming on to you.”

you didn’t respond, unable to deny the truth of her words.

“come here.” she purred, reaching out to grab your wrist and tug you closer. her grip was firm and insistent, pulling you into her personal space. she wrapped her other arm around your lower back, trapping you against the cool leather and her warm, soft body.

minjeong’s face was mere inches from yours now, her breath hot against your skin. you could feel the heat radiating off her, could see the hunger burning in her dark eyes. she was a predator, and you were her prey — and you couldn’t wait to be devoured.

minjeong’s gaze locked with yours, her eyes blazing with intensity and unbridled desire. she leaned in closer, her lips now a mere whisper from yours. you could feel the electric charge building between your bodies, the air crackling with sexual tension.

“ugh, i need to taste you.” she murmured, her voice low and husky, dripping with lust. her hand slid up your back, her nails raking lightly against your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

suddenly, she crashed her lips against yours in a bruising, passionate kiss. her mouth moved demandingly over yours, her tongue delving past your lips to explore and claim you. she kissed you like she was starving for it, like she needed your mouth, your taste, your very essence to survive.

her other hand slid down to grip your hip, pulling your body flush against hers. you could feel every curve of her lithe, soft body pressed against you, her breasts crushed against your own. she deepened the kiss, her tongue dancing and twining with yours, exploring every inch of your mouth.

minjeong’s hands roamed your body greedily, mapping out your curves, squeezing and caressing. she seemed determined to touch every part of you, to leave no inch of your skin unexplored. her touch was electric, setting your nerves alight with pleasure.

she broke the kiss abruptly, leaving you both panting. her eyes were dark and wild as she stared at you, a wicked grin playing on her kiss–swollen lips.

“fuck, i need you so bad.” minjeong growled, her voice raw with desire. her hands slid under your shirt, pushing it up and off in one swift motion. she leaned down, her mouth hot and hungry against your newly exposed skin. she kissed and nipped at your breasts, her tongue swirling around your hardened nipples.

her fingers fumbled with the button of your jeans, popping it open and tugging the zipper down. she slipped a hand inside, her fingers brushing against your clit through the fabric of your panties. she rubbed slow, teasing circles around the sensitive nub, feeling it throb and swell under her touch.

“i’ll show you exactly who this pretty little pussy belongs to.” she purred, her voice a low, seductive growl. her hand slipped inside your panties, her fingers brushing against your slick, heated flesh. she groaned softly at the feeling of your arousal, a sound of pure male satisfaction.

minjeong pushed your panties aside and plunged two fingers deep into your dripping cunt without warning. she pumped them in and out, fucking you hard and fast, her palm grinding against your clit with every thrust. her other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as she ravaged your pussy with single–minded intensity.

right now you had no more self–respect or dignity to lose. the party, the conversation with aeri, and the confrontation with minjeong that this brought made you spin like a roller coaster. so showing her how needy you were was the least bad thing you could do. “minjeong please don’t tease and just fuck me already.”

in a flash, minjeong yanked her fingers out of your needy cunt, leaving you aching and empty. she grabbed your wrist and practically dragged you out of the driver’s seat, pulling you into the back of the car. the leather seats were soft and cool against your skin as she pushed you down onto them.

minjeong crawled in after you, straddling your hips with her own. she loomed over you, a wicked grin on her face as she gazed down at your flushed, aroused body splayed out beneath her.

“i want to taste this sweet cunt. i need to remind you who it belongs to.” she growled, hooking her fingers into the waistband of your jeans and panties. with one swift tug, she yanked them down your legs, tossing them carelessly onto the car floor.

minjeong settled between your thighs, pushing them apart to expose your glistening, swollen pussy to her hungry gaze. she leaned down, inhaling deeply, savoring your intimate scent.

“fuck, you smell divine.” she murmured, before diving in and running her tongue along your slit. she groaned at the taste of your arousal, her eyes fluttering shut in bliss.

minjeong ate your pussy like a woman starved, her tongue delving deep into your hot, tight channel. she licked and sucked at your clit, flicking the sensitive bud rapidly with the tip of her tongue. her hands gripped your ass, kneading the soft flesh as she feasted on you.

she brought a hand up to plunge two fingers knuckle–deep into your cunt, pumping them in time with the lashes of her tongue. the obscene sound of your wetness filled the car as she finger–fucked you hard and fast, her tongue never letting up its relentless assault on your clit.

“mmmh, this pussy tastes even better than i remember.” minjeong purred against your flesh, sending delicious vibrations through you. she looked up at you with a wicked, lust–drunk grin. “i’m going to make this cunt mine again, (y/n). i’m going to fuck you so hard, you'll forget your own name. the only thing you’lll remember is who this pretty little pussy belongs to — me.” minjeong redoubled her efforts, driven wild by the thought of claiming your pussy completely. she sucked your clit hard, her tongue swirling and flicking over the sensitive bundle of nerves. her fingers pumped faster, plunging in and out of your soaked, clenching cunt with brutal intensity.

“fuck, you’re mine.” she growled against your pussy, the vibrations making your hips jerk and your back arch. she bit down gently on your clit, soothing the sting with a long, slow lick. her fingers curled inside you, rubbing mercilessly against that spongy spot deep within your core.

minjeong could feel your pussy starting to flutter and clench around her invading fingers, telling her you were close. she doubled her efforts, determined to make you come undone. she wanted to taste your release, to feel your essence flooding her mouth as she marked you as her own.

“come on, baby.” she urged, her breath hot and heavy against your dripping sex. “give this greedy little cunt to me. i want to feel you come all over my tongue, screaming my name. let everyone know who you belong to.”

with a final, sharp thrust of her fingers and a hard suck on your clit, minjeong sent you hurtling over the edge. your pussy clamped down like a vice, your walls rippling and milking her fingers as your orgasm crashed over you. she groaned in satisfaction as your release gushed out, flooding her mouth and chin with your sweet nectar.

minjeong lapped it up greedily, not letting a single drop go to waste. she worked you through your high, her fingers gentling their strokes as your body twitched and shuddered with the aftershocks. finally, she pulled back, her face glistening with your juices.

“that’s it, baby. gucking delicious.” she purred, her voice rough and sated. she crawled up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. “you’re mine, (y/n). this pussy is mine. don’t you ever forget it.”

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Twelve: apple pie

tw: minor violence

You remember the Blackpeak Coal Mine Slaughter well—very well.

Plastered over the front page of every newspaper in the nation, it’s hard to forget the event and the harrowing accounts of survivors and the family members that were left behind in the wake of the tragedy. Over thirty men were massacred that day. Nothing but lifeless torsos without hands to stop the bleeding, limbs too far out of reach to retrieve. Twelve more were injured. You remember the paper retelling a story of one of the workers, now rendered blind from the explosion that rocked The States, rippling through the population. 

Confusion kept everyone stupid for some time—it was widely accepted that this was an accident. Natural gases within the earth that ignited when explosives were detonated in order to carve deeper into the earth’s surface. When this take was first published and traveled down the wagon trail to Penmosa, you remember your father huffing at the words, fist clenched tight around the arm of his chair. 

“Serves them right. Desecrating God’s green earth like that. Bastards, every one of them. You hear me, girl? This is what human greed does. It makes you a corpse.” 

You suppose that, in the end, he was right. 

Weeks later it was confirmed that this was no accident, but rather intentional. Workers came forward with stories about strange men in masks wandering into the worksite towing obscene amounts of TNT. Many men fought back, only to be shot. Others couldn’t quite escape before the earth caved in on them, burying them beneath mounds of rubble. Even to this day, they still find pieces of them. Shattered bones and dusty work boots, never to be lacquered again. 

Last you knew, the criminals were still on the run. Some uncouth hit and run. Nothing but a slimy act of terror. The old company went out of business, unable to make up for the lost workers and the compensation that was owed, and a new one moved in, still putting the site to use. A memorial was erected in honor of the lives lost. The day has been lost to memory and grief. 

Now, you know otherwise. 

Dead or Alive: for the Blackpeak Coal Mine Slaughter. 

Your stomach twists as you travel down the winding roads of Grand Hollow, but the nervosity chewing on your neurons makes it impossible to enjoy the otherworldly beauty presenting itself before you. When Mr. Beckett had warned you about John Price and his posse, you had never expected violence in a magnitude such as this. You’ve broken bread with these men. Fished in the same waters. Laid on the same dirt. 

Now you understand his secrecy. All John’s hidden motives and dodged questions, answers given with vicious snark and a half lidded glare. What terrors does he expect to rage now in Blackpeak? Was his slaughtering of those working men not enough? Must he now steal from their grieving families, too? 

Guilt spears through you like a freshly born knife still hot from the furnace. How dare you have the audacity for such emotions? Had you known John Price was this much of a monster, you would have let him spill your blood next to the campfire the night you fled from your father. 

“Pecora.” 

The driver’s rough voice pulls you from your nightmarish anamneses. You glance up from your worn, tattered nails and stare at the back of his head where his wiry, white hair greets you. He does not look at you, but you’re certain you were the one he spoke to. 

“Pardon?” you ask. 

He looks over his shoulder and stares at you blankly for a moment before pointing to something on the cart’s right. “Pecora,” he repeats. 

Following the crooked curve of wrinkled his finger, you spot an ewe and her lamb. They’re terribly out of place, fresh white wool contrasting against the darkened grey cobblestone of the streets, but the ewe does not fret. She trots through the foot traffic, splitting pedestrians who gawk at her and her child with coos, all while stopping to chew on the weeds that spring up between the bricks. 

Her lamb, however, stumbles behind her on jelly legs with wide eyes and a mouth that knows nothing other than to cry. Its voice is strident as it weaves through its mother’s legs, eyes anxiously gazing at the tall creatures that surround them. Utterly lost and out of place, you hum as you watch them find a patch of grass to lay and bask in. 

“Oh, sheep,” you realize. “How cute.” 

“Cute,” the driver repeats with a nod. 

Proud, baronial buildings slowly dwindle into something quieter the further you’re taken away from The Twin Rose. At first you passed them off to be more stores and places of interest for citizens and travelers alike to visit, but you come to the realization that these are houses when you catch a woman throwing bed linens out onto a clothesline. 

Wide lawns stretch out like royal carpets before two story houses with large windows and porches sporting long sunroofs. If your father witnessed the white paint that decorates the wood, you’re certain he would keel over in the dirt of the streets, scandalized that simple homes would bear the same pure milky sheen of his church. It’s quieter here without the hustle of the deep city. Fewer pedestrians, sparse horses, children laughing in a nearby field as they kick and throw various toy balls around to one another. 

The cart comes to a stop in front of a house at the end of a cul de sac. It’s different from all the others in the neighborhood, sporting a rosy pink rather than snowy white. Several flower bushes line the siding of the house, almost in full bloom, bitterly reminding you of your mother’s lily plants back in Penmosa. From somewhere inside of the house, music bleeds. It’s a quiet crackle with a canorous melody soaring over compressed violins, trumpets, and pianos. It sounds wrong. Nothing at all like the warm tones you’re familiar with from the church choir. 

Your driver hops out of his seat, worn boots scraping on the stone at his feet, and offers you a hand. “Here. Laswell home.” 

Placing your hand into his worn palm, he helps you out of the cart and gestures to the front door with a wrinkled, lopsided smile. You give him a quiet thanks as he loads back up, reins flicking and prompting the horses into action where he turns around and slowly trots back down the street. 

Each beat of your heart threatens to drown out the music as you trot up the steps to the porch. The sillage of rose and lavender bleeds from the flower bushes at the base of the stairs and mixes with the warmth bleeding through the open windows of the house. Swallowing, you approach the door and knock. 

There is no answer. 

Someone obviously is inside the house. You can hear chirpy humming and various utensils being knocked around, so you try again only to have the same luck. After a few minutes, you muster up the courage to open the door and peek your head inside. 

The foyer is small with shoes lined up against the floorboards and various coats and hats hanging on hooks drilled into the wall. Just past the entrance you can see a staircase that leads up to the second floor with a rich vermillion runner along dark stained wood, but there is no sign of the woman you were sent to help. 

“Lottie?” you call out as you close the door behind you with a shaky hand. 

Still receiving no response, you exit the foyer and begin to wander where the noise is loudest. You travel down wide hallways with open windows, sunlight bleeding through wispy drapes like mist on a cold autumn morning. Various paintings catch your attention as you walk, hung up high and proud, displaying scenes of nature and animals and captured with a keen eye. Other hallways split off like a burrow of tunnels, like a warren lurking in a field, but you keep your feet steady until you reach the kitchen. 

The woman you’re assuming is Lottie stands with her back faced toward you as she sways her hips in front of the stove. A phonograph plays on the counter, spinning a waxy cylinder and playing its music loud and proud. A rosy pink skirt twirls around her legs as she wipes her hands off on her apron, then toys with the frizzy curls of her bright blonde hair as they fall from her disheveled bun. She’s humming along to the music—some upbeat tune you don’t recognize—as she hops on her feet, hips twisting as she reaches for a large wooden spoon. 

“Miss Lottie?” you ask once more. 

The woman squeals like a bird caught in the maw of a barn cat as she spins around, spoon waving as if she wields a knife. She’s rather pretty, you think, even with this look of terror on her face. Pale brows rising as her teal eyes widen, free hand pressed against her collarbones as if to still her fluttering heart. She looks you up and down and then sighs before wiping her brow. 

“Oh, darlin’ don’t do that to me. Damn near scared me half to death!” Her voice is saccharine and slow, accent drawing long vowels and dropped consonants. Southern, you think—Georgia, if you had to guess. 

“I’m sorry, miss,” you apologize. You raise your hands as a sign of good faith before you glance at the items behind her on the counter. Fresh meat, a mason jar of white, bubbly liquid, a fresh block of cheese. “Laswell sent me here. I’m supposed to help with dinner?” 

“Did she now?” Lottie asks. Her face melts. All tension vanishes back into the depths of her skin as a smile pulls at her lips. “Reckon we have guests to cook for, then?” 

You nod. “Yes—erm—myself and a few others. Four men.” 

“Sounds like we have half a battalion to feed,” she muses. Tapping the spoon against the side of her hip, she seems swept away by the chorus of the song crackling from the phonograph, melody bleeding from the speaker like a warm campfire in the midst of the boonies. “Awfully kind of Katie to send me a little helper, then. Why don’t you grab one of those aprons darlin, we can’t have you mucking up that dress of yours!” 

She points over her shoulder to a small rack of off-white aprons long stained by home cooked meals. Each of them are embroidered with little flowers. Some sport roses, others daisies, and what you think is an attempt to do forget-me-knots. You snatch up the one with lilies before tying it around your waist and hopping in line next to Lottie, who isn’t afraid to throw work your way. Handing you a knife, she orders you to peel potatoes and cut them into cubes while she works on heating the stove up enough for the meat. 

When she asks you what your name is, you tell her the truth, though it’s overshadowed by the mention of your nickname. Lamb. It makes her giggle something sweet and bubbly like champagne. 

Lottie is a beautiful woman—it’s difficult not to find yourself starstruck by her. Rosy cheeks flush in the heat of the kitchen, illuminating the sweet and sparse freckles that spot her face. Her lips are painted a matte cherry red, though it slowly fades each time her teeth dig into the tender flesh as she mutters to herself about the next steps for her meal. Then, there’s her bosom. Your eyes burn when you notice the swell of her breasts and how her corset can hardly keep them from spilling over the blushing fabric of her dress. She’s any man’s dream. 

“So,” you speak up. Small talk is not a strong attribute of yours, and Lottie and her phonograph are doing plenty of conversing for the both of you. Still, you are a stranger in this home, and the acrimonious bile in your stomach urges you to make something of yourself. “You live here, then? With Laswell?” 

“Well, of course,” she Lottie giggles. She’s got flour smeared on her face, dusty eggshell staining a line across her forehead. “Certainly wouldn’t be doin’ all this good cookin’ for free.” 

“Are you and Laswell sisters, then?” you ask. 

Lottie’s in the middle of placing a thinly rolled piece of pastry dough on top of her sheet of pot pie when she freezes. Her gaze is quizzical as she turns her attention to you, eyes studying every line in your face. For a moment, there’s something malicious that lurks in her gaze. An incensed flicker that leaves your spine tingling. It quickly vanishes when her eyes drop to the necklace dangling around your neck. 

“Oh, bless your heart. Aren’t you just as sweet as a peach,” she says with a quiet smile before returning to her work. 

Unsure of what else to say, you continue to do as you’re told. Chopped potatoes. Rolling dough. Making bread—sourdough. Slicing apples. Warming sugar until golden brown. You’re grateful for the work. It’s been a long time since you’ve cooked a proper meal, and you’re hoping you’ll actually be able to get a taste of it this time around. 

Neither you nor Lottie take a break until her apple pie is cooking in the oven and her pot pie is staying warm atop the stove. She fetches you a cup of water from a valve in the kitchen, leaving you slack jawed, and corrals you out onto the porch where the two of you sit next to one another on a thatched bench.

As you drink, you can’t help but realize that even the water tastes different here. It’s strange. Tangy, like blood from a split lip. You hold the glass up to the setting sun where amber light refracts through it, illuminating the bubbles that swirl through the liquid. 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” 

When you turn your attention back to Lottie, you realize she’s staring at you, bright eyes piercing through you like cold rays of sun. Pressing your lips together, you place your hands into your lap, fingers clenching around your glass. 

“No, I just got here today, actually,” you explain. 

She nods. “Where’re you from?” 

“Penmosa.” 

“I’m not familiar.” 

“It’s… well, it took us a fair bit of travel to get here.” 

“Us?” 

Blinking, you realize the slip of your words. John’s name rattles through your brain like dark ink on parchment—pinned to a board, face on display for all to see, a call for violence; for vengeance. 

“Yes. I’ve been traveling with… a man named John.” 

“John Price?” Lottie confirms. 

Solicitude seeps deep into every bone in your body at her recognition. “Yes. Him and the others will be here for dinner tonight. I… I hope that isn’t a problem.” 

“Oh, not at all!” she beams as the tips of her feet tap against the porch. “It’s been quite a long time since I’ve last seen John and his boys. Didn’t think he’d be comin’ back to Grand Hollow so soon. Last I knew he was out wandering while tryin’ to wait for things in Blackpeak to cool down.” 

The more she speaks, the more your brows draw together. “You know him?” 

“Of course I do! Him and Kaite have been doin’ business for a little while now. He’s a fine man. A little strange, but I think all those English folk are, if you ask me.” 

A subtle discontent stirs at the base of your skull leaving your mind spinning. A dissonance screams. It burrows deep and roots. You’ve been warned that John Price is not a good man, and you’ve seen the very proof of it yourself. That man he shot and killed. The clothes he ripped off of your body. The wanted poster with his name and face plastered on it. 

Yet, he saved you from your father, and Lottie spews about him as if he were a disciple. You know it is ungodly to cast judgement on another person, but you can’t shake the discord of the situation. How thin is the line between salvation and betrayal? 

“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” Lottie murmurs. 

There, just down the road, trots a line of horses. Bear’s familiar head rears while his tail flicks, shooing off flies attempting to nurse on him all while Kyle pats the side of his head. John lazily looks around at the houses, shoulders squared as he seems to chat away with Laswell, who leads the pack on her own horse. 

Swallowing, you prepare for what you’re sure is about to be the most painful dinner you’ve participated in for quite some time. 

Laswell is the first to dismount, leg easily swinging over the side of her horse without a dress to get in the way. She trots up the porch and greets you with a polite nod before her hands reach for Lottie. The woman grins, bright, pearly teeth flashing between the blood red of her lips, before she allows Laswell to help her off of the bench. Then, their lips meet. Soft, chaste—enough to stain Laswell’s mouth with color. 

For a moment, all you can do is stare. Two women, embracing one another in such a way. Heat simmers from your core for only a short moment before it’s boiling, splashing bubbling water all up your insides until they’re searing and raw. You can hear John’s chuckle haunt you from somewhere along the staircase. 

“Come on, Lamb,” Lottie urges with a wave. “Let’s go set the table.” 

The distance you sow between you and John is appreciated and welcomed, but it only lasts for a few fleeting minutes before God has brought the two of you together again. Palms flat in your lap, eyes staring at the long table as you’re squished between Kyle and Riley, John’s eyes flickering like a lone candle flame across from you—the weight is nearly unbearable. Crushing. Bones fracturing. Splinters sticking in the raw, fleshy parts of you. 

Thick fingers curl around his fork, dark hair lining the space just below his knuckles. You watch as his tendons dance just below his skin as he cuts into his food before he shoves it into his open maw. As he eats, you wonder how many men he’s murdered with those very same hands. How much blood the earth has had to swallow because of him. How many children weep over rotting fathers because of what those hands have done. 

As he cracks his knuckles, you’re reminded of the first time he ever taught you how to shoot. Trigger finger trembling, he told you a gun is nothing more than a tool. Something to protect yourself with. It’s a similar mentality he barked at you when you dared to challenge him over his slaughtering of that farmer who threatened to soil you. Protection. Saving. Family. 

What honor was there in slaughtering those coal mine workers? 

“I can see why Laswell’s tied you down with a ring, Lottie,” John hums. His thumbs graze over one of your sourdough rolls, nails biting into the crisp crust as it caves in beneath his pressure. He places a fluffy piece against his tongue and offers a tight-lipped to the woman. “With cooking like this, I reckon you had her ensnared.” 

Lottie’s giggle falls like a sheer blanket over the table as she shoos John off with a wave. “Oh, I can’t take all the credit. Your little lamb was quite the helper. Pretty much did everythin’ for me! And, as far as I know, she ain’t taken quite yet.” 

John’s eyes settle on you, and though you know better, you can’t help but return his gaze. Sticky like tree sap on fresh logs, you can’t look away. You hold his gaze, jaw tense and aching, he hums. His lips quirk into a smile and for the first time in your life, you find yourself wanting to slap it from his face. 

“Maybe we ought to keep you around after all,” he muses. 

Scoffing, you glance back down at your plate. There’s hardly anything left for you to eat, yet you poke at it with your silverware anyway. “Awfully rich coming from the man who considers me a right nuisance. What did you call me again? Cargo?” 

Enmity soaks your tongue so much that it does not feel like your own anymore. This is your father’s tongue that rots your mouth—bitter and swollen from long standing annoyance, ever petulant. Even John seems to recognize this change within you. Eyebrows rising, he shakes his head and chuckles. 

“Right,” he agrees. “The most headache-inducing cargo I’ve ever laid hands on.” 

A hush halts the table’s conversation leaving you to face the white hot anger brewing in your chest all by yourself. You note the sideways glances. The way Kyle turns away from you. The way Soap’s lips press together. 

Look at you, once again, the prodigal daughter. 

“Well, how about some dessert to offset all this bitterness?” Lottie suggests, voice gentle like honey, blunt humor pulling at her words. 

Laswell pushes her plate away before looking up at her wife with a nod. “A perfect idea, love.” 

Apple and cinnamon dance in a waltz on your tongue but their feet are numbed as the rest of the feast is finished in choppy conversation punctuated with long bouts of silence. Fatigue pulls heavy at everyone’s eyes, but your anger keeps you wide awake. Fork clutched in hand. Metal scraping on porcelain. When everyone is finished, John attempts to have everyone stay behind to help clean up, but Laswell waves him off, saying that he ought to get everyone back to the hotel to rest. 

Before you leave, Lottie bids you farewell with a soft hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Welcome to Grand Hollow, darlin. I hope it’s everythin’ you need.” 

You ride on the back of John’s horse. You’re much too close for comfort to him, and your skin tingles as if there were a million small beetles dancing on your body. He at least offers you the courtesy of not talking to you, allowing you to stew in your thoughts as your eyes glaze over and focus on the dusty stones that crumble beneath the horse’s hooves. 

Still, you are incensed that you missed all the omens. Vague warnings from Mr. Beckett. The bursts of anger that seemed to seep from every pore in his body. The way he never flinched when enacting violence upon others. 

You spent so long attempting to find humanity in the eyes of the wolf that you failed to notice the fresh blood staining his teeth. 

“Ever been to a theatre before, Lamb?” 

It’s the first thing John’s said to you for the entire ride, and it’s enough to get your ears to quirk. Gaze shifting upwards, you notice an unfamiliar sight that you’ve only heard about from word of mouth. Fat bulbs light up the street as they line a marquee board listing off show names and times. Stories you don’t recognize, with actors and actresses from a whole other world. Behind a glass window sits a man selling tickets, who looks as if he’s about to fall asleep face first into the palm he rests his chin on. 

“Can’t say that I have,” you reply tartly. 

“They used to be shows of just actors. People dancing on stage, things of that sort,” John explains, head leaning back in active conversation. “Used to have women hiking their skirts up, too. Would probably send your daddy into a proper fit if he ever saw it. Now they’re showing moving pictures. Films, I think they call it.”

“Is that so?” Short. Dull. The theatre passes you by and you’re back to staring at the ground. 

John’s hips shift in his saddle, fingers tightening on the reins. “The boys and I were thinking about seeing one tomorrow.”

All you do is hum in reply. You watch as John’s shoulders tense and rise before falling with a huff. The horse begins to slow, its proper trot dwindling to a lazy meander. 

“You know Lamb, I can’t say I’m too overly fond of this new attitude of yours. Picking fights at dinner while we’re guests wasn’t too godly of you,” he bites. 

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re getting rid of me soon, isn’t it?” you retort. 

His body stills. Not even the swaying of his horse can move him. 

“You might be right about that, little lamb.” 

With Laswell tucked away at home, John is the only one left to show you to your room. He bids the boys a goodnight before leading you up to the second floor, key pinched between his fingers as he unlocks the door for you. You find your carpet bag waiting for you on the foot of the largest bed you’ve ever seen—big enough to house six swine comfortably, if you had to guess. Another vanity sits shoved against the far side of the wall, along with several complementary products of soap and oils, but the wonder is lost on you now. 

Sighing, you take the key from John’s hand and busy yourself with sorting through the items in your bag. John’s gaze sears your skin. Shoulder tucked into the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, he stares at you. Through you. Piercing your body as if his eyes were knives. 

“You’re not still upset at me for earlier, are you?” he suddenly questions. 

“Earlier?” you repeat. You’re still turned away from him. Shoulders hunched, hands busy. You know it’s not smart to face away from wolves but you can’t bring yourself to be scared of his bite anymore. 

“When I interrupted your bath.” 

“Whyever would I be mad about that?” you reply bitterly. 

While John’s chuckles are usually warm, earthy things, the one he gives you now can only be described as sour milk. Thick and clumpy, noisome and in desperate need to be thrown out. “Full of fire today, aren’t you? Did you ever talk to your daddy like this?” 

Your fingers have just wrapped around your comb when he asks you this, and the unfamiliar choler it fills you with nearly suffocates you. Tossing the item onto the comforter, you whip around to face him, head tilted to the side and teeth grinding like eroding stones. 

“No, Daddy beat me whenever I opened my mouth out of turn,” you snap, stating the obvious with so much vitriol you nearly choke on it. Still, it propels you forward, feet sliding across the floor as you approach him. “Is that what you wanna do to me, John?” 

“You better slow down, sweetheart,” John warns. 

Ignoring him, you stalk closer on wobbly legs. Nothing but a freshly jellied lamb. 

“Gonna take off your belt and beat me the way your daddy did to you?” you challenge. You’re within biting distance now. John’s no longer leaning against the doorframe, but instead standing with his feet wide and firm as if ready for a blow. “Gonna make someone pay for your pain? That’s all you wan’t, isn’t it? Vengeance? You’re no better than the man behind the belt, John Price, you’re-” 

All it takes to shut you up is a hand on your jaw. 

Thumb and fingers curling into the fat of your cheeks, John Price is close enough to your face that you can feel his breath fan across your skin. His grip is firm enough to get your lips to part, but not enough to ache—not yet, anyway. Your pounding heart quivers against your sternum, making it impossible for you to swallow properly as you stare at him. 

Tobacco pairs nicely with the hue of his eyes—dark like a lake rippling during a storm. You want to be scared. Everything within you tells you to be scared. These are the hands that slaughtered innocent lives. Still, the way his thumb brushes across your bottom lip is the most gentle thing you’ve ever felt since your mother’s last parting kiss to your forehead, and you’re not sure why, but it feels worse than any slap you’ve ever received before. 

“Dunno what’s gotten into you sweetheart, but I’ll just assume you’re in desperate need of some good rest.” John huffs when he releases you, hands falling to his side before his fingers wrap around the doorknob. 

For a moment, he stands there like this. Gaze wandering up and down, his pupils soak up the narrowing of your eyes and the shaking of your knees before he swings the door shut. 

“Goodnight, Lamb.”

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[dwaekkicidal]

What is stray kids favorite position to have sex? What do you think? This been on my mind for while

the way I was actually thinking about this a few days ago LOL hope you enjoy <3

OT8's Favorite Positions (Rough+Soft Ver)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ warnings: gender neutral, not pure smut but mentions of specific situations, Seungmin and Jeongin are mean in their 'rough' parts, switch mentions in Felix's part

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ notes: these were SUPPOSED be short but i got a little carried away.. lol. also very poorly proofread cause I'm having sleep issues atm, once I sleep at least a few hours I'll come back to proof read (and probably tweak some things)

DO NOT republish or translate+post my work!

𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚐 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗

Rough

If he's fucking you during his Daddy/dom moments, a nice downward dog (flat doggy basically). As long as he can tower over you and fuck you until you remember your place, he's happy! Specifically downward dog because he can use those muscles he's been working so hard on to hold you down against the bed and be rough with his thrusts, all while not adding any extra strain to either of you. Runs his hands roughly up and down your back, leaving smacks to your ass before squeezing it right after. If he's in a particularly rough mood, will grab a handful of your hair to pull at and guide you.

Soft

I think he would be a big missionary person when he's making love to you. Likes to be able to see your face and leave kisses all over your frontside while he fucks you. Even more so if he's extra moody/sappy, so he can sloooowly fuck into you and keep his thick lips locked with yours, hands caressing up and down your body as he whispers all sorts of sugar coated praises to you. "You're doing so well for me." "God, I love you so much. You're fucking perfect."

𝙻𝚎𝚎 𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠

Rough

Good ol' doggy style for because he loooves the control it gives him over you >.< Has a hand between your shoulder blades (or on your lower back) to hold you down, all while his other hand holds your hip to pull you against him (or to land slaps to your ass cheeks). Even better for days he wants to be mean or is just lazy; instead of doing the work he can just make you fuck yourself against him while he degrades you and lands smacks to your ass. Calls you a greedy slut for needing him in your hole so bad and smirks when you clench harder and moan into the sheets

Soft

Also doggy because he can lean over you, controlling the pace to be slower or softer while his chest is pressed to your back. Will slide one of his hands against your stomach in order to hold you against him so he can leave kisses to your cheeks, behind your ear, and against your neck.

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚋𝚒𝚗

Rough

I think he'd love carrying you while fucking up into you. I discovered the name for the one I had in mind being: 'Aquaman's Delight' or 'H2Ohh Yeah' I absolutely hate the names but it's when you're facing him and he's holding you up, your legs off the floor and resting against his inner elbow. Loves it because he gets to show off how strong his is to you while simultaneously being able to bury deep when he lifts you, then drops you onto his dick. This position also allows you both to be intimate when necessary, loving gazes and messy kisses being exchanged as he fucks you against him like his own personal fleshlight

Soft

Big fan of face off (face to face & upright riding) for when he wants to be extra intimate. Will take advantage of the closeness this position allows. Holds you tightly against him as he fucks up into you, and will keep your lips locked against his as much as you allow him to. When you aren't kissing, his face is shoved into your neck as he moans against the skin there, placing kisses when he's not busy being distracted with how well you take him (mr. can't do 2 things at once)

𝙷𝚢𝚞𝚗𝚓𝚒𝚗

Rough

Likes taking you from the back; likes to bend you over every surface he can think of so he can watch your ass jiggle from his hips slamming against it. Likes it also because he can trap your hands against the flat of your back with one of his big hands OR can pull your hands back towards him and use it as leverage to fuck into you even harder than he was before. Def grabs handfuls of your ass any chance he gets. I could see him preferring to finish on your ass so he can watch his dick paint your ass cheeks like he does with his canvases. Some dirty talk here and there like "Yeah? 'M in your guts? But baby.... that's just. how. you. like. it." and thrusts between the last syllables

Soft

Any position he can be embrace you with, but specifically can see him being an (open legged) spoon lover. Something about holding you as close to him as physically possible while still being able to rut/grind his hips against yours nicely. Bonus points for open legged because it gives him easier access to play between your legs. The intimacy goes CRAAZY, his hands holding you in place while he fucks into you nice and slow. Def leaves wet kisses and hickies all over your neck. Only downside is when he strains his (and your) neck when he wants your lips on his. But when his hands are all over you like this, how can you say no to those pillowy lips? >.<

𝙷𝚊𝚗

Rough

A "Pretzel Dip" enjoyer. This is when you're laid on your back and he's straddling one of your legs as he holds the other up to his chest. Goes nice and deep like this, and can fuck into you roughly while still getting to see your face scrunch up. Uses it to his advantage if you try to hide your face from him or try to muffle your moans, will grab your wrists and use his grip on them to pull you into him as he thrusts forward roughly. It completely stops you from hiding from him and gives him the chance to see your mouth part and spill the prettiest whines at how deep he hits.

Soft

I had to google the name for this lol Likes rocking horse: kind of hard to explain but it's when he's sat with spread legs and you sit facing him, your legs spread and slotted on each side of him. Likes it because it lets you both stare into each other and grind your hips against each other at whatever pace feels good at the time. Some days it can be just messy, desperate grinding while others can be slow hip thrusts from both of you. This position also allows him to embrace when he wants you close. Will make out with you any chance he gets when he's not moaning and groaning.

𝙵𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚡

Rough

Basic bitch 69 enjoyer. Allows both sides to push for/give up control before any penetration takes place. If you like the back and forth, he'll be on the bottom and roughly rut his hips into your mouth while you grind down into him. Or if you want to avoid the fight, he'll immediately concede and let you ride his face until you're satisfied OR he'll take control and grab a handful of your hair, using it as leverage to control your head movements. Will land a playful slap or two to your ass, but loves squeezing/massaging the flesh there more than anything.

Soft

Another name I had to google lol Perch/Seated rear entry Specifically for moments when he's gaming. If he knows he won't be finished soon and you're too needy, he'll shove his shorts and underwear down and make you sit on his dick facing forward so you can keep yourself entertained. Mainly uses it for cock warming, but won't complain if you grind yourself down onto him or start riding him.

𝚂𝚎𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚖𝚒𝚗

Rough

Another doggy lover, BUT I'm gonna say cowgirl not only for the sake of not repeating so much, but also because he likes be a little mean with it. It lets him boss you around when you've given him full control (and lets him smack you around when you aren't going fast enough for his liking). He can lay back and smile at you all cockily while you ride his dick desperately, and depending on what your limits are he'll spew mean comments here and there. He's a little shit™ so I can see him smacking your ass to watch your hips slow and stutter, then have the audacity to go, "What are you slowing down for? I never said we were done."

Soft

When his in softer moods, another face off enjoyer: it allows him to hold you close and thrust himself up into you whenever you start getting tired. If his lips aren't against yours, then your foreheads are resting against each other so he can watch you melt into a puddle for him up close. His hands roam all over your thighs before going up to your hips then finally resting on your waist as he hugs you there and pulls you closer

𝙸.𝙽

Rough

Seashell!!! This is the name for when he has you folded, back against the bed and ankles by his head while he leans onto you, albeit this position does eventually hurt depending on your flexibility. (this is also the position used in the teasing fic I wrote for him) Sorry not sorry but still on my big dick!Jeongin agenda. This position lets him go deeeep.. so he always takes advantage of it to bully into you as much as possible. Makes him feel all dominant when you can't form sentences properly and basically drool while looking up at him so helplessly. Little shit™ #2 and will laugh in your face when you start crying from how deep he is. If it's within your limits, and will definitely mock you and tease about, "I thought you said you can take it? Why are you suddenly babbling like you have no brain?" and "Are you that cock dumb already? We just started haha." Straight up laughs at you & doesn't shut up

Soft

When he wants to be softer, missionary (aka still seashell but without the muscle strain). It allows him to be close to you, placing soft kisses all over your face while he fucks into you. Also does not shut up here, and will whisper chants of "Jagiya" against your neck as he sucks hickies there. If/When he praises you, I think he'd still be a little mean about it; "Fuck, Jagiya... Finally taking me without crying about it" teasingly and chuckles. Also a "You're doing so well for me. Keep squeezing me, Jagi. Yeahhh... just like that.."

Taglist:

@jiminssluttyminx

[fungifanart]

LGBT (Leona's Got Big Tits)

Characters: Leona Kingscholar, Male reader, Yuu!reader

CW: Smut, blowjobs, boobjobs, Leona bottoms, Reader tops

Word Count: 1K

Notes: Happy Pride Month, y'all! We're starting the month off strong with something short inspired by a certain animation I saw on Twitter. Enjoy!

-------------------------------------------------

When the day came that you and Leona announced your status as boyfriends to his dorm, it was met with a slightly mixed set of reactions.

Now make no mistake, the amount of respect the lion commands over his underclassmen and the respect you've garnered after all the trials this school has put you through meant that they were very supportive. However, there was a certain look that many of them gave you which all seemed to convey the same sentiment of ‘Oh, you poor soul.’

You were rather confused about this at first until you happened to overhear some of them talking about it afterwards.

“Guess we should pray for the Prefect’s asshole, huh?”

“Y'know, I gotta say that I respect the confidence.”

“Just remember, guys: Mum's the word if he has trouble walking in the morning.”

Heh, they'd be singing a different tune if they saw Leona the way you're seeing him right now: The strong, confident, dominant housewarden of Savannaclaw on his knees, both party’s clothes strewn about the floor, and bobbing his head up and down the full length of your cock like it's the only thing he's ever wanted.

“Y'know, I-*huff* I heard some of the others talking about how they're praying for MY asshole…*huff*...I wonder what they would say if they knew just how much you love having my cock in you…” You think out loud teasingly, causing the lion's tail to flick slightly in annoyance as he releases your cock from his mouth with a light *pop* sound.

“Don't see how that's any ‘a their business.” He drawls while lazily raising himself high enough to bring his face right up against yours, “And you should only be thinkin’ about me right now. I know that you're all I think about.”

You feel your face heat up from your boyfriend's sincerity as he brings your lips together, initiating a passionate makeout session while also frotting his hard dick against yours.

Several minutes of making out, frotting and eventually you groping Leona’s ass go by until you can’t take it anymore and push him so that he’s face-up on the bed, “God…seeing you like this…the things I’d do to you, Leona…” You say through heavy lust-filled breaths.

“Y…yeah, Y/n? Ya know I’d try anything once for you, so go ahead and tell me exactly what you’d do to me.” The lion responds provocatively, his voice dripping with equal amounts of lust as yours.

Moving to straddle his abdomen, you deftly trail your hands up his abs until you reach his huge pecs, groping and massaging them as you run your thumbs over his nipples, eliciting numerous delectable grunts of pleasure from him as you open your mouth to speak.

“Ever since I first saw these massive tits of yours, I’ve wanted nothing more than to slide my cock in-between and fuck them raw.” You confess, the vulgarity of your words only adding to the heat and tension in the air.

Leona blinks slowly for a moment and bites his lip at the thought before responding, “You’re really fuckin’ hot, ya know that?” He murmurs, just barely audible enough for you to hear.

Gaining confidence from his arousal, you tilt your head in faux innocence, “So is that a ‘yes’, my love?” You ask cloyingly.

“It’s an ‘I’m kickin’ ya out if ya don’t fuck my tits right goddamn now’, my love.” He orders, his stern tone hiding palpable desperation just below the surface.

With this response egging you on further, you lean down and kiss your boyfriend again, shoving your tongue into his mouth as he kisses back before you pull away seconds later and slather the extra saliva on your tongue all along his cleavage before positioning your cock right between it.

Finally, you let out one big drop of saliva along your shaft and squeeze the soft flesh of Leona’s pecs around it before beginning to slowly thrust your cock, ensuring that the saliva coats it on all sides, the sensation already filling it with intense pleasure.

“*huff* You’re really into this, huh? You’re already leaking down there…” Leona teases as you feel him reach his hands around towards something behind your backside.

“Mm…s-says the guy who’s jerking off as I’m…*huff* doing it…” You point out between moans as your cock continues leaking precum.

“‘m not judgin’, just wonderin’ what it tastes like.” He responds before leaning his head forward to lick the head of your cock whenever you thrust towards him, causing you to let out even louder moans as the pleasure builds higher and higher.

The minutes go by as your pace quickens and the rhythm of your thrusts grows more irregular, with every lick from Leona pushing you closer to your climax.

“Leona, I-I’m…getting c-close…!” You stammer out as the pleasure in your cock reaches its boiling point.

“Do it, Y/n. I want you to cum all over my face.” The lion insists, his voice a low growl that sends one last shock of pleasure through your body and causes you to let loose a loud moan as you shoot a massive load that reaches from his neck all the way to his forehead. As this happens, Leona makes a noise that sounds like a mixture of a roar and a moan as he reaches his climax as well and you feel some of his cum land on your back.

Releasing your boyfriend’s pecs, you scoot back to his abdomen, uncaring towards his cum that gets smeared under your thighs, so you can lean down and get a better look at your handiwork as you catch your breath.

In this moment, Leona makes eye-contact with you and runs his tongue around his mouth, licking up and swallowing the cum that had landed there, “You taste pretty good, Y/n.” He says with a sultry smirk that leaves you with no other choice but to makeout with him again.

—-----------------------------------------------------------

The next day is spent receiving some bewildered looks from the other Savannaclaw members, likely wondering how you’re still able to walk straight, but, again, they don’t know Leona like you do.

After all, you’re the only one who sees him pulling his dorm uniform shirt open to expose one of his pecs with one hand and making a jerking-off motion in front of his mouth with the other from the other end of the room.

[imjustdelusionalok]

yandere!dc: goddess! darling

ⁱⁿᶠᵒ ᵃᵇᵗ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵈᵃʳˡⁱⁿᵍ۫ ꣑ৎ

darling is a god from another world who just so happens to immigrate into the dc universe after a very long time of probably embodying... well, everything.

firstly having to live for love as a human, and then ending it all to fight for the beauty of life as god.

she is the reason for existence, from the big to the miniscule.

(so basically op goddess reader who has wayyyy too much power in their hands-- ex: nothing can kill them, nothing can put an end to them, etc--)

the least you could do is seal away her powers, but even that would truly not be enough because your only sealing away 0.000000000000001%. (i mean that 💀)

*cough* anyway... aside from goddess reader backstory, lets go to the inspiration <33

she's a mix of Madokami from Puella Magi, HoF Kiana Kaslana from Honkai Impact, and mostly of Ishtar Ashtart/Space Ishtar from Fate Grand Order <3

originally kind and lighthearted after becoming 'God', but as time passes and stars dimmed, she has become... well... neutral. not good, but DEFINITELY not bad. like this!

"let me help you :)" to "...From the dawn of creation. Man has come from the ground not by his hand but mine. go back to the land and return to dust."

summary: lawful, void, alien... yet beautiful, destructive, human.

sooooo. yup.

:p

ʰᵉᵃᵈᶜᵃⁿᵒⁿˢ ᵗⁱᵐᵉ۫ ꣑ৎ

...she has met the justice league before. because, who in their right minds would ignore the giant falling 'star' that came out of a very visible tear in the sky caused by said celestial body???

dramatically crashing down the surface like a meteorite, you lowkey may have destroyed a 'few' buildings... whoopsies :p

they are surprised. this... girl, no- alien, exudes endless quantity of power, leaking from every blurred pore. it also seems like they might be power themselves...

batman goes bazingas at the amount of destruction caused by your fall leading to an airheaded you getting towed to the JL headquarters and any sort of refusal or fighting back is unallowed. (even tho your more than capable of destroying anything AND everything you still oblige)

though cool as ice, you are so confused deep down. head tilted, vacant expression, the usual from the emotionally detached goddess albeit with a little change. 'what are these humans talking about?' you think, 'what threat?' you think again, unaware that you are the threat being spoken of.

the white slits of the vigilante's mask narrows at your disposition. everything about you seems... off. from your oppressing aura, to the... heavenly allure your blankness brings.

"more alien than the actual alien," a familiar scarlet speedster jokes, in an attempt to lighten the heavy mood. (he failed horribly btw) said alien rolls their eyes and sighs. though he has to admit, you lowkey look kind of cute... but he stops, remembering lois.

once you say your side of the story, they go all shocked pikachu faces again. your a god from another seperate world??? i mean dont get them wrong though, they had their fair share of situations like these, as some dc villains and heroes they know arent even from here originally. but they cant help but feel a bit different about you, something about you makes their soul writhe... and its not in a bad way.

so once B confirms your not a threat despite your extreme potential to act like one, everybody is relieved. you just need a littleeeeeee supervision, thats all :3

and oh look at that, your actually not that bad. your cold demeanor fades once they got to know you, and that void in your eyes is filled with a light comparable to the twilight star's soothing glow— pure, tranquil, and ever so mystifying.

every step you take, life seems to exist and flourish all around you. life heals around you. not only that, but also... them. the dead part of them actually, that died from complications now too complicated to be retold and remembered.

you fill the void they never knew they had, and all their aching scars were no longer painful but tolerable. bearable even, and its all because of you.

at this point, everybody knows how this all plays out. this ordinary tune, twisted into a fanatic's song.

their once innocent admiration has now spoiled into something darker, the more you stay in this world. holy eyes peeked at it, not at them but at the abyss that is their 'love.'

...you were starting to get aware. and a rarity occurred, you were... 'saddened'. for eternities you lived alone, and in an attempt to reconnect with that sliver of humanity you hid and kept, you went here to feel something again. and you did, and you were so successful.

too successful, in fact.

they loved you; so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, sooooo much. without you, they would die! :(

and that, in your eyes, is what makes you 'sad'. if your presence drives your beloved mortals to insanity's grip, then you must fly.

fly away from this despair, fly away from this madness.

your 'love' is your undoing, and ultimately also theirs.

their eyes widen as the sky is torn once again, and a familiar star flies back into it, meaning that you--- left. left? left. left? left... left.

something inside them breaks. both hearts any sense of rationality and morality left.

there is no reason to exist without you it seems, and they will do everything just to see you once more, even a second's glimpse.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

...you can't help but feel something you havent felt for a very long time. what was it again, sadness? anxiety? fear? you dont know. the endless rows of your ivory silks flutter even in the slightest movement. something tugs at you, your mind and heart. something tugs at you, telling... that it is far from over.

they call for you, their cries drowned in obsession masquerading as love.

you never answer, as your supposed concern and care for them lessens and your patience dwindles. reality is cruel, but never crueler than you. and that's when you realized it.

...they make your skin crawl. they make you want to vomit. they make you want to scream and cry. they make your ichor run cold. and if they touch you again, you'll--

...huh. who would have thought that was how you truly felt, goddess.

[internetdaddy98]

The Ties That Bind Us - Chapter 7

Previous | Next

[Series Masterlist]

Content Warning: workplace crush; heart eyes -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

There were a thousand things Y/N Williams could focus on.

Charting. Trauma protocols. Medication interactions. The bottomless inbox of consult notes that kept appearing no matter how many she finished.

But instead, her brain had decided to fixate on one person.

Again.

Dr. Michael Robinavitch. Robby. The attending who could intubate a coding patient without flinching, who once carried an unconscious kid through three hallways because transport was too slow, who somehow made an over-washed navy hoodie and a well-trimmed beard look like something out of a magazine.

You sighed and leaned your forehead against the cool surface of the breakroom table.

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

It had started like nothing. A flicker. A moment. A stupid flutter in your chest the night he’d handed you a protein bar without a word during a shift so busy you hadn’t peed in nine hours. And now?

Now it was a problem.

You looked at the time on your watch—4:12 p.m.—and groaned softly into your folded arms. The second wind had died somewhere around 3:15. The ER was finally quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t last. And you should have used the lull to catch up on documentation, but your brain refused to cooperate.

It was replaying things. Stupid things.

Like the time Robby had let you take lead on a gunshot trauma and hadn’t hovered. Just watched you, trusting, arms crossed at the edge of the room with that small, private smile he only wore when he was proud of someone but didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.

Or how he always remembered your coffee order and would slide it toward you during brutal double shifts with a gruff, “Drink this before you crash.”

Or—God help you—the way he looked when he was tired. Sleeves rolled up, hair mussed from running his hands through it too many times. How his voice went gravelly at the end of a shift, like whiskey soaked moonlight. How he’d say your name sometimes—Y/N, not Dr. Williams—like he forgot they weren’t alone.

She sat up quickly, cheeks hot.

Nope. Absolutely not.

This wasn’t a rom-com. This was real life. Real, messy, professional life. You were a first-year fellow, still cutting your teeth on high-stakes trauma. He was your attending. Your mentor. Your friend.

And older.

You weren’t naive. You knew what people saw when they looked at you—young, driven, still proving yourself. Still figuring it out.

And Robby? Robby had already figured it out. He’d lived in this ER for nearly a decade. Everyone respected him. Trusted him. He didn’t just walk through chaos—he anchored it. With him around, things felt possible. Survivable.

He was the eye of every storm. And you were the girl who kept forgetting her own umbrella.

He’d never look at you like that.

You knew it. You knew it.

And yet...

Your fingers toyed with the edge of your ID badge as you stared out the break room window, the city still asleep under a blanket of sodium-yellow light.

The worst part wasn’t the hopelessness of it. It was the fact that—deep down—you didn’t want it to go away.

That flutter in her chest? It made her feel alive. Warm. Like maybe the job hadn’t hardened her all the way through yet.

“Can’t stay awake either?”

You jumped, nearly knocking your coffee over.

Robby was leaning in the doorway, arms folded, eyes bloodshot but alert.

“Jesus,” you breathed. “You can’t just appear like that.”

He chuckled, stepping inside with slow, quiet footsteps that somehow made your stomach knot.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, sitting in the chair across from your. “Thought I’d find you passed out under a pile of discharge summaries.”

You shrugged. “Brain won’t shut off.”

He gave you a knowing look. “Trauma insomnia?”

“Something like that.”

They sat in silence for a minute. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors on the other side of the wall. Robby tapped his fingers against his coffee cup.

“You’ve been quiet lately.”

You stiffened. “Have I?”

“Mmhmm.”

You tried to laugh it off, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Just tired, I guess.”

He didn’t push. That was one of the most maddening and gentle things about him—he always knew when not to push.

But the weight of his gaze lingered, steady and too perceptive.

You looked down at your hands.

“Do you ever feel like... you’re pretending to be someone smarter than you are?” you asked suddenly.

Robby tilted his head.

“All the time,” he said. “Why?”

You shook your head, trying to smile but not quite pulling it off. “I just... sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be that person. You know? The one who’s calm no matter what. Who doesn’t hesitate. Who knows exactly what to do and just does it.”

“You mean the person you already are most of the time?”

Your eyes snapped up. “I—what?”

“You don’t see it,” he said, leaning forward a little. “But I do. Every shift. The way you handle pressure. The way you think on your feet. You’ve got instincts I didn’t have at your age. Hell, some people never get them.”

You stared at him, your chest suddenly too tight.

“Robby...”

He sat back, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—just... I notice. That’s all.”

You smiled softly, a little broken at the edges. “Thank you.”

You sat for another moment in that too-heavy quiet, and you knew you had to get out of the room before you did something stupid. Like reach across the table and kiss him.

So you stood up.

“Well. I should get back to it”

Robby stood too, and for one breathless second, they were too close.

Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his irises. The faint greying of his beard. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if he should.

Your heart pounded in your throat.

And still—nothing.

Because of course not.

He wouldn’t.

You turned quickly, moving past him. “See you out there, Robby.”

“See you out there, Y/N.”

You didn’t stop walking until you were three hallways away.

[27spoons]

okay so someone said "nat backshots" and i said "say less" now you get a blurb of nat taking readers strap

nsfw blurb / smut / gn!afab!reader / porn no plot / strap-on used, referred to as cock / some ass smacking / nat cries at some point / size-kink nat agenda / blame the horny asses in the server / it's me I'm the horny ass / not proofread we die like coach ben at nat's hand/ wc: 1569 (nice)

she's already on her hands and knees by the time you pull the harness tight around your hips, her breath hot and uneven where her forehead presses into the mattress. a flush creeps down her spine, bright red that sharply contrasts the pale skin—it makes your mouth water. makes you wanna leave your fingerprints along the bony protrusions, so that she remembers who made her like this.

"last chance, nat," you murmur, voice low as your knees press into the bed behind her, letting the head of the strap brush against the inside of her thigh.

nat can only grunt in response—although it sounds more like a desperate whine than anything else—and her hips tilt back in a silent invitation. you know her well enough to know she isn't going to beg. no, natalie scatorccio doesn't beg. at least, not until she's fucked stupid and barely holding onto reality.

you let her stew in it a while longer. let her squirm. let her feel the size of it, how much you're giving her. when you finally take the translucent blue cock into your hands, you can't help but grin. nat can't fight the whole body shiver that rakes her as you start to run the tip through her folds. she's wet, but you knew that already, didn't you? she's always wet for you.

"oh, nat. look at you. you don't even know what you've gotten yourself into, huh?" you let your spit fall from your mouth onto the toy, lathering it across the ridged surface. "you think you can take all of it?"

"oh my god," nat groans, trying to shift her hips to get you in, "asshole, i've been with dudes before. just... c'mon..."

you chuckle and nudge your knee between her thighs, forcing them wider. she's dripping already, clear slick painting her inner thighs, but you don't let yourself get distracted. not yet. you've got a point to prove.

"yeah? how many of them made you shake like this?"

you let the tip of your cock catch on her entrance—just the tip—and push barely inside, enough to make her walls flutter around nothing, enough to make her hips jerk back instinctively, desperate to pull you deeper.

you hold her still with a firm hand on her hip, fingers digging into the soft skin. "feel that, baby?" your voice drops into a cruel taunt as you roll your hips in slow, maddening circles, just enough to tease the first inch past her entrance. "not even halfway in yet."

nat groans—long, low, and frustrated—and tries to rock back again, only to be met with your grip tightening, a silent order to behave.

she looks good like this. helpless. squirming. needy.

"squeezing me so fucking tight already," you murmur, dragging the words out as you pull back a fraction, letting the ridged head catch on her entrance on the way out. "gonna split you open real nice, huh?"

nat makes a sound of helplessness, and you can feel her walls fluttering, trying to pull you in deeper. 

greedy.

you deliver a sharp slap to her ass for that, clicking your tongue. "i thought i made it clear that you're not to move? when did you decide you could?"

nat whimpers, fingers fisting in the comforter to keep from swatting at you, but she stays put. she doesn't push back again. she knows better. you both know that.

"thought you were supposed to be tough?" another inch. slow enough to be cruel. the stretch forces another broken noise out of her, muffled by the thick blanket. "c'mon, nat. take it. take it for me."

when she doesn't respond, you draw your hips back again, just enough to make her feel empty, then immediately push forward and bury yourself to the hilt.

the sound the leaves her is sinful.

it's one of those times where pleasure blurs with pain, a fire burning in her veins as her body attempts to accommodate the sudden, harsh intrusion. the stretch feels like something out of a horror film and like taking a shot of pure ecstasy, and she can't help the moan that rips itself from her throat when your hips start to wiggle.

"fuck," nat gasps, voice cracking as her face presses harder into the mattress. she's practically trembling under you, arms straining to keep her up, muscles in her thighs twitching from the effort.

you let her sit there for a moment. trembling. split wide open around you. letting her feel just how deep you are. letting it burn.

"mm, you feel that, baby?" you whisper against the shell of her ear, your chest pressing flush to her back. "you feel so fucking full, don't you? can't even move, can you?"

nat whines low in her throat. you smile harder.

you hook an arm around her waist and pull her up onto her knees properly, forcing her to arch for you, forcing her to feel every goddamn inch. she scrambles for purchase, a shaky hand reaching back to grip at your thigh, your hip, anything.

"'s too much…" she mumbles pathetically, but she doesn't make the effort to pull away. she doesn't tell you to stop. in fact, her cunt only flutters around you, greedy and overwhelmed and aching.

"nah," you murmur, brushing her hair to the side so you can kiss the back of her neck. "you're taking it. and you're doing so fucking good, nat. so good for me." 

and then you rock your hips, just once, just enough for her whole body to jolt forward on the bed, a broken moan punching out of her lungs. she can feel every ridge on the surface—the saliva you spit on, her own juices, everything. it's all too much and not enough at once. 

"jesus christ," nat hisses, squeezing her eyes shut like it would help. like it would make it easier to take you.

the grin that splits your face borders on feral as you start a slow, brutal rhythm. shallow thrusts that barely pull out before sinking right back to the hilt, giving her no time to think or even breathe.

no, she can't think when all she can feel is you. inside of her, stretching her out, wrecking her tight, fluttering cunt with each snap of your hips into hers. 

nat collapses down onto her forearms with a strangled whimper, thighs shaking violently from the effort of staying upright. her hair sticks to the sweat-slicked skin of her back, panting so hard you can hear every wet breath she fights to take.

good.

you want her fucking ruined.

you fish a hand in her hair, tugging her head back enough to make her arch even deeper. making her take you even deeper.

nat sobs at the angle, but once again makes no effort to pull away.

she doesn't want to.

"shhhh, i know, baby," you mock, low and cooing in her ear, digging your hips back slow and snapping forward hard enough to make the bedframe creak. "doing so good for me. so good."

she nods frantically, barely even aware she's doing it, like her brain's short-circuited into pure instinct. like all she's ever wanted to was to be good for you, to take your praise down her throat and choke on it.

you slam your hips forward again, and nat actually yelps, the sound immediately breaking into a desperate moan as she lets you take.

"such a good girl," you whisper, breath hot against her ear. "taking my cock like this. fucking hell, nat. you're perfect. my perfect girl." you emphasize every word with a snap of your hips, never stopping to cease your relentless pace.

you can practically feeling her tightening, spasming around the strap like she's right on the edge of something, and the thought of her coming just from this? just from the fullness, the stretch, the weight of you inside her? well. it makes you slam your hips harder into her.

"gonna make you fucking come like this," you pant, voice ragged with exertion. "gonna make you fucking break—!"

if you could see nat's face, you would see the tears spilling from her eyes as ragged moans rip from her throat with every thrust you greet her with. what you see is how her body tenses under yours, all her muscles locking up like she's trying to fight it, trying to be 'strong' and not give in.

"don't fight it," you breathe, sweat running down your face in small rivets, "c'mon, nat. be a good girl. be a good girl and come for me. come all over my cock. show me you want it."

the permission was all she needed, and the moan that leaves her sounds like a sigh of relief. she falls apart for you with a raw, broken cry, walls clamping down so hard around your pistoning shaft that it makes your head spin. her whole body trembles and spasms through it, wrecked and ruined and perfect.

you don't stop moving. no, you fuck her through it. slow and deep, grinding your hips into her until her sobs turn into wails from the overstimulation, until she's clawing at the sheets and practically begging you to move faster—but never stop. no, she doesn't want that.

"good girl," you whisper again, brushing her sweaty hair back from her face as she gasps for air. "so fucking good for me, nat. always so good."

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Blood singer, part 1

Summary: Two years passed since Y/N left Forks. Despite all odds, she meets someone new, someone who leads her straight back to Forks to face her destiny.

Warnings (be mindful of your triggers): injury, blood and death, angst, fluff, swearing, sexual content, mentions of mental health struggles, alcohol

Pairing: Jasper Hale x human!reader (blood singer), Paul Lahote x human!reader

Word count: 10k

Prologue

Blood singer - Series Masterlist

2 years later…

Y/N Y/L/N embodies a bored, wealthy girl with daddy issues, gifted by gods with a special talent for blowing through stacks of dead presidents. Growing up with the world at her feet made her spoiled and bratty, something she despised in others yet cultivated within. Some would call it hypocrisy, she'd call it vanity, and she was proud of it. 

At least that's what the gossip pages write about her.

Despite the large trust fund, Y/N never found spending money very therapeutic, not unless she could share it with those less fortunate. It was never a public affair, keeping her charitable side hush, hush just in case her family learns of what they'd see as a misdeed. She didn't see it that way.

While Y/N enjoyed pretty things, she never felt attached to any of them. In fact, she wouldn't care if it all burned by the morning. Maybe that's why she found herself at a bar, trying to find the bottom of a fine wine she paid handsomely for. She didn't even like wine, or alcohol for that matter, but her regrets have accumulated. The pressure in her chest won't relent on its own. So despite her better judgment, she finished another glass of red that most would never be able to afford. 

Is this what happiness is supposed to be? 

Money couldn't buy happiness. Not for her.

Something is missing.

For as long as she could remember, she yearned for more. She wanted love, the kind where someone would go to the moon and back just to make her smile, unafraid to make a fool of themselves in the name of love. She wanted adventure, real friends, not those who clung to her because of the “it girl” status she enjoys. Y/N could see through fake smiles, especially those sweet words spoken to her face before the same mouths trashed her behind her back. 

Sighing, she turned to the dance floor. Few men caught her eye, but one stood out. Tall, bulky, rhythmically moving despite his rigidity.

Some nights she just watched, wondering if a day would come when she could dance with someone like him without it ending up on Page Six. Tonight wasn't that night. She was too sober to abandon consequence, too drunk not to feel the weight of regret.

Turning back around, she wraps her hand around the wine glass once again. At least wine never judges her. 

"I'll have a beer!" 

She jerked at the sudden shout, noting the large man shadowing her. Glancing up, she realized it was him, the dancer who had caught her attention.

He leaned in with a charming smile, his lips brushing her earlobe.

"Wanna dance?" 

Chills raced down her spine. His presence alone is disarming and while he seems a little rough around the edges, she finds him enthralling.

Chugging the beer he ordered, a slim trail of golden fluid forms down his chin, and he's quick to wipe it with the back of his hand. Putting the empty glass on the bar, he looks at her expectantly.

"Why not?" Y/N smirks, her mouth faster than her brain. It's unwise, but she takes his hand despite rational thought forcing its way to the surface. Her reputation can weather a single night of unrestrained entertainment. She’ll go back to being the perfect daughter tomorrow. 

The music lifted her from reality. She lost count of how many times she squished his foot. Still, he smiled brightly, as her heels threatened death to his toes. He's going to be in pain tomorrow when the alcohol and adrenaline wear off. 

Her hair fell from its bun, bouncing with the beat. It felt right. All that mattered was him. She didn't even know his name, but she knew his touch on her hip and she knew the warmth of his lips on her sensitive neck. His scent, woodsy and intoxicating, is searing itself in her memory. 

Y/N wraps her arms around him, struggling to clasp her fingers on the back of his neck. He's gorgeous with his dark, short hair and his eyes, like vast pools of darkness with nothing but the disco ball reflecting in them. They're the night sky with a moon reflecting in them, she corrects her initial thought. He might not have gone to the moon and back to make her smile, but maybe… Maybe tonight he’s the right kind of a guy, she feels light in his arms.

She’s not going to forget him. Not for a very long time.

His eyes flicker to her lips and her heart shakes as if a hurricane is about to enter the remnants of her fragile sanity. It's been ages since she’s been kissed, desired with no pretense. She’s questioning if she should let herself go and let him in, to allow vulnerability even if it's for a short time. He's waiting too, patiently and gently tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. 

Licking her lips, she nods ever so slightly and that's when his lips come crashing against hers. His palm slides possessively around her hip, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he draws her to him.

She melts into it, pressing herself closer to his exquisite body as he slides his hand down her back, to stroke, then cup her bottom, growling possessively as she giggles, breaking up the kiss into a few quicker pecks.

"Wanna get out of here?" He whispers in her ear, forcing her to shudder as she understands the implications of his words.

She shouldn't. She won't. This is not who she is. She’s not a one night stand kind of a girl. 

"Come with me", her mouth betrays her.

Holding his hand, she leads him through the crowd. Her driver waited, and he didn't say a word when she winked at him to ignore the fact she was not alone. 

"Take me to the apartment." She instructs, struggling with her desire to keep the kissing going with the perfect stranger who keeps his very big hand on her inner thigh. He's warm, but she’s sure it's the heat from the club and their kiss that made his skin operate at a higher temperature.

Lustful glances and cocky smirks seem to be what he's best at. Making her blush is a close second. It's easy to get lost in the idea of a forever with a man like him. She always does the same, dreams a little dream of a perfect world only to watch it fall apart when reality proves to be different than her imagination. 

Shaking her head, Y/N draws a deep breath. There will be no dreams this time around. It's evident he's in this for sex and while she wishes otherwise, it won't change one singular fact; he'll be gone when the sun comes up.

She has no other expectations. 

"Thank you, Benny." She smiles at the driver when the car stops.

The man is a perfect gentleman, waiting for them to get out of sight before his hand is glued to her left hip. His lips litter kisses from her shoulder to her neck while she presses the elevator button.

"You seem nervous." His voice makes her heart jump, a chill running down her spine. The music drowned out his voice before, a crime really, considering the sweet deepness that excited her more than it should. Never had a man's voice been as attractive as his. 

"I don't usually do this," Y/N admits with a drunken giggle, entering the elevator. The handsome stranger follows suit, his hand still on her hip. "I don't even know your name," she notes, glancing up at him. 

"Paul." He introduces himself and she can't deny he makes her weak in the knees.

His lips are covered with smudges of her red lipstick and his chest is sparkling with glitter from her hair. He's a perfect little mess and for the next few hours, he's hers.

"Y/N," she smiles as the elevator stops, sliding the door open to the penthouse and his eyes widen at the size.

"This is one hell of an apartment." Paul raises an eyebrow, wetting his lips as she scratches her temple, nodding. They’re clearly from different tax brackets, but she doesn’t care.

She’s damned either way. 

"Want a drink or", but before she can finish, Paul's lips claim hers again, knocking the breath out of her lungs.

"Mhmm", she manages to murmur, wrapping arms around his neck fully now that he's bent down. She’s sure his back's not comfortable in this position, but it feels damn good to run her fingers through his short hair. He taps her ass and she takes the hint, jumping up only to wrap her legs around his waist. 

"Where am I going", he chuckles, breaking the kiss as she takes a shuddered breath. 

"Straight then left." 

He nods in acknowledgment before she’s lost in him again, unbothered by his fingers as they pull the zipper of her dress down closer they get to the bedroom. A table clatters beside them, and a vase shatters loudly enough to make her flinch. She looks down at the shards, glancing back at his horrified stare.

"How expensive was that thing?"

Giggling, she shrugs. "Who cares. Kiss me again and you can pay it off," she raises her eyebrows, pecking his chin.

"Oh yeah?" Paul snickers, stepping over one of the shards before opening the door to her room. "It's definitely worth a million or two then."

"Really think a kiss could be worth that much?" she challenges, pushing down against his middle, enjoying his almost pained groan. He's definitely ready to get the talking part out of the way and get down to business. After all, it’s not like they’ll see each other after this night.

"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen and among everyone you've seen tonight, you chose me." Suddenly, without a warning, Paul drops her on the bed and she gasps. "It's a privilege to kiss you and it's going to be even better when you scream my name in pleasure." His devilish smirk reappears and she purses her lips.

"Well then, let's see if your game is as good as you claim it to be."

--

As one would expect, a pounding headache had set in before she even opened her eyes. Her mouth is dry, her entire body aches and most importantly, she’s trapped under an unnaturally warm mountain of a human who loves to cuddle throughout the night.

She’s not complaining about the cuddles, but she’s definitely complaining about his extremely warm, heavy body half lying on top of her. It’s comforting in a way, knowing he didn’t just leave once the deed was done. Most men would have been gone as soon as they got what they came for, pun intended.

Forcing her heavy eyes open, she’s glad she didn't fully open the curtains the last time she was there. The apartment isn't her favorite place to spend time in, but it's a rare form of autonomy she has outside of her overbearing family. It’s one of two pieces of real estate she actually owns and no one can take it away from her.

Blinking fast, her eyes adjust and focus on the unbelievably handsome man on top of her. Each line of his face is perfect, down to his chiseled jaw. Something about him screams danger and invites caution, yet she pulls him closer and plants a feather like kiss on that sharp jaw girls would write thirst tweets about.

Paul stirs, a sleepy smile forming. He looks careless and happy, something she envies. There are far too many expectations that weigh on her, too heavy to ignore. If anything, Paul’s lighter than the thoughts running inside her mind.

She giggles and kisses his chin. He mumbles, pulling her closer.

Usually, spending the night with a stranger meant cuddling wasn't on the table. Sometimes it's because he was way too unacceptable for her family's standards and she couldn't risk being caught, other times it was a scandalous affair her dad would have a stroke over. 

She’s no stranger to sex the past few years. It wasn’t casual sex with strangers, though. There was a boyfriend, one she stayed with for her family’s approval, trying to fill a hole within her chest that’s turned into a void. Nothing she had with her ex could compare to this intimacy. If she’s completely honest, it’s something she never encountered before. In her experience, sex is an act of nature, animalistic, set into human genetic makeup to continue the species.

But with Paul? His touch was both gentle and rough, his lips fiery and passionate, his words sweet and understanding. He didn't make it about getting himself off, quite the opposite. Paul made sure she was the one getting the most out of their encounter. She only ever had five orgasms in her life and he had given her three of those.

Paul offered a night of pleasure and peace, a rare occasion for someone like her.

"I could get used to that." He chuckles, startling her. "The pretty girl staring at me part,” he clarifies.

Paul opens his eyes and his playful persona reappears. It’s dangerous how easily his presence ignites a fire inside her, one she almost forgot she had. If nothing else, he’s given her that – a piece of her old self back.

"I wasn't staring. Staring is creepy." she remarks, adding, "I was gazing. It's meant to be romantic and flattering."

Nodding, a lopsided smirk adorns his lips. "I am very flattered. Even more so with the loving kisses." Narrowing his eyes ever so slightly, he leans back. "How are you alive? I’m practically on top of you."

Lightly tinted cheeks, with eyes conveying genuine worry as he looks at her, Paul's lips part. Pushing himself off and to the other side of the bed, he insists. "You should have woken me up!"

"I think I like being smothered. It's like you’re my personal weighted blanket!" she exclaims, propping herself up on her elbow. She feels her bladder is nearly ready to explode, but she doesn't want to end this moment of bliss. It's too pure, too comfortable to be over so soon.

"You're weird." Paul snickers, reaching for his phone.

"You mean unique!" she corrects him.

She crawls closer, but he jolts. He jumps to his feet, mumbling incoherently. Grabbing his clothes a little too quickly.

"You're leaving?" she asks, voice quieter than she means it to be, but the disappointment bleeds through anyway. She doesn't bother hiding it. Not when he’s tripping over her heel in a rush to find his shirt.

"I have a really important meeting I'm gonna be late to," Paul mutters, scanning the room with growing frustration. He tosses her dress, then her panties, across the room without thinking, just collateral damage in his frantic search.

"I have one too, but I figured I could reschedule. What's yours about?"

Her eyes track his movements, noting the growing tension in his shoulders. At the foot of the bed, she spots the shirt, wrinkled and tangled in the covers. She picks it up and stands, holding it out for him without a word.

Paul finally turns, and without speaking, she steps closer. Gently, she pulls the shirt over his arms, smoothing the fabric over his chest. She starts buttoning it from the bottom up, her fingers brushing lightly against his skin. He’s still so warm, like a touch of sun under her fingertips.

It's intimate. Achingly so. A small, quiet moment that feels too familiar for two people who’ve only known each other for eight hours. But still, it comforts her, this fragile illusion of something more.

He's about to leave, and she knows she’s never going to see him again.

She told herself she wouldn’t hope. That it was just one night. Just a moment. But that was a lie. She wants more. She wants the soft way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t watching, the heated kisses that curled her toes, and the way he held her like she mattered.

She wants the weight of his body and the warmth of his touch. She wants him, this affectionate, confident man who had no idea how easily he unraveled her.

"It's about proving to my family and friends I'm more than just a fuck up." His voice is low and rough as if saying it aloud hurts him. The words vibrate against her chest as she fastens the last button.

Her fingers still.

She looks up, meeting his eyes. They’re darker than usual, stormy. "I don’t think you’re a fuck up."

He huffs out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t know me well enough, Y/N. I’m not someone you want in your life. Trust me.”

Her expression hardens, a crease forming between her brows. “Maybe that’s not a decision you get to make for me.”

His hand comes up to her face, tender, hesitant. His palm cups her cheek like she’s fragile, like he’s scared he might break her if he isn’t careful. That single touch makes her chest ache.

"I just want to protect you," he whispers.

“No,” she replies, voice sharp and low. Her fingers reach up, tapping his chest with a gentle but deliberate push. “You want to protect yourself. God forbid you let someone get close and risk your heart getting broken.”

She swallows hard and forces a smile, though it trembles at the corners. “It’s not healthy, and it’s going to push away people who actually give a damn. But if that’s your choice, fine. Just… if you’re going to lie to me, Paul, you’ll have to do better than that. My bullshit meter isn’t easy to fool.”

His hand falls away.

So does the moment.

She steps back, breath catching in her throat. There's no point asking for his number, not when he’s already halfway out the door in his mind. Not when he’s looking for a reason to disappear and she’s far too proud to beg. It will be a cold day in hell before she lowers herself like that for any man.

Besides, she really has to pee.

"Hope your meeting goes well," she says with a casual shrug, disappearing into the bathroom. The sound of running water covers the silence he leaves behind. Once she’s done with the shower, he'll be gone and she’ll assume her well-rehearsed role.

--

She keeps her word. Goes to her own meeting. A quick, warm shower is all she allows herself, trying to replace the heat of Paul’s body with something far more fleeting. It doesn't work.

It doesn't take long for her to get ready, the driver's already prepared as well. Luckily, her meeting was nearby and she desperately needed some pancakes. 

The restaurant is familiar, a safe bubble in her otherwise chaotic world. As she strides in, confident and composed, she shrugs off her coat and scans the room. Her usual table’s already prepared.

Occupied.

A man with his back turned.

“I’ll have pancakes, please,” she tells the waiter she’s known for years. He gives her a knowing smile, knowing she’s hangover. She ignores his teasing wink. Pancakes are essential after the night she’s had.

“I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late, I -”

She stops.

Her voice dies.

Dark eyes meet hers. Her knees threaten to buckle.

Paul.

"You’re my meeting?" she breathes out, more accusation than a question.

“I know they say the world is small,” he grins, surprised but undeniably amused, “but this? This is a shock for me too.”

He seems a little too delighted with this coincidence. 

She lowers herself into the chair opposite him, spine straight, lips set.

"So...what would make your family and friends change their views on you?" she maintains eye contact. This isn't breakfast between lovers, it's a business meeting and she’s not about to act as a ditzy girl for his benefit. She’s in charge of the family’s benefit and she takes her role seriously. It’s the one thing she has left from her late mother, the only one who had a heart in her cold family.

He sighs, shoulders slumping. "A generous donation.” He reaches for her hand, but she retracts it just in time. Inhaling sharply, he continues. "For our reserve…mainly the school. I wanna show the community we can do better, give the kids a better future than what we got." Swallowing thickly, he breaks eye contact first. His gaze falls to the table, and his fingers rake through his hair. He’s nervous. She can feel it radiating off of him.

"And what do you do for a living?" she presses for more information, aware she wouldn't get it otherwise. Maybe she really is as entitled as they say she is, using this situation for her own gain. 

"I work with my friend in his lumber company." Paul bites his lip, clearly uncomfortable.

Their history, though brief, is making him sweat. He probably thinks he blew his only chance to secure the funds. He thinks she'll hold it against him. Maybe she would if she wasn't looking for a way out of New York, herself. Being with him reminded her of who she once was, enough to give her strength to get away for a while.

“Where is this reserve?”

“La Push,” he replies and her eyes flash with recognition.

It’s been a long time since she heard that name.

"I'll give you the funds," she says simply, folding her hands on the table before them.

Paul’s eyes widen, lips parting. His relief is immediate, but he tries to play it cool. A smile tugs at his lips anyway. “Thank you. Seriously.”

"I have a condition."

He nods quickly, licking his lips and leaning forward, hanging on her words.

"I want to go with you and see everything myself. The reserve, the school, the people. I want to know exactly where my money is going."

He hesitates. "That might be boring for you. I mean… this is New York. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

Smirking, Y/N tilts her head, eyeing him in suspicion. "I think I'd enjoy the adventure. Besides, I used to live in Forks. It’s the perfect excuse to come home." Tucking her hair behind both ears, she leans back and grins as she notices the waiter coming.

Her pancakes arrive, steam curling upward. She cuts into them, pretending she isn’t watching him squirm.

“It’s your choice,” he says. Then, a pause. “Where would you stay? It’s a tight-knit community.”

She quirks a brow, thinking aloud. “My house is rented out for a few months. Not sure if the motel would have any rooms this close to hunting season.”

She chews thoughtfully. Swallows.

“I’ll figure it out.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. “Alright. You can come. But you’re not figuring anything out.”

She looks up.

“You’ll stay with me.”

Raising a brow, she stares at him. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? My house is close to the school, it’s ideal.”

Clearing her throat, she puts down the utensils. “Logically, yes. But I don’t want to burden you. After last night –“

“You won’t be a burden! Stay until your house is available?”

Reluctantly, she nods. “We leave today.”

--

Excited and running on a mix of adrenaline and nervous hope, Y/N packed the essentials in record time. She booked the plane tickets, one for herself, and upgraded Paul’s return ticket, before she could second-guess her choice. Her heart wanted this. Her mind wasn’t so sure. It’s painfully clear that Paul isn’t thrilled with the way their meeting ended; his politeness feels more like tolerance, like he’s humoring the spoiled rich girl just to keep the peace. Still, she needs this. More than she’s willing to admit.

Her family is a gilded cage, controlling, suffocating, and insufferably obsessed with appearances. If it were up to them, she’d be locked into some picture-perfect marriage with an Upper East Side trust fund baby, already onto her third child by now. Hosting charity luncheons, planning balls, and posing for society pages like a well-groomed trophy wife. It’s a life drenched in wealth but starved of freedom.

It’s her worst nightmare.

Sitting beside a man who can’t seem to look her in the eye isn’t ideal either, but Paul, brooding and unreadable, is her ticket out. A temporary escape from the suffocating grip of her last name.

She sneaks a glance his way.

He hasn’t said a word since boarding. His posture is stiff, shoulders locked like he’s bracing for turbulence. His jaw clenches, sharp and unforgiving, and his hands grip the armrest so tightly his knuckles have turned white. It’s like he’s trying to hold something in, anger, maybe, or regret.

She can’t take it anymore.

"I knew you didn’t want me to come,” she says softly, breaking the silence. “But I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

She doesn’t bother pretending she’s unaffected. There’s no mask this time. No perfect smile, no carefully rehearsed charm to keep her safe. Just the raw truth. She’s tired of hiding behind walls no one bothers to climb.

Paul’s brows knit together as he turns to her. The tension in his face eases, just slightly, her voice pulls him back from wherever his mind had drifted. His dark eyes lock onto hers, and she feels the weight of his gaze settle in her chest.

She presses her lips together and forces a small, tight-lipped smile, fragile and strained, but it’s all she has left.

"I don't understand," Paul says, his voice low, lips parting as confusion flickers across his face. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, like he's searching for the right words, but she already knows the excuses he's reaching for.

Y/N raises a hand, cutting him off before he can try. Her expression is calm, but the effort it takes not to crack is exhausting.

"No worries, you’re obviously regretting inviting me," she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm no stranger to being unwanted. I’ll try to stay out of your way as much as possible."

Before he can respond, she slips on her headphones and turns toward the window, grateful she has the view to help her mind wander.

If she lets herself feel the sting behind his silence, she’ll cry. And crying in public? Not an option. She doesn’t do that. Y/N doesn’t cry, not where anyone can see. It probably rains more often in the Sahara than it does behind her eyes. Bottling emotions up until she explodes is who she is. She takes good care to ensure those explosions are few, although deadly, and always, imperatively when she’s on her own.

Closing her eyes, she lets herself drift.

Two years. That’s how long it’s been since she left Forks. Since she tried to escape her family, her name, and everything that came with it. She’d graduated from Columbia and made a break for freedom. But that didn’t last long.

One morning, she woke up in a hospital bed, IV in her arm, pain ricocheting through her body, and no memory of how she got there. The story was that she’d gone hiking alone. Except she hates hiking. Bella Cullen had found her, bruised and broken, and brought her to the ER with fractured ribs, a broken wrist, and a possible head injury.

She was lucky to survive. That’s what they kept telling her.

She didn’t feel lucky. She felt...erased. Whatever happened that day was gone, just like her plan to start over. Her father pulled her from the hospital the moment she was stable enough to fly, and Forks became just another shadow in her past, one she was never meant to return to.

A light touch on her shoulder makes her jump, her heart pounding as she jerks toward the source.

Paul.

His eyes are softer now. His earlier tension is gone, replaced with something that almost looks like guilt, or maybe understanding. His smile is small, hesitant.

“We’ve landed,” he says gently, pointing toward the passengers standing up around them.

She slides off her headphones, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and musters a tight smile. “Thanks.”

He winks, and something about it, so casual, yet so confident makes her heart flip.

“No problem, Princess,” he says with a smirk.

Her brow rises at the nickname, but she doesn’t protest. There are worse things he could call her. And truthfully? It’s not very original, but she doesn’t hate it.

And it’s not just the nickname she doesn’t mind. It’s him. The wink. The smile. The way he says it is like he sees past her defenses and calls her out in a way that doesn’t hurt. Paul makes her heart flutter in a way she hasn’t felt in years.

“I’ll get the luggage,” he offers, already standing before she can argue.

She doesn’t bother trying to stop him. The last thing she needs is to wrestle with him over two oversized suitcases, both hers, plus two more bags. Her arms are already tired, and maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t mind letting someone take care of her for once.

She glances at the sleek black duffle he swings over his shoulder and tries not to laugh.

“That’s all you brought to New York?” she asks, incredulous.

Paul throws her a look as he lifts her last suitcase. “You said you packed the essentials.”

“I did,” she grins, gesturing to the mountain of bags. “These are my essentials.”

He sighs dramatically, muttering under his breath as he drags the suitcases forward. “Rich girls and their ‘essentials.’ God help me.”

She chuckles, following behind him with her purse and laptop in tow.

"Hey, I carried the important stuff," she teases. "Lip balm, charger, and emotional damage. I’m pulling my weight."

He glances back, and for a split second, he smiles again… a real, warm smile.

“Good to know you packed light.”

She walks ahead, enjoying a few wandering looks from men who shamelessly stare at her and their intentions are just as obvious. A low growl makes her glance back at Paul, smirking as he glares daggers at all the men. Perhaps he does care. 

“So, do we call a cab or Uber?” Y/N asks, turning to Paul as she walks after him, phone in hand. The screen reflects her tired eyes and the long drive ahead. Forks isn’t exactly near any major airports. Seattle’s the closest, and even that feels like another world entirely. It’ll take them hours to get to La Push.

“Neither,” Paul replies, nodding past her toward the exit. “A friend’s picking us up.”

She turns, eyebrows raising as she spots it through the glass doors: a big, blue pickup truck that looks like it survived three lifetimes and several apocalypses. The paint is faded, the bumper slightly crooked, and one headlight flickers like it’s trying to quit.

“Oh.” The disappointment escapes before she can stop it, her lips tugging down as she gnaws on the inside of her cheek.

Paul leans in from the side, entertainment clear in his voice. “We don’t do limos where I’m from, Princess. Better get on.”

He walks ahead with that same cocky, unbothered stride that both annoys her and makes her heart trip over itself. Tilting her head back, she glares at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Why? Just why?

The truck’s driver hops out and jogs toward Paul with an easy laugh. He’s just as tall, maybe an inch shorter, a little less ripped and older. It's hard to deny he's not jaw droopingly beautiful, but Paul's charm shines through, making him a clear winner in the looks department. That’s what truly won her over.

Swallowing thickly, she joins the men, keeping her chin up and head held high. It takes a lot more than an old, rusty truck to bring down Y/N Y/L/N. Though she seems fragile, she’s not going to break.  And even if she does, glass is only brittle until it breaks. When that happens, it's capable of causing serious injuries and that's exactly why women like her are dangerous. Men seem to forget that easily. 

“Wow,” the stranger says, grinning as he looks her over. “I’ve never met an heiress before.”

His tone is teasing, but not unkind, and for some reason, it makes her laugh. Genuine, light.

He holds out a hand, palm up, gentleman-style, and she places hers in it without hesitation. The touch is warm, solid. When he bows slightly and presses his lips to the back of her hand, her heart skips.

“I’m Jared,” he says with a soft smile. Maybe she’s old fashioned, but she’s always been a sucker for men who have their manners intact.

“Y/N,” she replies, lips twitching as she tries to contain a grin. He’s funny. Polite. Knows exactly how to sweep a woman off her feet without even trying. His eyes linger on hers, not in a way that makes her uncomfortable, but in a way that makes her feel seen.

That is, until Paul clears his throat, loudly, dramatically.

Jared lets go of her hand, and she glances at Paul with raised brows, amused by the jealousy practically radiating off of him.

“He’s also married,” Paul adds flatly, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“And you’re jealous,” she fires back, sticking her tongue out before following Jared to the passenger side. Like a true gentleman, he opens the door for her, and she slides in with a grateful smile.

“No, I’m not!” Paul snaps from behind them, and she just waves him off, turning to Jared instead.

“Thank you,” she says sweetly.

The truck is… cozy, to put it nicely. Once Jared gets in, there’s barely any room left. When Paul opens the door and leans in, it’s obvious someone will need to get creative. She looks at him, then down at the space, and raises an eyebrow. Paul most certainly can't fit unless she sits on his lap. Glancing at Paul who opened the door and looked at her with a smug smirk, she rolled her eyes at him. 

Jared doesn’t miss a beat. “Get in the back. The bed. You’re not about to make our heiress benefactor uncomfortable with your hard on, Paul.”

She covers her mouth, trying and failing to stifle her laughter. Her eyes sparkle as she glances at Paul, who looks personally offended.

“Paul does like riding in the back,” she adds, winking. Her voice is light, teasing, but her meaning lands, judging by the way his eyes widen and his jaw tightens.

“I don’t think so,” Paul mutters, eyes locked on hers. “I mean, I’m sure the Princess would love riding on my lap.”

She chokes on her own spit. Literally.

Coughing, eyes watering, she waves a hand in front of her face like that’ll help undo the mental image. Jared, poor soul, looks like he’s just been hit with a wave of secondhand embarrassment and possibly trauma. His jaw drops, but he doesn’t comment. He’s too polite for that.

“Back or you’re walking,” Jared says, deadpan as he stares ahead, probably begging for silence.

Paul rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath, but he climbs into the bed of the truck. Once they’re moving, Jared tries to lighten the mood again, pointing out buildings and rambling on about La Push’s history, not lingering too much on Forks. His words fade in and out, the static of the radio filling the gaps. It’s not that she’s not listening, she just knows this town too well already.

When they pass the hospital, her gaze lingers a little longer. The Sheriff’s station is next. Jared points it out casually, but she doesn’t say a word. No need to explain that she’s already familiar with both places.

The trees grow thicker, the roads windier, and when they pass the Welcome to La Push sign, something eases in her chest. The air feels different here. Less heavy.

“So this is Paul’s place,” Jared says, pulling into a gravel driveway lined with trees. “If you ever get sick of him, just walk five minutes that way”, he points to the left, “and you’ll find my house. It’s easy to spot. The lawn’s a demolished, full of toys. The kids have declared it their kingdom.”

She grins. "Might take you up on that offer. The grump seems to dislike my presence at this point." Her smile fades slightly as she looks toward Paul, who’s already unloading her luggage

Jared follows her gaze. The resemblance between them is clearer now. They share the same dark eyes, the same broad shoulders and sharp jawlines. Jared’s hair is longer, falling past his shoulders, and his energy is warmer, easier somehow. But it’s obvious they’re connected. Maybe not by blood, but by something just as strong.

Whatever it is, Y/N gets the feeling this town has more tangled threads than she realized. And she’s walking right into the center of it all.

"He doesn't dislike you, just...Paul takes time to warm up to people. He hasn't had it easy in life, okay?" Jared's sympathetic smile lights up the dim atmosphere. "The fact he called me this morning just to tell me he met the most amazing woman says a lot too. I'm guessing that was you." Jared raises an eyebrow and she hides her face, groaning.

"I'm gonna go find a hole to crawl in and die." Laughing in embarrassment, she opens the door and jumps out, her heels instantly sticking into the wet ground. "Oh, look! Found it!"

"Yeah, the heels are gonna have to come off. Unless you wanna sink with every step you take, Princess." Paul teases, striding over. His jacket's already off and a tight T-shirt is tasked with keeping his muscles hidden from view. 

"Don't kill each other." Jared jokes, prompting Paul to slam the truck's door closed. "JACKIE DIDN'T DO SHIT TO YOU", Jared screams, starting the truck again. 

"C'mon." Paul leans down, picking her up with ease and she yelps, wrapping her arms around his neck in slight panic.

"Don't drop me!" Her voice wavers and his chuckle drowns out the momentary anxiety. She could listen to him laugh for the rest of her life and never wish for the tune to change. 

"I didn't drop you last night, now did I?" Paul cocks an eyebrow, the arrogant smirk making a reappearance. 

"Uh, you did!" She reminds him, still holding a grudge for when he dropped her on the bed. 

"That was intentional." Paul snickers, shutting the front door with his leg before putting her down.

Taking off her impractical, muddy heels, she turns to Paul.

"Alright, so...where do I sleep?" she asks, placing her hands on her hips as her eyes wander around the space.

The house is old, clearly lived in, but surprisingly well kept. There's a quiet elegance to it; muted tones, clean lines, a softness in the way everything fits together. It’s not what she expected from Paul. It’s too... thoughtful. Too curated. A woman’s touch lingers in the details, a throw blanket perfectly folded over the couch, a faint vanilla scent clinging to the air, and the tall, fragile vase sitting dead center on the entryway table like it was placed there with intention.

She tries not to stare at the vase, but she can’t help it. The soft lilac design etched into the glass feels too personal. Was it a gift? Did she bring it? The woman who mattered. The one who maybe curled up beside him at night, who chose these curtains and filled his space with color. Was she beautiful? Did she make him laugh? Did he love her? Does he still?

“I have a bedroom I can prepare for you, but it'll take a few days,” Paul says, dragging her attention back. He licks his lips, then nods toward the vase. “My mom brought that during a recent visit. She lives in Canada.”

The knot in her chest loosens. A small sigh escapes her, and she smiles, almost sheepishly. “Right. That makes more sense.”

She doesn't ask more, even though she wants to. He never gives her much, just enough to keep her curious and guessing. It’s starting to gnaw at her.

“So what happens until it’s ready?”

“I’ll take the couch,” he replies with a shrug, casually resting his hand against the small of her back. The contact is warm and steady, grounding. “You can have my bed.”

She arches a brow, surprised at how easy he makes it sound. “You’re just gonna give it up like that?”

“I’ve had worse nights,” he mutters, already guiding her toward the staircase. She falls into step beside him, quietly holding her breath.

Her eyes narrow. “Is this some sort of reverse psychology trap? You sleep on the couch for one night and then mysteriously find your way back upstairs?”

“Please,” Paul scoffs. “You’d hear me coming a mile away.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” she mutters, cheeks warming.

“Relax.” His voice drops lower, almost teasing. “I can behave.”

She’s not sure if she wants him to.

The stairs creak under their weight as they climb. She half-expects a bachelor’s disaster zone at the top: empty cans, dark walls, a bed that’s more mattress than frame. But when he pushes open the door to his room, she pauses.

It’s… cozy.

Unexpectedly so.

She blinks. Twice.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she mumbles.

The walls are baby blue, and the off white carpet looks freshly vacuumed. The bed is massive, covered in bright blue sheets and an ungodly amount of decorative pillows.

This room doesn’t scream Paul. It whispers someone was here before. Someone of importance. The decorative pillows are a sign of a serious relationship. Men see them as unnecessary, but women see them as a way to mark their territory.

She turns to him, fighting the urge to interrogate him.

“The bed’s pretty big,” she says instead, mustering a playful grin. She walks toward it slowly, brushing her hand over the soft fabric before tapping the spot beside her. “I don’t see a problem in sharing.”

She waits for the smirk. The flirty comeback. The spark in his eye when they traded jabs and pushed boundaries before. But it doesn’t come.

Paul’s expression shifts, his shoulders stiffen, and his eyes darken as his jaw tightens.

“I’m not interested in playing house,” he says flatly, voice cool and distant. “I’ll go order us a pizza.”

She watches him walk away without another word, leaving the door open behind him. Her heart sinks a little as the silence settles around her. Maybe she was a little too forward, but his reaction left her wondering.

Whatever softness she'd glimpsed in him earlier, the warmth, the teasing, the way he carried her through the door like it meant something, it’s gone again. Hidden beneath whatever wall he keeps rebuilding every time she gets too close.

And just like that, she’s reminded: she doesn’t know him. Not really. And worse, he doesn’t want her to. It’s becoming apparent New York was his Vegas and he planned to forget all about her when he came back home. 

She feels so stupid for thinking it might’ve meant something more.

To her, Paul tasted like freedom. Like laughter. Like the possibility of happiness she hadn’t let herself hope for in too long. He’d been attentive, gentle in ways that caught her off guard. And now? Now he was cold. Distant. Shrugging her off like she was nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.

What the hell happened in less than a day?

Was it all an act? Or should she do what Jared said and be patient?

The problem is, she’s never been a patient person. Maybe it’s her fault, for projecting her hopes onto a perfect stranger, for thinking this could be a meet-cute straight out of a movie, but he didn’t have to play along and then make her uncomfortable….unwanted.

Storming downstairs, she purses her lips. She finds him leaning over the kitchen counter, head in hands, the muscles in his back tense. The sight of him like that only fuels her frustration. He’s acting like she forced him to house her, like she didn’t give him a choice.

“We have to talk this through,” she blurts, maybe a little too harshly, but she can't bring herself to care. She wouldn't spend another second in this house if he didn’t want her there.

Paul turns slowly like her anger is nothing more than a passing breeze. “What exactly do we need to talk about?” His voice is low, casual, amused, even. It makes her blood boil.

“This!” she throws her hand toward him, nearly shaking. “I don’t want to be here if you don’t want me to, Paul. Alright? I might look like I’ve got it all together, like I’m confident, but I’m not. And everything you’ve done since breakfast has been… a hard damn pill to swallow.”

She rakes her hands through her hair, trying to pull herself together, only getting more flustered as her fingers snag on a tangle. He still says nothing. Just watches her unravel.

Her chest aches. She’s being stupid again. His actions paint a clear picture, one in which she’s the issue as if he doesn’t make her wonder if he’s got an evil twin running around, intent on breaking her apart.

“Maybe it’s because you just decided to tag along,” Paul finally says, arms crossing over his chest as he leans back. His gaze is sharp, almost cold. “Didn’t even think about how that might mess up my life here.”

The words hit her like a slap, reminding her just how unwanted her presence is.

“I said I’d find my own place!” she snaps. “I wanted to see how bad it was so I could help, Paul! I didn’t come here to screw up your life. And if you didn’t insist I stay with you, I wouldn’t have. In fact, don’t worry about it.”

She spins on her heel, grabbing her bag from beside the door. “I’ll send someone for my stuff,” she throws the bag over her shoulder and puts on her heels before yanking the door open.

Outside, the sky is hazy, clouds rolling in as she tiptoes across the damp grass, her heels useless. She doesn’t look back. She won’t give him the satisfaction.

She considers taking Jared up on his offer, but the last thing she needs is to be vulnerable around more strangers right now, especially Paul's friends. The thought makes her stomach twist.

She needs time to collect herself, to think. To breathe. Then she'll find a way to move her things to the nearest motel… the only motel in Forks. She will not depend on any man, no matter how attractive he is. She misread the situation for the last time.

The trees blur around her as she walks faster, the familiar crash of waves in the distance pulling her forward. The sound is grounding, fierce and steady, like a promise the earth is still turning even when everything feels upside down.

When she finally breaks through the tree line and reaches the edge of the beach, a shaky breath escapes her lungs.

The sun is melting into the horizon, painting the ocean gold and crimson. It's beautiful. She always loved the ocean. It reminded her of herself - usually calm on the surface with an entire world underneath, but when it begins to rage, it can destroy everything in its vicinity.  And sunsets are her favorite view. Nothing compares to it. She watched enough of them from these beaches with her mother to know as much.

She kicks off her heels, holding them by the straps as she walks barefoot toward the water. The first wave kisses her skin, and she hisses, the cold seeping up her spine and spreading through her limbs.

But she doesn’t move. She closes her eyes, lets the wind tangle her hair, allows it to take the heat from her cheeks. Her lips tremble, and for the first time all day, a sound escapes her; a faint, broken whimper. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just real.

This wasn’t a breakdown. It was a release.

While it's helpful to clear her head, she wishes she could just walk into the ocean and leave this world behind. She doesn’t want to die, no, it’s not that, but God, sometimes she just wishes she could disappear for a while. Drift beneath the waves and start over. She used to believe in mermaids when she was younger, and now she understands why. The idea of a whole world beneath the surface where no one could touch her? It’s always been tempting. Ariel was a damn fool for giving up an entire ocean for a man who couldn't even love her unless she spoke. 

She wraps her arms around herself and keeps walking along the shore, eyes scanning until she spots a small parking lot in the distance. Her phone feels heavy in her hand as she opens the app and calls for an Uber.

Her stomach growls, angry and empty. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it’s catching up to her.

When the car drops her off at the diner, she doesn’t hesitate. She orders a greasy hamburger and a mountain of fries and doesn’t care who’s watching as she devours them. Salt and ketchup, soft bread, sizzling meat, it’s the only thing grounding her now. She ate her emotions to keep them in check. She never coped well with sadness or heartache, that's for sure. 

Intent on finding the motel first and figuring out the rest tomorrow, she walks out of the diner and into the darkness of Forks. She pulls her jacket tighter around her body, her heels tapping against the pavement as she rounds the corner.

But she doesn’t get far.

Two steps in and she slams hard into something, someone, as sturdy as a brick wall. She stumbles back, breath knocked out of her chest, but strong hands catch her before she hits the ground.

“Sorry,” she mutters instinctively, blinking up through the shadows. And then she realizes: this isn’t a wall. This is a person. With hands. And a scent like pine after rain.

“Oh,” she breathes.

The man holding her is tall, just as tall as Paul, maybe taller, but leaner, paler. His golden hair gleams under the moonlight, curling ever so slightly at the ends. And his eyes. They’re what truly undo her. Amber, liquid gold, like fire trapped in honey. There's something haunting about them, something achingly familiar. It is the sort of gaze that's warm, a welcome home.They stir a memory she can’t quite place, and for a moment, she forgets how to breathe.

He stares at her like he’s seeing a ghost. His jaw is clenched, brows furrowed as though he’s caught in a war with himself. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just holds her with a grip that's almost too tight, too intentional, like letting her go would somehow break him.

Her pulse flutters in her throat. The closeness, the heat between them, she should step away. She knows she should. But instead, she leans in slightly, drawn by the unspoken pull between them, the whisper of something unfinished.

His lips part like he’s about to say something. Like he wants to say everything.

And then, he's gone.

In the time it takes to blink, she finds herself standing alone. He’s already walking away, glancing back over his shoulder with an expression of disbelief and something deeper…grief, maybe. Panic?

She blinks again. Nothing. The night has swallowed him whole.

"Thank God!" Paul’s voice crashes into her daze. She turns sharply, still shaken, to find him jogging across the street with a sheepish grin and a bouquet clutched in his hand.

Roses.

She hates roses.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he pants, slowing down as he reaches her. “Princess, you can’t just walk out like that.”

He looks her over, gaze softening as he registers how rattled she is. He takes a small step closer, cautious.

“Why do you care?” she snaps, eyes still lingering on the spot where the golden-haired man disappeared.

Paul flinches, and for once, he doesn’t snap back. His shoulders slump.

"Because I fucked up,” he says, the words coming out raw and rushed. “I really didn't mean to blow up at you like that. I mean...I'm scared, okay? I'm scared if I let you in, you'll see I'm a piece of shit and leave me. Like everyone else does.”

His voice falters, and he glances down at the bouquet in his hands, suddenly looking so much younger than usual. “I don't want that and I thought keeping you at arm's length would be smart, but it isn't and I do want you here, I just...I have problems, especially with my temper and I'm trying to protect you from it." His eyes meet hers again, and this time, there's no mask. No sarcasm. Just longing. Guilt. A desperate, vulnerable plea. “I’m trying.”

And despite the ache in her chest, she softens.

"Don't ever give me space. I don't need a perfect man, a friend, or more. I'm not perfect either and that's okay...we'll be a mess together, okay? I need honesty. Don’t shut me out."

She steps closer, eyes flicking down to the roses. They’re flawless. Trimmed, wrapped, red and lifeless.

She takes them gently, and then tosses them to the ground without blinking.

“I hate roses.”

Before she can react, he throws his arms around her, pulling her into an unexpected kiss.

It’s not rushed. It’s not needy. It’s a reunion.

“Are you sure,” she asks, but his answer is another kiss.

Her lips are firm, determined, but the kiss is soft, slow, unhurried, like they’re rediscovering each other through touch. She exhales through her nose, overwhelmed by the wave of relief crashing into her, washing away the bitterness of the day. He presses closer, one hand cupping her cheek while the other tangles in her hair, deepening the kiss with an almost reverent pull.

It’s him. All of him. Apologetic. Passionate. Hers. At least for the night.

“Get a room!” someone yells from across the street, and Paul pulls back with a low laugh, forehead resting against hers.

“We do have a bed to put to good use,” he teases, lifting an eyebrow.

She grins, breathless. “Alright,” she murmurs, biting her lower lip. “As long as you realize this is your second chance. I don’t give third chances.”

His face sobers. He nods, solemn and sure. “You won’t need to.”

He tugs her close as he steps to the edge of the street, arm wrapped around her waist as he hails a cab that stops just at the end of the street.

“Race you,” she challenges, her grin returning.

But Paul only shakes his head, smirking. “I have a better idea.”

Before she can question it, she’s airborne, thrown over his shoulder like a sack of flour. She shrieks, almost dropping her heels.

“Oh my God, Paul! I ate so much!”

“And you’re going to spend every last calorie tonight!” he laughs, breathless, and breaks into a run, the sound of his laughter carrying them down the street.

Perhaps it wasn’t a mistake to come here, after all.

And just like that, the weight in her chest begins to lift. She can be a lot to handle, she’s aware, but this time Paul best be aware she won’t let him make her feel small. She’ll book that motel room in the morning, just in case.

Meanwhile.

From the shadows beyond the streetlamp, Jasper stood as still as stone. His eyes, darkened with thirst and restraint never left her. She was laughing now, wrapped in the arms of a wolf.

His arms.

Jasper’s jaw clenched, the muscle twitching beneath porcelain skin as Paul pulled her closer, lips brushing the crown of her head like he had a right to her. The sight burned hotter than venom in Jasper’s throat. He could hear the wolf’s heartbeat, steady, satisfied, cocky. The kind of rhythm a man has when he thinks he’s already won.

And her.

She was radiant. All flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes, her voice soft and unguarded, like she felt safe there. With him. With a wolf.

But her scent, her blood told another story.

It wasn’t just her blood. It was the pull, primal and unbearable. Her very existence called to something ancient and possessive buried deep in Jasper’s chest. Her emotions, raw and crackling like lightning under his skin, made his head spin. He could feel every flicker of happiness, of comfort, of lust… and it twisted inside him like a blade.

She should have felt that with him.

She should have looked up and seen him waiting in the shadows, not the creature whose kind Jasper was forced to hate. Fate isn’t playing fair if this is how it brings her back to him.

Next to him, Alice stepped quietly, her presence like a hand on his shoulder he couldn’t shake off. Her gaze followed his, unreadable, but her voice was steady and soft.

“Told you it wouldn’t change anything,” she murmured. “Her future is set.”

Jasper didn’t look at her.

His eyes remained locked on Y/N.

The way her fingers curled in Paul’s shirt, the way she leaned while kissing him like he was the only solid thing left in the world. Jasper’s hands balled into fists at his sides. The wolf’s scent clung to her like a brand, like a fucking claim.

And it was wrong.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t feel this. But everything in him, the soldier, the vampire, the man, was screaming mine.

A low, almost inaudible growl curled up from his chest before he could stop it. Alice heard it, of course. She always did.

She touched his arm gently. “We have to go.”

Still, he didn’t move.

Not yet.

Not until he burned every second of the moment into his mind, the wolf’s grin, her kiss, the way she didn’t even look back.

Then, slowly, Jasper turned away, the cold of the forest pressing in like punishment. His steps were silent, but inside, his thoughts roared.

Because it didn’t matter what Alice saw in her visions.

Jasper had already felt it then, the connection, the pull, the truth. He spent the last two years learning control, fighting his urge to hunt her down and claim her for himself in any way possible. Jasper was consumed by it – the vision, the scent he so vividly conjured up in his mind, and her beauty that haunted him.

After all this time, he was ready. He proved it when he didn’t rip into her jugular when he held her earlier. The scent had lured him closer, too close for him to properly understand as it was buried under the wolf’s stench. It’s hidden her from him almost too well, but the sweetness of her blood’s song is undeniable. It calls to him, inviting him to crave her, to taste the heavenly liquid he’s been trying to forget.

Two years ago, he protected her from himself. Now? Jasper knew one thing with absolute certainty: She might think she belongs to the wolf now. But she was his. And before long, she will know it too.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Tags: @moonmark98 @formulas-bitch

A/N: If you want to be tagged for future parts, leave a comment and make sure your blog's visibility is on (in settings) otherwise Tumblr won't allow me to tag you.

[ninus9607]

The things we do for love - Wanda Maximoff*

Pairing(s): Dark! Wanda Maximoff x Female! reader

Word count: 8K

This story contains dark themes, including obsession, kidnapping, emotional manipulation, non-consensual elements, dubious consent, violence, and possessive behavior. It also includes explicit sexual content,

tags: l content: Wanda Maximoff x Reader, Dark Wanda Maximoff, Obsessive Love, Kidnapping, Stalking, Possessive Behavior, Breeding Kink, Dubious Consent, Strap-on Sex, Magical Restraint, Virgin!Reader, Soft Dom!Wanda, Aftercare, Love Confession, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn to Yandere, Dark Romance, Happy ending

AN: GUYS, IT'S DARK ROMANCE. JUST ENJOY, ALSO SORRY ABOUT EVERY GRAMMAR MISTAKE!

I've always liked mornings. They were quiet,  just me and my coffee shop, the sound of the espresso machine, and the delicious aroma of cinnamon from the muffins baking in the back. It was the kind of peacefulness I had come to rely on.

That's when I noticed her.

She walked inside the shop like a ghost who had come in from the cold. Her dark, bright red coat, messy curls, and eyes appeared to bear the weight of many lifetimes. She hesitated just past the door, blinking as if she hadn't expected to be there either.

"Hi," I said with my normal smile, scrubbing my palms against my work clothes. "Can I get you something?"

Her gaze moved to mine, shocked at first, then softened. She nodded and walked closer, taking careful, calculated steps.

"Just tea," she said. Her voice was low and nearly harsh. "Chamomile, if you have it."

I didn't say anything else, just turned to make her a drink. But I felt her gaze on me the entire time - quiet, curious, and bitter. I didn't mind. Her presence was oddly pleasant.

When I moved the cup across the counter, our fingers brushed.

She flinched. Then smiled.

"Thanks," she mumbled. "This place is... peaceful."

"Yeah," I responded, leaning slightly against the surface beneath me. "That's sort of the idea. There aren't many people around, especially at this hour in the morning."

She seemed to want to say anything else, but didn't. She just took her cup and slid into a corner seat, watching the rain paint slowly run down the windows.

I returned to cleaning down the counter while pretending not to look at her. But I did. More than once.

When she had finished her tea, she just stood up and left. But the atmosphere in the room had not changed; there was something more, but what was it? God, you're going insane. It's just another customer, and you're experiencing gay panic, idiot. 

My mind was screaming at me, and another customer was waiting for me anyway, so I just forgot about it and went to work.

It started like every other afternoon.

The bell above the door rang at exactly 3:07 PM — not that I was counting — and the strange girl walked in again. Maroon coat. A soft scarf hung high around her neck. Eyes that were usually a touch worn, as if she'd seen the world burn and sat through the ashes with a kind smile.

Hm, something about her seems awfully familiar? Do I know her? Have I seen her before she came here?

She said nothing. She never did, actually. I moved directly to the table in the back corner, beside the window. Her usual. It's kind of become her spot now, which is strange considering it's still my café.

I watched her from the corner of my eye as she sat down and relaxed. She stroked her fingertips across the table's wood, as if she were testing it, as if it might not be there tomorrow. I'm not sure, she does it a lot.

I started making her drink before she even glanced up. I simply knew what she wanted. Not that I was trying to impress her or anything; I'm not even sure she notices, but she usually orders the same thing. 

Chamomile tea.

It has honestly become automatic at this point.

When I carried it over and placed it in front of her, she looked up at me, seemingly shocked. "You remembered," she murmured softly but not coldly.

I shrugged. "You come in around the same time every day. It's hard not to."  Why am I nervous?

She smiled slightly — barely a twitch at the corner of her mouth — before looking down at her cup, which was warmer than it should have been. I returned to the counter and pretended not to see her grin. Or her voice. Or the way she glanced out the window, as if she were constantly waiting for something. Or someone.

It wasn't anything, I told myself. Just a frequent customer. Absolutely not, ridiculously beautiful woman... I didn't even know her name until today, when she stood up and left far more money on the table than she was supposed to pay with a small note.

Thank you for this excellent tea.

 You're an angel. 

Wanda

Wait wanda? I knew that name, hmmm, WAIT. SHE'S WANDA MAXIMOFF? THE AVENGER? 

As time passed, I became more thrilled about Wanda's visits. She became a regular, sitting in the same place at the same time every day. It was subtle at first, but she appeared to draw toward me, and it quickly became routine. I'd look up from the counter, and there she was, a calm smile on her face, ready for her standard tea.

She was very sweet-almost too sweet—and I assumed it was due to her kindness. But there was something in her eyes that remained a bit longer than expected. It gave me a nice feeling inside, a flutter I couldn't quite define.

One day, she surprised me with a small gift. It was a small package wrapped with a red ribbon, and as I opened it, I saw a tiny silver bracelet.

"I thought you might like it," she said, smiling gently and truthfully. "It's nothing much, but it reminded me of you."

I was caught aback, not expecting anything, and I'm sure my cheeks heated. "Thank you," I managed to say, my voice catching slightly. "It's beautiful."   When I put it on my neck, I felt an unusual tingling feeling that I didn't recognize. And as I glanced into her eyes, all I noticed was a sparkle, as if she was really happy; hmm, weird.

Wanda was always thoughtful. She'd wait for me after my shift, sometimes waiting outside the store, her presence relaxing and quiet. I'd find her there, leaning against the wall, staring at me with the same intensity I'd grown to recognize. It was not disturbing, however. If anything, it made me feel special, as if I were the only one she cared about at that time.

One day, we found ourselves alone in the shop, just the two of us, with the sunset light streaming through the windows. I was washing the counter when I realized she was watching me. She had always done this, but her stare was more intense now.

"You know, I don't think I've ever told you how much I enjoy your tea," she added, her voice somewhat lower than normal.

I chuckled while cleaning off the counter. "I am happy you enjoy it. You come here commonly enough; I'd say it's a favorite of yours."

Her smile grew, and something reflected in her eyes. "Maybe more than you realize."

There was a lull, and I couldn't help but notice a warm sensation slipping across my chest. Was she hinting at anything? I got nervous and struggled to keep my cool. Every time she was around, my world seemed to brighten a little.

It was then that I realized: perhaps I started to look forward to seeing her as well. There was something about the way she spoke to me that made me feel seen and important. The concept sparked a rush of excitement in me. Is it possible that I developed a little crush? Noo, me? Never right?

But I brushed the idea aside. Wanda was just being kind, right? She was only a friend, perhaps a bit more? But I did not want to leap to a conclusion.

"Thanks, Wanda," I replied, smiling at her. "I appreciate your company, too. I mean, you are one of my best customers."

She grinned, and for a moment, I could have sworn her eyes sparkled. "I'm glad to hear that, Detka,"  Detka?   she said. "I might just have to keep coming back... to see you, of course."

I was just wrapping up my shift at the coffee shop when I remembered I had forgotten to pick up some groceries for dinner. With a silent groan, I grabbed my jacket and decided to rush to the nearby store. It wasn't far from the shop, just a short stroll around the block. My feet felt light as I walked along the street, enjoying the fresh air. The city was still full of activity, but it was quieter than normal as the evening sun began to set beyond the horizon.

I entered the store, welcomed by the usual hum of light bulbs and the quiet rustle of people finding what they wanted.

But then I spotted her.

Wanda.

She was standing by the produce section, calmly picking out veggies, and seemed so... normal. But something about her presence sent shivers down my spine. My heart pounded a little, but I didn't want to confess it.

For a moment, our gazes connected across the store, and I felt my cheeks warm up. She gave me a fleeting, soft smile and then turned away, seemingly disappearing into the jam-packed aisles.

I stood frozen for a second, blinking. Did she just smile at me?

I shook my head, giggling quietly to myself. Get a grip, I whispered beneath my breath. She's probably just spotted you. You've seen her plenty in the coffee shop.

I hurried swiftly to the milk area, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach. But I couldn't help it. There was something about Wanda that drew me in.

I eventually got to the checkout desk, and there she was again. Wanda stood by the self-checkout, scanning her purchases with her back turned. She didn't appear to notice me, but I couldn't take my gaze away.

My pulse raced as I paid for my purchases, wondering what to do next. I could leave. I could walk out of here and pretend nothing happened. But before I could make a decision, Wanda turned around.

"Y/N?" she asked, her tone sweet and friendly. "Hey, I didn't expect to see you here."

I paused for a second, looking up at her. "Oh, uh, hey!" I mumbled. "I just needed to pick up a few things for dinner."

Wanda smiled, the same kind grin she usually has when she sees me. "Funny. I was thinking about getting something to cook tonight, too."

A pause existed between us. I wanted to say something more, like ask her about her day or what she was preparing. Instead, I simply grinned uncomfortably.

"Well, I'm sure you'll make something amazing," And with that, I quickly turned around and exited the shop as fast as possible to avoid making myself even more of a blushing mess!

Later that evening, after a satisfying lunch, I relaxed in my living room, intending to chill out from the day. My thoughts kept returning to Wanda and the way she smiled at me or spoke about her brother or the Avengers. I couldn't get over the excitement and desire that was developing within of me. I glanced over to my tiny table by the window, where a bouquet of flowers had been placed. I couldn't remember seeing them there before, and I was pretty sure I hadn't bought them myself.

My breath froze in my throat as I picked up the card that came with them. 

To lighten up your evening. - W.

When I brushed my fingertips over the tiny note, my heart skipped a beat. Wanda. She had delivered them to me, and I had no idea how she got into my flat, but it didn't matter. The notion of her carefully picking my favorite flowers caused some comfort in my chest.

I carefully placed the card down and landed on the edge of the couch, my phone buzzing on the coffee table. The message came from an unknown number.

I grabbed it quickly,

Hey, It's Wanda. I was too hesitant to talk to you previously, but do you want to go with me on a picnic tomorrow? It's just the two of us. I thought it would be fun—something quiet, just spending the day together.

My fingers paused over the screen, and a grin gradually grew over my face. A Picnic? I hadn't been on one in years

I quickly wrote my response:

That sounds fantastic! I would love to. Where do you want to go?

Wanda responded almost instantly.

I know of a quiet spot near the lake. I will bring everything; just bring yourself. 😊 I will pick you up at noon. Cannot wait.

My heart was fluttering. She is picking me up. I felt a bit thrilled at the prospect, like a teenager preparing for her first date. Was it a date? Or no? I am not sure, so let's not worry about it.

I entered another message.

That sounds perfect. I will be ready. Looking forward to it! ♡

I put down my phone and sat back on the couch, smirking to myself. Everything seemed so natural with Wanda. Easy. Comfortable. However, she showed passion in the way she looked at me and invited me to spend time with her. It made me feel special, not every day, an avenger asks you to spend time with him.

After a little moment of thought, I stood up and walked to my bedroom to prepare for tomorrow. That night, I tried to sleep, but my mind kept drifting back to the messages and the idea of the picnic.

The whole thing was pure gold, and she is incredible. Believe me, I never imagined anyone would be interested in me. God, I think I'm falling in love with her, but what if she only meant it as a friend? Maybe she doesn't like women at all, even though she's wearing so many rings. :)

I nestled further under the blankets, my pulse beating from the excitement of everything. I was ready to fall asleep when I heard a gentle sound, like the slight creak of a door opening. I blinked, groggily opening my eyes, only to discover Wanda seated on the side of my bed.

My heart has stopped. How was she doing...?

Before I could respond, she softly caressed my cheek, her fingertips icy yet soothing on my flesh. "Hey," she said quietly, her voice smooth and pleasant. "It's me. I apologize for scaring you."

I attempted to speak, but the words would not come. I couldn't move or say anything. Wanda's magic was like a blanket over me, sending me into a deep, peaceful sleep.

The sun was shining through the curtains when I awoke slowly, stretched out, and wiped my eyes. The room was calm, the type of serenity that comes with a languid morning. My phone buzzed on the nightstand, and I looked at the screen, still groggy from sleep.

Wait.

My attention instantly focused on something-something from last night. I froze. Had Wanda been in my room?

I shook my head, tossing the notion away as I wiped my face. No, that was absolutely a dream.

But it felt extremely real. I could almost feel her fingertips brush over my body. The memory had an odd charm for me, but I couldn't figure out why. It was only a dream, right?

I pushed the thoughts away as I got out of bed, stretching again and moving toward the bathroom. After washing up, I made myself some coffee and ate a light breakfast, still trying to shake the weird feeling. It wasn't like me to get so worked up over something that didn't even happen.

A few hours later, I waited at the window and watched Wanda's car drive up in front of my apartment. The thought of spending the day with her, just the two of us, made me feel all warm inside. I grabbed my stuff, took a big breath, and walked out the door.

When I went outside, Wanda had already left her car, a warm smile spreading across her face.

"Hey," she said, her voice warm, that familiar, reassuring tone that always made me feel at ease. "I'm really happy u agreed to go with me." Her Sokovian accent was very beautiful and attractive. 

"Definitely," I said with a smile, walking towards her.

Without saying anything, she moved around the front of the car and opened the passenger door for me, like some flawless, old-school gentleman.

"You didn't have to do that," I smiled as I slipped in.

"I wanted to," she answered simply. "You look beautiful, by the way, Malishka."

My cheeks heated, and I whispered just a little "thank you" while trying not to smile too much. She softly closed the door and returned to the driver's seat.

At first, the ride was silent, but not awkwardly so; it felt calm. The fingers lightly tapped the steering wheel in time with the pop music playing through the speakers.

"So," I eventually questioned, looking to her with curiosity, "What is it like? Being an Avenger, I mean."

She laughed briefly, but it was bittersweet. "Overwhelming. Constant. Sometimes I feel lonely." Wanda hesitated before continuing, "It's strange that so many people know your name but don't know you at all."

I frowned, observing how her jaw clenched. "Do you miss it?"

"I miss the people," she said quietly. "The ones who understood what it felt like to carry too much."

"What about you?" She questioned suddenly, her voice lightening again. "What's your day like when you're not making everyone's morning better with coffee and sarcastic commentary?"

I laughed. "Honestly? Not really exciting. I read a lot. Take a walk or listen to music. Sometimes I pretend to be mysterious and tough to get close to, but then I destroy it by sobbing over documentaries or chatting too much to customers about my books..."

The lake wasn't far away, hidden peacefully along a spiraling road surrounded by thick grass and trees that looked golden in the late afternoon sunlight. Wanda pulled up in the shade and shut off the engine.

She stepped out swiftly and unlocked the trunk, revealing a folded blanket and a little wicker package. She gave me a look over her shoulder. "You said you liked strawberries, right?"

My heart made a dumb little flip. "You remembered?"

"Of course I did, Detka. " Detka? What is the word? Is this some sort of nickname? petname?

We sat near the lake, shoes kicked off, with the wind gently blowing on our faces. She spread out the blanket with only a flick of her wrist by magic as if she had done it a hundred times before. The package includes fresh bread, fruit, chocolate, and even miniature cans of sparkling lemonade.

"You know, this is way too romantic for a friend picnic," I mocked, taking a strawberry from the bowl.

Wanda smiled but said nothing.

We chatted. A lot. Regarding books and favorite places. About music and sports. She described Sokovia in a way that made my heart throb. I told her about my mother teaching me how to make tea and coffee properly, and how I never leave the home without my headphones. The way she listened made me feel as if every word was important.

Her gaze followed the shape of my mouth as I bit into a piece of fruit.

Her fingers touched mine as I went for the lemonade, and she did not draw away.

She had a warm, strong charisma. The sun, for example, is not just warm but also has the potential to burn if you get too close. However, I did not move away.

As the sun began to set, bathing the sky in beautiful orange and gold, she carefully packed everything, moving slowly and thoughtfully.

"You didn't have to do all this," I said quietly as we headed back to the car.

She glanced at me, and the softness in her gaze revealed something deeper, almost possessive.

"I wanted to. I like making you happy."

I opened my lips to respond, but couldn't find the words. It was only a picnic. Right?

The ride back was quieter. The sun was almost gone now, and my mind was racing with questions I didn't know how to ask.

When we arrived at my apartment, she took me to the door. For a short while, it seemed that she wanted to say something. Her fingers moved slightly at her side. Then she simply sighed.

"I'll see you soon," she said.

"Yeah," I replied, smiling despite myself. "I'd like that."

And when I opened the door and slipped inside, I couldn't help but wonder...

There was something about Wanda. Something I did not fully understand. I feel like she is everywhere! But I don't mean it in a bad way, it's as if I can still feel her eyes on me, or her scent? I do not know. I might be overworked...

The days after the picnic did not feel real. They felt like dreams—or perhaps like I hadn't entirely awakened.

At the start, it was simple stuff. My favorite mug was showing clean and dry on the counter when I thought I'd left it in the sink. A book I was reading was suddenly marked on the correct page, even though I had not touched it since Monday.

Then it became more personal.

A pair of delicate underwear I liked was gone. Then another. And a bra. I turned my place upside down looking for them, but they seemed to have disappeared. Nothing else was missing. Just that. Just enough to be annoying.

I tried to joke about it to myself. Maybe the laundry gods were hungry. Perhaps I was losing my mind. But the pit in my gut told me differently.

Nights were the worst.

I started dreaming about her.

Wanda.

Always Wanda.

Sometimes she stood at my bedroom doorway, dressed in her scarlet witch suit, her eyes gently gleaming as she watched me sleep. Sometimes she sat in my bed, snuggled behind me like a second skin, her palm placed low on my tummy, saying my name as if it were sacred.

Sometimes the dreams became darker.

My hands were pinned above my head, and her speech was a seductive whisper in my ear. "Mine. Say it." Her eyes burned dark as she kissed me, her magic wound around my wrists like silk cuffs.

I'd wake up covered in sweat, my sheets twisted, and my body throbbing like it had been touched. Marked.

But no one was there.

Right?

I began locking the windows. Bolting the door. But every morning, it was as if nothing had happened. The locks should be OK. The windows closed. And still, I'd wake up with a feeling of her. Perfume hangs in the air. As if she had just quit.

I convinced myself I was dreaming things.

That the dreams were only dreams.

But yesterday... I noticed a message on my pillow.

Only five words.

Я знаю, ты хочешь меня                                    ( I know you want me )

No signature. No explanation. The handwriting was delicate, looped, and feminine.

I don't remember letting anyone in.

I don't remember anyone being there.

I burned the note in the sink and told myself it was some kind of prank. But I couldn't stop trembling. Not even after the flame died.

After a few days, everything seemed normal again. Okay - normal enough.

Wanda and I continued messaging. Her name was the first thing that appeared on my screen every morning. Good morning, moya lyubov. Do not forget to eat something today. Are you working late again? Do you want me to drop by with anything sweet?

She was warm. Thoughtful. Kind. That type of presence you hadn't realized you needed until she was there every day.

I did not mind. Actually, I was looking forward to it.

Okay, not quite. I was obsessed. With how she made me feel. Her words are patient. She always noted the slightest details, such as when I changed my hairstyle or changed the display at the register at the business.

I'd find myself rereading her texts during slower hours at work, smiling like a lovesick idiot. And every afternoon, exactly after lunch rush, she entered through the café doors in the same comfortable red sweater, as if on script.

We didn't discuss feelings or anything like that. Not yet. But I saw how her gaze lingered on me when she assumed I wasn't looking. She'd brush her fingertips against mine as she returned her change.

She never looked at anyone else in the same way she looked at me.

I wasn't sure what we were.

But I understood exactly what I wanted us to be.

It had become more difficult to pay attention. The discomfort at home hadn't truly vanished. My bathroom light flickered whenever I spoke Wanda's name. My coffee machine brewed on its own—once. Okay, maybe I was fantasizing about her more than I should have.

I had dreams of her holding my hand and putting a gold ring on my finger as everyone around us yelled and celebrated. Dreams of us kissing behind the café, away from the public, her lips soft and respectful on mine.

And other dreams. They left me breathless, hot, and tangled in wet blankets.

I awoke with her name on my lips.

Part of me wanted them to be real.

The things she does in my dreams cause me to moan her name every time I wake up. I can feel her hands exploring my body, but never where I need them to be, her tongue going closer and closer,  but then disappearing. AND I was freaking annoyed!

I wake up every morning with wet dreams that seem so good. God, what am I supposed to do? And I even have to touch myself only thinking about her, her fingers, or tongue. Shit I sound like some horny teenager.

The worst thing is that I've never done it with anybody before; YES, I KNOW I'm 24, but I didn't want to waste my virginity on some high school boy who would never be interested in me, until Wanda. She's different.

Even with the lingerie— Yes, again. Another part is gone. This is my favorite one this time. Cream lace and silky silk. It was simply gone. Poof. Like magic. I'd looked into every drawer, pile of laundry, and the back of my closet.

Nothing.

If it hadn't been for the nightmares and the electricity that tingled up my spine whenever Wanda stared at me for too long, I would have been even more terrified. But I was not. Not really.

Perhaps I should have been.

Instead, I smiled to myself, thinking, "What if she takes it?"

That afternoon, I was standing behind the counter replacing cups when the small bell over the entrance rang.

"Yo, caffeine queen," Becca beamed as she took her normal seat near the window. "Got anything strong enough to fix my life?"

I chuckled, having already poured her espresso. "Double shot, coming right up."

Becca Stan, had been one of my very first customers. Now, I have a pal. She stopped by a few times a week, always full of snarky remarks and advice. Today, she was wearing sunglasses indoors, indicating that her night out was either highly successful or very dirty.

"You look like you barely survived," I joked.

"I danced with a long-haired guy with a tattoo of his own face on his chest. So yes, just barely."

I snorted. "What's the opposite of a red flag?"

"God complex with a tequila chaser," she said with a big sigh. "Anyway, enough of my horrible choices. Spill. "What is going on in your love life?"

I blinked. "What love life?"

"Oh, please," she smiled. "The redhead who has been coming every day for, what, a month now? Same jacket, same smile, same eyes that are nearly stripping you over the counter?"

"Wanda's just...sweet," I muttered, but my cheeks felt heated.

"Sweet?" Maya lifted her eyebrow. "Bro, she looks at you like you're her prey, she literally looks scary."

I leaned on the counter, biting my lip. "Okay. Perhaps she is more than sweet."

"Tell me everything."

I hesitated, but something within me wanted to say it. "We had been messaging a lot. She brought me to a picnic last week. It wasn't a traditional date, but it felt special."

Becca grinned. "You like her."

"I do."

"And?"

"And I think about her all the time," I said gently. "I dream of her. Strangely often."

"Sexy dreams?"

I looked down, ashamed. "...Sometimes."

"Ooooh," she smiled, thrilled.

I giggled and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. "She helps me feel protected. "I feel like she's always looking out for me."

Becca lifted her eyebrows again. "Is anyone keeping an eye out for you? Or are you simply watching?"

I stopped. For a fleeting second, I remembered the missing underwear. The strange note, I still assumed it hadn't happened. My spine tingled when I was alone, as if someone was still watching me.

"Maybe both," I answered, gentler than usual.

Becca leaned back with a knowing expression on her face, drinking her cappuccino. "Don't let those gentle eyes deceive you, baby. Obsession might appear to be romance-until it isn't."

It started with the bracelet.

The silver is thin and delicate, with a little blood-red stone inset in the middle. She'd put it around my wrist with an almost arrogant look and said softly, "Just something to keep you safe when I'm not around." Her fingers lingered a little too long, and her eyes searched mine, as if she wanted to say something else but didn't.

I haven't taken it off since.

At first, it was just because it was attractive. Then it was because I enjoyed how it made me feel—warm and protected. Even though I was alone, I felt like I wasn't. And then... I could not describe it. I did not want to take it off. Not for a shower. Not for sleeping.

Tonight, I was closing up my shop alone. The rest of the lights were turned down, creating golden shadows across the café. I was cleaning a coffee pot when something grabbed my attention.

The stone on the bracelet.

It pulsed.

Not with light, but with power. A faint, constant throb that sounds like a heartbeat. A heartbeat that was not mine.

I froze. The room felt instantly cooler, and the hair on my arms stood stiff.

Just the lights, I reminded myself. Just sleepy eyes. But deep down, I knew better.

Then the door chimed.

I turned, already knowing who it was.

Wanda stood there in the dimness, silent and still. No coat, no gloves, and no smile. It's just her.

My chest clenched.

"Hey," I said, attempting to seem casual. "You scared me."

She went inside, closing the door behind her. She did not speak for a moment. Just gazed at me, her eyes dark and inexplicable.

My hands dried rapidly. "I didn't expect you. Is everything okay?"

"You didn't text me today," she whispered quietly, moving closer. "I waited."

"I—sorry," I blinked. "Work was chaotic. I did not mean to ignore you."

Her eyes dropped to the bracelet. "But you wore it."

"Yeah," I grinned hesitantly. "Of course. I love it."

Something about the way she stared at me made my heart race. Her eyes were heavy with emotion. Something heavy.

She stepped carefully behind the counter, fingertips tracing across the marble exterior, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I saw someone walking you home last night."

"What?" I blinked. "That was only a neighbor. I did not even speak to—"

"I don't care who it was."

My throat was dry.

"You belong to me," she remarked almost passionately. "You know that, right?"

I did not react.

"You're not scared of me," she said, her voice gentle and almost respectful. Her eyes were dark red. "You want me. You just don't know how much."

My voice cracked. "Wanda, I-"

"I'll walk you home."

"No, I am fi-ne"

I tried to think of anything to say, but I couldn't. Everything went black. The only thing I remember is her hands around me, protecting me from a fall....

My eyes opened to the darkness.

The air was cold. Too silent. An odd smell lingered—something wet and aged, like mold and cement.

I sat up slowly, my body throbbing in areas I didn't realize could hurt. My head throbbed, heavy and cloudy, as if I'd been pulled from the depths of a black sea.

Where am I?

There was no bed and no window. Only harsh walls—gray, peeling paint, and shadows. A solitary, faint light bulb flashed above, its chain swaying gently, as if someone had recently been there.

I called out, and my voice cracked. "Hello?"

No response.

Panic entered my chest like smoke. I stood, wobbly, and staggered towards the door. Locked. Of course. I hammered on it till my hands ached.

"Let me out!"

Silence.

Finally, a little slot in the door opened. The tray slipped through. A bottle of water. Some type of dry bread. No words were said.

It continued on like this for days.

I had no idea what time it was. No one speaks. Just the tray. Sometimes food, sometimes nothing. The water was never in full bottles, only enough to keep me from falling. I counted the droplets as if they were gold.

I lost count of how long I had been there. I began chatting to myself, only to hear a voice. I glanced at the ceiling and said, "What the hell is going on?" over and over until the words stopped making sense.

But what is the worst part?

I failed to remember how I got here.

The last thing I recalled was... closing the shop. Wanda had walked me home. She held my hand. Her voice was soft. I remember that.

Then nothing.

Was it a dream? No. This wasn't a dream.

Today was different.

The food tray came late. I was crouched up in the corner when I heard the metal move. But rather than going away, I heard voices. For the first time.

Male voices.

"You think she's awake?"

"I do not care. I'm bored with waiting around. She's not a princess."

My stomach sank.

Footsteps getting closer.

The door creaked open.

One of them came in—a large, heavyset man with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and eyes that made my skin crawl. The other remained near the door, moving anxiously.

"Hey there, sweetheart," the guy remarked in a thick, nasty voice. "You look lonely."

I backed up so quickly that I smacked the wall, heart thumping and lungs hardly functioning.

He grinned. "I just want to have some fun, slut"

"Do n't—don't come any closer," I said, my voice shaking.

The other man spoke from the back. "She said no one touched her. Those were the rules."

He waved his hand. "Do you think she's going to know? Just a quick fuck, that is all. She won't say anything."

He grabbed me as he unzipped his pants.

I yelled.

And then everything exploded.

BOOM.

The wall beside the front door burst inward, sending cracks of wood and concrete flying across the room. The man at the entrance was thrown back swiftly, his body smashing against the far wall with an unsettling crunch.

The other barely had time to turn before his body rose from the ground, dark magic wrapping around his body parts like snakes, twisting till bones broke and cries rang out.

Then quiet.

Wanda stood at the doorway, eyes burning deep red and hands shaking with fury. Blood streaked over her cheek. Her chest heaved, as if she had sprinted through fire.

Her magic disappeared. The man dropped to the ground with a dull bang.

She walked nearer, her expression changing from wrath to dread as she gazed at me.

"Y/N," she sighed. Her voice cracked. "I'm very sorry. I didn't realize—he wasn't meant to—"

She was kneeling before I could respond, her hands hovering but not touching my arms, as if she was frightened of hurting me further.

"They were not supposed to touch you. They were not even supposed to speak to you. I assigned them rules. I—I was watching. I swear, I was watching."

I blinked, my eyesight blurred.

She eventually touched me, gently and carefully, sliding her fingertips over my face as if she were confirming my identity.

"I am here now. You are safe. I'll never let anyone near you again."

"I'm sorry," she whispered again. "You're coming home with me. Home, moya lyubov."

...

...

...

The first thing I felt was warmth. Soft mattresses, a slight scent of lavender, and the heat of sunshine stroking over my skin through open curtains.

I blinked gently, my heart beating before I opened my eyes.

Where was I?

No concrete. There's no moist air. There are no locked doors.

Just silk pillows. A softer mattress. Clean pajamas on my body that were clearly not mine.

My throat was dry, my lips parched, and my limbs weakened, yet I was familiar with this room. I had spotted it in passing. Wanda's bedroom.

Her bed.

I sat up with effort, my heart crashing as I struggled to remember how I got here and what had happened previously. Wanda- covered in blood, whispering apologies and promises, hugging me like I'd break apart if she let go- was the last memory I had.

"Wanda?" My voice was strong and broken.

The door creaked open quickly.

She was there.

Perfect. Organized. Hair in curls down her shoulders, a silky purple sweater caressing her figure. She appeared to have walked out of a dream, specifically mine.

However, there was something behind her gaze. That ever-glowing red, pale but throbbing under her eyes like a beating heart. Dark, silent, and waiting.

"Y/N," she replied softly, entering inside. "You're awake."

"Where am I?" Despite knowing the answer, I asked.

"My home," she said without skipping a beat. "Where you belong to."

I swallowed hard. "You kidnapped me."

Her expression twitched.

"No," she said, her tone cold and measured. "I rescued you."

"From the people you hired!"

"It was never supposed to happen! I gave them rules! They ignored me; one of them touched you. Do you know what it did to me? Her voice broke, the quiet melting into something more cruel. "I wanted to burn the entire world for what he almost did to you."

I gazed at her. She was shaking.

She didn't even bother to disguise it anymore.

"And so what?" I whispered. "You brought me here?" Locked me in another room? "Lied to me about everything?"

She remained silent for a beat. Her jaw clenched.

"I was scared," she said finally. "I wasn't sure how else to keep you safe. I knew you would not understand. That you'd leave."

"Wanda." My voice dropped. "You can’t force someone to stay."

Her gaze grew dark. "However, here you are. I'm still here. You continue to stare at me as if you don't despise me."

That stung.

since it was true.

I avoided my gaze, my lips trembling. "I should hate you."

"You don't," she whispered quietly as she moved in closer.

Her warmth, irresistible charm, and obvious presence were overpowering. With her in the room, it seemed as though the entire world had reduced to the area between us.

I confessed, "I dream about you every night. I'm no longer even sure where dreams finish and reality begins. Your lips come to mind. Your hands. You treat me as though I'm yours. I missed you even when I was locked up. How in the heck does it describe me?"

Wanda gasped with surprise.

She was now kneeling at the edge of the bed in front of me.

"You're mine," she said, her voice breaking with passion. "You were always mine."

With a tear streaming down my cheek, I whispered, "I'm afraid of you. Additionally, I love you. Both."

Before I could speak another word, Wanda rushed forward and kissed me.

It was bruises. In a desperate situation. Everything.

Her body pressed down on mine with a desire that shocked me from the bottom of my heart as my back struck the pillows. Her lips moved as if she longed to reclaim me, her fingers got caught in my hair, and her knee slipped between my legs.

Helpless, I groaned into her mouth.

It wasn't sweet. It was not a slow one.

It was religion, battle, and desire.

Her fingers burned over my waist and ribs as they moved beneath my shirt. My hips bucked up into hers as her tongue teased mine and her fangs grazed my bottom lip with a snarl.

She kissed a line down to my collarbone and said, "I won't let you go. Never."

I sighed, my eyes drooping closed, "I don't want you to."

"You are everything," she said in a whisper. "You were always."

Then her lips found mine once again, seizing me and binding me to her in every manner she could.

I also gave her permission.

I let her. God help me.

She was shaking her hands.

It's from constraint, not fear.

With her hot eyes blazing like a hurricane hardly contained, Wanda loomed above me. As her fingers ran down my sides, her lips were swollen from our kiss, her cheeks were flushed, and her hair was flowing forward—tentative, respectful. As if she still feared that if she touched me too forcefully, I might disappear.

However, I no longer wanted soft.

Not this evening.

Breathless, I said, "Wanda."  moan "Touch me."

For just a moment, her power surged as her eyes darkened, a flash of red moving across the room as if it were attracted to the way my thighs moved beneath her.

Her voice was low and harsh as she rasped, "Say it again."

"Touch me," I said again, dragging her by her shirt as my lips touched her jaw. "Please."

All she needed was that.

Once more, her mouth was on mine, deeper and more demanding, her tongue slipping past my lips as her hand finally went beneath my shirt. Her cold fingertips skated over my ribs and up my stomach before cupping my breast through the thin bra fabric.

Arching my back into her touch, I gasped into her lips.

"You're so soft," she moaned, trailing her kisses down my neck, her voice heavy with need. "This is really amazing. Mine."

The way she said it made me ache between my thighs.

Her knee pressed in farther, pressing precisely near my pussy, and I couldn't help but moan. My hips pressed against her voluntarily, pursuing contact, and she groaned—low and guttural.

"Tell me no," she whispered suddenly, moving back just enough to meet my gaze, her magic crackling slightly in her palms. "Tell me no, and I will stop. Even today. Even after everything."

I reached up and covered her face with my hands.

"I want you," I stated. "I want this."

And then there was no holding back.

Her soft hands destroyed the pyjamas I was wearing in one swift motion... her mouth wrapped around my nipple, her tongue swirling while her fingers moved beneath the waistband of my underwear, teasing but never quite giving in.

"Fuck" I whispered, already wet for her. "Please…"

She rejected me, her fingers eventually lowering and gliding between my folds with a cry of pleasure.

"So wet for me already?" She mumbled. "You've been dreaming about this too, haven't you?"

I nodded, breathless, holding to her shoulders as her fingers slid within me, slowly and steadily at first, curving just right, causing my legs to shake.

She knew exactly how to ruin me

"I'll tell you a secret now: every night you dreamt of me, and it was I who implanted those dreams in your precious little mind. I stroked your body, and I controlled you, but I never touched you where you needed it the most. Do you know why?"

Her lips found mine again as she picked up the pace, her thumb circling my clit in a rhythm that made me cry out, hips bucking. The coil in my stomach tightened fast, unbearable and perfect.

"Because I wanted you to let me in by choice, and now look at you. Moya lyubov "

"Come for me, baby," she said softly, her voice like silk and evil. "Let go."

It did not take long.

I crumbled beneath her touch, gasping her name as if it were a request, a curse, or the only thing that mattered in the damn world. She kissed me through it, uttering praises in Sokovian as her fingers remained deep within, till I couldn't take it anymore.

When I finally opened my eyes, she looked at me as if I had hung the stars.

"You're mine now," she told me, kissing my temple. "Forever."

I was still breathless, trembling beneath her, my skin hot and slippery with sweat. Wanda stared down at me as if I were her best creation. I felt like I belonged completely to her.

And, yes, perhaps I did.

I let out a gentle giggle, attempting to get the power to move us and lay her onto her back. "Let me return the favor," I said softly, kissing her collarbone. "You always care for me..." I'd want to do something for you.

But before I could move lower, red magic tentacles wrapped around my wrists and pinned them softly but firmly above my head. I looked up at her, confused and immediately panting with passion.

"Wanda?"

Her grin became sharp, dangerous. Her eyes shone with molten red.

"You don't need to," she said, reaching down to kiss my face and sliding her lips to my ear. "Tonight… I'd want to mark you. Claim you. Allow the entire world to feel what I already know: you are mine."

Suddenly, I felt something press against my thighs.

Firm. Warm.

I gasped as the shape completely nestled against me before I could see what it was. Wanda sat back, straddling my hips, with a lightning red strap-on between her thighs, charmed and throbbing with her magic, as if it had been created from the raw essence of her power.

I swallowed hard.

It moved with her as if it belonged there. Like it was a part of her.

"Wanda…" I sighed, heat collecting down in my gut once more.

She grinned.

"I made it just for you," she whispered, trailing a glowing finger along my jaw. "Sensitive to every touch. Every clench. I’ll feel everything you give me."

I was already soaked again, legs trembling, and she hadn’t even done anything yet.

My breath caught.

"I want to make sure I fill you full until there is no more room. Even if it is impossible, my magic does not care. It wants to own you. Just as I do."

She leaned over me again, positioning herself, her body pushing against mine.

"And you, my sweet, innocent girl, are mine to ruin."

She pushed in slowly and carefully, paying close attention as every inch disappeared inside me. My spine straightened, nails sinking into the blankets, and my lips fell wide in a yell.

"Fuck," I gasped. "Wanda—"

"I can feel you," she moaned, her eyes closing. "So fucking tight, Detka. My precious little virgin. "Love of my life."

She pushed further, and I couldn't stop the moan that escaped from my throat.

"Look at you," she said, panting quietly. "Taking all of me in this way..." And you were saving yourself for whoever, some boy? "Some stranger?"

Her hand moved between my thighs again, pressing tight circles into my clit as she started to move slowly and deeply.

"No," she muttered, her voice shaking. "It was always going to be me. The first. The only."

The strap pulsed inside me as if it were alive, with enchantment pouring through each nerve ending. I was already close again, my legs wrapped around her waist, pulling her in intensely.

"Gonna fuck my name into you," she growled, her pace hard and severe. "Make sure no one else can ever touch you again without tasting me."

I wanted it.

I wanted everything.

"Say it," she urged, grasping my chin as her speed never slowed. "Say who you belong to."

"You," I gasped out. "You, Wanda—I'm yours!"

Her eyes darkened, and her mouth smashed against mine again as her cum filled your tummy...

"I know, baby," she said softly against my lips. "And now everyone else will too."

Your body was still shaking as she carefully, slowly pulled you out. Her spell disappeared like mist in the early sun, leaving just her hands—warm, genuine, and soothing—tracing across your skin.

"Shh, I've got you," she said, her voice suddenly gentle and human again.

You barely had the strength to talk, still stunned and overwhelmed, floating on a cloud of happiness and Wanda's affection. She kissed your forehead, face, and shoulder, murmuring apologies and affirmations into every inch of you.

"I'm sorry I got so carried away," she said, embracing you in her arms and drawing a big, warm blanket around both of you. Her fingers gently stroked through your hair. "You just… You make me lose control."

You grinned softly while gathering your breath. "I like it when you do."

Her laughing was low, filled with disbelief and admiration. "Of course you do." You are mine."

She snuggled you beneath her chin, your body perfectly matching hers. Her heartbeat was regular and clear. Safe. Home.

And then, softer than before, she muttered the following words into your hair:

"I love you."

Your heart halted for a brief minute, shattering and then rebuilding stronger.

She drew back just enough to look into your eyes, and her expression was blank. There's no magic. No power games. Just Wanda.

"I don't think I've ever loved anyone before," she said, her eyes misting. "It is not like this. "Not like you."

You reached up and brushed your fingers across her cheek.

"I love you, too."

And she held you all night, rubbing gentle strokes on your back.

And when the morning came, you were still there, wrapped in Wanda's arms—safe, full, and hers.

AN: Should I make part 2?

[pursued-by-the-squid]

viii. check your footing

pairing: gi-hun x gn!reader x in-ho

word count: 13.9k

ao3 | masterlist

That could have been you. It should have been you. You glance over up Gi-hun as he shuffles inside the player room just ahead, his head and shoulders hanging unbearably low. You almost wish it had been you.

Fuck, that’s a lie, no you don’t. You’re so relieved to be alive that it clouds your vision and chokes your lungs. You want to drop onto your knees and praise the universe for allowing you to live. But then you remember how desperate you’d been to save Jun-hee’s life and the life of her child, the way you’d looked up at Gi-hun and told him without words that you were terrified to leave him because it might mean you’d die alone, without him. Jung-bae only left because of you.

You killed him. It’s your fault he’s dead.

You can’t help feeling like you’ve killed Gi-hun too. The man you see now is unlike anyone you’ve ever known before. Despair clings to him like a second skin. Every time you think he’s finally stopped crying, his shoulders ripple and he doubles over with another sob. He is shattered beyond belief and you don’t blame him for that, you never could, but you still feel like every gut-wrenching gasp and every tear is only there because you were selfish enough to put your life and the life of a stranger before Jung-bae’s.

No one speaks. What can they say? Any apologies or sympathies for Gi-hun’s sorrow will only come out hollow, a nicety without any real value because none of you knew Jung-bae like he does. Did. Because he’s dead. Oh God.

Young-il takes a seat immediately next to you, his leg pressed against yours with a shock of warmth. You can feel how heavy his gaze is without even looking at him, can feel him studying you and you don’t even know why. You don’t have the heart to ask.

Several long minutes go by. “Why don’t you go to him?” he murmurs.

A quick glance in Gi-hun’s direction tells you exactly why you shouldn’t. He’s huddled up against the nearest stable surface with a hand over his eyes as he cries, his body curling in on itself until he looks more like a child than the man you know. It’s heartbreaking. And it’s your fault.

Because I killed him, you think. Because it should’ve been me. Why would he want to even speak to me after what I’ve done?

You shake your head. “I don’t think it would help.”

“Don’t you?” Young-il rests a hand on your knee. “You’re his friend, [___]. Maybe he needs you.”

Guilt streaks across your soul and you wrench your leg away from him with a grimace. “I’m the reason he’s dead,” you growl, your voice rasping as you drop it as low it will go. “I-I can’t–.”

Sorrow wells up inside you until you’re choking on it. You were too shocked to cry before, too busy trying to keep Gi-hun from dragging the entire team across the arena or getting a gun to the head for disobeying orders to worry about crying. But now with the freedom of space and time, your guilt is bubbling over and threatening to spill down your cheeks.

There’s a beat of silence where you’re struggling to maintain your composure and Young-il just… sits there. His hand hovers uncertainly between you. Maybe he’s realizing you’re right, that you are the reason for Jung-bae’s death. Maybe he’s regretting now the choice to ever befriend you, just like you’re sure that Gi-hun is.

And then, finally, he’s wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into a side embrace. “It wasn’t your fault,” he hums.

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.” He squeezes his arm a little tighter. “Jung-bae-ssi made his choice. He chose to find another team and… his team lost. It’s unfortunate, yes, but it isn’t your fault.”

You suppose that’s his way of trying to comfort you – find the logic in the situation and accept it – but it doesn’t work for you like it does for him. Because you can still see the shape of Jung-bae’s body on the floor. You can still see his blood. You can still hear Gi-hun screaming in the back of your mind.

You sniffle lightly into your hands. “Then why do I feel like it is?”

He’ll tell you something poetic and charming, you think, about how you’re a kind soul who cares too deeply. That’s what anyone else would say were they in his shoes. Whether he genuinely believes that or not, though, you have no real idea because Young-il decides instead to curve his hand over the shell of your ear, brushing some of your hair away from your face.

“Give Gi-hun-ssi the space to mourn, hm?” You’re so stunned by the gentle lilt of his voice and the vulnerability of the gesture that you can hardly breathe. “He’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

His tenderness leaves you fluttering amid the swirling maelstrom of your emotions. It feels so out of place, so inherently wrong, to accept a kind word and gentle touch after all the death you’ve witnessed. Where was Jung-bae’s tenderness? Where was the mercy he deserved and what makes you worthy enough to live in his place?

You aren’t even afforded the chance to antagonize yourself on the matter further because the doors at the front of the room suddenly open, revealing several of the pink soldiers. 255 of the original 457 players remain, as reflected on the scoreboard above. More money is added to the pig’s belly – 20.1 billion won now and nearly 79 million won per person. The amount is staggering in your mind, even after years of receiving Gi-hun’s financial boons.

Yet so many players are unhappy with these results. It’s too little bloodshed, they complain, and not enough money. How are they meant to pay off their debts with such a small amount? How are they meant to survive in the cold, cruel world outside these games with only 79 million won?

Standing tall and unwavering beneath the scoreboard, Square Mask surveys the room. Cold and detached. “I completely understand your disappointment,” he says cooly. You wonder if he feels anything under that mask, if he feels any sympathy for the people he’s helped to slaughter or if he’s truly as soulless as he appears. “However, we always keep the door open for you to pursue new opportunities. You will now take a vote to decide whether to continue the games or not.”

Chatter starts among the players as they lean in and whisper to one another. You can see the greed in their eyes.

“Whether to continue the games for a bigger prize or to stop here is entirely your choice. Please feel free to exercise your right to choose in a democratic manner.”

Gi-hun is still shaking. His sobs have quieted until they’re nothing more than sharp inhalations, quickening and slowing unpredictably. It breaks your heart all over again. How can they force him to endure another tedious round of voting when he hasn’t even had the chance to recover from the shock of Jung-bae’s death? A single look is all it takes to tell you that the man can hardly stand on his own feet.

“Ah, Y-Young-il-ssi?” The sound of Dae-ho’s voice draws you from your thoughts. He’s approached the stair that you and Young-il are both perched upon, with his hands drawn together over his stomach as he fidgets. He nods his head politely. “Are you going to vote O again, sir?”

What remains of your little team – just you and Jun-hee now that Jung-bae is… – shifts its attention to Young-il, each of you curious to see his response. He’d said it was his business that was in trouble. Is he as desperate as the rest of these players? Is he willing to stay for another game even now?

He presses a hand flat over his breast where the blue O patch sits and he grimaces. “Don’t worry,” he sighs, “I want to stop here.”

And it’s such a relief to hear. If he were to choose to vote O again, the betrayal would be too much for you to bear. “We’re all agreed, then?” You glance between the four of you without drawing any further attention to Gi-hun. You think that Young-il might be right, space may be exactly what he needs right now.

Jun-hee nods with a hand rubbing over the swell of her belly. Dae-ho looks from her to you, his expression sweet but tinted with grief. And finally Young-il, his mouth drawn tight as he watches you.

“For Jung-bae, then?”

Dae-ho sticks out his hand, palm down. “For Jung-bae,” he agrees. Your hand claps softly atop Dae-ho’s, followed immediately by Jun-hee and a slightly hesitant Young-il. “Victory at all costs,” he murmurs, and it’s far from the battle cry it had once been on the rainbow track.

Victory. You’re not sure if that’s even possible anymore, but you have to try. For Jung-bae and Gi-hun, you must.

Last time, the vote had been considerably close. Young-il had been the one to tip the scales, but there had still been a decent chance of you and Gi-hun returning home. This time, there is no such chance. With so many players distraught over the low amount of money they’ll receive, a lot of them are opting to vote O. Vote after vote rolls in and the number for the O’s ticks higher and higher.

You keep expecting Gi-hun to do something, say something. He’d been so full of fire just yesterday. He had pleaded and shouted and explained until a soldier was forced to ram their gun into the back of his head just to shut him up. But there is no such fire tonight. You look into his eyes and find that nothing looks back. Even after his tears have dried, Gi-hun’s eyes are glassy and distant.

If he won’t speak up, then who will?

You catch Young-il’s gaze from across the room. Being the first to cast his vote has placed him in the very center of the allotted X space, which feels an entire galaxy away from you right now. You want desperately for someone to lean on, someone to make you feel safe amid the unknown and the chaos and the death, and putting that burden onto Gi-hun is simply inconceivable.

Have hope, you imagine him saying, though really you can’t be sure if that’s what he’s thinking or not. Maybe he’s laughing at you and your desperation for hope. Maybe he’s already accepted his fate, as Gi-hun seems to.

You don’t want to accept it, though. You’re not ready for another game, another opportunity to lose Gi-hun or your own life or even Young-il. And what of Dae-ho and Jun-hee? Hyun-ju? The sweet mother and her son? What will happen to all of them if another game is played and the odds aren’t in their favor? How many Jung-bae’s can you stomach before you lose yourself to the horror of it all?

“Gi-hun?” You take the seat beside him, careful to leave enough room between your bodies in case he feels overwhelmed by your presence. But you have to try. “Gi-hun, shouldn’t we do something?”

The next player is called up, Player 100, and you glance away from Gi-hun only long enough to cast a scowl in 100’s direction. He can’t see it, of course, but it’s the principal of the thing. The O vote ticks up by one.

Gi-hun is uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t move. You’re not even sure if he’s breathing, actually. He just sits there like a corpse that’s been arranged to look slightly alive. An ancient memory of the ddakji businessman sprawled out on Gi-hun’s chair, the very chair you’d sat in a hundred times until that night, comes to mind and you try not to hurl.

You place a hand on his arm, if only to prove to yourself that he’s still alive. “Gi-hun, I… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to-.” There’s a lump in your throat that won’t go down and it keeps choking you every time you speak more than a few words. “Please. We have to do something. I don’t want anyone else to die here.” I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to lose you.

There’s a moment where you think he might be moved to act because he blinks, and his eyes settle on you, and you think you see a moment of clarity peering out from behind the mist of his agony. But it’s only a passing thing.

“Player 120.”

Hyun-ju. You find yourself peering over the heads of other players to watch her cast her vote, hoping that someone as kind as her might finally be moved to act sensibly. She lingers before the podium, like so many before her, before finally voting 0 and you wonder what it is specifically that gives her pause. What is she facing in the real world that makes her think she has to endanger her life and yours just to survive?

It’s the money, you realize. Everyone here needs money but they’re so adamant that 79 million won each isn’t enough to live with. But what if… what if there was a way to add more money to the pot without anyone dying?

Player 124 is called forth – Thanos’ accomplice from last night’s fight. He has no qualms about voting to stay, which you suppose shouldn’t surprise you, but it’s what he does after the vote that does. He lingers near the podium and watches as Player 125 approaches. Player 125 who, if you’d seen correctly, bears an X patch. Player 125 who hesitates over his choices, who turns to see 124 staring at him through mock-binoculars. Player 125 who votes O with shaking hands and a shameful expression.

People are being coerced, whether they need the money or not, because the desperate players are just that desperate. So what if you eliminated that need? What if you contributed more money to the pot and convinced even a single player that voting O isn’t necessary to be saved?

Once last glance at Gi-hun’s sunken, tear-stained cheeks is enough to give you the courage you need. You stand so quickly that it nearly throws you off balance. As you push your way through the crowd, you try not to think of all those eyes – hundreds and hundreds of them – staring you down, judging you, praying for your downfall so that they might prosper. You try to think only of Jung-bae and the already festering wound his death has left behind.

Your feet have hardly touched the bottom step when Young-il suddenly bursts from the crowd of X voters with a shout. “Are you all out of your minds?” The red and blue lights cast him in a soft violet hue, entirely at odds with the incredulous despair that ravages his voice. “You still want to keep going after watching all those people die? Who's to say you won't die in the next game?”

For a long, long moment, you simply watch him. You’re almost transfixed. There’s something about him that’s catching you off-guard, something a little too similar to Gi-hun and still so entirely Young-il that gives you pause. Was Jung-bae’s death really enough to move him this deeply? To change his entire mindset?

He gestures angrily to the undecided voters you stand among. “We have to stop. We'll all die if we keep going! Come to your senses and leave with that money. You've got to survive first, or there won't be a next step.”

Player 100 breaks from his group and your immediate reaction is to gag because you hate him. You hate the way he spoke to Gi-hun before the game. You hate the way he holds all life in contempt except his own. You hate his pompous attitude and his stupid hair, and you hate the way that he looks at Young-il like he’s not even worth the air he breathes. “What do you think we can do with a mere 79 million?” he questions. “I don't know how much you owe, but for most people here that doesn't even cover 10% of their debt. Am I right?”

It's the overwhelming cry of agreement that has you finally daring to be bold, to raise your voice above the cacophony. For Gi-hun. For Jung-bae! “What if you had more than 79 million?” And this time, you’re sure most or all 255 sets of eyes are focused on you and only you. Player 100 and Young-il both look at you as if you’ve grown a second head. “Gi-hun and I… Player 456, I mean. Neither of us needs the money. We’d both be willing to forfeit our share and contribute it to the total if the rest of the players all vote X.”

Both his worth and yours would total to 200 million won. You’re not sure how much that would add to each player’s take home amount, but it has to be worth something, doesn’t it?

More players stop and look at you, while others start whispering to their neighbors. More and more eyes swivel and land on you, pinning you in place until you start to feel like a bug caught beneath a microscope. They’re pulling your legs off one by one, trying to see what interesting things you’ll do when the pain becomes too much.

Young-il is on you in an instant, grabbing you by the arm and yanking you to him so no one else can hear. “What are you doing?” he whispers, though there’s nothing soft about it. He’s all harsh lines and rippling confusion.

Isn’t it obvious? “I’m trying to save people.”

But before he can question you further, 100 interjects, drawing the focus back to him as he continues spouting greedy, inhumane nonsense. “Your money isn’t enough,” he sneers. “I have 10 billion in debt! What can you give me to take care of it, huh?”

Young-il’s teeth glisten in the violet-red light. “Step back,” he utters, his hand still tightly squeezed around your bicep.

“Young-il-nim.” You press a hand to his chest to calm him. Because you need to do this, you need to try. If Gi-hun can’t fight anymore, then who else will stand up for him? “It’s alright.”

“[___]–”

“I don’t have 10 billion won just lying around to give you, sir,” you explain to 100. He stands nearby with his chest puffed out and his mouth wrinkled into a frown, thoroughly unimpressed. “But I do have 2 billion won that I would be willing to share with everyone here. If the rest of us all vote X.”

“If you have so much money, then what are you here for? Are you a spy sent from the people who run this place, huh? Like your friend?”

Rage the likes you’ve never known before floods your system. How dare he drag Gi-hun into this after the way he treated him today. “It doesn’t matter why I have that money; it’s mine to do with as I please.”

A slightly younger player hanging just behind 100 smirks, though you can’t see his number clearly. “Trying to help your boyfriend?” he snorts, and several of his assorted cronies snicker in tandem.

“I’m trying to save innocent lives, but I wouldn’t expect a sick motherfucker like you to understand the concept.” And before 100 or his friend can retort further or press you for more answers you aren’t able to give, you turn your attention to the undecided players. Young-il’s hand falls away almost without notice. “I’m willing to forfeit all the money I’m worth in these games, plus my two billion, if all of you will vote X.”

The players devolve into scattered murmurs that ripple through the crowd, “two billion?” and “that’s at least seven million more a person” being the loudest and most distinct among them. Already you can tell that the shift in numbers has started to convince a few people. For players like 100, you know it won’t be enough, but you hope that for others it will be the push that they need to vote appropriately. No more people should have to die, not for something as soulless and brutal as cold, hard cash.

“Player 457.” Square Mask is staring at you from behind the podium. While several other players, including 100, have already taken to arguing in favor of an O vote, you can suddenly feel the weight of hidden eyes settling on your skin. “You are disrupting the democratic process of this vote.”

“Me?!” What about the others? What about Young-il and 100?

You’re already starting to gesture to the other players when you spot one of the guards at the far end of the room lift his gun. The pink suit and black mask cut easily through the crowd, quieting all dissenting voices until there is only silence, the sound of your labored, frantic breathing, and your feet slapping on the floor as you pinwheel backward.

“As was established during the previous vote, interruptions in each player’s right to express themselves democratically will not be tolerated.” You find yourself stumbling over other people’s feet and slamming into unknown bodies in your desperation to back away before the soldier can advance any further. “All requests to forfeit the Games will result in instant disqualification.”

So, death. They’re gonna shoot you because you tried to forfeit. Why the fuck didn’t you think of that before you went and opened your big mouth?

“I take it back, I take it back!” You squeeze your eyes shut, preparing for a bullet that never comes.

The gun never fires, but even if it had, it would’ve had to go through both Young-il and Gi-hun to reach you. Young-il, you realize after several moments of terrifying silence, has stepped into the guard’s path. And Gi-hun… You’d thought he was still barricading himself in the far corner, drowning in his sorrows, but he isn’t. He’s here, standing as tall as his weary body can withstand as he shoulders his way directly in front of you.

He doesn’t move. The voting continues, albeit dotted with various attempted chants to play one more game, but Gi-hun remains steadfast. His shoulders quiver, but he stays. Players shove into you as they pass or they grant you a scowl when their number is called, yet Gi-hun is there, unfaltering and strong even in the rising defeat that marks itself on the scoreboard.

Your vote and his don’t even matter by the end. The O team is at least 20 votes ahead of you. You lost, and it feels like Jung-bae’s dying all over again.

You should’ve done more. There should have been some other way to change minds and win people over to your side, but you’d seen the barrel of the pink soldier’s gun and had cowered behind the first solid thing you could shield yourself with. You’d let them beat you down. It’s just that being brave is so much easier when you’re not staring down the very weapon that could end your life. Being brave is a bolder inclination when the moment has passed and all that’s left to do is torture yourself over what-if’s.

“That was very foolish of you.”

You and Gi-hun turn in tandem toward Young-il’s voice. The disappointment you hear creeping into the edges of his condemnation feels like a slap in the face. “I was trying to do the right thing,” you explain, though you can’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes when you do.

“And instead, you’ve put a target on your back.”

That hadn’t been your intention. It hadn’t even been a possibility in your mind. “I’m sorry, I… I was just trying to do what I thought Gi-hun would do.” And why does it feel like such an embarrassing thing to admit? “That’s why he’s here. To save people, so I thought–”

There’s a muscle along the bottom ridge of Young-il’s jaw that clenches before he speaks. “Gi-hun-ssi has played these Games before, [___]. You haven’t. And you very nearly got yourself shot because of it.”

Is that why he’s so upset? Because he’d felt the need to step in the path of a potential bullet in the hopes of protecting you? Because he’d risked his life for yours and he wishes now that he hadn’t?

Perhaps Young-il has a touch of telepathy about him, or perhaps you’re the most emotionally transparent person on the planet, but either way, Young-il seems to realize that you’re confused and wounded by his sudden flash of frustration. He seems to wrestle with himself for a bit before finally relenting, allowing his restraint to drift away with a heavy exhalation before he finally decides to approach you.

“What you did was admirable,” he admits, and he takes one of your hands as he does. “Foolish, yes, but admirable, and I don’t fault you for it. But it was also reckless.”

On that, you suppose you can agree. “I know.”

Young-il sighs again, lighter this time, but his body is still tense. “You aren’t a hero, [___]. That isn’t what you need to be.”

Gi-hun still lingers somewhere behind you, frozen in the same place he’d stood when you had cast your vote. Does he feel the same, you wonder, or does he wish you’d made a more decisive stand? Do your actions, however reckless and foolish they might have been, make up for Jung-bae’s death, or were they pointless from the start?

He lowers his voice suddenly and when you blink, Young-il is leaning in so his forehead nearly brushes against yours. “We have a Seong Gi-hun already,” he breathes, and is it your imagination, or does this feel more intimate than every moment shared with him over the past few years? “We don’t need another.”

Dinner has long since ended by the time Dae-ho and Young-il decide to depart for a bathroom break. You’re not comfortable leaving Gi-hun on his own and Jun-hee seems more inclined to curl up in her bed for a bit, rather than sit and stew in the awkward silence that Gi-hun carries with him, so it’s just the two of you now. It’s both familiar and foreign.

Mealtimes have always been special for you, at least when it comes to him. All those corner store stops, all the ramyeon cups stacked high in his trash bin and the take-out containers in the firing range, they’ve always meant security for you. They’ve always meant Gi-hun.

But it doesn’t feel like that anymore. Now, mealtime feels uncomfortable and sickening. It doesn’t help that the soldiers aren’t giving any of you enough food, and it doesn’t help that when you twist your feet just right, you catch a glimpse of blood on your soles and your appetite is gutted.

“You really should eat something,” you say, even though you know there’s no point. Gi-hun’s too far gone to do much of anything right now. Still, you have to at least try. A gentle prod against his shoulder draws his attention just long enough to display the remainder of your dinner. “Here. I saved some of mine, in case you get hungry later.”

You know you’re going to be hungry yourself later tonight, but you’re more worried about him. He’s mourning. He deserves something good to eat so that at least a part of him isn’t in constant agony. But there’s nothing. No “you’re wasting your time”, no “go fuck yourself”, not even a “I wish it had been you instead”. Not a single word.

Isn’t he angry? Doesn’t he want to hit you or something? You almost wish he would because surely enduring his rage would be less painful than staring into the empty, sunken eyes of the husk he’s become.

“Gi-hun, please. Talk to me?”

It feels like the birth, life, and death of galaxies takes place in the time it takes him to respond. His lips part – chapped, swollen, and indented where his teeth have worried at the same spot for too long – and he sighs. “What would you like me to say?”

And suddenly, you’re leaning in faster than you can stop yourself, your fingers curling loosely over his wrist so he can’t escape you. “Anything. Anything you want, it doesn’t matter.”

“He was my friend.”

You nod lightly. I know, you want to say. I wanted to know him better. But you know you shouldn’t. It wouldn’t feel right because this isn’t about you or your feelings, this is about him. This is about trying to fix something so irreparably damaged that you don’t actually know if anything you’re doing is a help or a hindrance.

Gi-hun pulls his hand away. “There’s nothing else to say.”

“Gi-hun.” He looks like a stranger when the lights hit his face. Even the way he stands has changed; he’s stiffer, less fluid, his movements sharp and jagged. But that’s not what worries you – it’s the fact that he’s trying to leave. “Gi-hun?”

The steps creak lightly beneath and behind you. You reach out as you stumble to your feet, eager to bring him back from the metaphorical edge, but are almost immediately cut off. “Hey, 457!”

You don’t recognize the voice and they clearly don’t know who you are, so you decide right then and there that you don’t care who it is. Gi-hun is more important. It would just be nice if he wasn’t trying to run away from you right now.

“Gi-hun, wait.” You nearly trip over your own foot trying to run up the steps after him. “Gi-hun!”

Footsteps fall heavy on the stairs behind you, followed by a hand on your elbow, and you whirl around with a glare. “Can I help you?” For once, you don’t give a single shit if you sound rude.

Player 124 stands on the step just below yours. “You’re the one with the two billion, aren’t you?”

God, seriously? You’re in the middle of trying to chase after your best friend to make sure he doesn’t do something reckless and this guy’s worrying about fucking money? You roll your eyes and you don’t bother to hide it. Fuck this guy and fuck every other player in here who bears the same poisonous O patch on their chests.

“The offer’s not on the table anymore, sorry.”

He yanks hard where he’s gripping your elbow when you attempt to free yourself and steers you around so you’re stumbling down to his level. At first, you think he’s just trying to detain you. Intimidate you, probably. Quite frankly, you don’t give a shit about that either. You’re not above throwing a smack or two after the day you’ve had. But when you try to tear yourself away, you find yourself backing into something tall, broad, and solid. The overwhelming scent of sweat and two or three-day old cologne floods your senses until you nearly choke.

“Woah, hey, where d’you think you’re going, man?”

Because of course. It isn’t bad enough that Jung-bae is dead and Gi-hun is utterly unrecognizable in his grief, oh no. No, you just had to go and open your stupid mouth, didn’t you? Had to go and say something idiotic like “I’ll give everyone free money if you let me go home”. You don’t even have the right to be surprised anymore.

The smile you force onto your face is more grimace than anything else, but again – you don’t really care. You’re not in the mood and you don’t have the time for this. “Thanos, right?”

A shock of purple hair comes into view as he steps out from behind you, grinning ear to ear. “The one and only.”

“Look guys, I’m not interested in… whatever this is. Your vote won, so I’m not feeling very generous anymore.”

But Thanos only shakes his head. “Oh, no, no, no, man, that’s not it at all!” He brushes you off like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t take you seriously – and he probably doesn’t, but that suits you just fine because you can’t take him seriously either. “We just want in on your little industry, or whatever the fuck.”

“I…” Industry? What, he thinks you run some kind of underground criminal empire? “What are you talking about?”

There’s a flash of color on his nails when he flutters his fingers at you, each one a perfect match for the fucking infinity stones. What a fucking joke. “You know, however you got that two billion.” He wiggles his eyebrows when he leans in to get a closer look at you. “You running a drug ring or something? Because I know a thing or two about that.”

You’re so massively dumbfounded by the accusation that it takes you several very long, very agonizing seconds to find your voice again. “What about me makes you think I run a fucking drug ring?”

“I dunno,” he drawls in a lazy attempt at English, “maybe ‘cause of all that money you were bragging about.”

“I wasn’t bragging–”

“Sure sounded like it to me.” Thanos snaps his fingers and 124 suddenly appears, nearly scaring the crap out of you. You’d kind of forgotten about him. “Nam-su–”

“Nam-gyu,” he corrects with a heavy roll of his eyes.

Thanos just rolls his eyes back, crinkling his mouth until he looks more like a toddler throwing faces across the playground than a grown man. “I said that, man,” he tsks. “Whatever. Nam-gyu, don’t you think 457 was bragging about having a fuckton of money?”

124 – Nam-gyu – juts his chin in your direction, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Yeah, I do. And I think you’re just being greedy now ‘cause you’re pissed you’re not going home yet.”

A dozen different retorts flash through your mind, ranging between “what are you gonna do about it?” and a more level-headed, albeit entirely sarcastic, “let me give you my number and we’ll talk if we all survive this”. You’re debating which one is least likely to get you beaten and bloodied and none of them are particularly encouraging when Nam-gyu suddenly smacks the back of his hand on Thanos’ chest.

“Uh, hey, isn’t that–?”

Thanos suddenly straightens as his eyes shift nervously over some unknown point behind you. His throat bobs noticeably. “Time to go.” To you, he purses his lips, nods, and then he and Nam-gyu are hurrying off like rats scattering in the dark. You don’t fully understand why until you see Young-il.

“Those two bothering you?” he asks. You can hear the unspoken implication, can read it in his face – if there’s a problem, he’ll fix it himself.

You duck your head, smiling just a bit and pretending that you are very much not flushing at his attentiveness. Because Young-il is nothing more than a good friend with a desire to keep you safe and reading into that any further is not only stupid, but entirely inappropriate. For multiple reasons.

“No,” you finally answer, “it’s alright. I’m fine.”

If the touch of his hand at your shoulder causes you to still, or the brush of his knuckles over the curve of your wrist, or the gentle hum of his breath does anything to make you fluster or stare or linger in a way entirely unlike yourself for the rest of the evening, then that’s your own business. You can only hope that no one else, and certainly not Gi-hun, notices it.

The torn-open plastic wrapper and scattered crumbs of bread are nothing compared to the usual offerings left at a funeral, but this is hardly a normal funeral. He supposes that he ought to be moved by it. In a place where people turn on one another like animals and food is scarce, Gi-hun knows that he should be grateful for a moment of peace to remember his last surviving friend. He should be grateful that you sacrificed part of your own meal (if a single round of bread can even be called that) for it. He should be grateful for you because if you hadn’t suggested a vigil, he would have been too lost in his grief to even consider it.

But all Gi-hun can feel is the merciless nothing that consumes him.

He’s vaguely aware of the others shuffling into their beds behind him. Each of them has chosen to believe him and listen to him, and for that he’s thankful. At least he can try to save another few lives. The only question is for how long, if the attempt is even worth trying anymore.

There’s the sound of feet then, and he sits up a little straighter because in that moment, Jung-bae is still alive and they’re back in Ssangmun-dong, sharing a glass of soju. And then he catches your scent and the shape of your silhouette, and reality comes crumbling down all around him. He tries not to be disappointed. He also tries not to feel guilty for being disappointed, but he fails at both. In the end, all he can do is hang his head in remorse.

“Hey,” you say softly.

You’ve been cagey around him since Jung-bae’s death. It’s only been a few hours, but the difference is blatant – your touches are hesitant and dramatically decreased, your body closed off from him, and even your voice sounds different. An attempt at kindness, he thinks. Then why does it grate him so?

Gi-hun doesn’t acknowledge you beyond the gentle huff of an exhalation. You seem to take that as all the permission you need. “You don’t have to take the first watch if you don’t want to. I don’t mind.”

He resigns himself to the fact that a conversation will apparently be necessary. “I’m not tired,” he tells you, drawing his legs to his chest so he can wrap his arms around them. It’s easier to ride each wave of sorrow when he’s compressed into something small like this, when the world can’t reach him.

“Me neither.” Your leg is bouncing – a nervous tick he’s not sure you’re even aware of. “I just thought I’d offer. If it would help.”

The only thing that would help him now is a gun in his hands and the Captain on his knees so he can shoot him through the skull. So he can tear this island down with his bare hands, brick by brick, until there’s nothing left. Only he lost the chance to do so two days ago when the tracker was ripped from his jaw and you were abducted, forced to play these Games simply because your very presence is a constant stab through his heart.

He'll find a way. If it kills him, he’ll find a way to exact the revenge he needs. For Sang-woo, for Jung-bae, and for all the ways you’ve died and been reborn since the Games have started.

Gi-hun takes a deep breath to open up his ribcage and release the tension that’s been coiling in his chest for the past hour. “Get some rest,” he says, and his tongue feels heavy when he does. “You need it.”

A month ago, you might have fought him on it and demanded he get some rest too. Maybe you would have looked at him in that special way, where the light catches your eyes and you smile differently and it leaves him feeling flayed apart, and he might have at last relented. A week ago, he might have asked you to stay the night – so he could keep you close, keep you safe – and you might have even said yes, and Gi-hun would’ve spent the entire night dreaming of possibilities and open-mouthed kisses, and he still would have gone to the club to meet the Captain because at least he would’ve died remembering you.

This time, there is no fight. This time there’s just quiet deference and a weary heart too bruised to beat any longer.

He glares at the crumpled piece of plastic on the step and the pathetic smattering of crumbs that serve as an offering to Jung-bae’s spirit, and he vows never to rest until the game runners and the Captain get exactly what they deserve.

Young-il greets you when you retreat. The lights have gone out by now, shrouding the entire room in darkness bar the glowing X and O on the floor, so he couldn’t turn and watch the interaction even if he wanted to. He doesn’t, of course. What you do in your own time with your own friends is none of his concern. Not even if your friend is rubbing a soothing hand into your shoulder. Not even if your friend is making you laugh. Not even if your friend is… Wait, he’s not urging you to join him, is he? Gi-hun’s misunderstanding him, surely.

He forces as much air into his lungs as he can, holding it in and suppressing the thundering beat of his pulse so he can hear better.

“I don’t want to …,” you whisper sweetly.

Young-il’s voice is similarly softened. “… insist.”

This is pointless. It doesn’t matter how quiet he is, he won’t be able to hear a thing, and since when does it matter? Why is this what he’s choosing to focus on? Where is his rage? Where is his hatred and his fight? Is he truly so fickle that his plans turn to dust the moment you elect to share a bed with another man who, might he remind himself, is married?

Jung-bae is dead, just like Sang-woo. He needs to plan. He needs to organize.

Gi-hun squeezes his eyes shut until they hurt and that, at last, is enough to snap him out of his strange reverie. The Games cannot continue like this. The voting is going horribly and the O players are winning by a higher majority each time, which means that when tomorrow comes and more X players die, the chances of returning home will be almost zero. Not even your naively offered 2 billion won will be enough to change the hearts and minds of the O players who remain.

Your 2 billion… He’d given it to you because he thought he was dying, because he wanted to ensure that you would be able to take care of yourself in his absence. The money is yours now with no strings attached, but he can’t help feeling frustrated that you would be so quick to relinquish it. And for people like these? Drug addicts and dirty tradesmen, gangsters, loan sharks, gamblers.

He feels his own fingernails digging into his palms.

The gambler who had first accepted a smack from the ddakji recruiter and the gambler who stands watch now feel like two very different people. Gi-hun sometimes wonders if he isn’t just a spirit left to wander the Earth in a foreign body, traveling aimlessly, fighting against the ongoing tide of hopelessness and violence that haunts him. He wonders if that’s what Jung-bae saw before he died.

He wonders a lot of things, really. He wonders how things might have gone if Jung-bae had stayed and you had gone. Would you have ended up on the same team? And the pregnant girl – what if she had never asked for help? What if you had never offered? Would his oldest and dearest friend still be alive? Would you be dead in his place?

What if he had never stopped to help you in the first place? Where might your life have led you? Jung-bae might still be alive, or perhaps he would have come to the Games anyway – he supposes he doesn’t know the full extent of Jung-bae’s financial problems and that’s his own fault. He never stuck around to ask. He didn’t want him to know.

He sighs and tilts his head to gaze at the empty space on his left. It’s difficult to articulate why, but he can’t help feeling like Jung-bae ought to be sitting there. They would talk, he thinks, and Gi-hun would try not to engage because he doesn’t want to be distracted, but Jung-bae would insist. And they’d probably laugh over something stupid, or share a tense moment remembering the past, and Gi-hun would remember what it felt like to have a friend who knows you inside and out. He supposes he’ll never know that feeling for the rest of his life, though he’s not certain it matters. He doesn’t expect to live much longer anyway.

If he tries very hard, Gi-hun thinks he can imagine Jung-bae’s face – not the face of a dead man, but of a living soul who always smiles and sometimes drinks too much. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Gi-hun-a, he might have said (though he isn’t entirely sure he’s gotten the inflection right). We’ll grab a soju when this is all done, huh? Just like old times.

Maybe he’ll ask you do it for him. Jung-bae liked you, from what little time he had to acquaint himself, and you clearly feel some amount of affection for him on behalf of their friendship. He stares, misty eyed, at the crinkled plastic wrap and breadcrumbs and he smiles. You’d be more than eager to drink a glass of soju in his honor. That’s one of the things he admires about you – your heart.

It keeps him going long into the night. When his eyelids are finally too tired to stay open, Gi-hun drags himself onto the nearest mattress. If he sees you half weaseled under the nearest bed frame and half exposed, he doesn’t think much of it. If he sees your arms folded under your chin and your face pressed into Young-il’s shoulder, he doesn’t dwell on it. He can’t. It doesn’t matter, he reminds himself.

But if he happens to nudge Young-il awake and ask him to take the next shift, then that’s entirely on purpose and Gi-hun isn’t afraid to admit that to himself. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t wake or stir you except to help maneuver you out of Young-il’s way so the other man can keep watch. You moan softly in your sleep, your face all scrunched up, but quickly fall back into your heavy slumber, and Gi-hun watches. He commits the shape of you to memory.

He's already lost Jung-bae and he’s already lost himself, but he refuses to lose you as well. Not the Captain, not the Games, and not even Young-il can take you from him, of that he is absolutely certain.

The set design is pretty, you suppose – whites and pastels, carousel horses atop a raised platform, and elegant curtains that rise up to the ceiling – but that’s all it is. It’s a design. It isn’t real. It’s a death arena made to look pretty and quaint, accompanied with charming music and a charming announcer, but it’s a death arena all the same.

“Welcome to your third game. The game you will be playing is Mingle. Let me repeat: the game you will be playing is Mingle.”

You glance sideways at Dae-ho, who’s already starting to fidget. “What is it?”

“I think I remember playing this in school,” he frowns. “We’d form groups by hugging each other.”

The announcer seems to further the idea, following Dae-ho’s musings with a more intricate explanation. “When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds.”

A secondary look around fills you with more despair than hope. “This place is massive,” you say, more to yourself, but the rest of the team manages to catch it.

Dae-ho nods in agreement, but he doesn’t look as defeated as you feel. A little nervous, maybe, if the shaking hands he lays on Jun-hee’s shoulders are anything to go by, but still somewhat hopeful. “I believe in us. We all made it through the race, didn’t we?”

Not all of us.

“We just need a strategy,” he continues, surging forward with all the bravado you’ve come to expect from him. His fist shakes eagerly in Young-il and Gi-hun’s general direction. “What do you think? How should we play this?”

The most obvious answer is given first – a five person group won’t require anything more than to run as fast as you possibly can. That, at least, is a relief and you really hope they call five before anything else. Anything larger than that, everyone will work to find another player. Your eyes scan the crowd in search of the familiar 120 on the back of Hyun-ju’s jacket. Maybe you can snag her if you need to.

“No matter what happens,” Young-il says, “don't panic. Let's stay calm. Let's trust each other. We'll all make it out together.” You admire his tenacity and his ability to remain calm even now, before the game has even started.

He extends one arm into the center of the group, palm down. “Here.”

Your hand falls easily atop his, your fingers splaying out as they unconsciously seek the warmth of his skin. Dae-ho comes next, then Jun-hee, and finally Gi-hun. You choose to pretend that Jung-bae is with you all in spirit, too, piling his hand atop his friend’s. His memory lives on in the battle cry that Dae-ho exclaims at the top of his lungs: “Victory at all costs!”

There is a final request from the announcer that each player relocate to the platform, then a flashing of the lights, and then the entire world is turning. You’re nearly jolted off balance, but are caught by a strong hand and a quietly encouraging nod from the player to your left – Hyun-ju! You go to thank her, but find your voice immediately drowned out by the sound of singing as the world keeps spinning.

“Round and round we go! Round and round we go!”

Dread blossoms in the pit of your stomach. Not only are you already feeling lightheaded from the turning of the platform, but the sound of children singing gleefully while you’re dragged to your potential demise is enough to make you actually sick. Rainbow colored doors glide past, round and round, and you have to reach out for Hyun-ju’s arm to keep yourself steady.

The announcer had said to listen for a number. Is the number somewhere in the song? Do you have to listen for it and then run? Will the platform stop? What happens if you fall? It’s too many questions and too much uncertainty. What if this, what if that? How? Why? When?

“Round and round we–.”

The platform grates to a halt and the lights flash out. The announcer’s voice crackles somewhere overhead. “Nine.”

Nine. Nine people? Oh shit, holy shit.

You grab blindly at Hyun-ju’s wrist. “We have five!” you shout over the sudden, raging chaos.

She nods frantically with a flash of her other hand in your face – her fingers are interlocked with another player’s, a young girl who looks about as scared as you feel. “Four!” she calls back. She looks over your shoulder, presumably at Gi-hun and the others. “We have four!”

“That’s nine!” you hear Young-il say. “Everybody run!”

Hyun-ju’s fast. Like, really fast. She practically drags the other girl off the platform, but you’re close behind, following her blindly, desperately, your arms and legs pumping. You’re vaguely aware of Gi-hun shouting directions; “green door!” is really the only thing you hear before you, Hyun-ju, and her friend are all slamming into the wall and scrambling for the handle.

Someone’s shoving at your shoulder. Someone else is urging you to “go, go, go!”. There’s a blur of limbs and concrete and teal green tracksuits, and Hyun-ju rams into the far wall, and somebody’s feet get caught under yours, and then you’re dropping to the floor with a shout as people trip all over you. You curl in on yourself so all your vital organs are protected, your arms thrown over your head, and people are wheezing and whispering, and you can still hear others on the outside as they scream and slam their doors shut, and it’s awful.

“[___].” Your hands are gently pried away from your face to reveal Gi-hun as he bends over you, his face drawn tight with worry. “Come on,” he urges softly.

You go willingly, happily, into his arms and are soon back on your feet, though your legs are about as wobbly as a bowl of ramyeon noodles. He still has a hand on your shoulder when you hear the first round of gunfire. The entire room goes quiet.

You’d figured it would be this way. You’d figured that not finding a room in time would be a death sentence, but it’s a different feeling to actually see it happen, to know that you fought for your own life just a little bit harder than someone else and because of that, they’re being executed.

You think of Jung-bae. You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from doing something stupid like screaming.

Someone gets shot directly in front of your door. You know not only because the sound is loud enough to make your ears hurt, but because Gi-hun’s entire body jolts as if he’s just been electrocuted. Did he have to witness things like this the last time, too? Was he locked inside a room and forced to watch while innocent people were slaughtered?

You reach for him on instinct while your own thoughts begin bubbling up within your chest, choking you to the point of desperation, but your hand never finds its mark. Young-il is there quite suddenly, his fingers closing around your wrist as he steps into your path. “Give him space,” he murmurs, as if his wisdom is a kindness he’s imparting to you.

“But–”

His voice drops a bit. “He needs it.” And before you can protest further, Young-il gathers you into his arms and presses his chin atop your head. “It’s alright, [___]. It’s alright.”

The shooting has long since ended by now, but something even worse has taken its place: the beeping of a forklift, the sound of caskets being unloaded and filled with bodies, the slick wetness of boots on fresh blood. It’s worse now than it was yesterday, somehow. Not being able to see makes the suspense weigh heavier on you, it encourages your imagination to run wild.

If you aren’t fast enough next time, that’s going to be you. You’re going to get a hole in your brain and you’re going to be packed up like a sardine in a can, carted away to be disposed of and forgotten about. Young-il hushes your weak little cries with a hand at the back of your head, and you freeze. What if he gets shot? What if something happens and you get separated? What about Gi-hun? And oh God, what about Jun-hee? If she dies, then her baby…

It hits you the moment you step outside. The blood. You don’t even know how many players were killed, you were too busy trying not to dissolve into a huddled, trembling mass of uselessness in Young-il’s arm, but you see at least a dozen separate pools of blood dotting the floor and platform. You know because you step in one almost right away. It’s wet underfoot, no different from stepping in a puddle of water after a rainstorm, but you know the difference. You know what it means.

You can’t let that become you. You can’t let it become any of your friends.

The platform jolts to one side as the music starts up again. “Round and round we go! Round and round we go!”

You can feel the blood squishing under your weight whenever you move. You can feel your knees locking. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears and feel the pulse in your fingertips. You can see each and every bloodstain marking the spot where another person has died so that you might live.

The song cuts off with a clear, concise, “Five”, and then the world narrows to only a single point – freedom.

“Three.”

He’d known the number even before it was announced, of course, but knowing cannot override instinct and his first instinct is to grab you by the collar and drag you into the nearest room. He wouldn’t even need to grab hold of Gi-hun; he already knows that man would follow you to the ends of the Earth and back. Yes, he knows.

But that isn’t what Gi-hun has in mind. “[___], Dae-ho, Jun-hee! Go!” he commands.

Dae-ho and Jun-hee acquiesce without a fight, each of them scrambling to grab one of your hands and pull you to safety, but you recoil before they can even touch you. “No!” You whirl on Gi-hun with a fire blazing in your eyes, bright and brilliant, and for a moment, In-ho finds himself adrift in an endless sea. “I’m not leaving you!”

He should have anticipated your obstinance, perhaps, but it had slipped his mind amid the chaos and the chaotic uncertainty of life versus death. “We don’t have time for this!” he shouts. The clock is counting down too quickly and now the entire team is at risk because you are too stubborn to abandon either of them. In-ho looks to Dae-ho, looks to Jun-hee and the baby growing in her belly, and he feels an uncomfortable prickle of uncertainty. “Both of you, go! Find a third!”

He doesn’t pause long enough to think about whether or not they will survive. “Run!” he bellows, and he propels you forward with a shove, pointing to one of the remaining open doors. He doesn’t wonder about Jun-hee. He doesn’t wonder about her baby. And he doesn’t think of his wife, not in the slightest. All he does is run.

Sharp eyes catalog the remaining players scrambling for life, then the timer counting down. 19 seconds. A trio of men goes tripping over themselves in an effort to push themselves into one of the open doors, the very door In-ho had chosen. It’s the nearest one and one of the last ones still open. Anger flares within his stomach at the audacity of these filthy, greedy trash heaps to take what belongs to him, to think that they could possibly beat him at his own game.

Abandoning you to Gi-hun’s capabilities is not something that worries him. Surging forward and slamming his body into these three players does not worry him either. If one of them escapes into your room, he could live with that. If he gets himself caught and Young-il ‘killed’, he could live with that too. But he cannot risk you, or even Gi-hun, dying because all his plans hinge upon your shared survival. Gi-hun will not die here today and neither will you. Later, perhaps, but not today. Not now.

“Young-il!” he hears you screaming, but he pays it no mind.

He slams his fist into one player’s face, then a brutal kick to another player’s groin.

“Young-il-ssi!”

A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. So, he’s managed to coax Gi-hun into trusting him, has he? Into caring for him? He body slams the third player with a growl before finally choosing to turn and run. The door flies open without him even touching it, and it slams shut behind him at Gi-hun’s insistence.

You’re on him in an instant, your arms wrapping around his neck as you breathe heavily into his ear, your chest heaving and your body pressed so firmly against his that In-ho is sensorily overwhelmed. A memory of your body pressed similarly to his from last night flickers to life in the forefront of his mind and his mouth goes dry.

“Don’t do that again,” you murmur through trembling lips.

Six mattresses in rows of three maneuvered beneath the canopy of bed frames, but only four of them in use. He had seen it on your face as clear as day – the two vacant beds bothered you. After all, one of them belonged to a dead man and the other belonged to a man you no longer recognized. In-ho knew he could fix that for you, or that he could at least distract you from it.

“Here,” he prompted with a palm flat on the mattress next to his.

“Oh, no, that’s alright.” You waved him off as politely as you could, but it did nothing to hide either your surprise or your blatant interest. “I don’t want to crowd you.”

And In-ho had smiled at you without a single hint of his true motives. “I insist.” Just a friend seeking to comfort a friend.

He hadn’t anticipated that keeping you close would make his blood boil and his body flush. It had been another chess piece carefully moved into the most advantageous position, another attempt to worm his way into the bloody gash that Gi-hun’s rejections and absence had carved into your heart, and yet it had left him feeling exposed and restless in an entirely foreign way.

His hands press firmly against your hips as he guides you away. Holding you at arms’ distance allows him the control he seeks, but it also lays bare the most embarrassing weakness he has ever encountered in the last nine years. He uses the blaring of the final few seconds as a distraction, carefully turning you away from the heat straining against his tracksuit pants so you’re none the wiser.

You wander towards Gi-hun, which In-ho can only consider to be a small mercy given the circumstances. “Do you see them?” There is a noticeable edge to your voice as you try pressing in beside him to peer out the window. “Jun-hee? Dae-ho?”

Gi-hun shakes his head, only to bodily flinch and recoil when the shooting starts. You cower like a frightened child with your eyes squeezed shut while Gi-hun remains frozen at the door, his gaze caught on the nameless bodies dropping to the ground. Punishing himself as he has the previous two rounds, impaling himself on a rusted old blade that has killed dozens before him and will likely kill hundreds more after. Doesn’t he ever grow tired of playing the sanctimonious victim?

“Oh God.” In-ho’s eyes flicker back to where you’ve braced yourself against the door, your legs shaking and your eyelids watery as you start to slide to the floor. “Oh God, I killed them, didn’t I?”

Perhaps you did. It would be intriguing, not to mention convenient, if you had because for all your compassion and eagerness to follow in Gi-hun’s footsteps, this round had been the one to break you. Or rather, the lingering memory of Jung-bae’s death and the possibility of losing your dearest friends in a similar fashion had urged you to place his and Gi-hun’s lives before the lives of anyone else. Fear has finally turned you selfish.

You collapse into a pile of limbs and shuddering, breathy noises that go straight to his gut, and suddenly, In-ho is struggling to keep his feet firmly planted in the present.

Sleep had taken its time coming for you. In-ho had offered what kindness he had – a comforting hand resting near your pillow, a soothing phrase, a fleeting smile – and had watched you until you finally drifted off. The camera he’d studied you through on your first night simply could not compare to the physical reality of sharing your breath or feeling your warmth soak into the mattress.

Is this what Gi-hun had witnessed the first night he brought you to his motel?

Grief cannot haunt you in your sleep, he’d soon discovered. Your expression lightened gradually – a twitching eyebrow here or a sigh there – until your entire body was pliant, entirely freed of the horror and shame you’d been clinging to. In-ho was surprised to find himself entranced once more, almost inexplicably so.

And then you’d moved. A subtle shift in your subconscious had urged a small sound from your lips, followed by the rustling of your blanket, and In-ho was left reeling from the weight of your arm pressing against his. It shouldn’t have affected him. Since you met, he’d been forced onto the receiving end of your affections more times than he could count and it had never bothered him before. It was simply the cost of his game, and a remarkably low one, at that.

This is different, he’d realized.

It takes him a moment to regain his bearings and, in that time, he catalogues Gi-hun’s reluctance and self-imposed distance and your trembling desire to be comforted. Both of you suffer from the same failure to hide your emotions in any meaningful way. He takes it as an opportunity, another freshly opened wound for him to press his infection into.

“It’s alright,” he assures you as he lowers himself into a crouch.

Bleary, tearful eyes gaze up at him in desperation. Another bolt of electricity lances through him, stealing his breath, his tongue, and every carefully laid plan until he is nothing more than a blank slate. It’s terrifying. It’s disgusting. He wants to wrap his hands around your throat and throttle you for daring to weaken him so thoroughly, and at the same time, he wants to slam Gi-hun’s skull into the concrete and bash him bloody for destroying his Games, his equalizer.

In-ho studies you for several impossibly long moments before he finally understands. He settles into the small space left between your body and the side wall and curls an arm around your shoulder to draw you close. He feels that same spark inside his chest, that same heat pooling beneath his stomach – the same things he’d felt last night when you mumbled incoherent dreams into his ear and curled into his chest like it’s what you were born to do.

It wasn’t the Games that made Gi-hun his equal. It wasn’t the 45.6 billion won or the innumerable deaths or the trauma that carved itself into both their souls. It was you.

You’ve all survived. You’re not sure how exactly because you were absolutely terrified that you’d lost Jun-hee and Dae-ho in the last round, but they made it and so have you. You would be overjoyed if your sanity wasn’t currently tearing itself apart at the seams. All this running, all the stress and the fear, it’s making your body overheat and your heart race, and the spinning platform is no help either. You tear wildly at the zip of your jacket and start whipping it back and forth, desperate for a moment of relief. Or some water. God, you would kill for some water right now.

“What do you think the next round will be?” you hear Dae-ho ask.

The numbers have been steadily counting down, so your first thought is to guess something small like one or two. Either option would be absolutely devastating because there are still so many players left alive and only 50 rooms to fit them into. But what if it’s a higher number? The Captain, or whoever it is that may have chosen these numbers, might be trying to lull everyone into a false sense of security, make them all plan for a smaller number only to be stuck in the chaos when the number ends up being something insane like 15.

“Everyone pick a partner,” Young-il suggests after several moments. He’s close enough that you can hear him clearly over the music. “If the number is higher, we stick together, and if not–”

The announcer’s voice cuts through it all, sharp and hot like a freshly forged blade. “Two.”

Everything happens in the blink of an eye, yet takes an eternity to live through. Young-il grabs your sleeve and drags you to the edge of the platform as he runs. Your legs are like gelatin, wobbly and uncertain, but there is still determination in your bones and life in your lungs. You’re not going to die here. You are not going to die here!

Another player trips and falls on your left. Someone screams on your right. You keep running. Young-il’s already picked out a door, his arms pumping furiously as he powers forward. He’s shouting too, you think, but it’s swallowed up by the surrounding chaos. Doesn’t matter. Just keep running. Don’t stop. You’re going to survive this.

There’s a flash of movement in the corner of your eye and you turn just in time to see someone with a 400-something number emblazoned on their chest reaching for you. They snag the corner of your jacket, pulling you back, but you’re faster, stronger, you have to be, because you have to live. One arm jerks free of the jacket, then the other, and then you’re tripping over your feet and tumbling through pools of half-dried blood. It smears over your palms, gets into the creases of your elbows, wets the ends of your hair as you skid to a halt.

“Get up!”

You’re already scrambling to your feet. Young-il is screaming so hard that his throat looks misshapen. The 400-something who tripped you is already yanking open the door of the room meant for you and Young-il.

You’re going to die.

Another player tries to run inside and you think for a moment that Young-il might just leave you both to your own devices and take that second spot for himself. You can see the ugly glint in his eye, the same one you know is in yours, that gut-deep, selfish desire to keep living no matter the cost. You run faster than you ever have before. He grabs the other player and throws him to the ground. Your hands slam into the doorframe.

There’s still someone inside. Oh God, there’s still someone in here, and you know what happens when there’s one too many people inside a room. The evidence of it is painted on the walls.

“Get out!” you scream.

The man shakes his head frantically as he crowds himself into the farthest corner. For a moment, it’s you who considers betrayal. You could slam the door shut and lock 400-something’s friend and Young-il outside, and you would be saved. You’d be condemning him to death, but you would live and isn’t that more important?

The timer near the ceiling flashes a gruesome 00:15, accompanied by the intercom, and you hear the door slam shut behind you. Is that it, did you make it?

Young-il’s shoulder bumps into yours and you feel a wave of disappointment. Coward. You’re glad that he’s alive, but if one of you doesn’t leave right now, then you’re all going to die! Murderer.

“Get out!” you scream again, this time lunging forward to grab the man by the arm and shove him in the direction of the door. “Go!”

His friend slams into him just as the door swings open. Young-il surges forward then, landing a punch on 400-something’s jaw that drops him to the floor. Just outside the door. His legs are kicked aside, the door slammed shut, and the lock clicks in place.

00:00

But there’s still three people locked in a two-person room, and that means you’re dead. No. It can’t end like this. You’re not ready. You don’t want to die, you’re not ready to die!

You’re halfway to the door, hoping against hope that if you wiggle the handle hard enough, the lock will give way and you can shove that man into the path of the firing squad, and you can live. Almost at the door, your gaze locked on the face of the man you’ve betrayed as he peers at you through the cut-out, begging to be saved. Hand on the door, pulling with all your strength when you know that it’s futile.

A round of bullets fires. The door jerks on its hinges as Player 400-something sags against it, then slumps to floor, dead. He’s dead. He’s dead and you’re the reason he’s dead, and the guard that shot him is looking at you through the cut-out, his gun still raised.

“No!” you screech.

You drop to your knees, hands on your head as if an extra layer of flesh will spare your skull from being blown wide open, but it’s not just the ground that meets you. Bones crack against hard cement, a wet slap following when your bloodied hands fly out to brace yourself, and the face of the player whose life you’d decided was worth less than yours is tilted unnaturally against the ground a few feet away. His neck bends in a way it shouldn’t. His body is slumped over as if he’s just been tossed aside like garbage. Unblinking. Unmoving.

Dead.

…

Dead?

You sit up, confused. You didn’t hear another round of gunshots. He’s not bleeding and you are still alive, so how is he dead? Why is he dead?

You find the answer sitting with his back against the wall, chest heaving, his eyes pitch-black and endless. The other man’s legs are still caught awkwardly between Young-il’s, almost as if… but no, that can’t be right. He wouldn’t be able to do something like that. Shouldn’t. Couldn’t.

You ask the only question you can find the strength to vocalize. “Is he…?”

Young-il nods with a heavy sigh. His legs are spread and bent at the knee, his elbows braced against his thighs, and his eyes… Deeper and darker than the blackest hole in the farthest reaches of the universe. You look at him, fresh off the murder of another man and utterly unremorseful, and you feel like you’re gazing into the galaxy itself – vast and terrifying and brutal.

There’s a knock at your door, then the flash of a black mesh mask, and you push yourself back into the nearest corner, folding in on yourself until you’re as small as physically possible. “No, don’t, he’s dead! He’s dead!” you cry. “There’s only two of us!”

The guard remains quiet, perhaps waiting for the order from his superior to gun you down like the selfish, cowardly, murdering bastard you are. Young-il nods almost imperceptibly and then, just like that, the guard is gone. And you’re alive. And you suddenly feel like you’re standing on the edge of a precipice with no way down except to jump.

“[___].”

You catch him trying to touch you from the corner of your eye and you recoil as if he were the one with the gun, not the guard. “Don’t touch me,” you gasp. You don’t deserve to be touched. You don’t deserve anything gentle.

It’s clear he doesn’t appreciate your bluntness. His fingers coil around empty air and his face turns hard as it morphs into something cold and distant. The mask of a killer, maybe, because he’s just as bad as you are, isn’t he? He killed that man with his bare hands. And you… you almost locked him out of the room because you wanted to survive so badly.

“I’m sorry,” you weep, your eyes unseeing and stinging as your tears finally overflow. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…” To what, almost sacrifice him for your own good? To be so weak and pathetic that you couldn’t even shove that man out of the room yourself? “It’s my fault.”

That’s the only thing that makes sense, really. Jung-bae died because of you. Jun-hee and Dae-ho almost died because of you. And now Young-il. Now the dead man between his legs and the other one just outside the door. You did this.

The room is horrifyingly quiet for a long while, but when Young-il finally speaks, you find that he sounds like a total stranger. His voice is raw and agonizing. “What are you talking about?”

Your eyes flicker briefly over his face before focusing again on the body before you. You can’t seem to look away. “I should’ve pushed him out,” you whimper. If you had, maybe Young-il wouldn’t have his blood on his hands.

“What?”

He sounds so incredulous, it’s ridiculous. What part of this isn’t he understanding?

“I should’ve pushed him out!” you exclaim. “I was too scared and I wasn’t thinking. I-I just wanted to live and I almost…” I almost killed you.

Metal scrapes against concrete somewhere beyond the door as stacks of caskets are lowered to the ground. Young-il pushes himself onto one knee, his hands hovering non-threateningly around his waist as he studies you, watching you like a scientist might watch a cornered animal. The metaphor is surprisingly apt considering it was in your power to kill him only moments ago.

“[___],” he starts slowly, “take a breath.”

You know he wants to come closer. You know he wants to understand. “No.” You shake your head firmly. “Don’t.”

He pauses. “You’re afraid of me.”

What? “No.” It feels as if all the air has been punched out of you. “Why would I…? Y-You didn’t – I mean, it’s not…”

Young-il creeps forward until he’s close enough to touch you, and this time you don’t stop him. A murderer you both may be, but he is still your friend and you crave the normalcy of a friend right now more than you hate yourself.

His knuckles brush lightly over the back of your hand. “Explain,” he prompts, not unkindly or harshly, but with the gentle confusion of someone with no desire to judge or deride.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” you sob.

“I don’t.”

He’s still not understanding. “But you will.”

The door unlocks before you’re forced to reveal anything more, thank God. Small mercies. You accept Young-il’s offer to help you stand, but you don’t allow yourself to linger in his grasp. You have to get out of this room before you lose it.

“[___]!” Gi-hun’s face falls the instant he lays his eyes on you. You’re not sure where he appeared from so quickly, but you suppose it doesn’t matter when his hands trace wordlessly over your arms, over the blood, the blood, so much blood, and he ducks down to try and catch your eyes. “What happened?”

You’d been so focused on surviving that it hadn’t even occurred to you that his own life had been on the line as well. It hadn’t occurred to you that your dearest friend might actually be dead until you were being ushered out of that room and forced to confront the outside world.

Your brain feels kind of fuzzy right now, so you’re cautious when you shake your head. “’s not mine. I fell.” You’d lost your jacket, too. Is that why you suddenly feel so cold? You’re not sure.

Gi-hun is quick to draw you in, and you’re thankful for the sudden proximity because he’s really the only thing you’re sure of right now. You’re guided back to the platform. The world is off-kilter and strange to you, but you’re the only thing that’s changed. Well, you and Young-il. The two murderers.

You rotate your shoulder so Gi-hun’s hand slips away. You don’t want him to touch you either.

“Clapping our hands together! Singing along as well! La lala lala lala la la la la!”

“Six.”

You’re not sure how it happens. You had meant to grab Gi-hun or Young-il’s hand once the speaker announced the next number, but then the number had been too large to accommodate everyone and there were so many voices layered over each other that you couldn’t hear much of anything. And then you were running, only to realize that it was Dae-ho holding on to you, not Young-il. Not Gi-hun.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. Just run. Because you keep thinking about what happened the last time you hesitated and you don’t want to do that again. You can’t watch someone else die because of you.

The first room is already full, and you think you catch a glimpse of Player 100 in there, but Dae-ho pulls you away before you can get a proper look. He’s half dragging, half pushing, guiding you several doors down where Hyun-ju stands with her arms flailing. The mother and son go first, then Dae-ho, then you, until you’re all huddled in the far end of the room, panting.

“Young-mi-a.” You look up to see Hyun-ju at the door, her eyes frantic and wide. “Where’s Young-mi-a?”

A small, timid voice just outside cries out. “Unnie!”

Hyun-ju turns so fast, she’s practically a blur. She bolts past the door as the timer begins to count down, just three seconds from zero, only to be brutally shoved backwards as another player comes rushing in. He slams the door shut just in time for the lock to click into place while Hyun-ju crashes directly into you.

“Unnie!”

A face appears in the window – a pair of eyes and the tip of a nose, shaded by dark bangs. Young-mi. The younger girl on Hyun-ju’s team. The one with the sweet eyes who always seems to be trailing after her. All this time, you never knew her name. Now it doesn’t even matter.

She’s slamming her fists against the door, screaming Young-mi’s name, and it’s all too familiar because the way Hyun-ju screams reminds you too much of Gi-hun. The way Young-mi’s body slowly slides down the door reminds you too much of the man you helped to kill.

She screams and tears at the door until the shooting stops, and then she turns on the new player – 333 – with a snarl. Her fingers curl around the collar of his jacket, chipped black polish digging into the fabric. “It's your fault!”

333 practically spits at her. “Don't kid yourself. If I hadn't come in, you'd be dead too.”

“No!” she screams, and you’ve never seen someone so contorted with rage. Not even Gi-hun. “It's your fault! I could have saved her!”

“There was no time!” 333 grabs her by the wrists and pulls until he’s free, then shoves her hands aside. He has no care for the sorrow that carves itself into Hyun-ju’s face and shatters her spirit. He isn’t even being gentle about it. “The moment you went out to save her, you'd have died along with everyone else here for not having enough people!”

He turns on the rest of you then with a shout, even as Hyun-ju cowers in the corner, shaking and sobbing. “I saved your lives! All of you!”

No one says a thing because what is there to say? That you’re glad you’re alive and it’s a real shame that Young-mi is dead? That he’s right? That he’s wrong?

“Isn't that right?” he demands. “Am I wrong?! Well, say something!”

You don’t have anything to say. 333 did what you might have done and Young-mi paid the price for it. There is no consolation, no candied words to soothe a broken heart. There’s no way to turn back the clock and bring her back to life. But, you think, there is the chance to atone for your almost-mistake by offering Hyun-ju the kindness she needs.

You shoulder past 333 without sparing him even a passing glance and you throw your arms around her quivering shoulders. She falls into you without pause, sobbing into your shirt as you lightly pat her on the back.

It’s not okay. It’s not right. You can’t bring Young-mi back and you can’t fix this, but in this moment at least you’re not a monster. At least you’re not the killer this time.

[hettyoon]

❥︎ Character; Lilia Vanrouge Game; Twisted Wonderland

❥︎ Prompt; 𝗖𝗢𝗢𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗟𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗔 !! || 2nd pov || established relationship

❥︎ Notes; Fun fact, this was originally a Teru oneshot I wrote back in 2021. Hopefully, nobody who saw that remembers it. I did not have a blast reading through my old writing ☺️ Also, I may do a part 2 to this ? Idk. + The banners are like 3 years old I need to redraw them so bad </3

MAIN M.LIST

"So, what are we gonna make?"

It was a known fact in diasomnia that Lilia had quite the unique skill when it came to cooking, and what you mean by unique skill is that he always somehow ended up with something that was at best inedible, at worst poisonous. No matter how good of a recipe you gave him, no matter how many instructions and warnings you nailed into his head, none of it seemed to work.

Which led you to the following conclusion, you would have to personally supervise him in order for you to actually come out with any worthwhile results that you would be able to risk putting into your mouth.

Now, this was not your first attempt at this. The first one didn't quite go to plan when you had to leave Lilia for a couple of minutes to go get one of the missing ingredients before coming back to smoke floating around from a mini explosion coming from the kitchen.

He was banned from entering the kitchen for a while after that one.

"We're gonna make some pizza." You replied to your dual-haired boyfriend, shuffling your way through the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards to get out all your needed ingredients. "Should be easy enough for even you to make."

Lilia placed a hand on his heart in a dramatic manner, a feigned look of hurt on his face. "You wound me with your words, love."

You rolled your eyes at that. "I'm trying to help you here, you know. Everyone else thinks that you're a lost cause."

As you were setting out the tools, a familiar warmth brushed up against your back. A pair of arms came to wrap around your waist. His head settled down onto the curve of your shoulder, breath soft against your neck as he uttered the next words. "I'm surprised you're letting me try again at all after what happened last time.”

"Well, this time I'll make sure not to leave your side for the whole time, okay?"

His head tilted up a notch to land a light kiss to the tip of your ear, as a small chuckle escaped his lips. "Can't say no to that."

A couple more minutes had passed, and you were now halfway through making the dough for your pizza. To your delight, Lilia was doing surprisingly good so far. The dough was successfully mixed together, and he was now standing in front of the mixer as it kneaded it all together.

"Okay, I think that's enough with that. You can take out the dough and lay it on the mat that I prepared." Your finger followed your words pointing to said mat before changing directions towards the flour and sift right next to it. " Make sure to add some flour onto the mat so the dough doesn't stick. Just sift a spoon or two gently onto the surface."

Fulfilling your self-admitted role of supervision, you came to stand next to Lilia's side, watching him take out a spoon and dip it into the bag of flour with no fault. As everything on his end looked stable enough, you briefly turned to face the cupboard on your other side. The plan was to get out the rolling pin so he could use it in his next step, but alas it was a bad decision on your end.

Your hand didn't even make it to the intended shelf before you saw a cloud of white powder suddenly engulf your vision.

Nearly giving yourself a whiplash from how fast you turned your head, you rushed to quickly take control of what was happening. "Oh my god, Lilia! I said gently, gently!"

Your hands reached out to stop him from his aggressive shaking motion in hopes of stopping the flour from spreading any further. The old fae had the audacity to blink at you owlishly with his red eyes, as if he were totally innocent from what had just occurred.

"Oh? Was I doing it wrong?"

A sigh left your lips at his words, swatting your hand back and forth to get the floating particles of flour out of the way. "Do you really think that the flour is supposed to get on every surface within a meter of the mat I told you to sift it on?"

"Hmm, I admit, I think I may have gotten a little carried away there. But no need to fret over it. There's still plenty of flour in the bag." His body turned to face you while his finger pointed over to the bag of flour that was slowly folding over, just seconds away from falling down and spilling its contents all over the floor.

You nearly tripped over your own feet trying to get to it in time. Luckily, you managed to do so successfully.

An exasperated sigh left your lips. "That's not really my point, but anyways. Here, let me do the sifting for you. It's not like it's part of the actual recipe."

"No objections to that."

A little while later, you had both the flour and dough spread out in front of Lillia. With the rolling pin secured in both of his hands, he began the motion of rolling back and forth on the dough to spread it out.

Except, of course, he was rolling it out way too hard and absolutely flattening the poor thing to a crisp. No wonder any pizza he attempted beforehand came out burnt and disfigured to oblivion.

Honestly, you weren't even surprised at this point. You had to grasp one of his hands with yours to stop him from going any further. "Lilia, that's too thin. How on earth are you even going to get that thing into the oven tray? It's going to rip to pieces the moment you even try to lift it up. You can't even stick anything on top of it."

Lilia shot you a confused look. "Can't I just stick it back together with glue or something?"

A look of horror presented itself on your face. Okay, maybe you did have the ability to be surprised after all. You pleaded in your mind that what he just mentioned is not the disgusting plastic-y taste that you've had to gag from in Lilia's cooking before. "Lilia, people are going to eat that!"

"Hmm, I'll use caramel then. That should be sticky enough, no? Or you think melted marshmallows would work better?" His hand came up to hold his chin in thought.

No words could describe the absurdity of what you were hearing right now, so you just decided to shake your head in disbelief. "Okay, we're going to start this again, and this time, I'm gonna help you roll it out."

Kneading the dough back into a ball, bringing you two back to step one. You positioned yourself in front of your lover, standing right in between his extended arms. Both his hands were on the handles of the rolling pin again, except this time you had your hands layered over his, holding them tight and positioning them into the right place. He was also floating up higher so he could see from over your shoulders.

"Well, I will say, I definitely prefer this rather than doing it on my own." Lilia said cheekily. He leaned forward even more, so his chest was basically glued to your back. The breeze of his breath tickled the tip of your ears, and you could feel the heat rise up to said place at the proximity. "You're so cute like this. I could just lean in and take a nibble." Of course, before your brain could even process his words, you felt his sharp canines brush along the curve of your ear before gently sinking them in to give it a soft bite.

"Lilia!" Your ears weren't the only part of your skin flushed in red now. There was no doubt that your non-human lover could feel the heat radiating off your cheeks, too, as you turned to face him with a half-hearted stern expression.

The only reply you got out of him was that infamous laugh of his.

You had absolutely no idea why you still got flustered by such moves from him even after all this time being together. Unfortunately for you, Lilia was well aware of this and often used it to his advantage.

"Can we focus on what we have on hand now?" A poor attempt on your end to stir the conversation back to its origin.

"What do you mean? I am focused." An innocent grin paired with his closed eyes and a slight head tilt. However, you were far from fooled.

It was at moments like these that you wished you had the ability to be able to tease him back. Hard to do that, though, when he's a centuries-old fae who's seen and been through it all.

Soon enough, after a little more teasing from Lilia, much to your embarrassment, you two were back on track, rolling out the dough. With your help (specifically, your hands making absolutely sure he did nothing out of the ordinary), the dough was spread and ready to be decorated in no time.

“Phew. We finally did it.” You turned to face Lilia with a satisfied look. All with no casualties too this time. Very impressive if you were to ask yourself.

Said fae leaned down to land a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth, causing a smile to draw on your face. “We always work great as a team together, don't we?”

Now that the hard part was over, you were definitely feeling much more optimistic about the outcome of you and Lilia's creation. The successfully shaped out dough gave you quite the confidence boost.

Hopefully it all goes sailing smoothly with no more mishaps.

Although, maybe it was a little too wishful thinking considering this is Lilia you are talking about.

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Reptilia - Anseriformes

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

The second order in the ancient “fowl” lineage is the Anseriformes, commonly called “waterfowl”. They are represented by the living families Anhimidae (“screamers”), Anseranatidae (“Magpie Goose”), and Anatidae (“ducks”, “geese”, and “swans”).

Anseriformes are good swimmers and tend to live near water, escaping to it when needed. They are also much more adapted to flying than their galliform relatives, and many species are migratory. Some species retain vestigial wing claws, with screamers even having two sharp spurs on each wing, which are used for defense. Their legs are short, strong, and set far to the back of the body (more so in the more aquatic species). Their feet are anisodactyl, with three toes in the front and one in the back. Most have long necks. Screamers and Magpie Geese have partially webbed toes, while Anatids have fully webbed toes, though some species have secondarily lost their webbing. Anatids have flattened beaks which contain serrated lamellae, particularly well defined in the filter-feeding species. They are omnivorous or herbivorous, and live worldwide, wherever water is present.

Anseriformes are generally monogamous, but the level of monogamy varies between species. Some only maintain a pair bond for a single season, while others form longer pair bonds that, in some cases, may last for life. In some cases, males will mate with two females, all of which raise the young. In many species, only the female incubates the eggs, but the male usually provides a supporting role, defending the nest and bringing her food. In some species, both parents take turns incubating the eggs. Anseriformes are born precocial, able to run, swim, and feed themselves as soon as they are hatched. They are known for imprinting on the first adult they see at hatching, and many females will readily adopt parent-less chicks.

Anseriformes already existed by the Late Cretaceous, represented by fossil species such as Vegavis iaai and Teviornis gobiensis, showing that birds had already begun to diversify before the K-Pg extinction. The Anseriformes and Galliformes are the only orders of modern bird to be confirmed present during the Mesozoic, alongside the other dinosaurs, and were among the very few birds to survive the mass extinction. If you ever feel threatened by a goose or a swan just remember that these birds lived alongside the Tyrannosaurus rex, and were one of the only groups of dinosaur to come out on top. Waterfowl are the daughters of the dinosaurs God couldn’t kill. You are nothing to them.

Propaganda under the cut:

The Horned Screamer (Anhima cornuta) is unique among birds for the long spine that grows from the top of its head. The spine is a cornified structure that is loosely attached to the skull and grows continuously, often breaking at its tip. This “horn” does not seem to serve a purpose, but may be used for attracting mates or signaling that the bird is of breeding age.

The Magpie Goose (Anseranas semipalmata) (image 4) is the only living representative of the ancient family Anseranatidae, which diverged from other anseriformes in the Late Cretaceous.

Most of the 3% of bird species to have a penis are Anatids, and they vary significantly in size, shape, and surface elaboration. Ducks are especially famous for their corkscrew penises and vaginas, evolved to keep rival males from forcing themselves onto females. The penis of a male duck is also lined with ridges and backward-pointing spines, which allow them to deposit their sperm further into a female than their rivals. Meanwhile, duck vaginas are equally long and twisting, lined with dead-end pockets and spirals that curve in the opposite direction. If the female accepts a male’s advances, she can relax the walls of her genital tract, but rival males will have a harder time. Follow for more Penis Facts™.

The Cotton Pygmy Goose (Nettapus coromandelianus) is the smallest living anseriform, weighing as little as 160 g (5.6 oz) and stretching 26 cm (10 in) long.

The Black-headed Duck (Heteronetta atricapilla) is unique among waterfowl for being a brood parasite. The female does not build a nest but lays her eggs in the nests of other birds, such as other ducks, coots, gulls, and even birds of prey. Unlike some cuckoos, neither the chicks nor adults destroy the eggs or kill the chicks of the host, as Black-headed Duck ducklings are precocial. After an incubation of about 25 days, the ducklings are completely independent a few hours after hatching and leave the host nest.

Common Eider (Somateria mollissima) females line their nests with the soft, insulating feathers plucked from their own breast. This soft and warm lining, called eiderdown, has long been harvested for filling pillows and quilts, but in more recent years has been largely replaced by down from domestic geese and synthetic alternatives. Eiderdown is now a rare luxury, but it is still collected and is a sustainable harvest, as it can be done after the ducklings leave the nest with no harm to the birds.

Sea ducks (tribe Mergini) (image 1) such as eiders, scoters, and mergansers, dive beneath the waves for their food. They hunt for fish and invertebrates, which they often eat underwater. Many will swallow whole mussels, relying on their strong gizzards to crush the shells.

The Wood Duck (Aix sponsa), and the Mandarin Duck (Aix galericulata) are known for nesting in tree cavities, rather than on the ground like most other ducks. The ducklings are highly precocial, and at just a day old will leap from the nest to join their mother, sometimes from as high as 15.24 meters (50 feet), landing in water or leaf litter.

The Egyptian Goose (Alopochen aegyptiaca) was regularly represented in Ancient Egyptian art. They are known for being aggressively territorial towards their own species when breeding and frequently pursue intruders into the air, attacking them in aerial "dogfights". They have been observed attacking other aerial objects such as drones as well. Neighbouring pairs may even kill another's offspring for their own offsprings' survival and access to resources.

The Pink-eared Duck (Malacorhynchus membranaceus) is strange-looking with its spatulate bill and zebra stripes, but it is named for the small, pink ear spot on each side of its head. This tiny spot makes it the only Anseriform known to use carotenoid pigments in its feathers.

Some populations of Spur-winged Goose (Plectropterus gambensis) are poisonous, due to having a diet that includes significant quantities of blister beetles (family Meloidae). The poison, cantharidin, is held within the tissue of the bird resulting in poisoning of those that eat the cooked goose. A dose of 10 mg of cantharidin can kill a human.

Two species of ducks and two species of goose have been domesticated by humans. The Domestic Duck (Anas platyrhynchos domesticus) was domesticated from the Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos) in China around 2000 BC. The Domestic Muscovy Duck (Cairina moschata domestica) was domesticated from the Muscovy Duck (Cairina moschata) in Peru around 50 AD. Over 200 breeds have been created in the past several thousand years, which are farmed for meat, eggs, and as pets. Meanwhile, the Domestic Goose (Anser anser domesticus) was domesticated from the Greylag Goose (Anser anser) in Egypt, sometime between 3000 and 1980 BC. The Chinese and African Goose (Anser cygnoides domesticus) was domesticated from the Swan Goose (Anser cygnoides) in China sometime between 1000 BC and 1800 AD. These geese are kept for their meat, eggs, feathers, as pets, and as livestock guardians.

The Barnacle Goose (Branta leucopsis) gets its name from 12th-18th Century Europeans who thought that Barnacle Geese, as well as Brants (Branta bernicla), emerged fully formed from Goose Barnacles (order Pedunculata). Gerald of Wales claimed to have seen the birds hanging down from pieces of timber, William Turner accepted the theory, and John Gerard claimed to have seen the birds emerging from their shells. In County Kerry, until relatively recently, Catholics abstaining from meat during Lent could still eat this bird because it was considered a fish.

The Hawaiian Nēnē (Branta sandvicensis) is a conservation success story. Hunting and introduced predators, such as Small Indian Mongooses (Urva auropunctata), Domestic Pigs (Sus domesticus), and Domestic Cats (Felis catus) reduced the population to just 30 birds by 1952. But the species bred well in captivity, and reserves and zoos across the world pitched in to breed the geese back from the brink of extinction. Today, the Nēnē is considered near threatened and has a population of around 4,000 birds.

The Trumpeter Swan (Cygnus buccinator) is the largest living anseriform, and the heaviest living bird in North America. They have a wingspan of 185 - 304.8 cm (6ft 2in - 10ft 2in). The weight of adult birds is typically 7–13.6 kg (15–30 lb).

In the second century, the poet Juvenal made a sarcastic reference to a good woman being a "rare bird, as rare on earth as a black swan". Unknown at the time to the misogynistic Roman, Black Swans (Cygnus atratus) existed in Australia and Black-necked Swans (Cygnus melancoryphus) in South America.

[gh0stsp1d3r]

maybanks sister

Part 4, chapter 4- Ladybug

summary: a run in with Rafe causes your old feelings to come back to the surface, igniting the flame you’ve been trying desperately to ignore for months. A voicemail from your dad has you reeling. Meanwhile, your brother and the rest of the pogues are getting into their usual trouble, but this time, it comes with a risk.

Warnings: uhm mention of daddy issues, pogue/kook shit in the beginning, JJ and Kiara get the bends

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

You first met Rafe Cameron when you were 16.

A job at the country club meant that you saw a lot of wealthy, spoiled, teenagers, who had more than you could ever imagine of having.

You remember the day so vividly. You left the house while arguing with your dad, you and him going back and forth while you walked out of the house.

“No, no! You can’t make that decision for me.” You shoved your finger in his chest. He stared down at you, narrowing his eyes. He grabbed your wrist, you letting out a cry at his grip.

He shoved you back, “Go, Go!” He shouted at you, your bottom lip wobbling and the tears in your eyes falling down your face.

You hopped on your motorcycle, revving the engine as he continued to yell, drowning out the sound of his shouts, much to his annoyance. You drove away, knowing you’d have to come back a few hours later.

In a way, your job was your escape.

You were working as a server, just getting done taking some older man’s order before going to Rafe’s table nearby.

You put on a smile as you approached the table, Topper and Kelce sat next to him, Rafe had his eyes set on you when you walked in front of them, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked you up and down, as if examining you like you were from some other planet.

You’ve seen him in passing, sure. But you’ve never been face to face, you’ve never spoken. You did know all about his family, how his dad was a pogue before he became a kook, building his empire off of developing homes.

You could only dream of something like that.

He had a small, cocky smirk on his face. He’s never seen you before, but, god you were hot. For a pogue.

“Hi, I’m y/n and I will be your server tonight! Can I get you guys started off with some drinks?” You questioned, clicking the pen you held in your hands, preparing to write it down on your little notepad.

Topper nodded at you, ordering first. “Just get me a water.”

You nodded, scribbling that down before looking to Kelce. “Uhm… I’ll just get a coke.” Kelce spoke, Rafe chuckling at his decision. You wrote that down as well, now turning to Rafe.

He had his hair slicked back, a hat thrown backwards over it. He gave you a small smile, pretending to look through the options, even though he already knew. “I’ll just get a coors banquet.” He spoke, looking up at you, fixing the hat that was on his head.

You nodded, writing that down. “I will be back with all of those drinks for you,”

Your eyes lingered on Rafe when you went to turn around, watching the way his eyes traveled down your body.

Kelce raised his eyebrows at Rafe, noticing the way he stared when you walked away.

“I’ve never seen her before.” He murmured.

“I think she’s new or something.” Kelce shrugged. “Wait, don’t tell me you think she’s-“

“She is hot.” He spoke, Kelce shaking his head.

“She’s a pogue, man.”

He didn’t care.

Now, 5 years later, you both were doing the same song and dance around each other. It felt as if things never changed.

You had left the house and the shop to grab some things, what was meant to turn into a quick trip, turned into something you didn’t expect to happen today.

The grocery store is the last place that anyone wants to see people that they know. When you’re at a grocery store, you want to get what you need, and leave before you could be spotted.

With Zeasys words from earlier ringing in your ears still, swimming through your mind, you were distracted as you walked through the aisles.

The threat of rezoning everything, the threat of you losing the only house you’d ever known, the threat of losing the place you grew up, was enough to make anyone lose their mind.

You grabbed the energy drink from the shelf, thinking and sighing as you grabbed more, practically throwing them down into the cart. You grabbed a couple of beers that you knew you would need to survive these last couple of days, before turning and going to the other aisle.

When you got there, you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. You pulled it out, seeing a text from JJ. You walked, pushing the cart in front of you.

lil dumbass

Where are you? We found out where it is.

You sighed, grumbling something under your breath before replying.

At the store. I’ll be back soon.

You looked down at your phone, waiting for him to reply. You didn’t glance up when you walked away from your cart to grab something, and instead, you ran straight into someone.

“Shit-“ you mumbled, your phone flying to the floor and you tripping over him, before he grabbed your waist.

“Sorry.” You spoke, not looking up yet, your cheeks warming up at the embarrassment.

“Y/n?” Wait, you knew that voice. You snapped your head up, pushing yourself off of the mystery man.

Oh, great.

It was Rafe.

He bent over, grabbing your phone and handing it to you. You snatched it, him swallowing,

“Rafe.” You replied, “funny seeing you here. I thought you like… would get your groceries delivered or something.”

He chuckled, “It’s… nice to see you.”

“Yeah.. last time I saw you, I was breaking up a fight between you and John B.”

He grimaced, you smiling, going to continue to walk, before he grabbed your arm, pulling you back.

“Look- wait, can we talk? Please?”

You raised your eyebrows at the man, thinking for a moment. He took his hand off of your arm, you shrugging, leaning against the shelves behind you.

“You wanna talk? Right now? In a Walmart?” You asked him, to which he glanced around, before turning back to you.

“I don’t care where.”

“Okay, then. Talk.”

He pursed his lips together, before opening his mouth. He had a spark in his eyes, you couldn’t quite place it. It was new, you don’t know what, but something had changed. He seemed…different.

“Look, I’m- I’m sorry for how I acted.” He started off, your head tilting to the side, intrigued by what he had to say.

“I was shitty- I was being shitty to you, and I shouldn’t have ignored you like that, and I know that- that you’re mad at me, I get it, alright? I’d be mad at me too.” He pointed to himself, “Before you left, on the tarmac, I asked you to promise me that we’d talk when you got back.”

You remembered it vividly, nodding along. “What about it?” You asked him.

“And when you tried to, I- I pushed you away, and I got angry, and I got worse. I didn’t know what to do with myself without you, y/n.” He breathed out, your breath hitching at his words. “And I know I’ve said this before- but I’m trying, I’m trying to change. I want to change. I’m gonna- I’m gonna try to be a better man.”

You looked up at him, that same old look in your eyes, the one he knew so well.

“I just… I just wanted you to know I’m sorry. That’s it.”

You stayed silent for a moment. “You were mourning.” You replied quietly, him looking at you now.

“That’s not an excuse.” He mumbled, shaking his head.

Shit, when the hell did you two get so close?

You could see him contemplating it as you were, both of you remaining silent. His hand went to your face, cradling it in his hands. He leaned in, your eyes widening for a moment.

“I’m sorry.” He murmured against your lips, before smashing his lips into yours, both of them moving in unison. You missed this, you missed him. It felt so right.

You felt your phone vibrate again, hesitantly pulling away from him with an apologetic look, glancing down at the now cracked screen. He furrowed his eyebrows at you.

lil dumbass

You coming back soon? We’re about to leave.

“Shit- Rafe, I’m- I’m sorry. Uhm, I have to-to go.”

“What?” He asked, grabbing your arm again.

“It’s my brother, and I have to go do something, I’m sorry.”

He nodded, don’t lose your shit on her, Rafe, he thought to himself.

“Alright. Okay. But uh…. Could you unblock me? So we can talk later?” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at you.

You nodded, giving him a small smile. You practically ran out the front doors, leaving your cart behind, and hopping back onto your motorcycle.

You sped over to the house, making your way into the back, and down the dock.

“Hey, sorry, sorry.”

“Took you long enough.” JJ replied, you stepping into the boat with him, Pope, John B and Kiara.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Ran into an old friend.”

JJ raised his eyebrows at that, you holding your hands up innocently, untying the bowlines.

“Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.” Sarah spoke, you all waving bye to Sarah and Cleo on the docks.

“Yo, guys, lighten up. Okay? All right? You’re making me nervous.” JJ spoke when Kiara put her hand on his shoulder, glancing around at the boat to see everyone looking at him.

“Why can’t I do it?” You asked them all, finally tearing your eyes from your brother.

“The doctor told you to take it easy on your leg,” JJ pointed out, you groaning.

“It’s healed!”

“Nope.” He replied, “You’re not doing it. Besides, I got this. I dove before…”

“Since when did you dive?”

“Like-like once- but it’s gonna be fine. Listen, worst that can happen, it’s not there, old farts disappointed, we go home. Pogues win. Okay? That’s the worst. In the meantime, though, who wants to crack one with me?”

“I do!” You quickly exclaimed, standing suddenly and waiting for him to drink it.

He opened and sipped on it, pouring it down his throat, before John B took it from him.

“No, hey, hey, hey. No. No drinking.”

“All right. It just takes the edge off.”

You raised your eyebrows at John B, telepathically asking for it.

“That means you too.” He spoke, holding it in his hands.

“Damnit.” You murmured, sitting back down with a defeated sigh.

“John B, we’re in coast guard territory now.”

It was night, your eyes fighting the urge to close, yawning and stretching while sitting.

“Should be about 20 yards. One o’clock.”

JJ was behind the wheel, Pope turning to him. “Hey, slow it down!” He spoke, JJ slowing the engine. “We’re at the drop site now.”

“JJ, what’s our depth?” John B asked him.

JJ clicked the monitor, reading the numbers. “Seventy eight.”

“Okay. Ready?” John B turned to Pope, who nodded.

“Here we go.” He mumbled, “Switch out, you guys get ready.” Pope told Kiara and JJ, “John B, keep us in position.”

You stood up now, helping Kiara zip up her suit, her getting more nervous by the minute.

“Honestly, it’s kind of like surfing the point, you know?” JJ told Kiara in an attempt to calm her nerves. Maybe his too. “We’re upstream, and then the rip is just gonna… take us out.”

“Yeah.” John B nodded.

“Right.” Kiara replied, JJ grabbing a spear gon and tossing one to her.

“Is that necessary?” She asked, her eyebrows furrowing at him.

“Yeah, yeah, I mean, reef, fish-“

“And the man in the grey suit.” You added.

“That too.”

“Don’t forget your safety stop, all right? Fifteen feet for three minutes. Hear that, JJ? Fifteen feet, three minutes?”

“Copy that.” JJ replied, putting his mouthpiece in and breathing.

“Or what?” Kiara asked.

Pope tilted his head to the side. “The bends, remember? Nitrogen in the blood, excruciating pain, death, et cetera, et cetera…”

JJ exhaled, turning to Pope with narrowed eyes, shaking his head.

“She should know. It’s part of it.”

“So dark.” You murmured.

“Hey, you good?” JJ asked Kiara, her looking up at him.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He held his hand out, her grabbing it and standing up next to him. “Let’s do it then.”

The both of them fell backwards into the water, slowly making their way down. Your leg bounced up and down, standing and leaning over the edge.

“Pope, the tides turning. How long do you think you can keep it?” You asked him, him looking to you.

“They’ve only got about 45 minutes of air, so should be quick.” Pope replied, both him and John B looking at the monitor.

Pope picked up the radio, it beeping as he held it to his mouth. “Hey. You all good over there? See any cutters?” He asked over the radio, waiting for a response from Cleo and Sarah.

“Nothing yet.” You heard Sarah’s voice say over the radio, “no sign of the coast guard. But we’ve got some fog moving in. Once that hits, we’re blind.”

“Shit.” You mumbled, looking behind you to see it is indeed rolling in fast.

“Copy that.” Pope replied.

“I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t making me feel a little bit nostalgic.”

John B nodded, looking out into the ocean. “One night only. In and out.”

You sat there, your leg bouncing up and down, your fingers having a slight tremble to them. Jesus, what was up with you?

You pulled out your phone, glancing at a text that Rafe had sent you before you lost service.

manwhore

Hey. Was just wondering how everything is. Text me when you can, please.

A small smile formed on your face as you read that, scrolling down to see the rest of your notifications when you noticed a random number had left you a voicemail, you furrowing your eyebrows at it, opening it up.

You scrolled down to it, putting the phone next to your ear to listen to it more clearly.

“Hey, ladybug.” The voice spoke quietly, your eyes widening as you recognized the voice and the nickname. Your breath hitched, the grip on your phone loosening.

What the fuck.

“It’s… your dad.”

This was such a bad time to be listening to this voicemail, your nerves already shot and your heart racing more than it was before. This was the worse possible timing.

You could click out of it, ignore it for now and never know what he would say. But, a part of you needed to know.

“I just wanted to… check in with you. I uh… heard about… the house and the auction and shit…” he let out a chuckle, “Anyways… I know you’re probably still mad at me. I know that you hate me, but I just wanted you to know that I-“

It cut off suddenly, you looking down at your phone in utter and complete shock. You clicked on the voicemail again, and it ended there.

A surge of frustration coursed through you. What the fuck? What if it was something important? Something you needed to hear?

Your racing thoughts spiraled into a chaotic whirlpool, but abruptly, the heavy silence was shattered by Pope's voice, slicing through the silence like a knife.

“Hey, we’re drifting. Take it back to starboard.”

“Shit.” John B mumbled, while you’re still in shock by everything that occurred in those 2 minutes.

John B spun the boat around, “Alright, hold it there. Tides definitely turning.” Pope mumbled, you now standing off.

You tried to shake it off, going over to the both of them. You ignored your thoughts for now, you’d deal with that later.

“Sarah and Cleo definitely lost us by now.” You pointed out, Pope nodding and John B sighing.

“How much time we got, Pope? Where we at?” John B asked him, glancing around the fog covering him.

“Fifteen minutes.”

“This fogs gettin’ thick.”

“They got this.” You murmured, more so trying to help your own nerves.

You all stood there for a moment, before Pope turned around, you following his gaze.

“Do you hear that? It’s a boat.”

“Shit!” You exclaimed.

“Chill, just chill.” John B mumbled.

“Don’t tell me to chill, kill the engine!” You told him, John B doing so as quickly as he could.

“Are the warning lights off?” You asked him.

“Okay. It’s off. Everything’s off.” He replied. “Just get low, all right?”

You all got down, hiding behind the wheel.

You heard the shouts of some men, your eyes shut as you silently hoped they didn’t see the boat.

“Let’s make another pass!”

You all watched the boat pass right by you, waiting until it went by to speak again.

“How much time they got left?” You asked Pope.

“Five minutes.”

“We gotta get ‘em out.” You spoke, standing up, John B following.

“Let’s start looking for them.”

You and Pope went to the edges of the boats with flashlights, staring and looking into the water until you heard splashing noises, along with the heavy breathing of two people.

You snapped your head towards the sound, pointing your flashlight at them.

They both started to yell, you groaning and continuing to try and use your flashlight.

“Shit.”

“Come this way. Hurry up. Let’s go! We see you. Stop screaming.” Pope said, both of them looking towards the boat now.

You rushed to grab the ladder, helping them up onto the boat along with John B.

“Wait. Where’s your BCP?” John B asked as he helped Kiara onto the boat.

“It’s gone.” She breathed out.

“What? What do you mean it’s gone?”

“I mean it’s gone!”

“You all right?” You asked them, helping Kiara stand on the boat, regaining her balance. You looked back down to JJ, holding your hand out and grabbing him up as well.

“There was a guy that tried to kill us!”

“We saw a boat out here, too. They were armed.” Pope said.

“We need to get out of here, like, now, John B!” You exclaimed as soon as JJ was on the boat,

“No you don’t understand there’s a guy down there-“ JJ spoke.

“JJ, I know! But there’s a boat. We just saw it pass, and we need to leave.” You told him, grabbing onto his arm and helping him stand up.

“Grab the ladder, grab the ladder let’s go.”

The both of them breathed heavily, sitting down next to each other now.

“You alright, bro?” You asked him again, worried at the state he was in.

“I’m fine. Just get out of here.”

John B started the engine, starting the boat and beginning to drive as fast as he possibly could out of there.

“Alright, what the hell happened?” John B asked when you guys finally got onto the dock, you tying up the bowline.

“Someone tried to kill us.” Kiara spoke, you all turning to her now, Sarah and Cleo now running down the dock and to the boat.

“What? Why would someone try to kill you? That doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. They were going after the fucking necklace or whatever.” You told Pope.

“That amulet was worth something.” Cleo said. “That old man is keeping somethin’ from us.”

“Agreed-“ you spoke, turning to JJ with a furrowed eyebrow when he let out a groan.

“My stomach feels like shit.” Kiara exclaimed, holding her stomach in pain.

You and Pope looked at each other with wide eyes. “Did you guys even use the safety stops?” You asked, Pope going to JJ and holding his eyes open.

“I’m gonna say it one more time. Someone was trying to kill us. We did not make the safety spot.”

“Shit.”

Pope grabbed JJ while you grabbed Kiara, helping her stand and her staring at you confused.

“They have the bends, we have to get them to the hospital, like, right now!” You told the others, you and John B helping Kiara off of the boat and dock while the others helped JJ.

“Nice and easy. You’ve just got a couple bubbles in your blood right now.”

“I’ve got bubbles in my blood?”

“You’ll be okay, Kie.” You murmured, all of you dragging the both of them to the Twinkie, you speeding to the hospital.

“Who was down there with you guys?”

“No idea, Pope. But- y’all are not gonna believe this.”

You glanced behind you, to see JJ pulling something out of his pockets. The amulet wrapped up in a towel.

“You found it?”

“Oh shit.”

“What?”

“That’s the thing you was looking for!”

“Why don’t you tell us sooner?” John B asked, holding it in his hands.

“I was too busy dying.” JJ replied with a grunt.

“You’re a rockstar, girl!” Cleo exclaimed, fifty thousand!”

“Holy shit. Holy shit.”

“Fifty K.” JJ groanedz

“It was worth it.”

“Cha-Ching.”

“Almost there.” You murmured to them both, watching them both clutch their stomachs and roll over in the backseats.

Between your Rafe problems, your daddy problems, and your money problems, JJ at the moment was your biggest concern. It was as if when he was in danger, everything else flew out the window. As much as you hated him sometimes, he was your brother.

It was always an unspoken rule between the both of you, whenever the other was in danger, you dropped everything for them.

It was why you were currently speeding down the roads, almost getting into multiple different crashes and being close to totaling the car when you finally got to the hospital.

You ran to the back, helping your brother stand up, the others helping the both of them inside the hospital, you all telling the people at the front what was wrong, giving them all your info.

“Uhm- can I be put down as their emergency contact?” You asked the lady at the front, who nodded at you, you filling out everything and handing it to her.

“Their vitals and mental status is stable, and the pain scale is moving in the right direction. But they still need time in the hyperbaric chamber. They just bought themselves 12 hours in the tank.”

You looked at the both of them in the tank, the nurses words remaining in your head. You gave her a small nod as she walked away, looking back at the both of them.

JJ turned to you, flipping you and John B off. You smiled, flicking him off right back.

“I need a drink.” You murmured to yourself when you walked out of the hospital, walking down the steps and hearing John B debrief on the couple.

“While we wait, I say we go back to Genrette’s, and demand cash for this amulet.” Pope spoke animatedly, holding it tightly wrapped in his hands. “I don’t know about you guys, but after all we’ve been through, I think we’re owed a lot more than 50k.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “Hell yeah, Pope. That’s what I’m talking about. I like it.”

“Yeah, you’ve been hanging out with JJ and Y/n too much.”

“I’m just saying, whatever dude is hiding from us is worth a lot more than 50k. We need to go see him. Now.”

“Hey, Pope, listen buddy..” John b spoke, walking over to him, wrapping his arm over his shoulder. “I think that’s a damn good idea.”

Taglist:

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[thesirencult]

Your Shadow. Messages from the darkest part of your soul.

a reading by @thesirencult

Sidenote: Personal readings are now open! One question for $11.

Pile 1

4 Of Cups, 5 Of Cups, Justice

You are not that familiar with your shadow, on the other hand, she knows everything about you. She knows how you get pessimistic at times and doubt your own power and God's ability to create a powerful being, you. She knows that you refuse to try hard enough and then blame the law of attraction and all those bloggers and tarot readers for filling your head up with positive bullsh*t. She also knows that you don't want to know her. You cry over spilt milk and the same old stories, never looking around to see that the world has changed and evolved, yet, you refuse to change.

I want you to remember this: Thoughts=Perception=Vision=Action. Your thoughts create a web, behind which you look at the world and that becomes your vision. According to your perception and vision for the future you take action. If your perception is fragmented and your thoughts troubled, then the vision will be blurred and you won't take action or the action you will be taking could further harm you. Doubting that you can transmute negativity to positivity will keep you stuck and it does you no justice. It offends your shadow, how could you think that you are weak when you have such a powerful shadow. Our shadow is analogous to our potential light.

I know that you're feeling jaded. At times you think "Why am I even trying?" Your shadow is the part of you that feels overlooked by the Universe and by Fate. Life has been unjust to you. At the same time, you are well equipped as the Higher Forces wouldn't be sending you all those challenges if you didn't have all the skills and the strength to sail through the rough seas. Don't take for granted your abilities, it's like taking for granted absolute gold. Stop being passive and not taking action then being sad you never see results. Stop sticking with something long enough to see the first waves crushing your spirit and then bailing out, hurting your self esteem and reinforcing the idea that you'll never make it through, thus satisfying your ego! Sweetness, how could you make it through if you don't try to ride the waves?

Facing regret and coming to terms with the fact that what is lost is lost will help you. Taking responsibility for your actions and doing the best you can with what you have will also build your character and show you how capable you are at withstanding storms. Cause and effect is everywhere in the Universe, we can not expect to avoid it, we can only hope that we learn how to work with the energies to make the most out of it.

Pile 2

Queen Of Pentacles, 8 Of Cups, The Tower

Aha! I caught you sneaky little shadow! Be honest Pile 2, how much fun are you having with your Shadow, because you guys are basically eachother's soulmates. You are one of those rare people who have no issues with their shadow. It has made her sympathize with you and actually side with you. At times you let her consume you and that can scare you.

Your shadow, is beautiful. It thrives in chaos and unpredictability. There are times that those cracks in your personal matrix let you see something brighter than what you thought was behind the curtain. It scares you that even though you are tired of shifting and surviving through crises, at the same time you crave the beauty of the deconstruction. You like the pandemonium and the darkness. You like it when your shadow takes the wheel and lets you sit back and relax while enjoying the embers of the wildfire. These type of events let you display your creative potential.

Your shadowy side is the one who craves control and abundance. Wealth and status, while at the same time despises order and surface level interactions. She doesn't like to kiss up to anyone. She is independent and powerful. She doesn't care what others say. She wants to help you see that these parts can be intergrated with your lighter side to make you unstoppable.

Inner voices, echoing your parental figures' limiting beliefs stop you from reaching your true potential. Your shadow feels rage. She wants to burn everything to the ground and rebuilt it again. She wants to be independent cause, duh! there is no one to rely on. You are the parentified child, aren't you? The one stuck in survival, never feeling quite at home, yet craving safety, no, desperately needing safety and hanging on to what's left off from the fire. This is your soul, a master at thriving through chaos destined to crave stability.

Something else I'm seeing is that you think taht you don't deserve to rise up and hold a certain status or position socially or professionally. You say "This is not meant for someone like me." You rush through interactions and the pleasures of life. Never stopping to smell the flowers and regulate your nervous system and root chakra. A warm and charitable soul, made to feel not enough and made to think that they have to enable others' ugly behaviour to be accepted, that they have to mother everyone and excuse all offending words, because "hurt people hurt people, but I'm not hurting, I'm strong enough!"

Strength doesn't have to equal suffering. You don't have to suffer to prove how strong you are. You need to realize that what will help you evolve is to invest in your own self and take a chance to spoil the little kid inside of you.

Self imposed fears are blocking your momentum. You tend to avoid anyone who shows they appreciate you and shed light to your brilliance, while at the same time you hang around those who reinforce the belief you are not enough. You have the potential to be am abundant person in all aspects, don't le your potential fo to waste.

At this moment, you are more empowered than ever before. You deserve much more than what you've been settling for. Your shadow trait is that you want to feel appreciated, seen and spoiled by someone and that's more than okay! You are able to transmute weakness into power. Realize that wanting love is not a weakness, it's a strangth. We live in a world where it's considered a weakness to crave partnership and appreciation. We shame the need for external validation, yet your safety cushion it's just that: your internal validation system is "broken", as you are a high achiever with big goals and objectively better at reaching those heights than others, yet you are less satisfied by your results. This enables you to work more on yourself, your shadow and towards your desires but at the same time you are your own harshest critic. This goes against many self-help books you will come across but, please, focus on how others see you, especially those that shower you with compliments, as they see the real you and your brilliance, while you only see the shadow!

Another thing that you do is that your prefered method of escapism is that you take more time than it is necessary to reach goals, work on yourself or isolate, thinking that you have not done enough and you do not trust yourself and your brilliance. This happens because you are prone to falling for a cognitive bias something similar to the "anchoring effect": you rely too heavily on the first piece of information, in your case feedback, you have received. You have anchored yourself to old stories and you make subsequent jidgements and decisions based on those first experiences. This is a slippery slope and it also leads me to a form of moral disengagement you might have notice din yourself. You let yourself dissolve your boundaries more and more when it comes to others and you let your negative thoughts and self-image influence more and more your decisions through this negative loop.

Give yourself some grace. I want to help you open a positive loop, so I will leave you with this: You deserve love, beauty, nice things and walks with your soulmate at sunset. You deserve the last piece of cake and the first spoonful of ice-cream. You deserve kisses in the rain and smiling until your cheeks hurt by the fire with the love of your life. Cheers to a new era, where you don't let old stories dictate your future.