#this is not to say that if you don’t enjoy things anymore you’re depressed

[yelenadelova]

I thought the fact that I lost interest in all the things I used to enjoy was just me maturing…surprise it was actually depression!

[zombienarc]

-

[cherry-leclerc]

don’t lock the door ☆ cs55

genre: fluff, humor, smut, angst, thriller/suspense, mentions of depression, mentions of suicide, mentions of homicide, erotic literature, tragedy

word count: 9k

An oleander is beautiful—yet deadly. You’re beautiful—yet deadly. But Carlos has always been gentle, and has always known how to take care of things he loves. And even if he doesn’t, he’s willing to learn, just for you. But you can’t outrun secrets. Not when they have everything to do with the only thing he adores—you.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+... fingering, riding, car sex

STOP AND READ:

The story you are about to read is not meant to be admired or looked up to. Regularly, the types of fics that I like to present to all of you are light, humorous, and sweet. While I feel that this story does have occasional glimpses of that, it also deals with heavy topics such as; suicide, depression, and homicide. At the end of the day, I care about all my readers, so if any of you feel like this is not something for you then you are always welcomed to head over to my masterlist for much lighter reads. You all know me by now, so you must know that sometimes I like to mix a story of traditional love with a dash of real life struggles, such as trauma and guilt, in this case. With that, I hope you enjoy word for word.

cherry here!...did you miss me????

Tension is normally one’s enemy. It’s fairly simple, you try your best to avoid what makes your skin crawl. Isn’t that how the story goes?

Not quite. 

There’s tension, yes, but it's only because you’re the opposite sex. Nothing beyond that. It could also be because you’re both introduced to each other as a pair of miserable singles. Lewis is the person you share in common.

She’s a close friend, he proclaims as you two shake hands. The touch is sticky, just like hot glue— and for a minute—it feels like a knife cuts this invisible strain in half. He lets himself salivate over your lioness stare; dark, sharp, amorous. You lean towards him just the same; dominant, mature, suggestive.

I’ve seen you race.

He hums, still attached to your desirable touch. Yeah? Why haven’t I seen you then?

Fingers press sternly against his warm skin, as if to provoke him more than he already feels himself falling into. It should be alarming the way his mind slips into a frenzy because of it, but likes it. The rush. 

Maybe because I wasn’t rooting for you.

There. Right then, he disconnects. I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case.

You grin. Well, now you know. 

“You know what? Mingle—”

“Who says mingle?” you and Carlos question at the same time, judgemental eyes staring coldly. 

Lewis blushes. “I-I-Is that not a thing anymore?” Silence. “Fuck, I really am getting old...”

The night consists of mimosas, because according to you, it reminds you of your late-mother. “She liked something fruity, but also fun enough to make her head spin. It was entertaining to watch.”

“How so?”

“She’d ramble on and on. Slurred about her dreams.” A sad smile. “That’s the only reason why I ever found out she wanted to become an author. She was fifty—five decades too old—but she said she wanted one last adventure before retiring. It didn’t even matter if she made it onto the New York Times Best Seller list.”

The way your eyes even out, round and almost doughy, makes him trip for a second because this is not the same girl he shook hands with nearly three hours ago. No, this version of you was almost childlike, but he supposes that's how everyone who loses a parent becomes. 

It comes out shy—closed off—your laugh. As if you just caught yourself being too vulnerable. That was always the worst. “Look at me making you my therapist. I have got to stop doing that.” 

His mouth opens lamely, ghostly scoff sitting upon his lips. And if it were to be released, it wouldn’t hurt your feelings. It was a weird thing to note. “I like hearing you talk.”

A beat. “We’ve only just met.”

Carlos grins, crinkles tracing the corner of his eyes like some beauty. “Then let's meet some more.”

The opportunity is there, the kind you’ve been looking for. With a sheepish smile, you nod. “I should warn you though, I’m a bit of a mess.”

Finally, the scoff escapes. And like envisioned, you laugh at the sound.

“Consider me warned.”

-

He fucked you that same night in the back of his car. It was late, so dark that you barely even had the chance to register the fact that you squirted all over his vintage Ferrari. 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he pants as he snaps his hips up again, fast motion making you head loll bad. You wonder what he means, but as soon as his long fingers circle your swollen bud, you’re just as good as gone.

He asked you out an hour later, when he dropped you off right in front of your apartment. You happily accepted, unable to hide your excitement. 

Your smile falters. “Give me a reason as to why I should say yes.”

“Um, well, you sort of already said…yes?”

The confusion that settles onto his handsome features makes you glow with satisfaction. “I could always change my mind. Pretend this night never even happened.”

Panic rushes harshly against his shoulders. He doesn’t even know why he cares so much, but he does. 

Vulnerability is a bitch. 

“Huh,” he hums, relaxing against his seat, head hitting the expensive cushion. And you can see it. The challenge. He clicks his tongue, bored all of a sudden. “Listen, I want you, but I certainly don’t need you.”

You realize right there and then—you met your match. 

You realize right there and then—you two share the same green pride. 

You realize right there and then—

“It was nice getting to know you.” 

-

The only reason you’re even friends with someone like Lewis is because your mother married rich.

Filthy fucking rich. 

Then, somehow, married richer by her third and last marriage. The man was twisted, but you never knew just how much. Not for a very long time. 

He dabbled in stocks, or some boring shit like that, and later invested in some other crap. Somewhere along the line, you met the Brit. 

The same Brit who now hisses at you through the phone. 

“God damn it, what happened? Weren’t you two getting along?”

You sigh, rubbing your feet together as you admire the way the navy blue paint covers your pedicured nails. Stormy clouds match your mood as you shake the bottle of pills that lay on top of your desk. 

“He’s too vain.”

He groans. “You my dear, dear friend, are looking into a mirror then, I suppose.”

A sharp gasp. “Are you insinuating I’m the same?”

“If the shoe fits…”

“May I remind you that you sit and stare at yourself for God knows how long before any race? Newflash, dickhead, you’re going to sweat, look like shit, and one out of ten times, you’re going to win.”

“I see I triggered something.” He sighs heavily. The sound tells you he’s not really upset or anything, but more so worried. Ever since she died, you’ve been that way. 

Snappy. Defensive. 

“Hey, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. I know you.” 

And although he can’t see, you still smile fondly. Rattling the bottle of antidepressants, you inch up higher and higher onto your chair until you face your own reflection. Shattered glass stares back at you as you feverishly look down. 

“Do you still have an extra pass to this weekend's race?”

-

There had to be something wrong with you. Everyone could tell, and quite frankly, you could agree. Would you admit to it out loud? No, now that’s something different. Or maybe you’re just odd. That would also make sense. Whatever it was, it would explain as to why everyone around you screams with excitement as the fast cars fly by. You, on the other hand, simply stare with straight lips and empty eyes.

While all clap cheerfully when Lewis finishes on the third step, you cross your arms. While everyone runs out of the Mercedes garage to declare front row, you drag your feet slowly to the last. 

While Carlos makes eye contact as he lifts his trophy—notably bigger than the Brits—you yawn.

You’re not impressed.

She’s not impressed, the Spaniard remembers thinking to himself as he smiles wider towards the stacks of cameras that turn him temporarily blind. He selfishly thinks you’re here for him, but he knows that's straight bullshit. Truth be told, it didn’t seem like you were here to support your friend either.

“It’s been so long,” Lewis huffs in disbelief as you stare across with vacant eyes. To him, you’re simply jetlagged. “Can you believe it?”

An exhale. “You did good.” Extending your legs outward, you admire the black tiles that shine back brighter than if it were to be white. “Drinks. On me.”

The Brit laughs. “Deal.”

-

Somewhere close by, they play jazz. 

“Pretty,” you softly speak as you connect your lips to the glass. The live band sways back and forth, only adding to the charm you seem to like. And you like it a lot. “Dance with me.”

Lewis snickers. “I love you to death, but I’m gonna have to go with no.”

You frown. “Come on. I never ask you for anything.”

“You were born with a golden spoon and have used retinol since you were ten, you’re not allowed to ask for anything when you’ve already had everything.”

“Yeah…well not this.” You’re secretly envious of every lady in the room. The way they beam with sincere smiles at their husbands. Boyfriends? Flings? Affairs? Who cares honestly, you were jealous nonetheless. 

The Mercedes driver watches as your fingers lazily tap against your lap, as if signaling you’re free. Guilt slithers down his neck as he sighs in defeat. “Fi–”

“Nice seeing you two here.”

Lewis wants to cry with utter thankfulness as Carlos inches closer with a lousy grin. “Hey! Oh God—hey.” You blink. “Wh-what are you doing here? Not that I’m complaining, of course, because I’m not.”

The Spanirad shrugs. “I won. Wanted to celebrate, I suppose.” Brown eyes flicker towards you like thunder and suddenly you feel naked under his gaze. You swallow. “You look nice.”

And there it is again—tension.

He cocks his head to the side, almost as if waiting for a compliment of your own. Instead, he finds himself being ignored. Crossing your legs, you lift the empty glass up as the bartender hurries for a refill. 

Finally, Lewis speaks up. “I think I’m gonna hit the hay—”

“Who says hay?” you and the brunette spit out with snarkiness. You bite back a smile while he releases a chuckle. 

The Brit stands up, chugging the rest of his drink as he waves you two off. “I’m not that old,” he shouts as he turns the corner and disappears. 

Carlos takes the time to catch up on your appearance. Last time he saw you, you had longer hair, now it appears you’ve had a trim. He likes it. You were slightly tanner, but now appear a shade lighter. It could just be because it’s winter. It's nice seeing other versions of you. 

“So, how have you be—”

“Why are you still here?”

He freezes. It takes him a while to find the strength to open his mouth. 

“We never finished our conversation.”

-

He didn’t fuck you that night, no, he took you dancing. And maybe that’s why it worked this time around. Instead of taking the time to learn all the different types of moans you have, he took the time to learn all about your upbringing. 

I learned how to bike when I turned six. Had severe trust issues for a year, so I tried again when I was seven.

That must be where your scars are from, he thinks to himself, but he finds them endearing.

I like long hair, I find it beautiful, but as soon as it’s starting to grow out I think it looks too weird on me. 

That must be why your hair is shorter than he remembers, but he loves it. Has the urge to run his fingers through.

My favorite movie is How Harry Met Sally, but quite frankly, I don't find Harry attractive at all, so I never really understood why Sally settled down with him after so long.

And you’re honest. Brutally honest. And he finds that attractive.

“How about you, Mr. Singapore?”

I learned how to kart before I learned how to bike, actually. I, too, have scars on my hands from small crashes. 

You blush as you hide yours beneath your coat. 

I have two sisters, so I mainly learned how to dance because of them. I hated it at the time, but now I’m quite grateful.

Is it possible to swoon harder?

And I don’t have a favorite film, necessarily, but I’ve watched How Harry Met Sally, and I would agree. Sally was too good looking for him. 

You have to laugh. “Is that so?”

He smiles. “The name Harry sounds so…” He winks cooly before running a hand through his locks. You giggle. “He looks more like a Bob.”

“Oh my God! Could you imagine? How Bob Met Sally?” You pause. “Wait, that actually doesn’t sound half bad…”

He chews on his bottom lip slowly, nodding in agreement. Silence engulfs you two as you stare at each other with round eyes. He’s the first to crack a loopy grin and you quickly follow with a sheepish one. Then, it vanishes and he’s left looking like he swallowed a frog.

“Listen, about last time…”

“Long forgotten.”

He halts, almost surprised by your response. “No, no, there’s no need to pretend, I was a—”

“Jerk?”

The Spaniard rolls his eyes. “Great, so you haven’t forgotten.”

You shrug. “I’m a girl. We remember everything.”

“Got it,” he declares. “Ask me again.”

Now it’s your turn to freeze. “What?”

“Ask me why you should say yes to a date with me.”

“You don’t have to do this, we’re good—”

“I know we are, but I still want you to ask.”

You lick your lip anxiously before relaxing your stiff shoulders. He tilts his head as if urging you and you nod. “Why should I say yes to you?”

Satisfaction settles. “Because you like a good challenge.” He leans closer. “And isn't that what this is?”

-

Carlos Sainz Jr. was made for you.

“Leave me alone,” you scream, veins throbbing, as you rush past him, heading towards the guest room. You’re glad his parents aren’t home at the moment because Lord knows the embarrassment you would feel.

“No. Not until you talk to me.” As simple as that. Your eyes twitch as you turn back, then bring your hands up to your hips. He adores it when you do that, though he probably shouldn’t right now.

“You want to talk?” You let out an unhinged scoff. “Oh, would you look at that, he wants to talk! Now he wants to talk. Well guess what, fuckhead—I don’t.” 

With that, you march out into the balcony. His eyes follow the way you light up a cigarette. The way you drink the last drops of champagne that linger in the bottle gifted to you by his mother. 

She was kind. She was beautiful. She didn’t deserve someone being this mean to her son.

You barely recognize him because of how blurry your vision is, but his scent does it. Musky. Woody. Calm. 

He hands you the familiar pill, then a glass of water. He rushes the champagne away, then takes the cigarette and squashes it against the cold floor. He doesn’t so much call you out for being a lunatic, for upsetting his dogs with all your yelling, or for pushing him. No, he doesn’t do any of that. And you have never been more in love with him than now.

“I know I can be a bit much sometimes…” A sniffle. “I swear I try to catch onto it so you don’t have to deal with any of this, but—”

“You don’t mean it.” He tangles his fingers through your hair as you sob. And it’s soft despite spending the entire day near the ocean. It feels silky. He’s obsessed. “I know you.”

-

You were made for Carlos Sainz Jr.

“How do I look?” 

“Like an angel.” He swears he turns bright red when you blow him a kiss. “Your name must’ve been Bonita in another life because look at you…” A hand flies up to clutch onto his heart as he makes a face. “Though, I must say, you do know how to make me look bad.”

You giggle. “Oh? This old thing? I thrifted it. Nice, eh?”

He groans. “Very, but you’re supposed to be rooting for Spain.” A gag. “Not Italy.”

You frown. “That's all I had. Plus, you’re basically Italian given your working status.”

“No, amor, they pay me to like Italy. It’s a cover up, think about it.”

You huff, popping your hip outward. “Still. I like it, so I’m wearing it while cheering for the opposite team.”

“Always over complicating things.” He laughs. “Can’t say I’m surprised, you’re a complicated person.”

A deadpan expression. “Suck your own dick.”

“Oi, relax.”

Spinning to face the mirror, you fix your jersey one last time before skipping out the door, tube socks sliding as you go. The Spaniard lets out a dreamy sigh. 

Were you flawless? Not at all.

Were you put together? Not without a prescription.

But he loved figuring it all out with you. And that’s called love.

-

You’re in the middle of a rampage, during dinner. While everyone stares at you puzzled, he simply laughs at your cartoon expressions. 

“I mean, I offered!” A pout. “I clearly stated I could get the cap signed for her and she gave me the nastiest, ugliest, dirty-looking glare! I for sure thought her face was permanently damaged.” You relax against the chair, your shaky hand finding its way to your water bottle. “Like sorry for riding your favorite driver…”

Charles laughs nervously. “I don’t think that was a necessary thing to include…” 

You shrug, raising your brows over to your boyfriend who struggles to breathe. 

The conversation flows easily, like most nights you're all together, but this time there’s a minor bump. You’ve been good about it; avoiding the question for so long. Over the course of time, you’ve managed to be so mendacious, that truly no one knew the truth. Not even Carlos.

“I hope it’s not overstepping, but how did your mum pass?”

He means no harm, Lando, but you just wish so badly that you could believe that. While Carlos and Lewis were the closest thing you have to a family nowadays, even they knew not to ask. You never laid the rules out loud, but they could tell it was an unwanted topic to have on your behalf, no matter how curious they got. 

All of a sudden, your mood deteriorates. The look in Lando’s eyes makes sure to strike off as an apology, but you’re so busy looking down onto your lap that you don’t even pinpoint the meaning. The table grows awkward as time ticks by. 

No one has the power to change the subject, save you the same way doctors tried to save your mother—because they, too—wonder. 

You gulp, feeling small, but far too seen at the same time. It was confusing. “She, um…her last husband…” Everyone feels bad, like you’re some limping puppy, zigzagging down an empty highway, but remain quiet. Then, you look up, stone cold but the tip of your rosy nose and blotchy face is enough reassurance that you still have a beating heart.

“Husband number three strangled her to death.”

You say it like you don’t care. Like it hasn’t affected you at all, and that makes Carlos blink twice as fast as everyone else in the table. A droplet makes its way down your cheek as you let out a light laugh. 

“I guess he thought he was some Superior God who had a say in cutting her time short.”

They all freeze. 

“I am so sorry for asking—” 

“I didn’t need to respond.” You smile lamely. “It’s fine, Lando.”

But it’s not, not even close. They ripped the confession out of your throat, at least that’s what it felt like. No one stepped up, no one said anything. 

Your eyes flicker to the only man who makes your heart speed. 

He reaches for your hand and you grip it hard.

No one said anything.

Not. Even. Carlos.

-

You’ve always excelled at holding a grudge. It came fairly simple. 

But as you stare at him through the screen, for the first time—and only the first time—you struggle. Maybe it’s his puppy eyes that betray you, or his gentleness anytime he steps near you, you don’t really know. 

And you don’t want to.

“I was thinking mariscos.”

Hair flies past your eyes as you squint. He looks particularly handsome today, wearing a linen shirt that drapes over him like some silver armor. Long waves brush against his temples as he returns the squint, slightly smiling at your lips. 

“Sounds good to me.”

Soft music roams the isolated restaurant that almost seemed to belong to just you two, and that helps you relax. You could tell it helps him too. 

“The car felt good today.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, biting onto a piece of shrimp. “Felt like I was flying.”

You let out a whistle. There’s a comfortable silence that lingers for a while before you raise a brow up to the open sky. “Hey,” you start as his orbs flicker up with all the attention in the world. “Do you believe in angels?”

A moment. “I’d say so, yes. Yes, I do.”

Hum. “You sound freakishly sure.” You inch forward with teasing eyes. “Why?”

“Easy.” Chocolate orbs swirl with adoration. “There’s you.”

“I don’t count.”

He frowns. “And why not?”

“Because you love me, of course you’d say that only to be nice.”

“I say so because I know so.”

“Love is blind, love is blind,” you chant, sipping on his open can.

A second ticks by. “Why do you ask?”

And like the first night he met you, your eyes merge into doe eyes. “Because I do.” A sheepish grin. “And sorry to disappoint, but it’s not you.” 

“What’s his name?” he jokes.

But you’re not even listening. “My mom was pure. She was a good person, Carlos.” A beat. “She’s my forever angel.”

His heart physically hurts at your glossy eyes, immediately reaching for your hands. “You must really miss her…”

A wet laugh. “Is there a word stronger than ‘really’? If there is, then that would be one way to say it.”

And he has to apologize, even if it’s seven days too late. 

“I’m sorry for not stepping in that night. I-I-I should have said something and you should have said nothing.” Thick brows knit in together. “You don’t know how shitty I felt, but—”

“You wanted to know as well.”

The way his features freeze is enough confirmation. And you can't be mad. Not even a little. Not even a lot. 

“That doesn’t make you a bad person, Carlos. I should have been more open and honest with you first.” A gust of hot air slaps you across the face. “I tend to shut out people like you because…I don’t know.”

“Vulnerability is a bitch?”

You laugh. “That’s one way to say it.” Orbs scan his beauty with no shame before falling back. “You still have plenty of questions, don’t you?”

“O-of course not.”

Another laugh. “It’s okay. You caught me in a good mood. Go on.”

He’s awkward at first, but slowly eases with the sound of your breathing. “Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

“Because he’s a multi-billionaire.”

He gulps and you blink. “Why haven’t you sued?”

“Because I’m not a multi-billionaire.”

“So…he did a cover up with a wad of cash?”

“Mhm. No one dared ask whose hand shaped bruise was imprinted in her neck.”

He’s caught off guard by your bluntness, but he knows he needs this because he knows it will keep him up the same ways it’s kept him up since that god forbidden dinner. 

“This was the cause of your…” He doesn’t even want to finish his sentence.

“Depression…yeah. Losing someone you love will do that to ya.”

But he wants to ask—he wants to ask more because he knows there has to be more. He’s lost people he loves too—and he loved them very much—and he never got this way. In a flash, he feels guilty for comparing his healing process to yours but quickly looks down onto his lap. 

And the hot summer rain is enough warning for him not to question you any further. 

The Spaniard shares a grateful smile. “Thank you for trusting me. To take care of you, and all t-that,” he stutters, blushing.

“I love you, Carlos.” A beat. “I’ve always trusted you. The only person I don’t trust is myself.”

-

“Be quiet,” she hisses, urgently signaling you closer. “And make sure to shut the door.”

Confused, you hesitantly push until you hear a click. Inching closer to your mom, you slowly become more and more lost as you eye the scattered papers all over your step-dads office table. “What is all this?”

Color drains from her normally youthful face. Even the brightest shade of red can’t help add life. “Proof of embezzlement.”

“What?”

She slides stacks of black folders towards you and you quickly flip through, to which you don’t understand a single thing. “He’s stealing money, that’s what. We’re not talking thousands, we’re talking millions,” she whispers frantically before growing green. “Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Okay, okay, hold on, you’re okay.” Rushing to be next to her, you clumsily tie her hair up into a messy ponytail before fanning her with the white sheets. You wince, quickly placing them back down. “How did you even come across this?”

Just as fast as a lighting bolt, she spins the chair. “I’m starting my book—” She gags, “I was supposed to start today, but I came in here looking for his typewriter. You know, the one with the tiny cherubs?” Across the office, you spot it, the tiny angels delicately painted onto the infamous typewriter. You nod. “Well, I started to search for some paper and instead found all of this…”

Even you grow dizzy as you eye the infinite zero’s that jump out against all types of sums. That’s not even enough to spend in ten lifetimes. It was no wonder he just recently made it onto The Forbes list. Her eyes—honest as ever—make you panic as you twirl your thumbs. “Wait…you’re not thinking of confronting him about it, are you?”

“I have to.” Pause. “Right?”

No. You don’t want her to. Not in any scenario. It’s taken you both so long to reach the life you deserve, and now that you were finally here it’s about to be ripped away from you? Your lack of words makes her glare. 

“I don’t know why I’m asking you, I have to! It’s the right thing to do.”

Adrenaline. “Mom, just think about it—”

“I did not raise you to be avaricious,” she spits out, fire practically fuming out of her.  You flinch. “I’m going to talk to him.”

“Y-you’re right.” There goes all your money down the drain. “I’m with you no matter what.” 

Knock knock.

Like mother-daughter, you both freeze as your eyes flicker to the sound. 

“Angelica, are you in there?”

You never liked the name Angelica. Not on anyone else that wasn’t your Angelica. 

Running over to open, she finds herself face-to-face to Lucifer himself as he cocks his head in humor. “Locking me out of my own office now?” He enters. “Fun.” Dark eyes roam the messy area. “Fun.”

Her eyes plead with you in a language only you both knew, but never did you mean to obey. You wanted to stay with her—something told you to stay with her. 

“Honey, give us some privacy, yeah?”

“U-uh…” He winks like that was the go-ahead. Like that was the last permission you needed to agree. And maybe it was. 

Deep down it’s almost like you knew he had sinister intentions. Deep down it’s almost like you knew he was capable of committing those sinister intentions. 

Deep down. 

It’s like you don’t even care.

You smile, tight lipped. “Whatever you need.”

You heard the argument that night, you heard the threats. You heard her pleads, you heard her chokes. You could only imagine what was going on inside, but you were your mothers daughter. You could imagine quite a lot. 

She could’ve been an author—with his resources she might just have hit the New York Times Best Seller list. She could have been a grandmother one day—surely your kids would have lived a luxurious life. 

She could have been obedient. Why wasn’t she obedient? Was it so hard to brush it all under the rug?

He was sweating, just as much as a pig. Or maybe he’s glowing, he is smiling after all. Here and there he apologizes in a lousy manner, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was—

“How much money am I gonna get to keep?”

He’s intrigued. “How much do you want?”

“Enough to not have to worry.” You can still see it; cramped rooms, tin canned meals on paper plates. You could never go back.

An eye roll. “You’re just like her…” A beat. “Fucking greedy.” You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks. You’re embarrassed—-of course you were—who is he to judge? He sighs. “No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“It means I’m not transferring you anything. I want you out of this house no later than Sunday.”

Plump lips open, then snap shut, teeth gritting. “I’ll tell everyone that you’re a murderer. You’ll lose it all, w-watch.”

He’s not phased. Not even in the slightest. “And who’s going to believe you? Tell me, really, because I’d like to know.”

Fuck him for having everything. Fuck him for having everything. Fuck him for having everything.

And fuck yourself for having nothing at all—again.

Months swept by, the death was ruled a suicide, and antidepressant became your loyal friend. There was no one else, and sometimes you feared there would always be no one else. 

Then—by some miracle—there was Carlos.

He was handsome. He was shy. He was sweet. He was kind.

He was rich.

You played hard to get, but so did he. You played the long haul, but so did he. You were a fantastic liar, but he was an ever better believer.

And it all clicked.

Just the way it was supposed to.

-

You’ve been accustomed to a certain lifestyle for years now, but somehow you’re always surprised about the sudden boost you’ve switched to ever since you’ve met him.

Chanel heels turned into red bottoms. Last season dresses turned into those that were not yet  released. You loved everything about it.

“You look so beautiful, cariño,” he groans against your lips, desperate for more. His large hands play with the silky fabric, fighting to slide it up against your hips. You shudder. “I mean…come on.”

“Hey, hey—that’s sweet and all—” You push yourself closer to his toned body, immediately feeling his erection. You nearly whimper.  “But why don’t you fuck me instead?” A kiss. “You missed me, no?”

And instead—he whimpers. “How dare you even ask?” 

With that, he picks you up with ease, pinning you against the wall. You’re dizzy, because unbeknownst to him, he’s casted a spell on you. Never did you think you could fall in love, much less, have someone reciprocate. 

Tender fingers make their way to your clit as you lunge forward, biting down onto his shoulder. It should amaze you how he holds you up with one arm, but you’re not. If anything, you leak more and more by every passing second. 

His dirty pants make you fold as you clench around him. The way they curl, the way they pulse, all of it was your kryptonite. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” you squeal, keeping your eyes trapped shut, feeling the familiar knot forming. He grins, pecking your sweaty forehead, digits speeding up. Berry lips form an O as you moan louder with every push.”I-I’m c-c-close—oh God.”

“Shh. It’s okay, let go for me, yeah? I’m right here with you.” 

Gritting your teeth harder, you moan like some pornstar as you finish all around him. Almost like some rule, he desperately sucks his fingers clean. The Spaniard hums like he’s living his biggest dream of all before opening his round eyes. 

“So sweet.”

You blush. “Yours tastes like shit.”

He laughs. “And yet you beg for me to finish all over your face, isn’t that so?”

Nearly choking at his bluntness, you fight back a smile as you play with his floppy locks. They’ve grown so much from the last time you saw him, so this was certainly eye candy to you. He sighs, relaxing as you continue to twirl thick strands around your fingers.

Soft legs still drape over his waist, hands still lay around your waist, and even breathing connects you both. Carlos feels like he’s nearly dozing off, but his hand remains firm, preferring to take a bullet than to let you fall. 

You like to think that you like his lashes the best. But then there’s his eyes. And his nose. And his heart. And his lips. And his hands. And his sculpture body. And his jokes. And his laugh. And his freckles. So you never could choose, not truly.

Inching closer to his ear, you smirk slowly. “Wanna fuck my mouth?”

His eyes snap open, jaw clenching. “You’re such a tease.”

A shrug. “Want to or not?” You bite your lip, legs letting go of his hips as you slide down. “Because this offer ends in five…” He raises a skeptical brow. “Four…” You motion him closer to which he steadily follows. “Three…” He laughs. “Two, one!”

Sprinting up the stairs in a flash, you giggle as he chases after you. The sound of his steps make your heart beat faster as you jump onto your shared bed. Rushing past the corner, he cocks his head to the side as he clicks his tongue. Stepping into the room carefully, he swung the door closed before locking it. You frown.

“Reassures me that no one will walk in.”

“No one will walk in,” you whisper as your stomach drops. “There’s no need t-to—”

“No, yeah, you’re right,” he agrees, taking in your breathless state. “But I prefer it this way. Just you.” A closer stride. “And me.”

Palms are sweaty. Blood slithers down your throat and thighs. And yet your freeze. You feel hot and cold, all at once. You don’t like the feeling, any of it, but you try to ignore the inner monologue. 

“You look stunning,” he states, finally reaching you. “You always do.”

Your speeding heart lessens. “T-thank you.” 

A beat. “You’re not nervous—are you?”

Hastily, you shake your head. “N-no! Of course not!”

Thick brows knit together. “Because you normally aren’t.” His smile fades. “W-we don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to, you know that right?”

Physically, you’re cringing. Mentally, you’re spiraling. The act itself makes the Spaniard withdraw, taking a steady step back and shaking his head. Panic rises fast as you crawl closer to him, reaching the end of the bed. 

“I just have a lot on my mind, but I want this.” A beat. “I want you.”

It’s as if you’re a blank sheet of paper, blinking up at Carlos with such innocence. So much so, it makes his heart stop. He looks for reassurance, which you give him, and he looks for it again, which you give again without hesitance. 

“Come on, Carlitos…” you slowly whisper, batting your eyes. “I know you’ve missed my mouth.”

If you weren’t so breathtaking, if you weren’t so seductive, if you weren’t so goddamn tempting then surely turning you down wouldn’t be an issue. By alas, you’re here—and even better—you’re all his. 

“Eres un sueño.” It seems like an eternity passes by before he finally steps close to you once again, getting rid of whatever distance you ever had. Like it was never meant to be there to begin with. “Can I kiss you first?”

It’s sweet that he feels the need to build up to fucking you sore, but sweet nonetheless. That’s one thing you love about him—and there’s a lot to choose from—his respect towards you. Smiling warmly, you extend your arm, inviting him like an angel before he smashes his lips against you like the devil.

The contrast. It’s just what you needed.

“God, I fucking love you.” 

“I—” His lips press harsher as he continues marking his territory. All of it was making your head spin like a rollercoaster. “I love you too,” you manage to spit out as he makes his way down. You blush. “I-I-I sort of wanted to…”

He blinks. “Sort of what?”

“Well, you know…” You point towards his hardened cock. 

And he actually snickers. “Cat got your tongue today or what, bella?”

A groan. “You’re so fucking annoying—”

“No, no, no,” he cuts in with a whistle. “By all means, go ahead.”

Desperate hands crazily reach out towards his belt in a nanosecond. You should be ashamed how hopeless you are, but you don’t find enough strength to care. Not when he was looking down at you with hungry eyes. 

“Tan linda,” he whispered underneath his breath. As if you weren’t meant to hear him. As if he can’t quite believe it’s you he gets to keep. This must all be a dream to him, he thinks. 

Just as you’re about to pull his jeans down, large hands get ahold of your wrists. Confused, you look up at him, head tilted and messy hair falling over your shoulder. He grins wickedly. 

“Just one more kiss.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Are you kidding me—”

But his soft lips move with such urgency that you don’t even have time to bitch and moan. Not that you’re trying. You can feel it; the hunger, the lust. The way you run your fingers through his hair, or how he squeezes your ass. In a matter of seconds, the room grows steamy, hot breaths expanding with every peck. It’s as if Carlos was too afraid of being ripped away from you even for a second, scared your lips might change and he wouldn’t know a thing about it.

Not knowing you might be his biggest fear.

It happens without a warning, his grip. You feel it slide slowly up your ribs—you remember thinking how much you like it, how much it tickles. Then it reaches your chest, to which his eager hands squeeze your tits, pathetically moaning into your mouth. You can’t help but giggle, but still not separating. And then…

It reaches your neck.

As soon as he squeezes, your eyesight begins to blur, but he doesn’t notice. Your chest begins to rise and fall at an alarming rate, but he doesn’t notice. And you’re terrified.

But he doesn’t notice.

“Carlos,” you whimper, but he takes it as a good sign, mouth moving with ease. “Carlos, honey…”

“Yeah, baby?” His voice is deep. “You like that?” Large palm squeezes harder. “Bet you do.”

“Okay, stop!” you scream, arms flying like some madman. “Let go of me!”

Panicked, he releases you in a hurry, jumping off of your trembling body. Color drains his face as realization hits him, but it's too late. You’re sobbing hard, shoulders bouncing up and down. The way you crawl back with fear makes his heart break as he shakes his head, running a hand against his jaw.

“Fuck.” More cries. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—I am so sorry, baby…” Desperate eyes stare back at you as you hide your face against your shaky hands. “I’m so fucking stupid. I should have known, I should have known.” Inching closer proves to be a mistake when you leap off the bed, throwing a mountain of pillows like daggers. 

“Stop it,” you demand. “Stay. Right. There.”

He flinches. “Are you afraid of me?”

The laugh that erupts from your throat is unlike the others he’s heard. It’s almost maniacal. It makes his skin grow with goosebumps. “Is that even a question?” Dark mascara runs down your cheeks as you breathe heavily. “You just tried to kill me.”

“No,” he pronounces. “No, you know that that’s not true. I-I-I thought you’d like it!” The glare you flicker is enough for him to wince, pinching the tip of his nose. “I should have known better, okay? Please, just…calm down.”

All your sniffles come to an end as you freeze. “Are you calling me crazy?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my God.” Pushing your hair back, you release a chuckle. “You actually think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, stop putting words into my mouth.”

A scoff. “Okay, wow.” 

He doesn’t have a clue as to how he continues to dig himself into a hole—and yet—here he is. Digging his own grave. Exhaling hard, he licks his lips before looking straight into your glossy eyes. “I love you,” he starts, but you remain as still as a statue. “And I want us to work through this. I want to be able to talk to you, yeah?” A beat. “I’m sorry about…what I did, I should have never done it knowing you’re…traumatized.” 

He’s almost scared to see your reaction, but it never comes. Instead, you blink hastily, as if you’re mortified. 

You should’ve known. You should have figured that karma would catch up to you sooner or later.

I mean, all sins must be paid for, right?

As soon as he starts closing the gap, you’re thumping heart picks right back up. “I just want to talk—”

“No.”

Despite his hurt, he continues his march towards you. “I just want to be near you, please—”

“I said no!” 

It happens almost in the blink of an eye, the sound of glass shattering. He sort of thinks he must’ve imagined it, your hand flying to punch the mirror right besides you, but the gentle blood that oozes out of your hand makes his heart stop. Suddenly, all the scars you have make sense. So much makes sense. 

“Just…stay there, Carlos,” you say, voice trembling, small hand holding out a piece of sharp glass towards him like some wannabe knife. You bite your bottom lip. “Just—there.”

“Cariño…”

“Stop it with that,” you plead, teardrops slipping. “Stop calling me that.”

Somewhere in the shard, he catches his reflection. Half-scared, half-brokenhearted. He doesn’t even know how you two got to this point. 

He gulps. “Okay. I’ll stop, I’ll stop, but please put that down.” You shake your head fast, splotchy cheeks flushing furthermore. Carlos sighs desperately. “Come on—you’re bleeding.”

“I’m used to it by now.”

Tension resurfaces once again between you both as you stare at each other, awaiting for the next challenge. Playing the silent game for a second, curious to see who breaks next. 

“Why did you lock the door?”

He almost laughs. “We always shut the door—”

You raise the blade up higher as you begin to lose patience. Deep down, you know you’re not capable of harming him, but how could you ever let your guard down once again when he tried to strangle you to death?

History almost repeats itself, and you’ll be damned if you ever let it happen.

“You said it, we shut it but we never lock it.” A soft cry. “What were you planning on doing to me, Carlos?”

It’s like a knife to the heart, you’re sudden distrust. The brunette finds himself struggling to breath as he blinks like a lost deer. 

“You know that I would never hurt you. Not on purpose, at least…”

You let out a wet snarl, shaking your head. “I don’t believe you.”

A flinch. “All of this was a mistake and I adore you.”

“You don’t, though,” you protest, the shaky vision intensifying. “If not you wouldn’t have tried to mur—”

“For the last time, I’m not your step-father!” It’s as if he’s finally reached his breaking point, just now. His body is tired. His mind is tired. Everything is just tired of trying. Carlos shrugs lamely. “If you don’t want to believe me…so be it.”

The pain that rains out of him should be enough for you to know that he’s telling the complete truth. He’s a good guy, with pure intentions. He’s not here to get even with you on your mothers behalf. None of what you’re imagining is true.

But you just can’t seem to understand. 

“I don’t believe your lies, alright?” you spit out with deep breaths. You drop the blade, finally. “Open the door.”

With his head hung low, he complies, feet dragging with every step. And finally, with a hand on the knob, he turns to give you one last glance. He can tell you’re holding in your breath and he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. Why it make him feel so much like a monster…

Click. The wooden door swings open as he pushes it gently.

“Now leave.”

A wave of nausea strikes with your words. “Amor—“

“Stop. Don’t even look at me.” Tension. “I don’t want to see you ever again—not even by accident.”

And that was the last stab that ended it all.

-

Every now and then, he wonders how you are. Hopefully better. 

He hears your name mentioned once in a blue moon, but instinctively blocks it out, too disturbed at the thought of what occurred between you two. 

What did occur between you two?

He could take a guess and say that you’re internally fucked. Straight and simple. 

But it’s still annoying. The way he wishes to forget you with every passing birthday wish. 

At first, it was because he missed you. He just wanted to forget you because he missed you—yes.

Later, it was because the memory of the cramped room suffocated him. The sound of glass breaking was stronger than the sound of his car crashing. And somehow the latter seemed better. 

He just wanted to forget that day—yes. 

Staring off into space has been his thing for a long time, often getting called out on it. Now, he finds himself with his eyes closed, too scared that someone might notice his feelings and feel the need to ask if he’s okay. 

He hasn't been. Not since you. 

“Grape or watermelon?”

Popping and eye open, he catches a glance of Lewis before rolling over. “I’m good.”

It’s tough, this silent war between both his friends. The break up simply made this…tough. Especially when no one really knows what happened. 

Setting the electrolytes down, the Brit claims a spot next to the brunette. Groaning at the unwanted company, Carlos switches to sit upright. Brown eyes glare strongly before Lewis laughs it off. 

“How you doin’, bud?”

Great, no yeah, just severely depressed thanks to your so-called friend. Would you mind asking her where she gets her antidepressants from for me? I mean, I would, but last time we saw each other she, uh, I don’t know, tried to stab me? And you know what’s the most fucked up shit? It’s the fact that I still love her just the same. 

I just wanted to help. 

He forces a shy smile. “Fine.”

A pity grimace. “I can tell she misses you, you know?”

Carlos hates how excited the thought of you alone—dreamily sighing for his return—gets him to sit up straighter, suddenly interested. It’s foolish, really. 

“She would never admit it, but I can tell because I know—”

“Her?” The Spaniard lets out a mocking scoff. “Trust me, you don’t. Not entirely.”

That shuts Lewis right up as he sits there, staring blankly. A dark brow furrows. “Listen, I don’t know what happened between you two—not that I need to know—but she’s a good person. And so are you. So…don’t be afraid of reaching out.”

He flickers his brown eyes accusingly. “Why should I? Did she put you up to this?”

“She didn’t—“

But the fact is, the hesitation gives him away. Anger arises as the Spaniard rolls his eyes. “I knew it, God, I knew it!” A second. “I know her.”

The Brit drowns with nervousness as he waves his hands in despair. “She just wants you to apologize!”

A singular laugh. “Apologize for what?” He pauses, squinting at his friend. “She didn’t tell you why we broke up, did she?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t really know who’s fault it was, do you?”

Lewis looks down onto his lap. “No. Not really.”

“Great, then let me be the one to tell you that it was both of ours. I’m no saint but neither is she.”

An award silence lingers as the Spaniards voice echoes the room. Lewis nods. “Understood. I got it, okay?”

He sighs an irregular sigh. “I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t worry about it, man.” A sheepish grin. “It’s not my place to fix anything about your guys’ relationship, I get it.”

Carlos’ face switches to bright red as he nods his head once. “T-thanks.”

The Brit, ever happily, stands up firmly before patting his back. “I’m always here if you need to talk.”

“Gracias.” Lewis is just a few steps away when he clears his throat before he can even stop himself from asking. “How’s she doing?”

It came across almost softer than a mumble, and one might have missed it if not alert, but not Lewis. 

Spinning to face the almost manchild with round eyes, he smiles as bright as the sun, and that makes his stomach turn. Because he knows. He knows you’re doing—

“Really well.”

Fluffy hair falls down as he tilts his head, clicking his tongue. “That’s good.” Sure. He returns the same smile with a twitch. “That’s really good.”

Lewis has known you two for a long time now. He’s unwillingly memorized your ticks. How the right side of your face slightly twitches before every lie, or how the left side of his does the same before every lie. Much like right now. 

The Brit contemplates for a minute, then two, then opens his mouth in the most hesitant manner. 

“She’s moving to Germany.” Carlos freezes. “Only for a few months. Maybe a year, who knows. But…you should read her book.”

He unfreezes. “Her what?”

A faint smile. Eyes crinkled. “It’s a tough read, but I believe it was necessary. You know, to finally talk about it.”

-

He never quite believed you would open up this way, and yet here he was, in an unknown bookstore, spacing out. Your name jumps out like some shooting star, too difficult to ignore. 

Without a doubt, you’d get a lawsuit from your step-father. Of course—you were only dragging the last name of what seemed to be the world's richest man. 

For what it’s worth, Carlos is proud. This must mean you’re open to moving on. To get the necessary help you so desperately need. From start to finish, the pages are enticing. You go into gruesome depth, something you never seemed to have a problem in doing. From the mention of how her eyes remained open with no sign of life, only terror, to the fact that you got your many scars from punching the door, trying to get in on time. How he bribed his way against the laws. 

Everything seemed to be coming out.

So then why, as he sits in his driver's room, staring at your picture in the back of the book, does he feel like doesn’t believe it? 

Not even a generous half.

-

Angelica lived up to the first five letters of her name. 

She was there for you in the moments you needed her the most. She braided your hair for playdates, she tied your shoe laces even when you were too embarrassed to ask, and she worked her way up, making sure you had it all. 

Undeniably, she was one hell of a woman. Then again, she had more within her—pulled some trigger you never thought she’d pull.

You were going to lose it all, why couldn’t she foresee that? That conversation was going to rip your inheritance straight from your tight grip; the one that ensured your future vacations. How could she ever betray you? Her own daughter? 

You were acquisitive. You were possessive. You were partially responsible for her death.

But call it naiveness, you really thought it’d work.

No one will truly know the way your soul left your body when you heard you wouldn’t get a single dollar. Not even a fucking cent. You had to find some other way to stay secure.

But Carlos was out to get you, you just know he was. You don’t have a clue as to how he found out about the truth, about what happened inside that stupid mansion, but he knew it all. And you had to get out of there.

Only it led you back to square one. With no purpose. With no money. Fuck men and their actions, seriously, too all hell with them.

However, you were your mothers daughter at the end of the day.

You could be a writer. An even better one that she could've ever been. If you wanted to, you could do it. 

And that is exactly what you did.

You typed, and typed, and typed until your fingers would cramp up. The multi-billionaire was a leviathan and everyone would see that no matter what. 

You, on the other hand, were an innocent bystander. Too weak to intervene, to fight back. Too young. Yeah. That was what happened that night.

But you also had your own perspective. One your mom could never match.

While she married for the illusion of love, you would’ve married for money with no shame. Carlos just happened to be the luckiest of strikes because you got both. 

While she always was at the front of the room without having to try, you were always in the back with a bitter smile. Why did she get to have two dimples? All eyes would have surely been on you if you had at least one. 

And while she never cared about reaching the New York Times Best Seller list—you did. 

She would have jumped with joy just by selling ten copies, but not you. You always wanted more—craved more. Label it as ambition. 

More copies sold means more money. A trust fund means more money. Playing the victim against your step-father means even more money. So yeah…

You did care about that stupid list. 

Tilting your head back against your seat, you flinch at the taste of the pill, too familiar for your liking, but the wine helps. It always does nowadays. 

Buzz. 

Picking up with a level of indifference was all fake—you had been yearning this call for what seemed like your whole life.

“Hey.” His voice is almost raw. Like he could use a couple cough drops. “I-I-I read your book. It was incredible.”

And for the first time in a while, you smile. “Thank you, that means a lot, Carlos.”

You can hear the static against the line, indicating once again that you’re on opposite sides of the world and not together. You can almost bet that it will always stay that way. 

The Spaniard coughs awkwardly into your ear.

“Oh, and also, congrats on making it onto the New York Times Best Seller.”

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting@chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire@alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious

[sweatervest-obsessed]

Last, Last Time

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (she/her pronouns)

WC: ~7.3k

TW: Angst, guns, violence, mentions of domestic violence, blood, swearing, depression, kidnapping, manipulation, self-deprecating thoughts, heartbreak, arguing, the grieving process, drinking, screaming, crying, sobbing, throwing up, being under pressure, and anything else that comes with a criminal minds episode.

a/n: based on S15 E6 - first date. I love u aubrey plaza <3. Also inspired by the song Last, Last Time by Boys Go To Jupitar. writing this was a little bit of a catharsis since it's one of the first things I've been able to write. I'm sorry I've been so m.i.a., i just moved to a new country and that has been a crazy experience. But to cope with that, enjoy some gut-wrenching angst!

Alternate Ending! Spencer Masterlist

“Spencer I won’t—I can’t keep doing this. I’m sick of arguing in circles.” 

“Y/n…”

“I-I feel like you take me for fucking granted Spencer. All I do is work and then come home and wait for you to actually be able to, I don’t know, sleep in the same bed as me for more than four hours.”

The look in his eyes almost took you out but your heart had already been broken long, long before this argument. If anything, you were starting to feel this sense of freedom as you broke his heart. 

“Please. Y/n. Just–I don’t—Just give me a few days to convince Hotch to let me have some time off and we can work on this please.” 

“Wait for the potential of us?” 

Spencer’s jaw loosened. You couldn’t read beyond the initial layer of pain and confusion, which made your chest ache since not too long ago you could have been able to find everything you needed in his expression.

“God Spencer this can’t be fucking news to you. We’ve been drifting apart for months now.” 

“I know, I know. You have been so patient with me and I’ve just been….there was that whole thing with Cat and then….I-I was trying so hard y/n…”

“No, first there was that whole thing with Maeve.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Oh that’s not fair? Really? You’re going to tell me the entire Maeve thing isn’t fair to you?”

“I’m sorry.”

You sighed and closed your eyes. “I’m not saying you weren’t trying but come one Spencer. There’s no need to deny this shit anymore. I hate it when you lie to me about these kinds of things.” 

Spencer’s hand came up to his face and it dragged down, aging him significantly with the fatigue written all over his face. 

“So you’re just going to pack up everything, break my heart, and leave? Were you even going to say goodbye, or was I going to come home to an empty home. A note or....” 

“I-I don’t know Spencer. I just don’t…” 

The tears were starting to creep in, and you had to place the box down before you lost it.

“This isn’t easy for me either…” Your chest heaved. 

The both of you stood in silence, tension simmering surrounding the both of you like heat on a summer’s eve. Neither of you could really look at one another, but it felt wrong to look at anything else. Something was missing but you couldn’t say it outloud. You knew you would always love Spencer Reid but this time it was not enough. 

“I’m tired of arguing Spencer.” 

Your eyes met his. You felt Spencer’s arms around you before you could even feel the tears hit your cheeks. Your arms immediately went to his neck, so familiar. No longer home. 

Spencer’s voice muttered into your ear. “Don’t cry Jolie. It’ll be okay..” 

About three years ago, Spencer had decided that he didn’t like that you had nicknames for him, and he had none for you. He spent weeks workshopping different ones : Sugar, Honey, Pumpkin, Sweetheart, Darlin, Pookie, Lover, Sunny (like sunshine), Sunshine—it was a wild few weeks trying to figure out who he was talking to. Then one day, offhandedly, he was trying to tell you about this french film he had been watching, and trying to get Emily to watch with him. 

He called you ‘tres jolie’, and blushing you had asked him what it meant. He told you it meant pretty. 

And it stuck. 

Now? It stung. 

All you could do was squeeze tightly onto him, not ready to let go.

“You’re so pretty when you’re lying through your teeth.” You whispered after a few moments, pulling away out of his arms. 

“I.” You swallow and step back, out of his reach. “Maybe I’ll...” 

Spencer just looked up at the ceiling, trying to hold in the tears that were streaming down his face. 

You grabbed the last box on the counter and your keys, and walked out, for the last time. 

You awoke in your bed, eyes adjusting to the complete darkness the blackout curtains provided you. 

Another fucking night thinking about your decision those four years ago, and how your life may have gotten better because of it. 

Moving to get up from the bed, you decided to leave the curtains closed for now, feeling as if you could melt from the sun touching you. 

You turned on the bathroom light and started your morning routine. Wash face. Take meds. Brush teeth. Fix hair—

Somewhere in that process, you got lost, and just stared at yourself in the mirror. You weren’t sure for how long. All you could do was replay the last four years. 

Did you make the right choice? You were happy, you had your dream job. 

Maybe it was true what they say, you can only have a career or love, but not both—

The only thing taking you out of this spiral was the ringer on your phone going off. 

This caused some hesitation because your phone’s ringer was always off––the loud noise startling you. There were only a few people who had that emergency bypass, and none of them had called you in four years. 

You peaked out of the bathroom and saw the name light up on your phone. 

Emily Prentiss

______________________________________________________________

The door to the round room opened up and in walked Spencer Reid. “Catch me up.” 

Prentiss clicked the remote, and the TV lit up with a picture of a woman smirking facing the camera while holding a gun up to another one next to her. “Early this morning, Garcia got an email from an anonymous server.”

The second woman was tied up, mouth slightly open, and eyes filled with tears, while a man on the other side just had his eyes closed, tired. . 

Spencer just stared at the photo. 

Rossi nodded at the picture. “She's not obscuring her face, telling us she's got nothing to hide.”

He never pulled focus away from the screen, mouth dry at the thought of what today was going to be. “Any ideas on the unsub?”

“No.” Prentiss sighed. “Only the unsub's demand. That we release Catherine Adams in 24 hours.  I'm having her transferred here for questioning, but we have no illusions. This is just a game to her. We know that. The question is, do we want to play it or not?”

______________________________________________________________

Receiving a call from the FBI was not entirely new to you, since you had been engaged to one of their agents, but receiving one now? Weird. Off brand. Something was deeply wrong from them to have to give you a call. 

You hesitantly pick up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey Y/n, it’s Emily Prentiss—“

“I know who you are, Emily. It’s been a couple years, not millions.” 

Emily hummed a brief laugh, and you could hear other voices behind her, unable to make out anything. 

“I know this is hard to ask of you, but would you stay on the phone with me and come in?” 

“What?” 

“I need you to stay very calm Y/n, but I need you to stay on the line with me, leave your apartment as soon as you can, and get to the BAU.” 

“Oh my god I totally forgot. It might take me an hour to get there with all this bullshit traffic, could we push the reservation an hour? Would they be willing to do that?” 

Your entire tone changed, having remembered what Spencer had told you all those years ago about if people were listening into your apartment, if they bugged your car—all paranoia that didn’t pay off then, might be paying off now. 

You were sure you could hear Emily sigh, and it sounded a little upset at the fact that you knew what to do–you knew how to handle a dangerous situation, which made her question everything in her life. 

Quickly you pulled on a pair of jeans and threw a sweatshirt over your pajama top and grabbed your keys off of the counter. 

You left your apartment, waved to one of your neighbors, and hopped into your car, still on the line, just trying not to panic. Maybe something went wrong, maybe Spencer wasn’t okay, maybe he had died—you refused to even acknowledge that thought and decided it was something else entirely. 

It was a very tense hour of driving, that was only about forty minutes since you knew how to drive above the speed limit. 

You realized that it was past midday, and you had taken full advantage of the weekend. So at least you had a decent amount of sleep under your belt for what felt like the beginning of an extraneous night. 

As you pulled into the parking garage, Emily Prentiss and someone you had never met before were standing there waiting for you. You placed your car in park, hopped out and walked up to them–only hanging up as soon as you were out of the car. 

Both of them had such grim looks on their faces, but at least they were trying to pretend like the situation wasn’t as bad as it appeared to your face. 

Emily engulfed you in a hug. “Missed you Y/n. It’s been too long.” 

“Well Em, next time I end an engagement with someone I’ll consider your feelings first.” You squeezed him back, dryly laughing at your own joke. At least it caused Emily to snort. 

“Y/n this is SSA Luke Alvez. Luke, this is Y/n Y/l/n.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” He gave a small smile and nodded at you.

“I wish it were under different circumstances.” You nodded back and looked over at Emily.

“Let’s head inside?” 

The three of you moved inside. 

Sure, you hadn’t been here in a while, but you knew your way around the BAU Bullpen if your life depended on it, which was ironic since that was what this feels like. 

As soon as you were safely in their round table room, Luke shut the door, and stood by it, Emily coming and sitting down next to you. 

“What do you know about Cat Adams?” 

That bitch. 

______________________________________________________________

“I would like to go on a date. With you.” 

Spencer stared at her, face stoic as ever. “A date?”

“Yes. I want to look pretty. And I want to have fun.” She looked him up and down. “And I won't even get physical, ok? Unless you want me to.”

Spencer sat down across from her. “Come here. Closer.”

Cat leaned in, a small smile on her face, absolutely intoxicated by being so close to him.

“The only date that I'll be there for is the one where they stick a needle in your vein.”

Cat scoffed. “You're just going to let her father and sister die? I don't think so.”

“I never said it was a father and daughter. You're already slipping.” He stood up from the table. “We'll find them. We always do.”

Cat leaned back and crossed her arms. “Not tonight. Tonight I win.”

His resolution had yet to change, “The score between me and you is two to zero. By tomorrow morning, it'll be a clean sweep. Enjoy eternal nothingness. It's a metaphor for your life.” 

And with that, the door slammed shut behind him.

______________________________________________________________

Both the profilers watched a series of emotions run rampant across your face, before you settled on a somewhat displeased smile. “A lot.” 

They exchanged a look, and you didn’t have the energy to pretend like you didn’t know what it was. 

“Don’t start with me you two. I know profiling. I know what you’re doing. Ask me the questions you want to ask. Don’t try and trick me into giving the answers you want.” 

Alvez bit his tongue and looked away, trying to hide a small smile that appeared on his lips. 

Emily, on the other hand, hid her smile a bit better than him, but part of being previously engaged to a profiler meant you picked up on some of their tricks too. 

She nodded and pulled a file from across the table. “I’m assuming you know the basics since she, uh, is obsessed with Spencer.”

“Glad to see he still has that going for him.” You muttered and looked into the file. 

Emily shot Luke a look when he let out a huff or air, trying his damndest not to laugh. 

“What is the last thing you know about her?” 

You recounted the days leading up to the restaurant, and then the few days after, decidedly stopping short of the engagement breaking off a week later. 

They shared another look, and you didn’t enjoy whatever it was that had moved across their faces. 

“What? What happened?” 

“Y/n..”

“No Emily, I drove from DC to here, I deserve to know what happened. without some weird sugarcoating, alright?” 

Emily then begins to explain to you the past four years of Reid’s life. Cat pretending she was pregnant with his kid in prison, kidnapping his mother, framing him for murder in Mexico, going to prison—

“Spencer went to prison and none of you thought to call me….”

“We didn’t think you’d–” 

“I’m a fucking criminal defense attorney in DC Emily. Of course I’d want to know if he was arrested, especially internationally. I know that law better than all of you. If someone I knew was kidnapped, I’d call you immediately. Faster than the cops.” 

Both of them went silent. 

“So is he out?” 

They nodded slowly, silently. 

“How long was he in there.”

Nothing. 

“I asked. How. Long.”

Luke spoke up. “Three months.” 

“Jesus christ.” You stood up and started to pace around the room, taking the time you needed to calm down. 

Why didn’t Spencer call you—well you knew why Spencer wouldn’t call you. 

“Okay so he’s out.” You said finally. “Why am I here?” 

“Cat’s execution is coming up, and we….we found out that she’s convinced someone to kidnap some….people…close to Reid, and we knew you’d be on that list for him.” 

Your eyebrows went up at people but said nothing of it. Just as you went to say something else, JJ knocked on the door, another blonde woman behind her. 

They entered and JJ gave you a small, yet genuine smile. 

You returned it, but quickly shifted your gaze onto the woman behind. 

Your whole body shifted slightly, into a place of defense, locking your emotions down. You knew all the profilers were watching it happen in real time, which is why Emily walked over and stood next to you, a hand appearing on the small of your back as a comfort.

“Would someone like to tell me what is going on here?” The blonde woman spoke up, arms crossed.

At least Spencer’s taste in partners with attitude hadn’t changed. 

______________________________________________________________

“Victimology is off.”

“How so?” Prentiss looked up at him as he walked into the room. 

“Father and daughter. She’s never done that before.” 

Lewis spoke up. “She usually kills men that remind her of her father. Children–even adult children, are off limits. Do we have an ID yet.” 

Prentiss, Rossi, Garcia, and JJ all looked over at Reid, and he just pulled a hand down his face. “It’s. It’s Issac and Noelle Y/l/n.” 

“Y/l/n…as is Y/n Y/l/n.” Tara looked up surprised at Spencer. 

Reid nodded slowly, just staring at the picture on the projector.

While Luke spoke up. “Who is Y/n Y/l/n.” 

“An old friend.” Rossi quickly interjected, before any more explanation had to be said. It was clear both Alvez and Simmons, that whoever this was, was an extremely touchy subject for Reid. 

Tara, who had only known you for a little while, looked back at the picture. 

Rossie spoke up. “What do we know about the partner who’s helping her?” 

“It’s got to be someone from her prison.” Simmons spoke up. “She hasn’t had contact with anyone else.” 

______________________________________________________________

After all of that, you found yourself back in a place you left four years ago. It looked almost the same as when you had first moved in, but there was less of it. 

Almost as if he was having trouble covering places where things used to be.

There were almost no photos on the walls, since you had taken half of them, and were in the rest. 

Calling someone you once loved a stranger feels wrong. 

Max, as you had learned her name, was just sitting on the couch in your spot . She was looking around as you and Rossi stood by the kitchen counter. 

“Cat had a cellmate named Juliette Weaver. We believe the two were working together, as a way for Cat to get something against Spencer, and as payment, Cat would get Juliette’s ex.”

You nodded. “How does this affect me?” 

“She took your father and sister.” 

Your back straightened and immediately brought out your phone, to call your sister, but Rossi just grabbed your wrist (gently) and shook his head. “If she finds out you know, then it’s all over. She’s doing this on purpose. She knows about you and Reid, but she knows that dragging you into all of this will hurt him more than anything else.” 

His voice had gone low and quiet, so that the girl on the couch couldn’t hear. 

“So why is she here?” You whispered back. 

“Because we don’t want anyone in danger.” 

You closed your eyes and nodded. “I need a cup of tea.” 

Rossi let go of your wrist, and you walked into the kitchen, mostly eyes closed from the stress of the situation. 

The apartment was silent, the others watching as you grabbed a kettle, and started to make tea. It was like second nature to you as you turned the stovetop on, grabbed a mug from the cabinet (careful to not grab one of his favorites), and grabbed some tea from the cabinet. 

It didn’t dawn on you that you were drinking your favorite type of tea until the second sip, while the entire apartment was still silent. 

The pity from Rossi's look was palpable. 

“Don’t even start.” 

He shrugged and stayed silent. 

Until his walkie went off and he looked at Max. “It’s time. Let’s go.” 

Rossi looked back at you and gave you a quick hug, squeezing you tightly. “You’ve got this kid. Remember everything we talked about.” 

You nodded and gave them both a strained smile as they left the apartment, leaving you all alone in this place you once called home, alone. 

Never once, since you left, did you think you would ever be back here. You didn’t even realize you were drinking from one of your own mugs until it was just you. The irony of it was not lost on you, and you sat down in your spot on the couch. 

Well first you sat in Spencer’s seat but it felt too weird, so you shifted back into your spot on the couch. 

______________________________________________________________

“Juliette staked out in Reid’s life. Found out he was dating someone, but then must have discovered his ex-fiancée.” Simmons sighed. “He was probably so focused on Max, he didn’t even realize that someone was digging into his history, following them around.”

Prentiss nodded as they walked and talked. “But if Juliette was able to find Max, that meant she was easily able to find Y/n and her family. It means she must have access to all of her publicly available information. “

“Well at least we found their hidden agenda.” 

“No. We found Cat’s hidden agenda. Juliette doesn’t care about Reid. There’s something we’re missing here. Do a deep dive with Garcia.” 

Simmons nodded at Prentis. “On it.” 

“I’ll go to Reid's apartment and monitor onsite. Is there a trap and trace on his landline?” 

“Garcia’s almost set up.” Simmons walked away from Prentiss, and down towards Penelope’s office. 

“Well this went from bad to worse.” Tara walked up to Emily. 

Emily sighed in agreement. 

Lewis spoke up. “Female narcissists destroy their competition.Y/n  really shouldn’t be in there.” 

Emily just nodded and the two of them headed out of the bullpen. “Walk with me.” 

Tara kept stride with her as they pushed through the doors. Rossi was just getting off the phone with someone and turned to look at the two women approaching him and JJ. 

JJ spoke up when Rossi was finished. “So, the hospital just released the dad– Issac Y/l/n. He's on his way here now.

Rossi scoffed. “Question is, why let him go at all?”

“Matt's on that.” Emily gestures in the direction of Garcia’s office. “Juliette Weaver's real agenda should tell us where she's taking Y/n’s younger sister.”

Lewis spoke next. “I still think the play here is to get Cat and Juliette to contact each other, but I have no idea how.”

Prentiss crossed her arms. “I have a plan, but first we have to talk about Y/n.” 

______________________________________________________________

Just then, you heard the click of the door, and stood up, watching as the door swung open. 

And there he was. 

This was the first time you had seen Spencer in four years. 

And here he was, kissing Catherine Adams. 

The woman you could give partial credit to for ending your relationship. 

After a moment Spencer looked up, and took several steps away from Cat. His eyes were wide and locked on yours. 

It took a lot of self-restraint to not punch the lights out of Cat, and to stand still arms crossed. 

“Y/n?” Spencer’s voice broke a little bit. 

You never would say that Spencer was unattractive. In fact, it would be a lie if you ever said it. But something about the past four years aged him like a fine wine. 

His hair was a bit longer, he had some scruff—his baby face had melted away and standing in front of you was a man who thought you knew everything about, but was now a stranger. 

You didn’t answer him, watching as he took you in, standing in his apartment, for the first time since…

“What are you doing here?” 

You looked over at Cat, who had the most devious smirk on her face. 

Remember what Prentiss had said to you. 

“You know why I’m here.” 

Cat nodded and the two of them moved into the apartment, the door closing behind them. 

Spencer just stood ten feet away from you, eyes never leaving you, and you watched him right back. 

Cat, on the other hand, was walking around, examining the apartment. You could see her take notice of the tea you had made yourself on the counter. You could see the hatred from the corner of your eyes. The two of you were starting to piss her off. 

She spoke up, after a few moments of silence. “Did it make you mad that I was kissing your Fiancé?” 

You shook your head. “No.”

Your focus had fully turned to Cat, but you swore you swore you could hear Spencer take a sharp inhale as you spoke your next words.

“Well, he's not my fiancé and I kind of have some other things on my mind.”

Cat didn’t scare you, but there was just something so off-putting about her. “Like what?” 

“Are you gonna hurt Noelle?”

Cat shrugged. “Not if I don't have to, no. Honestly, if she follows instructions, she might even learn from this whole experience.”

You scoffed. “What does that mean?”

Cat just started fiddling with the chess set on the dresser. 

“Spencer, what does she mean?” You turned to look back at him, his name feeling so good on your tongue. 

Spencer, who really hadn’t stopped looking at you and sighed. “I think…She means that Noelle isn’t learning from her, but from Juliette.” 

You sat down in your spot on the couch, arms crossed. You were on the full defense. 

Spencer noticed where you sat and had to look down to conceal any notions of a smile on his face. 

Cat watched him before turning and looking at you, some more disdain on her face than before. 

“Normally, Spencie and I, we spend our time together playing games, but tonight, I've brought you all here to make a point. You are doing so much better.” 

Spencer spoke up. “With you?”

“I'm not talking to you.” Cat snapped at him before she turned to you. “I'm talking to you. Because, girlfriend, you need to know the truth about your fiancé.” 

“He's not my finacé.” You were unsure about how many more times you could say that outloud. 

“No kidding. When’s the last time you spoke? Right…” Cat walked over to the center of the room, right in front of the couch. “Here?” 

Your head whipped around to Spencer. “You told her about that?”

Spencer was pleading with his eyes. “I had to say a lot of things tonight.”

Cat’s voice caused your head to snap back to her. “Yes, he has. He said that you never compared to me, that, um... That no matter what, he will never get me out of his mind, unlike you. Unlike that girlfriend.” 

You tried not to wince at the mention of that girl Maxine out in one of the trucks.

Spencer sat down next to you. “Everything I said—I was lying to save your family.”

Cat scoffed. “Did our kiss look like a lie?” 

“No.” you just looked down at your hands. 

“Thank you. See, now we're getting to the heart of the matter.” Cat started mocking Spencer. “You see, everyone thinks that Dr. Spencer Reid is... Is just this nice, bookish, uh, genius who, uh, always saves the day and has all the answers. And has zero mommy issues, right? But, um... I know the real him.” 

“Oh, yeah? Who's the real me, Cat?” 

“The real Spencer Reid throws women against walls. And hisses that he's going to kill them.” 

Spencer stood up, squaring off against her.  “That was a very different situation.”

“No, it wasn't.” Cat was holding the smirk back this time, making your gut wretch. 

“Spencer…What is she talking about?” You looked from the psychopath in front of you, to the man you realized you might have never really known beside you.

“You tell her. She's not gonna believe it coming from me.” She huffed. 

Reid turned and looked at you. “Two years ago, Cat had her partner kidnap my mother. Just like tonight. She got under my skin and…”

Your chest hurts. “And you threw her against a wall?” 

Cat’s smirk was breaking through whatever resolve she had. “Don't skimp on the details, Spencie. She deserves to know everything.”

Every single time she said Spencie you swore a shock went up your spine. 

Spencer looked down at his hands, and then over at you. His voice had gotten quieter. “She was pregnant at the time and I knew that when I hurt her.” 

“And?” She stood there expectantly, waiting for Spencer to finish. When he didn’t, her face suddenly became solemn. “The next day... I miscarried. The end.”

Spencer looked at her. “That's not true.” 

“It is most certainly true. Check my medical records.” 

“That doesn't mean I-I would…”

Cat held up her hand to him. “Stop. Look.”

Spencer looked over at you, just sitting on the couch, trying to process everything that was going through your head. 

After thinking about everything you had gone through, especially with Spencer. “I thought you were better than that Spence.” 

It was the first time you had used a nickname for him in years. And he was hearing it for the first time while you were stuck in a standoff between himself and Cat Adams, your sister being god knows where. 

Spencer’s voice cracked. “I'm sorry.” 

Cat squatted down in front of you, a sick smile on her lips. She was enjoying this. She truly enjoyed watching his life crumble to bits. “Notice how your Spencie is apologizing to you and not me.”

You clenched your hands. “He’s not mine…”

Spencer just looked over at you. 

Cat nodded. “That's good. Because men are all the same. Aren't they, Jolie?” 

Spencer’s eyes lit up with an emotion you rarely saw from him when you were together. “Don't call her that.”

And you couldn’t blame him. The word ran you through like a spear and you were sure if you looked behind you, the blade would be through the couch. You tried so hard to not let either of the two people near you see how much it messed with you. Luckily for you, Cat was too busy pushing Spencer’s buttons to see the way her words won against you. 

Cat hissed at him. “What, are you gonna throw me against a wall and choke me, or do you only do that to pregnant women?” 

You finally spoke up. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want you to see it.” She gestured to Spencer. “I want you to see that he is...no better than he was before, or any man after. They’re all the same.” 

“Stop.”

Cat squatted down in front of you. “I can see it on your face. What's his name?” 

You stared back at her. “It's none of your business.”

That damned smirk of hers returned. “It is exactly my business. In fact, it's my specialty. I mean, I could have Juliette and baby sister go over there if you want. They could take care of him.” 

Reid looked over at you. “Say yes. Give her what she wants.” 

“Hmm. See, he wants you to get me to make a little phone call so they can trace it.” She moved away from you both and sat down in the lounging chair across from you. “They're so good, the FBI.”

You jumped up and started pacing, a spitting image of four years ago. “What is wrong with the two of you? What is this sick, twisted thing that you have? Listen, I just want to save my sister. Will you please just tell me what I have to do to do that?” 

“Tell me his name. Tell me the story. That's it. And then if they can let Juliette exit stage right, then I promise you I will let her go.”

You looked between Cat and Spencer before walking over to the kitchen, and hanging up the phone. After staring down at the decision you had just made, you walked back over and took your phone out. “Here.  Use this. Use my phone. They can't trace it.”

She just watched you. “You'd be surprised.”

“I don't even need a call. Just... just a photo.” You held the phone out to her. “Something to prove to me that she's still alive. Please”. 

Cat just looked up at your face. “Story first.”

“Y/n. Please.” Spencer turned to you, hoping you’d look back at him. “I have been here with her before. She called the number and told the partner to kill my mom.”

“It is so tricky, isn't it? I mean, who are you gonna trust? The lying, cheating, violent psychopath... Or me?”

You looked down at the ground, refusing to look over at Spencer. “His…His name was Mike Davis. We dated for two years. I met him a month after we…we split.”

Cat’s attention on you felt as if there were a million bees stinging your body all at different intervals, pain coursing through your body. “Good. When did it end?” 

“Last year.” 

“Was he good in bed?” 

Spencer stood up. “Shut up.” 

Cat was enjoying this. She was enjoying watching you make Spencer uncomfortable. She was enjoying hurting him in every masochistic way she could. “What? You have to know where you stand.”

“He was good…” You looked back at Cat. “Good at, um, separating me from my friends and my family. Enough that the first time he punched me in the face, I didn't have anywhere to go. And my first response wasn't "get out." It wasn't "go to hell." It was "I'm sorry, Mike." That's when he knew he had me.”

There was a glint in Spencer’s eyes, and you could swear they were tears, but you couldn’t tell from rage or sorrow. 

Cat continued to probe. “How many hospital visits were there?” 

You showed her a small scar on the inside of your elbow. “None. No, he... He knew how to hurt me just enough to hide it all, I guess.”  

“But you found the strength to leave. What did you do?” 

“ I planned and I... I waited.”

Cat’s eyes lit up. “Waited for what? “

“I live here in D.C.” You looked between Spencer and Cat. “but I'm also a resident in Virginia. It takes 60 days for the permit to clear.”

Spencer’s eyes widened. “Y/n, stop talking. Stop talking right now.”

Cat shushed him. “No, don't stop. Here. Give me the phone. Look, I'm gonna enter the text. Stick the landing and I'll hit "send."

You handed her the phone and she quickly typed out a message, her thumb hovering over send. 

Fiddling with your ring finger, you started to speak again. Slowly. Concisely. “When I was ready, I picked a fight. Loud enough for the neighbors to hear. And he came at me with his fist just cocked back, so I pulled my Glock 19 out of my purse. I shot him.”

Spencer tried to interject. “It was self-defense. He was attacking you—”

“That's what I told 911 as he was struggling to breathe on his kitchen floor. That's why the police never charged me. I’m a lawyer, I know how to plead.” You closed your eyes. “But I... after I hung up, I... I shot him two more times.” 

Cat was glowing, spinning around to face Spencer. “Wow, you really have a type, don't you? Quite a dilemma, too. She just admitted to murder.” 

Spencer was in disbelief. “She'll beat it.” . 

“Probably. But whatever feelings she might have still had for you, and whatever Maxine might have seen in you—-it’s all gone.” 

The phone in your hand buzzed.

“Oh, wow. Look at that. Your sister. Alive and well. You're welcome.” 

Your face hardened up, and you stood up straighter. Walking away from the two of them, you opened the door. “I got it.” 

She took the phone from your hand and you turned back to the two of them. There was no emotion behind your eyes as you looked back at Spencer. 

Cat smirked and looked up at Spencer. “I win.” 

______________________________________________________________

The prison transport was quiet, with the two guards sitting across from Spencer and Cat. It had been silent for about twenty minutes, but then, Cat spoke up. 

“Do you know why I did this? Why I really did this?” 

Spencer looked down at his hands. “You wanted to prove I'm a monster just like you.”

“No... Silly. I just wanted to see you again. I just wanted to make sure that you would never forget about me.” She sighed. “'Cause when they do put that needle in my arm, I just want there to be even the slightest chance that... Maybe you're still thinking about me…”

Spencer stiffened as she placed her head on his shoulder. “You didn't have to terrorize 3 innocent people. You could've just written a letter.” 

“Would you have written me back?” 

When Spencer didn’t respond, Cat knew her answer. 

“Bye, Spencie. I really enjoyed our date.” She smiled at him desperately, getting dragged out of the vehicle by the guards to the prison. 

______________________________________________________________

The elevator door opened and Spencer walked out of it, his whole body reeked of defeat, and he barely looked at Emily as she spoke.  “We need to debrief.” 

Spencer just walked right past her, and into the bullpen. His expression changed when he saw you on one side talking to Tara, and Max on the other, looking up at him right as he walked in. 

“Spencer, are you okay?” 

Her voice caught your ear, and immediately you looked up to see her walk over and embrace him in a hug. 

He smiled at her, and grateful returned the hug before muttering that he would be back, and explain everything.

You were never going to get back together with Spencer, but watching it in real time was like unlacing an old wound. 

Spencer walked over to you, and you stood up as he approached. 

“Uh, Tara, would you mind giving us…”

She nodded at him and walked away. 

Both of you went to speak, trying to say something to the other. 

“I should explain all of this.” 

Spencer shook his head. “You don’t have to explain any of that Y/n—it doesn’t.” 

You cut him off. “It was fake—most of it. I didn’t kill anyone, Spence. I was just lying to her to get her to send the text from my phone. It was all…It was made up.” 

He just nodded, staring at you really. 

You gave him a soft smile, and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Both of you could feel the pulse between it, making you remove your hand and take a small step back. 

“Thank you for saving my sister and father.” 

Spencer watched your resolve fully formed, masking whatever you were feeling. He hated watching it happen to him, watching as you placed whatever feelings you had back into somewhere he couldn’t find. 

Garcia walked over and placed a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “I just need you both to know, Cat Adams had a miscarriage, but it was months after whatever encounter you had. It’s not your fault. We looked at her records.” She was speaking low for you both, yet both of you let out a quiet sigh of relief. 

“They filled me in on everything that happened between both of you in the past couple years, and they asked me if I would be willing to…help them beat her.” 

Spencer looked up at you, and unlike yourself, every single emotion Spencer was feeling was racing across his face. 

He didn’t like that you knew about everything that had gone down. He was so happy you were okay. He was a little impressed by the way you beat Cat at her own game. He was upset that you put yourself in danger. 

“They gave me an ear piece and everything.” 

Spencer shook his head. “You’re not trained—that’s extremely dangerous of you.” 

You sighed and nodded. “Unfortunately Spencer, this is…this was the life I was used to when we were together. I knew the stakes. I mean the briefings I had with Hotch after you relapsed…” 

Spencer just clammed up and stood a bit straighter. “ I never knew..”

“It was like that on purpose. I didn’t want you to think that you were a burden or too much or—I was doing it for the potential of…” You cut yourself of, flinching at the parallels between this and your previous final conversation. 

You looked over at Garcia. “I need my bag Pen.” You whispered, taking a step away from Spencer. “I shouldn’t…I finished my job. My family is safe…” 

She had a rueful look on her face, but she nodded and took your arm, walking you back over to the desk where your stuff was. 

He looked up at Emily and walked over to her. “I’m…uh. I’m gonna go walk her out and then I’ll be right back.” 

Emily gave him the saddest smile, and just nodded. She knew that nothing she could say could make it any better. 

You grabbed your coat, and your bag, and the two of you walked to the elevator in silence, riding it all the way down to the parking garage, where your car was still there from this afternoon, all of those hours ago. 

You looked over at Spencer, tears in your eyes, having not said anything to him. 

As soon as he met your eyes, you dropped your bag, and Spencer wrapped his arms around you tightly, just holding you and resting his head on yours; trying to give you the comfort that he was rarely able to give you. 

Sobbing into his arms, you just tightly wrapped your arms around his torso and just held onto him tightly. Trying to decompress, trying to truly understand everything that had happened in the past twelve hours. 

It was Spencer who spoke first. 

“I’m so so sorry Y/n.” He whispered. “I never meant any of this to happen to you, and for you to get dragged back here and—” 

You shook your head slightly, but didn’t move from where you were. Neither of you did. 

“It’s what she wanted, Spence, and unfortunately for us, this was always bound to happen.” You whispered. 

The hug felt so good, but something about it was just so different. 

It’s not the way it used to be. 

“I need to go Spencer.” 

He nodded, and this time you moved away from him. His hand came up and wiped away one of the remaining tears on your cheek. 

You closed your eyes, and took a deep breath. 

“Oh fuck, why is this so fucking hard four years later.” You laughed, trying to regain any sort of composure. 

“Y/n…”

You took another step away from him and shook your head. 

“We can’t—I’m not.” You tried so hard to find the right words without bursting into tears again. “Spencer. I cannot put myself back to where I was four years ago. I can’t do it. And yes things have changed, but maybe that is for the better. Maybe you were always meant to be my maybe, and not my always.” 

You took another breath, but kept going. “You are amazing, and funny, and so smart Spence. But this…we ran our course. It didn’t work then, and I don’t know if I have it in me to try again just for it to fail.” 

“Y/n please.” 

“I will always love you but this…It’s time to…It’s time to stop. I have to go back to my life, and you go back upstairs to yours, with Prentiss and Rossi and Penelope and…Max.” 

Both of you winced as you said her name, but you took a step forward, moving to kiss him on the cheek. 

Spencer gently grabbed you face, giving you enough time to back out. 

You didn’t. 

His lips locked with yours, his thumb rubbing against your cheek as the two of you shared one more moment, just for the two of you. 

But it had to end. 

You couldn’t go back to the anxiety, the arguing, the petty disagreements. It wasn’t good for you. It was good for either of you. 

Stepping away again, you gently kissed his cheek, and started to slowly walk to your car. 

Right as you got to your car, you turned around and made eye contact with him one last time before the elevator doors closed, both of you with the most gut wrenching smile slightly plastered across your faces. 

You mouthed goodbye, unable to speak it out loud, and he nodded, tears filling his eyes as he whispered it back to you. 

The doors shut. 

You were all alone in this hollow parking garage. 

Your heart was aching, burning. 

But there was a sigh of relief, that came with the doors closing, and saying goodbye for the last, last time. 

[flawseer]

In your last ask, you mentioned misgivings with Book 10's ending, and especially how it pertains to Winter. I absolutely agree, and I know why, but I wanna hear your thoughts on it, too: What's up with Book 10?

The following is a (very long) examination of my personal feelings with regards to the WoF second story arc finale. While it is based on what is in the text, this analysis will be interpretive and fill in blanks with my own thoughts. Keep that in mind.

Hahhhh... okay. Since mentioning it in my last post I’ve gotten several requests to talk about my feelings regarding the second arc finale. There’s probably no way around it then.

If you haven’t read that last post (it was admittedly very long, and so will this one be), I talked briefly about why I didn’t like that part of the story. I have to warn you now, this will likely be the most negative and dour post in the history of this blog. In a few parts it will sound like I hate Wings of Fire, and I want to say now, while I still have the chance, that I don’t. I love this series, thinking about its setting and characters brings me joy.

I also—very emphatically—want to make it clear that I have no ill will against Tui T. Sutherland. I’ve looked around other people’s stuff a bit and there are a huge number of posts wishing violence upon her or threatening her for doing things to her series that people don’t agree with. That is NOT what I am doing here, shit like that is NOT okay! While I will be critical of her choices, I still respect her effort of bringing this vibrant, wonderful world of dragons to all of us.

Also, obligatory last disclaimer: If you liked the finale, that is okay. You are valid for feeling that way. I’m here to share my point of view, not to demand people agree with everything I say. Just be warned that you most likely won’t enjoy what I have to say. If you don’t think you can handle that kind of criticism, this is your guilt-free opportunity to stop reading.

Otherwise, let's get into it.

CW: Discussion of parental abuse, depression, disease, and extreme acts of violence.

In defense of the finale

Before I start to systematically disassemble this narrative and get lost in a quagmire of negativity, let’s talk a bit about the circumstances that brought forth this part of the story. The plot of this arc was a mess from the moment animus magic was unshackled from the restrictions it had in the first arc, and from then on there was no longer any conceivable way to end this story in a clean way. Sutherland had created an invincible, unbeatable, omnipotent villain; he could read minds, see the future with perfect clarity, and anything he could imagine he could conjure into existence at any time with no cost to himself and no drawbacks. She was likely wracking her brain about how to resolve this impossible conundrum. What we got wasn’t good, but I believe nothing could have been. The foundation was rotting and by the fifth book it couldn’t bear the weight of the plot anymore.

The thing about animus magic in arc 2 is that it is so potent, so all-powerful, and so free of restraint that everyone who uses it also HAS to be a simpleton, or they would be able to break the plot immediately and become god. From the moment Darkstalker broke out of that mountain, he could have said “Any and all spells that are cast with the intention to harm me, interfere with my plans, or do something I don’t consent to will not work, from now on until forever”, and he would have instantly won. The strawberry would have fizzled out. The Darkstalker-blocking earrings would not have been created, and no one could have saved the Icewings. On the flipside, Turtle or Anemone could have said “I enchant the concept of animus magic itself to no longer obey Darkstalker”, and his threat would have been neutered. Point is, powers as potent and easy to use as this really need limitations, or they will quickly eat your plot alive.

I don’t envy the situation Sutherland was in at the time at all. If you’re an author, that kind of thing is a nightmare. It really is no wonder she decided to blow up animus magic for good in her next arc, even if I would have preferred it to get more healthy restrictions instead of killing it outright.

The Darkstalker age regression thing

Everyone has talked this part to death already, but if I am to write a thorough analysis of my feelings regarding this finale, I’m going to have to talk about it as well. I’m sorry if I end up repeating a lot of things you’ve already heard.

This final fate of Darkstalker, to have his memories wiped and be reset to an infant, is really uncomfortable. As far as I am aware, though correct me if I’m wrong, Sutherland said in an interview that she didn’t want Darkstalker to die because, in her view, he did not deserve to. We can debate here about the philosophical question of whether anyone is truly deserving of death, and the merits of “justice” and “punishment”, but in general, Wings of Fire did not seem to have any issues killing off its villains prior if they committed suitably terrible acts. That makes this moment stand out as noteworthy.

Who is Darkstalker then--and if we assume villains can be “deserving” and “not deserving” of death--what about him speaks in his favor, or against? The guy had a pretty crappy childhood, coming from a broken home (there is that inadequate parent theme again). He genuinely loved his sister and felt protective of her, and whenever he liked someone he wanted them to be happy and feel affirmed. The thing that Queen Diamond does to his mother is awful and he is justified in hating her for it. He is also portrayed as rather sympathetic in Moon Rising. When he asks Moon to find his scroll for him and not to leave him, he is not manipulating her, he is sincerely begging for her help. He is stuck somewhere underground, trapped in darkness, in a space so tiny that he can’t move. He remains that way for months, lonely and sad. If you just focus on these aspects, it’s easy to understand why he has so many fans who want him to see healthy and happy.

On the flipside, while he is dedicated to the happiness of his friends, he doesn’t always go for the most ethical way to achieve it. He tries to brainwash said friends without their consent whenever they exhibit behaviors he doesn’t like, or when he thinks he knows better and wants to “fix” them. He has very little regard for other people’s autonomy, lies to his loved ones with alarming frequency, and is unhealthily attached to the idea of power. Those things are certainly not good, but they are his character flaws. These are his demons; everyone has them and they make him a person. If this was all there was to it, he might still be a villain, but I’d argue he’d not be wholly irredeemable.

But there are things about him that take him beyond the pale. Things that go beyond the realm of just being misunderstood, or easily excusable.

He is possessive. He wants Clearsight and Fathom for himself, and for them to listen to him primarily. When Indigo makes it clear she doesn’t like him and cautions Fathom against trusting him, he deceives his friends and traps Indigo in a wood carving, just so he can isolate Fathom from his support network and manipulate him easier. He alters Clearsight’s mind to make her more agreeable and stop her from holding him accountable for his actions; while he thinks he loves her, he only loves an idealized version of her that is wholly devoted to and unquestioning of him. This is why, when he later forcibly overwrites Fierceteeth’s existence to recreate her (which is another horrific thing), he tries to excise the parts he finds undesirable to create a perfect version of his lover. But this caricature he has created in his head is not and can never be Clearsight, which frustrates his attempts.

He is vengeful. Not against people who have actually wronged him, like Queen Diamond. That would be questionable, but understandable. What makes this unacceptable is his frequent targeting of innocent people who just happen to be related to the person who wronged him in some esoteric way. He enchants a secret murder knife that kills random Icewings regardless of who they are or what they think about the Queen, just because the one who took his mother from him happened to share their tribe. He hates Turtle and wishes death upon him in Moon Rising just because he is a green Seawing, like Fathom was. And then there is the big one: He tries to kill all the Icewings who are alive in the present day, where Queen Diamond is long dead and none of them have ever even met her. Even his mother, who suffered from Diamond’s actions the most and has the most reason to hate her, is horrified and calls him out on that one.

And lastly, he is sadistic. He revels in torturing those he hates. He forces his father to disembowel himself, while the latter is fully aware and powerless to resist AND the man’s traumatized daughter is watching. Later he sends a magical plague to kill every single living Icewing sans one.

It should be noted that Darkstalker possesses virtually infinite magical power; whatever he declares, with very few exceptions, will happen. Even if he wanted them dead, he had the power to prevent unnecessary suffering. He could have said “Arctic, fall dead instantaneously”, or “Every Icewing will fall asleep and pass away peacefully,” but he didn’t. He wanted them to feel pain and pass away in the most wretched, agonizing ways he could imagine.

So what he chose to do instead is—and I want you to picture this for a moment—Darkstalker sat down, calmly, and said “Henceforth every living Icewing, excepting Prince Winter and those of hybrid blood, will fall ill with an incurable disease. This disease will cause heavy internal bleeding and make its victims cough up blood and waste away for a few days, followed by certain death.”

This spell does not discriminate with regards to who its victims are. The book glosses over the implications, but imagine the ramifications. Young children are notoriously frail, how many newborns got infected and died because of this? How many families were torn apart because they couldn’t get the magic earrings fast enough? Or accidentally got one earring less than there were family members and had to decide who has to die?

Most of the Icewings were physically cured by the earrings, but an experience like that sticks with you for the rest of your life. Somewhere surely, a dragonet watched as his mother put the earring on him and then slowly wasted away because she didn’t have one for herself.

It’s really easy to overlook how horrific this spell is because it isn’t shown or dwelt on. But the trauma, grief, and suffering it caused must have been immeasurable.

And none of those victims have ever even met the person Darkstalker wanted to get revenge on. None of those deaths meant anything to anyone.

The attempted death toll and scale of the calamity here puts even Scarlet to shame. The ones who come closest to it were Queen Battlewinner and Morrowseer with their attempted Rainwing extermination. All three of those died for what they did. Gives you some food for thought for sure.

Peacemaker’s burden

Despite just airing all of his dirty laundry and declaring him an irredeemable villain, I actually do have a lot of sympathy for Darkstalker still. His story is really sad. He was a child born with an amount of power that nobody should possess, and it corrupted him to the point where it destroyed his life before it began. His parents were always fighting and no matter how good his intentions were, he was unable to understand why he couldn’t hold on to his friends and relationship. He kept making mistakes, then made bigger mistakes to fix those, until his hands were covered in blood and he couldn’t stop anymore. My belief is that, after he wakes up in the present and realizes Clearsight is dead, he loses his reason for living and becomes completely lost in his grief.

Therefore, my opinion is that it would have been appropriate for him to die. If not to punish him, then to finally grant him reprieve from all that rage and pain, and let him rest. I think that would have been a dignified end.

But instead he got turned into a baby. ... And then they decided to magically erase his father’s blood from him? I don’t know what it is, but something about that Icewing erasure makes my skin crawl?

The thing that turns this baby twist from weird into highly unsettling is the context. Darkstalker’s mind is erased, then modified into a new person via animus magic. This is the technique a lot of this arc’s villains used to victimize Hailstorm, Queen Ruby, Peril, Kinkajou, Fierceteeth, and Winter. The same technique is now used again, by the heroes, which is a dangerous thing to have your protagonists do if you want them to remain morally upright.

It is also very reckless, because in almost all of these instances, animus mind alteration has been shown to be very unreliable. The spells seem to wear down over time and are susceptible to partial breaking upon encountering certain strong stimuli. Hailstorm—while trapped as Pyrite—seems to retain trace amounts of his former memories, which is why Pyrite is subconsciously drawn to Winter and clings to him all the time. Ruby is able to ignore half of her conditioning because her familial love for her son partially overpowers the magic. Qibli is just straight up able to reason his way out of it.

The thing to note here is that spells of this nature require a very meticulous approach; you can’t half-ass your reprogramming or the victim will just think their way past it. If you alter someone’s mind, the wording of the spell must be ironclad, lest you risk it wearing down over time and even break.

Luckily we have nothing to fear in that regard, because the spell that created Peacemaker was written by a Rainwing with a total of four days of literacy training. No one better mention the name Clearsight to the new baby Nightwing, or next month is going to be rather interesting.

But that’s just speculation on my part. Let’s assume that, somehow, this spell isn’t as unstable as all the others. Somehow Kinkajou threaded all the needles, and masterfully dodged every conceivable pitfall to pen the perfect incantation, despite having been illiterate just a few weeks prior. This one is built to last and Darkstalker is sealed away really thoroughly, for good.

That is still absolutely terrible and morally dubious, because now you have Peacemaker, who for all intents and purposes is a COMPLETELY innocent little kid, saddled with this huge burden of being the certifiable reincarnation of a genocidal ancient wizard. He’s gonna grow up thinking things like “Mommy gets real quiet whenever the topic of the Icewing tragedy is brought up,” and “Why does Auntie Moon look at me like that? One time she accidentally called me a weird name, who is Darkstalker?” “What is this ‘Clearsight’ name my mind-reading friends from the village found in Mommy’s mind?”

In a village that will be full of mind-readers soon, eventually the secret will come out, and Peacemaker is going to learn what was done to him. A huge, messy load of undeserved baggage was forced onto this completely separate, innocent entity. He will be devastated. Whether he then chooses to forgive them for this remains to be seen. To be honest, he would be well within his right not to, and turn resentful.

Poor kid.

Qibli’s callousness

I love Qibli, he is one of my favorite characters. This happens to be his book, and the fact that I fundamentally dislike half of it makes me rather sad. If anything, I hope this tells you that I’m not just hating on it for my personal amusement. I really wanted to like this. I tried to, and I couldn’t.

Qibli is really weird in this one, to be honest. He is suddenly made to be co-dependent on Moonwatcher, fawning over her every third paragraph, saying how much he loves her, how he is an incomplete and dysfunctional wreck without her, how it physically pains him to be apart from her, oh if only the stars would grant his wish and split the mountains apart so that he may fly to his princess, his muse, his goddess of ebony wit. It gets so old.

And it’s not Qibli. He never acted this clingy towards Moonwatcher. It’s more intense than even Winter gets about Moon, and Winter was actually depicted with a crush on her in book 6. Qibli was always just a supportive element, eager to befriend Moon but never desperate, like he is going to keel over if he is separated from his true love five minutes longer. These very frequent love declarations feel so forced coming out of him. It strikes me like it was just written in service of the love triangle. Maybe if we make him confess his love every four seconds readers will overlook the fact that they had no proper romantic build-up.

You might rightly accuse me of bias. I have previously admitted I am fond of Qibli/Winter as a romantic pairing, on the surface this seems like I am just not happy with my pet ship being blocked by Moonwatcher. But I assure you, I am actually pretty flexible and accommodating even towards pairings that contradict my preferences. I have no issues with Winter/Moonwatcher, for example, because the possibility was properly established and they have good romantic chemistry in Winter Turning. In theory, I would have no problem with Qibli/Moonwatcher either if it was ever set up as an interesting romantic dynamic. But to me, it seems like Qibli is written as a good, supportive friend to Moon for four books, only to pivot hard into “Moon moon moon moon moon moon swoon” at the last second, and it just reads to me as obnoxious.

I got distracted. This section is called “Qibli’s callousness”, and I haven’t even talked about the main part.

Qibli and Winter have excellent chemstry together, whether you read it as romantic or platonic—both of these interpretations have merit and are set up. They’re always the highlight of any scene they’re in. Throughout the story arc you get the impression that these two really get on each other’s nerves, but they bond and grow into really strong friends who bicker a lot but have each other’s backs when it counts.

Then there is a scene where Qibli casually tells Winter that he wouldn’t object if someone wanted to mind-control away some of Winter’s more objectionable traits.

This is genuinely a terrible thing to say to your friend. Like, it crosses a line and ceases to be harmless banter; you’re just telling them that there is something you hate about them so much that you wish they were someone else. Winter actually WAS mind-controlled earlier and felt (and proably still feels) guilty about having attacked Qibli in that state. And now Qibli says “Hey, I wouldn’t mind if someone did that to you again! Hue hue!”

It is awful, BUT I don’t necessarily object to Qibli saying this here. Qibli is in the middle of his character arc at this moment, so he is expected to be flawed. He is making a mistake by thoughtlessly telling Winter this horrid thing, and it seems like a believable continuation of his current character track. This is a reasonable development as long as the plot acknowledges that it’s a mistake.

Spoilers: The plot doesn’t acknowledge that it’s a mistake. Qibli never has a scene after where he reflects upon what he said and apologizes to Winter. When Darkstalker has Qibli trapped in his mountain jail and mind-wipes Qibli’s grandfather into a toddler (hey, wait a minute), Qibli gets visibly disturbed. Like, this is so off-putting to him that he gets queasy and Darkstalker hastily changes the spell. That could have been a great way to bring this back. Like in the epilogue, have Qibli track down Winter and tell him about disturbing baby grandpa theater and how he realized that wiping people’s minds is actually messed up and should have never said that to him.

But he doesn’t. He just lets Winter go, allowing him to believe he is broken and needs magical intervention to be tolerable. It leaves me to think that maybe he’s still okay with it, and fantasizing about rewriting his friend’s mind. Great.

Moonwatcher’s character death

You will find as this goes on that, I get the impression that the second half of this book takes all of the wonderful, endearing characters I have learned to love throughout the story and replaces them with really mean, or stupid, or otherwise inaccurate caricatures.

Moonwatcher’s relationship with Darkstalker gets plenty of setup and development in Moon Rising. You get the sense that these two could be great friends if their circumstances were a little different. It does a great job at making you think maybe Darkstalker is just misunderstood; maybe Moon should free him from his predicament.

Then at the end of Escaping Peril comes the emotional gut punch. Darkstalker actually IS a villain. He callously admits to Moonwatcher that he used his magic to make his own father gruesomely disembowel himself. Moonwatcher is horrified and disgusted that he would do that. There is no circumstance in which something like that would ever be okay. She ends the scene awash in tears because the person she thought was her friend is a murderer and a sadist. This is good, that is a natural reaction to what she was just told.

A few hours from there, in Talons of Power, Turtle finds Moon again and she is completely cool with Darkstalker walking free, despite crying her eyes out after feeling so betrayed earlier. That may seem strange, but this is still good because later, Darkstalker’s mind control plot is discovered. This scene was obviously written to set that up, Moon is mind-controlled into forgetting that Darkstalker could do something that morally reprehensible, and thus forgives him. This is also completely in line with his characterization in Legends: Darkstalker. It’s a kind of stunt he would pull to get Clearsight to shut up about him slipping into villainy.

In my earlier post I alluded to a moment where Moon is set to narrative auto-pilot and says something so rampantly off-kilter that it does irreversible, permanent damage to her character. It happens here, in the second half of book 10. Qibli gives Moon the Darkstalker protection earring, and Moon, somehow, says “I’m not being mind-controlled, Darkstalker really is my friend.”

I get what the plot tries to do here. It’s taking this concept of mind-control and adding a nuance, in an attempt to flesh out Darkstalker and give his character depth. He is ready to control everyone in the world, but for Moon, who is his best friend in this era, he wants her to remain herself. Perhaps this is his attempt at attonement for playing with Clearsight’s mind and driving her away from him. It is very touching in a way, viewed in isolation.

Unfortunately, it does not work with the full context of all the books. Because Moon is in auto-pilot mode right now, her main character trait is “Darkstalker=Friend,” so naturally she would speak in support of him. But this revelation has devastating retroactive consequences. The earlier scene that was written with Moon under mind-control is now altered into her having been in her right mind! She is completely okay with Darkstalker’s admittance to cold-blooded torture and evisceration, within hours of being so shocked by it that it made her cry and ready to denounce him. That is such a quick turnaround it’s giving me whiplash. And what’s more it turns Moon from a principled, upstanding girl into a sociopath who casually accepts gruesome torture and murder if it is committed by someone she likes.

Did Sutherland forget about the scene two books ago, where Darkstalker’s actions were so inconceivably horrid for Moon to learn of that she started crying? It baffles me that this made it into the final version. Her saying she was never mind-controlled makes Moon come off as so awful. This torture-excusing lunatic is not the same kind-hearted and insightful character I followed in all the other books.

Kinkajou’s character derailment

The world is a sad place when I have to question the way Kinjajou is written. Fortunately she is mostly fine, despite her having the biggest excuse to act out-of-character since she’s the victim of a mind-altering spell. Her only real moment of “what!?” comes at the end.

I already talked about her role in casting the spell that regresses Darkstalker into an infant. But I didn’t mention how her being the source of it is questionable in itself.

The clue is in the first paragraph of this section: She herself has experienced the effects of invasive mind-alteration. She was cursed by Anemone in the previous book to be in love with Turtle, and kind of half-struggles kind of not with it, it’s really strange. Turtle is appropriately horrified and acts like really awful things are happening, but then it’s mostly played lightly for some reason. My assumption is that Sutherland introduced this plot point, but then realized how uncomfortable this premise really is and tried to downplay it until the story got to a point where it could get done away with.

But I think the takeaway is still supposed to be that this was a horrid thing to do (which it absolutely is), and that Kinkajou will have to spend a lot of time trying to untangle her real emotions from the fake ones the spell created.

The point is: Kinkajou knows first-hand how awful it is to do something like that to another person. Ideally she should never even conceive of the idea to cast a spell like that, but if we’re really set on this Darkstalker baby thing and it has to happen, she should at least be a bit hesitant about it. And afterwards she should struggle with the guilt of having resorted to it. Not celebrate it and be proud, like it’s funny.

The assassination of Winter’s future

Now we come to the part I’ve alluded to previously; the part where all of these threads converge to utterly destroy one character and drive him to the brink of ruin. Let’s talk about Winter.

Prince Winter is the son of Tundra and Prince Narwhal, hatching in the same clutch as his sister Icicle. He spent his formative years being unfavorably compared to said sister—who easily took to traits that Icewing royalty considers desirable—whereas Winter struggled greatly to embody those same ideals. He was just a little too kind, too merciful, too gentle. As a result he often had to endure abuse from his parents, who made him feel like he was defective.

Because he was young and didn’t have any other frame of reference, he embraced this abusive narrative and began to drive himself with a vigor unreasonable for someone of his age. He scraped and cloyed for every bit of credit he could get, obsessing over advancing up the circle rankings in an attempt to “purge” the wrongness out of himself. To make his parents as proud of him as they were of Icicle.

This never worked. He was always seen as the runt, poised to embarrass the family name. Whatever he did, no matter how hard he strived, there was always something he could have done better.

The only real source of love and affirmation in his life was his older brother, Hailstorm. Where everyone else only saw what Winter wasn’t, Hailstorm embraced his brother despite of his “failings” and was openly affectionate with him. When Winter was with him, it was okay to not think about rankings all the time, and just be himself for a bit. I assume Hailstorm fulfilled a similar role for Icicle as well, which is why both of them love him dearly, and Icicle destroys her own life to bring him back.

Winter also has a fascination with scavengers, possibly because they are small and perceived as useless, like he himself is. He likely feels a kinship with them and observes them being craftier and more adept than everyone else sees them. This is therapeutic for him, to see that a thing can have merit even if no one wants to see it.

One day, he and Hailstorm sneak into Skywing territory so Winter can catch a scavenger as a pet. This excursion turns hostile when they are discovered by a roaming Skywing troop and faced with the prospect of capture, possibly execution. In a gambit to save Winter from this fate, Hailstorm mirrors the words of his parents, calling Winter pathetic and useless, so the Skywings will not think of him as a threat and show mercy. His act succeeds in convincing the Skywings, but it also convinces Winter, who does not understand Hailstorm only said these things to save his life. He returns home—believing his brother hated him all along—to face the wrath of his furious family for losing them “the desirable son”.

For all of his life, these themes have repeated themselves and haunted him. “I was born wrong and defective,” “I am unlovable,” “No one wants me.”

A few months after the war ends, Winter is one of the five Icewings enrolled in the newly founded Jade Mountain Academy. Shortly after departing, he unexpectedly returns home, having successfully rescued his older brother and bringing him back. He is made to believe that this erases his mistakes, his mother even pays him a backhanded compliment, an uncharacteristically “nice” gesture. He is promoted to the top of the rankings, finally his parents are proud of him.

But of course it is all a trick. The “adoration” afforded to him was all a ploy. Secretly, his parents abused power and tradition to arrange for Winter’s death. They force him into a lethal trial they intentionally rigged against him, all to finally erase that stain on their family’s honor.

Winter finally realizes the true nature of his parents’ opinion of him. Even when he succeeds, and does everything right, he is still defective, unlovable, and unwanted. He will never be anything else to his family. And so he leaves his homeland, pretending he is dead, resigned to live in hiding forever.

During this time, while at the brink of despair, Winter is able to draw strength from one source: His new friends from the academy. He vocalizes that, for all the abuse he suffered at the hands of his birth family, he fervently believes that THEY would never do anything like that to him. They chose to stuck with him, even when he was awful, and told him he was not hopeless. He was not a mistake; he could be deserving of love.

So naturally, he returns to them; they accept him readily, are willing to be his new surrogate family. When he almost burns to death at a later point, they fear and weep for him. When Qibli sets out to confront his own abusive family, Winter, despite being mind-controlled into a placid potato at the time, feels concerned enough for his friend’s safety to insist to come along (returning the favor of them accompanying him in his time of need in book 7). When Darkstalker’s mind control forces Winter to attack Qibli, he is shown ashamed and guilty of it once the control wears off again.

They bicker and struggle, and make mistakes, they break up but always come back together again. Time and time again the one thing that is always reinforced: When the cards are down, Winter loves his friends, and they love him. They would never intentionally hurt each other, or give up on each other.

I want you to keep in mind how wholesome, and loving, and mutually supportive this ramshackle band of misfits has been portrayed to this point... Because we’re moving on to the arc 2 finale, and it will do everything it can to corrupt all of it and consign Winter to a life of misery.

We arrive at aforementioned scene, where Moonwatcher receives her earring. Just a little bit prior, Winter had learned that Darkstalker unleashed a magical plague onto his people in an attempt to wipe them out. Now here is Moonwatcher, revealing that she is not under any spell, and has aligned herself with this guy willingly, speaking fondly of him as if he was a dear friend who never did any wrong. Winter takes this badly and accidentally breaks a vase; the narrative lingers on this moment and really tries to sell us on how unreasonable Winter’s reaction is, how he is overreacting, but let’s examine that interpretation for a moment.

Moonwatcher doesn’t yet know about the attempted Icewing genocide, but she DOES know about Darkstalker being okay with casting spells to inflict immeasurable torture upon those he hates. WE know that she knows this, so her stance here is already suspect. Yet she goes on to praise Darkstalker and refer to him as a friend. Look at this from Winter’s perspective. This “friend” of Moonwatcher just tried to kill his entire tribe, and he actually succeeded in killing his aunt, Queen Glacier, a person Winter greatly respects. Winter is currently unable to return to his homeland for fear of being branded a traitor. Even if he could return, he knows his obstinate and spiteful family would prevent him from attending the funeral, meaning he is not even afforded the basic dignity of saying farewell to his aunt. The aunt whom Darkstalker murdered by making her vomit her own blood until she withered away in her bed. And here is Moon, absolving the person who did this to Glacier from his appalling actions, despite knowing full well what Darkstalker is capable of and choosing to look away.

I don’t know about you, but I think I can forgive the grieving, emotionally overwhelmed boy for shattering a little pottery after hearing his trusted friend—who held his hand when he was dying—say that the guy who makes people disembowel themselves and wipes out entire countries may be misunderstood and not so bad. I think I would have a similar reaction. In fact, I would never want to talk to her ever again.

There is no way I can read this scene in which Moon doesn’t come off as either an absolute lunatic, or critically stupid and callous. In fact, based on her earlier behavior I half-expect her to get over the news of the attempted Icewing massacre in a couple hours, saying “Eh, it’s kinda bad, but you just have to do these kinds of things sometimes, you know? I’m sure he had his reasons.”

Then there is the part where Qibli makes his off-color comment about how Winter’s brain could really use a good wash. I already went into how it could have worked but didn’t. But with the timing here, we’ve already had Moon spit on their friendship, so as Winter’s other closest friend, it naturally follows that Qibli also craps on his feelings.

Consider the context: Winter comes from an abusive household where his parents forcibly tried to change him away from who he was to purge the “wrongness” from him. When they betray him and he narrowly escapes their attempt on his life, he re-affirms his belief in his friends, and the knowledge that they wouldn’t treat him like that gives him the strength he needs to keep going. But now, Qibli asserts that Winter DOES need to be altered, thereby AGREEING with Winter’s abusive parents, rendering Winter’s affirmation from book 7 erroneous. Qibli WOULD treat him like that if it made Winter less “intolerable”.

Neither Moonwatcher nor Qibli ever make an attempt to repair this rift. Winter is left betrayed and alone.

Stuff happens, and the forces of the Nightwings and Icewings come to blows over Jade Mountain. With his two closest friends having written him off and his support network eroded, Winter relapses into thinking he is worthless, seeks validation in unquestioning patriotism, and realigns himself with his abusive family by throwing himself into the battle. Nobody wants him to, in fact his parents still hate him for it, but whatever. His father dies and his mother blames him for it.

Meanwhile Turtle, Anemone, and Qibli are cooking up a solution to the battle problem. They have the idea to make everyone’s minds connect in a huge empathy wave for a few moments, which I think is a pretty interesting idea for what it’s worth. But then they teleport both armies back to their homes, and the spell sweeps Winter up with them, taking him out of the rest of the finale and bringing him to the Ice Kingdom. The characters say “whoops” but aren’t further concerned with the situation. It’s all a big laugh.

Let me remind you that Winter is currently considered not welcome on Icewing territory. His family, whom he was sent back with, is extremely abusive and vindictive. His friends know this. Said parents have previously arranged for him to be killed, and are still on record as wanting him dead. His friends KNOW this. And now he is alone with them and a gaggle of other royal Icewings who all are extremely pissed off at him for ruining their sacred trial site.

It is very possible that he is being torn apart and mauled by an enraged mob right now. He could be forced into captivity and flayed. Maybe the interim regent is sentencing him to death and getting the rope ready. There is a million different horrible things that could be happening to Winter right now, while he is trapped alone with people who hate him, things his friends would be reasonably able to anticipate. And nobody is doing anything to get him out of there, to suggest bringing him back, even though it would only take a single spoken sentence to do so! They aren’t even concerned!

Then the climax happens, strawberry thing and all, and we get the coup de grâce. After all is said and done, the group decides that Winter is untrustworthy, and that they must protect the secret of Darkstalker’s fate from him, because they fear if he knew he would kill Peacemaker.

Moon, who read Winter’s mind in book 6 and reached out to him about how the “ruthless Icewing warrior” persona in his head is a facade and how she sees he has a gentle and good heart... Moon, who in book 7 finds out about Winter’s secret deal to kill Glory and STILL trusts him, who calls out his bullshit to his face because she KNOWS how kind-hearted Winter is and that he would never resort to murder... Moon who, again, held his hand while he was dying... thinks that the dragon she has reminded of his compassionate nature time and time again would kill an innocent child.

This is disgusting. Moon believing that is so far off the mark with regards to anything this group has embodied or done for any of the last 4 books, that my only conclusion can be that these are different characters. Maybe the Nightwing library collapsed on top of original Moon, and when Darkstalker magiced her back to health she came back wrong or something. I don’t know.

So after all of this, Winter is left alone. He somehow escaped from the Ice Kingdom; luckily there is a timeskip so we can just gloss over the horrible situation he was put in by his friends. He thinks about Jade Mountain. He reflects on everything that happened, how his parents never really loved him... How they hated him so much they tried to kill him... How he despaired, but found solace in his friends who loved him for who he was.... How those friends then betrayed him too and magiced him away... How they didn’t care about what happened to him... And he decides he is done. He won’t bother going back. A few people, probably Sunny, reach out to tell him he is welcome back, but he says “it wouldn’t be fair to other Icewings if an exile took up a bed”. The decision isn’t hard to make, after all there is nothing left for him there. Everyone has written him off, moved on and left him behind.

Kinkajou visits sometimes, tries to stay in touch, but that’s just how she is. Maybe the others sent her to check on whether he’s going to become troublesome. They don’t trust him. Better to keep an eye on him, he might kill the baby.

With nowhere else to go, Winter moves to Sanctuary, a place for rejects like him. I picture him standing there, at the edge of a cliff staring blankly into the distance. He is completely alone; no one wants to go near him or talk to him beyond the bare necessities. He could probably make new friends with the Talons of Peace if he tried, but there is no point. Why should someone like him have friends? It wouldn’t work. They’d just decide he is too inconvenient to be around. Sooner or later they would just tell him to leave anyway. It's better not to try, so he doesn't get hurt again.

And slowly it dawns on him. His parents had been right all along. It was never them, or the others, it was him. He is the problem. The Icewings said it, Qibli said it, Moonwatcher said it. There is just something fundamentally wrong with him.

He is defective. He is unlovable. Nobody wants him. He will never be anything, or have anyone. And so he stands at the cliff, looking over the broken vase fragments of his life... This is who he is. Prince Winter. A mistake.

And quietly, where no one knows or cares, he does the only thing he has left to do... he begins to weep.

As it is written, the tale of Winter is the story of a boy who is told he is wrong for being alive. He closes his ears and tries to keep walking forward, desperate to prove that he is not an error, that he has merit. But this book comes out and it unmistakably says that he doesn’t. He is nothing, and he deserves to have nothing.

And I just cannot accept that.

Why did this have to happen?

I think that the author was really struggling with the ending of this book. I’ve said before how much of a corner she wrote herself into with such an invincible villain. I think she came up with the strawberry idea as a solution to this problem. But as she was writing it, the characters kept fighting her. It was not a natural solution, not a decision the characters—as they were established—would ever make.

So concessions had to be made to force the issue. Established traits had to be bent slightly to make this plot work. The farther she went, the worse it got. The concessions piled up and turned into contrivances. Eventually the characters were no longer acting like themselves. Their bonds got stretched too far and some snapped. It’s a very tragic pitfall that occurs with long-running series.

I think Sutherland must have also been tired. Writing an entire book is a monumental task, and writing 6 connected ones even moreso. She also comes out with these things really quickly. Maybe she was burnt out? Maybe she wanted to be done and her attention lapsed. Maybe that’s why she forgot that Moon knew about the disemboweling. It seems reasonable to believe when you consider that the next story arc would make a relatively clean break from the problems of this arc, especially with regards to the magic system.

But I don’t know what ultimately happened, so I can only speculate. I reiterate, I bear no ill will against Sutherland for writing this. Even if I kind of hate everything about this finale, and very vocally wish it would be different, I don’t want this examination to generate (or reawaken) any hatred towards her, or to attack her personally. I understand the pain of an artist who gets trapped with something for too long and has to find the means, any means, to see it through to the end. I criticize the story, but I could never hate anyone for that.

But for me, I do not consider this half of the book as part of the story. The characters act too unnaturally for it to have happened. So to me, it didn’t. We don’t know what happened, maybe Darkstalker is still out there. Maybe they dealt with him. Maybe what actually happened is my crappy and self-indulgent rewrite of the ending which I will never show to anyone because it would be really embarrassing.

But whatever actually ended up happening, I am sure Winter never ended up at that cliff, pondering how worthless and meaningless his life was. He is currently at Jade Mountain, surrounded by friends who love him, and bickering with Qibli about the correct solution to their advanced calculus assignment that is due tomorrow.

Is there anything left to say?

Probably.

I didn’t talk about Anemone yet. You know, in the epilogue she enchants herself a bracelet that makes her “not be so mean all the time”. I find that creepy. To me it reads as Anemone voluntarily brainwashing herself with magic to erase her negative traits instead of growing past them naturally because she finds them undesirable and wants to work to change for the better. I would ordinarily assume that this is an overreaction on my part, and I’m just reading the scene wrong. But no, we just got through a part where the heroes brainwashing someone is treated as an unequivocal good and worthy of celebration, so I think my reading may actually be spot on. Why are we letting the little kid alter her own brain without supervision? Hello? Tsunami? Someone intervene maybe? This cannot be healthy.

Turtle stands out to me as the one bright spot in all of this. He (and Peril, but she’s mostly out of focus) remain as the only main characters of this arc who don’t have any mind-boggling out-of-character moments or sudden streaks of uncharacteristic callousness. I really like the part where Qibli goes to free Turtle from his captivity and plans to give him an earful about the comically unhelpful messages he’s been sending him. But when Turtle asks if what he did was helpful, Qibli sees how beaten down and exhausted Turtle is, and wordlessly drops his frustration to tell him “Yeah, they were helpful.” That is the true Qibli shining through for a moment, showing that he cares about the well-being of his friends.

Do I hate the pairing of Qibli/Moonwatcher? No. Well, I DO hate how it happened in the book, and how the story tried to assassinate Winter’s character to resolve the love triangle and make it happen. I don’t hate it on principle though. If you are a fan of Qibli/Moonwatcher and want to write fanfics about it, please do! I absolutely encourage you to do that! Maybe you can fix this mess and turn it into something that’s actually properly handled!

Mightyclaws keeps the power that Darkstalker granted him past the finale. That means all the spells that Darkstalker cast are technically still active. Does that mean the Icewings have to wear earrings for the rest of their lives? Do they get sick again if they take them off? Is Peril forever cursed to think of Darkstalker as a cool old uncle and has to somehow reconcile how everyone else thinks of him? How did the Nightwings relinquishing their powers work, do they have to wear the earrings forever too now?

And there is one more thing to mention.

My confession

You may have already intuited this, if you’ve been following the content of my blog. It is very heavily skewed towards the first and second arcs of the series. I would now like to confess something.

When I read the second half of book 10, I found it so disillusioning, Winter’s fate so upsetting... that I put down the series then and there. And I haven’t picked it back up since.

That’s right, I have not read arc 3. I don’t know if that makes me a fake fan. I know pretty much everything that happens in it, the controversial twist at the end, Pyrrhia coming back into the story later, Snowfall getting brainwashed by a piece of jewelry until she cares about a plot that had nothing to do with her or the fate of the Icewings, etc..

It’s not out of malice, or because it’s a new continent. The opposite in fact; I would have greatly prefered a clean break with a new setting—Bug-themed dragons in a slightly more contemporary, developed environment sounds fascinating and full of potential. I don’t hate Pantala or the new characters.

I just... I can’t really do this again. I can’t handle the thought of Pyrrhia coming back post-Darkstalker, with Winter showing up and talking to these guys again like nothing happened, seeming like a different person, joking around with them like his entire character wasn’t dragged through a mountain of manure to make the plot bend a certain way. I think as long as this is the ending that the story is continuing from, seeing that would just make me miserable.

Maybe I will just stay in the parts of the story that I fell in love with. And imagine a version of reality in which Pantala is allowed to exist on its own, where Swordtail was the fourth POV character of arc 3, where Queen Wasp stayed the villain throughout, and Snowfall got her own legends book about how she reformed Icewing society and fixed all the shit that poisoned Winter’s life, so future generations don’t have to suffer through the same stuff he did.

~~~~~

If you’re still with me, thank you for reading this far. I think this is everything I ever thought about the finale of the second story arc, so now I never have to talk about it again. Writing this was difficult. I found it crushing at times. This will probably stand as the only overtly negative post I have ever made on this blog. I love Wings of Fire, and I want to celebrate it. To add to it, not tear it down.

I hope this wasn’t too boring, or painful, or frustrating, or soul-crushing to read through. I’ll see you later, hopefully with a more constructive post.

[imagine-darksiders]

Transformers Prime: Optimus + Reader. Chapter 1.

So, I read @lovinglonerhybrid 's post here. And it absolutely had me in a chokehold, so this is based off that premise. I'm in the UK so please excuse my ignorance of American states lmao.

So, there is a part 2 to this, but I'm going away for 4 days and wanted to get some of it posted before then.

You've broken down fifteen miles short of Jasper's city limits in the dead of night. Deciding to hike in to town, you feel the earth rumble beneath you, and over the horizon, something enormous approaches...

Chapter 1: 9352 words.

-------

It’s a rare and covetous thing, to find even a single moment of peace in the midst of an intergalactic war.

The gap from one of those precious moments to the next seems to grow wider and wider every time, until their frequency is so negligible, it becomes hard to recognise them for what they are anymore.

For everything Earth could have offered Optimus Prime, he hadn’t been expecting it to relinquish the gift of peace so willingly. But he’s glad – more than glad – to accept them when they come, even if he’s only stealing glimpses of tranquillity on the sand-swept road leading out of Jasper.

Low-beam headlights lazily trace over the faded tarmac ahead of Optimus’s tyres as he trundles along Highway 49, one of only two roads that surround the small, sleepy city of Jasper. It’s a very routine patrol, one he obligingly excused Bumblebee from taking after his poor scout all but begged Optimus to give it to someone else, beeping out promises that he’ll take double shift tomorrow night, if need be.

All this on the back of Miko announcing another of her ‘slumber parties’ at the base, much to Ratchet’s noisy chagrin and Optimus’s private amusement. And, of course, when Bumblebee found out that Rafael would be staying the night too… Well…

‘You’re too indulging,’ their old medic had admonished from his workstation, the broad expanse of his back turned to the Prime, ‘He ought to learn he can’t always have his way.’

But it was a harmless indulgence, and Prime was more than happy to take over the patrol in this instance.

Besides, he had an arguably selfish reason for doing so.

If he’d admitted as much out loud, Ratchet would have scoffed and sent a pulse of chiding dismissal crashing into Optimus’s EM field. ‘You don’t have a selfish component in your body,’ he might say.

But this… Optimus muses, gazing skyward as he trundles down the highway in vehicle mode, letting the crisp, night air slide through his grill and cool his powerful engine… This is the appeal of a solo patrol.

Every now and then, there are times when the Decepticon activity goes quiet, Fowler has nothing to report, and Optimus can almost pretend that he’s just another Cybertronian enjoying a long, quiet drive through the Mojave wilderness. And while he remains ever vigilant, keeping every sensor poised outwardly in a constant surveillance of his surroundings, the old bot still permits at least one sense to wander.

Somehow, it’s always his sight.

Oftentimes he catches himself doing it. Other times, on nights that are quiet and still and clear like this one, there’s a wire-deep longing that overrides his logic gates, and the Prime won’t notice that he isn’t keeping his processor and his optics on the dusty road ahead of him. He’s too busy stealing long, pensive looks at the stars above him, scattered like a-hundred-billion souls sprawling across a curtain of crushed velvet.

It’s out there… somewhere… riding a lonely orbit on the furthest reaches of the galaxy’s Centaurus arm.

Cybertron.

Home.

Their first home, he amends gently, depressing his accelerator to speed up when he realises he’s starting to crawl. Earth is as much their home now as Cybertron ever was.

Sagging on his suspension with a low hiss, Optimus drags his hidden optics back to the road ahead, and all at once, he nearly lurches to a halt, his exhaust pipes sputtering out a hollow sound to betray his surprise.

There, parked several feet from the road a few hundred yards ahead of him, is a vehicle.

Prime’s senses sharpen to a startling focus.

Pumping his brakes, he slows down again, and the roar of his engine fades to a fluctuating hum.

A Decepticon…?

He doesn’t feel anything trying to breach his EM field, nor does he pick up on any resistance when his scanners hone in on the vehicle – ‘Ford. F250. A Pickup truck.’ Year….? Optimus’s focus narrows to a pinprick… ‘Eighty-seven.’

It’s red - a faded, dusky red like some of the sun-baked sandstone at Red Rock Canyon. As Prime’s massive form rumbles on through the night, looming closer and closer to the mysterious truck, his lights reflect off something situated above its rear bumper, the presence of which quells his flaring codes and eases his rigid frame.

A number plate.

Thick, black numbers and letters stand out against the white rectangle, though it isn’t the sequence that alleviates Optimus’s suspicion, it’s their mere presence.

No Decepticon he knows would ever suffer the ‘indignity’ of having a human number plate stapled to their bumpers.

Primus, even the Autobots have foregone the accessory after Fowler gave up trying to keep Bumblebee from losing his, Ratchet from ‘misplacing’ his, and Bulkhead from bending his irreparably whenever he transformed. Optimus had given it a go, for a time… mainly because he was growing worried that their overworked liaison would quite simply combust if he had to intercept one more phone call from ‘concerned civilians’ who were reporting a semi-truck driving through Jasper without its registration.

The Prime’s number plate came to its own crumpled end when he sat down on his berth one evening without removing it first.

One genuine, slightly sheepish apology to a very fed-up liaison later, and Optimus was informed that he and his team no longer needed to wear the plates.

So, the presence of one on this truck is a good sign. It’s less likely to transform and cause an incident.

That does, however, open up an entirely new avenue for concern to creep in.

A crash, perhaps?

Several dark skid marks indicate that it must have veered off the road after a hard, panicked brake.

He can’t pick up any biological signatures either. Even when he casts a wider net, all his sensors catch are the heat signatures of a few tiny, Earthen mammals scurrying about over the sand before they dart into various rock formations when he rolls by. But just because he isn’t picking up the presence of a living human, it doesn’t negate the possibility of a human being inside…

Frame suddenly taut, Optimus trundles to a cautious halt on the road alongside the truck, his engine idling like some great, murmuring beast in the quiet of the desert.

A throaty hum seems to escape his smokestacks as he peers down at the smaller truck, contemplative… considering… Then finally, relieved. There doesn’t appear to be anyone inside, judging by what his headlights illuminate through the cab windows.

What is it doing out here?

It definitely wasn’t here yesterday when he made the drive into Jasper. It isn’t a vehicle he recognises either, and he’s been doubly vigilant of late regarding all the civilian cars, bikes, trucks, vans, and even agricultural vehicles in and around the town.

Privately, he’s been compiling a catalogue of them all, for his own reference.

If there’s a threat to his human charges lurking about in their hometown, Optimus needs to know about it. A Decepticon disguised as a civilian vehicle would be an effective method of infiltration.

Casting one more, cursory ping out into the night to check that he’s definitely alone, he at last begins to unfurl himself into his bipedal mode. Metal plating slides away from his grill, pulling back and rolling along the body of the semi as he rises onto newly revealed pedes. The mechanical whines, whirrs and buzzes are terribly loud and alien amongst the desert’s natural ambiance, but soon enough, the air falls still once again, and a monolithic Cybertronian stands in the place where a Peterbilt used to be.

Soft, cerulean light spills over the abandoned truck as Optimus settles his optics upon it, easing his enormous frame down into a crouch and draping one arm across his knee with a ‘clunk.’

At first glance, he hadn’t noticed anything especially odd about the truck save for its unexpected presence. Leaning sideways, he casts an optic over the front bumper and finds nothing out of place, no damage to indicate a crash, no broken headlights or crushed bonnet.

It’s the same story with the truck’s bed. Only when Optimus hauls himself upright and treads carefully around it to inspect the other side does he notices the glaring problem.

The whole vehicle is canting onto its offside front tyre, a tyre that sports a rather sizeable puncture, considering how flat it is. And from the looks of it, this one was only ever meant to be used as a temporary spare. A quick glance into the truck’s bed reveals what he assumes must be the original tyre, flat as well, with the silver head of a nail jutting from the centre tread block.

Optimus clicks his glossa softly for the owner’s run of bad luck.

Right away, he sends a ping to his team, advising them to be wary of stray nails along this stretch…

He receives several pings in return. Immediately comes Bumblebee’s frustration, buzzed over the airwaves like a sulking sparkling who’s been told his toy was broken. Given the Scout’s inclination to race at top speed all over these roads, Optimus doesn’t doubt he’s just vexed at the shuddersome notion of having to slow down.

Arcee and Bulkhead respond in kind as their leader absently moves his attention to something strange obscuring part of driver’s window, letting their concern wash over his field.

‘Popped a tyre, Boss?’ Bulkhead’s message hits his comm, informal and probing, but with the warmth of care behind it.

Optimus is quick to send a pulse of reassurance back through their shared channel. He’s fine. If one little nail was all it took to take a Prime out of commission, they’d all be in serious, serious trouble.

The channels go quiet after Arcee and Ratchet send their short, concise responses, and once again, Optimus is alone on the road, peering down at a small sheet of paper that’s been taped to the inside of the truck’s front window.

Gradually, he furrows his optical ridges until they almost click together into one, solid line, the apertures inside each optic whirring and shrinking as he reads the words scribbled on the paper.

He recalls the first time he encountered the languages of Earth as they were written. The looping letters, graceful and elegant, chasing one another across the front of the letter Agent Fowler gave him as part of an unofficial welcome to the United States.

Optimus had held the paper so delicately between two of his digits, blinking down at the dark ink soaked into repurposed cellulose fibre. It was beautiful.

When he remarked as such, Fowler made a noncommittal comment that you could tell a lot about humans from their handwriting.

Optimus would sometimes find himself glancing over the children’s homework when they left their books out unattended on the table in their recreational area.

Jack’s neat and sensible cursive. Miko’s chaotic, glittery script that rose and fell and ventured outside the lines because she was usually paying more attention to her music than the words she wrote in her textbook. And Rafael, of course, with his quick, almost frantic stokes of the pen as he tried to scribble his thoughts down as fast as his brain could make them, only to end up losing his confidence halfway through a sentence, doubled back, drew a single line through the words, and started again on a fresh page.

This handwriting though… written in blue, splotchy ink and stuck with a piece of scotch tape to the truck’s window, makes Fowler’s words ring true in Optimus’s processor.

He can tell a lot about the human who wrote it.

‘Please don’t steal/break into my truck,’ it reads. The word ‘please’ has been underlined several times. ‘Not worth much, it’s all I’ve got. Tyre is flat, spare tyre too, so can’t get far anyway. Walking to town to find help bcos phone died and I don’t have a charger. Be back soon. Thanks.’

The ink has run in several places and rendered some of the letters illegible, as if water has been dropped on them from above.

Optimus isn’t naïve. He’s seen the children cry, more times than he can bear.

Then underneath all that, in much smaller writing stuffed underneath the first message like an afterthought they forgot to leave enough space for…

‘P.s, if the truck is still here in 3 days, assume I’m dead.’

With a sudden groan of his metal frame, Optimus braces a servo on his knee and hurriedly pushes himself to his pedes once again, helm swivelling sideways to stare down the length of the road.

The truck’s nose is pointed in the direction of Jasper, but the town itself is still about a fifteen-mile drive…

Surely they wouldn’t make the journey on foot…

But if the note is any indication, then…

His processor flashes again to the children; Miko in particular, and the alarming disregard she has for her own safety. The boys are guilty of that as well, though to a lesser degree.

Suddenly, there’s a very high likelihood that there might be a human wondering through the vast Mojave, alone. Worse still, Bumblebee had reported just last week that there’s been an increase in Decepticon patrols in the area around Jasper. No doubt Megatron has been ramping up his efforts to locate the Autobot base. Their growing presence in the vicinity of town makes these roads particularly treacherous…

Optimus ex-vents roughly, more troubled than frustrated.

Blue optics narrow at the road ahead, and once again, the peace of the desert night is filled by the sounds of living metal collapsing back in on itself.

A powerful engine roars to life. Somewhere nearby, a startled jackrabbit darts beneath the safety of a sagebrush, hiding herself amongst its silvery leaves.

Unblinking, her wild eyes stare after the great, thrumming beast as it moves on down the road.

—————-

You’ve had a lot of ideas in your life.

Some good. Some bad. Some that have paid off, but most that have gone nowhere at all.

Perhaps you were growing tired of going nowhere…

What else would have possessed you to up and move all the way to the middle of Nevada state on the back of a job offer that came from a man your uncle purported to know?

‘Oh yeah, Terry? Did a job with him a few years back for some cattle baron out in the sticks. ‘Course, Terry always wanted his own dairy… Want me to tell him you’re lookin’ for work?’

Turns out, Terry did end up getting that dairy he always wanted. And as it happened, he was looking for a farm hand.

Does it count as nepotism if you’re fairly sure your uncle had only met your future employer once?

Beyond a certain point, you simply couldn’t care less.

A job is a job, even if it is out here in the desert near a town you’d never heard of a month ago.

Dust-caked trainers trudge to a weary halt in front of a large, green road sign.

The moon, thankfully, hangs fat and luminous in the cloudless sky. So at least you don’t need a torch to see, not now that your eyes have had time to adjust the darkness cloaked over the desert.

With your run of bad luck, you half assumed the heavens would have opened by now and given the Mojave a nice, little dose of rain.

“Well,” you mutter aloud to yourself, peering up at the green sign with a grimace, “Could be worse…”

‘Jasper – 10 miles,’ reads like a slap to the face.

Still… It’s better than the fifteen miles.

You must have walked at least five already, dragging your legs behind you like extra baggage that doesn’t want to cooperate.

It has to be beyond midnight now. Well beyond, you suppose.

You’ve been walking for the better part of two hours, slow and sluggish and exhausted. The journey getting to Nevada had been tiring enough, then as soon as you crossed state lines, your tyre caught a puncture going over a particularly nasty pothole that had snuck up on you.

After an hour spent in the blazing sun jacking up the truck and changing to the spare, you set off again for another several hours of travel. Then, twenty miles out of Jasper, just as you dared to celebrate being home-free, the unthinkable had happened.

Who hits a pothole and drives over a nail in the same, damn day? Apparently, the same person who forgot to buy a charger adaptor for the truck.

No charger? No phone.

No phone…? No calling for help…

Your chest expands and deflates with a bone-tired sigh, turning your gaze back onto the long, dark road ahead of you. Tears sting at the inside of your eyelids, and for a moment, you consider letting them fall, if only to ease some of the pressure building up behind your temples. But crying hysterically about the unfairness of the world hadn’t un-punctured your spare tyre, so why would it help the situation now.

“Come on,” you coax yourself, hauling one leg out in front of the other. Rinse. Repeat. “Not far now.”

Just a few more hours…

The going is slow, tough, draining. Even the dark shapes of rocks start to look enticing as you pass them, letting your eyes slide over to them as you wonder just how safe it would be to fall asleep in the desert by the side of a road.

Ever since you broke down a few hours ago, you haven’t seen one, single vehicle out here.

‘Which,’ you hum, pursing your lips and tipping your head back to peer up at the bleary sky far above you, ‘Isn’t so bad…’

The stars are numerous, and startlingly clear out in the wilderness. The moon as well seems brighter here, unobscured by clouds. She makes for a quiet companion on your journey towards Jasper, her starry brethren endlessly stretching out to each corner of the horizon.

Suddenly, you feel very small. A hopeless traveller trying to find port in a sea of sand and rock.

Swallowing roughly, you hike your tattered rucksack high onto your shoulder and tear your gaze from the stars.

It’s quiet out here, save for the rustle of sage bushes disturbed by the warm breeze, and the skittering of rocks as night-time animals go about their hunts.

Perhaps that natural silence is why the sudden introduction of an entirely new sound unnerves you so much.

You jerk to a halt, ears straining to hear something approaching from the distance. Underneath the thin, worn soles of your shoes, you start to feel it; the road thrumming with gentle vibrations, growing stronger every second.

Lighting quick, you whirl around to face the way you’d come, hands flying up to grip anxiously at the straps of your rucksack.

You’d have thought you’d be excited to see those headlights rise up above the horizon line. At last! A stroke of luck! A potential ride! Potential help.

Instead, it’s as though the sudden appearance of two, dazzling lights blooming into view as they crest over the hill finally jar some sense back into your dizzy head.

The haze of fatigue lifts slightly, pushed away by little bursts of adrenaline as your brain fights to wake you up to an unconscious threat.

You’re alone out here. Defenceless, phoneless. You don’t know the area. Nobody knows you’ve broken down… You try so hard to think the best of people, but now that you’ve had one doubt, a hundred others start to scurry around in your brain, demanding attention.

You can see the vehicle, or their lights at least, but you doubt they can see you yet, this far down the road. You wonder what it is. Car? Truck?

… Alien spacecraft? Despite yourself, you let out a snort at that. Isn’t that infamous military base supposed to be in Nevada? The one hiding alien activity?

Right. Sure.

Despite your scepticism however, a thrill of fear rushes down the length of your spine as if to say, ‘Oh? But are you sure sure?’

 Gulping audibly, you take a few steps sideways off the road, stealing a glance at a cluster of large rocks that sit conveniently just several yards to your rear.

You have a decision to make.

Maybe you’ve been alone on the road for too long, and isolation has bred a paranoia in you that’s so deeply rooted, you can’t shift it at a moment’s notice. If the sun was out, perhaps you’d be less apprehensive, but the night, no matter where you are, makes everything seem so much more… treacherous. It hides things. People, motivations, monsters.

And though it pains you to do so, you swiftly decide to err on the side of personal safety.

The vehicle is closer now, and your blood trembles as the roar of a loud, formidable engine thunders over the tarmac. Yet you’re still certain it isn’t close enough to have caught you in its high-beams.

On sluggish legs, you haul yourself about and make a clumsy dash for the rocks, clenching a fist around one strap of the rucksack and using your other hand to grab the closest rock and swing yourself behind it. Dropping to your backside, you flatten your spine against the cool, solid surface, eyes wide, heart beating hard against the cage of ribs keeping it from leaping up into your throat.

‘Coward,’ a voice in the back of your head scoffs, sounding suspiciously like your father. You shake it loose. Now is not the time to be bothered by old ghosts.

The thundering engine draws nearer, rumbling in your chest as it seems to creep towards your hiding spot at a pace even a glacier would be impressed by.

Around the corner of the rock, you can finally see the glow of its headlights smoothing over the tarmac, illuminating the sand and brush all around you. Hurriedly, you tuck your toes right into the shadow cast by your rock, keeping a breath held hostage behind clenched teeth.

“Come on… Come on,” you urge it frustratedly, aware that every second you spend not moving is another second towards sunrise. If you’re not on the dairy ready for work by then…

The vehicle rolls to a stop.

It stops.

The temptation to let out a frustrated scream is only held in check by your tongue getting stuck to the roof of bone-dry mouth.

They saw you. They must have seen you. There’s no way they could have known you were here otherwise.

Idiot!

Wasting time on the decision has only taken it right out of your hands in the end.

A bead of sweat escapes your hairline and rolls down the side of your face, following the curve of your cheek. Should you run? Keep hiding? Did they stop by coincidence? If they meant no harm, they’d have seen you hide and kept on driving, wouldn’t they? Stopping is suspicious. It conveys a desire to engage.

And then something really strange happens.

“Excuse me?”

And… Well, you’re… not entirely proud of the choked gasp that jumps out of you, nor the way you flinch as if you’d been struck.

When did they – He? It’s a low voice, deeper than anything you’ve heard in a long while, full of bass but soft like distant brontide.

When did he get out of the vehicle? You didn’t hear a door open, nor close.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he speaks again.

“I’ve frightened you…” Despite how gentle the timbre is, his voice is loud, like he’s speaking all around you, not just behind you. “I apologise,” the stranger continues, “That is the last thing I meant to do.”

What the Hell is he talking about?

There’s a long, unpleasant stretch of time until he speaks again.

“Was that your… Ford?” he asks, like he’s testing the word on his tongue, “Up the road?”

Shit. You’re starting to regret leaving that note. He must have read it and knew someone would be walking into town, alone and vulnerable.

The vehicle's powerful engine is still idling, strong and steady, buzzing along the ground and up through the soles of your feet.

It goes against your nature to ignore someone when they’re talking to you, but there’s still a part of you clinging to the hope that he’ll just give up and move on if you don’t respond or show yourself. Perhaps he’ll think you were just a figment of an overtired imagination…

Of course, instead, he persists. “Please.”

Jesus, he almost squeezes the word out, oozing dejection.

“You have nothing to fear from me… I’m a friend.”

A friend indeed. You huff quietly to yourself. You don’t even know him. He doesn’t know you. He’s trying to coax you out of hiding after watching you flee from his vehicle. Hardly the foundation for a good friendship. Still, you have to wonder why he doesn’t just come around the rock to stand over you if he’s so keen.

After another few seconds of stubborn silence on your part, the voice speaks again.

“Will you at least step back from the rock?”

What?

“There are scorpions on it, and I fear you’ll get-“

You don’t think you’ve moved so fast in quite some time. One moment you’re pressing yourself to the rock, and the next, you’re scrabbling to your feet with gusto, lurching away from your prior hiding space and spinning around, skin already crawling.

Sure enough, a pair of giant scorpions are scuttling around on the flat top, their tails held aloft, proud and large in the moonlight.

“-Hurt,” the stranger finishes.

Snatching your head up, you find yourself staring right into the vehicle’s headlights, and you instantly grunt with discomfort, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the light.

“Oh.” There’s a pause, the vehicle’s engine skips, and the lights suddenly dim, plunging you into almost darkness save for the dim glow of residual light. “Forgive me. Is that better?”

“Much. Thanks,” you respond automatically, only to turn rigid once you realise you’ve spoken aloud.

Well. He’s already seen you. No point pretending you can’t talk either…

Again, the stranger’s vehicle makes an odd noise, it’s engine hums gently, and as you lower your arm to seek out the man you’ve just opened a line of conversation with, you finally see what you’d been hiding from.

A monstrous Peterbilt sits squarely across the width of the road, entirely alien in the barren, rocky landscape. Smokestacks on either side of its cab reach towards the sky, glinting silver in the moonlight. It looks red under the meagre glow, with lighter panelling on the main body and dark, blue accents on the wheel trims and storage compartment. The grill is, in a word, massive, standing taller than you are, sporting a logo you don’t recognise on the front.

All in all, it’s a hell of a truck. Powerful, you imagine. Expensive too.

You try not to let your mouth hang ajar.

“Where-” Your voice cracks, still dry. “Ahem…! Where are you?”

Glancing around, your hackles start to rise. You can’t see the speaker anywhere. Which is why you let out an embarrassingly shrill yelp when his voice rumbles directly from the semi.

“I’m right here,” he assures you, polite enough not to show his amusement whilst you flap your mouth open and closed.

No, you shake your head. No, that is too weird. “What, are there like… speakers on the outside of your truck or something?”

There’s the tiniest of pauses, followed by a simple, concise, “There are.”

Oh. Well, then. That answers that burning question.

“Okay? So, um… Can I… help you?” you ask awkwardly, screwing one side of your face up.

The man seems to hesitate, allowing a pregnant pause to hang in the air between you before he replies, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Somehow, your expression twists even further south, and you begin casting your eyes over the semi, squinting through its dark windshield to try and catch a glimpse of what’s on the other side.

“I saw your truck on the side of the road,” the unseen man continues, “I feared you might have been hurt in a crash, so, I stopped to check that you weren’t still inside the vehicle. Then I found your note.”

He falls silent, and the air is dominated once again by the purring of his semi’s engine.

“Okay?” you prompt, still unsure of his motivations.

“It said you need help.”

He trails off, waiting. You’re promptly struck by the idea that he’s trying to guide you to some conclusion he hasn’t yet revealed. Finally, just as you start to grow restless, he forges ahead, “These roads can be hazardous for a lone hu-“

Suddenly, the truck’s engine revs, drowning out his voice for a second and sending you leaping backwards, startled.

“- A lone traveller…” he clears his throat just after the roar of its exhaust cuts out. Then, “Ah, If I may be so bold...”

All of a sudden, the passenger side door unlatches and swings open, and you’re presented with a clear invitation into the darkened cab. “May I offer you a ride into town?”

You wonder if he can see you turn stiff at his suggestion. Your body all but pleads on hands and knees for you to accept. What’s the worst that could happen, after all?

Well. You’ve watched several documentaries and movies that give you a pretty good indication of what ‘the Worst’ entails, thank you very much. You don’t like that he’s inviting you into his truck without showing his face to you yet. You’d like to gauge the person you’re speaking to. Get a bead on him. Is he big? Strong? Tall? Could you overpower him if it came down to it? Does he look like he’s hiding a weapon on him?

All these questions only serve to dry the moisture in your throat.

“I… That’s… very kind of you,” you admit, wringing your hands together as you take a small step away from the semi, “But I’m sure it’ll be okay, it isn’t that far.”

“At an average speed of three miles per hour, you will reach the outskirts of town in just under three and a half hours.”

You blink, caught off guard. ‘And they said we’d never need to use equations after we graduated.’

“Maths guy, huh?” you cock a hip, laying a hand across it and shooting the truck’s windshield a tentative smile, “Maybe I walk at four miles an hour.”

“Two and a half then,” he quips back just as smoothly, the door to his semi still hanging open. When he continues, you can’t help but notice that the cadence of his baritone voice rumbling through the speakers has turned to something a little more sombre, quieter, like he’s trying to impress upon you the gravity of a situation you don’t yet know about. “But time and distance aside, I do not wish to leave you to walk into Jasper by yourself, particularly at this time of night.”

He speaks like he’s been to elocution lessons. Every word seems to be carefully selected, every vowel and consonant articulate and refined.

It’s disarming. He’s disarming. But you’re still not convinced.

“Listen… Thank you, again. But…” It feels rude, like you’re committing some kind of faux pas in turning your back on the semi, yet you can’t shake the nagging voice at the back of your head, telling you that there’s something not quite right about the man in the truck. Not bad, just… off.

“It’s a kind offer,” you tell him again lamely, turning on your heel. And so, you recommence your weary march for Jasper, tossing one last sentiment over your shoulder, “But I’m sure I can make it on my own. Take care, okay?”

You almost expect him to argue, but all you can hear is the now familiar drone of the semi’s almighty engine. For several paces, you can feel a pair of eyes watching you, scrutinising and pensive, if a little baffled by your short yet polite dismissal.

When you make it another ten feet, heaving your tired legs after you over the tarmac, your ears perk up to the sound of an engine revving.

Smokestacks chugging, the massive truck pulls out of its standstill, unseen behind you.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you keep your gaze fixed to the ground ahead and raise a hand, flapping it about in an apologetic farewell as you meander further off the road and onto the sand, giving him plenty of space to get past.

You start to frown when you make it twenty paces without being overtaken by the truck.

That frown only grows deeper when the engine keeps churring away behind you, rubber tyres crunching tiny particles of sand under their treads as it crawls along in your wake.

Is he…?

Tearing your eyes off the toes of your shoes, you send a fleeting glance over your shoulder, surprised – but not much – to find the nose of the Peterbilt creeping slowly along in your peripheral vision, keeping pace with you.

Your frown eases back, and you quirk a brow at him instead, calmly asking, “What are you doing?”

And just as easily, the voice returns, “If you will not allow me to drive you, I will happily escort you to your destination.”

You can’t help yourself.

“Ha! ‘Escort.’” The snicker jumps out of you faster than you can raise your hands to press your fingertips against an unbidden grin. “Sorry,” you immediately try to amend, “You just sounded so serious.”

“… I… am serious?”

Letting your hand flop back to your side, you give your head a shake, still grinning. You really do meet all sorts on the road.

“Regardless, I’m sure you have far better things to be doing with your time.”

How the truck matches your walking speed without his engine faltering or sputtering, you’ll never know.

A strange noise gurgles from its exhaust, almost perfectly reminiscent of a troubled hum.

“On the contrary,” the driver responds, pulling forwards a little until only the grill overtakes you, and for a moment, you worry he’s about to drive across your path, “There is nothing at the moment that concerns me more than getting you safely where you need to go.”

Huh. Of all the genuine, stubborn…

“Look.” Your shoes scuff up a cloud of sand as you draw to an abrupt and decisive halt, turning bodily towards the truck. Hands splayed on your hips, you glare at the windscreen, aiming approximately for the driver. A second later, he must have hit the brakes because the semi lurches to a stop as well, hissing noisily.

Still, he doesn’t step out.

“You seem like a nice guy,” you start, trying to keep your chin raised and your tone stern. You fail, of course. Your voice cracks nervously, but at least you try. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you finally elect to stop beating around the bush and just address the elephant in the room – or desert, as it were.

“But I don’t make it a habit to get into random trucks with strangers.” You make it a point not to directly accuse him of having ulterior motives, but you hope you’ve at least driven home your main concern. At best, he’ll grow offended that you’d think him capable of such a thing and – hopefully – move on. At worst… Well. You brace yourself for that, teeth grit so tightly, your jaw starts to ache as you flick your eyes over towards the truck’s driver-side door, waiting.

The truck in question does something odd then. It… sinks? At least you think it does, lowering on its axles by a few inches like the wheels have just deflated. It’s difficult to tell in the dim moonlight though, and it’s over so quickly, you can’t be sure you saw anything at all that wasn’t just a trick of the desert.

How long have you been awake?

You’re busy calculating the hours you were driving when the stranger’s voice is kicked out over the speakers again.

“You assume I mean you harm…” he utters.

And just like that, the stern, rigid scowl is instantly wiped off your face.

He sounds…

…sad.

Not offended. Not angered by your thinly-veiled implication.

Just sad. Dispirited, even. As if it’s only just occurred to him that you might have perceived him as a threat.

It’s almost painful when the pair of you dissolve into an uncomfortable silence that lasts for several beats of your rapid-fire heart.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, your brows drift apart whilst you try to think of something to say. Trouble is, you’re afraid that speaking again will only make things worse.

You have no idea what’s going through his head. What if his dejected tone is followed by something worse?

“I’m sorry,” you backtrack, pressing your lips together and chiding yourself for faltering, “It’s nothing personal, just… I-I should probably get going before I fall asleep standing up.” You give a stilted laugh, but it soon turns into an awkward sound made at the back of your throat, lips pulled over your teeth in a grimace.

Dipping your head, you swallow thickly and grip the straps of your rucksack again. But just as you make to turn away, the semi’s wheels abruptly twist towards you. It’s ever so slight, just enough that the truck rolls a few paces in your direction before it stops again, its grill pointed straight at you.

With an audible gulp, you go to take another step back, staring at the metal in anticipation. Your retreat is soon halted by the mellow rumble of his voice.

“I understand your hesitation. And I know that the word of a stranger may not hold much weight,” he begins slowly. The Peterbilt inches forwards again. “But I can assure you, you have nothing to fear from me…”

Shifting on your feet, you let go of your bag and clutch instead at your elbows, brows tipped up indecisively. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that. He also speaks with a candour you’ve never encountered outside of a film or a storybook. Frank and forthright in a way you’ve never been privy to. Is that why you’re hesitating? Is that why he seems ‘off?’ Because his level of sincerity doesn’t have a place in your world?

Perhaps you’ve been spending so much time by yourself, it’s turned you distrustful. Maybe you’re just getting cynical. Looking back on your journey here, you realise that only other person who you’ve spoken to was a disinterested server who took your order at a drive-thru… That was four days ago. How long before that did you listen to someone who wasn’t the people on your truck’s radio?

Why is it so suspicious that this trucker wants to help? Hell, you’d be concerned as well if you saw some poor bastard hiking alone through the desert at night without a friend in the world.

Christ, you need some perspective.

The driver must see the conflict painted like a brand across your expression.

“Would it reassure you to know that this vehicle is operated entirely remotely?” he pipes up.

You blink once. Then again to wake yourself up a little more, pulled from your inner turmoil. “What?”

“This vehicle,” he tells you, “It is an unmanned vehicle.”

Curiosity overtakes suspicion faster than you can uncross your arms and stare at the grill dumbly, face opening up in surprise. “Wait. You mean it’s one of those self-driving things?”

“In a sense.” The semi’s engine rumbles softly, and the not-driver adds, “I am what you might call… the safety driver.”

Now that is curious.

You don’t even realise you’ve taken a step closer. “Really? But I thought that sort of tech was still in testing?”

“It is,” he replies, “We are, however, attempting to advance to field-tests, to see if these vehicles can autonomously haul freight in areas with sparser populations, to minimise the risk of collision.”

“Hence why you’re driving it out here in the middle of the night,” you realise aloud, raising an inquisitive brow at the windscreen, “So you’re really not in there? You’re driving it from somewhere else?”

“Would you care to see for yourself?” he asks kindly.

Your wide eyes flit to the passenger door when it eases open once again, though this time, it seems far less foreboding than before.

Tugging a loose piece of skin between your teeth, you give the silver steps leading to the door a scrutinising glance.

That does reassure you…

Slowly, still at least a little wary, you coax your legs to move, and they begrudgingly carry you onto the road. You approach the semi-truck with all the caution of a doe crossing an open meadow.

As you venture closer, its engine kicks up a notch, emitting a steady, gentle purr as if the vehicle itself is pleased with your acquiescence.

Suddenly, as you move along to the open door, you’re dazzled by a light flickering on inside the cab, bathing what you can see from this angle in a calm, golden hue.

From down here, it looks… just like an ordinary interior.

And lo and behold, as you stand on your tiptoes to see in, you find the driver’s seat is eerily devoid of its occupant.

You let out a breath that emerges shakier than you would have liked it to.

“Wow,” you laugh, impressed.

Maybe just a quick peek…

A vast chunk of apprehension breaks away from your chest and vanishes into the ether as you shuffle towards the steps, raising an arm and stretching your fingers across the space to the grab handle that sits invitingly just beside the open door.

This side of the truck is bathed in silver moonlight, and it’s only now that you’re this close that you happen to notice something you hadn’t before.

You almost wince when you spot them.

Although shiny and speckled with only the lightest dusting of desert sand, the metal panelling on the semi is covered in signs of wear and tear.

Enough to give you pause, at least.

For a moment, you’re taken aback, turning bodily away from the open door and cocking your head at the myriad of scratches that criss-cross their way up towards the semi’s roof.

All the paint in the world couldn’t hide some of those shallow nicks and lines that have been scraped out of the metal. In any case, something big must have scuffed it. Perhaps another driver in their own Peterbilt? Or perhaps it’s all damage sustained in testing the vehicle’s automated capabilities.

Clicking your tongue, you absently raise a hand to stroke your fingertips gingerly along the length of a particularly prominent scratch by the door.

“Oh dear,” you tut softly at the side of the truck, “You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?”

Without warning, the engine that had been buzzing so gently suddenly ramps up and starts to vibrate firmly beneath your fingers, so strong you can even feel it judder the ground through the soles of your feet.

Recoiling like you’ve been zapped, you whip your head around to peer through the open door, half expecting the driver to admonish you for touching his vehicle.

As swiftly as it started however, the thrumming engine dies down, and the truck returns to its soft, benign idling. “My apologies,” comes that gentle voice again through the speakers, “Just an overactive combustion chamber.”

“Is it... safe to ride in?” you retort, giving the back of the truck a sidelong glance.

“You will find very few vehicles safer than this one,” he tells you patiently, “I will not allow any harm to befall you, as I would not allow it to befall any of my passengers.”

Your shoulders jump with a silent laugh. “Befall,” you parrot, fighting a smile, “I love the way you talk.”

“… You do?” His speakers buzz with a pleasant hum.

Fingers flexing anxiously, you reach out once again and slide them around the grab handle beside the door, finding that it’s unexpectedly warm under your palm.

“So, I just… get in?” you ask, only to cringe immediately, realising you probably sound like a fool who’s forgotten how to get into a truck.

Before you can rebuke yourself harshly though, the absent stranger offers his response. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, no,” you rush out, placing one foot on the first, silver step and hoisting yourself up off the ground, bringing yourself level with the cab’s seats.

Your eyes grow wide with wonder as you take in the interior.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, suddenly hesitant to pull yourself up those last few feet.

“Is there something wrong?”

“It’s just… It’s so clean!”

Laid out before you is a perfectly ordinary truck cabin. Soft, grey leather covers the seats, with the same dark colouration on the roof, doors and most of the glovebox, interspersed by a rich, black steering wheel. The soft light, you discover, is emitted by multiple strips of blue neon LEDs that the driver must have fitted underneath the radio dials and dashboard, casting the truck’s interior in a cool, soothing glow.

But most astonishingly, for as much as you search, you can’t spot a single thing out of place. It’s absolutely immaculate. There isn’t one receipt stuffed in the door pockets, no traces of sand or gravel dirtying the footwells, no loose change tossed into the centre console…

Dumbfounded, you glance into the back, but all you find it a dark, grey panel and a shelf set back into the semi’s rear wall, meant for use as a bed, you surmise. It’s empty, unsurprisingly. Not a blanket or a pillow in sight.

Finally, your suspicions are put to rest. This truck doesn’t look lived in at all. He really is operating it remotely.

“God, it looks brand new in here,” you marvel aloud, suddenly hyper-conscious of the abysmal state of your old pickup. The scratches on this semi’s exterior play briefly on your mind but you brush your musings aside, too fatigued to consider the contradictions of a worn exterior but an immaculate interior.

Instead, you feel a frown crease the skin between your brows.

It really is immaculate in here…

Glancing down, you scowl disdainfully at your filthy shoes, the tank-top that’s stained irreparably by dropped food and greasy finger-smears, and trousers that are tattered and worn at their hems.

“Is everything all right?” the ‘driver’ asks again. His voice must emerge from the speakers on each door, low and warm, filling up the cabin.

“My shoes are dirty,” you admit out loud, your grip on the handle turning slack until you sink a few inches back to the first step, “I’m dirty. I-I don’t want to get sand and crap all over your truck.”

“I don’t mind.”

Spoken with more consideration than you’ve heard in a long, long time.

You pause at once, brows tipping up in the centre of your forehead.

A deep inhale through your nose brings with it the unobtrusive scent of leather, with the faintest undertone of adhesive sealers, giving the interior that ‘new truck smell’ that so many drivers try to replicate artificially.

Comparatively, it’s been several days since you passed a rest stop that had showering facilities. Those that did asked for a hefty charge. You’d glanced down at the handful of coppers in your centre console and decided you could go without. Now, you’re starting to regret that decision. Every now and then, whenever you raised your arms to stretch or flip the visor down in your pickup, you’d catch an unpleasant whiff of yourself wafting out from under your light, cotton shirt.

Embarrassed as you are to confess that you’ve been severely neglecting your personal hygiene, you swallow past a lump in your throat and croak, “I… haven’t exactly washed for a couple of days… I wouldn’t want to make your truck smell…”

And in a tone so kind it threatens to brings a tear to your eye, the stranger answers consolingly, “I think your scent is perfectly fine.”

It’s so damnably genuine, you can’t even find it in yourself to point out that he isn’t here to smell you, so his point is moot.

“I…” One more cop-out strikes you. “I don’t have any money,” you murmur truthfully, ashamed, “I can’t pay you for the fuel, or-“

“-I ask for nothing in return but your company,” is all he says, cutting you off as gently as his profound voice will allow.

And just like that, you’re out of viable excuses. Or perhaps your body has noticed the comfortable seats right in front of it and you don’t have enough fight left in you to deny it a sit down. Besides, any reasons you come up with to dip are likely to be met with a counterpoint.

Even so, you can’t help but hesitate for one more question, hand clasping and unclasping around the grab handle. “Are you sure it’s okay? I’m not going to get you in trouble or anything am I?”

The next sound that hums through his speakers is so soft and rich, you think it’s the truck’s engine playing up again, at least until the stranger cuts the noise off by saying, “You do not look like trouble to me.”

If he only knew.

The sound prior, you realise, was a chuckle, the first one you’ve heard out of him yet. Something in the measure of it settles the last of your nerves, only slightly, just long enough to have you throwing caution to the wind. With a final heave, you pull yourself the rest of the way inside, sliding gingerly into the comfortable passenger seat. You never notice how the metal below your foot shifts microscopically, lifting you closer to the cab.

It takes a lot of restraint not to let your eyes drift closed, nor to slump backwards into the wondrously giving material on your spine.

Instead, you sit stiffly with your rucksack keeping you upright, legs pressed together, hands folded neatly in your lap. If you make any kind of mess in here, you’ll be mortified.

After a moment, you remember to close the door, but just as you turn and peel a hand off your thigh, you jolt, staring agog at the door as it swings slowly shut with a dull ‘click.’ All of its own accord.

“Full remote access,” the voice pipes up as the engine below you roars to life, and then you’re moving, and all you can do is stare through the window at the desert drifting by whilst trying to ignore the uninvited ache in your chest.

“Seatbelt.”

His gentle prompt spurs you to reach over and grab the fabric near your shoulder, tugging it across your body and fumbling a little to slot it into place. Suddenly, you feel an invisible pull on the belt, and the metal buckle finds its way into the socket on your next pass.

‘Must be magnetic,’ you muse distractedly.

“Are you comfortable?”

Blinking back the moisture in your eyes, you turn to glance at the empty driver’s seat. It’s bizarre, and more than a little unsettling to see the steering wheel turn itself around as the truck pulls back onto the road, driven by unseen hands.

When you don’t immediately respond to his query, the man continues just as patiently as before. “If it is too cold, I can turn up the heater. Or… perhaps you are too warm…” He hums to himself, thoughtful. “You have been exerting yourself.”

You instantly become aware of the light sheen of sweat that hasn’t quite dried on your forehead. Puckering your face up into a solemn smile, you shake your head and at last respond. “Not to worry. It’s very comfortable in here.”

What follows is a poignant moment of hesitation before the voice speaks again. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but… You do not seem comfortable…”

The open-ended statement fades into silence, and you’re left casting nervous glances around the cabin again. “How do you-?” you start, tugging your shirt further down your arms, “Can you see me? Like… in here?”

Again, there’s a pause, barely longer than a second, yet long enough for you to notice it.

“Cameras,” comes his measured response, “Both external and internal. They’re how I spotted you on the road.”

“Oh, I hadn’t even considered that… Of course.”

Suddenly self-conscious, you reach up and begin to paw uselessly at your dishevelled hair, humming though a thin-lipped smile. “I must look a sight,” you half joke.

“You look tired…” he replies diplomatically, and there’s nothing in it for you to be offended by.

Rubbing a thumb over the wrinkle slowly carving a home between your brows, you heave a dreary sigh. “It’s been a long journey.”

“I can only imagine… And… Where does it culminate, if I may?”

“Terry’s Dairy?” you offer, “Uh, it’s this little farm just on the outskirts of Jasper.”

The truck beneath you gives a reverberating thrum. “I know the pastures, but I’m afraid you will find they lay beyond the ‘outskirts’ of the city.”

Letting out a groan, you knock your head back against the seat behind you, staring bleakly up at the ceiling. “Of course… How far?”

“Only a few miles, to the East of Jasper. We’re coming in from the Northwest highway. I can get you there in twenty-five minutes.”

“Twenty- Oh, no, no. You really don’t have to do that,” you protest, shifting in the seat to frown at the empty driver’s seat in lieu of anywhere else to look, “Just drop me off in town and I’ll walk the rest. You’re already going out of your way for a stranger.”

“I am dropping you off at your destination and not a mile before,” he tells you steadily.

His uncompromising tone brooks no argument.

You stare at the spot a person should be for several, long moments, debating how much you could push an argument. He’s already coaxed you into his truck, his powers of persuasion are rather good. What chance do you have, sleep-deprived as you are?

Conceding sullenly, yet appreciatively, you let your back touch the seat, settling into it a little less hesitantly. “You won’t be taking no for an answer, I assume?”

He only lapses into a stubborn silence, an answer in and of itself.

That quiet is broken, however, when you suddenly let out all the air from your lungs, a smile growing across the width of your face as the breath escapes your nostrils in a sigh. “Thank you for this… Really. You’re saving me a lot of grief.”

The blue neons on his dashboard seem to flare a bit brighter for all of a second before they dim again. “I am glad to be of service,” he replies warmly.

“Oh my god,” you blurt without warning, leaning forwards in the seat and staring through the windscreen with wide eyes, “I’m so sorry, you’re being so nice and I’m so rude – I never asked your name.”

“Nor did I yours,” he points out, “You may call me Op-“

Suddenly, a burst of static buzzes through the radio. You shoot it a funny look.

“Optimus,” the stranger admits over the static with a hesitance you pick up on right away, drawing your gaze from the dash, “My name is Optimus.”

“Optimus?” you repeat incredulously, a small smile quirking at the edges of your mouth, “Wow… You must have had creative parents.”

“I appreciate that it might seem… an unusual name…”

“It is,” you agree pleasantly, “I like it. Makes you sound cool. Unique. My parents just stuck me with Y/n.”

At once, Optimus echoes your name, and you’re jarred by the sound of it coming from someone else’s lips, reverberating around the truck. It’s been a while since anyone used it.

“Y/n,” he says again in his velvety timbre, “It’s a fine name. I like yours too.”

[crystalflygeo]

Last of her kind Emperor!Alpha!Zhongli + Omega!Dragoness!Reader

cw/tags: Your usual mentions of slavery and sexual themes, A/B/O dynamics and heat mentions. Also allusions to depression and mentions of death.

notes: Aahahaha this took forever..... allow me top explain: first of all my new job is killing me and second of all I'm going through a hard period where I don't really like anything I write anymore. This work in particularly I kept struggling with the pacing, the dialogues, the way I wanted feelings to come across or scenes to flow it's just hhhnnnggg. I told a couple of friends that I set the bar so high with the first part I feel like nothing else I write will be that good. Then the second part was "ok" but cut off in a cliffhanger and has been there for SO LONG that now I feel this will be underwhelming after all the buildup//hit

I hope it's not. I hope it's good.

Anyway this part is in Zhongli's pov and contains flashbacks which will be fully in italics! Enjoy! and thanks for caring so much about this story ;w; ILU all <3

<- Part 2.

Your instincts mess up with your head.

Your crying and anxiety have simmered to a cold numbness.

Hours blur together, time loses meaning.

The doctor comes by sometimes. The maids bring you food. But everything feels… off, distant.

This doesn’t feel… like your usual heats.

You curl up and sob, a choked soft noise.

You don’t feel hot, but rather cold. Limbs weak. Dizzy.

Your heart aches.

You’re so tired.

And so sleepy…

Zhongli puts down the seal stamp and deflates back into his chair with a sigh, he must have read the same line at least five times already. He cannot concentrate at all. It’s not even been three days and each hour, each minute, feels eternal.

He’s already gotten so used to your presence, so smitten with you and your little quirks, your rare smiles, the way your ears and tail flicker, your pretty eyes…

And he remembers those same eyes begging for him, teary. Your pitiful cry. Your distressed scent.

Guilt eats at him. As well as something else…

He’s been restless, barely slept. Your scent is a siren’s song on the blankets, tart and fresh and tantalizing, but you are not with him. Anxious energy flows in his veins. This emotion, this thing that is like regret and sorrow and fear all tangled together, cleaves him through. His instincts are screaming at him, rattling inside a cage of his own making. His mate, his precious Omega is in heat, you’re scared and lonely and need him. Zhongli has to suppress a growl and feel the shudder of his scales at the fact that he’s not with you. In your nest. Taking care of you.

It’s agonizing.

"How is she?"

The same question, over and over, at any chance he gets.

"She refuses to eat, your majesty." Xiao tells him, and he can feel the concern in the younger Alpha’s voice. “According to the maids she only took a few bites of the ajilenak nuts, the rest of the food was left untouched.”

…

"She's um... she's always sleeping when I go check up on her." Ganyu explains a little crestfallen. She too is worried. “A-at least I think she’s in no pain… she was clinging to one of your hanfus.”

…

"You should go see her, Zhongli." Ping states, a rare serious expression on her usual gentle factions. “Baizhu says she’s going through the worst case of separation sickness he’s ever seen. Is that really what you want your poor Yin to go through?”

He lets out a frustrated rumble.

“Of course not. But it’s for the best, I don’t want to… take advantage of her, or force her to anything.” Zhongli frowns, trying to focus on the papers in front of him again, in an attempt to ignore her piercing gaze.

“Is it really any of that if she wants her mate?” Ping retorts. “She was begging you.”

I know.

He growls this time, and shakes his head at his memory of you. It haunts him.

“She doesn’t know what she wants.”

“So, you’re deciding for her then? Is that it? Honestly, are you listening to yourse-”

“She’s been conditioned to serve.” He cuts her off, voice grave and somber. “Trained to be submissive and please. She likes me simply because I’m kind to her, she wants me because she thinks it’s her obligation as my mate. I feel the pull of the bond too, the need, the yearning. But I also know she is afraid of Alphas and she thinks… she thinks she has to obey me. That she owes me something or that own her.” His eyes narrow. “I didn’t need to bond her. I shouldn’t have bonded her. I just… wanted her to be free and instead I chained her to me. And now she’s in heat…”

And it drives him insane.

“Listen to me, we’ve both spent time with her, enough to know she’s opening up and learning to voice her feelings…” Ping reasons gently. “It’s a slow process, don’t hurt her this way. At the very least… go see her.”

“I lost control once with just one kiss from her. I will not do it again. I will not harm her any further.”

The elderly woman keeps silent for a few moments. Zhongli sighs and rests his forehead in his palm in defeat.

And then Ganyu approaches, a little tense, a stack of papers in her hands.

“Your majesty, the Qixing are starting to arrive, council meeting will begin soon.”

“Very well. Thank you Ganyu.” He stands up and nods at her, then turns to Ping and his demeanor softens a little. “You know I just want to correct my mistakes, and give her the life she deserves. At least a fraction of it, of happiness.”

It wasn’t supposed to go this way… Zhongli sighed as he walked up to the room where the “reunion” with the sumerian would take place. It was long overdue seeing as he had spent the night by your side, refusing to leave after you had cried and begged so desperately…

After he had bonded you.

He had initially taken the eremite’s claims with a grain of salt, but naturally he had to make sure. The last dragonblood had supposedly died decades ago, so how…?

And yet when he saw you for the first time in that room, he knew.

You were real, you were beautiful. Suddenly he felt a million things at once: He wanted to get to know you, stay close to you, protect you. Old draconic instinct vibrating excitedly on his soul. You smelled vaguely familiar, your tail was gorgeous, your ears adorable. What if you didn’t like him though? What if he harmed you? Scared you? Suddenly he was nervous, nervous of ruining this, nervous in a way he hadn’t been in so long, like when he’d been young and Liyue had been at war and he had lost everything to fire and smoke and dust and he had to make difficult decisions and-

He had always calculated his moves. No room for risks. Too much at stake.

But you, you disarmed him. Completely.

You, with your polite gentleness despite the obvious cracks beneath the surface.

You, with your beautiful looks and enormous potential, even if you didn’t see it yourself.

You, with that look of yearning and hope, with your soft lips and sweet moans, with your warm body fitting perfectly against his.

For once, he allowed himself to make a decision with his heart, not logic, not politics. Just instincts.

And he claimed you…

…

He enters the room. A couple Millelith soldiers stationed by the door, Xiao standing by his side loyally as he sits at his place of honor as the emperor. Your ‘master’, an Alpha eremite named Zaheer, kneels respectfully a little below.

“I see you liked her, your majesty” He offers a sly smirk. “Did she satisfy you properly? She’s been trained on her gag reflexes to-”

Zhongli -Morax- resists the urge to growl. “We are not here to discuss that.”

“Ah, of course, business!”

Business.

“Since she’s such an exotic and well-trained slave I suppose we could agree on…”

“Do you think of me an idiot, Zaheer?” Morax’s eyes narrow.

“P-Pardon me?”

“She is a pureblood xiānshòu. I want to know exactly how she ended up being enslaved by you and your people.”

Cold and calculating golden eyes stare down at the eremite.

“W-What… she’s desert-born!” Zaheer retorts back angrily “She was born at a heat house. Maybe she has traits from your people because one of them decided to get a cheap fuck while traveling.”

“You expect me to believe that?” Morax asks unfazed “Liyue has records of the last of her kind disappearing and presumably being murdered when a village near Sumeru borders was razed to the ground. Do you have a disclosure?”

Zaheer stands up and growls, clearly an Alpha not used to having to bow his head and accept things not going his way.

Clearly an Alpha used to intimidating and attacking others.

Xiao wields his spear and changes his stance to an offensive one. The Millelith guards also tense.

Zaheer gets even more irritated, feeling like a caged animal. Backed into a corner. “Emperor or not” He starts through gritted teeth. “If you’re not going to pay me then I’ll take my merchandise back and do business elsewhere where I’m not being accused of ridiculous claims.”

“You’re right that I won’t be doing any business with you, but we’ll see how ridiculous those claims truly are. Zaheer, by my word as the emperor you will now remain detained in Liyue.” Morax sentences.

The eremite’s red eyes widen in shock and rage and the desert-dweller shoots up to attack Morax, getting easily overpowered and neutralized by Xiao’s quick moves. In seconds his weapon drops to the floor as the Yaksha general points his spear at the unconscious man. The Millelith quickly retrieve him and the blade before Morax simply nods at them.

Months. It had been months since then and he had to begrudgingly release the man as no accusation connected him to anything. They were essentially out of leads. There did appear to be documentation of your birth at a desert village but Zhongli would be hard pressed to believe the half-assed story you’ve been told…

And since you are pureblood, then both of your parents, and most importantly your dam, was also a dragonblood. That’s at the very least one Liyue citizen enslaved in a foreign nation.

He would get to the bottom of this.

For now, however, he had to cast those worries aside.

The Seven members of the council sit around the large table, the Liyue Qixing, leaders of all the commerce and trade sectors of the nation.

Zhongli takes his place at the head of the table. Ganyu does so as well by the sideline.

“Very well, what’s our first topic today?”

“Did Master just… leave?”

There was silence at the table, Zhongli and Ping sit frozen and you get just a bit nervous.

It’d been a few days since you started your new life, and though Zhongli was sure you were warming up to it he knew you still had a long way to go. It was probably still a little surreal for you… such a big change from everything you knew.

The tension on his shoulders quickly drops again. He continues eating. “Yes.” He says simply. Ping follows his lead, saying nothing.

The faster you forget about that eremite, the better.

“Hm…” You continue eating as well. Your expression is a little conflicted…

You inhale.

“Was he… happy… that I finally found a mate?”

Zhongli turns to you sharply and tenses again like a cat bristling. He holds back his tongue so as to not say something he’d regret. Why do you still care about that despicable man’s opinion? Why do you still seek his approval? Did you really think he cared about you? Zhongli desperately wants to make you understand how that slave-owner only saw you as an object, how he fed you lies, how his mistreatment is inexcusable…

But he can only imagine how deep your scars run, and how that toxic mindset has settled and accompanied you for years. He cannot judge you for caring about someone who doesn’t deserve it.

“Why do you ask, dear?” Ping asks instead.

“I don’t know…” You mumble, poking at the congee with your spoon. “I always wanted to make him proud.”

Proud.

Him?

“I think what matters most is how you feel.” Zhongli says, his hand reaching out for yours invitingly and you place your fingers on his palm, getting a soft reassuring squeeze. “You don’t need to rely on how others view you or think about you.”

You seem thoughtful for a second, your ears flickering back insecure but then standing up alert again. “I am happy” You admit. “Very happy. I have the best mate in the world.” You smile brightly.

Zhongli’s heart does a flip.

“With the excessive rains in the northern villages, there have been many floods and a lot of crops have been severely damaged or lost. Our previous contingency plan is in action already and donations are being sent to help the affected families. However, we must prepare for a decline in the harvest of certain grains and vegetables this season, as well as an increase in prices for a few months due to the shift in demand and supply.” Keqing explains expertly, the young alpha’s expression is serious and solemn.

“It’s an opportunity to strengthen commerce with Mondstadt and Sumeru.” Ningguang chimes in, leaning back on her chair, arms crossed. “The value of jade and other crystals is on the rise as well.”

“Not to mention, we’ll be employing several architects from the Akademiya to help with the rebuilding.” Keqing adds, turning to Ganyu, who nods.

“Greater lord Rukkhadevata and lesser Lord Kusanali have agreed on a certain exchange program with Liyue. I started drafting up some proposals already if you’d like to see.” The blue-haired secretary passes along some documents.

Ningguang’s eyes skim along the page. “It’s almost like our new Sumeru-born empress was a sign.” She smirks. “By the way, where is she?” She turns to Zhongli, curious about her fellow Omega.

“She’s rather indisposed at the moment.” The emperor replies dryly, not wanting to delve much onto the touchy subject. “Ganyu this looks good, however we need to think about-”

There is a knock that quickly surprises everyone. Who could interrupt a council meeting and why?

Baizhu peeks in with Changsheng curled around his neck, a frown on his usually gentle features. “Your majesty, a word. It’s an emergency.”

All the members at the table stare silently as Zhongli stands and follows the doctor.

Ganyu has a bad feeling…

“We have no time, follow me.” The green-haired doctor walks briskly along the wooden corridors, he looks… frustrated, dejected.

“What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t want to panic. He never panics. But something inside him does. It’s obvious that this has to do with you. 

“I apologize, your majesty. I thought it was just a case of separation sickness but… the empress is showing signs of widow’s wasting.”

Zhongli stops.

His heart skips a beat. His skin prickles with dread.

“She’s… dying?”

Baizhu shakes his head. “It hasn’t reached that point yet, but… she’s deteriorating.”

The guilt is back. The fear.

“Given what happened, I’m pretty certain the shock of your rejection was the trigger. Still, it is highly unusual for a Yin to suffer from widow’s wasting without their partner actually dying, even more so for it to settle so quickly. Her reaction is akin to someone who had never left their mate’s side for years.” Baizhu explains.

You trusted him.

And he turned his back on you.

What have I done?

“In any casssse, it’ssss not too late.” Changsheng’s little voice pipes in. Baizhu keeps leading the way and Zhongli follows, though he obviously knows the entire palace like the palm of his hand, at the moment his thoughts are scattered and far far away.

“She needs her mate’s reassurance. I have done what I can with medicine but this is a bonded pair matter.” Finally, he stops at a juncture and turns to Zhongli. “Please, your majesty, only you can save her. I will tell Ganyu, Xiao and Ping of the situation, and if you need anything, just ask.”

Zhongli nods, mute.

The snake narrows her eyes. “Don’t leave her sssside.”

“Changsheng.” Baizhu shushes.

She is right to chastise him. He deserves that and more.

“I won’t.” Zhongli nods and heads down the hall.

Widow’s wasting.

The words echo in his head. He’s seen the damage it can do. How a broken bond, the loss of the most important person, can destroy someone inside. Did you really care that much about him? Did he really hurt you that badly?

“Please…”

He didn’t mean to.

“I have the best mate in the world.”

He feels like a monster.

“I want to stay with you. Sleep together. Like mates.”

He needs to see you. He needs to make sure you’re ok…

He stands in front of the nest room. The same one where he first met you.

Opening the doors only slightly to slip inside, Zhongli's eyes widen and a hand flies to cover his nose and mouth when a strong smell shakes him to his very core.

The room he expected to be completely saturated with intense heat pheromones… instead bears the acrid scent of despair.

This isn’t the lustful call to breed and have children that made an omega vulnerable and pliant. No. It is a desperate cry from a heartbroken omega for their mate to come back, to stay with them, to love and protect them. It is grief.

You are suffering because of him.

To think all this time… he was afraid he'd make you uncomfortable. That he’d scare you, hurt you, ruin the bond you’ve carefully built. Instead, he is overcome by an all-consuming terror. Every part of him screaming at his mate's weak essence.

And there you are, his precious treasure, his sweet dragoness.

You lay curling in on yourself letting out small muffled sobs.

“Y/n…” 

No reaction.

“Darling, my dear dragoness…” He rushes up to you immediately, grabs your hand and pets your hair. You look so weak, your skin is feverish, how has it only been three days? It feels like a lifetime…

You shift a little and your eyes blink open, staring at him dazed, red and puffy and your expression defeated. You let out a pitiful whine and more of that bitter sad scent is released. 

“No my dear, don’t cry, I’m here. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Zhongli coos as he curls up to you, frantically starting to scent and nip at your neck and shoulders affectionately. His horns manifest and his tail follows through, lashing about a little restless. The bond… feels wrong, broken. He should be able to intimately feel you this close and yet…

He tries to reposition you a little so you can lie on top of him, rest on his chest. It’s concerning how easily he can do so, you’re like a ragdoll in his arms, unresponsive and unmoving. His hands cup your face, thumbs rubbing at the traces of tears in your cheeks. You let out a frustrated whimper. “Shhhh shh it’s okay. I’m so sorry.”

Even if he says it a million times, it won’t feel enough.

Zhongli nuzzles at your neck and proceeds to do something he hasn’t done since he was practically a teen. He purrs. It’s a little rusty, comes off more as a grumbling but it seems to work as he feels you relax just slightly in his arms.

“I’m right here” Zhongli’s deep voice assures you, tugging you closer, mouthing at the soft skin along your collarbone. “I’m not going anywhere and I’m all yours, I promise, I promise. I won’t leave you alone, not ever.” He soothes.

He lowers a bit of your clothes at the shoulder and grazes his fangs along your faded mark, you tense and let out a long shaky breath.

“Everything will be ok.” He kisses the spot. “I’m sorry.”

And then he sinks his fangs in to reestablish the claim.

You cry out in pain and squirm, clawing at his clothes, but he holds you, his hand rubbing circles at your back, his tail intertwining with yours.

...

.....

...

At first nothing changes, but after a few moments… a low strained purr bubbles up from within you again.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

last 5 years running out my mouth

katsuki bakugou x reader

one night, amongst the crowds and the music, katsuki wonders why he’s looking for you- he knows you don’t go to parties, anymore. themes of (katsuki’s) depression and substance usage

i love you 5sos nation 🪐 inspired by you dont go to parties

5 am.

katsuki’s clinging to his couch. everyone on his contact list, and everyone on their contact lists and so forth, stood in his house. red, drunken eyes dart around, as if looking for someone. though he knows its futile. you’re not there. at least, not anymore.

he groans, sitting up. he needs to vomit. this isn’t a good look for a new, fresh-faced hero. he pushes through the crowds, starting to kick people out. he didn’t care where they went, just not here.

he knocked over a vase. he’s probably offended a bunch of people. he’s trying to make it to a place in the apartment that doesn’t reek of alcohol and dead dreams- an ambitious attempt, to put it nicely.

he groans, bumping into someone. he grows even more frustrated when he sees who it is.

“katsuki, you’ve gotta sit down, man.” kirishima says, directing his friend to the bedroom. kirishima is a party goer, but lately, he knows to stay sober enough to keep things in check. someone had to be bakugou’s jailor.

katsuki doesn’t protest, sitting down while the redhead ushers everyone out of the house. he sighs, returning to the bedroom, seeing bakugou sitting there, his head in his hands.

“fuck… i don’t know.” he pinches the bridge of his nose. he doesn’t curse out of anger or hatred; he curses out of sadness. katsuki sits there, like theres vultures spinning around him, waiting for their time to strike.

what a tragedy.

bakugou opens his mouth to say something, but the overwhelming urge to vomit takes over. kirishima walks over, pushing him onto the bed and making sure he lays on his side. he stares, heartbroken, wondering where it all went wrong.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚

you prayed he’d just talk to you, about his fears and about his doubts. you wish he’d be honest about his panic attacks, especially after the war. he’d wake up in a cold sweat, remembering the fighting, remembering the tears. but some invisible barricade caged his feelings inside his heart. this had to be his battle.

he’s still there in the darkness, feeling like a heartless monster. he’s starting to come undone, the sadness in his bones seeping into the security and confidence once embedded in him. maybe he isn’t who he set out to be in the first place.

but he’s not gonna let you know that.

“told you i’m find, moron.” he says, spooning you. he hopes you don’t notice how glossy his red eyes are, but you do.

“katsuki, please-“

“i’m fine.”

you bite your lip. if you can’t get him to open up, maybe you can take his mind off of it. a party never hurt anybody, right?

“…denki’s throwing this get-together tomorrow night.” you say, proposing the idea to him. “its a reunion for our class. we should go. it’ll get your mind off of… whatever it is.”

he scoffs, musing that he’s too good for parties. “yeah, a bunch of lightweight assholes i have to drive home? no thanks.”

“oh c’mon, it’ll be fun.” you pout.

it’ll be fun, and because you’re desperate to see a smile on his face again, even if its from laughing at his friends drunken antics. anything that’ll have even a semblance of your katsuki back.

“i’ll think about it.” he can’t say no to that face.

and that was the first time you ever saw katsuki drink.

he can handle his alcohol well, actually. he keeps you close by him, starting with one shot, and then another, and then kissing your neck in front of all your friends while his bitter breath tickles your skin.

he was laughing, enjoying himself. he was surrounded by people who diminished his doubts. a night of partying and fun did him some good.

what you didn’t anticipate, however, was how often he was attending them now.

the fame followed him everywhere. katsuki would end up in different celebrities’s basements, with close friends or even strangers. at first, you went with him. but it were as if the alcohol formed oceans between you two, separating you from katsuki.

he’s spiralling and you can see it. he’d chase down all that pain with shots, and all that trauma with drunken dares and released inhibitions. at first, you went with him to have fun. then, you went with him to make sure he didn’t take his foot off the breaks. now, you couldn’t bring yourself to go at all.

“katsuki, you need to stop.” you say, following one of his nasty hangovers.

he groans, clutching his temples. “don’t… god, you’re making my head spin, [y/n].”

“i’m making your head spin?” you scoff. “no, thats because you were out till 3 last night.”

“it was denki’s birthday.” he tries to excuse himself.

“no, it was sero’s, and they told me you were shitfaced for most of it!” you raise your voice, tears brimming.

his eyes widen, seeing how upset you are. he knows its irresponsible, but he also knows being drunk was a way to feel something, anything other than sad. given the choice between drowning in whiskey and drowning in tears, he chose the one that was capable of poisoning him.

“please.” you plead. “stop with the parties, with the drinking. its hurting you!”

“i have it under control!”

“you don’t!”

he stands up, his hangover more evident than ever. “god fucking damnit, [y/n]. if all you’re gonna do is bitch and moan like a fucking extra, just go!”

exactly 2 seconds in, katsuki realized what he said. but he’s too late.

theres a palpable silence in the air, followed by the sniffling crinkle of your nose as the tears cascade down.

“[y/n], babe, baby, i’m sorry. fuck, i-“

you slap him, cutting him off. his head whips to the side, just taking it. he wants to argue back, but he knows he deserved that.

you pack up your things, and he doesn’t have it in him to try and stop you. he begs in his mind for you to stay. secretly, you’re begging that he’ll beg.

but he doesn’t. and you leave.

subsequently, katsuki’s partying habit goes from controlled to dangerous.

he’s never not drunk, never not out doing something with people he doesn’t know. he’s always staying just a bit too late, but always manages to kick himself out in time to get to work. he’s always irritable, in part to the hangovers but largely in part to your absence.

people are starting to catch on. maybe not the fans, who adore him and his looks no matter what, but his colleagues have noticed a shift. the no-bullshit, toughed out dynamight sunk somewhere beneath his rising blood-alcohol levels.

still, he looks for you. he wonders if you’re still on the couch, singing karaoke with your friends, belting and humming along to the tunes. he thinks you might be in the kitchen, making yourself a drink and calling an uber in advance. or maybe you’re in the washroom, overstimulated, your anxiety taking over. anxiety he knows all too well. the anxiety he tried to hide beneath parties.

some nights, he’ll drunkenly stumble into the washroom, whether its his own or someone else’s. he’ll wonder if you’re there, sitting on the sink, ready to leave with him to your shared home.

but its another lonely night.

you don’t go to parties anymore.

because you’ve stayed at home, crying over photos, wearing his hoodies. everything you’ve learned about katsuki during your split had been against your will. there was silence from him, but the whispers of news and gossip tabloids could scream. you’re mad, yes, but you also pray for his safety.

selfishly so, you hope he still looks for you at those parties. at least there, he cares a little. maybe even more than you realize.

right now, he’s sitting on the couch with kirishima, denki, and sero. though all of them have had a bit to drink, katsuki is undoubtedly the worst of them all. he’s bitching about you, about missing you, about how you left him.

“she just.. got up and fucking left.” he slurs, leaning his head back. the mood is killed, and no one really has the energy to argue. except maybe for denki, who points out the obvious.

“you told her to leave. and she had a good reason for bringing it up to you, dude.” denki says. “can’t blame her for walking out on you.”

silence. the calm before the storm.

exactly 5 seconds later, katsuki is positively losing his shit, yelling at denki who just sits there, dumbfounded. kirishima is holding his friend back while sero attempts to position himself between the two. its one thing to be yelled at. but being yelled at by katsuki bakugou? thats something else.

“i don’t know what to do, man.” sero says, looking at eijirou for answers. the redhead honestly isn’t sure either. one thought crosses his mind, but he’s worried.

“get him to sit down.” eijirou says. “i’m calling [y/n].”

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚

“hello?” you say into the receiver. theres a pit in your stomach hearing ejirou’s voice, knowing he wouldn’t call you if it wasn’t an emergency.

“hey [y/n], listen… katsuki’s drunk, and he’s yelling at denki… i’m so sorry, but… you think you can come get him?”

god, its exhausting being a good person sometimes.

“yeah, i’ll be right there.” you huff, grabbing your car keys. eijirou thanks you, knowing you might be the one thing that calms him down right now.

all 3 boys help get him into your car. your heart clenches, seeing just how badly he’s been doing. he’s sick, and he’s tired. his eyes are swollen from crying, you know it.

eijirou leaves you with a long hug, arms embracing you. “take care.” he says. “call me if he acts up. he might need someone to kick his ass.”

you chuckle, for what feels like the first time in forever. “yeah, he could.”

when you re-enter the car, you don’t start it right away. you look over at katsuki in the passenger seat. maybe he’s starting to sober up, or he’s drunk enough where he’s starting to be honest.

“i’m so fuckin’ sorry, babe.” he says. you just nod, eyes welling up with tears, words failing you.

he laughs bitterly, head leaning your way. “i’m a mess, [y/n]. like, a real mess. doctor told me i have depression. i didn’t tell you ‘cause i didn’t wanna look weak. pathetic, right? i feel pretty weak right now.”

you look over at him, already wanting to cry all over again. you should have seen the signs. right now, they are so glaringly obvious- the detachment, the avoidance, the drinking….

“and i miss you more than anything.” he says. “i wish i just… talked to you more. even if its your shitty knock-knock jokes.”

you’re crying, but you do scoff a little, holding his hand. “my knock-knock jokes are not stupid.”

“knock knock.” he says.

“who’s there?”

“i still love you. and thats the worst part about all these damn parties… you weren’t there. i don’t care about parties if you’re not there.”

that might have been the most sober thing he’s said all night.

you don’t say anything, not ready to forgive. but you do place a kiss to his cheek before driving him home.

✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚ ✧.* ✧.* ⋆.˚

a few days later, katsuki shows up to your house at 9 o’clock sharp- a new record considering the recent events. he called in advance, but your heart still skips a little when you open the door and motion for him to enter.

the bags under his eyes have reduced. he’s nor slurring his words, and he’s not snapping at all. he seems… better.

“i uh… brought you coffee.” he says, awkwardly handing you the cup. “i got you some sugar and creamer, cause i didn’t know how you like it.” he shoves his hands into his pocket and takes out the packets.

“katsuki, i have that all here.” you almost laugh at his nervousness. its clear that this has taken a hold on him. as he sobers, he feels the need to rebuild himself again.

“right, sorry, smartass.” he says, he sounds like an asshole, but its a nickname you’ve both grown used to.

physically, he seems like he’s finally gotten some rest. on the inside, however, you can see the turmoil in his eyes. he had spent weeks drunk on distractions. now, he’s facing all the things he’s fucked up.

you think back to what he said in the car. about his diagnosis, about his struggles. you wonder just how long he’s been feeling that tv static in his head, how long he’s been bullying himself. you wonder how strong his demons are, how they’ve got hands and how he was struggling to fight them.

it breaks your heart.

“i… i know what i told you the other night.” he huffs, hands in his pockets. “i remember that much.”

“…why didn’t you say anything?” you dare to utter, wanting to see his pain and wanting to shield him from it.

he pauses, finding the right words. “…i don’t know. i’m a hero, i’m the god damn best. i didn’t wanna look weak.”

“depression isn’t a weakness, kats.” you remind him, that familiar nickname rolling off of your tongue in a way that makes his heart ache. “especially after everything you’ve been through.”

he knows what you mean. the relentless training, the fights, all the times he thought he was going to die. honestly, he didn’t think he’d make it this far. everyday could have been his last.

“it just… hurts.” he admits, wincing at the vulnerability in his tone. “so damn much… like… i don’t know. like i’m trapped.”

his voice cracks at that last part.

“i don’t know what to do. how to deal with this. i just know i’m sick of parties. i’m sick of being away from you. i-“

you cut him off with a hug there, enough to get his eyes misty. he hugs you back instantly, fitting in with you like a puzzle piece. burying his face in your neck, he inhales and lets himself get lost in you.

“you don’t have to know what to do.” you say, stroking his back. “as long as you’re done hurting yourself. i’m here, you asshole.”

you shed a few tears as well as katsuki sobs that he’s sorry. but as you hold him, he admits to himself that vulnerability didn’t kill him- it just brought him closer to you. after days of searching for you at parties, during lonely nights, you’ve got him again.

and he’s never letting you go.

[cosmicdahlias]

Top Student

Ford Pines x Reader

MINORS DNI

Professor Pines has seemed a little down lately. You stop by his office with the intention of raising his spirits, as well as… other things.

tags: professor ford au, teacher/student relationship, oral, multiple orgasms, biting, fdom/msub, bondage, praise kink, p in v, creampie

okay confession this is inspired by a crush i had on a teacher in my senior year of high school, dude was a total nerd but in like a hot way. i literally applied myself so hard for him that i finished top of the class, still got the medal to prove it lmao. i’ve always had a thing for well read older men and that ain’t ever changing!!!

You stood outside the door to your Astronomy professor’s office. As of late Professor Pines had seemed less like himself, appearing to be not nearly as engaged in his lectures. He covered the material just fine, but his passion for the subject matter just wasn’t there anymore. He always looked exhausted and worn out as well. Were it any other professor, you still would’ve cared, but there was an ulterior motive that led you to stand at his door. You gave a knock.

“Come in!” Professor Pine’s voice called from behind the door.

You opened it and took in the sight of his office. The room was softly lit by both a floor and desk lamp, giving the space a cozier feel than what overhead lighting could achieve. Well stocked bookshelves stretched to the ceiling and multiple PhD diplomas lined the walls, from what you’d heard he had accumulated at least twelve. His desk faced the window and a couch sat in the corner. You stepped into the room.

“Oh hello, y/n. What a pleasant surprise.” He said.

“Evening, professor.”

“Good evening to you too. Please, take a seat.”

You sat on the couch, it was almost far too nice for just an office. Professor Pines really went above and beyond to make sure his students were comfortable. He turned in his chair to face you.

“So, what can I do for you?” He asked.

“Well, to be blunt I’m a little worried.”

His brow furrowed in concern.

“I’m surprised to hear you say that. You’re doing incredibly well in my course. Don’t go spreading this around, but you’re top of the class. I promise you have little, if anything, to worry about.”

“No, I wasn’t talking about myself. I meant you, professor.”

He gave a confused chuckle.

“Forgive me, I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

You took a deep breath.

“You’ve just been so… sad lately. It’s subtle, but you seem distant during your lectures, like you’re just going through the motions. You look so exhausted too.”

Professor Pines fidgeted with his hands.

“I appreciate your concern, but I can assure you I’m doing just fine. I promise.”

You looked at him directly in the eyes.

“Professor…”

“I’m sorry, I really do value your worries, but the life of your professor isn’t something you need invest yourself in. You’re incredibly sweet, but seriously I’m fine.”

“I know depression when I see it, I wouldn’t be a good student if I didn’t care.”

He let out a long sigh.

“If I really cannot dissuade you, then alright. Just promise to keep this between us.”

“Of course.”

“Things haven’t been going well for me romantically. It seems to be one failed relationship after another. They start off great for a few weeks, or if I’m lucky maybe a month or so, but no one has seemed to enjoy my company long term. I’m not exactly romantically adept, so it’s more my own fault than them, but still I’m starting to lose hope of finding someone. I’m not getting any younger and at my age you become painfully aware of just how little time you have left in the grand scheme of things. It’s really starting to feel like loneliness might be it for me.“

“Oh, professor. I had my suspicions that it might’ve been something like this, but I’m so sorry.”

He gave a small, dejected smile.

“You know, I really thought I was doing my best to hide it. Foolish of me to assume that you, my top student, wouldn’t catch on with that intuition of yours. I apologize if it’s affected the quality of my teaching.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Oh goodness, no. You don’t need to do anything for me.”

“Are you sure?” You said, standing and coming close to him.

“Wh- what are you doing?”

“I suppose now is as good a time as any, but I’ve always found you attractive, Professor Pines.”

His cheeks turned a dusty pink.

“Um… I- ah- thank you. I’ve always thought you were incredibly attractive as well, but perhaps you shouldn’t be standing so close like that.”

You moved a hand to his chest, there was a slight firmness to it. You moved in closer, your lips brushing against his ear.

“I think I could benefit from some private instruction, don’t you?” You whispered.

His breath shuddered. You leaned down and kissed him, he moaned softly into your mouth before pulling away.

“N- no, this is wrong. I- we can’t do this. Look, you can sit back down and we can discuss anything pertaining to my class, or you can leave and I’ll see you for tomorrow’s lectu-“

You sat on his desk, spreading your legs and slowly pulling up your skirt.

“I know you want this as badly as I do.” You cooed.

“I can’t- oh dear god, you weren’t wearing anything underneath that skirt this whole time? Did you… plan this?”

“I just figured I could help out my favorite professor.”

You slipped a finger to your clit, Professor Pines watched intently.

“You’re so wet, is this because of me?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve touched myself to you.”

“I’ve seen a lot in my time, but someone as radiant and stunning as you with your hand between your thighs and dripping onto my desk for me is by far the least expected.”

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, professor. Do you know how many people would throw themselves at a silver fox like you?” You purred.

Professor Pines moved himself out of his chair to stand in front of you, he cupped your cheek, kissing you passionately.

“If your flattery is a means to get me on my knees for you, I’d say you’ve won me over.” He said as he sank to the floor, his face level with your pussy.

He allowed his hot breath to linger on you for a moment before dragging his tongue up your dripping lips.

“You taste so good, sweetheart.” He said, his mouth finding your clit as you tangled your fingers in his hair.

Despite claiming to be romantically inept, he certainly wasn’t at pleasuring his lover. You had no idea what his past partners didn’t see in him, he could be as awkward as humanly possible, but his looks and skilled tongue would keep you cuffed.

He stopped for a moment and looked at you.

“How does that feel?” He asked.

You stroked his cheek.

“You’re so good for me.” You praised.

Your praise seemed to invigorate him, he returned his mouth and tongue to your clit, lapping at you furiously.

You felt yourself growing close and you tightened your grip on his hair. You moaned loudly as you came, bucking yourself against his face. He held your hips steady, keeping his mouth on you and making you cum again in record time. He refused to stop, not even allowing you to catch your breath before making you cum again and again until you lost count. Your ears rang by the time he removed his mouth.

“Holy fuuuuuck. You’re incredible, Professor Pines.” You panted, your final orgasm subsiding.

“Please, just call me Ford. After making you cum on my tongue that many times I think we’re past the need for formalities.” He said as he stood to kiss you.

“Well then Ford, how about we move this to the couch?” You said as your hearing fully returned to normal.

“But of course, sweetheart.”

He picked you up underneath your thighs and sat on the couch with you straddling his lap. You felt his hard cock press against you through his pants as you kissed him passionately, pulling down the turtleneck of his maroon sweater. You were about to bite his neck when you noticed a cartoonish tattoo of a smiling star giving a double thumbs up with the words “Hey now, I’m an all star.” You failed to stifle a laugh.

“What is it?” Ford asked.

“Nothing.”

You bit down on him, he gasped.

“Oh god, no one has ever done this to me before. People my age aren’t nearly as adventurous.” Ford whimpered.

You laughed again.

“You think that’s adventurous? Let me ask you something, have you ever been dominated before?”

He blushed hard.

“I- no, never. My partners have always preferred I take the dominant role.”

You kissed him deeply, biting his lower lip as you pulled away.

“I’m about to blow your mind, Stanford Pines. Now lie back.”

He followed your command, shifting himself to lay on the couch with you still on top of him.

“You ever had someone tie you up before?” You asked.

He looked away, embarrassed.

“…Not in a sexual way.” He mumbled.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Just what were you doing before you became a college professor?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Guess I’ll just have to fuck the information out of you.” You teased.

“You drive a hard bargain, my dear.”

You unbuckled his belt, pulling it free from his pants. You pinned his arms above his head, looping the belt around his wrists and fashioning it into handcuffs.

“How’s that, not too tight?” You asked.

“No, it feels snug.”

“Good.”

You let your hands travel to his pants, unzipping them and pulling out his cock.

“Goddamn, your previous partners are idiots. Who would pass up a cock like this?” You said, giving him a few strokes.

“Mmmnn, your hand feels so good.”

“I think I know something that’ll feel even better.”

You moved yourself to hover over his cock, slowly sinking down his length. He throbbed as you reached the base of his shaft. You looked down at him and smirked, staying still.

“Y- you can’t just sit there with my cock inside you and not move. Don’t tease me like this.” Ford whimpered.

“I need to hear you tell me how much you want this.”

“Please, I need you.” He said as he frantically attempted to buck his hips.

You pulled yourself off of him.

“No no no, please no, you can’t stop now.” He whined pitifully.

You cupped his chin, your thumb stroking his lips.

“You have to beg. Tell me just how badly you need your top student to fuck you.” You commanded.

“Oh god, please y/n. I need you. I fucking NEED you. Ever since that first day you walked into my class I’ve desired you so intensely. You don’t know how many times I’ve had to stroke myself because I lay awake at night thinking of you. I’ve even touched myself in the lecture hall between classes after seeing you sit in the front row in those little skirts, crossing and uncrossing your legs, your panties just barely visible. I’ve never longed for someone the way I have for you. Please fuck me, I can’t take much more of this.”

“Ugh you’re adorable when you beg, music to my ears.”

You took his full length back inside you, he let out a loud gasping moan as you began to lift and drop your hips.

“Thank you, dear Moses thank you. You feel so good, s- so warm and tight.” He shuddered.

You slipped your hands under his sweater to his nipples, pinching and tugging them. He was a mess of moans and whimpers.

“You like that, smart guy?” You purred.

He looked up at you in surprise.

“Did I say something?” You asked.

“No, I just- it’s funny, you’re not the first person to call me that, but I like it far better coming from you than I did him.”

“That’s my good boy.” You purred.

You felt him throb hard inside you.

“Nnngh, no one has ever said that to me before. Your praise alone could make a man cum.”

“I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

You gripped his shoulders, moving your hips to fully slide him out and back in over and over. Your name left his lips with a moan and he looked up at you, eyes full of pure lust.

“Oh god, just like that. Don’t stop, don’t ever stop.” He whined.

“So needy, you’re doing such a good job for me.”

You felt him throb repeatedly as his moans and whimpers increased in volume and prevalence.

“I’m so close, m- may I cum in you? I need to know what it’s like to fill you with my seed. Please, y/n.” Ford begged.

“Very good, handsome. I didn’t even have to tell you to beg. That alone deserves to be rewarded.”

You picked up your speed and felt the pulse of his cock one final time as he came deep inside you. He bucked his hips, trying his hardest to go as far in you as he could.

“Y- you’re s- s- so incredible.” He stuttered.

“And you make for one hell of a ride, handsome.” You purred, stroking his cheek.

You pulled yourself off of him and he looked down, his and your cum had completely stained the front of his pants.

“Oh god, we’ve made a mess.” He said, putting his hand to his forehead.

You giggled at the sight of him.

“Don’t laugh, you’re wearing a skirt, you can get away with it.” He groaned.

“Sorry, I just like the idea of leaving you with a little reminder of myself.”

Ford took your hand.

“You really are amazing, sweetheart. No one has ever come close to feeling like you.” He whispered.

“Yeah? How would you like to do this again sometime?”

“R- really?” He asked.

“Oh without question.”

“Then by all means, feel free to stop by tomorrow. Perhaps you could let me see you sans clothes next time.”

“Good boy, sounds like a plan.” You said, leaning down to kiss him.

[keeryhours]

how do i live without you? - billy hargrove

Billy Hargrove x female! Reader, some platonic Steve Harrington x Reader

Masterlist

Billy Hargrove Masterlist

Summary:

An accidental pregnancy turns your world upside down, but losing your boyfriend and having to go through it without him? Things couldn’t be worse.

Warnings:

S3 spoilers, angst, Billy’s death, pregnancy, grief, depression, labor and birth

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N:

This is a scenario that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, and I’m always thinking about Billy and making myself emotional. I really hope you enjoy. Requests open <3

—

The feeling that went through your heart and body when you saw the two lines on that test was something you would never forget.

It was pure fear, panic, shock, sadness, and also awe. You didn’t know what the hell you were going to do, or if Billy was even going to stick around to find out.

The thought of being pregnant and having a baby was terrifying in general, but the thought of doing it alone was even scarier.

You held that secret close to your chest for a week. You wanted to wait for the perfect time to tell Billy, but that time never came. You never stopped being terrified, your stomach was never not in knots when you were around him. He noticed something was up, and he kept trying to get you to tell him, but you’d brush it off.

It became an issue when he wanted you to come with him to a party at Tommy’s house. You didn’t think anything of it at first, agreeing to go without hesitation like any other time. You felt stupid (maybe you could blame it on pregnancy brain already), but it didn’t occur to you until you and Billy pulled up to the party that you would be expected to drink.

When you walked in, Billy brought you straight to the alcohol, filling up two cups before you could say anything over the pounding music. He went to hand you yours with a grin, and you paled, feeling like it was suddenly too hot in the house.

“I’m not drinking tonight,” you said, trying to decline the drink politely and casually but knowing you wouldn’t be so lucky as to not be questioned.

Billy looked at you as if you’d grown two heads. “Uh…you’re not drinking?”

Shit. You absolutely should have thought this through. Who goes to one of these parties to stay sober, anyway?

“She’s not drinking?” Tommy asked, sliding over with Carol under his arm. “Like at all?”

“That’s weird,” Carol giggled, clearly feeling the alcohol she had consumed tonight. “What, are you pregnant or something?”

Your blood ran cold. You actively tried not to react, but the question hit you like a slap to the face. “No, Carol,” you snapped back.

Billy’s eyes never left you throughout the entire interaction. His brows were furrowed, the gears turning in his head.

“I just don’t feel good,” you added, feeling like you were standing on stage with a spotlight on you. “I thought alcohol would make it worse.”

Tommy and Carol weren’t even listening anymore, having moved on to making out in the corner. Billy’s intense gaze was beginning to make you uncomfortable, you felt like he was reading you like a book.

Despite your fears, Billy didn’t bring it up or push the alcohol again. You had a pretty shitty time, because hanging out in a crowded house full of drunk people is probably the least enjoyable sober activity. Billy had two beers before he decided you should leave early. He didn’t look like he was having any fun either, and he knew you weren’t.

In the safety of Billy’s Camaro, you let out a breath. You buckled your seatbelt as Billy climbed into the driver’s seat. He started the car and began to drive back in the direction of your house.

He drove in silence. He didn’t even turn music on, which was not like Billy at all. The tension in the air was so thick you could barely breathe. The only sounds you could hear were the rumbling of the engine and your own shaky breathing.

Billy pulled a cigarette from his pack, sticking it between his lips. He pulled out his lighter and flicked it, bringing the flame to his face and lighting the cigarette. He took a big drag, blowing the smoke mostly out the window. The smell of it nearly made you gag, but you watched his every movement with bated breath anyway.

Finally, he spoke.

“Are you going to tell me what that was really about?” he asked, driving with one hand. He doesn’t look away from the road, doesn’t look at you.

You felt like you were going to really be sick (that had been happening recently), but it was all nerves this time. You debated if there was any chance of talking yourself out of this believably, but then you realize what’s the point, he has to know sometime, somehow.

You let out a long, shaky exhale. Billy’s eyes flicked to you for just a moment at the sound, sensing that there really was something big going on. He had hoped it was some silly explanation. He took another long drag from his cigarette.

“Billy…” you began, looking away from him and down at your hands as your fingers played together nervously. “I, uh…I’m pregnant.”

The words hang in the air like a bomb waiting to explode. Billy doesn’t say anything. You don’t say anything.

Finally Billy sighed deeply, taking another drag and then putting his fingers on the bridge of his nose as if he had a bad headache. “Christ…”

You felt sick to your stomach. You didn’t want him to be mad at you, You didn’t want him to leave.

You didn’t say anything, still trying to gauge his reaction. He didn’t look happy, but you couldn’t really figure what he was thinking. He was never an open book.

Billy pulled up in front of your house. You half expected him to kick you out of the car and never talk to you again, but instead he shut the car off entirely.

“Can I come in? To talk?” he asked, which took you by surprise.

“Yeah,” you said. “My parents are home, though, so you’ll have to come through the window…”

He nodded. He was familiar. “Give me 10 minutes,” he said. He leaned over and kissed you softly on the lips and then you were climbing out, headed up the walkway to your front door as you heard him drive off. He would be going to park around the block to walk over so your parents wouldn’t be suspicious.

You didn’t know what to think. He didn’t seem mad at you, which was a good sign. He even kissed you before you got out of the car like he always does.

Your stomach was in knots as you slipped into the house, saying a quick goodnight to your parents as you headed to your room. You cracked the window for Billy before getting changed into some comfortable pajamas while you waited for him.

Just as promised, you heard your window sliding up about 10 minutes later, and you turned in time to see Billy’s large body awkwardly maneuvering in through the window.

When he was in, he shut the window behind him and let out a sigh, running a hand through his messy blonde curls. He sat down on your bed next to you, neither of you saying anything for a while.

“Well,” Billy finally said. “This is some shit.” He laughed, but nothing was really funny.

You felt bad. You felt like this was all your fault, although you knew logically that wasn’t true.

“And you’re sure?” he asked, rubbing his sweaty palms over the thighs of his jeans.

“Yes,” you said. “Do you want to see the tests?”

He hesitated before nodding. “Not that I don’t believe you,” he added quickly, his voice gruff. “I just…want to see ‘em.”

You opened your bedside table drawer, pulling out the five positive tests you had taken. Billy’s eyes widened as you handed them to him, and he realized this was really happening. There was no mistake.

“Fuck…” he breathed out, looking at those two pink lines.

“Yeah. Fuck,” you agreed.

Billy turned to you then, and he surprised you by smiling at you softly. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against his firm, warm body. You always felt safe there.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he said, which was maybe the last thing you expected him to say.

You looked up at him. “Really? You actually think so?”

“Yeah,” he said, and he looked genuine. “You know I’m serious about you, right?”

You blinked at him. You hadn’t known that, not really. You had hoped he felt the same way about you as you felt about him, but he avoided talking about his feelings so much you were never really sure where you stood.

He looked at you incredulously. “You are. You’re so special to me, you have no idea.”

Your eyes began to water at that, a couple tears falling. “Billy…”

He lifted a hand and wiped your tears away. “Come on, baby girl…” he muttered. “Don’t cry. I hate when you cry.”

He was never this tender. It was making your heart beat about a million times a minute, your head spinning in circles.

“You’re not mad?” you finally asked, voice weak.

“Why would I be mad?” he asked, looking genuinely curious. “It’s not your fault. It was both of us.” He gave you a little smirk when he said that, and it made you blush.

“I just thought you’d be upset,” you said, eyes trailing down to look at your comforter. He placed his hand beneath your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

“I’m not upset,” he said. “Sure, this is…really not great timing, but we’re gonna be okay, yeah? We have each other.”

You nodded. You felt like you could get through anything with Billy by your side, and now that it was clear he had no plans to run, you felt yourself breathing for the first time in a week.

“I love you, Billy,” you said, and you froze as you realized what you had said. You and Billy had not said that to each other yet, and now you were positive you had really scared him off this time.

But Billy didn’t miss a beat. He leaned in, pressing his lips softly to yours. “I love you, too,” he said, and you couldn’t believe your ears.

He gently placed his hand on your still flat stomach, rubbing his thumb over the material of your shirt.

“And I mean it,” he promised, looking into your eyes with his deep, gorgeous blue ones, more serious than you’d ever seen him. “You won’t do this alone. I’m right here.”

—

Billy began to act strangely in July.

He stopped calling. You stopped seeing him around anywhere. You went to the pool to see him at work, which he usually loved for you to do, but you found him there looking sweaty and sick, his body covered up from the sun. You knew something was seriously off right away.

It turned out Max and El had already figured it out themselves. They had been watching Billy, and discovered the Mind Flayer was back, and he had possessed Billy.

You felt angry. You felt scared. But Will had been able to be saved from the Mind Flayer, so surely Billy could be, too. That’s what you held onto, what you told yourself.

—

It had been a month since the Starcourt incident. A month since Billy sacrificed himself to save all of you, a month since you watched your boyfriend die horrifically right in front of your own eyes. You still had nightmares about it, seeing it over and over again behind your eyelids when you tried to go to sleep at night. When you realized you’ll never fall asleep in Billy’s arms again, never feel him again at all.

You didn’t leave your bed for weeks after his death. Really only getting up for necessities like the bathroom or forcing yourself to eat enough to keep your body going. Steve and Robin came over and begged you to get up and get out of your dark, depressing bedroom. You weren’t ready to face a world without Billy in it. The thought of going outside and seeing the world continuing on like nothing happened made you feel sick. You felt like they didn’t understand - Steve didn’t like Billy anyway. They were never fans of your relationship. The only thing that eventually gets through to you and gets you out of bed is the reminder that you’re still growing a baby, and that baby needed a mother who could function.

You had never lost anyone close to you like that before. Not even touching on the brutal way he died, or the fact that it happened while you stood helplessly watching. You thought of Billy constantly, it was a neverending physical ache in your chest that was so severe your doctor thought you might be having heart problems and sent you to have it checked out.

Nope, just heartbreak. You wondered if the pain alone would kill you, too.

You became close to Max. The two of you may have never been friends before, but you had always liked the kid, and when you and Billy first started dating, she had told you she was glad Billy finally had a real girlfriend and that you were better than any of the other girls Billy had brought around. It made you laugh at the time, and you instantly liked her.

In Billy’s absence, being the only two people you knew who really felt the pain of his death, you leaned on each other. You became a true big sister to Max, and she became a real friend to you. The excitement over being an aunt and having that piece of Billy to carry on was the only real light she held onto in life some days.

One of the biggest surprises in the aftermath of Billy’s death came from Steve Harrington himself.

You and Steve had been friends for ages, only becoming closer in the past year. You knew Steve loved you and would always be there for you, of course, but you didn’t realize how much until one day that August.

You were 15 weeks pregnant, at that point the secret was out to any and everyone. You were already beginning to show, no longer able to hide under baggy t shirts and hoodies. You were tired of the sympathetic looks everyone gave you, oh, she’s a pregnant teenager and the father died in that horrible mall fire! You could see it in everyone’s eyes when they looked at you.

The doorbell ringing jolted you from your busy day of crying in bed. You were surprised to see Steve there, looking like he had something really important to say.

“Can I come in?” he asked, and your thoughts immediately went to the pajamas you were still wearing at 4pm, the mess of a depression den your bedroom had turned into.

But you knew Steve was the last person who would judge you. You let him in, both of you walking to your bedroom. You had to step over various water bottles, cans, and dirty clothes on the way to sit on your bed.

When you sat together, Steve turned to you, grasping your hands in his. He looked at you seriously, and it scared you a little.

“I just…I have something to say,” Steve said, and you searched his eyes for any clue as to what he was about to drop on you.

“I…you might think I’m crazy,” he laughed breathlessly, running a hand through his long hair before he grabbed your hand again. “Listen, I can’t stand the idea of you doing this alone.”

You looked at him, confused. “Doing what…?”

Steve gestured towards your stomach, the still small bump visible there now. “Having a baby.”

You felt like he wasn’t making any sense. “Steve, I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”

Steve sighed, but he didn’t seem annoyed with you. He squeezed your hands, looking you in the eyes. “I’m saying, if you want me to, I want to do this with you. I’ll be like…the dad.” He shook his head, speaking quickly again before you could say anything. “Not the dad, Billy will always be the dad, obviously, I don’t want to erase him or anything. But like the step dad maybe. I want to help you raise the baby.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Were you crazy or did Steve really just offer to step up and be a parent to a child that isn’t even his?

“Steve…” you breathed, tears coming to your eyes as you scanned his face for any sign of hesitancy or insincerity. You found none. He looked at you determined, like he had made up his mind and nothing would change it. “You don’t have to do this. You’d practically be throwing your life away.”

“I wouldn’t be throwing my life away,” Steve scoffed. “I’ve already graduated. I can get a good job with my dad, with insurance and benefits and stuff. I can take care of you. Both of you.”

He really had thought this through. He meant what he was saying. You couldn’t imagine someone ever being this selfless, it was hard for you to wrap your mind around what he was truly offering.

“You don’t have to do this,” you told him again. Your voice was shaking now as you felt the tears threatening to fall.

“I want to,” he said again, his hand moving to rest on your cheek. “You’re like, my best friend in the world. I can’t stand the thought of you stuck doing this alone. Plus, I love kids.” Steve took a deep breath. “And…I feel like I owe it to Billy. I won’t ever forget his sacrifice. He would want you two to be taken care of.”

Those words are the ones that push you over the edge, and you cried, sobs bursting from your chest without warning. Steve was surprised at first, but quickly wrapped his arms around you, rubbing your back soothingly. He didn’t say anything, he just let you get it out of your system. You had been so fragile since Billy died, he knew this conversation would bring up some big emotions.

You felt safe in Steve’s arms. You were surprised at how much comfort they brought you, and you thought maybe you would have been better off with your friends after all than rotting in your bed, burritoed in your blankets. You just hadn’t been able to stand the idea of bringing everyone down when you were stuck so deep in your personal pit of despair.

When your cries finally calmed, you pulled away from Steve’s chest, looking at him with puffy red eyes. “I feel like I can’t ask you to do this.”

“You’re not asking me, I’m offering,” Steve answered quickly, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “I know I can’t force you to believe me, but I want this.”

You felt the tears threatening to fall again, but you pushed the feeling back as far as you could. “Okay,” you finally croaked out. “But you can change your mind at any time, okay?”

Steve smiled at you. “Not gonna happen.”

And Steve kept to his word. He didn’t leave your side the entire pregnancy. He drove you to every appointment, sitting next to you and holding your hand when you needed him. The nurses would refer to him as “dad” and he wouldn’t correct them unless you did. He liked the sound of that, deep down. Yeah, he knew this baby wasn’t his, but he would love them like they were.

The first time Steve got to see the baby and hear the heartbeat, his eyes shone with love, his own heart nearly beating out of his chest. The fast, rhythmic whoosh whoosh whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat filled the room. You looked up at Steve teary eyed, and he looked back down at you like he had never been more proud of someone in his life.

It warmed your heart that even though Billy couldn’t be here, which is a pain that would never go away, the baby had a found family that was larger and stronger than you ever could have hoped your support system would be. The whole friend group was so invested in the pregnancy - it had nearly become the friend group’s baby by this point.

The 20 week anatomy scan was a monumental day, because you’d finally be finding out the gender of the baby. There were only supposed to be 2 people allowed back in the room at a time, but somehow your friends were able to talk their way in.

It was like a party in the exam room when the tech came in, wide eyed and taking in the excited group. You laid on the table with Steve in his normal spot next to you. Then there was also Max, Robin, Nancy, Dustin, Lucas, Will, Mike, and El, all crowded into the room with you.

The tech looked a little nervous as she got started, not used to having quite an audience. When the scan started, everyone leaned in, fighting each other for the best glance at the screen. They all began taking bets on whether it would be a boy or a girl.

“Do you want to know the gender?” the tech asked, and the whole room practically yelled a chorus of Yes!

The tech couldn’t help but smile, despite the chaos of this appointment. It was sweet to see an unborn baby already so loved by so many.

“It’s a girl,” the tech announced, and the room erupted into cheers. There were some “I told you so!”s and some money exchanging hands.

The chaos of the room around you fell away as you turned and looked right at Steve. He was already looking at you, tears brimming in his eyes to match yours.

“A baby girl…” he muttered, lightly brushing his hand across your cheek. “A daughter.”

You smiled, and your heart felt like it was swelling out of your chest. You felt so happy. Then you remembered Billy, how he’d never know and never see his daughter, and that familiar, comfortable ache settled over your bones again.

The group took you out to eat after the appointment, you all laughing, throwing out baby girl names, and talking about plans for her future. It meant the world to you how genuinely excited all of your friends were.

By the 7th month of pregnancy, Steve might as well have moved into your house, because he was there all the time. There was still nothing romantic between you, but he slept in your bed, and you loved the way he would hold you at night, his back pressed against you and hand splayed out over your pregnant belly protectively. It was innocent, but it made you feel less alone. You had spent many nights after Billy’s death jolting awake at night from nightmares, feeling like you were free falling through the emptiness.

By month 8, Steve surprised you with a small but cozy two bedroom apartment for the three of you. You had no idea he had even been making plans to move out with you, the gesture catching you completely off guard. Already an emotional mess from the pregnancy and your never ending grief, you had cried, which made Steve panic and think he did something wrong. But really, you couldn’t believe how sweet he was, how much he loved you and the baby already.

Steve, Robin, Nancy, Max, and Dustin helped you set up the nursery. You made a day out of it. There was a lot of sweating and arguing setting up the crib and dresser, mostly between Steve and Dustin, but it all came together. You were shooed out of the room as they opened the windows and painted the walls a pale pink before moving the furniture to their spots.

You nested over the next couple of weeks, and the nursery really started to come together. There was a rocking chair in the corner next to her bookshelf already stocked with baby books. There was shelving attached to the walls, filled with stuffed animals, a framed ultrasound photo, a framed picture of you and Billy.

You even had a wall hanging made with her name to put on the wall, but you kept that hidden in the closet for now, wanting her name to be a surprise for everyone.

Baby Girl was all set now, really, the only thing left was for her to make her arrival.

You had been in your pajamas, watching a movie with Steve one night when you were 38 weeks pregnant. You didn’t make it out of your pajamas very often anymore. You felt like a house at this point, you couldn’t even stand without Steve’s help. You dealt with a lot of back pain in your third trimester, your doctor said the baby was most likely laying on a nerve. Little brat. Thankfully Steve was always there, ready to help however he could, unless he was at work.

You rubbed a hand over your large belly, feeling your baby girl moving beneath your palm. You thought of Billy again, as you always did. You wondered if he could see you somehow, if he knew that you and his baby were okay, that she was about to be here and how you’d never missed him quite as badly as you have lately. Steve was great, but you would have given anything to be going through this with Billy like you were supposed to.

“Can you help me up? I have to go to the bathroom,” you asked Steve with a sigh, hating feeling so helpless. You didn’t like relying on people to this degree, not at all. You had pretty much been assigned an around the clock babysitter over the past few weeks. Someone from the friend group was always here if Steve wasn’t, and you suspected he did that on purpose.

“Of course,” Steve said, standing without hesitation. He held out his hand for you and pulled you to your feet. You made it up with great effort, but at least you were finally up.

Steve sat back down in the recliner as you started moving your aching body towards the small bathroom down the hall. As you were almost halfway there, you felt it - a huge gush, and you froze in place.

“Uh- um, Steve??” you said, panic in your voice.

“What?” Steve asked, his head snapping in your direction. “Are you- did you just pee yourself?”

You glared at him. “My water just broke.”

Steve’s eyes went wide, and he was frozen for a minute. Then he jumped out of his seat, looking frantic like he’d lost his mind and didn’t know where to go first.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit-“

As Steve freaked out, the contractions kicked in for you. You placed a hand on your stomach as you doubled over in pain and cried out, feeling like you were experiencing the worst period cramps of your life.

When Steve noticed, he panicked even harder. “Oh god-“

Steve slapped himself in the face. He had to pull himself together. This is what you had both been preparing for for months, and now it was happening, and he could do this.

He sprinted into the bedroom, grabbing the overnight bags you had already packed. There was a big one for you, a smaller one filled with Steve’s things, and one for the baby.

When Steve ran back out into the living room, he found you holding onto the back of the couch for dear life, breathing through a contraction just like the two of you had practiced in the birthing classes.

“Good, good, you’re doing amazing sweetheart,” Steve said, running a hand through his messy hair. “You think you can get downstairs and into the car with me?”

You held up a finger, telling him to wait as you rode out the last of this contraction. When the pain faded, you let out a long exhale. “Yes. Let’s just go before another one comes on.”

Steve carried all three bags in one arm as he put his other one around you, helping you out of the apartment and down the stairs. Another contraction hit halfway down the stairs, and Steve had to stand there with you, making sure you didn’t collapse and go toppling down the damn stairs. They were coming fast now, you both noticed, and that made him feel like he was going to panic again, but he pushed the feeling down deep. He breathed along with you, coaching you as he had learned in class. He had paid attention. At least he felt like he could be somewhat helpful.

When it was over, he got you the rest of the way down the stairs, helping you into the car and buckling you in himself. He tossed the bags in the back and then he was sprinting to the driver’s side.

Steve drove to the hospital fast, speeding up a little every time you had another contraction. He was terrified of the baby being born in his car, him delivering her himself. He shuddered at the thought.

Steve parked as close to the emergency room entrance as he could get, running inside like a madman to grab a wheelchair and wheel it out to you. He got you settled into it, grabbing all your bags and pushing you inside quickly, but a little less insane this time since he didn’t want to throw you out of the chair.

You received a cervical check in the ER, and it was determined you were already 7cm dilated. Things were moving extremely fast. Your head was spinning, and Steve looked like he might pass out.

They got you up and into a delivery room immediately. You were offered the epidural, but you said no, you wanted to see if you could make it without it - this is a decision you would regret soon.

At some point, the pain went from intense to unbearable. You screamed out, tears streaming down your cheeks, as the contractions got more and more intense until you felt like your body was literally splitting in half.

“I want the epidural,” you begged, and the nurses looked at each other. You didn’t like that look.

“We’ll have to do another cervical check first,” one of them said gently, and you felt a sinking feeling in your stomach.

The check was performed, and the nurse announced you were already 10cm. It was too late. It was time to push.

You cried like a baby as the delivery room turned into chaos, nurses bustling around, bright lights turning on, the doctor coming in dressed in scrubs, all preparing the room for the birth. It was actually time. Steve never took his eyes off you, brushing your sweaty hair off your forehead.

“I can’t do this,” you cried to him, desperate for someone to give you that goddamn epidural. “It hurts too bad.”

Steve looked at you sympathetically. He wanted to take every bit of your pain away, and he felt powerless that there wasn’t a thing he could do. “You’re doing amazing, sweetheart,” he said, offering you some water. You gratefully drank through the straw, the cool water easing your dry mouth. “You’re almost done. If you came this far, you can finish it.”

His words did bring you a little comfort, although all you really wanted to hear was Yes, here’s the epidural you ordered! You won’t feel any more pain at all!

But of course that was not your reality. The nurse lifted your right leg, and they offered to let Steve hold the other. He looked between you and the nurse awkwardly, looking like he wanted to ask if it was okay, before he wrapped his hands around your leg, holding it back just like the nurse was.

You had never felt so exposed in your life.

“Don’t look down there during all this,” You warned Steve, your expression serious. “You’ll never look at me the same.”

Steve laughed, but he didn’t take your words lightly. He did not look.

The doctor was between your legs now, and if you weren’t in so much pain you probably would have felt embarrassed.

The doctor told you to push with every contraction. The first one came on, and you pushed, screaming loudly, a primal scream ripped straight from your soul. Steve winced, letting you squeeze his hand as hard as you needed to. He didn’t care if you broke every bone in his hand, as long as it helped you in some way, as long as he can help you feel better.

You continued to push at the appropriate times, each time feeling like your body was tearing apart. You had never experienced such pain in your life, women weren’t lying when they said this shit is the worst.

“I can see her head, you’re almost there,” the doctor encouraged, and you felt relieved that the end was in sight, but at the same time the pain was only getting worse.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you cried, looking at Steve like there was anything he could do to help you. He felt helpless, and that was the worst thing when all he wanted was to take all your pain away. That’s all he had ever wanted.

“You can,” he told you, padding your forehead with a cold wash cloth. “You’ve come so far. You are almost done. She’s almost here.”

At Steve’s words, you took a deep breath. He was right. You were almost done, and there was no turning back now anyway.

You pushed hard during the next contraction, the doctor encouraging you.

“The head is out,” he announced, “The worst part is over. Just one more good push.”

You had never been relieved to hear something more in your life. You pushed hard for your last push, and you knew she was out. You tried to look down, and then you heard the most beautiful sound. A cry.

The doctor held up a tiny little thing, pale and covered in blood, crying loudly. Your eyes went wide, but you were too exhausted to sit up. The nurses wiped off the baby, and then they were placing her on your chest, this tiny little warm wiggling thing.

You wrapped your arms around her, cuddling her close to your chest, wrapping your hospital gown around her for warmth. A nurse placed a baby blanket over her as well. She settled against your skin like it was where she had always belonged.

She had a head full of blonde or maybe light brown hair. She opened her eyes and looked up at you with bright blue eyes - Billy’s eyes. God, she was his twin. Your heart clenched at the sight, and you felt tears beginning to fall.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the feeling of Steve’s arm wrapping around your shoulder, his other hand coming to rest on the baby’s back.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmured, and you could see the tears falling down his cheeks. “Absolutely perfect.” He smiled softly, running a hand over her soft baby hair.

You wished Billy was here to see her. You wished for that more than anything.

“Little Molly,” you hummed, taking in her perfect features, her soft skin, her tiny fingers and toes. Molly Louise Hargrove.

You could have held her all day, but finally you passed her to Steve, giving him a turn. Steve took her like she was made of porcelain, holding her so tenderly like he was terrified she’d break at the slightest wrong move. He rocked her gently, looking at her with pure love and adoration. He looked like a new dad.

When Steve called your friends the next morning to let them know the baby had arrived, he got hung up on. He looked at the phone, confused, attempting to dial back with no answer.

20 minutes later and your entire friend group was busting through the hospital room door. You laughed, shushing your loud friends as you gestured to the sleeping newborn in your arms.

Surprisingly, they all quieted down, but then they joined together in a soft chorus of Awww! as they leaned over, trying to get a better look at her. You finally announced the name, and everyone loved it.

You motioned for Max to climb onto the bed with you, and she did, careful not to jostle your sore body. She learned over, trying to get a good look at the bundle of blankets in your arms.

“Do you want to hold her?” you asked softly. You had wanted her to be the first.

She looked at you wide eyed, her blue eyes full of emotion. “R-really?”

“Of course. You’re Auntie Max,” you answered her with a gentle smile and she smiled back. She held her arms out, and you carefully laid Molly in them. “Just be careful to support her head,” you added, but the girl was a natural.

Max looked down at her niece, her eyes wide. Tears brimmed at her waterline, and she looked like she had about a million thoughts going through her head at once.

“She looks like Billy,” is what Max finally said, a huff of breathless laughter coming from her lips as tears began to fall. The sight of the younger girl crying made you cry too, it didn’t even matter that you had a whole audience. You felt Steve’s hand rubbing your back.

Every member of the friend group held Molly, even the ones who originally said they didn’t want to (Mike and Will). Molly seemed to adore Robin especially.

Your friends visited until they were kicked out, visiting hours over for the day. Only Steve was allowed to stay, since he was sleeping there.

That night, you smiled softly to yourself as you watched Steve in the dark of the room. You were supposed to be asleep, but were having a hard time. You watched Steve, who definitely thought you were still asleep, as he paced around the dark room, gently bouncing Molly in his arms.

“You are really the cutest ever, you know,” he muttered lowly to her, like they were having a conversation. “And I love you so much. Did you know that? I may not be your daddy, but I couldn’t love you any more even if I was.”

Your heart felt full as you watched them. Molly was awake, but not a single cry came from her. She was content to be gently walked and bounced and staring up at Steve’s face. She knew his voice. He had talked to her through your belly the whole pregnancy.

“We’re gonna have so much fun. We’re gonna be the best family.” He gently patted her back as he walked with the bundle in his arms. “And I’ll tell you all about your daddy. Billy. He was a hero, you know.”

You wiped away the tears that fell with the back of your hand. You still couldn’t handle a mention of Billy without crying. But your little girl was so loved, which meant everything to you, and you knew Billy would be happy to know she was loved and taken care of, too.

The day you went home from the hospital, you and Steve bickered over how the infant car seat worked. You snatched the instructions back and forth, both desperately trying to figure out how the contraption worked. Finally Molly was settled in her seat, safely and cozily strapped in, and it really wasn’t that hard to begin with.

A nurse pushed you to the hospital entrance while Steve walked ahead, carrying the baby carrier. You could see Molly peacefully snoozing in her seat as he walked.

Steve got the car seat settled into the back of the car, and then he was helping you into the passenger seat, mindful of how sore you still were. You felt like a stranger in your own body, but you knew all this weirdness would pass.

Getting home was surreal. Entering the apartment as a family of three finally. Steve carried the car seat around the whole apartment, giving Molly the grand tour. It wasn’t much to see, but it was home.

Your eyes caught sight of the framed photo of you and Billy sitting on the living room table. You thought about how things would be different if he were here. You imagined Billy holding Molly, meeting her for the first time, getting to be her dad. You had to shake the thoughts away before they consumed you again.

You knew you would miss Billy for the rest of your life. Especially seeing Molly every day, you were sure she would only look more like Billy as she grew up. But you had built a family here. Even with all the tragedy, you had your baby girl, and you had Steve. You were grateful for the love that surrounded you, even when all you could see was darkness.

[kingkat12]

Hiii !! I don’t know if you’re still doing Roman Godfrey imagines but if u are can u do Husband!Roman he just have gotten back from work after a hard day & u guys have a smoke session than things take a turn & u two have rough sex?? (U can do your things with the smut I can’t really think of anything 😂🫶🏽 but ty !!)

if i'm still doing Roman Godfrey imagines... IF I'M STILL DOING ROMAN GODFREY IMAGINES??? it's all i ever do, sweetheart🙈💜 i fucking loved writing this and i hope i've done your wish justice!! it took a different turn than expected, but this only means i might have to revisit this tihi... and it's the first bj i've ever written lol so hope it went well! ENJOY!!🌸

silk tie (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, piv sex, bondage, oral sex (female receiving), blowjob, suit-fetish, smoking

summary: your husband has had quite the day... and now he's adamant about making it a little better

word count: 4,347

I hadn't noticed Roman was home before I walked past the balcony.

It was about three in the morning, which was an odd time for him to return from work. Or had he arrived back earlier?-- I had been asleep, so there was no way for me to know. I never waited up for him anymore, as he was usually either grumpy or completely exhausted. He wouldn't exactly take it out on me, but I was still unsure how to deal with his mood swings ever since his upir cravings got worse. 

Maybe our marriage wasn't perfect, but it had its moments. Moments such as these.

I watched as Roman leaned against the balcony railing, clearly deep in thought as he smoked a cigarette. He was still wearing his suit, not having bothered to get out of his work attire. On top of that, it was clear that he had been ripping at his hair because it looked like an absolute mess. With quiet steps, I joined his side, not saying a word. I could only look at him, revel in the upward curve of his nose, the pout of his lips, and the way he lazily balanced the cigarette between his fingers. 

"Hey, gorgeous," I said, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. "How are you?"

Roman hummed, exhaling a cloud of smoke through his nose. It was clear that his mind was elsewhere. "I've been here for fifteen minutes and this is my sixth cigarette. I think I'm slowly going insane,"

It wasn't unusual for Roman to get into these depressive ruts-- it would often happen when work got a little crazy and Pryce wouldn't get off his case. "You're not going insane," I stepped away from the balcony, wrapping my arms around my husband from behind. "You just need to get some sleep... Come to bed." My words were muffled against his broad back, pressing a kiss through his suit. 

Roman sighed, running his free hand over my fingers, feeling how small I was against him. "I already slept an hour in my office," 

Typical. "An hour isn't enough,"

"Well, I'm not sleepy anymore, and that's all that counts," Roman stumped the cigarette against the railing, another sigh escaping him. "But don't let me keep you up."

I nuzzled my face against his back, inhaling the scent of his cologne; I had missed him today. "I don't want to go back to bed without my husband," 

"It wouldn't be the first time,"

I rolled my eyes-- enough was enough. His self-deprecation could be downright annoying sometimes, mostly because he was more stubborn than a donkey. "Talk to me, Rome, what's on your mind?"

Roman gave in, turning to me. Like this, I could see the way the bags under his eyes had darkened since this morning and the way his eyelids were halfway drooped into a look of exhaustion. "It just... hit me today that all my ties are silk,"

"... What?"

"Silk," Roman echoed, and he had a hollow look about him as he wrapped his arms around me. He put his head on top of mine before burying his nose in my hair, inhaling sharply. "The devil wrapped in silk is still the devil."

It didn't take long for me to realize that he was talking about his urges again. "You're not the devil, Roman," I drew small circles on his back, hoping to soothe him. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd had something to drink on top of this. "You're working through it and you're doing well. Do you not realize that?"

He hummed; "It's just not fair to you," Roman's hands went up in my hair, pulling me tighter against his chest. "I want to grow old with you, but sometimes I wonder whether it was a good decision to get married... Whether I shouldn't have been selfish enough to drag you down with me."

I put my hands against his chest, slowly pushing myself away. This was a different speech from his usual sad ones-- this was new. "... What are you saying?"

Exasperated, Roman groaned as he turned away from me, leaning over the railing once more. He dragged his hands through his hair, tugging a little too hard at his roots. "I don't-- I don't know, okay? I just want Pryce's treatments to work, to be rid of whatever the fuck I've become, and just... Fuck! I hear the beating of my heart all the time and it's driving me fucking crazy!" He drove his elbows down against the surface, covering his ears as though it would help. 

My body was begging for me to go back to sleep, but my heart was actively shattering at the sight of Roman so broken. I took slow steps towards him; with wary movements, my fingers dipped into the jacket of his suit, fishing out a pack of cigarettes. My other hand went into the front pocket of his trousers, fishing out his lighter. I wasn't the biggest endorser of smoking, but I knew exactly why Roman did it-- it slowed down his heart, making it easier to bear the constant sound of his blood pulsing through his veins. 

I put the cigarette between my lips, now feeling Roman's glossy eyes on me. Lighting it, taking a rather long drag myself, I made my way between his arms. I balanced the cigarette between my fingers, holding it up in front of his mouth, and it didn't take long before he accepted it, wrapping his plush lips around it with a satisfied sigh. 

Something about the look of relief on Roman's face gave my heart the ease it had needed all day. Knowing I could be the one to soothe him, to bring him down from his panic, assured me that we were good for each other after all. 

I reached out for his tie, feeling the silk between the pads of my fingers. "When you're not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives," My hands left his tie, now resting against his chest, feeling the beating of his heart against my palm. "You've cut your tongue so many times that when life hands you a flower, you can't quite make out what it is. It takes time, Roman. Marriage takes time."

The smoke from the cigarette wrapped around us like a warm duvet, the warm summer breeze blowing it away with soft strokes. A kind, subtle smile spread across Roman's lips, finding solace in my words. His free hand traveled down to rest against the small of my back, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against my forehead. "Sometimes at work, I have thoughts of simply dissolving into you," he murmured, pulling away to take another drag before continuing. "It's unexplainable, but the thought is always there... and there's nothing I want more than that."

I let out the breath I had been holding, glad to see him calm again. "Are we talking sex?"

The laugh that followed made my heart sing; "You'd think so, but that's not how I meant it," Roman took a final drag, putting out the cigarette and tossing it away somewhere. "Although... I could mean it like that."

"Of course you could," I got up on my toes to give his neck a sweet kiss, knowing I couldn't reach up to his face. "But I think our first priority would be to get some sleep, and then we'll see what we can do in the morning if we have time." 

Roman bit his lower lip, suppressing a cheeky grin. His green eyes sparkled with the familiar look of want, and I immediately knew he was up to no good. "I have to disagree... I think the first priority would be to get you out of my shirt,"

My eyes widened-- I had forgotten that I was wearing it. In my defense, it was easier to fall asleep when he was away if I wore it. "What, you want it back or something?"

"No," Roman's voice dropped as his hands went down to grab at my waist. "Just want it off."

"It's three in the morning!--"

"And since when did we care about that?" He didn't even try to suppress his growing smirk anymore, and I watched his pupils dilate in real time as ideas soared through his dirty, dirty mind. It didn't take much time before Roman took my hand into his, bringing it up to his mouth to press a wet kiss against my knuckles. My breath hitched, having missed the sensation of his lips against my body. But suddenly, he lowered my hand and pressed it up against himself, leaving me breathless and in shock. 

Roman gave in to a laugh at the expression on my face, leaning down to press a kiss against the underside of my jaw. "Are you really going to deny me when I'm in a suit? That always works like a killer on you,"

And he was definitely right about that-- everything about him right now made me want to jump him. "Who said anything about denying you?" I mumbled, rubbing him through his trousers, my fingers feeling along each divot and ridge of his length. Swallowing hard, I realized I could feel him grow harder beneath my palm. "I just don't think we should be doing this on the balcony..."

Roman hummed, a low moan vibrating in his chest; "Yeah, good idea," I barely had time to register what was happening before his big arms wrapped around me, hoisting me over his shoulder as I yelped. It always surprised me that he could lift me as though I weighed nothing, and I laughed against his back as he made his way back into the house with a strong grip around me. 

"Rome, for fuck's sake!" I couldn't stop the trail of giggles escaping me, happy to see this side of my husband again. "You can't be serious-- Hey!" The squeak that escaped me was unlike anything I had heard coming from my mouth before, but how else was I to react as Roman struck his hand against my ass? Something about the sting was both painful and weirdly arousing-- I couldn't put my finger on it. Was this my lack of sleep talking?

Roman proceeded to chuckle, leading us into the bedroom. "Of course I'm serious," It didn't take long before he laid me down on the bed, crawling over to me like a predator. "I'm a serious man, you know me." 

"Yeah, right," 

As Roman made space for himself between my legs, I couldn't help but fling my arms around his neck to pull him close. I had waited for him to come home all evening to do just this-- the bliss that filled my body as our lips finally met was unmatched by any other heavenly feeling on earth. "I've wanted you all day," I purred against him, feeling the hardness of his cock twitching against me. 

"Don't say that shit," he whispered back, letting out a shaky breath as he raised himself up. "Makes me feel like I'm going to burst."

I bit down a giggle, my hands reaching for him once more. "Oh, come on, it hasn't been that long since last time!"

"... Three days?"

"Three days?!" I could barely believe it-- this was outrageous. Blinking rapidly, I watched as Roman's smirk reappeared, now leaning back down to capture my lips in a soft, passionate kiss. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against him and the fabric of his suit. "Well, I've been busy... and you've been out a lot," he murmured against my lips, his hot breath against my mouth making me shiver. "It's almost as though I need to make sure you're always here waiting for me... Because there's no way in hell I'll let another three days pass before I fuck you again."

I wasn't quite sure what he was getting at, but I liked the sound of it. I liked everything about this actually-- his tongue against mine, my hands in his hair, the feeling of our hearts beating at each other through our chests. But suddenly, the weight of him disappeared off me, and before I knew it, Roman's green eyes practically pierced me as he knelt before me, my legs creasing at his thighs. 

I knew this look. This look of lust, love, and mischief; I couldn't take my eyes off of him. The way his chest heaved, the way he stared down at me through his brows, and the way the corners of his mouth turned upwards into a smirk made my stomach flutter. 

It only dawned on me what Roman actually meant when his hands went up to his tie. Silk. My eyes widened; "Oh God, Rome--"

"Let's strike a deal," he purred, drawing the black tie through his fingers as he licked his lips. "Deal with the devil, if you like. Your little wish for mine."

I nearly shuddered, feeling my pulse quicken. "And what is it that I wish?"

Roman's chuckle was darker than expected. Something told me he had wanted to do this for a while. "I know you have an affinity for my suits, so I'll keep it on. And you... will stay still," 

Stay still? I could only squeal as Roman grabbed my hips, moving me further up the bed with ease. My breaths came out in short, ragged motions as he took my wrists into his big hand, tying them to the headboard with the other. The mix of the situation and my lack of sleep made me light-headed; "Rome," I mewled out against his chest, looking up to try to meet his eyes. I let out a quiet hiss as he tightened the tie around my wrists, watching as he made sure there wasn't much wiggle room.

This was something new. 

"Perfect," Roman said, mostly to himself, before taking my face into his hands to press a wet kiss against my lips. "Fuck, this is perfect... Let's just stay like this forever, hm?"

My heart fluttered, and I had to swallow rather hard as he made his way down my neck, leaving a trail of kisses along my body. It was hard to say no to a man towering well over six feet dressed in a ridiculously expensive suit. I squirmed against my restraints, my lashes fluttering as I remembered how sleepy I actually was-- but the tie was tied tightly around my wrists, and there was nowhere for me to go. "Since when do you have the energy to do this at three am?" I tried, hoping to stop my breath from hitching as his hands neared the hem of my shirt.

Roman took his time with giving me a response, his fingers now grazing my bare skin, leaving me shivering with anticipation. "You know you're talking about your husband, right?" he said, pushing my shirt further up as he spoke. "Were three days enough to make you forget that I always have energy for this?"

Before I had the opportunity to answer, Roman leaned down to lick a wet stripe up my stomach. I let out a broken moan, tugging at my restraints once more, squirming beneath him. "Rome, shit--" As he paired his licks up with kisses, I quickly felt my arousal pooling between my legs; there was no going back now.

We had never actually talked about tying me up like this, and I wasn't sure whether this was torturous or pleasurable. All I wanted was to reach down and run my fingers through his hair, tug him closer, feel him-- everything about the denial made me further desperate. 

Seeing as I was dressed for bed, I wasn't wearing a bra; something told me that my husband approved. It didn't take long before my shirt was at my arms, Roman's lips wrapped around an aching bud as he sucked at me. I could only write and moan, feeling completely breathless. "I can't-- Fuck, Roman," 

It felt as though the smell of cigarettes swallowed me whole, dragging me deep into the depths of my arousal. My hips bucked up against him, desperate for more, but all my attempts were shut down when Roman grabbed my hips and pinned me down to the bed. "Behave," he said, a low grunt following as his grip on me tightened. 

Hearing that word, I knew I was screwed. It suddenly became very, very apparent that Roman was in one of those moods-- this was usually the side of him that would come out when he felt like everything around him was spinning out of control, meaning he had to control the only thing he felt he could; me. 

And with me being tied up and all, I couldn't help but comply. 

"Sweetheart?" Roman shifted, making sure he had my attention before he sat up. Slowly, his hand inched down to his zipper, a cheeky smirk spreading across his lips. "I've had such a tough day, and seeing you like this is really making it all feel better... But I wanna see how pretty you look with your lips around my cock."

The teasing tone in his low voice was enough to drive me crazy. Along with that, the proper look about him had me struggling to breathe. There was something tantalizing about the fact that America's youngest CEO was right here, married to me, wanting and needing me. So when Roman unzipped his trousers, leading his hard cock to my mouth, I gladly accepted it.

I slid just the tip of my tongue up the underside, so light he could barely feel it-- it was mostly just the sensation of my breath. Judging by the sound of Roman's breath hitching and the slight twitch of his cock, I knew I was on the right track. I gave the tip a gentle kiss before giggling to myself, not having to look up to know he was blushing. "For fuck's sake," he breathed, reaching down to grab a full fist of my hair, pulling me closer. 

This was his way of politely saying please.

So I gave in, wrapping my lips around the head of his cock, sucking him in, and tasting the drop of pre-cum that immediately landed on my tongue. It was followed by a downright lewd moan from Roman, who loosened the grip on my hair before throwing his head back just a little. I couldn't help but glance up at him, so prim and proper in his suit, yet completely unraveled by the slightest touch. 

And since my hands were tied and I couldn't touch him, I reveled in the fact that I could taste him. Which is why, when Roman pulled out of my mouth with a rather wet pop, I pouted up at him as he made his way back down. But my pout quickly faded as my lips parted, my breath escaping me as he rubbed the tip of his cock over my chest. "You're too damn pretty," Roman said as he stroked himself at the sight of me. "Do you want my mouth on you before we go?"

"Yes, please," The ache between my legs almost burned-- there was nothing I wanted more in the world.

It didn't take long before Roman tucked himself back into his pants and moved down my body with eager kisses, and the anticipation nearly had me panting so hard that I was sure I might pass out. But the tension in my body quickly dissolved as Roman pulled my pyjama shorts aside, licking a wet stripe up my sex, which made my back arch off the bed. My hands strained against the tie, letting out a weak groan-- I was dying to bury my hands in his hair. 

"You're already so wet," Roman purred, leaning down to press a soft kiss against my clit. "Could've fucked you already." His fingers dug into my hips to hold me down, sucking me in as his lips covered my mound. It felt so intense, that I could barely hear my own thoughts; I heaved in sharp breaths of air, squeezing my eyes shut as I struggled against my restraints. It only got worse when Roman's tongue slid over my sopping entrance, entering me, fucking me-- I was sure I was dreaming.

It was too much. Especially when he cupped my breasts, pinching my nipples between his thumb and pointer finger. I could only cry out, my fingers gripping harshly around the tie. My overstimulation washed over me like a wave, and I was sure it was due to my lack of sleep. "Roman, please, I can't... I want you in me-- A-Aah," I couldn't stop the way my hips bucked against him, nor the way my gaze darted down to watch his eyes falling shut as he savoured me, his thick, long lashes casting shadows over his cheeks.

Thankfully, my husband wasn't in the mood to keep me on the edge tonight. Roman got up, a knowing smirk spreading across his slicked lips. "I might have to tie you up like this more often," he said, palming himself through his suit. "This is quite the sight."

From his perspective, I could understand this-- it wasn't every day that he saw his wife splayed out like this, t-shirt draped just above her bare chest, and completely at his mercy. On the other hand, I was sure I had gotten just as good of a bargain. I had been begging Roman to fuck me in one of his suits, and here he was, finally complying. If this wasn't love, then I couldn't be sure. 

"Oh, you should see yourself," I purred, biting back a grin. "Mr. CEO... All mine."

Roman let out a soft chuckle, leaning down to press a kiss against my lower abdomen as he pulled off my pyjama bottoms. "Always been yours,"

I could only sigh, feeling a surge of warmth coursing through my veins. At the end of the day, it was true-- Roman was mine, and I was his. Bonded together through our testimony, before the law, and before all things celestial. Everything about this would've been perfect if I wasn't bonded to the bed as well. My wrists were starting to ache, but I didn't have much time to think about that as I felt Roman entering me, a low grunt escaping him. I couldn't help but shudder, feeling the familiar stretch and fullness I had been craving for so long, and I struggled against my restraints as I cried out in pleasure.

Roman kept one hand planted on my hip, the other one gripping hard at my thigh. Seeing the expression on his face was nearly enough to make me moan-- Fuck, how I had missed this. The feeling of his cock inside me, the feeling of his hands on me, and being completely at his mercy. He had thankfully learned to be a little gentle with me at the start, and I felt his green eyes on me as I closed mine, lips parting at the sensation of feeling him thrust into me with slow strokes. Heaven, heaven-- it was impossible that such pleasure could be dealt by the hands of a devil. 

"Shit," Roman's hands gripped my waist, a need growing with each pump of his cock. He was so damn gorgeous, his sharp jawline twitching as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. It didn't take long before he grew impatient-- he shifted, the next snap of his hips digging his cock completely to the hilt in my warmth, a soft moan escaping him as my walls fluttered around his length.

My breath hitched, letting out a string of curse words. "Rome, please," The tie around my wrists was starting to drive me mad; "I want-- A-Ah, wanna touch you..."

I wasn't sure whether Roman was hearing me or not, his lips parting in pleasure. Eventually, he leaned forward, his mouth crashing onto mine, holding me close as I moaned against him between kisses. Now that he was even closer, I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around him and feel the fabric of his suit against my body, fulfilling my deepest fantasy. "Please," I breathed, my back arching as his cock brushed past my sweet spot. "Rome, please..."

I could feel him smirk against my mouth, and Roman pulled back to watch the absolute desperation swimming in my eyes. "What was that?" As he waited for my response, he pulled out until only the tip of him remained in me.

For fuck's sake-- "Please!" I cried, struggling against my restraints. "I can't... I can't--"

A sense of victory flashed through Roman's green eyes, traces of a darker satisfaction spreading across his lips as he thrust all the way back into me, watching me writhe and moan beneath him, fighting the urge to rip the tie to shreds to embrace him. "Fine," he said, leaning forward to clasp my wrists, smirking as his breath landed hot against my lips.

A moan mixed in with the sigh I let out, my hands immediately flying up into his hair as the tie was tossed away somewhere on the floor. Roman laughed against the kiss I dragged him into, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me into his lap, his cock still in me. "That was so much fun," he purred against my lips, grabbing my ass to drive me up and down along his slicked length. "We're doing that again."

"Fuck you," I pulled Roman tightly against my chest, feeling his arms snake themselves around me with the same intensity. It hit me how much I loved the feeling of him against me, how warm he was today, and how insanely hot he looked in that damn suit. Our lips came together in open, soft kisses, breathing against each other as our eyes locked, intense pleasure coursing through our bodies.

Roman was most certainly not the devil, and I could confidently conclude with that. However, I couldn't deny that he liked to play the most devilish games at the most inappropriate times-- but I had never loved my husband more than I did at this moment, right now. 

[lani-heart]

|| series masterlist || next // previously ||

genre(s) -> angst, fluff, non-idol, hybrid au, poly au paring(s) -> jung wooyoung x reader warning(s) -> angst, mentions of neglect, mentions of depression words -> 1.9K

abstract -> he just wants to enjoy everything she gives him... while he still can.

wooyoung's perspective

“Wooyoung, stop acting like this!! She’s pregnant… don’t you understand!” he yelled at me. Maybe he’s right… It's not good for her health.

“Yah! You’ve got to do something about this hybrid of yours!” the baby shower guest said… “I know… it's just hard you know? He was my mom’s hybrid” she said… I know I was probably hurting her again.

“Please!” I begged and he scoffed. “We’re here for the baby… not you” he said as he grabbed y/n’s book from my hands and put it back. I missed her.

“Hasn’t he been acting weird?” “One minute he’s jumping off the walls then he’s in a corner?”

“Wooyoung?” I heard as I saw the familiar figure. His name was Kun…. I think? I remember seeing him around y/n. 

“Oh? You know him?” my owner said and he nodded. “He was the neighbor of an old friend” he confessed and they scoffed. I don’t think they really liked her…

“Why are you admitting him here?” the doctor asked and they sighed. “He’s been having these mood swings and it's bad for my baby,” she said and I sighed… I did another thing wrong? “And for your health, honey,” he said. Was I hurting them again?

“I don’t think mood swings are bad for children. In fact, maybe Wooyoung just needs some atten–""Are you telling us what's good for our child?!” they yelled. “No, of course not,” Kun said clearly dejected.

“Well, he isn’t our responsibility anymore,” they said and I felt confused. “This is his information and the application,” they said… they were giving me up?

“Of course, we’ll do that right now”

How long have I been here? It seems like too long…

I smelt a familiar scent… it was coming from a panther hybrid. He was in their red code protocol… was he dangerous?  His application had a clear red highlight… San was his name. 

“You smell familiar” I must've talked out loud since he looked at me but didn’t answer… “Who’s your owner?” I asked… maybe it was them I knew?

“I don’t have an owner, '' he said but it didn’t make sense… “You smell like someone though… it's faint but you don’t have the medicinal scent from here or an adoption center” I said but he scoffed clearly annoyed at the thought

“Hmmm… y/nnie” I muttered… it's the only name I could think of “No way she’s your owner… why would you be here then?” I thought out loud… I missed her. 

“She adopted me two days ago,” he said and I was shocked… When was the last time I felt this much energy? “SHE’S YOUR OWNER?!” I asked and he growled… “Not anymore hopefully,” he said… I was confused. Why wasn’t he happy?

“How can you not be grateful?” I said and he glared while saying... “I’m not a pet,” 

“I would love it if she came to rescue me… I haven’t seen her in years” I said and he didn’t say anything else but an employee came saying she was here for him

“y/n is here?!” I asked and the employee seemed shocked. “Hmm? You know his owner Wooyoung?” the young employee asked and I nodded. “She used to be my neighbor! Can I see her?” I asked  hopefully that he’d say yes but… he didn't. 

“How’d you get so lucky?” I said the stupid panther and he scoffed. “This isn’t luck, it's a curse,” I said and he scoffed. 

They let me see her! She wanted to see me… but not even she wanted me.

Rejected again… I'd never find an owner.

I owe it a lot to the others though… here I was. With the woman I've liked since her highschool days… happy with her and my new best friend! Everything was in the past, she would never abandon me. Right?

I mean the panther and her are now mated…

I was an outcast yet again. “Why are you so quiet?” San asked and I smiled. “Tired,” I said, hoping he’d believe it. I’m only here because of him, she wouldn’t have adopted me otherwise. I was just his plus two. 

“You’re acting like you did back four months ago,” he said. Four months have passed since I lived in those kennels. I don’t miss it… not even a little bit. 

“I’m just tired,” I muttered while laying down on my bed. He didn’t say anything… Instead he left the room. 

I wanna enjoy it all before I lose it all. 

I guess losing it came faster than I thought. I was sitting in the same seat that they abandoned me in. Looking at Kun and the doctor. “You said your visit was because of Wooyoung’s mood right?” he asked. My mood? 

“Yeah… recently Wooyoung has been very down, even San agrees' ' she said while looking at me worriedly. “Wooyoung, do you wanna say anything about how you've been adjusting?” Kun asked and I shook my head. “I love it!” I said with a big grin. It must’ve not been convincing though. 

“What would you like to do?” the doctor asked y/n and she sighed. Was she gonna abandon me now? “I don't know, '' she confessed. 

“We can sign him up for therapy sessions, behavior training, or it might be the home that's the problem,” he said. “If it's the home, then Wooyoung you’d have to tell us and you’ll be taken from her care–” “NO!” I cut off… “I… I'm sorry I didn’t mean to yell” I muttered and I felt her hand rub my arm up and down.  

“Wooyoung, so you like your new home?” he asks me and I nod. I loved it… I really did.

“I’m sorry, Wooyoung but y/n I think it's best if you leave him here at least for the night. We’ll do a check-up, do a mental analysis, and see what’s the problem” the doctor said and I hugged her arm tightly.

“No, please don’t leave me here” I cried and he she looked at me worried. “I don’t think it's a good choice Doyoung–” “Trust us" he asked and she sighed.

She looked at me with a sad expression. “Wooyoung,” she said and I tightened my grip. “Just for today. I’ll pick you up in the morning” she said with her soft smile and I could cry as she petted my head. Why was she leaving me so soon? 

“If anything goes wrong call me” she told them and they nodded as she waved at me with a  soft smile. 

Please comeback...

-> y/n perspective

I couldn’t sleep tonight. San stayed with me all night waiting for me to fall asleep but he did first. I was worried about Wooyoung and why he was acting differently. 

He seemed to have faked his smiles… acted more down and was overall more tired. 

I could only hope he was okay and that he was healthy. 

The morning couldn’t have come sooner. I silently got ready so I didn’t wake up the panther as he probably didn’t get enough sleep trying to stay awake with me. 

I got there early and saw Haechan who tried telling me everything was gonna be fine. 

“Kun is here, y/nnie!” Haechan said as he led me to his office where I didn’t see the lovable fox. “Is he okay?” I asked and he smiled. “You look like you didn’t get any sleep?” he asked and I glared. He chuckled as he put his hands in the air playfully.

“He’s completely healthy… and he’s really happy with you, maybe a little too happy, '' he said, now confusing me. “Wooyoung was abandoned and his owner died. He actually originally asked for you to adopt him and you know that… but with years of neglect and being told his behavior is too much it has affected his mental health. He has an attachment disorder linked with his fear of abandonment.” he explained and I nodded. Was he worried I'd do that to him?

“He tells me San chose you as his mate… and Wooyoung confessed to having this obsession with you. He has since you were in school…” he said and I was shocked. San kept teasing me about it but I didn’t think it was true. 

“So what's the problem?” I am still confused. Kun only sighed… “He thinks you’ll abandon him because San chose you as a mate. That you’ll now neglect him and eventually leave him like everyone else” he explains and I felt sad that he’d think that of me. 

“It's more of his insecurity and his past experiences affecting his mood. You’d just need to give him as much attention as you can and reassure him” he explained and I nodded. 

“Jaemin, will take you to him,” he said and I nodded as I saw Jaemin here shortly waving at me happily. “y/n!!” he said and I smiled. “I’m happy that Wooyoung has you. He used to be so down and always caused Doyoung-hyung to seek medical attention due to not eating” he explained. 

All I could remember was happy Wooyoung who’d see me after my classes. He’d be the one scolding me to eat and make sure I took some rest after studying to not overwork myself. 

“Wooyoung, you have a visitor~” Jaemin said as I saw Wooyoung look at me with sad and relieved eyes. “y/n…” he muttered in disbelief. 

I smiled softly. 

“Let’s go home?” I asked and he nodded. He took my hand as I put his collar back on and we said goodbye to the staff. I held his hand tightly as he stood by closely to me. 

When we got outside I decided to stop. “Wooyoung?” I asked and he looked at me confused.

“Remember in high school that I told you I would always go get street food for dinner?” I asked and he chuckled. “Yeah! But that's not good for you, especially with how much you used to study. You needed a proper meal!” He scolded me and I smiled. “Wanna try it?” I asked and he smiled softly.

“It can’t be better than my food” he challenged and I smiled. “Nothing is better than your cooking… I just think it's nice to have from time to time?” I asked and he nodded. 

“Ok!” he said, now happily looping our arms together. As we walked his tail wagged slightly. “Hey, Wooyoung?” I asked and he looked at me again. “I could never abandon you. I promise that you’re stuck with me forever” I said and his smile dropped softly as his eyes turned teary-eyed. “You don’t mean that. Don’t make promises you can’t keep” he muttered and I smiled. 

“I do mean it! You’re stuck with me!! I promise I owe you so much Wooyoung. More than you’d imagine… in high school, you were keeping me going so thank you” I said and he smiled. “I owe you a lot also…” he said and I smiled. 

“San loves you too. You’ve seen how he is… the only reason he’s given me a chance was for you. So I owe you everything… because of you I'm no longer alone” I confessed and he hugged me. “And because of you and San, I'm not either,” he muttered. 

“You’re stuck with me” he said and I smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way!” I said happily as we finally made it to the street food place. 

“So what should we have first?” he asked me and I shrugged. 

“We have forever to try new things. There's no rush!”

@wonuangel @danirael @angelsaway @krissroo @minkysmilk @mayonnaise-on-toast @robertsbbygirl @superbbananananana @hyukssunflower @kitty4hwa @justconniez @senpai-of-doom @kibs-and-bits @caityelise99 @ilovekinny @ateezennie23 @wooahaelemons @purplelady85 @watamotee33@chidess97 @littlelostdemonofthelight @maliamaiden @burntarm1n @spooo00oky @eastleighsblog @momo-peachy @kitstar1117 @quartzpirate @sunnyhokyu @iwishiwasrichasfuck @theginger543210 @pandolinka @ddaeing @kpopnightingale @slid3er @kekdo-520 @puppyminnnie @sparklinghwa222 @calicanbeevil @itsvxlentine @atinism @loumin908 @smally97 @rxnexxi @acetruepunk @majesticbeluga @namjooncrabs @tashizxy @itstheghostofmypast @smilefordongil @teeziny @totallynotlyntv @kyeos4ng @prodsh00ky @acescavern

please don't be a silent reader !! reblog, comment, and like <3

[gallavichsreddie1128]

Monster Part 3

Description: Part Three of the monster series

Here is the other parts: Monster Part Two

Word Count: 2,252k

Author’s note: I will not be updating this until season 5

Y/n sat on the side of the camera as John looked so depressed and annoyed to be on FireCracker’s show. Y/N hated that he was but knew that he kinda had too. Victoria was also there and that was the exciting thing. But by the look on John’s face, he didn’t care. Of course FireCracker would praise John. That made both Y/N and John roll their eyes but John had to hide it better. He put on the fake smile that he learned to do.

Y/N zoned out during the whole thing until Homelander said something. “Ally Victoria, really?” Homelander laughed. Y/N sat up in her seat now listening. “We’re all here to tell the truth so.. Tell the truth.” Victoria looked a little scared and cleared her throat “The truth is…” But Y/N was more interested in what John’s response would be. “I’ll do it.” He says. Y/N’s heart was pounding but for once she enjoyed the show. “Victoria here is a super hero.” “Thanks for the compliment.” She said but that wasn’t what he meant. “It’s all true.” FireCracker said and this is where Y/N would zone out but this was interesting.

Y/N covered her mouth as it was exposed that Victoria was a supe. Homelander got up and walked away as Victoria tried to get his attention. Y/N sat in shock but John pulled her up to follow him. “I worked my whole life to keep that secret.” She told him. “Well secrets rot your soul.” He said and Y/N wanted to laugh. But she could tell this was very serious. “Baby, can you gave us a second?” He asked her and though she wanted to hear she agreed and walked away so he couldn’t see her as she listened to them.

“Your girlfriend is working with Butcher. You don’t think she’ll tell them?” “Why do you think I sent her away?” He growled at her. He really didn’t trust her? Her heart hurt at that but she didn’t walk away until they were done talking. She ran away before he could find her and called MM.

She sat on the table watching Frenchie work on the virus. She knew that eventually she’d have to pick a side but she felt safe with both and she would always side with boys no matter how much she loved John. “If I had another choice I’d take it.” MM said to Hughie over the phone. Frenchie flipped him off making Y/N laugh. He smiled at her, “So how are you and the bad Supe?” He asked. Y/N wished that he didn’t ask that. She was trying to keep them separate.

“Frenchie, you don’t have to act like you want to know about that.” She tells him. “I know but I also know where your heart truly lies.” He said. Did she even know? Y/N felt her phone vibrating so she looked down and saw that John was calling. She answered, “Where are you?” He asked not even saying Hi. “I am relaxing, why?” She said which wasn’t entirely a lie. “I need you home.” He said and she sighed. “I will be later.” “You’re with him aren’t you?” He asked but it sounded almost like a growl. “No. I have no idea where Billy is.” That was the truth. He sighed through the phone. “Whatever you’re doing, come home after.” He says and hangs up.

“Frenchie you stay here. Kumiko and Y/N you’re with me.” She wasn’t paying attention until her name so she looked up at MM. “Me?” She asked and he nodded. She got up and followed him out the door. “What’s the plan?” She asked as the walked. “We fucked up our offensive. All we got is defense.” He tells her. “About Victoria?” She asked. “And the virus.” Hearing about it made her sick. Annie wasn’t herself and that Y/N could tell but she hadn’t been around much anymore.

“For all we know the shifter could be here.” Y/N looked around at everyone for a sign of a flaw but truth be told a shifter could act just like the person. “Does he know you’re down here?” MM asked her. “Hopefully not.” She said. “He doesn’t have tracking on you?” She shrugged, “He trusts me enough. Not enough to share information though.” She said. “Annie is the shifter.” Hughie said.

Y/N and MM looked at him. “Look forward. Like we aren’t talking.” He said and they did. “How do you know?” Y/N asked him. Annie came up to them and showed off the ring that Hughie gave her. Y/N’s jaw dropped but for a different reason than that. He proposed to the fake Annie? MM was trying so hard not to crack but Y/N couldn’t hide her shock. One second she is staring at the ring and the next she is unconscious on the ground.

When she woke she looked around and noticed that she was in Homelander’s bed. She sat up way too quick, “Too fast. You need to relax.” He said and sat on the bed. She looked at him in horror and confusion. Did he know where the president was hiding? How did he get her? “You weren’t answering your phone so I went to your house.” He brought her from there? “Why’d you remove me from my bed?” She asked. “I want you to move in with me.” He states, ignoring her question.

The shockness she felt got more intense after that. “Oh.” She said and looked away from him. “What do you mean “oh”?” He was kind of offended. She sighed, “I overheard you tell Victoria that you sent me away from that conversation because I’m working with Billy.” She says. “Oh.” He said. “I try to keep our relationship separate from work.” She says. “Yeah but you can’t.” He said. “What does that mean?” She asked. “You can’t because Butcher and I are mortal enemies and you’ll have to pick a side.” He said and he wasn’t wrong. But Y/N didn’t know what side. “Look I know this isn’t easy for you but unless you plan on giving me information on what they are planning, then you have no need to be with them.” He said.

But she doesn’t support him in his actions. She couldn’t say that out loud. “What are you going to do if I choose them?” She asked. “I will have to kill them all and maybe you.” He did not just say to her. She stood up, “John, are you fucking serious right now?” “You brought it up.” He was acting like it was no big deal. “I’m well aware that I will have to choose a side but it’s not now.” She said. “Billy wants me dead. I want Billy dead. There is no soon.” Billy wasn’t even talking to her right now. “Billy hates me now so I have no idea what he is doing.” She said.

“There ya go then. You don’t even have to choose.” She wanted to roll her eyes. “The others? Those are my friends.” “They wanna take me down also so that’s still his side.” “We wouldn’t even be having this conversation if you didn’t say that to Victoria.” “How do I know you won’t go back and say all the things you know to them?” He asked. “I’m not. Like I said before, I am keeping us separate from them.” “You can’t!” He stood up. Y/N rolled her eyes, “I have been!” He laughed. “You don’t think that you are uneasy around you and keep things from you because of that?” He asked.

“They think I’m using you.” She yelled. His eyes widened at that. “They wanna kill me Y/N. They are going to try every little thing they can too.” She knew that he was right but she didn’t wanna choose a side. She doesn’t want it to come down to that. “They have a right to John.” She whispered. “What did you say?” He growled. She looked at him with tears in her eyes, “They do have a right to kill you John. Not that I want that to happen but you have done terrible things John. And if you don’t see that then you need to open your eyes.” He looked down at her words.

She got up from her spot and went over to him. She wrapped her arms around him, “But I love you John. And if I can prevent them from killing you I will.” She whispered. He looked at her. His expression was unreadable, making her heart beat. “If you love me. You’ll leave them and be with me.” He tells her. “Okay.” She whispered. “Okay.” She leaned up and kissed him. She wasn’t sure what she was doing but she hoped everything worked out in the end. John wasn’t around, thankfully. So when her phone started ringing she was quick to answer it.

“Hughie” the phone said, so she answered. “Hey, can you meet up with us?” She knew that she should have said No but she didn’t want to. “Yeah.” She said and got ready. John was at the Vought tower and wasn’t due back for a while so she wasn’t rushing for that reason. She was rushing because she wasn’t sure what Hughie was calling her about. She looked in the mirror and sighed. John can’t know about this.

Seeing Victoria and her daughter was the last thing she expected as she walked in the room. Everyone gave her a look of hesitation on the situation besides Hughie. “What’s going on?” She asked Frenchie. “Victoria wants to get away from Homelander and she’s afraid her daughter’s life is at stake.” He said and Y/N nodded. Well she shouldn’t know that. Nor should she be here. Y/N sighed but her heart started pounding at the sound of “oi” from none other than Billy Butcher.

The guy who hates her guts. She hadn’t even thought about him not being there. She looked over at him and he looked good. He was no longer sick it seemed. He looked around and noticed her. The smirk almost dropped from his face. She stared at him, wondering what his next move was going to be. It was like the room went silent and the ringing in her ears started as Billy had tentacles and got a hold of Victoria. Everyone but her tried to stop him but it was no use. Even her daughter who Billy threw back.

Y/N watched in horror as he broke Victoria like a kitkat. Hughie and her had the same expression and she looked at Billy as he took the virus. “I should kill you too.” He said to her as he went to leave. “Oh by the way, you’re fucking welcome!” He said before leaving. Y/N looked at the rest of them in horror. His words didn’t affect her as much as she thought they would. He was a monster just like Homelander. Maybe he’s secretly been like that all along.

John was in his room at Vought Tower where Y/N finally found him. He looked happy. “I uh went back with the boys to get my things.” She said which wasn’t a lie. He turned to her, “So you’ve made your decision?” He asked and she nodded. “Yes.” She placed the box of her things down and went to sit right next to him. “Victoria is dead.” He told her and even though she was there the look of shock on her face saved her from telling him what she knew. “The President did it.” He said and she looked confused. “He confessed to it but you know I think? I think there’s more than just that.” He said and he wasn’t wrong. “More than what?” She asked. He chuckled, “She was killed by someone that wasn’t him.” He said and she was hoping that he wouldn’t start name dropping.

“You exposed her to the world. Did you not think of what would happen?” She asked. “It was all part of the plan.” He said. Before she could question it he pulled out a small velvet box. She covered her mouth as he turned towards her. “You were never part of my plan but that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.” He said as he lifted open the box to show a diamond ring. “Will you marry me?” He asked and she nodded without thinking.

He laughed a happy one for once and she hugged him. The tears that were streaming down her face weren’t just from this but from everything. She pulled away from the hug and kissed him before putting on the ring. “It’s beautiful.” She said and stared at it. “Beautiful things for a beautiful girl.” He said and she looked up at him. “I love you a lot John. Thank you!” She said and he nodded. “I love you more.” He said and picked her up. “Now I can fuck my fiance.” He said and she giggled. He carried her to the bedroom and dropped her on it.

Y/N woke up and saw that John was asleep next to her. She looked at his naked body and smiled at the memories of the previous night. She grabbed her phone to check the time but saw a message from Billy. Was he threatening her? She opened her phone to see the message and covered her mouth.

Is it a bad time to tell the woman that’s fucking my enemy that I’m in love with her?

[rottngdeer]

Heyy, so I have a request for an NBC Hannibal imagine. I don’t know if this is to brutall or anything, no worries.

Could you write an imagine with short shy reader (female or gn) were she is secretly dealing with depression and also like in the early stages of a relationship with Hannibal and like one day he comes to her house (you can make up a reason) and he finds y/n in her bedroom on the floor harming herself and and she is like losing blood and can like barely talk to him before she faints and he brings her to his house after to care for her.

No worries if it is to dark, but I would love it if you do….

I love your other Hannibal stories a lot too ❤️❤️

thank you, i’m happy that you enjoy my other stories :) sorry for the delayed response to this!

Pairings || Hannibal Lecter x Female!Reader

Contents/Warnings || Mentions of depression, self harm, and blood.

Gif found on Pinterest from the user sydney14well

Hannibal hadn’t heard from you in three days. He was rightfully worried, and decided that he would drive to your house to make sure that you were alright. He brought along a glass container of horderves he had saved from his last dinner party for you, knowing that you would be grateful for them.

You had only been dating for two months, and you hadn’t ever stopped answering his calls and texts like this before. He pulled up to your house, noting that your car was in the driveway and a few lights were on inside.

Hannibal knocked on your front door, container in hand and waited for your response, only to stand alone on the front steps for several minutes. He looks around the porch for a moment before lifting up your doormat, finding exactly what he suspected he would. He picks up your spare key, unlocking your front door, knowing that he was pushing limits in such a new relationship, but not caring about that part yet. He walks through the house; the main hallway, the living room, the kitchen, leaving the container on the counter. He hadn’t been in your house yet, so he was carefully picking up on every detail he saw. He made it to your bedroom, looking around for a moment before seeing your body laying in the doorway of your bathroom and the room. He quickly moves towards you, shrugging off his coat and rolling up his sleeves as he seems the amount of blood on the floor.

He kneels down beside you.“Y/N,” he says your name gently, and your eyes open a little, looking up at him. He notices how pale you were and the razor beside your bleeding wrists, and he connects the dots easily. He opens the cabinet beneath the sink, pulling out your small first aid kit. He knew it wasn’t much, but it would have to do for now. He notices you floating in and out of consciousness before your eyes dropped completely.

-

You awaken in a haze, disoriented and confused. Your wrists sting as you use your arms to help you sit up, and you look down, noticing your carefully bandaged arms. You see movement in the corner of your eyes and look up, noticing Hannibal standing in the doorway. “You’re awake,” He says, and only then you notice that you’re not in your house anymore.

Hannibal notices your confusion and sits on the edge of the bed beside you, “I found you at your house and I brought you to my home. I have more resources to take care of you here.”

You bite your bottom lip, looking back down at your bandages wrists, “… thank you,” You say in a small voice. Hannibal’s hand finds your thigh, giving it a gentle and reassuring squeeze.

“Would you like to talk about what happened?” He asked.

You hesitate before signing, finally explaining some things, “I’ve... been struggling with mental health issues for a while now. I was doing okay for a few weeks and I was happy, but it didn’t last long… I guess I just finally hit my breaking point..”

Hannibal nods understandingly, not pushing you for any other details. “You’re in safe hands,” He says, looking at your bandages, “You don’t have to, but I would like for you to stay here for a few days, so I can make sure you heal properly.”

“I’ll stay… thank you,” You agree, leaning back against the headboard.

“Would you like something to eat?” He asked.

“Yes, anything.”

He gives your thigh another squeeze before he stands up, stepping out of the room to cook you something, thinking of ways you ensure your safety and comfort while keeping you with him.

[kingofbodyrolls]

End of the World: a Flickering Hope (m) | myg

every nation seems at war with themselves and everyone, but you and Yoongi manage to stay alive. Until the inevitable catches up to you and you desperately seek help. Will you find it before time runs out?

→ Pairing: Yoongi x reader (female) → Genres/AUs: post-apocalyptic, dystopian, survival, co-dependency to stay alive + heavy angst, fluff and minor smut with a very small sprinkle of comedy and hope for the future. → Tropes: established relationship → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 4k (it’s a shortie 🤭) → Warnings + triggers: protected sex (it’s very minor and not very detailed like I normally do), nuclear war (bombings), exposure to radiation, cancer (talks about treatment and cures (yes in this story there’s a cure for cancer 🥹)), dystopian world, everything is a wasteland, factions and segregation (the elite/rich vs everyone else),there’s also a bit of social commentary in it, anxiety attacks, hyperventilation, time skips, hope. It’s still angsty and grim, lol, but with a hopeful ending! → Author’s note(1): it got short (compared to what I usually write lol). It serves as a bridge between the first story (end of the world) and the spinoff (whalien52). I hope you enjoy it even though it’s short, and if you enjoy this dystopian world, I recommend reading the spinoff (it’s with Jimin as the male lead though).  → Read on AO3? [link]

[navi]: end of the world // end of the world: a flickering hope // shower drabble // whalien52 // end of the world: epilogue

“It feels like we’re at the end of the world,” you murmur, gazing out at the blue ocean, mesmerized that at least something still looks the same. The rest of the landscape is a stark contrast, a wasteland ravaged by endless bombings.

“Yeah, it kinda does,” Yoongi muses with a chuckle, gently nudging your shoulder.

“Do you think this war will ever stop?” you ask, hope mingled with despair. Over half a year has passed since the first bomb fell, and now it seems every nation is at war with itself and each other.

“When there aren’t more people left, maybe,” he replies, his voice rough, the morbid truth hanging heavily between you. The powerful few seem intent on death and destruction, and everyone else is left to suffer and die.

“I don’t get it. The whole world is going to die at this point,” you say, sagging to the ground beside Yoongi.

“True. But we’re not the ones in power. We can’t do anything about it,” Yoongi says, his voice steady and calm.

“They say on the radio that almost all countries are affected and there isn’t much land left like we used to know,” he adds, a frown etched on his face.

“God. I don’t want to listen to the radio anymore. I get so depressed hearing about it all,” you groan, “I almost want to throw the damn thing into the ocean. But it’s our only lifeline to civilization, I guess.”

He chuckles, “I get it. It’s fine if you don’t want to listen to the news. I’ll listen for you and tell you the important information if there’s any.”

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you lean in and kiss him on the cheek.

“Maybe we should move again,” Yoongi suggests. You both rise, packing your things and bags.

As you walk through the desolate land, the forests and bushes burned and charred, the road made bumpy by explosions, the sky alternates between a bright blue on days without bombings and a dark shade of gray whenever there’s more bombs falling.

But just seeing the blue sky on some days gives you a fragile flicker of hope for the future. Maybe things will be alright in the end? Are you delusional for thinking that? For still wanting things to go back to the way they were before the war? Deep down, you know it’s impossible to rewind time, yet you can’t help but yearn for a chance to prevent all this devastation. You’re neither a politician nor a soldier, nor do you want to be, but sometimes you wish you had their power and autonomy.

Rumors swirl about the remnants of your government reaching out to other nations for help, but with the entire world reduced to a wasteland, there’s no aid to be found, no refuge to seek. You glance down at your battered feet and worn shoes, the ash and dirt mingling in a grim testament to your journey. The sight makes you frown. Where should you head to now? The question hangs in the air, as heavy and uncertain as the gray clouds that often blot out the sun.

Honestly, you don’t know where you’re going— to safety? What is safety even in a world where every country is at war?

— 2 years later

You don’t know how, maybe through sheer luck, but you and Yoongi have managed to survive the worst of the war. Over two harrowing years of constant bombings, the omnipresent fear of death, and relentless fighting for your lives. Every minute has been a nightmare, an unending torment.

But now, there’s been an eerie silence. 

The bombings have ceased, and the world seems quieter—too quiet. You suspect there aren’t many people left. Most are probably dead. Only the lucky, the hardened survivalists like you and Yoongi, have made it this far. You’ve heard rumors about the wealthy sequestered in their bomb-proof bunkers. How fortunate for them. A shame you couldn’t afford such luxuries. Yoongi’s house lacked such a feature. It would’ve been nice to have been spared from this massacre, to have been sheltered from the relentless horrors.

You and Yoongi have set up camp in a desolate wasteland. Nature is gone, replaced by a sandy, barren expanse. You’ve made a small bonfire to keep warm—it’s the middle of winter now. Though you have each other to stay warm at night, a fire is always a welcome comfort, even if it risks attracting unwanted attention. But you’re prepared for that. You still have your weapons, and Yoongi has taught you to aim better. You feel a grim satisfaction in being prepared, wishing you’d taken such precautions before the bombings. But it’s never too late to learn, right?

“Have you heard any news about civilization?” you ask Yoongi, warming your hands over the small fire.

“Only that people are trying to gather and rebuild slowly… but they don’t agree on how things should be, now that the regular government has fallen,” he shrugs, his shoulders weighed down by the burdens of survival. Yoongi has been your rock since you met, always listening to the radio for news when it depresses you too much.

“Figures,” you pout, rolling your eyes. “There’s probably going to be a fight for power,” you chuckle bitterly. It wouldn’t surprise you. People are so fucking predictable. You don’t want a part of it, but if it affects you, you’ll do whatever you must to live comfortably.

“I hate what this has done to nature,” Yoongi sulks, kicking sand into the fire in frustration. “I mean, I miss the trees. The green colors. Even grass. That feeling of being barefoot on grass. I miss it so much.”

You nod, agreeing completely. God, you miss that too. Or a nice shower. Damn. You haven’t had one since Yoongi’s house. The thought makes you sad, makes you clench your fists in anger. 

You hate this world and everything it has become.

Sometimes you wonder if it would have been better to die, like your friends. But you quickly banish those thoughts. It’s not fair to your friends or to everyone else who’s dead. You’re alive, and you have to make the best of it, even though everything sucks and nothing will ever be the same again.

“I also miss sleeping in a bed. Like on a nice mattress. Fuck. There are so many things I miss,” Yoongi adds, his voice thick with emotion. Reminiscing about the things he misses brings him great pain.

“Yeah,” you say, placing your hand on top of his. “But at least we still have each other.”

“Yes. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he smiles at you, and you think he looks so handsome and beautiful, his cute nose and jaw—everything about him is amazing. His rough yet soft features. You love him so much. He has done so much for you. You’ll forever be in debt to him.

— 4 years later

“My feet are so sore, Yoon,” you pant, feeling the throbbing pain from days of relentless walking, the swelling making each step a new ordeal.

“Let’s take a break. We’ve been walking for days. Let’s set up camp,” he rasps, his voice rougher and more hoarse with time, a result of exposure to the relentless elements or something else, something you both fear to name.

Dropping your backpacks to the ground, Yoongi sets up the tent while you sit down, finally giving your weary legs a rest. Your gaze drifts to the sky, now filled with white clouds—a stark contrast to the endless gray you’ve grown accustomed to. Four years ago, you never thought you’d see white clouds again, let alone a glimpse of blue sky. It makes your heart clench with a fragile hope, a hope for a future you scarcely dared to dream about, yet desperately cling to. On the rare days when the sun breaks through the perpetual gloom, you savor its warmth and light.

“We’re almost out of food,” Yoongi states, coughing slightly before sitting next to you. You lean into him, seeking comfort in his presence.

“It’s okay. I wish we could forage from nature. We can make it,” you say, your voice tinged with hope as you lace your fingers with his. Both of you are exhausted—tired of walking, tired of running. Ever since the war started four years ago, you’ve been on the move, searching for safety. The world was bombed into oblivion, and those who survived scattered, fighting for their lives. The old people in power have regrouped, forming the New World Order, a ruthless regime bent on controlling what is left of civilization. They keep many secrets, information they don’t want the scattered remnants of humanity to know. The New World Order hunts anyone who opposes them, which is why you stay hidden, moving in the shadows. Various resistance groups have sprung up, each fighting back, but they are fragmented, hard to keep up with.

“Yeah, but for now, we still have some food left. Let’s eat,” he says, hugging you tightly as if afraid he might lose you.

You follow his lead, retrieving rations from your packs. Food is scarce, but you’ve learned to live off minimal portions just to stay alive. Begging for food in a city is a last resort; stealing is even lower on your list, but survival drives you to consider the unthinkable.

Eating is a relief, filling your empty stomachs. After your meal, you and Yoongi head into your tent. It’s battered and full of holes, but it provides a semblance of shelter, a fragile barrier against the harsh world outside.

Inside the tent, Yoongi massages your tired feet, his touch soothing the ache from days of relentless walking. You nestle into each other, your lips finding each other in a desperate dance. Your breaths mingle, turning into soft moans that punctuate the silence of the night.

“I want you, love,” Yoongi pants. The way he calls you ‘love’ now always makes your heart race, your face flush. You’ve been in love with him for a long time, and every time he says it, it reminds you just how deeply.

“I want you too. Please, make love to me. I need you,” you quiver, your desire for him skyrocketing. This need always peaks at night or in the mornings, a burning hunger that drives you into each other’s arms on the daily.

Yoongi undresses you with a feverish urgency, and you help him out of his clothes. Your kisses become needier, as if you’re afraid this might be the last time. His lips trail down your neck, and you moan, feeling like you’re in heaven. He grabs a condom—you’d used up that box of 500 pieces a long time ago, but thankfully Yoongi managed to find some in a city you passed through, because bringing a child into this shattered world is the last thing either of you wants. Fuck the fact that you don’t have money. But you don’t have money for a child either.

He strokes himself, grunting low and lustful, then rolls the condom on. He nudges your slick entrance, always ready for him, always needing him. He guides himself into you, filling you completely, and you both gasp at the sensation. His hands find yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you in the moment.

He starts to thrust, slow and steady, each movement deliberate and sensual. “I don’t ever want to lose you,” he chokes out, his voice thick with emotion. He presses down on you, his forehead resting against yours, eyes closed in a deep breath before he opens them again. “I feel like we don’t have much time.”

You look at him, puzzled by his sudden anxiety. “Why?”

“I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I have,” he says, his lips meeting yours again.

When he pulls away, you try to reassure him. “Everything will be okay. We’ll make it.”

He hums, increasing the speed of his hips, thrusting deeper. “I love you,” he whispers, his hand finding your clit, rubbing circles that send waves of pleasure through your body. Your climax builds quickly, and you release around him, your moans mingling with his name, telling him how much you love him, how lucky you are to have him.

He kisses you deeply, and with a grunt, he finds his own release, filling the condom. You both pant for air, and he rolls to the side, discarding the condom in the corner of the tent. He spoons you, your hearts beating in sync, the warmth of his body a comforting shield against the cold, uncertain world outside.

In the quiet aftermath, you feel a fleeting sense of peace. Despite everything, you have Yoongi, and in this moment, that feels like enough.

The next morning, your feet feel somewhat better, but you know you’ll have to walk again today. You and Yoongi eat a sparse breakfast, trying to ignore your dwindling food supply. At least you still have clean water.

As you pack up, Yoongi looks at you with a serious expression. “I think I’m getting sick,” he says, and your heart drops. This is what you’ve been dreading. It’s his cough, isn’t it?

Forcing optimism in this shattered world, you give him a wry smile. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe we should head to one of the cities near the Capital. There might be a good doctor there who can look at you.” You smile, clinging to hope, because you can’t afford for him to be sick. 

You can’t afford to lose him. 

You don’t want to be alone. 

You need him and you love him.

Relax. Deep breath. Yoongi’s soft eyes meet yours, and you do your best to steady your thoughts and your breathing. An anxiety attack won’t solve anything.

“I think that’s a good idea,” he says with a smile, grabbing your hand and tracing light circles in your palm. “It’s okay. It will be okay.”

You pack up the rest of your things and start the trek towards the Capital. You don’t want to enter the Capital itself, knowing The New World Order’s presence makes survival there impossible. Your best bet is a suburb with a good doctor.

Hand in hand, you walk, one foot after the other. Many breaks for water and pee breaks make progress slow. You have to set up camp again, and the days stretch into weeks. The journey on foot is grueling, and the scenery is a bleak reminder of the war—cracked roads, sand and dirt, burnt patches, and ash-covered areas. You hate it, the stark contrast to the life before the war, but it’s also how you met Yoongi. At least one good thing came out of it.

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking, but at least you have each other, unlike the last time you ventured out for safety. Both of you are immensely tired, feet sore, but then you spot it in the distance: a small city just before the Capital.

The Capital and its surrounding cities have been rebuilt since the war, their new structures futuristic looking; cold and distant. You miss the comforting feel of home.

“You see it too, right? It’s not just my mind playing tricks on me?” you ask in disbelief, eyes fixed on the city ahead.

“It’s there, you’re not crazy, love,” Yoongi chuckles beside you, his hand still in yours as you will your bodies to make it to the city.

It’s small, barely more than a dirt road flanked by a few buildings. Calling it a city or even a town would be a stretch. As you walk through the deserted streets, hope wanes. Suddenly, a tall, muscular man with black hair steps into your path, and you collide with him.

You bump your head against his chest and groan, muttering an apology. When you look up, you see one of the softest faces you’ve ever seen on a man.

“No, it’s okay. It was my fault. I walked out in front of you,” he apologizes, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. You feel Yoongi’s hand freeze in yours, and you turn to see what’s wrong. His expression is one of sheer disbelief, as if he’s seen a ghost.

“Kook?” he utters, eyes wide with unmistakable recognition.

The stranger’s eyes widen, and then he bursts into a broad smile, opening his arms to embrace Yoongi. “Hyung!” he cries, tears streaming down his face as he squeezes Yoongi so tightly you fear he might break a few bones.

“You’re alive?” Yoongi asks, happiness lacing his voice as they step back from each other.

“Yeah!” Jungkook grins, his eyes soft and proud. “I made a survivalist camp. There are a few of us here; you’re welcome to join us.”

“Wow. We looked for you after the bombs. Went to your house, but it was destroyed. I thought the worst. But fuck, I’m so glad to see you again,” Yoongi says, tears in his eyes as he hugs Jungkook again, unwilling to let go now that he’s found him.

“I was fine. I made it out before things got bad,” Jungkook says, turning his gaze towards you.

Yoongi, sensing Jungkook’s curiosity, introduces you. “This is my better half. If we could get married in this time and age, I’d call her my wife.”

You blush at his words, knowing them to be true. Officially getting married is nearly impossible now, with the risk of exposing yourselves by going into the Capital for a license. You don’t need a label to know what you mean to each other.

“Oh, how cute! You survived the apocalypse together?” Jungkook asks, still smiling as he gestures for you to follow him.

“You could say that,” you reply, smiling as Yoongi tugs you along to follow Jungkook.

Jungkook leads you through the sandy street to a larger house in better shape than the others. Out front, a few cars and a motorcycle catch your eye; their sleek, futuristic design makes you wonder if they’re from the Capital. “This way,” Jungkook says, opening the door to the big house. Inside, the air is fresh and clean, the walls a washed white, the wooden floorboards creaking under your feet.

“Welcome to Whalien52,” he announces proudly. You hear rumbling noises and turn to see a group of guys rushing out from a nearby room, stopping in their tracks when they spot you and Yoongi.

Jungkook laughs. “This is the rest of the gang,” he says, pointing to the rowdy group now chuckling among themselves. You give them a small wave.

“Our resistance group is quite small, but each of us has a different skill set that comes in handy when dealing with The New World Order. Let me introduce everyone,” Jungkook says, beaming with pride as he highlights each member.

“This is Namjoon. He handles all our tech stuff,” he says, pointing to a tall man with silver hair who smiles at you.

“Excuse me, you have tech?” you ask in disbelief. It’s been so long since you’ve seen proper technology, let alone held your phone. Speaking of which, you haven’t seen your phone in years, probably left behind when the war started.

“Yeah, we make our own,” Namjoon says with a smile.

“Anyway,” Jungkook clears his throat, “this is Jimin. He’s our stealth and assassination guy.” He points to a man about the same height as Yoongi, with pink hair.

You gulp, realizing how invaluable such a skill would be against The New World Order.

“This is Taehyung. He’s our resident handyman,” Jungkook says, introducing another tall man, this one with blue hair.

“This is Hoseok. He’s the one who plans our missions and does recon,” Jungkook continues, pointing to a man with red hair.

“And lastly,” Jungkook says, pointing to a tall man with broad shoulders and a lab coat, “this is Jin. He’s a doctor.”

The introductions settle in, each name and role adding a layer of hope and security you haven’t felt in ages. Here, amidst the cracked roads and remnants of the old world, is a pocket of resistance, a flicker of defiance against the oppressive new order. You realize this group, this place, could be the sanctuary you and Yoongi have been desperately seeking.

Your eyes almost sparkle at the mention of Jin being a doctor, and relief floods you—maybe you don’t have to keep walking in search of help.

“Nice to meet you all,” Yoongi says, waving weakly and coughing. You notice Jin raising an eyebrow and moving closer to Yoongi.

“That cough doesn’t sound normal. How long have you had it?” Jin inquires, his eyes scrutinizing Yoongi.

“Yeah. But recently it’s gotten worse,” Yoongi admits, his voice hoarse and raspy.

“Come with me. I’ll check you out,” Jin says, gesturing for Yoongi to follow him into what looks like a makeshift clinic room. Yoongi lets go of your hand, and you spot a couch nearby. Sinking into it, you're grateful to be somewhere safe, with a roof over your head. Jungkook sits beside you, explaining how his camp started as a literal campfire gathering for war survivors, evolving into a resistance when they uncovered the government's dark secrets and withheld information.

Time seems to blur as Yoongi is examined. When he finally emerges, his face is pale, eyes hollow. Panic grips you as you rush to him, grabbing his hands. “What’s wrong, love?”

“Apparently... I have cancer,” Yoongi states blankly. Tears spill down your cheeks. This is your worst fear come to life. You cling to him, shaking your head in denial.

Jin steps out, his expression somber and apologetic. “I’m sorry for the bad news. Y/N, I think we should check you too. You’ve also been exposed to radiation,” he explains. You look into Yoongi’s eyes, seeing a mix of sadness, anger, and determination.

Biting your lip, you kiss his cheek, then follow Jin into the patient room. The air feels heavy with despair, but also with a flicker of hope. Here, among these survivors, you might find a way to fight back against the darkness that has consumed your world.

Jin examines you thoroughly, running blood tests and scans with machines you haven’t seen in years—machines you thought had been lost in the war. Perhaps Namjoon built them? You don’t ask. Fear keeps you silent, dread pooling in your stomach. What if you’re sick too? What if Yoongi is going to die?

Jin finishes his tests and leads you back to Yoongi. His face is grave as he begins to speak. “Y/N has breast cancer,” he says, frustration evident in his voice.

“But I don’t feel sick,” you protest, though you know it’s futile.

“It seems to be in the early stages,” Jin assures you. You grab Yoongi’s hand, seeking comfort.

“Yoongi has thyroid cancer, and it’s more advanced,” Jin continues, finally sitting down on a stool.

“What can we do? Is there a treatment or cure?” you ask, your voice trembling. You know cancer treatments exist, but in this world, such things seem out of reach—hoarded by The New World Order.

“There is,” Jimin says, stepping forward. His pink hair contrasts sharply with the bleak surroundings. “The New World Order has a cure for cancer, but they keep it tightly guarded.”

“They only care about themselves,” Hoseok grunts, rolling his eyes in disdain.

“Those people are selfish, hoarding information and research,” Namjoon says, clenching his fists. “Information should be free, not hidden behind a paywall.”

“It’s not even a paywall, Joon,” Jungkook interjects. “It’s exclusive to the elite. They don’t care about the rest of us.”

“Can we get this cure?” you ask, your voice small and uncertain.

“We can try. We don’t agree with their methods, and this cure is crucial. Many people are suffering from cancer due to radiation exposure,” Jungkook says, his hands clenching into fists. You notice the tattoos lining them, symbols of resilience and defiance.

“This is too much to ask,” Yoongi says, shaking his head.

“No, it isn’t, hyung. I want to help you and everyone else. This is our mission, right, Jimin?” Jungkook turns to Jimin, his eyes glinting with determination.

“Yeah,” Jimin replies, his voice light but resolute. “Let’s steal the cure and save humanity.”

In that moment, hope sparks within you. This ragtag group, against all odds, might just have the courage and skill to challenge The New World Order and reclaim the future.

→ The story continues in the spinoff ‘Whalien52’ (pjm x reader)  (it’s not the same reader though and Yoongi and this reader features in it)

→ Author’s note(2): I’m not entirely pleased with this sequel, because I had a hard time figuring out how much I should say, and again, I felt like most would be the same, lol— like what more can happen while the world is ending? Maybe I’m just not creative enough. I’m really in a tough spot with my writing, but I’m really trying, but I feel like everything is crap… Anyway, I think it works perfectly to set up the other part (spinoff) 🤷 Also; a big shoutout and thank you to @manipulatedstars for having the idea to make Jungkook run a survivalist camp 🥳💜

[alientee]

Please more helluva boss with a chubby reader!!! Idec who, the last 2 were just too good!!!

I know you said helluva boss but I kinda wanna give Lucifer a try if that’s ok I hope you like it because it’s fluffy🤣.

Let’s say you met him because he needed company and had to play it off as though he just wanted someone to work for him. So why not hire a maid to keep his castle clean. When he first saw you, instantly hired! He couldn’t say no to someone as adorable as you. Lucifer loves how plump you are. He won’t admit it but he thinks your more cuter than his ducks. You catch him staring at you he goes back to work pretending to be making new ducks.

He lets you wear whatever you want but then he gets you diffrent maid outfits. Overtime the maid outfits become a little more shorter each time he gets you one. “Oh it’s too short? sorry hahaha……yeaaaa….can you keep it on please” you raise an eyebrow “why?” He literally gives you a pay raise to keep the outfit and not ask questions.

He has you clean up in high places so he can look at your thighs. He’s not that big of a pervert to look up your skirt but seeing your thick soft thighs made his day a whole lot better. Once you get used to him and see a man that’s too depressed for his own good, you shower him with affection. He also can’t help but lean into your touch. (The man is touch starved) He’d blush heavily when you made him lunch or made him rest. He feels like he has a wife all over again.

He lays on your lap all the time, to the point where he doesn’t sleep in his bed anymore. If he can’t lay on your thighs or tummy he can’t sleep good. He’s childish enough to motor boat your stomach if you tell him you need to get up. Will make the cutest awkward squeaking noises when you pull him to your chest. “You seem uncomfortable do I make you nervous your majesty?” He will admit to no one that his face was hurting with how red it got after you said that.

He gifts you cute ducks made to look like your favorite characters all the time. Likes buying you duck underwear, pajamas, socks. (The man loves ducks ok) He’ll buy you things like a tooth brush and body washes even house shoes. It’s his little way of asking you with not really asking you to spend the night. “You don’t have to if you’re not comfortable with it! I just thought you’d enjoy a game night with some good company maybe some pancakes in the morning you know FRIEND stuff like that and I-“ you kiss his forehead “I’d love to sir” later in the night you hear him yelling “take that depression!” But you don’t mention it.

And of course you indulge in your king. You both are mainly baking together, watching comedy movies, or he flys you around hell taking you to diffrent rings taking you to the real lulu world . You try to get away from all the ducks telling him they can listen but won’t answer and it’s not healthy to imagine them answering. He pouts but listens regardless. His relationship with Charlie has even gotten better with your advice. (She loves you by the way)

You get Lucifer to open up more, and in return he gets more bold. Gripping your hips, kissing you all over. He try’s to smack your ass a few times but ends up leaving a mark because he doesn’t know his own strength. “I’m so sorry! It’s been so long!” But you tell him not to worry because you liked being marked by him. And he becomes a flustered shy mess all over again.

He has an obsession with squeezing you. When he hugs you, he squeezes your love handles. He squeezes your cheeks (face 😏) , your thighs it doesn’t matter as soon as he gets his hands on you he’s squeezing. You try to tell him you’re not one of his ducks and he gives you that shit eating smirk.

And if Lucifer took off his wedding ring, well nobody dare mention it.

His nicknames for you are: Duckie, sweetie, apple pie