#those three are unmovable

[iridescentis]

it really baffles me how far i have gone with sam & cat and by extension puckentine being one of my longest lasting interests ever

sam & cat was the first nickelodeon/disney show i ever watched because i didn't grow up with those channels (yeah i found sam & cat and victorious before icarly because they were on netflix) and even though i don't know if i could commit to rewatching it now i still love it wholeheartedly despite how admittedly bad it is

for fucks sake i can recite majority of the first episode's script by heart and i haven't watched it in years! it is my favourite fun fact that the safe in the girl's closet has the lock combination '74739' WHY WOULD I NEED TO KNOW THAT (and yes i went to go fact check that so i don't embarrass myself and i was right)

it's so funny because this show has been with me for so long that it was a running joke with friends and family that i would bring it up whenever i could, it means so much to me and even though the quality isn't great i would defend it with my life

puckentine has remained my favourite ship of all time for so many years, even when i was enjoying seddie whilst watching icarly it was always second best, nothing has come close except jeric from boy meets world WHICH IS BASICALLY THE SAME SHIP IN A DIFFERENT FONT. i will probably write an analysis of puckentine later on because i have so much to say about it

i think the reason why ships like puckentine and jeric have meant so much to me for so long is because it's the weird comedic relief character finally finding someone who loves them for them not despite of their stupidity or childishness but BECAUSE of that, they finally have someone who understands and enjoys those parts of them which REALLY hits home for me

this is a very abrupt and cheesy rant but i held back on talking about this before because i was genuinely made fun of for loving this show so much and i really wanted to actually write about it for once

[seumyo]

yearning drunk!husband ushijima wakatoshi.

NOTE. contains a bit of alcohol content—though nothing too explicit or anything concerning <33

It always started the same way—kind of like an inside joke that grew wings, feathers, a tab, and Ushijima’s name on the reservation list.

Ushijima never initiated going out drinking with his Schweiden Adlers teammates. In fact, he rarely said anything about it at all. It was always someone else who mentioned it after a game. Always someone else who slung an arm over his shoulder and declared, “C’mon, Ushiwaka, we have to celebrate,” even though Ushijima had never once expressed interest in alcohol, bar food, or drunken conversations.

Still, he always went.

Because it’d be rude if he didn’t at least stay for a few minutes, he thinks.

Sometimes he showed up in his team windbreaker, sometimes in a long, dark gray coat that made him look like a trench-wearing monument of silence. And he never said no, even when the clamor of celebration was already grating at the edges of his patience.

Tonight was one of those nights.

They’d won by the skin of their teeth—an overtime set against a grueling opponent, the kind of match that made even the benchwarmers feel like champions by the end. So of course Heiwajima had started the round-up in the locker room. Hoshiumi had shouted over everyone about their lucky bar down the street, and within twenty minutes, the entire team had found themselves in their regular private suite.

Ushijima sat at the end of the table, his back straight, a glass in front of him filled with alcohol he didn’t particularly like. His teammates were loud and loose and chaotic—laughing at Sokolov trying to arm-wrestle the bar’s bouncer, clapping every time someone dropped a fork, and yelling across the table in at least three different languages.

“A thousand yen says he’ll ask about his wife in twenty minutes,” Hoshiumi said quietly, leaning toward their captain, Hirugami Fukurou.

“You’re giving him way too much credit,” Romero replied, fondly grinning. “He gets wistful around minute twelve.”

“He gets wistful the moment he sits down.”

Ushijima was unmoved. He stared at his drink, took a single sip, and let it rest in his hand. He didn’t participate in the yelling, the toasts, or the story someone was animatedly telling about a missed serve from three seasons ago. He just existed—quietly, stoically—as a satellite to the chaos.

Except, of course, they all knew he was waiting.

He always was.

There was a pattern to the transformation. First, he’d sit there like stone. Then he’d blink a little more slowly. His brows would draw together—not in anger, but in vague confusion, like he was lost in a thought he couldn’t solve. His fingers would move against his glass, not to drink but to fidget, just a little.

And then…

“Has anyone seen my phone?” Ushijima asked, barely louder than the buzz of conversation.

Hoshiumi slid it across the table immediately. “Right here, Ushiwaka. Sorry! We took a few pictures here and there.”

“Thank you.”

He looked down at the screen. It was still lit with the last message from you from earlier that day: Good luck, baby. Don’t forget to stretch your left shoulder. He’d never replied—he never did, not when he was already in headspace—but now, he stared at it like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.

“You want to text her?” Hoshiumi asks, lightly teasing, which Ushijima didn’t catch onto.

Ushijima didn’t answer. He opened the thread and typed a few letters. Deleted them. Typed something else. Backspaced. Then just stared.

And then finally: “She hasn’t replied.”

His teammates laughed.

“There it is!”

“It’s only been seventeen minutes! I win!”

“No, you cheated. I said ten, and he didn’t even check his phone until minute twelve!”

“Shh, shh, look at him—he’s pouting.”

“Wait, is this the pout phase? I thought that came after the silent brooding phase.”

“Technically we’re entering pout-brood overlap. It’s a dangerous time.”

Ushijima didn’t argue. He simply set the phone down again and folded his hands in front of him. Kageyama leaned over.

“You want me to call her for you, Ushijima-san?”

Ah, yes. Kageyama was too nice for his own good. Trying to enhance his socialization and trying to lessen his awkwardness with his teammates when the conversation didn’t revolve around volleyball.

Ushijima nodded. Just once. Immediately. “Yes.”

...

“Amazing! He’s not even trying to hide it.”

“Can you imagine being that in love?”

“He just wants his wife. Look at him. He’s a whole sad poem in one sitting.”

“She’s gonna get here, and he’s gonna light up like a lantern.”

“May this love run me over.”

Kageyama stood and walked a few paces away from the table, already dialing your number. Meanwhile, the others watched Ushijima sip his drink again—not because he wanted it, but because it gave his hands something to do. His eyes were glued to the screen even though no new notifications had appeared.

Romero leaned in conspiratorially to Hirugami. “Do you think she talks to him in, like, soft tones? Calls him ‘baby’ and stuff?”

“I think so,” he shrugs. “I think they’re sweet like that.”

“Aw, young love.”

The teasing continued, but it softened. Because underneath the jokes and the laughs was a sort of awe.

Their teammate—so serious, so focused, so unreadable on court—was completely and utterly soft when it came to his wife. Not in a loud way. Not in any way that could be easily teased, really. It was quiet. Heavy. Real.

When Kageyama returned, he had a pleased expression. “She’s on her way. Said she just got off work and is driving over.”

Ushijima gave another slow blink.

“Thank you.”

Kageyama nods. Somehow they manage to have conversations even if they just continue nodding to each other.

As soon as Kageyama said it, his phone buzzed with a new message. He didn’t even need to open it. He could tell by the way his entire body relaxed by a single, barely noticeable degree.

Sorry, hun. Just got off work. Are you okay?

He replied.

I’m okay. I miss you.

And then he set the phone down and folded his hands again, this time with more calm. More certainty. You were coming. That was all he needed to know.

The others noticed the shift immediately.

“He smiled.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“He did! Don’t argue with me; I saw it. It was micro. But it counted.”

“He’s already halfway out the door with his heart.”

“Watch, the second she walks through that door, he’ll go full puppy mode.”

Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, the door opened. A gust of cold air followed you inside, along with the soft jingle of the bar’s entrance bell. You spotted them easily—your eyes landing on Ushijima before anything else. And his entire body seemed to change shape.

He stood up—not quickly, but instantly, with a kind of gravity no one else in the room had.

You smiled as you approached, slipping out of your coat and brushing off the cold that nipped your nose softly. “Hi, love,” you greeted softly. “You ready to go?”

“Yes,” Ushijima said, already reaching for his jacket.

As he shrugged it on, you turned to the table. “Hope he wasn’t too much trouble?”

Hoshiumi leaned on the table with a grin. “[Name], your husband is the definition of ‘not trouble.’ We’re just grateful you came to collect him before he sighed himself into the carpet.”

“Tell them what he said!” someone shouted.

“He asked if anyone had seen his phone like it was a national emergency.”

“And he didn’t pout—he brooded. Like a man out of a romantic novel.”

“I think I did,” Ushijima just nodded at their comments about him.

He then stood by quietly, waiting for you to finish your goodbyes. When you looped your arm through his, he leaned ever so slightly toward you.

As they left, Romero raised his glass.

“To [Name]’s husband,” he declared. The table cheered.

Outside, as you two walked toward the car, you glanced up at him, fingers tightening around his arm.

“You really okay?” you asked.

He hummed. Then, in that low, steady voice only you ever got to hear, it softened—

“I missed you,” he said again. “They were loud. I wanted to see you very much.”

You smiled and gave his arm a firm, loving squeeze. “Well. I’m here now.”

And... yeah.

That’s what he’s been wanting to hear all night.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[hearts4hughes]

TOLD YOU SO

clark kent x journalist!reader | warnings: mentions of mugging, mentions of violence, hate towards superman (#supershit)

“superman’s not even that impressive,” you say, setting your coffee down with more force than necessary. you plop into your chair next to clark kent and sigh. the tv above you shows headlines about superman’s newest conquest.

clark doesn’t look up from his desk. “you say that like it’s going to hurt my feelings.” he chuckles, continuing to scribble stuff down on his notepad. you glance over. he’s typing with one hand, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, tie loose. it’s just past 9 am and he already looks like he’s been fighting for his life in the bullpen.

“you act like you know him,” you shoot back, reaching for your planner with an eye roll. “you’ve got this whole boyish glint every time someone mentions him, like you’re president of the fan club.”

clark chuckles, low and amused. “i just think he’s misunderstood. people see the cape and forget he’s out there risking everything for this city.” of course he’d say that. conveniently, he’s the only reporter on the planet who’s had more than one conversation with superman. suspicious, if you were the type to keep a conspiracy board.

you’ve been at the daily planet for about a year now. you came in wide-eyed and ready to put your byline on the pulse of metropolis—investigative features, hard-hitting exposés, maybe even a column. instead, you got a desk next to clark kent—senior reporter, newsroom golden boy, devastatingly handsome in that infuriating, all american way. easily the most annoying man you’ve ever met.

you snort. “he leveled three rooftops last week stopping a runaway bus.” he’s still typing with one hand and scribbling with the other. your eyes shamelessly fall from his face to his figure. those white shirts he always wears make it impossible to stay mad at him.

“the bus didn’t fall off the bridge, though,” clark says, finally glancing at you, mouth tilting up at the corner. “so maybe cut him a little slack?”

“please.” you flip a page in your notes. “he flies around in broad daylight, flirts with reporters, and acts like it’s a favor. he’s a glorified himbo with heat vision.”

clark stifles a grin. “okay, first of all—ouch. second, are you saying if he flirted with you, you’d be annoyed?” he raises his brow with a smirk. he loves teasing you and it’s one of the many things you hate about him.

you look at him flatly. “i’d be unmoved.”

“right.” he leans back in his chair, arms folding slowly over his chest. those arms. “i’ll make sure to pass that along.” you roll your eyes, muttering something about overcompensating. but you can’t stop thinking about that flicker in his eyes when you said you weren’t impressed. the little shift in his smile like maybe he wants you to be.

with a deep exhale, you swivel your chair back toward your desk and get to work, pretending not to notice the way clark’s still watching you. he tries to look away—really, he does. but there’s something about you he can’t shake. he’s hasn’t been able to, not since the first time he caught the scent of your perfume from a mile out. he tells himself it’s harmless. just a crush. but maybe. he lets his feelings get in the way of being superman sometimes. like that one time lex luthor’s wrath swept through the city, and superman evacuated everyone…except your ex-boyfriend. (it did eventually happen, of course. and sure, it may have taken a few extra minutes, but the look of pure panic on that guy’s face was so worth the headline the next morning: is superman getting sloppy?)

“your next article isn’t on my lips, kent.” your voice snaps him out of his thoughts. with a few blinks and the shake of his head, he sits upright and turns back to his computer. you keep your head straight, posture unbothered, but your lips twitch into a smirk.

~

hours later, the city has softened. you’re halfway through one of your usual late-night walks—coat collar turned up, headphones dangling from your pocket, hands shoved deep into your sleeves. the streets around your apartment are quieter than usual. most people are in bed by now, but you’ve always liked the hush between night and morning. it’s the only time metropolis feels like it might breathe.

your mind drifts. not to your article. not to the press deadlines or politics or the new intern who nearly spilled coffee on your keyboard. but to him. to that flicker in clark’s eyes. the smile when you called superman unimpressive. the way his voice dropped just a little when he said, i’ll make sure to pass that along.

you shake the thought off, crossing the street toward the corner bodega. that’s when you hear it. there’s a shuffling sound. it’s too fast—too close. you tug out your headphones and freeze, but you barely have time to register the footsteps before a hand wraps around your wrist and jerks you back, hard. “hey!” you snap, stumbling as your shoulder slams into a wall.

there’s a guy. he’s young and wired-looking—eyes too wide, body too twitchy. there’s a knife in his hand and something wild in his voice. “phone,” he snarls. “bag. now.”

your heart jumps into your throat. you raise your hands slowly, mind racing through every self-defense article you’ve ever written, every sharp-witted comment you should’ve made at the time, every unfinished sentence at your desk. you’re about to decide between a groin kick or an elbow, but he beats you to it.

the wind shifts as if a force just entered the atmosphere. suddenly, the guy is gone. he’s just gone. shoved back so hard he lands against the alley wall with a thud and a startled yell. the knife clatters uselessly to the pavement. in his place, superman stands before you. he lands like something divine, cape flicking behind him, eyes glowing faintly gold beneath his brow. “you alright?” he asks, voice low, rich, undeniably amused.

your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. he steps closer, gaze sweeping down your body. he’s checking for injury, but also looking. you nod, dazed. “yeah. i’m—i’m fine.”

“you sure?” he asks again, eyes still scanning your entire body at lightning speed. you nod fast, teeth buried into your bottom lip. “ok, good.” he sighs and steps back. it seems like he’s about to fly up and disappear to god-knows-where, but he stops. he turns his head back to face you. “maybe next article,” he says, voice low, “you won’t describe me as a nuisance.”

you crane your head to look at him and blink. warmth floods your cheeks. “you read that?” suddenly, every thought out article seems like a children’s book. suddenly, you feel like the biggest joke in all of metropolis.

“page three, under the headline ‘superman stalls traffic in midtown.’” you can’t tell if he’s teasing or genuinely offended, but you feel the weight of it anyway.

“I didn’t mean-” a nervous laugh escapes your lips. your neck burns from how hard you’ve been scratching it.

he lifts a hand. “it’s alright. critics keep me humble.” your throat’s dry. he’s still standing too close, but not in a threatening way. it’s warm, oddly comforting. he knows how much adrenaline is still coursing through your body.

“thank you,” you say finally.

he meets your eyes. there’s nothing smug there. just quiet understanding. “you’re welcome.” then he’s gone. no dramatic exit, no sound, just space where he’d been. you stand there for a moment, alone in the dark, your heart still racing and your mind spinning. maybe you were wrong after all.

~

the daily planet bullpen smells like burnt coffee and deadline panic. so…nothing new. you push through the doors a few minutes later than usual, sunglasses on despite the cloudy weather, iced coffee in hand, and a very deliberate expression of calm indifference. it lasts about ten steps. then clark looks up from his desk. he’s already grinning, practically kicking his feet.

“morning,” he says, voice smooth and all easy, like he didn’t just save you from getting mugged twelve hours ago. “you look well rested.”

you slide your sunglasses onto your head and shoot him a look. “i am rested.”

he hums, tapping a few keys like he’s very focused on his work. “huh. must’ve been a peaceful night in the city, then.” your jaw twitches. you toss your bag onto your chair, take a sip of coffee, and don’t look at him. he keeps going. “no near-death experiences? no high-speed chases? alien invasions?”

you glare. “did you need something, clark?”

he shrugs. “just making conversation. you usually come in ranting about superman’s lack of regard for traffic laws.”

you inhale slowly. look at your screen. then, before you can stop yourself, you murmur, “he’s not that bad.”

clark freezes. not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but you see it. the stillness in his shoulders. the tiny flicker in his eyes. “…what was that?”

you roll your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “don’t make me repeat it.”

“no, no,” he says, leaning back in his chair, arms folding across that annoying chest. “by all means, take your time. i’m just a humble reporter trying to process this historic shift in perspective.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, i’m right.”

you attempt to bite back a smile. “hypothetically,” you say, trying for casual, “if someone were to have a change of heart about superman, it might be because he saved their life. hypothetically.”

clark raises a brow. “well. that would certainly give someone a new perspective.”

“mhm.” you hum, eyes still glued to your computer screen.

he glances at you again. it’s longer this time, quieter. the teasing softens around the edges. “you okay?”

you nod, shoulders relaxing at the question. “yeah. i’m okay.” he studies you for another beat, then nods too, turning back to his screen. but his mouth curls at the corner, just a little. he doesn’t say it out loud, yet it’s all over his face.

told you so.

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[pedgito]

𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 | Joel Miller x reader

↝ masterlist | requests? | ao3 | update blog | fic rec | ko-fi

summary | Joel doesn't have a Mrs. but he does have a sports car.

author's note | @chaotic-mystery made me listen to sports car and i said you know what? yeah. this one's especially feral, sorry in advance.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, no outbreak au, girthy age gap, car talk, sad hot grieving dads gone wild, daddy kink, more specifically daddy issues, mutual mas, no touch rules, cum eating, pure filth

word count — 5k — PART TWO

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Your tongue rolls over your teeth inside of your mouth as you stare with folded arms, phone clutched tightly in your hand as you wait eagerly for your driver to arrive and get you the hell out of here.

“Stunning,” You offer a forced smile, watching as your date lingered around the old car, pristine and well-cared for, an unattainable feat for such an immature man-child like himself.

It was the last time you were allowing your friends to set you up on a blind date, nearing the point of swearing off dating entirely, knowing that a man who couldn’t even cover half the check wasn’t driving around in a classic Pontiac, let alone affording the upkeep for it.

“Sure you don’t wanna change your mind?” He asks eagerly, the subtle admiration of the car waning as he comes into view, knowing the old beater a few spots down was surely his.

The bells above the convenience store next door jingle as people enter and exit, taking another impatient glance at your phone. You watch as the boy takes a seat against the hood and it makes you cringe internally, swallowing your words as an even deeper voice interjects from behind.

“I’ll give you about three seconds to get your ass of my hood,” The older man threatened, spinning the keys in his palm as he set the six pack of beer on the roof, the younger kid scrambled to his feet instantly, “—is he botherin’ you?”

“Unfortunately,” You mumble as you take another glance at your phone and curse under your breath, watching the unmoving dot on the screen.

“Get outta here, kid,” The mystery man barks, “looks like you already ruined her night and I don’t need some runt like you fuckin’ up my car.”

You both watch as he sulks to his car, just as you suspected, your lips pulling into a thin line to stifle the laugh that built in your chest, feeling lighter for the first time that night.

“Does that happen often?” You ask curiously, watching as he fiddled with his door before the lock popped and the door swung open, the six pack of beer carefully placed in the passenger seat as he rose back up to answer your question, hands curled around the edge of the roof.

“Ever since I fixed her up,” He pauses, recollecting, “probably a once a week ordeal. They’re easy to run off, fortunately. You waitin’ on something?”

“My ride,” You wobble your phone back and forth weakly and Joel squints, shaking his head as he winces at the guttural backfire of the engine in the car behind him, the final memory of your absolutely awful date as he disappears down the road.

“Kid had a car and couldn’t even bother to pick you up or take you home?” He asks curiously, strangely not unsettled by his openness to conversation given his gruff exterior, “Some nerve.”

“It was a blind date,” You shrug, “My friends they—”

“Those ain’t friends,” He interrupts politely, “if they set you up with a guy like that.”

“Well, maybe—” Your words linger, shifting from foot to foot as the conversation dies out and your feet begin to ache, the summer heat making you uncomfortable, the silk fabric of your dress sticking to your skin as you wipe at your damp cheek and push your hair behind your ear.

“Hop in,” He tells you, stooping into his car as he closes the door, his waiting gaze staring up at you through the window, “I can give you a ride.”

“I…don’t know,” You answer uneasily, “I don’t even know you.”

“I’m Joel,” He answers almost immediately, “I’m not a genius but I figure you had a shitty date, no sense in you paying for a ride home if I can offer one. Chivalry ain’t that dead, sweetheart.”

You offer him your name quietly, approaching the car with some hesitation. 

He seemed like an honest enough man, swooping in like a knight in shining armor.

You’ve given worse men a fairer chance—so, fuck it.

–

“My dad had a car like this,” You perk up after a few minutes, the glass bottles clinking against each other from where they sat by your feet, between your legs, “not a ‘67—was a ‘69.”

“You know your shit?” Joel asks curiously, his left hand settled over the top of the steering wheel while his right was settled against the gear shift, “He teach you about ‘em?”

Oddly, conversation with Joel was easy. A similar interest, neither of you with any room to judge one another. Equals.

“I pestered him alot,” You admit, “I was supposed to end up with it but he sold it before he died. God, what I wouldn’t give—”

“She is a beaut,” Joel admits, giving a soft tap to the dashboard, “and a labor of love.”

“She? What’s her name?” You ask knowingly, the slightest hint of a smirk on your face.

He spoke so fondly of the car, as if it breathed life into him. It wasn’t unfamiliar to you.

“Sarah,” He offers up more subdued, but a soft smile graces his face for a brief moment, “s’long story, doesn’t matter.”

“My dad named his Jameson,” You say suddenly in an attempt to add some levity, “funny, since my dad was an alcoholic…”

Okay, maybe not funny, but Joel gives you a pity chuckle anyways. 

Luckily, your nervous admittance is quickly looked over.

“So, where’m I takin’ you?”

You chew at your bottom lip and glance sheepishly at Joel.

“Um…UT?”

“Goddamn, that’s like—”

“An hour away, yeah,” You sigh, “I won’t be upset if you want to stop at the next gas station, I have the money for a ride, it isn’t that big of a—”

“I’m about five minutes up the road,” Joel begins, fingers flexing lazily ahead as they raise from the steering wheel, “I’ve got a spare room, I can take you up there in the morning.”

“You’re a total stranger, you know?”

“There’s a motel just a ways up,” Joel suggested with ease.

Though as you approach it looks bleak, the fluorescent lights blinking overhead and a glaring spot for much more nefarious activity with the perfectly placed strip club across the road, feeling the car pull to a slow stop.

“I…think I’ll take you up on that spare room,” You stutter out.

Joel nods, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he shifts gears and pulls back onto the road. 

The flickering neon lights of the seedy motel fade in the rearview mirror.

“That place ain't fit for anyone, let alone a young lady like yourself."

“I’m not young,” You retort, ‘I’m twenty-three.”

“And I’m as old as this car,” Joel retorts, watching your face scrunch up in thought as you did the mental math in your head before he puts you out of your misery, “I’m fifty-eight, sweetheart.”

Pushing sixty? Big deal.

You’ve had older professors flirting with you inappropriately on a weekly basis, at least Joel was being polite and kind and not at all as sleazy as most men, at least, not yet.

You stare at him without his knowledge, his eyes focused intently on the road. He’s rugged, facial hair thick and unevenly covering his face, plush lips parting as his tongue swiped along his bottom lip, a permanent scowl on his rather softened expression. 

He’s devastatingly attractive. 

And there’s something about him that comforts you, a remnant of protection despite the unconventional circumstance of finding yourself in a stranger’s care after a terrible date on the way to an unfamiliar place.

Eventually, the car slows, rumbling into a small cul de sac with four other houses surrounding his own, certainly picturesque and not what you would suspect from a man like him. He cuts the engine dead as he pulls into his driveway and wordlessly leans his body over the center console, a hand snaking between your spread legs as he reaches for the six-pack of beer.

“Home sweet home,” He jokes lightly, “C’mon.”

With trepidation and a sudden heat to your face as he peers up at you for a moment while his hand is settled between your thighs, you nod.

Please don’t be a fucking serial killer, you think. 

A silent prayer said to anyone that would listen.

-

He’s a perfect gentleman, fortunately. 

Joel gives you a short tour, displaying the spare room at the end of the hall, an attached bathroom and plenty of escape routes—he seems to sense the unease still as it lingers.

“You said twenty-three, right?” He double checks, “You want a beer? Or water? I got some soda, too.”

“Beer is fine,” You answer with a nod, turning on your heels to follow him back down the hall and toward the kitchen, watching as Joel flicked on the overhead light above the kitchen island and pulled two beers from the cardboard casing.

He pops the caps off with ease before he’s pushing the beer into your hand and taking a sip of his own, leading you toward the dining room as he pulls out a chair for you and him, a comfortable distance as his legs spread out when he sits, the glass resting against his denim covered knee.

“So your daddy, he taught you a lot about cars?”

“How to take care of ‘em,” You explain, “What’s good, what’s shit. I’ve got a soft spot for the classics, you know? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like them fast, too.”

“Smart girl,” Joel notes, but then he lingers for a moment and watches as you sip gingerly at your beer, “I’m curious—and you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but what happened back there? Other than that kid makin’ a complete ass of himself?”

The comment should not make your insides twist the way they do, a faint throb between your legs that you hide with a cough and another long sip, “He’s just…not great. And the gesture was there, he tried paying for the date, but then his card declined and, well…”

“Sounds like a real winner,” He mocks, taking a hefty sip before the liquid is gone, sliding the empty glass along the dinner table.

“He’s not my type, anyways,” You shrug, finishing off your own beer and mirroring his actions, watching as he silently grabbed the bottles and stood up, disposing of them in the nearby trash.

Joel makes an unintelligible noise as he shakes his head, “And what exactly would that be?”

You hum thoughtfully, “A V8 engine for starters, some real hefty horsepower, a nice spacy interior,”

“Damn, just my type,” Joel plays along, “I like that you know your shit—you savin’ up for one?”

A car, he means.

 Given that you were attempting to find a ride home, it seemed like a valid question.

“Trying, sure.” You shrug nonchalantly, “It’s more of a dream anymore, college isn’t exactly the cheapest.”

A beat passes as Joel slips back into his seat and you pull your bare feet up into the chair, curling your arms around your knees loosely before you speak again.

“Serious answer—I don’t date boys my age ever. I was only entertaining it because my friends wouldn’t shut up about it. They’re usually older; thirties, forties. You can judge me—I get it.”

“Ain’t nothing to judge,” Joel shrugs, “You like what you like.”

“And you?”

Joel laughs at that, looking away briefly as you smile, poking his thigh with your foot as he thinks for a moment, eyes dragging toward the floor.

“I’m too old for that shit—ain’t nothing for me.”

“I think you’d be surprised,” You tell him honestly, knowing that most of the girls would be ripping each other’s throats out for a moment with him, the perfect amount of mysterious and dark, a hint of southern gentleman in the way he carries himself, a total fucking smoke show.

You knew just how deadly you’d be vying for a chance with him.

And here he was, like an offering plopped right into your lap.

Besides, you were having a bad night, what else did you have to lose?

“That so?” Joel seemed to be testing the waters too, a playfulness in his eyes that was deeply subdued but there, simmering. He wasn’t going to try anything unless you initiated, lucky for him, you were more than eager by now.

“Oh, I know so,” You nod with confidence, “Nice car—you got that whole dark and mysterious thing going for you and you’re hot, s’not like I’m blind, Joel.”

“Is there somethin’ you’re gettin’ at, sweetheart?” Joel asks curiously.

You shrug, a mischievous grin crossing your face.

You’ve had plenty of one night stands; terrible dates with half-decent sex.

You spent two hours getting ready, another getting to dinner, and you’d be damned to waste such a good opportunity when it presented itself.

“I had a shit night and you’ve already managed to make it better,” You admit, “I’m just sayin’ as a thank you, we could—”

“I’m not askin’ for a thank you, sweetheart,” His voice is immediately softer, alluring.

His brow twitches as you lock eyes, like a moment of consideration crosses his mind, large palms splayed out against even larger thighs, the type that made you curious.

He had the body of a man well-worked; a mix of someone who’s aged with grace and maintained his lifestyle through work, broad shoulders that begged to be explored, stretching as he fidgeted in his chair.

“If I told you I wanted you to fuck me, would you?”

Joel speaks your name aloud and you smile sheepishly, though he knows it was an act, feeling a little braver with a few shots of liquid courage from earlier in the night and a beer to loosen your nerves further.

You were staring at the veins in his hands now, calloused fingers rubbing at a soft, flayed spot in his jeans, right above the knee, tanned skin hiding underneath. 

“It’s not a question of would I, honey. I can’t.”

So, he would.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“I’m gonna save you the regret—besides, I got a few rules for myself, and if not allowing myself to touch you when we just met is one of ‘em, I think that’s fair.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?” You goad, feet dropping slowly to the ground between his widened legs, “Do you want me to touch you? Is that against the rules?”

Joel knows there’s no benefit in lying.

“‘Course I think you’re pretty but you sure got a mouth,” Joel comments, fingers flexing against his thigh as he leans back in his chair, letting out a long breath through his nose as he peers over at you, “I’m willin’ to do a lot more than touch, sweetheart. But, not like this, not tonight.”

“I’m not drunk,” You defend, “C’mon, Joel. I got all dressed up tonight and I’m askin’,”

Half a second short of begging.

“Sweetheart,” He warns, “M’not gonna,”

“Then touch yourself,” You encourage, “let me watch.”

“Now, what makes you think—”

Your straps droop down your shoulders, one adjustment short of your breasts spilling out of your dress as your head nods toward his subtle adjustment between his legs, pulling slightly at the denim suffocating his growing erection.

He’s got a beautiful girl presenting herself to him, one more no away from dropping to her knees to wallow, lips parted as you breathed out softly, thighs separating so far that Joel catches the quickest glimpse of your thin panties, nearly see-through with how wet you were, your hands squeezing at the fabric near the end of your dress like a nervous tic.

Joel wasn’t blind either.

“You were going to do it after I went to sleep, weren’t you?

“You’re stubborn as hell, girl—”

“I bet it’s big,” You throw from left-field, a smirk growing on your face, “I love sucking cock, Joel. It’s my favorite thing—s’not a rule break, right? If I touch you and you keep your hands to yourself? Do you want me on my knees? Wanna see what I look like with your cock in my mouth?”

His jaw clenches, watching the muscle strain underneath his skin as he clears his throat.

“Don’t be shy—”

“I”m not shy.”

Then?

Your eyebrows raise in question, your dress pulling slowly up your thighs, legs widening with the movement before Joel finally relents, the deafening sound of his zipper pulling a soft giggle from your chest as you wiggle with excitement.

Joel's hand hesitates for a moment before he reaches into his pants, shoving them far enough down his thighs, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly pulls out his hardening cock, watching him swell in the loose grip of his palm. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of it—thick and veiny, an easy seven inches, a heavy set of balls to match as his fingers roll along the tight skin and up, his fingers drifting featherlight over his cock.

“This what you wanted?” Joel asks, low and throaty, a strain to his tone.

You nod eagerly, bottom lip pulling between your teeth as your hands settle beside you, gripping the chair so hard it creaks, legs spread wide instinctually, making room for him despite his distance, your dress slipping far enough down your chest that your breasts were on display.

Soft peaks, nipples hardened in the cool air, your chest rising with slow breaths as you arch yourself forward slightly, his hand keeping a slow, teasing pace as his thumb drags over the thick head and against the slit.

Your eyes flicker between Joel’s face and his tight grip around his cock, watching as he strokes himself with slow intent, belt jingling with the movement as he pushes his shirt up with the other hand, his own eyes trading between different parts of your body.

He’d suckle at your skin if he could, trail his tongue from mouth to cunt, have you a shaking, sobbing mess if he allowed himself the luxury, but he was a man wallowing in his own self-made torture and the energy in the air was palpable, thick with tension.

“Closer,” He groans out lowly, nodding his head in a jerky motion as his free hand beckons you near, “Spread your legs, sweetheart—lemme see you.”

You give him far more than he asks, standing slowly before you’re hooking your fingers in the fabric at your hips and pulling down, letting the damp fabric drop to your feet before you’re leaning down to pick it up, tossing your panties into Joel’s lap before you return to your seat.

One foot propped against the chair, your dress bunches at your hips, giving him a perfect view of your glistening cunt as you spread your fingers through your folds, a teasing touch.

Blindly, Joel grabs at the fabric and wraps it around his cock, like a vice, he squeezes tight.

Joel's eyes darken, pupils dilating as he takes in the sight before him. His grip tightens around your panties, the damp fabric adding a new, chest-tightening sensation as he strokes himself harder. A low groan escapes his lips, his gaze fixed on your fingers as they tease through your slick folds.

“You too scared to fuck a college girl?” You tease him, “‘Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Smart ass mouth, girl,” He gripes, “S’like your daddy never taught you any manners.”

“Oh, ‘cause I’m sure you could’ve,” You reply flippantly, gasping as your finger catches along your fluttering hole, a groan rumbling deep in Joel’s chest as he jerks his cock.

“I ain’t your daddy,” He reminds you.

You shake your head nonchalantly, “No you’re not. Could–could be, though. “What do you want? For me to pout and call you daddy?”

“Careful,” he warns, his voice rough with desire, “That’s a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

You hum at the words, a faint flutter in your chest.

If you stopped to think about what was happening you would psych yourself out completely, so you lean back further, arching yourself forward as you slide two fingers inside yourself. "I don’t mind playing," you moan, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before locking back onto Joel’s.

Joel's breath catches in his throat, his hand faltering for a moment as he watches you sink your fingers deeper into your wet cunt, the soft squelch paired with your innocent sounds.

He scowls as he squeezes his shaft, “Christ, girl,” He grunts, “Tryin’ to kill me, aren’t you?”

You shake your head impishly, “Temptin’ you,” You admit, “Is it working?”

“You know damn well,” Joel says tensely, forcing the words through his teeth as his fingers slide up and squeeze at the head of his cock, precum slick against his fingers as he uses it to add to the friction, his eyes roaming hungrily over your body, “fuckin’ look at you, so goddamn eager.”

“That right, daddy?” You ask breathily, giggling with the word as Joel looks like he could explode, his other hand cupping his balls to keep him busy, knowing if he lingered with his thoughts for too long he’d fuck you into the chair without an ire of hesitation, his eyes close as his head leans back.

“Is that what you need? Someone carin’ for you?” He asks, “Is that why you’re actin’ out?”

The way his hand moves against his cock is mesmerizing, the flex of his wrist as he jerks his cock in a practiced manner, something he undoubtedly does weekly, squeezing his sack gently in his hand as his chest rumbles quietly.

“Eyes up, sweetheart,” He chastises, “I’m askin’ you a question, answer it.”

You nod weakly, a frown forming on your face as you whimper, the softest graze of your fingertip over your clit as your body spasms, gasping at the feeling.

“Words, ‘hon,” He encourages, his own voice wavering slightly.

“Y—yes,” You answer quickly.

Joel chuckles deeply, “S’good. Good girl, sweetheart. You wanna spread those legs for daddy then?” 

Obediently, they do, presenting your glistening cunt to him as you fingers slip out, wet with slick and Joel licks at his bottom lip, mouth watering at the sight.

“Fuckin’ filthy,” He murmurs endearingly, a slight smirk stretching across his face at the sight, “—won’t even touch you and you’re mess, been like that since you got in my car, huh?”

You nod weakly, sighing as your fingers circle lazily over your clit.

“Taste ‘em,” He encourages, “clean ‘em up.”

Your fingers, he means.

Like some magnetic pull, you find your fingers pressing against your tongue without thinking and the tangy sweetness melts against your tongue, his breath shuddering as you licked your fingers clean, cunt pulsing with need, silently pleading for Joel.

His eyes narrow, darkening with lust as his hand speeds up around his cock, obscene sounds matching his heady words, neck straining as he grunts, “That’s it, sweetheart. Listenin’ to your daddy—M’fuck—fuckin’ close.”

Through your bleary haze, you nod with the same sentiment, speaking softly, “Metoometoo—”

His movements are more fumbling, quick and furious jerks of his cock that still at the head as he squeezes, his face scrunching up in a mix of frustration and desperation, trying harder than he’s ever had to not shoot his load too soon.

“Yeah? Show me,” He encourages, goading as his unoccupied hand twists into his shirt and hastily pulls it up and over his head, “Spread your legs for me, baby.”

They spread impossibly wider, your hand reaching behind your head to grip onto the chair as your ass slips near the edge, circling your fingers over your clit without much precision, knowing that one more word from his mouth and you’d be drooling all over the seat.

“So fuckin’ desperate, look at you,” He demeans, “Poor little girl with daddy issues, huh?”

You moan shakily, avoidant of his obviously goading question, eyes fluttering closed as your orgasm crept in slow, mumbling out the words without even thinking, “Please—please can I—daddy, can I—”

“S’alright, we’ll fix that,” Joel comments softly, his voice a low growl, “Go on, sweetheart, come for me.”

The feeling is instant, his permission all you need to melt over the edge, legs shaking through the mind-numbing sensation your climax brings, chest tightening as you gasp, fingers working frantically over your clit as Joel’s name slips from your mouth.

Distantly, you hear him groan, his orgasm overtaking him at the sight of you writhing in your chair, spilling over his tight fist as thick, milky ropes of cum spread across his chest and down the underside of his cock, his eyes falling shut. 

As your breathing slows, your thighs pull together, shrinking impossibly small into the chair in a sudden overwhelming feeling of shame. Shame that you had shared an intimate moment like this with a man you barely knew all because you had a terrible night and shame over how easily he had made you come, like it was natural.

Despite the obvious, Joel doesn’t miss a beat.

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face and he beckons you forward. Finally.

“On your knees, sweetheart,” He instructs as your body moves without much protest, sliding to the floor as your dress pools at your hips, not amiss to the way Joel’s eyes follow the subtle bounce of your breasts as you move between his spread legs, his erection flagging but your tongue peeks out eagerly, licking at the head of his cock as your hands curls around his calves for support, “S’not—hey,” He hisses, “you were listenin’ so good until now.”

He’s salty and sweet, a taste so inviting that you needed more. It made your mouth water, tongue swiping against your bottom lip as your eyes fell on the opaque liquid covering his stomach.

Unfortunately, he still wouldn’t touch you.

He runs a hand through his hair while the other rests against the table, balled into a fist as you shake your head shyly, removing your hands from his legs.

“Sor—sorry,” You stutter, uncertainty evident in your voice.

Joel’s eyebrows raise, an unspoken bond quickly forming between you both.

“Try again.

“M’sorry, daddy—what can—,” You gulp audibly, fidgeting nervously with the silk fabric at your waist, “how can I make it up to you?”

Joel glances down at his stomach, still covered in cum as he breathes, watching the liquid drop down his skin and to his softening cock, still intimidatingly large even as it rests against his thigh, “Why don’t you clean me up? Can you do that?”

You nod eagerly, darting forward immediately as your tongue glided along his skin, into the small patch of hair above his groin and to his belly button, hearing Joel groan as the chair creaks with his shifting weight, struggling against his own forced restraint as you lick the cooled cum off his skin, eyes flicking up to look at him, dangerously innocent.

A facade, he knows. But, he’s in fucking trouble.

“That’s it,” Joel coos, “Clean me up good, baby.”

You giggle softly, dragging the tip of your tongue along the last bit of his cum before you drag up the center, barely reaching his face before you pull away, a soft huff of breath hitting you in the face as Joel shakes his head and chuckles, looking away from you briefly.

“Still not gonna touch me?” You tease him, quietly pulling your dress back up your body and over your shoulders, fingers adjusting the strap as he turns back to look at you.

“I’m tryin’ to be respectful here, sweetheart. And you’re makin’ it damn near impossible.”

Your brow furrows in a mix of confusion and amusement, “Respectful? You call that respectful, Joel? Oh—” You clear your throat and pull your bottom lip between your teeth, batting your lashes, “M’sorry, I mean, daddy.”

“Careful,” Joel warns, “You still have an hour in the car with me in the morning.”

You nod, slowly rising to your feet as you adjust your dress down your body, smoothing it out over your curves as your hands rest naturally behind your back, loosely as they curl together.

“Mmm, no,” You retort, a playful glint in your eyes, “I think you should be worried about me.”

“Is that right, sweetheart?” He mocks, hardly believing your faux confidence against him.

“Or, you could just let me drive?” You attempt playfully, a full belly chuckle erupting from Joel.

“I mean,” Joel shrugs, his voice trailing.

Breaking his rule for a moment, the hand ruffling through his hair trails toward your thigh, curling around the bare skin for a brief moment, sliding up until his fingers grazed against the curve of your ass and your bare pussy underneath, your panties resting near his fist on the table, a keepsake.

“Gotta reward my good girl, don’t I?”

[kandlewick]

everyone awoke to malleus defeated. except for you meant to be read as platonic malleyuu but can be read as romantic.

Malleus could hardly breathe. every inhale felt like it was too small, like the air surrounding him was too thin. His lungs were empty, barren, and dry. And then he would exhale. a shaky breath. It rattled his bones and burned in his chest. As if nothing but flames raged in his insides. Before him laid a friend, a betrayed comrade, someone who put too much trust in the wrong people. You. You were asleep there, in a bed of thorns and roses, nestled deep and safe. Each petal cradled your cheek like a picture frame and you were a work of art. It all felt so clinical, so far away that Malleus could hardly tear his eyes away from your sleeping form. while constricted by vines to your familiar bed in ramshackle, no thorns pierced your skin. you knew no pain lying there. only dreams. It hardly felt real.

Malleus had made a mistake. He knew he had as soon as the blot began pouring from behind his tongue. but he couldn't stop it. the delirium. it poured out of him like a cracked glass of sand. In those fleeting moments, nothing had mattered more to him. The blot retched every single negative emotion out of his soul, bearing it for the world to bear witness to. And he was ashamed.

but you and the others had succeeded against him, saving all of your classmates and himself from the curse of eternal slumber. One by one, they all began awakening. Eyelids fluttering in the new morning sun. He awoke to the sound of laughter and cheers while he laid there on the broken floor, alone and empty and so so cold. Quietly, Malleus raised his head to thank? Curse? The Ramshackle prefect that laid beside him.

only, you remained there. asleep. too far gone and too far deep for anyone to reach out to. it was like your soul and body were separated, torn asunder. the only sign of life was your chest moving up and down from the breath that filled your lungs. At the moment, Malleus thought perhaps you were simply exhausted, with the heavy bags under your eyes and the pale complexion dusting your cheeks. Like the others, he thought that you only needed more rest. But days passed and there were still no signs of life behind those closed eyes. The teachers talked amongst themselves, unwilling or perhaps unable to offer any sort of explanation. There were talks about asking for assistance from other bodies but they were quick to be shot down. It seemed like nobody knew what to do with you. Or… your body. 

Nobody took it well.

Malleus in particular had ceased his studies, locking himself away in your room in Ramshackle. Ace and Deuce would appear on occasion, Grim in tow, but the three were quick to make themselves scarce once Malleus made it clear he was not leaving your bedside. He sat there for hours, uncaring of the passing of time as night became morning and dawn became dusk. What were mere days to a nigh immortal fae. If this was his curse, to watch the one human who befriended him and suffered for it waste away from his own folly, then so be it. Every morning, like clockwork, he sat there. Unflinching. Unmoving. Like a gargoyle. His eyes were empty and red, long dried from tears but he couldn’t drag himself away from you - he refused to even think of calling you a corpse. 

This day was like any other. He sat there beside you, his hands in his lap, the book he had foolishly planned to humor to read had been cast aside long forgotten, but for some reason the sight of you there pricked at his heart more than before. His voice came out quiet, weak from disuse, but he made an effort all the same. 

“My child of man.” he croaked, his tone heavy with shame and sadness, “I will not ask you for forgiveness.”

He took a shaky breath. Hesitantly, he reached out with a weak hand and clasped your own. The thorns around you pricked him and drew blood, but he paid no mind to it. He felt nothing. Numb. Malleus choked back tears as he pulled your hands close to his chest and against his still beating heart. He lowered his head in agony as he confessed like a convict at death’s door. “What I have done to you is unforgivable.”

He held you to him. Like if he held onto you tight enough, you wouldn’t fall even more to pieces. “You were my first true friend, my closest companion. The only one who treated me as if I was an equal…” He bit back a sob as he tried to cradle his face between his hands, desperate for your touch to once again warm his bones. But there was nothing. Only the cold. “And now I’ve lost you.”

“And not a day shall pass in the centuries that I am cursed to live will I ever forget your smile.” Then with an almost reverent touch, the prince brought your hand to his lips and pressed a delicate kiss to the back of your hand. His lips stayed there, the taste of salt and skin filling his tongue, but he made no effort to move while he cried.

So far gone was he that he never noticed the batting of eyelashes, the furrowed brows, or the intake of breath. So far gone that it wasn’t until he felt your hand, tiny and weak, press against his dark hair, did he lift his head.

“Good morning, Hornton.”

[reminiscingthesea]

Thinking about.. comforting Khaslana (aka dead eyes Phainon from the 3.4 story) in one of the million cycles..

Warning- Spoilers for 3.4 story quest, angst

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.

.

He lay across on your lap, his head nestled upon your soft thighs, as your fingers gently combed through his icy white hair, twirling a few strands around your nimble fingers. His gaze was fixed upwards, but not at you, but towards the sky, the sky that praised the two of you with beaming light and its warming radiance from the godlike sun. The same sky he knew was hiding the Destruction’s gaze from afar. A wretched, fake sky. The same sun he knew would bleed red soon. He has seen it all too many times.

But you? You were an exception- an anomaly- your occurrence in these millions of cycles were fleeting- rare. Almost by chance. He knew your presence made whatever above seethe with pure rage and anger, as you slowed down the Destruction’s synthesis.

There was something he didn’t quite understand, however. How was it that you knew who he truly was? How did you know that Amphoreus was of cyclical existence in nature? There were things you knew that you shouldn’t know. But, in every thousand of those millions of cycles where he had the chance to meet you- to ask these questions, he never found himself the courage to ask. Not once. Were you simply a cruel string of code curated by Lygus himself to keep him going? God, he hoped not. So why did he never find himself questioning you of your origins?

Was it his love for you? Yes. Was it because he didn’t want to find out something he shouldn’t know, for the sake of his and Cyrene’s mission? Also, yes.

“What’s on your mind, Khaslana?” Your voice was a soothing balm to his wound of a body, his body blazing with raw memoria, will, and passion. Even for a fleeting, sorrowful moment, he wished he could stay by your side like this, forever.

Turning his gaze to you, he saw how your kind eyes flickered with worry, and your expression contorting from one of peace and indulgence, to one of concern and love. It must’ve been his eyes. Cerulean blue, full of emotion and colour, with the faint shape of Kephale’s halo within, encasing small, bright yellow pupils. But they weren’t filled with light or shine, no matter how beautiful they may look. They were dead. Emotionless. Unmoving. Cold. Yet, you always kept eye contact with him, why?

“Things on my mind, that’s all.” He replied quietly, his tone unintentionally cold and distant as he spoke. He saw the way your eyes very briefly flickered with slight pain and sadness, before quickly being hidden by a mask of sympathy, a small, sad smile adorning your pretty face.

“I know that’s not true. But I won’t go into detail, since I know someone like you must have a lot on your mind. Though, tell me one thing. How many coreflames is it that you bear now, within you?”

“Two million, seven hundred-and-ninety-five thousand, eight hundred and sixty.” He answered without a beat, having known the feeling of the burning heat of over two million coreflames that burnt to brightly within him, the fire not weakening once, the light, not dimming a fragment.

Your face was was blank, expression, unreadable, but full of thought as you processed what he had said, temporarily seizing the comforting ministrations on his scalp, to which he gave you a slightly hurt look.

“Ah. So this must be the thirty-third million, five-hundred-and-fifty-thousandth, three hundredth and thirtieth cycle? Hmm.. that must mean something, right?” You pondered inquisitively, as you looked up, a finger on your chin as you thought.

When Phainon didn’t respond, you knew something in him must’ve switched. Normally, he had something to say or retort back with in an instant- having gone through identical moments in the past too many times before now.

But this? This was unexpected? Unrehearsed for. He didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to say anything. I realise I may be out of line for asking that, reminding you of.. your mission and the memories it may bring back.” After a few beats, you carefully coerced him to look into your eyes, hooking two fingers around his chin to secure his almost lifeless gaze.

“But, what I do know, Khaslana, is that you’re strong. Strong, determined, willful. I know the horrifying experiences you must face each cycle, the overbearing responsibilities you’ve had to bear as Khaslana during each cycle up until now, to avoid a complete Destruction. But for now, please. Just rest. I see it in your eyes, the pain and suffering behind them, the weight of so many wishes and memories.. The same eyes that yearn for respite.”

Your tone, so soft, so sweet, so loving, so reverent, so you. Rest wasn’t something he grew accustomed to over these long, torturous cycles, the memories he bore within screamed cries too loud for his mind to keep out, to keep quiet.

But, for some reason here, he found himself at peace. Devoid of thought, of memory, of the wishes of thousands. The scolding heat of the coreflames now engulfing him in a rather comforting warmth, rather than its usual fiery burns and flames. His lips separated slightly, trying to find the words to speak. But nothing. He knew he wanted this. He wanted respite- even for a few fleeting minutes or hours, even if it did cause jeopardy to his lifelong, eternal plan.

As if moving on his own accord, he lifted himself up, feeling weightless as he now sat next to you, back against the large trunk of a tree, looking at you with fuller eyes now. You swore you could see the smallest, the quickest of flickers of life pass through his empty, ocean eyes that resembled the sun, before immediately disappearing once more.

And then, without either your accords or his, your eyes closed, as the two of you leaned closer, lips capturing the other in a deep, intimate kiss. On your side, you were gentle, slow, and loving. But on his side, he was passionate, needy, and twice as loving, pulling you closer as his tongue made its way past your soft, full lips, and into the expanse of your mouth, the hot muscle loving it properly. You felt his teeth nip and bite at your lower lip, eliciting a soft moan out your throat as you held onto him tightly, wanting more and more, to which he responded to eagerly.

After some time, the two of you pulled back, your faces flushed, breath gone, panting hurriedly to make up for the lack of airflow due to the lovingly long kiss. Your lips, now wet with his and your saliva, placed big, sloppy kisses onto his cheeks, which drove out one of the sweetest, most beautiful sounds you hadn’t heard in so long. A laugh. Phainon’s laugh. Not the delirious or distant, shallow, fake laugh of Khaslana. But the bright, warm, contagious laugh of Phainon.

“You look better now, I can almost see the light returning back to your eyes.” There was a warm smile on your face as you spoke. You gently pinched his cheek with the pads of your fingertips, squishing it slightly as you did. Phainon, who now had a look of closeness and trust on his face, carefully brought down you hand from his cheek, and over his chest, where you could feel the enthusiastic, strong beat of his heart behind his bones.

“You feel that? That’s the beating of my heart. When you’re around in every odd cycle, it beats harder, faster, as if it knows you’ll be here in the next cycle. I.. don’t know when the next time we meet will be, but in every cycle, I’ll always love you. [Name].” Placing a delicate kiss on your knuckles, he looked up at you once more. His eyes, still dead with no shine, seemed to glow a brighter blue, yet the hue of his sun-yellow pupils glowed even harder, the dawn tattoo on his neck seemed to burn brighter now.

Cupping his cheek with your free hand, you gave him a peaceful, look of love, one full of adoration and affection.

“I’ll always love you too, Khaslana. Now then, you must rest now. Time won’t wait for you, you aren’t in Aedes Elysiae.” Slowly, he smiled and lowered himself back down, so his head was back resting onto the comfortable expanse of your soft, pillowy thighs. His eyelashes, long and pretty, fluttered daintily as his eyes shut once more, his pink lips parting slightly as he dozed off once more, to the heavenly embrace known as the land of dreams.

.

.

Once he was asleep fully, you shifted him off roughly, his head landing onto the grass next to you, a look of disgust writing itself onto your face as you watched him unconsciously nuzzling his nose against the dirt.

“Pathetic.. Lycurgus was right when he said he was truly nothing more than a child at heart, such a mangy dog. I hate having to get close to him..”

Pulling out your tablet, you began noting down some things onto the indigo blue screen.

>

>

>

>>[33,550,330 Computation]

>>Subject: “Neikos496”

>>Observation: In each cycle, Neikos496 —Khaslana— reacts differently around Admin- [Name]. Upon closer inspection, his physical body pumps golden blood—The Destruction— quicker around his body.

>>Admin notes: This is just as I predicted, as similar, affectionate behaviour from him was exhibited around me in each computation I was present in.

>>Conclusion: The Destruction synthesis of Lord Ravager, Irontomb, and Neikos496 progresses faster around Admin [Name]’s presence. Therefore, Irontomb’s presence grows stronger, leading to a greater likelihood of nearing ascension.

>>Strategy: Create more versions of Admin ‘[Name]’ in each cycle to speed up the development of Irontomb’s presence within Phainon Neikos496.

[lunarcowgirl]

lean with me | two

yeah yeah i wrote another part for my fuckass jack abbot x f!doctor!reader fic <3

read part one here and part three here

not my gif! but i do feel crazy about it!!!!!

~

jack abbot made a damn fool of himself in front of the one person he desperately wants to rely on him, now he's got to hope you'll let him fix it.

~

from the office of the author: damn! ya’ll got me feeling some kind of way in the comments and reblogs, I didn’t look at tumblr all day after part one scared it would have no notes 🥹 thank you so so much for your kind words!!!!! ideas for these two are currently eating out my brain like a terrible infectious disease, so expect more soon xoxoxoxo

also, if by chance you have requests/ideas/thoughts drop me an ask, you’d warm the freezing cockles of my heart <3

warnings: age gap of 10+ years, old man is a goose, the weather is shit in pittsburgh but i am from the southern hemisphere so i don’t understand how real winter works pls forgive me, #rollins apologist behaviour from the author, characters stand close to the edge of buildings but they don’t have any plans for leaving said building, bad grammar, bit o’ angst, bit of fluff (as a treat)

word count: 1.6k

Dr Abbot thought he was doing a rather terrible job at feeling anything other than pathetic thank you very much. The final 30 minutes of the shift dragged into eternity, and you were never close enough. You quietly extracted yourself from every scenario in which Jack might touch you or say your name. Hands quick, words gentle, you continued to heal your patients, but the wound between you and Jack remained gaping.

As 7am dawned, black and cold, Jack found himself to be in an entirely black and cold mood. And Robby’s aggravating cheerfulness upon arrival certainly did little to help.

“Brother,” The new father chirped across the desk, “How’d it go last night?”

“Sparkly.” Jack deadpanned, nearly tearing through the paper under his hands with the scratch of his pen. The computer you’d spent so much time hunched over this shift was now dark and quiet.

Usually you would wait to say goodbye before leaving, punching him lightly on the arm, cracking something wise-ass about putting his compression sock on right when he got home, letting his body rest.

“Don’t want the old legs given out on us now do we?”

You’d smile a smile that would tear right through him, making him feel young, like he could run on those old, broken and missing legs forever and ever. Every time it was a battle to not chase after you, to catch you at your car, to ask if you’d smile at him somewhere other than a place that always stunk of pain. That smile was no where to be seen. He tried his best to ignore the sensation of panic sitting near his heart.

“That bad huh?” Robby frowned, looking across one of the calmest Pitts they’d had in months.

“How is it at Casa Robinavitch?” Jack asked, putting down his instrument of destruction to look up at his friend. Robby looked 20 years younger, almost *glowing—*the freak.

“Baby slept 12 hours,” He declared throwing his hands up in delight. “Heather is perfect, and she is all mine tonight,” He added, only marginally quieter, eyebrows dancing.

In the wake of PittFest and all its rotting, rubbing, terror and ugliness, Robby and Heather deserved some goodness. But so much of it, right in front of Jack, was not kind on the stomach in this particular moment.

“Godspeed brother.” Jack laughed, rising from the desk and grabbing his friend’s shoulder for a quick squeeze. “Don’t fuck it up please?”

Robby nodded, smile unmoved, “I won’t. Now can you get your ugly mug out of my face please, I have work to do.”

“Yeah, yeah, have a good shift.”

Standing in front of his locker, the prospect of returning to a freezing, empty house for the next few days held no sense pleasure for Jack. What were the chances that if he wished hard enough, when the door clicked open you would be sitting on his couch in that ratty Penguins jersey you so adored, arms open and waiting for him? Slim, he decided. The usual low growl of the shift’s repressed hardship echoed through his head, waiting to eat away at him in the silence outside the ER. A quick trip to the roof, a few minutes in the freezing cold, would steady him enough to face it…and the absence of you.

The echo of your words seemed to bounce off the concrete walls of the stairs as he ascended.

What right do you have? Like it’s me that’s hurting you*?!*

He sped up; as if he’d ever been able to escape your voice. How was he going to explain his regret, his apology to you? Every last combination of words he tried felt shallow and inadequate. You deserved so much more than cello-taped sentences of shame.

Exploding out into sub-zero was euphoric. For just a moment, the world was in sharp focus, the blur of the past several hours evaporating into nothing but white. Pittsburgh peered down at him, the concrete offering its own disapproving look, the glass its own sting, the barren trees their own answer. Someone else was peering back at it, standing on the other side of the rail, leaning against the freezing metal.

That puffer.

You’d bought it on the very first day of Summer, parading it around the sweltering heat of a Pitt with aircon on the fritz.

“It cost me barely anything,” You told anyone who would listen, “Guess how much!”

You’d twisted back and forth, ensuring everyone got a good angle of the quality, nearly taking out Whittaker in your enthusiasm. Eventually you’d spun around to face Jack.

“Go on Cap, guess!”

He’d said something, a number plucked from obscurity. He couldn’t remember it now, or wether he’d been right. All he was thinking, now and then, was that it exactly matched the colour of your eyes.

He didn’t approach quietly, not wanting to startle you. Each crunch of snow felt like a choice being made, a door fast approaching, a step towards an abyss. You spoke without turning.

“I thought you’d come up here.”

Your words settled; a stone in a pool, ripples dancing out, brushing gently against his heart.

“I can leave if you want.” Jack said, hoping against all hope you would shake off the offer.

Your eyes turned to him, even brighter against the snow. You sighed, dusting off a patch of metal beside you and patting it firmly, “Lean with me.”

Jack only just managed to steady himself in his haste to join you, head nearly colliding with the steel as he ducked between the rails. For a moment you and him leant in breathless, anticipatory silence, looking out at the city that you had sweated and fought and cried for all night long.

It was you that first spoke into the void, “I’ve applied for the new Emergency Pedes Fellowship at PTMC, or have you forgotten that residents do have to find another job after the program ends?”

Jack’s eyes snapped to your face. He remembered Robby mentioning the opening position weeks and weeks ago, just in passing. But all the times you had mentioned your interest in Emergency Pedes medicine, every case you had jumped on to heal a little body, to calm a little mind, to soothe a little heart…he should have put the pieces together.

Without thinking he blurted, “You’ve been the only one ever any good with parents,” The internal wince at his messy attempt at soothing was immediate. Good with parents—what?

Your voice was small now, a tear soaked laugh just perceptible in it, “I didn’t want to tell you until I’d heard either way. I didn’t—” You did laugh now, “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Jack turned out to the city, the biting January air far, far easier to face. What an utter fool he was.

“I’m sorry.” He said, shaking his head. You didn’t say a word, just let the wind blow right through the both of you.

Jack returned his gaze to you, letting his eyes have their fill. Taking in each and every line and crease and feature. His favourite face in the whole world.

“I’m sorry,” Your name so soft and reverent on his lips, “It was incredibly…asshole of me.”

Your face scrunched at the words, rallying against a growing desire to laugh, “It was asshole indeed.”

The smallest of smiles. Your proximity. Your endless well of warmth and hope and joy. It made him want to be brave.

“I don’t quite understand it yet, but I feel very strongly about you. You are the first and last person I think about everyday. Yours is the face I picture when its all too much. Your voice is what I hear when I’m afraid. Your laugh is what stills me, calms me.”

Your mouth parted, just a bit, eyes becoming endless, swallowing him whole.

“When I thought that you might leave, perhaps that you would go overseas again, I was struck with fear I haven’t felt in a long, long time.” He took a long, stuttering breath.

“I don’t ever want to lose you.”

You surrendered, moving towards him, hand outstretched.

“It’s not an excuse,” he said, the words coming like a released river now, an outpouring of everything gathering dust within him, “I was selfish and I shouldn’t have done that, it’s not fair—”

Your arms enveloped him, face burying deep into his neck, hands curling into his hair. Everything you had wanted to do from the very first moment your eyes found his. He melted into your embrace, strong arms banding around your body, face pressing into the softest skin between your collarbone and shoulder. You cried into his scrubs, your relief and disbelief and joy bleeding out onto him—this man who had just given you a gift you had never even hoped could be yours.

Jack mumbled into your skin, “Baby, my baby.”

You pulled back, just enough to send your lips flying across his skin, every last bit you could reach. He accepted them gladly, so malleable and giving in your hands. Finally, finally, you found his mouth, crashing home with delight. For one precious eternity you simply remained pressed together, as if somehow endosymbiosis will begin. When you released each other, there was shared breath to relish in, and the feeling of foreheads connected, hands twined together. Could it have possibly been winter? Spring had come to a hospital rooftop in Pittsburgh. Something entirely new had bloomed. Jack gently released you to capture your face in his hands, with one thumb he carefully smoothed the skin between your brows, banishing for now any hint of a crease. There was no confusion, no frustration, no fear here.

“Are you working tonight?” You asked, words too full of smile to really parse.

“No, I’m off for the weekend,” His lips were in your hair.

You kissed him again, more desperate this time, seeking something more. His hands drifted south, smoothing over your shoulders, finding your hips, the tips of his fingers just grazing your ass.

Heart beating wildly, hot skin on hot skin, you took a dive, “Have breakfast with me.”

~~~~~~~~

There is fluff and hope for them in the sunrise people! Thank you for reading, these two will be back very very soon xo

previous | next

[plutoswritingplanet]

In My Back (Remmick x Female! Reader)

a/n: sooo uuuh... basically yeah... never in my life had i been on such a long writer's kick. idk what they put in this irish freak but im eating it up (this is a long one, like 11k words i think). Cross Posted on AO3

Warnings: Canon Violence, Carpet Munching like crazy, P in V, just... Smut y'know, Some Plot, Manipulation, General Vampire Shenanigans

Summary: Three times he comes in the night, with offers a plenty on his fingertips. The third night, he leaves you with a gift. A Devil's kiss and a taste for freedom.

MASTERLIST

"And then, when you least expect it..." your cousin's voice dips down into a menacing tone, that only serves to push a giggle out of your chest "They sink their teeth, and suck the blood straight outta your bones"

She snaps her mouth at you, teeth clinking together, and you push her away, laughing at the story. She laughs as well, dodging skillfully, as you swipe a wet rag at her. 

"Stupid" you huff, trying to act exasperated with her antics, and failing miserably, as always. "I told you not to bother me with those silly stories."

She shrugs at that, twirls around the kitchen, like a fine lady in a coarse dress, her bare feet sliding over the linoleum tiles. You watch, as she dances out of the kitchen, grabbing a muffin from the table. You almost scold her, but decide to let it go, as you usually do. It's hard to be mad at her, damn near impossible to be honest. She always had a way of melting coldness around her. 

With a small sigh, you go back to cleaning, wiping the counter and the windows, your mind wandering to your cousin's stories. It's always ghosts and goblins with her. Some new, terrifying thing, that would surely snuff sleep off your eyelids, if your feet weren't planted firmly on the ground. That's how it's always been, since the moment you both learned to crawl. She was the flying one, the one with her head in the clouds, too preoccupied with counting the stars to look down.

And you were the complete opposite. Grass at your feet, a clear road ahead of you. No wondering, no straying. 

Sometimes you envied her lightness, sometimes you remembered, it was a burden. Especially for a woman on this earth. Despite that, she never lost herself. Despite hardship after hardship, she remained strong in her openness, in her will to think beyond, what the world offered her. How she did that, after living the past she's had, was beyond you.

God must be a cruel, cruel man, you think. For condemning the most unequipped for the biggest disappointments. 

Still, you made sure, your cousin would never have to face her life alone. Not while you're still standing, unmoving, like an ancient pine tree. You would always give her shade, always protect her from the rain, pull her down if need be.  

The sun starts to set over the horizon, the last rays of light flickering behind the woods. Your house was small, and well hidden, despite its proximity to the town. Your parents knew what they were doing, choosing this place to settle down, and you couldn't be more grateful. Before your cousin begged for shelter, you lived here alone, picking up both your parents' professions. And so, along with baking and feeding the entire area, you also became mean with any car troubles. A woman's and a man's job, both of them dancing under the sweat of your brow. 

Your cousin begged you to leave that "dirty work". To focus on opening a legitimate business, a bakery at the marketplace. She cussed, cleaning out grease stains from your skirts, and you didn't have the strength, nor patience to explain to her, how you're only able to afford the soap in her hand, because the "dirty work" payed better, than any baking. 

And so, when she stops you at the door, her arms crossed in front of her chest, her nose scrunched. She's looking you over, taking in the rough gloves and the utility belt, contrasting almost comically with the flowy material of your dress. 

"Don't start" you point at her with your wrench, and she raises her hands in a mockery of surrender.

Her mouth twists in a way, that betrays her inner thoughts, betrays her need to say more. But, to your general surprise, she swallows, shaking her head. Then, her eyes find yours, and you feel the tangible warmth of comfort, at the slight, teasing pull of her mouth.

"Don't let any monsters in" she chirps behind you, as you open the door, and start walking towards your late Daddy's workshop. 

All you can do is laugh. A rough sound, deep and dark like freshly brewed coffee. A mourning dove, and a wise owl, that's what you two were. 

Lamps guide your steps through the darkness, as you make your way towards the workshop. It's a spacious raggedy shack, your father built himself, every nook and cranny marked by his strength. You feel as if you're stepping into a church, every time you slide the barn doors open. 

It takes you a moment to light the place up, as you skip around a beaten down Buick, your feet padding softly over the recently swiped floors. The silence of the night calms you down, adds a layer of something almost sacred to your work. Night birds call out in the woods, crickets chirp in the grass, and you inhale the crisp air with your whole lungs, until they hurt. Until you feel the wind in the essence of your being. As soon as the workshop is ready, you find the ghost of your father inside every clink of metal, every grease stain. 

That's why you do, what you do. That's why you hide the woman in your pocket, tug your skirts up, tie them to your belt, throw your hair out of your face. Your father's hands guide you, years spent looking over his shoulder marr your movements. It's not work anymore. It's a ceremony, a communion. 

The Mississippi heat covers you with sweat, salty drops mixing with grease and motor oil, staining your skin. And as you wipe your face with a coarse rag, you entertain the thought, that this, here, is freedom. Your own, personal brand of freedom. Or at least some ghost of it. 

That's how he first finds you. 

Skin glistening under the warm lights, making you shine in his eyes. Your breasts exposed to a scandalous degree, your skirt hiked up so high, he sees the small stretch lines on your thighs. The sight makes his mouth water, literally. Such a wild thing, the sickly sweet scent of gasoline clinging to you, as you stretch on the little stool. A groan pushes past your lips, and he has to grip the doorway with his claws, to stop himself from pouncing. Even if he can't really do it, while you're in the safety of your workshop, he feels as if he'd be able to tear down any rules of ancient times, just to taste the nectar of your blood. 

Then you start humming. Some unknown tune from far away, long ago. Your voice dripping like molasses, filling his ears with something, he was sure damnation took away. You move around the workshop, tidying up after yourself, legs strong like an ancient tree. A tantalizing image of skin, muscle and a jiggly layer of fat, that makes him want to sink his teeth in, over and over again. 

Such temptation could not be ignored. Shouldn't be. It begged him to indulge, and who is he to deny the sweet embrace of sin? 

"A woman with a wrench is such an uncommon sight these days" he starts, and skillfully dodges the aforementioned wrench, as it flies towards his head. "Now hold on there, darlin'..."

You spin around like a storm cloud, heart jumping into your throat, at the unfamiliar, male voice. He stands in the shadows, just out of reach for the outside lamp, leaning on the workshop's door frame. His face is barely visible, but you notice the paleness of his wrists, peaking at you from his front pockets. A sillhouette of a banjo on his back, tied with a frayed string, that's digging into his chest.

The world becomes quiet around you. Not a night bird, not a cricket. Just you, and him, and the increasingly fast beating of your heart.

"Who are you?" you demand, and the suspicion in your voice lets him know, he'll have to work for it "What are you doing here?"

Raising his hands in a mockery of a friendly gesture, he takes a slow step backwards, offering space. Your shoulders don't relax, hand creeping towards the folds of your skirt, where you hide a kitchen knife. One, you've never had to use, but God help you, you will. 

"Apologies, darlin'. I didn't mean to startle you" he says, keeping his tone light, as if he's just an old friend, paying you a visit "I was walkin' down to the town, but I must've lost my way."

"Yeah, you must've." you eye him cautiously, the tartness of your voice making the corners of his mouth curl. 

"Best get back on the road then."

He laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck, as he swipes a look around the workplace. 

"I saw the lights, figured there might be some good folks up in 'ere" he comes even closer to the door, lingering just outside, his well worn out boots kicking at the pebbles. 

He makes a pitiful expression, as he looks up at you through his eyebrows, and for the first time, you can take a good look at his eyes. Blue, you think. But at the same time, strangely dark. It makes your eyebrows furrow, because despite your weariness, you can most certainly say, this stranger is a handsome one. With nicely toned arms, broad shoulders, and features that look warm in their softness, as well as dangerously sharp. 

You don't like it. This strange impasse, that's seized your muscles. Like a deer stuck in the crosshair of a predator, it makes your skin crawl, and your insides tighten. 

"No good folks here, just me." your voice is like a bell in his ears, slightly out of breath from all the work, and so, so dark. 

The stranger laughs, and the sound sends an onslaught of shivers up your spine. Your fingers twitch nervously.

"See now, I find that hard to believe" the lightness in his tone starts to get to you, slithering under your skin like a snake "Surely such a sweet darlin' has some good in 'er"

God dammit, the way his head tilts to the side, as if trying to coax this mystical goodness out of you, chips away at your defenses. Your brain wrestles with your natural, tart disposition, and the facts presented before you. Here he stands, a respectful distance away, his hands in view. You don't see any weapon on him, but you see the sweat clinging to his dark hair. You see the dirt on his clothes, under his fingernails, the labored breathing he tries to conceal. He seems harmless enough, but looks can be decieving, and you'll be damned if a soft smile and a twinkling eye will be your downfall.

"You a travelin' musician or somethin'?"

He laughs, in pure delight. As if the notion is something he'd never consider, but he loves it either way. His laugh makes your cheeks tingle with warmth, and you curse yourself for such a strong reaction. 

"Something like that..." he nods, eyes shining with mischief "I follow music 'ere I go."

With a defeated sigh, your shoulders slump, as you throw the dirty rag at the car.

"I'll get you some food and drink" you concede "Then, you can go on your merry way, yeah?"

"Yes Ma'am" he agrees immediately, his eyes following you, as you exit the workshop, sliding the door closed "D'you live here alone, darlin'?"

The question makes you remember the knife in your skirts, but you don't falter in your steps, as you make your way towards the front entrance to your house. It's not wise, running from a predator, if he indeed turns out to be one. 

"That's none of your business, is it?"

"Fair enough" he nods, walking behind you, teetering the line of being much too close for comfort "Though it's a curious thing, don't you agree? A woman of your young age, alone in the woods. No ring on your finger either..."

He knows you're not alone. He smelled the other woman, felt the lazy drag of blood through her veins a mile away. But you don't need to know that, nuh huh. 

Your right hand tightens into a fist on instinct, at his observation. Skipping the steps to the porch without an answer, you leave the door open for him. 

But he doesn't enter, stopping right at the entrance, his shoulder leaning on the painted door frame, mirroring his stance from before. You shoot him a questioning glance over your shoulder, and once again, he scratches the back of his neck with a sigh. Such a boyish, shy gesture. Or a camouflage. You're undecided yet. 

"Would be improper, to walk in without an invitation..." he explains, voice quiet, and almost timid. 

Something tugs at the back of your mind. The story your cousin told you just hours ago, rings out like a sermon between your ears, and gooseflesh erupts all across your arms. Stupid. Utterly stupid and impossible, and yet... Your shoulders jump up, and down, in a nonchalant shrug, before you disappear into the kitchen. No use pondering over demons. The night is scary enough without them, and strange men can be worse than all the ghouls combined. 

As soon, as you're out of sight, Remmick growls under his breath, finger scratching at the peeling paint on the entrance. He can smell you in the house, sweetness and musk, gasoline and cherry pie. Your heartbeat has calmed down significantly, but he knows, the cards he's been dealt are tricky to play. Good thing, he's a skilled gambler, and you've already extended a hand of hospitality. Already let him see a glimmer, of what's hidden under that hard shell. The sweetness of the fruit within, warmth like the sunlight he's been denied for so long. Your blood will be exquisite, he's sure of it. But before that...

There's a thrill like no other, when playing with one's food. 

"There you go" you announce, slipping out of the kitchen, your clothes in proper place this time, obscuring the sight of your bare skin from him "Water and food, for your journey"

His eyes trail over your body, before landing on the glass in your hand, along with a package, wrapped in cloth. Another smile graces his features, this time however, he looks less like a shy farm boy, and more like a pleased man. All skin, and bone, and muscle. The transformation is quite jarring, and you have to blink a couple of times, not allowing yourself to be distracted, by the gentle shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks. 

"Thank you, lass" he answers, taking the water first, and downing it all in one go, causing a small laugh to rip through your lips, almost despite yourself.

 "Forgive me, seems I'm more parched than I thought" he inclines his head, and you hand him the package. 

This time, his fingers run the length of your palm, sweaty and rough, as they retrieve the offering, and your mind goes to some very unsightly places. His eyes trail up slowly to your face, and you swear, you can see his pupils shining, just for a split second. 

Danger. The word climbs up your spine, takes root in your mind, as his tongue slips out to wet his chapped lips. Pink, and soft. 

Don't let the monsters in, your cousin's voice follows you. But she didn't mention anything about letting the monster stay a while, right at the threshold. She didn't mention the shivers you feel, prickling at your skin under his inquisitive gaze. And she sure as shit didn't mention, how your breathing gets slower, deeper, when you recognize that traitorous need in the depths of his eyes. 

It's been a while, since you've had a man, but you still remember, what it looks like, when you're wanted. When there's hunger crackling like fireworks between two people. And the hunger this stranger exudes, is nearly overwhelming, suffocating in the best way possible. 

Time to end this, cut the weeds out, before they overpower all rational thought.

"You should get on your way" you say, and shiver at the way his eyes snap to your lips, drinking in their shape as you speak. 

"Just one more thing..." he murmurs, low in his throat, so quiet, yet so unbelievably loud in the oppressive silence of the night. 

This time you're the one wetting your lips, preparing yourself for something, although you're not sure for what. The air feels sticky, smooth like honey, passing between you and him. An intimate sort of exchange, that slowly, but surely, melts your insides. Makes you feel a bit lighter, as if your cousin's spirit has invaded your usual hardness. 

Is this how it feels to be her? And if so, when will the first crash of thunder bring you down? Just like it brought her to the ground, again and again.

The man's eyes move back to yours, capturing your gaze and holding it hostage. 

"A cigarette for the road?" his words are a whisper now, and you feel ashamed, at how long it takes you to register his words. 

When you finally do, a single arch of your eyebrow makes his lips pull into a lazy smile. One that has no right working on you as much as it does. Alas...

"I saw you smoking in the workshop" he explains.

"...Ah..."

Your hand slips into your skirts, fingers brushing over the knife handle, and you take out a half empty pack. You offer it to him, and he reaches for the cigarette, his fingers sinfully elegant, as he presses it against his mouth, licking lightly at the tobacco. Something tightens low inside you at the movement of his pink tongue. 

He's good. You'll give him that. 

"I shall be off, then" he takes a slow step backwards, keeping his eyes on you, like he tries to pin you in place. "G'night, darlin'"

As soon as his boots hit the soft ground in front of your porch, your senses come back to you like a flood, as if some ancient spell has been lifted off your shoulders, and you straighten out with a sharp breath. 

You don't know what compels you. What wild, unfamiliar force beckons you, but before you can stop yourself, you're calling out to him.

"Stranger!"

He twirls on his heel, like a dancer on a stage.

"What's your name?"

"Remmick" he answers, voice carrying through the night. 

Then, he jumps up, dances a little jig that pushes clouds of dust into the air, and you can't help yourself. You laugh. A clear, honest sound, that surprises you in it's lightness. 

Remmick bows, turns around, and walks into the shadows of the woods, leaving an indent in the shape of his curved smile in your brain. 

"Remmick..." you repeat under your breath, before shaking your head at your own antics, and closing the door of your home.

The moon laughs at you as well, her light slipping into your room through a half open window. It's not a merry laugh however. It's a mournful, hopeless one, to which you are none the wiser, falling into dream-filled sleep. And as soon, as your eyelids close, as soon as your consciousness slips, a shadow rises from the earth, hanging over you like an executor's axe. 

***

You awake in the early morning, sweat clinging to your feverish skin, your hand squeezed tightly between your thighs. You don't remember what dream has put you in this state of mess, but your limbs shake as you stand up, your heart beating right out of your chest. It's a little disappointing, really, you think to yourself, as you wash off the slick from your thighs, that you've become reduced to this so easily. Surely not because of last night's visit. You're stronger than this. Stronger than some wanton virgin, who's never felt a man before. 

And yet, as you skip into the kitchen, and prepare for the day, you can't seem to shake the image of him from your brain. Like a sickness immune to all ointments, Remmick lingers under your skin, slithering and burning. 

Your cousin joins you downstairs some time later, lured out of bed by the smell of freshly baked goods.

"Whooo! Baby!" she sighs, taking in the kitchen, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes "You gonna sell these?" 

The sluggishness with which you turn to her, makes you realize just how distracted you've truly been. Ridiculous. You're being ridiculous, and for what?

"Yeah" you nod, wiping flour off your hands into your apron "Gonna head to town in a bit. Sure you gonna be alright on your own?" 

Your cousin rolls her eyes, and steals an apple from the fruit basket. 

"I'm not a lil' kid no more" she tells you, like she's reminding you of homework, and it's your turn to roll your eyes at her. 

Ain't you?, you wanna say, but you bite your tongue in time. She doesn't deserve your crudeness. So you cross the kitchen and peck her cheek affectionately. As if to make up for the thoughts, that are left unsaid.

"I know, I know. And you know where the shotgun is, in case trouble comes a knockin', yeah?" she nods once, with a resolute expression.

You recognize the irony in your words. Last night you practically invited a strange man into your home, just 'cause he smiled nice. In your stubborn refusal to admit your own transgression, you tell yourself, you'd shoot his ass to high heaven's, if he tried anything. Even if the notion rings hollow in your own brain. 

"What's on your mind, cuz?" 

Her voice drags you back to reality with harshness, and you take a sharp breath through your teeth. One, she immediately notices, her eyebrows scrunching into a frown. 

"Nothin'." a weak lie, a pathetic one, really "Just... Ghost and Goblins"

Concern melts into a teasing smile, as your cousin starts packing up the still steaming bread. 

"Ah..." she laughs, bright and airy "Some stranger in the night sunk his teeth into you?" 

For a moment you watch her expression carefully, trying to decipher if she knows, if she heard. Even if she sleeps long and hard, like the dead. All you can see on her face, is a smile of someone proud of her stories taking root. Relief and guilt mix in your gut, and you have to look away, before you crack. 

It doesn't matter. Nothing happened, and you'll never meet the smiling stranger again, so why do you feel so... What is it exactly that you're feeling? Disappointed? No, disappointment is for people like your cousin. For people who hope, who fly. Then what is it, biting at the back of your spine like a bloodsucking flea?

"I'll be back from town before you know it" your voice is quiet, dismissive, but she doesn't seem to hold it against you.

"Have fun" she calls after you. Then, silently, she adds "God knows you need it."

The road to town goes by smoothly, your truck jumping and bumping over stray stones. The bustle of the market welcomes you like an old friend, and just for a moment, you allow yourself to miss it. The people, filtering through the streets, laughing, talking, keeping friendly despite the underlying tensions in the air.

Your father would take you here often, while he was alive. He'd stand under the very same sign, you're lifting over your truck now, letting people come to him with business. You'd listen, like a diligent little student, soaking in the wisdom of the trade, helping him run books, count the money, catch conversations.

They all knew you here. From the very moment you've been old enough to stand on your own, you were part of something bigger, than just your family. Always your parents daughter, but so much more at the same time. And now... Now you're a ghost of your own choosing. Respected, liked even, but always on the outside, no longer part of something, but a welcomed guest nonetheless. 

Bread goes out first, then sweet rolls and pies. You've been slaving away in the kitchen since the break of dawn, but as the sunset comes closer, you'd be damned it it wasn't worth it. Soon enough, your purse is filled, and you're packing your stand back into the truck, arms burning from work. 

Wiping the sweat off your face, your neck, you make your way across the street, to the supplies store, where, as soon as the bell above rings, you're greeted by the owner. A woman, who could've been your peer, could've been a friend, if you were someone different. If you were your cousin, or at least, not a ghost.

"Look what the wind blew in." she leans on the counter, hair slipping out from under the scarf on her head "Haven't seen you in a while."

"You know me, always busy..." your eyes already scan the products, landing heavily on the prices.

She doesn't know you, though. You've never given her an opportunity to know you, and perhaps, that's why you always choose this shop. Perhaps, that's the only time you allow yourself to hope. That maybe this time, you'll be different, this time you'll let yourself be open. That's the reason you know, disappointment is for the hopeful. 

"You got some flour for me?" 

The shopkeeper nods, crosses the floor and jabs her foot into a couple of bags by the window.

"Got some milk too" she says "Hell, even some sugar, if you wanna"

To that you shake your head.

"I've got some sugar left still. And I'll pick up some eggs on the way back, from Ol' Johnson's farm"

A beat of silence.

"Oh? You haven't heard then?"

"Heard what?" you don't sound too interested, already pulling out a bunch of dollars and sliding them on the counter. 

The shopkeeper walks over to you slowly, a solemn expression on her face, and that finally gives you a pause. The sun paints the inside of the shop a deep orange color, your neck tingling with heat and sweat, hair sticking to your skin. 

"Ol' Johnson's dead. God rest his soul" the shopkeeper says, swiping a sign of the Cross over her heart, and you repeat the action, like it's second nature. 

Coldness seeps through you, a strange sort of feeling, like there's something more hidden in the revelation. Some terrible truth just waiting to bury you. You swallow thickly, trying to ground yourself. 

"What happened?"

Another moment of tension filled silence passes, as the shopkeeper takes a deep breath, eyes scrunching in sorrow. 

"His wife came back from her family down South. People said she found him, dead and burning in the morning sun."

Cold turns to freezing in your bones, brain working overtime under your skull.

"They burned him?" you ask, mindful not to sound too curious, too insensitive.

"Sheriff said they killed him first, mangled the poor man beyond recognition."

"Jesus...." you sigh, trying, and failing to push away an image of the old man's face, scorched and bloody. "What about his widow?" 

"She's staying at the Motel until they burry him. I think she'll head back South after, there ain't nothin' keeping her here anymore."

You nod solemnly at her words. A quick thought passes through you, a worry, where you'll get your eggs now. But you scold yourself hard in your mind for such heartlessness. This is not the time, nor the place for wondering about trivial matters. Not when a man's life has been snuffed out, and so brutally at that. 

"The funeral's tomorrow, if you care" the shopkeeper's words snap you back from your cold thoughts, and you realize, that yes, you do care "We'll have a small thing for him at the Joint"

"Yeah..." you speak before you have the time to think on it "I'll be there."

She helps you load your groceries into your truck, a comfortable silence settling between the two of you, and once again, you wish things would've been different. Instead, you thank her with a dollar bill, and start the car on the road back to your home, where you're not alone, but solitude still awaits. 

By the time you arrive, it's dark outside, the porch light guiding your steps. The house is quiet, your cousin asleep in her room, buried under heavy covers. You linger in her doorway for a moment, mind lost deep in thought, as you watch her peaceful form. Something tugs on your heart. Some undeniable feeling of sorrow, dragging your heart down to the wooden floors. 

What you're mourning, you're not sure. But it brings a tear to your eye nonetheless, and your feet carry you outside, into the peaceful darkness, the crisp evening air. There, you can finally breathe, you can let the tears flow easily, without worrying about your sorrow staining the warmth inside. 

Hands clutching your head, your shoulders shake in silent sobs, the heaviness, and the cold of today reaping it's spoils on your body. And you stay there, soil soaking up your tears greedily, until the steps of the porch creak loudly, tearing your heart straight from your chest. 

You shoot up, turning your whole body so fast, you nearly collide with one of the pillars supporting the roof over the porch. Hand wraps around the handle of the knife, perpetually hidden in your skirts. And then you see him.

"Heaven's you startle easy, darlin'" Remmick raises his hands, giving you a sympathetic smile. 

Here he sits, right at the porch step. The man you were sure you'd never see again, same clothes, same twinkle in his eye. He gazes at your tear stained face, with a calmness of someone who's seen more sadness, than you can comprehend. 

"The hell you doin' here?" you try to demand, but your voice is still too shaky, and your hand too weak, to hold the knife any longer. 

"Heard a bird sing in mourning" he answers, something warm slithering into his voice "Followed it's song all the way here."

You should be better than this. Stronger than this. Hell, you are stronger than this. But there's something so gentle in his presence, so different from the hunger you've felt the first time you've met. And your bones are tired, and your head is pounding, and God... 

Slowly, like a wild animal learning to trust, you sit back down on the porch, a safe distance from him. But nothing can shield you from the warmth of his body next to you. From the unexplainable sense of calm, that floods your veins with every breath you take. And the night is so quiet, not a noise around you...

"I could sing you a song" he starts, and you scoff at the notion, a wet, broken sound "Something that would lull your pain to rest..."

"I don't need cheerin' up" you cut him off, and he smiles in a way, that makes you feel exposed like a bleeding wound.

You look down at your hands, woman's hands marred with signs of hard work. No longer soft and gentle, but trembling and covered with callouses. You're proud of them, of every scar and blemish, and you wish they were clean at the same time. You wish they were made for holding silk instead. At least just for tonight, in the dead silence.

"No" he murmurs "No you don't"

His eyes meet yours, when you risk a look in his direction, and what you find, makes your heart feel light as a feather, and heavy as a stone at the same time. 

"Cheerin' doesn't bring anythin' for you, does it." he says it like it's a fact, like he knows you from within "You know the value of sufferin'."

God damn him, you think, new tears already stinging your eyes. He leans in, cold breath tickling your cheeks, and to your surprise, you don't run. You don't want to run. Not even a flinch passes you, when his fingers brush the stray hairs out your face, pushing the rest over your shoulder. 

A small hiccup rips through your throat, because you never want to be touched. Never, until now, until him. Any other boy from town would already have his neck scuffed, for even daring to get this close. But this stranger, this man, this...

"Remmick..." you whisper, something wet and broken in your tone, something you haven't heard since your mother's funeral.

He hums, deep in his chest, as if he's pleased you remember his name. As if somehow, in this state of brokenness, he's the most proud of you. Your head ducks on instinct, when he moves closer, taking a long whiff of your hair. 

"You know" he continues, low and intimate, his lips moving like the wings of a butterfly over your forehead "That tears can be sweeter, than any smile, any laughter.

Fingers pinch your chin, pulling your head up, until your glassy eyes meet his once again. For a moment, he searches your face, gaze drifting over your wet eyelashes, your trembling cheeks, your mouth opening and closing.

"Because tears are honest" he finishes, and a ragged sound of a gasp escapes through your teeth.

Your hand finds purchase on his chest, feeling the rough material of his shirt, the buttons hanging on a couple of flimsy threads. You could mend them for him, you could offer him food, drink, your bed, anything. If he'd only ask. 

But he doesn't. Instead, his large hand presses gently over the flushed skin of your cheekbone, thumb running gently under your eye, gathering saltiness as it goes. 

"Let me taste it, Sweetness" he whispers, pleading, his face leaning impossibly close "Let me taste your honesty."

His breath mingles with yours, and you can almost taste him on your tongue, so close, yet not close enough. Your fingers tighten on his chest, dragging the fabric beneath your nails, and finally he dips down. 

But before you can feel him fully, before he drinks you like communion wine, your cousin's voice rings out throughout the house.

Heart jumping into your throat, you nearly rip yourself away from him, the spell of his honeyed words gone as quick, as it appeared. You stumble back on your feet, flushed and confused, gaping at him like a fish out of water. Something flashes through his expression, quick like a band of wild horses, but you catch it, you always do.

Perhaps, just a trick of the lights, something insignificant and unreal. But just like your cousin's stories, it lingers. 

If tears are honest, then what do you call the sudden meanness in his eyes? The ghost of irritated anger, that pulls his mouth down, sets heavily over his brow? 

Danger, you brain supplies again, and as your cousin calls out your name again, dread climbs up your back. 

He repeats your name, so silent you can barely hear him, but even so, he looks victorious. Defeated, but victorious nonetheless, and your instincts kick in tenfold. The handle of the knife is cold in your grasp, a grounding weight against your hand. He doesn't move, just stares at you, expression of utter calm gracing his confusing features. 

Now that's how a proper predator looks like. Half hidden under the shadows, his mouth open and panting, as if tasting the lingering scent of you from air alone. There's no tension in his figure, only steady confidence. He's gotten your name, he's almost gotten your trust, your honesty. 

You wish you were stronger. You were taught to be stronger. 

The front door creaks open, and you turn to push your cousin back inside, scream at her to stay back, stay where it's warm, and safe. Where the darkness won't catch her. 

But just as she steps outside, her thin sleeping gown flowing around her form, your eyes flicker to the porch steps. And he's gone. 

Not a trace of the strange man, of Remmick. Only the moon and utter silence. 

"You're back" your cousin wraps her arms around your waist, tugging you inside "I fell asleep waitin', I'm sorry"

"No, I..." you try to respond, barely hearing your voice over the thundering sound of your own heart, eyes scanning the tree line, every shadow looking like him. 

"You good? You look like you've seen a ghost" 

Finally, she drags you over the threshold, closing the doors behind. 

"You've been cryin'?" 

"No it's just..." you swallow thickly, throat tight "Needed some fresh air, don't you worry your head about me"

Your cousin looks beyond skeptical, a strange reversal of your usual roles, but she doesn't push, God bless her soul. Instead, she kisses your forehead, wiping away the ghost of Remmicks lips, and at last, your shoulders relax. 

"You work too hard, y'know" she murmurs, sleep still clinging to her "It's not good for the nerves" 

You know exactly what's not good for your nerves, and it sure as shit isn't your work, but you can't say that. You can't reveal the true source of your frazzled state, if only to shield her from all the confusion. All the dread and longing, that's mixing dangerously in your gut. She's been through enough, and suddenly awave of fresh guilt crashes over you. 

Carelessness is a sin, you never thought you'd commit. Yet here you are. God forgive you, because you cannot do it yourself.

***

Leaving the window open is your continuous mistake. One, which Remmick uses generously. 

His body levitates in the cold air, unmoving like a hanged man's corpse, scraping his nails over the window frame. Stuck in perpetual stillness, the warmth of his breath fogs the glass. Two dots of red cut through the darkness, overpower the moon's cold light behind him. Like a shadow of death to come, his presence looms over your room, over your sleeping form.

You never sleep under covers. He noticed it a while back, when you didn't know him, when he still thought you were just a bag filled with blood. His for the taking, to sate his never ending thirst. 

Now, he sees the bag has arms, that curve elegantly over the pillow. He notices the smoothness of skin, the delicate slope of your neck, where your blood sings a hymn just for him. Such a sweet thing, the ripest of fruits, just waiting to be devoured. 

Later. 

He has to remind himself to be patient, no matter how hard the pull of your saccharine scent calls to him. He needs you pliant, he wants you at your fullest. He wants love dripping from your fingertips like a fountain. Just so he can lap it up like a hungry dog. 

For now, he satisfies himself with this image of you, splayed out on the covers. A ghost of a Babylonian queen, come to life in this abandoned neck of the woods. 

Remmick takes a deep breath, humming to himself, as your scent fills every pore of his damned body. Dark and heavy, sweet on his tongue. He closes his eyes, nose pressing into the glass, teeth biting into his lower lip. What sweet torture this is. Being so close, yet so far away. 

Makes the spoils all the more worth it, in the end.

***

Ol' Johnson was a good man. 

He never took more, than he needed. Greeted everyone with a smile and a story, told in a voice roughened by years of smoking cheap tobbaco. He helped you, when you couldn't bring yourself to call on anyone, and kept helping you, until you've learned to accept it. 

And now he's dead. And all you have to remember him by, are dwindling memories, and a glass of lukewarm whiskey in your hand. 

The funeral service was a miserable affair. His crying widow nearly drowned out the sounds of the sermon with her sobs, and your heart broke for the poor woman, who lost everything in one night. She didn't look at you, when you offered her condolences, and you couldn't blame her. Tear stained eyes stayed  fixed firmly on the wooden coffin, as they lowered her husband into the ground. And they didn't move an inch, when ground covered him forever. 

She's a good woman too. Kind in a natural way, that seems to spread warmth wherever she goes. Always willing to give more, than what's expected of her. Now, the burden of being warm falls on the shoulders of the town. And they all take the mantle in stride, holding her through her grief, offering her comfort, that can only be found in community. 

You don't fit in here anymore. Besides, who would want comfort from a ghost. 

So you linger at the back of the Joint, sipping whiskey through your teeth, trying to remind yourself, that solitude is what you chose. You chose safety, you chose your cousin, your family. You can't regret that, you're simply not allowed to. 

Soon enough, mourning of death becomes a celebration of life, as musicians take stage, and bodies filter onto the dance floor. Sweaty, greased with alcohol, and yearning for a moment of recklessness, they dance. And with every step, every twirl, every pull of the guitar strings, you feel Ol' Johnson's spirit. You feel every story, every helpful hand, every puff of cigarette smoke. 

You can't stay still. Despite your promises, your responsibilities, you can't let his memory fade into a sad song. So you abandon your glass, your lonesome seat at the table, and you join in dance. You dance like you've never danced before, heels stomping on the wooden floor, sweat dripping down your face like tears would've. The music swells, and swells without stopping, and you're not stopping either. Not until your legs are burning, and your breath gets stuck in your throat. 

Then, you're stumbling out the Joint, passing by the bouncer into the cold night's air. Where there's stars, and the endlessness of the skies. You want to keep dancing, even if your legs beg you to stop, even when you collide with the cool metal of your truck's door.

This is freedom. This is love. This is the only regret you have. 

Digging out the keys from your purse, you eyes catch something in the dark. Two shining points, deep ahead of you. Your blood boils under your skin, a familiar feeling, which you keep forgetting ever day. Because you know this sight, deep within your bones, it settled a long time ago, a memory of something so terrible, your mind had to protect you from it. Had to keep forgetting. It can't protect you now however, and as the familiar spell of curiosity roots you into place, Remmick steps out of the shadows. 

Moon paints his skin in glowing paleness, something otherworldly clinging to his every step. 

No knife will help you now, you realize, as your back presses further into the cold side of your truck. And no one on the Joint will hear you, should you call for help. That's the price you pay for being a ghost. Music still plays inside, a quick tune that borrows it's rhythm from your feverish heart. 

"You followin' me or somethin'?" voice cutting through the night, you feign confidence, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Such a flimsy shield, one he'd tear without even trying. But he stops, a safe distance from you, his palms raised high in a placating gesture you know too well. There's not a trace of that alarming meanness from the night before, a lazy smile gracing his features instead. 

"I told you" he starts, tone light and friendly, like before "I follow music, that's all"

God, you wish you could believe him.

"This here a Juke Joint?" he asks, and once again, suspicion rears it's ugly head in your gut. 

"Ain't you a traveling musician? You should know where to play" 

He laughs, sheepishly. Although you're more and more convinced, it's a wolf laughing underneath sheep's hide. You can't shake the image of his face, twisted in anger, the two red dots hanging in air, just where his eyes could've been. 

"Folks wouldn't let me in" he shrugs, and you notice the considerable lack of the guitar on his back "A private celebration I think."

"A wake." you cut swiftly.

"Ah..."

He doesn't ask who died. You would've found it strange, if you didn't know. You don't want to know, fighting that awful feeling of your guts churning in premonition. But you do, and despite that, you can't run. Still, after all the dots connecting in your mind, you can't run from him, his shining eyes and his curling smile. 

Remmick comes closer, measured step after another, as if he's approaching some feral little animal, thrashing in the hunter's binds. Or a killer, that's found an easy victim. Your blood runs cold in your veins, gooseflesh covering your skin. Still, he doesn't snap his jaws, not yet. 

"You dance mighty fine, darlin'." the comment doesn't even sound like a flirtation, just a pure, bare bones fact "Saw you through the window, twirlin' and stompin'."

He doesn't wait for your reply, reaching into the pocket of his trousers, and pulling out a cigarette case. You recognize the design despite the darkness, and your throat tightens, until you can't breathe properly. God forgive you, you've almost let a killer into your home. Would've let him into your heart, if he'd ask. 

"Where'd you get that?" there's a tremble in your voice, one, that puts an edge to his easygoing smile.

"My Daddy gave it to me, for the long road ahead."

Lies come like second nature to him, leaving his lips dripping with honey. Once again, he licks at the end of the cigarette, eyes flickering up to meet yours. 

"My friend had one exactly like that" you note, still trying to cling onto some semblance of hope.

Alas, hope only breeds disappointment, you know that too well.

A slender flame from the lighter flickers in his pupils, as he lights the cigarette, taking a long drag of smoke. 

"Maybe we've got the same Daddy" he muses, clouds of white slipping past his teeth.

You'd laugh, if you were light as a feather. 

Another drag of the cigarette, and Remmick closes the distance between the two of you, standing foot to foot. Your body fails you, at this crucial moment, because all you can do is watch him, eyes wide, stuck between pleading and anger. 

"What are you?" the question leaves you, before you can catch it, and the man before you sighs, shaking his head.

"Told ya'. Travellin' musician" 

Your mouth opens, but he's quicker, flicking the cigarette to the side, and grabbing ahold of the back of your neck. You grab at his wrist, but don't go any further. His hold is gentle, despite everything you'd anticipate, and he leans his head towards your ear, like a lover whispering a secret. 

"Shhh..." he shushes you quietly, cold breath tickling your feverish skin "I've already decided I'll help you."

Confusion overrides any rational feeling, and your hands slip to the coarse fabric of his well worn shirt. The buttons are still barely hanging, but now you'd rather be caught dead, than mend them. Hell, you probably will be. Something mean and dark rises in your throat, pushing past your teeth with a hiss of a venomous snake.

"I don't need savin- ah!" 

A small, surprised moan tears it's way through your throat, as Remmick runs his tongue over the delicate spot behind your ear. His fingers bury themselves into your hair, gently massaging it in a way, that is almost grotesquely delicate. You can feel his mouth, running the length of your jaw, up your cheek, where he presses delicate kisses. The tip of your nose is next, then the softness under your eyes, the wrinkle of conflicting emotions between your eyebrows. 

"C'mon darlin'." he whispers into your hairline "Won't you let this sinner in?"

Once again, he doesn't leave time for you to reply, diving down towards your lips, taking them into a slow kiss, that makes your insides flutter. You should hate yourself for the way you're not pushing him away, for the way you chase his mouth with your own, when he pulls back for just a second. 

You should hate him for everything, but most importantly for the moan he gives out, when his tongue slips into your mouth. Such a beautiful sound, it shakes every bone in your body, makes your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt.

He tastes of iron, an unmistakable bloody residue, but it's so sweet on your tongue, you can't seem to care. Like poison attacking your senses, you let yourself be carried away, mind going deliciously blank. His hand still continues to coax you with the gentle movements of his fingers in your hair. While the other takes it's fill of your body, warm palm pressing against your waist, your hip, pushing the silken dress up your thigh. 

Then it moves higher, until he's grasping at your heart through the plush flesh of your breast, and this time you're the one moaning. His thumb brushes over your hardening nipple, pulling another sound from you, like he's playing a fiddle.

Heat rises within you like the tide, every touch, every caress building up a storm of want. Soon, it doesn't matter anymore, that he's surely the monster from your cousin's stories, because he kisses like an angel. 

His mouth leaves yours, a sticky mess of saliva that should disgust you, but God, you've never tasted anything sweeter. Once more, he attaches himself to your neck, kissing it with fervor, broken sounds escaping him, like a starved dog feasting for the first time in months. His hand palms at your breast one last time, before reaching back, and soon enough you hear the click of your truck's door. 

There's no time for questions, for concern. Not when the need runs so deep, and begs to be satiated. He pushes your body inside, splays you out on the back seat, amongst old blankets and empty bags of flour. Your thighs fall apart, to accommodate him, when he climbs over your body, like he can't bear being away from it even for a second. 

"The door..." you pant out, against the hunger of his lips.

"No one will see us" he huffs into your shoulder, and the utmost certainty in his voice makes you believe him. 

This time it's your hands doing the massaging, as you grip the black strands of his hair, trying to bring him closer. Trying to morph the Devil himself into your body. He hikes your leg up, over his waist in response, and you can feel with damning clarity, his burning hardness pressing against the flimsy cotton of your underwear. 

You want him inside so bad, it's nearly breaking you apart. 

"Too damned sweet..." he murmurs into the running pulse of your neck, and your entire body freezes, when he teases the place with surprisingly sharp teeth.

"...no..." 

It's a quiet, barely audible whisper, but he straightens himself on his arms, hovering above you with a questioning look on his flushed face. 

"No biting..." you repeat, louder this time, your heaving chest brushing over his "No pain. I don't wanna hurt tonight."

A blink, a gasp, and Remmick morphs between your very eyes. His expression turns into something so gentle, so caring, you're sure a man like him shouldn't be able to look like that. He takes a deep breath through his mouth, a broken sound emanating from deep within his chest. And then, he kisses you again. Slow, intimate, until your head is spinning.

"The things you do to me, woman" he whispers into your mouth, and starts to crawl lower. 

His tongue laps at your collarbone, lips sucking into the skin of your sternum. Your body arches off the seat, as he dips into your cleavage, letting your breasts spill out the top of your dress. He kisses them, like they're more than just a body part. It feels sacred, feels like a prayer in a language you don't fully understand. 

Another series of kisses over the fabric covering your stomach, and soon enough, he's making a home for himself between your thighs. Your body starts to shake in anticipation, half lidded eyes following the movements of his dark haired head, as he leaves wet kisses on the inside of your thighs. 

"Christ Almighty..." he groans, as his thumb runs over the wet patch steadily forming on your underwear "Like Heaven's Gates opening for me"

Your hips buck in a stuttering motion, as he puts his mouth over the cotton, tongue lapping at the fabric in a promise of things to come. 

"Knew you'd be sweet" he comments, voice dipping down so low, you can feel it in your insides.

Then, your legs get thrown over his shoulders, and before you have time to adjust, he pushes your undergarments to the side, and nearly drowns his face in your cunt. 

The sound you make is nothing short of scandalous, as he begins to lap at you, greedily soaking in the very essence of your being. His tongue finds your clit faster, than any man before, and as his mouth close over the pulsing bundle of nerves, you throw your head back. 

He's good, so good in fact, that your stomach begins to tighten in seconds. Your hands flail at your sides, nails scraping over the backseat, over your dress, his scalp. You don't know what to do with your body, completely surrendering to the ancient magic, he pulls from you with every drag of his tongue.

And God, the sounds he makes. You've never met someone so vocal, so utterly devoted to drinking every last drop you have to offer. Soon enough, your thighs start to shake, the pressure building inside you reaching levels you never thought possible. And he doesn't stop, not even for a moment, licking, sucking, flicking his tongue until your voice becomes hoarse. 

"Remmick..." you mewl.

The sound of his name feels right, leaving your lips, feels like truth. Like that mythical honesty, he wanted to taste in your tears. 

His grip on your body tightens, and it's as if he's been possessed by some demon of desire. You can feel his face pressing closer, deeper into you, and that's the final straw. Stars erupt in your vision, as you come, hard and fast, earth shattering around you. Body nearly flying off the car seat, your breath gets punched out of your lungs with the force of the most delicious of sensations. 

Remmick seems almost reluctant to part with your cunt, licking at the swollen flesh, until your hand slaps him away, too sensitive for any more attention. His face is glistening in the pale moonlight, and his sinful tongue cleans everything with an almost inhuman groan. 

"You're heaven, mo ghrà" his voice breaks "You're sunlight incarnate"

There's devotion like nothing you've heard before in his tone, and if you weren't so completely wrecked, you would've blushed. Instead, you reach for him, and he obeys, coming back up, until you can kiss him again. 

His arms sneak around your waist, pulling you up into an embrace, and your boneless body let's him do what he likes. Let's him settle you into his lap, legs nestling on both sides of his thighs. Forever greedy, he ruts into your twitching core, and you're cruelly reminded about just how empty you feel. 

"You'll never be alone" he whispers, voice muffled by the skin of your chest "You'll never be forsaken, not while I walk this earth." 

Something in the way he says that, makes your spine tingle with a dreadful sort of shiver. But there's comfort in his words, enough of it, for you to throw caution to the wind, and reach for the button of his trousers with shaky hands. 

You'll worry later. For now, you want him to make you forget what worrying even looks like. 

And as if reading your thoughts, he obliges, pushing your hands away, to do the work himself. His trousers fall open, and he frees himself with a choked groan. His cock rests on your lower stomach, hot and ready, smearing drops of precum over your skin. Your muscles tighten in anticipation, hands squeezing his shoulders.

"My girl" he murmurs "My sweet girl, let me in"

All you can do, is nod. 

Remmick lifts you up, as if you weight nothing, positioning you just right, before he slowly lowers you onto him. Your combined groans fill the silence of the truck, as you stretch around him. He's gentle, letting you adjust before pushing into you a bit further, until he's buried to the hilt in your heat. His head falls back against the headboard, hands roaming your body. You can see the treacherous light in his eyes, now, finally a tangible truth, rather than a figment of your dreams.

It doesn't scare you though, nothing scares you now. Not when he fills you up so completely, you feel like you belong for the first time in years. This moment of stillness, of silence interrupted only by laboured breathing, doesn't last long. 

Nails digging into the bottom of your thighs, he rocks you in a steady, almost languid rhythm. You flutter around him, small gasps of pleasure leaving your lips, and that familiar pressure introduces itself once again. He speeds up, guiding your hips in an up and down motion, that soon makes your teeth clink together. 

"That's right... God in Heaven... So warm... Mmmmm..." his voice flows between murmurs, groans and whispers, every word making your insides twitch, making your eyes flutter.

 "Take me in... Good... Deeper..." 

You can feel him, pressing into your bones, nestling into the deepest parts of your soul, and with every ragged moan he breathes, something close to sweet affection blossoms inside you. Honey and milk, they drip from your fingertips, as you caress his face, contorted in a beautiful image of pleasure. You could love that face. You won't, but Heaven's above, you could. 

"Christ" he chokes out, hips bucking off the seat "My sweet girl, mo ghr- ah..."

The sound of his voice alone makes you come again, lighter, but no less pleasurable. And as you tighten around him, a choked sound leaves his throat. His arms encircle you whole, pushing himself so close, he might as well find home in your chest cavity. Soon, his movements stutter, face hidden in your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your hair, and with a last, decisive thrust, he spills himself inside you. 

Bodies covered in sweat, you both shake in each other's arms, for a small, blissful moment being completely alone, shielded from the world. Remmick holds you, like you're his only hope, mouthing gently at the skin of your throat, whispering things you barely comprehend. Prayers, that are marked by something ancient, older than the trees and the rivers. Worship, that flows like blood from a wound. 

"Thabharfainn fuil mo chroí dui..."

You want to whisper back, but there are no words, that could compare to his. So you do the next best thing, running your fingers through his hair, tracing circles into his back, mapping his features with delicate kisses. He basks in the affection, eyes fluttering closed, a familiar twitch of renewed desire stirring your insides. Your thumb brushes over his bottom lip, still wet with whatever mixture of fluids, and he parts his mouth under your touch. 

And that's when it all comes shattering down. 

Because hidden beneath the chapped softness, are teeth that don't belong to a human. Sharp, pointed angrily, perfect for tearing at flesh. 

Remmick hums in his throat, feeling the way your body seizes with dread, and as his eyes slowly open, you're met with another damning sight. 

Those aren't human eyes either. They shine at you, reflecting moonlight in a haze of red that makes your skin crawl. 

People who dare to hope, are the one's crushed by disappointment. How dare you forget that?

"It all makes sense now, doesn't it?" he asks in a low voice, all traces of gentleness gone in an instance "The nightly visits, the quiet in the woods..."

His finger traces a line from between your breasts, up to your bobbing throat.

"The pull you feel, even now." a slow roll of his hips makes you choke on air.

Remmick's smile turns cruel. There's no denying, what you're seeing, and it's no longer the man you almost could've loved. It's not a man at all, but a monster your cousin's stories warned you about. Things you believed to be impossible, come to life before your very eyes.

"What are you?" your voice breaks, and he smiles, as if the question has become some sort of a joke shared between the two of you. 

"How about I make you a deal?" 

You've never noticed, how sharp his nails are, not until they drag back down your throat. Gentle enough not to break skin, but brutal enough to leave imprints in their wake. 

"I'll race you back to your house, and if you get there first, I'll leave you two be."

Dread turns your blood into ice, and all you can do, is stare in shock, as Remmick lifts you off his lap. His cock slides out of you languidly, and for the first time, since you've met him, you feel disgust. At him, at yourself, at the whole waking world. 

He brushes your sweaty hair out of your forehead, claws dragging over your face as he does so. Then, a quick press of his lips to your temple, and you shiver in your spot. 

"Be quick" he instructs in a tone that is entirely too cheerful, before he shoots you a wink, and climbs out of the truck. 

Three seconds, that's all you need, before you realize the severity, the absolute hopelessness of your situation. And as you scramble to the passenger side of the truck, thighs sticky with evidence of your misplaced affection, all you can see is your cousin's smiling face. 

***

The door to your home slams against the wall, when you stumble inside, feet barely catching up with your panicked movements. 

You scream her name through the halls, pathetic and desperate. Silence greets you, not a sound to be heard, and as tears spring from your eyes, you sprint towards the stairs. You climb the steps, hunched over like a wild animal, adrenaline pushing your every movement. And then, with the entirety of your body weight, you slam into the door of your cousin's bedroom. 

You can smell the blood, before you see it. A stench so profound, you'll never be able to get rid of it. 

And then, a scene so terrifying, so profoundly heartbreaking unfolds before your very eyes. 

Remmick stands in the middle of the room, hands folded casually behind him. His jaw clenched tightly over your cousin's throat, her lifeless body half hanging from the bed. There's blood on the floor, on the walls, on the sheer dress she wore to bed. And then, red eyes find you. 

Your cousin's form falls onto the floor with a sickening, wet sound, as Remmick let's her go, licking her blood from his gums, his chin.

"Now I understand..." he claps his hands lightly, and once again, you can't move, frozen to your spot, eyes glued to the heap of fabric and flesh, that was once your family "Why you've kept her hidden, like a princess locked in a tower."

His boots leave bloody prints on the wooden floor, as he steps closer to you, crossing the bedroom in long strides. 

"There's no worse thing, than a cruel man. Not for a woman like her." 

You can't look away from her. Not even, when Remmick's hand covers the side of your face, his thumb brushing the underside of your jaw in a gentle caress.

"I can see it all now, y'know" he murmurs "All her memories are mine. I know what a bastard her husband was. It's no wonder she ran away."

Another step closer, and his other hand finds the softness of your stomach, sharp nails scratching gently over the delicate fabric of your rumpled dress. You can still feel him, a dull ache between your legs, a stickiness of your bodies joined together. 

What a damned fool you are.

"And you took care of her so loyally" he continues, a hint of admiration entering his words "Sacrificed so much... But not anymore."

Finally, you dare to look up, and he sighs in delight, as tears fall on your cheeks. 

"I promised you" a whisper, a cold breath against your skin "No more alone, no more forsaken"

His lips kiss away the saltiness, with gentleness so unbefitting his monstrous nature, it makes your breath lock itself in the column of your throat. 

"There's only love in your future, mo ghrà. Only love."

The bundle of fabric moves. A jerky sort of motion, and your eyes snap behind his back, as your cousin's hand jumps against the bloodied floorboards. Remmick let's you go without a fight, and you stumble on your feet, falling to your knees, next to the slowly awakening corpse of your cousin. 

Her name is a prayer on your lips. You're begging for the impossible, you're aware of that, but she moves nonetheless, lifting her face. 

"Hey cuz." she croaks, the wound in her throat moving as she speaks "It's all gonna be alright now."

It's a fate worse than death, seeing the unnatural, golden shine in her eyes. The monstrous, sharpened teeth peaking from behind her smiling lips. You reel back from her, vision blurry from all the tears. She follows you, on her fours, as if she's forgotten what it means to walk. 

"I know it's scary" she stands up, blood dripping from her dress, her mangled body "I was scared too. But now... Now it's all bliss. It's all love."

Your heart breaks into a million scattered pieces, dread and pain nearly knocking you off your feet. But you keep backing away, until you stop at the very top of the stairs, swaying in your sorrow. 

"You did so much for me" you cousin closes the distance, drool slipping out her mouth, mixing with crimson on her chin "Let me repay you, let me give you a better life."

It's only as she reaches for you, fingers digging into your shoulders, teeth bared and ready to bite, do you react. A sharp yell rips through your throat, and you don't think anymore, that primal instinct of survival taking root. The world becomes a mess of limbs and screams, and soon it all spins around you. Wood of the railing breaks under your weight, when your cousin slams you into it, blood of your blood sends you flying. Your fingers grip her nightgown in a death grip however, and the both of you crash to the floor below, with a thunderous crack, that carries through the entire house.

For a moment you can't breathe, your vision going black as night. Then, everything spins, but you don't feel any teeth, any claws. Just waves of pain crashing over your back. 

You will never forget the next sound. It will haunt you through your life, turn every dream into a nightmare. The broken, ragged intake of breath on your left.

"Cuz..." 

Your head turns, and there she is. The dreamer, the flying dove, her chest split open by a stray piece of wood, blood spilling out her mouth like a fountain. 

"...no..."

Despite the blinding pain in your back, you rise to your knees, falling over her, hands trembling and for the first time, you're at a loss. What can one do in this situation? How can you fix this?

"No, no, no, no" your cousin's body twitches, her eyes growing more and more glassy with every ticking second "Please, God... Help..."

But there's no God in this house, not anymore. He's been casted out, with your cousin's last breath, and so, as desperation shakes your being, you call out to the only other option. The only way that's in the cards for you, until you too leave this earth.

"Remmick, help me!" it's hypnotizing in it's irony, you calling out to him, begging him.

He stands behind you, watching your shaking shoulders. Watching those fascinating, calloused fingers rip out hairs from your scalp. He knows, somewhere deep inside his rotten, ancient heart, that he would help you. He'd come acrawling for just one word. 

He also knows, you've been crying over a corpse, as soon as wood pierced your cousin's heart. 

And so, he lingers, a silent statue in a house, that was once a home. Like a pillar of marble, devoid of guilt, of heartbreak, stirred to life only by the misplaced fondness for a woman, who dared to hope in his presence. 

Time ticks by, your sobs turning into heaving breaths, which soon fade, leaving silence in their wake. That's when he finally makes a move, bloodied soles of his boots dragging closer, until your abused back leans against his side. It's a small touch, but for him, it means more, than any before.

There's no more strength in you, no more fight. Like a block of clay, begging to be shaped into a masterpiece, you surrender.

And it's all he's ever wanted. So then why...?

"Leave this place" his voice sounds foreign, even to his own ears "Go far, far away. And live."

You don't even lift your head, don't look at him, but he knows you listen, he knows you understand. A brush of cold lips against the gentle curvature at the back of your neck. There's no shivers, but your heart stutters, that's all he needs.

"A gift for you, mo cuishle"

***

A month later you're standing on the platform, nails drumming anxiously on the leather surface of your baggage. 

You're going far away, like he's told you, leaving behind the town, Ol' Johnsons abandoned home, the shopkeeper's smile, and the ghosts haunting the small house in the middle of the woods. 

And life goes on. You find your place in a shop of your own, in the middle of a town, that's buzzing with life. You put your talents to good use, and soon, people remember your name. They wave at you as you pass, they visit your shop, and talk to you, as if you've lived here from childhood. 

You make friends, good ones, that last through thick and thin. And despite waking up every night, covered in sweat, with the haunting images of that fateful midnight flashing behind your eyes, you're happy. You find lightness in your step, in your mind. You cradle the community within your calloused palms, and let them cradle you in turn. 

So, when the new Juke Joint opens, you don't think twice, about letting your dearest friend, Pearline, drag you with her. For a night full of drinkin', dancin', and cheerin'.

[sylussys]

GUYS HEAR ME OUT hunger games au with caleb except it all goes downhill from the moment you get reaped for the games

this is such a random post help no because peeta in mockingjay i was like this is so caleb with ever ehhehddh here are just some thoughts :)

caleb, who has to be stopped from volunteering to go into the games alongside you when your name is reaped. in your district, it was almost certainly a death sentence, but at that moment he thinks he would rather die by your side, than live without you.

caleb, who makes you promise him that you will make it back to him. he can’t lose you, not like this. there are too many things unspoken between you, lost to the wind as he watches the train pull away from your district.

caleb, who can’t tear his eyes from the screen for even a single moment as he watches the clock count down. underneath his breath, he’s whispering for you to run — far away from what he knows is an inevitable bloodbath. he holds the necklace you gave him close to his heart, and prays he does not see you amongst the fallen.

caleb, who continues to watch the games closely at every waking minute, utterly unmoving from his spot. it’s as if he took his eyes off you, you would die. he grieves with you, when you are forced to take the life of an ally — but a part of him is relieved, you’re one person closer to victory.

but the path to victory is no easy road. you’re down to the final four — but you’re no extraordinary person, only having made it this far out of sheer luck, and you know you cannot beat any of the remaining three tributes in a fight. caleb thinks, you’re going to need a miracle.

you have only your brains to work with — so you pull a stunt. you take the gamble, and luck just happened to be on your side. you’ve definitely pissed off the capitol though, made them look like fools on live television. they had always craved a bloodied showdown, to showcase the true animalistic nature of the districts. but in that moment you didn’t care, except that you would be going home.

caleb, who finally lets go of the breath he had been holding, when they announce you the victor of the hunger games.

caleb, who is the first person to greet you the moment you step off the train back in your district. there’s no words left that needed to be spoken — you had kissed him right then and there. because everything you had done, was to get back to him.

but you are not able to celebrate for long. the fires of rebellion have been on the rise for the past years, and you’ve all but fanned the flames in your defiant little stunt.

caleb, whose very life is threatened, when the president pays you a visit — to fix what you have started. for the sake of the nation, and all the lives you value. you would not be quick to forget who truly holds all the power in this world.

caleb, who suggests running away with you. somewhere safe, where not a single soul could touch you. he paints a picture of a life found in fairytales and you can only laugh hopelessly — for such a place does not exist in this world. nowhere is safe from the capitol’s grasp, and you would forever have a target upon your back.

because when war descends, you stand with everything to lose. you are yet a lucky survivor again, in the bombed remains of your district, but it is only the beginning of the atrocities the capitol will commit — to destroy you, and everyone else among this rebellion.

they take caleb, pull his dying body from the wreckage before you can, leaving you with nothing but the necklace you had given to him all those years ago. and they’ll kill him over and over, until all you have left is only a memory of him.

you see his face on the grainy television screen back at the base, amongst the war propaganda spread by the capitol. you want to be relieved that he’s alive, but something’s changed. the eyes that stare at you through the screen are so empty, like an abyss that threatens to swallow you whole.

but caleb, who despite everything, holds out for you. his torturers continue to chip away at what remains of his memory and sanity — he’s long forgotten his own birthday, the feeling of the sun against his skin, but he hasn’t forgotten you. not ever. they wouldn’t take you from him again. he makes you his sole fixation.

caleb, who is finally rescued at last — except he is nothing like the caleb you once knew.

[cakypa120]

Brothers and sisters. Great words. Just not for those who have a brother and/or sister. Billy can speak from experience.

Mary:*holds Billy in a chokehold*

Freddy: Mary! Mary! Mary!

And even in their Champion forms, his dear sister and dear brother don't hesitate to hit him. Billy responds to these attacks, too. And in the end, you can see how the three heroes are clinging to a bunch of arms and legs. Biting, pinching and spitting. The usual.

Except the League thinks that the Captain is their father. And they see how he acts with them.

Junior:*flies laughing under his breath, thinking of something nasty*

Billy:*brother's senses activated*

He throws lightning at Junior, causing him to fall to the ground. As Billy later learned, Freddy wanted to steal Batman's batarangs and hide them in Marvel's room to frame the Captain in front of Batman. Everything would have been fine, but Superman witnessed the scene.

Batman witnessed Captain dragging Mary Marvel by the leg while her face was stuck in the floor. Flash watched as Marvel used Junior as a cannonball to knock down a flying villain. There were many other instances where the heroes saw Marvel abuse his "children." So they gathered and talked to Marvel.

Diana: Brother, the way you treat your children is inappropriate.

Billy: Children?

Barry: Yeah, man, Mary Marvel and Junior, don't play dumb. We figured it out.

Bruce: We want you to give us partial custody of the kids.

Billy: *looks at the League and smirks* Fine. I agree. I'll leave them in your care this weekend since I have some work to do and they won't be supervised.

Barry: What's so hard about babysitting?

A few hours later.

Barry: WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY TRYING TO OPEN A PORTAL TO HELL?!?!

Billy:*calmly sipping juice while playing poker with demons* How did you even get through to me?

Barry: It doesn't matter! ANSWER THE QUESTION!!!

Billy: They do that a lot. Check the ingredients, usually a sacrifice is required to open a portal.

Barry: What?! Nightwing is missing! And Kid Flash too! OH MY GOD!!

Billy: So they didn't get it right the first time. Bye. I have things to do.*hangs up phone*

Demon: You dumped Junior and Mary Marvel on them?

Billy: Yeah. I need a goddamn vacation. All in.

In a few minutes.

Hal: What do unicorns eat?!

Billy: Ambrosia, but you can give them candy. They like that. What happened?

Hal: Mary brought a unicorn to our base! She said you always told her not to bring a unicorn home! Why does that thing look like it came out of hell?!

Billy: Trust me, the unicorns from hell are much prettier than these. Don't let them bite you. The hallucinations are worse than drugs. Bye.

In a few more minutes.

Bruce: Captain. How long will you be gone?

Billy: *on the golf course with Black Adam* Uh, until Monday? I told you I'd leave them to you. If Junior is going to try to create a body for his dead brother again, tell him I forbid him to do so, the laws of magic forbid him to do so, and Kit himself forbids him to do so. Last time it was a mess of bones and flesh.

Bruce: What? No, that's not it. Mary Marvel has been staring at the wall for several minutes now, unmoving.

Billy: That's fine. She's just talking to the Gods.

Bruce: Gods? But which ones?

Billy: I don't know. Bye.

Adam: You dumped Mary and Freddy on them? Did you get them coins to swim across the river? I don't think they'll survive.

Billy: The supernova hasn't happened yet, so we're good.

Billy eventually shows up at the Watchtower, energized and strong. The League is silent as the hellfire burns in the center of the conference room, roasting a hellish boar.

Billy: Mm, barbecue. Why didn't you tell me? I could use some of the tears of sinners. Perfect for that kind of meat.

Barry: Cap, are these really your kids?

Billy: No, these are my older brother and sister. Thanks for looking after them.

He takes the boar and leaves, while the League looks on in mute horror.

[sowerpatch]

terms of play [chapter 12 - flagrant foul]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: When a photo of Paige and Azzi appears online, the threat of exposure forces Azzi to confront what she’s tried to avoid: her feelings, the risks, and the terms she set to stay in control.

Despite Paige’s heartfelt confession and willingness to fight for their relationship, Azzi chooses the other way.

The fallout leaves both women reeling. Paige in silence, Azzi through conversations that slowly challenge her decision.

Word count: 6,591

Fudd Holdings, San Francisco. September 2025.  

Azzi’s office held the pause that settled just after noon. Morning meetings had tapered off, her inbox thinned out, and her calendar was plotted in precise increments for the next several weeks.  

Yet she remained at her desk, posture composed, one elbow resting near her tablet while her fingers traced the metal edge without purpose. Her gaze hovered somewhere past the screen, thoughts already detached from the tasks in front of her. 

The buzz of her phone was soft against the wood. She glanced down, expecting a calendar alert or a board ping. 

James 

Azzi paused. He almost never texted. He was the type to call without warning, with his voice already halfway into a story before she even answered. A message from him was rare. Curiosity tugged her out of her concentration. 

She unlocked the screen and opened it. 

The image loaded slowly. A grainy shot, taken without care for angles or lighting. The alley outside the used bookstore on Valencia. Familiar to her now. She saw two figures, side by side, caught in soft motion.  

One was unmistakably Paige. The frame caught her half smiling, hair pulled low, a beanie slouched over her head.  

The other figure—blurred, hood drawn up, her face obscured by the tilt of her chin and the poor lighting—stood closer than expected.  

Their shoulders brushed. The intimacy of it read more clearly than any facial recognition algorithm could produce. 

It was them. 

James: u look good in sweats, lil sis. didn’t know they were in ur rotation. 

Azzi stared at the message, then at the photo again. Her fingers stayed on the edge of her screen, unmoving. She let the image linger for another breath before finally exhaling and pressing the phone icon. Her thumb hovered for half a second, just long enough to recompose the calm she wore like a uniform, then tapped the call. 

It rang twice. 

“You calling to confirm or deny?” James answered, voice already edged with amusement. 

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Where did you get that photo?” 

“Everywhere,” he said. “Instagram, Twitter, one of those thirsty fan accounts. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re just seeing it. Thought you’d have an alert set for anything involving your number one draft pick.” 

Azzi pushed her chair back, the leather catching softly beneath her. She stood and paced toward the windows, phone still at her ear. The sunlight hit her desk at an angle, gold streaks warming the otherwise cold lines of glass and steel. 

“I’ve been working,” she said, carefully. “Deadlines. The arena renovation proposal just got out of committee.” 

“Ah,” James replied. “So too busy to check if you’re going viral for soft-launching your personal life?” 

Azzi sighed as her eyes followed the skyline just beyond the glass. Her reflection hovered faintly in the window, a muted echo of composure she wasn’t entirely feeling. 

“You can barely see me,” she said. “The photo isn’t clear.” 

James let out a low chuckle. “I’m your big brother. You really think a grainy 160p photo is gonna fool me into thinking that’s not my little sister looking real damn comfortable next to Golden State’s Golden Girl?” 

Azzi drew her free hand across her brow, thumb and forefinger pressing briefly at her temples.  

She could still hear Paige’s laugh from that moment. The way their shoulders brushed, how easy it had felt to exist like that for once, just one of two women ducking into an alley after dinner. 

“Has anyone else sent it to you?” she asked, quieter this time. 

“You mean Mom?” James said. “She’s too busy posting about her herb garden.” 

Azzi breathed in through her nose, let it settle in her chest. “It’s not what it looks like.” 

James gave a short laugh. “Then tell me, what does it look like? Because all I see is my little sister stepping out of her glass tower for once. Hanging around an alleyway, at midnight, with someone who makes her laugh. I’ve never seen you do that before. Kinda looks like living to me.” 

The warmth in his voice softened something in her chest, even as her grip on the phone stayed firm. James had always known when to mock and when to mean it. Sometimes, like now, he managed both in the same sentence. 

Azzi sat back in her chair, posture precise but strained. The screen in front of her had long gone dark, her reflection barely visible in the glass. She stared down at her phone, James’s name still at the top of the screen, his words echoing louder than they should have. 

Her voice, when it came, was measured. “The public cannot find out about this. Whatever Paige and I are... it stays where it started. Away from cameras. Away from stories.” 

There was a pause on the line, the weight of familiarity and older-brother instinct building into something firmer. 

“You think I’d send that photo if anyone could tell it was you?” James said. “They don’t know. The internet’s busy guessing, but your name hasn’t come up. Just some mystery woman next to the WNBA’s golden girl. That’s all they’ve got.” 

Azzi exhaled through her nose, gaze fixed on the grain of her desk. “Let’s hope that’s all of it. I’ve allowed this to go further than it should have. It was supposed to be temporary. I can’t afford this kind of distraction, and neither can she.” 

“You’re not describing a distraction,” James said. “You’re describing something real and trying to make it sound disposable.” 

Azzi pressed her fingertips together. Her pulse thudded against her ribs. “It’s immature. All of it. Meeting in alleys, letting myself fall into something undefined with someone I’m supposed to be leading. I need to stop acting like—like this.” 

James’s voice shifted, less teasing now. “You built a life on precision, and it’s served you well. But somewhere along the line, you started thinking control meant cutting yourself off from feeling anything at all.” 

Azzi didn’t interrupt, but her expression hardened faintly. 

“I’ve seen you chase impossible deals. Risk ten times more on things you believed in,” James went on. “So don’t stand there pretending you don’t have the nerve to fall in love just because it came dressed like a headline. You’re allowed to live, Az. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s with the league’s favorite daughter.” 

His voice softened. “Especially if she looks at you like you’re hers.” 

Azzi closed her eyes for a moment. Her hand stayed on her desk, palm flat against the surface like it could anchor her. Nothing in her face gave it away, but in her chest, something had started to shift. 

Azzi rubbed a thumb along the edge of her desk, the tension beginning to loosen beneath her ribs.  

“You and Nika should start an alliance,” she said dryly, lifting her phone off speaker and bringing it to her ear. “You’d be unstoppable. Half interventions, half judgmental commentary.” 

James’s laughter rumbled through the line. “What can I say? You’re fun to gang up on. It’s rare we get a reaction out of you.” 

Her lips curved, just slightly. “Maybe you’re both too predictable.” 

“Maybe. But predictable is what makes us reliable. Unlike someone who skipped out on Mom and Dad’s anniversary dinner without so much as a voicemail.” 

Azzi winced, but she didn’t argue. She leaned back into her chair, letting her head rest against the leather with a sigh. “I was caught up in a project.” 

“Whatever that project is,” James said, voice softening just enough to be felt, “it better not be the reason you miss your niece’s birthday next month.” 

At that, Azzi smiled. It started small but lifted into something real. Her niece had a way of doing that, pulling warmth from her without trying. 

“She still wants that telescope?” Azzi asked. 

“She wants a galaxy projector, a telescope, and a trip to Saturn,” James said. “But more than that, she wants you there.” 

Azzi’s smile lingered. 

“I swear,” he added, mock dramatic now, “she looks up to you like you invented the moon. I asked if she wanted McDonald’s and she said, ‘Aunt Azzi never eats fast food.’ You’ve ruined my daughter’s life.” 

A soft, smug sound escaped Azzi. “She has taste. And standards. I take full credit.” 

“You would,” James muttered. “Anyway, expect an invite. And clear your damn schedule.” 

Azzi reached for her tablet, thumb swiping through her calendar. “Send it over. I’ll move some things.” 

“Good. Because we’re all expecting a plus one this year.” James paused. “Preferably tall, blonde, six-foot with a mean mid-range jumper.” 

- 

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. September 2025. 

The knock arrived faint and uneven, like hesitation disguised as courage. Azzi stood in the kitchen, her hand curved loosely around the base of a glass.  

The stemless bowl of it held more than wine. It held the weight of restraint. Her tablet sat dim beside her, notifications untouched.  

Azzi set the glass down. Her movements were deliberate, the kind born from years of managing fire with poise. She walked toward the door, pressed her fingers against the handle, and opened it. 

Paige stood beneath the dim lighting of the hallway, posture hunched beneath the hood of her sweatshirt. Her eyes struggled to meet Azzi’s. She didn’t speak. 

Azzi didn’t invite her in with words. She stepped back, leaving just enough space for a decision to be made. 

Paige entered with her hands tucked deep into her pockets. She looked around the condo as though she was trying to remember what calm felt like. The scent of rosemary and warm stone hovered in the air. The room was clean, minimal, the kind of place that had been curated for control. 

“I know you’re pissed,” Paige said, her voice low and edged with exhaustion. “I would be too.” 

Azzi returned to the kitchen and picked up her glass. Her thumb traced the rim instead. 

“I didn’t know anyone was watching,” Paige added. “I swear.” 

Azzi’s gaze stayed fixed. “They always are. Whether you know it or not.” 

Paige dropped her hood. Her hair was still damp at the ends. She looked like she had changed three times before showing up. “It’s just a photo. We weren’t doing anything.” 

Azzi held Paige’s gaze, steady and unyielding. Her voice carried the weight of everything unsaid. “We agreed on boundaries for a reason. These terms protect more than just our reputations. They protect us.”  

The concern beneath her firmness was unmistakable, a careful guard around something fragile. 

Paige’s hands tightened around the edge of her hoodie as if anchoring herself. “I understand that. But this photo—it’s just a shadow, blurred and distant. No one knows who I was with. No one will connect the dots.”  

She tried to infuse confidence into her words, but the edge of worry still lingered in her tone. 

“What if someone takes another picture? One where my face is unmistakable? What then?” Azzi’s question hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. Her eyes narrowed slightly, piercing through the attempt. 

Paige met her eyes with a quiet resolve. “It won’t happen again. We’ll be more careful. I promise. We’ll keep everything away from prying eyes.” 

A shadow passed over Azzi’s expression. Her disappointment was palpable, slipping through the cracks of her composed facade.  

“This situation could have been avoided if you had stuck to our terms from the beginning. Staying inside was not a suggestion. It was essential.” 

Paige lowered her gaze, the weight of responsibility pressing down. The defensiveness she had held faltered, leaving a raw honesty exposed. “I hear you. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” 

“It will not happen again because we need to stop seeing each other. That is the only way to protect what’s left.” Azzi’s eyes softened briefly before hardening with a resolve that tightened the space between them. Her voice was steady but carried the weight of finality. 

Paige’s heart pounded as panic surged through her veins. The thought of losing Azzi felt like a sudden emptiness clawing at her chest.  

“That’s not the answer,” she said, voice trembling with urgency. “Walking away won’t fix anything. We can be careful. We can make this work.” 

“Careful has already failed us. Every time we try, it pulls us closer to exposure. We cannot afford mistakes, not with everything on the line.” 

“What happens to us then? Is letting it go the only way? I’m ready to fight for this. For us.” The vulnerability beneath Paige's words pulled at everything inside her. 

Azzi looked away for a moment, the tension in her jaw betraying the struggle inside. “I want that too, more than you know. But desire does not erase reality. The risks are too great. Our worlds are too different. I cannot let either of us fall because of this.” 

“These terms are bullshit. They’re just a way for you to keep me at a distance. You’re scared. Afraid of what this could become.” Paige’s eyes burned with anger and frustration, refusing to back down. “You hide behind these rules because letting me in means losing control. But I’m not here to be locked away or silenced. I’m here because I want this, all of it” 

Azzi’s eyes narrowed as she held Paige’s gaze with steady intensity. “These were the terms you agreed to from the start. This is on you as much as it is on me. Since they’ve been broken, there is no reason to keep going.” 

Paige’s breath hitched, but she refused to retreat. 

“I agreed because it was the only way to have you. The only way I could hold you, kiss you, treat you like you deserve—to make you feel special.” Her voice softened, trembling with something raw and true.  “You’re worlds above me in every way, but I’d give everything just for a moment to be with you.” 

“Paige —” 

“No Azzi,” Paige shook her head, voice steady but charged with everything she had held back. “I love the moments we steal inside these walls, when it’s just us and the world feels smaller. Those times make me feel like I’m exactly where I belong. But there’s a part of me that aches for more. To take you out on dates where the whole world knows who you are to me. To hold your hand in public without glances or whispered questions. To shout from the rooftops how proud I am of the woman you are—not just the CEO, not just the rich woman everyone sees, but you. Azzi, the woman who laughs at my terrible jokes. The one who steals the blanket and denies it with a straight face. The one who hums under her breath when she thinks I’m asleep. The one who sends me reminders to drink water like I’m the one who needs taking care of, even though your entire world runs on your shoulders.” 

Her breath caught on the weight of it all, vulnerability spilling out in every word. “I see beyond the power suits and the empire you’ve built. I see the woman who hides her fears behind a steel mask, the woman I’ve fallen for completely.” 

The word landed harder than Azzi expected.  

Fallen. 

It struck something deep and unguarded, something she had spent years building layers around. Her breath stalled, caught somewhere between disbelief and a sudden, visceral ache that curled low in her stomach.  

She had been prepared for resistance, even for anger. But not this. Not Paige handing her something so raw, so real, like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing between them. 

She held herself still. Her spine locked into place, but her hands betrayed her, curling slightly at her sides. She felt the room shift around her, like the air had grown heavier, more difficult to stand beneath.  

That word echoed in her chest, threatening to unseat all the careful control she’d spent a lifetime mastering. 

She wanted to speak. To cut through the tension with something definitive, something clean. Instead, she found herself staring at Paige, heart thudding behind her ribs with a rhythm she could not slow. 

She saw it in her mind with sharp clarity—Paige, standing there with her whole heart exposed, offering something Azzi had convinced herself she never needed.  

A future.  

A risk.  

A possibility she hadn’t allowed herself to want. The part of her that spent years making brutal decisions, negotiating mergers, cutting losses and letting go, screamed to end this now before it grew into something irreversible. 

But beneath that instinct was another feeling. Softer, older, more honest.  

She wanted to be chosen like that. She wanted someone to look at her and still want her for who she was. The version stripped of position and power. 

Her voice, when it finally came, was low. “You shouldn’t have said that.” 

It was all she could manage. Anything else would have unraveled her. 

Paige stepped in, slow and certain, until barely a breath sat between them. Her hands stayed at her sides, but her eyes never left Azzi’s face. She could see the tension drawn tight across her expression, the effort it took to stay composed. Azzi looked like she was trying to hold up a wall with trembling arms. 

“I said it because it’s true,” Paige answered, voice low but steady. “And because you needed to hear it, whether you want to or not.” 

A slow tension climbed through Azzi’s chest, as if the truth in Paige’s words had pressed against a part of her she wasn’t ready to name. 

 

“You can try to scare it away. You can stand there and pretend it didn’t crack something open in you. But I’m not sorry I said it. I meant every word.” Paige whispered. 

Azzi’s shoulders sagged slightly as the weight pressed down on her. Her voice came out tight, fragile. “I can’t do this. You’re—” 

“I’m willing to risk everything for this because it’s not just about a secret kept behind closed doors. It’s about us—something real, something worth fighting for. Even if the world tries to keep us apart, I’ll stand by you. I already have.”  

Paige’s eyes locked onto Azzi’s with fierce determination, refusing to let her look away. 

“I love you.” 

“What?”

Paige reached out with deliberate care, her fingers brushing softly against Azzi’s cheek. The warmth of her touch seemed to steady the turmoil beneath Azzi’s composed exterior. For a moment, the world around them slipped away, leaving only the shared weight of their breath and the steady pulse of something fragile and real between them.  

Azzi’s eyes softened as she leaned into the contact, the tension loosening just enough to reveal the vulnerability she usually kept hidden.  

The unspoken promises hung heavy in the space they held together, a tether stronger than any words. Then the moment shifted, the reality of their situation pressing back in like a tide reclaiming the shore. 

“You don’t have to say anything back. I just want you to know how I feel and where I stand.” Paige’s eyes held steady, vulnerable yet unwavering. “That’s all.” 

Azzi’s breath caught as Paige’s words settled in a place she tried to keep locked away. She turned her gaze downward, feeling the weight of everything pressing against her chest. 

“I can’t say the same. I can’t. Sometimes feelings don’t matter when everything else is at stake.” 

When Azzi looked back, she let her fingers brushed a loose strand of Paige’s hair with a hesitant tenderness, a small touch that spoke more than her words.  

“I want this to mean something, but I’m scared it won’t keep us safe. I’m sorry, Paige.” 

- 

Nika’s condo, Oakland. September 2025.  

Azzi’s knock was hesitant, but firm enough to echo softly against the cool walls of Nika’s apartment. The door swung open before she could repeat the sound, revealing Nika standing framed by the warm glow of the living room. Her eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressed into a thin line of curiosity mixed with something sharper—an intuition that unsettled Azzi more than she expected. 

“You,” Nika said with a half-smile, stepping aside without waiting for an invitation. “I was wondering when you’d show up.” 

Azzi stepped in, the faint scent of rain still clinging to her coat. The apartment felt both lived-in and calm, a refuge from the chaos she carried inside. She paused by the doorway, collecting the heaviness that weighed down her shoulders.  

“There’s been a photo,” she said, her voice low and brittle. 

Nika’s expression softened, the sharp edges fading into something warmer but no less serious. “I saw it online this morning. You don’t exactly live in the shadows, but I guess some things find a way to catch up no matter what.” 

Azzi eased down onto the worn leather sofa, the familiar texture grounding her amid the restless swirl of thoughts. She let out a slow breath, her fingers tracing the grain of the armrest as if searching for solid footing. 

“I tried to calculate everything, every risk, every move. I never thought being careful would not be enough.” Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the strain beneath the surface. “I thought if we stuck to the terms, if Paige and I stayed grounded, we could keep it all hidden.” 

She looked up, eyes searching Nika’s face for judgment or disappointment but finding only steady understanding. “But the photo, someone saw us. And now everything feels unraveling. I feel like I am losing control and I do not know how to fix it.” 

Nika moved closer and settled beside Azzi on the sofa, her hand reaching out to pull her into a gentle hug. The warmth of the embrace was steady, a soft anchor in the storm of Azzi’s unraveling thoughts. 

“I could say I told you so, but that wouldn’t help right now.” Her smile was fleeting, fading as her eyes settled on Azzi with steady care. “It’s alright to fall apart. You don’t have to hold everything inside. You’re allowed to crash, to feel broken sometimes. That doesn’t make you any less strong.” 

Azzi’s breath caught, the carefully guarded walls around her emotions beginning to crumble in that moment. 

“You have me,” Nika continued, her eyes locking with Azzi’s. “And you have more people in your corner than you realize.” 

“You don’t have to be nice to me for a raise.” Azzi tried to joke.  

Nika let out a soft snort, shaking her head as she leaned back just enough to see Azzi’s face.  

“Please. I’m getting a raise whether I’m nice to you or not.” Her grin was crooked, but her tone was clear and even. “But I’m not saying this because I want something from you. I’m saying it because it’s true.” 

Azzi’s eyes lowered, jaw tight, as if accepting kindness demanded more strength than holding the world on her shoulders. 

“You’re so locked in—work, Paige, keeping everything airtight—that you miss what’s right in front of you. You’re not alone in this. You never were.” Nika kept her voice even, but her gaze pressed in, steady and sure.  

“Ines has been holding that schedule of yours like it's classified military intel. She’s been screening calls and dodging press better than most publicists I’ve met. That’s loyalty. She’s not there because it’s a paycheck. She’s there because she believes in you.” 

Something in Azzi shifted in the lines of her expression.  

Nika went on, calm and certain. “Your team at Fudd Holdings? The people in that company would walk through fire if you asked them. Half of them already have. They don’t speak to you like a boss because they’re afraid. They do it because they respect you. Deeply.” 

Nika paused, her voice dropping into something quieter, more certain. “And the Valkyries… you think they’re waiting for a reason to question you, but they’re not. Some of them put the pieces together, I’m sure. But they kept it to themselves. Because they know who you are. You didn’t build that team on ego or impulse. You drafted Paige because she’s the best guard available, because you want banners on the wall, not headlines in the tabloids. They respect that. They respect you.” 

Azzi’s shoulders slumped. The weight hadn’t lifted, but Nika’s words carved out enough space to breathe. The kind of space she hadn’t allowed herself in weeks. 

Nika held her close, arms wrapped around Azzi with the kind of steadiness that never asked for permission. She stayed, anchoring Azzi in a moment that allowed her to let go just enough. 

Azzi leaned into it, her cheek brushing Nika’s shoulder as her voice came in a low, strained breath. “She said she loves me.” 

The words sat between them, fragile but heavy. Nika tightened her hold slightly. 

“We talked earlier,” Azzi continued, the edges of her composure softening. “It caught me off guard. I’ve spent so much time trying to keep this under control, trying to keep her from getting too close. But then she says that, and suddenly everything I’ve been holding back crashes in.” 

Her throat worked around the next part. “I didn’t know how to stay. I’ve never known what to do with something that feels that real. So I did the only thing I could. I told her we had to stop.” 

She pulled back just enough to see Nika’s face, her own expression unguarded. “I thought it would protect us. That if I ended it, I could keep us safe from the fallout. But all it did was leave me standing there, feeling like I just stepped out of something I might never find again.” 

Nika studied her, the way only someone who had seen Azzi in every version of herself could. 

"Az, you’re not bulletproof. You never were. You just got real good at pretending to be.” 

She reached for Azzi’s hand and held it between both of hers. 

“You didn’t lose your grip. You let yourself feel something, and now it scares the hell out of you. That’s not failure. That’s human. And you’re allowed to be that. Even if you don’t know what to do next. Even if you think you messed it up.” 

Azzi’s breath caught, her shoulders lifting in a futile attempt to keep it together, but the weight had been pressing in too long. Her face folded as the first tear broke past her defenses, then another. She leaned forward, eyes glassed and unfocused, like the ground had been slipping beneath her for weeks and only now had she looked down. 

Her voice cracked, raw and barely audible. “I don’t know what to do anymore.” 

“Just cry and let it all out, babe.”  

- 

Chase Center Arena, San Francisco. September 2025. 

The room hummed with anticipation, reporters pressing forward beneath the harsh glare of cameras and bright lights. Paige sat at the head of the table. Questions about the game came swiftly, voices overlapping with excitement and urgency. 

Then a sharp voice cut through the noise.  

“Paige, there’s been a photo circulating online that has caught everyone’s attention. Can you tell us who the other person is?” 

Paige’s breath faltered for a moment, but her expression stayed composed.  

She met the questioner’s gaze directly, voice steady and calm. “I appreciate the interest, but I’m here to talk about the team’s success and the hard work behind it. My focus remains on the game and the players who made this win possible.” 

A few murmurs rippled through the crowd as cameras clicked rapidly.

Another reporter pressed, “Is it someone we know? Or someone connected to the team?” 

Paige’s lips curved into a polite, guarded smile. “I’m not at liberty to discuss personal matters. Right now, the priority is celebrating what we’ve achieved together.” 

She took a breath, then added with genuine warmth, “But let me have this opportunity to say that she’s an amazing person. The world is lucky to have her grace us with her presence. So I hope the media and everyone can respect her privacy. She deserves that much—just to be seen as a person, not a headline.” Her voice carried a quiet but firm resolve, grounding her words in both care and conviction. 

- 

Golden State Valkyries Charity Gala, San Francisco. September 2025. 

The convention center buzzed with muted excitement, a flowing crowd of elegant guests beneath crystal chandeliers. Azzi moved through the room with deliberate grace, her luxurious black dress sculpting her figure with quiet power. Every step felt like a careful performance, one she could not afford to falter in. 

Across the room, Paige stood among the Valkyries, her tailored suit sharp against the sea of gowns and tuxedos. She laughed with her teammates, but her eyes betrayed a restless focus, drifting toward the entrance, searching for Azzi. 

When Azzi caught sight of Paige, the familiar pull inside her tightened, a mixture of longing and hesitation she kept carefully locked away.  

The press swarmed around them, filling the space with flashing cameras and intrusive questions, but neither could look away. 

Azzi answered inquiries about her business ventures with measured calm, though each word felt distant. Her thoughts kept returning to Paige’s poised figure, the way she carried herself with an ease that both unsettled and captivated her. 

Paige kept her attention on her team, though the tension coiled beneath her skin. Every time her eyes met Azzi’s across the crowded room, a silent conversation passed between them. 

- 

Paige’s apartment, Oakland. September 2025. 

The television screen glowed blue across the walls, a paused replay of their last home game frozen in place. Paige lay across the couch, one leg draped over the armrest, the other bent at the knee. Her socks were mismatched. 

Her phone rested on her chest. Every few minutes, she picked it up and stared at the same screen.  

Azzi’s contact hovered near the top of her recents, untouched since the night they ended things. 

Paige tapped the message box. Her thumbs hesitated. 

I miss you. 

She stared at it. Too simple. Too soft.  

She deleted it. 

Typed again. 

I still wear your stupid expensive hoodie. I don’t know why. It smells like you, and I think that makes me feel worse. 

Delete. 

She tried something else. 

You made me feel seen, even when you were pushing me away. I know you think you’re protecting me. But you’re not. You’re just protecting the version of yourself that never learned how to stay. 

Her hand dropped to her stomach. She exhaled slowly, eyes stinging. The message sat there, waiting for her to commit. She didn’t move. 

Her thumb hovered, trembling slightly. Then she erased the entire thing. 

She set the phone face down on the couch beside her and stared at the ceiling. Her hand rested over her ribs, right where the ache sat thickest. The city outside kept moving, streetlights flaring against the walls, cars groaning past. But inside, everything stilled into something tight and quiet and sore. 

After a while, she reached for the phone again.  

No new messages.  

She opened their thread. It looked untouched, but the weight behind each message pressed back at her like pressure behind glass. 

She started typing again. 

I wish you’d let me fight for you. 

She let the cursor blink. 

And then she deleted it too. 

- 

Fudd Private Estate, Northern California. September 2025.  

The gates of the Fudd estate closed behind her with a low hum, but Azzi remained still in the back seat, her eyes fixed on the gravel drive ahead.  

The car rolled forward slowly, trees arching overhead, their summer leaves shifting in a breeze that made her eyelids heavier. Sleep tugged at her like a weight around her ribs. She had not given into it all week. 

The house stood as it always had—elegant, composed, unchanging. But as she stepped out of the car, her reflection in the side mirror gave her pause. She adjusted the collar of her coat, though it had already fallen into place. The gesture was less about neatness than control. 

Inside, the scent of roasted garlic and fresh herbs greeted her. Her mother always cooked on Sundays. Even when she didn’t expect guests. The dining room doors were open, letting in the early afternoon light that spilled in sharp angles across the table. 

Her mother looked up from where she was placing a serving dish down. Surprise flickered across her features, then gave way to concern as she looked Azzi over. 

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” she said, taking in her daughter’s drawn face, the shadows beneath her eyes. “Or maybe ten.” 

Azzi kissed her cheek lightly before sitting at the far end of the table. “I’ve been working,” she said. She unfolded her napkin with slow precision, focusing on the motion instead of her mother’s expression. 

“I can see that.” Her mother sat across from her, one brow arched. “The work must be tremendous to strip you down like this.” 

Azzi gave a small shrug and reached for the water. “Tremendous is one word for it.” 

They ate for a few minutes in the kind of calm that came with practiced familiarity. Forks against porcelain. The soft clink of glass. Her mother watched her with the kind of attention that made evasion impossible. 

“You used to come here to rest,” she said, her voice low but certain. “But you look more tired than when you left the city. This kind of pace only serves the fire until it burns you with it.” 

Azzi chewed, swallowed, and reached for a piece of bread she wasn’t sure she wanted. “It’s just work.” 

Her mother gave her a look that said she knew better but would wait for the truth to come on its own. “Then let work stay outside these walls. You came home for a reason. Even if you don’t want to say it yet.” 

Azzi toyed with the edge of her napkin, folding it once, then again, pressing the seam with a steady hand that felt anything but steady. Across from her, her mother waited. Her silence held no pressure, only the kind of calm that invited honesty without demanding it. 

Azzi stared down at her plate, then pushed it slightly away. Her appetite had vanished, if it had ever been there at all. She drew a slow breath and spoke, her voice level but threaded with something fragile. 

“I met someone.” 

Her mother stayed still, but Azzi caught the way her gaze sharpened with focus, a quiet shift that said she was listening more closely now. 

“She’s loud. She talks with her whole body and never waits to be invited into a room. She eats like she’s got three games a day, leaves her shoes wherever she kicks them off, and has an opinion about everything, even the things that don’t concern her.” 

A pause. 

“She is everything I am not.” 

Azzi’s mouth twisted slightly, but there was a softness behind it. The memory of something recent. 

“I tried to keep my distance. I thought she’d eventually get bored, that she’d lose interest in someone who reads the market before breakfast and keeps her life on a spreadsheet. But she didn’t leave. She kept showing up. In her own way. Loud, stubborn, and always smiling like she knew some secret I hadn’t figured out yet.” 

Her hand dropped to the table. 

“She’s the chaos in my structure. And somehow, instead of pushing me over the edge, she makes the fall feel manageable.” 

Her eyes lifted to her mother’s, quieter now, not with defeat but with truth. 

“She pulls me into this world I’ve never had room for. I keep resisting it, stepping back when it feels too far from what I know. But then she says something or laughs or looks at me like I matter more than all of it, and I feel still. I feel calm in a way that terrifies me, because it doesn’t make sense. Nothing about her should feel safe, but she does.” 

Her mother leaned back in her chair, watching her with the same patience she used to show when Azzi was a girl unraveling her shoelaces in frustration. Her voice came steady and warm. 

“What’s wrong with meeting someone like that?” she asked, chin tilted slightly, eyes knowing. 

Azzi’s jaw tensed. She looked down at her hands, fingers laced too tightly together. “She plays for my team. That alone is a big complication.” 

Her mother’s brow lifted, a slow grin creeping across her face. “The LGBTQ team?” 

Azzi huffed, the sound sharp but laced with something unwillingly amused. She dragged a hand down her face, not hiding the eye-roll that followed. “You’re impossible.” 

“I’m hilarious,” her mother replied, reaching for her tea with the poise of someone deeply pleased with herself. “And I just want to see my daughter laugh. You don’t do that enough these days.” 

Azzi pressed her thumb to the edge of her plate. She looked up slowly, the hint of a smile forming, not quite reaching full strength but trying. “It’s not that simple.” 

“I didn’t say it was. But love never is. Doesn’t mean it’s not worth the mess.” 

“You do realize how inappropriate it is to suggest having myself involved with someone under contract with my organization?” 

“Darling, she’s an athlete. You own the team. You’re not exactly her shift supervisor.” 

“I drafted her. I fund her salary. My signature is on half her contracts. And my last name is printed on everything the team wears. That counts.” 

Her mother sipped her tea with maddening calm. “You’re saying you’re afraid people will think she’s only playing for you because you like the way she looks in shorts.” 

Azzi’s sigh was audible. “I’m saying the optics are complicated.” 

“That’s not what you’re saying.” Her mother’s lips curled. “You’re saying you care about her, and that scares the hell out of you. So you’re clinging to technicalities like they’re policy manuals.” 

Azzi glanced away, jaw tightening. “My position requires everything to be responsible, professional, and calculated.” 

Her mother leaned forward slightly, tone gentler now. “Let me ask you something, my darling. When you look at this girl, when you see her name in your emails or schedule, or walk into a room and find her already there… do you feel steadier, or more lost?” 

Azzi's throat constricted. Her breath stuck somewhere in the middle.  

She hadn’t expected the question to land where it did. It wasn’t about rules or reputations, contracts or careers.  

It was personal. Painfully so. 

Her mother smiled, the kind of smile that came from watching your child fight the same wars you once did. “Sometimes the point isn’t to feel in control. Sometimes it’s to feel seen. You have every tool in the world to build distance, but what happens when someone finally closes it, and you don’t hate how it feels?” 

Azzi’s posture faltered, her shoulders curving inward like the words had taken the wind out of her spine. Her voice came out thinner than she liked. “It feels like a risk I don’t know how to take.” 

Her mother set her cup down with careful precision, then met Azzi’s eyes with quiet certainty. “You’ve mastered everything except letting yourself be known. At some point, you have to ask if protecting the life you’ve built is worth missing out on the one that could make you feel alive.” 

[pitlanepeach]

White Mercedes | Chapter Fourteen

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault.

Notes — Oscar Piastri the man that you are...

Feed the writer with your reactions/thoughts/feelings!<3

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The silence in the room was thick—real and heavy, like fog that clung to the skin.

Ana sat on the edge of the sofa, knees drawn up, hands fisted in the sleeves of her hoodie. The soft ticking of the clock marked the seconds between breaths. Toto stood by the fireplace, unmoving. Susie sat across from her, a mug of tea cooling in her lap.

No one said anything for a while.

She’d expected immediate yelling. A lecture. Maybe a slammed door. But instead, there was only this quiet—suffocating in its stillness.

Toto finally spoke, his voice low and deliberate, like he was weighing every syllable. “I would like to know what has been going on, Ana. All of it.”

Ana swallowed. Her throat was dry, and her palms were damp, but her bones felt cold.

She’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times. In bathrooms. In rehab. On long walks where she spoke the truth to no one. She’d cried through it. Laughed once. But none of those versions felt anything like this.

“I need you to promise,” she said, voice thin, “that you won’t hate me.”

Toto looked at her for a long time. “You are my daughter. I could never hate you.”

Her stomach twisted.

She looked down at her sleeve and picked at a loose thread. “I lied,” she said.

Neither of them moved. She almost wished they would—flinch, blink, something.

“I’m not a year sober,” she said quietly. “It’s… only been eight months. Nine on Wednesday.”

Susie exhaled softly, but still said nothing.

“There were relapses,” Ana went on. “Two of them. One was at two months. I thought I could manage a glass of champagne at a dinner party. But it turned into three shots of vodka in the bathroom before dessert. And then I found a gram in an old coat.”

Her chest ached—not from the shame, but from how easy it had been.

Toto sat down slowly across from her, elbows on his knees. His expression was unreadable.

“The second time was worse,” Ana said, voice wobbling. “Four months in. I was alone. You were both in England. I had a panic attack, and I didn’t call anyone. I called my old dealer instead. He brought me everything I needed.” She paused, then lowered her voice further. “That’s when I needed stitches. I told you I fell down the stairs.”

Susie’s hands tightened around her mug, but she didn’t speak.

“I blacked out,” Ana whispered. “Smashed a glass. Woke up on the bathroom floor. There was blood everywhere. I’d cut my head somehow—I don’t even remember how. I called Lewis because I knew he was in Monaco; he’d posted something on Instagram.”

Toto leaned back slowly. Still silent. Still listening.

“I was so scared you’d give up on me,” she whispered. “That you’d be ashamed of me. That maybe you wouldn’t let me see Jack anymore because I was a liability again. And I don’t think I could’ve survived that.”

The silence stretched, unbearably long.

When Toto finally spoke, it was quiet. “I would never be ashamed of you. But I will always be disappointed when you lie.”

She nodded, throat thick. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You could have died, Ana,” Susie said softly.

“I know.”

“You almost did,” she added, voice trembling. “So many times, honey.”

“I know.” She sniffled.

Susie placed her mug carefully on the table, then reached across to take Ana’s hand. Her palm was warm. Steady.

Toto watched them, his eyes searching her face. “Who is this… Lucian?”

Ana blinked. “He’s… Jules’ brother.”

“And what does he do?”

She hesitated.

She could lie. Say nightclub. Say private venue. Say anything but the truth. But hadn’t that been the problem?

“He owns a club,” she said. “A private one. Here in Monaco.”

Toto’s brow lifted. “A nightclub?”

“Not exactly.” Her stomach turned. Her cheeks flushed. The room felt warmer. “It’s… um. It’s an adult club.”

Silence.

Heavy. Unblinking.

Ana could feel her father’s stare.

Susie tilted her head slightly, face unreadable—but not unkind.

“I know how that sounds,” Ana said quickly. “But it’s not seedy or dangerous. It’s… incredibly safe. There are rules. No drugs. Everyone’s vetted. Lucian’s scary strict about safety.”

“And that’s where you’ve been spending your time?” Toto asked, slowly.

She nodded. “Sometimes. It’s called Valhalla.”

Toto closed his eyes. “Of course it is.”

Ana groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Please don’t make it worse.”

“I’m trying not to,” he said tightly. “But it’s proving difficult.”

“I don’t drink there,” she said. “Ever. And Lucian keeps an eye on me. Jules too. He doesn’t let anyone near us if they’re a problem. It’s one of the only places where I feel like I can actually breathe.”

Susie’s lips tightened into a line.

Toto looked at her again. “And… Piastri?”

Her heart fluttered. Ana looked down. “We met there. At Valhalla.”

“I see.”

“He wasn’t—Lucian knew him. Thought we might get along, so he introduced us. And I recognised him, obviously, but—he didn’t recognise me. Didn’t know who I was. Didn’t know how damaged I was. How terrible I’d been…” She trailed off, throat closing. “I hated lying to him,” she said. “But I thought—I didn’t think I deserved the way I felt around him. That happiness.”

Susie’s eyes were glassy now.

Ana’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s so… kind.”

Toto let out a breath. “You care for him.”

“I do.”

“And he knows everything?”

“Yes. Now he does. I told him last night.”

Toto raised an eyebrow. “And he was kind to you? He acted like a man?”

Ana nodded. “Yes, papa.”

He didn’t speak. Not for a long time.

When she finally looked up, she braced for anger. Or disappointment. Or distance.

But Toto only looked tired. A little sad.

“You are still learning how to live in your own skin,” he said at last. “And that’s hard. Harder than most people understand.”

Ana’s throat tightened.

“But I will always want you safe,” he added. “Even when you push me away. Even when you lie.”

“I don’t want to lie anymore,” she said, voice breaking.

“Then don’t,” he said firmly. “Start here. Start now.”

She nodded. Swallowed hard.

“I’ll try,” she said. “I am trying.”

Susie squeezed her hand. “No more lies. No more secrets.”

“I promise.” Ana breathed. And meant it.

—

Ana sat on the windowsill in her bedroom, knees hugged to her chest, forehead resting against the cool pane of glass.

The house was quiet. Still. The kind of silence that pressed in around her temples and made her skin itch.

She could still hear Nate’s voice—loud, broken, shaking with rage. The way he’d looked at her like she’d sicced Lucian on him like a dog. Like she’d wanted him to be beaten up. Orchestrated it.

She hadn’t.

But she understood why it happened.

Lucian didn’t lose control. Not like that. He wasn’t impulsive. He wasn’t theatrical. He calculated. Measured. Watched from behind those tall, icy walls and made his decisions cold and clean.

And the only time he ever let those walls crack open was when someone crossed a line they couldn’t come back from.

Nate hadn’t just crossed a line.

He’d lit a match in a room soaked with gasoline.

He’d humiliated her. Publicly. Turned her sobriety into a punchline. Reduced years of struggle, of pain, of clawing her way back from the brink—to content. A comedy skit with commentary. Something strangers could laugh about in their group chats.

Lucian had seen it. That meant Jules had too. Probably everyone at Valhalla by now.

And Lucian had done what no one else had.

He’d done what he thought might make it end.

So no—Ana wasn’t angry at him.

She wasn’t surprised, either.

But she was sitting in the aftershock of it, her chest hollow, her throat raw, because Nate was still her brother. And even if he hated her—even if some part of him always had—she didn’t want to be the reason someone hurt him like that.

She hadn’t meant for it to go that far.

Her phone was warm in her hand. She kept unlocking it, then locking it again.

Nate’s name stared back at her. Like a cliff’s edge. Like a dare. Like a door she could walk through if she wanted to get sucker-punched with more hurt than what she already wore like a second skin.

She could send a text. Say something simple.

“I’m sorry.”

Or—

“I didn’t ask Lucian to do that.”

But even in her head, it rang false. Not because it wasn’t technically true—but because it didn’t change anything. Didn’t undo what was already done.

What she really wanted to say was messier.

“I didn’t ask him to hurt you. But I’m not sorry he did.”

She closed the messaging app.

Whatever Nate needed to feel better, it wasn’t going to come from her. Not now. Maybe not ever.

And anyway—she needed to see Lucian.

She needed to look him in the eye, in that low-lit, pulsing office of his, and tell him she understood. That she knew what it meant for him to act like that. That she got it—what it cost him, what it meant. That she wasn’t mad.

That maybe—God help her—part of her had felt safe for the first time in years when she found out what he’d done.

But she didn’t want to walk into Valhalla alone.

Not tonight. Not like this.

Too raw. Too fragile.

She scrolled to Oscar’s name. Hovered.

He might be busy. Might have plans. But he’d told her—anytime. And even the thought of sitting next to him in the car, quiet, maybe holding his hand, made something in her chest settle.

She pressed call.

It rang twice.

“Hey, pretty girl,” came his voice—soft, warm. Familiar in a way that made her ribs ache.

“Hi,” she said, voice quiet. “Are you busy?”

“Never too busy for you.” A pause. “You okay?”

She hesitated. Picked at a fraying thread on her sleeve. “Do you think… that you could maybe take me to Valhalla tonight?”

There was a pause. Not long, but she could feel the weight of it. “Baby—”

“I don’t want to scene,” she cut in, her cheeks flaming. “Or anything like that. I’m not in the right place for anything like that. I just… I need to talk to Lucian.”

“To Lucian?” he echoed. There was a question buried under the words.

“Yeah.” Her throat tightened. “In person.”

“Did something happen?”

“I don’t know.” She dragged a breath into her lungs. “I mean—yeah. My brother… he was at the house this morning when I woke up. He’s got a black eye and a split lip. Lucian did it.”

Oscar exhaled slowly. “Well. That’s one thing off my mind.”

Ana blinked. “What—you wanted to hit him?”

“Not me, exactly,” Oscar said dryly. “But Lando’s been making some… let’s say concerning comments. Something about knowing where Nate hangs out. Mentioned brass knuckles.”

Ana laughed, shocked. “No. No way. Little Lando Norris really said that?”

Oscar chuckled. “Little?”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling despite herself. “I met him a few times. Back when… everything.”

“I know,” Oscar said gently. “He mentioned it. Go on—tell me.”

Ana curled a little tighter against the window, her smile softening into something sadder. “He was short. Still is, I guess. A little shorter than me. But so kind, you know? Back then, when I was at my worst... the other drivers were polite, mostly. But you could see it in their eyes—they thought I was radioactive. Lando never did.”

Oscar stayed quiet on the line.

“He used to let me tag along at parties. Ask him stupid questions. Follow him and his mates around like some stray. He was never embarrassed to be seen with me. And he always—always—fell asleep in the weirdest places. Like curled up on a beanbag in someone’s kitchen, snoring.” She paused, swallowing. “He didn’t realise how dark it got. How bad the people around us really were. He was soft. Too soft. I used to pay people off to leave him alone. He didn’t even know. He was an easy target.” Her voice caught. “We were almost the same age, but he felt younger. I don’t know why.”

Oscar was quiet for a beat longer. “He still is. Kind, I mean. He’s changed, grown up, but he’s still a good guy.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see. “I’m glad.”

A moment passed.

“I’ll be there at seven,” Oscar said. “You want me to drive up or just text when I’m out front?”

“Text,” she said. “I’ll be ready.”

“Alright. You remember your safe-word?”

She made a face at the shift in tone, but hummed. “Yeah—Scuderia.”

“Good.” His voice softened further. “I know this is still new, but when we’re at the club, I’ll be that way with you. Even if we’re not scening. We can talk more in the car, yeah?”

It wasn’t really a question. She nodded anyway. “Okay,” she said quietly, cheeks flushed.

“Wear something orange. A bracelet, a belt, whatever. Just something orange, alright?”

Ana bit her lip. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours, pretty girl.”

They hung up.

She stayed at the window a minute longer, forehead pressed to the glass, watching dusk spill across the skyline.

Somewhere across town, her big brother probably still hated her.

Maybe more than ever.

And—miraculously—she couldn’t bring herself to care.

—

From the window of his study, Toto watched Ana step outside, cardigan sleeves tugged over her hands, shoulders slightly hunched. She paused at the curb, glancing once over her shoulder, as if to check whether anyone was watching.

He stayed still.

A black car pulled in through the gates and onto the gravel second later—sleek, understated. The boy stepped out to open the passenger door for her.

At least he has manners, Toto thought.

Ana gave a small smile, said something too quiet to hear. Oscar replied. She climbed in.

The door shut.

Toto exhaled slowly, jaw tight.

Oscar Piastri.

Of all the people she could have let in. Of all the men in the world, it had to be a driver.

Not Lewis. Not George. Men he knew, men whose faults he could name and measure. Men who had been through enough fire to know when to keep their hands steady. Men who wouldn’t flinch from a woman like Ana—not because they didn’t care, but because they understood what caring actually cost.

But no. It had to be this mystery—Oscar.

Quiet. Young. Careful on track in a way that Toto respected, but knew he would outgrow in a matter of time. 

It wasn’t that he doubted the boy’s intentions—he didn’t.

He doubted his experience.

Ana was porcelain, yes. But she was also flame. And flame didn’t care how carefully you held it—it burned anyway.

He watched the car pull away, watched it turn the corner and disappear.

His reflection ghosted back at him in the glass, older than he remembered being.

Maybe that was the problem.

Maybe this was what it meant to let her live her life.

Still, for a fleeting, irrational moment, he couldn’t help but think: ‘Why couldn’t it have been George? Or Lewis? Someone I already trust with the weight of the world.’

He closed the curtain.

And let her go anyway.

—

The car was warm, quiet save for the soft hum of tires on tarmac. Monaco blurred past the window in flashes of dusky gold and streetlamp silver, the world shrinking to just the interior of Oscar’s car and the steady rhythm of his breathing beside her.

Ana sat curled in the passenger seat, fingers twisting lightly at the orange bangle on her wrist—Hermès, enamel, a gift from a version of herself that still wanted pretty things. She didn’t know why she wore it tonight. Except… she did.

Oscar glanced over, one hand loose on the wheel. “That the orange thing you picked?”

She nodded, holding it out. The bangle caught a glint of passing light.

His gaze flicked to it, then to her. “Looks good on you,” he murmured.

Her cheeks warmed, but she only said, “You said to wear something orange.”

“I know.” He smiled faintly. “Didn’t think you’d go full luxury catalogue on me.”

She made a face. “You want me to take it off?”

“No,” he said, low. “Leave it on. I told you to were it, didn’t I?” He reached over then—just slow enough to give her time to move, to say no—but she didn’t. She sat still as his hand found her thigh, fingers warm against the soft denim just above her knee. His thumb moved in a slow arc. Comforting. Possessive in a way that didn’t frighten her.

Ana swallowed. Her body reacted like it always did—tension, breath catching—but it was different, now. Different with him. It wasn’t fear. It was awareness.

“You’re quiet,” he said gently. “Tell me what’s going on in your head.”

She traced her thumb along the edge of her bangle. “I keep thinking I’m going to mess this up. Somehow.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“Am I?” she asked, glancing at him.

Oscar’s hand tightened slightly on her thigh. “Yeah, pretty girl. You are.”

Silence stretched for a minute, soft and tentative.

Then he spoke again, voice low. Measured. “When we’re at Valhalla tonight, I want to look after you. In a more… structured way.”

Ana tilted her head. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’ll order your drinks for you—non-alcoholic, obviously. I’ll walk half a step in front of you. I’ll tell you where to sit, and I’ll keep an eye on everything going on around us. I’ll touch you when you need grounding, and I’ll expect you to tell me if something doesn’t feel right. You can safe-word at any time, even if it’s just because you want to go home.”

Her breath hitched, but not from panic.

He glanced at her. “Does that sound like something you’d like?”

She hesitated. “I think… I think it sounds like something I need.”

He nodded once. “Good. Because I think it’ll help. You’ve spent so long carrying yourself, making a thousand decisions every second to stay upright. I want to take some of that off your shoulders tonight.”

“And if I safe-word?” she asked quietly.

Oscar’s voice softened. ��Then we take a breather. Or I take you home. Or we go for a drive. Or to a quiet rooftop to eat chips and cuddle. Whatever you need. Safe-wording doesn’t change how I feel about you. Doesn’t make you weak. Doesn’t make you any less of a good submissive.”

Ana looked down at his hand, still resting firm and gentle on her leg. “What if I’m… too much?”

“You’re not.”

“What if I am?”

“Then I’ll just have more of you to hold onto, won’t I?”

Her chest burned. She turned her hand over in her lap, palm facing him. An invitation.

Oscar didn’t hesitate. He laced their fingers together, his touch steady and sure.

“You still good with ‘Scuderia’?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Alright,” he said, giving her hand the slightest squeeze. “Tonight we’ll talk to Lucian. After that, you stay close. I’ll take care of everything.”

Ana leaned her head against the window, the glass cool against her temple. For the first time all day, her lungs filled properly. Not shallow, not sharp. Just air—steady and clean.

She didn’t know what would happen with Lucian. She didn’t know what would happen with Nate. But right now, right here, she didn’t have to figure it all out.

Oscar would hold the line for her.

And for a little while, she could just be.

—

A YEAR AGO

Sobriety was fickle.

It came in quiet, like a tide—gentle, almost apologetic. And then it receded just as fast, without warning, leaving her gasping and raw on the shore.

Ana sat on the edge of the exam table, legs swinging slightly, the crinkling paper beneath her sounding too loud in the sterile quiet. The air smelled of antiseptic and money—overcleaned, overprepared. She couldn’t tell if it was the doctor speaking now or the nurse. Their voices blurred together, overlapping and meaningless, like waves folding over each other.

Her father stood in the corner, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. A leather folder rested in his hands—monogrammed, expensive, unnecessary. He flipped it open now and then, not to read but to gesture. “We need clarity on her liver enzymes,” he said, like he’d ever known what that meant before a handful of months ago.

A nurse pressed her fingers against the inside of Ana’s elbow, brushing over the raised scabbing. “You’re going to have some pretty gnarly scarring,” she muttered, snapping on gloves.

Ana didn’t flinch. She just watched the way her skin puckered around the touch, how her body still remembered everything even if she didn’t want to.

Her father again: “And the tox screen? She’s been clean, yes? For how long now—sixty-eight days?”

Sixty-nine, Ana thought. But she didn’t bother correcting him. It didn’t matter. Sixty-nine days wasn’t anything. It wasn’t even a full season. It was barely a breath in the life she’d lived.

She stared up at the ceiling instead, counting light panels like she used to count doses. One, two, three, four. Sometimes they were constellations. Sometimes just cracks.

“Ms. Wolff?” the doctor prompted. 

Ana blinked. “What?”

“I asked how you’re feeling.”

“I’m fine.”

“Any cravings? Nightmares? Mood swings?”

“I’m fine,” she said again, sharper now.

From the corner, her father shifted. The leather creaked faintly in his hands. He hated when she lied—not because she lied, but because she did it so well.

“She’s disassociating,” the doctor murmured, like she wasn’t sitting right there. “We may want to consider grounding techniques. Equine therapy, perhaps.”

“I’m not riding a fucking horse,” Ana said flatly, without looking up.

The doctor gave a placid, professional smile. Her father did not.

Silence followed—dense and heavy. The kind of silence that filled places like this: clinical rooms, courtrooms, confessionals. Ana waited for it to pass.

Eventually came the rustle of paper, the dull snap of the folder closing, the whisper of expensive shoes against linoleum. The appointment was ending. Or restarting. They never truly ended—not when the doctor was on retainer, and her father’s desperation was supported by a black card.

Ana slid off the table. The paper clung to the backs of her thighs, peeling away with a sound like Velcro. She caught her reflection in the metal of the supply cabinet—sharp collarbones, hollow cheeks, wrists thin as twigs. She looked half-there. Less like a girl and more like a memory.

“I’m starving,” she said suddenly, the words coming out cracked and unsure. Like her voice wasn’t used to naming needs anymore. “Can we get burgers?”

Her father’s head snapped up. His face didn’t soften, exactly, but there was something just shy of hope flickering behind his eyes. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He was already reaching for his phone. “Anywhere you want. We can have them brought in. Or—no, we’ll go. Let’s go. There’s that place you used to like—Stillman’s?”

“I don’t like Stillman’s.”

“Oh.” He hesitated. “Well… wherever. You pick. McDonald’s?”

It was absurd, really. The man in the ten-thousand-euro suit offering her a Happy Meal. But he meant it. He meant it in that frayed, frantic way he always did now. Like every bite she took was a battle he couldn’t afford to lose.

She used to sneer at burgers. Once, when she was ten, she’d cried because her sandwich didn’t have arugula. Now she could barely keep toast down. And here she was, asking for meat and grease and sugar like it was oxygen.

“I want a milkshake,” she said, softer. “Chocolate. Like, the shitty kind. With whipped cream and sprinkles.”

Something in his face broke open—relief maybe, or fear, or both. “Good,” he said. “We’ll get milkshakes. Right now.”

He held the door open like he was afraid she’d disappear again if he didn’t keep her in sight. She walked past him—still too thin, still fragile—but upright. And that was something.

Behind her, a nurse muttered just loud enough to hear: “At least she’s trying this time.”

Ana stopped. Turned. Her smile was razor-sharp.

“Go fuck yourself,” she said, sweet as the milkshake she was about to treasure.

—

Now, in the car, she watched Oscar out of the corner of her eye. He looked good behind the wheel—comfortable, confident, completely present in a way that made her feel steady just watching him.

She bit her lip.

“After the club,” she said hesitantly, “can we—” she cut herself off.

Oscar turned to her briefly, his hand still warm on her thigh. “Anything, baby. Just name it.”

She hesitated. “Can we—Maybe can we go and get milkshakes?”

His smile bloomed slow and soft, something golden in the dimness of the car. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “We can get milkshakes.”

[subliminalghoest]

Safe house 3

Ghoap x f!reader (read part one & two)

-the third instalment is hereeee

-Warning: Slow-burn, fluff, we getting real angsty with this part (you've been warned)

———————————————————————————

You didn't believe it—not really. But there it was in the scope. A perfect shot.

“Bloody hell,” Price said behind you, voice low with something between disbelief and pride. “That’s 1,750 metres. New team record.”

He clapped a hand on your shoulder. “What’s the reward, then, Lieutenant?”

All eyes flicked to Ghost. He was still looking through the spotting scope, unmoving. Like he needed to double-check that what just happened... actually happened.

It took a second before he spoke, like the words had to boot up. “…Bragging rights.”

It’s a tradition in the team that they never hand out literal awards for new records and such, only the bragging rights over the rest of the team. Nobody wanted trophies turning into reminders of those who didn't make it home.

You rose, still in quiet disbelief, and each member clasped you on the shoulder, offering their kudos—Soap practically lifting you off the floor in excitement, “Christ, I’m never hearin’ the end of it, am I?” he chortled as you helped him up.

You shoved his shoulder. Grinned. “Only fair.”

“Hell of a shot.” You blinked at Ghost quietly packing up the equipment, “You really are as impressive as your file said.”

Your cheeks heated, Simon had never really spoken to you out of choice—only ever orders or corrections during training. You were still relatively new to the team, still figuring out your place with them, and Ghost... Ghost was a fortress. But hey, the harder they are to break, the sweeter the victory.

You smirked, mock saluting. “Just getting started, Lt.”

A deep chuckle escaped him as the finished with the gear, straightening up and confirming that, yes, you still were unaccustomed to his sheer size.

“You are already solid. Don't waste your time proving yourself,” he hesitated “…and call me Simon.”

You didn't know this at the time, but you would grow to become one of the three people with the privilege of seeing the man under the mask.

Back then, it was all about bragging rights. Now... it felt ridiculous to care for something so insignificant.

This was the kind of record nobody celebrated—other than grim understanding of what it meant.

This was the longest anybody had been comms silent and came back to claim their title.

Soap was still out there.

His mission had been a solo recon assist—a quick in-and-out, they said. You and Ghost weren’t on the roster, just supposed to wait it out, keep things running here. But now it was 4 days later—no update. You weren’t on the mission, but your head replayed every worst-case scenario like you were living them anyway.

Your heart thudded heavy in your chest. You stared harder at the screen. Like maybe you could force your thoughts away if you glared long enough.

“Staring isn't gonna bring him back any faster.” Price startled you from your spot curled up in a chair in the tech room, which you had spent more time in than out of the last 4 days.

Rubbing your sore eyes you straightened yourself, “It’s my shift, Captain.”

Confusion crossed his face before he glanced above your head and saw Ghost entering the room, the same dark purple marking his eyes as yours.

“I’m not having two of my best dragging arse if we get the call.” Price pointedly looked between the both of you, “Off the clock means off. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“But we—” a sharp glare in your direction cuts off your objection. Price was your Captain, his word was the law to you, no loopholes.

You gathered the rubbish on the desk from your snacks and began to leave, noticing Ghost had left without waiting for you or uttering a single word—strange.

Sleep evaded you into the early hours of the morning, the base silent around you. Too quiet. Without Soap here it felt like your world axis had been shifted and there was a gap that wouldn't fill until he returned. He would return, he had to. Claim his record title and brag your ear off about it far into the future.

The ceiling began moving as your eyes unfocused from staring at it too hard, pressing your palm into the sockets to try and alleviate the sting.

Then—

A knock.

You sat up instantly, heart leaping into your throat. For one impossible second, you thought it might be Johnny. Back, smiling like always, grinning through dirt and blood.

“I’d like to see you last 4 days in the wilderness with no comms, fucking majestic I was—wish you could've seen it, eh?”

But the knock came again—slower. Heavier.

Not Soap.

“…Yeah?” you called, already getting up knowing who it would most likely be.

You cracked the door open, and Ghost’s hulking figure filled the space.

He lingered in the doorway, half-lit by the hallway light. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You blinked at him. “You okay?”

He stepped inside and shut the door softly behind him. He looked more tired than usual. Heavy. Not in a physical way, but in the way he carried the silence around him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Didn’t want to sit in my head all night.”

You nodded and motioned to the bed. “Sit. I’m up anyway.”

He sat down without a word, elbows braced on his knees. You stood in front of him, waiting.

Ghost wasn’t one to spill his thoughts easily. But he looked up at you now, his voice raw in a way you rarely heard.

“I keep thinkin’ the worst,” he admitted. “Every time the comms go dark like this, I wonder if I’ve already seen him for the last time.”

Your breath caught. You hadn’t let yourself say that out loud. Not yet. But Ghost’s voice cracked something open in you. Tore off the bandage you’d put up.

“He’s smart,” you said, gently. “He’s been in tighter spots than this.”

“I know.” He paused. “Still... it’s different when it’s someone you—” He cut himself off. Looked away.

You blinked. Love, thats what he was gonna say—not in the brother in arms, die for eachtoher way. They lovedeachhother.

Still, you kept your voice soft. Steady. “That’s why you’re scared,” you said. “You love him.”

Ghost didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the floor between his boots. Then—barely audible—“Yeah.”

A silence settled over you both, you didn't know how to respond. Already too emotionally raw from the past few days to fully fill in the gaps of what this meant in your head. You didn't need to though, Ghost continued, “We’ve been together. For a while.”

A while.

Oh.

You nodded slowly, but it felt like something inside you had been suddenly carved out.

You thought the safehouse night had been the start of something. Some messy, fragile maybe. But this?

They’d already had their beginning. And maybe an entire middle, too. And you... you’d just been a brief detour.

Your stomach twisted.

You moved closer, just slightly, and let your fingers brush over his shoulder. “He’ll come back,” you murmured. “To you.”

Ghost lifted his head at that. His eyes were unreadable behind the mask, but he reached out—slowly—and caught your wrist. Gently pulled you forward until you were standing between his knees.

Then his arms went around you, and he tugged you into a hug—tight, grounding.

You stiffened for a split second, then let yourself melt into it. Even with your heart aching, you didn’t pull away.

He needed comfort. And despite everything, you wanted to give it to him.

You stayed like that for a long moment. Your cheek pressed to the top of his head, his hands curled around your waist. His breath steady against your stomach. You let your fingers run gently through his hair where his mask didn’t cover it.

The moment stretched on as you held each other, bordering on the kind of intimacy you had been working so hard to forget.

Finally, he shifted, tilting his head up. “Can I stay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. You couldn’t resist sliding your palm against his cheek, your heart squeezing slightly when he leaned his head into your palm and smiled softly. He looked so beautiful in that moment, it almost hurt to look at him.

He peeled away with a kiss to your palm, pulled away and climbed into bed. Your bed. You joined him, keeping to the edge at first, unsure. Your back to him.

But then his hand found your hip.

He hesitated. You could feel it in the way he held his breath.

Then he gently tugged.

You let him. Took what was given.

His arm came around your waist. His body curved against your back. Cocooning you in a warmth which quieted your mind.

Peaceful.

He pressed his face into your hair, and you could feel the tremble in his chest. Like even now, even after everything, he was still coming undone.

You let yourself be held.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just the quiet sound of breathing in the dark.

Then Ghost said, voice dry, “You remember the safehouse?”

You let out a soft sound, half-laugh. “Kinda hard to forget, Simon.”

“Hm.” He nudged your temple with his nose, “Didn’t take you for a cuddler back then.”

“I’m not,” you muttered. “That was survival. You two were warm. That’s all.”

“Right,” he said, clearly unconvinced.

You tilted your head back enough to look at him. “You started it, anyway.”

“Hmm, don’t blame me—Soap was the one practically drooling on your neck.” he added, almost fondly.

You laughed, and he chuckled low behind you. It warmed something inside you that had gone cold earlier.

But then he shifted again, and his fingers traced the curve of your neck—your breath hitched. “Don’t regret it, though. Best night sleep I’ve had in years.”

He remained there for a moment, testing your reaction to his hand tracing patterns on your neck. Cataloguing each hitch or stutter to your breath—how your legs softly shifted when he found a sensitive spot behind your ear.

He moved his hand higher, gripping your chin and tilted your head toward him slowly. Gently.

Your body shifted to face his, settling against each other just as easily as you had in that safe house.

Ghost stared at you like he was waiting for you to pull away first—like he was giving you the chance to take it back.

You didn’t.

You leaned in, just enough, and his eyes shuttered closed.

When his lips met yours, it was soft. Fragile. A question, not a demand. You answered with the same quiet need, sinking into him, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt.

He kissed you like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want this—but couldn’t stop himself anyway.

It deepened, gradually. Mouths pressing firmer, breaths quickening. His hands tightened at your waist, fingers twitching with restraint.

You could feel the rough fabric of his mask brushing your lips. A barrier stopping you from feeling him fully.

And then, without thinking, you reached up—gripped the edges—and pulled.

He stilled, just for a moment. But he didn’t stop you.

You peeled the mask off and tossed it to the side—didn’t care where it landed. You wanted him.

And he gave in.

The kiss broke for half a breath—just long enough to see his eyes, wide and searching—and then your mouths crashed together again.

No restraint now.

Your hands buried in his hair, his tongue sweeping against yours, slow and warm and desperate. He groaned into your mouth, raw and wrecked, and the sound shattered something in you, sent heat pooling in your core.

You didn’t hold back.

You let yourself get lost in it—chests pressed, bodies tangled, breath stuttering between kisses that bled together. Hands grasping at your hips pulling you further into him, feeling the need for you against your core. Twisting, his body now half on top of you as he pushed you deeper into the mattress. There was no precision. No careful rhythm. Just aching mouths and shaking hands and raw, quiet desperation.

You kissed like you were the only thing keeping each other grounded.

You kissed like it meant everything.

And maybe… maybe for a moment, it did.

But then—reality.

You felt it before you thought it. A crackle of guilt. A flash of doubt.

Reality crashed in.

You pulled back.

Not all at once. Just an inch. Then another.

Ghost chased you for a second, eyes still closed, lips parted—until he felt the absence and opened his eyes.

Hurt flickered across his face, subtle but unmistakable. His hands didn’t let go, but they loosened, unsure. Shifting back so he was no longer laid on top of you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, breathless. Touching your fingers to your swollen, sensitive lips. Feeling to make sure that had just happened, but also maybe a barrier to stop it from continuing, “I shouldn’t have…”

He shook his head, voice rough. “No. Don’t be. I shouldn’t have—”

“Let’s just not, okay?” You rested your hands against his chest, smiling softly to reassure him.

He didn’t press further. Just rested his forehead against yours.

“Okay,” he murmured.

He lay back, pulling you with him until your head rested on his chest. One arm stayed firm around you, hand rubbing slow circles against your spine.

You curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

Neither of you spoke again.

Eventually, your breathing synced.

Tonight, you were just two people lost in the quiet, holding on to what comfort and warmth you could find while your friend was gone.

The morning came slow.

Sunlight leaked in through the blinds, painting thin golden lines across the sheets. The room was quiet—still wrapped in that rare hush that only came after long, heavy nights.

You stirred first.

For a second, you didn’t know where you were. A solid wall infront of you giving you no clues as your brain struggled to wake itself up. Then you felt the weight of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his chest against your back, the steady breath brushing the back of your neck.

Ghost.

Your heart kicked up again—but not with panic, not quite. It was a soft ache. Bittersweet.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

He was still asleep. You could tell by the way his fingers twitched now and then against your stomach, relaxed in a way he rarely let himself be. His face—half buried against your shoulder—was bare still. His mask lay abandoned somewhere on the floor, like it hadn’t mattered last night. He’d let you see him when the rest of the world couldn’t.

You didn’t know what this was. What it meant. But you knew what it had felt like.

You settled further into his arms, carefully threading your fingers through his resting in your stomach, bringing his hand up to the centre of your chest. Letting yourself enjoy it. Just for a little longer. You weren’t ready for the world outside this bed. Not yet.

But reality never waited long.

Ghost’s phone buzzed.

The sound was sharp—too loud in the stillness.

You felt him jolt slightly behind you, his breath catching. Then the arm around you tightened reflexively before pulling away altogether.

You watched him move in silence.

He rolled over, reached for his phone. Pulling you with him with his other arm, tucking you in firmly against his side. A short kiss pressed into your hairline, sweet, soft, a side of Simon you hadn’t experienced before but seemed so natural to him you wondered if this is what he would be like, waking up with him every morning, the thought felt dangerous.

Screen glow lit up his face. You saw the moment it happened—the second everything changed.

The message on the screen must’ve hit him like a shot to the chest.

“Johnny’s back,” he said, voice flat. Distant.

Your heart surged. Relief swept through you fast, hard—but it was eclipsed almost instantly by the shift in him.

“That’s good,” you managed, voice low. You sat up slowly, the sheet wrapped tight around your chest. “He okay?”

He sat up fast. Swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Started grabbing his things, pulling on his boots, his hoodie, reaching for the mask. “I assume so. Just got a general update. I’ll check on him.”

He didn’t look at you.

You ran your fingers through your hair, trying to shake the quiet, the stillness that had turned suffocating.

“So…” you tried, a bit too casually. “You heading straight over?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

Nothing more.

“Simon—” you started.

He just kept moving like the night hadn’t happened. Like the warmth you’d shared was some illusion.

You sat up straighter, sheet clutched to your chest. “Ghost.”

That finally got a pause out of him.

Half-dressed, mask still in his hand, he stood at the foot of the bed, back still to you.

“I shouldn’t have come last night,” he said. Quiet. Measured.

You flinched like he’d hit you.

No mention of the way you’d kissed him. No acknowledgment of the way he’d held you like he might fall apart if he let go. No sign of the soft, raw version of Simon that had laid beside you in the dark.

You bit your lip. Swallowed hard.

He looked over his shoulder—just barely. His eyes were unreadable again, that wall going up inch by inch. The wall you thought he’d let you behind for a moment.

Then he turned away. Pulled the mask back on.

The man who’d kissed you like he was drowning was gone. Replaced with the Ghost the world always saw. Cold. Sharp. Untouchable.

He reached for the door and suddenly you couldn’t let him leave like this. You knew once he left you would never build the courage to ask him what this meant. Would never know.

“Wait,” you said, voice cracking. “So that’s it? We just…” You didn’t know how to finish the sentence and the weight of it hung heavy in the air.

He hesitated—hand on the doorknob. The silence stretched.

Then, finally, “I can’t.”

And he left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

You sat there for a long time.

The room still smelled like him. The sheets still held the imprint of his body. But he was gone. You were alone.

Your throat burned.

You dragged the blanket off, beginning to recollect yourself—get ready to face the day, whatever state Soap had been found in.

And deep down, you weren’t sure which cut deeper—the fear of finding Johnny…or the certainty you’d already lost Simon.

You let the quiet crush you.

Next part here

[parkerslatte]

Wasted Time

Dae-ho x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: gunshots. blood. ptsd.

Summary: As the the players fight back against the guards, Y/N notices Dae-ho cowering and covering his ears. She does her best to protect him.

Squid Game Masterlist

The room was silent as the guards stormed in, just as Gi-hun said they would. Y/N laid underneath a bed on her own. Directly in front of her, Dae-ho laid on the floor next to Jung-bae, eyes closed, breathing shallow. Despite the fact that she knew he was only acting, a twinge of sadness rippled through Y/N as she looked at Dae-ho’s unmoving body. After all, if Gi-hun wasn’t with them to warn them, this might have been reality. 

If anyone had told Y/N a week ago that she would be playing children’s games while fighting for her life, she would have just laughed. If anyone had told her that her best friend would be by her side as she fought for her life, she would have laughed even harder. 

Y/N had entered the game with Dae-ho, originally proudly wearing her number, 387, now she wanted nothing more than to rip it off and burn it. When they were both approached to play a silly game with the recruiter, they both jumped at the chance. Playing a few silly games for the chance to win money was the easiest decision the pair had made. Now they have seen how wrong they were. 

Once the guards burst into the room breaking up fighting, Y/N slowly closed her eyes as people fell back into the corners of the room. Bodies were scattered across the floor, some dead, others only pretending to be. The scene was already brutal itself and when Y/N glanced over at the ‘O’ side of the room and saw the blood staining their clothes and splatters on their face, it only amplified the brutality of these games. Y/N had watched helplessly as others were murdered right before her eyes. But she knew that if she stepped out from under the bed, she would most likely be lying dead on the floor. 

Just as the guards bent down to Dae-ho to pronounce him an eliminated player, he quickly shot up, grabbing the gun out of the waistband of the guard, sending a fast shot at him. Jung-bae followed suit, taking the large gun from the now dead guard. Y/N shrunk from her place under the bed. More and more gunshots sounded out as she looked around. Many others were still hiding under the beds.

Y/N’s gaze shifted to where Dae-ho was only to find him flinching away from the gunfire, the gun he had shot the guard with discarded by his side as he covered his ears. Her heart twisted at his scared expression. Despite his best at putting on a brave facade, she had always been able to see through it. 

Before she allowed herself to consider her next actions carefully, Y/N crawled out from her hiding place, carefully avoiding flying bullets. Luckily she didn’t need to go too far to reach her friend and the moment her hand touched him, Dae-ho’s body seemed to relax slightly, already knowing that it was her touch. Y/N shuffled along the floor and wrapped her arms around him, essentially shielding his body with hers. Dae-ho shakily held onto her as he looked at her. 

“What are you doing?” He shouted over the gunfire. “Go back and hide.”

“No,” Y/N said firmly. “I need to make sure that you are okay.”

The fear within Y/N was racing through her veins. The fear of the flying bullets and the situation she had found herself in and the fear of losing Dae-ho. He shook in her arms and Y/N only held him tighter. 

“You’re okay,” Y/N muttered, though she was mainly trying to reassure herself. 

Dae-ho’s breathing was ragged as the gunfire gradually began to die down as the guards retreated, leaving only one in the room. Slowly, Y/N released her grip and Dae-ho looked up at her. 

“Why would you do that?” Dae-ho asked. 

“Because you are my friend and I love you,” Y/N whispered. 

The words that tumbled out were true but felt strange on Y/N’s tongue. Those three words were three she had never considered saying to Dae-ho before they entered the games. They weren’t only reserved for a lover but the way in which they left Y/N’s lips had nothing but romantic undertones. Deep down she knew that her feelings had always been there but it had never been the right time to voice them. She would argue that a place where you could die playing children’s games wasn’t the best place either but when either of them could die at any point, it was the best time to bring it up.

A long sigh left Dae-ho’s lips before he slowly sat up, his eyes never once leaving Y/N. The intensity in his gaze made everything else fade away. It was as if just by simply looking into his eyes had made everything else fade away. 

Dae-ho genty held onto Y/N’s hands as his eyes turned serious. “Y/N–”

“Collect the guns!” 

Dae-ho’s head snapped and found the others grouping at the front. Dae-ho caught Jung-bae’s eye and he shakily stood to his feet. Y/N still held onto his hands as they rose from the floor, her grip only tightening. She didn’t want to let him go, not now. 

Before he could walk to join the others at the front, Y/N clutched his arm. “You don’t need to go.”

Dae-ho caressed her hand in his. “I’ll be okay.”

“Dae-ho,” Y/N began, “I saw how you were just now. Your hands are still shaking. I don’t want you to freeze up out there. There were limited guards in here, what happens if you go out there and you are completely outnumbered! If this is some way to prove yourself to the others–”

“I want to protect you!” Dae-ho exclaimed, cutting her off. “I want to get us out of here, I don't care what I need to do.”

“Dae-ho, the only thing I want is you to be safe. If you died I don’t know how I could live with myself knowing that you died and I lived,” Y/N said.

“I need to help, Y/N,” Dae-ho said, clutching both of her hands in his. “I can’t let anyone down. I can’t let you down.”

Y/N leaned forward and rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes. “I know that once you set your mind to something, you always follow through so there is no way to talk you out of this. But you better come back or I will kill you myself.”

A breathless laugh slipped past Dae-ho’s lips. His response wasn’t verbal as he inched forward and all Y/N felt after that was his soft lips against hers. Her body immediately melted into his as she wrapped her arms around him. For years, Y/N had only been able to imagine what it would feel like if she kissed Dae-ho and her expectations were shot out of the water. His hold on her was gentle, as if he were afraid that she would break in his hands if he held her any tighter. The kiss almost made her forget where she was. Almost.

“Dae-ho,” Jung-bae said, catching the attention of the two and cutting their kiss short. 

Dae-ho pulled away first, his eyebrows furrowed. “I love you too, Y/N. When we get out of here, I will finally take you on a date. I've been meaning to ask you for years.”

Despite their circumstances, Y/N smiled. “Where will you take me?”

“Wherever you want,” Dae-ho replied, his hand caressing her face as if tracing her features to burn them into his memory. 

“It’s a date then, Dae-ho,” Y/N said.

With a parting nod, Dae-ho left her to stand at the front with the others. Y/N slowly sat down atop one of the beds with the others staying behind. She watched as Hyun-ju explained how to use the guns to the group before they all left the room. Before he stepped through the threshold, Dae-ho glanced back at Y/N. Y/N offered him a reassuring smile, the only things he really could do. Once he was out of sight, Y/N let out a shaky breath. 

“He’ll be okay,” Geum-ja said, sitting down next to her. 

“I hope so,” Y/N replied, not peeling her eyes away from where he disappeared. 

“I couldn’t help but notice the kiss the two of you shared,” Geum-ja said. “Did you come here together?”

Finally Y/N tore her eyes away from the door. “We did. We’ve been friends for years.”

Geum-ja smiled. “That looked like it was more than friendship.”

Y/N’s lips tugged as she fought a smile. “That is only a very recent development.”

Geum-ja gently took Y/N’s hand in hers. “When we get out of here, you two should come to mine for dinner. Hyun-ju is coming. At this rate, I’ll be inviting everyone.”

“That would be nice,” Y/N said. “It’s nice to have something to look forward to after we get out of here.”

Geum-ja nodded before the two fell into silence. Y/N’s mind was still racing despite the small reprieve Geum-ja provided. Dae-ho was still out there and her biggest fear was hearing his number be called through the speakers. Y/N was sure that if he died within these walls, her will to survive would fail. There was nothing for her on the outside. She had no parents. She was stuck in a part time job she hated. She was up to her neck in debt. 

The only saving grace though it all was Kang Dae-ho. If she lost him, Y/N would feel that part of her would have died with him. Even in some of the darkest of times, he had managed to keep an easy smile on his face. Even in the damned games, he had managed to make her laugh on several occasions as if she wasn’t one step away from being killed.

A shaky breath slipped past Y/N’s lips as she closed her eyes, allowing herself to think about all of the happier times she had spent with Dae-ho. It was difficult as she was completely aware of the gunshots echoing through whatever building they were in. There were many things Y/N regretted in her life but the one at the top of the list was ringing that stupid number. She hated thinking back thinking of the smiles on her and Dae-ho’s faces the moment they put down the phone thinking about how they were about to play some silly games to win some money. Y/N should have known that it was too good to be true. 

There was movement from where the others had disappeared and Y/N’s head shot up just as Dae-ho ran into the room panicked, muttering under his breath. Blood splatters decorated his left cheek, slightly smeared across his face. Immediately she was on her feet. 

“Dae-ho,” Y/N said, stepping towards him. 

It was as if Dae-ho hadn’t processed her as he began to rummage through the dead guards pockets. He muttered to himself as he pulled out magazines and held onto them so tight that his knuckles were white. 

“Dae-ho,” Y/N said once more and his attention finally snapped to her. 

His eyes were petrified and Y/N could already tell that he wasn’t fully present. “The guards have extra ammo in their pockets.”

“You heard him,” Y/N said to the others in the room. “Get the ammunition.”

There was shuffling behind Y/N as everyone compiled but her attention was focused on Dae-ho. His hands shook as he held tightly onto the gun. 

“What happened?” she asked gently. 

“I need to take the ammunition back. We have none left,” Dae-ho said. “I need the ammunition.”

“We are collecting the ammunition,” Y/N said. “Dae-ho, what happened?”

“I–” he began but cut himself off as the ammunition was handed to him wrapped in a players jacket. 

Dae-ho spared one final look at Y/N before he quickly walked to the wide open door and stepped through the threshold. Though he didn’t take another step forward as he suddenly stilled, whole body shaking. Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed as she was washed over in concern. 

“Dae-ho?” Y/N mumbled as she walked towards the door. 

Suddenly, the walkie talkie he was holding dropped to the floor as Dae-ho stumbled back and quickly ran back into the room, his breathing heavy. 

Y/N shared a look with Yong-sik before she rushed to where Dae-ho had hidden himself amongst the beds. As she approached him, her heart fell as she saw him slowly rocking backwards and forwards, hands over his ears as he muttered incoherently. 

“Dae-ho…?” Y/N whispered, trying to be quiet so as to not scare him even further. The feeling of all eyes on her was hard to ignore but Y/N persevered as she took another step closer to Dae-ho. “Dae-ho?” Y/N whispered once more.

His eyes shot open, full of tears. “Y/N?”

“I’m here,” Y/N said. “You’re safe here.”

“I’m sorry,” Dae-ho muttered like a broken record, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Y/N said, tears of her own springing to her eyes. She had never seen Dae-ho had an attack this bad in years and the last time it had taken him hours to get to a point where he managed to speak. “I’m here.”

Slowly, Y/N held up her hand and a tear finally rolled down her cheek at the violet flinch from Dae-ho. “I’m not going to hurt you. Please let me get closer.”

The fear in his eyes was evident. Y/N didn't know what he had seen but it clearly brought back certain memories for Dae-ho. If she knew how to use the gun, she would march directly up to the front man himself and shoot him dead and she would smile. 

“Y/N..” Dae-ho muttered, his voice barely coherent. 

Y/N took another step forward, her hand still reaching out to him. The closer she got, the more Dae-ho’s body seemed to shake. He was still terrified. Y/N wasn’t even sure if he was really seeing her at all. 

Once she was close enough, Y/N engulfed Dae-ho in a hug, his head nestled against her chest. His body tensed but Y/N didn’t let go or speak until shel felt Dae-ho grip onto her jacket and relax into her. “You’re okay,” Y/N whispered into his hair. “You’re safe with me. I won’t let anything harm you.”

“I’m sorry,” Dae-ho mumbled over and over again. 

Y/N sniffed, trying her best to keep her own tears at bay. If she couldn’t keep it together, she had no clue how she was supposed to calm Dae-ho down. “Don’t apologise. Please don’t apologise.”

“When can we get out of here?” Dae-ho asked. 

“Soon,” Y/N said. “We’ll get out soon.”

Truthfully, Y/N’s hope of escaping alive with each second she spent in these games. With a lot of people who voted ‘X’ now dead, their chances of escaping were extremely slim if Gi-hun’s plan didn’t work. 

“Dae-ho!” Hyun-ju shouted, running into the room. “Where’s Dae-ho?”

“Hyun-ji,” Y/N said, announcing her presence. “Over here.”

Hyun-ju ran over to where the two were sitting, her eyes softening and filled with understanding upon seeing Dae-ho. “The magazines?”

Y/N nodded to where they were wrapped up on the bed. “What’s happening out there?”

Hyun-ju didn’t respond as a grim expression fell upon her face and that was all Y/N needed to know. Y/N instinctively held Dae-ho tighter as Hyun-ju loaded her gun.

“Y/N,” Dae-ho muttered. “If we don’t make it out of here–”

“We will make it out of here,” Y/N said firmly. “I don’t give a damn if I need to shoot every single guard until we get to the exit.”

Dae-ho lifted his head finally meeting Y/N’s eyes once more. They were still filled with fear and anxiety but he had stopped breathing heavily and seemed to be slowly coming back to himself. “I love you. I wish I had told you a lot sooner.”

“I love you too,” Y/N replied, caressing his face, discreetly wiping the blood away. “I wish it didn’t take me until now to admit it.”

“When we get out of here, let’s make our first date marriage,” Dae-ho said. 

“I thought our first date was my choice?” Y/N questioned. 

“I just think we have wasted enough time,” Dae-ho admitted. 

Y/N nodded tearfully. “I think we have too.”

The doors to the room opened and many guards entered. Dae-ho’s grip tightened around her waist as Y/N’s tightened around his shoulders. The guards marched in and fear instantly took a hold of Y/N. Despite her hope dwindling by the second, a small spark still remained. She and Dae-ho would get out of here alive. No matter what it took. 

[bread-toast]

pt1 pt2

thinking about…

teacher!gojo who hasn’t talked to you since he was a teenager

teacher!gojo who spends all of his time alone on missions, lesson planning, and training his students

teacher!gojo who despite his goofy demeanor is strangely repulsed whenever shoko teases and jokes about setting up a blind date for him; who only ever considered you when it came to romance

teacher!gojo who knows it would be crazy for you to give him a second chance after your high school fall-out

teacher!gojo who’s busy schedule leaves him longing for rest but can hardly get his three hours of sleep when you consume his thoughts

teacher!gojo who gives in after so many restless nights and realizes he needs to get over you

teacher!gojo who coincidentally sees you on the arm of another man on his way to his blind date and goes absolutely berserk

teacher!gojo who knows he has no right to be jealous over what could have been (it was his fault that nothing happened between you two after all!)

teacher!gojo who can no longer stand the ache in his chest when you transfer to Jujustu Tech as a new teacher and you greet him oh-so formally in the dingy break room

teacher!gojo who’s balls his fists but stays silent every time you leave work eying his figure, regret so obviously present in your eyes

teacher!gojo who finally decides to talk to you again, your constant presence overwhelming him with guilt

teacher!gojo who swore he would be collected but spills out apologies resisting voice cracks and tears when he notices your glassy eyes and quivering lips

teacher!gojo who embraces you with a longing saved over a decade of isolation

teacher!gojo who lets down his infinity for you to weep in his arms and punch his chest for being so difficult all those years ago

teacher!gojo who listens while you recall his actions between sobs

teacher!gojo who only holds you tighter, closer to him as if to never let you go again

teacher!gojo who starts visiting your classroom with snacks between breaks and making up for lost time

teacher!gojo who arrives to school early for the first time ever, standing outside Jujustu Tech’s gate waiting in the snow with a bouquet blushing like a schoolboy

teacher!gojo who knows he’s rushing it, but he just can’t wait to be yours anymore than he has!

teacher!gojo who gives his first genuine smile in years when you meet him gasping in delight at his out of the ordinary demeanor and gifts

teacher!gojo who confesses to you, the memories of years prior so bittersweet and he’s trying not to cry when he senses hesitation in your eyes

teacher!gojo who’s the happiest he’s ever been when he realizes that you, the untouchable kind amazing you has given him another chance to be yours

teacher!gojo who lets you wrap your arms around his neck dragging you into a well deserved strawberry-lollipop-flavored-kiss spinning you around in joy

teacher!gojo who’s heart drops when he notices that the bushes and trees behind you start to fade, dreading the truth he had known from the start when he sees your face get more and more blurry

teacher!gojo who only wants to deny what his six-eyes tell him for as long as he can

teacher!gojo who wakes up alone in bed, blindfold soaked in salty tears when he realizes he had dreamt of you again.

teacher!gojo who forces himself out of bed, not bothering to put on a coat as he makes his way out of his apartment

teacher!gojo who’s found the next morning by shoko, puffy eyed and unmoving by your grave

teacher!gojo who knows deep down that if he had acted sooner, confessed sooner, finished off that curse sooner, done anything sooner you might have, no, you would have still been with him happily together

teacher!gojo who knows that no matter how hard he tries, he is always too late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N:

I hope you enjoyed! English isn’t my first language and it’s one of my first times trying writing but I really enjoyed these hcs! I wanted to give this a happy ending to satisfy everyone who read pt1, but I just couldn’t find a way to do so while writing. I want to work on a few one-shots soon, so I’ll definitely have a happy ending for gojo on a more fine tuned piece! Please let me know if you have any recommendations on improving writing and any requests for fics in the future!

[atoltia]

The Need to Indulge

You arrived with an injury again. Only this time, there's a certain snow-haired man waiting for you when you get home.

In which Sylus buys you groceries and tends to your wounds.

TW: injury, blood, some swearing Tags: hurt/comfort, danger is their love language

Sylus x fem!MC

-0-

You've grown accustomed to the pain.

Being broken over and over and over again, to heal and to mend, to spend days, weeks in the stark white of a hospital room enveloped by the all-surrounding scent of antiseptic just to get up and work the moment you were medically cleared - you were used to that life.

Eight years on the job and you've conditioned your body to suppress it, ignore it. You didn't need it, not when there were Wanderers causing harm to the people you've sworn to protect.

Even if that meant constantly coming home in the dead of night, exhausted, a dull thrum pulsing at the base of your skull as you staggered to your apartment.

Today was particularly bad.

You weren't even supposed to be involved. It was end of shift, and for once you were excited to be able to go home on time for the first time in months. Just get out the door, just get the hell out before you were pulled into another mission.

You managed to get to the train without a hitch, managed to sink into the bench without a blip. A smile tugged at your lips. Maybe tonight would be the right time to eat that tub of ice cream you got over a week ago, maybe you can even start that new show you promised Jenna that you'd watch over three months ago. Maybe you can finally get some decent fucking sleep.

But of course you weren't that lucky.

The cold wave of dread washed over you when your hunter's watch signaled, the incessant beeping heating up your blood so fast it alerted not just you but the people around you.

Alpha Team B requires assistance. All units nearby NH-Zone 7 please respond. Alpha Team B requires assistance. All units nearby NH-Zone 7 please respond. Alpha Team B requires immediate medical assistance.

You racked your brain as you hit the emergency switch on the cart you were on, the sharp wind snapping at your cloak when the window opened enough for you to leap out the moving train as you swore, leaving the Linkon City citizenry gawking. You jumped down from the track and into the busy street and bulled your way through the mass of bodies as you dove deep into your memory as to who the hell was Alpha Team B this week.

Skylar Morrison, age twenty-one. Edward Fleming, age twenty. Cormorant Kurr, age twenty. Rookies straight from the academy. Rookies that had just fucking graduated two months ago. If your memory was correct, there was no team assigned to patrol NH-Zone 7 today and tomorrow, seeing as the association was testing out the new surveillance technology that they've recently acquired.

You glanced up at the sky, ice in your veins as you watched the sunlight slowly fade. If they get stranded there while hurt the moment the light is gone, they'd be dead. If you didn't get to them soon, they'd be dead. From the fast chatter and reports from your watch, you were the closest hunter in the vicinity.

It took you a considerable amount of time to find them, even with the coordinates sent out by your watch every thirty seconds. You were already so deep into the forest that you'd know the medical unit would take a longer time to get there than those on foot. There were medical supplies on your person, as was required by protocol, but you were sure it wasn't enough for three people.

The rapid fire sound of gunshots made you quicken your pace, slowing when the tree line opened up to reveal the violence still occurring. Eyes scanned the scenario, clocking one hunter laying by a smatter of boulders. Bleeding, unmoving. One other hunter stayed by their side, one hand limp as the other barraged three winged Wanderers with bullets. The third one - Fleming, you were sure - was in close combat with another.

Shit.

You didn't have time to think, didn't have time to dwell on it. You unsheathed your sword and got to work.

-0-

It was already dark when you managed to get home.

You didn't track any blood on the floor this time, but only due to the fact that Jenna managed to drag you to the on-site medical unit and ordered your injuries to get cleaned and dressed even though you could do this your damned self once you've gone home and took a shower.

You just wanted the quiet, damn it, just to ease the ringing in your ear that stemmed from hearing your superior officer rip a new one into the three rookie hunters. You were grateful for it though, even if the kids had to take the brunt of it. You knew full well just how scathing Jenna tended to be when her hunters went out of their way to ignore association guidelines and nearly get themselves killed - as well as the fact that it gave you the window you needed to slip out and away before you got shipped to the hospital. You'll just take the hit of her wrath about ignoring protocol tomorrow, after you've passed out cold in the middle of your bed.

The door opened with the soft hum and beep of the fingerprint scanner as a sigh of relief puffed out from you chest. Finally within the confines of your home, finally within your sanctum, with the softness of your bed in reach. You'd take a shower first, of course. No matter how many times you come home half-dead and tired to the bone, cleanliness is a must.

With the shaking of your hands, the tremble of your breath, you slowly, gingerly, took your boots off. Arranged them neatly against the wall alongside your other footwear. The automatic light that you received more than a year ago was dark. Hm, you might have to replace it soon, or at least see if it's just the bulb. You were rather fond of that light, with its silly bird shape. It was something that Jenna got you as a joke for your birthday, before handing you her actual gift. Something to liven up the place, you remember her say. Neither of you expected that you would like it more than just a silly trinket -

Your hands stilled as your breath halted, your once relaxed eyes going into full alert as you reached back for the gun strapped to your thigh. The emptiness that usually met you was gone, the still air that you were accustomed to wasn't there.

This place has been your home for nearly a decade now and you knew it like the back of your hand and would be able to silently navigate it even with the absence of light. Silent as a cat, you kept your position low, legs ready to spring up, your body braced for any assault. Not a peep, not a single pin drop could be heard.

But you didn't dismiss it.

Listen to your gut, that's what you learned through years of experience, the instinct that you polished kept you alive, kept you whole. You weren't about to break that streak now.

Could it be a Wanderer? No. If it was, it would have attacked you by now. A person, then. A person stupid enough to break into the home of a highly trained hunter.

Not wanting to break the stillness, your exhaled. Focused.

When you first entered the academy, you were deemed to be someone that had to be constantly paired with another Evolver. Your evol was meant to be for support, they told you long ago. It would be most useful if you had another person with you.

But that won't do. That won't do at all. Not all hunters had the privilege of going into battle with a partner. You were not going to allow yourself to become a liability.

So you trained, thought of other ways to use your Resonance evol.

And in the darkness of your apartment, you focused your mind and exhaled. A wave, unseen by anyone but you, emerged from you. Reaching out, reaching forth into the shadows, trying to pinpoint any living creature in the room.

It pinged.

The warmth of it surprised you, the initial prickly sensation of the other person's evol slowly enveloped you with a slow, burning heat. A familiar heat that you were damned sure you've resonated with many times before.

You hissed, bracing yourself against the wall from your crouched position as you strapped the gun back in its holster.

"Sylus, what the fuck."

The low rumble from his laugh came from the living room, and even with the absence of light you could see the way his ruby eyes glinted at you with mirth.

It was an interesting display, one that he would be thinking about for a long time. Those eyes of yours that were drowning in exhaustion only moments ago was quick to fade as it flattened, emotionless and alert. The slow, practiced moves of your hands that reached for the weapon, the impressive use of your evol to sense where he was.

He knew you were competent at your job, and to see the evidence of it firsthand always gave him a burst of satisfaction.

Sylus lounged at your sofa, a glass in hand as he regarded you even in the darkness. You sighed and set your lights on ten percent, not needing the harshness of the overhead lights washing over the both of you. You continued your routine, pointedly ignoring the man as you stripped your body of the weapons you always carried and gently placed them on side table by the door just before you peeled your ripped jacket from your body to leave you just in your sleeveless tank, your hands automatically smoothing it out and hanging it on the hook as neatly as it could be.

It was odd, Sylus thought as he watched your body automatically move to keep your items in order, that he found this sort of sensual. The precision of it, the cold methodology of it - there was no deliberate sexuality to your movements, no conscious attempt to make yourself desirable in front of him. There was just a single-minded purpose in your brain right now and it was just to get it done.

It turned him on.

"You could make a show of that, kitten." There was a chuckle in his voice, making you take a glance. The warmth of the low light washed over his features like a blanket, the shadows perfectly highlighting the contours of his face.

He really is beautiful, you thought as you strode to where he sat, face impassive as you bent down, those bruised hands of yours gripping the backrest of the couch to cage him in. You didn't mind playing his games, didn't mind the teasing, the insinuations. The soft, lingering touches he sometimes used in an attempt to scramble your mind was not lost on you. The way he would slink so close to you, so much that you would be able to feel the emanating heat from his body wasn't at all unpleasant - it was nice, even.

You were so close, so close, humming when the the spice and musk of his cologne wafted through your nose. "You should have told me you were coming over," you murmured, mouth hovering over his. It pleased you to see the way his eyes dilated ever so slightly, his fingers that were comfortably resting on his lap twitching to touch, aching to feel you. "I would have made myself look more..." His eyes sharpened onto your lips, the desire evident as you moved them close, mere centimeters apart, about to do something forbidden. "...presentable."

Those large, strong arms whipped forward to grip your waist when you moved back, sharply pulling you in so you fell on his lap. "You're not getting away that easily." There was a groan in his voice, almost an octave lower, reaching, demanding, as those long fingers rubbed gentle circles on your hip.

"If I asked for a kiss," he matched your tone, the low murmuring of his voice a gentle vibration in the air around you as his eyes glinted. "Will you grant it?"

You searched his eyes, smiled. This was a dangerous game, a possibly fatal game. He was so... thrilling, so exciting. You've already sunk yourself lower into his games, played along of your own free will. If the Association knew of your connection to him, they'd have you hunted with no mercy.

But he was just so warm. And no matter how much his life differed from yours, no matter how much his past deeds was a dark smear compared to yours, you knew that he wasn't a liar. Not once, in all of the months you've... rendezvoused with him, has he ever harmed you except for the first few days of your meeting.

And was it so wrong to want someone like him? To have a man like him want you? To have his strong hands on you? To possess, to be possessed, to be coveted? It's been so long since you've been intimate with someone, been so long to have had someone want you and never in the way that he does.

He gave you moments of respite, whether it be here or in the N109 Zone. And that's what you wanted, right? You wanted time, you wanted rest, you just wanted to goddamn sleep.

You traced a finger down his cheek, rubbed under the hallow of his eye, smiled as you pushed away from him to stand.

And immediately felt the wave of exhaustion hit you.

He was behind you in a heartbeat in a shower of feathers, the energy of his evol radiating off of him in a steady thrum, that simple and pure strength of him held you up as you drifted away for a second. You blinked as your senses flooded back into you, huffed a breath when you noticed his hands gripping protectively at your waist. You smiled.

In a blink of an eye, you whirled in a speed that even he didn't account for. Even as your muscles screamed, you had your face upturned to his, the blade that was hidden in your belt nicking the skin of his neck.

He regarded you, amused, as his hands still palmed your hips. Sylus definitely understood your reputation wasn't just for show, even when he felt warm liquid drip from where your knife pointed at his throat.

"You're so gosh darn pretty," you murmured when he said nothing, your other hand carding through his snow-white hair, your other letting go of the blade, letting it fall on to the floor with a soft thud just so you could wipe the thin line of blood that dripped. He swayed you, his chest vibrating as he purred a soft tune as you tilted your face up, up, and pressed a soft kiss on the wound. "This one should do it."

You slithered away from his grasp, grinned as you ambled towards the bedroom, leaving him standing in the middle of your living room with a smirk on his face.

He watched you pitter patter around yet only the barest of sounds could be heard, and Sylus was sure it was because of his own training that he could even hear you. You were definitely interesting, quite unlike the people he's had dealings with before. And definitely more amusing that some common grunt.

Sylus strode past to follow only to stop when your phone beeped once, twice, three times, the screen lighting up to show a simple reminder: 10:00 PM Eat Food. He frowned as he picked up the phone, sighed when your calendar showed that reminder set to everyday.

He's been in your apartment for several hours already, so much so that he finished quite a bit of work and managed to get an afternoon nap while he waited for you. You stopped questioning how he got through your biometric lock, at this point you don't even care.

He did some snooping, of course he would. Sylus didn't rifle through any of your drawers nor any papers that laid in neat stacks on one of your bookshelves, but he did check the titles of your books, how you arranged your furniture, the things in your refrigerator and cupboards.

He was not at all impressed.

Multipacks of nutrition jelly and economy packs of energy bars dominated your fridge, neatly stacked at the far corner alongside bottles of water and energy drinks. There were fruit cups, at least, but still it didn't and couldn't justify the amount of artificial sustenance you were consuming for your daily intake of nutrients. Beside the fridge were bottles of vitamin supplements, one nearly empty.

It should be alright now as he ordered Luke and Kieran to get you supplies and groceries that could at the very least last you several months. Your cupboards that used to be devoid of anything but dust were now cleaned and filled with grains, rice, pasta, spices, and tinned food that cost more than half a month of your salary. Both dried and fresh fruit were now part of your inventory, as well as other non-perishables.

Eggs, bread, cured and fresh meats, vegetables - anything that you could possibly need for proper nourishment now packed your kitchen, barring any of your allergies that he was aware of. He was aware of your habits, watched you fumble through your apartment day in and day out through Mephisto's eyes and not a single day has past that he hadn't felt the need stop himself from just plucking you up from Linkon City and making you live with him instead.

With all the things he wanted to do with you at first, the amount of luxuries that he wanted to pile on top of you, right now the dominated desire that enveloped him was to make sure you were fed.

And that was a challenge already.

It wasn't that you wanted him to worry. It was just you didn't have the time. The energy you could use to cook could be used to cleaning your weapons and the sooner you could drag yourself to bed, the better.

But still, you didn't like the way he looked at you whenever you meet and you've spent another two days awake, didn't like the way he would hover when he felt like you weren't eating properly. Oh he stilled teased you, still provoked you, but beneath it all there was an underlying concern that you just didn't have the energy to push away.

The hot spray of water was a relief, as proved by the groan that left you when you felt the blood and grime wash away from your battered body. You looked down, hissed at the sight of the gash that ran from your hip to your stomach. It wasn't deep enough to be concerning, but you knew you had to get it cleaned and dressed quickly.

You washed, let the warmth of the water soak in your bones, before you stepped out and dried yourself off. As you thought, your left arm and half of your torso were already blooming with bruises. Well, you chuckled to yourself, at least your face was unscathed this time.

With a hum you put on your underwear and strode towards the medicine cabinet, listing off all the supplies you knew you would need.

"Fuck," you hissed. You ran out of bandages.

You closed your eyes, slowed your breathing as you thought of a possible solution to this. You could just go out and buy some, but the nearest convenience store didn't even sell the type of bandages that you needed. Not to mention that you could just aggravate it more and possibly get it infected.

But Sylus... Sylus was here. Maybe you could -

Hm. It was worth a shot.

You stood, firmly secured the towel over your chest as you peeked out the door, tilted your head to the side at the sight of him wearing your summer yellow apron with tiny embroidered flowers over his expensive shirt, his capable hands tossing what looked to be pasta on the pan. This was not something that you quite expected, but he looked so cute to your that you couldn't help but lean against the doorjamb as you were enthralled by this sudden act of domesticity from the leader of Onychinus.

And yet.

The stinging at your side made you inhale sharply before sighing. It needed to be dealt with now.

"Sylus." Your voice was soft, just above a whisper, but it was enough to make him turn. It amused you when he raised his brow, those sharp eyes of his wandering from your face, to your bare chest, to your legs.

"Sweetie," he said as he set the finished pasta aside. "If you're trying to lure me to bed, you're going to succeed."

Your laugh drew a smile out of him as he took a few steps towards you, his arms folded over his wide chest. "So?" There was curiosity in his eyes, just above the simmering heat. "Was there anything that you needed?"

You stayed by the door, your hair falling to the side of your face as you tilted your head once more. There's no beating around the bush with this man, so there's no point in playing coy. Especially since you might get yourself in an even worse position that could medically incapacitate you for a few days. Or worse, be medically incapacitated for a few days at the hospital.

So.

"Could you use your evol to stitch me up?"

There was an unreadableness to his face, one that you've seen only a few times before. He just stood there, still as a statue, the only change to his expression was the furrowing of his brow.

"Show me."

If you didn't spend a long time trying to decipher this man, you would have missed the slight hitch, the small change in inflection in his low voice at the command. You reached out, took his hand into yours, and pulled him into the bedroom.

Sylus didn't wander in here while you were gone, preferring to do so while in your presence. Your bedroom wasn't all that different to the rest of your apartment. A bit sparse, but not Spartan in decoration. Although the place leaned more towards function over aesthetics, there were little nick knacks that popped out in their tidy, little spaces. Small figurines dotted your bookshelf, soft plushies placed neatly on various tables and furniture. Pictures of you and what he assumed as your captain, Jenna, and a few of your colleagues rested on a table next to your bed.

He sat on the edge of your bed, his hands folded neatly over his lap, tapping as he watched you slide the towel off of your still damp body, your calloused yet gentle hands folding it with practiced ease and placing it next to you as you sat. You peered at him, muffled a laugh when you saw him shamelessly studying your nude torso.

"Like what you see?"

"Hm." His eyes were sharp as they regarded you, regarded the strength that showed in your physicality, the gorgeous swell of your chest, the stray water droplet that fell from your bruised shoulder down your arm. And zeroed in on that massive slash, still red and puffy, on your side.

"I didn't know we were already at that stage where you would show me your body without my prompting."

"Please," there was mock derision in your voice. "You've already seen my tits when we got linked. Don't tell me the incredibly intelligent leader of Onychinus already forgot what they looked like?" There was a grin on his mouth but the laughter didn't reach his eyes. You didn't like that one bit. "Sylus." You reached over, cupped his face. "I'm okay."

"It's going to hurt." His voice was so soft, so tender as he leaned into your touch. The gruff elegance that always seemed to exude from him was gone in this moment, wherein focused contemplation reigned instead.

"I know."

Your eyes locked for a moment, and then another, and another, before he yielded. Taking your hand on his cheek, he pulled you closer and rested your head on his shoulder. "If you need to bite something, just bite my shoulder."

"I don't think this is the time for your kinks, Sylus."

"Sweetheart, we all have to get our fun somehow."

You laughed as you leaned into his touched, the scent of his cologne sending comfort throughout your body. "Go ahead."

Those gentle fingers of his trailed your skin, heat following wherever it went. It wasn't so bad, it was almost like droplets of the hot water you used for your morning coffee, feathering over your bruises as if kissing away the wounds.

But the heat quickly turned into a sharp flame, searing, slowly searing into you as you felt you skin stretch, connect, stitch itself within itself before dissipating into particles of red ash.

You didn't see how much Sylus was monitoring your breathing, searching for any minute reaction that you could be doing to hide your pain from him. With a click of his tongue, he pulled you back, those beautiful carmine eyes of his burning into yours.

"Darling," there was a warning edge to his tone as the black and red ink of his evol swirled around you. "Talk to me."

But you weren't afraid, weren't at all in pain. You bumped your nose to his chin. Smiled. "Keep going."

You could see how much he wanted to stop, how much he wanted to just swaddle you in his arms. There was a tightness in your jaw, a twitch in your eye, your fingers clamping onto his thigh.

And still, you kissed his neck, to comfort him more than for your own benefit.

"Sweetie," his voice was rough as he massaged your leg. "Most people would be screaming."

"I'm not most people now, am I?"

"Now I'm not quite sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing." But he kept going.

It was quicker, much quicker once he's gauged your pain tolerance. Every single mark and injury that marred your skin scattered to ash, to nothingness. The stinging that annoyed you during your trek back from the forest was gone. Both of you sighed.

"Thanks, Sy."

"Don't ever ask me to do that again."

There was a petulance in his voice, a deep annoyance that was more than irritation, leaned more towards fear. Your lips met his in a quiet apology. "No promises."

He clicked his tongue as he shook his head at you, those wide shoulders shrugging in temporary defeat. "You will be the death of me."

"Oh yes," there was an innocence in your voice, one that was met with a snort. You pushed yourself from your seated position on the bed and sat on his lap, not minding the way your legs straddled over him. You cradled his face, massaged his scalped, stared deeply into his eyes. "If you are going to die," you whispered, your lips once again hovering over his luscious ones. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to give in. To give yourself to him. "It's because I've killed you slowly." Fingers traced his bottom lip, the curve of his chin. "Thoroughly." A kiss to his well-defined nose. "Because you are my quarry, as I am yours. Do you understand?"

Sylus' eyes shined like polished rubies and you swear you could hear the hammering of his heart even when his face gave away nothing.

He gripped the back of your neck, caressed the base of your skull as he cocked his head. Smirked wickedly. "I agree to those terms."

"Good." And before he could do anything else, because the bastard would definitely do something else, you maneuvered yourself out of his grasp and into the kitchen in one swift, playful move. "Food's getting cold."

Your laugh tinkled out when you moved away from his reach, winking at him when he just watched you saunter away.

Oh he'll accept the loss this time. Next time, however, he's not going to let you off that easily.

From the confines of your closet, he quickly grabbed one of your nightshirts and followed you out the door.

--

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