#to start up the violence again and then get killed!

[transboyswitchytales]

Pretty Girl I'll Make You Famous 🔐

🔒Maya MasonxArtistReaderMason🔑

Part 1, Bitter pill, I'll make it painless, Show you how the stars are made I promise that they'll know your name Pretty girl, I'll make you famous

Part 2, So, gather 'round and run your mouths Did you forget you're in my fuckin' house?

You are Maya Mason's wife and the head artist of Continental Studio's Animation division. Someone at work is sexually harassing you, and you haven't told your wife, big mistake.

My Masterlist of Works

!WARNING: SEXUAL HARASSMENT IN THE WORKPLACE!

ANGRY MAYA ACTIVATED/ Possesive / Talks of Violence / Maya throwing things / Daddy Kink!/G!PMaya/Impregnation kink/Video Game Discussions/Movies/ Hollywood Shit/ Animators/ Shop-Talk / Bucky/ Alice x Jen/ Wanda x Nat/ Baby Billy/ Matt is an idiot/ Patty is a Star/ Tony Bashing/ Sexually explicit language and themes 18+/MDNI / *Not a Healthy Relationship*

So, gather 'round and run your mouths

Did you forget you're in my fuckin' house?

You have your headphones on, but you can lip-read pretty well through the glass, and only one of your big over-the-ear headphones is on your ear. So you were listening/watching the drama happening in the room. 

Your office door was open, and you were hoping, like all managers at all levels, that your children would figure it out for themselves. And you wouldn’t need to step in. But you were realizing that this was becoming a hotter and hotter issue. 

Wanda opened your door twenty minutes ago and was typing happily on your sofa. She’d eyed you once, one earbud in. She could also hear your minions arguing. You met her eyes to tell her you knew. You and Wanda had been friends since you were in your early twenties in LA. You’d done Molly at a Florence and The Machine concert for fucks sake. You’d taught her with a cucumber how to give a good blow job. You were close, to say the least. 

So she knew your style, and knew that you were waiting. 

You weren’t on your computer like Wanda. You had your animation table tilted, and the light was off. You weren’t animating, you were drawing Ethan Winter's face. Because for some reason no one could agree on what the fuck this white guy with blonde air looked like. Some said he looked too much like Chris Evans, others said Chris Hemsworth. You were tired of the Chris’s and were looking for more of a Scarsgard look, maybe? Perhaps it was too European? You were fixing his cheekbones when you heard the first person yell. 

Groaning you erased the line you’d just fucked up from the noise. 

“Oof, you got a problem on your hands, Da Vinci.” Wanda teased, not looking up as she worked on the scene. 

Her feet were tucked underneath her and her heels were kicked off on your floor. There was art and storyline pinned on corkboard with scene orders. She’d moved the middle part around about twenty-three times. You knew Wanda was stuck because she was chewing on her milkshake straw. But you didn’t make a snide comment on how she should worry about how the hell Ethan is going to get into the Doll house. You just breathed out through your nose and drew Ethan’s left eye again. 

Until Billy walked in with his sketchbook.

“Boss?” He said politely and obviously was completely scared of you. He looked at Wanda, and the two shared a comfortable communication. You didn’t ever say anything about the two of them. Understanding from being Mrs. Mason, how nice it was for no one to know who lived in your home. 

“Billy.” You say not looking up at him, and he stares like Bambi back at you. He’s wearing big black glasses and his baggy sweaters again. He’s absolutely adorable, and you’d kill for the twenty-year-old. Wanda goes back to typing, not getting involved. Which was smart, she knew you better than to put her foot in your animation business. 

“It’s getting a little..well, you see….Mrs. M- Boss, I think..” He starts, but you don’t look at him. And it’s making the curly-haired boy more nervous. Which is ridiculous because he knows you better than to be this. Of all the people in the building to fear you, Billy shouldn’t be one of them. 

Your phone rings, and you don’t let it ring twice before you answer and put your wife on speaker.

“Baby, you are on speaker in the office, don’t say something bad.”

“Ballsack.” She says, and you roll your eyes. Of course she always took that as a dare.  

“Hey, baby Daddy!” Wanda yells as she knows your wife is trying unsuccessfully to knock you up. And she likes to poke fun at Maya any chance she gets. 

Billy just blushes and looks at the door, wondering if he should leave. 

“Hey, red rocket! How’s your fat paycheck doing? Feeling the need to get fired yet?” Maya threatens and teases all in one pretty package. Wanda scoffs pretneindg to be offended. 

“Maya, hold on a second. I’m gonna multitask, I know you wanted me to come to your office but I’m swamped. So hold on. Billy, you don’t have to tell me. You don’t need them to think you tell me stuff. I already know Jen and Tony are fighting about Kratos. Tony wants it to look more Viking, and Jen wants it to be more focused on a video game aesthetic. Jen is right, and Tony needs to listen. But I’m not going to intervene about that until Jen asks me to. Because she’s running point on Kratos. Tony is in charge of Atreus, and if he draws his son Peter again, I’m going to put him back on backgrounds. But you don’t need to tell him that. Just go back to Jen and remind her she has a meeting with Barton on Zoom soon. And yes Billy, I know Alice is freaking out. She doesn’t need to, I saw the sketches and the teaser….Well, we are finishing the trailer tonight at midnight. For both of them. No one is going home until it’s done. You can tell them the scary animator said that, ok?”

Billy smiles more sure than before and finding solace in you looking at him like he isn’t fired. Wanda smiles sadly at him, but he doesn’t look at her. 

“God, I think I’m hard,” Maya said, and you take her off speaker. 

“Can you behave for two fucking seconds in front of my team?” You ask her, but you grab your laptop and the sketch of thirty different Ethan’s. 

“I miss you. I can’t behave when I miss you, you know that. I do need you to come to my office, we have some things to sort out.”

“You never behave, Mrs. Mason.” You tell her, and Wanda is packing her stuff and coming out of the office with you. You pick your airpod out of your pocket, and it pairs, so you don’t have to hold your phone. You put it in your back pocket and hear Maya sigh through your right ear airpod. 

“I’d behave if you came here and let me fill you, if you take out that stupid implant, I’ll behave. Come to my office, Darling. There’s some things that need taken care of.”

“Someone needs a cold shower.” You half whisper, but you walk into the main office area. 

“Tony, where’s the art for Atreus?” You say over his cubicle, and he looks momentarily taken aback. He’s used to your stupid old boss, who wouldn’t be here grilling one of his boys. But you aren’t his boy. You are his fucking boss and you aren’t going to listen to his whiny ass. Tony was a good artist and he had potential if he took his head out of his backside. 

“I’ll email it to you in ten, boss lady.” He rolls his eyes. 

“You can drop the lady, or we’ll talk about your workload again.” You say, and you hear two other animators laughing at him. Maya in your ear snorts at you, and you hear a faint ‘tell him, baby girl.’

“Yes, boss,” Tony says, and you think that you actually see a bit of respect in his eyes. But maybe not. 

“If you can’t handle the task of drawing a child, I can put you on trees or trash cans.” You smile at him, and it’s col,d and it really digs the nail in. You aren’t here to be liked. You don’t care what he draws in the bathroom about you. You don’t care if Tony drinks at his desk and curses you under hi breath. You do care if he draws what you need. And if he can’t, there are plenty of resumes in your inbox. 

“No, I got it. I think Jen said something about the eyes of his mother. So I’m just gonna do a few changes, and you’ll have a color animation. Just give me-” He says and it isn’t what you want. 

“Do it right, Stark, I’ll have it in an hour. I have a meeting, and then I’ll need it. Color would be nice, since you have been an animator for a long time. But if you are falling behind, you should tell your boss now. While I’m standing here.” You tell him, and Wanda is behind you, and you hear her biting back a laugh. You don’t take pleasure in public humiliation, but if they behaved like drunken fools…well. You’d put his ass in the stockade and let the others throw food at him. 

You’d never do this to an animator who didn’t get motivated from it. Billy would never experience this, not just because he was anxious and close to you. But because it wouldn’t make him motivated. Tony however, he wanted you to step on his dick. 

And you’d worn your heels today. You were sure they’d draw blood if need be. 

You’d seen the drawing around the office. Tony drew them often now, he was naked with his tongue out, you drawn in a latex suit with your heel on his balls. You’d seen it, you’d left it in the break room. You weren’t afraid of them. They were in your fucking house. 

This was your house.

Jen came through the cubicles with her laptop and a stack of drawings. She looked exhausted. Jen eyed Tony and had heard you talking to him. She appreciated you more than words could say. Jen had never been under your wrath either. She’d never needed Walt’s Monster to make her work harder. You’d taught Jen what you wanted. And she was quick and detail-oriented, so you motivated her with bigger projects and praise. And it worked wonders. 

Alice came out of her office to the middle where you were all huddled near the cubmicles. She had her hair in a tight bun with two pencils in it, and she had her iPad. She also looked like shit. Billy was behind her. 

“How many people are coming to this meeting?” Alice asks, looking at Billy confused. 

“Baby, you still there?” You ask, and Maya clears her throat, and you realize she’s definitely hard from hearing you knock Tony down a peg. 

“Right here Darling, where I always am, right behind you.”

It’s sweet and it warms your heart.

“Does Matt want to focus on God of War or Resident Evil?” You ask and no one has given you a straight answer in your emails. 

“He wants both; he’s stupid and thinks it’ll be good to push them out one month apart. I’m working on telling him to stagger them. But he thinks if we do them both, then we can do two next quarter the same way. Patty, Sal,, and I are working on it, baby…But it’s not looking how we want it.”

You ignore Tony staring at your cleavage, and you scratch your forehead. 

“Um, ok. So, Billy I need you to go to Motion Design and put a fire under their ass. We are working on both Resident Evil and God of War by midnight. You have Motion Design work faster. Right now, Resident Evil is further along. I need you to have them work faster on both, and email me the final animation for Rose by the end of my meeting in an hour and a half. I’m not entirely sure how long this thing with Matt is going to take.”

You pull your phone out of your back pocket to check the time. 

“...Thirty minutes, for Rose animation, and I’ll send you the final on Ethan. Ok, Billy?” You tell him, and he nods and sprints across the offices. Motion Design was down two levels, and he was really taking the stairs to get there. 

“He’s adorable. I want to clone him. We need more of him.” Alice says under her breath to no one in particular. You’d known it was a good idea to put Billy under Alice. She loved a goth queer kid, she’d protect him when you weren’t around. No one knew his connection to Wanda. And you were keeping it that way. 

“Tony and Jen, figure out Kratos and his son today. Jen, what do you have for me?” You said, looking at what’s in her hand. 

“I have the finished Kratos weapons and clothes, and we have a few action scenes that Natasha and Barton put in their scenes. It’s animated, rought but it’s blocked out. So we have an animator's quick sketch cut of it. It’s not teaser worthy, but-” Jen babbles and you put your hand up to stop her and she does. Your team needed raises. Jen and Alice looked rough, and they were both babbling, not a good combo. 

“How long?” You ask her. She opens and closes her mouth twice before your question computes. Wanda is still standing there and Tony isn’t paying attention anymore. He’s drawing quickly. One animator throws a paper across to another, and you ignore them. 

“A minute and a half.” Your eyes open wider, and you smile. Way to go, Jen. 

“Good work Jen, I’ll take that into the meeting. Wanda is coming with me. You talk to Barton and after you and Alice need to meet and show each other we you have. Whatever holes I want you to write them out, and make a list. When I come back, you can tell me what needs tweaking. I’ll be back in a.. time… I’m not sure. If Tony needs help please pair him with Bucky.” You tell Jen but Tony turns out was listening. 

“Bucky, the one-hand wonder?” Tony is confused, and you turn to look at him like he’s a mongrel that isn’t supposed to speak. Maya snorts in your AirPods again, she doesn’t need to see your face to know.

“Stark, you are on the thinnest of ice. If I ever hear you refer to him as that again, I’ll drag you into HR to fire you, not walk you.” You tell him, and he looks back down.  

Bucky, with his long hair, however, comes around. Once you are finished telling Tony he sucks. 

Bucky was missing an arm, you’d hired him with his adorable beard and big daddy dopey grin. You loved the man, he was loyal as hell. He’d taken down dirty drawings of you around the office. 

It wasn’t the reason you’d promoted him from background to character animator. 

He’d been eternally grateful for the raise and chane. Bucky was a talented illustrator; he could draw beautiful architecture, but he had something you wanted to nurture for characters. His sketches were clean as hell, too. He’d painted a gorgeous poster that you’d run with for Resident Evil, he’d made the castle and Duke come to life. Like you could reach out and touch them. 

 You saw so much potential in him.  

“I’ll help Tony.” He says, and you smile warmly at him. You would have been friends with the man if you weren’t his boss. But he was so smart, you might just have to anyway. 

“Thank you, Bucky. Could you also ask the sculptors to finish up Heisenberg’s bust? It should have been done yesterday, but I think there was some confusion about his hat.” You say, and Bucky nods like a good soldier. 

“Of course, boss.” 

You smile and turn on your heel. Jen goes to her office to call Barton. And Alice scurrries to her corner of the office to ask about character back lighting. 

You and Wanda head out of the main animator floor. You take the elevator and you grab your badge, and swipe it.

“Baby?” You ask. 

“Still here, still hard as a rock. Still need to talk to you.” Maya teases, and you laugh.

Wanda presses the button for the floor and she's got her computer under her arm. But she’s texting as you talk to Maya. 

“What’s for lunch, and how long is this meeting really going to take? Because I have a mountain of work to do, and I don’t want to sit and listen to Matt dick around about Ethan’s chin for an hour. Also, Wanda has to finish the mess she made of my second act. It’s a shit show.” 

Wanda turns, and she’s got her mouth hanging open. 

“Tell your Daddy that I will fix this before midnight. Like I promised! I just need to- Ya know what! Give me God of War, I’ll fix whatever Natasha’s fucking up! It looks way easier!” Wanda squeaks, and you know you’ve hit a nerve with her. 

“Uh oh, sounds like your maid of honor is upset with you now,” Maya says, but she’s not teasing because she finds Wanda kinda annoying. She still was fine when Wanda came over for drinks or dinner, but she rolled her eyes a lot at the writer. You would love to mention how all of Maya’s dinner guests were work-related. But Maya just told you that you were her best friend. And you melted when she did that. 

“Oh my god, I’m only joking. I know you will. Besides- wait a fucking minute. Is this because of you and Nat? Are you guys fucking again?” You say, and your mouth drops open now in mock surprise, and Wanda is flushed and shaking her head. 

The elevator dings, and you walk through the main lobby. It’s got giant sculptures of animated characters, and video games, and movie posters. There’s even a small coffee shop with a barista. It’s cozy and has a million hipster bean bag chairs that look like rocks. There’s a giant movie screen that is always showing the fucking Kool-Aid movie. Which is annoying.  

Maya is in your ear and has been listening to you talking to Wanda with interest. She tunes in again. 

“Gagged, writers and animators are just like everyone else in Hollywood. Everyones fucking everyone. It’s exhausting.” Maya says, and you realize how old she sounds in this moment. 

“Baby, you sound like an elderly married man.” You tease, and Maya laughs, and you are surprised she doesn’t disagree with you. You hear her start to yell at her assistant to go to the store and buy drain-o, five ice coffee’s, one cappuccino, one iced strawberry matcha, and super tampons. You remember that your drain was clogged this morning, and Maya swore she’d fix it tonight. But you look down at your calendar to see that Maya is right, like always, your period is starting tomorrow. 

Wanda knows you can multitask, so she takes no offense at you on the phone with Maya, looking at your calendar, and talking to her about gossip. 

Your combined heels click on the cement as you walk over to the main studio. You don’t want to drive in a golf cart today. Besides Wanda has to explain away from a PA what the fuck she’s talking about.  

“I was in love with Natasha, or am in love with Natash- but so is half the writers in this fucking town. Besides, Yelena called me!” Wanda says, and her eyes are sparkling. You eye her and put your phone back in your pocket. 

“You are telling me you are going to fuck her sister to get back at her?” You ask, and you only half disapprove. “Can you wait until I’m done with the project, and then you two can go all homicidal Bonnie and Clyde on each other again?” You ask it selfishly.  

“Jesus, I’m so glad I’m not dating anymore. Marrying you was the best thing I ever did. Besides these bitches are crazy in L.A! I’m relieved to be a married Daddy now.” Maya says, and you wonder if she’s changing her nickname. Perhaps Mommy was so last season? Or maybe she liked the term ‘Baby Daddy’ more than she was letting on. 

“I am not gonna fuck Yelena. I’m going to go into business with her!”

“That’s worse, I think?” You say, and then the realization of it hits you. “You’d go into business with another writer? You swore you’d never go into a production, you said in college it was all about artistic differences and shit. I remember because Viz begged you to open a house. He was upset about the workload and you said-”

“I know I know what I said, but I don’t know it might be nice.” Wanda shrugs and you feel fear now. 

“Wanda, am I putting too much on your plate? Because if it’s making home life hard-” You worry about your friend. You were glad she was divorced now from Viz, but you didn’t want to make her life hard. 

“Oh my god, you are the sweetest human alive. No matter what they call you. And they call you a lot, honey. Go back to being Mrs. Mason, setting the studio on fire. I’m fine, I promise, I will tell you. I’m just stuck on Ethan Winters decision making, he’s thick as hell. Besides, if anyone should be concerned in our little affair, it’s me! When are you gonna let Maya put a fucking baby in you? I’ve made a Pinterest board years ago for the baby shower!” Wanda asks, and you groan at her. Of course she fucking had. 

“Now that’s the question of the hour. I knew I liked your choice of Maid of Honor.” Maya said over your earbud. It was not true, and you both knew it. Maya just wasn’t letting go of the idea that waiting was silly. 

“Oh, ya know what, we are going into a tunnel. Babe, I’ll see you in four minutes!” You tell her and you make fake noises as if there is bad reception. 

“HEY! DO NOT HANG UP ON M-” She yells and you don’t listen.

You end the call on your wife and Wanda chuckles at your antics. 

_______________________

You walk in, and Patty is taking an iced coffee out of Maya’s assistant’s hand. He’s tall and gay and lanky as hell. He looks like he’s a model who’s afraid of everyone, and maybe he’s done a bump of coke in the bathroom. You can’t remember his name, and you aren’t sure Maya knows it either. 

Sal and Matt are talking about how they are going to get Scarlett Johansson to call them back about a spy movie. Quinn and Patty are talking about how they really want to make the next Old Guard, and Netflix has the rights.

Wanda cringes at the room and goes next to Patty to get the iced coffee. Patty turns her attention and starts to fluff Wanda up like she’s in a porno. Patty is telling her how amazing her work is and how she can’t believe they haven’t worked together before. 

You are looking around for Maya like always, but her assistant eyes you, and you are surprised he’s walking to you. But he walks up to you with his intense eye makeup and hands you the iced strawberry matcha, and you take it. Maya was sweet to know you were trying to cut down on your coffee intake.

 You open your mouth to thank him, and then he gets a little weird.

“You are the Mason Da Vinci, I just wanna say…If you ever want to spit on me…Or I could be furniture in your house or-” He leans in and you feel Maya before you see her. Like a cloud falls over the room, something dark and sinister. The little people of Tokyo the second Godzillia makes his first step probably felt similar. 

 She’s behind you, her heels click to a stop, and the assistant goes paler. 

“Get the hell out,” Maya says, and her hand falls on your lower back. You eye the tall boy as he runs out of the office.

“The fuck Maya? Feed the poor boy?” You whisper, and she isn’t laughing, and you turn to see her. Her gorgeous jaw is clenched, and you see the irritation.  

“Baby?” You ask and her eyes fall on you, oh shit she didn’t like that. You are confused why, because people say inappropriate things to her all the time. But it was sexual towards you, and she doesn’t like that one bit.

 But maybe there’s something else too?

“Matt, I’m firing my assistant after this. Now let’s get this shit started, I ordered lunch because I know we aren’t going to settle this in the allotted hour meeting time. So yay for tacos.” Maya says and you realize she’s really not ok with whatever is going on. Her body is tense, and she’s mad. But she’s keeping a lid on it, which is not very Maya-like. Something is keeping her contained. 

“We lost some of the budget, didn’t we?” You say, and Sal looks shocked. Wanda walks back to you and sits down to your right and she eyes you curiously. 

“You told her! We said we’d wait!” Sal yells at Maya, who eyes him like he’s a worm, and he plops in the swivel seat. 

Everyone starts to sit down except Maya. You defend your wife until the end.

“She didn’t tell me shit. Why are you cutting the budget and moving the date of release? Oh my god, Matt I won’t do AI.”

“What no, no , I learned from Kool-Aid. People are still boycotting me, and the barista keeps spitting in my coffee. Which is why Maya’s creepy Edward Scissorhands assistant got the coffee today. No, um…Guys, can we have the room? Just for a second? Wanda, I’m really excited you are here. I just need to talk to Da Vinci- I mean Y/n for a second.” Matt rambles, and Wanda keeps her face blank, but she stands with her laptop and walks out. But her eyes on you say it all; ‘I’ll walk if you want me to.�� 

Sal stays, and Patty doesn’t move either. Quinn walks quickly out of the room, and you settle. Dropping your art and computer onto the table. You take a sip of your strawberry matcha as Matt turns and begs Patty to leave in hushed tones. Patty rolls her eyes and argues with him. Matt can’t even get his people to leave the room when he asks. 

You feel Maya put her hands on your chair, it’s a power stance if you’ve ever seen it. It’s pretty obvious, Maya isn’t standing on the side of Matt and the rest. She’s standing behind you, and she’s ready to fight. No wonder she didn’t skin her assistant, she’s got bigger fish to fry. She’ll save him for later. The lion’s got a gazelle in her eyeline now. 

“Maya, please leave for two secon-” Matt tries. 

“No fucking way Matt. You wanna ask my wife a question, I want to hear you say it.”

You don’t turn and look at Maya. You don’t know what this is about, but it doesn’t sound good. Too many layers of tension. And Maya was like a scalpel. 

Matt pulled on his fingers as he worked on through his thoughts.  

“So, higher-ups don’t want to fund two films. I’m working on that, they want to cut the budget. We’re hoping that with the teaser, we can change their mind. But that’s not what I’m worried about. I think I can fix that, I mean I can, I can fix that. What I need to know is..there’s a rumor going around about you.”

Matt can’t look at your eyes. 

“A rumor?” You ask, wondering what HR nightmare you are walking into. Did someone get upset by the noises you and Maya were making when you fucked in her office? Did someone figure out who Billy was related to? No, it was about you? Was it about Maya, too? Did Tony or one of your minions bring a complaint?

“Spit it out, Matty,” Patty says, taking a sip of her drink. 

“Did Marvel contact you about a position?” Matt says and it’s rushed out in one breath. 

Maya cuts in before you can respond. She leaves a count of four before she snaps at the exec.  

“You have no right to ask her that. If Disney comes forward asking about her contract, she has every right Matt. She’s a fucking triple threat artist and you aren’t even giving her full funding for a film. If Disney comes forward for a project with Marvel Studios, my wife has every right to take it.” Maya says cool and calculated and you pause.

 Oh god, you see what’s going on. 

Oh Maya…

You lick your lips and form your response, calculating what is being set in front of you. 

“Matt, you know my contract isn’t up. I can’t work at another studio for another, what was it Maya?” You ask, trying to remembe,r and Maya pretends to think about it. 

“Five months I believe?”

Like she didn’t fucking know. 

Sal gulps and takes the bait, turning to Matt. They were too easy. 

“Matt.. we can’t lose her. She’s fucking got Wanda and Nat on speed dial! She’s got two feature films under her control! No one in animation houses works as fast as she does. If we lose her, these films won’t be made and you know it! We already tweeted the release date! Fix it!” Sal chastised his best friend. Patty eyed Maya before turning to Matt, having made her decision. 

“Wanda will walk, and so will Nat. They love her, there’s so many writers who love her. She’s got a network, and you don’t Matt. And if they walk, you have no story. And seventy percent of the animators, concept artists, cgi artists, sculptors, digital fucking effects teams will leave. She’s the fucking bones of that whole lot. Matt I’m not your boss anymore, I won’t tell you what to do. But if I were you, I’d be mighty scared to piss off your head artist and Maya’s fucking wife. So I’d write a check for the films and give her a mighty fine pay bump. Or the nickname Walt’s Monster will become more real than you are ready for.” Patty said and turned to smile at you before she sipped her coffee. Lipstick stain staying on the straw. 

Now that was interesting. 

Matt got up and walked out to make a call, with Sal on his heels to go help. Patty stood and winked at you and then raised her cup to Maya. She walked out, and you sat in silence with Maya behind you. 

The only noise in the conference room was the clicking of the clock on the wall.

“You are the worst.” You whisper and you don’t say more because you aren’t at home. There are eyes and ears everywhere. Maya doesn’t come around, she stays behind you. 

“If my assistant, or anyone in this industry, ever says something lewd to you ever again. You don’t wait for me to walk in. You fire them on the spot. Because what I’m going to do to him is worse than what you’ll do. He’ll never work in L.A again, and none of his friends will either. And he may go missing if I am in the mood. I’ll kill his fucking dog sparkie if he ever looks at you again. No one, and I mean no one, disrespects my wife that way.” Maya whispered, and it was almost scary if it didn’t make your cunt drip. Maya knew too many people in L.A. And that didn’t stop at people in the industry; she knew drug smugglers, gangsters, and mafia. Maya wasn’t afraid of jack shit. Her upbringing made her hard and scary. She’d carried a glock strapped to her fucking thigh at the age of seventeen. Maya had a whole fancy drawer at home of butterfly knives.

You didn’t turn to look at her. You sipped your drink, and Maya’s finger brushed against your shoulder from where her hand was still on the chair. Your body responded instantly to her long acrylic fingernails against your shoulder. You wanted her.

“You should have come to my office.” She tells you, and you don’t have time to mull that over as Sal, Patty, and Matt are back.

Come play with us 

“I sent over a new contract, I got the green light on the film's funding. Everything is fixed, and I got you a very big pay bump.” Matt says like he’s saved the day. 

“Please don’t take the meeting with the big mouse,” Sal says, and Patty slaps his shoulder, and he goes over to the chair with her and they sit. 

Matt waves at Quinn through the glass of the conference room, and Wanda and Quinn walk back. 

Wanda doesn’t care, she’s a confident fucking writer. She walks over to you and turns her back on the table full of execs. She eyes you and tilts her red hair in question. 

You eye the seat to your right, and she smirks and sits. Opening her laptop up as everyone collectively settles. She grabs her iced coffee and starts to explain the plot. 

Maya is seated to your left, and her high heel finds the back of your calf. She keeps it there, and you understand her. She needs to touch you, the control. You are heres. 

_______

Two hours of talking about Resident Evil and your drawings are spread out, and Ethan’s face is finally picked. Thanks to Sal and Quinn, and no thanks to Matt. 

Lunch wrappers are all around the conference room. You and Maya don’t touch the food. 

Wanda looks down at her watch and turns to you as Quinn is talking, and you raise an eyebrow at her. But both of your questions are left unanswered. 

As Natasha knocks on the door and opens it. Barton isn’t there, but he doesn’t like going out. Most people don’t know that he’s Def, but you do. And you know he hates wearing his hearing aid. You two text on a daily basis. He’s a friend now after a decade of knowing Natasha. He was nicknamed Hawkeye because he had an eye for details and twists and turns. 

Natasha looks drop-dead gorgeous in her leather jacket, red lipstick and fuck me heels. She smiled her fake smile, the one she saved for movie execs. You turned in your chair only a little because Maya’s heel stopped you from moving too much. 

She needs control, and you want to give it to her.

“Nat, I’m glad you could come, you are early!” You say, and Nat looks confused for a millisecond until she eyes Sal and her face drops. 

“Sal has to go to another meeting,” Quinn says, and it has no tac,t but it works. Sal grabs his phone and trips, falling on his face, but scrambles back up and out of the other door. Nat turns and smirks at you, and you both know that she is just giving Sal a hard time because it’s a fun power play. 

But she goes over to Wanda and hugs her, which floors your friend. But she hugs back. 

“So good to see you, Maximoff. I heard you are working on Res! Sounds like fun, Clint and I just sent over the finished script for the Kratos project. A bummer we couldn’t work together on the Village! Sounds like a juicy story, lots of hot sexy vampires.” She laughs, and it’s fake as hell. 

You don’t watch your two friends have their foreplay in front of everyone. You turn to Maya, who’s staring at you as well. 

You shake your head at her; anyone else would think it’s because of the two red heads. But Maya understands what you are saying to her, and to her alone. ‘You are really the worst, We are talking after this.’ It’s very clear in your eyes. 

You turn your attention to Matt, who’s clapping his hands together in excitement. 

“That’s so awesome! Wanda, you won’t have to worry about finishing late now! R&B Productions and Wanda Inc making a fucking script together!”

He’s oblivious for someone who’s been in this business for too long. 

You gulp and close your eyes. There it is, like dominoes. 

 You turn to Wanda, who’s just being civil, and her eyes do not hold the same sentiment. You save your friend, but you aren’t verbalizing writing off the idea of them working together. The two writers collaborating linger in the air. 

“Natasha and I can brainstorm and see tonight what Wanda will need from us. Natasha, if you are ready to talk about the God of War script for everyone. I’ll let Wanda get back to it.”

You excuse her from the dinner table, so to speak. 

Wanda’s hand finds your knee under the table, and it’s a millisecon,d but you know she’s saying ‘Thank you!’ Because she’s going to go write and fix the script before Natasha can see what she’s missing.

 Wanda thanks everyone and lingers on Natasha. Telling her how excited she is to work together. And then she’s gone, and you can almost hear her running out of the building. You are very clear that the script will be done before the meeting is done.  

_________

You thank Natasha and tell her that they’ll make her a badge to get into the building and that she’ll text Alice to get her downstairs. 

You walk behind Maya for a minute as she talks to a PA for Quinn about sending her a temp. You wait until they are done talking, and you and Maya walk into her office. 

It’s a huge fucking office, it’s swanky as hell and she has expensive clothes on racks in a walk in closet. Her own full bathroom with a clawfoot tub and shower. It’s better than your first apartment. Her long plush sofas and large wood desk are menacing in the space. She has a projector always playing classic black and white horror movies that the studio used to make. It’s silent but constant against the wall, comforting.  

You walk in and you lean on her desk, putting your stuff in one of the low guest seats. Maya’s desk is higher, as it is always a contest. 

Your wife takes off her jacket and throws it onto her big desk chair before she walks between your legs. You open them up for her, and her crotch meets yours like they’re magnets. Maya pushes you so you are fully sitting on her desk. It isn’t unlike how she’s fucked you before. 

She isn’t completely hard, but you feel the heat, and you know it’ll only take a second. 

“You started a rumor that Disney wanted me on a Marvel project…so that we could get full funding for the film and I could get a raise.” It’s not a question. 

“You think I just sit here and twiddle my thumbs? Marketing is a full-time job, hon.”

“You manipulated that conference room to do your bidding, again. What I’m surprised by is that Patty didn’t even blink, not an ounce of a fight. What do you have on her? Is it blackmail? Or is she just that afraid of you?” You push, and it’s like foreplay. The game is a foot and it is thick in the room. 

Maya brushes your hair to the side and cups your face. 

“Are you sure it’s just me she’s afraid of, baby?” Blue eyes seek yours. 

“Maya!” You chastise, but she doesn’t seem phased by your displeasure. She’s smirking but you see the upset still under the surface. Something has your wife furious. But she’s so calculated, she’s waiting. She finally opens up a little about it. Her hand is not leaving your face.  

“You aren’t telling me something, and it’s been bothering me, so I had someone do some digging. I had to dig.” Maya starts, and you won’t be easily distracted by this topic. Her other hand comes to your hip. 

“Please tell me, Maya, Sweetie,  that you did not start a stupid rumor to get me paid higher so that I will agree to get pregnant. Because one of my reasons for us not having a baby right now was-” You try, but Maya shrugs and answers. 

“You said I made more than you, I felt like that was silly. I mean, Daddy still makes more, but now you make…really, really, good money. We’ll buy that beach house you were hesitant about last summer- kind of money. Besides pre-schools are fucking expensive, especially for eight children.” Maya muses, and you realize she’s still upset, but the reminder of kids seems to make her smirk a little. 

“Maya, you can’t get me a raise and have me decide we are ready for a baby. It doesn’t work like that.” You chastise your wife, knowing that that was one of the reasons she’d done this. Maya understands your thought process and answers your statement in your mind.  

“It was a small push, but not the only reason. Now what was really funny in that room was you double booking Natasha and manipulating Wanda.”

You bit your lip and smiled, and Maya laughed fully. 

“God, we are meant for each other. I thought I was the only one who brought something for show and tell!” Maya said proudly. 

“I couldn’t have you be bored. Besides, why do you get to have all the fun? I know you wanted the teaser out sooner. And besides Wanda and Nat are probably fucking in my office right now. I’m not that bad of a friend.” You shrug your shoulders, but Maya just shakes her head at you. Her face is closer now, and you are both playing the game of ‘who will break and kiss who first.’

“You little minx.” Maya compliments you. 

“Takes one to know one, I suppose.” You say sweetly, but Maya isn’t buying it. Her face sours, and her eyes darken. 

“You are still in trouble.”

“Maya, it’s not a big deal.” You say, realizing she’s figured it out. But Maya leans in to kiss you, and you try to meet her lips, and then she’s backing up. 

She walks over to her office door and flicks the lock. 

Before she reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a crumpled-up drawing. It’s the one Tony did recently, you think. He’s got his cock hanging out he’s wearing a scream mask but you know its’ him from his other drawings. You are giving him a handjob and wearing another domme latex suit, and a strap on. It’s crude, but it’s clear it’s you. 

“What the fuck is this?” She holds the drawing. 

“Maya…” You say slowly, and she shakes her head. 

“Don’t you dare lie to me. You know better than that, we don’t lie. We surprise each other with fun games. Manipulate a room full of people, not each other. They are all pawns. Not this. This, my love, isn’t a fucking game. So you tell me who did this.” She holds up the drawing in front of her like it’s a cursed fucking artifact. 

“Maya.” You say it again instead of saying who did it. 

“No, how long have you known about this?” She says, and she’s licking her bottom lip, and you know she wants blood. 

“It’s not-” You try. 

“Don’t lie. You knew, you knew this was happening. And you didn’t tell me.” Maya’s tone is so betrayed. Her eyes are like razor blades. She’s got venom ready to drip from her teeth.

“How did you even get that?” You ask, and it’s the wrong thing again because Maya’s face turns a darker shade of red. 

“Mrs. Mason, you did not just ask me that. You don’t think I can figure stuff out? Tell me right now, who?” Your wife is raising her voice now. She’s using your married name, oh god.

You put your hand out like it’s nothing, and you can brush it off.

“Maya it’s not even-”

You try, but you can’t even get it out before she knows what you are trying to do. 

“No, don’t tell me that shit. Don’t downplay what this is. And don’t try and tell me it’s the only one. Because I’ve got these!” Maya walks over to the desk and she pulls the drawer so hard it flies out of the desk, and part of the wood shatters. The desk costs more than your car. 

The drawer falls, and she leans down and pulls out four other gross drawings. 

They were all crumpled, they were all….bad. None of them had Tony’s face, but you knew who had done it. 

“Baby…” You say, but she grabs the broken drawer and she throws it across her office, and you hear people outside running away. The marketing team knew that when Maya was mad, it was best to scatter like Pixar rats. 

You aren’t scared of her, she isn’t going to hurt you. Maya would chew off her own arm before laying a hand on you in anger. 

Maya threw things and shouted, but never to scare you. And you knew her anger wasn’t towards you. Maya also never learned healthy ways to get angry. So she acted out like a hip, fashionable, angry teenager with a raging boner.

“Who did this? Who drew you like this? I will burn this whole company down. I’ll do extraordinarily terrible things. You know what I’m capable of. Don’t for a second think whoever did this can hide. Don’t you dare protect them. Who was it?” Maya was seeing red, there was no bringing her back from this. Maya needed carnage.  

“I’ll handle it.” You say, trying to sound more sure of yourself than you felt in this moment. You had thought about telling Maya. You’d wanted to the second it had started. But how the hell do you tell the person who would do anything for you…that… You are being sexually harassed in a place you both worked? You had downplayed it so hard in your mind perhaps Maya had a point. But before you can try anything, Maya is growling with rage. 

“Fuck that! That is complete bullshit. We are a team, have been since the day we met. And you lied to me. You lied to me! You didn’t come to me when this started. The second you saw one of these fucking things you should have got me! I found out about it and I called you. I didn’t wait. I didn’t sit on this. How long have you known?”

It was a trap, and you couldn’t avoid it. You both just looked at each other.  

You were silent and you felt ashamed now. 

“Exactly, you are my everything. And you didn’t think you could tell me. That’s what hurts the most. But there will be no question about people in this town respecting you when I’m done. You bring me this person. You bring me them now. I don’t care where they are or what they’re working on. I’m going to break each finger, they’ll never pick up a pencil again. They’ll have to use a crayon in their mouth in a padded cell to draw when I’m done.” Maya is baring her teeth. She’s throwing her hands around. Maya is not bluffing.

“It’s my house to clean. It’s my animation studio.” You are gripping at straws and this was going to get really bad, really fast. Tony had no idea what was coming his way. He was a jerk, but you still felt responsible, perhaps that was the part Maya hated the most. That you’d been deluded by the industry she loved into thinking you were somehow to blame in any of this. 

Maya laughs and it’s fake and cold.

“It’s your animation studio, that’s nice. It’s my marketing team, it’s Matt’s company. I don’t fucking care. How about this? YOU ARE MY WIFE! How about that?” Maya screams and spit flies and her hands are gesturing towards you in the air. She crumples the drawings and throws them across her office like she can’t touch them one more second. 

“Maya, calm down, baby. It’s not that big and it’s not that deep. This person is just butt hurt I got the promotion. Come here, let me hold you.” You tell her, and you know if you can touch her she’ll calm down. But your wife looks at you like you are insulting her intelligence, which is a way she’s never looked at you before.  You aren’t trying to manipulate her, you just need the room to make sense again.

“No.” She says, and it’s flat and empty, and you are confused. 

“No?” It sounds broken when you say it. Your lip sticking out a little too much. Maya sees it, she sees you.

“I won’t be easily distracted this time. No, Superstar, you tell your Daddy who did this. And we’ll make love right here. I’ll make you feel so good. I’ll burn the images out of our minds. But damn it, if you are going to be a brat I’ll treat you like one.” She said, and her face snarled at the end. Maya was livid, she was rabid. She’d never turned down sex with you, not once. You gulp and you aren’t sure if tears are coming, but you feel like you might throw up. 

“Maya, please don’t do this, baby. You are going on a witch hunt. Come here.” You open your knees and put your hands out to grab her. Giving her space to retreat or walk forward, and you see her right heel come out to come closer, but she shakes her head. 

“This won’t work this time, Sweetie. You need to look back on the last fourteen years. Because if you think a blow job and a hug is going to distract me from protecting you. Protecting what’s mine. Then I’ve done you a disservice as your wife. This whole studio will go down in flames and ruin. You alone have the ability to stop it. I’m sorry if that feels manipulative for you, but it’s the truth. You have until midnight, just like the teaser trailer. I want the artist in my office. I won’t go home either, we knew I wouldn’t if you worked late on this lot. I’ll wait right here. I’ll be patient until midnight. But once that clock strikes like Cinderella, everything is going to change. You can bet I’ll drag the fuckers carcass through this hallowed lot bloody and bruised when I’m done. You can’t hide him. No one can.” 

Her voice is low, and she’s calm, which is terrifying now. Like her anger is cemented in her bones. No longer the hot-headed feeling, now she had a plan. Maya was not to be fucked with.

“Maya, don’t do this, we’re already behind on this movie-” You tried to reason with the business side of her again, but it was no use. Maya loved her job, she loved working in the industry. She was born to do it. But Maya took one thing more serious than; the power, the money, than all of Hollywood. She was your protector, your wife, your safety. And if she needed to be the person who broke down a studio from the inside, she would put this whole town out of business. No one was allowed to do this to you.

“If you think I care about a movie right now…You aren’t thinking straight..You need me to spank the facts into you tonight? I fucking will. Someone disrespected you in my house. And now, heads are gonna roll. Starting with the stupid assistant who spoke to you.” Maya smiles, and it looks a little like how you imagined people thought of the charismatic Ted Bundy.

Maya walked to the door, unlocking it, and you closed your knees as she yelled for the assistant, guess she did know his name after all.  

The pale, tall, lanky 90s Johnny Depp assistant looked stoned but walked in. His fear was evident, but Maya didn’t care. She was on a fucking roll. 

“What did you say to Mrs. Mason when she walked into the conference room earlier?”

Maya asked, and she walked really close to his face. He was extremely scared now. They were in the doorway, and people were watching. Stopping and staring at them, actually. But Maya was about to give them a Godfather-like theater experience. 

“I apologiz-” he mumbled, and it was too late for that.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” She screamed, and he grimaced but started to repeat it. Which had been a trick question if there ever was one. 

“I-”

“You are fired. So is your boyfriend over on make-up. I also made an email while I was in my meeting. You’ve been evicted, take your trashy little dog and go back to the Midwest where you crawled from. If you stay another moment here, I’ll take out your eyes with my nails.” 

You looked to the floor, you couldn’t watch the rest. But luckily, he ran from the room, so scared you wouldn’t have to. 

Maya turned to the floor of terrified people who worked for her.

“LET ME MAKE SOMETHING SO CLEAR. TOUCH THE HEAD ANIMATOR AND YOU WILL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN AGAIN! I WILL YEET YOU SO HARD FROM THIS BUILDING YOUR SOUL MAY NEVER RE-ENTER YOUR UNGRATEFUL HOT YOGA LOVING BODY!” Maya screamed to the entire floor and then slammed the door hard. 

Turning to look at you, it was a challenge. She’d claimed you and now it was your turn to deliver.

This was Maya Mason. 

She just couldn’t do anything half assed. 

You ground your teeth at her, but she didn’t budge you bent down to pick up one of the drawings. You grabbed your laptop and your work drawings from the meeting. Maya didn’t stop you as you walked out of her office and out of the studio. 

____________________________

You entered the animator level, and no one looked at you. Word traveled fucking fast.

You just repeated the lyrics in your head;

Are you scared of me?

Am I too threatening?

'Cause every time you speak

I'm caught between your teeth

When wine and cyanide

Won't cleanse you of your crimes

Down on your knees and

I won't turn your wrongs to right

Confess your obsession, your wicked intentions

Hide behind lies from your bible

You put me on trial, but you're dead on arrival

But you're fuckin' irrelevant

So, gather 'round and run your mouths

Did you forget you're in my fuckin' house?

You walked past Tony and straight to Bucky’s cubicle. 

You repeated it one more time in your mind for good measure. 

Did you forget you're in my fuckin' house?

You politely crooked your finger at him and he stood and you turned on your heel and went into your office. You shut the blinds, and Wanda and Nat were in there with Jen, Alice, and Billy.

“We-” Wanda started, but you opened the door and gestured with your hand for them to get out. 

Everyone left, and Wanda looked at you for a minute, and you shook your head once, and she left. 

You closed the door and sigh.  

“Should I be afraid?” Bucky asked, and it was out of character for him, but you figured ‘yeah actually you should.’

His hand went to the covered amputated spot, he massaged it gently when he was nervous, like now.

You drop your stuff at your desk but grab the dirty drawing and hold it up to him, the drawing you swiped off Maya’s floor. This one has a sex swing in it. And it’s got text that is grotesque to say the least.

Bucky takes it, and you see he doesn’t want to look at it. Putting it down on your desk. You don’t need more proof for what you already knew before you even walked into the office. 

“How long has Maya been paying you?” You ask him, and he looks momentarily upset at the accusation. “Bucky, don’t even try. I really thought I could trust you. Which is stupid of me in this business to trust anyone, honestly. But you had me going with that Brooklyn accent and the sweet stories about how you grew up. I wanted to trust you. Damn, I even promoted you. So obviously I was hoping to move you up and have you running this fucking thing with Alice and Jen. But I just can’t believe you. You looked me in the eye every day and spied on me? That’s fucking gross.” You say, and you aren’t raising your voice, it’s all very calm. Which is almost scarier to the man. Maya and you could teach classes on how to scare people.

“I can explain.” He tried in vain. His long hair falling loosely out of his ponytail. 

“I don’t want you to, actually. I thought I did. I pulled you in here for it. But you are going to be the first of many for me today. You are fired. Pack your equipment and turn in your badge at the door. And you might want to ask Maya for a reference because I won’t be giving you one.” You say, and he looks like a kicked pet now. 

There’s part of you that knows he was doing it for you, but the money bit is hard to ignore. Maya had reach everywhere. And the fact that the people closest to you were spies for her made it all feel dirty. 

“Please let me explain.” He demands more upset clear in his trembling words. You must smile manically at him. Because his face twitches in displeasure. 

“I don’t think there’s anything you have to say that I want to hear.”

Bucky continued knowing it was his only chance. 

“Maya is not paying me! I hated the way Tony kept drawing those shitty ass things! I told him to stop! Jen and Alice tried to get him to! Billy is fucking scared of Tony he’s a bully! You kept putting up with it. You let him keep going. And it was wrong. I agree with Jen, you deserve this job. You are amazing at what you do. And I am your good soldier. That’s what they call me! I fuckin am though! I will go to the trenches in this industry for you. I don’t want to work anywhere else. Please don’t leave for Disney! You taught me more in a short time than anyone ever has!” He says at the end and you laugh again.

 Oh my god, this day needed to end. 

“Bucky, why did you give Maya those drawings? Did you not know what she was capable of?” You ask, contradicting your previous notion that you didn’t want Bucky to say anything. 

“I am on your team. I’m on your side. Maya said she’d fix it that we were protecting you from the shit bags! I didn’t do it to hurt you. I wouldn’t do that! You know me better than that!”

He says, and you see he’s not lying. You’d been around enough bad guys to know Bucky just wasn’t one of them. Even though he might try to believe it about himself sometimes. You see him claw at his long hair, upset. He sits down on your sofa, defeated. 

You are both silent for a few beats before you ask. 

“Did you sleep with Natasha?” You wonder at him now, and he looks at you for a moment before he responds honestly. 

“Yeah, I did, Wanda was there too. I have never been more turned on and out of my element.” He admitted, and you laughed fully no,w and it broke the tension for the two of you. He laughed after a few minutes of you dying. You wiped under your eyeliner to get the tears away. 

“Oh Bucky, this is all so fucked up.” You admit, and he gives a sad smile. 

“You can fire me, I understand. But I just need you to know. I’d go down with the ship, as long as you are the captain.” He says, and he’s serious now, his chin sticks out, and Bucky means it. 

You change your mind. 

“You are not fired, you have two films to animate asshole.”

“What, really? You aren’t gonna fire me?”

“No, but you aren’t going to ever do this again. If you are upset about something in the office, just come to me. Don’t fucking tattle to my wife. Maya doesn’t just fire people, Bucky, she ends their whole lives.” You tell him, but he doesn’t look guilty at all. 

“Da Vinci, I think Tony deserves it.”

You jump at him verbally. 

“You got a fucked up sense of justice. I don’t think a few dirty drawings are equivalent to having your hands chopped off with a machete by a guy who owns car dealerships. Tony fucking needs to go into witness protection before midnight or he’s dog food.” You explai,n and Bucky just shrugs. He reaches in his button down pocket and takes out a cigarette, putting it between his lips. He moves for his Zippo lighter with the star on it. He lights it, and you don’t care. But Bucky hesitates and then takes out the pack again and offers it to you. 

You lean over, taking a cigarette, and he smiles and lights it. 

The two of you smoke, and you rub at your face. 

“So what are you going to do, boss?”

“I’m going to make two movies that are going to do well in the box office. And then I’m going to keep going until we are the biggest animation house in all of L.A.” You say firmly. 

“Poor Mickey.” Bucky smiles, and you just laugh and take another drag of your cigarette. 

____________

Alice and Jen show you all that needs to be done. You work like a fucking boss until ten thirty at night. You don’t eat, you don’t rest. You push and push. 

Bucky is your fucking right hand. He doesn’t leave your side, he’s motivated, and not afraid of getting his hands dirty. 

You have him knock out the five-second animation of Heisenberg. Buck is bisexual and is able to understand that there needs to be big dick energy. So he makes Heisnburg hot and it fucking works. 

You all spread out in the editing room. There’s a wall of eight monitors as you all piece things together.  There are two desks with large tables, and Billy and Bucky are drawing quickly on Cintique tablets to get everything seamless. 

You have Jen finish the trailer for God of War. Tony still didn’t finish the drawings, he hasn’t been excused to go home by you. He’s waiting in an empty conference room down the hall. You let him sweat. 

 So you give the character to Billy, and he’s floored. There are plenty of other animators who are more experienced who should do it. But you don’t give it to them. You give Billy the confidence boost he needs, and he knocks it out in under three hours, record time. There’s no longer a hole next to the animation of Kratos. It looks good, it looks clean. You go to Alice, and she works with the Digital team to feed the art of Resident Evil’s more anime look in clean up. No more scratchy lines, and they’re able to overlap the small script that is already recorded for the trailer. It gets dubbed and it’s done.

 Alice gets a major point in your book and Billy is sweating but he’s proud, and he should be.  

“Go home, Village team. You did it.” You say proud but both Billy and Alice look upset at you. Which is confusing for a moment. 

“We aren’t done yet,” Alice says and Jen smiles at her. The two share a long, lingering loo,k and Wanda turns to you from her laptop. She’s been sitting on the floor, she’d fixed the problem hours ago. Just like you’d planned. Natasha is sitting next to her, their thighs are touching. You aren’t even sure why Natasha stayed. Perhaps she just loves the adrenaline of a deadline. 

Oh yeah, they’re all gonna bone. 

Not you, though. Maya hadn’t called you once. Not a text, nothing. You were in big trouble. 

“Ok then, Jen, tell them what you need.” You say. 

___________

It’s eleven thirty and it’s all done. Two gorgeous teaser trailers. No one really believed it could be done. This afternoon, it felt like it would never work. But at midnigh,t two trailers would be released. 

You lean back in your chair, the room is dark because it’s easier to edit in dim lighting. You turn, and Alice is eating Dorito chips next to Jen. She’s got her barfeet in Jen’s lap, and the two of them aren’t talking. In fact no one is talking. 

Everyone is exhausted; you all started at five am. And they hadn’t eaten dinner, besides vending machine snacks you’d bought for everyone. You were going to buy them pizza, but no one took a break to even do that. 

Wanda and Natasha were asleep on cuddling on the floor. The laptop still in Wanda’s lap. Billy was sitting next to you, and he had his headphones in. He was re-watching the trailers over and over, looking for any problems. To your left was Bucky, and he was smoking again, it just hung from his bottom lip wetly. 

“Boys.” You said, and Bucky turned to you, but Billy couldn’t hear you. You grabbed the headphones off his ears. And he jumped, but turned. 

“Go home.” You said, and the two of them didn’t move, too tired to respond. “Don’t come in until eleven tomorrow. Take the morning off. Go to bed, you did great work today.” You told them, and the two of them smiled tiredly. 

“You want me to go with you to your…um..meeting?” Bucky asked and you loved him a little more for offering. 

“No, I think that there will be enough bloodshed.” You aren’t joking, but Billy chuckles on instinct. 

_____________

You and Tony are walking across the quiet lot. He doesn’t ask questions, just follows you. You have your computer bag with your art in it slung over your shoulder. 

You walk into the main studio, using your security badge. You’d already taken Tony’s and he was dumb but not that dumb. 

It’s so quiet, even though there are still some people working. It’s mostly empty, though. You see Matt, and he motions for you to stop. 

“Wait here for a minute.” You tell Tony and then walk over to Matt. 

“Maya informed me that someone is being fired from your team. Something about some inappropriate drawings? Whatever it is, she has the green light. You haven’t signed the paperwork yet. For the new contract and raise, that is- But I saw the teasers and they look fantastic. You are really valued at this Studio. And whoever that guy is who did this, he’ll be very sorry.” Matt said, and you wanted to laugh, he didn’t know how sorry Tony would be.

“Thank you, Matt. I look forward to finishing the films and continuing the franchise.” You say, and he’s relieved. You turn on your heel and motion for Tony to follow you. 

You knock on Maya’s door, seeing as how she doesn’t have a temp at her front desk yet. 

“Come in.” She says calmly, and you open the doo,r and Tony follows. She doesn’t look at Tony. She’s looking at you. 

“Maya Mason, this is Tony Stark.” You say, and Maya stands and puts her fingers spread against the desk. She’s still not looking at him. 

“My love, I’ll just be a few minutes. Why don’t you meet me in the car?” She says, and you don’t contradict her. She reaches into her broken desk and hands you the keys. You take them, but she grabs your hand, pulling you closer to her. She flips your joined hands and kisses the inside of your wrist. You understand what she is telling you.

She’s proud of you, you brought him. Maya is telling you everything will be ok between the two of you. She loves you more than anything. And she doesn’t want you to see what’s about to happen. Maya isn’t afraid of you seeing the ugly parts of her, but you both know you won’t get any satisfaction on what’s coming. The kiss is love, it’s respect, it’s ownership. 

When her lips leave your skin the feeling lingers.   

Maya releases you, and you turn on your heel and walk out of the building. 

Finding her car in the lot, you turn on her supernova Blue Hummer, and you close your eyes as the cold air blows in the car.

You can try to run me out of town

I'll burn this shit down to the ground

____________________________

After you drive home and get settled, you tell Maya you are going to take a shower. She nods and orders dinner for you both. You get changed into a pair of her flannel pajama pants and a tank top with no bra. Taking your contacts out you put on your glasses. You walk back down into the living room and she isn’t there. She isn’t in the kitchen either. You know Maya wouldn’t be in her office after a day like today. Her phone will be close to watch the media coverage for work, but she won’t be at her desk. 

So you walk down your giant L.A mansion until you hear the sound of a movie. 

You smile and find Maya in her dark blue designer boxers and boxers only lying on the giant L sofa in front of the giant movie screen. She turns to see you and smiles. You walk over and climb on top of her. Maya happily cuddles you back, hands holding your body, and you lean your head on her chest. Turning to see the film she’d picked. 

It’s a black and white movie: 1940, Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. ‘His Girl Friday,’ it makes complete sense why she’d picked it. Carry Grant is trying to win his girl back. She’s smart as a whip and they’re both reporters. In the same newspaper business, Grant is trying anything her into coming back to the paper, back with him. It fit a little too well with their day, actually.

You don’t ask what she did to Tony. You don’t want to know. 

But you lay against your wife and Maya’s nails start to scratch your slightly wet scalp. It’s like she’s petting a cat. It works and your body relaxes more into her. 

You got to the point of the film where Cary Grant character says something that makes Maya’s body twitch under you. It’s small but it speaks volumes in the silent room. 

‘Walter Burns: When you walk out that door, part of me will go right with you.’

You straddle her hips and sit up. Maya grabs the remote and she mutes the expensive surround sound. 

You put both your hands on her stomach. Maya let’s her nails dig into your hips and you can tell she needs your skin, because she moves your flannel pants a little down your hip bones. 

“Hey Mr. Grant,” you tease and she smirks. 

“Yeah Russell?” She catches your game and you can’t possibly love your wife more but every moment with her surprises you. 

“We are a team.” You tell her it and there’s a conviction in your voice that makes Maya look more at ease than she’d been all day. 

“You didn’t fire Barnes.” Your wife says and you understand how she’s laying the chess board out tonight. 

“He’s a good man in a storm.” You say like it’s the facts, no emotion behind in. Maya’s hands spread across your lower back. You fall forward a little so that your wet hair is hanging over her. Little bits of water fall against her bare breasts. But she doesn’t mind. There is a silent ‘ you are a good man in a storm Maya.’ But you don’t have to say it.  

“I’ve heard. You need to close your opening. Resumes and such tomorrow, all that jazz at is were. Deadlines for first looks.” Maya muses though her eyes don’t sparkle and her tone is bored. She doesn’t want to talk shop like this tonight. You nodd and your right hand comes up and cups her jaw. You could respond and remind her she needs an assistant but it’s boring. And she wants to play. 

“You got me a raise, defended my honor, got my films completely funded and fired people for me today.” You say like she went shopping and got everything you’d needed to make a pie. Maya nods once like that was her to do list done. Like she was a good partner who painted the fence. 

Both of your hands are moving over each others skin like you are reading a secret language with your finger tips. It’s getting faster though, like neither of you can do too much foreplay tonight. You needed each other. Maya is being patient though. She is waiting to use her Knight. So she smiles pleasantly at you, but you know she is yearning for you.  

“My wife needed me. I don’t shy away from a challenge, especially not for you. I saw your trailers before you walked in, you did good. But I always knew you would. Time against you, funding against you and trash that needed to be taken out. And you made not one but two animation trailers. They’ve already been liked and retweeted over 150 thousand times. It’s only been out for two hours. Marketing is projecting that they’ll gross over 2.5 billion. That’s not accounting for steaming of course.” She says and you lean forward more, grinding your core against her crotch. Her boxers do little to hide her worsening situation. 

Neither of you are in a rush.

You lean your face close to hers and you hear Maya’s breath catch. She doesn’t hide her desire for you, not her style. 

“Daddy likes what I made then?” You say with a voice that is submissive and wanton. It’s dirty and Maya licks her bottom lip. 

“Daddy is proud, like always. But you do have some apologizing to do. I haven’t forgotten. And if you think I didn’t notice you smoked a cigarette too you are mistaken.” 

You rock your clothed cunt up her shaft and back down and you feel her hips jump.

“You do whatever you want to me Daddy. I don’t want to be in trouble anymore. Please teach me better manners? It wasn’t nice what I did. I never lie to you, and I won’t do it again. I’m sorry. But you can make me more sorry. I’ll do whatever you want, just let me touch you” You ask and Maya’s breathing is heavy and her mouth falls open. 

You can tell she’s just thrown the chess board across the room in her mind. Because she snaps and grabs your wet hair and pulls you against her mouth. No more games it seems. You kiss and it’s hot and wet. Tongues are pushing painfully against each other. You rock back and forth with little rhythm, just need and animalistic instincts .

So let's play hide and seek

'Cause you can't hide from me

Maya flips you and she pins your arms over your head as she pulls your pajama pants down and cups your wet cunt then the doorbell rings. 

“Oh crap.” You shudder out and then moan when you feel the cold air against your cunt. Maya brings her fingers up to her mouth to lick your arousal off her finger. It was like she needed a fix. 

You wrap your arm around her neck and she falls forward and you try to hump her again. But Maya keeps you still and kisses your jaw softly. 

“I ordered dinner, you didn’t eat hon. No more girl dinner.” Maya whispers against your cheek, you can tell she’s somewhat regretting it now. 

“We could eat after?” You offer but your tummy is so empty and Maya groans hearing your half truth and you know she’s not gonna go for it. Your pants are pulled back up. 

The two of you lace your fingers together as you go up to your front door. Maya looks through the camera to be sure before she opens the door and grabs the big brown bag. The two of you walk into the giant kitchen.

You grab two forks and knives and some napkins, and Maya is manhandling your hips as she pulls you forward and down the stairs. You aren’t surprised when she pulls you back into the movie room. 

Besides your office, which Maya had built for you as a present only a month after you fell love with the house. The two of you had bought it together and you’d been so afraid it was a bad decision to own a mansion in L.A. But it was really fun owning it with Maya. You’d decorated like crazy people. Obsessing over tiles and colors, and rugs. To your surprise Maya loved doing it with you. Decisions became fun, and you’d both almost been disappointed when you were finished. 

But the theater was an afterthought, it was the smallest room in the mansion. You wondered if that was part of the appeal for Maya. It was cozy in the craziness of their luxurious life, it was a huge screen and the L sofa, big plush pillows and blankets. You’d fucked in this room more times than you can remember. Maya never let you sleep the night in here, though. She’d even carried you into the master a few times after you’d fallen asleep watching all of the Conjuring movies. 

But the theater room was still swanky, it was Maya.

The closet next to the theater was turned into a backlit snack room. It had a ridiculously boujie popcorn machine and cotton candy machine. Every candy you could ever imagine and a few strong L.A edible baked goods for fun. Many shelves of foreign candy too. Stuff that the two of you hadn’t even tried yet was there, including a small freezer with different gourmet gelatos. A few booze infuzed ice creams that you couldn’t even figure out where they’d come from.   

You open the brown take-out bag to smirk at Maya’s choice. 

“It’s almost morning anyway.” She says at your delight, like she didn’t get you breakfast for dinner.

 Maya had, when you’d first started dating, been taught by you how fun pancakes at midnight were. You’d brought her to a sticky diner with tacky checkered floors. An old jukebox in the corner playing Etta James and Johnny Cash. 

 You’d made her order breakfast with you. She’d told you it was ridiculous and breakfast was for morning. But Maya gave you a smile and caved to your every whim. That signature grin you quickly learned was just for you. It was her ‘I love you for turning my world upside down’ smile. She gave it to you a million more times and she’d given it to you every day since. 

Your wife was squinting at the theater, because she probably needed her glasses. You pulled your glasses off your nose and handed them to her. Maya took them wordlessly and could magically see again. Perks of being married, one of you had a pair of glasses on usually.

 You didn’t look as she chose a movie. You two had a rule that you took turns picking, and you didn’t mind that she was picking twice tonight. You had been in trouble afterall.

Maya turned to look at you staring at her, and she had a moment of confusion and you told her the truth. The truth that would never not be real to you. 

“I love you Maya Mason. I’ll love you until the day I die.”

Maya smiled at you with tenderness she’d never thought she’d feel for someone. 

“Eat your pancakes you old married sap. You have a long night of groveling ahead of you.” Maya’s tone may have been teasing but her eyes held such love for you. 

The blue light made you squint and broke you from the moment to see Disney on the screen and you groaned. Opening your food container and taking out the strawberry syrup that Maya thought was nasty and you thought was the best. 

“You really made the entire studio think I was going to work for Disney today!”

Maya shook her hair out behind her back and snorted.

“It was all so easy Pudd’n. You wouldn’t believe how quick it spread.” She said and you looked up to see her putting on Cinderella. A small reminder of your day and her words.  

“You know just because I’m an animator it doesn’t mean I just want to watch animated movies.” You tease, reminding her of an assumption she’d had about animators before you two got together. Maya just rolled her eyes. 

“I know that your favorite movies are the slashers. My girl likes a little gruesome shit, like me.” Maya says and opens the food container open and you see she picked an omlette and french toast. You’d trained your wife into liking breakfast for dinner too. It was too cute. 

“Maya-” You are about to compliment her again when she cuts you off. 

“Eat baby girl, you are gonna need your strength.”  

This is going to be a long fic, I promise. Next chapter they will bone.

[cbeargyu]

ok so, this is based off a game called married in red but i want beomgyu to be the mainlead/bestfriend 😛😛 So basically you got invited to your old uni bestfriend (bgyu) by his fiancee w/o him knowing, and basically beomgyu is shock to find you at his wedding and gets nervous. A little back story for why beomgyu is shocked to see us again, basically beomgyu your one snd only bestfriend betrays you during a surgeon practice and tells the authorities that your the one that killed the patient and not him (girl...) so you then get sent to jail for a few years. OK, PRESENT TIME... You then planned to get revenge on him by killing his fiancee and frame it on beomgyu, telling everyone that he killed them because he heard a rumor that they cheated on him. anyways, that's it. I'm not really sure if you would actually reply to this, but at least i tried

MARRIED IN RED

summary: you return to the life you lost—uninvited to beomgyu’s wedding, dressed in blood-red and driven by revenge. what begins as a seductive game of manipulation ends in murder, deceit, and the destruction of everything he built. you’re not just here to haunt him. you’re here to end him.

pairing: beomgyu x fem!reader

genre: dark romance, psychological thriller, smut, angst, revenge, murder mystery.

warnings: smut, graphic murder, knife play, manipulation, blood, gaslighting, medical malpractice, false accusations, power imbalance, obsessive behavior, psychological trauma, emotional abuse, toxic dynamics, gore, suggestive content, unhinged reader, death, infidelity, mention of sexual assault (attempted), violence, mental breakdown, imprisonment, explicit language.

wc: 12K

notes: hi anon!! ok so tbh i’m not super into video games normally BUT the one you mentioned??? omg the premise got me sooo hooked 😭 i ended up watching a bunch of lore vids + different endings and literally got obsessed lol. i used a lot of the gameplay as inspo to build the story and added my own lil touches to make it ✨spicier✨. i really hope you enjoy it and that it came out close to what you were picturing!! i had so much fun writing it — definitely stepped out of my comfort zone a bit (even tho i've done yandere/violence themes before, i never went this deep 👀) so thank u sm for the request ily 💌

FLASHBACK: THE BETRAYAL

the room smelled like metal and nerves. antiseptic clung to your skin, the sterile kind that never quite washes off, no matter how hard you scrub. overhead, the surgical lights buzzed faintly, casting halos on everyone’s heads, ironic little crowns of fluorescent glory. you stood there, gloves tight against your hands, mask hiding the shape of your mouth but not the panic rising in your throat. this was supposed to be routine. a practice session. supervised. safe.

but then something went wrong.

you saw it first — the drop in heart rate, the tremble in the patient’s pulse. the resident nurse called out numbers you didn’t want to hear, and beomgyu froze. you remember his hands. how steady they used to be in class, always precise, always admired. but not now. now, they shook. not violently, not enough to notice unless you knew him like you did — like someone who once memorized the cadence of his breathing, the rhythm of his thoughts. you saw it in the twitch of his fingers, in the split-second delay when the arterial clamp slipped. the bleeding started then. red spilled into white, too much, too fast. you moved, instinct taking over, reaching for the sutures, trying to stop the flood before it became irreversible. beomgyu didn’t move.

and then he did.

but it was too late. the alarms screamed. the attending ran in. hands pushed yours aside. someone shouted. another called for help. and beomgyu… beomgyu took a step back. just one. just enough.

you didn’t sleep that night. didn’t eat. didn’t breathe without hearing those monitors flatline inside your skull. you thought maybe it would be labeled a mistake, a tragedy, an accident born from youth and pressure. you were wrong.

two days later, they came for you.

you were mid-shift, mopping sweat off your temple, when the white coats and sharp eyes cornered you in the hallway. they didn’t say much. they didn’t have to. someone had already spoken. someone had already placed blame. your name had been written in ink, cold and black, on a report you never saw. beomgyu’s name was nowhere.

when you were questioned, they said beomgyu had expressed “concern” over your technique. they said he “regretted” not speaking up earlier. they said you panicked in the OR. that you tried to take over. that your recklessness had cost a life. they said so many things, all carefully worded, all sharpened with just enough truth to make the lie believable.

you remember sitting in that empty room, steel table in front of you, hands trembling. not from guilt. from rage. from betrayal. from the image of his face on the other side of the glass, watching. silent. expressionless. not even sorry.

he didn’t visit you. not once. not during the trial, not after the verdict, not when they took your license, your dreams, your freedom. he vanished. became a name you couldn’t say without tasting ash.

years passed.

but you remembered.

you remembered how he looked at you right before the doors closed behind you — not with shame, not with pity, but with relief. you remembered that silence like a scalpel against your spine. clean. deep. final.

and you decided.

if he could tear your life apart to save his own, you could do the same. only worse. only slower.

and this time, you’d smile while doing it.

ACT ONE: THE INVITATION

you were in the middle of folding laundry when you found the envelope. cream-colored, thick, the kind of paper that crackles when bent, expensive just to touch. no return address. no hint. but you recognized the handwriting immediately — soft, rounded, a little too careful to be truly effortless. feminine. polite. unfamiliar.

you slid a finger under the seal and pulled the card out. gold lettering, embossed. a wedding. no — his wedding. the name hit your stomach first. choi beomgyu. and beside it, a name you didn’t recognize. yoon hana.

you stared at it for a long time, longer than you'd ever admit. your fingers clenched around the edge, and for a moment you imagined tearing it in half. but you didn’t. not yet.

the call came the next day.

“hi, is this…?” her voice was as pretty as her name sounded. delicate. sweet. almost translucent. “i hope this isn’t too forward, but i’m hana — beomgyu’s fiancée.”

you said nothing for a moment. your breath stilled.

“i found some photos of you two in his old albums,” she continued quickly, nervous, like she thought you might hang up. “college days. i had no idea you were so close. he… he never mentioned you.”

of course he didn’t.

“i wanted to surprise him. you were his best friend, right? i think it would mean so much to him if you came to the wedding. it’s not the same without people who really know you.”

you let out a breath — not a laugh, not quite — more like a quiet exhale of something heavy, bitter, ancient.

“he’ll be very surprised,” you said, voice steady, lips curling into a smile she couldn’t see.

“that’s what i’m hoping,” hana said, laughing softly, innocently, like a girl who had no idea she was dangling over a pit. “please say you’ll come.”

and you did.

not because of her kindness. not because of the sweetness in her voice, or the elegance in her words. but because you could already feel the pulse of something deep and dark moving beneath your skin. it had waited years for this — coiled and patient, like a snake in the grass. beomgyu had buried you once.

this time, you’d return the favor.

you spent the next few days preparing. not obsessively — not in the way you used to when exams loomed and futures were built on how steady your hands could be. this was different. calm. surgical. everything folded into neat little thoughts. what you’d wear. what you’d say. the tilt of your head when he saw you. the exact moment his perfect little world would begin to shake.

you imagined the way his eyes would widen, the hitch in his throat, the cold wash of memory creeping up his spine. he wouldn’t scream. no, he’d smile. he’d pretend. because beomgyu always wore his mask better than anyone — the gentle prodigy, the golden boy, the fallen angel with soft hands and a halo of innocence. no one ever saw what he really was underneath. but you did.

you always did.

you touched the edge of the wedding card again, ran your thumb across the gold print. not out of sentiment, but calculation. it was almost poetic. the beginning of the end would be wrapped in white and flowers and promises neither of them deserved.

he thought he could bury you in silence. in time. in absence.

but the past always shows up — dressed in red, smiling sweetly.

ACT TWO: THE REUNION

you arrive early, but no one notices.

it’s the kind of venue that whispers wealth from every corner — marble floors that gleam like water, tall windows draped in soft linen, crystal chandeliers heavy with light. a string quartet plays something romantic and forgettable in the background. waiters float by with champagne flutes, their hands practiced and empty-eyed. everything is too clean. too white. a blank canvas begging to be stained.

you stand near the edge of it all, watching. not hiding — just waiting.

then you see her.

hana.

she moves through the crowd with soft hands and a practiced smile, like she’s been trained her whole life to be looked at. beautiful, delicate, a doll dressed in ivory and pearls. but her eyes are kind. too kind. she spots you almost instantly and lights up.

“you came!” she says, breathless, rushing forward to embrace you like you’re old friends. you let her. her perfume is light and floral, almost childish. she pulls back to look at you, smiling. “he’s going to be so surprised. i didn’t tell him. i wanted to see his face.”

you nod once, lips curling upward. “i can’t wait.”

she doesn’t hear it — the venom under the silk. she sees only what he once saw: a calm surface. nothing underneath.

they call everyone to attention soon after. the ceremony is about to begin. you take your place among the crowd, quiet, unmoving. your hands rest in your lap, still, like in the operating room — composed. patient. ready to cut.

the music swells.

then he walks in.

beomgyu.

the groom.

your breath doesn’t catch — it sharpens. like a blade meeting stone. his suit is ivory, his tie pale gold. his hair is soft, curled just enough to look effortless. he smiles as he walks, bowing slightly to a few guests, charming and angelic, the boy wonder all grown up.

then his eyes find you.

he stops.

just one second. a stutter in time. a heartbeat dropped.

he blinks, once. then again.

the world keeps moving, but he doesn’t. his face doesn’t change, not fully, but you see the fracture — the faintest flicker behind his eyes. recognition. fear. memory clawing its way up his throat.

you tilt your head slightly. not a wave. not a nod. just enough.

he walks again, faster now, as if motion can erase you.

but you know better. you always did.

the ceremony proceeds like a play. vows exchanged, rings slipped onto fingers. hana glows beside him, her smile radiant and pure. and beomgyu… beomgyu plays his role with perfect grace. every look, every touch, every whispered promise is choreographed. from a distance, they’re flawless.

but you know the truth.

he doesn’t love her.

you learned that before the wedding, in whispers and reports, in quiet murmurs from mutual acquaintances. yoon hana, daughter of dr. yoon — the man who owns half the hospitals in seoul. a legacy family. power, influence, prestige. marrying her isn’t romance. it’s strategy.

he wants her name. her wealth. her father’s empire.

and once he has it, once he’s tied deep enough into that network of hospitals and private clinics, she won’t matter. she’ll become another discarded tool. maybe she already is.

you wonder if she knows. you wonder if she suspects. or if she’s just like you once were — enchanted by his gentle voice, his soft laughter, his hands that never shake until they do.

they walk back down the aisle, hand in hand, applause washing over them. but his eyes flick toward you again. not long. not obvious. just enough to remind you — he knows.

you slip away during the reception. not far. just to the back hallway where the staff come and go. it’s quiet there. cooler. your heels echo softly on tile.

you don’t wait long before you hear footsteps behind you.

“what are you doing here?”

his voice is low. careful. not angry. not yet.

you turn around slowly.

he’s already dropped the act.

the mask is still on, but you can see the cracks in the porcelain — the too-still eyes, the slight tension in his jaw, the twitch of a muscle near his brow. beomgyu stands in front of you like a man facing a ghost he thought he'd buried deep.

“your wife invited me,” you say simply. “she thought it would make you happy.”

he laughs. just once. bitter. sharp. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“why?” you ask, stepping closer. “because it ruins the fairytale?”

his silence is answer enough.

you study him — the expensive watch on his wrist, the perfect posture, the way his wedding band already looks foreign on his hand. he’s beautiful. always was. but it’s a cursed kind of beauty now, the kind that hides poison beneath petals.

“congratulations,” you say, letting your voice drip just enough to make him flinch. “must be nice, marrying into a dynasty. hospitals. connections. endless funding.”

“you don’t know anything,” he snaps, too fast.

you smile. “i know everything.”

he steps forward, suddenly closer than you expected. “what do you want?”

the question isn’t a plea. it’s a warning.

you reach up and adjust the lapel of his jacket, slow, intimate, mockingly gentle.

“i haven’t decided yet.”

his breath catches for just a second.

you both know what’s happening. it’s already begun. the dance. the descent. two people standing in the wreckage of a friendship, building something twisted from its remains.

because the truth is, you and beomgyu are not so different.

he ruined someone for power.

you came back to ruin him.

and hana? she’s not the love between you. she’s the blade you’re both gripping from opposite ends.

ACT THREE: THE BRIDE

you find her near the garden, tucked in the back where soft lights string between trees like artificial stars. hana is laughing with one of her bridesmaids, hands clasped around a champagne flute, veil tucked back behind her shoulders. she looks like a dream — fragile, glowing, floating in a bubble she believes is happiness. but dreams burst easily.

she sees you and waves. “there you are! i was wondering where you disappeared to.”

“just needed air,” you say smoothly, stepping beside her. “everything’s beautiful, hana.”

her smile grows. “thank you. i wanted it to feel… perfect.”

you both look around. and it is perfect. the venue is opulence carved into architecture — carved archways, marble fountains, flower arrangements taller than people. every inch glows with money. not taste. wealth.

“how did you two meet, anyway?” you ask, tone light, harmless. curious.

hana sips her drink, a soft blush blooming on her cheeks. “mutual friends. well, not really friends — one of my father’s doctors. he introduced us at a benefit.”

of course.

you nod, letting the silence stretch just enough before asking, “and… did you fall in love right away?”

she laughs. a real one. “oh no. he barely spoke at first. but once we started talking… it was easy. he listens. he’s kind.”

you hum softly. “he used to be quieter. i think the years made him louder.”

hana tilts her head. “you really knew him that well?”

“better than most,” you reply, a quiet truth soaked in something heavier.

her eyes glimmer with curiosity. “he never told me about you.”

you smile. “he wouldn’t.”

you don’t let the pause linger. you slip your arm through hers gently and steer her toward the inner hall — not the main ballroom, but a side corridor filled with portraits and silence. your voice lowers just a bit.

“this place is… extravagant,” you say, fingers brushing the polished wall. “how did you manage to book it? i heard it’s almost impossible.”

hana beams. “oh — it was a favor. one of my dad’s oldest friends owns the property. it’s usually reserved for very exclusive events — politicians, ceos, you know.”

you arch a brow, feigning awe. “must’ve taken strings to pull that off.”

“not really,” she says. “he offered it as a gift. it’s the kind of place where everyone already knows everyone. it feels safe, like… like no one’s watching. just happy people, no noise.”

you stop walking.

“no cameras?”

she shakes her head with a small smile. “none. my dad doesn’t like them. he says they ruin intimacy.”

you let the words settle. no cameras. no recordings. no proof. no eyes. just soft walls and trust.

hana sees none of the weight behind your silence. she keeps smiling, sipping from her glass.

“besides,” she adds, “what’s there to see? it’s a wedding. everyone’s happy.”

you look at her then, really look — at the soft curve of her cheek, the gentle eyes, the way she sees this world as clean, unshaken. she thinks love built this. but it was ambition. strategy. you know the taste of it because you once wanted the same things — and maybe, deep down, you still do.

“you must trust him a lot,” you say quietly.

“i do,” she replies without hesitation. “he’s everything i ever wanted. he saved me from this cold, business world. my father wanted me to marry a man with power — i found one with heart.”

you almost choke.

but instead, you laugh, soft and low. not mocking. almost affectionate.

“then i hope you’re right,” you whisper. “and i hope he never gives you a reason to doubt that.”

hana looks up at you, touched. “you’re so sweet. i’m glad you’re here.”

you lean in, kiss her cheek, and breathe her in — that perfume, light and harmless. the kind of scent you could forget.

but you won’t.

because now you know the hallways. the exits. the blind spots. and now, hana trusts you.

and beomgyu?

he knows you’re close.

you can already feel the tension pulling tighter — like piano wire strung between three necks. someone will bleed.

you’re just deciding who goes first.

ACT FOUR: THE SERPENT IN RED

you find him just past the marble corridor, outside, where the laughter and clinking glasses can’t follow.

he’s standing by the edge of the balcony, fists clenched, jaw tight, like he’s holding the world together by sheer force of will. the night air swirls around him, but he’s too tense to feel it. beomgyu looks like a man cornered by ghosts — one in particular.

his eyes snap to you the moment he senses your presence.

and you see it.

not just surprise. not just discomfort.

fear. hatred. panic. all bleeding together in those pretty eyes.

he looks like he might be sick.

you step into the moonlight, slow and deliberate, the crimson fabric of your dress catching the light like liquid sin. the color hugs you — dark, seductive, unapologetic. and he sees it. god, he sees it.

his expression twists instantly.

“what the fuck are you wearing?” he spits.

you tilt your head, smiling sweetly. “a dress.”

his gaze sharpens, voice lowered. “that’s not a dress for a wedding.”

you glance down at yourself, brushing invisible dust from your hip, tone soft and cruel. “why not? i think it suits the occasion.”

“it’s red,” he growls. “blood red.”

you hum. “hm. so it is.”

he takes a step forward. “take it off.”

you laugh. sharp. amused. “aw, gyu. if you wanted to see me out of it, all you had to do was ask.”

he flinches at the nickname. his hands curl at his sides.

“this isn’t a fucking game,” he hisses. “you shouldn’t be here.”

“oh, but i was invited,” you remind him, voice dipped in honey. “your lovely bride said she wanted to surprise you.”

his nostrils flare. “she doesn’t know what you are.”

you lean in, just enough for him to smell your perfume — dark florals, velvet musk, danger. “no,” you whisper. “but you do.”

he doesn’t answer right away. his eyes drag over you — slow, reluctant, like he hates what he sees but can’t stop seeing it. there's something sour behind his gaze, something like... regret? no. it's older than that. something between rage and fascination.

“i didn’t think you’d get out so soon,” he says eventually. “they said five years minimum. good behavior, huh?”

you tilt your head. “what can i say? prison taught me discipline.”

his jaw tightens. his fingers curl slightly around the glass.

beomgyu stiffens. his eyes dart toward the ballroom doors and back to you, like he’s counting the seconds before someone else joins, or worse, sees you both like this.

you take another step, your heels echoing softly against the marble. he doesn’t move.

“what’s the matter?” you ask, gaze locked on his. “nervous?”

his mouth twists, but his jaw— god, it clenches so hard you can almost hear it pop.

you glance down at his hands, tense and trembling slightly. “you always did get shaky when things got out of your control.”

“don’t push me,” he warns, low and shaking.

you ignore the threat. “it’s funny,” you murmur. “you wear the same expression you did in the O.R. that day. remember that? the moment everything went wrong and you had to choose— your future or mine.”

he breathes in sharply.

you smile wider. “you chose well. now you’re marrying a woman with power. hospitals. status. all the things you’ve always wanted but could never earn. and she’s just so sweet too. so trusting. so willing to give you everything.”

beomgyu doesn’t speak. his silence is louder than shouting.

“tell me, gyu…” you lean closer, lips almost brushing his ear. “do you plan to kill her like you did the patient? once you get your name on the deed?”

his breath catches, sharp and violent. and for a terrifying second, you think he might hit you.

he lunges forward — fast, teeth gritted, eyes wild with fury. his hand lifts slightly, but it stops halfway. frozen.

his face is inches from yours now.

his breath hot, furious, desperate.

your lips curve, soft and mocking. “god, i missed this,” you whisper, letting the tip of your finger trace the lapel of his suit. “your warmth. your anger. the way your body shakes when i get under your skin.”

he snarls quietly. “you’re insane.”

“maybe.” your eyes shine, unblinking. “but at least i’m not a coward.”

you let the silence stretch, the air between you charged like a live wire. you feel the storm in him, the battle behind his eyes. part of him wants to end this — grab you, break you, erase you. but another part… the part you remember… wants to taste this. wants to feel something. anything.

you lean in, your breath ghosting across his mouth, and say it, clear and cold:

“you don’t love her. you love what she has. and you want to take it all.”

his shoulders tighten. his lips part, but no sound comes out.

“that’s why you hate me,” you continue. “because i see you. the real you. and you know exactly what i came here to do.”

his hand jerks slightly — like he might finally snap — but just as fast, he freezes. a voice laughs nearby. footsteps. guests.

he blinks, breath shaky. control returns like a choke chain.

he steps back, eyes burning, chest heaving. “get out of my fucking wedding.”

you smile, slow and venomous. “make me.”

and then you turn your back to him, deliberately, daringly, walking back into the warmth of the celebration with his fury at your heels. the red of your dress flares like a warning — or a promise.

and beomgyu stays frozen behind you.

because he knows:

you’re not done.

and this game is just beginning.

the moment you turn your back to him, you know it’s not over. not by a long shot. the air between you both is thick, taut with something unsaid, something alive, crawling under your skin. you can feel his eyes on you, burning a hole in your back. his breath shallow, labored, like every inhale is a war he’s losing.

you hear his footsteps behind you — slower, cautious, but still there. he’s following you.

you smile to yourself, letting the sound of his pursuit draw you closer to the door. it’s all so predictable, all so easy. the rage, the fear, the denial — it’s exactly what you knew would happen. beomgyu doesn’t want to admit it. doesn’t want to admit how much he needs to be near you. not after everything. but his body betrays him.

just before you turned to walk away, something caught your eye — a flash of silver in beomgyu’s hand. you watched, silent, as he pulled a small key from his pocket and slipped it into the door of a room tucked away behind one of the elegant hallways. he glanced over his shoulder, cautious, before pushing it open and stepping inside. you didn’t follow immediately, but your mind registered it. a key. not just any room — a private one. the kind you’d return to later, when the world wasn’t watching.

you don’t look back. not yet.

inside, the room is empty except for the small details of a wedding — bouquets, mirrors, chairs — but it feels like the eye of the storm, calm before the inevitable. you step inside, your heel clicking against the cold floor, and you feel him follow.

his presence is heavy, but you make no move to acknowledge it. not yet.

you stand in the middle of the room, your back to him, and let the silence stretch for just long enough to make it unbearable.

and then, as if on cue, you hear the door close softly behind you.

his voice comes low and strained. “you’re pushing your luck.”

you don’t answer at first. instead, you let your hand graze over the table, the reflection of your own eyes in the mirror catching you off guard for a moment. his presence is so close now. you can feel the heat of his body like a shadow. you’ve always known how to make him lose control. and tonight, it's too easy.

finally, you turn to him, a slow, deliberate motion, your eyes catching his in the reflection. you don’t need to see his face to know what’s there. it’s all in the tension of his jaw, the way he stands — tense, but drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

“you know,” you say softly, your voice slipping into that dark, alluring tone, “there’s something about being close to you again.”

his fists clench. his voice trembles, barely contained. “shut up.”

you step closer, just enough to make him shift, but not enough to let him break that thin thread of restraint. “why? don’t you like it, gyu?” you whisper, barely audible. “don’t you miss the way we used to be?”

he takes a deep breath, his lips trembling with a fight he’s losing. “i told you… get the fuck out.”

but his body betrays him. you see it in the way his eyes flicker down to your lips. the way his breath hitches when you take that last step toward him, close enough for your chest to brush against his. his eyes lock with yours in a mix of fury and something darker.

you smile, sweet and dangerous. “you can’t walk away from me. not now. not after everything.”

he presses his lips together, his entire body tensing, as if he’s holding back something primal. then, his hand grabs your wrist — not rough, but tight, possessive. like a warning. and yet…

he doesn’t pull you away.

you let him hold you there, the tension so thick between you that it feels suffocating. and then, you tilt your head up slowly, just enough for your lips to brush his ear as you whisper:

“you hate me, don’t you?”

he doesn’t respond, but you can feel it. his pulse against your wrist, the rapid beating of his heart, the heat radiating off his skin.

“you hate that I’m still here, still alive,” you continue, your voice a soft, slow poison. “you hate that I’m in your fucking head.”

he squeezes your wrist harder, like he wants to crush the words, crush the thoughts swirling in his mind. “get away from me.”

you smirk, finally stepping away just enough to look at him directly. “but you still want me, don’t you? that’s why you’re standing here. still watching me. pretending you’re not imagining everything we could’ve done.”

his breath hitches.

you let the space between you grow — just enough for him to��feel the distance. but you can see the truth in his eyes now. he’s unraveling. he’s trying to convince himself that he doesn’t want this, that he doesn’t need this, but his body gives him away.

he takes a step toward you, closing the space, and for a moment, you wonder if this is the moment he’ll finally break. but instead, he lowers his voice to a dangerous growl:

“you really think you can get away with this?”

you step forward, your body nearly touching his, and you whisper it low, with enough heat to make the words burn:

“i’m going to take everything from you. everything you care about. and you won’t stop me.”

and just as you say it, he crashes into you — not with force, but with a desperate, controlled need. his lips meet yours in a kiss that isn’t gentle. it’s angry. it’s hungry. it’s raw.

you kiss him back, letting him take the lead for a moment, tasting the rage, the longing, the betrayal. it’s not love. it’s not passion. it’s something else. something darker.

he pulls away just as quickly as he came, breath shallow. his pupils are blown, wild with something that might have been a confession.

but neither of you says a word.

you stand there, close enough to feel the heat of him, and you know this game is far from over.

he won’t walk away. not yet. not when the fire’s already lit.

his lips crush against yours again — this time harder, more brutal, like he’s trying to punish you with his mouth, trying to erase everything you’ve said, everything you’ve ever done. his hands dig into your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you feel the sharp line of his control snap between your teeth.

you moan into his mouth, a dark, breathy sound that makes his grip tighten.

he hates this. he hates that he’s kissing you. hates that he wants it so fucking bad. but his tongue parts your lips like a man starved, tasting every inch of what he’s craved in silence for years.

you drag your nails down his back, slow and deliberate, and feel him shudder.

“you’re disgusting,” he mutters against your lips, voice hoarse, trembling. “so are you,” you breathe back, licking into his mouth like sin itself. “but at least i admit it.”

his hands are on your thighs now, hiking up your dress — and you let him. you don’t stop him when he pushes you back against the vanity, knocking over flowers and makeup, wedding details crashing to the floor like a funeral bell.

his lips move down your jaw, your throat, biting a path like he’s branding you. “you shouldn’t be here,” he growls into your skin. “then stop me,” you whisper, breathless, eyes daring. “go on. push me away.”

he doesn’t.

he pushes your dress up further, bunching the fabric at your hips, exposing the soft skin of your thighs. his fingers tremble as they move to your panties, his breath hot against your neck.

“fuck,” he hisses when he finds you already wet. “you’re so—”

“say it,” you pant, threading your fingers into his hair and yanking. “say it.”

he bites your shoulder. hard. a bruise blooms there instantly.

“wet for me,” he spits. “still. after everything.”

you laugh, low and wicked. “maybe i never stopped.”

he yanks your panties aside and sinks two fingers inside you without warning, and you arch into him, crying out — not from pain, but from the sudden, obscene stretch of it. your body clenches around him like it remembers him, like it always belonged to him even when he didn’t deserve it.

his other hand grabs your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eye. “tell me you don’t want this.”

you smile with your lips parted, a mess of heat and venom. “i want everything you’ll regret.”

he curses, low and filthy, before replacing his fingers with his cock — thick, hot, angry — slamming into you in one brutal thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. your back hits the mirror, and it rattles with the force of him.

“fuck—” you gasp, holding onto the edge of the vanity for balance.

“so fucking tight,” he growls against your ear, thrusting hard, fast, punishing. “you came here for revenge, huh? to ruin me?”

“i am ruining you,” you moan, legs wrapping around his waist, digging your heels into his back. “you’re already fucking mine.”

he slams into you again, harder — like he wants to shut you up. but it only makes you scream louder.

each thrust is rougher than the last. your bodies slap together, heat and sweat and fury. this isn’t love. this isn’t tenderness. this is war. this is two people trying to burn the other alive and moaning into the fire.

he grips your hips and fucks into you with something close to desperation, as if he’s trying to forget, to rewrite history with every thrust. but you won’t let him. you claw at his skin, mark him, own him.

“gonna come,” he pants against your throat.

you squeeze around him, smile laced with malice and lust. “then do it. come inside me. like a good little liar.”

he bites your lip, snarling — and with one final thrust, he breaks, spilling into you with a guttural moan that echoes off the walls. you hold him there, feeling him twitch inside you, feeling him fall apart in your hands.

you come moments later, shaking around him, gasping his name like a curse and a prayer all at once.

he doesn’t move right away.

just stays there, inside you, breathing hard, forehead pressed against yours.

and for a second, the room is quiet again.

but then you speak, voice low, dangerous.

“you’ll regret this.”

he opens his eyes. they’re glassy. red-rimmed. terrified.

“i already do,” he whispers.

ACT FIVE: THE MURDER

you stumble out of the room, legs trembling, lips still tingling with the taste of him — hatred, lust, regret. all tangled in one bite. behind you, beomgyu breathes hard, still trying to compose himself, and you glance over your shoulder just in time to see him pull that same silver key from his pocket and quietly lock the door behind him. neat. clean. calculated. he doesn't want anyone discovering what just happened between you two.

perfect, you think. even better.

but this story isn’t done — not yet. you’ve got the tension. the sweat. the kiss of his guilt on your tongue.

now you need blood.

the reception is loud again. music swells, laughter floats, and the soft sound of champagne flutes clinking fills the air like wedding bells. but none of it touches you. not as you wander past the kitchen doorway, not as you see that towering wedding cake in the distance — pristine, elegant, the kind of perfection they probably spent hours agonizing over.

and there, beside it.

a knife. long. sharp. glinting with the reflection of white icing and overhead chandeliers. you stare at it. still. calculating. nobody notices you. not the chef, not the staff — you're just another woman in a blood-red dress at a wedding.

you smile sweetly, take the knife, and in a single smooth motion, slide it up under your gown and tuck it beneath the band of your garter.

your thighs press together. it holds.

you breathe.

and walk back into the storm.

hana spots you before you even reach her. she waves, face glowing with delight, but that joy falters when she sees your expression. a calculated melancholy lingers on your features — just enough to look real, just enough to pull at her concern.

“y/n?” she says, approaching quickly, her hands gentle as they cup your forearm. “what’s wrong? did something happen?”

you let your lips tremble. just slightly. “i don’t think… beomgyu was happy to see me.”

her eyes widen, immediately protective. “no! no, no, don’t say that. he’s just… surprised. you two were so close in uni, weren’t you? he’s probably overwhelmed. you know how emotional he gets.”

you almost laugh. emotional. sure.

“i don’t know,” you whisper, looking down, twisting the ring on your finger — a fake one you wore to sell the illusion. “maybe i shouldn’t have come. i feel like i’m intruding. like… like i brought something bad with me.”

hana squeezes your hand, eyes soft with worry. “don’t be silly. i’m so happy you came. really. and i know he is too — he just doesn't show it well.”

you sniff dramatically. “do you think we could talk somewhere more private?”

she hesitates, then nods with a smile. “of course. there’s a room upstairs — where beomgyu and i get ready. it’s just ours.” she reaches into her clutch, pulling out a familiar glint of silver. the same key. “we’re the only ones with access.”

your heart skips.

jackpot.

“come,” she says sweetly, linking arms with you. “you’ll feel better after some quiet.”

you let her lead.

the room is silent. untouched. dimly lit by golden sconces. a soft scent of rosewater lingers in the air. and once the door clicks shut behind you, hana turns to you again, ready to offer another excuse on beomgyu’s behalf.

“i’m really sorry if he came off cold,” she says. “he’s been so stressed with the planning, and—”

“or maybe,” you interrupt, stepping closer, letting your voice thicken with suggestion, “he’s upset about something from the past.”

she pauses, confused. “what do you mean?”

you sit on the armrest of the lounge chair, looking at her with mock softness. “we haven’t seen each other since university, hana. back then, i was quiet. focused on med school. no friends, no distractions. just books and labs.”

she nods, leaning in, intrigued.

“and then he found me,” you continue, voice dreamy now, almost nostalgic. “he was charming. open. wild. he showed me that life wasn’t just about excellence. that it could be messy… chaotic. thrilling. he wasn't the best student, but he had this… charisma. everyone loved him.”

hana smiles. “that sounds like him.”

“he’d invite me to join him on hospital rounds,” you add, “especially when staff was low. we’d cover shifts together. just the two of us. late nights. adrenaline. it was like a bond. a secret, you know?”

she nods slowly.

“did you two ever…?” she asks cautiously.

you shake your head. “not like that. but we were close. inseparable. until something happened. something he doesn’t want you to know.”

“what happened?” hana whispers, eyes wide with unease, hands clutching her dress like it could protect her from what’s coming.

you step closer.

not threateningly.

no — softly. gently. like a friend about to tell a secret.

“beomgyu and i,” you begin, voice low, “were more than just classmates. we were inseparable back then — best friends, maybe the only ones we had. we were in the same program, same surgical rotations. but he… he wasn’t always careful. not like me.”

hana blinks, nervous now. but listening.

“it was a simple procedure. nothing risky. barely a challenge,” you continue, your eyes flicking to the soft gleam of the knife beneath your gown, still hidden. “but he messed up. badly. i warned him to slow down, double-check the vitals. but he thought he could handle it.”

you pause. the room is dead silent except for your voice.

“he cut too deep. ruptured something. blood started pouring out, and he panicked. dropped his instruments. froze. he looked at me like a scared child — ‘help me,’ he begged. and i did. of course i did.”

you smile, bitterly. hana doesn't speak.

“i tried to stop the bleeding. i gave everything. my hands, my mind, my training. but it was too late. by the time the others came, the patient was gone. and i was drenched in red. completely soaked.”

you can still feel it — the warmth of it. the shock. the chaos.

“his mother came in. screaming. crying. she saw me first — covered in her son’s blood. beomgyu said nothing. then, like a coward, he pointed at me and said i made the mistake. that i’d panicked. that i killed him.”

hana steps back slightly, a hand over her mouth. “no…”

“the staff believed him. he had no blood on him, just a mask of grief. and i was… in shock. couldn’t even defend myself. they expelled me from the program, and then the charges came. criminal negligence. i spent years in prison, hana. years.”

you tilt your head, gaze sharpening.

“do you know what that does to someone? being caged for something you didn’t do? he ended my future. my life. all to protect his own reputation.”

hana opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.

you smile.

“and today, he’ll pay for it.”

and that’s when you move.

one second you’re smiling — the next, the knife is in your hand, slicing the air.

a gasp.

a soft sound, wet and gurgling. blood blooms across her throat like a twisted rose. her hands fly up, but it’s useless. her body crumbles to the carpet, her eyes wide and unblinking.

you kneel beside her, breathing steady.

“it was never about love,” you whisper in her ear. “he only loved what you could give him. and now it’s mine.”

ACT SIX: THE EVIDENCE

the room still reeked of perfume, lilies, and now — blood. thick and metallic, it hung in the air like a cruel fog. her body lay awkwardly against the plush carpet, blood seeping in slow, lazy tendrils from the wound in her neck. hana’s expression was stuck somewhere between shock and confusion, as if her soul hadn’t quite caught up with her body in death. her hands were slightly raised, instinctively defensive, but there was no one left to plead with. not anymore. not after what had been set in motion years ago.

you stood over her in silence for a moment, letting the weight of it settle into your bones — not guilt, but satisfaction. cold and heavy and deliberate. this wasn’t chaos. it was choreography.

with clinical precision, you leaned down, your gloves still in place, your breathing steady. slipping your hand into the folds of her bridal gown, you found the small silver key she’d shown you earlier — the one she had said only she and beomgyu shared. perfect. you took it and tucked it away into your own bodice, but not before retrieving the knife, still warm, still wet, and carefully returning it to its hiding place beneath your garter. the steel met your skin briefly before disappearing back into the safety of lace and silk.

you weren’t finished.

you moved quickly now, not rushed, just efficient. hana’s lifeless form was heavier than you expected, but you managed to drag her toward the grand antique wardrobe tucked into the corner of the room. with effort, you arranged her inside, folding her gently as if she were porcelain. her arms fell to her sides like forgotten ribbon. from your bag, you pulled out a slim, black silk tie — beomgyu’s. you tied it around the wardrobe handles, tight and exact, the knot crisp. when someone found her, they’d see that tie and wonder. they’d question.

still wearing your gloves, you crouched again, inspecting the floor. blood had begun to dry at the edges, but it wasn’t too late. from your oversized purse, you pulled a small cloth and a diluted cleanser. you wiped every trace, every drop, every footprint. when the floor gleamed again — soulless and clean — you exhaled, but not in relief. this wasn’t over.

you walked to the mirror, peeled the gloves off with a slow, meticulous grace, and washed your hands in the basin nearby. the water ran pink, then clear. you changed next — stripping out of your blood-smeared gown and slipping into an identical one, pristine and untouched, as if nothing had happened at all. the contrast was jarring, beautiful even. you folded the ruined dress neatly and stuffed it back into the depths of your bag.

your escape wasn’t through the door. instead, you approached the tall window, unlatched it quietly, and climbed out with the elegance of someone rehearsed. the soft thud of your shoes on the grass below didn’t draw a single eye — the courtyard was mercifully empty.

and then, fate handed you one final gift: the dog.

a large, well-fed retriever — probably belonging to the venue’s owner — padded across the lawn near the back entrance. its tail wagged, oblivious. with a quick gesture, you undid its leash and nudged it gently in the direction of the banquet hall. you didn’t need to say anything. the second it caught scent of sugar and buttercream, it bolted.

from a distance, you watched the chaos unfold.

the animal barreled into the hall, diving toward the extravagant white wedding cake at the center. shrieks rang out from the staff, followed by gasps from the guests as the massive dog leapt, knocking plates and champagne flutes in every direction. the distraction was beautiful. orchestrated. all eyes turned, all bodies rushed forward.

you slipped back inside, unnoticed, and made your way to the small parlor by the fireplace. the chimenea crackled with welcoming heat. pulling the blood-soaked dress from your bag, you tossed it into the flames and watched as it curled and blackened, then disappeared. no ash, no trace. nothing left but a faint scent of smoke and finality.

when you stepped out again, you were just another guest, a woman in red, blending back into the celebration.

a ghost with blood on her hands and no soul left to haunt.

ACT SEVEN: THE ALIBI

you adjusted your dress — perfect, pristine, untouched — and found yourself drifting through the hum of music and small talk that buzzed under the glittering chandeliers. the ballroom seemed to pulse with distraction. no one had noticed the weight that had disappeared from the upstairs room. not yet.

your eyes landed on him — the father of the bride. chairman yoon. tall, composed, his tailored suit stretching across a chest built by pride and decades of success. the man was practically royalty in the medical world, owner of several hospitals across seoul. you approached him with the softness of silk and the poise of someone who belonged.

"mr. yoon," you began with a smile as polished as glass, "your daughter... she looked beautiful today. truly radiant."

his chest puffed with the pride of a man who had provided everything for his only child. he nodded solemnly, his glass of champagne catching the light as he raised it slightly in a silent toast to his own bloodline.

"and beomgyu," you continued, your voice low, reverent, like a hymn. "he's... incredible. passionate. dedicated. you know, not every man would love so deeply, so completely. he’d go to the ends of the earth for hana."

his eyes twitched with something unreadable, maybe curiosity, maybe relief. you pressed on.

"i think you'd be proud to know she chose a man who sees her as more than just a wife — he sees her as his purpose. his reason. i’ve known beomgyu for years, and... he’s always been like that. full of heart. always willing to sacrifice himself for someone he loves. it’s rare to find someone that good anymore. especially in our field."

you watched the old man’s face soften, a flicker of sentiment warming his otherwise calculating expression. you kept it going, slowly painting beomgyu as the martyr, the hopeless romantic, the picture of the devoted son-in-law. no one would ever suspect a thing if the story was sculpted just right — and your hands were already elbow-deep in the clay.

but then... your ears twitched.

a burst of laughter from across the room caught your attention — the kind of giggle that tried too hard to be subtle. you turned your head and caught sight of hana’s bridesmaids, huddled close together like schoolgirls sharing a forbidden secret. their eyes sparkled with the thrill of gossip. you drifted closer, steps measured, heartbeat steady. their voices dropped a little when they saw you, but it was too late — you had already heard the name.

"soobin."

one of them whispered it again, as if afraid the very word might catch fire. and then, another voice, hushed and breathless.

"they kissed. i swear to god, they kissed."

"at the bachelorette party?" a gasp.

"yes. she said it was just the heat of the moment — he was her crush back in college, remember? and after all these years… it just happened. god, she said she forgot what it felt like to be wanted like that."

your stomach didn’t turn. it twisted with dark joy.

this was it. this was gold. betrayal, lust, opportunity. everything you needed to sow the perfect storm.

you didn’t waste a second. turning smoothly, you made your way to a small group near the bar — men in sleek suits, clustered together like a pack of wolves dressed in cologne and wine. they must’ve been beomgyu’s university friends, the ones he met after he burned your life to ashes. they wouldn’t know you. they wouldn’t question your role.

you approached with the gentle confidence of someone who had every right to be there. "hi," you smiled, polite and slightly sad. "i’m... one of beomgyu’s closest friends. from before med school, actually."

they turned toward you, nodding with vague recognition. one of them offered you his hand. "nice to meet you. i’m hyun. beomgyu never really talked about his old friends. but i guess he’s pretty private about that stuff."

"yeah," you said, letting just the right note of sorrow seep into your voice. "he’s... been through a lot."

they leaned in instinctively.

"i just…" you hesitated, casting your eyes downward. "i needed to say something, and i don’t know who else would understand. he’s a good guy. a really good guy. he doesn’t deserve what hana did."

their brows furrowed instantly, curiosity piqued. "what do you mean?"

you glanced around the room before leaning closer, lowering your voice. "look... i shouldn’t be saying this. but during her bachelorette party... hana kissed someone. someone she used to have a crush on in university. i think it was... soobin? and, well... maybe it didn’t stop there. maybe it went further."

they exchanged glances, jaws tightening.

"you’re sure?"

you nodded, slowly. "i didn’t want to believe it either. but hana told one of the girls herself. she was drunk. said it just... happened. like the past came rushing back and she forgot about everything else."

they muttered under their breath, disbelief and disgust curling their lips. one of them scoffed. "i knew it. she always looked too perfect. like the kind of girl who smiles sweet but keeps knives in her purse."

another one chuckled bitterly. "and beomgyu? that poor bastard... he’s really into her. like, really. he doesn’t deserve that."

"no," you agreed. "he doesn’t."

they looked at you again, this time with a different kind of respect. not suspicion, not doubt. alignment.

"thanks for telling us," hyun said after a pause. "we won’t... say anything yet. but someone should. eventually."

you nodded once more, then turned away, letting the weight of your words hang in the air behind you like smoke.

the story was unfolding exactly as it needed to — not as it was, but as you designed it. slowly, subtly, beomgyu’s world would collapse in on itself. and when the flames reached his feet, the only thing left for him to do would be burn.

ACT EIGHT: THE CONFRONTATION

you feel his eyes on you long before he reaches you. they trail your every move across the ballroom—how you tilt your head as you speak to hana's father, how you laugh gently with his old classmates, how your hands rest politely against your wine glass, calm and clean and deceptively innocent. it must be driving him insane.

and it is. because when he finally storms across the golden-lit room and grabs you by the wrist, there's no hesitation, no softness, no mask left. the smile you wear is poison-laced sugar, the kind that rots the soul.

“come with me. now,” he says through clenched teeth.

you don’t resist. instead, you raise an eyebrow, deliberately taking your time to place your glass down on a table. “so demanding. is that how you treat your guests on your wedding day?”

he doesn’t answer. just pulls you along the corridor, back through the twisting hallways, until you reach that room again—the one where secrets are born and buried. he unlocks it with the silver key, the same one you saw earlier, the same one his fiancée had.

he slams the door behind you, breath ragged. “stop playing games.”

you lean against the edge of the makeup table, unbothered. “who says i’m playing?”

“cut the act.” his voice cracks, sharp and low. “what the hell do you want from me?”

you walk slowly toward him, arms draping lazily over his shoulders, fingers trailing up the back of his neck like a ghost he thought he buried. “you,” you whisper, eyes gleaming. “i want you.”

his jaw tightens, but his hands tremble. “don’t do this.”

“why not?” your breath brushes against his ear. “because you’re scared you’ll fall again? or because you already have?”

he grabs your wrists and pulls them down. “this isn’t real. it’s never been real with you. you twist everything—”

“and yet, here you are,” you cut him off, stepping even closer. “following me, dragging me into dark rooms, asking me what i want. what does that say about you, beomgyu?”

his silence is deafening.

you smile, slow and venomous. “you don’t love her,” you say, voice flat now, cutting. “you love what she gives you. her father’s empire. the title. the access. you’re marrying a name, not a person.”

his lips part to argue, but no words come out.

“you betrayed me to save your future,” you continue, no longer seducing—now dismantling him piece by piece. “and now that i’ve returned to claim what’s mine, you think you can just tell me to stop?”

“what did you do?” his voice is hoarse, shaken, almost afraid.

you tilt your head. “you’ll find out soon enough.”

he lunges forward then, fists clenching like he might strike, but stops inches from your face. you don’t flinch. you want him to hit you. you want the mask to fall completely. instead, he breathes harshly, veins pulsing in his neck.

“you ruined everything.”

“no,” you correct, brushing invisible lint off his suit jacket. “i balanced everything. this was never your story alone, beomgyu. i was just patient enough to wait for the climax.”

from outside, you hear laughter, music, the clink of glasses. a celebration built on lies, already cracking.

he looks at you like you're the devil, but deep down—he knows he invited you in the moment he sacrificed you for his own survival.

and now the devil wants her due.

beomgyu’s gaze pierces through you as he stands just a few steps away. his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, and his hands, clenched at his sides, tremble ever so slightly. it’s not fear—no, you recognize it now. it’s guilt, swirling just beneath the surface of his icy demeanor.

he knows you’re hiding something. his eyes narrow, his brow furrows in frustration as he takes a step closer to you, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

“i can see it,” he says, his voice laced with suspicion, “you’re hiding something. you always have been. i won’t let you get away with it.”

you don’t flinch. instead, you lower your head, letting your hair fall over your face as you allow yourself a small, bitter smile. “what more could you possibly do to me, beomgyu?” you ask, feigning a hurt tone that feels foreign on your tongue, but you know it works. “you already took everything from me. my career, my future. what’s left? what could you possibly take from me now?”

he takes a hesitant step back, his eyes flickering with something dangerous. “you still think i’m the villain, don’t you?”

your voice drops to a whisper, but it’s cutting, slicing through the silence with a sharp edge. “you were always the villain. from the moment you betrayed me, you sealed your fate. do you feel guilty now? do you finally understand what you did? how many lives you’ve ruined because of your mistakes?”

beomgyu’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as if to hold back a storm. “i’ve improved,” he snaps, the words spilling out quickly, defensively. “i’ve gotten better. i don’t make those mistakes anymore. i’ve worked harder than anyone to—”

“you’ve lied,” you interrupt, your tone icy. “how many patients have died because of your negligence? how many diagnoses have you gotten wrong? you can lie to yourself, beomgyu, but not to me. i remember. i remember everything.”

he freezes. the air between you thickens, heavy with the weight of your words. you can see the storm brewing behind his eyes—the frustration, the fear, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. but there's something else, too. something far darker.

“i’ve changed,” he repeats, his voice low, as though he’s trying to convince himself. “i’m not that person anymore.”

“you’ll never change,” you whisper, your gaze hardening. “i’d never make the mistakes you did. i’d never let anyone die. but you? You don’t even care. you never did.”

the tension builds between you, thick as smoke. his hands are clenched into fists, and for a moment, you think he might lash out. but then, his voice cracks, desperation lining his words. “you need to leave. now. i never want to see you again.”

ACT NINE: THE REVEAL

you feel your lips curl into a smile. the air between you feels too tense to breathe in, yet you move closer, not backing down. you raise your dress slightly, just enough to reveal the glint of bloodied steel tucked into the garter on your thigh. the knife, still slick with the evidence of your actions.

beomgyu freezes, his eyes going wide, his face draining of color. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. his voice trembles when he finally whispers, barely audible, “tell me... you didn’t—”

“didn’t what?” you ask, leaning closer, almost savoring the fear in his eyes. “you think i’d let you get away with it all? after everything you put me through?”

his breath is shallow, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. “tell me it’s not true... p-please.”

you step closer, your fingers brushing over the hilt of the knife, feeling the cool metal under your fingertips. “it’s true, beomgyu. it’s all true. but don’t worry,” you continue, leaning in so close your lips almost touch his ear. “i won’t blame you for what happened. after all, you did it. you killed her. you killed hana. and i just helped you clean up your mess.”

he stumbles back, his face ashen, eyes wide, pupils dilated. his voice cracks as he whispers the words he’s most terrified to admit, “you... you really did it, didn’t you?”

you smile, slow and deliberate, feeling a twisted satisfaction at the horror in his eyes.

“you?” he whispers again, barely able to breathe. “you killed her?”

you laugh softly, your voice a low, dangerous hum. “me? oh, beomgyu, it wasn’t me who did all of this. it was you. you just never saw it coming.”

you take a step closer, until you’re so near that his breath mingles with yours, but this time, there’s no more mask. there’s no more façade. just the reality of what’s happened and what’s to come.

with a wicked smile, you press your lips against his ear and whisper, “i didn’t kill her, beomgyu. you did.”

his face goes pale as he finally realizes the magnitude of what you’ve done. the game is over. there’s no escaping it now.

beomgyu’s denial hangs heavy in the air. “no,” he mutters, almost like a prayer. “no, i don’t believe you.” his voice shakes, but there’s something desperate behind his words, like he’s begging the world to disprove you, to make this some elaborate lie.

without breaking eye contact, you reach for his hand. he resists at first, stiff with unease, but you’re insistent. delicate fingers wrap around his wrist, and you guide his palm down your thigh, brushing past the smooth fabric of your dress until it finds the cold steel nestled against your skin.

his breath hitches the moment his fingertips graze the knife.

you press his hand harder against it, watching his face contort. “there,” you whisper in a voice dripping with venomous sweetness. “do you feel it, beomgyu? that’s her blood. your bride’s blood. your future. your lie.”

his eyes widen in disbelief, but that disbelief quickly twists into something far darker. the veins in his neck bulge with tension, his jaw clenched so tightly you hear the grind of his teeth. he jerks his hand away as if the touch burned him, but it’s already too late.

something inside him snaps.

with a choked roar, beomgyu lunges at you, fingers reaching—not for your throat, but for the knife. his face is a mask of rage, the lines once softened by charm now carved into something feral and unrecognizable.

beomgyu rips his hand away like it’s been scorched. his eyes go wide—then dark. the denial in them crumbles into something monstrous. fury consumes his features like a wildfire, burning away any remnants of the composed, gentle man he pretended to be.

“you bitch—!” he snarls, eyes wild. “you fucking psycho! i'll fucking kill you!” he growls through clenched teeth, and in a blink he’s on you, grabbing your arm and yanking the knife free from your leg.

the cold kiss of steel flashes in the dim light as he raises it.

but you’ve anticipated this moment. always one step ahead.

before the blade can meet its mark, or can close around your throat, your arm lashes out. you grab the black tie wrapped around the closet’s ornate handle—the very one he wore earlier that day—and yank it with all your strength.

the closet door bursts open.

and with a sickening thud, hana’s lifeless body tumbles forward, crashing into beomgyu’s chest like a broken doll. her dress is still pristine white, but soaked crimson around the neck, where the fatal wound rests like a grotesque necklace. her head lolls unnaturally as she falls directly onto beomgyu, knocking him back several steps.

his arms instinctively catch her, and for a split second, the world stops.

the blood.

the weight.

the coldness of her skin.

he staggers, knees nearly buckling, and the knife—your knife—slips from your leg and clatters to the floor between them, the blade nearly piercing hana’s side as she collapses fully into his trembling arms.

beomgyu doesn't scream. he can't.

the silence in the room is louder than anything. his breathing turns erratic, like a trapped animal finally realizing it's been lured into the cage. his trembling fingers touch the blood on hana's chest. his own hands, now red.

the walls are closing in. fast.

and all you do… is smile.

a slow, merciless smile as you step back into the shadows of the room. because now the stage is perfectly set.

and he is holding the murder weapon.

ACT TEN: THE MAN THEY'LL BLAME

for a moment, beomgyu doesn’t move.

he just stares—stares at the body cradled in his arms like it might still blink, might still breathe, might still whisper his name and laugh at this cruel joke. but there’s no laughter now. only the warmth of her blood soaking into his sleeves, her dress, the scent of iron clinging to every inhale. his face collapses into a grotesque mask of shock and pain.

“no,” he breathes out. “no, no, no—”

then the scream rips out of him, raw and gut-wrenching, a sound that doesn’t even sound human. he screams until his throat burns, until his lungs rattle, until the air around him trembles from the sheer force of it. the knife—your knife—still rests in his hand, stained and gleaming. his knuckles are white from how tightly he grips it.

that’s when the footsteps thunder outside.

the door bursts open.

gasps. screams. chaos.

guests flood the entrance like a wave—confused, horrified, stunned. among them, mr. yoon, hana’s father, stares into the room, frozen at the threshold. his eyes fall on his daughter first. slumped overcovered in blood. then on beomgyu—drenched in it, knife in hand, eyes wild and red.

and then… you.

you’re on the floor, trembling, hair disheveled, dress rumpled as if you’d struggled. tears streak your cheeks—perfect, practiced tears. you crawl backward, as if trying to get away from the man who supposedly tried to hurt you.

“mr. yoon—!” you cry out, voice cracking beautifully. “h-he killed her! i—i saw him! he found out about the affair, and—and when i tried to stop him, h-he tried to force himself on me!”

gasps erupt behind you. someone cries. another person retches.

beomgyu looks up, eyes darting from face to face, from you to the crowd. “she’s lying!” he shouts, hoarse, frantic. “she did this! it wasn’t me—!”

but mr. yoon’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and trembling with rage. “get away from my daughter!” he roars, his eyes blazing with grief. “you monster! YOU STAY AWAY FROM HER!”

“no—please—listen to me, she—!” beomgyu tries to speak, but no one hears him. no one wants to.

they only see blood.

they only see a man with a knife and a woman sobbing on the floor.

phones are already out. someone is screaming for the police. others are backing away in terror. and the walls begin to close in on beomgyu.

he staggers to his feet, unsteady and splattered in red. the knife falls from his hand, clattering to the floor in a sharp ring of metal. he looks down at himself, the blood dripping from his fingers, painting a path of guilt behind him. his breath shortens, panic setting in like a chokehold.

“no… no, this isn’t happening…” he whispers, stumbling backward.

then—he runs.

out of the room. down the corridor. leaving a long, damning trail of crimson footprints in his wake.

and as the screams echo behind him, you stay on the floor… weeping just enough to keep the attention. just enough to keep the lie alive.

because now the world believes the story you wrote.

and beomgyu?

he’s already halfway to becoming the villain in everyone’s eyes.

FINAL ACT: THE PRICE OF BLOOD AND SILENCE

outside, the air is heavy with the weight of disbelief. voices cut through the night like blades—frantic, confused, disoriented. the manic hum of whispers grows louder the further you descend the stairs, like insects crawling over a rotting truth. people are gathered in tight little knots, their faces pale, tear-streaked, their eyes darting toward the mansion windows where the blood still clings to the glass.

you pass them quietly.

you hear the words that float around you like ghosts, each syllable another stone sealing beomgyu’s fate.

“he always said he loved hana. i didn’t think he meant… like that.”

“he was obsessed. did you see his face?”

“i told you something was off about him.”

“they say he found out about her and soobin… that she cheated during the bachelorette trip. maybe it pushed him over the edge.”

“he was crazy in love.”

you don’t speak. you don’t need to. your eyes stay low, your expression soft—an echo of grief stitched delicately across your features. every gesture rehearsed. every breath measured. inside, your heart is still. not peaceful… just empty.

you cross the lawn, past the wilting flower arrangements, past the shattered champagne glasses and chairs left crooked in haste. the wedding arch stands crooked now, fabric swaying like it’s mourning. you follow the trail of red stains, droplets growing thicker the closer you get to the garden altar.

and there he is.

beomgyu.

collapsed on the grass like a marionette with its strings cut. his knees are drawn to his chest, one hand tangled in his hair, the other pressed to his temple as if trying to hold his skull together. his suit is drenched—shoulders, chest, cuffs—sticky with the blood of the woman he thought he’d marry. he’s murmuring to himself, over and over, lips trembling, voice cracking with disbelief and despair.

“i didn’t do it… i didn’t do it… i didn’t…”

he looks like a shell. like a man who’s forgotten how to exist.

you step closer, the heels of your shoes pressing into the wet earth, and he lifts his head. slowly. his eyes find yours and the second they do, you see the shift—the dilation of his pupils shrinking into pinpoints, his body freezing.

you smile.

just a faint little curve of your lips. delicate. deranged.

he knows now.

he knows.

and when you crouch in front of him, slowly, your eyes never leaving his, your voice slides out like a silk ribbon soaked in poison.

“now you feel guilt?” you whisper. soft. intimate. cruel.

he doesn’t answer.

he can’t.

his chest rises and falls like he’s drowning. and maybe he is. drowning in blood, in betrayal, in the realization that everything he thought he controlled has crumbled. that you were never the fragile shadow of the past. you were the storm waiting to devour him.

your head tilts.

he stares at you like you’re no longer human.

because you’re not. not anymore.

you’re wrath with a smile. vengeance wearing perfume. the end of his world in a velvet dress.

his mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

and then—

sirens.

flashing lights.

the wail of justice arriving too late.

officers push through the crowd, guns drawn, shouting orders. hands grab him, dragging him up, cuffing him. he doesn’t resist. there’s no fight left. just wide, ruined eyes and hands still stained in red. he looks back at you one last time as they pull him away.

you wave.

not mockingly. not sweetly.

just… goodbye.

and as they drive him off into the night, all you can feel is the stillness.

not peace. not victory.

just silence.

and in that silence, you smile.

because your story is over.

and it ends in red.

EPILOGUE: CONFESSION IN THE DARK

the cell is cold.

not just in temperature, but in the kind of silence that settles under your skin and eats at the edges of your thoughts. beomgyu sits on the narrow cot, elbows on his knees, hands hanging limp like they don’t belong to him anymore. they’ve scrubbed them—his hands—but the blood feels permanent. it’s in the creases of his palms, beneath his fingernails, deep in the lines of his fingerprints. nothing washes off guilt.

he hasn’t spoken in hours.

they asked him questions. detectives. officers. even a therapist. he answered in whispers at first. then stopped answering altogether. because what is there to say when the world you thought you built was nothing more than glass—and someone finally shattered it?

his mind replays the moment again. and again. and again.

the weight of hana’s body crashing against him. the scream caught in his throat. the slick handle of the knife in his hand. the look in your eyes.

that look.

not fury. not hatred. something worse.

triumph.

he knows now. all of it. every piece he missed. every warning he ignored. he knew you’d come back, but he thought you wanted closure. he thought you’d mourned the past like he had.

he didn’t know you’d return as ruin.

he remembers what you said. about the patients. about the mistakes.

and he remembers their faces, too. the ones he lost. the ones whose lives slipped through his hands when he was too arrogant, too inexperienced, too afraid to say “i don’t know.”

but he never thought you’d find a way to make the world see him the way you did. a killer. a fraud. a man too weak to carry the weight of a life, yet too proud to admit he dropped it.

his breathing is shallow now.

he leans back against the wall. lets his head rest there. concrete against bone. he thinks of hana. of her smile, her voice, her secrets. he doesn’t know if she really loved him. doesn’t know if she really cheated. he doesn’t even know if it matters anymore.

because all that’s left is silence.

you didn’t just take his future.

you took the last piece of himself he believed was good.

he’s not crying.

he hasn’t cried.

but something inside him is unraveling slowly, like a thread pulled loose in the dark.

the light above him flickers.

he closes his eyes.

and somewhere, buried deep in the quiet, he hears your voice again—soft, mocking, triumphant.

“now you feel guilt?”

and this time, he does.

with every heartbeat, he does.

and as the door to his cell clicked shut behind him, echoing like the toll of a final bell, the world outside kept turning—unaware that sometimes, the perfect crime wears a smile, walks in heels, and whispers love like poison.

[artificialroux]

SISTER DYNAMICS IN MY YELLOWJACKETS OCS, PART ONE 𓈒ㅤ͡⊹

DANIELLE & SHAUNA SHIPMAN —

“tethered by blood, divided by silence.”

pre-crash – uneven closeness

before the crash, danielle and shauna shared a complicated but loving bond. danielle looked up to shauna — not just as an older sister, but as someone who seemed to have all the answers. shauna was her protector, her example, and sometimes, her only friend. but that closeness was also built on unequal footing. shauna was the golden child under their mother’s watchful eye, while danielle often felt like an afterthought — dragged along to soccer, parties, practices, and team trips as an obligation rather than a choice.

still, danielle tried to stay close, even if she felt more like shauna’s shadow than her sibling. moments of tenderness — like shauna braiding her hair before games or sneaking her extra candy — made her feel like she belonged. but deep down, danielle sensed that shauna was already pulling away, already living a life danielle would never be part of. the morning of the crash, when shauna hid her acceptance letter from brown, was the first moment danielle truly realized how many secrets her sister kept.

season one – quiet tension, growing distance

after the crash, survival consumed everything. danielle stuck close to shauna out of fear and habit — but the stress of the wilderness and the growing factions began to fracture their bond. shauna became more withdrawn, cold, and preoccupied with jackie, her pregnancy, and survival. danielle didn’t know how to reach her anymore.

the loss of jackie, and shauna’s increasingly erratic behavior, disturbed danielle — but she never stopped loving her. she tried to keep her faith in shauna, even when she no longer recognized her. danielle became more isolated, forming soft bonds with a few others (natalie and akliah), but always watching shauna from a distance, wishing things could go back to the way they were.

season two – guilt, fear, and loyalty

by season two, danielle was older, hungrier, and more afraid. the group was shifting into something darker, and shauna was right at the heart of it — the baby, the butchered deer, the rituals, the silence. danielle tried to keep her head down. ahe went along with the others out of fear, not belief. she didn’t trust the wilderness, or lottie, or even her sister — but she couldn’t leave her behind either.

after the baby’s death, danielle saw a side of shauna that terrified her. not just grief, but detachment. rage. violence. danielle felt like she was watching her sister become someone else entirely. but still, she tried to be near her — sometimes sleeping beside her, brushing out her hair, or whispering her name at night when the nightmares came.

danielle never said it aloud, but she started writing in her journal: “i think she’s gone. i think my sister died before the baby did.”

season three – final fracture, love and betrayal

by season three, the sisterhood was a shell. danielle no longer confided in shauna. she feared her, respected her, and still loved her — but in a distant, aching way, like loving a ghost. she saw what shauna was becoming in the hunt, in the rituals, in the way she never flinched at blood anymore. danielle tried to keep her guilt buried — for not speaking up, for enabling it all, for wanting her sister to love her again. even as she voted guilty in the trial, looking at natalie with those pleading eyes, she wasn't sure if she was making her decision out of loyalty, or fear.

when shauna began to truly harden, danielle tried one last time to protect her — or perhaps to redeem her. that moment, in the snow, when she puts on mari’s clothes and takes her place, knowing it might get her killed, was an act of grief, desperation, and twisted love. she wanted to do something good. she wanted to make sure natalie was able to call for rescue. she wanted to make it up to her for betraying her during the trial. she wanted her sister to see her again. but most of all, she wanted to believe that shauna wouldn’t go through with it.

but she did. and by the time shauna realized the girl she killed was her own sister, it was too late.

their bond, once braided in shared childhood and whispered promises, ended in blood and silence.

shauna wears her sister's hair on her antler queen gown, along with mari and hannah's, it's unclear if this is out of rage for her sister's betrayal, or a way to honor her.

hello guys!! this has been in the workshop for around a month or so ... and since s3 concluded i thought i'd finally finish it up!! danielle death reveal...but also this will be a series with all of my yellowjackets ocs who have sisters!! so maisie, the twain twins, and finally maddie!! stay tuned 🫶🏻

🏷️ : @dippindotties @logansdogmotif @chshiresgrin @orangecatsmissingbraincell @antlrrqueen @rippedpatches @ohno-people @soapysbouquet @puppysepulchre @blazingstarrr (lemme know if you want removed or added!)

divider creds : @strangergraphics

[kradogsrats]

Allhaven and Evrkynd: An Aanya (and Ezran) Meta

So back before s7, I predicted that Aanya would play a significant role in returning Ezran to his chosen path of radical love after he's shaken from it by being unexpectedly confronted with an alive Runaan. Obviously, that wound up being hilariously incorrect... but I still think the analysis was, at the time, sound.

In arc 1, Aanya is set up as the model for Ezran in... basically every respect. Like, the number of ways Ezran in early s3 directly parallels Aanya at the Pentarchy Summit in s2 is anything but subtle:

They also both leave s3 in a very similar place, as young monarchs who refused to take their people to war, but stepped up to defend peace. Knowing that Ezran would struggle with Runaan's role in his father's death, it made perfect sense that Aanya could relate—Avizandum orphaned her, and while she wasn't interested in taking aggressive action for the sake of revenge (as opposed to Kasef), she probably still felt some kind of way about riding to the defense of Xadia and Zym. It made sense that she would continue in her narrative role as a sort of preview for Ezran's behavior, as far as putting aside personal grudges for the common good.

In fact, the Book Two: Sky novelization makes it explicit. The Pentarchy Summit sequence ends with a segment from Aanya's point of view, in which she privately displays a fair amount of contempt for the other human monarchs and (somewhat hilariously) labels Viren as "aging," but it ends with this:

As a young ruler, she had the opportunity to correct the course of violence that her parents had been a part of. And she hoped to do just that.

As in the series, the Pentarchy Summit in the novelization is intercut with Callum opening and reading Harrow's final letter, in which he urges Callum and Ezran to do the same: turn the story of the world from one of strength and violence to one of peace and love. (Well, less intercut than the series, because different media. But it comes between Callum sitting down to read the letter, and them him actually reading it.) Again, we are meant to see Aanya as strongly aligned with the main trio in the sense of being

We then didn't really get anything to contradict any of that in s6, where her appearance mostly just indicated that she was going to play a bigger role in s7. However, when s7 arrived? Well, she's still very much meant to be compared with and contextualize Ezran's decisions and actions, but as this series is so fond of doing, she herself is massively recontextualized as a character, in turn.

The Orphaned Queen

In s7, we see an Aanya that is different from—but not inconsistent with—what we saw in the first arc. The key is this:

Aanya has had a much different experience from Ezran's—she has had the people around her betray and attempt to manipulate her. Has Aanya ever been able to feel truly safe, outside of the measures she herself is able to take in her own defense?

Contrast this with Ezran, who is generally surrounded by people he can trust implicitly. He does get briefly conspiracy-ed off the throne, but his loyal allies immediately start working to restore him. In arc 2, we see that he is still close with those allies, and the untrustworthy actors have been removed from his immediate orbit. We don't know a ton about Harrow's High Council beyond Viren and Opeli—there was Saleer (untrustworthy), but there were also others, none of whom are present for Ezran's rule. Ezran's council is made up of Opeli, Barius, and Corvus—three people who supported him without reservation through Viren's coup—plus Soren, who displayed his loyalty to Ezran at the end of s3 by "killing" his father (and losing his sister), and then Callum, Ezran's own brother and staunchest protector until Corvus and Soren entered the scene. Unlike Aanya, who is both younger than Rayla and has a higher body count, Ezran appears to have never picked up a weapon for anything but play-fighting with Callum. Aanya simply does not have the luxury of safety and trust that he does.

(We have a single mention in a single interview indicating that Aanya has an adoptive older brother, which makes for another point of close comparison with Ezran in that they are both in the unusual situation of being young monarchs with living older siblings. Presumably, if Aanya truly trusts anyone, it would be him. While she comforts Ezran about his falling out with Callum without even mentioning that she has her own older brother, she does speaks in a way that could suggest personal experience—which would indicate that she and Grark may have had their own struggles. In a medium where time is so valuable that every shot and line of dialogue needs to be scrutinized for storytelling efficiency, exposition about Aanya's family situation may just not be a priority. Personally, I'm not really committed to believing that he actually exists and isn't some kind of large and protective pet, but I feel obligated to mention him in the context of "does Aanya trust anyone?")

So while Ezran, having grown up in relative security, is inherently very trusting (something also driven by the faith of his True Heart that people are good), and Aanya, despite being ostensibly aligned with him in nature and goals, is very much not.

Trust Me to Carry It

Reaching s7, Ezran and Aanya actually have an interesting pair of exchanges about trust, and specifically about trust between the two of them. During Ezran's first council meeting at the Banther Lodge, when Callum (their relationship already visibly fracturing) fails to support him at even the bare minimum level of paying attention, he turns to Aanya, instead. She initially demurs, citing that she is not a member of the council, but Ezran insists:

Aanya appears to not really know how to respond to that, though she takes it seriously and wants to recognize the gesture. She settles for reaffirming the debt owed to Katolis by Duren, and pledging to honor it:

We'll address the rest of this scene in a bit, but first I want to look at a later one—a very subtle moment, but one I think is important.

After the confrontation between Callum and Ezran (in which Aanya has a role, and believe me, I'll touch on that later), Ezran's emotions are running high—he's angry, he's distraught, and Aanya steps in to move him to a more private setting where he can feel his feelings. On the Banther Lodge bridge, there is this exchange:

Ezran cites a time he and Callum had (much lower-stakes) discord, specifically a time when Callum dismissed Ezran's (admittedly far-fetched) claims about his own experience and knowledge of the world, and in response, Aanya makes a gesture of the exact opposite. Callum didn't believe Ezran that the ducks preferred berries, but Aanya offers him berries to feed to the ducks.

We also don't really have a strong picture of how open Ezran is in arc 2 about his ability to understand animals—he seems to be more open about it than he was in arc 1, when he kept it concealed in large part because Callum didn't believe him. It makes sense that he would have grown in confidence after Callum's turnaround, along with both Rayla and Claudia believing him without reservation, but I still get the impression it's something he rarely talks about. He doesn't hide it, in that he will listen to animals and respond directly to them in front of even relative strangers, like Terry, but... maybe it's just the disconnect in how even Ezran treats animals vs. humans/elves, but there's really no evidence that anyone other than Callum and Rayla know, and everyone else just treats things like Bait's "seat" on the council as a child's adorable quirks. So while him indicating openly to Aanya that he can communicate with animals doesn't necessarily mean anything, it's still kind of surprising.

I'll circle back to Aanya display of trust in Ezran (eventually), but first: a quick(ish) look at what Ezran's trust in Aanya winds up meaning in s7 regarding her influence on him.

Your Angel or Your Devil

Aanya enters Ezran's circle of advisors at a time when he is in great turmoil, and vulnerable because of that. He's also struggling with traumatic growth of a kind his other advisors would prefer to shield him from, but that leaves him straining against their expectations. That he will need and want new voices among his advisors has always been an eventual reality, and Aanya is a very appropriate candidate. However, where things get interesting is that, despite her uniformly positive role in arc 1 and in s6, in s7 her influence on Ezran is frequently not framed as necessarily a positive.

In the first Banther Lodge council scene, as described above, Ezran explicitly places Aanya in a position of trust, and she returns with a pledge of support. In context, Ezran has just been encouraged by Opeli and Barius to focus on rebuilding Katolis and reassuring its people. He is conflicted, being deeply affected by Sol Regem's attack—in a way, a breach of his trust in Xadia and the world at large—and questions whether it's worth rebuilding without ensuring that everything will not be so easily destroyed again. To emphasize his point, he knocks over his goblet—the goblet that Aanya then picks up and offers back to him as part of her affirmation that Duren will aid Katolis in any way needed.

She then goes on to agree with his concerns about Katolis's vulnerability, something that visibly disturbs what was previously Ezran's core council:

This is a moment where Ezran takes a distinct step away from his childhood, even before his critical confrontation with Callum, in that he looks to and takes the advice of a peer, rather than a guardian. Previously, the closest thing Ezran had to a peer within his council was Callum, and Callum just demonstrated how unsuited he has always been for that role.

Opeli (and Barius, and Corvus, and Soren) has, from the very beginning, had an interest in protecting Ezran not just physically, but mentally and morally, as well. On Ezran's first full day as king, the adults in the room all suddenly act like they're under tiktok censorship and have to say "unalived" when learning and discussing the news that the four other human monarchs have been attacked, and three of them are dead or sufficiently incapacitated that they may as well be dead (Kasef is acting independently as Ahling's heir, not under Ahling's direction or advice). Ultimately, that might be a kind thing to do! Ezran's father was assassinated, and a coordinated attack on human kings and queens suggests that he may be in mortal danger—something potentially traumatic for a *checks watch* ten-year-old already under significant pressure. Aanya, however, never received that grace, so when Ezran's adult advisors are trying to direct him toward peaceful rebuilding and implicitly reassure him that everything will be okay, Aanya is frank in telling him that safety frequently has to be ensured, not assumed.

She's not wrong, particularly within the frame of her own trauma experience, which is a caveat she even makes explicit. (This is the girl who brings her magic explosive arrows to a wedding. Just in case.) However, as with the many, many people in this series who are not technically wrong, she's also not right—she is putting Ezran on a path that we as the audience immediately recognize as dangerous. So while Aanya in a lot of ways appears to be taking over Opeli's role in counseling Ezran both emotionally and practically, she does so in a way that is... interestingly reminiscent of Aaravos.

Project Ruby Fire

Now that I've made that insane claim, let's look briefly at the magical nuclear deterrence plan. Or rather, let's look at how it's proposed.

Aanya makes a pledge of support and service:

Confronts his enemies(?) aggressively in a way that escalates the situation:

and pushes him from a vague "the future of my people/humanity needs to be protected" toward a specific target:

Above all, she gives Ezran a secret, magical resource to be used for the benefit of humanity against those who would attack/oppress them, entirely changes the face of any conflict to a type of warfare never before seen, and that carries a spiraling moral risk—when you've got a bunch of nuclear warheads, every threat becomes something you may need to nuke. Ezran, after all, goes very quickly from "we're only building such powerful weapons so we'll never have to use them" to... well, using them.

Shitposts aside, I don't think Aanya is doing any of this maliciously—she's not love-bombing Ezran to manipulate him later, nor is she using him to push forward the fire ruby weapons development and exploit them for some kind of secret personal reasons. I think she is genuinely trying to help. What I think is actually going on here is that Aanya is representative of the rest of the Pentarchy and/or humanity—a group the principal characters visibly lose touch with more than once:

She's not following a pattern reminiscent of Aaravos because she's like Aaravos, but because that's what Aaravos's influence has made humanity over the centuries. It's an example of the insidious effect that not just dark magic, but the division of the continent and pitting humans and Xadia against each other has had.

Aanya may not hold any particular grudge against Xadia, but she isn't prepared to trust them, either—instead, she prepares for the worst. Her fire ruby arrows don't appear in the arc 1 final battle, a situation where you'd expect them to be used if they had been available, suggesting that they're something she oversaw the creation of during the two years after tentative peace with Xadia was established. She remains ready to defend herself, even against what are ostensibly allies. The soft threats are the worst.

A Bright Future for Humanity

Ultimately, Ezran is able to recover most, if not all, of his pre-s7 convictions regarding radical love and pursuit of peace—notably after taking himself to a place Aanya can/does not follow. Aanya obviously supports him in this, and it's not entirely clear whether Project Ruby Fire continues. Aaravos's return is on the horizon, and it proved effective against him once, already. (Though, as Aaravos himself warns, he does not fall for the same tricks twice.)

Going forward, a strong narrative role for Aanya given how she has already been used would be as a continued counterpart to Ezran—in that, as Ezran represents the reunification of humans and Xadia, she represents a united humanity within that. Throughout arc 2, we don't see anyone from any of the other human kingdoms—even though after two years, they ought to have worked out new rulers—only Katolis and Duren. There are models for Neolandian, Del Barian, and Evenerean soldiers from s3, but none appear in the Evrkynd scene—though there also aren't even any Durenian soldiers there, despite Aanya's presence, only Katolian soldiers and civilians. (To be fair, it's presumably still Katolian soil, since it's where Viren crossed with his armies and they were headed for the Breach before hearing it had been destroyed. But that just makes the need for a future united humanity more obvious.)

They could also, of course, be setting up an eventual romantic relationship between Aanya and Ezran. At twelve and thirteen years old, we can't exactly expect sparks to be flying, but there are a couple significant times when Aanya appears to be paralleling Sarai, not to mention their scene on what might as well be declared "Callum and Rayla Affirmations of Devotion" bridge.

Sarai is also presented as a warrior-queen, with a desire to improve the future world. I've written a bit about what Sarai might have seen in Harrow, and... even noted at the time (also prior to the s7 release) that she was likely similar to Aanya. Aanya and Ezran could have that same kind of dynamic—the pragmatist who grounds the idealist in reality, and the idealist who inspires the pragmatist to greater dreams.

Finally, I made the comparison up there between Aanya's pledge of service and Aaravos's, but there are others that could be made:

It's not a ship I have any investment in, but the foundations are admittedly sound.

FINALLY: A Shot in the Dark

I managed to write all of this without actually addressing the question that made me think about any of it in the first place, which is: would Aanya have shot Callum, if Ezran had given the order?

Short version: no, I don't think she would have.

To elaborate, the confrontation with Callum (and Rayla, and Runaan) comes right after Aanya has pledged Duren's (and her) support to Katolis (and Ezran)—whatever they need. Here, despite having no real personal stake in the conflict (though she probably has some strong feelings about assassins, in general), she lends Ezran her martial support, much in the way she did in s3 for the final battle. Aanya shoots two arrows, one of which is close enough to hitting Runaan that Rayla feels she has to deflect it, and the other of which grazes him—what she calls a warning shot.

What Aanya is actually giving Ezran in this scene is the appearance of strength and ruthlessness. As someone who grew up surrounded by people seeking to exploit what they saw as weaknesses—such as her young age—she's highly aware that a major factor in defensive strength is deterrence through intimidation. Ezran also knows this, on some level:

Ideally, she won't have to shoot Callum to get him to back down, only look like she will. As I noted earlier, her actions do escalate the conflict—but also may very well have worked to resolve it, had it been anyone other than Callum.

Ezran backing down is also crucial in setting up their next scene, which includes the ducks-berries sequence and Aanya declaring that she will extend her support to entrusting Ezran with the secret of the fire rubies. I think, because Ezran didn't give the order, she has seen that he's not going to foolishly escalate conflicts out of anger or pride. She placed herself in his hands as an indiscriminate weapon, and he chose not to use it.

If Ezran had ordered her to shoot Callum, I think she would have lost basically all respect for him. If she shot at all, she would be deliberately shooting to miss.

And that's what I think about Aanya.

[moody-alcoholic]

Sub Ala Angeli

Part 9 - Love Is Gentle, Love Is Kind

Summary: Ghoap x fallen angel!reader, mini fic. Sub ala angeli - Under the wing of an angel.

CW: Canon typical violence, blood, use of weapons, death, religious elements.

Previous - masterlist - next Enjoy <3

You’re pacing the living room, looking out the window at the sky getting darker and darker. You can feel the energy in the air changing, it makes goosebumps rise on your body.

“Looks like there's a storm moving in.” Johnny says coming up behind you, you stop and turn to look at him quickly before back out at the

“It’s not a storm. It’s demons.” You say.

“Why are demons after Johnny?” Simon asks from the kitchen table. John is here too, he came here early

“They’re not, they’re after me. Johnnys in the way.” You say. Before they can say anything you head for the door. The sky is dark, but you’re not feeling weak, you're feeling strong. You see John’s guardian angel standing at the bottom of the steps.

“The situation has changed.” They say. You’re not sure if Johnny or Simon will be able to see them but you approach them anyway.

“What do you mean?” You ask suddenly, nervous. You don’t like those feelings, nerves and fear. It feels horrible.

“There’s a portal open.” They say. That makes you feel sick, you can’t close a portal by yourself. You shouldn’t be doing this in the first place, this should be heaven's job. God should be sending angels down to deal with this.

But they won’t protect Johnny, and you will.

“Where is it?” You ask. They just smile at you, of course typical, they don’t know. You take another step towards them.

“I can’t do this by myself.” You say, they float down and their hand lands on your shoulder.

“You can, and you will. You have to protect him, you know what happens when a demon kills a human.” They say, you nod. It could be a disaster, more people could die, the longer the demons are roaming around Earth the worse it will get.

You feel their warm hand, then you feel energy travel through your body. It hurts, you look up at her worried trying to back away but instead their other hand presses on your chest and the pain goes away.

“What’s going on?” You ask, you see your skin glow, there’s suddenly no fear or nerves, no pain, just joy. You close your eyes letting the warm feeling flow over you. A seraphim’s power is only a step lower than archangels, you’ve never seen one as a guardian angel before. John is very lucky to have someone so powerful watching over him.

When the warmth starts to fade her hands leave you and you open your eyes again. As soon as her hands are gone you feel the pain and the worry come back. You just know your other wing is back before you turn to see it. It makes you smile, the fear beinf replaced with happiness. You turn to see everyone standing on the porch, Johnny is smiling, John and Simon look confused.

You feel the wind blow through your wings, the feathers have been repaired. That would have taken a lot of energy from the seraphim, but you have your wing back. You bring it around so you can see them both in your vision. You run your hand over the feathers feeling how warm it is under your hands.

You look up at the gray clouds taking a step back looking above the trees before stretching your wings out letting them flap, you can feel the force behind them. It’s going to take more than just your wings to propel yourself into the air. You really shouldn’t waste your energy like this but you don’t care. You need to feel what it’s like to fly again.

You close your eyes feeling the energy pulse through you, you bend your knees flapping your wings and throw yourself into the air. The cold wind stings your face and arms, before you know it you’re above the tree line.

You look out at the rolling fields, you can see the river you walked to with them a few days ago. You flap your wings again using them to propel yourself higher and fly forwards. You’re not as high as the birds but when you fly you always feel like one.

This is taking a lot of energy though, angelic power and physical energy. It’s only been a week but your wings feel stiff, your body strangely heavy as you turn your body back towards the cabin. The landing is awkward, you fall too quickly, too hard, your knees take most of the force as you land.

When you stand back up you see Johnny coming towards you. He smiles holding his arms out his eyes wide as he looks around your wings.

“You have your wing back.” He says, you bring it around so he can run his fingers over it.

“There’s a portal somewhere. I need to find it and close it, I don’t even know where to start.” You say, they’re giving you all the tools but you’ve never done anything like this before. You’re not an archangel or a seraphim. You’re not even a warrior, you’re just a guardian angel.

“Can’t John’s angel help?” He asks.

“They gave me my wing back.” You say stretching them out behind you. “I think they’ve helped all they can.” Simon and John step over to you, Johnny moves so they can come closer to you. There’s a chill in the air now, the storm feels like it’s getting closer, the air feels moist, it's almost suffocating. This is definitely not a normal storm.

“I need to find and close the portal.” You say looking down the drive past the treeline. You can see the sky, dark clouds are rolling in fast, there’s no rain though. No distant rumble of thunder, in fact it’s almost eerily quiet.

“How do you find a portal? What do they look like?” Simon asks.

“Yeah, maybe we could help you find it.” Johnny says, nodding enthusiastically.

“No.” You put your hand out. “You should stay here where it’s safe. I can find the portal, I just might need help.”

“From who?” Simon asks.

“God, other angels. I don’t know, whoever will answer my prayers.” You say sighing, you rub your hands together looking at your palms.

“I’ll fly around, see if there is anything out of place. I think I need to find the source of the storm.” You say looking up through the trees swaying in the wind.

“We can help, lass.” Johnny says, it’s almost like he’s pleading.

“Stay here. If I know you’re here I know where to find you. I will come back, I have my wing back for a reason. I need to use them.” You say, Simon nods, stepping forward to grab Johnny’s arm as you take a step back looking up at where you want to fly too.

“Be careful.” Simon says, you look back down at him and smile.

“You too.” You say before you flap your wings, throwing yourself up into the sky.

____

You feel like you’ve been flying for hours, it’s probably only been about half an hour but you can feel the ache pulsing around your body, through your wings. Gravity is pulling your body down, you’re not used to that-in heaven you don’t need to use any angelic energy to fly.

You avoid the town and roads, flying up into the dark clouds while you pass over houses and farms. Nothing seems out of place, you’re starting to run out of places to look. You’re following your instincts, flying in the direction of the heavier clouds, the ones that make you feel uneasy.

You will know when demons are near when you feel sick, upset. You need to land soon, take a rest for a few minutes. The later it gets the more nervous you feel, the day for some reason feels longer, the sun has been hidden by the clouds all day making the whole region feel gloomy.

You turn heading back towards the house. At least when you’re flying you’re warm, the energy keeping you warm and making you glow. Hopefully if anyone sees you they’ll just think it’s a break in the clouds, a sudden moment of sunlight shining down.

When you make it back to the house and land you know something is wrong. The energy has changed, you take a second to rest, stretching your wings before walking up to the front door. You hear shouting it makes goosebumps rise on your body. When you walk in you see Simon shouting on the phone. John is sat at the table with a mug of tea between his hands.

“What happened?” You ask, stepping in and letting the door close behind you.

“John’s missing.” John says, bringing his mug up to his mouth. You feel sick, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Why aren’t you out looking for him!” You snap, holding your arms out. Simon turns to look at you, dropping the phone from his ear.

“We only just realised he’s gone. Been trying to call him.” Simon says.

“Then he can’t be far.” You say turning to head back for the door. You need to find him.

“Did he say anything before he left?” You ask watching John and Simon come towards you pulling coats on.

“He was praying.” John says. You press your lips together. This is your fault you should have stayed with him, let the demons come to you. He was praying, probably for help for you, or protection. You squeeze your eyes closed trying to think.

Where could he have gone? Where would you go if you wanted your prayers to be heard? Church, you’d go to church. When you open your eyes you see Simon’s guardian angel behind him.

“Where is he?” You ask. Simon and John frown looking behind them. You know they can’t see the angel when they look back at you with raised eyebrows.

“Simon’s angel is here.” You explain.

“Why are you here if you’re not going to help?” You ask, you feel anger. You haven’t really felt that before, it feels wrong, it’s making your head spin, you’re not thinking straight. You’re mad they’re not helping you, just telling you to save Johnny. How are you supposed to do that alone?

“The church.” You say looking at John and Simon. “That's where Johnny is, the one you got married at.” Simon nods and you let him walk past you, you follow him out to the car. Simon drives, John sits in the front and you ride in the back. You could have flown quicker but you feel like you’re going to need the rest.

The drive doesn’t take long anyway. Before you know it you’re travelling down the familiar off-road towards the picturesque church. As soon as the car pulls up you can feel the change in the air. You know Simon and John can feel it too, they both look at each other as Simon turns the engine off.

“There here.” You say solemnly. Simon looks back at you, you suddenly feel a burst of energy. You can do this. You get out the car looking at the sky, it’s almost as black as night here. There’s no sound too, not the wind in the trees or the sounds of animals. You swallow the lump in your throat and walk down the small stoned path to the thick wooden doors.

The moment you put your hand on the handle you feel dread rise in you, it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before. You want to run, this is not a church right now, this is a dark place. This is not a place of healing and love. It’s full of terror and death, you can smell it in the air. Decay and rot.

When you open the door there is no bright ceiling, there’s no warm inviting feeling or light. The whole place is dim, you see Johnny. On his knees at the altar. There’s someone else too, a priest.

His hand is on Johnny’s back, praying with him. You hear Simon and John come in behind you, the door closing makes the priest turn. Johnny doesn’t move, it makes you feel sick. His guardian angel should be here.

“Welcome.” The priest says. False priest, a wolf in sheep's clothing. You grit your teeth, your eyes flicking between him and Johnny.

“It’s been a long time since an angel fell.” He says. Great, he’s not even trying to hide it. Simon’s hand lands on your shoulder but you ignore it.

“What did you do?” You ask, nodding at Johnny. He’s still smiling, as he turns quickly to look at him.

“Thought he could use a rest.” He says taking a step away from Johnny. You need to work out if he’s possessed, or a demon taking the form of a human. There’s only one way to check.

You feel a knife materialise in your hand. Before he can react you throw it at him. He chuckles teleporting away. The knife sticks into a wall then fizzles away. He’s a demon, a full powerful demon. You’ve never fought one before, you can’t be nervous right now though. He’ll use that to his advantage.

You take a step back quickly looking at Simon. His face is hard, his eyes locked on the false priest like he’s about to jump on him.

“Get Johnny out of here.” You say reaching behind you for his hand. You find it, he squeezes you but you don’t turn keeping your eyes fixed on the demon. “Get him out here and run. Don’t wait for me.”

He squeezes your hand again but you pull away, stepping forward towards the demon standing in the middle of the aisle.

“Let him go. It’s me you want.” You say. He laughs, turning back to Johnny walking over and running his hand over his head. Why hasn’t he moved? What did he do? He’s not dead, you can still see his soul. He has such a warm soul, kind and bright.

“Everything is written. Even this.” The demon says, his hand drops from Johnny’s head to his shoulder, he materialises a dagger in his hand. It’s like everything happens in slow motion. You’re moving as soon as the dagger is being brought down to sink into the middle of Johnny's back.

You use your wings to propel yourself forward towards the demon, materialising a spear in your hands, you scream as you thrust it towards him. He’s still smiling as you reach him. He moves but you knick his arm. When you stop you can hear Simon shouting, you don’t look at him keeping your eyes fixed on the demon. He laughs, you see black liquid pool from his arm, he winces running his fingers through it before bringing his fingers to his lips.

His tongue sticks out, forked and long he laps the liquid off his fingers before pulling them down his lips and chin. It makes you feel ill, they always have to put on a show. He materialises his own spear, It glows red with black smoke wrapping around it.

He’s stronger than you and you have no help. But you’ll do whatever it takes to protect Johnny. You cry out again as you lunge forward. His spear hits yours, knocking it out of your hands. You throw yourself out his path before he has a chance to lunge at you. You look over at the altar, Simon and John have their arms hooked around Johnny dragging him down the middle aisle.

“Watch out!” Simon calls at you. You turn looking at the demon picking up the bench. He brings it above his head like he’s about to throw it at you. You bring your wings around tightening the muscles to protect you from the blow. Insead he looks past you, he’s going to go for Johnny and Simon. You can’t let that happen.

You materialise a knife in your hand as the demon steps over you. He breaks the bench in half throwing it to the side, as soon as he does you drop your wings plunging the knife into his leg. He stops in place screaming, you use the distraction to get back to your feet.

He turns his attention to you. Good, you need to buy time for Johnny and Simon to get out of here.

“You angels never know when you stop!” He grows. You feel fear, he picks up on it flaring his nostrils. That's not good, he can feed off your fear - use it to give him energy. You need to be careful, you make another knife and throw it at him. You don’t care that it misses, you need him to make the next move. You need to close the portal.

Closing the portal will mean he’s cut off from his power source. It has to be on the roof, that's where the storm is the strongest. You didn’t look before you came into the building, you were too focused on getting inside and getting to Johnny.

He lunges towards you, his hands outstretched, they look more like claws with long sharp nails. He’s slowly giving up his human form, his body contoured into something unnatural and horrid. You doge his attack and move to the aisle where the tall ceiling is. Then you see it, the tear at the top of the steeple, the portal.

You have wings he doesn't, you can make it to the portal and close it. You don’t think just throw yourself up into the air, something stops you though. You look down at the demon with his hand locked around your ankle.

You kick and fight as his nails start to dig into your flesh, it stings but you have to get free. You flap your wings harder but he’s stronger than you. You try to kick his face with your free ankle but he manages to grab that one too. You get another knife and throw it at him, he drops your ankle to shield his face. You propel yourself up, you’re not sure what to do. The closer you get up the top of the steeple the harder it is to focus.

It’s like your energy is being drained twice as fast, your hands feel hot, you look down at them, they’re glowing, brighter than you’ve ever seen. This is how you close a portal, you reach it peering through the blood red tear you can see into the deep depths of hell. The screams of tormented souls and demons fill your ears.

You swallow the fear gripping each side of the portal. It burns your hands causing you to cry out, black smoke swirls up your arms, it stings your skin. It takes all your energy to try and force it closed, for a second you don’t think you’ll even be able to do it until you feel warm hands on your back.

You feel the warmth of an angel behind you, you cry out through gritted teath as you feel a new energy pulse through you giving you the strength you need to pull it closed. You can still feel the edges of the portal in your hands when something hot and strong grips your ankles. You look down to see red glowing chains wrapped around your ankles.

You scream as you’re pulled out of the steeple and your body slams down hard on the floor, thankfully your wings take the majority of the impact. You feel a white hot pain travel through your wings, you've definitely broken somthing, you won’t be able to fly anymore. You look up seeing the angel who helped you now finishing the job of closing the portal.

He pulls on the chains again dragging you on the floor. You try to turn over, you try to grip onto the benches anything to stop him. Pain shoots through your back. There's so much pain, you're not thinking straight, you call out for the other angel but you know they’re busy.

There’s a loud bang and you watch as the demon kicks the front doors open, you're dragged outside and thrown against the short wall. The pain is unbelievable, it causes black spots to flash across your vision. The chains are still around your ankles as the demon comes closer. You don’t have much energy left and now you’re injured. You raise your hand watching a short spear fizzle into existence.

At least you’ll be able to protect yourself if he lunges at you. Suddenly there’s a clap of thunder and a flash of light. A pillar of light beams in the sky from the roof of the church, the demon turns and growls.

“NO!” He shouts, it’s so loud it shakes the ground around you. You see angels in the distance coming down the pillar, you smile and let out a chuckle. It gets the demon's attention and he turns to look at you. He screams pulling on the chains, you cry out as your broken wings slam onto the floor.

He walks up to you and an axe forms in his hands. You bring the spear up to block it but before he can swing there’s loud pops. The demon's shoulders are thrown back, black smoke leaves the holes now littered on his chest. That was a gun, it must have been Simon or maybe John. He growls, poking one of his fingers into the hole and flicking out a bullet.

Earth weapons won’t hurt a demon, only enrage it. The demon drops your chains and they vanish from your ankles. You turn and crawl up to your knees. Everything hurts, but you need to stop him, kill him. The portal is closed-now he can be killed. When you stand up you see Simon with a weapon in his hands, Johnny is laid on the floor with John crouched over him.

You use the last of the strength you have to rush up to the demon walking over to Simon. You cry out as you raise the spear above your head and plunge it into the back of the demon between his shoulder blades. It penetrates straight through his chest, his screams are unlike anything you have ever heard before.

You cry out as you pull the spear down through his chest slicing his body in half. His falls to his knees, his screams get quieter as his body falls forward and starts to fizzle away. The smell of burnt flesh fills your nose, you look up at the sky, the dark clouds are gone. You can hear birds again and the sound of the gentle breeze. Goosebumps rise on your body, there are tears streaming down your face.

You look over at Simon, your eyes fall to Johnny on the floor by the car. You rush over to him, you can already feel you have no energy left. You need to move him to the church if you have any chance to save him.

“The church.” You say to Simon when you reach him, his arms are outstretched he catches you as you practically throw yourself in his arms. “I need to save him, Simon.” You say looking down at Johnny’s body, he’s conscious crying out as John's hands are pressed onto his chest.

“Okay, okay.” Simon says, he leaves you and goes over to help John pick Johnny up. You go back towards the church, when you walk in it’s eerily quiet, there are no angels inside the church, just the ceiling lit up in bright shades of orange and yellows. It’s warm and inviting. Nothing like when the portal to hell was open.

Simon and John place Johnny down and he groans in pain, you kneel down next to him, you can see the wound on his chest. The demon missed his heart or he would have been dead already.

“Johnny, Johnny. I’ve got you.” You say pressing your hands on his shoulders. He smiles, Simon bends down on the other side of him, his hand presses down on the bandages in his wound, he has a worried look on his face.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, lass.” He says coughing. You can see him struggling. You reach over resting your hands on top of Simon's. He doesn’t want to move from Johnny. Why would he, it's his husband bleeding out on the floor. You look around for his guardian angels, any angels.

For once the church is empty. The other angels would be busy making sure there are no more tears and chasing down anymore demons who might have slipped through.

Then you hear it, the gentle humming, the sweet song of death.

“Simon, let me.” You say swallowing the sob in your throat. He hesitates, you look up at him, you can see the pain in his eyes, if you don’t do this he’s going to lose the love of his life. There’s no way you can do that.

You replace his hands with yours. You can feel the warm blood and soak through the bandages. You let out a sigh and close your eyes.

“Hey, love.” Johnny says, you look down at him, all the colour is drained from his face, there's a layer of sweat making his hair stick to his face. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do.” You say. You’re already drained from the fight but you can’t wait for the other angels to come back, if you don’t try now Johnny could die. You press your hands down on him hearing him grit his teeth. You close your eyes and concentrate, you focus on feeling your energy flow through your body to your hands and into Johnny.

His heart slows, his breathing becomes steadier as you feel your power healing him. You can already feel yourself getting weaker, you can feel your energy waning. You don’t care, you’re going to keep going no matter what it takes. You feel a hand on the top of your arm, it’s not warm though.

You open your eyes looking up at Simon - it’s his hand. You force a smile at him, his hand steadies you. You can’t falter now, you look down at Johnny’s pale face, he’s looking up at you smiling. You see a tear escape his eye.

You’re not going to let him die.

You hear the humming stop. You close your eyes again focusing all your energy into Johnny, it's almost like you can feel his wound close under your hands. When you sway against Simon’s hand he grips you tight holding you to upright.

Your wings throb, suddenly all the tension you’ve been holding in your muscles vanishes and you have to focus on not collapsing. You’re not sure how much longer you think you can do this for. As Johnny’s heart starts to beat regularly again you feel the last of your energy leave you.

You open your eyes pulling your hands off Johnny’s chest, the badges that were in a wound a few seconds ago fall off him. His chest is healed, you smile at Simon taking a second to suck in a lungful of air. This is the last thing you need to do, you hold the breath in, feeling the air burn your lungs.

You’re unsteady as you lean over to Johnny’s face, his eyes are closed but his breathing is steady, you lean over his face and press your lips against his. You feel a tear roll down your face and onto Johnny as you blow the air from your lungs into his. You feel him move, he moans and you sit back up on your knees.

You watch his eyes open, and smile at you. You try to smile back but you can’t. A tingle rises through your body and your head swims and your body sways. You fall back and Simon catches you in his arms resting your back on his chest. You can feel his heart beating, you can hear his voice in your ears.

“I got you. Nice deep breaths, love.” You smile at him watching Johnny’s other smaller wounds finish healing. “C’mon, love, stay with us.”

An angel floats down towards you, they’re smiling, arms outstretched.

Maybe this is what people see when they die, you feel joy, happiness like all your pain has just been taken away from you. You let out a breath, you smile up at the angel feeling their warm glow overwhelm you.

You close your eyes and smile. It doesn’t matter that this is the end, you saved Johnny that's what matters.  Warm hands cup your face, you open your eyes to see Johnny sat up now holding your face, in his blood stained hands.

“Johnny.” You breathe. His hands are warm on your face but you can’t stay awake, you feel yourself slipping away the sudden energy pulsing through you is gone.

“Don’t do this.” You hear Simon’s breath hot in your ear. “Don’t leave.”

“C’mon, love. Don’t close your eyes. We’re going to get you somewhere safe.” Johnny says. You want to reach out and touch him, you want to tell him it’s okay but you can’t. Black spots flash across your vision. Simon holds you strong against him, Johnny’s hands stay on your face rubbing the tears off your cheeks.

You let out a long breath as everything goes black. The last thing you hear is Johnny’s voice desperately trying to call you back.

Banners by plum98

[forwhump]

a/n; hello again I’m sorry I have the posting schedule of the creature from jeepers creepers 😔 back to our regularly scheduled story progression

this is actually 2 parts put together so kindaaaaa long & rambling but I took so long to get here that I figured some actual real progression was in order

(I think this is a Really Fun One but I also have a bit of a thing™️ for silas being sad and severely unwell 😀)

word count: 6.2k

tw/cw; human weapon whumpee, self harm, traumatic brain injuries, amnesia, lobotomies, captivity, rape/noncon, psychological torture, skinning, gun violence, sexual violence, misgendering, gore, military whump, mentions of bodily fluids

Seven is haunted by somebody he doesn’t remember. 

Often in various states of undress. 

It’s hard to explain how deeply uncomfortable it makes him. He thinks they have to be memories, dredges from his past life, at least something close. His conscience, maybe. He thinks he must’ve done something horrible to this person. He thinks he’s figured it all out. 

For a long time, he’s been alone in this grey room, only his nightmares and vivid hallucinations to keep him company. He has a grey mattress, pushed up against a grey wall, wrapped in grey sheets he’d since sweat and bled through and that hadn’t been changed, not ever, not once. He pisses in the corner. 

He hadn’t been able to figure out why he’s here — he doesn’t fuckin’ remember anything useful. He’d had a field test, a practice in slaughter, but he had failed to kill somebody he hadn’t recognized, somebody that remembered him from before. 

Mercilessly, Seven is being punished for that. He’d been stripped and caned afterward for his failure, for failing to clear the enemy, but then he was closed in this grey room, this cell, and left by himself. For a long time, the flurry of doctors and surgeons coming and going to poke and prod and hurt him had been relentless. Seven has now been alone longer than he’d ever had people around him. 

He thinks. Can’t really know for certain. The lights turn on and off, night and day, but the time between seems erratic, irregular, but even that’s hard to say. Time passes differently when he’s alone. 

It had seemed like a stark overreaction to not kill one guy one time. He’d killed everybody else he’d ever been ordered to. In the short time he remembers, he’d killed a lot. He killed obediently. He didn’t kill Hat or whatever his name was, and that’s it? Discarded? 

Then the nightmares had started. The hallucinations next. Now, Seven thinks he’s figured it out. 

For a long time, it was just colours — splashes of blood, the inside of an opened abdominal cavity. He’s only ever been haunted by a single person, and he doesn’t know who he is. Sometimes, he sees him in grey, but it’s always Seven’s grey, Seven’s sweatshirts, too small for him because everything is too small for Seven but too big for whoever he’s imagining. It’s never made sense to him; when was somebody ever with him? Somebody without greys of their own? Somebody that small? 

He didn’t belong here, whoever he was. He looked out of place before the backdrop of Seven’s grey room, even wearing his greys. He’s beautiful in a way that makes Seven squint when he looks at him. He’s beautiful in a way Seven finds strangely, deeply unsettling. 

Except it has nothing to do with his beauty at all, it’s some other kind of instinct, a part of Seven that must’ve remembered what he’d done. Because he doesn’t see him in grey much anymore, he’s usually mostly naked, short skirts and stockings sometimes, and he’s always bleeding and he begs for help. Sometimes, for days at a time, he begs for help. 

Slowly, it started to make more sense. Seven kinda started to put the pieces together. They don’t know he thinks, but he does, and he’s getting better at it the more that he tries. It makes sense. The way the nurses, the doctors, the soldiers always looked at him, watched him, flinched when he moved too quick or got too close. Why he’d been locked away in the first place, trained for slaughter. Why he’s locked up so tightly now. 

He thinks, before, he was one of them. A soldier, probably, because that soldier from the field test had remembered him. Called him by name, but Seven can’t remember anymore what it had been. He thinks, during his time as a soldier, he did something horrible, something he doesn’t want to think about, something that’s coming back to haunt him now that he’s alone and has nothing else to do but think. They’d tried to wipe him clean after, make him some sort of monster, keep him of use to them somehow. Then he’d failed that test. 

At this point, he isn’t sure why they haven’t put him down yet. That’s obviously where this is tilting. He’s a danger to the people around him, and he isn’t of use to anyone else. What else could they do with him? 

He spends a lot of time beating his head into the grey concrete wall, trying to quell the thinking. It doesn’t work. Behind him, whoever he is, waves of white hair and big, sad eyes, cries out to him for help, and Seven doesn’t know how to help him. He doesn’t want to remember what he did. 

The hallucinations don’t always touch him, but sometimes they do. Sometimes, he grabs at Seven’s ankles, his joggers, clinging to him, pleading with him. Once, he’d put a small hand at Seven’s back and said softly, “what are you doing?”, rocking up on his toes to try to reach up and put his hand between Seven’s head and the wall. For some reason, obediently, Seven had leaned into his touch. His gentle hand on Seven’s face had made him throw up all over himself. Later, he’d discarded his shirt in the piss corner. Since, the ghostly touch on the bare skin of Seven’s back has made him sick every time. He should’ve kept his shirt on, filthy or not. 

He’s filthy either way. The room is filthy. He still thinks of it as being grey, but he can’t say there aren’t splashes of colour now, grime and filth and Seven’s different bodily fluids. It’s probably beyond help. Maybe Seven is, too. 

Maybe that’s why they left him here. Maybe they don’t have the heart to kill him — maybe they’re too afraid. Maybe they’ve left him to rot. 

Standing guard outside the armoured door, since Seven had reached through the meds slot with a shaking hand to gouge out the eyes of whoever was closest, is a pair of soldiers that Seven doesn’t recognize, but that knew him from before. He knows they did, they must have. They taunt him with a sort of familiarity, they reference things that Seven doesn’t know. They call him the dog — what the fuck is a dog? 

They loiter outside Seven’s room day in and day out. Sometimes, they pull open that slot between them just to taunt him. They’re braver than a lot of the other soldiers have been — cocky. Being braver, though, doesn’t necessarily make brave, and they still won’t look him in the eye. They lock that slot as soon as Seven gets too close. They’re afraid of him, too, but they have a dislike for him in almost the same quantity, a dislike that extends far beyond the reaches of what Seven can remember. Did they know the blonde, maybe? The one that haunts Seven? Have they never been able to forgive him for what he did? 

Not that they would tell him either way, but he wishes he could ask. For some reason, he can talk to the man that haunts him and nobody else. He suspects it’s because it’s not real, that he’s hallucinating it like he is everything else. Sometimes, in the rare moments he’s by himself, when the room is empty of ghosts, he’ll thump himself on the chest with his fist and try to force words out. It never works. It’s probably, Seven suspects, because the problem isn’t in his chest, it’s in his brain, or whatever fistful of meat he has trying its best between his ears. It doesn’t fire right, whatever it is, it doesn’t work like it’s supposed to. A part of it was left behind in a time Seven doesn’t remember, and he’s getting fucked as it comes back to him now. 

He cracks his head into the wall again. Behind him, the ghost sobs. He has a cry that makes the inside of Seven’s chest feel cold. But then he takes a deep breath, and he says, “I’m sorry,” in the smallest, saddest voice Silas had ever heard. “I’m so sorry.” 

And that’s weird. Who is he talking to? 

Slowly, Seven peels the split, thin skin of his forehead off the wall. 

However reluctantly, he turns. Immediately wishes he hadn’t. 

Across the room, Seven is sitting on the floor, slumped back against the far wall. Except Seven is standing right here, so that doesn’t make any sense. He can’t remember if he’s ever hallucinated himself from the outside before, but it’s heavier, for some reason, it makes him sick in a different, claustrophobic sort of way. His skin crawls. 

He’s sitting, slumped against the far wall, head tilted back and chest hitching as he drowns in his own blood. The ghost has both his hands over Seven’s opened throat, trying to quell the bleeding that’s seeping out from between his thin fingers like ink. A wasted effort, anyway, because Seven can see his intestine spilling out from the hole that had been ripped in his sweatshirt. The ghost is covered in blood — Seven’s? 

Did Seven die? What the hell? 

It doesn’t make any sense. What happened to him? He looks a lot the same as he does right now, in real time, still a freak. Does that mean he was a monster, too, before all of this? They hadn’t changed him because whatever he’d done? 

What had he done? What the hell is he? 

The ghost is trying to stop the bleeding and Seven is watching himself die. His hands are shaking — blood loss? Or had he carried that with him from before, too? 

What happened to him? 

What is he?

He watches, across a whole other lifetime and just a couple of feet, as he lifts a trembling hand, huge as it touches the cheek of his ghost. Then he does something weird with his hand, crosses the tip of his thumb and his index finger, and the ghost makes a sound that raises the hair on the back of Seven’s neck. Turning away, he looks back at the wall and a pain he doesn’t recognize throbs in his chest as the ghost cries for him at his back. The world, as he had been building it up, crumbles around him. 

Seven’s always been a freak and he died once in the arms of a ghost that now haunts him. How could he be the ghost when Seven’s the one that died? Why is he being tormented by somebody that had mourned him with his blood on their hands? 

What happened to him? 

He beats his head back into the wall. The pain of the impact distracts from the pain behind his eyes as he tries so hard to remember. How can he not remember? What did they do to him? 

Except he must remember, at least a little bit. It’s trapped in there somewhere and it’s coming back to haunt him, fighting tooth and nail to get free. It doesn’t want him to forget. 

Why not? What does it fuckin’ matter? Why does Seven need to watch himself bleed to death? What does it mean? 

Why is he here? 

A small hand touches his back and the warmth of it is so real. Too suddenly, he whirls around to face it. Across the room, his gutted corpse and the ghost grieving him are both gone. Instead, the ghost is standing close at Seven’s side. His hand had been warm on Seven’s bare skin. He’s cleaned of Seven’s gore, dressed, instead, in a set of his hospital greys, rolled up at the wrists and the ankles. His hair is loose around his back and his shoulders, a sheet around him so white it sort of makes him glow. 

He’s so beautiful. Whatever he is, whatever Seven had done to him in his past life, he’s stricken in this one by just how beautiful he is. He’s never doubted that his ghost is real, a memory from a part of his brain that’s trying to remember, because there’s so way Seven could ever have imagined, on his own, somebody that looks like this. He’s so beautiful Seven can’t make sense of him. And, sleepy, he smiles up at Seven, keeping one of his bare hands on his skin. 

“Come back to bed,” he says softly. 

He’s so beautiful that Seven can’t understand why looking at him makes his head throb behind his eye. He doesn’t remember him so he can’t understand why his gentle touch makes Seven’s skin crawl and his stomach turn. What else could it be if it isn’t guilt? What could Seven have done to him? 

“Come on,” his ghost says softly. With one of his small hands he takes one of Seven’s and Seven swallows so thickly something clicks in his throat. “Come to bed with me.” 

This can’t be a memory. He can’t have shared his bed with Seven. Why would he have? Something so beautiful and so human. How could he have trusted Seven like that? How could Seven have hurt somebody that trusted him like that? 

Blood trickles, warm, down the side of Seven’s face. “What did I do to you?” He asks, thick around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t think he really wants to know but he asks anyway. 

The ghost squeezes his fingers and his touch feels too real. He smiles up at him and Seven has to look away. “I’m fine,” he promises softly. “Come back to bed, Seven.” 

Seven’s ghost has a strange, syrupy sort of accent. It’s unlike anything Seven had ever heard, just as surreally beautiful as his eyes and the lines of his collarbones and the shape of his fingers. Seven’s been certain he couldn’t have imagined it because he couldn’t have thought it up, had never heard anybody else speak in the same way his ghost speaks. 

Except when he says Seven. It makes Seven lift his head again. He sounds different, wrong, and for a moment, Seven doesn’t know why. 

He looks into the wide, dark eyes of his ghost and cold prickles at the back of his neck as he realizes he’d said it without his accent. Seven. He’d said it without any of the sugar or syrup. 

Seven has his first real memory. The first one he’s really confident about. 

“You never called me Seven.” He couldn’t hear how his name sounded in the ghost’s accent because he’d never heard it before. He never called him Seven. He didn’t know Seven. 

The ghost smiles up at him again. His eyebrows pull together in the middle, pretty and confused. “Why would I call you Seven?” 

Across the room, his ghost whispers, “leave me alone, Seven.” 

Except he says it wrong, because it wasn’t Seven. It was — 

He lifts his head and the warmth of his touch vanishes from Seven’s hand because the ghost is slumped against the far wall, head tipped back against it. He’s wearing a skirt that’s too short, fingers twisted into the hem, knees splayed so Seven can see the trails of blood tracked down the insides of his thighs. He tries to close his knees as Seven looks down at him and it looks like it causes him a lot of pain. 

“I’ll be fine,” he says, but his voice is so small. 

Is this a memory? Is any of this? “What happened to you?” 

The ghost sniffles, wiping his bleeding nose with the back of his hand. “I’m fine,” he repeats. “Leave me alone.” 

Clearly, he’s not fine. In the short time Seven’s spent looking across the room at him, blood has started to pool on the concrete between his legs. “Did I do this to you?” He rasps, even if he doesn’t really want to know. 

“What?” He says. Tears spill over his cheeks as he looks up at Seven, eyelashes clumping together, and he doesn’t look real. This can’t be a memory because this can’t be real. How could Seven have done this? 

Of course, Seven knows how he could’ve done this. With ease Seven could’ve done this. All he does is hurt people. Maybe that hadn’t been any different in his last life. 

Then why did they bring him back? What more could they want from him? Why are there so many parts of him that want so desperately to remember? “Did I hurt you?” He asks, and his voice is so rough he doesn’t recognize it. 

The ghost sniffles, trying to wipe his eyes again with the hem of his buttoned shirt. It almost looks like he’s wearing a uniform. His skirt is short, indecently, but it’s the same black material the soldiers' uniforms are all made from. His shirt is the same black buttoned shirt as their formals, except his is pulled open, tangled around his upper arms like somebody had tried to pull it off of him. Had Seven tried to pull it off of him? 

But the ghost says, “what are you talking about?”, and his pale eyebrows scrunch together in the middle. “You wouldn’t hurt me.” He wipes his bloody nose again with his sleeve. “You know that.” 

Does he? 

Seven feels himself sway on his feet as the room spins quickly around him again. The world is pulled out from under him for a second time. He didn’t hurt him? Then why is he haunting him? 

While Seven’s pulse beats in his ears, the ghost says, from his right, “Seven?” 

Seven can barely hear him. He’s too aware of his own heartbeat and he doesn’t know why finding out he hadn’t hurt him felt the same in his chest as being hunted. He turns his head slowly, feeling so much of something that it’s too much and he’s almost numb. What’s going on? Why won’t it stop?

From the edge of his bed, the ghost looks up at him. His hair is pulled into two, neat braids and his dress is short and ruffled, demeaning. White socks pulled up over his knees, he sits on the edge of Seven’s bed with his ankles crossed and looks up at him with wide, shining eyes. He looks towards the door around Seven’s arm before looking back up into his face, a flush starting to bloom across the bridge of his nose. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks. 

It’s a hard question to answer. He doesn’t even really know. 

Before he can even try to guess, his ghost tells him urgently, “you have to go.” 

“What?” Seven says. 

“He’ll kill you if he finds you here,” he breathes. 

Seven turns quickly towards the door. “Who?” 

The door is closed, of course. Armored and bolted. Seven, really, is alone in his cell, losing his mind in the dark, filthy and probably dying. Instead, he sees his ghost again, curled on the floor like he had collapsed just inside the door. 

He’s naked but his skin is hardly bare, pale flesh gone black and red and purple with bruises and welts and bite marks. His head is down, his hair flowing around him, matted and turned pink with blood. His hands are tied behind his back, his shoulders pulled at an angle that looks painful and hitching irregularly as he sobs. 

Seven staggers back and collides with the wall, closer than he had expected. If he didn’t do this, why does he have to keep seeing this? What is this? 

Who is this? 

Standing over him is a soldier Seven doesn’t recognize. He’s a big guy, tall and broad shouldered, bearded and dark haired, his uniform decorated with a large number of pins and patches and badges. He looks between Seven and his ghost and as he does, his lip curls in a snarl. Quiet and lethal, he realizes, “you’re fucking the dog.” 

He laughs as he looks at Seven again, but it isn’t a humorous laugh. There’s something a little deranged to it. “Bad girl,” he scolds, clicking his tongue, and as Seven watches he tilts his face down and spits onto the ghost’s back. “I thought you were better than this. The fucking dog,” and he spits on him again before he looks at Seven. 

Instantly, it makes Seven’s skin start to prickle. Something in his stare starts to reopen old scars, eating away at raised flesh like acid. What does it mean? 

“And you,” he says to Seven, his voice like ice. “You ugly fucking mutt. Your girlfriend’s a whore.” 

What the fuck is this? 

Seven looks at his ghost, shivering at the soldier’s feet. There’s a bruise at his rib cage that looks like a handprint. 

The soldier says, “now you get to watch how well she takes my cock.” 

Seven hits his head against the wall. Puts his weight into it. 

Pain throbs behind his eye but the hallucinations don’t slow down. A soldier is standing in front of him. 

It’s a different soldier, that one from the training exercise. The one that Seven had hesitated to kill. 

He smiles up at him, wavy brown hair and crinkles by his eyes that imply he isn’t a stranger to smiling. He isn’t wearing the uniform Seven remembers him in but his own set of prison greys. 

What was his name? He said it to Seven. He recognized him. 

He doesn’t look up at Seven with even a hint of fear — if he were even a little afraid, Seven would be able to smell it on him. He isn’t a stranger to people being afraid of him. That’s been his entire life, as far back as he can remember. Even the soldiers, always putting on brave faces, hands steady as they point their guns at Seven, stink of fear when they get too close. 

Not this guy. He smiles up at Seven like he smiles all the time, like it comes naturally to him. He says, enthusiastic, “nicely done, big guy!” 

Seven looks down slowly, at the intricately folded paper cradled delicately in one of his calloused palms. He has no idea what it’s supposed to be. Couldn’t even begin to guess. 

“Aww,” the soldier says. “He’s gonna love it, dude.” 

“What is it?” Seven asks, looking down at the crinkled folds of paper and back up at the soldier. 

His eyes twinkle as he says, “tell him you made him a paper wren.” 

Seven sees white. A flash of light behind his eyelids not unlike being shot in the face, but he doesn’t know why or where it comes from and staggers back, just a step, before that white heat bursts in his gut, too, and he vomits. 

When he lifts his head, the soldier is gone and he’s looking at himself again, another version of himself he doesn’t recognize. His hair is knotted at the nape of his neck and there are lines carved out of his cheeks by his mouth as he smiles, embarrassed, at his ghost. 

“A wren,” he says. 

The little ghost gasps quietly, cradling that folded paper in his hands like it was something precious. “A wren,” he breathes, and Seven’s stomach turns violently. “You made this?” 

“For you,” Seven says. 

The ghost looks up at him, still so carefully cradling the paper bird, and the look he gives him makes Seven, from the outside, feel like he’s watching something that he’s not supposed to. That he’s intruding on something private. 

Quickly, he looks away. Too quickly, he looks away, and the room turns with him, knocking him off balance. His back hits the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him and when he blinks dazed light out of his eye and looks up he’s looking into the barrel of a gun. 

It’s that same soldier that hurt him and his ghost. His hand is steady and his finger is poised on the trigger. 

“You,” he says, “have been a very bad dog.” He keeps the gun pointed into the eye socket that Seven has always known to be empty. As far back as he can remember, he’s only ever had one eye. Is this how he lost it? Is this a memory? 

Who the fuck is this guy? 

Crouching at Seven’s side, he tells him, “for your disobedience,” soft and private, “I am going to put you down. Then,” and he smiles, an unnatural smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, “I’m going to make your whore girlfriend suck your blood off my fingers as I spread her open and fuck her over your ugly corpse. And I will not be gentle with her,” he tells him, just as soft but severe, a promise. “She will be begging me to stop.” 

Not quite a memory, but an instinct, that same one that was making his skin prickle before, an anger he must have carried with him from his last life even if he never quite realized he was still holding it. Seven doesn’t remember this guy but he remembers how much he fuckin’ hates him. He remembers this for certain. 

He reaches for him. 

He gets shot in the face. 

For a second, the pain is unbearable, indescribable, and just as quickly it’s gone. After being shot at point blank range, Seven feels the pressure in his face and tastes the gunpowder in his throat and then his concrete prison comes back into focus and he’s sitting with his back against the wall. 

His hair is sticking to the sides of his throat and he doesn’t know if it’s with blood or with sweat. Both, likely. His chest is heaving and his hands are shaking, but his hands are always shaking and he twists them into the filthy material of his joggers in frustration. Uneasy and unpleasant, his heartbeat thunders in his chest and the side of his throat. To try and slow it, he throws his head back into the concrete wall as hard as he can. 

He wants it to stop. How can he make it stop? 

He doesn’t want to know. Not anymore. Not if it feels like this. 

He hits his head again with a force that makes his teeth rattle. Even in the short span of lifetime he remembers, all he’s known is violence. Violence, and this lonely grey room. He’d maimed and mutilated, dismembered and decapitated, crushed and carved. He’d been shot, stabbed, skinned. He’d bled and been beaten to death. He’d died. 

It’s never felt like this. Every time Seven has died it’s been bloody and brutal and miserable, but it never felt like this. Never. Something he doesn’t recognize expands in his chest, pressing so hard against the inside of his ribcage it feels like it might push it right through his flesh. Restless, it thrums beneath his skin. 

Seven lives and breathes carnage. Whatever happened to him in his past life, whatever he might’ve done, whatever it is that he doesn’t remember, does it matter? In this life, in the one that Seven knows, he sits alone in the dark and pisses in the corner until it’s time for him to hunt. Seven is good at killing, but that’s all he’s good for. Whatever he might’ve been is gone. Whoever that soldier had seen, the one he hadn’t been able to kill, that isn’t who Seven is, not really. He doesn’t even have a fuckin’ name. 

He isn’t smart. There’s a part of his brain that remembers something, that is trying so hard to tell him something, but Seven is too goddamn stupid to figure out what it is. Seven is so goddamn stupid that it hurts the more that he tries, not just the useless meat that passes as his brain but in his chest, in his heart and his lungs. The more he tries to think the deeper the pain settles, an infection that’s spreading, that’s making him weak. The only thing Seven has is slaughter and trying to remember is taking that from him, too. He wasn’t even shot, not really, he’s losing his mind alone, but his throat still sticks as he swallows like he’s scared. Fuckin’ scared. 

He wants it to stop. How can he make it stop? 

He hits head again. He can feel his scalp split against the concrete. 

In his past life, the door to his cell is opened. 

That same soldier enters, the one that had shot him. Seven’s reaction to him is visceral. 

It’s that same instinct, the one that might be a memory, the same one that made Seven reach for his throat. It isn’t fear. That horrible, helpless feeling is quelled as soon as the door grinds open, washed away by the fury that rises in him like a fever. He might not remember this guy, but his hatred for him transcends what Seven remembers. He hates him so completely it isn’t in his brain but carried with him in the marrow of his bones, interwoven into his altered DNA. 

Slowly, Seven tips his head back against the wall, lip pulling away from his teeth. 

From just inside the door, from safely outside reaching distance, the soldier regards him with a cold sort of disgust. Then, too quick, it’s gone, replaced with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, that’s stretched too wide for his mouth. The way it pulls at his face makes Seven’s skin crawl with disgust. “I have a surprise for you.” 

Silently, Seven raises his eyebrows. The concrete had scrubbed most of the skin from his forehead and brow bone and a fresh rush of blood leaks down his face, pooling, hot, between ridges of scar tissue. 

The soldier’s smile tilts, a sneer, and it looks a lot more natural on his face. Just as quickly, he pulls it back into a creepy imitation of a grin, and he turns. In Seven’s memory, he watches as the soldier swipes his key card and leaves. It’s a really anticlimactic surprise and a really useless memory. Why would he need to remember this? 

Seven has just a time to think that maybe none of these are memories at all. How would he know any different? He’d been trusting they must be some kind of memory, that they had to be, because they were all things he didn’t know or people he didn’t remember. How could he have come up with those things on his own? But Seven lives in isolation and the dark. Seven is a freak and a monster. Seven lives in a cage in his own filth and is released only for slaughter. That’s all there is to his life and he doesn’t know anything more than that. How does he know he didn’t come up with all these things on his own? Maybe it’s all just nonsense. Why is he choosing to believe somebody he knows doesn’t fuckin’ know anything? 

Except the door opens again. The soldier returns. This time, behind him, he’s dragging the limp body of Seven’s ghost. 

Whatever it is that was expanding in Seven’s chest starts to crack his ribs from underneath. The infection spreads to his blood stream. He can’t take a full breath in. His hands shake a little worse with the cold that’s seeping under his skin, into the tissue and the marrow of his bones. 

Fear. It isn’t dying that scares Seven. It’s not the soldiers. Head tipped back against the wall, Seven watches his ghost get dragged against the concrete, and he’s scared. This scares him. 

Why does this scare him? What is this? 

The soldier has one of his gloves hands twisted into the ghost’s long, bloody hair. He’s breathing, but he’s limp, eyes closed and bruised and swollen, wrists and ankles knotted so slightly the skin around the binds had split open. He’s naked, bruised skin rubbed raw against the concrete. 

“Surprise,” the soldier says. “You get to watch me impregnate your whore.” 

That thing in Seven’s chest had started to leak acid and it tastes like bile at the back of his throat. “Get your fuckin’ hands off him,” he spits, and surprises even himself with the bass of his voice. 

The soldier, however, only grins. “Off her?” He says, eyebrows raised in good humour. “Just wait till you see the parts of me that are going to be inside her.” 

It’s instinct more than anything else that makes Seven try to get up. He doesn’t even think about it. Where the soldier’s hand is twisted into the ghost’s hair, it’s thinned so much Seven can see the scalp beneath, crusted with scabs, and it’s a tug in his chest that tries to pull him away from the wall. 

The curved meat hooks sunk deep into his flesh pull him back into place. 

With a snarl, Seven looks down at himself, and he’s fucked. He’s fucked. What could he ever have done to deserve this? His throat and his hands are both shackled to different spots on the floor. His back, chest, sides, and shoulders are secured to the walls and the ceiling with meat hooks poking out from deep within his tissue and muscle. He tries to push himself off the wall and the sound is wet as a strip of flesh is pulled audibly off his back. He snarls again. This is fucked. This seems more like a memory he would really have. 

The soldier watches him with one of his wide, fucked up smiles, untangling his fingers from the ghost’s bloody hair. Limp, he falls to the concrete face down, and the soldier is quick to kick his legs apart, not taking his eyes off of Seven. 

“No,” he snarls, and tries to pull away from the wall again, tearing a chunk of muscle out of his shoulder. “Get the fuck away from him,” he spits. 

The soldier smiles a little wider. “You won’t like the things you see me do to her,” he tells him. “I promise.” 

With a roar, Seven lunges, but this time, he slides away from the wall so easily he almost stumbles. Standing straight, he rolls out his shoulders and looks down at his ghost, clean and dressed in a set of Seven’s prison greys. He’s alone and unbruised, his hair pulled into a neat braid over one shoulder. He’s standing just close enough that it makes Seven uneasy. 

“You must be the weapon,” he says. 

He’s even more beautiful up close and the feeling it gives Seven is eerily reminiscent of fear. He tries to swallow around the feeling but he can’t speak. He nods. 

“Robin told me about you,” he says, and he smiles up at Seven, who has no idea who Robin might be. But — 

But could Robin be a real person? Is Seven remembering? 

He feels like he’s been hit really hard in the head. 

His ghost smiles, the single most beautiful thing Seven has ever seen. The brightest, too, after a life underground, and he squints as he looks down at him. 

He says, “I’m Wren,” in his strange, syrupy accent. 

Seven sees a flash of white before the ground is pulled out from under him. 

He sat, slumped in the shower, head against the tile, hair sticking to his chest. Water beat against the exposed meat of his flesh, stripped of most of his skin. Chunks of tissue clogged the drain. 

It was hard for him to keep holding his head up. He’d lost so much blood. 

His ghost sat with him, kneeling in the water in a set of Seven’s hospital greys. His tears were washed down the drain with the blood and the water. He was clinging to one of Seven’s hands. It was definitely broken but he didn’t tell the ghost it hurt. He didn’t want him to stop touching him. “I don’t want you to keep dying for me,” he whispered. “I don’t want to watch you die anymore.” 

“My Wren,” Seven said, lifting his other, trembling hand to cradle Wren’s cheek, so soft against his palm. “I’m gonna die for you as many times as I need to.” 

Looking up at Seven from one of the mismatched couches in the common room, Wren had smiled so brightly it had knocked the wind out of him. Sitting at the ground at his feet, his back against the bottom of the couch, he’d been winded again when Wren had reached out to tuck a stray hair behind his ear and say, “your hair looks really handsome like that.” 

“Little Wren,” Seven said honestly, “you’re so beautiful it makes you really weird looking. Kinda creeps me out sometimes.” 

Wren laughed loudly and it was the most beautiful sound Seven had ever heard. How could he have ever forgotten it? “Thank you,” he said. “That’s very sweet.” 

He’d been wedged into a bed not big enough for the bulk of him, Wren tucked safely under his arm. His head pillowed on Seven’s chest, one of his small hands twisted tightly into the material of his sweatshirt as he cried, fiercely stubborn. 

“My Wren,” he said against his hair, rubbing his back slowly. “You should want better for yourself than me.” 

“Stop it, Silas,” Wren said into his crewneck, firm despite the tears Seven could feel starting to soak through the material. “I want you. I don’t want anything but you.” 

Silas?

Standing alone in the centre of his room, Seven vomits all over himself. 

[babelrevived]

Hey so I really really love your interpretation and I have to say it did make me look at s2 Vander in a new light. That said, while I do think this interpretation of their characters and relationships to eeach other and Felicia is compelling, it really only works if s2 was a stand alone and not a follow up to s1. And I think that's the biggest problem with s2 (aside from the oversaturated plot), and it's that it's trying to tell a different story than the one s1 set up.

To start off, you mention that Vander felt guilty for giving up on the promise he made to Felicia. In s1, we see the opposite. We see him feel guilty for ever even taking part in the violence that led to the bridge fight. He says it to Vi. He says that he was responsible for all these people and his violence is what got them killed.

In your longer post, you said that the "blisters and bedrock" at the end of the letter shows that he wants Silco's forgiveness and wants to patch things up. It also implies that Vander wanted to uphold the promise once again. None of this is even alluded to in s1. In fact, in s1e3, Silco straight up OFFERS him a way to redeem himself, to patch things up. He offers him the "blisters and bedrock". He was trying to recruit him back into the movement. Vander doesn't take it. He feels awful about what he did and probably desperately needs Silco's forgiveness to even begin to forgive himself. But he still doesn't take it. And that's what really makes me love his character in s1, because although he's kind of a twat, this scene showed a kind of selflessness where even though he wants Silco's forgiveness, what he's asking for in return Vander believes will get more people killed. He believes that they can never win a war against Piltover, that's why he gave up. Making his reason for giving up all about Felicia and her kids makes it more personal rather than ideological, which takes away all his selflessness and he's a poorer, less sympathetic character because of it.

Another thing I want to mention is the fact that not once during their ep3 conversation do they ever mention Felicia or their promise to her. The doylist explanation for that is that it would have ruined the "big twist", but whats the watsonian explanation? Wouldn't that have been the perfect moment for Silco to remind Vander of the promise? At least he could have said "blisters and bedrock" if they didn't want to mention her name. And when Silco unleashes his gang of henchmen on Vi Vander could have said "what the fuck are you doing, that's our dead friend's kid," but instead he says "this is between you and me". I think the problem with Felicia is that she makes their falling out seem to be more personal and emotional rather than political, and I think the reason why many of us felt that it was a political clash that happened despite their love for each other is because their entire conversation was almost entirely politics. At this point, they hadn't seen each other for years and Vander probably didn't even know Silco was alive (judging by his reaction when he saw him), but they immediately start talking about the base violence and you'll never win a war even with your monsters and yada yada yada, they only mention the drowning halfway into the conversation, which is when it starts to become personal. Vander then tries to make it even more personal by saying that he shouldn't have done it because Silco was his brother, at which point Silco backtracks and turns the conversation political again. If the betrayal happened for emotional and personal reasons then none of that energy was present in this confrontation scene. the Vander s2 tries to paint is just a completely different Vander than the one we were shown in s1. And I'm not saying that s2 should have filled the blanks of their backstory the exact same way that I did, but the problem is they didn't try to fill in the blanks, they tried to write a completely new story.

Also sorry for the long post I got carried away lol.

^^^ This “criticism” often comes at the expense of details in the scene they laud so highly.

Vi and Powder approach a burly man beating someone up without fear in a setting where any normal person would be terrified to meet someone who might do them harm.

They approach him and point to themselves, indicating they’re looking for their parents.

Vander ACKNOWLEDGES their gesture and points to their parent’s dead bodies. Meaning not only do they know he’s someone they can trust, but that he KNEW who they were and who their parents were.

The “revelation” in season 2 that Vander knew them doesn’t change the way this scene plays out in the opening. It’s clear as day that they aren’t just some random kids he adopts. He KNEW them. They knew HIM. That’s all shown in the opening scene.

I do not understand where this wishful misinterpretation comes from.

[waterbearable]

like. i don’t even think it’s better necessarily, but if the only person with actual buy-in on the hunt aside from lottie was van (i don’t really buy tai as having committed here, she’s just going along w van which i think does repeat old patterns), then why not just to subdue lottie from the start? like i GUESS it’s some attempt to suggest groupthink but as soon as lottie starts trying to pursue shauna why would you make it seem like you’re also trying to get her? like i could see at least a couple of them trying to subdue lottie, lottie+van trying to fight them off, chaos/giving into the violence ensues. idk it just does not work for me and the outcome...ehhh

(more in the tags srry but for my non-yj folks cw for mentions of ideation, overdose, addiction)

[pilonciillo]

lol didn’t think someone giving money would give me anxiety

[sskk-manifesto]

What a good episode. Maaaaaan

[ariichive]

JEALOUSY☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

jealous scenarios ft. phainon, anaxa, and mydei!

gen. neutral reader

cw: anaxa is kinda crazy he puts his gun to reader, possessiveness, mentions of violence, fluff, not proofread im so tired :')

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

phainon

phainon was one to pride himself on his natural charm, he was a very easy going guy. the stark contrast between him in battle and off was admirable.

though as much as he hates to admit it, sometimes the warrior takes over his instincts. for instance, right now as he watched the droma’s caretaker openly flirt with you.

it wasn’t just the flirting—though that was annoying enough—it was the way you laughed, the way your eyes softened, the way you didn’t immediately pull away. phainon knew you weren’t his, not in the way that would justify this sudden surge of possessiveness. but logic had never been good at taming instinct.

his fingers twitched at his side, an old habit from years of battle. the part of him that thrived in combat, the part that didn’t hesitate when faced with a challenge, whispered at him to act. it would be so easy to step in, to slide an arm around your waist, to make it clear to everyone in the room—especially to the man standing too close—that you weren’t available.

but that wasn’t his place. not yet, at least. so instead, he forced himself to take a breath, to unclench his fists, to remind himself that he was phainon—charming, laid-back, not the type to pick a fight over something so trivial.

“phainon, this one likes me!”

his stoic expression softened when he realized, in fact, you were talking about the loving dromas and not that man.

phainon smiled gently at your joy, “i can tell, he sure does like you a lot!”

there was a certain edge to his voice that could’ve been missed by onlookers. you gave him a concerned glance, one which he smiled at and didn’t question further.

and yet, when the caretaker let out another laugh, explaining the most basic knowledge of dromas ever, his hand brushing against yours, phainon found himself smiling again. it wasn’t a friendly smile.

“having fun?” he asked, voice smooth but carrying an edge beneath it as he finally approached the two of you.

“yeah—!” you were quick to respond only to look up at phainon and realize his attention wasn’t on you. “phainon..”

“yes my lovely spouse, who i treasure more than any riches and i’d also kill for?” now his attention was focused on you, his smile bittersweet.

the thing with phainon is whenever he looked at you, there was always such intensity.

“don’t start, i’m okay i promise.”

there was a joking tilt to your voice, but it was enough to calm him down.

“now, come over and feed the dromas with me! this one’s name is castor, very sweet we should take him home!”

phainon let out a dramatic sigh, placing a hand over his heart. "my love, as much as i would adore bringing castor home, i fear he would not fit through our door."

you laughed, reaching out to pet the dromas, who nuzzled into your touch affectionately. "we could make it work," you teased, "build a bigger door, you're strong enough. or, you know, just let him live in our backyard."

phainon hummed in thought, stepping closer until he was right beside you. "tempting," he mused, reaching out to pet castor. "but then i’d have to compete for your affection, and i don’t think my heart could take it."

you rolled your eyes, nudging him playfully. "oh, please. you already know you’re my favorite."

his grin softened into something more genuine, his blue eyes filled with something tender. "good. because my dearest, you are mine." phainon swears the dromas narrowed its eyes at him (the caretaker did too but phainon was too busy enjoying the memoment with you to get mad all over again).

you burst into laughter as the dromas let out a soft sound, clearly pleased with itself. "maybe if you were as cute as them, you’d stand a chance."

phainon clutched his chest. "wounded. utterly wounded."

but despite his theatrics, he leaned in closer, his hand brushing against yours as you both continued to feed the dromas together, the warmth between you as steady as ever.

...

"y'know, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to take one home, then we wouldn't have to come back here. i can't believe that vile man had the nerve to even look at you..!"

"phainon, my dear, we are not actually going to take one home."

"...i like the name kevin, wouldn't you agree, [name]?"

the rest of the day was spent with phainon in your ear.

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

anaxa

the carefully crafted lunched in your hands was the least of your worries as a soft click was heard from behind you followed by a pressure being applied to the back of your head.

just to think; you went out of your way to bring lunch to your oh-so-kind boyfriend and this is how he greets you?

you would say you're surprised but... this isn't the first time something like this has happened.

"do tell me, what's the foul mood for now?"

he didn't appreciate the snarky comment as the gun pushed against your head even more.

"my [name], you seemed to enjoy yourself outside with that man. would i be correct to assume so?"

so this is what he's mad about.

you exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. "if you must know, i was just making conversation. you know, something normal people do?"

the gun pressed harder against your skull in response, the warning clear. anaxa hated being mocked.

"careful," he murmured, voice quieter now, more dangerous. "i'm already being generous by allowing you to explain yourself. do not test my patience."

you tilted your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. his expression was unreadable, but his grip on the gun was steady—too steady.

"allowing me to explain myself?" you echoed, amusement creeping into your tone. "and here i thought my oh-so-loving boyfriend would trust me a little more by now."

anaxa exhaled sharply through his nose, but he said nothing. the silence stretched between you for a few moments before the pressure at the back of your head finally disappeared.

anaxa let out a low hum, his voice smooth yet laced with something sharp—jealousy, possessiveness, something only he could wield so effortlessly. "you know how i feel about you entertaining the company of other men," he said, tilting his head slightly. "and yet, there you were, laughing as if you had no care in the world."

you sigh, "i promise you it was a very brief interaction. i even told him i was visiting you for lunch."

anaxa looked away in faux annoyance as he gently took the lunch from your hands.

"thank you, [name]." anaxa was genuine in his thanks, he understood how troublesome it could be to reach him in the grove of epiphany.

you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "i'd say 'you're welcome,' but i'm not sure you deserve it after that stunt."

he sighed dramatically, setting the lunch down on his desk before taking a seat. his movements were as measured as ever, graceful even in something as simple as this. "you wound me, truly," he drawled, undoing the buttons of his cuffs and rolling his sleeves up. "but i suppose my cruelty knows no bounds, does it? threatening my beloved over something as insignificant as a passing interaction."

"so you admit it was ridiculous?" you quirked a brow, leaning against the edge of his desk.

anaxa leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you with a gaze so heavy it felt like an unseen weight pressing against you. "i admit nothing," he corrected, voice as smooth as ever. "but even the most brilliant minds are prone to… lapses in judgment."

you let out a small scoff, shaking your head. "right. 'lapses in judgment.' is that what we're calling your absurd jealousy now?"

he exhaled through his nose, as if considering your words, before finally opening the meal you had brought him. "call it whatever you like, my dear," he said idly, plucking a piece of food with deliberate ease. "but tell me, if i were to flirt so freely with another, would you be so composed?"

your mouth opened, but the words died on your tongue. anaxa watched your hesitation with something akin to satisfaction, his smirk deepening ever so slightly.

"i thought as much," he said smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate bite of his food. "jealousy, my dear, is a universal affliction. i am simply more… expressive about mine."

you huffed, looking away, but the warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. "you're insufferable and lucky i have the patience for you," you muttered.

he let out a soft chuckle, low and indulgent. "patience," he mused, reaching out to brush a gloved finger against your cheek, slow and deliberate. "such a rare and commendable virtue. though i must wonder..."

his touch trailed lower, tracing the curve of your jaw before finally resting under your chin. with the lightest pressure, he tilted your face ever so slightly upward, forcing you to hold his gaze.

"how much longer will that patience last, i wonder?"

you swallowed, refusing to look away. "depends," you said, barely above a breath. "how many more times do you plan on pulling a gun on me?"

anaxa’s lips curled into the faintest smirk, but his eyes flickered with something softer—something dangerously close to fondness.

"ah," he sighed dramatically, finally releasing you and leaning back into his chair. "a fair question. but, my dear, you wound me. surely you know by now that i only threaten the things i cannot bear to lose?"

you stared at him, feeling both shocked and flustered.

you huffed, shaking your head as you finally relented, letting the conversation settle into something resembling peace. and despite everything—despite his absurd possessiveness, his impossible nature, his maddeningly smug demeanor—you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

because somehow, against all logic, against every ounce of reason—anaxa was yours. and that was something even he, with all his sharp words and sharper wit, could never deny.

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

mydei

mydei always found himself in petty competitions with phainon. whether it was who could pick the most apples to who could slay the most enemies, phainon always knew how to push his buttons.

though he might’ve pushed them a little too far..

“afraid you’ll lose? i would’ve never guessed that the great mydeimos was scared of talking to a girl. or are you scared [name] will end up liking me more?”

“deliverer,” mydei said with a scary amount of joy in his voice, “tell me, do you enjoy being humiliated by a kremnoan heir?”

“so is it a deal?”

“if that’s what you wish to call it, we’ll start now. try not to make an utter fool out of yourself. you won't even be able to touch them."

there was absolutely no way mydei was going to even let phainon breathe the same air as you.

phainon grinned, entirely unfazed by mydei’s sharp tone. “oh? possessive already? my, my, what will [name] think of this? surely they've noticed your crush on them by now.”

mydei exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “they will think nothing of it because you will not get the opportunity to so much as look at them.”

phainon laughed, tilting his head with an almost lazy confidence. “bold words. i wonder if you’ll still be saying that once they’re hanging off my arm instead.”

the barely restrained fury in mydei’s eyes was almost comical. “you delude yourself.”

“and you’re stalling.” phainon shrugged, already turning on his heel. “come now, mydeimos. unless, of course, you are afraid?”

mydei scoffed, stepping forward with an air of unwavering confidence. “i fear nothing—least of all a fool with an overinflated ego.”

the competition had begun.

mydei was the first to find you. he's always remembered the places you often frequented, the bathhouse being common among them.

mydei found you tucked away in one of the quieter corners of the bathhouse, steam curling through the air in delicate wisps. he approached silently, his footsteps barely making a sound against the stone floor.

he had always been observant—perhaps more than you'd realized. no matter how much time passed, he never forgot the places you sought comfort in.

"i thought i'd find you here," he murmured, his voice low and steady, cutting through the gentle trickle of water. "it's peaceful here," you said softly, returning your gaze to the water, watching a rubber duck float by.

after a long moment, you glanced at him, the tension in your chest easing just a little.

"you always find me."

mydei's crimson eyes softened, a rare hint of fondness breaking through his composed exterior.

"of course," he said quietly. "you're worth finding."

mydei had a huge advantage over phainon; everything that came out of his mouth was genuine.

you felt your body heat amplifying from his intense gaze, the steam from the bath worsening your situation.

the air between you two felt thick with unspoken words, the steam in the room only adding to the intensity. mydei’s crimson eyes were locked onto you with an unwavering focus, as if trying to read something deeper than just your expressions.

“you know, you really don’t make this easy,” you muttered, trying to divert your thoughts, the heat rising in your chest feeling like it might burst through your skin.

he raised an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving yours. "make what easy?"

you shifted uncomfortably, the faintest of blush creeping onto your cheeks. “this... this tension.”

mydei tilted his head slightly, the smallest of smirks tugging at the corner of his mouth. “tension?” he repeated, his voice smooth and calculated. “i’m simply speaking the truth.”

you shot him a glance, his words echoing in your mind. you’re worth finding.

it wasn’t like you hadn’t heard him say such things before, but this time, it felt different. There was no teasing, no veiled sarcasm—just the raw sincerity that mydei rarely offered.

“you never do anything half-heartedly, do you?” you said, a small sigh escaping your lips.

mydei didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence looming like a silent promise. His gaze softened as he spoke, but there was still a quiet intensity behind it.

"only when it’s worth it," he said, his voice almost a whisper, but it still hit you like a wave.

your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

he moment hung between you two, the weight of his words settling deep within you. mydei’s presence was suffocating in the best way—an intensity that seemed to radiate from him, the kind that made it impossible to think of anything else but him.

you opened your mouth, but the words stuck. something about his steady gaze and the closeness between you left you speechless, your heart thudding in your chest.

“mydei…” you whispered, almost as if testing the air, "would you like to join me in the bath? i'm sue it'll help relieve any sores you might have?"

mydei's gaze flickered to you, and for a brief moment, the quiet intensity in his eyes softened, replaced by a curious, almost amused glint. he took a step closer, the space between you two shrinking even more.

“you offer me company in the bath?” he asked, his voice holding a hint of surprise. “how… bold.”

you could hear the teasing undertone in his words, but it wasn’t as biting as usual. there was something more… tender in the way he spoke, something that made your heart flutter despite the calmness of the moment.

“i only thought it might help you relax,” you replied, keeping your tone light, though your pulse quickened slightly under his steady gaze. “and you’re always so tense. even the crown prince needs to rest now and then.”

mydei let out a quiet chuckle at that, the sound warm and soft, like the fleeting warmth of the bath. "i’m afraid i’ve never had much time for relaxation," he murmured, his tone shifting again, darker, but with an edge of something more vulnerable. "but perhaps you’re right. it’s been... a long time since i allowed myself the luxury."

there was a pause, and you could see the weight of his words settle over him, like he’d just made a decision. his eyes softened, and he took another step closer, his fingers brushing against your wrist as he gently took your hand.

"then, i’ll join you. for once, perhaps i could allow myself this."

as mydei settled comfortably next to you in the bath, he couldn't help but wonder where phainon had been all this time.

and there was a small voice in the back of his head, saying 'if phainon found you first, would you have invited him into the bath with you?'

he glanced sideways at you, his gaze unreadable for a brief moment as he tried to suppress the discomfort he felt at the idea.

as he took in your relaxed face, mydei realized how important such moments were to the two of you. this was just the start of many more scenarios he would spend with you.

if you enjoyed please consider following/liking/reblogging :)

i just love the idea of unhinged anaxa

[bi-writes]

anatomy of us (final) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, final part (14.6k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), allusions to poly!141, this part contains minor physical assault against reader (not by simon) 18+

PART 1 ⏤ PART 2 ⏤ PART 3

You make a deal with the devil.

Simon was right, as much as you don’t want to admit it. You cannot fight your omega. She is stupid, and she is careless, but she controls some of the parts of you that you have never been able to reach. She can kill you with it. You’ve heard of these kinds of things, the places omegas can take you—a spiral so far into yourself, that the only protection your brain has for itself is to turn off.

Brain-dead. No signal. In an effort to conserve life, it turns itself off, but it doesn’t think about the fact that there will be no one there to turn itself back on. In the fight to save itself, it self-destructs, and there is nothing to do but cut the cord.

She can do that to you, if she really wanted to. Feral enough, she can tie a noose around your neck and pull it, and you will have no choice but to fall into yourself. You cannot fight her, but you cannot love her either; so you make a deal.

If she sweetens her scent to Simon’s pack, you will let Simon in. You won’t fight the ticking timer in your head. You’ll let yourself relax. You’ll give her the control to let herself indulge, since you never have before, and all she has to do is make sure every one of those alphas are at your heel. She needs to be good—she can’t half-ass this kind of thing. You need a leash around each of their necks, and you need it to cut off their oxygen when you pull on it. If someone gets loose, you’ll find a way to suffocate her for good. You swear it, promise it, tell her you’re going to drown her even if it drowns you, too—

I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.

Eager little thing, she is. Sweet as honey, but deadly like poison. She’s a carnivorous plant, and ever since you stopped taking your meds, her roots have grown into you—attaching to your veins, tainting your blood, weaving itself into your brain stem like a cancerous cell. You won’t let her take it all. If she gives you a little, you’ll give, too, and that is how the balance can be kept.

You’ll make a man-eater out of her. You think she’ll prefer the taste, and perhaps it will dull the sharpness of her teeth when they sink back into you again.

She lets go of you for now. When you feel her teeth pull back from behind your eyes, you’re gasping for breath, and there is a great weight hanging over your back. You’re dragging someone along with you, leaving behind a trail of blood and hard bootprints, and you can feel the adrenaline that’s been keeping you going slowly start to melt away. You have a pounding headache. There’s something in your mouth that tastes rotten. There’s something that you’re carrying that you’re going to drop any moment as your muscles give out on you.

You smell him before anything else. The stench of him hits your nose so hard that you flinch. You cough, spit dripping from your mouth, and you breathe a mouthful of his pain and his anger. It stings, his scent, but your omega recognizes him enough that you find it in yourself to keep your feet going as you hold him up with a heavy arm around your shoulders.

“Kitty.”

“It’s…I-I got it, Simon. Just hold onto me. We’re almost there.”

Your eyes water with relief when you see Johnny’s terrible hair and Gaz’s dark eyes. Their faces fall in tandem, and you cry with exhaustion when Gaz slings Simon’s other arm around him and grunts as he takes the excruciating weight off of you. You fall, your knees giving out, but just before you hit the ground, Johnny’s got his big arms around your waist, and he’s pulling you back onto your feet. You dig your nails into his forearms, finding your footing, and you lean back against him as you watch Gaz get Simon onto his back so he look at the blood that still wets his mask.

You don’t really remember making it back to the plane. Every time you blinked, the setting was new. Your nose buried in Johnny’s neck—shhh, it’s alright, bonnie, he’s right here, we’re here. Your hands finding Simon’s, squeezing, not stopping to cry until he squeezed back. The whir of a helicopter. The gravel beneath your feet, kicking up with all the boots, dust in your nose. A ramp closing behind you, and then the constant whir of the jet engine. Johnny drags you to sit, and you can still taste blood in your mouth.

Who’s the man-eater?

When you open your mouth and reach in, you pick out something stringy from between your teeth. With a tremble to your bottom lip, you realize it’s flesh. Viscera and muscle, blood and skin, flooded into the crooks of your mouth and notched between your molars, against your gums. Your vision goes blurry, and you realize it’s just more tears when they fall warm and salty down your face. You taste old pennies as it carries blood from between your lips as they come down your cheeks, and you lean forward to spit, splattering wet saliva and dark pink onto the floor of the plane. You cough, wiping your face with the back of your hand, but then your hands shake when you realize they are covered in blood. You look down and see much of the same—your shirt, your jacket, your tact vest, the entire front of your body has splatters of dark red.

“Oh—God—”

You feel sick. It’s all coming up, all of it, you ate something foul, and now you need to be rid of it—

“None o’tha’ now.”

You sob, jerking your head to the voice in front of you. Knelt down, Captain Price is bending to meet your eyes. Your hands tremble, and you shake your head, but he just kisses his teeth and reaches into his vest to retrieve a rag. He unravels it, reaching for your hand, and you give it to him easily as he draws you closer so he can wipe at your face. He uses a canteen to get it wet, and when he wipes your face again, the rag is soaked in red.

You’ve killed before, in some sense, but never in this way. Everything you have ever done in the service has always been tactical and removed—firing a weapon from hundreds of yards away, clicking a button and watching some screen as you blew a building to dust. Even a phone call, you think you made once, and although you weren’t pulling any triggers, the location you gave them would end up on some list somewhere. You never felt good about it, but you didn’t see the aftermath, not up close. You kept your hands physically clean, and in that way, you told yourself that it was acceptable. That you were good.

Forgivable.

It is the first time you see yourself as animal. Sharp teeth, a static mind, driven by aggression and the feeling of a threat. Someone stepped into your space, challenged your territory, and now that your omega has her teeth in you, you couldn’t stop her.

You killed a man.

But he tried to kill mine.

“I did that—” You hiss, and the agony on your face is palpable. It’s in your scent, and it clouds the small plane. You can see the scrunch of John’s face when it hits him head-on, and he shakes his head when you keep talking. Rambling. Babbling about I killed him, I killed him, what did I do—?

“Look at me, Kit,” John says. He says it with his chest, and your omega freezes when she hears the only thing she really understands. You blink, bottom lip still wobbling, but you quiet. When you meet John’s eyes, all you can read is his frustration. He looks tired. He looks doubtful. He looks worried. “What did you do?”

“I killed him.”

“That’s right,” John murmurs. “And if you hadn’t, he would’ve killed you.”

His explanation is clinical and matter-of-fact. You aren’t speaking to a man, not a normal one—you’re speaking to Captain John Price, who has enough confirmed kills to make any immediate superior nervous. The only reason John Price is not a rank higher is because that means sitting at a desk, and that just wouldn’t do for a man like this. Not for one this hungry. Not for one with eyes like that and hands that fidget the way they do. There is no way this man understands you; what you have done is what he does before breakfast. Licks his fingers afterwards even, just to savor the way it tastes.

You shake your head, “I mauled him. L-Like an animal, I—”

“You survived,” John explains. He tilts his head to the side, and he sucks you right in. “What the fuck did you think this was, Kit, hmm? Think we don’t get our hands dirty? Think the shit we do is easy, tha’ it? No—look at me.” Your eyes are wild. There’s something terrible going on in your head, and you can’t shake it. Something awful is happening to you. The you that you know is trying to understand how easy it was to do such a horrible thing. The other part of you, the one you’ve been ignoring your whole life, will sleep just fine knowing her mate is alive and well. John snarls a little, and your trembling hands find his vest and hold onto it for stability. You try to ignore the fact that the broadness of his chest dwarfs your hands, but your omega notices.

Your hands curl there, latching on, and while your omega knows this isn’t your alpha, she sighs a little at the feeling of him anyways. Stability, authority, the way he takes control—he feeds her well. Even if you cannot do what’s necessary, she can, and John and his alpha know this feeling well. It’s why he’s still alive. It’s why he’s still here.

Justified murder. Sanctioned killers. The lesser evil. Joining their pack means you are one of them now—does that mean swallowing these half-truths, too?

“You did what you were trained to do. You were backed into a corner, and you used every last weapon you had. You saved yourself, and you saved Simon, and you did exactly what a soldier is supposed to do. Repeat after me—Look at me, Kit! Keep your fuckin’ eyes on me, and repeat after me—I did what I was trained to do.”

You dig your nails into the flesh under his shirt. It barely gives, and John doesn’t flinch. Your eyes on his are so intense. This is a man that has been in your place often, for longer. He wears his experience in his eyes and in the careful movements he makes in the field. There is no hesitance when John Price makes a decision. He’s fought too hard and seen too much to ever do anything with half his heart, half his mind. The lines on his face tell a story—he isn’t this old because he hides, he’s this old because he knows exactly what to do and when to do it. He wears his alpha like armor, and they work together, in parallel, to get each other home.

Your fingers shake a little less when you feel his thick hands resting on your thighs, tugging you just that much closer.

“Say it. That’s a fucking order,” John says again. His scent is warm. It softens your insides. His eyes will never give you the forgiveness you seek, but they will forgive you anyways, and maybe that’s all you really want. Maybe it’s all you really need.

Tell me what I’ve done isn’t wrong. Absolve me. Put your teeth to my neck and tell me that everything I’ve done was going to happen anyways.

“I…” Your voice falters. Your foreheads touch, just for a moment, and your breath comes out with barely even a stutter. “I-I did what…I did what I was trained t-to do.”

“Again.”

“I did…I did what I was trained to do.”

When John stands, your eyes follow. Your head tilts back, and you blink up at him with watery eyes, and there is no mistaking the hand that comes up to cup the side of your face. You look just like the feral thing you fear you are. The cracks of your lips are still dark with blood. It’s still stained along your skin, a thick kind of war paint that you wear apprehensively, but John knows what he sees.

It’s been a long time since he’s had an omega this close. They are distractions. Giving Simon an omega meant needing to accept her into their pack. A pack of four alphas is unusual. No betas, no omegas, just four dog-like alphas that followed each other anywhere. They had an unspoken, silent agreement to keep their pack this way. Betas waste time, and omegas complicate things. They are self-sufficient, John is sure of this fact. They have never needed anyone but each other.

The moment you set foot on base, John felt it—the balance tipping. Simon had seemed indifferent to Kate’s proposition. He had never voiced his desire to claim an omega or to have a mate; his life had been a reflection of how wrong even the most natural of relationships could go, and he was not eager to try it his own way. As soon as you arrived and were tucked into your room, the change in Simon was immediate. You were here, and you would be his mate, and while Simon had never been privy to what it meant to really court an omega, his instincts took over.

John knows why. Nothing in Simon’s life had ever really been his. His entire family was dead, and even his life was not his own—he followed orders. He lived because they allowed him to, and he would die when they told him to die. The simplicity worked for him, and John never questioned that. Having nothing to lose made Simon fearless and smart. He trusted Simon to do what was necessary, and even when Simon knew he was the sacrificial lamb, he never said anything—all that came through on the radio was a curt copy tha’.

Kate gave him something, something soft and pretty, with a bite. Kate mentioned something about her being special, but John is having trouble remembering why. Something about this is the one I can’t have, but it’s white noise in his mind now. He used to think it was about control—if Kate could take you away and give you back, it might give her leverage over Simon, but he knows that’s just a fleeting idea.

No alpha in their pack would let them take you away. Not now. Not anymore. John wasn’t sure before; he had half a mind to tell Simon that this new dynamic wasn’t working, but then he heard your voice breaking over the radio, and then he saw you hauling Simon’s giant body covered in someone else’s blood with nothing but instinct driving you forward. The look in your eyes—he knows what that is, he recognized it as soon as he saw it. Someone tried to take Simon from you, and you did not let that happen. Visceral, that kind of killing. Tormenting. Immutable. It will be with you forever, but so will Simon now.

Just like that, you are accepted. Even John won’t turn you away. Couldn’t. It’s not possible. Fate has fuck-all to do with this kind of pairing.

There is a popular belief that mates are not chosen carefully—when you see them, when you smell them, it is known. The hierarchy of society that is chosen by the presentation of your own self, decided by nothing but your DNA, is divinely driven when it comes to how you pair. Your mate was already decided for you at birth, and you will discover them in your own time, because fate will have it so.

That is a lie. John won’t believe it. Simon certainly will never call this that. Kate propped a door open, and Simon simply decided that yes, he gets to have his cake and eat it, too. The waiting game is over. The chosen misery of not having an omega to knot ends. Simon knows when an opportunity presents itself, and he knows exactly when to take it. It’s pulsing under John’s fingers—a strong pulse you have, the gland just under your ear beating hot and thick under his thumb like it taunts him.

What if he leaned over and sunk his teeth there? What then?

She will never be warm enough. Her food will never be good enough. She’ll always sound distressed. The water in the showers will always be too cold. There are too many lights. She will never have enough pillows, enough blankets, they will forever torture her in a space too small, she’ll never be truly happy. They will always look for the void, for the empty spots, and they will forever try to occupy them. Fill them. Make you happy.

John understands. Maybe even from the moment he met you.

The smell of you. The sight of your doe eyes, your soft skin, the clear distress you were in—fuck, he had forgotten why omegas were kept so far apart on bases like this. Just one whiff, and John fought hard not to break right through his grip on the doorway. Enough to tempt a man; to stuff her away in some box, tuck her somewhere dark, keep her safe, sound, fed, warm, fat, happy, pleasured. A good man would be rightfully tempted by it, even with the claim over you, even with Simon’s scent sticky against your skin.

John’s alpha is not immune to that innate desire. He might not be your mate, but the cry for help is all the same, and so is the itch that his alpha wants to scratch. There is an omega in need—we have to help her.

Looking at you now, he couldn’t stop himself. Those big, wet eyes of yours, the sound of your cries. Your omega is smart. She curls your tears and your whimpers in just a way that makes every alpha in your vicinity stiffen. They all can hear it. They all can hear the clawing of her blunt nails. They all can smell the need to be comforted. Your omega is a magnet, and she’s strong; stronger than John is used to, and he thinks it’s because you don’t know how to control her.

When Simon shuts the door on his room later that evening, John isn’t the only one lingering. He sees their shadows, his sergeants, watching the door until that lock clicks. They all meet eyes, but they say nothing to each other. Perhaps it’s just another unspoken rule.

Not yet. Patience is rewarded.

Simon refused medical, naturally. He slumps onto the floor, back against the wall, and you won’t sit on the bed in your clothes, so you sit down next to him. Your knees wobble a little, and you have to hold onto the wall to sit to keep yourself from falling over as you slide down against it. You lean your head back against the wall, blinking up at the ceiling. There’s a fluorescent light that flickers, making you flinch, and then it goes eerily silent in the room. You feel nothing; it’s blissfully still, only the sounds of barely-there breathing, but then it hits you like a crashing wave. When you start to cry, Simon moves, shaking his head. He huffs, low sounds of disapproval as he shifts next to you.

“I can’t listen to you. Cryin’ like tha’.”

You don’t think he means that. From your peripheral, you can see the way his gloved hands curl into tight fists against his thighs. It’s taking everything inside of him not to reach for you. The need to touch you is something that must be burning under that thick skin of his. You hope it fucking hurts. You hope your omega is making it itch and sting so badly—you hope the discomfort makes him dig his nails so hard into his palms that it makes him bleed even more.

“I hate you.” It comes out of you too fast. You say it without thinking, but it comes out shaky and quiet. You feel defeated. You were someone else only hours ago; you were prepared to do anything for him, and all he can say is that he doesn’t want to hear you cry?

“Didn’t ask for you to do tha’. To do those things. I had it.”

You turn your head to look at him. Your guilt turns to anger. Your face drops into a tearful scowl, and your bottom lip trembles with it.

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The fucking audacity of this two-faced asshole of an alpha—

“No, I need to h-hear you say that again. I need to hear you say you fucking had it. I need to hear you say that you had it after getting shot in the fucking head!” You cry. You lean towards him, glaring up at him. He refuses to look at you, just keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “Look at me if you’re going to lie to me.”

He doesn’t. He just breathes deep, angry purrs that you don’t believe. You sit up on your knees, facing him.

“Coward,” you spit. “Is that what you’re gonna put in your report? That you had it, and an insubordinate rookie put your life in danger? I can’t wait to see it, Lieutenant, I cannot wait to see what kind of bullshit story you come up with. You make me so fucking sick. I can’t believe I even saved your life, cause what good does it do me?”

Simon finally turns to look down at you. Even sitting, he’s still much bigger, much taller, and he narrows his eyes. Deadly. Hateful. You are caught in a line, but you are prepared for it.

“Careful,” he warns. You gather up some saliva and spit onto the floor next to you. You wipe your wet mouth after, running your tongue over your teeth. Simon eyes the blood that still stains your mouth. Instead of horrifying him, there’s a rumble that happens deep within his chest that he cannot control.

“Don’t test me, Simon,” you throw right back at him. “He’s only dead because he doesn’t get the satisfaction of killing you. If anyone’s gonna kill you, it’s gonna be me.”

A flame that becomes a torch. That’s what you and Simon are. You do not complement each other, you set each other ablaze. That’s what it feels like, anyway.

Your faces crash together in a hard, nasty mess. His mask is first, shoved up over his nose, and then his mouth is on yours. You scramble to get undressed, fumbling to get your tact vest off as Simon’s hands paw at your cargos. You hear fabric tear, but you don’t register it. All you can think about is getting naked enough to get close enough to him so you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat against your skin.

He’s eating you; as close as he can get, anyway. His teeth anchor into your throat, scraping the delicate flesh, and then his tongue is wetting the blood that’s still on your skin and sucking it into his mouth. The taste of torn-apart alpha wasn’t apparent to you, but it must be to him—the way he’s snarling, biting, slobbering as he makes you his dinner plate.

“My pretty omega,” Simon growls. It comes from deep within him, a drawl that makes your pupils dilate. Whenever his alpha shows his face, it’s never for long, but it makes your entire body shake. You don’t really remember taking all your clothes off, but Simon’s gloved hands are on your tits, and he’s thumbing at your nipples, licking over his teeth, snapping his jaws as if he wants to bite you again. “Mine. Mine to fuck, mine to protect, mine to play with.”

“Fuck you.”

“Your heat…I can taste it,” he continues. It’s in your sweat, in your scent, he can feel it boiling under your skin, begging to come out. The way your eyes shift in and out of something, it’s the cloudy haze of it hanging over your head. “Is that how you got your leverage over ‘im? Did he get a whiff of you and forget who he was?”

“No,” you pant, slipping your hand down his pants. You cup the underside of his cock, and he hisses, putting his hand over yours and pressing you harder against him. He squeezes, and your fingers wrap around him, tugging gently. He’s pulsing hot under your touch, and you move to shove his pants lower as your knees fall open. “I saw his gland. It was so…” You falter, whining. “I didn’t think. I just did.”

“My omega,” he sighs, shaking his head. Simon grips the side of your head by your hair, and he shakes your head as he forces you to look at him. Dark eyes. Blonde lashes. A face so terrible and so beautiful and so horrifyingly yours. “You must be mine, you know tha’.”

The quickness to violence. Your unapologetic nature. Because I will do anything for him, because nothing is too much, because death is inevitable if someone gets in my way—

You do. You know it. It’s as true as your nature, as true as the voice in your head, as evident as the bones under your skin and the hair on your head and the beating heart under your ribs that feels like it’s about to break right through. Simon will put his teeth on your gland, and he’s going to bite there, and he’s going to steal everything you are and tuck it inside. You have this disgusting image of the puffed skin around his scars opening up and attaching you to him, bleeding you of any life you still have until you are nothing more than a shriveled, dry cavity.

I won’t let that happen. He might have you, but I have him, too.

When you kiss, you dig your nails into his scalp. You feel him in your guts when he slips inside, pussy opening up and squeezing right back down to keep him in. You whimper, drool spilling out of your mouth, and Simon is there to lick it right back up as he hikes your hips up and grinds into you. It’s not the worst place you’ve ever fucked, but the hard ground under your head won’t feel nice in the morning. He must know, somehow, because one of his big hands cups the back of your head, pillowing his harsh thrusts as he gives it to you good. He’s there, right there, right against your sweet spot, and you drag your nails down his back as he finds it so easily. Simon knows you—he knows you so well. His alpha knows your body, knows how to make you speechless and stupid, and you hate him and love him all the same. The emotions are so hot in your throat, wanting to come right up. You want to scream at him, you want to tear the flesh right off of his face, but you will always stop yourself with delicate hands. You will always want to save him. You can beat him and curse at him and cry all you like, but when there is a bullet that goes flying, you know you will throw yourself in front of him.

There is little safety in this world for you. You will always be nothing more than your body to others, but here, underneath him, clinging to him as he fucks you right into that plane of existance between pleasure and pain, you are you. You are more yourself than you have ever been. Half of yourself doesn’t belong to you, and yet he’s brushing your hair back and kissing you hot, and he’s saying your name, and you feel more like yourself than maybe you ever will be.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

Do you love him because you love him? Do you love him because she loves him? Do you love him because there is nowhere else to go? Because he is your only means of survival? Because if you don’t love him, you might fall into yourself like a dying star and let her finish you off?

Maybe that’s why you hate him so much. You hate him because not loving him is impossible. You hate him because you want him to prove how horrible of an alpha he really is, and yet his hand is taking the brunt of the pain, and he kisses like he’s sorry, and the scent of him relaxes you like nothing ever has before. You’re safe here with him. You always will be. It makes you so fucking sick.

“Please,” he groans. He whispers it against your cheek. His cock feels so good, hips grinding against your clit, and he’s so warm. “Let me ‘ave it. Give it t’me, omega.”

“Beg me for it.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“Bite me.”

You cry when he sinks his teeth into your jaw. It stings, in a good way. It nearly comes out, when you come for him. You nearly say it. You would mean it, if you did, but it takes everything in you to keep it down, to swallow it back inside, to keep it mashed under your tongue and sour between your teeth.

Your back bows when he comes. He always comes so much. You love the way it feels. You love how it can’t stay inside, too full, dribbling between your thighs. You love the sound it makes when Simon keeps moving—nasty, messy, lewd, a slick, slick, slick that makes you dizzy all over again. You could come again just listening to it, you could come again just hearing his choked breaths in your ear. He smells so good. You put your face into the crook of his neck and take a deep breath, and you whimper as it curls into the tendrils of your brain. Intoxicating—like you’re high. Right from the source, Simon smells delicious. You think love makes him smell better. You think love makes your omega even more feral, more than she already is, and the heat that stays in your chest tells you all you need to know.

You’re at the edge of that cliff. You’re about to fall over.

“S-Simon—”

Your voice pulls his eyes back to yours. He uses his hands, brushing your hair out of the way so he can look at you better. You cough, still a little delirious from your orgasm, but you’re coherent enough to communicate with him. You don’t need to say anything, you know that. Simon will look at you, and he will know.

“I have you,” he says. You knew he would say that, and yet you weren’t comforted until he did say it. “It’s happening, innit?”

I’m here, so close, I’m coming—

You just nod. He sits up, picking you up off the floor. All the blood in your head rushes down, and you hold on around his neck as he hoists you up around his hips. You press your face to his, cheek to cheek, and he carries you to the bathroom. When he turns the shower on, he sits you onto the toilet, and you watch him strip from there. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him, all of him.

He’s a canvas of war. Your breath stops in your throat as he turns to shuck his trousers off all the way and steps out of them. He’s covered in marks. Fleshy, pink spots that must be from third degree burns litter his left leg. They make a map of rivers along it, spreading out to his ankle. His other leg must have been slashed to bits. There’s long lines of it all, deep flesh wounds that run along the length of his thigh and his calf. Someone made a knife sharpener out of his skin, and there are dips where the flesh could not be replaced. Your eyes scan over his torso. Simon is the picture of strength. He’s big and beefy, with a solid stomach, and he just looks heavy, but even that isn’t enough to fill out the mess of his skin. Gunshots, knife wounds, cigarette burns scattered along his arms. Simon’s body wears his history like a bright neon sign. He doesn’t cover up because he’s ashamed of it—he covers himself because he doesn’t want people to ask.

He doesn’t want people to know what used to be.

You stand up on wobbly legs, putting your hands on his lower stomach, pudgy to the touch but rigid against pressure. Your fingers wander, smoothing over the lines and taking in the landscape of his body. Simon stiffens just a little, but his breaths even when you lay your cheek against his bare chest. You shut your eyes, and the only sounds are the water from the shower and the beating of his heart. It pumps strong—Simon’s blood sounds thick, tar and honey.

Under the hot water, you watch as the water runs red. You watch it carefully until it runs clear, and then you look up at Simon. He’s already looking at you.

“I’m scared,” you tell him honestly. You are afraid. You try so hard not to be, and you know deep down that your omega’s true nature is to protect you, but you’re afraid. Trusting her means giving up control, real control. Even if it’s only for a period of time, it’s long enough that you are so fucking terrified. You don’t know what to expect. No one ever taught you what to expect, no one ever told you what would happen, what you would feel. You’ve been drowning your omega so long, you are afraid of what she will do once she comes out—kicking, screaming, clawing, burning, biting. You’ve been doubtful and spiteful all your life, and now you have to just hand yourself over?

It’s mother nature; and she is such a bitch.

“Do you trust me?” Simon asks lowly. You touch his face, and he bends to keep his eyes to yours. You see nothing but honesty in them, and that terrifies you even more.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“That’s not wot I asked. I need ta hear you say it.”

“Yes,” you sniffle. “Yes, Simon. I trust you.”

When Simon tucks you into bed, you fluff the pillows. You keep doing that, picking up pillows and shaking them, tucking them into new corners until it looks…right. You stop when you’ve got the blanket scrunched up in your arms, and you blink up at Simon who’s standing by the side of the bed.

You’re making a nest. A God-awful, terrible, messy shitload of a nest, but you’re making it. You put the blanket down gently, pushing it into the corner, and then you play with your fingers in your lap, twisting your hands over each other nervously as you look around the bed. The shadow comes over you before you feel him at your back. Heat like no other, and then you feel his fingers on your arm, tracing a line from your shoulder to your elbow.

“Wot is it?” He leans over your shoulder, and you feel his lips touch the side of your head. “Wot’s wrong?”

“I need more,” you say softly. “More things. Uh…” You look over your shoulder, and his lips brush over your cheek. “Some of your clothes, maybe?”

He drops them beside you. A couple shirts, a couple hoodies, and when you hold them up for him, you hold each other’s eyes as he scents them for you, rubbing the fabric against his wrists and along his neck before you find a spot for them in the pile. It’s haphazard and not at all neat, but it’s the first time you’ve done anything of the sort. It doesn’t feel perfect, but it feels like yours, and you will always remember the look in Simon’s eyes when you invited him into your nest.

It’s shockingly intimate. There’s something so warm, something so lovely, about tugging on his arm and pulling him into the space you’ve made. He climbs over you, sinking into the blankets, and you lay back with him into the warmth. You curl up into his side, closing your eyes, and when he hooks his forearm around the small of your waist, you go with him.

It is close. You can taste it. It will be easy with him here, with her.

I know what to do. It’s okay. When you wake up, you’ll be new again. I promise. I’ll make you new. I’ll make you better. I’ll have them, I swear it. It’s okay.

It’s okay.

Okay.

You dream in a haze. The visions spill like water, crashing and moving, but you never get to focus on them long enough to see what’s really happening. You feel dirt under your nails and between your fingers, can feel the rocks cutting up your feet as you try and climb a high mountain. When you come to the top, you feel your feet slip, but someone grabs onto your wrists at the last second and pulls you upwards.

When you blink awake, all you can feel is the heat. It licks up your spine and curdles there at your back. You’re drenched in sweat, and it’s hard to breathe. The world looks like your dreams, but you can blink into focus. When you do, Simon is there, leaning over you. You whine a little, and when you rub your thighs together, you nearly choke at the feeling of how damp they are, sweat and slick staining your skin and the mattress beneath you. You didn’t expect to feel coherent. You do feel out of your body, but not in a frightening way. Maybe it’s your omega, or maybe it’s Simon, but all you feel is this immense pressure in your chest, something telling you to find and seek.

Alpha. Alpha. Alpha.

“I’m ‘ere,” Simon murmurs. He passes a thumb over your forehead, pushing some of the sweat out of your eyes. Your throat is dry, and you croak a little as you smack your lips together and arch your back up into him. “Right ‘ere.”

“Hurts,” you whisper. It does. There’s a pain in your belly that aches, and when Simon presses a hand there, you whine, immediately sensitive. There’s something missing inside of you, and your omega is singing for it to be filled. “Simon, it hurts—”

“Gonna make it better,” he says against your lips. When he kisses you, it feels like drinking fresh spring water. His saliva hydrates you, the taste of him satiating some deep-seated hunger that you’ve never felt before. It isn’t enough, but it’s good, tastes good, and you grab at him from all angles, trying to bring him closer. “Fuck, my pretty omega…” He gets between your legs, prying them apart, and you moan when you see the strings of slick that follow the motion. He seats himself there and pushes you backwards. “Present for me, kitty. Show me.”

You’ve never heard the phrase, but your omega knows what to do. She draws your hand down and uses your fingers to spread your puffy folds apart, and Simon sighs through his nostrils, hard and heavy, when he sees you spread open for him. He bends down, nudging your hands away, and when he closes his mouth over your pussy, you cry with relief. He groans. You are so warm, and you are positively sopping. He swallows mouthfuls, and it is still not enough—he bends your knees and hugs your thighs and tries hard to taste more, but it’s difficult.

“Simon,” you whimper. “Simon—” You choke on a moan as he tightens his grip. His fingers dig into you, bruising and hard, and you cry big, salty tears as he slips his tongue inside of you and fucks you with it. Soft, snarling licks, a devouring that you know is nothing short of primal. Your omega is stepping through the door, and his alpha is clawing at its fence, and soon they will meet, and you can do nothing about it but hope that they don’t kill each other.

Never. I can do it. You’ll see. I’ll make it so good.

“Alpha.”

The word resets him. He finally removes himself from between your thighs, dog-like expression on his face as looks up at you. Tongue out, drooling, that dead, loving look in his eyes. You cup his cheeks, drawing him up, and when you kiss, you note how sweet it is. How sweet you are. Natural pheromones that your body emits, something so luscious that her alpha cannot refuse it. It really is brain-swelling. You start to feel the spiral, a buzzing in the back of your head that is starting to get louder and louder and louder. Once you come for the first time, it’s like tinnitus. She’s here. She’s in your head.

She is not going anywhere.

It’s my turn now. I’ll give you back after I get what I want.

It must be revenge that she wants. Revenge against you—for every time that you’ve taped her mouth shut, every time you’ve scruffed her by the nape of her neck and forced her to quiet down. Revenge against Simon—for acting like he could do anything but submit to you, for being a right asshole just to fall at your feet for a taste of your cunt. Revenge against everything—for being underestimated, for being ignored.

You don’t know how long it’s been. A few days must have passed by now, but time slips through your fingers like water. You close your eyes to sleep, and when you open them again, it’s to fuck your pretty alpha until you need to sleep all over again. You wake up in increments of lucidness, feeling Simon tip your head back and feed you small bites of something savory or a few sips of water. You lick into his mouth after, purring as you rub your nose against his jaw, and he always presses back tenderly. Smiling as he fixes his fingers under your jaw, murmuring something soft into your ear, slipping a few thick fingers inside of you to make you relax for him.

He’s underneath you right now. Your hands are wrapped tight against the headboard, and you’re straddling his face. His thick arms are hooked over your thighs, and you whine as you draw your hips back and forth against his tongue. He eats hot and heavy, his nose and mouth wet with slick as he alternates between flattening his tongue for you to ride and forcing you to sit still as he pushes his tongue inside of you and swirls it all sloppy.

You suck it out of his mouth after, like you always do. You sink down until you’re straddling his thick middle, your mouth against his as you kiss with gritted teeth, all giggly and wet. Simon is a good kisser; the mask shouldn’t fool anyone. You reach down as he does, feeling around until you cup the underside of his cock and guide it inside of you. His knot swells as soon as you sit on it, and Simon grips you under your thighs, spreading your legs a little more until his balls are nestled between them. You whine when his knot catches, already pulsing as your mouth drops open and your eyes roll back into your head.

Simon’s always been big—but the hormones he’s been producing in response to your heat only make him thicker, and his knot nearly splits you in two. You love it, and you chase it all the same.

He hasn’t claimed you yet. You don’t remember how many times you’ve taken his knot, or how many places you’ve fucked in this room, but he won’t do it. His teeth have just grazed the spot, teasing, but he never seals the bond. You cried about it a few times, in between rounds, but he just stuffed you full again to distract you. It doesn’t always shut you up, but then he’ll hook his forearm around your neck and nearly suffocate you as he comes deep, and you’re so delirious, you forget about it for awhile.

Your omega doesn’t though. Your gland protrudes, swelling, and she wants him so badly to claim you. Half of her job is to get him to do it—she’s supposed to take his knot and entice his claim, that’s what she’s made for, and she doesn’t want to come out of this empty-handed.

I’ll give you back after I get what I want.

She fixates on his mouth. She draws you to it, making you cup his face and lick over his teeth. She makes you shove his face into your neck, makes you smother him in your scent, but Simon, to no surprise, holds his composure. He’s too capable and too aware, even in his moments of staticky pleasure, to give into her all the way.

It’s a few days later when you start to feel less out of control. Your omega still tugs at the strings; slick still pools between your thighs, the heat of your body is still making you sweat, but Simon is in focus, and you are aware as he ruts into you. Your hands cup his cheeks, and you kiss tenderly as he grinds into you with shallow thrusts, low grunts from deep within his chest making you whimper.

“I-I love you so much, Simon.”

It’s instinctual. You couldn’t stop yourself. You’re crying, so overwhelmed with sticky pleasure and soft insides.

Simon knows it’s the same when he falters. His elbows give out, his mouth grazes your jaw, and before he can think twice, his teeth sink right into the skin under your ear.

Now that is fate—Simon had set his sights on you. There was never going to be any other ending.

You cry out. Your eyes widen, bugged out, and your pupils dilate. You dig your nails into his back, right up against his other scars, and you feel blood under your nails as he presses his hips to yours and comes, more than he has before. Your toes curl, your back arches off the bed, and you choke on squeaking gasps as he shakes his head a little, sinking his teeth in deeper, holding himself there.

Animal. Bear. Hook, line, sinker—there was something that once belonged to you, but now the seal has been broken, and the golden ichor inside bleeds, and Simon takes it into his mouth like its the essence of life. Maybe it is. There will be no one else. There will never be another omega. There will never be another person that tastes the way you do, that fucks the way you do, there will never be another cunt that opens up like yours and swallows his knot just like this.

Simon’s been at death’s door far too many times. It is only now that he thinks he’ll be afraid to see it again.

You go blind for a few moments. You see spots, glittering ones, and something trickles from the base of your spine all the way to the top of your head. It feels like you’re floating—as if your blood inflated, picking you up, taking you somewhere warm and safe.

A cocoon. A protective blanket. The space against Simon’s chest, the place you’ve made under his skin.

When he pulls back to look at you, your blood between his teeth, you feel your omega come right back. You thought it was over; you thought the days of dreamy fucking and scalding sweat and mindblowing orgasms was done.

Not even close.

You’re alone when you wake up. Your eyes blink, adjusting to the soft yellow light of Simon’s desk lamp. You can smell him—he’s nearby, you hear some noises, but he’s not in your line of sight, and that makes your insides clam up.

“Simon?”

Your voice comes out more broken and sadder than you wanted it to, but your emotions feel like they are all over the place. You feel happy and sad at the same time, elated and entirely too depressed. You feel overwhelmed and also too empty. Your body aches, and you feel like there’s something wrong with you, but also that nothing is wrong at all.

“S-Simon?”

You blink through warm tears, and then you feel a hand brushing your hair off your face. Simon bends down to meet your eyes. His mask is back on, but he’s without a shirt, and you swallow at the sight of the intense bruises, hickies, nail scratches, the bite marks. The relief you feel once you know he’s here deflates your insides so warmly. You hold onto his wrist, keeping him close, and there’s a rumble that happens under his chest that makes you whine to get him even closer.

“Good morning, kitty,” Simon murmurs. He must be smiling under the mask; you see his eyes squint a little, and you hear it in his voice. “Feelin’ olright?”

You sputter and shake your head. “No.”

Simon snorts, thumbing at your cheek. You chase the feeling, following his thumb, not satisfied until he cups your cheek with his big hand.

“Tha’s olright. Y’r just hungry.”

The bath Simon leaves you in melts your bones in the best way. You sink into the hot water, humming, watching from the open door as Simon changes the sheets and cleans up the leftover food wrappers and empty beverages lying around. You remember Simon feeding you between rounds, letting you lick his fingers, suck on them—

You clench your thighs together, gripping the edge of the tub.

“Simon…” You call for him. He drops the trash he’s holding, running a hand down his bare chest as he comes into the bathroom. He kneels down beside the tub, tilting his head to the side, and you guide his hand into the water and between your thighs easily. He chuckles lowly, tipping your head back, and you sigh with relief when his fingers slip inside of you.

“You are insatiable,” Simon hisses. “Fucking for nine days ain’t enough for you, kitty?”

“N-Nine days?” You gasp, grinding against the heel of his palm. You cling to his thick bicep, the water sloshing as you squeeze your thighs around his hand. Your nipples touch the cool tub, and you hiss at the sensation, leaning up to press your face to his. He grunts as he pumps his fingers, kissing his teeth as he leans his forehead against yours a little harder.

“Nine fuckin’ days,” Simon echoes. “Nine days of fucking my best girl.”

“Mmm—” You giggle, but it’s cut off as you gasp when he adds another finger.

“Nine days of you,” Simon clicks his tongue. He sounds starved. He sounds intense. He sounds determined, and you feel it in the curl of his fingers and the way his thumb swirls over your clit. He knows just how to make you shake. “It’ll never be enough, kitty.”

“N-Never.”

“Ahh—fuck—” Simon groans when he feels you tighten up and come. You’re so sensitive, it only took a minute or so, but he slips his fingers out and keeps stroking your clit with a thick thumb to keep you whimpering. You blink up at him, and Simon feels a deep satisfaction in his chest. He knows that look in your eyes, he knows it now.

You want to go again.

Simon has never been an affectionate person. You think it’s a sound assumption for how he behaved before you met him, but it was certainly not true anymore. When you were near him, he tended to stand close to you or guide you with a hand a few inches away from your back, but Simon kept to himself. He was not romantic. He took care of you—he made sure your meals were good, ensured the water for your shower was warm, but he didn’t hold your hand. He didn’t hug you or touch you beyond what was necessary.

Things are different now. Things have changed.

He’s warm behind you as you walk. His hand is fixed on your waist, occasionally hooking a finger around your belt loop and pulling you back when you walk too far ahead. You giggle when he yanks you back, stumbling in your boots before he rights you with a firm, gloved palm against your belly.

Touchy. Possessive.

The boys are all seated and enjoying their lunch when Simon opens the doors for you. You make your way towards the table, taking a seat, and the entire group goes quiet as Simon walks past to go into the kitchen. You adjust your hair, resting your chin in your hand, and you smile knowingly at John when he meets your eyes. He sizes you up; it’s been a few days since he’s seen you, and you already look different. Looser. Warmer. Thicker.

“Ye hungry, bonnie?” Johnny finally asks. You turn your head to look at him. You really look at him this time—you notice his eyes, bright and blue, and you take in the sight of him after morning training. His cheeks are a little flushed from the workout, his arms are bulging as he sips from a paper cup of coffee, and he’s smiling like he knows a secret about you that no one else is privy to. His hair has grown out since you last saw him; the mohawk takes up the curls of his natural hair, and you reach over absentmindedly and twirl your finger around the curl that falls over his forehead.

He holds his breath with your hand so close. Your scent is strong, sweet as he turns his head just a little to take a deeper breath from where your wrist lays. You follow the swirl of his hair before letting it go, smiling wider. Johnny is terrible at hiding what he’s feeling; his eyes obviously glance around your face, lingering a little too long on your lips, until they brighten a little at the sight of the mark that peeks out from your shirt.

“Mmm…” You lick over your top row of teeth. The action is too wet to be anything but enticing. “I’m starved, Johnny.”

His knee gives out and bangs against the table at your response. You giggle, and Simon places down a tray of food in front of you just as John grumbles under his breath as he picks up his cup of water that’s spilled over the edge of the table.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon mutters, taking a seat next to you. You take the fork from his hand and look down at your plate. Pasta. Garlic bread. An ungodly amount of parmesan cheese on the side. Your stomach growls looking down at the food, and Simon seems to hear it. He scoots just that much closer, and it’s nothing but instinct that draws him close. His mask brushes against your shoulder and the side of your head, and his fingers trace the scabbing outline of his teeth just peeking out from the high collar of your shirt.

“Bloody hell,” Gaz hisses, leaning back in his seat. You blink away the fog in your brain, feeling your face heat. “You both reek of it.”

“Of what, Sergeant?” Simon bites, and John is the one to curl his fist around his cup and crush it with a scowl.

“Don’t play stupid, Simon,” John murmurs. “You both need another hosing down.”

“Anyone wanna join me?” You purr, and Simon curls his fingers around your hair and yanks your head back with a huff.

“Oh, you’d like tha’, wouldn’t you, kitty?”

“You have no idea, baby—”

“Bleedin’ Christ!” Johnny groans. He’s gone before you turn your head to look at him, and you smile to yourself, amused, but Simon tugs you back to him, pressing his nose to the side of your head.

“What are you doing?” He whispers in your ear. You twirl your fork before pushing his hand off, taking a bite of your food. You chew and swallow before taking a few more pieces of pasta and holding it up to his masked mouth.

“Nothing. You want a bite, Simon?” You ask. You meet his dark eyes, raising a brow as you hold up the fork a little more. He narrows his eyes a little before hiking the mask up, and you feed him with a little laugh. You wipe his mouth gently before tugging his mask back down. “You know, I’d really like some iced tea, Simon. Do you think they might have some in the back?”

Simon’s eyes twitch a little. He looks over your face for a moment longer before standing, and you bite your lip as you stare a little too long at him in those cargos before he disappears into the back again. Your omega warms you, all down your spine. It tickles—her fingers curl around your bones, licking at your insides, purring—bite him, bite him, bite him—

“Real subtle, Kit,” Gaz comments. You take another bite of your food, leaning forward a little. You point the fork at him, tilting your head to the side.

“You know, I remember having this conversation with you not that long ago,” you tell him. “Something about how much you stink even this far away. You got something in your pants, Gaz, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Piss off,” Gaz snaps, and you smile. You know you’re getting under his skin when you smell ash in the air, something bitter and eye-watering.

“Is that a kink of yours, honey? Real subtle.”

“Knock it off, you two,” John sighs, shaking his head. He leans back, running a thick hand over his beard, and you go back to eating. “Gaz, you’re gonna be late. Get a move on.”

The air feels a little tense when it’s just you and John. You move your food around on your plate, frowning a little, and John shifts where he sits.

“How…” He clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”

You look up a little at him. He’s staring at you curiously, arms crossed over his chest. You shrug lightly. It’s humorous seeing him behave so awkwardly.

“I’m okay,” you tell him. “Sore. Really tired.”

“You been to medical?”

“No.”

“Consider it an order,” John nods at you, looking at the collar of your shirt. “Those things can be nasty if you neglect it.”

You put your fork down, and when you and John look at each other, you have to swallow your omega back down your throat. She’s salivating—look at him, he likes us, he’s worried—

“Oh, yeah?” You smile a little, coy, demure. “You know a lot about that, Captain?” The use of his rank makes his jaw clench, and you wet your lips with your tongue. “Claiming omegas?”

If the air was tense before, it’s scorching now. John is white-knuckling his own arms, and his entire body is stiff. You blink, not looking away. You hold him there, and his nose twitches at the way you pin him against some invisible board. You’re already acting so differently—so confidently. There is nothing to fight for anymore. Your omega won her prize, and now she can reap her rewards.

Your omega is greedy.

Four is just so much better than one, isn’t it?

“You seem lonely,” you say softly. He sniffs a little, laughing dryly, and your boot moves just enough to touch toes with his. “Are you lonely, John?”

Are you lonely, John? Do you need me, John? Do you see me when you close your eyes, John?

You barely contain your jump when an ice-cold glass is slammed down on the table in front of you. You blink up at Simon, who’s standing there beside you breathing hard. He sniffs, looking between you and John, but you’re quick to pick up the glass of iced tea and nearly drink the entire thing in one sip.

If Simon notices John following the drop of tea that traces along your jaw and down your neck, he doesn’t say anything.

Your omega purrs, and you nearly do, too. When Simon grips your wrist, you follow him out, but not before catching John’s eyes right before you turn the corner. He watches you the entire way, until you disappear behind a wall.

You think you smell anger on Simon. It makes you cringe a little when you get a deep breath of it, but when he presses you up against the door back in his room, you realize it isn’t anger. You smile up at him, hands behind your back, and Simon fists your hair and kisses you hot. Nope, not anger. 

Fuck, he’s horny.

It’ll never be a level-playing field. From the moment you first presented, you didn’t think there’d ever be a real future for yourself. The social order that exists has always been well-maintained and aggressively understood. You exist all the way at the bottom; your kind is meant to get on their knees, be weepy and soft, and submit. You’ve always been told that is the easy life—you aren’t like betas who have to find their way, and you aren’t like alphas who have to continuously prove themselves. All you have to be is be quiet and obedient and gentle, and everything you want will come to you.

Even wants for omegas are understood. You aren’t supposed to want anything other than a cozy nest, a locking knot, or fat babies. You aren’t supposed to want anything at all other than the alpha that claims you and whatever they decide is right for you.

Your family abandoned you. Your caretakers lost you. Kate gave you away. Simon is the only one that has never asked you what you want, not because he doesn’t care, but because it’s not what matters. All he asks is what you need—everything else will follow as it’s supposed to.

He’s staring at your mark again. He does it often; he gets lost in his thoughts, and his eyes fixate on the faint bite mark that’s there behind your jaw now. It’s since healed nicely—all that is left behind is a faint indentation that would match Simon if he hinged his jaw open and bared his teeth. He has a strange obsession with it; not only does he stare, but he likes to touch it, too. He likes putting his gloved hand on the back of your neck and stroking it with his thumb, warm circles that make your entire body relax for him.

Simon’s not so bad. Things could be worse. Simon’s purebred, that’s for certain, but that also means his relationship with your omega is a bond unbreakable. All she does is flutter her lashes, and Simon’s alpha is on a leash, pulled taut, choking him of air. She likes that the most; she likes when he stumbles, when he falters, when his alpha is huffing and puffing because he can’t contain himself when she wags a treat in front of him.

You let her have it. It’s the least you could do.

Simon’s pack is no better. Sometimes, you think your omega feels guilty, but you push it down just like you’re used to. They deserve none of your pity. Entitled shits, they all are, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you are in their pack, you would never give such fragile egos the time of day; but they are in Simon’s pack, which means they’re in yours, which means you at least try to play nice.

Sometimes, though, it’s real funny watching Simon’s sergeants covering their crotches and waddling out of a room.

You can’t figure out John. He’s difficult to pin down. He has a special bond with Gaz and Simon, but every time you think you and your omega have figured out his wants and needs, he surprises you or oddly turns you down. While you already have an alpha that satisfies you entirely, it still stings, the rejection. Your omega whines. She is a part of their pack now, and the cold shoulder from even just one makes her upset—it does not help that John takes the place as head of this pack, either. She wants his approval, and she begs you to get it.

“Does John like me?”

Simon pauses at his desk. His pistol is disassembled in front of him, parts laid out carefully in a pattern only he might understand so he doesn’t lose any of the pieces. There’s gun oil and a rag to accompany him, and he’s methodically running that rag over the barrel when he stops. You turn your head from your place on the bed to look at him.

Simon shrugs. “Dunno,” he says finally, continuing with the rag. “Would think so.”

“I don’t think so,” you say softly. “Not like Johnny does. Or Gaz.”

“Tha’s cause they wanna fuck you, kitty,” Simon snorts, and you draw your knees up a little, squeezing your legs together. You think about Johnny’s wagging tongue or Gaz’s wet lips too long, and you’ll drag Simon over, even knowing his gear is filthy.

“John doesn’t?”

“John is…” Simon shrugs again, sighing deeply. “Him and omegas. It’s…complicated. Wot do ya care, anyway? Three alphas not enough for you?”

Three. The thought makes your omega giddy. You have yet to have them, but just knowing you can makes her so lightheaded. Since meeting her, you’ve come to know her as selfish and entirely too greedy. She’s a fiend for Simon’s attention the most, but you know she aches for all of it. She wants all four of them to fuss over her, to follow her like dogs.

“Maybe for me,” you agree, but your voice longs. It carries weight to it, and that makes Simon pause. “But not for her.”

Simon drops his things, standing up from his chair, and you smile wide as he comes towards the bed and grips you by your jaw with a shake. You blink up at him with a shaky breath, and his eyes crinkle, like he’s smiling, too, under his mask. Your omega will never be afraid of him. She adores him, far too much for your liking.

“Well, then. Maybe I should let my sergeants have a taste, and then we’ll see what’s not enough for her, eh?”

Your omega sighs. She just loves getting what she wants.

But it’s not enough. It’s not enough.

One reprieve you do get now, however, is that your heats are predictable. Like clockwork, every ten weeks, you can plan for those seven to ten days of complete bliss underneath Simon. You can lock him away, pull him out of any obligation or any mission, and he’s in your nest, staring down at you, feeding you between intervals of intense sex to keep your omega happy and satiated. John just bites his tongue when you take his lieutenant away—even if he wanted Simon not to go, he would never command it. He couldn’t do that to you, not to their omega.

She gets whatever she wants. No questions asked.

The balance is certainly well and tipped. It is no longer a clean-cut ladder with John at its stead. Now, it’s a foot on the tightrope, with each alpha fighting to make sure it does not tip over. As long as you are happy, their footing holds. They feel it steady and still, and they breathe easy.

There is still something that has the ability to disturb the equilibrium your omega has maintained. You just never thought you’d see it again—or smell it.

Your omega knows what it is as soon as gets the scent—who it is. Familiar. Edgy. Dark chocolate and herbs, a scent that used to comfort you, and now one that makes you hot with disdain.

She looks older. Tired. Stressed. You see it on her face, and you smell it on her, too. She wants to take them away from you. Not one, not two, all of them—and she doesn’t want you with them when she does.

She waves her hand like she always does. She throws her orders around, expecting everyone to move as soon as she says to. She’s not prepared for the tension, and she’s not prepared for the reluctance she’s met with. Instead of four bloodthirsty dogs, she stares down at outright disobedience.

She’s disturbed a den—and she doesn’t understand what stands in her way.

You remember the first time you saw Kate Laswell. Freshly 18, nowhere to go, no family. The streets weren’t suitable for you; omegas are vulnerable on their own, and if you didn’t choose the pack you got swallowed up in, it would get chosen for you. The doors for the service were always open. That’s what they do, that’s what your country does—they break their people down to the bone, down to their knees, and then the only way to build themselves back up is to put shackles on their ankles and cuffs on their wrists. It is the circumstances your country thrives on. They build the walls that cage you, and then barely wrench the door open enough for you to breathe.

You will always be kept at the same level—you always beg them for more, and Kate is just one cog in the wheel that keeps the machine running. She saw your face, saw you for what you were. She promised you a life worth living, and then she pulled the rug out from underneath you. She put you in her pocket; she tucked you away for a rainy day. Her precious 141 was slipping away from her, and she played her cards.

You want her to hate the hand she is dealt.

You’re outside when she finds you. You’re sitting outside the mess hall, where the benches are plentiful, and you’re staring down at the pack of cigarettes you stole from one of Simon’s jackets. The lighter is in your other hand, but you can’t get yourself to try one.

“Didn’t peg you for a smoker.”

You keep your eyes down on the cigarettes. You smooth a thumb over the label, licking over your teeth. Despite everything else, her voice hasn’t changed.

“I’m not,” you say softly. “Just…”

When you look up, you meet Kate’s eyes, and those have not changed either. They are still looking right through you, just as they always have. You used to think you loved her, at one point. She always would check on you. Visit your base herself, call if she couldn’t—ask how things were, if your CO had given you the accommodations she ordered him to. She made you feel like you were her favorite, as if she cared for you differently in some way. Surely, she did not check up on others the way she did you. She had other soldiers she must have kept her eye on, other places her guidance was needed, but surely, you were someone special to her.

You had been around plenty of alphas before her, but she was the only one that used to make you feel like you couldn’t rightly breathe. The first time you felt your omega bobbing her head to the surface of where you stuffed her, it was when Kate stood just this close to you. There was a time when you thought maybe Kate was reserving you. When the time was right, she might you ask the question you always thought she would—the terrifying world she tried to protect you from, she’d really do it, she’d take you away, take you with her.

Grass is always greener, you suppose.

You swallow hard when she takes the pack of cigarettes from you and brings one of them to her lips. She steps closer to you, jutting her chin out, and you raise a hand to flick the lighter on and burn the end of it until she puffs out a breath of smoke.

“Nasty habit,” you say softly, and Kate just laughs bitterly.

“Got nastier vices, kitty.”

Your eyes flick back up to hers, and you narrow them stiffly. Maybe she thinks she’s being cute, but all you see when you look up at her is someone alone. Someone reaching. Someone desperate. There’s an edge that Kate Laswell is known best for, but you don’t really see it anymore.

You tilt your head up a little, relaxing your face. You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“How’d your meeting go?” You ask. She takes a long drag from the cigarette, blowing it out just to the side. You reach over and put a hand to the collar of her shirt, straightening it out. “Hope you got what you needed. I imagine you don’t wanna be here long.”

“Interesting you asked,” she says lowly. “I, in fact, didn’t get what I needed. I’m not leaving until I get it.”

“That’s too bad,” you tut. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You always do, don’t you?”

You have to lean back a little when she steps closer. Kate has always been someone who was more or less affectionate with you. Soft touches, shoulder squeezes, comforting words. You don’t remember what you used to see in her. You can no longer recall an instance of ease, a time when she was kind. You can only remember her words of rejection and her dismissiveness of your fear. Every warm memory has been replaced with her abandonment of you and her autonomy over you. Building you up just to knock you right back down.

You used to want her to want you. You used to pray that she would wake up one day and realize you would be content to live out a quiet life somewhere secluded, even if your relationship would be nothing but platonic.

You were wrong about her, and she was wrong about you.

“I don’t know what you’ve said to them,” Kate murmurs. “But I need this. You wouldn’t understand, but this isn’t…I’m not dealing with trivial matters, Kit. This is life and death. International security, and I’ve never expected you to understand where I was coming from, never wanted you to—”

“They said no,” you whisper, laughing a little. “They said no to you, didn’t they?” You tip your head back even further, staring up at the night sky, and you laugh again as you close your eyes.

“John said no.”

When you open your eyes again, Kate is sitting down, leaning her head back against the brick wall of the building behind you. She takes another drag of the cigarette, her face scrunching as she breathes it in deep. She flicks the ashes off the end of it, looking down at her feet.

John said no.

“John said no,” you echo, crossing your arms over your chest. “And Simon?”

“I expected that,” Kate shrugs. “A given. You did good there, Kit.” When you sit next to her, you notice her knee spread a little wider, just barely touching your own.

“But you weren’t prepared for John,” you finish for her.

“If anything, I can always count on John to separate…” Kate scoffs, “wants and needs from what needs to get done.”

“From what you want to get done.” You turn to look at her. “Did you ever think that…maybe this wasn’t meant for them? That they wouldn’t do this forever?”

“That’s a dangerous way to think for men like that,” Kate snaps. “You don’t want them out of here, living a civilian life.”

“The only person this is dangerous for is you,” you throw back at her. “Who else is going to clean up your fucking messes if not them?”

“Watch yourself, Kit.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

You don’t realize you’ve said it until it’s been said. You nearly cover your mouth, horrified by what you couldn’t stop yourself from spitting at her. You can feel your omega’s fingers in your mouth. She’s feeling around your gums, drying out your tongue, cackling as she shows her newfound teeth. She never thinks any harm will ever come to her—the hollowness of your scent gland is proof of that. She’s been claimed but something foul, by something mean, and now she’s not afraid to do whatever it is she wants to do. You thought she’d given you back, but she’s still here, still causing trouble, and now Kate is forcing herself onto you. Her fingers are tight around your throat, and now you’re pressed up against crumbling brick, gasping as she crowds your space and attacks your nose with the bitter, poisonous concoction that her anger emits into the air around you.

“Don’t forget yourself,” she spits. Her lips nearly brush against yours, and you breathe in mouthfuls of her scent. It’s achingly heady, and it tastes like it’s filling your lungs with smoke. There’s something else there that you can taste, however—something warm, spicy, something a little less sour. Acid turns to sweetness, and you laugh between gasps of breath as you grip her wrist and dig your nails into her to try and get her to loosen her grip. When she finally lets you go, you take in a deep, shaky breath of fresh air. The tension never leaves her shoulders, but she steps back, away from you, and you smooth a hand down your own neck and brush yourself off.

You adjust the collar of your shirt, looking down at your feet.

“You owe me,” you say, throat scratchy. “I’ll do it. Whatever you’re here to ask me to do, I’ll do it. But you…owe me.”

You slam the doors behind you as you leave her there. Cigarette still burning on the floor, light flickering overhead—when you turn to glare at her from over your shoulder, she’s still staring after you.

You wonder if she looked at you this way when she left you the first time.

You remember when you used to be wary of Simon—when just the sight of him made the blood under your skin heat and bubble just under the surface. What you can’t remember is why; he’s standing between your legs right now, head bent forward, forehead brushing against yours occasionally as you gear him up. You pick up a few rifle magazines from beside you, trying to ignore how warm he is even under his gloves as you fill up every pocket of his vest. You pick up a pair of scissors and tuck it into another pocket, tugging to make sure everything is secure before you start to load the first aid kid that’s on his front.

You close your eyes when he juts his head forward just enough, his masked face pressing into the side of your neck. Your hand slides up, over his chest, just to cup the back of his neck and hold him close. His nose touches just under your jaw, and you make a small sound as his big hands grip you under the thighs and tug you forward. Your knees widen to accommodate him, and you scrunch your face at the feeling of his gear digging harshly into your middle.

“What is it, Simon?” You whisper, and he just huffs. You lean your head back a little, giving him more room, and you squeeze your legs around his hips when you feel his tongue from under his mask, wetting where your scent gland is. “Simon—”

“Smell nice,” he tells you. You laugh a little, and when he stands up to stare back down at you, you give him a nervous smile. “But I know how y’r feeling. Can’t hide tha’ from me.”

You don’t say anything. There isn’t anything you want to say. He’s right; you are nervous. The last time you followed Simon out in the field, he nearly died, and so did you. Sometimes you wake up thinking your saliva is someone else’s blood; and when he isn’t in bed when you wake up, you think you’ll see him again, sprawled onto his back, a bullet too close to his head.

You feel his fingers on your throat, blinking up at him, and when you meet those dark eyes, you feel your bottom lip shake. You’ve never been scared, but you feel so out of yourself when you join them. The 141 aren’t called in when the job is easy—they only do the things that no one else has been able to do. Your training is tested every single time you join them. You’re not like them; you cannot turn everything off. Simon is someone else on the other side. Johnny is fucking crazy. Gaz goes somewhere else in his head, and you don’t always recognize his voice. John—always level-headed, that one, but his gentleness with you is nothing short of an exception. These aren’t good men. They’re war criminals with badges.

“Ya don’t have ta come,” Simon says lowly. “I could ask Price, you—”

“No—!” You sit up straighter, your hand gripping his wrist to keep him close. You shake your head adamantly, squeezing his arm. “No, that’s…it would be worse.”

“Worse?”

“Who the fuck else is gonna watch your six?” You ask. “You suck at it.”

Simon laughs, from deep in his chest, and you press your lips against his from over his mask.

“Oi—kitty,” he murmurs, tilting your head back. He kisses you from under the mask, a soft peck through the fabric that leaves you with a light stomach. His attention is always too much and not enough. “Tha’s never gonna happen again, ya hear me?” He shakes his head. “Didn’t do my fuckin’ job tha’ day. Won’t be like tha’ anymore. I have you.” Simon kisses you again, pinching your chin, and you don’t let him move away. “My omega. Mine.”

“Wheels up in 15, lovebirds.”

Simon stops you from going too far when you hop down from the table. He tugs on your tact vest, making sure it’s tight enough, and then he picks up your helmet to fit it over your head. He picks up your sidearm next, releasing the magazine to make sure it’s full before hitting it back inside and loading the chamber. He bends to secure it in your thigh holster, and then he’s tugging on the straps of it, making sure it’s not loose around your leg. You can’t hold in your smile anymore when he stands and reaches under your chin to buckle your helmet.

There’s no reason to be scared. Not around him, not underneath him, and certainly not under his command. Maybe you’d step in front of a bullet for him—maybe you’d throw yourself in front of whatever someone tossed his way, but he would do the same for you. You don’t doubt that. You don’t think there’s anything someone could do to you that he wouldn’t give back to them much worse.

Simon’s love isn’t typical. It’s not sweet, nor does it fit inside its confines. He isn’t violent at his core, but it’s a response ingrained in him. Possessive, sick, overbearing to a fault—he’s too much all the time, but maybe it’s because Simon’s never been allowed to ever love anything without terms.

Everything has always been decided for him. How long he got to play as a boy. How tight he could hug his mother. How high he could raise his voice, how big he was allowed to grow, how he must behave once he presented. He’s always been too much, and he’s always been told what to do, so to have this thing, this one thing that could belong to him—who the fuck are they or you or anyone else allowed to tell him how to feel? How could anyone tell him the pedestal he puts you on is too high? Too warm? Too comfortable?

He’s died twice before in his life, but it wasn’t enough to keep him buried. Now he’s here, and he’s with you, and it wasn’t a coincidence. Fate handed you over, but by sheer will, he will keep you, and you will stay here, rooted to this spot, to the space between love and hatred and what overwhelms you and what lives inside of you between the hollow of your ribs. There’s a heart that beats there, too fast, too hard, knocking against the bones, and whenever Simon is near, it aches. You are bonded for life. Even if you lose him, you’ll never want another, not in the same way. It’s only ever been Simon that’s ever told you that it’s okay to be what you are; you cannot change your anatomy, you have to understand it at its most basic level and learn the rhythm of every song it sings.

I am not your enemy. I am your best friend. I will do things for you that no one else can do, I can hear the things you can’t tell anyone else, I’m the thing between what you really are and what you’ve always wanted to be, I know you, I know you, I know you—

“You trust me?” Simon asks. The ramp of the jet lowers, clattering against the tarmac, and he fits his thumb under your chin to bring your eyes back to him.

“Yes.” You smile up at him, and his thumb falls to touch the imprint of his teeth that’s there, right under your shirt. Only when he feels the dip where his canines have marked you does he look into your eyes again. Dark. Honest. Content. “Yes, I trust you, Simon.”

Simon drops his head, and you flutter your lashes when his helmet hits yours.

“On me, then, kitty.”

Simon is the thing that hides in the dark. The dark figure at the wrong end of a gun. He is the silhouette that takes the shape of your own shadow, and he is the terrible monster that hides under your bed; and yet, here you are, falling into step with him. It is not your omega that carries your feet—it is yourself, you, the one you’re hyper-aware of, the side of yourself that you have known for too long and neglected because you were taught the very worst enemy was the one inside of your own head.

If she was so bad, you don’t know why Simon’s hand would feel so warm in yours. If she was so terrible, you don’t know what makes his eyes so difficult to look away from. If she was so horrible to you, you don’t know why Simon is standing over a man that pointed his gun at you and forcing a blade so deep into his throat that the tip dents against the concrete.

It’s not that bad. Simon’s name will forever live in you, in the shape of his teeth under your ear.

Simon looks at you when he wrenches his blade back out, blood against the sharp edge. He lifts it to his face, and your lips part when he wipes it against the mouth of his mask, painting the skull teeth red.

No, it isn’t so bad. She’s smiling. No, you are. You’re one and the same, and you know her the same way you know yourself. She’s home, tucked into the warm places you know you’ll keep her, and you—

Well.

You’re right where you’re supposed to be.

[darkbluekies]

01:34

Yandere!mafia oc x (mention of) reader

Warnings: foul language, violence, killing, guns, mentions of paying for company, cheating

He can't help but wonder if he really heard right, but he quietly, discreetly, removes his wedding ring, placing it in his pocket.

"Say that again?"

The man gives off a smirk that sends a wave of boiling fire through Silas’s body.

"I said that your spouse is an easy whore who'd do anything for some dick."

Silas hadn't misheard. Before the man has the time to finish his sentence, Silas has launched a blow to his face. Hard enough to fold the man in half. Silas shakes the bruising fist who made contact with his face, realizing he hit harder than he thought, but not harder than intended.

"And you'd know, wouldn't you?" Silas says, seeing the mans eyes widen ever so slightly. "Yeah, don't you think I've seen you creep around those parts of the city? With women who, in reality, wouldn't touch you? Does your wife know? Your kids? Or do they think daddy dearest is the best guy in the world?"

"You—"

"Before you speak a single syllable about my spouse, you should take a look at yourself. Mirror's truthful, isn't it?"

The man stumbles up on his feet, but before he can do anything, Silas’s grabs him by the collar.

"Killing you would actually do everyone a favor", he mutters. "Your wife deserves someone better than a scumbag who pays for the company of women who also deserve more. And your kids? Don't even get me started."

Silas throws the man onto the hard stone and pulls out a gun from his belt. The man on the ground trembles, pathetically trying to beg for his life, but Silas will hear none of it. The second he had started talking about you, his most perfect darling, his fate was already sealed at the hands of Silas.

As soon as the lifeless body falls to the side, Silas puts the gun back and takes out his wedding ring, placing it back on the rightous finger.

"I'd never get my wedding ring dirty with blood of unworthy", he tells SIC who gives him a curious look. "It's beneath me."

[digitald0rk]

TEAR YOU APART

pairing : sinister! mark grayson x afab! florist reader.

synopsis : in which mark discovers your dirty little secret and decides to help you recreate it in real time.

(18+) warnings : kidnapping. nasty petty perv mark. allusions to cannibalism. mention of kinda gory violence. hair pulling. biting. mean name calling duh. giving each other head. p in v unprotected sex. creampies. marathon sex as in multiple orgasms. squirting. overstimulation . . . ++ just really nasty smut lol [ all consentual though! you two are freaks like in capital FREAKS ]

w.c : 5.5k.

notes : erm. yeah idk what possessed me to write this but lemme know what you think ! it's my first time writing smut this long and detailed [ my search history is crazy rn lol ]. let's just say this takes place in sinister mark's universe before he starts acting like a murder machine and all, so yeah :] again interactions are always appreciated, also do let me know if you think there's any warning i should add!

taglist : @vm4879bb-blog [ for the others, i wasn't sure if you guys would be okay being tagged in a fic like this so i didn't, let me know if you wanna be added tho :p ]

now on ao3 too!

he's going to kill something, or someone.

“oh yeah this? my boyfriend got it for me!”

he hears you talk about him, your lover, everyday and it annoys him deeply, the subtle furrow of his eyebrows barely noticeable but definitely there — sometimes a twitch of his eye, clear cracks in his carefully constructed facade give away his irritation if you choose to look closely.

“that reminds me, this one time he-”

he loves that pretty voice of yours — dare he say, he's grown fond of it, but he wants to shut you up forever whenever your boyfriend's name leaves your lips.

mark wants his name to be on your tongue — to be said with the same love and fondness that accompanies the name of your lover.

he tried, he really did, to give you signs — a squeeze of your hand there, a stare that can practically undress you on its own. but it seems you're oblivious to it all, or you're playing hard to get, either way his patience is running thin.

he'll get what he wants. just you wait.

every time he visits your little shop, it smells like flowers mixed with your perfume, that sweet and sugary scent with just a hint of citrus — he had asked you about the perfume you wore during his third visit, bought it the same day so he could finally get off because his imagination wasn't enough at this point, that kept him somewhat satisfied for a bit, but it wasn't nearly enough.

so when he stopped by next time, not even buying flowers to play along with whatever this is, he asked you, “where do you buy your clothes?”

you blink a couple times, clearly taken aback back by the sudden question but nonetheless, answer him — although you're not quite sure what to make of his disheveled hair and blown out pupils.

here he is, acting like a feral dog in heat, buying anything and everything that he can at the shops you frequent that resembles your clothes. and when he's back at home, he's spraying them with the perfume you always wear, rutting like a madman into the mattress as he mouths at a pink shirt — the same one you own and the one you were wearing when he first saw you, his drool leaking and staining the shirt as he holds it close to his mouth and closing his eyes, your scent surrounding him as he suckles on the chest area of the shirt, imagining it's your chest instead which has him groaning and cumming in his pants. that keeps him going for another week or so.

next thing he knows, he's acting on pure instinct and his desires — snapping photos of your panties underneath your little skirts like a fucking pervert, looking them up online so he could order them and make a mess of them. and he does, he stains each and everyone of those panties with his hot, thick cum and sometimes his spit when he imagines eating your pretty pussy out. his desires however continue to only grow.

he visits your little shop, like he always does, mentally preparing himself to not grab your throat and shove you down to make you shut up if he hears about your stupid boyfriend again.

he's being nice, can't you see? you should be thankful.

mark sees a new ring on your finger, the small silver zircon on it shining underneath the sunlight, he wonders if it's another gift from your boyfriend.

the thought leaves a bitter taste behind, regardless, he maintains his usual aloof facade, waiting for you to finish wrapping up his bouquet that he's going to end up tossing away the next day — just like the other flowers he's bought from you, they don't compare to you or your beauty, he wants you, a flower that won't rot away once he's done playing with it.

surprisingly, you don't mention the name of a certain man who he wants dead and buried six feet deep but he doesn't comment on it, in fact, a small barely imperceptible smile tugs at his lips.

he's just about to leave your little flower heaven when he hears something that makes his heart, uncharacteristically skip a beat.

“yeah i heard, i’m so sorry,” a voice, which he recognizes as your friend speaks softly, sympathetically.

“yeah, i don't know what i was thinking,” you start, “the signs were there, i just never thought he'd cheat like that,” you blink away the forming tears, “i trusted him.”

he stops dead in his tracks. that bastard cheated on you? he'll make him pay for being the reason you cry, although your tears do make his cock twitch in his pants. he'll lick them off of your face if you let him, god he really wants to.

should he simply keep your boyfriend to torture? he's sure he could lure you in with it, after all you are way too sweet for your own good.

he'll slowly tear each of his limbs apart, making sure the man hears his bones cracking and skin ripping, he'll make that fucker bleed to death. hell, he'd even record those painful, agonizing sounds that your ex would cry out, he's sure you'd cry more if he lets you hear them, maybe he just wants to see you cry — though he's sure you'll do that when you choke on his cock.

he snaps out of his little fantasy when the bell rings, indicating the opening of the door — another customer in, he sighs. he's losing it, he's not sure how much he can withstand not having you with him. but he's trying, for you.

for the sweetest girl who he can't wait to devour.

with his restraint hanging on by a thread, he steps out of your shop, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists by his sides. he needs to have you.

and that restraint finally snaps the next day when he discovers that his favorite florist is a fucking freak.

as you're tending to customers — clearly overwhelmed by their number as valentine’s day is approaching and flowers are definitely a safe option for your partner, his eyes stay locked on your laptop's screen that you had put on one of the small tables, lid only half closed, his eyes frantically scan over some of the words as he fully opens the screen, trying to stay out of your vision.

he quickly decides to go somewhere where there aren't so many people so he could take a look inside his sweet girl's sick mind. and with that he skillfully slips outside — he feels awfully excited, sneaking into the small bathroom of some shop.

and with each click of the cursor and another tab opening, he learns your most depraved, disgusting fantasies — the kind of porn you're into, your kinks and fetishes, the smut you read, all of it.

he even stumbles upon a small blog you run, oh now we're talking. each lewd image or post you've reblogged, followed by some words of “wish that was me rn”, has him hard. and these date back before your break up, meaning your boyfriend was definitely not keeping you satisfied and that has him grinning like a maniac.

oh he'll give you what you want.

he shamelessly palms himself when he finds your dairy entry with his name, rambling about how you feel guilty fantasizing about him ruining you. he would've cum right then and there if it weren't for the knocking on the door, “hey man, you mind hurrying it up?”

oh right he's still in a bathroom and not in you, like he should be.

he manages to sneak your laptop back in, thanking the absurd amount of customers mentally which helped him go in and out without raising suspicion.

he can't take it anymore, it's only been a couple hours since he's discovered your filthy secret and also saw you tearing up earlier because of that asshole who broke your heart.

he knows he's a hypocrite — he doesn't care for your dumb feelings and your big heart, okay well maybe that's a lie.

it is a lie.

and there are definitely these feelings that he refuses to acknowledge but still, the only reason why you should be crying is because of him fucking your brains out.

and so he waits, like a predator waiting to pounce — he holds his breath, watching as the sun sets and you lock up your shop, ready to go home and get some sleep but your plans are interrupted as a hand sneaks up behind you with some sort of cloth, muffling your panicked noises and before you know it you're knocked out.

it takes you hours to gain your consciousness back, eyes all heavy and mind disoriented you blink, once. then twice, your eyes widen and your mouth suddenly feels too dry. you're all tied up to a cold hard metal chair, you're only in your bra and panties, the rope is too tight, it's constricting and will definitely leave behind angry marks on your skin.

standing before you is one of your regular customers, mark. you stare at him, dumbfounded — eyes darting around to look for an escape okay to see a single door, desk and some chairs, panic settles in your bones, the coldness of the room does nothing to soothe your nerves.

you mindlessly try to shift around, a desperate attempt that leaves you wincing in pain — the friction of the thick black rope burning against your skin.

you try to speak, but nothing comes out, only a small choked sob — looking at him with those wide eyes which are brimming with tears that are oh so close to spilling and staining your cheeks, you look utterly helpless. the sight alone makes him excited.

he takes a deep breath, he wants to take his time with you, savor you. but goddamnit, if you keep looking at him like that he's sure he'll end up doing the opposite of that.

“open your mouth,” he commands, leaving no room for argument and you hate the way it sends a shiver down your spine and a throb to your core. 

you hesitantly open your mouth, with his back turned to you — doing god knows what, you try screaming for help, it is a weak attempt that makes him chuckle, “no one's going to hear you sweetheart,” he coos mockingly, “i suggest you play along if you wish to live.”

he's not joking, his voice makes it clear. 

so you reluctantly keep your mouth opened, hot tears falling down — lucky for you, he's being nice, at least for now because he brings a glass of water, holding your jaw and pouring the water in your mouth, some of it spills, the coldness of it on your bare skin making you shiver — but you swallow all he gives hastily, hoping it really is just water.

you sputter a bit of the water out onto him in surprise when he licks a stream of you tears away, his tongue hot against your skin and his spit leaving a shiny trail on your cheek. scared, that he'll hurt you because of what you've just done, you close your eyes shut as if the mere action would actually rewind back time and do something for you.

he laughs, loudly.

god, you're adorable. he could just eat you up.

“are you scared of me?” he asks, knowing damn well it's a pointless question but the genuine fear in your eyes has him reeling with joy and a desire only you, his sweetheart, can fulfill.

he puts the now empty glass of water back on a small table, “you know, you look real pretty like this,” he starts, dragging a chair to sit across you, “but i bet you'd look real pretty without anything on.”

you don't answer, you don't know how to. your eyes are still looking around the big room for any exits, any openings — he smiles at your desperation, it's cute really.

“or maybe you'd look even prettier with some blood on you hm?” his tone although amused is firm enough to leave you unsure if he's being serious or not, he drags a finger across your belly, “what if i make a cut right here?”

you immediately shake your head, trying to speak but he shuts you up by pinching one of your hard nipples through your bra, your protests die down into a small whimper — the sound has him grinning from ear to ear.

his eyes glint with something sinister that has you both scared and turned on. “i know you want this slut,” he holds your jaw harshly.

shame settles in your bones as you realize he's right.

“don't play coy sweet girl i saw all of it,” when you give him a confused look, he continues, “that little blog of yours, that disgusting shit you're into.”

oh fuck.

he sees the look of absolute horror mixed with embarrassment on your face and he tuts like he's disappointed, “dirty girl,” like he isn't the one who literally kidnapped you here.

“i don't know what you're talking about,” you both know you're lying, but sure he'll play along if that's what you want — he's feeling good today.

he reaches for your bag and rips it open — a clear display of who's still in charge here and how he definitely could kill you in an instant.

mark opens your laptop and asks you the password. you don't tell him at first as if that would change anything.

“i asked you a simple question,” he walks closer to you, grips your shoulder hard enough to make you regret your words, “or do i need to rip something else for you to answer me hm?” his grip tightens and you know he's not playing around, your voice shakes as you give him the four number pin, breathing heavily when he lets go of his hard bruising grip on your shoulder.

“good girl,” fuck him, he's doing this on purpose now! and the smug look on his face only confirms your suspicions.

he shows you the deepest, filthiest fantasies of yours that you keep tucked in your laptop, away from the world.

“what's wrong? don't pretend you're not dripping wet right now.”

again, he's not wrong.

“why are you doing this?” you ask him, still struggling a bit against the ropes that bind you.

“i wanna give you what you want,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. he also wants to make you forget about your ex boyfriend, but he's not admitting that, jealousy is a weakness. and one that he suffers from immensely.

“you what-”

“drop the act,” he huffs, irritation visible in the way his eyebrows furrow. “just admit it already. you're a sick disgusting pervert who goes prancing around like she's not thinking of having her holes filled,” he tugs at your hair to keep your head up, his eyes dark with lust boring right into yours.

“are you crazy? you fucking kidnapped-”

he cuts you off again, “so you don't want this?”

silence.

“i’ll untie you right now and let you leave, just tell me you want to leave.”

silence, again.

you're not fooling anybody.

“yeah that's what i thought,” he let's go of your hair, “the safe word is-” he mutters your ex’s name and before you can even comment on the sheer absurdity of it all, he's ripping your panties away from your throbbing pussy, groaning at the sight of your glistening wet folds, all needy just for him.

he quickly pockets the ripped panties. pervert.

“look at this needy cunt, all for me hm?” he muses aloud, spreading your legs apart and breaking apart the ropes that tried to interfere with his ministrations. he shakily inhales when he sees your arousal slowly spill out — you're so fucking wet. his heated gaze leaving goosebumps on your skin.

he presses a chaste kiss to your folds, practically salivating as he breathes you in — he's gonna end up cumming in his pants, he's dreamt of this exact moment for so long.

he gathers a considerable amount of saliva in his mouth before spitting it onto your neglected cunt which twitches at the action, the sight is downright filthy and it makes you moan.

he wastes no time — getting on his knees, licking a strip up your slit before devouring your pussy like a man starved for days, shamelessly rutting into the chair you're sitting on at your taste. you taste so good, he wants to drown in it.

he's messy and loud, your hands are still tied behind your back so you can't push his head away and grip his hair when he attacks your clit with his tongue, sucking on it relentlessly. your hips lift up and buck into his face, your noises only getting louder as he fucks his tongue into your warm wet hole. he moans at the feeling of your thighs squeezing around his head and nearly suffocating him — your walls clenching around his tongue as you cry out his name in utter pleasure.

he shoves two of his thick fingers in without any warning — a surprised small squeal leaving your lips, while his tongue works in torturous circles around your sensitive bundle of nerves and eagerly licking between your folds. your pretty whimpers are music to his ears.

clearly overwhelmed with pleasure, you make a pathetic attempt to squirm away from his touch, which earns you a harsh smack to your thigh followed by a bite — his teeth dig into your flesh, leaving behind bruising marks that will sting for days, the line between pain and pleasure blurring.

a familiar feeling settles in your belly, it only builds up as he continues to go down on you. “mark! mark! i'm i’m-” you try warning him, but his fingers only speed up, he sucks harshly on your clit, holding your hips down when you cum — your body shaking, crying out his name oh so sweetly, he wants to hear it again and again, until the only word you know is his name.

he doesn't pull away from your cunt though, drinking up every bit of your release and arousal that you offer — holding you down and forcing you to submit to the relentless pleasure he's giving you, moaning into your pussy like he's having the best meal of his life.

he doesn't let you rest, inserting another finger in — easily massaging that sweet spot that you can't reach as easily as he does.

“oh fuck!” you whine out loud, when he keeps overstimulating your poor pussy, the squelching wet noises only increasing as he eats you out. he loves the way your brain is turning to mush, mindlessly babbling his name along with your sweet noises.

and when you cum again, he still doesn't stop. 

you've lost count of how many orgasms you've had at this point, body too sensitive and shaking almost like a leaf.

with eyes brimming with seemingly never ending tears, vision practically blurry from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body, it doesn't take him long to bring you to the edge again — except this time you end up squirting all over his pretty face, a surprised noise leaves your mouth as your body jolts hardly.

he finally pulls away. a small moan leaves your lips as you take in the sight in front of you.

mark grayson, on his knees, face all wet and drenched in your juices and his spit, breathing heavily — looking at you like he's going to eat you alive.

he's breathing really heavily, your dazed state makes it hard for you to comprehend things but you can clearly see the big wet spot on his pants. he came — from just eating you out.

“messy fucking slut,” he spanks your already oversensitive pussy making you hiss and cry out, body still quivering and twitching from that intense release.

he pushes your legs apart again, spreading your pussy open for him to see, he mutters a curse under his breath as he sees remnants of your release clinging onto the sensitive skin. he needs to get up before he ends up eating you out — as much as he would love to do that, he can't wait much longer, he needs to be buried inside that sweet cunt of yours and make you see stars.

he gets up from his knees. grabbing your hair, mark makes you lick his face clean, you taste yourself on his face and feel yourself getting worked up again. “good fucking girl, gonna put that mouth to better use, just you wait,” his hand reaches down to pinch your clit, laughing when you let out a small pained noise.

he hastily tears away your bra, the fabric discarded somewhere on the cold floor. he pinches and lightly grazes his nails against the perked up sensitive buds, making you squirm and let out small whimpers — it stings, but it also gets you insanely wet.

“look at that, pretty pussy’s practically begging to be fucked,” he bites down on your shoulder, a pained groan escapes your mouth and he bites harder, pulling away to admire the mark his teeth left.

you barely have time to look at the new addition of marks he's left on your body so far, before he's untying your hands behind your back, taking your wrists into his and pulling you down. you stumble a bit at the harsh tug — legs practically jelly from all those orgasms.

he draws you closer by your arms, manhandling you easily so you're sitting in between his open legs — the cold floor against your warm body.

“take it off,” he commands, gesturing to his pants. you hesitantly take them off, his ruined boxers coming into vision.

he's an impatient man, he always gets what he wants.

mark grabs a fistful of your hair and forces your head down onto his clothed — aching cock, making his impatience very clear.

“dumb bitch, can't do anything herself,” his tone demeaning, shutting up your protests by shoving his thumb in your mouth. he lifts his hips up to finally free himself of his boxers, his cock standing up — bobbing and leaking with pre. you gulp, eyes flitting back over to his face.

he lets out a small moan as you gather some of your saliva to spit on his hard cock, licking teasingly up his length over one of his prominent veins.

“don't be a fucking tease,” he takes ahold of your jaw harshly, tugging your tongue out before you can close your mouth — that he can't wait to be in and spits on your tongue, making you swallow it, before shoving you back a bit.

he pushes your hair out of your face so he could watch you better, the gesture so sweet and gentle — it makes you almost forget how mean he's been.

you slowly start pushing his length into your mouth, “thaaat's right, take it like the good slut you are,” his words die down into a groan as he feels your tongue swirl around his sensitive tip.

he's being nice for once, letting you take your time, your head bobs up and down as you suck him off while your hands jerk the rest of his cock that you can't fit in your mouth, tongue working against his sensitive spots.

but your mouth feels so good, so warm, so wet — his hips jerk up involuntarily, making you gag and tear up at the burn you feel at the back of your throat.

you look so pretty like this, those pretty lips wrapped around his cock, eyes glassy — don't blame him for wanting to ruin you when you look like that.

he pulls himself out of your mouth slightly — just to make sure he doesn't end up cumming too soon, before shoving himself back in, moaning in pleasure at the sensations he feels. you keep sucking, forcing all of him in your mouth, almost choking on his cock, some drool leaking out of the corners of your mouth, but it's worth it — worth those small whimpers and grunts he lets out, ones he can't hold back because of how good he feels right now, all because of you.

and when your hand reaches down to lightly toy with his balls, cupping them, he shivers and lets out a low moan of your name, without a proper warning his cock twitches in your mouth and he cums, hard — flooding your mouth with his thick salty release.

you try to swallow as much as you can but it's too much, however, mark being the fucking asshole he is, forces your head back down on his twitching cock and pinches your nose shut making it hard to breathe.

he breaks into a full blown laugh. oh how he loves the way your eyes water up — that panicked expression on your face as you struggle to breathe, some of his cum leaking out your pretty mouth, squirming and still trying to push him away. it only turns him on more, “it's rude to talk with your mouthful,” he quips, holding your gaze.

he lets you go finally and you pull him out of your mouth quickly, throat already feeling sore — you cough, wiping away his cum and your spit from your face with the back of your hand.

“you should've seen the look on your face,” he chuckles darkly — clearly pleased with himself, shifting closer to you to pin you down, wasting no time shoving his tongue in your mouth, messily kissing you. he lets you pull off his shirt, his hips buck a little when you start feeling him up.

he can taste himself on your tongue and god that only adds to his growing arousal.

he pulls away a little so he can start biting and sucking down your neck, his other hand sneaking down to tease your pussy — tracing circles onto your clit, he grinds against you, “gonna fucking ruin you for everyone else,” he bites your earlobe, tugging on it, his fingers moving to tease your other hole, “gonna make sure this fucking pussy is always full of me,” he slaps your pussy, making you cry out his name.

he quickly aligns himself with your wet entrance, taking a deep breath before nudging his tip in — shoving it all in one go, making you tremble in both pain and pleasure that'll build over time, “come on i know you can take it, isn't this what you wanted?” he coos mockingly, pressing sloppy wet kisses to your face, licking your face like some fucking dog, leaving your face covered in his spit.

as soon as your muscles relax the tiniest bit he's thrusting in and out of you like a madman — you yelp loudly, holding onto him for dear life, nails digging into his back.

“fuck- oh my god!”

the only sounds in the room are the fast wet sounds of him thrusting into you, your pussy squelching loudly at the action and your combined moans and whines.

your gummy walls clench around him harder with each thrust, his cock hitting that sweet spot so well it has you seeing stars, all you can think about is him.

“oh fuck,” he grunts into your ear when he feels you tighten around him, gripping him like a vice, “think she needs to be filled all nice and warm with my cum, don't you agree baby?” he accentuates each word with a harsh thrust, relishing the way your body writhes under him.

you nod mindlessly, desperate for that sweet release more than anything.

“aww what's wrong?” he leans down to suck on one of your nipples, pinching and toying with the other one — a choked out sob leaves your lips, you feel tears pooling in your eyes, you clench around him even harder, desperate to milk him for all he's worth. he lets out a whine when he sees the outline of his cock in your belly going in and out, fuck he's going to cum.

the movement his hips falter at the feeling of your pussy gripping him tightly, “oh fuck,” he breathes heavily, muscles tensing up a bit. he pulls out, moving you on your stomach, giving your ass an appreciative spank when you arch your back for him.

“guess she answered for you hm?”, he muses — pumping himself a few times before settling back into your warm needy cunt, “fucked too dumb to answer but can still arch your back like a needy whore? you're so fucking pathetic,” he licks over the opening of your little hole, an arm coming around to hold you in a headlock that has your vision blurry — in the best way possible. getting impatient, you try to fuck yourself back onto his length but he doesn't let you.

“nasty girl, i can feel you clenching around me” spank “you like it when i’m being mean hm?” spank “oh right you can't answer,” spank “not a thought behind those pretty eyes hm?” spank “don't worry, you don't have to think at all, you wouldn't have to, when i’m done with you.”

he starts rutting into you again, his filthy mouth doesn't stop as he dicks you down like his life depends on it. his arm around your neck — squeezing, leaving you dizzy as he pounds into you from behind like he's in heat, you've given up on trying to control your noises. he sneaks a hand down to pinch and toy with your clit — making your walls clench and toes curl and you cum for the nth time with almost a scream of his name, your body shakes vigorously as a result of your intense orgasm.

it doesn't take long for him to cum as well, especially with you screaming his name like that. with a few more sloppy thrusts he fills you up with his warm sticky white release, head thrown back as a soft whimper of your name is uttered out of his mouth.

breathing heavily, he makes sure to not waste a single drop — once again buries himself as deep as he can, admiring all the various marks that he has littered your skin with.

he pulls out after awhile, keeping your thighs apart with his rough calloused hands so he can see the sight of his cum mixed with yours leak out of your hole, shit, he's getting hard again.

he's honestly not sure if you can keep up — he doesn't want to end up hurting you- well you're his toy, nothing more than that he doesn't care if he hurts you, he really doesn't.

he wants to break you, ruin you. yeah, that's it.

his eyes definitely do not soften the slightest bit as he takes in your disheveled state, back still arched prettily for him, your ass red from all his spanking, skin battered with various marks, a proof of the intense passionate sex you two had.

but when you crane your head back, looking at him, “I can take it,” you're still trying to catch your breath, wincing a bit as you shift your body around, “give it to me mark,” you sound so sweet — swaying your hips side to side to make him give in and fill you up again.

you want him to break you.

and he does just that.

again and again, until he's sure your cunt remembers each vein and curve of his cock, stuffing your hole full to the brim each time.

so when your body finally gives out — almost passing out after another orgasm that he pulls out from you, lying on top of the only desk in the room as he drills into your cunt, he stops. pulling out and painting your tits with his release with a loud groan, his hair is sticking up in all different directions from the way you've kept pulling on it, body coated in a sheen layer of sweat — shaking as his chest heaves unevenly with each breath he takes just like yours.

he watches as your eyes close shut and you drift into a light slumber after a few minutes. his heart beating weirdly in an erratic manner, he chalks it up to the sex, although he has to admit he finds your sleepy face quite adorable, he may or may not want to hear that giggle again — the one you let out when he ended up cumming a little too fast when you praised him.

but he'll think about that when his face is not buried between your thighs, tongue sinking back into your folds — he can't get enough of you.

and with the way you whimper loudly, tugging on his hair oh so eagerly.

it seems like you can't get enough of him either.

so he'll indulge you to your heart’s content — maybe he'll save that video of him torturing your ex boyfriend and leaving him to die in a ditch for some other day.

© digitald0rk 2025. do not steal, repost or translate any of my work. want more? click here ★

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Meant To Be

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> When you find yourself transported to the future, you begin to question if you were always meant to be here.

Disclaimer: Kinda open ended, platonic!Steve x reader, fluff, angst, Reader comes from the 40s, MJ scaring people, oblivious idiots, swearing, mentions of violence. Not Proof Read.

You groaned as you hit the solid ground. “Oh, I am gonna kill Howard.”

Coughing a little before rolling onto your front to try and stand, you took a look around you. 

“Where the fuck-”

As you brushed some dust from your skirt, a loud blaring alarm sounded overhead. You were quick to cover your ears before trying to find an exit. What was the wager that Howard had set something on fire again?

But before you could call out, the floor beneath you fell open and you went sliding down. A scream let itself out from your lungs, only stopping just before you landed and rolled onto a pristine white floor. 

“Jarvis, who is she?”

Once again, you groaned. You held your head, keeping your eyes closed. “For god’s sake, Howard. You know who I am. Don’t pull that bullshit with - ow - me.”

As you stood on your feet, you looked around you again. The whole room was white. Where the hell were you?

“Jarvis?”

You recognised the name, but not the voice that said his name. 

Slowly turning around, you started to realise where you were. It wasn’t like any you were used to but you were, in fact, in a cell. 

“I can’t seem to find an ID for her from this century.”

“This century?”

You looked through the glass. “Where’s Howard?”

The man looked right at you. “I ask the questions here.”

“Considering I’ve just landed who the fuck knows where, I’d say I’m the one who should be asking questions. How much did he pay you? Thirty, forty bucks?” 

“Forty bucks?”

The man seemed disgusted. 

“What? Keep Y/n distracted so he can run around town again? Just so you know, if I don’t kick his ass, Peggy will.”

“Stark! What the hell is going on?”

Tony watched as you lit up a little at the voice coming down the hall. 

“Steve?!” You called out. 

Tony had already been confused when he got an alert from Jarvis that someone had broken into the facility. Then he was confused even more when you asked for Howard. But now? Now he was more confused than ever. 

“Steve!? Oh, thank god. Tell this moron to let me out. Howard’s probably ten seconds away from setting the whole building on fire. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Tony turned to his side and took a long look at Steve. He looked…pale. Shocked, to say the least. Like someone had just stuck a knife into his heart and he was watching himself bleed out. 

“Y/n?”

“You know her?” Tony asked quietly. 

You laughed. “What? Did Howard pay you, too? Just so you know, once I’ve kicked his ass, I’m gonna have Peggy kick yours.”

Steve turned towards Tony with a slightly heated gaze. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. She just showed up here. Who is she?”

Reading the room, you took a few steps forward. Something told you that this wasn’t just a prank. “Steve, what’s going on?”

“Y/n?”

���Yes?”

Steve felt the breath leave his lungs. “What…What year is it?”

You chuckled. This game again?

“1944.”

Steve couldn’t breathe. 

“Sir, though I’m not quite sure how it’s possible. I do believe this is Agent Y/n Y/l/n. Born in 1921, she went missing the summer before Sargent Barnes fell from the train.”

That sentence made you panic a little. “Okay, Jarvis! Howard, I get it. You can call it off now!”

“Call what off?” 

Steve ignored Tony for a few moments. “Y/n, I think you’re gonna wanna sit down.”

“Steve, what’s going on?”

“Tony, open the doors.”

He didn’t think twice and the glass door slid away and behind the panel, letting Steve inside. 

“Steve?”

He didn’t say anything. He just hugged you. Tight. Like he’d waited years to do so. So, you hugged him back. “Steve, you’re scaring me now. What’s going on? Where’s Howard? I swear to god if this is some-”

Steve leaned back and shook his head. “No, this isn’t…it’s not a joke.”

You stepped back a little and took in the two men in front of you. Although he wasn’t Howard, he did have a funny resemblance to him. And Steve…the last time you saw him…he’d been wearing his uniform. Not a blue button down and a pair of jeans. 

“You should probably come with us.”

Less than ten minutes later you were sitting in Tony’s lab. Some kind of floating projector showed different images and other things. All the while, you could feel Steve’s eyes burning a hole into the side of your head. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Being in the underground bunker. Howard’s testing some new chemical weapons. It’s meant to melt weaponry from the inside. Steve, what happened? Jarvis…s’voice…he said Bucky fell. Did we lose?”

Steve shook his head, taking your hand in his. “No. The war…we won the war. But…Hydra…they captured Bucky. We all thought…I thought he was dead. I thought you were dead.”

You couldn’t do anything else but laugh, though it wasn’t happy. “Steve, I was with you less than twenty minutes ago. And Howard-”

“Howard’s dead.”

“Tony.” Steve scolded. 

“What?”

You looked back at Steve, then at Tony. 

“Y/n, this is Tony. Howard’s son.”

You heard yourself gasp a little. But before you could understand what the hell was going on, the doors across the lab swung open. 

“Mr Stark! I’ve finally figured it out! If I just change the chemical- oh. Hello.”

You looked over at the young boy who couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. 

“Y/n, this is Peter. Peter, this is-”

“Holy shit, you’re Y/n Y/l/n.”

Both Tony and Steve looked at Peter. “You know her?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, MJ goes on about her all the time. MJ’s my girlfriend, by the way and she thinks you're, like, super cool. But- hey. Wait a minute. How can you be here?”

“I’ve been asking myself that same question.”

“Mr Stark?”

Tony sighed. “Best we can figure is that my old man went wrong and somehow…”

“Invented time travel?” Peter finished. 

Tony nodded, as did you. 

“Sounds like Howard.”

“Maybe you should call Scott?”

“Why Scott?”

Peter shrugged. “I was gonna suggest Hank but I didn’t think you two are still talking since the burrito fiasco in the cafe the other week.”

Steve just looked at Tony and it took a few minutes but the Stark kid threw his head back before grumbling and pulling out his phone. “Fine.”

“He’s just like his dad,” Steve heard you whisper as you watched him walk away. 

“Hey,” Steve said softly, bringing your attention back to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Dizzy. Terrified. Angry. A little more dizzy.”

Steve just held your hand tighter. 

“Steve, I need you to tell me everything that happened because right now I have too many questions and…I don’t even know where to begin.”

Steve nodded understandably. You’d been missing for longer than he’d been in the ice. You’d become a part of some of the ghost stories with the walls of Shield. You’d become a small block of text in the Smithsonian since nobody knew anything else. 

Your name was one of the first that he searched for when he got out of the ice. If he can be left sleeping in the ice for seventy years, gods can wield magic hammers and aliens can fall from the sky, then surely you could still be alive somewhere, right?

But there had still been no trace of you. 

Until today when a loud rad alarm started to sound throughout the kitchen to alert whoever was left in the compound that someone had broken in. 

So, starting from the beginning, Steve told you as much as he could in the short time you had together. With Peter filling in a few gaps. 

Steve told you about when you went missing. How Howard has a black eye for three weeks since Peggy had hit him hard when she realised what he’d been making and didn’t think to use any safety precautions. One thing Howard knew for certain was that you weren’t dead. How he knew that, the others couldn’t figure. But it was easier to accept than thinking Howard Stark had just murdered one of his closest friends. 

Steve told you about when Bucky fell and when he went into the ice. He told you about the end of the war and him and Peggy. 

Peter told you about Tony and the little snippets he knew from what he’d been told. Peter accidently let slip that Bucky had been the one to murder Howard and his wife, Maria. 

Steve explained about the Winter Soldier programme and waking up in the ice. He told you about New York and The Avengers. Peter mentioned how he, too, was a Superhero. Steve explained about Natasha, Sam and Bucky. Peter mentioned bringing Bucky and Steve up to date with Star Wars and other movie franchises. 

Then Steve explained, briefly, about Wakanda and what Bucky had been through. 

Tears slipped from your eyes and Steve helped you wipe them away. “So…he’s…he’s alive?”

Steve nodded with a smile. “He’s alive.”

You felt yourself breathing again. Steve had only told you the key things about what happened to Bucky. You couldn’t begin to imagine the pain he went through, or the pain Steve went through realising he’d lost Peggy. 

Last you knew, Peggy and Steve were crushing hard on each other. You and Bucky had a bet running for how long it would take for Steve to finally ask her on a date. 

“Okay, he’s on his way. He doesn’t believe me, but I don't even believe it.” Tony announced as he walked back inside, pocketing his phone. 

“What happens now? What am I meant to do?”

Steve looked at Tony who just shrugged. “You stay here with us until we can get some kind of answer, I guess.”

You tilted your head at Steve. “I’m meant to be in the 40s. What the hell am I supposed to do whilst I’m here? Better yet, what the hell am I meant to do when I can go home? What, am I just not meant to tell you anything? Or Bucky for that matter? Oh, my god! Can I even get home?”

Steve placed his hands on your shoulders and led you back to your seat. “Okay, just sit down. Just breathe.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Blueberry?” Tony suddenly shoved a silver packet into your face. “They can help calm the nervous system.”

Tony didn’t say anything else. But he did unfurl your hand and place a packet in your palm. 

“Can I even get home?”

“Uhh…”

“It’s not a question of whether or not you can get home. It’s do you go home?”

Everyone, including yourself, jumped. All except for Peter. 

“Jesus Christ,” you swore to yourself, holding onto your chest. 

“How the hell did you get in here?” Tony turned towards the curly haired girl standing beside Peter. 

“Peter texted me.”

Tony just stared at the girl. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

Steve sighed. “She’s training with Nat and Laura, remember?”

That seemed to answer something. 

“See, that’s how you give me information.”

“Oh,” Peter jumped back into the conversation. “Agent Y/l/n?”

“Please, call me Y/n.”

“This is MJ, my girlfriend.”

You smiled at her and she gave you a small smile back. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too.”

Half an hour later, three people walked inside who were introduced to you as “Ant-Man, but not the original Ant-Man-.”, “Hope”, “She’s the Wasp.”, and “Hank Pym.”

“I believe you might be able to…help.”

Hank nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“What ‘we’ can do?”

“Why ‘we’?”

“It’s my lab, Pym.”

“And it’s my research, Stark.”

“I found her first.”

“But you called me, remember?”

The argument continued on for a few more minutes until finally you stood up. 

“Hey!” 

That shut them up. 

“I am not some lab rat that you’re gonna be poking needles into! I understand that I’m over seventy years out of my time, but I’m not some experiment. I’m human, alright?!”

Hope nudged MJ. “I like her.”

Hank and Tony seemed to come to a silent agreement. “Okay, how about we start with the basics?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Over the next few hours, you had your heart rate monitored, your blood pressure taken, your memory tested. You filled out multiple different medical forms. You told them everything you could about where and when you were born, what you did in the last week of your life in the 40s and was fed so many blueberries you were pretty sure your skin would turn the same colour. 

“MJ?”

As the boys messed with things on the other side of the lab, you took a seat beside the girl. 

“Hi.”

“Hi,” you smiled. “I was hoping I might be able to talk to you.”

MJ nodded. “What about?”

“Earlier, when you said it’s more about do I get back…Peter mentioned you might know a few things about me, after I went missing.”

MJ nodded slowly. “I…might.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone anything. Whatever you know will stay between you and me.”

MJ nodded. “Okay.”

“Just…tell me everything?”

And she did. 

About the rumours, about the ghost stories. That’s all they were, but there was always a hint of truth in stories. Some people still looked for you, others believed you hadn’t ever existed at all. There was a lot of research done after your disappearance. What had caused it, where you could have gone. 

“Does this research still exist?”

“You’d have to ask Mr Stark about that one. Mostly it was his dad’s stuff. I only know because Agent Romanoff was helping me find references for a college paper.”

You smiled. “Thank you, MJ.”

That was when Jarvis, who wasn’t Javis, spoke. “Uh, Captain Rogers, sir. Sergeant Barnes and Captain Wilson have returned.”

“Thank you, Jarvis.”

You looked over at Steve. 

“I’ll go and get him.”

You just nodded and watched as Steve jogged down the hall, out of the doors and towards the stairs. 

“Did you date?”

You turned back to MJ. “What?”

“You and Barnes? There were always rumours. And I’ve seen the footage.”

“Footage?”

“They still show clips in the Smithsonian. You know, like Steve keeping a picture of Peggy in his compass. I’ve seen some of you and Barnes.”

You could only nod, letting her know you’d heard what she said. 

Truth be told, you and Bucky hadn’t been dating. You were just friends. He’d save you a dance at every Hall. He was the one, besides Peggy, who you’d been closest to. On the days where all his confidence and charm would leave his body – mostly when he was geeking out at the technology fairs – you’d stick by his side and help him out. 

Some women he’d try and talk to, so you’d give him a push. But others…he was nice to them, but he just wanted some time alone. The war was a lot and with his own call-up looming, he just wanted some time. So, making sure he didn’t constantly bump into people, you’d both pretend you were on a date. It kept some girls away, and you and him had a great time. 

And despite your growing crush over the last few months…no, you weren’t dating. 

Your head kicked back into gear. “No. No, we weren’t dating. Just friends.”

MJ just gave you a look. You knew that look. Because it was the same look Peggy had given you three days ago when she cornered you in the girls bathroom after you excused yourself when one of the blonde agents waltzed her way over to talk to Bucky. 

Before your conversation could continue further, however, there were multiple sets of boots pounding on the floor. The noise was growing closer and closer. 

You stood up from your chair, standing directly in view of the glass doorway, your skirt swishing a little around your knees. 

And through the glass, you saw Bucky come to a halt. 

He just stared at you. 

He was in dark blue tactical gear, a man stood behind him with a jet pack attached to his back and Steve remained beside him. 

Bucky stood alone just staring at you. 

Then he started walking. 

Opening the door, your name fell from his lips before he ran towards you and you ran to him. 

Crashing in the middle, Bucky’s arms held your tightly almost crushing your bones. 

“Y/n,”

“James,” you felt yourself smile. 

“You’re alive?”

“Apparently.”

He just held you tighter. “I didn’t believe him. He told me…you were here and…you’re really here.”

Bucky felt himself laugh a little. He was stunned. To him, he hadn’t spoken to you in over seventy years, but he knew, to you, you and him had spoken that morning. 

He never forgot you. 

He never let himself forget you.

You meant too much to him. 

“I don’t have a clue what’s going on, but boy am I glad to see you.”

Bucky laughed again before leaning back to look at you. Instinctively, he held your face. Both of you had tears in your eyes but that didn’t matter. 

“God, you’re alive.”

Bucky hugged you again. 

“If you two love birds have finished, might we get back to work?” Hank called out. 

Scott nudged him and Hope slapped him across the head. Meanwhile, you remained fixed in Bucky’s arms. 

Hours and hours and hours of work later, you were sitting on your own since Bucky had left to go and get you something to eat. 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Sam came and sat beside you. 

“Something tells me I don’t make it back home.”

“Maybe you’re not meant to.”

You just looked at Sam. And he took a breath before talking again. 

“First time I asked Bucky about his life before,” Sam started. “The first person he mentioned was you. You were close to him. And he was close to you. He told me losing you was one of the worst pains he ever suffered through. And when Steve mentioned your name today, I saw someone come back to life inside of him. A person even I haven’t seen in Bucky since that day when he first talked about you.”

You didn’t exactly know where Sam was going with his speech, so you just let him continue. 

“Maybe, for whatever reasons will help you rationalise this, you were meant to be here instead. With these two, but most importantly…” Sam just pointed to Bucky across the room who was handing out different lunch meals to everyone as Peter carried the tray. 

“Nothing is as I remember it.”

“Maybe you’re not as you remember.”

You just looked at Sam, puzzled. 

“Those two science nerds will probably have some big, elaborate explanation but, maybe you didn’t time travel. Maybe you just got stranded in time. Pushed through each year in order to get to this one. And, whenever you dropped-”

“Literally.”

“Into here…it was because you needed to. Because it was meant to be.”

You rolled your eyes a little and laughed. “Okay.”

Sam just chuckled and nudged you. 

Bucky eventually made his way over to you, just in time to hear Sam ask; “And if you’ve got any tips on how to tap into Mr White Wolf, I’ll take ‘em.”

Sam tapped Bucky on the arm as he passed him by, heading towards the food Steve was opening up at one of the tables. 

“It’s not ration food, but it’s the closest I could find to something familiar.” 

You smiled accepting the meal as Bucky sat beside you and ate his own with you. 

Looking around you, you took everyone in. The super soldiers, the humans, the ego filled scientists and the kids. And the longer you looked, the more it started to look familiar. 

Maybe a different room, maybe a different year. 

But it was still the same. 

Then Sam’s words echoed in your head. 

“Meant to be.”

A month later, you were still in the future. People were still looking for answers but the longer time pushed on, the more you began to realise maybe Sam was right. Maybe this was where you were meant to be. 

[whosmariaaa]

— part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7 !

— cw :: suggestive, murder, violence, attempted roofie

college! sukuna was not planning on giving up on you any time soon, no matter how upset you were. to put it simply, he was obsessed. checking your socials all the time, still trying to reach out every single day.

no girl had ever gotten under his skin like this. no one had ever made him feel like this. he didn’t even know he was capable of feeling like this about someone. and sukuna would be damned if he let you go now.

though it barely seemed to be working, because you weren’t falling for it. didn’t exactly stop him, as you would think, but gojo and toji decided to help him out for once.

they were in the lockers after basketball training, gojo and toji yapping about one of the cheerleaders. sukuna wasn’t listening. he was thinking about you, of course. how the hell could he not get you off his mind? did you put a spell on him or something?

then, gojo sat down next to him. “yo, sukuna. toji and i were thinking,” he started.

“shocking. didn’t think you two fucking idiots were even capable of that,” he sneered. gojo’s eye twitched, but he continued nonetheless.

“it’s kind of sad to see you still chasing y/n even after all that shit went down, and you’re kind of pathetic about it too,” gojo told him.

“kind of? you’re really fucking pathetic about it. seriously man, i’m pretty sure you’ve killed people before, and you’re all soft hearted for a girl who hasn’t shown you a speck of attention,” toji criticized.

feeling irritation rise, sukuna was about to snap back, but gojo quickly interrupted, “what toji’s trying to say, is that we want to help you. you’re our best friend for a reason,” he explained.

“why don’t you try to shit you used to pull with other girls? pretend like you don’t care, and they come running back, always works, right?” gojo added, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

sukuna scowled, “you two know how i feel about y/n. she isn’t just a quick fuck. and how the hell would that even work when she doesn’t even look my way?”

“yeah, we get it. but you should try it. because what you’re doing right now isn’t working for shit,” toji replied, sitting down next to gojo.

when sukuna went back to his dorm, he thought about it. maybe, it could work. maybe, it’d catch your attention. maybe it’s not such a bad idea.

so, plan in action, he stopped coming to you every single day. he practically was ignoring you now. he stopped talking to you altogether. stupid as it sounds, it was starting to piss you off. you had every right to ignore him. he in fact did not. was this perhaps a little petty? sure. did you care? no.

but, much to sukuna’s dismay, you let it rest. he had gotten on your nerves enough. he was finally leaving you alone, so you might as well take peace in it.

your not-so-secret admirer was however not taking peace in it, at all.

“damn, she’s still not crawling back?” toji noted, scratching his head when he saw how infuriated sukuna was with the entire situation.

“she’s just playing hard to get,” gojo replied, “she’ll be on her knees before you know it!”

honestly, sukuna would be on his knees for you a whole lot sooner than you would be for him. gojo and toji knew that too, but they were a little afraid of their friend breaking, so they were trying to keep their hopes high.

“no, she won’t. why the fuck did i fall for such a fucking bitch?” he scoffed.

“yeah, she is kind of bitch, though—” gojo laughed.

“don’t fucking talk about her like that,” sukuna warned firmly, grabbing gojo by the collar again.

“you literally said it first—”

“shut the fuck up.”

sukuna was again pried off gojo by toji, before he actually hurt him. though his friends finally stopped being asses about the entire situation, he still felt like losing his shit.

and that feeling continued when even the week after that, you didn’t seem to be losing sleep at all over his absence, while he definitely was over yours (you were actually still feeling petty he was ignoring you now, but you didn’t show it). it was ridiculous. why was he so infatuated with you? sukuna didn’t even know himself, and yet, he couldn’t bare to let you go. he was hooked.

he needed to get his mind off things. when toji invited him to a frat party, he immediately decided to go. last time he went was weeks ago, and he wanted to take his mind off things. what better way to do that than with alcohol, weed, and girls?

when he arrived at the party, gojo gave him a few shots to ease up. and sukuna immediately had his eyes on a girl, pretty, nice body. he just needed some more alchohol and weed to soothe the weird ache in his chest when he thought of other girls. girls that aren’t you.

though, that didn’t matter now. he took a few more shots, took a few blows of toji’s blunt, and went over to the girl. they talked for a bit, he was charming, and before they knew it, the girl was in his lap, making out with him while the music blared in their ears.

when she separated for some air, sukuna looked at her with his intense red eyes, then looked around his surroundings a bit. that’s when he saw you. you were chatting with some friends, but then your gazes met. neither of you were looking away, for a good 8 seconds.

“hey, c’mon babe, we can go upstairs to a room,” the girl whispered in his ear, dragging him back to reality. a scowl appeared on his face. he wasn’t thinking about sex, and definitely not with her.

which was strange, the old sukuna would’ve flashed her his signature grin and took her upstairs without a doubt. it seems you’ve genuinely tainted his mind. for the better or worse, he didn’t know.

he pushed her off his lap. “the fuck are you talking about?” he snarled. she gasped, catching herself barely as he went on his feet. he didn’t spare her a second glance as he went over to you, which is exactly when you two locked eye contact again.

“and what do you want?” you huffed impatiently, though the intense eye contact made you slightly nervous. huh? since when did sukuna make you nervous?

“why the hell are you here?” he demanded. you rolled your eyes, “and why does that concern you?”

he took a step closer, dangerously close as he hovered over you. “don’t play fucking games with me, y/n. i’m not in the mood. let me repeat myself, why the hell are you here?”

you furrowed your eyebrows. “because it’s my friends party? what’s your problem?” you responded.

“my problem is that you’ve been ignoring me for weeks, and i’m fucking sick of it. it was just a project, and you’re such a bitch about it,” he sneered.

“i had every right to be pissed about it, and you know that too. and i didn’t want to talk to you, because you’re an ass, but apparently you’re just stupid and can’t take a hint,” you snapped back, starting to feel annoyed again.

now you didn’t care about the unbroken eye contact, or your friends staring wordlessly, because this man was a champion at getting on your nerves.

“cry me a damn river. maybe you’re just a pissy bitch that can’t handle when life doesn’t go her way,” he scoffed.

you suppressed an offended gasp, but you definitely weren’t suppressing the slap you were about to give this man again. but, just when you were about to hit his cheek, sukuna caught your wrist, in a bruising grip too.

“don’t even fucking think about it. i’m not letting you get away with shit anymore, be glad i’m not breaking your wrist,” he warned. you were silently glaring at him, and he was glaring right back.

then, he dropped your wrist and walked off. “asshole…” you mumbled under your breath. seriously, what was his problem?

safe to say, both of you spend your night at the party away from each other. sukuna making out with several different girls, even around 2AM taking another upstairs, needing to think about something else.

you, however, spend your night with your friends, drinking a few shots, but not too much to get drunk or anything. you were trying not to think of his words, but damn they kind of hurt.

your friends eventually went back to their dorms. they asked you several times if you wanted to come too, but you knew that if there wasn’t any loud music, talking and drama surrounding you, you’d probably wallow in silence, so you refused and stayed. maybe you’d find some distraction, who knows?

and as if someone heard your thoughts, next to you suddenly sat a man with blue hair and pale skin.

“you look distressed,” he commented. was it really that obvious?

“nah, it’s nothing, really,” you smiled, shrugging it off. the guy smiled back, letting the topic rest.

“uh huh, y/n right?” he asked. “people know you’re off limits, because you’re apparently sukuna’s girl. but what i saw from earlier, that’s not so true, is it?”

your smile disappeared, and you rolled your eyes. “seriously? that’s what he’s been telling people? what a loser, honestly,” you grumbled. the guy chuckled.

“so it’s not wrong for me to assume you’re single?” he questioned. your eyes shot to him. maybe he was the distraction you were desperately needing.

“huh, no, not at all. what’s your name, then?” you queried.

he rested his chin in the palm of his hand, looking at you with a charming grin. “mahito, nice to meet you, y/n,” he greeted. you smiled at him. you did recognize his name. it gave you a suspicious feeling, but it was merely fleeting, so you shrugged it off.

you two talked for like an hour or so. mahito was a nice guy, but he did give you the creeps with what he was saying from time to time. but it was probably just the alcohol in your system, so you shrugged it off.

then, he eventually went off and got drinks for the both of you. you quickly checked your phone.

“hey babe, hope ur feeling better by now, lemme know how the parties going xxx” your friends text read. you smiled at the sweet message, and quickly texted back about the tea, telling about how you met a new guy.

then, a few seconds after you send press and shut your phone off, he sat down next to you again. the two of you continued talking, and you took a few sips of your drink. but as the minutes past by, suddenly you felt like things were spinning. you felt dizzy.

your heart sank.

with quick thinking, you got on your feet and excused yourself to the bathroom with a calm smile. you were anything but calm. you couldn’t think clearly. you went into the bathroom, locking the door.

had he put something in your drink? had he drugged you? did he attempt to roofie you? you were panicking. all of your friends had gone to their dorms, and they would never make it on time. you didn’t know a soul in this party, and everyone was either drunk or stoned. what the hell were you supposed to do? and when mahito was going to inevitably notice you were gone for too long… you were starting to hyperventilate.

your head was spinning like crazy, and you felt your throat close up.

sukuna wasn’t focusing on shit right now. he had a girl on his dick, but he still felt slightly off. but he forced himself to enjoy it nonetheless. that was until his phone rang. he hung up without looking at the name. it was probably gojo or toji trying to pester him. then, his phone went off again, and again.

“who the hell is that?” she asked, breathlessly but still irritated.

he didn’t even care to reply to her. when his phone went off once more, he let out an annoyed sigh and looked at the name. it was you. he felt his irritation rise.

but he did pick up after two rings. “what the fuck do you want, y/n? if it wasn’t clear already, don’t try shit right now,” he snapped angrily.

it was silent on the other end of the line. sukuna was tempted to hang up, until he heard a little sob. he suddenly felt a rush of confusion, and maybe even concern.

“where are you?” you sniffled quietly.

“still at the party,” he replied as he sat up. the girl, just as stoned and tipsy as him, looked at him confusion.

“please help me, sukuna. i don’t know what the fuck happened, but i— i was talking with this guy, mahito or something, and i think he put something in my drink,” you stuttered out. his breath hitched slightly at the implication, and then he felt his fists clench, a wave of anger hit him.

sure, you guys were fighting, or whatever it was, but that man was still head over heels, no matter how much he wanted to push it down. and he was going to beat this guy to death for ever thinking he could touch you.

sukuna had already pushed off two other girls for you before, might as welk make it three. the girl whined drunkly, but he couldn’t care less. he pulled on his boxer and pants, and quickly threw on a shirt.

“where the fuck are you?” he asked, his tone dangerously low as he left the room, not looking back at the girl.

“bathroom d— downstairs,” you stammered. things were going fuzzy, some parts of your vision even black. you could barely keep your eyes open. “please hurry,” you cried softly.

and that tone, that panicked, helpless tone set something off in him. he was downstairs in just a few seconds, roughly shoving aside anyone in his way. no one dared to say anything, because no one had ever seen sukuna this angry before. people around fell into a tense silence, wondering what the hell happened.

as soon as he saw the bathroom door, he went to open it. and when it didn’t budge, he slammed his fist into the wooden door without a doubt, and turned the lock from the inside. his fist was covered with his blood, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

then sukuna saw you, on the floor, barely conscious. you were trembling, big tears rolling across your cheeks. it was so unlike you. you were always so fierce, and just then, he decided that he loathed seeing you cry.

he grabbed you, an arm around your waist. “it’s okay, baby, i’m here. no one’s fucking touching you,” sukuna reassured. you felt… safe in his arms, as much as you hated to admit it.

“i still fucking hate you, don’t get me wrong,” you mumbled, though your voice cracked slightly.

“uh huh, sure thing, baby,” he replied. but then, everything went black. sukuna had made it on time, but he felt a strange ache in his heart thinking about what if he hadn’t. he picked you up, weirdly gently for his doing, and went to the other side of the house, where he knew toji and gojo were at.

“yo, sukuna, we heard you finally had sex with a girl aga— is that y/n?” gojo questioned, flabbergasted. toji immediately turned his head.

“what the hell happened?” toji asked, immediately stepping over.

“some fucking idiot roofied her. take her to my car,” he ordered, putting you in toji’s arms. but gojo and toji were too slow for his liking.

“i’ll shoot both of you in the fucking head if you don’t get her out of here in two seconds,” sukuna said in a tone that told them he wasn’t playing around.

“chill out, man,” toji replied, though he was already on the move. sukuna had threatened them many times, but this was different. he was genuinely angry now, and he could get dangerous when he was.

“you’re going to kill that guy, aren’t you?” gojo asked, his usual teasing tone gone. he was dead serious. sukuna’s silence told him all he needed to know. gojo nodded and went after toji.

as soon as they were out of the frat house, he turned on his heel and approached the first person he saw.

“where’s mahito?” he asked. everyone knew the guy, everyone but apparently you. he was a real creep on campus. he’d never roofie anyone before, but honestly, no one’d put it past him.

“uh, in the bathroom. the same bathroom of which you kicked my door down, by the way, you’re paying for that—” the guy started, but sukuna’s menacing stare shut him up real quickly.

and just like he said, there mahito was. in the bathroom where you said you were going a while back, he looked around in confusion, oblivious to the storm behind him.

just when he was about to turn around, his head smashed into the stone-tiled wall three times, the white tiles now colored red.

“you fucking dumbass,” mahito heard in his ear as he was turned around, his back now slammed against the wall. a strong hand on his throat keeping him there.

“well, well, well, if it isn’t sukuna,” mahito taunted playfully, as if he didn’t have blood dripping down from his forehead. “was starting to wonder when you’d start looking for your little y/n,” he added.

“say her name again, i fucking dare you,” he snarled. mahito knew better than that.

“i’m just saying, i could’ve had a great time with her, until you had to go and ruin things,” mahito teased, flashing him a sickening smile. then a harsh left hook to his face shut him up, sending even more splatters of blood to the wall.

“let’s see if you can talk this tough when we’re outside,” sukuna replied, his tone scarily even. just like that, he dragged mahito outside, not like anyone was watching anyways because everyone went back to partying.

sukuna beat him up till he was bloody and bruised, and even then he didn’t stop. it was a gory sight, one that would’ve made anyone sick. he didn’t care, even as mahito’s face was crooked from amount of punches he had taken. mahito couldn’t even scream or beg for his life anymore, even though he was in excruciating pain. he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

he had no mercy. his hands were painted red from mahito’s blood, he punched until there was practically nothing to punch anymore. and then, nothing. he wasn’t breathing anymore, no pulse.

sukuna had indeed killed people before, he wasn’t ashamed of it. toji and gojo had done so too, none of them had been caught before. none of the other murders were necessary, just guys who pissed them off. but mahito?

he crossed a line thinking he could hurt you. no matter how much you hated him, sukuna was scarily attached to you ever since that day you called him out. so much so that he would apparently kill for you. romantic, no?

as he stared at mahito’s mangled face, he suddenly got a call from gojo. “what?” sukuna grumbled.

“y/n woke up a few minutes ago, she’s asking for you, well, more like demanding,” gojo replied. you were asking for him? that shamefully made his heart skip a beat.

“you kill the guy yet?” toji asked.

“yeah, we’re in the alleyway. can you guys clean this shit up and take him with your car? i’ll be with y/n in a second,” he proposed. they agreed, and before he knew it he was in his car with you in the passenger’s seat.

you were shaken up, confused, but you felt oddly safe. sukuna was quiet too, giving you time to process as he drived you to the dorms. you decided to not comment on his bloodied hands for your own sake.

and eventually, you found yourself in his dorm. you took a shower, and he gave you his hoodie to sleep in. he even gave you food and water.

all that frustration you felt for sukuna this past weeks, suddenly just disappeared. he had saved you, maybe even saved your life, and now he’s treating you so well.

sure, you were still upset about you failing your class, but you could finally forgive him for all that. honestly, if you told yourself a week ago that you forgave him, you wouldn’t possibly believe yourself.

and you would also never believe yourself if you said that you were now laying in sukuna’s bed, wrapped in his arms.

“how do you feel, baby?” he asked softly, a tone you’d never think he’d be able to use.

“could be better,” you murmured quietly. a silence fell over you two, it wasn’t uncomfortable. you didn’t feel uncomfortable either. who would’ve thought?

you looked up slightly at him, meeting his eyes. “thank you for all that,” you told him, smiling lightly. “i think i can perhaps, maybe forgive you now for that 49%.”

sukuna just slightly furrowed his eyebrows, before grabbing your chin and pulling you into a kiss. you leaned into it, not pushing him away.

he pulled away, looking into your eyes. “no one’s ever going to fucking hurt you again, i’m serious, you got that?” he promised.

“yeah. sounds pretty serious to me,” you replied, not being same to hide your smile. he just huffed, and kissed you again. a few hours later, you fell asleep in his arms.

now, college boyfriend! sukuna was the happiest man alive. he still dominated the basketball court, still got plenty good grades, had his best friends gojo and toji. and the one thing he will forever love most and cherish in life, you, his girl. and with that, sukuna was ready to kill and die for you, always.

──★˙🍓̟!! expectations were high for me, so i think i delivered guys!! genuinely proud of this one. this is kinda crazy since it’s the last part, and again i can simply not express how thankful i am for all of you!!!! and i HAD to eventually let sukuna do something violent for once, because it’s sukuna ofc. and no, i do absolutely not, ever ever, condone violence or murder!!!!! love sukuna to death but if he was real you wouldn’t catch me in a 100 km radius from him🥀🥀

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