#well trauma is trying to to be drip drop trying to be enough?

[mydearzero]

The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader - Chapter 10 | Dr. Sofen

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter. 

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader, therapy, depression, anxiety

Read it on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 9

WC: 2.4K

A/N: my apologies if there’s any formatting issues, this was written on my phone instead of my laptop lol

Bob’s first therapy session had seemed to be a success. He was doubtful it was going to work, but admitted it was nice to own up to his darker thoughts to someone who could be impartial about them. It was reassuring that he was finally getting professional help. Maybe in a few months, he’d be ready to start training his powers with the rest of the team, making him a real asset. 

Alexei had already begun boasting about battle strategies, though it felt a bit tasteless. You liked the man well enough, but he really needed to learn about boundaries and appropriate timing. This was not the time to start talking about ‘using’ Bob to their advantage, no matter how powerful he was. 

You sat in the waiting room, waiting for Bob to finish his next therapy session. You’d met her for the first time that day; A tall, blonde lady named Dr. Sofen. Her friendly smile gave you some peace of mind. 

The waiting room was decorated to look inviting, but really wasn’t very much so. The artwork lacked emotion. The paint was chipping off some of the walls. The water cooler dripped irregularly. The hour you waited for Bob felt more like six. You were shaking your leg, waiting for the minutes to pass when the door finally opened again. 

Bob was profusely thanking Dr. Sofen, who shook his hand and led him into the waiting room. You made eye contact with him and were slightly startled to see he’d obviously been crying. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks red. His hand was shaky as it left Dr. Sofen’s, who called for the next patient.

“Hey,” his voice was a little shaky as he addressed you. 

“Hey, you ready?” He nodded and you walked out of the stuffy waiting room. 

“How’d it go?” You asked as you pushed the doors to get outside. You held the door open for him and he quickly walked through it before answering.

“Yeah- uh. Nice, I guess. However nice therapy can be,” he laughed. He rubbed his eye with his palm, trying to alleviate the dryness caused by tears. 

“Do you want to talk about it? Kind of ironic, maybe, since that’s what therapy’s for, but I’ll listen if you want,” you rambled. He thanked you, but declined. He’d done enough talking in the last hour.

You walked with him to the subway station, ready to get back to the tower. This had only been his second session, but you could tell it drained him. Not too surprising, considering the trauma and emotions he was trying to work through. 

It was clear he was trying not to fall asleep on the ride home. Try being the key word. His eyes slowly drooped shut, head bobbing along to the movements of the wagon. Eventually his head found your shoulder and stayed there. A small smile crept up your lips as you felt it happen. You were glad he felt safe enough with you to drop his guards and fall asleep in public. 

You only woke him up when your stop was nearing. He rubbed the little bit of sleep from his eyes. When you reached your stop, you got up and reached for his hand. The crowd was denser than usual, so you held it as you led him through the crowded cart. You damned yourself for the tingles running through your fingers where your skin met his. This was your job, you couldn’t go feel like this about him. It really didn’t help that he’d grown so attached to you. 

You walked into the tower and waited for the elevator together. His face had cleared up during his nap, no more evidence of his tears visible. The elevator ride to the penthouse was comfortably quiet. You were curious as to what he and Dr. Sofen talked about during their session, but wouldn’t push him to talk about it. 

When you arrived back at the penthouse it was empty. It was the middle of the afternoon, so it wasn’t too surprising. Yelena had mentioned something about training, anyway. 

Bob was chewing on his bottom lip, something he did often when anxious, you’d noted. 

“What’s up?” You questioned, concerned his therapy session was bothering him more than he’d been letting on. 

“Maybe I do want to talk about therapy with you,” Bob decided. You sat with him on the couch, soft music playing in the background. You didn’t recognise the song, it must have been one of Ava’s obscure playlist left playing. 

“You can tell me. I’m not sure if I’m gonna be the best at giving advice, but I can try,” you offered. You leaned your elbow on the back of the couch and turned your body to face him. He mirrored your position, leaning comfortably into the couch.

“I don’t need advice, I think. I’m just curious where it’s all going. It’s hard to not be a pessimist about therapy when nothing in the past has seemed to work,” he sighed. 

“You’re probably thinking what difference talking about your problems could make, right?” He nodded in response. 

“Hmm, it’s difficult. It doesn’t work for everybody. Especially if you’re an over-thinker, which I’m getting the feeling you just might be. You already know where all your problems stem from. You know how you feel and why. All you need help figuring out how to stop feeling like that. And the answer to that differs for everybody. But I’m sure Dr. Sofen will work through the options with you,” you tried reassuring him, but it was likely nothing he didn’t already know.

“It’s just… I’ve felt like this for so long. For as long as I can remember, really. I guess I just don’t know who I am without that part of me,” he looks away. 

“It’s hard to imagine yourself happy?” 

He nodded and laughed lightly, though not out of amusement.

“I am happy with you guys. But I have these highs, and even during them I just can’t fully enjoy because I know within no-time I’m gonna be feeling so much worse. It’s hard to enjoy anything that way,” he explained. 

“And then you get the lows… Every time you hit one of those you feel like it might just be the last one because you’re not sure how long you can keep going like that.” Your heart hurt for him. He could explain it well, he understood his feelings. He just wanted a solution. 

“In the past… I’ve done things I’m not proud of,” he turned his body away and looked down at his hands, trembling in his lap. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” you told him. You were curious, sure, but really didn’t want to hurt him any more than he already was. 

“No- it’s okay. It’s not like you can’t go online and find my record,” he grimaced. 

“You have a criminal record?” You gaped. He nodded before elaborating.

“I had a meth problem. It was quite bad. One of the ways I tried fixing the problem myself, I guess.” He always spoke with such uncertainty, you noticed. I guess. I suppose. I think.

“Well, I’m glad that’s in the past. Thank you for telling me, though. That can’t have been easy,” you put a soothing hand on his knee. 

“It’s not that bad, actually. It’s not the talking about it that I have a problem with. I’ve just been… ‘bad’ for so long that at this point it feels like a new neutral, you know? People pity you for being depressed, but if it’s been long enough you don’t really know what the difference is. I can’t currently imagine what genuine happiness feels like. That’s the hardest part. Trying to imagine the future without being nihilistic about it.” He sighed deeply. 

“I’m really sorry that that’s the cards you were dealt. Life is not fair. If there’s anything I can do for you…” you smiled at him, but he looked away again.

“I know you don’t mean it like that, but it’s that exact look, the pity, that makes it difficult to talk about. Either way, I’m glad you’re here. It’s not exactly the right way to go about it, I must admit; forcing me to just never be alone. But it seems to be working, to some extent.” The smile he gave you was genuine, less sad. 

“I’ll try to work on the ‘no pity’ thing, but it’s gonna be hard when you give me those puppy eyes,” you joked. It instantly lightened the mood. Then Bob’s phone buzzed with a notification. 

“Walker asks what we’re doing for dinner,” he lets you know. It was a nice interruption of the conversation for him. 

“Who’s gonna be in tonight? Do you know?” You asked. Bob shrugged. 

“Bucky and Yelena are on the floor below, training, I think. Alexei’s probably around. Ava’s out, and I’m assuming from his text Walker wants to join.” 

“Take-out?” You suggested. You didn’t really feel like cooking, and a lot of the team had made it clear over time they really weren’t the best cook. Unfortunately you’d learned that the hard way. Bob usually tried and was proving a decent chef, but after the session today you felt like he could use some greasy comfort food. 

“Oooh, can we get Indian food?” Bob’s eyes lit up. 

“You don’t have to ask me for permission, silly,” you pushed his shoulder playfully. “If you want Indian, let’s order Indian. Not sure if Walker can handle any spice, though. Last time I made curry he coughed up a storm.” 

“Even more reason to order extra spice,” Bob grinned mischievously. 

Bob placed a large order at his favourite restaurant nearby while you put out some plates and cutlery. He’d let Walker know it would be Indian, and he suddenly had other plans. 

Yelena and Bucky arrived in the elevator, sweaty as all hell. 

“You both better shower before dinner gets here, no sweaty elbows at the dinner table,” you warned, pointing at Bucky, especially. He was extra greasy. 

“Okay, mom. Didn’t know you were our babysitter, too,” Bucky raised his hands in mock defense. 

“Hey, you better watch how you talk to my babysitter,” Bob threatened jokingly. You were glad he was able to see some amusement in the arrangement.

You thought back to what he’d said earlier, about it not being the most correct way to approach the issue. He had a point, but with how busy the team was, you understood they didn’t have many options. You were glad it had gotten you where you were now, though. The team was a nice change from Mrs. Lowinski’s cats, even if they were just as stinky at times. Especially Alexei. 

Speaking of the devil, the man came bouldering into the dining room. “Lena said Indian food. I hope you ordered many naan!” 

Yelena followed him closely, drying her hair with a towel. “Jesus, I’m starving,” she moaned. 

“The food here yet?” Bucky’s voice rang from the hallway. 

“Not yet! Any minute!” Bob replied. The setting was strangely domestic, considering the collection of people present. 

Bucky walked into the dining room and you couldn’t help but stare at his detached metal arm. He noticed the look and quickly reattached it, swinging his arm around for good measure.

“Not really comfortable in the shower,” he explained. 

“Ah,” you nodded. You couldn’t exactly speak from experience and agree. 

The intercom system announced the arrival of the food delivery boy, who came out of the elevator with more bags of food than he could realistically carry. Bob quickly scurried over, took all of the bags from the boy and slipped him some money. 

“Thanks, David,” he smiled. First name basis with the delivery boy? 

“No problem, Bob. Thanks again for the tip,” David grinned, quickly walking back into the elevator before it could go back down without him. 

You unloaded the many bags of food onto the table, making sure the stack of naan was close to Alexei. 

“So, how’s Dr. Sofen?,” Yelena asked Bob. 

“She’s great! Really understands what I’m going through, surprisingly. We’re still starting with basic info before we can go any further or deeper with the treatment, but it’s a good start,” Bob nodded, shoveling butter chicken into his mouth like it was his life’s mission. 

Yelena smiled contently. “Good.” 

“Think you can start training anytime soon?” Bucky questioned. The question clearly didn’t only surprise you. Bob choked slightly, coughing before he could answer.

“Training? I thought that was months away,” he spoke sheepishly. 

“Well, extensive training, yes. But there’s other things to train besides the control over your powers. We need to get some muscle on you,” Bucky pointed at him with his fork. 

You didn’t know how to tell Bucky that when it came to muscles, Bob was all set. Not the time. Don’t think about that. Suddenly your plate was very interesting. 

“I’m- uh… I think I’m… good? In that department?” Bob sounded unsure himself. Damn right he was good in that department. You stayed silent.

“You are small like deer. Need to become like bear,” some rice fell from Alexei’s mouth into his beard as he spoke. 

“Did we not fight here in this very building? I’m confused,” Bob said. “I won, by the way.” 

“Well yeah, but that was as Sentry,” Yelena interjected. 

“I mean, the flying and stuff was Sentry, but I’ve got muscle,” Bob was starting to sound defensive. 

“Bob’s good, guys. Don’t worry about him building muscle,” you finally cringed out. Bob’s head whipped towards you, eyes wide. 

“And how would you know that?” Yelena laughed. 

“Well- he- I- He sleeps in my room, sometimes. I know you all know that. Emphasis on ‘sleeps’, by the way,” you sputtered. You weren’t about to admit you’d accidentally peeked in on him changing. 

“Still doesn’t really explain-“ Bob stood up and lifted his shirt. Your eyes went wide as you now got a full view of his abdomen, right next to your face. 

“Well would you look at that,” Bucky said with an impressed face. 

“Robert! You are already like bear. But in deer clothing. Very good strategy,” Alexei slapped him on his back. 

Bob flushed red, clearly embarrassed he’d just done that. He lowered his shirt and sat back down, poking around his plate and not saying anything.

You exchanged a glance with Yelena. She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. You frowned and shook your head, communicating with her silently. She nodded and winked back. Whatever that might’ve meant. 

Somehow, Bucky did let up about the training, for now.

CHAPTER 11

The taglist is full, sorry!

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[vellihor]

unspoken. chapter 1.

cw: sylus x non-mc reader, idiots in love, mute reader, knives, blood, violence, gore, trauma, angst, fluff, reader is painfully oblivious! (in the beginning at least), SLOW BURN, intentional lowercase, inspiration from og LADS lore but may contain altered versions :)

word count -> 2410

italics mean reader’s thoughts

bold italics are sound effects

quotes are for phone texts

“normal text in quotes are speech”

“italicised text in quotes are signed speech”

author's note: so i was feeling like writing angst for sylus :) and i ended up with an insane fic... i may have let it get out of hand but hey free will!

< previous chapter next chapter >

you had been sylus’ right-hand for seven years. helping him collect intel, carrying out the hits he put out on his enemies. all that entails being part of THE criminal enterprise in the N109 zone. you were his shadows in the dark, the silent blade — the name makes cold sweat drip down people’s forehead at the mention. its partially literal, given how you were mute. also, because unlike sylus, you preferred the sharps rather than guns.

tonight, you were staking out in one of the clubs sylus owned. making sure to blend in with the crowd while keeping tabs on your target for the night. markus, a protocore weapons dealer that had managed to steal a few shipments of protocores from onychinus. sylus had had enough of this man parading the protocores as theirs. hence, your mission for the night. just as markus enters one of the vip rooms, you manage to slink behind him into the room before the doors closed. your evol enveloping you in a blanket that renders you invisible. “mr. price! the goods are all squared away and ready for your taking. i assume you have come to let me know of your decision?” markus clasps his hands politely, addressing the fur-cloaked man sitting on the sofa. your breath hitches when you realise who he is. the scar across his left eye. there he is. the man who killed your family seven years ago. your world swirls and you black out.

when you come to again, you are standing in the middle of a puddle of blood and slumped bodies. knife dripping with blood. ears ringing. heart pounding. breath uneven. adrenaline pumping through your veins. the door slams open and you pull your evol to cloak yourself. only to drop it when you see sylus at the door. his eyes sweep the room and a look of understanding passes between you and him. he scans you up and down for wounds, eyes landing on your knuckles white with the deathly grip you have on the handle of your knife. he gently pries it from your hand. the ride back to the base was silent and a blur.

the next thing you know, you are in the base’s kitchen. sitting at the countertop with a cup of camomile tea in your hands. “hey, what’s going on in your pretty head?” sylus rasps, trying to get your attention. you grab your phone and type out a response. sarcasm would serve me well.

oh was i pretty? i never knew.

you showed him the screen, with a smirk on your face. he lets out a laugh and shakes his head. “darling, how is that the thing that caught your attention?” he moves to stand opposite you from the countertop. you can't help but patronize his concern as a coping mechanism. he knows well. so then you deflect.

i'm fine. i'll have the intel collected on your table tomorrow morning.

sylus raises his eyebrow. “you know that's not what i'm asking about” you shrug and slip off your chair, walking towards the doors with your mug in hand. “where are you going” he calls out. "rooftop", you sign back at him. its one of the words he knows in sign language.

as you settled down on the sofa, the glass door slides open and here he is again. what for? you had no idea. it wasn’t uncommon for you to kill. he took his place next to you. the silence stretched on for forever before you snuck a glance at him and he was just staring out over the railings into the city view. fine by me. i couldn’t bother to type right now.

just when you had fallen into a false sense of peace, sylus opened his mouth. you couldn’t help but inwardly groan. “you remember when we first met?” you snort at his question. as if i would ever forget. you turn to him and give him a questioning look. he chuckles, “relax, i'll talk and you listen.” you reposition yourself to face him as he recounts the day he met you and you are taken back to when you were 16.

it was a normal day for you. a day out with your family — dad, mom, younger brother. you had just returned home from your trip to the theme park. unaware of the thugs that were waiting in your living room. when your family entered the door, it was a mess in the living room. furniture tossed, books on the floor, glass shattered. your brother instinctively shielded you behind him, your evol flaring and hiding you from plain sight. it was chaotic. screams from your mother still rang in your head every time you recalled the memory. blood everywhere. you were rooted to your spot, eyes unblinking as you watched everything unfold. three dead bodies on the floor. a man in a fur coat pacing around the living room, livid. demanding something to be found. frightened, you tried to move backwards and away from the house, pushing a vase off the countertop in the process. as the vase shattered, all movement in the living room seized. the man stalked across the room in three strides and swung his fist where you stood. the impact released your grip on your evol. as he bent down to grab you, your fist closed around a glass shard. his grip on your neck bruising and depriving you of air, you swung your fist at his face. blood pouring out of the gash across his left eye. it loosened the hold he had on your neck so you scrambled for the door, running into the streets barefooted. pulling your evol close to you, you didn’t dare to look behind. until you ran into a silver-haired man. “not very smart of you. running while leaving a trail.” you finally look behind and see blood trail from where the glass cut your hand.

“at that time, i didn’t know what happened. you lost your voice with all the damage to your throat. luke and kieran later found out and told me about it.” sylus unceremoniously swipes your camomile tea for a big sip. you stare at him dumbfounded. “what? my throat is dry from all that talking.” you prompt him for more. he stayed silent. to which you responded by pulling out your phone.

why did you keep me around?

he sighed. “i was- ahem am looking for someone. i thought you could help me but…”

i can’t talk?

“no. its… personal.” you raise your eyebrows, intrigued. he had never mentioned anything before. you wanted to help him with something, to repay the kindness he had shown you. you lean forward to show your interest. sylus senses that you are keen to help and unwilling to budge. “i shouldn’t have mentioned it… sigh its a hunter from the hunters’ association.” you blanch at the reveal. a hunter? why?

“i will tell you more when that intel hits my table tomorrow.” he gets up and looks back at me. “sleep well, kitten. you did well tonight.”

-

you entered the kitchen, yawning. freezing when you feel three pairs of eyes on you. sylus is still asleep at this time. so who else is here? “morning missus! we have a guest today!” luke cheerfully greets you. you turn to the dining table and see another man sitting at the table with luke and kieran. your confused look prompts kieran to explain the man. “boss invited him to craft weapons for us. a reward of sorts. new guns for me and luke… new knives for you!” you realise its just philip. you offer a wave and move to get your morning coffee before heading to sylus’ office.

placing the intel on his desk, you notice a thick leather bound book with a sticky note on its cover. for your peruse -sy. you smile as you flip the pages. intricate calligraphy and elaborate drawings of dragons etched on the pages. you doubt sylus meant for you to read through all of it in five minutes so you hefted the book onto your hip and made your way back to your room where you spent the rest of the day reading through the book. at first glance, it seemed like mythology or a fantasy story. an age where dragons and magic coexisted. until you realized the striking resemblance between the human-dragon and sylus. no way. nuh-uh there’s not a fucking way. this was eons ago. nah this can’t be sylus. he would be hella old… eh, could be just perks of being a dragon. huh? your eyes focus in on a drawing. a female holding a claymore, driving it into the chest of the dragon. a curse. huh. this must be a joke. he must have placed the sticky note on this book by mistake. unless…? you look out the window and realize the sun is setting. perfect. sylus would be awake now.

you bound down the steps to find sylus heading to the kitchen. you cock your head to the side, questioning. “i just went to the garage to find something i left in the car last night”, sylus says while taking his seat at the head of the dining table. you take a seat opposite luke and kieran. you showed sylus text on your phone.

so i read the book.

you side-eye him, trying to gauge his reaction. “mhm, what do you think of it?” so it wasn’t a mistake.

you are finding your soulmate?

that gets him. he chokes on his food. wiping his mouth, taking gulps of water. that also piqued luke and kieran’s interest. “missus, what are you talking about?” luke snickers, wanting to get in on the tea. you smile and turn your phone towards him. before it got snatched up by sylus. “I SAW THE WORD SOULMATE” “ARE YOU GUYS FINALLY DATING??” luke and kieran are suddenly out of their chairs dancing. giving wild high fives to each other. you furrow your brows in confusion and all it took was a stern look from sylus for them to settle back down in their seats. you tried to hold in your laugh, looking at sylus fuming. nothing would have happened if you just let them see the text. you pointed to your phone. he sighed and passed your phone back to you. you finally let the twins see the text. question marks start flying around. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN FIND-” luke is silenced by kieran slapping a hand over his mouth. the rest of dinner is spent in silence. you could barely contain your smile as you ate dinner. you enjoyed the small moments when the four of you felt like a normal family.

-

some time after midnight, you were in the armoury maintaining your weapons. hearing the door open, you don’t turn to see who it is. you already know its sylus. he doesn’t move or speak. you wait patiently for him to say something as you wipe down your knives. suddenly, the familiar tang of iron hits your nose. you whip around to see sylus sitting on the floor against the wall clutching a wound in his chest. you rush to his side and lightly smack his face trying to prevent him from losing consciousness. his head lolls against the wall, forehead sticky with sweat. a gunshot wound. why is he not healing? where did he go after dinner? you run to the first aid kit and yank out the dressings and press it into his chest, earning a pained groan from him. serves you right for not bringing me along. you gently lean him forward to check if the wound is a through wound. its a through wound, this ought to be easier to deal with. why the flying fuck is he not healing??? you put a dressing against his back and lean your knee against his chest to put pressure while you get your phone out to get luke and kieran to come.

gsw @ armoury

within a minute, the twins burst into the armoury with a gurney. they lift sylus up onto it and start dashing towards the infirmary. when the resident doctor takes over, the three of you are forced to wait outside. bloody hands on hips, you turn to the twins and they instantly lower their heads. you know they went out with sylus after dinner but you never ask about missions you weren’t briefed on, knowing there was probably a reason for it.

“im sorry-”

“we are sorry-”

“we didn’t-”

“boss was not-”

the twins stumbled over their words, talking over each other in a frenzy. you hold your hand up and the twins were silenced. you point to kieran, asking him to explain. he visibly gulped.

“boss made us keep it a secret. he will tell you when he wakes up.”

you let out a scoff, feeling frustrated. “you better tell me now before i put both of you six feet underground” the twins shift uneasily, exchanging glances before everything came tumbling out.

-

sylus had already put out bait for miss hunter and tonight she was at the nest so he brought luke and kieran to… scare her? huh? isn’t she his soulmate? why is he acting like a terrorist? so he gave her a gun and asked her to shoot him through the heart. except he fucking forgot an evol restricting bullet was in the magazine. what the fuck is going on? so why ask me to help when he already knows her whereabouts?? and not bring me along for this???? why ask his soulmate to shoot him in the chest?

thoughts fly around in your head as you wait by sylus’ bed after his surgery. you glance at the clock. its four in the morning. you were about to stand up to hand over the shift to luke when sylus stirred. you help him sit up as he winces. you know the bullet’s effects were not going to wear off any time soon. serves him right. for the second time. your anger won and you turn to leave the room. but sylus’ hand finds your wrist, pulling you back. even when wounded, you still have insane strength. you turn and he sees the anger on your face, instantly regret is all over his face. “i-” he stops as soon as he starts. a beat passes and the most insane sentence imaginable comes out of his mouth.

“i brought her back to the base. she's in my room”

< previous chapter next chapter >

[kuncitizen]

Thots and prayers

Synopsis You kneel at the confessional, desperate for salvation, trembling with guilt and lust. Reverend Father Getou offers no judgment, only indulgence. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the unholy ache between your thighs, welcome to your new form of worship.

Pairing Priest!Geto Suguru x reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, priest kínk, confessional setting, religious imagery & heavy blasphemy, sacrilegious head, oral (male rec.), power play, dom!Getou, choking (rosary style), hair pulling, face-fucking, degradation + praise, crying, spitting, sacrament metaphors turned smutty, crying during orgásm, dubcon themes (priest authority), worship kínk, religious trauma undertones, slight exhibitionism, very intense power dynamics, atrocious levels of holy fuck, dripping with sin and incense, c*m as communion, unrepentant Getou, soul-crushingly filthy, no actual plot just unholy tension, you will not be absolved, Happy ending (kinda? emotionally? idk you're on your knees)

W.c. 1.3k

A/N: The cross is heavy but so is that dick

The confessional is dim and eerily quiet. Wood creaks under you as you kneel, air filled with incense and something else—something that clings to the back of your throat like shame.

You press trembling fingers to your chest, tracing the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

The partition window slides open with a quiet scrape, wood groaning softly as if in protest or anticipation.

“Bless me, Reverend Father, for I have sinned.”

Geto’s voice answers on the other side, calm and measured. “How long has it been since your last confession, child of Christ?”

You swallow. “A week. Maybe less, I'm not too sure.”

You hear the faint smile in his tone, even if you can’t see his face.

“And what burdens your soul so urgently?”

You hesitate. The words knot in your throat with humiliation. “It’s… It’s been difficult. I’ve been trying to pray, I really have. But the thoughts won’t leave.”

“You’ve come again,” he says, and his voice is close, impossibly close, as though the partition between you is nothing but a veil. “Kneeling like that. With your head bowed, your hands folded so sweetly in your lap.” There’s something indulgent in the way he says it, a priest speaking not to scold, but to savor. “Do you know what it looks like, little one? Do you have any idea how you appear when you come to me like this?”

You purse your lips together, the action almost painful, before speaking up again.

“I wake up in the night. Restless, hot, bothered and I think of…” Your voice drops, barely audible. “I think of bodies. Of what it would be like to have one against mine...”

The silence on the other side stretches again, but it isn't cold, it's contemplative. You imagine Geto leaning in slightly, fingertips pressed together.

“Temptation is the Devil’s oldest trick. He plants seeds in your thoughts and waits for them to rot you from the inside.”

His voice is softer now, gentler, like a hand on your shoulder. “But you’ve done well to bring it here. Speak, and be unburdened.”

You shift on your knees, wetness slowly seeping between your legs. The air feels heavier in your lungs.

“I please myself,” you whisper. “When I feel it building. I try to resist, I do, but I end up on my knees anyway, just not like... this. Not for God. And afterwards I cry, because I just feel so empty and ashamed.... Because I let my lust consume me.”

You hear the faint rustle of his robes shifting behind the partition. No other sound, just that, and the pounding of your heart, like it’s trying to escape your chest and climb into his hands.

“Child of God,” Geto murmurs, “you carry shame like a second skin. But if you come here seeking sanctification…”

“Then let me take it from you,”

The wooden grate clicks open. Your breath catches in your throat as a sliver of light spills through. Enough to catch the faint glint of his rings, gold and tarnished silver, engraved with tiny symbols you don’t recognize.

His fingers slide through the opening gradually, knuckles kissed by candlelight. The cuffs of his robe pull taut at his wrists, the soft black fabric whispering against wood.

“Let me purify your being.”

Geto's hands cup your face, warm and firm, brushing the stray strands of hair from your eyes, tracing the curve of your cheekbone with rough hands.

You tilt your head up, eyes glossy with unshed tears. You can’t see him clearly through the rail, but you feel the weight of his gaze, knowing and unyielding.

His hand tightens just slightly, as if to steady your trembling.

“This is no mere penance,” he croons. “It is a communion of flesh and spirit. Will you receive the Host I offer?”

You nod, barely, wordless and desperate.

“Very well, then.”

The wooden grate slides fully open, divider folding back with a quiet, final creak. The confessional no longer feels like two separate worlds but one dimly lit chamber charged with a secret electricity.

Geto steps through, crossing over to your side. The flickering candlelight catches the deep black, traditional Roman collar crisp against pale skin. His robe falls smoothly, the fabric pooling lightly at his ankles, just above polished black shoes. Around his neck hangs a beaded rosary with a silver crucifix.

His hands slide to your face again, steadying you as the other moves to his neck. The beads slip through his hands with a soft, rhythmic clack. He lets the strand fall gently, like a silent benediction, before looping it slowly around your neck, the cross resting heavy against your skin.

Geto tightens his grip just enough to tug the beads against your throat, a slow choke that makes your breath hitch sharply and pulse quicken.

Leaning in close, breath hot and ragged against your ear, he murmurs, “Open yourself, and let me absolve you.”

His eyes darken with intent as one hand slides down to the waistband of his pants. Fingers deft and sure, he undoes the clasp with a muted whisper of fabric and metal.

His cock springs out, pale and pretty with a pearly split tip. And it's huge. So big and girthy that for a moment you wonder if you could even fit it in your palm. The sides of your mouth froth at the mere thought of it.

You part your lips, trembling, as he presses himself to your mouth. The tip slides past your lips, warm and demanding. You take him in eagerly, mouth hot and wet, the taste sharp like consecrated wine.

Geto's hands thread through your hair, fisting it and holding you firm as he fucks your face. Low groans spill from his throat like worship.

“That’s it... the Lord will—”

His words catch, swallowed by a deep, guttural sound as he pushes himself deeper and deeper, your pretty little throat stretching to welcome him. The pressure of the beads around your neck and the fullness in your mouth blend into a pulse of sinful salvation.

You suck and swirl, tasting him fully—holy and profane in one breath—as his hips tilt forward with steady rhythm. The church walls seem to close in around you, sacred space pulsing with every grunt and stifled moan.

Your cunt throbs. Your cheeks are wet from the mixture tears and spit. Your fingers slip between your thighs before you know what you’re doing, sin layered on sin, shame so sweet it could only be divine.

“I can feel your mouth praying for me,” he pants. “Isn’t this what you wanted? What you needed? The Lord forgives you. I forgive you.”

You gag softly as he hits the back of your throat, but you don’t stop. He doesn’t let you. You look up through your lashes, drool spilling past your lips, fingers moving faster. You’re cumming before he does.

“More,” he gasps, voice heavy with need. “Let this be your penance.”

Geto's head tilts back slightly, jaw tensing as a breath escapes him. He shudders, the release flooding your mouth, hot and creamy ropes gradually painting near the inside of your mouth.

“Be a sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice hushed and hoarse, thumb tilting your chin up. “And swallow it for me.”

You swallow, your throat aching and still tightening around the rosary beads.

Geto looks down at you through his hooded gaze—still kneeling, spit and release coating your lips lewdly. His hand finds your jaw again, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. His eyes then flick down to your trembling hand, fingers slick, glistening with your own climax.

He catches your wrist, bringing it up slowly. His tongue laps the mess you made, savoring the taste of your sex with a groan deep enough to echo through the confessional walls.

When he’s had his fill, Geto pulls off with a wet pop, licking his lips. "Sweet little sinner,"

He lingers for a moment, eyes trailing over your wrecked form—your heaving chest, the tremble still in your thighs, the cross hanging heavy against your neck. Geto's breath is still uneven, but his voice is steady as he speaks,

“In this sacrament of flesh, you are reborn.”

[demie90s]

ᴅɪᴀɴᴀ ᴛᴀᴜʀᴀꜱɪ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Say Less

MASTERLIST | MORE | Pt.2

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You weren’t born a prodigy. You were overlooked, counted out, told to try another sport before you even had a chance to believe in yourself. But when you came back, you came back different.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Sports drama, hurt/comfort, slow-burn trust, silent intimacy

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Childhood emotional trauma, mental burnout, emotional numbness, disordered relationship with food/performance

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~4k

ᴠɪʙᴇ: You don’t talk—but your game does. And Diana hears it loud.

I wasn’t supposed to make it. That’s what they told me when I was ten years old, scrawny and wide-eyed, dribbling a ball way too big for my hands. “Not your sport.” “Try soccer.” “You’re fast, but not smart with the ball.” One trainer even shook his head and said, “No.” Just that—no. Like my dream was a request and he was the authority to deny it. And I believed him. For years, I did. I sat on benches, cheered for girls who weren’t better than me—just louder, just more wanted. I stopped playing. Stopped hoping. Until one day I didn’t. Until I looked in the mirror at age fifteen and thought, “Fuck it. I’ve already lost everything. Might as well lose while trying.”

And that’s when everything changed.

I trained in silence. Cried in silence. Lifted in silence. While other girls were going to parties and prom dress fittings, I was lacing up my beat-up trainers, sprinting at midnight, rewatching film until my eyes bled. I clawed my way to the top, record by record. Number one recruit. Drafted first. ROTY. POTY. Headline after headline. And still… they said I wasn’t enough. “She don’t work hard.” “Five months, max, she’s out the league.” “Pretty face. Not real game.” They didn’t see me repping till my shoulders cracked. They didn’t see me fall on the weight room floor and crawl to the wall just to keep going. They didn’t see me replay the same clip ten times—ten!—wondering why the fuck I didn’t pivot, or why my elbow dropped on the release.

My life became a loop. Not a routine. A cycle. Wake up. Train. Shower. Watch my games. Eat half a meal while studying my flaws. Run. Like something’s behind me. Not jogging. Running like hell’s got my name. Lift heavy like my past is strapped to the bar. Eat again, not out of hunger but necessity, chewing while staring at my phone playing footage of what could’ve been done better. Smile at kids. Hype them up. Post for pics. “You’ll be better than me,” I tell them. And I mean it. Don’t idolize me. I’m not your blueprint. You are. Be you, but fearless. Be what I’m trying to become.

And yet… I’m quiet. They drafted me to Phoenix. I barely speak. Not because I don’t want to—but because I don’t know how anymore. My game talks. My stats talk. So I don’t.

And then there’s Diana.

She doesn’t say much. Doesn’t have to. She’s everything I studied. Everything I molded my game around. Cold, poised, calculated. Her legacy is cement. I’m barely carving mine. But she looks at me sometimes like she knows. Like she sees the exhaustion in my shoulders, the twitch in my fingers when I pretend to be still. I feel it when we sit across the locker room—her calm, my chaos.

She doesn’t call me out. Doesn’t ask questions. And that’s worse somehow. I don’t want to talk, but I want her to know. I want her to get it. I want someone to see me unraveling and not look away.

There was one night, post-practice, I sat in the shower long after the water turned cold. My body hurt. My mind was louder than the spray against the tile. I thought about staying there. Just sitting until I disappeared. When I came out, Diana was still there. Everyone else had gone. She was lacing up her shoes, slow and casual, but her eyes flicked up once—right at me. My hair was still dripping. I hadn’t changed. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded. Not a greeting. A knowing.

That did more than any pep talk ever could.

And still—I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

They say I’m “disciplined.” They don’t know I’m punishing myself. They say I’m “humble.” They don’t know I don’t believe in myself. They say I’m “next up.” I say I’m a fraud. I post on socials so they think I’m thriving. But inside? I’m cold. Tired. Burned out. I have no siblings. No parents. Just a godmother and her daughter in another state. My teammates feel like sisters—but they won’t be here forever. None of them will. When the noise dies down, who will still care? Who will stay?

Diana’s the only one who lingers after everyone else is gone. She doesn’t hover. Doesn’t press. She’ll walk past me in the facility, brush her knuckles against mine. A glance. A touch. That’s it. But it makes the ache dull for a second.

I tell myself I don’t need help. That I’m strong. But the truth is, I don’t ask because I’m scared of what I’ll say if I start talking. I’m scared the little girl in me will scream. I’m scared Diana will look at me differently.

So I stay quiet.Train harder. Sleep less. Smile for the cameras, then cry in the car.

And Diana? She keeps watching. Like she’s waiting. Like she knows one day I’ll break. And maybe when I do… she’ll be the one who stays.

She started her morning like always.

Alarm at 5:30. No snoozing. No hesitating. Straight to the gym. The weight room lights still buzzed when she walked in, hoodie up, eyes half-lidded but focused. It wasn’t discipline. It was obsession. She’d carved a routine into her bones—wake up, train, run, analyze, break herself down so no one else had to.

And today was no different.

The treadmill belt groaned beneath her feet as she ran. Not jogged. Not a casual warm-up. Ran. Like she was trying to outrun the younger version of herself, the ten-year-old kid who got laughed at by a trainer. Told to try something else. “You’re not built for this.” “Try soccer, at least you’re fast.” “Not your sport.” That voice still whispered in her ears, even now, with a pro jersey folded in her locker. Even now, after the draft. After the awards.

Her phone sat propped in front of the screen—old game film on loop. Clips of herself, every missed pass, every turnover, every slow rotation. Over. And over. She didn’t even realize three hours passed until her trainer came by, eyes wide.

“You good?”

She blinked. The screen was still playing. She’d restarted it without thinking. Sweat soaked through her tank. Her fingers trembled when she stepped off the treadmill. Her body was screaming for food—but she couldn’t stomach it. Couldn’t afford to be full when she still felt empty.

She skipped breakfast. Again. Went straight to practice.

Didn’t talk. Didn’t look anyone in the eye. During breaks, when the others joked around or played music, she sat against the wall, headphones in, eyes glued to film on her phone. Studying. Critiquing. Dismissing praise in her head before anyone could offer it. And then—after the break—she was off. Bad passes. Hesitation. Missing shots she always made.

And then it happened. Mid-drill, she froze.

Just stood there, the ball loose in her hands, staring at the hardwood like it had answers. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Her teammates called out to her, confused. Coach called her name. Nothing.

She finally moved, slow, like gravity had thickened around her.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled to the coach. “I—I’ll stay. I’ll make the shot.”

Everyone else left. She didn’t.

She stayed on the court until she made the shot that haunted her. Again. And again. Until her wrist went sore. Until the echo of the ball hitting the rim stopped making her flinch. Until it fell clean through the net.

She still didn’t eat.

Skipped dinner. Ignored the questions. Avoided the looks. She dragged herself to the team common room with a notebook, earbuds, and more game footage. The lights were low, most of the building asleep, but she sat up—3AM, eyes red, fingers scribbling notes to herself in the margins of an old scouting report.

She watched herself mess up. Rewound. Watched again. Rewound. Her face was blank. Just a slow shake of her head. Muttering under her breath. “I’m so stupid. That was easy. You hesitated.” Her pen dug into the page. “Get lower. React faster. You were open. Why didn’t you shoot?”

To her teammates, she was a beast. The hardest worker on the floor. Disciplined. Relentless. Serious. They respected her, praised her grind. But they didn’t see what she saw. They didn’t hear the voices.

She didn’t feel strong. She felt like a fraud.

She felt like she was one mistake away from being exposed. That all it would take was one bad game. One injury. One moment of failure for everyone to say what she’d feared since she was ten: “We knew it. She’s not good. She just worked hard.”

And maybe they’d be right.

That’s why she trained until her legs shook. Lifted for the kid who never believed in herself. Ran like her past was chasing her with a knife to her back. Watched game tape until her eyes blurred because she didn’t know how to rest. Rest felt like laziness. Like failure. Like letting everyone down.

Especially herself.

And when she saw little kids in the stands, waving signs with her name, she smiled. Waved. Gave them everything. Hype, love, encouragement. She wanted them to be great. Better than her. Because she wasn’t someone to look up to. She knew that deep down.

“Don’t be like me,” she thought as she gave them a high five. “Be better.”

“Don’t watch my highlights,” she whispered in her head. “Write your own.”

No one had seen her cry since she was a kid. But that night? In the common room? With nothing but silence and self-doubt keeping her company? Her eyes welled up, just barely, and her breath hitched.

But even then—She didn’t let the tears fall.

She had plays to watch. Mistakes to fix. The next game was coming. And she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

The locker room had cleared an hour ago.

Practice had ended rough—your shot was off, your reads late, and your energy drained like it got siphoned out before warmups even started. You apologized to Coach, stuck around to clean up your mess, then hit the treadmill like it owed you something. Like it was the only place you still had control.

And then the footage started.

Your old game—your worst game. Playing on loop. From your phone, balanced on the treadmill panel. You didn’t notice the hours ticking by. Didn’t feel the hunger creep in or the soreness set into your knees. You ran like you were being hunted. Like that one mistake could kill your entire career.

By the time your trainer found you, you’d been at it for nearly three hours. No water. No meal. Just footage and footwork and the same self-punishing words echoing in your head: not good enough, not again, not again.

You skipped dinner.

Skipped the team hangout.

Made your way into the Mercury’s common area—empty now, just dim lighting and the hum of the screen. You dropped your stuff and sat down in front of the projector. Cross-legged. Silent. And you started writing.

Your notebook, the same one you always carried, filled with phrases scribbled over and over:

Not good enough.

Why’d you hesitate.

Be better.

This isn’t for you.

You should’ve listened.

You rewound the footage. Again. Again. Again. Your hands shaking but steady enough to press play. Then rewind. Then play again. You stared like you were trying to see through yourself.

And eventually…

You passed out.

Right there. Cross-legged. Head dropped, neck limp, hoodie sliding halfway off your shoulder. The screen still played your worst moments. The notebook open in your lap, pages worn and messy. You didn’t even twitch. Your body had gone into shutdown.

The next morning came fast.

Some of the younger players walked in first, still groggy from sleep. They froze at the door, staring like they’d just walked in on a ghost. You, out cold, face slack and empty. The screen flashing every missed shot. Every fumble. Every frame you couldn’t stop obsessing over.

One of them backed out to go get staff.

Another one stayed. Quiet.

Diana showed up before anyone else important. Said she forgot her charger. She didn’t expect this.

You, curled in on yourself like a damn kid, notebook wide open, a tear-streak dried across your cheek, screen still running like a punishment reel. Her whole face changed.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t wake you.

She just sat across from you on the floor, elbows on her knees, and watched the same tape you’d been punishing yourself with. Quiet. Focused.

Then she picked up your notebook. Didn’t flinch at the words.

Didn’t sigh or scoff or say some cliché. She flipped through three pages. Four. Five. Her jaw clenched.

Because she knew.

This wasn’t about proving people wrong. This was about a ten-year-old version of you who never healed. The kid who got told she wasn’t good enough, and just kept trying to outrun it. Who turned it into a schedule:

Wake up.

Run.

Lift.

Watch film.

Study every mistake like it’s life or death.

Skip meals.

Skip rest.

Skip joy.

Repeat.

It wasn’t just drive. It was damage. And Diana saw it.

When the staff showed up and tried to speak, she raised her hand without looking at them.

“She needs rest. Not noise.” Her voice was low, firm.

Then, after a moment, she stood, leaned over, and brushed the hair out of your face. You didn’t wake up. Not yet. But she lingered. Let her hand rest at your jaw.

“You’re already good,” she murmured. “You just don’t believe it yet.”

And when you did wake—somewhere between now and noon—she’d be right there. Sitting beside you. Watching with you. Not judging. Not lecturing. Just there.

Like someone who understood. Like someone who once was you.

You woke up when her voice hit the silence like a brick.

“Get up.”

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft.

You blinked hard, eyes barely adjusting. “What time is it?”

“You’re done,” she said. “That’s the time. You’re done.”

You sat up, slow and stiff. “D… what?”

She walked over, grabbed your notebook. Flipped through it.

“You think this is what makes you great? Being your own executioner every night? Watching your mistakes on loop until you convince yourself you’re worthless?”

Your throat tightened.

“I’m just—” You looked away. “Trying to fix it.”

“No, you’re feeding it,” she snapped. “You know it’s killing you, and you keep doing it. You know it’s not helping.”

You didn’t argue. Because she was right.

You admitted it. Quietly. “Yeah… I know.”

And that’s what scared her the most. The way you knew it. The way you didn’t even flinch admitting it.

“I can’t stop,” you said finally, barely audible. “It feels like if I don’t stay sharp, I’ll lose everything. I’ll go back to being that kid who wasn’t good enough.”

“You’re not that kid anymore.”

“Then why do I feel like her every time I breathe?”

Diana didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then she reached down and snatched your phone. You lunged for it, but she stepped back.

“Hey—!”

“No,” she cut you off. “No film. No notes. No treadmill. No drills. You’re gonna eat, you’re gonna shower, and you’re gonna sleep. You’re not allowed to touch a ball for 48 hours.”

You froze like she slapped you.

“Diana—”

“I’m serious.”

“This is all I have.”

She stepped closer, eyes burning into yours. “Then start building more. Because you’re not surviving like this.”

You looked at her like she was asking you to stop breathing.

“I don’t know how to be okay.”

“I know,” she said. “So I’ll teach you.”

She dragged you—literally—to her apartment. Made you sit on her couch with a bowl of food she microwaved herself. You didn’t touch it for a minute. But she stared until you did.

You took a bite. One. Then another. And suddenly, you were starving.

You ate. In silence. Then fell asleep, unplanned, on her couch. Still in your hoodie. Legs curled under you. The first full sleep in… weeks? Months? You didn’t know.

But Diana covered you with a blanket and shut off the lights.

Then whispered, like she was talking to the scared little version of you that never left:

“You don’t have to earn rest. Not with me.”

You woke up disoriented.

Not just tired—off. Like your body knew it had slept, but your mind didn’t believe it. Like your muscles didn’t trust the stillness. You sat up slow, hoodie bunched at your waist, blanket half off your legs. The room was dim, blinds drawn, and Diana’s living room smelled like strong coffee and quiet.

And silence had never felt louder.

You looked at the microwave clock. 11:52 AM. You blinked. You’d slept over twelve hours.

Panic tightened in your chest.

Practice. Film. Recovery. Lifting. You were off schedule. You reached for your phone—wasn’t on the table. Not in your hoodie pocket. You stood up too fast, heart already racing, eyes scanning.

“Looking for this?”

You turned.

Diana stood in the doorway, arms crossed, holding your phone with that same unreadable expression she wore during press conferences.

You opened your mouth, but she cut you off with a raised brow. “You’ve got twenty missed calls. None from the team. All alarms.”

You didn’t speak.

“Sit,” she said.

You didn’t move.

“Sit.”

So you did.

Like a scolded dog. But not because you were scared of her. It was worse than that. It was because she knew. She knew how to speak in a way that bypassed the noise in your head and cut straight to the part of you you kept buried.

“I should’ve been up,” you said quietly. “I messed it up.”

“You fixed it,” she snapped, tossing the phone onto the couch beside you. “You’re still here, aren’t you? You’re still breathing?”

You looked away.

She sat across from you again, same way she had that first night at team dinner. But her energy was different now. Less curious. More concerned.

“You wanna know what I saw last night?”

You didn’t answer. She kept going anyway.

“I saw a twenty-year-old kid who’s already one of the most disciplined players I’ve ever met. Who trains like she’s got something chasing her. Who hasn’t tasted her own win in years because she’s too busy outrunning ghosts.”

Your eyes stung.

“You think I didn’t see it? The hours? The exhaustion? The fake smiles when cameras are around, and the way you sit just outside the team circle like you don’t belong?”

“I don’t belong,” you whispered. “I was never supposed to be here. I wasn’t the prodigy. I wasn’t the chosen one. I was the ‘maybe she’s good at soccer’ kid. I just worked harder. That’s it.”

“And that’s everything,” she said.

“No, it’s not. They still talk. They still say I’m just a phase. That I’ll break. That I’m a fluke.”

“Then stop trying to prove them wrong,” she said, leaning forward. “Start proving yourself right.”

That stopped you cold. You sat with it. And for the first time—you felt it. The ache.Not from training.

But from being twenty years old and carrying the weight of every ‘no’ you ever got like it was your only fuel source. From starving yourself of joy because you thought pain was the only way to earn greatness. From the fact that deep down, no matter what the cameras showed, no matter what the stats said—you still didn’t think you were enough.

“I’ve tried to fix it,” you whispered. “I know I’m not okay. I know. But when I stop moving… everything catches up. The voices. The doubt. The little girl in me who still hears them say ‘this isn’t your sport.’ She doesn’t shut up. Not unless I run. Not unless I train. She only goes quiet when I drown her in motion.”

Diana looked at you like she’d known that girl, too. She didn’t reach for you this time. She didn’t have to.

“I can’t promise it goes away,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to fight her alone.”

You bit your lip. Hard. “But what if I don’t know how to be anything else? What if I need it?”

Diana leaned back.

Then said, “Then I’ll show you how to need something better.”

That afternoon, you didn’t touch the gym.

Diana made you eat again—this time, a real meal. Chicken, rice, and roasted vegetables. You only hesitated once.

Then, she took you to the beach. Not a workout. Not a drill. Just sun, salt, and sand. You walked barefoot. Diana didn’t say much. But she was there, quiet but present, like a steady heartbeat in your chaos.

And for the first time in weeks… you breathed. Not because you earned it. Not because you broke yourself to deserve it. Just because you could.

The notebook stayed closed that night. The phone didn’t charge.

And when you curled up under Diana’s extra throw blanket again, she said nothing.

But she left the hallway light on.

Just in case that little girl in you still needed someone to run to.

[ashrayus]

PLSSSS MORE FANFIC RECOMMENDATIONS OF JASON TODDDD!

DUDEE!!!! really happy u asked but also omg this got long agaiN who would have thought (!) i added summaries this time tho :)

here is part one of my fic recs XD

andd heres the new ones!! pls give them some love if u read them :D

Dick and Jason:

how lonely to be something that nothing wants to kill by sunlitlemonade

There were blood drops dripping down his fingers to the ground. The puddle was big enough for it to have spread around more than half the tub. His breaths shuddered, they were shallow and waning. But he was breathing and Dick’s world centered around that.

starting strong with Angst go read all of sun’s fics i always die and get revived <333 pls mind the tags on this one

cast on/cast off by hellsreluctantheir

“This is surprisingly non-destructive for Jason,” Dick comments, lightly. In the parking lot, Jason pulls a grenade out of one of his pockets, yanks the pin, and tosses it through the roller door and out of sight, before tearing out of the parking lot in chase of the truck. “Well, for a minute there,” Dick amends. He takes a step back towards the alley the batmobile is parked in, giving Bruce a quick glance. “We following? “No,” Bruce says, as the grenade goes off. “He’s cleared the warehouse. We can get into the office.” Dick sighs again. But Jason knows he can call in if he needs help.

time loop!!! read most of this writer's fics and fell in love with them all,, go read fr

bloodstained by hellsreluctantheir

“I know where the clinic is, asshole,” Jason said. The wad of gauze he was using to keep pressure kept slipping against his shoulder. The knife had caught the space between two panels, split to allow movement. Lucky shot. “Ok, let me make sure you get there without passing out from blood loss,” Dick said, a deliberate evenness to his tone, like he was doing his best to accomodate someone who was being completely unreasonable. Shithead. “I’m not going to pass out,” Jason said, ignoring the fact that he was actually feeling pretty unsteady on his feet. He caught himself with his good shoulder on the entry to the bathroom, took a deep breath. “What would Daddy Bats think if he knew you were here, trying to help me?” “I assume something like, ‘Wow, Dick, you’re such a good brother, trying so hard to make sure Jason is ok even when he’s being a complete idiot about it,’” Dick sniped.

heres another one from them. jasons scars and dick. andd another one next

brothers in arms by hellsreluctantheir

It wasn’t like none of them went undercover. Jason practically lived there. And he’d punch anyone who tried to make it a sob story for him, to cluck over the times he’d been alone in a pit of vipers, act like it was some tragedy. But given half a minute to think about it, Dick somewhere completely cut off from everyone but Bruce, no allies on hand, surrounded by enemies. Angry as he was at the lie, there was something about that he just fucking hated. or Thinking your brother is dead and then finding out he's been alive the whole time really has a way of making you rethink the relationship.

Shelter by Ptelea

Two safe houses, two nights dealing with the aftermath of fear toxin, multiple conversations, several meals. Written for Sholio's September 2020 Comfort Fest for a prompt from Musesfool. Warning-wise, there's nothing graphic here but there are definitely references to past canon trauma for both the characters.

the way they are written here <33

Rotten Fruits by couldyoublameme

“I’m fine,” Dick assured gently, sitting up slightly. “Just a bad night, is all.” It’s a familiar phrase he has used so often. Whenever the addiction crawls back into his mind, a parasite he can never truly get rid of. The family knows what it means. Knows what the ‘bad’ is. Knows what to do. “Oh,” Jason says. “Why?”

absolutely murdered me. pls do mind the tags

You Can Do Better Than That by AlexaAffect

All Jason could hear was his own ragged breathing. He desperately gasped for air, each breath more exhausting than the last and his lungs and throat burned with the effort. In. And, he needed a second longer with every breath he took, out. His arms had been suspended for the last… 15? minutes? Jason had quit keeping track of the time, he’d been too preoccupied trying to hold himself upright, trying to ease his position, switch it up, anything to prolong the guaranteed death. “Red Hood?” That was Dick’s voice. Huh. So they had found him fast enough. Or alternatively; Dick finds a kidnapped Jason shortly before he asphyxiates.

this fic is just oddly comforting to me idk. very precious

Equivalent Exchange by Lysical

Apparently favors don't expire on death. --"What do you want, Dick?" "For you to be happy, Jay." Dick leaned over and pinched his cheek. Jason reached up and swiped at him, scowling. "And world peace."

ADORABLE and fun

Just for Now by Lysical

Jason was back in Gotham and the timing couldn't be worse for him to need assistance on a case. He didn't want to see any of the Bats and he was sure the feeling was mutual. Nightwing was the worst option for Oracle to pick to help him out.

To Reconcile by CasualDanger

“Babs slapped me at your funeral.” Jason goes to laugh, but it’s just a cough and his mouth barely even twitches up. “She hated me in that moment. I mean, really, really hated me, like I did Talia after I found out Damian had died. And I wondered,” his voice cracks, eyes glassy now, “did you hate anyone when I was gone? Because I was gone?”

he ain't heavy, he's my brother by someplacewarm

Dick's been putting off meeting with Jason for a while now, but when a distress call comes through, he has no choice but to answer. Or the one where Dick and Jason talk, fight, get high and cuddle. In that order.

making gold out of it by vmkhoney

Dick talks himself back down on the bathroom floor, clinical and detached. (For someone whose primary skill is manipulating his body, it’s not very often that he feels connected to it.) - Or, five years after Blockbuster, Dick begins teetering on the ledge of processing what Catalina did to him.

a wonderful dick grayson fic, and jason is there being a good brother. mind the tags

What Hurts You by blueyeti

Dick comes to Jason's aid when he's injured in a fight, or at least he thinks he has.

jason has no scars!! and thats also sad

at me, too, someone is looking by bacondoughnut

Dick Grayson knows he's got problems when the Red Hood's busted leg somehow becomes his concern. aka; How Dick Grayson finds out Jason Todd is alive. A story about healing.

a rather long one for my standards XD (very short attention span) but this made me sit down and read. very fun jason

Bruce and Jason:

Saltwater and Desperation by bacondoughnut

Jason's not sure how he even manages to get himself out of the harbor. He's just glad Bruce is there when he does. Not that he'll ever, ever admit as much out loud.

same writer, love this jason (and bruce) so much

Insomnolence by navree

It's not like he slept much as a kid anyway; this is just a return to the status quo. He's not overly tired, and even if he's been sleeping less than his already limited amount throughout April, that's still not any of her business. Bad memories are already bad enough even before they spend the next few years in the aftermath becoming nightmares.

navree being The bruce and jason writer for me all of their fics are so o(- (

Ash Into The Wind by navree

This is his dad in there, the first man he ever called Dad, at any rate, and even after everything, booze and jail and Bruce and death and then death again, there's never going to be a part of Jason that isn't gutted that he's dead. One night, a wraith in a red helmet slips onto the grounds of Blackgate Penitentiary to steal one specific thing.

another one from them

Trapped by lurkinglurkerwholurks

BatFam Week 2018, Day Two. Prompt: Trapped Yes, the prompt is "trapped" and it's a Jason fic. I'm so, so sorry. (Not really, though.) Please see tags for potential triggers.

binge read this writers fics recently they write them so nice

Overcoming Our Antecedents by Batbirdies

Bruce swallows, closing his eyes for a brief moment before he takes another, steadying breath and presses both hands to his face. He just needs a moment. Needs to remember where he is, what year it is, that Jason is not actually fifteen, he only looks like he is. This is temporary. This is just a temporary problem that needs to be contained until they can change Jason back. This is not a repeat of events already passed. This is not a second chance.

Jason and Batfam:

Names and Neapolitan by Muddell

“Goddamnnit Robin,” Hood is there, pulling him into his arms. Robin sees that helmet, he sees the green eyes, the dark hair, he sees open, gray, Gotham sky, and hears tires squealing, and then he sees stone. He sees the cave. Bruce is there. Alfred is there. Dick is there. And Hood is there. Robin rolls in and out of consciousness. He reaches out, snatches the smell of copper and the touch of leather, and he holds Hood’s hand and he does not let go. He’s allowed to say it now. “Jason,” he says. “Don’t leave.” Or, following Dick telling Tim about his older brother, to Tim actually knowing him.

read a couple fics from this writer all so good!!!

Six Ways to Sunday by Muddell

Jason catches Duke hiding a headache and says, is anyone going to deal with that?

same writer!! really love their jason

Settle Down and Sleep by OberonBronze

A series of vignettes about seeking comfort. Damian tries his hand at being a comfort animal; Tim shows up at Jason’s place for an impromptu sleepover; Jason bonds with his older brother after a damaging fear toxin trip; Dick and Bruce have a long-overdue conversation.

really liked jason and dick in this :)

Tuck Me In by OberonBronze

Bruce Wayne and his long-standing habit of tucking his kids into bed.

think how great it is to fall asleep (and how terrible it is to wake up) by mikkal

Jason was fifteen, barely five foot, and underweight for his age when he died. When he came back to his body, suddenly he was too tall, too scarred, too much, too different. And he just... never got used to it. (Or: 5 times a Bat noticed/discovered his body dysphoria post resurrection)

Stranger Danger by alchemistsarego, whumpinaheartbeat (alchemistsarego)

There was never one particular moment that Damian registered that he was losing consciousness. Everything simply flashed from one thing to the next, even though some part of him understood that time had been passing in between. He had been sitting upright, rolling his eyes at something someone had said, then he was on the ground being pinned by some unknowable weight. All at once the weight was gone again, replaced instead by something not only lighter, but much warmer too. A blanket? No, a jacket.

jason and others:

Past Experience by Rookblonkorules

He thinks he might be dying. Again.

clark and jason :)

Bats in the Belfry by endlessnepenthe

Hal idly wonders how long he has before he's found. Probably not very. The Bat's freaky like that. (Or, Hal goes to Gotham and discovers that Batman's brand of freaky isn't exactly one of a kind.)

jason and hal jordan??! and slade? and magic.

[eriace]

wife me up, reo ; reo mikage

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which after her sister steals her fiancé, y/n is determined to walk into that engagement party with her head held high—and her best friend, reo mikage fake-married at her side, looking like a billion-dollar. ↷ reo mikage ; blue lock

↳ an order of cappuccino + frappuccino from @sailorstar9 in the comeback cafe event !

Y/N HADN'T CRIED. Not when she caught her sister lip-locked with her fiancé. Not when her mother said, “Well, maybe he just fell in love with the prettier daughter.” Not even when her ex sent her a “hope we can still be friends” text with a smiley face emoji.

No. Y/n didn’t cry.

She plotted.

She plotted with a vengeance, and snacks. Which is why Reo Mikage found himself sitting across from her in her living room, eating revenge-themed popcorn and listening to her dramatic villain monologue.

“I want to crash the engagement party. I want to show up glowing. Like post-breakup, revenge-body, thriving-glow. I want to make her look like a backup dancer in my story.”

Reo, halfway through a bite, blinked.

“You want me to fight her?”

“What—no! I want you to pretend to be my rich, loyal, devastatingly attractive husband and make them feel like trash.”

Reo stared.

Then smirked.

“Oh. So you want me to be me.”

The plan? Chaotic.

The execution? Somehow worse.

Because Reo, dramatic little chaos prince that he was, didn’t just fake-date her. He fake married her.

He brought rings. He made matching outfits. He sent handwritten invitations to his personal glam team for “operation: rub salt into the gaping wound of betrayal.”

By the time the party arrived, Y/n was in a silky champagne dress that cost more than her rent, hair done by someone with an accent, and heels tall enough to make her rethink her life choices.

Reo wore a smug grin and a tuxedo like it was war armor.

“Ready to ruin lives?” he whispered as they pulled up in a sleek black car that screamed I moved on and I’m thriving, thanks.

Y/n grabbed his hand and smiled sweetly.

“Let’s go make them cry.”

The moment they walked in, jaws dropped.

Her sister—dripping in glitter and guilt—froze mid-toast.

Her ex turned a shade of white that was almost impressive.

Reo, never one to waste an entrance, kissed Y/n’s hand and loudly declared:

“I’d like to toast to my stunning wife. And thank her ex for being dumb enough to let her go.”

Y/n cackled internally. Externally, she batted her lashes and held up her champagne glass.

“And to my little sister, for showing me what rock bottom looks like—so I knew what to avoid in the future.”

Silence.

Then—

“You married Reo Mikage?!” her sister squeaked, horror in her voice.

“He proposed the day after you two got engaged,” y/n said sweetly. “Some men know what they have before someone else steals it.”

Reo slipped his arm around her waist like he’d done it a thousand times. (He had. But only during Mario Kart marathons and late-night snack runs.)

“She’s a catch,” he said, voice smooth. “I wasn’t about to fumble like some idiots.”

Y/n tried very hard not to die laughing. The rest of the night was a fever dream.

People asked for their “love story.” Reo claimed they met when she threw a donut at his head for skipping her birthday. (True.)

Her ex tried to pull her aside to “talk.” Reo fake-swooned and said, “Sorry, man, my wife only cries over K-dramas now.”

Her sister tried to start a scene. Y/n fake-yawned and said, “Still stealing things that don’t belong to you?”

They left that party legends.

Back in the car, Reo finally relaxed, pulling off his tie and loosening his shirt.

Y/n sighed, tossing her heels aside.

“That was fun. Almost makes up for the trauma.”

“We should fake marry more often.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d marry you even in fiction.”

He smirked.

“Bold of you to assume it was fake.”

She paused.

Stared at him.

He didn’t look away.

Her stomach did something. Probably betrayal trauma flashbacks. Probably not.

“You’re kidding,” she said.

“Try me.”

Y/n swallowed.

“…Did we just enemies-to-lovers speedrun ourselves?”

“Technically, it was friends-to-fake-marriage-to-oh-no-we’re-in-love.”

Silence.

Then she laughed. Loud and ridiculous and real.

“God, I can’t believe I fake married my best friend.”

Reo grinned, eyes sparkling.

“Then let’s make it real.”

“What—like a real marriage?”

“Or at least a real date.” He leaned in, brushing his shoulder against hers. “I promise I don’t come with a cheating sibling.”

Y/n flushed, heart thudding.

“You do come with expensive champagne and good hair, though.”

“So that’s a yes?”

She smiled, reaching for his hand.

“It’s a hell yes.”

© eriace ;; don’t repost my works.

[rhynestonez]

BREAKING POINT

New Avenger! Bucky X New Avenger! Reader

Summary: After surviving brutal torture, you and Bucky struggle in silence—haunted, healing, and holding onto each other.

Warnings: torture, waterboarding, Bucky and you getting beaten, gore, trauma, PTSD.

You woke up choking on the dark.

Not on smoke, not on water—just the thick, still air of a room that had no windows and no sympathy. You couldn’t see much at first. Everything was upside down, blood rushing to your head with a nauseating pulse. Your ears rang. The muscles in your shoulders screamed from the strain.

A sound made you focus.

A breath. A strained exhale.

You blinked hard and tilted your head as far as the restraints would allow. Across from you, strapped into a chair, was Bucky.

His head was tilted up slightly, face bloodied and bruised, eyes locked on yours.

“Buck-” you croaked. The word caught in your throat. “Bucky.”

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t answer.

“Are you—shit, are you okay?” you tried again, panic starting to slip into your voice.

This time he spoke—slow, almost mechanical. “There’s a tub underneath you. Filling.”

The silence after that was deafening.

You shifted instinctively, trying to move your arms, but the ropes were tight, your body held in an unnatural hang from the machine against your back. Your ankles were bound together, and your shoulders were screaming from bearing your body weight for god knows how long.

You twisted, straining to see beneath you. The glint of water caught your eye.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Fuck.”

Bucky didn’t say anything else.

His expression—something between fury and heartbreak—said enough.

The door opened behind him with a loud groan of rusted hinges.

You didn’t look at the sound—you looked at his reaction. His face flickered. Not with fear. With dread.

Two men stepped into the room. One had a machete strapped to his thigh and a long gash down his cheek that had scarred instead of healed. The other was taller, carrying a metal water canister, humming a slow, tuneless melody under his breath.

“Well-“ Scarface said with a grin “looks like Sleeping Beauty’s up.”

The tall one set the canister down with a clink and glanced at Bucky. “Still not talkin’, huh?”

Bucky didn’t respond.

You felt the panic rising in your chest.

“The name.” Scarface said. “That’s it. Simple. The one who’s leaking intel from inside. We know Valentina sent you two. So talk.”

You stayed silent.

“Didn’t think so-“ the other said, cracking his neck. He pulled a chair from the wall and sat in front of Bucky, casual, like he was getting ready for lunch. “Y’know, I never get why they never just give us what we want. Wouldn’t that be easier?”

Scarface chuckled. “No fun in easy.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Go to hell.”

He moved fast.

In a blink, a man flipped a switch and whatever machine you were strung up on, started lowering you into the water beneath you.

Cold water. Immediate panic.

You bucked and thrashed, every instinct in your body screaming that you were drowning. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop it.

Bucky shouted something—but the water filled your ears too much to hear it.

The machine went back up. You gasped, retching, coughing hard enough to see stars.

“Name.” the man demanded.

You shook your head, barely managing.

He shrugged. “Round two, then.”

They took turns. Laughing as they did.

You lost count after the fourth round. Each time, you came back slower. Your body fought weaker. But your voice still rasped out to Bucky between choked breaths.

“Don’t say anything.” You wheezed.

Scarface took a break eventually, wiping his hands on his pants.

“She’s tough.” he muttered to the tall one. “Reckon we try him next?”

“Yeah-“ the tall one said, nodding to Bucky. “Time to loosen the Winter Soldier.”

They dragged you down and dropped you in a chair, barely upright. You slumped forward, wrists tied by rope, face dripping. The metal was cold against your back.

They walked to Bucky slowly, casually, like they weren’t about to shatter him.

He didn’t flinch when the first punch came.

The second split his lip.

The third—across his jaw—drew a growl from his throat, but nothing more.

One of the men laughed.

“Man doesn’t scream.” the tall one said. “Think he’s too proud? Or just too broken?”

The other leaned close to him. “He’s watching her, you notice that? That’s where the weakness is.”

The chair was bolted to the floor, but Bucky leaned forward slightly, like he could somehow shield you with his body.

“We got lucky with the girl.” The man said, before landing another solid blow to Bucky’s face.

The tall one turned to you. “Hey now sweetheart, don’t close your eyes.”

You spat blood at him and glared.

He grabbed your face roughly. “Nah. You’re gonna watch.”

Then he held your head forward—fingers digging in—forcing your eyes to stay open.

You whimpered as they hit him again. And again. One jab to the gut. Then a metal pipe cracked across his shoulder. He groaned low, spitting blood at their feet.

Your eyes swelled with tears, but anger kept them from spilling.

He shook his head at you again—wordless, desperate. Don’t give in.

After what felt like hours, they stopped.

“You ready to talk yet?” Scarface asked, voice suddenly pleasant.

You hesitated.

Just a flicker.

You could see his shoulder dislocated. His nose was crooked. One eye swelling shut.

Maybe if you just—

“No.” Bucky gasped.

You shut your mouth.

They beat you next.

This wasn’t a show like Bucky’s was. This was methodical. Focused. Your ribs. Your stomach. One across your face. Then the back of your head.

You blacked out for seconds at a time.

And when the chair finally tipped, and you hit the floor, you didn’t move. One laughed and said.

“Bitch lasted longer than I thought she would.”

“No wonder the winter soldier likes her.”

You didn’t have the strength to even strain your head, you breathed hard, the blood from your nose and mouth leaking into the cold tiles.

“Ugh. She’s done.” one of them muttered.

The other huffed. “Waste of time.”

A pause.

Then dragging.

Rough hands on your ankles. One of them whispering something about “private time” and “breaking her alone.”

Bucky roared behind you, straining at the restraints, voice hoarse and ragged as they yanked you away.

They dragged you out like a sack of bones.

Bucky couldn’t move.

He wanted to. His whole body pulsed with the urge to rip through the reinforced steel restraints bolted to his limbs, to crush bone and metal and anything that stood between him and you.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

You were limp as they hauled you down the corridor, boots scraping the floor behind you. One of the men muttered something about “making her more cooperative.” The other snorted “She’s half-dead already.”

They laughed.

They laughed.

Something inside Bucky cracked.

He leaned his head forward, jaw tight, tasting blood on his tongue. He breathed slowly. In. Out. Calculated. He shifted his weight against the chair ever so slightly, feeling for give. Metal restraints on his bicep. Reinforced cuffs on his prosthetic. Chains locked behind the chair. Smart. They’d done their research.

But not enough.

Not about him.

He rotated his shoulder, just enough to pop it—dislocating the joint with a muffled grunt. Pain flared, but it gave him enough slack to slip the metal cuff off the socket of his vibranium arm.

Click.

The chain clattered to the ground softly.

He froze, listening.

Footsteps echoed far down the corridor.

They hadn’t heard.

He worked fast—his fingers bloodied, slick, trembling with restrained rage. He dislocated his right thumb next. It hurt like hell. But the restraint slipped.

The rest was a blur.

He tore through the door, shadows swallowing him as he stalked the hallway like death itself. The fluorescent lights flickered above—buzzing, cold, and pulsing like the veins in his temple.

Down the hall, a door slammed.

A muffled yell.

Your voice.

His pulse went nuclear.

He sprinted. No plan. No backup. Just instinct. Rage. Love.

The door at the end of the hall burst open under his weight—ripped off its hinges, clattering into the room with a metallic crash.

It was a bloodbath.

The bodies of five men were scattered across the room—some slumped against the walls, others face-down in their own blood. Their eyes were open. Their throats were not.

And you—

You were in the far corner. A large piece of glass shaking in your hand, the corners cutting into your palm.

You were sitting in a puddle of blood and water, your wrists still loosely tied with half-torn rope. Blood soaked your shirt, your legs, matted your hair to your skull. Cuts lined your arms and face like painted scars. Your mouth was open slightly, breath ragged.

But your eyes—your eyes were hollow.

Not even glassy. Just gone.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

He stepped closer, gently, as if afraid the floor itself might betray you.

“Doll, it’s me.”

Your head twitched, slowly turning to him. Your eyes met his—and flinched.

He stopped short.

One of the dead men had a knife embedded in his throat. Another had half of his face crushed in. The third was missing a piece of his face, sliced open with what you had in your hand.

Bucky swallowed.

“I’m here.” he said, softer now. He crouched a foot away, hands out in surrender. “It’s over. You’re okay now. We’re okay.”

You blinked, slow and mechanical. His hand reaching out for yours.

Then you whispered, voice cracked and quiet:

“Please, don’t touch me.”

He froze. Retreating his attempt. The glass shard in your grasp, falls free from it, clattering against the tile. The blood from your hand splattering with it.

Bucky’s says your name, quiet and soft.

“I just need space right now, honey.”

His heart fractured. Right down the middle.

He nodded. Didn’t push. Just sat down—slowly, carefully—across from you on the blood-slick floor.

He didn’t look at the bodies. Didn’t look at the room.

Just you.

You sat in silence. Neither of you moved.

Your breaths came uneven. His were controlled, heavy. He watched the tremble in your fingers, the way your shoulders curled inward. He knew that posture. He’d lived it.

Whatever they did, whatever you did to survive it, it had torn through something inside you.

So he stayed.

Not as a soldier.

Not as a savior.

Just… as Bucky.

Minutes passed.

The hum of overhead lights. The drip of water. The cold air crawling over your skin.

Then, finally—far off—voices. Shouts. The rumble of boots.

The rescue team. Probably Val’s people.

Still, Bucky didn’t move.

He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t speak.

He just waited.

And when the door opened again—flooded with flashlights and yelling and relief— you stayed sitting, still soaked in your blood, staring into nothing.

Bucky stared at the women he loved. Heart shattering.

Because he knew this wasn’t over.

This wasn’t something you walked out of and left behind.

It would follow you.

But so would he.

[midnighthazee]

Greenridge ABO Series

Series Masterlist Masterlist

Warnings: explicit language, fear, mentions of past abuse/trauma, violence, abuse, mentions of blood, pet names, a lil smut... 18+ MDNI

WC: 5867

Chapter 11

Two days went by. Two long, agonizingly slow days. The Mansae pack had made it to the house within the hour and Changbin explained how chaotic their day had been. The Mansae members eagerly pitched in to help. Their pack medic Joshua and his assistant Seungkwan worked with Felix and Doctor Quinn in keeping an eye on you. They checked your vitals every hour, keeping you on an IV drip. They also took shifts at night to keep an eye on you around the clock.

Changbin and Seungmin went to check on Minho since there were so many people at home to protect you should the Nykos attack. Jeongin wouldn’t stray too far from you though. He even slept on the floor in the basement living room the first night.

  When Changbin and Seungmin arrived at the house, Minho growled and yanked at the chains when they entered.

“Minho?” Seungmin spoke cautiously.

“We really should have put some clothes on him before locking him up.” Chanbin noted.

Minho was still hard, his tip red and leaking.

Seungmin stepped forward carefully, looking into Minho’s eyes. They were golden and no longer red so that was a good sign. Changbin stood back, observing in case he needed to intervene.

“Please.” Minho rasped.

“Please what?” Seungmin asked, catching Minho’s rut scent.

“Touch me.” Minho hung his head, voice barely audible.

Seungmin stepped forward, caressing Minho’s cheek. Minho whimpered, leaning into his touch. He was covered in cum, so was the floor, and Seungmin felt bad. He clearly had been trying but to no avail.

“I’ll help you.” Seungmin whispered, kissing Minho as his hand dropped to Minho’s cock and stroked.

Minho bucked his hips, searching for more friction. Seungmin squeezed hard, pumping his hand faster. It was only a few minutes before Minho cried out, cum dribbling down Seungmin’s hand. Minho’s body shook as the orgasm washed over him. Finally, after hours, he began to soften. Apparently it wasn’t enough for him to do it, he needed someone else’s touch.

Seungmin littered his face and neck with kisses as Minho leaned into him. Changbin went and grabbed some pillows and a blanket from the other room, placing it next to Minho so he could rest. Then he cleaned him off while Seungmin went to wash his hands. Minho laid down, his wrists and ankles still chained to the wall.

“Should we unlock him?” Seungmin asked upon return.

“We’ll check on him when he wakes up.” Changbin assures, kissing Minho’s temple.

“I’m going to stay here until he wakes.” Seungmin said, sitting next to Minho and rubbing his back.

Changbin nodded, heading back to the house.

It took a few hours but eventually Minho woke up. 

“Seungmin? Wh-where’s y/n?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember waking up next to y/n this morning. I started my rut and told her to leave but she insisted on helping me.”

“She did!?” 

“Yes…You seriously think I took advantage of her?.” Minho glared, shaking his wrists to make the metal clink. 

That must be why I’m locked up, he thought.

“I don’t know. We thought the urges took over or something.” 

Seungmin shrugged, looked away. He was unsure how to break the news, knowing how Minho was - he was not going to take this well. Of course Minho could tell there was something he wasn’t saying.

“Spit it out Seungmin.” Minho demanded.

Seungmin sighed, “You went feral. That’s probably why you don’t remember. My guess is it was because of Lewis’s mark. ”

Minho clenched his jaw, staring at the far wall. “What did I do?”

Seungmin took a deep breath.

“You marked her.” He looked at his alpha, awaiting his reaction.

Minho swallowed, his fists clenched. “How bad is it?”

“Minho…”

“How…bad?” Minho growled.

“She sub-dropped.”

Minho took a deep breath. “I wanna see her.”

“I don’t think that’-”

“Tell her I’m not going to hurt her. That I’m chained-”

“She’s in the med room…we are waiting for her to wake up.” Seungmin spoke in a quiet voice.

Minho finally looked at him and Seungmin shivered under his intense gaze. 

“It’s not your fault-” Seungmin tried to say.

“It is. I did this.” Minho looked back at the ground. “You should go be with her.”

“I’m here to help you with your rut. She’s got plenty of people around her right now.”

“I don’t need help.” Minho stated.

“Minho…”

“Seungmin…I love you…but I demand you leave. Go.” Minho commanded with his alpha voice.

Seungmin stood, shoulders slumped, and with one last look, he left. He headed back to the house, finding Changbin. Changbin sighed upon hearing about Minho but told Seungmin to just give him space to process. Seungmin did bring Minho dinner after a little while but he said he didn’t want it.

The next day, Changbin had gone to bring him food. Minho was sitting there, staring off in space. Changbin could see a tent where the sheet covered his crotch but Minho ignored it. Changbin undid the chains, but Minho didn’t move. 

“You need to eat.” Changbin said after a few minutes of silence.

Minho just stared at the floor, catatonic.

“She’s doing better.” Changbin offered. “Her vitals are going up so that’s promising. We are still trying to find Chan but I swear it-”

“Chan is missing?” Minho finally spoke, looking to Changbin.

“Seungmin didn’t tell you?”

“No. Tell me what?”

“Chan didn’t come home yesterday. The Mansae pack is here to help us find them.”

“That’s what Seungmin meant when he said she’s got plenty of people around her.” Minho muttered.

“Yes. I swear it’s the Nykos but we have no proof. Two of Seungcheol’s people went to track their phones’ last location. Hopefully from there we can find them.”

“If it was the Nykos, go storm their house and get them back.” Minho deadpanned.

“If we do…and they aren’t there…” Changbin shook his head. “We can’t be reckless. You know this.”

Minho sighed. “I hate that I put this on you and Innie.”

“It’s not your fault. Plus, I think it’s good for Innie.”

“I knew I should have kicked her out of my room.” Minho shook his head.

“Minho…you would still be dealing with your rut. So you would still be here.” Changbin reminded him. “Eat please.”

Reluctantly, Minho ate his food and Changbin went back to the house. Seungmin would be there later and end up helping him a bit with his rut, Minho’s urges taking over.

Hoshi and Mingyu finally called, letting everyone know that they found their phones as well as the car flipped over in a ditch. They were further convinced of this being a kidnapping since one of the doors was ripped off. It was also unsettling to think they were hurt from the car accident. 

Jeongin was soothing Felix as he sobbed in his lap, this all being too much for the sensitive beta. Jeongin was doing his best to remain calm and collected, soothing Felix and learning from the older alphas and betas.

Nighttime finally came and everyone was getting some rest. Changbin was restless of course but sleeping. The Mansae pack was scattered around the house, sleeping on couches or piled with each other in the guest room. 

Jeongin, after finally getting Felix relaxed and sleeping, went to check on you. He was standing in the doorway, watching you carefully. You were sleeping peacefully, although your skin looked pale. Jeongin missed your smile, the sound of your voice, your laugh. He smiled at the memories, impatient for you to wake.

Thump…thump…thump…thump…th-

Jeongin hurried to your side, squeezing your wrist. No pulse.

“FELIX!” Jeongin yelled, starting CPR.

Felix popped up, confused. 

“FELIX!” Jeongin called again, waking a few others.

Felix sprinted into the room, Joshua shaking Seungkwan.

“What happened?” Felix questioned. 

“I don’t know. One minute she was fine. Then I heard her heart stop.” Jeongin explained.

“Push epi.” Joshua said.

Felix measured out the epi and fed it through your IV, Jeongin still giving CPR. Felix’s eyes were teary but he blinked them away. He had to be strong for you right now.

“Pulse check.” Joshua said.

Jeongin stopped as Joshua pressed two fingers under your jawline.

“She’s got a pulse.” 

They all breathed a sigh of relief.

“Ohh, thank god.” Felix said, dropping to the ground.

“Breath, Lixie.” Jeongin rushed to his side and rubbed his back as he cried. The stress was definitely getting to him.

“Her heart is weak right now. But it’s fighting.” Joshua informed.

“She’s strong. She’s a fighter.” Felix sniffled, standing up. “She made it out of that hellhole. She will survive this.” 

Joshua smiled sympathetically, nodding his head.

“You three rest, I’ll keep watch.” Seungkwan offered.

“I’m fine.” Felix said, holding onto your hand.

“Lix, you only slept an hour. And only four the night before” Jeongin held Felix’s other hand. 

“I’m not leaving her side again!” Felix nearly yelled. 

“Okay,” was all Jeongin said.

Jeongin stepped out of the med room, Joshua and Seungkwan too. They laid back down in their spots on the couch, Jeongin noticing Minho at the back door. He was inside, just standing there staring with a blank expression. Jeongin sniffed the air, not catching the scent of his rut. Was it over already?

Seeing Minho’s eyes look towards the med room, he wondered how much of that he heard.

“Go see her.” Jeongin whispered.

Minho looked at him, making him squirm under the harsh stare.

“I’m sure it would help if you go hold her hand or-” Jeongin stopped when Minho moved.

Minho walked around the couch opposite of the med room and headed upstairs without a word. Jeongin pouted. If he would go see you, it might help you recover, especially now that you’re bonded and he marked you. But Jeongin didn’t push. Instead he just tried to get some sleep.

It was the early hours of the night and everyone was asleep. Minho stood in the doorway of the med room, refusing to enter as he watched your slow breaths. He locked in on the faint heartbeat of yours, staring as Felix was cuddled into your side, finally sleeping. The bed was barely big enough for the both of you but he didn’t care. He needed to be close to you.

Minho looked behind him, seeing Jeongin asleep on the couch. He remembered what he said, and what he’d been taught of soulmates. Sighing, he stepped forward, coming to your side opposite of Felix. Seeing you like this made his heart ache. He had done this - he had nearly killed you. And you were still not out of the woods yet. 

Hesitantly, he reached his hand out to yours and took it. Your touch felt tingly on his skin as held your hand. Studying you, it sounded as if your heart beat was stronger. Counting, he realized it was elevated. Maybe being bonded does help. 

He held your hand for a while, not wanting to pull away. Nearly twenty minutes passed and he heard movement from the living room. He closed his eyes, leaning down and breathing your scent before whispering in your ear.

“I’m sorry.” He kissed your cheek and left, his hand slipping from yours.

It was the next morning when Doctor Quinn returned. She checked your vitals, Felix filling her in on what happened last night. It made her worry, but your vitals were in a healthy range and she felt optimistic of your recovery. Felix wouldn’t believe it till you were awake and talking though.

Minho was upstairs, cooking breakfast for everyone. Changbin insisted he rest but Minho ignored him. So Jeongin and Changbin pitched in to help him cook for everyone. Soon breakfast was ready, Felix refusing to leave your side. Seungmin brought him a plate down, kissed your temple and went upstairs to eat.

“We can’t keep sitting around. We need to go to the Nykos and get our boys back.” Minho said once everyone was done eating.

“We don’t know how many people are at their house right now. Their numbers are huge…like five times ours. We would have to bring everyone - Enha and Ahgase - and hope we have enough.” Seungcheol noted.

“Someone has to stay behind for y/n,” Seungmin added.

“Doctor Quinn can.” Minho said. 

“What if they bring a handful of people for y/n? Doctor Quinn can’t protect her from one alpha, let alone like two or three betas.” Seungmin pointed out.

Minho sighed. If they split their numbers to leave you guarded, they risk not having enough to rescue their members. Not that they had enough anyways if reinforcements were already in place. If they had your pack members, they probably had packs on guard ready to attack. 

“Even if we leave her with just Doctor Quinn, who says we would make it past the border. They would be expecting us and keep us off their lands. We could very much not even make it to the house.” Wonwoo said as if he read Minho’s thoughts.

“I just can’t stand them being there as long as they have. Who knows what shit Lewis is pulling right now.” Minho grumbled, running his fingers through his hair.

“What if we have Doctor Quinn take y/n away. Hide her somewhere while she recovers. She would be safe, and we better our odds on the front lines. We are just going to have to take the chance of guarded borders and large numbers.” Changbin suggested. “We can call Enha and Ahgase. Tell them to get here immediately and make our move tonight. That way our people don’t spend another night there.”

“I hate to play devil’s advocate…” It was Hoshi, raising his hand to intervene. “But what if they aren’t even at the house. Lewis could have taken them somewhere else.”

It was silent.

That was definitely an option, one they didn’t want to think about. If they made it to the house, and their people weren’t there…

“Then we torture him until he talks. Kill no one and only take prisoners. Someone will break and tell us where they are being held.” Minho states. “We move at dusk. I’ll call Enha and get them here. S.Coups, can you call Ahgase?”

“Of course.”

“Everyone, get some rest and fuel up. I need you at your best.” Minho says. 

Everyone nods and moves to get themselves fight ready for tonight.

Meanwhile in the basement, Felix was checking your vitals for the third time that hour. He was stressing to say the least, anxious your heart would stop again. You had been dressed in some of your clothes, the new mark cleaned carefully by Doctor Quinn.

As he took your blood pressure, reading the dial as he listened, you blinked your eyes open. Your brows furrowed at the harsh overhead lighting. You blinked rapidly as your eyes adjusted, turning your head slowly when you noticed someone next to you. A small moan escaped you, causing Felix to look at you. 

“You’re awake!” Felix practically fell on you. “Oh my god, you’re awake!

You groaned a little as he squeezed you, your lips turning up into a small smile.

“Oh, y/n! I was so worried. We all were!” Felix spoke with tears in his eyes.

You swallowed, trying to sit up.

“Easy. Take it easy. Let me get you some water.” Felix sprinted from the room, across the living room to the bar and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. He was back within thirty seconds and placed it to your lips. He tipped it slowly, helping you drink.

“What happened?” you rasped, coughing.

He helped you with a few more sips. “What do you remember?”

You thought back. The last thing you remembered was waking up in Minho’s arms and he had started his rut. Your eyes got wide, worried about what happened during that time for you to end up in the med room with Felix crying. But Felix waited for you to speak, not forcing any memories.

“I remember Minho got his rut. And…I pushed him to let me help.”

Felix nodded. “That’s it?”

“I remember feeling this…blinding pain. Like nothing I had ever felt before. Not even with the Nykos.” You said that last sentence in a small voice, hating that something hurt you more than the Nykos.

“Minho marked you. He went feral upon seeing Lewis’s bite and his instincts went into overdrive.”

“But it didn’t hurt like that before.”

“It’s because he was overwriting the old one. Your old bond was being broken, a new one forming. Doctor Quinn was supposed to be here to observe when you were finally ready. You know, in case you sub-dropped… which you did.” Felix explained.

“Where is he? Where’s Minho? Is he okay?”

“He’s upstairs and he’s fine.”

“I should help him.” you moved to stand.

“Whoa, y/n.” Felix guided you back down. “Help him with what? His rut?”

You nodded.

“You’re in no condition for that. Plus he’s not rutting anymore.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know. He stopped last night.” Felix shrugged.

“How long have I been out?” 

“Two days.” Felix whispered, stroking your cheek.

“Two days?!” You gasped. “Wait, he's done already?”

“Apparently. It's confusing for him too.” Felix shrugged. “But he said there have been reports of skipping a rut or one ending early during times of high stress.”

It was quiet for a few moments as you processed everything Felix told you. He tucked your hair behind your ear, smiling at you. 

“I’m sorry.” you whispered, looking at your hands as they fidgeted in your lap.

Felix took your hand in his. “Sorry for what, love?”

“Being a burden. We should be worrying about the Nykos…”

“No, no. Shhhh.” Felix squeezed your hand. “You are never a burden. We will always take care of you, no matter what. We love you. I love you.”

You meet his loving gaze, your own eyes watering. “You do?”

“Yes. I don’t care if it seems too soon. I know how I feel.” Felix says. He was always one to wear his heart on his sleeve.

“Felix, Minho wants to see - hey you’re awake!” 

You tensed at the foreign man coming into the med room. Felix felt you squeeze his hand and remembered you hadn’t met them yet.

“It’s okay. This is Joshua. He’s part of the Mansae pack. He’s a friend and he’s been helping me take care of you. Him and Seungkwan.”

You looked at him and he smiled at you. You looked down, avoiding eye contact with the alpha and whispering, “Thank you.” 

“Oh course. I’m glad to see you awake and talking.”

“I have to go see Minho. Will you be okay stay-” “Let me come.” you pleaded.

“Y/n…you need rest.”

“I’m okay. I’ve been resting. I wanna see Minho.”

Felix didn’t know how to tell you that Minho didn’t really want to see you right now. Instead, he was too busy beating himself up over it all.

“Y/n…” Joshua stepped forward. “You were…without a pulse for a while. Felix and Jeongin finally brought you back but your heart stopped again just last night. I’m happy, but a little surprised you’re awake so soon after that. And with such strong vitals…. I know it’s a lot to take in, but you really should rest your body. You don’t want to stress it too soon.”

You looked to Felix to see if what Joshua was saying was true but he was looking down at your intertwined fingers, gnawing his lower lip. It must be true and the thought made you whine. Truth is, Felix was happy Joshua told you, he didn’t have the heart to relive it by telling you himself.

“I’ll send the boys down, okay?” Felix forced a smile as he reassured you.

You just nodded, knowing he needed to go. 

Upstairs, Felix rushed over to the boys on the couch.

“She’s awake! Y/n’s talking and she’s awake!”

“Really?!” Jeongin popped up from the couch.

Felix nodded his head excitedly.

Changbin, Seungmin, and Jeongin rushed downstairs, racing and arguing about who’s getting the first hug.

Minho remained seated on the couch, not showing how relieved he was to hear this news. He couldn’t bear it if he had killed his soulmate - hell, their soulmate.

“Don’t say a word.” Minho warned them as they descended the stairs.

“Say a word about what?”

“I don’t want her to know about our mates. She doesn’t need the stress.”

“You’re going to lie to her?”

“No.”

“Lying by omission is still lying.”

“Doctor Quinn is going to take her somewhere private and secluded while we infiltrate the Nykos.” “I’ll go with her.”

“Felix. I need you fighting with us. We need everyone helping. We don’t know what we are walking into or how many people will be there.” Minho’s tone was serious and gave no room for protest.

Felix's shoulders dropped but he nodded.

“So I need you rested and ready. We leave at dusk. Enha and Ahgase will be here soon. Doctor Quinn too. We will leave and then she will take y/n away.”

“This is all happening so fast.” Felix stated.

“I know. But I can’t leave them at Lewis’s mercy another night.”

“Okay. I’ll be ready.” Felix said.

“Thank you.”

“You should go see her.” 

“Go eat.” Minho stood and walked off.

“Minho.” Felix stood and he stopped. “She’s okay. You don’t have to punish yourself. Go see her. She even asked about you.”

Minho looked back at Felix and, without a word, left towards his room. Once behind his door, he exhaled heavily, clutching his chest as he dropped to his knees. Silent tears fell from his eyes as relief washed over him. He sobbed for a few minutes before collecting himself and standing. 

He hadn’t been in his room since coming back from the rut house, too preoccupied with everything going on. And now, he’s seeing the messy state he left behind. Walking forward, he looked down at his unmade bed - the sheets blood stained. You bled on his sheets when he bit you, and now the sheets were a reminder.

Minho moved robotically, ripping the sheets from his bed. He rolled them up into a ball and took them out to the trash in the garage. Then he came up, finding new sheets in the hall linen closet. He made his bed and tidied up his room before going back to his action plans.

The boys had practically fallen down the stairs to get to you, scaring you briefly with all their commotion. 

“Y/n!” They exclaimed, about to attack you with a group hug. 

“Easy.” Joshua warned, but to no avail. 

You winced, the pressure of them hugging you made your shoulder hurt a bit. The mark was still sensitive, your tissue healing.

“Sorry.” Seungmin muttered, kissing your temple. 

Jeongin leaned in and kissed your forehead, Changbin kissing your cheek. He wanted to kiss your lips but nobody knew about the first time. (He also didn't want to do it in front of everyone).

“Are you hungry? Seungmin can make you some food.” Changbin offered.

You shook your head. 

“You need to eat. It's been like three days, darling.” Seungmin squeezes your hand. 

You pout but don't say anything.

“I'm gonna make your favorite, okay?” Seungmin says. 

You can't help but smile. He pecks your cheek and then hurries off upstairs. 

“Where are the others?” You ask.

“Um…they are working on the,uh…the Lewis problem.” Changbin says. 

You notice the way his smile seems tight. Like he's hiding something. But you don't get a chance to ask because Felix comes back and sits on the edge of the bed. 

“This one…has refused to leave your side.” Jeongin says, jabbing his thumb in Felix's direction. 

Felix smiles sheepishly. “I was worried.”

“We all were. But we still rested and ate.” Jeongin notes.

You smile at Felix, your heart warming at his undying love. All of them cared about you so much and you didn't know how to handle it. It was overwhelming but in the best way. 

After a few minutes of them cooing over you and helping you to the bathroom, Seungmin returned with food. 

“M'lady,” he said with a bow. 

You giggled, taking the plate. It smelled so good, your stomach growled loudly. The boys chuckled as you started eating. 

Joshua came back in, telling the boys that Minho was asking for them. They promised to be back quickly, leaving you alone to your thoughts. You kept eating, thinking about how you probably scared them all so bad. It looked like they hadn’t been sleeping much and that made you sad. 

Suddenly, you got a bright idea for a sleepover night. You would get pillows and blankets and set them up in the living room, demanding everyone huddle together for the night. That would probably be the best way to get everyone to have a good night’s rest. And that way you didn’t have to be alone with your nightmares just yet.

After eating, you attempted to stand. The IV was still in your arm, but you ripped it out, now knowing how to turn off the flow of it. You pushed the covers off and swung your legs over. Your body was stiff and you wanted to move around to get the blood flowing.

You slid off the bed, your feet dropping about a foot before hitting the cold tile. Your legs felt a little weak and wobbly but you managed all your weight on them. Carefully, you walked to the foot of the bed and found that it wasn’t hard - you didn’t even need to support yourself. You continued walking, upstairs to a living room crowded with foreign faces.

You froze, not sure what to do. The mix of smells was overwhelming. You looked into the kitchen and saw Minho at the island. Quickly, you walked over and hugged him from behind. He tenses.

“Are you okay?” you whisper.

Minho swallows. “I should be the one asking that.”

You let go and he finishes making his sandwich. 

“Minho…” you start.

“I gotta get some planning done.” Minho walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to Chan’s office.

You pout. He barely looked at you. And he seemed so distant. Your mark began to sting a little. He wasn't… rejecting you, was he? He hasn’t been this cold since your first day. Your cheeks flush red as you realize all the people probably witnessed that.

“He’s just processing.” One spoke up. “I’m Seungcheol.”

“Y/n.” you forced a smile.

“I think he blames himself for you… well… you almost dying.” 

The idea made your heart ache. Nothing about this was his fault. It was yours since you pushed him the other morning. Sighing, you go back downstairs. You stopped at the bottom of the stairs, not wanting to go back into that room. So you decided to go out back.

Outside, you inhaled deeply, enjoying the smells of the yard. The fresh crisp smell of the leaves and trees. It was a bit colder than you last remembered, making you hug yourself. You stepped forward, your barefeet in the grass. It was comforting - the freeness of being outside. 

You caught a whiff of unknown wolves as you heard chatter from above. It must be members of the other pack on the balcony. You went to go back in before you caught some of the conversation.

“I don’t know what condition we are going to find Chan in. I’m worried.” one of them said.

Find Chan?

“Lewis is probably doing a num-ber on him for taking the omega. And I can’t wait to put a hot poker through his eye.” spoke a second one with a grunt as he acted out the motion.

Lewis what?

“Tell me about… That bastard needs to be humbled.” the first spoke again.

Your legs move before you think, carrying you upstairs. You look around the living room, everyone stopping and looking your way. Some hushed voices whispered as you made your way down the hall to Chan’s office. Swinging the door open, you find it empty. You march back down the hall and upstairs.

“Y/n? What are you doing out of bed?” It was Jeongin.

“Where’s Chan?” you asked.

“Uh, he’s with-

“Lewis?” you interrupt.

Jeongin swallowed.

“H-how do you know that?”

“So it’s true.”

“Y/n…” 

“You weren’t going to tell me?” your voice was getting louder.

Jeongin pulled you into Felix’s room since it was the closest. It was the only bedroom without a neutral color scheme, a dark blue on the walls. It also had a cute window seat on the far wall.

“What are -,” Felix said, caught off guard by the intrusion.

“She knows.” Jeongin deadpanned.

“Knows?” Felix asks cautiously.

“That Chan is with Lewis.” you answer, crossing your arms.

Felix’s eyes go wide, sucking in a breath.

“What happened?” you ask.

They sat you down, explaining everything they knew.

“Let me come with you.”

“You just woke up from a two-day coma.” Felix states.

“I can fight.”

Jeongin laughs.

“It’s not funny. I’ve been training too. Please! I can’t sit here and do nothing when it’s my fault in the first place.”

“It’s not your fault.” Felix gives her a look.

“If I hadn’t veered off course and ended up in your yard, they would be prisoners right now.”

“If you hadn’t ended up in our yard, you would probably be dead. Or still suffering and not knowing you had actual soulmates.” Changbin stated from the doorway.

You all turned to see the beta with his arms crossed. He wasn’t wrong…

“Minho said Doctor Quinn was going to take you somewhere safe in case they try to come here for you.” Changbin explained.

“No.” You say, standing from Felix’s bed. 

“Sorry, babe.” Changbin shrugged.

“This isn’t fair.” “It’s for your protection.” Jeongin grabbed your hand. “Please let us keep you safe.”

You look into his pleading eyes. You didn’t know if it was his cute pout or he did some alpha influence thing, but you rolled your eyes. “Fine. I’m going to shower.”

You left their room, showered and dressed within an hour. It felt nice to freshen up and put clean clothes on. Then you went over to your nightstand, taking out a notepad and pen. You decided to write a note to Minho to leave on your bed. 

Sorry boys,

I can’t let anymore of you get hurt by Lewis. 

I Love You.

You glanced one last time at your room, not knowing whether you would ever make it back. You committed it to memory and closed your door. Then you casually made your way down to the basement. Most of the hybrids were congregated in the kitchen eating. You heard the doorbell and realized it was probably the other packs coming in. But you kept going. 

The few people in the basement were asleep. So you quietly snuck past them, opening the basement door and slipping out. You hurried across the lawn, checking to make sure there wasn’t anyone up on the balcony before doing so. Once the coast was clear, you darted into the trees and hurried off towards the Nykos. 

You didn’t know how far it was to their property, but you pushed on. At least you had shoes now and proper clothes, although you probably should’ve worn pants and a sweater, not shorts and a t-shirt. The sun was beginning to set, making the air feel colder.

You pushed on, hugging yourself to keep warm. The scent in the air started to smell more familiar, flashes of your nights running away from the brothers came to mind. You pushed them away and walked forward. 

It had been an hour and the sun was nearly set. You continued on, watching your step. You followed the scent, climbing up a hill at one point. Then you notice a worn path. Looking up, you see a tree with letters carved in it - your initials. You were here. You made it back to Nyko territory. 

Now you just had to make it into the house undetected and find the boys. They would probably be in the basement like you were. The hairs on your arms and neck stood up. It was eerie being back after all this time. The memories kept threatening to creep up on you, but you focused on your mates and happy memories.

Snap.

You jump, twirling around. No one was behind you. You swear you heard a branch. Cautiously, you keep walking. It was quiet for a minute until another snap. You turn again. But this time, everything goes dark. Your hands instinctively reach for your face - a bag covering it. Muscular arms grab you and lift you up.

You scream and thrash in an effort to get away but his grip doesn’t loosen. You hear the creak of the backdoor and know that you’re now in the house. You’re thrown to the ground, bag removed. You blink at the light as your eyes adjust. Looking at the man hovering over you, you don’t recognize him. He must be from an allied pack, hence why he was guarding the border.

“Boss will be out to see you.” he grumbled, his voice deep and crackly.

You look around and notice another man standing by the outside door. You were in the living room, the basement door off by the far wall. The lock on the door was open. Perfect.

You eye the men, watching as one paces the living room. The other stands guard, looking between you and his comrade. You slowly adjust your position on the floor, subtly getting yourself closer to the door. The one who carried you pulls out his phone. You look to the other and he’s looking outside. As quietly as you can, you rush to the basement door, swinging it open.

“Hey!” the men yell after you but you’re halfway down the stairs.

That god awful smell hits you, making your eyes water. You splash in the puddles as you hurry to look in the cells. They were empty. Not even the other omegas were in here. Panic sets in as you make your way to the torture room in the back. You hear the mens’ footsteps coming down the stairs.

Please don’t be in here. Please. You think as you round the corner.

The door was wide open and you were met with an unpleasant sight.

You gasped loudly, staring at the hanging body. It was naked and covered in open wounds from torture, completely mutilated. But it wasn’t Chan.

It was Lewis.

He was dead. Alpha Lewis was dead.

Your vision started to blur and you felt lightheaded. Your stomach churned at the sight, making you lean over and vomit on the floor.

The men groaned, carrying you back upstairs. They dumped you on the floor yet again and, this time, the room started to spin. You tried to focus your vision at the sound of footsteps, but you were only met with a pair of black boots and an unfamiliar voice.

“Hello, little sis.”

TAGLIST:

@estella-novella @lxvxchxrlxttxbxrsx22-blog @butterflydemons @readr1221 @gaby105-skz @notevenheretbh1 @bah2004 @sinfulfic @bowsnbang @just-a-blackthorn-cookie @dreamerwasfound @motheraiya55 @m00njinnie @writeuntilthebitterend @jutdwae-flower @staytinyluv @emmxxsworld @galaxy4489 @wolfo2027 @iknow-uknow-leeknow @thatgirlangelb @fr34k4c1dr41n

[cremeful]

𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞 ノ when two entirely different lives become entangled together, a strange girl with a difficult past and present and a man with his ledger dripping red of killings, robbery and guilt.

this series contains heavy themes of religious/cult like trauma, abuse, death, grief, the over use of alcohol consumption and sexual content. As well as an age gap between !reader (22) and olderman!stack (30s). if you aren't 20+ please be cautious while reading this story. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 ノ 𝐚 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫.

August 3rd, 1902. Clarksdale, Mississippi

"PUSH! MRS.MOORE PUSH!" the nurse assisting the woman's delivery calls out, the dark skin woman in labor pushed as hard as she could, breathing out unsteady and shallow breaths. she weakly speaks "i can't do it anymore" her head drops on the pillow with a soft thud, the lead nurse looks over at the cardiac monitor it reads a low bpm " Don't give up on me, louise! you just need to give one more big push! come on, your baby boys are waiting for you."

Louise nods weakly, sitting up on her elbows and giving one final push, she sighs in relief when she hears a loud, strong cry from her youngest boy. The nurse places the baby on louises chest. "oh, my beautiful baby boy. she tears up, relishing in the sweet sight of her son. "hello Elias, you look so much like your mama" She smiles faintly, the baby coos. If you were to ask elias what his happiest moment was, He would tell you "ion have one." In his opinion he was a curse, a creation of the devil, he isn't supposed to have Happiness or thats what he thinks; was told.

His father was an evil man. He blamed the boy for his wife's death, drilling in his head day and night "your brother came out fine, but you, you killed her! you took her from me!" His twin Elijah, tried his best to defend his brother from their father but it wasn't enough.

Elias was nine when his father beat him so bad that he had a swollen eye and a busted lip. that was the same night that both of the boys swore that they would do whatever it took to protect each other. Of course the abuse went on for a while, but they still kept their promise.

"GET THE FUCK OFF OF HIM!" Elijah screams as he pushes his father with force to try to get him off his brother. His father falls off the younger boy, his face angry. "did you just put your fuckin hands on me boy?!" voice boomed out, stack coughing violently from being choked out, elijah stands his ground "i wont let you do this to us no more, you did it for too long pops." For first time ever, their father walked away.

The night their lives changed, they were 23. Their father beat Elias ass so bad that Elijah thought their father finally killed him. Everything was a blur, their father slammed Elias head on the wooden floor so hard he saw black and white spots in his vision, the last thing he saw was the amount of rage his father had in his eyes.

"fuckin boy! you will never be a fuckin man. I WILL FUCKIN KILL YOU!" His father was to busy yelling, the older man failed to hear the oldest twin footsteps and clocking the gun back before it was too late. Elijah watched as his fathers body slump over, he walks besides him, kicking his body off his brother. "told you i won't let you do this no more."

by the time Elias woke up from being knocked out, Elijah was half way done burying their father in their backyard. "go get cleaned up, pack a bag too." he said is emotionless, shovel still in hand. Elias didn't say anything, didn't ask any questions, He knew what his brother had done and didn't hate him for it. Elijah knew that his brother wasn't capable of killing their father, he was capable of killing others but not their father. He knew his brother thought of himself as weak for it but Elijah thought that was the only thing keeping the younger boy from slipping. The only was to protect his brother was to leave and do what they needed to make sure they were the ones that people feared, not them fearing people.

so they left for Chicago to set up their new lives, lives that would put fear in others. The night Elijah killed their father was the night Elias told himself that he would no longer allow himself to be how he was, weak, exposed and spineless. He would become what his father told him, he was; The Devils Spawn, the one put on this earth to do the devils bidding.

[cryingatwindermerepeaks]

Little!Jackie - Defence

Credits for this go to the incredible anon who gave me the idea earlier today (we need to pick out an anon emoji for you if you’d like it!) and is set in the post crash au I’ve been writing about a bit recently (a name for the au itself is still pending) hope you guys enjoy!!

Notes -> little!jackie, cg!nat, post!crash au, agere, bed wetting, pull-ups, trauma, blood, very vague allusions to an eating disorder

Word count: 2078

They’d missed a lot of things while they were in the wilderness. Graduating, the release of the Nintendo 64, too many movies to count. Some things they couldn’t do much about - graduating was just something that wouldn’t be on the table for any of them. But god willing they could definitely catch up on some missed movies. Tonight, Matilda. Jackie had never been a big fan of movies, always finding herself distracted halfway through. She didn’t mind it too much right now though, too tired to do anything else and content sipping her hot chocolate on the couch squished up between Mari and Shauna. The hot chocolate was settling warmly in her stomach, and the mug she was very carefully holding in two hands was beginning to run out. Jackie didn’t usually have hot chocolate, before the crash she’d never have let herself touch the stuff, but now things like sugar and calories seemed to matter a lot less.

Deciding she could miss a few moments of Matilda, Jackie wiggled herself out from under the blanket she’d been sharing with the other girls. “Anyone else want a second cup?” She offered, wanting to use her best manners. There were a few mugs held out in her direction but as Jackie was reaching to grab them her eyes fixated on Tai and Van. They were sharing a look. The kind of look that made Jackie’s stomach ache with anxiety because she didn’t understand it but she knew it was about her.

“Jax, maybe that’s not a great idea,” Van suggested softly - though to Jackie her voice sounded to be just dripping with malice. Shame filled her body quickly, a burning sensation starting in her chest and spreading like wildfire till it was all she could feel. Her eyes started to water against her own volition. Jackie did not like what Van was insinuating. She hated that any of them knew about her… bedtime predicament, she hated even more that any of them thought they had the right to talk about it! She felt exposed, targeted - everyone’s eyes were on her. Stupid, she thought, stupid, stupid baby.

“I’m not a baby,” Jackie huffed, eyes contracting tightly in defiance as she tried her best to bare lazers right into Van. How could she? How could any of them even begin to think they knew anything about her or what she went through.

“Oh, Jackie, that’s not what I was-“ Van was trying to sweep in with a cleanup crew but it was too late. Jackie could feel the tears rolling down her cheeks and she just felt so mad!

“Who are you to tell me what I can do anyway?” She huffed, her fists tightening around the mug handles. “You’re just as stupid and pathetic,” she seethed. It felt like her whole body was shaking with anger. “I don’t need you to baby me! I’m not some stupid bedwetting baby like some people.” She didn’t mean it, not really, or maybe she did - Jackie wasn’t sure anymore. Everything just felt so fuzzy and painful. Her ears were ringing loudly, the same buzzing that filled her whole body. It was all too much. She wasn’t even looking at Van anymore, her eyes fixating on a random spot off in the distance. She stomped her foot, so they’d know just how angry she was with… well… everyone. It wasn’t enough. Her hands unclamped without a single warning, the mugs dropping to the floor and sending out a shattering crack which pulled Jackie out of her head enough to catch the cries coming from around the room. She let her eyes shift over hesitantly. Oh. She hadn’t meant for this to happen. Everyone was crying, or, if they weren’t crying, they looked like they were about to jump her. Even Shauna. Especially Shauna. Lottie was curled up on the floor, hands clamped over her ears, rocking back and forth. Jackie hadn’t meant for this to happen. Her heart hammered heavily in her chest, dread growing fast. She turned back to look at Tai and Van, hoping to find some of the parental sympathy she was used to. But nothing. They just look disappointed, maybe even disgusted. This was bad. Bad, bad, bad. Jackie was bad. Every part of her body ached with terror. She needed to get away, quickly, before they all realised just how truly awful she was and sent her away forever. Jackie ran right over the shattered ceramic on the living room floor, she didn’t care that it hurt. She just had to get out of there.

Jackie’s room was on the second floor, sandwiched between Shauna’s and Nat’s. At first she’d wanted to share with Shauna, but she’d very quickly become grateful that the other girl had insisted they needed their own space. Their own privacy. Jackie knew a thing or two about needing that right now. She dropped down onto her and slithered under her bed. It was gross and the dust clung to her shirt and clouded up in her face. Despite that - it was safe. She was safe. No one was going to find her here - no one could look at her, no one could yell at her, and no one could humiliate her. Jackie’s foot hurt, she couldn’t remember why, but it was suddenly the only thing she could think about and she was crying all over again. She felt pathetic, defeated. She could fight and kick and scream as much as she wanted but at the end of the day she was just tragic and boring and insecure. And everyone knew it. Jackie sucked in a heavy breath, pulling way too much dust into her mouth at the same time. She couldn’t stop crying - just confirming everyone’s suspicions about how much of a cry baby she was.

Jackie stayed under the bed even when her head hurt so much from crying she thought it might explode, her muscles ached from staying still and her foot still hurt. Just when she thought she might have to live under her bed like an ugly troll from a fairytale for the rest of her life, her bedroom door creaked open. Jackie craned her neck a little to look at who it was. Nat’s heavy work boots made a soft padding sound as they crossed Jackie’s hardwood floor. She watched as Nat quietly sat down beside the bed, leaning back against the bedside table with her knees tucked up to her chest. “Jax, you in here?” Nat called out, her voice soft and untelling of any anger. Not that Jackie was expecting anger from Nat, who hadn’t actually been there when everything had gone down. She must’ve only just got home from work, which meant it was 9:30 and Jackie was really supposed to be in bed by now. Jackie grumbled softly in response.

There was a moment of stillness where Jackie thought maybe she was just imagining Nat, but then she saw Nat’s hand, cold but safe, reaching out under the bed. She took it, because even if she did want to hide forever, she couldn’t help but ache for the comfort. “Van told me what happened. No one is mad at you, Jackie,” Nat explained softly, knowing instinctively where Jackie’s mind would go. “You gave everyone a fright and you used some not very nice words, which you’ll have to apologise for, but it doesn’t make you a bad kid.”

Jackie sniffled, using her hand that wasn’t holding Nat’s to wipe her face. “You don’t have to hide, ok? It’s safe to make mistakes here.” Nat squeezed her hand, trying desperately to ease the girl out from under her bed. “Will you come out so we can have some cuddles?” Nat offered, knowing how much of a sucker the regressed girl was for affection.

Jackie squirmed a bit under the bed, poking her head out from under the bottom of the covers. “Hey kid,” Nat smiled warmly.

“Hi,” Jackie mumbled back, keeping her eyes away from Nat’s. “Natty?”

“Yeah Jax?”

“Is there… something wrong with me?” Her voice wavered as she spoke, shame creeping into every syllable.

“Jackie…” Nat sighed, pain blooming in her chest for the younger girl. “No. No, there is nothing wrong with you,” she promised. Nat pulled Jackie’s hand up towards her, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. “There’s nothing wrong with having accidents, Sweetheart. Especially given everything you’ve been through.” Jackie wiggled out from under the bed at the reassurance. Her shoulders were pulled up tensely but she shuffled into Nat’s arms and once she was there she started to feel a little bit less like the world was ending.

Nat rearranged them carefully, pulling Jackie’s legs up into her lap so she could cradle her just like a real baby. That’s when she noticed the dark red spot blaring against Jackie’s white sock. “Shit, what happened here, Jax?” Jackie looked down, suddenly realising why her foot had been hurting. Oh. Memories of the smashed mugs came back to her and Jackie started to feel pressure build up behind her eyes all over again. “Hey, hey, it’s ok,” Nat bounced Jackie on her knee as she used a hand to tug the sock off. Inspecting the injury, Nat tutted. “Just a little cut, nothing we can’t fix up with a Band-Aid.”

“Can I pick which one?” Jackie asks hopefully.

“Yeah, ‘course you can.”

Nat picked Jackie up - which was not easy considering they were roughly the same size. But she didn’t complain, not one bit, and it made Jackie feel safe. “Of course you don’t have to walk, princess, you’ve got an owie and I get to look out for you.” Nat sat Jackie down on the edge of the bathtub before opening up the bathroom cabinet and pulling out a couple boxes of kids bandaids. She held them out to Jackie, letting the smaller girl pick the ones she wanted. After a moment of deliberation, a good distraction while Nat wiped the blood away, Jackie’s decided on a Band-Aid with Belle on it. “Why’d you pick her?” Nat asked, as she placed the Band-Aid over the little cut.

“She ‘meminds me of Shaunie,” Jackie explained. Then, she paused, fresh tears appearing in her eyes. “Shauna mad?”

“Oh Jackie…” Nat sighed, cupping Jackie’s cheeks in her hands. “Shauna isn’t mad at you. No one is, ok? We all love you very much.”

“Lot was cryin’ tho, an’ I said mean things to Van,” Jackie hiccuped between tears.

Nat pulled herself up onto the edge of the bathtub and sat beside Jackie. “She did, and you did. But that doesn’t mean they don’t love you. You’re tired, Sweetheart, you didn’t mean it.” Jackie sucked in a harsh breath, she was tired. Nat wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.“

-

Jackie couldn’t find it in herself to care when Nat reached straight for the drawer where she’d been silently leaving the pull-ups for months now. She did insist that Nat turn around while she changed, but Nat was already doing that anyway so the demand died on her tongue.

“I never got another cup of hot choc’late,” Jackie mumbled with a soft pout once she was tucked in tightly under her blankets. Nat laughed softly, brushing a hand through Jackie’s hair.

“Sippy cup or bottle?”

“Bottle.”

Nat left and returned not too long after with one of the baby bottles (unofficially they were Lottie’s but she never minded sharing) filled with warm hot chocolate. “Here you go kid, drink up.” Jackie beamed - reaching for the bottle with both hands and eagerly bringing it to her lips. Nat went to turn out the lights and suddenly Jackie felt like crying all over again.

“Stay?” She asked sheepishly - guilt trickling in at the request as she knew Nat probably just wanted to get out of her work clothes and go to bed. But Nat didn’t complain. She switched off the light and crossed back over to Jackie’s bed.

“Sure thing Princess,” She hummed as she flicked on the soft fairy lights that were wrapped around Jackie’s bed frame. Jackie shuffled over and Nat slipped onto the edge of the bed, wordlessly taking the bottle into her own hands so Jackie could focus on cuddling her stuffed bunny, Alice, to her chest. “Goodnight Jax,” Nat whispered softly.

“Ni ni Natty,” Jackie yawned, moments before she slipped off to sleep.

[goldblumluv]

domestic hugh when you’re sad

summary: you’re feeling sad about family issues (self insert). fluff. established relationship. context is you’ve had a tricky relationship with your dad and he’s passed plus a mix of guilt for not seeing people on his side of the family, when honestly they’re not your favourite people.

I’m 3 months in a grief journey so I’m not as sad but I will have a sad day every now and again and rn I am in one (but I know it’ll be better tomorrow)

wc: 628

You’re both sat upright on the bed. You’re covering your eyes as you cry and try to speak. You find it so much easier to speak covering your face and Hugh doesn’t laugh or try to pull your hands from your face, at least until you get in the swing of things. You still find it difficult to verbalise what you feel so he’s patient. You’re sat on your feet and he is sat normally, leaning forward looking at you with one hand on your knee, giving reassuring rubs on your thigh.

“I’ve been doing pretty well so having a bad day feels… really big” “it’s not though, I still have days when all I think about is my dad- *you’re taking deep breaths, just trying to regulate yourself* please will you look at me?” “I look ugly” you say through tears. Hugh chuckles and tells you shut up. “Will I ever be okay?” You say as you look in his eyes. He’s so attentive. Speaking that thought out loud is really scary and earnest. “No… but you’ll get to a point where the bad days will be years apart and then it doesn’t feel so hard to carry. We’ll do it together”

He grabs the back of your neck to press you a forehead kiss. He puts his arm in between the fold of your thigh and calf and pulls you on top of him. He is holding you almost like a baby. It’s ironic. A man more than double your age is cradling you like a child as you talk about your dead dad. Talk about daddy issues. This makes you smile slightly as it does feel nice. Protected. Warm. That is really you two against the world. You just lean into his neck, silently crying through this. He doesn’t offer much to say, only in response to what I directly say. But dealing with grief is hard and there’s not a lot to be said. Only that someone’s going do it with you. He is 3 years in grief whereas you’re only 3 months. He just rubs your legs reassuringly. He mutters an “it’s okay” every now and then. It means a lot to you him saying it’s okay. You feel a lot of shame when crying, which possibly is a childhood trauma. So him just allowing you to be sad and cry is enough. “It’s still fresh and you need to give yourself grace but you’re coping so well”

“I obviously appreciate everything you do, and my friends, but it’s both of you are my safe space and not my family.” “I’m sorry for how you grew up. But isn’t it beautiful you found that connection in other people” “I know” He also relates to this. He found his family and gone to therapy to resolve any family issues. “I think finding your people is the best, and I know the normal is your people should be your family.. but you’re not normal y/n” He is trying to make light, so I laugh, and I do. “I am” You feel too weak to a playful slap, so you just put one hand to his stomach. “All your friends have chosen to love you when they have no obligation to do so” “what about you?” “I think love is strong” You know he’s joking, but you play into it and lift your head. Your swollen red eyes. Your skin is starting to dry from the salt in your tears. You drop your mouth in shock- a fake shock. He laughs at your face. He uses his hand to wipe under your eyes. “Of course I love you, I love you when you’re happy and when you’re dripping with snot” You immediately sniff and smile “Thanks”

[heathermason6060]

Daryl Dixon x f!Reader: Together Apart Ch. 6

(Hes sitting next to you in this pic :D)

Warnings/Mentions: History of abuse, neglect, strong language, mentions of character death, alcohol and drug abuse, ptsd, shared trauma, reader is cold, angst, fluff, eventual smut, slowburn, angst, SMUT Summary: You search for Daryl after Negan's lineup. You didn't understand the trauma he went through, and eventually you decide enough is enough, and you leave. Notes: The last chapter! Somewhat proofread. Filled with tensions overflowing and then some sex. I had a lot of fun writing this and want to thank @louifaith again for allowing me to write out her idea. It's also pretty long because I didn't want to break it into two chapters, it didn't really make sense that way. Longish read, but longish smut at the end if you're just here for sex and want to skip ahead.

When you found out he left on some halfcocked revenge mission, you were pissed. And then you learned nearly everyone else had gone too, you were pissed and confused. 

The rare presence of the others had become more common than the familiar presence of Daryl. He was gone more often than not now, either out with Aaron or off with Rick. Even when he was home, he was never really there. He didn't laugh at your crude insults about others anymore, he didn't want to spend all day with you out hunting in the woods. It looked like was also making an effort to smoke less, often declining your outstretched cigarette. He was the one who got you to smoke once. You used to hate it, but eventually associated the smell of tobacco with him, and you grew to love it.

You couldn't read him like a book like you once did. He'd become overly serious, distant, and uncharacteristically concerned with the well-being of others. 

You had half a mind to just leave. The only reason you hadn't left months ago was Daryl, but the way he was treating you felt like a slap in the face. It hurt. For the first time in so long you hurt. You felt utterly and completely alone, leading you to once again close yourself off from the others, spending all your time hunting or scavenging for substances in the city that could make you feel better. You scored an unopened bottle of painkillers, something you once hated, and drowned your sorrows with a stuffed nose and a foul post nasal drip. 

The savior issue never really seemed like a big deal to you when it first arose. Some asshole raiders trying to make a point, you didn't give a shit. Rick and Daryl would handle it like they always did. 

You took a deep drag from your cigarette as you watched the front gates being opened, two heavy duffle bags over each of your shoulders. You’d come to terms with it, you were leaving, and that was it. You weren't some obedient housewife that didn’t mind the absence of Daryl, you were his best friend and you couldn’t put up with the dramatic emotions anymore. You were fully prepared for the conversations that would ensue, a list of reasons you should stay, maybe some light pleading, so when you saw what came from those gates you froze. 

The muscles in your jaw throbbed as you listened to Rick's pitiful attempt at retelling you what happened, his eyes red and puffy, his hair wet and matted to his forehead. He couldn't, so he gave up, and drug his feet into the house, moving in a way that closely resembled the dead. Carl followed, and you realized Maggie was missing too. Your heart dropped. 

“What the fuck is wrong with him? What happened?” You gaped, looking from face to face, searching desperately for an answer, only to be met with the ghosts of their former selves. You spotted Aaron and realized he was almost never out without Daryl, and your confusion snapped violently to panic. Michonne was really the only one who wasn't too shocked to speak. She told you everything in great detail, her words cold and harsh as she made her anger towards your insensitive behavior well known. Each word she spoke felt like a curse, spitting at you with such venom you'd never had directed towards you before. You deserved it. 

You weren't a good person like them. The deaths of Glenn and Abraham didn't make you cry, go through all the stages of grief and have a mental crisis, in the moment she told you they just felt like problems you’d deal with later, you didn’t have the time. Not when you still had no idea where Daryl was. 

Despite not being a good person, you reacted to the news in a way that was very impressive by your standards. You didn't scream at anyone, or punch Gabriel in the face, you just threw your already packed bags in the car and set off. 

You chain-smoked an entire pack of cigarettes the first hour of searching. You never did find the saviors home, even though you didn't stop searching to sleep the first few days. You found the location of the massacre, a few shredded pieces of clothing and blood stained dirt. You were brought to furious tears at the thought of the scenario where you were in Daryl's position, and him yours. Your first assumption was that he would've already tracked you down by then, him and his one man army breaking you out and taking you far away from the entire state. Then the second, and more daunting assumption, would he even look? Would he be too busy taking care of Rick and the others, the task of rescuing you put on a back burner? 

You told yourself maybe you were just impulsive and stupid, maybe Daryl in that scenario was just being smart and careful, you were just a guns blazing idiot who didn't think far into the future. 

It felt like you'd been out there for weeks, living off a diet of cigarettes and various illegal substances. You nearly stuck a knife in the face of  a woman who was unlucky enough to walk into the same store you were in. 

“No, please, don't.” She sniveled pathetically, her hands raised to the sides of her head in surrender. “I don't have anything. Please. I can take you to my camp, we've got food and water and medicine-”

“Dude, shut up. Just thought you were a walker. Goddamn.” You sheathed your knife and stood back, the tip of your tongue held between your teeth in thought. “But I'm hungry as fuck!”

She took you back to her camp, which was extremely impressive. And just in time, too, your stomach growled noisily and you felt the small waves of hunger nausea begin. 

“Put your gun away, please.” She pleaded in a hush whisper as you stood in front of the wooden gates. 

You looked to her with furrowed eyebrows, your cheeks hollowed out as you pulled on your twentieth cigarette that day. You really needed to cut back. “No.” You muttered around the cigarette, eventually sighing and slinging your rifle over your shoulder with a dramatic eye roll. 

The sight of Rick and Maggie chatting outside with a small group of others felt like you'd been slapped in the face. They looked just as stunned as you were, pausing their conversation. You stood there for about ten solid seconds before the silence finally broke. 

Rick opened his mouth to speak but you raised your hand, stopping him. “Don't have time. Just gonna eat and leave.” 

“Daryl's here.” The sound of Maggie's harsh voice halted your route to the front of the mansion. You couldn't hide the look on your face, an intense ‘this better not be a lie’ mix of anger and disbelief. She pointed up to your previous destination with raised eyebrows and you took off. 

He almost punched you in the face when you jumped him. He was still wet from a shower, littered in various sized bandages and bruises, wearing a fresh set of clothes. He smelled like laundry detergent and cheap flowery shampoos. 

“Holy shit I thought they killed you. Holy shit. Mother fucker.” You babbled into his chest as he squeezed you so hard your back cracked. 

It felt indescribable being in his arms again. It also felt incredibly different. You'd hugged him hundreds of times but something about this particular hug stood out. It was desperate and deep, you didn’t worry about coming off as soft or being too much. Your fingers dug into the sleeves of his shirt around his biceps, your face buried into his chest, and his hands were all over you. He couldn't decide where to touch you, your arms, your face, your hair, your back, they would move from place to place as he cemented into his mind that you were really there, there in his arms, holding and petting him like you'd always done before. His mind flashed with images of him back in that cell and his throat tightened, the slightest whisper of a whimper sounding in the back of his mouth. He held you tighter and kissed the top of your head, rocking you in his arms for a few silent moments as you pulled yourself together. 

“Where the hell you been? Rick said ya left with all your shit.” His voice was tight, the way it would get when he would try not to cry, along with raising in pitch a little. 

You looked up and smiled softly, seeing him through a sheen of wet tears. “Doesn't matter.” You hummed as you stroked his cheek. “Really. It doesn’t. I've been looking for you, only reason I'm here is because some bitch thought I was robbing her and told me about this place. Couldn't keep looking if I was starving.” You buried your face back in the fabric of his shirt and sighed deeply. 

“Told ya, I ain't leavin'. I ain't dyin’ neither.” His warm words in that deep rumble resulted in your racing heart finally slowing its pace. 

“What happened? Are you okay?” You pulled back from his chest to look up at his face. He looked miserable, it broke your heart. He looked away from your gaze, unable to keep eye contact, which was something he never struggled with before when it came to you. “Daryl?”

His head immediately dropped and his forehead collided with your shoulder. Your heart banged against your ribcage and you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, stroking the back of his neck and kissing the side of his head while he stifled his soft sobs.

“Let's leave. C'mon.” You parted from him, only to be pulled back by his grip on your wrist. 

“Y’jus’ got here.” Daryl furrowed his brows, his eyes wet with tears that he quickly blinked away.

“Yeah, to eat so I could keep looking for you. I've found you, so let's go.”

“Go where?” 

You gritted your teeth as his grip on you loosened. “Anywhere else, I don't care.” You said through clenched teeth, your gaze intensifying. “We're done with this shit. Not our problem anymore. Let's go. I'm not letting these people get you hurt again. Never, Daryl.”

Daryl had never been the reason you cried, at least, that's what he thought. So when you started cracking at his rejection, his heart shattered. Every bone in his body yearned for him to hold you, bring you back into his arms and make the pain stop. It hurt even more to see that you weren't just upset, you were pissed, disgusted at the fact that you were showing such weakness in front of the same person who made you cry. 

“I gotta. ‘Jus need to do this.” He attempted to comfort you after your rage at your perceived betrayal faded into tears of defeat. “M’doin’ it for us. Ya gotta trust me on this.” 

There was a small glimmer of hope then, and you allowed yourself to feel it. You were desperate to believe him, and desperate to believe everything would turn out alright. Rick and everyone else would deal with Negan, you'd scratch that burning itch for revenge, and everything would be okay. 

Rick did deal with it, that much came true. At the cost of his son's life, he defeated the saviors.

You were more than willing to fight. You’d been dying for a purpose, and being a soldier in the war against Negan was exactly what you needed. You looked like a cheesy action movie protagonist with two long arm guns on your back and two pistols in each hand. You used more ammo that day than you had in your entire life. God. You wished Merle had been there to see you and Daryl. 

You didn't get the revenge you so desperately craved. You absolutely lost it when Negan was defeated. After Daryl decided against killing Dwight, you lunged at the man like a rabid fox, fully prepared to end his life with just your teeth and hands, only to end up clawing and wriggling in Daryl's grasp. You could've gotten over that eventually, it would take a really long time, sure, Dwight was a brainwashed cult member and did what he did because he was told to. And he'd get his, even if you had to restrain yourself. Fine. It’s fine.

But Rick sparing Negan? 

No. Your reaction to that earned you the reputation of the group's feral animal. You shared the same reaction as Maggie, but unlike her giving up after a while of being held back, you ended up earning a matching set of rope bracelets and anklets.

“You'll have to kill me.” Your throat burned as Daryl tossed you in the back of a blue Toyota camry. He nearly had to force Dwight into the passenger seat at gunpoint, the terror in the backseat scaring him more than the thought of death. 

Your spit was red and thick as it smacked onto Dwight's battered face, blending with the blood that made him unrecognizable. He was barely able to get to his feet after Daryl's threat of death if he was to return, blindly picking up the car keys in the mess of blood spattered leaves. 

The relationship between you and Maggie quickly became a deep friendship as you plotted to kill Negan. Neither of you were allowed to see him in his cell without someone to stand guard, but Maggie even moreso. With enough time you were able to get down there alone, gun in hand, only to be stopped by Michonne, who had apparently come for the same reason. 

“I haven't seen you much before. What's your name.” Negan's eyes followed you as you paced back and forth in front of his cell, seething from the fact that Michonne wouldn't let you kill him yet. She had her own unknown motives, which didn't really matter to you, but all this talking was driving you insane. 

“You don't need to know my name.” You muttered, cutting your eyes at the man. “You look so much smaller than I remembered you looking in that field.”

He winced at your words, placing a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Oh, sweetheart. That hurts. Actually, I've been told I'm pretty impressive.”

He watched you as you continued pacing, your hands sweaty and your eyes wild with rage, confusion, and confliction. A smirk spread on his face. “Look at you. Like a lion in a cage. Well, I’m the one in the cage, but. Coulda used a psycho bitch like you. If you were on my side that day, phew!”

You pulled your gun from your waistband and pulled the trigger. Negan raised hands and jumped. Your heart dropped when you were met with an empty click. You inhaled sharply through your nose and pulled out the clip, which was completely empty. 

Daryl. He dragged you out of the basement, thankful he’d unloaded your guns the night before. He wasn’t stupid, he knew what you were planning. He didn't care that you were pissed, Rick wanted Negan alive, so that's what he was going to stay, even if he did want the prick dead.

It didn't take long for you to pick up on Daryl's trauma. He was good at hiding it from others, nothing much had changed aside from him being quieter. But once your selfish rage had settled you noticed small differences. He slept closer to you at night, no longer on the other side of the mattress, and his nightmares became more violent. He'd thrash in his sleep, tossing and turning and sweating, you found yourself waking him up more times than you could count. Each time he'd get real quiet, maybe from shame, and walk outside to smoke a cigarette. You'd follow him each time and sit quietly on the porch steps, not caring that he didn't offer you a hit. He looked like he needed all he could get. 

You saw him crying with Carol once. His head dipped down and his forehead pressed against her shoulder. If it had been long ago you would've felt hot at the sight, assuming he obviously must've felt closer to her since he hadn't cried like that with you since his capture, but you weren't as shallow and selfish as you once were. Your heart ached for him, wishing he would open up and tell you what happened, you could comfort him too, you wished you could tell him that. 

“Wanna go hunting?” You asked one day, picking up your new hunting rifle, a Savage model 99 that you'd replaced your broken bow with. Daryl shrugged from his spot on the chair beside your bedroom table, not looking up from his work. He was almost always making new bolts in his free time then. He had a pile of twenty-two sitting next to him. 

“Come on, I'm craving venison.” 

He inhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging. 

“Seriously, we haven't hung out in forever man.”

“Hang out?” He said it like you asked him for a ‘playdate’. “What're ya, twelve?”

“No, I'm an adult who misses you, jackass.” You muttered, kicking one of his boots across the floor closer to him. “You've made two hundred arrows in the past week man. I think you can take a break. Yeah, don't look at me like that. I've counted.”

It was when you were alone in the woods that he broke down. You hadn't even asked, he just told you after you took down a buck. He didn't cry at first, he gave a vague retelling, it was only when he felt your arms wrap around his shoulders from behind that he cried. His head hung low as his chest shook with quiet sobs, his hands laying idle and nervous in his lap, his eyes looking down at the stump he sat on. You rested your head in the crook of his neck and held him for a while, your fingers occasionally giving his biceps a reassuring squeeze if his breathing grew too ragged. 

“I'll kill him. I promise. I'll find a way.”

When you were fifteen you skipped school for the first time. Your freshman year, Daryl's too. It was one of the only times you hung out that wasn't just the right time, right place. He was the one who talked you into it, since the two of you shared a history class. He brought cigarettes and a wild assortment of drugs, no doubt nabbed from Merle. 

“We should do this more.” Daryl had said as you walked the power line trails in the woods behind the school. He shrugged when you looked at him, his gaze falling to the grass in front of him. “Hang out, I mean.” 

“Yeah, we should.” You flashed a rare smile, earning one from him as well, the purple skin around his eye wrinkling. 

You never did. You were too busy with school work and getting beat on by your withdrawing mother. Daryl wasn't really busy, in fact, he was alone most of his teenage years. Always alone out in the woods. Sometimes he'd miss school for a week, living in his father's tent deep in the forest, spending his time learning to live on his own. His father never noticed, not until the school called and he got one of the worst beatings he'd ever gotten. You saw him at school a few days after that, one of his last days before he dropped out. 

He looked awful. Busted lips, bruises all over his arms, light purple handprints on his neck, and deep purple blotches around his eyes and jaw. The school called the police, but nothing ever happened. Daryl told them it was from a fight with some kid, and they happily accepted that answer, eager to miss out on the paperwork. 

“We should just leave.” You said after he pulled the cigarette back away from your lips to take a drag of his own. 

“I would.” He muttered as he held the smoke in his lungs, watching the kids in the far off soccer field chasing the ball. His legs dangled off the edge of the school roof, occasionally swinging a bit. 

“I would too.” You wouldn't. Not until you got your brother back. You looked at him, feeling an unfamiliar twist in your heart when you saw the way he flinched under your sudden gaze. “I'd kill him if I could.” 

You truly meant it. Even though Daryl was barely an acquaintance at that point, you would have killed his father if you got the chance. Daryl didn't mean much to you to be brutally honest, you didn't care to form a deep friendship with anyone, but you shared the bond of trauma from parental abuse and that was deeper than any normal friendship. He could leave, never see you again, and you wouldn't be upset, but if you ever had to witness his father touch him it would shatter your soul. 

You promised yourself you'd kill anyone who ever hurt him after that. You almost murdered Andrea when you found out she shot him. You risked being eaten alive by walkers just to make sure the Governor was really dead. You beat Dwight until Daryl dragged you off, if he hadn't done that you would've killed him. 

Things got a lot worse after the day of your failed assassination attempt. Daryl was never home anymore, either at Hilltop or Ezekiel's kingdom. You had reached the point of considering leaving again. The emotional rollercoaster you were going through was taking a heavy toll on your already fucked mental health.

He could see the effect his absence had on you, and it made him feel like shit. There wasn’t much he could do, he had so many responsibilities and he would never ask you to come with him and Rick every time they packed up and went on long trips every five seconds. It felt selfish to him, he didn’t know that you’d be more than happy to accompany him. 

His hands on your tense shoulders as you sat on the edge of your bed did wonders to loosen you up. You set your gun down beside you and looked up to him, forcing a smile. 

“C'mon sweetheart. Wanna show you somethin’.”

He took you on a long walk in the woods to a secluded pond that once belonged to a fisherman, obvious by the raggedy dock and small wooden shack filled with all sorts of fishing tools. There was still homemade canned fish in his cupboards. 

“Gonna stay here for a few days. Jus’ you an’ me.” 

You watched him over your can of trout, chewing slowly. “Really?”

Daryl shrugged and stabbed his fork into his own can. “Yeah. Ya need it.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “We need it.”

Your heart swelled with warm joy, a smile spread on your face and you tried your best to contain the satisfaction his gift had given you. You missed your best friend more than anyone you’d ever missed before after your baby brother. You’d come to terms with the more than likely possibility that he was dead, and so were your parents. It took a long time and many different weeks spent searching when you were back in Georgia. 

You had a fantastic time with him. You fished all morning, talked all afternoon, and ate your fill of fresh and canned fish. It wasn't long before you set up your bedrolls in the middle of the shack and blew out your candles. It felt amazing to sleep next to him again, you couldn't properly put into words how much you missed him. The feeling of his large warm body next to yours as you fell asleep had you thinking that it was all worth it. He was making an effort to spend time with you again, and with that effort came the sparks of hope, hope that you were getting your best friend back.

You woke up the first night spent with him in the fishing shack to see moonlight seeping through the holes in the tin roof. You rubbed your blurry eyes and sat up, propping yourself up with an elbow on the floor. 

“Daryl?” You murmured sleepily as your eyes came to focus in the dim light. His bedroll was still beside yours, albeit empty. You waited a few minutes before walking outside, assuming he just had to go piss or something. 

Ten minutes passed before you walked back into the shack, now carrying a small candle to light the room, cursing when the wax dripped down your knuckles. The amber glow illuminated his bedroll, bringing attention to a small white square. You leaned down and picked up the piece of paper, squinting in effort to read his handwriting. 

The pain in your chest was deep and dark. Growing up you had grown used to being disappointed by your parents and people around you. It never surprised you. Even now you didn’t expect much from people, but Daryl was that exception. So when you read his little apology, claiming Rick called on him through his walkie to request his help in the Kingdom, you decided you’d had enough.

He had been in the Kingdom for about two weeks until you heard from Rick that they were back.

“We're leaving.” You seethed the moment you stepped into your new shared bedroom with Daryl. It was upstairs in one of the apartments in Alexandria, no longer the basement in Rick's house. You had a nice king sized bed, lots of dressers and shelves, a big ass tv, and even a gaming console that once belonged to Carl. Daryl had only slept in that bed three times since you moved in months ago.

He sighed your name and stood from his seat at the table, setting down the disassembled gun he'd been cleaning. “No we ain't. Cut that shit out.” 

“I can't be here anymore. I can't. I can't.” You began hyperventilating as you ripped the dresser drawer fully out, falling to your knees and quickly grabbing the clothes that spilled out. 

“Stop.” When you didn't comply he made you stop, grabbing your wrists and forcing you to look at him. He spoke in that serious tone that felt like a stab to the chest, his eyes burning holes into yours. “I'm not leavin'.” 

You froze at his words. Your mouth opened and your lips trembled, your breath catching in your throat. The words never came to you. You just stared at him with wide eyes and a horrified look of disbelief.

Daryl didn't speak either. He stood his ground, maintaining a firm gaze, his grip on your wrists slowly loosening. 

It hurt. And that made you angry. 

“Who even are you anymore?” You hissed, tearing your hands away from him and shooting up on your feet. “I never see you anymore, you're cold, distant.” He got to his feet, accepting each blow of your words with this calm face that turned your anger into lividness. 

“You promised me you'd never leave me. You promised you'd always be the one thing Daryl, the one thing that wouldn't change, wouldn't leave, wouldn't hurt me, I kept my promise!” Your finger hammered against your own chest in reference. “You say you're never leaving but you already left! I can see it in your eyes, don't look at me like you have no idea what I'm talking about.” Your face burned. “I can see it. The pity, the disdain. The only reason you haven't just kicked me out is cause you feel like you're obligated to me now, or maybe you're scared I'm some loose canon and I'll burn this fucking house down-”

Daryl had heard enough, he lurched forward until he was inches away from you, his nostrils flared due to his increasingly heavy breathing. “You're fuckin’ delusional!” He spat. “You don't think this is hard on me too? Don't think I'd rather be out there livin’ in some cabin with you? That shit ain't happenin’, these people are family. I ain't leavin' ‘em neither. Shit don't mean I don't care ‘bout ya anymore. We ain't in Atlanta, ‘ts not like that anymore. Ain't just me you ‘n Merle.”

“We should've just left. We should've just left.” You repeated in a breathy whisper, your glazed over eyes locked on his chest. 

“Yeah? Well, we didn't, now we can't. Now I won't.” The purposeful enunciation of the last word was the straw that broke the camel's back, and he immediately regretted it as soon as your eyes squeezed shut. “G’damnit.” 

“Fine.” Your breath was shaky, and you resumed packing. 

He found it impossible to stop you, impossible to move. In reality all it would take from him was a simple request for you to stay, but he couldn't even manage that. It felt like watching a fire you started get out of control, he knew he still had the power to stop it, but he was too stunned to move. 

You zipped up the same second duffle bag you'd packed with the same intention on leaving, just as you'd done before. This time though, it wasn't the same. It felt too final. You knew it would be the last time. Daryl did too, and he still didn’t stop you.

You’d set up camp deep in the woods down a dirt road that led to a pond. You slept in your car with your campfire a few feet away, a pot of wild carrots and rabbit simmering over the coals. It smelt amazing due to your stolen beef bouillon cubes, but you didn’t really have the motivation to eat. You flicked away the first cigarette of your last pack and stared into the red hot coals, watching them ebb and glow until the flash of something large and dark caught your eye. 

You stared in disbelief as you watched his figure move through the thick trees, making his way over to your little camp beside the car you'd stolen from Alexandria. He had a heavy bag with him. 

He plopped his bag down next to your fire and sat down, helping himself to a bowl of your stew. He said nothing, not even looking up at you as he finished your supper.

“The hell are you doing here?” 

He looked up at you and sucked the grease from his fingertips, the empty bowl now discarded at his side. You had no idea how he’d managed to get his fingers coated in rabbit fat, it was fucking soup and he used a spoon. “Ts’it look like?”

You couldn't move, your feet glued to the debris of the forest floor. Your mind spun with questions. If he was actually willing to leave with you, leave all those people behind, why had he shut you out? Why had he changed? What changed? 

“I don't want you here. It's an obvious act of charity.” You finally spoke, watching as he lit a wrinkled cigarette. “You told me yourself-”

“Will ya shut up?” He squinted up at you through the burn of smoke. “Jus’ walked six  damn days to find ya. M’not leavin'.” 

You sat on the opposite side of the fire in silence. He scooted around to sit next to you, and held his cigarette up to your lips. You took a weak pull and sighed. After a while of not speaking, you broke the silence. 

“You're so different. Changed so much”

He nodded at your words, his head tilted down to stare at the leaves between his legs. “Had to.”

“Why?” The question burst from your lips so quickly that it surprised you. 

“You.” He took a deep pull off his cigarette and blew it out the opposite side of his mouth to avoid blowing it directly in your face. “This ain't the kind of life you deserve. Tryin’ to get that for ya. That little house ya dreamed of living in, one with a screened in porch for plants ‘n shit. Life that ya ain't spendin’ hungry, cold, scared.”

He paused for a moment, taking another long drag. “Wanted me to be better too. The kinda man to pick ya flowers, take ya on dates, all that stupid shit.” He flicked the spent cigarette into the fire and leaned back against your car door. 

If it was possible, you were feeling every emotion all at once, in such a rapid and disorienting fashion that it looped back around and made you too shocked to feel. 

He delved deeper, explaining that he felt you deserved better than who he once was, Merle’s echo, a loud and angry asshole, then turned into a cold and traumatized shell, never allowing himself to feel vulnerable with you again. When he finally broke out of it and realized exactly what he wanted, he worked on himself in a determined attempt to be the man you dreamed of marrying as a kid.He worked on your surroundings as well, making sure to eliminate any possible threat in every colony that had even the slightest chance of risking your livelihood. But more importantly, he wanted to be yours. The type of husband you described when you were thirteen years old, cleaning the blood from his swollen ear one of the nights he slept on your back porch. 

“I'm not gonna be like my mom.” You had said firmly, tossing away the bloody tissue paper. “I'm gonna get a good husband and I'm not gonna mess it all up like she did.”

“A good husband?” He questioned curiously, wincing as you dabbed his ear with rubbing alcohol. 

“Yeah, like…. He'll take me on dates, open doors for me, buy me cool stuff, uh….” You trailed off in thought. “He's gonna build me a house too. With a screen porch that I can put a hundred plants in, and he won't be allowed to smoke in it. Oh, he won't smoke, actually. Or drink, or do drugs. He'll never hit me or yell at me like my mom did to my dad, and to me. He'll be handsome too. And smart.”

You were brought to the present with a jolt as Daryl’s hand touched your knee, making you jump. You didn't notice your eyes had started watering and you quickly went to discreetly dab them dry. 

“Guess I fucked up. M’sorry. Was a real piece of shit.”

“No,” your voice broke as you stopped him, grabbing his hand on your knee and giving it a squeeze. “Complete opposite of a piece of shit. I had the wrong idea, I should be the one apologizing.”

“Tsh. Nah.” Daryl waved you off and shook his head. “Should’a told ya. Wasn't thinkin' right.” 

The two of you sat in thoughtful silence until the embers began to grow dim. The forest was thick, so even though the sun was visible as it sank lower and lower, it soon became too dark to see properly. 

“My…” you broke the silence, searching for the right word. “Aspirations have changed since then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Several seconds of silence.

“How'so?”

“Well, I don't care if he smokes, or does drugs, or curses or can't take me out on a date. He doesn't have to build me a house, but that's still an option.” Daryl snorted, and you went on. “But he does have to own a crossbow, ride a motorcycle without a helmet even though I tell him to, and he definitely needs this,” your finger tapped on the skull tattoo on the back of his hand before sliding up his arm to stroke a line down his back, “and these tattoos. And this.” You touched the mole over his upper lip. “And he definitely has to slur all his words together because of his accent.” 

“That's all, huh?” He joked softly, watching you draw your hand away from his face. “Y’got some low standards for a husband.”

“Oh, right, I forgot. He also has to go back to his family, because that's where he belongs.” There was a quick flash of hurt on his face, his lips parting and his eyes narrowing, so you continued. “And because that's where my dream house is going to be built.” 

In all your years knowing Daryl Dixon, you'd never been sexually intimate. You'd never had sex, flirtation only being reserved for playful teasing banter, you'd never really kissed, aside from that one night at the Greene farm. You'd laid with each other multiple times, more often than not sleeping curled up together in the woods or on the floor of some house. Despite never being sexually intimate there was an unspoken mutual understanding of your relationship, you were together, but not in the traditional standard sense. Neither of you ever had interest in a relationship with anyone, that was simply out of the question. Why have a partner when your best friend is everything you need? 

He became your partner at some point, maybe that's why it caused so much anguish to the both of you when you left. But it was only that night that you solidified it. And the next morning, and in the back of the car on your way back, and on the hood of the car, and after your shower back home, and after dinner, on your bed, on the floor, a second time after that, right before bed, and again the moment you woke up. 

It started with a kiss, which just so happened to be his second ever kiss, the first being you in the back of Dale’s RV. You wouldn't have ever guessed, the way he kissed with so much passion and vigor felt akin to a man kissing the same pair of lips he'd kissed his entire life. And you would have never guessed he was a virgin. 

Each touch was as if he was handling precious glassware. He never took off any of your clothes, he'd just gently tug at your shirt until you got the hint and undressed yourself. 

At some point you moved to the back of the car, he laid you down and closed the door behind him. Your soft pants and gasps quickly led to the windows fogging over, and by the end of it there were beads of precipitation dribbling down the glass. 

He led graciously. His fingers were gentle but firm against your clit through your panties, working hard and with determination to give you the orgasm you deserved. He obeyed your requests for ‘circles, ah, softer, to the left, more’, and before long he was a master in the art of making you come. 

Daryl wanted to give you oral, but you quickly pulled him back up, shaking your head as you gasped for air. “N-no, please. You. Need you.” 

It was shocking that he didn't feel embarrassed when he came early. You'd reached down to stroke his cock, only getting in a few strokes before he pulled away with a strangled gasp, spilling his hot cum on your bare stomach. He didn't have time to feel embarrassed because only seconds later you were taking him in your desperate mouth, giving it your all to make him hard again. 

He didn't take long. After stiffening in your mouth he eased your head away, maneuvering you on your back in such an effortless way that it made you look like you weighed nothing. Due to your wetness and unimaginable arousal it didn't hurt at all when he finally pushed in after rubbing his cock all over your desperate slick flesh. 

You cried out anyway. Your jaw dropped and your eyes rolled back, clutching at his bare shoulders when you felt his pelvis fully connect with you. 

“F-fuck.” You groaned as your eyes rolled back, digging your fingers deeper into his skin.

He let out a moan then, a light and vulnerable sound. You could feel him shaking on top of you as he fought not to finish again. It broke your heart, knowing he wanted to have sex with you so badly, to please you like you had him. 

You stayed as still as humanly possible while you waited for him to move. 

Daryl’s breath slowed and he moved, finally. He fucked you slow at first, slow and deep thrusts that managed to bury his dick further and further inside you each time. With each thrust he let out either a shaky whimper or a deep grunt, and soon he was picking up the pace, fucking a moan out of you each time he drove his throbbing cock back inside. 

When his hand connected with the warm skin of your torso you whimpered, tossing your head back against the car seat. His hands stroked your sides, rough and dirty fingers scraping against your nipples and breasts. He gave one a firm squeeze, eliciting a sharp moan from you, one that he eagerly swallowed down with his hungry mouth, kissing you deeply and feverishly. He was breathing heavy through his nose, hot puffs of air sending waves of heat across your upper lip and cheeks.

A rough slam of his pelvis against yours sent the tip of his cock so deep it was almost painful, your gasp choked in your tight throat, your thighs squeezing the life out of his torso. He groaned at how responsive you were, his hot wet lips sliding down your face to start kissing your neck. 

Daryl was quiet in the sense that he didn't say much. He groaned and whimpered, sure, but he hadn’t said a word since entering you. Which was totally fine by you, but you were a sucker for dirty talk. It was one of your favorite parts of sex.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” You whined, hoping to get a response. He just grunted, a possible returned compliment, his head not moving from the crook of your neck. 

A noticeable increase in his pacing had all thoughts vanishing from your mind in a puff of smoke. You could feel the side of his jaw clenching against your neck, the skin hot and prickly with stubble, the friction eventually becoming uncomfortable. As if he could read your mind he raised his head and looked down at you, the tip of his tongue peeking between his teeth, looking like a man in deep, oh, deep, concentration. 

“Fu-uh-uck-” You babbled, your heavy eyelids shutting against the brutal force of his thrusts. You grabbed onto his biceps again and held on for dear life, giving them a squeeze each time he gave a really deep thrust. 

“That’s it.” Your heart jumped in your chest at the sound of his voice, it was gravely and sounded from the base of his throat. You felt your lower stomach do that delicious flip sensation, your clit throbbing in response to his voice. 

“Mmm’god.”

“I know. I know.” He breathed, taking a second to readjust himself between your legs before going back to his artistic thrusting. He was grinding against you then, barely pulling out, using the full weight of his hips to force himself as deep as possible while he ground into you. You couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, it was a miracle that a virgin could fuck like that. He was a savant at something he’d never done before. You came hard around his throbbing dick, your walls clenching down so hard that it ripped his orgasm straight out of his body. 

You gasped, your fingers tightening around his flexed biceps as your orgasm shook through you in violent waves. You moved your hips on your own, grinding up and against his pelvis to draw your pleasure  out for  as long as possible. 

Daryl wasn't expecting it, he just came. His jaw dropped and he held onto the nearest body part, which just so happened to be your neck. He didn’t choke you, which came as a slight dismissible disappointment, he just held onto you with his large hands as he finished. It was so sudden and unexpected that he couldn’t control the sounds he made, better for you, he let out this beautiful high moan that sent flashes of Daryl in Atlanta behind your closed eyes. His body shuttered and jerked as every single rope of his cum flooded your insides, coating your vice like walls like spilled paint. 

You didn’t give him time to recuperate. You squirmed under him, swapping your positions, and took his softening cock in your mouth. He groaned under you, grabbing you by your hair to pull you away, only to shudder when he felt his cock growing hard again. You smirked against the tip as he gently pulled you back down.

Halfway through he tugged you off of him, the two of you switching spots once again. You whined when you felt his lips connect with your puffy clit, your mind swirling as he used the flexed tip of his tongue to drift between your slick folds. 

“Oh god, daryl.” You panted and ran your fingers through your sweaty hair to push it back over your head. You were either extremely sensitive due to the two orgasms, or he was an extremely skilled pussy eater. Either way you came fast, clenching your thighs around his head to clamp his mouth tight against you. He didn’t ease up as you came, his tongue and lips pulling tricks you didn’t think possible, drawing out your orgasm longer than any time previously. 

He slid up between your legs, planting kisses from your wet mess up your stomach to your chest. He suddenly bit down on one of your nipples, gentle at first, but the moan that came from your lips had him tightening his teeth.

You were under the impression that he would ease you down from your high with light kisses and soft touches, but apparently, he had other plans. His cock plunged back into you before you had any idea what was happening, and he quickly set a fast and intense pace. His hands slipped around both of your wrists and pulled, using the leverage to both fuck you deeper and keep you firmly in place.

If you could’ve seen the state you were in, you’d be a red hot embarrassed bitch. Your mouth was hanging open, your eyes fluttering between open and closed, sounds coming from your throat that envied any moan and whine to ever come out of a woman's mouth. Your hair kept falling back in your face each time his hips slammed into yours, no matter how many times you hastily pushed it away or tucked it behind your ears. You looked at him for as long as you could, but you were too stimulated, it was too hot, he was too beautiful, you had to let them fall shut as you came again.

As cliche as it sounds, your final orgasm, for that night at least, was world shattering. You didn’t care how loud you were or what types of faces you were making. Your body was completely out of your control, your brain on pause as it struggled to deal with the flood of dopamine and oxytocin. 

Daryl wasn’t looking any better, he’d ran miles before and came out looking more put together. He huffed as he came inside you yet again, his dick twitching with each spurt of cum. He braced himself on his elbows on either side of your body, his head drooping down as he managed a few sloppy thrusts. He muttered something then, something you were too fucked up to make out through his thick and slurred accent.

When he finally drew his red and tender dick out of you his heart seemed to skip a beat. The two loads spilled out the second he withdrew, trickling down your folds and over the swollen head of his dick. That was a sight he’d remember till the day he died.  

You fought to catch your breath after he all but collapsed on top of you. It was pure bliss for a few moments, and then it was too hot and too close. Before you could say anything he lifted himself off of you, still waging his own war against his lungs. 

“Getting old there, huh?” You teased, sliding up into a sitting position after grabbing your panties. Yeah, he's old, it's not the fact you just did the same amount of exercise as swimming across the atlantic ocean.

“Shut up.” He breathed as he wiped his damp hair from his face. 

After a few moments of silence, apart from the sounds of your breathing, you dressed yourselves and began loading all your shit into your car. 

“You really walked six days? No bike, no car?” You questioned as he plopped down into the driver's seat, the flame of his lighter illuminating his face. The smell of cigarette smoke had you leaning over and he pressed the filter against your lips. 

“No bike.”

“That’s kind of stupid.”

“Huh. Rich.” He smirked around the cigarette at you before glancing over his shoulder to watch the dirt road as he reversed.

“Yeah, true.”

Your life wasn’t magically fixed after that night, and neither was Daryls, but it did get a lot easier. You zipped up your coat but your shoes were still full of snow, that kind of better. A lot of shit happened, you had your arguments, but no fights. After RIck died you ran off together looking for his body, for Daryl’s closure, living off in the woods somewhere with a dog that liked to growl at you. He was over possessive of Daryl, and so were you, so the two of you were butting heads often.

He never did build you that house, but you moved into one of the newly built homes in Alexandria. He did build you a back porch, which looked great for someone who’d never built an entire screened in porch before, even if it did look a little raggedy in some spots. He even brought home pots for you to plant ‘shit’ in, as he said. 

Daryl wasn’t home often, which didn't bother you anymore, because you were out there with him. 

@ophelialaufey @carlgrimesgfofficial @theskinniestjackson-denny @dilfish-daydreams @louifaith @my1fx @jinx-nanami

[love-toxin]

going insane thinking about being arryl's darling being a medical assistant or nurse whose none the wiser about his dietary preferences until they accidentally catch him in the act at work in a way that's undeniable. just absolute shock and before they even have time to process the cannibalism their coworker is ON them. medical malpractice and getting kidnapped double whammy bc my work friend whose apparently obsessed with me needs me to keep quiet about the patient eating and medical malpractice

mmmnnnggghhh!!!

(cws: minor character death, blood, needles, scalpels, non-graphic cannibalism, slight lewd)

word count: 885

The way a pin could just drop and it'd be all you hear. The stare you're sharing with Aryll is so deep, so static, that you can practically feel the intensity of his pupils dilating, his hands poised over the patient that you'd just coded not ten minutes prior.

The older gentleman still has the sheet over his body, but the middle section has been cut, the bloodied scalpel gripped in the blond's soaked fingers. You can hardly believe what you're seeing, but it's an unshakable image: Aryll, one of the resident surgeons, is standing over a fresh corpse with a tool for healing in his grasp, and a cooler–the top slid over and leaning against it–sitting next to the bed where he's cut open your former patient. The senior was a victim of a car crash, the trauma to his spine too much for his heart to bear, and he died in cardiac arrest just minutes after leaving the ambulance and hitting your table. The DNR was mentioned mid-resuscitation and you left it, left him to die in peace and dignity as his breathing faded away with his slowing pulse.

You distinctly remembered Aryll, who had been standing by for aid, offering you comfort after your patient passed; you'd observed over the last few months that he was always better with patient deaths than you were, even the more traumatic ones. Maybe as a surgeon he'd simply built up a tolerance to it, you figured.

But…not at all like this. This was not something you ever envisioned you'd see, much less from someone you knew and respected in equal measure.

“Aryll..” Your voice echoes shakily, and the surgeon stands up, bringing his knee down from its place on the bed. His eyes are so wide, manic. There's a door behind you, cracked open as you froze in place at the sight. Your fingers manage to close around the handle, but Aryll slams it shut with one hand and smothers your lips with the other before you can even manage to scream.

“Sh,” His urging ripples shivers through your body, fear surging down your fingers to scratch at him in defense. He takes them too well without flinching, like he's done this very thing before–like he's used to them fighting–swings you around, and shoves you back against the cupboards full of a variety of medical supplies. Your ears are ringing enough to know he's hit your head hard, but the pain hasn't quite set in by the time he tilts it back and holds the scalpel to your throat. “Shut up. Just shut your-” With your last moments of freedom, you flail your hand out and slap him across the face. It leaves a mark, but aside from sweeping his hair astray and putting a sinister glare in his eyes, his grip doesn't get any looser.

Only tighter.

“You think I won't kill you?” He whispers under his breath; the soft beeps and chatter emanate from beyond the corridor, sounds of an average hospital wing on any normal day. But they have no idea what's unfolding in one of the rooms where patients go to die. Finally, a muffled yelp escapes you and you stiffen as the tip of the scalpel digs painfully into your throat. The teeth of the trap are finally bearing down on you tight enough for you to realize it's too late to run. And you're just trying to ignore the fact that Aryll's hands are still so slippery from the blood trailing down them, dripping over some old, faded cuts on his wrists. He follows your gaze silently down to the scars, and takes on an unreadable expression.

His hips shift–you hadn't taken much notice to them in the struggle, as he'd pinned you to the wall entirely with his own body–but you notice now. The weight of his belt buckle pressing into you…the much tighter, heavier swell of something beneath it, grinding awkwardly into your leg. He mutters a soft “fuck” under his breath and tries to readjust, but there's no way he can ease off without giving you the slack you need to get away. He seems…frustrated.

“You always do this to me..” Aryll mumbles, his gaze flitting back to the bed and then returning to you. “Even without knowing it.” Your eyes silently beg him not to kill you, and somehow, even after what you just saw, you feel some sense that he won't–or at least, that he's reluctant to.

That sense of relief, however, is ill-fated; as is obvious by the subtle pinch that draws your attention downward, and the realization dawning on you of what’s about to happen when Aryll withdraws the needle back into his pocket, and you slump as he lets the scalpel clatter to the floor to catch you. He murmurs something in your ear even though you're already on the brink of consciousness, so you won't recall what reassurance he was trying to offer you. But you will remember the dull fear throbbing in your eardrums as Aryll holds up your limp body, and gently kisses your neck to smear the blood that swells at the little wound he left as a scar. And how delicious you must taste to him, after pining for so, so, so long.

[igot-the-juice]

The Scarred - Chapter 11 🩸🔥🔞

Masterlist

Summary - Penelope Miller works at a florist shop in Gotham, barely getting by in the corrupted city. Her life is shrouded by trauma and judgement with little light to find her way with. However, when a certain painted face starts making himself known to her, things take a turn.

Warning - This chapter contains smut but can be read without it. Smut will start after the second banner. MDNI/NSFW!

The smell of iron filled her lungs, the blood stuck to her face invading her senses as the man now lay still on the floor below her. With a crazed look in her eye, she kicked away the arm that was now detached, heavy as it slid across the stained floor. 

She began to breathe heavily, unable to decipher whether or not she had really done it. But the smell alone brought her to the reality of the situation. 

As the men began to pick up what was left of the body, she began to smile, then it turned into a chaotic giggle. She turned to face the Joker and it immediately dropped.

He stared at her with such an intensity that turned her to stone, eyes somehow darker than they ever were. Her lips parted in a silent question, worried about whether or not she overstepped. 

She heard the doors shut behind her and suddenly, in a few large strides, he approached her and aggressively pulled her into him. His lips crashed down onto her own blood stained ones, not possibly caring less in that moment as he practically suffocated her. 

At first she was stiff, baffled by his sudden behavior that seemed completely out of character for him. 

Then she finally let go and accepted it. 

Her arm reached up around his neck, reciprocating the affection with equal intensity. Nothing was held back by either of them, his hands wandering over her figure as she kept her own planted, choosing to focus on the sensation of his scarred lips. 

She sighed once he pulled away, eye slowly opening to gaze into the hazel gems before her. 

“J?” Penelope whispered, the nickname slipping out without a second thought. His expression faltered when it reached his ears, but their usual spark soon followed after. 

He didn’t correct her. He didn’t snap. Instead, a low chuckle rumbled from his throat, rolling into a sharp, sinister laugh that echoed off of the concrete walls. His gloved fingers came up to her face, tracing the scarred side with surprising gentleness, his grin stretching impossibly wide.

“Well, well, well,” He rasped, voice dripping with twisted delight. “Look who’s getting familiar now, hm?”

Penelope tensed but didn’t pull away. There was something unsettling in his gaze, a wildness dancing just beneath the surface. Yet there was a strange acceptance, too. As if she’d unlocked a piece of him. Something private. Dangerous.

“Ya know, doll,” He cooed, the nickname rolling off his tongue mockingly, yet with a hint of genuine fondness. “Most people aren’t brave enough to give me nicknames.” He licked at his lips. “Ya might want to be careful, though,” He leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear. “Calling me that? That’s… close. And close gets people hurt.”

His fingers dropped from her face, drifting lazily down to her shoulder, lingering on the edge of her missing arm. 

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze again, those crazed eyes searching hers, trying to see if she’d flinch. But Penelope held her ground, her heart racing, something in her stirring. A newfound sense of chaos, creeping up, waking.

“I’ll take my chances,” She whispered, her voice steady despite the flutter of fear and excitement in her chest.

The Joker’s smile returned, wider than ever. He threw his head back and laughed, a sound that sent chills down her spine.

-

When she entered her apartment, she ignored the presence she knew would already be there, prioritizing a shower to get the now dried and crusted blood off of her. His questions of concern were muffled as she mindlessly wandered to her bedroom to pick out her pajamas. 

“Penelope!” Liam finally yelled, gripping firmly onto her shoulders and turning her to face him. For once, he was truly speechless. Unable to hide his worry for what inevitably came to be his best friend, brow furrowed.

“I’m fine, Liam.” She offered a genuine smile, resting her hand over one of his own. She brushed past him towards the bathroom to turn on the shower and closed the door. 

Questions flooded in his mind as he impatiently waited on the couch, the TV now completely blocked out. His leg bounced anxiously, biting at his nails. He practically jumped out of his skin when the door opened and she walked in, acting as if nothing even happened. 

She searched through her cupboards for something, plastic crinkling in her hands as she opened a pack of popcorn and popped it into the microwave. 

“Penny?” Liam cautiously called to her. She simply hummed in response. He stood and gradually made his way over to her. “Did he hurt ye?” 

“Quite the opposite.” Penelope answered casually, unloading the dishwasher as she spoke. 

“Penny. Ye know ye can trust me.”

“I killed a man, Liam!” She finally blurted out as she whipped to face him. “He found the man that caused this,” She motioned to her deformed body. “And I killed him.” 

The two of them stood silently, searching the other for any sign of distrust or betrayal. While she overthought his reaction, Liam had assumed it was only a matter of time before it happened. As soon as the Joker made himself known to her, he knew it was over.

“The scary part isn’t even that I did it. It’s that I enjoyed it. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. Not after what he did to me, Liam.” Her voice began to break, lip beginning to tremble. “Not after…” She sniffed and wrapped her arm around his torso, relieved that his warm comfort was provided without a moment’s hesitation. 

He gently hushed her, cradling her head while his other hand’s thumb caressed her back. “It’s alright, lovin’.” He whispered. 

Liam pulled away, hands gently taking hold of her face to look at him. 

“There is nothin’ wrong with ye. Nothin’ wrong with what happened, ye understand? He got what he deserved, yeah?” 

Penelope nodded as he wiped away her tears, grabbing the popcorn from the microwave before leading them to the couch. She wrapped herself in a blanket, opening the bag and nibbling on a small handful. 

“Did he scream?” He asked in a joking tone once she calmed down more. To his relief, she giggled. 

“Like a pussy.” 

-

The flower shop was quiet, the soft scent of roses and lilies filling the air as Emma arranged a bouquet of daisies behind the counter. The bell over the door jingled softly as Penelope stepped inside, her movements slow and careful. Emma’s eyes lifted to greet her, but the smile faded slightly when she saw Penelope’s face—pale, drawn, and distant.

“Hey, hun,” Emma called gently, setting the flowers aside. “Everything okay?”

Penelope gave a half-smile, but it didn’t reach her eye. “Yeah, just couldn’t sleep.”

Emma frowned, watching her carefully. She knew Penelope had been through a lot, but lately, something had shifted. The girl had always been quiet, but now there was a tension beneath the surface, as if she were on edge, waiting for something. Emma noticed the slight twitch in Penelope’s remaining hand, her fingers trembling for a moment before she shoved them into her pocket.

“I’m gonna go handle the new shipment.” Penelope asked, her voice strained.

Emma nodded slowly but kept her eyes on her as she made her way to the door leading into the back room. “Of course, sweetheart. You sure you’re feeling alright, though? You’ve been… distant lately.”

Penelope stiffened, her back to Emma as she began unpacking a box of tulips. “I’m fine.” She said quickly. Too quickly.

Emma bit her lip, the maternal instinct in her stirring. She walked over, placing a hand on Penelope’s shoulder. “Look, I know things have been hard for you, but if something’s wrong… you can talk to me. You know that, right?”

Penelope flinched at the touch, though she tried to hide it with a small shrug. “I know. But really, it’s nothing. I’m just tired.”

Emma’s brows furrowed. She didn’t believe that for a second. There was a darkness in Penelope’s expression, something haunted and restless. Emma had seen it before in people who were hiding something, something dangerous. She couldn’t help but feel a knot of worry tighten in her chest.

“I just want to make sure you’re safe, Penelope,” Emma said softly. “You’ve been acting off. And it scares me.”

Penelope hesitated, her fingers gripping the edge of the box. “I’m fine, Emma.”

But Emma wasn’t convinced. Her heart ached as she watched her, knowing that whatever it was, Penelope was shutting her out. 

“I’m here if you need me,” Emma said quietly, retreating back to the counter. “Just… don’t push yourself too hard, okay?”

Penelope nodded, but Emma could see the flicker of guilt in her eye before she turned away.

A little while passed and eventually it was close to closing. Penelope sat behind the counter scribbling away in her journal, however more aggressive than usual. The door chimed as it opened, a sigh of relief falling from her lips when she saw it was only Liam. And it didn’t go unnoticed by Emma. 

“Ey there, Penny.” He greeted, giving a simple nod to Emma as he charismatically leaned on the counter in front of the former. “Day treatin’ ye right?” Penelope shrugged. Emma decided to disappear into the back, but took care to listen in on their conversation.

“As much as it can, I suppose.” 

“Ye still up fer the range?” He asked, concerned about whether she was too tired or overwhelmed. 

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. Don’t think I’ll be up for being there as long, though.” 

“No worries about that, I figured as much.” He glanced over at the clock and Penelope did the same, packing up her things to leave. She walked over to the back room and leaned in the doorway. 

“I’m heading out, Emma. Text me if you need anything, okay?” The brunette gave an appreciative smile. 

“I will. You take care now, okay? Be safe.” 

“You too.” Penelope offered a smile of her own before meeting Liam at the door to leave. 

The range was rather large, hidden away in the outskirts which she appreciated. With how big it was, she was surprised that they were the only ones there besides the owner at the front. 

They stood in a separate room where the actual range was, handguns aimed down range and firing. After finishing an iteration they took their ear covers off, the pressure of them irritating her head. 

“She doesn’t know about what ye’ve been up to, does she?” Liam suddenly asked, catching her off guard. Penelope hesitated before answering. 

“No.” Liam leaned against the nearby wall, eyeing her. 

“I’d be careful about her if I were ye.” 

“Why’s that? She doesn’t know, and it’s going to stay that way so long as I can help it.” Penelope readied her gun for the next iteration, then set it back down carefully.

“Ye see, that’s the thing. Ye don’t trust her enough to tell her. And that says a lot. Ye told me and yet ye’ve barely known me for half as long.” 

Liam pushed himself off of the wall and began making his way towards her. 

“Ye don’t trust her as much as he think ye do, Penny. She may be a friend, but she’s not loyal. The second she gets even a hint of what yer up to, she’s gonna get curious and try to find out more, and when she does, she’s goin’ straight to the cops.” 

“She wouldn’t do that to me -“

“But she would.” Liam spoke sternly, urging her to believe him. “I’ve dealt with plenty of her kind and it never ended well. Even just today, I saw the way she was eyein’ us. She’s already suspicious.” 

Liam raised his hands to rest on her shoulders.

“Ye need to be careful around her. I know it’s hard, she’s yer friend, I get it. I do. But I’m speakin’ from experience. As much as it hurts to hear, ye can’t trust her.” 

Penelope cast her gaze downwards, struggling to take in all that she was being told. 

“Come on. Let’s keep goin’.” He nodded towards the targets in front of them, taking notice of the turmoil going on in her head. 

As always, he walked her to her apartment when finished. Both because he was right down the hall and it was just the right thing to do. But just before she opened her door, he stopped her. 

“Just think about what I said, yeah? I’m tryin’ to keep ye safe.” Penelope paused, thinking. Then she finally nodded and Liam smiled at her, patting her shoulder before walking to his apartment. 

Penelope turned back to her door and opened it, a familiar smell reaching her nose making her sigh as the door softly clicked shut behind her. She looked over at her couch where the notorious clown-like man sat comfortably. He lounged back like he belonged there, flipping through channels with an air of indifference, his lips twisted into that familiar, unsettling grin.

Her heart raced. She didn’t know what to feel. Fear, confusion, curiosity? The same mixture of emotions had been bubbling inside her since that night. The night she’d felt his lips on hers, tasted the madness, and the thrill of what she’d done. The blood on her hands still felt so fresh.

“You’re here.” Penelope finally said, breaking the silence, her voice hoarse but steady.

Joker didn’t look away from the screen, but his grin widened. “Where else would I be?”

She swallowed hard, moving slowly towards the couch, her eyes never leaving him. “I don’t know… plotting, terrorizing people. Laughing at something burning, maybe?”

He chuckled, the sound low and dark, and patted the seat next to him. “Sheesh, can’t a guy just catch a break sometimes? Hm?” He jested, eyes still fixated on the TV. “Sit down, toots, we’re watching a comedy.”

She hesitated, glancing at the TV. Some mindless sitcom played, laugh tracks echoing. She took a seat, keeping her distance but not too far. The cushion sagged slightly under her, and she found herself staring at him, trying to read something - anything - in his chaotic, unpredictable eyes.

“What’s so funny about this?” She asked, her voice soft, unsure whether she meant the show or their entire situation.

Joker’s eyes slid over to her, sharp and amused. “Oh, nothing about the show. It’s the idea of it. People trapped in their boring little lives, pretending everything’s fine.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s hilarious, don’t ya think?”

Penelope’s gaze shifted from the TV to him, searching his face. She couldn’t understand how he saw the world. He terrified her, fascinated her, made her want to crawl away and stay close all at once. Her fingers traced the edge of the cushion nervously. “How do you live like this?”

“Like what?” He asked flatly, his eyes glinting as if her question was a challenge.

“Like…” She struggled for the right words. “Without… rules. Without a plan. Just… chaos.”

He laughed, leaning back, stretching his arms over the back of the couch, his fingers brushing her shoulder. “Well, I wouldn’t say I live in chaos.” His voice was soft now, almost soothing, but there was still a biting tone to it. “Yeah, I cause chaos. But live in freedom. Freedom from their rules. Their endless nagging, the ‘don’t do this, do this’, ya see? You’ve tasted it, haven’t you? The freedom. The power.”

Penelope tensed, the memory of that night creeping back in. The rush of adrenaline, the way her hands had trembled… then steadied. “That’s freedom…?” She whispered. 

Joker’s grin faltered for just a second, and he tilted his head, watching her closely. “You did what you wanted to do. Without worrying about consequences. Their consequences. The consequences of everyone trying to control you and be someone that you’re not.”

She bit her lip, looking down at her lap. “How can I be sure there won’t be consequences?”

“You’re lookin’ at it, toots.” Joker said, his tone playful but condescending. “You can choose to pretend everything’s fine, just like everyone else. Go back to being quiet, timid little Penelope. Or…” He leaned in close. “You can be free.”

Her pulse quickened, and she turned to face him, searching his eyes.“Why do you want me to change?” She asked finally, her voice quiet.

Joker’s gaze softened, just for a moment, as if he was considering her question seriously. “I don’t want you to change. I want you to stop pretending. I see potential. Potential that is greater than you’d ever know. And I finally got a taste of it. And so did you. The real question is…” He shifted his body to face her. “Can you live with it? Because once you go down this road, doll, there’s no turning back. Your cute little world will not be there for you anymore. It’ll show its true colors. You’ll see. And once you do?” He threw her a look with an accompanied gesture. “I can guarantee you won’t want to go back.” 

Penelope wasn’t sure what to do, what to think. She couldn’t help but believe him. Everything he said had some resemblance of truth. Was the freedom truly worth it? Was it worth throwing everything away? Emma? Liam? If the way she felt that night at the warehouse was only a taste of it, she could only imagine how she would feel if she just completely let go. 

She was sure Liam would understand, he was supportive of her every step of the way. No matter if it was morally questionable. 

But Emma? 

Penelope thought about what Liam had told her. Emma was a close friend. A mother figure, even. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe Liam was right about her. She kept telling herself that she never told Emma any of what was happening for her protection, but could she have just been lying to herself to prevent her own guilt? Did she truly trust Emma, or did she just cling to the brunette for lack of options? 

A tear trickled its way down her cheek, not even noticing beforehand as she was lost in thought. She looked Joker in the eye and spoke with a trembling voice. 

“I don’t want to live like this anymore…” Penelope shook her head. “I’m tired of feeling stuck.” She noticed a subtle shift in his expression, hardened. He suddenly rose to his feet with newfound determination. 

“Get up.” He demanded, catching her by surprise. After a moment, she stood and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her into the bathroom and facing her towards the mirror. “Ya want to stop living by their rules, hm?” Penelope nodded in desperation. “Take off the bandages.” 

Her eye widened in disbelief, breathing halted. He stepped closer to her, his warmth pressed against her. 

“Break their norm. Show them you’re not theirs to control anymore. Stop trying to be like them.” He leaned in next to her ear. “Send a message.”

Penelope took a shaky breath, meeting Joker’s eye through the mirror. Her heart raced, blood rushing in her ears as her hand fought to leave her side. Slowly but surely, it raised. Her hands caressed the edge of her bandages, toying with the fabric until she finally began to pull them off with care. 

She refused to look at herself, tears now streaming down her cheek as a sob left her lips. She felt cool leather grip her jaw, forcing her to look at her reflection in the mirror. 

The sight seemed foreign to her no matter how many times she took them off. The texture was soft, yet uneven. It was finally healed with skin covering where her eye should have been.

“Now that… is a doll.” 

His knuckles caressed down her neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The tickling sensation caught her breath, head leaning back against him. This enigmatic man made her feel alive, made her want to embrace the freedom he spoke of as his hands slid down her slim figure, igniting something within her. 

"There ya go." Joker whispered, his breath hot against her ear. 

Penelope's gaze fell on her exposed scars, and for the first time, she felt truly wanted. She felt beautiful. 

"Now how about that freedom?" He growled, hands slipping under her shirt and caressing her soft skin. As his skilled fingers found her hardened nipples, Penelope's breath hitched. His marred lips mixed with her own textured neck, covering it with nips and licks as he practically worshiped her scars. She wanted this man, wanted to feel his touch. She yearned to explore this new, uninhibited side of herself that he was awakening.

Joker’s hands then lifted her shirt, pulling it off over her head and soaking in the sight of her with a heated gaze. 

More scars littered her left side, similar to what was on her face. He felt her begin the retreat, but his hands quickly snatched her wrists to keep her where she was. “None of that. Got it?” He threatened and she nodded in response. 

He then unclasped her bra and tossed it away, hands moving to cup and toy at her breasts. One hand began to travel lower, unbuttoning her pants and sliding them down her slender legs. Once she stepped out of them he turned her around to face him and pushed her until she was leaning against the bathroom counter. Her legs opened, inviting him to stand in between them. One of his thighs pressed against her radiating core, flexing his muscle until her head leaned back with a sigh. 

He released a feral growl and reached around to the back of her head, pulling her into him so their lips clashed against each other. The kiss was rough and full of need, Penelope lightly moaning into it as she ground herself against his thigh for some much needed relief. 

“Yeah? Ya like that?” Joker taunted before snatching her thighs and setting her on top of the empty space of the counter. “C’mere.” He dropped to his knees, his hands pulling down her panties and spreading her pussy lips, revealing her glistening, swollen clit. He inhaled her scent, a mix of desire and her unique musk, before plunging his tongue deep inside her, making her gasp and grip the edge of the counter.

Joker’s tongue was a skilled weapon, licking and sucking at her clit, sending waves of pleasure through Penelope's body. He teased her entrance, dipping his tongue just inside before pulling away, only to return with renewed fervor.

"J -" Penelope moaned, her head thrown back. "Please, don’t stop."

Joker hummed, the vibrations sending shivers through Penelope. “Dangerous thing to beg me like that, doll.” 

He warned before he continued his oral assault, bringing her closer and closer to the edge of orgasm. Just as she was about to climax, he pulled away, leaving her breathless and desperate.

"Thought it’d be that easy, hm?" He said, standing. 

Penelope, wild with desire, reached for Joker’s trousers, undoing them with tremulous fingers. Once unbuttoned, her hand tremulously reached inside to grasp his hardened cock, pulling it free from its confines.

Joker’s cock was thick, the head glistening with pre-cum as she stroked it, her touch tentative yet eager. "Like whatcha see?" He asked, his voice hoarse with desire.

Penelope nodded, her eye never leaving his cock as she continued to stroke it, marveling at the power she held in her hands. "Please, J…" She whispered, her voice thick with need.

He didn't need to be asked twice. 

He gripped onto her hip tightly, spreading her legs wide as he positioned himself at her entrance. 

“Now what’d I say about begging?” With one smooth thrust, he filled her, his cock stretching her pussy as he slid deep inside.

Penelope cried out, her body welcoming the invasion, her pussy clenching around his cock as he began to move, his hips thrusting in a steady rhythm. He leaned forward, his lips finding hers in a hungry kiss. 

Joker’s hands gripped her thighs, spreading her wider as he pounded into her, his cock hitting her sweet spot with each thrust. Penelope's body trembled, her orgasm building with each delicious stroke.

"That’s it," He growled against her lips. "There ya go, toots. Come on, show me how much you want it.” 

His words were like a trigger, and Penelope's body exploded in a cascade of pleasure. She cried out, her pussy clenching around Joker’s cock as waves of ecstasy washed over her. He followed her over the edge, his cock throbbing as he emptied his load deep inside her, filling her with his hot cum.

As their heart rates slowed and their breathing returned to normal, Joker leaned back, watching as one of his hands ran over her scarred body. When their eyes met, Penelope smiled. Eye sparkling with newfound confidence. 

[missleanngrace]

Chapter 3 : Haunted

Since the time I was little, I've had this recurring nightmare.

It never changes.

I'm sitting on the steps of the old Salvatore estate, sunlight warm on my face, straw doll in hand—its yellow yarn hair tangled, one button eye missing. Mama made it for my fifth birthday. Her smile is still in stitches.

Then I hear it.

The screaming.

It slices through the peaceful afternoon like a blade, high and guttural, echoing through the columns and halls.

I drop the doll. It hits the wood with a hollow thunk.

I run.

Inside, I find them. My brothers.

Lifeless.

Crimson soaking through their shirts, pooling beneath their still forms.

And standing above them—him.

My father.

His face is empty, void of warmth or remorse. His hands are soaked in red, dripping.

Eyes like bottomless pits—dark, frigid. Not a flicker of humanity left.

Fear coils in my stomach like barbed wire.

I turn to flee, but my legs betray me. Heavy. Cemented. Useless.

He grabs me.

Sometimes the nightmare ends there. If I'm lucky.

But most nights, it doesn't.

He throws me.

My head cracks against the wall. Then the banister. Then the floor. Over and over again.

My blood is on his hands. My pleas are falling on deaf ears.

"Please... Papa... please—"

But he never stops.

He never did.

⸻

I jolt upright in bed.

Sweat-soaked. Shaking. Tear-streaked.

The familiar sting of old panic flooded my chest.

My pillow is damp. Sheets twisted around me like chains.

I haven't had the dream in months.

I thought I'd finally outgrown it.

Guess trauma doesn't give a damn about time.

⸻

Getting ready doesn't take long.

Despite what my brothers claim, I'm not that high-maintenance.

Stefan, with his tragic hero hair, easily takes three times as long. Damon—well, Damon just stares at himself in the mirror for twenty minutes pretending he doesn't care how good he looks.

I pull on a basic black tank, some fitted jeans, and my favorite worn-out Converse. Hoops, of course. A touch of liner, a dab of red on my lips. Enough to look alive, or at least convincingly human.

My hair falls down my back in inky waves, concealing the faint, pale scars that still haunt my skin.

Gifts from my father.

I pass the mirror in the hallway and pause.

There's a moment where I almost don't recognize myself.

Not because of how I look—no. But because of what's behind my eyes.

Emptiness.

Or maybe it's something worse.

⸻

The kitchen smells like old wood and coffee.

Zach's already at the table, sleeves rolled up, nose buried in the paper.

He doesn't flinch when I enter, but he doesn't quite relax either.

He's still not used to me.

"Morning," he says cautiously, folding the newspaper halfway. "Aunt Destinova."

His voice is warm, but edged with something else.

Tension.

Or maybe uncertainty.

I raise a brow at the title.

"Aunt?" I scoff, wandering toward the counter. "Do I look old enough for that?"

He shrugs slightly. "You're older than you look."

Then he nods to the counter. "Coffee's still hot. On your left."

There it is—that polite, carefully measured tone he always uses around me. Like he's talking to a sleeping lion.

I find the pot, pour a cup.

The steam curls into the air, and I let the warmth bleed through my fingers as I hold the mug tight.

"Thanks," I say, not looking at him.

There's a moment where he just watches me. Quietly. Like he wants to ask something but doesn't know how—or doesn't want to know the answer.

It's not his fault that he looks like my father.

Same jawline. Same piercing eyes.

I try not to hold it against him, but sometimes it's like a slap to the face.

Everyone here looks like ghosts.

⸻

I grab my bag and head for the door.

Zach speaks up behind me, a little firmer this time.

"Where are you going?"

I don't stop. Just toss a smirk over my shoulder.

"To school. I look too young to be a stay-at-home corpse."

He doesn't laugh, but I catch the ghost of a smile.

"You hate high school."

"Yeah," I mutter, swinging the door open. "So does every other teenager. Fits the role."

Truth is, I'd rather claw my eyes out than sit through another history class I lived through, but Stefan's already enrolled, and it would be suspicious if his baby sister wasn't.

High school is a necessary evil.

But that doesn't mean I won't cause a little chaos while I'm there.

I pull into the school parking lot in my '66 Thunderbird, its pale yellow paint gleaming under the morning sun. It stands out like a ghost among the dull minivans and hand-me-down sedans that fill the lot. That's fine. I've never cared much about blending in.

I cut the engine, but I don't move.

My forehead rests against the steering wheel, eyes closed.

Do I really want to do this again?

The hallways. The locker gossip. The constant pretending.

I sigh and reach into my glove compartment, pulling out a blood bag. Still warm. Barely.

I tear it open with practiced ease and down it quickly, wincing as the metallic tang coats my tongue.

Not exactly fine dining—but better than ripping someone open in the hallway.

The Stefan diet—rabbits and guilt—never worked for me. I tried. I failed. I don't regret it.

Stepping out, I lean against the Thunderbird, letting the sun touch my skin. My daylight ring sparkles against my pale hand. It reminds me that this is a privilege many vampires don't have.

The high school looms in front of me—brick, buzzing, suffocating. The same as every other town.

I adjust my hoops, smooth down my jeans, and walk toward the building, letting my eyes scan the crowd like radar.

A group of boys toss a football around like it's their life's purpose.

A cloud of stoners loiter beneath an oak tree, smoke curling lazily into the sky.

And then—him.

The boy from the party.

His posture is slouched, but his presence is still magnetic in that quiet, untouchable way.

Dark hair tousled like he just woke up and didn't bother fixing it. Eyes ringed in red—not vampire red. Crying red.

His grief is raw, not hidden. That's rare.

Then it hits me—a small, sharp ache in the center of my chest.

I want to comfort him.

I shove the feeling down fast.

I'm not the comforting type. Never have been.

And there's no reason I should feel anything toward this human boy.

No reason at all.

I keep walking, faster now, weaving through the swarms of teenagers and bad decisions.

⸻

Inside, I make a beeline for the office.

The woman behind the desk barely looks up before I'm in her head.

"You're going to enroll me," I murmur, leaning in slightly.

"You'll forget I was ever here."

She nods in a trance-like daze and hands me my schedule within minutes.

Mystic Falls High, Class of God-Knows-What.

I fold the paper and tuck it into my bag. This is happening. Again.

⸻

The first few classes are as dull as I imagined—

Pre-chewed lectures, hormone-soaked whispers, desks carved with initials and secrets.

I've heard it all before. Literally.

By the time I walk into history, my brain is already halfway to sleep mode.

I take a seat near the back, toss my notebook on the desk, and start doodling nonsense on the cover—snakes wrapping around crosses, broken hourglasses, a bleeding sun. The usual.

The teacher is a walking stereotype—gruff voice, a whistle around his neck, a faint whiff of mildew and cheap cologne.

Definitely the football coach.

I lean back in my seat and glance around the room.

And that's when it happens.

I lock eyes with him.

He's already looking at me—quiet, unreadable, but something flickers behind his tired eyes. Recognition? Curiosity? I don't know. But it pins me in place for a second too long.

He drops into the seat next to me, keeping his eyes forward like nothing happened. But I see the way his fingers twitch against the desk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I feel him watching me. Not in a creepy way. Not like Damon does.

It's softer. Like he's trying to solve something.

Show time.

I casually flip my hair over my shoulder, letting it fall just right to show off my cleavage. If I had a dollar for every boy who glanced down... but his eyes stay locked on my face.

Interesting.

I glance sideways. He meets my gaze again. For a second.

Then we both look away. Like the eye contact was too much. Like it meant something.

Of course, Coach Whatever his names is notices.

"Jeremy Gilbert," he barks from the front, "mind telling me what caused the 1864 church fire?"

I freeze for half a second.

1864.

Of course.

I glance at Jeremy. His face tightens, panic sneaking in around the edges.

He opens his mouth—then closes it.

"Thought so," Coach continues, crossing his arms. "Maybe if you weren't busy gawking at Miss Salvatore, you'd know the answer. Not that you'd pay attention either way."

My jaw clenches.

Asshole.

I mutter just loud enough for Jeremy to hear, "What a dick."

His lips twitch—just barely—but it's the first sign of life I've seen in him all day.

A crooked, reluctant smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

Score.

And for just a second, in the middle of that dull, sticky classroom with flickering lights and outdated textbooks... it feels like something's starting.

Something I don't quite understand.

Something I'm not sure I should.

The last bell shrills like a death sentence, and the hallways explode into chaos—

Laughter, slamming lockers, perfume clouds, and gossip dripping off every wall.

I weave through the crowd like smoke, unnoticed but watching everything.

Still no Stefan.

Not in any class. Not in the halls.

That's not just weird. That's alarming.

I make a mental note to track him down later—he's too predictable to just vanish.

Outside, the sunlight is softer now, slanting across the parking lot in golden streaks.

I'm just a few feet from my car when I feel it—an arm slung casually around my shoulder.

My entire body stiffens.

Not in surprise. Not in fear.

In disgust.

I don't even look at him.

Instead, my thoughts sharpen into two immediate conclusions:

1. Why the hell are you touching me?

2. Will anyone actually miss you when you disappear?

Before I have the chance to break his fingers—or worse—a voice cuts through the tension behind me. Calm. Low. Sharp.

"I don't think she likes that."

Jeremy.

Relief flickers in me—strange and unwelcome. I don't usually feel safer around humans. But this one... maybe he's different.

The guy still glued to my side—tall, smug, and reeking of entitlement—glances back with a smirk.

"Come on, man," he says, like he's inviting Jeremy into some disgusting joke. "Look at her. Of course she likes me."

My jaw tightens.

I like you better in a casket.

But I bite my tongue.

Jeremy steps closer, something sharp flickering in his eyes.

He's done playing nice.

"I said—get off her, Tyler."

Tyler.

Figures. He has that name. The kind that always comes with a varsity jacket and a fragile ego.

The change in Jeremy's tone is unexpected. There's steel behind it now—controlled, but simmering.

Tyler hesitates for half a second, then scoffs, shoving off me like I'm contaminated.

"You know what, man? I don't want her anyway," he spits, already walking backwards.

"Probably already all used up."

There it is.

That wordless, groundless cruelty only the truly insecure seem capable of.

It hits like a slap across the chest—but I don't let it show. Not yet.

Instead, I take a slow breath and step closer to Jeremy. My arm brushes against his.

I could snap Tyler's neck in less than a second.

But somehow... Jeremy showing up meant more.

"Are you okay?" he asks, scanning me with a look that's cautious, careful. Almost clinical.

I nod. "Yeah. I mean... typical jock."

He exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding.

Our eyes lock.

His are warm, yet dark. Haunted, but honest.

Why do you feel familiar?

Why do I feel... seen?

He tilts his head slightly, watching me like he's trying to figure out which puzzle piece I am in a box that's already missing half of them.

"You don't look like the type that needs saving," he says finally, voice low and thoughtful.

"I'm not," I reply, meeting his gaze. "But thanks for doing it anyway."

A pause.

"You're different," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"Different how?"

"I don't know. Just... not like everyone else here."

He shrugs. "You don't fake it. They all do."

God. It's strange hearing that from someone who looks like he's drowning 90% of the time.

"You're not what I expected either," I admit, tilting my head. "Quiet, broody, unexpectedly chivalrous. Kinda rare around here."

He gives a soft huff that might be a laugh. "Most people just say I'm messed up."

I smirk. "Most people are idiots."

There's a beat of silence. The wind kicks up slightly, ruffling his hair.

Then—

He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a pen, and grabs my hand gently. His touch is warm, not demanding.

No asking. No overexplaining.

Just real.

He scribbles something across my palm—his number.

"If you ever... want to talk. Or need backup again."

I glance down at the digits, then back up at him. "Jeremy Gilbert. Giving girls his number in the parking lot. How scandalous."

He smirks, but there's a flicker of something real in his eyes. "Only the interesting ones."

I slip my hand into my jacket pocket, closing it around the ink before it can fade.

"You're not what I expected either, Jeremy."

He nods once. "See you around, Salvatore."

And with that, he turns and walks away—fading into the crowd of students and cracked asphalt like some half-remembered dream.

But I don't forget his number.

Or the way his eyes made me feel something I thought I'd buried years ago.

And that's the most dangerous thing of all.

Hope.

…

Let me know what y’all think!

[hay1ock]

Late as usual lol. Only Friends Episode 9. My heart is full and my anxiety for the next 3 episodes is high lol.

Really enjoyed this episode and was nice to see the main couples kind of moving back toward each other, though seems there’s still a rocky road ahead.

These are my opinions and how I viewed what went down between everyone this episode, but don’t be surprised when I’m not hating on Ray. He’s the character I’m most invested in still.

So, opening with the morning after the night before. I think every character has crossed some sort of boundary at some point throughout the show and certainly Top was amongst those last episode after cuddling up to a passed out Mew. I don’t know how long they stayed like that but I don’t imagine Mew would have reacted quite as well as he did by just finding Top outside fishing cups out the pool. Like Mew says later, I can see his efforts throughout the episode but it did feel a little bit too much at times, especially when Mew’s moms were there too. Maybe let the man breathe and have a chance to sort through his feelings properly.

I’m trying to think more positively about Top as I know he loves Mew. Sometimes you just don’t vibe with characters or even people in real life and there was just something early on that was off-putting about Top. It was those initial interactions that felt possessive over Mew that have left this lingering suspicion about everything he does. I guess from back when he was in full TOP TIER mode and was all Mr Smugface. I appreciate him deciding to not show Mew the video of Sand and Ray. When he was looking at it again when shopping with the moms I was like, for the love of god not now lol. Mew knew he wanted to talk about Ray and probably didn’t need any hints dropping in the end, but I think it did help prompt Mew to open a long overdue conversation with Ray.

Where Top and Mew go from here we’ll have to see with the introduction of Boeing. I figured with Top’s insomnia and sleeping issues he was maybe calling someone to stay over. Now I’m hoping it was just to have a body beside him so he knew he wasn’t alone and could get to sleep. I don’t personally think with all the effort he was putting in Top would risk actually hooking up with anyone else until he was sure there was zero chance of him and Mew ever happening again, but you never know. Plus the fact it’s an ex and a very real possibility his and Sand’s shared ex… not messy at all lol. Hopefully, Mew won’t regret deciding to give him a second chance. Again, I don’t really know how I’d feel if it ever happened to me. There are no feelings on Top’s part toward Boston and yes, Boston dripped poison in his ear. It was before Mew and Top swapped I Love Yous and had sex… I guess the only way to know if he can forgive him is by trying to be with him again. It will either reignite or snuff out completely the lingering feeling of love.

Jumping back to Ray and Sand. The tension between them in that music room scene was just wow. The amount of emotions Sand expressed with his eyes alone was just…First always impresses me.

In the end I feel bad for them both. Sand doing his best to walk away and move on, despite his feelings for Ray, and Ray desperate to hold onto the one person who has made him happy in a long time. Sand has known what Ray is like since their first meeting and yet he still fell for him. He’s seen the bad, the absolute worst, but he’s also seen the Ray who isn’t blackout drunk or high or triggered by his trauma and abandonment issues. It’s up to Sand if he thinks he can handle a person who is dealing with so much baggage. Personally, if Sand is strong enough I want for him to support and continue to love Ray. With him, Ray is so much better, episode 5 showed how good they can be together, and for each other, as Sand also got to have fun and live a little like a student should, not just living to work. Obviously, love isn’t a cure for mental illness and addiction, but thinking that even on the bad days, especially in Ray’s case, that someone can stick around and does love him, then it can make things a little bit easier. I just need Ray to realise there is someone there for him and so it’s now up to him to want to get better. Because Mew’s right, most people do have some kind of limit as to what they can put up with, and Ray is A LOT.

Now, I don’t support cheating and agree that with no context Ray and Top’s action are pretty much as bad as each other. As a viewer, however, I know the relationships of TopMew and RayMew are very different. Top and Mew were supposed to be in love. Top dropped his boyfriend (yep, based on passage of time and what was said in ep 3 and 4, and beyond, I am willing to die on this hill LOL) at home, met up with Boston, got his knickers in a twist over a kiss from 2 years ago and then decided (after Boston twisted the truth a little) fucking Boston was the appropriate response. I just find myself struggling to be as sympathetic about that situation as I am concerning the Ray and Mew and Sand mess. In a way, when Mew says how what Ray did was the same as what Top did to him, I felt as if he maybe saw it how I did - how Sand kind of falls into the role of Mew in this trio’s case. (Ray isn’t doing it behind Sand’s back as such but he is involved in perpetuating a lie about his and Mew’s relationship).

It is Sand and Ray who were in the developing relationship, where feelings of love were being nurtured. Sand had reset them back to friends after episode 5, but it seemed, after the crash, as if they were once again growing closer. But then, in comes Mew. This isn’t to villainize him. He himself was hurt and confused and looking to get away from himself, and probably didn’t think about what it really meant for the two of them if they stepped beyond friends. If he hadn’t questioned Ray’s feelings for him, opened the door to what if, then I feel like Ray would likely have never brought it up himself. He had been told by Mew if he wanted him in his life, he had to give up on thinking of him in a romantic light. However, Mew put it out there. Regardless of his feelings for Sand, Ray would never risk losing Mew, he said it himself during their conversation this episode. If he rejected Mew there’s the fear Mew might be upset, abandon him completely. If he told him there was someone else, about Sand, there’s the risk it would be seen as a betrayal - so you didn’t really love me (Mew) all this time? It was a lie?

I just really sympathise with Ray’s situation, especially when it feels as if his love for Mew has been his one reason for staying alive for the last couple of years (though it seems he’s only recently been living since meeting Sand). Though he was not actively pursuing Mew, being by his side and cherishing him as a friend has been a constant in his life, his purpose, one that was thrown into disarray when Top came into the picture. He’s scared of people leaving him and now he has two important people in his life he can’t let go of.

But in all of this, Sand is who I felt for the most. Sand was the one who had the most emotional investment in the mess. Who was watching the person he liked going back to another man.

Mew was never invested. We knew since last episode he wasn’t. Not kissing Ray when they were alone but doing so in front of Top to spite him. Daydreaming of intimate bookstore dates with Top but not seeming to want to do anything one-to-one with Ray, instead going out and requesting parties. Even this episode, Mew was happy to agree to drink with another man, lock eyes with him over the rim of his glass, get chatted up. It just felt like there should have been the conversation of ‘sure we can talk but my boyfriend will be here soon’ in that moment.

Then we’re at Mew’s place. I understand Ray saying love makes the most sense when used in talking about Mew. He knows he loves Mew vs whatever the hell it is that keeps drawing him back to Sand. Maybe if Mew had phrased it differently a conversation could have started but the word love for Ray at this point only applies to Mew. A kiss leads to things getting handsy and Mew pushing him away. Ray’s despair filled ‘again’, actually kind of hurt. Ray was harsh, frustrated but I believe him when he said it wasn’t only about wanting sex or beating Top. Ray has always seemed like he craves intimacy, be it kisses, sex, simply hugging Sand in the morning, always reaching out and taking hold of Sand’s hand/wrist and wanting a connection. Mew has the right to say no, but I understand Ray seeing it as rejection, why he asked was he that bad? It’s just more proof he’s unlovable. It was like he was begging for Mew to prove him wrong, give him any sign there was anything between them. But Mew stays quiet. Do I wish they could have talked calmly and maybe gotten to the bottom of what they were doing to each other right then? I really do. But instead they go their separate ways.

Sand really did underestimate Ray’s desire to come see him. And no, I don’t think it had anything to do with sex at this point either, despite what I’ve seen a few people think. Oh Mew wouldn’t fuck him so he’s off to Sand. Personally, I felt it was about him wanting his comfort person, the person who shows him intimacy and care. The person who despite Ray turning up at 2am and being pissed off still allowed Ray to cuddle up to him.

Will drop it in here that Sand Ray Nick is the comedy trio I never knew I needed. Nick and Sand were so wholesome this episode and I’m glad they got to have fun, have a little kiss and stick to being the good friends they are.

I’m glad Sand was honest with Ray, finally properly admitting how he feels about him. Ray’s been in an odd limbo with Sand, another reason he was probably scared to make a proper decision between the two of them, because what if he picked wrong and lost both of them. It was cute how Sand helped lead Ray out of the water.

And so, we’re outside the caravan. Ray back in his ‘would anybody really care if I wasn’t here’ mode. I kind of like that he was in Sand’s t-shirt that had WANTED on it. In that moment, Ray really did feel wanted, realising someone would care if he was gone. It was a mixed feeling when he said about following Sand’s dream with him, up til now there’s been no hint Ray thinks about the future. Mew was behind setting up the hostel for him, so it was nice to see him finally think about something, even if it is to accompany Sand on his dreams, rather than declaring them as his own just yet.

Now, do I wish we could have had a clean break with Mew before the beautiful sex scene? Yes, I kind of do. But for Sand’s benefit more than anything else. So, he could be sure Ray was finally choosing him. Because of what we know, the fact RayMew was a sham, that Mew had no feelings invested this time around that could actually be hurt, I personally wasn’t conflicted by Ray and Sand having sex. It really felt as if Ray had made his choice. Their scene together was beautifully done, the love in Ray’s eyes and the gentle kisses after sex as they lay together. I was so happy for them.

And then, for anyone still in doubt about Mew really not giving a fuck, we have the much needed conversation between him and Ray. I’m glad they came out of it still friends and it’s not hard to see why. Neither’s heart was really in it. I like that Ray was able to be honest when prompted. It gave me a similar feel as what happened with Sand at the end of episode 5, except this time he got to talk things through with Mew. I feel as if he doesn’t feel he’s allowed to talk about stuff, or maybe how to open up and start, it was like he wanted Sand to ask questions on that night and so in a way he was relieved when Mew asked and opened up the conversation. His expression seemed to relax, accepting it was time to get everything out in the open. I’m excited and scared where things will go next. Ray was less than convincing in saying he’d talk to a therapist when Mew reminded him. It does seem from the preview he might make a move in that direction, though it seems he’s in his ‘bargaining’ stage of his grief. If he’s going to do something difficult, then so should Sand in meeting his dad. Doing it for someone else rather than himself probably isn’t going to go well, even if he admitted he has problems and was seeking help for himself, the road ahead would be littered with ups and downs, but I’m hoping by the end of the series we can at least leave him (& Sand) on an up.

So, what else for Nick. Well, I suppose there could still be some bedroom kinks for Daddy Dan, but seems the name came from Nick rather than Dan instigating it. It was sweet to see Nick smile and apparently, feel something vs his sparkless attempt at kissing Sand. I hope Dan is a good guy, there is the possible power imbalance due to him being Nick’s boss, but I’d like to think it could work out. I just wonder what the ‘lots of issues’ with his last relationship were. The scene between Nick and Boston was… interesting lol. I’m not sure it needed to be done right then and there in the bathroom but hey, when you’ve gotta go pour out your feelings, you’ve just gotta go. Plus Boston was kind of a captive audience backed into the stall so Nick got to get everything off his chest. It looked as if Boston was slightly moved, and seeing Nick with Dan, it seemed as if he had some sort of regrets. I don’t know if it’s any form of love or like, or it’s more missing just having him around as a friend. They spent a lot of time together it seemed like at the water park and Nick taking an interest in his photography - like has he shared this passion with the people who were supposed to be his friends? So yeah, maybe it’s just having someone around who was constant and a bit more intimate. I guess we shall see…

And speaking of Boston. Good luck when Cheum finds out you shagged her brother. And it does seem Atom is Nick 2.0 the upgraded crazier version. It was interesting to see Boston step back inside the gate when Atom got angry, rarely see Boston being the one to get intimidated and back up. It was only supposed to be a one night stand type of deal, Atom asked for it and though there was a little bit of hesitation, Boston accepted the invitation for sex. I’m actually a little scared for Boston. People can do crazy things when feelings get involved and Atom really doesn’t seem to be handling his well. I’m hoping nothing serious goes down, but when Cheum finds out I’m not sure Boston will be back with the group anytime soon lol.

Is that everything? I think so. This was heavy on the Ray rambling I think lol, though he was in two large chunks of story with Mew and with Sand. I just find his character so interesting. Anyway, I look forward to seeing the three couples’ dynamics next episode as well as how the characters around them play roles in what goes on.

I really do love this show.