#you hold such a big role in everyone's lives and i just want you to know that you are very loved

[tw1nkee28]

Recent drawings!

The top two were for @whitewolfmystery's birthday on the 22nd

And the bottom two were my Christmas gifts for @edenkyubiko 🫶

I hope everyone who celebrates is having a good holiday!!

[the-californicationist]

The Old Way

Listen... I don't even know what I'm on with this. Just... don't judge me. Omfg what is wrong with me.

AO3 Link -- TW: omegaverse wildness, biting, blood, etc.

Your people are starving, and your clan's Alpha has asked you, their only remaining Omega, to give yourself up as a sacrifice to save them. So, you agree, and you are to be mated to one of the Alphas of Clan 141, praying that it is to any of them except Alpha Price. He is known to have a knot that is impossible to take, but when you finally meet him, you're not sure of what's possible anymore. Will you risk it all to be with him, even if his knot might kill you? One way to find out…

The Old Way

You couldn’t see the stars. The shroud that hung over your head was made from fine, black silk, and through its thin organza, you could barely make out the shape of the Watcher in front of you, much less the glittering galactic expanse overhead. You were wrapped like a gift, and if you wanted to save the lives of everyone you’d ever loved, you would remain cloaked in your darkness, hidden, waiting for your big moment. More than anything, you wanted to pull your veil away from your eyes just to see the familiar constellations again, to comfort yourself with their shapes, to make one last independent choice before all of your volition was stolen from you forever. 

That wasn’t the right word. You couldn’t steal something that was given freely. You were not bound, and you were certainly not forced to wear the shadowed veil against your will. You had selected this path for yourself, and now you were living through the consequences of that decision.

As the only Omega in your clan – the first one born in seventy years – you were raised on the knowledge that you may one day be asked to give up your life for your clan. After the war, life was hard, and now that your people were stuck in a seemingly endless drought, it had become even more desperate. Your clan leader, Alpha Roan, had come to you six weeks ago with a terrible look in his eyes, a palpable guilt, still wearing his mourning collar for his long-lost mate, Omega Kiran, and he had asked you if you would be willing to undergo The Exchange.

His own wife had come to your clan through The Exchange, and although they had chosen to perform a private ceremony, you knew that it had been a challenge for her. Before she died, she had taught you much about your role, but you were still a youngling, and some things were just not for you to hear at such an age. 

You thought about the years that had passed after the loss of your clan’s Omega. Alpha Roan had insisted on your education, and your training, but the idea that you would be asked to leave your clan through The Exchange was always a distant threat. But, now, here it was. You had been called by your Alpha to sacrifice yourself for their benefit; not in a marriage of love, but in a clan trade. 

You had been asked by your Alpha to think about your choice. After he left you to ponder your choice, you sat down in your chambers surrounded by your Watchers, the women who had raised you, who had taught you to read, to write, to fight, and to charm. They looked at you with the same guilty, knowing eyes, and they asked you if you were prepared to make the sacrifice. 

“You do know what awaits you at the end of The Exchange, don’t you, Omega?” Watcher Trinity had asked you quietly, holding your hands in her shaking fingers, the wrinkled skin of her knuckles folding and stretching over her thin bones. 

You nodded, “Yes, Watcher. I am to be given to a new Alpha.”

She had looked at you then, her eyes sharp and calculating, trying to figure out how she would ask her next question.   

“Do you know the way in which you will be given, Omega?” 

Her tone chilled your heart, sinking through your body like ice across a pond, freezing you in place. You waited. There was more that she needed to say, and you allowed her to explain. 

And now that you knew the truth, you felt fully prepared to accept the terms of the agreement. You would deliver your people from their strife, and any pain, any shame, and any horror that you experienced from this point onward would be in service to your clan. You hoped that would be enough solace to sustain you. There was no shame in your sacrifice, you knew that. But, in your soul, you knew that knowing a thing and experiencing a thing were two vastly disparate sides of the same coin. 

You informed your clan Alpha, holding your chin high, 

“I accept the terms of The Exchange, Alpha Roan.”

“Your people are forever in your debt, Omega. Watchers,” he addressed your caregivers, “Please make preparations in the old way of our clan.”

“The old way, Alpha Roan?” Watcher Trinity had asked, her voice giving away her apprehension.

“Yes, Watcher. We will follow the law, no matter how… upsetting it may be. Clan 141 is too powerful for us to take any undue risks. If they do not accept her, we may not survive their engagement.”

Even in your sheltered little academy, you had heard of Clan 141. Their clan was small, but it was deeply feared. If any other clan dared step out of line, the 141 were there to rain hellfire and destruction down on them until there was nothing left. They were not cruel, but they abided no violent acts in their territory, and any whisper of rekindling the war efforts or of superseding the peace treaty was dealt with swiftly and decisively. 

Before the war, kings and presidents and generals had pulled the strings. Now that the world lay in ruins, the 141 was the only thing between your small clan and total destruction from larger, more aggressive packs. The 141 was the only reason your people still had other clans to trade with; they had made sure smaller communities had access to fair market costs for food and services, and no one dared to shun your merchants now that you were under their protective wing. 

Your Watchers had done their best to ease you into your preparations. Clan 141 would be at the neutral ground in six weeks, and your team had tried to make every moment of that window meaningful in your training. They had started slowly, teaching you to stretch your untouched hole with your fingers, showing you diagrams and depictions of your own anatomy, warning you of the physical trial of taking an Alpha’s knot. 

It was mortifying when you endured your first test. Watcher Gillar and Watcher Bhin had made you sit in front of a mirror and show them your progress. You were told to clench and release the muscles of your hole on command, fluttering it to prove its strength. Then, they had produced a carved, glass phallus, expecting you to practice on a smaller model before moving you up to a more advanced size. 

You took it from their hands, looking at its curved, rigid shape with wide-eyed curiosity, trying to swallow your grief at being seen doing the unthinkable by people you considered to be your closest friends and caregivers. It almost made you regret your decision. But, your people needed you, so you rested the smooth tip of the phallus at the entrance of your hole and began to shove it inside of yourself. 

This new feeling was overwriting your mind, so alien and yet so very comforting to you, confounding in its sensations yet overwhelming in its unique, bright pleasure.

It was a struggle, but you managed to slip it into your body almost down to the large, bulbous knot on the end. The sharp pain of being entered for the first time was not as terrible as you had feared, but when you pulled the phallic rod back out of you, it was cloudy with your slick and your blood. 

“Try the knot, Omega. Your Alpha will be twice as large as this, at least. You do not want your first experience to be at the ceremony. I know that you will want to appear strong in front of the other clans.” Watcher Bhin encouraged you, holding you to her shoulder as she sat behind you, trying her best to comfort you through such a harrowing ordeal. 

You put their practice cock back inside of you, slipping down further than you had, feeling the wide anatomy pressing against your entrance, but still unable to take the full knot inside. You pushed and pulled with your muscles, just like your Watchers had taught you, but it wouldn’t budge. You were panting, sweating, and teetering on the edge of an embarrassing orgasm in front of your Watchers, and you gasped out, exasperated, 

“I can’t. I don’t think I can do this, Watcher.”

“Lay back, Omega. I will help you,” Watcher Gillar said softly, replacing your hand with hers at the base of the phallus. 

You lay down on your back against your soft pillows, trying to avoid your Watchers’ pitying eyes. Then, you felt a cool gel being applied around the sore ring of your hole; something to ease the way since there was no true Alpha present to coax your slick from your glands. Watcher Bhin had held your hand in hers, gripping you tightly, letting you squeeze her through the pain, wiping away your tears as the glass bulb of the pretend knot began to split you, stretching your body before finally popping into place.

You Watchers had comforted you for a few minutes, but then you were told to begin your meditations.

With much difficulty, you sat up, feeling the heavy knot nestled against your walls. Then, Watcher Bhin handed you a firm pillow, and you understood that you must straddle it, and that it would push the knot against you. You were to train your body and your mind to accept it so that you would have the stamina to withstand the ceremony. 

“Do not be afraid to listen to your body, Omega. We will return to help you remove it and recover. I will light some incense for you. Concentrate on your strength.”

You nodded, uncrossing your legs and settling yourself over the firm pillow, feeling the deep, sacral grind of the phallus as you set your weight against it. When you were left alone, you began your breathing techniques, but all the while, a flush was rushing across your skin, the shadow of a rising desire to come, and yet subtly different. Something whispered in your mind, and you wondered if you could call your slick down yourself, without an Alpha’s help. 

So, you tried, rocking back and forth across the pillow, churning the knot within your core, feeling the rounded tip rubbing against your deepest parts. You removed your robes, letting the flush keep you warm, watching yourself in the tall mirror, meeting your own eyes. 

It took only minutes before a true orgasm was upon you, but you tried to hold it at bay, searching through the sparkling, cracking fog of pleasure for the part of you that made you special. No Beta would survive a knotting; they never did, and it was a crime to even try. But, you were meant for it, and you knew that your Watchers’ training would not let you down. You breathed through the bliss, reaching out with your mind towards your slick, imagining it, visualizing your success, manifesting it deep within you. 

When the Watchers found you later that night, they woke you with cool rags and worried faces,

“What happened, Omega? How did you…” Watcher Gillar looked down at your bare legs to where the pillow sat under you, seeing a torrent of slick and milky come covering your skin and the silk of the bolster, confused by how you could produce it without an Alpha’s beckoning call. It was just not done, not even considered to be a possibility. 

After that night, there was much chatter amongst the Watchers. They consulted old tomes, dusting off the pages in the library of your little academy where you trained far away from the rest of your village, kept up here in your tower like a Delphic oracle, buried like a treasure. 

The training became more intense, and each practice phallus that your Watchers produced became harder and heavier, each bearing knots that were unfathomably large. You used your newfound power to face each of your challenges, less ashamed now to perform in front of your team, but knowing that the ceremony would be something else entirely. 

You had asked about it one night as your Watchers were helping you bathe after a particularly difficult practice session, 

“Will there truly be none absent from the ceremony, Watcher Trinity?”

“Only the cubs and their mothers are forbidden from attending. Otherwise, all clan members are obligated to witness The Exchange. We will even invite Clan Farlight and Clan Seres to the feast as a token of goodwill. You know this, Omega,” her tone was a little impatient, wondering why you were asking such a basic question, “Your Alpha has asked for your ceremony to be conducted in the old way, according to the original scrolls.” 

“I am worried that I will dishonor you with my abilities. I cannot seem to take even these false knots without tears,” you repeated the old scripture, chanting it rote to your Watcher just as you used to do when you had started your adult training, “Omegas are vessels. They will silently submit. The ceremony will be still, honoring the sacrifice.”

Watcher Trinity knelt down beside your bath and made you look at her. Her eyes softened, and she told you,

“Yes, that is what is written, but it is not that simple. You have already honored us with your sacrifice. We have no grain. We have skinny, milkless goats, and our well is nearly dry. When we feast after your ceremony, the full bellies of your people will mean so much more than any perceived weakness that you are reluctant to show.” She grabbed your hand out of the warm water, holding it in hers, “If you need to cry, we will understand, and we will be comforting you from the crowd. Trust me, Omega.”

You tried to put it all out of your mind as you marched down the path, following behind your Watchers as they surrounded you, adorned in their own ceremonial garb. They had worn their armor and their long, red robes, carrying huge, black scythes like walking sticks, as was the custom of your clan. Your Alpha was walking in the front of your pack, guiding your clan to the meeting point. You could just see the white, canvas tops of the tents and yurts that had been constructed for the ceremony, meant to house hundreds of people for at least three days. Yours was the biggest, its adornment the most splendid. But that was little comfort to your frayed nerves. 

You were miles from home at this point, missing the comfort of your room and your books, knowing that you would never return there, and that perhaps your new Alpha would not allow you to keep any of your belongings from your old life. 

You’d heard horror stories from some of the Betas in your clan, tales of Alphas who used their Omegas like slaves, keeping them clad in irons, surviving in dark dungeons only to be used to breed and to give their Alphas carnal pleasure. 

While you were being prepared for this journey, a pair of Beta women had helped you paint your skin, drawing intricate symbols and prayers in gold flake, chittering about the ceremony and the feast without knowing what you had been through over the past six weeks.

“This is the first time I will witness a ceremony done in the old way,” Beta Lilia said. 

“Do you know which Alpha will claim you?” Lilia’s friend, Beta Tyran, asked you, not knowing how loaded her words were.

You shook your head; you didn’t even know how many Alphas belonged to Clan 141. Lilia gushed about them for you, taking the conversation out of your hands,

“Clan 141 has four Alphas! Can you imagine? I hear that they have an entire army of Omegas as well. Alpha Garrick is so handsome, and he has three gorgeous Omegas. They are almost too beautiful to look upon.. I saw him when I was at the central market once. He was leading a team, hunting the vagabonds who set fire to a farmer’s field, you remember when that happened? It was years ago now. He was so imposing. But, that other one was there, too.” 

She made a face that was strong enough to make you ask about it,

“Which one?”

“The Ghost, Alpha Riley. They say that no one has seen his face. He wears a terrifying skull mask. I heard from Yair that he has three Omegas as his guards, all masked as well. Yes! Guards! They have armor and weapons and huge, bulging muscles. Beautiful and lethal –”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Beta Tyran interrupted, “No one would give their Omegas weapons. No one would let their Omegas out in the public markets! Imagine the danger.”

Lilia shrugged, “Yair said that these Omegas were the danger.” 

Then, you heard about Alpha MacTavish, a descendant from one of the ancient warlords, charming and fearsome. He kept two Omegas as his brides, always pregnant, but almost as fearsome as Alpha Riley’s guards. Alpha MacTavish often expected them to travel with their Beta friends, to take their children up into the mountains, hunting and fishing and exploring outdoors. All sorts of stories about his large, loving family. You silently hoped you would be claimed by him. It would be nice to live amongst Omegas and their cubs. 

“Which one is their Apex Alpha? There must be one in a clan with so many Alphas,” you mused, asking the girls since you did not know much about Clan 141 yourself.

The Betas shared a look, and then Lilia shook her head,

“You will not be claimed by him, Omega. Don’t worry.”

“Why?” You pried, using your influence to force her to tell you.

“His name is Alpha Price, the leader of Clan 141. He’s the deadliest man in the entire land, and he’s the one who destroyed Clan Konni.”

The weight of that news sank in, and the dramatic tone of her story had attracted other Betas and Watchers to gather around you to listen to her tale, 

“Alpha Price has never claimed an Omega. They say that he had tried. He had found one of Alpha Garrick’s Omegas to be very pretty, but she tried to take his knot and failed, so Alpha Garrick took her under his protection instead.”

“Failed?” Watcher Bhin asked, shocked by the implication. 

“My sister was a medic who served with the Alliance in the most recent skirmish, and the 141 helped defeat the rebels who were killing members of Clan Darrah a few years ago. She said that she served under the doctor who had healed Alpha Garrick’s Omega. Said he’d never seen anything like it before in his life. She was so strong, and yet…”

Lilia’s words hung heavy in the air, and all of the women looked at each other and then at you, suddenly feeling the weight of your sacrifice, ashamed at their earlier levity. Tyran shook her head and patted you on the arm, 

“Don’t worry. Alpha Price will not claim you. You have nothing to worry about.”

That night, painted gold and covered in your black silks, you sat in your tent and meditated while you waited for the other clans to arrive. Your mind kept wandering to Alpha Price and his lonely existence. Had he really injured an Omega during his claiming of her? How large must his knot have been to do so? It made you shudder to think about it, and yet deep inside of you, your core warmed from the thought. If he imprinted on you…

But, imprinting was just a myth. Something only written in old texts as a footnote or a story. It was a part of the ritual of The Exchange, but it wasn’t real. 

“Omega,” Watcher Trinity interrupted your meditation and peeked her head into your tent, “It is time to present The Cloth.”

Clan 141 was here, then. 

The ritual of The Exchange began with The Shroud, which you were already wearing. Then, it was The Cloth. If all went well, it would then be The Meeting. And finally, The Ceremony.

The Cloth was a gift from the Omega to her new Alpha, a token of her affection and a chance for him to smell her scent for the first time. In ancient legends, this is when her true mate would imprint upon her, her Omegan scent bringing out his Alphic marks, dark spots or stripes across his neck and back, making him look like a big cat, ready to bite into her neck and claim her as his own. 

She tried to shake herself out of that fantasy world. All she could hope was that one of their Alphas would be drawn to her scent enough to accept her. Her people were depending on her.

“Here is your cloth, Omega. I embroidered it myself. I hope that it honors you,” Watcher Trinity handed you a wooden box, carved and adorned with great care, and when you opened it, you found a red silk square of fabric, sewn with the sigils and symbols of your clan in fine gold thread. You smiled up at your Watcher and reached out to hold her in your arms,

“It’s perfect, Watcher. Thank you for caring for me.”

You were both fighting off tears when she finally pulled away. You hoped that your Alpha would at least let you say goodbye after the ceremony, even if you might never see her again. 

Watcher Trinity and all of the other women left you alone again in your tent, giving you privacy to prepare The Cloth. You made yourself naked, and you began to rub the silk across your neck and glands, trying to soak your scent into the piece. Then, you wiped it between your legs, swiping up some of your wetness to coat the fabric. Usually, this would be enough. You could call your Watcher back into the tent and give her the box, and you would be done. 

But, something in your heart told you to try to call out your slick. You listened to your instincts, and you began to rub the soft fabric against your folds, bringing your own pleasure to a warm, shining height. Just when you thought you might not be able to do it, that your nervousness would make it too difficult or that you might black out again from the effort, you felt something inside of you slip free. Then, your hole was flooded, the orgasm making your vision go blurry and form spots at the edges, your whole body convulsing from the strength of your pleasure, and you had to lay down just to try and stay awake through your gushing bliss. 

You felt it coat the silk and your hand, a thick, milky slick, and your heart swelled with pride. You knew that a gift this special would sway the attention of at least one of their Alphas. You trusted in your skills and training that you were worthy of this ceremony and that your people would be saved. 

Sitting up, you carefully opened the box and returned The Cloth to its resting place, soaked with your scent. You took time to clean yourself up, stuffing wet blankets into your laundry packs and hiding them away, remaking your nest before your Watcher would know what you had done. You weren’t sure why you were keeping a secret from them, but you just felt like this was something between you and your Alpha. A promise, of sorts. 

You replaced your black silks and veil over your otherwise unclothed body and called your Watchers. They entered your tent along with Alpha Roan. 

His eyes widened as he approached you, taking the box from your hands. Quietly, as if knowing that this was an extremely private affair, he whispered to you, 

“What have you done, little Omega?”

“I am doing what needs to be done, Alpha. Please, deliver my message to my new Master.”

You use of the ancient terminology caught your clan Alpha off guard, but you were glad of it. If this was to be done in the old way, then you would withstand it, but you would also do it your way. You were the Omega, here, and you were the reason your clan would survive this struggle. It was time you started acting like the heroine that you were. You would be your people’s strength, no matter the cost.

“Very well,” Alpha Roan sighed, closing the box, calling out to your team, “Watchers, bring your Omega to The Cloth ritual.”

You were guided to the path again, leaving your tent behind and walking towards the big, outdoor theater. It was a crude coliseum of sorts, a large circular pit lined with rows and rows of carved seating that was cut into the land. People had already begun to line the viewing platforms, each clan decorated in their traditional garb. You felt proud to see the stripe of red where your people sat, holding each others’ hands and praying for your safe arrival. 

You were not greeted with raucous applause but instead with reverent silence. Alpha Roan walked in front of your Watchers, and you were the last one into the theater, dressed only in your sheer shroud, trying your best not to feel self-conscious about the fact that - because of the firelight - everyone could see your naked, painted body through the veil, even though you were covered head to toe in the organza. In the tent, the lighting was low and kept you in darkness, hiding your body under the thin silk. But, not here in the theater. Your skin was illuminated by the torches, and you knew that even your friends and neighbors could now see your most private parts. 

You made sure that your face did not give away your lingering shame. 

Alpha Roan took center stage, and you saw the Alphas of Clan 141 for the first time. 

Alpha MacTavish was standing between his two Omegas, and you mused that his oldest children must have stayed behind to care for his cubs. He was dressed in his Clan’s black gear, covered in armor like a gladiator, his head shaven into a mohawk, spiked and messy on the crown of his head. His body was huge and stocky, and the Omegas seated at his sides looked so tiny compared to his bulk. But, they were strong. Their bellies were round with the promise of future cubs, and their skin and hair glowed like the stars. 

Alpha Garrick stood next to him, his Omegas seated together to his right, dressed in the finest robes you had ever seen. He clearly had a type, and you thought that they looked like triplets, all decorated in jewels and gold, riches you’d never even dreamt of. Their Alpha was every bit as handsome as the stories had promised. He had pouty, full lips that were curled in a snarky sort of smile, and his soft brown eyes exuded pure confidence. His hands were wide and powerful, resting on his curved blade that lay sheathed at his hip. 

Alpha Riley was masked, as you had been told, as were his Omegas. They were not seated, and every bit of armor that was strapped to his hulking body was also strapped to them. They had glittering knives, bows, arrows, and slings, looking like they could win their own war by themselves. Their bodies were heavily muscled, and all four of them seemed as tall as Alpha MacTavish, standing proudly in leather boots. 

Then, you saw Alpha Price. He was holding a large wooden stick, at least seven feet tall, with hundreds of notches sliced into the side. You wondered what he was keeping track of, and you shuddered to know. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his hair was cut high and tight on the sides. He was certainly bigger and better muscled than each of his men, but that was not what you noticed about him first. It was his eyes. They were piercingly blue, like glacial ice, and they were looking right at you. Hungry. 

Something inside of your core tightened under his scrutiny, but Alpha Roan’s voice shook you from your trance,

“Clan Arlos welcomes Clan 141 to The Exchange. We present you with our offering, an unmated Omega, 26 years of age, fully trained in the old ways of our people. She is our greatest gift, and we ask for your acceptance of our sacrifice.”

Alpha Roan held up the box with The Cloth inside for all to see. He set it on the large, marble altar in the middle of the stage and backed away from it, waiting for the other Alphas to take part in the ritual. 

Alpha Price spoke, and your body nearly trembled at the sound of his deep, purring voice. You were more nervous than you thought, and you tried to breathe to manage yourself. 

“We will consider your honorable offering, Clan Arlos.”

With that, he slammed his huge stick against the stony ground and Alpha MacTavish stepped up to the altar. He opened the box, and along with the other Alphas in attendance, his body had a visceral reaction. His hands went to touch the cloth and he brought it to his nose, smelling your scent with a sort of wonder and amazement. 

Then, to your great relief, he raised his hand, palm outward, as a show of his acceptance of your scent. If you accepted him as well, you would be mated. 

But, the slamming sound of the stick shook you out of your celebrations. Alpha Price called up Alpha Garrick. 

This was most unusual. Typically, only one Alpha had to agree. It wasn’t like you had much choice in the matter. Even if Alpha MacTavish’s scent did not stir your heart, you would still submit to him as expected. This was not a marriage of love but of convenience. 

MacTavish looked back over his shoulder at Price, just as shocked as you were. His Omegas looked even more taken aback, strangely offended that you would not automatically join them. But, Alpha MacTavish returned the cloth to the box and made room for Garrick, disappointed and visibly confused. 

Alpha Garrick opened the box and buried his face against The Cloth, breathing in once, twice, and then tasting the fabric, right in front of everyone. It was his right, but it was a little audacious. 

His palm went up, high in the air, and his Omegas smiled and held each other’s hands, excited at your acceptance. 

Another loud slam. Another rejection. 

You may still end up with MacTavish or Garrick after negotiations, you remembered, but you were now wondering why Alpha Price had chosen to test you against all three of his men before making a decision. It was very odd. Alpha Roan looked greatly concerned. 

Alpha Riley approached the altar, his gloved hands prying open the box, then, he lifted the bottom of his mask to reveal his mouth and nose. The slightest murmur of shock rippled through the crowd. He bent to smell your scent, and he raised his hand in the air, signaling his acceptance before replacing his mask. You thought you caught the hint of a smile just before his pale lips disappeared beneath the skull plate again. 

Slam! The stick pounded against the floor.

All of Clan 141 turned to look at Alpha Price at once. Your heart stopped. Why would he… Why would Alpha Price want to undergo The Cloth ritual himself? He had no Omega. Surely, he wouldn’t claim you now, not after what had happened. You watched Alpha Garrick’s Omegas. One of them stared at Alpha Price with wide, glossy eyes. You thought that it must be his prior candidate for a mate. She was afraid for you. They were all afraid.

All eyes were on Alpha Price as he approached the altar, and the entire theater was silent as he took The Cloth in his hands. He lay it out flat, in no rush, inspecting the wet stain that you had left for him, using his thumb to feel the fine, gold embroidery. Then, his eyes darted up to yours. He was the first one to look at you while he held The Cloth to his nose, that icy gaze making you tremble with anticipation. 

You were so lost in his eyes that you didn’t see what was stirring the crowd. There was a loud gasp and then an explosion of whispers. You looked around, trying to understand what was happening. Then, when he tucked The Cloth into his breast pocket, keeping you for himself, you saw it. 

Long, red lines began to stain his skin like lightning. All of his veins tattooed themselves across his neck, and although his armor was covering his shoulders, you knew that the marks would be there as well. 

Alpha Price had imprinted for you. 

Then, he silenced the crowd by raising his right hand, palm up, staring at you the entire time. 

You were whisked away, surrounded by your Watchers, hearing Alpha Roan’s voice behind you, sounding like protest, but you couldn’t make out the words. Compared to the initial silence, the area erupted in a shattering din, clans shouting and yelling over each other, the drama from the ritual dividing the people. 

You thought you would be taken back to your tent, but you were brought to a large lake about five hundred yards from the theater. It was quiet again. No one was allowed to follow you here, it seemed. 

Watcher Trinity tried to explain in a rushed whisper, helping you climb into a boat and rowing you out to the middle of the lake,

“There is a dispute for your claiming. Alpha Roan will negotiate new terms, and Clan 141 must decide who will be your Alpha. It will be alright, Omega. It’ll be alright.”

She sounded like she was trying to reassure herself more than you.

“What now?”

“Because there is not just one Alpha who has claimed you, they will undergo a ritual called The Trial. It is a fight; a test of will. Whichever Alpha can win will be granted the right to appeal to you first. If you reject him, then you will be given a chance to hear the appeal from the second.”

“So, it will be up to me, then?”

“Yes. Alpha Price has put the choice in your hands. Very odd, and not in our custom, but we must honor his wishes. You will wait here for the winner.”

You looked around. You were now in the middle of the lake, and there was a platform lingering just below the water. It was a wide stone block, about three meters wide in each direction. Watcher Trinity helped you out of the boat and you stepped tentatively onto the platform. 

“Will you wait with me?” You asked, feeling the uncertainty and fear finally get the better of you. 

“No, my Omega. I cannot. These waters are forbidden to Betas. Only Alphas and Omegas can touch it. Take this. It is your flare. If you are in trouble, if he tries to get to you, fire it high into the sky and we will rescue you. You can do this. I know you are strong. Wait patiently for your Alpha,” she paused, grabbing your hand, “I realize you are doing this for us, but please, follow your heart.”

“I will, Watcher.” 

So, you waited. You meditated, standing in an inch of cool lake water as you tried to commune with the land around you. And you waited some more. Hours passed until, finally, you saw torches. Your Watchers lined one side of the lake, and they greeted the newcomers. Then, you saw him. Alpha Price was being stripped down by your Watchers. They took his weapons from him, and then his clothes, making him naked on the shoreline. He craned his neck, trying to look for you in the lake, but it was dark and you were dressed in black. 

You could see him just fine, though. His huge body was covered in short, curly hair, dense and dark against his skin. His muscles bulged and popped as he peeled away his layers of clothing. They left his undergarments on, little more than a linen loincloth. Then, you saw your Watchers attach a huge, metal collar around his neck. They clamped it together with a padlock in the back, and a huge chain was attached at the latch. 

They bound his hands, chaining them together, and then loaded him into the boat. They rowed toward you with his back facing the platform, and as he got closer, you saw his imprint markings, red and raised like jagged scars across his neck and shoulders. Your scent had marked him permanently. The welts would go down, and the red would fade, but it would always be there, evidence of his imprinting. 

The boat reached you, and he climbed out of it, sitting on the opposite side of the platform from you, just far enough to be out of range for your scent. 

His eyes found yours again, staring at you through your veil, finding your gaze with a natural ease. He held a small box in his hands, and you thought you saw the phantom of a smile across his lips as you looked over his face. 

The boat rowed to shore, dragging the long chain all the way back, and you were alone with him. It was quiet for a long while. You were just staring at each other, studying each other, trapped in a silent battle. 

You looked down at his hands, noticing for the first time his cut, bloody knuckles, and he saw the worry cross over your eyes.

“They’re fine,” he said quietly, “My men. If that’s what you were wondering.”

“But, you triumphed over them, clearly,” you replied, not trusting your own voice. 

He chuckled a bit, sighing, 

“I did.”

“You fought for me, then.”

The laughing stopped, and he lifted his chin, proudly, 

“I did.”

“And you are here for my acceptance.”

He didn’t respond to your cue, but instead, he took the box in his hands and slid it across the platform, skittering it along the surface of the water, making little splashes as it landed in front of you. 

You reached for it, opening it up to reveal a shining key. 

“Throw it in the lake,” he commanded you, using his Alpha’s voice to bend your will. 

It shocked you, and you were so close to obeying, but you stopped, cutting your eyes at him,

“What is this?”

“Throw. It. Omega.”

His voice seared through your blood, calling to you with old magic. You fought hard to keep your mind under your own control, 

“Stop! Stop it. Tell me what this is, Alpha.”

“It unlocks my collar. Otherwise, if I make so much as a shift in your direction that they don’t like,” his head turned to look back toward your watchers, “They will pull me into the lake, and I will drown.”

“And if I unlock it…”

“Then, you will be my mate,” his tone turned vitriolic then, “And you will die.”

You let his words sink in, your curiosity overcoming your fear,

“You believe your knot cannot be taken.”

He spat back, 

“My belief is not –”

“But, it’s not up to you,” you interrupted him, “Is it?”

The shock that washed over his bright eyes filled you with a sort of sick satisfaction. You should be afraid of him, but your roles were reversed out here on this rock, and you were holding him under your command. 

“Toss that key, girl. MacTavish fought hard for you. He’ll care for you. He’s a good man.”

“Are you a good man?”

“No,” he growled, his eyes dropping to the water, examining the chains around his own hands, inspecting them for the bloodstains that he obviously thought should be there. 

“I am here for my people, Alpha Price. I am not looking for a husband. I am a resource to be traded for other resources. My clan needs The Exchange. Our people are starving, and I –”

“I would not let them starve,” Price’s eyes shot back up, indignant that you would suggest that he would leave you and your clan without food or water. 

You let yourself smile slightly, teasing him, 

“Spoken like a good man.”

He twisted his lips over his teeth, but he stayed quiet. You continued to torment him, 

“Why did you raise your hand for me?”

He sighed, sitting forward, sloping his shoulders toward you,

“I couldn’t help it. My Alpha…He…” He paused, searching for the words, “I could smell you through the box. I knew you from the moment I saw you walk through the arena. And when my men all raised their hands for you, I knew you would be accepted as our Clan Omega. You are mine in every way that matters. And I cannot have you.”

His voice was full of bitterness. You wanted to smell him. What were the chances that he was your true mate? One-sided imprinting was rare, but true mates were one in a million. 

You stood, surprising him, and he jolted back, sitting up right. The chain around his wrists clattering. You looked over at the shoreline. Your Watchers held the long chain around his neck, heavy and sagging into the black water, ready to yank it tight if he lunged for you, if he fell prey to his Alphic instinct to breed you. 

He watched you approach, seeing how the water rippled with every step you took, gazing upon the dripping silks that clung to your legs, devouring you with his eyes. You stopped in front of his crossed legs, Knowing that he could smell you now. Your pussy was shielded only with a few layers of silk, and you watched him flare his nose, sniffing you right in front of his face, blowing a slow exhale of air through his lips, making the organza billow between your legs. 

“Can I smell your scent, Alpha?” You whispered, your voice slicing through the silence of the still lake. 

His chains clattered as he twisted his head to look up at you, peeling his eyes away from your pretty pussy to meet your gaze. Then, he bent his head to one side, giving you his neck, showing you his scent gland, a sea of red stripes emanating from its center. 

You bent over him, closing the gap, steadying yourself by laying a gentle hand on his huge shoulder. Then, you took a long pause and breathed him in. His scent swirled through your body, wrecking your other senses. It was only him. Alpha. Alpha. Alpha. Your Alpha. Your mate. Your true mate. 

You felt the red marks of your imprint streak across your skin, and his eyes widened in shock as he saw them branch through your veins and across your gland just as his had done. 

The click of a lock made his eyes flash back to you, and with that movement, his heavy collar tumbled into the lake, the drag of the chain singing as it scraped the side of the platform. 

“What have you done, my Omega?” Price breathed. 

It was the second time you’d been asked that question. Your response was still the same:

“I am doing what needs to be done, Master. I am giving myself to you, my true mate.”

The boats were in the water the moment the collar slipped from his neck. The Watchers were on you in moments, and Price’s Beta soldiers were there to collect him. You watched as they rowed you two apart, taking you back to your camps to prepare for the ceremony. 

Your Watchers were in a rush. There were only a few hours until sunrise. Your wet robes were switched out for red ones, and a red veil adorned your head. Underneath, you were rubbed and painted and sprayed with oils, until finally, Watcher Trinity came forward with a bowl of salve. She had made it herself, you could tell. She cared for you so deeply. 

“I trust you, Omega. I know you know what you’re doing. But, please take this. It will help your muscles relax for him, and it will make it easier to bring on your natural defenses.”

She was being coy, avoiding using the word to refer to your slick, knowing that you had your own method of calling it forth using your special power. But, you took it from her anyway, and after you were left alone again to meditate, you used two fingers to massage it into your hole, feeling its effects begin to warm you, making your flesh supple and pliant. 

A hand curled around your tent flap, pulling it open. Instead of your Watcher, you saw one of Garrick’s Omegas. It was her, the one who had failed to take your Alpha’s knot.

She stepped inside,

“May I speak with you?”

You nodded, motioning for her to sit,

“Yes, but I’m afraid I already know what you are about to say.”

Her eyes widened, 

“If you know, then why have you accepted this? Alpha MacTavish was his second. He is not to your liking? His Omegas are kind and –”

“No, they were all to my liking. I am eager to join your pack in whichever way I can, but Alpha Price is my true mate.”

You showed her your skin from under the red silks, knowing she could not see them through the red of the veil. She gaped at them, 

“Your… true mate? He could… This could kill you, Omega. I don’t want to see you come to harm, and it would destroy him. I saw how he was after my accident. I nearly blamed myself for his deep sorrow.”

“I trust my training, Omega, and I am so grateful for your support, but he is my mate. What is meant to happen to me, will.” You stood with her, seeing your Watchers hovering just outside the tent, signaling them that you were ready to leave. 

“Then, I trust you as well. The others are so excited to meet you. I wish you an easy path, and I hope your ceremony is just as you want it to be. After this, you will be our Clan Omega, and I will serve you until the end of my days.”

She kissed your cheek through your veil and left you to be delivered back to the altar. 

For a long time, you had wondered if this final walk away from your pack would be a sad one. You expected every step to be filled with hesitation and fear. But, the only thing you felt was joy. Your mate awaited you at the end of this long path, and you were ready to submit to him. He was worthy of your strength, and he would help you deliver your people from danger. You would rule beside him, helping him use the 141 for good, eradicating the evil from your land. 

The sun’s pink wash was rising out of the horizon line just as you reached the theater. The crowd was silent again, and you saw the pallor and shock painted on all of their faces. They were expecting a funeral instead of a feast. They had no idea why anyone would be so desperate as to sacrifice their only Omega to this Alpha, especially when it was not necessary. But, they didn’t realize that you were no prisoner. You were no one’s puppet. You were in charge, here, and your Alpha would breed you as you commanded him to. 

Your Watchers led you to the altar, kissing your hands through the thin cloth as they passed you to take their seats near Clan Arlos, tears in their eyes and staining their cheeks, and finally, your clan Alpha approached you.

“Alpha Roan,” you greeted him. 

“Little Omega,” he smiled, kissing your hands just as your Watchers had done. He didn’t need to, but it was his way of showing everyone that he trusted your choice, “I hope you know what you are doing.”

“I do,” you said, smiling at him through your red silk veil. 

Then, Alpha Price’s men came through the center of the theater, each of them bending to kiss your hands. But, instead of the back of your knuckles, they turned them over to kiss your palms, a sign that they would accept what you had to give them. Alpha Riley was first, and he lifted his mask to show you his mouth and chin, his kiss warm and tender against your skin. Then, Alpha Garrick knelt down, placing multiple kisses along your fingers and wrists, displaying his loyalty and respect. Finally, Alpha MacTavish knelt before you, daring to whisper to you as he kissed your palms, 

“Brave lass.”

You used your thumb to pet his lip, acknowledging his trust in you. 

Then, it was time for the Omegas to join you. They approached as a unit, not individually as their Alphas had done, and they helped you lay on the altar, guiding your body back onto the marble platform. They pulled at your silks, allowing the crowd to see your naked body, painted in fine brushes of intricate gold designs, of prayers and songs of your people, their symbols adorning you from neck to toe. Finally, they began to kiss you, licking and sucking at your mouth like lovers, showing their devotion to you as their clan Omega. 

As they kissed you, your skin began to flush hot, your body somehow knowing what was about to happen to you. The Omegas felt your fire against their lips, and they pulled your legs apart, each of them bending to lick and suck at your flower’s drooling petals, slurping and sucking up your creamy nectar. They were at your breasts, your neck, your belly, your hands and feet. You were overwhelmed with pleasure, shaking and trembling under their affection, yet moved by their deep loyalty. You knew you would be safe with them. They would care for you just as your clan had done. 

Then, you heard the familiar slam of a longstaff. Your Alpha had arrived. 

According to the ceremony, you were meant to be still and silent as a showing of your acceptance. If you moved or cried out in any way, you risked a clan war, as taking a mate without their consent was a dark offense. You had to prove to your people that you were here of your own free will, and even though you were feeling the static cling of apprehension beginning to worm its way into your chest, you tried to breathe through it, trusting your Alpha to lead you through this moment with his protective power. 

Your legs were lowered to the stirrup-style rests that were carved just below the stone table, keeping your knees wide apart, allowing your pussy to drip openly, glistening with the beginnings of your slick. You calmed yourself as they left you alone, each of them kissing you softly once more to show their reverence. 

Then, you heard the clatter of fallen armor. He was undressing, removing his warlord’s mantle and coming to you fully bare. You spotted him between the vee of your legs as he approached the dais, his imprint marks flushed a deep wine red, his body shining with the traditional oils, meant to give him another layer of aphrodisiacs, promoting his production of his seed, keeping his cock tall and hard. 

But, you knew that your imprint on his gland would do more than all of their drugs combined. He would kill every last person in this arena to get to you at this point, and although you had consented to this joining, you were no longer controlling it. He would take you, no matter what. 

Then, when he got close enough to your platform, you saw it. It was standing proudly against his thick, furry belly, dripping with precome and lubricants, glittering in the rising sun. His cock was immense. You had not practiced on one so large. And his knot was larger than your two fists pressed together. He was intact, and his foreskin was slipping down his flushed head, unable to contain the swelling glans. Your body threatened to quiver from your suspense, and you tried to move your mind into your meditative trance. 

As he approached, he did not go straight for his position between your legs. Instead, he walked around the front of the marble platform and bent to look you in your eyes, leaning his head down for a deep, heady kiss. He fed you his tongue and suckled on yours, letting it writhe inside of his mouth, rubbing against his own probing muscle.

He pulled away to gaze upon you, his eyes soft and full of joy. You smiled up at him, watching as he enjoyed the rest of your body, caressing your breasts, admiring your paintings. 

“Did my clan show you their loyalty, my Omega?”

“Yes, Master,” you answered quietly. 

“Are you prepared for me to show you mine?”

“Yes, Master. I am,” you replied, giving him a brave face despite the absolute weapon that was slobbering for you against his belly. You wanted to taste it, but now was not the time. 

He returned to the base of your platform, kneeling in front of your wet hole, bending to place his mouth against you. He began to suck, pulling your soft lips into his mouth like he was starving, lapping up the beginnings of your body’s fluids, moaning from the taste and the smell of your scent. You wanted to moan, you wanted to pin his head to your trembling quim, but you didn’t dare move a muscle or make a single sound. Breathing in, breathing out, letting the sparks of an orgasm rush through you, bringing tears to your eyes from holding back so much pleasure. 

Your Watcher’s salve was almost too effective. It had made you pliant, but now you were beyond sensitive, able to feel the pound of your own heartbeat through your hole, desperate for something to press inside of you. You needed his cock. 

But, he did not give it to you. He just sucked and sucked and sucked, and his fingers began to rub along the entrance of your slippery hole, pressing down on your pussy’s walls, testing their strength. You fluttered for him, just like your Watchers had taught you, and you felt him stumble in his movements, shocked by your power. 

He stood between your legs, his face and beard soaking from his meal, letting you drip off of his chin like a messy hound drinking from a river. Then, to test your resolve, he teased you with a little bit of meanness, stepping forward to let his cock lay along your body, measuring himself on the outside of you. He reached far beyond your navel, his lubed phallus warm and heavy, his knot resting in the softness of your folds, and you could feel him throbbing for you. 

You didn’t dare move, but you wanted to cradle his cock in your hands, to rub up and down his length, to feel the smoothness of his head and the firmness of his knot. But, you stayed stock still, showing the crowd that you would not waver. There was some soft chittering from the clans, the shock at his size obviously enough to break onlookers out of their respectful quiet. 

Then, he began notching his head at the entrance of your pussy, letting the tip slide up and down your tight ring of muscles that guarded your entrance.      

“Last chance, Omega. Call it off. Cry out, and my own men will cut me down,” he bade you under his breath, having a hard time holding his words and sentences together, his voice shaking in his throat. 

You looked up at him with closed lips, making a point to give him a soft smile as a response. 

No deal. 

You pulsed your muscles again, making your pussy lap up his sloppy precome like a little mouth, watching as he was torn apart by your action, no matter how minor. 

So, without any other choice, he fed himself into you. It was a fearsome experience, at first. You weren’t sure if you could actually handle him. But, you breathed through the stress, relaxing your body, finding that deep, secret place inside of you, making your slick drop down for him, flooding your hole to welcome him in. 

The confusion that painted his face was so satisfying. He couldn’t understand the sheer warmth and comfort he was experiencing. His cock was being sucked into you, deeper and deeper, and finally, you felt his knot. 

He pulled all the way out of you, and sheathed himself all the way back in, always reaching to that one spot, just above his bulbous anchor, and then starting his process over again. Each time his cock fucked its way through your body, humping himself into you, creamy, milking noises filled the quiet, open-air arena. The whole ensemble could hear him invading your hole, the lurid slap of skin on skin loud and unashamed. 

His phallus was large enough to rub against your most sensitive spot over and over, bullying it into producing more and more slick, making you come just by dragging his heavy cockhead over it, in and out, in and out, pounding into you with almost reckless need. 

You came for him, and your body began to shiver from the overwhelming bliss, but you held your voice. You tried to still yourself, not wanting to show weakness, but there was nothing you could do. You were shattered by his cock, coming over and over again. It was an endless wave. You had no idea where one started and the other stopped. 

You could taste blood in your mouth from biting the inside of your cheek. Still, you pushed through it, testing yourself with every push and pull of your body. 

His huge hands pawed at your hips and breasts, squeezing you, watching your plump flesh jiggle with every cruel strike of his hips. Your Alpha took your own slick and began to rub it all over your skin, swirling it around your nipples, letting it smear across your belly from his palm. Then, he painted himself, taking it from your well-fucked hole and rubbing it across his scent gland, down his chest, matting his hair with your wetness. 

Then, you felt his precome begin to pump out of him. You knew it had begun because this was when your slick was meant to wash through you, but there was no space for anything else. So, it began to pour out of you and over his knot. Every time he pushed it against your body, it threatened to slip into your hole, and you were filled with a twisted excitement, ready for it to be stuck inside of you, to churn and grind against your insides, to trap you in a blinding, rageful bliss. You nearly cried out from the heavy want you felt in your chest. 

“You ready for my knot, pretty Omega?” He growled, no longer speaking to you softly. There was no gentleness left within him. 

He shoved you back across the dais, climbing up onto it with you, breaking every protocol by doing so, but knowing there wasn’t a single other Alpha in attendance who would do anything about it unless you asked them to. But, he trusted you, lifting himself above you, bringing his face to your face, kissing you and beginning to lick your scent gland, making you see stars. 

Would he really bite you right here in front of all these people while you were about to take his knot? It was beyond intimate. Not only was it private, but it was dangerous. It was when an Alpha was most vulnerable. The audacity of this man shook you to your core. 

“Bite me, Omega. Please take me. Claim me as yours, sweetheart. Show them that you are mine. My Omega.”

His voice was ragged and deep, a hoarse purr of commands, all of which you were happy to obey. You began to lick his neck, putting your mouth over his gland as you began to suck at the round swell of flesh. Then, just as you canted your hips, feeling his knot slip inside of you, shoving and burying itself within the tight sheath of your pussy, you used your muscles to yank him the rest of the way in, and you bit down on his neck, hard, your body seizing from a hard, ruthless orgasm. . 

You heard the crack of his gland, and you felt him sink his fangs into yours, the pain and the pleasure mixing within you like a drug, his cock firing rope after rope of searing hot come into your belly, flooding your womb with his spend. He pulled his mouth away and stared into your eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his face full of disbelief, 

“My love…”

You kissed him, taking his lip into yours, suckling on it, trying to guide him back down from his tantric high. He was struggling above you, stuck deep inside of you, unable to stop himself from dumping heavy loads of his come into your body, his cock pulsing and throbbing with each burst of his cream. 

He rested his head on your neck, returning his mouth to your gland, and every time he licked it, now, you felt your pussy twist around him, threatening to slam you with another orgasm. You licked him, too, hearing him cry out against your skin, feeling the mirror of your sensations, his heavy phallus jerking as you sucked on his broken gland. 

Finally, he was able to rock back and forth, letting his knot slip out of you before popping it back inside, fucking you with it just like he did with his cock. He twisted his hips forward, driving into you with all of his strength, and then he would pull himself back out, the swell of his knot increasing with each thrust until, on the last thrust, he was finally trapped, unable to remove himself from your core. 

Now, though, it was your turn. You began to use your muscles to push and pull him from the inside, fucking him like a sleeve of smooth, soaked warmth, jerking his shaft up and down with your insides.

“Oh, fuck…” He whispered, not expecting your skills to be so advanced, but you had trained hard for this moment. You weren’t about to let it go to waste. 

You moved him inside of you, letting his knot take the brunt of your efforts, squeezing it like a fruit, making sure all of his juice melted into your skin. You made him come like this again, using the salve that your Watcher had given to you as an advantage, knowing that the heightened sensitivity you felt was now being passed on to him. He filled you up, his knot plugging your hole, preventing any of his seed from leaking out, and your tummy was swollen from his load, round and full for everyone to see. 

He sat up on his heels, looking down at you with his eyes full of adoration and wonder, watching your strong abdominals clench and twist as you used them to help you work inside of yourself, edging him over and over before pulling him down into the depths of another hard come with you. 

His hands went to the bulge of fluid in your belly, most of it flooding into your womb, unable to escape anywhere else. Your Alpha caressed your skin, marveling at the fullness. Then, he looked down at your stretched hole, playing with your clitorus that had been forced out from under its hood due to the sheer size of his knot, all of your skin bowing around it and pulled tight. 

Your Alpha forced you to come like this, milking him hard, trying not to make a sound but giving away your mind-bending pleasure with shaking, whimpering breaths. 

“That’s a good Omega. So full of my come.”

You smiled up at him, enjoying the full feeling of his come inside of you. But, you were losing your strength, and he could feel it. Alpha Price leaned over you again, grinding himself down into you and helping you reach one last orgasm, pulling himself along with you, squirting the last of his spend into your pussy. Then, he carefully twisted his cock out of you, watching the gush of his come coat the marble platform, dripping out of you and down the sides of the dais. 

You were so empty and weak, but you were being lifted, cradled in his arms, and the whole arena burst into revelrous applause. The feast had begun, but not for you. You would be in your Alpha’s tent, and there you would remain until he bred you, making sure that you were laden with his cub, sharing food and drink with him in bed while you were stuck on his knot, traditionally until sunset when you would be presented to the clans as the new Apex Omega, destined to rule beside him forever. 

“Are you done being quiet, my Omega?”

“Yes, Master,” you whispered, nestling into his broad chest. 

“Good,” he smiled, “I need to hear you scream for me.”

“And I need my Alpha to breed me. I need your knot again, Master. Don’t pull it out.”

“I’m at your command, my love,” he smiled, planting a kiss on your temple, smearing his own salve across your swollen flesh, working his cock until he was hard again. 

When you felt his knot for the second time, you knew you had made the right choice. Your people were safe, and so were you. You weren’t sure if it was the high of your claiming or the truth that you felt in your heart, but you were eager to be dripping with his come every night. Trapped underneath your Alpha was right where you belonged, knotted and full of his love. 

Seriously, send help. I was too ashamed to even reread it for typos. I'm so sorry.

[inamindfarfaraway]

Duke should hold a grudge against Dick for betraying the entire We Are Robin movement (mostly consisting of poor, non-white minors) to the police. In Gotham. Not to mention that Dick used to be a cop himself.

Meanwhile, everyone else loves Dick; the Batfamily, the Justice League, the Titans, everyone. So he’s unprepared to deal with this. And no matter how much every other superhero on Earth wants to defend Dick, they can’t exactly say that Duke shouldn’t be angry about that betrayal when it’s put into perspective.

Duke: Wait, you were in juvie before you were Robin? Did you do vigilante crimes that early?

Dick: No, it was just for the crime of being an orphan when there were too many other kids in the foster system. None of the adults wanted to deal with me, so they locked me up.

Duke: Right. Typical Gotham. Maybe the crime rates would be lower if there weren’t so many prison pipelines.

Dick: Exactly! I love this city, but I swear to God…

Duke, choosing to ruin a moment when they’re on the same page: Hey, you know what this means?

Dick: What?

Duke: You came full circle! Locking vulnerable kids behind bars in a Robin origin story. I guess it’s true what they say: you either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the cop.

Dick: I was -

Duke: You were so concerned. You just didn’t know what else do to with us. You wanted to keep us out of trouble. Did that shit mean anything to you?

Dick: (sighs deeply) No.

Duke: See, now I’m even more disappointed because you really should have known better. Didn’t know I could get more disappointed. Wow. You do always exceed expectations.

***

Dick, planning a big mission: Then Red Robin and I will find a way to the control room while Black Bat and Robin take out the henchmen. Signal, at the same time I need you to infiltrate the Iceberg Lounge and retrieve -

Duke: Sorry, what?

Dick: I need you to retrieve the -

Duke: What? I can’t understand you. You sound like (realistic pig noises).

Dick: Signal. This is not the time.

Duke: I’m sorry, I’m sure whatever you’re saying is very intelligent. I just don’t know pig. All I’m hearing is (remarkably good pig impression for a city boy continues).

Stephanie: (starts laughing in the background)

Duke, straight-faced: Can anyone translate?

Dick:

Damian, who took Duke to a petting zoo last week: Fear not, Thomas, I speak adequate pig. I believe Grayson is ordering you to waste your talents on a side mission, despite your detective skills and powers of perception being particularly suited to navigating a death maze.

Duke: Thanks. I’d like to request a different role if that’s possible, please.

Dick: (inhales)

Dick: You can enter the maze first with Tim. I will focus on rescuing the hostages and meet you in the control room if there’s time.

Duke: That’s a good plan. Why didn’t you speak English before?

[misctf]

Finding a New Role

“You’ve fucked up now, Chet.”

“Fuck off Brad.” Chet slammed the door to his locker shut, “And wipe that fuckin’ grin off your face.”

The back-up quarterback stayed smiling, “Three in a row now? How many more losses do you think coach is gonna...”

“McClane in my office. Now!”

Chet closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. His body was sore, coated in sweat from an intense game. Each muscle aching. His head pounding. All he wanted was to be back in his dorm, watching a movie with his girlfriend.

“Better go.” Brad patted Chet’s back with feigned sympathy, “Can’t wait for my promotion.”

“Fuck you, man.”

Chet walked off towards coach’s office, his mind racing. Was coach going to throw him off the team? What would happen to his scholarship? What would his dad say? His father always pushed him to be the best football player he could be. A pang of guilt welled up inside the young man.

“How could I have fucked up so badly?” He muttered, thinking back to several interceptions, sacks, and overall just poor leadership on his part.

Was it nerves? Was it Brad’s palpable ambition to replace him? Was it coach’s stern look? His angry shouts? This was a big game. Their rivals. Coach’s dream was to destroy them- make them look like shit. Turn them into their bitches- as coach had said during his pregame pep talk. But that was far from what happened on the field.

“This was a big game.” Coach Johnson said- his voice low- as Chet entered, “What the fuck, McClane?” Chet shivered- Johnson’s voice was low, inconsistent with the rage Chet knew simmered behind those eyes.

“I... I just...” Chet took a seat in front of his coach’s desk.

“Some people aren’t meant to lead a team.” Coach Johnson cut him off.

Chet could feel his heart sink. This was it. This was him getting kicked off the team. Demoted. He wanted to say something. To stop Coach Johnson from uttering those words. Yet, he couldn’t make a sound.

“But everyone has a use. Don’t you agree?”

Chet nodded slowly. What did Coach mean by that? Was he still going to be on the team? Maybe in a different capacity? But he wanted to play- he wanted to be a quarterback. He wanted to prove to everyone he wasn’t going to let them down.  

“Coach, I don’t...”

Coach Johnson stood up and smiled, “Chet...” He was holding something. It was black and shiny- and to the young football player, it looked to be made of a latex material, “I’m not wasteful. And I think you have some real potential.”

Chet’s heart was beating fast now and he tried to stand up- a part of him yelling to get out of there fast. But Coach Johnson placed a hand on the young man’s bare shoulder and kept him seated. And before Chet was able to say anything else- he felt something wrap around his head. He let out a pained cry as the material wrapped tightly across his eyes and ears.

“Oh fuck! Wh-what the fuck is this!?” Chet cried out gripping at the latex material that blocked his vision, “It won’t come off!” He tried desperately to pull it away- the material unrelenting.

Coach Johnson remained quiet, watching as Chet stood up and stumbled around as he gripped desperately at the mask covering his head. Unable to pull it off, Chet tried to feel around with his arms as he moved across the room, trying desperately to escape.

“Please Coach! It hurts!”

But then he saw it. The inky blackness broke, and Chet saw a spiral flashing before him. And as the spiral swirled in front of him, he heard a voice. The portion of the mask covering his ears screeching alive, blocking out the sound around him.

“You are a slut.”

“You are a cum dumpster.”

“You live to suck cock.”

“You are a gay slut.”

Chet fell to his knees, grasping again at the mask and letting out a whimper as the voice pounded into his eardrums. This wasn’t true. This was all a lie. He wasn’t gay. He wasn’t a slut. And fuck no he wasn’t a cum dumpster.

“You live to service cock.”

“You have no thoughts. No goals.”

“You have no other purpose.”

“Cum dumpster.”

Chet tried to close his eyes. To block out the spiral. But no matter what, it occupied his vision. He tried to cover his ears, but there was no relief from the voice. Instead, he fought against the voice. He wasn’t some slut... he wasn’t going to service cocks... he had goals... dreams... to make his father proud... to be... he wanted to... to be a...?

“No stop...” Chet mumbled weakly as drool fell from his mouth. He shuddered as he felt something being tightened around his neck- the smell of coach’s musk entering his nose.  

“You live to suck cock and get fucked.”

“I live to suck cock and get fucked”

Chet winced. The voice in his head- his own voice- repeated the words that echoed in his brain. Tears welled up in his eyes as he realized he couldn’t picture his future, but worse yet that his past was getting hazier. It was hard to think... hard to...

“Your mind is empty. You have no thoughts.”

“My mind is empty. I have no thoughts.”

“You have no name. You have no free will.”

“I have no... Che... no... My name... No name. I have no free will.”

“You love to suck cock. You love being a slut.”

“I... love to suck cock. I love being a slut.”

“Obey. Serve. Cum dumpster.”

“I obey. I serve. I am... I am...No...stop... I....no........."

“I am... I am a cum dump... dumpster...” The drone whispered as the last of his resistance crumbled away.

_______________

“Matthews get in here!”

Brad smirked as he walked towards Coach’s office. He had a feeling. No, he knew that this was it. He was getting promoted to starting quarterback. He was going to lead this team to victory. He was going to make them champions. And as for that fuck up Chet? Well, he could cheer from the sidelines. It wasn’t like...

“What the fuck?”

“Well?”

Brad took a step back, not really sure what he was seeing. He could recognize Chet- even with the strange latex mask around his face. But the collar? The drool? Coach’s hand teasing Chet’s mouth? And the fact that Chet was desperately sucking on coach’s fingers?

“Wh-what the...?”

“You’re the new starting quarterback, kid.” Coach Johnson smiled, “As for Chet, he’ll be helping the team in a new way.” Coach Johnson withdrew his fingers from its mouth and the drone moaned in desperation, “Have fun.” Brad looked down at the drone as it crawled to him and started rubbing its face against his jockstrap, trying desperately to suck his hardening cock through the thin fabric, “Oh! And if you fuck up, well... I’m sure you get the idea.”

Brad gulped as Coach Johnson left the two of them alone. The new starting quarterback had many thoughts. Many concerns. And many questions. But he couldn’t deny that his cock was getting harder, nor that it was the team’s new cum dumpster that was to blame. Brad didn’t really know what he was getting himself into, but figured that could wait.

“You ready, bitch?” He smirked and released his thick cock, letting it slap the drone’s face, “I know you want this, slut.” He pushed into the drone’s open, desperate mouth.

Gluuuckgluck shlooooooshhh

[n1daehodefender]

Hi i loved your

Their reactions of you telling them you want to start trying for a baby!

so much, could you mind writing one with….their reaction if the baby calls them daddah/appa for the first time or calls reader mama? So first place of words and second kind of? ;-)

keep up the good writing

Their reactions of their baby calling them appa for the first time!

A/N: this made me so happy tyyy ilyyy💞 i also loved this requests so much my heart litereally Melted🥹 I’m writing all of the requests I have so stay tuned if you have requested something I won’t ignore it!!!!! Also requests are open:)

Pairing: Kang dae-ho, Nam-gyu, Thanos (Su Bong)

Warnings: Emotional vulnerability, soft parenting moments, detailed depictions of love and affection, and mentions of struggles with fatherhood and self-worth.

Kang Dae-Ho

Kang Dae-ho spent months preparing for fatherhood. Late-night diaper runs, endless bedtime stories (even when the baby didn’t understand), and early morning singalongs were his new normal.

He loved carrying your baby everywhere — perched on his hip, showing them off to his friends and family. He’d constantly whisper things like, “You’re gonna be so strong and brave like your mom, huh?” or, “Can you say ‘appa’? Come on, say it for me, little one!”

Every time he tried to get the baby to say “appa,” they’d just giggle or babble something unintelligible. He’d laugh it off but secretly felt a tiny pang of disappointment.

It’s late one evening. He’s sitting on the living room floor with your baby balanced on his lap, playing with a colorful toy. You’re nearby, watching the two of them with a fond smile.

Your baby reaches for the toy in Dae-ho’s hands, making their usual happy sounds, but this time, they look straight at him and babble, “Appa!”

He freezes. Completely. His mouth drops open, and he looks at you like, “Did you hear that?”

“Say that again,” he whispers softly, his voice almost trembling. “Can you say ‘appa’ one more time?”

Your baby giggles again and repeats it, more clearly this time: “Appa!”

Dae-ho’s eyes fill with tears instantly. He pulls the baby close to his chest, kissing their tiny head over and over. “You said it… You really said it,” he murmurs.

For the rest of the evening, he’s a blubbering mess, pacing the room and talking about how he’ll never forget this moment.

He tells everyone about it. His sisters get spammed with texts: “They called me appa today. Can you believe it? ME!”

He becomes even more attached to your baby after this. If that’s even possible, since he was already a doting father.

Every time the baby says “appa” now, his face lights up like the sun. He always responds with a big smile, “Yes, I’m your appa!”

Nam Gyu

He’s cautious and quiet in the early stages of fatherhood, unsure how to navigate the chaos of diapers, crying, and sleepless nights. But over time, he starts finding his rhythm.

He’s not the type to baby-talk or coo, but he’s always there — rocking the baby to sleep, cooking meals so you can rest, and pacing the room at 3 AM when the baby won’t stop crying.

He never actively pushes for the baby to call him “appa,” though. It’s something he assumes will happen eventually, but he doesn’t dwell on it.

It’s a quiet afternoon, and you’re all sitting on the floor together. The baby’s crawling toward Nam Gyu, giggling as he holds out his arms to them.

When they reach him, they look up at his face and blurt out, “Appa!”

He freezes, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he breaks into a soft, almost shy smile. “Did you just…?”

The baby says it again, and Nam Gyu lets out a soft laugh, pulling them into his arms. “Appa,” he repeats quietly, like he’s testing the word out for himself.

He doesn’t make a big show of it, but you catch him smiling to himself for the rest of the day.

That night, when he thinks you’re asleep, you hear him whisper to the baby, “I’ll do my best to be a good appa for you. I promise.”

He’s a little more confident in his role as a father after this moment, more willing to let himself be vulnerable and affectionate around the baby.

Thanos (Su-bong)

Thanos is awkward but deeply devoted as a dad. He doesn’t always know what he’s doing, but he throws himself into it wholeheartedly.

He spends hours talking to the baby, telling them stories about his life and making ridiculous faces to get them to laugh.

He jokingly refers to himself as “the best appa in the world” but secretly wonders if he’s doing enough.

One evening, he’s holding the baby while pacing the room, trying to calm them down after a fussy day.

He’s muttering under his breath, “Come on, little one. You’ve got to give your old man a break here.”

Suddenly, the baby looks up at him with wide eyes and says, “Appa.”

He stops dead in his tracks, staring at the baby like they’ve just revealed the secrets of the universe. “What did you just say?”

The baby says it again, and Thanos lets out a deep, joyful laugh, tears brimming in his eyes. “That’s right,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m your appa.”

He spends the next hour walking around the house, holding the baby close and repeating, “You said it! You called me appa!”

He’s insufferably proud after this, bragging to anyone who will listen. “My kid’s a genius,” he tells his friends. “First word? Appa. That’s my kid, alright.”

But in private, he’s deeply moved. You catch him staring at the baby sometimes, his expression soft and vulnerable.

He becomes even more protective and loving, constantly reminding you both how much you mean to him.

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

SAFE & SOUND — part 2

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 13k

MASTERLIST

Warmth.

The first thing you notice when you wake is the warmth of the sun on your face, its golden light filtering through the gaps in the trees. You blink against the brightness, disoriented for a moment as you sit up abruptly. That’s when you realise your head had been resting on Jungwon’s lap.

He’s still there, sitting exactly where you left him, his blade resting against the wooden railing. His posture is stiff, and there are faint shadows under his eyes, but his gaze remains focused on the treeline, sharp and unwavering.

“You didn’t sleep,” you say, your voice hoarse from disuse. It’s not a question—it’s an observation, one that feels heavier than it should.

He glances at you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t want to risk it,” he says simply, as though staying awake all night was no big deal.

Your brow furrows, guilt creeping into your chest. “I thought we were switching shifts.”

He shrugs, leaning back slightly against the railing. “You looked like you needed it more.”

You stare at him, the weight of his words sinking in. He barely knows you, yet he gave up his rest so you could have yours. The realisation sits uncomfortably, making your chest tighten.

“Thanks,” you say quietly, the word feeling inadequate. “But you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, his tone light but firm. “It’s fine, I didn’t think i would’ve been able to sleep anyway.”

The camp below begins to stir, the others waking slowly as the day takes hold. You glance down, watching as Sunoo stretches lazily, Sunghoon stokes the embers of the dying fire, and Jay mutters something under his breath, clearly not a morning person.

“You should get down there,” Jungwon says, his voice pulling your attention back to him. “Grab something to eat before they take it all.”

“What about you?” you ask, still uneasy with the thought of him staying awake all night.

“I’ll eat later,” he says, waving off your concern as he finally stands, stretching his arms above his head. “Someone has to keep an eye on things while everyone else sleeps in.”

For a moment, you consider arguing, but the look in his eyes tells you it’s not worth it. Jungwon’s sense of responsibility runs deeper than you realised, and while it frustrates you, it’s also hard not to respect it.

“Alright,” you say finally, climbing down the ladder. But as you reach the ground and glance back up at him, the faint guilt lingers.

You sit by the dying fire, its faint warmth barely reaching your skin as the morning unfolds around you. Despite the ache in your body and the exhaustion clawing at your mind, you can’t stop your eyes from darting across the camp, taking in the subtle movements of the group. 

There’s a rhythm to them, an unspoken flow in the way they interact, as though every task and gesture has already been decided without a single word being spoken. It’s not chaos, not the haphazard scramble you’re used to seeing in desperate survivors. It’s something else. Something deliberate.

The longer you watch, the clearer it becomes that they aren’t just a random assortment of people who happened to survive together. The dynamics of this group, odd as they may be, seem to work, each person carrying out a role that seems as vital as breathing. 

You hate to admit it, but it intrigues you. There’s a part of you—a part you thought you buried—that wants to understand how they make it work. Against your better judgment, you can feel your curiosity growing, clawing at you for answers.

One thing, however, is abundantly clear: Jungwon is the leader.

You spot him high up on the watchtower, his silhouette outlined against the soft glow of the rising sun. His arms are crossed, his posture relaxed but alert as he surveys the camp below. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t bark orders, yet the others seem to fall into line as if guided by an invisible tether.

“Hey,” Sunoo’s voice cuts through your thoughts, jolting you slightly. He’s seated across from you, fiddling with a dented tin cup and flashing one of his easy, disarming smiles. “Jungwon figured that if you’re going to be staying, it’d be better to let you in on how things work around here.”

Staying. You’re not entirely sure about that.

The idea of staying with a group, of being around people again, stirs something uneasy inside you. It’s not a fear of them—it’s a fear of what comes with them. The horror of your past still clings to you like a second skin, a constant reminder of what it means to care, to hope, and then to lose. You’re not sure you’re ready to open yourself up to that again.

Because staying with people means watching them die. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually.

Not to say this group will meet the same fate—but in this world, there’s no guarantee of survival, no matter how capable or united they seem. Death isn’t a possibility; it’s an inevitability. The only question is when.

You’ve seen it before—how quickly things can go wrong. How one misstep, one unlucky moment, can unravel everything. Staying means becoming a part of something, and a part of you wonders if you’ve got anything left to give. After all, what’s the point of building something that will inevitably collapse?

“It’ll help you understand why we do what we do,” comes another voice from behind. You start slightly, not having noticed Jungwon’s approach. He settles on the log beside you, his presence calm yet commanding, as if he’s somehow taken control of the conversation without trying.

Sunoo leans forward, his grin widening. “Alright, listen up. Starting with our fearless leader over here—Jungwon.” He gestures dramatically, and Jungwon rolls his eyes, though there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s our strategist, the one who keeps us alive by figuring out where to go, when to move, and how to deal with… well, everything.”

Jungwon exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Someone has to keep you lot in line,” he says dryly, though there’s no malice in his tone.

“Whatever you say, captain,” Sunoo replies, offering a mock salute before turning his attention to Heeseung. 

The man sits at the edge of camp, methodically sharpening a blade. “Next, we’ve got Heeseung, our scout and tracker. He’s got the best eyes out of all of us. If there’s something—or someone—out there, he’ll find it first.”

“And that grump over there?” Sunoo gestures toward Jay, who’s seated a short distance away, carefully cleaning his pistol with a precision that borders on obsessive. “Jay’s our long-range shooter. Best shot we’ve got. He’d never admit it, but he’s saved all our asses more times than we can count.”

“Jake,” Sunoo continues, pointing toward the man currently inspecting a med kit, “is our medic. If you get hurt, he’s the one you want patching you up. And don’t worry, he actually knows what he’s doing, and not just throwing plasters on everything hoping for the best.”

Jake smirks faintly, his hands moving deftly as he tosses a roll of bandages into the kit. “I was in pre-med before all this,” he says, his tone light but tinged with a quiet seriousness. “It’s not anything impressive, but it’s enough to keep us alive. Just don’t make me work too hard, alright?”

“And then there’s Sunghoon,” Sunoo says, his tone growing slightly more dramatic, “our weapons expert and close-range fighter. If it comes down to it, he’s the one who’ll keep the rest of us breathing.”

Sunghoon glances up from where he’s tinkering with a makeshift blade. “And by ‘close-range fighter,’ he means I’m the one who has to deal with the messy stuff,” he says dryly, though there’s a faint glimmer of pride in his eyes.

“And then there’s me,” Sunoo adds, placing a hand on his chest with mock seriousness. “Diplomat. Negotiator. The one who talks us out of—or into—trouble, depending on the situation.”

“Mostly into trouble,” Jake interjects, his voice carrying a faint edge of amusement.

Sunoo waves him off with an exaggerated sigh before turning to the cheekiest of the group. “And last but not least, Ni-ki, our little magic hands. If it’s broken, he can fix it. If it’s running, he can make it run faster.”

Ni-ki, who’s crouched by the van inspecting its undercarriage, glances up briefly. “Yeah, and if you want it to work, don’t touch it,” he says, his tone sharp but not entirely unfriendly.

The pieces start to fall into place, the dynamic clicking in a way that almost makes sense. You find yourself both impressed and uneasy, the thought of fitting into something so cohesive feeling alien to you.

Sunoo tilts his head, his gaze meeting yours. “And you? What about you?”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You’ve been on your own for so long, your only role has been survival. You’ve never had to think about what you could bring to the table—only about what you could take to stay alive. And in that sense, staying would be a terrible idea.

Then again, these people clearly know what they’re doing. It doesn't hurt to be around people that will keep you alive.

“I guess… I’m figuring that out,” you say finally, your voice quieter now.

Sunoo studies you for a moment before nodding, his grin softening. “Stick around long enough, and we’ll figure it out too.”

About three days have passed in their camp, and you’re beginning to entertain the possibility of staying with them. They work well together, almost seamlessly. It’s not something you just discovered, but the more you witness their dynamics, the more in awe you are. 

You can’t help but wonder: if the community building you were part of had been like this, would it have fallen the way it did? Maybe with them, you finally have a real shot at staying alive.

Most of them seem to have opened up to the idea of you sticking around—at least, you think they have. Truthfully, the only people who’ve expressed any contentment with your presence are Sunoo and Jake. But that’s likely because they’re the ones you’ve spent the most time with. They’re always in camp, managing supplies and rations, keeping the place running while the others head out.

And, of course, because you’re not allowed to leave camp. Orders from Jungwon—though you suspect Jay had a hand in that decision too. You figure it’s less about keeping you safe and more about making sure you don’t fuck up their rhythm.

Speaking of Jungwon, you’ve noticed something about the way the group operates: his words hold a lot of weight here. And not just because he’s the leader.

Even after spending the last few nights on watch with him, sharing quiet conversations under the stars while the others slept, you still haven’t quite figured it out. There’s an ease to the way he interacts with the group, a quiet authority that doesn’t need to be forced.

Every decision, every movement, seems to flow through him first. But it’s not in a micromanaging or authoritarian way. It’s just… natural. The others look to him, wait for him to weigh in, like his judgment is the glue holding them together. He doesn’t shy away from it either, even when it’s clear the burden weighs heavily on him. 

Whatever this group’s flaws, it’s clear Jungwon holds them together, even at the expense of himself. And maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to understand why.

He’s not the leader because he demands it—but because the others trust him to be. 

It works for them, clearly. They function like a well-oiled machine, each person playing their role with practiced efficiency. But if you’re being honest, you find it a little risky.

To have everyone’s lives hinge on one person’s decisions? To place that much responsibility on a single set of shoulders?

It’s a dangerous gamble. For even the strongest leaders have their breaking point. And if Jungwon ever falters, you wonder what will happen to the rest of them.

You’ve also learned that they only leave the camp unattended during high-stakes expeditions, like the one back in the city. Other than that, it’s almost always Jungwon, Heeseung, Sunghoon, or Jay who take turns heading out. And even then, they only leave when it’s absolutely necessary.

Not to hunt. Not to scavenge.

They don’t hunt. They’re surviving off the food they stole when they escaped The Future.

It’s a startling revelation, one that lingers in the back of your mind every time you watch them ration out supplies. Even though you know Heeseung is perfectly capable of hunting, they don’t take the risk.

No, when they go out, it’s not for food or water. It’s to cover their tracks and secure the perimeter. To ensure that no trace of their last expedition leads anyone back to this camp, which you suspect is also another reason why they don’t let you leave. 

Ni-ki is harder to figure out. He’s a wild card—sometimes he goes out when needed, but otherwise, he stays behind to keep watch. These past few days, though, Jay has been staying in camp too, and it’s clear he’s still wary of you. He doesn’t trust you, not fully. He doesn’t sleep when you’re on watch and makes sure you’re never alone with any of the others for too long.

Aside from Jungwon, Jake, and Sunoo, you haven’t exchanged many words with the rest. Even when everyone’s in camp, the conversations are minimal.

Most of them don’t like talking about their lives before the world fell apart. And you understand. What’s the point in reminiscing about a time that no longer exists? It only makes the loss worse, reminding you of everything you could have had.

Well, most of them feel that way—except for Sunoo.

He talks endlessly, filling the silences around camp with anecdotes and bits of his past. You’ve learned from helping him manage supplies that he was in law school before everything fell apart. It makes sense, given how much he talks. He’s always negotiating, always diffusing tension with his words.

When he asked you what you did before the world ended, you kept it vague, telling him you were in school too.

And yet, despite the distance, they’ve started treating you like one of their own. It’s been a long time since you’ve gone days without starving, and for the first time in forever, you almost feel like you’ve found a safe haven.

But before you even have the chance to fully sit with the idea of staying, your attention is drawn to Jungwon, who’s making his way over to Heeseung. His movements are careful, deliberate, and the moment they begin talking, it’s clear the conversation isn’t meant for everyone’s ears. Still, their words are loud enough to reach you from where you’re sitting by the logs.

“Heeseung, how’s our food situation?” Jungwon asks, his expression serious, his brows furrowed in thought.

Heeseung glances around briefly, his sharp eyes scanning the camp before leaning in closer to Jungwon. “We’ve depleted almost everything we took from The Future. With our current resources, it’ll last us about a week.” He pauses, then adds in a lower voice, “Well, less now that we have…”

Heeseung’s gaze shifts toward you, and you realise a second too late that you’ve been staring. Your eyes meet his, and he stiffens, clearly caught off guard by your attention. His words trail off, but the meaning behind them hangs in the air, unspoken yet deafeningly clear.

A wave of guilt washes over you, sharp and overwhelming.

That’s right. You’re just another mouth for them to feed. Another person whose survival they’re now responsible for.

You hadn’t thought about it before, not really. But now, it hits you like a freight train. Every bite you take, every resource you use—it’s something they can’t spare, something that might have kept one of them alive just a little longer.

And that triggers something in you.

You lower your gaze, suddenly unable to hold Heeseung’s. The weight of your presence in their camp feels heavier than ever, and the resolve you thought you’d solidified earlier begins to shift.

Staying with them, trusting them, letting them trust you—it’s not just about your own safety anymore. It’s about what your presence costs them. And that’s not something you can ignore.

So, you make up your mind there and then.

The next opportunity you get, you’ll leave. Leave and never turn back.

They don’t entirely trust you, but they don’t distrust you enough to keep you at arm’s length, either. They let you into their camp, shared their food, their fire. They even explained how they work together, the roles they each play. Yet, you remain an outsider, lingering on the edges of their tight-knit circle. And you know, deep down, that’s exactly where you belong.

So when the opportunity arises—though you’re not sure when you’ll have a moment alone long enough to slip away unnoticed—you’ll leave. You won’t even take anything with you. Just slip into the shadows and disappear before they even realise you’re gone. No attachments, no debts, no goodbyes. That’s how it has to be.

But not yet. Not until you’ve made sure they’re safe. 

Despite your resolve, you can’t bring yourself to abandon them while the unknown danger you and Jungwon discussed the night you met them still lingers. Not after everything they’ve done, not after the way they fought to protect each other, to protect you. That’s right, you still owe them for saving your life and feeding you these past few days.

So you’ll wait. Watch for the right moment. Repay your debts. And when it comes—when the threat has passed, and the dust has settled—you’ll leave. Without hesitation. Without looking back.

But that selfless thought is, in itself, an act of caring—you just haven’t realised it yet.

Jungwon and Heeseung return from their quiet discussion, their expressions unreadable. Without needing to say a word, the group instinctively gathers around the fire that has long gone out. The way they move, as if summoned by some unspoken signal, is fascinating. No commands are given, no prompting required.

Just the sheer presence of Jungwon.

“We’ll have to send a team out to hunt,” Jungwon begins, his voice calm but firm as his sharp gaze sweeps across the group. “Latest before noon. If we leave then, we can make it back before dusk.”

Jake, sitting with his legs crossed, looks up sharply. “Hunt? Are we out of food already?” Concern threads through his voice, his usual calm demeanour faltering just slightly.

Jungwon doesn’t answer immediately, his focus flickering toward Heeseung, who nods in silent confirmation. “We’re low,” Jungwon says finally.

“I mean, we do have one more mouth to feed,” Jay mutters, his tone biting as he glances at you. He clicks his tongue in annoyance, leaning back slightly, his arms crossed. It’s not the first jab he’s made, but it stings more than you’d like to admit.

You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, meeting his gaze evenly. If anything, you’re oddly relieved by his hostility. At least someone here is keeping their guard up around you. Someone who doesn’t want to trust you, who wants you gone. You can’t explain why, but you hope it stays that way. It feels safer, somehow, for at least one person to see you as an outsider—a liability.

It makes leaving easier to justify.

“Jay,” Jungwon’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp but not angry. It’s enough to make Jay’s expression shift slightly, though he doesn’t apologise.

The silence that follow is heavy, Jungwon’s words settling over the group like a cold wind. The reality of their situation is clear—if they don’t find food soon, things are going to get a lot harder. And none of them, not even Jay, have to ask for you to know you should be the one to do it.

“I’ll go,” you say, your voice firm despite the nervous knot forming in your stomach. All eyes snap to you, the weight of their gazes almost crushing.

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “You?”

You nod, holding his gaze. “You need every fighter you can spare here, and I can handle myself. I’d hate to sit around and do nothing all day, like a parasite. Let me help.”

“At least she’s self-aware,” Jay mutters under his breath, earning a sharp glare from Sunoo.

The air grows thick with tension, the subtle coo of morning birds the only sound as the group processes your words. Heeseung is the first to break the silence, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll go too,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “If she’s going out there, someone has to track. I’m not sending anyone out blind.”

Jay lets out a sharp, humourless laugh, shaking his head as he rises to his feet. “Yeah, no. If Heeseung’s going, I’m going. Someone has to make sure this doesn’t blow up in our faces.” His words are pointed, his glare fixed on you. It’s clear he doesn’t trust you, and he’s not about to risk Heeseung’s safety over it.

You bite back a retort, understanding his scepticism even if it stings. Heeseung glances at him but doesn’t argue, his focus already shifting to what the group will need for the trip.

“I’ll go too,” Jungwon says suddenly, standing up from the log. His tone is steady, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the calculation in his eyes. “We can’t take chances with this.”

“No, you can’t go,” you say quickly, before he can cement the decision. The firmness in your voice catches him off guard, his brow furrowing as he turns to you. The rest of the group falls silent, thrown by your sudden declaration. Usually, whatever Jungwon says goes, so for you to challenge him is clearly a first.

The awkwardness is suffocating, the weight of everyone’s stares pressing down on you. You take a small step closer to Jungwon, lowering your voice so only he can hear. 

“They need you here,” you whisper, your voice steady but insistent. “If you leave, that’s four people left at camp—two of whom isn’t much of a fighter.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly. “They can handle themselves. It’s not the first time I’m leaving anyway,” he replies, his voice calm but firm.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “But it’s clear they’re rattled by the food shortage. They’re anxious, Jungwon, whether they’re saying it out loud or not.” You glance briefly at the others, noting the subtle tension in their postures, the way their gazes flit to Jungwon as if waiting for reassurance.

“You’re their leader,” you continue, your voice soft. “You’re the reason they stay focused, the reason they trust they’ll make it through the next day. If something happens to you out there...” You let the sentence hang, the weight of the implication settling heavy between you both.

Jungwon’s expression falters for a fraction of a second, the barest flicker of uncertainty crossing his face before he schools it back into something unreadable. He doesn’t respond immediately, and you think he’s going to argue. But then his gaze softens slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought.

“And you think you can handle this?” he whispers, his voice softer now but no less serious.

“I do,” you reply firmly. “Heeseung knows what he’s doing, and Jay clearly won’t let anything happen to… well, him. I’ve hunted before, Jungwon. Plus, I know you stayed up on watch again last night. You need to stay here.”

Jungwon’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he exhales sharply, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Alright,” he says, though there’s a reluctance in his voice. “But don’t take unnecessary risks. If it looks bad, you come back. Understood?” 

The way he says it, as if he knows you’re considering running, makes something twist in your chest. Not yet, though. Not yet.

“Understood,” you say, standing up and brushing the dirt off your palms.

Heeseung secures his knife into its sheath with a nod, and Jay rolls his eyes but grabs his gear without protest. The three of you prepare to head out, the camp watching in silence as you gather your supplies.

Just as you’re about to step beyond the barricade, you spot Jungwon whispering something to Jay. Whatever he says makes Jay scowl, shaking his head in visible protest. But Jungwon’s expression hardens, his voice firm as he cuts the argument short. Jay sighs, clearly annoyed, but ultimately relents. His sharp eyes shift back to you, now carrying an edge of suspicion sharper than before.

Jungwon’s gaze lingers on you as you leave, his expression unreadable. The weight of his trust—or maybe it’s his doubt—feels heavier than any weapon you’ve carried. But you push the thought aside.

The three of you move quietly through the forest, the morning sunlight filtering through the trees in patches of gold. Heeseung takes the lead, while Jay trails slightly behind, his sharp eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. You stay somewhere in between, the knife in your hand an extension of the resolve you’re trying to summon.

The silence between you is heavy, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the faint chirping of distant birds. You don’t speak, and neither do they, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s one born of necessity, of focus. Every sound, every shift in the forest, could mean danger—or an opportunity.

But, of course, the concentration doesn’t last. Jay, who you’re beginning to suspect thrives on friction, breaks the quiet with a pointed comment. 

“I don’t understand. Why does Jungwon care so much about you?”

Heeseung doesn’t turn around, but you can practically feel the exasperation radiating off him. “Seriously, Jay? You’re talking about this now?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge of disbelief in his tone.

“What?” Jay retorts, his tone almost defensive. “Are you not curious at all?  They stayed on watch together a few times, and now Jungwon’s ready to risk everything to keep her safe.”

“I’m literally right here,” you snap, the annoyance in your voice cutting through the tense air. “If you’ve got questions about me, maybe try asking me directly instead of talking like I’m not standing a few feet away.”

Jay glances at you briefly, his expression unimpressed. “Fine. Why is Jungwon sticking his neck out for you?”

You blink, caught off guard by the bluntness of his question. “I don’t think he’s sticking his neck out for me,” you say, your tone defensive as your grip tightens around your knife. “What are you even talking about?”

Jay lets out a humourless laugh, shaking his head as if you’ve just proven his point. “Then why did he ask me to keep an eye on you? Make sure you come back alive?” he says, his voice low but edged with irritation.

Your steps falter for just a moment, your breath catching in your throat. “He… told you that?” you ask, your voice quieter now, the frustration giving way to something more uncertain.

Jay nods, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah. Said you’ll be a great addition to the group or something. Like we don’t already have enough to deal with.”

You’re not sure how to answer—hell, you’re not even sure why Jungwon has been so willing to give you a chance. Before you can formulate a response, Heeseung cuts in.

“Maybe because Jungwon’s a nice person,” Heeseung says dryly, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “Not like a certain somebody who can’t seem to shut up.”

“Nice? Jungwon?” Jay scoffs, his tone sharp. “He’s the last person after me among the seven of us to be nice, especially to strangers. You think this is just him being friendly?”

You glance at Heeseung, hoping for some clarification, but he keeps his focus on the trail ahead. Jay’s words settle uneasily in your chest. If Jungwon isn’t the kind of person to extend trust easily, then what’s his angle? Why is he giving you the benefit of the doubt when others—like Jay—clearly think you don’t deserve it?

The weight of Jungwon’s trust feels heavier now, more significant.

“Well, I didn’t ask for him to do that. I don’t need anyone keeping an eye on me.” you say finally, your voice a little steadier, though the uncertainty still lingers.

Jay snorts, his expression sceptical. “Yeah, well, tell that to Jungwon. He’s not exactly the type to give orders lightly.”

The tension between you hangs heavy in the air, but before either of you can say more, Heeseung glances over his shoulder, his tone calm but firm. “Enough. We’re here to hunt, not to argue. If we don’t bring back any game, it’ll blame it all on you.”

“Well, it’s her fault we’re even out here in the first place. Blame her.” says Jay with a scoff.

Heeseung’s gaze narrows. “I said that’s enough, Jay.”

Jay rolls his eyes but doesn’t push further. Instead, he mutters something under his breath and turns his focus back to the forest ahead, the tension in his shoulders still evident.

You let out a slow, steadying breath, the heat of the argument leaving you rattled. But it’s not just the argument that lingers in your mind—it’s Jay’s words. Jungwon had specifically told him to keep an eye on you? To make sure you came back alive?

Why…?

Before the silence stretches too long, Heeseung motions for a stop, crouching low and studying a patch of disturbed earth. His fingers graze the ground lightly, his sharp eyes narrowing. You watch him carefully, impressed by the ease with which he reads the signs the forest leaves behind.

“Squirrels,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. He points to a set of tracks leading deeper into the woods. “A few of them. Probably moving together.”

Jay nods curtly, his grip tightening on the bow he’s been carrying. “We’ll have to be quick. If we miss, they’ll scatter.”

Heeseung glances at you, a faint flicker of consideration in his expression. “You’ve hunted before, right?”

You nod. “A few times. Mostly small game, but I know how to stay quiet.”

“Good,” he says simply, standing and motioning for you to follow. “Let’s move.”

As the three of you make your way deeper into the woods, the tension eases slightly, the rhythm of the hunt taking over. Heeseung’s calm, methodical approach is a stark contrast to Jay’s sharp vigilance, but they work well together—an unspoken understanding guiding their every move.

At one point, Heeseung stops again, holding up a hand to signal a pause. He crouches beside a tree, studying a new set of tracks. Jay moves ahead slightly, keeping watch, and for the first time, it’s just you and Heeseung.

He glances over at you, his expression softening slightly. “You’re doing alright,” he says quietly, his tone low enough that Jay won’t hear. “Not bad for someone new to the group.”

You nod, unsure how to respond. His calm demeanour is a welcome contrast to Jay’s constant scepticism, but you can still feel the awkward tension hanging in the air.

Heeseung hesitates, the silence stretching between you as he seems to weigh his words carefully. His hand flexes around the hilt of his knife, a nervous habit you’ve noticed before. Finally, he sighs, his voice dropping to a quieter, almost reluctant tone.

“Jay’s not… always like this with everyone,” he says, his gaze fixed on the ground, as though avoiding eye contact will make it easier to get the words out. “The way he’s acting with you, I mean. There’s a reason he’s so hard to trust new people.”

You furrow your brow, confusion flickering across your face. Of course, it’s not unusual for survivors to be cautious—vigilant even—around strangers. In a world like this, where danger lurks at every corner, you either kill or be killed. Trust extended to the wrong person could easily land a knife to your back.

But the way Heeseung describes Jay’s distrust, it sounds like something more. Something personal.

“Why?” you ask cautiously, your voice low. You don’t want to push too hard, but you can’t hold back your curiosity.

Heeseung sighs, running a hand through his hair. “After our escape from The Future, we took in another survivor. A guy, around our age. He was half-starved, injured. Begged us to help him. Said he’d been on his own for months.”

You can already feel where the story is headed, but you don’t interrupt.

“Jay didn’t trust him from the start,” Heeseung admits. “Said something felt off. But the rest of us… we thought he was being paranoid. We were tired of losing people. We wanted to believe the guy was just another victim of this world.”

His voice grows heavier, the memory clearly weighing on him. “At first, it seemed fine. He kept to himself but didn’t cause any trouble.” Heeseung’s jaw clenches, his knuckles whitening as he grips his knife tighter. “But turns out, Jay was right.”

Your stomach knots, dread curling in your chest. “What happened?”

“He waited until we were vulnerable,” Heeseung says bitterly. “Waited until we were distracted. Then, he grabbed one of our friends, put a knife to her throat, and demanded our supplies.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

“We gave him what he wanted,” Heeseung says bitterly, his jaw tightening. “But he didn’t let her go. He slit her throat anyway, right in front of us. And then he ran.”

The air around you feels colder, the quiet of the forest suddenly oppressive. You glance at Heeseung, his calm facade cracking just slightly as he stares at the tracks before him.

“That’s why Jay is the way he is,” Heeseung continues, his voice low but steady. “He was closest to her. Blames himself for what happened. Ever since then, he doesn’t trust easily. And he doesn’t forgive.” 

Your mind pictures Jay back at the camp, how his posture is always tense and hunched as though he’s carrying the weight of that memory with him every second of every day.

“I didn’t know,” you murmur.

“No,” Heeseung says softly. “You wouldn’t have. But now you do.” He looks at you again, his expression softer, though the pain in his eyes remains. “So, if he’s hard on you… it’s not personal. It’s his way of protecting us. His way of making sure it never happens again.”

You nod slowly, the weight of the story settling over you. “I get it,” you say softly, though the words feel inadequate. “I’d probably feel the same.”

Heeseung glances at you, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe. But trust me, if you stick around long enough, Jay will see what the rest of us do. That you’re not like him. That you’re not a threat.” 

You don’t respond immediately, his words settling into your mind like seeds in freshly tilled soil. The weight of their past lingers with you, a reminder of just how fragile trust can be in a world like this—not that you needed the reminder. 

The two of you rise silently, falling back into the rhythm of the hunt as you make your way to rejoin Jay, who has moved further ahead on his own. You spot him crouched behind a dense thicket of ivy, his form still but alert.

Heeseung is about to call out when Jay abruptly places a finger to his lips, his sharp eyes locking onto yours as he motions for you both to get low.

You and Heeseung exchange a quick glance before crouching, carefully shuffling toward Jay. Every step feels heavier than the last, the rustle of fallen leaves beneath your boots deafening in the tense quiet. The forest, once filled with the gentle hum of wildlife, now feels suffocatingly still.

“What’s wrong?” Heeseung whispers, his voice barely audible as the three of you huddle closer.

Jay doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on something beyond the ivy. Then you hear it—the familiar shuffling of feet, slow and uneven. The guttural moans and growls you’ve come to dread. But this time, it’s not just a few. The sound is overwhelming, a dissonant symphony of the undead. Dozens, maybe more.

“There’s something very wrong,” Jay whispers, his voice taut with unease. “Look at the way they’re moving.”

Your stomach churns as you part a few strands of ivy, revealing a massive clearing surrounded by towering pines. In the centre of it, a cluster of zombies moves in a strange, unnatural rhythm. They’re walking in a perfect circle, their shuffling steps eerily synchronised like ants trapped in a death ring.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, the words slipping out before you can stop them. The sight is wrong—so wrong it makes your skin crawl.

And then you hear it.

Voices. 

Your head jerks toward Jay, whose wide eyes mirror your own shock. “Did you hear that?” you mouth, barely breathing.

The sound comes again, low but unmistakable. “Round... them... up…”

It’s deliberate, controlled. Words spoken in the same hollow, rasping tone as the undead.

“They’re… talking?” Heeseung whispers, his disbelief matching your own.

You strain your ears, heart pounding as the voices continue.

“Saw them… around here…”

“Find them…”

Your blood runs cold. They’re not just words—they’re instructions. Coherent, deliberate instructions.

Your breath catches in your throat, and your hand instinctively grips your knife tighter. You glance at Jay, and the flicker of fear in his eyes confirms what you’re dreading. These aren’t just zombies.

There are people—or not people—you're not entirely sure. But something is walking among the dead.

Heeseung’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing as he shifts his weight slightly, readying himself for whatever comes next. “What do we do?” he whispers, his voice steady but laced with urgency.

Jay’s gaze remains fixed on the clearing, his expression grim. “We move. Quietly. Back the way we came. Now.”

You don’t argue, your body already taut with tension as you begin to inch backward. The sound of human voices mingling with the moans of the undead burns in your ears, the weight of the revelation settling heavily on your chest. Whoever these people are, whatever they’re doing, one thing is clear: they’re more dangerous than the undead. And they’re looking for something—or someone.

The trek back to camp is a blur of tension and urgency. None of you speak, your steps light and calculated, careful not to make a sound that might draw attention. The eerie chorus of moans and human voices fades behind you, but the weight of what you’ve just witnessed hangs heavy in the air. Your chest tightens with every step, your mind racing with the implications.

By the time you see the familiar barricade of the camp, your legs are trembling—not just from exertion, but from the sheer adrenaline coursing through your veins. Heeseung is the first to signal to the others, his hand raising in a sharp, deliberate gesture that sets the camp into motion. Sunoo and Jake rush to open the barricade, their expressions immediately shifting from curiosity to concern as they take in your faces.

“What happened? Why are you guys back so early?” Jungwon asks, his voice calm but edged with urgency as he strides toward you. His sharp gaze sweeps over each of you, searching for any sign of injuries.

“We need to talk. Now,” Jay says, his tone clipped and serious. He glances back at the forest, his hand still gripping his bow tightly. “Inside.”

Jungwon’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t question it. The commotion quickly grabs the attention of the rest of the group and they instinctively assembles, their expressions a mix of confusion and worry.

Heeseung speaks first, his voice steady despite the tension in his posture. “We found a horde. Dozens of them, maybe more, moving together in a clearing.”

“Okay, and?” Jake asks, his brows furrowed. “That’s not unusual. Hordes travel together all the time.”

“It wasn’t just a horde,” you say, your voice quieter but no less urgent. All eyes snap to you, and you feel the weight of their attention pressing down on you. “They were… whispering.”

“Whispering?”  Sunghoon repeats, his expression sceptical. “You mean the dead started to talk?” Sunghoon leans forward slightly, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His usually calm demeanour cracks under the weight of disbelief, his brow furrowing deeply.

“We don't know what it was.” you say, your voice sharp. “They sounded like the dead, but they were coherent words.”

A heavy silence falls over the group, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Sunoo looks between you and Jay, his usual light-hearted expression replaced by unease. “Are you sure? It couldn’t have just been… I don’t know, echoes or something?”

“‘Round them up,’” you say quietly, your voice breaking through the tense air. “‘Find them.’ Those were their exact words. It wasn’t just random sounds or echoes. It was deliberate.”

Jay shakes his head. “And it wasn’t just one or two words. They were coordinating.”

“Coordinating?” Jungwon repeats, his voice low and measured. He’s not panicking, but the tension in his shoulders betrays his concern.

Jake leans back slightly, his expression hardening as he processes your words. “You’re suggesting that the dead have started to talk? Or that people are out there pretending to be the dead? Why? To what end? That doesn’t make any sense,” he mutters. “Why would anyone—”

“Doesn't matter. They were looking for someone,” you cut in, your voice sharper now as you recall the chilling words you heard.

Jungwon’s expression darkens, his sharp mind clearly working through the possibilities. “Did they see you?”

You shake your head. “No. We got out before they could.”

“For now,” Jay mutters, his jaw tight. “But if they’re moving through the area, it’s only a matter of time before they find the camp.”

The group falls silent again, the weight of the situation sinking in. Jungwon exhales slowly, his gaze sweeping over everyone before settling on Heeseung. “What did the clearing look like? Could it be a pattern, or just a random gathering?”

“It wasn’t random,” Heeseung says firmly. “They were walking in a circle. Over and over, like some kind of… ritual.”

The word hangs in the air, chilling in its implication. You glance at Jungwon, his expression unreadable as he processes the information. Finally, he speaks, his voice steady but resolute. “We don’t have enough information to act, but we can’t stay complacent. Sunghoon, Heeseung, start reinforcing the barricades. Make sure every gap is sealed. Jake, check our supplies. I need to know how long we can hold out here if we need to. Sunoo, Ni-ki—keep the van ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

“I’ll keep watch with Jay,” you pipe up just as Jungwon turns to you, his sharp eyes meeting yours. His gaze lingers a moment longer than you expect, as though he’s searching for something—resolve, maybe, or doubt. Whatever he finds, it’s enough to make him nod.

Without a second to spare, everyone falls into a rhythm. The weight of what you’ve encountered hangs over the camp like a storm cloud. Nobody says anything, but the silence tells you everything. They’re scared. Jungwon included.

You climb the watchtower with Jay, the makeshift structure swaying slightly under your combined weight. The sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the forest in hues of orange and gold. The beauty of it feels jarring against the tension in the air, a cruel reminder of the world that once was.

Behind you, you hear the faint sizzle of the campfire, now reduced to embers and smoke despite the night’s cold settling over the camp. It’s unfortunate, but it’s the smart move. Light and smoke would only draw attention, and right now, attention is the last thing any of you need.

Jay settles into position, his bow resting across his lap. His expression is stony, his eyes scanning the tree line with sharp precision. You don’t speak, sensing the simmering emotions beneath his calm exterior. Instead, you keep your focus outward, your own knife gripped tightly in your hand.

The forest is quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that prickles at the back of your neck. Time crawls, every second feeling heavier than the last. Dusk settles in slowly, the golden hues fading into muted greys and shadows. Then, just as the last rays of sunlight vanish, movement catches your eye.

A figure emerges from the tree line, their silhouette hazy against the growing darkness. They’re limping slowly, deliberately, their steps unhurried, as they approach the gate. It’s a single person, their posture relaxed but not aimless. Something about them feels… wrong.

“Someone’s coming,” you whisper, nudging Jay with your elbow. He turns quickly, his sharp gaze locking onto the figure. The second he sees them, his entire body goes rigid.

“Shit,” he breathes, his voice barely audible. Before you can ask, he ducks behind the barricade, pulling you down with him. His face is pale, his usual composure cracking just slightly. “Stay down.”

“Who is it?” you ask, your voice low but urgent.

“It’s someone we took in. Don’t necessarily have the best relationship with,” Jay whispers harshly, his voice barely audible as his eyes remain fixed on the approaching figure. His expression is dark, and there’s an edge to his tone you haven’t heard before—something between anger and unease.

“A survivor you took in…” you begin, your stomach knotting as you piece it together. “You mean the one who killed your friend?”

Jay’s jaw tightens, his eyes flicking toward you briefly before returning to the figure. “Did Heeseung tell you that?” he mutters, his voice sharp but low enough to avoid carrying. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is he’s bad news, and he’s here.”

Your heart skips a beat, a cold dread settling in your chest. You glance over the edge of the barricade, your gaze snapping back to the figure, who is now closer to the gate. His features are clearer now—sharp, wiry, with a crooked grin that sends a chill down your spine.

“He doesn’t know you,” Jay continues, his voice tight. “You talk to him. He hasn’t seen you before. If he recognises me, it’s over.”

You hesitate, the weight of what he’s asking sinking in. Before you can respond, the man stops just a few feet from the gate, his eyes scanning the camp with a calculated intensity. Then he calls out, his voice loud but casual, almost friendly. “Hello? Anyone there?”

Jay gives you a small nudge, his expression hard but pleading. “Just keep him distracted, long enough for me to warn the rest,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. You nod, swallowing hard as you straighten, forcing yourself to step into view. Your fingers tighten around the knife in your hand, its cool weight a poor comfort against the fear knotting in your chest.

The man’s eyes light up when he sees you, his crooked grin widening. “Ah, someone’s home. Wasn’t sure if this place was abandoned or not.”

You take in his tattered clothing, the dried blood stains on his skin, and those eyes. Those eyes belong in a mental asylum if this were the world before.

“What do you want?” you ask, keeping your tone neutral but firm.

The man chuckles, his gaze sweeping over you with a calculating glint that makes your skin crawl. “Relax,” he says smoothly, spreading his hands in a mock gesture of innocence. “I’m just passing through. Haven’t seen anyone in a while, thought I’d see if there were any friendly faces around.”

“This camp’s occupied,” you reply coolly, standing your ground. “You should move along.”

For a split second, his grin falters, a flicker of something darker passing through his expression. But then the smile returns, sharper this time, and his gaze narrows slightly. “Fair enough,” he says lightly. “Don’t worry, I’m not looking for trouble. Just curious, is all.”

He takes a step closer, his tone turning smoother, more calculated. “Say… you haven’t seen a group around here, have you? Seven boys. One’s blonde. Another’s got a sharp tongue—calls himself Jay.”

The air feels heavier, and your grip on your knife tightens instinctively. Your heart pounds in your chest as his words settle over you, their implications clear. Your mind races, trying to calculate the safest response, but the danger in his tone is unmistakable.

“I haven’t seen anyone like that,” you say carefully, forcing your voice to remain steady. “And I wouldn’t know if I had.”

The man’s grin widens, but his eyes remain cold, watching you with unsettling precision. “Is that so?” he drawls, his tone almost mocking. “Well, that’s a shame. Been looking for them for a while now. That guy, Jay, he owes me… let’s just say, a few favours.”

His words hang in the air, heavy with menace. Behind you, you can sense Jay’s absence, the faint rustle of his movements as he slips away to warn the others. It’s just you and this man now, and you’re painfully aware of how exposed you are.

“Like I said,” you repeat, your voice firmer this time, “you won’t find them here. So you should move along.”

For a moment, the man doesn’t respond, his gaze lingering on you as though trying to read between your words. Then he takes a step back, his grin never wavering. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time,” he says lightly, though there’s a faint edge to his voice. “Nice camp you’ve got here. Hope it stays that way.”

With that, he turns and begins to limp away, his steps slow and deliberate. You don’t lower your knife, your gaze fixed on his retreating figure, tracking every laboured movement until he vanishes into the tree line. Only when the shadows swallow him whole do you finally let out the breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Your legs tremble beneath you, exhaustion and adrenaline mixing into a potent cocktail that leaves you unsteady.

“Is he gone?” Jay reappears and asks from behind you, his voice low and tense. He steps closer, his eyes darting nervously toward the gate as if expecting the man to reappear at any moment.

“For now,” you whisper, barely able to hear your own voice over the pounding of your heart. The words feel hollow, more for your own reassurance than his. 

You glance at Jay—his face is pale, his usual composure shattered. His bow has been replaced with his pistol, and he grips it so tightly that his knuckles turn white, as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

The silence between you lingers for a beat too long. Without a word, you start climbing down the ladder, your mind racing to piece together what just happened. Questions swirl in your head, each one more unsettling than the last. Why was he here? How did he find the camp? And most troubling of all—what does he really want? 

Jay follows, his footsteps slower, more hesitant. By the time the two of you reach the bottom, the rest of the group is already gathered around. Their expressions range from confusion to concern, a tension hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

“What happened?” Heeseung is the first to speak, his tone wary but insistent. “What did he want?”

You glance at Jay, whose jaw is clenched so tightly it looks like it might snap. His grip on his pistol hasn’t loosened, and his posture is rigid, like he’s bracing for something.

You shift your gaze back to Heeseung, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them. “It’s the guy you told me about,” you say quietly. “He was looking for you lot.”

“And I don’t think he bought a single thing I said,” you admit, your voice even but laced with quiet frustration. 

Jay exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, but instead of relief, you see something else settle in his expression—panic, the kind that runs deep and raw. “Oh god… we can’t stay here. We need to leave. Right now.”

The fear in his voice startles you. You’ve never seen Jay like this, not the sharp, sarcastic, ever-sceptical man who’s never once let his guard down, and you’re suddenly more confused than ever. Then it clicks, the words the stranger said echoing in your mind: 

That guy, Jay, he owes me. 

He singled Jay out.

But why? If Heeseung was right, if the man was the one who killed their friend, why would Jay owe him anything? 

Your heart sinks, the realisation creeping in like a shadow. You glance at Jungwon, his jaw clenches subtly, the muscle ticking as he processes it all. He doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives you says it all. He’s thinking the exact same thing.

“Jay,” Jungwon starts slowly, his voice calm but laced with suspicion. “What did you do?”

Jay’s head snaps toward the leader, his sharp eyes locking onto him like a deer caught in headlights. For a moment, he doesn’t speak, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you. Then his jaw tightens, and you see it—the guilt, the weight of something he’s been carrying for far too long.

“What did you do, Jay?” Jungwon presses, his voice steadier now, his suspicion hardening into certainty.

“Are you accusing me of something?” Jay scoffs in mock annoyance.

The silence that follows is suffocating. Sunghoon steps forward, his sharp gaze fixed on Jay. “No, he’s right. Why would he be looking for us? Specifically for you?”

Jay’s head snaps toward Sunghoon, his eyes narrowing defensively. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m asking if there’s something you’re not telling us,” Sunghoon says, his tone calm but firm. “Because he didn’t just stumble across us, Jay. He knows exactly who he's looking for.”

Jay hesitates, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, and you can see the internal battle raging behind his eyes. Finally, he lets out a sharp breath, his shoulders slumping as the fight drains out of him.

“I went after him.”

“You what?” Sunoo’s voice is a mix of disbelief and anger. “You went after him alone?”

Jay ignores him, his focus entirely on the ground as he continues. “It wasn’t hard to find him. He was camped out at the edge of the city, asleep, surrounded by our supplies. I took them back. All of them.”

“And then?” Jungwon presses, his voice dangerously calm.

Jay hesitates, his jaw tightening. “Then… I shot him. In the ankle. Left him there. The sound attracted the dead, and I ran.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You glance around the group, their faces a mix of shock, anger, and something heavier—betrayal.

“You left him?” Jake says, his voice low and incredulous. “You left him to die?”

“He killed her!” Jay snaps, his voice rising as he finally meets Jake’s gaze, his eyes burning with a mix of defiance and regret. “What was I supposed to do? He put a knife to her throat, and we gave him what he wanted. And he killed her anyway. You think he deserved mercy?”

“You could’ve told us,” Heeseung says quietly, his tone cutting deeper than if he’d yelled. “You could’ve trusted us instead of going off and doing something reckless.”

“I couldn’t!” Jay’s voice cracks, the raw emotion spilling over. “I couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. I had to… I had to make him pay.”

“And now he’s here,” Jungwon says, his voice cold and measured. “Looking for you. And you’ve put all of us at risk because of it.”

Jay’s shoulders sag, the weight of Jungwon’s words pressing down on him like a physical burden. “I didn’t think he’d survive,” he admits quietly, his voice barely audible.

“Well, he did,” Jake snaps, his anger bubbling to the surface. “And now he’s got a grudge and knows exactly where to find us.”

Part of you understands Jay’s anger, his grief. The sheer weight of what they’d lost—what that man had taken—could drive anyone to the edge. But the other part of you, the part sharpened by survival, sees the problem for what it is. Heeseung is right—it was reckless. This isn’t just about a chance encounter or a petty grudge. That man is here for revenge, and now the camp is squarely in his crosshairs.

Jay swallows hard, the fight in him extinguished. His voice trembles as he mutters, “I’m sorry…” The words hang in the air, hollow and inadequate.

The moonlight cast harsh shadows on everyone’s faces, highlighting the unease and exhaustion etched into their expressions. Sunghoon leans against the barricade, his jaw tight as he stares into the darkness. Jake’s hands are curled into fists, his lips pressed into a thin line. Even Sunoo, ever the optimist, looks pale and withdrawn.

Finally, Jungwon exhales sharply, breaking the tension. His shoulders square, and his expression hardens as he steps forward, taking charge. “We don’t have time for blame right now,” he says, his voice steady and commanding. The tone leaves no room for argument, cutting through the tension like a knife. “What’s done is done. We focus on what’s next.”

“And what’s that?” Sunoo asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“We leave,” Jungwon says simply. “Because if he comes back, he won’t be alone.”

The words hit like a hammer, and the weight of them settles over the group. Jake’s head snaps up, his eyes wide. “You’re saying we abandon the camp? Everything we’ve built here? I thought we’d finally be able to settle down.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Jungwon replies firmly, his gaze sweeping across the group. There’s a steadiness in his tone, but you can see the weight of the decision reflected in his tense posture. “He knows exactly where we are, we can’t defend this place against a coordinated attack. And it’s not the first time we’ve had to pack up and leave because of circumstances beyond our control.”

Heeseung nods slowly, his expression grim. “He’s right. We’ve seen what people like that can do. And it’s not just him. There’s that strange horde we encountered earlier today. If he’s somehow connected to them—staying here is suicide.”

“But where would we even go?” Ni-ki interjects, his voice edged with frustration. “It’s not like there are safe havens just waiting for us.”

Heeseung pulls a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket, its edges frayed and creased from frequent use. It’s a map of Seoul, though it’s seen better days. Parts of it are scratched out, and there are annotations scrawled in the margins—places they’ve scavenged, places they should avoid. As Heeseung unfolds it, you notice the heavy red crosses marking several areas.

“There’s nowhere to go but further north,” Heeseung says, his tone measured as he scans the map. “But that takes us closer to the demilitarised zone. That place fell to The Future the last time we checked.”

The tension in the group thickens as Heeseung continues to analyse the limited options. Judging by the sheer number of red crosses, it’s clear their choices are slim. The faint hope of finding refuge seems to dwindle with every second.

Then your eyes catch on something familiar—a road along the Seoul-Busan highway, just as it’s leaving the city. A rest stop is marked there, scratched out in bold red ink. The memory of that place hits you like a spark in the darkness.

“Here,” you say, pointing to the rest stop on the map.

Heeseung glances at where you’re pointing and immediately shakes his head. “No. That’s one of The Future’s outpost. The place is probably crawling with them.”

“What? No,” you reply quickly, your brows furrowing as you think back. “I was there. Scavenging. There was a gas station filled with supplies. It was too big of a place and too risky for me to set up camp, so I took what I could and left. But when I wanted to go back for more, it was overrun by the dead. I didn’t want to take my chances alone. But if there’s eight of us, it should be pretty easy to clear out if we’re careful.”

The words tumble out of your mouth, and for a moment, the group falls silent. You look up from the map, suddenly aware of the fleeting glances being exchanged between Jungwon, Heeseung, and the others. Confusion is written plainly across their faces, their unease palpable.

“When was that?” Jungwon’s voice cuts through the silence, careful and probing.

You hesitate, trying to gauge the timeline in your head. “Over a month or two ago? Give or take. It was the first time I had to venture that far out in search of food. Finding that place felt like a blessing—I hadn’t eaten for days at that point.”

You’re so caught up in recounting the memory that you almost miss the look of shock that flashes across Jungwon’s face. His expression hardens, his gaze shifting to Heeseung, who looks equally taken aback.

“Y/N, are you sure it’s the same rest stop?” Heeseung asks, his gaze sharp and unyielding as it locks onto yours.

“Positive,” you reply firmly, though the rising tension in the air makes your chest tighten. “I think I’d remember the place that quite literally saved my life.”

Heeseung’s lips press into a thin line, his eyes flicking toward Jungwon. “Jungwon…” he starts slowly, his voice laced with urgency. “Wasn’t the last time we had to move camp to run from The Future about two months ago?”

Jungwon doesn’t respond right away. His jaw tightens, his expression darkening as if the weight of the realisation is physically bearing down on him. Finally, he looks at you, his sharp eyes searching yours for answers, certainty, or maybe even doubt. But all he finds is your unwavering resolve.

“Something is seriously wrong,” Jake mutters, his voice barely audible as he scratches the back of his neck. His gaze flits between you and the others, confusion etched deeply into his features. It’s as though he’s trying to piece together a puzzle where the pieces don’t quite fit. “If that place was overrun by the dead, and The Future was still active there, then…”

His voice fades into the background, his muttering drowned out by the rising unease. The tension among the group is palpable, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. You’re equally as confused as the rest of them, but you can tell their confusion stems from something you don’t yet understand.

Jungwon’s expression hardens further, his voice low and deliberate as he says the words that send a chill down your spine. “The Future… fell?”

The statement lingers in the air, heavy and foreboding. Your mind races, trying to comprehend what he means, but before you can process it, the sound of shuffling feet cuts through the stillness.

It starts faint, like the rustle of dried leaves in the wind, but it grows louder with each passing second. The guttural moans of the undead follow, a haunting symphony of the dead. There’s no mistaking it—there are a lot of them, and they’re close.

Jungwon’s head snaps toward the sound, his hand immediately gripping the blade at his hip. His voice cuts through the rising chaos. “Ni-ki, start up the van! Everyone else, grab what you can and get on. Now!”

The group springs into action, weapons drawn as the moans grow louder, the shuffling of feet drawing closer. You grip your knife tightly, your pulse pounding in your ears.  The forest that once offered a fragile sense of safety now feels like it’s closing in.

“They’re coming from everywhere!” Sunghoon shouts, his voice cutting through the chaos as he points toward the tree line.

Jungwon moves quickly, stopping next to you, “Y/N, with me. We need to clear a path for the van to pass through.”

You nod, swallowing the lump of fear rising in your throat, and fall into step behind him. The first of the undead breaks through the undergrowth, its decayed face catching the dim light, its milky, lifeless eyes locking onto you with unrelenting hunger. 

“Stay close,” Jungwon says, his voice low but steady as he raises his blade.

The camp erupts into a flurry of motion and noise, the clash of weapons against bone mingling with the moans of the undead. You steal a glance at Jungwon, his movements precise and controlled as he takes down one of the creatures with a single, fluid strike.

Even as you fight, your mind is clouded with questions. The Future fell. The weight of those words lingers, gnawing at the edges of your focus. What could it mean? How could it connect to what’s happening now? The rest stop, the hordes, the whispers—none of it adds up.

Your thoughts are abruptly cut short as another zombie lunges toward you, its rotting hands outstretched. You dodge instinctively, driving your knife into its skull. The sickening crunch reverberates up your arm, but you can’t afford to dwell on it. Not now. That’s right, what’s the point of dwelling on the dangers of the future if you can’t even make it out of the present alive?

“Y/N, watch out!” Jungwon’s voice snaps you back to reality just in time for you to duck as another undead stumbles toward you. Jungwon’s blade flashes in the dim light, and the creature collapses in a heap. He glances at you, his expression unreadable but firm. “Focus. We need to keep moving.”

You nod, breathless but determined, and press forward. The path ahead is thick with the undead, their shuffling forms threatening to overwhelm the group. But together, you and Jungwon cut through the horde, each strike clearing the way inch by hard-fought inch.

Behind you, the van’s engine roars to life, Ni-ki shouting from the driver’s seat, “We’re ready! Let’s move!”

“Keep pushing!” Jungwon calls to the others, his voice unwavering. The van lurches forward, and you fight harder, carving a path through the chaos as the vehicle edges closer to the gate.

The group scrambles toward the van, the undead closing in with every passing second. One by one, the group leaps into the back, the interior modified into a wide, open space—likely Ni-ki’s handiwork. The seats have been ripped out, replaced with a carpet that’s seen better days but provides enough room for everyone to pile in.

You’re about to climb into the van when something catches your eye—a lone figure standing just at the edge of the clearing.

At first, you think it’s another survivor. It’s upright, still, as though it’s observing the chaos. But then you take in its tattered clothing and decayed flesh, and the breath catches in your throat. It’s a zombie.

But it’s not moving.

Your heart pounds as your gaze locks onto its face. The peeling skin and hollow cheeks are all too familiar, but its eyes—its eyes are clear. Not the usual milky, lifeless void you’ve come to expect from the undead, but sharp and disturbingly human. For a moment, you could swear it’s looking directly at you.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Jungwon’s voice cuts through the haze, snapping your focus back to the present. He’s gripping the doorframe, his blade still in his hand, ready to help you in.

“Do you see that?” you ask, your voice low and unsteady, gesturing toward the figure.

Jungwon’s eyes follow your line of sight. His expression shifts subtly—confusion giving way to unease as his gaze locks on the unmoving figure. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but the tension in his posture tells you he sees it too.

“Y/N, get in,” he says firmly, his voice quiet but insistent.

You hesitate for a split second longer, your mind racing as you try to process what you’re seeing. The figure doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound. Its eyes remain fixed on you, eerily still and unnervingly focused.

“Now,” Jungwon snaps, his urgency jolting you into action.

You clamber into the van, pulling the door shut behind you. The van lurches forward, the sound of the undead clawing at the sides as Ni-ki floors the gas, navigating the rough forest terrain with practiced skill. Inside, the group struggles to catch their breath, weapons clattering to the floor as they brace themselves against the jerking motions of the vehicle.

But you can’t stop thinking about the figure. You glance out the back window, searching for it, but the dense trees blur past too quickly.

Jungwon leans closer, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper, gripping the side of the van for stability. “It wasn’t like the others. It didn’t move. And its eyes…”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, his gaze fixed ahead as if he’s already trying to piece together an answer. “We’ll deal with it later,” he mutters. But you can see the unease in his expression, the weight of what you both just witnessed settling over him like a dark cloud.

The van jolts over another bump, and you force yourself to focus on the here and now. The memory of the figure lingers, though, its sharp, human-like eyes burned into your mind. Whatever it was, it wasn’t normal—and the thought of what it could mean sends a chill down your spine.

Sounds of laboured breaths and quiet muttering fill the van as everyone tries to catch their breath. Sunghoon sits near the front, wiping blood off his blade with the edge of his sleeve, while Jake rifles through the med kit, his brow furrowed as he takes inventory of what’s left. Jay is silent, his expression dark as he stares out one of the small reinforced windows.

“So,” Heeseung pipes up from the passenger seat, glancing back over his shoulder. “Any idea where we’re heading?”

“Can we not have a moment of silence for the fact that we’ve barely escaped death? Again.” Sunoo quips, his usual sarcasm laced with exhaustion.

“Geez, don’t have to be all prissy about it,” Heeseung mutters, rolling his eyes as he slouches back in his seat.

“Head for the rest stop,” Jungwon says abruptly, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. His tone is calm but resolute, the kind that immediately silences any further remarks.

Jay’s head snaps toward him, his dark eyes narrowing. “You can’t be serious. We don’t even know if what she’s saying is true. What if it’s not what she says it is? What if The Future is still there?”

Jungwon’s gaze flicks toward Jay, his expression unyielding. “We don’t have many options, Jay. You saw the map. Everywhere else is a dead end—literally.”

Jay scoffs, his frustration boiling to the surface. “And this isn’t? What if we’re driving straight into a trap?”

“Jay,” Jake interjects sharply, his voice uncharacteristically firm as he closes the med kit with a snap. “With all due respect, I don’t think you have any say in this right now.”

The tension in the van thickens as Jake’s words hang in the air. Jay glares at him but doesn’t respond, his lips pressing into a thin line as he looks away.

“We’ll approach cautiously,” Jungwon continues, his voice steady but firm. “We scout the area first. If it looks clear, we check it out. If not, we move on. But we can’t afford to keep running blind. We need supplies, and we need a plan.”

The group exchanges uneasy glances, but no one voices further objections. Jungwon’s calm authority seems to settle over everyone, even if only temporarily. You can feel the weight of their trust in him, even Jay’s, despite his reluctance.

You lean back against the van’s wall, your fingers brushing over the hilt of your knife as you try to steady your breathing. The memory of the lone figure from earlier flashes in your mind, its clear eyes locked onto yours. You push the thought aside for now—there’s no room for distractions when the stakes are this high.

The van jolts slightly as Ni-ki manoeuvres it over the uneven terrain, his focused expression illuminated by the dim glow of the dashboard lights. You catch Jungwon’s gaze briefly, and he gives you a small nod—an unspoken reassurance, for now.

About half an hour drifts by, Ni-ki drives steadily along the uneven roads skirting the edge of the forest, the dense trees remaining close on the van's left. It’s a long detour as compared to driving straight through the city. But it’s safer this way—quieter. No one speaks, no one stirs.

Everyone else is asleep, or at least pretending to be. Jake is curled up against the wall, his head resting on his arms. Sunghoon sits with his back against the van, his knife still in his lap. Even Jay looks like he’s finally let himself rest, though his hand never strays far from his pistol.

But you? You don’t sleep. And neither does Jungwon.

You both sit next to each other in silence, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing down on what little space there is between you. There’s an understanding in that silence—a shared knowledge of something far beyond your comprehension. Something that lingers, gnawing at the edges of your mind.

This isn’t just about surviving anymore. It’s about staying ahead of someone who knows how to hunt you down. That said, sleep is the last thing you’re worried about.

“What do you think that was?” you ask softly, your voice barely above a whisper. The words hang in the air, cautious, careful not to disturb the fragile peace inside the van.

Jungwon doesn’t look at you. His gaze is locked on a single spot on the ragged carpet beneath his feet, his fingers tracing the worn fabric absentmindedly. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, distant. “A mutation? I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s him?” you press, your heart beating just a little faster. You don’t need to explain who you’re referring to. The thought is already there, lingering between you both.

Jungwon’s hand stills against the carpet, and for a moment, he says nothing. Then, in a voice barely above a murmur, he replies, “Maybe.”

That single word carries so much weight, so much dread. It hangs heavy in the air, settling deep in your chest. 

There’s no certainty in his answer. No confidence. It’s unnerving—he’s usually the one with the answers, the one who reassures everyone else that they’ll figure it out. But right now, there’s none of that conviction. Just tired confusion, vulnerable, almost hopeless. A stark contrast to the strong, commanding voice he uses when he speaks to the others.

It’s the kind of tone he never lets the group hear.

And for a second, you’re glad they’re asleep. Glad no one else is awake to see this side of him—the side that isn’t sure, that doesn’t have all the answers. 

Because you know, without a doubt, it would weigh on them. Everything Jungwon says, everything he feels, it spreads through the group like wildfire. That’s how much they rely on him. That’s how deeply their survival depends on his mentality—whether he realises it or not.

Jungwon exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “If it is him… then we’re in more trouble than we thought.”

The van jolts over a bump in the road, and Ni-ki mutters something under his breath from the driver’s seat, his focus unwavering. The silence stretches between you, thick with tension but not uncomfortable. It’s a shared quiet—both of you lost in your thoughts, both of you carrying burdens too heavy to put into words.

You glance at Jungwon from the corner of your eye. His posture is rigid, his arms resting loosely on his knees, but the tension in his shoulders betrays his exhaustion. He hasn’t slept since… Well, that’s the thing—you can’t even remember the last time you actually saw him let himself relax for a moment. His gaze remains distant, focused on nothing and everything all at once.

Without really thinking, you shift closer, the subtle bump of your shoulder against his drawing his attention. He glances at you briefly, his tired eyes flickering with surprise, but he doesn’t pull away.

Your heart is still racing from the events of the night—the man, the whispers, the horde that shouldn’t have been there. But now, sitting here beside him, the weight of it all feels a little easier to carry. Slowly, cautiously, you let your head rest against his shoulder.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. You wonder if you’ve overstepped, if he’ll pull away, but then you feel it—slow and hesitant. Jungwon shifts slightly, his body relaxing as he leans into you. His head rests gently against yours, his blonde hair brushing your temple.

Neither of you says anything. There’s no need to.

The hum of the van’s engine fills the space between you, a steady rhythm that matches the rise and fall of his breathing. His warmth seeps into you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the world outside fades into the background.

It’s strange, this quiet moment of closeness. You’ve spent so long keeping your distance from others, building walls to protect yourself. But with Jungwon, it feels different. It feels… safe.

“You should rest,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely louder than the hum of the engine.

“So should you,” you whisper back, your eyes closing briefly as the exhaustion pulls at you.

A faint chuckle escapes him, more a breath than a laugh. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moves. You both stay like that, leaning against each other, finding comfort in the quiet, fleeting peace. And for a moment—just a moment—you let yourself forget the chaos waiting outside.

You let yourself breathe.

part 1 - rotten | masterlist | part 3 - whispers

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: my apologies if i missed any taglist requests commented under the previous part! my tumblr's not working like it's SUPPOSED TO. regardless, i should've noted down everyone. part 3 is a little shorter so i'll post it coming saturday 12am kst (maybe earlier if this manages to reach 200 notes hehe) enjoy!

perm taglist. @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @M1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna

taglist open. 1/2 @sungbyhoon @theothernads @kyshhhhhh @jiryunn @strxwbloody @jaklvbub @rikikiynikilcykiki @jakesimfromstatefarm @rikiiisoob @doublebunv @thinkinboutbin @eunandonly @wilonevys @sugarikiz @jellymiki @adoredbyjay @rebeccaaaaaaaa @strawberryhotlips @baedreamverse @bamguetismee @flwwon @l1s0ro @engurishu @opheliaas-stuff

non-gray/underlined = cannot tag

[silkpagess]

Every Summertime - Part I

Summary: Fresh off a breakout role, Y/N is cast in the year’s most anticipated romcom. She’s ready for the spotlight—until she finds out her on-screen love interest is Harry Styles, and the lines between fiction and reality start to blur.

Part II

Content Warning: none :)

Word Count: 4,311

This is a 5 part story that I've started writing last year and finally had the courage to post lol, I hope you guys like it 🤍

The kitchen smelled faintly of orange peel and clean linen. Y/N stood barefoot by the sink, towel-drying her favorite mug—the one with a tiny chip on the handle that she always used anyway—when her phone rang.

She nearly didn’t answer. It was past noon, and she’d promised herself a day off: no emails, no self-tapes, no endless doom-scroll through industry chatter. But then she saw the caller ID: Miriam Klein – Agent.

She grabbed it immediately.

“Hey,” she said, balancing the mug on the drying rack. “What’s up?”

“I hope you’re sitting,” Miriam said, too calm in that way she only got when something big was about to land.

“Not yet,” Y/N replied, already walking to the kitchen table.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. You’re being asked to read for Every Summertime.”

Y/N sat down hard. Her heart did the exact thing it always did when something she’d dared to want actually started to happen.

“You’re serious?”

“I’m very serious,” Miriam said. “It’s happening. Big studio, full greenlight, same producers from Before the Fall. Sadie Bloom’s doing the script.”

Y/N blinked. “As in Sadie Bloom, the Sadie Bloom?”

“Yes. She adapted the novel herself. It’s been buzzing for months. Everyone’s been asking who’s playing Ivy. They’ve done weeks of auditions already, but apparently they’ve been holding off on final callbacks because the director wanted to take a look at a few new names. You’re one of them.”

Y/N leaned forward, elbows on the table. She’d read the book a year ago, cover to cover in two days, sobbing over the last few chapters and immediately texting Mara to do the same. It was that kind of story—summer and heartbreak, family and longing, slow-burn romance and two people who find each other just as their lives are unraveling in opposite directions.

She had loved Ivy. Had quietly imagined playing her, though she never said it out loud. The role was delicate. Not easy. The kind of part that asked for both lightness and real emotional weight. She hadn’t seen a female lead written like that in a long time.

“What’s the catch?” she asked, finally.

“No catch,” Miriam said. “Just that the room is tight. They’re only seeing three people, total. You’re one of them.”

Y/N’s chest felt tight in the best possible way.

Then Miriam added, as an afterthought, “Oh, and Harry Styles is already attached. He auditioned a few weeks ago and got cast as Theo.”

She blinked again. “Wait—he auditioned?”

“Yep. Just like everyone else. He read three times. Apparently, he worked his ass off for it.”

“Oh wow,” Y/N said. “I mean, I figured it’d be someone big, but I didn’t think…”

“I know,” Miriam said, “but I don’t want that to throw you. You’ve got just as much shot at this. They asked you. That means something.”

Y/N nodded, even though Miriam couldn’t see her. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Send me everything.”

She spent the next two hours reading the sides, walking through the scenes quietly in her living room, letting the language settle into her skin. Ivy was just as rich and warm on the page as she was in the book—witty and careful and emotionally bruised but still hopeful. She understood her immediately. Not just as a character, but as a person.

By the time Mara and Gia showed up at her apartment uninvited—with iced matchas and a chaotic playlist of "songs you can fake-date to"—Y/N had already color-coded the script, flagged three emotional beats she wanted to dig deeper into, and made a Pinterest mood board for Ivy’s wardrobe.

“You’re disgusting,” Mara said, watching her set up a ring light for practice. “You just got the call and you’re already in prep mode.”

“You don’t understand,” Y/N said, breathless, holding the script to her chest. “It’s Every Summertime. It’s Ivy. And they asked for me. They didn’t even make me chase it.”

Gia threw herself on the couch. “Wait, and Harry Styles is Theo? Like, officially?”

“Yes. But that’s not the point.”

“That is absolutely the point,” Gia muttered.

Mara leaned forward. “Do you think he’s going to remember your name? Or like… do that thing where he knows way too much about your performance in something you did three years ago?”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling.

“I don’t care if he remembers me,” she said, and she meant it. “I just want to walk into that room and be Ivy. That’s the only thing I care about.”

And she meant it. This wasn’t about him. It was about her. And if there was even a small chance that this role—the one everyone in the industry was quietly circling—could be hers, she was going to show up ready.

No matter who else was in the room.

The studio was quiet in that specific, clinical way only casting buildings managed to be—sterile, over-air-conditioned, and filled with soft voices and the occasional sound of someone clearing their throat in a hallway.

Y/N arrived fifteen minutes early.

She always did, not because she wanted to impress anyone, but because she hated walking into a room while her heart was still racing. She liked having a moment to breathe, to ground herself, to flip through her pages one last time and pretend that this was all normal—that she wasn’t sitting in a casting office about to read for the role every young actress in the industry was dreaming about.

She kept her headphones in while she signed in at the front desk, though no music was playing. Sometimes she liked the illusion of noise, the space it gave her from being approached or spoken to. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, clean and simple. She wore a soft cream knit top tucked into well-tailored navy trousers—comfortable, but confident. She hadn’t overthought the outfit. She’d learned the hard way not to try and look like the character. The work had to speak louder than the styling.

She sat down in the holding area, a sleek gray couch pushed against a glass wall. There were no other actresses waiting outside. That meant they were being seen one by one. Intimate. Focused. Possibly recorded.

Her heart thudded softly against her ribs.

She reread the scene again, even though she didn’t need to. The one where Ivy and Theo were walking through a parking lot at night after an argument they didn’t totally finish. It was quiet and tentative and messy—full of unfinished thoughts and sideways glances, two people trying not to say the thing they were thinking. The kind of dialogue that lived in pauses, in breath, in what wasn’t said.

She loved it.

“Y/N?” a woman called gently, peeking her head out from a side door.

She stood quickly, smoothing her pants as she walked.

The room was bright and white and warmer than she expected. A camera on a tripod faced the taped floor marks, and a few people sat behind a folding table covered in notebooks, iced coffees, and half-eaten snacks. The director—Elaine Kim, a sharp, perceptive woman Y/N had read about in interviews—looked up from her notes and smiled.

“Hi, Y/N,” she said, warm but professional. “Thanks for being here.”

“Thanks for having me,” she replied, stepping into the light and placing her water bottle gently on the ground beside the mark.

And then she saw him.

Harry Styles sat on the folding chair just behind Elaine. He was relaxed in that effortlessly casual way some people managed to be—wearing dark jeans, a light blue sweater, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his hair a little messy like he hadn’t tried to fix it before walking in. He was holding a copy of the sides in one hand, a pen tucked behind his ear.

He looked up when she walked in.

And smiled.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t flirty. It was quiet. Just… acknowledgment. Recognition. Maybe even a little curiosity.

She gave a small nod back—professional, polite, but not overly familiar.

Elaine gestured to the center mark. “So this is the parking lot scene. Let’s start from the top and just run through it once. No pressure. We’ll play with it after.”

Y/N nodded and shifted into place.

Harry stood, moving to his own mark opposite her, flipping his page to the correct scene. Up close, he looked exactly like you’d expect him to—but also not. Less glossy. More present. There was something focused in his expression. Something serious.

They locked eyes for the first line.

And something clicked.

It wasn’t fireworks or electricity—not yet—but it was ease. He listened, which was rare in reads like this. He responded, didn’t just deliver lines. He watched her mouth when she spoke. He took a second before replying. His body language changed with hers. And when she shifted her tone halfway through a sentence, he adjusted like he’d already lived in this character for months.

When the scene ended, there was a beat of silence. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.

Elaine leaned back. “That was great,” she said. “We’re gonna try a version where you lean into the frustration a little more, Y/N—like Ivy’s holding in a thousand things she doesn’t want to say. Can you try that?”

“Absolutely,” Y/N replied, already feeling her body recalibrate.

Harry stayed quiet, letting her take the lead.

They read again. Then again. They tried new beats, changed pacing, added a half-second pause in the middle of a breath and watched the tension stretch out like taffy between them.

It was the most fun she’d had in weeks.

When they wrapped, Elaine stood and clapped her hands once. “That’s great, guys. Thank you so much.”

Harry turned to her and gave a small, genuine nod.

“You were really good,” he said simply, in a soft voice that made her want to double-check if she’d imagined it.

“Thanks,” she replied. “You too.”

They exchanged one more look. Just a moment of eye contact. No lingering. No flirtation. Just… mutual awareness. Two people who understood what this scene could be. Who knew that if they ended up doing this together, it would work.

It wasn’t chemistry in the cliché way.

It was trust.

And that, she knew, mattered more than anything else.

The moment she stepped outside the studio building, the sun hit her straight in the face. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been inside until the daylight made her squint.

She didn’t rush home right away.

Instead, she walked three blocks up and sat on a quiet bench tucked next to a tiny bakery she used to visit when she was still auditioning for short films and background roles. It felt like a good place to land for a second. Familiar. Neutral.

She took out her phone and opened the Notes app—not to write anything in particular, just to look busy, to give her hands something to do while her body caught up with what had just happened.

The read had gone well. She knew that. Not in the arrogant, self-congratulatory way. But in the honest, I-was-present-and-I-did-the-work way. She had hit the beats she wanted. Had felt the tension she built in the back of her throat as Ivy. Had watched Harry adjust and lean into the shifts in energy, the kind of give-and-take that felt real.

She hadn’t felt that kind of scene partner chemistry in a long time. Not the fake “oh my god we just clicked” type people always said in interviews, but the real kind—the kind that made you breathe differently when the camera was rolling.

Still, callbacks were a strange kind of limbo. You left everything in the room and walked out with your hands empty, unsure if what you gave was the version they wanted.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Mara.

MARA:

Did it happen?? Did you cry? Did he cry?

She smiled but didn’t reply yet.

She wasn’t ready to open the door to speculation and “what ifs.” Not yet. Not when her heart was still beating in callback rhythm, not regular rhythm.

Instead, she ordered an iced tea, sat with her thoughts, and let herself do the hardest part of the job: wait.

Two days passed. Then four.

By the fifth, she had convinced herself she didn’t get it.

It was ridiculous—how the brain worked. She could feel confident one minute, and then in the next, be absolutely sure she’d imagined the connection, that the casting team had probably already offered it to someone else. Someone with a bigger name. A better following. A longer résumé.

She went about her days normally—pilates, meal prep, overdue errands—but there was a thin string of tension running through everything she did. An invisible thread tied to her phone, which she kept just slightly too close. Just in case.

Mara and Gia didn’t help.

GIA:

I keep checking Deadline for a casting announcement like I work there. Do you think you’d know before they publish?

MARA:

Should I casually follow the director on Instagram or is that too obvious?

Y/N replied only with a gif of someone staring out a rainy window.

She wasn’t trying to be dramatic. She just didn’t want to break the spell.

The call came on a Friday afternoon.

She was folding a blanket over the back of the couch when her phone rang—and this time, unlike before, her stomach dropped the second she saw Miriam’s name. Her breath caught in her chest.

She answered slowly.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Miriam said, a smile already in her voice. “You ready?”

Y/N didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“You got it.”

It took a full second for the words to land.

“What?”

“You. Got. It. Ivy Carter is yours.”

Y/N stood still in her living room, one hand still holding the corner of the blanket.

“You’re serious?” she whispered, barely able to say it.

“I’m serious. They just called. Elaine said—and I quote—‘She is Ivy.’ You nailed it, Y/N. It’s yours.”

She sat down, knees folding underneath her like they couldn’t hold her up anymore.

A full breath left her chest. A real one. The kind that only comes when something you’ve wanted quietly, patiently, for longer than you let yourself admit… actually becomes real.

“Oh my god,” she said softly, tears springing to her eyes before she could stop them. “Oh my god.”

“I’m so proud of you,” Miriam said. “Start wrapping your head around it. You leave for pre-production in two weeks.”

Y/N laughed through the tears. “You’re really just gonna say that like it’s nothing.”

“I’m saying it like it’s everything.”

She hung up and sat for a long moment, letting her body catch up to the news. Letting the weight of it settle gently, instead of crashing.

She didn’t need to scream. Or jump. Or call everyone she knew.

She just needed to sit there, quietly, hand over her heart, and smile like she hadn’t in a long time.

Because she had done it.

Not because someone asked for her. Not because of luck. Not because she was “someone’s pick.”

Because she earned it.

She didn’t text them. She could’ve—God knows they’d been obsessively waiting for an update—but this felt bigger than a three-line message or a gif. This deserved real faces. Real reactions. Real yelling.

So she told them to come over.

No context. Just “Please come by tonight, I made dinner. And wear something cute.” Which, in their language, was code for something is up and we’re not taking it lightly.

By seven o’clock, her tiny apartment smelled like garlic and lemon and the fresh rosemary she’d tucked into the sauce just because she could. She wasn’t a show-off cook, but she liked the rhythm of it. Stirring, chopping, laying the table—things that made her feel grounded when everything else was floating.

She’d even lit candles. Mara was going to be suspicious the second she walked in.

When the buzzer went off, her stomach jumped. Nerves, again. Not the kind from auditions, but the kind you get when something good has happened and you finally get to say it out loud.

She opened the door before they even knocked.

Mara walked in first, hair piled up in a claw clip, carrying a bag of chips and a bottle of prosecco. Gia followed, dramatically overdressed in a vintage floral maxi dress with a belt that jingled when she walked.

“Okay,” Mara said, eyes scanning the apartment. “What is this vibe?”

“Why are there candles?” Gia added, narrowing her eyes. “Are we mourning something? Are we casting a spell?”

Y/N grinned. “Sit down.”

Mara raised an eyebrow but dropped onto the couch without another word. Gia flopped down beside her, kicking off her boots and reaching for the chips before the bag was even open.

Y/N took a deep breath.

Then she grabbed the script off the counter, walked over, and dropped it gently on the coffee table in front of them. No words. Just the bold-font title staring back at them:

Every Summertime

FINAL SHOOTING DRAFT

CONFIDENTIAL

There was a pause.

Mara leaned forward slowly. “No. Way.”

Gia blinked. “You got it?”

Y/N nodded, and just like that, the room exploded.

Mara let out a shriek so loud she startled herself. Gia screamed into one of Y/N’s throw pillows. Someone knocked over the chips. Y/N just stood there, laughing and trying not to cry again while her two best friends lost their collective minds.

“YOU’RE IVY?!” Mara yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“You’re fake-dating Harry Styles in a movie based on that book?” Gia yelled right behind her. “Do you understand what you’ve done to me emotionally?”

“I can’t believe it,” Y/N said, the words still tasting new. “They called this afternoon. It’s mine.”

Mara paced a circle around the living room like she needed to walk off the adrenaline. “I’m so proud I think I’m going to vomit. This is not a joke. I might actually cry.”

Gia was already pouring prosecco into mismatched glasses. “To Ivy Carter! To our girl! To the woman who is going to be impossible to sit next to in a movie theater because I will be whispering ‘that’s my best friend’ the whole time.”

Y/N finally sat down between them, letting their joy fold over her like a blanket. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. Her stomach still fluttered every time she pictured that moment on the phone—You got it.

“Did he say anything to you?” Mara asked suddenly, already fishing for gossip.

“About me getting the part?”

“No, about like… your aura or whatever. Your essence. Did he cry when he looked into your eyes?”

Y/N laughed. “We just read the scene. Nothing dramatic. He was focused.” 

Gia sipped her drink. “So you’re telling me he wasn’t completely in love with you already?”

“I’m telling you he was doing his job. And so was I.”

“Boring,” Mara muttered. “But fine. We’ll allow it. For now.”

Y/N rested her head on Gia’s shoulder, letting the room go quiet for a moment. She watched the candle flicker on the coffee table. The script sat between them, the pages fanned slightly from being flipped through too many times already.

This was real.

No more waiting. No more wondering. She was Ivy. She was going to spend the summer fake-dating a man half the world was obsessed with while bringing to life a character she’d secretly been carrying in her chest for months.

And she got to share that moment—with them.

“Thank you,” she said, suddenly serious. “For making this feel… big. It’s easy to pretend it’s not. To try and act like it’s just another job. But it’s not. It means something.”

Gia reached out and gently clinked her glass against hers.

“We know it means something,” she said. “We’ve always known.”

The building didn’t look like much from the outside—just another converted studio space in the middle of a quiet block in West Hollywood. The kind of place you’d walk past without thinking twice unless you were part of it. Inside, though, it was buzzing. Quietly. Like a hum under the surface.

Y/N was greeted by a production assistant with a headset and an iced coffee in one hand, who led her down a hallway lined with framed posters from past films and into a bright, high-ceilinged room that smelled faintly like paper, Sharpie ink, and someone’s very expensive cologne.

The long table was already half-filled when she walked in.

Labeled name cards sat in front of every chair. A stack of fresh scripts lay at each place setting. Crew members milled around the edges—producers, assistants, someone from hair and makeup who gave Y/N a small, polite wave as she walked past.

It was her first table read for a major studio project. And even though she had already been cast—contracts signed, emails exchanged, fittings scheduled—it didn’t quite feel real until now.

She spotted her name about halfway down on the left side. Y/N Y/L/N — Ivy Carter. Seeing it printed, so simply, gave her a little jolt in the chest. She ran her hand over the card before sitting down.

She glanced to her right—and there he was.

Harry Styles, sitting just one seat away, wearing a soft gray hoodie and black trousers, flipping through the top pages of the script like he hadn’t already read it a dozen times. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d just showered. He looked relaxed but alert—attentive in that calm, still way he had in the callback room.

He looked over when she sat and gave her a warm smile.

“Morning,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too. Congratulations, by the way.”

She blinked, a little caught off guard. “For what?”

“For getting the part,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I heard they saw a lot of people. Said you were the easiest decision they made.”

It was such a quiet, sincere compliment that it took her a second to respond.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling back. “That means a lot.”

Before she could say more, the room began to settle. Elaine, the director, took her spot at the head of the table and greeted everyone, her voice calm and no-nonsense, but not cold.

“Thanks for being here,” she said. “This is going to be a long day, but a good one. We’ll read straight through, pause halfway for a break, and then meet the department heads after. But for now, let’s just live in the story.”

A few people clapped quietly, and then the rustling of scripts filled the air as everyone turned to page one.

The table read began.

The first scene was a quick one—an establishing moment in Ivy’s flower shop, full of overlapping dialogue and neighborhood energy. Y/N found her rhythm quickly, her voice soft at first but steady. It was strange, hearing the lines spoken aloud by real people instead of looping them over and over in her head. They lived differently in the air.

Then came the first scene with Theo.

It was early in the script—scene eight—a chaotic rental pickup gone wrong. Ivy arriving to find out the place she thought she’d have to herself for the summer had been double-booked by a tired, borderline-annoyed journalist who couldn’t believe she still arranged flowers for a living.

Y/N delivered her first line.

Harry replied in character, voice a little lower, a little dryer than his usual one. It was subtle. American, but not distractingly so. Wry, but not smug. He nailed the tone. The sarcasm. The guarded frustration. He even underplayed the joke in a way that made it land harder.

Their back-and-forth built naturally. A little sharper than in the callback room. Quicker. Like two people who had known each other long enough to know exactly how to get under the other’s skin.

By page twenty-four, someone at the far end of the table laughed out loud during a bickering scene.

By page thirty, they were all leaning in a little closer.

They broke for coffee halfway through.

Y/N stood in the corner of the room, quietly sipping a too-hot green tea and listening to the murmur of conversations happening around her—crew members catching up, producers on quick phone calls, someone from casting laughing softly near the door. She felt out of place for exactly forty seconds before Harry walked over.

“How’s it feeling so far?” he asked, nodding toward the table.

“Honestly?” she said. “Like I’m still dreaming it a little.”

He smiled at that. “I know what you mean.”

There was a pause.

“You’re really good,” he said. “You’ve got this way of landing emotion without forcing it. It makes the scenes feel… like real moments. Not written ones.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Was that feedback or a compliment?”

He shrugged. “Both, I think.”

She laughed, and he smiled wider.

The second half of the read went even smoother. Their final scene of the day—the one where Ivy and Theo slow dance under string lights in the middle of an accidental town party—ended with a pause so soft, no one moved for a second afterward. Not even Elaine.

When she finally looked up from her script, the director just gave her a small, meaningful nod.

The whole room felt different after that.

She didn’t say anything on the way out. Didn’t want to break the stillness. But as she stepped into the hallway, script tucked under her arm and nerves finally quieted, Harry caught up with her and said simply:

“See you on set.”

And she believed it. Not just that she’d see him—but that this story, this world, this version of herself she was stepping into… it was real now.

And it was only just beginning.

[danrifics]

good morning i have slept a total of 2 hours here’s my spoiler breakdown for terrible influence antwerp

they start by playing a text to speech voice who welcomes us and the straight boyfriends and the dads (they’re a bit obsessed with the dads i’ll be real) the voice tells us if we film she’s gonna sue are asses. text to speech lady she is an icon

dnp come out and they’re like yo this is cool it’s the first show, you guys are gonna see what we’ve been up to and then they’re like it’s the first show so we can use you guys to decide if we change anything

they they’re like there’s probably people in the audience who don’t really know us so they do a 15 years of dan and phil lore breakdown with dolls of themselves in little set of iconic dnp locations (made by pj and sophie btw) they put these sets in a table in front of a camera and it shows on the big screen, (for 1 section of this the screen doesn’t work for the first part lol) also phil makes the dolls kiss and they also make the dolls hump the breakfast bar cos of course they do

i can’t remember what happens next or maybe it jumps right into the next thing i mention

they play a game show called role model or no-model which is a madlibs style game where you have to decide if the version of dan and phil the audience creates is a role model or not these are compared to real dnp. we had homophobic furry lawyer dan and linguistics dr phil wo has a thing for hamsters. just an fyi for this dan is really good at hearing what the audience is saying and phil is not at all and im pretty sure he made his up cos he couldn’t understand what we wanted

okay so after this iirc they start talking about the youtube landscape and what they’re gonna do after tour and how to keep people entertained and they go on a little adventure through different genres of youtube like minecraft lets plays, vtubers and then they pretend to be mr beast and pretend to give away a bunch of stuff that they don’t have, they cure us of any mental health issues and they cure us from being gay <3

then they decide to have a boxing match cos obvs that’s what youtubers do, they ask us to cheer for whoever they want to win and it has cool intro to it! i’ll be honest this boxing match goes on for entirely too long like it spans the end of the first half and the start of the second but they have like choreographed fighting and OMFG it’s very gay and like suggestive and they do many times look like they’re gonna have sex 😂 like one of phils moves is to hit dan with his ass while dan is holding him from behind so… yeah. anyway dan thought he won ours and then phil knocked him out with a tv, as he should!! also before they end the first half they’re having an insult match where phils tells dan hes gonna burn his house down only for dan to say they live in the same house and i was dying it was so funny, phil also calls dan a dickhead and this is where he also calls him a cunt and that’s how the first half ends. oh also phil has a fake 6 pack on and that’s the $300 dollar silicone btw

okay second half after dan is dead they have a sincere moment and then they’re like you guys keep telling us you want load of long unedited content and they ask us to tell them a topic to monologue about and someone shouts feet and they rant about feet lmao phil excitedly tells everyone he has a better wiki feet rating than dan

then dan goes on a rant about being discriminated against as a millennial (can’t remember how we got there) and phil gets bored and starts watching subway surfers and i’ll be real honest as a gen z i instantly got distracted by subway surfers and didn’t listen to what dan was saying (that was the point tho) and phil keeps turning up the volume and dan gets mad and he storms off

we have a nice sincere moment with phil but idk what tf it was cos neither did phil 😂

then suddenly a voice, oh here she comes, she asks if we’re ready to confess our sins and out comes sister daniel, everyone fucking loses it, if you heard me screaming so loud no you didn’t.

anyway they read some confessions (phil is father philip) and they read out a few including one from @dnphobe !!! phil has a water gun that he didn’t have when he was meant to and couldn’t find and then found and he was spraying it at people to cleanse them of their sins which is what they meant by people being in the splash zone btw also phil sprayed it at dan it was kinda cute

okay so they say they need to go and get changed and they head off stage and there’s a gag where they leave the microphone on and they’re purposely making it sound sexual and it’s so funny and then dan comes out and phil doesn’t cos he’s struggling with his leather fucking trousers that was a completely unscripted part for sure

then they talk about the hiatus a bit and how dan left us and they keep calling us their family and brb while i cry my eyes out

then they pull out a fucking banger of a song, like i can’t even explain to you how good it is, it has a fully like kpop style dance to it that im gonna fucking learn lmao and dan was so good at it like im not even kidding that man was pulling moves!! phil was doing great too btw but he definitely wasn’t as confident in it as dan was but damn it’s the best song yet imo!!

also i forgot to write the conspiracy bit because i forgot where in the show it is but on one of them they were trying so hard to make us say the opposite one but we were literally forcing tour bus on them and yes they confirmed they shared a bed on that tour bus!! and they played it off like its okay for friends to do that (cos it is) but they way they said it was that thing again where they blur the line a little so we know what they actually mean but still pretend they mean something else

okay some little things i remember that i didn’t write above

- “i can’t imagine my life without you”

- “it’ll be 15 years in december” (if you know you know)

- the absolute silence after they confirmed the bed thing cos none of us were actually expecting it

- dan had to prompt phil a little to remind him what to say next but it was very cute

- they kept looking at each other in *that* way

- phil lied to us about when norman died cos he had norman merch coming out

- sleepless night with phil 3 is fake!!

- they showed *that* video of phil asleep on the tour bus

- there were multiple times where i thought they’re gonna kiss right now???

-phil called dan kinda sexy

- ALL IS FORGIVEN, ANYTHING FROM THE LAST WE MIGHT HAVE DONE IS FORGIVEN THEY LOVE US WE ARE A FAMILY THEY ARE LITERALLY OUR DADS

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 || 𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗

in which you stopped looking back

You graduated early.

Not because you were trying to prove anything. Just… because staying felt like suffocating.

UConn had too many ghosts. Too many empty chairs. Too many late nights walking past the gym where you knew she’d be—except you never went in. Not once. Not after.

So you finished your degree, packed your car, and drove across the country with everything you owned crammed in the backseat and a playlist long enough to drown your thoughts.

San Francisco felt far enough.

It was the job that sealed it—a communications role with a tech startup that liked your clean resume and liked your voice even more. You took the offer before you could talk yourself out of it.

You didn’t tell anyone where you went. Not even mutual friends. It was easier that way.

Clean slate. New sky. Different ocean.

You don’t expect to meet her at a dog park.

But grief’s funny like that.

You’re sitting on a bench with a notebook open on your lap, the kind you still carry even though your job’s mostly Slack messages and decks now. You’re jotting down lines that don’t go anywhere, half-poems you’ll never finish.

You don’t notice the tennis ball roll up to your foot until there’s a low woof.

You glance up.

Golden retriever. Panting. Tail wagging. Big brown eyes staring at you like you hold the answer to all of life’s questions.

And then you hear the voice.

“Sorry about that—he thinks everyone wants to play with him.”

You look up again.

She’s tall. Athletic build. Blonde hair pulled back in a braid. Black Valkyries hoodie, sleeves rolled. Her smile is wide and warm, the kind that’s easy to get used to if you’re not careful.

You hold up the tennis ball. “He’s not wrong.”

She grins. “You new around here?”

You nod. “Just moved.”

“Welcome to the best coast,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Kate.”

You hesitate for half a second, then take it.

Her grip is solid. Steady.

“Nice to meet you,” you say. “I’m… still getting used to the time difference.”

“You’ll adjust. And if not, the coffee’s better here anyway.”

That makes you laugh—quiet, but genuine. A flicker of something you haven’t felt in a while.

Kate watches you for a beat too long.

Her dog trots over, tail still wagging.

“He’s not subtle,” you say.

“Neither am I,” Kate replies with a wink. “You live around here?”

“Couple blocks that way.”

She nods. “Me too. Small world.”

You don’t know what makes you say it, but you do, “What do you do?”

Kate shrugs like she’s used to people not recognizing her. “Basketball.”

You tilt your head. “College?”

“WNBA.”

Your eyebrows raise.

“Golden State Valkyries,” she says. “Just moved here with the expansion. Number twenty.”

“Oh.” You blink. “You’re that Kate Martin.”

She laughs. “Depends. Which Kate Martin were you thinking of?”

You smirk. “The one whose buzzer-beater made my cousin cry in March.”

Kate grins. “Guilty.”

You glance down at the notebook in your lap. The half-written sentence. The empty line that follows.

“Well,” Kate says, throwing the ball again, “if you ever want a tour of the city, I give a decent one. And I know the best burrito spot in the entire Bay Area.”

You hesitate.

She sees it.

Something flickers behind her smile—something kind. Patient. Like she’s not going to push.

“No pressure,” she says. “Maybe I’ll just see you here again.”

You nod. “Yeah. Maybe.”

You do see her again.

Three days later.

Same park. Different bench. This time, you’re sipping coffee and pretending not to wait for her.

She sees you first.

“Told you,” she says, dropping onto the bench beside you, “best coast.”

You glance sideways. “Still undecided.”

Kate bumps her knee against yours. “I’m working on it.”

You don’t tell her about Azzi at first.

It takes months.

Of dog park conversations. Shared coffees. Quiet walks where neither of you says anything because the air already feels full enough.

She texts you sometimes—mostly memes, weird food pictures, photos of her dog wearing sunglasses.

You laugh more than you used to.

Smile more freely.

Grief, for the first time, starts to feel like something soft around the edges.

The night you tell her is cold.

You’re sitting on her couch after a win, both of you still buzzing from the energy. She’s sprawled across the cushions with a hoodie half-zipped, feet in your lap. You’re nursing a ginger ale and trying to ignore the way her laugh makes your chest ache.

And then she asks, softly, “Who was she?”

You blink. “What?”

Kate’s eyes stay on yours. “The one who still lives in the way you look at sunsets. And coffee. And dog parks.”

You stare at her for a moment. “Her name’s Azzi.”

Kate nods. Doesn’t speak. Just waits.

You tell her about the mornings. The silence. The way it ended before it ended.

You don’t cry. Not this time.

When you finish, Kate doesn’t say anything profound.

She just shifts closer and takes your hand.

And you realize you’re not waiting anymore.

You’re healing.

It doesn’t happen all at once. Nothing worth keeping ever does.

It happens the way sunlight finds the edges of your window before you’re ready to wake. The way laughter creeps into your chest when you least expect it. The way Kate doesn’t ask for pieces of you—you just start giving them.

You think the shift starts the night she asks if she can stay.

“You look exhausted,” you tell her as she kicks her shoes off in your entryway.

Kate sighs dramatically. “We had film, weights, and media today. One more question about how it feels to be an underdog and I might retire.”

You chuckle. “It’s week two of the season.”

“Exactly. Premature burnout is real.”

You raise an eyebrow as she flops onto your couch like she owns it.

“You want dinner or sympathy?”

“Both,” she mumbles into a pillow.

You order Thai food.

She helps you clean up even though she didn’t lift a finger to cook, and afterward, you both end up sitting on the floor with your backs against the couch, legs stretched out in front of you, her shoulder brushing yours like it's always meant to be there.

Somewhere between the second can of La Croix and you gently wiping curry sauce off her chin, she yawns.

And you say it—quiet, instinctive, “You can stay, if you want.”

Kate’s eyes flick up to yours. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She sleeps in your bed that night.

Fully clothed. A soft snore. The dog curls up at her feet like he already knows.

You lie awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths. It’s not romantic. It’s not even new. But it feels like something coming home.

After that, it becomes a pattern.

A rhythm.

She stays sometimes. Not always. Just when the air feels heavier and neither of you wants to say goodbye at the door. There’s no sex. No confessions. Just shared toothpaste, mismatched socks, and the way she knows how to fill the silence without crowding it.

She never kisses you.

Not until you’re ready.

It’s raining when it finally happens.

You’re both sitting on the balcony of your apartment, knees pulled up, mugs in hand. The city lights blink soft in the fog. There’s music playing faintly from inside—something mellow and wordless, like a thought that hasn’t formed yet.

Kate’s eyes are on the sky.

“Did you ever think it’d be like this?” she asks.

You glance over. “What?”

“Growing up. Getting older. The parts they don’t prepare you for.”

You think about it.

“No,” you admit. “I thought it would be simpler. Happier.”

Kate hums. “Me too.”

You sip your tea. “Are you happy now?”

She looks at you for a long moment. Then sets her mug down.

“I’m trying,” she says. “But sometimes it feels like I’m waiting for something I haven’t named yet.”

Your breath catches. “Me too.”

And she kisses you.

It’s soft. Intentional. No fireworks, no dramatic movie score. Just her lips on yours—gentle, reverent, like she’s asking permission and promising not to run.

You don’t pull away.

When it breaks, her forehead rests against yours.

“You okay?” she whispers.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Did that feel okay?”

You meet her eyes.

“It felt like the first thing in a long time that didn’t hurt.”

Afterward, nothing changes all at once.

You don’t suddenly start calling her your girlfriend. You don’t delete old photos or stop dreaming about a life you almost had with someone else. But you do start saying goodnight with a kiss. You start looking forward to grocery trips together. You start smiling at the sound of your door unlocking at the end of a long day.

And when you cry—on a Wednesday afternoon for no reason at all—Kate doesn’t ask you to explain. She just holds you, murmuring quiet things into your hair like, “You don’t have to be okay every day,” and, “I’m not going anywhere.”

One night, as you lie curled into her chest, you whisper, “Do you ever feel like we’re building something with pieces that broke off other things?”

Kate runs her fingers through your hair.

“All the time,” she murmurs. “But that doesn’t make it any less real.”

You press your face into her shoulder and breathe her in—clean laundry, mint, and something that already feels like home.

You still think about Azzi sometimes. But it’s not a wound anymore. It’s just a scar.

And tonight, you’re not living in a memory. You’re living in the moment.

With Kate.

It doesn’t happen in a moment. You don’t wake up one day and stop thinking about her. That would be too easy.

Instead, it fades.

A little more every day.

You notice it in the quiet first. The way your thoughts no longer drift toward the “what if.” The way you go a full morning without remembering how Azzi used to take her coffee. The way you catch yourself smiling at nothing in particular — just Kate’s toothbrush next to yours. Her flannel thrown over the back of your desk chair. The way she hums when she cooks eggs.

You stop dreaming about the past because you're finally living something that feels like a future.

It hits you, slowly, that Azzi doesn’t live here anymore.

Not in your apartment.

Not in your chest.

Not in your every thought.

She was your before.

But Kate… Kate is your after.

And you’re starting to realize after doesn’t mean lesser.

It means survived.

It means stayed.

The first game you go to, she doesn’t know you’re there.

Kate had brushed it off during breakfast that morning. “It’s just preseason. Nobody comes to preseason.”

You didn’t argue.

You just bought tickets anyway, because the truth is, watching her play feels like watching the sun crack open a storm.

You sit in the third row behind the bench, hoodie up, coffee in hand, sunglasses hiding your face even though you’re indoors. She doesn't spot you during warmups. Doesn’t even glance into the crowd. She’s too focused. In the zone. Fierce and fluid, her jersey clinging to her shoulders like it was stitched to her skin.

The game is fast-paced. Tight. She plays like she’s been doing this her whole life.

You find yourself yelling — not just cheering, yelling — every time she makes a three.

A guy behind you laughs. “You her sister or something?”

You grin. “Or something.”

When the Valkyries win in overtime and she’s mobbed by teammates, she finally scans the crowd.

You wave once.

She stops.

Mouth open.

Then she smiles — big and bright and real — and blows you a kiss in front of thousands.

“You came.”

That’s the first thing she says when she barrels through your door that night, still in her post-game sweats and ponytail.

“I always will.”

Kate drops her bag, walks right up to you, and wraps her arms around your neck. “I played better because of you.”

“You didn’t even know I was there until the fourth quarter.”

She leans back just enough to look at you. “Didn’t matter. I felt different. Stronger.”

“You hit five threes.”

“And I thought about you after every one.”

You shake your head, blushing. “You’re ridiculous.”

She kisses your cheek. “I’m in love.”

You blink.

She freezes.

And for the first time, she looks scared.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” she says quickly. “Not like some big thing. It just slipped out—”

You press your hand to her chest. “Say it again.”

Kate blinks. “What?”

“Say it again,” you whisper.

She breathes in. “I’m in love with you.”

Your heart catches.

Because for the first time in years, there’s no shadow in your chest. No ghost in your lungs.

Just Kate.

You take her face in your hands.

And say it.

“I’m in love with you too.”

The moving in part isn’t dramatic either.

It’s just… the next step.

It starts with a toothbrush. Then her record player. Then the drawer in your dresser that fills up with her team-issued hoodies and Valkyries gear.

One night, while folding laundry, you hold up her socks and say, “Do you want a key?”

Kate glances over, frozen with a spoonful of peanut butter halfway to her mouth.

“A key?”

“Yeah.” You toss her the socks. “I mean, you practically live here.”

She blinks. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “I want you here.”

She sets the spoon down slowly. Walks over. Pulls you in.

“I was scared you’d never say that,” she whispers into your hair.

You look up. “I was scared I’d never feel safe enough to.”

The first night you officially live together, she makes you dinner.

It’s awful. Undercooked pasta. Over-salted sauce.

You eat every bite.

She watches you with wide eyes. “You hate it.”

“I love it,” you lie, chewing bravely. “It’s aggressively seasoned.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“I love you.”

She grins. “Okay, that works.”

You do dishes together. She sings off-key. You splash her with water.

Your dog watches from the doorway like he’s never seen you this happy.

Maybe he hasn’t.

“Did you ever think we’d get here?” you ask her one night, curled on the couch with her legs over yours, TV on mute.

She turns her head. “Here as in…”

“As in this. Together. Safe. Full.”

Kate studies your face for a long second. “I hoped. But I never expected it. I figured you’d leave a little space in your heart for her forever.”

You go quiet. “I did.”

She nods.

“But not anymore.”

Kate turns. “Really?”

You nod, voice quiet. “I don’t think about her the way I used to. Not with ache. Just… a chapter. One that had to end to make space for this.”

Kate looks like she might cry. You kiss her before she can.

Her lips taste like home.

The smell of eggs wakes you before the light does.

You shuffle into the kitchen wearing her oversized Valkyries hoodie, hair a mess, eyes half-closed.

Kate’s already flipping something in a pan, hair wet from a shower, humming off-key.

She doesn’t turn around.

“You’re up late,” she says, grinning. “That’s two days in a row. I’m starting to think you’re becoming a night owl.”

You lean your head against her shoulder. “I was up at 6:30 yesterday.”

“Only because the dog farted directly on your pillow.”

“Betrayal from within.”

She laughs, sliding eggs onto your plate. “Breakfast of champions.”

You raise a brow. “This is toast with cheese and scrambled eggs.”

“Exactly.”

You both eat at the kitchen island, barefoot, knees touching under the counter.

No phones.

No rush.

Just soft chewing and the scrape of plates and the quiet understanding that this—this—is peace.

“You’re not getting that,” you say, grabbing the double-stuffed Oreos from the cart.

Kate gasps. “You monster.”

“We have five packs at home.”

“Yeah, but these are seasonal.”

“They’re red. That’s the only difference.”

“They taste festive.”

You laugh, setting them back on the shelf. “I’ll make you homemade cookies.”

“You just want an excuse to use your stand mixer again.”

“I love my stand mixer.”

Kate bumps your hip with hers. “I love you more.”

A kid behind you groans dramatically. “Ugh, get a room.”

You and Kate just smirk at each other.

No room needed.

This aisle is enough.

Sometimes, the nights are chaotic.

Pizza boxes. Game replays. The dog racing back and forth with a sock you never meant to sacrifice.

Sometimes, they’re quiet.

Kate builds a pillow fort in the living room with you one Saturday just because she can.

You watch a movie under the blanket ceiling, her hand on your thigh, her thumb drawing slow circles that say everything she hasn’t said out loud yet.

“I’d marry you tomorrow,” she mumbles against your neck.

You laugh. “Bold of you to assume I’d say yes.”

Kate pulls back. “Oh, really?”

“Maybe I’m holding out for a ring.”

She grins. “So you would say yes.”

You kiss her. “Try me.”

She kisses you back. But nothing happens the next day. Or the next week. And you let it go. Because you trust her timing. Because loving her has never been about pressure.

Just presence.

You come home from work late.

There’s no big buildup.

No camera crew.

No rose petals on the floor.

Just Kate standing in the kitchen with flour on her cheek, baking something that smells like cinnamon and home.

You drop your bag.

Tilt your head. “What’s going on?”

She shrugs. “Felt like making cookies.”

You walk over and kiss her cheek. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know.”

There’s music playing quietly in the background. A soft guitar instrumental. One you used to play on loop when your hands shook too much to type.

Kate takes the tray out of the oven and sets it down with a soft smile.

“Want to try one?”

You nod. Grab one.

Take a bite.

Something hard clinks against your teeth.

You blink.

“What the hell—?”

Kate is already grinning.

You pull out a small, sealed plastic capsule.

You stare at her. Then back at the cookie. Then at her again.

“No,” you whisper, heart in your throat.

She’s already kneeling.

She opens the capsule.

Pulls out a delicate gold ring.

Simple. Elegant. So Kate.

“I don’t want the big moment,” she says. “I want the small ones. Forever. The boring days. The mismatched socks. The way you hum when you make tea. I want every grocery aisle and pancake morning. I want you in all your moods. I want the quiet — if you’re in it.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

“I want home,” she says. “And that’s you. So… will you marry me?”

You laugh through a tear. “You baked my proposal.”

She shrugs. “I knew you’d be hungry.”

You grab her face and kiss her so hard the flour from her cheek dusts your lips.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. A hundred times yes.”

She stands, spinning you, and you don’t remember the last time you felt this light.

The dog barks. The oven beeps again.

The world keeps spinning.

But you — you’re still in her arms, saying yes.

You’re a few months into married life when the question starts to surface — not like an explosion, but like mist curling under the door.

It’s not a moment. It’s a million of them.

It’s Kate falling asleep on your chest mid-movie with your hand resting low on her stomach. It’s watching her at a Valkyries fan event, signing a little girl’s jersey and kneeling to tie her shoelace like she’s been someone’s mom forever. It’s you looking up from your laptop one morning, seeing her reading an article titled “10 Things No One Tells You About IVF”, and quietly bookmarking it.

It’s not if anymore.

It’s when.

You’re folding laundry together on the living room rug, legs criss-crossed, piles of socks between you.

Kate holds up a tiny onesie.

You frown. “Why do we have that?”

“It’s from when your niece visited.”

“You kept it?”

She shrugs. “It’s soft.”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

The moment stretches, long and open and weightless.

You speak first. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

Kate sets the onesie down carefully. “Me too.”

You swallow. “For how long?”

“A while,” she admits. “Since before we got married.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to rush you.”

You look at her. “Kate… nothing about this feels rushed.”

She exhales slowly. “Okay. So what do we do next?”

You smile.

“We figure it out.”

The research phase is brutal. Endless acronyms. Clinic visits. Folders full of pamphlets.

You talk about adoption.

You talk about IVF.

You talk about sperm donors, legal rights, insurance loopholes, parental leave.

Kate makes a spreadsheet.

You make a playlist called “Baby Fever”.

Your dog seems to know something’s happening. He stays close, rests his head on your lap more often.

One night, Kate’s curled up against you on the couch, her fingers tracing your thigh under the blanket.

“What if I’m not good at it?” she asks quietly.

“At spreadsheets?”

“At being a parent.”

You tilt her chin gently so she’s looking at you.

“Kate, you’ve been taking care of me since we met.”

She smiles, but it’s fragile.

You cup her cheek. “You are steady. Patient. Kind. You lead with your heart. That’s all a kid really needs.”

Her eyes shine.

“You’ll be good too,” she whispers.

You kiss her forehead. “We’ll figure it out together.”

You both start sleeping later. Not because you’re tired. Because you're dreaming out loud more. The first time you think it’s happening, it’s a Tuesday.

Nothing dramatic. No morning sickness or glowing cheeks. Just… a pause.

A quiet shift in your body.

You’re brushing your fingers over your lower stomach while Kate folds towels on the bed. She doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you with that look — the one that’s both too careful and too full of hope.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, breaking the silence.

You shrug. “I feel different.”

Kate freezes, towel half-folded.

“Different how?”

You hesitate.

“Just… tired. And sore. And I cried at a Subaru commercial this morning.”

She puts the towel down.

You don’t say it out loud. Neither of you does.

But you feel it.

Maybe.

You lie in bed, feet tangled, sheets kicked off.

“What would we name her?”

Kate’s voice is soft, drowsy. “Her?”

You shrug. “Just feels like a girl.”

Kate hums. “I like Avery.”

You smile. “I like Eliza.”

“We sound like we’re picking out names for a dog.”

You glance at the dog asleep on the foot of the bed.

“He is named Pancake.”

“Fair.”

You roll onto your side. “Would you want to carry, or…?”

She blinks. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“I think I want to.”

“Yeah?”

You nod. “I want to know what it’s like. To feel her kick. To know I brought her into the world.”

Kate’s hand slides to your stomach, warm and steady. “You’re gonna be so hot pregnant.”

You snort. “That’s your takeaway?”

“I will be unhinged. Emotionally. Physically. Biblically.”

You throw a pillow at her.

She catches it, laughing, then pulls you back in and kisses your forehead. “You’re going to be a great mom.”

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a dream anymore.

It feels real.

The first test comes three days later.

Negative.

You stare at the single line like it betrayed you.

Kate sits beside you on the edge of the tub. Doesn’t say anything for a long time.

You finally speak, voice small. “I really thought this was it.”

She nods. “Me too.”

You lean into her shoulder, forehead resting against her collarbone. She wraps her arms around you and rubs slow circles into your back.

“We’re okay,” she whispers. “This doesn’t mean anything. Just one try.”

You nod.

But the ache stays.

Not disappointment — not exactly.

Just the weight of almost.

The second time, it’s worse. Your period’s a week late. You don’t tell her right away. You can’t bear to watch the hope bloom in her eyes again if it’s only going to wilt. But she notices anyway.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says, one night, over pasta.

You poke at your food. “Just tired.”

“Work tired or something else tired?”

You hesitate too long.

Kate sets her fork down.

“Babe.”

“I didn’t want to get ahead of anything,” you say. “But it’s been a week. I didn’t want to say it out loud and jinx it.”

She’s already reaching for your hand. “Can I be excited now?”

You nod.

She squeezes your hand tight.

You take the test two mornings later.

Kate’s in the kitchen making coffee. She doesn’t hover. She knows you like to be alone.

You stare at the stick for ten straight minutes before the second line never comes.

It stays blank.

Stark.

Silent.

You walk into the kitchen with the test still in your hand.

Kate sees your face.

“Oh,” she says.

That’s all.

Just, “oh.”

You nod.

She doesn’t cry.

You do.

Just a little.

Into her hoodie, against her chest.

She holds you while the coffee pot beeps behind you.

“Maybe next month,” she says softly, but even she doesn’t sound convinced.

You whisper, “I don’t want to feel like this every month.”

And that — that makes her cry.

Just a tear or two. Quiet.

Because you both want this so badly it aches.

Because you know it’s not a promise. Not for people like you. Not even with science and love and timing on your side.

Later that night, you’re curled together on the couch. The dog is asleep. The TV’s playing some documentary neither of you are really watching.

Kate strokes your hair.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hum. “Yeah.”

“If it never happens… if we keep trying and trying and it never works…”

You look up.

“I’ll still choose you,” she says. “Every time.”

You press your face to her chest and whisper, “You’re already everything.”

Kate finds you in the kitchen at 2 a.m., wrapped in a blanket, nursing a glass of water you don’t remember pouring.

She doesn’t speak at first.

Just pads over in her fuzzy socks and wraps her arms around you from behind.

You lean into her.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you whisper.

Kate rests her chin on your shoulder. “Then don’t. We’ll stop.”

You turn to look at her. “You don’t mean that.”

She shrugs. “I mean… I want this. With you. But if you need to stop, we stop.”

You stare at her for a long moment.

“Tell me why we’re doing this,” you whisper.

Kate’s eyes are soft but certain. “Because I’ve seen the way you hold our friends’ babies. Because you tear up when you see toddlers in bookstores. Because I’ve seen how gently you love things. And because I want to raise someone with you who knows that kind of love.”

You look down at your hands.

“Do you still believe it’ll happen?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I still believe in us. And that’s enough to try again.”

You let the silence sit between you. “Okay. One more time.”

You don’t want to take the test.

Not because you don’t want to know. But because this is the last morning you still could be pregnant. Before the world says yes or no. Before it becomes fact.

There’s something sacred about this space — this limbo between believing and knowing. Between maybe and mama.

Kate’s still asleep when you slip out of bed, pulling her hoodie on over your tank top. The apartment is dark except for the faint glow of sunrise seeping under the blinds.

You pad barefoot into the bathroom. You take the test. You set it on the edge of the sink.

And you wait. Heart pounding. Eyes closed. You don’t look at it right away. You brush your teeth. You pet the dog.

You check your email, even though there’s nothing there but a newsletter from that baby site you accidentally subscribed to months ago.

Then you go back. You pick it up.

Two lines.

Two.

Not faint. Not tentative.

Clear.

Positive.

You don’t breathe for three whole seconds.

Then you sit on the floor.

And cry.

Kate finds you like that.

Hunched in the corner of the bathroom, clutching the test like it’s breakable, tears tracking silently down your cheeks.

She doesn’t panic.

She knows you.

Instead, she kneels in front of you, eyes scanning yours.

You hold the test up.

She reads it.

And for a long, long moment, neither of you speak.

“…You’re pregnant?”

Your lip trembles. “I’m pregnant.”

Kate lets out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

She cups your face in both hands, pressing kiss after kiss to your forehead, your nose, your wet cheeks, your lips.

“You’re—you—you did it. Holy shit, babe.”

You nod.

Still stunned.

“I thought I imagined it,” you whisper. “Every symptom. Every ache. I thought I was doing that thing where my body fakes it again.”

Kate shakes her head, forehead resting against yours. “Not this time. You’re really pregnant.”

You let the words sit in the air.

Later, you're on the couch in her lap, wrapped in a blanket, both still in pajamas.

You hold the test between you like it’s a photograph of the future.

“I think I’m still in shock,” you admit, voice quiet.

Kate kisses your temple. “We’ve been preparing for this so long… and now that it’s real, it doesn’t feel real.”

“What if I mess this up?”

“You won’t.”

“What if something goes wrong?”

“We’ll handle it. Together.”

You rest your head on her shoulder. “What if I fall apart?”

“I’ll hold you.”

You glance up. “What if I need pancakes at 3 a.m.?”

Kate grins. “You’ll have pancakes at 2:59.”

You laugh, finally.

The first real, full one in weeks.

Kate pulls you closer, palm resting over your belly.

“I love you,” she whispers. “And I love them. Already.”

Your hand covers hers.

And for the first time — it really sinks in.

You’re not waiting anymore.

You’re beginning.

You decide to tell your people together.

It feels right.

You’ve kept so much close to your chest for so long — the early attempts, the heartbreak, the negative tests — but this time is different.

This time, it’s not a maybe.

This time, you get to celebrate.

And you want to do it with the people who carried you both when you couldn’t carry yourselves.

You and Kate settle in on the couch with your laptop propped up on a pillow and the dog nestled between you like he’s also in on the secret.

Kelsey Plum joins first, her camera at an odd angle, her head half cut off.

“I swear I know how Zoom works,” she mutters, adjusting. “Hi, gays.”

“Hi, chaos,” Kate says.

“Where’s the party?”

Then A’ja Wilson joins, sunglasses on indoors, sipping from a water bottle roughly the size of a toddler.

“Alright, what’s this emergency meeting?” she asks. “Y’all getting matching tattoos or something?”

Sydney Colson joins last, mid-laugh. “Please say you’re starting a reality show. Or a pyramid scheme. Or both.”

Kate smirks. “Better.”

“I knew it,” Sydney says, raising both hands like she just got baptized.

You glance at Kate.

She nods.

You hold up the ultrasound photo.

There’s a beat.

Then Kelsey screams.

“NO. YOU’RE—”

“I’m pregnant,” you say, already tearing up again.

Sydney gasps. A’ja stands up and disappears off-screen entirely. You hear the thump of her running around her house.

“Y’all really—?!” Sydney is blinking hard, trying to recover. “Wait. Wait. Is this for real?”

“For real,” Kate confirms, brushing a tear off her cheek. “We just hit eight weeks. Everything looks good so far.”

“I’m gonna cry,” Kelsey says, already tearing up. “Like, real-life tears. Y’all did it. Y’all really did it.”

A’ja finally returns. “I had to grab my fan,” she says, dramatically waving herself. “I’m emotional and sweating. My girls are gonna be moms?!”

You nod, overwhelmed.

Sydney leans forward. “So when do we get to be the drunk aunties?”

“Immediate effect,” you say. “Full clearance.”

Kelsey snorts. “Don’t play, I already got tiny Nikes in my cart.”

“I want the baby to call me ‘God-tier Auntie Sydney,’” Sydney says.

Kate rolls her eyes. “We’ll see how they feel about titles once they’re verbal.”

“Can I call dibs on introducing them to basketball?” A’ja asks.

“You’ll have to fight Kelsey,” you say.

“You know I’d win,” Kelsey says, deadpan.

Sydney screams.

It takes twenty minutes for the call to calm down. You sit there, teary, hand in Kate’s, watching them love you from across the country.

It feels like your baby is already being welcomed home.

“You’re glowing,” Kate says one morning, watching you sip orange juice in her old Iowa hoodie, which now barely fits over the swell of your lower belly.

You blink at her. “I’m sweating.”

“Glowing.”

“I haven’t slept in three days. I cried because a pigeon walked into traffic.”

Kate nods, totally unfazed. “Glowing.”

You roll your eyes, but inside?

You like it.

You like that she’s seeing you in ways you’re still learning to see yourself.

You’re brushing your teeth when it happens.

A faint, fluttery pressure.

You freeze. You wait. You press your hand against your belly and whisper, “Kate?”

She’s in the other room. “Yeah?”

You’re still frozen. “I think…”

She appears in the doorway, toothbrush still in her mouth, eyes wide.

You grab her hand, place it low on your stomach, and wait.

Then another flick. Soft, like a tiny stretch.

Kate gasps so hard she chokes on her toothpaste.

“OHMYGOD!”

You both start laughing, clutching each other, your mouth still full of minty foam, her eyes wide with tears.

“She kicked,” you whisper.

“She kicked.”

Kate drops to her knees right there on the bathroom tile and kisses your belly.

“You already know how to make an entrance,” she whispers to your bump. “Just like your mom.”

You raise an eyebrow.

Kate winks. “Not you. The dramatic one.”

It becomes a nightly thing.

Kate talks to your belly.

Not cutesy stuff, either — actual conversations.

“Hey, baby. So your mom cried because we ran out of pickles. And then again when we found more pickles.”

“She lies. I did not cry.”

“She wept. She sobbed. She almost named you Vlasic.”

You kick her from the couch.

Later, in bed, she speaks in hushed tones.

“Your mom is braver than she knows. She carries both of us, you know? And I think you’re going to be like her.”

You pretend to be asleep, but your fingers curl around hers.

You’re in a bookstore, wandering the children’s section, when Kate pulls a book off the shelf and reads the title out loud.

“‘Mama, Do You Love Me?’”

You nod.

She opens it, reads a few lines silently, and then quietly says, “I’m gonna read this to her someday.”

You stare at her.

At her calm, certain face. At the way her fingers graze the pages like they’re already part of your baby’s life.

And that’s when it hits you.

Not just that you’re pregnant. Not just that you’re having a daughter. But that you get to raise her with Kate.

And suddenly the past doesn’t hurt anymore. Not in the same way. You are not a broken thing building something new.

You are whole.

And you’re about to bring someone into the world who will be loved from the very beginning.

Sydney Colson is in charge of the games.

Which is the first mistake.

She shows up in a tiara and a “Hot Aunt” sash and hands out whistles with rules like, “If anyone says the word baby, you lose a point.”

Kate immediately says, “Baby.”

Sydney blows her whistle in her face.

Kelsey Plum is in the corner judging the food table like it’s a Michelin restaurant.

A’ja makes a playlist called Womb Vibes that includes Destiny’s Child, Sade, and one rogue Wu-Tang track.

Tiffany Hayes wins “Who Knows Kate Best” with disturbing accuracy.

Kate’s mom, Jill, brings a homemade quilt and starts crying as soon as you open it.

Kate’s sister, Kennedy, hands you a framed photo from the day you found out you were pregnant — the one Kate secretly took of you crying on the bathroom floor, holding the test like it was the whole world.

You cry for most of the afternoon.

And when the guests leave and you’re surrounded by tiny socks and bottles and notes scribbled in pastel-colored cards, you whisper, “It feels too good to be real.”

Kate kneels in front of you, hands resting on your knees.

“It is real,” she says. “Because we made it.”

You wake up to pressure.

Not pain, not at first — just a dull weight in your lower back, like something heavy settling inside your body. The clock on the nightstand glows just past 3 a.m. Kate is still asleep beside you, one hand draped over your stomach, her breathing soft and even.

You lie there for a while, not moving. Not yet. Not sure if it’s real.

Another wave comes. Sharper this time. More insistent.

Your breath catches. You close your eyes.

It’s happening.

It’s finally happening.

By the time you gently shake Kate awake, the pressure has turned to pain — not unbearable, but growing. She blinks at you, confused at first, and then wide-eyed as she sees your expression.

“Is it time?” she whispers.

You nod. “I think so.”

She’s instantly out of bed, already in motion. Her calmness doesn’t mask the tremble in her voice when she says, “Okay. Okay. Hospital bag. I’ll get the car ready.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, both hands cradling your belly. “Don’t forget the playlist.”

She freezes, mid-sock. “Are you serious right now?”

You give a shaky smile. “Contractions Vibes was your idea.”

Kate exhales a breathless laugh, kisses your forehead, and disappears down the hall, mumbling, “God, I love you.”

The drive to the hospital is quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and the soft shuffle of your breath. You grip the side handle of the passenger seat and wince through another contraction. Kate reaches over and squeezes your hand. Her thumb runs circles over your knuckles the whole way.

You’ve both rehearsed this moment so many times, but now that you’re living it, everything feels strangely distant — like you’re watching it happen from outside your body.

Kate speaks gently as she pulls into the parking lot. “You’re doing so well, babe. We’re almost there.”

You nod, but your hands are shaking.

You’re not sure if it’s fear or adrenaline or both.

In the hospital room, the air is cold and sterile, the fluorescent lights too bright. Nurses move quickly around you, efficient but kind. Kate stays by your side, her hand never leaving yours. The pain builds with each contraction — sharp and tightening, like your body is folding in on itself. You grip the sheets, the bed rail, her fingers. Anything to ground yourself.

“Breathe with me,” Kate says, her forehead pressed to yours. “In and out. Just like that. I’ve got you.”

Her voice is the only thing that cuts through the pain.

Time becomes something elastic — it stretches, contracts, loses shape. Hours pass, or maybe minutes. You’re not sure. You only know that your body is opening, splitting, preparing. You’re afraid. You tell Kate that. Quietly. In the moments between.

“I’m scared,” you whisper into her shoulder.

“I know,” she says. “Me too. But we’re doing this. Together.”

She wipes sweat from your brow, kisses your knuckles, murmurs encouragement even when you curse, even when you sob, even when you scream through the pain. She doesn’t flinch. She just stays.

That’s what love does.

When it’s time to push, the room shifts again. More people. More light. The midwife’s voice is calm but firm.

“You’re doing great. You’re almost there.”

You dig your heels into the bed. You bear down. You scream. Kate’s hand anchors you, and her voice is in your ear the entire time.

“You’re so strong. I’m right here. You’ve got this. I love you. I love you.”

You don’t know how long it takes. You don’t care. You only care about what comes after.

And finally, a cry.

One sharp, perfect cry that breaks something open in your chest.

You collapse back against the pillows, breathless, exhausted, shaking.

The baby is placed on your chest, tiny and warm and slippery and real.

She cries, and so do you.

Kate’s crying too. She’s covering her mouth with both hands, staring at the little girl in your arms like she’s witnessing a miracle.

And maybe she is.

“She’s here,” you whisper.

Kate nods, brushing tears from your cheeks. “She’s so beautiful.”

You both stare at her — blinking, squirming, perfect. She grips your finger, impossibly small.

“Hi, baby,” you say, voice thick. “I’m your mama.”

Kate leans in. “And I’m your mom.”

Your daughter yawns, already content. Like she knew this was home all along.

the room quiets.

The nurses step out.

It’s just the three of you now.

Kate lies beside you, one arm cradling your shoulders, the other resting gently over the baby sleeping on your chest. You’re both quiet. Not from exhaustion — though that’s there — but from reverence.

This is the beginning of something holy.

You whisper into the stillness, “We did it.”

Kate kisses your temple. “You did it.”

You shake your head. “We did.”

She looks down at your daughter.

And then back at you.

And smiles.

You’re at Golden Gate Park with your kids on a warm Saturday afternoon, sunlight slicing through the trees in golden slivers. Your daughter is three, your son one—both wrapped in the kind of laughter that makes every sleepless night worth it. You sit on the bench nearby, coffee in hand, sneakers scuffed from the short walk over, eyes tracking their every move.

You’re still not used to how full your life is. But you love it.

“Mommy!” your daughter yells, waving wildly. “Doggie!”

You look up, smiling. “Where?”

She points.

And that’s when you see her.

Azzi.

She’s walking along the trail with a golden retriever bounding in front of her, a leash still dragging behind. Her hoodie is baggy, hair tied up, sunglasses low on her nose. She bends down, laughing softly as she grabs the leash—then straightens.

She sees you.

Everything stops.

Your breath catches. It’s not a punch to the chest. It’s a slow, deep inhale of something you buried a long time ago. Something that still smells like fall mornings in Connecticut and heartache at 3 a.m.

You meet her eyes.

And Azzi… she doesn’t look away.

You don’t move at first. Neither does she.

You just look at each other—six years of silence coiling in the air between you, humming like a wire too taut.

Azzi makes the first step.

“Hey,” she says. Her voice is soft. Hesitant.

You nod, standing slowly. “Hey.”

[astro-tag-9]

Rising Signs

Aries Rising: You are born with more ambition than you may always know what to do with. You wear it for the world to see. You are easily yourself 100% of the time. You have confidence in almost everything you do, even if you don't know what you are doing. You aren't afraid to make mistakes and you take every opportunity thrown your way. Taurus Rising: You find ways to love when other people would not. You are even borderline obsessed with love and everything to do with it. Your emotional goals take priority over your physical goals on a regular basis. Once you have obtained, or are mutually in love with somebody, it is then that you can actually focus on obtaining physical goals of yours. When you are in love, your universe seems to re-center to your love. Gemini Rising: You hold a more fierce presence than you are aware. You are aloof but the center of every party. You know how to be social more naturally than most. You tend to make friends so easily, and end up being the reason how many other people make great connections. You tend to be the glue in any of your friend groups. Cancer Rising: You have a default sweet natured look to you that people notice right away. You may often feel like people around you are always trying to cater to your wants or needs. You just draw in people who are natural givers. But you become aware of this at some point in your life. Just make sure you don't abuse this, but always appreciate it. Leo Rising: You hold strong physical features that capture attention from many people when you first meet them. Your appearance is typically "loud" (in a good way). You know how to demand attention, and enjoy holding the status as the most powerful person in the room. Virgo Rising: If you ask any of your friends they would say you live off the grid 90% of the time to most of the world, and really keep your day-to-day circle as small as could be. You only prefer big crowds if they are so big that nobody is really noticing you, and you only prefer small groups when it's your day 1 homies that don't put you on the spot or make small talk. Libra Rising: You've probably never not looked good a day in your life. You truly have the most natural glow to yourself where with little to no effort, you are always a shining star. However, you never fail to remind people that you are more than meets the eye. Scorpio Rising: Even in the best moments of your life, somehow chaos, on even a minor level creeps in. Overtime you learn how to control it and your emotions to not let it get the best of you. Many envy your cool and calm, collected demeanor when they see you tackle this chaos. Sagittarius Rising: You know everything about everyone. Everybody's go-to friend to tell secrets to or trauma dump on. However, what makes you great at this role, is your ability to take it, and then immediately know how to cheer them up afterwards. Your ideas are endless, and you are always thinking of new things to do. Capricorn Rising: You will never let somebody be alone when you can feel that they shouldn't be. You very much go where ground is hollow, and work on filling in the dirt. You are driven to these places in people's lives. Sometimes it may feel more stress than it's worth, but you are more impactful on people's lives than you know. Aquarius Rising: I cannot stress this enough, STAY INTO YOUR ART! Creative energy is flowing through you at all times, you just have to find ways to always tap into it. Don't let your art be ruined or tainted. Always keep creating. Never let your ideas go without bringing them to life. Pisces Rising: You are always floating along like a river stream. Never having a clear destination, just going where it takes you. You form many different friends in completely different groups. A little of this and a little of that. Your friends are a total melting pot of personalities, each bringing out different sides of you. Just do not lose your own identity in which friend group you are hanging with at the moment.

[aetherraeys]

a night to remember

(pt2, pt3 x)

sirius black x afab!reader ⊹ 4.2k

cw ⟢ alcohol, swearing, sirius has a motorbike, drunk!reader, partying, drinking games, reader is a bit reckless

most of the time you avoided parties, you warned her that it was for good reason, marlene doesn't believe you could do any harm. she was so wrong, watching you in action as you make sirius black your first victim.

a/n: not proofread, im tempted to make a part two of this bcs i want biker sirius so BAD RARARARARAR also a bit dialogue heavy sorry x

Maybe, your first mistake was letting Marlene persuade you into attending this party her friend was holding. She’d been slowly wearing you down for weeks, planting the seed in your head ages before she popped the question.

And when you completely refused the first time, she didn’t push—oh no, that wasn’t her style. Instead, when she next came over—she subtly reintroduced the idea while handing you a pastry she’d bought enroute. You still didn’t entertain the idea, much prefering a night-in the mingling with drunk people, but you enjoyed the sweet treat.

Unfortunetly though, you were a weak soul, and she exactly how to sweeten you up, passing by your work when you were on your break, hinting at the idea again, this time you seemed very so slightly more agreeable. Finally, the straw that broke the camels back was when she came over to your small studio, matcha in hand, dvd copy of a film you’d been itching to see, and a bag of snacks.

Bringing it up again, this time with a little anecode—talking about the sweet girl who helped her secure her tattooing apprenticeship, Dorcas, and saying she couldn’t possibly go without her best friend.

With an exasperated sigh, you caved.

You had to commend her commitment to the cause.

Or maybe your real mistake was finally arriving at the party, only for Marlene—relentless as ever—to push a drink into your hand. "It’ll work wonders for the nerves," she assured you. "Everyone needs a bit of liquid courage."

You eyed the shot glass like it had personally offended you. "Marlene, I—"

"One," she cut in smoothly. "Just one. You’ll barely feel it."

That was a lie.

The drink burned as you forced yourself to swallow, a shiver running down your spine as a twisted grimace stuck to your face. Marlene just laughed, handing you another shot with a loud, "Bottoms up!"

And gods, you hated how quickly the liquor hit you. A slow, creeping warmth unfurled in your chest, blurring the sharp edges of the world, making your limbs feel weightless. The music pulsed through the floorboards, and suddenly, the crowd didn’t seem so unbearable.

If you were sober, you’d have scolded yourself, too easily coming the drunk that you dreaded being around—it wasn’t that you were messy or angry, no. You, thankfully, weren’t an emotional drunk either.

You were a friendly drunk.

The kind that skipped around with a too big, lazy grin pastered on your face for no reason, laugh with a bellow at silly things, and struck up conversations with strangers as if you’d known them your whole life.

You’d become a liability, not that Marlene minded, she lived for moments when you’d step out of your skin. And of course she knew you were fun, that’s why you were friends, but you reserved that side of you for a select few—clearly unless there was alcohol involved.

With the now, tipsy warmth curling through your veins, you found yourself nodding along enthusiastically to a conversation you hadn’t even been fully listening to.

At least this time it was with a familiar face.

You’d coincidentally met James when you’d called Marlene in need of a jumpstart, and she came to save the day with him, friendship easily blossoming between you.

He definetly wasn’t as drunk as you, but getting there for sure. He stood beside you, animated as ever—you’d had the brilliant idea of perching precariously on the edge of the sofa, swaying back and forths, swinging and kicking your legs out recklessly.

James had somehow fallen to the role of your bodyguard, not that he minded—finding you wildly entertaining, such a stark contrast from your usual self. He was just ensuring you didn’t cause too much chaos to those around you.

Though even when you did, all it took was one innocent wolfish grin and a candied giggle, to get away with it.

You still thought you had wits about you, vaguely aware of Marlene laughing at you from across the room.

It was all going quite well—until someone suggested Ring of Fire.

At first, you’d hesitated, knowing your tendancy to be a sore loser, but James had thrown an arm around you, grinning wildly, and Marlene had shouted something about how you needed to experience a proper drinking game at least once in your life. And well—you didn’t take much persuading.

Now, you were thoroughly trapped, wedged between James and another girl whose name you’d already forgotten, with a circle of people watching as you reached for a card from the makeshift pile in the center. Your fingers fumbled slightly, and James snorted.

“Steady there, love,” he teased, nudging you. “You pull a king, and we’re all doomed.”

You squinted at him, then at the card in your hand—a five. A chorus of cheers erupted around the group as someone yelled, “Five is for guys!” and the men groaned before collectively downing their drinks. James, ever the showman, made a dramatic display of it, throwing his head back with an exaggerated gasp before slinging an arm over your shoulders again.

You were well and truly out of your depth, the alcohol buzzing around your chest plesantly, your cheeks aching from laughing so much.

And then the front door swung open.

You’d never seen him before, knew absolutely nothing about him—but boy did you want to. There was just something about him, striking in the way he commanded the attention of the entire room without trying.

He didn’t so much as walk into the room to he did claim it, a lazy smirk already tugging at his lips as he surveyed the scene before him. Dressed in that same effortless, disheveled charm, hair pulled back into a low bun, helmet in hand, clad in leather, jacket slung over his shoulders like he owned the place.

Trapped by James at your side, your eyes remained fixed on Sirius, watching as he scanned the room—pausing, briefly, when his gaze landed on you.

You were shamelessly staring.

Dorcas couldn’t help it, the moment too good, the opportunity had practically fallen directly into her lap—begging to be taken.

“Well, well,” she mused under her breath, amusement thick in her voice. “Looks like someone’s got an admirer.”

You tore your gaze away, face burning, but it was too late—Sirius had already caught you. And judging by the slow, knowing grin spreading across his face, he wasn’t about to let it go unnoticed.

Sirius, with all the confidence of someone who knew exactly how good he looked, strolled over and dropped down into the circle like he’d been there all along. Someone handed him a drink without question—because of course they did—and he took a lazy sip before glancing at the pile of cards in the center.

"Jumping in late, Black?" James quipped, nudging him with his foot.

"Had to make an entrance, didn’t I?" Sirius drawled, flashing an easy smirk

If there was less liquor running through your bloodstream, you’d have been painfully embarrased still, you just managed to roll your eyes, the flush on your face slowly fading.

The game continued, rounds passing in a blur of drinks and laughter, and then—Marlene pulled a queen.

A wicked grin stretched across her face.

"Question round," someone cheered, already bracing for the chaos.

Dorcas, sitting cross-legged beside her, tilted her head, a slow smirk curling at the edges of her lips. "Alright, Marls," she mused, voice sweet and deceivingly innocent. "How many piercings do you have?"

Marlene blinked, clearly caught off guard. Then, after a moment of thought, she grinned proudly. "Nine."

A beat of silence. Then, a chorus of impressed murmurs.

"Hmmm" her voice adopting a skeptical and accusitory intonation, raising a single finger, " I only count seven."

There was a half-step of silence, allowing Marlene to take a large swig from her glass, leaning back confidently, chest puffed—”I’ve got nine.”

The group erupted.

Hoots and hollers filled the air, people whistling, James cackling beside you as someone banged a fist against the floor in delight. Marlene simply sipped her drink, looking unbearably smug as Dorcas sat back, expression nothing short of victorious.

"I knew it," she said, smirking.

"You minx," James gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. "And here I thought I knew everything about you!"

"You've gotta leave some mystery, Jamie," Marlene teased, winking.

You laughed along with the rest of them, but you felt Sirius shift beside you, an amused huff of laughter escaping him. When the cheers finally settled, it was his turn.

With the air of someone who was far too entertained by all of this, he turned his gaze onto James. "Alright, Prongs," he drawled, tapping his fingers against his bottle. "How many tattoos have you got?"

James sputtered mid-sip, nearly choking on his drink. "What—?!"

Sirius grinned. "Come on, be honest. We’re among friends here."

James set his drink down, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. "You wish you knew, Pads."

"That’s not a number," Dorcas sing-songed, leaning forward. "Give us a number, Potter."

James narrowed his eyes, clearly debating his options. Finally, he huffed. "Three."

The room went silent for a split second before absolute chaos ensued.

You turned to him, betrayed—”WHERE?!" someone shrieked.

"Liar!" Marlene accused, pointing dramatically.

Sirius, looking thoroughly entertained, leaned back on his hands, his grin positively wolfish. "Well, well, well."

James was grinning now, clearly enjoying the uproar he’d caused. He waggled his eyebrows at the group, leaning back against the sofa with the air of someone who knew he held all the power in this moment.

"Three?" Marlene repeated, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. "Three?"

James simply raised his drink to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip.

Everyone knew about his arm tattoo, Dorcas having done the fineline work herself, now watching him like she was trying to decipher a particularly tricky puzzle.

"Okay, okay," you cut in, still giggling. "But where?"

The group leaned in, expectant.

James smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

The reaction was immediate—groans, shouts, a few cushions thrown in his direction.

"James!" Marlene practically whined, flopping onto Dorcas in defeat. "You can’t just say that and not elaborate!"

But James only shrugged, clearly reveling in his newfound mystery. "A magician never reveals his secrets."

The group was still laughing when the game moved on, but you could feel the shift in the air, the residual heat of the conversation lingering like smoke. Your tipsy mind was already running with possibilities, and judging by the way Marlene kept side-eyeing James with renewed suspicion, you weren’t the only one.

And then it was your turn.

You reached for a card, flipping it over to reveal—another queen.

A fresh round of chaos stirred.

"Oooooh," Marlene cooed, nudging you excitedly. "Alright, sweetheart, pick your victim."

Your mind swam through options, but in your slightly drunken haze, you weren’t feeling particularly cruel. You hummed in thought, gaze flickering across the group.

And then, as if pulled by some unseen force, your eyes landed on Sirius.

The second your gaze met his, a slow, knowing smirk curled at his lips.

Oh, this was dangerous—but you were already committed.

"Sirius," you said sweetly, feigning innocence. "How many people in this room have you kissed?"

A sharp, collective oooooooh echoed through the space, the energy shifting into something much more intrigued.

Sirius grinned.

James, beside you, let out a delighted cackle, clapping his hands together. "Merlin, I love this game."

Marlene gasped, eyes gleaming. "Oh, this is good."

Sirius exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering behind his eyes as he stretched his legs out, completely at ease despite the attention suddenly pinned on him. He tilted his head, pretending to think.

"Well," he mused, his voice rich with amusement, "define kissed."

More shouts, more laughter.

James practically howled. "Mate, that is not a difficult question."

"It is if you’re me," Sirius shot back smoothly.

Sirius looked at you then—directly at you—his smirk slow and teasing, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Tell you what," he murmured, leaning forward slightly, voice just loud enough for the group to hear. "Why don’t you take a guess?"

The room erupted again, an unmistakeble flush sprung to your cheeks, and everything you could've possibly said left you brain. His gaze making your brain melt more than it already had.

You were so finished.

More rounds passed, more drinks were downed, and at some point, you’d stopped keeping track of who was winning and who was just there to cause chaos.

And then you pulled a king.

The last king.

The reaction was immediate.

A loud gasp, followed by a dramatic, "Ohhh, shit!" from someone behind you. The cup in the middle—an ungodly mix of everyone’s leftover drinks—was waiting.

James’ face dropped.

You see, not only were you easily affected by alcohol, you’d spent the majority of the night backing drinks faster than your body could handle, and you weren’t of a particularly large stature—the abomination in the middle, was a full bottles worth of alcohol.

He’d been sobering up the last half hour anyway, but now, he was fully aware of what was about to happen.

“Absolutely not,” he declared, sitting up straighter, his hand already halfway to intercepting. “That is the last thing you need right now.”

You waved him off, a lopsided grin on your face. “I can handle it.”

That was with out a doubt the alcohol talking.

James knew it. You probably knew it.

But it didn’t matter, because the group was already chanting, egging you on, and you’d never been one to back down from a challenge. With a flourish, you grabbed the cup, giving James a wink before throwing it back.

It was foul.

The mix of liquor burned like fire, and you had to fight the urge to gag, blinking rapidly through the sting. The room cheered as you slammed the empty cup down, a ridiculous war cry-esque sound leaving you in triumph, but the moment you stood—legs wobbling dangerously—James knew.

You’d lost.

He reached for you, but you were already stumbling back, nearly landing on Marlene, who had to clutch your arm to steady you.

"Oh, that’s it," she howled, practically doubling over in laughter. "She’s a goner."

That traitor. She’d basically brainwashed you into coming to a party—got you smashed and was cosigning the beginning of a truly awful reign of terror.

That drink had been the finishing blow. You’d teetered over the edge and were now firmly in the reckless drunk category—something Marlene had only ever warned James about once, you always kept such a tightlid on yourself. Your friends knew that—once in a blue moon indulging in the fun things in life, moments when your friends got to see you let loose were few and far inbetween. Even for Marlene, and you’ve known her most of your life.

More than anything, it was because you weren’t the biggest fan your drunk self. Usually insighting casual chaos here and there, nothing too extreme. But after, you always felt like you’d been a chore, fearful of having ruined the night for others with your outlandish tendancies.

Even though your friends tell you that you’re really not as bad as you think you are.

Although, tonight you seem hellbend on proving them wrong.

Because now you’d disappeared.

Not literally. You were still very much in the room, but now, no one could keep track of you.

You weren’t drinking anymore—thank Merlin for that, because your bladder was full to the brim—but you were everywhere else.

One second, you were twirling in the middle of the room, grabbing strangers to spin around with you. The next, you were on the table, belting out the lyrics to the song playing—all wrong, but with such confidence that no one cared.

At some point, a layer of your clothing had come off—a jacket? A sweater?—and you’d swung it around ungracefully, whipping James in the face at least once.

“For the love of God,” he groaned, trying to wrestle it from your grip.

Sirius was watching now, equal parts entertained and mildly concerned, swirling his drink as he leaned back, eyebrows raised. Marlene and Dorcas were in stitches, watching as you flitted across the room like an untamed storm, dancing and twirling with whoever would let you. And then, just as James was considering whether or not he needed to actually intervene, he noticed something.

The person you were currently dancing with?

Not a stranger at all.

Sirius, still looking far too entertained, raised an eyebrow as you grabbed his hands, spinning him wildly. “Well, well,” he drawled, lips curling into a slow smirk as he let you drag him into the chaos. “Didn’t think I was your type, sweetheart.”

You didn’t even register the teasing lilt in his voice.

“Less talking more dancing!” you all but commanded, tugging him forward. It wasn’t long before the music began to shift. Gone were the loud, reckless beats that had fueled your earlier antics—replaced now by something smoother, sultrier. A deep bass thrummed through the room, the melody melting into something slow and seductive.

It seeped into your bloodstream, guided your movements as you swayed, your body languid and fluid, the weight of the night settling into your limbs like honey. Sirius was still there, his hands warm where they rested against your waist, fingers pressing just enough to keep you anchored, to keep you from stumbling.

You leaned into him, movements effortlessly enticing, not even trying to tempt but doing so anyway. A playful game of push and pull—dancing just out of reach before melting back into him, the alcohol making you bolder, more carefree.

His grip on you tightened instinctively when you rocked back against him, your head tipping back in laughter, body fitting against his like you belonged there. His breath hitched—just slightly—but you didn’t seem to notice, still lost in the music, in the moment, in the way the world spun around you like a hazy dream. You weren’t as untamed as before, the mellow thump of the music, allowed your heartrate to slow—the pressure of the night antics settling into your bones.

You hummed into him, less clumsy than you’d had been when you first reached for his hand, alcohol less polluting in your veins—your eyes now able to focus on him. With a hand on his neck, fingertips threaded into the stray hairs at the nape of his neck, you pulled him down towards you, lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath warm as you whispered, "I need some fresh air."

Sirius barely had time to process your words before you pulled away, slipping from his grasp with a grin and making your way toward the open doors leading to the garden. He watched as you paused at the threshold, silhouetted by the moonlight, eyes locked onto something beyond.

The pool.

The cool air hugged you so pleasantly, diffusing the heat that had been radiating off of your skin the whole evening. The surface of the water ever so light, occassional ripples—so tranquill, almost gleaming under the night sky, the water dancing with silvery reflections, beckoning you closer.

And it did call to you—so much so that you felt incline to reach for the hem of your sweater and tugged it over your head, revealing the soft fabric of your tank top beneath. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered, watching you stand prettily, skin softly illuminated by the lights in the garden. But still standing just a touch too far away.

Sirius blinked, gaze flickering back to you as you stretched, rolling your shoulders, feigning nonchalance. “Bit warm in here,” you mused.

James, horror dawning, immediately turned to Sirius. He shook his head at James, almost as if to wordlessly say, “She wouldn’t,”

But James has a pained expression, his face scrunched, with a wince and a knowing nod—affirming that, yes, you actually would.

You shimmied out of your bottoms.

Marlene gasped, Dorcas choked on her drink, and James physically recoiled. “Oh, no, no, no—"

But it was too late.

There you stood—clad in nothing but your tank top and what Sirius can’t help but notice is a very pretty set of lacy underwear, utterly unbothered as you took a step forward, toes curling against the cool tiles at the pool’s edge.

Sirius barely had the presence of mind to curse before you ran.

For a second, there was silence, all remaining eyes in the room looked to the outside.

“Oh, fuck me—"

Sirius was already moving, yanking his shirt off in one swift motion before diving in after you, water crashing around him. The water was so cold, mindnumbingly so—but when he resurfaced, hair dripping, chest heaving, scanning the pool for you—still unable to believe the situation he was in right now, trousers heavy, socks soaked, just generally soaked actually. He was quick to spot you—

You were fine.

More than fine, actually—floating on your back, eyes closed, a blissful smile on your face.

Sirius blinked. "What the fuck?" Forcing harshly out of his mouth to deter the chlorine filled water from entering his mouth.

You turned your head, grinning at him. “That was refreshing.”

"Refreshing?" he repeated, incredulous, pushing his wet hair back, stands now fell from where it was so neatly tied back before.

"You jumped in without a second thought—"

“I’m sure she thought about it, just a bit,” Marlene quipped from the sidelines, towels in hands, clearly thriving in the chaos.

James, still looking slightly pale, pinched the bridge of his nose, mumbling how this was surely going to make him die young.

You giggled, drifting closer to Sirius, who was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you’d actually done it. "Sorry to ruin your hero moment," you teased, nudging him with your foot. "But—" You tipped your head back, stretching your arms through the water lazily. "I do know how to swim, Black."

Sirius just stared at you, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, mumbling something along the lines your, ”you really are something, huh,”

The water lapped around you in gentle waves as you floated aimlessly, your limbs loose, body weightless. The shock of the cool pool had settled into a pleasant hum beneath your skin, the drunken haze in your mind softened but still present, making everything feel easier.

Your gaze, however, wasn’t on the water.

It was on him.

Sirius hoisted himself up onto the edge of the pool, arms flexing effortlessly as he pulled his weight onto the marble. The muscles in his back tensed as he leaned forward slightly, shaking out his wet hair, droplets running down his bare skin. The moonlight cast him in a silvery glow, accentuating every dip and ridge of his toned body, the inky swirls of his tattoos stark against his skin. You traced them with your eyes, shamelessly drinking him in—how the water clung to his chest, glistening; how his dark hair dripped, stray strands curling against his sharp jaw.

You swam toward him without thinking, the water parting easily as you pushed through. When you reached the pool’s edge, you rested your arms on his thighs, then let your head fall onto his lap, blinking up at him through wet lashes.

Sirius exhaled, a sharp breath, and you barely noticed how his jaw tensed.

The water had made your tank top nearly translucent, clinging to your body, the outline of your breasts painfully visible. He swallowed, throat bobbing, his usually sharp tongue failing him for a beat too long.

You remained completely oblivious, your grin lazy, gaze full of an almost innocent mischief. Your fingers trailed idly over his knee, aimless, absentminded.

“Y’know, Sirius,” you mused, your voice honeyed with liquor and warmth, “you’re really hot.”

Before he could process the words, you shifted—lifting yourself up just enough to press a soft, fleeting kiss against his lips, the taste of pool water lingering between you.

And then, just as easily as you came, you pulled back, tilting your head at him with an amused little hum, as if you had no idea what you’d just done.

Sirius stared.

Then, suddenly, he let out an incredulous laugh, the sound rich and disbelieving. He fell back, his back colliding with the cold marble of the poolside, one hand running through his dripping hair as he shook his head.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, voice laced with wry amusement, staring up at the night sky. "You're gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

[meadowfics]

new director

namgyu x f!onlyfans!reader

this is a part two to my namgyu fic linked here

warnings: minors do not interact. 18+, smut. sex work involved and included in this fic. vulgar dialogue. switch!namgyu. switch!reader. vocal namgyu. p in v unprotected. breeding kink.

a year has flown by since you and namgyu became partners, both as a couple who happened to grow as each other's best friend as well. everything has clicked into place.

you’re still fantasygalaxy on onlyfans, your online empire thriving with subscribers who can’t get enough of your photos, videos, and sultry voice calls.

the money’s steady and flowing (big bank ayyy), the work’s fun, and you’ve got it locked down. there is never in-person stuff, just digital seduction from the safety of your penthouse.

namgyu was the one exception, the only guy who’s ever crossed that line from screen to reality. he’s cool with your hustle, never bats an eye when you spend nights filming, transforming into whatever role your fans are craving.

thats one great thing about your boyfriend, he respects you outside of this work. he loves you as y/n, even though he appreciates fantasygalaxy too.

sometimes he is there just off camera, watching you while he’s still pentagon.gyu. he loves throwing cash at your content like it’s a game.

he does it half to support you, half to mess with you, like he’s staking his claim as your number-one fan.

“I gotta keep the algorithm happy,” he’ll joke, but you know he loves it. early on, you both set a hard rule: he stays out of your videos. no appearances, no hints of a boyfriend.

your subscribers, especially the men and gay women, would lose it if they knew you were taken, and neither of you wants to tank your income over some drama.

you’ve built something solid with namgyu.

it’s not just sex, though there’s plenty of that, it’s coffee runs, late-night takeout, him teaching you how to play some dumb video game while you laugh at his nerdy excitement.

he’s your boyfriend, your bestfriend, and it’s weirdly normal despite how you met.

still, you keep your worlds separate: fantasygalaxy is for the fans, but namgyu’s for you.

one night, you’re prepping to film, hyped for a new role-play you’ve been teasing on your page. you’re going full naughty housecleaner—think skimpy black dress, frilly apron, thigh-high stockings, maybe a feather duster for extra flair.

you’re arranging your setup in the living room, candles flickering for ambiance, when disaster strikes.

your tripod, that trusty piece of junk you’ve been meaning to replace, snaps in half mid-adjustment.

“are you fucking kidding me?” you shout, hurling the broken legs across the room. they clatter against the wall, and you’re fuming, pacing like a caged animal.

“this is just my luck tonight.”

namgyu’s sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone, one eyebrow raised at your outburst.

“ you good? what’d the tripod do to deserve that?” he’s teasing, but when he sees the genuine frustration in your eyes, he sits up, tossing his phone aside.

“okay, for real, what’s the problem? you look like you’re about to set it on fire.”

you groan, slumping against the table.

“it’s fucked. i was supposed to film tonight and I promised a big post, got everyone hyped, and now my setup’s ruined.” you kick at the broken pieces for emphasis.

“i can’t just hold the phone myself. it’ll look like amateur hour.”

he stands, stretching, and walks over, nudging the wreckage with his foot.

“so what’s the move? you canceling?” you shake your head, chewing your lip.

“no way. i’ll lose momentum if i skip. i just… ugh, i don’t know.” then it hits you, and you look at him, eyes narrowing with an idea.

“actually… you could help.”

he freezes, hands halfway into his pockets.

“help? like, what, hold your props or something? i’m not getting in your videos, y/n. we agreed since I don't need weirdos to come into club pentagon and jump my ass.” you laugh, waving him off.

“not like that, relax. i mean film. hold the phone, get the angles, be my director. you stay behind the camera, no one sees you, no one knows. you could be a friend for all they know.” he blinks, processing, then a slow grin spreads across his face.

“director, huh? you trying to put me to work now?” you step closer, poking his chest, voice dropping playfully.

“come on, it’ll be fun. you get to boss me around for once, and i’ll… make it worth your while later.”

he’s sold, eyes glinting, “deal. but i’m not going easy on you. i want oscar or daejong worthy shit.”

you snort, already heading to change, “yeah, yeah. just don’t drop my phone.”

you slip into your outfit with a tight black dress that barely covers your ass, lacy apron tied loose, stockings gripping your thighs just right.

the tattoos on your arm, those starry swirls namgyu’s obsessed with, peek out as you adjust the straps. you catch him staring as you step back into the room, and he clears his throat, picking up your phone like it’s a lifeline.

“fuck, you look…” he trails off, shaking his head.

“nevermind, let’s just do this before i lose it.”

you tweak the role-play on the fly. instead of a solo housecleaner bit, you pitch a new angle: you’re a maid who’s slacking off, and the

“director”—namgyu, behind the camera—catches you, ordering you to make up for it with a show. it’s perfect. he’s involved without showing his face, just his voice barking commands to sell the fantasy, and you can play off it without breaking your no-boyfriend rule.

“so,” you say, twirling the duster, “i’m lazy, you’re pissed, and i gotta make it right. sound good?”

he nods, already in director mode, “yeah, but you better sell it. i’m not holding this thing for nothing.”

you start filming, and it’s electric from the jump. you saunter over to a table, bending low to “dust,” your dress riding up to flash your panties—black lace, a fan favorite.

you glance at namgyu, and holy shit, he’s struggling. the poor man's joggers are doing a bad job hiding his boner, the outline of his dick clear as day, but you bite your lip and stay focused.

“is this good, sir?” you purr, dragging the duster slow across the table, arching your back for the shot. his voice comes rough from behind the phone.

“not good enough. you’re slacking... make it worth my time.”

it’s hot, the way he’s leaning into it, and you’re feeding off his energy.

you strip halfway, peeling the dress off to reveal a matching bra and panties, tossing the apron aside like it’s an afterthought. you climb onto the table, crawling slow, letting your hips sway as you look at the camera...not at namgyu, but it’s hard not to when you know he’s right there.

“better?” you ask, spreading your thighs just enough to tease.

“keep going,” he says, and you catch the strain in his tone.

“you’re not done till i say so.” you roll onto your back, trailing your hands down your stomach, stopping short of anything too explicit.

it’s a tease, not a finale, and you want to keep the fans begging. you slide off the table, straddling a chair, running your fingers along your thighs, smirking as you hear namgyu shift, probably adjusting himself.

“cut,” he finally says, voice like gravel, and you’re on him in seconds. you snatch the phone, toss it onto the floor somewhere, and crash your lips into his, climbing into his lap.

he groans, hands flying to your hips, pulling you flush against him.

“what the hell, y/n.. stop teasing me?” he pants, already grinding up into you. you can feel him through the joggers, hard and throbbing, and it’s driving you wild.

“tease?” you murmur, biting his lip.

“i’m about to give you everything, baby.”

you slide off him, tugging his joggers down, and his cock springs free... thick, leaking, begging for you. you don’t hesitate, you climb over his lap and sink down onto him right there on the floor, his length stretching you in that perfect, aching way.

“oh, fuck, yes,” you gasp, rolling your hips as he grabs your ass, thrusting up hard.

“fuck you’re such a desperate little slut,” he growls, voice dripping with venom, “couldn’t even wait to post that video, huh? needed my dick right fucking now.”

you laugh, clenching around him, making him hiss.

“talk all you want, namgyu, but you’re mine. i can ride this cock whenever i damn well please and you know that.. you let me every time.”

he’s losing it, hands roaming your back, your thighs, like he can’t get enough.

“shit, you’re so fucking soaked,” he moans, slamming up into you.

“I love watching you work for those losers online, but this? this is all mine.” you lean forward, nails digging into his shoulders, voice sharp.

"ahhh-- fuck! its all yours.”

it’s vulgar, messy, skin slapping as you fuck him hard, chasing that high.

“you love it, don’t you?” you taunt, slowing your hips just to mess with him, “knowing you went fro being one of them to being the only one who gets to fill me up.”

he’s close, you can tell since his thrusts are sloppy, desperate, and he’s cursing under his breath. you’re right there with him, but you try to hold off, squeezing around him to drag it out.

“don’t you fucking dare,” he snarls, catching your game, “don’t hold what i’m trying to get out of you.”

he thrusts harder, deeper, and it’s game over...you’re cumming, a sharp cry ripping from your throat as your body locks up, pleasure crashing through you.

he’s right behind, groaning your name as he finishes inside you, hot and thick, spilling inside of your walls until you’re trembling.

you collapse against him, both of you gasping, sweaty, wrecked. Namgyu's arms wrap around you, loose but warm, and he kisses your shoulder, muttering, “holy shit!”

you laugh, still catching your breath, head resting against his chest, “you’re not bad for a first-time director.” he smirks, already cocky again.

“give me a week, i’ll have you nominated for best actress.” you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, content to stay there for a minute, his cum still warm inside you, feeling like the world’s just you and him inside of a studio... when in reality it is just your sky-rise penthouse.

masterlist

[roxoxoxoxy]

NSFW Headcanons For ZeroBaseOne Maknae Line

Includes:- Taerae, Ricky, Gyuvin, Gunwook

Shimkongz section is kinda long, mb guys, they're my biases 😞🔫

Many typos, not much grammar.

Hyung line, Maknae line

✿ ✿ Taerae ✿ ✿

Every group has a bitchless virgin and I fear Taerae is it HEAR ME OUT✋🏼✋🏼

Just never really bad the opportunity, I also kinda get the vibe he was less interested in romance than other people.

Or maybe that's just me leaning into the fact that he's the only T in the group.

He's awkward as hell I'm the beginning, stops you before something can really happen because he's kind of shy.

You definitely have to take a more forward role in the beginning but I don't see him as someone who's really into Dom/sub dynamics.

Pretty vanilla, at least for now.

REALLY likes getting head, seeing you on your knees trying to please him really gets him going.

Prettiest moans, his voice is so beautiful like 🤭

Cums ALOT, his thighs shake from how much he cums sometimes.

Speaking of which, he gets really tired after sex, like fall asleep any minute type of tired, just wants to cuddle and go to sleep.

Gets kind of annoyed when you insists on cleaning up but will do it if you make enough of a stink about it.

✿ ✿ Ricky ✿ ✿

lol. Lmao even.

I'm sorry everyone but in my heart this man is a loser.

Wdym you played daddy's home on your live stream and posed? YOU WANNA BE COOL SO BAD🫵🏼 (I say this with affection)

Talks a big game but at the end of the day he's only like 20 years old and doesn't have much experience.

Tries to do the daddy Dom stuff, fails spectacularly.

Really ties to be a hard dom but he's too much of a softy for that, he isn't a virgin but still needs to figure out what works for him.

Definitely does like being dominant just not as hard as he thought he did, think of him as a soft dom that's into some hard kinks.

Praise kink. Both giving and recieving, he isn't insecure in anyway but it really turns him on when you talk about how food he's making you feel.

Vice versa he also loves praising you, most of its unconscious though, it kinda spills out when he's inside you.

More switchy than he initially thought he would be, the first time you pushed him onto the bed to ride him, it unlocked something within him.

Lazy as hell during aftercare, usually you have to pester him to come shower with you.

Will order you food though, anything you want, Mr tall rich and handsome over here

✿ ✿ Gyuvin ✿ ✿

Service Top. Argue with the wall because I'm right!!

Into minor pet play, being called puppy and such. Might even let you put a collar on him of you really want.

Also doesn't have much experience but I don't think he's a virgin either, maybe slept with one more person before you.

HAVE YOU SEEN HIS HANDS.

Has you lean your back against his chest and spread your legs so he can finger you easier, won't let you get up until he's made you cum at least twice.

Also a switch, he's so much of a service top that he'll sub if that's what you want.

Huge praise kink, on the receiving end. I remember he mentioned once that he didn't get a lot of compliments growing up so when you praise him, especially when he's fucking you, it really gets to him.

Also feel like he cries after sometimes, I feel like he's just a emotional person in general.

Speaking of being a service top, another munch 🙏🏼, laps you up like a dog (istg I can't go more than two posts without writing something with pet play, that's mb)

Prefers missionary, really likes seeing your face and the way it contorts when he's hitting it right.

Really cuddly during aftercare, wants to talk to you and just hold you for a while, pulls up and covers and brushes your hair out of your face, smiling as he talks about anything and everything with you.

You eventually start feeling gross though and make him clean you up.

Small spoon.

Sigh, I want him do bad it's not even funny.

✿ ✿ Gunwook ✿ ✿

He's such a tease, type of guy to hold something over his head so he can watch you try to reach for it, that translates into bed too.

Makes you say what you want, even when it's clear as day, will literally have you half naked I his bed and still insist you tell him exactly what you want.

Consent king?? I guess???

Also loves getting head, like so much that he'll go out of his way to ask for it, not that you mind though, he's got a pretty dick and even prettier moans.

He's into mild bondage too, both being tied up and tying you up, something about him being at your mercy turns him on immensely, and vice versa.

Into body worship, giggles and blushes whoever you point out how good his muscles look in his tank top, shaking his head and denying your compliment, all the while your words went straight to his dick.

Has a pretty high libido, you've done it in less than private places more than once, he just can't help himself.

Kinda shit at aftercare at first, just kinda goes to sleep, maybe draping a arm around you.

He learns overtime though, he still does the bare minimum but he genuinely does care.

Big spoon.

Don't really like this but I still wanted to post </3

[lady-ashfade]

Things Modern Hotd Characters Do.

´*: ���ﾟ⋆˒ Character: Jacaerys Velaryon, Aemond Targaryen, Lucerys Velaryon, Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra Targaryen. (X reader)

╰･ﾟ✧☽ Literally just some random thoughts that came into my head, and it’s a modern au.

╰･ﾟ✧☽ warnings: lromantic, short, cute and fluffy.

-`｡ﾟ˘: ﾟ⋆ ––✷☽ ᱬ ☽✷––⋆ ﾟ: ˘ ﾟ｡.`-

✬—Jacaerys Velaryon

You already know my boy is a jock of some sort, it’s a given. So he gives you his jersey to wear and I see him in hockey.

He also is the type of guy to at first watch you when you are around and at first he is shy about it and tries not to get caught. Then it’s just known to everyone that he is admiring you, like a drooling dog.

Gets shy when his friends bring it up.

You think you’re allowed to drive? Nope, his passages princess (no matter the gender)

I also see him proposing as soon as you both graduate, or when you both are still in your early 20s.

✬—Aemond Targaryen

Leather jacket. I don’t make the roles and has a motorcycle- The person the school fears after sending a kid to the hospital in middle school.

Before the relationship he talks to you at some points in the day, and then people literally stay away from you because they are scared of Him. So no bullies coming your way.

Takes you shopping because he likes to see you happy, and not the best at expressing his lives. So gifts and acts of service are his love language.

Keeps a photo of you in his wallet- don’t tell him I told you.

✬— Lucerys Velaryon the man I did this all for.

Watches all the Barbie movies with you while you play with his hair, and put it in weird and cute hairstyles.

One of the boys who is shy but will let you do anything to him. Like letting you putting makeup on him or carry you around.

He is so fucking shy but also a little shit. He’s so two faced. He will be pouting one minute and blushing like crazy when you kiss his cheek. And the next knocking you to the side and racing down the stairs.

Pulls pranks all the time that you didn’t talk to him for weeks but you can’t resist that cute face.

Walks everywhere while holding hands so you both don’t get separated 🥺

✬—Alicent Hightower

She’s the neighborhoods widow. And also on the watch council, so she is big into the community. She has been so sweet to you for years since you moved and always find yourself seeing her.

Goes out into her yard and gardens while watching you, not in a creepy way tho- just making a excuse to talk to you out of the blue.

Brings you sweets a lot and goes on coffee dates before dating.

Is so happy when you show her a real love relationship, and how you put her above everything. So she spoils you the same.

But keeps you away from her “stepdaughter” because she is afraid you’ll leave her.

✬—Rhaenyra Targaryen

Someone say mommy- the type of woman to buy you drink after making you flustered just by staring at you from across the bar. Like that cocky smirk of “i want to make you nervous” sexy smile you know?

Doesn’t let you think she is just a one time and dip. So she starts to send you gifts, to your work, house and almost anywhere. Texts you so much about going in dates.

You know kinda like a sugar momma for sure but loves you.

This girl will punch another woman for flirting with you and drag her by her hair- she’s so possessive.

Introduces you to her kids when you start dating because she wants you all to get along, and if you just immediately sweep them under your wing?

Already planning your wedding.

If you want more characters pls send them in the inbox.

[hauntingofhouses]

Very interesting to me that a certain subset of the BES fandom's favourite iterations of Mizu and Akemi are seemingly rooted in the facades they have projected towards the world, and are not accurate representations of their true selves.

And I see this is especially the case with Mizu, where fanon likes to paint her as this dominant, hyper-masculine, smirking Cool GuyTM who's going to give you her strap. And this idea of Mizu is often based on the image of her wearing her glasses, and optionally, with her cloak and big, wide-brimmed kasa.

And what's interesting about this, to me, is that fanon is seemingly falling for her deliberate disguise. Because the glasses (with the optional combination of cloak and hat) represent Mizu's suppression of her true self. She is playing a role.

Take this scene of Mizu in the brothel in Episode 4 for example. Here, not only is Mizu wearing her glasses to symbolise the mask she is wearing, but she is purposely acting like some suave and cocky gentleman, intimidating, calm, in control. Her voice is even deeper than usual, like what we hear in her first scene while facing off with Hachiman the Flesh-Trader in Episode 1.

This act that Mizu puts on is an embodiment of masculine showboating, which is highly effective against weak and insecure men like Hachi, but also against women like those who tried to seduce her at the Shindo House.

And that brings me to how Mizu's mask is actually a direct parallel to Akemi's mask in this very same scene.

Here, Akemi is also putting up an act, playing up her naivety and demure girlishness, using her high-pitched lilted voice, complimenting Mizu and trying to make small talk, all so she can seduce and lure Mizu in to drink the drugged cup of sake.

So what I find so interesting and funny about this scene, characters within it, and the subsequent fandom interpretations of both, is that everyone seems to literally be falling for the mask that Mizu and Akemi are putting up to conceal their identities, guard themselves from the world, and get what they want.

It's also a little frustrating because the fanon seems to twist what actually makes Mizu and Akemi's dynamic so interesting by flattening it completely. Because both here and throughout the story, Mizu and Akemi's entire relationship and treatment of each other is solely built off of masks, assumptions, and misconceptions.

Akemi believes Mizu is a selfish, cocky male samurai who destroyed her ex-fiance's career and life, and who abandoned her to let her get dragged away by her father's guards and forcibly married off to a man she didn't know. on the other hand, Mizu believes Akemi is bratty, naive princess who constantly needs saving and who can't make her own decisions.

These misconceptions are even evident in the framing of their first impressions of each other, both of which unfold in these slow-motion POV shots.

Mizu's first impression of Akemi is that of a beautiful, untouchable princess in a cage. Swirling string music in the background.

Akemi's first impression of Mizu is of a mysterious, stoic "demon" samurai who stole her fiance's scarf. Tense music and the sound of ocean waves in the background.

And then, going back to that scene of them together in Episode 4, both Mizu and Akemi continue to fool each other and hold these assumptions of each other, and they both feed into it, as both are purposely acting within the suppressive roles society binds them to in order to achieve their goals within the means they are allowed (Akemi playing the part of a subservient woman; Mizu playing the part of a dominant man).

But then, for once in both their lives, neither of their usual tactics work.

Akemi is trying to use flattery and seduction on Mizu, but Mizu sees right through it, knowing that Akemi is just trying to manipulate and harm her. Rather than give in to Akemi's tactics, Mizu plays with Akemi's emotions by alluding to Taigen's death, before pinning her down, and then when she starts crying, Mizu just rolls her eyes and tells her to shut up.

On the opposite end, when Mizu tries to use brute force and intimidation, Akemi also sees right through it, not falling for it, and instead says this:

"Under your mask, you're not the killer you pretend to be."

Nonetheless, despite the fact that they see a little bit through each other's masks, they both still hold their presumptions of each other until the very end of the season, with Akemi seeing Mizu as an obnoxious samurai swooping in to save the day, and Mizu seeing Akemi as a damsel in distress.

And what I find a bit irksome is that the fandom also resorts to flattening them to these tropes as well.

Because Mizu is not some cool, smooth-talking samurai with a big dick sword as Akemi (and the fandom) might believe. All of that is the facade she puts up and nothing more. In reality, Mizu is an angry, confused and lonely child, and a masterful artist, who is struggling against her own self-hatred. Master Eiji, her father figure who knows her best, knows this.

And Akemi, on the other hand, is not some girly, sweet, vain and spoiled princess as Mizu might believe. Instead she has never cared for frivolous things like fashion, love or looks, instead favouring poetry and strategy games instead, and has always only cared about her own independence. Seki, her father figure who knows her best, knows this.

But neither is she some authoritative dominatrix, though this is part of her new persona that she is trying to project to get what she wants. Because while Akemi is willful, outspoken, intelligent and authoritative, she can still be naive! She is still often unsure and needs to have her hand held through things, as she is still learning and growing into her full potential. Her new parental/guardian figure, Madame Kaji, knows this as well.

So with all that being said, now that we know that Mizu and Akemi are essentially wearing masks and putting up fronts throughout the show, what would a representation of Mizu's and Akemi's true selves actually look like? Easy. It's in their hair.

This shot on the left is the only time we see Mizu with her hair completely down. In this scene, she's being berated by Mama, and her guard is completely down, she has no weapon, and is no longer wearing any mask, as this is after she showed Mikio "all of herself" and tried to take off the mask of a subservient housewife. Thus, here, she is sad, vulnerable, and feeling small (emphasised further by the framing of the scene). This is a perfect encapsulation of what Mizu is on the inside, underneath all the layers of revenge-obsession and the walls she's put around herself.

In contrast, the only time we Akemi with her hair fully down, she is completely alone in the bath, and this scene takes place after being scorned by her father and left weeping at his feet. But despite all that, Akemi is headstrong, determined, taking the reigns of her life as she makes the choice to run away, but even that choice is reflective of her youthful naivety. She even gets scolded by Seki shortly after this in the next scene, because though she wants to be independent, she still hasn't completely learned to be. Not yet. Regardless, her decisiveness and moment of self-empowerment is emphasised by the framing of the scene, where her face takes up the majority of the shot, and she stares seriously into the middle distance.

To conclude, I wish popular fanon would stop mischaracterising these two, and flattening them into tropes and stereotypes (ie. masculine badass swordsman Mizu and feminine alluring queen but also girly swooning damsel Akemi), all of which just seems... reductive. It also irks me when Akemi is merely upheld as a love interest and romantic device for Mizu and nothing more, when she is literally Mizu's narrative foil (takes far more narrative precedence over romantic interest) and the deuteragonist of this show. She is her own person. That is literally the theme of her entire character and arc.

[justanotherabbystan]

Episode two left me with so much to unpack, I'm not even sure where to start. I've been holding back my thoughts on the show for a while now, but this episode brought up some things that really bothered me. And while I understand this is an adaptation and not a direct remake, I still wanted to share my perspective.

• Why was Abby’s flashback cut short? I was hoping the show would have included the moment in Abby's flashback where she finds her father's body. In the game, that moment, especially her cries for him, is incredibly impactful and it shows the immense trauma she experienced. Including that scene in the show, I believe, would have deepened the audience's understanding of her tragedy.

• No Ellie and Dina smoking scene? The absence of that scene between Ellie and Dina feels like a missed opportunity in developing their personal connection. It's in that moment that Ellie finds the comfort and trust to reveal her bite mark to Dina. Even though Dina initially doubts her, this vulnerability shows the depth of Ellie's trust in Dina with such a big secret, something she's kept hidden from almost everyone.

• Why was Abby’s monologue so long in Joel’s death scene? Abby is a woman of few words; she shows, she doesn’t tell, and I’m sure that all of us die-hard Abby fans know that. I appreciate that she actually called out Joel for what he did, explicitly stating that he killed her father, which forces him to feel some degree of guilt, if he’s even capable of feeling guilt to begin with. It was about time someone held Joel accountable for his actions. In episode 1, Joel constantly acts as if he is innocent, pretending he didn’t murder hundreds of people in cold blood, and he maintains the facade of being a good man. I understand that he may have tried to redeem himself in his old age, but that doesn’t erase his past actions. I personally feel like it was very out of character for Abby to have so much dialogue in the tv show.

• Dina being sedated? What was that about? Yes, maybe they just wanted to highlight the fact that Mel is a medic, but was it really necessary for them to sedate her?

• Abby telling Mel, ‘if you don’t do it, I’m gonna smash her in the fuckin head’ ??? Umm, no. Abby wouldn’t say something like that. As I previously said, she is a woman of few words and never expressed a desire to hurt Ellie or Tommy in the game, in fact, she chose to let them live, so it was very out of character for tv show Abby to say that. That portrayal doesn’t sit right with me at all. Abby already faces so much unnecessary hate, let’s not make her seem like someone who finds joy in inflicting pain on others, yeah? Yes, Neil Druckmann and Craig Maizin, I’m talking about you.

• Please explain to me why Abby called Joel handsome TWICE. Once in the first episode, and another time in the second episode. What does that have to do with the story? It literally makes zero sense to me.

• This is what really made my blood boil. In the game, Abby is a strong, muscular woman who takes down infected and people with her bare fists. In the game, she kills Joel with a golf club, never even punching him once. But in the TV show, they portray Abby as a petite woman who starts punching Joel to death? It just doesn’t make sense. Neil has stated that Abby’s physique doesn’t play an important role in this version of the story, which is already infuriating considering that her muscularity in the game comes from years of training and pushing herself to her limits after her dad was killed. Then, they have TV show Abby punch Joel almost to death before stabbing him in the neck with a broken golf club. This doesn’t add up because, in the game, she never even broke the golf club despite her incredible strength. So how does TV show Abby manage to break it so easily?

• In the game, Abby is clearly conflicted after she kills Joel, and it’s evident that it doesn’t make her feel any better. Her nightmares continue, indicating that she doesn’t find solace in his death. It would have been nice to see the same remorse on Abby’s face in the TV show, emphasizing that she didn’t find joy in killing Joel, as many people claim she did.

These are just my opinions, and everyone has the right to their own.