#>8 Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[shannonsketches]

I grabbed a bunch of caps for that last post so here's a few more in my favorite genre of bejíta

[https-sally]

i just wanted to share my urban legend to vocaloid pipeline

[frostypik]

it’s kind of insane how i cannot get sick of replaying omori. ever. it’s not even my favourite game……..

[gav-san]

Cosmic Joke: Portgas D. Ace

Cosmic Joke Masterlist

ONE PIECE Masterlist

Main Masterlist Here

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Oneshot: Ace x Reader Length: 14 K+ Rating: 16+

Having Ace as a soulmate is like dating a clingy campfire with feelings. He’s loud, loyal, and fully prepared to self-immolate if you so much as shiver, mentally or physically. He’s been obsessed since puberty—and yes, he still thinks spontaneous combustion is a valid love language. “If my soulmate’s cold, I’ll just set myself on fire. Easy fix.” Now you are scared and cold.

Character Suggestion by @dead-cipher

Interested in being in the taglist? HERE

A03 Link

-Bond Awakening-

It started innocently enough.

You are normal. At least, you try to be. You pay your taxes (when applicable), respect your elders (unless they’re creeps), and only scream into your pillow when absolutely necessary. You grew up in a modest village where nothing exciting ever happened—except, of course, for the fact that you’ve had a pirate in your head since age six.

You’re aggressively normal. You like toast. You do your taxes early. You read books in quiet corners and have strong opinions about brand-name toothpaste. You are average with a capital A.

At first, the bond felt innocent enough. There were brief flickers of emotion, bits of curiosity, and the occasional overwhelming urge to punch something and then apologize to it.

Then the voice started speaking in full sentences; chaotic, unfiltered, and alarmingly sincere.

“I hope he knows I love him even if I punched him. In the face.” 

“If I die, I want to die doing something cool. Like falling into lava to save a kitten.” 

“Do whales get lonely?” 

“If I set this on fire and run away fast enough, technically it’s not my fault.”

A loud voice. With zero filter. And no self-preservation instinct.

It wasn’t just thoughts. You had vivid dreams of eating everything within a fifty-mile radius. You’d wake up laughing at jokes you never told. Or screaming, because some distant, invisible dumbass decided to fight a Sea King at age ten.

You knew what it meant. The telepathic thread had been there since childhood. Most people got soft hums of emotion, the occasional comforting whisper. 

“Oi, how many push-ups does it take to break a tree?” “I should punch that guy. No reason. Just vibes.” “If I die young, bury me in meat.”

His name, as you eventually piece together through years of one-sided nonsense, is Ace. 

Full name? 

Portgas D. Ace

You’re just a normal, average person with a skincare routine and a deathly fear of taxes. Which is exactly why the universe, in its infinite humor, decided to tether your soul to Ace. He’s a human wildfire with the emotional processing skills of a stray golden retriever and the attention span of a sunburned raccoon.

His hobbies include: eating until death seems imminent, throwing hands with gods and warlords, spontaneous arson, and emotionally repressing every feeling that isn’t hunger or homicidal loyalty.

You’ve never met him. But you’ve heard him. He doesn’t know you exist. But you know him.

You know he doesn’t believe in soulmates. You know he eats like a vacuum. You know he cries alone at night and pretends he doesn’t. You know he got his first tattoo on a dare. And unfortunately… You also know that he once set a spider on fire to impress someone. (He regrets it. The spider haunted him in a dream. He whispered an apology three years later.)

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut

Age 7: "Do you think seagulls ever get depressed?" You were in math class. Trying to learn multiplication tables. Your soulmate, somewhere out there, was staring into the ocean like a tiny, unmedicated philosopher with a flair for existential bird-based melancholy.

You blinked. Raised your hand. Asked to use the bathroom. Sat on the toilet and whispered, “What?”

Age 8: "If I became a pirate, do you think they’d let me keep my blanket?" It was a sincere question. It made your heart ache. Not because it was sweet, but because you realized your soulmate was already planning his outlaw era.

Age 10: “If I get eaten by a sea king, tell Luffy I died hot.”

You were sitting in the back of the library, hunched over a weathered copy of Advanced Multiplication, when the voice echoed across your skull with all the solemnity of a soldier’s final words.

You blinked. Slowly. Once. Twice.

The voice—his voice—sounded older now. Still boyish, still rough around the edges, but with the kind of melodramatic resignation only a twelve-year-old could muster with such commitment. He sounded like someone who’d stared death in the face and decided to make it weird.

You turned the page. Pretended not to hear.

Other children had imaginary friends. You had this.

A borderline-delinquent who philosophized about death, grilled fish, and sea birds like they were moral arbiters of heaven and hell. A boy with a voice like fire and laughter, who once gave you a blow-by-blow breakdown of how to win a fistfight with a wild boar. He narrated everything. Bad decisions. Petty theft. Emotional spirals. The occasional hallucination.

You never answered. Not once. You were practiced. Well-trained. Unshakable.

But fate, as it often does, waited patiently to make you suffer.

-The Cold War-

Age 13:

It began with a whisper. Then a crackle. Then—suddenly, violently—“BOOBS.”

You choked mid-sip of your tea. Nearly stabbed yourself with your own pencil. The word reverberated in your head like a cannon blast, unfiltered and aggressively enthusiastic. There was silence. A stunned, terrible silence.

And then his voice, slightly breathless and awestruck: “I just… wow. That bartender was built like a miracle. Do you think she noticed me? Should I have said something? Was ‘You have nice elbows’ too weird?”

You sat motionless at the kitchen table, pencil still mid-stroke in a math equation you would never, ever finish. You could feel your soul physically detaching from your body.

Almost seven years. Seven. Seven years of absurdity. Of hunger rants. Of emotional crises about clouds that looked like parental neglect. Of vivid psychic broadcasts of every single dumb fight, scar, and mood swing.

But this? This crossed a line.

You stood. Slowly. Like a woman wronged. Marched outside. And screamed into the dirt like an ancient priestess channeling divine rage.

Somewhere, far away, a bird fell out of a tree from secondhand embarrassment.

“NO!” you yelled into the sky, fists clenched. “YOU DO NOT GET TO BE HORNY AND STUPID. PICK ONE!”

And somewhere, across sea and wind and sky— He heard you.

A pause. A stunned intake of breath.

“…Wait,” his voice said, softer now. “That was you. You talked. You’re real. Oh my god, who are you? Tell me your name. Tell me your location. I’ll find you. I swear—I’ll find you.”

You didn’t scream again. You didn’t cry. You didn’t faint. You simply answered, tone flat and final:

“No. I’m retracting my existence. Goodbye.”

And then you slammed the door—metaphysically, psychically, spiritually—and mentally filed a full restraining order against fate.

He did not take it well.

“Was it the boob thing? I swear I respect women. I mean—I don’t not notice them, but I’m not, like, a pervert. Just observational. Please respond. I haven’t eaten in four hours. I don’t know why that matters, but emotionally it feels important.”

You do not.

“If I die of heartbreak and/or starvation, tell Luffy I—wait. You already know. I died hot.”

By day four, he’d reached the melodramatic stage of soulmate grief.

“I’ve named the seagull that keeps following me. His name is Betrayal.”

You ignored him. You hardened your mind like iron. Practiced psychic silence like a religion.

But some nights, when the world was quiet and your guard slipped, you still felt the flicker of him at the edge of your thoughts: warm, restless, and ridiculous.

And once—just once—you heard him whisper through the bond, low and serious, voice heavy with something new.

“Please just let me know you’re okay. I’ll wait–”

You didn’t reply. Not then. But after the quiet way he whispered I’ll wait like a vow instead of a threat—you found yourself staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Overthinking. Trying very hard not to care.

And failing.

Just a little.

Eventually, grudgingly, with the emotional grace of someone returning to a party they swore they left forever…you let him back in. Not fully. Not warmly. Not with words so much as intention. But with conditions.

He wasn’t allowed to interrupt test days. No horny thoughts before noon. Absolutely no narrating your dreams back to you with commentary like, “Whoa, that one had symbolism.” And if he wanted to share his feelings, he had to at least pretend to have emotional self-awareness.

Naturally, he ignored all of this.

You became a master of selective tuning. His chaotic thoughts drifted through your mind like white noise: background nonsense you could mute with a blink. You mastered the sacred art of psychic eye-rolls.

He, in turn, began calling you “Mystery Babe” when you humored him and “Invisible Gremlin” when you roasted him into the dirt. You answered once in a blue moon. Just enough to ruin his day.

Like, “You fell off that cliff because you tried to flirt mid-backflip. Not because the ground betrayed you.”

Or, “Your idea of stealth is shouting ‘this way, boys’ at full volume.”

Or, worst of all: “I don’t dream about you. You sound like you smell like firewood and have impulse control issues.”

And Ace? He lost his entire damn mind. Delightfully. Publicly. Apocalyptically.

He became obsessed. Utterly, wildly, romantically feral.

Because now he knew you were out there. Real. Sharp. Hidden. The girl who outsmarted fate, ghosted destiny, and occasionally replied just to hand him his own ego on a silver platter.

You weren’t sweet. You weren’t eager. You weren’t simping.

You were just mean enough to be hot.

Like a mirage that tells you to hydrate and die.

And it was ruining him.

His crewmates noticed immediately.

“Is Ace talking to himself again?” “No, he’s arguing with his soulmate.” “…Does she answer?” “Only to mock him.”

They started calling you The Phantom. Deuce took bets on whether you were real. Skull tried to flirt with the empty air once and got psychically blasted with, “Not you, oil-slick.”

By week three of your emotionally distant reappearance, Ace had declared—loudly, mid-fight, while on fire, “I don’t need to find the One Piece. I need to find my soulmate, so I can formally apologize for my horny teenage brain and then ask them to punch me in the face.”

There was silence.

Then the enemy captain nodded solemnly. “That’s valid,” he said, before Ace knocked him out. And honestly? Probably the most emotionally mature thing Ace had ever said.

And you almost responded. Almost. But instead… You smiled. And went back to ignoring him.

Age 15:

“I’m gonna fight this volcano. I’ve got it. No regrets.”

It came in loud and proud, mid-afternoon. You were standing in line at the pharmacy, waiting for cold medicine, when your soulmate decided to challenge a natural disaster to a duel.

You closed your eyes. Counted to five. He kept going.

“If it kills me, bury me with snacks. And a sword. Even if I didn’t have one. Just for the drama.” You pressed your fingers to your temples like you could pinch the psychic connection out of existence.

He was persistent. And worse, he was charming.

In the most idiotic, reckless, infuriatingly loyal golden retriever way imaginable.

He wasn’t suave. He wasn’t smooth. He was a walking campfire with sass and a dangerously low number of self-preservation instincts.

You were not speaking, but still, he talked to you.

“If I ever meet you, I hope you hate me at first,” he said once, quieter than usual. “That way, I can earn it. I wanna earn it.”

“I’d probably ruin your life,” he admitted another time. “But like… nicely?”

“Maybe you don’t exist. Maybe I got the broken kind of bond.”

And then, worst of all, the one that landed like a stone in your chest: “If you’re real, I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

You hate that he sounds sincere.

Age 16: 

You are entirely convinced this man should be institutionalized.

You learn to live around him. You train your face not to react when he narrates his internal monologues mid-battle. You do not try to talk back. You’ve heard what happens when soulmates do that. It's called “dumbass feedback loop.” Two people yelling in each other’s heads until someone faints.

Instead, you simply exist. Quietly. Carefully. You’re old enough to drop out of school and change locations, which you do, and often. Use fake names. Pick villages with low foot traffic. Avoid taverns where Wanted Posters hang.

Ace, for his part, is infuriated by this.

He doesn’t know who you are. Doesn’t know where you are. Can’t even figure out your gender for the first ten years. He only knows you exist because he keeps trying to scream into the void, and you never scream back.

Which, of course, drives him completely insane.

He grows up.

You do too. You get better at tuning him out.

Until one day.

“I think I’m being followed. That guy has weird teeth. I might punch him. If I die, sorry, soulmate. I wish I had kissed someone.”

You freeze. Because it’s the first time he’s said anything that sounded like a goodbye. You don’t respond, and you find the words can’t break the door you’ve built open. But you stay up all night anyway. Eyes on the ceiling. Fingernails biting your palms.

The next day?

He’s fine.

“That guy was weird, but I gave him my sandwich. He cried. I cried. We’re friends now.”

You sob into your pillow.

Ace, Age 17: 

“Okay, look. If you’re real. If you’re out there. Just… tap something. Whisper. Blink twice mentally.”

You: (mentally blinking once, for spite)

You become excellent at mental firewalling. He starts testing you.

“Do you like meat? Just tell me that. I won’t track you down. Probably. If you don’t respond in 3 seconds, I’m gonna assume you’re dead and go commit arson in your honor.”

Eventually, he starts talking to you the way people talk to their diaries; with sarcasm and later, sincerity.

That’s when things get complicated.

Because, behind all the reckless noise and weird thoughts about trying to headbutt a sea emperor, there’s this ache. This softness you weren’t expecting. He starts wondering out loud if he deserves a soulmate. Starts apologizing when he’s angry. Tells you about Luffy, about Sabo, and his untimely death (you sob for hours). About the fire in his chest that never quite goes out.

He doesn't even know you're listening.

And you wish you weren’t.

Because now it hurts. Now you want to answer.

But you don’t. You can’t. You know what kind of people hunt soulmates, especially ones with D. in their name. If the Navy finds you, they’ll use you. If pirates find you, they’ll sell you. And if Ace finds you?

...You don’t know what he’d do. But it’d probably involve grinning, dramatic declarations, and upsetting explosions.

So, instead, you run. You hide. You exist in the margins. You watch from the edges of the news whenever you hear about Whitebeard’s crew. You silently cheer when you read about them protecting islands and sinking slaver ships.

You almost cry the first time Ace calls you “my tether.” And then he follows it with “which sounds weird and kinda kinky, but spiritually accurate.”

You throw a spoon across the room.

You talk to him for the first time—really talk to him—when you’re seventeen.

It’s been eleven years of chaotic background noise. Of pirate shenanigans, shirtless bragging, impromptu wrestling matches, and unsolicited thoughts about meat, knives, ghosts, fire, and, occasionally, emotional devastation disguised as jokes.

You’ve learned to compartmentalize him. A psychic raccoon rummaging around your mental trash cans. Sometimes loud, sometimes weirdly insightful. Always there.

But that year?

That’s the year you hear him cry.

You don’t even know what triggers it. You’re just heading home, a basket of bread in one hand, the sun warm on your shoulders, when suddenly the world goes sideways.

“Why does it keep happening?”

His voice isn’t loud this time. It’s broken. Quiet. He’s not performing. Not cracking jokes. Just sitting somewhere, talking to no one. Maybe himself.

Maybe you.

“I keep losing everyone.” A breath. “First Sabo. Now the Spade Pirates.” He swallows hard. You feel it in your ribs. “I try to be good. But…”

Silence.

Then the whisper that shatters something soft in your chest:

“...Maybe I don’t deserve anyone.”

You stop walking.

Right there. In the middle of the road. The wind is gentle. Your throat is not.

You hesitate. For too long. Long enough to almost let it pass.

“You do.”

The word is small. Just one. But it slams into him like a cannonball.

“WH—NO WAY.” His voice skyrockets into disbelief. “You talked again! You—you heard all of that?! Forget it! UNHEAR IT. I sounded like a tragic romance novel. I need a redo.”

You roll your eyes.

“You sounded like a dumbass in pain. Which is slightly better than your usual dumbass setting.”

“Oh my god, you’re perfect.”

You ignore the heat crawling up your neck.

He doesn’t.

“Wait—WAIT—this is real. You’re real. You’re not dead or a voice invented by head trauma or—wait, you’re not a tree, right? I once emotionally confessed to a tree. It didn’t answer.”

You sigh. Pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I am not a tree. You absolute himbo.”

He makes a sound like he’s been physically electrocuted with joy. And just like that, Ace starts beaming across your bond. Not literally, but it feels like light. Like heat. Like a bonfire on a cold night that you didn’t realize you’d needed.

“This is the best day of my life. Please marry me. Or at least tell me your name. Or insult me again. I’d take any of those.”

You don’t give him your name. Not yet.

But you do say, “I’m not ready for you to find me.”

He pauses. Then softens.

“That’s okay. I’ll wait. I’ve got time. Just don’t disappear again, alright?”

-Emotional Fallout-

Age 18:

Ace joins something called ‘The Whitebeard Pirates’. 

You quietly wonder if it’s a strip club or a cult.

But now, you’re curious, committed, and listening at metaphoric windows in his mind palace. The crack in your own mental door widens. Just enough that you know unconsciously are transmitting some spare thoughts. 

Enough that you may accidentally transmit more details than you intend.

It’s not a scream. It’s not a cry for help. It’s not even a thought meant for him. It’s a snort. Of all things. A quiet, private, mental snort of disbelief.

You’ve spent your whole life avoiding him.

And honestly? You’ve been excellent at it.

Fake names. Remote towns. A personal blacklist of any island that’s ever whispered “Whitebeard.” You were disciplined. Focused. Determined not to let your soulmate ruin your peace.

Because you knew too much.

You’d heard his thoughts since childhood—unfiltered, uninvited, and deeply, profoundly stupid. You’d heard him fart. Cry. Argue with seagulls. Wonder aloud if crabs feel jealousy. You’d built up a mental image of a human raccoon with fire powers and the emotional depth of a wet sock.

And for years, that was fine.

Until today.

When you see it, you’re at a sleepy little port, casually browsing a message board for work. A wanted poster with a familiar name.

You glance. Just a peek.

And freeze.

Name: Portgas D. Ace.

Bounty: Irrelevant.

Expression: A curl at this lips lifting up like sin.

The creature is hot.

And a pirate. 

But more important— He’s unethically hot. Shirt-open, jaw-sharp, lean-muscle, freckles-like-a-gift-from-God hot.

You envisioned a gremlin with muscles and zero self-preservation. You expected a 6-foot-tall disaster man held together by ego, duct tape, and barbecue sauce.

But this?

And he is divine punishment in man form. Shirt half-buttoned (barely). Freckles like stardust. Muscles that have never known a shirt that fits. A smile that should be federally regulated. 

And dimples. Dimples. 

He looks like he rolled out of a bonfire, forgot what a brush is, and still makes grown adults walk into walls. He looks like someone who would text “You up?” at 2 AM, and mean it platonically, then absolutely ruin your life in bed.

You sit on a bench. You stare at the poster. The wind rustles. Somewhere, someone sneezes.

You mutter, “Oh no. He’s hot. I am so screwed.”

Because now there’s a problem.

You’ve spent over a decade building immunity to his personality.

But no one prepared you for the smoulder.

And the worst part?

He feels it.

Ace is halfway through fighting a sea king when it hits. He literally pauses mid-punch.

“Holy crap,” he whispers. “They noticed me.”

Marco looks up. “Who?”

“My soulmate thinks I’m hot.”

He beams like the sun just kissed him. He fights a sea king out of pure euphoria. He gives a romantic speech to a palm tree.

And when he laughs—low and rough, like warm honey with a death wish—your brain short-circuits.

And he lets you have it.

“Hey!” Even his mentally transmitted voice is a problem. Sleep-rough and smug, “Miss me, baby? Bet you were thinking about me again. Don’t lie—I felt it. You feel really pretty in your head. Want me to walk you through it again?”

You tried everything.

Cold showers. Meditation. Punching someone for fun.

Nothing works. 

Because Ace is a wildfire in human skin and bad decisions.

And worst of all?

He knows.

“I’ll let you touch the V-line if you say please.”

You’ve considered hurling yourself overboard more than once. But unfortunately, Ace can swim in your head. And he’s always shirtless when he gets there. You’ve moved ten times. Changed names. Changed continents.

Ace? Unbothered. Thriving. Intensifying. He starts taking notes. (They’re mostly unreadable. But it’s the effort.) He’s narrowed it down. He knows you’re alive and that you move often. That you’ve been dodging fate with Olympic-level skill.

He’s not mad.

He’s impressed.

“You’ve been dodging destiny like a pro. Damn. Marry me.” Now he daydreams about meeting you mid-brawl. Or during a cursed artifact heist.

Or stealing the same apple off a rooftop and locking eyes like, “So… this is awkward.”

He doesn’t want a perfect moment. He wants you. Your weird live-stock obsessed brain and all.

And you? You still think he’s reckless, loud, and infuriating. But… maybe…Just maybe…He’s exactly your kind of problem.

Wait. WAIT.

You reel back.

He gets slapped into a rock. He barely notices. He is too busy grinning like a moron.

That’s it.

That’s the moment he decides: He is going to find you.

Before, it was passive curiosity. Now? It’s an obsession. Amusement. Intrigue. Hope.

Someone sarcastic. Someone real. Someone who thinks he’s an idiot (correct). Someone who sounds more like a human person than a divine blessing.

He’s doomed.

He starts doing things he never used to do. Asking questions. Collecting rumors. Not of his soulmate, because no one knows what he’s after, but about soulmates, connections, and how the hell does anyone find each other if they don’t want to?

You dyed your hair the moment his emotional compass started pinging your hometown. You moved when he began fantasizing about coastal bars.

You became an urban legend. The myth. The whisper. That one girl who’s just not answering back.

Somewhere out there, your soulmate has a reputation. He’s one of those with A Silent Bond’. Pirates dare him to try to find you. He drinks too much sometimes and mutters, “She’s real. I know she is.” Someone once asked if maybe you died.

He said, “She didn’t. She’s just better at this than me.”

And you are.

But lately, the voice has been quiet. Too quiet.

Which is why, one night, halfway through brushing your teeth, a warm, raspy thought slips into your skull like a dagger wrapped in velvet, "I think I found your hometown, but you’re already gone...You win… this time. But if I see you, I’m still keeping you."

And you choke on your toothbrush.

The next mistake in your proverbial abode being invaded comes quickly.

He first catches a glimpse of you by accident. And it ruins him for days.

The bond has always been mostly one-sided. Him shouting into the abyss, you offering the occasional snarky whisper like some irritated brain ghost with boundary issues. You’ve never slipped. You’ve never let anything real through. 

Until that day.

You were distracted. Tired. In the middle of patching a leak in your roof, your arms are covered in sap, and your soul is covered in rage because the only thing worse than your soulmate yelling about meat in your head is leaky ceilings during monsoon season.

And then, just for a flicker, you thought something too loudly.

You didn’t mean to. You were yelling internally about your ladder being possessed and made of evil wood spirits. You were furious with gravity. You were sweaty, sore, and covered in twigs.

And then, like a crack in a door.

He sees you.

Not fully. Just a snapshot, like the first page of a dream:

Sunlight streaking through wet leaves. Your face in half-shadow, eyes squinting up at a broken shingle. A smear of dirt across your cheek. Mouth pressed flat in focus. Your hand raised to swipe your brow, wrist wrapped in a red ribbon that was probably nothing but made his whole chest ache.

And worst of all: You are beautiful.

Not like the kind of “hot” he was always joking about. Not bartender-curvy or saloon-pretty or the fantasy women his crewmates dreamt up. You looked real.

Solid.

Warm.

Like someone he could come home to.

It knocked the breath out of him.

“...Whoa.”

The whisper was involuntary. Barely a word. More like a reverent exhale.

On your side, you froze.

Because you felt it. 

You felt the moment he saw. The way the tether between your minds trembled, like it had finally aligned. Like it was no longer just a voice.

It had eyes. And they saw you.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, a little broken. “You’re real. You’re—”

You smacked the bond shut.

So hard, it echoed.

You didn’t talk to him again for two weeks.

And Ace?

Ace spent those two weeks walking around like a man hit by divine lightning.

He tried drawing your face from memory. Failed. Got angry. Started sketching again. Asked Thatch if he’d ever had a religious experience involving a hammer-wielding forest nymph and a red ribbon.

Everyone thought he was concussed.

Marco eventually sat him down and asked if he'd been cursed by a wood sprite. Ace just stared at the table and whispered, “She’s incredible.” And because he’s somehow managed to wedge a figurative foot in the door jam, he gets more glimpses.

It happens at night.

You’re alone, exhausted, curled up in a too-small bed on a too-small island that doesn’t even have proper plumbing. There’s a storm outside, thunder heavy and close, and you’ve been pretending all day that you aren’t upset.

But pretending only gets you so far.

You lie there, trembling. Not with fear. Just with the quiet, suffocating ache of trying to stay strong all the time. And that’s when your thoughts falter.

You let your guard drop.

Across the sea, Ace jolts upright.

Because suddenly, you’re there.

Not a thought. Not a quip. Another glance.

Like a flash through water. You. In the dark. Hunched over your own arms. Quietly crying into a pillow.

Not sobbing. Not loud.

Just… cracking.

Soft and honest and completely unguarded. The window next to your bed is cracked open. The candle is burning low. Your hands are gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering you to the world.

You don’t even think of his name. But you feel him. And that’s worse.

And he feels everything.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

For once, he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches in that stolen second, completely still, as his chest fills with something heavy, protective, and utterly unhinged.

He sees you. The real you.

Not just the sharp voice. Not the teasing distance. But the person beneath it all. Fragile. Furious. Lonely.

“You don’t feel safe,” he realizes. “You don’t feel safe anywhere.”

You snap the bond shut again the second you feel him. It slams so hard he physically stumbles back on the deck of the Moby Dick.

“Hey—! No, wait—!”

Silence.

He doesn’t chase the bond. Not right away. He just sits there, staring into the storm, heart pounding like a drum.

And then, very softly, he whispers to no one.

“You don’t ever have to be alone again, you know. Not with me.”

You huff in annoyance, trying to pull the mental shutters down like you're closing a damn window, but no matter how much you lock them, he's still there, pressing against the edges of your thoughts like he's trying to squeeze through a crack. And damn it, it’s working. His mental presence fills the spaces you’ve tried so hard to keep him out of, and now you can’t stop yourself from giving him all these little snippets of your mind, no matter how much you want to.

And goddamn it, when he decides to stay on your stoop, refusing to budge, there's only so much you can do—the nerve of him. There’s something oddly endearing about how he doesn’t back off, even when your mental voice tells him to just leave. He likes hearing your rambling nonsense, which makes you even more annoyed.

But it’s not just that. It’s the gems he’s pulling from you now. The stupid thoughts you can’t quite hide. Like that one, for example. You thought, just for a second, that the man who joined the Whitebeard's crew was somehow more interested in your bond, for the social aspect of it all. Like maybe he'd just stumbled into your mental space for the friendship and sweet, sweet no-escape bonding time, right? 

It’s not completely irrational, right? Maybe a little delusional, but not out there. A guy that big with all that muscle? You really didn’t expect him to fit the “faithful romantic hero” trope—especially with “pirate” as his job title. He’s probably out there throwing hands and other things in every port he visits.

And every time something even remotely flirtatious crosses his mind, you bolt like your brain’s on fire, diving into farm animal facts just to avoid that embarrassing knowledge about what his hormones are up to behind closed doors.

He’s just not interested in you, carnally at least. Why would he be? You’re... you. He’s a famous pirate, a literal fire-bending golden retriever with abs and a fleet. He’s probably got a sexy fishwoman in every port. Hell, you'd fold for a sexy fishwoman, so why shouldn’t he?

But of course, he chooses the worst possible time to clarify. While you’re shopping. In public.

A thought slams into your brain like a meteor dipped in honey and sin.

“You’re not subtle, sweetheart.”

You physically jolt, and the egg vendor takes a step back. “You good?”

You nod, staring into the void. Because that voice—the one you haven’t heard in weeks—is suddenly awake. Smug. Dangerous.

“Not interested?...Not interested?”

A beat of silence.

“You’ve been dodging me for years like a criminal with a crush. You flinched when you saw my poster. You think I didn’t feel that spark? I felt your thirst, babe. It came through like a punch to the solar plexus.”

You grip the egg basket like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“You think I’m not interested? I’ve been tracking your emotional wreckage like a lovesick bloodhound with ADHD and a lighter.”

And then, of course, he gets descriptive.

Vivid. Uncomfortably so.

Your knees buckle a little.

“The things I could do if you’d just sit still for five damn minutes,” He practically screams, “And stop thinking about goats. Or cows. Or whatever weird barnyard tangent you go off on when you panic.”

You mentally scream, LIVESTOCK IS A COMFORTING TOPIC, and he laughs out loud in your brain.

It’s a warm, rough laugh that slides down your spine like a sin you weren’t ready to commit.

You drop your eggs.

And he keeps going.

“You think I’m not interested? Baby, I’ve imagined every version of you. Sarcastic. Half-dressed. Mud-covered. Covered in nothing but one of my shirts and bad intentions.”

Your ears go red.

“I’ve had to apologize to my crew for zoning out during a sea battle because you accidentally had a fantasy about kissing someone else. I almost torched an island.”

You drop your entire egg basket this time. Gone, like your dignity.

You storm home.

Slamming the door behind you, you flop onto your bed and shout into a pillow,

 “STOP DOING THAT!”

You hear him reply, far too smug,

 “Only if you stop pretending you don’t want me to.”

You assumed he was a eunuch. Fair. No normal man could be that energetic, that unhinged, that relentless without sacrificing something vital. There was no way a person who routinely set himself on fire for fun had enough blood left in his body to maintain… well, anything.

You’d once muttered aloud—after a particularly violent surge of his soul-linked thoughts.

“If this lunatic isn’t a eunuch, I’ll eat my shoe.”

To which the voice responded, chipper as ever, “Well, hope it’s chocolate-flavored, sweetheart, because I’m very much not a eunuch.” You rolled your eyes. Typical. He’d flirt with a cactus. It didn’t mean anything. But then, just after you bathed, exhausted and trying to sleep, he struck again.

The vivid mental image. Unsolicited. Graphic. Uncomfortably detailed. And so clear, it might as well have been seared directly onto the backs of your eyelids.

He wasn’t just not a eunuch. He was… a menace.

“Still think I’m not working, baby? Want me to describe how I’d use my very functional anatomy, or do you want a slideshow? Actually, hang on—let me tilt the angle. You’re not appreciating the scale.”

You tried to block him. You really did. But Ace had never once been deterred by logic, shame, or psychic boundaries. If anything, he doubled down.

“Hey, you’re the one who said I was built like a vending machine. Just thought I’d show you the snacks.”

You hated him. You hated how hot he sounded.

Hated that he was now giving himself full permission to know just how feral he was.

“Five minutes, sweetheart.

He could do things if you just sat still for five minutes.

He says it like a threat. Like a promise. Like he’s been waiting.

And you know he means it. Because every time you try to ignore him—every time you stubbornly pretend he’s not whispering sinful nonsense in your brain—he doubles down.

“Five minutes, sweetheart. That’s all I need. No interruptions, no running, no sassing. Just you, breathless and mine.”

You scoffed at first. Called him delusional. Told him to go flirt with a rock.

But Ace?

Ace just purred. 

“See, look at how you're so pent up, baby. I told you. Five minutes, baby. Sit still, and I’ll show you what it feels like when someone actually knows you.”

His words crawl through your mind like fire, igniting every nerve. You try to push them away, but it's useless. Ace has never been one to leave you alone, not when he’s this determined.

He’s not just talking. He’s implying, and it’s maddening. You could feel it in the way he speaks, like every word is a thread pulling you closer to something you know you’re not ready for.

But god, part of you wonders if you’re wrong. What would it feel like to finally just give in? To stop pretending you aren’t as affected as he’s been telling you?

You’re teetering on the edge. One more push, and you’ll fall.

The worst part? You’re already halfway there.

“I’ve been dreaming about you for years. I’ve had practice.”

It’s maddening. Every time he gets quiet, you miss him. Every time he returns, you want to strangle him.

And now you’re terrified. Because someday, inevitably, you’re going to sit still. Just for five minutes.

And if there’s one thing you are when you’re mad and emotionally cornered, it’s petty as hell. You ghosted this man for the sin of saying boobies. Now, for trying to mentally fondle yours? You’re going nuclear.

So, you go on dates. Ace live-commentates them in your head like a sports announcer with ADHD.

“Bro. His hands are sweaty. You gonna kiss that? Ask him who his favorite pirate is. If it’s not me, stab him. What is this guy’s deal with anchovies? Are you safe??”

-Branching Out?-

You tried. Honestly, you really tried.

But you’re done. Emotionally. Mentally. Hormonally.

You’ve spent your entire adolescence haunted by the gremlin thoughts of a pirate you’ve never met. You’ve heard his opinions on soup, his guilty cries over cartoons, and more than one deeply concerning mental image involving rope.

So, you decide—quietly, pettily, desperately—that you’re going to break the bond by seducing a perfectly nice, boring man with great shoulders and zero mess.

Everything is set.

You’re wearing something cute but functional. You’ve got dinner plans. The guy is sweet. Polite. Zero war crimes. You even lit a candle, for atmosphere.

You’re about to lean in and kiss him when—

“WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?!”

Ace’s voice slams into your skull like a full-volume spiritual airhorn.

You blink.

The nice man asks if you’re okay, looking at you like you might suddenly sprout a second head.

You smile. Politely. Internally, you are SCREAMING.

“NOPE. UNACCEPTABLE. THAT GUY LOOKS LIKE HE APOLOGIZES BEFORE HE CUMS. IS THIS BECAUSE I MENTIONED THE CRAB DREAM? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HIS MIDDLE NAME—DOES HE EVEN HAVE ONE? WHAT IF IT’S TERRY?”

You try to push him out. Focus. The man touches your hand gently.

“I WILL SET HIM ON FIRE. I HAVE FIRE HANDS.”

You exhale slowly and say aloud, “Please don’t set him on fire.”

The man blinks. “What?”

“Nothing.”

It is not nothing. It is a Sun God with no boundaries, loudly critiquing your sexual choices.

“I swear to GOD if he touches your waistband I’m going to hex his bloodline into extinction.”

You try again. Focus.

The man leans forward. He kisses your neck. It’s fine. It’s… nice.

And in your head?

“I HOPE HE FALLS OFF A DOCK TOMORROW AND GETS STUNG BY A SPITEFUL SHRIMP. YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE HIS HAIR. YOU’RE JUST DOING THIS OUT OF SPITE. YOU MONSTER. PUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON BEFORE I WRITE A POEM ABOUT YOU OUT LOUD AND GET TATTOOED IN YOUR HONOR.”

The worst part?

You’re laughing. On your own bed. At the same time, a very confused man is gently trying to undo your shirt.

He stops, blinking. “Uh... are you... Okay?”

You wave him off. “It’s not you. I’m—ha—just mentally haunted.”

He leaves. 

Kindly. 

With a respectful bow (And possibly some trauma).

Two minutes later, Ace is smug and insufferable.

“So. Virginity status: Intact. Thanks to me. You're welcome. I’m a public service, honestly. Now that we’ve established that, can you PLEASE just let me take care of this properly and not with whatever beige sponge you dragged out of the alleyway?”

You groan.

He whistles.

“That better not have been a moan unless it was for me.”

You lie there glare at the ceiling, rage simmering.

“Don’t be mad,” Ace said, smug and unrepentant. “It’s not my fault you’re mine…And if I have to monologue in your head for six hours straight to keep you from letting some weak-jawed idiot put his hands on you, I will. Seriously, babe. All I’m asking is for you to wait until I can ruin you properly.”

You nearly screamed. Again.

And because you're a petty bitch with no control over things anymore, you decide to become mean. After all, it’s the only weapon left in your emotional arsenal.

You shut him out. Well, you try to. But you know it’s a cold war now. It’s inevitable. And your first strike? Completely accidental. As you stew in your indignation, a thought slips out—just a little too loud in your head.

“You’re like a damn stray dog that can’t stop following me. You’re lucky I don’t just leave you in the middle of the alley behind the Shimotsuki market and let the cats handle you.” You send a strong mental image of the said alley just to rub it in his face.

There’s a long, tense silence.

You feel something, but it’s so fleeting you can’t quantify it until he doesn’t reply. 

Radio silence.

You’ve hurt his feelings.

You assumed he was pouting.

Which, to be fair, is on brand. He feels like the kind of man who would sulk about you not liking the exact ratio of buttons on his open shirt.

You told yourself you didn’t care. You told yourself this was good. Mental distance was good. Silence was peace. You didn’t need the constant horny peanut gallery in your brain, anyway.

You could finally focus. You could finally think.

You could finally wear skirts without worrying about mental commentary like: “Babe. That hemline? You’re gonna cause weather.”

And because you're a certified bitch, you can’t casually reach out. That’s what you tell yourself, anyhow.

You didn’t know how to reach out. You didn’t even want to. You just kept your mental door cracked open a titch and hoped he was somewhere being dramatic about the situation with a drink in hand.

But of course, that’s not what happened.

-The Slip Up-

He was not pouting.

He was tracking you.

Because here’s the thing. That little “alleyway” verbal slap and mental image of a sad little garbage can? That wasn’t just a mean thought. You hadn’t realized it, but you had just transmitted an image of your direct location straight to him.

It was a soul-bond breadcrumb. A signal flare. A bullseye on your very mortal, very sexy location.

And Ace? Ace is a feral golden retriever with boobs radar and emotional tunnel vision.

The second you let that thought leak? He started sailing.

You don’t know any of this.

You’re still sitting there, pretending you don’t care, when in reality, you’ve unknowingly painted a target on yourself. You don’t know that Ace, with his relentless persistence, is already closing in.

You have no idea that the moment your mental slip happened, he was already at the helm of his ship, grinning like a maniac.

And you’re still sitting there, blissfully unaware, believing that silence is your reluctant victory.

-Home Invasion-

A month later, he finally, finally speaks.

“Hey.”

You don’t answer. Is it because you were relieved and had tears in your eyes? Of course not, and if it were true, you wouldn’t tell anyone. Of course, you’re outside, being a human being and trying to be normal, so you look like a loon.

You glance around the street like someone’s going to see you talking to no one, looking like a total mess. You try to pull yourself together, pretending nothing's happening. Maybe you’re just a little shaken. But that’s fine.

You grit your teeth. “What do you want, Ace?”

“You mad I went quiet?”

You cross your arms in the street, and a grunt escapes. A small child asks her mother if your mad or constipated.

He laughs.

“No worries,, babe, no hard feelings.” And there it is. That smug edge creeping back into his voice.

Your desire to punch him returns in full force.

And you can hear the grin before he says the next words.

“Bet you missed me though.”

You can feel your eye twitching. This asshole. He's already won. Again.

“You’re impossible.”

“Aw, babe, that’s sweet. I missed you too.”

You take a deep breath and hold back the mental floodgates.

You try to ignore the fact that your heartbeat’s a little faster than normal, that you’re fighting the urge to scream because you know what's coming.

He knows exactly what he’s doing. And it makes you want to throw your wallet at the wall and hope a racoon doesn’t scurry off with it.

Then his next words drop like a bomb.

“You know," he continues, voice oozing with smugness, "I was just busy, sweetheart. You know, tracking you. No big deal.”

You freeze. Your blood runs cold.

Your brain short-circuits.

Tracking you.

The reality hit you like a freight train, its weight crashing into your chest. You hadn’t just let him know where you were with that stupid, careless mental slip—he’d been actively following your every move for a month. The very thought felt like you’d been exposed in ways you couldn’t possibly come back from.

The worst part? You couldn't even fight it. You knew exactly what he meant. You knew. The heat of his gaze, the way his presence lingered like a shadow over your thoughts. It was all too familiar, too dangerous.

And it felt mortifying.

You’d been trying to escape him, trying to block him out, yet all it took was a single slip-up—an image, a mental breadcrumb—and he was back, right where he wanted to be.

Without even realizing it, you screamed inside your head, “YOU'RE A FUCKING PSYCHOPATH.”

The laugh that followed reverberated through your mind, deep and smooth, like it had always belonged there.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.”

And then—you felt it before you saw him.

A heat, a wave that crashed against your skin like a sudden fever. The air seemed to shift. A flicker of danger, like lightning before the storm. It was that hurricane’s grin, that sun-warmed sin, wrapping itself around you like an invisible tether. You didn’t know whether to run or stay, but somehow, your feet were rooted to the ground.

And then—

“Hey.”

You looked up, and the world seemed to pause.

There he was. Portgas D. Ace.

Tall. Sun-kissed skin that looked like it had been burned by more than just the sun. His shirt was partially undone, revealing just enough of his chest to make your heart skip a beat. It looked like a war crime in the making.

And somehow, somehow, he was even hotter in person.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, mouth half-open, like a cat caught peeing on the rug. Was this real? Were you really standing in front of him, the man who had haunted your thoughts for weeks, months? You tried to form a sentence, tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathless, “...You... You’re real?”

That smirk. That all-knowing, impossibly smug smirk. He tilts his head.

“You gonna say hi? Or just keep pretending you didn’t hurt your own feelings more when you’re trying to hurt mine?”

Your brain short-circuits.

You attempt something vaguely resembling a sentence, but it comes out more like, “What the hell are you—how did you even—this is illegal.”

He just smiles, all teeth and smugness.

“Soulmates, baby. And that pretty distinctive mental image you flung at me like a broom. Shimotsuki Market. Very unique. Very trackable.”

You’re about to hurl something—anything—at him, so you grab your wallet off your hip and throw it at him. It's a reflex, a desperate attempt to do something other than stand there like a dumbfounded idiot.

He catches it effortlessly. Not even a flinch. Not a hint of struggle. Just that damn smile, like he’s deeply pleased with himself, and unfortunately, his smugness is also hot.

You try to walk past him, determined to regain some semblance of control. But of course, he steps right in front of you, blocking your path without a second thought.

“You ghosted me for years, babe. Years. I didn’t even know if you had a face. Now you do. And it’s a really cute one. So. Hi.”

You freeze. The air between you crackles with tension. Every nerve in your body screams at you to run. But you don’t.

You can’t. Not when he’s standing there, blocking the way out, with that impossible grin plastered on his face like he owns the world—and, apparently, your mind. 

You want to hit him. Yell at him. But all you can manage is a shaky exhale, your pulse racing, your chest tight. You turn on your heel, desperate to escape, speedwalking back to some semblance of sanity. You shove past him, making it look like you’re in control.

“Rude,” he mutters, his voice laced with amusement. “But hot.”

You keep walking, determined. You’re going to get out of here. But of course, he follows.

“You’ve got a cute limp when you’re mad. Did you know that? We should talk. Or fight. Or make out. Up to you.”

Your hands ball into fists. But you don’t stop. You duck into the alley behind the shop, hoping the cramped space might give you an edge.

He follows you like a cursed Disney prince with a death wish. You whirl around, practically snarling.

“What do you want?”

He stops. The grin fades, just a little. He shrugs, casual, like he hasn’t just been stalking you for a month. But it’s not casual. It’s like he’s pulling back a little, trying to act nonchalant while wearing a smug look that says everything.

“I want you,” he says, his voice lowering. “I want to know your name. Your voice. What you actually sound like when you’re not yelling at me in your brain.”

For a split second—just one—you forget to be mad.

You forget you ever tried to run.

You’re staring at him now, and for a brief moment, there’s no anger, no desire to escape, just... him.

But then reality crashes back in.

And without thinking, you reach into your bag, grabbing the dried herbs you’ve been carrying for no particular reason, and hurl a handful straight at his face. You don’t even register what you’ve done until they’re in the air, the sharp scent of crushed rosemary and thyme filling the space between you.

You don’t wait to see the result. You sprint. Your legs move faster than your thoughts, driven by a primal instinct to get away.

Behind you, you hear him cough. Then, his laugh—rich and dark, echoing through the alleyway. “You really think you can outrun me?”

You don’t answer. You don’t even slow down. You’re not scared; you're simply trying to outpace the impossible situation you've somehow found yourself in. Your heart pounds in your chest, each beat louder than the last. But the truth weighs heavily on you: you know you can’t outrun him.

He laughs again. It’s a sound that rumbles through the air, low and confident, like he’s enjoying every second of this chase. “You’re gonna be so much fun.”

The words shoot through you like lightning, but you keep running, pushing your body faster, forcing yourself forward, through the winding streets, away from the port, desperate for a glimpse of safety.

But he’s already there, lurking just out of sight, like a shadow that follows no matter how fast you move.

You dodge down side alleys, weaving through crowds of strangers, your mind running through possible escape routes, trying to think ahead. You board random ships, desperate for anything that might carry you away from him. You even bribe a fruit vendor with a handful of coins, praying it’ll distract him long enough for you to catch your breath.

And still, Ace finds you.

You dart into a nunnery, desperate for sanctuary, the heavy wooden doors slamming behind you like a barricade. You take a moment to collect yourself—twelve minutes, exactly, to hide in the silence. But when you peek outside, the inevitable happens.

He’s standing at the nunnery’s threshold, his grin wide and unrepentant, as if he’s never been bothered by anything in his life. He looks like he’s enjoying this chase a little too much, like the mere fact that he’s found you is some twisted game he’s winning. The game where you run, and he—always—follows.

You round a corner in a port city two islands later and hear it. 

“You run real pretty, sweetheart.”

You freeze, your feet stumbling over one another. Your breath catches in your throat. The words feel like a punch to the gut, the sound of them lingering in your bones. You try to move, but your body betrays you. You trip over your own foot, slamming into a nearby barrel to catch yourself.

Then you spin around.

And there he is.

Ace. Leaning against a post, relaxed, shirt half-open like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His sun-kissed skin glows in the warmth of the midday sun, freckles scattered across his chest like stars in a dark sky. The sunlight seems to conspire against you, highlighting every inch of him, making your breath hitch in your throat. He’s effortlessly cool—effortlessly here.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lunge. Doesn’t need to. He just stands there, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, looking at you like he’s already won.

“Tired yet?” he asks, his voice as smooth as silk and just as dangerous.

You throw a rock at him. It’s the only thing you can think to do.

He dodges it with ease, like he’s seen it coming a mile away. His smile only grows wider, smug and victorious. “Not even a little.”

Your pulse is thrumming in your ears, your muscles aching from the running, but you don’t stop. You take off again, sprinting into the bustling marketplace. The vibrant colors of the stalls blur past you as you run faster, heart hammering against your ribs.

But he’s still right there.

He follows you, but it’s different now. He’s not rushing. He’s moving with the casual grace of a predator, strolling through the crowd like he owns it. His eyes never leave you, and you feel the weight of his gaze like a brand, marking you as his.

And then the worst part happens.

The locals start noticing. They cheer, like they’re watching a game, their eyes tracking the two of you with growing excitement.

One woman shouts, “GET HER, PIRATE BOY!”

You wince, a knot tightening in your stomach as the crowd roars in approval. You can’t outrun the attention now. It’s everywhere. The eyes of the city are on you, and in a moment of absurd clarity, you realize they’re rooting for him.

“Great,” you mutter, grinding your teeth together, the sound of your frustration mingling with the chaotic scene unfolding around you.

Ace grins wider, clearly relishing the bedlam he’s created. The man never stops. Never slows.

Then someone starts placing bets. On you.

Great. Just great.

You vault over a fruit stand, your legs pushing you forward in a burst of desperate energy. It’s not graceful, but you’re fast—too fast to think. You hear Ace whistle, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

“Nice form. You always this athletic or is it just when you’re running from your problems—me—specifically?”

You grit your teeth, ignoring the heat in your cheeks, and duck into a tavern kitchen, praying the staff are too busy to notice your disheveled, panicked entrance. The staff barely blinks as you slip past them, already halfway through the back door when—

He appears again.

Now he’s casually eating an apple, like he wasn’t just doing parkour across balconies and dodging flying fruit. He takes a slow bite, watching you with that maddening, self-satisfied smile, as if nothing had happened.

He doesn’t grab you this time. He doesn’t need to.

He just traps you.

He’s standing too close. That smile—sinful, smug, all-consuming—is never far from his lips.

“You done?” he asks, his voice low, amused.

You glare up at him, your heart hammering in your chest, your pulse quickening with the weight of it all. “No.”

He chuckles, a soft sound that crawls up your spine like heat. "Good."

And then, the moment you’ve been dreading.

He leans in.

It’s slow. Intentional. His breath brushes against your cheek. He whispers, his voice sliding against your ear like a stolen secret.

“Keep running if you want. I don’t mind.”

You feel the weight of his words, pressing in like a warning.

“Chasing you’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”

And then the sucker punch:

“But eventually… sweetheart, you’re gonna trip.”

You freeze. For a moment, your knees go weak, and your brain short-circuits, like someone’s cut the power to your mind. You’re standing there, so close to him, your body fighting against every urge to lean in, to finally give in to the pull.

You almost kiss him. Out of spite. Out of sheer frustration. Almost.

Instead, you throw a spoon right into his face. It clangs loudly against his cheek, and you make a break for it, leaping through the window with as much grace as you can muster.

“WORTH IT!” he yells behind you, his voice loud and triumphant as it echoes down the alley.

You run. Because you can’t stop. You won’t stop. Not until you’ve lost him for good.

But in the back of your mind, there’s something else. A tug. A pull. The taste of his words still lingering in your thoughts.

-CAUGHT-

By nightfall, he’s still following you. Somehow. Unbothered by your death glares, your total silence, or the fifteen attempts you made to accidentally lead him into thorn bushes. He compliments the flora. Bleeds cheerfully.

You’re huffing, exhausted and borderline panicked, your legs aching from the constant running. You can feel your nerves fraying, the last vestiges of your patience worn thin. You’ve been at this for hours, your mind screaming at you to find a way to lose him, but no. There he is. Ten steps behind, like some kind of relentless golden retriever on a leash, with that insufferable, charming grin plastered on his face.

Ace looks pristine. The dirt doesn’t seem to cling to him. His hair’s a little tousled, sure, but it’s still perfect. His skin glows in the low light, and you can practically see the smugness radiating off him, his eyes dancing like he’s having the time of his life.

“You’re picturing me naked again, huh?” he says, his voice like molten honey, lazy and confident. “That’s the third time today. Just say the word, babe, and I’ll come up shirtless and apologetic.”

You growl low in your throat, gritting your teeth as you quicken your pace. This is not happening.

“Oh no,” he whispers in your mind, his voice slipping through like silk, dangerously smooth. “Was that... foreplay?”

You did not just…

The rage inside you flares, hot and violent, and you snap, throwing a rock at him. It’s the first thing you can grab, and the action is pure, unrefined anger.

You watch it sail through the air, and you’re almost satisfied with the aim, the sound of it connecting with him. But then you realize something.

He let it hit him.

You stand there, frozen in place, while he groans from the dirt, propping himself up on one elbow, still grinning like a damn idiot. And you, for some unknown reason, feel terrible.

He’s laughing.

“You know,” he says, brushing the dust off his clothes like this is the most fun he’s ever had, “I’ve gotta hand it to you, babe. You’ve got a hell of a right hook. Still hot as fuck though.”

You say nothing. Your brain has blue-screened. You’re physically incapable of processing this absurdity, this entire situation that you’ve been dragged into.

“You’re—wow. You’re stunning. And you’re standing there. And you’re not yelling at me or hating me or vanishing into mist.”

Still nothing. Your dignity is buffering, on its last thread.He blinks, his smile widening even more, if that’s even possible.

“Unless you are mist. I did hit my head pretty hard. Are you mist?”

You force the words out, your throat feeling dry. “No. Just disappointed.”

His grin widens—widens. Like he’s won something.

“Oh, thank god. That sounds like you.”

You try. You really try to stay composed, but he stands up, all sun-kissed skin and scars, the epitome of absolute menace. You feel your soul leave your body with a little ‘whoosh’ noise. And then, like he’s really not going to let you have any peace, he pulls a small, slightly squished bouquet from his pocket.

“I brought flowers,” he says, holding them out to you with an innocent grin that makes you want to scream. “Sat on them a bit during the fall. But they’re yours. Please accept them and also my eternal devotion.”

You take the flowers. Your hands are trembling, and you hate it.

You hate that you’re standing here, accepting flowers from this ridiculous, insufferable man. But, God, you hate even more that he’s standing there looking like a golden retriever with a heart the size of the sun—hot, fire-punching, fate-cursed, sweet as hell.

And worst of all? You hate that you like it.

You hate that you might even like him. Because, unfortunately, he’s a cutie. A dumb, fire-punching, fate-cursed cutie. And you’re just so screwed.

You flee, again.

Not in the dramatic, cloak-flapping, “I shall vanish into the mist” way you always thought you’d flee your soulmate—no, it’s more like a dignified power walk with panicked footnotes. You grab your satchel, muttering something about needing air, and fast-walk directly into the woods, hoping that the isolation of nature might give you a temporary reprieve from the storm of chaotic thoughts in your head.

But you’re not prepared for the soft voice behind you.

“Want me to carry that?”

You stop in your tracks. You turn, and there he is, right there, as if he’d materialized from the very forest around you. His freckles glow in the dying light, shirt offensively open like he’s trying to challenge every ounce of your self-control. The flowers—crumpled and hopeless—are still in your hand. And the other is already reaching for your bag like this is just a casual joint grocery run, not a soul-rupturing disaster.

“No,” you say firmly, pulling the satchel closer to you like it contains the last remnants of your common sense.

“Right,” he nods, unfazed. “Emotional support bag. Got it.”

You start walking again, forcing yourself to keep your pace. Your legs carry you with a tension that suggests both urgency and defeat.

And, of course, he walks beside you. Casually. Like this is just another walk in the park, like he hasn’t just smashed through a tree, declared eternal devotion, and handed you mashed flowers. Like this is his first time seeing your face, even though it feels like the most significant moment of your life.

He hums, lazily surveying the woods around you. “Nice woods. Quiet. Great for internal screaming.”

You grit your teeth, trying to ignore him, but the temptation to throw him off the trail and let your frustration explode is too great.

“You should leave,” you say, half as a request, half as a warning.

“I know,” he responds, too casually. “But I won’t.”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “That’s called stalking.”

“That’s called fate,” he replies, totally unbothered. “Also, I’m very polite about it.”

You open your mouth, about to argue, when he cuts you off, adding with a teasing smirk, “I brought snacks.”

You close your mouth, your will to argue draining out of you like sand through your fingers.

The two of you walk in silence, the tension thick but oddly comfortable, until you finally reach your small cabin. You stop, spin around, and give him a dramatic flourish meant to intimidate—one last attempt at asserting some control.

“You are not staying here.”

“I accept your terms,” he says, already ducking through the doorway as though it’s his place now. “Great porch. Would die here.”

He pauses, looks at you, and for a split second, the smug grin fades. His expression softens, just a touch.

“Not that I’m planning to,” he adds, and something about the sincerity behind those words makes your chest ache.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, feeling like you're losing a battle you didn’t even know you were fighting. Because no matter how many times you tell him to leave, every inch of him belongs here.

-Emotional Turning Point-

He fits himself into your life like he was always meant to be your super handsome supporting male lead, living on the fringes of your porch and decency.

You’re not sure how he does it; how Ace, with all his chaos and charm, has somehow managed to worm his way into your routine, making himself right at home without even trying. But there he is, lounging in that damn chair by your door, making himself part of your world with a grin that says he’s here to stay. He’s everywhere. Leaning in the doorway, poking his head through the window, eating snacks with that infuriatingly content grin on his face.

It’s not that you invited him in. Not really. But it’s almost like he was always meant to be a part of this life, somehow. You can’t get rid of him, and—goddammit—you don’t want to.

Every time you try to get some peace, there he is, leaning casually against the doorframe with an offhand comment that somehow worms its way under your skin. He feels like your life now, like some permanent addition, wrapped in the scent of summer and smoke, never asking for permission, always managing to make you feel like you’re the one who’s been missing something.

And it drives you crazy. But not the bad kind of crazy. The kind where you’re frustrated because you don’t want to admit you like this new reality.

He's also so kind. So genuinely good in a way that makes you want to rip your own heart out for how much you’re falling for it. He doesn’t just show up with a smug grin and a million dumb comments. Though, hell, he does plenty of that too, but there’s something in the way he’s just… there.

The way he notices the little things. The way he makes sure you’ve eaten, even when you try to hide it. The way he doesn’t just barge in but waits for you to ask, like he knows when to push and when to let you breathe. And the most infuriating part? He does it without expecting anything in return. He’s not keeping score. He’s not holding anything over your head. He just… cares.

Which is how, eventually, you find yourself giving in. You tell yourself it’s because there’s no other place for him to sleep. He can’t keep taking the porch chair, it’s too awkward. You tell yourself it’s because he’s not that bad, right? He’s harmless, right? Maybe having him in the guest room won’t be so terrible.

But you know the truth. You know you’ve softened. You’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re frustrated, the way he listens without interrupting. You’ve caught him quietly fixing the little things you forget; your broken door lock, the pile of laundry you’ve been meaning to fold. And you’ve realized, with a sickening sense of vulnerability, that you’ve let him in.

The guest room? That was just the final step. You’re a pathetic push-over, no denying it.

Because now he’s there. In your home. In your life. Not just as the irritating golden retriever you thought he was, but as the person who somehow made himself indispensable.

You snort, unable to hold back the laughter, the absurdity of it all finally catching up with you.

Ace beams beside you, that ever-present, infectious smile stretching across his face as if he’s just made the greatest revelation of all time. The night settles into a quiet rhythm, the tension from the past moments fading as he settles himself into your life like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And Ace? 

Ace stays.

He stays in the most inconvenient, inconveniently endearing way possible. His presence weaving itself into the fabric of your day like a persistent, sun-warmed thread that refuses to be untangled. No matter how much you try to brush him off, he’s there, in the most Ace way imaginable: full of warmth, full of disarray, full of ridiculousness.

And then, of course, he decides to hit you with it.

He tells you who his father is exactly one week after deciding not to die for vengeance and two days after setting your entire pantry on fire trying to toast bread with his hands. You’re crouched by the pantry door, diligently trying to patch up the mess he’s made, when he flops down beside you with that same blissful grin, the one that promises you’ll never know a moment’s peace.

“By the way,” he says, his voice smooth and casual, “my dad was the Pirate King.”

You freeze.

You don’t respond immediately. Instead, you slowly lower the patching materials, every muscle in your body tensing in complete shock. 

The pause feels like an eternity.

Then, ever so slowly, you turn your head to face him. He’s still looking at you like he’s dropped a bombshell, waiting for the reaction. You blink once. Twice. And then, to his evident surprise, you simply say, “Okay.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you repeat, your voice steady, your expression a carefully controlled mask. “Okay.”

He opens his mouth, like he’s about to say something else, but then he hesitates. “Like… you don’t care?”

You take a deep breath, trying to recalibrate your thoughts. “Do you steal children?” you ask, your voice flat, as though that’s the most important thing in the world right now.

“No,” he answers, confused but amused.

“Do you bring Marines to my door?”

“Absolutely not.”

You sigh, feeling the tension in your chest finally begin to loosen. “Then I don’t care if you’re the son of the Pirate King, a dragon, or the sea itself with legs. Just stop bathing in front of me.”

Ace makes a sound, like a duck being struck by lightning, eyes widening with exaggerated innocence. “That was ONE TIME.”

“It was yesterday.”

“I thought you were asleep!”

“You were singing.” You throw a wet cloth at his face without even looking at him, too tired to care about how ridiculous this is. “Also,” you add, as you wipe off the dust from your hands, “you have a birthmark. Not that I meant to see it. But it exists. And it is shaped like a banana.”

“OH MY GOD.”

He screams into the rag, the sound muffled and exaggerated, but it only makes you feel more at ease.

You keep working, the soft smile on your lips betraying the amusement you’re trying so hard to hide. You do care.

You care about the way he burns toast but guards your garden like it’s a castle. The way he talks in his sleep, thinking no one can hear him, and makes enough food for two even when you insist you’re fine on your own. The way he tried to give you his favorite dagger like it was a friendship bracelet—like you were meant to have it.

But you don’t care who his father is.

That man is dead.

Ace is alive.

And in the end, it doesn’t matter who his bloodline is. What matters is the idiot sitting beside you, grinning like he’s won the lottery and setting fire to his shirt trying to impress you by flexing in the sun. The one who, despite all the madness, somehow makes you feel like this chaotic, unexpected life is exactly what you need.

You might be losing the battle, but you’re definitely winning the war.

Ace knew he didn’t have a chance the first time he heard you spoke, and frankly, he’s never been one to deny fate.

Ace is the kind of guy who falls fast, and hard. And over simple things. It’s not a grand speech that changes him. Not a fight, not a dramatic stand in the rain, not a desperate plea to spare himself.

It’s something much worse.

You do absolutely nothing.

You make tea. You sweep the porch. You hang up wet laundry with that same quiet, suspicious side-eye you’ve been giving him since he crash-landed into your life like a shirtless meteor of emotional disorder. You don’t flirt. You don’t cry. You don’t tell him not to go. You just exist.

Like you’ve done for years, on the edge of war and wonder. Quiet. Clever. Alive.

And Ace?

He shatters.

Because now that he’s here, now that he knows your smile in real time and not just as a phantom curl behind his thoughts, now that he knows how you brew tea when you're nervous and fake a snort-laugh when you're amused and sleep with one hand under your pillow like you're still ready to flee.

He realizes something awful.

He doesn’t want to die anymore.

And if he goes after Blackbeard alone, that’s exactly what will happen.

So one night, while you’re bent over your little garden, muttering at a weed like it owes you money, he sits on the porch with his legs dangling over the side. The moon makes him look soft. Barefoot. Real.

He says, casually, like it’s nothing:

“I’m not gonna go.”

You don’t look up. Your hands are busy, pulling the stubborn weed from the soil, but you can feel the weight of his words like a distant thunderclap.

“Go where?”

“After Teach. Not alone.” He scratches at his hair, a rare softness in his voice. “I was gonna. I thought I had to. But then you made soup. And yelled at the laundry. And looked at me like I was a half-cracked egg someone left in the sun too long.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of an immediate response. You just finish pulling the weed from the ground and set it aside, carefully, as if there’s a cosmic balance you don’t want to disturb.

“That was not a look of affection,” you say dryly, still not meeting his eyes.

“I know,” he grins, that damn grin that always makes your chest tighten. “But it made me realize I want to come back. I want someone to come back to.”

You stare at him now. Really stare.

And you see it.

Portgas D. Ace, fire-fist terror of the seas, Whitebeard’s reckless son, walking natural disaster.

He’s sitting still. And choosing to just live.

For himself. For his crew. And, impossibly, for you.

“I told Marco,” he says, quieter now, his voice almost unrecognizable with the vulnerability slipping through. “Let someone else bring him in. Or all of us. I’m not rushing into a trap because I want to feel like I deserve punishment. I don’t want to prove anything anymore.”

You blink. His words hit you like a wave, but the truth of it doesn't settle immediately.

“So you’re just... not dying?” You ask, the question slipping out without meaning to.

“Apparently,” he shrugs, still with that casual bravado he carries around like armor. “Real inconvenient. I’d emotionally prepped for a tragic death arc.”

You finally meet his eyes, watching as his smile falters just a little, just enough to let you see the weight he’s been carrying. And you realize, in that moment, you’re no longer looking at the man who sought death to prove something. You’re looking at a man who finally decided that maybe he deserves to live.

For the first time, Ace isn’t running. He isn’t running from his past, from his fate, or from the bedlam inside him.

He’s sitting still.

And that, in its own way, is the bravest thing he’s ever done.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. The silence between you is more than enough.

And as he sits there, beside you, in the quiet of your little garden and under the soft glow of the moon, you know—without a shadow of a doubt—that Ace has made his choice.

He’s not dying for the sake of others anymore. Not for revenge, not for the memory of his father, not for any grand ideal.

He’s living. For himself. And, maybe, just maybe... for you too.

And for the first time, it feels like the weight of it all. His choices, his fate, the chaotic spiral he’s been trapped in has shifted. It’s lighter now, and somehow, so are you.

-The Climax-

The thing about being in love—actually in love—and having a soulmate who shares not just their heart, but their food, their dreams, and their increasingly unhinged commentary on everything from ocean weather to crab mating habits, is that eventually… you just give in.

You commit to the idea.

Not quietly. Not with grace. But with a dramatic, full-body sigh, hands thrown to the heavens like, “Fine, FINE, I guess I’ll be in love with you, you ridiculous golden retriever of a man.”

And that would be fine.

If he wasn’t so good at making you mad.

It starts innocently, as it always does, with Ace just being himself. Fixing broken stuff around your ship cabin without being asked. Replacing your rickety chair with one he definitely stole from somewhere nicer. Quietly fixing your shoes with leftover leather scraps. Roasting fish at sunrise and pretending it’s not for you, even though he offers the best cuts.

Which would be sweet. If he didn’t leer when you thanked him. If he didn’t lean in like, “See? You’d miss me if I died.”

Or worse.

“You like me.”

And the worst part? He’s not wrong.

You do like him.

You like the way he absentmindedly hums when the sea is calm. The way he throws himself between danger and his crew without hesitation. The way he frowns when your hands are cold and warms them between his palms without comment. The way he talks about you to others, thinking you’ll never hear.

(You always hear. The bond makes sure of it.)

So when he saunters up, shirt undone, grin weaponized, holding a handmade seashell hairpin like he didn’t just crawl out of the ocean like a romantic cryptid, you lose it. He’s always is taller than you realize, and broader too. All sun-kissed skin, tousled black hair, freckles like spilled sugar, and that damn grin—lazy, lethal, and soaked in the smug knowledge that he’s been living in your head rent-free for years.

You get mad.

Not annoyed. Not flustered.

Mad.

That soul-warming, spine-tingling, irrational kind of fury that only one person in the world can summon from the depths of you just by existing.

Because how dare he.

How dare he worm his way into your life with that lazy grin and those too-soft glances when he thinks you’re not looking. How dare he make your heart thunder like a war drum just by standing there, shirt half-buttoned, freckles glowing like sin under the sun. How dare he know—know—how to soothe your anger and ignite it in the same breath.

And that’s when it happens.

That sharp inhale. That white-hot glare. That moment of eye contact held just a second too long.

He tilts his head. Smirks. You see it in his eyes; the gleam, the silent countdown to disaster. You know that look. That’s the look that means he's about to say something so stupidly hot it could derail your life and you'd still thank him for the wreckage.

You take a step back, instinctively.

He steps forward, all loose limbs and barely restrained heat, the picture of someone who’s already won.

“Run,” he says, voice all honey and heat, “and I’ll catch you.”

You snap.

You lunge. Not for anything romantic—no. For a punch. A real one. Right to that smug, pretty face.

You miss.

He doesn’t.

He catches your wrist like he was waiting for it, like he dreamed of this moment. His fingers curl around yours, warm and unshakable. You meet his gaze, ready to spit fire.

But he beats you to it.

“You’re everything,” he breathes, low and cracked. Like it hurts. Like it’s truth against his ribs. “Oh no. I’m so in love with you. I’m gonna ruin everything.”

You should run.

But your knees betray you, turning soft and stupid like seafoam on a summer shore. Your heartbeat hammers in your ears, drowning out every sensible thought. And then—oh gods—he leans in, close enough for you to smell salt and smoke, and his fingers thread through your hair. He murmurs something too dirty for daylight, and that’s it.

You’re gone.

“Five minutes,” you rasp, voice ragged with want and fury. “That’s all you get. Bring the fire or shut up.”

What follows is not logical. Or polite.

The next thing you know, you’re in his lap, breathless and burning, yelling, “This is your fault!” while your hands twist in his hair like you’re trying to strangle the ocean. And he’s laughing—laughing—like he just robbed the world blind and left the moon as payment.

“This is a mistake,” you growl.

He grins, eyes glittering like treasure. “Then let’s make it twice.” It starts with sass. Sharp words. Quicker hands. Your teeth graze his jaw. His lips find your pulse. Buttons scatter. 

But it escalates the second you grab a fistful of his hair and hiss, “I swear to god, if you laugh—”

And then, he moans.

You both freeze.

The silence is electric.

You stare at him. He stares at you. Your hand twitches, about to retreat.

He growls. Low. Deep. Dangerous.

“Oh,” he says, voice wrecked with sudden hunger. “Oh, we’re doing this now.”

He leans in. Breath warm against your ear.

“You like pulling hair? That’s cute.” His grin splits wide.“I like begging. Guess we’re both gonna be real happy tonight.”

What follows is a blur of limbs, heat, curses, and catastrophic choices. The kind of night you survive by setting fire to every good intention and riding the wreckage down together.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a surrender, a choice. And gods help you, he kisses like he thinks you belong to him. Because you do.

Clothes come off. Fast. Probably ruined. You don’t care.

Your lips crash into his like a curse, a confession, a final surrender. Like you’ve been holding back the tide of him for years and now—now, finally—you’re letting it pull you under.

And gods help you, he kisses like a man who already knows.

Knows your mouth. Knows your breath. Knows the exact way you melt when someone touches you like a secret instead of a prize.

He tastes like heat and salt and promise. His hands are already on you; hot, greedy, reverent. Calloused palms splaying across your back like he's checking you’re real.

Clothes come off in flashes. Fast. Desperate. Buttons pop. A seam tears. His shirt gets tossed somewhere near the door and yours doesn’t survive the landing. He kisses the swell of your chest with something close to awe and mutters something that makes your toes curl.

You don’t care about the bed. You barely register hitting it. You only notice him, solid and searing and all over you.

Ace doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t second-guess. Every touch is sure. Every sigh you give him maps a path he already seems to know by heart.

And then he really starts.

And you forget how to breathe.

His stamina is, frankly, criminal. You lose track of time. Of position. Of your own name. You understand why other pirates don’t attack him without backup.

At one point, you're clutching at the sheets like they might save you. At another, you're biting his shoulder because apparently you’ve lost the capacity for language. Everything is hot and blurred and so good you could cry. You consider it. Then he bites your ear and you do.

You finally gasp, half-laughing, half-accusing: “Okay—okay, what the hell. You’ve done this before.”

He just grins, stupid and perfect and way too pleased with himself. “Nope,” he says, rolling his hips slow and smug, “I’ve just had years of theoretical training.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “...What?”

“On you, sweetheart.” He leans down, mouth against your throat. “You think I haven’t been preparing? Please. I’ve studied. I’ve visualized. I had flashcards.”

Your brain misfires. Your body, meanwhile, is betraying you entirely.

“I hate you,” you whisper hoarsely.

“Mmm,” he hums, mouth dragging over your shoulder like a satisfied wolf. “Sure you do. Hate me with your thighs again.”

By the time your soul returns from orbit, you’re sprawled across the mattress like a saint mid-apocalypse. Your body feels like it’s been lovingly struck by lightning. Repeatedly. You manage a weak sound. He’s already draping a blanket over you with far too much tenderness for a man who just detonated your nervous system.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

Or black out.

Probably both

You wake up warm. Sated. And very, very naked in his arms.

You stretch, blink blearily, then pause.

Something’s wrong.

You are on a ship. The ship is moving.

You sit up too fast and nearly topple over. Ace hums behind you, still half-asleep. “Mm. Mornin’, baby.”

“…Was this five minutes?” you croak.

He yawns, kisses your shoulder. “Nah. Five was just to start.”

You scramble to sit up, fully panicking now, but he tugs you back down with one strong arm and starts kissing your neck like it’s not an international crime that you are being lovingly detained.

“Don’t bother,” he mumbles. “You’re not going anywhere.”

You blink. “Am I… kidnapped?”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Let’s call it an extended honeymoon. With, like, minor hostage vibes.”

You hiss. He kisses your jaw. You slap his chest. He grins. You try to stay mad. You do.

But when he pulls you into his arms again, presses his forehead to yours and murmurs in your ear.

“We’re gonna make such a good team.”

Cue full body shiver shutdown.

You stop trying.

And somehow?

You don’t even want to escape.

-Honeymoon-

Cosmic Joke Status: Flambéed

You’re now stuck with a flammable himbo who doesn’t knock, doesn’t think ahead, and would 100% commit arson for you just because someone looked at you funny.

And the worst part?

You’re starting to like it. 

(Especially the part where he growls at people who flirt with you, like a very polite junkyard dog with abs.)

[nats-w1fe]

Worse or Even Worse: 1

Natalie Scatorccio x Reader/Shauna Shipman x Reader

Summary: When your soccer team finally got into nationals, what you least expected was for your plane to crash. Not to mention having to deal with your girlfriend suddenly acting strangely.

Word count: 5.7k

Entire series warnings: Non-con, abuse, substance abuse, gore, violence, strong language, abusive relationship, sub-con, toxic relationships, love triangle sort of and more probably

Warnings: Plane crash, hints and mentions to cheating, alcohol, toxic relationship, drug use, oral sex, semi-public sex, gore, mentions of blood, vomit, probably bad writing

Characters included: Reader, Natalie Scatorccio, Lottie Mathews, Shauna Shipman, Jackie Taylor, Van Palmer, Taissa Turner and other Yellowjackets

A/n:  Originally this was going to be a one shot but then I decided to just make it a series that spans out to the whole of Yellowjackets. There will be like around 8 parts to the series so yeahh!

I’m still writing drabbles so please give requests!

You watched from the bench as Taissa passed the ball to your girlfriends feet, you cheered for her. “Go Nat!” you exclaimed, waving your arm about. You noticed the grin growing on her lips. You chuckled and watched her easily swerve past someone and then chip the ball into the air. It flew towards Jackie, who headed it right into the goal. The final whistle blew, causing everyone to erupt into cheers. Your team had won.

You ran onto the pitch to your friends, wrapping your arms around Jackie in a tight hug, “Shit we won!” she laughed, squeezing you tight. You grinned and pulled away but was then instantly pulled back into another hug by Shauna,

“You guys played really well!” you told them all collectively.

You would’ve been playing too if you hadn’t injured your ankle during training. Coach insisted you sit out to prevent further injury so that you could still play for nationals and of course you listened. You weren’t a major loss to the team anyway, you rarely got the ball passed to you and whenever it was you panicked and kicked it to a random direction. You were also the only sophomore. And while sure there was a freshman on the team too, so you weren’t the youngest, everyone saw you as the baby of the team. Probably because you were Jackie’s little sister.

You spotted Natalie, she had her arm around Lottie’s shoulder. You felt a slight tinge of jealousy hit you but you quickly covered it up as you made your way over. Nat looked at you with a wide smile, releasing Lottie from her hold and instead wrapping her arms around your waist. You went up on the tips of your toes and connected your lips with hers.

You had been dating Natalie for a few months now. It was at your 16th birthday that she asked you out and you instantly said yes. Though at first you did have some concerns. You had heard lots of rumours about Natalie cheating on girls, leading girls on and using girls for sex. She dated Lottie before you but they broke up for a reason you weren’t aware of. Lottie was the only girl Natalie didn’t cheat, use or lead on.

Jackie, being the ever most protective sister, warned you that Natalie was really just a player. She could be nasty at times too and was always either high or drunk. But you were happy with Nat, you didn’t care what people said about her. She was Nat, your Nat. Sure she did have a drinking and drug problem but that was just her way of coping with her home life. She never got high around you though, she told you she never wanted you to see her In that state or even have to smell it on her. You could never tell her that she actually smelt of weed all the time, it wasn’t strong, but it was subtle. Always there, you’d grown to actually like it a bit. It comforted you in some weird way.

---

You made your way to practice with your bag slung over your shoulder. You had your hair done up in a messy bun that day. It wasn’t a slick back bun. It was sort of loose and you had a few strands of her hanging out the front, framing your face nicely. Shauna walked next to you, talking about something random. Admittedly, you had zoned out quite early on in her ramble. Your brows knitted together when you saw Natalie, Taissa, Lottie and Van standing together and conferring in hushed tones. It seemed sort of intense. You walked over.

“...This is what we’ve been working for all season. You really want to take that chance?” Taissa asked, you only really caught the end of her sentence so you had no clue what they meant.

“Yeah. ‘Cause I’m not a fucking asshole” Van responded, her brows furrowed and hand clutching onto her bag,

“What are you guys talking about?” you finally asked, standing next to Natalie and taking her hand in yours. She kept a tight grip on your hand.

They all glanced towards Allie, who was flirting with some boys. Her hand touching their arms as she giggled at their jokes. You grimaced slightly at the sight,

“Allie” Lottie stated plainly,

“What about her?” Shauna then asked. You almost forgot she was there. You weren’t too close with Shauna as you were with the rest of the team but you had known her for ages seeing as she was Jackie’s best friend,

“Did you black out at States? She totally choked” Taissa said, almost chuckling as she said it.

It was true, Allie was worse than you and that was saying something. She quite literally ran away from the ball, numerous times.

“She’s a freshman, Tai” you told her, defending Allie.

“She’s a liability” Natalie finally spoke up. You furrowed your brows, slightly, she wasn’t defending Allie? You wondered if she spoke about you like this to the team. You let go of her hand. Shauna glanced back, you looked and saw Jackie was here too. You wondered when she just spawned in.

“What do you want to do about it?” Shauna suddenly asked.

Natalie gave Taissa a look that said go ahead, tell her. Taissa sighed,

“She can’t screw up if she doesn’t get the ball” she suddenly said, you furrowed your brows. Shauna then asked,

“You want to freeze her out?”

“We’d basically be a man down at nationals” you reasoned, surprised they were even considering something like this,

“At least we’d know what we’re working with” Natalie said, defending Taissa. You scoffed and looked at her, about to speak up till Lottie did instead,

“I don’t know. She kinda sucks, but... it doesn’t feel right”

It was like a switch had flipped inside Natalie,

“That’s because it’s bullshit” she said all of a sudden. Everyone looked confused, you looked at her, “You were literally just agreeing with her” you said to her, almost like it was a question. She simply shrugged. Taissa rolled her eyes, giving a ‘fuck you’ look to you and Nat,

“Oh yeah? What’s your plan, then?”

“I dunno, play like a fucking team and win? It’s worked so far” Shauna answered, suddenly getting defensive and stepping forward. She stood closer to you now.

“Everything works until it doesn’t” then; to Natalie, “And for the record, you smell like a wino. Get your shit together” she suddenly said, your eyes widened and you grabbed Nat’s hand once again, “What the fuck Tai?” you questioned her sudden outburst, usually the whole team got along together well.

Natalie took a step towards her, you fully thought she was about to swing. She paused,

“You know what?” she let go of your hand, “Fuck this” she quickly walked off. You sighed, “Thanks a lot Tai” you sighed, she gave you a bit of a sympathetic look but you missed it as you quickly walked after Nat.

---

You tied the laces on your soccer shoes then stood up. Coach Ben chucked a red sports bib at you, you grimaced and put it on. They always stank of sweat. You ran onto the pitch.

After doing various stretches and Laura Lee thanking Jesus or some shit, the match started. Shauna dribbled up field, easily manoeuvring around the defender. Allie raced open on her left -- but Shauna ignored her, opting for a trickier pass to Van. When– Natalie darted in and redirected the ball to Allie, who fumbled...then panicked as the defence closed in, sending a wild pass out of bounds. Coach Scott blew his whistle. You caught the grin Natalie threw to Taissa.

Shauna and Taissa, the best on the team, both took a series of shots. They worked together to keep Allie out of play, and of course Natalie took every chance she could to get in the way of that. You sighed at their messing about. Jackie shot you a look, mouthing,

“the fuck is going on?”

Taissa then suddenly gestured for a time out and jogged over to Coach Scott. You couldn’t hear their conference, but got the gist when Taissa stripped off her red pinny. As she handed it over another player, she was now playing against Allie. You muttered a curse under your breath.

“C’mon, Varsity. Your own defence wants to see you step it up. And frankly, that makes two of us” Coach Scott called out, “Let’s see some hustle!” He blew the whistle.

The second it kicked off Taissa was all over Allie, crowding her and talking shit. This was going too far, you thought. You ran over, planning to get Allie to pass to you so Taissa would back off. Allie passed the ball to you, you managed to dribble past Shauna. You were surprised by your own sudden show of skill and clearly was everyone else. You saw Allie was open so you passed to her.

Taissa didn’t waste a second before slide tackling Allie, hard. Allie hit the ground with a thud and groaned. The ball rolled out of bounds again. Coach Scott blew the whistle and held up a yellow card. Jackie jogged over to Taissa,

“What’s your problem?” she asked her, her brows furrowed. Tai held her hands up in defence, playing dumb,

“What?”

“Just, ease up”

Once Jackie walked off, you jogged over to Tai as all the players got ready for the throw in,

“C’mon, Ty. This isn’t helping” you told her, Taissa simply shrugged, “Y/n, If we can’t freeze her out, she’s gonna have to learn to play under pressure” before you could respond the whistle blew again. The match continued on and Taissa didn’t back down from being rough on Allie, you watched, feeling guilty. You even wondered if they’d do this to you.

Natalie passed the ball to Allie who grimaced in concentration, negotiating the ball around Taissa with a slick turn. She then shouldered Taissa, knocking her slightly. She sprinted to get it open, Taissa hot on her heels. Shauna fired a long-lofted pass, Allie and Taissa both vying for the ball as it arcs high in the air. And then…

Allie jumped for the header and Taissa instinctively jutted her foot out, catching allie’s ankle as she came back down.

CRACK.

There was a sickening, audible snap as Allie’s leg seemingly collapsed – buckling and breaking in a compound fractyre that is, simply put, a total perversion of the human form. You gasped and everyone went silent and there was an eerie stillness as Allie collapsed on the field.

You then caught sight of her leg and you felt bile rise in your throat, her fucking bone was sticking out. Blood was practically everywhere. You hear Lottie scream at the sight and everyone looked horrified. You ran off to the side, throwing up. Someone came up behind you, holding your hair back for you.

“Hey hey…your okay, let it out” you recognised the comforting voice to belong to Shauna. You wiped your mouth and stood up. Natalie ran over to you, you could’ve sworn she shot a glare to Shauna, but you couldn’t care. Not right now

“Hey, you okay?” Nat asked you, rubbing your back gently. You nodded and hugged her, burying your face In her neck. She quietly shushed you, telling you Allie would be okay. You hated the sight of blood; you couldn’t handle it at all.

---

You all sat in the changing room in near silence as everyone got dressed. Everyone was clearly still a little shell shocked. Natalie pulled your shirt down over your head for you, even after insisting you were fine to do it yourself. You then noticed she had a death glare on her face, you followed her gaze to Taissa who sat by herself, avoiding everyone’s gaze.

Jackie looked around at her team. Taking a deep breath,

“I know we’re all worried about Allie. But I really think we need to focus on the positive right now. It might not be as bad as it looks” she said, trying to be positive. Natalie looked at her as she said,

“You could see her fucking bones, Jackie. I’m pretty sure it’s exactly as bad as it looks”

The image returned to your mind and you frowned, feeling that familiar sickness rise again,

“Oh god, I think I’m gonna puke again...” you said, Jackie glared at Natalie, unused to her authority being questioned. Trying to recover --

“I mean, we’re still a team. And we still have each other. And...” She looked to Shauna for backup. But Shauna looked away, Laura Lee then randomly spoke up and said,

“...And we have Jesus.”

“This wasn’t exactly a big win for the power of prayer, Tammy Faye.” Lottie returned, giving her a look of disgust. You sighed and ran your hand through your hair,

“The Lord works in mysterious wa—” Laura Lee was cut off from what she was saying when there was a loud bang. Everyone looked at Natalie

She slammed her locker shut, clearly not interested in a theological discussion. You quickly got up, grabbing your bag, just as you were about to leave you felt Shauna grab your hand. You looked at her in confusion, “You okay?” she asked you, seeming quite concerned. You smiled slightly and nodded,

“Yeah I’m fine, don’t worry” you let go of her hand and went bag to Nat who took your bag, giving Shauna particularly nasty look as she stormed out.

You held Nat’s hand as she leaned against the brick wall, letting out a heavy sigh. You stood in front of her, quite close.

“You okay?” you asked, she didn’t answer for a moment. Then suddenly she reached into her pocket and pulled out a joint, you furrowed your brows, “I will be” she said simply, grabbing her lighter too. You gently held her wrist, lowering it so the joint was away from her lips, “No Nat, there’re other ways to cope…” you told her, looking up at her with those pleading eyes you knew she loved. Something in her expression faltered though.

“Whats wrong?” you asked her. She only shook her head, standing up suddenly which forced you to stumble back a bit. “Nothing, I’ll see you at the party later” was all she said before walking off. You watched her go; confusion etched over your face.

--

At home, you got changed in Jackie’s room with her and Shauna. You watched as Shauna picked out an outfit, clearly being indecisive. “What about this one?” Jackie asked, picking up a yellow dress. Shauna grimaced and shook her head frantically. You giggled and as you did, Shauna looked at you with a smile. You stood up and walked over. “How about um…this” you picked out some clothes for her, she immediately nodded, “Yeah that’s perfect” she answered. Jackie scoffed and sat on her chair.

“So what’re you gonna wear Y/n?” Jackie asked you,

“Uh...good question” you walked towards the closet, rifling through all the different dresses that were hung up,

“You should totally wear that red dress I gave you. The boob dress.” She said, you chuckled and shook your head, “Nat hates that dress”

“Why do you care what Nat thinks?” Shauna asked all of a sudden. She sounded so defensive and you couldn’t figure out why. You looked at her, slightly confused,

“Cause she’s my girlfriend?” you questioned, tilting your head slightly. But as you thought about it, you should be able to wear what you want. You hummed and changed, you never really cared about changing in front of them. You had your bra and underwear on still, Jackie was literally your sister and it was just Shauna.

You seemed to miss the way Shauna’s perverted gaze lingered on your body as you changed though. Her eyes trailed down your curves, to the way your bra held your tits and the lacy black underwear you had on. You pulled the dress on and messaged Nat saying you’d be there soon, sending her a selfie of your dress with your tongue sticking out to make a funny face.

--

As the loud music blared across the party, you stood with Natalie and her friend Kevyn. Natalie has her arm around your waist, holding you close. It wasn’t that she disliked the dress, she loved it on you. She just hated the looks you got from different guys.

She took a sip from her red solo cup then offered you some. You took the cup and took a sip too, keeping eye contact with her as you licked your lips afterwards. Her smile grew into a smirk and she was about to say something but was cut off when her other friend ran over, out of breath,

“You guys. My cousin hooked us up” he told you all, aimed mostly at Kevyn and Nat. Speaking of, Natalie’s eyes lit up as she looked at him. Your brows furrowed in confusion,

“You got it?” she asked him.

He grinned, holding out his hand to reveal several tiny squares of paper printed with the anarchy symbol.

“I have six words, my friend. Lucy. In. The. Sky. With. Diamonds.” He told her, she grinned and handed you back the cup

“That is, like, literally the least efficient way to say that” Kevyn teased him,

“Wait who’s Lucy? Why’s she in the sky with diamonds?” you asked, very confused. They just laughed at you and didn’t respond.

Natalie snatched one out of his hand

“Dude. Don’t you leave for the Olympics or whatever tomorrow?” Kevyn asked as Natalie was about to take what you had now realised to be drugs

“Yeah. I do” She gave them a look, daring either of them to say anything else. Kevyn just shrugs; not like it’s his problem.

“Wait Natlie maybe don’t-“ but she didn’t wait to hear what you were about to say. She dropped it into her mouth and closed her eyes, letting it dissolve. You rolled your eyes and just stormed off. Natalie watched you go.

“Aren’t you gonna go after her?” Kevyn asked her, she just shook her head, trying to keep the hard demeanour. She watched you talk with Shauna and Kevyn instantly noticed the way her eyes softened,

“Don’t push her away Nat…you know she’s not like the other girls you’ve fucked around with; you said it yourself” he told her, she didn’t respond and only walked away.

--

It had been a couple of hours till you saw Nat again. As you spoke with Shauna, she randomly approached you,

“Hey, come with me” she said, gently grabbing your hand and guiding you away from Shauna. You reluctantly went with her but you grew more suspicious as she lead you further into the forest,

“Are you high now or something?” you asked her. she shook her head and looked at you, you couldn’t hear the music anymore,

“Just a little” she told you with a grin, putting her hands on your hips and backing you up until your back gently hit the tree.

She leaned in and her lips met yours, you could taste the alcohol in her breath but you were sure she could taste it in yours too. You match her rhythm in a sensual kiss, her hands slide down your body, feeling the fabric of your dress. One of her hands then suddenly slithers under your skirt and onto your thigh. A small gasp escape your lips and she takes advantage of this, sliding her tongue past your plump lips and into your mouth. Her tongue danced with yours, mixing your saliva’s.

She then slid her hand further up, trailing along the lining of your panties.

“Oh so you wore the ones I like?” she mumbled into the kiss with a teasing grin. Her finger dipped in past your pantie line, you eagerly nodded. Her lips moved from yours. She started kissing from the corner of your lips, downwards to your neck. Your breath hitched, she moved further down, kissing your shoulder. You bit your lip.

She then lowered to her knees; she grinned up at you before her head dipped under your skirt. “Fuck- Nat we can’t do this in the middle of the fucking forest” you told her, you knew she was still grinning as always. She ignored what you were saying and slid your lacy panties.

“Shit you’re so wet” she muttered, she then licked a long stripe up your cunt. You gasped and reached down, your hand automatically going to the back of her head.

Her tongue dipped inside you and a moan slipped from your lips, as she began to slowly eat you out your head fell back against the tree. You tried your best to keep your moans quiet but you couldn’t stop some as Nat’s nose rubbed against your clit. You didn’t know how deep her tongue was inside of you but it felt amazing.

Part of you worried someone would walk over and see you in such a compromising state. But the other part was too focussed on the skill of Natalie’s mouth. Your grip on her hair then suddenly tightened as you come undone on her mouth. You could hear her chuckle as she swallowed.

You looked down at Natalie as she stood back up, wiping her mouth. She leaned in and gave you a gentle kiss on the head, your cheeks had a faint glow of red on them as you smiled up at her.

“You okay?” she asked you and you nodded, you bit your lip slightly. there was something you wanted to say, but you didn’t know if it was too soon or not. You looked down at the ground for a moment, “hey, whats wrong?” she asked you, putting her arms back around your waist.

You looked at her, “I love you, Nat…I really do” she didn’t respond. Her eyes widened slightly and she looked at you in shock. Her mouth opened for a moment but then closed again as she thought of what to say,

“you’re drunk” is all she could think off. You heart stung, she reached down to help you pull your panties back up but you just shoved her away slightly, pulling them up yourself. You walked away from her and tears brimmed in your eyes. You didn’t know why you were so upset; she didn’t have to say it back, you knew it was a big commitment and that Nat had never truly been that great at committing. But she could’ve said something else other than immediately undermining your feelings.

You wiped your tears as you rejoined the party. You looked around for Shauna, you didn’t know why but that was who you wanted to be with at the time. You finally found her by the keg, talking to Tai.

“I admire your resilience, Tai. It can’t be easy knowing you fucking crippled someone today” Shauna said, your eyes widened, you didn’t get too close, not wanting to be entirely involved.

“Cool. Good talk” Tai scoffed and started to walk away, you felt a sense of relief. The team really couldn’t afford an argument this close to nationals,

“Just admit you did it on purpose”

“Excuse me?”

Ah great. Thank you Shauna

“You heard me.” Shauna folded her arms over her chest, stumbling slightly, she had clearly drank a lot already,

“You’re wasted” Taissa stated simply,

“And you’re a fucking sociopath” Shauna bit back. You muttered a curse and decided to step in, and apparently so did others on the team as they came over,

“Hey, Shauna, take it easy...” Van said calmly, placing her hand on Shauna’s shoulder in an attempt to lead her away, but Shauna just shrugged it off,

“Good news, you guys. We don’t have to worry about the Allie problem anymore. Taissa fixed it for us...” Shauna pointed to Tai with praising hands,

“What’s she talking about?” Laura lee asked, you then noticed Nat suddenly joining in,

“She’s talking about Taissa’s little plan” you looked at her and both made eye contact. You quickly looked away, “Please. Since when do you give a shit anyway? Don’t you have a bong to hit or a Y/n to finger, or something?” she scoffed, pointing to you. Your eyes widened, “What the fuck Tai?”

“Hey. Don’t talk to her that way” Shauna was quick to come to your defence, which only riled Natalie for some reason.

“Oh, fuck off, Shauna. She doesn’t need you to defend her. Last I checked, you were fine with the whole ‘freeze her out’ strategy...” she spat, you looked at her in confusion and was about to respond,

“Seriously, what are you guys talking about?” Laura Lee asked. Then practically in unison everyone went, “Shut the fuck up, Laura Lee”

Suddenly Jackie stormed over, thrusting herself into the situation. Everyone was yelling at the same time, you were yelling at Natalie. You couldn’t even tell what she was saying over the yelling of the other YellowJackets,

“THAT’S IT. ENOUGH!” Jackie yelled. Everyone stopped, going silent. You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest, similar to how a toddler would during a tantrum.

Jackie turned on her heels suddenly

“Yellowjackets, with me” The team watched stomped off into the woods beyond the bonfire. Clearly expecting you all to follow suit and shortly you all do. Once you were deep enough Jackie stopped then started pacing. She looked at the team, a few looked drunk. Everyone looked fucking miserable. Natalie, in particular just looked unsteady as the acid started to kick in even more.

“I don’t know what the fuck that was, but I do know that it’s over. We’re about to go to Nationals, you guys. Nationals. And based on what I’m looking at right now, we might as well not even bother getting on that plane.” She told you all. You sighed and decided to just sit on the floor, taking your heels off. It was stupid of you to wear heels at a forest party. Jackie paused for a second then suddenly tugged you up to your feet with a grunt, “Alright, everybody line up”

Everyone stood still, exchanging looks of confusion,

“I’m fucking serious. Line up !” almost as a reflex everyone stood in line together, a small smirk grew on Jackie’s lips at this, “I’m going to talk to you like adults. Is that okay with you? Coach is always telling us that you can’t win without three things. Talent. Trust. And respect. I mean, Coach also talks a lot of bullshit, but I’m pretty sure he’s right about that. So here’s what we’re gonna do. I want each of you to go down this line and say one nice - true - thing about every other girl on this team.” Everyone looked at each other, probably all thinking ‘is she fucking serious?’

“What is this, fucking Girl Scout camp?” Taissa asked, you chuckled slightly at that. Jackie simply ignored the snide remark,

“Who wants to go first?” nobody spoke for a beat, then finally,

“I’ll go, Jackie.” Laura Lee raised her hand. Solemnly she stepped out and walked to the end of the line, starting with Taissa, “Taissa, you are beautiful in the eyes of our lord” she then moved onto Van “Van, you are beautiful in the—” you burst out laughing,

“Oh my god” Lottie groaned.

Jackie then yelled, “Laura Lee, fall back! Fuck. Fine, I’ll go first” she walked over to Taissa and looked her directly in the eye,

“Taissa Turner. You have more fight in you than anyone I’ve ever known. I’m inspired by your determination” Tai seemed to take that to heart as a small smile grew on her lips. Jackie then moved onto Van “Vanessa Palmer, your smile makes me feel happy, every time I see it” which of course made Van smile.

“Laura Lee, I truly admire your faith. I’m sure Jesus does, too…Nat, I love that you don’t care

what anybody else thinks. You’re more completely yourself than anyone else I know… Lottie, your ambition inspires me. I have no doubt you’re gonna take over the world someday”

“She’s also deadly at beer pong.” Van said making everyone chuckle. Jackie smiled in realisation that her plan was actually working.

“Well, go ahead. Tell her. C’mon, guys. If we do this one at a time, we’ll be here all night...”

The team all started to turn to each other. You turned to see Van,

“Van you’re like, a wicked goalie” you told her and she laughed, “Y/n…I like how you genuinely care about other people” she told you, you smiled and pulled her into a hug.

You looked over at Natalie who was staring into the fire, you walked over to her.

“Hey…” you stood beside her, looking at the fire too, “Misty?” she randomly said, tilting her head slightly but she wasn’t looking at you. you furrowed your brows, Misty wasn’t here. You gently took her by the shoulders and turned her body to face you, “Nat…um, I’m sorry, for earlier…I don’t mean to rush you, I just wanted to tell you…and it wasn’t because I was drunk” Natalie seemed to be struggling to process your words. She squeezed her eyes shut then opened them again, “It’s okay…I love you too Mr porcupine” she leaned in and kissed you. you chuckled and gently pulled her away, “Come on, I’ll get Jackie to give you a lift home”

--

You walked over to the plane, your jaw dropped at the sight. It was Lottie’s dad’s private jet and it was huge. You grinned and looked at Lottie, “That’s insane…thanks for this Lot” you say, she smiles and puts her arm around you, “Its no problem, my dad insisted” she chuckled, you saw Nat. she had her headphones in. she’d been weird with you all morning, rarely speaking to you and only really speaking to Lottie. You wondered if it was because of last night.

Jackie pulled you to the side as everyone boarded the jet, “Right have you got your inhaler?” she asked, you rolled your eyes and pulled your inhaler out of your pocket, she smiled, “Your epi-pen?” you furrowed your brows, not remembering If you brought it or not, you just shrugged, “Yeah yeah totally”

She then pulled it out of her bag, you quickly grabbed it from her, “See! I’ve got it” you grinned, she chuckled and rolled her eyes, “Y/n you need to keep track of it, what if you accidentally eat something with nuts in? Then what?” she asked you, you groaned and nodded, “I know I know Jack, its fine, I’m fine” she took a beat then nodded, smiling.

You quickly got onto the jet, choosing the seat behind Jackie and Shauna. You then saw Natalie sat on her own but on the isle next to her was Lottie, they were talking a bit but Nat seemed uninterested. You called out her name, she turned to you, “Come here” you patted the seat next to you with a smile, indicating for her to sit there. “Oh uh I wanna talk to Lottie though” she said, pointing to Lottie. She then turned back to Lottie. You furrowed your brows. You wanted to sit with her and near Jackie because you had a fear of being on planes…you’re scared of quite a lot of things to be fair.

You sighed and ultimately decided to get up and join her. Shauna looked confused as you walked past her, Nat looked at you with a small smile and moved her bag off the seat next to her. you took the spot and looked out the window, fidgeting with your hands.

The plane ride was mostly quiet. Not much happened you just sat there in silence. Whenever you tried to strike up a conversation with Nat she gave dry responses. You had a feeling she didn’t want to talk. You closed your eyes and started to drift off asleep.

You suddenly felt someone shaking your body. You jolted awake, your breathing picking up a bit.

“Woah chill” Natalie’s voice came through, “You good?” she asked you. There was genuine concern in her voice,

“Yeah. Sorry, yeah I’m fine you just scared me” you told her, wiping your forehead where some swear glistened. She eased and nodded, “Listen um…when we get to the hotel, can we have a chat?” she asked you, seeming quite nervous.

“Um what about?”

“Me and you, well, us” when those words came out her mouth your heart instantly dropped. You swallowed but found your throat to be quite dry. All you could conjure as a response was a simple nod. She gave an awkward nod back and looked away, putting her headphones back on. You sighed and closed your eyes once again, hoping to fall back asleep.

You didn’t know how long you were asleep for but you were then soon awaken by your body being shaken again. your brows furrowed and you opened your eyes. Suddenly the sound of everyone’s panicked screaming and shouting filled your ears. Your heart rate picked up and you frantically looked around, the plane was shaking. You looked out the window, the fucking plane was going down, and quickly too. You looked at Natalie, her eyes were squeezed shut. You looked down at your hand, she was clutching it tightly. You looked around to see Jackie passed out, “Jackie!” you called out to her. Nat’s head suddenly spun to look at you. Tears streamed down your cheeks as she gently cupped your face, shushing you.

“Go back to sleep, okay? Do that for me…please” there were tears in her eyes too but you could tell she was trying to hold them back. You sniffled and shook your head,

“I can’t- I can’t!” you cried. She quickly shook her head too, “Yes you can, just close your eyes baby, come on” you did as she said, squeezing your eyes shut as tight as you could, you felt an oxygen mask go around your face.

After one hard jolt. Everyone went black.

[dclovesdanny]

In my clone au, Danny, Dani, Dan and Jazz are reincarnated as clones made by Amanda Waller. Each clone has four donors.

The reason they reincarnated was because Ghost King Danny needed a break from paperwork, and Jazz wanted a chance for them to live with a normal family. (She curses out Clockwork after they arrive.)

I will eventually write this, but right now I don’t have the energy or attention span, so I’m doing polls to set up my main storyline

Below the cut is the rest of the lore

Jazz

Diana Prince

Barbara Gordon

Edward Nygma

Harley Quinn

Danny

Diana Prince

John Constantine

J’onn J’onzz

Bruce Wayne

Dani

Diana Prince

John Constantine

Klarion

Selina Kyle

Dan

Diana Prince

John Constantine

Slade Wilson

Bane

Klarion finds them when destroying a government owned island inside the lab, and decides to keep them.

Jazz looks 11 years old physically. She’s 5’3” with wavy red hair and blue eyes. The scientists noted she has slightly enhanced intelligence, enhanced endurance and enhanced speed.

Dan looks to be 8 years old. He’s 5’2” with black hair with white streaks and heterochromia. His left eye is brown and right eye is blue. The scientists noted he has enhanced durability, enhanced healing factor flight and strong magic potential.

Dani looks to be 4 years old. She is 3’2” with wavy black hair and blue eyes. The scientists noted she has shape shifting, flight, and extra strong magic potential.

Danny looks to be 6 years old. He is 3’9” with blue eyes and black hair. His skin is pale, with a barely noticeable green tinge to it. The scientists noted he has the most powers, with invisibility, intangibility, super strength, flight, accelerated healing and magic (which isn’t as strong as Dan’s or Dani’s, but is still very powerful).

Klarion ends up taking Dani on as his sidekick. He never hides that she’s a clone, and Tim steals her DNA during a fight to figure out who her donors are (and promptly has a panic attack.)

Tim and Kon both find out about the siblings around the same time. First, Kon hears Dani ask Klarion if they can grab a telescope for Danny and Dan after a battle. He tells this to Tim, who starts stalking Dani and Klarion. Eventually, he managed to track them to Klarion‘s base where he sees Dan, Danny and Jazz.

The clone kids find out about Ra’s being creepy towards Tim, and decide to attack the new fruitloop. (It’s during the Bruce quest)

The ships in this au are TimBerKon, SuperBat and Dying Sparks.

Jimmy Olsen is Wes, but he won’t remember until he meets Danny.

[smokesandsonatas]

did you saw book 7 😭😭😭😭 its was such an emotional ride especially malleus with his broken horn, do you think it will grow back?

Hi! Yes I love it! It's an ending truly fitting for Diasomnia (though I wish they grounded it a bit more on reality) and it left more room for more answers. I'll try to combine some asks here.

Crack theories ahead.

Where's Malleus' birth father?

It's confirmed that Malleus doesn't really have enough parental figure growing up, hence he's really attached to Lilia, the only one who is willing to let him have a semblance of normalcy. Malefecia is most likely still grieving her lost daughter, while simultaneously ruling the kingdom. I do like to hc that she loves Malleus in her own ways, albeit not as openly as Lilia.

His birth father is probably still alive. No confirmation of his death, no apparitions via Lilia's magic. He's just... out there. Trying to achieve his dreams of uniting every species.

Will Malleus' horn grow back?

I'm pretty sure it will, they said that it'll take a span of 200 years (?) and that he's guaranteed to "not" overblot during that time, though I need to confirm if what I've read is true. But! I do think something will happen that will push Malleus to the limits. Again. His horns = power. Something is about to happen that is so heartbreaking that Malleus doesn't have a choice but to seek more. Aka, Yuu leaving

Is Lilia strong enough to live a few more hundred years?

I think yes. He actually died, he was just revived by the power of love. Literally. Hopefully it did reset his fae lifespan, adding another 800 years.

What's more?

We still don't know what's the purpose of Mickey appearing every time someone might overblot.

Yuu is the biggest mystery of twst. If it's possible to a trap a powerful Fae into a game, what makes it impossible to not trap a multidimensional being into a one dimension?

Grim and his stones. Grim is most likely related to the ancient magician from 2,000 years ago in Sage Island that is said to have caused a catastrophic event, yet not disowned by its master.

Crowley and even RSA. Book 8 might focus on Yuu, but it might also focus on the player staying at RSA. Remember, there are top 5 mages in the world, one of them is Malleus. Who are the other 4? How powerful are they compared to Malleus, who being a young, inexperienced fae, have already caused such events spanning the realm of dreams, and literally the whole Sage Island?

That's what we need to find out. :))

[max1461]

It's gonna bug me so much when, probably in the next couple decades, Japanese Imperial Household Law changes to allow women to ascend to the throne again and the Western media breathlessly reports that ultraconservative Japan is finally getting with the times...

In actuality Japan has had 8 empress regnants (that is, empresses who actually ruled, as opposed to just being the wife of an emperor; not to be confused with "empress regent" which is something else), including one empress who succeeded another empress (Empress Genshō following Empress Genmei) in a matrilineal fashion. Obviously this isn't great as far as gender equality goes, but it's basically comparable to European monarchies—in fact it's the same number of female monarchs as England has had in roughly the same span of time, given that the pre-Asuka emperors are more or less legendary. There's actually another empress, empress regent Jing��, if you want to count legendary figures. She may or may not be the same person as Queen Himiko of early Sino-Japanese records.

It's maybe worth noting also that the Chrysanthemum Throne has been a basically ceremonial position for most of Japanese history, from the 12th century until today, with the brief exception of the Empire of Japan from 1868 to 1945. But most of Japan's empresses reigned during the Asuka and Nara periods (6th to 8th centuries), when the monarchs were actually politically in power. In fact, during the Nara period just about every other reign was that of an empress.

Anyway, male-only succession and strict patrilineality weren't enshrined in law until the Imperial House Law of 1889 during the Meiji period, as part of the Prussian-influenced Meiji constitution. Certainly both principles had been strong norms prior to this, but they weren't legally enshrined. There's not any sense in which it would be unprecedented for Japan to have an empress, certainly no less precedented than for England to have a queen.

But it's Japan, right? They're uber traditional over there *katana sound effect* *kabuki YOOO sound effect* *salaryman bowing to his stern looking boss stock footage*. So obviously they're behind the enlightened west...

[oblivionsrequiem]

:33 < D--> 8=D < FuCk Y0+9U *u25325 4lL )(0+9M3257ucK qU11Rk2547 7)(3 254m3 71m3*,

:33 < D--> 8=D < 4Ll 7)(3 qU11rK25, 44444444lL 0+9f 7)(3m,

:33 < D--> 8=D < 7)(3 Qu11Ck 86R0+9WwVn F0+9% JUMp25 0+9VvW3r 7)(3 25l33P11N d0+9g,

:33 < D--> 8=D < 11 257R0+9NGLY 4dVvW11253 4g411N257 7)(1125 11n83 86UlL25)(**7, 7)(1125 1125 25tup11d, 11 )(8 7)(1125,

:33 < D--> 8=D < }>3888833

Here's the hell I went through for this:

All messages start with Nepeta's :33 <, Equius's D-->, and Horus's 8=D

Terezi makes AIE into 413, Vriska makes B's into 8's, Aradia makes O's into 0's, and Minuta does all of that and makes T's into 7's, and S's 8ecome 2's from Sollux and X's 8ecome %'s 8ecause of Equius and H's 8ecome )('s from Feferi

Gamzee makes things altern8 case, 8ut U's alternate cases seper8ly 8ecause of the Cheru8s

B's add a 6 to 8ecome 86's, and O's 8ecome 0+9. Thanks Kankri and Porrim! 5's are added to the 2's from Minuta. W's and V's are duplic8ed and have the opposite added to them 8ecause of the Ampora 8astards and I's are duplic8ed 8ecause of Sollux.

STRONG words are capitalized and sentences end with commas 8ecause of Equius and Tavros and words don't end with G 8ecause of Eridan. And that emoji... *shudders*

Could've included Nepeta and Meenah's puns 8ut. I didn't

Couple that with a mountain of HTML, and I never want to see the word span ever again

[j0eyj0rdis0n]

𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐘𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Hey y'all! I decided to split my masterlists into two portions. One for music/band related writing, and another for the creeps! More navigation will be at the bottom of the masterlist!

The writing here will span from when I began this page back in 2020 to the present! This will be updated as often as I can, so no promises new/recent writing will be on here immediately. If a link doesn't work please let me know!

Hope y'all enjoy!

GUIDE:

Angst - 🕷

Fluff - 𓆩♡𓆪

Smut/NSFW - ☓

Neutral - ✸

𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐘𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀

Kingdom AU ✸

School AU ✸

School AU pt.2 ✸

High At School - School AU ✸

Cheerleader S/O - School AU ✸

Fighting At School - School AU ✸

Spring Dance - School AU ✸

Songs that remind me of the creeps ✸

Songs that remind me of the creeps pt.2 ✸

Tim + Brian poly headcannons ☓ 𓆩♡𓆪

Scene S/O headcannons 𓆩♡𓆪 ✸

Finding you dead 🕷

Threatening suicide 🕷

Coming home to you singing/dancing 𓆩♡𓆪 ✸

Breaking up 🕷

Age regressing S/O ✸

S/O Who Loves Hello Kitty 𓆩♡𓆪 ✸

With A French S/O ✸

S/O on their period ✸

Vampire S/O ✸

With A Yandere reader ✸

S/O with BPD ✸

Ideal Type ✸

With a cannibal S/O ✸

S/O with angel wings ✸

S/O with a fat ass ✸ ☓

With a flirty S/O ✸ ☓

Finding out their S/O is pregnant ✸

𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐩𝐬:

Matchup 1 ✸

Matchup 2 ✸

Matchup 3 ✸

Matchup 4 ✸

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐬:

Proxies Receiving Nudes ☓

Poly Proxies ☓

Poly Proxies pt.2 ☓

Hunted by the proxies ☓

Jealous proxies ☓🕷

Proxies x Final Girl 🕷

Proxies x Final Girl - Slasher AU ✸

Sitting on the proxies lap 𓆩♡𓆪☓

With a secretly strong S/O ✸

With a hard rap loving S/O ✸

Meeting your family ✸

𝐭𝐢𝐦/𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐲:

Father figure Tim ✸ 𓆩♡𓆪

Father figure Tim pt.2 ✸ 𓆩♡𓆪

Father figure Tim pt.3 ✸ 𓆩♡𓆪

Cowboy father figure Tim ✸ 𓆩♡𓆪

Cowboy Tim ✸

NSFW alphabet ☓

Werewolf Tim ✸

Kinktober Day 10: Praise ☓

S/O who struggles with SH ✸🕷

𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧/𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞:

NSFW alphabet ☓

Woods ☓

Daddy Kink ☓

"𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐜𝐢" 𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐲:

Dark Headcannons ☓✸

Blood ☓

Subby Dom Toby ☓

Dating Toby ✸

Don't leave! 🕷

S/O With BPD ✸

Kinktober Day 7: Virginity ☓

Date Headcanons ✸

𝐱-𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐮𝐬:

General Headcannons ✸

NSFW Headcannons ☓

𝐛𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐝:

Historical dressed S/O ✸

𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤:

Somnophilia ☓

First Meal ☓

Two Faced S/O ✸

Make it Better ☓ 🕷

Soft Dom ☓

Underwear fetish ☓

Fluff 𓆩♡𓆪

Father EJ 𓆩♡𓆪

Kinktober Day 8: Breeding ☓

S/O who struggles with SH ✸ 🕷

𝐣𝐞𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫:

Kinktober Day 6: Dubcon ☓

Kinktober Day 6: Dubcon pt.2 ☓

𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤:

NSFW Headcannons ☓

NSFW Alphabet ☓

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟑':

Day 6: Dubcon - Jeff The Killer ☓

Day 7: Virginity - "Ticci" Toby ☓

Day 8: Breeding - Eyeless Jack ☓

Day 10: Praise - Tim/Masky ☓

Day 13: Size Kink - Eyeless Jack ☓

Day 14: Orgasm Denial - Jeff The Killer ☓

𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐧/𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓:

With a nice/sweet reader

ASKS ARE ALWAYS OPEN!!

wattpad | AO3

BLOG INTRO!! | | | METAL MASTERLIST

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 9 part 4

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

it's still agatha and her river

mama, I'm sorry I got upset. mama I'm sorry we're both starving tonight. I promise I'll do better tomorrow.

a six year old taking responsibility and apologizing for his mother's shortcomings.

agatha looks down at her precious little boy's pleading face

and she smiles at him, and nicky gives her a big relieved grin.

evanora is not stealing this moment. she did her worst to fuck with agatha's brain chemistry, but in one fundamental thing she failed: agatha is capable of loving her kid. despite all her other shortcomings, she will never blame nicky for her own faults.

she does a cute little dance for him, and this is what they do, isn't it? he's too small to explain his big feelings and she is too scared, and so they sing to each other and hope the love is understood anyway.

see how he touches the brooch? if only she could have loved nicky in vacuum, without any of the emotional baggage. but he is only the last link in a long chain of witches, pain and and tears and blood that made him what he is. agatha cannot escape her identity and legacy no matter how much she tries, and she couldn't protect nicky from it either.

the last time she sees nicky alive he's smiling adoringly at her. this is the boy she can't face in the afterlife, because her own guilt is so strong she's convinced he will hate her.

nicky dies peacefully in his mother's arms. his soul wakes up and sees rio waiting for him.

that some good cinema dear lord

rio waves at nicky. he doesn't know her (when who will return?) but he still trusts her implicity - she's been around him his whole short life, in the woods, in the water, in his lungs.

and - the bit that destroyed us all - rio makes nicky go to agatha one last time. go kiss your mama goodbye.

light and dark, growth and decay, here and beyond.

remember when alice died and the camera turned upside down? it stops halfway here. agatha has been affected so profoundly by nicky's death that she can never let herself go back to the land of the living, but she's also too scared to follow rio to the other side. she's stuck in the middle, consumed by the impossible dream of bringing nicky back, never allowing herself to find peace and companionship again. in love with death, but running away from it.

(people never seem to make crack and humor vids for episode 9, isn't that curious? when it's soooo fun and lighthearted!)

well ain't that just brutal

I have always known

This Road is cruel and wild

I bury my own heart

Here with you, my child

(I think those are lavender flowers? I'm not 100% sure)

coolcoolcoolcoolcool. that's fine. I'm absolutely fine.

BARRIERS UP right away. even if she looks like a mess. especially because she looks like a mess. she's not showing weakness in front of anyone, she's protecting her grief like a jealous goblin, and since she cannot run, she straightens her dress and gets ready to fight. the option to ask for help and comfort doesn't even cross her mind.

her eyes still full of tears / agatha gets another wonderful, awful idea.

we've seen this so many times, haven't we? the real agatha disappears behind the character she plays. the agatha we've seen from the very start, since the moment she walked into wanda's living room, has been a lie. very few people have ever seen a hint of the poor bruised heart she hides inside, and only to rio and (to some extent) nicky she has ever opened up.

how can someone go from total heartbreak to planning murder in the span of two minutes? well, you can if you are agatha harkness and have never learned one healthy coping mechanism in your life. and I'm sure she's already rationalizing it as something like "if I get powerful enough I can bring nicky back." but the truth is, she just wants to get drunk on magic and murder and stop feeling so horrible. she's running away, like usual. she's planning to kill witches in front of the grave of the very kid who begged her not to, and she's using his song to do it. as if that's not gonna haunt her or anything.

(it really gets me how agatha's smiles are so different from kathryn's. agatha never smiles with her eyes, except when she's with nicky.)

agatha's diabolical scam is so stupid if you think about, definitely worthy of the clown she has become. just pretend the Road didn't open and then annoy people into attacking you! better than using a literal child as bait, I guess.

here she absorbs a yellow coven, and yep, it does look like covens are all supposed to be the same color?

the bodies from the agnes of westview opening.

orange coven in the late 1800s. I really like that dress and hat on her

blue coven in the 1920s, and another cunty outfit

I know you guys like the 90s look, but it makes me laugh how hard she was trying for that Craft vibe. and we don't see the beams color here.

and finally, our girls. (I miss you all so muchhhhh)

what do you know! looks like a door has appeared! (sharonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!!)

from fuck has my karma caught up with me to well well well, looks like we have another little maximoff on our hands

and speaking of little maximoffs and giant assholes...

go to episode 9 part 5

[hyunsvngs]

lowkey college has been kicking my ass big time 😭

all i can do to stop myself from having 8 mental breakdowns an hour is thinking abt college bf minho <33

like imagine you'd come back to ur dorm stressed after exams and he would just fuck you senseless until all you could think about was him <3

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 - college au!lee minho x fem!reader

wc: 2k

cw: SMUT MDNI.

synopsis: your cutie college student boyfriend agrees to help you into subspace to take your mind off of your stressful exams.

a/n: idk. i just dont know this happened and i’m not apologising. enjoy. smut warnings under da cut as per!! this is just a lil one but i hope u enjoy<3

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

sw: d/s dynamics, oral (f rec), mating press position, unprotected sex, creampie, subspace & mentions of domspace, petnames: kitty & jagi, HEAVY dirty talk, mentions of pubes (as per)

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You could barely see the streets on your walk home, eyes bleary with tears and giving you absolutely zero navigation skills. The only saving grace was knowing that your boyfriend, Minho, was in your room and readily awaiting your return. He was lucky to not have any exams this term, only assignments, and you were unlucky to have controlled exams in every single class.

The exam you’d done that day had been the worst thus far. You knew nothing. The whole exam you’d been sat there, hand on your temples just trying desperately to remember something, but nothing had come to you. You’d ended up writing absolute nonsense before packing up your stuff and leaving, crying the whole way home.

Minho was perched on your bed when you entered. His glasses were round, perched securely on his sharp nose and he was casual, hoodie and joggers both grey and clean. There was an anime playing on his laptop, and he was staring at it while shoving crisps into his mouth. When you entered, a small sniffle giving away your return, Minho’s eyes snapped immediately to you.

“Oh,” He blurted, immediately rising to sit up. You dropped your bag on the floor and Minho’s hands went straight to your hips, still covered in some salt from the crisps he was eating. He pulled you into his lap, settled on his thick, dancer’s thighs. When he pushed the hair out of your eyes, it almost broke his heart. “Oh, jagi. Jagi, why are you sad? Did it not go well?”

“Hmph, no,” You sniffed, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Minho sighed, rubbing your back over your t-shirt. “I knew nothing.”

“You may have done better than you think, y’know? Don’t stress too much,” Minho’s voice was low, soothing, intertwining with the anime still playing on his laptop. “What can I do to help? Do you wanna watch this with me?”

“Mm, don’t have the attention span right now,” What else could he do? Your thoughts immediately went to the sewers. You were settled on top of his thighs, and you could feel them, clenching and unclenching and… yeah. You knew what you wanted to do. “Min. Could you… take my mind off of it?”

“Take your mind off of it?” He repeated, eyes soft when you finally emerged from his neck. He gazed into your eyes, a loving, fond look in his own. Then, the penny dropped. He blinked, and then he was smirking, hands starting to stroke over your hips instead. “You want me to fuck you, jagi?”

“Please,” You nodded, hands gripping the fabric of his hoodie. “Do that thing, the thing where you… make me feel all fuzzy, ‘n stuff. The thing where I don’t think.”

Minho tilted his head to the side. “You want me to dom you, pretty girl? Send you into subspace?”

Well, when he says it like that… “Yes.”

“On your back.”

You were quick to oblige, stretching leisurely onto your back on your little twin bed. The downsides of having a dorm room, you supposed, but at least your flatmates were fine with you having Minho present constantly. Minho shut his laptop, and then he was looming over you, a strong figure of authority despite having such casual clothing on.

“You know what to say if you need me to stop,” He mumbled, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Say it.”

“Red,” You felt out of breath already when his lips trailed to your neck, sucking marks into the skin with eagerness. Minho was gorgeous, and he was even better in bed, especially when he got like this - his dom headspace was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen in your life, and you’d swear by that. He was experienced with it. He knew what he was doing.

You were convinced even more so of that when his lips met your earlobe, his tone low as he pulled your jeans down. “I’m going to eat this sloppy cunt, and then I’m going to fuck you until you don’t know your own name. Got it?”

“Oh my God, please-“

“Stop whining like a little bitch, or I’ll treat you like one,” He nipped your earlobe with his teeth, and then he was moving to position between your thighs. Your underwear wasn’t exciting, just a simple white cotton, but the way Minho looked at you made you feel like a supermodel. He was staring directly at the wet patch starting to soak the fabric, and you shifted, wanting his mouth on you, like, yesterday.

As if he could read your mind, his nose pressed into your core and he inhaled. It was such a strong scenting that you could hear it, his lips parting to let out a small sigh afterwards. Then, his tongue was pressing over the cotton, soaking it with his spit.

“Mm, it’s good. Maybe I need a better taste, yeah?” You nodded at Minho, making him chuckle. He reached up and hooked his thumbs into your underwear, pulling it down and exposing you to the room. You knew your folds were wet and could feel as much when the air hit them - your clit was engorged and poking out of your pussy, begging for attention.

Minho clearly felt pity on you, because his lips were instantly wrapping around your clit and sucking. You gasped, hips bucking up into your touch, and he was quick to pin them down into the mattress with one small hand. From this angle, you could see where half of his body laid off the end of the bed, knees planted on the floor to be closer to you. His tongue laved over the button between your legs, and when his dark feline eyes looked up at you, you knew you were done.

“Min- Min, please, can I have fingers, too? I- I need, need to cum, need-“

“Will you shut up?” Minho pulled away, licking his lips. You would’ve been shocked, but Minho knew him being mean was a sure way to send you into that headspace you so desperately needed to be in. “I know how to make this pussy cum, so don’t fucking tell me what to do.”

With that, he was lowering his head back into your core. Both hands splayed across your hips to keep you grounded, and his tongue swiped through your folds, collecting the slick that had accumulated there. You let your hand drop down to his hair, enveloping the dark strands and pulling slightly against them. It made Minho let out a deep, brief noise, and then he was eating you like a man starved.

The way he was licking between your folds and against your clit had your eyes rolling back, fingers gripping the sheets. It was so, so good, you felt so sensitive, and your head was feeling fuzzy already. He was just so good in bed. His tongue started to trace circles on your clit, and you whined, heavy breaths tumbling from your lungs.

“Gon’ cum,” You slurred, licking your lips to try and bring you back to reality. “Gonna- gonna fucking cum, Min, I can’t-“

“You’re gonna cum?” He pulled away, thumb now rubbing your clit to keep you on the edge. “You know you can’t though. Not until I say you can, yeah?”

You whimpered, thrashing around. “I needa. Need to cum, need to be good, good kitty, am I- hng, am I good kitty? I can’t hold it, I can’t! ‘S too good-“

“Be a good fucking kitty and hold it,” He had shifted now, you realised, face now close to you again. His thumb continued to circle your clit and you gripped his arm tightly, toes curling into the sheets. It was too much. You were going to cum. “Fucking hold it. Do as I say. Do you want my cock?”

Your eyes flickered down to the bulge in his joggers, huge and pulsating. You nodded eagerly, trying your best to focus on anything that wasnt the ache in your core and clenching of your thighs. Then, Minho moved, yanking down his joggers and boxers to position his cock at your entrance. You wanted to cry at the feeling of your orgasm dissipating.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Minho said, forearms supporting him above you. “I’m going to fuck you, and you’re going to cum on my cock.”

“Yeah, I’ll cum,” You mumbled, eyes bleary - although now for a different reason. Minho smiled at you, and then he was pushing in, thick length stretching your hole in the most delicious way. You moaned, hands moving to grip his biceps again as he immediately set a blistering pace.

“Legs up. C’mon, be a good kitty,” Minho pushed your thighs up, and you obediently wrapped your hands around them. He was deeper like this, chest pressing your legs into your body and cockhead ramming against your g-spot. The smattering of hair at his base rubbed against your clit in an awkward, yet satisfying friction, and before you knew it, you were on the edge again.

“‘M close again, Min,” You whined, lips parting. You were drooling, you could feel it, but you had to wait until he said. “Kitty needs to cum.”

“Kitty needs to, does she?” He scoffed, but pressed a kiss to your forehead nonetheless. “Well, kitty better soak my cock then.”

Your jaw dropped in an incoherent moan as you clenched around Minho’s cock, walls pulsating as you let yourself go. The orgasm was white hot, building in your core and travelling down to where your toes curled and up to where your back arched. You could feel it gushing, soaking Minho and the hair that adorned the base of his shaft. Minho groaned, and then he reached down with one hand, squishing your cheeks together to look at him. His pace didn’t falter, still bullying into your g-spot.

“You alright, jagi?” He asked, thumb stroking your bottom lip. You hummed, letting your body be jostled by the forcefulness of his thrusts. It felt like you were floating on a fluffy cloud, even more so after your orgasm - you couldn’t even remember what you’d been so worried about. “There we go. That’s it, you just float like that for me. You don’t need to think about anything, kitty.”

“Need cum,” You murmured, huffing when Minho laughed at you.

“I’m gonna give you my cum, kitty, I’ve got you,” He pulled your hips up, and then he was fucking up into you like you were a fleshlight. You tried to force your eyes open, and you didn’t regret it when they did. Minho’s body was covered in a sheen of sweat, soft dew on his honey skin and his eyebrows furrowed as he ploughed into you. The feeling was almost enough to get you to cum again, if you really focused, but you couldn’t. All you could think was Minho, Minho, Minho. “Let me fuck you like this. J-just, nice and hard, and I’ll-“

“Cum,” You repeated, shifting to fuck back onto his cock. You whined as he gripped your hips tighter, and then he was gasping, eyes widening. He was curled over you, jaw dropped.

“I’m gonna cum, gonna fill this fucking cunt, oh- oh, jagi-“ He was nearly whining, making you clench in approval of the tone of his voice. Minho collapsed over you, hips jolting in a staccato rhythm as he filled you up with his cum. You could feel it in your hole, wet and dripping. He pulled out of you with a now-softening cock, eyes following the leaking of his cum out of your abused pussy. Instead of moving, he collapsed on top of your body, nuzzling at your throat.

“‘M so relaxed,” You giggled, letting Minho kiss your nose.

“I bet,” Minho hummed in response. “I’ll let you float like this for a bit, but then you gotta come back to me, ‘kay?”

“Mmkay,” You chirped. “Cuddles.”

Minho chuckled, moving to lay by your side to pull you close. “Of course, jagi.”

[carelessflower]

Malec's Wedding Vow - Some Thoughts

After much research and consideration, I believe that Malec's wedding vow is a perfect celebration of their relationship, the lows and highs, the triumphs and peace.

The questions

“Alexander Gideon Lightwood. Hast thou found the one thy soul loves?”

“I have found him,” Alec said. “And I will not let him go.”

“Hast thou gone among the watchmen, and in the cities of the world? Hast thou found the one thy soul loves?”

“I have found him,” Magnus said, gazing at Alec. “And I will not let him go.”

Inspiration

Song of Solomon 3:3 The watchmen that go about the city found me: to whom I said, Saw ye him whom my soul loveth? Song of Solomon 3:4 It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go.

How they have found each other despite all odds and are holding on with all they might.

2. Alec's vow

“Love flashes out like fire, the brightest kind of flame. Many waters cannot quench love, nor can the floods drown it.”

“Now place me as a seal over thine heart, as a seal over thine arm: For love is strong as death. And so we are bound: stronger than flame, stronger than water, stronger than death itself.”

Inspiration

Song of Solomon 8:6 Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death, jealousy is fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, the very flame of the Lord. Song of Solomon 8:7 Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it.

They speak of Alec's devotion, the lengths he would go through for his love, for Magnus. He loves one man so much, he changes the world for him. And he will continue to do it, again and again, as no flood can drown Alec's love.

3. Magnus's vow

“Aku cinta kamu,” Magnus read out, gazing at the interior of the ring, and he smiled at Alec, a brilliant, world-spanning smile. “My love for yours, my heart for yours, my soul for yours, Alexander. Now and for all time.”

Catarina smiled at what must have been familiar words. 

Catarina smiling at Magnus's words may mean it is a warlock vow. Magnus's vow is a bit more interesting, since it is not a direct reference or interpretation from the same source as Alec's vow. However, I did find this one inspiration that came very close

Luca 10:27 - And he answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself.”

And who is Magnus's Lord, do you ask?

Alec had given him the gift of faith, a faith that Magnus was strong enough to make not just Alec happy, but a whole family happy. And in their happiness, Magnus had felt himself not just free, but surrounded by an unimaginable glory.

Some might have called it the presence of God.

Magnus just thought of it as Alexander Gideon Lightwood.

It also ties into Magnus's journey, how immortality, a seeming gift and privilege, slowly becomes a burden to him, is now something worth cherishing, loving, and worshipping. Despite Alec's mortality, Magnus's love for him will stay.

Does a god need physical remnants to become one?

4. The implication

The simple exchanges of vows, nephilim's and warlock's, mark the changes of the world surrounding them, something they also started. It's why Magnus doesn't want to marry until they can marry in gold and blue as they deserve.

I also like to imagine they exchange another set of vows later in private, after Alec's Wedded Union rune got drawn over his heart. Vows written by them and belong to them alone.

@magnus-the-maqnificent @literallytypogod @hoezier-than-thou @sociallyineptbibliophile @queenlilith43

@khaleesiofalicante @wandererbyheart @raziyekroos @onetimetwotimesthreetimess @alexandergideonslightwood

@noah-herondale-lightwood @elettralightwoo @dustandducks @delightfullyterrible

@letsgofortacos

@kita-no @thelightofthebane @secrettrys @goldendreams3 @cityofdownwardspirals

@stupidfuckindinosaur

@i-have-not-slept @rinadragomir @potato-jem @kasper-tag

@banesapothecary @culiehua @seolihexagon @n3v3r-l3ft

@herongrystrs @lalalilylulu

[lifegivesulemonsorwhatevs]

Fact is, Zayne would scold me while hold my hand during tattto removal sessions.

Zayne: “I don’t understand why you would get them and then remove them…I do understand that style changes but still…should’ve not get 8 in a span of 3 years. I also want to say how strong you are and you’re doing great. I love you, my jasmine.”

ME. I’M THAT IDIOT WHO NEEDS THIS RIGHT NOW. LASER REMOVAL HURTS. BE BETTER THAN ME.

Edit: after a nap I need to add Rafayel to this mess😭

Rafayel: “Listen, I am supportive of you, I will kiss you and hold your hand during these sessions but PLEASE! Before you go and make a tattoo appointment next time THINK. You’re not a goldfish. It’s also a tad disrespectful to the tattoo artist but I will not comment on this further, I’m not here as artist Rafayel but as your boyfriend/husband.”

[blouisparadise]

Upon request, here is the second part to our rec list of fics where Louis and Harry have unprotected sex. If you missed part one, you can find it here. If you enjoy our rec lists, please be sure to reblog this post to help spread the word. Happy reading!

1) Change In Pressure | Explicit | 4,600 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

Louis and Harry argue. Louis and Harry also fuck on the stage. Somehow it manages to be kind of romantic.

2) In That Bright White Noise | Explicit | 5,060 words

Blind dates are usually destined to go terribly, so Louis doesn't exactly trust his friends when they say they've set him up with Gemma's younger brother, Harry, at an evening bonfire they're attending. Luckily, Harry's much hotter and kinder than Louis thought he'd be, which is a relief. He's also really fucking good at sex, which is just a wonderful bonus.

3) Want It All The Time, Need It Everyday | Explicit | 6,306 words

Louis visits LA a week before the boys head to Australia for On The Road Again. He and Harry have some catching up to do.

4) More, More, More | Explicit | 8,733 words

BLFF Prompt 216: 1980s AU. Harry is a singer and Louis is a groupie that Harry sleeps with. He becomes Harry’s inspiration for writing Rebel Yell by Billy Idol.

5) Put Your Faith In My Stomach | Not Rated | 10,333 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

Harry and Louis want a baby. Louis is a carrier, but that doesn't mean he's going to get pregnant.

6) Moonlit Sky Over Gentle Waters | Explicit | 11,377 words

Harry left his hometown to sail the seven seas and returns seven years later, yearning for something — or rather, someone — that he isn’t sure he can have.

7) Touch Me (Like Nobody Else Does) | Mature | 11,459 words

The alpha’s grin returned tenfold, deep dimples popping into his cheeks. Holy shit, he has dimples. “No, I don’t mind at all. I know where to find you when I need it back,” he said with a chuckle before leaning back into his seat. Louis let out a small giggle before nodding. “I’ll be sure it gets returned to you…?” He trailed off, one eyebrow raised at the other man. “Harry,” he replied, amusement still shining in his eyes. “And you are?” “Louis,” the omega responded before leaning back into his seat averting his eyes once again. “Thank you, really, for the charger. You’re a lifesaver. I’m not sure how I would’ve made it through without my Netflix.”

8) A Flicker Of Hope That I Wanna Keep (Please Don’t Leave) | Mature | 12,230 words

Harry is in love with Louis, and he had thought Louis felt the same until he accidentally left his journal in Harry’s home. He knows he shouldn’t have read it, especially when it only proved to be a reality check he didn’t want. Once Harry finds the green-eyed, curly-haired, gangly fucker that’s stolen Louis’ heart, he’d like to have a strong word with him.

9) Won't See It Coming Til It's Already Gone | Explicit | 12,631 words

“Tell me that this is a fake,” Peter says, slapping a handful of papers against Louis’ chest. He says something else, something loud and demanding, barely even pausing for a breath, but Louis doesn’t hear it. All he hears is the sound of his own breathing, the sound of his own heartbeat. Because this - this looks like a marriage certificate. For a minute, everything stills, quiets. Louis drags his eyes up, meets Harry’s gaze, fixed on him. Then the noise is back, shouting voices clamoring to be heard over each other, and Harry is still staring at him. The ring that Louis hadn’t been able to stop noticing in the loo weighs heavily on his hand. His left hand.

10) Sweet Scary Creatures | Mature | 13,012 words

They stare into each other’s eyes for a while until Louis remembers this is too intimate and looks at Harry’s hands on his thigh. It spans a big portion of his thigh and Louis has always been insecure about how thick he is, so he loves that Harry has huge, dustbin hands that hold him and makes him feel smaller, safer.

11) Show You The Stars In The Daylight | Explicit | 13,227 words

The one where Louis has a type and at sixteen and scrawny, it’s definitely not his best friend’s little brother Harry…ten years later, he changes his mind.

12) You Know It Ain’t Fiction, Just A Natural Fact| Not Rated | 13,312 words

“Look, Lou” Harry whispers, “I can’t do it, and as much as I like having dinner with you, and hanging out, I think we should just do it without the tutoring part because I am not smart enough for school.” “That’s bullshit,” Louis answers quickly, “what do you like?” he asks, “I mean, other than football and asking me stuff about my family. There must be something else you’re good at.” “I play football and fuck, Louis. That’s it.” Louis definitely doesn’t flinch at that. He does not.

13) Your Heart Is Glowing And I'm Crashing Into You | Explicit | 13,915 words

Louis swallows slowly, blinking away images of himself lying spread on top of his duvet at home, and the rich chocolate curls falling over the boy’s face as he eagerly stretches Louis open, and God. Louis really has to stop falling in love with every beautiful boy he comes across.

14) With the Certainty Of Tides | Mature | 13,980 words

“Love you,” Louis whispered in the dark. He didn’t know what time it was or where the light had gone, he knew that he was in Harry’s arms, basking in the afterglow of all their love and he’d be a fool to not tell Harry that. As if Harry didn’t know. “Love you,” was whispered back, as if Louis didn’t know. They confessed to each other as if it was their first time saying it, raw and painful, and listened to it the very same way, but they knew those words to be the only ones true. With all the certainty of the tides, with all the light from the sun, with all the steady beats of their hearts, they were deftly in love, in secret and so loudly. They were brave and fearless and strong and hopelessly devoted in every sense of their breaths. “We made it, baby,” Harry mumbled, bringing their lips into a final kiss, sweet and soft and the color of pink. They already knew that, didn’t fight tooth and nail and argued through every petty year and bleed their hearts into the words they sang and on their skin for them to have not made it home. They were home.

15) The Seed Inside You, Baby, Do You Feel It Growin' | Explicit | 14,796 words

Louis really wants Harry to get him pregnant.

16) All This Delusion In Our Heads | Explicit | 15,088 words

After Harry and Louis break up, they cope with it in very different ways. What will happen when Harry keeps calling his ex over when things go wrong in his life, but Louis just can't take it anymore?

17) Let Me Inside | Explicit | 17,734 words

Louis is Harry’s boss, but Harry is the boss of Louis

18) Reach The Heavens Own Blue | Explicit | 21,070 words

Louis is a Boston Red Sox and Harry is a New York Yankee.

19) Cut the Sides, Don’t Touch the Back | Explicit | 21,596 words

Prompt 87: Harry’s been talking about getting a mullet for so long and Louis hates how good he pulls it off. Aka The Mullet Fic.

20) Beautiful, Dirty, Rich | Explicit | 23,534 words

Later that night, Louis arrived home and screamed into his pillow when he flopped onto his mattress. This prompted Niall to appear in the doorway with a concerned look on his face. A beer was being nursed carefully in his hand, blue eyes glassy from the booze. “Um… Are you okay?” It came out quietly like he was scared of spooking Louis. Louis dramatically flipped over to stare at his roommate, “I met the love of my life at work, but he’s a club member so it’s forbidden.” He whined loudly, jutting his bottom lip out in faux distress. “Shit Lou, you had me worried. Thought someone died or something,” The boy groaned, strolling over to plop himself onto the mattress, “So, tell me about this guy you wanna fuck.” “Ni he’s the sexiest person I’ve ever met. I want to be his trophy wife he shows off, and have all his babies, and be at his beck and call twenty-four seven,” All he received in return was an unimpressed stare, his friend rolling his eyes at the antics.

21) The Devil's In The Details | Explicit | 25,372 words

He squeals when Harry smacks his bum as he bends over to pick up his bag, swinging it over his shoulder. Harry smiles smugly at him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “When are you going to start calling me professor?” He asks. “When you actually are one,” Louis says with his hand on the doorknob. He cocks his head to the side in curiosity. “Isn’t that how words work? You did study English, right?” Louis’ quick to slip out the door before Harry can smack him again, his laugh echoing through the hallways as he makes his way to his next class with flushed cheeks and a bright smile.

22) Let Me Carry Your Weight | Explicit | 28,633 words 

Louis is fresh out of a bad relationship with someone who made him feel awful about how he looked. on his journey to better himself, he meets harry - the ridiculously attractive and fit personal trainer.

23) Trapped | Explicit | 32,957 words

An AU in which Harry and Louis are under lockdown because of the global pandemic and they find themselves experiencing change in between them.

24) But I Won’t Feel Blue | Not Rated | 33,808 words

“Sam Claflin,” Then the second. “Bill Skarsgard.” And finally, the third. She hesitated, holding it for a moment longer, then let it go. “Harry Styles.” With the final letter sent, there was no turning back now. Whatever happened next, Lilah was ready to face it

25) Give Me Love | Explicit | 41,041 words

Louis doesn't feel like a good omega, Harry doesn't remember how to be an alpha, and they figure it out together.

26) Sedative Duty | Explicit | 46,588 words

Pop-star of the moment Louis Tomlinson is on his third-world tour. He decides to hire renowned professional dominant Harry Styles to unwind while on the road. In an effort not to raise suspicion by the crew, fans, and press, Harry pretends to be his bodyguard. He ends up being far more than that.

27) A Silent Whisper (That’s Left Unsaid) | Explicit | 50,842 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

A Fake Relationship & Exes to Lovers AU ft a failed proposal ten years ago, an oblivious Harry, an overworked Louis, Zayn as the protective best friend, a meddling aunt and a lot of talks about weddings and rings.

28) Of Lost Things | Explicit | 57,890 words

Louis comes with a familiarity Harry has never felt with anyone else before. After their fateful meeting, their chemistry became undeniable, and soon after, Harry had felt like he hit the jackpot when it came to finding the person he would spend the rest of his life with. But all relationships come with their own unique problems, and Harry soon realizes that their relationship is no different. When their problems go from unordinary to nearly bizarre in nature, he takes it upon himself to find an answer to their troubles. What he stumbles upon are terrifying coincidences between his and Louis’ story, and the ill-fated mythological couple, Orpheus and Eury. But it’s all they are; just coincidences, ones that feel as frighteningly familiar as Louis. Except… what if none of this is a coincidence? What if everything Harry has always seen as fiction is true, and myth—or rather, history, is about to repeat itself?

29) In The Still Of The Night | Explicit | 68,568 words

In a society where omegas are expected to follow a predetermined path, Louis strives for more; for his voice to be heard, for recognition, for true love. In a world where your past defines your future, Harry fights against the system; for equality, for a different life, for acceptance. When their two worlds collide, will they be beaten down by conformity or will they rise up and forge a new path together?

30) Siren Calls Me Home | Explicit | 133,762 words

Harry’s father had warned him. King Edward of Erendor had whispered his suspicions that Prince Louis of Blackmont was descended from the sirens, monsters from cautionary tales Harry was told as a child. A cruel, cold-hearted, and vicious nature wreathed in a breathtaking exterior, with coy smirks and slow blinks used to bend everyone to his will. His beauty was as well known as his cunning, his greed, and his ruthless grab for power. Time only proved the rumors to be true, and Harry made sure to keep his distance from the prince, never once speaking to him, and doing his best not to even meet his eye. Unfortunately, the ghosts of whispered warnings are powerless when one is up against the very tangible experience of being in Prince Louis’ presence.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

[sorceress-of-stories]

🩸Blood of Origin - Alucard x Reader 🩸

Chapter 8

SUMMARY: Your souls were bound by the cruel thread of fate. He was blessed by the blood flowing in his veins, you by the unknown. But as destiny took its course, the safety and peace in which you lived was violently ripped away. Fractured and broken, you walked the agonizing path that destiny set before you, unaware it would lead you back to where it all began.

~~~~~

You are the main character of this story. There is no direct description of reader's hair/eyes/body etc.

fake pagan-based spirituality that is important to the plot

slow burn. we start from before the events of season 1 and span throughout the entirety of the series

[TRIGGER WARNINGS:]

this story may contain the following: strong language, blood/gore/violence, alluding to SA (only in one part), sexual themes, death/ grieving, and more.

Viewer discretion advised

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

🩸

THE FLOW OF TIME PASSED with the ease of tranquil waters. The blessings of Gaianna only grew stronger and brighter as the years came and went. No longer were you the scared young child who could not easily call upon her abilities, whose sword arm lacked strength. It came to you as easily as breath - never wavering - as you pushed yourself to your limits. You trained both your body and your mind, honing your craft and sword arm with impressive dedication. You channeled your lunar magick as fluidly as the air moved, weaving through your body and passing through the tips of your fingers with ease. Your twice-monthly visits with Gaianna slowly ceased, her teachings and instruction ingrained within your very being. Though she did not admit it outright, the goddess was very pleased with the promise of her champion and bestowed upon you the highest honor of your mother's people: High Priestess. The night of your initiation she gifted you a blessed blade of spectacular beauty, its ivory handle shining under the silver glow of moonlight. From then on, your interactions with her only took the form of formal meditation when the need arose.

Your more traditional education was also built upon as you spent countless hours bent over books as Dracula recounted the vast histories of human existence. When he'd travel abroad, you and Adrian were often at his side, seeing the lessons you had learned throughout the years come to life before your very eyes. You met all manner of people and learned their customs; saw the historic and wonderous land of your mother's ancestors you had only glimpsed at in the drawings of history books. You and Adrian became worldly individuals; the bond between you growing ever stronger. The depths of your friendship intertwined and imprinted in the deepest parts of each other's souls. Your secrets were his, and his yours. His happiness was your own, and it filled you with warmth every time you were the cause of his laugher or smile, the reason his worries fell away.

The dhampir had become the very best parts of his mother and father, growing into a young man with the ease and grace of one beyond his years. You saw how others were enchanted by his radiant beauty, their hushed voices and heated cheeks following everywhere he went. When you'd tease him on the matter, he always dismissed you and replied, "I'm not the one who is the focus of their attentions." You did not notice his lingering gaze on you as he said it, the slight tilt of his chin, the softness of his eyes. There was no other whose opinions mattered most to him, none he considered his equal. All except you.

《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》

Castle Dracula, January 1474

THE LAND WAS ENSHROUDED WITH THE POWDER OF FRESHLY FALLEN SNOW, the lakes and rivers frozen over as the lull of winter forced the earth into deep slumber. The clearing in which you stood was untouched, the ancient forest painted in white crystal, still and quiet, as if it held its breath. With every inhale and exhale of your heaving chest, thick clouds of vapor tumbled from your lips and disappeared into the frozen air. Dried blood stuck to your shirt from the slice on your arm, the sting of Adrian's blade still fresh on your skin. Your own steel sword was slick with his blood; the ivory handle clutched firmly in your grasp.

"What does that make it now, two to three?" he smirked smugly, running a pale hand through his cascading golden locks. He wore nothing but a white shirt and leather pants, impervious to the freezing weather that had settled upon the land. Your own body was clad in a similar fashion, except a thick fur cloak was fastened around your shoulders to keep the encroaching cold at bay.

"Again," you steadied your footing on the snowy banks of the frozen lake, readying your sword arm once more.

"If you insist." he obliged you, bringing his own blade to the center of his face. Adrian bent his head before dashing forward, the speed of his movements causing a flurry of snow in his wake. The clashing of steel echoed throughout the frozen clearing, the sharp, shrill sound causing a flock of crows to abandon a nearby tree. The two of you were indecipherable slashes against the landscape as you sparred, meeting each other's strikes evenly. You went for his chest, but he blocked it with ease, an overconfident smirk etching itself onto his features. With a flick of your empty hand, you called forth your light, throwing the half disks at his legs and feet. Promptly he jumped back, dodging and rolling out of the way of each beam.

"That's a dirty trick." he tsked.

"It is only dirty because you did not expect it." your own smile pulled at your lips.

He rushed at you again, initially aiming for your torso before changing his trajectory at the last possible second. His sword flew through the air with his magick, aiming right for your blade. You tried to out-maneuver it, but it was too late. Your sword was flung from your grasp, landing too far for you to correct. You summoned your light in both hands, sending each beam in a perfect arc in his direction. Adrian dodged all but one until he was upon you. Your bodies collided and you lost your footing, bracing for the pain and sensation of falling. His arm snaked protectively around you, bearing the brunt of the impact as he landed on his back, the fluffed snow puffing up in a shimmering cloud around you. You were pulled firmly onto his broad chest, the breath stolen from your lungs.

"That was a dirty trick," you panted, pulling away ever so slightly so you could read his expression, "going for my sword arm like that."

"From the lessons of my father, you always attack your opponent in the way they'll least expect." his voice was soft next to your ear, his smirk reappearing on his face. You could see his fangs as he smiled, which you had found endearing ever since the moment they began to show themselves.

"I shall remember that for next time," you muttered sarcastically.

"Take your loss honorably," he gazed at you with bright eyes, tightening his hold on you, "it is the respectable thing to do."

You regarded him for a moment before bending down, your noses barely touching. You did not feel him tense as you moved closer to him, his breath catching imperceptibly. "It is a good thing honor does not matter while sparring." with deft and quick hands you fisted a handful of snow and put it down the front of his shirt. His golden eyes widened in realization, a playful hiss escaping him. You took the opportunity of his surprise and rolled off, landing in the snowbank beside him. The sudden cold took your breath away, and for a moment you lost your bearings. Adrian used it to his advantage and rolled on top of you, pinning your arms above your head with just one hand.

"Adrian!" you attempted to wriggle from underneath his grasp, but to no avail.

"Did you forget I don't feel the cold?" he bent down, inches away from your face.

"You may not feel the cold, but you hate the way wet clothing feels upon your skin." you smiled wickedly.

"That is true," he agreed, "but not as much as you."

"No, no, Adrian don't! Please!" you couldn't help the fits of laughter that escaped you as he reached for a handful of snow, waving it above your head playfully.

"Admit that I won, concede. If you do, I will let you go." the snow sat glittering in his palm, his grin growing at the sound of your laughter.

"But-"

"Concede!" he held the snowball in his hand mock-threateningly.

"Alright, alright! You won!"

He stared at you for a moment longer before throwing the ball of snow into the quiet woods. His other hand released you, eyes never leaving your form. Your face was alight with humor, your cheeks heated from laughter, ice crystals glinting in your hair.

"What?" you peered at him through your lashes. "What are you looking at?"

Adrian shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "You have ice crystals in your hair." he quickly stood before offering you a hand. You took it, your palm warm against his own.

"That is what happens when one rolls around in the snow." you giggled, attempting to shake the snowflakes from the crown of your head with your hand as you searched for your blade. You found it a few paces away and quickly ceased and sheathed it. "Shall we head back? I'm absolutely famished."

Adrian nodded, briefly avoiding your gaze. You didn't notice the slight flush of his cheeks as you turned towards the direction of the castle, hooking your arm within his own as you went.

~

"What did I say about sparring with real blades?" Lisa's grey eyes were narrowed, her lips pursed as she inspected the small gash on your arm.

"I'm quite alright, Aunt Lisa. It is just a surface wound."

"Even so," she shook her head, "you need to be careful."

You sat atop the wooden counter of the castle kitchen, the scent of venison stew wafting from the enormous woodstove. The warmth of the fire was a balm to your freezing skin and your stomach began to growl at the promise of food.

"We were careful, mother," Adrian pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, golden eyes shining, "I promise."

"Careful? The cuts and blood on your shirt say otherwise." she sent a pointed look to her son, but a small smile tugged at her lips. He smiled sheepishly in return, the tips of his fangs glinting in the glow of hearthfire.

"My wounds are already healed." he replied, revealing the smooth skin of his muscled forearm.

"That is the only advantage you have over me, dhampir," you playfully taunted, "quick healing and the like."

"The only one, High Priestess?" he teased back. "Did I not disarm you not only moments ago?"

"With the magick of your blade," you dismissed him with a roll of your eyes.

"Hmm," he stepped closer to you, golden eyes boring into your own, "says the one who used her own magick first."

"Hmm," you echoed him, smiling broadly.

"If you two are quite finished, I would appreciate your help in setting the table for supper." Lisa wiped her hands upon her apron; a knowing smile spreading across her face.

"Yes, mother."

"Yes, Aunt Lisa."

《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》

Wallachia, March 1st 1474

THE EARTH BEGAN TO AWAKEN, the promise of spring ushering new life into the flora and fauna. You sat in the meadow of the Tepes lands, singing softly to the bright purple flowers that surrounded you and the fat honeybees that sought their pollen. The early spring sun shone down from the sky, basking everything in its pale golden light. Lisa was a few paces away, working contently in the herb garden, long golden hair held back from her face in a thick braid. You had accompanied her to the cottage a few days prior, as Dracula and Adrian had left to travel abroad. They had extended an invitation towards you, but you felt compelled to enjoy the time alone with your adoptive Aunt in the warmth and familiarity of your childhood home.

The two of you spent your days leisurely strolling the surrounding forests, foraging wild mushrooms for her medicines, attending to the sick villagers who came for treatment. It was on one of those particular days you met a young man, his emerald eyes a deep contrast to the darkness of his hair. You could admit he was handsome, especially for a human male, but it paled in comparison to the otherworldly beauty of a certain dhampir, you thought. The comparison struck you as odd, and you quickly banished it from your mind. The young man had introduced himself as Edwin, the son of a blacksmith in the nearby village. He had traveled to be treated for a particularly severe burn on his hand, the flesh angry and bubbling with blisters.

"I was clumsy," he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders, "I accidentally brushed my hand upon the furnace. Never felt so much pain in my life."

Lisa studied the wound intently, dabbing it with a soothing mixture of cooling herbs. "You are lucky it did not burn into the deeper layers of the skin. It may look ghastly now, and hurt something awful, but it will heal with minimal scarring."

"I don't care if I am scarred, doctor. It comes with the profession. I only care if I am unable to continue my apprenticeship."

"As long as you give yourself time to heal, it will be fine. Let me go prepare you a poultice. I will return shortly." she stood from the kitchen table and left swiftly.

Edwin peered at you with curiosity, green eyes alight with something you could not place. "What is your name? Are you the doctor's daughter?"

"No," you shook your head and introduced yourself, "she is my aunt."

"By blood?"

You tilted your head in confusion, a frown etching itself on your lips. "What does that matter?"

His eyes widened as he realized he had offended you. "I meant no offence, lady. It is just, you do not appear related."

"She is my aunt," you said again, "and no, not by blood."

"Are you a doctor as well?"

"Why are you asking so many questions?"

He grinned widely. "I am just attempting to make conversation with a beautiful woman. Is that such a crime?"

Your cheeks heated. "No, I suppose not."

"Well then, are a doctor?"

"No."

"I would have thought you were. You have the look of a healer."

"And what do healers look like?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose they can appear any way. It is the look in your eyes, that is my meaning."

You regarded him for a moment. "I dabble with the healing arts, but I am not as skilled as my aunt."

"You strike me as the kind of person who could remedy that very easily," his green eyes bore into your own, "wouldn't you agree?"

"Here we are," Lisa had reappeared before you had the chance to answer, carrying the poultice and a glass bottle filled with a dark brown liquid. You stayed silent while Lisa continued her ministrations on Edwin's hand, extremely aware of the many glances he sent your way. They talked easily amongst themselves until she had finished, bandaging his wounded hand in fresh linen.

"Keep the poultice applied for two days, and make sure you drink this medicine once daily. It is just wine with some powdered herbs mixed in. It will help stave off infection. Come by next week so I may assess its progress."

"Thank you, doctor. I shall. " Edwin bowed his head deeply, standing from the dining chair and crossing to the door. He thanked Lisa once again before turning to you, bowing his head, eyes glinting. Without another word, he left.

The days went by quickly and Edwin reappeared at the cottage just as he had promised. The burn and blisters on his hand had healed considerably, the only indication of an injury being the bright pink irritation upon his skin.

"That medicine you gave me worked wonders, doctor. I have had burns in the past, but they took twice as long to heal."

Lisa smiled, examining the hand. "I am glad to hear it. How is the pain?"

"Very minimal. Before I could scarcely handle the weight of a spoon in my hand. Now I barely feel anything at all."

"That is excellent! I don't think you need another poultice, but I think a soothing balm should work wonders. I will return with it at once." she stood from the table and walked away, leaving you alone in his company once more.

You felt the weight of his stare and you met it evenly. "You have a very odd habit of staring at strangers."

He smirked. "I only stare at things that hold beauty. Besides, we are no longer strangers."

"So you say."

"Does my gaze offend you?"

"Hardly," you waved your hand dismissively, "but your gawking grows a bit tiresome."

"Gawking, is it?" he huffed a laugh.

"What else would you call it? If you have something to say to me, please do so."

"Alright. How would you feel taking a stroll with me, once I finish with the doctor?"

"A stroll?"

"Just to the edge of the woods, where the path to the cottage joins the main road." his green eyes were bright with hope.

You considered for a moment before agreeing. "Just to the path where it meets the road."

~

A friendship with the blacksmith's son quickly blossomed after that. You would take pleasant walks through the forest, talking of many things and nothing at all. He brought you flowers upon every visit, gifting them with wide eyes that shone like the sun filtering through the tree canopy above. The day he brought you peonies was the day he kissed you; lips light and gentle against your own. It was quick and unexpected; your eyes widening in surprise.

"Was that wrong of me?" he pressed his forehead against your own. Though it was not entirely unpleasant, you had felt something missing.

"No," you said softly, eyes swimming with a mixture of emotions, "I just wasn't expecting it."

"Well," he pulled away, emerald eyes gleaming, "I won't do it again unless you ask me to. I promise."

The odd feeling in your chest never went away, nor the sensation of his lips upon your own. You often found yourself rubbing your bottom lip with the pad of your thumb when you were alone, attempting to decipher the mix of emotions that coiled within you. As the night of the full moon arrived, you could not help your wandering thoughts as you met with Gaianna, and the goddess was only too aware of that fact.

"You are distracted, girl." she observed, silver eyes narrowing. You sat before the invocation site, four candles lit in accordance with the directions, an ancient tome in your hand. The incantations that you read from the aged pages were half-spoken and disjointed as your mind whirled.

"Apologies, Goddess." you shook your head in an attempt to clear your mind.

"Is it the human boy?" her voice was laced with distaste.

Your eyes widened in shock. "How-"

"The spirits of the wood see all, girl. You do well to remember that."

You peered at her human form, saw the flash of the frown upon her lips. "He kissed me."

Gaianna's lips curled in annoyance. "You are distracted by a simple kiss?"

"I have never been kissed, Goddess." you huffed in your defense.

"Do you wish to take him to your bed?"

Your eyes widened wildly at her words. "The thought never crossed my mind."

"He wishes to bed you." she stated coldly.

Your cheeks heated. "Perhaps."

"I care not who you take to your bed. But I will not tolerate the simplicities of human dalliances from clouding your mind. You are my champion, not some simpering village girl. You will correct this behavior at once."

You swallowed the thick lump in your throat before refocusing your eyes on the tome. "Yes, Goddess."

《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》《》

Wallachia, March 14th 1474

ADRIAN AND DRACULA RETURNED HOME to the welcoming and loving embrace of Lisa. She hugged her son and kissed his cheek before melting into her husband's strong arms. The spring sun was high in the cloudless sky, a gentle breeze dancing in the air. Adrian's golden eyes scanned the vast meadow in search of you, a frown forming on his face when you did not appear. He asked his mother where you had gone, the slant of his mouth deepening as he saw an unknown emotion flash across her features.

"She is not home." she stated gently.

"Then I will go to her-" he began to turn before his mother caught his arm.

"Adrian, she is with a friend."

Confusion swam over his features. "A friend? You mean a spirit?"

"No, a friend." Lisa eyed her husband for the briefest moment before turning her attention back to her son.

"What friend?"

"He-"

"He?" his chest constricted. "Mother-"

"His name is Edwin; he's the son of a blacksmith. He came to me for treatment a fortnight ago. They have become close."

"Close?" Adrian echoed.

"Oh dear," Lisa sighed deeply, "they are friends, Adrian. She is allowed to have friends."

"Where is she and this friend?" his golden eyes narrowed on his mother's face.

"Son, leave her be. We only arrived home. Let us go inside and regale your mother of our travels." Dracula stated evenly.

"But-" the words died on his lips at the sharp look on his father's face. "Yes, father."

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