#-are kind of missing the forest for the trees

[dontmakemebabyblue]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒐𝒖

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟏 | 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟐 | 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟑 | 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟒 | 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟓

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wc: 1745

tw: really bad grammar, mild age gap (reader is 19-20ish Ghost is 30ish) violence, gunfire, attempted abduction, panic response, trauma themes, emotional distress.

𝑷𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅

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The rain began as a whisper on the roof soft, insistent, like the sky was trying to warn you before it broke open. By the time you and Ghost were packed into a truck that now replaced the sedan, the rain had turned heavy. Thick drops pelting the windshield in rhythmic pulses, blurring the trees as they passed in gray green smears.

You ride in silence, tension settling back into the space between you like fog. Ghost gripped the wheel with one hand, the other resting loosely on the gearshift, eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hood. You could feel his alertness like static in the air.

You had been driving for a few hours when the road began to wind tighter, climbing and dipping through a stretch of forest that felt older than anything manmade. You were just starting to relax into the hum of the engine again when Ghost braked sharply, tires hissing against the wet pavement.

You lean forward, blinking against the rain.

The road ahead is gone swallowed whole by a raging current, the runoff from the storm turning the two lane strip into a brown, frothing river. Tree limbs floated by like broken bones.

“Shit,” Ghost mutters under his breath.

Hazard lights flashed from a parked pickup truck on the other side, its driver standing beside it, arms wide in a helpless gesture. No way across. Not without a boat.

You turn toward Ghost. “So what now?”

He was already shifting into reverse, backing up with practiced precision before taking a hard left down an unmarked road.

“There’s a detour that cuts through the city. Not ideal, but it’ll work”

You swallow, fingers tightening around the strap of your setbealt. City meant exposure. People. Eyes.

“Won’t we be easier to spot there?” you ask.

He doesn't look at you. “I’ll keep us moving.”

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It wasn’t downtown nothing so obvious. But it was city enough to feel like a different planet from the cabin. Rows of concrete storefronts blinked in neon and sodium light, still muted under the low hanging clouds. The scent of wet asphalt mixed with exhaust and something else faint grease, old cigarettes, a kind of urban tiredness.

Ghost keeps to the back roads and alleys, moving like a predator through the grid. But even he couldn’t avoid everything.

“We’ll stop quick,” he says, pulling into the lot of a run down gas station tucked beneath a sagging overpass. A convenience store stood in the center one of those all hours places that always looked like it had survived a fire, or was about to.

Ghost parks at the gas pump facing the exit, engine idling low.

“I’ll go in,” you offer, already reaching for the door.

He cuts you a look. “Not happening.”

“But we can do two things at once, then we’ll be back on the road faster.”

His jaw ticks. You could practically see the calculation behind his eyes.

“I’ll be quick. Just water and snacks maybe a lip balm….Please."

The last part came out more desperate than intended. And of course, he didn’t miss it.

“Two minutes,” he says finally. “If anything feels off, you don’t hesitate. Understood?”

He hands you a twenty. You nod once, slipping your hood up over your head, and stepping into the rain.

The inside of the store buzzes with cheap fluorescents. Shelves lean with age, half stocked with expired cereal and off-brand soda. You move fast grabbing two waters, a candy bar, a pack of gum, and a cherry lip balm.

At the register, the man behind the counter didn’t even look up. His radio plays something grainy and twangy through the static.

You hand him a crumpled bill, take your change, and turn to go.

That’s when you feel it. A shift in the air.

Attention.

“Hey,” a voice says from behind you. Male. Maybe early thirties. Too curious. “Wait a second… I know you.”

Your blood turns to ice. You kept walking.

“Yeah, yeah—I’ve seen you before. You’re the missing girl from—what was it? That press conference on TV?”

Your hand hits the door, shoving it open as your heart begins to gallop.

The voice gets louder. “Hey—! I’m talking to you!”

Outside, the lot looks different. A van has pulled into the loading zone across the street black, matte, the kind of nothing vehicle that means everything.

Its engine is still running.

Ghost is already out of the truck, moving towards you with lethal calm.

“Go,” he says sharply. Not yelling but commanding.

You tern to sprint the last few feet into the passenger seat, as the man from the store burst through the door behind you, still yelling. but he isn’t alone anymore. Two more figures emerge from the van, dressed in civilian clothes but moving with unmistakable coordination.

One of them is holding something under his jacket.

“Ghost—!”

The words barely leave your mouth before your heart lodges in your throat as a man steps into your path, blocking the door to the truck.

You stumbled back a few steps, whipping around just in time to see the first attacker lunge at Ghost with a blade fast and low. Ghost sidesteps and drives an elbow into the man’s throat. Clean. Brutal. The second tries to flank him, but Ghost privets, sweeping his leg and sending the man sprawling into the side of the van.

“Go,” he snaps, voice cutting through the panic clouding your mind.

“I can’t! They boxed us in!” you shout.

You turn back toward the truck, but your gut twists as a second van screeches into the lot from the alley behind you, blocking it entirely. You barely have time to process before the back doors fly open and more men start pouring out.

A gunshot cracks the air. Then another.

Ghost didn’t hesitate. He grabs your wrist and rans.

Boots pounded against wet pavement, the city closing in around you in a blur of light and sound. You cut through alleys, vaulted a low chain link fence, the sharp tang of rust and oil filling your lungs. Somewhere behind you, footsteps echoed.

Your legs are shaking. Vision tunneling. But you don’t stop.

Ghost leads you like a shadow no wasted movement, not even breath. He doesn’t speak, but you feel the leash of his attention on you like a thread, tethering you to him in the dark.

Finally, you slip through the side door of an old building some gutted warehouse with a broken sign and long-dead vending machines. You double over, hands on your knees, lungs burning.

“Did we lose them?” you half gasp, half whisper.

He peers through a crack in the boarded window. “For now.”

“Shit.” you hissed.

Your voice sounds weak. Not from pain from the weight of everything catching up all at once.

He turns toward you. “We can’t stay here. It’s not secure.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve. “Then where?”

Ghost glances around. Then pulls an earpiece from his pocket and taps it, muttering something low into the mic.

“Safehouse. North end. A contact of mine set one up months ago. Not ideal, but it’s close.”

You straighten slowly. “Is it far?”

His eyes met yours.

“Not if we run.”

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The safehouse is barely more than a forgotten room above an auto shop. Rusted exterior staircase. Door that only locks from the inside. One mattress. One lantern. No heat.

But it is dry. And hidden. And for now, that was more than enough.

You peel off your soaked jacket, tossing it across the chair by the wall. Your hands are still trembling from the cold, or everything else your not sure.

Ghost stands near the window, silent, watching the street below. His mask is damp. His sleeves streaked with grime.

You don't like the silence. always have now, now you can't stand it didn’t feel like the ones before. it stings with accusation.

“Say something,” you mutter.

He doesn’t move.

“Anything. Tell me I was reckless. Tell me I almost got us killed.”

Still nothing.

You snap. “Or are you just gonna keep being a goddamn statue until I forget I almost died back there?”

He turns sharply. “We almost died.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

He takes a step forward, jaw tight. “You think I plan for this? You think I want you that close to the line?”

“No, I think you’d rather keep everything locked down so tight you forget we’re not in some goddamn simulation!” you fired back. “I haven't been part of any mission briefing! I'm not a highly some trained solder! I’m not like you, Ghost!”

“I know you’re not!”

The words crack out of him like a gunshot. Loud. Uncontrolled.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is your breathing.

He takes another step forward. Slower this time. More careful.

“You’re not,” he repeats, quieter now. “That’s the whole problem.”

You star at him, your chest aching with a different kind of pressure.

“Then what am I?”

He looks at you—really looks. His eyes didn’t hold that wall of distance anymore. They held fear. Regret. Something unguarded.

“You’re the one thing I can’t afford to lose,” he says.

You swallow hard. You know he was devoted to his task. That’s why he says things like that. You'd be foolish to read in to it.

You know that.

“Then why do you act like it doesn’t matter?”

He won't look at you now. and it almost make you more uncreatable then when he does.

“Because if I do, I’ll get distracted. And distraction gets people killed.”

You turn your back on him, rubbing y your hands over you face. “You shouldn't live like that.”

“I’m not trying to live,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”

The words hit you square in the chest. You already feel like a helpless childe at the mercy of every one else. like a burden

You sit down heavily on the edge of the mattress. “Do you ever think… maybe I’m not the only one with problems?”

The anger has left your voice. All that is left is a tired kind of irritation.

He doesn’t answer at first.

“I don’t know how to be anything else.” it almost a whisper.

You look over your shoulder at him again.

The silence that follows wasn’t cold this time. It was cautious. Open.

“You know,” you said softly, “when I first met you, I thought you looked like stone. No cracks. No nerves. Just… armor.”

“And now?”

“I’m not sure. I think there’s a person under there. One who still dreams. One who still hurts.”

He finally looks at you. His eyes were steady.

Raw.

“I don’t dream anymore,” he murmurs.

You flopped back on the mattress.

“Figures," you say with a little huff then more seriously:

"I guess then I’ll dream for both of us.”

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tag list: @floweronacloud @full-cover32bitch let me know if you want to be added!

[andromeda-pleiades]

Just Trust Me

WORD COUNT: 4,998

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

This was my first story that really gained traction. I'm so grateful to the people who left likes and comments, you all really made this worthwhile, and to the people on AO3 who left kudos and commented as well, love you all. Sadly it is time to say good bye to this story now I hope you guys are happy about the way it ended, if you want to add your two cents it makes my day to read it, if you are not happy about the way it ended let me know in the comments but be nice pls Check my other works on Tumblr and my AO3 page bye bye (。・∀・)ノ

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

The road appears through the trees like salvation, a ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through the wilderness that has held you captive for what feels like hours but must have been days. Your legs give out the moment your feet hit the pavement, and you collapse to your knees, gasping. The sound of your own breathing is foreign—ragged, desperate, animal-like.

Behind you, the forest seems to watch with a thousand eyes. Somewhere in those trees, Soap is nursing the wound you gave him, probably calling in reinforcements, coordinating a search grid. The thought should terrify you, but all you feel is a strange, hollow numbness.

You made it out. You actually made it out.

A semi-truck rumbles to a stop beside you, air brakes hissing. The driver—a weathered man with kind eyes and a trucker's cap—leans out his window.

"You alright there, miss?"

You look up at him, this stranger offering help without asking questions, and something inside you nearly breaks. When was the last time someone showed you simple human kindness without an agenda?

"Car trouble," you manage to croak, though you know you look like you've been through hell. Your clothes are torn, mud caked in your hair, scratches covering your arms like a roadmap of your escape.

He doesn't believe you—you can see it in his eyes—but he doesn't press. "Come on then. Let's get you somewhere safe."

Safe. The word feels foreign on your tongue.

The cab of his truck smells like coffee and cigarettes and honest work. He hands you a thermos without a word, and you drink the bitter liquid gratefully, letting it burn away the taste of fear that's been coating your throat.

"Name's Bill," he says, eyes on the road. "Been driving this route for twenty years. Seen all kinds of folks need a ride."

You don't give him your name. Names can be traced, tracked, used against you. Instead, you curl into the passenger seat and watch the miles roll by, each one taking you further from the nightmare in the woods.

Bill drops you at a truck stop three hours later, pressing a twenty into your palm despite your protests. "Get yourself a hot meal," he says. "And maybe clean up in the restroom. Fresh start and all that."

You want to hug him, this stranger who showed you more genuine care in three hours than Simon did in months. Instead, you just nod and watch his truck disappear into the distance.

The truck stop restroom has harsh fluorescent lighting that makes your reflection look like a ghost. You barely recognize the woman staring back at you—hollow cheeks, wild eyes, a hardness around your mouth that wasn't there before. Your hands shake as you splash cold water on your face, trying to wash away the grime and the memory of Soap's blood on your fingers.

You've hurt someone. Actually hurt another human being. The knowledge sits heavy in your chest, but you can't bring yourself to feel guilty about it. He was hunting you like an animal. You defended yourself.

That's what survivors do, isn't it? They do whatever it takes.

The next three weeks pass in a blur of small towns and cheap motels, libraries and bus stations. You learn to pay in cash, to avoid cameras, to trust your instincts when something feels off. You learn to sleep with one eye open and to always know where the exits are.

But most importantly, you learn.

In library after library, you devour books on psychology, on abuse, on manipulation tactics. You read about gaslighting and love-bombing, about trauma bonds and learned helplessness. Each page feels like a revelation, giving names to things you experienced but couldn't articulate.

You're not crazy. You were never crazy. You were being systematically broken down by someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

The knowledge is both liberating and terrifying. If Simon was that calculated, that methodical, then how far does this go? How deep does the rabbit hole run?

You're in a diner in some forgettable town, nursing your third cup of coffee and trying to make sense of everything you've learned, when Kyle slides into the booth across from you.

Your blood turns to ice.

"Thought I might find you here," he says, and his voice carries that same easy warmth you remember from childhood. But you see through it now, recognize the careful modulation, the practiced concern.

You don't look up from your coffee. "Let me guess. Simon sent you."

Kyle's expression flickers—just for a moment, a crack in the facade—before settling back into concerned friendship. "He's worried about you. We all are."

"We." You finally meet his eyes, these eyes you once trusted above all others. "So you admit it now?"

"Admit what?" But there's something guarded in his voice now.

"That you were working with him. That you've been lying to me since the beginning. Maybe since we were kids."

Kyle sighs, a sound heavy with what might be genuine regret. "It's not that simple."

"Isn't it?" You lean back, studying him with new eyes. Everything looks different now—the way he holds himself, the careful placement of his hands, the micro-expressions he probably doesn't even realize he's making. "You've known me since we were eight years old, Kyle. You were supposed to be my friend."

"I am your friend," he says, and for a moment, his voice wavers with something that might be real emotion. "Everything I did was to protect you."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Even now, even after everything, part of you wants to believe him. This is Kyle—the boy who walked you home from school, who helped you with your math homework, who held you when your dog died.

But that's exactly what makes it so insidious, isn't it? The best manipulations always come wrapped in genuine affection.

"Protect me from what?" you ask.

"From yourself." The words come out sharper than he intended, and you see him immediately try to soften them. "You have no idea what you're doing out here. You're not equipped for this kind of life."

There it is. The condescension that Simon trained you to accept, delivered in Kyle's gentler tones. But you hear it now, recognize it for what it is.

"You sound just like him," you say quietly.

Kyle's jaw tightens, and for just a moment, you see something flash in his eyes—irritation, maybe even anger. "Simon loves you. He made mistakes, yes, but everything he did came from a place of—"

"He had you spy on me." Your voice is getting stronger now, more certain. "He had you manipulate me. He had you pretend to be my friend while you reported back to him about everything I said, everything I did."

"Because I care about you!" Kyle's mask slips completely now, and suddenly you're looking at a stranger. "Because I've watched you make one bad decision after another your entire life. Because without someone looking out for you, you'd be dead in a ditch somewhere."

The cruelty in his words steals your breath. This is Kyle—sweet, protective Kyle from your childhood—talking to you like you're a burden, a problem to be managed.

"How long?" you whisper.

"What?"

"How long have you been reporting on me? Since we were kids? Since high school? Did Simon recruit you, or were you always—"

"It's not like that." But he won't meet your eyes anymore.

"How long, Kyle?"

He's quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. "Since before you met him."

The world tilts on its axis. "What?"

"Price has been watching you for years. Your family, your connections, your psychological profile. You were... you were perfect for what they needed."

"What they needed for what?"

Kyle looks up at you then, and there's something almost like pity in his eyes. "Simon needed someone to anchor him. Someone to give him a reason to stay human. You were the ideal candidate—isolated, eager to please, with abandonment issues that made you easy to control."

The words hit you like physical blows. Your entire relationship, your entire life, reduced to a psychological profile and a strategic need.

"They sent you to watch me," you say, pieces clicking into place. "To make sure I stayed isolated. To make sure I didn't have any real friends who might interfere."

"I was your friend," Kyle insists. "I am your friend. That was never fake."

"But you still chose him over me."

Kyle opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. Because what can he say? How do you defend the indefensible?

"Get away from me," you whisper, standing on unsteady legs.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, settling back in his seat with renewed determination. "Not until you come to your senses and come home."

But you're already walking away, already pushing through the diner door into the late afternoon sun. Behind you, Kyle calls your name, but you don't turn around. You can't. If you look back, you might see the boy who used to protect you from bullies, and that would break something in you that's only just started to heal.

You walk until you reach another diner on the other side of town, this one smaller and shabbier but blessedly empty except for a tired-looking waitress and a trucker reading a newspaper. You slide into a booth at the back, order coffee you don't want, and try to process what Kyle told you.

They've been watching you for years. Years. Your entire adult life has been a carefully orchestrated performance, with you as the unwitting star.

But even as the horror of it sinks in, there's something else growing alongside it: rage. Pure, clean anger that burns away the last traces of doubt and self-blame.

You're not crazy. You were never the problem. You were targeted, selected, groomed—but you fought back. You survived. And now you're going to make sure no one else goes through what you did.

You're lost in these thoughts when the bell above the diner door chimes. You don't look up immediately, but something makes your skin prickle, some primal recognition that has your head snapping up.

Simon stands in the doorway.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, fight-or-flight responses warring in your chest. He looks exactly the same—tall, broad-shouldered, those dark eyes scanning the room with military precision until they find you. When they do, his entire posture changes, shoulders dropping slightly in what might be relief.

He approaches slowly, but there's nothing gentle about it. It's the careful movement of a predator who doesn't want to spook his prey. He slides into the booth across from you without invitation, without permission, claiming space like he's always done.

"Hello, love," he says, and his voice has that familiar warmth that once made you feel safe. Now it just makes you feel sick.

You don't respond immediately. Your hands are shaking slightly around your coffee mug, and you hate that he can probably see it, probably cataloging it as another data point in his endless assessment of your emotional state.

"You look tired," he continues when you don't answer. "Thin. Are you eating enough?"

The casual concern in his voice—as if you're still his to worry about—makes anger flare in your chest.

"How did you find me?" you ask finally.

He glances pointedly at your wrist, and you follow his gaze to the silver bracelet still clasped there. The one he gave you before his "deployment." The one you should have thrown away weeks ago but couldn't quite bring yourself to remove.

Of course.

Without breaking eye contact, you reach for the clasp. Your fingers are trembling more than you'd like, but finally the bracelet slides off your wrist and onto the table between you with a soft clink that sounds impossibly loud in the quiet diner.

"There," you say, pushing it toward him. "Now you can't follow me anymore."

Simon's eyes flick to the bracelet, then back to your face. There's something dangerous in his expression now, a predatory stillness that raises every hair on your arms.

"You think that's the only way I've been keepin' track of you?" he asks, voice deceptively mild.

The words hit like a physical blow. "What do you mean?"

"The libraries," he says simply. "Every town, same pattern. You go straight to the psychology section, check out the same types of books. Abuse recovery, manipulation tactics, trauma bonding." His lips curve into something that isn't quite a smile. "Always were a good student."

Your stomach drops to your feet. He's been watching you. Even when you thought you were safe, learning, growing stronger—he was there. Cataloging. Analyzing. Always one step ahead.

"I know you probably already know that," you say, voice hoarse with the effort of keeping it steady. "That I've been to the libraries. You're probably watching me everywhere."

"Smart girl." The praise feels like poison, delivered with that same patronizing tone he used to use when you figured out something he wanted you to know.

You take a shaky breath, trying to remember what you've learned, trying to apply all those hours of reading to this moment. "This is—you're trying to intimidate me. Make me feel like I have no privacy, no safe spaces. That's psychological control."

The words come out less steady than you'd hoped. You've read about these tactics, spent hours studying them, but sitting across from Simon now, you're not entirely sure you're getting it right. What if you're wrong? What if you've misunderstood everything and you just sound foolish?

Simon leans back, and you can see him assessing your uncertainty like a weakness to exploit. "Is that what you think this is? Some kind of textbook manipulation?"

"Isn't it?" But you don't sound confident anymore, and you hate yourself for it.

"You've got it all wrong." His voice is almost gentle now, which somehow makes it worse. "This isn't some big military operation, some conspiracy with Price pulling strings. There's no master plan, no other women, no grand scheme." He shakes his head, looking almost sad. "It's just me, tryin' to keep the woman I love safe."

The words hit you like a slap. Everything you thought you'd figured out—the files you saw on his laptop, the operation Kyle hinted at, the systematic nature of it all—what if you were wrong about all of it? What if you've been running from shadows, building conspiracies out of coincidences?

"But the files," you whisper. "I saw them. The profiles, the psychological assessments—"

"You saw what you wanted to see," Simon interrupts, and his voice is so reasonable, so patient. "What you needed to see to justify leavin' me." He leans forward, and his eyes are so sincere, so genuinely hurt. "I'm not the monster you've made me out to be."

You feel yourself wavering, that familiar doubt creeping in like poison. This is what he does—what he's always done—makes you question your own reality, your own perceptions. But knowing that doesn't make it less effective.

The worst part is, he looks genuinely wounded. This isn't the cold, calculating operative you've imagined. This is just... Simon. Flawed, damaged Simon who loves you in the only way he knows how.

"You had an app to track me," you say, grasping for solid ground.

"Because you wouldn't answer your phone," he replies immediately. "Because you'd disappear for hours and I'd be terrified somethin' had happened to you. Do you know what it's like, lovin' someone who won't let you protect them?"

"You controlled everything—the house, the car, the money—"

"I took care of everything." His voice rises slightly, and you see a flash of the temper he usually keeps so carefully controlled. "Because you needed me to. Because you were fallin' apart and too proud to admit it."

"I wasn't falling apart!"

"Weren't you?" He's fully focused on you now, intense and overwhelming in that way that used to make you feel like the most important person in the world. "When's the last time you slept through the night? When's the last time you ate a full meal without lookin' over your shoulder? You're a mess."

The worst part is, he's not wrong. You are a mess. Exhausted, paranoid, jumping at shadows. Your clothes hang loose on your frame, and you can't remember the last time you felt truly safe. Maybe you have been seeing things that aren't there. Maybe you have been building conspiracies out of coincidences.

"Come home with me," he says, and his voice has that gentle quality that used to soothe your nightmares. "We can talk about this properly. We can work through it. I can change."

For a moment—just a moment—you almost consider it. The thought of being safe, of not having to run anymore, of sleeping in a real bed and eating regular meals is so tempting it makes your chest ache. You're so tired of being afraid, so tired of being alone.

But then you remember the app. You remember the bracelet tracker. You remember the way he answered for you, spoke for you, made decisions for you without ever asking what you wanted.

"You're doing it again," you say quietly.

"What?"

"Making me doubt myself. Making me think I'm crazy for wanting to make my own choices." Your voice is getting stronger now, more certain. "This is what you do—you make me question my own reality until I don't trust my own perceptions."

"What perceptions?" His mask is slipping now, frustration bleeding through the careful control. "You call this a choice? Livin' like a fugitive? Sleepin' in your car? Eatin' one meal a day because you're too paranoid to stay in one place long enough for a proper sit-down dinner?"

"Yes," you say, and your voice is stronger now than it's been in months. "Because they're my choices to make. My mistakes to learn from. My life to live."

Something in Simon's expression shifts. The careful control he's maintained throughout this conversation starts to crack, and you see something raw and desperate underneath.

"Your choices," he repeats, and there's an edge to his voice now that makes your skin crawl. "Your choices nearly got you killed in that forest. Your choices have you lookin' like a skeleton. Your choices—"

"Are mine!" The words burst out of you, louder than you intended. The few other patrons in the diner turn to look, but you don't care anymore. "I don't need you to make them for me! I don't need you to protect me from myself!"

"Yes, you do!" He's shouting now, leaning across the table, and suddenly he's not boyfriend-Simon anymore. He's Lieutenant Riley, Task Force 141, a man accustomed to command and unquestioning obedience. "You've never been able to handle pressure, never been able to make hard decisions without fallin' apart! You panic, you freeze up, you make everything worse!"

Other patrons are definitely staring now, some looking concerned, others annoyed by the disturbance. But Simon doesn't seem to care anymore. His composure is unraveling in real time, and you're getting a glimpse of what he's really like when his control is threatened.

"Look at yourself," he continues, voice harsh with frustration. "Look what your choices have done to you. You're barely functioning. You need me."

"No," you say, and the word comes out steadier than you feel. "I needed to learn how to function without you. And I'm learning."

"This isn't functinin'!" He gestures at you, at your hollow cheeks and tired eyes. "This is survivin', barely. This is—"

"This is my choice," you interrupt. "Even if it's the wrong choice, it's mine to make."

And that's when you see it—the exact moment something breaks in Simon completely.

His face crumbles, but not in the way of someone who knows how to be vulnerable. It's angry and desperate and confused all at once, like a child throwing a tantrum because someone took away his favorite toy. He's never learned how to process these emotions, never learned what to do when control fails completely.

"No," he says, and his voice cracks. "No, you don't get to—you can't just—" He's struggling for words, his hands clenching and unclenching on the table. "I did everything for you! Everything!"

"You did everything to me," you correct quietly.

"That's not—" He stands abruptly, the booth seat scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. "You're wrong. You're wrong about all of it."

But even as he denies it, you can see the truth in his eyes. The careful facade is gone, stripped away by desperation and rage, and underneath is exactly what you suspected—a man who sees you as a possession, a problem to be solved, a variable to be controlled.

"I know you still love me," he says suddenly, desperately, playing his last card. "I can see it in your eyes. You can't just turn that off."

And the terrible thing is, he's right. Even now, even with everything you know, part of you still loves him. The part that remembers his gentle hands and protective arms, the way he made you feel cherished and special. Love doesn't die easily, even when it should.

Tears start sliding down your cheeks—when did you start crying? You don't even realize you're doing it until Simon's expression changes, becomes almost confused.

"You're cryin'," he says, as if this means something, as if tears are proof of surrender.

"So?" You wipe your face with the back of your hand, but the tears keep coming. "I'm allowed to be sad about this. I'm allowed to grieve what I thought we had."

"If you're sad, then why—" He stops, stares at you like he's never seen you before. This woman who can cry and stand firm at the same time, who can love him and leave him in the same breath. It doesn't compute with his understanding of how you work, how you're supposed to respond.

"Because love isn't enough," you say through the tears. "Not when it feels like drowning. Not when it means losing myself completely."

The words seem to hit him like physical blows. His face cycles through emotions too quickly to track—denial, anger, desperation, something that might be genuine grief.

"I never asked you to lose yourself," he says, but his voice lacks conviction.

"You didn't have to ask. You just... took. Little pieces at a time until there was nothing left of me that wasn't shaped by what you wanted me to be."

Simon's hand moves to his jacket, and your body goes cold as you see the outline of something concealed there. A weapon. Of course he's armed—he's always armed. But this is the first time he's ever let you see it, the first time the implicit threat has become explicit.

"Even if you're right," you say, meeting his eyes despite the fear clawing at your throat, "even if I am making the wrong choice—I still get to make it."

The moment stretches between you, taut as a wire. Simon's hand hovers over whatever he's carrying, and you can see the war happening in his expression—love and fury and desperation all battling for control.

But then, slowly, his hand falls to his side.

"You have no idea what you're doin'," he says, and his voice is broken now, smaller than you've ever heard it. "No idea what's waitin' for you out there."

"I know." You stand up, leaving money on the table with hands that only shake a little. "But I'd rather face the unknown than live in a beautiful cage."

You walk toward the door, your legs unsteady but your steps determined. Behind you, you hear Simon's voice, smaller and more desperate than you've ever heard it:

"Please."

The word stops you at the door, not because it changes anything, but because it's the first time he's ever asked instead of demanded. You pause, not turning around.

"I hope you find peace, Simon," you say without looking back. "Real peace. Not the kind that comes from controlling other people."

The bell chimes as you step into the afternoon sunlight. The air is crisp with autumn, and you breathe it in deeply, filling your lungs with freedom. Your chest is tight with grief and fear and something that might be hope.

You walk two blocks before you stop at a payphone outside an old gas station. Your hands shake as you dig change from your pocket. You've been carrying her number in your head for weeks now, afraid to call, afraid that Simon's control had extended even to this.

The phone rings three times before a familiar voice answers.

"Hello?"

"Sarah?" Your voice cracks around her name, three weeks of isolation and fear breaking open at the sound of her voice.

Silence. Then: "Oh my God. Oh my God, is that really you?"

You close your eyes, leaning against the phone booth for support. "Yeah. It's me."

"Where are you? Are you okay? I've been so worried—I tried calling but your number was disconnected, and when I came by the house, Simon said you were traveling for work and couldn't be reached, but something felt wrong about the way he said it, and I've been trying to find you for weeks—"

"Sarah." You interrupt her gently, smiling through your tears at the familiar sound of her rambling when she's upset. "Can I... can I come see you?"

Another pause. When she speaks again, her voice is thick with tears. "Of course. Of course you can. I'm still in the same apartment. Do you remember how to get here?"

You do remember. Sarah's little apartment across town, with its mismatched furniture and plants in every window. The place that always smelled like coffee and vanilla candles, where you used to go when you needed to feel human again.

"I'll find it," you say. "I might... I might need somewhere to stay for a while. If that's okay."

"It's more than okay," she says immediately. "It's perfect. I'll make up the couch, and we can order pizza, and you can tell me everything when you're ready. Or not tell me. Whatever you need."

The unconditional acceptance in her voice nearly breaks you. When was the last time someone offered you something without expecting anything in return?

"I'll be there soon," you promise.

"I'll be right here waiting," she says. "I'll leave the porch light on."

You hang up and stand there for a moment, listening to the ordinary sounds of the world around you. Cars passing. A dog barking somewhere. The hum of the gas station's neon sign.

Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

You start walking, and for the first time in weeks, you're not running from something. You're walking toward something. Toward someone who knew you before Simon, who will help you remember who you were before all of this happened.

The walk to Sarah's apartment takes forty-seven minutes. You count every step, partly because counting helps keep the panic at bay, and partly because you want to remember this—the feeling of choosing your own direction, of walking toward safety instead of running from danger.

Sarah's building comes into view just as the sun is setting, golden light spilling across the brick facade. The porch light is on, just like she promised, and you can see her silhouette in the window, watching for you.

She meets you at the door before you can even knock, pulling you into a hug that smells like home and safety and all the things you forgot you missed. You break down completely then, months of suppressed fear and loneliness pouring out in ugly, gasping sobs.

"It's okay," Sarah whispers, rubbing your back like she used to when you were kids and you'd had another fight with your parents. "You're safe now. You're home."

Home. The word feels foreign and precious at the same time.

Later, much later, you're curled up on Sarah's couch with a cup of tea and a blanket that smells like fabric softener instead of fear. You've told her everything—or at least, everything you can bear to say out loud. She listened without judgment, without trying to fix anything, just holding space for your pain.

"I'm proud of you," she says now, and the words hit you like a surprise. "For leaving. For surviving. For fighting back when you had to."

"I hurt someone," you say quietly. "That man in the forest. I cut his face."

"Good," Sarah says fiercely. "He was hunting you like an animal. You defended yourself."

The validation feels like a gift. For weeks, you've been carrying the weight of that violence, wondering if it made you as bad as them. But Sarah's acceptance helps you see it for what it was—survival.

"What happens now?" you ask.

Sarah considers this. "Now you heal. Now you figure out who you are when you're not afraid. Now you live."

You nod, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. The road ahead is still uncertain, full of challenges you can't predict and dangers you don't know how to face yet. But they're yours to face. And maybe, just maybe, you won't have to face them alone.

Outside, the world continues its ancient rhythm. Cars pass by. A siren wails in the distance. Somewhere, Simon is probably still sitting in that diner, staring at the silver bracelet you left behind, trying to understand how his perfectly controlled situation slipped through his fingers.

But that's his problem now, not yours.

You close your eyes and listen to the ordinary sounds of safety—Sarah moving around in the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a television from the apartment upstairs. Normal sounds. Human sounds.

Maybe you shouldn't have dated Simon.

All banners by @cafekitsune

[janmisali]

now, for the previously mentioned unanswered question. (even though this will be above that mention because of the way asks are ordered):

I have one MAJOR disagreement with your spelling reform video. And that is the idea that it would make more sense to break the orthographic relationship between short vowels and their historical long counterparts (like drEss and flEEce). The ONLY people it would benefit are ESL speakers who are generally NOT the intended audience for English spelling reforms. And even if they were, I don't think it'd really help that much because the sounds ARE actually related. BIT is still more related to BITE than it is to BEET, even if it sounds more like the latter and imo, it's very shortsighted(?) no, that's not the word. I guess if there's a word for the kind of mentality that misses the forest for the trees, that'd be it. It'd be reckless to not have a clear orthographic relationship between nation and national. It's the sort of proposition only a liguist would make because they're looking on a purely audio level and not at the patterns.

I also have a small gripe with your example of "phlegm" because you kinda glossed over the ph sounding like an f and never in my life have I actually heard someone pronounce the g in phlegmatic. I do, however agree that ghoschi is WAY better than ghoti.

so did you have a question or like

[vampicarus]

“I've grown used to fear

But no, not to you yet, my dear.”

or, alternatively, that moment when you are so in love with your future self that it scares you but that doesn’t matter cause he’s kissing you now :p

I don’t fucking know what possessed me. one day I’m drawing stickers, the next I’m making these gayasses kiss. whatever.

anyways! Have some doodles of these two.

Aaaand the speedpaint, for those interested! This piece was very fun to work on. But! I’ve gotta get some shit done for CJ’s Be Born day, so! I better get back to cooking lol

[dingodad]

whats ur take on the "mage" = "you must suffer" thing. i always thought that was kind of goofy given that sburb is as hostile to play as it is but im curious what you think

i don't keep up with anyone else's classpect analysis and in my own analysis i tend to treat it more as mutable ink blots that can be interpreted and reinterpreted based on the situation so i guess i don't necessarily have a take on it. while i wouldnt necessarily use the word "hostile" for sburb i certainly agree it is a little bizarre to claim that any one type of character in a dramatic medium is "the sufferer". i mean ESPECIALLY since there is literally a character called the sufferer in the comic, who is a seer, unless this is an inversion thing, which i do not care for,

[bigthingsforeverintheworks]

my therapist told me i have too much nuance & can't see the whole picture even if i say things that sound smart and are kind of right

[timmydraker]

I made myself sad thinking about Tim being alone at his home when growing up and only having someone to talk to when he went to school and so I decided to make him a cat but because it’s Tim it’s not going to be that simple:

Instead:

Imagine Tim who accidently gets a witches familiar.

It starts when he’s six and his parents flight was delayed so he decides to use the extra time to go find some wild flowers in the backyard forest to bring them. He doesn’t know the space very well but he knows enough to make sure he can always see the manner he lives in and keeps a torch and a few snacks with him just in case.

When he first sees the shadow like figure in the corner of his eye the little boy freaks out but manages to calm down enough to take the dozen flowers he had and start heading back. He feels something watching him all the way home and that night when he looks out his window Dow he swears he see more movement.

He swears to leave it be because lords knows he’s too young to be dealing with ghost and monsters.

But there’s one problem that will never change in regards to Tim Drake: he’s too curious.

Once his parents leave again Tim is back on the border of the forest and calls out a cautious ‘hello?’ Into the small kingdom of trees.

Nothing happens and so the next time he brings an offering in the form of a pile of nuts, a pair of his mums earrings she had thrown in the bin because they were apparently unsightly after the turn of the century, as well as a marshmallow from his very secret and special stash.

The next day he found a four holed button the colour of one of the Aster flowers he had given his parents when he first felt the presence.

He made it into a bracelet and wore it proudly for the next few days before his dad made him take it off before a gala.

Luckily the thing in the forest didn’t seem to take offence and instead he found the charm he had left on his desk safely hanging from his window sill without his input.

Tim brought several gifts for his new mysterious friend, mainly marshmallows and bits of his mums jewlery she was didn’t wear anymore.

Whenever he left nuts or any other kind of food it was never moved, even other sweets and treats stayed where he left them.

It’s a year after this little tradition starts that Tim actually sees the presence that he had been calling ‘Curious’.

It’s from a distance as he’s going through photos of Batman on his window sill, legs tucked up and back pressed against the wooden frame that brackets the window. He looks up periodically to the small pile of marshmallows he’s left on a plate just where the woods start, waiting for them to suddenly vanish before he goes to bed, when he looks up and sees it.

It’s tall, as tall as the trees and cloaked in shadows and darkness, so much so it’d be impossible to miss even if the light of his room wasn’t shining out towards it.

Tim gasps silently but doesn’t look away or feel fear, because something in him just knows that this is his friend. This is Curious.

Instead he finds himself smiling, possibly beaming at the animated dark before him.

Curious doesn’t smile back or wave or anything and yet Tim can feel a relief and happiness that’s second to his own and yet feels like it’s his.

When Tim blinks the shadows have reached out to lift the marshmallows into its veil like form, long fingers that seem twice the amount of a humans curl like spider legs around the surgery sweets and then they are lost in the dark of its form.

Tim goes to sleep that night with excitement and hope in his heart, a burning curiosity in his heart as hundreds of questions and theories rattle his brain, but it’s all unimportant compared to the fact that he has a friend at home.

He has someone to, in a way, live with.

The next morning he wakes to his alarm and a heavy weight on his chest.

Tim opens his eyes to see a fluffy monstrosity of a cat, big golden eyes hidden in light brown and grey fur staring at him with so much knowing and understanding. It’s more than even Ives shows him when Tim brushes off questions about his parents.

He knows just as he did the night before that this is Curious.

His Curious.

He cautiously reached a hand to pat the fur and watches his hand disappear into the soft fur like its quicksand. When a loud purr, slightly echoing like its not quite real, rumbles through the little body Tim beams again and squeezes the feline shape as close as he can.

Curious doesn’t leave Tim’s side very often, only when Tim goes bathroom does he give him space. When Tim starts training to be Robin Curious shifts his body into Tim’s shadow so he can follow without having to deal with Batman’s security rules.

Curious follows Tim when he goes to train with Shiva, when he goes to space with his team, when he goes on his trip around the world to save Bruce, but it’s painful for the little familiar because Tim isn’t actually a witch.

Which means there is no power for Curious to draw from and so it’s unable to help at all.

It can change its form but the only physical contact it can make is with its master, it can’t fight with Tim or defend him when he needs it.

And yet Tim doesn’t mind.

While Curious feels like a failure for being unable to do anything for his master, Tim rewards it all the time. Constantly is he giving it new necklaces for its cat shape and marshmallows when they stay guard all night while he sleeps.

In the face of such powerlessness, Curious vows to find ways to help its Tim.

So, it’s a sentry of a sort. No one can sneak up on Tim Drake or Red Robin, because he will always just know that someone is there. No one ever suspects that it’s his weirdly attached cat or his own shadow alerting him with a soul like connection.

Everyone in the family knows that Tim has a cat, because one time Damian got all mopey at dinner and complained that the stray cat he found around the manner lawns wasn’t being his friend no matter what he did.

He ranted about how he brought it food and water and toys but the unnaturally fluffy cat would just stare at him before running off.

When Tim realises that he means Curious he snorts, making Damian glare at him and demand to know what he finds so funny.

Tim simply makes a ‘sst’ like sound twice and suddenly the big cat his waltzing out from under the table and into Tim’s lap.

Damian is furious but mostly embarrassed, acting like he’s upset that Tim didn’t tell him he had a cat when instead he’s upset that he befriended a cat Damian couldn’t.

Tim explains that Curious has been his cat for years and doesn’t like anyone else, so not to take it personally, and when they ask what the gender is Tim reply’s cryptically, “it doesn’t like gender.”

No one knows what to say to that as Tim leaves the room with the cat in his arms, but they all witness the cat lean over his shoulder and lick a long black tendril over his own face.

Bruce nearly sprains something with how quickly he stands up.

[luckyladylily]

So like, transandrophobia.

To start this out, I am a trans woman, been around in the queer community for a while. I'm also bisexuality, polyamorous, disabled, and aromantic, and I think these other parts of my identity and the crap I've caught over the years for them heavily informs how I analyze something like transandrophobia. My wife is also asexual, so that plays a part in it too.

So every group of marginalized people has their own unique experiences and problems. It's more of a rule than something we've mathematically demonstrated, but as far as these things go it's ridiculously well established, and personally every time I've done even a basic dive into the issues faced by a marginalized group it's been self evident. I could easily list a dozen groups ranging from racial minorities to different kinds of disabled people to different queer identities and analyze their social issues but let's be real, this is pretty well established theory, anyone who needs me to do that is not really interacting with good faith. This is one of the big reasons we talk to people about their own experiences and groups, we cannot reasonably extrapolate the experiences of others from our own.

So like trans men and trans mascs and anyone else that falls under that umbrella has their unique experiences. The idea that we would even question this is weird to me? Like I can't even imagine the kind of evidence someone would need to present to me to change my mind, and given the pattern of the queer community to be shitty in exactly this way to people in our community, yeah that is not happening.

Therefore, we are taking it for granted that the trans men/masc/related umbrella has their own things going on like everyone else ever, and I don't understand how someone acting in good faith can try to claim otherwise unless they are young or otherwise very inexperienced with such things.

The next point of contention seems to be the name, and I gotta be real I don't care and I don't understand why other people do. I've read all sorts of arguments against the word transandrophobia and the majority of them seem to be rooted in a misunderstanding of intersectionality, and even then it's like there is such a thing where people get so mired in theory that they miss the forest for the trees.

Perhaps more important to me, getting overly worked up about something as unimportant as the precise term is... weird. Like exclusionists hating on bi and ace people weird. I remember what it was like a decade ago when exclusionists were trying to police the words of bi women, and five years ago when ace and aro people were under constant attack under the pretense that our language was harmful for some reason or other. You are going to have to work very, very, very hard to convince me that any bickering over language as it relates to transandrophobia is not just more of the same.

Next, "transandrobros hate trans femmes" and similar stuff. I've seen the callout posts and found them completely unconvincing. Again, they read a lot like the old "ace people hate lesbians!" posts I used to see. I'm not convinced that the individuals involved were a problem, I am certainly not able to extrapolate a problem to the rest of the group.

Finally, there is this idea that "maleness is not a vector for oppression" and this invalidates something about the whole transandrophobia thing, ranging from the entire concept of trans men experiencing prejudice to something about language being imprecise all the way to "This is fascist shit, omg these people are basically nazis" depending on who says it. I'm not going to touch any of that and just look at the underlying logic.

This is based off a misunderstanding of intersectionality theory. Many people think of intersectionality as defining intersecting prejudice, like a ven diagram, such that transmisogyny is the intersection of transphobia and misogyny. This is incorrect. Intersectionality defines unique prejudice experienced by people with intersecting identities. Instead of a transmisogyny as the overlap of transphobia and misogyny, imagine adding a third circle that overlaps both but also has its own areas covered by neither.

Applied to transandrophobia, even if we assume maleness is not a vector for oppression, there is no reason to assume that the intersection of maleness with a marginalized identity doesn't result in new issues. Imagine that 3 circle venn diagram that represents misogyny, transphobia, and transmisogyny. Even if you remove the misogyny circle there is still plenty of ground covered by the transmisogyny circle.

This just isn't a valid criticism. It is a pure theory approach based on a flawed reading of theory.

So in summary:

Everyone has their unique shit going on and I've seen no convincing evidence that trans men, mascs, etc. Are the exception.

I not seen any convincing argument that the word itself is bad.

I've not seen any convincing evidence that there is some epidemic of transandrophobia truthers hating and harassing trans femmes on scales higher than normal background queer infighting.

The most coherent objection to transandrophobia I've seen is categorically incorrect and based on a fundamental misunderstanding of intersectionality theory.

I would like to remind everyone at this point I am a trans woman, part of the group that is supposedly a problem for and I've just not see it at all, to the point where it is kind of weird how intensely some people are pushing this.

I'm not trying to be mean or whatever, I'm sure the distress on display here comes from a real place and real trauma, but I've yet to see anything that makes me think there is substance to the objections to transandrophobia as a concept. It feels and reads like the latest round of queer intracommunity exclusionism, and the fact that this time around I'm not one of the target identities doesn't change that for me.

[thydungeongal]

D&D as a "queer game" is extremely recent historically. I often see people pointing at D&D in the 70s as evidence for D&D not being queer, but like I feel that is missing the forest for the trees. Sure, the creators of D&D made it for a very specific crowd that very much did not include queer people, but that was also the norm for D&D until very recently.

And to be clear I don't think even the latest edition of D&D is meaningfully clear, but it's literally the first edition of the game that acknowledges queer people the existence of queer people openly and positively, instead of in passive mention or as monstrous caricatures. When people say "D&D was always queer" they're either talking about their personal experience divorced from the game as a text (which I don't think makes for meaningful conversation: at that point any game is queer) or literally just talking about the most recent edition and somehow letting that color the whole history of the game.

When people say "D&D was always queer" that's of course an obvious lie. But it wasn't just a brief moment in the 70s when D&D was "not queer." It has been so for pretty much all of its history and as such has lagged much behind other games. And ultimately it still isn't really a queer game unless you consider stories of killing dragons with swords where the elves are sometimes gay meaningfully queer narratives (I don't).

And you know what: it's 100% okay to enjoy D&D, the game that is not queer, as a medium for telling stories that might be queer. But also it would kind of kick ass if you looked at games written by queer people which actually center queer experiences. Or if you still just want to play a dungeon game you could play a dungeon game made by a cool trans woman who's gay.

[beloveds-embrace]

Angst duke au where reader ends up running away on her own accord. She’s got a wild spirit on the inside and it can’t be contained any longer. They already pay her no attention, nobody notices she’s left until half a month passes.

She finds a small, small village eventually and lives a cottagecore life collecting mushrooms and being showered in attention by a fellow villager (König) that spoils her rotten

Dukedom au masterlist

It happens without ceremony, just as quietly as you’ve lived these past months. You’ve given it enough thought to know this is what you want, but not so much as to paralyze yourself with doubt. There’s nothing left for you here- no affection, no companionship, no purpose. You’ve tried everything, haven’t you? Every word unsaid, every gesture rebuffed, every quiet hope dashed. If there’s nothing here but loneliness, then it’s time to seek something else. If you stay here any longer, you know you will rot away, unloved and unwanted.

And so, you leave with only a satchel. A plain cloak, a coin pouch, and a few essentials- the duchy’s wealth was never truly yours, and you feel no guilt leaving it behind. The manor is dark when you pass through its cold halls one last time, its silence now strangely soothing.

No one stirs as you open one of the less used back doors, no one watches as you step out into the cool night air. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you make your way down the long road leading away from the estate, and you don’t look back. Not once.

You don’t keep track of how long you walk, only that the world seems to grow softer, warmer, with every step you take. You hadn’t even noticed how much life had been sucked out of you until you’ve left.

The grand estates and meticulous gardens of the duchy fade into rolling hills and dense forests. Villages dot the landscape here and there, but you don’t linger in any of them. You’re not looking for a crowd or a bustling town. You want quiet. Solitude. A place where you can breathe and exist without being watched or judged or resented.

It’s tiresome weeks before you find it: a tiny village nestled at the foot of a forest. It’s so small you almost miss it, hidden away among the trees and wildflowers, but when you step onto the dirt path leading into the cluster of cottages, you feel something you haven’t felt in years-

Peace.

The villagers are kind in a way that catches you off guard. They greet you with smiles even despite your messy appearance, not because they’re obligated to, but because they seem genuinely pleased to see you.

An older woman tuts at the state of you and offers you warm, fresh bread from her oven, sitting you down in her home. A farmer waves as you pass by. No one stares too long or whispers behind their hands. No one asks intrusive questions. It’s such a sharp contrast to the stifling scrutiny of the duchy, and it makes you realize how much you’ve craved this simplicity.

And so, you finally decide to stay.

You find work with the herbalist, a quiet, weathered man who doesn’t seem to mind your silence. He gives you tasks to complete- gathering herbs, organizing his jars- and pays you a small wage that’s enough to rent a modest little cottage at the edge of the woods. It’s a humble place with a thatched roof and a creaky wooden floor, but it feels like yours. It is yours.

You spend your mornings walking through the forest, learning which mushrooms are safe to pick and which plants have medicinal properties, books always ready to be cracked open, and your evenings curled up in front of the fire, your legs tucked beneath you as the light flickers across the walls. The herbalist and the old woman are friends, unsurprisingly for such a cozy village, and they tell you stories of their lives. Simple lives, yet so precious and fulfilling.

Your body, too, begins to change. The gaunt, hollow look you wore in the duchy fades as your cheeks fill out again, as your muscles grow stronger from the work. Your skin takes on a golden hue from the sun, and your eyes, once dull and lifeless, begin to sparkle with something new- contentment. The old woman even pats your cheeks, priding herself on constantly doing her best to fatten you up.

It’s a lovely life, you truly. And then something quite unexpected happens.

You meet König on one of your forest walks.

You had only heard of him- everyone told you he isn’t one to socialize much even if he is the forester of the village, simply does his job and prefers his solitude. Yet, you still end up meeting him.

He’s crouched among the trees, examining a patch of wildflowers when you almost stumble over him. You let out a startled yelp, and he rises so quickly you take a step back, craning your neck to meet his gaze. He’s huge- taller than any man you’ve ever met, even Duke Riley- with broad shoulders and an intensity that makes him seem more a part of the forest than a mere visitor.

Though perhaps, you think, that could be because of his work?

He speaks softly, his voice low, as he apologizes for startling you. His accent is unfamiliar, his words slightly awkward, as though he’s unused to speaking at all but you don’t mind.

You smile to reassure him, your heart still fluttering in your chest, and the way his blue eyes soften makes something inside you twist. How silly of you, such ridiculous thoughts.

König offers to walk you back to the village as an apology, insists on it, and though you’ve been perfectly fine on your own, you accept. There’s something… soothing about his presence, about the way he towers beside you but keeps a careful distance as if afraid to overwhelm you. When you part ways, you (dejectedly) think it’s the last you’ll see of him, but you’re wrong.

König starts appearing more and more often.

At first, it’s small things: helping you carry a heavy basket, pointing out a hidden patch of mushrooms you might have missed, but it quickly becomes clear to everyone except you that he’s seeking you out on purpose. He’s awkward about it, clearly unused to conversation, but he tries. And every time you see him, he brings something with him.

Never before have you had such attention dotted on you, and you… love it. You adore König, truly, and all the little gifts he brings with him.

A carved figurine of a fox, whittled from wood with painstaking care that you place on your bedside. A bundle of freshly picked berries, their juices staining his hands, a day after you told him you quite like berries. A bouquet of wildflowers that matches your favorites so perfectly you wonder if he’s been watching you.

If he is, you don’t mind.

Truthfully, you tell yourself it’s nothing at first. Just a kind villager being neighborly. But König doesn’t treat anyone else like this and even the herbalist and the old lady say so, hiding their smiles.

It’s only you who he looks at with those soft, steady eyes. Only you he lingers near, his massive frame somehow gentle as he helps you with whatever task you’re doing.

And so to no one’s surprise, over time, the relationship between you deepens into something far more precious and tender:

König listens to you in a way no one ever has. He hangs onto every word as if you’ve hung the stars, his gaze fixed on you as though you’re the most important thing in the world, in his world. He asks about your day, about your thoughts, and eventually, about your life; and when you tell him about the life you left behind, his jaw tightens, and his hands curl into fists. When they loosen, his hands hover for a few seconds before he gently cups your face, callouses thumbs rubbing the soft skin under your eyes.

“You deserve better,” he tells you, his voice quiet but firm. “I hope this… village gives you happiness.”

You don’t respond, but your heart aches with a feeling you can’t quite name. You give me happiness, König. More than anyone ever has.

He spoils you in ways you never thought possible, and gives you the steady, unwavering presence of someone who genuinely cares. It’s overwhelming at first, this constant, undivided attention, but you find yourself softening to it, leaning into it, _craving_ it.

For the first time in years, you feel seen. You feel wanted.

The life you’ve built here is nothing like the one you left behind. It’s smaller, quieter, but it’s yours. You wake each morning to the chirping of birds and fall asleep each night to the distant rustle of trees, and both times, you have warm and secure arms that wrap around you in the coziest embrace. Kisses trailing up the nape of your neck, a soft voice whispering vows of adoration into you skin.

The duchy, John, Kyle, Johnny, Simon- they feel like ghosts now, distant figures from a life that doesn’t belong to you anymore. You don’t know if they’ve noticed your absence, if they’ve felt the sting of your silence, but…

You don’t care. Let them wonder. Let them regret. You’ve found your freedom, your happiness, and you’re never looking back.

To be loved is to exist, and you understand that now.

[telltaletypist]

i think there is something to be said about the way a lot of popular western media (both within fiction and outside of it, now that i think about it) uses the pretense of nuance to obfuscate existing power dynamics.

the example i'm mulling over at the moment is netflix's Arcane, which depicts a pretty straightforward conflict between a brutally oppressive ruling class and an underclass that is out gunned, out manned, and lacks even the means to support its own population. despite this, the show takes a very even-handed "everybody's flawed" approach to how it portrays this conflict, one that seems to be increasingly popular in popular western media. this makes for a compelling story, the show takes the time to make sure we understand all the characters involved, their motivations, their flaws, their hopes, their dreams etc, but i think when people engage with that kind of narrative uncritically, they tend to miss the forest for the trees and get lost in pointless debates over which characters were more in the right or who's actions were more justified by their trauma etc. this kind of weightless, individualist approach seems to always lead to the same conclusion: that changing society is scary and traumatic and everybody is too flawed to be trusted with leading such a shift. how convenient that this always seems to benefit those already in power.

i'm thinking about this in regards to the reactions to the latest developments in the story of Arcane, which sees caitlyn supporting a military dictatorship, in part as a response to the trauma of losing her mother in jinx's terror attack. the reactions are pretty typical fandom discourse about whether or not her actions are understandable given what she's going through as a character, but what no one seems to be considering is that she's only able to undergo this change in the first place because of her class position, not just as a member of the wealthy elite of the overcity, but also as a respected member of the overcity's law enforcement. see, while the individual characters involved might be complex, the moral dimensions of the overall conflict really are not. one side has all the power and resources, as well as a vested interest in keeping the other side subjugated to maintain its dominant status quo. just because the dominant side is populated primarily with skinny attractive people a who're shown to be doing their best with the situation and the other are mostly grotesque caricatures of poverty stricken degenerates doesn't mean this is a difficult choice.

it remains to be seen how the actual show will play out, but i can't help but see it as continuing a trend of what i can only describe as a kind of smug liberal nihilism, crafting a brutal class conflict only to revel in the horrific spectacle of it all, basking in the complex moral greyness of its protagonists, uninterested in taking an actual stance. there's a point when nuance becomes a form of cowardice, imo

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ sometimes it’s nice to love an easy thing.

older!wnba!paige x older!wnba!azzi. men & minors dni.

synopsis: when basketball stars azzi fudd and paige bueckers, former best friends who drifted apart in the blur of fame and time, accidentally double-book the same coastal retreat, three years of missed connection dissolves into a week of devastating intimacy.

cw: implied burnout, no other warnings apply.

notes: just wrote something sweet and soft to release before i go home. this isn't edited, but i will come back later tonight to refine it. i hope you enjoy it anyway, and as always, feel free to let me know your thoughts in my inbox. i love you all so much. x

the idea was to be alone.

azzi had booked the airbnb on a whim, the way those who claimed to be only “comfortable” did when they became tired of being themselves. she was drained from the exhaustive labor of being one of america's most famous athletic names, a title she'd worked for and earned, but one that sat on her shoulders now like a sweater that didn't quite fit anymore.

the last straw was the drink deal she had to film a campaign for. she'd felt lifeless, listing between the bright plastic smile as she harped off the list of nutritional benefits for someone's rich cousin's kombucha that came in beautiful bottles and threatened to expand your “spiritual silo.” the studio had been all white walls and ring lights, the kind of sterile brightness that made everything feel like the inside of a surrealist art sketch. 

as soon as the cameras had dropped, azzi's smile had dimmed, her wrists chirping like birds as her slew of cartier bracelets fell over one another and further down her arm. her personal assistant, a wonderful woman by the name of may, with a face that reminded her of someone else's memory of old hollywood glamour, had taken one look at her and booked a much-needed east coast holiday.

and now, azzi was driving her vintage land rover defender with the top down, tumbling along coastal roads at a speed that wasn't recommended but felt slower than the way she'd been living. the car was a deep forest green, the same as her long-sleeved shirt, as if it were constantly thinking of running off the road and becoming one of the trees. she had chosen to arrive in deceitful simplicity—everything she wore was at least a triple-figure price—and wrapped herself in solid colors and simple prints for her last-minute escape. still chic, still denoting her rank in life.

her curls were darker now, painstakingly maintained as she approached the end of her twenties, and streaked through with six-hundred-dollar highlights she felt did nothing for her face. just before she’d left the house, she’d pulled half of them up and away, then stuck her vintage, oversized chloé sunglasses into the mass and called it a day. she was sleek enough in other ways for it to be seen as an elle beauty section archetype, rather than being on the brink of losing her mind.

the leather weekender in her passenger seat was overstuffed, a week's worth of clothing thrown together in that careless way that only worked when everything you owned was beautiful. linen pants and silk camisoles, cotton sweaters soft as skin, all of it chosen by someone else, all of it perfectly her and not her at all. but this is who she was now; she had to come to terms at some point.

oceanic air whipped through the open car, carrying the promise of something she was unable to name. whatever it was, it was making her eyes sting. this was supposed to be healing, this week by the ocean. this was supposed to fix whatever had broken inside her during all those months of smiling for larger-than-life cameras and staging a rather convincing performance of enjoying her own life.

the house appeared through a break in the salt-heavy trees like something from a dream she'd had but never remembered fully. blue-gray shingles weathered to perfection, white trim catching the late afternoon light, an arched doorway that opened onto nothing but ocean beyond. it looked expensive in the way that most old money things did: effortless, delicately unpretentious, the kind of beauty that was careful to refrain from announcing itself because it didn't need to.

azzi pulled into the crushed shell driveway and cut the engine. the silence that followed felt different from the city quiet she was used to. not empty, but full. full of bird calls that were charming now but would annoy her later, and the distant crash of waves. the last time she’d been on this side of things was her college years. the thought made her chest tighten in a way she refused to indulge in.

she was reaching for her phone to text may and her parents that she'd arrived safely when she saw them: a pair of simple, lilac sneakers by the front door. not hers. too big. too clean. definitely not a color she would choose, but still—they felt more familiar than anything she owned.

her mouth twitched at the corners, moving neither up nor down but still indicative of her surprise.

again, the idea was to be alone. so the idea of sharing a home with a woman she hadn't spoken to in three years was not the ideal vacation.

there was no grief between them. that didn’t make it less hard. 

things had gotten busy, things had fallen off. time had been too quick, and now azzi was looking at the figure who had slipped through the cracks in the rearview mirror of her life.

the screen door opened before azzi could decide whether to get out of the car or reverse back down the driveway and pretend this was all some horrible cosmic design. the kind of relaxed mistake that only felt good to people who believed in fate, which azzi had stopped doing somewhere between twenty-five and now.

paige bueckers emerged like she belonged there, like she'd been expecting this moment for years. she was wearing cargo shorts that should have looked ridiculous but didn't, a faded cotton tee that had seen better days paired with an oversized dallas hoodie that hung loose on her willowy frame, her blonde hair pulled back in that messy bun that had always made azzi's fingers itch to fix it. 

her face was the same collection of angles and softness that had haunted azzi's peripheral vision for three years, such a sharp jaw and strong blue eyes that called back to a particular brand of american beauty that seemed as though it should be on a cereal box but had somehow transcended it.

she looked the same. she looked completely different. she looked like coming home and like a stranger all at once.

they stared at each other across the space between the car and the house, two women who had once known each other's breathing patterns, now separated by several feet and time and emotionally blank holiday messages.

paige's mouth opened, closed. her hands hung at her sides like she didn't know what to do with them.

paige bueckers was the greatest in many things: basketball, philanthropy, even a brief stint in fashion, to azzi's surprise, and whatever else she decided to pick up casually. but most importantly, she was the greatest (and arguably only) love of azzi's life.

there hadn't been a formal friendship breakup. just a quiet erosion, which had been more devastating than if they had mutually decided to call it quits. there was no fall, no fracture. only time, distance, the blur of planes and press cycles and everything but them.

azzi turned off the ignition and sat there for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel, watching paige watch her through the windshield. she hoped she looked beautiful and bothered. something to procure an appropriate level of emotion reserved for unexpected, grief-tinged collisions. 

the late afternoon light caught in paige's hair, turning it golden at the edges and drawing azzi’s dark eyes to the state of her roots, and for a second azzi was twenty-two again, watching paige laugh at something stupid on her phone in a hotel room in phoenix, thinking this was it, this was what happiness looked like.

but she was tired now, bone-deep tired in a way that made everything feel both urgent and inevitable. so she opened the car door and stood, smoothing her hands down her jeans, and gave paige the softest, most tired smile she could manage.

“hey, p.”

the nickname fell from her lips like muscle memory, like breathing. paige's face cracked open, warped by surprise, then an open relief, before settling on something that looked dangerously close to joy.

“azzi,” paige said, and her voice carried across the space between them because america’s favorite cool girl had never learned to be anything but herself. “fuck, i—”

but she was already moving, crossing the driveway in quick strides, and before azzi could think about it, paige's arms were around her, pulling her into a hug that felt like coming up for air after being underwater for an indeterminate amount of time.

azzi breathed her in without meaning to. in her defense, it was instinct formed from the other times she’d been held like this. paige permeated azzi’s body in every sense of the word, skin thick with vanilla and something warm and spicy, the same scent that used to linger on their pillowcases, the same perfume that had haunted department stores for months after they'd stopped talking. 

paige still smelled like home, like safety, like all the things azzi had convinced herself she could live without.

her weekender bag slipped from her shoulder, landing with a soft thud on the shells. neither of them moved to pick it up.

god, azzi thought, her face pressed into the crook of paige's neck, the norman fucking rockwell of it all.

when she pulled back, she found her face was wet.

the house was smaller inside than it looked from the driveway, but it was still a structural force of soft, off-white walls and bleached wood floors that creaked in the particular way that older homes did. her mother would like this, azzi thought, and she made a note to recommend it to her father for their next anniversary.

paige led her through rooms that smelled faintly of lemon oil and sodium, past windows that framed the ocean like paintings in a self-erected museum. azzi looked away from the hazy, blue smear of ocean and horizon and tuned back into paige’s predictable nervous rambling. she watched as the other woman twisted her thick, silver rings around her fingers as she tried to justify why she was walking alongside her former best friend—newly burst in.

well, she hadn’t burst. she hadn’t even snuck in really. there had always been an open space. 

“the company says that their website glitched, and they accidentally overbooked. i can—”

azzi looked up, tilting her head to better catch paige’s eye, a perfectly plucked eyebrow raising with amusement.

“i promise you it’s fine, paige. i’m not going to contract some sort of disease from sharing a house with you for a week.”

“no, i know,” paige responded. “and it’s not like i have a problem being here with you either, i just—if you did feel uncomfortable, i would want you to feel like you could tell me. i know if i were shackled up with some random who wasn’t supposed to be here, especially given what i did, i would not stop until—”

“but paige,” azzi interrupted, “you aren’t random. and you haven’t done anything to me.”

paige stopped then, her face jerking oddly as if she was unsure of whether azzi meant it or was leading her on. azzi kept their eyes locked, brown on blue, earth on sky. 

everything really was fine. which meant there was nothing more to say. 

paige tugged nervously at a thin leather band around her wrist, and azzi felt her throat close for a brief moment. she’d bought her that during a shared family christmas in nashville. she wasn’t sure what touched her more: the idea that paige had never gotten rid of it, or the fact that she deemed it important enough to wear in her everyday life.

“so,” paige said, stopping in front of a closed door, her hand hovering over the handle. “there's kind of a situation.”

azzi’s brow furrowed, her hands still wrapped along the top of her weekender as if to arm herself against a hidden onslaught. 

“the other bedrooms are closed off for renovations or something. the listing said it was a one-bedroom setup.” paige's cheeks went pink in that way they always were when she was embarrassed. “i can sleep on the couch, obviously, it's not—”

“paige.” azzi's voice was softer than she'd intended. “it's fine.”

the bedroom was beautiful in an understated coastal way: white linens, pale blue walls, french doors that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the water. there was one king bed, rumpled on one side where paige had clearly been sleeping, and a dresser with drawers half-open, spilling paige's clothes like loose secrets.

“they have extra sheets,” paige said suddenly, moving toward a closet with a new rush of nervous energy. “they left a list of inventory for the house in a binder, along with the wi-fi and stuff. i know you like to change them when you stay. to feel clean. ‘s not a big deal f’me to change them.”

azzi smiled then, small but genuine. finally, paige had let go of that ridiculously polite tone of voice and was speaking as she always had.

“there you are,” azzi said. “i thought maybe you had been body snatched. didn’t hear a single ‘bro’ in the first five minutes of you talking.”

paige laughed, her face lighting up with what azzi knew to be relief. “sorry, you just look a little different. didn’t know if i needed to be too.”

azzi let her bag hit the floor gently. “i always liked you as you were.”

the words hung in the air between them, heavy with the weight of being known. azzi's chest seemed to shrink as she turned back to the bed. three years of barely-there connection, and paige still remembered something so small, so specific to her particular anxieties about unfamiliar spaces.

“thank you,” azzi said quietly. “for thinking of me.”

they made the bed together without talking about it. paige stripped the old sheets with efficient movements while azzi unpacked the crisp white ones from their packaging, and then they were on opposite sides of the mattress, tucking corners with the kind of synchronized precision that came from muscle memory.

when paige reached across to smooth a wrinkle near azzi's side, their hands brushed. neither of them pulled away immediately.

paige opened the top drawer of the dresser, pushed her own things to one side, and gestured for azzi to fill the empty space. it was such a small thing, making room, but azzi's throat went tight watching paige's fingers carefully arrange her t-shirts to give azzi half the drawer.

“we should probably get groceries,” paige said when azzi had finished unpacking, her voice too bright. “there's literally nothing here except, like, stale crackers and some whiteclaws i bought.”

“whiteclaws?” azzi repeated, her voice swollen with disbelief. “you are almost thirty.”

“almost being the key word,” paige said, already walking down the hall. “besides, if it tastes good, imma buy it.”

azzi covered her mouth, forcefully keeping the rising laugh behind her teeth.

the land rover felt different with paige in the passenger seat. smaller, charged with the particular tension of two people trying very hard to act normal. paige had changed into a bamboo-thread button-down and swapped her lilac sneakers for white converse. she slunk down in the passenger seat, her legs widening as she got comfortable, and the image of it made azzi grip the steering wheel a little tighter.

the road wound through pine trees and past houses that got progressively smaller as they drove inland, away from the mostly empty, marine estates and toward something more lived-in. paige had rolled her window down, and the wind whipped her blonde hair around her face as she talked, a curtain made white by the mouth of the sun.

“—and then the whole team got food poisoning from this sushi place in dallas, which was honestly hilarious in retrospect, but at the time i thought coach was going to literally murder us. oh, and did you know that jana is engaged to someone now? this guy from her job. he’s pretty chill but—"

“p.” azzi's voice cut through the stream of words, gentle but firm. “one thing at a time.”

paige blinked, her mouth still half-open on whatever she'd been about to say next. “sorry. i'm being—sorry.”

“you're nervous,” azzi said, glancing at her before turning her attention back to the road. “it's okay. i'm nervous too.”

the admission seemed to deflate some of the tension in the car. paige slumped back in her seat, no longer talking at breakneck speed.

“it's weird, right?” paige said finally. “being here. together.”

“yeah,” azzi agreed. “it's weird. and i wish it wasn’t.”

but it’s not bad that it was, she didn't say. it wasn’t unwelcome. but it was more uncomfortable than she would’ve liked, the kind that came from realizing that some people lived inside of you even when they weren't in your life, even when you'd convinced yourself you'd moved on.

the grocery store was one of those small green markets that catered to a certain selection of summering customers. the shelves were stocked with organic everything, and the wine selections consisted of bottles that cost more than most people spent on groceries in a week. the patrons all were versions of the same thing: bare-faced, blowouts, subtle tweaks via non-invasive procedures azzi had booked and unbooked, tight smiles so that they didn’t seem rude, but also used to ask you to move along.

azzi smiled back in the same way because she wanted the same thing.

she grabbed a cart, and paige fell into step beside her, close enough that their arms brushed when they turned corners.

“so,” paige said, reaching for a bag of expensive-looking pasta. “tell me more about the kombucha thing. that sounded…”

“horrible?” azzi supplied, and paige laughed.

“i was going to be nice and say 'unlike you', but horrible works too.”

“it was both.” azzi picked up a bottle of olive oil, checked the price, and put it in the cart anyway. she didn’t know why she still pretended as if her bank account was an empty chamber in which she only used to scream. “i kept thinking about how my college self would have made fun of me for doing an ad for something called a ‘spiritual silo.’”

“your college self would have done the same,” paige said, and something was running along the words. fond, knowing. “remember when you used to make fun of me when you brought those green smoothies to practice? you’d make a fucking airplane noise to get me to take a sip.”

“you got me there. i guess i’ve always been one of those girls,” azzi said, but she was smiling.

“yeah,” paige said. then lower, as if azzi wasn’t supposed to hear, “but you were my girl.”

azzi tensed, then bent down and pretended to care deeply about the amount of bacteria in one brand of yogurt, and then another.

they moved through the store like that, trading memories disguised as small talk, someone slipping up and revealing their desperation for the other, before slowly finding their rhythm again. paige grabbed ingredients for a philly steak bowl, and azzi selected a slab of salmon that cost more than it should have and was much too orange to be truly authentic.

somewhere between the produce section and the checkout line, the space between them started to feel less like a chasm and more like a ditch they were at risk of dipping into but could eventually learn to cross.

the second morning arrived soft and golden, filtering through the french doors like honey through cheesecloth. azzi woke to the sound of waves and paige's breathing, deep and even beside her. 

they'd maintained their invisible line down the middle of the bed, but sometime in the night paige had turned toward her, one arm flung across the space between them like a question mark. azzi was unable to help herself, her desire loose and unmanageable when she first woke, and she reached out to carefully remove a few thin pieces of hair from paige’s face. she could feel the flush of paige’s blood, the warmth of her life pooling around her high cheekbones and dripping to her slack mouth. 

azzi let it run through her, and then she rescinded before she became too re-attached.

she slipped out quietly, bare feet silent on the cool hardwood. she'd packed a collection of loose dresses for this trip, linen and cotton things that skimmed her body without clinging, the kind of effortless pieces that photographed well for the lifestyle content her team was always pushing. 

you could be a different type of wnba star, her first pr manager had spouted. azzi hadn’t even asked what that meant. the vitriol the woman had slathered across the words told her everything she needed to know. 

so, she just fired her.

after a sleep-soaked huddle underneath the warm spray of the shower, azzi emerged from the ensuite bathroom in a cream-colored slip dress that fell just above her knees, soft as butter against her skin, with a black lace hem. she fortified herself with her regular stack of gold and diamonds, unsurprised to see paige unmoved by the chimes of the jewelry pieces as they ran into one another.

some things never change.

the kitchen was composed of marble countertops and cabinets painted in a shade of electric blue that was just shy of being overstimulating. the windows over the sink and behind the oak-slab table were wide and performed the same framing of the ocean as the others in the house.

azzi admired the view briefly before beginning her search for the coffee machine she had been promised. she made coffee in the kind of ritualistic way that had become her morning meditation: grinding beans, measuring water, waiting for the slow drip. the domesticity of it felt foreign and familiar all at once.

it was a blessing to suck at the teat of regular caffeine instead of the matcha powder she’d been choking down, lest she get caught supporting a brand that she wasn’t an ambassador of. partnership was everything.

she found herself on the small deck overlooking the water, coffee warm between her palms, watching the sun paint the horizon in shades of apricot and rose. the book she'd brought, a different selection than the literary thing her publicist had recommended, lay unopened in her lap. instead, she let herself exist in the space between sleep and waking, between memory and possibility.

she closed her eyes, let everything become the same shade as paige’s preferred blonde.

when paige emerged an hour later, hair sleep-mussed and wearing a well-worn t-shirt, she found azzi exactly where she'd left her mental image: barefoot and golden in the morning light, dress riding up her thighs as she tucked her legs beneath her.

“morning, princess,” paige said, settling into the chair beside her with her own mug. “you're up early.”

“i like the quiet,” azzi replied, opening her eyes but not looking away from the water. the nickname settled at her neck like a stone. “before the world gets a hold of where i am.”

paige hummed in response, before reaching to the side and pulling out her ipad with the casual focus of someone who'd never learned to exist without a screen. game tape, probably. or those stupid tiktoks she's always been addicted to. 

some things never change.

azzi couldn’t help the way her mouth rose in a soft smile, eyes tracking the familiar hunch of paige’s back over the screen. it was only then that she realized the shirt paige had slept in was an old relic of azzi’s uconn days. a white tee with the faded print of her face, the number thirty-five faded in blue on the back.

her chest hurt. it couldn’t seem to stop.

they sat like that for a while, azzi reading passages that didn't stick, paige absorbed in whatever digital rabbit hole she'd fallen into. their silence wasn't uncomfortable anymore. it was full, a bit tense the way good silences were, filled with the sound of pages turning and coffee being sipped and swallowed and the distant crash of waves against rock.

it was easy for azzi to believe that she had made it to that fantasy of domesticity she’d always kept close to her chest. but the truth was that she only had a week of it, because she’d never told the love of her life that she loved her more than allowed, for her entire life.

by midweek, they'd found their perfect cadence. 

azzi would wake first, make coffee, and leave some behind for paige to wake to. then she’d claim her spot on the deck with whatever book she was pretending to focus on. paige would emerge twenty minutes later, ipad in hand, settling into the space with her mug beside her like she belonged there. they'd share the morning without talking much, two people remembering how to exist in the same orbit.

the afternoons belonged to the kitchen.

it started accidentally. azzi had been standing at the marble island, halving peaches with a knife that was too sharp for the job, juice running down her wrists in sticky rivulets. the fruit was perfect, blushed and heavy, the kind of summer abundance that made you understand why people wrote poems about the season.

“hey, careful,” paige had said, appearing at her elbow, voice low and sleep-rough. "you’re gonna lose a finger messin' around like that.”

and then somehow paige was there, her body a warm presence at azzi's side, taking the knife with gentle fingers and finishing the job. her movements were efficient, practiced. she'd always been good with her hands.

“there,” paige said, sliding half a peach across the cutting board, that familiar rasp creeping into her voice. “perfect.”

azzi bit into it without thinking, let the sweetness flood her mouth, and when she looked up, paige was watching her with something that looked like hunger.

after that, they cooked together.

not planned, not discussed. it just happened. azzi would start something—slicing tomatoes for a salad, seasoning the expensive salmon she'd bought—and paige would drift over, find something to do with her hands. busy herself with slipping into azzi’s space. setting the table, opening wine, chopping herbs with the kind of focus she usually reserved for basketball.

the kitchen was small enough that they had to move around each other, a careful choreography that was becoming less careful by the day. paige would reach for salt just as azzi turned from the stove, and their hips would brush. when azzi needed something from the upper cabinet, paige would appear behind her, one hand settling on her lower back while the other reached over her head.

“‘scuse me, princess,” paige would murmur, the words low and familiar, and azzi would lean into the touch before she could stop herself.

“sorry,” one of them would murmur, but neither moved away quickly.

on thursday, azzi decided to make something proper. not just pasta but a whole meal, the way she used to back in the dorms when she'd drag paige kicking and screaming away from takeout. 

she pulled out ingredients like she was conducting an orchestra: wild-caught halibut that cost more than most people's grocery budget, meyer lemons bright as a child’s drawing of the sun, asparagus with stalks thin as pencils, a bottle of sancerre white that had been waiting for either the right moment or the moment where her nerves became too shot to raw the world.

she was at the island, zesting a lemon with focused precision, when paige appeared behind her.

“move, baby,” paige said, voice low and warm, her hands settling on azzi's waist to guide her aside so she could reach the upper cabinet. the pet name slipped out like muscle memory, and neither of them acknowledged it, but azzi felt the heat of paige's palms through the thin fabric of her dress.

“what you need me to do?” paige asked, already washing her hands, settling into the familiar rhythm of being azzi's sous chef.

“asparagus, please,” azzi said, nodding toward the bundle of green spears. “trim the ends, then cut them on the bias. and don't make them too thick—”

“i know how you like them,” paige interrupted, that raspy laugh threading through her voice. “damn, some things really don't change.”

she worked with the same focus she brought to everything, tongue pink and peeking as she concentrated. the kitchen filled with the sound of her knife against the cutting board, steady and sure.

when the fish was ready—skin crispy and golden, flesh flaking perfectly—azzi plated it like she was styling a magazine shoot. the plates themselves were white ceramic things that felt substantial in their hands, but the food was a dream.

halibut nestled against bright green asparagus, lemon butter pooled golden around the edges, microgreens scattered like confetti. azzi poured the wine into proper glasses, turning the bottle expertly so that nothing dripped and stained.

“jesus, az,” paige said, settling across from her at the small dining table. “this is some fancy shit. anthony bourdois and stuff.”

azzi knew paige knew that man’s name, but she laughed as she was supposed to. and because she found it funny.

“anthony bourdain,” azzi said automatically, but she was smiling.

“my bad,” paige grinned, taking a bite. her eyes went wide, then soft. “oh, this is… fuck. sorry. this is really good.”

azzi preened a little, brown eyes deepening with pleasure. 

“this is perfect,” paige said, her voice gone soft and wondering. “like, for real, az. i forgot how good you are at this.”

“it's not that hard,” azzi replied, but she was practically plump with the compliment. cooking for paige had always been her way of taking care of her, making sure she ate something green, something real. “besides, i remember someone who used to live off protein bars and those horrible energy drinks.”

“aye, don't come for my red bulls,” paige laughed, that low rasp making azzi's stomach flip. “those got me through college.”

“those were gonna give you a heart attack and get you through the icu,” azzi countered, cutting another piece of fish. “i had to do something.”

later, after the dishes were done and the wine was finished, they found themselves back on the deck. the sun was setting, painting everything in shades of coral and gold. the ocean seemed on fire, and though azzi had her book again, she'd given up pretending to read it. paige had put the ipad aside, was just sitting there, looking out at the water.

“i forgot how much i liked this,” paige said suddenly.

“what?”

“this. just… being. not having to be anywhere or do anything or perform for anyone.”

azzi looked at her then, really looked. paige's face was soft in the golden light, younger somehow. free of the particular tension she carried in public, the weight of being watched and measured and judged.

“that’s why you came, right?” azzi asked gently, and paige tilted her head so she could look at her.

“yeah, some of it. just got…tired.”

“yeah,” azzi said quietly. “me too.”

by the time they both came to bed, they knew things were irreparably different. things had been skewed back to the lives they’d led before their separation. the sound of azzi brushing her teeth had become paige's lullaby, the signal that the day was officially over, that she could finally begin to let herself sleep. 

they shared the bed without the careful distance of the first two nights. not touching, exactly, but not actively avoiding it either.  when azzi turned over in her sleep, her hand found paige's arm, and paige didn't pull away. there was a sudden silence, and then azzi felt the bed dip as paige curled around her like a flesh half-moon.

she smelled different. lighter. azzi caught a whiff of l’eau d’issey rising from the nape of paige’s neck: cool, sheer, mineralic. plastic lotus blossoms on a reflective silver pond. it was what paige wore when she wanted to go to bed feeling more like a girl and less like a woman, more like a girl and less like a god.

azzi didn’t even know she remembered what paige wore to bed.

(she did.)

some rhythms, it seemed, were too deep to break.

friday broke bright and new, and with it the bittersweet realization that they had two days left to spend wrapped around one another. that was all they had; two more mornings, two more nights. azzi felt it in her chest like the ghost of a bruise.

she was determined to make the most of it.

she woke early as usual, but forwent her typical routine. her shower came and went, steam curling around her like phantom ribbons. when she stepped out, she was already dressed, wrapped in a sleek, white long-sleeved one-piece that looked more architectural than athletic. the tailored seams tracked elegant, merciless lines down her body. waist cinched, sleeves sharp, legs carved out in clean sweeps of muscle. 

the zipper at the front was undone just enough to draw the eye, resting at the softest dip of her chest, letting the curves of her breasts peek out, intentional and knowing. the fabric caught the light, made her body look even more divine, like she’d stepped from a film still.

paige, sprawled across the bed in a tank top and boxer shorts, nearly choked. her mouth went a little slack; she forgot what she’d been about to say. the brown slope of azzi’s thighs was enough to make paige’s mouth go dry, hunger pooling at the base of her tongue. her blue eyes caught hard on the swell of azzi’s ass when she turned to grab a small blue and white striped canvas tote. paige didn’t even pretend not to look.

azzi turned back around with a slow grin, catching the quick flush that had already started to rise up paige’s neck.

“come on, cool girl. get ready.” her voice was warm, edged with amusement. “we’re going to the beach.”

the walk wasn’t long. just a soft, simple turn around the house and a stroll down the manicured path to the shoreline. still, everything felt momentous. 

the day was already heavy with heat, as if it had been boiling last evening and was now bursting. the beach itself was empty enough that azzi took her sunglasses off, unafraid of being seen. 

she was barefoot, curls frizzed at the edges, eyes salt-slick and bright with that calm kind of joy that came with being near the sea. there was no one to see her but paige, and that was enough.

behind her, paige followed, bikini black and spare, skin bronzed in uneven patches from too many hours lying out alone before azzi arrived. her tan lines dipped low across her stomach, disappeared under the band of her suit bottoms. she looked ridiculously beautiful. the type of woman you’d see on a postcard and write about ten years later.

azzi glanced back. smiled to herself.

she liked the idea of what they must’ve looked like: her in white, paige in black. a mirrored negative. duality made literal. it was reflective of them. the world often felt singular and simple when they were together. 

things fell into the realm of paige-and-azzi, and what was not simply fell out of it.

“az,” paige called, voice caught between a whine and a wheeze, “can you just tell me what we’re doing?”

azzi turned, lips already tugged upward, curls bouncing as she walked. “i’m going to teach you how to surf.”

paige blinked. “huh?”

azzi didn’t answer, only laughed, light and delighted as she pointed toward the surf shack in the distance.

it took her a few minutes to find the surf shack, but a few minutes later (after minimal bribery and a borrowed id), azzi returned triumphant with two long turquoise boards, balanced easily beneath her arms like they weighed nothing.

she guided paige to the water’s edge, where the tide frothed at their ankles, and then further still, until the boards bobbed between them.

paige, of course, was exactly how azzi imagined she’d be: stubborn, impatient, flailing.

“you've got to paddle sooner,” azzi called from the break, wiping salt from her brow. “you keep waiting too long.”

paige coughed, breathless, clinging to the surfboard as if it was going to save her from more than drowning. “you’re literally a professional athlete.”

azzi shrugged, grinning slyly. “so are you.”

the water was warmer than expected, flecked with sunlight and the faint tang of algae. everything felt lush. sticky with summer. a breeze teased through the salt-thick air, carrying the scent of sunscreen, driftwood, crushed shells, and something sweet paige couldn’t place.

eventually, miraculously, paige caught a wave. only for a second. two seconds, maybe. but she was upright, alive in the motion, and azzi screamed so loudly from the shoreline that a gull flapped off in terror.

they laughed all the way back up the dunes, limbs wet and trembling. sand stuck to their shins, towels slung carelessly across their shoulders. azzi’s skin glowed gold in the setting sun, the long light catching every curve and ridge like it was sculpting her from scratch. paige didn’t say a word. she didn’t need to. her silence was reverent. eyes soft, fixed. she couldn’t stop looking.

 she felt too full of azzi to speak.

the house loomed ahead, blue and wide and a little too quiet. another cruel body of water to swallow them. paige felt the day slipping away as they approached it. azzi slipped her hand into paige’s for one beat, warm and solid, before veering off toward the side of the house without a word.

paige didn’t ask where she was going. she already knew.

the outside shower was tucked away in the corner of the deck, half-hidden by slatted wood. the water had already started—a low hiss, steady and rhythmic, a sound that felt older than memory. pine trees rustled overhead, wind threading through the steam like fingers through hair.

azzi’s hum floated up from behind the slats. low, off-key, gentle. paige didn’t recognize the song, but it sat on the tip of her tongue, half-remembered. like something she’d once been told in the dark. something whose sweetness she could only recall if she sucked its juice from azzi’s mouth.

the decision came easily. unthinking. paige stepped off the deck, padded barefoot through the warm grass, and slipped behind the slats.

when paige stepped into the small, steamy alcove, the air shifted. azzi didn’t flinch. she didn’t turn. she just tilted her chin slightly, made room like she’d known paige would come.

the water slid down her back in gleaming sheets, catching the curve of her spine, tracing the indent of her waist, and pooling at the small of it. the soft weight of her curls clung damp to her shoulders, steam turning the ones at her temple’s edge soft and sweet. she was almost too beautiful to look at directly.

paige’s swimsuit slipped off easily. wet fabric gliding down her body, aimless and forgotten on the floorboards. she stepped in closer and pressed against azzi, bare chest to bare back. her arms looped around azzi’s waist, her fingers splaying just beneath the curve of her ribs. skin met skin, warm and wet and so achingly familiar. azzi let her. she didn’t say a word.

paige tested her limit, pressed her lips to azzi’s shoulder, slow and reverent. lapped up the remaining salt. 

another kiss. 

then another. 

then another. 

salt caked her mouth. steam smothered her lungs.

“i missed you,” she whispered, deep into azzi’s skin. then again. and again. the words turned desperate, came faster, wet and unyielding like the ocean had turned her loose, and now she couldn’t stop spilling out. “i missed you. i missed you. i missed you.” 

the words were raw, like they had been locked behind her teeth for years and now refused to stay in.

azzi turned slowly, water coursing between them. her eyes swept over paige’s face: pink brow, trembling mouth, eyes glassy and brimming with emotion, cheeks ruddy. her hand came up and cradled the back of paige’s neck, firm and careful.

she didn’t say anything. and then she kissed her.

it wasn’t tender. it wasn’t gentle. it was hungry. familiar. a crash, more than a meeting. like she was trying to drink paige down, swallow every last second they’d been apart.

water ran between them, hot and insistent. their bodies pressed together, slick and unyielding. paige was in her bloodstream, azzi in hers. paige's hands slipped down azzi’s back, found her hips. azzi kissed her like she wanted her ruined, like paige was a prayer and the answer both.

they moved together like muscle memory. like instinct. like nothing had ever come between them except time, and time had finally given up.

there had never truly been two people. they had always been this. one thing in two bodies. a pulse shared across years since they were sixteen, and teeming with their first tastes of romantic affection.

the water kept running. the sun began to fall, streaking the sky a torturous red. for that moment, in the warm hush of steam and pine and skin, nothing was lost.

they knew.

they’d always known.

on the last morning, the house was quiet.

the silence felt intentional. the house was stagnant with the dread that always came with goodbyes. the walls had heard enough. the floors seemed to soften their creaks in respect.

azzi stirred first. slipped from the sheets, then stopped. turned back.

she lay herself down gently, stretching across paige’s body like she couldn’t help it. gravity had chosen a different path for her instead. her cheek found paige’s collarbone. the rest of her settled into place, limbs all long and warm and drowsy.

for a moment, they didn’t move. but she knew the other woman was awake.

paige ran her fingers along azzi’s spine, slow and steady, tracing the line of a coastline she already knew by heart. the dips, the curves, the familiar tenderness. azzi exhaled. pressed closer. paige kissed the crown of her head. 

once. then again. made no effort to stop her hand from smoothing over the dip of azzi’s back, her waist.

there were no words, no need. just this aching tenderness, the hush of early light slipping across their bodies, and the sound of something unspoken being understood.

when azzi finally moved to leave, she did it slowly. her lips brushed paige’s temple first, then the corner of her mouth, then paused like she might say something, but didn’t. she only looked at her, doe eyes soft and teeth peeking from under her top lip, like i love you lived there and always had.

paige didn’t follow her downstairs. it was easier to listen to the gentle thud of her sandals and the screen door whispering shut. she stayed curled up in the bed, body rocking, still in the ocean from the days before, wearing her sleep tee like a loose shield.

through the blinds, she watched azzi load her things into the back of her cherry land rover. her curls were half-wet again, face bare, sunglasses pushed up in her hair. she looked like a dream you had where you felt the best you ever had, but could never get quite right when relaying it in conversation.

they didn’t need a speech. not this time. nothing had broken. they’d just fallen out of orbit for a while. but gravity was patient. and paige had always been a slow-burn kind of girl.

the car rolled down the drive and disappeared behind a bend of trees.

paige didn’t cry, not really. but her eyes stung in that way that felt inherited. a return of the sadness she'd borrowed from the younger version of herself, that she’d never outrun. she stared at the ceiling. let the ache crest and soften.

then her phone buzzed.

a text, first.

➳ come visit me, please. ➳ missed you so much.

and then the photos: a quiet icloud link drop, an album titled a&p east coast week, filled with images paige hadn’t known were being taken. azzi had been watching. always. 

a blurred photo of them on the dunes, paige snorting with laughter. a shot of their coffee mugs on the deck. a grainy zoom of the low dip of paige’s bikini bottom on their walk back from the surf. a screenshot of a playlist code, a half-assed grocery list. a pale photo of the ocean in the morning. a photo of paige asleep, limbs splayed and face young.

fifteen minutes passed. then paige responded.

no words, just a screenshot of a one-way ticket. lax.

azzi loved it. pink heart, blue bubble, and all.

paige rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, breathing through the salt-heat in her stomach, the stillness of the morning. nothing was solved. nothing had to be.

no promises. no titles. just the quiet, sure thing they’d always been.

they’d always come back to each other.

they already had.

somewhere in the distance, the waves kept folding in.

© hcneymooners.

[thebusybumblebee]

You Thought You Were So Clever

You'd heard whispers of great riches for those willing to take the risk. Make the right deal with the fae in the forests, and one could walk away set for life. You go when the sun starts to dip just below the horizon. Summer heat is just cooling down. A pleasant breeze kisses your face. Fireflies are already bobbing between bushes and branches. There's so many despite the season coming to a close soon. In fact, there are almost too many. They surround you, the bio-luminescent bugs creating a trail for you to follow. The trails turn and twist deeper and deeper into the woods. The sky grows darker, the air colder. When you're finally in a clearing, even the breeze has stopped. The fireflies disappear, leaving only the moonlight for the shadows to flicker in. Silence is all-consuming. The ringing in your ears grows until you think you might turn tail and give up this venture. "My, my," a voice whispers on the wind. "It's been so long since we've had a visitor." You turn this way and that, straining to find the source of the voice. Another voice, closer, muses, "much too long. Poor little lamb seems lost." Before you can think better of it, you call out, "I came to make a deal." A cacophony of sounds pick up with the sudden return of the winds. You cover your ears trying to block it out. The wind settles in one final gasp. You open your eyes. What was an empty, dark clearing has been transformed. You find yourself in the midst of a party. Lanterns are strung from the trees. Fae are dancing and mingling by fires. In the center, there is a table heavy with food and drink. It's a miracle the legs aren't bowing under the weight of it all. A fae, tall and lithe, strides over. "Welcome, little lamb." You begin again about deals and bargains. "Hush," they coo. Their nails trace up your neck until they hold your chin. "We've so missed having a human to entertain us. In exchange for your company, we will send you off with more gold and riches than you can walk away with just as soon as the feast is over." You nod. It's a simple deal: spend time with the fae and you'd be made. The fae smiles wide and leads you to a seat. The chair is sturdy, lavish even. A golden plate is pressed into your hand. All kinds of food fill the surface. You can't quite recognize some of it, but you're tantalized all the same. Fruit juices coat your mouth, the flavor blooming across your tongue. Hot, yeasty rolls in butter help sop up the many sauces you try. Bread pudding and liquor cut some of the savory flavors before you return to the cuts of meat laid out for you to try. Fae-folk flit in and out of conversation. They're charming and polite, always smiling and refilling your plate and cup. You can't say how much time has passed or how long you've been at the table. There's a point where everything seems warmer. Sweat drips down your face. Why were you breathing so heavily? You pull at your shirt collar to try and loosen it. The fae simply disrobe you. "It's a party," they say. "Don't think so hard." So you don't. You must get tired at some point too, because it's getting harder to lift your arms. It seems like it'd be hard to leave this seat, even if it is more cramped than you remember. You try to lean forward to grab your cup again. Though, try as you might, your fingertips can hardly reach it. The cup topples over. The clatter awakens you from your stupor. It’s as though a veil had suddenly been lifted.

Whatever cotton was dulling your senses can no longer hide what has happened to you. Your arms have plumped up like the hams on the table with fingers resembling sausages. Your hips must have spread across the seat too, because you can feel the arms of the chair gripping your love handles more surely than any lover ever has. You try to look down, but your thicker neck and double chin have to fight for space. A plumper chest greets you. The largest change was the heavy belly that crested beyond your knees. It was burgeoning with all the delicacies you’d been plied and stuffed with all evening. With a small hint of dread, you realize you’re still hungry.

“How long have I been here? When will this end?” You fret and try to rise from your seat. The fae that greeted you puts a hand to your belly. Their touch is appraising, paired with a gaze filled with a hunger of their own.

“It seems our lamb isn’t so little anymore,” they tease. Already, other fae start preparing more plates for their guest.

“When is the party over?” You ask again. You’re met with smirks and snickers all around.

“Oh, darling,” their voice drips with faux sympathy. “Here, in this realm, the party is never over.” You feel a cold chill down your back, but don’t fight the cup being brought to your lips again. As the spiced, warm cider flows down your throat, you find your thoughts flowing away too. The last realization you have is that any gold would be too much to walk away with when soon you won't be able to walk at all. You thought you were so clever.

[iceemochaa]

I'll Taste You First Then Devour You Whole Later

Remmick X Reader

Summary: You Come home late at night from a party, Unaware that a stranger is following you. Too bad he wont get a warning to what's about to happen. A creature that stalks your home and calls you "Mine" doesn't like it when people try and take what belongs to him.

A/N: It took me 4-5 Days to write this with pure determination and horniness. Thank you to my Remmick’s Freak writers room that showed me that life is truly worth living if Remmick gets to take you in the forest, added with drool and spit swapping. If you notice anything missing in the tags pls don’t be afraid to let me know! If you see grammar mistakes, no you didn't :)

Warning : MDNI, No use of name or Y/n, Reader isnt described, Blood, Slight Blood Play, slight Predator/Prey, Female Reader, Murder, slight sexual harassment (mentioned), Spit eating (with Blood), Possessive!Remmick, choking (slight), Humping if you squint, Remmick Drools as usual, Cursing, Drool Eating, Stalking (mentioned), Remmick is greedy asf (who could blame him?),

Word Count: 2.6k

 He just killed someone. 

A man who was too busy trying to take what wasn’t his.

You were walking home from a party. Having caught wind of a new Juke joint opening, it only made sense to check it out. You and your merry band of friends who were bursting with excitement got ready that same day - picking out an outfit to wear, makeup that matched. Soon the opening hour was upon you. 

The place was nice, with lights suspended on balconies and a stage filled with instruments of all kinds. The Music was felt deep into the soul and the people who got in knew how to have a grand ole time. You danced and danced until your feet hurt, until your skin got all sweaty and your voice raspy from singing and hollering all night long. Once it got too late the crowd started to die down; People running to get home so they could wake up and catch the early morning. 

Once the music finally started to slow down and the crowd got smaller, You figured it was also time for you to go. So, you bid your friends a farewell. One of them offered to walk you home but You declined. You figured since it was too late nobody would be around, wondering and lurking in the night. Well, maybe except for one but that was an entirely different thing. 

He should have known better than to mess with women walking at night, alone. 

Especially women who have guard dogs waiting for them at home. 

You’re pinned down on the floor . Remmick touching all over you, marking his territory once more because some poor old bastard couldn’t read the “do not enter” sign properly. They got what they wanted. What they deserved. Now there’s multiple large, crankled, slash's deep into their chest, blood pooling from the wound. Their neck has been completely ripped off - the large organ of skin and muscle standing a few feet away from your face but you didn’t care. Not when Remmick was too busy making sure every inch of your body smelled like you again. Like him. 

If an unsuspecting viewer were to walk by they would have thought a rabid dog was mulling you to death. The scene was chaotic and obscene. A dismembered body a few feet away and a poor victim being ravaged by a beast. They would probably scream and shout for help, Ask if you were okay but nobody was coming for you. They never did. 

Not when He was around.  

In a situation like this you would have fought him off. Maybe Use anything to your advantage, grab a rock that was wedged by the tree, take the lonely branch on the side and use it as a weapon -  Like normal people would do to fight off a normal guy but he was not normal. Something that was entirely impossible to be and yet he was. 

“Remmick slow…slow down!” You cry out, gripping Remmicks shoulders for support when he licks a long, fat, strip up against your neck. It's late in the night, nothing but the cold breeze rattling the trees and startling a few birds. The dead stranger almost got you, almost had his way with you. He grabbed you from behind while you were a few feet away from your porch, pulled you close until your body was flushed against his and touched you. Wandering hands searched your skin and mouth pressed against the back of your neck. You screamed, trying your best to pull away from him, tossing your body from side to side but it was short lived when he shoved you towards the ground. 

“Quit it bitch! There aren't anybody up at this hour.” he chuckled, getting down on his knees to forcibly turn you over to your back. 

He wanted to get a real nice look at you, too bad you were going to be the last thing he ever saw. One of the things he ever saw. The moonlight shined against his face and you noticed that he looked familiar. You've seen him before, at the juke joint. He was drowning drink after drink but was short lived when he got kicked out for touching one of your friends. You remember cursing him out, screaming and shoving him out the door along with the bouncer who took notice. He was pissed, arguing that your friend asked for it. 

How stupid can men be? 

If only he had noticed that a creature lingered in the shadows of your porch. One that didn’t take too kindly at having their property be trespassed. 

“Remmick-”

“Can’t, busy. Need you to get rid of that stench you have.” Remmick says, getting in between your legs, in that comfortable position he always liked to be in , making sure his body was close enough. Remmick moves to press his face into you, rubbing his nose against the deep hollow of your neck. Pinning his body fully against your own. You can’t help the way your body reacts, the way he’s got his full weight  on you; Like he wants to get under your skin. No, he Needs to get under your skin. His hands are everywhere - His claws scraping lightly against your arms, legs, anywhere that showed too much skin. Areas that were infected by hands that didn't deserve to touch you. 

He still wasn't satisfied. 

“Remmick you killed someone!” you shout, Shoving his chest back to get his full attention. He didn't budge, he never does.  Too strong, ancient, powerful but he did stop to take you in - leaning back on his hunches,  Eyes searching your form. You weren't sure if he was inspecting you, eyes trailing down slowly and then snapping back to your face. He was frozen, quiet until after a few minutes, When the wind stopped blowing and the cicadas went silent. 

“Does it matter?” 

Your brows raised, confused at first. “Does it matter?...” you quickly repeat after, annoyance building on your tongue, “Yes! You can't have too many people up and go missing in this area cause you get all-”

“He was gonna hurt you…” he growls, a cold bloody hand reaching out to caress your face. His hand is bigger than before ; Longer, claws sharper , Like a predator. An elongated thumb glides against your cheek bone. His hands were rough, frigid and yet he held your face so softly. Careful, like you were fragile glass. 

“He was gonna take you…take what's mine away,” the pad of his thumb rubs along the bottom line of your lips, leaving a small bloody trail, “He was gonna die anyway.”

“...How…How would you have known that?” 

He sneers at your question, Disappointed that you would ask that but most importantly question him. He sighs loudly at that. Fine, he’ll entertain you, for a bit. He doesn't say anything for a short while but he does take note of how you watch him, eyeing the way he pokes his tongue out to lick the presence of blood away on his teeth. He finally decides to speak again. 

He whispers low so only you could hear him as if someone else was among the two of you. There was, he just wasn't alive to hear it. 

 “I could smell it on him,” he says, “Death.”

 The pad of his thumb gets replaced by a long claw, slowly dragged against your lip. He was careful once more; Careful not to prick the soft skin but his eyes were sharp, Dilated until there was nothing but red.  

It sends a shiver down your spine; How sinister he could look and yet moved in a way that was gentle. Ever so considerate of how human you are but soon after he adds in, interrupting the hypnotizing hold he has on you with a hint of amusement on his breath, “I just sped up the process.” 

Then a sudden grind of his groin against your clothed bundle of nerves sends signals to your brain. A pulse that Remmick hears all too easily. 

“Fuck- darlin’, I’m gonna make sure everyone knows you belong to me.“ he mutters under his breath. Talking more to the air, a warning to the universe. A threat.  A small squeak escapes your lips when he reaches under your skirt to bunch them up against your stomach, Warmth bubbling up in your cheeks. 

“W-What… What are you doing?” You ask with a shaky breath. 

Remmick looks at you with those too bright, intense, glowing eyes. Eyes that always manage to pick you apart and somehow put you back together again. He truly did look like a beast right now; drool hanging from his chin, hair rattled, clothes battered from the stranger trying to fight him off and those razor sharp teeth open to the midnight air. He doesn't say anything but his breathing is rapid, low, inhuman sounds deep in his chest. 

He sets his eyes on you, desiring building into his chest,  deciding that what he was going to do was going to be his life's goal. You feel a cold, wet, palm glide up against your thigh and you jolt. 

“Remmick!” you gasp, your leg shifting to the side but his strong grasp holds you down. 

“Shhh, baby, almost done…Just gotta get here too.” 

Blood is dripping from the corner of his mouth, his eyes locked unto your face. Hovering over your body,  There’s so much blood and drool dripping from his mouth that it starts to pool in between the crevices of your breast. 

“I should’ve known other fools would try and take you away,” he grunts, “Look what you did - what you made me do.” 

“Remmick please…” you whine. 

He pushes up against your body. Grinding his hips down hard, making sure you can feel him through his pants. “You liked that, didn’t you? Me, ripping a man apart cause he tried to take what’s mine?”

You look over once more at the corpse a few feet away. The look of terror still glazed over the man's eyes. The scene wasn't pleasant  to watch, to see a man be torn apart right in front of your eyes but the thought of a creature like that protecting you? Watching over you. Wanted you. How could you ever be ungrateful? Sure, it scared the hell out of you but all of that was forgotten. Head filled with nothing but Remmick and how much he wanted to devour you under the stars. 

If you admit that, tell him you liked it when he killed for you, how you liked that you were the one who made him like this. Well, let's just say you wouldn't make it out alive. So you lie…or atleast try your best. 

“N-No..” You turn your head away so you won't have to look in his eyes, have him see the telltale signs of a lie forming, yearning bleeding into your soul but he pulls your face back. A smirk playing on his mouth. 

“Look at me, sugar.” he says, “Dont lie-”

“I'm not lying-”

“Yes you are.” Before you have time to form another poor, fabricated excuse, Remmick moves with precision. His entire hand wraps around your throat, His claws digging into your skin and yet it did not puncture the vitals or muscles underneath. Careful. Your body leaps, not out of fear- No, far from fear but something much more terrifying.

Excitement.

 What's even more frightening than the thought of you liking what he's done, what he's currently doing to you, is the fact that he knows. 

“Look at the way ur squirming under me,” he laughs, “I can hear your heart racing.” He sits back, watching, observing. Loving the way your body reacts to him. Only him. 

“Tell me you want this,” He demands, “Or…I'll make you beg.” 

“Yes!” You say too loudly, too proudly. Embarrassment washed away with a strong passion to please. To be pleased. There was no use in denying it anymore, Eagerness building on your skin.  Remmick nuzzles his body back onto yours, his face tucked comfortably into your breast. He hums a low sign of approval, the sound seeps through his chest like a purr. Soon after a hiss flees your mouth when You feel a warm, rough, texture lap at the forgotten pool of blood and spit in between the crevices of your breast. His teeth scraping against your skin. He leans back up suddenly, the loss of contact almost makes you cry out. Desperate to feel him once more. Desperate to be wanted. 

He tucks his hand under your chin, lifting to view your face clearer. You looked beautiful like this. Under him, completely at his mercy. Like prey trapped in a predator's teeth. He wants more of you. 

All of you. 

“Open your mouth for me darlin’...” he says softly, nothing but adoration and need in his voice. 

Your body moves on its own, all logic and reasoning thrown out the window.  You obey him so easily, your autonomy completely lost to him. Your tongue lolls out, the cool breeze shrouding  the top of the muscle, anticipation building in your gut. Fuck, you wanted it . Wanted Him. Whatever he could give you.  You watch in a daze as Remmick pulls you closer, maneuvering your mouth right under his. He ghosts his open mouth over yours, slightly open, ready to drip warm trails of the substance right down your tongue. 

He can feel your thighs move to squeeze around his waist, a strong intensity blooming where he's still connected. He makes sure that he builds the mixed fluid along his tongue and lets gravity take its place. The taste was unpleasant and yet you wanted more. It comes out in thick, heavy, globs, flowing right into your mouth. The weight of it makes you gag but the ache you feel on your nerves only grows further. 

He sweetens the deal with locking his lips against yours. No permission needed to enter his tongue into your mouth so he could savor you, relishing the moment; Tasting his own spit, tasting the blood of the poor bastard who’s life was cut short. He tilts his head so he can get in deeper, push in closer, explore further. Your entire being completely, utterly, intoxicating . He makes sure to drag his tongue against the edges of your teeth, leaving nothing in your mouth untouched. The hunger only grows the more he consumes you. 

Hunger was an understatement. 

He was starving.

He only pulls away, reluctantly, when he feels you struggle against him. Your breathing completely fucked up and yet he didnt care. He made you like this, Debauched and panting against his lips; trying your best to catch your breath. He was going to ruin you, that was a fact. 

You think he's done when you feel him shift on his knees, like he was getting ready to scurry off to hunt some poor soul in the night once more. You should have thought better, Should have known better that he was only getting stirred on with every breathless moan and whimper you released into his mouth. 

“M’gonna eat you alive…” He says, the sense of Imminence in the air. Your eyes grow wide, danger prickling the hair on your skin. You should feel afraid, flight or fight should have kicked in and yet it doesn't. There's too many emotions running through you at this very moment; Fear, Danger but worse of all joy. Remmick uses his claws to drag them down your blouse, tearing the fabric in one go. Your chest and stomach are swiftly exposed to the open air. The sense of fear only spurs you on, heat pooling at your core. 

“When I'm done,” Remmick smiles inbetween, looking like a natural predator- scratch that, he Is a predator, “Nobody else will try and take you away from me. I'll make sure of it.” 

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆₊ °✦ ‧ ‧ ₊ ˚✧⁺˚⋆｡ °✩₊˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

Tag list!: @cherryxhaze

[librarygarten]

I love your ideas for isekai reader! but what about a reader who is a professional or hardcore gamer? in the sense that will probably finish the videogames with the minimum of items or with lower level weapons

all this based on my friend's experience, who when he completed final fantasy discovered that the weapons could be improved or that there were more powerful weapons to defeat the bosses

—————

the chain: this enemy is very difficult, we should upgrade our weapons and come back later-

Gamer reader: the life bar moved, it can bleed

the chain: ...b-but this enemy attacks from very close range-

Gamer reader: then attack from afar

gamer reader: If the enemy can bleed, it can die

As a certified baby that can't complete any game without a walkthrough, this is absolutely not my lived experience. It takes a special kind of crazy to do that. /pos

The battle was fierce. The monster was strong. The HP bar, something that apparently only you could see, hadn’t moved an inch. Honestly, it felt like you were playing Souls again.

You were no stranger to tough fights. What made this one different was the fact that you were actually in the fight, as opposed to controlling a game character. Getting up close and personal with a monster sure did change some things.

“We need to fall back!” Time yells over the sound of swords clattering uselessly against the monster’s thick skin. “Champion, cover us!”

Wild obeys, pulling out his Sheika Slate and sending chains of energy towards the beast. It will only keep it in stasis for a few seconds, but it was better than nothing. Sky lands one more hit as he flees and you see it: the health bar moves. It probably only lost 1 hp, but it was better than nothing. A few thousand more hits like that, and it would fall, no problem!

“The health bar moved!” you excitedly tell Time and Warriors as you sprint away through the forest.

“Congratulations?” Wars looks at you in confusion.

“That means we can beat it!” you insist. “We just need to get a few more good hits in and it’s toast!”

“We can come back after we upgrade our weapons,” Time decides. “The monster is too powerful to take on at the moment. We were barely able to get away as it is.”

“But we damaged it!” you try again.

“Not enough. We need to do more damage in a shorter amount of time if we stand any chance at beating that thing.” Legend pipes up, and you glare daggers at him. He wasn’t even part of this conversation! What was he doing, butting in and sharing his completely incorrect idea?

“Are you talking about the little nick I gave it?” Sky asks, coming to run alongside you. “I’d hardly call that damage. It barely bled.”

“If it can bleed, it can die.” You mutter. This was getting you nowhere. Fine. If they wouldn’t listen to reason, you’d finish the job yourself. Without so much as a goodbye, you turn on your heel and begin sprinting back through the trees towards the monster.

In your haste, you nearly mow over Four and Wind. Four curses as you pass by, momentarily thrown off balance. Wind somehow puts Four to shame with his own expletives.

“Where are you going?” You hear a voice call after you. “Do you have a freaking death wish!?”

You ignore it and keep running.

The monster is exactly where you left it.

You steady your breathing as it locks eyes with you. It charges. You roll. Your sword strikes against its side as you dodge.

-1 hp.

The best slams its fist into the ground, trying to squash you. It misses my millimeters. You stab at it again.

-1 hp.

Again. And again. You dodge. You strike. You slowly chip away at its health.

You’re not sure how long it takes. You can’t focus on anything other than your movement patterns. When it finally falls, the sun is beginning to rise. Weird. You thought it was afternoon.

“Y/N! What in Hylia’s name were you thinking!?” Your limbs feel like lead as Wild shakes you. It takes a few moments for you to connect that he’s even talking to you. Was he… scolding you? Him??? Mr. I-sled-down-cliffs-for-fun?

“That was… insanely reckless,” Time sighs. He’s standing behind Wild, and he somehow looks even more tired than you feel.

“Where did you guys come from?” You try to think back, but your thoughts are about as fast as cold molasses. They had left, hadn’t they? Why were they here? You feel yourself being sat down as Hyrule begins to heal you.

“Most of us went back to town,” Wind explains. “We were gonna fight it with better supplies.”

“I stayed back to watch. I was planning on pulling you out of the fight, but you… seemed to handle yourself alright,” Warriors massages his temples. “I swear, if I gray early I’m holding you and you alone responsible.”

“Why didn’t you wait?” Legend asks. His familiar snark feels strained. Awww, was he worried about you? If you didn’t feel like passing out, maybe you would tease him a bit. Instead, you decide to answer his question.

“Why would I?”

You can hear multiple Links’ blood pressures rise as they take in your words.

Congrats! Every Link has even more anxiety now! Are you happy?

[miniaturesuitgladiator]

Batfam x Neglected Mortal

Kombat Reader

Notes: this is part 9 to lucid dreams.

Warnings ⚠️: child neglect.

As you step through the blue portal memories of your life that lead up to this exact moment ,flash through your mind.

Some memories good....like when you first met Jason or when you had gotten taller then your mother.

And some memories bad... like when your mother forgot your birthday... or when your grandmother died...

Each memory more painfulthen the last. And for a moment you begin wondering if you even had good memories from gotham.

But you do.... and each good memory has one thing in common.

Jason.

Your jason the one who stood by you through everything..

The jason who used to cry thinking you'd leave him. Just like his mother.

The jason who'd you comfort and not only promise but pinky promise that you'd never leave him.

The same jason who you left in tears.

Your jason.

Your brother.

Jason what was kept you alive. Or atleast that's what it felt like. Every milestone every journey jason was there.... and now he wasn't.

Not because he didn't want to be. But because you left him. This is a choice you made.

A choice you'll have to live with.

So you push your guilt and regret away as your feet finally touch the ground of the place you left so many years ago.

The soft snow crunches under your shoes and it's cold. No, it's freezing. It always is here.

Any normal person would probably freeze but your body is quick to adjust to the weather. You were born here this is natural to you.

The cold never really bothered you anyway do to your fire abilities.

Standing right infront of you is two men. Your father's soldiers no doubt. They were his symbol of the dragon across their chest.

Their tall and old. But you can tell their strong. But you suppose they have to be strong.

Because this world isn't kind to anything weak.

The have four horses with them. Two for you and Kion and two for them. Kion pulls you with him towards them as he walks. They bow out of respect.

"Welcome princess." They say in sync.

Princess....it's been so long since you've been called that. And truthfully you don't want that title but it's yours to bare. So you nod your head.

Kion helps you as you get onto the horse. It's a big horse and the color is a perfect black. It's a far nicer horse then what the two other soldiers will be riding.

Once Kion sees your safely on the horse he gets on his. Kion leads the way and your horse follows in suit.

As if your horse wasn't even listening to you but to Kion. Kions horse slows down so that your horse matches its pace perfectly.

Riding side by side ,kion begins speaking. "You made the right decision sister..this is where you belong. This is your home." He says.

And glancing around the snowy forest and tall trees you feel like he's right....this is where you belong. This is your home.

You ride your horse in silence for a few minutes taking in his words and their truth. 

    "This is my home...." You repeat quietly testing the words on your tongue..... but you can't help but miss what you left behind... No, you miss who you left behind.

    And like he always does Kion senses your distress.

"Regret weighs down the mind ,sister....Don't regret what's already done. It's pointless." Kion says and his words are true. But they still don't help.

     "You sound like father." You say because you know that's where he got it from.

      

     "Father, is wise sister... you should take what he says seriously. " he says with a stern voice. He obviously didn't understand that you were trying to make a joke. But Jason would've.......

   "I always do. " You say quietly. The pit of regret in your stomach growing.

          "Father won't be there to welcome you when we arrive..... he's out on a short trip...he'll be back by morning." He assured almost ashamed that your father won't be there.

    You smile sheepishly knowing the reason.

       "He didn't think I would come?" You question already knowing the answer.

   

  "It's been years sister...he didn't doubt you.. he just doubted what your mother could've made you into." Kion says and by the way he says it you can tell. He believed the same thing.

      "My mother didn't turn me into anything." You say and the atmosphere gets so tense that even the horses under you can feel it.

     One soldiers behind you speak up trying to ease the tension.  "Your brother means no disrespect princess...but everyone's glad to know that your loyalty lays with us." One says. But you stay silent still angry with kions words.

Did everyone here think you're a toy? Or clay that could be molded into anything?

You sigh knowing that that's what they probably think. Because here it's common...

Here it's common for your parents to decide exactly what kind of person you become.

      "Make no mistake the princesses loyalty lays with her kin." Kion says almost possessively and your hands clench the ranes of the horse.

     "Of course my prince." The soldiers say and you can tell their scared. Their scared of your brother.

Because of what he is. Who he is....did they fear you just the same? You ask yourself.

The ride to your village is quiet other then the sound of your horses hooves walking.

It's snowing lightly casting a beautiful scenery if only the silence wasn't so tense.....

After a while of riding your horse into the snowy forest you're greeted with the walls that you were raised in...

The walls that you had once escaped. And now you welcome them....?

It's a strange feeling. Somethings have changed. You've changed. You've matured.

Grown mentally and physically.

Your no longer the small girl who'd your mentors hit when you'd make a mistake.

No, now. Your strong. And much likely stronger then any of your past mentors.

The walls around your village are tall. And you can't help but feel like there trapping you in as the big gate closes behind you.

The people in your village both old and young are formed into a line in both sides of the path that leads straight toward the palace.

The all bow as you pass them on your horse. You look at them studying each one of them as your ride your horse passes them.

Your peoples eyes watch you. Study you right back. Taking in every little detail about you.

Your clan was nothing if not observant.

You can see there already whispering things about. But you don't care anymore if it's good or bad. Or maybe....deep down you do.

"This is your home sister... your legacy." Kion say and his chin is held high as you both ride your horses through the path.

Like a prince.

He is a prince.

.....he's wrong. This is his legacy.....not yours.

Where do you belong?

'Regret weighs down the mind...don't regret something you can't change.' Kions words stick to you. They always will....

The moon shine brightly tonight and it's rays hit the palace peaceful eliminating the beauty of this place.

Mounting off of your horse with ease. You sigh. And walk up the stairs of the tall ancient palace.

It's been so long since last walked the halls...but you remember each one.

The colors on the walls haven't faded...and the walls carry something deeper than color.

Memories...they carry memories.

Most of fighting, learning or rare occasions you'd take a walk with your father.

"Dinner is being prepared..." kion says as you walk through the halls.

"I'm not hungry" You say and you continue walking through the halls of the palace ignoring kions protest for you to eat.

Eventually you do reach the place you've been dying to see.... your room.

It's smaller then you remember and all of your stuff sits untouched. Almost as if you left it yesterday. But no, you left it years ago....

It's been cleaned there's not a spot of dust to be seen. But everything in perfect place.

Your pencil lays on your desk and so does your old school work. Some of your drawings lay on the desk too.

All memories you thought you forgot about. You sit on the big bed. Because despite your small room it still had a big bed.

You were royalty after all.

This bed is way softer then the small bed you had in gotham. It doesn't creak and it's springs aren't broken.

And spriseingly it's warm...

Laying down on the soft bed kion sighs. And finally moves away from the door frame.

"This room isn't big enough for you. I'll have you a room prepared." He says turning away but he stops as he hears your protest.

"I like this room....I'll stay in this room."

"I'm not asking sister." He says defensively almost like it pains him to see you in a room that isn't to his taste.

Because it does.

"Neither was I." Your voice is calm as you lay on your bed. But he knows you won't back down.

So he sighs and decides to let it go.

"As you wish...are you certain you aren't hungry?" He asks and you can tell he's still disappointed that you willing want to stay in this room.

But his concern out ways his disappointment.

"Positive." You reply. Not missing a beat.

"Alright then...goodnight sister.." He mumbles quietly.

"Goodnight Kion..." You say quietly deep in your thoughts.

But you catch how he stays for a moment longer wanting you to say something else.

Something more.

So you speak up quietly but Kion catches your words.

Because he's been dying to hear them.

"I love you brother...." Your voice is no louder then a whisper and you almost think he doesn't hear them.

But when you sit up to see him he smiles.... and quickly wipes his eyes..

He's crying..because you said you loved him?

You had honestly said those words out of pressure. But you can tell how much they mean to him.

To you he was crying because you had said you loved him. But to him you had not only said you loved him.

But you called him your brother...

Your brother.

You had never called him that. Never.

Always Kion. Never brother.

Despite his tears you can see he's happy. It's as of the weight he's been carrying has finally been lifted.

And your about to stand up to hug him. And it probably would've been an awkward hug like before.

But before you can even stand up Kion speaks up.

"I love you too ,sister.......very much." His voice is small... and tender. Kind of like him.

He's walks away before you can stand.

You can't see him but he's smiling like an absolute idiot. But he doesn't care...because you love him.

You actually love him.

Him.

He's your brother. Not jason.

You lay back down on your bed drifting between sleep and worry. You feel uncomfortable on your bed.

It feels almost like it's not yours. But it is...

Many worries cloud your mind as you remain laying down. Each worse then the last.

What if your father dislikes you? No, he wants you here..he needs to here... right?

What if he's disappointed in your fighting abilities? No, your strong. You know pretty much everything...right?

What if you stutter when you see him. You know how much he hated when you used to stutter out of fear.

No, your diffrent now....stronger...right?

You know deep down these worries are useless think about. But you can't help yourself.

Tomorrow you'd see the man you ran away from. So many years ago.

Soon enough your mind does eventually give into sleep......tomorrow you'd see someone that you've tried to pretend that you've hated for so long...the man who you've seen in the mirror all your life.

The man who raised you. Made you.

The man that despite your past you care for deeply.. you love deeply...... your father...

Thanks for reading! All comments and likes are very much appreciated! They really keep me writing! 💗💗

Taglist: @dhanyasri , @kore-of-the-underworld , @i-adorehannah , @plsfckmedxddy , @phoenixgurl030 @bunbunboysworld @bat1212 @skepvids @sirenetheblogger @Nervousalpacalady @118gremlin @darktrashpoetry @bitternsweet @kksmush @awawage @coffeemin @feral-childs-word @cens0r3d @sweetprincesscomputer @exactlynumberonekryptonite @rosy-myhouse34 @hebaoffside @sheep-from-rad @time-shardz @vanessa-boo @jellyedkazoo @chinxinsomnia @sillysealsies @nervousalpacalady @gwyneveire @simpingpandas @crazycaoticsimp @nickey-diano