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solxamber · 5 months ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: Speedrunning Marriage Fraud || Ace Trappola

You get isekai’d as the heroine in a romance novel, but instead of dreamy suitors, you’re stuck with a yandere cryptid, a billionaire with no impulse control, and a knight who thinks he's in a Shakespearean tragedy (and more).

Your solution? Commit marriage fraud with your best friend, Ace Trappola, and hope no one asks for a marriage certificate.

Series Masterlist

You should have known better than to leave your apartment. You should have listened to your instincts, that deep, primal voice that told you the outside world was a dangerous and unforgiving place. But no. You just had to touch grass.

It had all started with an innocent desire for fresh air. You had gone to the park, found a nice spot, and opened the novel that a colleague had given you—probably as a form of psychological torture disguised as a gift. From the summary alone, you knew it was going to be a lot, but you had no idea just how much your soul would suffer.

The heroine was a noble who clearly did not want to be in this story. Every single page was filled with her staring off into the void, giving half-hearted responses to the five men vying for her attention, like she was a protagonist who hadn’t realized she was in a romance novel yet.

And the love interests. Oh, the love interests.

The (Discount) Yandere Viscount (who had never heard of stealth)

His idea of "obsessively watching over the heroine" was lurking in the shadows like a particularly uncoordinated cryptid. Every single time he tried to “stalk” her, he tripped over his own sword. At one point, he dramatically whispered, “I will protect you… wait, don’t run!” before faceplanting into a bush.

2. The Childhood Acquaintance (who was delusional)

This man had spoken to the heroine exactly once when they were both six years old, but somehow convinced himself they were soulmates. He carried around the same handkerchief she had given him more than 15 years ago like it was a sacred relic and refused to take no for an answer.

3. The "Genius Strategist" Prince (who had the IQ of a raisin)

The man had already planned their wedding, their honeymoon, and the names of their three children within four minutes of meeting her. When she told him she wasn’t interested, his brain blue-screened and he simply repeated, “Ah, you’re just shy.” No, sir. She is not shy. She just isn't interested.

4. The Brooding Duke of the North (who was a caricature of a chaebol heir from a K-Drama)

He believed love could be bought. He once gifted her a solid gold chair because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.” He bought an entire carnival just so she wouldn’t have to wait in line. At one point, he threw money at a random tree, and you weren’t even sure why.

5. The Drama King Knight (who needed to calm down)

He was so powerful but refused to use his strength unless it was for dramatic effect. He got scratched by a cat once and collapsed into the heroine’s arms like he had been mortally wounded. His sword had the power to split mountains, but the only time he ever drew it was to dramatically point at the moon while monologuing about destiny.

And the villainess? She wasn’t even that bad. Compared to these five disasters, she looked like a sensible person.

Somehow, despite all odds, the heroine chose Ace Trappola, her childhood friend, which you had to respect. That was the one good decision this novel made. But just when you thought there might be some semblance of satisfaction—an assassin appeared out of nowhere (sent by the villainess of course) and killed her.

That was it. That was the ending.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you weren’t sure if it was grief for the heroine, sheer frustration, or physical pain from how hard you had been laughing at this disaster of a novel. It was the most ridiculous, nonsensical, brain-cell-destroying thing you had ever read. You could feel your neurons committing arson inside your skull.

You snapped the book shut and decided that was enough stupidity for one day.

It was time to go home.

As you trudged back, your brain still processing the absolute war crime of a plot you had just read, you heard it.

A faint rumbling.

A presence.

And then—

“OUT OF THE WAY, SONNY!”

A blur of gray hair and unholy speed tore through the park, the sound of wheels screeching against pavement like a demonic banshee’s cry. You turned your head just in time to see a grandma on rollerblades, moving at a velocity no elderly person should legally be able to achieve.

For a split second, you locked eyes.

And in that moment, you knew.

You were not surviving this.

Before you could even process what was happening, she collided into you full force, sending you into a full aerial somersault before you crashed into the bushes like a ragdoll. You barely registered the thundering roar of her departure as she continued skating into the sunset, leaving you for dead.

Now, as you lay crumpled in a bush, your body feeling like it had been hit by a sentient freight train in orthopedic shoes, you had to accept the consequences of your actions. The world had punished you for your hubris.

She. Didn’t. Even. Stumble.

Your body ached, your limbs refused to move, and as darkness crept into your vision, your last conscious thought was, How is a senior citizen more sturdy than me…?

And then, everything went black.

The first thing you noticed upon waking up was the suspiciously pleasant smell. It was fresh, like lavender and high society, with a hint of expensive tea and wealth you’d never personally known.

Your groggy brain latched onto the first thought it could process:

Damn. Hospitals really upgraded their budget.

Then, half a second later, a much more terrifying realization hit you.

Oh God. The ambulance bill.

Your eyes snapped open in unfiltered financial terror, hands clutching at the sheets as you prepared to calculate your medical debt down to the last miserable cent. You were already accepting your fate as a lifelong indentured servant to the healthcare system when—

The ceiling was too ornate. The bed was too soft.

And there was a man sitting beside you, holding your hand.

Your breath caught in your throat as your vision sharpened. Red hair. Heart earring. A cocky smirk, even in his sleep.

You knew that face.

You knew that godforsaken face.

This wasn’t a hospital. This wasn’t even your world.

Somewhere in the heavens, a cosmic entity was laughing as you stared at Ace Trappola, the very same Ace Trappola from the cover of the book you were reading before you got absolutely trucked by a grandma on rollerblades.

Your will to live immediately evaporated.

This couldn’t be happening. This was not real. There was no way that the trashy dumpster fire of a novel you barely got halfway through had decided to swallow you whole and spit you out as its heroine. You were a victim of circumstance. You hadn’t even wanted to read the book. Your colleague had shoved it into your hands with a laugh, saying, “It’s so bad, you’ll love it.”

And now? Now you were going to die in it.

While you were still reeling from this existential horror, Ace stirred beside you, stretching like he’d just taken a refreshing nap instead of being complicit in your suffering.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” he said.

You almost threw up in real time.

NO. NO, HE DID NOT JUST SKYRIM YOU.

Before you could even begin to unpack that offensive introduction, Ace leaned back in his chair, regarding you with an amused grin.

“Man, you were out for so long,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself at your expense. “We were starting to get worried.”

He paused, then snickered. “Not that I can blame you, though. You got knocked out real bad after Sir Drama decided to pick you up and carry you across a puddle—y’know, because chivalry—and then you started struggling and he, uh…” Ace coughed, failing to smother his laughter. “He might’ve… dropped you on your head.”

Your soul left your body.

The sheer force of your disgust, fury, and resignation compressed into a singularity of unparalleled despair.

You had already suffered a head injury in this world and it hadn’t even been five minutes.

Meanwhile, Ace—clearly unbothered by your silent mental breakdown—casually reached out and ruffled your hair like you were some kind of small animal.

“Try not to scare everyone like that next time, yeah?” he said, standing up with a stretch. “Anyway, I’ll let you rest. See ya, drama queen.”

And just like that, he walked out.

The door clicked shut.

And you were left alone.

You sat there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, dead inside.

Then at the overly luxurious furniture.

Then at the mirror across the room.

You knew what you would see before you even looked.

White nightgown. Perfect noble lady bedhead. The very same reflection that haunted you from the novel’s terrible cover.

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaled, and let out the most guttural, primal scream into your pillow.

This was real. This was happening.

And worst of all—

You were about to be pursued by five of the worst men to ever disgrace the literary world.

Tears pricked at your eyes.

You needed a plan.

You needed a way out.

You needed to reject them.

You needed to survive.

With renewed determination, you wiped your tears, hardened your heart, and began plotting your escape.

The moment you accepted that you were, in fact, trapped in this flaming disaster of a novel, you immediately went into damage control mode.

Step One: Gather Allies.

Your first course of action was to round up every single sane person in your immediate social circle—which, in this case, meant the heroine’s original friend group. You weren’t sure how well they’d take this, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

So, within the hour, you managed to corral Ace, Deuce, Riddle, Cater, and Trey into a private room like some kind of organized intervention.

They were all staring at you expectantly.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the sheer stupidity of what you were about to say.

“Listen,” you began, voice firm. “I need help. Serious help. I am being actively hunted by five of the worst men to ever exist, and I need to figure out how to reject them before I end up dead in an alley.”

There was a pause.

Riddle, bless his soul, was the first to react.

He patted you on the back, nodding solemnly. “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow a spine. It’s about time.”

You blinked. That was the most support you had ever received in your life.

Meanwhile, Trey and Cater exchanged amused glances, Ace looked way too smug for comfort, and Deuce was already looking at Ace like he was onto something.

“You need to get rid of them?” Trey asked, as if he were merely discussing pastry ingredients.

“Yes,” you stressed. “Immediately.”

Riddle hummed in approval. “Good. Then let’s strategize.”

You, Riddle, Trey, and Cater huddled together like you were planning a war campaign.

Ace and Deuce, on the other hand, were having a separate conversation entirely.

A conversation that consisted of Deuce elbowing Ace repeatedly while Ace sat there, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Then, with the casual arrogance of someone who absolutely had an ulterior motive, Ace stretched his arms and leaned back.

“Y’know,” he drawled, cutting into your very serious rejection plan, “we could make things way easier if you just tell ‘em you’re already taken.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Ace smirked. “You'd just need a fake lover, right?”

“…Yes?”

He shrugged. “I could do it.”

The room went silent.

Deuce’s face twisted into an undisguised scowl of "That's not what i meant." Riddle raised an eyebrow. Trey hid a knowing smile behind his hand. Cater was visibly entertained.

You, on the other hand, were experiencing about five different emotions at once.

On one hand, Ace clearly had a crush on the heroine—for you. Which meant using him for this felt slightly scummy.

On the other hand, game was game, and survival was survival.

And you were not above exploiting every advantage you could get.

“…Alright,” you agreed, shoving your morals into a dark abyss.

Ace grinned like he’d just won a bet.

Deuce looked one second away from committing homicide.

And just like that, Operation “Escape Horrible Men” was officially underway.

The first lunatic to cross your path was, tragically, the childhood acquaintance—if you could even call him that. This was a man whose entire personality was built on a single act of kindness you had allegedly performed when you were six, like some kind of feral pigeon imprinting on the first human to throw it bread.

He had the look of a man who had been living exclusively off delusions and a diet of unattainable dreams, and you could already feel your soul attempting to evacuate your body at the sight of him.

It all started when you, Ace, and Deuce were having a perfectly nice day at the market. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and you were engaged in the kind of casual battery that only true friends participated in—swatting at each other, shoving, stealing food mid-bite, and slinging arms over shoulders like a group of rowdy idiots. It was peace. It was joy. And then he appeared.

Like a cockroach that had survived a nuclear apocalypse, he inserted himself into the conversation with an ease that defied all reason, his hand creeping onto your waist as if that was something people just did.

The audacity. The sheer gall. The unmitigated temerity.

On instinct, you physically rejected his existence. You shoved him off with enough force to make a statement, then slammed your heel down on his foot. You were not the original heroine. You did not believe in suffering in silence. You believed in equal opportunity violence.

But this man—this absolute buffoon—had the mental resilience of a particularly dense brick. He simply did not process rejection.

You walked away. He followed. Like a stray cat you accidentally fed once, he clung to your side, ignoring all signs that he was unwelcome.

You showed Deuce a cool charm for his sword; he inserted his completely unsolicited opinion.

You cracked a joke to Ace; he forced out a laugh like you had told it for his benefit.

At one point, you were fairly certain he was just mimicking your breathing patterns to convince himself you were soulmates.

Alright. You had tried being civil. Time to be petty.

You turned to Ace with the kind of dramatic flourish that only came with years of consuming terrible romance novels, throwing yourself into his arms like some damsel in distress. Ace, to his credit, took exactly one second to process before he immediately understood the assignment.

He leaned in close, breath brushing against your ear like he was whispering something scandalous, and you, in turn, made a show of gasping, clutching his shirt like he had just recited the most romantic poetry in existence.

Then he hand-fed you a pastry.

It was too much. Too intimate. Too stupidly effective. You let out a little dreamy sigh, delicately biting into the pastry like it was a love declaration and not just your breakfast. Ace, ever the performer, brushed a crumb off your lips with his thumb.

Deuce, at this point, was convulsing with laughter in the background, nearly choking on his own spit.

But the acquaintance? The parasite? The man who had lived the past decade of his life under the assumption that you were his? He was seething. His face was twisted like he had just swallowed a whole lemon rind and all.

Time to twist the knife.

You turned to Ace with the most lovestruck expression you could muster and, in a voice dripping with sugar and malice, cooed, “Darling, when are you going to propose? I simply cannot wait to be engaged to you”

Ace visibly blue-screened for a moment. You could hear the Windows error noise in real-time. But he was nothing if not quick on his feet.

In a devastating move, he took your hand in both of his, looked into your eyes like you personally invented the concept of love, and murmured, “My love, I’ve searched the entire kingdom for a ring that shines as brightly as your eyes, but nothing has been worthy of you yet.”

That was it. That was the final blow. The childhood acquaintance physically recoiled, his reality shattering like fragile glass, his world crumbling like an over-soaked sponge cake.

“You’re… dating?” he whispered, trembling, as if he was the protagonist in a tragic opera.

You and Ace turned to him in perfect synchrony, all wide eyes and lovesick smiles, and in the most disgustingly sweet voices you could manage, declared, “We’re soooo in love~”

He ran away crying.

It was magnificent. It was euphoric. You turned to watch him flee, skidding into the distance like a wounded deer, while Deuce collapsed against a stand, wheezing.

And then, just for a moment—barely a second—you caught Ace watching you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder like nothing had happened.

One down. Four to go.

The invitation to the ball had arrived with the pomp and circumstance of an execution notice.

You had already survived assassination attempts (by fate and by your own refusal to engage with the five unhinged men vying for your hand), but now you were being asked to waltz? Like some graceful noble lady who had spent her entire life twirling through candlelit halls and not someone whose idea of “dancing” was flailing in the kitchen at 2 AM while waiting for instant noodles to cook?

You tried to tell yourself, maybe the original heroine’s muscle memory will kick in.

It did not.

You attempted a single spin in your room and promptly tripped over the hem of your dress, landing face-first into the carpet with all the elegance of a sedated goose. The reality was undeniable—you needed help.

Unfortunately, Deuce and Riddle, your two best hopes for structured, competent lessons, were drowning in their official duties. That left you with Trey(thankfully), Cater, and Ace.

Ace. The man who claimed he could “totally waltz” but then proceeded to move like he was dodging invisible potholes. He swore he was just "freestyling," which, sure, was a thing people did—just not in 18th-century ballroom dancing.

Trey, ever the responsible elder brother figure, took pity on your plight and offered to teach you. You gratefully accepted, placing your hand in his, and the two of you began to move across the floor. Or, rather, Trey moved and you decimated his toes with every step.

Ace, watching from the sidelines, looked like he had been personally wronged by the universe.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His grip on his drink? White-knuckled. If he had been any tenser, his soul might have ascended on the spot.

Cater, in contrast, was having the time of his life.

Sipping tea like a smug little gremlin, he watched the spectacle unfold with the kind of amusement normally reserved for reality TV drama. He did not care that Ace was clearly dying inside. In fact, it was making the tea taste better.

Meanwhile, Trey suffered.

He suffered so much.

You stepped on his foot. Again. You stepped on it without intent. Without malice. But with the weight of a hundred failed dance lessons.

“Ah, you’re getting there,” Trey said with the patience of a saint, even as he subtly tried to guide you away from his crushed toes.

Ace twitched.

The evening ended with you being marginally better at dancing and Ace looking like he had been force-fed an entire lemon tree.

The next day, you arrived at Ace’s estate with the singular goal of dragging him into town for shenanigans.

Instead, you were met at the entrance by his butler, who, with a knowing wink that immediately put you on edge, informed you that Ace was “currently practicing” and that you were "free to go in and see for yourself."

This, of course, set off all your mental alarms.

You pushed open the door just a crack, peeking inside, and what you saw nearly short-circuited your brain.

There, in the middle of the room, was Ace Trappola.

Dancing.

With a coat hanger.

He held it like a real partner, moving across the floor with surprising grace, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pressing into a frustrated pout whenever he missed a step.

You felt something unfamiliar rise in your chest. A warmth. A flutter. A sense of being deeply, irreversibly touched.

You immediately squashed the feeling. Crushed it under your heel like a bug. Incinerated it. You refused to let sentimentality win.

So, naturally, you cleared your throat and went straight for the teasing.

“Wow, Ace. I didn’t know you and the coat hanger were so close.”

Ace startled so hard he nearly dropped the poor inanimate object.

He turned to you, face flushing an almost adorable shade of pink, before scowling and attempting to play it cool.

“I—this—I wasn’t practicing for you or anything!” he scoffed, crossing his arms as if that would somehow erase the memory from your brain.

“Oh, of course not,” you said, nodding sagely. “You were obviously training to impress the coat hanger.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck. Refused to meet your eyes.

“…You wanna practice together?”

And that was how you found yourself dancing with Ace in the dim glow of the evening light, his hands warm against yours, the two of you laughing every time you stumbled.

It was awkward. It was messy. It was weirdly fun.

And somewhere in the background, Ace’s butler was already reallocating the estate’s budget for your wedding.

You had successfully survived the dance.

This was, by all accounts, a miracle.

There had been no toe-crushing disasters, no tragic falls, no wardrobe malfunctions that would have made the noble ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about you for decades. Not even a single case of you flinging your arms out too enthusiastically and smacking a duke’s son in the face.

You had defied fate.

And it definitely helped that your partner had been Ace—as much as that bruised your pride to admit. He was annoyingly decent at making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet, even though he kept smirking the entire time like he was waiting for you to say something ridiculous like "Wow, Ace, you're so talented and charming and handsome, what would I ever do without you?"

You would rather perish.

So, once the dance ended, you immediately excused yourself and found a nice, solid chair to collapse into. Ace, good little fake boyfriend that he was, offered to get you both drinks, which was a very convenient excuse for you to not be near him for five minutes.

And that was when the Genius Strategist Prince swooped in.

You did not see him approach. You did not sense his presence. It was as if he had teleported into existence like some eldritch being fueled purely by narcissism and misplaced confidence.

One moment, you were sitting peacefully, and the next—

He was there.

The cursed arm wrapped around your shoulders. The infuriating smirk. The unbearable arrogance wafting off him like overpriced cologne.

Oh, this was bad.

"You looked quite beautiful on the dance floor tonight," he murmured, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Almost like a queen-to-be."

This man had the audacity—the sheer, unholy nerve—to look at you like you were supposed to giggle and blush at that line instead of chewing through your own tongue in an effort not to commit a crime.

You had one option.

You fled.

You simply stood up and walked away, directly towards the only person in this cursed ballroom who could save you from this richly perfumed disaster of a man.

Ace.

Ace, who had perfectly timed his return with two glasses of something that was hopefully strong enough to erase the last ten seconds from your memory. Ace, who took one look at your expression, saw the absolute horror trailing behind you, and immediately understood the assignment.

Without missing a beat, he wrapped an arm around you.

Possessive. Protective. The very image of a devoted fake lover.

You had never been so grateful for his dramatic streak.

The prince, who had followed you like a particularly persistent case of food poisoning, bristled.

"Remove your arm," he commanded, his voice low and sharp.

Ace did not remove his arm.

In fact, he pulled you closer, tilting his head just slightly in a way that perfectly balanced smugness and challenge.

"Why should I take my hand off my partner?" he asked.

You, who had spent your entire life developing a survival instinct specifically for escaping situations like this, felt the distant whisper of a self-preservation alarm. That was still the crown prince, after all. Ace was many things—irritating, reckless, an absolute menace—but he was not immortal.

Fortunately, before you had to say anything, help arrived.

Across the ballroom, Riddle nodded.

To your left, Deuce gave a subtle thumbs-up.

The plan was in motion.

Phase One

From the far end of the ballroom, Trey, the royal chef, emerged, balancing an enormous cake on a silver tray. It was a towering, masterful creation—a true work of art, layers stacked high, delicately sculpted sugar decorations shimmering under the chandelier light.

A cake that, in mere moments, would be used as a weapon of mass destruction.

Trey took one fateful step.

Tripped (As planned)

And the entire cake, in all its elaborate, multi-tiered glory, toppled over.

Straight. Onto. The. Prince.

Ace immediately shielded you from the debris. His hand was firm on your back as he turned you slightly away from the chaos, and when you glanced up at him, he was grinning.

Smug. Smug. Smug.

Something in your stomach did something.

You ignored it.

The prince, meanwhile, stood there in horrified silence, cake and frosting dripping down his very expensive, very now-ruined clothes.

And then came Phase Two

Deuce, moving with the "concern" of a man who absolutely knew he was about to ruin someone’s life, rushed forward.

"Your Highness," he said earnestly, holding out his own coat, "you should remove your clothes."

The entire ballroom went silent.

The prince, still picking fondant out of his hair, turned slowly.

"What?"

"You’re covered in cake," Deuce explained, voice so painfully genuine that you nearly choked.

The prince, who absolutely would rather die than undress in public, refused.

Which was unfortunate. Because Deuce, bless his heart, did not take no for an answer.

He grabbed the prince’s jacket.

And pulled.

The ballroom collectively inhaled.

Because underneath—where there should have been the broad, powerful shoulders of a “warrior prince,” where there should have been toned muscle sculpted by years of battle and strategy—

Was nothing.

Not just nothing—an outright betrayal of physics and expectation.

The prince was built like a malnourished Victorian ghost.

His coat—once the source of his so-called “strong, masculine presence”—had been heavily padded. Not just lightly stuffed, but outright engineered to create the illusion of bulging biceps and warrior-like stature.

Biceps, it was now evident, larger than his actual head.

The ballroom gasped.

The prince, red-faced and humiliated, did what any reasonable man would do when faced with public disgrace.

He ran.

You, Ace, Deuce, and your co-conspirators high-fived.

And the next morning, Cater, journalist extraordinaire, published an excruciatingly detailed article titled:

"From Brawn to Busted: The Prince’s Muscle Mirage!"

2 down. 3 to go.

It had been a regular morning. A peaceful morning. A morning where you had intended to do nothing more than descend the stairs like a normal, functioning member of society, have breakfast, and not make a complete spectacle of yourself before noon.

The universe had other plans.

One moment, you had been confidently stepping forward, and the next—

Betrayal.

Your foot had missed the step. Gravity, that treacherous, fickle force, had seized its chance. You had plummeted like a sack of potatoes launched off a moving carriage, limbs flailing, dignity abandoning ship before you even hit the floor.

And then you hit the floor.

Hard.

Ace, your beloved thorn in the side, had stood over you, blinking, until you groaned and weakly waved a hand to signal that you were probably not dead.

And that was when he had completely lost it.

He had laughed for ten minutes straight. A full, wheezing, tears-in-his-eyes, struggling-to-breathe kind of laugh, slapping his knee like an old man who just heard the funniest joke of his life. The servants had peered around corners in confusion. One poor maid had whispered, "Should we call a doctor?" Not for you. For Ace, because he was about to rupture a lung.

"You're fine," he gasped out eventually, still giggling like a goblin. "It's just a sprain, right? But your ego— oh, your ego is never coming back from this one."

And that was how you had ended up here.

Ace had decided—without your input, without even a semblance of human decency— that you were now a particularly large handbag.

He carried you everywhere.

There was no logical reason for this. You could still walk. You had one (1) slightly messed-up ankle, you were fine. But Ace, seeing the opportunity to be the worst person alive, had simply hoisted you up like a particularly unruly sack of flour and declared, "Guess you're stuck with me, huh?"

And he had not put you down since.

Which led to your current predicament.

You had planned to meet Riddle, Trey, and Cater for tea in the gardens, because you were a person of class and refinement, not some gremlin carried around like stolen treasure. But did that stop Ace? No. Of course not.

The three of them had been waiting peacefully in the garden, cups of tea in hand, enjoying their serene afternoon—

And then Ace had strolled in, with you draped over his shoulder like a particularly expensive piece of luggage.

Silence.

The kind of silence that one might expect after watching a clown cartwheel directly into the king’s court.

Trey looked concerned. Riddle looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. Cater, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looked entertained.

And you? You had given up.

"You could just let me down, you know," you muttered, swatting at Ace’s shoulder in what you hoped was a dignified manner, though it probably looked more like a dying fish flopping around.

Ace grinned, because of course he did. "Nah. Too late. You’re furniture now."

You scowled. "Then put me near the table so I can actually reach my tea, you absolute menace—"

Ace ignored you completely.

He dropped into a chair, still holding you.

This was your life now.

Trey, who had likely woken up hoping for a quiet afternoon, cleared his throat and asked, very diplomatically, "So… sprained ankle?"

"Tragic accident," Ace said, like he was recounting the tale of a fallen soldier. "There I was, just minding my own business, when—boom. Disaster. Absolute catastrophe. They will sing songs about this one for years."

"You were laughing," you deadpanned.

"And now I'm grieving," Ace shot back.

Riddle, who had quite frankly had enough of both of you, massaged his temples.

Meanwhile, Cater, who had pulled out his camera at some point, was taking photos.

"This is gold," he muttered, already plotting his gossip column.

And then, just as you were mid-swat, trying to smack the smirk off Ace’s face while he cackled like a heathen, Riddle sighed under his breath, voice heavy with exhaustion and despair.

"They're so obvious," he muttered. "Sevens save us all."

Trey nodded solemnly. Cater just grinned.

It had been a perfectly normal day.

Which, of course, meant disaster was imminent.

You were standing in the grand hall, sipping a totally normal, non-poisoned cup of tea (probably), when you felt it. That eerie, spine-chilling sensation. The distinct, unsettling awareness that you were being watched.

Slowly, you turned your head.

A pair of glowing eyes peered at you from behind an indoor potted plant.

You sighed. Loudly. "Viscount, I can see you."

"Tch," the Viscount hissed, stepping out of his entirely inadequate hiding spot. "So perceptive… as expected of my fated beloved."

As if to ruin the illusion entirely, he tripped on his own cape and had to grab onto the plant for support. The entire thing tipped over with a thunderous CRASH.

Silence.

A servant slowly turned to look at him, unblinking.

The Viscount, sprawled across the floor, cleared his throat. "Pretend you did not see that."

You rubbed your temples. "What do you want?"

He rose to his feet dramatically—or at least, he tried. His foot got tangled in his cape again, and he had to do an awkward little hop to untangle himself before he could finally regain his dignity (what little he had left).

"I have come to confess," he intoned, "the depths of my undying love for you."

A dramatic wind blew through the hall. (Despite the fact that all the windows were closed.)

You braced yourself. This was going to be painful.

"From the moment I first laid eyes upon you," the Viscount continued, stepping forward (but nearly tripping over a rug). "I knew that you and I were bound by fate."

He gripped his chest. "Your beauty, your grace, your ability to evade me every time I attempt to watch over you from the shadows… truly, you are like a rare and precious bird, always just out of reach!"

"You mean because I run away every time you try to talk to me?" you deadpanned.

"Exactly!" he said, passionately. "Such a clever game of cat and mouse we play!"

You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.

Cater was, once again, taking pictures of this entire trainwreck. Deuce had just pulled out a chair, grabbed a snack, and was watching like it was a soap opera.

"But no more!" the Viscount declared. "Today, I shall break this cycle and claim my rightful place at your side!"

He took a bold step forward—

—and promptly slipped on the fallen leaves from the potted plant.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Then—THUMP.

He faceplanted straight into the marble floor.

Cater wheezed. Deuce actually fell out of his chair. Riddle was muttering something about public executions. Trey looked like he was reconsidering his entire life.

But the Viscount?

He slowly pushed himself up, nose bleeding, expression unfazed.

"A minor setback," he rasped, wiping the blood off his face with his own cape like some kind of tragic war hero. "Love… is pain."

You exhaled deeply. "Alright, you know what?" You straightened your posture, voice heavy with overwhelming sorrow. "My dear Viscount… if only you had come to me sooner."

His breath hitched. "You mean—?"

"If only fate were kinder," you continued, placing a hand on your chest. "If only my heart were not already…taken."

Fake gasps echoed through the hall.

The Viscount staggered. "No… it cannot be!"

"I am afraid so," you whispered. "For I… I have already pledged my love to…"

You spun dramatically—and pointed straight at Ace.

Ace, who immediately choked on his drink.

Ace, who had agreed to fake date you but was now staring at you like you had just struck him with a bolt of divine judgment.

Cater’s camera zoomed in on his expression.

You turned dramatically, seizing Ace’s arm with a grip that could bend steel. "My darling fiancé, my heart, my sun and stars!" you declared, throwing yourself against him like a maiden in distress. "Forgive me for not introducing you sooner—this is my betrothed, Ace Trappola!"

Ace made a sound like a cat getting drop-kicked across a room.

"WHAT."

The Viscount looked like someone had just run him through with a broadsword.

"I know," you said, voice trembling with unspeakable woe. "It seems impossible. Unthinkable. But love, my dear Viscount, is a force beyond comprehension. Who are we to fight against fate?"

Ace was still making distressed noises. Riddle looked like he was five seconds away from committing homicide.

"No—no, this cannot be!" The Viscount staggered back, clutching his chest like he had just been mortally wounded. "You would choose him over me?"

You gripped Ace’s collar, pulling him until your foreheads nearly touched. "How could I not?" you whispered. "Look at him. Look at his—his, um. His face!"

Ace mouthed: WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

"His personality!" you continued, wildly grasping for reasons. "His—his unparalleled ability to be so Ace-like at all times!"

"I hate every single word coming out of your mouth," Ace muttered.

"And most of all," you gasped, voice hushed. "The way he carries me when I sprain my ankle. A true gentleman. A man among men."

The grand hall erupted into chaos.

Ace visibly short-circuited. "I— WHAT??"

Cater's hands visibly shook as he tried to keep taking pictures. Deuce had fully dropped his snack. The Viscount let out a dramatic, heartbroken wail.

"Engaged?!" the Viscount gasped. "But how? When?!"

You clutched Ace’s hand tighter. "Last night."

"LAST NIGHT??" Ace screeched.

You shot him a look. Ace, whose entire face was on fire, gulped and quickly switched tactics.

"Aha… aha… yeah, totally!" He threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning through his existential crisis. "We got engaged last night! Super romantic and all that! Just me and my beloved—" his voice cracked, "—who I love so much!"

You patted his chest reassuringly. "See? True love."

The Viscount staggered back. His entire world was shattering. The intensity of his emotional turmoil was so strong that he tripped over his own cape again and went tumbling down the nearby staircase.

It took twenty entire seconds for him to hit the bottom.

More silence.

Then, from below: "Love… is pain…"

Ace, still holding you, whispered, "What did you just do to me?"

You turned, smiling sweetly. "I just made you my fiancé, Ace."

Ace felt faint. His heart had been going a normal amount of fast when he agreed to fake date you, but this? This was illegal.

Meanwhile, Cater was already writing the next article.

The night had started so normally. Just you, your expensive, holy-grail skincare routine, and the unwavering determination to emerge from this ritual looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. You had your headband on, your fluffy robe wrapped around you, and the greenish-white sludge of your face mask setting into a crusty layer of beauty and self-care.

Then Ace Trappola happened.

He kicked the door open like he was the protagonist of a spaghetti western, took one look at you, and lost his entire mind.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" he gasped, immediately doubling over in laughter. "Oh my god, you look like a haunted doll."

You did not hesitate. You lunged at him like an apex predator.

And despite all his athleticism and street-rat reflexes, Ace had not been prepared for an attack from a fully masked-up, vengeance-driven individual armed with a whole tub of premium skincare.

"WAIT—NO—"

It was too late.

You straddled his lap, pressed his shoulders down onto your bed, and slathered the mask onto his stupid, laughing face with all the delicacy of an artist painting their magnum opus.

"See?" you said sweetly, coating his nose with a dramatic flourish. "Now we’re both glowing."

Ace wanted to talk back— wanted to make a joke, to tell you off, to do anything but sit here like a dumb, frozen idiot while you cupped his face, held his chin so gently, and smoothed the mask over his cheekbones like he was something precious and breakable.

And he was losing it.

Your legs were slung over his lap. His back was against your bed. Your hand was on his jaw, tilting his face however you wanted. And Ace, the very same Ace who laughed at every romantic in the kingdom for being cringe and stupid, was about two seconds away from throwing his dignity out the window and leaning into your touch.

Because all he could see, smell, and feel was you.

Your voice kept going, rambling about something stupid and inconsequential—some royal drama, a new gossip column, your thoughts on different brands of facial cleanser—but Ace couldn’t process a single word because his entire stupid, traitorous heart was screaming at him to just—just—

The revelation slammed into him like a meteor. A deadly, world-ending, history-changing impact that reduced his brain cells to rubble and left behind only the smoking wreckage of a man who was well and truly screwed.

This was not a platonic feeling.

This was the opposite of a platonic feeling.

And yet, instead of saying anything, instead of introspecting like a sane person, he just let you keep talking, let himself bask in the feeling of your fingers on his face, let himself sink into the sheer stupidity of his predicament.

By the time he could regain enough motor function to think about moving, it was too late.

You had both somehow, inexplicably, fallen asleep.

The morning arrived with the unmistakable sound of high-pitched giggles.

You cracked open a single bleary eye, your body heavy with sleep, and—oh.

Oh no.

Ace was snuggled up against your arm, his face relaxed in a way you had never seen before. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced by something painfully soft and vulnerable.

His hair was a mess, sticking up in ridiculous angles, but somehow, it made him look even cuter. His cheek was squished against your shoulder, his arms curled slightly around yours, one leg lazily slung over yours like he had every right to use you as a makeshift pillow.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t even weird.

It felt… right.

And that was when it hit you.

Like a meteor. Like an act of god. Like the universe itself had conspired to wait until you were at your most defenseless before smacking you in the face with one singular, undeniable truth.

You were in love with Ace Trappola.

You. Loved. Ace.

How unfortunate.

You had half a mind to violently shake him awake, make him take responsibility for making you feel this way—but then he muttered something in his sleep, something unintelligible, and shifted closer, pressing his nose against your arm.

You stopped breathing.

The maids were still standing at the door, watching, waiting for you to react.

You slowly raised a hand.

And, with the elegance of a queen issuing a decree, you waved them away.

Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

The Duke of the North was an annual disaster. Like a migrating bird that exclusively flew south to be annoying, he only visited the capital once a year—and every single time, it was to do one thing: propose to you.

This would have been flattering, except for the fact that you had been rejecting him since the dawn of time. Yet, for some reason, he was deeply convinced that, one day, you would simply change your mind upon seeing him standing there, brooding dramatically in his tailored, imported-from-a-country-that-doesn’t-even-exist coats.

He did not take rejection well.

Of course, you never answered his letters. Why would you? His correspondence was a tragic novel in real-time, each letter trying and failing to sound aloof, with absolutely zero success.

"I suppose you are busy, as I am also very busy, thinking about extremely important things, such as war and finance and not at all about why you have not replied to me in the last six months." "Should you choose to acknowledge my existence, I will, of course, consider taking time out of my incredibly packed schedule to respond (though I have already cleared next Tuesday for you, just in case)." "It is of no consequence to me whether you reply. However, I have sent my fastest courier, so you may want to respond before he breaks his legs trying to reach me before nightfall."

Pathetic.

And now, as expected, here he was again.

And as always, he came prepared.

This time, he had doubled down on his "love can be bought" philosophy.

A solid gold chair—because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.”

An entirely new breed of horse, bred specifically for you, because "standard horses are beneath you."

A fleet of ships. Why? No one knew. You were not a sailor. You had never even been on a boat.

Riddle, who had been an unfortunate witness to this entire spectacle, had been slowly turning redder and redder, not out of anger, but out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. He looked like he was debating whether to intervene or let natural selection take its course.

Meanwhile, the villainess, who had been throwing you dirty looks since the Duke’s arrival, stood nearby. It didn’t take long for you to realize why—she liked him. She wanted him.

You turned to face her. Slowly. Deliberately.

Your expression said: “Lady, I don’t even want him.”

Her expression said: “You lying harlot.”

And before you could even think of clarifying that you had no interest in this walking gold reserve, the situation somehow got worse.

Ace appeared out of nowhere, grabbed your hand, and, with the audacity of a man who had never once in his life considered the consequences of his actions, declared with full confidence:

"Oh, sorry, we already got married."

Riddle choked on air.

The Duke froze, mid-proposal, like a glitching NPC in a poorly coded game. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were about to say something but his brain was actively refusing to process the information.

"You," he said hoarsely, like someone had just stabbed him in the chest. "What?"

You nodded solemnly, forcing yourself to look as heartbreakingly sincere as possible. "We even have a dog," you said.

Ace, who had waited his entire life for a bit like this, effortlessly raised the stakes.

"Two dogs," he added, gripping your hand even tighter.

You smiled sweetly, as if recounting precious memories of a long and happy marriage. "Three, actually."

The Duke’s breathing audibly shortened.

Riddle buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Oh my god, make it stop.”

"WHAT?!"

Ace sighed, the weariness of a devoted husband weighing down on him. "We also have six kids."

The Duke, who had already been dangerously close to a stroke, seemed to visibly glitch.

"SIX?! BUT IT HASN’T EVEN BEEN A YEAR!"

Ace, seeing an opportunity and deciding to go all in, dramatically gestured at a group of stray cats on the street.

"There they are," he said, with the utmost conviction.

The Duke followed his gaze, slowly, hesitantly, as if he already knew he was about to regret it.

There, on the sidewalk, were six very dirty, very chaotic stray cats.

One of them, making full eye contact with him, immediately started hacking up a hairball. Another was biting its own tail, because it had seemingly forgotten that it was attached to its body. A third was somehow climbing a wall upside down, defying both gravity and logic.

The Duke completely lost his mind.

"YOU—YOU HAVE—YOU’VE BIRTHED FELINE OFFSPRING?!"

Riddle made a strangled noise. His entire body convulsed with the effort of holding back laughter.

Ace did not hesitate. "Yeah, we just love them so much," he said, as if this were a completely normal and factual statement. "Fatherhood changes a man, y’know?"

"Don't forget our youngest," you added helpfully, pointing at a cat stuck in a flower pot.

Ace wiped an imaginary tear. "That's little Gregory. He's the smart one."

At this point, Riddle was not even trying to stop laughing anymore. He had completely given up, his usual decorum shattered beyond repair.

The Duke, however, looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously. His face twisted into pure devastation. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately closed it, shaking his head in silent agony.

And then, without another word—he left.

Ace, smug beyond words, turned to you, grinning. "That went well."

Riddle, who had just witnessed a full-scale psychological takedown using nothing but sheer absurdity, wiped a tear from his eye. "You two are insane," he muttered, shaking his head.

Ace didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.

Ace doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

He’s always liked you. A little.

A manageable amount. A totally ignorable amount. The kind of dumb little crush that normal people have. The kind you lock in a box, throw into the ocean, and then blow up the ocean for good measure.

But then you woke up from your fainting accident and became his worst nightmare.

Because somehow, in that brief unconscious state, you became ten times more interesting. More chaotic. More fun.

You met his sarcasm with even faster comebacks. You encouraged his bad ideas. You had absolutely no self-preservation. You went from exasperatedly tolerating his nonsense to actively participating in it, and it was the worst thing you could have possibly done to him.

Because now?

Now he’s the one barely keeping up.

You match him perfectly—step for step, disaster for disaster. If he’s instigating, you’re escalating. If he cracks a joke, you one-up him. When he nudges you in the ribs, you shove him into a bush.

And when you grab his arm, lean in close, and whisper, "Hey, let’s cause some problems," his brain just shuts the hell down.

He’s so ruined.

And the thing is?

Ace has done this to himself.

Because when he suggested pretending to be your lover, he genuinely thought it was a great idea. A genius plan, even.

He’d fake it, get it out of his system, and then tragically move on once you found someone else.

Except now he’s holding your hand in public.

Now he’s whispering in your ear just to make you laugh.

Now he’s calling you ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ and ‘my love’—and you play along like it’s a game, and every time, his heart detonates like an unstable potion.

At this point, if you actually fell for someone else?

Ace thinks he might literally die.

No, really. He would simply perish. Collapse. Expire. He would crumple to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been violently severed and haunt the castle as the world’s most bitter, lovesick ghost.

Cupid was somewhere, rolling on the floor, wheezing.

The other day, you smiled at him for too long, and he forgot how to walk and almost tripped.

You called him ‘Acey’ once, and he almost bit through his own tongue.

One time, you said, "I feel safest when I’m with you," and he blacked out for a full thirty seconds.

You took a sip from his drink the other day, and he had to go lie down.

And now you’re standing beside him at some stupid jewelry stall, pointing at a necklace with that gleam in your eyes, and Ace is staring at you like an absolute idiot.

He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you look under the market lights.

How he’d buy you every single piece of jewelry in the damn kingdom if you asked.

How his entire soul is in shambles because he’s standing next to you thinking, "Oh no. I actually, genuinely, idiotically am in love."

Ace Trappola, Ace ‘Fake-Dating-Was-A-Good-Idea’ Trappola, is staring at you thinking:

"Oh, Trappola. You absolute dumbass. You’re in love."

And then you turn to him, all bright-eyed and smiling, and ask, "Ace, do you think this would suit me?"

And he almost chokes on his own tongue.

Because yes.

Yes, it would suit you.

So would every other necklace in existence. So would a crown. So would the title of Supreme Ruler of the Universe, if he could somehow get that for you.

But instead of saying that, he just shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to look normal, and mutters, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you like it, just get it already."

And you laugh.

And Ace Trappola is never going to recover from this.

The worst of the lot finally appears.

You had dealt with the Brooding Duke who thought love could be purchased, endured the Prince who wept into his lace handkerchief at every rejection, and even managed to shake off the Yandere who believed true love was an elaborate chess game. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the Drama King Knight.

He stood before you in the garden, his impractically long cape billowing in the completely windless afternoon, because he had, no doubt, hired a peasant to stand just off-camera fanning him.

His sword—which was capable of splitting mountains but had only ever been used to dramatically point at celestial bodies—glinted in the sun. He looked at you with eyes that had definitely rehearsed this exact expression in the mirror for three hours.

"Fairest of all," he said, already halfway through a monologue you did not want to hear. "I have braved the perils of—"

You sighed dramatically, cutting him off. "A single brush of your hand might shatter my frail mortal bones."

The Knight visibly trembled. His gauntleted hand hovered in the air like he was about to faint. "You’re right… I must protect you. From myself."

Riddle, standing beside you, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Do that. From very, very far away."

And for a moment, it seemed like that would be enough. The Knight turned away, his cape swishing dramatically. You could practically hear the imaginary background music swelling, the curtains closing, the credits rolling.

Then he whirled back around. God, why do they always whirl back around?

"But if I cannot be with you in body," he declared, voice shaking with raw emotion, "then I shall remain by your side in spirit. Our souls, forever entwined. Our hearts, eternally wed!"

You blinked. "What."

"Yes!" He threw an arm toward the heavens, pointing at the sun like he was about to challenge it to a duel. "We shall be together in spirit! No matter where you go, I shall always be watching! Always waiting! Like the moon follows the tide, I shall—"

Alright. You had tried to reject him normally. You had been reasonable. But clearly, reason had no place here.

Riddle sighed. "Do whatever you're about to do. Just… make it quick."

You nodded grimly. If this was how it had to be, then so be it.

You squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and clutched your chest like a woman stricken with a terrible, unknowable curse.

"No," you whispered. "You don’t understand."

The Knight faltered. "Understand… what?"

You threw an arm over your eyes. "I am cursed! Any man who loves me shall be turned into a… a… a goose."

Silence.

The Knight blinked at you. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His sword, which had been dramatically trembling in his grip, clattered to the ground.

"A… a goose?" he repeated.

You solemnly nodded.

And then, as prearranged, Deuce rushed off to fetch the goose.

The Knight looked between you and Deuce’s retreating figure, his expression one of dawning horror, like a man realizing he had proposed to a person who was actually an eldritch horror in disguise.

Deuce returned, struggling slightly because the goose had absolutely no interest in being part of this nonsense.

But this was not just any goose. This was the Emergency Goose.

Ace, hiding behind a tree like the gremlin he was, gave you a solemn nod.

Deuce carefully lifted the goose, revealing the final touch—the little red heart painted onto its cheek.

Riddle rubbed his temples. "I hate that you were prepared for this."

"This," you declared gravely, "is Ace."

The Knight reeled. "No. That… That cannot be!"

The goose honked.

"Yes," you continued, "he loved me once. And this was his fate."

A perfect beat of silence.

And then, from behind the tree, Ace whimpered, "Save me."

The Knight—a man who had once stood before a charging wyvern and laughed in the face of death—let out a shriek so bloodcurdling it startled every bird within a five-mile radius.

And then, cape billowing, he turned and ran.

Not a noble retreat. Not a dignified exit. No. Full-speed sprint. He shoved a confused maid out of the way. He leapt over a market stall. A small child pointed and laughed as he fled, but the Knight did not slow down, because his heart—once so full of love and poetry—was now full of terror.

Terror of you.

Terror of your goose.

Terror of the idea that at any moment, he too might sprout feathers and begin honking at the moon.

You, Ace, Deuce, Riddle, and the goose watched him vanish into the horizon.

A long silence followed.

Deuce set the goose down. The goose, finally free from its obligations, pecked him on the shin and waddled off.

Ace emerged from behind the tree, cackling. "Did you see his face?! Bro really thought I turned into a goose!"

Riddle sighed the sigh of a man who was simply too tired for this nonsense. "You two are the worst people I have ever met."

"You love us," you said.

"I do not."

Ace slung an arm over your shoulder. "You totally do."

Riddle turned on his heel and stormed off in the opposite direction.

But you saw it. You absolutely saw it.

A single, fleeting twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Freedom. Sweet, unshackled, unburdened freedom.

No more men in capes dramatically reciting poetry at you. No more gold furniture being delivered to your doorstep. No more wild-eyed knights trying to prove their devotion by fighting literal bears in your honor. No more deranged suitors appearing at your window like particularly uncoordinated bats.

You were free.

And yet—

As you stood in the gardens, bathed in the golden glow of your well-earned peace, you felt… unsettled. Uneasy. Almost—upset.

Which made no sense. You had spent months rejecting these lunatics. You had faked engagements, lied through your teeth, orchestrated elaborate hoaxes, and weaponized a goose. You had done everything in your power to be rid of them, and it worked.

So why, in the face of your glorious victory, did you feel like you'd lost something?

And then, like a lightning bolt to the brain, it hit you.

Ace.

This meant no more holding hands in public to “convince” people. No more cheek kisses for the sake of believability. No more stupid, infuriating, wonderful Ace, grinning at you like you hung the damn moon.

It was over. Your fake dating/marriage/engagement (depending on the day and the level of your theatrics) had served its purpose.

And now it was gone.

The realization hit like a carriage crash.

You were an idiot. A complete, utter idiot.

Because somewhere between the first fake kiss in front of a suitor, the first time he laced his fingers through yours, the first time he winked at you like you were his favorite person in the entire world, you had fallen for him.

And now, standing in the wreckage of your successful campaign of repelling suitors, you realized that it was either confess right now… or take this to your grave.

Your horribly embarrassing, entirely unavoidable, painfully obvious feelings for Ace Trappola.

Ace is happy for you. He really, really is.

You’re finally free. No more unhinged declarations of love from men who have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. No more dodging elaborate marriage proposals like a rogue in a dungeon raid. No more looking over your shoulder, expecting some cape-wearing lunatic to be reciting poetry in your honor.

Most of them think you’re taken. One thinks you’re cursed.

It worked. You’re safe. You’re free.

So why does Ace feel like he’s the one who lost?

He was kind of hoping it would take longer. Just a little bit. A few more weeks, maybe. Another month, if he was lucky. Because every day you had to pretend to be his meant another day you were in his arms. Another day he got to hold your hand in public and call it necessity. Another day he could press a kiss to your cheek without consequences. Another day of you being his.

And now? Now it was over.

And he doesn’t know how to go back.

How is he supposed to just… be your best friend Ace again? How is he supposed to look at you and not wonder what it could’ve been? How is he supposed to stand beside you like nothing has changed when everything has changed for him?

Because now, every time he looks at you, he just wants to grab you and kiss you until you’re the only thing he can taste. He wants to pull you close, whisper all the things he never let himself say. He wants everything.

But most of all, he knows—knows deep in his bones—that if you ever fall for someone else, it will destroy him.

He has to confess right now or take it to his grave.

You’re running like a madman. Like some kind of deranged romantic heroine who’s just realized she’s been in love with her childhood friend all along. Your dress is catching on every stray branch, your hair’s a mess, and you probably look like you’ve barely survived a war. But none of that matters.

Because Ace is running too.

You see him, just as wrecked as you, his coat unevenly buttoned, his hair windswept, his face flushed and frantic like he’s been sprinting for miles. And maybe he has. Maybe you both have—metaphorically and literally.

You skid to a stop, panting, staring at each other like two idiots who have finally realized the answer to a question they should’ve known all along. Ace looks at you, his breath shuddering, his eyes wide and teary like he can’t believe you’re actually here. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that you’re both half out of your minds with feelings, but you throw caution to the wind.

You’ve survived up till now on sheer audacity. Maybe it can take you further.

So you kiss him.

And for a second, there’s nothing. Just the stunned stillness of the world as you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.

And then he’s grabbing you, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His hands are tangled in your clothes, your hair, desperate, shaking, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever, like he’s terrified it’s all a dream and any second now, he’ll wake up.

You pull away for air—and he chases after your lips, stealing another kiss before you can even take a full breath.

This one is deeper, slower, but just as desperate. It’s like he’s pouring everything he’s ever felt into you, like he’s afraid to stop, like he’s trying to tell you everything he never could with words. And you get it—because you feel the same way.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and shaking with emotion, you press one more soft kiss against his lips, and then you say it.

“I love you.”

Ace lets out a watery laugh, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins like a fool. His eyes are shining, and he cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

“What took you so long?”

And then he kisses you again.

The morning after your dramatic, borderline cinematic love confession, you and Ace walk into the usual meeting spot grinning like absolute fools.

You’re both trying to act normal, like the world hasn’t completely shifted on its axis, like Ace hadn’t kissed you breathless under the stars, like you hadn’t confessed to each other in a moment so romantic it could’ve been a grand finale scene in a novel. But normalcy is impossible because the second you walk in, hand-in-hand, everyone immediately knows.

Riddle, the most composed of the group, simply pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales sharply, and mutters, “Great Sevens, finally.” His tone is not congratulatory—it is the tone of a man who has suffered for far too long, who has borne witness to the sheer idiocy of your mutual pining and is just relieved that he no longer has to endure it.

Trey, ever the calm and collected one, gives you a small, knowing smile and nods. “Congrats,” he says simply, because Trey has probably seen this coming since the very beginning. He is the type of man who could predict the weather based on the way the wind blows and has likely bet money on this exact outcome.

Cater, on the other hand, reacts as expected.

“LET’S GO, MY MAN!” he hoots, high-fiving Ace so hard that Ace actually staggers backward. “Finally out of the friendzone, huh? This is a historic moment. A certified win.” He’s already pulling out his camera, preparing to document this for the masses, and you barely manage to swat it away in time.

And then there’s Deuce. Sweet, exhausted Deuce.

He doesn’t cheer, or exclaim, or even try to congratulate you. No, Deuce just sits there, staring at the both of you like he’s just been freed from an unspeakable burden. Like he’s been carrying the weight of Ace’s obliviousness and denial on his shoulders for so long that he no longer knows what to do with himself now that it’s over.

“I don’t have to hear him deny his feelings anymore,” Deuce whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I’m free.”

Ace shoves him.

And as your friends start heckling you, teasing you, yelling at you to get a room, you turn to Ace, grinning at him as he grins right back.

And in that moment, you can’t help but think back to the mysterious, rollerblading grandma who is the reason you even ended up here. The woman who defied all logic and physics, who sent you hurtling into this world with nothing but sheer willpower and questionable urban transportation.

You close your eyes, sending a silent thanks to her.

She was a real one.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #ace trappola x reader #ace x reader #ace trappola #twst ace #twst ace x reader #ace #trash novel chronicles

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temiizpalace · 1 year ago

Text

☆┊DEAR FUTURE HUSBAND..

SUMMARY: little things he does that remind you you’re going to marry him someday.

CHARACTERS: all dorms (-ortho)

GENRE: fluff

WARNINGS: none

reader gender is not mentioned, reader is not mentioned to be yuu

MAKING YOU MEALS

he makes sure you eat RIGHT. no more skipping meals throughout the day on his watch. every lunch he’ll make you a cute little bento box so you don’t have to wait in line. and when i say cute, i mean cute. it doesn’t matter what gender you are your rice balls will have cat ears. dinner? come over to his dorm and he’ll make something for you. don’t feel like it? he’s going to your place and cooking there. breakfast? he makes something quick yet delicious for you. he’s like your own private chef, and you can only imagine what it’d be like to see a ring on his finger someday.

trey, ruggie, azul, jamil, lilia (good luck), silver

CLEANING YOUR ROOM (and everything else)

it doesn’t matter if your room is messy, tidy, or anything in between, every month he’ll make sure it is SPOTLESS. is there dust on your shelves? nuh uh. are there random stains on your floor that you thought were impossible to get out? he’s rushing to your rescue and somehow got the stain out. did you not want to go through your homework? everything is suddenly organized in its respective subject, going from A-Z. you’ve never seen your room so tidy before, it was like an epiphany. please just marry him on the spot, he’s begging.

riddle, deuce, jade, jamil, vil, sebek

LEAVING LITTLE POST-IT NOTES ON YOUR BELONGINGS

without fail, you’ll find a cute little sticky-note on your almost all of your belongings. sure, it gets annoying once in awhile, but reading the sweet message on it changes your mind almost instantly. “you’re going to do great today! stay strong. :)” “don’t forget to drink water! love you 🫶” “can we go out soon? my treat. text me when u see this!” it’s almost frightening to see how much yellow papers you keep inside your desk every time you opening it, but can anyone really blame you? you’re going to keep these til the day you die, and that grand total might be at the very least over 100,000.

ace, deuce, cater, jack, floyd, kalim, epel, rook

RANDOM GIFTS

expect to see a neatly wrapped gift on your doorstep almost every week. seriously. it’s like a delivery service except the company is literally your boyfriend. “dear, did you get me this?” you ask as you enter the room. he looks up from his phone as he looks at the expensive name brand sweatshirt in your hands. “yeah.” he answered so nonchalantly!! like sir!!! this sweater was 1000000 thaumarks!! what!! while you do appreciate the gesture, you feel bad he’s spending so much money on you. he doesn’t care though!! he��ll spoil you rotten til your very last breath.

leona, azul, floyd, kalim, vil, idia, malleus

PREPPING YOU SNACKS

depending on who this is, he may not be some gordon ramsay level chef, but he’s definitely more than happy to cut you a some apple slices while you study. sometimes he’ll come into your room with a backpack full of your favorite snacks just left at the side of your desk so you can reach down and grab the one you want to eat that day. sometimes all you need is an energy boost and he’s more than happy to make some coffee or tea for you if you’re busy. he’ll press a kiss or two on your forehead before placing the plate of beautifully cut fruit down and continuing on with his day and going back to his thoughts. now, what will the theme of your wedding be?

ace, deuce, trey, jade, jack, jamil, epel, malleus

A/N: notice how jamil and deuce are in almost every category. (sorry this one was kinda rushed 😭😭)

date published: 7/30/24

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livingund3ad · 3 months ago

Text

[for the last time || в последний раз]

chapter warnings: suspicions of a missing person

01. | 02. | 03. | » you are here | 05. | ... |

————

From the eyes of [ Red Robin ]

Roughly 20 hours before the events of 01.

Tim’s body ached with exhaustion as he descended the staircase, his steps dragging slightly against polished wood. Last night’s patrol had been relentless, the city’s usual madness amplified by whatever criminal conspiracy happened to be brewing. Not to mention the hours-long Monopoly game Dick had insisted on dragging him into post-patrol.

Tim rubbed his eyes, still sore from staring at computer screens and Gotham’s unforgiving nightlife. A sugary cold drink was the first item on his agenda. Food, a power nap in his room, and then back to work. That was the plan.

But as he rounded the corner to the dining room, he nearly collided with Alfred about to make his way up the stairs, a silver tray balanced perfectly in the butler’s steady hands. The tray was laden with breakfast—toast, tea, scrambled eggs, and sliced fruit arranged with Alfred’s meticulous precision.

“Morning, Alfred,” Tim greeted, his voice rough from lack of sleep. “Delivering breakfast in bed to the princess of the manor?”

“Good morning, Master Timothy,” Alfred replied with his usual calm warmth. “Indeed. It appears Miss **** has elected to sleep in this morning.”

That was weird. She doesn't oversleep.

Tim raised an eyebrow at this. “****? Sleeping in?”

“Quite,” Alfred said, though there was a slight furrow in his brow. “Though I admit, it is rather unlike her.”

Tim’s fingers tapped against his crossed arms, a familiar beat of unease thrumming through him. **** was consistent, if anything. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d missed breakfast altogether. At least, that’s what Damian often complains about daily—her quote-unquote, insufferable, feeble attempts at connection first thing in the morning.

“Here, let me help you with that.” Tim reached for the tray, noting the extra dishes balanced along the edges. “You’re carrying too much as it is.”

“I assure you, Master Timothy, I am more than capable—”

“Seriously, Alfred. Then at least let me knock. You’ve got, like, five different things in your hands,” Tim interrupted, shooting him a tired but earnest grin. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Alfred’s mouth tightened, but he relented with a small nod. “Very well, sir. If you insist.”

They made their way up the stairs once more, and down the hall toward ****’s room. The door loomed ahead, as unremarkable as ever. But Tim’s mind kept circling back to the fact that ****’s door had been locked the previous night. He remembered Damian’s grumbling and how the kid had looked genuinely irked about it.

Tim balanced the tray in his hands and knocked lightly on the door. “Hey, ****? Breakfast delivery.”

No response.

He knocked again, harder this time. “C’mon, ****. It’s Alfred’s food. You don’t wanna miss out.”

Silence.

Alfred shifted beside him, his gaze growing more concerned. Tim tried not to let his own worry show. But a chill crept down his spine, stubborn and cold.

“She’s probably just passed out,” Tim said, but even he could hear the doubt in his voice. “Still, I should at least check.”

He crouched down, his fingers brushing against the floor as he pressed his palm to the thin gap beneath the door. The air that seeped through was warm. Way too warm.

The AC was off. And in the thick of Gotham’s humid summer, that could only mean the room was stuffy and unbearable. Which wasn’t like her at all. She didn't like the unbearable heat.

“Alfred, do you have a key to her room?” Tim asked, his voice lower, more urgent.

Alfred’s expression turned grave. “Indeed I do, sir. One moment.”

The butler withdrew a small brass key from his pocket, his fingers steady despite the tension coiling in the air. He handed it to Tim, who wasted no time in unlocking the door.

“****?” Tim calls out to her before the door swung open with a faint creak, revealing her room. He realized just now that he'd never been inside her room before.

It was...pristine. Neat, but lived-in. Posters of musicals and theatre adaptations on the walls, a hanging framed photo of her sporting a silver medal wrapped around her neck with Alfred on her side—presumably the aftermath of some swimming competition, books stacked on her nightstand, notebooks and sketch pads scattered across her workdesk, different sizes of canvases with paint leaning against the outmoded walls. Her bed was unmade, sheets tangled in a careless heap, but that wasn’t unusual.

What was unusual was the utter lack of her presence.

No sign of ****. No figure with a blob of hair peeking over the top of her desk chair. No groggy complaints about being disturbed.

Tim’s heart kicked up, his sleep-deprived brain jolting into full alertness.

“She’s not here,” Tim muttered, stating the obvious. His eyes sweeping the room with the precision of a detective cataloging evidence.

“So it would seem,” Alfred said, his voice composed but undeniably troubled.

Tim’s gaze snagged on her laptop, closed but not powered down, the faint glow of sleep mode visible. No phone in sight. He can attempt to track that. He crossed the room and snatched the laptop off the desk. If **** wasn’t here, then he needed to figure out where in the world she’d gone.

“I’ll check her laptop. See if she left anything behind—texts, messages, anything.” Tim spoke quickly, his mind already racing ahead. “Alfred, can you—”

“Alert the others?” Alfred finished with a slight nod. “At once, sir.”

Tim met Alfred’s eyes, something cold and uncomfortable settling in his gut. “And wake up Bruce. Let him know ****’s she—she might be missing.”

“Yes, Master Timothy.” Alfred’s voice was calm, but his hands trembled just slightly as he took the now-abandoned tray and moved toward the door.

As Alfred departed, Tim’s fingers clutched the laptop like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity.

**** could be missing. And if she truly lost contact yesterday afternoon, then she'd been gone for approximately 20 hours.

Something in chest began to twitch and tighten.

Just four hours left before it hits twenty four.

That was alarming.

Tim should've made an effort to question himself why **** broke her pattern last night. It was way too off for her to do. **** was consistent, too predictable. He knew she liked her routine and didn't just easily break them, no. So why break them now?

His mind screamed five words over and over again.

I need to fix this. I have to fix this. He has to fix it.

He didn't like this at all.

Taglist: @kneelforloki @shycreatorreview @pearlyribbons @homeless-clown @daffy-the-duck @1abi

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grimm909 · 9 months ago

Text

Red Phone - Part 1

Hello everybody! I'm back and for good! Thank you all so much for your support and comments.

This is a work done especially in celebration of Halloween. Unfortunately, it was supposed to be something small, but again I ended up getting carried away and had to separate it into two parts (maybe three, since the story is still developing). The story will also be posted on a03

Happy reading!

WARNINGS: age difference, non-con, kidnapping, horror, mental breakdown, murder, forced pregnancy

It had been a week since you and your family had moved into a new house. It was large, but had a somewhat morbid appearance, probably due to the time it had been abandoned. Although her parents had renovated it to make the house more presentable, it wasn't exactly an inviting place from the outside. Well, just on the outside, since you really had to give credit for how fascinating she was on the inside.

For example, the attic was an interesting location when you first saw it; full of old and dusty boxes, representing that the previous owner of that place had simply abandoned it there without bothering to come back one day to pick it up. When you went to open the boxes together with your parents to organize that place, there were some interesting things inside like comic books, board games, old clothes and even some somewhat useless objects. Much of it would simply be donated, since you didn't have much interest in most of those things, apart from comics and books.

However, something tucked into the bottom of one of the boxes and carefully wrapped in a piece of black fabric aroused his curiosity. A red phone cordless. Just an old-fashioned device, which was only used for calls and which would probably never pique anyone's interest due to how useless it was compared to a digital cell phone. However, it was curious to see that even though it had been abandoned for years, the device has a appearance new, the blood red color of the device still being quite shiny. It was quite pretty, you had to admit.

When you showed the device to your parents, they both didn't show much interest, although they were surprised to see that it still worked, even after years and years of abandoned it inside. They said you could stay if you wanted, even though it wasn't really useful to you due to the fact that already had a cell phone. You analyzed the device and said that it could be useful if at some point your cell phone stopped working and there was some precision. This would probably never actually happen.

What harm would it do to have it, right?

[…]

You wake up at midnight with your red phone ringing. It was the first time it had rung since you obted gotten it three days ago, since you were the one who normally made the calls.

Trying as hard as possible to get out of bed, you walk over to the phone that was on your desk and answer it.

"Hello?" You ask hoarsely.

“Koebi-chan, I'm so close to you.” A male voice whispers on the other end of the line. It doesn't sound like the voice of anyone you know. “I’m finally going to see what you look like.”

You remain silent for a while, absorbing what that must mean, but quickly concluding that it must just be a wrong call.

“Sorry sir, I think you called…” You didn’t finish your sentence when the call simply fell

Raising an eyebrow in disbelief, you don't care enough about the mystery man, placing your phone back in its place and returning to bed.

[…]

Two months have passed since you and your parents moved into the new house, so you already know a little about your neighbor across the street.

Ace was his name.

He was the only person closest to his house, with no one else around. A handsome man who appeared to be around thirty years old, married to a woman whose name was Elisa and having a ten year old daughter named Alice.

The two of you got along relatively well due to the older's playful personality, which reminded you more of a teenager than an adult.

You always greeted him every time you saw him across the street, also smiling and waving at him whenever you saw him through your bedroom window, since through it you had a complete view of Ace's house.

His wife and daughter were also sociable people and you wich especially became attached to the child, loving to take care of her when Ace and his wife left the house to have some alone time as a couple.

Alice also seemed to like you a lot, almost always knocking on your door so you could play together. Sometimes you accepted and other times you refused because you needed to study for college, in the latter case always earning a sad pout from the little girl.

The red phone rings at eight o'clock at night. The only difference from the first time is that you are not sleeping, but taking notes sitting at your desk.

"Hello?" You answer without blinking and lift the phone to your ear.

“Crab?” The male voice on the other line asks.

"Who?" You respond, confusion written all over your face.

“Isn’t that Ace Trappola’s number?”

"No. You called his neighbor.”

The voice is silent for a moment.

“There are no other neighbors besides Crab.”

“By Crab, you mean Ace?” Even though you think that's exactly what it is, it wouldn't hurt to ask.

”The same person~” He drawls.

“I've been Ace's neighbor for about three months. I moved recently.” You calmly explained, tapping your pen on your notebook. You were new to the neighborhood, so this stranger must have bee confused.

“There’s no one else but my family and Crab’s family here.” The voice says in a frustrated or perhaps nervous tone, you can't quite place it.

“I think there was some mistake. What’s your address?” You ask confused, starting to consider it was a prank.

The male voice gives you the location and you let out a tired sigh, realizing that it really was a stupid joke.

“You just described my address.”

The voice on the other end of the line becomes silent once again, until it breaks into laughter.

“Hehehehe, good Grab. I don’t know what you used to change your voice, but it almost got me.”

He says one last time, before hanging up on your face.

[…]

The stranger's call had piqued his curiosity. Were there really no neighbors around? The next day you explained the situation to your mother, who agreed that it could be a prank, since no one really lived close to there anymore. It was a considerably isolated place and far from everything.

“What about the previous owner of the house?” You asked the older woman who had her back turned, washing the lunch dishes.

“The previous owners sold it to a real estate agent.” His mother stated. “The agent who sold me the house just said that after that some other people came to live here, but that after a few years they usually sold it.”

"Just that?" You were displeased, expecting something more impactful.

“I was more interested in how many rooms the house had than who had lived here before.” She laughed nasally.

You would gain no more useful information from your mother and decided that the next place you would explore would be the attic, where there were five more boxes left that had not been opened.

Maybe it was a fruitless search, maybe you were just wasting time, but the man you had talked to didn't seem like a total liar, like he really had conviction in what he was saying. He even knew Ace's first and last name and you doubted your neighbor was playing a prank with you — it would be quite old-fashioned for a man of that age.

You turn on the attic light and open the first box, spilling all the things inside on the dusty floor, finding nothing that would help you learn more about the house. The second box was simply full of old clothes that were too big for you. The third is where you find a kind of notebook, but when reading its contents you don't find anything truly interesting or that indicates the owner of it.

Clank

Turning another page, a piece of paper falls out and you pick it up from the floor, realizing it is an old photograph faded at the edges. Analyzing the image, it seemed to be a family, consisting of the mother, the father and two completely identical children. On the back of the photo was the date it was taken, along with a small statement that probably referenced the two boys in that photo.

Clank

02/22/2009

My beautiful treasures, ♡Floyd♡ and ♡Jade♡

Even with the information obtained, that didn't seem like enough, especially when you didn't even have their last name. You decide to continue exploring the rest of the boxes, but you don't have the same success as before.

Clank

Putting everything back in its place, you decide to keep the photo for research purposes, keeping it in your pants pocket. Darkness encompasses the room when you turn off the light.

Clank

Going down the attic stairs, that's when you notice a strange sound coming from it, resembling two objects hitting each other. You decide to go back to check what it could be, turning on the light again and finding nothing that could hint at the reason for the noise.

Clank

You feel something fall on your head and run your hand over it to remove any insects that may have gotten into your hair. However, it is not exactly “something” that falls, but rather crumbs that appeared to be wood. Crumbs that continued to fall on the ground around him and on his head.

Clank

You go to the other side of the attic that was free of that dust and look up, expecting to find some termites eating away at the ceiling. However, it was something much worse than mere termites.

Something that could not be seen or touched.

Invisible hands carve the ceiling letter by letter, slowly forming an entire sentence.

JADE IS AN IDIOT BITCH

[…]

That number does not exist.

That's what appeared on the red phone screen when you tried to call the same number that called you last night. Even though he had the number saved on his phone, every time he pressed the button to call back, it was always the same message.

Honestly, at this point in the tournament, you didn't doubt that the house or the phone were haunted, not after what you had seen in the attic. Of course, upon witnessing such a scene, you just hurriedly fled, locking yourself in your room and determined to never set foot up there again.

You were scared of what this could be. However, his curiosity still continued to speak louder than any other feeling. Furthermore, you couldn't even run away from that house, since there was nowhere else to go and your parents would never believe that story about a strange message having suddenly appeared in the attic. His only option at the moment was to stay and find out what the hell was going on.

Therefore, all you could do was wait until the mysterious boy called again.

[…]

The red phone rings at midnight and you hurriedly put down your notebook and pen to put your hands on it, answering it without thinking twice.

"Hello!?" You say in a mix of fear and euphoria.

“So close…” The voice on the other end sounded breathless, almost as euphoric as you were.

“Close to what?” You ask, still unable to recognize who the man on the other end of the line was, even though you knew it was the same voice who had called you the first time.

“Close… pouʇ… of …ʇɹnsʇ… Let’s go …ɥᴉɯ… Together” You can’t hear it properly, the horrible sound of static playing in the background. “You just… ɯnɹ… pǝɹǝɹ… stay on the phone”

The call drops and you look at the small phone screen, noticing strange glitches. You hit his side with the palm of your hand, trying to get him back to normal.

After a few seconds, the static stops.

[…]

At six o'clock the next day, the red phone rings.

However, unlike last time, you seem a little afraid to answer. Maybe that device was the reason for the start of his problems, that was almost certain. You had even seriously thought about setting that thing on fire, maybe then the bizarre things would stop. Still, a part of you refused to do that, thinking it might end up making the situation worse instead of better.

You decide to follow the unknown man's instructions, even though you didn't trust him. Maybe he was a ghost who had possessed that cell phone and was now haunting you, you were starting to come up with some insane theories.

"Hello?"

“Ah, it’s the same voice as before.” The guy on the other line says uninterested.

"Yes. But don’t hang up, please.” You say as politely as possible. “It’s not a prank and I’m not Ace.”

“I know it’s not.” He responds back. “I spoke to Crab yesterday and he was quite confused, saying that this wasn’t even his number anymore.”

"Great." You sighed in relief. “Look, it might be hard to believe, but the address you gave me is actually the same as the one I live at.” You looked out your bedroom window and saw Ace playing with his daughter in the backyard. “My house is literally opposite his.”

“Eehh, mine too.” The boy spoke from the other side, not seeming to fully believe you. “Or would it be ours?” He laughed.

“Could you tell me your name?” You ask, taking the photo you had collected from the attic out of your desk drawer.

“Floyd Leech. And you?"

You turn the verse and see that the name was the same, but you don't know how to describe which of the twins he would be in the photo. The date on which it was taken also arouses your curiosity and you again begin to think that this whole situation was perhaps a bad joke. Could it be that the former resident of that house, Floyd, was just playing a welcome prank on you?

“Hey, don’t ignore me!” The voice on the other end gets louder when you take a long time rambling.

“Sorry, I just got distracted by something.” You prefer not to talk about the photo at hand. “My name is Y/n.”

“Never heard of it.” His disinterested tone returns to the surface.

“Yes, I had never heard of you either until today” That wasn’t entirely true, as you had discovered the photo a few hours ago. “I know it sounds strange, but could you tell me today’s date?”

“What, are you that lost in time?” He laughed. “Seriously, what did you smoke?”

“I swear I’m quite sane.” You respond sharply, but return to a calmer tone of voice, not wanting him to hang up the phone again. “Tell me today’s date, please.”

“Asking me so affectionately like that, I can’t refuse.” He jokes, using a more sly tone. “Today is 04/20/2009”

You cough, choking on your own saliva.

“Exactly at six-fifteen in the afternoon?” You look at the clock on the wall in your room.

“You got it~”

The phrase that appeared in the attic appears in his head like a puzzle piece to be fitted into that mystery. You had thought about the possibility that it was a vengeful ghost writing that, but upon reflection, it was more like an angry brother writing something stupid about his other brother.

“Something appeared in the attic yesterday.” You revealed. “A message that said: Jade is a stupid bitch. Did you do it?”

There is a short silence on the other side.

“How do you know that, huh!?” The previously sly voice suddenly turns into something threatening and you briefly withdraw the phone from your ear. “You’ve been spying on me, bitch!” He spits and you swear that if he were in front of you, that guy would definitely move towards you.

"No! I’m not spying on anyone.” You state with conviction, using your other hand to search your digital cell phone for any information that occurred on the same date that Floyd informed you. “I know it's hard to believe, but it's possible that we are in the same house, in different years.” It doesn't take long for you to find news that matches the date. “At nine o’clock, a plane will crash north of Chica-…”

“You and Jade are making fun of me, aren’t you!?” The boy on the other side looked like he was going to explode with rage. “Tell him to go fuck himself!”

You no longer have a chance to explain yourself, when he hangs up on you again.

[…]

The next day, you look for Ace to talk about the house's previous residents. You knock on his door, but are answered by Alice.

“Come to play with me?” The little girl asks happily, jumping up and down in anticipation.

“Sorry, I just came here to talk to Ace about something.” You break the illusion of the little girl, who makes a sulky expression and goes back into the house, screaming for her father.

It doesn't take long for him to appear in front of you, closing the door behind him and walking with you to the curb.

“Mom said you’ve lived here for several years. Does that mean you got to know the first residents?” You asked bluntly.

"Yes. They were a reserved family, a little strange and even scary, I would say.” He let out a nasal laugh, as if remembering something amusing.

“I found this photo.” You take the photograph from your pants pocket, handing it to Ace who promptly takes it. “It’s them, isn’t it?”

“Ah, man, I barely remembered the faces.” He spoke in surprise, a little nostalgic. “But it’s them, yes.”

“On the back it says Jade and Floyd, but I don’t know who is who. They are identical.”

“Hehe, if you look closely, you will notice subtle differences in each one.” He comes to stand next to you and holds out the photo for you to observe the details. “See, this is Jade who is smiling without showing her teeth, with her hands together in front of her body and correct posture. He was always the most reserved and eloquent, sometimes he even seemed like a butler.” He laughed and you followed him, infected by the energetic laugh that Ace had. “This is Floyd…” The redhead’s tone seemed less enthusiastic and more morbid for a moment, but you thought it was just a bad impression, as he soon returned to his usual playful normality as he talked about the other brother. “Relaxed expression and hand behind the head. Man, he was a whirlwind, the total opposite of his brother.”

"I imagine." You nodded, remembering how he snapped yesterday afternoon. “But why did they move?”

“Well…” Ace handed you the photo. “A tragedy occurred with the family” He sighed heavily, seeming to not like that story. “One of the sons ended up dying.”

His breath came ragged from the shock.

“But… how?” You asked, disbelieved.

“A motorcycle accident.” Ace shrugged. “The mourning was very much for the Leech family, mainly because they were all very united.”

“That’s why they moved?”

“I think they wanted to start again, somewhere else.” He theorized. “Honestly, I would have done the same.”

“But which of the brothers ended up dying in this accident?” You asked, apprehensive about the answer.

No, you already knew the answer.

“Floyd Leech.”

[…]

The accident had occurred on 04/30/2009

Since the days of the past and present were the same, this meant that Floyd would end up dying in seven days.

Shortly after talking to Ace, you returned home and did some research on your laptop to find out more about what had happened. In addition to finding out the date, you had discovered that Floyd died at the scene of the accident, before the ambulance could even provide assistance. Bones broken and fractured, his body had been completely torn apart.

If you still had doubts that this could be a joke, that possibility simply evaporated without a trace. You didn't just seem to be messing with the supernatural, but also with the timeline. That, or the house was haunted by the spirit of young Floyd who never passed on to the afterlife. Well, you hoped it was the first theory, since the latter was pretty scary and there weren't any ghostbusters you could call.

Your only option at that moment was to wait for Floyd to call you again before that date. You wanted to try to save him from that horrible fate, even though you were doubtful about the time lapse it could bring. If you saved him, would you still be living in the same house? Would you end up forgetting everything that happened, including Ace and Alice?

You had watched countless time travel movies and, honestly, the possibilities were endless.

[…]

The red phone rings at four o'clock.

You were in the shower, but you interrupt to hurriedly grab the towel and wrap it over your wet body, leaving a trail of water as you leave the suite and head to your room. You rub your wet hand under the towel before picking it up, worried that you might end up damaging the phone through sheer lack of attention.

"Hello?"

“How did you know?” It was Floyd. You were aware he was asking about the plane crash.

“I saw it on the internet.” You replied simply. “I’m in the same house as you, but fifteen years ahead.”

“What else do you know about me?”

“Honestly, nothing.” You shake your head in denial, even though you know he couldn't see you. “But I know what will happen to you.”

“What do you mean by that?” He asks, looking annoyed.

“On the twenty-eighth of this month, you will have a motorcycle accident.” You respond impassively. “A truck runs over you and you die before they can even help.” Although it would be a little cruel to say something so scary unceremoniously, you didn't want to beat around the bush. Everything now simply depended on whether Floyd believed you or not. “I would never joke about something so serious.” You finally say.

"I believe." You mentally thank him for the vote of confidence. “But why are you living in my house?”

“My mother recently bought this house from a real estate agent. The first family to live here sold it fifteen years ago, which coincides with the time you had the accident.”

“Do you know what happened to them?” From the tone of his voice, Floyd sounded worried.

“I found out about your brother through a photo I found in the attic” Which was still kept on his desk. “I did some quick research. Apparently he is a partner in a restaurant chain called Mostro Lounge. Quite impressive!”

“Aaah, so he did well.” Floyd didn't really seem surprised by his brother's success. “Cool~”

“I’m sure you too can have a cool future if you stay at home or take your motorcycle in for repairs.” You advise him gently. “Since the accident occurred due to a clutch failure.”

“Eehh, I just lent Crabby the bike until the weekend” Floyd looked annoyed. “I can’t believe that idiot is going to end up breaking her.”

“Haha…” You laughed awkwardly. “As soon as he returns it to you, just take it to be repaired.”

“Why are you helping me?” He questions, seeming really curious about that act of kindness coming from a stranger.

“I can stop someone from dying. I think anyone else would do the same in my place.” You shrugged. “And from what I saw in your family photo, you're still too young to go to the afterlife so soon” You laughed, trying to relax to make the situation less gloomy. “How old are you, Floyd?”

“Twenty years.”

"Coincidence. Me too."

“Do you think that’s one of the reasons we’re breaking the rules of spacetime?” He laughed nasally and you followed him with a brief giggle.

“To tell the truth, I think it’s because of the house or a red phone I found in the attic.” You theorized, choosing not to think about it anymore. “Maybe both.”

“A red cordless phone?”

“That one.” You confirmed, surprised.

“He is mine. The same one I’m using to talk to you.”

Okay, the weirdness hadn't stopped.

“Did you happen to throw some voodoo on him?” You joked and heard him laughing on the other end.

“If I was capable of something like that, I don’t think I would have died, right?” He replied back, dejectedly.

“Hehe, yeah…” The mood took a turn for the worse once again and you were forced to think of something to change the situation or simply hang up, since you were making the whole room wet. “Look, I’m not able to return your call, much less call you directly. So could you call me the day after tomorrow at the same time?”

"Of course~" His mood appears to have improved, to which Floyd responded excitedly. “I really want to know what the future looks like in fifteen years.”

[…]

The next day, you knocked on your neighbor's door again, this time being answered by Ace's wife.

Today you were committed to taking care of little Alice, since the older woman was going to visit her parents and only return the next day. And Trappola would not be able to take care of her daughter, as he would only arrive after six o'clock.

“You’re on time.” Elisa commented with a friendly smile.

“I like to be punctual!” You stated excitedly. “Are you leaving yet?”

"Yes. I won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.” She hands him the house key. “There is food in the fridge if you want to eat, just heat it in the microwave.”

You nod in agreement, waving goodbye to Elisa as she gets into the car and starts it.

You enter the house you were already familiar with and lock the door, finding Alice in the living room watching TV.

“Hi, aunt.” She greets without looking at you, too engrossed in what was playing on the screen.

“Do you prefer to play or watch?” Looking at the screen, you recognized it as the little mermaid movie.

“It starts now!” She turned her head towards him and made those irresistible pious eyes. “Make some popcorn and come watch with me.”

You are unable to deny her request, doing what the girl asks you and after a few minutes returning to the room with a bucket full of popcorn. Already knowing the things that would happen, you weren't very excited about watching the film again, but the songs were still good to listen to and you even found yourself singing one of them together with Alice.

When the film ends, she decides that now she wants to play with dolls, picking up a beautiful plastic baby that was sitting in a child's chair.

“Look, auntie, it’s my new doll!” Alice said happily, practically rubbing the new toy in you face. “She even talks!” The girl presses the doll's chest with both thumbs.

Mommy, I love you.

"Cool!" You feign excitement at the irritatingly childish voice coming out of the object. Dolls hadn't been her thing for years.

“I’ll get another doll upstairs for us to play.” Alice places the toy in you lap and runs upstairs.

Being left alone with that silly toy, you squeeze the doll's chest to hear what other phrases she had.

Let's play!

You squeeze again.

Mommy, I'm hungry.

Again.

Can we go to the park?

One more time.

If you keep going, he'll come get you.

You are startled and let the doll fall from your hands, hurriedly getting up from the floor and moving away. For a moment, you fear that thing will rise up and start attacking you, similar to the killer doll movie. However, seconds pass and the toy remains stagnant on the floor, as lifeless as it always was.

Something in the previously said phrase arouses your curiosity and you raise an eyebrow, wondering who would come to pick you up or if it was just some hideous factory defect, as even the toy's irritating voice had become less childish and more morbid.

Even though you were afraid, you approached and picked her up, squeezing the doll's chest again to see what else she could say.

Mommy, I love you.

You snort, annoyed.

[…]

Ace arrives at eight o'clock, a little later than usual.

“Alice is already in bed.” You tell him as you watch him take off his dress shoes and coat, placing the latter on the hanger.

“Sorry to make you stay late.” He laughs awkwardly and you can tell by the expression on his face that the redhead looks haggard.

“Oh, no. It’s ok.” You reassure him with a gentle smile. “You look tired, is everything okay?”

“It’s just the job.” Ace lets out a heavy sigh, walks over to the sofa you were sitting on and sprawls his body on it, arms completely open under the upholstery.

“What exactly do you do?” You ask curiously, as you never knew about your neighbor's job.

"Counter." Ace responds dejectedly.

You also don't help improve his mood when you burst into laughter, disbelieving that this was the cynical Ace's profession.

"Hey!" The redhead exclaims, annoyed that you're laughing in his face.

“I’m sorry, but this doesn’t suit you at all.” Wiping a tear from your eye, you continue laughing in a less outrageous way.

“Obviously not.” He snorts. “But it’s not like I had a lot of choices.”

"What do you mean?" Calmer after the explosion of laughter, you ask intrigued.

“I was twenty-three when Elisa became pregnant with Alice.” Ace looks towards the stairs where the rooms were, turns his attention to you and lowers his voice. “It was an accident.”

“Oh!” You exclaim, surprised.

“Because of that, I dropped out of college and got a job so I could take care of the baby-”

“College of what?” Although it would be appropriate to continue listening to your friend's story without interrupting, your curiosity gets the better of you and your mouth moves before you can even think.

“Nah, you’ll laugh.”

"No! I won’t, I promise.” You bring your index fingers together to form an “x”, bringing them to your mouth. “Tell me!”

"Teacher." He responds without much ceremony.

You actually keep your promise and don't laugh, but you are truly incredulous that this would be the profession chosen by the mischievous Ace.

“Professor Ace Trappola.” You say slowly, testing how the taste of those words sound to your ears. “Sounds good.”

“Do you think so?” He smiles, apparently more excited by those simple words.

Yes yes." You agree smiling. “But tell me more! What’s the rest of the story?” You question, curious to know more about the redhead's life.

“After two years, Elisa and I got married. We thought it would be good if we got our shit together.” He shrugs and becomes discouraged again. “We already had a baby, we just needed the rings.”

"I'm very sorry." You say painfully, although you didn't know exactly why you were sorry. Maybe because Ace's dreams never came true? For the years lost in a life he never wanted?

“It’s okay, I kind of like being a father.” He gave you a sincere smile and you knew Ace wasn't lying.

“What about Elisa?”

“I like her too.” He responds without the sincere smile from before, just a blank facet. There was no sparkle in his eyes when he mentioned his own wife, you noticed. “You know, I saw you yesterday.” Ace suddenly changes the subject, straightening his posture on the couch to face you.

"As? I didn’t even leave the house.” You raise an eyebrow in disbelief.

“In the window, answering an old phone.” A dirty little smile appears on Ace's lips and you feel like you were missing something.

It still takes a few seconds to understand exactly when that happened, until the penny falls heavily on your head.

“Oh, my God!” You cover your face with the palms of your hands, too embarrassed to look at the redhead. “I’m not a pervert, I swear it was accidental!”

“Hahaha.” It's his turn to laugh about your misfortune and it makes you feel even worse, groaning in annoyance between your fingers. Seeing that you really felt bad about that, Ace immediately stopped laughing. “Okay, okay.” He holds your wrists delicately, gradually lowering the hands that covered your face so that you can face him again. Seeing him now, he seemed to have gotten even closer to you face. “Honestly, I liked the view.” The redhead gives you that stupid smile again.

“Hmm.” You just moan in agreement, still embarrassed and not knowing exactly how to react to Ace's compliment.

“You’re kind of bad at reading the climate.” He laughs one last time, before closing his eyes and breaking the distance that separated your lips from his.

Ace is quick to wrap his tongue around yours when you opened your mouth a little in surprise from the sudden kiss, involuntarily allowing the redhead to explore the inside of your mouth.

Even though you're shocked, it doesn't take you more than three seconds to close your eyelids and let yourself be carried away by the moment. Their tongues come together in a delicate way, exactly like a calm sailing at sea.

His brain gradually fills with pleasure, which was provided by the kiss that became more steamy as time passed. His tongue moved with an impressive mastery that you never had with boys your age.

Inside you there was a damn explosion of happiness, which internally clashed with some bitter emotions present, but which were being furiously crushed as the kiss progressed from a peaceful way to a hotter and wetter one.

Ace didn't seem very distant, wanting you more and more to the point of wanting to become just one with you through your lips that he so wished to kiss. The redhead takes his hand to you head and sinks his fingers into you locks, giving more depth to the kiss, but also making the air in her lungs become increasingly scarce.

The fact that you both needed to breathe became an obstacle in the midst of the pleasure you felt, which forced Ace to stop the kiss and move away a little.

He carefully visualizes the delicate features of your face, as he had done so many times without you noticing, considering that your pink cheeks due to embarrassment or the possible ecstasy of the kiss left you very cute. However, the redhead's greatest attention ended up once again falling on his parted lips, which were now slightly swollen and red. Ace couldn't help but feel attracted and mesmerized by them again, as he had been for a long time.

After normalizing his breathing, he was going towards you for a second kiss, but you stopped him by putting your hand in front of his mouth, preventing Ace from kissing you again.

“Ace, you have a wife.” You do your best not to fall into temptation again.

Although you couldn't deny that you had some conflicted feelings regarding what you felt for Ace, it wasn't fair to stab Elisa in the back. You liked her and didn't want to be a home wrecker. Not only would it harm her, it would also harm little Alice.

"I understand." He says placidly, stepping back. “But Elisa and I are going to separate.”

"Huh!?" You face forms into a clearly confused expression.

“Before you even arrived, things were complicated.” He lets out a tired sigh. “She went to her parents’ house to stay away from me for a while.”

“Did something happen?” Maybe it was rude to ask, but you needed to know if that story was really true.

“We fought yesterday.” His shoulders slumped in dismay. “I wasn’t lying when I said I liked Elisa. I like, but I don't love her anymore.”

“Is it possible for someone to stop loving another person?” A line of disbelief forms on his forehead, doubtful that something like this would be possible between two people who have lived together for so many years.

“In my case, apparently yes.” He laughed half-heartedly. “Elisa and I stayed together for Alice and tried to stay together as a family for her.” The redhead looks away to look at his own bare feet. There was a light of regret and sadness in his crimson eyes. “But we hurt ourselves in the process.” You stay silent, feeling a little sorry for Ace and Elisa, but mostly for Alice. Trappola looks at you again and once again gets dangerously close to you, but he doesn't kiss you. Instead, he places one of his hands on the side of her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb in a clear sign of affection and kindness. "I want you."

You don't know exactly how to feel about this statement. The doubts were still present in his head and apparently the only way to dismiss them was to confirm the words previously said by Ace.

“Are you really going to break up? I don’t want to be a home wrecker, much less be your lover.” You firmly admit.

“In a month. Only a month left until the divorce papers are ready.”

In a bold and unpredictable move that you never expected to come out of your own mouth, the next words would surprise you when you remembered them the next day.

“Let’s go to your room.”

Trappola's crimson eyes shine and a smile of genuine happiness emerges from the corners of his mouth. He jumps off the couch and grabs your hand, dragging you upstairs.

[…]

Before you knew it, Ace already had his face buried between your legs.

His mouth was firmly attached to your intimacy, teasing hickeys with wet and obscene sounds, tasting every bit of your pussy to engrave the taste in his memory.

“You’re so hot.” Ace praises, placing a kiss on the inside of her thigh and then returning to attack her sensitive parts.

Even with one hand over your mouth to stifle your moans, you still moan loudly, feeling him focus exclusively on your clit, licking and sucking with such devotion that you can't stop yourself from taking your other free hand to locks Ace, squeezing a bundle of unruly red strands. He was very good at making your pussy the most appetizing thing in the world.

It had only been a few minutes since Ace was fucking you so fervently, but even in that short time you already felt the heat in your belly building up more and more, ready to explode. He was amazing at oral sex, probably due to years of experience. Your hand would never satisfy you in the same way again after experiencing the wonder that Ace mouth was capable of provi.

Trappola's teeth graze over your sensitive spot and you let out a whiny moan, drops of tears splashing your eyes due to the ecstasy you've never felt. Your soaked little hole was begging for a piece of meat, to the point where your warm, velvety walls tightened around nothing as Ace fucked you with his tongue.

You involuntarily lift your hips several times, while sparks of pleasure cross your body in a clear sign that you were close to finally reaching the fullness of pleasure.

“Ace I… Ah!… I… Ngh… I’m going to…” You remove your hand from in front of your mouth to warn him, but your moans were making it difficult for you to form a coherent sentence.

He looks deeply at you with his scarlet orbs filled with lust and possession, before pulling away to give you that stupid little smile and order in a husky voice.

“Cum for me, dear.” It's the last thing Ace says before he goes back to attacking your sensitive pussy with more frenzy than before, without taking his eyes off you.

You don't know if it's because of the eroticism of those words, the way he looks at you or even the most obvious reason that his mouth was on your vulva, but you scream and finally reach your limit. The knot that had formed in your abdomen dissolves in a hot orgasm and your hips rise again, at the same time that your entire body spasms constantly with pleasure.

Even after he has successfully made you cum, Ace continues to lick you more gently, sucking the clear fluid that comes out of your tight hole. He only moves away when he feels sufficiently satisfied, a thick thread of drool connecting your wet pussy to his mouth, but which soon falls apart the further away these two are.

“Please tell me your room has thick walls.” You inquire heavily, recovering from the newly felt high.

“Don’t worry about making loud noises.” Ace laughs and crawls until he is at the height of your face, kissing you and making you feel your own taste still present in the older man's mouth. Your arms circle around his neck and you reciprocate without any reluctance in that act.

Ace's hand roams your already fully naked body, sliding from your soft abdomen to your newly stimulated crotch, touching your hole. Upon noticing what he was about to do, you quickly close your legs and stop Trappola from continuing with his actions. You break the kiss and moderately push him away with your elbow, sitting on the bed.

“What’s the matter?” Ace asks as he puts his weight under his knees, clearly confused by your quick change in attitude.

“That's kind of embarrassing to say.” An awkward laugh passes your lips and you look away. “I’m still a virgin.”

Ace remains silent for about three seconds, before exclaiming in perplexity:

“Whoa, really?” He quickly removes his hand from between your legs.

“Yes, but I hope that’s not a problem for you.” You bite your bottom lip nervously and look back at him.

“Haha, that’s no problem at all.” Ace laughed, that beautiful energetic smile you loved so much adorning the mature features of his face. “I’m just surprised by that. I mean, you’re so pretty.” You were taken aback by the compliment and your face heated up as you watched the way he looked at you affectionately.

“I don’t want you to take my virginity with your fingers.” You laughed at your own words, quickly changing the subject. Honestly, you didn't want to ruin the mood by commenting on your practically non-existent love life. “And honestly, I think I’m already wet enough to welcome you.” You direct your eyes to Ace's intimacy, noticing a voluminous bulge in his underwear, as well as a dark stain on the tip of his cock protruding forward. "Do you have a condom?"

“Look, married people don’t use condoms.” He mocked with a stupid little smile.

Shit.

“Seriously, I always told myself I would never do this without a condom.” You laughed, disbelieving that you would end up breaking the only rule you had made when you had your first time. However, even more disbelieved given how much you trusted Ace to give in so easily without even thinking twice.

“Does that mean?” Ace inquires expectantly.

You respond to him with actions, lying back on the bed and vulgarly opening your legs, exposing your intimate area with the clear intention of someone waiting to be fucked.

Trappola swallows hard, feeling his cock throb at how beautifully erotic you were as you so willingly gave yourself to him. Even kneeling on the bed, Ace is quick, practically euphoric in getting rid of the only piece of clothing that prevented him from fucking you. The redhead positions himself above you and places one hand on your hip, while the other is responsible for guiding his own cock towards your slippery hole.

“Can I?” Ace checks before taking any action, although his breathing was clearly heavy, yearning to fuck you.

"Yes." You say a little shyly, even though your actions so far have been quite naughty.

With the confirmation Ace needed, he slowly pushes his erect member inside you, sighing in delight at finally being able to feel your warm, velvety walls wrapped around his cock.

On the other hand, the sensation was a little strange at first, until it became painful as Trappola advanced further inside, breaking your hymen and then filling you with his cock. The length of Ace's member inside your vaginal canal was more than acceptable, but you squeeze the bed sheets between your fingers and let out a low moan of pain.

"You are incredible." Ace comments with restrained euphoria, marveling at having you all to himself. However, upon noticing his expression of pain, he asks worriedly. “Does it hurt?”

"A little." You shift uncomfortably in bed. “But you can continue.” You calm down with a sweet smile on your lips, not minding being a little hasty even after having graduated from your virginity literally seconds ago. You hands circle around the redhead's neck again and bring him for you lips touch his in a warm kiss.

He reciprocates immediately, but it doesn't take long for Ace to pull away from your mouth and decide it's time to move after feeling his cock throb in excitement, practically begging to be moved and finally fuck you rough.

The redhead moves his hips away a little, enough so that half of his rigid penis remains outside your gummy walls, then returns entirely inside you with a hard thrust all the way to the bottom. Ace lets out a heavy sigh as soon as he receives a delicious grip around his member, intensely loving that pleasurable sensation of a young pussy like yours.

However, this action was responsible for causing you to gasp in pain, but unlike the first time it was completely ignored by Ace, as he no longer cared about trying to be gentle after you yourself approved that he continued to fuck you.

Addicted to getting more of those delicious squeezes, Ace successively starts to do the same actions mentioned above, but in a slower back and forth so that he doesn't reach orgasm so soon. After all, he didn't imagine that you virgin pussy would be so hot.

You periodically continue to let out one or another moan of pain, without having yet been able to feel any trace of pleasure in it, although it is no longer as agonizing as it was at first. Trying to feel as good as Ace felt when he fucked you, you take one of your hands towards your clitoris, rubbing it with your index and middle fingers. A sigh of relief leaves your mouth as spikes of delight begin to circulate through your body even in the midst of the feeling of agony.

“Still bothered?” Ace laughs softly when he realizes what was happening and removes his hand so he can take care of the situation himself, too proud to let you pleasure yourself. “Let me do this for you.” He asks, at the same time that Ace's thumb touches your sensitive spot, making rotating movements with a fixation much greater than you could alone.

“Oh!” You exclaim not only in surprise, but also in jubilation. Touching herself felt good, but being touched by someone else felt even better, bringing her a never-before-felt feeling of ecstasy.

The older man bends down a little and dips his face into the side of your neck, licking and leaving marks of love on your previously immaculate skin. A heavy sigh escapes your lips and your previously rigid body begins to relax on the bed as Ace continues to stimulate you in different ways. His dick inside you wasn't so bad anymore, starting to become less strange and more dizzying.

“Ace, this feels so good.” You say with a ragged breath, enchanted by how sex could be something wonderful and addictive. You didn't regret giving your virginity to Trappola one bit.

“I feel good too.” Ace whispers close to your ear, before gently biting your earlobe in teasing. A pleasant shiver runs through your body through this action and you reciprocate by biting his neck gently, weak enough to not leave marks. You wouldn't be stupid enough to do that when Ace was still married. “Oh, how cute.” He comments with a wicked laugh and you are indignant, taking revenge on him by putting a little more pressure against the redhead's skin, consequently hearing him moan in pain. “I take back what I said.”

You both laugh through sex, captivated by each other. However, Ace breaks the romantic mood by pulling away and removing his still hard penis from inside you. A groan leaves your lips, dissatisfied by the sudden absence of your intimacy.

“It’s okay, I won’t stop.” Ace soothes by kissing the top of his head. “But wouldn’t you like to try other positions?” He suggests, but before you can say anything, Trappola easily handles your body that had been claimed by himself, placing you on your side and positioning himself behind you, resulting in the redhead's penis touching the soft and warm skin of your buttock. Ace appreciates the slightest touch, letting out a sigh and feeling terribly tempted to give you a bite in that area, but deciding to leave that for another time. “What do you think?” He asks, his nose pressed into the crook of your neck.

“As long as it’s good…” You mutter without having an opinion of your own due to a complete lack of experience.

Ace slowly passes his hand down the length of your incredibly hot body, starting at your shoulder, sliding down your waist, feeling your hip and hovering over your thigh, lifting the latter without the slightest difficulty so that he could have better access to your hole and thus calm down his greedy hormones.

You were so deliciously wet, that Ace's member practically slid inside, being immediately massaged by your pussy that already responded to his thrust. Feeling like that, stretching and welcoming him as if Ace's member was already a natural part of your body, was like pouring gasoline on a fire.

It was inevitable. He felt the need to move quickly inside. And with a powerful thrust of his hips, the redhead delighted in feeling the limits of his tight intimacy, at the same time as he was gifted with a heavy moan from you, which only served to elevate his ego even more.

Ace's other free hand reached under your body to return to the work from before, which involved stimulating your sensitive clit. He started to move his hips faster, making a complete mess of you and eliciting several moans. However, if you continued moaning so sweetly for him, the redhead wouldn't be able to last two minutes in the paradise he was in.

Even though he wanted to prolong the fuck he was having, Trappola's body no longer seemed to obey his wishes due to the pleasure that had accumulated in his cock. Fortunately, you don't seem too far from that.

“Y/n!” Ace pants your name and closes his eyes, letting his seed fill your previously virgin hole with hot steady streams.

You come soon after, letting out a sharp scream as your pussy milks him with constant squeezes until the last drop fills you.

When Ace's pleasure is finally released inside you, your body becomes completely limp and your breathing is labored.

The redhead rested your leg on the bed and with the hand that was previously holding it he began to caress and eventually squeeze your buttocks, admiring the sperm that dripped from your pussy and slid down your thighs. Ace had come in very large amounts, pleased that you took all of him

“You were amazing.” Ace praised sincerely, placing an affectionate kiss on her reddened cheek. It was actually funny of him to say that, after all, you did absolutely nothing during sex.

“I hope your wife has some birth control.” You murmured as you recovered from your orgasmic high.

“She can’t get pregnant anymore.” He lets out a muffled laugh against your neck.

“Urgh.” An annoyed grumble leaves his lips.

You would have to buy contraceptives the next day or Alice would end up getting a new baby brother.

[…]

You left minutes after sex.

Although Ace insisted that you spend the night with him, you couldn't because of your parents. They wouldn't be stupid enough to believe any excuse you came up with to stay at the redhead's house all night, especially when your house was literally opposite his. At least you already had an excuse ready for his delay, saying that Trappola had arrived late from work, which actually happened.

Oh, yes. You also stole that doll from hell.

Although he felt sorry for knowing that Alice would be sad to wake up and no longer find her new toy, it was still better than leaving a seemingly cursed doll in her arms.

You burned her the next day and the doll no longer made a sound.

Thank you for reading this far! Constructive criticism is always welcome.

See you soon.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

Text

butterflygirl738 (2)

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, sickness, medical bills, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You love butterflies and your mother, but life isn’t that simple. As life gets complicated, and expensive, you find yourself in need and an unexpected miracle presents itself.

Characters: Steve Rogers (CEO/Sugar Daddy)

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

The store is dead. Usually, you don't mind a quiet shift but it's really dull. You come up the aisle of toiletries and watch Mikayla and Nour suddenly part and feign interest in the shelves and tags. Shoot.

Drew sends them a side-eye as he continues through the section, nearing your own. You put a jar of body scrub back on the proper shelf then turn to him and smile. "Hello sir, how are you?"

"I'm not good. There's no customers." He snips.

"Oh, right. I was using the down time to tidy--"

"Down time? Do you know the cost of down time? Do you realise what it costs to run these lights? The AC?"

"Sir, uh, yes," you stammer. "I'm sorry it's slow--"

"And your pay? What good is that if you're doing nothing?"

You gulp, "sir, I'm--"

He looks at his watch and sighs. Is it a real Rolex? It looks real but you wouldn't know one logo from the next.

"Go home."

"What?"

"Clock out," he drops his arm. "Gotta send you home." He pinches the button on the wire of his headset and you hear him through your earpiece as an echo. "Joe, send Sandra home. Place is a ghost town."

"Please, sir, I need the hours--"

"Don't you have another job?" He curls his lip. "Not my problem. Head office is gonna cut back hours next week. We gotta bank what we can for the full-timers."

You pout. Some weeks you work just as much as the full-timers and you put in twice the effort. You need this twice as much. They get benefits and you get the scraps they throw your way.

"Sir--"

"I don't have time to argue with you. I have a budget and a meeting with the regional manager. Things you can't understand," he turns and strides away, snapping his fingers at Nour. "You too, go home."

You recede into the aisle of soap dishes and bath mats. No matter how much you do, it's just all sliding back on you. You slump and shuffle to the back of the store, dejected but not yet defeated. Look at the plus side, it's only four. You have some time to spare.

You go to the back and punch out. You grab your bag and take off your name tag and radio; you put the former in your pocket and slide the other into a cubby on the wall.

You don't go straight to the bus stop. You wind around the back of the plaza and to the next block. A few streets back, past the boys and girls centre, and residential street. The food bank is still open but it's the end of the day. You'll not get the best but it's something.

Inside, they give you a box of non-perishables and a loaf of bread. Powdered milk, a bag of instant oats, some canned soups and beans, tuna, and a box of rice. You thank them and head off, straining under the weight of the box.

The bus comes an hour after that. You can't find a seat so you stand and struggle to balance your load. You get off as first drops of rain start to fall. It's funny sometimes how the world can change to mirror your life. It's not so bad. The moisture will be good for Colleen, Coraline, and Cordelia; the three chrysalis waiting to hatch in your hamper.

You're damp as you get into the apartment. Your mom is on the couch but not asleep. The television hazes over her as she stirs and groans.

"Honey, you're early." She says.

"Sorry to crash your alone time," you say as you set the box down and slip off your shoes. "Sent me home early but I got to the food bank."

"Yay," she gives a monotone whoop. After treatment, she always gets a bit dull around the edges.

There's more mail on the mat. You pick it up with the box of food. You carry it into the kitchen.

You leave the envelopes on the counter and focus on putting away the boxes and cans. Rice and some of the discount pork will be good. You have enough brown sugar for your special sauce.

The prep keeps your mind on point. Marinate on the pan then slide into the pre-heated oven, get the rice in the cooker, and put some frozen veggies in the steaming basket. Easy peasy.

You bring a cup of water to your mom. She has her forehead against her palm, leaning into the armrest. Her eyes are glassy as she stares at the TV.

"Thanks, hon," she murmurs. You pull the throw blanket over her lap.

"No problem. Dinner will be ready soon."

"Sure," she blinks sleepily.

You touch her shoulder softly then retreat. You hope she gets some sleep. You can always save the food.

You go back to the kitchen. Your stomach flips as you stare at the envelopes. The red paper visible through the window is dread-inducing. No point avoiding it.

You step forward as the smell of starch thickens the air. You tear through each envelope and slide out each paper. You lay them out. Three new ones. Big bold letters at the top in that 'Amount Owing' box. You look them over one at a time and stand in silence. You can't even pay one in full.

You stack them and fold them and shove them in your back pocket. You finish cooking dinner. You set aside your mother's portion in a container. She's asleep. You eat in the living room as her soft snores rise from her frail figure.

You wash your dishes and return to her. You help her down to her back and put her legs up. You tug the blanket higher and kiss her scarf.

You go to your room. You sit and the paper crinkles in your back pocket. You huff and reach for your laptop. If it wasn't so old, you could sell it.

You scroll through your activity. Lots of likes. Not too shabby on the followers. People are sharing your videos too. Even just the ones of the butterflies you saw near the pond on your way home.

You wish life could be as happy as that. As those little wings fluttering over the soft ripples. The breeze warm and wilting. The birds singing, the bugs humming.

You scroll through your feed. It's careless things like crochet patterns or painting videos. People are so talented. Your mom used to paint. She did the picture of butterflies hanging over your bed, a fair sitting among the swarm of colourful wings.

There's one post that gives you pause. It's a creator that makes clay earrings. She has a little donate button. Just a dollar or two for people to support her videos. That's awesome but you don't think your stuff is cool enough. You just watch cocoons.

You open a new tab. You fingers move without thinking. Thousands of results come up. You've seen these things before. People in need.

You're in need. No, your mom is. You promised you would do everything you can. You've done everything. This is that last thing. It's a long-shot. You doubt it will get anything but she always said you got to try at least once before making up your mind.

You search through your old photos. You and your mom at your graduation. It's one of your favourites. You start with that.

You stare at the text box. A story? No, that's not what you would call it.

The words pour out of you and you end with a final plea. 'You don't have to give but it would be nice if you could. Take care.'

You leave the page in draft for an hour before you post. You hit the Insta share icon and click through. Then you shut the laptop and push it away from you.

You get up and take the bills out of your pocket and leave them on the desk next to the hamper. You peer through the mesh. Soon.

🦋

The local coffee shop has free wifi. Your internet was shut off at the beginning of the week. It's at the bottom of the priority list. You have the old DVD player and your mom only ever watches the same things over and over. Who needs the news, it's all so grim.

You sit in the corner and hope no one notices that you haven't purchased anything. It's business enough and most people are on their way somewhere else. It's a rare moment where you're not doing the same; rushing to or from work, or to an appointment.

You wish work would call. As much as you need the money, you need something else to think about. Something besides your mom and the hospital bills.

You lean your head in your hands and stare at the phone's wallpaper. It's your mom with a butterfly on her nose. That was an amazing catch.

You blow out through your lips. You can't make it. Worse, because you can't, she won't. How can people put a price on health? On treatment?

An envelope icon pops up on the screen. You don't often see that one. You don't get too many emails that you don't send to junk.

You sit up and tap the screen. 'Yay! You got your first donation'. At first, you think it's a scam. Then you remember what you did. Your username is right there; butterflygirl738.

You open the email and tap the link to your profile. You log in through the browser and nearly choke at the dollar you see on screen. It can't be real. You're delusional. You've finally detached from reality.

'$10,000'. That can't be. It can't.

Below it reads. 'thank anonymous donour'. You have to. You have to make sure they didn't make some sort of mistake.

Your hands shake as you pick up the phone. You type into the chat. 'Thank you so so much <3 Are you sure?' You hit the arrow and lower the phone. They probably won't answer right away. They sent the money this morning. The email must have been caught.

An employee approaches your table, "um, miss, I'm sorry but uh..."

"No, it's okay," you stand and knock the table. "I get it. Sorry. I was uh... waiting for someone but they changed their mind."

You hurry out as your lie hangs in the air. You doubt they even believed it. You stay close enough to keep the signal as your phone vibes in your hand. You check the screen. A reply.

'I'm sure. I hope your mother is well. You too.'

You send a heart emoji as your whole body starts to tremble. Your eyes fill with tears, of disbelief, of gratitude, of joy. It's not a cure but it's an ounce of hope. It's a drop of relief in a bucket of doom.

You sit on the curb of the parking lot as the tears stream out. You keep yourself from heaving, letting the emotion trickle out until your face is cold and sticky. You wipe your cheeks and check your phone again.

'I'd like to help more. Can we talk?'

The message is confusing. More? Talk? They already did so much. It won't wipe away all your debt; not even close; but it will keep you from drowning.

'What do you mean?' You type back. That little circle with the featureless avatar floats ominously on the screen.

'WhatsApp? Audio call?'

Your lips form an O of realization and surprise. You cradle the phone. Uh oh. This might be a mistake. Should you give the money back? What do they want?

'You can think about it.' They type.

You ponder. Ten thousand dollars. You can't hope for more than that. You could never dream of this. And you can't say no. You have to think about your mother. She needs this money, it's not about what you want.

'When?'

You wait and watch the screen. Three dots pop up then disappear. You frown.

You get up as you nearly get kicked by another customer. There's the burger place across the street. They have wifi and you can hide behind the dumpsters.

You run across the road and past the drive-thru. You barely miss a bumper as you do. It's embarrassing but better than being hounded at the coffee place. The employees at the restaurant only offer to share their joints with you as they step out for their break.

'Now.' The reply blips up as your connection is restored. Below, a link to WhatsApp.

You stare at the blue text. Now? Right now? What do you say? You're not ready? You're steel reeling from that number. Who is this person? This kind kind person? What could they possibly want from you?

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #butterflygirl738 #marvel #mcu #captain america #avengers

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endless-ineffabilities · 1 year ago

Text

chemical override (6)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

a/n: I hope you all have found ways to cope after the breakup, but here all your questions will be answered on what went down pre-August! Special shoutout to @just-fics-station @thepurplecrown @clarkysblog @hotdismylife and @sprinklesprinkle888 for sharing your ideas and indulging me with the lovely, crazy discourse!

To everyone, I am so chuffed at how this has become OUR story - our lil self-indulgent Ewan Nation production. You all are aces <3

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

In the aftermath of the breakup, the reader and Ewan throw themselves into their work, trying (and failing) to avoid any trace of the other. Will they remain this way - former lovers doomed to drift in each other's orbit?

Some time before August

New York City

The lush office was laden with expensive wooden antiques, one side with built-in shelves displaying film awards and plaques of varying degrees of prestige. A full glass minibar occupied the other side.

The casting director introduced himself as Bruce, insisting that Ewan call him by his first name and not any of that "sir or similar stick-up-the-ass names". Ewan can see him as a mentor or maybe even a friend, Bruce insisted.

After all, they were going to help each other out a lot.

The discussion was straightforward enough, never mind the saccharine tone Bruce seemed to be so good at. Aimed at making Ewan feel welcome, coddling him, remarking with awe at his projects thus far. But there was a fakeness to it. Ewan steeled himself, trying to adapt to the style of conversation. After all, if he is in this for the long haul, then he would have to get used to these situations.

Bruce appraised him, leaning back on his leather swivel chair. "How are you with the fantasy genre? All that YA, lovesick stuff the kids eat up so eagerly nowadays? Personally, I haven't got the taste for it, but it always makes bank, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, well, I'm a fan of all movies. I definitely see why the fantasy genre has made such an impact on audiences, especially with the romance element, you know, I get the appeal."

"Well, son, we've got a solid franchise in our hands here. Some adaptation of an elf-human love story, mind you, it sound ridiculous, but you know how it is. And the team seems to be in agreement - you fit the bill for the male lead. The male elf lead - " he almost guffawed at the thought, then collected himself " - hope you don't mind my saying that you've got elvish features yourself. Long nose, long jaw, lanky. The teens are going to eat you up."

"Ah," Ewan smiled curtly, nodding. There was a backhanded compliment if he ever heard one. "Well, sir, I've read the script - at least, the bit that was sent to me - and it looks quite promising. I'd be honoured to - "

"Of course, of course!" Bruce exclaimed in pleasure, cutting Ewan off mid-sentence. "And there's the case of your leading lady, and this all boils down to chemistry as you know. Our top contender is that Jenna Ortega girl from the Netflix show, you know her?"

Ewan nodded, well aware. He's seen her work, and thinks that she is a top actress of her generation, but leave it to Bruce to reduce her to being that girl from the Netflix show.

"Yes, she's a very talented actress," Ewan replied.

Bruce hums in agreement, head bobbing as a smirk materialises on his face. "Think she's a looker?" he said openly, without shame.

Ewan laughed nervously, his words caught in his throat.

Bruce, characteriscally oblivious to the discomfort of others, carried on. "I only ask because we're going to need you two to be pretty chummy with each other when you jump on this project. It's kind of a condition of the whole thing, but really nothing to concern yourself with." He waved a hand in the air, his proposition barely carrying any weight in his mind. But Ewan was catching on, and he started to develop a dislike about the whole deal.

"What do you mean?" Ewan asked.

"It's pretty common in this business, son. There's a reason why young, new actors like yourself opt to remain unattached so to speak, so they're always open to a PR arrangement or, you know, just so their - your - hoards of fans would think they got a chance with you," Bruce explains lazily. "In this case, since you and Ortega are, as I said, unattached, getting you two together would fuckin' do wonders for our movie."

Our movie, he said, convinced that Ewan was all in, because why would any young actor refuse such a golden opportunity? Franchises like this can set up an entire mainstream Hollywood career.

Ewan thought that he wasn't unattached. Granted, his date with you was yet to happen, but he already felt bound to you. He wished you were the one tapped to be his love interest. Very little acting would be needed there. Maybe he might even be inclined to go along with the idea of selling the relationship, using it for publicity for the film, but even that made him uneasy.

The industry offered a lot of privileges, but more often than not, they come at a cost.

"Sir, I - "

"Bruce."

"Right, sorry. Bruce, I have to tell you that I'm not exactly unattached."

"Got a partner?"

Ewan actually found himself smiling at the thought of you being called his partner. His first easy smile since entering this office. "Yes, she's an actress herself," he agreed.

"I heard of her?" Bruce asked with obvious disinterest. You were but a wedge in his flawless plan.

"She's kind of a new talent like me, but she's brilliant. She plays Alyna Rivers in our show."

"Ah her," Bruce loosened up a little. "I get it, she's a piece."

Ewan cleared his throat loudly, his jaw clenching on instinct. "So, like I said, I'm with her. I'm sorry but this whole PR arrangement with Jenna wouldn't work."

"Look, kid, I want my movie to do well, alright? I got a lot invested here. This PR thing has proven to be highly bankable time and time again. If you don't trust me, I can ask the team to show you the data on all that. It's a lot of boring numbers, but shit, the numbers are never wrong."

"I don't need to see - "

"If you wanna be with your girl, you can, but you just gotta learn to hide it. Sweep it under the rug, you know. Don't canoodle in public, you crazy kids," Bruce offered, like that made things any better.

"You want me to hide my relationship?"

"Hey, now, come on. Word gets around. Isn't your girl also doing this exact same thing with Jacob Elordi?"

"Not anymore, I don't think," Ewan clarifies, "and that was... that was hardly anything. They weren't obligated to do it. It just worked by chance because they were both single for a time."

"Po-ta-to, po-tah-to." Bruce clicked his tongue before making his next point. "So you see how it works, your thing with Ortega won't be any different."

"Do I have a choice?" There it is, the defining factor.

Bruce smiled slowly. The calculating and menacing air about him intensified, and it was obvious he was not there to be Ewan's friend.

"It would be stupid to refuse something like this, kid."

Ewan's blue eyes flashed in return. None of this was ideal, but his nan raised him well, and he knew better than to falter on his values in times of trial.

"Sir, what's stupid is if you ask me to hide my real relationship for the sake of mere publicity for a film."

"Stupid you say?" Bruce sneered, having already discarded Ewan in his mind, his fragile ego bruised. "What a shame."

There wasn't much to say after that. Bruce was clearly not disinclined to reveal the ice that settled in his veins, and it dawned on Ewan that it had always been the case. There was no true hospitality here.

For bigwig casting director-slash-execs like Bruce, this was a transaction. And Ewan was not about to put what he has, or what he could have, with you on the line.

There has to be another way to advance his career. If not bigger productions, then at least those with less domineering producers.

"That is a shame," Ewan said, getting up from his seat. "I won't waste any more of your time, sir. Thank you for considering me."

Bruce's eyes darkened even further. "You're actually refusing me? For some girl?"

Another genuine smile formed on Ewan's face at the thought of you. Some girl.

But you're not just some girl. He nodded without a trace of doubt in his mind, before reaching out to shake Bruce's hand. "If you don't mind, sir... I have to go and see my darling."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Near the end of August

Los Angeles

The modern space sported a minimalist yet rustic feel, the interiors a blend of sterile white and sleek wooden surfaces. Very LA, as they say. The windowed walls offered plenty of light, as well as precious views of the valley below.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Donna," you greeted Ewan's publicist as she ushered you in her LA office.

"No problem at all, sweetheart," she said. "Please, have a seat. Would you like some coffee or tea? Ewan always has his coffee with way, way too much sugar. Mind you, if that kid wasn't active and boxing all the time, I'd be worried for his health."

You smiled fondly at her genuine concern. "Don't even mention the cigarettes."

"Oh, yeah," she scoffed, settling down on the chair across from you. She could have sat down at her desk, making the meeting more official, but Donna's always had a friendly and open way about her. "So, my sweet, how's your new movie coming up?"

You respond eagerly. The dialogue flowed freely, talking about your film and the lukewarm reception of season 2 of House of The Dragon. And finally, Ewan.

"I really thought he would get the Greta Gerwig film," you said. "Everyone said he was perfect for it. I think Greta herself had nothing but praises for him when they met on Zoom."

She sighed thoughtfully, "I thought so too. And, theoretically, he did have that one almost booked up. But there was an issue with one of the producers, which - I don't even want to get into that."

You shook your head, catching on whom she hinted at. "Donna, I heard... well, it didn't go too well in New York, didn't it? Ewan told me about it but... if you can tell me more, I just want to understand why - "

"Sweetheart," she offered a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes, "you should talk about this with Ewan."

"I tried. But he wouldn't budge. Mallory told me... that it might have been because of me that he didn't get the role? And also why he's struggling to get roles now? Donna, I... I can't have that."

It took some time for her to formulate a response. She didn't want to step in something that's none of her business. Your relationship with Ewan is yours. But when his career is on the line, she supposed that she needed to have some say in that.

"He met with this top producer in New York. This real old money Hollywood guy. For decades, he's built careers for the greats, you know - Pitt, DiCaprio, Theron, and whatnot. There was a franchise project practically offered to him on a plate, but Ewan refused, because a non-negotiable was that he would have to hide you in favour of a PR arrangement with his leading lady."

You swallowed, the weight of the truth making itself clear. "Couldn't he have just done the movie without that?"

"You would think," she grimaced, "but some producers... when they want something, they have to get it. And well, Bruce wasn't lying, that would have sold the movie well."

"I thought we were past this," you expressed sadly. "I understand how PR relationships work. Just recently, I found myself kind of in the middle of one. But there was no pressure, it wasn't forced on us, and it was meant to be all in good fun."

"I know, sweetheart," she insisted, reaching out to squeeze your hand. "Bruce is an outlier now. Most of the time you do get lucky, with an all-around supportive production team, just like with your project with Elordi."

You hummed in agreement on that positive note, but your mind kept drifting back to Ewan.

Donna continued, wrapping up her story, "but Bruce is still here, and he still has a lot of power. But you know, it'll be fine. Ewan's got such a huge fanbase and so much talent that it'll only be a matter of time before something else knocks on his door."

You wanted to share her sense of optimism, but something ate at you. What else will Ewan have to sacrifice just to be with you? This was his dream, his one dream, and you were standing in the way. How much longer before he is offered another project but he refuses to take it for your sake? Your thoughts blurred together, bordering on irrational, but you couldn't help it.

All you could picture was the unabashed sincerity on his face, that sense of wonder, when he told you that acting had always been his dream.

Being tied down to you, this early in his career, would surely only hurt him. And you don't think you're worth it.

"Ewan loves you, sweetheart. Anyone with eyes can see that," Donna said after a while, heeding the storm brewing in your expression.

He loves you. It was true.

Less than a month in, and you've already found yourself with a love that you've never felt before. And perhaps never will again.

And that was the problem.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Late September

The podcast moderators are overly welcoming, if not a little loud for Ewan's taste.

The BBC podcast is called Loose Ends, and it's one of the first things Ewan agreed to take on upon returning to England.

He had wanted to head straight home to Derby, to bury himself in his heartache and bitterness, but the team for the show tapped him for a couple more promotional stints, riding on the high of the season finale. And who better than Ewan to offer to the media, the undeniable fan favourite.

Clad in an old gray shirt and blue jeans, people would think he just rolled right out of bed. He didn't really have the motivation to put in more effort. The only striking thing about him is his newly bleached head of hair, supervised by his stylist for a photoshoot a few days ago.

It was ironic, the timing of such a change. Ewan knew that if word got out that you dumped him, he would never hear the end of the joke of that being the reason for his hairstyle change, typical of all heartbroken sods.

Everyone bursts into laughter when he tells them about his mum's reaction to his nude scene. It feels like going through the motions, and he must have been so out of it, so forlorn, that his team prepared an outline for him prior to the interview. The questions and answers all pre-agreed.

Make them laugh. React as required. Remember to speak when spoken to. The mantra goes on in his head.

And don't think about her.

An impossible task, worsened when a moderator goes off script and asks, "Now it wasn't me who saw this, as I'm not on social media myself, but one of our interns did mention that you ventured into Instagram recently? Is that true?"

Oh fuck.

"Mmm, yeah, I guess," Ewan laughs nervously, his hand massaging the back of his neck in a self-soothing motion.

"And your first post went viral? What can you tell us about that? Our listeners would love to know."

"Uhhhm - " He remembers that the broadcast is live, and he can't exactly ask them to edit this part out, so he quickly settles for something indirect. Inconclusive. Safe. " - did it go viral? I'm not too sure how that thing works. I haven't used any kind of social media before."

"Apparently it did! And it had to do with the subject featured in that photo, Ewan. Your costar - "

"Mmm," Ewan stops him there, "didn't you say that you don't use Instagram?"

"No, I think I'm too old!" The moderator laughs.

"It's insane, that whole thing," Ewan shakes his head. "I don't know how to handle it. I'm logged off most of the time."

"Oh, you log off?"

"Yeah, yeah, helps me keep my focus, you know. Keep calm and all that."

"It can get frivolous, can't it?"

Ewan hums in agreement, and thankfully, the moderator moves on to his last question. One that does not breach the subject of you.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Another day means yet another media stint for Ewan, this time for Now TV.

Still in London, his stylist Davey and the rest of the team prepare him for a day of brief interview clips, to be posted on the social media pages of the company.

Davey had half-joked about Ewan needing even more concealer than usual, the shadows under his eyes having significantly deepened after the breakup.

Some of his team have gotten wind of what happened. They would curiously ask about you, how often Ewan keeps in touch with you while you're on set...

You must be on FaceTime everyday!

Is it hard to be doing long-distance so soon?

Do you miss her? Is that why you're not getting any rest?

...but Ewan would only laugh uncomfortably, dismiss it by bringing up another topic or shifting the attention to someone else, or excuse himself to go for a smoke.

He'd been drowning himself in cigarettes and caffeine during the day, pint after pint in the nighttime. Aimless.

He is coping. He knows how it must look, but he deserves this. He deserves to drift for a while. It's the only thing he can do to keep himself from jumping on the next flight to Atlanta and begging for your hand back.

You said you love him. You did. He hangs on to it like a beacon in a storm. No matter how pointless it may seem, with you choosing someone else over him.

Work is becoming something of an anchor, something that keeps him from spiralling. He's an actor, and he has always wanted to be an actor. People now have expectations of him, and he will answer the call.

The interview session begins with generic questioning, stuff he's answered before on several occasions.

How special is the bond between dragon and rider?

What is a funny moment from set that you can share?

How similar are Aemond and Daemon?

All safe. He's proud of himself for not breaking mental clarity thus far. You're in the back of his mind, dormant as a memory, and not something looming darkly over him. For a while, at least.

But then he is asked, If you could invite any 5 people to a Ewan Mitchell dinner party, who would you pick?

"Matthew McConaughey - "

You.

" - Bruce Lee. I think they could strike up an interesting conversation - "

Your name echoes in his mind, and he can't control it.

" - Andrea Riseborough. She's just a chameleon, like in any role she undertakes -

You have great taste. Even if you would make him eat spicy food again, he'll take it. He'll endure anything for you.

He's stumped for a second, lump in his throat, and his effort in avoiding you leads him to mention someone who will always be a comfort to him.

" - Maybe my nan, because I miss her -

Your name. He has to say your name. Who else? Think of someone else.. but who else? Who would be better?

" - and then, another person. Let's make it from the show... it would be Alyna Rivers."

"Oh really?" The interviewer asks. She's not really meant to respond in this instance, but she knows that the fans would go crazy about any mention of you or your character, so why not jump on this opportunity? "Can you tell us why you chose her?"

"Uhhm, well, she's just an amazing character, you know, fiercely loyal, beautiful, tenacious," Ewan replies easily, "so yeah, she would make for good company."

It is obvious that he is describing you just as much as he does Alyna Rivers, and no doubt, the fans will catch on to this detail.

Later, he's asked about his favourite part about season two, and he duly answers, "Seeing more of Aemond and Vhagar's bond and how that perhaps have gotten stronger. Aemond has definitely reined her in, after the accident at Storm's End."

Then, "There are some new additions to the show. Do you have a particular favourite?"

Another obvious piece of bait. And he takes it, he doesn't care anymore. What's the use of denying the truth?

"A favourite new character? Oh, well, uhmm... I really do like Alyna, and I think I've said before that Aemond and her are quite similar in a sense that they both know what they want and how to achieve it. It's just a shame they're on opposing sides, because if those two get together... " he trails off, leaving it up to the audiences to fill in the rest of the thought.

And they eagerly do. The clips where Ewan mentions Alyna get the most traction, flooded with comments that more or less talk of the same thing -

We know why you chose Alyna, Ewan. We know your ways.

He could have said Alys. Or Gwayne. Or even the ghost of Daeron ffs. But nooooo.... it's Alyna Alyna Alyna 😮‍💨

I wonder if she's there behind the scenes

yeah shes definitely lurking in the background!

Aemond and Alyna better have at least a scene together in season 3!!!!!

Someone kidnap Ryan Condal and make him write this

Ewan doesn't see any of it. Not that he's missing out, because he soon feels the need to call his younger cousin to ask her how to turn off his notifications on Instagram.

Day in and day out, his one single post gets dozens of new comments and likes, a brutal reminder of what he's lost. He could just delete it, and get rid of his profile entirely, but he hates to imagine the discourse that would follow.

All the invasive allegations and rumours. So he leaves it be. It makes no difference to him now. Let people believe what they want.

To his chagrin, he finds himself scrolling on his home page once in a while. The addictive element to it was true, and for him, it's exacerbated because the things he sees are often related to you.

Photos of you from fanpages and news accounts. Ones where your friends have tagged you. It's a toxic habit, looking through it all, but he can't help himself.

Then one day, as he's slouched on the seat in his London apartment, phone propped on his knees, he sees a cutout photo of his face on the corner of the screen. He clicks on it, and it's an image of him interposed among different posts. Posts which he apparently liked.

"Oh for fuck's sake," he cusses at himself, reading the caption.

Boyfriend lurking? - Ewan Mitchell may play a formidable TV villain, but in real life, he's just like us. Click on the link in bio to see his series of liked posts!

Dread takes root in him, followed by self-loathing. Why couldn't he just keep off this bloody thing? He takes to the comments to see what he has allegedly liked on accident and it's predictably photos of you - you at a premiere, stills of you as Alyna, and even, heavens fucking forbid, a behind the scenes shot of you getting pretty close with Jacob Elordi on the set of your film.

He vividly remembers seeing that last one, because he went on a bender after coming across it.

Cursing himself and his wayward, sticky fingers, he exits the app and deletes it from his phone.

Whatever goes on there, whatever people might leave on his profile, he washes his hands of it.

He calls up several of his mates, asking them if they want to come over for a few drinks.

"Again, Ewan?" one of them exclaims. "C'mon, you gotta take a breather, mate."

"I don't need a breather." I need her.

"Ewan - "

His composure breaks, all his damned frustrations rising to the surface, and he confesses, "I wonder if she thinks about me."

"Hang in there, mate. We're coming over."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

October

The director finally yells a satisfied, "Cut!"

It's only taken a good twenty-something takes for you and Jacob to nail a challenging scene. You had been on a roll since the beginning of the shoot, the last few weeks seemingly a breeze on paper, though it's a constant struggle to keep it together.

You've had to quell your internal dialogue so it does not stray to him. His smile. The feel of his skin against yours. His way of subtly picking up on details, and doing sweet things that surprise you as a result.

But you received word just before the scene that a few of your friends have come to visit, waiting back at your trailer - Phia, Fabien and his girlfriend, Bella.

And so, as if on instinct, Ewan is all you can focus on, every repressed memory of him rushing in like a tidal wave.

Do they know? What could you possibly say to justify what you did? You can only hope he took on that project, to give you a bitter sense of vindication.

It's the only thing that keeps it all the bay, the only thing that keeps you from jumping on the next flight to England and grovelling at his door.

Phia has her arms wrapped around you the moment you open the door to your trailer, loudly squealing, "I missed you!"

You sink into the hug, comforted by her presence.

As well as the fact that she represents some connection to Ewan.

Phia, Helaena. Helaena, Aemond. Aemond, Ewan.

It's a sick game to play, but it's what you have.

"Hey, yous," you hug Fabien and Bella in turn. Not long after, you're all lounging on director's chairs right outside your trailer, enjoying a bit of sun.

"How's our big Hollywood star?" Phia quips, her lips curling in her trademark pleasant upturn.

"Hardly a star," you shake your head fondly. "More of an indie darling."

"Of course, of course," she relents, before going on a monologue about how she's been keeping tabs on your project, how she just adores the costume designer whom she spoke to at length while you were working, and how the rest of the cast is rooting for you.

The rest of the cast.

"Ah, are they?" you ask, making a conscious effort to not simply blurt out his name. What does he think? Has he mentioned you at all?

Do they know?

Do they secretly hate you for what you did?

"Mhmm, right Fabs?" she says.

"Oh, definitely." Fabien agrees right away.

"How's your film? Are you done shooting in Philly?" you ask him.

"Just about done, but I think we're doing some final reshoots next week. I'm just glad my girl's here to visit," he slings an arm around Bella, who smiles and leans closer to him.

You smile at the sight, but it visibly falters. Ewan could be visiting you on set right now, just like Bella with Fabien, if you hadn't fucked it all up.

They notice.

"Love," Phia sighs, her tone softening. "I just want you know - we want you know - we're here for you, okay? No matter what you went through with... " A pause. Like saying his name would open up the floodgates.

Your gaze falls to your lap in shame. You pick on invisible lint on your trousers. Bite your lip. Breathe deeply.

Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

"So you guys know, huh?"

"Well, more or less," Phia says. "I just spoke with... Ewan... recently. He's back in Derby for the time being, and he's - "

"He's a bit rough," Fabien says firmly. He's not taking sides here, but he's heard from Ewan, and he feels the need to have his mate's back. "Look, I don't want to pry, but what happened? It seemed like you guys were doing so well together!"

"You don't have to tell us," Phia adds, shooting Fabien a look. "But if you want to, we're here to listen. We love you both and we just want to help, love."

You feel your eyes welling up. Leave it to Phia to be oh so sweet. You can't lie to them, you don't want to. Even if you did, they would see right through it.

Your friends know you too well.

"I... I miss him."

Phia squeezes your hand, and the whole story is about to spill out of you when you hear your name being called.

It's your assistant Clara, letting you know you're needed back on set.

You swallow back tears, standing on your feet, trying to maintain enough composure so you can grant yourself access back to your character.

"Go do your thing, superstar," Phia smiles comfortingly. "We'll be here when you're ready."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

November

"I'd like to propose a toast," Tom declares out loud in the empty pub, "to Ewan, Hollywood's new elf... Lord? Prince? Ah sod it, cheers!"

Round the table, Ewan, Fabien, Luke and Elliott all raise their pints with a collective, "Hear, hear!"

The pub has been cleared out for the lads, thanks to a favour called in by the twins, with the owner being their gym buddy and good friend.

"Thank you," Ewan replies, smirking. "I am your new elf prince, address me as such."

"Your ears have never been pointier, mate," Luke quips.

After a month of moping back home in Derby, or recovering as Ewan prefers to put it, he got a call from his manager telling him that the offer from Bruce still stands.

Apparently, the production team for the movie still had him tapped as the prime choice for the lead. After observing his audience metrics and overall viability, they decided that the movie would fare the best with him in it.

They had planted some half-baked announcements in the media, stating that it was Ewan against Joseph Quinn and Manny Jacinto for the role, and the fan reaction veered in Ewan's favour by a landslide.

Even though Bruce had an unsavoury word or two to say about him, he was willing to work past it, so long as Ewan would be more amenable to his demands.

After careful deliberation, Ewan chose to throw caution to the wind, and accept the role. So what if he has to pretend to have a real-life romance with Jenna? This is what you wanted.

"I'm glad you finally came out to see us, mate," Fabien says. "It's been a while."

"Yeah, fuck's sake. Remind us never to break your heart! That was tough to witness, you hunkerin' down out there all mopey and whatnot," Elliott laughs.

"Mmm." Ewan takes a swig of his beer to hide the wince he couldn't hold back. His friends, and most of the cast know by now, not in too much detail, of what went down between the two of you.

A typical short-lived romance of two actors. A summer fling. Most of them would look back and only see it as that.

Even though it was so much more. Even though Ewan still recalls how warm and soft and beautiful you felt as you whimpered underneath him, the loss of you as painful as getting hit by a freight train.

The liquor helps. Burying himself in work helps. Denial... well, that certainly helps the most.

When he goes out to the back garden for a smoke break with Fabien, he tricks himself into believing it's mere curiosity that compels him to say, "Phia mentioned that you guys went to Atlanta."

Fabien is rendered off guard, because he knows what's coming. "Yeah, we did. Bella came with us too. She was visiting me on set," he says, measuredly.

"Mmm." A long drag, a flick of ash towards the ground, an unaffected shrug - and eventually, with as impassive of a tone as he can muster, Ewan asks, "So how is she?"

Fabien smiles knowingly. "She's doing great. Her film's looking pretty good." He's privy to the truth, after he and Phia managed to gently coax it out of you over several martinis at a hotel bar in Atlanta. But he doesn't think it up to him to reveal that to Ewan, out of respect for your privacy.

While he might not share your sentiment, he thinks it's not in his place to tell Ewan that you basically lied for his sake.

But that doesn't mean he won't drop a helpful nugget or two.

"You know, I don't exactly know what's going on... but her and Jacob came across as nothing more than friends."

Ewan's hand freezes mid-air, the cigarette inches from his lips. He loathes the sense of hope that immediately bloomed in his chest. He's so bloody easy. One miniscule hint, and his delusions break through the wall of indifference he worked so hard to build.

"She said she has feelings for him," Ewan stresses, trying to convince himself. What was the fucking point of all this... this pain... if you never did?

"Hey, mate, I dunno," Fabien puts his hands up, "just telling you what I saw."

"It doesn't matter." It does. "She ended it." He wants you back, he will always want you back. "It's better this way."

"Is it?"

Ewan doesn't answer. He doesn't know how to, without grossly embellishing the truth.

Fabien watches his friend, sensing his hesitation as he averts his gaze. One thing becomes clear to him - you and Ewan are far from being over.

So he says, "She misses you, you know."

Ewan regards him with a stony look, one that slowly softens to reveal the broken boy inside. For but a moment, before he clears his throat and throws the butt of his cigarette on the ground.

"Let's head back inside."

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

December

You're back in London, as production for your film is paused for the upcoming holiday season.

Work is supposed to be the last thing on your mind, but it just so happens that your manager has you booked for a chemistry read for a yet undisclosed film.

Phia came over to your apartment, insisting that she help you get ready. When you asked how she found out about your audition, she was quick to say that she was up for the role as well but didn't think it was right for her.

"Why not?" you ask, as she hovers over you, patting blush on the apples of your cheeks.

"Oh, you just get a feel for these things."

"Phi, it's just a chemistry read," you say, when she reaches for the mascara. "I don't need to get all dolled up for this."

She gasps, "Oh, but this is showbiz, darling. We always have to put a face on."

"Fine," you relent. "Do your worst."

The makeup she ends up doing on you is minimal, but it enhances your features just the right amount. You rush through your final preparations, folding up the script sample you were given and stuffing it in your purse.

Phia stands out on your balcony, in the middle of a call. The window screen is slightly open, so you hear snippets of the conversation as you walk by.

"Is he ready?" she asks. Who's he? You assume it's the guy you are doing the read with.

You don't know about him, but you are ready, so you stick your head out to say, "I gotta go, Phi."

"Oh!" She startles a little, angling her phone away. "Already?"

"Yeah, the read's at 4, I believe. Just lock the door when you leave, 'kay?"

She hurriedly whispers something to her phone, presumably ending her call. "I'll actually head out with you," she grins. "My work here is done anyway."

"Any plans for the night?"

She shrugs, "Might meet with Tom and Martha."

"Oh, why don't I meet you guys after my thing?"

"Uhhhm," she chews on her lip, thinking. Under her breath, you barely hear her mumble, "... hoping you'd be busy."

"What?" A restrained chuckle escapes you, confused as to why she's being so coy.

"Nothing," she tilts her head. "We can meet if you'd like."

The weird exchange is out of your mind when you arrive at the casting agency. You run the scene through in your head as you walk in the building, up the elevator, down the long hallway.

It's a heartfelt scene, if not a little tense, a dialogue between reunited ex-lovers.

Your manager Polina and publicist Mallory greet you at the doors, swiftly briefing you before directing you in.

"They're waiting, just walk right in, doll," Polina says.

"Okay, wish me luck!" You have your hand on the door handle when Mallory strangely remarks, "Don't hate us, sweetheart!"

"Why would I - "

"Go, go," Polina guides you in, then shuts the door behind you.

The office sports an spacious and open layout, with plenty of natural light streaming through large windows. The primary workstation is partially hidden behind a subtle partition. You see silhouettes of a few people behind it, so you walk down that way.

The figures reveal themselves soon enough - the casting agents you recognise as Patrick and Amie, sitting in front of the actor you're meant to read with.

A range of emotion washes over you, but you don't even have time to reckon with them. The casting agents divert your attention from Ewan, as they approach you with wide smiles in greeting.

"So nice to finally meet you!" Amie croons. "Take a seat. You two already know each other, of course. Between us, there won't really be a question of chemistry here."

"Right?" Patrick adds, looking between you and Ewan. "The fans sure think so, and we have to say we already agree."

"So just give us a minute to set up," Amie says. "Then we'll start."

You smile stiffly, settling down on the opposite end of the couch. You keep your gaze straight, trying to keep your attention on Patrick as he sets up the camera. Your heartbeat races the entire time, and you feel your hands getting clammy.

"They're all in on it," you hear Ewan say, prompting you to finally look at him directly. You take him in hungrily, admiring his outline, ever so handsome with his Targaryen-blonde hair and black leather jacket.

A weak "Mmm?" is all you can muster.

"Our teams, Tom, Phia... they set us up. Tom came over and I overheard him on the phone with Phia."

"Oh," you mumble. He doesn't even spare you a glance, leaning on the armrest on his side of the couch. He looks as if he'd rather be anywhere but here, next to you, and it hurts.

It's what you deserve.

"Is this not a real chemistry read?" you ask meekly.

"I suppose it is," he laughs humourlessly, "but it's not a coincidence that you and I just happen to be the only ones scheduled for today." He turns to you, giving you a critical sideways glance. "Didn't see that coming, did you?"

"I... I can leave if you want - "

"Mmm," his brows furrow, "you do seem to be good at that."

You look away. He is not being fair, but you weren't neither, that wretched night back in September.

And he is making you pay for it now.

But then you hear him speak in a softer tone, "Stay."

Stay. When you look at him once more, his attention is entirely on you, arm outstretched on the couch like he just tried to reach for you but decided against it.

Stay, he asked. So you do.

It's what you should have done, months ago.

"Okay, guys. Whenever you're ready," Amie says. She and Patrick take their seats in front of you, with the camera on a stand between them.

The script crinkles on your lap as you hold it with shaky fingers. "It's been a while," you read out your opening line.

The dialogue plays out twisted and ironic, now that you know who your scene partner is.

"Hardly," Ewan responds in character. "I feel like no time as passed."

"Feels like a lifetime."

He pauses, then sighs, "Do you even miss me?"

"How... how can you even ask me that?"

"How can I - "

"Why didn't you... why didn't you fight for me?" your voice breaks, the lines hitting a bit too close to home.

"You're a fucking hypocrite," he spits with venom. "You weren't exactly giving me anything to fight for."

"I did it for us. I did it all for us." If you didn't feel like crying at the weight of the scene, you would have rolled your eyes at the similarities.

"Like I said - nothing to fight for."

"Nothing? So you're telling me I was nothing to you."

"No," he levels you with an icy look, "you were everything to me. Everything. But you left me behind, and for what? So you can run off with the rebel sect?"

"The mission needed me. You wouldn't understand." You feel a sense of relief when the sci-fi elements roll in, otherwise you might have given in to your emotions and sobbed right there on the damn couch.

"I needed you," Ewan says, eyes not leaving yours. "I needed you and you abandoned me, just like that."

"And are you not better for it? When I left, did they not make you General?"

"See, that is the difference between you and I," he says coldly. "I wouldn't have traded what we had for anything - no position, no amount of wealth, no glory... I would have chosen us every time."

"Aaand cut!" Patrick jokes, effectively breaking the tension.

The two of you have unconsciously drifted closer, now only a foot part. Ewan does not drop your gaze, watching you closely. You see his eyes flit down to your parted lips, and he leans in almost imperceptibly.

"Alright, how about we go one more time?" Amie says, diverting your attention. "Give us a different take, and then that's it!"

Ewan settles back on his end of the couch. When he reads his lines again, his tone is harsher and he no longer meets your eyes.

Patrick and Amie commend you both afterward, singing praises about your acting abilities. Ewan is polite as always, blushing and grateful, but he practically dashes out of the door when the meeting finishes.

You're left standing with Amie, as Patrick has taken to his laptop to file the footage.

"The way he looks at you," she sighs dreamily, referring to Ewan. "You'd think the sun shone out your arse, doll."

"He... he was just in character," you disagree. "He's a good actor, as you know."

"Yeah, I mean, he nailed the part's rancour perfectly. But his eyes - oof - you've got a good one there."

Oh. Of course they would still assume you and him are together.

How desperately you want it to be true.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

An hour later, you've just sent Phia a text saying - You owe me. Where do I meet you guys?

But you hear a knock on your apartment door. If you didn't buzz anyone in, it can only be a neighbour or someone the doorman recognised.

Someone familiar to you.

And it's him.

"Ewan?"

"I need to speak with you."

You step aside so he doesn't linger at your doorway. He walks past you, a welcome if not unexpected presence in the room.

You can't decipher his expression, his gaze angled downward as he leans against your kitchen counter.

When the silence becomes almost deafening, you laugh awkwardly, about to make some silly remark on whether he is still in character. But he doesn't let you diffuse the tension.

"I want you," he blurts out without warning. "God help me, I still want you. I think I might have a fucking problem because how can I... after what you did - " A momentary glance of betrayal, but you see the spite clear in his eyes. " - but I do. I can't get you out of my system."

"I'm sorry - "

"I don't need that," he says sharply. "I don't need your sorry. I need you. I need to have you, and maybe this way, I'll satisfy whatever pointless desire I still have in me."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying - I'm asking - will you let me have you?"

"Ewan, I don't under - "

"I'm saying that we should sleep together," he says bluntly, and it feels like the rug has been pulled from under your feet, "but only just. You won't be mine, and I won't be yours."

"You're kidding."

He shakes his head, before adding, "Don't worry. It'll be our little secret. To the rest of the world, I'll have a different girlfriend anyway."

His words register, along with the bitter ache at his words, that you won't be his, he won't be yours. This is purely for pleasure. There used to be love here, and now he just craves the comfort your body allows.

You'll be using each other.

You should refuse. This is not healthy; this is not how you move on. Can you even go back to being good friends after this? But also - what have you got to lose?

What, except for him, and for good this time?

What, except everything?

"So what do you say - " He closes in on you, and with every bit of malice intended, the name no longer possessing the sweetness it once held, he sneers, "- darling?"

💌 next chapter

Taglist: @namelesslosers @skymoonandstardust @valyrianflower @luckyfirebasement @omgsuperstarg @elissanatok @callsignwidow @sinistersnakey49 @darkwriteracademia @yyrzmomo @queenofshinigamis @luvaerina @shamelessblazecrown @mirandastuckinthe80s @elleinex0x0 @pierrotlu @aegonswife @strangersunghoon @lunampacheco @writer-ann-artist @gaiaea @of-swords-and-words @ateliefloresdaprimavera @m00n5t0n3 @helaenaluvr @peachysunrize @annie-ruk @luvly-writer @ananas26t @athenafaes @lovelyteenagebeard @mamawiggers1980 @moongirl27 @katherine93 @barnes70stark @justbelljust @cloudroomblog @somestufftoday @esposadomd @girl-in-the-chairs-void @insideyourimagination @vyctorya @wildrangers @livcookesgf @onlyrealjoy (continued ... )

Some notes in the margins...

Well well well... the transition from friends to lovers to strangers to angsty FWBs sure is a slippery slope!

The time jumps are so we get through the moping quicker! It's mostly back to the regular shenanigans in the next part. Only, you know, angst-ridden. But you hurt Ewan, reader. *wags finger* Don't say you didn't expect this switch! Tsktsk

So what now - will you accept this arrangement? Will things ever be truly okay? Part 7 is going to be hot and hilarious and stupid and messy, just as the doctor ordered.

Let's hash it out in the comments, shall we? 🗡💕

#ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell imagine #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #chemical override #hotd #aemond targaryen x reader

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winter-doggo · 7 months ago

Text

A post about things I found out while prodding at DGS/The Great Ace Attorney character models

Ryunosuke's eyeballs are this weird shape. I've generally found that, with ripped 3d models from other games I've looked at, any seperately modelled eyeballs underneath people's eyelids are probably pleasant half-spheres. now i'm seeing something that's not that and it feels very strange. Sir your eyes are oblong

There are a bunch of little differences between Kazuma's uniform and everybody else's. Definitely on account of being the star student and local coolest guy

Some more under the cut, starting with differences between Ryunosuke, Kazuma and Ryutaro's outfits that I found interesting:

There is a subtle "shape" on the back of each uniform. Kazuma's looks sorta like a star (like the University pin). The shape the other two have is a little more like a triangle.

Ryunosuke and Ryutaro wear their armbands on their right arm. Kazuma wears his on his left.

Ryunosuke and Ryutaro have two buttons on their sleeves. Kazuma has three.

Kazuma has an extra five-pointed star pin on his collar that the other two do not.

Kazuma has the sword at his left hip connected to a belt thing that probably has a proper name but I'm calling it a belt. When this sword is in Ryunosuke's care, Kazuma's headband is tied around its sheath, and it stays at the left hip but has no such belt. I have no choice but to conclude that Kazuma's headband is enchanted to create gravity defiance at all times.

(I have a lot of feelings on that headband being attached the sword like that. I'm not crying, you are)

Kazuma has nice boots

Ryutaro obviously has the cool hat and cloak that the other two only get to wear in cutscenes/artwork. There is nothing under Ryutaro's hat.

I have no idea what that thing on Ryunosuke's left hand is

While most of the outlines in Ace Attorney are done with a slightly bigger version of the character model and backface culling, various characters have nose lines that are pretty much "drawn on" with meshes (that are flipped based on the needs of the camera angle). Here I haven't moved them so it's easier to see. Neat to see the sort of methods they use to do this stuff

I checked back at the DD models to see if they'd done this before and the answer is "yes but with a bit weirder implementation".

Van Zieks' wine seems to be only half red?

With the power of BONES i can cause.... mischief >:3c

And also make the partners hold hands. enrichment in my enclosure

Thank you for reading, I will use my power responsibly

#the great ace attorney #ace attorney #3d posing shenanigans #a little bit anyway #featuring:#ryunosuke naruhodo #kazuma asogi #ryutaro naruhodo

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helluvapoison · 1 year ago

Note

Hey can you write headcanons for alastor, angel dust(both platonic) and sir pentious (romantic) with a gen z/millennial reader? Just general stuff and interactions (like maybe talking about how things are for the lgbt community with angel and talking to alastor about gramophones and how they're coming back in style) and just some shenanigans

I know you don't have these characters listed in your writing list, and it's completely fine if you cant write for them but i love your writing style and characterization so I wanted to know how you'd imagine things would go

Alastor, Angel Dust (platonic) and Sir Pentious (romantic) x Reader

˚✧₊⁎ Alastor ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• “Hey Al! Loving the drip, it’s giving strawberry cow meets dark academia core.”

• Now he knows what others feel like when speaking to Zestial. He doesn’t understand half of what you say

• You taught him “tea”. Originally he thought you were providing real tea, something useful, not tedious gossip about— Oh. Oh. That could come in handy, actually. Alastor begins to pencil you into his afternoon tea. Sometimes you bring him useful information, others he has to sit through petty issues that make his eye twitch

• Alastor outright bans you from using your phone around him. He has no interest in this “meme” that reminds you of him (Don’t bring it out again, next time he’ll break it)

You groan, “It’s not as funny if I have to explain it!”

“It must not be very humorous in the first place.” He retorts

• He thinks you’re complimenting his taste in decor when you call it vintage

• You’ve proven yourself a useful acquaintance. Like Nifty, he’s grown accustomed to your presence and learned it may be better not to understand the inner workings of your mind

• “Got any aces?” someone asks while you play Go Fish with Husk, Angel and Sir Pina Colada. You never fail to jab a thumb in Alastor’s direction, cackling and kicking your feet

• They give you a peculiar look in reply

“Fuck you guys, I ate.”

• Yeah, they don’t get that one either

˚✧₊⁎ Angel Dust ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• It feels like every day Angel’s mid-insult and snapping his fingers at you, beckoning for you to conjure up a fresh comeback

• “Ooh! You just got cancelled, take the L, you fucking poser!”

He cackles, “Yeah! What they said!”

• Started calling himself an e-girl because you said it once about Charlie and never elaborated. He thinks it means cute… He’s not wrong? You don’t correct him, it’s funnier this way

• Playful arguments 24/7

“RIP, Angel, you would have loved Mean Girls— Wait, if a movie dies would it come to Hell? Never mind, don’t answer that, it would obviously go to Heaven.”

“I’ve met some real weirdos down here, sweetheart, and you outrank almost all of ‘em.”

• Something Angel noticed he could only appreciate from you is how different you react to his relationship with Val. He already knows it’s not healthy and he knows he gets defensive when people bring it up. Like the others, you listen, you comfort, you get furious on his behalf. You also offer him insight and labels he never thought would be helpful

• You hold up two fingers like you’re conducting an orchestra as you speak, “Say it with me; boundaries, bitch.”

“Boundaries..? S’at like bondage–?”

”NO!”

• Angel’s the only one that makes HellToks with you. The dances he learns faster and performs them better than you, often adding his own choreography to them. The “pass the phone” challenges never end well– especially when he tries to rope Nifty or Alastor in on them (RIP your old phone)

• Honestly, you’re pretty surprised you get along with Angel as well as you do. Y’know, considering he died a thousand years before you—

“I ain’t that old!”

“Your death certificate says otherwise, fam!”

˚✧₊⁎ Sir Pentious ⁎⁺˳✧༚

• He’s not sure how to handle how touchy you are first. You go around high-fiving everyone, freely holding hands with whoever lets you, offering hugs and– thump. Your head hits his lap, staring straight right at him with a goofy grin. And that.

• “Say slay,”

“Sssslay?”

• Oh. He quite likes the laugh that gets out of you

• Starts saying the word as much as possible, puffing his chest out proudly when you double over laughing. You don’t have the heart to tell him he’s using it wrong 99.9% of the time

• When you began consistently picking him for a chair instead of the others, he was stuck between throwing you across the room and making a break for it or pointing and laughing in the faces of everyone else. You chose him! HA!

• Bless his soul, the way he asked you out was so sweet

“I’ve done extensive research and found the equivalent of going sssteady in your language! I would like for us to move forward with the relationship ssstatus.”

“Huh? Oh. You want to go out with me? Yeah!”

“Fuck yesss!“

• Pentious gives ride or die a new definition. Everything you say or you do, he will back you up. His eyes sparkle from the praise you give him

• That, and making him blush takes little effort on your part. Complimenting him like you always do (at least he thinks you are, sometimes he’s not certain) has his cheeks glowing in seconds

• After following you around for an hour, because Pentious wanted to make sure you could get along with the Egg Boiz without him, they adopt bits of your personality and bizarre phrases. “Now we have two parents!” “No cap!” “Yes cap, you’re wearing a hat!”

• You’ve single handedly make the Egg Boiz worse in the eyes of everyone but Pen. He’s ecstatic over the results, he doesn’t know what he would do if he had to choose between you and his eggs

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ this was so silly and fun, i hope you enjoy anon!

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor headcanons #alastor x reader #angel dust headcanon #angel dust x reader #sir pentious imagine #sir pentious x reader #hazbin sir pentious #platonic or romantic

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hannahbarberra162 · 11 months ago

Text

Sir Crocodile and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

18+ MDNI

As picked by readers! Ace nonnies, I see you. I'll write the childhood friend reader x Ace story too.

On Ao3 in French

One shot, Reader x Sir Crocodile, fluffy

Word count: ~6k

Synopsis: Crocodile dreads the one day a year you take off of work, your birthday. As his incredible personal assistant, he depends on you for almost everything. Like every year, a day without you is a complete disaster. But maybe there is something he can salvage from the wreckage. Something - or someone - he's wanted for a very long time.

Sir Crocodile tapped the flat of his hook against the date circled on his desk calendar. Tomorrow was his absolute least favorite day of the entire year. You took off only one day annually, your birthday. Sure, you nominally had weekends off as well. But something always came up and you spent at least half a day dealing with his business or personal matters every weekend.

He didn’t begrudge you having your birthday to yourself - you were incredibly diligent and deserved it. But without you around, everything seemed to fall to shambles within minutes. You were by far the best personal assistant he’d ever had. Maybe even the best employee he’d ever had, even among his cohort of Devil Fruit powered henchmen who killed for him indiscriminately. Of course, he knew that if he called you on your baby den den mushi, you’d answer and do whatever he needed. But he would feel guilty for disturbing you . And guilt was an emotion Crocodile had only felt once and never wanted to again. No, he’d make due without you tomorrow and let you enjoy your day off.

Though he was not kind to - or even close to - his Baroque Works crew, Crocodile was considered a top tier employer in Rainbase Lake. Once he found someone who was good at their profession, he tried his best to keep them in his employ. He treated his personal staff with respect, paid very well, and had set guidelines for employees to follow. Henchmen could be replaced, bloodthirsty pirates were a dime a dozen. Reliable and high quality housekeepers, chefs, and assistants? Priceless.

And you were the most reliable, most organized, most level headed, most meticulous, and most industrious employee he’d ever had. At first, he suspected you of being a devil fruit user. That would explain how you managed to get everything done correctly, on time, and make it seem easy. However, he quickly realized that you were just that good . But you weren’t single mindedly following his orders all the time, like some of his stooges. You didn’t wait for him to tell you things he needed or tasks he wanted done, you thought for yourself and anticipated his needs. You weren’t a yes man, you would voice your opinion if he asked for it. He valued your insight and operations driven mind. In fact, during the years you’d been working for Crocodile, you’d only ever argued once. And it wasn’t even an argument, really. Crocodile had started growing a mustache, he thought it added some regality to his face. You hated it and told him that it didn’t suit his features. You were right, of course. He’d allowed you to shave it off yourself, much to your delight.

Even without it being your day off, Crocodile always remembered your birthday. Yours was the only one, besides his own, that he had ever bothered to recall. He had many lovers who assumed the thoughtful and romantic gifts they received on their birthdays, anniversaries, and “just because” came from him. But the truth was that all his lovers were in a relationship with you. You remembered all the small details and arranged everything to his lover’s tastes. Crocodile didn’t even try to remember their names, calling them all “Doll” to save himself the hassle. He even thought of them that way - interchangeable, easily replaced, silly but ultimately worthless playthings. But you could tell him their favorite flowers, preferred gemstones, clothing style, shoe size, and any other tidbit of information he’d ever want. You had sent hundreds of gifts on his behalf and had never gotten anything wrong. As a result, Crocodile had a reputation for being a true romantic, someone who listened when his paramours told him personal details. He couldn’t care less.

He stopped over at your desk as you finished out your day, bringing a small gift bag with him hanging off his hook.

“Happy birthday,” he said in his low tone, handing you the present.

“What a pleasant surprise, Sir,” you said, removing it and opening it immediately. It was a potted white rhino agave succulent that he had bought without your assistance. It was expensive and rare, but you were worth every penny he ever spent on you.

“Oh, how thoughtful! Thank you so much, Sir!” You beamed at him. To some, it would have looked like a poor gift, but Crocodile knew you well. You didn’t care for cut flowers or most trinkets. You were passionate about cacti and succulents, spending some of your time away from him caring for the plants. You had an impressive collection, one that Crocodile added to as the occasion arose. You got up from behind your desk, walked around to him, and stood on your tiptoes. Crocodile brought himself down to your height and you kissed his cheek in gratitude.

“What a wonderful send off, Sir. I will see you the day after tomorrow. Please, if there is an emergency, do not hesitate to call.” Crocodile smiled at you and leaned against your desk. Crocodile knew you meant nothing untoward by the kiss, it was platonic affection. But he enjoyed the feeling nonetheless. He looked forward to it annually.

“Enjoy your day off.” He wouldn’t, but he wasn’t going to tell you that.

“Thank you, Sir.” With that, you carefully carried your plant and left the office. Crocodile watched you leave then scowled once you’d left. It would be a long 24 hours without you.

~~~

The next morning began poorly right from the start. Crocodile awoke late, his alarm clock hadn’t gone off. He blasted it with sand, destroying it completely. He was annoyed already. Normally you woke him gently before his alarm clock did, but you weren’t here today. He found waking to your soft voice and calm face a soothing way to start his day. Crocodile rose from his bed and went to his clothes valet, only to find it empty. He wanted to destroy that as well, but he decided he shouldn’t demolish everything that irritated him today. He’d have nothing left and besides, it would be more work for you to replace everything. You usually hung his clothes for him after pressing them yourself, and he rarely saw the need to adjust your choices. You knew what he liked and how he liked to present himself down to the cufflinks on his shirt sleeves. Crocodile stalked to his large walk in closet and looked through the well organized racks of clothing. It had been one year since he’d had to do this himself and he hadn’t missed the chore.

He selected an outfit and looked at himself in the mirror. The outfit lacked a certain elegance that you were able to assemble effortlessly. He adjusted his hook - it looked dull. You always polished it for him until it gleamed. It would have to do, he was already late for a meeting he had called. He left his bedroom for the dining room, looking for his cafe corto. There was a carafe of drip coffee waiting on the table, but no espresso. There was also an impressive tray of sweet pastries. You knew Crocodile wanted a cafe corto first, then drip coffee, cigar, no food. Was it so hard to replicate everything you did for just one day? Could no amount of staff compete with one small woman? Crocodile rang for a servant and asked for the espresso. He was brought an Americano. He sighed and rubbed his temples with his hand.

The day went downhill from there. You had prepared for your absence during the day, leaving notes and organizing what you could anticipate. Crocodile had another staff member on the den den, fielding calls you’d normally take. But even with your absent help, it was a complete disaster. Crocodile was used to you taking notes for him during meetings, he had forgotten to bring a pen and paper to the board room. By the end of the meeting, he’d forgotten half of the numbers from the quarterly presentation. Everything seemed to need your touch, your help, your forethought to run smoothly.

Things went from bad to worse. Meetings went off topic, reports had incorrect data, enemies were left untortured, and he’d forgotten to feed the bananawanis on time. Word spread quickly that Crocodile was in a bad mood. Everyone knew the reason why, but no one dared to breathe a word about it. Despite his earlier wishful thinking, the boardroom table now had several hook sized holes in it and his office was covered in sand. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep pull on his cigar. You would have already had everything arranged to soothe his anger.

It wasn’t even all the small matters during the business day that you arranged. You were adept at anticipating his needs before he even realized he wanted something, and arranging his life to one befitting someone of his station. You understood him better than perhaps anyone else. Yes, Miss All Sunday managed Rain Dinners, but you managed Crocodile.

He sat and recalled one of the times when he’d called you in the middle of the night. He did try not to disturb your rest, but sometimes it needed to be done. One such occasion was when he’d invited Dracule Mihawk to his residence. They had been talking - and drinking - late into the night. In the early hours of the morning he rang you to ask for some food to accompany their wine.

“Hello Sir, how may I assist you?” your voice had been sleepy, he saw his snail answering bleary eyed but still with a smile.

“I apologize for the late night call. I’d like some refreshments.”

“Of course sir,” the snail looked over at something. “It is now 2:50 AM. I had your favored refreshments scheduled to be delivered at 3:00 AM. Would you prefer to wait ten minutes or would you rather I bring you something immediately?” You weren’t being facetious, Crocodile knew if he asked, you’d have food for him by 2:59 come hell or highwater.

“3:00 is fine, thank you.”

“I hope you can forgive my impertinence, Sir - I also included some refreshments that may be more to your guest’s liking.” Mihawk raised a single eyebrow.

“Very thoughtful. Good night.”

“Good night, Sir.”

And sure enough, at 3:00 AM on the dot, a tray of Crocodile’s favorite foods to pair with heavy drinking were delivered by a tired looking waiter. Crocodile served himself some fresh dumplings and offered the tray to Mihawk. Mihawk declined, as he was sampling the gambas al ajillo and jamon.

“Quite the assistant you have,” Mihawk said, a glimmer of intrigue ghosting over his face. “The dishes are excellent, send her my thanks.” Mihawk inclined his head to Crocodile. Crocodile smirked, you had made him proud.

Breaking his walk down memory lane, he heard the den den mushi ring for what felt like the millionth time that day. Miss Merry Christmas picked up the receiver. He could hear half of the conversation.

“Hello? No, she’s not in today, it’s her birthday. I don’t think you’ll want to - are you sure - let me see,” Miss Merry Christmas looked at Crocodile in his office and yelled through the open door “it’s Doflamingo, do you want to take it?”

Crocodile wanted to kill her on the spot. His sand was already swirling behind him. She had told Doflamingo of all people that it was your birthday. After Crocodile had started taking you to Warlord meetings, the flashy fool had been trying to get you to move to Dressrosa and work for him. Crocodile wasn’t worried about you leaving him for another employer. The thought just sat heavily in his mind and caused him immense anger when he imagined you spending time with Doflamingo. But that wasn’t the same as jealousy. Crocodile would never be jealous over an employee. Even one as smart and lucious as yourself.

Furthermore, Miss About To Be Impaled had asked if he wanted to take the call. Now Doffy knew he was there and had to take the call or else risk a tantrum from the spoiled King. He stalked over to the snail, who was looking quite smug.

“What.”

“So it’s her birthday today, mmh? I’ll have to send something nice, maybe some lingerie…would you like some as well? Fufufufufufufu.” Crocodile hoped Vegapunk would soon invent a way to kill someone through a den den mushi. He’d deal with Doflamingo later, he was in no mood for the Dressrosa King’s idiotic love quests. He hung up softly, gently patting the snail on the back with his flesh hand. The snail survived because he’d killed one once in anger after such a call and it had upset you. Crocodile didn’t like when you were upset. You’d even cried over the snail and Crocodile had felt guilty. He had liked that even less.

He needed a drink.

~~~

Crocodile left his office for the restaurant portion of Rain Dinners. He had a splitting headache and nearly called out your name to ask for your assistance. Every year your birthday made him realize how heavily he depended on you, so every year he increased your salary the following day. He made a mental note to do the same again tomorrow.

Crocodile sat in his favorite booth, smoked his cigar, and drank his whiskey neat. The bartenders here were competent and didn’t need to be told what he wanted to drink. He was thinking over some of the reports brought to him by his minions when he spotted you, alone, drinking a glass of wine at the bar. Crocodile was surprised - drinking alone, on your big day? Crocodile knew you had a romantic relationship that predated your employment to him. Crocodile had never liked your partner, but you seemed happy enough. He didn’t understand why someone of your caliber, of your intelligence and beauty was with such a loser, but for your sake he hadn’t killed him.

Crocodile gathered himself and headed straight to you at the bar. The crowd parted for him easily, with many trying to capture his attention. Some of his Dolls tried to touch his arm or talk to him but he didn’t even spare them a glance. Coming up to your side, you looked up at him and smiled weakly.

“Good evening, Sir.” You looked absolutely ravishing, just as gorgeous as the day he met you. Normally you wore simple but well tailored clothing to work. It hadn’t stopped his imagination from running wild when you wore your pencil skirts or your slightly lower cut tops. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d wanted to free your hair from its style and run his fingers through it. Or the times he’d wanted to rip through your skirt and pound into you when you leaned over his desk. He’d entertained the thought of seducing you many times, but ultimately he respected you too much to do so. He didn’t want to interfere if you were already in a relationship, as pathetic as your choice was. Besides, he didn’t know what he would do without you if his interest was unreciprocated and you left. He didn’t even want to think about the possibility.

Today you were more dressed up fancier than usual, your striking figure in an elegant black dress that bared your back provocatively. He stifled his impulse to run his hook down your spine to see if it made you shiver. Pulling his thoughts back to you, he noticed your eyes were slightly red and puffy. He put his large hand on your shoulder.

“What happened to that… person …you usually spend time with?” He couldn’t call that boy a man, let alone a boyfriend. He was lucky Crocodile remembered his existence. And continued to allow it.

“We aren’t together anymore, Sir.” Your eyes watered. Crocodile sat in the seat next to yours.

“Did you break up tonight?” Crocodile spoke softly, not wanting to embarrass you or upset you further.

“Yes, Sir.” You looked down at your glass of wine, swirling the drink gently.

“Would you like him killed?” Crocodile could have sworn his hook was twitching. He could think of no better ending to the evening. Maybe that would save this terrible day.

“No thank you, Sir.” You didn’t have the same penchant for violence and bloodlust that he did. Crocodile didn’t mind. He didn’t care for succulents all that much. You could have different hobbies and still work well with one another. “You don’t have to waste your time consoling me, Sir. I would like you to enjoy your evening. A few of your lovers are here, if you’d like me to remind you of their names.”

Crocodile scoffed. “As you know, I am always doing what I want to be doing.” You nodded. As if he would forgo time with you for some nameless woman.

“Where did he work again?” Crocodile was going to have him tracked down, just for….fun.

“He’s the general manager of ‘Fantasia,” you replied, your mouth dipping into a frown. It was a rival casino, though not even in the top three in Rainbase Lake. “He said I am too involved with my career, that I didn’t spend enough time away from work. That my life revolves around yours.” You looked up, repentant already. “I apologize, Sir. You didn’t ask for details.” Crocodile waved your concerns away. He enjoyed it when you shared your feelings and opinions. Crocodile took the flat of his hook and put it under your chin, raising your face to look at his own. A tear tracked down your face.

“Some people do not understand dedication. Loyalty. Duty. Passion.”

“Passion, Sir?” Your face slightly flushed from the wine - or perhaps the intimate contact. Crocodile belatedly realized his misstep. He hadn’t meant to reveal his desire, especially when you were already upset. He reluctantly removed his hook from beneath your pretty face.

“Would you like me to escort you home?” Crocodile changed the conversation in case you’d been uncomfortable.

“Yes, thank you Sir” you looked surprised at his offer and that you yourself had taken him up on it. Naturally he wanted to ensure his favorite employee was home safely. He had never done this for anyone else but that didn’t mean anything. It certainly had nothing to do with your sadness and vulnerability. He offered you his hand and you gingerly stepped down from your bar stool. Crocodile guided you to the door with his hook on your bare back. He looked closely and found himself right, you had gotten goosebumps.

The two of you walked through the darkened town in silence, enjoying the pleasant weather. That was something else Crocodile appreciated about you - you didn’t feel the need to fill a stillness with meaningless chatter. The longer the walk took, the less pleased Crocodile became. He paid you very well, why weren’t you living in the luxurious part of the town? You turned street corners until you ended at a shabby looking apartment building and stood in the doorway. Crocodile would rather have burned it to the ground before he set foot in it.

“This is where I live Sir, thank you for accompanying me.” Crocodile looked at the crumbling brick building once again.

“Why?” Crocodile bit out. He had nearly chomped his cigar in half.

“I beg your pardon, Sir?” you looked confused at his question.

“Why do you live here? I pay you well, I know you can afford better living conditions.” Your face flushed.

“You need not concern yourself, Sir. The situation has resolved itself.” Crocodile narrowed his eyes. So it was related to the boy. Had you been paying off some of his gambling debt? He had that look about him. Crocodile knew it well, he owned a casino and had seen that type of fool thousands of times. That wouldn’t do and neither would your current living situation.

“Indeed. You’ll be moving into my mansion.” Crocodile was pleased with this outcome. He hadn’t liked you living so far from him. He always had a security detail following you when you weren’t with him, but it never felt like enough. With the level of intimate knowledge you had about Crocodile and his businesses, he was always concerned that you’d be kidnapped or tortured. Truthfully, if he admitted it to himself, he worried. Another feeling he didn’t like. No, this would work out perfectly. He wouldn’t have to be distracted by thoughts of your well being and you’d be closer to him at all times.

“Sir, that is…not appropriate,” you demurred. He hadn’t thought of the implication of moving you in, but in this case he wasn’t thinking with his lower head.

“Nonsense. You’ll have the entire East Wing to yourself. Decorate it as you see fit, I’ll provide you a housing stipend. I will wait here for five minutes. Gather what you will need for the night. Daz will collect the rest of your belongings tomorrow.”

“Sir, is this really -” you had crossed your arms across your lovely chest.

“The countdown has begun.” His will was set in stone, not even your annoyance could sway him. You sighed, rolled your eyes, and walked into the building briskly. Perhaps one good thing had come from this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

~~~

Crocodile was immensely happy with the outcome of his decision. He felt at rest knowing he could protect you and keep you safe from those who would seek to gain power over him. Or worse yet, other magnates trying to scout your services for their own. He’d caught Mihawk speaking to you quietly after the last Warlord meeting, and you laughed at something he’d said. He wouldn’t stop you from having conversation with the Swordsman, but he didn’t like it. He knew even Sengoku had tried his hand at recruiting you for the Marines. You turned down every offer and stayed with Crocodile. He wasn’t worried about your loyalty, but Crocodile didn’t like the attention you received from others. You were his personal assistant and Crocodile had never shared well.

He did try to give you your space and allow you your own personal life within the mansion. He didn’t want to control you, he knew you were your own woman. But since you now shared the same (gigantic) mansion, he did occasionally see you outside of your working hours. He saw you strolling in the gardens, tending to your plants, watching the stars from the balcony. When you weren’t working, you dressed more casually, allowing Crocodile to see more of your body. It did not help that you only referred to him as “Sir,” even outside of work. He had long fantasized about your sultry voice saying “yes, sir” and “no, sir,” in a more intimate setting. He’d tried it with many of his Dolls, but none of them could get it right. Only your “yes, sir,” got his blood pumping.

~~~

The longer you lived in his mansion, the more suspicious Crocodile became of the nature of your feelings towards him. Crocodile wasn’t one to directly ask, but you seemed to have some feelings that crept out every now and again. Once, he’d asked you to help a Doll leave the morning after a stay in his bedroom and you outright refused. It was the first time that you’d ever refused a task he’d asked of you. And you hadn’t backed down. You said it was outside the scope of your duties, but that you’d send a housekeeper. If Crocodile had to put an emotion to your tone, it would have been jealousy. Other times, he had caught you staring at him, and blushing and averting your gaze when caught. You’d worked together for years, but with the closer proximity and your newly single status, perhaps your feelings were changing. Crocodile wanted to test his theory. One day, when your pencil skirt was particularly tight, he called you into his home office. He was leaning back in his chair, smoking a cigar as usual, papers on his desk.

“Yes, sir?” you stood at the entrance to the office.

“Come in, I don’t bite.” You immediately moved closer to his desk, slight confusion on your face. Normally he tried to speak to you as professionally as possible, and you immediately noted the change in his language. “Take a look at the latest figures from Rain Dinners. I know the calculations are correct, but something is missing.” You came over to his side of the desk and bent over to read, like you’d done so many times before. But this time, he rested his hand on the small of your back. You didn’t say anything, but he heard you suck in a breath. Interesting. You spent a moment flipping back and forth between the pages.

“I see the issue, Sir,” you said, still bent over. Crocodile stood up and bent over next to you, caging you in with one arm. “I apologize. You are missing a page of the report,” you were blushing furiously but continued “I will g-get you a better copy.” You were flustered.

“Thank you, that’s all,” Crocodile breathed into the shell of your ear. You shuddered from the close contact. Crocodile sat back in his chair, releasing you. You practically ran from the room, face as red as if you’d spent it in the Alabastan desert. Very interesting.

~~~

Crocodile wanted to set clear boundaries and to have affirmative consent from you before he did anything. He respected you as a person and if you were to turn him down, he would still want to keep you as an employee. He called for you one late evening. You arrived promptly, though in more casual clothing since it was outside of your business hours. You were wearing a mid length sundress with a blue flower pattern. It accentuated everything Crocodile liked about your figure. Perfection.

“How may I help you, Sir?” Polite as always.

“Come here,” Crocodile beckoned you with one extended finger. You stood in front of him expectantly. He carefully wound his hook around your waist and pulled you closer, directly in front of his seated form. “Better.” He removed his hook.

“Do you enjoy working for me?” Your eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Of course, Sir. This is the best job I’ve ever had.”

“Do you remember the day that I hired you?” Crocodile was dragging on his cigar, allowing the smoke to billow out of his mouth. Simultaneously, he was polishing his hook with a cloth. He knew he struck an imposing figure.

“Yes, Sir.” You were transfixed by the sight of the golden hook, gleaming in the dimming light.

“Do you remember our conversation about the bananawanis?” You tore your eyes away from his hook.

“Yes, Sir. One of the conditions of employment was being comfortable with bananawanis. You asked if I had any concerns in caring for them.” You were getting nervous, unsure of what the purpose of the conversation was.

“Do you remember what you told me?” Crocodile grinned his unnerving smile.

“Yes, Sir. That they are apex predators, they need to be treated with care and respect. If you accept your place beneath them, they can be affectionate and sweet. And that,” you looked him in the eyes, “I doubted they were the most dangerous creatures on the premises.”

“Do you still believe that to be true?” Crocodile rose to his full height, towering over you. You looked up at him. You looked on edge but not scared.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And what might you say about a more dangerous creature?” He spoke low, looking down at your reddening face. He wound his hook slowly around the back of your neck, giving you time to move away. You didn’t move except to shiver.

“Ah, likely the same Sir. That if I were to accept my position as subservient, I think most strong, ahm, creatures would be receptive.” Crocodile pulled on his hook gently, baring your neck to him. He bent down to your height, ghosting his lips on the exposed column of your neck.

“Speak now with your objections.” He was being truthful, any hesitation on your part and he would stop immediately. He was interested in willing submission, nothing else.

“Sir, I…admit I am so inclined but I worry about mixing business and passion .” Crocodile grinned at your statement, echoing his words from your birthday. So you’d been affected as well.

“If anything unpleasant happens between us, now or after, I assure you we will go back to our previous arrangement. You will not be fired nor face retribution. Do you find that acceptable?” He would rather lose his other hand than you. You nodded.

“Yes, Sir.” You were looking at him with stars in your eyes.

“If I do something and you wish to end the experience, say ‘no.’ If you say ‘stop,’ I won’t. If you say ‘please,’ it will not move me, nor will any tears. If you say ‘no,’ I will immediately cease my actions. Do you understand?” You gulped.

“Yes, Sir.”

“What word will end anything that you do not wish to happen?”

“If I say ‘no’ to you, Sir.”

“Very good. Take off your dress.” You looked nervous but your lips quirked up at the corners with his slight praise. He knew that you did your best when given approval. He sat back down in his chair and admired your elegance. You slowly brought down the straps to your dress, then removed your arms from within them. You weren’t wearing a bra, you’d deemed the dress sufficient. He had seen many strip teases from his Dolls, all perfectly crafted and practiced to make a man inflamed with want. Yours had no artifice, no guile, nothing calculated. And yet he found your performance much more sensual and alluring. He felt his cock stiffening more with each passing second. When your arms were free, you let your dress pool at your feet and stepped out of it. You stood still, awaiting his judgment.

“Absolutely stunning.” He stood up again, circling you slowly, letting the metal of his hook glide across your bared skin. He trailed it over your back, across the backs of your arms, across your collar bones as he went around you. Anywhere he dragged it raised goosebumps on your flesh. “You look even better than I have ever imagined.” You preened at his words. He continued to tease you with his hook. “Does it make you nervous when I stare at your beauty?”

“No, Sir.”

He finished drinking you in and sat down once again, only to spread his legs. “Come sit,” he said, voice smooth as silk. You unhesitatingly went over to him, breasts bouncing gently as you walked. You perched yourself sideways gracefully on his powerful thigh, waiting for his next command. You always did so well following his orders, after all. He put down his cigar and put it on your side, bringing you closer to him.

“Exquisite beyond compare.” Bringing his face down to yours, he twined his hand into the hair at the back of your head. He pulled, slanting your face upwards. You were panting softly. He searched your face for any hint of lingering doubt, but he only saw raw desire. He brought his lips to yours ever so slowly, creeping inch by inch, not yet kissing but oh so close. You tried to reach up for him with your mouth but his hand kept you from doing so. “No need to rush, I’m not going anywhere,” he said and bit the lobe of your ear gently. Crocodile didn’t have it in him to wait any longer to kiss you. He brought his lips to yours, opening his mouth. You gave him entry as his tongue explored your own. He kissed you at his leisurely pace, showing you who was in control. He was demanding and dominating and you were loving every moment.

“Tell me, if I felt between your legs right now, would you be wet for me?” he asked as he kissed down your jaw. You flushed crimson but his hand in your hair prevented you from avoiding his gaze.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Show me.”

“Yes, Sir.” You spread your shaking thighs for him, revealing your soaked panties. He untangled his hand from your hair and walked a finger down your arm, down your stomach, down to your thighs. He reached around you and shredded the sides, destroying them and revealing your gleaming pussy. You gasped but didn’t move. He trailed a finger down your slit, not parting your lower lips but fingers still coming back glistening.

“Does it feel good when I touch you like this?”

“Y-yes, Sir,” you said, biting back a moan.

“Would you like more?”

“Yes, Sir. Please.” Oh, you’d never added that little plea before. Crocodile felt himself getting even harder than he was before. Maybe one day he’d make you beg. But not today.

“Ride my thigh, that’s how you’re getting off tonight.” He wanted to watch your face and enjoy the mess you made on his slacks. There’d be plenty of time for other fun. He shifted you so you were straddling his thigh.

“Yes, Sir,” he was pleased that you didn’t hesitate, that you were as interested in following as he was in ordering. You started gyrating on his huge thigh, making small whimpers, your hands on his shoulder for stability. He took the opportunity to cup your breast, kneading the mound between his fingers. Occasionally, he missed having two hands. This was one of those times, he wished he could feel both of your breasts at the same time. Instead, he raised his thigh so you were closer to him and dipped his head to lick and tease at your nipples. Your whimpers only increased. He kissed you all over your chest and neck, making sure to leave a few marks. Your head was thrown back, your eyes glazed as you sought your pleasure. Your whines were increasing in tempo and pitch, you were close.

“Ask me for permission to come,” Crocodile drawled.

“Please, Sir, may I come?” you answered quickly, not stopping your movements. He wanted to reward you tonight.

“Yes, you may.” You keened and bucked faster against his thigh, rocking your hips in small circles. He could tell the moment you came undone, he could feel your pussy spasm through his pants. He watched you ride out the high, face contorted in pleasure. He was close himself, but tonight was not for him. After finishing you needed a moment’s rest. You leaned your forehead against his chest, breathing heavily. A moment later, he picked you up and situated you on his other thigh.

“Good girl, how well you’ve done. Look at the mess you’ve made on me,” he said, motioning to the wet spot on his slacks. You reddened but still smiled at him as he enveloped you in his arms. He wrapped you in a nearby blanket off his couch, allowing you to collapse against his broad chest. He relit his cigar and sat peacefully smoking. His rock hard cock would wait for later.

“Thank you, Sir. May I ask you one question?”

“Of course.”

“Can we…do this again sometime?” You seemed unsure of yourself, but Crocodile smiled kindly at you.

“My dear, clear your schedule for the night. And the next. And for the foreseeable future. After all, I am nothing if not an affectionate and sweet creature.”

#op crocodile #crocodile x reader #crocodile x you #reader insert #op x y/n #sir crocodile #crocodile one piece #protective crocodile #soft crocodile #that hook though #bananawani

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siracethegreat · 25 days ago

Note

any Bart Allen headcanons? :D

yah!! me and @lovelynakahara connected our braincells and made this list *clears throat*

Trans masc

a short king

he's literally a gamer

severe unmedicated adhd<33

stimming sometimes vibrate too hard :((

very anxious all the time but pretend he's not :((

little brother coded (especially with Kyle but also in general) he is annoying and loved👍

comically trips on nothing frequently (he claims it's for the bit(it's not))

whenever I see his little thought bubbles I picture it as "the theatre in bart's mind" like Tamaki in ohshc

The silliest guy around (don’t worry he’s not sad(unless.))

#bart allen #dc impulse #impulse #dc comics #sir ace answers the thing

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autisticgaypirates · 11 months ago

Text

gettin' frisky (NSFW!) (*´ω｀*)

writing this because i'm OVULATING 💜

you guys already know wtf is gonna go down rn

fem!afab!reader, established relationship

obviously nsfw, mdni!!!!!! nothing suuuper freaky but y'know.. you can't have smut without getting your freak on a little

includes zoro, sanji, and ace

zoro ˚✧₊⁎⁺˳✧༚

- not big on foreplay at all, like don't even bother wondering if he'll be a tease because he won't

- oh he loves being dominant..... oh he LOVES it

- always missionary or doggy style, he likes being on top and getting the whole view

- will go even harder if you call him sir or daddy

- tbh? he's kinda a sadist, but not in a seriously harmful or hurtful way

- i mean sadist in a wants-to-smack-your-ass-so-hard-it-leaves-a-handprint way

- even though he's not a very talkative person, he LOVES to talk you through it

- he'll degrade you if you're cool with it, but if you do as he says you'll get a lot of praise

- LOVESSS to finish inside you

- he's not good at the whole aftercare thing, so you might just need to remind him your kinda.. y'know.. dripping his children

you lay beneath him in a mating press with the sound of the creaking bed and deep, heavy breaths in the background. his calloused fingers interlink with yours, pushing your hands above your head to ensure that you have no power. "you little slut, is this what you wanted for so long?" he said deeply, ramming himself inside you even harder than before. his grip on your hands tightens. "huh? huh?? you can't be silent forever. this is my pussy, and you're my bitch, answer me." you let out a high-pitched moan and choke out your next words. "y-yes zoro! it's everything i wanted!" his grip loosens as he smirks, looking down at you like you're his prey. he softens his thrusts a bit, just so he doesn't bruise your cervix. "goooood girl," he coos. "and who's pussy is this?" "yours, sir." he picks up his pace again. "and who do you belong to?" your legs begin to shake. "y-you, sir! i'm yours sir!" he goes full force as your breath hitches, a hungry smile plastered on his face. he licks his lips at you as you make your pretty sounds. "you're doing so good, i'm so close, pretty girl." his jaw hangs open as he lets out soft whimpers that harmonize with your whines as you both finish at the same time. he slowly pulls out as he watches it all pour out of you. he smirks at the sight before looking at you and placing a lazy kiss on your lips. he flops down beside you, an unconscious smile on his face as his eyes begin to flutter shut. "um..." you say, tapping him on the shoulder. he sits up and sees you pointing at your mess. "a little help here?" you say with a laugh.

sanji ˚✧₊⁎⁺˳✧༚

- sanji doesn't fuck, he makes love

- even though he's all over women and seems incredibly perverted, he doesn't care for the idea of hooking up with a random woman

- LOVESS foreplay and taking his sweet time

- very much a switch tbh

- his favorite position is cowgirl, but when he's feeling more romantic and less frisky, he's big on missionary

- BIIIIIIIG mommy kink (when submissive) and praise kink

- he's either whispering sweet nothings in french or screaming your name two octaves higher than his normal voice, no in between

- when he's in control though, it's so intimate and genuine and he loves loving you

- he only cares about you, he doesn't care if he'll explode if he doesn't cum, he'll wait until you're ready too

- as much as he'd love to finish inside you, he's kinda afraid to, so he'll always make sure to pull out right after you're done

- will immediately clean you up and make you tea and tuck you into bed, you're his princess

both shirts were now off, your pants off and on the floor. with sanji above you, he slowly and passionately kisses you, one hand holding him up and the other undoing his belt. after getting his pants off, he hooks two fingers on the edge of your panties that you wear specially for him. he looks up at you with soft eyes. "may i?" he says gently. you nod in response as he pulls them down and off your leg. "même si la mer nous entoure, son scintillement n'est pas comparable à toi," he whispers, slowly spreading your legs open. he leaves gentle kisses along your soft thighs before reaching your womanhood. he kisses it deeply, just grazing over your clit, before dipping his tongue in and having a taste for himself. his refusal to break eye contact with you as he eats you out drives you crazy, and he knows it. when you ever so slightly begin to feel your high, he pulls away. "merci, belle," he tells you, aligning his shaft with you. he slowly pushes himself in, making both of you let out a groan of pleasure. he bites down on his lip hard as he grips the sheets beneath you. he begins to move slowly, looking into your eyes lovingly. you do the same back, letting out a quiet whimper with each thrust. he gently places a hand on your stomach, brushing it across your body and all your curves in admiration. his hand ends up on the side of your face, cupping it. he leans in close to your ear. "you are love. we are an art, mon amour." he plants a kiss on your temple before picking up his pace, going a little harder. with a consistent rhythm and floods of sweet nothings, sanji is finally starting to reach his climax. "i love you," he whispers before going full force on you. his eyes hardly ever leave yours, and if they do, they're admiring the sculpture in which your body was crafted into. "i love you," you whisper back, breathily. "i love you," you say a little louder. "i love you sanji, fuck, i love you!" you borderline yell your admiration for him as you come down from your high, sanji's pace settling. he pulls out and finishes on your stomach, truly believing you two created a masterpiece. "i love you. i'll be right back," sanji tells you before throwing a towel around his waist and leaving the room. you already know where he's going. he's grabbing a damp rag to clean you with, a cup of your favorite tea, and running you a hot bath with your favorite scented candle. this is what making love really means.

ace ˚✧₊⁎⁺˳✧༚

- i'm gonna be so honest, he's so unserious about literally everything

- like you'll whip your tits out and this man will go "WOWZA!"

- he very much likes when you give him head beforehand, it gets him hard, hot, and ready

- very much dominant, but that's just because he's so passionate and so excited that he just wants to get going

- he LOVESSS doggy style, he's very much an ass man (he loves your face equally though don't worry) and he loves to smack your ass

- he's not huge on the romantic aspect and very much himself even in the bedroom

- very very chatty, loves to hear the changes in your voice and REALLY loves when you can't even speak

- when you think he's giving his all, girl not even close you just got started

- he'll compliment you on EVERYTHING, idk he kinda has this thing where he just needs to talk to you

- will ALWAYS ask if you want him to cum in you or pull out, and if you don't answer, he pulls out and cums on your ass

- aftercare with ace is so fucking funny because he'll talk about it like a sports event

you were on your knees in front of him, his shaft now covered in your saliva. he brushes his hand down your hair. "good job baby," he coos. you look up as he smiles down at you. "i'm ready for ya," he says with a smile. you stand up to an immediate smack on the ass. "c'mon pretty girl, ass up for me, i can't wait much longer," he tells you eagerly. you crawl onto the bed, ass up as you rest on your elbows. another smack, this one harder than the other. you let out a small whimper. "what a pretty sight for me," ace says under his breath, squeezing your ass and placing the tip along your slit. "a pretty pussy and nice, big ass on a beautiful girl." you suddenly feel his length push inside you, causing you to let out a yelp. he starts rocking back and forth, slow but hard. you feel his hands grip your hips to pull you up higher. each thrust makes you let out a noise of delight. "pussy is so good babe, and it's all for me?" ace asks you sweetly. "yes, yes all for you," you mutter, somehow already choking on your own words. he gives your ass another hard smack. "thank god," he mumbles before going harder into you. the wooden bed beneath the two of you is loud, and it almost feels unstable. "oh god... ah yeah," ace says, going even faster than he did before. "ohhh fuck yeah, you love it when i fuck you hard like this, huh?" "i- i fuck- i fucking love it!" "yeah? you love me, too?" "yes, yes, i- i love you, ace!" he keeps his speed but rams into your even harder. you can't speak at this point. you're yelling his name and letting out choked moans. "i love you so fucking much.." ace says with gritted teeth. "i love you, i love this pussy, i love this ass, i- gah, fuck! in or out?" "i-in!" the two of you are yelling at each other at this point. "oh god, oh god i'm cumming, mm fuck i'm cumming babe!" ace releases everything he has inside you, and the feeling of his length twitch right on your g-spot is enough to bring you to your climax as well. he slowly pulls out with a hiss, watching it all pour out of you. "damn... we did good," he says with a laugh. he grabs the towel nearby and cleans you up to the best of his ability. when he's done, you lower your hips onto the bed and flop down on your back as he crawls over to lay next to you. "have you like..." ace begins to ask. "... been doing squats lately? i always knew you had a great ass but-" "ugh, ace really?" you say with a laugh. "it's true! and y'know what, i found out that i really like when you tell me you love me during all that." you laugh and place a kiss on his forehead. "noted."

ok so this was insane lowkey and i did NOT expect to write that much for sanji but shit happens when you have a uterus

#one piece #one piece headcanons #one piece fanfiction #zoro #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro x reader #sanji #vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji x reader #sanji x reader #portgas d ace #portgas d ace x reader

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theodorenmyth · 1 year ago

Text

Hi! I'm Kai. I actually go by so many names but I'm most comfortable with Kai/Kawa. I am a Hufflepuff and I'm a virgo! I am non-binary and I go by all pronouns.

I am also in many fandoms. Ex ; Stranger Things, Harry Potter, Anime (demon slayer, haikyuu, yuri on ice, etc) Kpop, and MLBB fandom.

Likes, reblogs, comments and new followers are appreciated. My requests are open and I am a STRICTLY M, GN, NB, FTM reader account, so I will not accept F!Reader requests. (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Please DNI You fit the basic DNI criteria (homophobic, racist, transphobic, etc). disrespects peoples pronouns/boundries. You support Z!0N1ST'S. Spam accounts (YOU WILL BE BLOCKED IMMEDIATELY.)

STATUS : CAME BACK + REQUESTS OPEN!

AO3 ACCOUNT + WATTPADD ACCOUNT (C.S)

⋅ᯓᡣ𐭩 THINGS I WILL DO

Platonic

C/N & Sibling!au

C/N & Son!au

omegaverse!au

any types of au that's acceptable :3

Modern!au

Talk to you

Answer your questions

Fluff

Smut

Angst

Imagines

Fanfics (ofc)

Moodboards

⋅ᯓᡣ𐭩 THINGS I WILL NOT DO

incest

abusive relationship!au

R4p3

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Important note ; PLEASE do not STEAL, COPY, OR CLAIM my writing as yours. Do not use my work unless I give permission to do so.

✶ ; smut 　　 ♡︎ ; fluff 𐙚 ; angst ᡣ𐭩 ; angst-fluff

✽ ; fluff-angst ✿ ; smut-fluff ❥ ; fluff-smut

HARRY POTTER

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ BLAISE ZABINI

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ THEODORE NOTT

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ MATTHEO RIDDLE

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅LORENZO BERKSHIRE

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ TOM RIDDLE

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ DRACO MALFOY

POLY RELATIONSHIP. . . ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

ᯓᡣ𐭩 SLYTHERIN BOYS REACT

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ RON WEASLEY

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ HARRY POTTER

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ FRED WEASLEY

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ GEORGE WEASLEY

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ CEDRIC DIGGORY

ONE PIECE

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ MONKEY D. LUFFY

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ SABO

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ PORTGAS D. ACE

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ RORONOA ZORO

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ VINSMOKE SANJI

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ USOPP

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ SIR CROCODILE

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ RED-HAIRED SHANKS

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ CAPTAIN SMOKER

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ DONQUIXOTE DOFLAMINGO

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ TRAFALGAR D. WATER LAW

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ ROB LUCCI

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ DRACULE MIHAWK

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ EUSTASS "CAPTAIN" KID

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ HEADCANONS

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one-sunny · 1 month ago

Text

Cabin by the Lake | Just You

10- When Luffy’s birthday turns into a group get away to a small cabin by a lake, you cannot deny his own brothers an invitation. Surely the week long get away would leave a lasting impression with his eldest sibling.

The final chapter everyone 😭 i think it took so long to write bc my brain didn’t want it to be over. but here we are now

Sunday: Just You

Ace could feel his heart hammering in his chest, aware of his pulse thrumming. He was nervous. So very nervous to face you. Scared that you would slam the door in his face.

In spite of his nerves, he presses on. He needs to see you again. Hear your voice. You were so mad at him yesterday and it was driving him absolutely insane. Ace missed you, something that was terrifying in part, it seemed you had some kind of a hold over him. And worst of all? He didn’t mind it one bit.

His feet are heavy against the stairs, echoing through the stairwell, and only working to increase the rapid beat of his heart. Once he reaches your floor, by Luffy’s direction, he walks up to the door. Your apartment.

A shaky breath, hesitation, and Ace surges forwards to knock on the door before he can chicken out. Time seems to slow down as he waits. Then, the door suddenly cracks open.

“What?” The voice that barks is rough with age and entirely masculine. Ace’s eyes snap up to see an elderly man peering at him through a crack in the door. “I don’t want what you’re selling, boy.”

“I’m not-“

“What are you bothering me for?”

Ace swallows hard. You never mentioned living with your grandparents. “I’m looking for someone, she-“

“She? What business do you have with my wife? We have been married for over thirty years boy, you ain’t sleeping with her are you?” The door opens a little bit wider and the man’s frail frame comes into view. He had to be pushing his eighties.

“N-no sir.” Ace stutters out. He had been plagued by nerves until this very moment where confusion pushes through everything else.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m looking for a, uh, friend of mine.”

“If she’s your friend you should know that this ain’t her house. Now leave us alone!” The door is slammed in Ace’s face. Part of him wants to laugh- having a door slammed in his face was certainly not how he wanted the day to go, but he couldn’t be mad that it was by some angry geezer. Another part of him flares up in anger. Did Luffy even know what he was talking about?

Ace checks over the message, sighing loudly to see that he had knocked on the door Luffy told him to. Shaking his head, Ace hits call and waits rather impatiently for the line to connect. Moments later, Luffy answers and he can hear the beginnings of a greeting.

“Luffy!” Ace barks down the line, not giving his brother the chance for the words in his annoyance. “You gave me the wrong apartment.”

Luffy hums in thought, “No, i’m pretty sure that’s it.”

“Unless she turned into an eighty year old man over night, that was the wrong apartment.” He huffs out in frustration.

“Well maybe she did.” Luffy’s voice takes on a defensive tone and Ace doesn’t even need to see his face to know that he’s making that stupid pout. “It’s the one with the colorful doormat. Has like a lake and trees, it’s all orange. Some famous artist or something.”

Ace’s eyes scan his surroundings to find the thing three doors down from where he stood. “Found it.” With the muttered words, Ace hangs up the phone. He takes a moment to collect himself in the very short walk to your front door. Nervous energy consumes him as he moves to stand on that very same doormat that his brother described.

He hesitates for a moment, before lifting his hand and rapping his knuckles against the wood. Then he waits. And waits. And his frustration builds as he stands dumbly in the hallway.

Doubts and anxious thoughts fire off in his mind in the silence.

He knocks again and listens quietly. Nothing.

Then, he is calling his brother back again and speaking as soon as the line connects. “She didn’t answer.”

“She didn’t?” There is a surprised tone to his voice, but that gave Ace a little bit of relief. As air headed as his brother was, he was emotionally intelligent, especially when it came to his friends. Luffy must have been picking up on something with you to make him think you would answer the door. “Oh!” He finally pipes up, making Ace jump as if he forgot Luffy was on the phone. “She might still be at Nami’s, her and Robin stayed there last night.”

Ace pauses for a moment in disbelief, “And you didn’t think to tell me something like that?”

“My bad.” He can imagine the shrug that bounces Luffy’s shoulders.

“Great, thanks anyways.” Ace’s voice is snippy as he hangs up the phone. He wasn’t mad at Luffy- he could never be truly mad at his youngest brother- but Ace hated the situation he found himself in. If only he had just kissed you…

Ace sighs loudly and leans his back against your front door. He makes an attempt to craft a plan in his mind but everything is a muddied mess with the way his emotions run high. With a huff, he drops his head back against the door, eyes squeezed shut.

“Ace?”

His head snaps to attention and his eyes fall on you. Standing before him in an outfit that seemed to be quickly thrown together in a haste to leave Nami’s, and yet, he thought you never looked better. Then, he watches as your arms cross over your chest and a look of irritation flash over your face.

“Why are you here?”

Ace steps forwards, “I wanted a chance to explain.”

“To explain what.” You’re rolling your pretty eyes at him and his heart flutter in spite of himself.

“That,” He pauses, feeling breathless at your presence standing before him. “That I’m an idiot.”

A smile cracks on your face, but you quickly stamp it down. “Yeah, what about it?” Despite the irritated front you were attempting to uphold, your words were still teasing.

He takes another step closer, gauging your reaction. “And I got scared, ya know, of ruining the relationship you have with Luffy.” Your eyes flicker to the floor. “Until he told me I was being an idiot.”

You meet his eye once again, “Really?”

“Really.” He confirms. “I wanted to kiss you that night,” Ace is moving even closer now, heat buzzing over his skin at the proximity. At the comfort and familiarity of it. “That’s all i’ve been able to think about since then.”

A low sigh leaves you and you step around Ace, fiddling with your keys. But you don’t make the move to open the door and shut him out. “It really hurt.” You declare, back turned to him. “I thought that-“ As you turn around, your brow is pinched and a deep frown is on your face. “I tried to push you away and you wouldn’t let me. So I took that as a sign that,” You trail off, shaking your head. “And then i felt so stupid.��

“And I’m so sorry for making you feel like that.” Ace very hesitantly reaches out a hand towards you, gauging your reaction, before gently taking one of your hands. He feels your muscles tense for only a moment, soothing his thumb over your knuckles. “It was driving me crazy when you were trying to push me away-“

“I hadn’t noticed.” You scoff, a bashful smile falling on his lips.

“Yeah, well.” He mutters, squeezing your fingers. “I haven’t stopped regretting it since the moment I looked away. Haven’t stopped thinking about you. ‘Bout how pretty you looked. How bad I wanted to kiss you.” Fingers tip up your chin and Ace is looking back at you with a half-lidded expression. “I’m sorry for being so stupid, doll.”

You hum in thought, “I’m sure it will happen again.” There’s a teasing edge to your voice that pulls a smile to his face.

“Maybe,” Ace rolls his eyes. “But not like this. I never want to hurt you like that again.” Both hands now cup your face, cradling you like you are the most precious thing in the world. It pulls you in closer to him and you cant stop from reaching up to grab the opening of his flannel, squeezing the fabric in your hands.

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Ace breathes, eyes flickering down to your lips. They part in anticipation. “Can we try this thing again?”

A grin pulls to your lips, “You gonna be mad if i turn my head?” But you’re pulling him closer by your grip on his shirt anyways.

“I’d be devastated.” Ace confesses.

Then, you’re meeting each other in the embrace that you had both been so desperately craving. Lips locking together, pulled to each other closer and closer. His hands leave your face in favor of grabbing your hips to pull flush against him.

Movements are slow as you pull in closer to each other. A certain level of desperation sparks in the air as all focus was thrust into the feeling of your lips on his. Of short, panted breaths as you remain entangled in the hall.

Neither of you can be sure how it happened, but your back leans against the apartment door as Ace cages you between himself and the cracked paint. The kiss is deep and a groan vibrates through Ace’s chest as your fingers card through his hair.

“Missed you.” Ace groans against your lips.

Your laugh is clipped and cut off by another kiss. “You just saw me.”

“Don’t care.” He kisses you again. “You were mad at me,” Another kiss that has your tongues meeting for only a brief moment. “So it felt like years.” Your laugh is once again cut off in a desperate attempt to feel your lips against his. There is no further attempt at conversation and you can’t be sure how long you stay there, right in the hallway of your apartment.

A fact that neither of you seem to realize, until a loud scoff fills the relative silence. You both pull back, still in a daze, to lock eyes with the elderly man down the hall. He levels his scowl on Ace and he has to turn his head to hold back his laughter. Then his wife steps out and her eyes fall on you. The pair wear matching masks of disgust and you have to hold back a laugh as they mutter about “kids these days”.

Silence lingers all the way until the elevator doors close the couple away from you. Then, Ace’s laugh echoes through the hall as his forehead drops against your chest. Your laugh vibrates through you as well, but it’s a mix of laughter from the looks thrown your way and utter joy of having Ace in your arms.

Finally, your eyes meet Ace’s, shining with adoration. “Do you wanna come in? Before any of my other neighbors catch us?”

“Yeah, but,” His head tips to the side in thought, squeezing you a little bit closer to him. “Then I want you to get ready, so I can take you out.”

“Oh? You asking me on a date, Portgas?”

He adopts a bashful smile, suddenly nervous, and offering you a nod.

“Then ask.” You grin at him.

A laugh breaks through his nerves, shaking his head at you. You were just so cute. “Okay, okay, fine.” Ace straightens to his full height, taking half a step back so that he can look you in the eyes, but with hands that hover over your hips. “Will you go on a date with me?”

Your lips purse, finger tapping your chin as you mockingly hum in thought, as if the answer wasn’t already obvious. Ace rolls his eyes at your little act. “Man, what did I get myself into.” He mutters dramatically, making you gasp and lightly slap his shoulder. “I’m kidding, i’m kidding.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You roll your eyes at him. “I would love to go on a date with you, Ace.” He grins at your words, pulling you into his arms and gently squeezing you against his chest. “Okay, okay. Let’s go inside before my neighbors file a complaint about PDA and kids these days.”

You step away from him and Ace wants to kick himself for how strongly he misses your touch as you fiddle with your keys. Once the door is open, Ace collects your bags and ignores any of your protests, gesturing you ahead of him. With a playful eye roll, you step ahead into your apartment with Ace following close behind.

He quickly drops your bag by the door, kicking it closed behind him, and moving to catch up to you. Ace catches your hand to twirl you around and pulls you close to him, “Sorry, just can’t help myself.” Then he is leaning in to place a gentle kiss to your lips and effectively melt you into a little puddle at his feet. His smile shines bright as he pulls back to look at you, “Okay.” Another kiss pecked on your lips. “Go get ready.”

But the order falls on deaf ears at the daze his lips have left you in. “I, uh,” You mutter in attempt to piece together a thought that wasn’t riddled with Ace. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” Ace steps back with a mischievous grin. “Dress casual and, uh, take your time getting ready. ‘Kay?”

“Take my time?”

“Yeah, i’m serious.” He confirms, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “I half expected you to slam the door in my face so, uh, just go real slow.”

“Yeah, okay.” You laugh as you trail off towards your bedroom, leaving Ace alone in your living room.

Nerves bubble up in your stomach as you begin getting ready for your date. Your date. With Ace. You have to remind yourself to slow down in your excitement to get ready.

When you are finished, you walk out of your room to see Ace leaning against your kitchen island, phone pressed to his ear. He seems to be rambling on about something, a worry line in his brow, until his eyes land on you. His words trail off after this and he mutters something down the line before hanging up. Ace straightens and a flush rises to his cheeks, “Hi.”

“Hi.” You can’t hold back the nervous laugh.

“You look really pretty.”

Heat fills your face, “It’s no different from the stuff you’ve already seen me in.” Your hands brush over your clothing that you are annoyingly aware of all of the sudden.

“I know, but,” His eyes flicker away. “I was too nervous to tell you how pretty you looked before.”

You clear your throat and walk a few steps closer. “So, uh, where are you taking me?” The change in topic seemed to be much needed for the both of you in your newly found nerves.

“Already told you, it’s a surprise.” Ace knocks his knuckles against the countertop. “Let’s head out, doll.” He offers a rather charming smile before gesturing you towards your own front door.

The ride to your mystery destination starts off with the quiet lull of music and light conversation as Ace practically vibrates with his mix of emotions. Though, at one point, he took your hand and some of those nerves seemed to dissipate. After that, it turned to something reminiscent of your drives out in the middle of nowhere, and calm seemed to settle about his car.

Soon, trees fill the sight of the window, perfectly green and picturesque. The local park was abuzz with families and couples milling about, but Ace drives even further in. Well past anything you have seen before.

He makes a turn into an area where the trees grow thicker and begins to slow down. Eventually, the tires roll to a stop and Ace throws you a nervous look. “We’re here.” His voice is breathy as if he had run all this way.

Unable to stop yourself, you lift a hand to his face and gently cup his cheek. “Let’s go.” Your thumb brushes over his cheek bone and his whole body seems to melt into your touch, a pink heat spreading over his face.

“Let’s go.” He echoes.

The two of you hop out of Ace’s car, the man stopping at the front to offer out his hand. You take it with a bright smile and Ace turns to lead you towards the clearing ahead of you. The greenery is near perfect, opening up for a space fit for two and a large picnic blanket nestled in there. With three men crowding the area and chattering rather loudly.

“Oh no.” Ace mutters, when there is suddenly a loud gasp.

“They’re here!” The voice is very distinctly Luffy’s attempt to whisper. Unfortunately, quiet is a foreign concept to Luffy, even as he attempts to shove his two blonde companions away from the picnic blanket.

“Gah, Luffy!” Sanji barks, scrambling to collect a plastic bag before he was tugged out of reach.

“They already see us, idiot!” Sabo attempts to argue to no avail. The three disappear from sight in a loud boom of conversation that completely contrasts any attempts of being subtle. That was your friends for you.

“Ah, sorry about that.” Ace pinches the bridge of his nose, gently squeezing your hand. “I thought they would be gone by now.”

A smile pulls to your lips, soft and full of affection. The effort he went through in recruiting the three to set up cute picnic for you sends butterflies erupting in your stomach. “It’s okay, Ace.”

His head snaps up at the gentle tone in your voice before he breaks out in a smile. “Let’s sit.” He guides you forwards to the picnic blanket to see the many items that were set up- an arrangement of plates, cups, blankets, and a wicker picnic basket.

Ace takes it upon himself to set out the spread, rambling on about whatever Sanji was able to whip up within the very limited time frame. And how Sabo had to track down one of Dadan’s old picnic blanket. And how Luffy managed to find the old basket Garp had from when they were kids. And above all, how nervous he was about the entire situation potentially not playing out how he wanted.

Settled in at his side, you gently take his chin and force his eyes to face you opposed to the plates he was setting out. “It’s all perfect, Ace.” You offer him a sweet smile, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Thank you for setting this up, really. I would have appreciated anything, but this is all perfect. You’re perfect.”

Ace makes a sound in the back of his throat before heat floods up his neck and burns the tips of his ears. “You have a way of makin’ a guy blush, huh doll?”

“Just you.” You grin, making Ace roll his eyes at you.

The nerves seem to disappear and conversation begins to flow easily. Everything seemed to be so easy with Ace. Gentle touches, the sharing of food, and bright smiles that carry through to the meals end.

After packing away plates and empty containers, Ace calls you to his side. The two of you fall easily into each other, as if it was the most natural thing, with your back to his chest and his arms wrapped around you. Ace presses a kiss to the side of your head and the two of you share giddy laughter until you’re eventually able to settle down in each others embrace.

“Ace?” You prompt, nails trailing up and down his arm.

He hums in response.

“Thanks for all of this.”

Ace’s chest vibrates in his laughter, surprised that you thanked him for something like this. For the absolute pleasure of taking you out on a date. “Of course, doll.”

“I was right, you know.”

“About what?” He shakes his head, chin ruffling against your hair with the movement.

“That day in the kitchen, you might not even remember.” You poke at his forearm. “But you’re a really great guy.”

“Wait, you remember that?”

“Of course I do!” You scoff in offense. “I know we had just met and all, but it was the first time that day that I really saw you.”

Ace is silent for a long moment, before he is pulling you in even closer. “Well, i’m glad you forgave me, so that I can be a good guy for you.”

“Just for me?” You laugh.

“Just you.” Ace brushes his fingertips up and down your arm, humming in contentment. His nose nuzzles into your hair and your eyes flutter shut as you relax back into his embrace.

Through all its faults, you were more than grateful for that cabin vacation.

Series Masterlist

tag list: @flooofity @certain-tragedies @zzzzzoey @stuckinmymind22 @kanekisheart @lxpofthegods @weirdothatreads @dailybrekker @spyderst4r @nejilost @thekatisspooky @narnian-neverlander

#bro it’s the end 😭😭😭#i’m gonna miss cabin ace guys #portgas d ace #one-fics #portgas ace x reader #portgas d ace x you #portgas d ace x reader

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harunayuuka2060 · 1 year ago

Text

Idia: H-Hi... M-My name is I-Idia Shroud. The housewarden of Ignihyde...

Yuurin: *bows her head respectfully to him* It's my pleasure to meet you, Housewarden Idia. My name is Yuurin. *has been assigned by Professor Vargas to help him in finishing the exercise*

Idia: O-Okay. Shall we start now?

Yuurin: *nods*

Idia: *lies down on his back, bending his knees*

Yuurin: *holds his feet securely*

Idia: I'm quite good at situps. I can probably do five.

Yuurin: ...

Yuurin: *smiles* That's great, Housewarden Idia.

Idia: OMG!

Idia: R-Really?

Yuurin: *nods* We should start now, Housewarden Idia.

Idia: Ah, yes. *tries to do one situp*

Yuurin: ...

Idia: *struggles to lift his upperbody*

Yuurin: ...

Idia: ...

Idia: *sighs to himself*

Yuurin: It seems you didn't get enough sleep last night.

Idia: Yes...

Yuurin: ...

Yuurin: He's the opposite of Leona-senpai.

Yuurin: ...

Yuurin: Please hold my hand, Housewarden Idia. So I can pull you up.

Idia: Eh? You will do that?

Yuurin: Yes. Your core will still hurt after this even with assistance.

Yuurin: That should be acceptable.

Idia: Th-Thanks...

Ortho: What do you think about her, brother?

Idia: She's nice.

Ortho: That's great! Then can you be friends with her?

Idia: Nonononono— I shouldn't.

Ortho: Why not?!

Idia: Leona will kill me.

Ortho: ...Oh.

Idia: I witnessed how he dragged Ace when he tried to approach her.

Idia: It was the scariest thing...

Ortho: ...

*In the Equestrian Club*

Sebek: *frowning*

Sebek: What is a non-member doing here?!

Student A: Oh. Yuurin is here to visit that horse.

Sebek: That still doesn't answer my question!

Sebek: Our horses are not pets!

Student A: Well, you should ask Sir Riddle.

Sebek: No need! I will ask him myself! *approaches Yuurin*

Sebek: HUMAN! ONLY MEMBERS OF EQUESTRIAN CLUB ARE ALLOWED TO BE HERE!

Yuurin: I have permission from Riddle Rosehearts — Housewarden of Heartslabyul.

Sebek: Do you have proof?!

Yuurin: ...

Her horse: *his tail swishing* *and obviously annoyed at Sebek*

Yuurin: ...

Yuurin: Are you the leader of this club?

Sebek: No!

Yuurin: Then, are you its vice leader?

Sebek: N-No...

Yuurin: I see. So you hold no authority.

Sebek: How dare you, human!

Yuurin's horse: *grunting noises*

Yuurin: Calm down, Aerion. *pets him gently*

Aerion: *snorts*

Sebek: You... YOU EVEN NAMED THE HORSE?!

Aerion: ...

Aerion: *is now staring at Sebek*

Yuurin: ...

Yuurin: Yes. Aerion is a majestic horse. He reminds me of Pegasus.

Aerion: *nuzzles her hand*

Sebek: ...

Sebek: YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO NAME OUR HORSES!

Aerion: *baring his teeth at him*

Yuurin: ...

Riddle: Yuurin has my permission to visit the Equestrian Club.

Sebek: !!!

Sebek: I-Is that so?

Yuurin: ...

Riddle: You should apologize to him.

Sebek: Wh-Why would I—

Yuurin: "One's character is a reflection of their leader."

Yuurin: Is the housewarden of Diasomnia the same?

Riddle and Sebek: ...

Sebek: ARE YOU INSULTING MALLEUS?!!

Yuurin: You're tarnishing your housewarden's reputation with that behavior.

Riddle: ...

Sebek: You... FIGHT ME, HUMAN!

Riddle: Sebek!

Yuurin: Very well.

Yuurin: *walks up to him and punches him straight in the face*

Sebek: *falls on his behind*

Sebek: *blinks in confusion*

Sebek: What—

Yuurin: I advise you to visit the infirmary. And have your nose treated.

Sebek: *his nose bleeding from the punch*

Riddle: ...

Yuurin: *turns to Riddle* I hope you forgive me for my behavior. I will accept any disciplinary action.

Riddle: ...

Riddle: No. It's fine. He asked you for a fight and you gave it to him.

Sebek: ...

Sebek: HE CAUGHT ME OFF GUARD!

Lilia: *chuckles* No, Sebek. You asked for it and he acted based on your request.

Sebek: Keuk— I see. Thank you, Lilia-sama, for explaining to me.

Lilia: What is his name again? Yuurin? *chuckles* He's quite strong for him to take you down easily.

Sebek: *blushes in embarrassment*

Malleus: Indeed. Why not invite him to visit Diasomnia? I would like to meet him myself.

Sebek: W-Waka-sama?

Lilia: *chuckles* Don't worry, Sebek. We are only curious.

Akihiko: Yuurin...

Yuurin: I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry.

Akihiko: ...

Akihiko: *chuckles* Well, we can't do anything about it now.

Yuurin: ...

Akihiko: Anyway, Yuurin? Are you still taking your medication?

Yuurin: Yes. On a daily basis.

Akihiko: Don't you think it's time that you stop taking them?

Yuurin: ...

Yuurin: But Aki—

Akihiko: Yuurin, I want to hear your real voice someday.

Yuurin: ...

Yuurin: Hm. I'll find an alternative instead to keep this manly voice.

Akihiko: As long as it's not medication.

Yuurin: Yes, Aki.

Akihiko: Thank you, bluebell. *chuckles softly*

Yuurin: *smiles*

#twisted wonderland #twst yuurin #twst akihiko/akane #twst idia #twst ortho #twst sebek #twst riddle #twst lilia #twst malleus #twst unveil

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loverslantern · 1 month ago

Text

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: A potential hunt leads to meeting another hunter, Gordon.

Warnings: Cannon violence, description of mutilated corpses, gore, sorry if the Latin is wrong, flirting?, cursing

Word Count: 12.5k

Bloodlust

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit Board)

“Whoo!” Dean hollers, nodding along to the blasting AC/DC song. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the guitar riff in “Back In Black,” the brightest of smiles on his face.

“Listen to her purr!” he shouts over the loud music, practically beaming. “Have you ever heard anything so sweet?”

“You know, if you two wanna get a room, just let us know, Dean,” Sam remarks, acting disgusted as if there isn’t a slight smile on his face.

“Oh, don’t listen to him, Baby. He doesn’t understand us,” Dean says, rubbing his hand over the dashboard. I can’t blame him for his enthusiasm, it’s nice to be back in the Impala and he did a damn good job in fixing her up, you wouldn’t know she was ever broken. The car runs smoothly, isn’t crushed in, its metal outside is shining, and the inside was wiped down and taken care of delicately. And, this song is banging.

Sam laughs. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Dean asks without missing a beat.

“No reason,” Sam settles on, shaking his head.

“It’s nice,” I add.

“Got my car, got a case, things are looking up,” Dean explains.

“Wow. Give you a couple of severed heads and a pile of dead cows, and you’re Mister Sunshine,” Sam remarks.

“He’s a simple guy,” I join in, joking.

“How far to Red Lodge?” Dean asks.

“Uh, about another three hundred miles,” Sam answers, reading over the map.

“Good,” Dean smirks, flooring it.

The sheriff, with a thick mustache, leans back casually in his office chair, unamused by our presence. “The murder investigation is ongoing, and that’s all I can share with the press at this time,” he tells us. He’s definitely media trained, I conclude.

“Sure, sure, we understand that,” Sam brushes off, fitting into the journalist role quite well (professional attire included). “But just for the record, you found the first head last week, correct?” “Mm-hmm,” he hums.

“Okay, and the other, a, uh…”

“Christina Flanigan,” I fill in for him.

“That was two days ago. Is there—” he cuts himself off as his office door creaks open, a young woman pointing at her watch. “Oh. Sorry boys, ma’am,” he nods at us, “Time’s up, we’re done here.”

“What about the cattle?” Dean asks before the sheriff can get up.

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the cows found dead, split open, drained… over a dozen cases,” Dean clarifies.

“What about them?”

“So you don’t think there’s a connection?” Sam pushes.

“Connection…with…?”

“The cattle mutilation and the two dead bodies,” I answer. “The perpetrator could have been using the cows as practice before he or she worked up the courage to actually kill. Or, it could be used as a way to fill the space between kills. It’s also, of course, a possibility that it's a part of their ritual, or is in itself a ritual.”

“Like Satanic cult ritual stuff,” Dean adds to my rambling.

He laughs, a full belly laugh, until he realizes we aren’t laughing with him. “You’re not kidding,” he realizes.

“No,” Dean answers.

“Those cows aren’t being mutilated. You wanna know how I know?” the sheriff asks.

“How?” Sam muses.

“Because there's no such thing as cattle mutilation. Cow drops, leave it in the sun, within forty-eight hours the bloat'll split it open so clean it's just about surgical,” he explains. “The bodily fluids fall down into the ground and get soaked up because that's what gravity does. But, hey, it could be Satan.” “Sure, that’s a possibility, but it would be improper to rule it out so quickly,” I counter.

“Are you tryna suggest that I don't know how to do my job?” he asks, leaning forward.

“Sir, with all due respect, you’re being ignorant,” I answer, feeling the boy's eyes on me. His eyes widen, but I continue. “For one, cow mutilation, animal mutilation in general, is a real thing. There was a serial killer, Joseph Vatcher, back in the 1800s, who had mutilated animals, I believe it was sheep. It’s not uncommon for that sort of thing to happen. Secondly, we aren’t saying that Satan is real or has any part in this, but that doesn’t mean that the perpetrator doesn’t believe he is. I mean, seriously, sir, have you ever heard of religious psychosis or plain justification? Hell, the Son of Sam claimed the neighbor's dog was telling him to kill those people.”

I watch his jaw clench, his lip twitching. I can practically hear his teeth grinding, and if this were a cartoon, there might be smoke coming from his ears. I struck about a couple hundred nerves with my rambling. Oops.

I sneak a glimpse at Dean, acutely aware of the silence filling the room. But he’s leaning back in his chair casually, legs spread, with a smug smile on his lips. Was he…proud?

“What newspaper did you say you work for?” The sheriff bites.

“World Weekly News”

“Weekly World News,” the boys say in unison. Their heads snap to look at each other as they try again.

“World—“ Dean tries again. I mentally sigh at the mess this is becoming.

“Weekly World-“

“Weekly…I’m new,” Dean smiles, exhaling a small laugh. “Get out of my office,” he demands.

********

We’re onto the next office (if that office was a morgue). It was an easy switch, being able to throw lab coats over our suits and ties, or in my case, a white blouse and black slacks, but that’s neither here nor there.

The air is chilly and crisp, fluorescent lights reflecting dimly off the stainless steel tables. An intern with short black hair and a long face stares at us from over his desk.

“John,” Dean greets, guessing as he reads J. Manners off the guy's name tag.

“Jeff,” he corrects, looking at us like a lost puppy. Essentially, he has that intern look to him, scared to do anything wrong.

“Jeff, I know that,” Dean lies, nodding. “Dr. Dworkin needs to see you in his office right away.”

“But Dr. Dworkin’s on vacation,” he counters, somehow looking more lost.

“Well, he’s back. And he’s pissed, and he’s screaming for you, man, so if I were you I would…” Dean whistles, shaking his head as he rocks on his heels. Jeff stands abruptly, his chair rolling back as he scrambles around the desk, running off with enough speed to make his lab coat all floaty in the back.

“Hey, those satanists in Florida, they marked their victims, didn’t they?” Dean asks, moving on with ease.

“Yeah, reversed pentacle on the forehead,” Sam answers.

“So much fucked up crap happens in Florida,” Dean remarks, stating the obvious as he hands out pairs of latex gloves he stole from a little box kept on the wall.

“It’s that Florida man mindset,” I add, slipping the gloves on.

Sam pulls open one of the many small doors on the far wall, wheeling out a corpse. A white sheet is placed over the body, except for the pale feet sticking out, a tag with the girl's name wrapped around her ankle. A brown box rests by the tips of her toes, where her head is no doubt being kept.

“Alright, open it,” Dean nudges his brother.

“You open it,” Sam retorts, elbowing his brother back a bit harsher.

I roll my eyes, collecting the box myself. The box, and subsequently the head inside, isn’t very heavy, at the very least I know the average brain weighs about 3 pounds, I just don’t know how much the rest of it is. “You’re both scaredy cats,” I point out as I move the slightly heavy box onto a nearby table.

“I am not,” Dean defends, scuffing.

“Sure,” I stretch out. I lift the lid of the box, a pale, severed head staring back at me, well, not exactly staring because the brunette’s eyes are closed. “Mm, that’s so cool,” I mumble.

“You have issues,” Sam answers, cringing as he peeks over my shoulder.

“Probably,” I shrug.

“Well, no pentagram,” Dean points out.

“Nope, but look at that cut.” I run my finger along the cut, not exactly touching the jagged skin. “Not exactly perfect or surgical but pretty damn good. Definitely done in one movement.”

I glance up, feeling their burning gazes. Sam’s jaw dropped, lip curled in disgust. “You’re kind of creepy,” he remarks.

“Thanks,” I chirp.

“Not a compliment,” he murmurs. “Ow!” he yelps as Dean slaps the back of his head.

“Maybe we should, uh, you know, look in her mouth, see if those wackos stuffed anything down her throat. You know, kind of like the moth in Silence of the Lambs,” Dean suggests.

“I like the way you think, Precious,” I answer. “It was a pretty good book, though I think Red Dragon was a million times better.”

“The movie was good, creepy as fuck,” he adds. “Put the lotion in the basket.”

“Do you two need a moment?” Sam asks, looking between the two of us.

My cheeks warm, and I shake my head, “Let us fangirl, Sammy,” I half-joke. But, at last, I go back to the task at hand, squeezing the dead girl's cheeks to open her jaw. I pry open her mouth further, mumbling a quick apology as I move two fingers into her mouth, pressing and searching around.

“Are you not disgusted?” Sam asks, “I think I’m gonna puke.”

I shake my head, “‘M not disgusted at all, it’s very interesting.”

“You’re really freaky,” he mumbles, taking a couple of steps away from the box and the prodding.

I tilt my head, leaning in closer as I lift her top lip up. “No moth or paper left in her mouth, but I think she’s got some sort of…mouth issue here. ‘Guess she saved a dentist trip.”

“Wait, wait, is that a hole?” Dean asks.

“Think so,” I mumble.

“Press above it,” he directs.

“Um, okay.” I press on the gum, a narrow, sharp tooth descending. “Huh.”

“It’s a tooth,” Sam states.

“Sam, that’s a fang. Retractable set of vampire fangs,” Dean clarifies. “You gotta be kidding me.”

I freeze.

“Well, this changes things,” Sam remarks.

“Ya think?”

I pull back quickly, tossing the lid back on and ripping off my gloves. I throw them out quickly, pushing back my hair as I pace. “This is bad. This is really, really bad.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Dean approaches with his hand raised as if trying to calm down an animal. “What’s going on?”

I shake my head. “I have to leave. Those vamps didn’t just walk into a blade, okay? There’s another hunter here, and I should be, like, a hundred miles away from this. I’m so gonna die, oh my god, that’s gonna be my body on the table.”

“Sweetheart, nothing is gonna happen,” he tries, and he looks sincere.

“That’s what you think,” I point out. “But there’s another hunter in town, and he’s slashing down these…guys without batting an eye. You know, I could deal with meeting Bobby and Ellen, they actually turned out to be really cool even if the latter doesn’t know anything about me, but I don’t think this guy is gonna care for a meet and greet!”

He steps closer, putting a hand on my shoulder, he tilts his head slightly to make sure that I’m looking in his eyes as he says, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. We’ll just be here for the vamps. No one’s going to kill you or come anywhere close to hurting you, you got that?”

I swallow, I can still feel the buzzing in my veins that’s telling me to run. Maybe I should run. That’s the smart thing to do. It’s what I’ve been taught: stay away from hunters. The Winchesters have always been an exception, and that was only by a little. I’ve gotten too loose with the people I’ve been introduced to. I should run, but I don’t. For whatever stupid reason, maybe trust, or his firm voice, or the way his green eyes grew serious, I nod.

He shakes his head, “‘Wanna hear you say it.”

“I…I got it, I understand.”

********

As understanding as I am, I’ve been jittery the whole day, bleeding into night. I’m pretty sure I’m being overly paranoid as we walk into the bar in hopes of luring the vampires out. But there’s this gnawing in my stomach that I can’t seem to stop, regardless of the amount of tea I’ve drunk. It’s so bad that when we approach the bar top and Dean orders two beers and a soda, I cut him off, switching it to three beers and no soda.

“So, we're looking for some people,” Sam starts as the bartender places down the drinks. I snatch one up, taking a big sip that I instantly regret, wishing I could spit it back up.

“Sure. Hard to be lonely,” he muses, leaning on the bartop.

“Yeah. But, um, that’s not what I meant,” Sam makes a show of pulling out a $50 bill from his pocket, dropping it on the bar. The dark-haired bartender accepts it, sliding it towards himself. “Right. So these people, they would have moved here about six months ago, probably pretty rowdy, like to drink…”

“Yeah, real night owls, you know?” Dean adds. I take another big sip of my beer. I don’t know why I’m drinking it when I hate the taste, and the smell is surfacing old memories. So, I’m glad when Dean quietly takes the bottle from my lips before I can take another disgusting sip. He keeps it on the other side of him, the action done casually as he continues talking. “Sleep all day, party all night.”

“Barker farm got leased out a couple of months ago. Real winners. They’ve been in here a lot—drinkers. Noisy. I’ve had to 86 them once or twice,” he informs.

“Thanks,” Dean nods, leading us out of the bar.

“What does 86 mean?” I ask, despising the aftertaste on my tongue.

“‘Remove them,” Dean answers, his hand going to my lower back to urge me down the alley. It’s dark, and the asphalt is wet despite it not having rained in the last 24 hours. It’s only our footsteps between the two walls, but just beneath ours, there’s another. The fact is, we expected this and had planned for it. So, like we mapped out, we slip from view, using the shadows to vanish between a small gap in the buildings. The person’s steps continue, pattering forward, he pauses, scuffing and turning back around. The boys are on him quickly, shoving him against the paneled wall roughly, Dean holding a sharp knife against his throat. Our stalker is a dark skinned man in a flannel shirt; he has a buzz cut, and he looks just a little shorter than Dean.

“Smile,” Dean teases.

“What?” the man exhales, his eyes wide as he looks between the three of us.

“Show us those pearly whites,” Dean clarifies.

“Oh, for the love of—“ he groans. “You want to stick that thing someplace else? I’m not a vampire. Yeah, I heard you guys in there.”

“How much do you know about vampires?” I voice it quietly.

“How to kill them,” he answers, and I fight the urge to take big steps away from him. “Now seriously, bro, that knife’s making me itch.” Sam pins him harder against the wall. “Woah, easy there, Chaci,” the man says.

He brings his hand up to his mouth, pulling up his lip so that we can see his gums. “See? Fangless. Happy?” he proves. Not only is he not a vampire, but it looks like the dentist probably loves him. “Now,” he continues. “Who the hell are you?”

********

The man, Gordon, shows off his arsenal, his car trunk popped open to put it all on display. He lifts a large silver hook, letting the street light reflect on it as he moves it this way and that.

“You got a thing for I know what you did last Summer?” I ask, eyeing the tool. It’s an interesting weapon to choose, certainly not a conventional one. It seems harsh, it reminds me of the Hook Man hunt we had a while back.

“What?”

“Nothing, never mind,” I mumble.

“Sam and Dean Winchester,” he says, moving on quickly. It’s the second time he’s said their names as if testing the way they sounded. “I can’t believe it. You know, I met your old man once. Hell of a guy. Great hunter. I heard he passed. I’m sorry, it’s big shoes. But from what I hear, you guys fill ‘em. Great trackers, good in a tight spot—“

“You seem to know a lot about our family,” Dean points out.

“Word travels fast,” he answers, looking directly at me. “You know how hunters talk.”

My heart stops, that fear curling around my gut and tugging it down. “No, we don’t, actually,” Dean replies. But Gordon is still looking at me.

“What was your name again?” he asks me, and I know by the way he repeated the Winchesters' name that he hadn’t actually forgotten mine.

“Y/N,” I answer.

“And your last name?” he pushes.

“Just Y/N,” I doubled down. Maybe he’s harmless, maybe I’m just very paranoid, but regardless, I don’t want him to know. And yet there’s a part of me, a large gnawing part of me, that’s telling me he already does.

“So, um, those two vampires, they were yours, huh?” Sam asks, diverting Gordon’s attention away from me. I want to throw confetti at him out of gratitude.

“Yup. Been here two weeks,” he answers.

“Did you check out that Barker farm?” Dean asks.

“It’s a bust. Just a bunch of hippie freaks. Though they could kill you with that patchouli smell alone,” he explains, and somehow that’s another red flag in my book, separate from him being a hunter. Hippies were not freaks, and to think of them as such is lame.

“Where’s the nest, then?” Dean pushes.

“I got this one covered,” Gordon replies, shutting it down. “Look, don’t get me wrong, it’s a real pleasure meetin’ you fellas. But I’ve been on this thing for over a year. I killed a fang back in Austin, tracked the nest all the way up here. I’ll finish it.”

“We could help,” Dean adds, and for once, I would love for his beautiful lips to stop moving. Gordon could have this case as much as he wants; I'm more than content with that outcome.

“Thanks, but uh, I’m kind of a go-it-alone type of guy,” he deflects. That was good news. He should leave. We should let him leave. Let him be alone.

“Come on, man, I’ve been itching for a hunt,” Dean pleads.

“Sorry,” he says, closing the trunk of his car. “But hey, I hear there’s a Chupacabra two states over. You go ahead and knock yourselves out.” He gets into his car, and I’ve suddenly never been more pleased by any other sight. “It was real good meeting you, though. I’ll buy you a drink on the flip side.”

Staying back was perhaps the worst mistake of my life. I had been too paranoid. I had let the fear of running into Gordon get to me, deciding to hang back at the motel while they took care of a lead to some vampires. But, not knowing if they’re okay or alive is one hundred times worse than possibly getting killed by a hunter. I’d rather get tortured, stabbed a hundred times, and burned alive than let them go on a hunt without me, I know that now. So, when I got a call saying they were okay and would be heading to the bar to celebrate the success, I jumped at the opportunity.

I saw Dean first; he had stayed outside, knowing I was going to arrive separately from them. “Woah,” he chuckles as I jump into his arms, my own wrapping around his neck. He wraps his arms around me, his hands firm and secure on my back. I deflate against him, a weight I didn’t know was on my shoulders, easing in his embrace.

“If I ever say I’m gonna stay back on a hunt again, I’m lying or it isn’t me,” I declare.

His hands slip lower down my back as he pulls away just enough to see my face. “I’m not going to force—” he pauses, eyes scanning my face with a precision only he seems to have. “Okay, baby, you can come with us, always,” he nods, giving in easily.

“Good, thanks,” I exhale, another weight lifted from my shoulders, “Because that was a horrible time. I was really worried about you.”

He smiles lopsidedly. He fricking smiles as if I hadn’t been pacing the motel floor enough to wear a hole into the carpet. “I’m alright, not a scratch on me. Sammy’s okay, too. It was just one vampire.”

“You’re lucky it was just one!” I say, hitting his chest lightly. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t even blink, he just wears that sure smile of his, his fingers twitching on my lower back. “Why are you smiling like that?” I ask, eyes squinting, a smile pulling on my lips.

His eyes trace down my face, “Nothin’” he answers, shaking his head. “Come on,” he nods towards the bar entrance, and for a brief moment, I had forgotten that’s why we were here.

I let him lead me in, frankly, I’d let him lead me anywhere, even if that was straight into danger. Coincidentally, that is exactly what he’s doing. I pause at the sight of Gordon occupying a table with Sam sitting across from him. “You didn’t say he was gonna be joining us,” I say, looking at him.

I see the guilt wash over his face with the slight twitch of his bottom lip. “You wouldn’t have come,” he answers.

“Yeah, that’s the whole point,” I shake my head.

“Give him a chance,” he reasons. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.” I know he means that, and I know he wouldn’t. Yet, there’s a part of me that’s screaming for me to be wary. This is different from a family friend of theirs; this is a stranger with no obligation to us. “You look pretty,” he tries.

“You can’t compliment your way out of this,” I counter. Except he totally can, because whether he means it or not, my heart lurches, and little butterflies twirl in my stomach.

“‘Wasn’t tryin’ to,” he shrugs, and I know I’m a goner. My throat fills with nervous, bubbly laughter that I have to force down.

“I…will give him a chance,” I declare, booping his nose before turning and making my way towards the table, so much for a compliment not saving him. I almost instantly regret my decision when I take a seat, my heart thrumming fast for an entirely different reason. But then Dean takes the seat beside me, and it eases something small in me, so maybe things will be okay. (That’s me lying to myself.)

“Nice to see you again,” Gordon greets me, his eyes boring into mine. “Why weren’t you there for the take-down? Don’t like getting your hands dirty?”

Shoot. “Oh, I was…” I fumble for a lie, my heart beating hard enough that I can feel it against my chest.

“Not feeling good,” Sam sweeps in, saving me, and I want to lean across Dean and place a big kiss on his cheek for that.

“But you feel well enough to come party?” he presses.

I broke the eye contact he had set, looking at the swirls of the wooden table. “‘Guess so,” I mumble, failing to come up with something witty. I’m really not helping myself.

“‘Shame you missed it,” he remarks, leaning back casually in his seat. I look back up at him, nodding slowly and giving him an awkward, tight-lipped smile when a familiar, warm hand settles on my knee, halting its bouncing. I didn’t know I was doing that. He did, though, of course he did.

I watch the moment Gordon’s eyes briefly drop to Dean's hand on my knee as if taking note of it. I think Dean notices it too, but he doesn’t remove his hand or say anything about it, taking a sip of his beer and squeezing my leg softly instead. It makes the butterflies in my stomach get frantic. “‘She your girl?” Gordon asks him, nodding at me.

“No,” Dean answers simply, a hint of a bite underlying it. What was that for? I thought he liked this guy.

Gordon quirks his eyebrow, shrugging as if contemplating it. But he seems to move on quickly. “Can I get you a drink?” he asks. “I’ll get another round.”

Okay, that’s a pretty normal, if not sweet, question. “Sure, thank you, um, a Shirley Temple, please.”

“No alcohol?” he asks, eyebrows raised slightly.

“Oh, yeah, I’m not really a fan…” I answer, nodding a little awkwardly. Alcohol reminds me of my Dad—the sad man he was. So, I don’t enjoy it. I had to learn to like, or at the very least tolerate bars, back in college. Turns out the right music and a sugar high can be as much fun as alcohol.

“Not even a shot?” he tries. “I don’t know how you handle hunting without it.”

��I guess I handle it the normal way?” I answer, my voice going up in a question rather than a sure statement. “Maybe a good cry too.” He chuckles lightly, taking a sip of whatever amber liquid is in his glass. Was that funny? I didn’t think it was.

He waves a waitress over, flashing his white teeth as he orders a handful of drinks. His words become a faint buzz in my ears as I study him. I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. I don’t want to assume that he has bad intentions, for all I know, I’m making a really bad assumption. But I don’t know, really, I have no clues to indicate anything other than that he’s a pretty good hunter whom we happened to run into. Maybe I am overreacting, anxiety be damned.

“How d’you two meet her?” he asks, and as harmless as he might be, I kind of don’t like the way he asks a question regarding me without me, like I can’t answer it myself.

“Our parents knew each other,” Sam answered.

“Back to your parents, huh,” Gordon nods. “Your folks hunters too?”

“One of them was, yeah,” I reply, trying to be careful with what I share. It’s also why I hadn’t given him my last name; if he figures out who my Dad is, then he’ll know who my Mom is, which means he’ll know what I am.

“Married outside the life. That must be hard,” he remarks.

“You saying you have trouble with the ladies?” I tease. He laughs a dry laugh. I guess he didn’t like that joke too much. I clear my throat, moving on, “They loved each other, my parents, so…”

“You one those “love always wins” kind of people?” he asks.

“Um, I guess I am, yes.” I’m not sure if all of me knew that I believed that until now. But then the words left my mouth, and I know it’s true. “I mean, I think if you love someone a lot, you're bound to do anything for them, you know, regardless of the risks or consequences. I can’t imagine anything that could beat love because it sure as hell can break the constraints of death.”

I have to resist the urge to look at Dean. I know I’m a hypocrite because, by my own words, I should tell him how I feel regardless of the consequences. But I can’t. I’ve known him practically my whole life. If I said something and he didn’t feel the same, then what would become of us? We couldn’t possibly be as close as we are; there’d always be the lingering awkwardness of an unwanted confession. And I wouldn’t be able to pretend that it didn’t kill me to hear him verbally say he didn’t feel the same. He’d probably be kind about it too, let me down gently while all the same ripping out my heart.

I think it may be possible to love someone so much that you have no other choice but to do it silently. Is that foolish? Maybe. Probably. But I’ve almost lost him twice, and I still don’t have the courage to spill my guts, so I know all I am is foolish. Yet, his hand is on my leg, and it would be so easy to make that permanent, to turn to him and say the truth that’s always on the tip of my tongue. I want the chance to love him out loud. I want him to kiss me until my lungs start weeping and my heart begs for more. I wouldn’t care if it killed me. What a wonderful way to die.

I just want him. I want my heart to beat in sync with his. I want my skin to memorize his fingertips like a wildfire spreading. I want monuments to be carved out of our love, vines writing our tale in its intertwining fingers.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts of old stone when the weight on my knee disappears, my eyes flicking to him. His hips lift slightly as he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans.

“No, no, I got it,” Gordon stops him. A waitress carefully lays down a couple of shot glasses, beer, and a red drink with my name on it. Condensation rolls down the glass onto the wooden table, possibly creating a mark that would prove that we had been here for years to come: something is comforting in that, I think.

“Come on,” Dean reasons, his wallet in his hand. Is it possible to be jealous of a square piece of leather? “I insist,” Gordon nods, holding a couple of bills pinched between his fingers at the waitress. My Dad used to say that anyone who buys you a drink is a friend, so maybe this is a good sign, though he was also an alcoholic, so maybe his advice doesn’t stand.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Gordon says to the waitress as she walks away, leaning far back to watch the sway of her hips. He grabs a shot glass, the clear liquid shifting as he raises it. “Another one bites the dust,” he toasts, getting Dean to raise a shot of his own.

“That’s right,” he answers, the duo knocking back the drink with little to no grimacing.

Finally, I pull the red bubbling heaven to my lips. Whoever created this drink deserves endless love and all the wealth one could need. Seriously, I’d kiss whoever came up with it.

“Dean,” Gordon laughs, “You gave that big ass fang one hell of a haircut, my friend.”

“Thank you,” he answers.

“That was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful,” Gordon reminisces, a satisfied, dreamy look on his face. “You should have seen the way he used the electric saw.”

There’s something childlike in the way he talks about it, like it was a cool scene in a comic rather than something that happened. I nod along, placing my glass down as I reply, “Like a slasher flick,” going along with how he gushes about the kill. Sometimes it’s easier to nod and smile, though Sam doesn’t seem to share the same sentiment with his unamused expression and distance from the conversation.

“You alright, Sammy?” Dean asks him.

“I’m fine,” he answers a little harshly, or bitterly.

“Well, lighten up a little, Sammy,” Gordon teases, mocking him.

“Only they get to call me that,” he replies smoothly, nodding towards Dean and me, causing a sort of warm pride to pulse in my heart.

“Okay, no offense meant,” he backs off, raising his hands in surrender. “Just celebrating a little. Job well done.”

“Right. Well, decapitations aren’t my idea of a good time, I guess,” Sam remarks.

“Oh, come on, man, it’s not like it was human,” Gordon argues.

My face scrunches in confusion, taken aback by that statement. “Well, that’s not necessarily true,” I point out, “They were turned, meaning they had to originate from a human.”

“Key word: were,” Gordon replies. “They were human and now they’re blood sucking monsters.”

“Well, sure. But that feels a little too black and white. I think it would be dumb to ignore that at least a handful of vampires hadn’t exactly volunteered to be turned, meaning that all they’re doing is surviving now.”

“Are you trying to say they aren’t monsters?” Gordon presses, his face hardening.

“I mean, not necessarily. Yes, killing people is wrong—“

“I’m glad we can agree on that,” he cuts me off, his lips pulled into a snarl. “Have you ever hunted a vampire?”

I breathe a laugh. I’m not fond of being cut off during a debate or argument. “I have, but that’s not my point. I just mean to say that “monster” may be a strong word to use.”

“What kind of hunter are you?” He scuffs, looking at Dean like he had chosen wrong. “How aren’t they monsters?” He presses, eyes locking onto me. “What else would you call them?” his voice rises. “Innocent? Friendly? Victims?”

I flinch as his hand slams onto the table, the glasses rattling. My chair scrapes against the floor as I put distance between myself and the table, away from him. I look down at the swirls of the wooden table, tracing the loop with my eyes as I steal a sip from my drink in an attempt to pretend like I hadn’t reacted the way I did. I don’t say anything. I don’t try to argue more, saying that I meant that to use the word “monster” for every supernatural being rather than individually, as in depending on the case, is unfair. Which is not to say that there aren’t monsters out there, because there are.

“You both need to have a little more fun with your job,” Gordon adds, referring to Sam and me.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them, mostly him. You could learn a thing or two from this guy, Sammy,” Dean replies.

“Yeah, I bet I could,” Sam muses with a tight-lipped smile. “Look, I’m not gonna bring you guys down. I’m just gonna go back to the motel.”

My ears perk up. That sounds like the perfect escape.

“You sure?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” he answers, standing.

“Sammy?” he reaches into his jacket, pulling out his keys, the metal jingling. “Remind me to beat that buzzkill out of you later, alright?”

Sam catches the keys tossed at him with one hand, casually turning to leave. My fingers tap against the arms of the chair as I watch the back of his head. “Wait, Sam,” I call out. He stops, looks over his shoulder. “Can I come with you?”

“Yeah, of course,” he answers, and I wonder why I asked. I don’t need permission.

I stand, feeling Dean's eyes on me. His eyes are scrunched together, speaking the words we won’t say out loud because he’s asking if I’m okay and not just okay but genuinely, truly, okay. My hand falls to his shoulder, giving him a little squeeze as I lean down, head tilting slightly as I say a quiet, “Be safe.” I brush my hair from my face as I catch up to Sam, falling into step with him.

********

I flop onto the nearest bed in the motel with a sigh as Sam drops the keys onto a hook. It's not my bed, it's not even my room, but I know neither boy will complain. “We should get a pizza,” I announce, tracing the dark water stain on the ceiling with my eyes. “A real greasy one that will definitely clog an artery or two.”

“You sound like Dean,” he answers, scuffing and shaking his head as he tosses his jacket onto the other bed.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I reply, kicking off my shoes. I twist around, lying on my stomach with my head propped up in my hands. “‘Could be like a slumber party while those two get hammered, or whatever.”

He frowns at the mention of them. “He gives you a bad vibe, right?”

“Is it that obvious?” I muse.

“You looked uncomfortable.”

“That’s the exact opposite of what I was going for,” I mumble. “But, I’m probably biased, you know? He’ll probably kill me if he finds out what I am. But what’s your reasoning?”

“I don’t know,” he answers softly, sitting at the edge of his bed. “The way he talks about hunting, and the way he handles it, I guess.”

“That makes two of us, then. I guess Dean isn’t picking up on it. Or he’s ignoring it, rose colored glasses and all,” I consider.

“Do you think Ellen would know who he is?” he asks, looking over at me.

“Probably. She said hunters pass through, maybe he’s one of ‘em, or she heard of him through others. She looks like the kind of person who knows everyone.”

“‘Didn’t know you,” he points out, a small smile playing at his lips.

“Guess I’m just that mysterious,” I joke, wiggling my fingers at him.

“Sure,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I’m gonna call her.”

“Put her on speaker,” I tell him as he pulls out and flicks open his phone.

He nods, mumbling a “yeah, yeah,” his phone making small beeping noises with every button press. A steady ring buzzes from his phone, the line picking up after the third ring.

“Harvelle’s Roadhouse,” she greets, the distant sound of chatter filling the background.

“Hey, Ellen, uh, Sam Winchester,” he answers.

“And Y/N!” I add.

“Sam, Y/N, it’s good to hear from you both. You're all okay, aren’t you?” she asks. She really is very sweet; it’s hard not to like her.

“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine. Got a question,” he answers.

“Yeah, shoot.”

“You ever run across a guy named Gordon Walker?”

“Yeah, I know Gordon.”

“And?” he presses.

“Well, he’s a real good hunter. Why are you asking, sweetie?”

“Is he cool to be with? Safe?” I ask, shouting a little to make sure the phone picks me up.

“We ran into him on a job and we’re kinda working with him, I guess,” Sam clarifies.

“Don’t do that,” she answers, her voice suddenly serious rather than sweet and syrupy.

“I- I thought you said he was a good hunter,” he stammers, throwing me a worried look. I scramble to sit upright, worried about her change in voice and her short warning.

“Yeah, and Hannibal Lecter’s a good psychiatrist,” she remarks. “Look, he is dangerous to everyone and everything around him. If he’s working on a job, you just let him handle it and you move on.”

My heart plummets to my feet. I guess my fear was warranted this whole time. We should leave.

“Ellen—“

“No, Sam,” She cuts him off sharply. “You just listen to what I’m telling you, okay?”

“Right, okay,” he answers, giving in. It’s not that long after that he hangs up, and we sit in silence. I stare at the carpet, considering its little bumps and likely itchy material.

“What do we do?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“We leave as soon as possible, I guess. ‘Tell Dean when he gets back.”

“I feel like we should tell him now. Get him back now. After Ellen’s warning, I really don’t trust him,” I point out, picking at a loose thread in the blanket.

“I don’t think he’s gonna come back, he’ll insist he stays out. I don’t think he’s gonna take the warning seriously either,” he counters.

“If I call him, he’ll come, he always does,” I reason. Before I went on the road with him, that’s pretty much how we were. If he didn’t make a surprise visit, or a pre-planned one, then it was because I called.

He shakes his head, “Maybe that’ll work, but it might set something off with Gordon.”

“The longer he stays with him, the less he’s gonna believe us,” I point out.

“He’ll always believe you,” he says with finality, and it hits me. He isn’t wrong, I guess I never thought of that. “But Dean, he’ll be okay for now. We should be more worried about you.”

“Back to my hundred miles away freak out,” I mumble, falling back into bed.

“Look, I’m gonna go get a drink from the vending machine outside, and when I get back we’ll think of something, okay?” he asks, staying level-headed. “Do you want anything?”

“Could you get me a (soda)?” I answer, leaning up on my elbows.

He nods, throwing his jacket back on. “I’ll be right back,” he announces one last time before the door clicks behind him.

I drop from my propped arms, staring up at the ceiling again. Sam’s right, we have dealt with worse. For one, Gordon is human; he may be skilled, but he’s still got a handful of natural weaknesses (worst comes to worst). That should be comforting, and yet for some reason it isn’t.

I can convince myself that everything will be okay if I squeeze my eyes closed hard enough. I exhale slowly, trying to let all the negative energy escape me. I try not to be negative, but sometimes it creeps through like a shadow overtaking the sunlight. My body feels heavy with all the anxiety it’s harbored today, my bones like jello against a mattress that’s almost comfortable.

I don’t count the minutes Sam is gone, but after what feels like an eternity of staring at a boring ceiling, I check the alarm clock. It’s been about five minutes, and the red glow of the numbers is watching me from the nightstand. I don’t think the vending machine is far enough to warrant five minutes, then again, maybe he got sidetracked. It wouldn’t hurt to check; worst-case scenario, I bump into him and we brush off how I got worried for no reason.

I roll over to the other side of the bed, shoving my feet back into my shoes and throwing a sweater on. I make sure I have my phone before softly shutting the door behind me. Immediately, it’s vacant. There’s no one lingering outside, not even someone smoking, and the nearest vending machine, some distance to the left, is unoccupied. Fear punches my heart, but I try to act calmly before jumping to conclusions, taking a lap around the exterior of the motel in search of him.

He’s nowhere to be seen. He’s gone, and the car is still here. I flip open my phone, pressing his contact, the line rings and rings and rings, never getting anywhere. I huff, quickly calling again as worry eats at my gut. And again, there’s no answer. I should call Dean. But if I call Dean, then he’ll probably bring Gordon, and that’s what we want to avoid; then again, this is his brother we’re talking about, he deserves to know. I’d be pissed if no one told me my brother was in danger and I know Dean will be if I keep it from him. But how do I say, “Hey, your brother was kidnapped by I don’t know who, and I know you’re really worried, but I actually need you to not bring that new friend you made. No, I probably shouldn’t explain why over the phone, but you just need to trust me, okay?” Like, I would probably hit whoever said that to me.

I need to focus. Sam’s life is more important than Dean being mad at me, though the mere thought makes me feel nauseous. I head back to the room, quickly taking the car keys before heading to the Impala. Who would kidnap Sam?

The vampires. That’s the only thing that makes sense. It seems like they didn’t find the nest previously but rather a lone vampire, so maybe this is revenge. It would then make sense as to why they didn’t go after me, too; I wasn’t there, so they wouldn’t know me.

I hop into the Impala, hands on the leather of the steering wheel. I’ve only driven this car a handful of times, but never alone and never under conditions like this. I summon a small compact into my hand, a ghost of purple lingering around it as I open it and focus on the mirror. “Ostende mihi illum quem quaero,” I whisper to it, focusing on Sam as I ask to be shown the one I’m looking for. The mirror ripples, a purple cloud moving over it, obscuring my reflection. And when the fog clears up, it is not my reflection staring back at me but a sleeping figure with rope around its arms and legs, lying on the ridged black floor of a van. I guess the vampires decide to go the classic route. But he’s safe and alive, his chest rising and falling steadily.

I let out a sigh of relief, placing the opened compact on the dashboard and starting up the car. I force my sight on him to zoom outside of the van, waiting for a sign to expose their location. I wait in bated silence, my breath held as the occasional street light illuminates the vehicle. There. Right there. Oak Road. That’s a start. I can head that way and then keep following them. I make a small pamphlet appear in the palm of my hands, a booklet I saw of Red Lodge, Montana, in the check-in area of our motel. I yank open the map, my finger skimming over it until I find the road and, not too far from it, a bridge that leads out of town. I bet that’s where they're heading. I take a mental picture of it and throw it beside me, pressing down on the gas pedal.

********

I wait a solid minute for them to drag him out of the van and into the rundown barn. It’s a horrible minute that leaves me on edge, but to get caught now is not an option. I put the car in park, some distance away from them. Silently, I get out, going to the trunk to pull out a machete, testing the weight of it in my hand. No time like the present. I close the trunk with as little noise as possible, stalking forward with the darkness cloaking me.

There are no vampires outside to play guard dog. It’s not exactly smart on their part, but it’s probably to avoid anyone looking over here, though I doubt anyone would with the overgrown grass and the boarded-up windows. But it’s good for me, so I creep closer to the two large barn doors. I doubt they know I’m coming, but with his life on the line, I don’t want to waste any more time sneaking around to take them out. I’ve taken down a nest by myself before; I can handle myself just fine. I stand in front of the doors, shooting a blast of energy at them with my hands outstretched. The wood shatters, paint chips, and shards of wood fly out.

I just barely registered Sam, bound to a chair, with his hair messed up. Instead, I focus on the dark-haired vampire with his teeth flashing and a sack clenched in his hand. He’s looking my way, my flashy entrance causing quite the scene. I throw up a hand behind me, forcing the vampires that lingered near the door to be shoved up against the wall. I guess they kept their guard dogs on the inside. I’ll deal with them in a moment.

The vampire by Sam charges me, and somewhere between the punch that I dodge and the kick I deliver to his gut, a resemblance to the bartender who gave us information clicks. He staggers back, and I follow, machete raised.

“Wait!” A girl yells out. I hold up a hand, keeping the bartender-vampire in place as I look towards the voice. A girl no older than me steps out from the shadows. She’s wearing a dark grey long-sleeved shirt with little buttons stopping mid chest, a white tank top peeking from the space the V-neck created, and an open black vest over it. She has straight brown hair that stops a little past her shoulders, and she looks only a little taller than I. “Don’t!”

“Why?” I ask sternly. “You kidnapped my friend.”

“Only because your friend killed one of us!” the vampire I hold in place spits.

“Stop, Eli,” the girl warns. I guess she’s the leader.

“We weren’t planning on hurting your friend here, okay? We just need to talk. My name’s Lenore,” she says softly, stepping closer slowly with her hands raised in surrender.

“Talk?” I echo. “Eli here looks like he wanted to do more than talk to Sam.”

“He won’t hurt either of you. You have my word,” she swears, her voice never wavering.

I null it over, tongue in cheek. I shouldn’t trust her. “Fine,” I give in. “We’ll talk. But one wrong move, if you try anything, I will have all your heads on the floor faster than you can say ‘please.’” The threat sounds foreign on my tongue, too ruthless, and yet I’m not fibbing. I let my hold on all of them drop, the sound of feet hitting the ground and sighs of relief filling the dingy barn.

“Thank you,” Lenore exhales. Eli stammers off, going to her side. “Look, we’re not like the others. We don’t kill humans, and we don’t drink their blood. We haven’t for a long time,” she confesses.

The machete in my hand suddenly feels heavy. They’re like me, then.

“What is this, some kind of joke?” Sam asks.

“Notice you’re still alive,” she points out.

“Okay, uh, correct me if I’m wrong here, but shouldn’t you be starving to death?” he counters.

“We’ve found other ways. Cattle blood,” she answers.

“So you’re the ones killing the cows,” I say.

“It’s not ideal, in fact, it’s disgusting. But…it allows us to get by,” she explains.

“You guys are like that one character from that movie The Little Vampire,” I remark.

“Isn’t that a kids' movie?” Sam asks.

I look over my shoulder at him, “I was like 18 when that movie came out, leave me alone.” I look back at Lenore, “Anyways, what made you want to change?”

“Survival,” she answers. “No deaths, no missing locals, no reason for people like you to come looking for people like us. We blend in. Our kind is practically extinct. Turns out we weren’t quite as high up the food chain as we imagined.”

“Why are we explaining ourselves to these killers?” Eli spits.

“Eli!” Lenore warns.

“We choke on cow’s blood so that none of them suffer,” he continues anyway. “Tonight they murdered Conrad and they celebrated.”

“Eli, that’s enough,” Lenore warns again, her voice sharper.

“Yeah, Eli, that’s enough,” Sam piles on.

“What’s done is done. We’re leaving this town tonight,” she adds.

“Then why did you bring me here?” Sam asks. “Why are you even talking to us?”

“Believe me, I’d rather not. But I know your kind. Once you have the scent, you’ll keep tracking us. It doesn’t matter where we go. Hunters will find us,” she explains.

I feel sick. It’s like looking into an obscured mirror. We’re two sides of the same coin. I can faintly remember mom telling me how, before my brother and I were born, she and dad moved around a lot, worried about the hunters that would go after her. That’s why we moved to Kansas to begin with: I messed up the security they had created for all of us, and we needed to leave before a hunter caught wind. The room tilts on its axis. To think I threatened these people. I’m a hypocrite.

“So you’re asking us not to follow you,” Sam replies.

“We have a right to live. We’re not hurting anyone,” she argues.

“Right, so you keep saying, but give us one good reason why we should—”

“Done,” I cut him off.

“What?” Sam exclaims. “You’re just gonna believe them?”

“Yes,” I answer. “When we were looking into this case, there was no sign of any other unusual deaths, let alone one that resembled a death by a vampire. Gordon basically started this mess. He targeted them, not the other way around,” I explain.

I meet Lenore’s eyes then, “I know what it’s like to want to try and be different from what people expect you to be. We won’t follow you, we’ll get out of your hair. But, I can’t say the same for Gordon, we’ll try and get him to look the other way, but I’m not sure how long that’ll last.”

Her shoulders drop slightly, her face softening. “Thank you.”

********

By the time we arrive at the motel, both our minds are swarming. Out of everything that could’ve been said and done, this was an outcome I couldn’t have foreseen. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why couldn’t more beings like me have no interest in being as evil as they’re dubbed?

I wait by the Impala while Sam goes to fetch Dean from the room. We saw Gordon's car on the other side when we pulled in, which means he’s with Dean, and that’s exactly where I don’t want to be.

It takes less than two minutes for Sam to come back with his brother right behind him. He exhales sharply as if preparing to drop the bomb on him. “Dean, maybe we’ve got to rethink this hunt,” he starts.

“It’s not a maybe, we are,” I cut in. “The hunt's off, that’s it.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean asks, looking between us like we each grew another head. “Where were you?”

“In the nest,” Sam answers bluntly.

“You found it?” His eyes widened.

“More like it found us. Or, actually, Sam,” I answer.

“They kidnapped Sam, and you didn’t call me?” Dean asks, eyes locked onto me.

“I handled it myself. And you were busy,” I defend, but the hurt in his voice is as clear as I had imagined.

“I’m never too busy for yo—for either of you,” he answers, looking at both of us with almost wild eyes. “Well, how many’d you kill?” Dean asks rapidly, eyes scanning both of us for injuries.

“None,” Sam answers.

“Well, they didn’t just let you go.”

“Funny story…” I murmur.

His face drops momentarily as if his brain is trying to compute it. “Alright, well, where is it?” Dean asks.

“I was blindfolded, I don’t know,” he shrugs, looking at me. It’s only half true because he wasn’t blindfolded on the way back since he rode with me.

“But you know,” Dean points out, looking at me.

“Oh, would you look at that, I completely forgot where it was,” I answer, trying to put on my most convincing voice.

He deadpans, one eyebrow quirked slightly. He doesn’t believe me, “Yeah, you do.”

“Well….” I stretch the word out, “Maybe. But I’m not telling you or anyone, sorry.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because we aren’t going after them. They aren’t killing people, they’re living off of cow blood instead,” I explain, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

“And you believed them?” he presses. But then he’s shaking his head, running a hand through his hair as he mutters, “Of course you believed them, Ms. gullible over here.”

“I am not gullible!” I defend.

“Well…” Sam chimes in.

“Hey!” I shove his arm. “Aren’t we supposed to be on the same side here?”

“Right. Look at me, Dean. They let me go without a scratch. Hell, Y/N was throwing them around and threatened to kill them, and they didn’t touch her either,” Sam reasons, gesturing to himself and then at me.

“Wait, so you’re saying…No, no way. I don’t know why they let you go. I don’t really care,” he shakes his head. “We find ‘em, we waste ‘em.”

“Why aren’t you listening?” I ask, almost pleading with him.

“I am. But what part of ‘vampires’ don’t you understand? If it’s supernatural, we kill it, end of story. That’s our job,” he spits, and it feels like a stab to the heart.

“No, Dean, that is not our job. Our job is hunting evil. And if these things aren’t killing people, they’re not evil!” Sam defends.

“Of course they’re killing people, that’s what they do. They’re all the same, Sam. They’re not human, okay? We have to exterminate every last one of them.”

“Then kill me,” I shout, stepping closer to him.

His face falters. He knows where he went wrong. “You’re different. I wouldn’t—“

“How am I different?” I press, stepping close enough that I can feel the heat that he emits. My heart is hammering against my chest, my anger slowly being overtaken by something else, something that makes my voice waver. “By your logic, you should’ve killed me a long time ago.” I turn from him, stepping away, running my hands down my face.

“I thought you got over this, Dean,” I say, looking back at him. It hurts. And it doesn’t help that his jaw is clenched and his eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes shining a certain sadness that reeks of regret. “You hang out with that guy for what? A couple of hours and suddenly your’re—you’re—“ I can’t get the word out. I’m not sure what I’m even trying to say. “Just…fuck you, Dean.” The words aren’t as sharp as I want them to be, not with a lip that won’t stop quivering and the ache in my throat, it’s filled with more hurt than anger.

He looks down, and I’m almost glad I can make him feel ashamed. I thought he was different. I wanted him to be different. “Gordon’s been on those vamps for a year, he knows,” he continues as if I hadn’t said a word.

“Knows what?! That the only trail they’re leaving behind, are animals?” I question, rage eating at the edges of sorrow. “Has he shown you any evidence, or are you just blindly believing him?”

“He’s taking his word for it,” Sam cuts him off before he can answer.

“That’s right,” he nods.

“Ellen says he’s bad news,” Sam reveals.

“You called Ellen?” Dean asks. Sam nods. “And I’m supposed to listen to her? We barely know her, Sam, no thanks, I’ll go with Gordon.”

“Right, ‘cause Gordon’s such an old friend,” Sam mocks. “You don’t think I can see what this is?”

“What are you talking about?” Dean exclaims.

“He’s a substitute for Dad, isn’t he?” Sam guesses. “A poor one.”

“Shut up, Sam,” he warns.

“He’s not even close, Dean. Not on his best day,” he continues.

“You know what? I’m not even going to talk about this,” he throws up his hands.

“You know, you slap on this big fake smile, but I can see right through it. Because I know how you feel, Dean,” Sam admits, arms opened wide. “Dad's dead. And he left a hole, and it hurts so bad you can’t take it, but you can’t just fill up that hole with whoever you want to. It’s an insult to his memory.”

“Okay,” he nods, jaw clenched tight. He starts to turn away, only to swing back with a hard punch. Sam stumbles back, clutching his jaw.

A gasp rips through my throat, and I move forward, pushing Dean away harshly. He stumbles back slightly, but there’s a small part of me that thinks he’s letting me move him. “What the hell has gotten into you?!” I exclaim, shoving him again.

“You hit me all you want. It won’t change anything,” Sam croaks from somewhere behind me.

“I’m going to that nest,” he declares, grabbing my hands in one of his before I can push him again. “You don’t want to tell me where it is, fine. I’ll find it myself.”

“Dean,” I say sharply, meeting his eyes, before he can let go of my wrists. “I swear to God, if you go after them, I will never forgive you.”

His lip twitches, and his eyes seem to soften just slightly. I’m begging for him to agree with us, to not fall into whatever pit Gordon is dragging him towards. I know he’s better than that. I know he’s capable of seeing past the black and white aspect of hunting, being friends with me, and all the times he’s defended me are proof of that. I can’t be making that up. I can’t be.

“Please,” I whisper, eyes glossy with tears that wish to form.

He swallows roughly, his Adam's apple bobbing. He releases my hands, turning away from me. I stare at his back, at the brown leather of his jacket, trying to bite back the tears. I was so worried that confessing would lead to losing him, but apparently I’m capable of doing so all on my own. No love needed.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Fine,” he bites, turning back around. “Fine.”

My knees feel like they want to give up, collapse in on themselves in relief, but I force myself to stand.

“I’ll, uh… I’ll go try to talk Gordon down,” he says, running a hand over his jaw as he shakes his head. “Stay here or go to your room, I don’t want you around if he acts badly to the news, and he will.”

A small smile pulls at the corner of my lips. “See? That’s the Dean I know,” I murmur softly. He swallows roughly, but doesn’t say anything more. He heads towards his motel room in silence, Sam trailing behind him.

I wait by the car. I’d like to see Gordon leave, to see his face and know for certain that he’s given up on this hunt. But it’s not Gordon that leaves the motel room a moment later, it’s the Winchesters. “He’s gone,” Sam confirms as they approach.

“You think he went after them?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Of course he did.

“Probably,” Dean answers.

“Alright, come on, we need to stop him,” I say, heading towards the driver's side of the Impala.

“Oh…you’re gonna drive?” Dean asks as I unlock the car.

“Yeah, I mean, I know the way there,” I reply, looking over my shoulder at him. He looks surprised, lips drawn in a tight line.

“Right. Right,” he murmurs, head tilted to the floor.

********

An empty truck with its bed left open sits near the farmhouse. It’s a white home with a porch and shuttered windows on the same property as the barn I broke into previously. No bodies or heads are lying around, so I guess we aren’t too late. But that truck, the box left on it, his car pulled off to the side. Gordon’s still here, and he’s definitely keeping company.

A dim, barely there light stretches out from beneath the farmhouse door. Someone’s groaning inside, sharp hisses and jagged grunts filling the air. We are too late.

“Sam, Dean, Y/N. Come on in,” Gordon says from inside. He must have heard our footsteps.

Dean pushes the door in, the old wood creaking. “Hey, Gordon. What’s going on?” he greets carefully.

It’s Lenore. He has her tied to a chair, cuts of all different sizes sketched into her skin. And he’s just standing beside her, with a bloody knife in his hand, his eyes wild with a smug smile on his face. I failed her.

“Just poisoning Lenore here with some dead man’s blood,” he answers casually, nodding towards the jar of blood on the table. “She’s going to tell us where all her little friends are, aren’t you? Wanna help?”

“How about you shove that knife up your ass you sadistic fuck,” I spit.

“Woah, woah,” he says, eyes wide. “Calm down, now. How ‘bout we put our differences aside and finish the job.”

“You’re torturing her!” I argue.

“I know. I was just about to start on the fingers. Come on, Dean, help a friend out,” he smiles, shining those white teeth. He drags the knife across the pale skin of her arm, dark veins following the tip of the blade.

“Woah, woah, woah, hey, let’s all just chill out, huh?” Dean mediates, hands raised in surrender.

“I’m completely chill,” he answers smoothly.

“And entirely insane,” I add.

“Gordon, put the knife down,” Sam orders sharply, trying to step towards Gordon. But Dean holds him back with a hand on his chest.

“Sounds like it’s these two that need to chill,” Gordon answers, pointing the tip of the blade at Sam and me.

“You’re right. I’m wasting my time here. This bitch will never talk. Might as well put her out of her misery,” he considers, replacing his knife with a machete that rested on the table. “I just sharpened it, so it’s completely humane.”

“Do you hear yourself?” I ask. “Is that the kind of excuse you tell yourself to fall asleep you pathetic asshole?”

“Not an excuse,” he acknowledges, turning towards Lenore.

Sam steps in front of him, creating a barrier between Gordon and Lenore. “Gordon, I’m letting her go,” he tells him.

He points the knife at Sam’s chest, stopping him from moving. “You’re not doing a damn thing.”

“Hey, hey, hey, Gordon, let’s talk about this,” Dean spews quickly.

“What’s there to talk about? It’s like I said, Dean. No shades of gray,” he reiterates, the hold on his machete never faltering.

I want to throw him across the room and rip his throat out. I want to hurt him so badly that I don’t care what it makes me. Yet, I can’t give away what I am; I have to play this safe for as long as I can. I just don’t know how much more I can hold back.

“Yeah. I hear ya. And I know how you feel,” Dean answers calmly.

“Do you?”

“That vampire that killed your sister deserved to die, but this one…”

Gordon laughs, cutting him off. “Killed my sister? That filthy fang didn’t kill my sister. It turned her. It made her one of them. So I hunted her down, and I killed her myself.”

“You did what?” Dean echoes, his voice quieter than before. “It wasn’t my sister anymore; it wasn’t human. I didn’t blink. And neither would you,” he answers, his chest puffed out like he’s proud of what he did.

“So you knew all along, then? You knew about the vampires, you knew they weren’t killing anyone. You knew about the cattle. And you just didn’t care,” Sam concludes.

“Care about what? A nest of vampires suddenly acting nice?” he mocks. “Taking a little time out from sucking innocent people? And we’re supposed to buy that? Trust me. Doesn’t change what they are. And I can prove it.”

He grabs Sam’s arm, machete raised, but before the shining metal can come down, my hands are raised, a large and bright blast of energy shooting from my palms. The wooden wall that he crashes into bends and breaks beneath him, the last bit of moonlight seeping through the cracks. The machete clanks to the ground, and Sam stumbles back.

All eyes are on me, two pairs filled with worry and a third filled with wonder. He scurries to sit up right, fear flashing in his dilated pupils. “Do you like it?” I ask, stalking forward. “Being afraid?”

He looks past me with crazed eyes.“You two ‘been hiding her?! What are you!?”

“Nothing that matters,” I answer, shards of wood crunching beneath my shoes as I go to Lenore. I kneel down beside her, helping Sam untie her.

“What happened to no black and white, Dean?” he laughs a single short laugh. “Why haven’t you killed her yet?! Is she your little bitch? Is that why?”

A click registers against the walls, Dean standing in front of him with a gun in his hand, pointed at Gordon. “I’d really shut my mouth if I were you,” Dean warns through gritted teeth. He doesn’t bother to look back as he says, “Get her out of here, both of you.”

Sam scoops Lenore up in his arms, carrying her out carefully. The wooden floor groans far behind me, and I watch Gordon lift himself from the floor just as I disappear out the door. Sam carries her to the bed of the truck, lying her down. Immediately, my hands are on her arm, pouring light into her skin to mend the cuts he had sliced into her. “Wipe off the dead man’s blood,” I direct Sam. He moves around me, going through a nearby box until he finds an old rag. Instantly, he’s cleaning off the blood, letting the cloth soak it up.

I try to ignore the commotion coming from the farmhouse as I finish up. But it’s difficult when I know Dean’s in there fighting someone who’s probably just as good as he is with no help. Of course, I know he’s capable, but that doesn’t mean I can suddenly stop worrying about him.

I focus back on the cold skin beneath my hands, the cuts webbing together seamlessly. I pull away, my hands freezing as if I had let them sit on a giant ice cube for an hour. Sam helps her off the bed of the truck, getting her into the driver's seat. I run my hand over the cold metal of the truck, whispering to it, “Et evanescet.” And for a fraction of a second, a wave of purple shimmers over the dark vehicle.

I meet them by the driver's side. Sam is leaning against the closed door, making sure she’s okay to drive. “I bought you a day,” I tell her. “Regardless of how long we hold him back, I can guarantee you that for the next 24 hours, there’ll be no sign of you. He won’t be able to find you with traffic cameras or anything else. You won’t exist.”

Her hands clench the steering wheel tightly, her jaw set in place as she watches us. “Thank you,” she says. Sam nods, tapping the door as he steps away. The engine rumbles, tires crunching over grass and gravel as she rolls away. I wish that there were more we could do for her.

He nudges my shoulder, bringing me back to myself. I follow his quick steps back up the house. When we enter, it’s Gordon that’s tied up, his eyes hard and his lips pulled into a snarl as he stares daggers into Dean, who leans against the table, watching him. They’re both battered and bruised. There’s a bruise blooming across Dean’s cheekbone, and what looks like a black eye.

“Did we miss anything?” Sam asks.

“Nah, not much,” Dean shrugs stiffly, grimacing slightly at the lift of his shoulder. “Lenore get out okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods.

I step closer to Gordon, his eyes snapping to me as he pulls against the ropes that restrain him. I step behind his chair, hands rising to his temples. “What are you doing?” he demands.

“I’m going to make you forget that you ever saw what I could do. Don’t worry, you’ll remember getting thrown into the wall, the fear. You just won’t recall how it happened,” I answer, letting the energy spark from my fingertips. “Don’t need you following us around,” I add, mumbling, as I soak back the memory of purple light, erasing parts of myself from his hatred-filled mind. I step away from him, putting my hands behind my back.

“I guess our work here is done,” Dean declares. “How you doin’, Gordy? Gotta tinkle yet?” he mocks. “Alright. Well, get comfy. We’ll call someone in two or three days, have them come out, untie you.” He picks up a knife from the floor, jamming it into the table behind him.

“Ready to go, Dean?” Sam asks.

“Not yet,” he answers. “I guess this is goodbye. Well, it’s been real.” Suddenly, he lunges forward with a punch, knocking Gordon and the chair he’s stuck to onto the floor. “Okay. I’m good now. We can go,” he says, rolling his shoulders back.

I don’t try to hide the smile playing at the corner of my lips. In some odd way, that was incredibly attractive. There’s a little pep in my step as we walk down the porch stairs, the very beginning of daylight breaking across the horizon in a subtle yellow brushing against the blue.

“Sam?” Dean starts, gently wiping at his split lip. “Clock me one.”

“What?”

“Come on. I won’t even hit you back,” he urges, gesturing to himself. “Let’s go.”

“No,” Sam argues.

“Let’s go, you get a freebie. Hit me, come on,” he tries again.

“You look like you just went twelve rounds with a block of cement, Dean. I’ll take a rain check,” he counters.

“I wish we never took this job. It’s jacked everything up,” Dean complains.

“What do you mean?” I ask, kicking along a loose pebble.

“Think about all the hunts we went on, our whole lives,” he continues. “What if we killed things that didn’t deserve killing? You know? I mean, the way Dad raised us, Sam…”

“Dean, after what happened to Mom, Dad did the best he could,” Sam offers.

“I know he did. But the man wasn’t perfect. And the way he raised us to hate those things? You remember when he tried to turn us against Y/N?”

“Wait, what?” I stammer.

“You were barely twelve, and he was trying to convince us you were evil. And, man, it worked,” he elaborated.

“Oh, I knew it. I knew that’s why you were acting like that on my birthday,” I answer.

“Yeah, that’s why I didn’t make any contact with you for months after that. Sam he made us hate them. And man, I hate ‘em. I do.” He stops suddenly, cutting himself off so that he can point at me and say, “Not you. I don’t mean you. You’re the exception.”

“Thanks…I guess,” I answer. “But, I mean, that’s a decision you made on your own. It’s the exact opposite of what your Dad wanted.”

He shakes his head like I’m not understanding. “When I killed that vampire at the mill, I didn’t even think about it; hell, I even enjoyed it.”

“You didn’t kill Lenore,” Sam points out.

“No, but every instinct told me to. I was gonna kill her. I was gonna kill ‘em all,” he tells us.

“But you didn’t. You’re capable of seeing past the soldier mentality put onto you, whether you can see that or not,” I say, sincerely. “Tonight—actually I guess last night— was just more proof of that.”

“You’re still stubborn, though,” Sam adds with a smile.

“Oh, 100% still stubborn,” I nod, agreeing without hesitation.

“You’re both pains in my ass,” he grumbles.

“Guess you have to keep us around to be a pains in the ass, then,” Sam answers with an amused smirk.

(Next Chapter)

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