#the fear that she's going to do the same thing. and the paranoia is first established through the parallel invoking the same feeling

[qoldenskies]

currently thinking about the cc parallel with donnie waking up in both the lair and april’s place with it quiet, (if i recall right) sounds of water dripping, sunlight illuminating someone in the kitchen

i like the repeated motif of waking up alone ,,, feeling left behind in the dark ,,, especially with how it comes up in cw with leo waking up to donnie gone. how for all three instances it was meant to indicate the beginning of the end, all in a different way

[brawberryz]

touch me i scream

Batfam Yan! × Elizabeth Afton!Reader

《Platonic》

Note: English is not my first language, sorry if there is any translation error / I don't know if this could be considered "neglected" reader since the negligence is only on Bruce's part, so maybe)? / FNAF AU! / M.list

Tw: child neglect, abuse, child murder, murder, maltreatment, yandere behaviors , self-harm, brief mention of suicide, isolation, knife use, toxic relationships, domestic violence, brief mention of drugs, psychological abuse, manipulation, dark themes

Weird

That's how you could consider your life, it was quite strange and boring, you always spent your time at home

Summer vacation had started and all you could do was stay home

You didn't have any friends, you only had your brothers

Your life was quite lonely, the only one you trusted too much was Damian

But these last few months he was behaving in a strange way, he had dark circles under his eyes and he never slept

The only times he did was for a short time, he seemed scared most of the time

Every time you got up in the early morning to drink water you found him crying on the floor of his room

He said he saw monsters, terrifying versions of the animatronics your father built

Those nights you used to accompany him so he could sleep but even so his paranoia didn't stop

A lot of blame was also because of Jason, he kept scaring Damian with that stupid foxy mask

You had tried to defend him but still Jason never he stopped

He always found a way to scare Damian

Richard had been the only one who managed to stop Jason's pranks

He was the older brother, he was hardly ever home before because he spent his time with his friends or at university

But since your mother disappeared he had to take care of all of you, he had to be a mother and father at the same time

Because he knew that Bruce didn't care about any of his children, sometimes you wished you could get away from here

Escape far away from this stupid "home", it stopped being considered home years ago

Your "father" who didn't even deserve to be called that, was an idiot and violent

At night you could hear your mother crying, she always fought with Bruce

It was normal for them to fight, and your father didn't mind hitting or insulting your mother

Richard tried many times to defend your mother from Bruce But the only thing he earned was a hit

You didn't understand why your mother She never fought back, she just accepted the blows and insults

But one night, you couldn't sleep because of the screams in the kitchen, they were fighting again

You slowly got out of bed to go spy, you wanted to know what was going on

It was a little weird that your parents were fighting at this time of night, you got a little closer to the door

Not enough, but you could barely see anything

The last thing you could hear was your mother screaming as she begged Bruce not to do it

You ran scared to your room, you could barely process what you saw

Your mother's screams and pleas were still in your head since that day

You hated yourself for never being able to tell what you saw

But your fear of ending up the same way as your mother prevented you from doing so

That day you realized what kind of monster your father was

You hated him so much, too much

You hated having to Seeing his face every day, you hated him touching you or just giving you a hug

You felt like gagging just thinking about him, he was the most reprehensible human being ever

And you hated him more for what he had done to Tim

Tim was your father's assistant, he used to work at the pizzeria with him

He also used to be a security guard at night

You could consider him a friend Even though he was much older than you

Sometimes you used to accompany your father to work and those days you took the opportunity to go talk to him

When you went back to accompany your father to work you looked for Tim all over the pizzeria, then your father told you that Tim had decided to quit

You frowned, you knew he was lying

He always lied, you just nodded pretending that you understood

Until one time your father asked you to take out the trash at the pizzeria, he said it would be good if you were useful for something

You just accepted it, a little offended by his comment. As you walked out the back door and put the trash in the bin, you saw something strange in a bag.

A little disgusted, you put your hand inside the trash and pulled out an identification plate.

But it wasn't just any old one, it was Tim's.

It had some dried blood stains, the blood didn't look old, it still had that red color.

You swallowed nervously and you felt like gagging. You fell to the rough ground and small tears fell from your eyes.

Someone you cared about had disappeared again and you couldn't do anything, absolutely nothing.

After that day, the streets of your neighborhood were full of "wanted" posters with Tim's face.

His parents were devastated by the disappearance of their son. He was so young and had a secure future.

Your father gave his condolences to Tim's parents.

What a hypocrite.

That was the only thing your head could think. Maybe you were just a little girl. but you understood much more than others would think

I hate you, Bruce Wayne

_

You officially hated this family

From one day to the next your brothers started acting weird, a few days ago you met a boy

They were the same age and he was your first friend in a long time

But as soon as they found out you made a friend they went crazy

Richard didn't let you go out alone anymore, and he sent Jason to keep a close eye on you

You could barely get close to your new friend without Jason giving you a murderous look

And because of that you had lost a friend, he was the first one you had

And he was gone, then you had a talk with Richard

He tried to justify himself saying that that boy wasn't a good influence

Why do you need friends when you have your brothers? They are much better than anyone you could ever meet

Also Damian had been clinging to you too much, his paranoia was multiplied by a thousand

You thought that this paranoia was because of those "pills" that your father gave him

You knew that they were not sleeping pills, those pills made him hallucinate

Bruce wanted to destroy each one of his children, and then he was going to rebuild them the way he wanted

Who would think that you would be his next victim, too bad things didn't go as well as he thought

_

Your father's new pizzeria had opened to the public, "Sister location"

This time he opened the pizzeria without Clark's help, the two of them used to be best friends

Bruce and Clark opened the first pizzeria together, but since the death of Jon his son everything had changed for him

He had fallen into great guilt and depression

The death of his son and the unexpected divorce with his wife had left him in a bad state

He had decided to withdraw from the project

Leaving Bruce alone, and it was something that didn't bother him either

He had gotten what he wanted, he had already gotten Clark and his stupid morals out of his way

Your plan was almost complete, he had justice on his side

He had made sure that not a single policeman suspected him, you could say that he was about to commit a perfect crime

_

You found yourself crying on the floor, your cheek hurt from your father's blow

You had decided to enter your father's study without permission and spilled coffee on his plans

Bruce had become furious, you tried to apologize but it only made his anger grow

"Can't you do something right!?"

You could only look down as more tears fell from your eyes

"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it, it was an accident..."

Bruce sighed angrily before forcibly lifting you off the ground and telling you to get out of his studio

You just nodded scared, running out the metal door

You hated this, sometimes you just wished you could die

You didn't want to be here, you wanted this to be over once and for all

_

You walked through the aisles of the pizzeria, your cheek still hurt

Your tears had dried but your hate and sadness were still there

Your body stopped as soon as you saw Baby

The animatronic that your father had made for you, one day you gave him a drawing and he used that as inspiration

That day you were so happy, for the first time you had felt your father's love

Too bad this was a trap disguised as a gift

You entered the shameless room where the animatronic was

It seemed strange to you that it was separated from the other animatronics

As soon as the animatronic detected you, its eyes sparkled

"Baby..."

The animatronic's name came out of your lips, your eyes sparkled with happiness

After a long time you could finally see it

The animatronic's stomach opened surprising you

A small ice cream came out of it, it was your favorite flavor

You thought that your father had made it just for you

You approached slowly, your arm getting close to the ice cream

You could barely react when the claw pierced you and threw you towards the animatronic

A scream of pain was heard throughout the room, you felt your ribs breaking and your organs being crushed by the claw

The last thing you felt was your bones being destroyed as you completely entered the stomach of the animatronic

The animatronic barely caught your body inside its stomach when it turned off, her task had been completed

The only thing left in this bloody scene was the blood on the floor and the stomach of the animatronic

That day the innocence of another child had been snatched away by Bruce Wayne's claws

And this time the victim was his daughter

A small tinkling in the eyes of the animatronic illuminated the empty and dark room, they had changed color

The same color as your eyes

_

Bruce had gone to He checked the animatronics, he thought they had completed their mission

He was very surprised when he found your body crushed between the wires of baby

At that moment something changed inside him, you weren't supposed to end up like this

If one of your brothers had ended up like this he wouldn't care much, but you?

Yes, he was a horrible father but there was a part of him that cared about you

But he also discovered something, remnant

Your body had produced that

Also your soul had merged with the animatronic, it was something he realized when he saw baby's eyes

That day he had fallen further into imminent madness

But everything has its end

_

Richard sighed tiredly as he parked his car in front of the "Sister location" store

It had been a year since everything happened

Too bad your death wasn't the only incident that happened in the family

Since your death Richard began to neglect his other brothers, guilt consumed him and he had no one to vent to

Also the jokes had increased on Jason's part, and he had begun to take it out on Damian

And his jokes began to become more dangerous

until one day on Damian's birthday Jason decided to play one last joke on him

He decided to put him inside the mouth of one of the animatronics, too bad not everything went well

The animatronic's jaw ended up crushing Damian's skull while he asked Jason to get him out of there

That had marked Jason forever, he had fallen into a deep depression

Your death and Damian's death filled him with guilt, he had killed one of his

He was a murderer

After a time of depression and self-harm Richard found him hanging in his room

Richard's mental state began to worsen, it seemed as if the world was against him

His life was full of misfortunes

The only thing that kept him afloat was a little voice in his head that told him not to give up

It sounded just like you

Then Bruce decided to disappear by moving somewhere and only leaving a farewell note

From time to time he sent Richard money but he had to work so as not to end up on the street

Because Bruce cared very little about his safety

Until one day Bruce called him, told him to go to sister location

He was going to refuse until Bruce confessed everything to Richard

You were there, or well

Your body was there, he told him that you died because of an animatronic and that your soul and body were there

And the only way to Freeing you was going back there, that was the only thing Bruce needed to tell Richard before he grabbed all his things to go to that abandoned pizzeria

He sighed nervously as he approached the pizzeria, he had lost you years ago

And the guilt continued to eat away at him

But this time he had another chance and he had to do whatever it took to free you from that hell

But it was just a trap, a trap disguised as hope and sweet lies

Your soul had been corrupted and the only thing left was hate and resentment

Resentment for the hate of the man who did this to you, the purple man

I hate you Bruce Wayne

But this time I will have my revenge, we will have our revenge

I am not afraid of you anymore, not anymore

reuploaded because for some reason tumblr deleted it lol

[all-doggirls-go-to-heaven-2]

The thing is that writing transfem first date advice is not that hard. Like. I feel like there are a couple of things to watch out for because of our condition as a social group but its not that deep.

Like, really, it comes down to three or four things.

First: Take initiative because she will often feel pressured to/uncomfortable with being the one to do it. We're pressured since we're young into that role and it can feel suffocating, plus with the ever-growing paranoia abt every trans women being a predator, there's a fear of crossing a line (especially when it's the first time meeting someone)

Second: Transfems are usually pretty socially isolated, either in past or present, so there will be niche hobbies and interests. Listen to what she has to say abt it and gauge if it matches to your tastes, because if you want this to not be just a hook up the topic will come up again and its not gonna go great when on date number 3 you forget completely what she told you abt her favorite show. These things are important for many of us because its what allowed us to survive isolatiom at times.

Third: be assertive. Way too many ppl I went out with thought I was nice and cool and interesting but were so scared to touch me, so scared to take a pass at me, that it just feels. Awkward and like your body is this weird alien thing. This is a date like every other right? So touch her. Really do it. Make sure to let them know that you are going to put your hands on them On Purpose.

Like apart from that? Genuinely? Use common sense. None of that "dont touch her tits/touch her tits" like. Talk to her how she feels abt her body if it feels like that question would come up (maybe shes early transition, maybe shes anxious, maybe shes inexperienced), but if you're going out with a girl 8 years into transition its unlikely shes going to have the same level of hangups as someone who just got started in this "being trans" thing. But you are unfortunstely gonna have to be the judge on that because everybody has a diff body.

Its not that hard man. Like yes i feel like there is a place for a well-meaning "hey how do you date trans women" but unfortunately men keep fucking it up so its up to a lesbian to try and explain how you dorks should talk to women

[sinstear]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ— IN YOUR ARMS, WHERE IT’S SAFE.

been thinking a little too much about abby after santa barbara. a once confident, brutal yet adventurous and tactical woman who didn’t let anyone get in her way, to a reserved shell that flinched or panicked whenever something bad happened around her. how her only thought is to make sure lev is safe and protected from the world they’re running from. every night that she goes out to look for extra supplies has her paranoia heightened, making sure to look over her shoulder every step she takes, not wanting to take any chances.

those late nights that she goes without lev to find more food, extra supplies, leaving them back at the small shack they called home, alone, plays on her mind the entire time. worried and anxious if she made the best decision to go by herself, but the other part of her brain didn’t want her to stress so much, she had food and drink to find, to make sure neither of them got sick, to never have that fear or feeling of dying again. 

the place is empty. quite. once, that much quietness had abby on high alert, looking around for any sign of danger, but now? now she was rushing, pushing herself to just find what she came here for. she tries to ignore the way her brain already wants to leave, and keeps pushing herself forward. she promised lev she would be back with food, or at least something for them to eat, and she wasn’t about to break that promise because of her high paranoia. she’s not by herself anymore.

the store clearly had been ransacked hours before, but abby was used to doing patrols and going out for extra supplies, so she knows there is always something left on the shelves, in the drawers, or even tucked away hidden. wiping her forehead with her arm, abby slowly makes her way around the isles while trying to make as quiet of sounds as she possibly could. she didn’t really prepare herself like she would have done years ago, maybe that’s her own fault, but right now getting back to lev alive and well was the second thing on her mind. finding something to eat was the first. 

her stomach grumbled at the singular thought of eating something that wasn’t bread she found a few days ago and sighed softly at the sight of a couple tinned food cans on the shelf near one of the back exit doors. thankful that whoever was here, was in a rush to get what they could to not realize they had practically saved her night by leaving behind a little something that is good enough for lev to eat.

her feet carry her slowly, she’s tired, she’s been walking around for a good few hours to find a place, and now that she’s found one, she can feel the exhaustion in her body. the ache in her bones and muscles that haven’t gone away in months. one good nights rest is all she asks for, but will she ever get that? will there be a day where she doesn’t have to look over her shoulder, and relax? even she doesn’t know.

by the time she gets to where she wants, abby doesn’t have enough time to react, she just cowers away into herself when another hand touches hers abruptly, which were reaching for the same canned food she spotted. those eyes go wide when she notices a woman looking at her, then the food and then back at abby with a small curve in her lips. “sorry, was in my own world then, did you want it?”

nothing seems to come out her mouth as she just stares. slightly scared, and the rest of her somewhat calm. she doesn’t know why, but she was.

“didn’t mean to scare you,” they whispered, offering their name which causes abby to relax enough that she can put her arms back down, stop protecting herself to respond with her name.

“abby.”

“s’pretty name. abby” you test out her name, another smile appearing on your face as you do. “nice to meet you,” you lift your hand out towards her and you feel your heart break when she flinches back away from you. “oh, no, i won’t hurt you,” you frowned, shaking your head sadly.

abby’s at a loss for words, really, she doesn’t know what to say or do while you look at her with such a soft look that makes her feel like she is going to explode from how gentle you were, and how slow you approached her. “i promise, if you need the food, it’s yours” you offered again, holding the canned food out for her.

“you got it first,” was the second thing that came out her mouth. looking at you, analyzing you silently.

“are you here alone?”

“i have lev at,” she paused, eyebrows furrowed in a tight frown. “at home. so i’m just trying to find something for them to eat”

“would you,” it was your turn to stumble over your words as she wiped her face again, huffing at herself softly. “want to stay with me? i have warm water, you could have a shower, it’s hard to find that lately, i can make you something to eat. i have a room you can sleep in, if you want. you don’t have to, i would just feel safer knowing you are safe” you rambled, waving your hands around.

the blonde is at a loss for words again, she’s met a few groups of people since that night, but none of them had ever offered to help her and lev. let alone offer to let them both stay in their house, and you could tell she was fighting with herself at the sudden stare she was giving you. more confused and terrified this time. “i can’t ask you to do that. we will be okay”

“you’re not asking me, m’offering you to stay with me. for however long you want. there’s no pressure, but company is always nice. i would really like company, especially when finding that company is really hard now”

“i- we would have to go back home, and get lev first, and make sure they are comfortable staying with you. i’m fine with it, but i’m all they have left. we are all each other have now”

abby’s heart thumps in her chest at your sudden bright smile, and nodded up at her. “s’okay, there’s no rush. as long as you are both comfortable with it. oh, your food!” you laughed, looking away as your face heated up. “please take it, you had it first”

“you had it first, actually.” abby laughed softly.

the sound had your heart thumping loudly in your chest this time.

taking the tins from your hands carefully, abby finds herself blushing as your fingers graze hers before pulling away just as quickly with a clear of her throat. “shall, shall we go?”

“lead the way, abby”

your house wasn’t one that she assumed you would live in. she expected something small, or tiny, not a complete farmhouse. and you offered to let her and lev stay here? after quickly agreeing, saying where they lived was too small for the pair of them, and multiple panics about abby taking a little longer than usual, the blonde reassured she would always come back and this was a chance to change their life. have something they haven’t had in a while. comfort and safety.

abby’s cautious of when she steps foot in the small home that you’ve made for yourself. her once bright eyes, now almost lifeless, bore into everything. silently making sure nothing is going to pop out and hurt lev here. when you notice the worried look on her face, you take a small step towards her, a soft smile on your lips and you simply hold your hand out for her. “i won’t hurt you, i promise” you assure her, even though you don’t have to. you’ve already been good enough to let her and lev stay here, so she just nodded at you, looking at your hand before holding hers out for you. slightly flinching when you hold onto hers softly. “it’s okay,” you smiled again. your smile suddenly becomes her favorite sight.

even after you’ve made something for them to eat, she watches you closely, especially with the way you rub lev’s shoulder when you place both bowls of stew on the table and that if there is anything else they want to eat or need, just tell you and you will gladly make it or get it for them. she still watches you when you make your way into the kitchen. and there’s a sudden drop in her stomach upon hearing the latch of the back door opening that has her bolting off her chair, looking for you with wide eyes.

“hey, i was just going to— abby? what’s wrong?” you frowned in your spot, noticing her now sweating and crimson face looking down at you. “hey,”

“where are you going?” she found herself asking, a little too rushed for her liking.

“i’m just going out to hang the laundry,” you smiled tiredly, chewing your bottom lip gently. “m’not going anywhere. do you want to come with me? lev is happily eating in the living room, so you’re more than welcome to join me. you are a little taller than me so, you can hang up some stuff for me”

abby doesn’t hesitate to agree. her sudden urge to be around you constantly peaks through as she turns around a final time to just check on lev, who was reading one of the books you left out and eating away at their food. with a final nod to herself, abby rushes herself through the small kitchen and through the back door, where she finds you already hanging up some of the cleaned clothes with that soft smile still on your face.

“need help?” abby finds herself smiling this time. a real one.

“always. get over here”

the blonde already knew she could trust you. just by how gentle you were with her. not pushing her to talk about something you knew was making her uncomfortable. you didn’t ask about the scars on her arms when you saw them, you just simply pressed a soft kiss to the ones on her hands and continued your task. she asked you about your life, and how you got here, which you gladly shared. with each word you gave, it drove her closer to you. she continuously found herself not even doing what you asked her and simply watched the way you spoke, the way your eyes lit up at the mention of something you loved doing, or how you spoke with your hands at times.

you still noticed the way she would cower away or flinch you when touched her as the night came and the stars shone in the sky, or a loud noise rang out but for the most part, abby apologized and said it wasn’t you, it was trauma that she’s been dealing with, still dealing with and you constantly reassured her that it was okay. she doesn’t need to apologies for being jumpy with certain things. the one time she let you touch her without flinching, was when she dropped the laundry basket because you had slammed one of the chicken cages shut, and rushed towards her and held her hand tightly, without another thought you rubbed the back of her neck comfortingly and and smiled against her temple. assuring her that everything was okay.  

that same night, when lev is finally at peace and can get a good rest, she is the one who can’t fall asleep, like usual, she finds herself knocking on your bedroom door, thanks to the soft bed lamp shining under it. stumbling and blushing once you yell a soft ‘come in’ and she finds you curled up on your bed, reading a book. “you okay?” you ask, closing the book, leaning over to your side table and placing it down carefully before looking over at her again. “can’t sleep?”

“no,” abby pauses, chewing on her bottom lip harshly. “can i stay in here with you?”

“of course, come here”

and she could cry at how you open your arms for her.

the second she practically slumps her body on yours, and you rest one of your hands on her back, and the other instantly goes to her hair, she breaks. quiet and reserved abby cries in your arms when you, the first person to see her like this, thread your fingers through her hair, whispering against her forehead how she’s still so effortlessly beautiful. she doesn’t say anything though, she doesn’t have to, she just lets you comfortingly scratch her scalp at crazy hours of the night because you know she’s struggling to fall asleep peacefully.

“m’not gonna let anything or anyone hurt you ever again, okay?” you promised. hand slowly rubbing comforting circles on her back under her bed shirt. “you’re both safe here. i promise to protect you both with my life. you are safe, everything is okay”

for the first time in years, abby could finally close her eyes that night. both her and lev were safe. the safest she’s felt in a long time. because with your arms around her, and lips against her forehead in a hushed promise that you were here for her, she felt better. she felt content. she felt at home. 

your promise of protection meant more to her than she could ever tell or show you.

[luludeluluramblings]

Bruce Wayne’s Obsession with Smalltown!Reader (Alfred included)

A/N: So I just thought I’d throw this out there. Speak it into existence. Everything is liable to future editing, just a heads up. But, I’ll probably do this after each character falls into obsession. Help with writer’s block when it strikes or when motivation leaves.

Link to Revised Version

Warning(s): Yandere themes, Obsessive behavior

Bruce is already obsessed with Reader.

That was his baby. He knew about them first and only gave them up because he couldn’t be Batman with a newborn.

Plus, Momma wasn’t one of the worst women he dated.

Yes, she was petty, keeping Reader selfishly and never sharing Reader with Bruce. But, she loved Reader, was mentally stable, and she was not some uptight socialite.

(Bruce considered proposing to her after he found out about Reader, but tossed that idea to the side once he realized that wasn’t rational.)

Bruce is mostly struggling with his jealously over a dead man.

Daddy.

Bruce wants what he had with Reader. Wants that bond so desperately.

That unconditional love and respect a child has for their parent.

Totally missing the fact that he avoids Reader because he can’t stand the thought of Batman tainting them, therefore neglecting that bond he desperately craves.

In fact, when Jason died, Reader was part of the reason he kept being Batman.

He deluded himself into thinking he was making Gotham safer for Reader. (Gotham is too dangerous. And, after Jason ‘died’, Bruce couldn’t stand the thought of Reader suffering the same fate.)

Bruce would indulge in his obsession, occasionally out of paranoia.

Once a year, specifically on Reader’s birthday, he would go full throttle detective stalker mode on Reader’s life.

Every social media post, search history, school records, medical records, etc.

For one day a year he would hunt everything digital or printed desperate to know his child and make sure they were safe.

And after, he’d delete everything from the hardware on the BatComputer.

He wouldn’t save anything out of fear that someone could discover something about Reader.

Someone could hack his computers. There could be no links that would connect Reader to him, and especially not to Batman.

Alfred would encourage this occasionally indulgence. Bruce would verbally share and show Alfred everything before erasing it.

Alfred cares deeply for Reader.

To him, Reader is the part of his family that heals the old wounds and the loss. Seeing them thrive, even at a distance, fills him with hope and relief.

Now, when Reader’s parents died Bruce’s (and Alfred’s) first thought was not that he finally had a chance to have Reader to himself.

It definitely was the second, though.

Bruce feels even more connected to Reader, because they both lost loving parents.

But, Bruce is so damn jealous of one of those dead parents.

Bruce also is trying to help Reader fit in with the Gotham elite, since it seems like Reader wants that based off of their Gotham Academy friends.

Buying couture designer clothing, a fancy car, and other little things.

Don’t worry though, he realizes that’s not how it works.

It’s not like Reader’s going to have those friends for much longer anyway.

[youngsadlesbian]

THREADS OF FATE | chapter 03

chapter summary: the avengers and shield continue trying to recruit you, but you remain focused on your life in new york. however, during a mission, someone gets severely injured, and your instincts kick in, making you realize you might be destined for something bigger.

a/n: hope you like it!

word count: 2,7k

warnings: none.

You had done your best to move on.

It had been a year since the Battle of New York, a year since you had healed Natasha Romanoff and walked away from the Avengers and SHIELD.

And they hadn’t stopped trying to recruit you.

At first, it had been subtle—calls from unknown numbers, emails from accounts you didn’t recognize, people who looked just a little too interested when you walked into a café or bookstore. Then, it became less subtle. Natasha had shown up at your apartment one night with takeout and a simple, “So, when are you going to stop pretending you’re normal?”

You had laughed, shaken your head, and told her that you were normal.

She hadn’t believed you.

Neither had Steve, who had found you one day in Central Park, offering you a coffee and a speech about responsibility. Tony had sent a drone to deliver an actual contract to your mailbox, because of course he had. Even Maria Hill had tracked you down at your college library, sitting across from you and sliding a SHIELD file toward you with a raised eyebrow.

But you had refused.

Because deep down, despite everything, you weren’t ready to be part of that world.

So you went to class, studied late into the night, worked a part-time job at a bookstore, and tried to pretend like you weren’t constantly looking over your shoulder, waiting for the moment when fate would drag you back in.

And fate always found a way.

It started slowly—small things that should have meant nothing.

A stranger sitting in the same spot every time you went to your favorite coffee shop. A car that seemed to take the same turns as you on your way home. A flicker of movement in a reflection, gone the moment you turned your head.

At first, you convinced yourself it was paranoia.

New York was a big city. People moved, watched, blended into the background. You weren’t special. You weren’t important.

Except… you were.

And you realized it late one night when you took the long way home from work. The streets were quieter than usual, dimly lit by flickering streetlamps. As you walked, the sensation of being followed pressed against your spine, sharp and suffocating.

You forced yourself to stay calm, to keep walking like you hadn’t noticed.

Then—

A sudden scuffle. A sharp gasp.

You turned your head just in time to see a woman being yanked into an alleyway.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Walk away, a voice in your head whispered. You don’t do this. You don’t fight. You don’t save people.

But your feet were already moving.

You barely registered the cold bite of fear in your chest as you rushed into the alley.

Three men surrounded the woman, one of them holding a knife too close to her throat. She was shaking, her breath coming in terrified gasps.

They hadn’t noticed you yet.

You could have turned around. You could have called for help, run for the nearest police station.

Instead—

“Hey!”

The word burst from your lips before you could stop it, your voice sharper than you expected.

The three men turned at once.

Their eyes flickered over you—assessing, weighing. You weren’t big. You weren’t threatening. You were just a girl, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The man with the knife sneered. “Walk away, sweetheart. This isn’t your problem.”

But it was.

Because when the woman’s eyes met yours, wide with fear, you saw Daniela.

You saw your sister, helpless, desperate.

And something inside you snapped.

You moved before you had time to think. Your body acted on pure instinct as you lunged, your foot connecting with the man’s wrist before he had time to react. The knife clattered to the ground. The woman stumbled backward, barely able to scramble away.

The other two lunged at you.

Pain exploded across your ribs as a fist connected, knocking you off balance. But you had learned how to take a hit—growing up with Daniela had taught you that much. You twisted, dodging the next swing, landing a hard kick to the second man’s knee.

And then—

A gunshot.

Your heart stopped.

For a moment, you thought you had been hit. But then you saw the woman—the one you had tried to save—collapse to the ground, blood staining her dress.

No.

You scrambled toward her, hands already reaching.

The men ran. You barely noticed.

All you could see was the blood.

Too much blood.

“No, no, no,” you whispered, pressing your hands over the wound, feeling the warmth of her life slipping away.

And then—

Light.

Soft and golden, glowing beneath your fingertips.

Her body jerked.

The wound began to close.

Her breath steadied.

And when her eyes fluttered open, the fear had turned into something else entirely—something like awe.

“You’re—” she gasped. “You’re one of them.”

Your stomach twisted.

Footsteps pounded against the pavement. Sirens screamed in the distance. And before you could react, a shadow loomed over you.

“Damn,” a familiar voice murmured. “You really don’t do anything the easy way, do you?”

You looked up.

Natasha Romanoff.

Her green eyes flickered with something between amusement and exasperation as she crouched beside you. Behind her, Steve Rogers and Clint Barton stood at the alley’s entrance, watching with unreadable expressions.

“You followed me,” you whispered.

Natasha tilted her head. “Technically, I was just keeping an eye on you. But then you went and made things interesting.”

The woman you had healed was staring, still shaken but clearly alive.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt it—that undeniable pull toward something bigger than yourself.

Destiny had caught up to you.

And this time, you weren’t sure you could run from it.

The ride back to the Avengers Tower was quiet.

Too quiet.

Natasha sat beside you in the car, arms crossed, staring out the window like she was giving you space—but you knew better. She was waiting.

Steve was driving, his jaw set, while Clint Barton sat in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing back at you through the rearview mirror. You avoided his eyes.

Your mind was still reeling.

You had saved that woman.

Without thinking, without hesitation.

Your whole life, you had treated your ability like something delicate, something to be kept secret, only to be used when absolutely necessary. And yet, when faced with that moment—when someone’s life had been slipping away in front of you—you hadn’t hesitated.

You had chosen to help.

And now, there was no undoing it.

With a deep breath, you broke the silence.

“How long?” you asked, voice quiet.

Natasha didn’t look at you. “How long what?”

“How long have you been watching me?”

Clint snorted. “Would you be mad if we said a while?”

Your stomach clenched.

“You were never exactly off our radar,” Steve admitted, his voice even. “We knew you didn’t want to be involved, but that didn’t mean we could just ignore you.”

You turned to Natasha. “You never told me.”

Natasha finally met your gaze, her expression unreadable. “Would it have changed anything if I had?”

You hesitated.

Would it have?

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to say that you would have been furious, that you would have cut her off and disappeared, made sure they never found you again.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

You wouldn’t have left.

Because no matter how much you tried to pretend otherwise, Natasha Romanoff had become your friend.

And part of you had known—somewhere, deep down—that this day would come.

The car pulled up in front of the Avengers Tower, the massive structure looming over you like a reminder of the life you had refused for so long.

You weren’t ready for this.

But maybe you never would be.

“Let me be clear,” you said as you stepped into the tower, arms crossed tightly over your chest. “I haven’t said yes to anything.”

“Sure,” Tony Stark’s voice rang out as he stepped into view, a smirk playing at his lips. “You keep telling yourself that, kid.”

Your eye twitched.

Tony thrived on being insufferable, and it had been no different the handful of times you had met him in the past. He had never been subtle about wanting you on the team, but this time, his smirk held something else—something like satisfaction.

Like he already knew you were going to say yes.

You hated that he was probably right.

Bruce Banner was already sitting at the long table in the common area, watching the interaction with mild amusement. Thor was standing by the windows, gazing out at the city as if he had better things to do, while Clint was lounging on the couch with a beer in hand.

And then—

Your gaze landed on Maria Hill.

She was standing near the corner of the room, arms crossed, watching you like a hawk.

“Agent Hill,” you said stiffly.

She nodded once. “Glad to see you again. Took you long enough.”

You sighed. “I haven’t said yes.”

Tony clapped his hands together. “Uh-huh. And yet, here you are, in our very fancy, very top-secret superhero lair.”

You rolled your eyes.

Steve cleared his throat. “Look, we’re not here to pressure you into anything. We just—”

“She already knows why she’s here,” Natasha cut in, her voice cool.

Your jaw clenched.

She wasn’t wrong.

No one had dragged you here. No one had forced you into that car.

You had chosen to come.

Just like you had chosen to use your powers in that alley.

Just like you had chosen to save Natasha a year ago.

You had spent your whole life believing that everything happened for a reason, that destiny had a way of leading you where you were meant to be.

And yet, you had spent the past year fighting that destiny.

Maybe it was time to stop running.

You exhaled slowly.

“…Fine.”

Tony blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

You shot him a flat look. “Yes, seriously.”

A slow grin spread across his face. “Huh. That was easier than I expected.”

You groaned. “I already regret this.”

Natasha smirked. “Too late.”

You definitely regretted this.

But beneath all of that—beneath the sarcasm, the nerves, the overwhelming reality of what you had just agreed to—there was something else.

Something terrifying.

Something exhilarating.

Something that felt a lot like finally stepping into the life you were always meant to live.

You had told yourself you wouldn’t stay long.

You had told yourself that this was just temporary—that you would train with SHIELD, help out where you could, and leave when it became too much.

And yet, two years later, you were still here.

Still an Avenger.

Your first few months had been brutal.

SHIELD didn’t believe in easing people into things, and neither did Natasha. She had taken your training into her own hands, dragging you into the gym at ungodly hours and pushing you until your muscles ached and your lungs burned. You had never been a fighter, never been the kind of person who threw punches and broke bones, but Natasha had made sure you learned how to defend yourself.

“You might be able to heal yourself,” she had said after knocking you flat on your back for the third time in a row, “but that doesn’t mean you should get hit in the first place.”

Steve had been gentler. He had taken the time to show you proper form, correcting your stance, teaching you how to move efficiently. He had been patient in a way Natasha wasn’t, explaining things until you understood, never rushing you.

Clint had made it his personal mission to throw you into ridiculous scenarios. “What do you mean you don’t know how to hotwire a car? What if you’re being chased and you need to steal one?” He had taught you how to pick locks, how to disappear into a crowd, how to improvise when things went wrong. “Nat and Cap are teaching you how to fight. I’m teaching you how to survive.”

Tony, on the other hand, had treated you like an exciting new puzzle. He had poked and prodded at your abilities, running tests, making snarky comments, throwing you into simulations that forced you to think on your feet. “You heal people, but can you un-heal them? What happens if you—ow, okay, okay, don’t hit me, I was just asking.”

Bruce had been the only one to ask if you were okay.

If you were overwhelmed.

If you needed time.

And you had, at first.

But the missions had come quickly, and there had been no time to hesitate.

Your first real mission had been terrifying.

It was supposed to be a simple retrieval—go in, grab the stolen SHIELD tech, get out. You weren’t even supposed to fight. You were just backup.

But nothing ever went according to plan.

Gunfire. Smoke. The sharp, metallic scent of blood.

You had been crouched behind cover, heart pounding in your throat, hands shaking. People were screaming. Someone was bleeding out just a few feet away from you. You could hear Steve shouting orders, Natasha moving like a shadow through the chaos, Clint firing arrows with deadly precision.

You could have stayed hidden.

You should have stayed hidden.

But you hadn’t.

Instead, you had scrambled toward the injured agent, pressing your hands to his wound, willing him to live. The warmth of your power had spread through your fingers, golden light illuminating the darkness. The wound had closed in seconds, and the agent had gasped, eyes wide with disbelief.

Then, an enemy soldier had spotted you.

You had barely registered the gun aimed at your head before Natasha had taken him down with a clean shot.

Later, when the mission was over, when you were back at the Tower, she had cornered you in the training room.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she had said, voice like steel.

“He was dying,” you had argued.

“And you would have been dead if I hadn’t been there,” she snapped.

You had clenched your jaw, refusing to look away.

Natasha had sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Just—be careful, okay?”

You had nodded.

And after that, she had trained you even harder.

It had been during one of those late-night training sessions that you had told her.

You hadn’t meant to.

It had just slipped out.

You had been sprawled on the mat, sore and exhausted, when she had asked, “Do you ever date?”

You had snorted. “Not much time for that.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You had hesitated, wiping sweat from your forehead. “I like girls.”

She hadn’t reacted right away.

Then—

“Huh.”

“Huh?”

Natasha had smirked. “I was wondering why you never looked twice at Steve.”

You had groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Oh my God, don’t start.”

And that had been it.

She hadn’t treated you any differently.

She hadn’t made a big deal out of it.

She had just accepted it, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And somehow, that had made all the difference.

Telling Tony had been… a mistake.

You had mentioned it casually one night, expecting a similar reaction.

Instead—

“Oh my God,” he had said, eyes lighting up. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I know people. I could set you up. What’s your type? Redheads? Blondes? Do you like scientists? I know a couple of biochemists—”

You had regretted everything.

Clint had found the whole thing hilarious.

Bruce had just sighed. “Tony, leave her alone.”

Thor, bless him, had simply nodded solemnly. “Love is a gift, regardless of where it is found.”

And Steve had patted your shoulder. “I know a nice girl from Brooklyn—”

“Oh my God,” you had groaned again.

After that, Tony had made it his mission to introduce you to every woman he thought you might like. “You need to have a social life,” he had insisted.

You had started avoiding him.

But despite everything, despite the teasing and the meddling, there had been something comforting about it.

About having a family again.

About belonging.

Two years later, you still weren’t sure if you were cut out for this life.

You still had nightmares.

You still doubted yourself.

You still froze up sometimes, remembering the first time you had ever seen someone die, remembering what it felt like to be powerless.

But you weren’t powerless anymore.

You weren’t alone.

And when Natasha smirked at you after training, when Steve handed you a cup of coffee before a briefing, when Clint dragged you into ridiculous pranks, when Bruce asked if you were sleeping enough, when Thor clasped your shoulder with a grin—

You knew you were exactly where you were meant to be.

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[vunblr]

Tangled (#7)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. Eventual teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: 6.8k

Previous Chapter

A few days later, she ventured back to the rocky beach. No yarn this time. No hooks or half-finished projects to keep her hands busy. Just a hope and a little cloth bag swinging from her fingers.

She wasn’t sure if he’d be there. Maybe it was foolish to assume he would. Still, she went at the same hour she used to, settling on her usual perch with her coat pulled tight against the biting wind, scanning the dark water. Listening. Waiting.

But the cove remained silent.

Eventually, she stood and approached the cave’s entrance, calling his name. Her voice echoed in the air and came back empty.

Too cold to stay longer, she placed the red satchel just beyond the reach of the tide -some strawberries and an apple inside- and cast one last glance toward the waves before heading back. Her breath misted in the air as she walked, disappointed.

----

He surfaced just after dusk. The swim back had taken longer than he meant, he’d been cautious, doubling back, scanning the seafloor for any glint of metal or other trail left behind. Paranoia, maybe. But the wrong eyes had once found him too easily. He couldn’t afford that again.

He breached near the cave, glancing around. The water was quiet.

But then, something.

A flick of red caught his eye near the rocks.

Slipping closer, body low and cautious, his gaze narrowed at the small cloth bag tucked safely out of the tide’s reach. It looked soft. A human object.

He drew near and the wind shifted, and her scent hit him like a blow. He closed his hand around the bag and held it to his chest for a moment.

She had come.

And he hadn’t been here.

Inside, he found strawberries. An apple. Simple things, but they felt more personal than any grand gesture.

He looked out toward the cliff, where the shape of her cottage would be lost in the gray distance.

She had come.

And he had stayed away too long.

----

The next day, she made her way back to the rocky beach, with a cloth mat tucked under one arm, and a small thermos in her bag just in case she decided to stay a while. The weather had turned kinder, no harsh wind, and the sun timidly peeking through the clouds.

She settled into her usual spot, brushing sand and tiny pebbles off the rock before setting the mat and sitting cross-legged, scanning the shoreline with cautious hope.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Less than five minutes had passed when she saw movement in the water. Between two moss-darkened rocks, he appeared. Gliding, carefully, with his upper half rising above the water like the sea was reluctant to let him go.

She smiled, lifting her hand in greeting. She could’ve sworn -just for a second- he smiled back. A flicker, there and gone.

He didn’t come any closer than the waterline, where the shallows lapped gently against the lower half of his body. Only his human half remained exposed, gleaming wet under the muted sun.

“You’re not joining me today?” she asked, tilting her head.

Behind him, a tendril coiled upward, curling once before swaying side to side, almost like a cat’s tail twitching at the end of its patience.

“Do you want me to?” he asked, almost casually. Almost.

She opened her mouth, about to joke, but something in his expression stopped her. The way he looked at her wasn't teasing. It was... careful. As though he was bracing for the answer.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, softer now.

He didn’t answer at first. His gaze dropped, shifting his shoulders slightly like the water was colder than it really was.

“What’s with you?” she pressed, “Why are you all shy now?”

A pause, then a quiet, vulnerable murmur: “Maybe after seeing me like you… you forgot what I am.”

She frowned, and her teasing vanished like mist. “Oh. Bucky.” She leaned forward slightly. “Trust me. I could never forget what you are. That’s the version of you I met. The one I got used to watching from the rocks. The real you. Why would it be different now?”

“Because I want to touch you.”

“You’ve touched me before,” she said, carefully.

His jaw flexed. “Not how I want to.”

She arched an eyebrow, hiding a flicker of thrill. “And… how do you want to touch me?”

His expression didn’t change much, but something simmered beneath it, something old and raw and sincere. “As my kin do,” he said. “I stayed at your house as a human. I did things with you, helped, sat, and shared food. But… some things felt incomplete. I want to be familiar with you but… in my way.”

He glanced away, as if ashamed. “When I left, we hugged. I liked it. But it felt incomplete. I felt like something was missing. I want to be familiar with you, like I would be with someone of my own kind. But I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” she asked gently.

His tendrils stirred behind him again, slower now, uncertain.

“I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I recognize you.”

Her brow furrowed. “Recognize me?”

“My tendrils, when they sense you, your skin, your scent… the chemical taste of you in the air…” he paused. “It’s not just information. It’s a connection, and maybe I can get carried away trying to gasp all of it. I don’t know if that might scare you,”

“Would that familiarization entail something painful?” she asked gently.

His head jerked up. “No! never hurt.”

She didn’t move for a beat, her heart tripping in her chest. His uneasiness wasn’t from rejection or shame, it was fear of overwhelming instinct.

“It wouldn’t scare me,” she said, finally. “Not if it’s you.”

He stood still for a beat, with his chest rising and falling a little faster than usual, then seemed to gather himself, and finally began to come forward, slow and deliberate, like approaching a sacred place. His lower body emerged bit by bit from the water: slick black and blue limbs unfurled under him, glistening under the pale sun as he made his way up the damp sand toward her.

She waited, sitting cross-legged on the mat, looking at him calmly. When he was only a few feet away, she offered the gentlest greeting.

"Hi," she said, warmly.

He bit his lip, tensing his jaw for a split second before he lowered himself beside her. The movement was oddly elegant: tentacles settling around them both in wide, curling spirals. They stayed still at first, but the tips twitched, swaying ever so slightly, betraying the nerves he was trying to bury.

She watched them with open curiosity, then her gaze met his. His posture was still hesitant like he was holding himself back from bolting into the sea again.

"How does this work?" she asked softly, and there was no fear in her voice, just fascination. “The sensing. I want to understand.”

He swallowed. “I just… touch your skin and… feel you,” he said. “What you’re made of, what you feel like. You leave traces… your temperature, taste, all of it. It… lingers.”

A pause.

“Want me to touch you first?” she offered.

His breath caught briefly. His eyes dropped to her hand, then back again to her face. Finally, he gave the smallest nod.

Maybe that was better. Safer.

She reached out with care. Her fingers hovered for a breath before they made contact with the thick curve of one of his limbs. It was smooth and cold, the texture almost like satin soaked in seawater. Her hand glided slowly across the surface.

“So soft,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

He inhaled sharply. Not startled, but reactive. Like that small contact had sent something cascading through him he didn’t expect.

Encouraged, she let her hand trail lower, beneath the limb, until her palm met the underside, where two rows of suction cups twitched in anticipation.

“You said you sense with these?” she asked, meeting his gaze, searching for any sign she should stop.

He gave a short, curt nod. His whole body seemed tense with restraint now, like he was bracing against something internal.

She pressed her palm gently against the cups.

There was no immediate suction, just the delicate shifting of the muscle beneath, a subtle, almost shy pull against her skin. As if it were testing her shape.

And then two of the cups latched, gently, and released.

His breath caught audibly.

She didn’t move away.

"That tickled," she said with a soft laugh, watching the way the soft suckers twitched along the underside of his tentacle. Her voice broke the silence between them, but not the tension.

Encouraged by her reaction, he repeated the motion. The cluster of suction cups pulsed and flexed with deliberate care, touching her palm again, this time with full contact.

That brief, simple action was enough.

Her scent flooded him, clean skin, faint traces of citrus from her soap, or maybe the fruit she’d eaten that morning. Her warmth bled into his touch through the delicate skin of his limb. Her taste came next, something his kind would know as identity.

He shuddered.

The tentacle glided slowly, reverently, up her forearm under her sleeve, each cup engaging in turn, gripping lightly, then releasing. Some suctioned harder than others, tugging at her flesh in faint pulses like he could drag more information from each small patch of skin. Soft and strong, rhythmic and controlled… until it wasn’t.

He was too immersed, too hungry for input.

Her breath hitched and then came the sharp little yelp. “Hey!”

She startled, trying to pull her arm back, and the spell shattered.

He released her immediately, tucking the tentacle close to his body instinctively as it had bitten her. Which, in a way, it had.

She stared at her arm with wide eyes. A trail of faint marks dotted her forearm, already beginning to fade, but visible against the chill-raised skin.

“Well,” she said after a pause, half-laughing as she rubbed the marks with her free hand, “that felt like you were giving me a hickey.” She looked up at him with raised brows, clearly expecting a reaction. “There are better spots for those,” she added playfully.

The joke passed right through him. He didn’t respond.

Because he was horrified.

He stared at her arm with wide eyes. Her skin was marked. Marked. He knew human bodies didn’t change color as he did. If they did… it meant they were hurt. That they bruised, that they bled. His gut twisted.

“I-” he started, “I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t hurt me,” she said, sensing the shift in him. Her smile dimmed, not out of fear, but because she could see how fast he’d retreated inward. “It’s okay, Bucky. I’ve had worse from kitchen cabinets and sneaky coffee tables. See? There is nothing, it went away.”

But he barely seemed to hear. He was pulling away, not physically, but mentally, and emotionally, curling into guilt like a wave withdrawing from the shore.

He hadn’t meant to be rough. He’d wanted, wanted her scent, to feel her, wanted to understand her in his way, as his kind did. And he’d gotten carried away.

Her hand reached out, gently circling his wrist, trying to calm him.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he did.

“I’m okay. I promise.” Her voice softened. “Want to try again?”

She offered it like a gift, unafraid. But he didn’t reach for it. Didn’t reach for her. If anything, his body tensed in subtle retreat. Like he was already halfway back into the sea.

Her shoulders fell with a sigh.

So she reached out instead.

Her hand found his, cool and damp, curling her fingers gently around his palm. She gave it a squeeze.

“Hey,” she said, searching his gaze. “What happened to the grumpy sea cat that didn’t give a damn?”

His brow furrowed. “I’m not- What is a cat?”

That startled a laugh from her. “Nevermind.”

She waited a moment before lifting their joined hands a little. “Do I feel nervous to you? Afraid?”

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

“Then touch me again.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, parting his lips as if to argue, but the words never came.

“Another time,” he said at last.

“Bucky-”

“You don’t understand. I could get... lost in it.”

She tilted her head. “And what if I want to be found in it with you?”

That made his eyes snap to hers, startled.

You don’t have to be afraid for me. If anything happens, I’ll tell you to stop. But I trust you. And I know you want to do it again.”

“I do,” he admitted, almost in a whisper.

“Then do it,” she mumbled.

Still holding her hand, he shifted, and one tendril -thicker, darker near the base- slid across the sand and up beneath the hem of her sweater, gliding along the curve of her waist.

She gasped softly. “Oh. Okay. Someone feels adventurous.” A shiver trailed up her back. “And cold.”

His eyes fluttered closed, and his jaw slackened just slightly as the suckers latched onto her skin in a pattern that wasn’t random. There was intent behind each touch, drawn out, searching, collecting her. The tendril flexed and curled, dragging back and forth against her skin in a slow rhythm, and the motion made her breath stutter.

He tilted his head, parting his lips, brushing his tongue against the edge of a canine, like the sensation pulled something physical from him as it tasted like more than just her.

She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even think of pretending to be unaffected. Not when his face looked like that, concentrated, absorbed, straining for control even as his body acted with instinct.

Her thoughts weren’t where they should’ve been. Not for an innocent reunion. Not in the open. But the heat spreading in her cheeks -and lower- didn’t care much for propriety.

“S–so?” she managed to squeak, slightly higher than she intended.

He opened his eyes, slow and heavy-lidded, and there was something wild behind them now. Something ancient and hungry and confused by its own longing.

His voice came out husky. “You taste… beautiful.”

She blinked, and her heart fluttered hard in her chest. “That’s… not something I’ve ever been told before,” she said, trying for lightness, but her voice trembled a little.

The tendril still rested around her waist, unmoving now, its suckers gently released, one by one, leaving behind only the faintest impressions on her skin. His hand was still in hers, large and cool, his fingers twitching slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to hold tighter or let go.

He seemed to catch himself then -like surfacing from a deep place- and slowly, with visible effort, pulled the limb back and curled it against his side.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, dropping his gaze again.

“You didn’t. It was... quite the experience"

His hand stayed in hers a moment longer, before slipping away slowly.

She adjusted her sweater with a small tug but didn’t move farther. Her eyes were still on him, curious and calm. Not flinching, or pulling away.

That didn’t help.

Or maybe it did, he wasn’t sure. What he was sure about was the low, aching thrum beneath his skin. A want that went beyond just touch. It crawled deeper, into instinct and memory, into everything he hadn’t let himself want for too long.

He swallowed hard, flickering his gaze down to her collar, her throat, the delicate rise and fall of her breath. His fingers twitched in his lap. The appendages at his back shifted and flexed in the sand as he tried to center himself, some curling, some spreading in frustration.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently.

He looked up at her. Her voice cut clean through the haze of want. He nodded, a little too quickly.

“I just…” He looked away, jaw tight. “I’m still feeling.”

She tilted her head, tucking her knees under her. “Do you always feel this much when you do that?”

He exhaled slowly. “No. With you...” His voice dropped even lower. “It’s like… everything I take in makes me want to take more.”

A breeze moved between them, cool and sharp against his damp skin.

She didn’t lean away.

“I guess I should take it as a compliment,” she said after a beat, smiling faintly. “But you don’t have to hold back so hard. I won’t break.”

“I don’t want to ruin what’s… gentle between us.”

She blinked, taken aback for a second. That sentence… something in the way he said it made her heart pinch.

“Well,” she murmured, “I don’t think you could.”

That made something inside him still.

One of his tentacles crept forward, slowly, cautious as a breath. It hovered just short of her knee, unsure. Testing. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But after a beat, he slowly lowered it again, laying the appendage on the sand beside her instead.

“Talk to me,” he said, his voice a little rough.

“About?”

He gave a small shrug, eyes drifting away again.

“Okay,” she said softly. “I can do that.”

So she did. About nothing at first. About how the tide had reached higher than usual last week. About the gull she saw stealing someone’s sandwich and flying off victoriously toward the cliffs. And then, with a little smile curving her lips, she added, “I had fun when you visited.”

“Fun?” His brow furrowed.

She laughed under her breath. “It was gratificating.”

He looked a little sheepish. “I misbehaved. You got angry.”

Right. That.

“I know you didn’t do that on purpose. You told me,” She said gently. “It was kind of fun, showing you bits of my life. And, I got to cut someone’s hair for the first time. That’s not something I expected.”

He scrunched his nose and lifted a hand to tug lightly on one of his damp strands, inspecting the ends. “Your hair doesn’t grow?”

She stifled a laugh. “Pfft, no, it does. But some people cut and style hair for you, as a job.”

He blinked, clearly processing that. “We don’t… not like that. We just cut it with knives. Or sharp stones. Or shells.”

“I figured,” she said with a playful squint. “Now that you mention knives…”

His shoulders went stiff. A flicker of tension ran through his body, echoed in the subtle twitch of his closest tentacle.

“Do your kin use tools?” she asked gently, careful not to let her curiosity sound like an interrogation. “I mean, clearly you do weapons, since-”

She pointed, just lightly, to the faint scar that still cut across his side.

His eyes followed her hand, then dropped away, the memory darkening his face for a moment.

“But I mean… other things. Normal things.”

He curled his fingers in the sand beside him, considering.

“We make things when needed,” he said finally. “Blades, spears. We shape coral into bowls, carve driftwood, and sometimes string things with seaweed threads. But we don’t keep much. The ocean takes back anything not used.”

She nodded slowly, picturing it. “So, survival tools. Things with purpose.”

“Yes.”

She glanced at him sideways. “Not even something pretty? Just for the sake of it?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, “Sometimes the shells are shaped… nicely. We pass those to small ones. Or wear them on cords. But if it has no use, it is lost eventually.”

“So… not jewelry,” she said, tilting her head.

“There are some who wear what’s found on sunken ships,” he admitted. “Shiny metal. Stones. They wrap them around their necks or arms.”

“I take it you don’t?”

He gave a faint shake of his head. “Things like that bring attention.”

Her eyes slid pointedly to his left arm. “You have a tattoo, though.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Every adult male has one.”

Her brows lifted. “Like a rite of passage?”

“Something like that.” He shifted slightly, tracing a small groove in the sand with one clawed finger. “The ones who have ink marks are the ones who can mate.”

Oh.

“And you got it with age?”

He shook his head. “You bring proof of your strength. Something you hunted. A jest. You offer it to the witch, who marks the skin in proportion to what you did.”

Her brows lifted slightly, drifting her gaze again to the intricate ink covering his entire arm and curling over the round of his shoulder. “So… the bigger the mark, the bigger the feat?”

He inclined his head in a slow nod.

“So, is yours… the expected size?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

There was the briefest pause, then he tilted his head, and something unmistakably smug passed through his expression.

“They usually don’t pass the elbow,” he said, with a low voice edged with pride.

Her mouth parted slightly, then curved into a wry smile. “Well… I guess that makes you quite the catch.”

He blinked, then frowned faintly. “I’m not a-“

“It’s an expression,” she laughed softly. “A compliment.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Then… thank you.”

Her gaze traced the ink over the dark whorls etched into the skin, part tribal, part something older, curling like tide patterns. Without thinking, she reached out and let her fingers hover just above it.

“Can I…?” she asked, already brushing the tips of her fingers lightly across the design.

His breath caught -just a fraction- but he didn’t move away.

Her touch was gentle, and slow, tracing the raised edges of the tattoo. The texture surprised her. Not just a visual pattern, but something tactile, layered.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

His eyes had gone half-lidded, but they never left her hand. His muscles clenched slightly under her fingers, not from discomfort, no. From restraint.

She followed a looping curve toward his shoulder, not knowing the path of her touch mimicked an old gesture, a courting touch, one that in his world meant intention. Interest. Trust. Desire, too.

“You’re… breathing differently,” she noticed aloud.

“You’re touching a mating mark,” he said quietly.

Her hand froze, mid-stroke.

“Oh.”

But he didn’t pull away. And she didn’t either.

“I didn’t mean- I just thought it just was-” she faltered.

“I know,” he said. “You didn’t know. Again.”

The moment stretched.

“Again?” she asked, already starting to withdraw.

“You… already gave your neck. And now your hand.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry, that sounds like I’m proposing to you and I don’t even know what it means.”

He looked away, the corner of his mouth twitching in the ghost of a smile. “It means something. But it’s not binding. Not unless… you keep doing it.”

She lowered her hand, resting it against her knee, with her heart thudding.

“I’ll try not to accidentally seduce you again, then.”

That earned her a real smile, small, but there.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

She was still watching him out of the corner of her eye, unsure whether to laugh off his comment or run with it under her arm. But before she could say anything, he shifted, and his tentacle’s tips curled slowly against the sand like he was working something out in his head.

Then, softly “What do your kind do, when they want to bond?”

She turned fully toward him, blinking. “Bond? You mean like… relationships?”

He nodded. “Yes. That.”

She hummed, thoughtful. “It depends. Some people date, which is like… trying to figure out if you want to be with someone you met. Some stay friends and slowly become something more. Some just… fall in love and decide they want to stay together.”

“Fall,” he echoed. “You fall into it?”

She smiled at his puzzled frown. “It’s just a saying. It means you don’t always see it coming. One day, you look at someone and you know, oh. It’s them.”

He was quiet for a moment, still furrowing his brows.

“Is there… a mark? A ritual?”

She tilted her head, considering. “Sometimes. For us, it depends on the culture. A lot of people marry, which is kind of like a formal bond. There’s usually a ceremony, vows, rings, witnesses. You stand up in front of people and promise to stay together.”

He frowned slightly. “So others must see it happen?”

“Usually, yeah. Not always. Some do it alone or just sign a paper. But the idea’s the same, it’s a public choice. A promise.”

“A performance,” he murmured, half to himself.

She smiled faintly. “Sometimes. But it means something. At least, when it’s done for love.”

He nodded slowly. “So no mark on the body. No blood drawn. Just… rings?”

She lifted her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Sometimes. On this one.”

His tentacles shifted in the sand again, subtle, like ripples beneath still water.

“And if someone touches you where the ring should go?” he asked.

She gave a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “Then they might be flirting.”

That pulled a look from him, eyes slightly narrowed, confused, and intrigued. “Still, it’s not the place of the ring, per se. It’s the way someone touches you that’s considered flirting.”

He huffed softly, not quite a laugh. “So many rules,” he murmured, flicking his gaze back to her hand as it moved.

She shrugged, with a little smile tugging at her mouth. “We’re more complicated than your people.”

He watched her for a long second, and the corner of his brow twitched, but he said nothing.

The silence stretched between them, loaded.

“Did you eat the fruit?” she asked suddenly, cutting through the quiet.

He gave a short nod. “Yes.”

“Slowly, or you just-”

“It didn’t make me feel bad after,” he cut in quickly, defensively, as if bracing for disapproval.

She suppressed a grin. “I wasn’t judging.”

He blinked, then looked away, as if embarrassed by the outburst.

A moment passed.

Then he looked back at her. Something was searching in his gaze, something almost... resolved. He straightened a little. “Have your bag. I’ll go get it.”

She waved a hand, casually. “It’s not necessary. You can give it to me another time.”

But he was already turning purposefully, without another word, and sliding back toward the water.

She watched him go, shaking her head. Alone again, she let out a slow breath, glanced around, and then lifted her sweater, peeking at the spot where his tendril had touched her. Her skin was unmarked.

When he returned, his hair was damp, clinging to the sides of his face, and water dripped in lazy trails down his naked chest. He held her bag twisted in both hands, wringing it out with care before offering it to her.

“Thanks,” she said, reaching out. But the moment her fingers curled around the strap, she felt it, the weight inside.

Curious, she began to open it, but his hand darted out. He caught her wrist, gently, closing his cool fingers around her flesh with enough pressure to pause her.

“Later,” he said, his voice a little lower now.

Her brows rose. “Uh…”

His gaze skittered away, as if unsure how to explain. “Open it at your house.”

She watched him for a beat, her smile slowly spreading. “Oh? Like a surprise?”

He nodded once, stiff, like admitting that made him vulnerable.

“Well, thank you,” she said, shifting the bag into her lap. “You didn’t have to give me anything.”

“You bought me clothes,” he said, flicking his eyes to hers and then down again. “And crunchy fish.”

She laughed softly. “It wasn’t necessary to reciprocate, Bucky. But… thank you again.” She leaned forward slightly. “I’ll look at it at home.”

He saw her shiver, her shoulders giving a subtle twitch beneath her coat. A small frown formed on his brow.

“Go home,” he said quietly.

She quirked a brow. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

He shook his head once, firm. “You’re cold.”

“I can stay a little longer,” she said, brushing off his concern with a wave of her hand.

He shifted, and the ends of his tentacles curled slightly against the rocks as if unsettled. “You’ll get sick again,” he muttered. “You’re… weak.”

“Hey!” She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “That was harsh. I’m not going to get sick from a little chill. I get sick like any human, just my symptoms are just a little worse, that’s all.”

He looked away, clearly regretting his choice of words. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know what you meant.” Her tone softened. “Just… work on phrasing.”

He gave a slow nod. Then, quieter: “Tomorrow. You can come earlier when the sun’s higher.”

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes with mock suspicion. “Tomorrow, huh? Is that an invitation?”

A flush crept over his cheeks, and he dropped his gaze, brushing the rock beside him with the tip of his fingers. “You were going to come anyway,” he murmured, trying to deflect.

----

She stayed by the rocks longer than she should have, with her hands tucked into her sleeves and her breath visible in the cooling air. But eventually, the wind picked up. The light dimmed. And she still had things to take care of.

So she said goodbye with a soft smile and slung the cloth bag over her shoulder as she headed back up the path.

By the time she reached home, she shrugged out of her coat and carried the satchel straight to the table. Then, she untied the knot and opened it, expecting… she didn’t know what.

But not this.

Four large pearls, luminous and warm-toned, sat nestled together in the folds of the fabric. Their soft peach hue glowed even under the dim kitchen light, catching hints of pink and gold as they shifted.

They looked like they belonged to a museum. Or an auction house. But there they were, sitting in the bag she’d used for groceries and fruit as if he’d gathered them like wildflowers and thought she might like them.

She reached out, running the tip of her finger along one pearl. It was cool and impossibly smooth. Each one was unique in shape, imperfect in a way that made them more beautiful.

But that wasn’t all.

Beside them, nestled with just as much care, were two conch shells. They were smaller, polished by time and sea, their curved surfaces were silky smooth and speckled with tiny brown dots. She ran a thumb along the edge of one, marveling at its texture, and the delicate spiral.

The pearls were priceless, true treasures from the ocean’s depth, the kind collectors paid fortunes to acquire. And yet… he’d placed the conches right alongside them like equals, no less important, no less offered. And somehow, that made the whole gesture feel even more intimate.

She let out a slow breath, touched in a way she couldn’t quite explain. To him, these weren’t just beautiful objects. They were tokens. Offerings. Chosen and given with care.

And she’d felt the weight of them in her hands.

With a small smile, she closed the bag again and held it to her chest, and then, tucked the pearls and one of the conch shells beneath a loose wooden plank in the kitchen floor, the one Arthur had once called his “secret savings place,” back when the house was his.

She left the other shell on a table next to the window. She already had plans for it.

Still moved by his gift, she poured herself a generous mug of milk coffee, the kind she made when she needed comfort and focus, and sat down with her half-finished projects. There was a lot to do, but her hands refused to cooperate.

Her gaze kept drifting to the conch on the table.

And from there, it was a short trip back to the beach.

To the way his tendril had wrapped around her waist, snugly and deliberately. To the way his suckers had pulsed against her skin, curious, careful, sensing her like no one ever had. To the look on his face, with his parted lips and eyes fluttered shut like he’d been drinking in something sacred.

It should’ve unsettled her. Maybe it had, at first. But the longer she sat thinking about it, the more her skin remembered the touch, and the more honest she had to be with herself.

It had been... enticing.

And she found herself wondering. Wondering how it would feel to have more of him touching her like that. Exploring. Suckling. Moving across her body with the same gentle hunger he’d shown at her waist.

Before she even noticed, her breath had gone shallow, and her panties were damp with heat.

She buried her face in her hands.

Was that normal? -no- Was it even possible to…

She shook her head, trying to will the thoughts away.

Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe it was his way of bonding, the way his people expressed trust. Maybe the gift was just gratitude, for the clothes and the fried fish, as he said.

But still… the way he’d looked at her in the general store. The way his body had blocked hers, how he'd moved between her and everyone else. That hadn’t felt friendly. That had felt-

Something else.

Possessive. Protective.

And that gift itself. Not just pretty tokens. They were rare. Beautiful. And she didn’t think he would’ve given them to just anyone. Her cheeks burned as she leaned back in her chair, pressing her palms against them.

Great. Now she was a weirdo fantasizing about a tentacled man.

Then again... from his side, she was the strange one. The one with “too much missing,” as he’d once put it. Fragile. Loud. And yet he looked at her like she was something worth seeing.

----

He floated low in the deepest pool of his cave, with his arms slack at his sides, and the tentacles splayed and heavy beneath him, curling faintly with each rise and fall of the water. His stomach was full, he’d hunted well earlier, a large fish, but the satisfaction hadn’t lasted.

Because his hunger wasn’t the kind that food could satiate.

Touching her had been a mistake. He’d known it would be. Knew it from the first second her hand brushed his skin, from the moment her voice dipped soft and coaxing with trust. And yet he had reached for her anyway.

Now he was paying for it.

He gritted his teeth and let his head loll against the cave wall, fluttering his eyes shut as he worked himself with rough, efficient strokes below the surface. Just enough pressure to drag the ache out of his body. Just enough friction to keep her scent alive in his mind.

She was still on him.

Her texture, her warmth. Her sweet skin that made his suckers twitch with craving. The ghost of her waist under his limb, the pulse he’d felt just beneath her surface. That delicate sound she made -half laugh, half gasp- when he grazed her with his cups. The noise hadn’t left his ears since.

It shouldn’t be like this. Not with a human.

Never in all his years -before the captivity or after- had he even thought to crave one. He used to mock Steve for it. Mocked the others who dared to chase that kind of soft, forbidden bond with land-walkers. Foolish, he’d thought. Dangerous. Weak.

Now look at him. Hiding in a pool like a feral pup, panting into the dark and rutting into his own palm over a human woman.

His hand moved faster, almost angry.

He hissed low through his teeth as the heat pooled in his gut. She’d be so small under him. So warm. And her softness -stars, her softness- he could maneuver her like nothing, press her down or hold her still while he tasted every inch of her body.

She’d feel everything.

So tight around him, trying to take it.

Body clenching-

The groan that escaped him was low and guttural, muffled by the water as his body seized with release. Muscles clenched, tentacles recoiled, and for a moment he felt as though the world narrowed to that one blinding pulse of pleasure.

Then-

Shame followed, sharp and immediate. He curled tighter, with one arm thrown across his eyes, and his chest rising and falling unevenly.

What the hell was he doing? He looked at the evidence of his actions swirling in the water and scowled, dragging himself to another pool. The tide will take care of it later.

----

Days came and went, carried by tides and wind. He stayed away from the cave mouth longer and sank deeper into the depths after each visit with her. And yet, no matter how far he retreated, she remained. In his thoughts. In his skin. In the taste that memory alone couldn’t erase from his mind.

She still came to the shore. Not every day, but often enough. As the weather cooled, she stopped bringing her yarn and projects, no longer setting up camp near the rocks with her bag and her tools. She simply came to sit, to chat, to exist beside him. She never asked why he didn’t touch her with his limbs again. Spoke gently. Stayed within reach, but never crossed that invisible line he’d drawn.

He kept his distance. Not in presence -he still came to her when he could, especially when the sea turned rough and rains swept over the coast- but in touch. No more curling tentacles. No more suckers on her skin. Only his hands now, brief and careful and human. Safer.

It should have dulled his hunger. But somehow, it made it worse.

In her little home, he learned things he never knew he wanted to know. She showed him movies, flickering light and color and drama on a screen that made his eyes narrow and his questions pile up. She told him stories, short ones, with simple morals or whimsical endings. And then asked about his.

So he told her. The old ones. The dark ones. The ones with blood and hunger and truths too heavy for children.

When he took his human form, he let himself get closer. Sat beside her on the couch, sometimes so close their knees bumped and neither moved. He helped her with little tasks and always, always ended up brushing against her. A shoulder. A back. Fingers grazing as they reached for the same thing.

She never pulled away.

One afternoon, sleepier than he meant to be after eating a questionable amount of food, he let himself sink down beside her on the couch. She was warm and soft and calm in that way that made him forget he didn’t belong in places like this. When she gently offered her lap, patting it, he hesitated only a moment before curling in, resting his head just above her knees.

He breathed her familiar scent deeply and exhaled slowly against her thighs.

Her fingers found his hair, warm and soothing. She threaded them slowly through his locks like she had all the time in the world just to touch him. And he let her. Closed his eyes. Let the tension bleed from his limbs. He hadn’t realized how starved he was for that kind of contact, not just closeness, but care.

It was his undoing.

Because after that day, every time he visited, he found himself looking for reasons to be near her. To help with something, to lean in, to shift close enough that the offer might come again. And it did. Again and again, until there was no need for excuses. No more tentative asks. He would simply wait for her to sit, and then fit himself into the space she made for him, laying his head in her lap, letting the warmth of her body cradle him, and her fingers work through the strands of his hair until everything else faded.

But then spring came.

And his visits thinned.

They met on the beach again, like they had before, with the wide sky above them and the sound of waves between them. But something had shifted. With the change in season came back the distance, the restraint. He didn’t rest his head on her anymore. He didn’t reach for her unless it was necessary. As though winter had never happened.

She wasn’t foolish, she noticed the change immediately. The absence of contact, and the silences that stretched just a little too long. And it hurt. She debated bringing it up, asking outright what had changed. But the fear of making him retreat further kept the words sealed behind her lips.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @x-press-it @the-voice-beckons-below @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke @ladypncl @homiesexuallaj @kulteule @awesompawsum @killerwendigo @princessgriffin1998 @helen-2003 @nynxtea @alagalaska

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[deansbeer]

Hey, how are you?

I would like to ask something for Clark Kent from Smallville, something where the reader, who is already Clark's girlfriend, feels that there is someone kind of psychopath following her and watching her, and she doesn't feel safe, she knows that Clark is Superman, but maybe he is solving another case and the reader didn't want to get in the way, but one day things go too far and this man who is following the reader puts the safety of the reader's life at risk, maybe he tries to break into the her house and she calls Clark? And our dear husband arrives at the reader's house in a few moments without even asking questions, he just wants to know that she is okay.

I love your writing, and thank you🤍

this was from january (i’m so sorry) but here ya go <3

warnings 𓏵 stalking | home invasion attempt | reader feeling unsafe/threatened | mild violence (implied) | panic/fear | anxiety | protective!clark | angst with comfort | established relationship | set in s2 | mild language.

you’ve been feeling it for weeks now — that prickle at the back of your neck, the sense that someone’s watching. at first, you brushed it off as paranoia. smallville’s a small town; you’re bound to run into the same people at the talon, at school, at the farmer’s market. but then you started noticing him everywhere. the man with the faded denim jacket who always seems to be three steps behind you, whose eyes follow you when you walk past.

you haven’t told clark. how could you? he’s been dealing with enough lately — the ship, his adoption papers, all the questions about where he really comes from. plus there’s that series of meteor-infected robberies he’s been trying to stop without anyone noticing. the last thing he needs is you being paranoid about some creep. you can handle this yourself. you’ve lived in smallville your whole life; you know how to deal with weirdos.

except this feels different. yesterday, you found a flower on your car windshield — a white lily, your favorite. you’d mentioned that exactly once, months ago, at the flower shop downtown. the florist said a man matching your stalker’s description had been asking about you. your hands shook the entire drive home, and you’d deadbolted your door the second you got inside.

you almost called clark then. had your house phone in your hand, his number on speed dial. but then you remembered the exhaustion in his eyes the last time you saw him, how he’d been up for thirty-six hours straight trying to track down the robbers before anyone else got hurt. you’d locked your windows instead, double-checked them twice, and tried to convince yourself you were overreacting.

now it’s friday night, and you’re home alone. your parents are at some medical conference in metropolis for the weekend — they’d offered to cancel when they saw how jumpy you’ve been, but you’d insisted you were fine. clark was supposed to come over, but he’d called earlier saying he had a lead on the robberies, apologizing profusely. you’d told him it was fine, that you understood. being with someone who has abilities means accepting that sometimes the world needs them more than you do.

you’re trying to focus on your homework, but every little sound makes you jump. the old house creaks and settles, sounds you’ve heard your whole life suddenly seeming sinister. you keep checking the windows, peering through the curtains. the street looks normal — quiet, empty. maybe you really are being paranoid.

then you hear it. a scraping sound from the back door, metal on metal. your blood freezes. that’s not the house settling. that’s someone trying to pick your lock. your heart pounds so hard you can hear it in your ears as you creep toward the kitchen, staying low. through the window in the door, you can see him — denim jacket, that same unsettling smile as he works at your lock.

you don’t think. you run back to the living room, grab your house phone with shaking hands, and punch in clark’s number. it rings once before he picks up. “hey, i’m sorry about tonight, i’m almost done here and then-”

“clark,” you interrupt, and something in your voice must give it away because he goes silent. “someone’s breaking into my house. the man who’s been following me. he’s at the back door, he’s trying to-” you hear the lock click open and your voice breaks. “clark, please.”

“i’m coming,” is all he says, and the line goes dead.

you know he's already running, faster than any car could drive. but the back door is opening now, and you’re backing toward the stairs, phone clutched in your hand like a lifeline. the man steps into your kitchen like he belongs there, that same awful smile stretched across his face.

“finally,” he says, voice eerily calm. “i’ve been waiting so long to talk to you properly. you’re always running off, always with that kent boy.” he takes a step forward and you take one back, hitting the wall. “but he’s not here now, is he, darlin’?”

you want to be brave. so fucking bad. want to be the kind of girlfriend who doesn’t need saving, who can handle things on her own. but you’re terrified, and all you can think about is that clark might not make it in time. “stay back,” you manage, hating how your voice shakes. “i called the police.”

he laughs, moving closer. “no, you didn’t. i heard you. you called your boyfriend.” another step. “he won’t make it in time. he never does, does he? always busy saving everyone else.”

the words hit harder than they should because part of you has thought the same thing. clark saves everyone — it’s who he is. but what if this one time, he can’t save you? what if you were wrong to not tell him sooner? what if—

the front door explodes inward.

clark is there between one heartbeat and the next, positioning himself between you and the intruder. you’ve seen him use his abilities before, but never like this — never with this kind of barely controlled fury radiating from every line of his body. “get. the. fuck. away. from. her.” each word is punctuated with a step forward, and the stalker stumbles back, all bravado gone.

“what the hell? how did you—“ the man doesn’t get to finish. clark moves, faster than human eyes can track, and suddenly the stalker is pinned against the wall, feet dangling inches off the ground.

“you’ve been following her,” clark says, voice deadly calm. “scaring her. and now you break into her house?” his grip tightens and the man gasps. “big fucking mistake.”

“clark,” you whisper, and he turns his head slightly, not taking his eyes off the threat. “i’m okay. he didn’t... i’m okay.” you see him take a breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. he sets the man down but doesn’t let go.

“the police are on their way,” clark says to the stalker. “and you’re going to confess to everything. the stalking, the break-in, all of it. and if you ever come near her again, if you even think about her, i’ll know. and next time, i won’t be so gentle.”

the man nods frantically, and clark finally releases him, letting him crumple to the floor. then he’s turning to you, crossing the space in two strides and pulling you into his arms. you’re shaking, you realize, trembling against his chest as the adrenaline crashes through you.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper into his shirt. “i should have told you. i didn’t want to bother you with the robberies and everything, and i thought i could handle it, but then he-“

“hey, no,” clark pulls back enough to cup your face in his hands, thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t know were falling. “don’t apologize. never apologize for needing me.” his eyes are intense, that otherworldly blue that still takes your breath away. “you’re not a bother. you’re never a bother. you’re everything to me.”

“but the robberies—”

“can wait,” he says firmly. “nothing is more important than you. nothing.” he presses his forehead to yours, and you can feel him trembling too. “when i heard your voice on the phone... god, i’ve never run so fast. the thought of something happening to you...”

sirens wail in the distance, getting closer. clark doesn’t let go, just holds you tighter. “i should have noticed,” he murmurs. “should have seen you were scared. some hero i am.”

“you saved me,” you remind him, fingers curling into his shirt. “you always save me.”

“always, baby,” he promises, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “every time. no matter what else is happening, no matter where i am. you call, i come. that’s how this works.”

the police arrive, and clark handles everything, keeping you tucked against his side. the stalker confesses to everything, just like clark said he would. after they take him away, after the statements and the questions, it’s just you and clark in your living room. he fixes your doors with a sheepish smile, apologizing for the damage.

“stay?” you ask quietly, even though you both have school tomorrow, even though his parents will worry.

“try t’make me leave,” he responds, pulling you back into his arms. and surrounded by his warmth, his strength, the steady beat of his heart, you finally feel safe again.

clark kent may not wear a cape yet, may not be the hero the world will one day know. but he’s your hero, and that’s all that matters.

[damnfeelings09]

Animals - Shadow's version

A.N: hey! I'm off to vacation for 5 days so I'm giving you two chapters, I already know how this au is going to end and I'm hoping I can come back to the regular one shots after that, also anybody here likes Leon Kennedy? My man fine and I've been thinkging about adding some storyes tho Shadow is still my main man. RED for stalker, GREEN for you.

Special mention to @animegoddess15 hope you like it! Remember to always check you locked your door twice.

Ever since then, not a single day went by that you don't get a text with those same two words. Every once in a while, a picture of you would be attached to the message praising how beautiful you were, saying all the dirty things he'll do to you. Fear took the better of you, you could no longer walk without looking back every 10 seconds, afraid to close the doors, and to walk home alone. Paranoia had become a shadow over your shoulders.

Pretending that everything was fine had always been your superpower, but between the messages, the school pressure, pretending that Shadow was something more than your classmate and the constant fights with Mailo caused by that, the exhaustion was getting the better of you and it was noticeable in the way you kept frowning, the constant zoone outs during class, the lack of participation. The stiffness in your shoulders and neck was killing you slowly.

“Wow bunny, it wouldn't hurt to relax” His hands gently caressed your skin, massaging your muscles trying to relieve the tension, while you kept your attention fixed on the Surgery questionnaire.

“Get your fucking paws out of her” hissed Mailo. He didn't understand why Shadow was always with you now, he wasn't your friend, he was a bully and had been for a long time. Why would you let him be with you? Why were you so close to him lately? Why would you let him touch you? Why would you want to stain your smooth, pure skin with the filthy paws of an animal? Mailo was annoyed and Shadow was enjoying it, you could tell by the way he nuzzled your neck and pulled his chest a little closer to your back until you were fully lying on top of him. “Are you deaf of something? I said don’t touch her”

“Sorry, too busy pleasing my girl”. - pronounced Shadow with a cocky grin on his face.

“Your girl?” the tension palpable between them both, good thing you were too focused or you'd have noticed the threat in his tone as his eye twitched.

She's mine

“Like I said my gi-“

“Would you please stop! I'm trying to concentrate” you said cutting him off as you got up from your place and put your stuff in your backpack. The noise in your head was already enough for you to have to put up with their egos fighting. “If you want to play whose dick is bigger that's fine, just leave me out of it.”

They both looked at you in shock as you walked to your Surgery class, praying that the little time you had to go over the questions would be enough to remember everything and pass the midterm exam.

“Mine's bigger” Shadow said as if it was nothing.

They both ran after you, Shadow reaching you first placing his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into him. Mailo just watched you, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. It was hard enough for him to stifle his feelings, now seeing you with a freak as he called em was unbearable. His blood boiled at how you didn't even flinch at the act, on the contrary, you let him pull you closer, his fur rubbing against your bare arms. Mailo had accepted hardly that you wanted nothing to do with him, that you were just best friends and that was all, but he couldn't accept that, was this the reason you had rejected him over and over and over and over again? You both had leaved him behind as if you had forgotten about him but he definitely noticed how you leaned on Shadow as he stole one of his kisses, watching him out of the corner of your eye as if he had already won.

You can pretend that it was me

But no

Stolen kisses and pretty lies. That was all there was between you and Shadow but you couldn't deny that the bastard knew what he was doing when he put his arm around you pulling you to his chest, or his hands on your shoulders lessening the stress. Part of you wanted to feel his hands on other parts of your body, but you still fought that inner voice that just wanted to take him in. When he kissed you, it was quick, it looked like a pure, chaste kiss but you knew his fang had taken a good bite out of your lower lip, the metallic taste of blood making its way through the class reminding you of his promise threat that he would see you later.

By the time you got home it was past 22:00, all you wanted was to take a bath and sleep until the weekend, to stop thinking and just exist in the coolness of the warm water as if your problems could drain away. You were so focused on yourself that you forgot to lock the door when you arrived. An amateur mistake that would cost you dearly. You had been tempting him all afternoon and he couldn't wait to put his hands around your neck, push you against the wall, undress your body, smell every inch of your skin and make you his while you begged him not to. There was no turning back now, no more games. He would take what belonged to him.

Baby, I'm preying on you tonight

Hunt you down eat you alive

You placed a towel around your body, the warm drops of water running down your hair and onto your back, the tension was gone thanks to the magic of the water and playing the waves of the sea worked wonders when stress consumed you. You picked up your brush and approached the bathroom mirror ready to untangle your long hair, you ran your hand through the steam from the mirror and saw him. That tall figure, dressed all in black. You turned to face him but there was no one there, you quickly slammed the door locking it, your heart pounding out of your chest as you heard the knob being forced while holding it as if your life depended on it because it did. It was him, it was real. Your Stalker was in your house and you had no way to escape. You were going to die there, in your bathroom, covered only with a towel or worse, first he would torture you doing whatever he wanted with you just like in his calls and texts and then you would end up 10mts underground, would anyone miss you? would they even notice your absence? Suddenly your phone vibrated, an incoming call, but you were too scared to answer, what if it was him?

“Hey how you doing?” The second you recognized Shadow's voice on your voicemail you ran for the phone, but your desperation and trembling hands wouldn't allow you to accept the call until after several attempts.

“Is it you? I swear to the gods Shadow if this is a fucking prank I will-“

“Wow, slow down princess. I'm outside your home, told you I’ll see you later.” she sobs covering her mouth as she hears the door being forced again. “Did I interrupt something?

“Help me.” you whisper. Shadow senses the fear in your voice, he enters your house breaking through the front door, his stealthy footsteps skirting the furniture and glass on the floor, following the sound of your sobs, he grabs the doorknob and hesitates to enter until he hears a scream coming from your mouth. With a precise blow he breaks down the bathroom door now he owes you two doors and comes over, wrapping his arms around you, protecting you. You freeze at his touch, screaming for help. “Hey, hey Bunny? Shhhh It's me.” he says gently stroking your head. You've never seen Shadow worried before, his brow furrowed, his ears drooping, his red eyes examining every part of your face making sure you weren't hurt, his palm holding your cheek. You failed to contain it and threw yourself onto his chest, salty tears wetting his chest. “You sure missed me bunny.”

“There was some-hic inside, hic-break in” you say between sobs. Shadow rises to his feet, standing in attack position, his ears perked up, alert to the tiniest sound. In a gold-orangy blur he’s gone, running all over the house at super speed, and although it only took him 10 seconds to get back to you, it was enough to find you in a fetal position next to the shower.

“There's no one here” He says. You raise your head, you were sure you looked pathetic, hyperventilating with your eyes red and puffy due to our crying, tears rolling down your reddish cheeks, hair tangled and still wet from your shower, this was not the way you’ll like him to see you or anyone for the matters. To your surprise Shadow sighs and takes you in his arms bridal style right to your room, you peek through his shoulder to all the mess the stalker had made.

Placing you on your bed he takes off his t-shirt offering it to you to cover up. You pull the soft material over your head, the fitting to big on you falling right down the middle of your thigh. He turns around looking in your drawers for your underwear. It doesn't take him long to find them, choosing a white one with small lace ruffles, he tosses them in your direction and stays on his back while you get dressed. Once ready, Shadow picks up the brush on your bureau and begins brushing your hair. The silence between you is not overwhelming, it is pleasant, allowing you to release the last of your tears as his hand caresses your back. When he finishes he places you inside your bed covering you with the sheets ready to withdraw until you take his hand. “Don't leave me” the plea in your voice, your puppy eyes and the little pout on your lips stops him. He removes his shoes and the rest of his clothes crawling into bed with you. You rest your head on his chest snuggling against him entangling your leg between his, caressing his chest fur as Shadow wraps his arms around your waist. The warmth of his body and the sound of his heart soothe your senses and you slowly enter dreamland.

[werezmastarbucks]

snowball pt2

incarnations masterlist

part one

obsessive, deranged, stalker!yoongi x f!complicit!reader

in which, no matter what you do, you can't seem to escape him

word count: 9015

music: can't get over you by joji, haunting by halsey, basic needs by jonathan davis

author's note: supplied all childhood memories by myself, lol. not funny. a little funny. sorry for yapping but i need you to know that i wrote both parts in one day and speedran into a burnout like i, personally, went through all the abuse.

warnings: violence, casual threats of violence towards the reader (although it never gets to it), toxic relationship, obsessive behaviour, yoongi has rage episodes; smut, voyeurism, intense jealousy, hardcore stalking, codependent, dysfunctional relationship, gaslighting, manipulation, abuse? unhappy-happy ending

The mental health has been degrading since the breakup. The built-up trauma of being watched, being observed and controlled, gave you monstorus paranoia which now makes you check your stuff three times a day.

Has the shampoo bottle moved a millimeter? You check the soil of the plants for dryness, putting your finger inside, in case someone watered it without you. You keep a to-buy list of things stuck on the fridge and carry the pen with you at all times, making sure there are no other pens left at home.

Sometimes it feels like things go missing. Pieces of clothing; you find them later on the couch where you left them. The light coming through the cluttered old balcony (wooden, full of the previous tennants' stuff you have no idea about) plays shadows on the walls, so you keep the curtains closed.

The narrow memory of Yoongi's obsessive presence is like a crack on the wall, a thin scar on your forearm; he is a demon, not hated enough and thus, scary. You watch the streets around and gradually, way slower than you hoped for, start losing caution.

People like him, you think with jealousy, tend to lose focus. They are bright and agonizing like a short flame, and they often move on. You wonder who his next victim might be. Wonder if changing laptops helped, or he still could hack your web camera again, because you use the same accounts.

The last year of university begins; thankfully you miss him there, too. He graduated the previous spring. You hope the waters of life carry Yoongi far away from you, because you still get nightmares in which the white figure is standing above your bed like an alien, like a poltergeist. In the first six months without him, you develop the fear of quiet, unexpected noises; and then you also discover he was right. You are forgetful. You skip meals. You bump into things. Toilet paper stops respawning by itself in your bathroom; sheets need changing; and kitchen needs cleaning.

You catch a stare similar to his, from above the mask, in a public place, and the whiplash of the mix of emotions takes away your good mood. Danger and desire. Missing him and hating him. For a whole year you grapple with the existence in which nobody worships the ground you walk on. Nobody goes through your phone. Nobody makes your muscles twitch.

You almost move on.

─────────────── ✧

Namjoon has finally moved out of his mother's house and bought himself a tiny cosy apartment in Jangang-dong with some generous family help. Which reminded you that you have zero contact with yours. Whatever is happening to your sweet little sister, you don't know. She has entered the university and barely texts you anymore.

Without Yoongi, really, you don't have truly loyal people in your life. That is not to say you need him back.

You don't. You know you don't. You agree with your brain when it says so. All the logic and self-preservation instincts make it clear as day.

Then why are you staring. Through the cigarette smoke whirling in hairy vortices, pale, soft, you see Yoongi, also pale and soft - and - bigger. That's the first thing you notice. Not even the girl on his lap. Still student business, although all of you are far beyond graduation. Still the same company of people. Still the same drinks. Yoongi is new. First of all, he shouldn't be here at all; you dart to Namjoon, clinging to his shoulder, and Namjoon is clearly trying to hide his face from you.

"Sorry... I'm sorry. I haven't seen him in months either. Y/N, I didn't know if he would come or not..."

You don't even say anything, just look into his frightened eyes. The buzzcut of Namjoon is glistening with sweat, prettily; it's dense in the room; about twenty people are crammed inside the tiny space. The words pour out of him under your gaze even though you look up.

"It wasn't a secret. Party wasn't a secret. I simply told my pals the address, and... I guess someone still speaks to him".

You never asked anybody to throw Yoongi out of their lives. The looks on Namjoon and Hoseok's faces were quite enough for you to understand that they will have the dignity.

It shouldn't be surprising though, if it's about Yoongi. Yoongi is a shimmering snake. He will always find a way.

Your skin crawls like suddenly dozens of tiny fruit flies cling to it. You hide behind Namjoon for a while, your palms around his round bicep. Yoongi doesn't pay attention to you; he simply exists inside an armchair. His shoulders are bigger. His chest has grown. He is buffer, bigger, softer somehow. His snow-white hair like the center of gravitation. You have no idea who the girl is. Should you tell her? Make a scene? Grab her by the shoulder and tell her Yoongi will put hidden cameras inside her apartment and will visit her place when she's not at home to lie in her bed and do her laundry? Should you make that of yourself?

"Stop staring", Namjoon mumbles.

It's a relief. He doesn't look your way and doesn't look for you. The root of your tongue goes dry. You stroll into the kitchen, tracing the wall, trying to keep your facial expression in check. It's a relief, you tell yourself. Yes, it's a relief: he has leached onto someone else. Later, when everybody gets much more drunk than now, you should catch the girl and lead her away and doesn't matter what she thinks about you. You need to warn her. Yes you need to warn her, and take her eyeballs out with a hot teaspoon. The roots of his white hair are going slightly dark again. Yoongi can be very charming when he works you; his nods are art. He maintains the eye contact, keeps his mouth slightly open, moves his chin like he means it. His intelligent mouth curls into a sexy shape. You walk into the kitchen and look for water bottles, and check the stove out of habit. Namjoon is made of the same material as you. Breaks things. Forgets about open fire. Leaves the fridge door open. A walking catastrophe. You are too similar to ever fall in love.

You reach for the pitcher and then get a glass out of the cupboard. Hand nervously scratches the neck, too hard, grooming you into peace.

No, it's just funny that he used to spend every waking moment trying to consume you, and now he has a new girlfriend. It's funny, that's all.

You gulp water, trying to drown those stupidly obvious thoughts that betray the pathetic weakness of you. Stare into the black mirror of the microwave with smudges of fat on it. Then the white floats into reflection behind you, and leans against the wall. Like the fire entering.

"Oof, very awkward", he stretches his vowels. You bite the glass edge and then unclench your jaws to turn around.

"Seeing your ex at the party".

Yoongi is glowing. His cheekbones are becoming more protruded like he lost weight even though he did literally the opposite. He keeps his hands behind his back, the inner sides of his elbows shot with the same blue veins that cover his dick. You sigh with a shudder. Stupid bitch.

"I'd say sus", you manage. He slightly raises his eyebrows, feigning innocence. Then says,

"Oh, yeah. I need to apologize, probably. Sorry. I must have left a crazy impression, ha ha".

His chuckle is low and unreadable. Yoongi pushes himself off the wall and walks to the counter, and you move away, looking at him from under the brow.

"I hope you're doing okay though. I know I was acting totally crazy. Sorry. It's trauma".

He is carrying his new body with the nonchalance of a tiger. Goes through Namjoon's fridge the same way he used to go through yours. Like it's his place. Every place he goes, he acts that way. If you can find a way to slither into a space, you don't even need to claim it.

You tug at the painful spot on your upper lip, tearing the skin off.

"You seem adequate".

"I had therapy for a year. Getting over you, and stuff".

He doesn't look at you directly. The corners of his lips are slightly upturned with half-moons while he is reading the back side of a plastic pack of pineapple slices. He shakes it at you:

"Expired last week. Namjoon is so silly, I can't".

"Still have the caretaker complex. Therapy didn't help", you hammer, still walking backwards, until you press yourself into the window sill.

"Hey, it's not an easy thing to fix. At least I am trying".

It sounds weirdly like a jab at you. Yoongi looks at your face. He doesn't seem desperate. Doesn't seem needy. There's no heated glint in his eyes like before. He looks... calm. Collected. Polite.

"Are you really... okay?" you ask. Your eyes dart to the hand that's holding the expired pineapple slices. Fingers look normal. Yoongi catches your gaze and shows you:

"Yeah, everything's healed. Lucky. You know, I kind of need them".

He wiggles his fingers in the air, and you look away. You know your face is heating every passing second.

"Well, I am glad. Honestly, I didn't expect to see you".

"I missed these parties", he says simply. Then his girl enters the kitchen and immediately goes for his broad shoulders. Yoongi has always had a well-balanced, wide frame. Now it's magnified. Now. He looks irresistible.

She coos something to him, paying you no attention, and he bows his head, letting the hair fall on his eyes. The glimpse of the old, feral Yoongi.

Your heart is eerily empty. You leave the kitchen lighter. Now, you are a ghost. Why does it feel like you lost something?

The night becomes tighter like a python's gut. The room squeezes. You watch everybody dance. Yoongi is inescapable, gleaming. His hands on her body. She is in danger.

The party doesn't seem fun anymore. You take three more shots with Hoseok, who observes you with quiet caution and says nothing. Doesn't like your snappy character. His bony wrists only push tiny glasses towards you, then he nods, and you drink up. Once he is distracted by another song that he agrees with, he gives you a window to escape. It's perfect: Yoongi is gone from the room, probably making out with the girl. You slither among people, ignore Namjoon's weak call. Everybody is too drunk. You try to spot her wine-red dress on your way out, half-heartedly, then leave.

Climbing down two stairs is a challenge on wobbling knees. You do it slowly, without a hurry. You have no idea why you are so rattled, so furious about everything. Alcohol multiplying the awful things boiling in your mind. You push the entrance door open and step into the cool autumn air, and take a deep breath, only to swallow a handful of cigarette smoke.

You cough softly, and the white catches your eye.

Yoongi is leaning against the wall again, light bomber on his shoulders.

"Leaving?" he asks. The chthonic flesh-eating monster trying to act normal. You sway on your two feet. And you're not even wearing heels. There's a hickey on the side of his neck and a tired frown in between his lips, sharing space with the cigarette.

"Yeah", you say. Your eyes can't unclutch him. You try your upper lip with the tip of your tongue, and it's salty.

"You need a lift?"

You scoff. Yoongi smiles in unison, agreeing with whatever is on your mind. Yes, yes, stupid, he used to say. Of course, of course.

"Your girlfriend?"

"We met tonight. Here. She's not my girlfriend", he replies simply, without any disdain, not trying to prove anything.

"You gotta be honest", you press, shifting all weight to the left to steady yourself. Yoongi nods lightly, smoke leaving his mouth like a soul.

"Are you really normal now?"

"That's philosophical. Me being abnormal was always your opinion".

"Don't bullshit".

"Why? It's not like you're going to give me another chance?"

The music booms from up above through the open window of Namjoon's living room. You wonder why the neighbours haven't called the police yet. You notice Yoongi's free hand in the pocket of his bomber, fidgeting with something. Imagine it to be a knife.

"I have to go".

"I can drive you".

It's not urging, or pressing. It's a polite offer. Repeated twice.

"I saw you drink".

"I had one beer".

Yoongi stabs the cigarette against the new yellow paint of the wall. The building has been completed three years ago, it's a freshly born dwelling. The cigarette leaves a stark black spot and glows pale orange on the ground. He walks over to you but moves past, slightly changing the constitution of air around you. He smells like smoke, and sweet cologne vaguely resembling your own perfume.

"Come, I got a new car".

You shouldn't follow him, stupid bitch. His broad back in dark-blue bomber floats against the parking lot.

"You got a job?"

"Of course", he booms gently. Your feet start moving. Head is smoky with alcohol. With the night. Jeans tight around you. You are making a mistake, but he is your mistake. Nobody else's.

"How's the lotus spa going?"

Yoongi walks towards a silver car which you can't identify in the dark, and unlocks it. The lights blink like a warning. He opens the door for you and waits.

"It's in the future".

The cover of the night hides everything. Dissipating orange light from Namjoon's windows has no power here, in the twilight zone of an almost made decision. You touch the cold metal of the door, swiping your fingers up and down, and he clocks your hesitation.

"You don't have to go. Just thought to save you some money, night fares are insane", he says. Yoongi looks away, his throat shining in the blue darkness. You realize the street lamps don't work. You get into the car.

He drives with one hand resting on his lap; if it even knows how to do it. The hand that once shattered a glass bus stop and dripped blood. The hand that got stuck in between the door and the door frame. Hand that wrapped so lovingly around your throat, that balanced you every time you'd stumble. The hand that installed a surveillance device in your kitchen and stole items from your house, and never returned them.

"You feel alright?"

"Yeah".

"Your eyes are rolling".

The old Yoongi would scold you for drinking so much that you sway in the passenger seat. He would call you a lightweight. The new buff Yoongi with his fashionable bomber giving a special silky glint to his skin is driving quietly, shaking the hair away from his eyes. And in a twisted, serene old habit, you reach out and - what are you doing, stupid bitch - push the bangs away, scared that he doesn't, in fact, see around when it's like this. You think of the notion of Yoongi going through the life with the white curtain on his eyes. By the end of your, hmm, relationship, he did reveal them. Now he is fluffy and closed up again. Yoongi doesn't flinch, doesn't even acknowledge it.

"What job did you get?"

"Architectural designer in GBM".

The name of an insanely wealthy company leaves his lips like it's seven eleven. But Yoongi was made for these things. His satanic determination in studies was always clear. What's scarier was, it all came to him so easily. He never struggled with academic stuff. The human... was what he lacked in.

"That's pretty cool".

He nods like it's obvious. Still doesn't call you dummy. It even feels off.

He doesn't ask anything about you. He doesn't stare. Now you almost feel pathetic for touching his hair.

Another thing you totally miss is that he doesn't even ask where you live. You stupid, stupid cunt.

He simply drives you home to the other side of the city, into your new rented apartment with the wooden corridor, and parks in the lot in front of the building, and you drop your head back for a moment. You get out of the car quickly not to share this space with him, so egocentric that you fail to notice the obvious. Only when Yoongi leaves the car as well, does your head snap to him:

"Where are you going?"

"Calm down. You're drunk. To the entrance".

You stroll across the parking lot full of someone's cars. People are sleeping. This new building is smaller, quieter. The neighbours haven't known a Yoongi who bangs on your door regularly, who yells and shouts, and makes you yell and shout, too, in the bedroom. He follows you silently, and you punch in the code to the entrance door, and finally your alarms wake up half-willingly, the baseline self-preservation signals.

Yoongi pulls the door open above your head. His smell envelops you: hard, bitter, sweet, dense, all at the same time.

"Yoongi", you want to say his name firmly, like it's a derogatory term, but it comes out whiney and submissive. He is towering above you, eyes hooded in the lack of expression. White hair shining.

"What?"

"That girl who isn't your girlfriend", you slur, "doesn't even know you left?"

"I don't know her name", he pauses, "did it work though?"

His hand slides painfully slowly, on the edge of the door, until it touches your fingers, and you flinch them away.

"Don't tell me you did it on purpose", you wince. Your foot trips against the step, and Yoongi catches you by the waist. Cinematic. Nauseating. You remember his grab vividly, and yes, it's different now. He is bigger now, and it's the worst thing. You notice all the worst things.

"I did. Shit, it was great seeing you simmer", he whispers. He pushes you both into the building, and the door starts closing slowly, slowly, painfully slowly, like a mouth. You don't look at it. All your own animal wants to do it sink its teeth into Yoongi. For a good while you've been hiding your nature.

"You're still stuck on me", you mutter, accusingly.

"And you're still pretending to hate it", Yoongi grabs the railing and pulls you up the stairs, but you stop him on the fourth step. The new skin slides off him like sheep's fur. The bend of his elbow urges you to move on, your fingers sliding off the silky shoulder.

"The only thing I dislike about you?" he mutters, his mouth barely moving. The light that finally goes up in the stairwell almost blinds you, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second. In this, it becomes clear that Yoongi is trying to drag you up without making it completely forced. You spin in his grab like it's a dance, balancing on the narrow steps, and his hand only grips your elbow now. Yoongi returns and pushes you against the hard greenish wall; inadequate, unpretty pale colour; but it goes well with white. He must be a little drunk after all, because he doesn't finish the phrase. His mouth forces itself on you, and you struggle for a good two seconds before recognizing his tongue.

Yoongi doesn't kiss; he devours you. He presses his head forwards, demanding the entrance, and then chokes you with tenderness, tilting your head back. He is trying to reach your throat from the inside, tracing your own trembling tongue. He is the ocean you don't have to leave. He only wants you. He whispers that: i only want you, like he's complaining: am I asking for too much? Your skeleton rattles inside, deprived of him for a whole year, every single system of your body working against your better judgement. So maybe you should screw it. You were meant to be. His small quick teeth never bite you to draw blood, but rather, to gently rehearse the day he finally gets to eat you. It takes a couple of minutes to get to the second floor, it's like in a movie; two mouths unable to get unstuck. You can't even hear the code beeping: the door simply opens, and he pushes you inside. The quiet, untouched darkness of the corridor welcomes him as he reaches for your thighs and squeezes them. It's a cataclysm. As soon as the door closes, he unzips his jeans and guides your hand inside, and you grab his dick, pulling out a soft moan out of him. It's still his trademark pleading. Stroke me, touch me, love me.

Yoongi kisses your wrist before pulling your top over your head, and immediately gets to your breast. Warm, safe, bee nest mouth bites too hard, and you shriek with pain, and he licks it softly to soothe it. What were the odds you'd meet him at Namjoon's house warming party? Yoongi doesn't fuck, he ambushes. You don't see any value in stifling your moans, harmonizing neatly, because it's one thing you never lied to yourself about. You feel so much smaller against him now, and it doesn't help. He could destroy you. Your tongue punches against the lower lip and gets outside, you feel like you're crumbling to pieces. The wetness of a whole year drips down in between your hips clashing together. It's sobering up. Sensitivity returns, and limbs go numb.

"This is fucking heaven", his tongue sanitizes your throat before allowing the teeth to bite. As you scream, you tighten around him, trying to bring legs together, but Yoongi is in between them, and he groans. Slow? Fast? You get what you want. He punches his thighs against yours until it hurts, then twirls you to your stomach and gets you on all fours. His body is fluid around you, like he's orbiting something. He nuzzles his face into your hair, moving his head, and it feels so good like he's never touched you before. All matter is knocked out of your head. Brain shut down. It's just juices, friction, pressure, love. Yoongi keeps repeating: my girl, my girl, my girl, like he is convincing himself. You have no idea what he's been doing for a year, but you sure haven't been fucked like that. Haven't been fucked at all. You think you and Yoongi invented sex, actually. It didn't exist before this. Your two animals kissing on the mouths, celebrating together. It's not you, it's them who kept magnetizing towards each other. Yes, that is easier to accept. His hand traces your arched spine and ends up on the side of the ass. A sonorous slap. Another one. The biting pain makes you feel everything more clearly. Then he cums inside, and the construction of you collapses, knees week, dysfunctional. He kisses it. Everything. As soon as your brain restarts, it advises: it was probably a mistake. Yoongi is licking the pink spot on your ass that he hit, like a kitten, with the tip of his tongue. You've never been loved before.

In the morning, you find him on your chest, his heavy head pressing on the rib cage, so much that it wakes you up. You push him off yourself and slide down instead, and he folds his arms around you through the sleep. Several hours later the day is breaking pale cold air in the bedroom with sunrays, and it burns your face.

The first thing you decide is that you can't go back to him. Wow, morning clarity is debilitating. You see his spider body, even more unbeatable than before. Yoongi has that cunning sweetness in his face, because it's kinda pinchable, and the cheeks are so soft. And it's a perfect disguise: he looks too cute. But when you think of the things he's doing, that mask turns insidious.

You try to slip out of the bed, but his clutch is iron even when he's unconscious. You look down at his hands. Half-fist as usual, short, trimmed, clean nails. The arms are like stubborn bush branches, trapping you in place.

"I want to pee", you whisper.

"Pee on my face", he mumbles, barely moving his lips. He crunches his nose when your movements become too disruptive to his snoozing. Before finally releasing you, he tightens the grip.

Everything in between legs burns. Muscles are sore, and the only thing they need is return into bed, but you force yourself to go to the kitchen for a glass of water.

This action brings up a huge question from under the sand of your mind. It's like the cameras all over again. It's like morning nausea. You put the glass back on the table and stare around the kitchen, the paranoia a forever chip on your shoulder. Calm down, you whisper to yourself. Knowing that it's the swamp you danced into happily yesterday. Are there cameras in your kitchen? Are there cameras in your bathroom?

Who unlocked the door to your apartment last night?

You can't remember. All you remember is animalistic desire. The need. The feeling of, if I don't let him in now, I'll die. Two things can be true at once: you are meant to be, you and Yoongi. He is your person. And he is clinically insane.

You walk back into the bedroom, where he is strategically putting on his jeans. The left side of his hair is flat because of the pillow, and he ruffles it with force.

"Yoongi".

You must have met before, in another lifetime: the way his name sounds in your mouth is too practiced. It lands neatly on your tongue like it belongs there. The same with yours. He lifts his eyes and walks around the bed.

"Now what? God, I just woke up".

His eyes are fixated on your right breast where a small bruise begins to form. He looks around and pulls your house robe from the floor. Untidy, the old Yoongi would say.

"Get dressed, or I'll drag you back to bed".

He puts the robe over your shoulders looking at you with such loving eyes that for a second you are ready to believe it's you that's slightly schizophrenic. He can't just leave it be once you put your arms through the sleeves; he drags his palm down your arm, fingers playing with your wrist.

"Who unlocked the door?"

He tilts his head forward and kisses you on the forehead.

But doesn't reply.

You try to remember. At the kiss, your memory fails. You remember the feeling. The light. Being pushed against the surface. Then, corridor.

Yoongi leaves the bedroom and strolls towards the kitchen, hanging his head low. You see he is rubbing something on his stomach.

"Snowball head".

He halts to a stop. Yoongi looks like a leopard now. The muscles in his shoulders lean and round. The neck looks stronger. His eyes peek at you through the hair.

"You're asking idiotic questions like before?" he hisses, "Instead of using your head, as usual?"

You grab the hems of your robe, closing yourself off.

"What does it matter who punched in the code?" he turns back to you. That white demon from your dreams.

"You never bothered to change it, and you've lived here for a whole year. Not a single time has it occurred to you to switch between them since you've moved away specifically to hide from me".

Boom. Just like that, the illusion of home dries down and evaporates like mist in the evening.

You don't want to stutter even though your hands give away the tremor.

"You've been here?"

"When?"

Your chin tilts forward.

"At all?"

"You expected me to just leave you alone or something?"

Yoongi throws it like it's a slight accusation, and goes into the kitchen.

But the plants stayed dry.

Floor moves under your feet slowly, carrying you after him. The jeans without the belt slide down under his stomach, and he pulls them up a little, then bows, looking inside the fridge. You fall onto a chair and feel scared of touching the table.

"Don't fuck with me".

"Don't fuck with me".

"Yoongi..."

He snaps.

Yoongi swings the fridge door closed, and it bashes, opens again and rests half-open, while he stands up and turns to you.

"You are looking for things to complain about", he doesn't yell, he sizzles. "All the times I came round, I haven't even touched you a single time".

Your jaw unhinges and falls down, horror clouding your eyes.

They weren't dreams.

You didn't dream him up. He was there, in the room. White ghost against the bed. Your Yoongi. This is not dating, it's haunting. There was no break up, no year gap. Not to him. Yoongi rakes his hair with his hand, and you look at the knife resting on the counter to his left. The tender spot under his arm, in between top ribs, is asking to be stabbed.

"Get the fuck out", you get up.

"Don't even dream about it", his voice is bitter. You tug on his arm, trying to pull him away from the fridge. He closes it with his foot. Shakes off your hand. You grab again.

"What are you trying to do, baby?" he laughs. "You will throw me out? Again?"

He hasn't asked how you've been because he was there. He saw everything with his own eyes.

"Are there cameras?"

"No, I don't need them", he continues to laugh. Yoongi lets you drag him into the corridor, then loses his patience. Your fingers catch the air. His hand wraps around your throat. And finally, it's that one ring of the bell that should've sounded years ago. It's not the usual neck hold that fixates you in place. He starts squeezing.

"Stop pushing. Me away".

He skips the pleasantries of rhetoric questions and threats. He treats it like you're being problematic about a reasonable demand.

"We have been blessed with the love that doesn't even come to normal people sometimes", he grunts, "do you realize how rare it is? I found you within a week because I fucking read your mind".

"You are deeply unwell", you choke out, your hands scratching against his chest in an almost begging manner.

His eyes search your face, and he loosens the grab a little when the colour of it turns a little red. But doesn't let go.

"There's no shame in belonging to someone like you".

You mouth,

"Go".

Yoongi shakes you like you're a toy that refuses to work. The back of your head meets the wall, and he instantly puts his other palm against it. You kick. Then your fist collides with his unexpecting stomach, and he lets go.

You hold yourself against the wall and move towards the living room. He has to go. You run across the room and crash into the balcony door. Yank it open, and Yoongi grabs you by the shoulders. His weight makes you both step up, and you plunge into the wooden balcony, into the sun.

"He-" his hand slaps your face closed, covering the mouth. You hang from his arm, trying to scratch it, but you forget that Yoongi hasn't cared about pain since he was a child. Nothing can hurt him. Not your rejection, not your nails, not your fist. You mean nothing and everything to him. In a fit of delirious amusement, he bites your neck through your hair, giggling into your ear. You try to kick his shin but with your bare foot, it's ineffective.

"Stop fooling around and talk to me", he chuckles. Yoongi turns his head and spots a pile of someone else's old shit. Some garments, clothes, so old that they even smell. When you employ an elbow, to avoid being hit, he pushes you lightly to the side, and you fall there. Yoongi gets distracted by your leg ending with something he likes very much, as the skirt of the robe gets pulled up. He gets to his knees.

The barrier is so old that there are creases inside the wood. It's more of a hand-made cover, several square planks smashed together under the banister. When Yoongi's hand grabs your knee, you kick him in the chest with the other foot. He stumbles back. All his weight shifts, making him tip. He weighs a little more now - maybe around seventy kilograms? Not a small boy anymore. His back crashes through the barrier, taking it with him. He falls like a real man, without crying. And thumps on the ground, on top of the wooden pieces, three and a half meters down.

You don't even look; first thing you do is push yourself up and crawl out into the living room and run for the phone. Someone in the building opens a window.

You call the police, going through his clothes in your bedroom, looking for the car keys to make sure he won't get away.

Although maybe it's better if he does.

When you return to the balcony, you step carefully and crane your neck to look out. Of course, he's not there. You can't see any blood. His car is still parked in front of the building, although there are several silver ones. And you never bothered to check which one is his.

You sit by the wall, shaking, until the police arrive, and you tell them: my ex has followed me from the previous apartment where he had installed a camera in the kitchen to watch me.

Now, he has been visiting me, most likely at night, because he found out the code to the door.

The flat still smells like him everywhere. He'd been stealing things, too. I threw him off the balcony when he tried to forcefully eat me out after admitting the stalking.

The police say that it's the usual stuff. Shit happens. Lock your door for the night, they advise. If he reports the violence, you might be brought in for questioning, because you shouldn't throw people off balconies, no matter how they employ their mouths.

You collapse the next day on your way to work and spend a week at the hospital. Mental breakdown.

You spend a shit ton of money on therapy Yoongi never bothered with.

─────────────── ✧

Depression comes to you in the shape of irritation at everybody around you.

Two years later, the longer his absence, the stronger your fear grows. Yoongi can't just have disappeared, right, but it's a trick he does the best. You move from one flat to another every two months. You get a mechanic lock with the single key you always carry with you, even when you sleep. You don't meet new people but instead try to ground yourself in your family, or rather, the only member of it, who is still interested: your little sister. Too shy to text first. Too little to understand what's happening to you. You never talk about him. You don't need anybody to tell you that you've gone nuts; therapist does it well. You need someone to just be there.

You cut off everybody you knew from the university, even Namjoon and Hoseok, and feel awful about it, exhausted. After two years of running through Seoul and mapping it, leaving crumbs for everyone to see, you move away to Ilsan where your sister studies. But even then, you don't see each other very often. You install cameras yourself now: a black motionless eye in the bedroom; then watch yourself sleep in the morning, searching for snowy glow in the shot.

Yoongi is gone. This gaping hole smothers you with an unspoken promise of revenge. You don't even know how badly he fell back then - whether he can still walk. What happened to him. You don't get spooked anymore, don't get startled by blonde hair; you're quietly waiting for the day he shows up, to kill him. Live again? You can only do it when you know he is not there, anywhere.

You have no idea if what he's told you about his family, was true. That he had an alcoholic father and the mother that would make him beg for forgiveness on his knees, for every small mistake. That he was a lonely child at school, too small to even be bullied, just invisible. You always doubted half of it, because Yoongi always knew to push your buttons, almost like a real animal, a cat, that adjusts the sound of its meowing to soothe a human ear.

You are like that old dude from Jeepers Creepers 3, who sits with the shotgun, waiting to blow the demon down once it twitches again.

You miss the way he touched you like you were the most delicate, the most beautiful thing in the world. You could tear yourself apart.

Psychologist says it's an extreme case of codependent abusive relationship and that Yoongi most likely has borderline personality disorder and OCD. You scoff at that. You know he is an incubus.

You work from home; don't show up on the street a lot. All deliveries brought to you are under your name. Your apartment is untidy and messy, and owned only by you. No one steps inside, and there's no alien smells. Not bitter, not sweet, not the love. No hatred in your heart. Just readiness.

Mending relationships you'd neglected for years is an ungrateful business. Especially if it's your family. When your mother texts you that there's a gathering, it's not a happy message, a call to get together to catch up. To her, it's a chore, and you wouldn't even go if your sister weren't there. The last time you saw her, she was a worn out graduate, given up fencing and all her old hobbies, just trying to cope with her demanding major and friendship problems. It was a year ago. Once you moved to Ilsan, she had welcomed you and vanished again, leaving you on read for months. Guess you can't ask for more after being such a rotten creature that only gravitates towards the worst people.

You would've worn an armour if you had some, to family gatherings.

It's the most unpleasant faces you've ever seen in your life, all looking at you like you are shit. Mother eyes you up and down, and you recall how you had to kneel before her when you were little, begging for forgiveness. You'd never told Yoongi that; always wondered if it was a coincidence. Not really anybody knows that, except you and her.

She has a softer stare for the younger version of you, that didn't disappoint; from the other side of the big living room, you see the back of the head of your sister, and how the corners of mother's eyes relax, and lids go a little down.

"Did dad text you?" is all she asks. You say no.

"Uncle Namgil is here", she warns. Guess it's her version of taking care. Uncle Namgil liked to carry you around by your ankle when you were small enough to be carried. Almost dislocated your hip every single time, shaking you like a cat. You know well to stay away from him, even now.

"Minjae?"

The cousin who kissed you french style when you were ten.

"No".

She nods at your sister and smiles at her warmly. You get an uneven glass tilt. Once the girl turns and waves at you, lifts her arm, the cardigan on her body stretches, and you notice a belly.

"Oh shit", you utter before you can stop yourself.

"She is six months pregnant", mom explains.

You walk towards each other, and you hug her. She is still the same strong girl with shy eyes telling you things she isn't capable of pronouncing. Now she avoids looking at you, rather usual stuff. You need to nudge her a little, though. Having a baby is no small deed.

"Nani", you coo. The little nickname you gave her when she was little. You never call her the full name. "Congratulations".

She smiles, wrapping her palms around her belly. Then blushes slightly.

The relatives chat around. It's always a fine concussion of a reminder, how many there are, of you. Sister squeezes your hand shortly in gratitude.

"I'm sorry we didn't speak more".

It's a very vague apology. 'Didn't speak more' sounds like an unfinished conversation from yesterday, not a full six months of ghosting you. But you can't stay mad at her for long. You look around, seeing if anybody else is surprised by her growing belly. If there are the typical accusatory glances at you, blaming you for making your younger sister take the burden because you are just so selfish. Your mother asks her about the boyfriend softly.

"Boyfriend?" you ask, surprised, "you're not married?"

She shrugs.

"It was a happy accident".

Her eyes shine with what you know is infatuation.

"Where is he? Has he come with you today?"

She opens her mouth and says nothing at first, but her stare is direct. Your convoluted mind halts, waiting for a response. The voices of your family a hiss of the sea around. The room is yellow.

What enters the living room is black.

"I should've told you", her throat convulses, eyes bulge a little. All features indicate that she is feeling guilty. You look down at her stomach, then back at her face, then again, behind her shoulder.

Because your battered brain refuses to register.

"Sorry", she whispers quickly.

His hand lies on her shoulder, and you stare at the fingers with clean, short nails.

Yoongi is all black, like a swan that's undergone a transition.

He is happy, as well.

"Hi".

Your mother is mesmerized by the handsomness of this dude. He has a trendy cut with sidebangs, an there's a silver earring in his ear, but it just suits him so well. Black shirt is ironed, you know she did it. Yoongi bites his lower lip shyly. His eyes are revealed, and your mom drowns in them. It's in the genes. She can't not see the perfect slant. You bet she is almost fainting at the realization her grandchild will have these eyes.

It's a callback to his kitchen greeting: wow, that's awkward.

It's what you say now, to deelectrify the air. Yoongi's gaze darts to you like he doesn't recognize you. Nani's face gets flushed.

"We used to date", you explain to your mother. She opens her mouth, confused. Nani twists out of his hand gently. And takes the mother's arm.

"We should leave them for a while".

Throws you another cautious look. You had not a single idea this girl was capable of being a cunt. Not a single idea.

She lingers for a moment, looking at him, then at you, then purses her lips and leads mom away.

Yoongi looks at her like he would rather slash his veins that let her go. You feel your eyes go cold.

Seeing him in black is so weird, it's so... it's like you've accidentally jumped into a parallel dimension. You study his hair, shiny, black like his jacket.

"Is this your natural colour?" you don't know why you whisper.

It's the first thing you tell him after three years.

By the way, he doesn't look crippled.

Is this the same person at all?

When he opens his mouth, you recognize the voice.

"Yeah. Why?"

You can't remove the frown from in between your eyebrows.

"You've seen my teeange pictures".

You blink the paralysis off.

Yoongi orbits you a little, choosing an angle, then stands by your side, like you're both observing the living room.

"I have a great family", he sighs, "so many people".

Finally, the ice-cold spear of understanding slides down your guts and settles there, where Nani grows his parasite.

"You fucked my sister?"

He raises his eyebrows at the vulgarity of that. He is slowly changing his young adult face to his man face. It's rougher. Still handsome to the point of annoyance. Cheeks soft. But the white is drained. It's mute.

"She has your eyes", he deadpans.

"That all you got to tell me?"

Yoongi grins a little. There are small creases at the corners of his eyes. He must work a lot.

"One thousand, one hundred sixteen days", he replies. His eyes travel across your face. "And you finally don't fuck around".

"Walk with me".

You turn and make your way into the kitchen that's across the living room, down the corridor and to the left. Nani and mom are sat on the couch and watch you two, a little scared for some reason.

Yoongi strolls behind you soundlessly.

You rake your hair, it helps you think. Yoongi closes the door behind him and gets distracted by the little vase with candy. You stop at the knife stand, staring at it like it knocks all thoughts out of your head.

"You'll be an aunt soon", he says from behind you. Traces his finger on the table as if checking if your mother is as dirty as you are. You barely ever dusted.

"It's a boy".

"I don't believe it. Is it really yours?"

You turn with a swing to face him. He's a crow now. A levelled-up creature.

"Yeah, it's mine. I had lots of sex with her".

You cover your nose like you're ready to vomit.

"When did you start it?"

"About a year ago".

"And before?"

"Huh?"

He is playing fool now. Direct and annoyed Yoongi is taking his time pulling the nerves out of you.

"Where have you been before? It's been three years".

He smirks with his teeth, and takes a step towards you like he likes something in your voice.

"Why are you asking? I was working. I need to provide for my family. While you were drowning in your own shit, I got really loaded and ready to procreate".

He says it with mercy, a soft tilt of the head, a hand ready to catch you.

The balcony flight really cemented your unbalanced seats in this fucking spectacle. It's true. You've been surviving. Him, his aftershock, and then, without him. Bizarre. Your life started revolving around him.

Yoongi sighs through his nose and holds himself against the counter. Looms above you the way he likes to.

"You can't have Nani".

"Oh, shit", he whines, "I can't have you, I can't have Nani. Who am I allowed to have? Your mom?"

He observes you like he actually considers it.

"I actually might get a shot with her".

You chuckle at the cold delivery, so obscenely empty that there's an echo inside your ribs.

You turn slightly, and grab the knife from the stand. It's a good, broad knife with a sturdy black handle. Nothing white anymore, it's all coming together.

"Take off your jacket".

Yoongi obeys, disinterested. He puts the jacket on the high stool and gets back in front of you, eyes slightly curious about the thing in your hand.

"It's bad timing. I am proposing tonight".

He acquired a new expression. It's a condescending smile. His triangular, softly oval face is clean, pale, with the eyes oozing black like never before. He has the capacity to be very safe for the right people.

"You shouldn't have gone for my sister".

"I won't deny it's all about you", he notes softly. The words low, dipped in careful reproach, "but don't get cocky about it. You've hurt me twice".

You raise your hand, and he doesn't react, at all. His eyes, you realize, are so focused on you, like he is drinking the image of you.

What if he hasn't watched you these three years? And hadn't seen you? And whatever's happening now - this stillness, is the waves drawing away from the shore?

Your limbs go numb. Yoongi's mouth is raw pink. The times when he had breakfast on your kitchen, masturbated to you walking around the apartment unaware, and went through your phone, feel so simple now. Almost nostalgic.

"Yoongi", you call, to test the waters. You look where you should - at his hand, suddenly forming into a fist, thumb shaking.

"Why did you choose me?"

His eyes stare through you.

"Did you know I can recognize your smell?"

"I can recognize yours, too", you shake your head dismissively. The knife still limp between you.

"No. At distance. Like a trail. I think we're soulmates".

You have no jabs to throw. You lift the knife and stick it to his chest. Yoongi grabs your wrist.

"At least go for the heart, my love. And good luck; if you think I won't hunt you down in the next life..."

He swirls it sideways so that the tip goes in between the ribs.

Betrayal is what you can't forgive. Not dying the hair is alright. His natural colour makes him more mature. Makes him blend in. Perhaps he has got tired of being the snowball head.

Gaining weight made him look like an apex predator. Strong structure of his jaw gradually lifts into the cheekbones that give up his old blood. The animal bows its head at you and drops the hand, asking for nothing. You have no idea what's going on in his head. You know nothing goes on in yours. Nothing to report.

You press the knife in, and Yoongi helps, keeping himself in place with the hand clutching the counter edge. Bright kitchen light is atrociously yellow. It takes some force to drive it through him, but once you get it going, it gets easier. There's a nasty crack, and he gasps quietly. His chin drops like he wants to watch. Yoongi stumbles forward, and the last thing he does is kiss you. You haven't kissed him for three years. His mouth is warm, like the forest nest where you can hide. Sweat immediately appears above his upper lip, and you lick it clean.

Yoongi falls on the floor.

Then the knife hand clunks against the tiles.

Then, people come in. They scream. Nani screams the loudest. Mother goes pale. Blood. Jail. Death.

No, rewind back.

You let yourself soak in the scene, calculating, your head goes light.

It's not even the jail that stops you, but another, second best thing: the world without Yoongi. The whole rest of your life without him on your scent.

His hand still grabbing your wrist. He calls you pretty. To give him a kiss, you have to cut the distance with the knife.

You press it harder, just to let the anger out, and Yoongi lowers his eyes, unimpressed. Probably far from the pain level to even notice for him.

You press until the tip penetrates his skin and tears the black shirt just a little, then your upper lip twitches in anger.

You throw the knife on the counter.

He kisses you, pressing you against the hard edge, the bulge in his trousers nudging you in the thigh. Some things never change with Yoongi. His hand cradles the back of your head, and you feel loved, the way only a stupid, capricious bitch can be loved, that earned the love of a demon.

You grab his chin hard, digging into the jaws, and feel his teeth with the fingertips. He looks a little funny like this, like a kissable twink again.

"You will never see her again. You never hurt her again".

"Oh, Nani is screwed for life", he promises, with a sigh. "You made me do it".

"And you stop gaslighting me about every little thing", you utter through your teeth.

He bites his lip like he bites his tongue. His eyes come alive. The animal is sniffing you.

"Get your things", he suggests, "we should leave now".

You nod. Half way out of the kitchen, you turn. Yoongi is tapping his chest, lower lip pulled up, and with the other hand, feeling for his jacket.

"You care about the baby at all?"

He shakes his head.

"We could take it from her, but it's undercooked..."

You suck the air through your teeth and shake the door handle before opening the door.

You walk through the living room, shooting one empty glance at your sister.

She looks at you, her hands crossed on her lap. You wonder to yourself if she was manipulated into it; seems way too pliable, even for her.

Whatever. This is utterly your world.

You leave the house and take extra pleasure out of bumping your shoulder into uncle Namgil.

Yoongi emerges five minutes later into the street full of icicle teeth. You have no idea what car he has now, so you just linger outside, away from your mother's house, where, if they throw something out the window, it won't make you.

He waves his hand in an order, and you don't move. Yoongi frowns, but there's a smirk in it. Punches his cheek with his tongue, walks over, gets your elbow. And then crooks his neck and kisses you again, the steam leaving your mouths. The street is muted and white, covered in funeral snow crust; like pieces of his old hair, spread out. Yoongi is a black stain, impossible to lose again. He leads you to a big chocolate-brown Hyundai and gets the door for you.

"What did you tell them?"

"Not to search for us".

You throw a look at the house. Someone is watching from the window.

He drives calmly, one hand resting on his lap. Once he makes sure where you need to go, the hand crawls over to yours, and takes your palm, lovingly. Nobody ever quite mustered the tenderness with which Yoongi always touches you. Like only he knows the code to your door. Like he kills the competition and fucks the copies of you. The fingers interlock, and you think to yourself, if you keep him close, nobody else will get hurt.

You wonder if the lotus-shaped spa is ready.

─────────────── ✧

You rub your eye carefully and adjust the lamp light from your phone. Laptop is on your knees on top of the blanket. Yoongi is in the same bed with you, an elbow away, drawing something on his iPad. He really likes drawing things. It's always some structures; he doesn't draw people. Except for you. He draws you, and buildings. Staircases, lintels, slabs. Like an engineer. And balustrades, pediments and columns, like an architect. Eyes, wrists, ears, hips. Like Yoongi. You rub your eye again, and he says,

"You work too much".

Your hand stops clicking the keyboard. You look at the time. Almost made it a whole half an hour without his comments. Almost done.

You glare at him, tilting head, brows up.

He smirks.

"What? You don't need all that. Ever since we moved in together, you started working more".

It's because you finally got your peace of mind and therefore, productivity increased.

"It's like you're trying to prove something".

He looks away from his intricate, angular black and white molding and peeks at you from under the black hair.

"Because everything I do is about you", you sneer gently. He goes back to his work.

"Well, everything I do is about you. But I'm a fool for hoping my ministrations would be reciprocated".

"If the both of us acted like this", you sigh, "we wouldn't leave the house and nothing would get done".

"By you. I am proactive".

You decide it's best to leave him hanging. He is irritating when he is on his superiority wave. Yoongi loses interest in his drawing when he spots the time. You realize the work is done when he puts the iPad and the pen away, and his hand reaches for your laptop.

"No, no! Not finished".

The tip of his tongue helps him concentrate on catching you. You turn on your side. His fingers clutch the lid of the computer.

"I am your husband. Be with me".

"You're not my husband".

The silent, lazy struggle doesn't leave your square in the bed.

"I will be. Give it to me".

Yoongi is pressing his weight against your free hand, trapping it under, and yanks the laptop away.

"I mean it", you press, slightly angry. You need to win this at least once. You need to know that he sees a human in you, still.

"I don't care".

You sit up, let go of the laptop and go limp. Yoongi hates that the most. Fighting is exciting. But total surrender with no expression on your face is something he is powerless against.

He whines tiredly.

"Come on".

He walks around the bed and puts your laptop on the desk, then gets inside, under the blanket, on your side, sitting on top of your knees. Then stretches his body like a cat, straddling you. Tries to look inside your eyes.

"Y/N".

"You don't care. Fine. Go to sleep".

"Tsk".

You stare through him knowing that it will drive him up the wall in no time.

"I don't mean it like that".

"Uh-huh".

That's the worst part. He totally means it like that. He always means he doesn't care what you think as long as he knows better.

He doesn't think you need to work at all. What has he been breaking his back for then? You should just be a good girl. Enjoy the fruit of his labour. Stay pretty. Stare into his eyes.

Yoongi slides his thighs, taking you with him. His hips are incredibly strong for someone who's never been fucked by a man. You are forced on your back, and he grabs your face, plumping your lips.

"I say things to make you mad, you know that".

Two things can be true at the same time. You press into his cut. One little wound: empty eyes; and he is going desperate.

"If I really didn't care, my dick would be in that mouth four times every day", he narrates, and it's twistedly funny.

"If I didn't care about what you say, I wouldn't memorize every single thing you say, every day".

You wait another minute and blink as surrender. Good enough. His fingers relax a little. His back muscles do, too. Yoongi presses a kiss on your cheek, light like a touch of a moonray. He hovers, moves his lips to the corner of your mouth as an apology but doesn't go further. Begs for permission.

"We're going to Namjoon's party?"

He opens his eyes and lifts himself a little. Your hand swipes through his hair. It's been a new hobby; longer locks are like a coping mechanism for you.

"Do you want to?"

You shrug. Saying you miss Namjoon's smiling face with dimples would be stirring new shit when Yoongi has just demonstrated such outstanding capability for being pliant.

"I want to see everybody. You ever cared about them?"

"Parties?" he curves his lips into a lopsided shape.

"Namjoon and Hobi".

"Oh. I like them. They are the only two people from uni I didn't hate".

You gasp.

"And me?"

Life is unfair. Two disgusting people like you get to enjoy the bliss of being together in a huge, warm bed, while other, less corrupted souls go through their lives struggling.

Well, those souls maybe should've worked better and become architects.

"You... are barely a person", he concludes seriously.

"Weird, I always thought the same thing about you".

"Wow", Yoongi rolls his eyes. "We are so-o quirky".

He drops down, and your hands wrap around his head. He is corporeal, at least when in your grasp.

taglist: @mar-lo-pap , @benyhime

[pixelsandpins]

On Eddie's and Venom's Children/Offspring

As a local Venom Expert (TM), let me explain this very important bit of Venom lore.

Venom's species, the Klyntar, reproduce asexually. They spawn "once a generation", feel a threat to the hive, or otherwise feel as though they need to increase their numbers due to an upcoming catastrophe (the comics have wiggled this reasoning a little through the years).

Venom has produced seven spawn: Carnage, Scream, Agony, Lasher, Phage, Riot, and Sleeper.

They also have a son together with Anne named Dylan.

Carnage spawned while Eddie was locked up in prison with Cletus Kassady. The spawn occurred during their jailbreak, and Eddie had no idea it was even happening. The other doesn't tell him. Everyone is a bit surprised. All this is revealed in The Amazing Spider-Man #360-362 (1992)

*****

The Life Foundation Symbiotes (Scream, Agony, Lasher, Riot, and Phage) were artificially gestated by the Life Foundation. They captured Eddie and Venom and pulled "seeds" from Venom's body, then grew the spawn in another part of the facility. This is Lethal Protector #4 (1993).

*****

Sleeper is, first of all, the fucking GOAT. Let's get that out of the way. Sleeper is spawned "naturally" however this occurs well after Eddie and Venom have properly bonded and gone through the trauma of having seeds stolen. Eddie, then, senses the birth approaching and feels child-birth related pain. They actually separate during the birth because they're concerned about Eddie's organs shutting down. The symbiote, unfortunately, delivers what they believe to be a stillbirth (this is written SUPER weird in the comics themselves, tbh). The conversation around this birth reveals a lot of complex feelings on Venom's part around their "babies." This happens in Venom #164-165 (2016-2018) which are the last two issues of the Costa run.

Sleeper comes into their own during Venom: First Host (Costa, 2018). Venom is kidnapped, and for the rescue mission Sleeper bonds with Eddie. Previous to this, Sleeper had been tended to regularly by Eddie and Venom together while living in an Alchemex facility.

*****

Dylan Brock is a sight bit more complicated. He's introduced during the Cates run, 2018, and proceeds to be a main character and major narrative pivot for both that run and the current Ewing run (featuring the Venom War event).

SPOILERS FOR CURRENT VENOM

Dylan is the human incarnation of the symbiote codex embedded into Anne. She conceived the child while bonded to the Venom symbiote using DNA transferred over from Eddie (via the symbiote). She had Dylan, then left him to be raised by Eddie's dad, which is where Eddie meets him. So Dylan is the combined child of Eddie, Anne, and Venom, designed by the symbiotes to take out Knull. Dylan's story is still developing and changing.

Edited to add in response to a comment:

Ignore if you want to develop your own interpretation of events around the birth of Dylan Brock. CW: conversation around suicide and mental health

Anne commits suicide not long after leaving Dylan with Eddie's dad. The suicide was written back in the 90s, however, well before any of this newer narrative was conceived. When she's first written as ending her life, it's because she can't live with the guilt of the murders she committed while hosting Venom and experiences an extreme fear and paranoia reaction to symbiotes (rightly so).

When Cates added Dylan, this all got WAY more complicated in terms of determining narrative intent. Namely, was the conception and birth of Dylan a contributing factor to her suicide?

When they do the multiverse thing, they meet an Anne who was the permanent host of Venom because Eddie successfully committed his own suicide. She does not go through the same acute traumatic event that Anne Prime did. When she realizes she's pregnant with Venom's baby, she has a very neutral-positive reaction to it. Even after the introduction of Dylan, the story only ever attributes Anne's suicide to guilt over the murders she commits and subsequent mental break.

When she leaves Dylan with Brock Sr., it's clear she deeply cares for him, yet can't take care of him. She says she'll come back for him when she gets her head right, and does not want Eddie ever knowing Dylan exists. She didn't leave Dylan in a safe baby box or a dumpster or just in his crib while she ended her life. Even though she didn't pick the best caregiver, she left Dylan in a place she knew she could come back to. Where she could see him again. Where he wouldn't be lost in the system. This all implies to me a woman who loved her baby. Who, in some part of her, thought she would come back to get him but unfortunately succumbed to her mental health crisis.

This altogether, the story does not want you to see Dylan's conception and birth as a contributing factor to her suicide. He never shoulders that narrative responsibility. The story wants you to "blame," so to speak, the guilt and paranoia.

This is all analysis, however, and that's going to be heavily influenced by personal interpretation, experiences, and familiarity with the canon. This is the reason why I didn't include it in the original informative section of the post. I didn't want to create bias in a new reader, so I was trying to keep things as neutral as possible (except for Sleeper being The Best. That's simply a FACT /j). But I figured including the additional analysis would create some clarification on a very complex narrative event.

Now I hope that covers enough. Feel free to ask questions or get clarification on anything. I'm literally wallowing in information and no one to share it with.

[yanderes-galore]

Hii!! Could I get Mikasa from AOT with your prompts 4, 14, and 38?

As for the plot, maybe the time takes place somewhere around season 1? Where Mikasa desperately tries to convince Darling to not join the Scouts and to choose any other regiment instead. Of course, she'll follow them wherever they go, she just can't bear the fight of them dying to the Titans and the outside world, she just wants to protect her love :(

Yandere! Mikasa Ackerman Prompts 4, 14, 38

"My heart belongs to you, I'll adore anything you do to it."

"It's too dangerous in the world. You need me, you should know that!"

"My life has been so barren without you...."

Pairing: Platonic -> Romantic (Implied to turn romantic near end of fic)

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Paranoia, Fear of loss, Manipulation, Dubious companionship/relationship.

Mikasa has always cared for you since you were children.

You and her had met when she was following Eren and Armin around. Since then, she's never been able to forget your smile as you offer to hang out. At first she was hesitant with that idea...

Yet when Eren encouraged her, she relented.

You had often hung around her and the others. While she was quiet most of the time, she can't deny that she found your company soothing. You... added something to her life.

For better or for worse.

It had been rough when the Colossal Titan and Armored Titans broke in the walls of your childhood district. Mikasa was worried the titans had gotten to you. However... You showed up as a cadet to train against the threat outside the walls.

Since then, Mikasa has never truly taken her eyes off you for long.

Even when you don't notice her, Mikasa watched you through your cadet days. You go into a lot less trouble than Eren... But Mikasa is always worried about you. You had all trained together for two long years as cadets.

Enough time for Mikasa to realize things about herself that she never thought she would.

In the early days together, Mikasa took on the role of your best friend. Maybe even like a sister to you. You, other than Eren and Armin, were family to her

She's always vowed to protect you just like the rest of her friends. For the longest time, that's all it was. She was meant to help you grow, improve, and survive.

When you were just training as cadets together, it felt oddly... innocent. Despite what you were all training to do, Mikasa couldn't help but find the time with you comfortable. It reminded her that you're both comrades.

Yet she didn't realize that as those years ticked by you meant a lot more to her than she thought...

Not until it was time for graduation, at least.

"I want to join the Scouts like Eren."

You had pulled her aside after a training session to speak to her near the barracks. You knew how adamant Eren was in his goal to destroy the Titans. It seemed you shared the same sentiment....

Mikasa didn't realize how much she dreaded hearing those words until you said them. The Scouts... the regiment that would send you off to fight Titans. The very same regiment that had the highest death toll out of the three.

While you were entitled to your choice... Mikasa couldn't help but feel ill at the thought. Truth is she wished Eren would also join a different regiment. Yet she knew better than to change his mind.

For some odd reason... She can't bear the thought of what could happen to you. The thought of you getting yourself hurt caused her heart to be faster. Normally she tries to be silent about this...

But Mikasa still found herself speaking up.

"No! You shouldn't." Mikasa finds herself admitting, almost surprised by her sudden objection.

You look puzzled by Mikasa's refusal, your friend realizing she now needs to explain herself. There's a tense yet concerned silence between you two before you speak again.

"... Mikasa... why–?" You ask cautiously, noting the concern on her face.

The woman in front of you changes her expression to look more stern when you ask her such a question. Why? What did you mean why?

Have you been unable to tell how hard she's been trying to protect you?

She's harsh on you during training. She's always followed you around to prevent you from getting into trouble. You... don't realize how much she needs you...

She pauses, eyes narrowing when she realizes what she just thought. She... needs you. You make her feel alive, you make her feel like life's worth living for...

Maybe Eren can handle himself... but you?

"It's too dangerous in the world. You need me, you should know that." Mikasa states coldly, watching you with a darkened gaze.

You shift against the wall of the barracks. Mikasa was known to be stern and stoic. Yet the tone she uses feels... disapproving.

As if she's scolding you for your decision.

You try to protest, yet immediately go quiet when Mikasa steps closer. Such behavior puts you on edge. Mikasa has always been passive and observant...

But now her gaze holds conviction, as if she's determined to keep you in her sights at all times.

"... My life has been so barren without you...." Mikasa finds herself confessing, gaze wandering before glancing back at you. Her scarf covers her face a bit.

Despite being so overprotective and stern around you... You weren't expecting to see her become so vulnerable due to your decision.

You almost feel bad.

"Mikasa, I'm sorry...." You murmur. The woman in front of you just watches you, as if scanning for any sign of you lying.

Then you're met with a sigh and a hug.

"I can't lose you... I won't let it happen..." Mikasa whispers, keeping you caged against her chest. It's as though she's afraid she'll lose you to the Titans if she lets go. "I need... I need to protect you."

In reality Mikasa found herself wanting to say she needs you. She wants to be the one around you all the time. She wants to keep you hidden behind the walls... To keep you in her sight....

Although, when she sees you're unwilling to change your mind, Mikasa realizes what she must do. Truth is, Mikasa was going to follow you wherever you went. If you were going to join the Scouts... If you were going to follow Eren's example...

She was going to be there anyway.

"You... won't listen to me, will you?" Mikasa asks quietly. "Even if I say I don't want to lose you...?"

You hesitate but confirm what she asks. Yes, you were going to join the Scouts. In your mind... It's the least you can do to protect humanity.

Mikasa processes your answer... yet soon she accepts it.

You weren't leaving her though... Even if others wanted her to go to the Military Police for her skills... It isn't worth it if you aren't there.

"... I'm coming with you."

Once again, Mikasa's tone is stern. It's as though she's stating it. You can't negotiate with her and she can't negotiate with you. So, just like she did with you, you accept that statement.

"... Are you sure?" You ask, Mikasa not bothering to answer.

It was obvious how she felt...

You weren't going to leave her sight, she's been like this since you were all young.

"... Then, let's rest, there’s a big day ahead of us...." You answer, patting Mikasa's back before leaving for your quarters.

Mikasa takes a moment to watch you go, readjusting the scarf on her neck for a moment. As she observes you, she begins to wonder about how she feels towards you.

Did... she really see you as a friend...?

Or was this fueled by something else entirely?

"... My heart belongs to you, I'll adore anything you do to it." Mikasa quietly whispers to herself, hiding her mouth with her scarf.

This must be love... Why else would she follow you to hell and back?

Why else would she protect you from everything?

No matter where you went, Mikasa would follow. To her, it didn't matter what happened. She always felt she had to shadow you... She loves you... she knows that now....

So even if she has to follow you onto the battlefield, even if she dies...

Mikasa will devote herself to you, no matter the cost if it means you're hers... one way or another.

[scoobydoodean]

sorry for dropping this into your askbox but someone compared dean going off with sam to hunt (and promising lisa to come back iirc???) was treating ben the same way that john abandoned him a lot as a child. head in hands. one time ben called him and said that lisa was doing badly and dean rushed back to make sure she was okay. john never did that for dean even when he was Literally dying.

We sometimes forget there was more to John than extended absences. His neglect is undoubtably a large part of what harmed Sam and Dean growing up, but when John was around, he wasn't necessarily aloof and distant—he could actually be overbearing and paranoid. Case in point: He didn't want Sam to go to school because he was worried he wouldn't be able to protect him (we are told this as early as 1.08, and John himself admits it to Sam in a vulnerable moment in 1.20). Dean also mentions this about John in 6.02 (quoted below).

Dean is explicitly worried about turning into John in 6.02, but it's in a way where whatever he chooses (whether to stay or go), he feels like he'll reflect parts of John's negative behavior, and it leaves him feeling terrible and stuck. If he leaves, he's afraid he'll be abandoning Ben and Lisa (reflecting his father's harmful absences). If he stays, he's scared someone looking to hurt him will find Lisa and Ben, or that his own trauma and stress over the possibility of that happening will turn him into someone so paranoid about their safety that they can't have normal experiences (which is again, reflective of John).

Dean quickly realizes that he can't figure out how to relax after the djinn showing up in 6.01. He and the Bradens move, but something has shifted for Dean psychologically in the aftermath. This is kind of skirted around, but the simple fact of the matter is that Dean has PTSD, and the djinn showing up was extremely triggering for him. We know from his dialogue in 6.01 that Dean really did not feel well mentally for the first several months he was with Lisa and Ben. We also know Dean is ashamed of this (though Lisa does not resent him for it). I think Dean was scared of returning to that place and the shame and guilt he felt about his own mental health around that period, but those concerns are coupled with—again very explicitly—the fear of reflecting his own father's paranoia. In 6.02, Dean doesn't want Ben to ride his bike around the new neighborhood and doesn't want them to all go out for dinner. Dean realizes that his paranoia is a problem very quickly and has a discussion with Lisa about it and how he doesn't want to be a negative presence in their lives because of his own trauma and stress.

DEAN: I don't know what to do here, Lis. I mean, if I knew for sure what the safest thing was, then I'd do it. Stay here and look after you guys or get as far away as I possibly can, but I don't know. And I get what I've been doing lately, you know, what with the yelling and the acting like a prison guard. It's just, that's not me. You tell yourself you're not gonna be something, you know? But my dad was exactly like this. All the time. It's scaring the hell out of me.

I've talked before about how Dean is being dishonest with himself and Lisa as far as yelling at Ben, but that aside... it's here that Lisa tells Dean he should start hunting again, and come and see them when he can. It's really tragic, because Dean's options are so limited. Dean can't see a psychologist. He does not have access to the kind of healthcare he needs. He is scared that he is at least emotionally—a net negative influence on Ben's development. He can't handle staying because of that and he also doesn't want to abandon them because then what if that's worse or they get hurt because he wasn't there? So Lisa tells him to go.

LISA: Okay. Okay, but you also want to be there. I get it. You're white-knuckling it living like this. Like what you are is some bad, awful thing. But you're not. But I'm not going to have this discussion every time you leave. And this is just going to keep happening, so I need you to go. DEAN: I can't just lose you and Ben. LISA: That's not what I'm saying. DEAN: You're saying hit the road. LISA: Dean, if there's some rule that says this all has to be either/or, how about we break it? Me and Ben will be here, and you come when you can. Just come in one piece, okay? DEAN: You really think we can pull something like that off? LISA: It's worth a shot, right?

Dean's already skeptical at this point that they can make a long-distance relationship work, but they give it a shot. They break up three episodes later.

Btw Soulless Sam, in an effort to convince Dean to leave Lisa and Ben and come with him, had also suggested earlier in 6.02 that Dean staying with Lisa and Ben would turn him into John.

SAM: But moving them around? Keeping them on lockdown? I mean, you do have them on lockdown, right? How is any of that different from how we were raised? DEAN: So you're saying... I'm not shoving anybody into this life, okay? This is temporary. SAM: Dad always said it was temporary, Dean. He said it for 22 years. Look, I get it. You want to watch out for them. That's great. I'm just asking, how do you do that and not turn into Dad?

TL;DR Dean was mentally unwell and as far as "reflecting your dad's negative behaviors" was in a "damned if you do, damned if you don't" type situation with no good options, and two different people told him to leave, and his own brother (who at the time he thought he could trust) told him staying is what would turn him into his father. It's sad to see Dean wrestling with all of that reduced down to cold criticism of him for being "like John" or being a "headcase". This kind of criticism of Dean is in our faces in the show of course, but I think we're supposed to get as viewers that this criticism in the mouths of different characters (including Dean) is not always fair or remotely compassionate enough. Dean is not kind to himself. He sometimes overstates/blows things he's done out of proportion to make them sound worse because he has a very bad self-image. Lisa's own insecurities are in play when she suggests Dean wants to go back to hunting with Sam. Soulless Sam also overstates Dean's negative influence on the Braendens (who we explicitly know from 6.08 he does not care about) so that he can get Dean to come with him. It ultimately feels very cruel to frame someone overtly suffering from PTSD as if they're some kind of evil poisonous monster/the harm-doer/exactly like the eeevil dad because they left and because they stayed too long often simultaneously. It will never not rub me the wrong way how the majority of the fandom behaves about this plot line.

[foundtherightwords]

Fallen Empires - Chapter 8

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Chapter warnings: some mentions of violence and sexual content, Geta is still a jerk (he has a long way to go!)

Chapter word count: 3.8k

Prologue + Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Geta overslept. He didn't wake until the sun baked the hut into an oven and the heat jolted him out of bed.

The front room was empty. Daphne was nowhere to be seen. She certainly wasn't in the hut, and she wasn't in the garden. Not a breeze stirred outside. The goats were lying down in the shade of the laurel trees, too lethargic even to sneak some bites of the herbs spread out on a clean cloth nearby to dry in the sun. The only things still moving were the bees, busily moving amongst the flowers, oblivious to the heat. The donkey was gone from his usual spot. Had Daphne gone to the village then? But she had just made her rounds the other day... She was probably avoiding him out of shyness. And who wouldn't be shy after a night like that?

His breakfast was on the table as usual, and as he ate, he recalled the night with a smug sense of triumph. So he'd brought her to her knees after all. Or, rather, to her back. And he would have her on her knees before long, he decided, feeling an echo of the fire from the previous night stirring in his loins again.

It wasn't that Daphne was particularly good at bed-sport. He'd had some camp followers in Britannia and Germania that were much better, and as for the whores of the provinces on his travels, especially in Alexandria, well... they could do things that made one's eyes water just to think about. But it was the way she'd come to him, so timid and yet so bold. Oh, he'd had plenty of women who came to him willingly enough, but they had always been so confident in their skills as seductresses. There was something rather sweet in Daphne's gracelessness. It was as if she had been so eager to give herself to him that she didn't care how she did it. It flattered him.

If he was perfectly honest with himself, he would admit that he wouldn't have had the courage to approach her had she not come to him first. But she had. She was just a woman, after all. Under all that lean flesh and hard bones and dour expressions, she was just as soft and warm as any of them. All his fears and doubts about her, thinking of her as a goddess? Nonsense. It was simply the shock of seeing a naked woman again after so long. That and the beauty of the moonlit night had overthrown his senses, it was all.

By Jupiter, but it felt good to lie with a woman again after all these months. It felt good to know his injuries had not robbed him completely of his strength. True, she had left the room in a bit of a huff afterward, when he refused her kiss. But he had never allowed anyone to kiss him, nor had he ever kissed anyone, on the mouth or anywhere else on the body, for that matter. The mouth is noble and sacred, used for talking, commanding, and praying, and so it must be pure and immaculate. In Rome, he had often scoffed at the senators' habit of greeting each other with a kiss. Effete, conniving lot! He much preferred a soldier's straightforward way of greeting, by clasping each other's hand. You greet a person and get the measure of him at the same time.

Geta did some light exercises until it got too hot to move. Daphne didn't come back at lunchtime. He found some cheese and olives and ate them with the last of the bread. It was too hot in the bedroom with its tiny window, so he collapsed on the cot and cooled himself with a fan. The pillow smelled of soapwort, and when he caught himself nuzzling it, he frowned in irritation and flung it away. If the woman didn't see it fit to tell him where she'd gone, then he certainly wouldn't moon after her like some lovesick calf.

When she didn't come back at sunset, his irritation turned to concern. Had there been an emergency in the village? No, he would've heard the bell then. Had she had another run-in with her father?

Geta went out to the top of the path, peering into the twilight. Half of him wanted to look for her, while the other half hesitated, afraid of being seen in the village, afraid of being lost amongst the hills. But if she didn't come back by the next day, he decided, he would have to risk it.

Just as he thought this, a soft bray sounded amongst the rock, and a moment later, Daphne's familiar figure appeared on the path, clad in her usual dark stole, leading the donkey with one hand.

The sight of her sent a great relief through him, and he almost ran down the path to meet her, only he stopped himself in time. It would not do to let her know how much he'd thought of her, how much he'd longed for her. He turned on his heel and returned to the hut, hoping she had not seen him. And thus, when Daphne came in, he was sitting at the table idly examining her jars of herbs and potions, looking for all the world like he'd just had a relaxing day by himself.

"There you are," he said with what he hoped was a cool, uninterested air.

"Are you having trouble with your bowel movements?" Daphne asked.

"What?"

She nodded at the jar he was holding. "That's for softening stools."

Geta reddened and dropped the jar on the table. "I wasn't looking at the jar," he stammered. "I was appraising your penmanship. You still need a lot of practice."

But Daphne was no longer listening. After a quick, frowning glance at him, she unwound her stole and hung it up. He gulped. Underneath she was wearing only a short, sleeveless tunic, loosely belted about her waist. Give her a bow and quiver, and she could pass for the hunting Diana.

No. First Aurora, then Luna, and now Diana? He must stop thinking of her as a goddess. She was nothing. Just a peasant woman.

"You've been to the village?" he asked, for want of something to say.

"Yes. Sorry I'm so late, but I brought dinner."

She unpacked her basket, which contained bread, some grilled meat, and juicy figs, and they sat down to eat. The food was good—it was the first time Geta had had meat and fresh fruits since he came here—but the atmosphere was tense. Their night together stood between them like some enormous thing. It remained lurking for now, but any mention of it would make it spring to life, sucking up the light and air in the room, like a spirit that only came into being when its name was spoken. Neither of them spoke. A heavy silence hung over them.

Several times Geta caught Daphne glancing at him, not with that searching look she'd given him by the cistern, but with sadness and longing. When their eyes met, she quickly looked away again, her cheeks flushed with more than just the heat. He thought of her the night before, not looking at him, her body fluttering under his hands as she guided him to take her clothes off. He thought of her staying away for a whole day, only to come back with a feast—or as close to a feast as she could—for him, and he grinned to himself. She's feeling shy, that's all.

After dinner, Daphne cleared away the plates and brought in the herbs, now as dried as straw. She stood at the table and sorted through them, some to be grounded into decoctions and brews, others tied into bundles. Seated at the doorway of the bedroom, Geta watched her, feasting his eyes on her elegant arms, round shoulders, and shapely calves.

"Come to bed," he called to her. He had quite forgotten his resolve to appear cool and uninterested. He was sure now that Daphne wanted him and was only too shy to act upon it. That husband of hers had died a long time ago; Geta would've gladly bet that he had been an oafish farm boy, unable to give her the true pleasure of marital bliss. Well, Geta was not well versed in marital bliss either, but he knew pleasure, at least his own. He could show her...

"You go to bed," she said without turning around. "I'm busy."

She was the one that sounded cool and uninterested, and doubt crept into his mind. She had been a widow for eight years, and she lived alone, with no male relatives to protect her. Could it be that he had not been the first man since her husband to share her bed? He banished the idea. The way she'd moved the night before wasn't like a woman who had had a lot of experiences. And even if she'd had other lovers, none of them were here, were they? He was.

"I mean, come to bed with me," he said.

"I need to finish up here. And you need your rest."

It wasn't exactly a rejection. She lifted her arm to hang the herbs on the hooks dangling from the rafters. The short hem of the tunic rose, showing a glimpse of her thighs, and he thought he would go mad with want. He got up and walked across the room, slowly, for he was still prone to shortness of breath, until he came up behind her. "Come to bed," he said again. 

She bent over the herbs, patently ignoring him. He reached out and ran the back of his fingers over her arm, his touch light as a feather. Her breath hitched, but she didn't move away. Emboldened, he moved closer, brushed away the tendrils of hair on the nape of her neck, and pressed his nose there. Her very skin seemed to be permeated with the fragrance of soapwort, along with the sweetness of honey and the warm smell of herbs and sunshine, and he breathed in deeply, letting her scent fill his nose until he became quite giddy with it.

Daphne stood still. From the heaving of her shoulders, he could feel her breath coming out in slow, shaky puffs. He moved even closer and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her to him, so she could feel how much he wanted her. She leaned back, so his face fitted perfectly into the crook between her neck and her shoulder, and let out a sigh.

When he said "Come to bed" for the third time, she finally turned around to face him.

"Are you married?" she asked.

The question took him by surprise. "Would you not come to bed with me if I am?" he asked.

"Of course."

"That didn't stop you last night," he pointed out.

She blushed a little, looking for a moment so sweet and maidenly that it took all of Geta's willpower not to take her there and then. "That was different," she said.

"How?"

"I didn't know then. I didn't think to ask. I'm asking you now."

"You are aware that I could very well lie to you and you wouldn't know." As I'm already lying to you, he thought.

"Yes. But this gives you a chance to tell the truth. If you did lie, it would be both to me and to your wife. I wouldn't be your knowing accomplice."

Her reasoning was odd, but he couldn't deny that it made a certain amount of sense. And either way, he wouldn't have to lie to her.

"No," he said, relieved to be telling the plain truth for once. "I'm not married."

There had been plans and talks of marriage. But he hadn't paid attention to any of the terrified young girls offered up to him. Though he knew that having an heir would help to secure his throne, he'd been too busy sowing his wild oats, not wanting to be tied up to a wife just yet. And even if he'd had a wife and child, there was no guarantee that they would have been safe from his enemies, so why risk it?

Would Daphne be safe once he was found? He shivered and drew her close, trying to banish such thoughts from his head. She put her arms around him. He undid her belt and tugged at the tunic, pulling it over her head. She let him, giggling quietly as the garment got stuck at her elbows, forcing her to wriggle out of it. After tossing the tunic aside, he buried his nose in her neck again. How smooth her skin was, how soft and cool her body was, as it wrapped around him like the water of the stream that had brought him to her, washing away his dark thoughts. Would that she could wash away his crimes as well...

He tried to pick her up, only he was still too weak. His arms slid from her and his legs crumpled. His face burned up, ashamed at his frailty, but Daphne didn't seem to mind. Smiling, she helped him into the back room, where they collapsed onto the bed.

She drew him down to her, seeking his lips. By reflex, he twisted away from her.

"What's wrong?" she asked, full of concern.

"Nothing," he said, tossing his head to get rid of the gentle hand cradling his jaw. "Just don't do that."

She gazed at him, her green eyes appearing dark gray in the dim room, but he could still see the expression in them—there was curiosity there, and sympathy, and something very close to pity as well. It made him squirm. He, the terror of the barbarians, he who had led the army against the Caledonians, the Alemanni, and the Parthians, he who had plundered the entire city of Alexandria, was now squirming under the gaze of a woman, a near-illiterate peasant. He couldn't have that.

"Turn around," he told her.

Daphne frowned. "What?"

"Turn around. Lie on your belly."

Her eyes widened in understanding. "But I wish to look upon your face," she said.

"I don't. Turn around."

She raised an eyebrow at his gruff tone. "No," she said flatly. "I don't like that."

His embarrassment turned to anger. He seized her arm, gripping it tight, which meant as tight as he could, his hands still not as strong as they used to be. "You will turn around," he said through clenched teeth.

"I will not," she said, her voice hard. "I'm not some camp follower for you to order about. If you can't take no for an answer, then forget this." She pushed him away and got out of bed.

"Get back here!" he shouted.

"Or what?" She whirled around to face him, a cold glint of anger in her eyes. "This is my house! I only let you stay here out of the goodness of my heart. If you try to force me or harm me in any way, I can kill you. It would be much easier than saving you, believe me!" Having uttered that threat, she returned to the front room, leaving him unsettled, unsatisfied.

Damn her. Damn her to Tartarus. He jumped from the bed to chase after her, to press her against the rough mud-brick wall of the hut and show her what happened to those who dared to defy him, but his legs got tangled up in the sheets. By the time he went to the door, Daphne was blocking it on the other side by the bench.

"Open this door," he said.

"Go to Hades!" came Daphne's reply, as she dragged a trunk on the bench.

"Damn you, woman! Am I a child to be locked in my room whenever I misbehave?" His father had used that often, but only when Geta had been very small. Once he was grown enough to cease crying and screaming in the dark—though he never really ceased being afraid of it—his father had moved on to other, more effective forms of punishment.

"I will stop treating you like a child when you stop acting like one!"

Geta pushed at the door. It budged, though only very little, showing him a sliver of the front room. Daphne was standing there with her knife.

"Get back," she said. "Or I'll gut you like a fish." Her face was cold, and the knife glinted in her hand. He had no doubt she meant what she said.

With an enraged scream, Geta threw himself at the door at the same time that Daphne pushed the bench and the trunk back to their place. The door slammed into him with such a force that it knocked the breath clean out of him, and he went sprawling on the floor.

Panting, he picked himself up. His chest was tight again and cold sweat was breaking out on his forehead. He fell back down on the rough linen sheets, trying to catch his breath, raging at his own helplessness.

***

When he managed to fall asleep, he dreamed of his brother.

It started as the same dream of the fiery Phlegethon, the one that had been haunting him since Martialis's attack. The same faceless yet horrifyingly familiar figure rose from the flames of the river and walked toward him across the black sand, while he was pinned to the spot, unable to move, unable to look away. Then the light from the flames shone on the face, and features coalesced and took shape across the slab of skin. Features that Geta knew well. Those of his brother. Caracalla.

He was no longer the ghostly figure of Geta's fevered nightmares, but Caracalla as he had been in life, with his reddish blonde wig, powdered face, and smirking mouth to show off his gold tooth. There had been a time when Geta had looked like that, too, before he changed his image.

Geta had not dreamed of his brother for some time. Back in Rome, he'd dreamed of Caracalla almost nightly. He'd had to rely on poppy juice to ensure a dreamless sleep, though he hated how heavy and sluggish it made him the next day. While marching with his troops, he had purposefully pushed himself to the point of exhaustion, so that when he collapsed into bed, sweet Morpheus would take him in mere heartbeats, leaving no time for dreaming. Ever since he stayed with Daphne, those dreams had stopped, wiped out by the pain of his injuries and physical fatigue. Perhaps Daphne's questions earlier in the evening had brought the memories back, or perhaps his impotent anger had ignited the old rage. Whatever it was, Caracalla appeared in his dream now.

Suddenly Geta found himself able to move. He sprang at Caracalla. His hands were around Caracalla's throat, thumbs on windpipe, squeezing and crushing until Caracalla's eyes bulged and his face turned purple under all the powder and rouge. Caracalla swatted feebly with his arms, unable to push Geta off—

—then it was no longer Caracalla he was strangling, but their mother, and he wasn't strangling her. She was crying and screaming "Why?" over and over, cursing him, sending all the Furies after him, while snot and tears were running down her face. He knew then, that this was a dream, for she hadn't cried at all when he killed Caracalla. He hadn't allowed her to. No one is allowed to mourn a tyrant.

Yet knowing this was a dream did nothing to stop it. The dream continued. And in the dream, his mother slowly advanced upon him, her arms outstretched, and in them was—

—Caracalla again, his eyes blank, his blood-stained lips distorted in a horrible smile. He was dead, quite dead.

—no, he wasn't dead. Because he was whispering, while still smiling that horrible rictus smile, "How does it feel, brother? To be at the receiving end of a knife?" There was a sharp pain between his ribs, and Geta looked down to find the knife embedded in his torso, and it wasn't Caracalla's dead face looking at him, but the face of Martialis, his murderer, twisted in hatred.

He struck at Martialis. His arms got tangled in something, and he was unable to move. They must have captured him, his enemies, and were now torturing him. He struggled against those invisible bonds with a desperate cry.

"Shh," a voice said in his ears. The bonds tightened around him, but somehow they didn't cut into his skin. They were soft, warm, comforting. "Shh, it's all right," the voice continued, and it was soft and warm and comforting as well. "You're all right. I'm here."

Geta fought through the fog of the nightmare and emerged into the waking world. It was someone's arms around him, a woman's. It was a woman's voice speaking to him. Daphne. It was Daphne. She had gotten into bed with him and was now rocking him against her, trying to quiet him.

"You were having a bad dream," she said, wiping the sweat from his forehead with her hand. Her touch was so natural and so reassuring in that very naturalness, as if this was something she did all the time, and he just wanted to sink into that embrace, to forget everything, including himself. "It's all right now."

Her touch cleared the last of the fog from his mind, and he went cold with fear. Had he said something in his dream, something damning, something that gave her a hint of his true identity? No, her manner didn't indicate anything of the sort. Still, he couldn't risk it.

"Leave me," he said, his voice sounding rough and strange even to his own ears. Her arms around him stiffened, but she didn't move. "Go!" he said again, raising his voice.

Without another word, she left the bed and the room, closing the door behind her, leaving only a memory of her soft, cool hand like soothing water over his fevered brow.

Alone again in the dark room, Geta came to a decision. This would not do. It was one thing to rely on Daphne to heal his body; he could even accept relying on her for his sexual needs. But relying on her to soothe his soul, to put his heart into her hands as he'd almost done, was too dangerous. It distracted him. Why, he'd hardly thought about his plan for revenge at all that day, so preoccupied he'd been with her. Before, he'd had no choice but to stay, having been on death's door, but now that he was well—or almost well again—there was no reason to remain. It was time for him to leave.

Chapter 9

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92, @justnobodynothingmore, @barcelonaloverf1life, @myotakureprieve, @flawssy-227, @itsrainingbisexualfrogs, @deliciousfestsalad (if you want to be tagged or removed, let me know!)

[venus-is-thinking]

DRDT Chapter 2 Episode 16: Initial Thoughts

Sorry for missing episode 15 :(

That being said, oh my god, Chapter 2 is actually complete! This is so exciting! I'm really hyped to talk about this episode and give my not-live summary of my live reactions!

SPOILER WARNING FOR DRDT THROUGH THE END OF CH 2!!!

CW: Murder, sacrifice, suicide

The Reactions

12-1, this time. I'm still personally partial to the extra vote on Teruko last Trial being Arei (being petty about her "I'm voting for you no matter what" thing), so I would assume Ace is the Teruko vote. If so, I do think it's interesting that he voted Teruko as opposed to, like, Nico. Then again, it might be that it's just more convenient for DRDTdev to consistently put the extra vote on Teruko, lol.

Notably, the dead people have "N/A," not 0. We probably could tell this because of Xander last time, but I didn't check. I wonder if this implies we won't ever need to vote for someone dead (ex. a mastermind who "died" earlier in the killing game).

I'm free... I can read whatever Eden says as genuine...

Take THAT, Whit time loop theorists /j

I do think it's funny/kinda telling? that Whit is only saying this after the trial is over. Like, I feel like the normal time to go "oh my god we're having another trial" is, like... when you find the body? So, it's interesting that his reaction is so delayed.

So, I don't know if this was an intentional parallel, but...

These feel similar to me. I really like the Ace/Arei parallels, where they're both chronically hated people, but Arei apologizes and tries to change whereas Ace lets the fear and paranoia consume him until there's no turning back. Ace only says this after he's already been found guilty of murder; Arei says this before promising to change her ways to the victim of her bullying.

Teruko out here hopping on that self-blame train.

It's so funny how different Hu's standards are when talking about Ace's murder vs. Nico's attempted murder. Like... Hu this is what everyone was telling you like an hour ago. What.

It's really interesting that we're highlighting this line. I wonder if this is part of a theme that we're going to explore further, maybe tied into the "all murderers have to be punished" thing. Or maybe Eden isn't actually accurate here, but doesn't know it; has Ace killed someone in the past?

Fun trick you can do here!

When we first met Teruko a week ago, she was the same person, certainly, but she was also different. She was happier, and she trusted people more.

There are so many good character parallels in DRDT. The Ace/Teruko one was really interesting in this post-trial.

Ooh, new flavor of J anti-murder! This seems to be broadening it to also being critical of the killing game, which would go against my weird hypothetical "J is anti-murderer but also the mastermind" read.

It's interesting, with how this is Ace's logic. It makes total sense for his character, though. I think it's easy for us, the viewers, to forget the fact that the characters probably don't have the precedent of "every blackened ever always loses." When Ace is running the odds, he thinks his survival odds were better as a killer than as a participant in the killing game. And y'know, considering how close he came to dying as Nico's victim, that's kinda fair.

I desperately want to know what Levi was going to say here.

I really like the fact that Ace DID care about Levi. That he intrinsically cares about him, but he knows factually that he isn't supposed to like or trust someone in a killing game. That once he killed Arei, he had to resolve to kill everyone in the killing game, even Levi.

The only way Ace knew to prevent himself from caring was to stay mad, I guess. Kinda unfortunate though, considering that I do think Levi wanted to patch things up with him genuinely.

Meanwhile, Levi, who doesn't understand emotions, is just like "man what the fuck. That makes no sense."

What a pair. I'm sad we're not going to get to see their dynamic anymore :(

In other words, I'm back on the Levi survivor train baby! My biggest problem with it before was that I thought Ace was gonna survive and I didn't think Ace and Levi were both gonna survive, so now we're locking tf in!

This is fun! I always wonder why more people don't try stuff like this. Like... shoot your shot. You're gonna die otherwise, soooo...

Great animation as always

I think it's really funny that Teruko is so fucking mad that she bullies Ace into action. Like, that's so fitting for both of them.

I love using this David expression here. He's just like, "was it that easy? Why was I trying to throw the trial then???"

aaaaAAAAAAAA--

What the fuck!! XF-Ture mention!!!!!!!!

I like the spooky vibe MonoTV has for this post-trial, but I do hope we get our normal silly lil guy back next chapter. I like the MonoTV personality we see all the time. I'm gonna miss it if it just died like that :(

I am also squinting so hard at everyone's reactions through "who is the mastermind" goggles. Maybe I'll analyze them in a different post sometime.

Fascinating purpose. Not "to create despair." Not "to run the killing game until only one participant survives." To kill everyone.

Does this include whichever mastermind?

Why does whoever programmed MonoTV want to kill all of these people? Are they being punished for something?

This countdown sequence fucked me up. The tensions and emotions are so high. Even as someone who was confident that Teruko, at least, wasn't going to die no matter what, I was so on edge. I got really scared that Eden was going to take the hit for Teruko, though, and that's what I was reading into when I wasn't sure Eden would make it to Chapter 3.

This speech, more than any other one Teruko has made or any actions she's taken or endured, really made me feel for Teruko. The fact that she can so casually talk about truly traumatic and horrific things happening to her, while smiling, truly shows how much she's grown used to it. Like, girl. You don't deserve this. What.

The character work on Teruko especially this episode is just fantastic. No words.

This panel stressed me out so bad because it was really just a question of WHO took the bullet for Teruko. Like, if she's thinking this, someone clearly did.

My bets were on either Eden, Charles, or Ace.

Levi, though, was such a surprise to see. Like, in a good way. It means so much.

First of all, it's a callback to the end of the prologue. Levi attacks MonoTV, and when MonoTV tries to kill him in response, Teruko's danger sense alerts her. It's only through Teruko warning Levi to move that Levi dodged the main attack, resulting in only an arm injury rather than death. Now, Levi returns her favor, preventing her from dying from attacking MonoTV.

Second, it puts Ace into the position we see of having to confront the possibility of Levi's death. I got the distinct sense that they wanted Ace to be able to do something heroic on his way out, to prove all the haters wrong (which is why I thought it was possible he'd take the hit for Teruko instead of Levi). By putting Levi, pretty clearly the person he cares most about, into harm's way, it makes Ace take action. It means that he HAS to confront the fact that he cares Levi, and that he has to die.

And, thirdly... I am so fascinated to learn why Levi did this. Was it as simple as a transactional, "you saved me from execution before?" Is it "I thought saving someone would make me a good person?" Does Levi actually feel some remorse for Teruko in this moment, causing him to take action?

No matter what his reasoning, I can't wait to hear from him. I strongly suspect Levi won't actually die from this (at the very least, I hope not, because I really want to hear more from him), but even if he does, hopefully we'll still get some more insight in a bonus episode or a flashback or something.

I'm trying to figure out what triggered Whit here.

This is immediately following "The elevator won't open," but it also definitely can just correlate to "[person] will die if they don't receive immediate medical treatment." I have to assume that something here is reminding Whit of his mom...?

With the weird "Whit knows a lot about hanging" earlier, I got the impression that Whit's mom probably hung herself. From this, I would probably theorize that Whit found her while she was still alive, but not quickly enough to save her. Yikes.

Anyways, I think that means everyone has some kind of despair sprite now! That's fun!

o7

I'm sure many have pointed this out, but do we think he's counting himself here (Arei + Ace + Levi = 3), or do we think he feels responsible for someone else's death in his past (probably Taylor)? I'd lean towards the second one.

Y'know, before I thought Arturo was just pressed about the surgeon thing because people were unfairly hating on him. This, at least, I think implies something relating to Felicity.

Arturo doesn't have any experience saving lives. He left, and Felicity died. He can't save lives; he's only responsible for Felicity's ending. I think that's how he sees it.

On a side note, I think there's a very definite possibility that Chapter 3 cold opens on Arturo saving Levi's life??? Like, how Chapter 2 started with Eden POV, I think Chapter 3 could start with Arturo taking his shot at healing Levi, eventually resulting in Levi stabilizing. I'm not sure who would be there with him. Possibly Hu, since she was leading the "let's get Levi to the infirmary" effort...?

I love executions like this. Accirax has said before that the best executions are what make their recipient feel the most despair, and that's definitely what they did with Ace here. Put the talent aside; fear is what Ace fears the most.

Uhhhh. I'm pulling an Accirax. Part 2 in reblog!

[evenfallreads]

Mary and Nathan Role Reversal AU #1

Martin Hatford does not have time for his kids, but it does not mean that he does not love them, his daughter who he would burn the world for.

He loves her, yet with his hands that are stained with the blood of his enemies, he wouldn't dare touch her in fear that he would ruin her the way he had been ruined.

So, he ends up keeping her away instead, putting fear in her so that she would never wish to grow up into the monster he had become.

He does everything to keep her safe, his little Natalia Aurora Hatford, resorting to keeping them locked away in the Hatford manor.

Yet he fails, when his (crazy) ex wife breaks into the manor and kidnaps his child, the crazy woman who had almost killed his daughter all those years ago.

Natasha Wesninski breaks in to the manor and runs away with their daughter, who she had abandoned all those years ago.

She does not care for Aurora, the girl who was nothing more than pawns for her to control the Hatford empire. It is her first thought to get rid of the little child who is barely 8 years old, but after realizing just how precious they are to Martin she changes her mind and decides to keep them as bargaining chips instead, playing Martin easily with their daughter by her side.

Natasha is cruel to Aurora, her hands holding on just to leave marks behind, her nails always long enough to draw blood and her arms nothing more than a cage that gets tighter and tighter each time it holds Aurora, threatening to suffocate her.

It takes too long for Aurora to go against her mother, to one day take the night-light beside the bed and smash it on Natasha's head.

It is an easy decision, for her to pack her things and run away. Even easier to change her name and find a place to stay. It is paranoia that keeps her going, too many lingering eyes on her, fear that she might catch the eyes of the Hatford's, the Moriyama's or the Wesninski.

Somewhere along the line, Aurora's hair gets shorter, bandages that dig into her chest growing tighter and tighter as the pronouns 'she/her' feel like they don't fit. It is only when Aurora starts picking out boy names for her new identities that it starts like Aurora finally fits into his skin —it takes too long for him to admit that he isn't only using boy names because it is safer to do so, that it fits him more, that he feels like more himself then with the names that had belonged to him from birth—the bandages on her chest tighter, the pronouns 'her' no longer fitting Aurora as Abram starts to fit easier into his skin and 'she' takes on the pronouns 'he' lying to himself and saying that he is only doing what he is doing because it would be safer to be a boy than a girl.

He is too tired when he is 'old enough' to be called a man, when he finds himself wondering what would come next because he has been running for far too long—when Wymack offers Neil Josten (the old Natalia lost under countless names, dead and buried deeper than it should be possible) a place on his team.

The genders of the foxes are the same, only that of the Wesninski-Hatford family is different.

Nathan Wesninski → Natasha Wesninski: used to be the head of a small gang that got in a lot of trouble, Martin protected her only because they were promised to one another which made Natasha become obsessed with Martin and his power in return)

Lola Malcolm → Carlos Malcolm: is in love with Natasha, willing to do anything just so that Natasha can have the power she deserves

Romero Malcolm → Romira Malcolm: close friend of Natasha

Jackson Plank → Jacklyn Plank: close friend of Natasha

Mary Hatford → Martin Hatford: head of the Hatford's, the Butcher of London who is pretty much like the Butcher of Baltimore when ranks are compared, the rank of Martin might be higher than Nathan's since he is business partners with the Moriyama's rather than the Moriyama's right hand.

Stuart Hatford → Stella Hatford: the heir to the Hatford and the elder sister of Martin Hatford. She helped raise Aurora

Nathaniel Abram Wesninski → Natalia Aurora Hatford: they both end up as Neil Josten (so the difference is their birthname)

(Didn't want to lose this ideas and ended up writing them down here. There are so many stray ideas that I have for this AU but this post is getting long so decided to end it here for now, feel free to send me asks <3)